Exile. Ciler ilhan

let him in either. Ten minutes later the gendarme came over. Your son’s heart has failed, must have had a heart condition, he told Dad. It’s a lie. My brother was fit as a fiddle.

      I’m a Bastard!

      I’m a bastard! Literally a bastard! God, did I have to see my picture in the paper to realize this? The picture where I’m gagging that young girl? Newspapers said she was eighteen or twenty but she wasn’t even seventeen! After she saw the photograph in the newspaper my wife rang the station and yelled at me, ‘You’re a bastard!’ She said she was ashamed of me. I’m ashamed of myself too.

      I just didn’t think. My Boss had given us all strict instructions,

      ‘Be on your guard during the Tunceli trip of Our Esteemed Mini­ster, or I’ll have you all!... Grab anyone that speaks, that squeaks, that stirs, that budges, or does anything at all and drag’em away!’ he said. Then, when that girl suddenly cried ‘Our Esteemed Mini­ster!’ while Our Esteemed Minister was speaking – and it was just my bleeding luck, I was right next to her, wasn’t I – and I never thought, just shoved both hands over her mouth. And not just her mouth, either, I saw later in that photograph in the newspapers: I’d smothered her – her nose, her eyes – and she wore glasses too, and I grabbed them off in a rage! My mouth pursed in rage as if I’d kill her. And bugger it if our Inspector hadn’t also heard her shouting ‘Our Esteemed Minister!’ and turned up right beside me ordering ‘run her in straight away!’ Chuffed to bits I was doing a great job, I was in his good books, you know, I dragged her away and stuffed her into the patrol car. Mind you, I was still proud of myself. Who could say she wasn’t a separatist?

      She started crying inside the car. I didn’t give a damn. I was saying to myself, this little bitch will give us a couple of names now, who knows, we might even corner those responsible for yester­day’s attack. How that would please my Boss! I’ll boast about it to my wife.

      We slammed her into a cell at once. Naturally, I joined the interview too; well, we caught her, we’ll make her talk. She’s in custody at the most infamous station, I was saying to myself, she has no choice but to spill the beans. And I’ll become the pride of the station. Boy, was I proud of myself. An hour, two, three – not a word. She was crying buckets. ‘I’m not a separatist or anything, all I wanted was to say to Our Esteemed Minister, “my family is not letting me go to university, please help me.”’ ‘Look here,’ I said firstly, ‘pull the other one, you little bitch, it’s got bells on.’ So Ahmet and me, we tried all the tricks we knew: Anything, you name it but still, nothing.

      Then someone pulled strings and we had to let her go after six hours. Without getting a word out of her. Yet at home I was still telling myself that there was definitely something fishy about this girl.

      Dear God! Never realized how innocent her little face was! I never realized until I saw it in the newspaper.

      You Killed

      You killed my mother. You killed my father: My uncles and my aunts. You killed my grandmother and my grandfather: My cousins, their wives: My father’s sisters, their husbands. You killed me within.

      You killed my beloved, my husband, my love. You killed love.

      You killed the flower within me.

      You dried up the rain. You drained the water. I’m dried up.

      You rooted out the tree of life our orphaned arms had nourished within us.

      You cut the climbers we’d raised under each other’s light, each other’s shadow.

      You destroyed the road along which we could never have walked without being united.

      My days, my nights.

      You imprisoned my breath.

      You sewed my lips together.

      My nails no longer grow.

      You froze the lakes. You froze my blood.

      My joy, my hope.

      You froze me within.

      You sucked out my soul.

      You stole my old age.

      My cheeks.

      My cheeks hurt.

What has my Hrant2 done to you?

      You killed. You killed me too.

2 Hrank Dink, a Turkish-Armenian journalist assassinated on 19 January 2007

      Batman

      ‘Why do so many women commit suicide in Batman?’ they ask.

      There is nothing we can add to life, other than death.

      We are invisible at home and in the street. Like an old piece of rag that cleans the floors, the windows, the doors. We are put to all sorts of work. Life becomes even more unbearable once we start to blossom, once we are fragrant. Bored with our mothers, whose breasts have sagged, whose flesh has lost their firmness from giving birth a dozen times, the gazes of our fathers alight on our newly budding breasts. Suddenly our mothers go blind, our brothers deaf.

      ‘Why do so many women commit suicide in Batman?’ they ask.

      There is nothing you can add to our life, other than death.

      When we grow a little older we are married into other families. But we are found not to be virgins, for we are not. And in the morning of that very same night, we are dumped back in front of our fathers’ doors like milk that has gone sour. What a calamity! The dirty linen could not be kept secret, the true colours are revealed; the world is set ablaze. A scapegoat from among the destitute, the poorest wretch in the village is used to restore the family honour; this dog deflowered my lovely daughter on this and this date, before she could give herself to her husband, he is to be blamed! Yet words don’t suffice to clear the honour of a family. Someone must be hurt, blood must be shed. So that all should believe that the house the girl came from is immaculate.

      The family elders speak: The boy who deflowered our girl on this and this date has a sister – doesn’t matter that she’s eleven or twelve, she’s a woman – we will deflower her.

      One morning, as she’s out fetching water from the well, the wretch’s sister is held down and raped, with the help of the female relatives if necessary (what is there to be surprised at, after a point there’s no telling what’s right and what’s wrong) – so that everything fits into place. So that the father of the deflowered girl can brag: Mehmet, we know your son deflowered my daughter on this and this date, my honour has been avenged, we have deflowered your girl in return. We’re even.

      ‘Why do so many women commit suicide in Batman?’ they ask.

      Instead, you should ask: Is a man’s blood sweeter than that of a woman?

      Then an agreement is made to avoid a vendetta, so that guns are not fired in our peaceful, exemplary villages, so that the dear blood of the men would not spill from their precious veins on to the earth, so that no disgrace is brought upon the clan, with court appearances and newspaper coverage and all, so that they wouldn’t have to deal with the gendarmes or the journalists: the sister of such and such a youth married her rapist who raped her near the fountain, and the maid-no-more is given to the poor wretch who allegedly raped her on this and this date.

      ‘Why do so many women commit suicide in Batman?’ they ask.

      My Daughter

      When I looked for my daughter one morning, I realized she was not around. I thought to myself, where’s she bleeding gone again, at the crack of dawn? She was always out, and never listened to me. I went into her brothers’ room; all three were sound asleep. I woke the eldest up, telling him he was late for work. I was surprised; he’d gone to bed with his clothes on, just like that, just as he’d come home from work. ‘Do you know where your sister is?’ I asked.

      He