One time when I visited my grandparents in istanbul me and my grandma were sitting in the backyard, it was summer. She started talking about her years in Germany back then, when she and my grandfather came here for work. She told me about the working conditions she had to endure. But more importantly about the racism. Her German wasn’t good but good enough to understand the condescending comments and wrongful behaviour of her employers. She wouldn’t tolerate that though. She would raise her voice. She was a hardworking and proud woman, and still is. My grandmother - as well as my mother- learnt strength through those kind of pretentious people. People who see themselves as a higher race due to class or ethnicity. Both are one of the strongest women I’ve ever met.
There’s this grueling heaviness sitting on my chest.