Sevil

Sevil...
One morning, my teacher's face appeared vividly before my eyes. Her large, beautiful black eyes seemed to gaze at me, as if trying to convey something unspoken. She was the one who taught me the Azerbaijani language. It felt as though she were saying, "Leyla, don’t resist so much. Everything is fleeting. Turn back and take a look at my life..."
In that moment, I thought about her life. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t recall any details because I knew nothing about her personal story. I didn’t know where in Azerbaijan she was born, where she spent her childhood and youth, or even which school she attended. I could assume she graduated from ADPU since she was a teacher, but I had no idea about her university years, her first love, or whether she found happiness in life.
How could I reflect on her life when I knew so little? What did I know about her? Absolutely nothing.
The day I first met her, all I knew was her name: Sevil. She was my Azerbaijani language teacher in school.
Sevil was a tall, very slim, and charming woman. She had unforgettable large black eyes, a soft voice, and black hair streaked with a few strands of silver. Her eyes were as beautiful as they were sorrowful. She was a kind, warm-hearted person who kept away from gossip and disputes among the other teachers. During class, she focused entirely on teaching.
She passionately spoke to us about Fuzuli’s Leyli and Majnun, his ghazals, Nizami’s wise words, and Khamsa. Sometimes she sang ghazals like songs, filling our souls with Azerbaijani culture and, in her unique way, helping us rediscover our Azerbaijani identity.
I grew up in a family affected by Stalinist repression, a Ahiska Turks family. My mother was Turkish, and my father was half-Turkish half Azerbaijani. Because of this, I often felt like an outsider among Azerbaijanis. Only much later did I learn that Azerbaijanis were also Turks, and until the 1930s, the nationality field on our grandparents’ passports stated “Turk.” Essentially, we were not different at all—two nations descended from the Oghuz, mingled with local tribes, preserving traditions while evolving slightly different dialects. Yet together, they formed a harmonious and beautiful language.
Sevil taught me the Azerbaijani language and identity, sip by sip, like water to a thirsty soul.
I can say with certainty that it was she who taught me to love this land, its people, and its essence. Every time I discuss Azerbaijani women with someone, her image comes to mind because, to me, the quintessential Azerbaijani woman could only be like her.
What a beautiful name, Sevil ("to be loved"). It was as if her parents named her with the hope that she would be cherished her whole life. We, her entire class, loved her dearly.
Sadly, our beloved teacher suffered from bronchial asthma. During lessons, as she shared stories, poems, or songs, she would occasionally pause, cover her mouth, and cough. Then, she would calm herself and continue with her characteristic warmth.
I learned much later that she was unwell. At the time, I was too young to understand the gravity of her illness.
Someone, perhaps another teacher, had mentioned her visits to the salt mines in Nakhchivan, which eased her symptoms. But clearly, she couldn’t visit as often as she needed.
It was early 90s, the country was at war. Although it felt distant to us as children, we knew it was something terrifying. The frontlines were only about 100 kilometers away from where we lived. I didn’t fully grasp its horrors, but a voice inside me filled me with dread.
I remember how the whole school packed care packages for the soldiers at the front. Even though all our families struggled with poverty, our parents never hesitated to contribute whatever they could. Often, we sent cigarettes, soap, and canned food.
When I carried those items to school, I thought about their future owners. Who would wear the warm wool socks my grandmother knitted? Would they be grateful for them? Would they get to wear them until they were worn out, or would they fall to enemy bullets before they could truly use them?
Sevil and all class would carefully pack these items together.
I was afraid. I had seen films about the Great Patriotic War that left deep impressions on me. In one, villagers were herded into a church and burned alive. Such cruelty—what kind of strength, what kind of lack of humanity does it take to commit such atrocities?
Stories of war brutality circulated widely. I overheard tales of captives being mutilated, tortured in unimaginable ways. As a child, these stories deeply unsettled me.
I often wondered: if the enemies invaded our town, what would happen? What would become of my family—my mother, father, and siblings? Would it be better to leave before they arrived?
One day, I voiced this fear to my mother.
“Let them come. We’re not leaving,” she said firmly. “We can’t abandon our home, our land.”
Her answer filled me with both pride and shame—pride in her unwavering resolve and shame at my own fear.
My grandmother lived with us. I was about six years old when refugees from Armenia flooded Ganja, escaping atrocities. One day, she returned home from dropping my brother at daycare, visibly shaken.
“Kamal, run! Kamal, they killed him!” she cried as she stumbled into the house, her scarf slipping off her shoulders. My father calmed her and ran outside to investigate. It turned out she had mistaken a coat falling from a balcony for a body.
My father’s reassurances eventually soothed her, but I couldn’t help but wonder: had her eyes betrayed her, just as my mother’s determination might have been misleading her?
My grandmother had witnessed the horrors of war and raised five children alone in its aftermath. Her resilience inspired me, though I could only fully grasp her strength once I became a mother myself.
Sevil also waited for her husband to return from the frontlines. With a modest teacher’s salary, she raised two children alone. It was a time of rationing and long queues for bread—the reality of my childhood.
I imagine the hardships of war prevented her from visiting the Nakhchivan salt mines more frequently. Her illness advanced, stealing the glow from her face.
Though the war didn’t end, a ceasefire was declared. Twenty years of uneasy peace began.
By then, I had graduated from school. My classmates and I pursued higher education, each following our own dreams. Of the 19 students in our class, 16 were admitted to universities. We had new goals, new challenges.
A couple of years later, I heard the news of Sevil’s passing. She was just 42.
Whenever I learn of someone’s death—whether loved or unknown—it jolts me like a slap, shaking me from life’s comforting illusions and reminding me of its end. At such moments, I find myself flipping through the pages of my life, unable to linger on any one chapter. Yet Sevil’s death is inscribed in the margins of my story, a reminder of her unwavering strength and the indelible mark she left on my soul.