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Mike Berger: “For me freedom is simply defined, taking a nap anytime I want”

2 - Our Forgotten Diaspora (From Kulcora, Crimea to Curitiba, Brazil) Mubeyyin Batu Altan 4 - Mike Berger and the Gentle Satirical Poetry Between Two Naps 6 - WAR - Hal O'Leary 8 - The Secrets of One Little Girl - Matthew Dexter

ISSN 2069-4784


Mayîs/May 2012 Sene/Year: 2 Sayî/Issue: 17 5/2012

14 - Last Call for a Loner - Tom Sheehan 18 - Eleanor Leonne Bennett or the Doll on the Covers 20 - Mawî gúl - Rudyard Kipling 21 - Ğúmert gúller Vasfiye Kîpçak 22 - Kókten sesler (V, Temúçin) - Taner Murat




Tomrîğa Kîrîm Tatarlarîñ turuşmamuriyet meğmuwasî

Our Forgotten Diaspora (From Kulcora, Crimea to Curitiba, Brazil) - Mubeyyin Batu Altan

4 Mike Berger and the Gentle Satirical Poetry Between Two Naps

6 WAR - Hal O'Leary


The Secrets of One Little Girl - Matthew Dexter


Mike Berger

In Praise of Henna - Sarojini Naidu

Photo: Jeremy Berger

Defamation - Rabindranath Tagore

11 12 Commitment from Atone Publications on Ayla Bakkalli's Book Titled "Indigenous Turkic People of the Former Soviet Union"

13 Photoshop - Laryssa Chomiak

14 Last Call for a Loner - Tom Sheehan

Attitude and culture magazine of Dobrudja’s Crimean Tatars

ISSN: 2069-4784 Constanta, Romania FOUNDER & EDITOR-IN-CHIEF BAŞ-NAŞIR Taner Murat EDITORS NAŞIRLER Emine Ómer Uyar Polat COMPUTER GRAPHICS SAYAR SÎZGAĞÎSÎ Elif Abdul Hakaan Kalila

(Hakan Calila)


18 Eleanor Leonne Bennett or the Doll on the Covers

20 CONTRIBUTORS MEMBALAR Mubeyyin Batu Altan Ayla Bakkalli Eleanor Leonne Bennett Jeremy Berger Mike Berger Laryssa Chomiak Matthew Dexter Rich Garabedian Vasfiye Kîpçak Hal O'Leary Arturo Ramos Tom Sheehan

Mawî gúl - Rudyard Kipling

21 Ğúmert gúller - Vasfiye Kîpçak

22 Kókten sesler (V, Temúçin) - Taner Murat

24 Kitap - Ağî Ayna, Yeşíl Elmaz

Copyright reverts back to contributors upon publication. The full issue is available for viewing online from the Nazar Look website. For submission guidelines and further information, please stop by

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Our Forgotten Diaspora From Kulcora, Crimea to Curitiba, Brazil Mubeyyin Batu Altan "After the war he was a displaced person in Mittenwald camp. He lived in Sonthofen until 1951... He was a Kappelmeister of Cankaya Band he came to Brazil in 1951...They called my grandfather Izzet." said the message to our Washington DC based group ICC (International Committee for Crimea). The message was from Brazil, and Junior Castro wanted to find out more information as to who "Ismet Kasim"/ Izzet, his grandfather was. He stated that he has many photographs and documents from the Mittenwald and Sonthofen camps, but he does not know much about his grandfather with whom he lived until his death in 1983. Who was Izzet also known as Ismet Kasim? Why did he come all the way to Brazil? Why did he have different names, different birthplaces? Junior Castro, a young lawyer from Curitiba wanted to know. He then decided to send a brief message to ICC, one of the very few English language internet sites, if not the only one, that focuses solely on the Crimean Tatar issues. Dr. Inci Bowman one of the most dedicated member of ICC who moderates and handles the ICC site, forwarded Junior Castro's message to the author of this article hoping for possible answers. My family was also a displaced family during the war and I had lived the first six years of my life in the same refugee camps in Mittenwald and "Sonthofen" as a very young child. Reading the names "Mittenwald", "Sonthofen" in a message from Brazil, the names which became part of vocabulary, did indeed excite me. I contacted my 90 year old father Ibrahim and asked him if he remembers Izzet, a musician from Kefe, Crimea. My father with great excitement remembered him right away and informed me that Izzet was not from Kefe, but from Kulcora, the city where my father's family was forced to relocate after the turbulent years of collectivization under Stalin when many Crimean Tatars were deported to Ural mountains. "In fact I remember living in Izzet's father's house in Kulcora" my father said. "I remember his two brothers, one was Kadir, the other's name and their family name I can't remember now..." Izzet, per my father's recollection, was married in Kulcora and had two beautiful daughters (again he did not remember their names). He was a very talented musician and played multiple instruments well. And his orchestra entertained our people at the camp; they were very helpful in cheering our otherwise sad and depressed

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people who had lost their homeland and left their loved ones behind. I told my father about Junior Castro and what his mission is. I also told him that Junior is going to send me some old photos from the camps that his grandfather had left behind. The old photographs began to arrive from Brazil two and three at a time. I went to see my father and showed him the photos which created more excitement. We looked at every photo to identify the Crimean Tatars in the refugee camps. I was so glad that my father was still alive and remembered many of his friends. Spending the first six years of my life in those refugee camps I only had a very brief memory of Sonthofen and Mittenwald camps, but in family gatherings in Turkey the topic of conversation was always Crimea, and our lives in refugee camps. I remember being told that not all Crimean Tatars immigrated too Turkey from the camps. Small groups of our compatriots had immigrated to Australia, Brazil, the United States and other countries after the war. The names of some of these forgotten compatriots were mentioned, but we never knew about their fate. My father provided some information about Izzet the musician, I could send to his grandson who was anxiously waiting to find out who his grandfather was. Izzet had married to a Latvian lady in the camps, and had two children, a son and a daughter. , but again my father did not remember their names. He remembered that Izzet had left for Brazil with his friends Tohtar Osman and Neset Bozgoz whom my father also remembered well. He did not have any information where in Brazil they have settled, and what their fate had become afterwards. My father with great excitement called his friends, only a handful of his remaining fellow refugee Crimean Tatars, to inform them that he has seen some photos of the Crimean Tatars who had immigrated to Brazil in 1951. I went to our community center in Brooklyn, New York in early March, with a hope that I could obtain additional information about Izzet, the musician so I can relay it to his grandson in Curitiba, Brazil. To my surprise I discovered that Zeynep hanim was one of the close relatives of Izzet. And thanks to Haci Remziye Sarayli hanim who was from Kulcora, the same village as Izzet and she knew him and his family way back from Kulcora. She is the only one who remembered Izzet's last name, Gaziev. Remziye abla remembered that Izzet Gaziev had gone to Kefe

