Cry for Peace

Amy Spangler introduces work by one of Turkey’s most celebrated Kurdish writers Mehmed Uzun, who fought for the right to express himself

Academic freedom is hardly possible without freedom of expression, and there can be no freedom of expression when restrictions are placed upon the use of a language, let alone when an entire language is banned. In Turkey, Kurdish was first prohibited in 1924, and continued to be banned for much of the 20th century. Though restrictions on the language have been relaxed in recent years, its usage still remains a point of contention. Demands for education in the mother tongue have so far met with small concessions. The current government recently stated its intention to make education in the mother tongue available as an elective course at the 5th grade. However, it remains to be seen whether or not this will come to fruition, and even if it does come to pass, many, myself included, maintain that it is not enough. After all, as a result of decades of a ban that ranges from enforcement to strict discouragement, generations of Kurds, not to mention other minorities, have been alienated from their mother tongue.

Even for novelist and essayist Mehmed Uzun (1953-2007), the most prominent and prolific founder of modern Kurdish literature, alienation from the mother tongue was a stark reality. Uzun describes his early childhood as a kind of paradise in which he was surrounded by storytellers, bearers of a rich oral tradition that would later inform Uzun’s own literary style, as you will see in the excerpt on the following pages. His first day at school was the beginning of his descent from that paradise. It was ‘the first step I took away from my heaven towards hell’, he wrote in his memoir Ruhun Gökkuşağı. On his first day at school, he would be served a slap for not singing along with the national anthem. But then how could he? He didn’t even know Turkish, let alone the anthem. Uzun writes: As the slap exploded on my face, lightning struck in my soul; that’s right, not on my face, in my soul’. The sting of that slap would stay with him, and it would later become one of the driving forces compelling him to become a Kurdish novelist, writing in Kurdish, at a time when the Kurdish novel was, for the most part, unheard of.

It was not until Uzun reached the age of 19, while in prison for writing leftist graffiti, that he first saw his mother tongue in written form, and that he ‘first fell in love with that impossible language, the source of my pain and my pleasure’. It should be noted that technically Uzun’s mother tongue, ie his mother’s first language, was not the dominant dialect of Kurdish in which he would later write, Kurmanji, but the dialect Kirmanjki or Zazaki (which is considered a separate language by some and is now endangered).

After being released, he became the managing editor of a Kurdish-Turkish newspaper, which soon landed him in prison once again on charges of separatism. After escaping to Sweden in 1977, where he would live in exile until 2005, Uzun began writing his first novel in Kurdish. Six more would follow. Uzun and his publishers would be put on trial again and again for inciting separatism. As anyone who has actually read Uzun’s literature can tell you, however, his work provokes many feelings, above all sadness, longing, and melancholy, and they most certainly cause one to question the historical narrative that dominates history books in Turkey, but they are not a cry for war – to the contrary, they are a cry for peace.

The struggle that Mehmed Uzun so valiantly undertook continues today. It is the struggle for freedom of expression. It is the struggle for the right to live and love and write in the mother tongue, to foster that language and see it thrive in prose and poetry. We owe it to Mehmed Uzun to carry forth that struggle.

The following excerpt is from the novel Ronî Mîna Evîne, Tarî Mîna Mirinê (Luminous Like Love, Dark Like Death). Set in an unnamed yet familiar geography, this suspenseful yet lyrical novel tells the story of Baz and Kevok, two characters who share a homeland, yet whose lives take very different paths. At the beginning of the novel we find Baz and Kevok together in a van, being taken to their execution. In subsequent chapters, we learn each character’s individual story, and how it is they have come to meet with such a fate.

Mehmed Uzun

Credit: Ulla Montan

In this extract, we read of an attack on Baz’s village, when Baz is still very young. It is only much later that Baz, a notoriously ruthless professional soldier engaged in warfare against guerilla fighters, such as Kevok, in the mountainous region, finds out about his roots, and that he is not at all who he thinks he is. In fact, he is one of them.

