They spoke for hours but could not resolve the dilemma. Then Selahattin decided that they must sleep on it, and he showed Cemal to the guest room.
The heavy curtains in the bedroom and the embroidered towels laid out for him in the bathroom by his “sister-in-law” made Cemal feel awkward and uncomfortable.
Early the next morning, the two friends went to see Selahattin’s father, who lived upstairs. In fact the whole apartment building was full of Selahattin’s family, who did not want any strangers among them. The old man, who had presumably been captain of a fishing boat for many years, had a habit of shielding his eyes with his hand whenever he looked at the television, as if he had been through a violent storm and was preparing to shout “Land ho!” and give his companions the good news.
After breakfast, Cemal and Selahattin left the apartment for the office behind the fishmonger’s stall and ate again at the same restaurant near the fish market.
At six in the evening, Selahattin parked his Honda in front of a big single-story house on a hill near Eyüp, with a wonderful view of the Golden Horn—no longer golden, perhaps, but still the shape of a horn—as well as the domes of Eyüp Sultan Mosque and the Pierre Loti Café. Many cars were parked in front of the house, and the entrance was full of abandoned footwear.
Cemal followed Selahattin inside, shy at finding himself a newcomer among so many people who all knew each other. The interior of the house resembled that of a home in his village. The large living room was full of men sitting cross-legged on the floor. From their clothing, Cemal surmised that they must be tradesmen. Some wore ties.
One of the men began to chant in a high-pitched voice a poem by the mystic poet Yunus Emre with which Cemal was familiar. Meanwhile, the men on the carpet arranged themselves side by side as if to take part in ritual prayers, but no one stood up. They wore white skullcaps on their heads. Cemal noticed one of them sitting alone at the front with his back turned to the others. “Just like my father,” Cemal thought. It seemed as though a religious zikr ritual, like those in his father’s vineyard hut, was to take place. Soon, some of the men began to chant “Hu.” Then the sheikh’s followers began to sway from side to side and moan, “God! Oh God!” as they swayed increasingly faster and faster. The faster they swayed, the more excited they became. Every now and then, one of them screamed out, “God! Oh God!” in a frenzied crescendo. Eventually, some of the men became unconscious, like those Cemal had seen in the vineyard hut as a child. Others rolled on the floor, foaming at the mouth. Cemal’s father had told him that this was a state of ecstasy caused by submission to God through reciting his Holy Name. In fact, it was the result of the effect of the rhythmic chant at a tempo of 124 beats per minute. In Middle Eastern rituals, the name “Allah” recited at this tempo soon sends a person into a trance, this being the same tempo at which the heart beats. The same thing applies in discotheques all over the world, when the drum beats 124 times a minute.
Cemal, unexcited by this religious fervor to which he was accustomed, waited for the ritual to end and the men to calm down. The sheikh counseled his congregation on how to live a good life and recited a few of the hadiths of the Prophet. After some of the men left, Selahattin introduced Cemal to the sheikh. Cemal bowed and kissed his hand. Then Selahattin told the sheikh that his good friend from the military was a devout Muslim but was confused about the use of force and violence.
The sheikh stroked his white beard. Although very old, he was still full of energy, and his blue eyes reflected intelligence and wisdom.
“My son,” he said to Cemal, “in our times, since right and wrong and good and bad have become inextricably mixed, most Muslims are going through a crisis, searching for something they cannot find. I don’t blame them, but you must watch out for those who have transformed Islam into a religion of revenge. Don’t believe them. The word ‘Islam’ means ‘to submit, to surrender.’ Islam is a religion of peace. If you want to understand Islam, do not respect anything other than the Holy Quran, the hadiths, and the Sunna of the Prophet, because Islam is a manifested religion. In other words, it is an open, transparent way of belief. Politics spoils religion and sows discord among the believers. Listen to what the thirty-second verse of the al-Mai’dah Sura of the Quran has to say.…”
He first read the verse in Arabic and then explained its meaning in Turkish. “Whoever kills a person guiltless of killing others or of setting people against each other will be seen as the killer of all humanity. Whoever lets that person live or saves him from death will be seen as the savior of humanity.”
