Oya Baydar - The Lost Word

Then one day, in the lee of the green trees and bushes, Zelal told Mahmut about the seed that was growing in her womb, the life that was sprouting in her belly. She spoke in the tongue of holy books that fascinates and finds depth in its simplicity, as though saying, ‘I know and I make known.’ Mahmut remained silent for some time. Then he put his hand on the stomach of his beloved and wept.

During one of the clashes he had engaged in, his companions noticed that he wasn’t fighting as furiously as formerly, and they had reported him. While he was offering self-criticism, they had said, ‘Battle tolerates no softness or mercy. You must either kill or die. Be inspired by the example of our female fighters and our hevals who pull the trigger without turning a hair.’

War does not tolerate softness or mercy. Men don’t cry. Well, he was crying. While Zelal brushed away his tears with her lips and tried to bandage his wound with a flood of words of love, he thought, I’m soft. If I wasn’t I would have shot her here and now. If I weren’t soft I wouldn’t be able to bear the thought of her carrying the seed of the enemy in her womb. Then he rejoiced silently. What a good thing I’m soft, that I don’t kill her, that I don’t kill anyone.

Were they his words, or was it a divine force that had entered him and made him feel like this? He spoke with the voice of that force. ‘The child is my child. The child is our child, yours and mine. For days now my seeds have been falling on to your soil. The child will sprout from that soil with those seeds. Whether soldier or guerrilla, he will not be a child of war. He is our child. We will take him far away from these mountains, and we shall reach the seas. He will be a child of peace.’

The code of honour did not penetrate the green sanctuary near the cool spring that gushed from the rock. Neither the laws of the state nor those of the mountains were recognized there. Zelal and Mahmut were in a dream where they ate wild fruit and plants and drank the healing waters of the holy river in Eden. They were the joyful tidings and the dream of a sorrowful world that had lost its innocence.

They realized it was time to wake up from that dream the day the military police arrived on reconnaissance. From their nest in the most secluded corner of their green shelter and without seeing anyone, they could hear the military police discover the cave which they had abandoned. The military police raided it, armed with heavy weapons. They moved cautiously. The green sanctuary was so inaccessible, so well hidden, that Zelal and Mahmut saw neither the large guns nor the wary steps of the men’s clumsy boots. But they heard the sounds; they understood what was going on from the noise — familiar sounds they had known since their childhood.

‘Military police don’t come to fight,’ said Mahmut. ‘They must be after something else.’

‘They’re after me,’ said the girl. ‘Apê minan dû min xistine … My uncle’s family has sent them to look for me. They never give up. When my death penalty was pronounced my father didn’t have the heart to kill me. He is an extraordinarily good man, my father. They shut me in the sheep pen. They hung a rope from the ceiling and the noose was ready for my neck. I checked the rope, and it was strong. But would the roof of the pen take my weight? I wasn’t sure. They couldn’t risk doing it themselves. I don’t know if they couldn’t bring themselves to do it or whether they were afraid of the law. They told me to take care of it myself. I was the one to sin for taking my own life and that of the one in my womb. I said to myself, if this is your code of honour, if what you are doing is right, well, then do it yourselves like men. You’ll get no help from me. Take the sin of two lives upon yourselves. Let’s see which of you pulls the rope. It won’t be me. My mother cried when the decision was taken, but she hadn’t objected. What good would it have done anyway? My second mother said, “It’s not right. You’re not to blame. This is God’s child. Your father weeps for you secretly, I know. It’s your village warden uncle who insists, saying it is the code. Apparently he goes around saying, ‘Can I be head village guard and not punish the whore? Can I be a guard and violate our code of honour? Impossible!’ Your father wasn’t defeated by the traditions; he was defeated by your uncle. I don’t know how he heard, but your brother Mesut, too, sent word. Apparently he said, ‘I won’t let that whore live.’” They told me, “You have until morning. Make it quick. Do what you have to do”, and off they went. It was way past midnight when the door opened and my father came in. I was so frightened my heart was in my mouth. I thought he would finish me off quickly to end his pain. I didn’t hide. I came to the middle of the room and stood right under the noose. If I stood a little on tiptoe it would just about pass over my neck. My father was carrying a bag. He said, “Take this and leave immediately. Well, go on. Get a move on.” I did. I took the bag he gave me and left. Life is sweet, especially when you are young, especially if you are carrying another life inside you. It was a strange night. There was a full moon, but it had gone behind the clouds so it was very dark. It was the work of God. The dogs were quiet as if they knew. Nobody made a sound, and there wasn’t a soul about. Did everybody know I was going to fly the coop, or was it providence? I know the area well, and I’ve got a good sense of direction. I can find my way easily. I walked over rock and mountain for days, always getting further away. There was water in the bag, food, a little money and my identity card. My father was always proud of having got us identity cards. Just think; even the girls had them. I walked and walked and then I reached the cave.

‘I was walking with another life in my stomach. I was feeling light-headed, my mind a blur. It was as though I was in a dream, walking on clouds as I skipped over stones and rocks, jumped over puddles and brooks. My bare feet hardly touched the ground. I didn’t get tired or hungry. I hadn’t even opened the bag of provisions. I had escaped death and had lost all fear. I steered clear of hamlets and grazing grounds. I walked towards the mountains, always the mountains. I saw fires in the distance. The winds from the east brought the smell of burnt grass and straw and charred trees. Sometimes, I heard gunshots in the distance. I walked along in deep thought, thinking about the life I carried in my womb, wondering what would happen to it, what life was all about, asking myself what had become of my life, of my mother’s, my sister’s. Never mind about us women. What about my father, my grandfather, my brother — what had they done with their lives? Mine was a walk in the opposite direction. I was walking up the mountains, whereas I should have been walking down to the city. My father had told me to bypass the town and head straight to the city. He had said, “The city will envelop you, you will be lost in the crowds. You will change, become unrecognizable, and perhaps you will escape.” I walked in the opposite direction. I preferred the freedom of the mountains to being lost in the anonymous crowds of the city. Then I found you. Then I understood that I had been coming to you all along. It was all about meeting you.’

She had walked those roads thinking about the life in her womb. As she climbed over rocks and steep slopes, as she rested when tired in a hollow, under a tree, in the shadow of a boulder, her mind kept returning to the foetus in her belly. Perhaps she was unconsciously trying to get rid of it by walking so rapidly over such rough terrain. Pregnant women in the fields who wished to get rid of unwanted babies would carry abnormally heavy weights, leap over fires or reach out for ropes way above their heads. If that didn’t work, the midwife would give them medicine or poke about inside them to make them miscarry. Zelal might have tried to do the same. If she wanted to live, she had to get rid of this thing growing inside her. She had to pluck out this bad seed that held her body prisoner if she wanted to reach that vast water of her dreams called the sea. However, she was scared and had not been able to do it. She was paralysed by the image of Mizgin who had died in the village; her face growing paler, her lips turning white, her eyes bulging as the blood trickled between her legs and her last long scream was etched for ever on the mirror of her mind.