Oya Baydar - The Lost Word

If he faced punishment again he might not be so fortunate. This time there was no tangible accusation. But, still, he felt he was continually under surveillance.

It was when the operations and fighting had intensified. They had brought a young girl to the camp, wounded and covered with blood; they had dumped her on the ground. She was moaning and still bleeding from her wounds. She needed immediate attention. He had been amazed that no one took any notice of her or asked where the medics were, and when he learnt they were in the commander’s cave had run to fetch them. He had tried to explain the situation as speedily as possible and asked them to come immediately to look at the girl or at least allow him to tend to her. After all, he had studied at medical school. He had not even noticed that the medics were busy attending to the commander who had stomach cramps. While waiting for the medical team to assist, he had held the hand of the girl who was pleading in fear of death and moaning in pain, and he tried to give her hope. But by the time they arrived she was dead. He had just looked at their faces and gone off without a word.

When he was summoned to the commander’s cave he had not felt nervous. The man had asked just two questions: whether he had met the girl before and why he hadn’t spoken to the medics after she died. The commander had said, ‘Those who cannot stand the sight of blood, those who cannot stomach our female comrades being martyred for the sake of the cause, cannot walk this gruelling path. If she was left on the ground like that, there is a reason for it. We had information that she was an agent. Everyone must do their duty, comrade. Recent reports about you are not encouraging. They say you are incapable of teamwork. We are going through difficult times. Watch your step!’ The meaning of the man’s words was clear: if we were not in the middle of fighting, if we did not need men to bear arms, you would be locked up.

Was it really like that, or was I getting paranoid? Hadn’t we witnessed many comrades being taken for disciplining or even being executed? Were all those who ran away traitors? You cannot call what happened to me running away. I was shot — by whose bullet? If only I knew! I was shot, and I rolled down the slope. I didn’t run away. Don’t lie to yourself. You didn’t roll — you rolled yourself down the slope. And what’s more, your wound wasn’t serious. ‘Xayin, traitor!’

What is the point of brooding about this now, just as things are beginning to improve? He tries to cheer up. I’m not the first to run away. Hundreds of them came down from the mountain and gave themselves up. What happened to me was different, that’s all.

He had not wished to surrender in the conventional way. First you go to the north and seek asylum with Barzani’s forces. Then, accompanied by them, at the border you give yourself up to the authorities of the Turkish Republic or TC. Or else you drop into the first military post that you reach. Aleykumselam! Then it is time for prison and confession. Well, that just would not do. I’m not a cas. A cas is one of the living dead. Better to die than to be a cas!

When he dwells on the word cas he realizes that he is thinking in Turkish and is astonished. In the village, at school and on the mountain and when he was with Zelal he used to think in Kurdish. Since the night Zelal was shot and lost her child he often thinks in Turkish. Isn’t that also a form of treachery? Isn’t that losing your language, your identity? ‘What is more important than independence and armed conlict is to form and strengthen our national identity, to gain our self-confidence as individuals, to build up our identity through our self-confidence,’ so said the heval, called ‘the Doctor’, who had joined the movement from the west. He was a good man, courageous and with profound wisdom. And he also said — this had lodged in Mahmut’s mind — ‘Identities must not overpower each other. If you are a Turk you must not think of Kurds as the enemy, and if you are a Kurd you must not think of Turks as enemies. Nationalism is an evil virus. You must not let it enslave your soul. You can fight for your national identity and if necessary for independence but not by violating the rights of others to their identity. Let us not forget; the worst tyranny comes from the downtrodden.’ This was typical of the Doctor. Some listened to him attentively, and others would drit away from his inner circle less impressed or even hostile. One day he quietly and unobtrusively disappeared; no explanation was given. It was said that he had been sent to Europe, that he had been promoted. And there were those who said that he spoke too much. He broadcast the dilemmas in his mind.

What the Doctor had let Mahmut was a sense of the importance of self-confidence and of being reconciled to one’s identity. While he was at school they had been made to read poems for National Sovereignty and Children’s Day as well as Republic Day: ‘I am a Turk. My religion and my race are great’; or every morning before lessons began, ‘I am a Turk, I am just and I am hard-working … May my existence be a gift to the existence of Turkey.’

He used to think: why don’t I read the poem as ‘I am a Kurd. My religion and my race are great’? Why don’t we say, ‘I am a Kurd, I am just and I am hard-working.’ Cannot a Kurd’s religion and race be great? Cannot a Kurd be just and hard-working? In history lessons, in civics, in Turkish lessons, they used to learn about important Turks, Turkish customs and Turkish victories. But are there no important Kurds? Have the Kurds never won victories? Why does Ataturk entrust the country to the Turkish youth? Does he not trust the Kurdish youth? They used to debate such matters among themselves. Their childish minds and childish hearts could not comprehend what was at stake.

At school their teacher used to say, ‘We are all Turks. There is no such thing as a Kurd. It’s a fabrication of the separatist traitors.’ Then one day they shot him as he was returning from holiday to the village. Actually he was a good man; he had never so much as lited a inger to a pupil in punishment. He tried desperately to teach the children Turkish, about Ataturk and how to read and write. The pupils had been sorry when he was killed. But if we are all Turks, what is this language we speak among ourselves? Why do they scream, ‘Dishonourable, separatist Kurds! Armenian spawn!’ when they come to raid our villages? If everyone is a Turk, what is it you want?

These questions arose in their minds but were not expressed in words. At school Mahmut had happened to pose a question one day. ‘In our village people spoke Kurdish. No one spoke Turkish until they moved to the town. Wouldn’t you call someone who spoke Kurdish a Kurd, sir?’ He received an answer from the sharp edge of a ruler landing on his head. They had investigated whether there were members of the Kurdistan Workers’ Party or PKK in his family. In those days his brother had not yet taken to the mountains. He learnt that Kurdishness was shameful, was a lie, that some traitors convinced the mountain Turks that they were Kurds, that everyone living in this country was Turkish and that to claim otherwise was a betrayal of the homeland and the flag. The main thing he learnt was that he should not ask questions on the subject. It would be better for him to forget Kurdishness, a sorry fate, a punishment that God had given to his wayward servants.

In his childhood and adolescence, especially after their village was burnt and they had moved to the town, his mother’s threat ‘I’m going to come to school and speak to your teacher!’ was what Mahmut feared most. This was because his mother did not know Turkish. She used to go around in clothes typical of Kurdish women. He knew he would be humiliated if she came to school dressed like that. He would be ashamed of his mother, then ashamed of himself for being ashamed of her. What was all that about being reconciled with your identity and self-confidence, Comrade Doctor? How can we be reconciled to this identity that we carry as a curse and shame? When our identity is so battered and derided, how can we have self-confidence? If, for example, the owner of this house arrives and asks where I’m from, what answer do I give, especially if he were to ask directly if I’m a Kurd? It never used to occur to people very often to enquire, but now they ask quite openly: Are you Kurdish? Are you Alevi? What would I do if someone came and asked me outright? He makes a decision: if anyone enquires he will stand and answer, ‘I’m Kurdish.’