ISBN:

@Copyright Akin Tekin 2000 Germany

@ Copyright Akin Tekin 2002 Turkey
@ Copyright Akin Tekin 2003 UK and USA
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Donence Basim Yayin Hizmetleri
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THE OWNERLESS
PLANET 1
A Novel by
Akin Tekin

A BARBARA NOBLE BOOK

DONENCE
 PROLOGUE
Our world is fast descending into chaos. The main
protagonists are human beings who keep on breeding at
an astronomical rate without a thought for the
consequences. It was not for nothing that our great grand-
parents made up the following saying :
“The more people there are, the greater the problems.”
The recent unusual occurrences around the world like
natural catastrophes, terrible floods, dreadful hurricanes,
heart wrenching forest fires, new strains of mental and
physical illnesses, never-ending disputes, endless
discontentment, lowering of moral values, increasing
unemployment, social expansion, increased consumption
of cigarettes and alcohol and drug dependency have all
played their part, until people hardly know what they’re
doing. For example : Satanism, child pornography and
child abuse are the first signs of moral decay. The
newspapers and televisions are full of news like this on a
daily basis. Just as the Turkish saying goes : “For
sensitive people, the buzz of the mosquito sounds like the
“Saz” (a Turkish musical instrument). Insensitive people,
however, cannot even hear a loud drum banging.” That is
to say : ignorant people cannot see things even when they
are staring them in the face. We are ignoring these first
warning signs. Earth shattering catastrophes are already
happening which are leaving people stunned in
amazement. But simply being amazed will not make the
problems go away, they will have to suffer the conse-
quences too.
The unemployed and those people most affected by these
increasing problems, accuse others and the politicians
who are unable to solve the problems of overpopulation .
But aren’t the parents who bring so many new children
into this automated-robotic-world of ours partly to
blame? And aren’t those who ignore the overpopulation
problems of the world and do nothing to help simpler
folk with family planning also partly to blame? Yes, of
course they are to blame. And how! Everyone is partly to
blame for driving the world into chaos. Some will say :
“We are all for modern science,for ecology,for a
balanced earth. Since the industrial revolution, a quarter
of all the forests have been cut down, burnt and
destroyed, a third of the world’s natural resources have
been destroyed” Meantime, all the rest will just say :
“Now where did we put our pants or knickers,darling ?”,
thinking only of their sex lives and not the result –
innocent children. That’s how it is nowadays. Do you
understand? Either let’s revert back to the old days when
lots of children were produced to work in the fields,
leaving Mother Nature to regulate everything, or in these
modern times shouldn’t we at least be wise enough to
realise that having so many machines nowadays actually
takes work away from our children. The good old days
when there were lots of children and no machines are
long gone. If this trend continues, unemployment in the
world will never cease, but actually continue to increase,
no matter what measures the different governments try to
take. Never a day goes by without the discovery of some
newly developed machine or robot or automatic device,
and instead of lamenting the fact, we rejoice over it.
Basically this means that all newly introduced machines
are taking away many job opportunities from our young
people. As a citizen you have the right to ask the
authorities whether, in these automated times, everyone
should be allowed to produce as many children as they
want. We should be making this question our top priority
because too many children who cannot find employment
are making their own jobs, either breaking into your
house, or snatching your wife’s handbag on the street, in
order to support themselves. They will not even leave
you in peace after you are dead – they will be robbing
your grave to get at the gold crowns on your teeth! You
cannot really blame these youths for their actions. The
real guilty parties are those people who bring so many
children into this anarchic world.
Capitalist societies need to maintain large numbers of
unemployed people. Fascists and communists, racists,
dictators and fanatics all need huge armies. For this
reason they are all against family planning.
Nobody seems to be bothered about the future of our
planet or of present day and future generations. Only a
few wise scientists, philosophers and writers concern
themselves with these matters, but their influence is so
weak that if you were to blow on it, it would fly away
like a speck of dust. Nobody takes them seriously.
Don’t forget, man is the only creature on earth in
enormous numbers who inflicts terrible damage on our
paradise planet, ploughing his way through the world like
a blind mole, decimating all the green spaces as he goes
like a locust, leaving them bare and barren, creating
concrete jungles everywhere and depositing great piles of
rubbish. Think about it : animals in their billions have
lived on this planet for millions of years. Although they
were wild and predatory, did you ever see garbage heaps
or mountains of rubbish created by the animals? They
may only have been wild beasts, but even so, they never
destroyed the balance of nature and always left the world
clean and healthy. But what of us humans, who only
emerged during the last period of life on earth? We are
actually wild animals and predators too, but in a different
guise and form. And what do we do? We change the
balance of nature and pollute the earth, the rivers, the
seas, the lakes and even the universe with our rubbish, to
such an extent that we even have difficulty finding a
place to dispose of it.
In the past, Mother Nature maintained a balance to ensure
that the problem of overpopulation didn‘t occur. The
vastly expanding mouse population, which could
possibly have overrun the world, was swallowed up by
snakes, foxes and owls. The burgeoning number of hares
which might have completely decimated all plant life on
our planet with their gnawing, was curtailed by the wild
animals. Another burgeoning species, namely the
humanrace, who had spent thousands of years huddled
together in crowded caves, was also kept down by the
wild animals and diseases. Nowadays only a fraction of
wild animals remain, and many of them have been placed
in captivity in zoos.
In the present day situation, Mother Nature has a very
weak influence over the human race. But thank God
people still have wisdom. But sadly people use this
wisdom foolishly, and have turned our erstwhile paradise
planet into a hell on earth through overcrowding, and
now search vainly for another paradise somewhere else.
It is likely that our planet will be destroyed by the
brainless human race, long before being hit by an asteroid
or before being burnt up, billions of years hence, by our
worn out, red, swollen sun. Time is a good witness, is it
not?
In this series of books I will recount to you the dramatic
life story of a young man called Erol, who was once a
legendary boxer, and who spent his whole life trying to
draw people‘s attention to such ecological warnings. In
addition, I will describe to you my vision of the future,
and how the world will look in years to come. I am sure
that the people of the twentieth century will not easily
understand Erol’s book. That is their misfortune! But the
people living in centuries to come will realise all this, and
will place a few artificial flowers, which they produced
by looking in old books, on their memorials to
commemorate Mother Nature. And the teardrops they
shed for their electronic but decimated, dead planet, will
mist up the inside of the helmets which supply them with
oxygen.
This planet will keep on circling around the sun, which
continues to warm it despite everything. But on this
planet which was once like a rose garden, where birds
used to sing happily and cranes used to roam the skies
joyfully, the children of the future will no longer be able
to run around freely with the wind in their hair like our
children did, because of their oxygen helmets. There will
be a deep sadness everywhere and chaos will reign. In
this case neither the holy staff of Moses nor the
preachings of Jesus Christ, nor the laws of Karl Marx,
nor even the high intelligence of humans with all their
high technology will be in a position to rejuvenate the
dying planet. But none of this concerns us – we won’t be
alive to see it, will we? This is something for the people
of the future to worry about. We people of the present
time from all continents should take it easy. We should
enjoy our day to day living, and bring as many children
as we like into a world which is heading into chaos. Or if
we don’t do it ourselves, why should we care what the
rest of the ignorant population does? Or shall we still
dream of becoming a great nation which rules the world?
Let’s carry on increasing our population at a great pace
so that we can enslave other nations and subjugate
mother Nature still further. We could try to take a more
optimistic point of view. Yes, it is true: the high
technology which used to stop overpopulation in the
industrial countries, will also stop overpopulation in the
other countries where the birth rate is high. However,
since in this changeover period, nature will be so
irrevocably damaged as a result of the misuse of
technology by ignorant people, the passage to chaos will
gain momentum. Take this good example : Gunpowder
and fire brought together. In this example, gunpowder
represents the unthinking people, while cruel technology
is the fire. Chaos will finally ensue with an enormous
bang. In this phase on the ownerless planet, the rule of
the tailless creatures who call themselves humans, who
have chosen for themselves a hedonistic lifestyle and
cruelty, will come to an end. In their place will stand a
crazed, wicked giant: sickly Mother Nature, which is
more powerful than the human race, whose breath will
cause huge hurricanes, and whose spit and sweat will
cause the world to flood. She will be no longer our loving
Mother Nature, but now goes under her new name of
“Chaos”. In this chaos, not only the weak will suffer, but
all living creatures.
This book is the shouting voice of compassion which
feels for the downtrodden, for the ruination of nature and
for all innocent creatures everywhere.
This is the screaming voice of the legendary Erol
Atila, who in 1999 was killed by the blow of a ship‘s
crane during a Green Peace exercise against Japanese
whalers in the Pacific Ocean, and as he had envisioned in
his youth, sank in deep water in the ocean just like the
world-class wrestler Koca Yusuf. Erol Atila is now no
longer like us. He has taken his body which he used to
drag around all over the place ; a body which had a small
pump for a heart and was supported by bones, from off
his shoulders, and thrown this sack of meat, to the
ground. Now no bullet of the wicked can pierce him, no
human laws bind him.
Sometimes he will be a rain cloud which originates
from the ocean, dropping rain on the high mountains of
his birthplace in Anatolia, and afterwards gushes out as
pure water from the mountain springs; sometimes he will
land as a snowflake on the faces of his environmentalist
friends, to show he is missing them. Sometimes he will
be a terrible ocean hurricane, wreaking vengeance on the
cruel human race. Afterwards he will cry over the future
of mankind and the fate of his planet, and his tears will
flood everything. But each time he will return from
whence he came, to the depths of the ocean.
This will continue until the Last Judgement.
We have been running non stop so damned fast
without considering where we are going to finish up. Isn't
it about time we stopped running for once, and actually
asked each other where we are heading? I do it now and
ask you in this book: Where are we heading?

Akin Tekin
 THE BLUE PLANET
In the year 5021, the blue planet was in great trouble
because of the deadly rays of the sun. The streets of a
housing estate which had been built on the northern face
of a mountain to avoid the cosmic rays, were deserted.
The only people out and about were the ghosts! The main
problems of recent years had revolved around the deadly
rays of the sun. The ozone layer, which had been
diminishing in size for thousands of years, had now
completely disappeared, letting all the dangerous rays of
that fierce ball of fire stream through. Every building was
protected against ultra violet rays by special glass and a
system which was linked to the home computer.
After he had parked his specially converted sun-proofed
car, an exhausted Robert Daly RDFQMA02 pressed the
lift button. As a place of sanctuary, the lift did not just
carry Robert Daly’s weight, but also the weight of the
problems of the day which were pressing down on his
shoulders. In a panic he pressed the small button on his
wristwatch which said : “Open door”. As the door swung
quietly open, he was greeted as usual by his name on the
nameplate : “Robert Daly RDFQMA02”.
In this century, it was no longer sufficient for people
just to have first names and surnames as they had in the
past. Now, all inhabitants of the planet had to have an
additional planet code number, which was recorded at the
World Registration Centre. By means of this number, all
inhabitants of the earth could communicate with one
another via the computer. Everybody’s curriculum vitae
were available on screen. Apart from this number, there
was no other distinguishing identification such as
American or Chinese, nor different languages. To find
out about someone else, you did not need to ask where
they came from but simply check their registration
number. The same language was spoken across all the
continents – so-called “Earthspeak”, a foolproof,
perfectly compiled language, which was easy to learn and
taught to all schoolchildren across the globe. But you
could still visit the ancient language departments of a
museum to find out about the old languages.
Today Robert had got hold of a book which had been
written in pre-ancient times, but was now translated into
Earthspeak After he had put the book down on the dining
room table, he glanced up at the life monitor on the wall.
Yes – temperature, moisture content and oxygen levels of
air were all O.K. He took off his outer clothing and
looked at the bath monitor – the red warning light for
radioactivity was glowing. He said under his breath :
“Damned useless officials – they can never get the
normal levels for water right”.
He decided not to take a bath but to put on his house
clothes. Suddenly he caught sight of his wife, Mary
Hofman MHGOTS02 and their son, Tim Hofdaly
THMHRLD01 standing by the front door, and shivered
as if he had seen a pair of ghosts. It was just that the
doors opened so silently and the carpets were so soft, he
hadn’t heard them come in. Besides which, Robert’s
nerves had been on edge over the past few days.
“Is that you, darling? You gave me quite a scare when
I saw you there”.
“But darling, you do it every time”.
“I just wish you would say something when you come
through the door.”
When Tim went into his room, he switched on his
computer and immediately started playing a game
battling against alien monsters. His mother called up to
him:
 “Tim. You should get your homework out of the way
first”.
Tim put his homework cassette into the computer and
reluctantly worked on it until twilight came. Robert who
had just bought a new programme for his computer, and
was feeling tense, leapt up and exclaimed :
“ Oh look - the sun has gone down already. Let’s go
for our evening walk”.
Each of the family members put on their special
exterior clothing and went outside. For it was only safe to
go for a walk once the scorching sun had gone down
behind the mountains. They walked up the mountainside.
The dying trees and plants along the way greeted them
with the same tired looks as yesterday. The trees and
plants were no longer able to supply oxygen for the
human race because they were having a struggle to
survive themselves. Thousands of years of humans
polluting the air combined with the direct rays of the sun
had damaged and weakened them. Their wilting leaves
were full of parasites, pests and fungus, which suited this
new and abnormal environment. These people who had
survived in this new world simply wanted to go for a
walk. But nature gave them no desire for living. Instead it
descended on them like a living nightmare. Everything
was condemned. You could not see a bird in the sky or
hear them chirping. Life was leaving the planet.
Despite having to wear oxygen helmets to protect
them against the polluted and oxygen-starved air, the
family members could still talk to one another, since the
helmets were fitted with walkie talkies. Tim, the ten year
old son asked :
“Dad! Will you read the book which you brought
home yesterday evening?”
 “Yes, son. I need to. Books like this help me to go
back into the past and rekindle my desire for living and
restore my spiritual balance.
“I would like to read the book again, dad, but it’s a
pity mum hasn’t read it.”
Maria replied :
“Look here Tim! I don‘t have time for that sort of
thing. In the evenings I have to have light therapy for the
damage to my skin, or I read special books about skin
ailments. That doesn‘t leave me with any spare time,
does it? But the first chance I get, I would like to read it
to satisfy my own curiosity.”
When they came to a flat pathway, Tim wanted to run
around, but his oxygen helmet made him lose his balance
and he fell over. His parents helped him to get up. He
complained bitterly :
“Dad! I want to be able to run about freely like the
kids in the book in the olden days, and make the autumn
leaves rustle with my feet.”
“You are right, son. But those children who were able
to run about in nature freely in those days begrudged you
the same right.”
“Why is it the children‘s fault?”
“Ha! In his book, Erol points out the dangers of the
previous centuries. But the children back then ignored all
his advice when they grew to become adults. Time
passed, and today we find ourselves in this damned mess.
I hate those selfish people who thought only of
themselves and considered themselves so modern. They
already knew through their high technology and science
that we were heading for disaster, and what the
consequences of this wicked so-called progress would be.
But they simply chose to ignore all the warning signs.
They selfishly and contemptuously used up all nature‘s
gifts and resources, and failed to protect them. In the end,
the only legacy our grandparents left us was a decimated
planet full of giant rubbish tips. I‘ve got nothing against
the people who lived before them, because they were
completely ignorant of the situation. All they knew was
how to fight with each other. In short, my son, your
brainless grandparents left you with a hopeless future.
And although we would like to, we cannot promise you a
good future either. Please forgive me, my son. You don‘t
know how sorry I am!”
“Mum – my helmet is really annoying me. I want to
take it off.”
“For God‘s sake! You know if you do that you will be
ill again in the morning.”
Robert backed her up :
“Be patient Tim. We are going to take you to the Bio
Centre at the weekend so that you can run around without
your helmet.”
At dusk, a reluctant moon rose up at the top of the
mountain. With its sad yellow rays it seemed to be asking
forgiveness of the people who sheltered at the foot of the
mountain for its father’s deadly rays. The family made
their way homewards with their oxygen helmets. Mary
switched on the computer in the kitchen to make the
evening meal, and looked for a suitable menu which
would supply the family with their daily calorie, enzyme
and vitamin needs. She pressed the relevant button on the
computer. The kitchen was like a chemists shop, kitted
out with full cupboards, which contained hundreds of
shelves. Some of the cupboards had interior lighting.
Mary opened a cupboard door and took out enough tins
of conserve for three people. “Puretta, seaweed soup,
Sunetsa, artificial sausage”. People no longer ate the
sickly plants which were contaminated with radiation, but
used the plants from the depths of the ocean where the
sun’s rays couldn’t reach. The delicious fruit and
vegetables which the old humans had eaten so
ungratefully were now lost from the earth completely
along with all manner of flowers, whose scent the old
humans had enjoyed without one thought of thanks.
The blue planet which had once been a cornucopia of
fruit, vegetables and flowers, had now turned into a
planet full of high technology, but also full of radiation,
nuclear waste, and rubbish heaps. But look, isn’t that
ironic? Now humans are perfect, fully educated, and
society is completely balanced, but the planet on which
they live is ill, and the sun has become the enemy of the
people. Although people united together against all these
adversities, their power was as weak as “a flea in the ear
of a camel.” The original camel and the flea in its ear
were now only to be seen in encyclopaedias. Humans
were able to survive using their intelligence by making
an artificial life for themselves, but the camel and the flea
in its ear were shrewd enough to have abandoned this
planet long since. The only people now remaining were
those who once thought themselves clever.
Mary pressed the „suitable juice“ button on her
computer which matched her blood pressure and brain
functions. Taking some cans of juice from the
illuminated shelf , which doubled as drinking mugs, she
placed them on the table and called out :
“Supper‘s ready! Come and get it!”
After the family had slurped down their soup, and
eaten their artificial sausage, they slumped down into
their chairs to listen to the daily news on the television.
“Another hurricane!” Robert growled.
People now had to build stronger houses to withstand
the bloody hurricanes. Nature could no longer stand up to
such terrible storms. The trees, which were already
weakened, were completely ripped out by the hurricanes.
You could see these trees every time you turned on the
damned T.V. The television also broadcasted pictures of
flooding caused by the dreadfully heavy rain which
poured from the sky and thundered to earth. A television
reporter from another country was broadcasting on the
large numbers of people who had committed suicide. The
news followed a health programme which dealt with the
terrible number of incidences of people with skin
problems and mental illnesses caused by the rays of the
sun.
Robert stood up abruptly, as if possessed, and
switched the television off.
“Enough! I can‘t stand any more! I‘m sorry I switched
off the set so rudely, but look! It‘s always the same news,
day in, day out. And in work tomorrow, who‘s going to
give a damn about me, and the fact that I‘m cracking up?
I need a relaxing evening. Tim, bring me the book which
I brought home today. Let‘s escape to Erol‘s world.”
Robert was a man in his thirties. Although he had
tried every therapy going, he still had not managed to
save one hair on his head. When all else failed, he finally
solved his hair problem by wearing a cute wig. All the
doctors had diagnosed the cosmic rays of the sun as
responsible for his goggle eyes, but none of the healing
remedies seemed to work. The worst thing about him was
his mentally depressive nature which he didn’t seem able
to break free from.
Father and son sat together and started to read the
book. Maria put a glass fruit plate in front of them with a
few artificial cherries on it. While Tim ate the wonderful
artificial cherries, he asked his father :
 “Dad! Back in Erol’s day, fruit grew on trees didn’t
it? Read it for yourself! Erol picks the fruit directly from
the tree! Dad! I want to be like the children in the olden
days and climb the trees and pick cherries to eat. I would
like to be able to play in a natural garden.”
“Ha! I’d like to live in the old times myself and be
able to breathe natural fresh air. But don’t you worry
about it, son. You’re sure to hear soon on the television
that some businessman has made an artificial fruit garden
with artificial fruit trees for you to visit. In that case I
promise you, that I will take you to such an artificial fruit
garden, so that I can pay for you to climb up the trees and
eat the fruit . Am I not a good father?”
“ No! I don’t want to do that!”
“ Oh my poor boy! The good times are gone. You can
only read about them in history books. But the people
who lived then did not appreciate all the beautiful things
they had. We would have appreciated all this today, but
unfortunately there is no natural life any more. On this
dead planet we are no longer living beings but mere
robots who are slaves to the damned computer. If the
computer supplies us with oxygen we continue to exist,
otherwise not! Boy! Please forgive me for bringing you
into such an awful planet. I ask you to forgive me a
thousand times over! My son! Come on! Keep on turning
the pages of the book! Let’s escape to Erol’s high
mountains, and breathe in the pure air without our
helmets and drink crystal clear water from Erol’s
streams! Afterwards we can take off our clothes, without
any fear of the sun and swim to our heart’s content in the
clean river “Kizilirmak.” Let’s enjoy the roasted natural
corn cobs which Erol offers us. I feel just the same as
you, my son - as if I am choking!”
 Mary listened to everything they were saying. She
interrupted their conversation excitedly:
"May I come and read this book with you?"
“No problem! Let’s use the projector then.”
“But please start at the beginning!”
“Of course, gladly.”
Robert opened a cupboard on the wall where the
projector was kept, and placed the book inside it. The
fully automatic projector began quickly to flick through
the pages in order to present a display on the wall. They
were able to listen to a tape of olden day music from
Erol’s time, which had been compiled some time after the
book. After giving the equipment a brief checkover,
Robert let it rewind. Then he softly touched the “start”
button. The first page of the book appeared on the screen
THE SLEIGHS
WITH
JINGLING BELL,S
Erol Atila

Berlin 1992
 Appeal
I dedicate this book and its words to all living and
future environmentalists and fighters for nature and for
the earth, and call upon them to protect our planet from
the invasion of nature’s enemies, ignorant people, and to
start a campaign for an intensive programme of family
planning around the globe
Few people are valuable like diamonds in the hand,
But too many people are trodden underfoot, like
pebbles in the sand.
May our planet not continue to be infested by
mankind,
If an honourable life here they can never hope to find.
I haven’t yet finished my message :
May far fewer babies be born
If they have to exist in a chaos of human-flood,
And the history books are still written in blood.
May many less children come forward
Lest their blood be shed for some tyrant one day.
May small girls not come to this planet
To be sold for men's pleasure and play.
May no innocent child be brought to this unbalanced
world
Only to finish up wandering the streets
As a beggar who knocks on every door,
Or ends up in a mad house or on a court floor.
I implore you, Mothers and Fathers who already have
too many kids:
Take pity on the new babies before you decide to give
birth.
Let them remain in peace unborn, don't bring them to
this earth.
 Lest your sons be turned away at the borders one day,
Or trampled on at the factory gates by other jobless
souls.
Does it make any sense that you make new sons
To be one of billions of children under guns?
This way won’t bring happiness to you,
The life you long for so much won’t come true.
Weighed down with worries with so many kids, your
life
Will just pass you by in sorrow and strife.
So down with this devilish technology, if nature it
cruelly destroys.
May millions not crowd onto this planet if they turn
into Nature's foes.
Young people I simply implore you, please listen to
my advice :
Don’t let Mother Nature be sacrificed or you will pay
the ultimate price.
Erol Atila
 The Dungeon
Look at my right leg which is really happy! Ooh!
It is free enough to stretch itself out along with my
right leg. But my left foot cannot move because it is
chained to the bedstead in the hospital. My right eye
is just as lucky as my right leg. Up until last week
my left eye had been closed up and black, and my
head was weary and swathed in bandages. My left
arm had also had bad luck and was bandaged up too.
I couldn't move it at all. Today I can, but whenever I
try to make the least movement, the pains shoot
straight through my body right up to my head.
As I said, my right hand and arm are enviably lucky,
because they can write the daily notes for my
biographical novel on the sheets of paper brought in by
the prison guards.
I can hardly remember my first days in this hospital,
where I have been lying for months on end. They came
and fetched me from my prison cell today and brought
me here for the necessary health checks. The hospital
doctors must have been stupid, because they brought my
body, which was fetched from Checkpoint Charlie as a
corpse, back to life. What use is a body to me when I no
longer have a soul? When a young man is sentenced to
life imprisonment, can you really call it a life? If they had
buried my corpse under the earth, I would have had the
opportunity to decompose, becoming first earth and then
germinating as a plant. As a plant, I could bloom and
make seeds and let my seeds be carried by the wind to the
top of some high mountain where they could freely
spread out their roots away from the prying and preying
hands of human beings. I say a place with no humans!
For I know well enough that they wouldn’t appreciate
me, even though I want to make everything right for their
sakes.
The judge’s verdict which he delivered to my face still
goes round like a whirlwind in my mind. My legs still
tremble when I think about it, particularly the one which
is handcuffed to the bedstead.Tomorrow I will write all
these notes in my cell…….
Thank God! I am back again in my cell, which
protects me from the violence of human beings.Now it is
morning and I’m still alive! My pencil and paper are also
still there! So I can get everything off my chest and tell
you about it. I am lucky that I live alone in my cell. I
must admit that I wouldn’t be able to write a biographic
novel like this if I had to share a cell with another
prisoner. Because I can only concentrate when there is
nobody else there. The thoughts are all mixed up inside
my head……….
You must be curious to know what my cell looks like:
my well equipped cell consists of a bed with a soil
coloured cover, an old rickety table and a toilet which has
gone dirty yellow with all the prisoners’ urine. And on
the table lie the papers on which my long court sentence
is written. I can write the court verdict off by heart, like
this:
“The accused, Erol Atila having been tried
and found guilty of………………… is hereby
sentenced to a lifetime’s imprisonment on
account of a crime in the first degree
according to paragraph 213, section 13, nos.
3 and 5, section 4StGB(crime law book of the
DDR - German Democratic Republic).
 What was my first degree crime? I don’t want to tell
you why I was sentenced to this punishment, because if I
explain it too briefly, you may also misjudge me. I want
to tell you my complete life story: all the events which
led up to my being here, in chronological order and in
detail. I would like to begin with my childhood. Then my
life in West Berlin as a student. Then the whirling
thoughts which swept me away to this land and to this
prison.
Writing helps me to get everything off my chest. Who
am I? What was everything like back then? My whole
life runs before me like a reel of film in my mind. What
happened to me, and when and why…….?
Yes, I can remember now. It was in 1972…….
Then it all came back to me , one day after another. I
had been living in Berlin, in Kreuzberg . It was an old
house, like all the rest, looking just like one of those
pictures of Hitler’s soldiers standing arm in arm.
Everything grey on grey, as if you could smell the smoke
of war. The many bomb attacks during the war had left
the houses afraid and shrivelled. After so many years I
can still feel the war…..
Oh!There were bitter cold courtyards and creaking old
staircases. Overhead, the grey skies often cried. Back
down on the ground sat abandoned and sad old timers,
war widows with trembling hands, grey and depressed,
immigrant workers, despised and subjugated, mothers
who worked nights in the factories, fathers who were
stuck under the machines. Oh! ghosts with chains
through their noses, whose children, backward and
withdrawn at school, turned to crime in their confusion.
Yes! I lived in such a house. It was not only I who
was sad and discouraged. The years were sad, everyone
was sad.
 Why did I always feel their pain as if it was my own?
Why did I take on their sadness?
Oh people! Why did you never give me any of your
joy as a gift ?
My name is Erol. My father called me that as I was
born in Turkey. By calling me this name which literally
translates as “Be brave”, my father was saying to me :
“My son, stand up to this faithless, bastard world.”
Oh ! My brave father! I was always brave in this
bastard world, therefore they shot at mercilessly at the
DDR border, and buried my youth in this prison cell.
My first notes were read by the walls of the hospital,
the rest by the walls of the prison. I hope they will still be
read centuries from now. I will recount to people their
own history.I will take them by the hand and lead them
through the so-called “modern” years, the black modern
years through which I have lived.
Everywhere stinks of prison. The faces of the guards
as well as the walls are cold. I have a soil coloured cover
over my shoulders, a pencil in my hand, and a sheet of
writing paper in front of me. My nose is frozen, my
hands are like ice, but I don’t notice. Why is the window
of my cell so small?

Look at the sun on the walls over there,

Outside my cell it warms everywhere.
Look! It shines brightly and will set secretly
But it never even notices me!
For centuries under this fiery ball
The human character never changed at all.
Humans were basically always identical:
Sometimes cruel like crocodiles,
Hard as a stone at other times.
Oh Father Sun ! You saw all of history,
 All the blood and all the cruelty,
And the weak and hopeless ones without a spark,
But you always turned your face to the dark.
And next day you also gave the tyrants a warm hug.
Why do you rise and set so serenely?
I know you are thinking : “All human beings need
me”
And : “these brainless ones can not live without me.”
*****
The years come and the years go.
Eventually the year 1972 appears on the horizon. The
days pass quickly and 1972 is soon gone, disappearing
into obscurity, its name gathering dust. Time and again
new people come to this planet. They hammer in their
pegs everywhere, hoping they are going to stay forever,
but they always shoot off again like comets.
More and more new children are being born. Their
mother is always the same : Mother Nature.
But this mother is now worn out and old, all the more
so as her children act in such a spiteful and hostile way
towards her. They exploit and exhaust her like whelps
suckling at the teats of their fatally ill mother.
I was also once resplendent like the year 1972.
My own mother was young,
Our Mother Nature was still lovely
I was merry and cheerful,
A young face on the horizon, like so many others.
My breast was full of life, my heart full of love.
The blood bubbled in my veins.
 But after escaping from my crazy world into the DDR,
the country which I had thought of as a land of hope, they
shot at me there,at the Checkpoint Charlie, as if they
were shooting at a rabid dog.
And they dragged my body around all over the place.

Sorrow is darkness, joy is light.

It is as if people live their lives in a dark street with
street lamps.
Human beings flee in fear from the darkness, always
seeking the light, just like insects at night.
Man is happy once he has found the light.
But these lights do not burn forever,
but go out one after the other.
As soon as people walk past them,
the darkness starts up again.
Each of us carries a torch inside of us.
We use these to find our way to the lights.
We call this light joy,
whose batteries are charged with hope.
 If we let the batteries run down,
then we are left in the midst of darkness.
And if we try to use someone else’s light
to find our way, the way becomes meaningless,
for it is their way, not ours.
Some people’s torches will no longer switch on.
Their batteries have completely run down,
and they lose themselves in the darkness.
I don’t know where they finish up.
Once I stood just like them, at the edge of an abyss.
I could see nothing in front of me,
for everything was in darkness.
Ahead of me I could see neither light,
nor friend, nor soul, nor any support.
Then my thoughts turned to God,
I wanted to pass over to Him.
I sang out to Him with a fervent voice
And I believe He heard me :
“I am standing in the darkness,
I need a light to find my way.
I would like to come to you
I need a light to find my way.
I will come to you, if you want me to
With the love in me I will find the way
which leads to you.
I step onto the clouds which lead the way,
I grasp the stars to find my way.
If you ask me where I have come from, I will say :
From a planet whose sky is blue, far away,
Where violet coloured mountains are covered in
snow
Where beautiful flowers and green grass grow.
I am standing in the darkness,
I need a light to find the way.
 I would like to come to you,
I need a light to find my way.”

The darkness of the abyss sucked me into its midst

like a tornado. Then something unbelievable happened.
God heard my weak moaning.
The earth shook, the sky trembled,
The whole universe engulfed me.
Ahead of me, hundreds of lanterns lit up like stars.
I walked into the flames and melted in the heat.
My pupils grew larger and larger like the eyes of an
owl.
Then I felt God inside me, in my soul.
And I heard a deep voice :
“I will come running to anyone
who will willingly walk towards me.”
It is a great love of God
For the love of His Creation.
I was a fireball, no longer extinguished.
Why do we vainly search for God in far away places
When He is already within us all the time.
But I was still in prison,
Yet now I was no longer alone.
My manuscripts were also in my cell,
And everything was full of light and hope.
Then I grasped the hand of the One who owned my
soul,
And the Mother Nature waited for me outside to
embrace me.
I will recount in detail later how everything happened.
Be patient. Let’s first climb over the walls in front of us.
 The Wall
st
On 1 September 1937 the second world war began
with the occupation of Poland by the Germans, and ended
on 1st September , 1944 after Germany’s defeat, with the
London protocol. Germany was split into two according
to the auspices of this protocol. West Germany was
placed under the control of the allies (U.S.A. England
and France), while East Germany was established as a
satellite state under the control of the Soviet Union. The
statesmen at that time : Truman, Churchill, Attlee and
Stalin authenticated this in 1945 in Potsdam at the so-
called Potsdam conference.
Thus Hitler’s machinations sealed Germany’s fate :
separation. After the war, West Germany was referred to
in school books as “the Federal Republic of Germany”,
or BRD for short, and East Germany as “the German
Democratic Republic” or DDR for short.
We youths of that period called these countries by
another name. We called one part West or free Germany,
the other part East Germany or communist Germany.
Berlin lay in East Germany like a capitalist island in a
communist ocean.
East Berliners could never have imagined that a wall
would one day divide the town of Berlin into two,
separating one Berliner from another. At the outset, some
even went to work in West Berlin and returned home in
the evenings to East Berlin. But the exodus towards West
Berlin continued to grow steadily. When the number of
emigrants to West Berlin reached over 30,000 on 1st
August 1961, the East Berlin authorities were worried
that the numbers migrating would rise even more sharply.
On 13th August 1961, the communists erected barbed
wire through the middle of Berlin. By 1967 a reinforced
concrete wall was in position, to stem the tide of
escapees.
When I came to Berlin, the division of the city by the
wall had been in effect for a long time. Why couldn’t
they have waited until after my visit?
West Berlin belonged to the BRD. We called it West
or free Berlin, the other side, East Berlin. Wherever you
travelled in Berlin, you would come up against this huge
wall, and signs which proclaimed “Prohibited Zone”. The
wall was 3 – 4 metres high, covered in moss, and
enclosed around the base with barbed wire. It was
guarded by cold-blooded DDR soldiers, who wore long
grey uniforms and caps like Russian soldiers. The tract of
land around the wall was kept under continual
observation at night with huge searchlights on the
watchtowers.
The DDR soldiers followed our every movement, and
that of everyone in the neighbourhood, out of the corner
of their eyes, stony faced and suspicious. I guess we were
afraid of them and they were afraid of us.
We looked on the wall too with fear, as if it was the
fortress of some great ogre, because it had always been
instilled into us since childhood that communism was a
monster.
 Oh grey wall! Oh cruel, cold wall! Oh silent wall!
Why didn’t you let on that you would imprison me too
one day?

Berlin Wall 1972

The West Berliners had painted their side of the wall

with bright colours, to soften its appearance. The western
world called it the wall of shame. As if their own exploits
were not shameful! You could see the houses behind the
wall from some distance away.
“ Oh houses! Grey houses! My dear old houses!”
Yes, there were actually people living on the other
side of this wall. And these people could never, and
would never be able to cross over into the west. They had
to spend their entire lives behind the wall. Oh you
people! Friendly people! Where are you now?
 During the winter months, the smell of coal burning
emanated from east to west. Wherever I may be,
whenever this smell reaches my nostrils, I always think
back to the DDR and East Berlin. East Berliners used to
heat their houses mainly with so-called Kachelofen (tiled
stoves). Enormous amounts of coal were consumed to
heat the houses, and of course it stank of coal
everywhere. In addition, the DDR cars produced a similar
smell, particularly the Trabant with its two-stroke engine,
which irritated your throat.
Older tourists, with their hair dyed and leaving a cloud
of perfume in their wake, came streaming from the West
in huge coach loads to gape at the wall and photograph it.
Added to which, they were quite happy to walk away and
leave the people who had to live behind it to their fate,
pitifully alone, as if the visitors themselves were totally
happy in their own world , and considered themselves to
be the world’s nobility. This moss covered wall which
had been built without counting the cost, gave one the
feeling that history had been frozen in time and placed in
a museum. Yes, that was it. East Berlin was a huge
museum, guarded by these statue-like, stone soldiers –
museum curators in the form of police. The communism
of Karl Marx and Engels, the essence of which
encompassed a great ideal, emotion, brotherhood, equal
rights and a hope for the future, was on display here. I
had always secretly nursed the desire to cross over to the
other side, to clear up all the questions for myself. I
wanted to speak in person to the people involved, talk
over the problems and see everything for myself.
Perhaps East Berlin, land of mystery, known
commonly as “the other side” was lovelier than West
Berlin. Perhaps there existed on the other side a
harmonious way of life where no evil people were
permitted. Perhaps the people living on the other side did
not despise each other. Perhaps there, the people shared a
mutual love and respect for each other. Perhaps nature
was lovingly protected there.
In my young life up to this point, egoism and racism
had always been prevelant both in the political as well as
the social life. And worst of all there existed a distinct
hostility towards nature. In both the West and the East,
nature was being brutally destroyed by the tyranny of the
ignorant. The barbarism of history, the loneliness,
narrow-mindedness and rage of human beings continued
to grow apace. The ugly “ego” spread itself abroad.
Despite enjoying every creature comfort and having a
highly developed technology, people still maintained a
stone-age mentality towards nature. Capitalist technology
and production dealt Mother Nature a hefty blow. In
place of the slaves in centuries past, man had now placed
the cows in chains, making them dull and sluggish as if
they were little more than robots, whose sole purpose was
to produce milk. Poultry were now kept in tight, narrow
cages, to increase egg production. Surely those who buy
such products and eat them unthinkingly are also guilty
by association?
Business concerns put profit above everything, and
direct their politics in this direction. Our planet had
become no more than a centre of exploitation, a global
marketplace. They looked on simple people and their
politicians as no more than “customers”, whom they
could set upon nature with their modern instruments of
destruction. They went blindly ahead with this process
without any concern or fears for the future. All they
could think of was stashing up greater export revenues
and giving themselves a pat on the back.
 A disturbing trend was growing across the whole
world : not only was a technology being developed which
endangered life itself, but also the population was
growing at an astronomical rate, and these people were
employing this technology for the destruction of nature.
Trees were felled with chainsaws, whole forests torn up
by excavators and the flora scraped up. Many types of
birds were simply blasted into extinction by the use of
guns. The sea floors were constantly being trawled and
dredged by modern fishing boats, until only the smallest
of fish remained.
With no thought for their future continuation on earth,
all types of living creatures were literally digested in their
billions in the human stomach. And just as many trees
were knocked down to produce completely wasteful
advertising and packaging paper, only to be simply
thrown away afterwards in skips. The land was turned
into a concrete jungle and the seas and oceans were oiled
up. Whole forests were burnt down, and the wild animals
driven out. Nature was riddled with bullets, her eco-
system upset by insecticides and pesticides.
The size of the world population, which had
previously been kept in check by Mother Nature, now
started to grow in proportion to the growth in industry.
Life expectancy of these vermin - the people who
inflicted lasting damage on nature, was increased still
further by modern medicine, and the infant mortality rate
fell. By now high technology had enabled the building of
new machines and automated devices which could do the
work of forty men, thus depriving them of their
livelihood. Craftsmen closed their businesses. People
found themselves out of work. Because of the growing
population and the accompanying unemployment that
went with it, criminal activity started to rear its ugly head
in every country. No end of thieves, murderers and
terrorists!
And the greater the number of people, the greater the
damage inflicted on nature. They made their way into the
deep forests, completely motorised and fully armed,
shooting dead anything which moved and cutting down
anything which they found standing. More and more
forests were set on fire to make way for arable land.
More and more wild animals were driven out from their
natural habitat. That is the beginning of destruction.
Destruction on a large scale is already taking place
:There was always some one who cries and says the
same words like these in me:
Hey! All you forests and green valleys! Escape! Flee!
Hey, you lovely landscapes! Better make yourselves
scarce!
Hey all you animals! Run for your lives!
For new humans are coming in their billions – as if
there weren’t enough of them already!
New forest fires and wars are on their way, bringing
dreadful new and irrevocable damage to nature.
Watch out! They are equipped with high technology,
fully armed, fully motorised.
Watch out! Here come the new breed of humans,
whose mouths spew fire and smoke.
So be off! Hide yourselves, seek sanctuary.
Or escape to another planet in the universe,
So deep and so wide, that no human can reach you.

The better things went for people, the more they

multiplied in number. The more people there were in
the world, the more consumer goods they needed.
The more consumer goods were produced, the more
the rubbish piled up on our planet. And not just the
rubbish generated by people, but also industrial
waste which polluted and poisoned the earth, the
oceans, the rivers and the atmosphere. During the
cold winter months, people burned anything they
could get their hands on : plastic, rubber, used oil
and the like, all the fumes and smoke going up into
the atmosphere, while the factory chimneys and car
exhausts added to the air pollution. This led to
“smog” hanging over cities everywhere. In the end,
wise Mother Nature fell ill and lost her hold over the
earth and her self healing abilities. First of all she
became sick; she had to vomit and in a very short
time the hairs (plants and forests) began to fall out
from all over her body. An all-consuming fever
made her skin dry up. Periods of drought left the
earth surface parched and cracked. Then she would
break out into another high sweat, causing enormous
rainfalls and floods. Her damaged lungs rattled and
she developed a nasty cough. Strong squalls of wind
and hurricanes swept across the land. Earth, water
and air swirled around together. People were
completely oblivious to what was going on around
them. They didn’t even feel one small itch - they just
carried on fighting and arguing amongst themselves,
and then mated and multiplied like rabbits, turning a
blind eye to what was happening. To help
themselves forget everything, they deadened their
senses with even more possessions, more alcohol,
more drugs and more sex.
 The Invasion
Thus our planet became ownerless. It was captured
and taken over by an enormously expanding population.
It was nothing less than an invasion of nature by her
deadly enemies. Mankind determined everything for the
individual as well as the whole population. They called
the system “democracy”, and the vastly multiplying
population, which took possession of the forests,
mountains, grasslands and oceans, without any regard for
nature, they called “the people”.Everything was done in
the name of the people. Such a democracy was for the
people who wanted to do nothing more than eat well,
drink well and procreate, to create a better life. On the
dark side, it meant more exploitation of nature, more
piles of rubbish and more damage to nature.
Enough of this human farce, with its drama and
deception. It is high time our planet was no longer
governed by the unthinking, poor excuses for politicians
elected directly by the people, but by nature-protecting
scholars and philosophers, namely by the truly
courageous green politicians.
These old fashioned, classic, primitive democracies
should relinquish their hold on the system, which not
only decides for the people, but also for the whole of
nature, and render possible a healing of Mother Nature
with the slogan :
“ Few people but honest, forward thinking people”.
 I would welcome it, if 25% of the elected members of
parliament represented the people, 25% represented the
animals, 25% represented the plants and the remaining
25% represented the natural resources of the earth like
atmosphere, rivers, oceans etc.
I would welcome it, if this parliament passed new
laws restricting the growth in world population.
I would also welcome it if 25% of our planet was
reserved for human life (in the reorganised green towns,
surrounded by tracts of ecological arable land), 25% for
the animals (natural preservation areas), 25% for the
plants (arboretoriums) and 25% for all natural resources
of the earth (oceans, lakes, rivers, mountains etc.). If it
was possible to achieve a universal green democracy
made up of genuine green-minded politicians, our planet
would look totally different. Then the whole planet
would be a vision of green, adorned with magnificent
flowers and birds singing, and enriched with good clean
air. In this dreamworld, employers would greet their
employees at their place of work, young people would be
immediately snapped up during their training period, and
old people would be embraced as genuine senior citizens
and conveyed to their final resting place in a loving
manner. Young criminals would be transformed into
intrepid environmentalists. Drugs and alcohol would lose
their hold as people regained their natural joy of living.
In this way, a new, highly cultural world would exist full
of love for its fellow man and nature. Wars and hostilities
woud disappear from the pages of the history books.
People’s eagerness for material things would be replaced
by an interest in art, science and culture. Every human
being on the planet would be engaged in social, cultural
and environmentalist activities, so that they would no
longer feel isolated and alone and with no purpose in life.
 But the best thing of all would be that Mother Nature
would be waiting there to embrace us with open arms,
just as the song by the Turkish composer Asik Veysel
goes :
“Mother Nature met me with roses in her hand.”
But in reality, the world took on a completely
different perspective : masses of people with no hope in
their lives, disputes, much unrest and many wars, high
unemployment and a collapse of moral standards, but
always immense overpopulation, resulting in
downtrodden animals and enormous destruction to
nature.
It seemed to me as if I was literally suffocating in this
crazy primitive world with its wholly unthinking process.
My soul was restless – I had to find my aim in life,
my destiny. Should I become a novice in a temple of
Buddhist monks with a shaved head? Or should I begin
my search a bit closer to home? As the saying goes : “A
drowning man will grasp at a straw.”
Should I journey across to the other side and examine
the paradise of Karl Marx and Engels and find out
everything for myself – see whether this crazy process of
destroying nature also existed on the other side, or
whether they had a system which concerned itself with
restoring the balance of nature and respected other living
creatures apart from human beings.
One day I finally took the bull by the horns, and
crossed over to the other side. Once in East Berlin, my
feet ran further and further afield. I eyed everything
around me with great curiosity. I felt my heart pounding
in my throat. I was full of joy. I felt as if I had found
myself in a wonderland. Pictures of their heroes on
gigantic banners hung everywhere. When I caught sight
of a picture of Lenin, I was almost moved to tears.
Ulbrich was dignified. Erich Honecker smiled down at
me. I greeted them as the leaders of a brave new world,
honest men and true, who had pledged themselves to
protecting a healthy Mother Nature. I hoped that these
heroes had accomplished this.
But how was I to know as a naïve student full of
idealism, that communism, just like capitalism, is a
mirage.
How could I conceive that I would one day rot in a
DDR prison, while Erich Honecker’s poster carried on
smiling down at other naïve souls. But don’t feel sorry
for me, because something good has come out of all this :
I am no longer afraid of anything. No capitalist or
communist can ever frighten me by threatening to put me
in prison. I am already in the prison they want to throw
me in. And there can be no worse prison than this. I find
myself in the worst possible scenario : in a black hole in
the universe, so vast that no one can reach me.
I don’t have to think or write like everyone else does.
Ingratiating myself with the rich and powerful? I don’t
need that here at all. I’m not worried about earning
money. I am as free as a departed spirit. But I linger in
my dark cell like an asteroid in the wide universe,
perplexed and so very alone.
I would like to warn all the religious fanatics not to try
to follow in my footsteps for my writing’s sake, because
the prison soldiers would simply shoot them with their
machine guns, just as cruelly and brutally as they
wounded me.
The best thing I can do is to tell you my story right
from the beginning, step by step. But first I must clarify
something : I am not writing this book alone. You should
not be surprised if you hear a second sometimes a third
voice making itself heard on these pages. This second
voice comes from deep down within my soul, just as the
Turkish Sufi Yunus Emre said in his poem :
“There is another ego living deep within me.”
In fact, there are not only two, but three egos in me.
The first ego I call “Erol, Mr. Average”, the second
“Rebel Erol”, and the third “Egotist Erol.” The first ego,
Erol Mr. Average, is like a puppet of society, always
being influenced by other people. He considers himself
clever, but he is actually just as cowardly as all the rest.
Sometimes he talks in this book like an excited child,
sometimes he voices his opinion like an adult who is
sitting in prison.
The second ego is a rebel, a brave and fearless fellow,
a daredevil, neither child nor adult. In public he speaks
the naked truth so often that it embarrasses me. He is
rude and uncouth and often sarcastic. Sometimes he has
the cheek to actually take the pencil out of my hand and
contrives to write everything the way he sees it. Despite
all this, I have to say that I am a little in love with the
fellow myself, like a naïve young girl loves a vagrant or a
drunkard. For he is actually my ideal type. I would like to
be like him, but I cannot. I am simply “Erol, Mr.
Average”. I think like all the others, and talk like all the
others, subdued.
I must admit that I find it a relief when he takes over
the writing from time to time, because he can give voice
to the things which I am too afraid to say myself. Then to
give myself a sense of security, I say that it was written
by him, and you shouldn’t take any notice of him,
because he is a rebel.
But I have to say, that if I didn’t have this Rebel Erol
inside of me, I would not have been able to bear being in
this prison. It was he who constantly gave me the
strength to go on living. He was braver than me. The
boxing matches I won, were all thanks to him. When I
was shot at the border, he was the only one who came to
my rescue. The best part about it, is that he comes with
me wherever I go, and throughout my life, he has never
let me down.
On the outside he gives the impression of being hard,
but he has a soft interior, full of love and compassion. If
he didn’t live inside of me, I would have perished in this
musty prison cell a long time ago.
“If I was a breeze
He would be a cold wind.
Sometimes he is sarcastic
Sometimes he is a spoilsport.
But he is the pure truth -
Let him blow!”
Let me give you an appropriate example : I’m sure
you will remember, there was a point where I wanted to
write down a saying. Beating around the bush, I wrote :
“Where there is overcrowding, there is always
trouble,” because at that precise moment Rebel Erol was
asleep. Had he been awake, he would almost certainly
have said :
“Hey you coward, the saying doesn’t go like that.
Stop prevaricating and don’t mince your words. Why
don’t you simply say : “Where there are crowds of people
you will find heaps of shit!”
Just how shameless can he be! That’s just not the sort
of thing you say in polite company. Of course I didn’t
write it his way.
Now he is asleep again, and I must take this
opportunity to write down my complete life story in
peace and quiet. Then I can transport you to the
delightful land of my childhood.
 1
It was a winter’s day in
1954. Everywhere was
white. It snowed for many
weeks and the last storm
reached every nook and
cranny, covering everything
in a mantle of snow. You
would have thought there
was no other colour in the
world but white.
Tucked away in the
middle of Anatolia in Turkey, right on the edge of the
steppes, where the river Kizilirmak starts to flow, lay a
city called Sivas, whose historical name is Sebastea,
famous for its poets. Gok Medrese from the Selcuk time
(an Islamic high school for priests and judges in ancient
times) with its wonderful minarets, is the jewel in the
crown of the city. Sivas castle, from the same era,
presents its visitors with a showcase of many different
types of beautiful pine trees in its park.
On the outskirts of the city, children were playing on a
piece of waste ground, disturbing the pristine harmony of
the white splendour which dazzled their eyes. The
slanting rays of the sun shone brilliantly in the blue sky.
Spirals of smoke, part purple, part silver, curled lazily up
into the sky from the chimneys in the neighbourhood.
Just hearing the joyful cries of the children and smelling
the aroma of freshly baked bread coming from the local
bakery was enough to make you forget the cold.
Each child in turn would take their sleigh and run onto
the toboggan run, placing it onto the ice with great gusto
and squatting on it with their right leg. The little bells
attached to each sleigh would jingle merrily as they went
along. At the very moment the toboggans took off over
the humps of the hill, the children would squeal
excitedly. How they would squeal!
Each sledge was as precious to each boy as a knight’s
steed. Some sledges were covered with fur pelts, others
with carpet. Steel runners glistened and glinted through
each toboggan, which all had carved wooden hand rails. I
too owned such a sleigh, as I was one of those lucky
boys.
We wore woollen hose on our feet, pullovers on the
upper parts of our bodies, woollen caps and woollen
mittens – each in a bright colour, each hand-knitted by
his mother. We were obsessed with our sledges.
We didn’t give a toss about anything else going on in
the big wide world. The world of the ignorant adults!
Every so often a child would disappear briefly from
the play area, only to pop up suddenly again with some
home-made flat bread under their arm. He would then set
about dividing the bread evenly into pieces and share it
with the other children. The fragrant aroma of the wheat
flour mixed with the smell of the smoky stone ovens,
offering us the prospect of a feast far tastier than kebabs.
Inside of this bread we found hidden wine mountains,
beautiful gardens and wide open plains.
 I would not swap the ashy, home-made bread of my
childhood for all the finest cakes displayed in present day
bakers shops.Give me a piece of ashy bread from that
time, and I would gladly give you a fine cake in exchange
if I were free of this damned prison!
The sky was blue, the earth was milky white, the trees
studded with blossoms of snow. The sledges were
covered with fur, and the little bells sang their own song .
But the glass in the small windows of my prison cell is
dirty yellow, and the bars are a cruel reminder of my
reality. Each time I travel from the present to the past, I
sigh and murmur a little poem, but there is no escape,
because the past is the only place I can go.
Oh! Tired sun! Turn back the night,
Fill my dark horizon with light,
Command the earth to stay its spin
And give me back my youth again.
Let my childish footsteps tread
To eat once more my ashy bread.
Let me go back, whatever it takes
To free myself from past mistakes.
I’ll try to beat the tyrants, but not mild
I want to cry my eyes out like a little child.

