I spent my childhood in İzmit. There is one scene I remember vividly from the days leading up to the holidays (Bayram): in front of the old post office, they used to set up long metal racks against the wall. Row after row of racks… hundreds of holiday postcards… You couldn’t take your eyes off them.
We would pick out cards for distant friends and elders. You know that feeling when you hold a card in your hand and think, “This one is meant for them”? Before you even write a single word, that person’s face comes to mind. Then comes the envelope, the stamp, the distinct smell of the post office… and that beautiful anticipation: the card is “on its way.”
Looking back now, I realize something: those cards weren’t just saying “Happy holidays.” They were actually conveying something far simpler: “You are on my mind.” And they said it with genuine effort and intention.
While reading Virginia Evans’ Muhabbet (Conversation / Fellowship), this very feeling resonated with me the most. I started the book out of curiosity—not a “What happens next?” kind of curiosity, but rather, “How do these people truly touch each other’s lives?”
Towards the end, however, that curiosity slowly shifted into melancholy. Not a devastating kind of sorrow… more like a quiet ache in your chest, yet one that makes you sigh and think, “Well, that’s just how life is.”
A sentence I underlined stopped me in my tracks:
“I was wondering, Harry, if the reason you ask me if I’m lonely is that you’re looking for a way to tell me that I am?”
Because sometimes, when someone asks, “Are you lonely?” they aren’t asking so they can say, “Let’s solve this loneliness together.” Sometimes they are simply naming it. Or even worse: it feels like a polite way of telling you, “You’re lonely.”
And what truly hurts a person isn’t always loneliness itself, but this: your loneliness is noticed, yet left hanging right there.
The second half of the sentence never comes.
Deep down, what we truly wait to hear is simple:
“You’re lonely… but I am right here.”
When that continuation is missing, all that remains is the realization that you are alone.
There is Communication, but No Real Connection (Sometimes)
Today, we have an abundance of communication. Endless messages, notifications, even emojis. Yet, people can still feel profoundly lonely.
The way I see it: more communication doesn’t mean more genuine connection. Because muhabbet—true, heartfelt conversation—is a different thing entirely. It’s not merely talking; it’s truly “reaching and touching” someone’s world.
Thinking back to those metal racks outside the İzmit post office… the sheer volume of those cards couldn’t compare to today’s message traffic. But those cards were more “complete.” Because they carried intention. They carried effort. They carried patience.
Even the fact that a card was on its way meant something. It felt like saying to the other person, “I am making my way toward you.”
Today, everything arrives instantly. And when it’s instantaneous, that sense of “I am coming toward you” often gets lost.
What Did I Take Away from This Book?
The life lesson that stayed with me is this:
Loneliness is rarely the absence of people around you; it is the absence of feeling truly understood.
And there’s also this: sometimes people can act as if they are connecting with you, while ultimately leaving you stranded in your solitude. They speak, but they don’t touch your soul. You hear them, but you don’t feel heard.
As I was writing this, I asked myself: Have I ever asked someone “Are you lonely?” and, in doing so, simply labeled their loneliness? Sometimes, even with the best intentions, instead of easing someone’s burden, we merely point it out. Even pondering this question makes one much more mindful of their words.
Closing
When the book ended, what lingered with me wasn’t the plot, but a feeling. The feeling of a holiday postcard.
Like standing in front of a rack… looking at hundreds of cards… but one in particular catches your eye and sticks with you. Because it’s not about how pretty the card is; its meaning comes from the person it is meant for.
I think true connection is just like that: there are countless words and endless talk… but it only becomes real when it gives someone the feeling of “I am here.”
So let me leave you with this question:
When was the last time you made someone feel “I am right here,” without asking them if they were lonely?
Who Should Read It / Who Might Not Enjoy It?
Who should read it:
- Those who enjoy quiet, slow-paced books centered around relationships and human connection without feeling overwhelming.
- Readers who like delving beneath the surface of concepts like loneliness, intimacy, speech, and silence.
- Anyone who finishes a book and immediately feels the urge to say, “I need to tell someone about this.”
Who might not enjoy it:
- Readers who prefer fast-paced, plot-driven stories with constant tension and a “what happens next?” momentum.
- Those who get bored by introspective, atmosphere-heavy, and deeply emotional narratives.
- Anyone looking to avoid that quiet, lingering ache a book leaves behind once you turn the last page.
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