been driven crazy by the events of the war. They looked at him in consternation until the sergeant stepped forward and gave him a stinging blow across the face. And another and another as Cemal continued to laugh, the tears running down his face. It took a long time for him to come to his senses and become calm again.
The team had lost its captain, and Selahattin had been wounded in the leg. Like Cemal, he was almost at the end of his tour of duty. Cemal would be demobilized forty-five days early, since he had not taken any leave. As for Selahattin, he would be hospitalized for the remainder of his service.
Even in the final days there was no relief. During Cemal’s last week, an unfortunate event occurred. A new, young lieutenant had been assigned to their post. He was inexperienced and nervous. One evening at dusk he saw a figure on a nearby hill and, without hesitation, gave the order to shoot. Actually, even their former captain would have done the same. No one but the PKK came into these far hills, and there in the evening, even a shadow constituted a threat. The soldiers opened fire, and the figure fell.
When they went to inspect, they found a small boy lying lifeless on the ground. Around him grazed a small flock of sheep and goats, straying here and there without direction. Cemal looked at the bullet-riddled body and remembered a pair of grateful black eyes amidst the flames of a burning village. Cemal imagined the anguish of the crippled old man waiting for the grandson, who would never return.
“I’m getting soft,” he said to himself. Perhaps it was because his military service was ending that he felt such mixed feelings.
The hearts of all of them had been coarsened in the months spent on the mountains and had become dead to human feelings. Just like breaking in a new pair of shoes, when the skin becomes inflamed for some days before becoming callused and immune to pain, they had hardened their hearts in order to survive the cruelties of war.
THE FAMILY HOME
Sitting alone in the business-class section of Airbus Flight 310 en route to Izmir, İrfan felt as if he was being swept along by the current of a raging river. When the flight attendant inquired what he would like to drink, he asked her for a glass and some ice. Opening the bottle of Royal Salute he had bought at the airport, he poured himself a shot of the tawny whisky and inhaled the rich aroma of cognac, mahogany, morocco leather, and tobacco. “I am being swept away,” he thought, “and I’m dragging all the others after me.”
The professor always thought in long, complete sentences, as if writing a book or dictating a letter to his secretary. He had developed this habit from writing so many articles, speeches, and television scripts. He felt responsible for organizing his thoughts. As was his custom, he started to take notes on small pieces of paper. “Everybody is being swept away,” he wrote. “All reference points are lost in this society, deprived of its Eastern and Islamic roots and far from being united with Western values. No one is happy. The unwritten rules that keep a society together are nowhere to be found. We are going through a nihilistic period, in which everyone is yearning for a better life, but no one knows what form it should take. There is no prescribed form; therefore, the people have neither a mythology nor an ideal. The torrent is forcing us along. Some try to save themselves by clinging to the branches of the trees that overhang the river. Some grasp the branch of religion, others nationalism, “Kurdism,” or “nihilisim.”
İrfan poured himself another drink before admonishing himself. “Stop preaching! You’re full of hot air! Get to the point—confess your fears and relax!”
At that moment, the tall, attractive flight attendant approached İrfan and told him that the pilot would be honored if he would visit the cockpit. İrfan wanted to be alone, but found himself agreeing to accompany her to the
The team had lost its captain, and Selahattin had been wounded in the leg. Like Cemal, he was almost at the end of his tour of duty. Cemal would be demobilized forty-five days early, since he had not taken any leave. As for Selahattin, he would be hospitalized for the remainder of his service.
Even in the final days there was no relief. During Cemal’s last week, an unfortunate event occurred. A new, young lieutenant had been assigned to their post. He was inexperienced and nervous. One evening at dusk he saw a figure on a nearby hill and, without hesitation, gave the order to shoot. Actually, even their former captain would have done the same. No one but the PKK came into these far hills, and there in the evening, even a shadow constituted a threat. The soldiers opened fire, and the figure fell.
When they went to inspect, they found a small boy lying lifeless on the ground. Around him grazed a small flock of sheep and goats, straying here and there without direction. Cemal looked at the bullet-riddled body and remembered a pair of grateful black eyes amidst the flames of a burning village. Cemal imagined the anguish of the crippled old man waiting for the grandson, who would never return.
“I’m getting soft,” he said to himself. Perhaps it was because his military service was ending that he felt such mixed feelings.
The hearts of all of them had been coarsened in the months spent on the mountains and had become dead to human feelings. Just like breaking in a new pair of shoes, when the skin becomes inflamed for some days before becoming callused and immune to pain, they had hardened their hearts in order to survive the cruelties of war.
THE FAMILY HOME
Sitting alone in the business-class section of Airbus Flight 310 en route to Izmir, İrfan felt as if he was being swept along by the current of a raging river. When the flight attendant inquired what he would like to drink, he asked her for a glass and some ice. Opening the bottle of Royal Salute he had bought at the airport, he poured himself a shot of the tawny whisky and inhaled the rich aroma of cognac, mahogany, morocco leather, and tobacco. “I am being swept away,” he thought, “and I’m dragging all the others after me.”
The professor always thought in long, complete sentences, as if writing a book or dictating a letter to his secretary. He had developed this habit from writing so many articles, speeches, and television scripts. He felt responsible for organizing his thoughts. As was his custom, he started to take notes on small pieces of paper. “Everybody is being swept away,” he wrote. “All reference points are lost in this society, deprived of its Eastern and Islamic roots and far from being united with Western values. No one is happy. The unwritten rules that keep a society together are nowhere to be found. We are going through a nihilistic period, in which everyone is yearning for a better life, but no one knows what form it should take. There is no prescribed form; therefore, the people have neither a mythology nor an ideal. The torrent is forcing us along. Some try to save themselves by clinging to the branches of the trees that overhang the river. Some grasp the branch of religion, others nationalism, “Kurdism,” or “nihilisim.”
İrfan poured himself another drink before admonishing himself. “Stop preaching! You’re full of hot air! Get to the point—confess your fears and relax!”
At that moment, the tall, attractive flight attendant approached İrfan and told him that the pilot would be honored if he would visit the cockpit. İrfan wanted to be alone, but found himself agreeing to accompany her to the
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