In the coming years, I tried to find these children and

their unselfish innocence everywhere. They were
nowhere to be seen, They had simply disappeared. The
prophet Jesus Christ and his young friends were hungry.
Jesus divided one single loaf into pieces, and everyone
ate their fill. Very nice. As children we used to say :
“One ate, the other watched and then came the Last
Judgement.” In most recent times, it’s more a case of :
“one eats, while the rest look on.” The walls of the
church listen to all these preachings and look on
patiently. Something similar is preached there, or in
mosques, or in other temples in thousands of religions
around the world. But so-called believers only hear the
word, they do not act on it. They nod in approval but
their approval is meaningless as they only pay lip service.
Just like the saying goes : “in one ear and out the other”.
Our childish cheeks were red from the cold and our
noses ran. We were innocent children on the ice. We
considered ourselves immortal and saw only a rosy future
in front of us. I can’t tell you just how beautiful our
feelings were then.
We used to play spinning tops on the ice - tops made
of box wood, thick tops which we had coloured
ourselves. First of all we would wax our strings, bind
them tightly and then hurl the tops with all our might
onto the ice. Whose top would spin the longest? One by
one the tops would spin more and more slowly, start to
slope and wobble and finally tumble to a halt on the ice.
Luftu’s top spun the longest.
Luftu had no father. His mother took good care of
him. He was a healthy child. They were very poor
people. Their house did not have a normal roof but a mud
one, but there were advantages : it was far less dangerous
in winter to brush the blocks of snow away from a flat
roof such as theirs, as opposed to the sloping roofs of
other houses. You needed enormous courage to brush off
a sloping roof. If you don’t believe me, try it yourself, but
mind you don’t finish up six feet under! It was just as
hard to stand up to Luftu in a fist fight. Most of the boys
tried to avoid fighting with him. The blows from his fists
literally flew through the air, landing on the opponent’s
face like nails on a magnet, and our faces burnt red under
his blows. Fight with Luftu? Not on your life! But Luftu
himself was afraid of Ayhan, the brother of Mehmet the
boxer. Mehmet had taught his brother how to box. Ayhan
had even knocked Luftu out once, which pleased us all
greatly. We were children after all.
None of the boys were afraid of me. Quite the reverse,
I protected the frightened and the weak, that no one else
cared about. I was neither a giant nor well trained. I
simply had a conscience and a compassion towards those
who couldn’t stand up for themselves. Throughout the
course of my life, these emotions constantly brought me
disaster and misfortune. Why did it always fall to me to
play the role of protector of the world?
While I am writing all this, the rebel Erol in me
popped his head up, and battered his fists against the
wall. Uwe, the prisoner from the next cell growled back :
“You arsehole – stop beating the walls
 2
Like the rest of the
children and my
brother, I always
made sure that I set
out for home shortly
after dusk fell. Wait-
ing for us at home
was a mother with a
heart full of love, the
delicious smell of
supper cooking, and a
warm seat cushion
behind the wood stove – provided the cat hadn’t got there
first! While from our old-fashioned wooden “Hanamag”
radio, a continuous stream of folksongs from Anatolia
and classical Turkish music in “Hicaz”, made us feel
pleasantly drowsy. After dinner we pretended we could
barely keep our eyes open to do our homework.
 Our dear mother always used to get up early, light the
stove, prepare breakfast, and try to wake us up. But in
vain! Who wants to get up so early? As fast as she pulled
off our eiderdowns, we would pull up our sheets to use as
covers, so that we could carry on sleeping. But instead of
getting angry, mother would simply pinch us gently with
a smile on her lips. Eventually we were enticed down-
stairs by the fragrant smell of tea and toast, and the sound
of sausages sizzling in the pan. It worked every time : in
the end, we just couldn’t resist the smells and would have
to get up. Then we would set upon everything with an
appetite like the “seven sleepers in mythology” who
awoke after sleeping for seven years. Everything was so
crisp and tasty. Thanks mum! You’ve no idea how much
I miss you! But you aren’t even aware that your son is
now writing these lines from prison.
As if by magic, the cold night air would decorate the
window panes with fine ice crystals, tracing them with
fabulous floral patterns. Our window panes were magi-
cally decorated, our stove always glowed with heat – this
is the kind of house I grew up in - just like the Sivasers
say : “In a house with double gates, the garden is sur-
rounded by a wall”. This expression is used for the tradi-
tional local double gates ornamented with iron, which
have a stone bench in front of them.
Back then, there were no school buses. It took us an
hour to get to school on foot. But if we were lucky we
would meet a horse-drawn carriage which just happened
to be passing by. We would leap onto the back axle and
travel along despite risking the coachman’s whip, until
we caught sight of the school gates. In those days, horse
drawn carriages were the main means of public transport
– but of course, people travelled inside and not on the
back axle like us kids!
 The carriages were situated in the same place as pres-
ent day taxi ranks. If you got close to a carriage stand,
you could smell the horse dung, which is infinitely pref-
erable to the poisonous exhaust fumes emitted by present
day cars. At least the horses did not poison the town air.
Where are you now, my lovely horses? I have missed you
so much. The horses chomped noisily on the oats in their
nose bags. Then the oats began on their journey, through
the front orifice of the horse, coming out, partially undi-
gested through the back passage, where they fell to the
ground. Waiting sparrows fluttered down from the roof-
tops to feed on these offerings. The sparrows, the indus-
trious sparrows! There is another Turkish saying for a
hardworking man which goes like this : “He earns his
bread from stone” (It means he must work hard to earn
his bread). What do you do? You actually earn your
bread from dung. Bravo, brave sparrows, bravo! I miss
you greatly too! The sparrows twittered and chirped eve-
rywhere. Life was sweet in Sivas.
The long winter days were spent chatting with neigh-
bours, friends or relatives – not glued to a T.V. set. We
kids would all notice straight away if a horse-drawn car-
riage stopped at the front door, because there was no
noise from motorised traffic outside. When we came to
the front door, we were always greeted by the same
sight : a few relatives or family friends, pinching our
cheeks; a visitor, cap in hand, who wanted to pay the
coachman his fare, but who could barely make out the
small change in his wallet in the weak carriage lights. But
a few pennies was all it took to extract from the
coachman a deep, effusive expression of thanks : “Thank
you kindly, sir, God bless you, sir” – his thanks so loud
and so deep that it made the snow fall off the trees.
Outside, the sky was black with night, bitter cold lurked
everywhere, the stars twinkled at one another and the
horses snorted. The coachman turned his carriage around
in the weak light from the oil lamps and tapped the
horses lightly with his whip, as if he was gently stroking
them. Then the only sound you could hear in the stillness
was the metal of the horses hooves which gradually died
away into the distance. Like a gently hummed melody!
So in Sivas it was bitterly cold night after snow-white
night.
In those days, families did not, as a rule, own a tele-
phone, so visitors would come completely out of the
blue, unannounced. Then the house would be full of loud
voices, mingled with the joyful squeals of the children
and the strange smell of cold overcoats. We used to take
the visitors’ coats – but they were very heavy! They
would make their way into the warm room rubbing their
cold hands : “Come on in, let’s have a look at you”. Cold
hands, red noses, watery eyes but the warmth of their
hearts radiated outwards. You could feel it! In this god-
forsaken prison, inside these four walls where I know
every sound and spot by heart, you need comfort and
warmth. Where are the people who are going to give it to
me? Where are you?
It was customary for visitors never to arrive empty
handed, but always to bring something with them which
we could all share : peanuts, hazelnuts, fruit etc. From
one paper bag you would catch sight of golden oranges
peeping out, tasty mandarins from another. Our keen
sense of smell told us what was in the bags before we
even saw them. Our mother would lay everything out on
plates, adding some delicacy of her own, like aromatic
Amasya apples, until our mouths started to water at the
delicious sight.
I talked to Rebel Erol who lives deep inside me :
 “Winter is almost over, and I haven’t even once tasted
a mandarin!”
“You’re a fine one! Do you think the people in the
DDR eat mandarins? As a prisoner you can’t make too
many demands. Boy, you really are a fine one.”
“I would really like to taste some black tea as well!”
“More wishes! There is no tea here. Go back into the
past if you must – you can drink as much as you like
there”.
When I travelled back to the old days once more, the
water was singing in the kettle on the stove, just right for
pouring out the tea. Thank God that Mother Nature be-
stowed tea on us. What on earth would the Turks have
done without tea? Someone from Sivas could go for up to
40 days without food, but take their tea away, and they
wouldn’t last more than a day!
“You’re all talk, Erol! Think how many lots of 40
days you have spent in this prison cell – and you are still
alive to tell the tale!”
We children tried to stay awake come hell or high
water until the last visitor set out for home. When the
time came, I would take it upon myself to call a carriage
for the guests. I would run out onto the main road and
wait for ages. I let all the showy carriages with their
healthy horses drive past, and made a point of looking for
a tatty version with emaciated horses. Why? Because I
wanted to give the money to these poor carriage drivers –
everyone else always chose only the most beautiful, well
upholstered carriages with their gleaming brass and mag-
nificent team of horses. It was simply a matter of taste.
My taste was different to the rest! I liked the poorer
carriages with their emaciated horses because it made me
feel good. These skinny horses could pull a carriage with
their reins just as well – and besides, they didn’t need a
whip!
I could hear the murderer Uwe in the cell next to mine
making a racket. He snarled at me through the walls :
“Erol – I’m sending you these punches with my
compliments!”
“Damn you, you bastard. Thank God the walls are so
thick – otherwise I would have harnessed you to the
carriage instead of the horses!
 3 Today’s
ostentatious New
Year’s Eve broadcasts
on T.V. could never
compare with our own
modest celebrations,
because in those days we
were not spectators but the
actors. In recent times,
television has come between
people and their friends. It has
swept aside all friendly
conversation, sitting between
them like a black cloud. The
technology itself dropped like a thunderbolt onto the
pages of the history books. If television had been around
in ancient times, who would have gone to listen to
Socrates, the philosopher?
“I would” said a voice. It was Rebel Erol who lived
inside me, my companion in misfortune :
“You kid! You’re stuck in this dark, infested rat hole,
and there’s no one here but you. Can’t you get it through
your thick skull that there’s no way you’re going to break
out of here and go talk to Socrates. The best thing you
can do is travel back with me into the past!”
 We used to celebrate New Year’s Eve at my Uncle
Seyfi’s house because his house was large. Uncle Seyfi
owned one of the last traditional handicraft concerns in
Sivas – the family business had been passed down from
generation to generation for hundreds of years. He
crafted saddles and harnesses in his workshop. I used to
love the smell of leather which greeted me whenever I
went to visit him. While I sat drinking the tea he had
given me, and watched him work painstakingly, Uncle
Seyfi would fix me with his blue eyes, stroke his white
beard and ask how we were all doing. His finished
articles were displayed outside the front of his shop : race
harnesses, trimmed with blue good-luck charms, saddles
and forelock decorations, each type in different sizes.
Sometimes when I visited his workshop, we would
hear the cry of the holy Muezzin calling the faithful to
prayer. In those days there were no loudspeakers in the
mosques. Uncle Seyfi would look at me lovingly and say:
“Look after the shop for me, poppet, I’ll be back straight
after prayers.”
Then I would feel as if I owned the place, even though
all I actually had to do was tell the customers my uncle
had popped out and would be back shortly. Duty is duty.
A job is a job.“Oh, Uncle Seyfi! If only you’d taken me
on as an apprentice back then. I would far rather have
been sweeping out your shop everyday than finishing up
in this hateful prison where the sky is grey day and night,
in a prison where the stone walls reach out and scratch
my body with their sharp claws. Now in my mind’s eye, I
can see the horse-drawn carriages driving past along the
cobbled streets of Sivas. How the hooves echo! I can hear
the plaintiff voices of the holy Muezzin coming from the
mosques. The cry is stirring and profound. Why have you
abandoned me, Sivas, old friend? No, no – neither of us
is going to die. I will find my way back to you some day.
Otherwise you can bury me here, Sivas!”
My uncle never forgot to reward me when he came
back:
“Here, poppet, here’s some money for you. Go and
get us a couple of doner kebabs.”
I could have found the doner kebab shop with my eyes
closed – I just had to follow my nose!
In those days, doner kebabs were made mainly from
mutton and cooked over charcoal. The doner master
would heat up the thin pitta bread, cover it with layers of
sliced meat, onions and parsley, wrap it in paper, and
finally call out after me : “Give my best wishes to Mr.
Seyfi.”
I nodded my head as if I was going to say something,
but my other self was thinking : “I would speak, but
wouldn’t it be better if I finished eating this kebab first.”
I always had a big appetite, as I said before. In any
case my mouth was watering so much I couldn’t open it.
But in this place all you get to eat is the same old soup
day in, day out, and no appetite to go with it. Get out of
here, Erol – get out. Go back into the past. What are you
waiting for? I obeyed Rebel Erol’s instructions and
travelled quickly back in time to the workshop once
more. Oh! Uncle Seyfi wants to clean up his workshop
first and then open the kebabs.
As I left, Uncle Seyfi said : “Don’t forget to tell your
parents that we are expecting you for New Year’s Eve.”
Then we would count the days to New Year’s Eve,
which was rapidly approaching. On the day itself, I came
home in the late afternoon with a carriage drawn by two
scrawny horses. We packed appetisers and fruit which
my father had provided into the carriage, not forgetting
an extra dish for the driver. On top of which I secretly
gave the driver a paper bag full of peanuts and whispered
in his ear conspiratorially :
“Tonight, during the celebrations, please give these
nuts to your horses. Promise me, uncle, that you won’t
forget.”
He roared out laughing :
“Don’t you worry, son, I’ll do it”.
I don’t know whether he kept his promise, but I just
assumed that while we were enjoying our nuts, the horses
would be enjoying theirs. That made me feel good. The
scrawny horses were happy – I was happy.
Uncle Seyfi’s house stood in a large garden and had
lots of rooms. The back room, which was on a higher
level, had pretty lattice windows which flooded the room
with fabulous colours depending on the angle of the light.
The fruit trees in the garden were in hibernation . In front
of the house stood a little cottage which had its own
kitchen. Here we used to bake our own bread in the stone
oven. While the women were preparing the evening meal,
we children would chuck snowballs at each other and
build snowmen in the garden.
When we started to freeze with cold we would take
refuge in the cow shed. We warmed ourselves up by
cuddling and stroking them. The cows simply stared
vacantly into space and carried on chewing. Piles of hay
in front of the cows filled the shed with a really pleasant
smell. Believe me! Even the cow shed was warmer than
my cell here. The cows were happy in their shed. I really
wish I could say the same thing here. Particularly in this
cold hole in which I am permanently freezing. Then
Rebel Erol’s voice came into my head again :
“ Why don’t you go back to the cowshed then!”
 “ Don’t think I don’t want to. Yes, I wouldn’t mind
going back to nature where I came from. My love of
nature is as deep as the oceans of the world.”
“Just watch out you don’t drown in the ocean one day,
my boy!”
This conversation inside my head had distracted me.
Now where had I got to in the story?
“Oh yes, now I remember.”
The women giggled in the kitchen and the food started
to pile up on large plates. The men had already said their
evening prayers and their faces radiated gladness that
their task was now complete. Uncle Seyfi sat on the
divan rattling his rosary. His dear face, his dear hands –
even his rosary was precious to me! After the women had
spread out the large cloth on the floor, we kids felt an
intense heat well up inside us, our juices started to flow
and we had to swallow. We were quite used to the idea
that we weren’t allowed any snacks between meals. We
weren’t picky eaters, but ate everything that was put in
front of us. We were always extremely hungry.
Whenever our parents offered us something, we would
tuck into it with great relish, which pleased our parents
no end. A huge, galvanised copper plate on a carved
wooden stand took pride of place on the large cloth. And
what a feast was set before our eyes! First came a plate of
steaming rice topped with chicken thighs baked in butter.
This was followed by other dishes : highly spiced beef
goulash, massive bowls of lettuce salad, home-made
pickled paprika vegetables and in other bowls : compote
of apricots and sultanas. Everything smelt amazing.
“Enough, enough! I can’t stand any more”
I got up and straightened my painful back, smashing
my fists against the grey cell walls before I settled down
again. The only way I could satisfy my hunger was to go
back and feast from the table in my past. When
everything was laid out, one of the daughter-in-laws of
the house would give uncle Seyfi a meaningful glance.
Cushions were placed around the edge of the cloth for the
adults. As soon as uncle Seyfi had taken his seat, all the
children rushed to sit down too, and waited with baited
breath for uncle Seyfi to say grace.
As soon as the prayer was finished, spoons started to
fly through the air as everyone delved into the different
dishes. The children ate their food in silence without
quarrelling with one another. Everyone enjoyed the meal.
It was always a mystery to me how the traditional
Turkish upbringing worked. The children seemed to
assume respect for their parents quite naturally – they
didn’t have to be pressurised into it. A mutual bond of
love and affection existed, as if the parents had already
taken lessons in child psychology!
After the meal, the cloth was cleared away, the adults
sat on the divan, and peals of laughter could be heard
coming from the women in the kitchen. The children
play-wrestled with each other in the adjoining room,
laughing and giggling. I preferred the grown ups’ room.
They kept up with the news on the big radio, sighing at
one news item, thanking God at another. Then the serious
discussions would begin, typical of a winter’s evening :
some of the men talked about the atrocious winter
weather in Sivas, some about war and the years of
famine, some about saints and some about heroes, or the
hunting of different breeds of animal which no longer
exist today. Finally they got round to the subject for
which I had been impatiently waiting. One burning
question consumed me : what was the unspoilt nature like
in Anatolia back in the old days? One of the participants
made fun of my persistent questions and said :“You’re a
nosy little lad, aren’t you!” Go and play with the other
children – what do you want to know about the extinct
animals for?”
My father understood where I was coming from. He
said a few words to pasify me:
“Be patient, Erol. I’ll get you a book on extinct plants
and animals from Istanbul. Maybe they’ll have coloured
pictures”.
Rebel Erol spoke sarcastically in my head:
“Hmm, let’s just hope there is such a thing!”
When the children had gone out, the cloth was spread
out once more, and the galvanised copper plate brought
back out, this time without the stand. It was now time to
make the children’s dreams come true. The preparation
of Tel Helva could now begin. Tel Helva was a
traditional sweet dessert, symbolic of New Year. A syrup
consisting of water, sugar and lemon juice was cooked in
a large pan on top of the stove. As soon as the syrup was
thick enough, the pan was removed from the heat and
allowed to cool down. Meanwhile, on top of the stove,
flour was browning on a copper plate, giving off a really
pleasant smell. From here on in, the women’s work was
over. The men washed their hands with soap in lukewarm
water which was handed around in bowls, and dried
themselves with hand towels passed around by the
women.
At this point, we children were beside ourselves with
joy and excitement. Now the browned flour was scattered
onto the plate, and the golden paste which had been
cooling outside in the frosty air was scraped out of the
pot and tipped onto the flour. The men rolled their
sleeves up as high as they could go, and it wasn’t long
before both the paste and their hands were both covered
in flour. The men sat around in a circle, kneading the
paste into a thin rope. The rope got longer and longer.
Eventually, both ends of the rope were joined up to form
a giant “O”. The rope in its present form was now passed
from hand to hand, going round and round the seated
group, to be kneaded once more. As soon as the rope was
the same size as the plate, it was made into a figure of
eight - the top part laid on top of the bottom portion,
forming a new ring which was again passed round from
hand to hand and kneaded in the process. This process
carried on until the strands of the Tel Helva were so fine
that they started to tear apart. Now we had a sweet
dessert which could be shared out amongst everyone.
Now it was time for the tombola game. The different
coloured bingo cards were handed round. Everyone took
their small change out of their wallets – Kurusch, which
were approx. equivalent to a penny - and threw the coins
into the kitty. A shrieking child would stick his hand into
a bag and pull out a ticket. Every time a winning number
was pulled out, the owner of that number would cover it
with a piece of paper. The first person to cover all their
numbers would shout out “Bingo, Bingo” at the top of
their voice, and rake all the money towards them.
Everyone wanted to have the colour cards which kept
winning the most. Sometimes I was lucky enough to be
the first person to cover all the numbers on their card, and
my heart used to pound each time I raked the money
towards me. At intervals we would help ourselves to the
nuts and fruit laid out on the plates next to us. I hoped
and prayed that the horses were eating their own nuts at
the same time, and were thinking of me.
The winter in Sivas was frosty and snowbound, with
icicles hanging from the rooftops. The nights were long
and dark, the windows were bathed in yellow light. Our
mouths were sweet, conversations were sweet. People
were of one heart – we were as one. The harshness of the
winter and the pitch black darkness of the long nights
were in stark contrast to our warm hearts. We were not in
any way vanquished, but emerged triumphant and
victorious.

4
Once it snowed
for days on end.
Snow piled up on
the roof tops getting
thicker and thicker.
To prevent the roofs
from caving in,
people would climb
up on them and
brush off the snow.
It was absolute
chaos : it was almost
impossible to walk
along the streets because of the enormous mountains of
snow everywhere. You had to weave your way through a
series of narrow corridors. All the horse-drawn carriages
suddenly disappeared. In their place, horse-drawn sleighs
now stood at the sides of the road, complete with little
jingling bells. What a winter wonderland! It was as if a
magician had waved a magic wand, transforming the
whole town white overnight and adorning it with sleighs!
After the snow storms, bitter cold took a vice like grip
of Sivas. The water pipes froze. To get our drinking
water, we had to either melt snow or get it from the
natural springs which never froze over. We kids were
overjoyed because the extreme cold meant there could be
no school. Sometimes we amused ourselves in front of
the stove, sometimes we joined in helping to brush the
snow off the rooftops. We spread the ashes from the
stove onto the icy footpaths. But if someone did suddenly
slip over, particularly if it was a fat person, we children
would burst out laughing – they looked so comical and
they would get up, extremely annoyed. Biting March
winds kept our doors firmly shut and in the absence of
any other wood, we had to set fire to our spades and
sticks. Not really! It’s simply a winter’s joke!
 5 At last spring
came and the
snow gradually
began to melt.
Melted snow and
slush was
everywhere -
little rivulets and
brooks suddenly
popped up on
waste ground
everywhere. We
children sent our ships sailing on these oceans, and the
paper aeroplanes we made became the air armada, dive
bombing the ships (our navy). In those days we made our
own playthings.
Storms which raged for days on end wreaked havoc in
the town. On one such afternoon I was heading for home,
my traditional wooden satchel in my hand. On my lips
were the lines of a school poem which I was whispering
to myself. On this particular day I decided to take a short-
cut home. It would have been better if I hadn’t.
 From a distance I could see a crowd of people huddled
around a figure silhouetted on the street. I speeded up my
steps out of curiosity. When I arrived at the scene, a cruel
sight met my eyes. Two horses with swollen stomachs
lay dead on the roadside, still hanging by their harness in
the carriage. The carriage driver too lay dead on the
ground. The storm had ripped off several of the roofs and
flying tiles had severed the power lines. The carriage
horses which were passing by at that very moment, had
been struck by the exposed cables and killed by the
electric current. The carriage driver had tried to save his
horses, but was himself killed instantly by the lethal
volts. I gathered all this from the conversations of the
adults who were standing around in a circle. I took a
closer look at the horses, the carriage and the driver, and
went as white as a sheet. The blood completely drained
from my face. It could not be! This old carriage was my
carriage! This poor carriage driver was my carriage
driver! These scrawny horses were my horses!
Why had the devil done this to my horses? A searing
pain rose up in my throat. I threw myself onto my horses
and hugged them. Hot tears streamed from my eyes
making the horses wet. As I stroked their hides I broke
into heavy sobs. Their souls had flown, their skin robbed
of its warmth. Their eyes, wide open, seemed to look at
me. It was a loving look, thanking me for the nuts which
I had given them on New Year’s Eve. The carriage driver
lay twisted at a strange angle on the ground. The poor
man. His life had been wretched and he had died a
wretched death. His mouth beneath the large moustache
was wide open as if he wanted to say something. I
imagined he meant to say : “Erol, you’ve come too late!”
A small hand patted me on the shoulder.
 “Come on, Erol, I’ll take you home,” he repeated over
and over again.
When I glanced back over my shoulder with tear-
swollen eyes, I recognised the other child. As he escorted
me home arm in arm, it seemed to me as if we were
walking through clouds. At times I could not make out
the pavement and tripped over. Through veiled eyes I
watched the people walking along the streets, and it
seemed to me they had swollen stomachs just like my
horses. It was a terrible nightmare!
My young body had experienced its first real taste of
pain in the rose tinted days of my childhood.
I made a point of never again walking through the
street where my horses were killed. Ever since that
fateful day, on every New Year’s Eve, during the
stranding of the Tel Helva, I can see in my mind’s eye
two horses leap out from between the strands, and gallop
off into the sky, disappearing between the clouds.
“Erol – daydreaming again? What are you staring at
so intently? Are you trying to catch a glimpse of sky
through the bars of your prison cell?”
 6 The sun slowly melted the
white bedecked roofs which
winter had covered. Corn
sprouted in the fields and
Madimak sprung up in the
mountains ( a wild vegetable
similar to spinach). Cemre
(warmth) lay in the air and
the air warmed up. Cemre
fell into the earth and the
earth warmed up.
Everywhere a damp haze hung over the earth.
The trees burst into clouds of white and pink blossom.
Blossom covered the mountains, slopes, vineyards and
gardens – everywhere there was a cornucopia of colour.
The scent of spring spread abroad in a great wave of
fragrance. Bees flew eagerly from blossom to blossom.
Cats screeched noisily from the rooftops, mating
unashamedly before the very eyes of the children.
Insolent, ill-bred cats! Have you no shame!
 Cows and sheep, their backs warming in the spring
sunshine, set upon the newly uncovered fresh grass with
great relish. They literally jumped and skipped from
sheer joy, occasionally leaping into the air and kicking
out their back legs at the same time in high spirits. White
woolly lambs and calves with almond shaped eyes peered
at us quizzically. When we tried to catch them, they
would skedaddle swiftly back to their mother’s side,
gambolling in the air. You should never try to take this
sense of joy away from young animals. It is a wise man
who does not begrudge young animals their joy of living.
As the popular saying goes: “Spare the life of the snake
who does me no harm”. Besides, what distinguishes man
from animals is that man has a capacity for compassion.
That implies that if a man has no compassion, he is no
better than an animal!
New lambs were being born in our next door
neighbour’s barn. We children were extremely eager to
follow the progress of each birth. Every child wanted to
know whether each new lamb was a girl or a boy. But I
was more concerned with the pain of the mother sheep. I
wish that the millions of people across the world who at
this very moment have a young roast spring lamb on their
dinner plate, could be made to experience this pain. If
they are indeed human beings.
 A pair of sparrow hawks had built themselves a nest
under my neighbour’s roof. I could distinguish the male
and female parents
by their colouring.
Each time the older
birds swooped out of
the sky back down
onto the nest, the
youngsters would
strain open their
beaks, and try with
great difficulty to
gobble up small
lizards and such like.
There was a nest of
chirping youngsters
every year in exactly the same spot.
How I have missed you, too, chirping sparrow hawks.
Why don’t you build a nest under the roof of this prison,
to come and keep me company? Won’t you please come?
Then I will just have to come to you!
Then spring had truly arrived in Sivas. On one such
beautiful spring day, Lutfu and I and another lanky lad
decided to set off for Abdul Vahab Gazi. Abdul Vahab
Gazi is the name of a place where there is a small mosque
and a mausoleum. The two buildings stand on an elevated
rock formation on the edge of the river Mismil. To cross
the river, we had to take off our shoes and roll up our
trouser legs, because there was no bridge in the vicinity.
We made our way across the river balancing precariously
on the stones in the river bed. Now and again the water
splashed around our legs. The ice-cold water of the
mountain stream made us shiver and made our legs go
red. When we had pulled our shoes back on again, it was
not only our feet which warmed up but our hearts too,
making us feel we could fly or easily climb a mountain.
Then we did just that, and started to climb up the cliff
face.
The path up to the temple was very steep. In the
process of climbing up, our feet would frequently slip,
sending loose stones cascading to the ground. Sometimes
we caused even larger rocks to break free and roll down,
and when they hit the ground we would let out a loud
triumphant cheer.
The temple sat on the apex of the cliff, like a hand
which could reach up and touch the sky. According to
legend, a bolt of lightning once hit the top of the cliff,
destroying half the peak, but the mausoleum and the
mosque remained intact. For this reason, the mosque
came to stand so close to the precipice that it looked as if
the cliff face had been cut away with a razor blade. If you
gazed down from the mosque into the valley below, the
houses looked like matchboxes and the people like ants.
Mankind! Is there any difference between you and the
ants? Even though you think you own the planet!
Now observe! Some of the flowers have contrived to
grow on a small overhang between the bare rock and the
wide blue yonder – out of reach of man’s trampling feet,
out of reach of animals’ hungry mouths. They were
happy, sacred flowers, so free and close to their Maker.
At this moment in time I would give anything to be one
of those wild flowers, instead of being a prisoner here.
Visitors to the mosque used to tie brightly coloured cloth
streamers to the parapet of the mausoleum. Each one
symbolised a given wish or hope. The idea was that by
tying on the cloth streamers you were ensuring that the
wish or hope would come true.
 The curator of the mosque opened the windows to
make sure the place was well ventilated. In the inner
sanctum, the smell of rose oil mingled with the winter
cold and the sound of silence through the open windows.
Isn’t a religion, no matter which one, simply the best
efforts of a compassionate saint to protect the weak from
the power of the cruel and merciless? The smell actually
emanating from the window was his sheer love for the
human race.
Some distance away from the mosque there was a
cemetery which could be reached by taking a detour
round the back. Grave stones bore witness to the worldly
status of the deceased. You could tell at once which of
the deceased had been wealthy and which had been poor.
But now they all lay together under the ground. No sound
pierced the abyss. We read the inscriptions on the marble
headstones. On some were written :
“Here lies our dear mother or father”.
The poor don’t have marble headstones. Simple
wooden crosses are the only sign that someone is buried
there. Does this mean that the poor deceased were any
less loving mothers or fathers? Of course not. But the
best loved mother of all is Mother Nature, who ultimately
makes no distinction, but covers all dead people with her
earth.
Finally we clambered back down the back face of the
cliff. We had experienced the legend of Abdul Vahab
Gazi at first hand. Had we visited this spot with adults,
we would probably have found it boring, as we would
have been subjected to their narrow tunnel vision of
things. Or perhaps they would have repeatedly scolded
us, saying things like :
 “Get down from there! Don’t touch that! How many
times have I told you that? How many times have I told
you this?” And so on.
The side of the cliff from which we had decided to
climb down was not as steep as the way up, but still
dangerous. Sometimes our feet would slip from under us,
the cliffs scraping away the leather soles of our shoes.
We could already see the angry frowns of our parents
who had worked so hard to pay for our footwear. Thank
God there was a cobbler in our part of town. Uncle Emin
could fix new leather soles on our shoes. He had to make
a crust too, didn’t he?
We had climbed down from out of the sky. To
celebrate our success, we shouted out to the cliffs :
“Hey – is there anybody there?”
Back came the reply from the cliff face :
“Hey – is there anybody there?”
We called out again :
“Is there really no one there?”
Back came the reply from the cliff face again :
“Is there really no one there?”
We tried once more :
“You’re a little donkey!”
Back came the cliffs’ swift reply :
“You’re a little donkey!”
Renewed shouting on our part :
“You’re a little donkey too!”
Came the prompt rejoinder :
“You’re a little donkey too!”
We laughed at the cliffs and they laughed back at us.
As soon as the level of our laughter rose, the cliffs would
also crank up the volume of their laughter to tease us. I
am assuming the cliffs were joyful. The cliffs were happy
and we were happy. A loving person does not restrict
their love only to living creatures - he loves to stroke the
cliffs, kiss the pretty stones, embrace the water, gulp
down the fresh air and say:
Thank God for everything!
Oh! The cliffs which rise up into the sky!
Oh! The cliffs which play with the children.
Oh! The cliffs which offer up the dead in their hands
into God’s care.
Oh! The cliffs which carry the mausoleum of Abdul
Vahab Gazi on their shoulders.
Take me too to your bosom,
Into my father’s grave.
I may be crying now, but in those days we laughed
until our sides ached. We were happy children. We
laughed at everything – even silly little things. Our
parents showed great insight, because they were the type
of adults who wanted to make sure their children were
brought up in an atmosphere full of love.
A strange feeling suddenly came over me, that the
loving walls of my prison cell could also bring me
echoes. I shouted really loudly at my cell walls :
“Hey, is there anybody there?”
I didn’t think anyone would answer me.
I tried again :
“Hey, is there anybody there?”
This time the walls replied :
“Stop screeching like a donkey, you arsehole!”
That wasn’t the walls, but the damnable voice of Uwe,
the prisoner in the next cell.
Rebel Erol, who lived inside me, immediately
answered back :
“You’re the arsehole! Otherwise you wouldn’t be
locked up in here!”
 “Very clever! And just why are you locked up in here,
Arsehole Erol?”
“That’s easy! To argue with you of course!”
All this banter appealed to Arsehole Uwe. He started
to laugh so loudly he let off a stream of farts. Why
shouldn’t I laugh too, when my walls are making such a
lovely echo and even laughing back at me?
What do you mean? Do you think I am as happy here
as those children in front of the cliffs all that time ago?

7 The sun came up and

the sun went down. The
next door neighbour’s
wife swept up the dust
on her front porch with a
swirling flourish every
day. The sun grew hotter
and rose higher in the
sky. The temperature increased. The leaves grew greener.
The acacia trees burst into bloom. In the tea gardens,
tables and cooking apparatus were set out. Flowerbeds
flourished. People thronged the parks. Schoolchildren felt
washed out with the heat. You could boil water in their
shoes. In the classrooms, the smell of the children
became more pungent. Then at long last the school
holidays began. Summer had truly arrived. We consigned
our winter clothes to the back of the wardrobe, and
nobody wanted to stay indoors.
My father was a patriotic civil servant. A young man
of the Ataturk revolution, an idealistic teacher. During his
talks on Ataturk he would roar like a lion, but at the
beginning of each month when he had to settle his debts,
he was as quiet as a mouse. He used to write all his
expenses down in a small notebook, added up the
amounts in his head and figured out how to manage his
income. The notebook remained a mystery to us children,
and we marvelled at his fastidious attention to detail. He
used to ponder over his notebook for hours on end, like
the turkey in Nasrettin Hodga’s joke who was always
thinking.
Oh, my dear father! I can understand you better now
and wish that you could have seen your son in this prison,
pondering like a young turkey who acts as if he will have
to spend his entire life in this prison cell.
My father accomplished wonders with his small
budget. He did not stint on our food, and often took us
during the school holidays to have a picnic at the
camping site.
On one sunny Sunday we were waiting for the bus to
Pasa Fabrikasi. We were loaded down with baskets of
provisions and picnic utensils. As we got into the bus, we
were greeted by the wonderful smell of leather and
metal . During the journey, the driver’s face appeared in
the rear view mirror looking every inch like a hero. The
trees at the edge of the roadside flew past us one after the
other, as if they were fleeing in panic from the armies of
some unseen enemy!
The bus threw up clouds of dust in its wake : the road
was not tarmacked. From time to time the cloud of dust
would envelop a local farmer passing along the road with
his donkey. Don’t worry too much about the poor
farmer : cars were very few and far between and it was
highly unlikely that another vehicle would pass his way
again.
A great Ottoman general had founded this picnic site
in the vicinity for the benefit of the townspeople of Sivas
- “Rest in peace, Pascha”. The picnic site was originally
named “Pascha Garden”, but when a reactor was built
there, people renamed the site “Pascha Factory.” Now
whether it was a garden or a reactor, one thing was
certain : this place was exquisitely beautiful. In the
distance you could see the historical caves of the hero
Koroglu. Legend had it that Koroglu had hidden in those
caves. As we children clambered up to the caves and
explored them, we would pretend we were Koroglu and
shout out like in a historical song :
“The gun is discovered – bravery has gone away!”
Rebel Erol inside me piped up : “Hey you, big softie!
You should also write that since the visitors to the
historical caves insist on taking a pee, bravery has gone
away as well!”
When our bus reached the part of the Pascha factory
which lay in shadow, our journey was complete. As we
got off the bus, we were greeted by a song by Ahmet
Ustun, which boomed out from loudspeakers on the side
of the restaurant which nestled on top of a tree-studded
hill :
“Darkness is everywhere – is that my tomb I see
before me, dear God”.
Oh dear singer! Why must there always be darkness
everywhere? The world is so light and sunny. But
perhaps he’s right. Let’s read on and find out what’s
going to happen.
The cutlets and meat balls were sizzling away on the
grill plates sending out smoke into the close
surroundings. Our noses caught the delicious smell of
kebabs mixed with the aniseed smell of the raki.

As soon as we entered the Pascha garden, we were

met with the instant chirping of the birds and a strong
smell of pine trees. Our picnic site awaited us under the
welcoming shade of a majestic pine tree. We spread out
our cloth, filled our Samowar (large old fashioned boiler)
with water and lit it up. Smoke rose in rings from out of
the chimney of the Samowar and the flames stuck their
tongues out as if they were having a joke with us. While
our mum prepared the food, our father took us
swimming. We swam, singing at the top of our voices, in
the mossy water of the reservoir. As this wasn’t enough
for my father, he dived into the cold water of a waterfall
on the way back. When he put his clothes back on, his
whole body was shivering. But he still found time to
tease us and make little jokes :
“Hey, Erol! Hey you little savages! Shall we go and
find lunch? Aren’t you hungry?”
When we got back, our mother had already laid the
table and lit the grill. We grilled the cutlets we had
brought with us, dished out the salad and slurped up the
tea. The grass lay like a carpet beneath our feet. The tops
of the pine trees swayed majestically in the wind. Now
and then a pine cone would drop to the ground. This was
probably the tree’s way of playing with us and showing
his love for us humans. But did we return that love?
We’ll soon find out.
Rest in peace,
Pascha. You planted all
manner of trees, but
children had already
picked the unripe fruits
from the fruit trees. The
birds continued their
chirping, the butterflies
fluttered to and fro and
landed on the meadow
flowers. The tinkling
sound of the stream
provided background
music. Suddenly and without warning, my father’s good
mood disappeared. His face clouded over as two men
spread out their cloth on the ground, and unpacked their
provisions and raki flasks beneath the magnificent pine
tree next to ours. My father’s eyebrows shot up in horror
as the two of them started to make a make-shift grill out
of stones, placed the gridiron on top and then proceeded
to look for wood. They then started to smash up the
pieces of wood and placed them on the grill.
The trunk of the tree where they were sitting had
already been hacked away by previous picnickers trying
to get wood for kindling. Every time we visited the picnic
site, we would try to repair such wounds by smearing
them with earth. One of the men started to scratch away
the layer of earth from the wounded spot with a hatchet,
in an attempt to start boring out the raw wound again.
The majestic tree could do nothing to defend itself
against this assailant. It seemed to us as if each cut of the
hatchet struck our very hearts. We were completely ashen
faced. My mother, suspecting they were up to no good,
said nervously:
“What are those two up to?”
My mother’s words did not help to allay our fears. My
father turned to her and asked :
“Can we spare some kindling material for these
fellows?”
When my mother nodded her assent, my father set off
towards the men with some cardboard and a small bottle
of petroleum in his hand, while I followed closely
behind. My father spoke to the strangers in a gentle tone
of voice which belied his mounting anger :
“Hi there! I’m a teacher. Don’t you think it’s a crying
shame to damage the tree like this? Let me help you light
your fire with this cardboard”.
When he heard these words, the face of one of the
men looked like that of a dog who had had his bone taken
away. He roared back rudely:
“What do I care if you’re a teacher or not. I don’t give
a toss, you dumbarse. We’re not in school now, are we?
Is it your tree or something?”
My father’s reply sounded like a shot out of a pistol:
“The trees belong to all of us. Pascha did not plant
these trees so that you could come along and kill them”.
The man dealt several deep cuts to the tree and swore
at my father using the most vulgar words I had ever
heard. The veins stood out on my father’s face as he
yelled out :
“I’m warning you, stop hacking the tree!”
The man’s face turned as red as a lobster. He stopped
swearing and started to thrash around wildly with his
hatchet in front of my father’s face. My father sprang
back to dodge the blows. My mother uttered a shrill cry
and grabbed hold of a stick which the men had not yet
broken up. The situation was critical in the extreme. This
hooligan could kill my father with his bare hands. I had
to do something. The Rebel Erol inside of me woke up
and I jumped like a coiled spring onto the man’s back,
clinging onto his neck from behind with all my might like
an octopus. In doing so, I managed to knock him off
balance. He started to make wild coughing noises and
drove the hatchet into my arm. Blood spurted out of the
wound. It didn’t make any difference to me. Go on, Mad
Erol! Go on!
I just clung on even tighter to his neck. My father took
advantage of the situation and punched the man hard
several times in the stomach until he fell to the ground.
He may have been a teacher, but he could still be crazy
sometimes. The veins were standing out on the man’s
neck, he was making rattling noises in his throat and
seemed hardly able to breathe. His friend came running
to help him and charged at my father, but my mother
brought the stick in her hand crashing down on his head,
breaking it in two. My mother was like a tigress.
Normally she was a very attractive woman, but now her
face was contorted with manly rage. I had never seen her
like this before. She scared me too. Then she dropped her
hand to her side – the enemy was eliminated. My brother
started to bandage up my bleeding wound with his shirt.
Pity about his new shirt!
The people nearest us pushed themselves between us
and tried to break us apart. The two men, who had
regained their composure, tried to renew their onslaught,
but the crowd stepped in to control the fight. Separating
warring parties was all part of traditional Turkish
morality, which unfortunately is going further and further
downhill. Just like in the West, people everywhere
nowadays like to watch assailants fighting without
intervening themselves. Formerly such a thing was
unheard of in our country. Despite the risks involved in
personally intervening, a Turkish man would always take
up his stand between the two warring parties.
Of course there was always the danger of being
injured oneself during such an incident. But if one of the
mediators turned out to be a “Kabadayi”, (a word used to
describe a brave man), and if someone tried to fight him
while he was trying to intervene, then he’d be in real
trouble. While the hostile louts were being dragged off by
the crowd, they called out insults after my father, cursing
and swearing wildly, threatening to get him on his own
one day and take their revenge. But at least we had saved
the trunk of the poor tree. Breathless from his ordeal, my
father smeared mud onto the tree’s wound once more.
But how much longer could it go on like this?
Changing the antiquated attitudes of ignorant people was
an uphill struggle. The only hope was that the importance
of nature preservation would be taught as a normal part
of the curriculum from primary school up. My father
never missed an opportunity to instil in his pupils a love
and respect for nature. As a child of the Ataturk era, he
knew that the fruits of his labour would be reaped in the
years to come.
We sat in gloomy silence on the bus during the return
journey from the Pascha garden. The bus stank of people,
and reeked of sweat. The wounded spot on my forearm
hurt furiously. Now and then I caught sight of farmers
with their donkeys caught up in the dust thrown up by
passing buses. They seemed to me like the guards of
Hades.
 I was totally downhearted. Instead of a picnic in the
paradise garden of Pascha, we had sampled a picnic in
Hell itself.

8 Time heals all wounds ,

but not the wound in my
heart. On the contrary, it
went deeper and deeper. My
young soul had been badly
wounded by this experience,
my joy for living and my
appetite disappeared and my
face was always ashen.
Noticing my inner torment,
my mother suggested to my father that they take me up to
the high mountain range “Yayla” for a much needed
change of air. My father agreed. While my mother
packed our old clothes into the suitcase, she gave my
brother strict instructions as to how he should behave
during our absence:
“Savas, don’t let your father down.”
As we were driving along the main road towards Zara,
dust managed to penetrate inside the bus, irritating our
throats. Many of the passengers held a handkerchief over
their mouths. Back in those days, buses were not
impervious, and dust easily found its way in.
The road travelled up hill and down dale. Whenever
the bus drove over large humps in the ground, many of
the passengers would be sick. Several of them couldn’t
help vomiting, because in those days people just weren’t
used to the new mode of transport. To travel on a vehicle
of that kind was considered a luxury. Anyone who owned
a car would walk around with their chests puffed up like
a turkey cock. They held their noses so high, they nearly
reached the top of the high mountains.
The few hills and mountains that there were amidst
the endless plains of cornfields were not able to hide their
bare skulls. The poppies and purple thistles scattered
among the corn looked like the traditional peasant fabrics
in brilliant shades of red, purple and green.
Our bus made a stop in Hafik. Hafik was a small town
between Zara and Sivas. A lot of the passengers stopped
to take tea – I chose to stroll around the town. So much
noise! This must have been the day of the weekly market
because I could see stall holders setting out their wares.
Everything smelt of cloth, spices and moth balls. At the
side of the cattle market, sheep, lambs and chickens
bound at the feet, waited with infinite patience for their
new owners. Poor little animals! In the next few days you
will be slaughtered for your very youth - your heads will
be severed from your tiny bodies with a sharp knife.
I was against the killing of animals from a young age,
but in my advancing years I consoled myself with the
reasoning that the knife, or rather a painless death, could
be an advantage for the animals, saving them from
having to face the infirmities of old age. It goes without
saying that man should let young animals enjoy their
happy childhood. So I also believed that a mature animal
should make a present of its flesh to man. That means :
anyone who slaughters an animal less than two years old
is committing a crime. May that same meat stick in his
throat!
I started up and walked back out of the market. A
golden sun sat in the sky in curious judgement over
everything. A few storks sat clattering their bills up on
the rooftops. I felt a wave of warmth well up in my heart.
This society considers storks to be sacred and does not
kill them. Oh beloved storks. How lucky you are. You
live like kings.
After the bus left Hafik, the hustle and bustle of the
market took over again from the sound of the bus motor.
Our bus rattled along the streets aggressively, as it
wanted to get to its destination as quickly as possible.
The dust clouds we left behind swirled into shapes above
the fields. As we topped the brow of a hill, we were able
to catch sight of lake Todurge with its reed covered
banks. It was possible to make out all kinds of
cormorants and wild ducks swimming on the agitated
surface of the lake, as well as storks and cranes,
skimming the water for food on their long legs. Look
there! There are some!
 When I caught sight of the old mill in front of me, I
knew that we had reached Zara. This old mill had always
stood in the same spot, patiently waiting to welcome
visitors to Zara.
The farmers loaded up their sacks of flour onto their
oxcarts. On the approach into town you could see the
tenement buildings with their yellow houses. The whole
length of the street with the tenement buildings was
brightly coloured while the pavements and the trunks of
the trees were white. Here and there, soldiers were going
through their drills, their guns slung over their shoulders.
“Left, right. Left, right”. But life isn’t always that simple!
As we crossed the boulevard which was lined with
permanently rustling poplar trees, the heavenly peace
which greeted us sent light shivers down our spine. Just
thinking about the city can make one shudder : “I would
much rather have stayed at home!”
My inner Rebel Erol cried out :
“Don’t make such a song and dance! You weakling!
You were always wild about Zara, weren’t you? Keep
writing!”
He was right!
Zara lay north of the provincial town of Sivas. It did
not have the prairie climate of Sivas, but a mild coastal
climate with a little more rainfall, since it lay closer to the
Black Sea coast. This is where the forests began, a sea of
green calming the eyes.
When we got out of the bus, our hair and eyelashes
were white with dust. We looked at one another and
laughed ourselves silly, as we shook the dust out of our
hair and clothes. The locals, sitting drinking their tea in
the bus station tea garden, stroked their moustaches,
stared at us and grinned. Silly people : they would have
been dusty too, if they’d come on our bus! On the back
tables, several men were noisily playing Tavla. You
would think they had conquered the world when they
won.
The following day I woke to the noise of pigeons in
the loft. Outside all hell had let loose.
So much serenading, so many love songs to their
sweethearts! Coo! Coo!
Our aunt’s guest room is like something out of the
olden days, the reproduction French bed frame adorned
with polished brass and mirrors. The new bed sheets
smell of laurel. In the mirror I can see a lad I know well.
That is you again Erol!
I go out onto the balcony. There is a lot going on
outside! A hawk is circling in the sky because he has
spotted a baby raven on the opposite barn roof. The adult
ravens attack the hawk in the sky with murderous shrieks,
to try to stop it from snatching the baby bird. Despite its
rumbling stomach, the hawk knows that it will not be
able to do anything against the combined might of the
whole flock of ravens, so it swoops away, abandoning its
prey. In a flash, the whole flock lands on the roof, in
order to rally round the young bird. The red roof tiles turn
black. The young raven regains its courage and strength.
They unite together instinctively, and then take off at one
stroke with the young raven under the command of the
native leader. Nature is full of mysteries. I miss the
ravens too! Why can’t I be a young raven who has just
flown away with its parents or the hawk circling in the
sky?
Suddenly I found myself back in prison once more
and asked myself the question:
“Am I in fact really living here or am I only imagining
that I am living here? Why have all you pigeons, ravens
and hawks left me here on my own? What have I ever
done to you?
Rebel Erol pulled me up short :
“Hey – you – sensitive Erol! I think you should carry
on with your story”.
“That’s what I’m trying to do – you insensitive
creature!”
The commotion with the ravens was of no interest to
the women in the room below. They chatted in clipped,
high-pitched, morning voices, occasionally laughing so
loudly that the walls shook. Their husbands had long
since had their breakfast. The breakfast table was now
relaid for the women and children. After I had nibbled at
a pancake, I went off with the other children to have a
stroll around Zara.
The walls of the houses outside reflected the rays of
the early morning sun,
just like in the song of a
Zara singer, Ince Halil :
“To shimmer on
house walls the sunshine
it seeks,
My lover invites me
to kiss her red cheeks .

The concrete street we were walking along stretched

right along the length of the river Kizilirmak. Between
the two was a beautiful fruit garden. The building on the
left was the school which during term time was filled
with chattering pupils. This building next to the town hall
was Zara’s cinema from which the Zarean women used
to emerge in the afternoons, red-eyed and weepy from
watching sad Turkish films. On the wall of the town hall
there hung a plaque inscribed in red : “Belediye” (town
hall). On the other side of the road was the large building
belonging to the council offices, where typewriters
clattered and townsfolk ran around with their caps in one
hand, paperwork clenched in the other, while others stood
deferentially in front of the officials, waiting for them to
sign their paperwork.
In the background, the mushroom shaped mountains
provided an attractive backdrop to the building. The
stone building to the right was Zara’s jail, in front of
which stood the local gendarmerie. Through the prison
windows we could just make out the faces of a few of the
prisoners who were in there for the most part not because
of crimes like robbery and the like, but because they had
been convicted of abduction of minors or involved in
boundary disputes.
Over the road stands the “Ladies Hamam” (Turkish
public bath house), from which the women emerge red-
nosed after washing in the hot water. Next to that stands
the town power station, which is very noisy at night.
And these houses running along on either side of the
road are the famous Halil Ince’s Konaks (traditional
famous old houses), belonging to Zara’s leading
dignitaries, which were for the most part built “brick by
brick” by Armenian builders. Doors and windows are
coloured turquoise. Front doors with stone steps mostly
open directly onto the pavement. The door knockers and
lattice windows are made of iron.
The front entrances
may be unswept and
dusty, but hidden away
behind the houses there
are magnificent gardens
stretching right down to
the river Kizilirmak. All
manner of mallows and roses grow there rampantly in all
the colours of the rainbow, as if they are trying to
compete with each other to see who has the prettiest
dress. Green-clad bean poles adorned with hanging beans
embrace the corn flowers next to them while singing love
songs. Huge pumpkin stems offer breakfast to the honey
bees in the form of pollen from their magnificent flowers,
while they listen to the enchanting music of the bees. The
morning sun holds a brush in its hand and paints the
“Konaks” resplendent with a glittering golden hue.
The inner rebel Erol angrily interrupted my discourse :
“Stop! That’s quite enough!”
(I tell you – there’s no chance of getting a novel
written with this rebel Erol chap around all the time).
“What’s up then?”
“What’s with all this literary claptrap? You should
describe everything in a more realistic manner. You
should write something like this :
“We environmentalists don’t like the type of people
who wax lyrical about nature while at the same time get a
kick out of eating young animals. And if someone
suggests that the weak and frail in nature should be
protected, these are the type of people who immediately
stick their heads in the sand.”
“Is that what you wanted to say?”
“Yes! I can’t listen to any more of your romantic
nonsense.”
(I told you he didn’t know the first thing about
literature. But hey! I must do what he says. But I promise
you : as long as rebel Erol stays asleep, you will have
everything described in a literary fashion. Until then….)
We sauntered across the market place. The smell of
freshly made tea wafted out of the coffee house while
from the bakery came the smell of freshly baked bread.
The butcher had hung three lamb carcasses at the front of
his shop, which he was in the process of cutting up. Then
he flushed the shop out with water. It wouldn’t take him
long to sell the whole lot. People who knew me called out
to me : “Come on in, lambkin”, and they asked after my
father.
A voice inside of me was saying : “I don’t want to be
your lambkin – I have just seen what you do to young
lambs!”
I thought back to the spring lambs who skipped for
sheer joy and who jumped into the air in high spirits.
White woolly lambs which eyed us up and down! I
remembered, too, the painful birth pangs of the mother
sheep. Had the mother sheep endured all this pain just so
that they could sacrifice the young flesh of their lambs to
humans? Stupid animals!
Rebel Erol piped up again :
“What you write is nothing special, my boy. You must
try to write so powerfully that your readers shiver in their
shoes”.
( I must do what he says, but how?)
“Do you think so? Like this, you mean” :
People in front of the coffeehouse were welcoming
me in, saying : “Come in, lambkin”, and asking after my
father with a smile on their face. I gave them my father’s
regards, but at the same time I imagined their smiling
teeth biting into the baby lamb’s flesh later on that
evening like hungry wolves. I politely acknowledged
those who asked after my father, but a voice inside me
was saying :
“I don’t want to be your lambkin. I don’t want to be
your lambkin! “
“That’s better, my boy, keep going!”
 “Yes, but I don’t like doing it, because I don’t want to
make people feel ill!”---------------------------
“Then you cannot call yourself a true
environmentalist, my boy!”
He was right! My father always made a point of
saying that the slaughter of young animals should be
forbidden by law and thereafter strictly controlled. He
was of the opinion that politicians were no more than
puppets of the people. Who is actually in charge of the
world? Is it the ordinary, everyday folk or the politicians
who live in constant fear of not being elected by these
very people? Yes – Rebel Erol is right : we
environmentalists must keep on nagging away at the
politicians like housewives, until they see sense.
Egoist Erol shouted to help me:” But that’s enough of
this subject for now, little Erol! You are only a child. The
lambs may be dead but thank God you are still alive,
because you were born into a privileged existence. It’s
not your body hanging on the butcher’s hook! Run off
and go for a swim in the Kizilirmak! Go on!”
After this tour around the town, it became obvious
that we all wanted to go for a walk alongside the river
Kizilirmak. Its historical name was Halis, the longest
river in the whole of Turkey. It originates from Imrali
near Zara, out of the “Kirk Goze” springs of the
“Kizildag” mountain.
While we were giggling and chatting, we hadn’t
noticed that we had already covered the long distance
back through the fruit garden, and the river appeared
suddenly before our eyes in all its majesty.
“Hallo, lovely Kizilirmak!”
“Hallo, lovely children!”
“We have missed you a lot!”
“And I you, my children!”
 The legendary “Kizilirmak” flowed rushing and
gurgling around the edge of the town, along sand and
gravel banks, at the edges of which lay vast fruit gardens.
A long wooden bridge connected Zara to the next village
“Tekke”. Now and again you might catch sight of an ox
cart or a horse rider crossing over it. We children took
great delight in standing under this bridge and listening to
the clattering din made by the ox carts and riders. Some
of the horse riders who wore traditional dress (Zivga and
Islik) probably came from Tekke. In Turkish, “Tekke”
means Dervish monastery. Buried in its cemetery lies a
famous Dervish “Sheyh Merzuban Mahmut”. According
to one story, he actually came from Horasan and settled
here. He founded this monastery to protect the weak and
to feed the poor, although he himself led an extremely
modest lifestyle. He lived in a sparsely furnished room,
living mainly on bread and olives. His monastery is still
visited today by people who have lost all hope.
If you like, you too can go and visit his monastery. As
for me – I’m off for a swim, as my friends are all waiting
for me!
The farmers had parked their ox carts at the river’s
edge and were cooking grits. Cauldrons were standing on
three legged cast iron racks, heating up over wood fires.
Everywhere you looked, cloths were laid out on the
shingle shores of the river. First the farmers rinsed the
grain in the river, and then assigned it to the cauldrons.
When the grain was cooked, it was laid out to dry on the
cloths. The smell of smoke, river and fish mingled in the
air. To my mind, the river “Kizilirmak” had to flow at
great speed past the town of Zara, to prevent itself from
one day being contaminated by the town’s sewage. But
its fears would be realised when it finally reached Sivas
and was joined with the town’s drainage system.
 The small brother river in Sivas, the “Mundar Irmak”
which stemmed out of the Pascha garden, had the same
fate, flowing with crystal clear water until it reached
Sivas, where it was soiled by the town, like the rape of a
virgin. Then the rapist renamed this clean river called
“Mundar”, “the dirty river”. But its older brother
Kizilirmak embraced it, simply resigning itself to the
cruel fate which awaited it.
The voice of Egoist Erol in me tried to console me :
“Hey, you! Kind hearted Erol! Put all these unpleasant
subjects to one side. I thought you wanted to go
swimming. Go swimming then, little one. The river
“Kizilirmak” is still clean here in Zara. What does it
matter to you if the river is polluted when it reaches
Sivas? That’s a problem for the children who live in
Sivas, not you. If you keep worrying about everything
and anything like this, you will surely go prematurely
grey, my son!”
Our feet were in such a hurry to get to the swimming
place as fast as possible, you would have thought they
were the ones who wanted to go swimming.
The river Kizilirmak flows swiftly during the winter
months, and its waters are red like its name “Kizil”. But
today the water was crystal clear, and it dammed up in
several places where the water was deep. Normally it is
quite shallow and flows gently over the stones making a
pleasant rippling sound. We headed for the spot where
most of the children’s laughing and shouting was coming
from, hastening our steps as we went.
At one spot in the river bed, the melted snow and ice
had eaten away the sides of the bank right back to the tree
roots, creating a gorge the depth of a fully grown man.
The children who could swim leapt into the water from
the trees, ducked and dived around for a while, and then
found a shallow spot to clamber out onto the bank,
rubbing the water from their eyes. The children who
could not swim played around in the water, keeping their
hands on the river bed, making it look as if they were
swimming. I know your tricks you little so and sos, but I
won’t give the game away!
The children were so cold when they came out of the
water that they had goose pimples. They hurled
themselves down onto the hot sand, covering themselves
in it, their teeth chattering as they talked. Each child wore
a pair of white long johns. Back in those days, maxi
white underwear must have been all the rage. They didn’t
venture home until their underwear had dried out.
Otherwise some of the children who were supposed to be
helping their parents would have been severely chastised
for taking part in the secret swimming which was strictly
forbidden.
After enjoying ourselves in the water we felt
refreshed. The water really seemed to have healing
powers. One of our friends made a suggestion :
“Shall we see if we can get some “Hedik” from the
farmer?”
As we approached the farmer, an old country woman,
her face brown and wizened from working in the fields
under the scorching sun, had apparently miraculously
anticipated our wish, and presented us with a plate full of
salted “Hedik”. Hedik is the name for cooked wheat. On
top of this, the generous old countrywoman also gave us
some corn on the cob. We found driftwood between the
stones and lit a huge camp fire, on which we baked our
cobs of corn. New strength flowed through my veins
again. I wished I could have been like the older children,
and jumped from the high trees into the water.
 Spurred on by these feelings, Rebel Erol started to get
undressed and tried to climb up the walls of my cell so
that he could jump from there into the water. I felt really
sorry for this young fellow :
“Hey you poor boy, Rebel Erol – what are you trying to
do? These aren’t trees, you know, just the walls of our
cell. Calm down, my lad! Come on! Come and try this
golden corn on the cob.
“What are you thinking of! You think you’re so
clever. All I’m doing is getting into bed. I am dead tired.
And what is more – I am not climbing up the walls, but
merely onto my bedstead”.
Then he pulled the soil coloured cover over him, and
over me also. Next morning I was awoken early by a loud
concert of creaking ox carts. The farmers were
transporting their wheat stalks, bundled up on the backs
of the ox carts, home in convoys. Every wheel of the ox
carts emitted a different sound as it turned : some
baritone, some tenor and others in tones of soprano. They
blended together in harmony to present a wonderful,
early morning concert. We children knew these sounds
off by heart. We used to run straight over to the ox carts
and grab a handful of wheat stalks. Behind the house we
lit them with matches which we had secretly sneaked out
of the house. This was how we roasted the sweet corn.
They were our “breakfast cornflakes”. Our hands and
mouths were stained black from the baked stalks. But at
least we didn’t have to throw away a cornflakes packet
afterwards. That’s the most important thing, surely!
We spent all morning up in the sweet cherry tree, and
didn’t come down until midday. The rosy red fruits hung
down between the green leaves. As soon as we
discovered some, we would shove them straight into our
mouths, spitting out the stones like a cannon onto the
ground. The cherries were our breakfast marmalade. Rest
in peace, great granddad, who kindly planted this tree for
us.
Today was the day the women had to bake their
weekly supply of bread. Firstly they kneaded the dough,
singing as they went, then they baked it in the stone oven.
The long, dark coloured loaves of flat bread were then
hung out individually on the line to dry, like washing.
They remained hanging there until they were used within
the week. Hence this room always had a delicious smell
of freshly baked bread about it. But the children were
strictly forbidden from playing in this room.Before eating
them, the dried loaves were brushed with water and
heated up in the wood stove. The re-baked bread tasted
every bit as good as the fresh. The women used this wood
stove for cooking in summer as well as winter. They used
their own wheat to make the bread and sour dough as
fermenting agent (the so-called home-made yeast).
The house had an enormous fruit and vegetable
garden. The beans climbed high up their poles, the
gourds and gherkins bloomed a golden yellow hue. We
ate fine skinned gherkins and aromatic red tomatoes,
which had been cultivated without the use of artificial
fertilisers and hormones. We stroked the brown tassels of
the young corn on the cob, and we baked the ripe cobs.
When you had the chance to eat so much fresh fruit
and vegetables, there was really no need to swallow
down additional vitamin tablets, was there? The answer
would be a resounding “No”, wouldn’t it?
We used to catch little fish which had lost their way
and finished up in watery graves in our fruit garden, and
then threw them back into the river Kizilirmak in
accordance with Rebel Erol’s wishes.
 After the evening meal, the women used to spread out
make-shift beds for the children on the ground, as they
were falling asleep where they sat from sheer tiredness.
The coverlets were thrown over us and we immediately
fell into a deep sleep, dreaming that we were back
picking fruit from the sweet cherry tree once more. For
we were healthy children who played all day long in the
fresh air.
At the end of their military service, the sons of the
house used to be married off. Every married couple used
to get their own bedroom, and every bride would
decorate her room differently, but there would always be
a wooden trunk in one corner for the bride’s trousseau.
Taking pride of place in each room was a photo of a
soldier, proudly showing off his wrist watch, since
wearing such a watch was the absolute latest thing. Also
included in every room was a family photo : a bride in
her wedding gown, a bridegroom with his hair slicked
back with oil (looking for all the world like a calf which
had been licked by its mother), bride and groom with
their heads tilted together.
“Look at this, Rebel Erol! Don’t you think uncle
Serafettin would look good with a hairdo like that!”
When the brides opened their trunks, you could hear
their gold bracelets rattling, and there was a strong smell
of moth balls. But here in this cell, all I can hear all day
long is the jangling of the warder’s keys, which grates on
my nerves.
In the mornings, the wheels of the ox carts would sing
their tunes, brides would stack up the mattresses one on
top of the other - this was how I spent my days until we
set off for Yayla in the high mountains. And yet here I
now sit, year after meaningless year, wasting my life
away in this prison cell!
 9 As our jeep bumped
its way along up the
stony, uneven roads of
the high mountain
range of Yayla, we
could feel the jolt of
every crater and large
boulder in every
painful bone of our
bodies. It would
probably have been
better if we had gone
on foot! The fierce, glinting rays of the sun blinded our
eyes as we drove west towards the sunset. Our driver
looked back over his shoulder now and then, muttering
the reassuring words : “Don’t worry, we’re nearly there”.
However, it still seemed to me that the road we were
travelling along had no end. We were caught up in an
endless journey.
As the sun gradually went down behind the bare white
cliffs, we could just make out in the twilight, the outline
of the tents at Yayla in the distance. A few tents, and then
nothing beyond! “Is that the famous “Yayla”, mummy?”
The Yayla women had already milked their cows and
sheep and penned them up for the night. Now they were
boiling milk over the fire in black, copper cauldrons.
All the inhabitants of Yayla had spotted our jeep in
the distance and had formed a welcoming committee. It
wasn’t every day that a jeep passed by this way, after all.
Oh God, who was this coming?
When we clambered out of the jeep, we could hardly
stand up on our legs, as they had gone to sleep during the
long journey. Oh dear!
My great grandmother pressed me to her ancient,
dried up breast, embraced me heartily and kissed me
wetly and noisily on both cheeks. My great grandfather
was well over 100 years old, still lived outdoors and lived
off the land, eating his own organically grown food. My
great grandmother was full of energy! She kept on
kissing me and kissing me. That will do, grandma!
Whatever would you have done if we hadn’t come?
The smell of burning cow dung mingled with the
pleasant aroma of the heated milk. Every now and then a
breeze wafted by, welcoming us with the beguiling smell
of the flowers from the far distant mountains. Oh Mother
Nature! How I have missed you!
When darkness finally settled over Yayla, we took
refuge inside our tents. We caught each other’s glances in
the flickering lights of the oil lamps, tore up our Yayla
bread into thick pieces and ladled out our milk soup.
There was a veritable glut of milk soup! It seemed to me
that they were all trying to get me to drink a whole
cauldron of milk on my own. Oh no! I can’t drink one
more mouthful!
The women had a lot to tell each other, but I had an
overwhelming desire to go to sleep. When I went outside
to take one last pee before going to bed, the vast black
expanse of the sky panned out before me, studded with a
million stars. A wave of reverent shudders came over me.
I realised in that moment that I existed in a black, never
ending universe. I realised, too, that without the sun, an
unending darkness would cover the earth. I could now
understand, something that my father once touched upon,
why people in years gone by used to worship the sun. Oh
my father the philosopher! How I have missed you! You
are always with me.
I must have frozen outside in the cold night air,
because when I got into bed, the covers wrapped me
around and enveloped me with their warmth. Then I slept
the sleep of the just until the first light of dawn.
I knew I had truly arrived in Yayla when I awoke at
dawn to hear the sound of the bells, some high, others
low, the shearing of the sheep, the bleating of the lambs,
the lowing of the cattle and the bellowing of the calves.
The shrill voice of some far distant shepherd reverberated
on the side of the mountain and came back as an echo.
He was up early driving his herd to the pasture grounds.
While I had been asleep, my great grandmother and my
mother had decided to make me guardian of the wounded
and lame animals, so that I wouldn’t be bored during my
stay. That’s settled then!
 I held a shepherd’s crook in my hand and had a
rucksack strapped on my back. My provisions, packed
inside a metal tin, consisted of a kind of primitive
ploughman’s lunch : a small piece of cheese, a few green
onions and Yayla bread. My great grandmother told me
where I should drive the animals to pasture, and what
time I should return home. So my work began. My herd
consisted of one lame cow and three sheep with their
lambs. And one small shepherd, straight out of town and
wet behind the ears!
While my small herd busied themselves grazing, I
followed on slowly behind them. They filled their mouths
with the lush mountain grass, munching as they went
along. Then they would turn round and stare back at me
occasionally to check I was still there, and make their
way slowly, limping from meadow to meadow. Perhaps
they didn’t think I was a proper shepherd! We must have
travelled a long way from base camp, as our tents looked
like tiny dots in the distance. All at once, the whole flock
started to disappear at lightning speed behind a hillock,
making funny limping movements as they went. I had to
laugh, even though I was worried at the same time that
my little herd might scatter and run away. I began to run
in the same direction.
“Hey, you stupid beasts! Old lame legs! Wait for me!”
When I had climbed, puffing and panting up the
hillside, I caught sight of a gleaming spring. My little
lame legged animals were thirsty. Up until that point I
would have considered it inconceivable for lame animals
to move along at such a speed. They had already
quenched their thirst with the fresh water. When I caught
up with my herd, I was thrilled with the sight of the
picturesque spring before me. Hidden in a deep gorge
with hills on either side, the spring gushed forth from the
cliff face and flowed, forming a stream, into the valley.
The water was crystal clear. It amassed in a natural stone
pool, making rippling sounds as it flowed into the bed of
the stream. The yellow cliffs formed into terraces, piled
up in layers one on top of the other. There was not a trace
of mud in the pool – you could make out the bottom quite
clearly. Even the animals which stepped into the pool to
drink failed to muddy the water. First I washed my hands
and feet, then, plunging my head into the water like my
animals before me, I drank my fill of the thirst quenching
liquid. The ice cold water of the stream worked on me
like an elixir. The sheep were right. I, too, would run to
get here just as fast next time, no matter whether I had
lame legs or not.
It was also time to start thinking about eating my
provisions, and the shade of the cliffs was just waiting for
me invitingly. I was in high spirits!
I ate my bread, cheese and onions sitting on the cliff
top and examined my surroundings. There were no
people fighting or squabbling here. Peace and tranquillity
reigned. The pool broadened out at the base of the cliffs
just at the spot where the animals came to drink – this
was more than likely man-made. Water flies swam across
the surface of the water, disappearing as soon as
something touched the surface. The sight of all this
unspoilt beauty had completely mesmerised me. Even my
mouth had stopped moving, since I had finished eating
my provisions. I remained sitting as if I was set in stone.
A flock of partridges arrived to drink from the pool,
madly flapping their wings. I wished you could see how
lucky they were. They didn’t notice me at all. They
scooped up the water with their red coloured beaks in
complete calm. They played in the water, splashing about
with their wings, finally abandoning the spring and me
with it. My animals were grazing and eating the tender
grass at the pool’s edge – why should I disturb their
peace?
I remained still for some time after that, as if I was a
statue of a shepherd! And then I experienced something
extraordinary : when the wind caressed my hair, it felt as
if God Himself was stroking the hair of this shepherd
with his hands. The shepherd wanted to show Him his
love, and shed a few tears of thankfulness.
The creaking of the door dragged me back to cruel
reality. The German prison guard opened the small
window in my cell door and passed me my supper. Ugh –
I could already recognise it by its smell. It was like
ordinary stew, made of potatoes and peas. When Hans
the German guard came round and collected up the plates
and dishes from each cell, he came over to me with his
eyebrows raised and asked why I hadn’t eaten my supper:
“Warum hast Du Dein Abendbrot nicht gegessen?”
(“Why haven’t you eaten your supper?”)
“What are you crying about?”
I replied :
“I have just had something to eat up in the high
mountains a little while back, thanks, and I am full.”
“What? Where did you say you had eaten?”
Hans surveyed me with his grey eyes from under a
thick pair of eyebrows, and then turned his gaze to the
manuscript on the table. His eyes were as grey as the
northern sky. He was right. But how was this poor man to
know just how bewitching the high mountains of
Anatolia could be. I didn’t answer him.
“It’s all very well, my lad, but if you don’t eat, you
will get weak and ill.”
It wasn’t just Hans, but all of the guards had a soft
spot for me – why should they dislike me? Wolfgang in
the next cell to me, had raped a young girl, and then tried
to cover up his crime by killing her and burying her in the
forest. He obviously came from a dysfunctional family.
My neighbour on the other side, Uwe the beer-bellied
alcoholic, had robbed his own grandmother of her life
savings, using force, and she lost her life in the process.
These were low-life creatures. A room with iron bars was
a fitting residence for such people as these. For they lived
neither in New York nor Hong Kong, but in a strong
communist country, where half the population was made
up of soldiers or policemen.
But what was my offence?
Hans and the other guards all knew.
The laws of East Germany had pronounced me guilty,
but Hans and his colleagues made it quite clear to me
through their actions that they thought otherwise. I had
been stuck in this damp, worm-infested cell in a grey,
East Berlin prison. Just look at it! The rain pattered
against the small yellowing hole of a window. What am I
actually searching for in this cell with its small window?
I grabbed hold of my paper and my pencil. I took
refuge once more in my memories, to help me survive a
while longer – as if I had a life worth living! Can you
understand me better now?
Hans crashed the window shut as usual and
disappeared. Then I fled once more to “Yayla”, where a
heavenly tranquillity prevailed.
My days flew by looking after the lame sheep and
watching the dancing water flies. And every night before
I went to sleep, I tried in my childish way to find an
answer for all of life’s mysteries, standing in front of the
wide stage of the never ending blackness of the universe
with its billions of stars and galaxies, and to discover the
meaning of life. Although I never found an answer!
 In the cold, starry nights of the high mountain range,
in the tent which smelt of paraffin lamps so strange,
in my warm bed where I used to lie,
my mother’s snoring was my one lullaby.

