Prohibited to you [for marriage] are your mothers, your daughters, your sisters, your father's sisters,
your mother's sisters, your brother's daughters, your sister's daughters, your [milk] mothers who nursed you,
your sisters through nursing, your wives' mothers, and your step-daughters under your guardianship [born]
of your wives unto whom you have gone in. But if you have not gone in unto them, there is no sin upon you.
And [also prohibited are] the wives of your sons who are from your [own] loins, and that you take
[in marriage] two sisters simultaneously, except for what has already occurred.
Indeed, Allah is ever Forgiving and Merciful.
Surah An-Nisa, 4:23 Quran
your mother's sisters, your brother's daughters, your sister's daughters, your [milk] mothers who nursed you,
your sisters through nursing, your wives' mothers, and your step-daughters under your guardianship [born]
of your wives unto whom you have gone in. But if you have not gone in unto them, there is no sin upon you.
And [also prohibited are] the wives of your sons who are from your [own] loins, and that you take
[in marriage] two sisters simultaneously, except for what has already occurred.
Indeed, Allah is ever Forgiving and Merciful.
Surah An-Nisa, 4:23 Quran
|
GAZE
Gushef sighed, her breath ruffling her dress and reminding her of the Treasurer in his lavender-scented kaftan. She was from the heart of Circassia, with fair skin and ebony hair. She was about to write the tale of the letter mim, but a drop of ink spilled between her self and the writing desk as she reached for the paper. Her mind was clouded because of the pipe she’d been secretly smoking. She looked at the ink stain between her legs and apologized to the Iranian rug. She moved closer to the desk and carried on. She was sixteen when she was sent to the Treasurer’s Palace upon the crests of Salacak. At first glance, Gushef’s glossy eyes confused the people around her – but she won them over with her chiseled lips, arched back, and curves that could accommodate sliding hands. She was truly alluring, so they hadn’t changed her name when she arrived as part of the victor’s spoils. “Her gaze pierces the heart, that’s for sure,” said her processor. She was sent directly to the sparkling hall of the palace. From there, she was sent to serve the Grand Vizier, whose wife had taken quite a liking to her. Gushef wasn’t expected to sing, dance, or embroider - just to do her thing with ink and paper: calligraphy. Everybody liked seeing their name on quality parchment, written in fancy gold-flaked letters. Before long, the Treasurer began to drool at the sight of Gushef at the garden tours, and all it took for him to transfer her to his palace was to ask his wife, Gulnar. The palace in Salacak was different from the others across the empire. Here, there was a dinner table with long legs, a display cabinet, and an odd clock with a wooden bird that appeared when you wanted it to. There was a piano in the hall, at the disposal of the harem, always in tune. No matter how badly it was played, it always looked glorious. Tobacco was hand rolled into thin sheets of special paper. Each lady had her own cigarette holder. Gushef loved her new residence. In bed, the Treasurer told her about his days of combat and the bodies he had dismembered. After sex, Gushef checked the herbs she placed deep in the canal of her womb. When she found out she was expecting a baby, she was astounded the herbs had not worked their enchantments. She didn’t mind being pregnant and had an easy labor. When the Treasurer finally came home after three days, he kissed his wife first, held his son, and looked at Gushef with fatigued eyes. “We were at the dewan,” he said. He was troubled. The Treasurer had five daughters. Upon the arrival of his son, he celebrated. He drank, he laughed, jiggling his round belly. When he visited Gushef at night, she began to notice a new scent of lavender in his beard, his clothing. One night, the baby in his crib, Gushef and the Treasurer sat to dine. The man’s belly jiggled for the last time. Gulnar, his wife, the lady of the house, reported that it was Gushef who poisoned the food. She sent Gushef to Ishak Pasha Palace in the East, kept Gushef’s son, did not say goodbye. GUSHEF’S WISH Don’t let the fire get to you. Keep me under the sand at all times. Don’t be scared of the snake skin. The Sahara is ours: walk freely. The capital behind rows and rows of cannonballs, I never got to be there. I had ink, I did, but I never got there. I hid my creations under my pillow, and I learned how to curve lines on paper and where to tap to make the right dots for me, for only me. It was a year before I was given to the