Oya Baydar - The Lost Word

I ran away, but all those people are not fighting in vain; all those people have not died for nothing. It would not be manly to betray them. Again he feels a pang of sadness: I ran away from the front. Was it because I was afraid? No, that wasn’t it. Fear is not unconquerable. You steel yourself, and you overcome it. And sometimes you are so tired of life that death is preferable.

No, it was not from fear. Nor death, pain or the arduous conditions in the resistance … If you have faith in the leadership, trust in the comrades and belief in the cause then all this is of no importance! It was neither the hard life in the camps, nor the fighting, nor fear that led to all those people, young and old, being branded ‘traitors’, ‘cas’, ‘turncoats’. You see it was that question; that treacherous question that gnawed at the enthusiasm of the first days and first months: the question, ‘Why am I here? I’m here, and what has changed?’ Woe betide that it should start to trouble the heart and mind! Then it grows inwards and turns into a malignant growth; and, whether one is on the mountain or is a prisoner, it eats a person up.

In the small town we call our village, our hamlet or ‘bajar’, which consists of a main street (either Republic Street or Homeland Street), a square (either Ataturk Square or Republic Square), two rows of squalid shops and an imposing oice block, we have people as rich as Croesus, grand state buildings and, a little further away, the military garrison. We, who live there without hope, without a future, downtrodden, poor and beret, go up the mountain to ight to be regarded as human beings — as somebodies — and to have hope and dignity in our identity. The fires burning on the mountains (not shepherds’ fires but the fires of rebellion), the songs echoing in the valleys (not songs of love but calls to war), the cries rising from the villages (not laments of mourning but the yells of daily life) are all sacred signs promising a paradise on earth. We run like moths lying towards the light, to take a stand in this ight and escape from being nobodies and ‘spineless bastards’. We listen to the sounds of the mountains; we obey their call. It’s a little like when you walk along a road and hold out a match to someone who asks for a light; well, that is how we offer ourselves up — simply and without ceremony. We do this to reconcile ourselves with our identity, to gain self-confidence, to enter the ranks of men and, primarily, to be heroes in our own eyes. Then one day we see that every step we take to strengthen our identity, to gain self-confidence, all the values that until then have been exalted in theory — to ask, to question, to think freely — have suddenly become a crime. Then the Devil whispers the question that would make a saint swear, ‘Why am I here? What am I fighting for?’ Some people ask no questions. They just carry on like that until the end … The end? What is there at the end?

It was not death he was running from. Even though he could not bring himself to think it or to say it, a voice inside him whispered, ‘You did not betray. You are not a traitor, you are a human being.’ The real escape — perhaps betrayal — began not when he was rolling himself down the slope; it began in Zelal’s arms. They had dreamt of far-away seas together. Embracing each other, they had imagined the unknown blueness, the balmy air, the little two-roomed house and Hevi playing in the sand, swimming in the waves and growing up like the children there, as one of them. Like Adam and Eve, the world consisted of just Mahmut and Zelal. They had no need of temptation by the snake or the forbidden fruit to be cast out of that paradise of a refuge in which they had shut themselves and nurtured hope in their hearts and bodies. It itted the whole universe into the hollow of a cave and the lee of a grove impervious to light and was as eternal. What they had experienced was the forbidden fruit itself, the original sin. It was the first step towards betraying the mountains.

Now, having been cast out of the mountains, having betrayed the cause, exiled from love and passion and feeling all alone — and without hope of making the happiness that life had offered with the unborn child and of recreating themselves together with the child — Mahmut is sitting forlornly in a strange house in the unfamiliar distant district of a city that he has never been to before. In one hand, half a loaf stuffed with doner, in the other a bottle of water, a lead weight in his heart and fog in his mind. We are not used to comfort. These negative thoughts, this pessimism, is because comfort grates. Everything will come right when Zelal is better and we are together once more. The fog will lift. We have lost the child — but not to worry! We are still young. We have a whole life in front of us; our Hevi, our shared hope, Zelal’s and my son will be born.

The writer had said, ‘Don’t wander around too much. Be careful. You know that better than I. It’s obvious that you’re in trouble. Wait for my return to decide what you are going to do. Zelal should first get out of hospital and recuperate. I’ll join you, and then we’ll think of a permanent solution. And mind you don’t forget; you are responsible not only for yourself but for Zelal, too. It’s your mutual decision that will determine your fate — not yours alone. At the moment you are safe in the house. If you are careful, no one will be able to locate you. If anything happens, call me straight away on my phone.’

He really was safe in that house — safer than ever before. No one would come and set fire to the place. No one would drive him out. The house would not be raked by heavy machine-guns during night raids, the walls would not be full of bullet-holes. For the first time he had access to money in his pocket — even if not in his own name. The writer was smart; he knew about these things. If anyone was following us he could potentially track us down from a bank account. But here Mehmut had a secure bank card whose pin number he knew and which he could use if he needed to. He even had a mobile phone provided by the writer.

The man who had supplied all this — was he a human or a guardian angel? — had embarked on a journey to the burnt mountains, houses riddled with bullet-holes, derelict villages, charred landscapes and mourning houses. Mahmut could not understand it. Did comfort disturb him, too? Was he a little nuts? He could not make out the answer to these questions.

When he put it to him and tried to find out, Ömer had said, ‘It’s hard to explain, but perhaps you can grasp my situation. Did not you and Zelal say to me, “If you are looking for the word, then go and look for it in its place”? In fact, I’m heading to your homeland for the same reason that you went up the mountain. I’ve been in a state of confusion for a very long time. I have to pull myself together. I have to come to terms with everything, with everyone, with myself.’

‘Why our region, abi? I’m not saying don’t go — don’t misunderstand me. But it’s our homeland, our land. We would give our lives for it. But what’s someone like you going to find there? Poverty, hopelessness, burnt-out and wrecked villages, mined and deadly roads, hamlets where the traditional songs may no longer be heard, countryside that has lost its herdsmen and its flocks … And the area is dangerous. Operations have started up again — landmines and all. After the war, what is let in our homeland for people like you?’

‘Perhaps there is still something. If there is still a slim hope, a light, perhaps it has remained there. In our youth we used to believe that we would save the world. Of course we didn’t succeed. We were defeated. Most of us gave up the struggle, surrendered and toed the line. But there was always something lacking within us. That’s what I’m in pursuit of.’