(Feodosia) to study music. She also remembered Izzet Gaziev's wife in Crimea and his daughters. It was an exciting day, indeed. As we began to correspond with Junior Castro, the information I gathered about his grandfather is sent to him immediately (our correspndence continues to this day.) He responded with many questions as he wanted to know as much as possible about his grandfather, his personal history, his family and his national identity. "Even though I lived with him for many years until his death in 1983, he never mentioned about his family in Crimea, his wife or his daughters." Junior stated. "My grandfather is very important to me, I want to know his national and cultural identity." I asked Junior about Tohtar Osman and Neset Bozgoz his grandfathers friends with whom he left the Sonthofen refugee camps for Brazil. Does he know whether they are still alive or not?. Junior did not know them but he promised to find out as much information as possible. Soon enough a message arrived from Brazil with an exciting news. " Mubeyyin you would not believe that I just talked to Kurt Bozgoz, Neset Bozgoz's son. He is a policeman in Curitiba. Unfortunately his father had passed away when Kurt was four years old. he does not know much about him." Junior was very excited and added that he also found Osman Tohtar's wife who is still alive. Unfortunately she informed him that Tohtar Osman had passed away last year. My father contacted his friend Abdulhakim Sarayli who also was in Mittenwald and Sonthofen camps at the same time period. Mr. Sarayli remembers Izzet Gaziev well. He as a young man learned how to dance to the music of Izzet Gaziev and his orchestra in Sontofen, he informed me. My father knew Kadir from Kulcora, but could not remember the second brother's name. When my father asked Mr Sarayli whether he knows anything about Izzet Gaziev's brothers. This time it was Mr Sarayli's turn to get emotional. He told my father that he actually corresponded with Izzet Gaziev's brothers Mehmet and Kadir who were feverishly searching for their long lost brother. In fact he had sent Izzet Gaziev's photograph taken in 1951 which had created emotional moments for Kadir and Mehmet Gaziev. What became of Mehmet and Kadir afterwards is not known as yet. In the meantime through Abdulhakim Sarayli agabey we found out some more fascinating information about Izzet Gaziev's first family, his Crimean Tatar wife Emine and his Kulcora- born daughters Hatice and Fatiha. Abdulhakim agabey was able contact Izzet Gaziev's first grandson, Hatice's son Ruslan in Bukhara, Uzbekistan. I also called and talked to both Rusland his mother Hatice. Ruslan informed us that Izzet Gaziev's first family was subjected to Surgun of May 18,1944, and after the mass deportation they ended up in Bukhara where they currently reside. We were informed that Izzet Gaziev's

first wife Emine had passed away in 1999, but his daughters were still alive. Hatice and her family lives in Bukhara, and Izzet's youngest daughter Fatiha lives in Fergana. All this additional information regarding Izzet Gaziev's family was sent to Junior Castro who expressed his appreciation and the detailed information about his grandfather he respected and loved, but had no idea who he exactly was. Junior Castro is now trying to establish a closer relations with his newly found relatives and his extended family. Junior Castro also expressed his interest in locating other Brazilians of Crimean Tatar descent. He already found some of them, and will extend his search to locate some more. He wants to establish a new community, a new association where they can get together to learn more about their Crimean Tatar past. As an attorney and a politician he wants to inform the Brazilian public about his grandfather's people, the Crimean Tatars, their culture and their ongoing tragic history. Yes, one young Brazilian lawyer's deep love and respect for his grandfather enabled us to discover the "Forgotten Crimean Tatars", the ones quietly left the German refugee camps and resettled in far away place, a city called Curitiba in Brazil. We are learning more about the new Crimean Tatar Diaspora in Brazil. Thanks to Junior Castro's love and respect for his grandfather and his curiosity a new page is added to the history of the Crimean Tatar Emigrations. Mubeyyin Batu Altan Crimean Tatar Research and Information Center New York April 5, 2012 PS: One important segment was unintentionally ommitted, I apologize to Junior Castro and all of you. Please see the following: "Izzet Gaziev's second wife had passed away in Sonthofen and left Izzet with two young children, a son Uri Herman a and a daughter Monever. At this time Izzet Gaziev had decided to immigrate to Brazil, and with his friends Tohtar Osman and Neset Bozgoz they arrive in Curitiba, Brazil in 1951. Soon after Izzet Gaziev marries his third wife, a Brezilian of German descent, and they have six children. Junior Castro is Fatima's (the oldest of Izzet Gaziev's new family) son. His daughter Monever from his second wife is alive and lives in Curitiba." PS: For those soccer fans who follow Fenerbahce: Fenerbahce’s captain Alex De Sousa is from Curitiba, Brazil. Junior Castro who has played professional soccer in Brazil as well as in Middle East, informed me that he has played against Alex many times. And hearing a grandson of a Crimean Tatar

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Hal O'Leary

Hal O'Leary is an eightyseven year old veteran of WWII who has come to realize that all wars are fought to enrich a wealthy elite. As a Secular Humanist, and having spent his life in the theatre he believes that it is only through the arts, poetry in particular, that we are afforded an occasional glimpse into the otherwise incomprehensible. Hal has been inducted into the Wheeling Hall of Fame and is the recent recipient of an Honorary Doctor of Humane Letters degree from West Liberty University. 6 Nazar Look

