Nazar 2014-05

28 tom sheehan massachusetts, usa A Kommando Loose in Maine (II) 2 maya angelou When I Think of Death Ólímge túşúngende When Great Trees Fall Balaban terekler túşkende Touched by an Angel - Bír melegíñ tiyíşínde

BAŞ KABÎMÎZDA ON THE COVER

UTE CARSON Photo: Caitlin Maria CarsonRottino

NAZAR LOOK Attitude and culture magazine of Dobrudja’s Crimean Tatars Tomrîğa Kîrîm Tatarlarîñ turuşmamuriyet meğmuwasî ISSN: 2069-4784 www.nazar-look.com nazar.look@mail.com Constanta, Romania FOUNDER & EDITOR-IN-CHIEF BAŞ-NAŞIR Taner Murat EDITORS NAŞIRLER Emine Ómer Uyar Polat Jason Stocks COMPUTER GRAPHICS SAYAR SÎZGAĞÎSÎ Elif Abdul Hakaan Kalila (Hakan Calila) CREATIVE CONSULTANTS ESER KEÑEŞÇÍSÍ M. Islamov Copyright reverts back to contributors upon publication.

The full issue is available for viewing online from the Nazar - Look website.

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6 luçiyan bílaga Kerametlí dúnya tajîn basîp ezmem 8 taner murat scythia minor (little crimea) Kókten sesler - Temúçin (XXIX)

34 jack peachum virginia, usa Proem: Hootchie Kootchie Flaneur’s Creamation Kalpazanîñ kúlún şîgarmasî A Wish for Karma in Virginia - Virğiniye’dekí karma úşún bír tílek To the Sweetheart of Jockey’s Ridge - Atlî Tepesíndekí oynaşîma 38 edmund spencer Travels in Circassia, Krim Tartary, &c. (XXIII)

10 elena botts northern virginia tell me that i am living somewhere else and that it is better there #2 464577 east coast commuter trains lone 14 ali tal england, uk Unbounded Void (IX) 24 ute carson texas, usa Bread of Affliction/Bread of Love - Şegíşúw ótmegí Súygí ótmegí The Secret that Only Babies Know - Sáde bebekleríñ bílgen sîrî My Gift to Life - Hayatka bakşîşîm Once More for Real Hakkîykatîn bírtaa

CONTRIBUTORS MEMBALAR Elena Botts Ute Carson Caitlin Maria Carson-Rottino Jack Peachum Tom Sheehan Ali Tal

Nazar Look 1

maya angelou

(1928 - 2014)

2 Nazar Look

www.nazar-look.com

(1928 - 2014)

When I Think of Death When I think of death, and of late the idea has come with alarming frequency, I seem at peace with the idea that a day will dawn when I will no longer be among those living in this valley of strange humors.

I can accept the idea of my own demise, but I am unable to accept the death of anyone else.

I find it impossible to let a friend or relative go into that country of no return.

Disbelief becomes my close companion, and anger follows in its wake.

I answer the heroic question 'Death, where is thy sting? ' with ' it is here in my heart and mind and memories.'

Ólímge túşúngende Ólímge túşúngende, soñ zamanlarda da bo fikir akîlîmnî kayet sîkî ğoklar, kúnlerníñ bírínde perdahlez atkanda şo sepa şayîrînda yaşaganlarnîñ arasînda endí tabîlmayğagîm túşúnğesí men raátraát uzlaşaman.

Men óz ólímím men razîlaşîp başkasîñ ólímíne kelgende onî kablet-almam.

Bír arkadaşnîñ ya bír tuwgannîñ kaytîmsîz álemíne kírmesí men heş añlaşmam.

O zaman imansîzlîk eñ yakîn dostîm bolîp artîndan ófke kelír.

Suwalîmnî ğígítşe sorarman: “Ólím, aşşî iyneñ kayda?” ke ğewabî “míndadîr góñílímde, akîlîmda, katírímde.”

(Taner Murat’nîñ terğúmesínde)

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Nazar Look 3

(1928 - 2014)

When Great Trees Fall

Balaban terekler túşkende Manzume: Bír baár akşamî

When great trees fall, rocks on distant hills shudder, lions hunker down in tall grasses, and even elephants lumber after safety.

When great trees fall in forests, small things recoil into silence, their senses eroded beyond fear.

Balaban terekler túşkende kayalar úrker uzak tepelerde, úynúñ kalay tóbesí píríj pişkotlarîn aşar aslanlar ğaşînîp otîrar baárdír, akşam tîñîşîn almakta uzun boylî otlarda, filler bírem iteşíp saklî kúller solîp kalîr yakînda taldalanmaga karar. baárdír, akşam túşkende raátlenmekte Balaban terekler ay, bír bostan korkîlîgî – eken mí, eken mí? ormanlarda, kíşkene şiyler túşerde? sessízlík íşíne, bír at kíşnemesí – bírşiy eşítmem tuygularî sáde şamîrlangan mehtap kemírílíp korkînî aşîp geşer.

When great souls die, the air around us becomes light, rare, sterile.

We breathe, briefly.

Our eyes, briefly, see with a hurtful clarity.

Our memory, suddenly sharpened, examines, gnaws on kind words unsaid, promised walks never taken.

Great souls die and our reality, bound to them, takes leave of us.

Our souls, dependent upon their nurture, now shrink, wizened.

Our minds, formed and informed by their radiance, fall away.

We are not so much maddened as reduced to the unutterable ignorance of dark, cold caves.

And when great souls die, after a period peace blooms, slowly and always irregularly. Spaces fill with a kind of soothing electric vibration.

Our senses, restored, never to be the same, whisper to us.

They existed. They existed.

We can be. Be and be better. For they existed.

4 Nazar Look

topallagan bír baár akşamî da Balaban ruhlar ólgende, kîzîl tamgan şólde bír tapînagîñ artînda şewremízdekí hawa maysîz kalgan arabamîñ tegerşígí de ğeñgílleşíp nadirleşír, kîsîrlaşîr.

Kîskağa solîş alîrmîz. tek bílgen şiyím tewúkiy búgúnúm Kózímíz kókyúzí men daklar mení mîskîllar, mîskîllar kîskağa kórer ağîtkan ayanlîk man.bír tola yerínden oynagan úynúñ tóbesínden Bírden uşlangan hafîzamîz şúndíden soñsîzgaşîk baárdír inğeler, akşam sózsíz aldîna ketíp aytîlmagan nezaket sózlerí, adalîp yapîlmagan bír tamarîñ íşínde óz ğolîn tabar gezíntíler kemírer.

Balaban ruhlar ólíp hakkîykatîmîz olarga baylanîp bízní taşlap keter.

Ruhlarîmîz, olarîñ peslemesíne baylî, şúndí kurup tarayîr.

Zihinlerímíz, olarîñ aydînlîgîndan píşím men kaber alîp túşúp kalîr.

Bíz añlatîlmaz ğahillík karañgîlîgîna, suwuk kuwuşlarda bîrakîlganîmîz kadar akîlîmîznî oynatmadîk.

Balaban ruhlar ólgende Bíraz wakîtan soñ yawaş-yawaş, her zaman kayidesíz, tînîşlîk şeşegí aşar. Aralîklar yuklatuwğî şagîlgan tíríldemelerdiy bírşiylerge tolîp kalîr.

Yeríne kelgen tuygularîmîz, heşbírwakît eskísí gibí bolmadan, kulagîmîzga şîbîrdar.

Bar edíler. Bar edíler. Ístesek bíz de bolîrmîz. Hem bondan taa árúw bolîrmîz. Olarîñ bar bolganîna.

(Taner Murat’nîñ terğúmesínde)

www.nazar-look.com

(1928 - 2014)

Touched by an Angel We, unaccustomed to courage exiles from delight live coiled in shells of loneliness until love leaves its high holy temple and comes into our sight to liberate us into life.

Love arrives and in its train come ecstasies old memories of pleasure ancient histories of pain.

Yet if we are bold, love strikes away the chains of fear from our souls.

We are weaned from our timidity in the flush of love's light we dare be brave and suddenly we see that love costs all we are and will ever be.

Yet it is only love which sets us free.

Bír melegíñ tiyíşínde Bíz, zewuktan súrgún etílíp ğesaretke alîşmaganlar bízní kurtarîp yaşam íşíne azat etmege sewda yúksekte múbarek tapînagîn taşlap kózímízníñ aldîna kelgenşík ğañgîzlîgîñ kabîgînda sarîlîp yaşarmîz.

Sewda kelgende etek kuyrugîndan veğit te kelír eskí zewuk katírlerí kadmiy ağî hikáyelerí.

Gene de, ğesaretlí bolsak sewda íşímízdekí korkî şînğîrlarîn koparîp atar.

Biz şegínúw sútúnden kesílíp aşk nurîñ basîmînda ğúrek tabîp bírden aşknîñ maliyetí bútún barlîgîmîz-bolağagîmîz ekenín kóremíz.

Gene de bízní boşatîp kurtargan sáde sewdadîr.

(Taner Murat’nîñ terğúmesínde)

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Nazar Look 5

luçiyan bílaga

(1895 - 1961)

6 Nazar Look

www.nazar-look.com

(1895 - 1961)

Kerametlí dúnya tajîn basîp ezmem Kerametlí dúnya tajîn basîp ezmem hem ğolîmda şeşekte, kózde, erínde ya kabírde rastlay turgan sîrnî akîl şalîştîrîp men óttírmem.

Başkalarnîñ nurî deren zulmetlerde saklî kalgan añlaşîlmaznîñ tîlsîm gúzellígín buwar, lákin men, men arttîrarmam ğarîgîm man evrenníñ sîrîn, hem tîpkî aynîñ kaltîrawğî ak nurlarî keşe sîrîn azaytmadan, akísíne, taa bek óstírgení gibí, men de múbarek sîrnîñ keñ şeşegínden karañgî awlakka servet koşarman we añlaşîlmagan herşiy taa bek añlaşîlmazlarga deñíşír mením kózím astînda ke men súyermen şeşek te, kóz de, erín de, kabír de.

(1919) (Taner Murat’nîñ terğúmesínde)

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Nazar Look 7

scythia minor (little crimea) www.tanermurat.com

Kókten sesler - Temúçin (XXIX) Kesím 63 Tírílígímde Kók-Kuşî Otşî Yasugay Batîrnîñ vaziyetín karaganda: - Bolağagî boldî. Başîñda esíñ bolganda aytağaklarîñnî aytîp taşla, kerek şiylerní ázírliyík! - dep, karap şîkkan edí.

- Móñlík, ullarîm kíşkene, taa. Bo ballarîmnî men óstíríp yetíştír-almadîm.

Men ólsem, korantam, ballarîm ebediy kayîp bolîp keteğekler. Ne kadar yîkpalsîz ekenmen, ballarîm kayîp bolağak. Kím karar diysíñ, onlarnî? Túşúnsem, ğúregím kanay.

