Oya Baydar - The Lost Word

‘We must leave this place,’ he said when he eventually got up. ‘We must go far away to a place where houses are not raided at night. Don’t anyone dare say to me that this is our homeland. What sort of a homeland is this? The guerrilla attacks, demanding food, shelter and sons to fight in the mountains; the state attacks and wants you to forsake yourself, your life, your honour. We must go to the city, a big city where nobody knows one another. It’s too late for the others, but this poor boy must go to school, get an education and become a responsible member of society. The mountains are no longer safe. Death lurks there. Brother shoots brother in the mountains.’

The day the village was evacuated and burnt down and they were trying to reach the plain below with their loads on their backs, women and children, everyone totally wretched, when they stopped to look back something incredible happened, his father had wept; he went down on his knees facing the village, as if prostrating himself in prayer, and talked to himself as he cried. Seeing him like that, the women crouched next to him and bade farewell to the village, sobbing and wailing, ‘ Şin û şivan’, as if praying for the dead. He heard his father muttering, so that he wouldn’t be heard by the soldiers accompanying the migrating group and hissing under his breath like a wounded animal, as though whistling through his teeth, ‘ Ma li serê çîyan mirin ne ji rezilbûyina li vir başir bu?’ Wouldn’t it have been better to die on the mountain rather than suffer this disgrace? The home of our ancestors is ablaze. What good is living if you’re not strong enough to put out the fire in your homeland? ‘Ger mirov ji boy tefandina şevata welat xwedi hêz ne be, jîyan çi re di be?’ They had cried together, silently this time, grandfather, grandmother, mother, daughter-in-law, grandchildren, everyone. Their homeland remained as the smell of burnt grass and dung in their nostrils, the colour of embers in their eyes, salty teardrops on their lips, pain in their hearts and longing in their minds. Burnt villages, burnt hills, burnt mountains … Was that all that was burnt?

He is not rolling any more. He slides down the steep slope on his behind putting his wounded shoulder forwards. Only the sound of the crushed grass and the rolling pebbles … And the silence … He can’t decide whether he should consider it peaceful or ominous. And just in front — about 100–150 metres away — the dense clump of trees that looks like a tuft of hair on a bald head…

He slides in the opposite direction for a while to cover his tracks. He must go on a little more, a little further. There is a cave. He must leave some traces there. He tries to smear blood on the grass and the pebbles. His shoulder is bleeding badly. It won’t stop. However, the bullet is not inside; it must have just winged him. He knew he would have been in a worse state if the bullet was lodged inside. After all, he had studied medicine. He had heard in secret conversations that this was why so many wounded fugitives confessed. What can you do if you are a badly wounded fugitive? You will knock at the door of the state. And if you don’t want to stay in prison all your life you will surrender.

I can cope with this wound. The barking dog doesn’t bite; a profusely bleeding wound doesn’t kill. But if the bone is shattered that means trouble. He will go into the cave and leave a torn piece from his shirt and one or two bullets from his cartridge belt. He will bind up his shoulder and try to stop the bleeding, and then he will get up and make a dash for the woods.

He knows that all this is pointless; that if they want to they will find him wherever he goes. I wasn’t anyone significant; just an ordinary fighter with the mountain troops, that’s all. They wouldn’t have let me get away if I had been someone special. Most of those executed were important comrades or just boys like Hıdır. So why do I keep thinking that it was our side that shot me? Who could tell where the bullet came from in all that confusion?

He reaches the entrance to the cave and with one last effort pulls himself inside. The cave is peaceful and cool. He is beginning to feel slightly drowsy. Although Mahmut thinks it comes gradually, sleep pounces on him. I must have lost a lot of blood. It isn’t safe here. I mustn’t fall asleep. I must reach the other side. There is an impenetrable area in the middle of the woods over there where thorny shrubs intertwine with dwarf oaks and birches. Neither the guerrillas nor the soldiers use that place. If you intend to hide, that wood is good and safe, but there is no escape out of it. Once you are surrounded, you are finished.