10 After a stay of
one month we
returned to Zara.
The corn was
yellow – it was
harvest time.
On my great uncle’s
farm it was peak
season for work.
Kurdish workers cut
the corn out on the
wheat fields. Kur-
dish and Turkish
people had lived together for a long time on friendly
terms, sharing the same religion and the same history.
They were brothers. You could only tell them apart by
their speech. They spoke a broken form of Turkish, much
like a foreigner trying to speak German in Germany. As
far as the Turks were concerned, the Kurds were on equal
terms – there wasn’t the slightest hint of discrimination.
They were the tenants of the landowner. They cultivated
the land, sowed the seed, harvested and received half of
the harvest in payment for their pains. One part of their
share of the harvest was sold to provide them with the
necessities of life. Even the flocks of sheep which they
tended were divided up and given to them as payment.
In addition to all this, my great uncle owned cows and
oxen. The cows’ milk was mixed with sheep’s milk,
processed into cheese and stored for the winter in huge
earthenware vessels. The end product of all these labours
was a superb tasting, blue-veined cheese. The cattle were
castrated on the farm and transformed into oxen. Bulls
were also kept on the farm exclusively for breeding
purposes, which did no work at all. But the poor oxen
drudged and toiled all day long. In those days, the oxen
were the farmer’s best helpers, taking the place of
modern day tractors. In spring, the fields were cultivated
with the help of the oxen; in summer the harvest was
brought in on ox carts and in the threshing room, the
oxen were harnessed to the wooden threshing plate
(Dogen). Each ox had its own name: Goldie, Motley,
Clumsy, Spotty etc. Some of the villagers had similar
names to the animals : Goldie Ali, Clumsy Harry etc.
An incandescent sun hung in the sky. I used to take a
turn on the threshing room floor with a Kurdish lad. My
threshing plate was pulled by Goldie and Spotty, his by
Crooked Horn and Blackie. Like the farm lads, I knew all
the names of the oxen off by heart. I was very fond of
them all. They worked like Trojans and ate everything
they were given. They were the unsung heroes of the
farmyard. We took it in turns to circle around on the
wheat heap. As soon as the oxen came to a halt, we
would tap their legs with “Nodul” (poles with nails
sticking out the end), to make them carry on walking. But
the job had its downside : if the oxen lifted their tails high
in the air and made to drop their piles of poo on the
threshing room floor, we had to rush in as quick as a
flash with the short handled shovel, to prevent the wheat
from getting contaminated. The dung was piled up at the
side of the barn. When one child grew tired of working,
both the children and the oxen would be replaced. The
threshing plates whirled around all day long. They
consisted of wooden sliders, the base of which were
studded with sharp, pointed stones. When the wheat came
into contact with these stones, it was pulverised.
“Hey, you Kurdish boy Ibo! Don’t hurt the poor
animals with your “Nodul”! Turn your pole round to the
blunt side. Just look! Their backsides are full of sores and
flies.”
The Kurdish boy replied :
“For goodness sake! What sort of a child are you
Erol? If I turn the stick round, I hurt myself!”
Just as the Turkish saying goes :
“Prick yourself with a small needle first, so you can
feel it, before you try pricking a large one into someone
else”. This saying is a universal truth, but I have yet to
see anyone putting these words into action. We used to
take refuge in the shade under an ox cart. We relished the
cold water or Ayran (watered down yoghurt) which was
brought to us in pitchers by the peasant girls.
“Lass, you are so beautiful, even with your unkempt
hair.”
 The days came and went and the stalks were separated
from the wheat. Now the grains of wheat had to be
separated from the chaff. That was taken care of by little
brother wind, who sometimes failed to put in an
appearance. If the fickle fellow didn’t make it, his task
was carried out by an artificial wind machine which was
worked manually. Using this machine, we worked for
days and nights on end without stopping.
The wind separated the chaff from the wheat. The
grains were put in wheat sacks, the chaff in sacks put
aside for the purpose. The wheat sacks grew fuller and
fuller, the sacks of chaff fatter and bulkier. The men
looked like monsters, their faces spattered in fine
particles of chaff. All the farmer’s neighbours were roped
in and worked in shifts in the threshing room. The other
children crawled into the beds which had been laid out
for them on the carts, chatted for a little while and then
fell fast asleep to the monotonous droning of the wind
machine. But for me, threshing nights were magical. I
liked contemplating the night sky. The smell of the
threshing room floor mixed with the smell of my own
body in bed. In the endless, dark universe, I travelled
from one star to another, from one milky way to another,
from one galaxy to another. Yet I didn’t feel any fear at
all, because my warm coverlet afforded me a measure of
strength and security. Besides which, the dark sky was an
old and trusted friend on the high mountain tops of
Yayla.
“Hey tiny stars! How have you followed my trail up to
now?”
Rebel Erol was so captivated by the black sky that he
was moved to make up a song :
“Hey, you stars! I bid goodnight.
Is there anyone who keeps us in sight?
 You are all so far away –
It is an impossible way.
If you want to know more about us
Send us some ambassadors.
They must see us how we really are

Hey stars, take a glance in this direction,

Send your message to every nation.
I stretch my hands out towards you,
My yearning heart is reaching through.
Listen to my earnest prayer,
Send your message over here.
Come and take a closer look,
Bring the heartless men on earth to book :
Foes of children, nature’s foes –
Save us from our earthly woes.
Save this Ownerless Planet.

Do you like what he wrote? Look! Isn’t he totally

obsessed with the idea of nature’s enemies all the time?
Anyway!
Harvest time came to an end. The wheat and chaff
sacks were despatched to the store room. Later the wheat
was milled, producing a fragrant wheat flour. In the long,
cold, windy winter months, the women would bake bread
using this flour, while the farm animals would chew on
the golden hay in the barn.
Don’t you think that’s a lovely sight?
Last night my dreams were full of oxen, because the
day before yesterday I talked to you about them at great
length. In my dream, my oxen came into my cell and
made the impossible happen : namely they saved me
from this hell hole and took my poor, exhausted body to
the sanctuary of their warm, dry stall. In return I stroked
them and kissed their sweet smelling forelocks. Up to
that point my dream was pleasant. But afterwards it
turned into a nightmare. In this part of my dream,
possibly out of curiosity, I crept up and hid behind the
balls of chaff, so that I could hear what the oxen were
saying about me. I heard terrible things. It would have
been better if I had never heard them. I have a good
command of ox language. They were not gossiping about
me, but about their own problems. I will translate literally
everything they said. First one of the oxen spoke out :
“I’m sick to death of this – you can’t go on eating
chaff day in and day out”.
Another one piped up :
“Hey you ungrateful ox! How would you like it if we
had nothing to eat at all? It’s knee deep in snow outside.
Besides, now and then we get some festive grains of
wheat and dried clover. Make the most of it, man! We
had to work hard during the summer, but now we’ve got
it made! And don’t forget: if we were living in the wild,
we wouldn’t have such a comfortable home with a
kitchen and a clean toilet. The men come and clean up
your droppings from under your feet. I am completely
satisfied here, as long as the merciless butcher doesn’t
come for us. I have an entirely different set of worries.”
“What worries have you got, then?”
“One day my master chained me up and cut off my
testicles. Since then I have no longer had any feelings
towards the yellow cow when she comes up to me. She
eyes me up, I eye her up. Then nothing. How come you
are staring at me like an ox? You blockhead! Don’t you
understand? I am impotent!”
“I thought you were going to tell us something more
important. You are not the only one. We are all impotent,
good little robots. But we could always lay down tools
and go on strike until our master gives us back our
manhood.”
An old ox standing in the corner bellowed nervously :
“You clumsy ox. You shitty anarchist. Are you trying
to cause trouble in this stall? If you carry on like this,
you’re going to lead all the stable dwellers to revolt and
at the same time to their deaths. Keep your head down
and your mouth shut. Eat your chaff and stop meddling in
everything. What goes around, comes around, my son.”
“What are you telling me? Am I your son? Are you
my father? A father who, just like in human films, rose
up at the last minute? How did you manage to get the
cows if you were an ox?”
“Of course I am your father, and not only yours, but
everyone else’s too. If you are interested, I will be happy
to tell you my past history! I may be an ox now, but once
I was a strong, good looking bull. Especially when my
mother licked my hair to one side. I looked so good that
when the girls in the cowshed looked at me, it took their
breath away!”
All the oxen laughed. All oxen love such jokes. The
clumsy one was also impatient. He groaned :
“Yes, father, I’m all ears”.
“Your mother was the best looking girl in the cow
shed. I fell in love with her. In fact I loved her greatly,
but now she has lost all interest in me. She is madly in
love with the black bull. She has no further use for me
because I am an ox.”
“So have I more brothers and sisters?”
“Yes, a lot. I had two daughters but they were
slaughtered when they were little.”
“Oh, my poor little sisters. That cuts me to the quick!”
The old ox pacified his son :
 “You see – that is the way of the world. That is why
you shouldn’t bewail the fact that you are an ox. Make
sure that you keep yourself healthy. Do some gymnastics,
go jogging and keep yourself in trim when you are out on
the pasture. Keep yourself fighting fit and eat plenty of
medicinal herbs. If you keep yourself in a constant state
of good health, you won’t be slaughtered, my boy!”
“Thanks, dad, for your good advice. I will do as you
say. Now you’ve got me frightened of the humans!”
A young ox with crooked horns standing in the corner
of the stall, who had been listening to everything
patiently, joined in the conversation. He was really angry,
and looked at the old ox so brazenly, you would have
thought he was a human, not an ox.
“Ah, there you are! The one who brought us all into
the world. The scoundrel who impregnated all the cows
year in year out. Despite the fact that the humans
slaughtered our youngsters and stripped off their skins,
and made the rest of us work like slaves, you still made
sure that the cows brought forth a constant supply of new
youngsters. Didn’t you have any sense of decency? You
blockhead. You braggart! You knew well enough how to
straddle all the cows, didn’t you? And you’re still
moaning on about your lost potency!!”
The old ox replied :
“My dear boy! The humans slaughtered your young
sisters because they had small udders. If they had had
larger udders, they would not have been slaughtered.”
“Hmm! Can you all hear what the dippy old man is
saying, everyone? Despite the fact that we spend our
whole lives producing milk, we have never been properly
appreciated by the humans. They even begrudged us our
childhood. We had to be either good milk producers or
hardworking oxen. If we hadn’t fed them, humans
wouldn’t have multiplied so vigorously and conquered
the whole earth. Father, you are a numbskull, a slimy,
bootlicking son of a beast! Up yours!”
“My son, have you no respect for your old father? But
I must admit – you are right. I really didn’t know all this.
Did I go to school? No! I’m illiterate. I am awfully
sorry.”
“I do not accept your apology, because you were
talking about your love. Your love has cost us slaughter
and forced labour. Chances are our sisters’ blood is
probably still on the walls of the slaughterhouse. You
show-off!”
The old ox became jittery :
“You impudent young pup – that’s enough! I knew as
soon as I saw your crooked horns that you were a young
lout.”
The other oxen couldn’t understand these exchanges.
They gazed around blankly like oxen who stare curiously
after a car. While the oxen gaped at each other, I heard
Rebel Erol’s voice, who had decided to add his two
penny worth. Let’s hear what he had to say :
“The ox with the crooked horns is quite right. I like
the rebel. He is on the same wavelength as me. Leaving
the oxen to one side, human love, about which so much
has been written in the history books, brought the humans
insurmountable problems as well as loads of children. It
was sex which frequently turned our beautiful world into
a living hell. If you read the history books from a socio-
critical point of view, you will notice that wars always
started in those countries where the birth rate was
incredibly high, thereby creating large armies. Wherever
there are large numbers of people, there are always large
numbers of unemployed who spend their whole lives
toeing the line and kissing the feet of the wealthy upper
classes.
It is quite clear : Sex is something beautiful, lovely
and natural when it takes place completely in private,
between intimate friends and above all with the consent
of both parties. But when a few people try turning it into
a business, or it becomes the sole aim in life for a certain
social group, and people start being exploited by it, it
then turns into wicked moral degeneration. A group
which finds itself in a situation like this is rotten to the
core, and stinks like a decomposing body. Sex without
consent, or unprotected sex traps people into the same
situation as the animals, who have no control over their
baser urges. The result is hundreds of innocent children
who have no respect for nature, and who are condemned
to a lifetime of misery. There is a German saying :
“Intelligent people lead comfortable lives, while the
stupid and ignorant produce children.”
Very good, Rebel Erol, keep talking!!”
He would have been quite happy to carry on talking,
but my dream turned into an even worse nightmare. A
host of hellish demons fell roaring and screaming out of
the sky to earth. Later I discovered that they were
inhabitants from the planet “Barbaria” from the far
galaxy “Torturia”. They brought with them highly
sophisticated weapons with which to conquer the Earth. I
cannot find words enough to describe how hideous and
strong they were in comparison to mere mortals. It didn’t
take them very long to lock up all the humans in stalls.
Anyone who tried to oppose them was whipped
mercilessly. Our well fed children were led out of their
stalls and slaughtered, their flesh grilled over charcoal
and served up there and then to the party goers. It is
difficult to describe just how terrible their parties were.
They drank far too much alcohol, screamed like jackals
and had sex openly with each other in public like wild
dogs. Most of the women from “Barbaria” were pregnant
and some even gave birth during the party, dropping new
goggle-eyed “Barbarian” babies where they fell, like cobs
of corn dropping from out of their sacks.
Stupidly I tried to figure out why so many new
children were being born, despite the scores of children
they had already brought with them. The “Barbarian”
children inflicted untold injuries on our natural world.
But the people from planet “Barbaria” believed it was
their sacred duty to procreate children en masse, in order
to conquer the whole world. Picnic fires which were left
unattended caused massive forest fires. But the people
from planet “Barbaria” didn’t give a monkey’s arse.
Some female readers of this book may be curious to
know what clothes the “Barbarian” women wore. To
keep them happy, I will elucidate a little : the
“Barbarian” ladies were dressed in similar attire to those
from earth – in this particular year, the “in” colour must
have been red.
One of the most interesting things about the invaders
was their speech, which sounded to me a bit like howling.
If they were unable to explain something, they would
make hand and arm signals since, like us, they no longer
had a tail to wag. When they were happy, they opened
their mouths wide and showed their teeth. They called
this “laughter”. I could understand why they had to do
this, but what I couldn’t stand was their behaviour, which
I shall describe to you now : To start off with, they were
money crazy. Their money was different to ours. Their
coins were not round but square, while their notes were
round. On the notes were printed pictures of their famous
leaders. There was no evil that they wouldn’t commit for
these round notes. Because they loved handling money so
much, all their commodities were packed in small
quantities, so that they could make even more
transactions. In a very short time huge mountains of
rubbish piled up all around the place, created from the
discarded packaging materials.
As mentioned previously, the invaders were cruel in
the extreme. They kept all our animals in cages. Our
lovely chickens became egg-laying robots in cages and
our pretty cows became no more than milk producing
robots in chains. And then came the “Barbarian”
technicians, who wanted to experiment with more and
more new genetic techniques, in order to make even more
profit. The invaders from the planet “Barbaria” didn’t
care whether the animals suffered in the process.
Everything was put in small packages : not only young
animals (some of them barely newborn), which were
slaughtered without thinking at a gallop, but also all the
other foods of the world were served up in the chill
cabinets, to earn obscene amounts of money.
Scattered all around the place were huge piles of black
covered law books which they had brought with them
from planet “Barbaria” in the galaxy “Torturia” without
thinking of all the bother it involved. They only used
these books for sitting on and chatting at parties. The
other thing I didn’t like about them was that they called
themselves “human beings from planet Barbaria.” There
is no way I can accept that. Only a true citizen of the
earth is entitled to call themselves a human being,
because as humans they are respectable, noble and
compassionate. In comparison, the residents of planet
“Barbaria” were extremely cruel. The word
“compassion” didn’t feature in their dictionary.
 Now look what the “Barbarians” are up to : they are
exploiting each other! The fat, strong Barbarians are
riding piggy back on the backs of the thin and weak.
They let themselves be carried aloft like the Pharaohs by
their inferior slaves. And yet when they are making a
speech, they use the term ”human rights” so often that
you get sick of hearing it. What do you make of all this?
Don’t you think it’s all poppycock?
You cannot imagine how much I detest these hideous
creatures. Like the other children, I waited with a noose
around my neck, for the moment I would be taken out
and slaughtered. On one side merciless Barbarians, on the
other side a sharp knife which would be used to kill us,
and there I was, little Erol, among all the other trembling
children. Horrendous!
When it was my turn to be slaughtered, I struggled
and kicked and fought for my life, but to no avail. I felt
the cold blade of the knife on my neck. As my throat was
cut, I could feel the warm blood spurting from my
arteries. With my last ounce of strength I cried out in
anguish : “Mum, save me”. And I awoke with a start,
drenched in sweat.
Now I am alive, but I’ve just swapped one hellish
place for another – now I’m in prison. Booming noises
came from outside, and I could hear cannon blasts. Still
half asleep, I thought for one moment that the brave
humans were coming to save me from the Barbarians.
But I was wrong. It wasn’t booming at all, but Wolfgang
the murderer snoring extremely loudly in the cell next
door . He was letting off a salvo of cannon blasts too,
probably because he had eaten too much bean soup
yesterday evening. There cannot possibly be a more
hideous racket anywhere in existence! Damned prison!
Damned nightmare! Damned life!
 Damned everything!
When I was completely awake, it suddenly occurred
to me that what was actually damnable was not life itself
but the people of the world. But hold on a moment : isn’t
it just possible that some of the extra-terrestrial
Barbarians like those in my dream actually came to our
planet in the remote past and their offspring are still here?
Isn’t it a great idea? If it were true, I would have wrongly
accused the innocent human race. This line of thought led
me to the notion that there were still some cruel
“Barbarians” living in the midst of the blameless
inhabitants of the world. I myself have turned my own
beautiful life into a living hell, and have landed up stuck
in this cell. Perhaps I, too, am a malicious Barbarian
living here on earth. No, that cannot be true either.
Because I am not an enemy of the natural world like the
cruel Barbarians. Therefore I cannot be from the planet
Barbaria. I am proud of the fact that I am one of the noble
and blameless inhabitants of the earth.
I stood up and knocked back a full glass of water. I
felt somewhat better, but I was totally exhausted. I bid
Rebel Erol to carry on writing. As mentioned, he has
more staying power than me. He didn’t leave me in the
lurch, but carried on writing. (But be prepared, he is
certain to milk this opportunity for all it’s worth and
make another speech.). Let’s see what he has written :
I would like to push this bad nightmare to one side
and take you back to the ox stall. But you needn’t worry.
Although we treated the cattle so badly, they didn’t turn
against us. That shows that they are very loyal and
lovable creatures. We ought to appreciate them properly
and grant them a decent time span to live out their lives.
If we did that and killed them only when they started
incurring the infirmities of old age, their flesh would
certainly taste better to us on moral grounds.
My alter ego, Mr. Average Erol, raised objections like
most people.
“You dreamer! When you grill tough meat, it has no
taste. Normally it is only the extremely tender flesh of
young calves and lambs or chickens which have not had
the chance to enjoy their youth, which you take to grill.
There is no way we can stop people killing young
animals, or keeping chickens in cages or cows in chains,
in order to produce cheap milk and eggs.
Rebel Erol was furious and he answered angrily :
“You have just escaped from the Barbarians, but you
still haven’t learned your lesson. You slimy bootlicker
Erol. You think it’s O.K. to kill young animals so we can
grill tender flesh. In the process, trees must also be cut
down and whole forests destroyed to produce charcoal.
Isn’t that right? Don’t forget that poisonous substances
can be produced during charcoal grilling which cause
cancer. Instead of grilling, I can stew any normal meat
over low heat in its own juices and make you a really
tasty delicacy that you could eat with your fingers. If you
insist on eating grilled meat, then let me make you meat
balls from minced meat. At least then you will get to
have the gaps between your teeth filled painlessly. My
first choice would be to offer you meat from an animal
which has led a normal life, and you could consume this
meat with a clear conscience.
Any more requests? Has the penny dropped at last?
You flesh eating vampires! Hideous Barbarians! If you’re
still not satisfied, make yourself some tender meat out of
soya to satisfy your appetite. But hands off the poor
young animals! Shut down the charcoal ovens in the
forests. Set the chickens free from their cages and the
cows from their shackles so that they can enjoy their lives
on the open pasture. Release all experimental animals
kept in laboratories back into nature. Otherwise I will
hammer you with my huge fists. Hey you Barbarians of
the world! I appeal to you! Do you hear what I say? I will
hammer you!”
Mr. Average Erol inside of me piped up
unsympathetically :
“I’m the only one who’s heard you. Don’t forget you
too are a prisoner, Rebel Erol.”
And yet Rebel Erol is right. I must not think like
everyone else. Like Rebel Erol, I started punching my
pillows in a rage, imagining I was hitting the Barbarians.
Oh, that’s better! That’s got rid of all my pain and
sorrow. I haven’t boxed in ages. This is a nocturnal
boxing match.
Oh, marvellous! Why haven’t I done this more often?
Then I crept into bed and went to sleep. Because of all
these thoughts going round in my head, I started to dream
once more about the cattle shed. But this time the oxen
were not talking amongst themselves, but simply eating
the hay in silence.
Just see how kindly and accepting they are.
I wish you all the best, dear animals.
Outside it was snowing. A fierce wind beat the snow
to the ground as if in anger. The snowflakes, which I had
sadly missed, calmed my troubled soul. I fell into a deep
sleep and had no more nightmares.
This morning I will try to tell you more about my
childhood from where I left off, before Rebel Erol wakes
up again.
The Turks consider wheat a sacred crop. It is a typical
Turkish custom that if a piece of bread drops on the floor,
it is picked up immediately, kissed, touched reverentially
against the forehead and placed carefully out of harm’s
way. Throwing it away or treading on it is considered a
sin.Oh dear! Rebel Erol has just woken up again and
started to grouse straight away.
“What are you secretly scribbling there behind my
back, Mr. Average? You traitor! I’ve read part of what
you have just written. Why aren’t you talking about the
bread in the towns, which you yourself have seen on a
daily basis being thrown into the rubbish by the ton load,
despite the fact that hundreds of children and animals in
the world are dying of hunger. If it wasn’t for the fact
that there are still a few good, compassionate and
courageous people on earth, I would have no hesitation in
wishing the universe would send a huge black comet
plunging to earth to wipe the ungrateful Barbarians from
the face of the planet.”

11 I spent the rest of

my school holidays
looking for buried
treasure. Are you
interested? Then let
me tell you all about
it right now.
The endless
evening conversations
of the adults resolved
mainly around the
topic of that year’s
harvest. But another favourite theme was the rumour of a
hidden crock of gold, which had persisted across the
years. The general consensus of opinion was that this
crock might one day come to light by being cracked open
beneath a plough or by a hoe. Time and again I heard
tales of wealthy Armenians who were supposed to have
lived here in the past, and who buried their treasure to
stop it falling into the hands of their enemies.
Looking the present day adults up and down, I came
to the conclusion that the Armenians could hardly have
accumulated much of a fortune through farming. But
perhaps the Armenians had been very hard working men.
Perhaps they had made a fortune through sheep rearing –
who knows? Anyway, I searched for the treasure during
daylight hours, but only succeeded in finding it at night
in my dreams.
And there was always so much gold. Crocks full of
the stuff!
But one day when I was out walking in the field, I
actually found some broken fragments of a crock in the
ground. Most likely it had been broken by a plough. As a
result, farm workers were instructed to spend a whole day
digging over the spot where the fragments were found, to
try and find the treasure. I stood by the excavation site
like an archaeologist. Each time the hoe struck the soil, I
expected to hear the hollow clang of a pot full of gold,
and my heart would start racing in my chest. We didn’t
find any gold on this particular day, but this exciting
event remained indelibly stamped on our memories.
I stepped up my search for the hidden treasure. One
day, while out with some other children, I discovered a
large opening in the rocky ground. The hole was wide
enough for a fully grown man to slip through, and
spiralled down into the dark depths. You could not make
out the bottom of the hole. We collected a few nearby
stones together and threw them into the hole. They
bounced noisily against the sides to the bottom of the
hole, and hit something which sounded like pottery.
Could this indeed be the fat crock of gold which I had
dreamt about for so long?
One of the children, his eyes bright with excitement,
offered to go in and retrieve it. A thought shot through
my mind, and I replied quick as a flash :
“No, no, don’t do it. The crock of gold will almost
certainly be guarded by an enormous, fierce ogre, who
will gobble up anyone trying to steal the treasure.”
The children started getting frightened and stared
around at each other nervously. Poor children, you are so
gullible!
Since it was around midday and nearly lunchtime, we
decided to leave the spot and go home for our dinners.
After I had gulped down my meal, I went to the door
and carefully surveyed the scene outside. There was not a
child in sight in any direction. I reached the cliff face
puffing and panting, ready to put my secret plan into
action. I had deceived the other children. I had been
brought up in a straightforward, honest manner by my
father, and had never ever believed in fairies, hobgoblins,
monsters or other such fierce, otherworldly creatures.
From my father’s point of view, such man-made
inventions belonged in fairy stories. Down below a crock
of gold was waiting for me. I wanted to climb down into
the hole, save the pot of gold, run home with it clasped in
my arms, and be feted as a hero.
But the hole was too dark. I was overcome with fear.
Maybe there was a fierce monster down there after all. I
tentatively tossed a stone into the hole. It rolled down and
knocked against the crock again. If there really was an
ogre down there, the stone would have bounced against
his soft body, and wouldn’t have made such a distinctive
earthenware sound. The deep voice of my father rang in
my ears :
“Monsters, hobgoblins and fierce ogres are made-up
inventions of people, my son, and do not exist in reality”.
That was good enough for me. I climbed into the hole
and started to clamber down. Suddenly everything was
pitch black. My body completely filled the hole, blocking
out all light from above. I couldn’t see a thing. The
threshing nights were dark enough, but at least you had
the light of the stars. I could touch both sides of the cliff
walls with my hands. My heart started to thump so loudly
that it sounded like the wind machine in the threshing
room. There was only one thing on my mind : to grab the
crock of gold and get out. Climbing down into the hole
had been easy. But the farther down I went, the narrower
the passageway became, and eventually my shoulders
became stuck. It was impossible to make further
headway. I couldn’t reach the crock of gold. The steep,
narrow corridor leading down proved to be too difficult
to negotiate. Just when I had decided to give up, the
harsh reality of my situation hit me. I could no longer
move and was stuck underground. My arms were pressed
tightly against my sides. I tried to move myself
backwards with my legs, but each time I simply slipped
back to the place I had started from. I had never
envisaged something like this. It was a one-way street
with no warning signs!
At every failed attempt I felt more and more hopeless.
My throat started to close up. Sweat streamed from every
pore. Now I was in real danger. No one would find me in
this hole – I was buried like the ancient Pharaohs together
with their treasure. These thoughts caused my whole
body to start shaking. Now I was in a blind panic. Even
worse, I realised I was about to burst my bladder. The
warm water ran down along my nose into the corridor
below. It never rains but it pours!
I shouted at the top of my voice :
“Help, help! Save me, mother!”
Not only could no one hear me, but the sound of my
voice produced a horrible echo, which just made me even
more afraid. From this moment I broke down. I began to
weep uncontrollably. I don’t know how long I cried for,
but gradually my tears dried up and I calmed down a bit.
Now I managed to find that same courage which had
enabled me to rush at my father’s assailants when his life
was threatened. I felt the same strength in my arms as
before, but there was nothing I could do about it. I
remained stiff as a board. A long time passed.
Then my heart started to beat with joy as I heard
voices above me, calling out my name loudly : “Erol,
Erol!”
“I’m here. I’m down here”, I groaned.
I heard raised voices, and then dust whirled up and
caught in my throat. I knew that someone was on their
way to get me, but couldn’t he have come down a bit
more carefully, instead of showering me in dust?
A child grabbed hold of my ankles and yelled :
“I’ve got him, I’ve found Erol”.
They brought a rope from the house which the child
tied around my ankles. Then they pulled me up out of the
hole, like a bucket out of a well. What a sight met my
eyes :
All the neighbouring farmers stood around in front of
me holding flaming torches, inspecting me in silent
apprehension. Oh, it’s night time already!
Silo the cripple was the first to break the silence in his
Kurdish accent :
 “Erol, you ninny! First you try to kid my son that
there is a monster down the hole, and then you go in
yourself. So where is your gold then, for God’s sake?”
Everyone present was shaking with laughter. They
had to hold their stomachs – some slapped themselves on
the thigh, others rolled around on the ground from
laughing so much. I was rooted to the spot with my
soaking wet trousers, and had to put up with their
laughter. Without me, these people would not have been
able to die laughing.
The torches they were carrying threw out an eerie
glow, and their laughter echoed around the cliff face.
That night I climbed back into the same hole. But this
time it was not so difficult to climb out. I simply flung
my coverlet to one side, and was immediately awake and
safe, since I could hear my mother’s voice :
“Did you sleep well, son?”
And that was my hunt for buried treasure.
 12 The urge to explore got
me into no end of scrapes.
There was a grey donkey
on the farm and the
children were always
climbing onto its back. As
soon as one climbed off,
the next one clambered
straight back up, as if they
were on a wooden horse in
a children’s playground.
One day I noticed the
donkey had no riders, so I decided I would go and
explore the immediate surroundings. After I’d had my
meal I installed myself on the donkey’s back.
It wasn’t long before I had left the farm buildings far
behind me. The donkey’s withers were hard, and I would
have felt a lot better if my backside hadn’t hurt so much.
First I explored a mineral spring, then the main spring
which supplied the farm. I pretended I was the prime
minister coming from town who was responsible for
exploration and unnecessary works. Do you get it?
First I got the experienced weeds, which were bowing
down before me and doing up their jackets, to give me a
report on the spring. I answered them with one word :
“Excellent!”
Peace prevailed out on the meadow. Just as we had
learnt at school, everything here was present and correct :
big cows and little cows. They stood grazing with softly
drooping heads, and licked at the grass with their
tongues. When they caught sight of me on the donkey (or
rather in my official car), they turned their heads in my
direction and stared at me with their large, round eyes, as
if to say :
“Who is this lad, and what is he looking for?”
They realised instinctively that I meant them no harm,
that I wasn’t really a minister, and put their heads back
down to resume feeding. Rude cows!
The water of the Gokpinar (literally translated as
“celestial spring”) flowed as a small stream into the
meadow, where it formed a small pond and then trickled
back into the earth. This constant moisture kept the
meadow green even during dry spells. Yellow
“Sigirkuyrugu” blossomed on the peak of a hill which
towered up out of the pond. Bees with furry velvet bodies
and brightly coloured butterflies sipped on sweet nectar.
A hare who had stopped to drink water ran off when he
caught sight of me, his white tail bobbing up and down.
“Hey – little one! Don’t be afraid. Don’t run away. I am
your friend, not a minister from town!”
At the edge of the meadow the golden stubble fields
began, stretching as far as the eye could see. Cream
coloured ground squirrels sat out on the meadow sniffing
the air, their little paws on their chests, only to bolt like
lightning back down into their holes at the slightest whiff
of smell or noise.
“Why are you so afraid of humans, my little ones?”
Enormous weeping willow trees which had been
planted by our forefathers stood on the meadow. Now
and then a gentle breeze caused their fine, drooping
branches to sway, just like the flowing tresses of a pretty
girl blowing in the wind.
A young Kurdish shepherd who already had his own
flock to look after grinned at me with a blinding white
smile. Just look at his white teeth! Do you suppose he got
such pearly white teeth from brushing his teeth every
day? Because I didn’t know what to say to him, I shoved
my hand in my pocket and pulled out a handful of roasted
chick peas which I had stashed away for my journey. He
was overjoyed, threw them one by one high into the air
with his sun tanned hand, caught them in his mouth and
crunched them up noisily. Then he took some roast cobs
of corn from out of his own pocket, which his mother had
given him, and offered them in turn to me.
I whistled tunefully like a young shepherd while I
watered my donkey. My whistling was so moving it
stirred the grey donkey into singing an aria!
“Oooh! I am a happy donkey,
I run very quickly.
I often drink cold water
Which makes me run faster.”
On the path up into the mountains my donkey broke
into a wild trot. He probably thought that I was an
experienced cowboy. Go slowly my four legged friend –
otherwise I will fall off.
When we reached the top of the first hill, the view
changed. Our farm stood on a huge terrace and the hills
lying behind them towered over one another. A smaller
track wound its way like a snake through the mountains. I
was riding along this with my donkey. A huge, grey-
brown locust with a vibrant orange underbelly landed on
my arm. I jumped to the ground and the locust remained
calmly where it was. While I was taking a pee, I took a
closer look at the beautiful insect. It had serrated, blade-
like legs, suitable for clinging onto leaves.
My grey donkey took the opportunity to nibble on a
few blades of grass, but when I tried to approach him to
get back on, he obviously had other ideas about me
having another ride, because he did a quick side-step
away from me so that he could concentrate on grazing in
peace. Every time I tried to get near him the same thing
happened. In the end, my donkey decided to set off again,
but unfortunately without me. I ran along like a fool
behind him. When I ran, he started to run too. If I walked
slowly, he ambled along too, snatching at a few blades of
grass as he went along. But I never managed to get close
enough to be able to get back onto his back. I’d never
imagined I would find myself in this situation.
Now I could truly understand the saying : “as
stubborn as a mule.” I had no other choice but to follow
the animal, because if I returned to the farm alone I was
sure to be scolded. Damned jackass - I got the feeling he
would never stop. This son of an ass just kept on going
with me following on behind.
The sun was getting ready to go to sleep, and
graciously granted me its last dying rays to try and catch
my donkey. But in vain!
In the meantime we eventually reached the summit
and started back down the mountain. If only someone
could have appeared on the scene and helped me to catch
the donkey. That would have been great – but no such
luck! Not a rescuer in sight for miles.
The surrounding flora was different on this side of the
mountain : there were pine trees and thickets. From here
the land started to grow green and flourish. A bush of
cranberry was growing profusely near a group of rocks. I
ran over to it and plucked a handful of this untouched
delicacy, and started to eat them. The karamuk is a type
of dark violet coloured berry with a sour-sweet taste
which is found in the mountains. My mouth and my
hands were stained blue from the berry juice. The
donkey, who was resting too, grinned at me as if to say :
“Why shouldn’t I try some too, you bumpkin?”
Then he began to taste several karamuk branches. I
made a mental note to myself :
“Go on, Erol, get on with it!”
The donkey must obviously have had the same thing
on his mind, because we both set off again at exactly the
same time. Now we had the same set up as before : the
donkey out front with me bringing up the rear. The
mountain slopes on this side were much lovelier to look
at – it was just a shame that it was getting dark. I would
have to come back here again another day – without this
obstinate donkey.
Far down below in the valley flowed a stream with
houses on its banks. A small village! I could just make
out a few people who were out working in their gardens.
Thank God! At least there’s somebody here. The happy
cries of the village women and children wafted up to me,
mixed with the braying of a donkey. Now my own
donkey started to call out.
The donkey in the village must have been a female,
because my own donkey, its mouth wide open revealing
its yellow teeth, started to bray back with such an ear-
splitting noise that it almost deafened me. EE aw! EE aw!
At the same time he made a dash for the village with me
running after him. When my singing donkey and I
reached the village, both galloping at a furious pace – he
unmistakably a sexy jackass with his awful red willy
hanging down, and me following closely on his tail, some
of the villagers who had witnessed our arrival could not
suppress a mocking grin. Some even roared with
laughter.
I called out to the man nearest me : “Uncle, please
catch my donkey.”
The peasants grasped the situation at once and reacted
in a practical way, for the man grabbed hold of the reins
at lightning speed, bringing my donkey to a halt and
helped me to climb back on. I inhaled so deeply that all
the air from the valley seemed to stream into my lungs.
Turning towards the mountain, I asked the man with
some misgiving:
“Uncle, do you think I will be able to find my way
back O.K. in the dark?”
He replied with a smile on his face :
“Don’t worry son – you might not be able to, but your
jackass will.”
The man shouted after me :
“Who are your parents, lad? What is your name?”
Why did he want to know my name? I suddenly
remembered the title of a book of fairy-tales which I had
taken along with me to read during the school holidays,
and it gave me the inspiration for a name. I replied :
“I am called the knight with the grey donkey.”
He didn’t understand a word.
“What? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That means the man who fights against evil. A
nobleman.”
 He grinned after me without having understood. I
smiled to myself. That is the town kid’s sense of humour.
He couldn’t understand it.
The way back up the mountain was steep and very
hard going for the donkey. I said to him :
“This is all your fault, my lad. You brought this all on
yourself. So now you’ll just have to put up with the
consequences of your actions.”
He must have understood me, because he kept quiet.
He carried on walking and listened to me, staring down at
the path with his pretty eyes. The cute creature! I
continued to impart further words of wisdom to him :
“You hooligan! Shame on you. Showing your willy to
all and sundry like the so-called sophisticated humans. I
was ashamed of your behaviour. Don’t you ever do that
again! Promise me!”
He kept silent, but I think he showed by blinking that
he agreed with my advice. He wasn’t so stupid after all! I
like him!
I am sure that he will behave himself in future.
When we reached the summit it was pitch dark. But
my donkey knew the way blindfolded, and had soon
forgotten all about his sweetheart in the valley. Gradually
it became chilly. I was only wearing a thin shirt, but the
warm body of the donkey kept both my body and my
soul warm. I trusted him.
In any case, I had no other choice!
He may have had no fear, but faced with the pitch
darkness and the seemingly endless bridle path, I began
to feel afraid myself. Then I remembered my father’s
words : “If you are ever afraid of the dark, just start
singing and you will feel better”.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t remember the words to any
one song all the way through. All I could think of was:
 “May no one ever build a house on the hills.
May no one give a bride to foreign lands.
May no one ever scorn a mother’s only child.
May the flying birds foresee that I have missed my
mother greatly.
That I have missed my father greatly.
That I have missed my village greatly.
May my father get a horse and ride to save me.”
………………………………………..!
That is all I can remember of this song. Pity. Instead
of singing, I decided to have another chat with the grey
donkey, and to tell him everything. I will recount the
entire conversation here :
“Now look here you playboy. You fell in love with
the girl donkey in the village didn’t you. But you didn’t
even know her. When the neighbouring women were
chatting, I heard them say that you should only marry
someone whose character you know in advance. You can
take advantage of this piece of advice. Do you know
anything about this girl? No, you do not. You fell in love
with her the moment you heard her voice on the
mountainside, and ran down to her like a braying donkey.
You mustn’t rush at girls like this, my lad. You must be
gentlemanly and sensitive. You should have first shot her
a seductive glance. Girls like that sort of thing, my lad.
But what did you do? I’m too ashamed to talk about it.
Look here : there is a famous Turkish saying :
“Control your hand, your tongue and your abdomen.”
There’s no problem with your hand. You didn’t steal
anything from the cornfield in the valley. Bravo! You are
always quiet. That is also commendable. But you have no
control over your lower half. What on earth did you look
like down there? Oh!
 Don’t forget what my father always used to say : “the
greatest root of evil is usually sex.”
I am telling you all this for your own benefit.”
Yes, it’s true. Chatting with the donkey had in fact
dispelled my anxieties. I wanted to carry on talking but
the chirruping of the crickets and the noise of the other
insects joined together into a veritable concert which kept
me fascinated along the way. Perhaps the insects also
sing at night to allay their fears. Chirrup!! Chirrup!!
I could recognise the sound of rattling hooves in the
distance. Could it be robbers who wanted to waylay me?
No, it must be my father who has ridden out to save me.
What nonsense! My father is 70 kilometres away and is
more than likely poring over his monthly expenses. It
must be a robber.
But it was only Silo’s eldest son who was out looking
for me. A lovely feeling of joy welled up inside me.
“Erol, you naughty boy!”
“Hasso, is that you?”
“ Do you know what! Your uncle is bound to lock you
in your room tomorrow, and you’ll wet your pants again
like you did before.”
“Is he very angry?”
“Wait and see.”
We arrived back at the farm singing at the top of our
voices.
So it was we grew up in a brotherly fashion with
people of Kurdish origin, from whom we were separated
in later life through man-made racism. What is the point
of such divisiveness – our lives are too short for racism
and patriotism. Let’s live as brothers. Let’s share the
problems. Let us embrace Mother Nature together.
Since that time, I have never once bothered about
stubborn donkeys again, and every time I see a grey
donkey, I remember with grateful thanks the ride through
the fascinating landscape, the donkey’s thwarted love
affair, and the nightly concert of the insects under the
starlit sky.

13 The school holidays had

come to an end, the school
buildings were reopened and
autumn arrived with its
brightly coloured leaves. The
north wind blew the yellow,
light red and purple coloured
leaves from the trees and
swept them up into swirling
heaps at the street corners.
You whirling wind – you are always playing.
What a pleasure it was to tread on the rustling fragrant
leaves, running to and fro in the warm sunlight.
At the weekly market, wasps flocked around the
bunches of grapes which were stacked on top of each
other in crates, as if they had all been brought here
specially just to feed them.
There are scavengers like the wasps looking for
bargains everywhere, aren’t there? Vegetable sellers
polished their yellow quinces with a cloth and sang out
loudly until the veins stood out on their necks :
“Yellow quinces, juicy quinces, who’ll buy my lovely
yellow quinces?”
But they weren’t being completely truthful. If they’d
been totally honest, they would have been calling out :
“Yellow quinces, quinces which stick in your throat.”
An old woman, her back bent double, stood behind a
mountain of white cabbages, sorting out the leaves which
had fallen to the ground, to take home and feed to her
cows. Golden onions were weighed out on hand scales
and emptied into string bags.
A one-armed beggar spread his cloth out at the market
entrance. Visitors to the market took pity on him and
threw down Yuzpara (old Turkish pennies with a hole in
the centre). The beggar secretly counted the Yuzparas,
totting up the level of his day’s takings. It looked as if
he’d made a killing today. I disapprove of such takings.
There must surely be some society which could offer the
disabled the chance to earn their livelihood through
suitable work.
The farmers purchased free-range eggs in baskets. A
housewife wearing a pair of glasses picked up every egg,
putting it to her ear and shaking it to check whether it
was fresh, and then put the eggs into a paper bag. You are
a clever housewife!
My father reached inside his wallet to see if he had
enough money for a kilo of spinach. He was always
teaching us the Turkish saying which recommends
frugality : “It takes many droplets to make a mighty
ocean.” (Look after the pennies, and the pounds will look
after themselves). But his wallet had virtually dried up
again. Even so, he still managed to find a few pennies to
buy some spinach, because he was of the opinion that
spinach was one of those home-grown vegetables which
you should eat preferably day and night.
Four screaming children kept pleading with their poor
mother to buy them some Simit (a type of sesame seed
biscuit). She in turn tried to silence them with a light
pinch. This of course only made the children bawl even
louder. In her anger, the mother started to strike her
eldest son on the back so hard that his lungs almost
popped out – as if his back was some kind of drum, and
the woman was the drummer. Boom, boom! Everyone
turned their heads round to watch the drum concert going
on in this poor family.
The mother hit her son again. Her nerves were on
edge and she was highly pregnant. I assumed that the
baby inside her had no idea of the drama unravelling
itself right in front of him outside. I was seeing all this
from my childish point of view at the time. But today I
have more experience of life, and can comment in quite a
different manner. The reason that this mother resorted to
such violence was simply due to the exhausted state she
was in, combined with deep depression because of her
large number of children, not to mention the financial
difficulties. She was carrying a large basket and her
children collected up all the discarded vegetables and
fruit from the weekly market, and placed them in the
basket ready to take home. Poverty and too many
children brought accidentally into the world were making
this poor woman’s life a living hell. If only someone
could have helped this woman somehow by showing her
how to exercise birth control, she wouldn’t have found
herself in this terrible fix, and she would have been able
to enjoy her life more with fewer but happier children.
This woman is only one example of the millions of
women in the world who have no hope.
 Perhaps I am completely wrong. Perhaps everyone
except me is happy and satisfied. But why did this
mother feel the need to strike her child like a drum in the
weekly market?
The lad was only after a sesame ring for goodness
sake! If I had been that lad, I wouldn’t have cried like a
child, but I would have shouted like this : “You primitive
grown ups. Why did you have children, if all you were
going to do was beat us like a Ramadan drum at the
weekly market?”
Mr. Average Erol, who lived inside my head, shut me
up :
“You loutish boor! You’ve started philosophising
again. Let people have as many children as they like –
it’s up to them. They should also be left to solve their
own problems. What business is it of yours? You smart
Alec! It has always been this way and always will be.
We should live for pleasure. Look on the bright side
of life. Take time to see how good the red apples look
there. How nice the yellow quinces smell.
Learn how to find the right path once more. Come on!
Now you’re on the right track. Apart from anything else,
if we have a lot of children, we can create great armies
and conquer and subjugate other countries like Easterners
and Westerners did. We could establish great empires
and colonies and call our leaders names like : Darius the
Great, Karl the Great, Constantine I the Great, Otto I the
Great, Peter I the Great, Abbas I the Great.
Rebel Erol woke up and put his oar in :
“Good – you write well, author Erol!” But what would
you call me if I was a powerful leader? Erol III the
Great? No, I wouldn’t like that. I’d rather be called Erol I
the Small! Now I am going to tell you a satirical story
about a great emperor.
 “There was once a great king who waged war
everywhere, subjugating the neighbouring lands under
his control. As soon as all the young men in his country
had grown up and were proficient with a sword, he had
them all rallied together without exception, and trained as
soldiers to conquer and subjugate other lands. In this way
he managed to continuously increase the size of his
empire.
In one village in this country there lived a poor farmer
who had a lot of sons. Every year the king’s soldiers had
come and taken away one of his grown up sons. So it was
that the poor father had lost all of his seven sons, apart
from one young lad, because they had all died in battle.
When he had brought his eighth son to manhood after
great trials and tribulations, the king’s soldiers appeared
on the scene once more to call the lad up for military
service. The father was so angry, he objected this time
most vociferously, saying :
“ Go back and tell your king that this time I am
refusing to let him have my last son. Send him my
greetings and tell him he can no longer rely on my potent
penis to help him conquer more and more new lands.”
(If you had been a father in the same position,
wouldn’t you have said much the same thing?)
Because of the enormous insult to the king, the
soldiers immediately strung the father up from a tree, cut
off his potent penis, throwing it to the hounds for food,
and dragged the howling lad off to war.”
“There. Did you like that?”
Rebel Erol’s story comes to an end here. Now I can
carry on writing.
The weekly market smelt of cabbage, carrots, quinces
and Alutsch (a local fruit). A gramophone on the stall of
a man selling records was playing the heart rending song
by Yildiray Cinar : “Oh, you world of the living, your
rhythm was never the same as mine.”
“Oh singer, you are so right. I walk to the beat of a
different drum!”

