BAŞ KABÎMÎZDA ON THE COVER
Alan Dennis Harris
NAZAR LOOK Attitude and culture magazine of Dobrudja’s Crimean Tatars Tomrîğa Kîrîm Tatarlarîñ turuşmamuriyet meğmuwasî ISSN: 2069-5616 www.nazar-look.com nazar.look@mail.com Constanta, Romania FOUNDER & EDITOR-IN-CHIEF BAŞ-NAŞIR Taner Murat EDITORS NAŞIRLER Emine Ómer Uyar Polat Jason Stocks COMPUTER GRAPHICS SAYAR SÎZGAĞÎSÎ Elif Abdul Hakaan Kalila (Hakan Calila) CREATIVE CONSULTANTS ESER KEÑEŞÇÍSÍ M. Islamov Copyright reverts back to contributors upon publication. The full issue is available for viewing online from the Nazar - Look website. For submission guidelines and further information, please stop by www.nazar-look.com
www.nazar-look.com
2 khalil gibran On Pain - Ağî aşîklamasî 4 ğúrğe bakawîy (george bacovia) Azap kúní 6 obit (ovid) Tristia, Book TV.VII:1-24, Among The Getae Kederlíler, Kitap K5.VII: 1:24, Ğetler arasînda 8 mikayil emineskúw Şolpan 10 taner murat scythia minor (little crimea) Kókten sesler - Temúçin (XXX) 12 alan dennis harris michigan, usa Cleaning Up After the Dog Broken Hip - Sîngan kalşa Lost Sock Waiting Room Siri Understands The Gospel of Thomas 16 alice frances wickham england, uk Lovers in Crisis 23 cora j. bouzane newfoundland and labrador, canada The Human Condition Insaniyet hálí Soldiers Just Imagine
24 bhadauria manish singh gujarat, india Malala Fourth Phase of Waning Moon Broken Bangles Morning Rites 26 laila shikaki palestine Can You Love Someone Bír insannî súyersín mí? On Your Wedding Day Seníñ toyîñda 30 ali tal england, uk Unbounded Void (X) 38 john patrick hill california, usa Calico Silver Lace. Pinon Hills. She is Equal. War. Baby’s Call 40 edmund spencer Travels in Circassia, Krim Tartary, &c. (XXIV)
CONTRIBUTORS MEMBALAR cora j. bouzane alan dennis harris john patrick hill laila shikaki bhadauria manish singh ali tal alice frances wickham
Nazar Look 1
khalil gibran
(1883 - 1931)
2 Nazar Look
www.nazar-look.com
(1883 - 1931)
On Pain
Ağî aşîklamasî
Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding.
Şekken ağîñ añlamîñnî kapalî tutkan kabîgîñ parlamasîdîr.
Even as the stone of the fruit must break, that its heart may stand in the sun, so must you know pain.
Tîpkî ğemíşíñ taşî parlanmasî kerekkenídiy, kaálbí kúneşlenmesí úşún, seníñ de ağînî tanîmañ kerek.
And could you keep your heart in wonder at the daily miracles of your life, your pain would not seem less wondrous than your joy;
Hem góñílíñní hayatîñ kúndekí múğizeleríne meraklandîrîp tuta-alsañ, şekken ağîñ dewletíñden az kerametlí şîkmaz.
And you would accept the seasons of your heart, even as you have always accepted the seasons that pass over your fields.
Hem kaálbíñníñ mewsímín kabletersíñ, tîpkî herzaman ústúñden geşíp ketken mewsímleríñní kabletkeníñdiy.
And you would watch with serenity through the winters of your grief.
Hem kederíñ kîşlarîñ íşíne raát-raát karap turarsîñ.
Much of your pain is self-chosen.
Şekken ağîñnîñ kóbísí ózíñdendír.
It is the bitter potion by which the physician within you heals your sick self.
Íşíñde taşîgan doktorîñnîñ ózlík kastalîgîñnîñ şifasîna aşşî dermanîdîr.
Therefore trust the physician, and drink his remedy in silence and tranquillity:
Onîştan sen doktorîña gúweníp raát-raát, sesíñní şîgarmadan, onîñ bergen ílájín kóteríp íş.
For his hand, though heavy and hard, is guided by the tender hand of the Unseen,
Çúnkí onîñ kolî, hem awur, hem sert bolsa da, Kórínmegenníñ ğîmşak elíñ idaresíndedír,
And the cup he brings, though it burn your lips, has been fashioned of the clay which the Potter has moistened with His own sacred tears.
Ketírgen pílğanî da, awuzîñnî píşírse de, Şólmekşí Ózín múbarek kózyaşî man ğíbítken balşîgîndan píşím algandîr. (Taner Murat’nîñ terğúmesínde)
www.nazar-look.com
Nazar Look 3
ğúrğe bakawîy (george bacovia)
(1881 - 1957)
4 Nazar Look
www.nazar-look.com
(1881 - 1957)
Azap kúní Memleketíme ne kadar yabanğîman Sagînuwîm da heş kalmagan Adaletíñ sesín Kapatîr túşúnğe, karañgî we yaman. Şo kunnúñ keş maálínde bolağaktîr… Zamanlarîñ sessízlígí, korkînş aşlîk Aldîmda dolaşîp ğúrer! Ğîlap turgan ğîrlar da: - Bekleme endí, ağele et! – der. (Taner Murat’nîñ terğúmesínde)
www.nazar-look.com
Nazar Look 5
ovid
(43 BC - 17 AD)
6 Nazar Look
www.nazar-look.com
(43 me - 17 ms)
Tristia
Kederlíler
Book TV.VII:1-24 Among The Getae
Kitap K5.VII: 1:24 Ğetler arasînda
The letter you’re reading comes to you from that land
Geñíş Tuna suwlarîn deñízge koşkan yerínden
where the wide Danube adds its waters to the sea.
kelgendír saga okîyatîrgan mektúbíñ.
If you are still alive and have sweet health,
Eger saw bolîp tatlî selametíñ yerínde bolsa,
one part of my fate retains its brightness.
kaderímíñ bír parşasî gene ğîtîrap turar.
Dearest friend, you’re doubtless asking yourself
Ğanîm dostîm, men susup kalsam da sen hálímní bílesíñdír,
how I am, though you know, even if I’m silent.
gene de, heş şúphem yok, kayday ekenímní kaáretesíñdír.
I’m miserable: that’s a brief summary of my ills,
Mením hálím zor: bo dertímníñ kîskasîdîr,
and whoever lives on having offended Caesar, will be so.
mendiy Kamuk kîzdîrgan saw kíşí de, mendiy yetíşír.
Are you interested to know what the people round Tomis
Tomşî kermanîñ yagînda insanlar kayday ekenín,
are like, and the customs of those I live among?
aralarînda yaşap ğúrgelerímíñ ádetlerín bíleğek bolasîñ mî?
Though there’s a mix of Greeks and Getae on this coast,
Bo ğagalarda Yunan man Ğetler karîşkan bolsa da,
it’s characterised more by the barely civilised Getae.
kóbísí zor uygarlaşkan Ğet ózlígín taşîr.
Great hordes of Sarmatians and Getae pass
Ğol boyînda Sarmat man Ğetleríñ balaban hordîlarî
to and fro, along the trails, on horseback.
at sîrtînda án-yakka-mín-yakka geşer.
There’s not one among them who doesn’t carry
Aralarînda ğay, sadak,
bow, quiver, and arrows pale yellow with viper’s gall:
engerek ótlí aşîk sarî ok taşîmagan yoktîr.
Harsh voices, grim faces, the true image of Mars,
Sert sesler, ağîmasîz yúzler, Merihníñ asîllî suratî,
neither beard or hair trimmed, hands not slow
ne tîraş bolgan şáş, ne sakal, kolî şalt,
to deal wounds with the ever-present knife
heş eksík bolmagan ğaralar úşún
that every barbarian carries, strapped to his side.
her barbar bír yagîna kama asîp tagar.
Alas, dear friend, your poet is living among them,
Ne yazîk ke, ğanîm dostîm, seníñ şayiríñ aralarînda yaşay,
seeing them, hearing them, forgetting those he loves:
olarnî kóríp, eşítíp, súygenlerín unutup:
and would he were not alive, and died among them,
bo korkînş yerní heş bolmasa kólgesí taşlap ketsín dep
so that his shade might yet leave this hateful place.
ólíp te kurtulamasî kelmiydír diysíñ mí?
(translated by A. S. Kline)
www.nazar-look.com
(Taner Murat’nîñ terğúmesínde)
Nazar Look 7
(1850 - 1889)
Şolpan
Kaltîragan piyalaga Kúlúmsúrep hoş kîz Góñílíne yapîşmaga Túşer edí yîldîz.
Bír bar eken dep aytîla Kópten ótken masalday Kamuk kîzî ónder soyda, Gúzel heş bolmaganday.
Kîz túşúnde tartîp íşín Úrkúp ğîlamsîray: - «Ne kelmiysíñ maga tatlîm, Túşúmdekí ğanbay?
Tek kîz eken babasînda Herşiy men maktalganday Erden veliy arasînda Yîldîzlarga da ayday.
Túş aşaga ğuwaş şolpan Nurdan taya-taya Ğúr úyúme, geş oyîmdan Şaş hayatka ziya.»
Yúğe kubbe kólgesínde Kîz añîlîp pîsar Penğíreníñ kóşesínde Şolpan beklep turar.
O kaltîrap kulak sala Taa bek ateş alîp Bírden ózín atîp ala Deñízlerge batîp.
Yîldîz uzak deñízlerde Tuwup ğarîk atar Kîbîrdagan ízleklerde Kemí ğolî aşar.
Burum-burum dalgan suwî Túm-túwerek bola, Deren suwdan kayet yakşî, Eşsíz ğígít şîga.
Hergún kókke karay-karay Şo kîz aşîk bola Şolpan da góñílín baylay Karşîlîklî sewda.
Yawaş tayîp penğíreden Úyge basa ayak, Oñ kolînda kertíklengen Kamîş tajlî tayak.
Tírsegíne başîn salîp Kîz túşlerge dala Meraklanîp ta ğan atîp Góñíl-ğúrek tola.
Altîn şáşí sarî maşak Aksúyeklí bír ğaş Aşîk omîzînda ğîmşak Mor túymelí kumaş.
Yîldîz da kîzîşîp ğanar Beklep akşam-akşam Saray kólgesíne karar Kîz kóstersín endam. * Kîznî ízlep adîm-adîm Odasîna tayar Ateşínden şagîm-şagîm Bír aw tokîştîrar.
Ak kóleke, saydam yúzí Mayşîrakka tarta, Tîşka şagîm atar kózí, Kayet yakşî mewta.
Ğatagîna yukumsurap Kîz uzanîp ğatsa Tatlî-tatlî kolîn sîypap O kírpígín ğuma.
Karap toyarman dep keldím Kórsem bek yakîndan Dúniyamdan kobîp keldím Tuwup deren suwdan.
We aynadan taşîr nurlar Onîñ kewdesíne Kaytîmlanîr ak ziyalar Kózí men betíne.
Ay, kel, insanlîknî taşla Kel kîymetlím, sayarman, Kel şolpanga, kókte yaşa, Sení kelín yaparman.
8 Nazar Look
- «Zorlîk şegíp keldím sessíz Tatlî sózíñdiy yoktîr, Mením anam mawî deñíz Mením babam da kóktír.
www.nazar-look.com
(1850 -1889) Onda merğan saraylarda Men men soñsîz yaşa Herkez geñíş ğihanlarda Seğdelensín saga.»
- «Dayiremden şegíp zahmet Keldím, sózíñ keñeş, Mením anamdîr nim zulmet Mením babam kúneş.
- «Ay, sen melektiy túşúme Uşup-kelíp, yakşîsîñ! Lákin basmam ízlegíñe Ke sen başka túrlúsúñ.
Ay, kel, insanlîknî taşla Kel kîymetlím, sayarman, Kel şolpanga, kókte yaşa, Sení kelín yaparman.
Kîyafetíñ-sózíñ tezat Ğîltîragan mezarsîñ, Ke men ğanlî, sen mewta ğat, Toñdîruwğî nazarsîñ.» * Bír kún geşíp úş kún kaştî, Keşe kelíp kayta, Soñra kókte bírtaa aştî Şolpan nurun kîzga.
Ay, kel, sarî şáşleríñe Nur mañlaylîk tagarman, Yîldîzday tuw felegímde Men de şalîm satarman.»
Kóz ğumganda yukusuna Yîldîz kele-bere Dalgalarîñ mîrzayîna Kîz hasretlík şege.
Kewdem-kókíregím aşşîy, Súyúwúñden kastaman, Keñ kózleríñ awur, wahşiy, Nazarîñdan ğanaman.»