Artîmda kalağak kíşkenekíy íníleríñní sen korşalap olarga baş bol, kóz bol, Móñlík! Tul kalağak ğeñgeñe de yardîm etíp arka bol!

Ulumnî kóríp kalağak bolaman. Maga, barîp Temúçinímní bolgan yerínden alîp kel, Móñlík! Oga aytağaklarîm bar. - degen edí şo wakît, Yasugay Batîr, Móñlíkten yardîm ístep.

- Kaár etme, Batîr! Sóz beremen. Men barman, babam bar, yedí tane ğetken ulum bar, delíkanlî hepísí. Bíz brakmamîz ballarîñnî. Bíz korşalarmîz, bíz kararmîz, bíz aş brakmamîz onlarnî. Sîrtlarîn ğerge tiydírmemíz. - dep ketken edí, Móñlík, Temúçinníñ artîndan.

Móñlík ketken soñ, íşerge kírgen ballarnîñ artîndan Ğaraka Eslígen de kírge edí: - Turaman, men turaman, ulum bergen sózníñ artînda. Koñgîrat sózí berdík, Yasugay. Ğaraka Eslígen bar, bo sózníñ arkasînda. - dep. Şay píşíreğek bolîp Şal-Aynîñ ğurtuna kírgen Elinaynîñ artîndan, KókKuşî da bargan edí: - Síz de kóríp, konîşîp kalîñîz.

Ekewñúz de. - dep.

Soñra:

8 Nazar Look

- Vaziyetí bek awur. Endíden soñ oga sawluk karamaz. Ğanî, ondan, yakînlarda, yúzún kaytarağak. - dep aytkan edí.

Ballarî, korantasî toplaşkanda: - Men bo kalgan konagîmîzdan toñîldîm, ballar. Bíz Kulan Daknîñ etegíne kóşíp ketiyík, o yerlerí taa yakşî. - degen edí, Yasugay.

- Babay, zayîflagansîñ da. Takatsîz kalgansîñ da. Seníñ ğolga şîkmaga hálíñ bar mî? - dep sakîndî, ballar, ğoldan.

- Uyuñuz! Herkez uyusun! Aydî, herkez, tîşardan toplap başlasîn! - dep şîkkan edí şo wakît Elinay Biyke.

Uydular, Yasugay Batîrnîñ sózíne herkez uydî.

- Mende, endí, umut kalmadî. Heş zuw-şuw etmiy, tírílígímde, Kulan Daknîñ etegíne alîp ketíñíz. Ólsem, mewtam Temúçinníñ emanetínde.

O ayîrsîn mezarîmnî. - aytîp taşlagan edí Yasugay Batîr, biykesíne de.

Kesím 64 Şárem bolsa Móñlík, şîgîp Dej Seğannîñ úyúne şapkanda, kópke barmay Elinay alar, Eslígen alar, Yasugaynî tóşegí men kóteríp mógedekníñ íşíne ğatkîzdîrdîlar. Ğúmle kîzmetke Eslígen men Móñlíkníñ yedí ulî ğúklendí. Ekí konaknî da ğîyîp, ğolga şîktîlar, Kulan Daknî ógíne tutup. Ğolda, Elinay Biyke Yasugaynîñ başîn uşundan ketmedí. Kasta, ğolda kózín aşkanda, oga şay dep ayttî: - Eger, kîsmetím bolîp, ólmiy, bír kaş sene taa yaşagan bolsam, Tañrînîñ yardîmî man, ballarîmnî óstíríp íşímníñ soñîna şîgar edím. Olarga terbiye beríp şîkmaga wakîtîm, ómírím bolmadî. Men, bírkaş sene taa, saw bolgan bolsam, ballarnîñ ğúgún ne saga, ne de rast kelgen koñşîma ğúklemez edím. Bolarnî túşúnsem, delíreğek hálge kelemen.

- Şay-típ konîşma! Şîkmagan ğanda umut bar, Yasugay. - dedí Elinay Biyke.

- Seneler men şalîşkanîm keteğek.

Eger men ólsem, zawallî ballarîm

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scythia minor (little crimea)

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hakkîykatîn arkasîz kalağak. Taldalan, Elinay, men ólgen soñ. Taldalanmasañ, kópke barmay, koğasîz-atasîz ğok bolîp ketersíñíz, túsúñúz bírem kalmayğak. Şondan korkîp, ókíníp, óleğekmen...

Aytkanîna dewam etíp bolmadî. Ğatmak kerek boldî. Bírtaa kózín aşkanda: - Bek şegíşemen, Elinay. Kanîm tartîlayatîr, takatîm kesíliyatîr. Belkím bírtaa konîşmaga şárem bolmayğak. Akel, ballarîmnî, sízlerden sawluk ístep kalayîm! dedí.

Toktattîlar, kerwannî, ğolnîñ ortasînda. Babasîn, koğasîn kuşaklap óptíler, sîypaladîlar.

- Men ólgenşík Temúçin kelse, katîmda tursun. Mením ózímden kaberím bolmasa da, men geşkende, o, katîmda bolsîn. Ğolga şîgîñîz, ğolga! Şárem bolsa, hasretlí topragîma barayîm, ánda óliyím. dedí Yasugay Batîr. Ğónedíler. Úş yaşînda Temúge men beş yaşînda Kağigun, nenesín-babasîn katînda kaldîlar. Temúlúnní de kuşaklap tuta edí Elinay. Kókírekte edí, taa, kîzşîk.

Keşe, ballar yuklap kaldî. Telege toktamadan kete. Sabaga dogrî Elinay Biyke de yuklap kaldî, bír parşakay.

Agarayatîrganda Kağigunnuñ: - Babamîz óldí, neniy! Bír tamla kanî kalmadî, neniy! Óksíz kaldîk, neniy! - dep, úrkken, zîrîldagan sesínden, korka túşúp turdî.

Temúçin men Móñlík ğolda edíler, taa. "Temúçin katîmda bolsîn" muratîna, "Temúçin kelsín, aytağagîm bar" muratîna barmay geştí, Yasugay Batîr, dúniyasîndan.

Ayt-almadî, aytağagîn, Temúçinge. Susup kettí.

Kesím 65 Borîşlîsîñ "Sen borîşnîñ başîna şîk! Bízge kalganga kaár etme, bíz yaparmîz!" degen edí Dej Seğan, Temúçinge, Móñlík men barabar şîgîp ketiyatîrganda. Onlar atlarîn sílkíp ketkende, artîndan bír tînîş karap turgan soñ, Dej Seğan Ğotan Anaga aylanîp:

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- Men koñşîga kadar barîp ondan bír elşí ístiyğekmen. Dórt tane, kapîday, ğetken ulî bar. Bírewsún ayîrîp, mení kaytarmaz. dep atîn şabîp awuldan şîktî. Şerík sáát şabîp koñşîsîn awuluna barîp toktadî: - Kayîrlî kúnler, koñşî! Ğalbarsam, dórt uluñdan bírsín, bír elşílík úşún ayîrîp, maga bagîşlar ekensíñ mí? - dep.

Bagîşlamaytan mî, koñşî?

Balabanîmnî al, kerek yeríñe ğíber. - dedí koñşîsî. Ğol úşún ayîrîlgan ğaş, ázírlep yegerlep atka sekírewuydî. Dej Seğan oga úş kere artlî-artîndan añlatîp, bírtaalap, ğónelíşín, barağak yerín, aytağagîn, úyretíp berdí.

Burkan Kaldunnuñ ğónelíşín tutup, elşí, ğel gibí esíp, ğolga túştí. Atlarnî awuştura-awuştura, keşe yegerde yukumsurap Burkan Kaldunga barîp, Burgî Kókíregíne míndí. O yerde, úy soraştîrdî. Úyní úyreníp, awuluna barîp toktadî. O yerde, şonlarnî ayttî: - Ímlí şalkalî, Úriyañgay balasî, polatşî Zarğiyuday Eslígen, Batîrîñdan buyuruk: Ulun alîp, awga ketse Sen Batîrga ğoldaş bolîrsîñ.

Karakulak Teregíne Atnî patlatmaga borîşlîsîñ.

- Atîm ázír, şabîp bardîm. Sawluk man bar, elşí! - dep karşîladî polatşî.

Aytağaklarîn aytîp, elşí, o yerden şaltşalt ayîrîlmaga karar berdí.

Atlarîn aylandîrîp, tebíp, ğúrek ğeñgílígín karap, ğok bolîp kettí.

Zarğiyuday Eslígen atîna míníp şaptî.

Artîna karamadî, Karakulak Teregíne dogrî ğol tutup şapkanda.

Koğasî ókten kayîp bolganî man, apakayî ózín ğerge brakîp, şabalanaşabalana, ğîlamaga başladî. Úş balasî da, Ğelme, Ğawurkan, Subutay, bír ğagada íñgírdep, kózlerín şíşírte edíler. (dewamî keleğekke)

Nazar Look 9

elena botts

northern virginia

o-mourning-dove.tumblr.com

Elena grew up in Maryland, and currently lives in Northern Virginia.

She's been published in over twenty literary magazines in the past few years.

She is the winner of four poetry contests, including Word Works Young Poets'.

Her poetry has been exhibited at the Greater Reston Art Center.

Check out her poetry book, "a little luminescence" at allbookbooks.com. Her visual art has won her several awards.

Go to omourningdove.tumblr.com to see her latest artwork.

10 Nazar Look

www.nazar-look.com

northern virginia

o-mourning-dove.tumblr.com

tell me that i am living somewhere else and that it is better there this is a poem about how the river became horses tossing their dumb manes, the white rising into the sky before your brown eyes, exposing momentarily sacrosanct, ardent universes inside and still even the consequence of your bones wrending into a deciduousness of this so carefully sunlit: keep on breathing, keep on all through the o'clocks of the dreaming earth, your little feet make continual impact on the soil, their shockless pretense somehow deeply volatile, all that i say, i say again; you are profound in your minutest bends. i took my shoes off and my joints' degeneration was an illustration. i stood up and sat down and saw dragonflies everywhere. here was a space that through the hours was without dust.

#2 you are a loose translation of electric fuzz in the atmosphere of a small town when it should be raining while i am a sound one pitch lower than a helicopter landing in a small town where it should be raining. everything i say is an understatement and my favorite time of day is the sunset word affinity in the ruined city, i can't write words that anyone could hold unless i write them to you but you don't hold them. i am inconsolable always inconsolable,,, today at 3:08 p.m. i count the hours until the little death of evening and think of the trivial devastations of people's lives and wonder if maybe if you were here enough one day, you would not think about what you think about in the car alone but i am the mountains crumbling into an unsentimental horizon, another byproduct of bad vision i am the tripping daylight hoping there is no redemption, the industrial plateau in sunlit ruination, and that no one will say thank you anymore.