The sheikh’s soft voice, and the smile that illuminated his face, surprised Cemal. For the first time in his life, he felt that religion was not an intimidating force. He felt as though his heart were being purified with cool, clean water.
The sheikh continued, “Son, the fortieth verse of the ash-Shura Sura says, ‘The response to evil is an equal amount of evil. However, whosoever forgives and brings about peace will be rewarded by God.’ There is no doubt that God hates tyrants.”
The sheikh talked for a long time. He recited passages from the Quran about kindness and peace, the al-Baqarah, al-Mai’dah, al-An’am, al-A’raf, bani I’srail, al-Hajj, al-Mumtahanah, al-Mu’min, and an-Nisa’ Suras. His final words from this beautiful Quranic verse stirred Cemal’s heart, “‘Do good unto your mother, unto your father, unto orphans and the poor, unto close neighbors and distant neighbors, unto the friend near you, unto the traveler, and unto those who depend upon you.’
“This is the thirty-sixth verse of the an-Nisa’ Sura.” The sheikh then asked, “Are your doubts cleared? Are you convinced that those who act in line with the word of God and the command of our Holy Prophet are peaceful and tolerant people, who eschew tyranny and violence? Do you now understand that murderous organizations have nothing to do with God?”
Cemal felt embarrassed in the presence of this wise sheikh but was finally able to mumble, “I am convinced, teacher. May God pour his blessings on you.”
He kissed the old man’s hand again.
On the way back to Selahattin’s house, Cemal wondered how the sheikh had instinctively understood his feelings and spoken as though he knew that he had only just avoided killing Meryem. He grew suspicious of Selahattin. Had his friend told the sheikh about Cemal’s dilemma? The sheikh had even talked about orphans, as if he knew that Meryem was one, but Cemal quickly realized the absurdity of his doubts.
When they entered the house, there was a young girl with Selahattin’s wife. Selahattin introduced her to Cemal as his sister. The girl did not shake hands with Cemal but greeted him distantly. Her head and neck were tightly covered in a close-fitting scarf, which she had tied at the back of her neck. In spite of all this, Cemal could see that she was pretty, observing, however, that she had a cut on her cheek. Saliha—as Cemal heard Selahattin call his sister—began to tell them about what had happened to her that day.
As always, in the morning, she and her friends had gone to the university, only to be confronted by a police barricade to prevent female students who had their heads covered from entering the campus. The students had unfurled banners and yelled that it was the right of all human beings to cover their heads or not as they wished. They had shouted slogans such as “Islam will come and tyranny will end!” and blown whistles, while the tradesmen in the area clapped their hands in approval. The male students supported the demonstration by booing the police.
This was a familiar scene that took place every day. The police were carrying out government directives that forbade students from wearing Islamic headscarves to enter the university. Those who were not allowed on campus demonstrated in front of the gate.
That day, things had gotten out of control. Perhaps the police, who were trying to impress the secular chief of police, newly appointed to Istanbul, had been overly zealous. They had attacked the protesting girls and turned water cannons on them. They took out their truncheons and began to beat them. The girls screamed. Some fell to the ground, a
nd others fainted in terror. When Saliha shouted at the police, “Aren’t your mothers and sisters covered, too? Aren’t you all Muslims?” a policeman hit her on the cheek. She blushed as she told her story. One could tell that she was excited and even a little pleased. They had another protest planned for the next day and would teach “those sons of Satan” a lesson. The Kemalist satanic regime in Ankara, they said, would shatter in front of this army of girls.
“Come on, Saliha,” Selahattin said, “the other day Father talked to you for hours, but it seems that everything goes in one ear and out the other. You can’t play games with the government. You have to obey your country’s laws. Besides, will you be less virtuous if someone sees your hair?”