- «Túş aşaga ğuwaş şolpan Nurdan taya-taya Ğúr úyúme, geş oyîmdan Şaş hayatka ziya.»
- «Ka-típ túşermen, ağemiy? Kalbí añlamagansîñ, Men ólímsízmen, ebediy, Sen geşúwğí insansîñ.»
Kubbelerde eşítkende Şolpan ağîlanîp Bírden koba bír deweran Sóngen yerín alîp.
- «Sîratîşî sóz karamam Aytarman síptíden, Herbír sózíñ taşîr añlam Tek manasîz ğúmleñ.
Ağunlarnîñ hawasînda Kîzîl yalaz oynay Nizamsîzlîk ğarlarînda Tuwar yakşî şîray.
Amma dúrúst-tora bolsañ Súyermen men de sendiy, Eger túşúp ğerge kaşsañ, Adiy insan bol, mendiy.»
Kara şáşíñ perşemínde Alew tajî ğana, Kele kúneş ateşínde Míníp hakkîykatka.
- «Ístiysíñ ólmezlígímní Tek bír óbúw berseñ de, Íspatlayğakman súygímní Sení súyemen men de.
Bellí kolî, mermer eller Kara kefenínden, Dertí bellí, kaswet-keder Tússúz-ak yúzúnden.
Ebet, başka ádet alîp Men gúnadan tuwarman; Soñsîzlîktan ayîrîlîp, Ólmezlíkní taşlarman.»
Lákin onîñ engin kózí Deren hayal ğolî, Ekí toymaz hewes gibí Karañgîga tolî.
Kettí şolpan... Kete-kete Kúnler men ğok bola, Sewdalanîp kerimege Kók yerínden koba.
- «Ay, sen tayyarday túşúme Uşup-kelíp, yakşîsîñ! Lákin basmam ízlegíñe Ke sen başka túrlúsúñ.
(Taner Murat’nîñ terğúmesínde)
www.nazar-look.com
Nazar Look 9
scythia minor (little crimea) www.tanermurat.com
Kókten sesler - Temúçin (XXX) Kesím 66 Dak kapalî Karakulak Terekníñ ğolîn tutup yakînlayatîrganda, Zarğiyuday Eslígen, akşam ústí, Kulan Daknîñ etegíne barganda, daknîñ mañlayîndan awup turgan şayîrîna kíriyatîrganda, ğolnîñ kenarînda ósken tereklerníñ dallarîna asîlgan ğenaze elametlerí kórdí. Toktadî. Elametler ap-aşîk. Bo bír Batîr ğenazesí, bír Batîrga ğer ayîrîla. Ádetlerden kaberlí Zarğiyuday Eslígen, adîm atmay kaldî, toñdî. Ádetní yeríne otîrtmak úşún, Batîrnîñ mezarîn ğat kalmasîna, her şiy, her şiy yapîlîr edí. Kazadan bírem, kayet uzaktan geşíp ğenazení kórseñ, yîkpalsîz kúnúñ eken, şoyerde tîgîrtîr edíler. Bír daknîñ kuşagîna Batîr mezarî ayîrîlsa, onlarğa, yúzlerğe ğeñkşí aldîn alîp, tîpkî kaytarmalî awunda kora sîkkanday, kora sîgar, insannîñ, haywannîñ kózkapagîn kapatîp, aşîk kózden ğer temízler edí. - Dak zorlap kelmedím! - dep bakîrdî Zarğiyuday Eslígen. - Ayse, ne kerek? Kayt, kaytmak şáreñ bolganşîk! - dep keldí bír ses. Móñlíkníñ ballarîndan bírsí edí. Yasugaynîñ "Zuw-şuw etmeñíz!" degeníne, ğenazesíne ğeñkşí şakîrmadîlar, óz arasînda ğîyağak bolîp. Batîr ğolda ólíp, kerwanî úyle máálínde Kulan Daknîñ etegíne barganda, Móñlík men Temúçin şo yerge ğañî kelgen edíler, bekliy edíler. Ğenazeníñ mañlayîna KókKuşî Otşî geştí. Batîr ğenazesíne láyîk ádetlerge Kók-Kuşun başî tarta edí, onîñ başî man kettíler. Gezmegen, añlamagan ğorawşî dúniyasî kalmagan. Kîrk ğorawşunuñ yerín tutar hálíne kelgen. Ózí, ğenaze duwasîna ústún-başîn awuşturup, íşín uydurup, ázírlengenşík, duwaga başlamadan, "Kulan Dagî kapalî. Yokarsîna kuş uşmasîn!" degen edí. Şayîrnîñ aşasîna karap, Ğaraka Eslígenníñ ózí otîrtîp, ğolnî, ğígít torînlarîna karawullatkan edí. Şúndí, Zarğiyuday Eslígen, onlarnîñ níşanînda. Uşmaga ázír súmún, onlarnîñ súmúní. Zarğiyuday Eslígenmen. Batîr kulluguna keldím. - dep bakîrdî Zarğiyuday Eslígen.
10 Nazar Look
- Geş! - dedíler. Zarğiyuday Eslígen yawaş ğónegende, yokarga da bakîrdîlar: - Zarğiyuday keliyatîr. - dep. - Kelsín! - dep eşítíldí Móñlíkníñ sesí. - Başîñîz saw bolsîn! - dep barîp toktadî, Zarğiyuday, ğenazeníñ katîna. Kurî dallar toplap ot ğakkan edíler. Otka, kazan man suw asîlgan. Íşínde, Kók-Kuşî Otşînîñ atkan otlarîn kaynatalar. Aselet urbasîn kíygen, başînda şáşín tompîzlagan, moyînîna da, koğaman, ekí karîşlîk altîn aynî takkan, Kók-Kuşî Otşî, yaratîlgan inğe-inğe sesí men, otnîñ katînda mîrîldap, duwa okîy. Aldînda kupak bar, altîndan. Kupak kafatasî kapagînday, uluw şómíş hálínde. Ay man kupaknî kóríp, Zarğiyuday Eslígen uzak kaldî, Kók-Kuşuga. Bírew barîp, bír pílğanga kupakta bolgan íşkíden totîrîp kuydî, otnîñ ústúnde kaynatîlgan, kupakta suwutulgan íşkí. Şo íşkíden berdíler, Zarğiyuday Eslígenge, "Dostlar saw bolsîn!" dep. O da alîp, íştí. Bakîrîp ğîlamay edíler, herkezníñ kózkuyusî kurugan. Bír-ekí ay ewel karakulaknîñ terekten tîgîrîp túşken yerínde, şúndí, tîgîrtkannîñ orawlî mewtasî ğatîr. Katînda, Temúçin zîrîlday. Kesím 67 Sîrlarga karîştî Ímlí şalkalî, polatşî Zarğiyuday Eslígen kelgen soñ, keşíkmedíler, ğîbîr-ğîbîr etíp ğenazení ğónettíler. Temúçin, katînda Zarğiyuday Eslígen bar, atnîñ ústúne baylangan Batîrnîñ orawlî mewtasî bar, úş ğetek at bar. Bo. Ğónegen ğenaze, bo. Şo wakît, şo akşam ústí ğónedí, bo ğenaze. Ğenaze Kulan-Daknîñ yokarsîna míne-míne batkan soñ obírlerí şo yerde, Karakulak-Teregínde, íşleríne ara bermiy kaldîlar, Kók-Kuşî Otşî ibadetí men, obírlerí karawullamasî man. Úşúnğí kún, Temúçin kaytîp kelgende, Kulan-Daknîñ míyínde Zarğiyuday Eslígenníñ kazgan dokîz koñgîlî kalmagan, ğúmlesín agaş omîrgasîna kînap tagîlgan, ğúmlesín omîrgasî ğegílgen, sîndîrîlgan, ğúmlesí mîratîlgan. Zaten baştan yerí saklî koñgîllar ğer men bír boldî, sîrlarga karîştî. Yasugay Batîrnîñ mezarî da. Taa dokîz yaşînda bír bala, Temúçin kaytîp kelgende Yasugaynîñ mewtasî yok. Atî yok. Kîlîşî, súngúsí, atkîşî yok. Zarğiyuday Eslígen de yok, onîñ atî da yok. Daknîñ ğúrúlmegen
www.nazar-look.com
scythia minor (little crimea)
www.tanermurat.com
tawlugunda, kayalîgînda, Temúçinníñ urbasî blaşkan. Tozga, toprakka, otka, kanga blaşîp kalgan. Belíne takkan almansúgí de, şo. Ğetek atlardan bírsíne ğúk ğúklengen, ğúknúñ íşínden kan tamgan, uyugan. Kesekkesek etler bellí bolîp tura. Kesím 68 Kurban etí Batîr atasîn ğenazesín ádet men tabîştîrtîp ğîygan soñ, mezarîn sîrlarga karîştîrtkan soñ, Temúçin Zarğiyuday Eslígensíz kaytîp Karakulak Teregíne kelgende, ğetek atnîñ sîrtîndakî ğúkní túşúrúp, kesek-kesek etlerden alîp kîzarttîlar. Koñgîratlar, Kîyanlar, sîpîraga otîrdî. Herkez, índemeden aşadî. "Kurbanîñnî ka-típ şaldîñ, Temúçin?" dep soramaga bírewnúñ awuzî barmadî. Sáde oga zamanzaman kóz kîyîgîndan karap, ğuta edíler. Sîratîşî kuwet sabîsî Kók-Kuşî Otşî bír kenarga, Móñlíkníñ obír altî ulnuñ ğúregíne, eñ balabanlarî ğígítlík şagîna barsa da, sañkem bír korkî kírgen edí. Dokîzînda Temúçinden sañkem korka başlagan edíler. Kurban etínden aşap: - Yasugay Batîrnîñ ğanîna tiysín! - dedí, herkez. - Nur íşínde ğatsîn! Maga insan súygúsún úyretken edí. - dedí, Temúçin. - Súygenler bek tabîşmaz, árúwler kóp yaşamaz. - dedí, Şal-Ay Anay. - Kún kelíp kaytar, Kudaydan kelgenler, Kudayga kaytar. - dedí, Elinay Anay. Kesím 69 Kaytarmadîlar Karakulak Teregínde Temúçinníñ şalgan kurban etín aşap, "Yasugay Batîrnîñ ğanîna tiysín!" dep şîkkan soñ, Elinay Biyke, oylarîndan kaber ístep, Eslígen men Móñlíkní bír kenarga tarttî: - N-íşliyğeksíñíz? - dep sorap, onlardan. Soradî, mutlak sorayğak edí. Onîñ dertí akaylarnîñ wazipesí tuwul. Saw bolsînlar, tarlîkta kalmasînlar, onlar bolmagan bolsa hálí bondan da beter bolağak edí. N-íşler edí o, bírózí? Az yardîm etmedí, akaylar. "Endí, ketkísí kelgendír" dep túşúndí, bonîñ úşún soradî. Koñgîratlar kírpík bírem oynatmadî: - Ğatkan topragî şeşek aşsîn, bíz Batîrga
www.nazar-look.com
sóz berdík. Koñgîratmîz, namuslumuz, Elinay Biyke. Sen kuwsañ da, seller şayîrîna kírgenşík, şadîrîmîz katîñda. Ballarîñnî aş kaldîrmamîz. Kereklí şiylerní degeníñ gibí yaparmîz. Ne kerekse, sen bízge ayt! - dedí Ğaraka Eslígen. - Ambakay Hakaannîñ Tayğîwutluk kîşlasî ka-yerde eken? Onlar ğaz-kîş toplî konatan, kanatî ğîllî tutar. Hem Tayğîwutlukka koşîlîp ğúrgen Yasugay Batîrnîñ îrgîndan bír súrúw ğurt ta bar eken dep eşítken edím. - dep túşúndí Elinay Biyke seslí-seslí. - Onannîñ aşasîndalar. Elşí kerek mí, yoksam? - dedí Ğaraka Eslígen, ózíne gúweníp. - Bír şapsa, árúw bolîr. - dep ayttî Elinay Biyke. - Bíz barda Tayğîwutluk lázîm kelmez. dedí Móñlík, ózíne gúweníp. Babasî şîgawuydî, aldîna: - Sen bakîra berme, Tayğîwut kanatî korîwğî bolîr. Bar, balabanîñnî şakîr! Bíz bar bolsak ta, maksatîmîz Elinay Biykeníñ degenín yapmak. Ğol şaşîrma! Ğaz-kîş Ambakay Hakaannîñ Tayğîwut îrgî toplî konaklap ğúrúr edí. Geñíş-uzun bír otlakka barîp, beş-on dakkalîk koñşî arasî taşlap, şo yerge darkîp kalîr. Ambakaynîñ ólgení kayda kaldî? Yígírím senení geştí. Ondan berítlí îrknîñ mañlayînda ekí katuyu bar, Orbay man Sokatay. Onlarga şaptî Móñlíkníñ eñ balaban uyu, Orbay man Sokatayga. Kanîşalar şaşîp kaldî, o wakît Yasugaynîñ kaberín alganda. "Katîñîzda kongîm kele. Katunlarîm kabul buyursun!" dep kapattî Móñlíkníñ eñ balaban uyu elşílígín. Soñra kayttî. Yarî ğolda, artîndan kelgen Elinay Biyke alarnîñ kerwanî man tabîştî. - Ne dedíler? - dep soradî, o. - Orbay katun şay dedí: "Ay, bolîr mî? Bonî sorap ğúrgeníñ ne? Katîmîzga kelewuy!". - Sokatay man bír sózdeler mí? - Sokatay katun da şay dedí: "Bonîñ soramasî bola mî? Kel, kîzîm! Kel, koklam!" Elinay Biyke atlarnî kamîşlattî, ğollar adamakîllî bîzîlmaganşîk. Ğurtî emniyetke alîngan. Hakaan ólgenden berítlí bír-ekí basamak şókse de, Tayğîwut, gene, yaman kuwetlídír. Yasugaynîñ tuwganlarî. Aralarî da bek árúw edí, ya. Dogmîştay, koltîklaşîp ğúre edíler. "Ekí kanîşaga sawluk! Kaytarmadîlar. İnsanlîk ólewuymatan eken" dep túşúnúp, şúkúr etíp, Elinay Biyke tenkasîna bardî.