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Nazar Look 11

northern virginia

o-mourning-dove.tumblr.com

464577

Manzume: Bír baár akşamî

úynúñ kalay tóbesí píríj pişkotlarîn aşar tîñîşîn almakta i'm one long street with no end to the sunset, baárdír, the 555 akşam telephone wires sparking into the night saklî kúller solîp kalîr yakînda like miniature electric suicides and i have i guess one emotion, it's the colour of your baárdír, akşam raátlenmekte eyes when you're not thinking, ay, bír bostan korkîlîgî – eken mí, eken mí? the one in the mirror sitting on the bathroom 735 bír at kíşnemesí de? – bírşiy eşítmem countertop like a michelangelo şamîrlangan mehtap waiting for the clothes to become warm again,sáde tossing topallagan bír baár akşamî da like thoughts in a sleepless mind as they dry kîzîl tamgan şólde bír tapînagîñ artînda late at night but in the morning, maysîz kalgan arabamîñ tegerşígí de it's the same cirrus 681 tek bílgen şiyím tewúkiy búgúnúm weightlessness in my ankles as they dip kókyúzí men daklar mení mîskîllar, mîskîllar under this construed reality or whatever úynúñ tóbesínden bír tola yerínden oynagan like don't leave the cups on the table or they'll sing little tears of condensation şúndíden soñsîzgaşîk baárdír all over the tablecloth akşam sózsíz aldîna ketíp once you've left, no half-glance bír tamarîñ íşínde óz ğolîn tabar back. 0332

east coast i am raining a clean rain, the eggshell sky balanced so barely on my grassy spine; into the uncertainty that doorsteps your colour green not green eyes. i am sitting on a formed cloud of nothing and imagining the metamorphosis of a face, how the backyards of childhood, yesterdays like little dogs that ran away from home, close into the butterfly glances and simple reenactments of your freckled sideways glances swinging and swinging under the canopy of spring, brewing nostalgia until the trees prematurely bend, as if the blood in our arteries were an afterthought in the so, nearly tragic underlying stillness of us like little animals rolling over in the grass and blinking and blinking brighter-than-real-lifeeyes speaking a dream and the uncannily body warmth spilling into the ever-growing earth and atmosphere. care less every morning, shedding more flower petals, my skin less soluble, i was never really a physical quantity more than sunlight or the aftermath of starling's first flight.

12 Nazar Look

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northern virginia

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commuter trains in the hollow bones of the earth, the man-made catacombs resound with our transparent solids moving between glass and glass, escalators lifting us in a universal faithlessness, the way we forget ourselves in the beat-beat-beat of the lights is insignificant death, the only story told in the grand spaces through which the tremblings of our bird-caged ribs speak in other languages, and the motionlessness of a hundred people is borne relentlessly over the earth.

lone a lonely doe all speckled in stardust dances in hindlegs before the tourists and runs runs runs runs into the gold-spangled river just as the sun dowses its fiery head in the waves rocking sedately their way to the ends of the continent i am searching for someone who traipsed drunkenly through the green wooded peripheries of my daily life and in hindsight, stumbled into puddle upon puddle of mesmerized rainwater where it sits transfixed by earthen contour, rainbowing outward the new universes who spiral as perplexedly as little girls on a playground because everyday you braid your own hair and wash the sea onto your face and cry "help, i'm lost, or at least, looking to be", and so on, and then for hours sit, sputtering minutes through wishing wells so i guess now the moon's eclipsed by your dumb breath and the sleepy folds of your shoulderblades when you turn over and over beneath the dark storm of sky and the stars that seep right back into your eyes, those perniciously flightless dove eyes whose sole keep could not merely be the fatal entrapment of mine.

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Unbounded Void (IX) 10

I don't know where to begin to justify my guilt before you. But primarily to myself and that is the hardest of all things. How did I become so barren of feelings on the eve that was supposed to be one of the happiest days in my life? It is the dream day of every male and female. You may say, if you have read this far of my confession, ‘He has the right to hate her. She was forced on him.’ sovereign From the first night Fatimah and I were alone, I treated her with severe politeness. My mind was made up that as soon as the scandal had died down, I would divorce her and leave either to a faraway village. I even began to hate teaching and decided to go back to Damascus.

No doubt that was how the village worthies had understood my submission to the forced marriage. To protect Fatimah, they laid down that hefty deferred dowry of money and expensive house furnishings to be registered in my wife’s name. Of course, I am a man of my people and had the dreams of their young men.

I imagined my wife to be of a socially suitable family and to possess beauty pleasing to my masculine ego.

Since the first day of my marriage to Fatimah, there was present in my mind a permanent hissing sound, torturing me, ‘Did I lift her to my level or I have fallen into the dirt with her?’

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Like the poor, the beaten and the silenced of all times, on the night of our wedding, Fatimah stood dumb. In my permanent exile here with harsh stars whirling through my eyes, I often wander if she had sensed the thoughts that were flashing in my head. Although, she had no knowledge of the circumstances that brought us together under one roof, she just heeded what the village chief’s wife had told her. Submissive and confused, I cannot imagine she had, even for a second, had the will or energy to quiz her fate.

With tears standing in her eyes, Fatimah once told me, ‘Ali, everyday I wished there would be no morrow.’

After our marriage she kept her solitude though the village women tried to befriend her as she had become the wife of the Damascene teacher who was probably, in cash terms, the richest man in the village. When it was time for the marriage contract to be signed, the man who had put it down on paper asked, ‘Who has the empowerment to sign on behalf of the bride.’

Her cousin shouted, 'I do,’ No man present bothered to query the fact if he had actually discussed with Fatimah the subject of her marriage or had sought her permission to be her signatory. It was the common practice that only the bride’s father or the guardian’s agreement needed to sign the

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wedding dress.

In my opinion then, and my chariot of haughtiness was pulled by galloping Arab stallions of pride and delusion, marrying Fatimah had lowered my standing and the sooner I would divest myself of this burden the better it would be. I felt that my dignity had been debased amongst the fellahin. My mind was made up that I would not bring the news of my forced marriage to my parents. It would be very demeaning to them.

I stood on the doorway surreptitiously peeking glances at my wife. There was that the unbridgeable gulf of purgatory separating my heart and mind. My heart attempted to glow like the fire in the noqra whilst my mind shivered with glacial cold. As it was the way of Arab brides, with her head bowed in submission, Fatimah stood next to the bed which the village chief’s wife had for us. My bride was totally covered and showed no parts of her bony body but her scared blue veined matchsticks fingers.

In the flickering golden light of the oil-lamp, they looked rough and dirty and their nails were black. At that highly charged moment my stomach turned and I felt nauseous.

No women joined Fatimah on her wedding night but for the splendid wife of the village chief. Not even Umm Ahmad whose jealousy was the direct cause of all that had happened, worried herself in the least by the changed fortunes of Fatimah. To tell you the truth, after my wedding she kept aloof and refused working in my house. When Fatimah's health deteriorated, I begged Umm Ahmad to help me look after my sick wife, but she refused and exhibited insolence.

She smacked her jaws loudly in the manner of Arab women and said, ‘By the Names of the Creator, that is all Umm Ahmad needs, to be a servant to Fatimah.’

My wedding procession to my bride consisted only of the notable village chief.

Sensing my apprehension and my hesitant footsteps, he pushed the nuptial room door open. For a long while we remained standing at the doorstep. Fatimah’s emaciated figure stood in the middle of the floor with the red veil that I had bought her the day before, covering her face. She was also wearing the black dress and the wooden clogs with the tassels. Not in a million years could I have imagined at the time of buying them that they would become her

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I could only think, ‘With these blackened nails she scratched the dumps, searching for scraps of food. O Allah what is my sin to deserve such punishment!’

My detestation to the goodheartedness that had brought me to this spiteful village, grew darker.

The village chief finally pushed me through the doorway into the conjugal room, saying, 'Be gentle with her.’

He then closed the door after him and left me alone with my abhorred fate and my meek woman. Like any eligible young man, I had often used to imagine my bride standing veiled before me. With excited eyes and a beating heart I would eagerly lift the cover off her face and see a girl as pretty as the face of the full moon. Instead of a dream bride, there I was standing facing covered Fatimah, the lowliest woman in existence. It must be possible for you to appreciate my mental state, my nausea rose more painful with every passing seconds,

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www.arabworldbooks.com churning my stomach that I had to hold myself from throwing up.

Probably, it would not be an exaggeration if I say I felt like some one who had been chained and blindfolded and brought to the edge his dig up grave, expecting to be pushed into it at any moment.

Although Fatimah was the first woman I found myself alone with and was within my reach, she failed to excite me in the least. Finally, I could not bring myself to touch her and dismissed her in a dry, wronged voice, ‘The limits of Allah are between you and me woman.’

To my horror, Fatimah shook violently under her veil before she irately pulled it of her face, contorted with anger. Her unexpected reaction perplexed me. I will never forget that moment and I remember all our moments together and cherish them all for they are the only nourishment I take in my otherwise starved existence. My cruelty at that specific moment exceeded any crime I would commit against her.

How were the flames lit in her eyes and they were her most beautiful features? Where did that golden glow enter from?

Fatimah did not speak but removed herself to the other side of the room. I knew then that I had wounded her deeply. That was the first time that I had realised that the scorned creature was a sensitive being. Now, as I limp along the empty dust lanes of the village, I curse my arrogance for not thinking of her reaction at that sublime moment and she must have thought, finally the mercy and compassion of Allah had touched her.

Fatimah showed no objection when the village chief’s wife led here to be my bride.

Because of her apparent submission, the village

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chief's wife thought that poverty, ill-treatment and hunger had drained Fatimah of her senses.

But my wife did not loose any of her faculties.

Her mind was sharp and always alert. Although her logic was naive and instinctive due to her impoverished upbringing, nonetheless her common sense was straight and direct. At the instant when the groom was before the bride, her lips must have quivered at the thrill of receiving mine. Her body must have raged with the passion of love. What did the criminal groom do? I rejected her with a blind loathing, blaming her for crimes she was wholly innocent of.

During the following two months, I gradually learned to live with my new situation and at times I even began to smoulder in her lambent eyes. Yes, despite my stern look and frowning, her closeness scorched the male in me and in my thoughts I lusted for her. This old fool disguised his true feelings by maintaining the appearance of the pained, injured victim. My face wore the permanent mask of dominance and aloofness. After finishing her housework, Fatimah sat on the doorstep behind the pupils.

Of course, one by one the children had gradually returned to the school a few days after my false exposure. The majority of the villagers realised that they had hastily assumed my guilt; yet a few to this day, in their diaspora, still harbour some doubts.

In a tumultuous meeting in the mathafa to decide my future in their village, the village chief took a pragmatic stand and told them, ‘If we expel him we are not likely to have another teacher for a long time. Whether he is guilty or not, we must not forget that he did do the honourable thing and veiled the Fatimah’s

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www.arabworldbooks.com honour. I say for the benefits of our children, we keep the teacher.’

