Dawn

by Selahattin Demirtas

  Her cheeks were flushed and her head was spinning. But as she neared home, the enchantment of her clandestine meeting gave way to fear. If her father and Hâdi heard about this, they’d break her legs. She would have to be careful not to give anything away. She couldn’t even share this secret with her mother—not yet. When she arrived back home, her father and brothers still hadn’t returned. Her mother chose not to ask any questions; she knew Seher would tell her when the time was right.

  That night, they laid out the mattresses early. Worn out by the day’s excitement, Pınar and Kader fell asleep the moment their heads touched the pillow. Seher took her place beside them but lay awake for hours dreaming of Hayri, imagining their future together, their wedding, the dress she would wear….She pictured their house, the furniture they’d have. She thought of herself in the house, alone with Hayri, and a blush rose to her cheeks. Eventually, she, too, fell asleep.

  The next morning the family sat down to breakfast again. The festive mood of the first day of bayram had subsided, but all were still in good cheer. Seher, though, couldn’t look anyone in the eye, for fear of revealing her secret. Gani Baba and Hâdi Abi were also avoiding each other’s gaze that morning. The previous night they had crossed paths in the Adana brothel but then gone their separate ways, pretending not to have seen each other. Both knew, however, that they had. Now they were obliged to act as if nothing had happened—such was the unspoken pact between men in these situations. Still, they couldn’t bring themselves to look at, let alone speak to, each other. Hâdi had been engaged for over a year and talk of his wedding that summer made the two of them even more uncomfortable.

  Back at work after the bayram, Seher couldn’t stop her heart from racing. All morning long, she kept glancing over at Hayri. Then, at lunch, the two of them sat together in the canteen. Measuring him against the other men in the factory, she couldn’t believe her luck. Hayri was surely the kindest, most handsome among them, and of all the girls in the factory, he had chosen her. She felt as though she were living a fairy tale, and she wanted that feeling to last forever.

  At the end of the day, they left work together. When Seher went to say goodbye, Hayri lowered his eyes. “Some friends are coming to pick me up,” he said. “We can drive you home if you like.”

  “No, that’s okay,” Seher replied, “I wouldn’t want you to go out of your way.”

  “It’s no trouble at all, we’re heading in that direction.”

  Seher allowed herself to be persuaded. “All right then, but just drop me off at the end of the road.”

  Hayri seemed to understand. “Sure, we’ll drop you off wherever you want.”

  As they got in the car, Hayri greeted his friends without introducing her to them. The two men in the front exchanged a few words in a low whisper. As they drove, Hayri barely spoke to Seher and he didn’t tell the driver where they were to take her. Dusk had fallen by the time they turned off the main road at the Balcalı exit.

  “You’re going the wrong way!” Seher called out, now a little worried. “I live in Şakirpaşa.”

  Hayri sought to placate her. “Don’t worry, we’re just going for a ride around the dam, get some air, then we’ll take you home. It’ll be nice to do something different for a change, right?”

  “Sure,” said Seher, a note of concern in her voice, “but we mustn’t be too late, my family will be expecting me.”

  The car took a sharp turn down a forest road. Seher’s heart pounded in her ears. They drove through the forest for some time before stopping.

  “Let’s go for a little walk. The forest air will do us good,” said Hayri.

  “No, I don’t want to,” Seher replied, afraid now, “I have to get home.”

  Gripping her arm forcefully, Hayri dragged her from the car. “Then why the hell did you get in to begin with?”

  Seher couldn’t tell which of them had spoken. This voice couldn’t belong to Hayri.

  The other two men got out of the car and walked around. One grabbed Seher from behind while the other seized a fistful of her hair. With Hayri’s help, they forced her to the ground. One pinned her down by her feet, the other by her wrists. She couldn’t breathe. She tried to scream, but no sound escaped her throat. The world stopped, everything came to a standstill. The only thing moving was Hayri.