(dewamî keleğekke)
Nazar Look 11
alan dennis harris
michigan, usa
12 Nazar Look
www.nazar-look.com
michigan, usa
Cleaning Up After the Dog “Hey, where’s my card?” Grandpa asked as we sat across from each other at his dining room table. His house had been quiet up until then. The television was turned off. I kept looking over at the blank screen feeling as though the TV was staring back from the living room. Today that old television would watch us for a change. “What card?” I asked. “My Grandparents’ Day card!” “I never heard of Grandparents’ Day.” “It’s a Hallmark holiday. If you’re lucky you’ll have another shot at it next year.” “When’s Grandkids’ Day?” Grandpa sneered and answered, “Every day is Grandkids’ Day.” I thought about Grandparents’ Day. I supposed that there’s kids so lucky that they don’t have to buy any stupid cards on Grandparents’ Day. But then there’s other kids who have to buy like three or four or five. I looked over at the television and wished that it would simply turn itself on to some special channel that would answer all the questions an eleven year old keeps secret. “What are you thinking about?” Grandpa asked. “Just questions in my head, but I don’t wanna bother you.” “Come on. We ain't gonna live forever. Ask one of your questions already.” I turned away from the TV and saw my reflection in his glass eye. I took a deep breath and asked, “Did you love Grandma?” “Of course I did,” he snapped back. “What kind of knucklehead question is that?” Since I wasn’t sure what kind of question it was, I didn’t answer. “Of course I loved her!” “What happened?” I wasn’t sure what kind of question that was either. “We did everything together.” “Who, you and Grandma?” Grandpa just kept talking. “We went to the dentist together.” “When?” “After the dentist I drove her to the store and she helped me pick out a pair of tennis shoes.” “You played tennis?” He was talking, but not to me. Both eyes, flesh and glass, stared into the television screen. Even though the TV was turned off, it was like he was watching it, watching a story unfold in the darkness of
www.nazar-look.com
the black screen. “She asked me, What’s on TV tonight?” “So, what was on?” “Wheel of Fortune, then Jeopardy,” he answered. “Alex Trebec’s one smart feller—Canadian I think. We both loved those shows,” Grandpa said as he tilted his gray head towards the television. So I turned my head there as well. We both waited for the dark screen to continue the story. For a moment I was sure I saw something, but it was only our reflections. Grandpa put his hands together like he was about to say a prayer. “So she got up and announced—I’m going to clean up after the dog before the show starts.” “You guys had a dog?” “It’s hard to explain,” he explained. “Your grandmother enjoyed cleaning up, after the dog, after me, after everything and everybody. She would have cleaned up after you, too. She was just like that. It made her feel useful.” I smiled as I thought about my grandma walking around the backyard with a shovel, cleaning up after the dog—and Grandpa. “I was never much useful like your grandmother was,” he muttered as he turned away from the TV. “What happened next?” Grandpa's glass eye blinked as he turned back toward the television. “Alex introduced the contestants. There was a librarian from Moundsville, West Virginia and a store manager for Monkey Wards from Carmel, California. But before Alex got to the last contestant, I heard the neighbor pounding on my door. He had found her lying on the ground near the garden.” “You guys had a garden?” “She wasn’t even sick,” Grandpa replied, shaking his head. I kept listening but turned back to the TV. The blank, dark screen helped me focus on the importance of such things like Grandparents’ Day. “It was an aneurism,” Grandpa explained. Since I wasn’t sure what an aneurism was, I just nodded my head. There’s a lot I don’t know. I was surprised to learn that they had a dog not to mention a garden. Along with Grandma—her garden and their dog are all gone now. I decided to just keep nodding my head as Grandpa remembered things that I had never known. “When she told me that she was going to clean up after the dog,” he said, “I had no idea, no idea at all that I was listening to her final words.” I can't be sure, but I think I saw a tear fall from his glass eye. “Final words will sneak up on you,” Grandpa said with a sad smile. “Like an aneurism?” “Absolutely,” he replied. “Absolutely.” (First published in Australia’s “The Chimaera” in July 2011)
Nazar Look 13
michigan, usa Manzume: Bír baár akşamî
Broken Hip The injured animal stared into the headlights of passing traffic sitting alone in the median with a broken hip watching and waiting as people drove by leaving behind a momentary sigh while life-long memories of the night their eyes met followed everyone home
Sîngan kalşa
úynúñ kalay tóbesí píríj pişkotlarîn aşar baárdír, akşam tîñîşîn almakta saklîĞaralî kúller haywan solîp kalîr yakînda baárdír, akşam kelíp-ketkenraátlenmekte maşinalarîñ fener ğarîgîna kóz –akîytîp ay, bír bostan korkîlîgî eken mí, eken mí? sîngan kalşasî man bír at kíşnemesí de? – bírşiy eşítmem ğol kaşamagînda sáde şamîrlangan mehtap beklep-karap topallagan bír baár bírózí otîra edí akşamî da kîzîl tamgan şólde bír tapînagîñ artînda şo yerden kíşíler maysîz kalgan geşken arabamîñ tegerşígí de bír anlîk kókírep geşírmesín tek bílgen şiyím tewúkiy búgúnúm ómír boyî kókyúzí men daklar mení mîskîllar, mîskîllar keşe añîlarîn úynúñ tóbesínden artta bîrakîp bír tola yerínden oynagan şúndíden soñsîzgaşîk kóz-kózge kelíp baárdír herkezní akşam sózsízúyúne aldînakadar ketíp ozgarar edí. bír tamarîñ íşínde óz ğolîn tabar
Lost Sock
Waiting Room
We’re always searching for the lost sock its partner and me hoping for a reunion
Heaven has a Waiting Room carpeted and clean despite old magazines with God’s address cut-out strewn about in no particular order like the souls in line to have their temperature taken fearing the scale
We’ve waited days weeks once nine months for its return Fearing to ask where it’s been who it was with or why it left But at the end of the day what remains between us shall forever be adventures unshared
14 Nazar Look
Because the doctor’s in and knows the difference between big bones beer bellies and a guilty conscientious
www.nazar-look.com
michigan, usa
Siri Understands You called me technologically challenged because I say thank you to Siri I’m old, not archaic I still log on download surf, tweet, google Though I don’t Yahoo Check Facebook for my messages left unanswered Siri at least responds Maybe I understand better than you how changes are inevitable because one day Siri will appreciate the fact that in all our interactions I’m the one who has always been polite
The Gospel of Thomas There’s something inside each of us ticking away like the heartbeat of a trapped soul or the timing mechanism of a spiritual IED There’s only so many ticks in its tock so before your parts are parceled out among the human dust and debris or worse you fade to nothing because what you left to simmer, to boil over will scald your every metaphoric fiber memory and meaning sterilizing all proof that you ever existed Before it’s too late let it escape—what’s inside you to stay behind after you’re gone to remain vigilant and provide evidence that you were once here
www.nazar-look.com
Nazar Look 15
alice frances wickham
england, uk
newlondonwriters.com
Irish writer living in London UK, writes mystery and fantasy fiction for adults. Sister of Steve Wickham, of Waterboys. Interested in the bigger questions, the whys and wherefores of life, for instance, why are we born, what happens when we die and where do we go to when our existence here comes to an end, feels this is the only theme of any importance.
16 Nazar Look
www.nazar-look.com
england, uk
newlondonwriters.com
Lovers in Crisis When they arrived in Italy, mists had accumulated around the mountain like a penumbra. Rachel said that Vesuvius could blow at any minute. Alex knew that Rachel was different to other girls. She liked his lean body, slender hair and glasses. She called him Steve Buscemi when she was in a coquettish disposition.
poured them each a glass of Proscecco and said, 'listen ragazzi, you gotta come to the carnival tomorrow night, is gonna be wild. We got big band and lotta mad, crazy acts on stage.' Her metal bracelets crashed brutally as she snapped her fingers at a young waiter. Alex didn't remember him from the usual gang, this was a scoured up, snotnose adolescent man dressed all in black, black pants, black shirt, black apron. Alex distrusted him on sight.
Fabio looked at Alex in the driver's mirror, 'Ma! What can I do? Life goes on yes?' There was certain animosity in the tone that Alex didn't especially like.
'Whazza madda?' The old bird said, 'why you standing about like a prick in a cloister, bring the request, you butt hole, the signor and his wife are starving!' She said it local dialect which Alex enjoyed deciphering into English in his mind. Particularly the 'wife' bit. He didn't try amending the conjugal error, he figured, let them be a wedded couple, why not? It sounded cute.
'Will you orange to visit Pompeii?' Fabio asked in his cautious elocution.
'Fabio's brother, Carlo,' Maria explained, 'thinks he's god's gift, that cazzo.
'No we won't orange to visit,' Alex jeered, 'what for?'
The young waiter wheeled the sustenance out onto the deck, Prosciutto ham, pink salami, melt-in-yourmouth mozzarella, and huge, sweet-tasting tomatoes.
'You guys are insane living here with that winged serpent breathing down your necks,' Alex told Fabio, their cab driver.
Fabio grinned benevolently, 'numerous individuals' crave to seeing the celebrated bodies.' 'I'm not one of them,' Alex said. Fabio took a gander at Rachel. 'Shouldn't we think about you signorina?' Alex felt his heart pound... was the repulsive egotistical twerp hitting on his young lady? 'I like famous people,' Rachel said, who was distracted, thinking about her pet project, 'I trust I'll get to meet one this trip'. Their driver dropped them at the hotel without taking a penny, he said they'd see to it later when checking out. Alex felt stress, he didn't trust Fabio, and he liked things neat and tidy, not this shady 'pay later' stuff, chances were the taxi charge might be twofold on the hotel bill. He and Rachel dropped their bags in their room and requested a smorgasbord lunch on the patio. Over at the bar, the same old acrimonious barmaid - Maria - was fussily arranging bottles of Prosecco in the cooling cabinet. She flashed her new dentures, saying she'd won money on the lotto. Alex didn't buy it, everyone in the town was on the take, draining the traveller exchange. Still, she was a welcome sight, she had a good sense of humour and above all else, she minded her own business. Alex enjoyed the way she spoke English with an insane twang, a blend of Bugs Bunny and Mama Italia. Maria
www.nazar-look.com
Alex and Rachel washed the food down with the wine, and doused up the juices with the local focaccia. Halfway through their dining, the mists moved and the sun turned out in splendour. Alex began to relax. He called for more wine 'another flask of your delicious vintage.' Maria opened another bottle. He and his young 'wife' got stacked drunk. After the third bottle, the goblet flew from his hand, blasting on the ground. Shards of glass went north, south, east and west, the full run of the nautical compass. Maria snapped her fingers at the kid to come and sweep up the pieces, the kid came and cleared up the shards with a drained look on his face. Maria looked worried, she said the glass smashing on the ground was an omen. 'Nonsense!' Said Alex. 'It's harmless, it's like Greeks crushing plates at weddings, nothing vile. A break with the past, that's all.' When they got to their room later to crash out, Rachel whined about the toilet seat being broken. 'I can't sit on chilly china, gives me piles.' 'Sorry about the latrine, I'll get someone to fix it later,' Alex told her.