After the pupils were dismissed, I normally maintained a glum silence, insisting that she should be beholden to my extreme sacrifice by lowering myself and consenting to marry her. In a time darkened by arrogance and oppression, this idiot forgot that Fatimah suffered a lifetime of hurt. In fact her presence in my house had shielded from hurt, harm and gave warmth and food, the two crucial requirements for survival in this snowbound village. The esteemed teacher believed that for her to be related to him was the biggest insult he could ever endure. If anybody pointed to her and said, ‘There goes Fatimah; she is teacher Ali's wife, you know.’ I wished the earth would open and swallow me.

Once I thought myself to be strong as steel and steadfast as rock. How did I weaken and descend into this uncertain being speaking foul language. What a blind fool Ali was. If only I could relive one of those days again. If I could retrieve just one hour to throw myself at her feet and beg for her forgiveness. Maybe you have begun to perceive that I was trying to show Fatimah the goodness and greatness of the man who lifted her from the dirt and condescended to marry her. I was after her absolute and complete gratitude and respect. She must bow before me in recognition of my generosity and munificence. That was how I felt in those far off days; a perfectionist. If I attempted a deed, I strained every nerve and sinew in my body to achieve it. I never made do with half solutions.

Was I not driven by my idealism to leave the comfort of Damascus to live in this rustic backward village, kneeling in reverence before Zion?

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11

But how does hate die and how is love borne? The olden Arab maxim states that Love is borne from the travail of desire and Hate is the abortion of desire. One gives joy and the other denies it. Love is man’s first emotional of rapture and the first expression of torment. Love is the evolved instinct of survival and propagation.

Which one of us, Fatimah or I, felt love first? Did either of us start it? There can be only one correct answer to all of these questions, I really do not know. One day Love pushed the door of our hearts and entered unannounced. Our love was the fulfilment of our deepest urgent needs to be complete. My love for Fatimah emerged unaided and within seconds annihilated all the obstacles that I had put in its way to extinction. Love broke in my heart and brought me down to earth with thud and then I was still seated atop the throne of selfishness and conceit. Love smashed the gates of my cell and freed me from the enslavement of arrogance and haughtiness.

Fatimah and I lived a silent existence. She remained taciturn and I avoided speaking to her unless I had to. Living with me under the same roof was the only thing I ceded to her from my greatness before her insignificance.

It is the norm in Arab lands that the mother of the bride brings breakfast to the newlyweds the morning after. The under lying reason is for the mother to check on the wellbeing of her daughter, as rape and beating are common on wedding night. It was the village chief’s good wife who played that maternal role.

Carrying a large round brass try on the crown of her head, she knocked our door then shyly pushed it ajar the merest slit. Seeing the couple

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www.arabworldbooks.com sitting at either ends of the room, the village chief’s assumed Fatimah was playing coy and she called out, ‘Good morning to the happy couple. I have brought you a hearty breakfast.’

She called us both to sit down to eat.

Fatimah gave me a piercing look and I held my tongue. How humble of me, I allowed her to share our first meal with me. For my beneficence and condescension my reward should be in the highest place in Paradise in the shade of Allah’s Throne.

As there was nowhere else to escape to in the evenings I went straight home from the mathafa. I found the room warm and my bed was made and Fatimah sitting alone by the noqra fire waiting for me. During all that turbulent period of incommunicado, Fatimah proved to be an excellent housewife. The house was always clean, my clothes washed and without ever grumbling she cooked whatever food I had brought.

O yes! The reverence and veneration with which those pastoral villagers used to meet me with had greatly reduced even vanished in certain people.

Coming home in the evenings from the mathafa, without uttering a word, not even a greeting, I would first remove my tarbush, jacket and tie and hang them on a nail I had dug in the wall. To maintain the trousers crease, I always laid them flat under my mattress. It was a habit which I picked from my older brothers when I was a wild, amorous teenager, roaming the cobbled lanes of old Damascus. Now I wear the black baggy trousers of the fellahin. After I had wore my night-shirt, I removed my trousers, turned my face to the wall and slipped under the quilt.

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Reading this, it will occur to you to say, 'The fact that you are an Arab man, taking your clothes off in the presence of a woman must have meant that you accepted the realities of your marriage.’

The confined small space we lived in forced upon me to undress in her presence.

However, I always made sure to take my clothes off behind her back and to slip on my night shirt before slipping off my legs out of my trousers.

After dimming the oil-lamp, Fatimah went to bed still fully dressed. During the night, if she had one of her coughing fits, I lost my temper and complained for disturbing my sleep. To muffle the sound, she buried her head under the quilt. Our nights were still but for the sounds of wheezing and coughing.

As I have mentioned, since the moment she entered my house I met her with stern but polite silence. I showed no hint of what was flaming in my chest. On the contrary I was always gloomy and taciturn. When occasionally the convictions that had brought here were called into question, I would get extremely irate and my tongue would quickly loosen up. I would curse the stupid naivety that had took out of my familiar world to this alien rustic existence.

Some days I would feel so claustrophobic and saw Fatimah as my prison warden. The feeling that the cell was tightening around me to such an extent that I thought it would crush me and I could not breathe. It was at such a moment of asphyxiation that I would lose my temper and angrily yell at her. The timid creature would retreat to the back of the room fearful that I might hit her which, by the way, I had never done.

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www.arabworldbooks.com To punish her I would explained the greatness of my humanity and that I only married her to save her from the revenge of her uncouth cousin.

I would say and my nose turned up in the air, venting my wrath, 'I am a gallant and dislike wronging anyone. I am a free man and there is nothing that tie me to this backward village.’

I would-be to Heaven that every second of every day I weep rivers of blood for every insulting word I made her hear. How did I allow my hurt pride to tell her, 'O you! Do you understand? It is not possible to take you to Damascus to see my parents. It is very embarrassing. If a friend or a relative visits me, they must not know that you are my wife. Go and stay at your old hut until they leave.’

But that remnant that had once sheltered her and hid her poverty vanished. Just before the summer vacation and my expected return to Damascus, Fatimah's cousin married off one of sons; no doubt he financed the wedding from the extortionate dowry he demanded from me.

The cousin installed his newly wedded son his wife in the old widow’s hut.

To avoid the embarrassment I would feel from the disparaging looks in the eyes of any guests who might visit me, I made it abundantly clear to her, ‘You listen carefully. If I have visitors, I will tell them you are the servant.’

My deeply wounded pride was blinding my heart. My words must have fallen like sharp knives cutting through her think flesh into the bones. I issued the orders and Fatimah obeyed them without ever questioning or answering back. Silence and that flaming look in her eyes ruled our barren lives. You may not believe this,

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there came a time when I thought the fires burning in her eyes were not of her slighted pride, but because she was forced to marry me.

To these heights of ignorance I was carried by my conceit.

Although, the time seemed to drag on, the end of Nisan suddenly was upon us. Most of the boys left school to help their families in the fields. To the few pupils who were still coming to class, I announced the end f the school year and I began preparing myself for going home. In my sick mind, the problem that shared my room and at night laid under the quilt coughing out her lungs, grew bigger. Of course, accompanying Fatimah to Damascus was totally out of the question. Even the thought of it was too ridiculous to be contemplated. Constantly, part of mind was hissing, ‘No, I am not coming back to this primitive place.’

However, the altruist inside me intervened again. Although, I was dead serious about terminating our uneven marriage, that troublesome something residing within my soul, which might be called the conscience of a dogooder, insisted on postponing the decision until the start of the next school year. It seemed that subconsciously I had already made up my mind to come back. You might think that the hefty deferred dowry I had signed to was stopping mew from divorcing Fatimah and never coming back. In truth the dowry was not an issue my calculations.

You will probably find this hard to swallow. After the terrible way I had treated her, before leaving, I deemed it to be my duty to guarantee her a source of income and a safe place to live in now that the son of her cousin had move with his new wife into the old hut. I

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www.arabworldbooks.com was certain if stopped the rent on the house and did not provide her with the provisions before I left, her future would be bleaker than her past.

the gunfire whizzing, my father unexpectedly said, ‘Ali, your mother and I want you get married. Let us find you a suitable bride.’

To my great astonishment one afternoon after I had eaten my lunch and retreated to sit by the noqra, Fatimah suddenly said in a soft voice, ‘Ali, I thank you. You have been very kind and generous to me. You go to your family. With all my heart I pray that Allah, Muhammad, Ali1 and the pure infallible Fatimah2 will guide on your way.’

Straining to keep a straight face, I answered him, ‘God willing, my father.’

As she spoke the flames in her eyes were subdued and replaced by a gleaming smile. She lowered her face but I could see her eyelids were brimming with tears.

So she had been watching me and deciphering my moods and actions. ‘She must be lot more intelligent than I have originally thought.’ flashed in my head.

I closed my eyes and made up my mind not to abscond but to leave things as the were, unresolved. Before departing, I had privately asked the village chief to keep an eye on her during my absence. I went away, I made sure my silos had with floor and grains and just before embarking on my trip, I put six liras in her palm, saying to myself, ‘I will divorce her on my return.’

I was away all the of summer months. In rowdy Damascus I concealed the news of my marriage from everybody. Avoiding the angry daily marches against the French occupation and I indulged myself in simple pursuits. When I was not reading, I socialised with my family and friends, reflecting upon the unsolved challenge I left behind.

One evening, during an interruption of

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It was suddenly Elul3, the most beloved month of the year to the fellahin. It was an ‘inbetween’ Baal-seasons, the annual Sabbath, a time for rejoicing. The threshing floors were winnowed and the silos, secreted within the walls of their homes from the tax collectors, were filled with grains and sealed. To the fellahin, Elul was a measure of the year when they could forget about the land and busy themselves with their own propagation. At the close of day under the pure azure canopy of the sky, studded with twinkling stars, the men and woman crowded the forms of joy to sing and dance to their hearts’ content. The merrymakers revelled and rejoiced, celebrating the weddings and circumcision of their sons. When all was done, exulted in the stillness of a darkness lanced by shooting stars canopied by the Milky Way and millions of other galaxies, the villagers slept soundly.

Having built a wall of secrecy and silence around myself to avoid the seepage of the news of my shameful marriage, during the summer vacation I kept my own counsel. With everybody involved in one way or another in the inflamed revolution, there was little to occupy my mind in Damascus. Apart from reading (mostly novels) and preparing some sort of syllabus for my third year pupils, the holiday

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www.arabworldbooks.com seemed to linger on and I felt boxed in and longed for the village gossips. Almost behind my conscious mind, I often found myself wondering how was Fatimah coping alone: as if she had not spent a whole life of loneliness. On occasions I even felt concerned about her welfare and if I had left enough provisions and cash so she would not be in need during my absence.

