Oya Baydar - The Lost Word

Now here in the minibus, the wilted and now crushed yellow roses in his hand, squashed between people packed tightly like sheep being taken to the market for slaughter, miserably thinking that he has been unable to find the right answer to the question, he is afraid that he will yet again fail the lesson of life.

He is confused, troubled and exhausted. If he could sing a folk song it would cheer him up, but this is impossible on the bus. He feels suffocated, stifled. Gathering up all his remaining strength he calls out that he wants to get off — without paying heed to where he is and without worrying as to whether anyone is following him. His voice is like a cry for help. The driver brakes suddenly, and the passengers lurch forward and fall on top of one another. As Mahmut hurls himself out the door he does not even notice the man who gets out behind him.

While Zelal waits for visiting hours and for Mahmut to appear at the door she closes her eyes and pretends to sleep so that she does not have to speak to the elderly patient next to her. A few days have gone by since the woman had been operated on and put into the empty bed in the room. The first day she had barely regained consciousness; the next day she had started to come round, and since then, apart from when she slept, she had not stopped moaning and groaning. ‘How can I wait until a single room is free? How can I lie here among peasants — Kurds to boot?’ she wailed. She cursed the hospital management and the insurance company, asking every nurse when she would be able to move to a deluxe single room. ‘Do you know who I am?’ she demanded and would cry when no one paid attention to her.

The more the woman went on about ‘peasants’ and ‘Kurds’ the more Zelal’s patience was tried, and in a thick eastern accent she had raged, ‘Why are you going on about having to share a room with Kurds and peasants? I’m the only one here! Or are you seeing double, you old witch?’

The elderly woman was not to be intimidated. ‘What are people like you doing in this place? This is a private hospital — not for the likes of you! Before long you will be driving us out of our own land, our own hospitals. You Kurdish separatists! I guess it’s not your fault. It’s the fault of those who have put you here!’

Zelal had not backed down. ‘Now look. Don’t go on like this, or the real PKK will be along — and then you’ll be for it!’

When Mahmut came in to visit with the battered yellow roses in his hand — he had learnt from Ömer about bringing patients flowers and thought the sight of them would make Zelal feel better — the expression on the face of the woman in the next bed was a sight to behold. It was a mixture of fear, contempt and despair … Meanwhile Zelal had cheered up. She thought to herself: It serves you right! Be terrified, you horrid old witch! She winked at Mahmut who was nervous anyway when he saw a stranger lying in the bed that formerly had been empty. Zelal had said loudly in her best Turkish, ‘This lady does not like Kurds very much.’

Mahmut held out one of the rosebuds to the old woman saying, ‘Why is that then? Kurds, Turks, Arabs — aren’t we all human beings?’ He added politely, ‘Get well soon!’

The woman did not actually decline the rose but put it beside her pillow without a word of thanks and turned her back on the couple. Zelal knew that she was listening to them, trying not to miss a single word.

Mahmut described the house Ömer Eren had arranged for them at length. He spoke Turkish when necessary so that the woman did not get suspicious. Chiefly he talked about the house’s garden to please Zelal, mentioning especially the roses, pansies and the expanse of grass. He was cautious. He did not utter the writer’s name; he referred to him as abi. And he did not give away the location of the house. It did not matter how much the woman heard. She would not be able to work out whether the little palace was to the west or the east.

Zelal asked in Kurdish rather sadly, rather indifferently, ‘Ya paşê? And after that?’

‘After that? After that will be fine.’ If it worked out they could stay on as caretakers in that house, at least until they had managed to recuperate a little, until the writer returned and a place could be arranged near the sea.

As Zelal listened to what he was saying with closed eyes and a faint smile on her pretty face he thought that they were sharing the same dream and was happy. Since those days when they stayed in the cave on the mountain, his wound washed by the healing waters of the fountain and dressed with the heat of Zelal’s kisses — how many days, how many weeks had passed, perhaps even a month, he didn’t know — it was their sharing the dream of salvation and happiness that kept them alive, strong and hopeful. Until the stray bullet came and killed the hope in Zelal’s womb, their dreams were full of life as though they could come true at any minute. Now perhaps once again … once again … The light entering the window struck Zelal’s face, which had grown slightly thinner and appeared drained, and her corn-coloured hair spread out on the pillow. The rays on her face promised new hope.

Mahmut gets carried away and as he becomes emotional he reverts back to Kurdish. ‘Edî carenusa me ji me re dikeni, tu saxbe bes e. Fortune is smiling on us now, Zelal, you’ll see. Just get better!’

Zelal remains silent, her eyes closed.

‘You just get better. We are young. We’ll work. And we’ll reach the sea. The writer promised me; he said that on his return he would take us to the sea. He is hurting, too. His son went off and left him. He hadn’t grown into a responsible man. We are, in some way, a substitute for his boy, he told me. He’s in our homeland now. You know, you told him, “Go and look for the word in its place.” Well, off he went!’

‘The writer is a good man, but he doesn’t know anything about us. Even if he travels every inch of our country he still won’t understand us. He will get upset, and he’ll worry about our situation. Now that he’s met us he will never be the same again. However, he won’t know us. Don’t get angry if I say that his word won’t be enough to get us to the sea. And even if we reach the sea, the day we arrive we will begin to miss the mountains. At the moment we are dwelling on our dreams because we are confused. When I get better and get out of here and we start working as caretakers in the stranger’s house, then our hearts will be divided between here and there. The mountains will lure us — even if there is death at the end.’

Why is the girl so pessimistic, so bitter? Supposing she had died right there, supposing the writer had not come to their rescue in time … Why can’t she be pleased? Why can’t she be thankful? My beloved trusts neither man nor fate. It’s as though she doesn’t even trust me. Has she been so intimidated, so badly treated?

Just as he is about to respond they hear the woman lying in the next bed. ‘What language is that you are speaking?’ Her voice is not kind, not curious either, but menacing.

‘You know bloody well, so why do you ask? It’s Kurdish. That’s how we speak. That’s our language! If you don’t like it, ask them to move you to another room!’ snaps Zelal.

Mahmut grows nervous. He admires her recklessness and obstinacy but is afraid that they will get into trouble.

‘God forgive us, we have got to the stage where we can’t protect our own language. You’ve overrun our cities, taken them from us, and we can no longer walk safely in our streets. There is no peace — not even in hospital,’ says the woman angrily but somewhat subdued.

Mahmut jumps in quickly before giving Zelal a chance to reply. ‘We are not doing you any harm, teyze. This is our language. Where we live they speak Kurdish and in some places Zaza. We can talk to each other more easily in our own language. It is the language of our mothers. Our mothers don’t know any other tongue. It’s not their fault. Everyone speaks better, more sweetly in their mother tongue. If the words we speak are about love and goodness, what does it matter if they are spoken in this language or that?’