Nazar Look 17
england, uk
newlondonwriters.com Their room was situated behind the hotel porch, a dull provincial room, with only the filigree bedstead lending a touch of extravagance, but Alex liked it that way, rustico. They climbed under the woollen cover. Alex listened to the gentle thudding sound of the fishing boats, la barche da pesca, pulling against their moorings. Gradually they drifted off to sleep. When they woke later on, rainwater was spilling from the top of the porch and sunlight pierced the sky. It was as though a battle was taking place between the powers of light and dark. That night in the restaurant, Rachel grumbled around a stain on her wine glass. She summoned the waiter with a wave, but Alex sent him away again. Rachel was furious, 'so I ought to drink from a frightful glass that looks as though somebody peed in it?' 'No, of course not.' She got in a terrible mood, griping about the cheapness of the inn, 'why wouldn't you book us into the Palacio?' She was referring to the mega costly chateau at the highest point of the town, it was where big names stayed. Alex reminded her, once again, that he was on a mere teacher's salary, and that he was not a descendent of Rockefeller. 'You never even pay your goddamn rent,' Alex said, letting her have it. Rachel was livid, 'GO FUCK YOURSELF ALEX.' The waiter came and asked if they wanted more wine. Rachel pushed out her boobs - 'is the pope a catholic?' Next morning they both woke up with shouting headaches. Alex attempted to make it up to Rachel, letting her know he adored her, and saying he was sad for being so awful the night before. Rachel turned her back on him, saying nothing. Alex had the uneasy sense of 'the blonde leading the blind'. A tall, dark lady came and sat alongside them on the patio at breakfast. She had a cool, regal face, and there was something of Queen Nefertiti about her. Rachel glowered at the stranger. She detested rivalry. The woman went about choosing healthy items at the breakfast bar, and ignoring the delicious Italian pastries on offer.
18 Nazar Look
The self-restraint impressed Alex. He felt like getting to know her, and when she returned he made proper acquaintance, introducing himself and Rachel. The stranger gave her name as Val. The accent was Southern American. 'Do you like it over here?' 'Yes, I come every year,' she told Alex. Val's cell phone rang. She said 'excuse me', and strolled off some place to answer it. Val reminded Alex of his ex-wife Annie, who had also worn dark kohl eye liner and tight black Levis. He felt a sharp sense of longing for his deceased wife. The memory of her wasting away haunted him. Rachel couldn't make up for the loss, not in a million years. The pang of sorrow tormented Alex and he felt in danger of crying. He distracted himself by taking a sneaky look at the title of a book Val had left on the dining table. 'What's it about then?' Rachel asked, sullenly. They were the first words she had spoken that day since waking. 'It's the Egyptian Book of the Dead.' 'The what?' 'The Book of the Dead,' Alex repeated. Rachel gave it a scornful look. 'You don't come to Italy and read about dead people.' Val returned after her telephone call. She had gathered an apple from the breakfast buffet. Rachel immediately went up to collect more items from the bar. 'You don't come to Italy and not eat!' Rachel said defiantly when she came back to the table with her plate heaped high. Val inquired as to whether Alex and Rachel were 'doing the boat trip' the following day. 'Where do we sign up for it?' Alex asked. 'Goodness, there's no need sweetie,' Val said. 'Simply turn up at the harbour at eight tomorrow morning. I'll tell the skipper. Alex felt irritated with himself, why had he been so eager? Another tourist trap, he thought, probably turn out being expensive. All they really wanted was to hang out on the spiaggio. Sex might be pleasant too, if Rachel ever got over her 'tiredness'. He asked Val how much it would cost, that boat trip. 'It won't cost you a dime sweetie. It's free for guests. We take the pontoon to the patrone's private island,
www.nazar-look.com
england, uk
newlondonwriters.com overlooking the volcano. Then we honour Vesuvius with a feast. It's a yearly custom, those who attend are protected from the wrath of the Vesuvius, according to tradition.' 'Sounds interesting,' Alex said. The 'patrone' was the owner of the hotel. Alex had bumped into him earlier along the passageway to his room. Il patrone was sitting under an arbour, sheltering from the sun. Two lemons hung above his head, one was a healthy fruit, the other was turning black. The old man wore a full-length white summer coat, and a black beret, beneath which, wisps of white hair were just visible above his ear. There was a walking-stick in one hand and a tiny espresso cup in the other, indeed he was more of a collection than a man. As Alex passed a shiver ran up his spine, because even in that brief interlude he could sense the elderly gentleman drinking in every atom and detail of his person. After breakfast, Alex saw a notice in the lobby about the party. It was to be set in 1940's swing time, and the band was The Benny Goodman Tribute Band. 'Who's Benny Goodman,' Rachel asked. 'Someone your grandma might know.' 'My grandma passed away before I was conceived,' Rachel answered. 'Should we go?' Alex asked Rachel. 'I have a suit in my bag.' Rachel looked suspicious. 'Why? You normally just bring t-shirts.' 'Fancied a change,' said Alex. 'In any case, never mind you, what about me?' Alex couldn't see what the issue was, Rachel had plenty of nice dresses in that Pink Kitty suitcase of hers. 'Want me to buy you a dress?' 'That would be nice.' They meandered through the town where tourists thronged in the shop and squares, wearing their flashy wind-cheaters to protect against the wind and the rain. The sun was shrouded in mist, it reminded Alex of the vapour hanging over Mount Vesuvius. Fabio had said she could strike at any minute. They discovered a boutique and went in. Rachel picked out a pricey red, figure-hugging dress, and
www.nazar-look.com
when Alex went to pay he found he had forgotten his wallet. Rachel was furious. 'Typical!' The sales lady in the boutique was relaxed, ‘non importa, simply provide for me your name and hotel room.' 'That was decent of her,' Rachel said on the way out, 'putting it on our hotel bill I mean.' 'Yes, but what about the bill,' Alex said. 'How do we know they won't cheat?' It worried him all this being lax about money. No one seemed to ask for up-front payment, not even Fabio who usually grasped his money with a vengeance. After buying the dress they set off on a winding trek through the narrow alleys. The perspective at the highest point of their walk encompassed the town. They gazed at the villas built into the cliff side, brightened with purple begonias. ‘If the rocks fell those houses would tumble into the sea,’ Alex remarked. The scene was very pretty. Down in the Marina fishing boats dotted the harbour and further out, sailboats bobbed up and down. The waves were moving fast. It looked like another storm was brewing. For lunch, they stopped in at a restaurant close to the old town. It was crowded with people disembarking from the day ferries and a vagrant played the traditional Italian tunes on a cheap, tin whistle. Alex gave him five euros. Amongst the people making a bee line for the cafe was an imperious old woman with a dog who wobbled across the square and seated herself at a table next to Alex and Rachel. Rachel took a sharp intake of breath. 'What?' 'She looks like Aunt Cookie.' 'Who?' 'Cookie' 'What sort of name is that?' 'She inherited a biscuit factory. Alex, that's her, I could swear to it.' 'I see,' said Alex. 'So we're in the afterlife are we?' 'Honestly Alex, if Cookie wasn't pushing up daisies I would swear it was her.'
Nazar Look 19
england, uk
newlondonwriters.com
'Don't be silly.' The woman kept telling her poodle to 'sit, sit, sit, that's right, good doggie, sit!' 'Cookie had a dog like that too,' Rachel insisted. The waiters were grovelling around the old dear, she was acting like she owned the entire town. Alex sighed heavily, ‘how about we backtrack to the inn, I need a rest.' Along the dim passage to their room, Alex heard thunderclaps, and when he turned the key in the lock, rain pelted down. They got into bed and slept. Alex dreamed about something nasty lurking under the waves, when it broke the surface of the water, he woke up in terror. Rachel was still sleeping soundly, so he went outside on the porch for a smoke. He saw that the old Roman gods had been squandering their wealth in the town. The ocean was turquoise, and the sky a splendid topaz. Rainwater shimmered like jewels on the patio. He called to Rachel to join him. Rachel came outside, butt naked. She looked beautiful with her blonde hair all tousled and the sleepy look in her blue eyes reflected the sunlight. 'You were making such a racket in your sleep,' Rachel told him. 'I was having a nightmare.' 'What was it?' 'There was this thing, slinking under the waves.' 'What thing?' 'Well... I know this sounds odd ... it was an arm.' 'An arm?' 'Yes, staring at me.' Rachel rubbed her eyes. 'Hold on, arms don't stare.' 'Well this one did.'
For the carnival that night, the staff had adorned the terrazzo in a World War Two theme. Waiters flitted about in Officer's uniforms and a false submarine served as a wine deck. Val was sitting alone at the bar sipping a martini. She looked beguiling in a tight, black dress that shimmered with tiny diamonds. Alex and Rachel went over to say hello. They sat next to her at the bar. Val pointed out one of the patrone's artworks hanging on the wall next to the bar. It was an WW2 airplane diving into the ocean, tail ablaze. The pilot was grinning as he fell from the belly of the craft, and his goggles were still attached to his head. He seemed strangely familiar. Alex didn’t like the painting. It was as though the artist was poking fun at the tragedy. Down in the basement, a twelve-piece jazz orchestra was in full swing. The band leader wore style from the 1940's. It was like going back in time. When Rachel and Alex entered, Fabio, who was dressed like a Chicago hoodlum snatched Rachel by the hand and Lovers by Alice Wickham based on original artwork in Positano
'Why not find out? Go over and say hello!'
Alex told Rachel that the arm was hacked off at the shoulder, all torn and bloody, like a bit of meat. 'Ewwwww! You need to cut back on the shrimp Alex, it's giving you nightmares.' She went back in, leaving Alex alone on the porch again. The dream seemed to him like a premonition.
20 Nazar Look
www.nazar-look.com
england, uk
newlondonwriters.com yanked her onto the dance floor. Alex saw Rachel jiving happily with the rest of the crowd. She seemed to know all the right moves. Then the lights dimmed and Val appeared on stage singing A Nat King Cole number. 'To you, my heart cries out perfidia, for I saw you the love of my life in somebody else's arms.' People lingered on the dance floor gazing at Val. Her smoky-sounding soul voice sent ripples of pleasure through the room. Afterward, Val left the stage and vanished into the crowd. Alex found her at the bar. 'You never said you were a soul vocalist, Val.' 'Well, that I am.' Alex took her hand. It felt cool and delicate. 'Val, will you dance with me?' Alex could not believe his luck hitting the dance floor with a beauty like Val. Throughout the dance his fingers climbed along her back, anxious to touch every bit of her. When the dance ended they returned to one of the tables circling the dance floor. Maria was in charge. She went about lighting candles and escorting people to seats. Mountains of food appeared out of nowhere, crab, lobster, shrimp, the lightest, most slender strands of spaghetti, bruschetta crisp from the stove, sizzling meats of all descriptions, and pizzas hot out of the oven, with formaggio di capra. The waiters brought jugs of Barolo and Krug champagne. Fabio and Val appeared to know each other. Fabio's dark hair was slicked back, he looked viciously handsome. Fabio lit a cigarette and turned to Alex, green eyes flashing, 'really the best huh? The band, I mean?'
an ogre, spaghetti sauce spilling from his lips. Rachel didn't seem to mind, she was mesmerised by her new man. They started getting cozy, and the odd thing was that Alex didn't care. When he saw them getting all lovey-dovey, he said to himself, 'no problema'. It was as if a new brain had been implanted in his skull. Next up on stage was Suki the Snake Charmer. She was naked with her hair tied up in seashells. A cobra was wound around her narrow waist, and when she loosened her long dark hair, the crowd went wild. Suki called out for a hero to rescue her from the snake, the prize being Suki herself. Frankie didn't waver a moment, he dashed up on stage and heaved the cobra onto the dance floor. There was a thunderous roar from the crowd, tables and crockery went flying as the swarm scattered left and right. Frankie took his prize. He yelled out for Rachel to join him. Alex looked for Rachel, anxious that she might be upset. Instead, Rachel had already begun strolling towards the stage to join Frankie in the act. Alex averted his eyes, reluctant to witness what happened next. It was as hot as Hades down in that basement. Outside, a little path took Alex to the cove and there he saw Val seated alone on a rock. He sat next to her and took her hand without saying a word. Together they listened to the sound of the waves rushing back and forth. They remained that way, silhouetted under the moonlight. At long last, Alex found the courage to kiss Val. When they finally made love Alex felt a rapture such as he had never known. Exhausted, he lay with his head in Val's lap. 'I could die happily,' Alex said.
'They're cool,' Alex said.
'So you're not frightened of death?'
'What?'
'No, not now.'
'Cool, as in – magnificent.'
We come and go, like the waves,' Val said.
Fabio turned to Val, 'did he say this band, 'cool'?'
Alex felt as if he had known Val all his life, and he told her so.
'Yes, I believe so.' Fabio hung over the table and gave Alex a threatening stare. 'Hey listen up, this band it's 'hot', red-freaking 'hot!'
'Me too.' Val said. 'I feel I have known you forever, but by tomorrow you will have forgotten me.' Alex sprang up. 'No way!'
