Snails in the Cemetery
As with every eve of a religious holiday, we were going to visit the cemetery. Back then, power outages were a regular part of life. Since the kerosene lamp on the wall had run out of fuel, we were planning to stop by the gas station to buy kerosene on the way back from the cemetery. On the eve of holidays in our area—Kayseri—city buses going to the main cemetery were free of charge. And those cemetery buses were always so crowded—completely packed.
At that time, I was just a little child. I was going with my mother and my sister, who was two years older than me. We took the kerosene can and a few water containers to fill the small basins on the graves. We placed everything in a thick plastic shopping bag. My friend and neighbor, Mustafa, who was my age, got permission from his mother and joined our little group.
Back then, our biggest pastime outside of school was playing street games with neighborhood friends. We lived in a relatively poor neighborhood, and opportunities were limited. That’s why the free buses made it possible for Mustafa to come with us. We used to get happy over such small things.
Our house was in one of Kayseri’s old neighborhoods. The bus stop, where the cemetery buses departed from, was in Kiçikapı, not far from our home. The old stone-paved streets—some narrow, some wide—were our playgrounds. We would trip and fall over the uneven stones while running, cry, get up again, and learn from the streets. After walking through these streets, we arrived at the bus stop. One of those old but friendly-looking buses pulled up. As soon as the door opened, we rushed in from the back door ahead of the crowd. In minutes, the bus was packed, and the doors shut. The driver started the engine, and the bus shook as it began to move. We were on our way to the cemetery, watching outside curiously, talking excitedly, full of childlike joy. Although it was a short ride, it felt like a long journey to our young minds.
We got off at the first gate of the city cemetery. That’s where my mother’s father—my grandfather—was buried. My grandfather, known as Barber Mehmet, loved me very much. After injuring his hand and no longer being able to hold scissors, he left barbering and did various jobs: running a coffeehouse, a grocery store. He was a well-liked man. He would call out to random strangers, “Hey, Reşit! Come have some tea!” even if he didn’t know their name. Before he passed away, he was working as a guard at a construction site in Erkilet. One of the unfinished apartments there was his home. He had a dog named Karabaş. He got sick in that house, was hospitalized, and passed away. He loved me dearly, and I would turn his love into toys. Now, we were going with my mom to visit his eternal home.
We entered the cemetery through the main gate and filled our water containers from the fountains. Then we started walking toward his grave. Being so young, we didn’t associate the cemetery with death. It felt more like an interesting place to explore. Massive marble tombs with inscriptions, family burial plots, individual graves, some without even a headstone. Graves decorated with roses, violets, carnations, or overgrown with weeds. Who were these people? Maybe some were well-known and respected figures; maybe others were just ordinary folk.
My grandfather’s grave was a bit far from the entrance—maybe 150–200 meters away. We turned from the main path into smaller ones, shaded by large pine trees, and walked through narrow cemetery lanes. Just as we were about to turn into one more path, I saw a large snail shell by the edge of a grave wall. It had beautiful brown patterns, spiral curves—truly eye-catching. I bent down and picked it up. It was so pretty. I showed it to Mustafa; he liked it too. My sister and mom also admired it. I thought anyone who saw it would find it beautiful. I put the shell into our plastic bag to take it home.
A few steps later—another snail shell! This one was lighter in color. Different patterns again. Mustafa found a bigger one on the left.
The patterns on their shells were also fascinating. Mustafa found another one on the left side of the path. This one was even bigger; we couldn’t leave it behind. My sister spotted another one with light brown spots resting on a gravestone. These things were just beautiful. Mustafa, my sister, and I kept collecting shells from all directions. One snail shell after another, we threw them into the shopping bag where the kerosene container was. Before we even reached my grandfather's grave, we had gathered twenty or thirty snail shells. I think we had found our little game. By the time we got there, nearly every snail shell along the way was inside our bag.
We finally reached my grandfather's grave. As we arrived, my mother greeted the grave with a prayer. After her recitation, she would start talking to the deceased, her father who had passed on to the next world. She would tell him she brought his grandchildren, assure him we were all well, and comfort the dead, saying that we would all one day join them. We would join our mother in prayer and then dedicate those prayers to the souls of all those who had passed away.
We watered the grave, filling the troughs beneath the marble headstone with water, hoping birds and animals would drink from them and that it would be a blessing for the departed. We didn’t forget to pick a few more shells around the grave. Then, after saying our farewells to the world beyond, we retraced our steps. As on every holiday eve, the cemetery was full of visitors. People were praying, reciting the Qur’an, standing in silence by loved ones’ graves. We walked the cemetery’s paths and alleyways. Exiting through the main gate, we reached the bus stops.
The stops were crowded with people waiting to return home after their visit. The buses coming from other cemetery gates were already full. Some didn’t even stop due to being packed to capacity. People rushed to board any bus that did stop, and doors barely managed to close. After letting three or four buses pass, two came one after the other. We finally managed to squeeze onto the second one. It was packed wall-to-wall, but eventually, we made it back to the city center and got off at the Düvenönü stop.
I vaguely remember now—back then, there used to be a gas station in front of the city walls at Düvenönü. We planned to get kerosene there and then walk home. It wasn’t far anyway.
After getting off the bus, we started walking toward the station. We crossed the street. At a suitable spot, we opened the bag to take out the kerosene container and—Oh my God! What was this? All the snails we had picked and thrown into the bag had come out of their shells during the bus ride. Carrying their spiral homes like backpacks, they had spread out all over the inside of the plastic bag. They were slowly crawling in every direction, their antennae gently scanning their surroundings. The four of us stood in amazement, staring at the snails in the bag. Once our shock passed, we burst out laughing. I guess we had never imagined that these shells might still be alive. That was probably what surprised us most.
My mother handed me the container and told Mustafa and me to go get the kerosene. She and my sister would wait at the corner. We would then walk home.
We reached the gas station. We told the attendant we needed kerosene and handed him the container. He took the container, opened the lid, and paused—he was staring into the opening. Then he looked up at us. Two small boys standing in front of him, completely unaware. He turned the lid toward us and asked, “What’s this?” We looked inside—and there it was! One of our snail friends had poked its head out, waving its eye-stalks like it was greeting us.
Mustafa and I locked eyes and immediately burst out laughing—we just couldn’t stop. The gas station guy also laughed. Maybe he was just enjoying our laughter. As our snail friend was gently sent flying toward the grass, we were still giggling. We finally got the kerosene, told the story to my mother and sister waiting at the corner, and continued laughing together all the way home.