Treasurer, and we were wrapped in cloths and taken to Joshua’s Hill. I forced a tear on the roots of a tree there. No one saw me. Before she was slaughtered in Hamidiye, my mother used to say that a tear shed under a holy tree had value in the heavens. I prayed may this curse on me and my abduction be over, may I breathe in tranquility in future lives. May God protect us when our prayers lack, amen. ISHAK Gushef was sent to the East as a punishment, but the Pasha grew keen on her. When residents found out she was pregnant with his second son, the palace was kept warm all winter. All odalisques, including the favorites, sat by Gushef, braiding her hair, ornamenting her dress. They spoke nothing but good things about her. Gold extorted from clans turned into fabulous fabrics, tailors rushed to address the growing demand for emerald and ruby, and the palace’s domes were repaired to be more glamorous than ever. Yet Gushef no longer had it in her to spend hours curving letters, or to play games with men. Emperor Abdulhamit’s orders didn’t reach Ishak Pasha’s Palace. It was too far away. However, Gushef’s grandmother heard the Emperor’s orders in Hamidiye. The orders sent boy after boy to slaughter while the palaces were rewarded with brand new beds and dining tables. Nothing too fancy. People armed up, put on a brave face, ignored logic. But they didn’t hear the boys screaming under all that snow. Gushef, who made love to stay alive, did not, nor did Pasha’s wife. Boy after boy for palace feast after palace feast, nothing too delicious. One snowless night, everyone was awakened by the howling of a scops owl. First to go was Gushef’s eldest. Second was her second son. Nobody could stop them. The capital reached out; the third son, now seventeen, was called in to quell the uprising, to join the Army of Action. Mahmud Shevket, you! You clouded Istanbul, didn’t you? Gushef begged the compassionate Pasha to let her go after her sons. No one will recognize me in disguise. Please. I don’t want to lose another son. Pasha relented, and Gushef was escorted to his summer house in Kanlıca. Gushef went out every day to search for her youngest son in the streets.
HUMAN
Three. Three heads were crushed. Gushef froze for a second, but then she darted from the crowd and put herself between one of the crushed heads and a weapon that looked both like a rifle and a dagger. Her cape fell gently on the first head and covered it. She took out her head piece and covered the second, found more fabric from her outfit, and did the same to the third. Meanwhile she screeched curses at Hamid. He. He took. He did, took my sons. He did. Sons. Gushef. |
She had never felt embraced by any God. She performed the salaat now and then, just to move. She had said no to God and all the angels when she was snatched from those roasted almond-scented heat waves.
The brush can’t speak, the paper full of ink, I sent the boys to their quest, never said no to them. I found the first covered in blood and his tongue hanging. Then the second, they were three together, decapitated, and three. I sent the boys, never said no to them, their eyes open, glossy, their necks slit. It was a year before I was given to the Treasurer; we were wrapped in cloths and taken to Joshua’s Hill. I forced a tear on the roots of a tree there, no one saw me. Before she was slaughtered in Hamidiye, my mother used to say that a tear shed under a holy tree had value in the heavens. I prayed, may this curse on me and my abduction be over, may I breathe in tranquility in future lives. SON
Don’t let the fire get to you. Keep me under the sands at all times. Don’t be scared of the snakeskin. The Sahara is ours: walk freely. The capital behind rows and rows of cannonballs, I never got to be there. I had ink, I did, but I never got there. I hid my creations under my pillow, I learned how to curve lines and tap dots for us, only for us. The sultan had this white cat that sometimes sneaked into our chambers. I used to rub its belly and it would rest its little head on my lap. It was a year before we came to the palace. We were wrapped in cloths and taken to Aziz Mahmud Hudayi’s Dargah. I forced a tear on the paw of a cat there. No one saw me. Before she was slaughtered in Hamidiye, my mother used to say that a tear shed on the paw of a holy animal had value in the seven floors of heaven. I prayed, may this curse on me and these rapes be over, may I breathe in tranquility in future lives. May God protect us when our prayers lack, amen. EYE When faced with death, one’s screams can’t possibly equate the pain. Yet she kept wailing. She even bit the hands of the soldiers executing their orders. She then went on to