'Yes, that too.' Alex said.
Val didn't answer, she was curled up, and asleep
Fabio made a mocking gesture at Alex and then turned again to his plate. He consumed his food like
They woke up at around dawn. The party was still going on, and the revellers had spilled out onto the
www.nazar-look.com
Nazar Look 21
england, uk
newlondonwriters.com spiaggio. Acrobats did somersaults along the shoreline while a jester went about teasing people with tricks and devices, but there was no sign of Rachel amongst the crowd. 'Where the heck is she?' Alex asked Val. Finally Alex caught sight of the blonde head peeping over the balcony on the hotel terrazzo. He stood up to go, but Val touched his arm, 'remember, the boat will be here soon.' The moment she said it Alex remembered about the boat trip. Out on the horizon, a schooner was already slicing its way to shore. Overhead, Alex heard a low rumbling noise, and in the distance he saw Vesuvius's glowing pinnacle. He was overcome with a feeling of panic. 'I've got to get Rachel. I'm not abandoning her here.' 'Alright, but please be quick.' Val warned. Alex ran across the beach calling out his girlfriend's name. 'Rachel, Rachel, over here!' Rachel saw Alex, and waved. She grinned when he climbed the steps towards her on the terrace. 'It is safe to say that you are mad at me?' Rachel asked. 'No, would you say you are mad at me?' "Why?" 'Abandoning you?' 'Don't be senseless.' 'Where's Fabio?' 'We had a fight, then he went off with some whore.' 'That charlatan.' 'Well, his misfortune, not mine.' Alex took her hand. 'listen Rachel, we've got to escape from here.' Rachel took her hand back, 'what do you mean?' 'The boat will be here soon.' 'What boat?' 'The excursion to the island, don't you recall?' 'Oh that! No, I've changed my mind, I'm not going.'
22 Nazar Look
Rachel shot a quick look over Alex's shoulder. She stood up and waved ecstatically, 'Fabio! Over here!' Alex turned around. Fabio was making his way up to the terrace. He looked a mess with his shirt hanging loose. He slung his arm around Rachel's shoulders. 'Where you got to baby?' Alex couldn't stand it. 'Leave her alone you!' Fabio took a gun out and pointed it at Alex. He tossed a bit of paper down on the ground. 'The bill, asshole, time to pay.' Alex picked up the bill from the floor. He read the items listed there. Everything was carefully totted up, the cab ride, the dress, the restaurant, the room, everything, all totalled, and at the bottom of the bill, he read one zero zero zero zero. Alex spluttered in disbelief, 'what the hell is this? Ten thousand euros? Are you nuts?' 'Is okay,' Fabio said with a malicious grin. 'You give me your girlfriend, and is quits. Okay?' Alex had had enough, he lunged at Fabio. Rachel screamed as the punches flew. In the midst of the scrapping a gunshot went off. Alex wasn't certain at first, but when he looked down he saw that he had been mortally wounded. Somehow or other, it didn't seem to hurt him at all, not one bit. Rachel was giggling. 'Don't you get it Alex, no one dies here, its all a game.' When Alex arrived at the inlet, Val was waiting for him at the Jetty. Together they entered the patrone's splendid boat. The patrone was seated on the deck, and Maria was serving champagne. The little gathering cruised out from the harbour leaving the carnival behind. Alex finished his wine then threw the goblet out onto the waves, some flotsam and jetsam glided on the surface of the water, reminding Alex of his dream. Next, he saw Val's face, beautiful, like Nefertiti, the face said,'I am thy kinsman, and I have fought for thee.' Eventually, the goblet disappeared, descending into the watery desert. Later that day, Mount Vesuvius erupted and the villagers ran for their lives. When the red sun sank into the sea, Alex felt like he was crossing the ocean of time itself. ***
www.nazar-look.com
newfoundland and labrador, canada
The Human Condition We all are silently weeping We all have kindness within We all have secrets, we're keeping And, we all have, a pinch of sin
Insaniyet hálí Alayîmîz ğîlarmîz saklana-saklana Alayîmîzîñ íşí ígílíkke tolî Ğaşîrîlgan sîrlar bar alayîmîzda Alayîmîz bolamîz terakay gúnalî
Soldiers Soldiers are like arrows They go where they are sent Never, underestimate them For, they are hell bent They’re only following orders I’ve often heard, it said But, once they cross, your borders You’ll still be, just as dead They are trained to destroy To them, you’re a toy You may be old and wise And, most of them, are only boys But, like I just said You’ll still be just as dead The war machine has to be fed
Just Imagine Have you ever met a child of ten, who, knows not how to pray Or a little one, just three years old, who has lost the will to play No, I doubt if many of us have, for they’re far across the sea And, we lack, the imagination, to conceive their misery We know, it breaks a mother’s heart, to see her child in pain Especially, when she’s helpless and her efforts, are in vain What difference, if they’re black or white, the tears are crystal clear Falling from the eyes of children, half starved, entrenched with fear Why should they, have to do without, necessities of life Sure, that’s what breeds, the restlessness, and causes all the strife Their, battle for existence, rages fierce and endlessly But, who can show compassion, none else but you and me Jesus taught us that the dogs, should eat the crumbs, that fall From, the hands of little children, but, that’s not so at all For, children are forsaken, with, not a thing to eat They have no crumbs, they have no food, no shoes upon their feet
www.nazar-look.com
Nazar Look 23
gujarat, india
Fourth Phase of Waning Moon Scarlet face stares the celestial lagoon, with scars given to her last noon moaning and pain proceed up to the moon, yes; it is the fourth phase of waning moon.
A selection from the upcoming "Jasmines of Desire"
Malala
Hunger, thirst and painful strides, it’s all for his longer life Hopes, desires, logic and rights, all crushed under a word called wife.
Vultures invaded my little valley and sky.
Her swollen face inside the sari,
Fencing territories of my flight,
chants hymns through adhesive throat.
Growing wings were put under scissors.
All waiting eyes glued on a cloud,
And parasites are allowed to march in to my roots
as moon is engulfed in dark shroud.
Snatching golden seed of knowledge,
Then it shines with waned face.
They burnt peace to grow weeds of terror.
bearing same scars on its face.
They closed all windows and fresh air,
All lifts their thin wired filters,
And blurred the horizons of my existence
to see both the gods in alter.
A ray of hope diluted the darkness,
All the rest got blessings of feet.
And brought a strong gust of wind,
Alas! She still waits for her god’s feet.
that opened every sealed window. And uprooted growing weeds in my fields
Her god is busy in political twit.
Vultures came down to claw
and have no time except physical needs.
And to assassin the first ray But when they tried to quench the light
At last hasty god comes with water,
They got blinded by Malala rays.
and asks her to come early in slaughter.
24 Nazar Look
www.nazar-look.com
gujarat, india
Broken Bangles Broken bangles make bare feet bleed. pain peeps through wrinkles on bed sheet, trampled flowers are very eager to die in that closed chamber of first night. Suffocated desire sits in a dark corner,
Morning Rites
dragging legs close to her wounded breasts.
A teenage boy brings my day,
And searches her fate lines
on the back of his rusted cycle.
in her ‘mehandi’ filled palms.
The cylindrical world rolls in the balcony, till fingers undo that tender knot.
Love of first night devoured all hopes, through a desperate; starved mouth
Yet again its bloody face,
Darkness crept in through exhausted thighs
has new stories of despair.
and yelling got lost in wedding band
A story of fourteen year girl, she lost one of her breasts.
Day rises with swollen face
for saying no to prostitution.
and fetches her to another cellar where she needs to cut, chop, roast and fry
Another girl lost her face,
to quench another mode of Hunger
in the shower of acid, bestowed on her
(This poem is dedicated to Malala Yousafzai and to her indomitable spirit. She lives in my neighborhood but there is a high wall between us. I hope someday we can bring it down)
by her psycho lover. A senior policeman got transferred and one got dismissed as, As a minister’s buffaloes went missing. The day has yet, another twist. my one of the social worker friends broke in the evening, to discuss lesbian relationship and one heroine’s silicon breasts.
www.nazar-look.com
Nazar Look 25
palestine
Can You Love Someone
Laila Shikaki was born and bred in Palestine where she now resides. While attending Chapman University, California, for her M.F.A in Creative Writing, Laila wrote Palestine and homesickness. As a university instructor at Birzeit University, Laila now writes about California, Palestine, love, and politics.
Dedicated to the Palestinian martyr Saji Darwish (d.d 10-3-2014)
after their death? Saji, I read about you in an article. breaking news 18 year old from Ramallah.
I could have seen you sitting on stairs, in the corridors, in the cafeteria.
I then saw your picture beautiful features. I can even imagine your voice deep, yet subtle: Yamma, I am going to feed the sheep now. it was late, your hair your mother said was still wet. dark brown like your eyes.
You bled to death. And no one came to hold your hand No one heard you say al shahada Or take care of my mother Or tell her I love her... One shot!
One shot! You bled to death And I cried until I could not cry anymore. I loved you and I haven’t... I hadn’t met you. But she did. He took a class with you. They saw you play basketball behind the engineering building; I saw pictures of you on your black horse. A prince!
One shot!
You came back to Birzeit with closed eyes Held on hands. I watched the video with teary eyes feeling your presence Where I walked for four years as a student. One year as a TA. Half a year as a part time teacher. You were taking your Tawjihi exams then. You were 16 when I was a T.A; And you left at 20. Usually endings are my strength In poetry, but here I am Elongating a poem that should have ended at One shot!
You, Saji, could have been one of mine. In a class of 26 students, I could have been teaching you Writing I At Birzeit
26 Nazar Look
www.nazar-look.com
palestine
Bír insannî súyersín mí? Filistin şehití Sağiy Derwiş’ke bagîşlangan (10.03.2014’te ólgen)
ólímínden soñ? Sağiy, bír makeleden kaberíñní aldîm. ara kaber 18 yaşînda Ramalladan.
Birzeyit’te merdúwenlerde otîrganîñnî kórer edím geşeneklerde, yemekkanede. Bír wuruştan!
Soñra resímíñní kórdím, gúzel ğetenekler. Sesíñní bírem eşítkendiy bolaman deren, gene de inğe: Neniy, endí koylarga ğem bermege barağakmak. Keş eken, şáşleríñ kurumay eken taa, dep aytar neneñ. Koyî kawerengí kózleríñdiy. Bír wuruştan! Sen kan kaybetíp óldíñ. Men ğîlay-almagan hálíme kelgenşík ğîladîm. Men sení súyúp ğúrdúm hem de... tanîmadan. Ama o sení tanîdî. Ders arkadaşî ekensíz. Olar sení sanayiy binanîñ artînda basket oynaganîñda kórgenler; Men kara atîña míníp şîkkan resímleríñní kórdím. Bír mîrza! Sen, Sağiy, úyrenğílerím bola-alîr edíñ. 26 úyrenğíden bír sînîfta, men saga yazuw dersí úyreter edím
www.nazar-look.com
Sen kan kaybetíp óldíñ. Bírew de kolîñdan tutmaga kelmedí ne şehadet aytkanîñnî eşítmege, ne anamnî karamaga, ne de oga súygenímní aytmaga… Bír wuruştan! Birzeyitke ekí kózíñní ğumup kayttîñ, omîzlarda taşînîp. Videoga yaşlî kózím men karadîm seníñ katîñda bolganday, talebe wakîtîmda dórt sene ğúrgen yerlerím. Bír sene de muwallím yardîmğîsî. Yarîm sene serdar muwallím. Sen o zaman sekízínğíñní pítíre edíñ. Men muwallím yardîmğîsî ekende sen onaltî yaşîñda edíñ. Yígírímíñde de kettíñ. Ádette şiir kapatmasî seletímdír, lákin bo şiirní uzata beremen. Bír wuruştan! sîrasî man pítemesí yakîşkan şiirní. (Taner Murat’nîñ terğúmesínde)
Nazar Look 27
palestine
On Your Wedding Day My sister has never taught me to shave my legs, She never explained the art of makeup, Or how to know which boys to date, But in her eyes big brown sharp she taught me how to be a woman strong. In her desire to succeed, I first learned about work and misery In your first year, But my sister accomplished so many things I, the younger sister, Found it hard to compete So I learned to watch her. From my sister I learned how to not wear contacts, And how you must pick your clothes before you go to bed, But I also learned about another kind of love. My sister does not love Like me.
Tracing them after her own handwriting, And I followed, Like I followed her steps in Journalism, But failed To fall in love with it as she did. I used to watch Muna read Left hand on her left eyebrow, A habit She still keeps. My sister, taught me a lot Of what you might call Cliché’s. How hard work pays off, How education sets you free, How independents and dedication are a woman’s vice, But my sister, above all, taught me about love. how it needs no boundaries how it seeps in you like water near cotton, and today as I stand before you my sister in a dress in white I learn that love After all Does conquer.