  When she came to at the side of a road, she first thought she was in a dream. She tried to rouse herself, only to find she was already awake. Her clothes were torn, her legs covered in blood. I must have been hit by a car, she thought. That must have been what happened. The accident must have knocked her out and everything else was just a nightmare. That’s what she told herself. The street was quiet. She was in an industrial area, but where exactly she couldn’t tell. She walked toward the sound of cars until she came to the main road and paused to find her bearings; she wasn’t far from home. She began to walk again, trying to block out her thoughts.

  Sultan Ana opened the door and at the sight of Seher let out a cry. “What happened to you? What happened, my love?” she asked, again and again, gathering her daughter into her arms.

  Seher couldn’t answer, the words stuck in her throat.

  Her father and brothers hadn’t arrived home yet. They ran a vegetable stand at the local market, leaving early each morning and returning late. Pınar and Kader looked on, eyes wide with fear, as their mother led their sister into the bathroom.

  Sultan Ana gently undressed Seher, and when she saw her daughter’s body, bloody and bruised, she couldn’t hold back the tears. She buried her face in Seher’s hair and wept. The tears from her eyes fell into the hot water that she ladled over her daughter. She bathed Seher in those tears. Combing her hair over and over, she washed her once more. Seher had at last begun to emerge from her daze. The street filled with a harrowing cry, the first sound to escape her lips for hours. Knowing what had happened and what was to follow, mother and daughter held each other tightly and wept.

  Sultan Ana wrapped Seher in a towel before putting on her pajamas, then laid her down and pulled the quilt around her. She sat by her side, stroking her hair and reciting prayers. Pınar and Kader watched them soundlessly from the corner of the room. Seher slept. A sweet, peaceful sleep, like a baby in her mother’s arms, the only expression on her face one of fatigue. Sultan Ana rose gently from her daughter’s side and led her two youngest children out of the room.

  A short while later there was a loud knock at the door. The men had returned. The neighbors had called and told them something was wrong. Some had seen Seher on the street covered in blood, others had heard the screams coming from the house. Alarmed, the men had rushed home.

  “What happened to Seher?” asked Gani Baba.

  Sultan Ana evaded his question. “She’s sleeping, she’s fine.”

  “Tell me, what happened?” he pressed.

  “What difference does it make?” Sultan Ana replied, her head held high. “It’s over now.”

  Gani Baba and Hâdi stood motionless as the reality sank in; Engin, still just a boy, had yet to understand what was unfolding.

  Gani Baba turned to Hâdi. “Call your uncles, tell them to come straight over,” he said firmly.

  “It’s too late to call anyone now. Let’s wait until morning,” Sultan Ana urged, “tomorrow’s a new day.”

  “No good will come from waiting,” Gani Baba replied. “What’s done is done.”

  Sultan Ana threw herself at her husband’s feet. “It’s not her fault, Gani. My poor innocent child! Spare her, Gani, please,” she begged him. But her husband refused to be swayed.

  Two of Seher’s uncles, Gani Baba’s older brothers, lived nearby, and it wasn’t long before they arrived. The men shut themselves away in a room for some time, debating. Sultan Ana stayed by her daughter’s side, silent tears falling from her eyes as she stroked Seher’s hair and breathed in her scent. The uncles left without saying a word.

&nbs
p; Hâdi came into the room where Seher was sleeping. “Ana, you need to leave,” he said.

  Resolute, Sultan Ana stood up to her son. “No. I will not forsake my daughter. Wherever you’re taking her, take me, too.”

  “Stay out of this! It has nothing to do with you. It’s our honor that’s at stake,” said Hâdi.

  “To hell with your honor,” cried Sultan Ana. “My Seher is innocent, don’t you lay a finger on her.”

  Seher, still only half conscious, opened her eyes and met her brother’s gaze. Their eyes filled with tears, yet Hâdi’s face remained stern. Seher knew what was to come.

  She stood up slowly and went to the bathroom. After getting dressed, she returned to her mother’s side and asked her brother to let her say her goodbyes. Hâdi left the room. Seher and her mother held each other, sobbing, unable to speak. Pınar and Kader, too, were afraid, and in tears. Seher hugged her little sisters, pressing her face into their hair, and kissed them.

  “Don’t ever forget your abla, okay?”

