Emir

Emir was born on February 1, 2024, in Karasu in Sakarya Province, under the Turkish Republic’s civil administration. His family spoke Turkish at home and lived as culturally Sunni Muslim: a framed calligraphy of “Allah” hung in the sitting room, and the adults said “inşallah” and “maşallah,” but nobody prayed regularly and Ramadan was observed lightly.

He came home to an apartment he shared with his parents and grandparents. His father, Serkan, left early in the morning for a public-sector job and came back in the late afternoon with bread and fruit from the market. His mother, Elif, stayed home and managed the day around Emir’s naps, meals, and errands. Serkan’s parents, Fatma and İsmail, lived with them and took turns watching Emir while Elif cooked or cleaned. İsmail carried him to the window to point out trucks on the road toward the coast. Fatma kept tissues and wet wipes in her apron pocket and insisted on a quick kiss to the forehead after any bump.

As a baby, Emir grabbed for phones and TV remotes and held them tight. If an adult tried to take something away, he twisted his body and stared away as if he hadn’t heard. Loud noises made him jump. A barking dog in the street below brought him running back to Elif’s legs, and he stayed there until the sound faded.

By late 2025 he moved through the apartment fast, leaving toys under chairs and beside the sofa. When Elif asked him to put things away, he did one piece and then wandered off toward the balcony door. Some afternoons he sat near Fatma on the rug, quiet and watchful, then suddenly stood to follow İsmail toward the hallway, reaching for the door handle with both hands. İsmail took him downstairs sometimes, pointing at cars and seabirds, setting small limits on where Emir could wander. He lives there now in early 2026, small shoes by the entrance, the grandparents taking turns keeping him company while Elif cooks.