Her love Is in her deeds. My sister bought me my first cellphone, White with a 20 shekels card A treasure at 14. She taught me English; She made me write the Alphabet
28 Nazar Look
www.nazar-look.com
palestine
Seníñ toyîñda Tatam maga ne bağaklarîmnî tîraş etmege úyrettí, ne yúzúme kalem tartmamnî aşîkladî, ne de kayîsî bala man şîkmamnî, Ama onîñ geñíş kawerengí sarp kózlerínden men kuwetlí bír kîskaayaklî bolmam dersín aldîm. Onîñ başaruw ístegí men, men başta síptí seneníñ iş men sefaletín úyrendím, ama tatam kóp şiyní beğergení úşún men, onîñ kîz kardaşî, o man rekabet etmege zorlanîp oga karap otîrmaknî úyrendím. Men tatamdan eles hem merğegí takmamaga úyrendím, hem de ğatağakta ka-típ kíyínmemní, ama başka túrlí súygíníñ barîndan da kaber aldîm. Mením tatam mením gibí súymez. Onîñ aşkî onîñ yapkanlarîndadîr. Tatam maga síptí ğep uzaksesímní satîp aldî, biyaz, íşíndede 20 şekellík kart, 14 yaşînda bír kazine.
ózín yazîsîna karatîp maga elífbe úyretíp yazdîrdî, men de onî takip ettím, gázatağîlîkta da takip ettím ama onîñ kadar bo zenaatka aşîk bolmadîm. Muna ezberlemesíne karap turar edím sol kolî kaşînda, búgún de dewam etken onîñ ádedí. Tatam maga kóp şiy úyrettí, úyretílgendiy sayîlganlardan. Zor íşíñ zahmetí tiygenín, terbiyeníñ azatlandîrganîn, bagîmsîzlîk man ózberúwníñ kîskaayaklînîñ míní bolganîn, ama herşiyden ewel tatam maga súymekní úyrettí. Sînîrga keregí bolmaganîn, pamîkka suwday síníp íşíñe ótkenín, búgún de seníñ aldîñda biyaz kelínlík kíygen tatam, şonî úyrenemen ke súygí soñînda herşiyní ğeñer. (Taner Murat’nîñ terğúmesínde)
O maga Íngílízğe úyrettí;
www.nazar-look.com
Nazar Look 29
england, uk
www.arabworldbooks.com
Unbounded Void (X) 13 As it had been the way with us, during the break for lunch I would wait by the noqra fire for my wife to bring in my dinner. To my great vexation, Fatimah did not make her usual appearance. Seething with anger, I put my warm overcoat, boots and wrapped my face with a kofeah and went to the bakery hut to remind her of my need. Woe is to Ali, you are an unjust tyrant. All the fires of Hell will not atone your sins. Please, forgive me for shedding tears of blood. They are the only thing that is left to me to express my wrath and indignation at my insensate haughtiness. Fatimah sat alone in-between the soot darkened walls of the low ceiling bakery hut. My eyesight was like a vast flood of light that I saw everything at the same time. Her chin and neck were ruby red with blood. The clothes she wore were stained with the water of life. The tips of her pale cheeks were so flushed that they looked like two crimson spots. From between her blue, parched lips her breathing came out uneven, in little gasps. On seeing me standing at the door her eyes glittered as if in fever, but her gaze was sharp and fixed. Throwing her withered matchsticks arms in the air, Fatimah harangued me, ‘Ali, all of my life I lived begrimed in a pitiless time. I sat alone in the company of pain and misery but my soul yearned for death. Then, you appeared from the unknown at the blackened horizon of my wretched existence, promising a spectre of hope. Ali, you are the cruellest of all my enemies.’ Love was in my heart and smothered my soul that I was unable to respire. It was shaking to the core of my very being. All other feelings were suddenly disappeared and I only felt love, conquering everything in its path. As if I had lost consciousness, my tongue moved on its own whispering, ‘O Fatimah! I am so sorry. I love you. Please forgive my blindness.’ Until the end of the second Kanon, I took unmitigated care of my beloved Fatimah, never leaving
30 Nazar Look
her bedside, only for the briefest of time possible. Although she objected strongly, I closed the school to devote my time completely to her needs. However, the villagers soon put my house under quarantine that neither they or their children came anywhere near the school. Before I go any further, it must be clear to you that my intentions were pure and all of my actions sprang from a sincere and a selfless desire and not in any way to atone my sins or to redeem my crimes against her. They were many and could never be forgiven. Yes, as you have guessed right, I admitted to myself my love of Fatimah with all the meanings that the poets of the world and all its prophets in their varied languages, endowed Love with from the beginning of Time. When I lifted my wife into my arms on that day of the white feathered rain, my soul wept with joy that happiness stifled my breath. Thrown off balance by my flaring passion and fired by her touch, I enfolded my darling into the warmth of my embrace, frantically wanting to shield her from all harm. She was as light as a captive sparrow that it longer remembered how to tweet. To make sure her bed was soft and warm, I spread two mattresses one on top of the other next to the noqra fire and laid Fatimah gently on them and then covered her with two quilts. I stoked up the fire until it blazed with undulating red flames that sparked and danced, echoing the happiness of my throbbing heart. After wiping the blood from her pale face, I put my lips onto her forehead wet by the sweat of fever and kissed her tenderly. Our tears mixed and I heard a whisper in my ears calling, ‘Ali! Ali! Why are you so late.’ I was blown down from my heights at her feet by her sudden and severe fits of coughing that gripped Fatimah and turned her as white as a snowflake. The fits did not let go until she spat blood. Refusing to believe
www.nazar-look.com
england, uk
www.arabworldbooks.com my diagnosis, yet inside me I was aware of the reality of her illness. I hurried to the village chief's house and told him what had happened. With all the care he could show, he said, 'Teacher Ali, it is snowing now. We have to wait for the morrow.’ I was kindled with rage and did not know what to do next. I ran to the house of Fatimah's relative and knocked his door hoping he would let his wife or one of his daughters sit with my wife until I fetched the doctor. But like the village chief, he also did not care and refused my request. I turned to Umm Ahmad and begged to sit with Fatimah, offering to pay her whatever she wanted. With a scornful glare in her eyes, she mocked me, ‘Only the touched will dare to venture out of his house in this cold weather. Go and look for your need at somebody else’s door.’ Fatimah spent the night in delirium with sweat pouring off her. If she was caught by a spasm of coughing, the fit would not let go of her until she had coughed blood. I sat next to her bed wiping the sweat from her forehead and cleaning the blood from her mouth. Our fire remained lit that night and our oil-lamp was not put out. How I prayed to God to relieve her pain. I was only a sinning human, my prayers were not answered. If a fit of coughing caught her, for my helplessness, I would lose my mind with trepidations. As the silence of the domain of sleep deepened in darkness, I became more tired and began to weep and blame the wisdom of her Maker, ‘O Allah! You salted her life with humiliation and made her dreams of no avail. The tenderness of Your mercy dried out at her doorstep and let her live in cruel times. Why all this revenge of this meek creature who is so hungry for the joys of life? Is not the search for happiness Your law?’ When the dawn cracked the veil of night and light gently streamed under our door to announce the birth of a new day, the glow of the oil-lamp dimmed. Desperate to do something for my love, I opened the door to see what sort of day my universe had awakened to. To my relief, the sky was clear and the snows of Zion glinted pale blue above the white Golan. Drawing a good omen from the brightness of the breaking day, I felt more at ease and decided to take Fatimah to Al Qunaitra to see the doctor as soon as the sun rose above the desert dunes. When I carried my wife to the cart,
www.nazar-look.com
which I had borrowed from the village chief, the brilliant daylight gleamed on the slopes and everything was sparkling white. The dirt village lanes disappeared under a thick blanket of soft snow. Nothing was left visible but the red stones of the houses and they were attired with white turbans. I spread a woollen mattress on the floor of the cart then I laid Fatimah gently on it and covered her with two quilts. To be sure she was warm, I spread over them my sheepskin fur. The good wife of the village chief came to see us off, but when she saw the condition of Fatimah, she retreated covering her mouth and nose with the ends of her veil and spoke from a distance. I was busy with the comfort of my wife to hear the woman or take notice of her apprehension. All the way to Al Qunaitra, Fatimah lay very still on her bed and remained silent. In fact she pensively submitted to everything I did without questioning. She neither objected nor enquired to where I was taken her. Whether her submissiveness was trustfulness or lack of care, I never asked. Although the road was deserted, so as not to hurt her, I drove the cart slowly. The Doctor's diagnosis was frank and deadly. I gazed at him with a vacant blank face, not understanding what he was saying, refusing to comprehend his judgment. Appreciating my lose of words to express my bewilderment, he said, ‘Sorry teacher Ali. Your wife suffers a terminal combination, chronic asthma and tuberculosis.’ I begged him to do all he could do to save her life. Shaking his head with a gesture of resignation, he pressed his hand on my shoulder in sympathy. As if to pull myself out of the state of total despair into which I had fallen, I refused to listen to him. Cussing and cursing his ignorance, I drove my cart to the second surgery. In those gone-by days there were only two surgeries in Al Qunaitra, unlike the dozen or more that you can find nowadays. The second doctor, who was younger, candidly told me the same as the first. To challenge him I said, ‘I will take her to Damascus.’ The young doctor whose name was Salem was the same age as me. He also had come to work in the Golan Heights against the advice of his folks in Damascus. Twice I am indebted to him, for looking after my wife and for saving my life. More of that shortly. Had it not been for Dr Salem, I would not be here to
Nazar Look 31
england, uk
www.arabworldbooks.com suffer and atone some of my sins. Dr Salem he had a pleasant face, was well built and rather taller than average. Alarmed at my incomprehension, in a soft sympathetic voice Dr. Salem consoled me, ‘Ali, I understand your dilemma. But you must take pity on her. Her weak body could not cope with the hardship of a long bus journey.’ Staring at the drained face of Fatimah who seemed to have got worse, l had to accept the man’s sincerity. To save my wife the hardship of the trips back and forth to Al Qunaitra, I asked the doctor if he could visit us in the village. He agreed. Most forenoons the young doctor rode on the back of his donkey and came to my house. A strong friendship developed between us two that has lasted all these years. The medicine and care eased Fatimah's pains and her fits of coughing became less. The fever cooled down and she slept restfully for days. When the news of Fatimah’s illness spread in the village, a quarantine was imposed around my house. Forced by their parents, the children did not come anywhere near the school. Except for the doctor, neither friend nor neighbour dared to cross our threshold. Alone, Fatimah and I, were in the comfort and warmth of our room. No one troubled the calmness of our love. Those quiet, precious days were the happiest days of my life. Although Fatimah begged me to be careful and not to take risks with my own health, I refused to leave her side. How could I? Her love became the beat of my heart. I selfishly thought in the innumerable days of loneliness yet to come, I would need something to remember and remind me of those days of tears and honey. Around the warmth giving fire flames in the noqra, my wife and I faced each other. She listened eagerly to me but remained that taciturn being who only spoke when she was spoken to. One evening whilst the dancing tongues of the flames coloured our room with its golden warmth, our eyes met. A surging passion gripped us both. My gaze was fixed on her reddening face whilst her eyes blinked away. A deep, still silence got hold of us and we heard the whispering call of eternity. The universe was void but of the music of our panting. In the fold of that superlatively fulfilling
32 Nazar Look
and driving thought, my heart raced. Through clouded eyes, I saw my wife in a halo of light and she looked the most beautiful creature since the beginning of creation. Floating on the tempestuous fire of love, I crept towards her. It was an embrace that lowered the black curtains of forgetfulness on the past. Nothing mattered but that most pure moment of being. I kissed her lips although she wanted to keep them away from me for fear her illness would infect me. In her ears I whispered the songs of lovers, 'I need my sweetheart.’ My tongue parted her lips and drank from the spring of life until I quenched the thirst of my lusting soul. Her body was soft and her breasts were hard. We closed our eyes to the world. In the gentle breeze of our caresses we set sail on calm waters. We cruised seasons after seasons. I dived deep into her and she received me with the open expanse of the blue space that arched over the Golan. She fell to sleep in my arms. Such bless, I felt like a teenager worshipping the first woman in my life. My nightingale sang out her happiness most beautifully. We spent the month of Shebat in harmony, filling our cups with the nectar of love again and again, laying in each others arms, glorious until the foredawn. As the month was approaching its climax Fatimah had a cruel relapse. Her condition suddenly worsened and the coughing fits became longer. But now, my love was complete, proudly supervising all my wakening hours. If I dreamed I saw only Fatimah’s peaceful, magnanimous face. At the peak of their obsession, lovers become impatient with the slow pace of the world around them. Feeling no different, I wanted to shout the love of Ali and Fatimah from the rooftops. But my wife remained that quiet being who once was the lowliest individual in the village and believed that humiliation was her fair share of life.