14 In the schools, the

children started filling up
the classrooms once more.
Grasping their sticks of
chalk , the teachers started
to shout and write the
lessons for us on the
blackboards, as if they
were miracle makers.
New deliveries of
books still carried the
smell of the printing press,
and the newly sharpened pencils smelt of wood. For us
children, all these things were far more important than
the actual lessons themselves.
When the teacher entered the classroom, all the
children had to leap up and shout out in unison : “Good
morning”, military style. Afterwards we always had to
sing the same morning song :
“I am Turkish,
 I am upstanding,
I am hardworking,
It is my aim
To protect the smaller children,
To respect my elders.
I pledge myself to the Turkish cause.”
Pledging is all very well, but what do you do with so
many pledges when one day they become superfluous.
How can you create a good future for all the children?
In the mornings we would run into school clutching
our wooden satchels, each time catching a glimpse of our
close-cropped skulls in the cloakroom mirrors as we ran
past.
As soon as our hair started to grow a little, we fancied
ourselves as really good looking. But our joy was always
short-lived. For as soon as our hair grew so much as two
centimetres, the large hand of a teacher would catch hold
of the offending long tufts, and a voice would boom
above me :
“What’s the meaning of this long hair, Erol? You look
like a tramp!”
I would then have to stop off at the barbers on the way
home. The barber’s shop was filled with the pleasant
smell of eau de cologne, but when I was in there and had
to take my place in the chair, I always felt like a
condemned man who had to sit in the electric chair. The
enormous safety razor stripped away all my pride and left
my head looking like a stubble field. The hateful mirror
bore witness to this sadistic, catastrophic event. My face
looked like a wet week.
To make matters worse, I actually had to pay not only
the instigator of this tragedy, but also his hell-cat
assistant, who had blown away the last vestiges of my
hair which had been seeking sanctuary on my shoulders.
 The nightmare had still not ended. I could see in the
mirror a bald-headed ghost, a child carrying my wooden
satchel who looked like me, and who walked out of the
shop with me.
How lucky it must be to be a tramp!
I was fed up. The hateful, bald image reflected in the
mirror stared back at me every time, and I was able to
work out the wind direction all day long with the aid of
my head. To make matters worse, the stubble was so
prickly, that every time I ran my hand over my head, it
felt like stroking a hedgehog!
I wanted my hair back! I wanted the same kind of hair
as Samson. In Jewish mythology, Samson managed to
destroy the gigantic pillars, but he lost his strength when
his hair was cut off. With me it was totally the opposite.
After I had lost my hair, I could quite happily have
demolished the entire school building.
Next day the teacher said to me: ”That’s better, Erol. I
like the look of you now!” And I would always nod in
agreement : “Yes, indeed, sir.” But in my mind I would
grab hold of him, drag him off to the hairdressers, strap
him into the aforementioned chair, mutilate his scalp in
exactly the same way, and finally congratulate him with
the words : “You look really good, sir, I like you like
that.”
I have always longed to do something like that, but
I’ve never managed it yet.
There were also ill children amongst us. Salih was
always wetting himself, and none of the kids would sit
next to him except me. I sat next to him, not because I
liked the smell of pee, but I put up with the smell because
I felt sorry for him. That was the influence of the Rebel
Erol inside of me, which made me feel compelled to sit
next to him. Sabri suffered from epilepsy, and was
always falling on the floor and having fits and
convulsions. At break times, the other kids would play
outside, while I would stay by his side with Rebel Erol,
until he recovered.
Pale faced Ahmet had tuberculosis and was in love
with the fat, long-nosed, white skinned Hayriye. When
we heard one day of Ahmet’s sudden death, a rumour
spread amongst the children that he had died of a broken
heart. Poor Ahmet! To be struck down in the springtime
of his life because of an unrequited love. There is no
difference between where you are and where I am.
His place on the school bench remained empty. Most
of the boys in the class were called Ahmet, Mehmet or
Ismael. The pale faced Ahmet was dead, but his place
was filled by another Ahmet, this time one with red
cheeks, the son of Ismael the grocer. Rosy-cheeked
Ahmet was in love with the curly-haired, pug-nosed
schoolgirl Ayse.
While I was writing all this, Rebel Erol popped up in
front of me again, his eyebrows raised. It seemed he
didn’t like what I had written.
“No! That’s no good! If it wasn’t for me, you would
probably have filled this book full of human love stories
just like all the other writers. That’s no good. Your book
must have a hypothesis and spirit. Just how important is
it to the plot that the red-cheeked Ahmet was in love with
the curly haired, pug-nosed schoolgirl Ayse?
Is there anyone who hasn’t been in love at least once
during their lifetime? Better to explain to your readers
what you mean by “love”. Explain to your readers why
Mehmet had to die so young. Look at this important
event more closely. But first you must define “love” for
me. What is “love”, my boy?”
“Love is something sweet.”
 “Yes, but what is this sweet thing? Is it something you
can eat or drink?”
“You cannot eat or drink it, it is simply a feeling
inside.”
“Good. What is this feeling?
“Hmmm. It makes us feel good when we love
someone. For goodness sake! You’re always asking such
daft questions. Alright. I give in – I haven’t a clue. You
explain it and then I’ll remember. What is the basis of
love?”
“Love is a powerful attraction between the female and
male of the species. This powerful attraction, this great
instinct to mate, influences the entire life of every living
creature in order to guarantee the survival of the species.
The famous Austrian psychologist, Sigmund Freud, had
already worked this out way back in the eighteenth
century. Love is found not only between human beings,
but in all forms of life. Many animals take a fancy to
each other : birds, for instance, spread out their wings,
dance and sing to attract a mate. Sometimes these mating
rituals end in life and death struggles between rival
males. Plants bloom in bright colours, producing sweet
pollen so that the insects will carry it to their sweethearts
and fertilise them. The same thing happens between
human beings too. So what does the human race do over
and above this? They write love stories and poems and
songs about “love”. In short : Love is the driving force
which brings creatures to life. In other words it is a trap.”
“What! It is a trap?”
“Yes, it is a trap, into which anyone can fall. Now I
would like to put another question to you : Is there any
risk that fast increasing life forms could one day conquer
the earth?”
“Yes, of course there is.”
 “Bravo! Good! Do you know if there is any anti-
power which will hold all these creatures in check and act
as a balance?”
“I can’t think of anything.”
“What a clever boy you are, Erol! How did you
manage to learn so many things in school?”
“Stop talking so much and explain just what you are
getting at.”
“This anti-power is the power of the destroyers,
namely : illnesses, vermin and pests. Has it sunk in yet,
why there are so many illnesses in the world? Microbes,
parasites, viruses and other destructive pests which cause
illness are all nature’s way of balancing the population. If
they didn’t exist, the strong would have multiplied so
much that they would have taken over the whole world
and exterminated the weak.
Let’s go back to little Mehmet’s time. In his day,
dreadful diseases were prevalent, like malaria, the plague
and tuberculosis, not to mention many childhood
illnesses which kept the numbers of the population down.
Lots of children like Mehmet died. Tell me, who was
responsible for Mehmet’s death?”
“You’re talking nonsense again. You’ve just said that
it was tuberculosis that killed him.”
“No, the facts point to someone else. Before you come
up with the answer for yourself, I’d like to ask you
something else. Is there another superior power which
stands above all of these other aforementioned powers,
and can take them under its control?”
“What would this superior power be?”
“It is human wisdom and it creates positive thinking.
Stop acting so stupid! I’ve already worked out the
answer. Mehmet was killed unintentionally by his well
meaning parents, who decided to bring him into the
world even though they were poor and already had
several children. Mehmet was also killed by the society
which did not teach the ignorant people. Many children
in the past have been undernourished and neglected
during their lives. To put it bluntly, Mehmet entered this
world with a sentence hanging over him and a noose
around his neck. “Sentenced to life” or to a bitter fate. Of
course there were always exceptional cases. For
example : if his parents had placed him in a rush basket
and sent him floating down the river Nile, or placed him
in the courtyard of a mosque, and some rich, childless
family had saved him and adopted him, his fate would
have turned out quite differently.”
“Have you finished pontificating? Is that all?”
“Well, yes.”
“Good, then I can get on with our story.”
As I always said, this man is crazy. Now he’s trying to
be some kind of professor, and he’s always asking
questions that cannot be answered. He gets on my nerves.
What is “love”? What is the balance of nature? What is
all that to me? As long as I am well fed, have someone to
warm my bed at night, and my business is going well,
that means I am balanced. Why on earth should I be
interested in the balance of nature? No, I don’t need all
that. Forget what he’s just said. That’s a load of baloney.
Just carry on reading my story.
 15
Preparations for the hard
winter to come were evident not
just in our house, but
everywhere. Buckets of black
coal were filled up in coal
cellars. Men with wood saws
split thick trunks into
manageable sized logs. Once
they had sharpened the saws and
oiled them up with grease, they
took it in turns to pull them
backwards and forwards,
huffing and puffing as they went. Fine wood shavings
smelling of pine and freshly cut wood fell to the ground
during the process. Occasionally one of the lumberjacks
would let out a fart, which made everyone laugh,
including us children. Let them fart – it is great fun for
them and makes a welcome break from the monotonous
hard work which continued throughout the whole of the
day.
Finally the sawn wood was chopped with axes and
stored in wood cellars.
 The women were also preoccupied with busy
preparations before winter set in. Baskets full of eggs
were used, dough kneaded, and fine noodle paste made,
cut by special workers into thin strings and spread out
onto cloths to dry. These were our home made noodles.
The women carried all this out in good humoured
teamwork. How much nicer the women’s good humoured
teamwork would have been, if they could have cut out
the constant "blah blah blah" of their chattering, which
rocked the house with its vibrations. Let them chat.
On another day the women got together and cut up the
meat from several sheep and goats into small pieces,
which the butcher had previously slaughtered. The finely
chopped meat was well cooked in huge flat stew pots in
its own fat and juices.
This is the way the women produced conserves of
meat ready for the winter.
We children looked forward to this day, along with
the neighbourhood cats, with great longing.
The smell of the open fire mixed with the smell of the
frying meat. We passed round "Lavas"( thin flat bread) to
our mothers, who filled them with meat, rolled them up
and gave them back to us. The juicy, delicious meat came
from animals up in the high mountains of Yayla. The
meat was then stirred around again with huge wooden
spoons. All the neighbourhood cats had congregated
nearby, following each and every movement with the
utmost curiosity, pouncing on the stringy leftovers of
meat which were thrown in their direction and eating
them eagerly.
The finished hot mass which was made up from the
released fat and the morsels of meat, were seasoned and
poured into large iron containers.
 The next day, as soon as it had completely cooled
down and set, the fat formed a protective layer around the
meat. In this way, the conserves were able to be
preserved all winter long. But our conserves had none of
the present day ubiquitous labelling. When a dish was
prepared in winter, the meat was taken off layer by layer
with a wooden spoon. What is more, this meal tasted
fantastic, but on the other hand, as far as I knew, the life
expectancy for people living at this time was probably
below average, because many people had heart attacks at
a young age due to the high levels of fat consumed.
But if you had tried to explain to the deceased shortly
before their deaths that they had not eaten properly, they
would probably have answered you along these lines: "In
that case, horses must surely die from eating too much
barley.” I would rather die young from eating all the food
that I love.
Meat was also diced through the mincer, seasoned
with spices and garlic, and the minced meat placed to dry
in thin cotton cloths or sausage skins. This is how the
traditional garlic sausage or "Sucuk" was made.
The larder was full of flour, oil, honey, home-made
noodles, meat conserves and "Pestikan", a preservable
yoghurt which has had the water taken out. Everything
was ready. Now winter could come. The larder was
always the coolest room in the house, and just as cold as
the cold storage rooms. And they didn't use up wasteful
electricity!
The oven was set up, connected to the chimney and
the windows were fitted with an extra, double pane of
glass. Pot plants were placed in the space created
between the two panes, and seemed to thrive there.
 The sparrowhawk family had already installed itself in
its winter quarters under the roof of the neighbouring
house.
Out on the street, a street vendor was offering
"Holluk" for sale in a loud voice. Holluk used to be used
for babies. The absorbent powder was placed on a cotton
towel and warmed up. The warm towel was then wrapped
around the baby's bottom, to keep it good and dry. So
there you had a nappy, a bit like the modern "Pampers".
Mothers washed these cotton towels and reused them
over and over again. Some women even washed the
soiled cotton towels in ice cold water at the water taps in
our street.
Look : a lot of women are washing their baby clothes.
It looks as if the "little ones" have soiled their nappies
again!
I have long held the belief that human babies are the
dirtiest and slowest to mature of all the creatures in the
world. Do mother animals use nappies for their
offspring? Of course not! The young ones are quickly up
on their feet soon after birth, and they do not dirty
themselves. In the past, millions of mothers who have
had lots of children, have washed their soiled baby
nappies at the street water taps or with water which has
been painstakingly carried from a long distance in
buckets or pitchers.
They brought their babies up lovingly, singing them
lullabies, only to hand them over to Pharaohs, sultans and
kings as soldiers. What did the pharaohs, sultans and
kings do with these mothers' sons? They sent them off for
the most part into meaningless wars, where it was left to
their enemies (who had also made the same mistakes) to
shred up their bodies like cheese. Heads off, arms off,
legs off! What was the point of their poor mothers
washing all those millions of soiled nappies?
In our part of town you never saw rubbish tips or
stinking rubbish bins.
Dustcarts came once a month to collect any rubbish,
but they very rarely found any. No one ever threw away
any cans, because everyone ate only home-made
preserves. The cats ate all the leftovers of fish, the dogs
crunched up the meat bones. Vegetable remains were
given to the neighbours’ goats, sheep and cows. Nothing
was ever wrapped up, so there was no packaging material
to be thrown away. People went shopping with a string
bag in their pocket or a basket over their arm. There were
no such things as plastic bags. Worn out clothes were
mended or knotted together to make new "kilims"
(patchwork rugs). Shoes which were just slightly worn
were not simply flung into the waste bin as they are
today, but mended by the cobbler.
Old ovens, iron remnants, old clothes, bottles and
glass were collected by the rag and bone men ("Eskici").
I shall never forget their plaintiff cry : "Rag and
bones....... bring out your rag and bones!!!" All these
were the recycling methods of the olden days. In the past,
people valued everything they had and were loathe to
throw things away.
Poor Sivaser dustmen!
We had so very little to throw away that we used to
search for stuff to put out, just so that they would at least
have something to collect. You should get yourself a
decent job, or go to the industrial countries where there
are mountains of rubbish every day. There they produce
piles of useless consumer goods, and thus loads of
rubbish, all for the sake of gaining higher profits. There
they produce far too many consumer goods in expensive,
fancy packaging which is consigned immediately to the
waste bin. There you can roll in rubbish to your heart's
content, and there's plenty of work for you. It is an
undiscovered rubbish paradise. There are mountains upon
mountains of rubbish. Go there to work and have your
photograph taken with the shiny watch you wear so
proudly on your arm, standing on top of a rubbish tip,
and send it back home as a souvenir.
No, no! On second thoughts, stay at home. There
aren't any mountains of rubbish here which make jobs for
you, just many streets which need repairing, and lots of
parks and gardens which need creating. Instead of
concerning yourself with the rubbish from other
countries, worry about your own homeland, and
concentrate on ensuring that trees and flowers can bloom
and grow everywhere.
While I was writing all this, Rebel Erol popped up in
front of me again, his eyebrows raised. It seems he didn't
like what I had written.
"Oh no, not again! If I wasn't here, you would most
certainly have filled this book up with rubbish. You don't
write as forcefully as I would like. You have the
environment and nature in your soul, but at the same time
you are too afraid of what others in society might say."
"O.K. then, you write it how you want it written
yourself. I’d like to learn.”
“First write that present day consumerism is totally
false and wasteful. People who go to the industrial
countries don’t just collect that country’s rubbish, they
also pick up tips on how to produce more than they need.
That is to say they will no longer appreciate the simple
things in life, but start imitating the industrial countries
like madmen. That is where the biggest danger lies. Some
sly foxes bring such ideas back to their home countries
under the guise of “progress”, which are at base nothing
more than wasteful consumerism. These ideas pose a
great danger to the environment. So a population that has
up until now lived according to nature, suddenly learns to
treat everything as disposable and to throw everything
away as soon as they have used it. It doesn’t take long for
the land to transform itself into one giant rubbish tip. It
goes without saying that small craft workers will find
themselves out of work. The environment will groan
under the burden of rubbish placed upon it. If this is the
outcome of such “modern developments”, then they
should be done away with!”
He was right. I was lost for words and felt close to
despair. It seemed to me it must be extremely difficult to
be a true environmentalist. I asked him :
“What do you have to do to become a really good
environmentalist?”
“That’s simple! The first thing we young people must
do is empty out all our book shelves. That is to say we
must relegate all the normal books which our parents
forced us to read to the topmost shelf of the bookcase,
and only look at them now and then.
“What!”
“You heard what I said. We must fill the empty
shelves with our own books. These new books will greet
us every day like a fresh new flower garden, and every
book will be like a flower bringing us new joy every day.
I’ll give you the names of a few examples :
“The development of environmental ideas in history.”
“Ecology.”
“Ecosystems.”
“Ecotrophology.”
“Why ecology should be introduced into the school
curriculum.”
 “The rubbish, sewage, and air pollution dangers
facing the planet.”
“The do‘s and don‘ts of recycling.”
“The Contaminated Earth.”
“Industry and the Environment.”
“Tourism and the Environment.”
“Environmentalist Children.”
“The Principles of Present Day Ecology.”
“Family Planning. Is birth control necessary on our
planet?”
“Overpopulation, a growing risk to the planet.”
“Contraception.”
“Ecological Balance.”
“Ecology and The Politicians of the World.”
“Psychology and the Environment.”
“Extinct Plants and Animals of the World.”
“History of the Environment.”
“Environmental Tales for Children.”
“Environmentalist Poets and Writers.”
“The Environmentalist and The Path to God.”
These are all fine, worthy books. If our bookshelves
were full of books such as these, and we had studied
them all carefully, we could then consider ourselves fully
versed and rounded human beings, worthy of the name
“environmentalist”. Otherwise not.
“Are such books actually available?”
“If they haven’t been written yet, then it is up to us
young people to study so that we can write them
ourselves. But simply reading and writing about it is not
enough - we need to devote ourselves to the protection of
the environment.”
Rebel Erol fell silent. He was right of course. I cannot
call myself a good environmentalist. But even so, I have
to finish writing my chapter.
 Chrysanthemums were in bloom, bringing the smell of
autumn with them. In the schools, chrysanthemum
wreaths were displayed in remembrance. November 10th
is the anniversary of the death of that great leader and
reformist Ataturk. We children could recite a set of
poems about Ataturk from memory :
“Poplar trees so very tall,
You shed your leaves and watch them fall,
My longing for Ataturk will not depart,
Still, oh Earth, my grieving heart.”
It was the only poem which I was able to recite from
memory. While I was repeating the words, I imagined
that Ataturk himself had been a lover of all things green,
and had intentionally died in a house surrounded by huge
poplar trees. The leaves were falling off in sympathy,
because they held him in such high regard.
But in the present day, I think of Ataturk again. If he
was still alive today, as a man of genius he would have
prophesied the future, carried out sweeping green reforms
in Turkey and altered the face of Turkey to such an
extent, that our country would be held up as a prime
example of an environmentally protected, ideal, peace
loving nation in the world.
Only a leader like Ataturk, who was idolised by the
people, would be capable of carrying out such green
reforms. It seemed unlikely to me that any other ordinary
politician, whose sole aim was to be re-elected, could
turn out to be another “saviour of mankind”. I pray for
new green leaders to come and save our world.
Rest in peace, great Ataturk, rest in peace, surrounded
by green just like in my childhood rhyme.
 16 In the loft of our
house there was a
small room which my
father used as a store
room. It was a
mystery to me why he
always insisted on
keeping this room
under lock and key. I
finally managed to
lay my hands on the
key to this room, and
one day, when no one
else was at home, I sneaked inside to take a look.
It was vitally important that my father didn’t find out.
I will tell you exactly` what I saw there :
The room was piled high with papers relating to the
school, including many old exam papers. Here there were
piles of old newspaper cuttings which my father had
stored for safekeeping. Oh, and here were all the nude
girlie pictures which my father had hidden away. I must
say in all honesty, I found the room fascinating. This was
no ordinary loft with pigeons cooing in it, it was a
veritable record office! Everything which happened
before the war, during the war and after the war could be
clearly seen on the pages of the newspapers. Here, look at
the bold headlines :
HITLER IS ON THE MARCH
GERMAN ARMY CAPTURES EUROPE
THE RED ARMY OFFERS RESISTANCE
An American general commented :
OUR ALLIED RED ARMY HAS STOPPED
HITLER IN HIS TRACKS
And just look at the pictures : the Jews who were
living in Germany were driven out and sent to their
deaths in the gas chambers. Most of the pictures were of
naked, emaciated men and women being led away by
armed German soldiers. There were gruesome pictures of
deep graves full of emaciated, gassed corpses piled up on
top of one another, and pictures of crying children whose
parents had been annihilated.
At this moment, the young Rebel Erol lost his nerve,
and cried out on behalf of all these children at the top of
his voice :
“Oh cruel adults! What sort of world have you
brought us into? Why have you bequeathed us such a hell
on earth, where you are always fighting and where you
finish up being sent to your deaths in gas chambers?”
This Rebel Erol was always giving me grief. At the
sound of his loud cry, all the pigeons who were nesting
there flew out through the broken windows of the small,
light attic in a mad panic. I locked up the small room in
the loft once more. There were warm pigeon eggs in the
abandoned nests, and some even had fledgling pigeons
who had not yet learned how to fly. They had long necks,
hairy feathers and ugly beaks. But their intelligent eyes
shone brightly, full of life and joy. And they weren’t the
least bit interested in making graves full of corpses.
In that moment, I suddenly felt a great fear of people.
I wanted desperately to distance myself from the rest of
the human race. I tried to find a place in the warm nests
of the pigeons, which gave me a great sense of security.
Quite simply I wished I could be a young pigeon, with
intelligent eyes, and live in the world of pigeons like
them.
If it came to a choice between learning something
from my class teacher or one of the young pigeons, I
would always do what the young pigeons taught me. In
the course of my life I have always made this choice.
Since that day I have devoted myself to my father’s
school of thought : “environmentalism.”
 17 One day some
disturbing news spread
throughout the school :
“There is a female
corpse hanging from
the gallows in the town
hall square.”
After lessons, all the
boys and girls ran
excitedly to the town
hall square, satchel in
hand. When we got
there, we couldn’t see a
thing because of the huge throng of people who had
crowded into the square. We wriggled our way between
the adults’ legs through to the front of the crowd. Our
hair stood up on the backs of our necks and we turned
pale.
There on the gallows hung the stiff body of a pretty,
young peasant woman. On her feet were old, black
rubber peasant shoes and woollen stockings. Her
headscarf had slid to one side, revealing her silky hair
which fell across her face. Her face was just as pale as
ours. She was silent. Her body swayed slowly to and fro
in the wind, giving the impression that she was greeting
the crowd.
The girl’s mother and other close relatives stood in
one corner, weeping and hitting their own sides in their
grief. Their faces were racked with pain. Waves of
murmuring swept over the square. Some people talked
amongst themselves quietly while others simply stared at
the body.
“She did away with her five children in their sleep,
with the fumes from the coal brazier.”
“Well in that case the judges made the right decision -
she was a child murderer.”
“She deserved her punishment - but she should have
been killed at the scene of the crime, not here.”
“Just another common yokel.”
“What a waste - she was such an attractive woman.”
“It wasn’t really her fault, but that womanising
husband of hers, the dog.”
In those days, guilty parties were left hanging on
display on the gallows all day long, as a timely warning
to others. As if that would solve everything!
Couldn’t this way of trying to keep law and order by
terrifying the local populace be considered as simply
laziness on the part of the administration?
For days on end there was no other topic of
conversation in the schools apart from this woman who
started to haunt our dreams. As soon as someone started
talking about this woman, I would bend my head down
and listen attentively, not wishing to miss a thing. I knew
everything about her. Almost everything!
 The town hall square was situated right in the middle
of Sivas. The historic town hall building and the prison,
built of stone blocks, sat on the edge of the square.
Inside the town hall, judges clad in black robes made
their judgements in the court room. The gun-toting
gendarmerie brought the defendants to and from prison in
handcuffs. Why were their hands manacled? Why were
they held guilty? The hands themselves were innocent!
They were simply made up of flesh and bones, nothing
more. It was people’s heads that were actually guilty - so
maybe these should be manacled instead?
Sometimes the courtroom would be partially empty, at
other times overcrowded. There is no doubt the hanged
peasant woman would have seen this room as a dungeon.
On the way to the courtroom she had begged the
gendarmerie to shoot her before the trial. But how could
the soldiers shoot her? Only the hangman’s noose could
end her pain and sorrow. I imagine the executioner would
have had curly hair, one long bushy eyebrow, and
probably a squint!
This woman had been a baby once too - a child full of
hopes and dreams. She came into the world an innocent,
and left it guilty. She didn’t know what she was doing.
Perhaps she did have an inkling. No, she knew alright.
She knew exactly what she was doing. Everyone viewed
her as a murderess. I’ll tell you what her life was like :
Her husband was a drunkard who spent all his money
on alcohol, leaving nothing over to buy food for the
children. This sex-mad scoundrel got her pregnant every
year trying for a son, but all he got for his pains over the
years were seven daughters, two of which died of
childhood illnesses because they were neglected. He left
her to get on with all her problems on her own. The only
time he was interested in his wife was in bed after the
children had gone to sleep. But he wasn’t satisfied. He
wanted more from life. When the woman’s younger sister
came to her for help and sanctuary, this womaniser took
advantage of the situation to create a harem for himself,
seducing the young woman.
Although his wife eventually bore him a son, he
preferred the younger sister who also bore him a son. The
rogue considered himself some kind of pasha. The first
son didn’t live long, dying of jaundice. The wife put up
with everything and bore every humiliation for the sake
of her marriage. One day the wretched husband could not
pay back his gambling debts. In a state of the jitters he
gave his first wife a severe beating in front of his young
wife. The young wife was never beaten or scolded, but
always treated like a princess. And so the daily brawls
continued, and the more the first wife tried to defend
herself, the more she was beaten.
Just before the day of the crime, she had not only
taken another beating, but her husband had ordered her to
leave the house. Where was she supposed to go with so
many children? But something happened in the
meantime: acting on a message he had received from his
village, the rogue of a husband set off for the village with
his young wife and son to bury his deceased father.
When this sex-mad fool returned from the village, a
catastrophic scene was waiting for him at home. The lazy
wife and her five children were still asleep - or so he
thought. None of them moved a muscle. He was just
about to launch into her with: ”Get up you lazy bag and
tidy up,” when he noticed there was something wrong
with the way they were sleeping. He turned his wife onto
her side. Her face was covered in bruises where he had
beaten her. Was she dead? No, her heart was beating! But
the bodies of the children were lifeless and cold. She had
sent them all to their eternal rest by gassing them. The
wife survived because she was lying nearest to the door,
and the gap at the bottom of the door had provided her
with enough oxygen to breathe.
What sort of a bitter fate was that? When the woman
woke up, she was still in the same loathsome world -
there was her foul husband and her young sister, her
cheeks red from the fresh air in the village.
The next day five tiny coffins and five small graves
were prepared for these five sisters, whose young teeth
were still glistening as white as snow. Five sisters lay
next to one another, none of them aware of the others.
The brown earth was thrown upon their graves. Mother
Nature embraced them and covered them. And that was
that!
Why did this woman kill her daughters? Why? I
discussed this question with Rebel Erol, and for once we
were of one and the same mind :
Her decision to take her children’s lives had certainly
been made only for reasons of compassion, since they
would not have been able to exist in this cruel world
without their parents, and she did not want them to be
mistreated. The public thought that the poisoning of the
family was just a normal tragedy, because they didn’t
know the background to all the family’s problems; but
the woman herself pleaded guilty because she was
suffering from pangs of conscience, and demanded they
put her to death immediately.
If she had only been thinking of herself, she would
have kept quiet and saved her own life.. Many parents
finding themselves in the same position think of killing
themselves and taking their children with them. But they
lack the necessary courage to see it through. Many
continue to hang onto life, even though everything has
become unbearable. No one ever talks about their inner
feelings any more. My present day thoughts give away
my feelings. History tells us that Joan of Arc was a
patriotic French peasant woman who stood up against the
enemies of her time. Much blood was shed on the
battlefields under her leadership. Her rebelliousness led
to her being publicly burnt at the stake. This other
woman, this Turkish peasant woman, who undoubtedly
loved her daughters a great deal, had not led anyone into
battle. Nor was she in a position to divorce her husband,
or even to be able to get away from his influence. She
decided to set her daughters free from the snare of this
evil world, those same daughters who had grown up
listening to her lullabies. That must be a great
compassion, that not everyone can understand.
I really wish I could have been a knight like in the
history books - a white knight with a white steed, who
could have ridden to save this woman and her five
children. But it is too late. She is already hanging dead on
the gallows, and her children lie buried under the earth.
Besides, we are no longer in the era of the white knight.
In this day and age we need green knights with green
steeds. And instead of the white knight there came into
my throat a few lines and invectives which were as bitter
as the poison.
May no young girls come to this despicable planet
only for their mothers to be hung at the gallows.
For days on end, all conversation revolved around this
woman, and she continued to haunt our dreams every
night. Every time I passed by the town hall square, my
eyes would search out the gallows and I would see the
woman, this “Ayse”. But she was no longer there.
Perhaps she had disappeared into the darkness of Hell, or
perhaps she was reunited with her lovely daughters in
Heaven.

18 During the evening

conversations of friends and
acquaintances, talk shifted away
from the topic of the world war
and turned to the political parties
of the time. People had divided
loyalties. Some peoples’
sympathies lay with the Peoples’
Party while others supported the
Democratic Party.
“No one is a match for the
Peoples’ Party.”
“The Democratic Party has
brought an upturn to the country’s fortunes and done
away with queuing and rationing.”
“Ismet Inonu was Ataturk’s right hand man.”
“A true democracy is impossible without Adnan
Menderes.”
 I heard these statements repeated so often that I could
reel them off by heart. Occasionally these political
discussions would become insulting and were the cause
of many broken friendships. On one of these conflict
laden days, something rather unpleasant happened to me.
As I left the hairdressers with my head shaved yet again,
I could feel the bitter cold autumn wind on my scalp. I
was walking home with a skinny friend, our satchels
swinging in our hands. On the opposite side of the road I
could see our neighbours’ daughter who was being
bullied by a youth. Sevim called out at the top of her
voice :
“Erol, help me!”
Sivas is famous for its Turkish knights or “Kabadayi.”
I felt like one myself and wanted to help this girl. I was
half crazy that day anyway because I had lost all the hair
off my head. So, off we go, Rebel Erol!
I gave my satchel to my skinny friend Vehbi to carry,
and bent the aggressive boy’s arm back behind him,
whereupon he ran off howling with pain. I wasn’t
surprised when the boy’s older brother waylaid me at the
next corner. In this neighbourhood and in those days you
couldn’t expect to hit someone who had an older brother
and get away with it scot free. The boy was bigger and
stronger than me.
He went for me. I fought back. I wasn’t afraid because
I was full of courage and didn’t have any hair. I managed
to clamp his head under my arm, a technique I had learnt
from the fighter Lutfu, and which I had used once before
to clamp the head, octopus-like, of the roughneck rogue
in the Pasha Gardens. I was a small child but had a lot of
battle experience. I had him in a tight headlock, and when
I increased the pressure, he started to make rattling noises
in his throat. I took pity on him. Nobody came to pull us
apart. When the boy could hardly breathe, I decided he’d
had enough, and loosened my grip. I would live to regret
it. During the struggle I had pressed my lips between my
teeth. The boy, who was called Sabri, pulled his head out
of the headlock and head butted me on the chin with full
force from below. Ouch! My teeth sank into my lips.
Blood spurted everywhere. Sabri took advantage of my
disorientation and knocked me down. I fell to the ground.
He set upon me, beating me again and again with his
fists. Now I didn’t have a leg to stand on and had no
chance to retaliate.
At that very moment, a young teacher who lived in the
neighbourhood walked by. She dragged Sabri off of me,
so that I was able to stand up again. I was totally covered
in mud from the street. Blood from my cut lips ran down
onto my chest. In my mind I could just hear my father’s
words :
“Taking pity leads to nothing but trouble, my son!”
I had shown my opponent pity, but he had had no such
scruples. He was an anti-social fighter, a low-life - I
would have to teach him a lesson.
I sprang onto him like a coiled spring. My eyes
flashed with rage. Raining blows down onto my
opponent one after the other in lightning succession
(something else I had learnt from Lutfu), I managed to
prevent him from fighting back. Lutfu’s success was
down to a fast and thorough slapping about the face - and
I was an expert in this technique. Then I tried out some of
the boxer Mehmet’s punches, which I had been admiring
secretly, on Sabri. Sabri gave in, knocked senseless. His
nose was bleeding. With a final head butt, which I had
learnt from little Necmi, I sent Sabri flying into the
corner. Now he looked exactly the same as me : muddy
and injured. The teacher finally managed to separate us
two fighting cockerels, both bleeding profusely. Then she
told us off, and gave us some words of advice. What the
heck! I couldn’t hear a word she was saying because I
could hardly breathe.
My skinny friend and Sevim looked at me enraptured.
But I couldn’t give a fig for their hero-worship. On the
way home, everyone turned their heads to stare at me,
looking me up and down with a grin, because I must have
looked a real sight : a boy with a face daubed with blood
and clothes covered in mud!
When my mother caught sight of my blood stained
face and muddy clothes, she turned pale and called out
loudly, her voice full of fear :
“Whatever happened to you, Erol?”
I answered laconically : ”Nothing.”
My mother took my clothes off, washed my face and
said at the same time: “It doesn’t look like “nothing” to
me.”
As soon as the blood had stopped flowing from my
lips, the colour came back to her cheeks.
Young skin heals fast. I didn’t need either the services
of a doctor, nor any medication. The wound healed up in
an amazingly short time, but my right punching hand
continued to hurt for a long time afterwards. I had
difficulty writing for quite a while.
I began to see this incident in an entirely new light
once I began to talk to the other boys in my
neighbourhood. Sabri, from a neighbouring district, was
besotted with Sevim, and regularly tried to force his
attentions on her. Sevim, however, couldn’t stand her
admirer. On the day in question, Sabri’s brother passed
on the message that Sabri was waiting to see her, but
because she didn’t want to meet him, the brother tried to
pull her along forcibly to the meeting place. I had
unwittingly thwarted the brothers’ plans without realising
it. Perhaps Sabri was right. Love is blind.

19 I don’t know whether it was

on account of my bravery, but
from this moment on, Sevim
made me the centre of her
attention. Every time I was out
playing on the street with the
other children, I noticed that
the curtains of Sevim’s house
would twitch, and I could
make out the outline of her
face at the window.
Sevim had a pretty, round
face, innocent as a lamb. When you looked at her close
up, it was impossible not to fall in love with her. But if
you looked at her from a distance, she looked just like a
small, round doll. Sevim was not my type. I didn’t want
to raise any false hopes in her, but my standoffishness
seemed only to spur her on even further. At break times
she would constantly run around after me with a girl
friend, keeping her sights on me the whole time, and
blabbing about her infatuation to all and sundry, which
caused me to get into no end of fights with Sabri. She
didn’t keep her behaviour a secret from Sabri and he
denounced me as his deadly enemy. I had to pay dearly
for Sevim’s love.
One day on the way home from school, I was waylaid
by Sabri and two of his henchmen. Unfortunately, the
only person I had with me at the time was my skinny
friend Vehbi. He was a bit of a coward and wouldn’t be
much good if it came to a fight. I had seen the small,
untidy house with its mud roof, belonging to Vehbi’s
parents. This small house was full of unhealthy,
undernourished children. Was it unfair of me to expect
any help from Vehbi? To cut a long story short, they beat
the hell out of me. Believe me, I have never taken a
beating like that before.
When I arrived home, my mother called out
worriedly:
“What on earth has happened now?”
She received my usual answer :
“Nothing!”
I felt as if I had been run over by a car. My body hurt
all over, and one tooth had come loose. Once again I had
no need to visit a dentist or take any medication. The
tooth would firm up again of its own accord in its own
sweet time.
There seemed no end to Sevim’s love for me and
Sabri’s hatred. Sabri’s main aim was to beat me up in
front of Sevim, in order to win her heart for himself. But
I wasn’t stupid. As soon as I saw him and his mates
coming, I made a run for it. After all, my tooth had only
just healed up.
 Time and again Sabri and his henchmen, whom he
bribed with sweets, tried to lure me into an ambush. And
each time I managed to evade them.
I must say that the constant running away affected my
mind badly. It was no solution. Besides which, I started
to get an inferiority complex. I became listless, had little
appetite and every mouthful seemed to stick in my throat.
I could no longer concentrate on my studies. My thoughts
revolved constantly around these boys who wanted to
beat the living daylights out of me on the way home.
When I confided my problem to Lutfu and Ayhan, they
said :
“Erol, why have you kept this to yourself for so long?
Our fists have grown quite rusty and we are itching for
some action!”
The disappointment on the faces of Sabri and his mob
when they were confronted by my army was enormous,
and it turned into a look of pure fear. Lutfu’s punches
flew through the air and he shouted :
“You probably thought Erol had no friends.”
Ayhan let his fists speak for him and I did the same.
Now it was their turn to run away.
We followed them all the way back to their own
neighbourhood with much roaring and shouting.
Attracted by the noise, we suddenly found ourselves
confronted by our enemies’ older brothers. Now the
tables were turned once more. We were no longer the
hunters but the hunted.
Once more I arrived back home with a torn shirt. And
yet again my mother asked me :
“Erol, what has happened now?”
And again my answer was still the same :
“Nothing.”
 But this time it was true - nothing had happened to
me, and I could now tell my mother the whole story. I
hugged her, and gave her a hearty kiss on the hand - a
hand which had become wrinkly with too much washing
up. She didn’t understand a word I was saying, but asked
me out of curiosity :
“Son, what is wrong with you? Tell me what is really
on your mind.”
“Mum - I want to be a boxer like Ayhan’s older
brother.”
“A boxer? Where did you come up with that idea
from?”
I was of the firm opinion that apart from my mother,
no one knew anything about the whole affair. My father
and brothers would no doubt go and visit the parents of
the bullies, and maybe in the heat of the encounter
something unexpected would happen and the police
might get involved. And that would only cause bad
blood. So I begged my mother to keep quiet about the
incident.
The days passed, and Sabri’s hatred showed no signs
of abating. Sabri and his accomplices started making my
life hell again when they heard that I no longer had an
army. Lutfu’s mother had managed to get her son a free
place at a boarding school for poor children in Istanbul,
Dar-Ul Aceze. So Lutfu went off to Istanbul. Ayhan’s
family moved to Malatya. I was all alone once more, with
only my skinny friend for company. I dreaded the sound
of the final bell at the end of school. But you couldn’t
stop it ringing. It would ring and my feet were compelled
to bring me to the spot where those damned boys were
waiting for me. I had the feeling that a gallows had been
set up for me there. Sabri caught hold of me immediately
and his henchmen held my arms down while he laid into
me with his fists until he’d had enough. I cried out in
vain :
“You coward - if you were a real man, you would
fight on your own, one to one.”
That had no effect on them whatsoever.
Mothers are always a child’s best friend. A mother
with a sympathetic heart will always stand up for her
child under any circumstances, even when her child is in
the wrong, whereas a father will always mercilessly plead
for justice to be done. My mother was no exception,
taking me under her wing like a mother bird to protect
me.
(Oh God, I’ve landed back in my cell again. Now I
can no longer control my feelings at this point):
“Oh my dear mother. How I long for you so much. I
sit here in this prison, and you have no idea where your
son is. You are probably racking your brains about it this
very moment. I really wasn’t a good son to you, mum,
and I’m still making problems for you. Oh, mother!”
One day, although my mother had sworn to silence,
she in fact confided in a neighbour, who asked :
“Why don’t you go and see Barut Rifki?”
 20 Barut Rifki was
one of Siva’s most
famous Kabadayi,
who lived in our
part of town. We
always used to
bump into him in
the evenings as he
walked home, full of
self confi-dence,
stepping along with
sweep-ing,
purposeful strides. He was not only young and good
looking, but he was also a genuine “Kabadayi” - a knight
like his father before him, and all the louts were afraid of
him. The curtains of the houses he walked past were
always twitching : every girl of marriageable age in our
district would wait longingly everyday just to catch a
glimpse of him.
He was a craftsman, a coppersmith like his father, and
spent each day beating out copper plates with a hammer
into any shape and style which might be required at any
given time. In the evening he would wipe the sweat from
his body and go to the mosque, to perform the evening
prayer. He would put on his famous “Kabadayi clothes,”
and go home for his evening meal. And of course, after
supper he would visit a Turkish coffee house.
During Ramadan, the recognised month of fasting,
fathers would present their children with special
Ramadan bread. That was an enormous, thick, flatbread
with black caraway seeds, decorated with multi-coloured
animal figures made of icing sugar. Wealthy fathers
would buy bread with large, intricately made
“Horozsekeri”, sugar cockerels. The poorer fathers could
only afford small, simple designs. As children, we
watched with great curiosity to see which father brought
something for his child. But what about the children who
had no father?What did they get? Barut Rifki took
responsibility for this, and gave out not only sugar
cockerels, but also sugar camels and candy sticks through
which you could whistle. The half-orphaned children got
great pleasure out of this, and this event was like a
beautiful street show for them.
Barut always wore a dark blue suit with a dazzling
white shirt and a waistcoat, from beneath which you
could glimpse the flash of a knife. More often than not he
would wear his jacket over his shoulder, so that it
wouldn’t get in the way if he needed to draw his knife
quickly in the case of an emergency, and so that he could
dish out a sound thrashing unhindered by heavy clothing.
 Normal walking shoes were adapted to form a sort of
clogs with the back open. He wore a pair like this and
made his way through the streets, swaying as he went. On
the ring finger of his right hand sat a so-called “knight’s
ring”. Most of the time he carried around a large rosary
made of amber, as used by almost all the Kabadayi,
which rattled around his hands. It would have been too
boring for them if they hadn’t had a rosary to carry
around. He frequently visited the barber for a shave, and
smelt permanently of eau de cologne. We children would
always notice this fragrance as he passed by, even when
we were totally immersed in our game.
Whenever he sat listening attentively to the person
opposite him, he would always twirl the ends of his
moustache. He had a deep voice which rumbled like
thunder. He chose his words carefully and used them
sparingly, saying everything only once. Likewise, he
always rebuked those who talked too much:
“Shut your mouth, damn you!”
Whenever he laughed, he would always cover his
mouth with his hand. That was the way he had been
brought up: he didn’t smoke, but now and again he would
play “Ud” (a musical instrument) and drink raki with his
friends. After three or four glasses they would start
screeching out a few songs. He was his father’s idea of
the perfect son.
To be a true Kabadayi meant that you had to adhere to
a set of strict, traditional rules. Within these morals, a
few rules are written large. I will also use large writing :
NOT TO FAWN OVER THE RICH AND STRONG.
If a Kabadayi fights on the side of the rich, strong
Agas (feudal lords), he is not a true Kabadayi. Such men
were considered as fawning toadies of the Agas and the
rich. A genuine Kabadayi earned his own money and was
not subservient to or reliant on the largesse of the rich
and powerful. For the most part they were craftsmen.
They earned their living through the strength of their
hands, and the fitness of their bodies.
TO PROTECT THE POOR AND NEEDY
If a weak person is being oppressed and it comes to
the attention of a Kabadayi, he cannot remain on the
sidelines but must intervene. Otherwise his conscience
would not let him sleep. The Kabadayi represented the
only source of refuge for the weak and oppressed. But
their help only stretched as far as physical protection.
Financial help was not a viable possibility, since the
Kabadayi lived on a limited income.

TO DEFEND THE HONOUR OF THE DISTRICT ALLOCATED TO HIM

If any of the women or girls in the neighbourhood
were being molested, they would invariably find
themselves up before the Kabadayi again. These
womanisers were not able to get away with any brutish
acts unpunished in a neighbourhood patrolled by a
Kabadayi. If such a woman-mad man received
punishment from a Kabadayi and then wanted to appeal
against his actions to the police, there would always be
witnesses on hand who would vouch for the Kabadayi’s
innocence. The witnesses always stood their ground and
couldn’t be made to change their testimony, even under
intense cross examination.
It was an unwritten law : the Kabadayi protected the
people, and the people protected the Kabadayi.
BLAMELESS BACKGROUND
Only men with a spotless reputation could aspire to
become Kabadayi.
These men upheld the typical traditional moral code.
They were the unpaid private police of society, with no
formalities. They were the black sheriffs, the black, knife
wielding angels of Turkey.
Thieves, burglars, swindlers, forgers and people who
broke their word were condemned and not tolerated in
Turkish morality, along with prostitution and also at that
time, homosexuality. The Kabadayis punished the
culprits directly and never showed false mercy.
There were also phoney Kabadayis, who wanted to
play the role of a Kabadayi. These were always easy to
spot as they drank copious amounts of alcohol, made
trouble, were rowdy, spat on the ground and were on
intimate terms with prostitutes, demanding protection
money from them and living like parasites. Or else they
were the tools of the mafia.
These fellows were not popular in public and usually
ended up one day being put in their place by a genuine
Kabadayi, and punished for their crimes. The phoney
Kabadayi injured the reputation of the genuine ones.
They were the dregs of society. Even Barut Rifki had to
settle matters with such types from time to time.
Suluk Nuri, whose nickname Suluk literally translated
meant “leech”, had to be sorted out by Barut, and from
then on walked around with a permanent reminder as a
warning, namely a scar on his cheek. To all outward
appearances, Suluk”Leech” was a large, good looking
young man, and yet from birth he had been violent,
amoral, the last dregs of the earth. He hit people for no
reason, indulged his sadistic tendencies, was constantly
swearing and uttered the most evil curses while spitting.
He looked on all females as fair game, and was
constantly touching people up for money, without the
slightest intention of ever paying back one penny. His
laughter grated like an old rusty water pump. If he had a
fit of laughter here, for instance, even the prison walls
would shudder.

21
On the way home after school,
I went with the same friend into
the part of town where all the
coppersmiths were. As we walked
along, I formulated in my mind
the requests I wanted to put before
Barut.
When we entered the
coppersmith’s alleyway, we could
no longer hear a word we were
saying, and the corridor of noise
surrounding us was almost too
loud for our young ears to bear. The loud din coming
from every doorway literally assaulted our senses. Two
men at a time took turns at the anvil to beat out copper
plates with their hammers, forming different copper
articles. All of Sivas’ coppersmiths were gathered
together in this one narrow street, and there were no other
types of shops in between their workshops. Each
coppersmith displayed their wares outside their workshop
: copper coloured trays, serving salvers, cauldrons, jars,
tankards, pitchers and jugs, special large ladles which
were used for pouring water over the body during
Hamam, copper buckets and much, much more, all
beaten out by hand with the hammer and decorated with
flower designs, in all different shapes and sizes. In the
middle of each workshop stood an open blast furnace
with a pair of bellows which were used to control the size
of the flames and thereby the heat. The items destined for
sale were coated with pewter in front of the customers.
The faces of the coppersmiths were black with soot and
the air was full of the smell of metal being treated with
acid and fire.
On the walls hung the different work materials,
hammers, jigs and templates, scissors etc. We stood in
front of Barut’s shop and watched what was going on
inside with great curiosity. As soon as there was a break
in the hammering, Barut’s father asked me :
“What can I do for you, son?”
He startled us out of our thoughts. I answered in a
husky voice :
“Could I please speak with Rifki Barut?”
We were shown into the back of the shop and as I sat
down opposite Rifki, I was afraid I would lose my nerve.
My worries seemed to be stuck in my throat and wouldn’t
come out.
When you looked at Barut Rifki close up, he wasn’t
actually as good looking as the girls always made him out
to be. His chest and arms were covered in hair, and his
facial features were hard. So hard in fact, that they could
give me a thrashing. I suddenly felt so anxious that I
almost wet my trousers. But when his eyes glanced over
me, I felt warm and safe, and all my fears disappeared.
His dark brown eyes radiated such goodness,
understanding and humour as only comes from really
good people. While I was pouring my heart out, he
twirled his moustache, listened to me intently, asked me a
few questions, and at certain stages in my story, I noticed
his eyes flash . When I got to the part where Salih had
given me a thrashing, these flashes seemed as if they
would fly out and seize hold of Salih.
We could see Rifki’s Kabadayi clothes peeking out
from the cupboard in the corner. At the end of our
conversation, Barut Rifki picked up his hammer, stood up
and said to me :
“Go home now Erol. We will solve this problem for
you. Concentrate on your schoolwork and come to me
every evening for tuition. Is that clear? I can’t let my
class teacher’s son be bullied by louts.”
“Go home now Erol. We will solve this problem for
you. Aha! So he was a former pupil of my fathers.”
Swallowing, I asked him :
“You want to give me tuition, Rifki - what do you
want to teach me?”
“Well yes! You need my help : speed, mobility,
strength and agility. My boy, I will teach you how to
fight and how to put your opponents in a panic. Your
opponents must be afraid of you, otherwise they will
never leave you alone. If you simply run off squalling,
they will keep on coming after you. I will put the young
lad Necmi by your side for back up. Necmi goes to your
school too. Did you know that Necmi has a big, brave
heart? I taught him, too. He is a relative of mine. Be sure
to watch him when he fights. Together you will be able to
annihilate the louts. What a pity you have had to take so
many thrashings for nothing. Why on earth didn’t you
come to see me earlier, son?”
As I ran to him and kissed his hands, I could feel the
warmth radiating from his eyes.
On the way home, our ears were still ringing with the
din from coppersmith alley. In between the hammer
blows, I could still hear Barut Rifki’s last words echoing
in my ear :
“Why on earth didn’t you come to see me earlier, son?
Why on earth didn’t you come to see me earlier?”
Barut Rifki taught me all the secrets of his fighting
technique, which I could never have learned anywhere
else. The training began in the back room. I had to
hammer out copper plates with Barut. First he would
strike, then I would strike, the tempo gradually
increasing. Now and then he would just pretend to strike,
and if I really did strike, he would get mad with me. It
was a kind of test of my reflex actions. We had to repeat
this over and over again, until I stopped making mistakes.
A good teacher is one who gets angry at the wrong
answer or reaction. He was actually so good that he
would hit me and then politely order me to defend
myself.
The days passed. My reflex actions improved in leaps
and bounds, and I became tough, really tough. I usually
came out of these training sessions with red cheeks,
where I had taken far too many hard blows from him. I’d
gone from the frying pan into the fire! No, no - it was
only a game. As soon as the last school bell rang, I would
run eagerly to his workshop, almost out of breath.
With Necmi’s help I managed to mop up Sabri and his
gang. No one dared to pass me on the street any more.
We had cleaned up the streets from this filth. The school
bell no longer held any fear for me, but was like sweet
music to my ears. Now I could concentrate on my school
work once more without any worries.
Then one day Sabri and his father were waiting for me
on the street. As my friend and I walked across to them,
Sabri’s father grinned at me and said :
“Erol, come over here. It’s high time you and Sabri
shook hands and made up - come on!”
Without waiting for my reply, he shoved us both
together.
So I buried the hatchet with my worst enemy, but
secretly I still couldn’t stand the sight of him. Before we
parted, I couldn’t help saying :
“Sabri, there is one thing you should know. I never
had even the slightest interest in Sevim. So all our fights
were a complete waste of time!”
Slowly Sabri’s features brightened, and a wide,
satisfied grin spread across his face from ear to ear.
I found out later, that Barut Rifki had been closely
following the whole series of events. After a short while
he had approached Sabri’s father through a friend, and
told him that he had to get the children to make up. The
famous Kabadayi had solved the problem as easily as
drawing a knife through soft butter.
To gain this kind of reputation, Barut Rifki would
certainly have had to remove his jacket and dish out his
justice on numerous occasions, sometimes with slaps,
sometimes using his knife, but every time subjecting
himself to many risks.
From this day on, Barut Rifki became my master and
the idol of my life.
 22
Day followed after day, month
after month and the years gradually
passed by. Sometimes the wind
covered the streets in dust,
sometimes the torrents of rain left
the ground soaking wet. Sometimes
the sun became angry and
disappeared and it would snow.
Then it would come back again,
peaceable and warming and melt
the snow.
A fluff started to cover my
cheeks, and a beard followed soon after. When my voice
broke, I spoke in deeper tones. From Erol the boy sprang
Erol the youth, a good looking young man with a fit,
sportsmanlike physique, which now in his turn caused the
girls in the neighbourhood to discreetly move their
curtains to one side to catch a glimpse of him. I don’t
want to be seen as boasting, but I was this young lad who
lived at that time. If you don’t believe me, just ask the
girls who were around at the time whether or not there
was someone called Erol who caused the girls to peep out
from behind their curtains.
This world was only created for the strong, so I
decided to become strong. But with a firm resolve.
I watched what I ate. My father was frugal in many
things, but he never believed in cutting down on our
food. Every week he used to take me with him to the
wholesale food hall, which had been built in the past as
an inn out of blocks of stone. There he would purchase
natural honey or “Pekmez” grape syrup not by the kilo
but in large metal containers. Every week a crate full of
aromatic, sweet-scented organic tomatoes, a crate full of
delicious “Zile grapes”, a case of “Boynuegri Armutu” -
a very juicy type of pear with a twisted stalk but which
tasted delicious. A porter used to carry everything home
for us on his back, and I would chat with him along the
way. Only verbal conversation was not really my thing. It
never satisfied me. I used to offer him some pears. Then
between us we would eat almost half the pairs in order to
reduce the heavy load on his back. And it was good for
my muscles too!
At school I tried always to be among the top pupils.
After school I would go to the sports hall to keep my
body fit with boxing and weight lifting. To train myself
ready for real boxing matches, I was on a constant look
out for aggressive bullies who used to torment the
younger and smaller boys. It wasn’t long before I could
box better than Ayhan and my punches resounded louder
than Lutfu’s. I was now the new Ayhan, the new Lutfu of
our neighbourhood.
 Lutfu had, in any case, altered a lot over the course of
time. When he came home in the school holidays from
the boarding school in Istanbul, he was no longer the
same old Lutfu we had known and loved. He spoke
Istanbul Turkish (high Turkish), and found our dialect
vulgar and countrified. If he couldn’t understand
something you said, he would say “Pardon?”, and when
he said thank you, he would always use the term “merci”.
Before he sat down, he would always carefully adjust his
trousers so as not to ruin the creases, and if the smallest
particle of dust dared to land on his shoes, he would pull
a velvet cloth from out of his trouser pocket and polish
until he had restored the shine.
Instead of dishing out slappings, he condemned
fighting. He was no longer Lutfu the slapping expert, but
Lutfu the chocolate kid. Sugar sweet. Yuk.
Lutfu already knew that he wanted to study and
become a doctor. My aim was to advance myself and
become a Kabadayi like Barut Rifki. I wanted to teach all
the bad and rotten louts a lesson, and this is what I did. I
became obsessed with fighting the bullies in the streets.
In the boxing ring I used to imagine that my opponent
was Sabri. Therefore I used to badly hurt many young
boxers, before I knocked them out. I could never seem to
get rid of the hatred inside me. My nickname became
“Erol the boxer.” Because my only rival, the boxer
Mehmet, had moved away to Malatya, the whole town
belonged to me.
My next aim was to be a Kabadayi like Barut Rifki. I
had a Kabadayi suit tailored out of my prize money, and
a pair of Kabadayi shoes made by the shoe maker. In
those days there was no such thing as ready-to-wear
clothes, and everyone had their clothes and shoes made to
measure.My main worry was that my new shoes
wouldn’t squeak enough, as I had always wanted - as
loud as Barut Rifki’s shoes. I visited the tailor every
week. The master tailor, “Halis Usta”, made me try on
my suit for size every time, took measurements, drawing
marks on the cloth with a cake of soap, and then he
would start ironing the other suits which he had already
finished. His large flat iron, which was inwardly heated
with charcoal, gave off an extremely pleasant smell. He
babbled at me:
“Lambkin! Come back again on Monday for another
fitting.”
After several weeks of this, I finally received my suit.
Unfortunately it didn’t look like a Kabadayi suit at all,
but more like like a suit fit for a lambkin!
Every weekend I shaved myself carefully with the
razor which had been given to me as a present by my
grandfather, rubbed my cheeks with eau de cologne and
my hair with brilliantine. Then I put on my Kabadayi
suit, slung my jacket over my shoulders, slipped on my
shoes, and went into the coffee houses, jangling my
rosary between my fingers, hoping against all hope that
my teachers wouldn’t catch me looking this way. On the
way, the curtains in the windows would start twitching
and I fancied I could hear the girls’ hearts pounding. I
never looked directly into the windows, but by looking
through half closed eyelashes, I could make out all the
girls. Yes, even Barut Rifki conducted himself like this.
If I showed an interest in one particular girl, all the rest
would be disappointed, and the curtains would stop
twitching. Why should I make all the girls disappointed
over one girl? Why did they have to get jealous? That
could also dent my popularity.
Squeak louder, shoes! Squeak louder!
 Step with a heavier tread, feet! Step with a heavier
tread!
Make the girls’ hearts beat faster!
Oh! Poor girls! If I were you, I would be more
interested in the boys who had more brains than brawn.
Just look at the state of this young lad, who once trod
with a heavy step. Now he sits here in this black hole,
and his eyes shine red like a wolf trapped in a cave.

23When I went to the coffee

house, I used to sit at the next
table to Barut Rifki’s group of
friends, rattling my rosary. I
never joined in their
conversations, but listened
intently to what they were saying.
It was a pity that I didn’t belong
to the group. But Barut Rifki
knew that I was a boxer. Every
time I greeted him, he would give
me a friendly glance and say :
"Hi Erol, how's things?"
My reputation and my fame continued to grow and
they eventually accepted me into their group. You cannot
imagine how happy I was that day.
When I heard one day that Barut Rifki was going to
marry a poor girl who had lost both her parents, I was
more pleased for him than all the rest put together. I
won’t recount the poor girl’s sad tale here because you
would only find it distressing.
The time flew by and soon the wedding day arrived.
A Cumbus and a Darbuka (Turkish musical
instruments) sounded in Barut’s father’s garden,
signalling the beginning of the wedding festivities. La!
La! La! Boom! Boom!
Out in the garden, kettles bubbled, food was being
cooked and tables were being prepared. Neighbours
brought their chairs, in all different colours, into Barut’s
garden. The women worked hard baking bread, and the
delicious smell wafted through the air. You would have
thought it was a flat bread festival. Flames and smoke
everywhere!
The neighbourhood children carried plates full of
golden yellow “Unhurmasi”, a Turkish dessert which was
made in the local bakeries. It smelt really good and was
made out of pure butter : you would have thought it was
national “Hurma” day.The “Hurma” troops marched
around in front of me, the children carrying the golden-
baked “Hurmas” aloft in groups.
The streets were full of horse-drawn carriages. The
horses happily crunched barley between their teeth.
Everywhere smelt of horse dung and people were running
madly to and fro. Everyone was so excited as if it was
their own wedding!
The bridegroom’s father had rented out the local
Turkish baths, and the carriages conveyed first the men to
the men’s baths or “hamam” and then the women to the
women’s baths. The baths were bursting at the seams and
the attendants (Tellaks) really had their hands full. There
was so much steam everywhere that you could hardly
recognise each other.
 The bridegroom’s father paid for everyone to drink
“Gazoz” (white lemonade), and everyone was kitted out
in their Sunday best.
The drum and oboe were positioned in the first
carriage and the musicians played wedding songs.
Following after came carriages carrying the bride’s
relatives, and close relatives of the bridegroom - all the
carriages were full to bursting. The streets echoed with
the sound of horses’ hooves which intermingled with the
sound of the oboe and drum.
People gossiped on the streets curiously.
“Who is getting married?”
“Rifki the coppersmith.”
“He’s marrying such a poor girl!”
The horses pulling the carriages were adorned with
brightly coloured ribbons and braids. Everything was
beautifully decorated. But my own dear horses were
nowhere to be seen. If they were still alive, how lovely
these braids would have looked on them. My darling
horses! How I miss you!
Out on the street there was a murderous din. The
beating of the drum mixed with the sound of the hooves
of the carriage horses. The bride was brought to her new
home. The marital bedroom was shown to her by the
“Yenge”. The Yenge is one of the bride’s relatives, who
gives her good advice about the first night.
The evening was spent wining and dining, the plates
of Unhurmasi were picked clean. After dinner, the men
drank raki in the front garden, hummed to the rhythm of
the instruments and there was dancing, Sivas style.
All Barut Rifki’s Kabadayi friends were there. They
were all clean shaven and smelt of eau de cologne. We
danced shoulder to shoulder, rolled our eyes and whizzed
around, while the dancer on the end waved a scarf. I was
the last dancer, and all the others leant on me. The last
dancer always supports the others who lean on him
during the dance. If I had let go, all the dancers would
have collapsed in a heap like a deck of cards. But I would
never dream of doing a thing like that, because they all
trusted me. They think I am like the cliffs of Abdul
Vahap Gazi. They were right about that. They shouted
out to the drummer :
“Louder, you dawdler, beat louder. Today is our
Lord’s wedding day!”
“Hurrah, if my brother Rifki should ask me to die for
him, I am ready to do it!”
It was no false boast. He really meant it. A totally
different calibre of people lived in those days.
In the back garden, the men and women were
segregated by hanging up kilim carpets. But the children
were only allowed in the women’s section. If a space
opened for one moment between the kilims, the young
lads and the girls would exchange flirtatious glances.
Everyone was keeping an eye out for their sweetheart. I
caught some glances myself. The bride, all dressed in
white, cast an approving eye on the proceedings around
her.
The high spirited friends of the bridegroom kept on
patting him vigorously on the shoulders. He had to put up
with all this patting whether he liked it or not. Remember
they were all robust Kabadayi hands.
The Gecesefasi (night flowers) opened their blossoms.
The honeysuckle around the edge of the garden filled
the night air with its sweet perfume.
The moon looked down from the sky onto the
festivities, concealed itself behind a cloud and went to
sleep.
 The darkness deepened and the guests began to
disperse.
The drum fell silent and the cumbus player slept
himself sober in a corner.
The bride put on her nightdress. The “yenge” tenderly
stroked the bride’s back. The “sagdic“, one of the
bridegroom’s experienced friends who initiated him into
the secret arts of love, whispered something into Rifki’s
ear. Then, thinking that this probably wasn’t enough for
him, patted him encouragingly on the back to give him
some Dutch courage.
The door creaked, the smell of eau de cologne spread
throughout the bedroom. The bride and the bridegroom
made Namaz (an Islamic prayer spoken while kneeling
down). The bridegroom said the traditional prayer.
More than likely the bride pulled the bed cover up to
her chin and sighed. The bedstead squeaked, and then
everyone heard the door creak open again.
The bloodstained bed sheets were presented for
inspection to those waiting in front of the door.
The bride’s honour was upheld.
The hero of all heroes was married.
The leaves turned pale, the trees disrobed.
Autumn winds lashed the drops of rain.
Wood was chopped into logs and stacked up in the
cellar.
Market traders erected their stalls and took them down
again.
Cabbage leaves lay scattered on the ground.
Ovens were lit, sweet chestnuts roasted.
A hard winter set in.
Mounds of snow were brushed away.
Bedspreads were piled up on top of each other.
Horses were harnessed to sleighs.
 Icicles hung from the rooftops.
New Year’s Eve was celebrated with large amounts of
Tel Helva.
March brought spring peeking through the doors,
And the burning of spade handles and spars.
The sun melted the snow making it slushy.
Plums were sold at the weekly market.
Madimak was strewn on the cloths.
Sparrows fluttered about again over the fresh horse
dung.
Lambs were born.
The neighbour’s dog barked at every noise.
The eggs were coloured red.
The woman next door swept the street, throwing up
dust.
Cats called out their longing into the night.
The sparrow hawks built their nests in the same place.
Aysegul, Barut’s wife, bore her husband a strapping
son.
In the coffee house I let my rosary rattle while I talked
with Barut Rifki.
“Congratulations. I heard that you have a son. God
grant that his parents will live to see him grow up.”
“Thank you, Erol.”
“What are you going to call him?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“Please, Rifki, name him after yourself. That way
your name will live on.”
And sure enough, Rifki’s son was named after his
father. In the evenings he would talk to me about it over
and over again.
“That was a brilliant idea you had, Erol. To carry this
name on. My grandfather Rifki will be able to rest in
peace.
 24 The water from the
public waterworks in
Sivas was very chalky
and did not taste nice.
Whenever you wanted to
make tea you had to
make sure you boiled the
water for a long time
first. This caused the
children a lot of work.
We had to provide
another source of
drinking water. The city council had laid on special taps
with Kepenek water which was good drinking water.
This water was so famous, it was said to taste of honey.
The children could often be seen, their lips pouting as
they struggled to carry the heavy jugs containing the
good water, complaining that their arms were about to
fall off. I wish this water didn’t taste so nice!
When I was little, my brother had to fetch the water. I
can remember it well. On one occasion when I had drunk
a lot of water at suppertime, my brother puckered up his
eyebrows and glared at me, his eyes glittering fierce with
anger. He was right. The water jug was empty yet again,
and as light as a feather. When my father noticed that
there was no drinking water in the house, he growled :
“Savas, go and fetch some more water - off you go!”
“Savas” is the name of my older brother. It means
“fight” in Turkish. My idealistic father had given us such
funny names. My brother had to fight, and like my name,
I had to be brave. Well, I was brave, but just look what
has happened to me! And like his name, Savas had to
fight. He, too, battled, but what happened to him? I will
tell you all about it later.
My idealistic father, my utopian father. You will find
that many teachers are idealists. They consider
themselves the kings of their classrooms, and for this
reason also expect that their “kingship” is recognised
wherever they go. For example, if a teacher walks into a
social gathering, he immediately expects that all the
people will stand up straight.
Now, where were we? Oh yes, I was explaining how
my brother Savas used to struggle with the water jugs.
Memories, memories!
But when I grew up, I had to take over this task from
him. As a boxer, lugging around such water jugs
presented me with no great problem. But I did find
waiting in the queue at the water site incredibly boring.
So what I did was simply to recruit a few children who
were willing to wait for me in the queue, while I went off
to the bakery just around the corner.
 There I used to chat to Suleyman, the master baker,
and help him as and when he needed it.
Suleyman the master baker was a little old man with a
large humpback.Although he was already quite old, there
was not one grey hair on his black head. When his wife
took sick one day and died, he lived for a while with his
daughter. But after she got married, he lived alone. His
neighbours felt sorry for him, and found him a poor girl,
who had nobody else in the world, and was prepared to
marry him. Their union produced a very pretty young
girl, and Suleyman now had someone to carry on the
family bakery. His young, pretty wife kneaded the dough,
shaping it into flat cakes while his little daughter brushed
them with water or beaten eggs. Suleyman would then
throw some flour onto the bread shovel and push them
into the oven. They were a part of our community, grown
together like flesh and bones.
Many of the women in the neighbourhood kneaded
dough made from dark flour in trays specially made for
the purpose. The children used to balance these trays on
their heads and carry the finished dough to master baker
Suleyman, so that it could be baked in his oven. And
Suleyman, in turn, would receive payment for the use of
his oven. Only a few officials’ wives or characters from
other parts of town bought the white, French bread,
which was very fashionable at that time, but expensive.
Some people bought it simply out of curiosity.
The bakery was a family business and was always
very clean. The wife and her daughter were always
tirelessly cleaning up and Suleyman put a fly screen up at
the window to keep insects out. He always stood on
exactly the same spot in front of the oven, like a picture
at the oven door.
 His beard glowed red in the light of the flickering
flames which leapt up out of the oven, and he always
greeted every customer in the same way :
“Hos geldiniz!” “I bid you a hearty welcome”, and
then asked after their health.
He made everyone laugh with his jokes, but he very
rarely laughed himself. Everyone felt good in his
company and could forget their worries. Have you ever
met characters like this during your lifetime?
One day I went to fetch the Kepenek water, left my
jug with the children in the queue as usual, and
skedaddled off to the baker’s shop to see Súleyman. The
shop smelt as always of dough and fresh bread. On one
worktop, different plates were sitting waiting to be baked.
Each plate contained a different pastry or cake.
Unhurmasi, baklava, potato cases, cheese pockets, pasties
and bread dough in wooden trays. On the other worktop
sat a plate full of gold coloured cakes and pastries and
loaves of bread, still hot from the oven. Every item was
crying out : “Eat me, eat me!” So Suleyman baked the
most delicious creations. It was quite simply unheard of
for any of his doughs to go wrong, or for him to burn any
of his bake wares. He was a good, warmhearted man.
What could he do about it if he had been sent to this
planet with a humpback? I ask you? We used to call him
“uncle Suleyman.” (In Turkey it is customary to address
people out of deference as “amca”, uncle, or “abi”, big
brother).
When he came in, I expected him to ask me
something silly as usual, like whether the visitors had
drunk all the water jugs dry at home, and that all the
children in the shop would laugh at this joke. But no! He
contented himself with a short greeting, wiping the sweat
from his forehead with a handkerchief :
 “I bid you a hearty welcome, Erol.”
He didn’t ask me any jokey questions! Nothing! There
was something strange about the bakery this morning.
For a start, his wife wasn’t there.
I went into the back, chopped up a few logs and
stashed them under a worktop.
Now and then a few of the children took their plates,
put a cloth on their head, balanced the plate on it and set
off for home. In the end there were only two children left.
When I took a good look at Suleyman, I noticed that his
face was ashen. One eye was blue, and there was a large,
gaping wound on his left cheek. You would have thought
he had just been through a war. But which war? The
second world war was already behind us. His face was
etched with great pain and sorrow. I asked :
“For God’s sake, whatever happened to you?”
“A piece of wood flew into my face when I was
chopping logs,” he replied, but the corners of his mouth
were trembling. As a boxer it was quite easy for me to
distinguish between whether someone had been hit in the
face by a piece of wood, or whether they had been
beaten. My own face had been ruined often enough! I
called out to the other children :
“Children - go and wait outside the door until your
bread is ready - I will call you.”
In those days children did as they were told. They
disappeared in a flash.
“Uncle Suleyman, you have just lied to me. Tell me
the truth.”
At my words he sat on the bread shovel, slung his
arms around himself as if he was trying to console
himself, and started to bawl his eyes out like a little child.
Then he wiped the tears from the bread shovel and you
could see quite clearly that he was ashamed. Then he
disappeared under the worktop between the logs of wood.
All I could hear was his sobbing and groaning. It
reminded me a bit of a stormy day, when it has been
damp, sultry and oppressive, and then a thunderstorm
comes along and clears the air.
Someone must have ridden completely roughshod
over him for him to be so distressed.
Without a moment’s thought I too climbed under the
work surface. It wasn’t easy to find him. Where is this
man? Where has he disappeared to?
His small body was plainly crumpled up behind a pile
of wood. I spoke to him:
“If you won’t tell me anything, I can’t help you.”
He replied without taking his hands from his face :
“Just wait a moment, and you can see for yourself.”
The door to the shop swung open and we heard
Suleyman’s wife calling :
“Where are you Suleyman? If you had been a real
man, none of this would have happened to me.”
Her hair was dishevelled and her eyes red from
crying. When she saw the two of us crawling out from
under the work surface, she was really startled. At the
same time she realised what was going on. He was
unable to look me in the eye, but his wife poured out the
whole story in one breath.
Over the past month, Leech Nuri had been making
advances to Suleyman’s wife. Because she was unwilling
to fall into his arms, this filthy womanising scum had
beaten Suleyman and threatened him. Zehra had firstly to
cook for Leech, lay his table, get a bottle of raki ready for
him, and not forget to bring a fresh loaf of bread with her.
As soon as he was drunk, he forced her to sleep with him.
When I heard that, I could see in my mind’s eye Leech’s
devious, green, deep set eyes, which had the power to
hypnotise women. I felt sick. My face betrayed my
emotions, the veins on my neck stood out, and burning
with rage, I yelled out the famous Sivas threat :
“Watch out, Leech, you will live to regret it! Zehra! In
the morning I will go to Leech in your place. I will pull
the leech away from where he sucks.”
That night I couldn’t sleep for rage, and restlessly
tossed and turned in my bed. Moreover, this was the first
time in my life that I had confronted such a blackguard.
The incident could end badly. But a promise is a
promise! Had I made a “Nara” (a Kabadayi threat) in his
shop in vain?
The next day, at the exact time Zehra should have
turned up at Leech’s house, I knocked on his door in her
place. Just look! He had a fantastic double garden gate,
complete with cast iron door knocker. Click clack. Can
you hear his footsteps? He is coming! He must be very
excited. He will soon be meeting his beloved Zehra.
He opened the door, and I was confronted by the head
of a lion. He looked at me and examined me for a while
with his hypnotic eyes. I could tell he was deeply
disturbed by my presence.
“What do you want here, you vermin?”
“Just you, darling!”
With one stride I stepped through the gate into the
front garden.
“Zehra is unable to come today, but she sent me to
stand in for her. She gave me strict instructions. First I
must lay the table and get you a large raki. Look, I’ve
even brought you a fresh loaf of bread, and lastly I will
warm your bed. How does that grab you?”
He was speechless.
When he had pulled himself together, Leech replied :
 “Are you trying to make a fool of me? You’d better
clear off, you poor lunatic fool, or I will make mincemeat
out of you.”
He was right. I had disturbed him and spoilt his
appetite. I replied with a sarcastic grin :
“Just try it!”
As he raised his hand to hit me, I grabbed hold of his
arm as quick as a flash and twisted it until it crunched.
Then he managed to free his arm and before he could
recover from the pain, I punched my fists into his face.
On this particular day, I was wearing my knight’s ring.
When the fierce barrage of my blows died down, he
fell like a wet sack at my feet. I kicked him and yelled :
“You know that Suleyman cannot stand up to you,
you swine. Why must you choose the wife of a poor man
as your victim? Must you molest the poor, weak Zehra?
Since when has rape been a part of our tradition?”
Nuri was on his knees imploring me, and although he
was older than me, he was moaning and wailing.
“Oh Abi, I kiss your hands Abi, only don’t hit me any
more!”
I knew from my childhood days that showing
compassion only brings trouble. If I stretched out my
hand to him, he could stab a knife between my ribs and
so I replied :
“I’m not finished with you yet.”
I started lashing out at him again, until I heard a voice
behind me. I turned round and noticed a young boy
clinging to my trouser leg crying. He sobbed :
“Please, uncle, don’t keep hitting my dad.”
Astonished, I turned to Suluk :
“What? You mean to tell me you are married and have
a child? Why must you go round assaulting defenceless
women? Why in God’s name? I should really beat the
living daylights out of you.”
But of course I couldn’t do any more to him in front
of the child.
I heard a woman’s voice at the front of the house
calling out for her son, and shortly after that Leech’s wife
came into the garden. She looked around her in a state of
shock, and without saying a word, grabbed hold of a
heavy stick (which she had probably been using earlier to
fluff up the wool from their mattress which was lying
spread out to dry). She took a deep breath and tried to hit
me, but I dodged her blow. Then she spat at me, and
began to set upon me like a Fury. The pieces of wool
flew through the air wherever I stepped.
“Calm yourself, my good woman. Have you any idea
exactly what this is all about? Do you know what your
husband has done?”
“Of course I know. But what business is that of yours?
He is a man. If you were a real man, you would do just
the same.”
That just goes to show that women can be just as big
an idiot as men. Presumably she had come here to catch
the runaway child in case he disturbed Leech. I was livid:
“Damn you and Leech, damn the pair of you!”
With a well aimed punch, I put her out of action. If
your conscience allows it, hitting women is easy. She fell
to the ground like a sack of potatoes! At the same time I
felt a deep, dull pain in my stomach. Suluk had seized the
opportunity offered to him and stabbed me with a knife.
Although I had tried to avoid his aim, he had still
managed to jab me in the stomach and slit me open. I
collapsed in a heap, clutching the wound with both
hands.
 My hands had suddenly turned red. A voice inside me
was asking quickly :
“Is this warm stuff blood?” “Yes, it is blood.” “Is it
my blood?” “Yes, it’s your blood. Sülük has stabbed
you!”
I couldn’t believe it! I groaned with pain :
“You filthy swine. Can’t you fight without a knife?”
“ I have simply marked your stomach, so that you
don’t stick your nose into the affairs of grown ups in the
future. Now get out of here, you sissy.”
“If you don’t leave Zehra alone, I will tell Barut Rifki
everything.”
Suluk Nuri turned pale :
“For God’s sake, anything but that. No. I give you my
solemn promise that I will not lay a finger on Zehra from
now on. I give her to you.”
He gave me Zehra! Did you hear that? He offered her
to me as if she was a handful of snow from the snowy
mountains! He thought I was as bad as he was. This is
why there is a saying :
“We judge others by our own standards.”
I left the garden with the blood still flowing between
my fingers. I firmly believed that I could still make it
home, but once I got out on the street, my strength left
me. A thick layer of cotton wool seemed to come down
over me, and I sank to the ground. A black whirlpool was
dragging me down deeper and deeper, and I felt death
was near. Far in the distance I could hear the clattering of
metal hooves, and I imagined that my darling horses had
climbed down out of the sky to come and save me. A
carriage stopped in front of me. The carriage driver
picked me up and laid me in the carriage, saying :
 “Now what have we got here? Who has done this to
you? He has been stabbed! What filthy swine has done
this?”
That was the last thing I remembered.
When I regained consciousness, I found myself in a
hospital bed. As soon as I was well enough, I received a
visit from the police. They wanted to know what had
happened and whether I wanted to press charges. I had no
intention of ratting on Leech, and told them that I
couldn’t remember anything about the incident.
Three days later, when I was discharged and made my
way home with Necmi’s help, my mother asked me :
“Wherever have you been again?”
It didn’t take her long to notice the bandage around
my stomach.
“For heaven’s sake, whatever has happened now?”
This time I reverted to the old excuse:
“Nothing at all.”
“I’ve had it up to here with your “nothing”, and your
“nothing at all.” This time I’m going to tell your father.”
“Mum - we were at a boxing tournament, and I got a
slight injury there - that’s all.”
“You could have at least let us know!”
“Yes mum, I know that you’re right, but everything
happened so quickly.”
She asked me thousands of questions and I told her
thousands of whopping great lies, since the tongue has no
bones! My family believed me, because it wasn’t unusual
for me to stand in for another boxer at short notice. When
she had calmed down, my mother asked me :
“Erol, there is not a drop of water at home. Can you
please go and get some.”
“Yes, of course, mum. Give me the pitcher.”
 (At least the stitches the doctor had put in my wound
were holding my body together, so I could carry the
heavy load).
Going out for water suited me very well, because it
meant I could go and check out whether Leech Nuri had
kept his word.

