Menel Hüzmeli | Zeytin Ağacı

GIFT OF HEAVEN Olive Tree

My hometown is the paradise Antakya of the paradise Anatolia. My ancient land where the sounds of bell, adhan, hazzan are one and whole, where the streets breathe love, history, eternity... My Antakya...

The queen of the East, the city of many prayers, many voices, many smells where I was born. My magical fairy tale home where civilizations passed through, landed, where the earth and the sky were one with the sun and the moon.
I don't know how the whole world, all the heavenly religions and many colors fit into this tiny city, but we were the lonely descendants of Amik'in Asi with big hearts.
Hatay Provincial Directorate of Tourism asked me, who breathed with mosaic in this mosaic, to leave a work with my mosaic:
“Can you tell us about the mosaic with a mosaic?” they said.

Different, memorable and inclusive of all of Antakya. Telling us to us and us to the world. The request was as wise and ancient as it was difficult. I was not yet 10 years old when Mosaic, the art of this land, fell in love with me. Now I was asked to present the art of the land to this land. Original and free.

To tell about Antakya in a way that has never been tried and told before. Its weight was squeezing not only my mind but also my heart. The months chased me as the nights blended with the days. And one night a dream swept me away.
There was a green glowing hill in the realm where I drifted off to sleep. At the top of the sparkling green hill was a great olive tree. Strong and great and radiating mercy as much as its greatness. It was in rhythm with the wind, its intertwined branches and olive leaves. Sound. The tree had a voice.
At the foot of the tree was a wooden chest that I cannot make sense of even today. And a woman in white, with black hair, swaying in the wind. I don't know if the white muslin on her head was mixing with her hair, or if my waving hair was making the muslin into a sea of foam. But they were singing a song with the tree. The leaves, the branches and the woman were dancing to the notes.

Don't be fooled by my narration. As if it was a dream within a dream, the song was pouring out of the tongues and the woman's admiring look at the tree was turning into a fairy tale fluctuation. This dream without motion flashed and faded like a pastoral painting in my sleep.

With my awakening, the mosaic I was going to tell about Antakya would now wait for me to come to life. Wasn't the olive of Antakya, the city of three Abrahamic religions, the common language of all three religions? Had not the wise old olives of the Gestamani grove heard the last words of Jesus? The Koran swore by the olive, and Moses was commanded by Jehovah to make baptismal oil from olive oil. In all the books, the olive was a sacred tree, moreover, it could not die.
For 9 months, hundreds of thousands of stones were dedicated to becoming a unique three-dimensional mosaic for Antioch. My day and night was about the olive tree and keeping it alive. Five hundred thousand stones became the trunk of the tree, its leaves and the ears at its foot.
Its fame went beyond me and became news for the country and pride for Antakya. It whispered to the heart of the seer and the soul of the hearer. We will understand, he continued to sing. I said it was the fruit of heaven. It had fallen from heaven into my dream. My dream had turned into existence.
It walked with me and grew with me. Until my Antioch was destroyed by that terrible earthquake. I was alive, Zeytinde. But both of us had irreparable wounds and blood stains that would not heal for a lifetime. Months after the earthquake, first I got up and then I repaired his wounds with red granite.

My roots were torn from the soil. Antakya, which I knew as my homeland, became my wound. We are both trying to take root. Maybe in different places, maybe in the same geography, we are waiting for our settlement.

Zeytinim is waiting for the place where she will settle permanently and continue singing to people. We're both sad.

That joyful song of ours has turned into a lament. But life, like the olive, is immortal. We, the souls who pass through that life, live in God's time.

There was a green glowing hill in the realm where I fell asleep. At the top of the sparkling green hill was a mighty olive tree. Strong and big and radiating mercy as much as its greatness. It was in rhythm with the wind, its intertwined branches and olive leaves. Sound. The tree had a voice.

At the foot of the tree was a wooden chest that I cannot make sense of even today. And a woman in white, with black hair, swaying in the wind. I don't know if the white muslin on her head was mixing with her hair, or if my waving hair was making the muslin into a sea of foam. But they were singing a song with the tree. The leaves, the branches and the woman were dancing to the notes.

Don't be fooled that I can describe it. As if it was a dream within a dream, the song was pouring out of the tongues of the woman's admiring gaze at the tree was turning into a fairy tale fluctuation. This dream without movement flashed and faded in my sleep like a pastoral painting.

With my awakening, the mosaic I would tell about Antioch would now be waiting for me to come alive. Wasn't the olive of Antakya, the city of the three heavenly religions, the common language of all three religions? Had not the wise old olives of the Gestamani grove heard the last words of Jesus? The Koran swore by the olive, and Moses was commanded by Jehovah to make baptismal oil from olive oil. In all the books, the olive was a sacred tree, moreover, it could not die.
For 9 months, hundreds of thousands of stones were dedicated to becoming a unique three-dimensional mosaic for Antioch. My day and night was about the olive tree and keeping it alive. Five hundred thousand stones became the trunk of the tree, its leaves and the ears at its foot.
Its fame went beyond me and became news for the country and pride for Antakya. It whispered to the heart of the seer and the soul of the hearer. We will understand, he continued to sing. I said it was the fruit of heaven. It had fallen from heaven into my dream. My dream had turned into existence.
It walked with me and grew with me. Until my Antioch was destroyed by that terrible earthquake. I was alive, Zeytinde. But both of us had irreparable wounds and blood stains that would not heal for a lifetime. Months after the earthquake, I stood up first and then repaired his wounds with red granite.

Zeytinim is waiting for the place where she will settle permanently and continue singing to people. We're both sad.

That joyful song of ours has turned into a lament. But life, like the olive, is immortal. We, the souls who pass through that life, live in God's time.

My Olive Tree brought people to me. I cooled the wounds of the earthquake a little with the people who came into my life thanks to Olive. Artists, women, friends, beautiful hearts first fell in love with the olive and then became one with me. We planted new hopes on our paths together. It even became the subject of stories, people started telling them to each other.

Where it will take root, it will bring abundance to many people and peace to many hearts.