Şükoş Abla

At Cumhuriyet, older colleagues called her Şükoş or Şükoş Abla. Newer staff called her Şükran Abla. For years, she arrived at the newspaper every day, and after moving to Kartal, she took only Sundays off. Her constant presence made colleagues feel she would remain with them even if everyone else left. That is why her death struck them so hard.

They remember seeing her in the corridor each morning, filling the watering can she used for the office flowers. She cared for them meticulously. Once, while she was away, she entrusted them to a colleague who managed to wilt some despite watering them daily. Şükran was disappointed, but gently gave the colleague a first lesson in flower care.

In the afternoons, a light turn of the office door handle announced that Şükoş Abla had come to talk. She spoke about the newspaper’s history, the history of the working class, the generation of 1968 and their shared friends. Colleagues say she was living history and, if not the oldest by age, the newspaper’s most senior employee by service. Her experiences and memories could have filled volumes. She had begun writing them down, but colleagues feared the work was lost when she forgot to save it.

They also remember her as the newspaper’s memory and conscience. With no trace of ego, she spent hours with interns, first teaching them what belonging to Cumhuriyet meant. Her heart beat for the newspaper, her son Devrim, her grandchildren and Turkey’s working class. She regularly visited sick friends, mourners and imprisoned colleagues, taking food to their families despite her modest salary.

She was also the person colleagues turned to late at night when they needed somewhere to go. Even after complaining from the window, “You again?”, she would already be setting the table before they reached her apartment. To them, she was a professional elder, a sister and sometimes a mother who scolded them with affection.

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You again?