25 When I reached uncle

Suleyman’s shop, I was quite
out of breath. The shop was
full of customers as usual. I
took him into the back of the
shop and explained to him
what had happened :
“Leech will not lay a finger
on your wife from now on.”
In the previous few days he
had guessed that would be the outcome. He almost wept
with joy :
“May your hands enjoy a long life. May God grant
you your heart’s desire, my dear boy!”
 I kissed his hands and left the bakery. From that day
on, Leech Nuri never once crossed my path or ever again
molested Zehra, because he knew that I was a friend of
Barut Rifki. He had often caught sight of me sitting in the
coffee house with the Kabadayi group, twiddling our
moustaches and rattling our rosaries. If Barut Rifki
hadn’t been on my side, I would not have been foolhardy
enough to confront Leech Nuri on my own. For Leech
Nuri had a lot of like-minded evil mates, who liked
stabbing people with knives when they got the chance.
There is a saying which goes : “You wouldn’t get into a
sack with a dog.” That’s right, isn’t it? Wasn’t I the one
who came out of the sack with a stab wound in my
stomach?
Two days later the drinking water had run out again at
home. I went to the “Kepenek” water site and had a quick
look in the shop again. Yes, the bakery looked nice and
cheerful once more. The windows were polished and the
work surfaces blitz clean. Uncle Suleyman swung his
bread shovel and told the children jokes. When he saw
me, a beam lit up his face from ear to ear and he couldn’t
get the words out :
“Erol, you are……., Erol, you are………!”
“It doesn’t matter, Suleyman, I know what you are
trying to say. Everything is as it should be.”
No one in the bakery could understand a word we
were saying.
“Come for lunch on Sunday, Erol. I will make you
such a delicious baklava that you will eat your fingers by
mistake.”
“Oh, uncle, then you’d better not make me any
baklava.”
“Why ever not?”
 “If I lose my fingers, how am I going to tie my
shoelaces when it’s time to leave?”
“No problem! I’ll do it for you. But, you really must
try my baklava.”
We both went red with laughter. I’d achieved the
impossible - I’d made the man who never laughs laugh
out loud. Anyway, laughter didn’t suit him, because his
goatee whipped through the air like a brush.
On Sunday, the whole family fussed around me, and
didn’t know what they could do to thank me enough. I
didn’t enjoy the meal which Zehra had prepared, but the
baklava which Suleyman had baked, and which was full
of walnuts, tasted simply heavenly. The family made me
eat so much baklava, that I almost died of thirst in the
end. Once we had had a chance to talk, I learned that
Leech had indeed kept his promise. When I came to go,
they were effusive in their thanks and wished me all the
best.
“You have saved our honour. May God reward you.”
“We don’t know how we can thank you enough.”
Someone had to help this poor family, and it had
fallen to me to do so. But helping them cost me a scar to
my stomach. What do you mean, “Am I going to become
a Kabadayi too?”
That same evening, the cinema was showing
“Spartacus”. All the tickets were sold out, but I had a
friend, a machinist, who worked in the cinema, who
managed to get us four tickets. I took my mum and dad
and my brother, and we all sat together in the
comfortable seats of the cinema, drinking lemonade and
nibbling on pumpkin seeds. Nearly everyone in the
cinema nibbled on pumpkin or sunflower seeds, and this
crunching supplied the background music for the film.
Hands delved greedily into the bags while eyes were
intent on following the film!
As the film began, I experienced a feeling of
incredible well-being. Spartacus was a hero from Roman
times. He built an army from slaves and gladiators, and
fought against the Roman army.
Kirk Douglas was playing the lead role, a role which
seemed made just for him. This was arguably the best
role he had ever played. He inflicted devastating damage
on the Roman army, but was eventually caught and
crucified. I compared the two of us in my head. Spartacus
had lost his battle, but I hadn’t. I had won the fight
against the leech Nuri. Spartacus had been crucified. I
had got off with a trifling stab wound in the stomach. I
could have finished up in the cemetery too. How lucky I
was!

26During this year there was

extreme unrest in the Istanbul
universities. Many students were
suppressed by police using rubber
batons, until finally the military
rioted and took over the government.
For days on end all we could hear on
the radio were military marches and
military stories.
The prime minister Adnan
Menderes was strung up on Yassi Ada island along with
his ministers Fatih, Rustu Zorlu and Hasan Polatkan. The
newspapers published pictures of Adnan Menderes with
his bushy eyebrows, his head hanging in a noose. In those
days I was too busy thinking about being a Kabadayi to
fully appreciate everything that was going on. But today,
sitting in this prison cell where I am sick and tired of
contemplating the cold walls, I have a totally different
take on things.
Isn’t it a bit unfair to start hanging politicians just
because they cannot get to grips with the huge problems
facing a country whose population keeps snowballing
every year like an avalanche? Aren’t the parents who
keep bringing countless new innocent children into this
mechanised, robot-dominated world partly to blame?
And aren’t those who choose to ignore world
overpopulation and don’t help to introduce family
planning to those members of society who don’t know
any better, equally to blame? Of course they are.
In today’s world there are so many machines that they
are taking work away from our children. The good old
days with many children and no machines have long
gone. If this trend continues, unemployment in the world
will never cease, but actually continue to increase, no
matter what measures the different governments try to
make. For never a day goes by without the discovery of
some newly developed machine or robot or automatic
device. And instead of lamenting the fact, we actually
take pleasure in it. Basically this means that all newly
introduced machines are taking away hundreds of job
opportunities from our young people. At the same time,
million upon millions of young people are joining the
number of unemployed every year. What politician is
going to come along with a magic wand and create a
million new job opportunities for these young people at
one fell stroke? Even supposing he could create job
places for a million unemployed youngsters this year,
how is he going to cope with the additional million young
people who come onto the job market next year? If these
young people cannot find jobs, they will lose interest in
the other forms of government, from which they had high
expectations, and start demonstrating against them.
In the past, kings and sultans have solved such social
tensions by waging new wars. That’s a great solution,
isn’t it? If unemployment in Europe today is lower, it is
not only because the country is more industrialised, but
also because of a decline in the population growth in
Europe. On the one hand, the country’s population
growth keeps increasing, on the other hand, employers
are constantly looking to replace people with more and
more machines. In this scenario, it is quite impossible for
everyone to secure a work place. Other measures would
have to be taken. In ancient times they didn’t have the
machines we have today. Everyone used their manual
skills. And countries would often be overrun with
dreadful wars. Today we have more machines, but at the
same time more people. Under these circumstances, if
parents still wanted to have lots of children as in days
gone by, they should first do away with the machines and
then produce all the children. If we don’t get rid of the
machines we will simply have to wait in vain for the
politicians to perform a miracle. Such a miracle brought
about through over industrialisation would be false
anyway, because over industrialisation leads to
irreparable damage to nature, which will be viewed by
future generations as criminal.
So, this all means that overpopulation is the main
problem in the world. We must first slow down this
process through humane methods. That is to say we must
find the cause of the flood tide. Trying to prevent damage
from a flood by barricading with sandbags is not a long
term solution. That is why family planning for the whole
world is an urgent priority. But all nations of the world
must instigate these measures and achieve unification.
Then the United Nations should start a global campaign
for family planning. Otherwise it would be pointless for
one nation to initiate family planning measures, while
another one carried on multiplying its numbers in order
to gain more power. We should not underestimate the far-
reaching effects of this vicious circle. A country with
strong population growth cannot reduce its own
problems, nor can a country with a low birth rate distance
itself from the problems of others countries whose birth
rate is increasing. Overpopulation is an evil world plague.
What could Adnan Menderes do about it?
Rebel Erol made this speech. Not me!

27 When my brother came

back to Sivas from Istanbul
in the half term holidays, he
told us what had happened
at the universities, and
showed us the marks made
by the police using rubber
truncheons. I could
understand neither the
concerns of the state nor the
worries of the students. All I
was interested in was the
peace and tranquillity in my own neighbourhood.
Nothing more, nothing less!
That summer our father decided to take us to Yilanli
Cermik, the thermal health spa in Kangal. God had
shown himself to be very generous to Sivas, for the town
had a large number of thermal baths. There was a hot,
sulphurous spring, “Sicak Cermik”, which had very good
healing powers particularly for rheumatic illnesses, and
in the surrounding area there were many caves with
sulphurous stalactites which all shimmered in various
yellow hues. If you had ever come across such a cave,
you would find that all the worries clinging to your mind
would simply disappear into the ether. The incredibly
rich colour of the sulphurous stalactites would let your
mind roam free and your brain would be re-programmed
by the magical sound of the drops falling. After that
experience you would feel as if you had been born anew.
Elsewhere there was the “Soguk Cermik” (cold
thermal bath), which served to cool you down. Lots of
the locals from Sivas pitched their tents under the shade
of the poplar trees. In the surrounding area, vast expanses
of pastureland stretched out, on which Sivas’ carriage
horses grazed, pawing the ground with their hooves and
neighing. They were really enjoying being in their natural
habitat, before having to be harnessed up again, while the
sheep searched out the tasty grass.
28 My father hired a
pick up truck which
would carry all our
camping equipment :
two tents, beds, bed
covers, kilim rugs,
different kitchen
utensils, a sack of
flour, oil lamps and
an oven etc. Our
parents sat up front
with the driver while
my brother and I made ourselves comfortable in the back.
During the long, monotonous journey, we had to shout to
make ourselves heard over the loud noise of the engine,
and clung onto the kilim rugs which fluttered up and
down.
Kangal was the provincial town furthest away from
Sivas. This town was well known for the breeding of
Turkish sheep dogs, Kangal dogs, and for its thermal
baths with fish. It was a long journey and we soon got
bored.
The Austin truck kept on climbing up the mountains,
but occasionally the radiator would overheat and we had
to make a few pit stops. Thank God our driver was a
resourceful man! If the radiator overheated and there
was no water left in the jerry can to fill it up with, he
would simply run behind the nearest bush, unzip his flies
and fill the can with his own warm water for the radiator.
If he had been an inexperienced driver, he would almost
certainly have set out on foot to the next village and left
us waiting for hours on end.
In those days there was very little motorised means of
transport. Buses and lorries were very popular with us.
You very rarely saw them on the roads and accidents
were hardly ever heard of. The drivers took as much care
of them as they would over their own bodies, continually
polishing them like mad, and had their vehicles inscribed
on the back with the words “God protect you.”
As the sun concealed itself behind the mountains, a
wind got up and it started to become frosty. We had to
rummage about to pull out our covers. It wasn’t long
before the droning of the engine sent us off to sleep.
We reached the thermal baths as dusk was falling. We
quickly pitched our tents and lit our oil lamps. We ate a
small snack and then there was nothing left to do except
get into bed.
Outside the crickets were chirping. The wind swept
through the gaps in the walls of our tent, bringing with it
the marvellous aromatic smell of the freshly cut wheat
fields.
This was my first visit to Yilanli Cemlik. I resolved to
get up very early and explore the surroundings.
In the first grey light of dawn I crept out of the tent.
There were a lot of tents here, and a different noise
sounded from each one, building into a most unmelodic
crescendo of snoring. The gentle snoring was coming
from the tent with the pointed roof over there, I am
almost certain!
Yilanli Cemlik had different thermal pools. It boasted
a large, open natural pool, and next to it there were two
enclosed thermal baths, one for men and one for women.
The mountains in the vicinity were bleak and bare, the
wheat fields pale. The stream which meandered through
the valley reflected back a typical Anatolian landscape :
willow trees created a stark contrast to the stubble of the
harvested wheat fields.
When I had taken in all the sights, I pulled on my
swimming shorts and hurled myself into the lukewarm
water of the large pool. The water temperature was the
same as body temperature : around 37 degrees C. My feet
and legs which had been fanned by the cold morning air
enjoyed the sensation. Outside, the air was cold, while
the water was lukewarm. It was splendid. I groaned with
pleasure : “What a lovely gift from mother nature”, as the
water gently lapped around my limbs, caressing them.
Suddenly I got a shock. What
was happening to my feet?
Who was pecking at my legs?
Small, finger-length fishes darted to and fro through the
water. These were the famous Kangal fishes.
When they couldn’t find any dead skin particles on
my legs, they left me alone. If I had had some kind of
skin complaint, I would have been able to offer them a
hearty breakfast. I’m so sorry, you nice little fish! Just to
please you, I’ll see if I can arrange to have a skin
complaint the next time I come. We’ll have to wait and
see!
In the next village the cockerels were crowing,
heralding in a new day. A few dogs were barking
obstinately.
We stayed in Yilanli Cermik for a whole month. Ever
since this time I have been really impressed with these
surgeon fish. Sick people suffering from skin diseases
like eczema and psoriasis came here from all over
Turkey. The fish acted as surgeons and simply nibbled
off the affected areas.
The water was extremely rich in minerals and
radioactive; the nibbled away parts of the skin were
disinfected in the water and the skin could begin its
healing process. There were no skin illnesses in our
family - we had only gone there for a change of scenery.
In addition to all this, people believed in the healing
power of the water snakes which lived here, but which
very rarely put in an appearance. It was said that touching
one would make nervous illnesses disappear. Faith can
move mountains!
During our stay we noticed that all the visitors seemed
to leave the thermal baths well satisfied.
Every day a lorry from Kangal brought crates of food
and provisions: tomatoes, paprika, aubergines, onions
and black bread. Everything was sold immediately.
People who arrived on the scene too late got to see only
the tail end of flying onion skins. Another lorry brought
water- and honey-melons. A couple of cries from the fruit
sellers was all that it took to get people crowding round
the lorry. Again, people who arrived on the scene too late
only got to see the tyre tracks in the sand.
Once a week, the farmers in the vicinity brought their
sheep and goats, slaughtered them where they stood and
hung them from a tree. They were cut up as required with
a sharp hatchet and sold in small pieces. The bloodied
remains of these animals : ears, tails and paws were
simply left lying on the ground where people trampled
about on them.
In this world it’s not only weak creatures that are
shown no respect, but also their dirtied, chopped off ears!
Would you want your fellow man to trample around on
your ears? No, I don’t think so! Shouldn’t the remains of
the slaughtered animals at least be treated with some
dignity and buried in the earth with Mother Nature? At
this point, Mr. Average Erol interrupted the writing :
“Stop! Not so fast! Why are you making such a song
and dance over the animals? What sort of rubbish are you
going to come up with next? They’re only stupid sheep
and dumb goats!”
Rebel Erol was absolutely furious and started to
argue:
“What! Can you tell me the difference between humans
and animals? Is it just that we are a bit cleverer? Come on
now, if you keep on like this, I’m going to tell you a few
home truths.”
The two Erols that live inside me bicker like this now
and again, but they always make up again afterwards. No
problem!
On certain days the farmers’ wives offered their own
milk products for sale : creamy, aromatic yoghurt made
from sheep’s milk was immediately snapped up by
onlookers.
How beautiful were the days of our youth, and how
well we were able to sleep in those far off days. After the
sunny days, one morning the sky was heavy with raven
black clouds. The air was oppressive and damp.
Everything was still, not even a leaf moved. Towards
evening a fresh wind started to play up like a naughty
child and increased in strength into gale-force gusts
which swirled up the dust on the streets. My father
surveyed the sky and gave us a warning.
“Hey, kids, we are in for some big thunderstorms
tonight. We’ll have to dig a drainage channel around the
tents.
We made both tents weatherproof.
Towards midnight, a searing flash of lightning split
the sky open, followed by an ear deafening clap of
thunder. Most likely there was a family quarrel going on
in heaven. Best not to get involved!
During the night we kids lived through all this
dreadful racket, but only as a part of our dreams, until
eventually drops of water started to make our faces wet.
Our parents’ tent was watertight, ours was not. It didn’t
really matter. We tried shifting our beds around in the
dim light of the oil lamp, but rain was dripping
everywhere. We found a good solution. Our tent doubled
as the kitchen. In the corner stood a large dinner plate,
and right next to it the wash bucket and a large pot lid.
Our dear mum must have had in mind a rainy day like
this when she packed these utensils! We had better start
using them straight away as a shield over our heads.
At last we were able to get to sleep again, to the
thunderous accompaniment of the raindrops which
sounded like a drum orchestra playing its full repertoire
of high and deep sounds. Sometimes the drops sounded
like swords and shields in battle. It was a long dream.
When our mother poked her head inside our tent in the
morning, she shrieked out loud :
“Erdem, come over here quickly, you must take a look
at this!”
Our parents carried on laughing, thinking we were
still sleeping. They nearly died laughing, even though we
had spent the entire night battling against the attack by
Poseidon, using our shields to ward off the torrents of
rain. I tell you! Humans aren’t so easily beaten. They can
be very tenacious, for it often seems as if they have seven
lives. They adapt to any situation and struggle ‘til the last
drop of blood is shed. Just like we had. Rebel Erol started
grousing again :
“You wise guy! Let the old Greek gods rest in peace!
They have already had to put up with enough from us
humans.Men used to create their own gods to suit
themselves. Sometimes the gods married mortals, and
children resulted from their union. I wished that this had
happened more often, so that large numbers of gifted
children would have been brought into the world. This
was one way in which humans could have had their
dreams fulfilled by the gods”
Mr. Average Erol had his quick answer ready off pat :
“Stop philosophising, you smart Alec! Let me get on
with the story!”
We crept out of our tent, and outside it was sunny
once more. It was only a summer rainstorm. We put our
belongings on the bushes to dry.
After so many dry days, the ground smelt pleasantly
earthy after the rain.
Oh, dear Mother Nature! The old Greek gods now
only live on in the history books, but you are omnipresent
- everywhere to be seen, everywhere to be felt. Very
close to us!
Conversations in the covered over pool were very
pleasant. We sat around in a circle with our arms crossed
in the warm water of the pool. When the topic of
conversation was particularly interesting, no one wanted
to get out of the water. The surgeon fish massaged, the
curative waters relieved tension and some people even
managed a pleasant snooze.
The open, natural pool was designated for those
people with illnesses, the covered over pool was
separated for men and women. The children used the
pool during the day, while in the evenings, it was the
grown ups turn. The shrieks of the children playing in the
pool were so loud, that their echo made the surrounding
mountains vibrate.
It was strongly forbidden to use soap or anything
similar in any of the pools. Another place was provided
for washing the body. One evening my father, his voice
soft and deep, started recounting tales of his time in the
military. Everyone hung on his lips, spellbound. I knew
what was coming - I had heard the same old story a
hundred times over.
Malaria must have been a terrible epidemic in olden
day Turkey, claiming the lives of hundreds of soldiers.
So my father said. Quinine saved a few of them, but for
many, help came too late. The dead were buried by their
friends.
The thermal bath had two water supplies : an influx
pipe and an outflow pipe. In the middle of the story,
while my father was burying the dead soldiers, a snake
appeared out of the outflow pipe. Everyone leapt out of
the water except my father. The loud noise and sudden
movement threw the snake into a panic, and it started
rushing around looking for a hiding-hole or cave. What it
found was my father’s trouser leg. My father didn’t bat
an eyelid. He remained quite still, as if carved in stone.
The snake obviously didn’t think much of the hiding
place he had found, and came back out again. My father
gently guided it in the direction of the outflow pipe and
sent it on its way. Everyone shouted out :
“My God – you’ve got nerves of steel!”
My father calmly replied :
“Water snakes are completely harmless, now where
had we got to?”
And so the conversation continued. The oil lamps
hanging round the edge of the pool distorted the faces of
the people like witches in a fairy tale. The water gleamed
in golden circles. The conversations became more and
more profound. We were like the old Romans. How
beautiful the time was back then. They would often have
this kind of deep conversation.
I much preferred this pool with its shared
conversations to modern swimming pools, since you
can’t have a conversation with yourself.
 29 The eyes reflect the depth of
the soul with its many hidden
secrets. Yet so many people do
not recognise this or simply
refuse to acknowledge it.
At the thermal baths there
was a place with warm water
where the women came to do
their dishes. Every day a young
girl came, as regular as
clockwork, to do her own
washing up. She always noticed
me every time I walked by, although she had her back
turned to me. Then she would turn round and our eyes
would meet, giving me a warm, melting feeling in my
heart. I could see the purity of her soul in her eyes which
was mirrored in her lovely face. I fell head over heels in
love with this girl. For days on end we communicated
using only our eyes. No sound left our lips. No word was
spoken.
She had fair skin and fine, delicate hands. When she
shyly smiled, her ample lips parted to reveal a gleaming
set of white teeth. I noticed too late that I had returned
her smile, and tried to close my lips. I had to compose
myself, although it wasn’t easy, because of all the other
people around. The women whispered with their hands
over their mouths.
Whisper! Whisper! The girl’s face turned first bright
red, and then resumed its normal colour.
The next day, I had to be satisfied with simply
communicating with my eyes, since my brain was worn
out as if it was sedated with thinking about her all night
long.
My ardour grew stronger every day, robbing me of
sleep at night. Be patient and wait, Erol, the time will
soon come round for the women to wash their plates and
dishes. Be patient!
Was this the great love which people talked about. So-
called butterflies in the stomach which never left me in
peace.
After a while, the glances we exchanged overflowed
with joy and tenderness, bestowing on each other our
declaration of love.
Now I am terribly sad - don’t ask about my sorrow!
All my memories turn back to the days of how it used to
be.
At that time, it was not customary for young men and
women to talk together, and they tended to stick with
members of their own sex. All the camping folk were
very curious by nature, and if anyone noticed that
someone had exchanged a word or a glance with
someone of the opposite sex, the news spread like wild
fire and became the subject of intense gossip. Everyone
was interested in everyone else’s business and everything
was scrutinised closely.
If her parents had found out that we had fallen in love,
she would have felt the full power of their wrath. For that
reason, I was absolutely terrified that I might lose her
completely. My fear was as great as that of a mouse in
front of a cat. She was aware of all this and so was I. That
is why I never spoke a word to her, never bothered her.
But our eyes spoke volumes, letting us both know that we
were attracted to each other. Day after day we exchanged
meaningful glances and the time just flew past.
Being a naïve young lad, I imagined things would go
on like this forever.
But one day a truck appeared on the camp site. I was
reading a book in my tent at the time. Through the
opening of the tent I could see this dinosaur roaring as it
searched for a certain tent, and eventually its search
ended when it found my sweetheart. To other people on
the site, the dinosaur appeared quite normal, but I was
afraid of it. And then they began to dismantle the tent. Bit
by bit, inch by inch, everything was loaded into the back
of the flat-bed truck, and with each piece they took, my
heart broke a little bit more. That was no flat-bed truck,
that was a monstrous dinosaur gobbling up her tent. I
would like to have gone up to it and ripped it apart with
my bare hands. In the event I was unable to tear it to
pieces, and powerless to make it shut its hungry mouth.
When the truck was completely loaded up, there
remained on the ground a dry, empty space, mirroring the
feeling in my heart.
“Oh God, how do you give such perfect feelings to us
human beings? How does everything work so quickly to
produce these feelings, by chemistry spreading through
our bodies. Isn’t that feeling of first love one of
incredible perfection, but also one which can cause
immeasurable pain?
The family said their goodbyes to their neighbours
and climbed into the truck - the parents up front with the
driver, the children in the loading space in the back. The
children stood side by side like a hanging bunch of
grapes, and began to giggle.
I couldn’t believe it : my gazelle-eyed sweetheart was
stuck on the back of a monster, but her eyes were
frantically searching for someone. I was acutely aware of
how stupid I was being - I should have stood up so she
could see me.
Even a blind hen can find its corn - but not me! I
could not move, as if I were set in stone. With a
monumental effort, I freed myself from the stony touch
which had a tight grip of my soul, and went outside.
At last the gazelle-like eyes of this young girl found
what they had been so desperately searching for. These
glances which revealed the secret of endless feelings,
tried to build a landscape in the paradise valley of youth.
But at the same time, black storm clouds were mustering
in the sky of this valley, which would bring with them
torrential downpours of rain. My heart bled terribly. The
pain refused to go away and caused me to choke. The
pains may not have wanted to leave me, but the truck did
– its wheels started turning, and a black cloud of smoke
billowed out of the exhaust. The wheels looked to me as
big as the claws of a dinosaur!
A delicate hand threw a dried flower out of the car
window. The dinosaur disappeared in a thick cloud of
dust. Without thinking, I noted down the number plate of
the car like a policeman, on the back of the novel which I
had just read, as if it would come in useful. I tried to
carry on reading my book, but it was no use. I felt empty
inside. I had a pain in my heart which knotted in my
throat, and a new, strange chapter in the book was
opening up which was not as pleasant as the previous one
: a desert wilderness in which sandstorms swirled around.
A desert wilderness in which only one living creature
trampled about - and that was nobody else but me, Erol.
As soon as the people had dispersed again and gone
about their business, I started looking for the flower - and
I found it.
There is a paradise valley and a young love like this in
the heart of each and every one of us. From this valley I
saved a dried flower. The first love of my youth
transformed into a flower in my hand. The young girl,
whose name I never did find out, disappeared like a
comet on my horizon. I placed the flower between the
pages of my book, at the exact spot I was reading when
she was so cruelly torn from my side. In my thoughts, I
called this young girl “wildflower”. I treasured this novel
with its dried wild flower my whole life long, as if it
were a precious diamond. I always took it with me,
wherever I went.
Now I felt angry with myself. Why on earth hadn’t I
spoken to her? Why? Because her parents would have
chastised her with harsh, angry words. I had inflicted
injury and pain on myself because of my own cowardice,
for now she was gone. Gone for ever. I had really made a
mess of things. Why did you stand by so passively, Rebel
Erol, you blockhead!
However was I going to find her again? Should I now
set off like “Mecnun” in Turkish mythology, looking for
his beloved “Leyla”, searching my whole life long for a
grain of sand in the desert, barefoot and bedraggled?
 Rebel Erol intervened :
“No panic! Just how far can this car have come from?
Perhaps from Kangal or Sivas. The very worst it could be
would be some other town in Turkey a bit further afield.
I’ve noted down the car registration number. If I search
through all the towns, I’m sure to find her.”
Mr. Average Erol replied :
“What about the schools, which will be open again
soon? Have you got enough money to search for her
there? “
Rebel Erol said sadly :
“Then I will be a bird and fly from town to town,
warbling and chirping on every tree, calling “Wildflower,
my lovely wildflower! Where are you? She is sure to hear
me.”
“Stop fantasising. I thought you were a rebel! You
didn’t make the most of it when she was there right under
your nose. Now you’re planning to fly from stem to stem
looking for her. I think you’ve gone soft in the head! “
All these internal thoughts had worn me out, and the
only thing I could do was to sniff the flowers. I smelt her
sweet perfume each time before I went to bed, and her
scent transformed itself in my dream into a bird, which
brought me on its back over the woods and dales into
paradise valley where my almond-eyed sweetheart waited
longingly for me. Should you decide that you want to
visit one day, please make sure you come on the days
when we are not there!
 30 From this time on
I was always out of
sorts. Whenever a fly
landed on my nose, I
got angry. Everything
made me angry. I
wished I could find a
violent opponent, on
whom I could take
out all my frustra-
tions. But one should
always be very, very
careful about what one wishes for, because one day came
not one, but a whole troop.
An old man was describing his experiences in the first
world war during one of the evening conversations in the
thermal baths. He described how the Russians at that time
used to dispense ammunition and gold across the
Caucasus mountains to the young, democratic Ataturk.
My father added to his story :
 “Yes, that is right, but Ataturk never allowed Turkey
to become a satellite communist state, as happened with
Bulgaria and other countries.”
I could hear the words, but to be honest, my thoughts
were still lingering with my wildflower.
Suddenly, the door was thrown wide open, and a troop
of unshaven men reeking of sweat came walking in. They
gave us a very curt greeting. One of the boorish men in
their group stepped forward, his nicotine stained
moustache twitching, and we took in his words :
“Sirs, you have had the whole morning to tittle-tattle
in the water. Now it’s our turn.”
An older voice replied :
“Please, there’s plenty of room for everyone.”
The stranger rejoined :
“No, we haven’t come here to gossip. We want to
have a proper wash with soap.”
My father intervened :
“In here? With soap? That is prohibited. There is a
special wash place where you can wash yourselves.
There are fish living in the water here, and soapy water
could kill them.”
The stranger with the nicotine-stained moustache
started to fume:
“Maybe the ban applies to you, but not to us. We are
going to take a wash now. To hell with your fish!”
I could feel my anger welling up towards these low-
lifes. They were quite prepared to exploit nature, using it
for their own selfish ends, but had no thoughts of
protecting or preserving it. They lived their lives
according to the motto : ”I’m alright Jack.” My father’s
words meant nothing to this man.
Everybody climbed out of the pool and started arguing
with the outsiders. The waves smashed higher and
higher: camp-dwellers against the strangers. The situation
had come to a head and was now critical for the camp-
dwellers. It looked as though the strangers were armed
with knives and pistols. You could tell just by the smell
of them that they were dangerous men. I talked to myself:
“Erol, you must do something.”
After racking my brains, I eventually came up with a
solution which has often been used in the past in
situations like this : I issued a threat and yelled out loudly
:
“Just hold on a minute! Listen to me you load of
outsiders. Do you really think there are no genuine men
here? If anyone has anything to say about this matter,
they’ve got to deal with me first.”
Everything suddenly went quiet. All heads turned in
my direction, just as I had imagined they would. Thanks
a lot Rebel Erol! There are times when one just has to
follow you and play the wild card. I carried on :
“We’ll work it out like this : whoever is man enough,
can fight me. The pool will belong to the winner. If you
win, you can use your soap to take a wash, and the fish
can die quietly. But if I win, you can all take yourselves
off to the wash station, stand gallantly in the queue, and
wash yourselves there. Then you can come back here to
us and we’ll all have a nice cup of tea together.”
One of the fellows, a veritable giant with a protruding
chin and drooping moustache, rubbed his hands together
in glee :
“That’s not a bad idea, you sissy. Come, my friend,
come!”
He had tiny eyes, which didn’t go with his enormous
chin at all. You could hardly tell whether they were in
fact eyes or just dots in his face!
 There was one thing I had to do without fail : put my
shoes back on. Because it would have been incredibly
stupid to try fighting barefoot on the slippery stone floor.
“Let me put my shoes back on first. You have yours
on and I don’t,” I requested.
The giant of a man, who couldn’t wait to get on with
the fight, roared out laughing at me:
“Of course you can put your shoes on - and while
you’re at it, let your mum come along too so that she can
bring you a glass of milk and wipe your nose - whatever
you want!”
Then the group broke out into loud laughter.
He made one big mistake : he saw me only as a child.
But I would soon show the giant what was what. One
thing I knew in all certainty : if he managed to grab hold
of me, I was done for. From the looks of him, my ribs
would not be able to hold out if he got me in a clinch. I
would have to try and keep my boxing arm free at all
costs.
When we stood facing each other on the clear area of
floor, I started to taunt him:
“Come on then you lumberjack. Perhaps it’s you who
had better call your mum to come and wipe your nose!”
Right, off you go, Rebel Erol - now it’s your turn.
This is what you do best!
It turned out just as I had figured it would. The giant
had never come across a boxer before in the whole of his
life. He was completely unfamiliar with this way of
fighting. He had no idea how to protect his face and body
from the blows I rained on him. All my punches hit the
spot. One last, heavy punch was enough to throw him
into the pool. I cried out in triumph as he hit the water
with a splash :
“You wanted to go in the water if I’m not mistaken!”
 There was an intelligent looking, white-haired, man in
the crowd, who kept up a running commentary of the
fight, his laughter lines deepening all the while :
“Yes, gentlemen, this fight has ended with a
knockout, fair and square. The winner is : ……EROL!!!!
Now you go and have your wash, and we’ll get the tea
ready. Shall we make up our differences? We are all
brothers after all, are we not?”
At first there was a long silence. Then the man with
the nicotine-stained moustache started to speak :
“Not bad, Erol, bravo! No one has ever got the better
of Ismael in a fight before.”
The strangers had presumably gone without hot water
for a very, very long time, because it took absolutely ages
before they reappeared on the scene. My poor mother had
to keep warming up the tea water, because it kept getting
cold. She was furious :
“I don’t know about tea - we should be giving them
poison! Why do you want to have anything to do with a
bunch of crooks like that, son? You’ll never be able to
change them. They are beyond redemption!”
Many of the campers went back to their tents, leaving
us all alone at the pool. There was only my father, the
clever old man and myself left in the swimming pool.
When the strangers finally re-emerged, rosy-cheeked, we
fell into conversation. Since there were far more of them
than us, they could easily have taken their revenge, but
they didn’t bother us once. They were uncouth fellows
who didn’t know the meaning of nature protection, but
they kept their word. In the Turkish concept of morality,
keeping ones word was sacred.
We drank our tea and chatted happily, while the little
fish massaged us.
 Oh man! How could you think of doing anything to
such loving little fish?
My father took advantage of the occasion to give the
men a private lesson in nature conservation, but he
needn‘t have bothered. They seemed to have understood
everything and nodded in agreement. I don’t know why
they always do that. Normally you have to instil all this
into their children, not their tough heads.
Some of it I listened to, but part of the time I spent
daydreaming and searching in the valleys and mountains
for my wildflower. During our conversation, we learned
that the men were cattle dealers. They travelled from
village to village, buying up cattle and then bringing
them into the big cities and eventually selling them to the
butchers. They came here after each strenuous business
trip to take a wash. Ismail, the man who had taken a
beating from me, asked me eagerly :
“Hey, kid - teach me this fighting technique!”
I replied : “Can’t do, I’m afraid. It’s not as simple as it
looks.”
“So where did you learn how to fight like this then,
you young wretch?”
“To learn to fight this way demands lengthy training
and discipline. I took a lot of beatings when I was a child,
and that is how I found this technique.”
“Oh really! Ha Ha!
Then they all started laughing so loudly that they
frightened the fish in the water. The men parked their
cars overnight in the loading area, and set off very early
in the morning.
So everything remained the same. The little fish lived
a bit longer, the children played and splashed about in the
water, and we continued our conversations in the dim
glow of the oil lamps.
 But one thing did not continue : the two gazelle-like
eyes which always used to catch mine were now no
longer there. No matter how many times I looked, my
wild flower was not amongst the women! She had simply
vanished into thin air. How many times must I tell myself
: she is no longer here!

31 The historical building

which was used by our
national hero Ataturk as a
meeting place, was our
grammar school. When
we looked out of the
windows, we could see the
old town hall and the town
hall square. From their side, the officials and magistrates
could see our grammar school with its historical stone
walls and the garden with its old, overgrown trees.
Early in the morning every Monday and just before
the weekend, the school children would assemble in the
schoolyard and sing the national anthem with great gusto.
In fact, they sang so loudly and so stirringly that the
anthem reverberated round the town hall square creating
an echo. Hearing the anthem, the people walking along
the avenue outside all stood to attention, caps by their
sides. We were republican children.
We school children entered our school through a large
gateway, flanked on either side with stone columns. We
would climb up the creaking wooden stairs and sit in our
classrooms which had very high ceilings.
The summer holidays had come to an end, the schools
had reopened and lessons were in full swing.
My elder brother had to return to Istanbul where he
was studying forestry administration at the university.
My father had always wanted him to become a forestry
engineer. The whole family hired a horse drawn carriage,
and travelled together to the station to see my brother off.
There were other families at the station too, waiting to
send their children back to Istanbul.
In those days, the
trains were powered
by coal. Thick
clouds of steam
billowed out of the
trains’ chimney
stacks, covering
everything and
everyone with a
layer of soot. If you
had any business in
the close vicinity of the station and were wearing a white
shirt, you could be sure that within a very short time, the
shirt would change from its original colour into a dirty,
greyish black. We finished up having to wash our shirts
out every day. But I liked the trains - particularly their
puffing and blowing. That is a sentimental matter!
Sivas’ main station was very large and kept very
clean. Close to the station lay a locomotive production
factory. With his social politics, Ataturk had had two
large state factories built – the other was a cement works.
A complete infrastructure was provided for the workers
and employees at both factories and their annexes,
consisting of their own houses, schools, meeting rooms,
dance halls, canteens and tea gardens etc. The townscape
of Sivas was very modern, since everything had been
accurately set out according to preconceived plans.
The main street leading to the station was a
marvellous avenue with acacia trees on either side, and
the front gardens of the workers’ houses butted onto the
street. As the long awaited huge, black train drew into the
station puffing and blowing, it bombarded those waiting
on the platform with an enormous black cloud of smoke.
Are you very tired, you old locomotive?
The suitcases found their way outside by being passed
through the train windows, and the ones waiting to go
found their way back onto the train in the same way. The
throng of people said their goodbyes to their relatives,
mothers tearfully embraced their children, and hundreds
of hands were raised to wave a last farewell. The train
swallowed up my brother and disappeared into the
distance puffing and blowing.
Carriages smelling of horse dung waited in front of
the station, ready to take their passengers to town. The
noises from the black trains symbolised foreign lands and
homesickness. The horses’ hooves reverberated in the
streets of Sivas. With its tiny population, Sivas enjoyed a
peaceful atmosphere. In this small town of the young
republic, poor but good-natured people crawled around
like ants on an ant hill.
The thin newspapers which were sold at the station,
were not full of adverts and very rarely held reports of
disasters, terror and raids. Instead, they were peppered
with historical anecdotes which were depicted in
colourful pictures. They were small, environmentally
friendly newspapers of no more than four or six pages,
which were produced without felling millions of trees.
On the return journey we met some of Sivas’
townsfolk who were just going to a meeting at the
townhall square. The main topic of conversation was
Cyprus. We joined in with the crowd, chanting at the top
of our voices : “Down with Makarios! We want the
separation of Cyprus.”

32 At the weekend I
went with my friend
Necmi to the nearby
lake “Gokce”. At this
time, going hunting or
owning a car were
considered absolute
luxuries. Hence there
was not a lot of
poaching, nor was the
flora and fauna of the
lake damaged. On this
particular day complete
calm prevailed on the lake.
The marshy parts of the lake were home to
cormorants, wild ducks and geese who could be seen
widening their wing spans ready to land on the surface of
the lake. Every now and then, a light breeze would
change the appearance of the lake’s surface. But when
the birds actually landed on the water, the lake would
laugh through the eddying circles which were produced.
We were able to observe an incredible variety of birds
from the meadows lying next to the pond. They chirped
and twittered loudly to one another, full of fervour and
vitality, as if they were saying “We are very happy.”
A few bluish insects with translucent wings landed on
the surface of the lake like helicopters. A few praying
mantis insects took up their positions on the expanse of
reeds.
Another weekend, we went for a walk on the banks of
the river Halis (Kizilirmak). Here, too, we were able to
see many beautifully exquisite wild flowers and animals.
The town was not very far off, but because of the
absence of motorised vehicles, the animals were able to
live in peace. How nice it would have been, if this
harmony could have extended to the human race,
allowing man and animals to live together without the
need for domination. There is supposed to be a race of
people in some part of India who live in the midst of
nature, and who protect the wildlife and nature on
religious grounds. Gazelles are said to spring from the
outcrops of the mountains, and partridges cluck in the
valleys. The birds are said to chirp and twitter in the
trees, and to sing songs of thanks to the modest,
unassuming people. The people are said to be against the
hunting of wild animals. Unbelievable! I would like to go
there and embrace these people, whether young or old,
give them a hearty kiss and stroke their hair lovingly. But
it is my fate to spend my days in this damned prison.
 33 Master baker Suleyman
continued to push his bread
shovel backwards and
forwards, and make jokes with
his customers. His wife and
daughter listened to him while
they cut and formed the
dough. They were satisfied
with their lot. That was the
most important thing in life: to
be happy.
The bloodsucking leech Nuri no longer took
advantage of the family.
But another exploiter was already waiting in the wings
for me. In our peaceful grammar school there was a
teacher who we called “Pisbiyik” or “ugly moustache” on
account of his pencil thin moustache. He was always very
concerned about his looks, combed his hair to one side
with brilliantine, and always had his suits made
according to the very latest fashion. He always wore a
silk scarf with his suits. This teacher was deputy
headmaster, but a real slimy character!
During our free periods, he would appear in the
doorway with his nasty little moustache, and he would
always come up with some different excuse as to why
one particular schoolgirl should leave the room and
accompany him. For example : she must make a poster
for the notice board. She was a likeable, shapely young
girl, and every time she returned from doing her “tasks”,
her cheeks were flushed bright red. Everyone, including
the headmaster, knew what was going on here, namely
the corruption of a minor, but no one had the courage to
confront the teacher and warn him. So it fell to me yet
again to do something about it.
It was a job for Rebel Erol. I would have preferred to
keep myself to myself. Rebel Erol snarled :
“Then you’d better hide behind me, you coward
Erol!”
In the next free period, after the teacher had come and
fetched the girl once again, I took my friend little Necmi
to one side, and we crept along to the teacher’s room and
listened at the door. We looked at each other, our eyes
open wide - what we could hear were loud kissing noises.
Obviously something was being taught here, and this
topic, kissing and mauling schoolgirls, was definitely not
on the curriculum.
Necmi was my best friend. He may have been small,
but he had a big heart. He was so tough, he could always
floor even the biggest boys with a head butt. You could
count on him through thick and thin - he would always
get stuck in and always backed me up.
We yanked the door open, went inside and slammed
the door shut with a bang. We caught him in the act. The
girl was sitting on his lap and he had his hand up her
petticoats. He was kissing her – he must be a good
teacher, he was giving her a practical sex lesson! When
they caught sight of us, they leapt up startled. The girl’s
cheeks were flushed bright red and her lips were swollen.
The “ugly moustache” was puffing and panting like a
black puffing Billy. Hoh! Hoh!
I asked him point blank :
“What are you doing there, “ugly moustache?” Why
are you puffing and blowing so loudly?”
He stuttered with embarrassment :
“What are you doing here?”
Necmi answered :
“We’re only trying to help you!”
He asked anxiously :
“What are you up to?”
I replied :
“You made the girl’s cheeks go red - now we’re going
to put some colour into your cheeks too!”
I had always had respect for my teachers, and what I
now did was extremely unpleasant for me, but it had to
be done. I punched him several times in the face. With
each punch, the appearance of the “ugly moustache’s”
whiskers changed. Sometimes they were pressed down,
sometimes they shot up, as if they wanted to take flight.
All I could see was moustache. An ugly moustache!
Necmi gave the girl a few cuffs round the ear for good
measure. Just before we left the room, I threw a few more
words in his direction :
“I could have pulled you outside by your ears and
given the game away, but my father is a teacher too.
Teachers are respectable. Thank God there are only a few
like you about. I don’t want to hurt the reputation of a
teacher, but if this sort of thing happens again, it won’t be
me you have to answer to, but Barut Rifki.”
 The teacher said :
“My dear young lad, please forgive me! I promise
you, you will only get good marks from me in the
future.”
I gave him a piece of my mind:
“You must first get good marks from us, sir! If the
parents found out what was going on, you would be
lucky to get away with your life. That would soon wipe
the smile off your face. You want to be a teacher, but you
are the lowest of the low!”
The girl started crying. Necmi said to her :
“Off you go, get out of here, lass! Wash your face
before break time, and watch what you get up to in
future, otherwise I will see to it that your father gets to
hear about everything.”
From this day on, the girl’s cheeks resumed their
normal colour. Whenever the “ugly moustache” caught
sight of me, he tried to avoid my gaze, slinking past like a
rat looking for a hole where he could hide. All he had
missing was a tail! Although I hated him intensely, I still
felt bad about beating up a teacher. Thank God it wasn’t
me, but Rebel Erol. I was completely innocent!
I bumped into him once at a splendid wedding, just as
he was dancing with his wife. I couldn’t believe my eyes.
The “ugly moustache’s” wife was as pretty as a picture.
Obviously one woman was just not enough for him, and
he wanted all women, lusting after new flesh - a paradise
on earth for him. And he obviously viewed us school
pupils as harmless sheep, and the headmaster as a blind
shepherd, and he added some colour to his monotonous
teaching job with wolfish tricks like this. In my opinion
he is nothing more than a cocky rooster in a henhouse,
who wants to leap on all the chickens.
 Unfortunately, there are people like this everywhere
and in every age. In Greek mythology it was Hercules,
the son of Zeus, who battled against injustice, always
stood up for what was right and helped ordinary mortals
to free themselves from such characters. In the
mythology in my head, Barut Rifki played the part of
Hercules, but not as the son of a god, but simply as an
unpretentious hero. They were men too, but they
preferred to live an honourable life.

34 During the day I

spent my time sitting
at my school desk; in
the evenings I
worked, my head in
my books. But I
found it difficult to
concentrate, because
my thoughts kept
drifting back all the
time to my
wildflower. My heart
was still all ablaze, and neither storm nor Poseidon’s
waves could douse the flames. To smother this fire, I
would have to find another gazelle-eyed beauty.
There were many beautiful girls in my school, and one
day I managed to find one with similar gazelle-like eyes.
At break times I would circle around the beautiful Zeliha
like a satellite - like a planet around the sun. She was tall,
had light brown curly hair and her head was rather large
in comparison with the rest of her body, but her eyes
made up for this small defect. At every break time I
grabbed a friend to come along as an escort, and always
made a point of walking near her. I tried to capture a
glance from her beautiful eyes. But it seemed it was her
friend Nazli who was really interested in me. Nazli was a
slim blond with really sky blue eyes. At every break time,
the same thing happened. Every time that I looked at
Zeliha, those blue eyes would seize my gaze. It was
enough to make you mad. I wanted Zeliha, but she wasn’t
the least bit interested in me. Nazli wanted me, but I only
had eyes for Zeliha. I only wanted Zeliha’s gazelle-like
eyes. We played the same game every break time, since
Nazli definitely believed that I was crazy about her! So
she would often come up to me with a book in her hand
and ask :
“Erol, take a look at this. I don’t understand this bit -
can you help me?”
Each time I had finished explaining to her, she would
walk off again leaving the book behind, pretending that
she had forgotten it. It was probably my sixth sense
which told me to leaf through the book, where I would
always find some billet doux between the pages such as a
piece of paper with a red heart, or a sentence which said
something like: “Some people have a heart of stone.”
I must have been the one who had the stone heart!”
But I still only had eyes for my gazelle-eyed
sweetheart, and was not in the least attracted to Nazli.
One day a few Turkish lads arrived in Sivas, who
normally went to school in Germany but who returned
home in the holidays. They were clearly recognisable by
the western clothes they wore as they sauntered down the
Istasyon avenue.
 During one school break-time when I was looking out
for Zeliha, I came across her sitting under a large tree
with one of these boys. Zeliha and the blond youth had
their heads bent close together and were whispering.
Now the mystery was solved: someone else had already
captured her heart. Zeliha listened to the boy attentively
with her eyes lowered to the ground, while picking leaves
from a stem.
She never picked any leaves off a stem for me. But the
picture of the two of them sitting there was simply
beautiful. But I felt depressed. I didn’t just feel like a
damaged branch - more like a plucked cockerel.
The blond youth wore clothes that we had only ever
seen before in American movies. He looked to me like an
actor in a film clip. If only I could have taken his place.
I was seized with a great desire to go to Germany
myself, and as each day passed, my desire grew greater.
If these young men had managed to go to Germany, then
there was no reason that I couldn’t manage to do it too.
But where did I land up? It would have been better if I
had never come here in the first place!
I didn’t concentrate during lesson times. Instead, I
often mused with my eyes open about the picture I had
seen under the tree in the schoolyard. I was filled with
gloom.
 35 At the weekend my
parents travelled to Zara to
visit some relatives. I
remained at home alone. Out
of sheer boredom, and partly
because I hadn’t got over my
disappointment about Zeliha,
I decided to get drunk. I had
heard from friends that
alcohol was a fine thing. I
didn’t know exactly what
alcohol was, or the effect it could have, because up to this
point I had never had any interest in it, on account of my
upbringing. So now I decided it was about time I tried the
stuff. I put a bottle of cheap red wine on the table, which
I had fetched from the local shop. But I had no idea how
to drink it. They don’t show you this sort of thing in
school!
 I drank the wine like water, but it caused such a
horrible taste in my mouth I could no longer enjoy my
food. I really was quite inexperienced. Perhaps the stuff
was meant to be simply swigged back like medicine, until
the bottle was empty. Glug, glug! So that’s what I did.
Then I ate everything on the table.
What was suddenly wrong with me? Everything
started to spin round. I could no longer make out where
the ceiling began and the floor ended. I used my hands to
try and tell by touching where the ceiling and the floor
were. But I couldn’t feel anything. I was too ham-fisted!
Was I perhaps a meteorite, gliding around in space
with nothing above me and nothing below me? To test
my theory, I started to make my way on all fours out onto
the terrace where bunches of grapes were hanging on
thick vines. When I had finally crawled my way to the
stone steps which led down to the terrace, I was evilly
sick. I kept asking myself whether this crawling animal
which kept retching could really be me? No, I was
neither a meteorite nor a retching animal - I was simply
an inexperienced drunk.
The next door neighbour’s window opened and a pair
of white arms ladled out some water out of a water jug,
which had been placed outside to cool.
The neighbour noticed that I was obviously not
feeling very well, and called out loudly :
“Erol, what is the matter with you? Are you ill?”
A completely unrecognisable voice forced its way out
of my throat :
“Nope, I am not at all ill, at all I am not - jusht drunk!
Hic!”
I was sick again, and I had a terrible burning sensation
inside, as if my intestines had suddenly become
Suleyman’s baker’s oven. I felt as if I was going to die.
To make matters worse, I could still hear the nagging
voice of my neighbour :
“Oh, this nation of men - what would you do with
them? Do they always have to drink this stuff?
Completely brainless!”
What was this woman babbling on about? Since when
had there been nations made up of simply men or women
on the earth? Hic!
Our neighbour Zekiye, who exuded an enormous
sexual magnetism, was the wife of the honey trader : a
member of the nation of women!
I was convinced that the hot burning sensation in my
stomach must be a stream of lava. I was just like a
Vulcan. This conviction must have been correct because I
started to spew up. A red stream of wine poured out onto
the ground and ran down the steps. Oooooh!
My neighbour asked in a concerned voice :
“I hope you get better, Erol. Come up and I’ll make you a
glass of hot milk. That’ll do you good, you’ll see.”
I desperately needed someone who could put me out
of my misery and managed to croak :“Yes.”
I found the garden gate with great difficulty. I wanted
to seek sanctuary in the company of women. It would
have been better if I hadn’t, because even the fate of a
roast lamb was not as bad as what happened to me!
Zekiye met me at her front door, dragged me into her
flat and let me collapse onto the divan. I felt much better
now that I had thrown up and bravely drunk my milk. I
sighed deeply:
“At least I’m back in the land of the living,” and
added : “Is your husband at home?”
She answered with a smile :
“Yes, yes - he’ll be here any moment.”
I said self-consciously :
 “It’s all the same to me - I’m going anyway.”
The woman spoke with a hint of desperation in her
voice :
“No, wait - I was lying. Make yourself at home. The
swine is away again in Istanbul. No doubt he’s having
fun again with the “ladies” in the red light district.”
In our neighbourhood everybody knew what was
going on, and everyone felt sorry for poor Zekiye. She
had an immoral, worthless husband. Salih the honey
trader collected honey from the peasants, preserved it by
filling it up into metal containers and sealing the
bleached containers with a metal lid which was soldered
on. As soon as he had collected up a large quantity, he
transported the containers to Istanbul in a large car. We
knew that he made a good living out of this, but we also
knew that he spent all his profits on his loose women. He
left his wife in sole charge of his herd of sheep in their
walled garden, and was very rarely to be found at home.
Zekiye was obviously lonely, and took every
opportunity to flirt with me.
As I have already mentioned, she was very sexy with
her womanly body and sensual lips. But it was against
my moral standards to get involved with a married
woman. It is not so easy to be a candidate for the
exclusive Kabadayi club!
Now the pitiable woman moaned and grumbled about
her misfortune in great detail, describing her husband at
great length and complaining about what he did and
didn’t do. To my drunken ears it sounded like a sweet
lullaby, and I fell asleep.
While I slept, I had a very exciting dream. I dreamt
that I was lying in the castle belonging to the King of
Caucasus’s daughter. Her hot breath scalded my cheeks
while her long hair hung down onto my face, tickling it
like flies gently passing over the skin. The more I tried to
keep her off by thrashing my hands about, the more
stubbornly she persisted. I had never come across such
stubborn but sympathetic flies in my life before. Don’t
forget, there are some who bite and sting!
Damn - she has just stung me!
It was a mysterious, but very beautiful night. When I
woke up in the morning, the first thing I saw was Zekiye,
lying beside me in a deep slumber. Was she the daughter
of the king of Caucasus with the sympathetic flies?
Shocked, I sprang up out of bed and slipped my
clothes on. My worst fears were realised when, without
opening her eyes, she whispered in my ear :
“Darling - have breakfast first and then go.”
I was furious.
“You can shove your breakfast somewhere else! Are
you satisfied with yourself? Did you get what you
wanted? You shameless hussy, taking advantage of my
situation! I never want to see you again!”
She pleaded with me in tears :
“Erol, please forgive me. I don’t know what came
over me. The devil must have had a hand in it
somewhere.”
The devil? For me there was no devil. As far as I was
concerned, every individual was responsible for their
own actions, and they couldn’t be blamed on some
imaginary fiend. If he did exist, it would be a poor devil
who had to assume responsibility for all the evil deeds in
the world! I felt absolutely wretched - I was no better
than the characterless Leech Nuri, who thought nothing
of sleeping with married women. Shouldn’t we be trying
to protect the married women in our community? But
what had I just done?
 When I got home I was really terrified. The Vulcan
explosion had left a red lava trail behind, and there must
have also been an earthquake, because everything was in
such a mess.
While I had been softly dreaming, a catastrophe on a
gigantic scale must have taken place here. The stupid
stuff in the bottle was to blame. Ever since this day I
have hated the cursed stuff. If it can take away my very
self control, then I no longer want to have anything to do
with it. That was the first and last time I ever got
completely drunk! Away with the sympathetic flies and
the soft breezes from the Caucasus mountains I say.