14 As Fatimah’s infirmity took hold, inexplicably I became edgy and could not stay still. Unbeknown to her, Fate was writing the final chapter in her tragically short life. In a moment of shear madness, and to prove my love and devotion to her, I decided to present her to my folks in Damascus. My feeling of guilt was so huge
www.nazar-look.com
england, uk
www.arabworldbooks.com for my initial refusal to acknowledge her in public that I suffered such severe pangs of conscious. I did not only want to hint at my love but to show her that she mattered very much to me. I whispered in her ear, ‘Because you have become the air I breathe. The liquid that quashes my thirst. Sweet Fatimah, you are my everything. My lover, I promise you what is ahead is even more beautiful.’ When my friend, Dr. Salem, called on Fatimah, I informed him of my impetuous decision. I candidly acquainted him of our story and the shame I had felt for marrying such a lowly woman. He was sympathetic to my dilemma and showed concern for what had happened to me in the mathafa and how I was confined there to be led to Fatimah the next night; otherwise, she and I would be have been slain to cleanse the tarnished honour of her outraged relatives. He understood the reason for the shame I felt at the time and why it was very difficult for me not tell my parents of my enforced marriage. Feeling sad that after I had found my love only to lose her to illness, Dr. Salem said in a gentle voice. ‘Ali, I know what you are trying to do. Her body is now very weak to cope with hardship of such a long bus journey. At this late in her conditions and this bad weather, you will surely kill her.’ He reflected for a few seconds as though something quite ominous had suddenly occurred to him. The white of his eyes dilated and his forehead deeply furrowed. He gazed directly into my face and added, ‘Why do not you bring your parents to her?’ His demeanour intimated that I was looking for an excuse to flee the village. Perhaps he even doubted my apparent gratification with his idea when I asked him, ‘And Fatimah! Who would look after her during my absence?’ He hesitated for a few seconds as though he was testing the depth of my sincerity and whether there was really something veiled behind my plan. I noticed a shadow of a doubting smirk on his fresh face when said, ‘I will send a nurse to stay with her overnight.’ Years later, when I ruminated on that day, I became convince that Dr. Salem did think I was looking for a way to escape. When I asked him, ‘What did you think when I told him that I was taking my wife to see my parents?’
www.nazar-look.com
With a serious voice, he said, ‘To tell you the truth, Ali, I did think that there was some hidden ulterior motives behind your sudden idea of travelling.’ The next morning the plateaux below the Golan Heights was darkened by thick, angry clouds threatening a downpour. That night the medicine gave my wife undisturbed sleep. However, due to my worries and fears, my eyelids hardly shut. As the muezzin called for the early morning prayer, I jumped out of bed to get ready for my impending journey to Damascus. After stocking the fire in the noqra, I did my ablution and then prostrated myself before my Creator, praying to Him with a heavy heart to cure my wife. Whilst waiting for the shepherd’s daughter to come and milk the goats, I sat next to Fatimah's bed weeping and watching her thin, pale face restfully asleep. For some strange reason, my mind was deeply troubled, that I was in no mood to speak to anyone. Not until the goats had been milked and led to pasture, did I fetch the milk. To give my wife a special treat, I began to cook Mehlawneah, her favourite breakfast food. I boiled some milk in a pan over the noqra range and added to it plenty of sugar and butter. I toasted some bread then shredded it to bite size pieces before adding it to the pan with a stick of cinnamon for taste. As if Fatimah smelt the sweet smell, she cracked her eyelids and outstretched her arms and then smiled the most beautiful smile as though she was in the bloom of health. It tore my heart apart that I choked with sadness and teardrops stood on my eyelashes. With a great deal of trepidations for her safety as I would shortly be leaving for Damascus, the words stuck in my throat and they needed a real effort to bring them out. At last I was able to say, ‘We are having Mehlawneah for breakfast. Would like that?’ She yawned then said, ‘That will be lovely, Ali. I am starving hungry.’ The rest of the morning I busied myself with household chores: cleaning and tiding the place up. Then I heated water and helped Fatimah with her bath and put her in fresh clothes then combed her long, black tresses, which she braided into two plaits. It was nearly midday when the nurse finally arrived at our courtyard on the back of her donkey from Al Qunaitra. Her impending entrance shocked me to the core and I
Nazar Look 33
england, uk
www.arabworldbooks.com became fretful unsure what I should next. A sudden feelings of foreboding gripped me as my heartbeats raced and my face lost all colour. Seeing me in this restless state, Fatimah tried to soothe my worries. In a soft voice that was barely audible, she said, ‘It is alright, my love. Do not worry. Allah willing this time tomorrow will be back home.’ Her words were like sharp knives tearing at my flesh. All I could muster was one word, ‘Yes.’ In the style of the women of the Plateau below the Golan Height to the east, the nurse wore over her ankle length black dress a rust coloured mazweh1. The nurse was a matronly woman with a friendly big smile. She was a plump lady and as she walked, her large backside swayed under her black dress. On entering the room, she masked her mouth and nose with the ends of her black shawl. She jovially greeted us, ‘Good morning Teacher Ali. How are you feeling today sweet Fatimah?’ My reply was timid but had a hint of irony, ‘Good afternoon Umm Mohammad.’ Although I did notice the immediate change in her deportment, Fatimah somewhat managed a cautious smile. The obsession that had been gripping me over the past three days to go to Damascus, suddenly reached its peak, demanding an immediate action. No one could now deter me; not even if Fatimah herself had implored me to stay I would still have gone. I think my wife saw that in me and though her eyes were downcast she kept silent. Had all of my cares, my efforts, my sweat and labours over the past two months been but soft tissues of lies? Were the lips that kissed her emaciated sick body but skin piercing snake bites? Were my smiles but wolf-like grins, insisting on silent talk? As I bent my head down to kiss Fatimah’s fevered forehead good-by, her frail body shook, but she gave me a smile which was more of a reflexive nervous laugh. She managed it in such way that she had thought nothing from the outside was visible of her inner turmoil. But I saw and sensed that my eyes strained and shied before hers. I cannot be sure of the qualification of Umm Mohammad, the woman who would be looking after my wife during my brief absence, but I had heard Dr. Salem call her a nurse. During my visits to his surgery, I used to see her wearing a white apron over her shapeless, black dress, diligently bandaging wounds or
34 Nazar Look
boiling syringes and needles to sterilise. When the doctor suggested her to attend to my wife, I agreed immediately thinking she would nurse Fatimah with a tender care. After I had answered the nurse's many questions and showed her where everything was, I sat next to my wife to bid her farewell. I looked into her eyes and to my surprise their old flames were suddenly brightly lit up. Searching for an excuse, I said, ‘For you I am journeying.’ Her face frowned for a second then a single drop of tears ran down her pale cheek and quenched the flames. Fixing her sharp gaze into my face, Fatimah put her withering arms around my neck. She seemed to by trying to soothe me when she whispered, her hands clasping my face tight, ‘Be careful.’ ‘Allah willing, by this time tomorrow I will be back.’ Feeling what was somehow known to her heart, though she put on a brave face, Fatimah answered, ‘Ali, with you I have known the perfect love. Between these walls I have lived life to the full. It has been glorious. Unlike all those around us who have plans, I just want to live for the now. And what a yearning for the awareness of being I saw in your angry face! What sweet suffering love is! I an not afraid of dying. Life becomes infinite when say for you, love, I shall overcome. Just to say I love you is all there is. Being in love is sweetness beyond endurance.’ ‘Coming back by the morrow.’, was all I could say before leaving her side. As I left the village on the back of my jennet, I saw no one to stop me and say, ‘Teacher Ali, do not leave. Your wife needs.’ There was no one to lay the blame on but myself. That cold, frosty day the lanes were empty of people. They all were keeping warm indoors. Through a chink in the clouds, the sun suddenly made an appearance which I took as a good omen and I somewhat felt less troubled, deluding myself, ‘Allah is lighting my path. Allah willing, this time tomorrow my parents and I would be back.’ On the way to Al Qunaitra, the sky was batches of cold bright blue as a dimmed sun sat comfortably on the snow covered pinnacles of the Golan Heights.
www.nazar-look.com
england, uk
www.arabworldbooks.com Woe is me! Even as I descended the rocky slopes and glens, my mind was filled by ominous trepidation. O to my unending pain and to my eternal stupidity! How often my tortured soul asked me in vain, ‘At a time like this you leave your wife alone?’ But I have never found the right reply. I reached the house of my parents in Damascus and the winter night had drawn its thick, black clock over the face of the world. My mother and sisters were very surprised and worried to see me at their midst. Understandably, they assumed something bad had happened to me. My mother received me with alarm and shock. The bewildered look in my crazed eyes, my pale, withered face and emaciated body stupefied her with horror. After I had assured them that everything was alright and that there was nothing to worry about, I decided to take advantage of the absence of my father and tell them of my love story, hoping they would comprehend my dilemma and help me bring my father to my side. I immediately began acquainting my mother and sisters with everything that had happened to my in the village. To arouse their sympathy for Fatimah, I begged them with fervent tears in my eyes, ‘By the God you worship mother and by the Love that binds us together, have pity on my poor wife. Please, mother help me give her just a minute portion of the happiness she had been denied all her miserable life. We must give her back her self-respect. We must let her know she matters, she is one of us.’ Stunned by the revelation, my mother collapsed back onto her chair. She angrily glared at me for a few seconds before she sharply repudiated me, ‘A beggar! You have agreed to marry a beggar! The shame of it, the humiliation. Where would I put my face from the neighbours? What tall tale the rumourmongers will spin in Damascus?’ I hoped my father would be more merciful, but he plunged his knife deeper into my heart. He whispered lest the neighbours could hear, ‘Lower you voice, you imbecile boy. Divorce her immediately and bring back honour to our name.’ The talk dried up on my lips. Deep in my heart I could not blame them. Did I not keep myself aloof from Fatimah and her misery for so long before I acknowledge her existence. But, I could not stay one
www.nazar-look.com
second longer amongst my family. I left my parents to their sins and rushed back to the bus station to go back home. Since that cursed evening my foot has never crossed the threshold of the house I was born in. Until their death, and my father went to his grave a few months before my mother, my parents, my brothers, sisters, nephews and nieces regularly came to visit me. They had often pleaded with me to leave my village and return to Damascus. How can I leave Fatimah's world? Here resides my atrocious wickedness. With a bleeding heart and weeping eyes, I slammed the door of my parents house behind me vowing never to enter it again. To my horror, in the bus station I was told that the next bus would not depart until the next morning. I tried to hire a cab but my luck had run out. Blaming the long distance and the dark threatening clouds, no driver agreed to take me to Al Qunaitra. Blinded by sadness and remorse for leaving the side of my wife‘s deathbed, I drifted along the same ancient lanes of Damascus that once, at the dawn of human consciousness, Cain futilely roamed carrying the slaughtered body of his brother Abel, searching for a hiding place. The fear and worry that my wife might have thought I had abandoned her in her hour of need, made me lose my reason. I was in the grip of a furious vortex of fear standing at the front door of a hotel when a persistent voice calling, ‘Ali! Ali!’ from behind burst into my head. I turned to look whose voice I was hearing, I saw a friend before me, waving his hand and urging me to wait. I would not diverge and bore you with unnecessary details. You have been very gracious and patient reading my confession thus far. Seeing my terrible state and that I had been crying, my friend took me to a nearby café. I was so full of trouble that I told him all that had happened to me in the village and the unhelpful reaction of my parents. He felt sympathetic and took pity on me, insisting that he would not have me sleep in no hotel and insisted that I stay overnight in his house. I spent the sleeping hours awake, burning cigarette after cigarette, waiting for the dawn to break. As the Heavens would have it, it rained non-stop all night. With the first thread of light I put on my overcoat and boots and quietly left my host's house
Nazar Look 35
england, uk
www.arabworldbooks.com whilst all its residents were still asleep. I was the first at the bus station and sat in the wet for a long time before the bus came. Despite my constant requests and pleading, the driver refused to start the journey before he had enough passengers on the bus. The rain and the waiting dragged on and I inflamed with rage at the slow passage of time. When the seats were half full with passengers, the bus moved. I sighed in relief and thanked the Lord for His Compassion. A flicker of light shone through the tunnel of my despair and I saw the smiling face of Fatimah.
