‘I ran away,’ he says in a loud voice. Who will hear it here? ‘I ran away, see? I ran away…’ He has to assimilate this, his mind, his heart and, above all, his conscience has to get used to this fact.
I ran away because I was scared. If I hadn’t run away I would have been disciplined. This time it would be no joke. It would not be like the first time.
At the camp, during the second month of training, he had been sent for discipline for two weeks. In the disciplinary cave there were almost twenty men; he recalls the smell of sweat, foul breath and dirt, having to request permission to relieve oneself three times a day and receiving two meals of bread and water. What had I done? What was my crime? He had wondered about it then, and he thinks about it now. They had wanted him to undergo a public self-criticism in front of the whole camp. He had not regarded it as demanding. A militant who had committed a crime should face what he had done and be prepared to make a frank confession in front of his comrades. He should expose his misconduct, should purge himself. That much was agreed. But I wasn’t guilty. I didn’t feel guilty. I hadn’t done anything to warrant self-criticism. I had just secretly taken a few cigarettes, a piece of mirror and greetings to one of the troops in discipline — someone from our neighbourhood who was very young. Apart from those on duty, contact was forbidden with the men being disciplined. However, I knew the boy was afraid and that he needed support — not punishment. Perhaps the traditional methods of discipline would have continued, but Mahmut was in luck. Just then, for some unknown reason, tension had erupted in the command of the region’s mountain cadre and, according to rumour, it had turned to infighting. The revised training advice that came down from the top, in which it was emphasized that discipline and democracy were inseparable, that the broadest democratic debate should not conlict with inlexible punishment, had changed the atmosphere in the camp, and disciplining had been brought to an end.
If he faced punishment again he might not be so fortunate. This time there was no tangible accusation. But, still, he felt he was continually under surveillance.
It was when the operations and fighting had intensified. They had brought a young girl to the camp, wounded and covered with blood; they had dumped her on the ground. She was moaning and still bleeding from her wounds. She needed immediate attention. He had been amazed that no one took any notice of her or asked where the medics were, and when he learnt they were in the commander’s cave had run to fetch them. He had tried to explain the situation as speedily as possible and asked them to come immediately to look at the girl or at least allow him to tend to her. After all, he had studied at medical school. He had not even noticed that the medics were busy attending to the commander who had stomach cramps. While waiting for the medical team to assist, he had held the hand of the girl who was pleading in fear of death and moaning in pain, and he tried to give her hope. But by the time they arrived she was dead. He had just looked at their faces and gone off without a word.
When he was summoned to the commander’s cave he had not felt nervous. The man had asked just two questions: whether he had met the girl before and why he hadn’t spoken to the medics after she died. The commander had said, ‘Those who cannot stand the sight of blood, those who cannot stomach our female comrades being martyred for the sake of the cause, cannot walk this gruelling path. If she was left on the ground like that, there is a reason for it. We had information that she was an agent. Everyone must do their duty, comrade. Recent reports about you are not encouraging. They say you are incapable of teamwork. We are going through difficult times. Watch your step!’ The meaning of the man’s words was clear: if we were not in the middle of fighting, if we did not need men to bear arms, you would be locked up.
Was it really like that, or was I getting paranoid? Hadn’t we witnessed many comrades being taken for disciplining or even being executed? Were all those who ran away traitors? You cannot call what happened to me running away. I was shot — by whose bullet? If only I knew! I was shot, and I rolled down the slope. I didn’t run away. Don’t lie to yourself. You didn’t roll — you rolled yourself down the slope. And what’s more, your wound wasn’t serious. ‘Xayin, traitor!’
What is the point of brooding about this now, just as things are beginning to improve? He tries to cheer up. I’m not the first to run away. Hundreds of them came down from the mountain and gave themselves up. What happened to me was different, that’s all.
He had not wished to surrender in the conventional way. First you go to the north and seek asylum with Barzani’s forces. Then, accompanied by them, at the border you give yourself up to the authorities of the Turkish Republic or TC. Or else you drop into the first military post that you reach. Aleykumselam! Then it is time for prison and confession. Well, that just would not do. I’m not a cas. A cas is one of the living dead. Better to die than to be a cas!
When he dwells on the word cas he realizes that he is thinking in Turkish and is astonished. In the village, at school and on the mountain and when he was with Zelal he used to think in Kurdish. Since the night Zelal was shot and lost her child he often thinks in Turkish. Isn’t that also a form of treachery? Isn’t that losing your language, your identity? ‘What is more important than independence and armed conlict is to form and strengthen our national identity, to gain our self-confidence as individuals, to build up our identity through our self-confidence,’ so said the heval, called ‘the Doctor’, who had joined the movement from the west. He was a good man, courageous and with profound wisdom. And he also said — this had lodged in Mahmut’s mind — ‘Identities must not overpower each other. If you are a Turk you must not think of Kurds as the enemy, and if you are a Kurd you must not think of Turks as enemies. Nationalism is an evil virus. You must not let it enslave your soul. You can fight for your national identity and if necessary for independence but not by violating the rights of others to their identity. Let us not forget; the worst tyranny comes from the downtrodden.’ This was typical of the Doctor. Some listened to him attentively, and others would drit away from his inner circle less impressed or even hostile. One day he quietly and unobtrusively disappeared; no explanation was given. It was said that he had been sent to Europe, that he had been promoted. And there were those who said that he spoke too much. He broadcast the dilemmas in his mind.
What the Doctor had let Mahmut was a sense of the importance of self-confidence and of being reconciled to one’s identity. While he was at school they had been made to read poems for National Sovereignty and Children’s Day as well as Republic Day: ‘I am a Turk. My religion and my race are great’; or every morning before lessons began, ‘I am a Turk, I am just and I am hard-working … May my existence be a gift to the existence of Turkey.’