Mahmut gets carried away and as he becomes emotional he reverts back to Kurdish. ‘Edî carenusa me ji me re dikeni, tu saxbe bes e. Fortune is smiling on us now, Zelal, you’ll see. Just get better!’
Zelal remains silent, her eyes closed.
‘You just get better. We are young. We’ll work. And we’ll reach the sea. The writer promised me; he said that on his return he would take us to the sea. He is hurting, too. His son went off and left him. He hadn’t grown into a responsible man. We are, in some way, a substitute for his boy, he told me. He’s in our homeland now. You know, you told him, “Go and look for the word in its place.” Well, off he went!’
‘The writer is a good man, but he doesn’t know anything about us. Even if he travels every inch of our country he still won’t understand us. He will get upset, and he’ll worry about our situation. Now that he’s met us he will never be the same again. However, he won’t know us. Don’t get angry if I say that his word won’t be enough to get us to the sea. And even if we reach the sea, the day we arrive we will begin to miss the mountains. At the moment we are dwelling on our dreams because we are confused. When I get better and get out of here and we start working as caretakers in the stranger’s house, then our hearts will be divided between here and there. The mountains will lure us — even if there is death at the end.’
Why is the girl so pessimistic, so bitter? Supposing she had died right there, supposing the writer had not come to their rescue in time … Why can’t she be pleased? Why can’t she be thankful? My beloved trusts neither man nor fate. It’s as though she doesn’t even trust me. Has she been so intimidated, so badly treated?
Just as he is about to respond they hear the woman lying in the next bed. ‘What language is that you are speaking?’ Her voice is not kind, not curious either, but menacing.
‘You know bloody well, so why do you ask? It’s Kurdish. That’s how we speak. That’s our language! If you don’t like it, ask them to move you to another room!’ snaps Zelal.
Mahmut grows nervous. He admires her recklessness and obstinacy but is afraid that they will get into trouble.
‘God forgive us, we have got to the stage where we can’t protect our own language. You’ve overrun our cities, taken them from us, and we can no longer walk safely in our streets. There is no peace — not even in hospital,’ says the woman angrily but somewhat subdued.
Mahmut jumps in quickly before giving Zelal a chance to reply. ‘We are not doing you any harm, teyze. This is our language. Where we live they speak Kurdish and in some places Zaza. We can talk to each other more easily in our own language. It is the language of our mothers. Our mothers don’t know any other tongue. It’s not their fault. Everyone speaks better, more sweetly in their mother tongue. If the words we speak are about love and goodness, what does it matter if they are spoken in this language or that?’
The woman turns her back on them again and is quiet. Mahmut is filled with unease.
‘That’s what I mean,’ says Zelal in Kurdish. ‘What am I doing stuck next to people who insult the language I speak, the language I heard when I was born? With whose words I was loved, with whose lullabies I was lulled and with whose oaths I was beaten.’
How poetically she expresses herself, thinks Mahmut. This woman is something else … And, what is more, what she says is true. His heart warms, his youthful body warms and he desires his woman. He thinks how much he loves Zelal and trembles with the fear of losing her. I must not leave her here next to this malevolent old woman. Zelal is a wild rose, a wild but very beautiful rose. Her thorns cannot protect her. If she is plucked, she will be crushed and she will fade. Just as he is thinking he is the legendary Rüstemê Zal, happily riding the horse of hope at full gallop, his heart is overcome with despair. I am the only support she can rely on, that she can trust. How far can I protect my rose? And who will protect me? If only the writer had not left us before Zelal was discharged from hospital. If only I had told him not to go. I don’t know whether he would have listened. He was obviously in a hurry to leave. It was clear that his heart was troubled, constricted. Whether it is to do with him or the world or whatever is anybody’s guess, but he is undoubtedly troubled.
The other patient’s visitors arrive carrying plastic bags. They are a pleasant-faced, kindly couple. They wish Zelal a speedy recovery as they pass by. The old woman says something in a low voice to them. She is evidently complaining about her neighbour in the next bed. Mahmut says in Turkish in a loud voice so that the visitors can hear, ‘I’ve spoken to your doctor, and they will discharge you within a few days’ — although they both know that Zelal should stay for at least another week or ten days.
With her sharp wit Zelal grasps the situation and joins in the game. The frown on her face gives way to the wicked, roguish expression of a child. ‘We seem to be disturbing teyze. Let’s hope I’ll be discharged as soon as possible so that she will be comfortable. Besides, we keep on talking in our own language with its harsh tone,’ she says in Turkish loudly.
The young male visitor interjects, evidently trying to apologize for his mother. ‘Oh, my dear, don’t mention it. Why should you think you are disturbing her? Why should you think you speaking in a harsh tone of voice? Everyone’s language is beautiful. Our mother is rather old, and her illness has unsettled her.’
‘You can see that the son knows what she’s like!’ murmurs Zelal to Mahmut in Kurdish.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ says Mahmut in Turkish. ‘Teyze is right, too. It’s difficult to share a room with a stranger. Insallah, we’ll all feel better soon.’ Then he has a idea. ‘Something totally unexpected happened to us. We were waiting in the coach station for our bus to go home and kiss our parents’ hands. A stray bullet, some hooligan’s bullet, hit Zelal, and we lost the baby in her womb — our baby.’ He is no longer himself and gets carried away by the tragic tale that he tells to move the bad-tempered woman and the young couple. For a moment he forgets it is his own story.
‘Good grief,’ says the woman visitor. ‘What sort of country has this place become! You never know what will happen when you are walking in the street. I hope you get better soon. At least you’re alive, thank goodness. You’re still young. You’ll have healthy children, inşallah.’
‘Thank you, kardeşim,’ says Zelal. Now she’s not acting. She is thanking the girl sincerely; this is evident from her tone.
Mahmut’s eyes fill with tears. Kurd, Turk, easterner or westerner; how good it is when people reach out to one another, sharing their grief and their smiles! Sometimes one word, a single word, is enough. The word ‘brother’, a greeting from the heart, sometimes a look, a touch, holding a hand and jumping a stream, rubbing a bleeding finger on a spider’s web, putting a hand on a forehead is enough; you become friends with the person you previously thought of as an enemy. So what is it? What is it that we cannot share in this transitory world?
‘Thanks,’ he says, addressing the other patient and her visitors. ‘I hope you get better soon, too. If people love one another, if they don’t despise each other, if they think of each other as brothers and sisters everything will improve. One day this country will improve, too. Guns will be silent. Stray bullets will not hit babies in their mothers’ wombs.’