  The young girls couldn’t grasp what was happening but sensed it was serious; they clung to their sister, unwilling to let her go.

  “Enough now, we’re leaving,” Gani Baba ordered.

  Sultan Ana put herself between her daughter and her husband. “You’ll have to kill me first!”

  Gani Baba slapped her with such force that she fell to the floor, and with a volley of curses he ordered her out of the way. Sultan Ana clung to her husband’s feet, pleading and wringing her hands, but it was no use; her pleas went unheard. Without looking Seher in the face, Gani Baba gestured toward the door. Seher lowered her head and walked out. The truck stood waiting at the front of the house, and one by one they got in. Neighbors peered out from behind their curtains to watch as Seher was taken away.

  No one uttered a word for the entire journey. Seher sat next to Engin in the backseat, gripping his hand. Were it not for fear of their father, Engin would have wrapped his arms around his sister. They pulled over by an empty field on the outskirts of the city. Seher got out first and waited for the others. Her face shone in the light of the moon, graceful and sublime. They walked in single file toward the middle of the field—Gani Baba, followed by Seher, then Hâdi, with Engin at the rear. The harsh Adana frost had frozen the earth; the crunch of their footsteps was the only sound to be heard. When their father stopped, those behind him did, too. Gani Baba turned, took the gun from his belt, and held it out to Engin. And then, for the first time, Seher lost her composure.

  “Baba, I beg of you, don’t do this to Engin. He’s just a child, he won’t last in prison, Baba. Let me do it myself, don’t sacrifice Engin because of me, Baba.”

  Fighting back his tears, Gani Baba said sternly, “Go on, take it, son. Take it, Engin, get it over with.”

  Engin reached out and took the gun from his father’s hand, eyes wide with shock and fear. He was only a child. The night was cold and the gun was heavy; his hand shook.

  “Get down on your knees!” Hâdi Abi ordered Seher, trying to control the emotion in his voice.

  Seher turned to her father. With the last of her energy she implored him, “Please, let me kiss your hand, Baba.”

  Gani Baba held out his hand. Seher brought it to her lips and then to her forehead. “Forgive my sins against you, Father.”

  “They are forgiven, my daughter,” her father responded, wiping his eyes. “Forgive mine, too.”

  “They are forgiven,” said Seher. She turned and embraced Hâdi, asking also for his forgiveness. Hâdi maintained his stony silence. Finally, she embraced Engin. He placed the gun on the ground and held on to his sister. Seher kissed him over and over again, breathing him in one last time.

  Seher knelt on the ground, and Engin picked up the gun and held it to the back of his sister’s head. The gun shook.

  “Engin, my dear sweet Engin,” said Seher. “Don’t be afraid, baby brother,” she continued, giving him the courage he needed. “Don’t be afraid, not of anything or anyone. And you look after yourself in prison.”

  Engin closed his eyes tightly. “Seher Abla!” he cried. His voice was soon joined by the crack of gunshot. A flock of crows took flight from the poplars in the distance. Seher fell forward. Her warm blood met the frozen earth of Çukurova, flowing over the ice and the henna on her hand.

  One evening in a forest, three men robbed Seher of her dreams.

  One night in an empty field, three men robbed Seher of her life.

  NAZAN THE CLEANING LADY

  That Renault station wagon you see over there, it’s from our neighborhood—and so are all the guys inside it. They’re Halime Teyze’s boys. The one at the steering wheel is Yusuf, he’s the oldest. Three of the others are his brothers, and next to them is cousin Muhittin, and that little squirt in the back is Muhittin’s son, Süleyman. They do fancy plastering on ceilings, that’s what all the stuff in the back is for. They make a fine team and work like demons—but the work’s never steady. It’s Yusuf who gets the gigs, as most of the subcontractors know him. He’s a reliable guy, with a good head on his shoulders. He dropped out of middle school and is now engaged to Süheyla, who’s also from our neighborhood. Süheyla is Orhan’s daughter; Orhan’s a retired janitor.

  The light just turned green—we’re off! Süleyman catches sight of me in the bus at the very last moment and waves. I wave back.