The only notable thing that penetrated my walls of silence was the lack of news about the whereabouts of blessed Nader. Everybody I knew was aware that he was arrested in Haifa but no one was acquainted with what might have happened to him during his incarceration.

When I arrived back in the village early in the first Tishrin, I found one and all joyously happy with the fruits of their toil. However, my third return to the village went unnoticed. There was no sign of the usual welcoming committee that used to meet me in the past. In fact, apart from my pupils, who excitably congregated around my jennet, nobody bothered to cheer me.

My relation with Fatimah resumed its previous course. A taciturn existence seemingly barren of life and love. Nevertheless, there was an obvious shift of our attitudes towards each other. Fatimah seemed much more relaxed and she confidently moved about the house, cooking, baking, seeing to her house chores, washing and mending my clothes. Although my anger towards her had mostly dissipated, I still could not reconcile myself to the way she was forced upon me. The thought of divorce was, on the face of it, still on my mind but it occurred to me less. Had I allowed myself to look or examine our situation, I would have seen all the signs of a comfortable married life going on.

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When the school opened its doors the number of boys increased further. Now, there were grades one, two and three. The rise in the intake kept me diligent, settling the second and third year pupils into work whilst I busied myself with the new first year boys. In the mornings I was mostly pensive, giving lessons or thinking of what to teach. During the afternoons, after the school had finished, I kept myself busy marking exercise books, preparing homework of about the lessons we just had. As usual, the evenings I spent with village men in the mathafa, acquainting myself with what had happened whilst I was away, in Damascus. The idea of divorce went to the back of my mind.

As you can see, without the presence of Fatimah the school would have been very difficult to run. She industriously saw to her housework, freeing me to concentrate on my schoolwork. Some sort of regularity had overtaken our life together. Apart from the company of the good wife of the village chief, Fatimah kept aloof from the rest of the village women, even though some of them had tried to befriend her. After she had finished her morning chores, my wife seated herself at the doorstep behind the boys. Time and again I noticed her inaudibly voicing the words the boys were chanting.

Upon this amiable but taciturn lifestyle winter arrived early to the Golan Heights that year. The first Kanon4 made a dramatic entrance with thunder, lighting and heavy rain. Laden with mud-covered ploughs, the horse-pulled carts moved slowly back on the muddy tracks to the village. The first day of the second Kanon5 was exuberantly met with the beacons of the Ghozalih6. The high blazes marked out the villages on the Golan Heights and on the flat

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www.arabworldbooks.com plateaux below. It was traditional in the countryside to celebrate the winter solstice with drums and cymbals and huge bonfires that were lighted at the highest point in the hamlets. By the middle of the second Kanon the temperature had dropped below zero and frost bit the ground sharply.

By Christmas thick white sheets of snow swathed all the peaks of the Lebanon mountain ranges. As if by magic, slopes and vales turned into hotbeds of innocence and effaced the sins of its people. How weak man is before the renewed majesty of Nature. After It grew old and the autumnal khamsin7 winds weathered the summer meadows, the hungry Wheel of Time turned in its orbit and winter again settled on the Golan Heights. The winds expanded the day over the night. Nature was again a newborn, promising a beautiful season and a verdant Nisan, coloured red by the wounds of No’mon8.

When I woke up to that direful morn, I found the room was cold and swathed in dimness. Curiously, I peeked around me in the obscurity, wondering what was the time and if Fatimah was unusually still asleep. Over the previous month of silent existence, a routine had been established to our mornings which we both adhered to it very closely. Since Fatimah had shared my room and straw-mat, I woke up to find the room had been lit and the fire in the noqra was stoked up. Thinking she must have overslept and probably it was still early, from under my bellow, I pulled out my watch and checked the time. It was nearly seven. I immediately jumped out of my bed and lighted the oil lamp, whining to myself, ‘It is nearly seven. O Allah! I am late.’

When the light from the oil lamp

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instantaneously swallowed the gloom, I was astonished to see that Fatimah was already awaken. I cussed and coursed her laziness for a few seconds. Though she must have heard me move about, she did not stir and remained staring out of the window at the snowfall in the yard, giving little importance to what was I doing. Thinking, ‘There is not time to quiz her, now. The boys will start arriving at seven thirty.’

I kept my mouth shut and promptly started the morning routine by myself. Wearing nothing but my nightshirt, I suddenly felt cold and began to shiver and straightaway went to the noqra and added more charcoal and woods to the embers. Whilst I was waiting for the fire to take hold, I found myself intently staring at Fatimah with odium. At that moment enwrapped by ignorance, an evil thought flashed in my mind and I envisioned my wife to be my jailer, holding the key to my freedom. A dreadful brain wave of woe crossed my mind and screamed in my skull, ‘If only she dies!’

Whilst the water kettle was warming up on the range, I dressed, and put on my heavy black overcoat and wrapped my head with a kofeah to keep warm. When I stepped out to cold wind blew on my face and almost turned and went in side and walked to the toilet, carrying the kettle with hot water. I hurriedly did the ablution in the relative warmth of the blackened bakery hut. Since the shepherd’s daughter did not usually come when the snow was falling, I put hay for the goats and donkey and covered their pen with a large canvas and stabled it to the ground. Even after I had done the morning prayer, Fatimah did not move from the window nor did she prepare my breakfast as she regularly did. I glared at her and angrily mumbled under my breath, ‘Ignore her, Ali.

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www.arabworldbooks.com Allah only knows what is going on in her small mind.’

The fire took hold and soon the room warmed up. All the time worried that the remaining half hour was waning, I tidied the place and folded the mattresses, hers and mine, and stowed them away. I made myself a simple breakfast of olive and goat cheese and sat down alone by the noqra to eat it. After I had cleared the breakfast, I readied the room with books and slate slab to receive the boys then I returned to my seat by the fire.

All the while Fatimah remained in the same position. A strange feeling gripped me for a second. Suddenly I saw her as the martyr Nader and I had once watched her through the window, dejected and hungry, suckling the goats’ udders in their pen. For a few seconds, a sympathetic emotion willed up in my bosom and I looked at Fatimah with compassion. A soft voice mumbled inside my head, ‘This morning, her faced seems paler than I remember it.’

She suddenly turned and faced me.

Whether, it was embarrassment or to avoid the flames in her eyes, I lowered my gaze. When I looked up again, our eyes met for a long moment. I noticed that the fire in her eyes had been extinguished and the dark shadow of an imploring smile on her cold, blue lips lingered; but she did not speak.

How astonishing the human heart is.

Even when it was feeling compassionate, my seat of thought remained closed up against her pain and sorrow and only a few seconds before I had prostrated in front of my God to pay the fees of Paradise. The goodness, benevolence and prayers of all creation since the beginning of Time to the death of the last being, will not wipe

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the sin I committed that most evil morn. I refused to hear her silent question. It was obvious that she was not well, but I remained resolutely silent. What inanity made me sit down to my food and not ask her to join me.

When the first boy arrived and knocked on the door, I opened and let him in. The snow was still falling and it was very cold to make him stand in the courtyard. On his appearance, Fatimah got up. She enwrapped herself in a blanket and left. Through the window, I saw her enter the bakery hut. The four hours teaching filled my morning and I only reflected upon my wife’s situation once or twice. When the school broke for the lunch, I told those pupils who had braved the weather and come to school to have the afternoon off. (to be continued)

______________________ 1. Ali is first cousin of prophet Muhammad and the forth guided Caliph. Ali is greatly venerated by the Shiites, some even deify him.

2. Fatimah is one of the four daughters of prophet Muhammad and the wife of Ali. The icons of Fatimah replaced those of the virgin Mary (Maryam) in the affection and veneration of Muslims, in particular Shiites. Fatimah is also called Al Zahra (Venus).

3. The sixth month in the ancient Semites calendar.

Equivalent September 4. The nine month of the ancient Semites calendar.

Equivalent to December.

5. The tenth month of the year. Equivalent to January.

6. Ghozalih is the celebration of winter solstice which is the first day of the second Kanon.

7. A south easterly hot dust laden wind.

8. No’mon (sounds similar to Sim’on (Simon)) is equivalent in meaning to Adonis in the Western sense. Gorged by a boar, the blood from the wounds of No’man (Adoni Tammuz) annually turns the fields red with poppies, anemones and wildflowers.

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texas, usa

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Bread of Affliction/Bread of Love

Şegíşúw ótmegí - Súygí ótmegí

When she met him in her twenties her shoulders were laden with the weight of affliction.

Yígírím yaşlarînda onî tanîganda kîzîñ omîzî şegíşúw awurlîgî man ğúklí edí.

Death had come early with dispassionate intensity.

Fleeing her homeland at four, she witnessed the ravages of war, towns and villages reduced to rubble, mortally wounded soldiers along the roadside.

When she lost her father, suitors comforting her mother came in and out of their lives as through revolving doors.

Then an interminable hospital stay where countless displaced children succumbed to deadly fevers.

Koyî suwukkanlî ólím erte kelgen edí.

O, ğîgîp-ğakkan marebení, mîragan kóyní-kasabanî, ğaralanîp ğol boyîna tízílgen ólí askerlerní dórt yaşînda kóríp memleketínden kaşkan edí.

Babasîn kaybetkende hayatlarînda artlî-artîndan aylangan kapîlardan kuwalaşkanday anasîn ğúregín alağak bolgan kíşíler kíríp şîkmaga başladî.

Soñra kastakanada soñsîz bír kaluw ğeñúwğí ateşten sayîsîz ólgen ballarîñ arasînda.

She swallowed the bread of affliction.

Kîz şegíşúw ótmegínden aşap karagan edí.

He offered to help shoulder her burden.

“Death is not the last word, Love is.”

She was not so sure.

Ul kîzîñ ğúgín taşîmaga yardîm eteğek boldî.

“Sózníñ soñgîsî Ólím tuwul, Súygídír.”

Kîz boga emin tuwul edí.

When did the dough begin to taste less bitter?

While working side-by-side? Raising children?

Dealing with the ordinary ups-and-downs?

Enjoying each other’s company?

Or when his cool palms cupped her eyes as she waited in the darkness for nightmares to pass?

Over time imperceptibly her shoulders lifted and straightened.

Kamîrîñ aşşîlîgî ne zaman kaşa başlagan eken?

Omîz-omîzga beríp ogîraşîp şalîşkanda mî? Bala óstírgende mí?

Bírí-bírísínden zewuk alîp kuwanganda mî?

Ya da kîz karañgîda korkîlarnîñ geşmesín beklep ekí kózín ulnîñ suwuk kollarî kapatkanda mî?

Tuymay kalîp, zaman man kîzîñ omîzî kóterílíp túzeldí

One glorious morning years later as the candle of old age flickered on their rickety breakfast table, they smiled and talked, content to share the daily bread of love.