With one last effort he takes off his cartridge belt — many loops are empty — undoes his shutik, pulls off the shirt stuck to his body, and, winding his sash under his armpit and over his shoulder from the back, he binds the wound tightly. It is the first time he feels such intense pain. It is deeper than a flesh wound. It spreads to the bones. His collarbone is probably damaged; no, not damaged — completely shattered. Clearly he will be disabled for life. Luckily it’s the left arm, he says to himself. He feels faint. I must get to those woods opposite. It’s not safe here. They will hunt me down like a rabbit here. As he struggles to get up his head touches a warm soft pillow. He lets himself go. I must get to the woods … I must … I … must … get … In the damp coolness of the cave, his head on the soft warm pillow, he sees a myriad stars in the dark-blue sky. Stars colliding and falling like balls of fire…

You put your head in my lap and passed out. You slept. I couldn’t make out your face. You were wounded and bleeding, your chest and your back were bare. When I ran my hand over your head and your chest; my fingers touched your thick, soft hair. I shivered and felt funny. No, I was never afraid of you. When I realized someone had entered the cave I retreated to the deepest, darkest corner. In the light that filtered in from outside I could see that you were wounded. It is in our tradition to help the injured. If a wretched, wounded man took refuge in our fields, neither my mother nor my second mother asked or considered which side he was on. Sometimes my father would ask, ‘Who are his family?’ My mother would stand up to him responding, ‘Whether he is from the mountain or from the state army, he is still a human being, his mother’s darling, so what does it matter?’ And my second mother would back my mother up, saying, ‘Your son is in the mountains, and two brave boys from my village are soldiers of the Turkish Republic — the TC — so what does it matter?’

The men who raped me, were they soldiers or guerrillas? I have no idea. It was getting dark. I had left the herd in the valley below, and I was looking for the lost black lamb among the rocks at the top. As I jumped from stone to stone and rock to rock I must have strayed quite far. Somebody grabbed me from behind. I couldn’t see his face. They forced me down, pulled up my skirt, pulled off my trousers, tore off my knickers, parted my legs and raped me. The first time — I don’t know how many they were and how many times — I shouted not from fright but from pain. I struggled, kicked, punched and tried to escape. The last one said, ‘Don’t be afraid.’ I can’t remember now if he spoke Turkish or Kurdish, but I understood that he told me not to be frightened. He caressed me all over if somewhat hurriedly; he kissed me, too; both before he entered me and while he was inside. He had a beard. He rubbed his beard on my face, my lips, my nipples, my belly and even my female parts, softly, caressingly. I realized that he didn’t want to harm me. The pain between my legs was increasing. I was hurting and bleeding. I was wounded inside. But the fear in my heart had faded a little. Suddenly an arrow of fire shot between my legs, passed through my stomach and struck my nipples, then my throat and my lips. I released my fingers that were clutching the earth and the grass, and dug them into the back and the arms of the man on top of me. I didn’t want to hurt him, just to hold him. I wanted him to stay where he was, not to get up and leave, to remain there like a protective shield. I didn’t want him to throw my bleeding body to other bastards. Perhaps he understood: perhaps not. The others called him, not with words but with a whistle. He said something as he got up from me. I couldn’t understand what language it was or what he said. My head felt numb. Then they hurriedly went away. I could see their rifles dangling under their armpits from where I lay. I was tired, but I wasn’t entirely worn out; I was no longer afraid either. What worse could happen? I walked over to the spring close by, and I washed myself thoroughly all over. I felt purified, cleansed. I looked at my reflection in the water. How they would jeer at me as the raped and abused seed of a whore if they knew! Yet the iridescent reflection rippling in the water was still the same me. The stain on my honour had been washed clean away with the water. Could it be that my face was shining more than usual? I couldn’t see myself in the shimmering mirror of the water; I saw with my inner eye. I had become prettier. I had grown and become more feminine. There was a midwife in the village who used to tell dirty stories to young brides and women, caress our budding nipples whenever she could and feel our private parts with her finger, saying, ‘Let’s see if you are a virgin.’ She used to giggle as she told my mother, ‘Look out for that daughter of yours. She’s got the fire of a whore.’ Even if she hadn’t said it my mother always kept an eye on me in any case. I wasn’t allowed to play mothers and fathers or get too friendly even with girls, let alone boys. It wasn’t that she was afraid something would happen to me or that I would lose my virginity. She was frightened of the code of honour and wanted to protect me.