  My name is Nazan. I’m eighteen. I finished middle school but then had to drop out. I’ve got two little sisters, Nebile and Gülbahar. It was our mother who brought us up. My father worked for the city of Ankara, here in Mamak, but he died when I was five. They say he was a first-rate mechanic. He was underneath a bus at the city garage one day, working on the engine, when the jack tipped over. My mother was eight months pregnant at the time. He left us with a widow’s pension and a collection of car magazines. He had a real passion for cars, never missed an issue of those magazines, and even went through all the newspapers, cutting out pictures of cars he liked. His dream car was a black Mustang. He put up a poster of one on the kitchen wall. He always told my mother that he was going to buy a car of his own someday. She never did take down that Mustang poster; it’s still hanging there today. So you see, I grew up reading my father’s car magazines, and that’s where my passion for cars comes from.

  Turns out a widow’s pension wasn’t enough to live on and so my mother took on a job as a housecleaner. After I dropped out of school, I’d sometimes tag along and help her out. When I did, we’d leave my sisters with our neighbor, Hasret. Once I’d learned to do it well enough myself, I told my mother that it was my turn, that she didn’t have to work anymore. And so I’ve been cleaning houses for a year now.

  Our house is in Mamak’s gecekondu neighborhood, where everyone knows one another. We’re all poor, so no one sticks out as being worse off than the next. It’s really only when we go downtown that the truth slaps us in the face. I take the bus to work, and I always sit by the window. I just love watching all the passing cars and the people in them, especially when we’ve stopped at a red light or are stuck in traffic. For instance, that’s Haydar Amca in the ’86 Fargo next to us right now. He’ll haul anything in that truck—when he can find work, that is. You can usually find him parked at the top of the street, on the corner of the main road. He’s from Çorum and has two daughters, both university students. His wife, Besime Teyze, is bedridden; she was hit by a car three years ago. The guy who did it just drove off, left her there for dead. One of their girls was arrested last year at a student demo on the anniversary of Madımak.

  The light just turned green.

  You can always tell which people and which cars are from our neighborhood. They have so much in common. They’re all overworked, run-down, scruffy old things; they reek of poverty and grip the steering wheel with both hands like it’s their bread and butter. When you reach the main road, the cars start changing and so do the people inside them. All o
f a sudden you start seeing civil servants and businessmen, women drivers, and handsome young men, too. The cars here are all newer than the ones in our neighborhood. Just take that couple in the gray Passat next to us: I reckon they both have jobs. Maybe she works at a bank; he looks like he’s a manager somewhere. Perhaps he’s going to drop her off at the bank first, then head to work himself. I’d say they’ve been married a long time and they’re riding in the same car only because they have to. They exchange a few words every now and then, but without looking at each other. My guess is they’re still together out of a sense of duty. They took out a loan to buy the car and they’re both paying off the installments, but the man’s acting like it’s his and his alone—that’s the advantage of being at the steering wheel, I suppose.

  We’re on the move again and now here’s a white Şahin next to us. Somebody did a crappy job remodeling it. The four guys inside aren’t from our neighborhood, but they’re definitely from our side of the tracks. Looks like they’re on their way to work. They’re the kind of guys who go cruising around on the weekends, just to show off. In the opposite lane there’s a maroon BMW 740—now that’s one fabulous car. The couple whose house I clean, they have the same one. They even have the same license plate. Hey, hold on a second….Well, if that isn’t Murat Bey himself! But the woman next to him, she’s not Sevgi Hanım. Must be a friend from work or something. Good lord, he just kissed her on the lips.

  The light’s green again.

  That can’t be right, I didn’t see what I think I saw or, better yet, I didn’t see anything at all. Sevgi Hanım’s a doctor; she works at a hospital in the emergency department. And Murat Bey owns a construction company. They’ve been married for four years now and don’t have any children, but they’re super fond of each other, or at least they were. Kızılay Square’s been closed off to traffic. I’ve got to get off the bus now and I have no choice but to walk. I’ll need to catch another bus from the other side of the square. Sevgi Hanım and her husband live on the thirteenth floor of a fancy building in Çukurambar. I clean their place twice a week. They pay me well, God bless them.