Our Others. Olesya Yaremchuk
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of refugees living in every house in the village. People were putting up tents and constructing shacks in the streets. Right now, as you walk around the village, you’re likely to come across people in uniforms or protective clothing, just as we encountered technicians, who were demining the fields. The land is strewn with shells.
Yet even under the most difficult of circumstances, the Meskhetian Turks are unusually open and hospitable. We exited the community leader’s house with two three-liter jars of pickled tomatoes and freshly baked flatbreads.
Strangers are also treated like family in the home of Zakaria-aqa (the suffix aqa is an honorific used for respected community members). Hot dishes, tea, and sweets instantly appear on the table. From the first sentences, the conversation flows as if between the best of friends. Warmth envelopes us, like in the coziest nook in the world.
“War has never brought anyone any good and never will. People should have peace over their heads,” says Zakaria-aqa.
He embraces his wife, with whom he’s been living for forty years. Children run around the house as the man counts off, “I have five children, fourteen grandchildren, and one great-granddaughter.”
There’s enough love in him for all of them.
Every Friday he goes to pray at a small mosque that the community built in Vasiukivka. During the Muslim holy month of Ramadan, the community prays there every day. A problem has arisen in the village recently because there’s only one mullah left. Many people have begun to move to Turkey.
The Republic of Turkey adopted a resolution to accept Meskhetian Turkish refugees from Ukraine. In the Donetsk, Luhansk, and Kharkiv regions, only 676 Turkish families remain. In the Sloviansk, Lyman, and Velyki Novosilky Districts, there are 150 families. Prior to last year, there were 364 Meskhetian Turks living in Vasiukivka; today only 222 remain.
The social services of Turkey organized the first wave of resettlement in December 2015. Jasim’s daughter Maleka has been living on the other side of the Black Sea for a year already. In the city of Erzincan in northeastern Turkey, the Turkish government issues 150-square-meter cottages to the resettlers.
“They give you everything you need,” says Zakaria-aqa. “Spoons, forks, a washing machine, a fridge—just walk into the house and live! Because of my daughter, I have one foot there, one here.”
The second wave of resettlement of Meskhetian Turks from Ukraine is expected to take place in the near future. They’ll be flown from Kharkiv by planes to Erzincan.
“I worked hard here, and I retired here. My soul doesn’t want to leave this place,” the man admits. “I want peace for my grandchildren’s sake. I want this war to be over.”
Zakaria-aqa stands up to walk us out. My photographer and I, lulled by the warmth of Uzbek tea and the sincere conversation, amble to the entryway. Our host opens the door and, as if remembering something important, adds melancholically, “They’re coming for us in March.”
P.S.
“Hello! Olesya?”
“Yes, Jasim, it’s good to hear your voice.”
“Happy New Year!”
“Thank you, to you too. But are you really calling me from Ukraine? I read in the European press that all the Meskhetian Turks were taken off to Turkey.”
“Not at all, Olesya. Who wants to go there? Maybe they did take someone, but we’re here. We’re here.”
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