Saliha looked at her brother angrily. “Those miserable nonbelievers have brainwashed you,” she said. “If you want, you go ahead and kiss the hand you can’t bite. We’re not doing it.”
“Until last year, you never covered your head. Were you not virtuous then?”
“I didn’t know what God’s law was then. I learned it after I started at the university, thanks to my friends. You all pretend to be religious, but you don’t practice the rules of your religion. In any case, why don’t you make your wife uncover her head?”
Fed up, Selahattin said, “May God give you some brains. Those people are manipulating you for their own agendas.”
Saliha looked at him angrily. “Brother, why don’t you become a general in the army? You’re just like them—trying to turn us into nonbelievers. It’s my right to decide whether or not to cover my head. It’s nobody else’s business.”
Saliha then left the room and went upstairs to her father’s apartment.
Over dinner, Selahattin talked about the danger of movements that were using religion as a weapon and fooling naïve young people like Saliha. “These people plan to use the headscarf protests to start an Islamic revolution in Turkey, just like they did in Iran.”
Late that night, after everyone had gone to bed, Selahattin said, “I’ve been thinking about your situation, Cemal. It’s impossible for you to stay in Istanbul. You can’t go home, either. I’ve got no idea what will happen in the long run, but we must find you and the girl a place to stay. Somewhere far away.”
“Thank you,” said Cemal, with wholehearted gratitude.
ONLY PEOPLE AND FISH GET DEPRESSED
The heavily built man with a beard and unkempt hair suddenly woke up, not because of the wind caressing his face, or the creaking of the keel or hawsers, the screeching seagulls, the soft splash of the waves, or the roar of a speedboat passing in the distance. A feeling of acute and burning desire, which pained him deeply, had woken him, though he did not fully grasp what he was longing for. It was, perhaps, a yearning for emptiness or for desire itself.
The professor opened his eyes. Dawn was breaking. At this hour, the sea was a pale, whitish blue. The color of the horizon gradually changed from indigo to blue, from blue to rose pink, and then a vast cerulean hue took over the whole sky. In this overall blue floated a single navy cloud, shaped like a curved scimitar.
After drinking so much the previous night, the professor had passed out on the deck, and the dampness of the morning dew had penetrated his clothing so that all his limbs ached.
He tried to stand up but found he had to limp as his right knee hurt so much. He had hit it badly during the race against the storm to reach the harbor. The cuts on his hands made by the ropes were painful, too. Now it would be even more difficult to handle the boat. Since his childhood, he had known very well that sailing was a violent struggle—the wind could throw you about; the waves could surge above your head; the mast could break; the boat could spring a leak; the clews could suddenly get loose. If you did not pay attention, any of these could kill you.
The professor had been too self-confident and made things harder for himself by renting a boat more than forty feet long. In fact, the boat was not complicated to sail, having only a single main sail and a genoa, but you never knew how the sea might act. Sudden counterwinds might blow, the halyards could get stuck, or some other unexpected problem could occur. This was not the type of boat he was accustomed to, and if he had another person with him, things would be much easier.
There were so many coves and dangerous rocky or shallow places on the jagged coasts of the Aegean Sea that he could not have sailed anywhere without thoroughly studying the charts and maps beforehand. Thankfully, at the bookstore in Kuadası where he had bought a few new books about the history of the Bogomils, he had purchased Rod Heikell’s Turkish Waters and Cyprus Pilot. According to the owner of the store, this was the most detailed book written about the Aegean. The charts could save him from the many dangers to be encountered at sea.
The Aegean winds, which had pleased him like a child on his first days at sea, had soon become his worst enemy. He had become tired, but the winds remained as vigorous as ever, like strong young men hiding behind each and every cape. The williwaw—a very dangerous gust of wind that descends precipitously from the mountains to the sea—was especially formidable. You could recognize it by the whirlpools it created in the water and the way the boat heeled to one side. If you were not careful, this wind could hurl your sail into the sea. One day, in front of Çıfıt Castle, the wind squall had struck, and the professor had barely saved the boat from capsizing.