36 From this day on I went

out of my way to avoid
Zekiye. After a while her
husband returned from
Istanbul and one day we
heard that he had been
brutally murdered coming
home from the pub late one
night. The police searched in
vain and the identity of the
perpetrator remained unknown. Zekiye herself was a
prime suspect, and was often called in for questioning by
the state attorney. Rumours were running rife among the
populace :
 “Zekiye has murdered her husband, but has bribed the
state attorney with three containers of honey to let her off
the hook.”
Zekiye seemed to disappear for quite some time. The
neighbourhood women talked about nothing else for
weeks on end. From hedge to hedge, from window to
window, from door to door - always the same topic of
conversation. One day Zekiye reappeared on the scene,
but she looked no one in the face and talked to nobody. A
neighbour’s wife was the only person who had looked
after Zekiye’s sheep during her absence.
Despite the best efforts of the police, the culprit
remained at large. But one day the solution to the
mystery came to light. One Saturday evening I was
coming home late at night from the coffee house with
Barut Rifki. All the inhabitants of the neighbourhood
were already fast asleep. Not a light at any window, not a
soul about. When the dogs stopped barking, there was
total silence. The only sound to be heard was the
shuffling of our feet on the pavement and the rattling of
our rosaries.
Since Barut Rifki wasn’t a great talker, we walked in
silence through the streets. We didn’t actually need to
talk, because often a look was all it took to understand
what the other was thinking. We came up to Zekiye’s
house. We stood beneath the street lamps and looked at
each other quizzically in the yellow light, for a light was
burning in Zekiye’s flat and we could clearly hear the
loud groaning of a woman who was obviously being
mistreated. We stood stock still. We heard the deep tones
of a man’s voice harshly demanding money. Suddenly,
the woman’s voice which we had by then identified as
Zekiye’s, started calling our loudly for help.
“Help! Help!”
 Barut Rifki broke his silence :
“Erol, quick, let’s break down the door!”
We both threw our shoulders against the door at the
same time. The lock bent and sprang up and the door
flew open. We shot through the door with such force that
we almost went sprawling. When we caught sight of
Zekiye and a man with a black moustache, our eyes
nearly popped out of our heads.
Zekiye’s face was blue and swollen, the marks of the
blows clearly visible, her hair hung dishevelled over her
face, and her eyes were bulging out of their sockets. The
man had both hands around her throat and was trying to
throttle her. We thought we were in the cinema!
With a smooth, swift movement, Barut let his jacket
slip from his shoulders, bounded up to the man with one
step, loosened the man’s hands from around Zekiye’s
neck, and bent his arm up behind him. The man cried out
in pain and swore. Barut Rifki roared out :
“Erol, take that knife out of my waistcoat. I’ll be amazed
if we can’t tickle a few questions out of him. I think the
rogue has a lot of explaining to do.”
I took the knife out of his waistcoat pocket and
pressed it menacingly at the man’s throat. By fits and
starts, Barut first started questioning Zekiye, who had
collapsed in a heap:
“Zekiye, what does this character want from you?”
Zekiye turned round anxiously, but remained silent.
Rifki repeated his question and directed it at the man :
“What do you want from Zekiye, you bastard?”
The man, too, kept silent.
Rifki turned to me and said in a low, hard voice :
“Give me the knife, Erol. The fellow obviously didn’t
take you seriously.”
 In the meantime, Zekiye had obviously regained her
courage and blurted out between sobs :
“Money!”
The man, who was overcome with fear, spluttered
forth the sorry tale. But we had to drag every word out of
him. He, Fehmi, had plotted with Leech Nuri to kill
Zekiye’s husband. He was a relative of Leech’s.
According to this plan, he would marry Zekiye after the
murder and he and Leech would divide the inheritance
between them. Suluk wanted to collect some money in
advance, but Zekiye didn’t know where her husband had
hidden it. It was a chain reaction : Leech was desperate
for money, and when Fehmi failed to give him any, he
gave him a beating. Fehmi demanded money from
Zekiye, but she couldn’t give him any for the reasons
mentioned, so he beat her.
This evening was Leech Nuri’s last deadline for
handing over money. If we had not intervened it would
have ended badly for Zekiye. Zekiye’s face was pale with
fear and sorrow.
Barut Rifki got Zekiye to find him a piece of rope and
he tied Fehmi to the chair. Then he spoke to me :
“Erol, call a carriage. We’ll bring this character to the
police.”
Fehmi implored us :
“For the love of God, no, please let me go.”
But Barut was resolute.
“You miserable son of a bitch, suddenly you’re
talking about the love of God. You have just literally
pulverised someone. You don’t know the first meaning of
the word “love.”
Just as I was getting to my feet to hail a carriage,
Barut said sarcastically:
 “Hey Erol, don’t keep us waiting too long. Don’t
make us wait until you can find a shabby carriage.
Simply get the next best one.”
I replied with a grin :
“Yes, Barut, but I cannot change my spots. At least let
one person benefit from Leech’s evil actions - a poor
carriage driver would be glad of a few “kurush”piasters.”
We both laughed ourselves silly. I had told him about
this weakness of mine for the poor horses. Therefore
Barut Rifki was kidding with me.
It was very difficult to find a carriage so late at night,
but finally I saw one, albeit a bright, shiny new one, and
called it over. Fehmi will travel in style – I’m sure he will
enjoy himself!
Fehmi put up fierce resistance and when we finally
managed to drag him by force into the carriage kicking
and screaming, one of his legs managed to hit me hard in
the stomach, directly on the spot where the scar from my
old injury was. Oh dear God, must I always suffer
through other people’s disasters! If only you had created
me as a hare, at least I would have been able to run away
from every danger.
Oh my God, why must I suffer such pains! I rolled
over on the ground. The pains were so bad that tears
streamed out of my eyes like a waterfall. Oh God, why
did it always happen to me? Why did I always have to get
involved in things which didn’t really concern me?
I watched from down on the ground as Barut Rifki
dragged Fehmi back out of the carriage, and started to lay
into him. The unfamiliar noise made the dogs in the
neighbourhood nervous, and they started barking wildly.
The noise they made rang out so loudly in the still of the
night, that you would have thought that the entire
population of dogs in Turkey had got together and started
barking.
One by one, lights started to be switched on in every
window. It was like a day in Hell! We escaped from this
Hell in the carriage. We finally reached the police station
and woke the night duty policeman from his slumber. As
we appeared in front of him so suddenly from nowhere,
he probably thought he was caught up in some terrible
nightmare. He looked at us with a puzzled expression.
Barut Rifki pointed with his forefinger at the bundle
lying at his feet, and spoke :
“Do you want to know who murdered Salih? Look
here. Here is his accomplice. You can fetch the main
culprit, Leech Nuri, yourself tomorrow.”
The policeman was by now wide awake. He knew
Barut Rifki, and listened to him attentively. Finally, he
bared his nicotine-stained teeth and pronounced :
“For God’s sake, Rifki, we’re going to have to start
paying you a salary if you keep on doing all the police
work!”
Barut Rifki continued to stand on the same spot,
totally unmoved, and growled:
“You naïve little lamb - the state can barely afford to
pay your salary as it is. How on earth do you suppose
they could pay me on top? Call another policeman to help
you, and you can have my salary when it comes.”
I couldn’t control myself. Although it hurt me to do
so, I laughed out loud.
We travelled back to our own neighbourhood. By the
time we got to Zekiye’s house, the dogs had all calmed
down and presumably the neighbours too, since we could
neither hear anything nor see any light shining from any
of the windows. Rifki knocked gently on the semi-
wrecked door of Zekiye’s home. A soft voice asked who
was at the door. Barut Rifki whispered :
“Zekiye, it’s us again. I’ve got a few more questions
I’d like to ask you. Open up!”
Zekiye looked completely drained. Her eyes were red
from weeping and her poor face green and blue.
“Yes, Rifki?”
“Zekiye, this conversation is just between us and will
go no further. But tell me the truth. Did you have any part
to play in Salih’s murder?”
Rifki scanned her face, trying to read from her
expression what had actually taken place. She was more
than likely telling the truth, because her eyes never left
his.
“I swear by my life I’m not lying,” she insisted. “The
only thing I’m guilty of was in believing Fehmi. It wasn’t
until he started demanding money that I found out that
Nuri had killed my husband and that the two of them
were in cahoots. Fehmi hangs around with Konoz. It was
all his idea. I’m too ashamed to say any more. I’ve
finished up in the gutter. Please don’t delve any deeper
into my troubles!”
While Rifki was listening to all this, he rattled his
rosary between his fingers.
“I believe you, madam. You will have to make a
statement at the police station. Tell them exactly what
you have told me. There is a possibility you may have to
do a short stint in prison yourself for committing
adultery, but at least you can console yourself with the
fact that your conscience is clear at last. No one can
touch you now, and no one can maintain that you had
anything to do with your husband’s death. It looks as
though Nuri will be arrested today, and then it won’t be
long until both men are hung. You need no longer be
afraid of anything, and you will see - everything will turn
out right, just as I have described it. In your particular
case, the court verdict will be very mild and you will
probably be given a really short prison sentence. As soon
as you have served your sentence, you will be able to
remarry and have children - but make sure you choose a
better fellow this time.”
Rifki, my idol, was wrong on this point. Zekiye could
not have children. She spoke in a sad voice :
“Sadly I will never ever have the chance of holding
my own child in my arms. I am infertile. I think if things
had been different, none of this would have happened.”
She was quite right, of course. I felt dreadfully sorry
for the poor woman. In those days, infertility in Turkey
carried with it a terrible fate. Such women were shunned
and treated like the lowest of the low. Zekiye was like a
silly chicken. She didn’t know what to do apart from
making mistakes. So she met with this misfortune.
At this point, Rebel Erol ripped my pen out of my
hand and started writing the following :
Children played a key role in Turkish families at this
time. Families without children had great enough
problems, but families with too many children had even
more problems. For women with many children, life was
little more than drudgery, which the blessing of children
unfortunately brought with it. Many womens’ lives
slipped by unnoticed, scolding their children. The best
situation would be if there were no more than two
children in each family. We should stop to consider
whether it wouldn’t be better if childless couples could
adopt children from those families who have too many
children. Both sides would benefit. Why couldn’t Zekiye
have done this? Does it always have to be our own blood
or nothing? Why?
 “Yes, alright Rebel Erol. Give me back my pen so that
I can carry on writing.”
Thank God, I’ve got my pen back. Zekiye should
adopt a child. Man, you’ve muddled me all up. I’ve
completely forgotten where I was. Oh yes, I know :
Barut Rifki finished the conversation :
“It would be best if you came with us now. As long as
Suluk Nuri is still at large you are welcome to take refuge
in our house as a guest.
Zekiye spent the rest of the night at Rifki’s house. I
crept quietly into bed in the grey light of dawn, and
pretended that I had been fast asleep all the time.
The next evening in the coffeehouse, all the talk was
about how Nuri had been arrested. I uttered a sigh of
relief. Despite everything I had been worried. Because if
he had not been caught, he would almost certainly have
tried to take revenge on us. And you can guarantee he
would not have acted honourably - more than likely we
would have found a knife in our backs. In the end, it
didn’t matter if he had killed one person or several, the
punishment couldn’t be any greater - he could only be
hung once.
In the following days, the courts were as always,
sometimes empty and sometimes full and the court ushers
summoned the witnesses inside. Barut Rifki and I were
both questioned.
On one particular day in the courtroom, a very
pleasing sight met our eyes. It was Leech Nuri in
handcuffs which suited him very well. He stared at us, his
eyes full of hatred, as if he would like to eat us for
breakfast!
You must not think that the problem was completely
solved : later we learned that the affair was extremely
complicated. Fehmi was a compatriot of the son of
Konoz, who was one of the richest men in the area. It was
said he had moved to Sivas and amassed a fortune
through black market trading during the war. Nuri was
his right hand man, always at the centre of the action.
Konoz and his son were womanisers and crooks like
Leech Nuri, who took full advantage of Zekiye. It was to
the men’s advantage that Zekiye was infertile and naïve.
Now I’ve got a big problem, because the two low-life
Konos, father and son, planned to single me out and
punish me as a scapegoat. By doing so, they intended to
put the frighteners on Barut Rifki so that he would stop
acting as Zekiye’s protector. The first thing they did was
to send two men who were contracted to stab me with a
knife, because I was weaker than Barut Rifki. Man, have
I got problems!
One day on the way to college, I noticed two men
standing on the corner where a spring constantly gushed
forth fresh water. The Sivas townfolk called this spring
“Borusuyu”. My intuition told me that these two shady
individuals were planning something against me because
they were acting suspiciously. Thinking on my feet, I
leapt into the empty carriage which was just driving by -
good job a boxer has quick reflexes!
I spoke to the carriage driver :
“To the college as fast as you can, my good man!
Please speed up your carriage and do not stop at any cost,
even if these men try waving you down. Otherwise
there’ll be carnage and you’ll finish up having to take me
to hospital.”
The driver was an experienced man:
“I had already worked that out - leave it to me!”
As I had suspected, the men tried to wave down the
carriage with their hands held high. But the carriage
rushed past them in full flight, leaving behind only the
sound of the horses’ farts on the wind as a souvenir.
Oh dear horses, you have saved me once again! You
made them look stupid.
The driver asked me curiously :
“Is there a blood feud going on?”
“I don’t care what you call it : blood, bones, flesh! If
they had managed to get hold of me they would have
destroyed all this. The sons of bitches! They were
Konoz’s men.”
I explained the whole story to the carriage driver en
route, without mincing my words. When we arrived at
the college, he refused to take any money off me for the
fare.
My classmates had absolutely no idea of the problems
Erol was facing. When they read a poem by Fuzuli and
discussed its meaning, or solved a problem in algebra by
putting a circle around the equation with a red pencil,
they considered themselves totally happy.
But I had far more pressing problems on my mind
which I could never solve in the same way. Useless facts,
insoluble problems.
When I related all this to Barut Rifki, his eyes flashed:
“Don’t worry, Erol. You know I’m always here for
you.”
Sometimes he or his father would accompany me to
the school gate. Imagine it : I was a child who had to be
accompanied to school. It was just so embarrassing. My
college friends had absolutely no idea how I burnt with
shame. If Konoz’s men had confronted me without their
knives, I could have finished them off myself without
Barut Rifki’s help. But they relied on their knives.
Fighting with a knife is, to my mind, not honourable
in the least, but underhand and cowardly. I hate all forms
of knives, guns and canons because this way of fighting
is totally dishonest.
I would have given anything to be an ordinary pupil
like the bookworm Zeki, or the stutterer Hayri who was a
trigonometry boffin. How could I have got myself mixed
up in such a mess?
This time I could not share my worries with my
mother. But the senior Kabadayi, Kara Remzi, who was a
good friend of Barut Rifki, intimidated the Konozs to
such an extent that they called off their men. If there had
been another showdown with them, Barut Rifki would
have been driven to murder. And I would quite possibly
have finished up in hospital with all my bones broken!
Yes, that was about it! You can see it is no easy matter
being a Kabadayi. It is damned dangerous! I wouldn’t
recommend anyone to try and become a Kabadayi like
me. Here is a tip : If you see food, snap it up. But
if you see a fight going on, make yourself
scarce. As the Turkish saying goes, "Bravery
is 90% about running away. In fact, it would
be better if you escaped 100%. Use my tip
and get yourself out of their pronto! You will
always be remembered as a tough man. O.K.!
"
On the last day of the proceedings, the verdict was
announced : eleven months for Zekiye, life imprisonment
for Fehmi and before the judge announced Suluk Nuri’s
sentence, he broke his pencil in half. That told us all that
Suluk would be getting the death penalty. And so he did :
death by hanging.
The sentence was carried out early one morning in the
town hall square. News spread like wildfire and everyone
rushed to the square, me included. When I got there, Nuri
was already dangling from the gallows. At first I was
filled with joy, but afterwards a great sadness came over
me.
Death could not alter his fine features, in fact quite the
opposite : the hard lines were softened, and he had an
innocence about him, his face free from all wickedness.
Only his pallor bore witness to death. At the edge of the
square, his wife was weeping loudly, embracing her son
and surrounded by other relatives who were sobbing.
Why all the lamentation? Had they done something
good by unthinkingly bringing so many children onto the
planet?
Leech’s parents broke down.
God had blessed Nuri with good looks and a healthy
body, but he didn’t know what to do with this gift, and
steered his path onto the dark side of life. Ignorance is a
fundamental evil.
As his body swung to one side in the wind, you could
see his scars. Barut Rifki had marked him. But the final
mark had come from the court.

37 Nuri’s body was left

hanging in public as a warning,
and not taken down from the
gallows until his skin had
changed colour and his body
was bloated. Barut Rifki and I
wanted to take one last look at
him, so we went to the townhall
square. When we got there,
there was not a soul about, and it was pouring with rain.
Thunder crashed loudly around us, and flash after flash of
lightning tore the sky wide open. Nuri’s ghostly face lit
up with each flash of lightning. I placed my hand on
Barut Rifki’s shoulder and suggested that we too should
absent ourselves. He did not hear me. Lost in thought, he
was staring at Nuri’s face, and started to talk to himself :
“Nuri, you caused me so much pain. We used to play
together when we were little. We used to laugh together
while out tobogganing. You were so full of life then, and
there was no malice in you. What changed you so? Did
your life have to end this way? I can still see you now as
a small child, riding on a toboggan covered in little bells.
You’ve no idea how sad this all makes me.”
This man who presented such a cast iron exterior was
actually as soft as butter inside. He was now really sorry
about the scar he had made on Nuri’s face. In his
innermost being he was completely against violence of
any sort, especially bodily injury by knives. He had learnt
everything from the society in which he had grown up. I
tried to console him :
“Now listen here, brother Rifki! Did you kill him? Of
course not - that was his parents’ doing. Nuri came from
a family with masses of children, and there was no
earthly way he was going to find the right path, when he
had to virtually bring himself up alone. If he had come
from a family with less children, and had been brought
up properly, he wouldn’t be swinging from the gallows
today. He would have become a good factory worker or
maybe even an engineer. That was not the child’s fault,
but his parents, who were quite happy to bring life into
the world without taking responsibility for it. Don’t take
it so badly, Rifki. Come on, let’s go - we’re going to be
drenched to the skin.”
 I implore you, mothers and fathers, please offer up no
more children on the sacrificial altar of the world. It is
easy to bring children into the world, but the horror of
seeing your child hanging from the gallows is
indescribable. And to lose your child in this way is
absolutely atrocious.
The sky weeps,
And there are tears in Barut Rifki’s eyes,
Our clothes cling to our wet bodies,
From the gallows hangs a dead person who cannot
escape the rain.
The clouds explode, the thunder roars; the lightning
crashes and lights up the whole sky.
Perhaps it was like in mythology?
A God of darkness howling with anger.
His tears beat heavily on the earth,
He hurled bolts of lightning,
Lighting up a part of hell,
Receiving the soul of his faithful servant.
The only thing that I was sure of was that I knew
nothing. As Barut Rifki dropped me off in a carriage in
front of my house, the children were hanging out of their
windows shouting out the words of a folk song :
“Streams of rain are pouring down
Flooding all the streets in town,
Dark skinned girls
With deep dark eyes
Gaze out the windows in surprise.”
The simple purity of the children’s song came as a
welcome relief after all the stress of the day’s events.
Now they wanted me to sing a folk song too, but I knew
that they would just start making fun of me. They
wouldn’t take “no” for an answer.
“Oh, come on Erol, please - sing us a folksong!”
 “No, I can’t right now.”
“Oh go on, please! Don’t disappoint us!”
I couldn’t remember any songs. Besides, I knew
exactly what was coming, as it was all the rage amongst
the children at the time. Nevertheless, I decided to go
ahead and take the risk, just to keep the children happy. I
managed to safely make up a few lines of verse :
“Onions, garlic,
Just taste it.
Whoever stays out in the rain
Has a very little brain.”
The children really liked my song. To show their
approval, they sang another little song to have their fun:
“It’s raining
It’s lightning
Oh you big son of a donkey -
You’re singing flat and out of key!
You think a few silly verses which rhyme
Will make a poet of you in time.”
Ha ! Ha ! Hee! Hee!
Do you hear how the dear little children sing my
praises? I cannot help laughing! This is a new generation
of geniuses. I said :
“Good - now we’re quits,” and escaped into the house.
That was my first attempt at being a poet, and they were
my first audience.
When I lay down on the sofa behind the oven to take a
rest, Nuri’s ghostly face appeared at the window pane,
and the children’s song rang in my ears once more, but
this time with slightly different words :
“It’s raining
It’s thundering
Peeping through the window pane
Nuri’s ghostly face pops up again.”
 Nuri is obsessed with me. Wherever I go, he comes as
well. I can’t begin to describe the angry faces he makes at
me. His hypnotic stares stuck in my mind until I fell
asleep. And what did I see in my dreams? None other
than Suluk Nuri, the leech, again. He followed me around
everywhere. But I still felt really sorry for him.
In my dream, when the executioner was about to hang
him, I pushed the executioner aside, loosened the rope
from around his neck and freed him, and even took a
cloth soaked in spirit and erased the scar on his face
which he had got from Barut Rifki. When I tried to wipe
away the hypnotic stares in his eyes with the same cloth,
he repaid my good nature with a rude gesture, and then
stuck a knife in my stomach. I woke up straight away.
Clasping my stomach, I went to switch on the light.
Thank God this time there was no blood. It was only a
dream. Lucky for me!
I switched the light back off, sank into bed and started
to think things over :
“ Oh Nuri, you leech! I can see it all now. If I came
over to the other side too, you’d be there at the gate ready
to stick a knife in me, wouldn’t you?”
Outside, the rain had let up. In its place, a strong wind
had got up, which made both the roof tiles and the
window panes rattle occasionally. My mother and father
were holding a snoring contest, while the cat purred
contentedly behind the oven.
 38 It was wonderful to be young.
We were sopping wet and caught
a cold, but nothing worse. I spent
the whole weekend sitting with
Barut Rifki in the coffee house
drinking hot lime-blossom tea,
looking out of the misted up
windows. There was hardly
anyone about on account of the
rain. We sat with our stuffed up
noses, poking gentle fun at the people who came in to
escape out of the rain, laughing ourselves silly. We drank
huge amounts of lime-blossom tea, and were ourselves
on the receiving end of some good natured teasing from
our friends :
“Man! If you drink one more glass of tea you’re going
to wake up in the morning as a lime-blossom tree! I
wouldn’t mind betting that leech Nuri is sitting down
right now drinking tea with Azrail (angel of death) on the
other side. Ha ha.”
Eventually the rainy season came to an end. Thinking
like our forefathers did : the god of darkness disappeared
with Nuri, and in his place now ruled the friendly sun
god, warming the streets of Sivas with his rays as the
people milled about once again, hurriedly going about
their business. I wonder who’ll be hung next?

39 There was one part of our

neighbourhood, Cukur
Bostan, known as the lower
garden. Today it was standing
under water. After all the days
of rain, the clouds were so
drained and depleted that the
wind could now blow them
about easily all over the place.
The sun peeped out each time in between the fleeing
clouds, saying “Hello” to the playing children, and then
hid herself once more behind the clouds, as if she wanted
to play hide and seek with them.
 Taking no heed of the sun, the children set sail their
little home-made wooden and paper boats and organised
races. The streets of Cukur Bostan were not paved, and
consequently they were full of mud after all the rain. Our
trouser legs were always permanently splattered with this
mud as we had to cross this area in order to get to the
centre of town. Although we would thoroughly brush our
trousers every morning, by evening we looked like little
mucky pups again. Would we never have clean trousers?
On this particular day, Barut Rifki and I had planned
to go and see a friend of his to take a look at his female
pigeons which were supposed to be really good at
acrobatics.
Barut Rifki was a real animal lover and a passionate
pigeon breeder. Whenever he had a little time to spare, he
would spend it in his pigeon shed at the side of the house.
He had many different types of pigeon, but the ones
which gave him the greatest pleasure were those which
could perform the most somersaults in the air. He would
often lay bets with his friends as to which pigeon would
turn the most somersaults. But in the last few days his
best pigeon had mysteriously disappeared, and its mate
had stopped eating out of worry.
As we were crossing the aforementioned
neighbourhood, we saw a wagon whose wheels had sunk
in the mud. What sort of numbskull would load his cart
down with bricks on a day like this? The thin wheels of
the cart were sinking deeper and deeper. The deeper the
wheels sank, the more violently the damned brute of a
cart driver was taking it out on the poor horse. My God,
how could one person be so cruel and stupid? Every lash
of the whip left a weal mark the thickness of my finger.
The exhausted animal tried with all its strength to pull the
cart out of the mire, but it was impossible. It was frothing
at the mouth, its back and its flanks were covered in
weals, and its legs and the parts of its body which had
been whipped were trembling.
Confronted by this sight, Barut Rifki became furious,
and I, too, was almost beside myself with anger. Burning
with rage, I opened my mouth and yelled out :
“Stop - stop at once! Are you deaf or something? You
brute - for God’s sake stop torturing your poor animal.”
The cart driver, who was himself very angry, turned
round slowly to face me, his eyes glittering and
malicious, raised up the whip and turned it on me. My
reflexes were sharp from training as a boxer, and, without
thinking, I stepped aside, dodging the blow, grabbed hold
of the end of the whip and pulled on it violently. The
brute was soon tumbling against me like a sack of
potatoes. Barut Rifki asked in a growling voice :
“Erol, pass me the whip!”
I passed him the whip, knowing full well what was
going to happen next. He had had exactly the same
thoughts as me. But as Barut Rifki started to dish out to
him the same medicine as he had given his horse, the cart
driver drew out his knife. Barut Rifki knocked the knife
out of his hand with a well-aimed kick. He threw me the
whip and hurled himself, bellowing, onto his opponent.
Uh, oh - now there was real anger. Barut Rifki’s enraged
roaring went not only right through me, but also
completely terrified the poor horse which reared up on its
hind legs. Barut Rifki’s fists rained down on the cart
driver, his head flew from side to side and his hair stood
up on end. It was quite possible that the cart driver didn’t
know who Barut Rifki was. Everyone knew that it took
an awfully long time to make Barut really angry, but
once he was aroused there was no stopping him. Who
would be so stupid as to get on the wrong side of Barut
Rifki, when he reacted in this way, just like Kerem in
Turkish mythology: when Kerem was taunted, he became
so angry that he flattened the mountains with a hammer.
But somewhere along the line, the cart driver who was
sitting in the mud, had finally realised who he was up
against. He looked like a frightened dog with its tail
between its legs and howled :
“Please, sir, have mercy. For God’s sake, don’t hurt
me anymore!”
Barut Rifki’s reply was not long in coming :
“You bastard. How dare you even mention God’s
name. Was it the love of God which taught you how to
torture his creatures?”
“The wretched animal was causing problems.”
“You‘re the wretched animal - not the horse!. You
earn your living through the animal, and look how you
repay him. You thrash him for his pains. Erol, pass me
the whip again. I’ll give you a small helping of your own
medicine, and we’ll see how you like it.”
After each lash, the man fell back into the mud. He
stretched out his hand as if he wanted to shake hands and
say “hello”. Some of the people from the curious crowd
which had assembled around us, entreated Barut :
“Please, Barut, he’s had enough.”
The cart driver pleaded too :
“Mercy, mercy - I kiss your feet. You were right!”s
Barut Rifki blew his stuffed up nose noisily and said
calmly :
“Yes, that’s a good idea! As a punishment, you will
kiss not my feet, but the hooves of your horse. Then I
will let you go. To the applause of the onlookers, the cart
driver kissed his horse’s flank, embraced it and, weeping,
entreated it :
“Please forgive me, my faithful old friend.”
 The horse understood everything he said, neighed
back and started trying to pull the cart out of the mire
again. I was moved and spoke to the cart driver :
“You see, Mr. cart driver, even the horse has a soul.
Even though you gave it a thrashing, it still remains your
best friend. Pull the reins gently and lovingly, and we
will push from behind.”
Oh God, how could anyone have loaded so many
bricks onto a cart. But in the end we managed with our
joint strength to pull the cart out of the mud, even though
we got covered in mud over and over again. The only
things which weren’t smeared in grime were the cart
man’s eyes. This was such a poignant sight, that Barut
Rifki pulled out his wallet and took out a 50 lira note.
That was quite a tidy sum in those days. He was the type
of person who always felt sorry afterwards.
“Take it - go and buy yourself a new suit and a few
sacks of barley so that your horse can have a good feed -
it is weak.”
The cart driver wanted to show his thanks to Barut
Rifki by kissing his hand, but Barut stopped him :
“Not so fast! You don’t get off that easily! Mark my
words, if I ever catch you drawing your knife again, it
won’t be a new suit I’ll be giving you money for, but a
shroud.”
That was typical of Barut Rifki : he never minced his
words, but he meant everything he said. I like the way he
talks.
As the cart driver realised from the crowd that he had
come up against Barut Rifki, he said :
“I apologise again – I am new here. If I had known
that I was facing the legendary Barut Rifki, I would never
have lifted my hand against you.”
Barut Rifki answered drily :
 “Oh, I shit upon your hand!”
The crowd started to laugh loudly. The cart driver too!
Rifki had probably picked up such invectives from his
Kabadayi friend Kara Remzi just like an infectious
illness. It only takes one rotten grape to spoil the whole
bunch!
We marched off home as we were in desperate need
of a scrub down. Our souls and the sun, which was still
playing with the clouds, exchanged mutual greetings and
sympathy.

40 On one particular day, all the

pupils were extremely nervous.
Our school was to be visited by
an inspector from the ministry
of education in Ankara. A few
of the parents of pupils in other
classes had lodged a complaint
against our sociology and
philosophy teacher, Bagriyanik
Emin,”Emin the melancoly” accusing him of spreading
communist propaganda. The inspector was due to visit
every class today to question the pupils about the teacher.
Along station avenue, the acacia trees which also
bordered our school, presented an imposing and vibrant
vision of green. The person who planted these trees all
those years ago deserved to have a monument erected in
their honour.The trees of the anonymous benefactor had
splendid white hanging blossoms which spread a pleasant
fragrance far and wide.
Unfortunately, we were not able to appreciate all this
beauty on this particular day. Steps were being taken to
get our legendary and much-loved teacher Emin “The
Melancoly” thrown out of the school.
This teacher was popular with all the pupils because
he was upright, fair and modest. He treated all the pupils
the same and had no favourites. If you had a problem,
you could go to him and he would listen like an older
brother, think it over and then come up with various
suggestions for a solution. He inspired every pupil who
came into contact with him , no pupil left his company
without drawing new courage, and he never leered at any
of the girls.
Not just him, but his entire family always behaved in
an exemplary fashion. Emin never got himself all dolled
up like a vain peacock, like that other teacher, the “ugly
moustache.” His usual outfit was an old, clean but faded
suit with a pristine white shirt.
Yes, it was true : he did talk a lot about communism
and socialism. When he was teaching philosophy or
sociology, he always made a point of discussing
capitalism, pointing out its disadvantages, and of course
this fired our imaginations and made us eager to find out
more about communism and socialism. Since lesson
times were never long enough to answer all our
questions, we always congregated around him at break
times to satisfy our curiosity. It naturally fell to the
headmaster to do something, as he was probably being
stirred into action by the parents.
 Our teacher needed protection, because he was not at
all like the “ugly moustache” who simply made light of
everything. Emin took all our country’s problems to
heart, and made us pupils think about the plight of the
poor and the weak. You could tell from his facial features
that he had a lot of cares and worries - he always had this
dejected look about him. Therefore we used to call him
“Bagrivanik Emin”, or “Emin the Melancholy.” He was
sad because he saw things differently from the “ugly
moustache.”
After the second world war he had witnessed first
hand how unscrupulous people took advantage of the
plight and distress of their fellow men, to amass a fortune
for themselves. Poor people were forced to go from
house to house, begging for charity. They then took the
rock hard bread they were given back home to soak, to
try and get some nourishment from it. Thus were the
years. Turkey had to suffer through a war which was
caused by the two-legged creatures who lost their tails
but fought with weapons.
Our chemistry lesson had been cancelled due to illness
on the part of the teacher. I used the time to good effect,
and stood up in front of the class at the teacher’s desk,
addressing them with my arms flung wide:
“Listen my friends. The inspector from the ministry
may open the classroom door at any moment and come
in. If we don’t rally round our teacher, he is going to be
forced to leave. I ask you, does Emin the Melancholy
really deserve this?”
I looked all my fellow pupils straight in the eye and
continued in an urgent tone of voice :
“If we don’t stand up for him, who will? Maybe the
“ugly moustache” and his accomplice, the headmaster? If
the inspector asks you any questions, you must think
carefully about what you say in reply. Every wrong
answer could be a death nail in his coffin, every right
answer the salve which will heal his wounds.”
Well spoken, Rebel Erol!
I took a deep breath, and was just about to begin
again, when the door was suddenly thrown open, and a
tall, thin, dour-faced man with thick, black eyebrows
strode into the room with the headmaster behind him, his
hands folded across his stomach. The class stood up. The
inspector looked to me very much like a hungry wolf,
greedily circling around the shed, waiting to grab an
unsuspecting sheep. Suddenly he turned and spoke to me,
as if he had just caught me red-handed up to no good :
“Hey, you - what do you think you are doing at the
teacher’s desk? What have you got to tell the class?”
I answered innocently :
“I am the class spokesman. I always sit here during
free periods, sir.”
The inspector carried on stubbornly with his
questioning :
“Very well, but what were you talking about? We
could hear you from right down in the hall.”
I spoke very slowly and very clearly:
“I was just telling my classmates that the acacia trees
have bloomed very early this year.”
The class didn’t bat an eyelid at my answer, and did
not betray the least emotion. So far, so good! That meant
that they were unanimously behind me. If one of them
had so much as laughed, there would have been two
Emins who would have been thrown out. If this had
happened, I would not have been able to enter the school
building even at break times. I would still have been able
to smell the acacia blossom, but only from the outside.
The headmaster barked at me :
 “You’d do well to stop busying yourself with the
flowers, and vacate the desk right now for the inspector.”
He turned towards the others :
“Sit down, children.”
The inspector kept it short and read out a list of the
charges our teacher was being accused of :
1. Karl Marx and Engels were the greatest thinkers in
history. If Ataturk had adopted the ideology of the Soviet
Union instead of weapons, the country would be better
off today.”
He asked us :
“Is that right? Did the teacher Emin make this
statement?”
I put my hand up.
“That is right - he did say something along those lines.
But whoever reported his words back to you must have
been either stone-deaf or stupid. What our teacher
actually said was :
“Karl Marx and Engels were described in the Soviet
Union as the greatest thinkers in history.”
“That is basically one and the same thing!”
I meekly begged to disagree :
“I am sorry, but that is absolutely not the same thing
at all. Our teacher told us what the Soviet Union thought,
not what he believed himself. His second statement went
as follows :
“It is true that Ataturk accepted relief goods and
resources from the Soviet Union, but he did not allow
communism to spread in Turkey.” That was the good side
of his politics. That is what we learned from our teacher.
If this isn’t right, please put us straight.”
The inspector walked away from me and turned to
Necmi, who was looking pale and drained on account of
his diabetes. Good choice. He asked him :
 “Is that true, boy?”
Necmi stood up and gave his side of the story :
“It is true, but something has been left out. Our
teacher was always at pains to point out that communism
agreed with atheism, which was totally contradictory to
Turkish beliefs. Furthermore, he insisted that Ataturk
always knew that.”
He added :
“Our teacher has done nothing wrong. If you are
determined to throw him out, you had better start with me
first.”
Good old Necmi with the heart of a lion had managed
to find the right words. I joined with him straight away
and yelled out :
“And with me.”
The other pupils started standing up one after the
other, as they found their courage, and realised what was
happening, shouting out:
“Start with me!”
“No, with me!”
Until in the end, all the pupils were standing up
looking down at the headmaster and the inspector, who
were still sitting on their chairs.
It was good that we had recently been to see the film
Spartacus at the cinema. History was repeating itself. In
history, Spartacus was allegedly supported by his friends
in just the same way. And history is revived time and
time again with new names, new faces and in new places.
Such is life, whose substance always remains the same.
We could have prevented the expulsion of our teacher,
Emin the Melancholy, but following the negative
statements from other classes, he was transferred to
another town. We went to see him off at the station and it
was very hard to say goodbye. The snorting black train
seemed to tear him from our midst. Of one thing we were
quite certain : he would also be immensely popular with
the pupils in his new school.

41 I was on the list of

applicants who wanted to
study and work in
Germany, and so one day
I was called to the Labour
Office for a medical
examination. But what a
stupid examination it
was! You would have
thought you were a cow
at a cattle market. A
commissioned doctor carried out detailed inspections on
the applicants. He got all the candidates to stretch out
their hands to see whose fingers trembled and whose
didn’t, and he examined the state of their teeth. When it
was my turn to open my mouth, I got the distinct
impression that I was a horse at market, looking for a
good owner. After the examination I was told that I was a
healthy horse and that I would be hearing from them in
due course. I felt as though I was floating on a cloud - I
would broaden my horizons and go to Germany.
A boxing tournament was to take place the next day,
organised by the different boxing associations. I would
have to climb into the ring twice at this tournament. The
first boxing match was taking part in Sivas, and the
second in Adana. Thank God I’d got the medical behind
me, and had got through it before I’d had the chance to
lose any teeth!

42 The sports hall

was packed with
people. My friends
from school and
Barut Rifki’s group
were sitting in the
front rows. I was
going to be the last
one to fight, and
this suited me,
because I wanted to
put on a special
show for my group,
Barut Rifki. I knew
in advance which techniques I was going to employ, so it
was important for me not to flap round like a startled hen
in the back rooms like all the rest. I sat calmly next to
Rifki and followed the fights, noting which boxers made
which mistakes. It was obvious from his face that a
young, flat-nosed boxer was frightened. I knew at once
that the result of the fight was a foregone conclusion - he
would lose. And, of course, he did just that, almost
wetting his pants in the process. Fear gnaws away from
the inside like a worm, hollowing you out. Fear plays
havoc with the reflexes and you lose.
One of the boxers with Caucasian features was
basically quite good, but he was determined like a
stubborn donkey to incorporate all the training techniques
he’d learned before the match. He lost too, because he
was totally inflexible. A good boxer should focus fully on
his opponent. A trainer can make objective observations,
so it’s always a good idea to listen to him in between
rounds. But of course only if he’s a good trainer.
As the start of my fight approached and I stood up to
go the dressing room, Barut Rifki slapped me on the
shoulders and wished me luck :
“Now show what you’ve got in you, my pupil.”
That made me feel good. He meant I should trust my
strength without any fear. My opponent was a good
looking muscle man with a six pack. He pranced around
the ring showing off his body and his supporters cheered
him on. The entire hall resounded with noise.
With my shoulders hunched over and my legs
trembling, I carefully made my way across to my corner.
Everyone was laughing at me, and I too was laughing
inside. It was all a pretence! At the sound of the bell, my
opponent hurled himself at what he thought was an
apparently easy victim. I took evasive action. I wanted to
suss out his fighting technique first, so I stayed in
defensive mode. He took great pleasure in playing with
me.
 This pretty boy was a real show boxer. Every time I
threw a punch he would duck, and prance out of the way,
leaving my punches hanging in mid air every time. Using
this tactic he was able to dodge all my punches coming
from the left or from the right, but a forward hook would
send him spinning to the ground like a wet sack. I had to
break through his vertical defence. I hopped lightly back
so that he would start to attack and that’s just what he
did, tracking me with his fists. Wonderful! I had found a
gap in my opponent’s defences. Now, just as I had
expected, Rebel Erol deliberately struck at the weak spot.
The other boxer keeled over like a sack of spuds. My
friends leapt out of their seats and cheered me on. My
opponent got up again, but a series of harder, well-aimed
punches threw him back down on the floor. He could no
longer make out the ceiling from the floor, which
reminded me strongly of the time I had mischievously
drunk rather too much red wine as a boy. The referee
started to count my opponent out. At that precise
moment, a devilish thought came into my head : if he
stood up again, I could play a bit of a cat and mouse
game with him. But I had lost my appetite - perhaps it
was just as well. When the referee lifted up my arm and
announced my victory, the whole hall roared with cheers
and I searched among the crowd for familiar faces. Nazli
was there with her father, staring at me completely elated
from out of her heavenly blue eyes. Always that heavenly
blue!
Boxing is a language unto itself, like musical notes,
and it is best to learn this art from a young age, to achieve
the best possibility of success. I entered the boxing world
expressly because I had often been beaten up by Sabri as
a child, and so I had a burning desire to assert myself.
But I wouldn’t recommend any child to take up boxing as
early as I did, because the head of a child is still soft and
fragile and could be easily injured. My head may well
have escaped injury, but Rebel Erol’s is obviously a bit
mashed up because he sees everything with a different set
of eyes!
The spectators carried on roaring and raving, and my
name resounded off the walls again and again :
“Erol, Erol, Erol…..”
A sea of happiness welled up inside me.
Looking back, this was definitely the best day of my
life so far.

43 Everyone in our class was

worried about Necmi, who
was very ill. We already
knew he was diabetic. He
was not allowed to nibble on
sweets and had to always
stick to a strict diet. At break
times he would regularly run
across to the water fountain
in order to satisfy his
dreadful thirst. He would watch with envious eyes those
of his friends who were allowed to eat something. There
was no longer any trace of the happy, carefree youth we
knew and loved. He had withdrawn into himself and was
deteriorating every day. His face and body continued to
swell, and one day he simply didn’t come into school. A
group of us went to visit him at home. Another time
when we tried to visit him, his sister explained that he
had broken his diet by stuffing down a large quantity of
baklava, a very sweet pastry dessert. Afterwards he had
fallen into a coma and had to be taken to hospital.
Oh! These hospital days! I shall never forget them as
long as I live. Every day we sat on our friend’s bed, and
had to watch helplessly as death came nearer and nearer,
and there was nothing we could do to prevent it. You
could only recognise Necmi now by his eyes, but his face
was a different matter altogether.
One evening there was a complete stranger in his bed.
As we all collected round his bed, the poor sick person
was really startled, he was confused and pulled his big
feet, which he had just hung over the side of the bed to
get some air, back under the cover.
We found out what happened to him. Necmi’s big
heart had stopped beating in his small body. This terrible
illness had carried him off in the prime of his youth.
His coffin was light and weighed nothing on our
shoulders, but the pain in our hearts was as heavy as lead.
Oh my brave friend! I beg you! Take me with you.
Save me from this black hole. Wherever you are can be
no worse than here where I am.
 44 In order to relieve my pain, I
started taking myself off to the
coffeehouse in the evenings.
After the Zekiye affair, Barut
Rifki and I felt more closely
attached and became firm
friends. In the intervening period
he had come to recognize the
Kabadayi in me, and now
whenever I entered the coffee
house, he called me over to his
table. He made me a member of
his Kabadayi group. These Kabadayis were constantly
trying to cheer me up with little jokes, so that I could
forget my pain, if only for a short while. Everyone there
started rattling their rosaries, each one spicing up their
little everyday tales with wit and humour.
 These could have been cheerful, happy-go-lucky days
for me, but there were still times when I sank into a deep
depression, when I thought back to the death of my good
friend Necmi. Whenever one of the group of Kabadayis
noticed that I was drifting back into one of my dark
moods, they would immediately suggest an arm wrestling
competition, and they would deliberately let me win. I
had to put up with their sarcastic leg pulling :
“Man oh man, Erol! You are so strong, you nearly
broke my arm off!
These artificially created happy days did not last for
more than two months. Fate had in store for me one blow
after another.

45 In the middle of the week,

my father took his pupils on an
outing to the Pascha gardens.
After school I went to water my
father’s small garden. He had
brought back dahlia bulbs from
Istanbul, and lovingly planted
them in his garden. On this
particular day, the dahlia buds
which were peeking out from
between splendid leaves had
just started to open, their
colours merging from green to dark purple. But my father
was not to enjoy the beautiful sight of these flowers
emerging. He vanished from the face of this earth like a
burned out comet.
 The high wall surrounding our garden prevented me
from seeing what type of vehicle stopped in front of our
gate. When there was a loud rap on the iron knocker, I
left the hose running in the flower bed and ran to the
gate. The water continued to flow, unimpeded, for hours
on end at the spot where I had flung down the hose.
I was confronted by the hospital ambulance. The
paramedic brought me the terrible news that my father
had been killed, and that we should see to his body.
When he opened the ambulance door and removed the
shroud covering my father, I was confronted by my
father’s body. He didn’t once say “Hallo”, as if he was
angry with me.
“Oh, my heart. Oh, how my heart is burning! That
really is my father!”
My terrible cries echoed off the walls of the houses.
All the dogs in the neighbourhood started to bark loudly.
It wasn’t long before our courtyard was full of all our
neighbours and their children. Our paradise garden had
changed into a living hell.
My father had been murdered before the very eyes of
his pupils under the same, favourite tree which he had
always tried to protect. Through his efforts to protect this
tree, he had got into a fight and thereby lost his life. The
great pine tree had survived, but my father was dead.
This had to be a nightmare. The pupils who had come
along with the ambulance and who recounted all this to
me, sobbing and spluttering, were in a state of total shock
and exhaustion.
Our home, which had up until now always been a
place of happiness and cosiness, suddenly became cold
and empty at one fell stroke. But I do not want to
describe my darkest days in detail, in case I cause my
readers any grief.
 When I heard the moving cry of the holy muezzin
early next morning announcing the death of my father, it
finally began to sink in that my father really was dead.
The news travelled fast, and I could never have
imagined that so many people would come round to our
house to pay their final respects, and that my father had
been so well loved. All the visitors were shocked and
appalled.
After the funeral, my father’s pupils were reluctant to
hand over the coffin of their favourite teacher to us
grown ups, and they wept bitterly. With great difficulty
we managed to unclasp their tiny hands, gently but
firmly, from where they were clinging to the coffin,
because their teacher, who had promised them a loving
world, had now left them, quite alone, in a terrible, cruel
world. They howled like wolves out on the steppes,
enough to break your heart.
“Oh, our beloved teacher! Take us with you wherever
you are going. Please don’t leave us here all alone in this
cruel world.”
The cliff tops where the Abdul Vahab Gazi cemetery
lay, could hardly cope with the enormous numbers of
mourners.
After we had lowered the cold coffin into the earth
which our father had loved so much, I absented myself
from the crowd and went to the edge of the ravine, so that
I could be alone in front of the mausoleum. I leaned
against the railings and all the pain, all the sorrow and
grief gushed out of me. My tears fell on the mountain
flowers which were growing freely on a ledge far below,
trying to seek sanctuary there.
Someone touched my shoulders. I turned round to see
the pain ravaged face of Barut Rifki before me. His eyes
were sunk deep in their pockets, and his eyebrows had
collapsed down onto them. And his voice! His voice
sounded as if he was in his final death throes.
“Erol, everyone has gone. The bus is waiting for you.
Come on, let’s go.”
“You go on. I will walk.”
“No Erol, I can’t leave you alone in this mood. You’re
likely to throw yourself over the cliff out of sheer grief.
Am I right? No, you are coming with me.”
“Rifki, you know I would never do that - I would
never take my own life. If I did, it would mean that my
father’s murderer, this dirty destroyer of nature, would
have won another battle. I’m not giving up, I just want to
be on my own for a little while. There are a few things I
want to discuss with God.”
“Erol, I give you my word that if the police fail to
catch the culprit, I will not rest until I have found the
murderer myself.”
He spoke quite coolly, but I replied in a faltering
voice :
“But can you bring my father back?”
He didn’t say a word, but simply put his arms around
me and hugged me tightly. His heart was pounding like
some great machine. He escorted me to the bus. I
couldn’t believe it : there on the bus sat my mother and
my brother, but not my father. One member of our close
knit family was missing. My father, who had always been
a bit of a joker, was no longer with us.
In no time at all, the motor started droning, the wheels
started turning, and the bus cruelly separated us from our
father and from the spot where we had just buried him.
Without my father, our house was full of sadness, but
at the same time full of people who were determined not
to leave us on our own.
 In the next room, I could hear the heart rending
weeping of my aunt and the other female relatives.
“Oh my “Erdem”! Oh my poor, compassionate,
sympathetic, angel faced brother. You would never have
harmed so much as a fly or an ant. “
Today, crying is free. Everyone can weep as much as
they like. Everyone can release their pent up cares and
worries through the stream of tears, for weeping is one
form of offloading ones emotions. Some weep for the
deceased, some for themselves and some for their own
insoluble problems. That is why you should never look
down on the weeping people in the deceased’s house. Let
them cry in peace until the next day.
The next door neighbour’s wife, who used to
constantly annoy me with her dust sweeping activities in
the road outside the front of her house, now became a
guardian angel during our days of mourning. The large
pots which had been used for Barut Rifki’s wedding were
now set up in our garden. The red flames licked around
the base of the pots like tongues of fire. All the
neighbourhood women were there, preparing food for the
mourners. Isn’t that a wonderful custom? I promised
myself that I would give up my time for them too, should
another neighbour die. A promise is a promise.
The next day, the sun rose and went down again, but
my father stubbornly remained in his grave. My pillow
began to feel prickly and sleep evaded me.
A few days later, my brother and I laid a marble
headstone at my beloved father’s graveside. We had the
following words inscribed on it in green lettering:
Here lies peacefully at rest, Erdem Atila
our father, a great nature lover.
Today we are only two of his followers,
but in the future there will be thousands.
 In memory.
Your sons Savas and Erol.