What testosterone teased teenager isn’t out for all the excitement and adventure he can find? Thus it was that I, with millions of others from both sides, marched off to World War Two, never questioning, always seeking the new and different. I found it. I found it in the form of training films designed to convince us that the ‘Kraut’ was something less than human and therefore killing it was OK. I found it in discipline for the sake of discipline. I found it in the ignorance of good-oldboys from the south who were still fighting the civil war. I found it in a ridiculous recitation of “Ours is not to reason why” from “The Charge of The Light Brigade”, by our Captain as we boarded the liberty ship Marine Wolf bound for the ETO. I found it in the incompetence that sent our howitzers on one ship to France while we went to England on another. I found it in the fact that while they were flying troops from the States to reinforce our besieged forces during the Battle of the Bulge, we were rested and wasted, sans howitzers, in Denbigh North Wales. I found it in the ghost town of Thum Germany, devoid of all life but for a lone cat which one of our sharp-shooters shot for sport. I found it in the rubble of what once were cities. I found it in the insane cruelty of Belgique resistance fighters attached to our outfit seeking vengeance. I found it in the grave registration “meat wagons” that passed us daily, with rigid arms and legs protruding from the overloaded vehicles. I found it in the liberated labor and concentration camps. I found it in the snow, the mud, the rain and K rations, in one of Patton’s famed spear-heads. I found it in the plight of the German soldiers pleading to be captured lest they be taken by the Russians. Such was the excitement and adventure I sought. There was, however, one adventure that proved to be rewarding. With the cessation of hostilities there came to our outfit a German soldier, looking for something to eat and wishing to be taken prisoner. He had discarded his uniform,

and he, like so many others were desperately trying to avoid capture by the Russians. His name was Albert Alfred Rupee, and when he volunteered to work for his fare, our Mess Sergeant was only too happy to oblige. So industrious was Albert that in the following days he made himself almost indispensable. He would do anything asked of him by any member of the Battery. I soon noticed that the demands on his time became more than he could handle. On one occasion I, as a corporal, intervened when a private insisted that Albert shine his boots. With a goodly portion of the Battery assembled, I informed the private, et al, that Albert was to be no valet to a hundred men and that his duties would be defined by the Mess Sergeant only. This incident endeared me to Albert and as time passed, we became close friends. He told me of his war time experiences. He was born in the Alsace Lorraine of a German mother and a French father. When the Germans invaded, they determined that Albert and all his age were eligible for military service, and Albert was assigned to the German Navy. He hadn’t been on his ship long until SS officers came aboard and asked for volunteers for the Eastern (Russian) front. Although Albert did not volunteer, he was chosen, and off he went to what was to become a most horrible fate as an infantryman in the frigid climes of the Soviet Union. He would describe how, with inadequate ammunition, the German soldier was required to rise from his foxhole, and take careful aim before firing, in an effort to conserve ammunition. This would, however expose him to the fire from the enemy who would simply raise his rifle from the foxhole and fire indiscriminately in all directions. On one such occasion, Albert, lost three fingers of his right hand, but rather than relieving him, he was patched up in a field hospital and returned to duty. With the rapid Russian advance, the Germans found themselves in such disarray that Albert was able to simply abandon his company and his uniform and make his way westward so that with the ending of hostilities he found himself near where we were billeted. After VE Day our Battalion was deactivated and the cadre of non-coms that had come from the old New York 69th Division in Hawaii to train us had enough service points to be immediately sent home, and I along with all the other corporals were made sergeants to fill the vacancies. This made it possible for Albert to be retained as well. As Troops of Occupation, we were moved from town to town and upon arrival at each one, it became Albert’s duty to reconnoiter for any loose wine and/or women.

Speaking German, French and Italian fluently, and not at all unattractive, he became adept at this rather onerous charge. This, of course, only served to draw us closer together, and by the time I was to be finally sent home in May of 1946, our friendship was well established. A month or so after coming home, I did receive one letter from Albert. It was very brief and in the best broken English and German he or I could muster, he said that with my departure, things were not the same and that he felt it was time for him to move on. I tried to respond, obviously with no luck. Did he return home? It was then, for the first time I could remember, it occurred to me that he had never once mentioned his family or home after telling me of his parents ethnicity. Whether there may have been some animosity between a German mother and a French father, I had never asked, and I had no reason to speculate. I write this now in the hope that it may help you the reader understand the idiocy of war, for it is entirely conceivable that I could have killed my friend Albert, or he could have killed me. It is entirely conceivable that those we must have killed had the same longings for life and loved ones that we had. I was asked once by a friend, who became a super patriot after having lost a son to war, if I would record a research paper his wife had prepared for an national organization he had launched to foster support for the troops fighting the same war in which his son was killed, Viet Nam. In the paper, she accounted for every penny America had spent on war, and called on others to be prepared to make the sacrifice they had made in the cause of ‘freedom’. I had to refuse my friend of course, and when he asked if I had a problem with his wife’s figures, I told him I didn’t but, I couldn’t help but wonder what happened to all that money. It had to go somewhere. Who wound up with it? I told him that in his particular case it wound up in the pockets of those who took us to war with the lie of Tonkin Bay. but sorry to say, there was no call in his wife’s paper for them to make any sacrifice at all. Our friendship ended. I would, therefore, advise the young seeking excitement and adventure with the following fibonacci poem.

Don’t go. They lie. You must know, War is all a scam The rich get rich, but you must die. Nazar Look 7

Commitment from Atone Publications on Ayla Bakkalli's Book Titled "Indigenous Turkic People of the Former Soviet Union" Ayla Bakkalli has obtained a commitment from USA publishing house (Atone Publications) on her book titled "Indigenous Turkic *People of the Former Soviet Union"©. Ms. Bakkalli has been working on her book for the past five (5) years and her expected release will be made by summer of 2012. Ayla Bakkalli also have been and continues to represent as the designated representative of the indigenous Crimean Tatars at the annual United Nations Indigenous Peoples Forum, an official designation by the Chairman Mustafa Cemiloglu of the Crimean Tatar Mejlis for the five (5) years. Her book is the culmination of her participation at this international forum along with the research conducted to produce intervention statements and presentations at side events. Ms. Bakkalli has been advocating for numerous indigenous Turkic peoples in the former Soviet to wit, indigenous Nogay Turks, indigenous Adeyea, indigenous Kninalug peoples and has written on the indigenous Yakut Turks and Sakhalin Turks of Siberia as well.

Ayla Bakkalli’s mother

Ayla Bakkalli’s mother and aunt before the deportation of the entire Crimean Tatar nation in 1944 from their fatherland, Crimea, today a part of Ukraine.

