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Simana’s Diaries -4- The Early Years
Simana’s tent was always surrounded by a sense of tranquility. This wasn’t because the paths had forgotten her. It was because those who reached her door learned to be silent.
For everyone knew that her silence was not mere seclusion; it was a profound language spoken by voices that needed no words—a language that only those who knew how to listen could hear.
village children did not laugh as they passed by her tent. But they were not afraid either. They knew that the woman inside was like a handful of prayers that had once filled every child’s thoughts.
elders would say, “Seeing Simana heals the soul.”
Women would sometimes come just to sit by her side. Because her eyes were as patient as a star that understands without words.
still young, she hadn’t wanted her tent to be in the middle of the camp.
that tent to the prospective grooms and set up a tent for herself at the very edge of the encampment, on the edge of the forest.
A stone drum… A rusty bone knife… An old headdress woven with deer hair still sat in the far corner.
his eyes; the light seeping through the cracked leather, covered with silver-colored cloth, showed that the sky was still shining.
But there was no longer a God in the sky—only waiting. And the sound of the wind from outside… Simana was old now. Very old…
Every morning she would sit in front of her tent, take a sip of tea from her stone-carved cup, and gaze out at the steppe.
But as she gazed at the steppe, the past would walk back through her eyes, and every year, every memory would settle one by one upon her shoulders.
And this morning, a faint smile appeared on her face. A memory came to her:
“How quickly I grew up… But how long those first seven years seemed…”
memory wouldn’t slip away; her dreams carried her back to her childhood.
By the time Simana turned three, she had begun to give answers without being asked. But these answers weren’t given in words. They were given through her gaze, through silence, or through drawings.
four, a bird had died in the village square. No one had touched it. But Simana closed the bird’s eyes and buried it in the ground.
that moment, Başkam looked at her for a long time. He didn’t say a word, but that gaze was the first echo of recognition.
five, Başkam called her into his tent. Simana knelt down without asking a single question.
Because there was a difference between wanting to learn and being ready. And Simana was ready…
Başkam began showing her the plants. But before their names, he taught her their purposes.
“This plant reduces fever, but first it eases fear.
This herb induces sleep, but if your heart is racing, it also multiplies your dreams.
this and rub it on your finger. If it stings, you haven’t forgiven yet.
Black hyssop soothes the chest.
Thyme prolongs dreams.
Sage drives away evil spirits.
“But do not regard any of them as God. God created these things, but you have honored them and intended to use them in accordance with their purpose.”
And Simana memorized the songs of the plants before she learned the words of people.
six, she began to dream at night.
In her dreams, shadows spoke, but in a language she did not yet understand.
One night she woke from her sleep and sat down in front of Başkam’s tent. She had no woolen blanket, but she wasn’t cold at all.
morning. She wasn’t surprised when Başkam came out. She simply said:
“Sometimes the spirit awakens before the body.
You are a child who will see ‘that’ morning.’”
seven, Simana knew the names of all the women in the obad. But no one had taught her. She could sense their illnesses and would leave healing herbs in front of their tents.
One day, she drew a figure with nine rings on the ground, with an eye in the center and a feather inside it.
earth fell silent at that line; even the wind stopped blowing for a while. Then she raised her head and looked out at the steppe. The horizon stood motionless with divine patience.
Simana’s eyes slowly closed; the color of the steppe was growing warmer, but the wind remained cool.
And in that moment, she whispered to herself:
“Time marches on, but the spirit does not grow.
merely waits for the body, so it may catch up…
True wisdom lies in not forgetting one’s pure state.
True wisdom is keeping the soul and the body in balance.
Because in that purity, in that balance, words are no longer needed. You become all of reality…
And you remember that you are part of that invisible order where everything speaks to one another through silent vibrations…”
