"What does it feel like for a child to see someone die?" I asked. "When everyone thinks it's normal it feels normal," he said. "It didn't bother me at all." "Then why are you still talking about it?" I asked. He glanced at me and changed the subject.
I was talking to a lifelong Turkish resident of Diyarbakir, a musician I befriended in the cafe of the Diyarbakir cultural center. He appeared to be in his late sixties, with grey hair and a mustache. He was about five feet tall and held a guitar in his lap the whole time we spoke. The man around the same age seated next to him wore a grey cotton blazer and a black and white horizontally striped tie. He did not talk much but mostly smiled and nodded his head in acknowledgment. His eyes were closed. He was blind.