46 The police knew who the

murderer was, but he seemed to
have vanished from the face of the
earth. Whenever I made enquiries
as to whether the criminal had
been caught yet, all the officer did
was to gaze at me over the rim of
his glasses, and reply in the
negative.
Barut Rifki called me over to his house one day and
said :
“Erol, I know where the guy is staked out. He has
gone to ground in a sheep shed in Kalin village. I have a
friend in the village from my time in the military. I
cannot tell you his name because he swore me to secrecy.
He is afraid the murderer may get him.”
 “Rifki, I would hate to think that your friend should
come to any harm on my account. I would rather drop
down dead on the spot than betray a friend. Do you know
the man who murdered my father, Rifki?”
“Yes Erol - the man is a hoodlum who we call “Recep
the Viper”. He has four sisters and five brothers. The
whole pack of them are all the same - they’re a bad lot.
They had no proper home of their own and were dragged
up here, there and everywhere. They scavanged for food
in the rubbish like street dogs, and never had a proper
upbringing.”
“So what are we waiting for? Let’s go to the police!”
“No, we can’t do that! If he so much as sniffs a
policeman from a distance, he’ll do a disappearing act.
We’ve either got to catch him ourselves, or he’ll go to
ground again.”
“Can the two of us do it on our own? Us two against
the whole pack of them?”
“We need have no fears in that direction - he has
fallen out with his brothers. The only support he has is
his side-kick Ali, who goes by the name of the Scorpion.
Where the dog is, his tail will follow. They are both as
bad as each other. But Erol, it wouldn’t make any
difference even if his brothers did help him, because
Remzi will come with us.”
Just hearing the name “Remzi” was enough to put my
mind at rest. Remzi the Stovemaker was the most famous
Kabadayi in Sivas, and Barut Rifki’s best friend. He, too,
worked in the coppersmith alley, making stoves. He had
an enormous black moustache and a mouth as big as the
muzzle on a lion. Whenever he let loose the dreaded
threat “Arrec”, you could see his huge teeth. This sight
alone was enough to put many of his opponents to flight.
Nobody dared to make him angry. The stream of
obscenities which came flowing out of his enormous
mouth were simply indescribable and unfit for print. But
now I have come to love his huge mouth and his swear
words. I have also come to like the Sivas dialect with its
many swear words and its many gutteral “ch” sounds
which bear a strong resemblance to the German “ch”.
Either the Germans originated from Sivas or Sivas folk
are a kind of Indo-Germanic tribe of people who
migrated from Germany to Sivas some time in the past!
The village of Kalin lies in the province of Sivas and
is very well known for its traditional blood feuds. It
would be no exaggeration to say that half the village were
lying in the cemetery and the rest were in clink. Fate had
led me to this famous village preoccupied with vendettas.
Barut Rifki had hired three horses in the neighbouring
town of Kalin on the pretext of going hunting. Both
Kabadayis had their guns with them. Barut Rifki’s
anonymous friend had given us such a good description
that we found our way at the first attempt, without having
to ask anyone in the village for directions. During the
journey, we conducted ourselves in silence. If we had
entered into conversation, I would certainly have heard
several choice swear words from Kara Remzi which I
like hearing. Pity!
Barut Rifki was the first to break the silence :
“Look, there is the sheep shed. Damn, the wretches
have spotted us and made a run for it. Come on, spur on
your horses.”
Kara Remzi bawled out :
“I’ll f…..ck your bloody mothers, you sons of
bitches.”
In fact we could see two men on horseback behind the
sheep shed riding in the opposite direction. I cannot
pretend that we caught the fugitives like in all good
cowboy films. It was virtually impossible to catch up
with them on these horses, but when one of the mens’
horses stumbled and fell, his rider was flung to the
ground. The other rider dismounted, sought cover in a
hollow in the ground and opened fire. It was too
dangerous to try riding any nearer to them, so we
dismounted and threw ourselves to the ground.
Both Barut Rifki’s and Remzi’s horses were caught in
the hail of bullets and died twitching and thrashing.
Sadistic louts! What have you got against the poor
horses?
It reminded me of my carriage horses. My own horse
was still standing, but for how long? Nothing could stop
Rebel Erol! Without a thought for the danger, I ran in a
zig zag line towards our adversaries, followed by Rifki,
while Remzi provided us with cover, shooting over and
over again with his shotgun. I reached the hollow where
the vermin had taken cover and gave him a powerful kick
in the head. He whimpered with pain and I quickly
grabbed his gun and threw it as far away from me as I
could. Barut Rifki grabbed the other guy who had
obviously recovered from his fall. Barut Rifki’s punches
had his opponent rolling about all over the ground. If
Kara Remzi hadn’t intervened, he would have torn him
from limb to limb.
When my adversary had recovered himself enough to
stand up, my eyes widened. I knew the man. This was the
swine my family and I had run into all those years ago in
the Pascha gardens when I was a child. This was the very
same man who had already attacked my father once
before. This was the very same man who had tried to kill
the big tree. Besides myself with anger, I called out to
Barut Rifki :
“Is that the man you call the Viper?”
 Barut Rifki was in a good mood:
“You’ve got it, lad - he’s standing under your foot.
Mind he doesn’t bite you.”
I bared my arm, pointed to the scar and asked the
Viper :
“Do you recognise this scar? Do you remember me,
the child from the Pascha gardens?”
His thoughts were in turmoil, but I knew that he did
remember because of the way he turned pale suddenly.
The day of reckoning had arrived. I fell upon him like the
Last Day of Judgement. My fists carried all my hatred
and all my loathing for this desecrator of nature.
Although I could hardly catch a breath with all the loud
puffing and panting, I managed to mouth a few words :
“Now each in turn,one by one –first : this is for the
tree whose heart you plunged your hatchet into. Bam!
This is for the horses you killed. Bam!”
His nose was bleeding.
Blow upon blow, over and over again.
“I’ve only just begun. Now these are for my father.
You kept your hate up for so long until you finally killed
him, didn’t you? This is for the tears of the little school
children. Bam!”
I’ll give it to him - he was tough. That suited me just
fine. Every time I knocked him down to the ground, he
got straight back up again. At least he didn’t deny me the
pleasure of taking out my anger in full.
Both men lay on the floor like fat sacks of potatoes.
Rebel Erol ordered them to get up and dig out two large
graves for the horses. They didn’t make a move, so we
took the shovels ourselves which we had procured from
the shed.
It was always like this : it was always the poor horses
who suffered and died along with their masters in wars
which were not of their making, but a result of human
conflict. And now, today, another two had been killed!
Bluebottles were already gathering on the pools of
blood by the side of the horses.
I think Barut Rifki was a good manhunter. He had
thought to bring along some rope with which to tie up his
prey. He’d already used it to tie up the hands of the two
criminals behind their backs and tethered them to the
saddle on my horse. We reached the police station before
the onset of darkness, on foot, the criminals stumbling
on behind with Remzi’s choice swear words ringing in
their ears.
When we appeared before the Kommandant (a sub
officer) at the police station, we disturbed him and he had
to break off from the heart rousing rendition of a local
ditty he was singing. In the dormitory next door we
noticed a soldier who was scratching between his toes
because they itched terribly. When he noticed us with the
Kommandant, he clicked his heels. Suddenly there was
something going on in the gendarmerie. The two culprits
were put into a room and locked in.
A soldier was pumping air into the oil stove and he
put a tea pot onto the ensuing flames. The next thing we
heard was butter sizzling in the pan which was followed
by the addition of a dozen eggs. The table top was
covered with newspaper. The chairs were dragged
rasping and grating across the floor. Those who had big
appetites polished off everything. The pan was licked
clean.
The next day we had to hand over money for the dead
horses to the farmers. Because we had missed the bus to
Sivas, we had to take a carriage in the direction of
Yildizeli. We slept the sleep of the just on the carriage,
because the burden we had been carrying had finally
been lifted from our shoulders. As the carriage bobbed up
and down along the bumpy street, I imagined in my
dream that I was running along the cliff tops picking
delicious “Karamuks” as I went . It was a wonderful,
deep sleep.
When we got to the bus station at Yildizeli, we had
quite a bit of time to spare before the next bus left for
Sivas. Instead of just hanging around and getting bored,
we decided to go and take a look at the cattle market.
Horses, sheep, goats, bulls and cows were all invited to
the cattle market, and they had all taken up the places
which had been reserved for them there.
While the animals swapped owners, much feverish
handshaking went on to seal the deals. Several
compassionate farmers bound their hens’ talons with a
piece of linen cloth. But there were others who used only
thin twine, which made the talons bleed. A rooster which
was lying on the floor, blinked from beneath its red
comb, no doubt inwardly cursing the humans who had
treated his hens so cruelly. But this particular rooster had
no inkling of what went on in the industrialised countries,
and how the animals there were so cruelly tortured. He
had no idea, for instance, how his fellow comrades in
arms were constantly imprisoned in cages, how they were
forced to lay eggs every day without being able to move
from the spot, and how they were sent to the production
line without ever being able to flap their wings freely, or
scratch the ground, without ever being able to hear the
cry of their mate or cuddle their chicks, and without ever
seeing the warmth of the sun, the luxuriant vegetation or
the black earth. If he had been aware of all this, he might
actually have been quite content with his lot here.
As we went behind a ruined house to take a pee, we
disturbed some young lads who were standing in a queue
behind two female donkeys, taking it in turns to sexually
abuse them. The poor creatures. I have just explained
about the cruel killing of the chickens, and now I have to
report on the desecration of the donkeys. It really is too
much!
Barut Rifki’s cry mingled with that of Rebel Erol, as
they both shouted together :
“Shame on you - you bastards! Leave the poor
animals in peace.”
“Get out of here, you bloody animal rapists!”
The donkeys, which had been tethered there by their
owners with a sack of hay tied around their necks, gave
us a melancholy look as if to say: “What can we do about
it?”
There were other donkeys tethered there. One of them
had such large, red saddle wounds on its back that it was
besieged by large flies who were trying to lay their eggs
on it. The animal rapists ran off, hurriedly buttoning up
their open flies as they went. I thought it over. What
more could you expect from young lads? They were at
the mercy of their sex drives. If they married young, what
were they supposed to do with all the children they so
thoughtlessly and stupidly brought into the world? If they
wanted to satisfy their baser nature in this way at the
cattle market, they were going to be sworn at and sent
packing. Such feelings are the bane of peoples’ lives!
Someone selling gramophone records was playing a
song by Ahmet Sezgin, who was very popular at that
time, on a record player, to encourage customers to buy.
People were thronging round him. The song he was
playing told a story :
I built a house
Clay brick by clay brick
But meanwhile I caught sight of Leyla
 She caused me no end of grief until I felt sick.
Leyla, oh Leyla
Don’t be shy, don’t be coy
Come, make me a happy boy.
Come to me, do not tarry -
My mother wants that we should marry.
The sound of the gramophone needle scratching the
black surface of the record brought memories of my past
flooding back to me. A warm feeling spread through me.
I thought about my own Leyla, my wildflower. My whole
body was covered in goose pimples. I too would have
liked to have built my own house, clay brick by clay
brick for my wildflower. She could quite happily have
caused me all the grief she wanted. We could have had
lots of children. Rebel Erol murmered:
“You can be just as happy with only a few children.
Forget about your wildflower : she is gone forever!”
We managed to sleep on the bus the entire journey to
Sivas. When we arrived there, the cold night air which
crept in through the open doors woke us up. Our ears
were also immediately assaulted by the insistent cry of a
Borek seller :
“Is anyone hungry? Come and try my juicy “Borek”
(cheese pockets).”
Kara Remzi must have been extremely hungry,
because he replied, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes :
“Brother, give me three!”
Outside, it was already twilight. When we finally
collapsed in a heap into a carriage, we all felt we had
achieved a job well done. Of course, as usual, I chose a
carriage which looked the worse for wear. The sight of a
carriage driver above us, the broad backs of the horses
swaying in front of him and the clatter of their hooves :
these were the things which I had long since missed. The
whole of Sivas smelt of dung and horses, a smell which I
have always loved.
After standing trial for several days, Recep the Viper
was sentenced to death, but was shot during an escape
attempt, before execution could be carried out. He left
behind a house full of children living in poverty and
squalor. These children would grow up into exact
replicas of the likes of Recep the Viper and Ali the
Scorpion, and would act just like their fathers. They
would learn nothing from the fate of their father, have no
respect for nature, just like him, and would probably
finish up one day vandalising a tree by sticking their
hatchet into it just for fun.
I was by now well known in Sivas. I could no longer
stroll freely through the streets, as somebody would
always stop me to congratulate me for catching the
murderer. I would have to explain each time that it had
only been possible with the help of Barut Rifki and
Remzi.
For days on end, the sole topic of conversation and
gossip in the coffee house revolved around the Viper and
the Scorpion, but no amount of talk could bring my father
back.
At nights, I would wake up from the depths of sleep,
drenched in sweat, and with pains in my chest. Reality,
which mercifully drifted into oblivion during the hours of
sleep, was breaking through again. It didn’t matter how
many times I pulled my bed cover right up over my head,
I could find no sanctuary, and every time my own rains
would fall and make me wet.
It was just a continual succession of one sad day after
another.
 47 One evening I went to the
coffee house but Barut Rifki
wasn’t there. Somebody told
me that he wasn’t feeling well
and had decided to stay at
home. I hurried round to his
house to see how he was and
to wish him a speedy
recovery.
Barut Rifki seemed
withdrawn, and the beads on
his rosary rattled in a quick
and nervous fashion. Outside in the garden the pigeons
were cooing.
 This was not the Barut whom I knew and loved. There
was something not quite right about him. He threw the
glass of water offered to him on the floor.
He didn’t say a word, and I got the distinct impression
he would have liked to chuck me out. He dabbed
nervously at the stream of saliva running down his chin
with a handkerchief. He couldn’t possibly be angry with
me. To my knowledge I had never once been
disrespectful towards him. There must be some other
reason.
I made my way into the next room to ask his mother
about it. She told me what I had already half suspected :
Barut Rifki had killed a mad dog which had been
terrorising some children, and had buried the dog’s body.
Rifki’s mother finished by saying the same thing as all
his friends :
“He hasn’t been feeling too good in the past few days
- perhaps he’s caught a chill.”
Dark clouds covered my horizon until my sky was as
black as night, and my voice thundered out from the
blackness of my thoughts :
“What kind of chill are you talking about? Can’t you
see that Barut is showing all the symptoms of a rabies-
linked illness? Are you blind or something? It would only
have taken a small drop of the dog’s blood to transmit the
illness to him. I’ll fetch a carriage right now and take him
to hospital. But please don’t say a word to him. While
I’m out, get me a sheet and some strong string. I will save
your son’s life. Thank God I got here in time.”
His mother groaned prophetically :
“The good Lord has sent you to us. I beg you - do
what you can to help him. I kiss your feet!”
I ran out onto the street, completely beside myself.
People thought I was mad, and in that instant I probably
was. We had learnt in school that once it had reached the
terminal stages, illness caused by rabies is incurable.
Hopefully it was not too late, hopefully he could still be
saved. I ran like a madman to the carriage stand. It
seemed to take me forever to get there.
At long last I saw a carriage approaching. I jumped
into the middle of the road frantically waving both my
arms in a desperate attempt to make it stop. The carriage
driver swore loudly and pulled hard on the reins. The
carriage came to a halt but it was already occupied.
“Are you mad, boy?”
I yelled back at the top of my voice :
“Quick, get out all of you, it is a matter of life or
death. There is someone critically ill here, and I have to
get them to hospital right away. Will you please get out!”
They stared at me in astonishment. There was no time
to lose - I couldn’t afford to waste one moment in
discussion. I grabbed each passenger by the arm and
chucked them out of the carriage like sacks of cotton. An
old lady spoke to me from behind her veil :
“Don’t worry young man, it’s O.K. I’ll be out in a
moment. Hurry up and bring your critically ill friend to
hospital. We can walk - no problem.”
On the way to Barut Rifki’s house, I briefed the
carriage driver on how Barut was behaving. It made
matters a lot easier in that everyone knew Barut.
The most difficult part was still to come. I knew Barut
Rifki would put up a fight. And that was just the thing I
had to try to avoid. Luckily, his mother not only liked
me, she respected me too, and had managed to get
everything ready. I explained our plan to her. At her wits
end, she agreed straight away. Slapping herself on the
knee, she nodded in agreement :
 “How could I have been so stupid, not to recognise
the rabies symptoms!”
We bowled into Barut’s bedroom, I quickly threw the
sheet over his head and tied him up like a parcel, with
carrıage driver. Meantime, his mother bound his feet too.
If we hadn’t had the element of surprise on our side, we
would never in a million years have been able to
overpower Barut. Muffled rattling noises were coming
from the package.
Damn – he couldn’t breathe. I took the knife which
his mother handed to me and cut an air hole in the sheet.
Barut took a deep breath through it and groaned
feverishly. The sounds coming from him were
unintelligible, but I tried to make sense of it all. He was
probably trying to say : “Have you gone off your trolley,
Erol?”
So I said to him :
“Rifki, I’m O.K. for the time being, but if anything
happens to you, I will almost certainly go mad. We’re
taking you to hospital now. There is a possibility that you
have contracted rabies, but don’t worry, it’s going to be
O.K.”
Despite this reasoning statement, it proved almost
impossible to manoeuvre him into the carriage. He kept
on saying over and over :
“I have neither rabies nor maybes!”
All along the way I kept yelling at the carriage driver :
“Faster, faster. Can’t you get any more speed out of
these bloody slowcoach horses of yours?”
When I noticed the froth collecting at the corners of
Barut’s mouth, I yelled even louder :
“Get a move on, damn it!”
 Seething with rage, the carriage driver brought his
coach to an abrupt halt, and shoved the whip into my
hand.
“There, take it. You drive if you think you can do any
better.”
I had experience of driving after chasing after the
Viper in the village of Kalin. With one spring I was on
the seat, and quickly brought the horses to a gallop. The
clang of the horses hooves resounded through the streets
and people swore at us as they jumped to safety on all
sides, leaving the way clear for us.
“What a bloody shit!”
“You arsehole!”
Sivas hospital was at the top of a hill, and the way up
to it was steep. As soon as we got to the hospital, I could
see that I had driven the horses too hard. They were
completely out of breath and frothing at the mouth.
Barut Rifki was brought to the quarantine station in
the hospital cellar. He was chained to the bedstead and
we were ushered out of the room. Was this a hospital or a
prison?
We walked restlessly around the hospital hallway,
praying God to save him.
Further down the street, I could make out the townhall
between the other houses, and it looked to me like a large
cobra rearing up ready to strike me.
An hour later, a bald headed doctor appeared on the
scene, and reproached us accusingly :
“Why didn’t you bring him along much earlier? There
is nothing we can do for him now, it is too late.”
I squeezed his hands and pleaded with him :
“Please, doctor, please save him. I will gladly give my
blood if necessary.”
The doctor answered in a pitying tone of voice :
 “He has had the necessary injections - perhaps they
will help him.”
But Barut Rifki could not be saved. The medicine at
that time was just too primitive.
They left him to die alone over several days, in chains
and foaming at the mouth. That was a cruel death.
This man, who lay thrashing around uncontrollably,
foam streaming from his mouth, was no stranger, but my
friend, Barut Rifki. This man, whose blood was flowing
from the wounds caused by trying with all his might to
break free from the chains which bound him, was no
stranger, but my idol. I closed my eyes to try and
suppress the tears, and when I opened them again I
realised the awful truth and my heart bled.
All I could do was hope that death would come
quickly for him, so that he would not have to suffer
unnecessarily. But my wish was not granted.
A rabid dog will be shot to put it out of its misery, but
this merciful action is not afforded to human beings.
Time hung in the air like the blade of an olden day
guillotine, hovering over our heads but never falling.
The last day the nurses could no longer bear the wild,
loud lamenting of his relatives and our pain-racked faces,
and they ushered us from the room with the words :
“Go home now - there is nothing more you can do
here. Come back tomorrow morning. By then he will be
out of pain, he will be released and you can take his body
with you.”
Released!
The time had come to say my final farewells to Barut
Rifki. Before I left the room, I turned round to take one
last look at my friend. I could still make out in his eyes
vague traces of the warm gleam and the loving look of a
caring father he had shown me as a child in coppersmith
alley.
I was numb with pain.
My God, why did you create such a cruel world?
Is that the work of a God?
You have permitted terrible plagues, deadly microbes
and dreadful illnesses.
If there were as many bad humans as there are deadly
microbes, your guilt would be all the greater.
Or maybe the pathogens were created by some other,
dark God?
Or perhaps there are several gods, as they used to tell
us in the olden days, who battle it out with one another,
destroying their own creations?
Would this conduct suit other gods?
Or is it simply a case of God taking his best loved
children first, as people like to believe. Hopefully, this is
the case. I beseech you will all my heart, take Barut into
your care, embrace him in your loving arms, and make
him immortal, dear God!”
The hospital forecourt reverberated once more with
the echo of the carriages of those who had heard about
the tragedy and come to pay their final respects. There
was not an empty carriage to be found in the whole of
Sivas - they were all on their way to the hospital.
But none of the visitors could bring Barut Rifki back
to life. Not even his best friend Kara Remzi.
The following day the hospital authorities passed
Barut Rifki’s coffin over to us for safe keeping. The
coffin was already nailed down and we were given strict
instructions not to reopen it again at any stage. An
official was sent along to make sure that these
instructions were complied with. Words cannot describe
the faces of the other Kabadayis who attended the
funeral.
A hero was dead.
On this planet full of villains, he had lived a true and
honest life, and left us just like Yunus Emre’s poem
says :
“A saint landed on this world,
and departed.”
I was the last one to leave his graveside.
I hung my rosary on his headstone.
I buried my soul with him.
I remember I dragged my body from the graveside.”
I have visited his grave many times since and always
felt the same thing. Children had taken my rosary away. I
had a new gravestone made by a stone mason with the
image of a rosary carved on it, and had the following
words inscribed on the stone :
Great Rifki, if the human beings can turn
our worldly paradise into a living Hell,
it is only because
there are too few heroes like you.
Each time I rattle my rosary beads,
I will remember you. Rest in Peace.
Your apprentice, Erol!

48
After these dark days, I could find
no pleasure in anything. I did not
attend classes, nor did I practise my
boxing. What was the point of
striving to learn something new,
when one day everything would either die or be
destroyed?
I often clambered up the cliffs to the mausoleum of
Abdul Vahab Gazi. I wanted to get closer to God and talk
with Him. The people I loved the most were dying one
after the other, and I wanted to discuss this subject with
God.
People who saw me in this condition started spreading
the rumour that I had lost my mind. I ran, zombie-like,
through the streets, empty and cold inside.
I no longer combed and wetted my hair as before, nor
did I bother to get dressed properly. I was half crazy : a
pitiful creature with wild, tangled hair. The least little
thing would move me to tears, and I would burst out
crying like very old people do. Everyone felt sorry for
me. I stopped going to school. I would cower against a
wall next to the street, waiting for either Barut Rifki to
come walking by, or for my father to appear in the
distance. Sometimes I would call out the name “Necmi!”
to a young lad who happened to be passing by on the
street. One of them made fun of me. I often went to see
Barut’s widow, and asked her if I could play with their
young son. We would roll brightly coloured marbles on
the ground, or had a competition snapping brightly
coloured “Asik” made from sheep’s bones. If Rifki junior
was happy, then I myself felt ten times as happy. Women
neighbours who saw us playing together turned their
heads and stared at us, whispering amongst themselves.
“The poor young lad - he’s gone completely mad. He
was always such a healthy young man. It’s just such a
pity about him - such a terrible shame.”
The neighbourhood children, in particular the young
girls, used to chant after me in unison : “Erol, mad Erol,”
and were always trying to make me angry. As soon as I
did turn to face them, they would run away laughing.
Apparently this game gave them a great deal of pleasure.
And the curtains, the crocheted curtains which the
girls used to move aside when I walked by, were now
quite, quite still. What did I tell you? This world belongs
to the strong only. Was I right? You cruel girls!
Out of a carriage which had stopped in front of
Zekiye’s house stepped father and son Konoz, bringing
with them a strong smell of eau de cologne. They wanted
to pay Zekiye a visit. They would suck her life blood
away like a vampire her whole life long. And Zekiye
stands there as pale as a corpse from worry and grief. But
that is of no interest to me. One day she could stand it all
no longer, and took her own life. A few days later her
body was found hanging in the cowshed. That was of no
concern to me either. I was only interested in playing
with Rifki junior, which we did every day in the shade of
a garden wall.
My mother and my grandfather could obviously see
what was wrong with me and worried themselves sick.
One day my grandfather took me to the doctor, who
pronounced :
“Erol is simply depressed. No wonder, when he has
lost so many people. He must take this medicine and then
he’ll soon feel a lot better.”
The medicine he prescribed simply made me feel
drowsy and lethargic. It did not have the desired effect.
But I had other worries!
After that, my mother brought me to a Hodja, a priest,
who wrote “muska.” Muska are Arabic prayers. After the
rose scented Hodja had found out what my troubles were,
he rolled his eyes and wrote something on a piece of
paper. He folded this piece of paper up, wrapped it up in
a special cloth and fastened the little package on the
inside of my clothing with a safety pin , just at the level
of my heart. I crouched down in front of him and listened
to the prayer which he whispered to me. My mother sat
with a sad face in the corner of the room, following the
proceedings. From time to time he paused in mid prayer
and blew in my face.
For the first time in weeks I felt relaxed again, and the
effect he had on me would undoubtedly have been all the
stronger if the Hodja’s breath hadn’t smelt so dreadfully
of garlic. The smell of garlic brought me back down to
earth with a bump from the sky in which I had been so
fascinatedly flying high.
When my mother offered the Hodja money for his
trouble, he refused to take it. At that moment, the Hodja
went up in my estimation in stature and dignity. He
looked like a saint to me. I felt an inner warmth, and his
garlic breath suddenly seemed to me to smell of sweet
hyacinths. He was only interested in me regaining my
health. I trusted him. When we came to go, I listened
carefully to the pieces of advice he gave me which
worked like good medicine on my soul.
This Hodja was the equivalent of the present day
psychiatrist. A doctor looked after the physical side, the
Hodja took care of the psychological problems of the
patient. A doctor never experienced the level of trust
which was shown towards the Hodja, because the doctor
was a professional, while the Hodja was simply one of
the people. The Hodjas achieved more healing therapies
for mental disturbances than the doctors could ever do. I
kissed his warm hands and rubbed them on my face.
In the evening, my grandfather opened the muska
despite the protestations of my mother, and read it. That
was a painful experience for my mother. My grandfather
could read Arabic well. He was of the old school, an
intellectual, not one of the fanatics. He turned the paper
round and around, and finally said with a grin on his face:
“He has tried to write in Arabic. You can see that
alright. It’s full of mistakes. Ha! Sadly, it’s impossible to
work out what he was trying to say. You can’t make any
sense of it.
My mother retorted furiously :
“Oh papa! Don’t try and spoil everything. It has done
the child some good - that is the main thing.”
Then she took the muska, folded it back up carefully
and clipped it back onto me again, blowing on me as she
did so.
At the beginning of the week I started back at school.
My school friends in the grammar school were not as
sadistic as the small girls in my neighbourhood, in fact
quite the reverse - they were very protective towards me.
Recai noticed that I could no longer summon up the
least interest in lessons, so he let me copy his work. As a
child he had suffered from alopecia, but he had a warm
heart and got good results in school. Who knows where
he is now?. Perhaps he is some high official or a judge,
like he always wanted to be. The pupils in my class had
chosen someone else as class representative.
During free periods, the new class representative
would always get one of the pupils, whose name now
escapes me, to sing for me whenever I got depressed.
Then I would bury my head in the desk, and the song
which was sung in a soft, gentle voice, gently infiltrated
my tears.
“Can I call this a life?
It seems to me as though I have no soul,
Never a day goes by without me weeping.”
Even worse, a boxing match in Adana was getting
closer. I told the head of the boxing association that I
didn’t want to take part in this tournament. He swore and
threw a fit:
“Erol, have you completely taken leave of your
senses? You are the best man we’ve got. If you don’t take
part, you’re going to jeopardize the team’s chances. Is
that what you want? Why in God’s name don’t you want
to fight?
A single sentence from me explained everything :
“Barut is no longer with me.”
The head of the association sighed :
“True, Barut is dead. But you are still alive.”
He gave me a long lecture, good pieces of advice and
rules of behaviour. I answered him without raising my
head :
“It’s not just that I no longer have Barut, the fact is
there is just no Barut left in me.”
The Turkish word “Barut” means “gunpowder”. But
he stubbornly stood his ground, and kept on at me for
hours on end. In the end I finally agreed to enter the fight,
still much against my will. As I said, I had far too many
compassionate feelings inside me.

49 Turkish was not the only

language spoken in the
shopping area of Adana - you
could also hear Arabic and
Kurdish. The shops were full
of enticing goods and the
streets and parks were animated and full of life. The air
was hot and muggy. My boxing friends kept trying to
cheer me up with little jokes. I laughed along with them,
but it was a false laugh and I had to force myself to smile,
just like politicians often do.
It wasn’t just the air in the boxing stadium which was
hot - there was also a very lively and spirited crowd. My
boxing comrades were beaten hollow by their opponents,
who went all out to win. The leader of our boxing
association, who thought a lot of me, put me in to fight
last.
But I had neither the desire to box nor was I hot for
victory. This is how I went into the ring. Mad, don’t you
think?
They had pitted me against a short-haired, thick-
lipped, black boxer who had just completed his military
service. He made a lot of rude faces at me. I could see
this fellow was going to devour me. No doubt he wanted
to knock me to the ground right at the outset, so that his
friends could lift his hands up triumphantly. But I would
have preferred to simply go back to Sivas, and resume
my game with Rifki junior.
As soon as the referee declared the fight open, the
shocking thought entered my terrified head that I was
going to be trounced. Without further ado, I lifted up my
opponent’s arm and said to the referee :
“I throw in the towel. My opponent has me licked.”
An unnatural silence and astonishment fell over the
hall. Then the public started whistling and shouting and
letting out cat-calls :
“Coward, Sivas-sissy, figh-t, figh-t, figh-t!”
They were completely within their rights. They
certainly hadn’t come here to see a diplomatic
handshake, they wanted a proper fight.
 The black youth got carried away by all the shouting
and began to lay into me. He really wanted to fight. I had
already taken off my boxing gloves. I defended myself as
best I could with my bare hands, and ducked his blows.
My opponent was the cat, I was the mouse. He tried to
play games with me, swinging his black paws above my
head. The referee pushed between us yelling :
“Hey, hold up. You can’t make him fight if he doesn’t
want to.”
He pushed the referee to one side in a fury and spat in
my face. He thought himself a great hero. The words
which poured out of his mouth were just as disgusting as
his spit.
“You son of a whore. If you didn’t want to fight, why
did you climb into the ring in the first place? Bugger off.”
When a drop of water is poured onto the surface of a
very hot pan, it explodes, hissing and steaming. I was just
like this drop. I wiped the spit off my face and hissed:
“Referee, sound the bell for the first round.”
As I was putting on my boxing gloves, I noticed that I
was seething with rage inside. My inner motor had
started to run hot. The real me, the Rebel Erol who had
died, angrily sprang to life again.
Energy surged through me as I stood there puffing and
panting like an angry bull. Just like the famous Homer
wrote in his epic poem the Iliad : First there was thunder
and lightning, then Zeus spoke. But in my case, it wasn’t
Zeus who was speaking inside me, but Barut Rifki,
twirling his moustache. He spoke to me with love in his
eyes :
“Erol, show what you are made of. Teach this
impudent fellow a lesson. I am with you.”
 That was enough for me. I couldn’t wait for the fight
to start. The hall was so quiet you could have heard a pin
drop. The gong boomed loudly. breaking the silence.
As usual, I let the black youth take the offensive so
that I could work out his fighting tactics. After that, I left
it up to my reflex actions to guide my body. My legs had
become Hector’s chariots, attacking Asilius. My fists
were like the morning stars of Asilius, exploding in
Hector’s face. And then, with a blow to the liver, which
is the worst possible thing in a boxing match, I suddenly
lost all control. My punches didn’t just make him fall to
the floor, he slid halfway across the ring. Now the tables
were turned. Now I was the cat playing with the mouse.
His face was swollen and streaming with blood. My
opponent saved himself from the worst of my anger, by
staying down on the floor. Otherwise I would have
literally thrown his carcase to the vultures for calling my
angel mother a whore.
As the referee held my arm up, announcing my
victory, I collected up some spit in my mouth, but I
managed to suppress my desire for revenge and
swallowed it back, because Barut Rifki had taught me
that it wasn’t fair to humiliate an opponent who had
already lost.
So I forgave him.
This fight brought me back to life again. I didn’t just
win the fight, I summoned up new courage and zest for
living. Even so, I never took part in another boxing match
in Turkey ever again.
From my present day viewpoint, I can see that my
resolve back then to fight was the only decision I could
have taken. Otherwise the black youth’s spit on my face
would never have stopped burning into me, but would
still be stinking even now, and I would have been saddled
with an inferiority complex for the rest of my life.
On the bus ride home to Sivas, all my colleagues
started singing the famous song from Adana :
“Adana’s streets are paved with cobblestones,
You set me on the right path”
Yes! The black boxer certainly had set me on the right
path again. I am grateful to you for that, my colleague.
That is why they say that sport is one of the best
therapies.
When we got back to our home town at midnight, our
knees started to shiver and shake in the frosty night air of
Sivas, after the previous heat of the day in Adana.
On our way to the carriage stand we drank hot Salep
(orchid tea). It warmed us up inside, and then when we
reached home, the thick woollen bed covers warmed our
bodies.
As I fell into a delicious sleep, I could hear the lively,
heart warming sound of the cockerels crowing early, the
concert of the night, and the barking of the dogs
communicating with one another in the far distance. The
gap in my bedroom curtains allowed me to stroll out into
space. For one moment between the blinking stars I
looked back at our planet, on which the street lamps were
gleaming like glow worms. I left the dark, cold universe
behind me and returned to my warm bed. Thank God I
was back in my own beautiful part of town, and most
important of all, I had regained my health. My
neighbours were sleeping peacefully in the tiny boxes
they called houses. How wonderful it is to be fit and well
again. I decided to start living again from the point at
which I had left off.
50 I now started turning my
attention to books,
becoming a real little book
worm and reading
everything I could lay my
hands on. I was particularly
interested in German.
 My mother put my Kabadayi suit and my boxing bag
away in a cupboard in the attic. Once I had a dream about
my father. He spoke to me :
“Knowledge is the most valuable possession on earth.
It is worth its weight in gold.”
Presumably he meant that I should work hard in
school to gain as much knowledge as I possibly could. I
took a lot of care over my lessons, and sometimes I was
even able to correct the teacher. Now it was the books
which I sparred with. My passionate desire to become a
legendary Kabadayi or a famous boxer now faded away
and remained in my mind simply as a bitter sweet
memory.
On one occasion, our chemistry teacher called one of
the pupils out to the blackboard, and asked him to solve a
problem. The blonde boy didn’t have a clue and broke
out into a sweat. Finally he managed to get out the words:
“It’s impossible to solve this problem, teacher.”
The teacher grabbed the chalk and started to fill the
blackboard with equations. The results were
disappointing, and she too had to give up on the problem.
But I had already worked out the solution.
She turned to the class and said in a resigned voice :
“He is right. There is something wrong here. The
problem cannot be solved like this.”
I held up my hand and asked her to let me have a try.
She gave me a derisive glance :
“Come to the front, Erol. Well, dear class, here stands
before you a pupil who can perform miracles.”
Just before I reached the end of my solution of the
problem, I noticed that the teacher’s face had gone as red
as a lobster. Only afterwards did it occur to me that it was
not the solution to the problem which should take priority
but the needs of the teacher. The bottom line was : my
father had also been a teacher, and so I broke off, even
though I already knew the solution :
“I’m sorry, teacher, you were right after all - the problem
cannot be solved.”
The teacher got her normal skin colour back, like a
chameleon.
At break time, the chemistry teacher called me over to
her.
“Erol, I would like to thank you. What you did up
there in the classroom today ensured that the other pupils
did not lose confidence in me. Why didn’t you finish the
solution to the problem when you knew what it was ?”
“Dear teacher, don’t forget that my father was also a
teacher. If I had acted in a selfish, egotistical manner, I
would have betrayed my father’s memory.”
The rebel inside of me was saying something
different: “I love the good teachers, and I clout the bad
ones.”
But of course she didn’t hear all that. She just carried
on with her speech :
“I don’t just want to thank you, I would like to tell
you how pleased I am that you seem to have got over
your depression. I was aware that you were always
cribbing from Recai, but today it was your teacher’s turn
to crib from you, wasn’t it? What is it that has brought
about this change in you?”
I wanted to give her the type of answer that had very
few words but which carried a weight of meaning. After
mulling it over in my mind for a short while, I finally
came up with the appropriate words :
“Spit! A globule of spit which someone shot into my
face in Adana.”
The teacher was suitably shocked.
“What? A globule of spit!”
 She naturally didn’t understand what I was talking
about, and I walked off, leaving her to carry on pondering
over my words.
Our absent-minded, unmarried literature teacher
organised a poetry competition. The poem I entered,
which I had written during my days of depression, won
first prize. Perhaps my teacher was just trying to
encourage me, or perhaps he really did think it was good:
What is the point of everything?
What is the meaning of life?
When there is so much misery,
When there is so much strife.
In one torrential tide which we call fate,
Is it really a God given plan?
Or are we just playing out some pointless drama
On the worldly stage of man?
Nazli enjoyed my success, and started to pop up in
front of me once more with a book in her hand, trying to
flirt with me. I explained everything to her very matter of
factly, just as a teacher would. She had proved to me by
her behaviour during my dark days, that she was only
interested in success, strength and power.
The “ugly moustache” stopped flirting with girl pupils
again, when he felt my angry, warning gaze on him once
more.
Books were opened and closed;
Exercise books were filled and new ones purchased;
Preparations were made for the exams;
We all held our breath.
And revised late into the evening,
until our eyes had gone red.
When the diplomas were handed out, the top
achieving pupils received school prizes.
 The principal congratulated me half heartedly, and the
“ugly moustache” just gave me black looks. But I just
carried on grinning like all the rest.

The acacia trees bloomed, nectar sweet.

The cranes took off high in the sky, screeching and
squawking towards the north.
The young sparrow hawks under the roof opened their
greedy beaks.
The sparrows twittered, the horses whinnied.
Sivas embraced a new summer.

51 One summer’s day

when the sun was
generously spreading her
warmth on the earth, the
sky suddenly darkened. Do
you suppose it was black
thunder clouds which had
suddenly shut out the
light? No! It was millions upon millions of locusts. The
townsfolk of Sivas got stiff necks from spending so much
time staring up into the sky looking at them.
The locust army took the town of Sivas by storm. The
sky turned grey and the earth was overrun with them.
There was a constant sound of swooshing wings
everywhere. The locusts devoured every last green blade
of grass, and got their teeth into anything which was
standing. In a short time, Sivas became as bald as
Keloglan’s head. (A bald youth in Turkish mythology).
The children didn’t give a toss about this plague.
Quite the reverse. For them it represented a huge source
of amusement. The cats and birds of Sivas were having a
field day. Every bird had a locust in its beak. The cats
had eaten so many locusts, they couldn’t be bothered any
more, and finished up playing with them as if they were
mice. The children had even more fun. Some harnessed
the locusts to the small toy cars they had built
themselves. Some hung the locusts up and pulled off their
legs or simply squashed them to death. There were dead
locusts everywhere. Women swept up the small, dead
carcases lying in front of their doors into dustpans. In a
very short space of time they would have to repeat the
process all over again.
Then the locust army simply upped and flew on to
pastures new, leaving a ruined Sivas behind them.
This account of things made Rebel Erol feel that he,
too, wanted to write something down. He asked to speak.
I let him have his say, even though I knew that he would
make use of this theme to pontificate. What sort of
rubbish is he going to come out with? I am all ears.
“These locusts remind me of Timur-Leng’s army.”
“What has that got to do with anything?”
 “In the year 1400, Timur-Leng’s army siezed hold of
Sivas just like the army of locusts. They destroyed Sivas
completely including the Medreses (the Islamic
universities), putting it to the torch and slaughtering half
the population.
This act of atrocity was committed by Timur-Leng
and his army. O.K? And what was his army made up of?
The answer is quite simple : it was made up of the
countless children which the Mongolian women brought
into the world every year without a thought for the
consequences. Or rather, the children who had been
turned into soldiers by military training. Well trained
robots who carried sabres. If the unthinking Mongolian
parents had not produced so many children, would
Timur-Leng have been able to come hobbling along with
his small army all that distance to Sivas, and destroy
everything? No, of course not. What was this hobbling
Timur-Leng looking for in Anatolia? Is there really much
difference between the Mongolian and locust armies?
The thoughtless production of children has always
brought trouble and unrest into the world. It gave power
to Timur-Leng the Lame, allowed Hitler the Terrible to
make his sadistic plans, and allowed Napolean Big Belly
to march on Moscow.
Now let’s look at everything from the locusts’ point of
view. If the locusts had not multiplied at such an
alarming rate, we would never have held them in such
contempt or simply swept them away, but we would have
marvelled over their pretty eyes and glowing colours.
In the Second World War on the continent, thousands
of young men lost their lives and everything was
decimated. After the war, these countries needed human
labour to help rebuild their native lands. Consequently
they started to recruit labour from abroad. The
immigrants were welcomed with open arms and offered
houses to go with their jobs. The years went by. These
immigrants kept turning up at the borders with dozens of
children in tow. One small child after another - one at the
breast, one in the womb.
The years went by and people began to despise these
immigrants and to demand their deportation. Why?
Because they were no longer needed. These people who
had played a vital role in rebuilding the country now
found themselves being called names like “Bloody
foreigners, garlic bombs etc.” Cute names aren’t they?
But should the residents of these countries ever have to
work abroad themselves some day as immigrants, and
start to breed like rabbits, then they, too, would no doubt
find these praiseworthy names being applied to them, and
people would start demanding their deportation.
In short : If there was too much gold in the world, it
would be worthless and people would simply tread it
underfoot. That is why I say:
“Few people are like diamonds in your hands,
Too many people are like pebbles under your feet.”
“O.K., Rebel Erol, that’s quite enough. Get a move on
and clear up all the pebbles you have placed under my
feet. You may be right, but while I was talking about the
locusts in Sivas, you’ve dragged the theme right across
the world to other continents.”
“But this is what reality is all about. I just wanted to
make sure that our book was written from the heart.”
“You little rebel! What you call reality is like a sharp
knife being dug into a wound by a doctor - very
unpleasant. The reader wants to be entertained by this
book. No one wants to be reminded of the harsh truth.
We must not always describe things as they really are.
That means : you must wash your hands without soap and
water!”
“Oh, the wisdom of youth! How can you possibly
wash without soap and water? Do you mean I should
think only of myself while the rest can die? Damn! Then
carry on telling your story.
Rebel Erol had used the word “damn”. I must have
really riled him. But it wasn’t long before we had made
up again.

52 My brother had just

come home from
university during the
holidays, and as the two of
us took our seats on the
bus to Zara, we had so
much to talk about that we
hardly noticed the newly
asphalted roads. Our bus
no longer shook like a malaria sufferer as it trundled
along. The authorities had put on new buses for the main
stretch of road between Sivas and Ankara, and sold the
big, old buses to small bus operators. These old buses
were still something of a novelty for the folk from Zara.
On the journey, I asked my brother what Istanbul was
like, as I wanted to live there and study at the university,
because I had passed the exams to join the faculty of
Germanic studies. I hardly noticed the time going by.
Suddenly my brother announced :
“We’re almost there.”
I looked to see if I could see any soldiers training in
the barracks, but the military unit had moved garrison,
and the barracks and army houses were empty.
It made a change not to have to brush the dust out of
our hair and clothing when we got off the bus. For the
stretch of road to Zara was asphalted.
Our relatives in Zara accorded us a much more loving
welcome than normal, on account of our father’s death.
In Turkish mythology, there is a large bird, the so-
called Anka bird, which befriends children. He lets
children climb onto his back and flies around with them.
But this bird is used to being very spoilt. Whenever it
said “cickle”, you had to give it meat, and whenever it
said “cackle”, you had to offer it some wine. Just like the
fabled Anka bird, they made sure we got everything we
wanted. As soon as we said “cickle”, they gave us meat,
and we only had to say “cackle”, and they gave us Ayran
( a Turkish yoghurt drink). They hung on our every word.
Our relatives laughed at every little thing we said. The
girls of the house kept putting cushions behind our backs,
to make us more comfortable.
“Savas, lean forward - you need another cushion.”
“Don‘t trouble yourself, I‘m fine.”
 “No, you’re not - lean forward!”
“Erol - you too!”
“No thank you! I’m telling you, girl, I’m fine!”
“If you don’t bend forward, I’m going to belt you
round the head with the cushion!”
“Go and make some tea for the young people, and
bring some “katmer” back with you.”
Do you know what “katmer” is? If you like, I’ll take
you along to the place where the girls bake the “katmer”.
In this corner of the garden, the girls roll out the dough
on a wooden board, until it is as thin as paper. The round,
flat, dough cakes are spread with fresh butter, placed
together, and then rolled out once more with a thin
rolling pin. This process is repeated several times.
Finally, the finished dough is placed on a “sac” (a
special round, black baking tray) which is heated
underneath by a wood fire, and baked until it is golden
brown. If you eat a genuine “katmer”, you will find that it
dissolves in your mouth like water, but if you eat a bad
“katmer“, it will stick to your gums.
If you like, you can stay in this corner with its lovely
cooking smells and watch the girls at their work, and
taste the delicious “katmer.” But we want to go and have
a look around the neighbourhood. My brother Savas is
standing at the door impatiently shaking his head, as if to
say “you’d better get a move on.”
 53 The yard is full of
noisy children. It’s
amazing! While we’ve
been away, the number
of children has increased
dramatically. They
probably belong to the
young men who got
married at the end of
their military service.
It’s not just the beautiful
old cherry tree in which
we had great fun as children, which has been knocked
down, but a lot of other trees along with it. They simply
no longer exist. Houses have been built in their place. We
could see lots of rubble in the vegetable gardens : scrap,
broken bricks, leftover whitewash and rusty nails lay
everywhere. The original trees which were anchored to
the edges of the riverbed of the Kizilirmak by their strong
roots, had been cut down, ostensibly to be used in the
winter months for heating fuel. In their place, huge walls
had been erected, to protect the town from possible
flooding. Children were running up and down the wall
doing a balancing act, their arms stretched out on either
side. The whole environment round about seemed to be
pulling a face at us, as if to say “Just look what you
humans have done to us.” I could just hear Rebel Erol
yammering on :
“Oh Zara! My childhood fairyland! You are dying!
What a crying shame! There will be no fairytale Zara for
the children of the future.”
The river Kizilirmak flows downhill in a zig-zag
fashion all over the place. It has far less water nowadays
because a lot of this is used for agriculture before it even
reaches Zara. Many of its tributaries have simply dried
up. The river beds have become encrusted, shrunken and
cracked. All that remains of the smell of the little yellow
fish which used to dart to and fro along these tributaries
is a pleasant memory in our minds. Even the frogs which
are minding their own business trying to survive in small
ponds, are killed off by the children with their catapults.
An excavator with a large shovel loaded a pile of pebbles
and sand from the river bed into the back of a lorry.
After all this, my brother Savas was silent and very
pensive. He had been like this many times before. Deeply
brooding. Sometimes he did not hear, even though we
shouted his name out loudly. Then he would return to
reality, as if he had suddenly woken up. I assumed he
was trying to find some sort of connection between all
this and what he had learnt at the forestry faculty. I asked
him curiously :
“You’re obviously deeply engrossed in something.
What is it that you are thinking about so deeply?”
“Did you say something to me?”
“Yes - who else would it be?”
“Oh Erol, just look at what they’ve done. For a quarter
of the money they have wasted on the wall, they could
have built beautiful, natural dykes.”
“How, then? Explain it to me a little.”
“This wall was built around the town to protect
against flooding. But just look : the riverbed is full of
pebbles and stones. The excavator could easily push them
to one side and compress them. The river bed in the
Kizilirmak is very wide. Using environmentally friendly
designs, the river could quite happily be left to flow here
in winter. The river does not corrode the edges when the
river bed is wide, as it is here. These ancient trees should
not be knocked down, but new ones planted in the spaces
in between. They should fortify the dykes and install
attractive walkways with benches for people to sit on.
The Kizilirmak is the jewel in the crown of Zara, but the
powers that be have seen fit to hide all this beauty behind
ugly walls, just like the Great Wall of China.”
Have you noticed that Rebel Erol is not raising any
objections to these discussions? If he feels that the
proposals being made are half reasonable, he is quite
happy to listen. It is wonderfully refreshing to listen to a
likeminded environmentalist talking. But it is torture
trying to talk to someone who doesn’t care about the
environment. While my brother Savas was relating all
this, he grew in stature in my mind, looking like the hero
out of some fairytale. The way he frequently scratched
his neck and contorted his facial expression was proof of
the depth and sincerity of his thoughts. I wanted to kneel
before Savas and kiss his feet which carried his sacred
body : just like a slave before his Pharaoh. Since the
death of my father, my brother had become a father-
figure to me. He was the only thing I had left to remind
me of my father. My eyes were moist and my voice
quavered as I said to him :
“Oh, come on, let’s go for a stroll around town.”
But he didn’t hear me, and just carried on talking.
“What a crying shame! They have knocked down so
many trees. As fast as we’re trying to plant new trees,
other people are trying to kill them.”
“Savas! Let’s go off to the farm straight away.
Everything will be fine there - you’ll see!”
Although he was only half listening to me, he
managed to say “Let’s hope so.” He contorted his face
like Nasreddin Hodga who in his joke eats pickled
gherkins.
In Zara we saw numerous construction sites. The local
inhabitants, who had once woken up to the melodic
sound of creaking ox carts, have now had to get used to
the noisy din of these building sites.
Instead of ox carts, we saw tractors dotted about all
over the place. In the town centre they were building new
cafes which were full of unemployed youngsters. They
are no longer prepared to work as craftsmen. They would
rather while away their time playing billiards. Some of
them were students who were studying in the large towns
and spending their holidays in Zara. Great swathes of
cigarette smoke wafted out of the door of the cafe,
sending a dense fug up into the atmosphere. On the
opposite side of the road outside the butchers, several
lamb carcases were hanging on hooks.
Several people who were sitting at the tables outside
recognised us and called us over:
“We bid you a hearty welcome, young people! Come!
Take tea!”
While we were taking our tea from the brass plate of
the young boy selling tea, I answered their questions, but
my thoughts kept straying back to Zara’s ruined gardens.
To keep the locals happy, we praised all the new changes,
although in our hearts we were thinking completely the
opposite :
“Zara has developed in leaps and bounds since our last
visit!”
“Yes, tremendously!”

54 After the evening meal,

our conversations became
really intense. Zara was
connected to the electricity
supply, and a large light
bulb hung from the ceiling.
“Zara is full of
construction sites and
children!”
A young relative inter-
jected :
 “The people who make these construction sites are not
from Zara. A great number of Zara folk sold their
gardens and moved to the cities. All these building sites
and children which you have seen belong to the peasants
who have purchased gardens in Zara.”
“Where do the peasants get money to buy a garden?”
“They sell the fields in their villages.”
“Oh God! Why on earth do Zara folk want to move to
the large towns?”
“Probably because they just feel like it!”
“Because they feel like it? I don’t understand. How
could these people possibly leave such paradise gardens
behind? What could they possibly hope to find in the
concrete houses in the city? I went and I saw the big
cities. And what did I see? Shit everywhere! That’s right
- shit and rubbish as far as the eye could see. In fact there
is so much shit and rubbish, they don’t know what to do
with it all.”
Everyone laughed at Savas’s blunt, off-the-cuff
remarks. Savas laughed to, although he is usually quite
serious. In fact, he laughed so much, his eyes filled with
tears. He definitely had a Rebel Savas inside him who
piped up occasionally without being asked. Fresh and
spontaneous answers like this make people laugh. But not
everybody can do it!
A cheerful young man who was smoothing his wispy
moustache, joined in the discussion. He kept asking
Savas questions and Savas answered him over and over
again. I’ll transcribe their conversation word for word :
“O.K. Savas. You keep telling us that you have seen
the big cities. So tell us, what do people find to do there
all day long? We would really like to know.”
 “The people there have turned everything into
concrete. They live in these concrete blocks which they
call houses.”
“Do they sleep in these concrete blocks? Have you
ever slept in one?”
“As a matter of fact, I have. I have spent the night on
several occasions in my aunt’s concrete house in
Istanbul. But I have never had a good night’s sleep! The
people living on the first floor were trampling around my
head all night long. Then I had to listen to the prolonged
squabbling and fighting coming from the next door
apartment.”
“I’m intrigued, Savas. What were they quarrelling
about?”
“Well for a start, the man took hold of a chair which
his wife had forced him to buy, and smashed it down
onto the ground because he couldn’t stomach the
exorbitant price. Then they started arguing about things
which had happened in the past. When he ripped the
chair open with a knife in a fit of sheer rage, his dear,
loving wife started to scratch his face to pieces. The
husband must have been equally fond of his wife,
because he punched her with such force that she fell to
the ground. After that, everything went quiet.”
“Really! Do you think they could have killed each
other?”
“Maybe. But perhaps they started to make love .”
Everybody laughed.
The young man kept on with his questions.
“Didn’t you find out what had happened to them the
next day?”
“My dear boy, things are never how you imagine them
to be in the large cities. Buy a newspaper and then you
will find out about everything.”
 “Did you buy one?”
“Yes, of course. But there were so many different
newspapers on offer, I didn’t know which one to choose.
So I just picked one at random, but it was so full of
incidents like this, that it was impossible to pick out this
particular one.”
“God! It must be really hard working in a large city.
So why do the Zara folk keep moving to large cities?”
“I reckon they just want an easy life.”
“How do you mean?”
“In Istanbul, nearly every high rise block has got a
“Bakkal” (shop) on the first floor. So, for example, if you
fancy some yoghurt, all you have to do is go to the
“Bakkal”, buy yourself a plastic pot of yoghurt and a roll.
When you’ve finished eating, all you have to do is throw
the empty container away, and you’ve saved yourself the
washing up.”
“As simple as that!”
“Yes, Bob’s your uncle!”
“Is it difficult to get from one part of town to
another?”
“Well, it certainly isn’t easy. Before you even step
foot outside the door, you should give your relatives your
last will and testament, in case you’re involved in a car
accident and don’t make it back home.”
“But we’re always hearing about the city trains.
Surely this is a safer way to travel?”
If you want to go by train you’d be better off putting
on a suit of armour before you get on board.”
“What on earth for?”
“Since the train is already full of people when it
arrives at your stop, you have no other choice but to
spend the entire journey to work hanging onto the
doorframe outside. The armour helps you to protect the
other half of your body while you’re going through a
tunnel.”
“Exciting stuff! In the event that your whole body is
crushed to pieces in the tunnel, how would your relatives
find out that you had fallen victim to the tunnel in this
way?”
“Quite easily. All they have to do is take themselves
off to the “Bakkal”, buy a newspaper, and they can read
about what happened to you there.”
“No! Well, I’m not wishing your death on you, but if
you were to die, where would you be buried?”
“Aha! That is another burning issue. You’d better try
to avoid dying in a large city, because the cemeteries
there are already chock-a-block. Literally grave upon
grave. If you want my opinion, they should prohibit
dying in Istanbul. If you do die there, your chances of
finding a burial plot are extremely slim. The best you can
hope for is that they would take your body to Zara.
“Hmm! You’ve opened my eyes! Now I know that
life in Zara is far better than in a large city. Oh my
beautiful Zara! My friendly, relaxed Zara! I would give
my life for your sacred earth, Zara!
Tomorrow I’ll go to the weekly market
And buy from the farmer some things for my basket :
A copper pail full of yoghurt, fresh, white full of
flavour,
And tasty black bread whose aroma I savour.
Then I’ll put my “Zivga” trousers on
And stroll around town the whole day long.
On the way I’ll come to the cemetery where my
grandad does lie,
And I’ll lay some flowers at his graveside before I
pass by.
 Rebel Erol really liked this way of describing things.
It inspired him to make the following response :
“Oh happy young man with your wispy moustache!
Honey flows out of your lips, but why must you waste
your precious time wandering aimlessly around Zara?
Try to learn and teach others how to live an
environmentally friendly life, until one day, even the
town mayor will be an environmentalist. Then you will
be able to structure Zara quite differently. Plant acacia
trees with honey blossoms along all the streets and pine
trees with golden cones. Name each tree after one of
Zara’s heroes. At some time in the future, these small
seedlings will grow into majestic trees. Our
grandchildren should be able to be proud of their
forebears, and continue to plant more new trees in their
memory.”
The conversation grew more and more intense. There
are many intellectuals in Zara. From the corner of the
room, a voice piped up :
“Hoy Erol, you with the muscles!”
“Hoy Erol, you dreamer!”
“A pioneer may plant a seedling, but then along
comes some lout and pulls it up again. What have you got
to say about that?”
The answer came from Rebel Erol :
“Oh dear Cigdem with the pearly white teeth and the
silken hair! How can I answer you?
My father hugged a pine tree and
His shirt was smeared with blood.
Have courage. Plant the tree again.
Tie a sign to the trunk
And write the following words :
Whoever uproots the trunk of this tree
Will by the people of Zara punished be!
 That way, no one will dare touch it. The room filled
with laughter. The Zara folk are jovial, cheerful,
entertaining people. They made us repeat the
conversation three times. It appealed in particular to an
Armenian family who used to live in Zara. They now live
in Istanbul, but they still love Zara. On this particular
evening, they were there as our guests. Their dark haired
daughter, who was studying medicine in Istanbul, was
also there. She had beautiful eyes, which gleamed like
shiny, black olives, and was always trying to catch my
brother’s gaze with them. My brother wrinkled his
forehead, curled his hair round his fingers at the back of
his head, and threw furtive love signals in her direction.
The next morning, as the sun lit up Zara’s “Konaks”,
my brother became like the morning star. He woke up
early, and had the Armenian girl, who was staying at our
neighbour’s house with her whole family, gently moving
the curtains to catch a glimpse of him. Over breakfast, he
said to me :
“Don’t let’s go the the farm today – let’s leave it ‘til
tomorrow.”
The next day, he said exactly the same thing :
“Let’s leave it ‘til tomorrow!”
And so several days went by. With the help of a
female relative, he managed to arrange for the Armenian
girl “Meryem” to come and see him at the house. While
they were quietly whispering together upstairs, I ran
along the wall of the Kizilirmak like a tightrope walker,
and jumped into the depths of my past, desperately
searching for my “Wild Flower” from the Kangal thermal
baths in what was left of the waters of the river.
55 Full of excitement,
we set off for the
farm, hoping that the
young Kurdish boys
would be there to
give us a hearty
welcome at the gate.
But sadly they were
no longer there.
 Our great uncle had purchased a tractor for the farm
which ran on petroleum. The oxen were probably
hanging up in the butcher’s shop as sausages, because
there was no sign of them either. Oh my beautiful oxen.
The one thing you always feared has come to pass! The
cowpats in the fields and the shit heaps in front of the
stalls where you used to chew the cud so happily have
also disappeared. The stalls are empty and deserted. If the
grey donkey is not there to greet us with his braying, it
means one of two things : either he is angry with us, or he
has checked out and moved on.
Aha! What is that? There is a funny, red shiny thing
standing on the threshing room floor. That must be the
tractor they told us about. It has a name on it : “Massey
Ferguson”, which I really don’t like the sound of. I would
christen it differently - something like : “Massey
Oxenkiller.”
We stayed clambering over this masterpiece of
modern technology every days. My brother even got to
drive it, as it didn’t take him very long to learn how to
use the vehicle. Even the threshing was done by the
tractor. There was no longer any need to run along
behind the oxen with shovels, to stop their dung falling in
the wheat. These new creatures, these tractors, guzzled
petrol, digested it and gave off exhaust fumes as a waste
product. No need for any more shovelling! When it got
angry, it tooted, which didn’t suit this monster at all. The
oxen would no doubt have been quite happy to help this
monster out, but in no time at all, with one last push
through the bars, they were dispatched to the
slaughterhouse.
Instead of driving the oxen, all we had to do now was
speed up the tractor with a light touch of the gas pedal.
The only trouble was : the tractor had replaced a whole
host of farm workers. My great uncle had laid off
numerous workers and their families, and only retained
one family where the husband was able to drive the
tractor. I was not at all happy about all this.
I did not know where the Kurdish workers with all
their hordes of children had gone to. I suspected they had
moved to the large towns. Their houses were deserted -
all that was left were cobwebs hanging from the walls
and ceilings.
We loaded the tractor’s trailer with wheat stalks which
we tied up into bundles with string, and let the children
sit on top. They had great fun up there - childhood is the
best time of your life!
Driving back to the threshing room, I pointed to the
tractor’s hand accelerator, and said to my brother:
“Put it at full speed - let’s fly!”
He complied with my wishes, and as the tractor
started to speed up, it was no longer possible to make out
the profile of the huge wheels. Our hair blew about in the
wind, and the children yelped and shouted from sheer
joy. How wonderful was childhood. I believe there is
some truth to the notion that we only experience true
living in our childhood years - what do you think?
When we went to fetch the bales of straw from the
nearby meadow, we noticed that something was missing.
Our eyes were looking for a certain something which was
no longer there. The happiness just drained from us. My
brother Savas stopped the tractor and jumped out so
angrily that the ground shook.
“Erol, can you see what they have done? They have
cut down all the willow trees planted by our
grandparents?”
“My God, you’re right, they have! They’ve given
them a crewcut!”
 At the site where these willow trees used to sway,
their hair fluttering in the wind, the lonely wind now had
to blow about on its own. The fresh shoots which had
sprouted from the cut trunks had been eaten by goats.
Our grandparents had kept goats too, but they were able
to bequeath us such majestic trees, because they were
careful to protect the trees until they had matured.
“Such ignorance! Such stupidity! What do you make
of it? Why did they cut them down?”
“Either for firewood, or simply to sell them on to
someone else.”
“Perhaps they were felled because they were too old.”
“Rubbish! If that was the case, where are the new
plants? Ecological planning requires that new trees are
replanted in another spot before the old ones are
removed. And by old trees I mean trees which have
reached the end of their life expectancy. The decision to
fell trees should only be taken by an expert. These trees
were barely half way though their expected life cycle!”
All our happiness simply drained away. My brother
Savas angrily kicked the clods of earth. I tried to make a
joke to get him into a better frame of mind, but it didn’t
make him laugh.
“Perhaps these trees were planted by your Meryem’s
grandparents!”
“Erol! Stop trying to take the Mickey.”
“Shall I let you into a secret? You needn’t worry
about it. This farm is going to be dead soon, anyway!”
“How do you figure that out?”
“It’s obvious, the only thing you’ve had on your mind
these past few days is your Meryem. Nothing else
interests you. You know that this farm belongs to nine
brothers and sisters. These nine siblings had agreed
earlier that the harvest should be evenly distributed
between everyone. But each of them has around five
children, who are now adults and want to have their
share. Five times nine is forty five. Some of the brothers
and sisters are dead. So there are around five
grandchildren who have also grown up and want to stake
their claim. That makes approx. fifty heirs. If you try
dividing this farm up between fifty, none of the heirs is
going to be able to carry on a tenable farming operation,
are they?”
Savas grew angry and cynical :
“Yes they are! But they wouldn’t be able to cope with
just the oxen – they’d have to rush out and buy a tractor
each!”
I replied just as cynically :
“Hold on a minute - don’t be in such a hurry to rush
out and buy fifty tractors. It won’t take the heirs long to
start arguing amongst themselves over the legacy. To pay
for all the lawyers fees and court costs they will have to
sell the farm. In the end, nobody will have a farm!”
“Oh, I can see it now! That’s why one of these shifty
minded heirs cut the trees down to gain himself an
advantage. They obviously thought along the same lines
as the saying : “ taking some valuable things from a fire.”
Present day inheritance laws aren’t fair.”
“Yes, you’re right. In other countries I have read they
have much better laws. There the law states that the
oldest son gets the farm so that he can carry on farming,
and use the land productively and economically. This
prevents the land from being divided up into small
parcels. If the elder son shows no interest, then it
automatically passes to the next in line. Under these
circumstances, the farmer will take more care of the
grandparents’ trees, and thus the natural resources will be
preserved a little better.”
 “That’s what I think too!”
The children sitting in the trailer were listening to us
intently.
“Erol! I’m starving hungry. Let’s go home.”
As the tractor drove us away from the scene of the
massacre, I could still see the grim expression on my
brother’s face. I had to try to steer his thoughts in another
direction. I would either try to warble out some little song
or recite a folk poem which might catch his interest:
Gardens full of purple flowers
Girl, I lie awake at night for hours.
If you cannot a Muslim be,
I’ll become Armenian - it’s up to me!
My brother started brooding again. I would have to
find a different poem to catch his attention:
My sweetheart combs her silken hair
The same characteristics we do share.
I love her with all my heart -
‘Twould be a brave man who’d try to make us part.
He started to listen. It’s always a good sign when he
starts scratching the back of his head. Then he managed
to let slip a few words :
“Erol, stop trying to take the Mickey!”
But I didn’t let up, I knew a few more short poems
from Zarean literature:
Behind the mountains a bubbling spring lingers.
Don’t put your hands in, or you’ll get ice-cold
fingers.
Today I haven’t seen my true love pass by,
So my sorrow is endless, and I wish I could die.
I’d done it. He started smiling again. This smiling
young man with his hair blowing about in the wind, was
not only my brother, but also my father. That induced me
to repeat the whole poem :
 Behind the mountains a bubbling spring lingers.
Don’t put your hands in, or you’ll get ice-cold
fingers.
Today I haven’t seen my true love pass by,
So my sorrow is endless, and I wish I could die.
“Did you get Meryem’s address?”
“Obviously! I’m not that stupid!”