After ten days at sea, İrfan was tired of sailing from one bay to the next. He felt he was wandering aimlessly around the Aegean Sea like a drunken sailor as if nothing had changed in his life, but he realized this was not true.
As he was leaving a small grocery store one day, he saw some daily newspapers and bought them without giving it a second thought. He had not read a newspaper since setting out to sea. He had not even thought about the news. In Istanbul, he used to start the day by reading the paper. First he would check if there were any articles about him or if anyone had criticized his television program.
The writers of the daily columns pursued a running battle with each other through their articles in the papers. It was entertaining to follow their quarrels, which sometimes lasted for days. Some writers got so furious with their colleagues that if they had had swords, axes, or spears instead of pens, they would have brutally hacked each other to pieces. Their jobs were like the punishment of Sisyphus—to work and write from morning till evening just to have their articles thrown into the garbage every night.
When İrfan returned to the boat, he opened the newspapers and was immediately horror-struck by what he read. The newspapers could not be talking about his country. What he read there had nothing to do with Turkey. This approach to the world, the language used, the news emphasized, and the photographs printed there were completely foreign to him. It was then the professor realized how deeply the past weeks on the sea had changed him.
Drinking his cool beer, he ran his eye over the events that were taking place in the country: quarrels between politicians or boasts about their achievements, efforts to paint Turkey as a heaven on earth; news of a Turkish fashion designer who had taken New York by storm, of a Turkish singer whose album had sold out in Europe, of an American politician who said that Turkey was the most important country in the world, or about a Hollywood star who wanted to shoot a film in Turkey and eat “shish kebab”; morale-boosting lies, and the headscarf protests that had been a part of the political agenda for the last few years.
On the front page of one of the newspapers, there was a photograph of a policeman hitting a girl on the head with a truncheon. İrfan had become used to seeing such scenes at the university. He had passed by such protests many times. He tried to understand why the girl had acted in such a militant way. He could easily understand why women in an Islamic country, forced to cover their heads, might fight to remove their headscarves. But why did these girls torture themselves by covering their heads in the summer heat and risk getting beaten up for it? Natural and biological laws should have caused them to revolt against such coverings, not protest in favor of them. What
possible reason could there be for such behavior?
The professor noticed a phrase in the article: “the attempt to break the police barricade.” These words hinted at an answer to his question. Suddenly, he understood what was really going on! The police barricade was not an obstacle to surmount but the goal itself. The police represented the regime, and they also protected it. They were the symbol of that vulgar, rotten system that all young people hated. And in each period of time, young people, full of honest, if rebellious, feelings, revolt against the system. In the seventies and eighties, students had tried to surmount the police barricade in front of the same university and had been harshly treated. But then, the students had been shouting leftist slogans: “Revolution is the only way! Down with oligarchy!” At that time, the way to revolt against the system had been through such leftist movements.
In the nineties, again there were police barricades and rebellious students in front of the same gate. Truncheons were raised once more, and tanks aimed water cannons at the students, who were screaming in Kurdish, “Kurdare Azadi!” and “Biji serok Apo!” They wore red, green, and yellow scarves and carried posters of Abdullah Öcalan, the leader of the PKK.
In the twenty-first century, the same square was, this time, full of girls in headscarves clashing with the police. Once again water cannons were used. In short, the police and the students played the same game time and again. The only things that changed were the slogans and the outward appearance of the students.
Youth needs to rebel and revolt in this way or that. In reality, these girls fighting to keep their heads covered were doing it just for the sake of fighting against the established regime; to demonstrate to their parents, to their school, and to the political system that they had their own unique personalities. And if these girls who were struggling to be allowed to cover their heads had been living in Iran, they would be fighting to uncover them.
Bliss: A Novel Page 22
