Oya Baydar - The Lost Word

Whenever her son comes to her mind, she thinks of Deniz with a keen, clinging sadness. Was it not a form of violence when we looked for what we held to be right in him, condemned him to surpass us, to be successful, to be strong? When talking about violence we only think about wars, exploding bombs, mines, people killed randomly, women and children. Yet don’t we all continually feed the source of violence? I, killing my test animals, another interfering with embryos, someone else trying to find the formula for the most powerful weapon of mass destruction, those who philosophize on violence, those who use the power of government, we all constantly produce violence. Deniz found the solution in running away. He even considered taking photographs of violence, suffering and the helplessness of people as complicity, and he rejected it. We called him a deserter, a deserter of life! Perhaps the truly consistent, strong, moral person was our son whom we tried to erase from our hearts saying that he was weak, unsuccessful and a fugitive. Our son, who ran away from the sufferings of this world and from violence, from us, and took refuge on a foreign island, in his beloved who died, his little son and his hopelessness.

Elif had hoped that Deniz would call her on his return from the Big Fish competition when he did not find her on the island, or at least leave a message on her phone. Perhaps he was hurt because I had not waited. Perhaps he hadn’t had the energy to call. We live in such different worlds. In a sense distance repairs our relationship. If we had been together for another three to four days we might have upset each other. We could have altogether lost the fragile bond that we thought we had found. But still she would have liked her son to call. Sometimes quarrelling is better than silence. There is even an affinity, a dialogue, in continual bickering.

Outside it is rainy and a little cool. What sort of a start to July is this? Elif likes the sun and sparkling blue water. The characteristic of Cancer. She had read in a women’s magazine that included the signs of the zodiac and such things that Cancer always yearns for water. She feels depressed. If only I had stayed on the island or returned immediately to Istanbul rather than take part in this rather mediocre second congress. The symposium in Copenhagen really was important. All the famous names of the scientific circle were there. And I achieved the result I wanted. There was no need for me to participate in the Göteborg congress. Was it worth it to meet two or three more scholars, to make my presence known to a few more colleagues? Why do I always want more? Why do I put myself under more stress? This is a form of self-inflicted violence.

She closes her laptop. That’s enough. I can’t make it any better! Most of the papers of those self-important men and women are much ado about nothing. It’s as though they are on holiday. They come unprepared and, apart from one or two brilliant contributors, most of them present unoriginal research and stereotypical views within their specialist areas. We put them on a pedestal because of our inferiority complex towards the west. And they with their western arrogance — ‘Let’s see what this Turkish woman has to say!’- listen to me out of curiosity. They mostly pay more attention to my uncovered head, my smart western clothes and my good English than to the science I have to present — although increasingly my papers are receiving prominence and getting noticed.

What really gets on her nerves at these international congresses is when a paper she presents which she evaluates as ‘not bad’ is praised to the skies. ‘Your paper was wonderful, Mrs Eren. To tell the truth, we didn’t realize that science in Turkey was so advanced.’ Or ‘You probably made these experiments, undertook this research at a research institute in America, didn’t you?’ Or ‘I should like to congratulate you. You are an example of how a person can transcend their surroundings.’ It is the same when she has to speak in her bad German. They say, ‘Ah, how good your German is!’ In other words, monkeys can dance, too! … Applause, applause, applause … At these meetings where you’ve been subjected to positive discrimination, you have received praise you did not deserve and where you have been the centre of attention, you perceive the attempts of the western scientists not to alienate — even to encourage — the others from countries less well known for producing world-class scientists. They treat scientists with dark skins and those from Asia like this, too. Their intentions are undoubtedly good, but the exaggerated praise and positive discrimination crushes the other person even more.

Perhaps I’m being unfair. Mine is the oversensitivity of a person from an underdeveloped country. None the less, at such gatherings we from the east and, to a lesser extent, the people from the Mediterranean tend to group together. We feel closer to each other. Anyway this circuit is coming to an end for now. A few days from now I’ll be in Istanbul.

When she is abroad, Elif likes staying in good hotels but today the hotel room really depresses her. There is something that she cannot figure out, something that makes her uneasy, a bad feeling that keeps irritating her, a feeling of something lacking. Supposing she went out in the street despite the drizzle, walked a little, sat in a café and ordered herself a glass of wine. That’s what they used to do when they lived here. Ömer liked the rainy, misty weather of the north. ‘This weather suits the area. Sea, sun and heat go with our parts,’ he used to say, and then he would add, ‘The weather of the north doesn’t suit Cancerians, but Aquarians don’t complain about it.’

Suddenly she remembers: Today is my birthday … I wouldn’t have remembered if there hadn’t been the association with the signs of the Zodiac. Ömer forgets many things but never my birthday. She opens her inbox. There are three new messages. With her heart in her mouth she presses the keys of the telephone. Please let Ömer have sent a message, even a tiny one! The messages are not from Ömer. They are insignificant texts. There is not a peep from either Ömer or Deniz. With one tiny hope she looks at missed calls. There are none. How impatient I am! The day is not yet over, there is a whole night in front of me. Birthdays last until the twenty-fourth hour.

She looks out of the hotel window. Outside the summer rain is raining steadily. Today I’m fity-two. I’m in Copenhagen. I’m a professor of biochemistry. I’ve been nominated for the European Women Scientist of the Year award. Even if it is not a Nobel, it is a prize not to be scorned. I’m looking out of the window of a hotel in Copenhagen. It’s raining. It is misty and dark. The streetlights are on, although it’s hours before evening. Everything is in order, but I’m depressed. It’s raining. I’m married, and I have a son. I’m the wife of novelist Ömer Eren. My son’s name is Deniz. He lives on a small island in Norway. It’s raining. Raindrops are trickling down the windows. I have a grandson, little Bjørn. I have no daughter-in-law, she died in Istanbul. With the red tulips in front of her and behind her the splendid dome and graceful minarets of Sultanahmet. Her blood spattered on to the tulips and spread over the tarmac, her limbs flew into the air. It’s raining here, soft fresh rain. Ömer and I have been married for twenty-seven years. I’ve never deceived my husband. It never occurred to me and I didn’t feel the need. Recently we have been apart a lot. It’s natural; our work, our spheres of activity, our professional circles are different. However, no one can say that we don’t love each other, that we have become detached from each other, no! It’s the beginning of July, and it’s raining. That’s northern weather for you! No one has remembered my birthday. I’m alone, and it’s drizzling down on Copenhagen.