56 The word “address”

brought me abruptly back to
prison and reality. From my
prison cell I spoke to my
brother in my mind:
“My dear brother, you
cannot imagine how I have
missed you. You have no
idea that my address is this
prison or what has happened to me in the meantime. You
haven’t the faintest inkling of what I have been through
and suffered. If anyone was to ask you about me, you
would most probably tell them that I was alive and well
and working in Germany. But my dear brother, how can I
be well while I’m stuck in this prison! If I hadn’t written
this book here, I would have died long ago.”
The two tears which fell onto my notepad hauled me
back out of the past and into the present, into this damned
cell. My two tears soaked the paper and blurred the
writing. I am no longer in any fit state to carry on writing.
At this precise moment, Rebel Erol came to the
rescue.
“Whatever are you doing, Erol! Why have you started
crying just when we’re on the verge of finishing our first
book!”
“I’m afraid I got rather emotional at the thought that
my brother Savas has no idea of my current address. Who
knows where he is now and what he is doing?
“What do you think he’s doing? He’s probably sitting
at his work station, drinking tea and whiling away the
time.”
“Savas sitting and whiling away the time? You’ve
made a big mistake there. He’s much more likely to be
heavily involved in trying to protect the forests in his
neighbourhood, and he will most certainly be trying to
plant new trees.”
“You mustn’t take it all so seriously. I only meant it
as a joke. Come on, let’s get the book finished. If you
can’t carry on, then I’ll take over, but you know full well
I cannot write as well as you, in the style which the
reader likes.”
“What difference does it make whether I finish this
book or not? I am condemned to life imprisonment. No
one is going to read this novel. I will die in this cell. In
any case, the guards will probably throw this book into
the rubbish, or use it for lighting the fire in winter.
There’s no point me writing any more, lad!”
“How have you managed to fall into this mood of
despair just when we’re on the verge of completing this
book. You’re spoiling it all. Come on, don’t slouch down
like that. Take courage. Let’s get the book finished.
You’ll feel a lot better when you get to the end. Next
week we’ll start on the second part. Don’t forget with
these books we hope to make people more aware of the
environment around them. As pioneering books, they will
be the constant companions of pupils and young people.
They will light up their way. Look, this can’t be right -
the one who’s trying to bring hope to others is himself
falling into despair. So, come on! I’m here with you!”
“You’re right! If I don’t carry on writing, I shall go
mad! But I hope this book doesn’t fall into the hands of
the free press.”
“I often think of the words of my dead father : “Where
there’s life, there’s hope.”
“Come, carry on. God is powerful. Things can happen
that you could never dream about. Take tonight, for
instance : we’ve got Serbian bean soup instead of our
normal stew! I’ll tell Hans the guard to bring us an onion
to go with it. Then we can slurp away at the soup with
pleasure and bite into the onion. Come on! Let’s first
finish the book. Don’t be so stubborn. Just keep thinking
that when we’re free again, we can go back to Turkey
and found the Green Party.”
I put the soggy piece of paper lying in front of me to
one side, to make a fresh start. I took a new sheet of
paper and wrote at the top of the page “Chapter 57”. But
this next chapter is not so pleasant.
57 When the harvest
came to an end, we
returned to Zara with our
trailer piled high with
sacks of wheat. But as we
entered the town, our
happiness was destroyed
at one fell swoop. A
horrific sight met our eyes
: Zara looked as if it had
been turned into a
battlefield.
 I was driving the tractor myself this time, because I
wanted to show the girls who came out to greet us, that I
could do this as well as my brother. But I never got the
chance to show them.
Zara’s streets were strewn with the dead carcases of
dogs, including a lot of puppies. Some of them were still
alive, thrashing about in their final death throes. The
municipal authorities had decided to poison the
population of semi-wild street dogs, whose numbers had
got out of hand over the past few years, by distributing
poisoned lumps of meat at every street corner. Karabas,
my great uncle’s dog, lay squirming in front of the house,
as if he was hoping his owner would save him. None of
the grown ups were at home. A few children were
playing with the carcases outside the front of the house.
They would open the dead dog’s mouth with a stick, and
as soon as its teeth appeared, they would burst out
laughing.
When we questioned the children who were playing in
the yard, we discovered that our great aunt had gone
uptown to pay someone a visit. And she had chosen
today, of all days, to do it!
When I approached Karabas, he fell about squirming,
the foam streaming from his muzzle. At that very
moment I relived the painful death of Barut Rifki in my
mind’s eye, and without further ado, I unhitched the
trailer, and, taking my brother with me, set off up town to
find my aunt. My great aunt was the only person who
could save Karabas and the other dogs, because she was
the only one who still knew how to administer the old
folk medicine and healing plants. She had already helped
hundreds of people. You’ve no idea how much I’ve
missed you, my dear great aunt!
 Needless to say, I went at full throttle the whole way
there. Once again, you couldn’t make out the profile of
the tyres, I was going so fast. The tractor bounced up and
down over the bumpy patches, and when we drove over
potholes, we felt it in every bone of our body. My brother
cried out in panic :
“Slow down, slow down, lad!” If you carry on driving
this fast, we’ll be getting to heaven before the dogs do.
You’ll send the tractor over onto its side if you’re not
careful! It won’t be a question of dying a war hero’s
death, or getting a military service medal - we’ll just be
dead!”
I answered him dismissively, like most Turkish
people do these days :
“Oh, don’t worry - nothing’s going to happen. I would
drive slower, but the tractor is hell bent on going this fast.
Besides, don’t forget I have a boxer’s reflexes. If the
tractor did, in fact, topple over, I would quickly throw us
both clear.”
We couldn’t help laughing.
We dragged our aunt back home again at top speed.
When she caught sight of the dogs she began to moan out
loud and hit herself on the thigh.
“You infidels! You cruel bastards!”
Once she’d got over her initial shock, she ladened us
down with full bowls of yoghurt. The sick dogs slurped
the yoghurt down, as if they instinctively knew that this
was the antidote for poison. Some of the dogs were
beyond help, but the majority pulled through, including
my own sweet Karabas!
In my opinion, it is worse than primitive to try to keep
down the number of dogs in this fashion. An alternative
method would be to control their breeding through
castration - that would be a more fitting course of action
in this age of enlightenment. The municipal vets would
have some proper work for a change, instead of simply
sitting around twiddling their thumbs all the time. If the
poor dogs had had an ounce of sense, they would not
have had so many pups. If they had only managed to sort
out an effective method of birth control for their
youngsters, they would not have had to lead such a
wretched life on this planet, and to die an even more
miserable death. Their pups would not be lying dead in
the street. But the dogs are not endowed with reason. But
what about we humans? What is our excuse?
It suddenly occurred to me that Rebel Erol was
actually right.
Forty clever people couldn’t manage to retrieve a
precious diamond which had fallen down a well. It took a
madman to come along and get it out.
Aha! There’s something not quite right somewhere in
this joke. Perhaps the forty people who call themselves
clever were in fact crazier than the mad man. You stupid
grownups - you’ve got a lot to answer for. You have
taught us all sorts of wrong things - and this joke is just
one of them!
Young people! We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us.
To begin with we have to re-examine everything our
parents told us. We’re not alone on this path. The highest
science, ecology, will point the way “back to nature”
with a bright light. Mother Nature is standing, sick and
dying, waiting with arms opened wide for help from all
the courageous young environmentalists of this world.
But this time, the return to nature must not be a purely
romantic notion but must offer practical protection. We
must become green soldiers like Barut Rifki’s Kabadayis,
who protected the weak, like the Merzuban Dervishes,
who take care and protect those who’ve lost all hope, and
like the Yunus Emres of this world, the faithful and
thankful servants of God.

58 Rebel Erol had become

very emotional because I
had said he was right. He
took the pencil out of my
hand and wanted to write
down the thoughts that
had just come into his
head. He wanted to pen a
letter to a famous dead
poet who he really liked.
He began to write :
 Dear spirit of a great poet :
I am a young Turkish man who has come to the DDR,
a country which you called paradise. I am writing these
lines to you from a prison in Berlin, where I am serving a
life sentence. Ironic, don’t you think? You spent your life
in Turkish prison cells, I am spending my youth between
the cold walls of a communist prison. I would rather be
dead than to wake up here every morning, believe me.
The only thing that keeps me going is the thought that I
will be free one day, and will be able to return to Turkey
and get involved in the founding of the “Green Party.”
But there are still times when I feel like killing
myself. This is why I want to write a few lines to you. I
know that should I die here, the guards will burn this
letter in the oven. Still, I would hope that the smoke from
this letter would somehow reach you in the spirit world.
In one of your poems you described how a pigeon would
bring you luck when you died. If the worst should happen
and I die here, I won’t even be as lucky as you because
no pigeon will shit on my coffin. Everything here is so
strictly controlled, not even the pigeons can fly freely.
The young people of Turkey used to read your banned
poetry, and I have to say they were really well written. In
fact, your poems made such a big impression on me, that
I think about you everywhere. In the group of
environmentalists which we founded at the Free
University of Berlin, you often came up into the
conversation. I have seen immigrants in the industrialised
countries which consider themselves “developed”,
discriminated against with names such as “bloody
foreigners.” Their wasteful economies and their hostile
stance towards Nature took away my joy for living. Then
I thought of you. My last hope was to go to the DDR, but
I experienced exactly the same thing there : that is to say
I was spit-roasted like a roast chicken. Today I find
myself sitting in a jail in East Berlin and thinking of you.
I don’t just sit and do nothing - I am writing novels based
on my life story. In one of them, the book “Check Point
Charlie”, I will describe what happened to communism
after your death, which you most likely know about. You
never got to know the people you devoted yourself to
trying to help. If you, Karl Marx, Engels and Lenin had
been the only four people on earth, communism could
have worked. I have seen the countries which you called
a paradise. The people there aren’t interested in having
any plans for the future, but only live for today, eating
hamburgers and drinking coca cola. Girls sell their own
bodies for a pair of stockings. People put egotism before
idealism. They don’t want to read broadsheets full of
news from the Politburo. They’d rather look at western
newspapers full of bare behinds and advertising. What
they really want is an economy full of wasteful splendour
and luxury. All they want is to imitate the life they see in
the West in all its craziness. They don’t once stop to
consider that by doing this, they would lose many
valuable things they had already gained. Here, great
value is placed on matters of sport, art and folklore. The
economy here is not so wasteful as in the West. There is
not such a huge divide between the classes as in the
West. The crime rate is not so high. And yet, if you start
dismantling the walls and fences and opening the
borders, no one would want to stay here apart from the
first general secretary of the communist party. They
would all want to flee to the West after they have
overturned Lenin’s statues. People are ungrateful. They
forget about all the times they were despised and vilified.
Oh great poet! You had a dream which could not be
fulfilled. You wanted a society where all people were
treated as equals, but all that’s happened here is that
communist masters lord it over everyone instead of the
classic capitalist bosses. I assume they have founded an
upper class here too, using the argument of the famous
Greek philosopher Plato : “If everyone was rich, who
would make our pots and pans?” In the districts where
the communist masters live, you can find anything you
want, but in the neighbourhoods where the ordinary folk
live, all you can find is cabbage, if you’re lucky! The
human ego is the same everywhere and it’s spoilt and
corrupt. Everyone thinks only of themselves.
Oh you great poet. You dreamt of a non-violent
society, but you had to use violence to achieve it. That’s
why you encouraged us young people to start an armed
revolution. But what’s the good of that? Half the country
is made up of police and soldiers standing at every corner
asking questions and making life difficult for ordinary
folk. Why? The communist regimes are no different to
the capitalists when it comes to building endless numbers
of factories, with chimneys pumping poison gases into
the atmosphere, and destroying the environment with
their harmful waste products, all for the sake of creating
more workplaces for the people. Again, what is the point
of that?
There was nothing wrong with your criticism of the
capitalist society. But what sort of solution is it, when
you start building more and more factories just like the
capitalists? The answer is - it is no kind of solution,
because people have a never ending stream of wishes and
desires, and nature just goes on receiving more and more
irretrievable damage. As we young people start
experiencing everything, we start to question and alter
the ideas passed down to us by our parents. Our field of
vision is widening all the time. That means we now know
things which you knew nothing about.
It is not just a question of the individual, or even the
community - this planet belongs to every living creature
upon it, not just to man. Human beings are not the only
creatures to be exploited.
Oh you wise thinker. Can it be right for the people
who were one of the last species to arrive on this earth to
drive out all other living creatures from their habitat?
Regardless of whether they are founding a capitalist or a
communist imperialism. It is difficult for us young
environmentalists to accept this show of force. Your
heart only goes out to other humans who are exploited
and despised. But is it only people who are exploited and
vilified? We environmentalists worry about all weak
creatures who are at the mercy of the human race and
suffer its cruelty. I personally fled from this cruelty from
country to country, only to find it somewhere else in a
different form. My flight was in vain! Then it dawned on
me that the reason we are descending into chaos is the
colossal increase in the number of people on this planet
who are the root cause of all the evil. For if there were
fewer but more respectful and appreciative people on this
earth, society would be better able to solve its problems.
As an emotional poet, you should be writing beautiful
poems about our exploited and decimated nature. What a
pity!
We young environmentalists refound our faith in God
with a great love - something which the communists had
lost. First we fell in love with the perfection of Mother
Nature, then we searched our hearts and asked who, in
fact, had created all this beauty. The answer came to us
that we should seek out Yunus Emre. Yunus Emre
pointed us to the “Door to the Heart” which would lead
us away from all this discord. We stayed standing in front
of this door because we couldn’t find the key. We asked
ourselves what this key could be. Our minds told us that
the answer was science. When we opened the door with
this key, Mother Nature was waiting for us on the other
side and told us:
“You cannot see God with your bare eyes, you can
only feel Him in your hearts. He appears to those who
love Him in the face of every beautiful flower. He lights
up His universe with many suns and warms the hearts of
those who love Him. Don’t ask any more, for an
exhausted creature can know nothing of its creator. And
He cannot be confined within the pages of any book
written by His creatures, because He is beyond our
conception. God is present everywhere, in all His works
as well as in me. Therefore the best religious teaching
would be to protect me, Mother Nature, in order to get
close to Him. The greatest way to worship God is by not
damaging His works. By damaging nature, you are
injuring Him too.
This answer completely opened our eyes. We became
more aware of the world around us, and took great
pleasure in following this path, trusting ourselves more.
We fell as droplets from the roof
And flowed into a tiny stream.
The stream became a river wide
Which flowed into the ocean’s tide.
We were, as sleeping, unaware,
But now, awake, we know and care.

This way we only questioned our reason which told us

the following : leave both communism and capitalism or
the so-called liberal economy with their factories
spewing out poison, their terrible weapons of mass
destruction, their concrete tower blocks, their rubbish
sites and all the chaos they have started to those who
made all this. Begin in your own home town and found a
new ecology-based economy, and install a form of
government which is based on a universal green
democracy.
We were unripe : now we are ripe. Thank God!
Oh you spirit of a great poet.
Take our side - don’t be a red comrade but a green one
who can awaken the souls of our young people. May our
young people write beautiful poems about the
environment, and protest against those who would
destroy nature. In the opinion of today’s young
environmentalists, you, too, count as one of the
unenlightened. But I think that is rather unfair, because in
your day, the pros and cons of protecting the environment
was not a matter for discussion, and it’s not fair to
criticize after the event.
Because of your compassion for the weak, I greet you
and the spirits of other poets like you. I’ll have to bring
my writing to a close here, but I haven’t introduced
myself yet. Using your own style, I will attempt to write
it in the form of a poem, although, being a boxer, I can
never aspire to be a poet.

WHO AM I?
Tomorrow I will be a nobody, but yesterday, such a
thing :
I was a young man, a tiger in the boxing ring;
A young man who championed Mother Nature and the
weak;
A young man who from a cold prison cell had to
speak;
 A young man who from his prison cell sat and told the
truth;
A young man who never got to enjoy his youth.
Four things are burnt into my memory,
Which I saw back then through the child’s eyes in me:
Hanging from the gallows with nothing more to lose,
A peasant woman with woollen stockinged feet and
rubber shoes;
Two carriage horses with swollen bellies so tight,
Electrocuted where they stood, lying dead in the
night;
Your poetry books which drew young people to them
with a magnet’s attraction;
And the blood which flowed from my body in the DDR
at the border guard’s reaction.
They shot at me at Checkpoint Charlie as if I was a
rabid dog with mouth of froth;
They dragged my half dead body back and forth out of
sheer wrath.

Forgive the angry face of this earnest young man -

In fact it is the face of the pauper who keeps having
too many children again and again.
Forget the bitter power in my strong fists -
Deep down I’m just one of those chickens waiting to
have my throat slit,
Kept captive in cages and forced to lay eggs,
Then killed on the job : they’re treated like dregs!
Never once able to freely flap their wings,
Or scratch the ground and other things :
Never able to feel the warm sun on their wings
Or see the lush green grass, and other things :
Never able to cuddle their chicks or hear the call of
their mate,Or feel the black soil beneath their feet.
 Forget my nimble, prancing, boxing ring feet -
Deep down I’m just a tree in peril trying to avoid the
heat
Standing there, paralysed, before the looming funeral
pyre,
Unable to escape from the raging forest fire.
Don’t take any notice of my body which will one day
from the rafters hang,
Looking back upon my past, and asking what went
wrong.
I’m just a scattered corn seed, a seedling trampled
underfoot,
But which one day will blossom in young peoples’
hearts, and bear triumphant fruit.
I am the courage of those who have lost all hope,
The voice of those who cannot speak;
The protesting hand of those who have no hands,
The wound of the wounded and weak.
A man, the misfortune of all brutal men
Such a crazyman am I, Erol Atila
- signed with my own pen.

59 The Rebel Erol hiding

inside me had finally
calmed down and gone to
sleep. The tears on my
notepad had dried up. I’d
better use this opportunity
to continue with my story.
Earlier in the day I had
reserved two seats on the
bus to Sivas, because the time had come when we really
did have to start seriously thinking about getting back to
Sivas. It was getting perilously close to the time when the
bus would depart, but there was still no sign of my
brother. He was obviously round at the neighbour’s apple
plantation talking to Meryem, and he was probably
finding it hard to say goodbye. All our relatives and their
children had gathered to wish us a safe journey. Some
girls stood there with buckets of water, waiting to tip
them over behind us. (There is a superstition in Turkey
whereby if you pour water onto the ground, the travellers
will be protected from any accidents.) But there was no
sign of the traveller Savas Atila. We sent the children off
to try and find him, and we could hear them calling out
his name everywhere : ”Savas! Savas! Where are you?”
Then the bus came rolling towards us sounding its
horn. Several of the passengers on board were ill. They
were grumbling because they were going to be late for
their hospital appointments in Sivas, and because of this,
the bus driver decided he couldn’t wait any longer and
drove off. The crowd dispersed. The boys were so full of
high spirits that they leapt about, throwing the buckets of
water all over the streets. Several hours later, my dear
brother Savas finally turned up again.
“Where have you been for so long, Savas? Has
something happened?”
“If I just tell you that I found it very hard to say
goodbye, will that do?”
“Of course, that’s enough for me. But how are we
going to get back to Sivas now?”
“No worries! We’ll soon find something - perhaps a
lorry or some other set of wheels.”
After waiting for several hours, a set of wheels finally
came along. The transporter was fully laden down at the
back, and all the seats up front with the driver were also
taken. In the loading space, next to where the normal
carriage goods were stacked, someone had cleared a
seating and sleeping area for a family who were moving
to Istanbul. You would have thought it was a village
bedroom on wheels. Mattresses had been spread out with
cushions on them. When the two of us sat down on the
mattresses, we could feel twelve pairs of eyes boring into
us like projectors. Our fellow passengers consisted of two
women, one man and nine children. The women hid their
faces behind veils, and peered at us through the narrow
gaps in the veils. We greeted the man :
“Good day to you!”
“Good day to you!”
“Where are you off to, sir?”
“We’re heading for Istanbul.”
“I take it you’re moving to Istanbul?”
“Yes! Yes! And you?”
“We’re getting off at Sivas.”
As the driver started up the motor, we bid farewell to
Zara with several loud canon shots amidst great black
clouds of swirling smoke, probably caused by a broken
exhaust and a leaky motor. In no time at all, the avenue
trees started to flash past us, and the mill which had
greeted us so joyfully on our arrival, now buried its head
to hide its tears. Then Zara lay behind us. Goodbye my
beautiful Zara!
That was my last experience of Zara.
My brother Savas had become deeply immersed in
conversation with the husband. He knew Istanbul like the
back of his hand, and was therefore able to fully answer
all his questions. This family from south east Turkey was
moving to Istanbul to be with their relatives, because they
could no longer find any work in Zara. Thank God Rebel
Erol was asleep - otherwise he would have said
something like : “How could you possibly leave your
beautiful home town?” But of course in no time at all he
was awake again, on account of one of my brother’s
questions to the husband.
“Tell me, how many children do you have, sir?”
“We have bred and raised nine children for this
country. It was not easy.”
My brother Savas answered in the usual way :
“My congratulations, may God protect you.”
For God’s sake! Rebel Erol is now completely awake.
He started frenziedly to stick his oar into the
conversation. (Get ready, he’s bound to give you a
lecture!)
“What? Nine children! Excuse me for saying so, but
haven’t you gone a little bit overboard in these modern
times? And why have you left your lovely home town?”
As long as the Rebel carried on speaking, the man
agreed with him, nodding with a short, affirmative “yes”.
The women said nothing. Rebel Erol could not keep his
mouth still. We couldn’t find a knob to switch it off!
“It’s not just the children you are damaging, but
yourselves too. And yet you seem to be proud of the fact.
You’ve got seven children too many! Think about it for a
moment.”
In the pause which ensued, the wife started changing
the baby’s nappy. The smell wasn’t very pleasant, but the
wind blew it away. Then she began patting the baby and
talking to him in baby language : “Pish” Psh! Psh! There
was about one year’s difference between each child.
They had unkempt hair, but beautiful big, dark eyes with
long eyelashes. They didn’t look very healthy, and their
pale facial skin pointed to the fact that they probably had
worms.
 “You can’t solve problems by going “psh, psh!” to
your children all the time - you’d be better off
concentrating on providing them with a secure future.
There are already too many neglected children running
wild all over this planet of ours. And yet despite all this,
you still went ahead and added your nine children to the
fray.”
The wife spoke through her veil :
“We would give anything to be able to bring our
children up in Istanbul.”
“Just wanting something is not enough. You’ve got to
have the right conditions. So, fine! I can tell you right
now exactly what will happen to them all. They will go,
at great expense, into the already overcrowded schools
and hospitals. In a large city, they will have to fight for a
place everywhere - even on the public transport systems.
That means they will be no more than a grain of sand in
the desert. When they grow up, they will take jobs away
from those families with fewer children and the
handicapped. At night they will build illegal, primitive
houses, thus creating a ghetto. Hence yet another
shantytown comes into being. Many of the children will
not be able to find work. Their workplace will be
wherever demonstrations are taking place. There they
may find themselves fighting with the police and
throwing stones at them. Some of them will try to find
work in Europe, but will be driven out like animals; or
they will be blown to smithereens at the Syrian border,
while trying to smuggle illegal goods through the
minefields. If you had just had two children, namely one
each, society could easily have provided them with work
and food. If we use our brains properly, our world is rich
enough for everyone.
 Will someone please tell me, what we are supposed to
do with so many children in the large cities, if they are
unable to find any work or manage to avoid being blown
up by the minefields? Even supposing some of them can
find jobs as a labourer, white-collar worker or official,
through bribery or through their relatives’ connections in
the city, what are we supposed to do with the rest of
them, and with the rest of the whole world in their
billions? Times have changed. Not only are there too
many children, but there are also far too many machines
now, taking over the work previously done by hand.
Areas of fertile land are getting smaller all the time, so
that people have no option but to throng to the big cities.
And how are we supposed to keep all these people warm
during the winter months? To do it will mean we will
once again have to cut down hundreds of forests. How
are we going to fulfil the growing demands of all these
new children?”
They all gawped at Rebel Erol in silence.
“No! No! You won’t get anywhere by keeping quiet.
The children are going to run from door to door, but they
won’t find any work. You should have thought about all
this before. Are these children in the big cities of the
world all to become thieves, pickpockets or even bank
robbers? Must they steal the gold teeth of the dead from
the cemeteries? Perhaps some of them will want to create
bigger and better jobs for themselves, like terrorists or
drug dealers!”
The man murmured:
“ God gives every child food and work.”
“God gives every child food and work ! By saying
this, you’re pushing everything back onto God. Aren`t
you? You’re not using your own sense, but you are
expecting God to do everything for you. If things were as
you make out, would God have left millions of children
in Africa and other parts of the world to starve to death?
Would God have allowed the immigrants in America and
elsewhere to wipe out the indigenous population? Or how
could He let some live in prosperity and affluence, while
others found themselves living as virtual slaves in
poverty and squalor. I don’t believe that God concerns
himself with the minutia of our lives, and gets involved
in everything as you seem to think. He created the
universe with all its natural laws. We can hardly expect
him to change his laws and only help us. Can you
imagine a stonemason fashioning the sculpture of a man
and then ripping out the eye sockets at the end? God has
left everything up to his creatures. Is that O.K.? The only
reason there is still so much poverty, hunger, misery,
distress, evil, terror and all the rest of it on our planet, is
because when it comes to it, people in general do not use
the sense they were born with. All evil things like
poverty, wars and hunger are brought about only by
humans themselves. The instigators of all these problems,
the so-called humans, are nothing more than creatures
who have lost their tails and hair, and who are
systematically turning the once beautiful life they had on
this earth into an unbearable living hell. If God had taken
charge of everything, what would be the point of the
human race? If this was the case, we would be judging
Him instead of the other way round. He would have got
extremely angry about that and destroyed us.. "In spite
of all our wicked ways, He still showers us
with all His gifts : all the beauties of Nature,
hundreds of beautiful flowers, plants and
splendid fruits, vegetables and cereals." And
yet we are never satisfied, just extremely ungrateful. I
imagine that He takes a good look at everything each
year, and says to Himself :
“Oh, my stupid creatures. You have transformed all
the riches I gave you into poverty and ruined and
bespoiled all my natural beauties. You have made your
own beds, now you must lie in them. I have given you the
best of Me, that is to say sense and reason. So come to
your senses before it is too late, and start to cherish my
gifts. Otherwise I will have no choice but to step in,
destroy everything and begin again.”
The children hung onto my every word as if
mesmerised, the husband repeatedly nodded his head in
agreement, and it was impossible to tell whether the
women were listening or asleep behind their veils. My
brother Savas didn’t utter a sound. He was no doubt
completely immersed in thoughts of his sweetheart
Meryem. You couldn’t have found a more captive
audience anywhere! Carry on Rebel Erol!
“Secondly, don’t pay any heed to the politicians and
industrialists, when they start blabbering on about halting
the alarming levels of rising unemployment by installing
even more industrialisation. It is the senseless, rapid
development of industry which poses the biggest threat to
Nature. Besides, no one stops to consider the possible
consequences and repercussions for the industrialised
countries. Short sighted politicians cannot predict the
future, because all they’re worried about is making sure
they get re-elected. On top of which, from a health point
of view, you must know that stress, one of the main bi-
products of industrial countries, is very damaging, both
physically and mentally. Many people turn to drugs,
alcohol, retail therapy and sex in a desperate attempt to
momentarily anaesthetize their senses and drown their
sorrows. All this does is to generate even more morons at
every level of society, who help to deform the arts and
lower the moral standards of the country. And do you
know that human beings in such a society will one day
fall into the pit of loneliness and depression, and will
have to start knocking back handfuls of tablets.
Are you aware that the children in the industrialised
countries, and those countries which imitate them, are
fully programmed with stress in the schools, in order to
turn them into willing robots. And do you realise that
many of these robots, when they are old and trapped in
the depths of depression, will be found dead in their
homes, their bodies stinking where they have lain for a
long time, unnoticed and uncared for. If this is modern
life, then I say “Down with this so-called modern life!”
At this point, I would like to explain how the
beautiful, natural life of a person in countries such as
these can be transformed into an ugly, artificial life
dominated by huge machines and terrible weapons.
Sadly, our present day and age is nothing like the simple,
natural life enjoyed in our grandparents’ era, but it has
become the age of cruel machines. Can you see now what
a big mistake you have made bringing so many children,
unasked and unplanned onto this ownerless planet?
The wisest and most compassionate thing to do,
would be not to bring so many children into this world in
the first place, when they cannot possibly be happy here.
I can write the formula down for you :
People = problems
Few people = few problems
Many people = many problems
If it still hasn’t sunk in, I’ll give you examples from
the animal world, so that you can understand everything
better.
 Ten chickens who find themselves in a hen house
specifically designed to hold ten chickens will be
satisfied and have enough to eat. The cockerels will work
hard, and in a very short time they will find themselves
looking after new offspring. But soon that ten will
become a hundred. That is chicken mentality! When
there are so many of them, they won't simply start feeling
hungry, they will start pecking at each other. They will
become cannibals, in a cramped henhouse full of blood
and hatred. These stupid chickens will change their
henhouse into a place where every square inch is
overcrowded. If you don't believe me, test it out for
yourself; travel to a country like this and see it all for
yourself first hand. But don't go on holiday like a tourist -
you need to live amongst the local inhabitants, and
compare the way they live with life in the henhouse. If
you were a special hen in this society, which laid golden
eggs, no one would place any value on this. You might
be injured by a sharp hen peck on the top of your head
and bleed to death. No matter how hard you tried, you
would always be just one of the stupid chickens,
condemned to a life beset with many problems.
Just at this very moment when I imagined that the
woman was sleeping behind her veil, she started to
mutter softly:
"If the chicken house is too small, go and build a
bigger one, sir."
Rebel Erol replied :
"Aha! You mean if there are a thousand chickens,
build a house for a thousand, if there are ten thousand,
you'd have to build a house for ten thousand. This could
go on ad infinitum until you're talking about billions of
chickens. Have I got to spend my whole life building
chicken houses?”
 Her husband butted in :
"Why don't you kill the spare ones and eat them?"
"My dear sir! I'm not carrying out a course in the art
of keeping chickens here, I'm simply trying to explain
about humans who act in a similar way to the chickens.
Perhaps I should start killing the superfluous people and
eating them! You're trying to turn me into a cannibal! Oh
no - I don't think so!"
Rebel Erol was furious that his story had been
interrupted. I tried to calm him down :
"Oh, come on - don't get angry. He's got the wrong
end of the stick, that's all. Please finish your talk .”
Rebel Erol pulled himself together and carried on
from the point where he'd left off.
"This time I'll talk about the sheep, so that you are
able to grasp the concept better. If we keep ten sheep in a
huge garden, these sheep provide an ecological balance.
They will have a happy life. But if the rams in this garden
start mating with all the sheep , and the number of sheep
rises to one hundred, all of the flora, including the roots
and bark of the trees will be gnawed away. Under these
circumstances, the sheep would suffer from hunger,
become unhappy, and start continually bleating just like
the people in overpopulated countries, who always have
something to moan about. They become melancholy and
start begging someone to help them. If you throw them
some food, they trample over one another to snap it up,
just like people who live in such countries. They become
ill and die from starvation. Even their beautiful gardens
go to rack and ruin. Poor sheep, you have no sense. But
please don't suggest that I should kill the superfluous
sheep and eat them again. I'm not holding a course on
sheep rearing, simply talking about the people who act in
a similar way to the sheep.
 All this talk about sheep had really fired the husband's
imagination. When he spoke, he sounded as if he had a
frog in his throat :
"You are right, my lad. We do, in fact, take after the
sheep. We follow blindly after one another without
thinking about what we're doing.”
You see! I was right. Let me carry on :
“When we exceed the earth's capacity, we will
achieve the same result, since Mother Nature has the
ability to curtail the numbers of surplus animals, but is
powerless to halt the relentless increase in the human
race of recent years. Humans can only be saved by their
own wisdom now. Otherwise, the people who keep on
increasing, will live in stress and mutual hatred like the
chickens, dissatisfied and melancholic like the sheep in
the above example. If you can call it living! Now we're
going to keep ten wolves in the garden."
The man's eyes widened, and were as big as an owl's.
"What! Wolves?"
"Yes! The wolves from the mountains."
"For goodness sake, lad! What are wolves doing in the
garden? Shoot them! Come on - get a move on!"
"My dear sir! I'm only using that as an example so
that you can understand what I'm talking about. Listen up
'til I get to the end of the story."
"O.K."
At the outset, the wolves in a big garden hunt the
hares and thereby have enough to eat. When the number
of wolves reaches one hundred, the hares will be
eradicated, and the wolves will either tear each other to
pieces to sate their hunger, or they will jump over the
fences into neighbouring gardens in order to catch the
ones over there. Just like cruel armies have done in the
past.
 At this point in the proceedings, Erol wanted to make
a little fun for the children. Putting on a deep voice, he
said :
"Children! Look out! The wolves are coming! Hide
yourselves under the covers! Quick! Quick!"
Their father had cottoned on to the joke and repeated :
"Children! Look out! The wolves are coming! Hide
yourselves under the covers! Quick! Quick!"
The children, who up until now had been holding their
breath and listening to everything intently, burst out
laughing and started to bury themselves under the covers.
They mimicked their father :
"The wolves are coming! The wolves are coming!
Hey! Hey!”
The women giggled.
After the laughter had died down, Rebel Erol wanted
to get on with his talk :
"The wolves start attacking and eating other wild
animals everywhere, and as long as they can keep
themselves well fed, they breed and multiply rapidly. But
as soon as the amount of available prey, such as hares,
begins to run out, then their numbers will start dwindling
again. In the case of the human race, things are slightly
different. Just like the wolves, their numbers grow and
multiply rapidly, and they will catch and kill any living
creature in the world that they can eat, but unlike the
wolves, their numbers are not curtailed by nature."
My brother Savas, who up until this point had
remained very quiet, started muttering angrily. The
person speaking was obviously not Rebel Savas, but Mr.
Average Savas:
"Oi! Erol! Enough is enough. I've sat here patiently
listening to your comparisons with hens and sheep, but
likening humans with wolves is really going too far."
 Ignoring the family on the back of the lorry, we two
brothers started arguing, and carried on all the way to
Sivas. The exhaust droned and throbbed beneath us,
billowing out thick black clouds of smoke. You would
have thought we were going into battle on an old Panzer
tank. But the soldiers on the Panzer were quarrelling
amongst themselves. Is this a good thing?
Rebel Erol snapped back :
"Who's saying that wolves and people are the same?
Compared to the wolves, humans are a thousand times
more dangerous, and pose a much greater threat to
nature. The wolves' only weapons are their teeth and
claws, but humans are fully mechanised and fitted with
engines. They are clever creatures armed with wheels,
weapons and machines, who breed and multiply at a
colossal rate. Unless all the members of the United
Nations can get together and agree on the enforcement of
a global family planning policy, specifically aimed at
achieving a decrease in world population, everything is
going to go haywire. To avoid this , all nations of the
world should first strike the word "nationality" from their
statute books, and come out in support of "our planet"
instead of "our nation".
Savas retorted loudly :
"You are right. But is this the right place to be talking
about it? Do you honestly think these people have
understood a word of what you have been saying?”
Savas's vociferous outburst changed everything. The
husband who had up until now simply been sitting there
nodding his head in agreement, suddenly swung through
a hundred and eighty degrees. The laughing children
became as rigid as blocks of ice. The husband turned as
white as a sheet and spoke in a nervous tone to my
brother:
 "What is your name then, boy?"
"Savas."
"Now, you listen to me, Savas! You seem like a nice
young man, but I couldn't make any sense of what your
brother has just been going on about the whole time. First
he starts keeping chickens in his garden. When they start
to breed and multiply, he doesn't kill them to eat. Very
interesting! One of the hens lays golden eggs. He doesn't
even bat an eyelid! Then he brings sheep into the garden.
The number of sheep keeps on growing and growing.
And then what does your silly brother do? He fills the
garden with wolves!”
Then he turned to me :
"Look, lad. I can tell you one thing : you haven't got
the faintest clue about breeding livestock, and on top of
that, it's pretty obvious you don't like children!"
"My dear uncle! Look here! I told you all this
precisely because I actually like children more than you
do."
When Savas heard that, he butted in, muttering angrily
:
"You see - what did I tell you - they didn't catch on to
what you were saying at all. You need to find a totally
different way of explaining birth control to these people."
"But how? Is keeping quiet a solution? Let the young
people have their full say without us interfering all the
time.”
Savas became even more animated :
"That's quite enough! Go and lecture somewhere else
- not at these poor families!"
" I was only using them as an example. My words are
meant for the whole world."
 "Yes, that certainly was an example. Can't you see
how shameful and humiliating that was for this family?
Shame on you!"
Rebel Erol was furious :
"What! You call that shameful? Isn't it even more
shameful to bring so many children into this chaos of a
world without first asking them if they want to be here?
Look back into history, to those times which were
overcrowded with too many children. There you will see
young soldiers who were killed without ever getting to
enjoy the first flush of their youth. Look at the literature
of the world. People who were around then poured all
their suffering into their poems. Listen to the music of the
old days, and you will come across melancholy songs
which have a theme of sorrow and woe running through
them. Lay your head on the ground. You will hear the
wailing and crying of the slaves. Wasn't this shameful for
all these people? When are we ever going to see the start
of the period ruled by the motto : "Few people but
honourable people" on our planet?
These children on the lorry are being forced to go to a
large, overcrowded city. They had no say in the matter.
This sort of thing is happening on a daily basis all over
the world. One evening while we were in Zara, you
yourself commented how hectic life seemed in the large
cities, didn't you? Why do you think everything is so
hectic there?”
"Because they are overcrowded."
"Why are they so overcrowded?" Why are there so
many people on this earth, determined to change the
natural order of things, and who seem hell bent on
destroying Nature and leading us further into the abyss.
Why must people continually produce more than their
fair share of children, even though the world is already
bursting at the seams? Why do we have to live together
like packed sardines, locked in mutual hatred, and
running so damned fast all the time, that we don't have
time to stop and listen to what the other person is saying?
Wouldn't it be better if we could enjoy a better quality of
life on this beautiful planet with fewer people? Shouldn't
we first run away from a shower of rain and take shelter
under a roof, until we've had a chance to consider what
would be the best course of action?”
The father looked at me as if he was about to attack
me. My brother tried to calm him down.
Then we all fell silent. The husband puffed and panted
like an old walrus. The silence made me feel awkward.
Rebel Erol sank back into himself pensively. My brother
was right, of course. Was I really the man who had
behaved so atrociously to the family? Rebel Erol made a
move to reply to the husband again. I squeezed my arms
around his neck so that he couldn't make a sound. It was
true, the family hadn't understood a thing.
Serious accusations had been made against them, and
I had offended their religious beliefs. If I hadn't shut
Rebel Erol up, the husband would almost certainly have
gone for his throat. Oh God! If that had happened, I
would have lost my life in the process. I would have been
neither a fallen soldier nor a homecoming war hero.
That's why I just silently screamed at him from inside
"Caravans must tow their loads. Dogs must bark. (Let
life go on how it will.) What's your problem?"
Rebel Erol finally shut up and absolute silence
reigned. A great weight had been lifted from my
shoulders and I began to think like Mr. Average once
more. Thankyou Erol Mr. Average.
60 When we reached
Sivas and climbed
out of the old Panzer tank, my brother gave a few words
of encouragement to the family which was heading for
Istanbul :
“Keep your chin up! There’s loads of work in
Istanbul. Your children will be fine. My brother is too
young. I’d like to apologise on his behalf and wish you a
safe journey and good luck in Istanbul.”
“Thanks, Savas. May God go with you.”
On the carriage ride back to the house, Savas
rekindled the fire which had died down long since, and
we started arguing again :
“Why did you talk to those people like that? Shame on
you!”
“Savas! Wasn’t it you that dinned all that stuff into me
in the first place, and told me that overpopulation was
going to mess everything up? Wasn’t it you who told me
with your own lips that since the industrial revolution, a
quarter of all the forests have been cut down, burnt and
destroyed. And wasn’t it also from your mouth that I
learnt that a third of the world’s natural resources have
been destroyed?”
“For goodness sake, Erol! I told you all this because I
knew that you would understand. Do you think those
people in the lorry knew what you were going on about?
Of course not - they didn’t have a clue. These old peasant
blockheads never understand a thing. It’s the young
people you need to tell.”
“Yes, that’s what I just did with the children.”
“What children are you talking about?”
“The children on the lorry, of course.”
“Don’t be so stupid! What do these children
understand about science?”
 “But they did, they did! They understood every word.
They were clever kids, and I could tell from the look in
their eyes that they knew what I was going on about.”
“O.K. If you say so.”
“You must know the story about what Nasreddin
Hodja did :
Hodja wanted to see if he could turn the whole of the
Aksehir lake into yoghurt, so he took a spoon and started
putting yoghurt culture into the lake. An acquaintance
saw what he was doing and asked him what kind of
stupid nonsense he was up to. He replied :
“I know that it’s impossible, but just imagine if it did
happen, I would be a rich man.”
I hope that the children will understand everything
one day. Perhaps it will all suddenly click like in Hodja
Nasreddin’s joke.”
We started to laugh. The carriage driver, who had
been listening to everything, muttered :
“What’s the problem?”
“We were talking about this family with nine children
that we met on the back of a lorry, who were heading for
Istanbul. My brother told them that they shouldn’t have
had so many children.”
The man probably wanted someone to talk to. The
words “nine children” inspired him to tell a joke. We just
managed to make out the joke above the loud clattering
of the horses’ hooves. The carriage driver told his story
freely :
“There was once a family who had eight children.
Every child had a bad character. They all grew up to be
thieves, crooks and confidence tricksters. They didn’t
even think twice about beating up their own parents. So
the father decided he wouldn’t have any more children.
He took the simple measure of wrapping his cock up in
fine muslin. Despite this, a ninth child came into the
world. When this child grew up, he turned out, quite
unexpectedly, to be a brilliant, respectful and intelligent
young man. The curious neighbours noticed the stark
contrast, and asked the father how this could be possible.
He came back with the swift reply :
“I filtered this one through the net!”
Savas asked the carriage driver :
“Did you filter yours out, uncle?”
“I have eight children. They have all turned out fine
without the need of a filter. They are all married.”
Rebel Erol would not keep quiet :
“Is marriage a solution?” Where are your children
now?”
“Most of them have moved to Istanbul.”
“Well, that wasn’t such a smart move! There are often
water shortages in Istanbul. Your children must miss the
abundance of water they were used to in Sivas, because
they will have to get used to cleaning their teeth with
water out of a bottle.”
My brother Savas was in a really good mood again.
He wanted to lift my spirits and win me over again :
“Erol! I think you have worried too much thinking
that these innocent children might be corrupted in
Istanbul.”
“Yes, you’re right! I can still see their pure, young
faces in front of me now, as if they were young pigeons
giving us the once over with their lovely eyes.”
“Oh, come on, lad, don’t worry about them. Perhaps
their father has filtered them out, like in the carriage
driver’s tale. It may well turn out quite differently to
what you fear - they may well stand up and fight against
the evil influences in the large city, and turn out to be
respectable citizens.”
 We soon regained the joy which we had lost. The
smell of the horses and the sound of their clattering
hooves made me feel really happy once more, and I
began to feel a lot better.

61 Search your inner soul.

You are sure to find that
you, too, have three
different egos like I do :
“Mr. Average”, like
everyone else, and “The
Rebel,” who sometimes argue with each other but who
can at other times get along fine.And the third the
“Egoist” If the first ego is predominant, you will be
successful in life, earn good money, have plenty of
material possessions, be blessed with many children, and
everyone will like you. However………
Sorry - I’ve got to break off here briefly because
there’s an awful din coming from the cell next door. The
guards are bringing another prisoner into the cell
belonging to the murderer Wolfgang. They are
instructing him about cell regulations. The prisoner didn’t
utter a sound - perhaps he’s dumb! Afterwards I heard the
barred door being slammed shut once more, and
everything went quiet.
When one of the guards, Hans, pushed my lunchtime
soup through the small hatch, I quickly asked him :
“Hey, Hans, who have they just put next door?
Whoever it was didn’t say a word to the guards. Is the
poor guy dumb or something?”
“No, but he has swallowed his tongue out of sheer
grief.”
“What was his crime?”
Hans answered me in a very quiet voice :
“He is a university professor, opposed to the regime,
who tried to escape to the west. Don’t tell anyone you
heard that from me - O.K.!”
I replied in an equally soft voice:
“Why does he want to flee to the West? Does he think
he will find something special there? Is the West any
better than the East? He needn’t bother trying to run
away to the West. I can tell him everything he needs to
know.”
“Maybe you’ll get the chance to speak to him in the
prison yard. Then you can ask him yourself!”
 “Good idea. What sort of a professor is he?”
“Nothing very remarkable! Let me think, what do you
call it - “environment” or something like that. I couldn’t
get any more about him out of the officials. Besides
which, you’d soon crack up if you knew every single
detail about every prisoner in here.”
Lady Luck was smiling on me. I felt like a man who
had just found water in the desert. I remembered a
proverb which my grandmother used to say : “God
narrows our path, but never suppresses us completely.”
I started to think that this professor must have been
sent here by my dead father, because God doesn’t
concern himself with such intricate matters. Or maybe
he’d been sent along by Barut Rifki, or Necmi, or Suzi or
Asik Veysel. Aha! I have a better idea! He was sent by
Schoppenhauer, my favourite German philosopher. That
must be it - because his grave is the nearest to me, here in
Germany!
I was filling up with happy hormones. After so many
hopeless days, I was feeling a lot better again, since this
special someone had arrived in the cell next door. I felt as
if beautiful mountains, vineyards and the endless steppes
stretched outwards from his cell. I cried out loudly :
“I bid you a hearty welcome, Herr Professor. You are
not alone here. I am in the next cell. I am also an
environmentalist. Have you heard?”
Not a sound came back. Perhaps he hadn’t heard me.
Perhaps he hadn’t understood what I was saying.
This time I shouted even louder. I heard someone
softly weeping. My loud, excited cry had angered the
prisoner Uwe in the next cell.
“Stop braying like a donkey, you green arsehole!”
Rebel Erol bellowed back :
“Did I disturb you, you red arsehole?”
 Don’t listen to him. He is nothing but a big lout!
Later on, this German professor was to become one of
my best friends, and filled in all the gaps in my
knowledge about the DDR in great detail……..

Now we come back to the point where I had to break

off from my talk. Where was I? Aha, I know, I was
writing about egos : If the first ego is predominant, you
will be successful in life, earn good money, have plenty
of material possessions, be blessed with many children,
and everyone will like you. However, you won't
ever reach the peak of happiness
experienced by Erol, as a small shepherd boy,
on the high mountains.
Should the second ego, which is buried deep inside
you, appear on the scene and start taking over………
Yes, if the second, deeply seated ego, comes to the
forefront, you will have a hard, cruel life like me. Only a
few people will like you, albeit with a deep affection. The
decision is yours. Should you choose the first ego, that is
your choice and I wish you all the best for the future
anyway. "But if you let yourself be ruled by the
third, extreme ego, and think and live only for
yourself and your nation,you must be very
careful,because with your mighty but terrible
brain, you will be capable of starting huge
wars and destroying everything in your path.
In that case, God preserve all living creatures
from the terror and havoc which such
humanbeings may wreak.
"I hope you will choose the second ego
deep within you. If you do, then you will find
that millions of Rebel Erols, true
environmentalists the world over, will be your
friends, whoever and wherever they are, and
they will love you deeper than anyone ever
loved you before.
I would like to end my first book with a few poems
from two of Sivas’ poets. Ahmet Suzi (1751 - 1827) was,
in his time, the most popular poet with the people of
Sivas. This is why so many Sivas folk named their
children “Suzi”. The other poet is Veysel Satiroglu (Asik
Veysel) (1894 - 1973). You can still hear the sound of his
“saz” coming from the depths of the earth, from his
beloved Mother Nature. Rest in peace you great poets!
The world is going bad.
Think it over, everything breaks up,
We all come naked into the world
And we shall all leave it naked at the end.
Material possessions are as worthless as a straw.
One light gust of wind
And everything is in vain.
Don’t think creatures live for ever.
The day will come when everything dies.
Use your gift of reason.
Be glad that you have it.
One day you’ll lose that too.
If you love God,
Please do not touch my soul,
Because it will return to Him.
Control yourself, Suzi,
Or you may go mad.
 I have embraced many friends in my time,
But my truest friend is the rich, black loam.
In vain I have tired myself, in vain have I roamed,
But my truest friend is the rich, black loam.
With a cut of the spade, I stabbed your chest,
But you still insisted on giving me your best :
Though with my fingers I scratched your face,
You still greet me with roses all over the place.
My truest friend is the rich, black earth.
Whoever can see this marvel in their mind,
Leaves a work on this earth which will never die.
The day will come when the earth takes Veysel home -
My truest friend is the rich, black loam.

Do not listen to the idle prattle of unenlightened man

Whose ashes are nothing but lies told o’er & o’er
again.
Even if he manages to rule all the world,
His aims and wishes are still naught but boasts
curse.
Veysel, do not use these words to address the common
folk,
Or they will call you madman, and say that you’re a
joke.
 And the great German philosopher Arthur
Schoppenhauer (1788 - 1860) wrote these words :
“Compassion is the highest form of morality.”
Rest in peace, you great thinkers of the world.
I have tried to write this book with my lifelong
companion Rebel Erol, about the highest form of
morality : compassion.

Erol Atila
 On the final evening when the family had finished
reading the book “The Sleighs with Jingling Bells”,
Robert switched the projector off. The whole family
found themselves once more in the year 5021 on their
dying planet. Their exhausted faces were filled with
dismay once more, and shuddering, they fell silent. Tim
was the first to break the silence.
“Papa, please go and get Erol Atila’s second book
“The Trains with Black Smoke”. I am dying to read it.”
“I will. Did you enjoy this first book?”
“Not half! While we were reading this book, I was
watching the features on your face changing as you read,
like heart beats on the lined paper of an ECG test.
Sometimes your face lit up with sheer joy, sometimes it
was full of worry lines.”
Maria joined in the conversation :
“Robert! Do you think the events in this book really
took place?”
“Yes, I do. It seems to me it would be awfully
difficult to make up such an intricately detailed and
exciting story if it wasn’t true.”
“Do you think this book’s message found an echo
with the reading public?”
“Hmm, that’s a difficult one. How can I know
anything about what happened over three thousand years
ago? Yet if we take a look at the history of the human
race, one thing is obvious : the human race always seems
to have had an aversion to the natural way of life,
aspiring instead to all things artificial. On top of which,
they always let themselves be guided by their
“thingummy jigs.”
“What? What? Be guided by their what?
Robert, who had gone bright red, replied :
 “You heard right. By their “thingummy jigs.”
The whole family laughed themselves silly. Maria
picked up the theme again :
“Robert, then tell us do about the history of the human
race, who only thought about their “thingummy jigs” all
the time.”
They started laughing again. Trying to suppress his
laughter, Robert said:
“Bring us something to drink first, darling.”
While Robert knocked back his artificial fruit juice, he
thought over what he wanted to say. Then, after clearing
his throat a couple of times, he began to explain :
“The “thingummy jig years”, were the most dreadful
years, beginning with the industrial revolution, and
lasting until approx. 2500 through tremendous population
growth. During this time, horrendous damage was
inflicted on nature. In those days, the governments were
not green as they are today, but simple, black
democracies. The politicians, too, were not green
sympathisers like they are today. Don’t you think it’s
rather ironic that, back then, everything was green but the
population and politicians were black minded. Yet today,
nearly everyone you meet is an environmentalist, but the
green has all but disappeared.
Now, let’s continue. Back then, the only goal of the
black minded politicians was increased
“industrialisation”, which they saw as some kind of
magic solution. They tried to lure everybody in on the
act, promising material prosperity, without thinking about
the possible consequences, their only concern being to
gain as many votes as possible in the shortest possible
time. They dangled the carrot of owning their own car in
front of the population, without first considering the air
pollution it would cause. This is how the peoples’ natural
way of life was gradually eroded. Peasant farmers left
their villages in droves, pouring into the large cities. This
caused the price of food to rise dramatically. As the
number of consumers rose, so more and more social
unrest took place. These were the years with the highest
incidences of social explosions. Demonstrations were
usually quelled with brute force. Meantime, even greater
damage was occurring in the sphere of nature : the
atmosphere, which had remained brilliantly clean for
millions of years, now found itself badly polluted by the
burning of fossil fuels like coal and oil, car exhaust
fumes and industrial waste gases, forest fires and burning
of rubbish by the overpopulated human race. All this
caused acid rain to form, which gradually killed off the
forests over a period of time. In a nutshell, the whole
balance of nature was completely destroyed. This is why
we now find ourselves in this terrible situation, my dear
Maria, my dear son Tim.
From the year 3000, the size of the earth’s population
decreased dramatically, because the natural environment
had disappeared, and food became extremely expensive.
All the world’s natural resources had run out. The plants
and animals started to die. We had inherited a planet
from our great grandparents which was little more than a
massive rubbish tip. A planet with a small population but
with all the goodness sucked out of it. For a burnt out
house which has been reduced to rubble is of no use to
anyone.
At this time, people made all sorts of grandiose plans
to escape to other planets. For example : they wanted to
colonise Mars and create a new biosphere there. Is such a
thing possible? How can you make a watermill turn with
water which has to be brought in buckets by hand
because there is no free flowing water available? How
would it be possible for a race of people, who had already
destroyed the rhythm of life on their own planet, to create
an artificial biosphere on another planet?
The result was a complete fiasco!
In the year 4000, our planet was going through its
final death throes. During this period, it was a case of
every man for himself. The wealthy built their own
artificial biotopes, but those who could not afford their
own biotopes simply raided and looted those belonging to
the rich. Wars were waged for years on end over these
biotopes, many of which were destroyed in the process.
In the year 5000, silence reigned once more, since we
didn’t have much left to lose or fight over.”
That night, Tim had terrible nightmares, brought on
by his father’s depressing talk. In his dream, he was
climbing up the cliffs of Abdul Vahap Gazi, just as Erol
had done in the book as a child. He became dizzy and his
legs shook. He cried out in terror to the clouds which had
just landed on the cliff top:
“Help me, grandad Erol, help me!”
But the oxygen helmet on his head made him lose his
balance and fall over the cliff. On the way down, he
grabbed out for a bush which was growing out of a
crevice in the cliff face. Suddenly, a light appeared out of
the clouds, which transformed into a person. It was the
soul of Erol as a child. He stretched out his hand and
saved Tim, bringing him back up onto the top of the cliffs
once more. Both of them started speaking, but neither
could understand the other. Erol felt extremely sorry for
his great grandson. He took the oxygen helmet from off
his head and threw it against the side of the cliff. Tim
panicked, but Erol said:
“You won’t be needing that here!”
 Tim found he could breathe freely without the helmet.
He felt relieved. Laughing loudly, the two of them joined
hands and ran off together, their hair fluttering freely in
the wind. Tim enjoyed this greatly. Standing at the end of
the path before him were huge, healthy cherry trees,
laden with luscious, rosy red cherries. They clambered up
into one of the trees, hugging the branches which were
covered in beautiful leaves. Licking their lips, they ate
their fill of cherries, before leaping into the river
Kizilirmak, where they swam and splashed about to their
hearts’ content, calling out happily.
Air bubbles fizzed and bubbled up in the middle of the
river. Tim had never swum in a river in the whole of his
life before. The mere sight of all this fizzing water made
him shudder, but he was highly delighted when he saw
two people emerging from the foam. The two people who
were swimming in the river were none other than his own
parents, Maria and Robert. Both of them were clean and
naked, looking for all the world like Adam and Eve at the
moment of their creation by God. Tim swam over to his
parents, while Erol smiled benignly at all three of them
and disappeared into the clouds.
The river Kizilirmak embraced the family with its
fresh, clean water, which originated from springs in the
Kizildag mountain.
So Mother Nature spared this family, kissing them
with abandon, instead of punishing them with hurricanes
and floods like she did to the rest of the unenlightened
human race.
The next day in school, in a classroom with an
artificial oxygen supply, Tim’s appearance was more
striking than those of the other children around him. He
was like a beautiful dahlia which manages to bloom on
barren soil, and radiates light and love all around it.
 END

This is the first book in the series “The Ownerless

Planet”. In the second book, “The Trains with Black
Smoke”, Erol continues his journey. In this book he
wanders through the industrial countries, revealing the
secret sides of these countries. He will make you laugh
and think at the same time, as he recounts the antics of
so-called modern human beings. He will describe the
situations which brought about the demise of the human
race. Sometimes you will be able to join in the
excitement as he fights in european boxing rings,
sometimes you will be saddened at his description of the
plight of immigrant workers. In the third book,
“Checkpoint Charlie”, he will visit the communist
countries and show how human beings changed the
utopia of Karl Marx. But misfortune awaits him there,
and he finds himself spit-roasted like a chicken. What
happens to him there and in the rest of the world will be
described in Book 4, “The Lanterns”.
In “The Ownerless Planet 5”, you will read about the
story of Rebel Erol’s great grandson, Tim. In this book,
the ghost of Rebel Erol worries about his great grandson
Tim, visits him in the future and gets involved in his life.
If you want, he will take you on the journey with him.
See you later in the next book!
 ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
And finally, a few words of thanks to my good friend
and fellow writer, Barbara Noble, who has translated my
book in the true spirit in which it was written.
Barbara Noble (nee
Pollard) was born in 1950 on
a beautiful small island, the
Isle of Wight at the
southernmost tip of the
United Kingdom. She spent
the first eighteen years of
her life on this paradise
island, developing a strong
love of nature which she
inherited from her mother
Jean, a well-known Island
poet and environmentalist.
In 1962, at the age of
twelve, Barbara had a startling vision of life in the
future : a world where there were no longer any plants,
flowers or animals, and where human lives were
dominated by the very machines which they had created.
She wrote the following moving poem at that time :
A POET’S LAMENT IN THE YEAR 3000
The works of ancient poets are still preserved today –
Oh how I wish that I could boast the things they used
to say.
Alas in this strange world there are no longer flowers
Whose beauty inspired poets to sit and write for
hours.
 The sweet sound of bird singing is now no longer
heard :
All I can claim is the memory of hearing one
blackbird.
The sky is never blue now, it’s always dull and grey,
And everything seems sad now, since laughter went
away.
People never smile now, they’re waiting for the end,
For soon machines will rule the world, and humans
they will send
Away to some lost planet where day and night are
one.
We’re living in this fear now and soon the time will
come
When they whom we invented will banish us from
earth.
And all too late we’ve realised and now know the true
worth
Of simple things forgotten in the race to get ahead,
So now we pay the awful price and live our lives in
dread.
Thousands of miles away in Turkey, I, Akin Tekin,
who had also learnt the love of nature from my own
father, a respected teacher, was preparing to set out on
my own life journey, which would take me to Germany
where I would eventually spend 30 years of my life, eight
of them writing a series of adventure novels warning
mankind about the destruction he was causing to his own
planet.
In 1970, Barbara and I were both living and working
in West Berlin, although we never met at this time.
Over thirty years later, when we were both semi
retired from our respective businesses, fate contrived to
bring us two nature lovers together. A writer and poet
herself, Barbara put her own writing aside and spent
almost a year translating my work, flying to Turkey two
or three times to finalise the translation. This is the result.
Akin Tekin

Dear Readers!
We hope that people everywhere will be able to
unplug their mobile phones and tear themselves away
from their computers and T.V. screens long enough to
read this timely warning, and realise the serious situation
facing our already sickly planet.
As Al Gore says in his wonderful book “Earth in the
Balance” :
“There is growing evidence of an ecological
holocaust. A choice to “do nothing” in response to the
mounting evidence is actually a choice to continue and
even accelerate the reckless environmental destruction
that is creating the catastrophe at hand.”
We challenge the whole of mankind to wake up and
take individual responsibility to stop the wholesale
destruction of this planet before it is too late.

And now, many years later, other young

children are growing up mindful of the
terrible destruction being inflicted on our
"Ownerless Planet", and demanding that it
stops just like Erol Atila wished in his book.
The Song of the Forest
My trees are very few now,
My green canopy has gone,
My floor is no longer a leafy bed,
My birds don't sing their song.
They bought in the machinery,
They woke me with a start,
They chopped and hacked and sliced me,
They stole my autumn heart.
I was tranquil with the sound of day,
Alive with the creatures of the night,
But they grabbed my lush green face,
And pulled with all their might.
Let me embrace my animals once more,
Let my streams flow crystal clear,
Let my noble trunks stand upright again,
Let me wipe away my tears.
Written by : Olivia Sirett (aged
13)
from Meldreth, Hertfordshire, UK
See, there are young environmentalists coming along!!
Barbara Noble