Yîllar soñra, şanlî bír saba kartayuw mayşîragîñ şagîmînda erten yemegíñ ğartî konasîna otîrîp súygíníñ tatlî ótmegíñ sepasîn paylaşîp kúlúmsúrep añlatmaga başladîlar.

She felt a lightness of being.

Kîz yaşamdan kiyíp alîp raát boldî.

(Taner Murat’nîñ terğúmesínde)

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Nazar Look 25

texas, usa

www.utecarson.com Manzume: Bír baár akşamî

The Secret that Only Babies Know A duckling forms a permanent bond with the first object it sees— mother duck who clucks to it to follow.

A human mother relishes the sweet nectar of her baby, its breathing comforts her, her hands move tenderly all over its tiny body, her lullabies are a soothing sleeping potion.

úynúñ kalay tóbesí píríj pişkotlarîn aşar baárdír, akşam tîñîşîn almakta saklî kúller solîp kalîr yakînda baárdír, akşam raátlenmekte ay, bír bostan korkîlîgî – eken mí, eken mí? bír at kíşnemesí de? – bírşiy eşítmem sáde şamîrlangan mehtap topallagan bír baár akşamî da Bír órdek balasî kîzîl síptí tamgan şólde bír tapînagîñ artînda kórgen şiyíne baylanîp kalîr – maysîz kalgan arabamîñ tegerşígí de wakîldap şakîrgan tek bílgen şiyím tewúkiy búgúnúm ana órdekke.

Bír insan kókyúzí men anasîñ daklar góñílí mení mîskîllar, mîskîllar bebegíñ tatlî balózín koklap aşîlîr, oynagan úynúñ tóbesínden bír tola yerínden bebegíñ solîşî okşalawdîr, şúndíden soñsîzgaşîk baárdír şefkatlî ana kolî akşam sózsíz aldîna ketíp kíşkenekíy kewdeníñ ústúnde gezíp bír tamarîñ íşínde óz ğolîn tabar ayneniyí bír raát yukî suwîdîr.

Sáde bebekleríñ bílgen sîrî

But a baby knows best the smell of its mother’s skin, her morning smell, her evening smell, her summer smell, her winter smell.

There is no other!

Ama bebegíñ eñ árúw tanîgan şiyí anasîñ ten kokîsîdîr, onîñ saba kokîsî, onîñ akşam kokîsî, onîñ yaz kokîsî, onîñ kîş kokîsî.

Başka kokî yoktîr!

I spool back the years and inhale my mother’s scent whose fragrance remains like a tropical flower’s after nightfall.

My little hands reach up as I bury my nose in her neck and recall its enchanting aroma long after I am back in grown-up time.

Yîllarnî artîna egíríp mústí keşe hawasîn kokîtkan yoda şeşegídiy tartaman íşíme nenemíñ kokîsîn.

Kíşkene kollarîm man moynîndan tutup kómemen íşíne murunumnî akelíp akîlîma bayîltuwğî gúzel rayihesín uzun senelerdír ósíp kemalíme kelgen soñ.

(Taner Murat’nîñ terğúmesínde)

26 Nazar Look

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texas, usa

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My Gift to Life

Hayatka bakşîşîm

The sun gives me energy and moon dreams, but Life gave me my children.

Now that the dolls are donated to Goodwill for other children to cherish, and the embroidered lace pillowcase of the old baby crib stored away for the next generation, I have a gift to give to Life-the countless possibilities my children embody which glow like the colors of the rainbow.

Men kúneşten kuwetímní alîrman, túşúmní aydan, ama hayat maga ballarîmnî berdí Şúndí, koklalarîmîznî aketíp pîkare ballarnîñ kuwanmasî úşún bagîşlap eskí beşíkníñ oyalî yastîgîn keleğek nesíl úşún saklayatîrganda, mením de Hayatka bagîşlayğak bír bakşîşîm bar kókkuşagî renklerídiy ğîltîragan ballarîmnîñ aşkan sayîsîz ğollarîn.

(Taner Murat’nîñ terğúmesínde)

Once More for Real

Hakkîykatîn bírtaa

Now that I have children and grandchildren of my own, the beloved faces of my childhood emerge from the past as if through a clearing in the mist and explode into light.

The fragrance of my mother’s sweet perfume as her lullabies fill my dreams.

My father’s stories resurfacing from the deep recesses of my mind.

Even my childhood dog’s cold nose rubbing against my cheek reawakens vivid joys.

If memory is alive the dead are alive.

If only I could hug them once more for real.

Şúndí ózím balam-torînîm barda, sañke tuman kóterílíp ğarîk patlaganday bola, ótken balalîgîmda súygen yúzlerím ortaga şîkkanday bola.

Beşígímde ayneniyler aytkan nenemíñ tatlî kokîsî túşlerímní totîra.

Akîlîmîñ derenlígínde kalgan babamîñ aytkan masallarî yokarga şîga.

Balalîgîmda betímní súrtúp koklagan itíñ suwuk murunî bírem ğanlî kunaklar uayandîra.

Akîlîñda tírí kalsa, ólíler tírí kalîr.

Keşke olarnî hakkîykatîn bírtaa kuşaklay-alsam.

(Taner Murat’nîñ terğúmesínde)

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Nazar Look 27

massachusetts, usa

A Kommando Loose in Maine (II)

From behind him, as if from nowhere, motion and near-muted sound, a breath beyond a whisper, arrived at the same time. Brecht, in control, turned slowly, afraid to show surprise, afraid to look suspicious, and saw an old man standing practically in his back pocket. He had

butcher’s window.

heard no approach, not a snapped twig, not a rustled leaf. This old man, a native for sure, and

If the old man were to fall down, Brecht would

at least 80 for sure, wearing glasses, rubber

not be surprised, but he was a survivor and a

boots as black as bad mushrooms, carrying a

history of tenacity showed like a written

bamboo fishing rod in one hand and a metal

biography; hard chin and jaw line, three dark

tackle box in the other hand, was staring at him.

marks of age on his forehead bigger than usual

Brown-rimmed spectacles were lopsided on his

freckles, the nose a relic from more than one

head, sitting over one ear as if pinched in a way,

argument, an old daring hanging about in his

set awry by a frown. A wide, punished nose,

face, a daring not all used up by any means, and

extra

curiosity by the pound.

broad

at

the

bridge,

logged

with

experience at some kind of physical action, crinkled in curiosity. His eyes were almost

“You lost, son?” The old man’s voice was soft

hidden

black,

and sure, as though he held the answer to his

untrimmed, as dark as they must have been half

own question. He could have been a teacher at

a century earlier. A wicker creel rode on one hip,

the head of a classroom, knowing everything

part of his uniform. A red and black checkered

behind the lesson. “You knowed someone

lumberjack shirt, buttoned closely at each wrist

hereabouts? You knowed Liza?” He marked the

and at his throat, marked neatness and long

clothes that Brecht wore, the boots, the belt

habit. A large Adam’s apple sat atop the neckline

buckle, then rested on Brecht’s eyes. “You got

button as prominent as a pork loin hanging in a

yourself a name, being for a stranger?”

in

28 Nazar Look

wild

eyebrows,

thick,

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massachusetts, usa bamboo fly rod was likely as near old as its “Rawlins they call me, whenever it’s not late for

carrier. Other attributes, maintenance, neatness,

supper, and then it makes no difference what

proper care of property of any value, came in

I’m called.” A smile came with his humor, easy

short order, even as Brecht felt the deep

as aces as part of his new face. “Yes, I know

penetration of doubt and curiosity settle into his

someone here.” He felt he had become a Maine

body.

person, and the language and inflections of

Carlton Ebbers stood Brecht right up, stiff as a

service personnel back at the camp hung out in

ramrod, when he yelled, “Liza, Carlton Ebbers

whispers for him to cling to. “Never too late for

sittin’ out here with this here gent says he knows

feedin’, you might say if you was asked.” A

of you.” In the bright morning air, his voice

minor snort of disdain was added, like needed

carried clearly to the house.

punctuation.

Her head came fully out the window. “Who is it, The man repeated his question, with a hint of

Carlton? What’s his name?”

surprise caught up in his words. “You knowed Liza?” The old man looked back at the house

“Says his name is Rawlins.”

and the window with a light in it, a window on the second floor, obviously a bedroom window.

Brecht jumped in, yelling “Jaeger” as clearly as

A shadow

he could. He looked at the old man and said,

moved

through

glowing

light

morning was catching up with.

“Jaeger Rawlins,” as if explaining himself.

There was an art form to the old man’s

Liza’s voice rang out. “Jaeger! Jaeger! I’ll be right

questioning, as with a teacher at the chalkboard

out. Give me a minute. It’s okay, Carlton. I know

where a poser was marked and the solution

him! I know him!”

salted away for this extreme moment where doubt, question and curiosity were playing

Liza, in a housecoat, bolted from the back door

games with one another.

seconds later, and his name came rushing from her mouth, her lungs, her whole body mass

Brecht, aware he was the subject of deep

carried in her cries. “Jaeger! Jaeger!” Those cries

appraisal, conjured up an instant liking for the

even shook up old Carlton Ebbers. Across the

old man, protective of a younger neighbor,

yard she rushed, birds by the dozens flitting and

unafraid of a younger stranger. He also assumed

leaping about from the birdhouses, all in her

the old man was a damn good fisherman. The

wake. One hand held the blue robe at her waist.

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Nazar Look 29

massachusetts, usa When she stumbled and loosed that hand, both

thought caution must be simmered, tempered.

men could see she wore nothing underneath the

“It’s so good to see you again, Liza. You’re still

robe. Carlton Ebbers smiled at old mystery and

beautiful, like a flower that’s still blooming. May

Jaeger Brecht went all the way back to 1932.

I come in? I need food, I’m famished.” Release and rush hit him at the same time. “I’ll tell you

Liza was swept up in Jaeger Brecht’s arms, and

everything, Liza, but I must rest too. I have been

her arms wrapped around her old lover.

running away for a long time now. I want my

Carlton Ebbers dropped his eyes and then

running away to be over and done with.” Once

looked off at a piece of the sunrise sitting in the

again he was on-stage. It sounded exactly like

break of balsam firs crowding a small rise. The

the excuse she had wanted, the one that would

bamboo fly rod came elevated, then pointed tip

carry her through dreams, promises, and all

first down a path, and he moved off, saying, “I’ll

accountabilities from the past.

leave you folks to rememberin’, while I go to fishin’.” He was out of sight in a whisper of

But right then, twisted in the middle of doubt

seconds. Not a note of his departure was heard,

and discovery, Jaeger Brecht didn’t know who

as muffled as his approach had been.

he was, didn’t know who he wanted to be, or was trying to be. She was lovely yet, the

They were alone for the first time in twelve

remarkable face hardly aged a moment from

years.

what it had been. And she was directly from morning freshness, a liberating and innocent

Liza strained against Jaeger Brecht, bending

freshness. She smelled so good and clean, so

against him her whole length, her breath

unlike his own person, so unlike all those

searching

confined in the prison camp. This was a dreamt

for

proper

space,

movement,

expression. She inhaled him. Old scents rushed

freedom

circulating

all

around

him,

this

back, imagination running well ahead of them,

freshness, this newness. He had no idea how

catching up many of her parts, old touches

long it would last.

breathing new life on their own. Came in a maddening rush the magic he once controlled in

“Jaeger, where have you been? What happened

his hands. “Jaeger. Jaeger, how did you get

to you? You know I’ve been crazy for you ever

here?”

since I met you. And all this time, it’s been agony, years of agony. What has the war done to

“Is anybody in the house?” he said. When he

you? I prayed for you every day. Every day of

was suddenly hit with her perception of him, he

my life since then.” Her arms had only felt this

30 Nazar Look

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massachusetts, usa comfort in that long ago. “Oh, this stupid war.”