Ms. Bakkalli has been hosting her weekly Saturday hour titled, Ayla Bakkalli’s Democracy Hour –Evolving Democracies in Crimea and the Turkic World”© at RadyoTurkum ( for the past year and within a commentary format discusses the historical tragedy and current challenges of the indigenous Turkic people arising from Soviet communism rule. Ms. Bakkalli will be doing a book tour and hopefully will share insight on how to raise historical awareness and advocacy for the indigenous Turkic people from the former Soviet Union. Ayla Bakkalli World Congress of Crimean Tatars Representative of the Crimean Tatar Mejlis at the United Nations Indigenous Peoples Forum 12 Nazar Look

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Door of a small mosque, Bakhchisaray - Laryssa Chomiak


Photo: Rich Garabedian

Sheehan served in the 31st Infantry Regiment in Korea, 1951 and graduated from Boston College after military service, in 1956. His short story collections are Epic Cures and Brief Cases, Short Spans, from Press 53, NC; and From the Quickening, from Pocol Press, VA, which also issued his memoirs, A Collection of Friends. He has18 Pushcart nominations, appeared in Dzanc Best of the Web 2009, and has 270 stories on Rope and Wire Magazine. He has appeared in 4 issues of Rosebud Magazine and 8 issues of Ocean Magazine. His novels include Vigilantes East, An Accountable Death, Death of a Phantom Receiver (an NFL mystery), and a manuscript, Murder from the Forum (an NHL mystery), is in the hands of a literary agent - Jan Kardys, Blackhawk Agency, CT) Milspeak Publishers issued Korean Echoes in September 2011 and The Westering, an eBook collection of western short stories, in March 2012 and will be followed by 9 more collections in the series. His work is in Wherever It Pleases, Nervous Breakdown, Troubadour21, Stone Hobo, Faith - Hope - Fiction, Canary, Subtle Tea, Red Dirt Review, Nontrue, Danse Macabre, Nashwaak Review, Jake’s Locked - Room Anthology, Ray’s Road Review, The Best of Sand Hill Review, The Linnet’s Wings, Wilderness House Literary Review, Dew on the Kudzu, Blue Lake Review, Qarrtsiluni, and many more Internet sites and in print magazines. With two co - editors he wrote, compiled and issued two books on their hometown of Saugus, MA, 400 pages plus in each and sold all 4500 copies printed at $40.00 each, with all proceeds going to Saugus High School graduates continuing their education. People search for copies on eBay or Graig’s List these days, and now and then find one.

He had never belonged anyplace, and that realization was slowly dawning on him. Of all the places he had been in this whole land, East Coast to West Coast, border to border, foothills or river’s edge, none came charging up in his memory rugged with warmth, none touched longingly at him; no village, no harbor, no vast plain running off to the far horizon, no collection of people near such places.

north, new stars and the wash of pine trees in April’s breath calling him on. The contradiction came at him again as harsh as a fist: of all the places he had been, he had been no place. His mind kept telling him the same thing the way a canyon echo sounds, distant, muted, out of a deep solace, hollow, near metallic. It was, he was ready to say, as if he had never stopped long enough to listen.

This time out of the barn he had been moving for close to two months, hitching rides generally

Now, near the foot of this day, the tidal flats wide and enormous, the sun at odds with itself on

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Earth edges, he could hear something. It was universal. It bore intelligence. It caught his attention. As usual he was alone and swore he was the only one attentive to that thing and seeing all this around him, the late sun splattering gold on every surface, moving or still, for as far as his eyes could see. Though he was not unkempt, he was not headed for the boardroom either. A worn but decent dark blue jacket hung on his slight frame, over a red plaid lumberjack shirt buttoned at the collar. The pants were brown corduroy and shiny at the knees and at the thighs. Brown ankle-high boots dipped up under his pant legs. A roadman he obviously was, a hitchhiker, but one apparently who spent his nights abed under cover, his clothes not covered with strange bed residue. This day a shave had been accomplished at some place back down the line. Under his arm he carried his baggy Matilda of sorts, and a vast marshy area spread before him, just a few miles up-river from the ocean. The sea salt and reed grass of the brackish land were stiff as knuckles at his nostrils. Where he had paused, at the side of Route 107, along the mile-wide marshes, a sign stood its ground as heavy metal. Cast iron most likely, he was thinking as the last of the sun flung itself in reflection. It had a gray field and black letters about two inches high that simply said, “Saugus,” and some part of its beating called upon him. An Indian name, he was convinced in his own reflections, thinking some names have importance, some do not. His name, for that matter, was Chug and he was a loner, acknowledged, as he often said, as the loneliest feeling a man could have. For him there were no roots, no wispy grasp at footholds, no family beachheads he could remember. A loner. It might have been that he had not been long enough in one place, or had never let his past catch up to him. No such determination as yet had fully surfaced on that account. But now, in the late afternoon, the name Saugus drew him on. It stuck in his mouth. What else was there? Where else? What place could he belong? A trucker‘s horn suddenly startled him. “How far you going, pal?” The rig was a Diamond-T, a monstrous breed of new redness and shiny chrome sitting beside him on the marsh road, and a hum under that giant hood as deep as a cement mixer. The driver, leaning at him from behind the wheel, half filling the cab, presented red hair and big eyes with shaggy brows and a smile as wide as the window. Chug looked again at the cast iron sign. “Saugus,” he said, quixotically, and then with serious conviction added, “To the

middle of Saugus, wherever that is.” “What’s your tag?” the trucker said, readjusting the sun visor, shifting gears from the dead start, clutching, gassing, leaning back in his seat. Artistic, thought Chug. “Mine’s O’Malley Fighorn, and ain’t that some moniker,” he laughed. “My mother sure as hell wasn’t letting go her last bit of Irish. My brother’s name is Sullivan, Sullivan Fighorn, Mal and Sully, that’s us.” Deep from his chest rose a laugh as though he was remembering something special, someplace special. Chug said, “Chug,” like it was a simple flake of rock falling off a cliff face. “Chug it’s been forever. Plain Chug.” “What’s your real tag?” Mal Fighorn bowed his head and looked at Chug as if something else special was waiting on him. Crows’ feet almost crinkled with sound at his eyes. A bump sat prominently on his nose, proud badge of badges. Looking ahead at the stoplight now green in the distance, he downshifted the rig, then looked again at his rider. He had shared his name and expected, it seemed, his rider to do the same thing for him. “Tylen,” Chug said, caught by that charge, the depth in the driver’s eyes, the fan of crinkles friendly in its marking. Then he added, his breath coming out of his chest like it had been saved up for a long time, “Tylen Chacone.” The two grown men looked into each other’s eyes and began to laugh. They laughed all the way up to the red light with an arrow saying “Saugus” beside it. The arrow pointed north. The tears rolled south on Mal Fighorn’s cheeks, and on the cheeks of Chug Chacone. “Ain’t we the friggin’ pair!” Mal Fighorn said, as he swung the rig into the northbound road, a huge hand pawing the shift lever with adroitness, his feet tap dancing on clutch pedal and gas pedal. “Tylen Chug Chacone, you and me, pal, are having dinner with my dad. Lives here in Saugus, loves his company. And get this,” he added uproariously, shifting again, tap dancing again, his brows heavy over bright eyes, “his name is Montcalm Fighorn. He’s friendly, he likes his beer and wears twenty years of beard.” They laughed all the way into the Fighorn driveway on the far edge of town, near the Lynnfield line. Laughter had taken them right through Saugus Center, past a veterans’ monument at a green rotary, past a stately old Town Hall bearing late traffic, past a handful of quiet churches.

