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MidReal Story
Garlic Harvest Mysteries
Scenario:Kastamonu'da sarımsak hasadı başladı
Create my version of this story
Leyla Arslan
botanist studying local flora, colleague to Derya and friend to Halil, curly red hair, intelligent and skeptical
Halil Aydın
garlic farmer, childhood friend of Derya, tall and sunworn, practical and loyal
Derya Çelik
local journalist, friends with Halil and Leyla, short dark hair, inquisitive and determined
Chapter 1
The garlic harvest in Kastamonu is a big deal.
It’s the time of year when the entire region comes together to pick, sort, and braid the bulbs that will be sold at market.
The fields are lush with greenery, and the smell of garlic hangs heavy in the air.
I’ve been coming out to Halil’s family farm for as long as I can remember, but this year is different.
This year, I’m not just here to help with the harvest—I’m here to report on it.
I’m a journalist for the local paper, and I’ve been assigned to cover the annual event from start to finish.
So far, it’s been pretty uneventful.
But as the sun starts to dip below the horizon, I hear a commotion coming from the other side of the field.
I perk up as we draw nearer, my eyes scanning the crowd for signs of what might be going on.
By my side is Halil Aydın, a tall, sunworn man who looks like he was born and raised in these fields.
In a way, he was—his family has been farming this land for generations, and if all goes well, he’ll be taking over from his father next year.
The Aydıns are garlic farmers, and their crop is one of the best in the region.
It’s sent to markets as far away as Istanbul and beyond, where it fetches a good price.
Today we’re knee-deep in Halil’s parents’ land, where every inch has been planted with garlic.
The bulbs are poking out of the ground like little white noses, waiting to be harvested by hand.
Already I can smell garlic on my skin and feel it clinging to my hair—all I want is a nice long shower so I can wash it off me.
"You’d think people would be sick of garlic after all this," I say.
Halil gives me a funny look.
"Never," he says simply.
He’s probably right.
Garlic is a staple in our cooking, and most people around here have been growing it for centuries.
If you didn’t like garlic, you’d either starve or have to move somewhere else, so it’s no wonder that we go through so much of it during harvest time.
The sun is high in the sky by the time we get out there, and I’m grateful for my wide-brimmed hat as I squint into the light.
Today the fields are packed with families who have come out from town, ready to help pick this year’s crop.
For many of them, this is an important part of their livelihood: they’ll be paid for their labor and then receive a share of the profits once everything is sold at market.
But picking garlic isn’t just about money—it’s about community, too.
I take a moment to look over the fields that stretch as far as I can see.
It's hard for me to believe how productive Halil's family farm has been over the years, and yet it continues to produce some of the best garlic in our region.
The bulbs grown here are known not only for their quality and flavor but also for their size and consistency.
Halil's name is now synonymous with top-grade garlic, and people come from all around just to taste it.
I've always been proud of Halil and his family farm, but this year is special because they've agreed to let me follow them through the entire harvesting process so that I can write an article about it for my local paper.
It seems like such a small thing, but it's something that makes me incredibly happy—and it means even more coming from one of my oldest friends.
Halil and I go way back.
We met when we were kids and have been close ever since.
He knows all of my secrets and most of my memories; he’s always been around, like a brother who never left home.
"Nothing," Halil says.
I know he’s trying to sound casual, but I can see the worry in his eyes.
He tips his head back and scrubs a hand through his short hair, which is dark like mine and almost as long as his mother will allow it.
"Do you think there will be?"
I ask quietly.
Halil looks around to make sure no one else is listening before he responds.
"It’s hard to say," he admits.
"I hope not."
I don’t have to ask what "it" is.
There have been rumors for weeks about potential buyers who might want to turn this land into something else—something that doesn’t involve farming or garlic at all.
When I look at Halil Aydın, I see the future.
The farm may have been in his family for generations and passed down to the oldest son each time it changed hands, but it’s up to Halil to decide what will happen next.
He’s the one who will have to work this land and keep it healthy if it’s going to be around for another century—and another after that.
He’s already feeling the pressure of being heir to such a large property; he knows all too well how many people are counting on him to succeed and make something of himself here.
But even as he goes about his daily tasks and tries not to let the stress get the best of him, part of Halil wishes he could just run away from all this responsibility and leave everything behind once and for all.
If only he could stop worrying about what would happen if he failed—if he let this land die or slip through his fingers somehow—and start focusing on building a better life for himself instead.
But he can’t, and he knows it.
Halil is determined to make something of himself here, in his family’s home, even as everyone else around him seems bent on tearing it down.
He wants to prove that traditional ways of life still have meaning in this world, that there are things worth preserving even at the expense of progress or profit.
And most importantly, he doesn’t want to let his father—or his father before him—down by giving up on this farm now.
It may not be much by some people’s standards, but it means everything to Halil: a piece of land and a way of life he couldn’t imagine living without.
If he failed to preserve it—if he lost all the knowledge and tradition his ancestors had worked so hard to build—he would feel like part of his soul was gone forever.
That’s why I’m here, I tell him whenever he starts worrying about the future and whether or not there will even be one for farms like these in a few years’ time.
"You’re not alone," I remind him, wrapping an arm around his waist to pull him closer.
"We’ll get through this together."
It’s true: Halil isn't just a friend or a companion; he's a part of me in every way that matters, and I can't imagine my life without him by my side.
His dreams are my dreams; his struggles are mine as well.
I’m here for him now and always, no matter what we have to face in the years ahead.
Between the two of us, we'll find a way out of this mess and keep the farm alive for generations to come—just like it was always meant to be.
The future stretches out before us like the vast fields surrounding our village, filled with promise and possibility on this bright summer day.