Total moments from the island had come back to

Liza said, “Oh, Carlton’s just going fishing on

her, though she knew they had never been far

the stream, looking for brookies, looking for

away. Want, at last, was flooding her, all that

breakfast. He’ll be gone a few hours, and he

pent up want she had controlled for a dozen

usually minds his own business. He was worried

years.

about me seeing a stranger here, that’s why he yelled out to me. He’s a dear neighbor who lives

His beard was rough on her face, the harsh

about a mile away. He’s always looked out for

reality of return softening its impact. The one fist

me ever since.” She did not finish that thought.

of two hands was solid on her back, like determination, like an anvil, hard like a new

She came alert about her robe and closed it,

promise being made. He was older, of course,

other instincts crowding her mind and body. She

she thought, but more handsome. A man now, a

took his hand. “Come in,” she said, “please come

full

tired

in. Let me cook for you. You can shower and

looking, who had come back after all the

shave, get a change of clothes. Tell me

loneliness. She breathed him in again, a long and

everything later, the war and all. I hate it. I have

deep breath that plummeted down through her

hated it since the day it started.” Her hands

body, finding all the old places, the hidden

pulled at him. “Nobody else is home. My

places. A strong scent of her own forestland also

parents died within months of each other from

rode on his person; there came the balsam and

the same accident. Five years ago. My aunt and

pine and deep wood solace that rode in such

uncle live here with me, in my house, but

aromas, herself a woods person, who would

they’ve gone to visit a son in Vermont and a

have loved at another time to have gone off with

grandson who is going off to the army next

Carlton Ebbers looking for breakfast brookies.

month. He’s just turned 18. He’s a boy, a mere

grown

handsome

man,

though

boy.”

Brecht, as though reading her mind, looked back to where Carlton Ebbers had disappeared into

He showered, shaved, dressed in comfortable

the woodlands, all the alarm systems within him

clothes she had found in a quick search. Sunlight

clicking back on. But not a leaf moved, not a

poured into the room through two windows

pine needle, not a discarded shadow to show

facing east, the rays falling across a table with a

that an old man with spectacles alop, and a

red and white checkered tablecloth, and spilling

bamboo fly pole pointing his way through

onto the floor. She had kicked her slippers loose

underbrush, had left the scene.

and they sat in the sunlight, being measured,

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Nazar Look 31

massachusetts, usa optioned. He thought about her legs and what

Brecht’s hands, the smell of him, the corners of

he remembered of their shapely presence. Now

his mouth the way he said some words, as if he

they lined up faintly behind the fabric of her

was trying to relax back into something old,

robe. She cooked at a huge black stove that filled

something believable, a lifetime recaptured.

a corner of the room, her feet bare, telegraphic.

A vase of flowers stood in the middle of the

“That has bothered me lately, and a great deal. I

table. Other vases and potted plants crowded

don’t know who has betrayed me, my officers,

the two windowsills. Their aromas fought their

my leaders in the army, or Hitler himself. All

way through bacon odor. When he sat to eat he

these days in the forest by myself, running,

kept looking at her still in her robe, the bacon

hiding from fishermen, stealing property, it has

rolled into itself, the eggs like sunrise on the

preyed on me. Now I find you again. When they

plate, coffee kicking him in the gut. But her

brought me to the camp at Houlton, the day I

freshness kept coming back to him. As she

arrived, I’ve thought of nothing but you since

stepped near him, he put his arms around her,

then. Thought of nothing but getting here. To

felt her quickness, felt her shaking as if she had

see you. To be free.”

never stopped shaking from the island. He did not eat. They went off to her bed. They loved the

“Oh, Jaeger, you can stay here with me until the

morning away. He told her everything. “I’ve

war is over. You can be my cousin Rolf from

been a soldier. If I’ve been nothing else in all this

Sweden, a true neutral. We can say you lost your

time, I was a soldier. I had a duty. I did my duty.

papers, or something. We can fool all of them.

I was good at it. I was very good at it until I was

My aunt and uncle know all about you. I told

taken prisoner.”

them almost everything. They know how much I’ve missed you. You can learn how to farm,

Liza, reveling in Brecht’s arms, still inhaling the

tend chickens and pigs, be free, go fishing with

now and the past in splendid return, said, “Do

me.” She laughed, the joy flooding hers senses.

you know German army officers tried to kill

“We can go fishing for breakfast brookies, do

Hitler, tried to bomb him?” She added, “With

them up in corn meal, drop an egg in place,

complete justification,” as if she was accenting

pumpernickel toast, smell morning coffee in the

both their stands on the issue. “Do you know

woods like we’re being mesmerized.” Her smile

what an evil he has become?” There was no

flashed her exposed soul. She had almost said,

way around it, the war had to be mentioned

“Like we’re married.”

repeatedly, with Hitler right in the mix of it, even as she enjoyed the slightest touch of

32 Nazar Look

All her lost years ran into each other, at the exact

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massachusetts, usa same time as Carlton Ebbers was talking to the

The whole deck of cards was snug up Carlton

sheriff in Oxbow. His face was red, he was out of

Ebbers’ sleeve. “Well, Harold, I’ll just have to tell

breath and his fishing gear dropped someplace

you what kicked it all the way in for me. Comin’

back in the Oxbow forest, thrown aside as he

here I went to my Walter’s fishin’ cabin on the

marched his way to the center of town.

Nighthawk, near The Toe Line Lodge, and those there duds that Liza’s friend is wearin’ belong to

“You better shake a leg on this, Harold. Don’t go

my son. I gave them to him for extra fishin’

dallyin’ on me. I tell you now, will tell them in

clothes for his cabin, dryin’ out stuff. My old

court if that’s what you’re worried about, that

police pants, my old shirt, even my old boots. I’d

this man is probably the escaped German POW

know them anyplace, with the patch Elbert

from Houlton we been hearin’ about on the

Derrin stitched in where the ‘coons wanted to

radio. He has this here hair cut too short for the

eat the fatty sweat outta one a them one night.

likes of Oxbow. There’s a line right across the

Them boots’re not where they’re supposed to be.

tops of his ears, like a Marine haircut, like a

He’s not about to march them right on past me,

German Army haircut. Liza probably knows

girl or no girl. No sir, not at all, not with my

him from someplace, like from a visit back there

grandson Alfred over there right on the edge of

years ago. Her father used to talk about it at the

Germany this here damned minute.”

inn. She has a heart for him, that I’m damn sure of. Near collapsed in his arms. Don’t near do that with strangers, not none of our girls.”

“What the hell do you know about a German

The sheriff of Oxbow nodded his agreement to the old man. ***

army haircut, Carlton, and young love for that matter? You were even too old back there all the way to 1917. Too old now. My god, man, we got to have more than a guess on this. The Flatlanders would laugh us silly if we get smoke out of no fire on such stuff. Besides all the to-do we’d shake out of the trees, I hear we’ll have more than a million people in the state tonight watchin’ the solar eclipse old Mother Nature has planned for us. Be awful crowded for laughs.”

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Nazar Look 33

virginia, usa

Proem: Hootchie Kootchie A small carnival, on the edge of town just outside the limits.

The first time I was ever in the tent, I was sixteen. The show was already underway– a bare-breasted blonde woman was dancing at the front of a little stage up off the grassy ground.

She was not young, but attractive, with big boobs and stripping down to the buff. (You had to pay extra, another fifty cents, to see her buff: did I mention, I was sixteen?)

She was not a natural blonde and I loved her pudenda, the roundness of her thighs, the curly fringe of hair at her belly. When she turned round and shook her naked fanny at us, I knew what I wanted for Christmas. Then a sailor elbowed his way down front– bell-bottoms, sailor cap and all– he looked up at her and began to make noises, lewd remarks. She told him to shut up– he reached for the woman and she smacked his hand away– finally, his hand managed to grab her thigh just above the knee.

She stopped wiggling and jumped out of her high-heel shoes with a quick bounce– reaching down and grabbing a shoe, she left the stage and went after the sailor waving her footwear– a naked woman chasing a sailor around inside the tent– her tits bouncing mightily to cheers of the male crowd.

At first the sailor thought it was funny– he chuckled and laughed– until she cornered him and made a noise and a man came in under the back wall of the tent– a very large man with a livid red scar down one side of his face and a big moustache– he was carrying a Louisville Slugger on his shoulder.

The sailor squawked once, ducked under her arm, and departed the tent-flap. I caught a quick glimpse of him hurrying up the midway.

The blonde declared the dance over and the man with the baseball bat watched us all file out.

Never mind, I’d seen her buff.

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virginia, usa

Flaneur’s Creamation Put a hat on my head—soft gray felt— A red silk tie—my black shoes polished and shined— Let the flame lick at the hatbrim, consume the crown, Let the fire loosen my tie, wear out my shoes— Thus I stroll by shop windows where angels peer out.

On Paradise Boulevard they’ll stop to look— Someone will turn and whisper, “He writes very brief—very literate—little poems!”

Kalpazanîñ kúlún şîgarmasî Başîmda malakay, kúlrengí ğîmşak kíyízden, Kírmîzî yúpekten kîravat, ğîltîr-ğîltîr boyalangan kara ayakkabîm, Álew ğalaganday malakay kenarîn, tajîn túketkendiy, Ateş şeşkendiy moyînbagîmnî, ayakkabîmnî parlaganday, Melekler piyda bolgan túkáan ğamlîgîna şonday etíp bararman.

Toktap kararlar Ğennet Ğaddesínde.

“Kayet edebiy, kîska-kîska şiirler yazar!” dep aytar bírísí başîn kaytarîp.

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Nazar Look 35

virginia, usa

A Wish for Karma in Virginia Four paws then—a long tail— If reincarnation be a fact— eyes that expand and shine in the dark , knowledge beyond your ken— don’t look for me in any human endeavor!

I’ll be a biggish tomcat sunning in a window — the brightest summer morning in Williamsburg— watching you—a whiskered smile as you pass!