They raise their rifles, slide bullets into barrels, and scan the surroundings. Two of them walk over to a young man lying on the ground. But before they are able to reach him, the sound of another explosion rises and echoes in the mountains. Then, quickly, one after another, in unison, flawless. Then, the sound of mitrailleuse bullets exploding on all sides. The brave young men fall, one by one – before they can even reach for their guns, before they can shoot a single bullet. In place of the water, which once glittered and gleamed and gushed, now flows blood. Blood flows from the brave young men scattered on the ground. Some of the others try to leave the cave too, but it’s too late. Inside, they lie piled on top of one another, like chickens in a coop, cramped and crowded.

And they, that is, the strangers, they appear, one by one, line by line, from behind the trees, the stones, the slopes, the heights, the ruins, the rocks, all the hiding places. With their guns and bandoleers full of bullets, dressed in their light green clothes, the soldiers gradually narrow in on the cave. They are many, countless. They are everywhere, the foreigners. A few commanders who stand on either side of the cave, at some distance, give orders to the countless soldiers. At the mouth of the cave a few bullets explode, that’s all, and then, now, no more sound. The foreigners silence them, don’t let them react. From all sides the foreigners rain bullets into the mouth of the cave. Ceaselessly, incessantly. First with rifles, then with mitrailleuse, and then from afar, with small cannons. Again and again.

Until noon, until the sun comes and stands above the cave and its light shines like a mirror on the stomach of the stream, the explosions continue. There is no sound from inside, from inside the cave. It is as if there is no life, not a sound, not a breath, not a sign. Only a few wooden toys and a few carpets lying in front of the cave, the smoke still rising from them, indicate the existence of those inside.

In the afternoon the soldiers gradually gather at the mouth of the cave, make a pile of twigs and dry grass, and set it on fire. The mouth of the cave is covered in fire, smoke, and fumes.

Twigs, sticks, brush, dry grass, and fire. Twigs, sticks, brush, dry grass, and fire. And smoke and fumes. And the occasional explosion of mitrailleuse and cannons.

Roaring fire emerging from the barrels of the mitrailleuse and the cannons … Two cannons, one on either side of the mouth of the cave, rain down fire and death …

Towards evening, when the now reddish sun reaches the other side of the valley, the soldiers stop. The soldiers are tired. Suddenly, it is calm once again. But the pristine, serene surroundings have been turned into a war zone. This hidden paradise has been turned into hell. The trees are on fire, smoke rises from all around the cave. The bodies of sheep and goats, cattle and horses, all around, everywhere, thrashing. It’s hot, very hot. The explosion of the rifles, mitrailleuse, and cannons has turned the world into a fiery lump of coal. Now there is no longer the sound of birds and wild animals, or the smell of roses and wild flowers. Only the smell of gunpowder, blood, ash, smoke and fumes. Only the smell of death.

The commanders and the soldiers, their fingers on the triggers of their guns and rifles, slowly approach the mouth of the cave. But no one enters; they wait and listen for sounds coming from the cave. But there’s no sound; smoke emerges from the cave, but no sound. It’s all over now … now, none of it is any use, hiding, waiting, hoping, longing, sadness, doubt, fear, nor any of the other states of desperate people, none of it is any use. Over, it’s all over.

But the next moment something happens, the stuff of legends; through the smoke of the mouth of the cave, a dark figure emerges. A small puppy walks out of the smoke, letting out a barely audible yelp. Behind the puppy follows another dark figure; a small child, taking wobbly steps.

The child, two, two and a half years old, emerges from the cave, silent, with fear on its face and in its eyes. The child is a boy. He wears an animal skin and his hair is cut short. He reeks of sweat, smoke, and urine. His face is small, his eyes are small like lentil beans. When his eyes land on the commander and the soldiers, he raises his hand and tries to say something, but his voice won’t come out. One of the commanders loads a bullet into his rifle and holds the rifle to the boy’s head. ‘No person, no sign, no voice, no trace, no path leading back, nothing should remain of them,’ he says. That’s what the commander thinks. The boy has no knowledge of who the commander is, or of his thoughts; he places his hand on the back of the mottled pup and pets it. But another commander, the one with an upturned, pointy moustache, doesn’t allow the boy to be killed.

The commander with the pointy moustache lifts the boy, embraces him, and with his right hand, smiling, strokes the boy’s small head. The child looks at the commander with expressionless eyes.

That’s right, that child is Baz.

That’s right, thus begins the story of Baz.