Oya Baydar - The Lost Word

He guessed he was looking for that indefinable thing that had, at one time, filled him and then got lost leaving in its place a cold dark emptiness. Without realizing it, in the daily comfortable bed of life he had been consumed by a selfish insensitivity. But why here? Why in this distant, foreign land and not there — where he had lost it?

When Zelal had asked the same question in her own language, he had answered that his source had dried up. But to think that the springs in these parts gush more freely and are purer and cooler, isn’t that some sort of intellectual romanticism? Isn’t this also an eastern myth that we have created?

Jiyan had said, ‘If you are trying to capture the spirit of our people, go to a mourning house. I’ll introduce you to a friend, a lawyer. He was like a pupil to my husband. He’s from round here. He is one of those who, instead of staying at university and making a career for himself, opening an office in Istanbul and becoming a rich and famous lawyer, preferred to remain here and become a country lawyer. He will take you to a mourning house.’

He knew about community centres, but he had not heard of mourning houses. ‘Is it the home of the young lad they shot as a terrorist a few days ago?’

‘It’s not just his, but it’s everyone’s home. It’s a place a bit like a local community centre. After someone has died, people gather there, relatives of the deceased accept condolences, there is lamenting, poems are recited, and songs are sung for the dead.’

She gives a cynical wry smile. ‘It is a social, public place, like a mosque or an Alevi assembly house. There beats the heart of the town’s deep sorrows.’

‘Is it always open?’

‘It’s always open because people are always dying. A lot of people die here. Death is our most important social activity.’

As she introduces him to her lawyer friend who is going to take Ömer to the mourning house Jiyan says, ‘Surely I don’t have to introduce you to Ömer Bey. If I remember correctly you said that you had read The Other Side.’

‘Of course I know Ömer Eren.’

He shakes Ömer’s hand in a friendly manner. ‘Don’t take any notice of Jiyan. Sometimes she’s pessimistic like this. She makes everything more tragic than it really is. It must have been her suggestion that we should visit a mourning house. Of course we’ll go, but we have happy, hopeful, lively places, too: our cultural centre, the women’s cooperative, the women’s shelter, our recreational areas. We know about living, not just dying. We know about dancing and music, too. In one night there are dozens of henna parties. In a day there are dozens of weddings, especially in the summer.’

‘There must be, I’m sure. I wish there were a wedding. I would love to attend. I wanted to meet the family of the child who was mistakenly shot as a terrorist two days ago and ask if I could help in any way. That is why Jiyan Hanım directed me to the mourning house. I’m putting you to a lot of trouble.’

‘It’s no trouble. I don’t have any hearings or anything else on today. In fact, I must talk to the murdered boy’s family. They’ll be there. I’ll see them at the same time.’

As they talk and walk along a neglected dusty street with plastic bags and newspaper flying around and rubbish piled up at the side of the road, the lawyer says, ‘The worst thing is the feeling of loneliness inside us. Loneliness and mistrust … That’s why it’s important that people like you come here. It decreases our sense of isolation. But of course it raises our expectations and hopes. We think that those who take the trouble to come this far will will appreciate our situation and, from what they have learnt, will stand in solidarity with us and help us resolve our problems. It doesn’t work like that. Then, as you have observed, the mistrust and the sense of isolation deepen. Please don’t get me wrong. We know you are helpless, too. Time is needed, patience is needed, but people’s time and patience are running out.’

‘That boy who was shot as a terrorist … Did you say he was twelve years old? Why him?’

‘Even you have doubts when asking that question? Mistrust has settled in our hearts. We cannot overcome it with ease. The boy really was innocent; whatever innocence means in these parts … Of course he could have been a courier for the organization. He could have been taking messages to and from the mountain. He could have been stashing weapons or something. Sometimes even children get involved in the fighting. This place is not the world of innocent angels; no one has wings on his back. It’s war. War destroys innocence. However, this boy, believe me, was just a child. I think the real target was his father. Perhaps it was a mistaken target, perhaps intimidation.’

‘I hope the truth will emerge. If you look at the newspapers the incident has had quite an impact on public opinion. They say that committees are being organized to come and do on-the-spot inspections.’

‘This is what I wanted to tell you, Ömer Bey. They will come here in droves and with the best intentions, with feelings of righteousness against injustice. They will share the family’s grief, our grief. As you will, too, in a little while. They will promise themselves and us not to let the matter rest. Then they will return to their homes. They will do their very best and they will see that their very best is not much — as always. More important work will crop up or they won’t have the power to do anything, and they will be without a solution. Things will be put off and then forgotten. In the meantime children will continue to die, to be killed. Your children, our children, the world’s children.’ There is no weariness, reproach or dejection in the man’s voice. It is as though he’s making a cool professional analysis.

‘I came here not to be like them,’ says Ömer. He realizes that he says these words not to the lawyer but to himself and that he has been thinking aloud. ‘It is not enough to understand. One needs to be the other person in body and soul. Suffering cannot be shared. One has to endure the suffering. For some time I’ve been thinking that solidarity is self-deception. And now I don’t know what to do.’

He remembers his conversation with Mahmut’s father. The spindly daisies brought by the little girl who missed her father, and Hüseyin Bozlak’s query ‘Do you know what it means to lose a son, Ömer Begim?’ He recalls what they talked about, pouring his heart out, saying things that he would not tell anyone else. There is something about these people that encourages honesty. Something that makes one talk without worrying about betraying oneself. Perhaps it is because it is the only way that one can reach their hearts. The lawyer had mentioned mistrust. Perhaps it is to dispel mistrust.

The mourning house is a largish room within a coffee house in a poor neighbourhood on the outskirts of the town. Chairs have been arranged around the walls. The relatives of those in mourning sit on chairs directly opposite the door that has been left open because of the heat. The young woman in the middle must be the mother. A corner of a long white scarf hanging from her head trails on the ground. Here the colour of mourning and death is not black, thinks Ömer. Their mourning is so deep, such a part of them, that there is no need to express it with symbols. The colours of life and the colours of death are one and the same here. There are other women near the mother; elderly women. They are repeating a prayer-like chant in low voices, mainly just moving their lips. The mother does not cry; she does not participate in the prayer. With her eyes fixed on her old plastic slippers, her hands clasped under her stomach, she remains motionless. The father is seated by himself, a little to one side, a few chairs away from the women, and he is looking at those who come and go.