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Tylen Chug Chacone, loner, felt again that unknown sweep of energy come across his chest or across his mind. He could not be sure which avenue, but it swept at him and by him in the long driveway, making him think he was in a kind of wind tunnel. Once, long ago, someplace in his travels, that sweeping might have been known. He could not remember where. Out back of the house was a barn and another truck, looking like its last mile had been run, sat beside the barn. Painted sign letters on the body of the truck had faded to an unreadable point, pale as old scars. Its tires were flat. Chug thought about old elephants going off alone to die. His mind, he thought, could never compute how many miles of service the truck must have delivered. Now it did not seem so important; it was just rusting away as much as the barn was decaying, though not seen the same way. A bit later a delicate spring evening hovered around them as they sat on the porch, long and screened-in with at least a dozen chairs scattered its length. He’d bet that some evenings every chair was occupied, it was that kind of house and that kind of porch. In the distance clusters of fireflies dominated the dark landscape. Across the road and up a steep hill, in the growing darkness, an owl called out. Chug thought it to be a place called home. “So you got a name thing, too,” Montcalm Fighorn said, pouring beer from a quart bottle into three frosted mugs still wearing shadowy clouds. “They’ve been calling me Monty since I can remember. Never by my real name. Hell, I never called this boy by his real name. Enda, my good Enda, never called him anything but O’Malley. And Sully had it the same way.” Toward a bit of darkness off the side of the porch, adroitly, in modest ceremony, he tipped his drink, and the tipping was understood by those who saw it done. Chug drank slowly and deliberately, and the bearded Monty Fighorn watched his guest drink with dainty sips after the healthy meal. “Don’t be bashful, Chug. End of the day’s the time for a good swallow. Have at it.” He raised his mug and drained off the contents. “Best damn part of the day,” he vouched with certainty, poured another full round, and then raised his eyebrows at his son who went to the small icebox at the end of the porch and brought back another imperial quart. “I’m not the real curious type, Chug, but wonder where you’ve been, what you’ve seen. Mal says you spend the winter in Florida. That so?” “Two or three places down there. Sometimes

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they put up with me and sometimes they don’t. I have a special delivery box and they hold all my mail. Usually it’s just a few retirement checks from Uncle I use to try to get through the winter.” “You in the service, Chug?” Even as he asked the question, Monty knew the answer. The signs were there. Besides the bracelet Chug wore, it was written on the man. His clothes might have been second-line, but he was shaved that very day, and his hairline cut half moons high over the ears. The boots, beat up as they were by the road, were not long from a spit shine. He’d bet there was a pair of dry socks in his small bag if not pinned to the inside of his jacket. “Twenty-six years in the Army.” “I got me one of those,” Monty said, pointing at the bracelet on Chug’s wrist. “Where’d you get yours?” The wreathed Combat Infantryman’s Badge, its blue field long since faded, curved loosely on Chug’s wrist. A small chain kept it in place. A circular stain was on his wrist. “Couple of places were good enough. But first with the 31st in Viet Nam. Then in the desert in the Eighties. You?” “Nam, too. Four oh first. Caught a bit of hell and was rolled out of there in a hurry. Think I was pinned down for two months then on my way home, on evac. Had one friend, talking about nicknames, who was transferred to first battalion of your outfit. We called him Grunt before we had grunts.” Perhaps from the dark hill or out of a field now gone into the night, the sweeping energy came on Chug again. Almost electricity, it ran right over the porch as if the fireflies had let everything go. Chug knew a rustling at the screening, a possession of sorts, at the very spot Monty had tipped his mug. “Talking about names, his wasn’t Billy Pigg, was it?” He could not bring back a face, but a piece of it, a nose. The energy, the sweeping, told him the answer even before Monty Fighorn came up out of his chair. “Damn it, guy, don’t tell me you knew Billy Pigg! Hot damn! Thought about him a thousand times. Old Kentucky Billy Pigg. Great boy he was. Marksman of all marksmen, I tell you. Often wondered about him. Often.” The plea was in his voice and he nodded again at his son sitting there, the son’s mouth agape, his eyes wide in the darkness, wondering what the hell had made him stop and pick up a hitchhiker off the marsh road, the end of the world itself. From the corner of the porch Mal brought back two more

imperial quarts of beer and poured the round himself. “Hate to tell you, Monty,” Chug said, setting down his mug, as if his right to drink had been suddenly halted, perhaps his welcome stopped in place. “Died in my arms, not quick, not slow, but long enough to ask me to bless him with water. I did, from a canteen, and him leaking badly, one of them old sucking chest wounds that’ll never let go. Said his daddy picked him up one day, about to walk into the river with him and do it up proper, when his daddy keeled over from a heart attack and never got him wet. All that time, it seems, it was all he could remember, being on the grass and not wet. But I got it done for him. Boy had a nose been smashed all to hell before he even got in the army. That your Billy Pigg, Monty? That the one you knew as Grunt, nose broke up all to hell?” Chug was aware again of the spot Monty had tipped his mug to. The unknown sweeping was coming through the same place, the rustling, the net of screen separating sounds and energies, paying them due respects. And he and Monty Fighorn, old soldiers at the pair, had a sharing of lasting memories coming at them in pieces. Chug said, “Tell me about that old truck out back. Looks like an old soldier in the Old Soldiers’ Home, just waiting to go the last mile. Serve you that good, did it, not letting it go?” “You’re right on that account, Tylen Chacone,” Monty said, and laughed loudly, his laugh ranging the porch and out into the night. “Was a hell of a rig in its day. Brought us a little freedom, worked so long and good. It ain’t going no place before me, and that’s a given.” Turning to Mal, he said, “Tell him that’s so, son.” “It’ll turn to rust in that spot long as I’m around. Bet on it.” He tipped his mug, but it was not at the dark space just off the porch. It was more at an idea. All of it, Chug thought, was measurable. Monty swung around in his dark Adirondack chair. Chug heard it creak. “I got an


idea I want to run by you, Chug,” Monty said. “No strings attached, as they say. Got lots of room here, most of it going to waste. Boys here got business I don’t want to get into. They do their thing and I do mine. I’m willing to let you have a room for the summer, go and come as you please, go off as you like when you like, doing your road thing if you

