Oya Baydar - The Lost Word

You stubbornly insisted on using the formal ‘you’. When I asked why, you explained, ‘Perhaps it is a habit, a method of self-preservation.’ I learnt to say the familiar ‘you’ in Kurdish. I tried to understand, to hear to whom you said it. The old, the young, the worker, the tradesman, the mayor, the party leader, your own people were all ‘thou’; we, the others were all the formal ‘you’. The unacknowledged foreignness, the distance and lack of language that lies between the formal ‘you’ and me and that does not exist in the familiar ‘you’ and me came between us even when we were making love. When I said to you that it was not me but you, not us but your people that had created this, it seemed to me that the tone in which you said, ‘you’ became even harsher. I spoke of the couples I knew: Kurdish-Turkish, Laz-Circassian, Turkish-Armenian couples. In trivial, trite expressions I repeated the phrases that you knew by heart: differences in language, religion and race should not separate people, should not make people enemies, as though you did not know that. You said in a tone that was half mocking and half joking, ‘Now you sound like the fundamental principle of the constitution.’ Then you added, ‘But you know better than I that things don’t go according to the book.’ You were right, and I kept quiet. I spoke to you about another language: a new language that did not factionalize, did not separate the differences, that was purged of politics, power and conflict. You asked, ‘How can I create a new language without finding my own language first, without being myself?’ I did not have an answer. I was silent. I was angry with you because you made everything so complicated, I took out my frustration in love-making. Realizing that I would not be able to possess you, I tried to enslave your body. And I managed to do this to a certain extent: I whipped up your desire, I used your sexuality, I got you addicted to my body. The more I thought about it, the more I understood that this was a form of rape, and I was ashamed of myself. But I loved you. I loved you as I did my wife. I loved you deeply. She was a part of me, and I wanted you to be a part of me, too. I thought that we could meet in the language of love. I — we — did not succeed. Were our languages too different to unite in love, in passion?

Jiyan says, ‘It’s late. Please go now.’ She is stroking Ömer’s cheek. They are standing side by side in front of the mirror. They are like a picture in which the attractiveness of the young woman overshadows the man who has passed middle age. They resemble the keepsake photographs taken in front of a scenic backdrop of engaged couples who have come down to the town or new recruits who have come home for the weekend. Behind them there is the feeling of emptiness of the white wall, not a view of Istanbul or fairytale birds and flowers of paradise. Jiyan murmurs a folk song in her beautiful, deep voice: ‘Let them print our photos side by side …’ He remembers the song. Wasn’t it the story of two lovers who had been involved in some crime and had been caught by gendarmes?

Swiftly he shuts the panels of the mirror and embraces her. ‘What will happen if I don’t go?’

‘Nothing, of course, but there is a society meeting this evening. And I’m the speaker.’

‘And which separatist organization is it this time, my darling?’

‘This time it’s a harmless organization: a woman’s organization, closely linked to the state. Even the Governor’s wife supports its work. That’s why our women keep their distance, but they will come this evening because I’m the speaker.’

‘What’s the topic?’

‘The health of mother and child. The midwife at the polyclinic is the main speaker. I’m going to be there as support; an extra speaker so that our women will come, too. In fact the problem for our women is birth control. Young people don’t want many children, especially after giving birth to a boy. However, they are frightened of birth control methods such as the coil. They don’t trust them. When people talk about preventing the Kurdish population increasing and birth control, they are frightened that they will be sterilized.’

‘You’re kidding!’

‘No, I’m not. When people’s trust has been shaken so badly, when they’ve felt so trapped, downtrodden and desperate, they are wary about others’ intentions. Fear makes a person suspicious. I understand our women. In fact none of them wants a lot of children. They don’t have any ambitions to increase the Kurdish population either. These are the issues of politicians, men scrambling for power. However, should they become infertile, especially if they do not have a son, then a second wife immediately comes along. And no one wants a second wife.’

‘That’s a difficult situation. It’s not for me. But how come the state trusts you?’

‘It doesn’t trust me, but it needs me. It uses me to make contact with the local people. We each walk our own path with little steps, covering for each other. The Governor’s wife and the Commander’s wife, the teacher, nurses and midwives need me if they don’t want just to talk to one another at the meeting. And, as for me, I need to convey a message to my people. As you see, we manage to rub along together.’

He feels the weariness, the feeling of being trapped, in her voice.

‘Forget about advising women about birth control, my woman, and give me — us — a child. A Kurdish-Turkish child to replace my lost son, a child of the common language of love, of hope and the future.’

‘Why did you say your lost son?’ Now she sounds not just weary but sad.

Ömer realizes what he has said. He becomes confused. He feels like a skein of betrayal. It’s as though he really has lost his son — just now in saying these words. Yet I came here to some extent to look for him. While I was speaking to Mahmut’s father I had thought I might be reunited with my son if I took the path that the wise man had paved for me in my heart. I humiliated Elif, not by making love to Jiyan but with these words. It’s as though I erased my son from within me. What was traitor in Jiyan’s language? Xayin! Du rû! Caş! When I said ‘my lost son’ and wanted a son in his place, then I really did lose Deniz. I killed him. I killed Elif, too.

Was he to lose his way completely in this foreign land where he had come to look for his very nature, his inner being, his values and the word he had lost, to be cleansed and purified? The Governor who had tried to show off his knowledge of mythology had mentioned the sailors who had been enchanted by the voices of the sirens.

I must save myself from being dashed to pieces on the rocks. I’m a complete mess. I’m disorientated and alone.

He does not answer Jiyan. He gently touches her forehead with his lips.

I have never loved like this. Like loving the earth, the sky, the sea, like loving the mountains and loving myself. So naturally, inevitably, indisputably … No, this was not a sentence from the book he could not write. It was no fiction. It was exactly what he had experienced. The overflowing enthusiasm of an eighteen-year-old youth wildly and madly in love: a bird constantly fluttering in his breast, his throat, his head and at the tips of his fingers. A love without beginning or end, time or space. As they made love it was as though their bodies melted, as though they evaporated, a sensation from head to toe. As they stand silently side by side they are a folk song for two voices; as they speak they are the word that reverberates on the rocks. Then comes the meaninglessness, the emptiness into which he falls when he is apart from Jiyan, when he is without her. The question that is never asked when he is with Jiyan, that has no equivalent in any language and that resounds in his brain and heart in every language and sound when he is by himself, alone: why am I here? What am I after? Where am I going?