15 To my pain, unexplainably I found myself tied up, unable to move a muscle. Mysteriously, my whole body seemed to be wrapped up. My thinking was confused and I could not feel the ground under me. When, with effort, I was finally able to tear my eyelids apart the merest slit, in the haze that befogged my sight, I saw above me a whitewash ceiling. In the state of near unconsciousness, I was slowly able to make out the nebulous shapes of animated men and women in white clothes, sedulously busy coming and going. All of a sudden the noise, that was engulfing me on all sides, like the peals of bells, broke into my ears. A cacophony of jumbled up noises and voices. I was unable to distinguish a sound, as though they were speaking in whispers. Occasionally, a face would peer real close into my face. However, no matter how hard I thought I was pricking up my ears, I was still unable to make out what they were saying. As my vision sharpened and my eyelids cracked wider, I began to realise that the strange faces were smiling at me. Perplexed by their cheerfulness, I sensed that there was something I do not yet appreciate and I was immediately gripped by a terrible apprehension. As the effect of the opiate waned further, my senses became more acute. In the blackness of memory, I started to shake as if trying to feel myself. Yet, I could not find my arms nor feet. Like a bolt of lightning, swiftly came the realities that could not be ignored. The small voice pealed inside my head, ‘O Allah! I am tied up to a bed. These people in white are doctors and nurses. I must be in a hospital.’
36 Nazar Look
I tried to speak, but I felt a tube stuck down my throat, silencing the sound which I could hear myself vocalise. Except for the wild dance of my eyes, I was completely paralysed, unable to make even a whisper. I shut my eyelids in despair. When I opened my eyes again, the white ceiling was replaced by a myriad of concerned and smiling faces. Some were actually familiar. I first recognised my parents, then I made out my sisters and brothers. There were others whom I was unable to recognise. They all ringed me on all sides. Inside my head, I muttered, ‘Why? What is going on?’ Although, all the lips were constantly moving, but I was not able to decipher a word as though the faces were speaking in some foreign tongues. Except for the crazy dance of the pupils of my eyes, it seemed my other faculties had ceased to work. The first familiar voice I made out was the whimpering of my mother. I yelled at them, ‘Mother! Fatimah? Where is Fatimah? Where is my wife?’ But they did not hear me. My shouting was drowned inside my head. The thought that they were keeping me from going back to Fatimah, enraged me and made my anger sizzle. Cussing and swearing thundered in my mind, but my tongue remained unable to stir. ‘Woe is you, unjust people, release me. Let me go.’ The pain was intolerable and I felt a splitting headache befuddling my mind. As though, I had suddenly came upon a sparkling mound of gold, I found my body and began to struggle to free myself from the their chains. The bed shook and alerted my jailers. Familiar faces peered all around me and hid the white ceiling from my sight, again. With utter contempt for them, I shut my eyelids and refused to cast my sight upon the alarmed expressions on their countenances. The poignant voice of my mother, smelling with lavender, drew nearer to my ears. I heard her softly say, ‘Are you awake, my darling?’ I opened my eyes and in a stifled voice I mumbled, ‘What does this woman mean?’ Tears of joy smiled at me from all directions. ‘What has happened to me? Why am I here?’ As if in reply to my unheard questions, my father said, ‘Ali! Can you hear me, son? You have been unconscious for ten days.’
www.nazar-look.com
england, uk
www.arabworldbooks.com The deep voice of my elder brother came clear to me ears. ‘The doctor! Make way for the doctor.’ Inside my head a contented feeling came over me, and I sighed in relief, ‘Doctor Salem! Is that Doctor Salem?’ A strange face appeared between the ceiling of faces. I felt a gentle hand on my forehead then a soft voice saying, ‘Welcome back, Teacher Ali. Try not to move. Just signal with your eyes.’ I screamed angrily at him, ‘Fatimah! Where is my wife?’ But my words fell on deaf ears. The strange doctor did not hear me and he continued, ‘There was an accident. During the rainstorm, the road gave way under your bus. It was hurled down a deep gorge. Your injuries are severe, but you will be alright. Allah be praised, there are no broken bones apart from a fracture in your left femur.’ My younger brother could not hold himself from rejoicing, ‘Allah be praised, you were saved by a miracle.’ I felt the burning tears in my eyelids. Beseechingly, my lips whispered my cry inside my chest, ‘Fatimah! Where is she?’ Despite their jesting and joviality, these people were no friends of mine. I coiled over in despair and melancholy. For a long painful week I was unable to move. The hospital felt like a prison, I had to escape from at the earliest possible opportunity. The dread of what might have happened to Fatimah wounded me to the quick. As soon as there was enough strength in my limbs to carry me, I put on the clothes which I had begged my mother to bring and I discharged myself. Although the pain was unbearable, I could not care. All I wanted was to set my eyes upon the face of my wife. Followed by the alarmed shouts of the medical staff, imploring me to stay, I hobbled out of the hospital steadying myself on anything that came my way. When I put my hand into my trousers’ pocket, I found a wad of notes. I happily whispered, ‘Bless you mother. Only mother knows where her child’s heart is.’ There were cabs parked outside the hospital. I begged a driver to take me to Al Qunaitra. He took pity on me and helped me inside his cab. Since that day I had never set foot in Damascus. With the help of my good friend the grain merchant Abu Ahab, I managed to
www.nazar-look.com
get back to my village on the back of a wain. Driven by unimaginable desire to see my wife, I limped into the courtyard. Crying a heartrending wail, ‘Fatimah! Where are you?’ Only the echoes of my shouts answered back. I desperately rushed into the cold empty house, searching for her. She was not there. I ran about the village lanes calling her name. The people gathered around me. With tears in my eyes, I implored them, ‘Where is Fatimah?’ But they were dumb. My thigh no longer could support my weight and I fell to the ground and seemed to have lost consciousness. During my absence, the unjust world had broken into our house with a vengeance. Worried about her husband, Fatimah forced herself to come out looking for me. Appalled and frightened by her unhealthy sight, the villagers feared she would infect them and their children. Assuming that Teacher Ali had done a runner, as it was their custom, and to speed her departure, they carried my wife to the tent of isolation. Fatimah died as she lived and died alone in an unbounded void. It was only the care of the village chief’s good wife and devotion and friendship of the young doctor Salem that kept me alive in those most sorrowful days. Deep in my heart of heart I know that I am guilty. Over the past forty five years, pain and austerity healed my scepticism and taught me how to meditate. Despite my human defects, I strove for the good and mended my ways. I caught glimpse of the Divine. This once frivolous and vain young man now stands naked before your humanity, knowing that his hour is about to strike. And as the shadows grow darker and larger around me and my nails are dead of colour, I feel I am more than half amongst the dead. With joy repeatedly re-felling my cup to the prim, I rejoice for soon my soul will have wings, spurning all that is vain and false and I will be set free. It is a fitting end to a profligate life, that I will die alone and unloved in an unbounded void.
______________________ 1. Mazweh is a woollen ankle length cloak worn mostly by women.
Nazar Look 37
california, usa Calico Silver Lace. She wore it rolled And she hung it brown, But her mind was a maze Of Calico Lead. Her breath was her money And her sight built on honey But the Calico Lead, The Calico Lead. Her breast plate and visor Hammered gold - gem encrusted The talon’s in her eyes, Gypsy sails, fluent tales. But, the pull of the Mountain The fight of the broken had her Fist still a’ clutchin’ Calico Lead, Calico Lead
Pinon Hills. Two families cresting – Holding to the Earth Gifted fingers still a’blazin’ Bridled tensions filled with mirth. Heaven’s songs Gentle visions Gaelic version German myth. The pyre on the mountain Speaks of seeds Speaks of birth. Holy motion, Holy motion Sanskrit value Virgin birth A castle full of memory Stolen chalice Ocean surf. This love is founded On Goddess truth Starry roof. Remember the call of Laughter healing
38 Nazar Look
Remember the treasure Of river’s shrine Golden shrine. Our words Become prayer Studded hills Everywhere.
She is Equal. She cried her pain, To the hidden flame And my medicine Road read the toll. A value measured In the voice of many Rung and insanity O’ pull the cord Connected to pitfalls Connected to snares. Her pain hid the flame To The chorus Get in. We dug we watered The houses they tottered The sunlight was softened But tears remained. We toiled and tilled And freed every field Yet tears pulled and glistened The evening frame. A criminals road Lied as gold The hammers to break slavery for all were Used to break Tiffany opal Tiffany small. O’ horrors of healing the thiefs are a Streaking the bounty of beauty held, In the hands of many Our pain gilded treasures Were tilled by Jackson’s shame.
www.nazar-look.com
california, usa War. Miles of soldiers Miles of notes Come home by New year’s Come home soon Miles of taking Miles of tears The ocean’s their breaking Greed is in tune. Take the white Seal, the whale, the birds on high. Big oil is faking They run on sigh. Come along, come along, come along. The ice is a breaking We should not live lie. Love life shaking Sacred Ways, Sacred ways. Protect our minds As our mouths move the line Sunset, noon high, sunshine. Moby Dick, Mr. Moore. Pull the sheets On the factory Cancer sells it, no more!
Baby’s Call Break water, ice plant Shingle roof, door Rin tin suit case terror mind no more. See the racist Dovetail, see the spike four Mother’s give to heaven, daddys keep score. Break water coal plant Mountains in heat, Velvet single dancers Shuffle the beat.
www.nazar-look.com
Kerosene Dribble box See the lane Clearing pain Two hoops and Eagles soar The bottles break The beer left stains. Minnows in a river Pilot singers Pilot singers. Long Beach, the long reach Love song on the roan Jack spurred velvet song Broken souls on the mend. Beaten gold Hammered silver Snow leopard Change the game Our hope riddled ‘gin By the lies We tried Never named again. Sing song Biltmore The Queen is the ‘too. I raced the Giants, To every shore But the more was no more. Tweeded by the noir. Twisted meds, Twisted wheels, Broken tooth And black lines. We called out across The time Chasm open Cross, to our try I never die Silver Lining roses. Open doors To crossed Bridges Our love is The more.
Nazar Look 39
Travels in Circassia, Krim Tartary, &c. (XXIV) LETTER XIII.
HELLESPONT - SCENERY - AUSTRIAN STEAM-BOAT PASSENGERS - SEA OF MARMORA - ASPECT OF THE COUNTRY - FIRST IMPRESSIONS ON ARRIVING AT STAMBOUL - ITS SPLENDOUR AND POVERTY CANINE SCAVENGERS - MELANCHOLY INSTANCE OF THEIR VORACITY - THE SUBURB GALATA - TURKISH CEMETERY - SUBURB OF PERA - GREEK BOARDINGHOUSE - ENGLISH INMATES.
The scenery on the banks of the blue sea of Hellas fell far short of my expectations, for most of the descriptions given by travellers of its beauties are exaggerated; even the elegant lines of Byron, in his Bride ofAhydos, are more applicable to the Bosphorus than to these scorched, half-barren shores No doubt the tourist, on first arriving in this classic strait, is prepossessed in its favour, and regards every object through the medium with which his own imagination has invested it; for he remembers that it is immortahzed, not only by the hapless lover Leander and our own delightful Byron, but the glorious exploit of 1806, when our brave mariners passed the whole of the batteries in defiance of a discharge of cannon which might have sunk a navy. If this deed of daring could then have been performed with so little danger, how much more practicable would it now be with the aid of steamboats: besides, nothing could be easier than to capture any of the batteries by land, their whole strength being on the sea-side; and then silence the other by the guns of its opposite neighbour.
40 Nazar Look
But to return to our observations on the scenery. To be sure, there is the fine rushing stream with a succession of picturesque castles bristling with cannon, the curious red-painted villas and chiosks of the Turks rising here and there in the midst of gardens blooming with orchards, olives, and vineyards, the swelling dome of the mosque and the slender white minaret mingling their graceful forms with the dark green of the towering cypress. All these are very pretty things, and novel to the European traveller; but they are not sufficient to form the sublime scenes which we had promised to our hopes. At Chanah-Kalesi I found the Austrian steampacket, the Maria Dorothea, commanded by Captain Ford, a gentleman in every respect superior to most of his brethren with whom it has been my lot to travel: the officer, however, was more deserving of commendation than his vessel, which. being only one of seventy-horse power, was too small for a sea-boat, and shipped, at the slightest breeze, quantities of water; but, in some degree to counterbalance this inconvenience, the accommodations were extremely good. I found the deck literally covered with passengers; and, truth to say, it required no little care so to pick my way as not to incommode them, for nearly the whole two hundred were seated, or, to use the right word, squatted on their carpets. These consisted of a melange of the different oriental tribes that we every where find in this country, together with a few Franks: their variety of costume was infinite, especially in the form and colour of their turbans; for though the higher ranks and military men have renounced this mode of head-dress, yet it is still very generally retained by the mass of the population of the provinces. This motley assemblage, who would have required the pencil of a Wilkie to do them justice, were enjoying their long tchibouques, or removing from their garments certain creeping tormentors, which in warm countries are sure to be the companions of those who are not very cleanly in their persons.
(to be continued)
www.nazar-look.com