have to, and head back down to see your friends come fall or late summer. It’s no charity farm nor the Old Soldiers’ Home. You cut some grass, you do some dishes, make your own bed and do your own laundry, and you got a place to drop your head come of a night. And you don’t plan to drink all my beer. Can’t lose anything from where I sit.” The chair creaked again as he stood up and said, “Want to show you something.” He went into the house and toward the back of the house. Mal said, “He’s going to show you his,” pointing to Chug’s bracelet. “We had it mounted on a piece of cherry wood a lot of years ago. Sets some store by it, he does. Makes me think you should think real serious about his offer. Doesn’t do something like that very often.” “I’m just a guy barely out of the tank, Mal. Doesn’t know me from a hole in the wall. Why make me out so special?” “He knows you a lot better than you think, Chug. You and him, you’re like blood brothers maybe. I’m sure you share something I might never know, though it might be like Sully and me. He’s a good man and he finds stock in you. Hell, man, there must be some of that in me, too. I picked you off the side of the road, could have gone right by. Usually do, these days. I have no idea why I stopped. Something in the air, I guess. Would you believe it?” Only Chug Chacone heard the rustle at the screen, the promise of sound in a small shrub, with a host of fireflies coming closer to the porch. And so it was, practically for the first time in his life off a post or station, for more than four months of belonging, Tylen Chug Chacone sat on the porch at night with Monty Fighorn. They listened to the fireflies almost, to the owls on the hill, to the old truck turning to honored rust, and every now and then, from a distance, like down a one-way street, to the limitless, endless charge of energy finding its way to a couple of old souls. In the dread heat of late August, the heavens at rampage, electricity beating about the skies like a thousand cannons at battle, one bolt of lightning followed another bolt through two aged hearts. Mal told Sully over the phone, “Damned won’t believe it, Sull. Neither one of them spilled a drop of their beer. It just sat there beside them, waiting to get sipped up like it was last call.”

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Eleanor Leonne Bennett or the Doll on the Covers Eleanor Leonne Bennett is a 16 year old internationally award winning photographer and artist who has won first places with National Geographic, The World Photography Organisation, Nature's Best Photography, Papworth Trust, Mencap, The Woodland trust and Postal Heritage. Her photography has been published in the Telegraph, The Guardian, BBC News Website and on the cover of books and magazines in the United states and Canada. Her art is globally exhibited, having shown work in London, Paris, Indonesia, Los Angeles, Florida, Washington, Scotland, Wales, Ireland, Canada, Spain, Germany, Japan, Australia and The Environmental Photographer of the year Exhibition (2011) amongst many other locations. She was also the only person from the UK to have her work displayed in the National Geographic and Airbus run See The Bigger Picture global exhibition tour with the United Nations International Year Of Biodiversity 2010.


Walking Through Skeleton Trees

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Q&A Q: Why are you an artist Eleanor? A: Because I enjoy to express myself and show it to a wider audience. Q: When did you first realize you are an artist? A: Around 7 , I really wanted to do a job which involved me being creative. Q: Could you tell us some more about your work? A: I am self taught with photography. I like to do street photography and self portraiture mainly. Q: What other interests do you have outside of photography? A: I like to be outside. I do karate, art, write and spend a lot of my spare time with animals. Q: What are the best and worst parts of being a photographer? A: Worse parts would be regarding money and travel. Best part is winning an award and getting people grasp your concepts and thoughts behind the image. Q: Who have influenced you, and how? A: Rankin, Joel Sartore, Cindy Sherman and Wolfgang Tillmans. I would cite Cindy Sherman as the biggest influence I love transforming myself into a different persona. Q: What inspires you to keep going and how do you keep yourself motivated? A: The competitions I win and the kind words regularly given. It can be hard in the face of public votes I'll be the first to say I don't do well. My success is because of real judges and other artists valuing my ideas. Q: Is popularity an indicative of value for a photographer? A: I love the idea of my images being more important than me. Some of my images are reposted on tumblr, on blogs. If someone feels that is expresses their emotion then I'm sure it means more as a collective. Q: How important is intention to the photography? A: The idea is more important than the editing. It all has its place but I strive for originality. Often I have substituted quality in images more personal to me just to capture it as clearly as possible. I have only just afforded a tripod. I am short on equipment massively in comparison to my achievements.

Q: Describe a stressful work situation that you had to handle in the past. A: Have to tell a magazine offering to pay me for a flight to NYC that I couldn't take the offer. That sucked, that makes two holidays I've won where I've not been able to grab the opportunity. Q: Share with us something funny that has happened to you recently. A: Finding a very nice old car completely wrecked with a shed falling apart around it. Silly they didn't maintain it , sad they don't value possessions others work damn hard to obtain. Q: Describe yourself in five words. A: Hard working, strong, emotional, creative and obsessive Q: Tell us about your next projects. A: Mainly anatomy and mainly abstracts. Keep an eye on my C.V ( Q: Where do you see yourself in 10 years? A: Doing much front cover art work for magazines, books and musicians . I want to embrace music a lot more in the future. When I get out and get more involved in culture and creativity.

or! n a le E ol, Saw b Nazar Look 19

Rudyard Kipling

Mawî gúl Ğîydîm ak, kîzîl gúller Tatlîm kúlsún hoş-şeker. Kaytîp keldí top-top şeşek Mawîsîndan gîymam kerek. Karap ğúrdúm yarîm arz Gúlden ósken şonday tarz. Yarîm arz soraganda Túrtúşúp kúldí maga. Kaytîp kelgende kîşta Nazlî tatlîm toprakta Eğelínde gúl karap Buz Ólímní kuşaklap. Belkí ğeter dertíne Mezarîñ art betínde. Kîdîrganlarîm meğaz Yakşî gúl kîzîl, biyaz. (Terğúmesí Taner Murat)

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Vasfiye Kîpçak

Ğúmert gúller Aş kuşagîñ, toldîrayîm gúllerge, Tak şáşíñe, yaraştîrsîn gúlşember. Ğúmert gúller ğeñílmezler ğellerge, Góñíllerge şatlîk bergen ak gúller. Gúl urlugun muhabbetlík yeríne, «Gúl bakşañda óstír!» dep síz berdíñíz. Ğetíp mení ğúmertlíkníñ kóksíne, Ğúregímde íz kaldîrgan edíñíz.