gather what was left of her youngest son and pull his half-body into her lap. Salty waters trailed down the creases of her face. She found her feet and got on them, loaded her sons to her back and stood up. She walked a bit, then dropped the body on her back to her arms and carried on. This weighted walk reminded her of the times she gave birth to these boys, the way waters ran down her legs. The times she lightly pinched her son’s eyelashes, the chaste trees they climbed. Her knees gave up, she fell back. She couldn’t believe the stillness of the one she carried, and she shoved her nose to her son’s nose. His hands crossed at his chest. Stiff. Still. She untangled them, managed to hold him like she once did, like he was still a baby, and got up once again. She walked to the mansion, and as soon as she entered through the gates to the opening circled by cedar trees, she collapsed. Her screech trembled in her womb, up to her lungs, then inside her throat. Flesh burnt, tongue bled, the power of her voice scorched her vocal cords. She ran her fingers through the hair of the head and lifted it, faced it. Eye. Gleam. Where is your shine? Her youngest son’s eyes had a very straightforward green color - the other two a very simple black. They would turn red when he cried, at times when he needed a lesson. In those eyes, she once saw action, running, hanging from trees, hopeful cheer. These eyes had been the same since she had breastfed him, asking for more, sparkling with joy as he bit her nipple. Eye. Bright. Core. Leak. Light. Your eye. First it lost its pupil, then its color turned to murky sea waters. Filthy. She kept shaking his head, but her son’s eyes didn’t move. A glass came in between them. She began to see her own reflection, clearly, in his eyes. Their lids didn’t close. A reminder of the last moment they ever witnessed. Mouth open, tongue out. My last moment of joy was when he left my body. Eye. Essence leaving. The blame is on the mother; a life exits the body and induces more pain than when you put it there. And when milk fills the child’s mouth, she is in agony. The heart isn’t exactly at its best. And then there are the ones that stare, hoping for a taste. Then it begins again, a heavy boy on the way, stretching the limits of skin, shut up and push it out, what did we teach you in the dark? Fear and love in your veins, blood is shed and induces more pain than when it has first filled the body. She screamed and screamed, but he didn’t come back. She screamed for the sake of others who screamed before her. With what was left of her voice, she wished to give her own neck to bring him back. She traveled and came back to now. Her cry was heard, but that changed nothing. As she stared into the glass surface of her son’s eyes, she hoped to bury him next to his brothers. Iris drowned in tears. Outer circle calm. Eye. Gleam. Spark. She cried over her youngest son’s head; viscous liquids leaking from her nose. She kept trying to close the eyelids, and each time they refused to budge. She pulled the sword still hanging from the belt of the half a body on the ground and slaughtered everyone inside the mansion. The long cries for help resonated from the residents’ bones. Eventually the soldiers came. Her wish was granted, in part. Three were appointed to execute the order. They slit her throat. In the few the short days of Mehmed Rashad’s rule, this savage, heretic whore was slaughtered. She had once learned every prayer, but her mouth opened for the last time in the void of Tengri. May her soul rest in the peace she refused to pray for. 
Nazli Karabiyikoglu is an author from Turkey, now full-time resident in Georgia, who secluded herself from the political and gender oppression in Turkey. With an M.A. in Turkish Language and Literature from Bogazici University, Karabiyikoglu has five published books in Turkish and won six literary awards in her country. She was nominated for Pushcart Prize in 2019 and won The UnCollected Press/Raw Art Review Full Length Book of Short Stories with her book Subdermal Sky. She was invited to speak at Ubud Readers and Writers Festival on 2019 in Bali and at Pen America’s Women in Translation Month events. Her works appeared in Words Without Borders, Alchemy, Trafika Europe and other remarkable journals internationally.
Nazli was awarded with Writer at Residence program in Prague by UNESCO City of Literature 2020 and Writers-in-Exile Scholarship by PEN Germany for 2021-2023. She is working on her debut novel Elfiye; which will be a politically grounded LGBTQ+ work of Turkish literature that attempts to portray gay relationships without the romanticization that previous works have so often do. |