I remember visiting my father’s village for the very first time when I was about ten years old. Despite loving adventures, being that disconnected and off the grid held little appeal for me during my teenage years. That has changed.

The village lies at the foot of a mountain pass in the northern province of Antalya, Türkiye. It is home to roughly 450 permanent residents. Raw and unfiltered in its appearance, it is an old-school Turkish village. Yes, some developments have occurred over the years—paved roads, for instance. There is also an ecotourism motel and four assigned imams. Yet there is no school, no post office, and no health center. It is a Wi-Fi desert, and cellular coverage is unreliable. Thanks to its remote location, the village has managed to preserve its rough edges and its natural environment.

Life here revolves around farming, husbandry, beekeeping, and more recently, tourism. For me, it’s about picking fresh fruit straight from the trees, seeing the Milky Way with the naked eye, encountering unfamiliar insects, and waking up to the sound of sheep moving around the house in the morning. The village demands your full attention—and does so without modern-day attractions (or distractions). It’s a simple idea philosophers often talk about. This place is a refuge, an escape from the endless news cycle and the overwhelming stream of information that defines modern life. A place where no ads or commercials are forced upon you. Nature doesn’t want to sell you anything.

It is a place to reconnect with the natural world and disconnect from civilization. Social definitions fall away. It feels timeless. The village reminds us that we are alive in the same way nature is alive—that we don’t need to achieve anything to be valid in our humanness.

Life here is certainly not easy, and there’s no need to romanticize its struggles. The problems that exist elsewhere exist here too: financial pressure, climate issues, food and education, relationship tensions, political affiliations. Yet, especially during the pandemic, more than ever before, (young) people came here—buying land, building houses. Not to live permanently, but to have a refuge. To hit the pause button. To have a fallback plan if things fall apart—personally or collectively.

Giving nicknames is a strong tradition in Turkish villages. My grandfather’s nickname was “Süslü” (stylish), my grandmother was called “Tokalı” (hair clips). There’s a villager known as “Organik Ahmet” because he grows organic vegetables, and a relative nicknamed “Kuzucu” (lamb herder). These people are not remembered by their given names. To this day, my father is still called Süslü’s son—my grandfather passed away a decade ago.

I’ve been working with my camera in the village for a few years now. These days, some villagers stop in their tracks and smile, inviting me: “You can take a photo of me,” before I’ve even said a word. Since my reputation seems to precede me now, I sometimes wonder whether I’ll receive a nickname—and what it might be. Because you don’t choose your nickname. The villagers do.

Every year I learn something new—about the village, my father and his family, their past and upbringing, and my own past. It’s an ongoing process.

There is something about this place that makes people return. My grandparents left in the 1960s, first for the city of Antalya and then as far as Germany, only to come back and spend the rest of their lives here. My father was born in the village and left decades ago, yet when he took a sabbatical, it began here. When my mother felt unwell in her mid-forties, she came here to reset her body. And now, after moving from place to place, I too find a much-needed peace of mind here.

Like an echo in the mountains. We are the echo—brief, fleeting—and the mountain will remain long after, with us or without us.