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Taner Murat

Kókten sesler I-ínğí tom

Temúçin (V)

Kesím 17 Níşanîn bîza edí Bodonğar kózín aşkanda akşam bolayatîr edí. Oñîna-solîna karasa da, Aşine yok. Atkîşî man ogî gene túşken yerínde. Turup, kîznî síptí kír ğuwup kórgen suw ğagasîna kaştî. Ízí yok. - Kayda otîrganîn da aytmay kaştî. Ne-şín eken? - dep taa da akîlî karîşîp kaldî. Soñra túşúnúp: - Katîmda az tuwul, baya kaldî, kîz! "Úyúmdekísíler bekliydír, artîmdan kelíp karawuymasînlar" dep ketkendír. Mením yuklap kalganîma karap turağak mî, ayse? - dep kîzga hakk beríp şîktî. Atîn, kartşagayîn karap, ğolda dúrkí şalaşala, tuygusun, súygúsún tawlarga-taşlarga belletíp, úyúne kayttî. - Ziyan yok, Aşine. Men yarîn da kelírmen Dombay Eşígíne, yarîn kóríşírmíz. Yarîn kelalmasañ óbírgúní tabîşîp kóríşírmíz. Sabîrlîman, o yerde beklermen sení. Sen kelmeseñ, men aw túşúrúp kaytarman, sen uzuña kóre kel. Saga aşîk kaldîm, Aşinem, sarî şáşlím. Wuruldum saga, Aşinem! - dep şakîra-şakîra tawlarnî kaltîratîp kayttî. Karañgî úynúñ íşínde bírózí sólene-sólene, sóyínníñ keş bír máálínde yukuga kettí. Ekínğí kún, taa da awga şîgîp, tora Dombay Eşíkníñ ğolîn aldî. Lákin akîlî, karmakarîşîk: - Tínewún mením yaşaganîm uşun meken? Túş-múş bolîp turmasîn? Bo kîz sayí kîz meken? Yoksam taw ğiní mí? Bír belaga şatîp turmayîm? Dombay Eşígíne yetíşkende, başta kîznîñ şamaşîr ğuwgan yeríne barîp, bírtaa şonîñ ízín karadî. Ne kîzî bar, ne ízí. Ondan soñra ğaşînîp turdî. Akşamgaşîk. Aşine kórínmedí. Ne o kúní kóríndí, ne ekínğí kúní, ne úşúnğúsí, ne ondan soñ akkan kúnlerí. Aşineden kaber yok. Ziyade, íşníñ başka yaman yagî, awî da kesíldí. Kurî kayta edí. Bírgún Aşinení añîlîp beklegende mazalî-mazalî bír dombay katîndan geşíp ketkenín tuymay kaldî. Başka kún aldîna ayuw şîktî, o ogîn atîp wurmadî. Derege eşkíler, marallar suw íşmege kelgende, ogîn kóteríp níşan alîp bekliy edí.

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Konîşma asarlar Susma basarlar

- Aşine bolîp kórínír m-eken, kózíme? dep, atkîşîn ğayîp bekliy edí. O beklep turganda haywanlar tuyup ğok bola edí. - Aşine bolîp, wurup turmayîm, şonî! - dep níşanîn bîza edí. O níşanîn bîzîp alganda haywanlar kaşîp kutula edí. Kesím 18 Maymun yîlî, kaşkîr kîşî Şo seneníñ kúzí pítíp, kîşî keldí. Maymun yîlnîñ soñ aylarî. Maymun yîlîndan soñra tawkîya tawkîya - tawuk yîlîna kíreğek edíler, eger yaşap kîştan şîksalar. Awdan kurî kayta beríp, katîndakî kartşagayî man bírlíkte, aşlîk şekmege başladîlar. Kîşka aşayîtsîz kírgen edíler. Bo maymun kîşnîñ toñdîruwğî suwugî da bek bírden kongan. Okadar şalt kelgen bír kîş kópten kórílmegen edí, yakînlarda kaytmayğakka da uşay. Şonday da uzun, şonday da sert, şonday da ayazlî bír kîş bolağak eken. Íster-ístemez Tañrînîñ ayazînda awga şîga edí. Kartşagay dertí de bar, o da bír tamak. Árúw de atîlmay, taa. Alîşmadî, awnî beğer-almay. Awnuñ siyreklígíne de karap, onî da hesaplap ústúne koşsañ, boş kolî man kayta bergenleríne siyír etkendiy bírşiy kalmaz. Bír keşeníñ ortasînda, başta uzaklardan, soñra yakînlaşkan, kaşkîr sesí keldí. Uluylar, uluy bereler! "Kayîr-ola, atîm man kartşagayîmdan başka şiyím yok. Úşewúmúzden bírsí ólíp ketewuysa, óbírlerí ózbaşîna şîg-almayğak, bo kîştan. Úşewúmúznúñ de yaşamamîz keregír, baárge şîgağak bolsak", dep kapkanşîk barîp haywanlarîn úyge kírsetíp alawuydî. Aradan kóp geşmeden kaşkîrlar úyún sarîp aldîlar. Bútún keşe úyún ğoklap kapîsîna atîlîp turdular. Tapkan aralarîn koklap karmaladîlar, eger kírseler íşerdekílerní bírtamam parşalayğaklar, otakîl aşlar. Bazî tartîlîp kete edíler soñra, şerík sáátlík, yarîm sáátlík raátlíkníñ artîndan, úyge , taa bek wahşiyleníp, taa kararlî kaytîp, ğúklene edíler. Bodonğar kaşkîrlarnî şo yerden uzaklaştîrmaga bír şáre karasa, başka yaktan haywanlarîn tînîşlatmak zorînda kala edí. Tañda kaşkîrlar bazgeşíp, kelgenlerí gibí

