Field Notes No. 3: Sila Yolu, the Homeland Path

When I travel, I'm always searching for a connection. Between myself and the world. And so it is on this journey, between memories and the ever-changing reality. Along the old route, deeply rooted in my family history. A route that led my parents to Germany as Turkish guest workers, back when the world was a very different place. It was their annual summer journey back to Turkey, a way for them to reconnect with their homeland before returning to the unfamiliar Germany. Until, finally, Germany became their home. I wanted to relive this journey, not simply to see the same things, but to rediscover the feeling I had as a child when we traveled this route. And also to follow the now-thin thread of my origins.

It was also intended to be a photographic documentation. Equipped with two Leica cameras, a Contax compact camera, and various lenses. In the end, I only took a handful of pictures on the 2,100-kilometer route between Frankfurt and the Kapikule border crossing.

Image 1: Rest area between Graz and Zagreb

It's late afternoon when we pull into a rest stop somewhere between Graz and Zagreb. After nearly 900 kilometers of driving, I feel a strange calm rising within me, almost as if the road is slowly pulling me into another reality. I'm sitting in the trunk of our car, my legs dangling out, feeling the heat of the ground against the soles of my feet. My cousin, who's with me, looks at me and says it's the perfect moment to get the camera out. Only now, after all these kilometers, am I even thinking about taking a picture. The Portra 400 is loaded, a roll of 36. Three of them are used up immediately; my cousin wants to be sure we capture the moment. It's the first moment on this trip where I truly feel like I'm on the move. Not just physically, but also internally. It's the feeling that this journey is more than just a physical movement from one place to another. It's a return to something lost, perhaps to a part of myself I had long forgotten. As melancholic as that may sound.

Image 2: The Genex Tower in Belgrade

Belgrade greets us with the sight of the Western Gate, the iconic Genex Tower. This tower has something immovable about it, almost menacing. And yet it's full of memories. Back when I was a child, this tower signaled that we'd reached the halfway point of our journey. The sight of the Genex Tower meant we'd soon crossed Yugoslavia, and that Turkey, my parents' country, was drawing nearer. Now I see it from a new perspective. Not from the back seat, but sitting behind the wheel myself.

I can only photograph it from the moving car. I would have liked to stop, but the navigation instructions persistently compete with this moment, and the desire for a shower and a drink at the hotel bar is simply too strong. Luckily, the camera was within easy reach next to me in the door pocket. A snapshot in passing—almost as fleeting as the memories themselves. We decide to go back the next morning. I want to see the tower up close, capture it, perhaps understand what it means to me. Sitting on the rooftop terrace of the Mama Shelter Hotel, I gaze at it from afar. The sunset bathes it in a soft, golden light, and I feel a strange melancholy. It's almost as if I want to prolong the moment, as if I'm afraid of destroying the image I have of this tower by getting too close. I Google it while I do this, imagining what the city must look like from there and whether anyone is looking out of one of the windows.

The next morning, at breakfast, I see it again. It's standing there, unchanged, and yet I have the feeling that I've already looked at it enough. Without another word, we drive off and leave Belgrade without ever coming close to the Genex Tower. Some things, it seems, are simply meant to be viewed from a distance.

Image 3: A paper cup of coffee in Pirot, Serbia

I'm standing at a gas station, somewhere on the outskirts of Pirot, near the Bulgarian border. A paper cup of coffee sits steaming in the midday sun on the table in front of me. The sky is clear and empty. Many years ago, we often drove through here, on this old road that wound its way through the mountains, alongside the river that kept appearing between the trees. Back then, everything was bustling: workshops, guesthouses, small cafes lined the roadside where people would stop to rest, eat, or have their cars repaired. Now, however, everything seems empty and deserted. Time has simply abandoned these places.

Since the motorway was built, and the old road is now just a faded memory, these small villages have virtually died out. The once vibrant buildings are decaying, like abandoned shells slowly disappearing into the landscape. Everything that could be easily removed is long gone – the signs, the furniture, window frames and doors, the memories of a bustling life. All that remains are the walls and what was too heavy to carry away.