Virğiniye’dekí karma úşún bír tílek O zamanlar dórt penşelí, uzun kuyruklî eger bírtaa ğanlanma úşun bolsa karañgîda keñiyíp ğîltîragan kózlí, adañkaalgî bílímlí – insanîñ her şabasînda mení karama!

Penğírede kúneşlengen koğaman erkekmîşîk bolîrman, Wiliyamsburk’nîñ eñ aydîn ğaz sabasînda sení kózetíp, mîyîklî bír kúlúmsúrew geşíp ketkeníñde.

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virginia, usa

To the Sweetheart of Jockey’s Ridge For Joyce (Nag’s Head, N.C., Summer, ‘63)

Young then, in love, we went to climb the Ridge after dark – and how we struggled getting up those dunes!

Atop were stars, one thin crescent of moon– vows, promises– your face in starshine and shadow.

On the level again, life took us different directions.

Now, here– this evening– thinking of you – a cold wind taps at the pane– I write this knowing I could never make that climb again.

Atlî Tepesíndekí oynaşîma Ğoys úşún (Nag’s Head, N.C., 63-níñ yazî) Ğaş edík o zamanlarda, sewdalî, karargan soñ tîrmanîp Tepege şîktîk, şo kum tepeleríne şîkmaga ka-típ te ogîraştîk! Ústúnde yîldîz bar edí, inğe bír hilal, yemínler-tílleşmeler, kólgelerde, yîldîz ğarîgînda seníñ yúzúñ.

Aşadakî seviyege kaytkanda hayat bízní ayîrî ğónlerge akettí. Şúndí, mínda, bastîrmaga wurgan salkîn ğelíñ takîltîsînda, búgún akşam saga túşúnúp, yokarga bírtaa tîrmanîp şîga-almayğagîmnî bílíp bolarnî yazayatîrman.

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Travels in Circassia, Krim Tartary, &c.

(XXIII) After leaving the friendly roof of my kind countryman, we soon lost sight of the sea, and journeyed onward through a most romantic country. In one place we wandered through a narrow valley, bounded by gently swelling hills, clothed to their summits with luxuriant grass or odoriferous shrubs; then, again, cantered over a level sward, a perfect carpet of green velvet enamelled with a thousand flowers, whose balmy fragrance in some degree rendered endurable the scorching rays of the sun. Numerous little fountains babbled down the slopes, and then meandered through tiny vales, on their way to swell a more considerable stream: nature off'ering to the indolent inhabitants the means of extensive irrigation, of which any people but the benighted Turks would most gladly avail themselves.

In every direction was to be seen the finest land, if properly cultivated sufficient for the support of a dense population; and numerous picturesque sites, on which a hundred towns and villages might be erected. But, alas! what did we find? Solitude and desolation. Every step proclaimed the benumbing rule of the Osmanlis, and the few wretched inhabitants we encountered wore the stamp of poverty, degradation, and the most abject slavery. In short, the whole of the scattered huts we passed in our route from Chanak- Kalesi on the Dardanelles to Troy would, if collected together, scarcely form a moderately sized village, and the fertile soil itself appeared as much accursed, as if the lovely heavens had showered down pestilence.

With the exception of an hour spent with Mr. Landor, we passed the greater part of the day

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on horseback, and either from fatigue or the great heat, my companion was excessively languid, and towards evening displayed every symptom of severe indisposition: writhing with pain and faint with debility, he would gladly have laid down in the fields in preference to continuing his route. Hence, in consequence of the snail-like pace at which we moved forward, we did not arrive at the Scamander till it was quite dark; and, to add to our annoyances, we found the river so swollen by the late rains, that our suridji declared he would not ford it, as he should certainly risk the loss of his horses.

Now, as the glimmering lights of the little town of Bournarbashi were distinctly visible on the opposite side of the river, and evidently at no greater distance than a quarter of a mile, the intelligence, to an exhausted invalid and a hungry man, was certainly any thing but gratifying.

Feeling, however, assured that the object of our knavish guide was to extort money, and being equally confident that I could swim across a much broader river, even if it was too deep to ford, 1 resolved upon making the experiment. I therefore sought a spot marked by the tracks of horses' hoofs, which would indicate that the natives were accustomed to use it; for remember that this country is entirely destitute of any road, save those made by the Romans. I soon met with the desired track, when I dashed into the stream, and found, thanks to the taste of the Turks for short stirrups, that I should reach the opposite shore perfectly dry. My companion mustered courage enough to follow my example; but, alas! by the time we reached Bournarbashi, the stars were twinkling in the heavens, instead of the lights in the windows.

We rode to the house of the agha, to which we had been recommended by the consul, Mr. Landor. However, as these primitive people had resigned themselves to repose soon after sunset, we found the whole of the inmates in the land of dreams. Not contemplating the prospect of

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sleeping on the stones with any degree of satisfaction, we knocked loudly at the door; when we received as a response the chorus of half a dozen dogs in the court-yard, and the united howl of all the curs in the town. Such an uproar could not fail to rouse the inmates from their slumbers; but instead of popping their nightcapped heads out of the windows, as would have been the case in Europe, a party of fair dames made their appearance, parading the house-top enveloped in long flowing garments muffled to the eyes, looking precisely like so many ghosts.

The ladies immediately and peremptorily informed us that we could not be admitted, as the agha was absent. This I knew to be the common pretence made use of to get rid of strangers in Turkey; and as the door had already given way beneath our repeated thundering, we entered, well knowing that the presence of a Giaour would soon conjure up at least the spectre of an agha, however distant he might be in propria persona.

The plan succeeded; for the lord of the mansion and his attendants immediately made their appearance, and a comfortable supper was soon served, consisting of a fowl stewed with gourds, a pilaff, fine olives, dried fruit, and excellent bread, composed of wheat and maize.

My first care was, however, devoted to my travelling-companion, who had thrown himself on the divan absolutely writhing with suffering. Upon requesting to know what I should procure for him, he begged me to infuse a large dose of cayenne pepper in half a pint of strong wine or brandy; when, strange to say, the fiery draught acted like a charm, and restored him immediately, not only to health, but to a comparatively good appetite. This strong stimulant, the baron informed me, had cured him more than once of an intermittent fever, of which disease he felt convinced he had just suffered an incipient attack. When supper was ended, we availed ourselves of the cushions and coverings with which the divan was plentifully

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supplied, and soon forgot all our troubles and inconveniences.

Whether in consequence of the recommendations of our consul, or through gratitude for the douceurs we had presented to the attendants, I cannot pretend to determine; but certain it is, the agha evinced towards us the most marked courtesy, and not only provided an excellent breakfast, but mounted his horse and accompanied us the next morning on our exploring expedition.

This shows that either a decided improvement has taken place in the feeling of this people towards the Giaours, or that gold has a powerful effect in softening bigotry. At all events, it is to be hoped that future travellers, whose curiosity shall lead them to visit these countries, may, through the influence of one or the other, be allowed to pursue their way without molestation, which unfortunately has not hitherto been the case.

Our agha guide pointed out the various eminences and sites which tradition and the writings of the antients have connected with the history of Troy, with which he seemed perfectly familiar, and, for a Turk, well-informed and communicative.

Before I left Troy, I rode to the extensive ruins of the Alexandrian Troy, near Eski Stamboul; visited the islands of Lesbos and Tenedos, — lands celebrated in the annals of love and art, for they were the countries of Sappho and Alcseus; bathed in the crystal stream of the Scamander, where the royal sisters of the heroic Hector washed their garments; and traced the classic Simois to its source in the mountains, from whence I ascended Mount Ida, the abode of the gods. In short, there was not a single locality of interest, associated with the history of Troy, that I did not repeatedly visit.

Unless I were convinced that you are not one of those incredulous matter-of-fact men, who doubt the existence of every thing not susceptible of demonstration, I should spare you the repetition

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of my feelings and impressions when I visited that classic region, and of the delight I experienced in wandering along the banks of the lovely streams that fertilize the Trojan plain. Here that city once stood which has been immortalized, not by the perishable sculptor nor the crumbling column, but by the eternal verses of Homer; and although not one stone of that celebrated city now stands upon another, not one fragment of its palaces remain to tell of its grandeur, not even a trace is left of its existence, save in the writings of the antients; yet do not these contain sufficient evidence to convince the unprejudiced mind, that on the site once occupied by the heroic Troy, the miserable village of Bournarbashi is now built?

For myself, as I most piously believe every sentence of the historical details of the Iliad, it was indeed a pleasure to link every surrounding object with some event in Trojan history, and to recall to my imagination the glorious deeds of the great heroes of antiquity; and though the sapient pedant may pity me for revelling in delusion, yet I may equally compassionate him for being chained too closely to realities.

I went over the ground, with Homer for my guide; and if the Iliad had only been written yesterday, the site, the various mounds, eminences, and rivers, could not have been more accurately described. There is the identical plain between the Hellespont and Mount Ida's encircling chain, at whose base is situated Bournarbashi, exactly nine miles from the shore.

We also find the source of the Scamander close to the town, near the city gate of Troy, called Scean, precisely as the bard described it: besides many other corroborative circumstances, which it would be tedious to enumerate. Again, how admirably adapted was this site for that of a great city,—a fine luxuriant plain, watered by fertilizing rivers communicating with the sea, and no doubt navigable for the small vessels then in use. The

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abundant springs of pure water, which here have their source in an immense rock, would also supply an additional inducement to the wandering tribes of old, with their fiocks and herds, to select this spot on which to pitch their tents.

As a proof that the siege of Troy was not a creation of the bard of antiquity, did not Alexander the Great visit it, and offer up sacrifices to the gods on the tomb of Achilles? At a later period, did not Csesar make a pilgrimage to this spot, hallowed by deeds of heroism? when, it is recorded, considerable remains of the city still existed; and the opinion is very generally entertained, that Alexandria Troas was principally built from the ruin of its namesake.

On an eminence above Bournarbashi stands the tomb of Hector, supposed to be the Pergamus: it is unlike every other of the tumuli found here, which consists of earth only, and may be compared to a pyramid of disjointed stones.

This tomb is well worthy of a visit, were it only for the enjoyment of the superb prospect it commands over the surrounding country. The Scamander and the Simois are seen meandering through the plain beneath, bounded in the far distance by the Thracian mountains in Europe and the promontory of Segeum, now called Cape Janissary. It also includes a slight glimpse of the Hellespont, appearing like an arrowy river, together with the consecrated tumuli on its banks, occupying, according to Homer, precisely the same spot as did the camp of the Greeks during the siege of Troy. In the centre of this interesting picture we see elevated the mound which bears the name of Ilus, and a little to the right the gigantic tomb of Cesutus; while in the back ground, towering above all, rises Mount Ida, with its snow-crowned pinnacle Gargara, from whence the gods themselves regarded with astonishment the heroic deeds of man!

(to be continued)

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