ulup kettíler. O wakît yorgînlîgîna ğeñílíp, bír-ekí sáát yuklap kaldî. Yukusundan turganda bútún keşe, ústúne agaş atîlîp, sónmegen otî ğanîp pítken edí. Kún de agargan. Atkîşîn, şoñgîrîn alîp atîna míndí. Uşuwmak uşuwmak - ok, súmún sadakasîn şîjgîrmalî súmún men totîrgan. "Endí bízím sîramîz, onlarnîñkîsî geştí. Aydî bakalîm, awğî kím, aw kím?" dep, kaşkîrlarnîñ ízín alîp peşíne túştí. Súrúw yakînlarda, şo yerlerge kelíp yerleşken eken. Beş taneler. Awğunî kórgende, korkmay, kaşîmsîramay, boy atîp, sarîm haleketíne başladîlar. Endí boy-boyga kelgenler, idalaşmadan tartîlîp kaşağak şáre kalmadî. Kím kímní? Bodonğar kartşagaynîñ kózíldírígín şîgarîp, kartşagayîn attî. "Yuwañnî korşala! Kanatîñ sedasî akîllarîna kíríp kalsîn. Şîñgîrdagîñ sesín temellí úyreníp unutmasînlar" dep. Hawanî şala-şala, tógerekliy uşup yúkseldí. Aşlîgî bír kenarga, bútún keşe úrkútúp kóz ğumdurmagan ğawlarîn tanîgan edí. Aşuw şîgarmak máálí. Yúksele-yúksele bútún hîzî man kartşagay atîlmaga başladî. Obír yaktan Bodonğar da, turmadan, aldîna, artîna, batarîna we tabarîna şîjgîrmalî súmúnlerín şaşa. Kuwetlí ğígít edí Bodonğar, súmúnlerín dórt-beş yúz adîmga kadar atar edí. Kaşkîrlar de sîz-sîz ótíp kelgen súmúnlerden sakînsînlar mî, de kókten tîrnaklî şokîwğî ólímden sakînsînlar mî? Kaşkîrlar sarîm dóngelegín toplay almay kaldîlar. Ne topladîlar, ne de aştîlar, şonday uzaktan aylana-aylana Bodonğarnî sarîp kala edíler. "Parşalanmayğak bolsak, parşalamalîmîz. Korkma!" dep atîn kaşkîrlarnîñ mañlayîna itep ğíberdí. Mañlay kaşkîr tartîldî. Bodonğar peşínde. Kókte uşkan kartşagay vaziyetní bír nazardan geşíríp, takîm şalîşmasîna kírmesí kerekeğegín añlap, başta aşîn bergen kolîna yakînlayatîrgan bír kaşkîrnîñ ústúne túşúp, onî kuwalap şîktî. Bírtaa yúkselíp níşanîna súrúw mañlayîn alîp atîlganda,

Bodonğarnîñ atkîşîndan şîjgîrmalî súmún uşup kettí. Súrúwnúñ eñ balaban kaşkîrî kaysî yagîn korşalayğak bílmiy kalgan tînîşnîñ íşínde, kartşakay sîrtîn tîrnaklap alawuydî. Ğaralangan mañlay kaşkîr kaştî. Kuyrugî man ğerní sîpîrasîpîra kaştî. Obírlerí de ğeñílíp, darkîp, onîñ artîndan kettíler. Bodonğar bazgeşmedí. Belkímsíz bír píşímde o yerlerníñ awğusî kím ekenín kóstermelí edí, başka túrlí kíşíní yaşatmayğaklar. Ízlerín alîp arkalarîna tagîlîp turdî. Kaşkîrlar korkkan eken, ekínğí kez karşî-karşîga kelmekten sakînîp, onîñ yúzúne artîn aylandîrîp kózden kayîp bola edíler. O yakîn kelíp kartşagayîn atağakta, onlar "Túş yakamîzdan!" degendiy uluşmaga başlap, başîn alîp kaşa edíler. Yarîm kún kuwalap şîkkan soñ, yorgînargîn úyúne kayttî. Ğolda bír karga túşúrúp, onî alîp keldíler. Karganîñ íşín şoñgîrîna berdí. Soñra ekíge bolîp yarîsîn gene şoñgîrîna aşatkan soñ, yarîsîn ózí aşap "Bereket bersín, toydîm!" dedí. Akşamgaşîk, úynúñ dórt kóşesíne, bír yagîn şaşaklîkka obírsín de ğerge kagîlgan kazîklarga ğay ğíbíndiy sozîp, baylap, dórt ğíp tagîp şîktî. Ğel eskende, ğíplerníñ ortasîna túyúmlengen şîjgîrmalî súmúnler, ğelge karap aylanganda, atkîştan ketkendiy şîjgîra túşe edíler. Kapîsîna da bír şoñgîr şîñgîrdagî taktî, "Bo yerí yasak! Bo yerí kartşagaylî awğunuñ yerí!" dep. O keşe kaşkîrlar úyní bír dolaşağak boldîlar lákin yakînlaşmadan súmún, şîñgîrdak sedasîn tuyup, kaşîp bírtaa kelmedíler. Ne o keşe, ne başka keşe, bírtaa úyún basmadîlar. Bodonğarnîñ korkîsîn alganlar, korkîsîndan bolsa kerek. Lákin şo yerlerde yerleşken yerínden de ketmedíler. Ertesí kúní awunda uzaktan-uzak Bodonğar man gene kóríştíler. Bo sefer bír-bírsín ústúne barmay, awğî óz íşíne, súrúw de óz awuna karadî. Bodonğar akşamga kadar awdan pay almay boş kolî man kaytsa, súrúw heş bolmagandan bír tawlay tuttî. Tawlaynî şoyerde parşalap ğutkanlarîn kórgen edí, uzaktan karap. "Tutarlar, ya. Onlar beş taneler. Awnî sarîp alawuyalar. Bíz de beş kardaş edík. Mení kakğa taşlap akalarîm ayîrîp attîlar da, ka-termen?" dep ğutkundî. Ekínğí kúní awnî bazgeşíp saklanîp kaşkîrlarnî añîlîp turdî. Súrúw bír eşkíníñ artîna túşer-túşmez o da, uzaktan, peşleríne tagîldî. Kaşkîrlar eşkíní tîgîrtîp bír şayîrşîknîñ íşíne tartkanda, o da atîn şaptîrîp şoñgîrîn attîrdî. Súmúnlerín uşurttî. Súrúw mañlayî man başlap tartîlgan kaşkîrlar, Bodonğarnîñ eşkíní alîp ketkeníne karap kaldîlar. Şo kúnnúñ awun kaşîrgan edíler. Awğî man şoñgîrî kiyíp yasap otîrağak ekenler. Soñra bír hafta raát awlap ğúrdúler. Bodonğar onlarnî taa da añîlîp tura edí. Kaşkîr súrúwí bútún kîşnî onday etíp geşírdí. Ara-sîra írí awun şoñgîrlî awğuga beğertíp.

(dewamî keleğekke) Nazar Look 23


Ağî Ayna, Yeşíl Elmaz Oglinda Amăruie, Diamantul Verde (Bitter Mirror, Green Diamond) sayar sîzgalarî

Taner Murat

Elif Abdul



24 Nazar Look

Nazar Look 2012-05  

2 - Our Forgotten Diaspora (From Kulcora, Crimea to Curitiba, Brazil) by Mubeyyin Batu Altan 4 - Mike Berger and the Gentle Satirical Poetry...

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