Oya Baydar - The Lost Word

Then the face vanished. The door was quietly pulled shut. Was it Nurse Eylem who had closed the door? It seemed to be her. Zelal held her breath, then she took a deep gulp of air and tried to calm down. She was drenched in sweat. Her body felt very cold in the heat of the early summer evening. She felt embarrassed, especially when she thought that the old witch would have seen that she was afraid, heard her crying out in her sleep and perhaps talking — and what if I spoke Turkish rather than Kurdish! She closed her eyes so that she did not see the woman’s face, but when she shut her eyes her head spun as though the ground and the sky were merging. Spinning round she fell into such a dark well that she let out another shriek. When she recovered, once more she saw the patient’s anxious face. Suddenly she realized how much she needed this woman to be there at this moment. She was surprised. Mahmut had said something as he went out of the room: he had said that a person can reach out to another person. Was it this feeling that he wanted to communicate? If that was so, why should people be afraid of people?

‘You had a bad dream. Don’t be afraid.’ For the first time the woman’s voice was soft and kind. In tone it resembled her mother’s voice. Like the voice of my mother as she took me in her arms and comforted me when I was afraid of the jackals howling at night and cried ‘Dayê, dakilê.’ My mother who had given her sons to the mountains, my mother who doted on me, my mother who could not protect her child when they took out my death warrant and dangled the rope in the haylot, my mother who had gone out and hidden, crossing houses and roofs to God knows where so as not to see my death. My mother whose smell and warmth I longed for.

‘I disturbed you. Forgive me,’ said Zelal, turning towards her roommate. ‘It’s true, I had a bad dream. I screamed my head off, but no sound came out.’

‘You screamed. You did scream. You made a noise. You uttered muffled shrieks. You awoke to the sound of your own voice.’

Worried that she had given them away she asked in a sweat, ‘Why on earth did I shout, ana? What did I say?’

‘I don’t know your language, do I? I didn’t understand. You were shouting someone’s name, was it agha or abi? You were obviously afraid. You were terrified. What happened? What did your abi do to you?’

‘I don’t know … In my dream I saw someone who resembled my abi. I saw a baby who had Mahmut’s face. I saw burnt forests.’

‘It’s over now. It was just a dream. There is still some water in the glass beside you, take a sip and calm yourself.’

Zelal took courage from the woman’s voice that had become quite mellow and friendly and asked in a whisper. ‘Did you see him, teyze? You know, that man who was peering through the door just a moment ago?’

‘You know we keep the door slightly ajar because the room is hot, so people passing along the corridor peep inside. Somebody did look in, but perhaps they were looking for someone. What’s wrong with that?’

‘No, it wasn’t like that. It was a young man with a dark face. He was there just as I woke up.’

‘Your nerves really are in shreds, my dear! You’ve been frightened by something. I didn’t see anyone. This is supposed to be a hospital, but it’s more like a thoroughfare. Everyone barges in. You see, that’s how these second-class private hospitals are. If it were a public hospital, especially a military hospital, they wouldn’t let any old person in. But, still, we’ll tell the nurses when they come. They can place your bed in front of the window, and I’ll move over near the door, so don’t be afraid.’

Zelal suddenly began to weep, silently, quietly, burying her head in the pillow to stifle her sobs. Not from fear or weakness but out of the gratitude she felt for the woman’s unexpected concern and kindness.

‘Let’s call the nurse, and she can give you some pills to calm you down. It’s evident your pain goes deep, that bad things have happened to you. Illness makes one edgy. Look, I’ve been unfair to you, and I behaved unkindly. But you snapped at me, too. Anyway, don’t be upset any more. Soon we’ll both get better and be out of here. You’re young. You’ll recover more quickly than I. You had a nightmare: the baby in your dream, the burnt forests, the figure of a man … Clearly losing your baby has greatly distressed you. You’re still young and your man is, too. You’ll have very healthy children — sons and daughters who will be good citizens. Don’t be upset.’

If Zelal could have got out of bed and walked unaided she would have gone over to the woman’s bed and put her arms round her neck. Not only that but buried her face in her bosom and cried to her heart’s content. I miss my mother, my mother who even gets on well with my father’s second wife and consents to sharing her man. My mother who gave her sons to the mountains and her daughter to strangers. My mother who is possibly much younger than this woman but looks old enough to be the woman’s mother, all the same.

There was such a fire right between her firm breasts scorching her heart, such a longing to return home, such a longing for her mother that it was more than words could explain. Neither the writer nor the dengbej could describe it. How could a person put into words the pain that they had never felt? And when pain is this strong it does not translate into words. So pain is indescribable.

‘God should not make his servants suffer so much pain, if indeed he is God.’

‘You mustn’t say that. One cannot question His wisdom. A person must not lose faith.’

The door opened. An orderly who eventually had heard the call buzzer asked what they wanted.

‘She’s had a nightmare, and she is very tense. It would be good if you could give her a tranquillizer,’ said the elderly patient. Then she added, ‘I don’t want to sleep beside the window. Please change our beds round.’

The orderly looked at Zelal as if to say, what do you think?

Zelal said, ‘Whatever teyze wants.’ When the orderly went off to ask for help to move the bed, she asked in a whisper, ‘Why did you want to change places, teyze?’

‘I realized that you were afraid, that there was someone you were running from. I don’t know whether it’s your brother or someone else, but your fear will increase if you stay in the bed by the door. You won’t let either of us sleep. That’s why I asked them.’

‘Perhaps I saw a ghost; perhaps he was real. He put his head round the door and was looking inside. Did you really not see him — or did you see him and won’t tell me?’

‘So many heads peer inside, but I really didn’t see anyone who attracted my attention. Even if I did see him I didn’t notice. Perhaps it was that swarthy male orderly. Come on. Don’t dwell on it any more. If someone comes they’ll see me first and go away.’

Zelal was silent and withdrew into herself. Does a person mellow when they feel a person’s pain in their heart, or do they love only when they feel love in their heart? If I had not screamed with fear in my dream, if I hadn’t wept, she would not have reached out to me. She would have thought of me as an enemy because I was a villager, a Kurd. But when she understood how afraid and upset I was, she mellowed. She is upset, too. Perhaps some people do not feel another’s pain and therefore bear enmity, and because they don’t feel it they kill? Has God not granted them love? When they raped me like wild animals, making me scream with fear and pain, did they block their ears, or did it give them more of a kick? Did it add to their enjoyment? The one who fell upon me last; he was different. There was love and pity in him. There are good people, and there are bad. Sometimes the good ones fall prey to evil, and being frightened of evil makes them worse. The Devil was banished from heaven but is very powerful. It is the Devil who is powerful in this world, not angels.