HE POOR GIRL PLAYING THE VIOLIN (Keman Çalan Yoksul Kız)

She first heard the sound of the violin at her father’s knee. Before she could even walk, the notes became lullabies for her. Her father was a former civil servant; poor but honorable. Every evening, he would sit down by the stove and tell his daughter of his love through the language of melodies.

“My daughter, if a person can’t find words to express their heart, they’ll take up the violin.”
Influenced by these beautiful words, that little girl also took up the violin. She learned to touch the strings with her tiny hands. When she was only 13, her beloved father, the person who held those hands most, quietly passed away. From that day on, the joy in the house faded, the sun practically faded, but the connection she had forged through melodies with her father never ceased. While her mother went to work and cleaned the house, she would dream of playing the violin there. With her worn fingers, she would weave melodies one after another, reflecting glimmers of hope through the cracks in the walls.
Playing the violin was her father’s only legacy. With that legacy, a girl had risen gracefully from poverty: it was as if she were living her father’s life with dreams of Zeynep and the violin.
Zeynep would wake up before her mother in the mornings and meticulously iron her school uniform. The same jacket, the same skirt… But always spotless. The collar was pristine white, the buttons perfectly finished. The most elegant layer she wore over poverty: care and order.
Not so that no one would call her a “poor girl,” but out of self-respect. All these beautiful feelings were a debt and respect she owed to her father’s memory, to her mother’s bleach-calloused hands.
Her mother would look into her daughter’s eyes as she carefully handed her even a hair clip:

“If she doesn’t like it, don’t let it hurt… If she’s happy, don’t let it hurt her pride.”
Zeynep, however, treasured every gift like a state medal. She felt her mother’s fragile pride and never trivialized a gift.
When she returned home after school, she would take off her street shoes and put on her house slippers. Order was her resistance. She was poor, but not disheveled; she had her flaws, but she wasn’t broken.
She had learned what was right for her from her father.
Her mother, however, would tell her, “Everything you have may be lost, but your pride never will.”
Zeynep’s school bag might have been light, but it weighed as much as the burden her mother had carried for years. School trips, photocopy money, music competitions… Each time, her mother lost something. Sometimes a bracelet, sometimes a pair of pearl earrings. Finally, the small watch her father had inherited was gone, unnoticed.
Zeynep pretended not to know these things. Her mother assumed she didn’t either. But the house was a silent game of sacrifice. Everyone pretended to carry the other’s burdens without knowing, but in reality, they kept everything hidden somewhere in their hearts.
Zeynep was happiest and most at peace at school in music class. When she picked up the school violin, she became someone else. She wouldn’t get lost in the orchestra, she wouldn’t stand out; she would simply become the music itself. Her dream was to one day be able to play outside of school, but there wasn’t a violin at home. She never said it. She knew; if she had, her mother would have gotten that violin somehow. Maybe she’d sold her husband’s last shirt, or maybe the engagement bundle she’d been keeping for years.
One day, the daughter of the downstairs neighbor had gotten a violin as a birthday gift. She wasn’t particularly interested in playing. Zeynep was there, too. She picked up the violin, gently placed the bow on the strings… Then, when she played the first notes, everyone fell silent.
From that day on, she began giving lessons to the neighbor’s daughter. He taught her and, for a few hours a week, he’d also restore her to the violin’s sound. It wasn’t enough, but he managed. Just as his mother had managed with her pension.

That violin wasn’t hers, nor was it so far away that it would never be. But every time he played, it was as if her father would nod and smile in the corner of the living room, while her mother listened quietly from the kitchen.

This image is powerful: a life woven with sincerity, humility, and talent. Zeynep’s teacher recognized her love for the violin. However, she didn’t have the financial means to buy a violin as a gift, nor did she know any benefactors. This moment marked a turning point for her violin.

That day, after school, Zeynep went straight to the Bay Karakurts’ house. She was to have a short lesson with the neighbor’s daughter and play a little. When her fingers touched the strings, the trapped emotions inside her were released one by one. Each note was a translation of the silences they had kept.

The house was silent. Until the doorbell rang early.
Her mother had returned home early. When she unlocked the door and couldn’t find her daughter, she felt uneasy. Zeynep’s bag was still there, the stove still hadn’t gone out… Could something have happened?

She went door to door. Finally, Hatice Hanım opened the door and smiled:

“Oh, Zeynep? She’s inside, playing the violin with my daughter.”
Her mother squinted her eyes slightly, listening to the melody coming from inside. Fear slowly gave way to a warmth. Zeynep was playing just as her father had taught her. With the same patience, the same sincerity.
That night, when they returned home, her mother quietly searched the kitchen for something. Then she went to her room. She had been covered in old blankets and boxes for years.
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Halil GÜLEL

He Pour Girl Playing The Violin
(Keman Çalan Yoksul Kız)