I drink my coffee, looking at the writing on the cup, while my cousin is still at the pump. We used to drink tea here. I remember how the boys used to go to the cars when the drivers were refueling, with their buckets, sponges, and little windshield wipers, to earn a few pennies or a can of Coke. That was the rhythm of life here during the travel season—fast, improvised, but full of life. Today, all of that seems to have vanished. But as I go to restart our car's engine, I see them—two boys, maybe ten years old, with a small bucket and a worn-out windshield wiper.

They approach us slowly, oblivious to the fact that their service has become almost obsolete in this changed world. Our car is clean, but I let them do their work anyway. One wipes the windshield while the other pulls the sponge along the sides. Their seriousness at work seems almost adult, yet there's a childlike energy. When they're finished, they don't expect the usual money. Instead, they ask for a can of Red Bull. Times have changed, and with them, the children's desires. A Coke used to be the epitome of luxury; now it's an energy drink.

I give them what they want, and they happily run off as we drive off again. The old route with its 14 tunnels, which we used to drive so often, lies somewhere in the distance, like a forgotten artery that once made life pulse here. Now it's superfluous, just like the stories it once told. But for a brief moment, with the coffee mug in hand and the sound of the windshield wipers, it almost felt as if nothing had changed.

Image 4: Two passports in my hand at the Kapikule border

Kapikule – the name echoes through my family's history. This border crossing is not just a gateway to another country, but a threshold between worlds, between here and there, between Europe and Turkey, between my parents' homeland and the foreign land they had to conquer. For six decades, Kapikule has been the symbol of the crossing that migrant workers had to traverse on their way to Turkey, and each time, this place brought with it its own unique magic and its own sense of trepidation.

I'm sitting in the car, holding two passports, waiting at the driver's window. Ahead of me stretches the border, its length a mix of traffic and checkpoints. Kapikule has always been a challenge, the "mother of all border crossings." My heart races as I think about how we used to drive through the border stations in a fully loaded car. Back then, when Bulgaria was still communist, we had to drive through those strange, water-filled basins. I never really knew why—perhaps it was a symbolic act, a way to "cleanse your feet" before leaving a country that didn't want you. Or maybe it was to ensure that no Bulgarian dust was carried into Turkey. The symbolism was steeped in an old, unspoken resentment that no one voiced openly, but everyone felt.

I remember vividly the moment the car slowly drove through the water, and every passenger felt a certain tension as the car touched the surface. It was almost like an unofficial test – the final obstacles before finally reaching the longed-for destination, home. For me, it was a ritual of crossing a border, one that is indelibly etched in my memory.

Between checkpoints, my mother sat beside me in the car, and I felt her eyes begin to water. It was always like that—at a certain point during the wait, between the first checkpoint and the last, she would be overcome with emotion. She would cry, and I could never hold back for long either. It was a strange mix of sadness and relief, of the feeling of having almost completed the arduous journey and the anticipation of soon being back home. Then we laughed. First her, then me. It was our moment.

I can picture my father, fiddling with the triptik customs document – ​​that strange paperwork meant to let the car leave the country without paying customs duties. He'd often disappear for half an hour to get the stamps and return with a carton of Lord cigarettes. My parents never smoked, but in Turkey, it was different. When visiting relatives or during social evenings after dinner, they'd sit there, cigarettes awkwardly held between their fingers, puffing smoke into the air. This image suddenly came to me as I looked at the masses of cars ahead, all heading towards the same destination.

A cacophony of horns erupts. It begins somewhere in the distance, and soon everyone joins in. The horns become a chorus, a collective expression of impatience, frustration, but also anticipation. In those moments, I always felt part of something bigger, a ritual that bridged the effort and the waiting, connecting us all. I honk my horn, and it's almost like a sign of solidarity, a signal that we're almost there. For many, it was also a sign of joy, especially when the cars were on their way to a wedding or other festive occasion. The horns became a kind of musical harbinger of what awaited us.

Finally, it's our turn. The border guard takes our passports and begins to check them. I try to make some small talk – "We last passed through here in the late 1980s." The guard nods silently, his eyes remaining fixed on the passports and documents. Then, without further ado, he hands the documents back to me and says with a smile, "Hoşgeldiniz, Selim Bey." Welcome. That sentence is enough to transform the entire journey and all the tension associated with it into something simple, familiar, and beautiful. An emotion wells up inside me, not enough to bring tears to my eyes, but enough to make me remember it for a very long time.

The border is behind us. Turkey lies before us. And with it, all the memories that are both past and ever-present.