KONSTANTIN FISCHER, HANIA, CRETE

SO MANY KINDS OF SILENCE

Shrieking

from their homes, right after they'd been taken away.

Empty

when the looting soldiers had left.

Uneasy

as squatters first cooked in the pot

they knew had once belonged to Kyria Minervo.

Guilty

when they got rid of the strange old books

written in those squared, illegible letters, got rid

of the embarrassing metal things on the doorpost.

Awkward

years later, when the soldiers' children and grandchildren

came on their travels. When they kept complaining

about the filthy courtyard of that building,

about those ruins all around.

Hostile

when this crazy old man rebuilt all on his own

the house of his God and the God of his fathers.

And finally: peaceful.

The silence

of a summer morning before the tourists flock in,

of a Friday night an hour before prayers.

Silence in Turkish, English and Greek,

silence in Spanish, German, French,

in Arabic at times and in Hebrew.

The sound of what Ottoman “huzur” mast have been:

peaceful silence.

Konstantin Fischer, 2012 / 2013