We will not permit you to live

"Hürriyet" on prayer, terrorism, and the love of country

This interview has been translated from another language.

“H”: My family’s income depends on God. We grow wheat and barley, but we don’t water our crops — we leave them to God. It’s the most primitive kind of agriculture. All of our neighbors got rain this season, but not us. As if God were angry.

The neighbors turned a profit; we barely made up what we’d spent. It costs money to drive a tractor. It does not run on water; you need dinosaur water. I’ve thought about using solar panels to run the other things… The sun is a great curse here.

I’ve also thought about growing [fruit]. A [certain kind of fruit] is rich and heavy, and pays for itself in [a few] years. It’s easy to sell; it rewards your efforts. But I haven’t yet tried to persuade my family. I have a sense they don’t respect me.

I myself make money in other ways, but the family is large. Three households manage this land. It’s awful to give God such control over it. The prophet himself said, God will not interfere. God revealed it to him: I will not interfere. Fourteen hundred years ago.

We pray all the time and he does nothing. It isn’t coming, it will not come; help from Heaven won’t come. It’s the cruel truth. Fourteen hundred years ago, God said: Those who use their minds will win. What does success have to do with prayer?

L: Why do you think your family doesn’t respect you?

“H”: I don’t bring in very much money. They care a lot about the money. It makes me lose respect for myself, too. I’m lonely; all my friends have moved [abroad]. I went back to [the capital] recently, and there was no one there I knew. It fractured my heart.

Everyone’s going on with their lives, and I’m going backwards. Even if I stayed where I was when they were here, I’d be going backwards relative to them, because they’ve gone on. But I’ve literally gone back in time, to the village where I was raised.

I’m not as productive as I used to be. The faucet in our house broke and I rejoiced, because it gave me something to do. It’s great to have something to fix. It’s so awful to be useless… A human being is fertile. We need to produce things.

You hear about these people in America who work after retiring, because they lose their momentum and feel unhappy. Of course, some of them must need the money, but I’m sure some don’t; they just need to produce things. To continue struggling.

If every problem in a person’s life is solved, why shouldn’t they be depressed? I’ve known nothing but crises my whole life. [My country]’s always in crisis, and so am I. Maybe I’m wrong, but I can’t think otherwise. The easy life seems pointless to me.

My friend [J] — who is my ex-girlfriend — lives [abroad] now, and she’s unhappy. She’s alienated from that country and this country; she wants to return but feels anxiously about losing what she has. The comfortable life: it looks like heaven, but it’s hell.

I don’t contempt anyone with a better life than mine. I know it’s not good to struggle forever. Still, it makes me happy to carry rocks through the fields. We’re building a house in the vineyard, and I’m laying the foundation, slowly.

I’m happiest when I do that. It’s an honest thing to do. My [remote job] steals people’s money; it steals their time, their attention. Building the house, I don’t steal a thing — not a stone, not a brick, not the government’s electricity.

L: Why are you building a new house?

“H”: The old one collapsed. My father died [years] ago, but before he did, years before, he poured concrete on the adobe vineyard house. The best of East and West, he said, and fucked us over. The adobe house was there, so he couldn’t build a proper foundation for the concrete, and it collapsed.

But I shouldn’t say he was wrong to do that. There were terrorists near our house back then, and the concrete walls were so thick — thicker than the entire height of my body — that bullets couldn’t come through them. It was a kind of genius of his to protect the house that way.

L: Why were terrorists shooting at your house?

“H”: They weren’t shooting at us. It’s a border village; they were just around. In the mornings, soldiers would come through and stop in the house, to greet my father or to beat him. At night, terrorists would come to pay my father for meals, or to beat him. The most ridiculous years of my life were those years of childhood.

L: Both the soldiers and the terrorists would beat him?

“H”: Yes. [Laughs] My father would say, We flee hail and find snow. He tried to move away with us, but neither side would let him. He was a man of influence; they wanted him to stay. One morning he packed up the house, and a soldier came and said You’re staying. You’re not going anywhere. You’re the mayor of this village. It’s your duty to stay.

All right, he said to them, and to us he said We go at night. But in the night the terrorists came and told him, You’re not leaving. It was the only point on which they agreed, the soldiers and terrorists: my father would stay right where he was. They all wanted favors done by such a powerful man.

My father would do what the terrorists asked, but he was disturbed by it. Even as a child, I was disturbed by it. I remember asking, Why do we have guests every night? Why are they all armed men? There was danger, night and day. I wished it were neither night nor day but a special purgatory, when we could be alone together.

At some point he went to the police station and said, Protect me, or let me go. I don’t want to house terrorists. But the commander said, You will remain. You will not go; you will remain. Years later, that commander got his comeuppance; he was tried in [a sweeping purge] as an enemy of the state. That man was nothing but slime.

L: Why would they beat your father?

“H”: The soldiers said he was helping the terrorists; the terrorists said he was helping the soldiers. [Laughs] I will tell you a traumatic story, one of our most traumatic stories. My father was sitting at a coffee-house in [a nearby village], and a shepherd from our village came up and said, There are some cables down the road.

There were no power lines on that road, no phone lines. My father ran to the gendarmerie, leapt in front of the first car he saw. Quick, he told them, take me down the road! And a gendarme struck him in the face with a gun, because he’d stopped the car like that. Blood came down from his mouth. My father was old, even then.

They took him to the station, where he explained about the cables. Go quick, he said, as quickly as you can; there are mines in the road. Hurry! The gendarmes found the mines and defused them, and they released my father. But when he came home to the village, the terrorists were waiting.

They took him into the fields, made him dig his own grave. My mother went to beg for his life, with me on her arm, and I cried so much they let him go out of pity. Their commander had just bought new bullets. You’re not worth a bullet, he told my father. I won’t waste one killing you.

They came once more for him, but my uncle gathered a band and marched on the terrorists: We will not permit you to live, he said, neither on this soil, nor anywhere else in this country. All of you, we will kill. They couldn’t defy [hundreds] of armed men, so they gave up on my father, and never came to the village again.

The mine incident did us another good turn; my father started getting along very well with the soldiers afterwards. He always went drinking with them. My bullet is more precious than your life, the terrorist had said. My father drank with the soldiers, but they never apologized for hitting him.

L: What did the other villagers think? Who did they side with?

“H”: Everyone was pretty much in the middle. Who could they side with? The villagers are opportunistic, all of them. They’re rude, terribly rude. And they’re cunning: they buy and sell cunningly… It’s a beautiful country, my father always said about [our country], but these people spoil it.

L: They buy cunningly?

“H”: When they realize there’s inflation, that money is being devalued, they go into debt and buy tractors; they go into debt and buy houses; they go into debt and plant pistachio trees. They take advantage of property left to orphans, who haven’t come of age. Every one of them is a politician in his own way.

L: Do you feel your father loved you?

“H”: I used to feel that, when he was alive. But I’ve never been able to understand why an old man would have children. It’s one of the most senseless things in the world. If you can’t spend time with your child, what’s the point? I wouldn’t do what he did; I wouldn’t have a child [in old age].

I do think he loved me, but I’ve thought for a long time that my existence is a mistake. Life is perilous; one never knows what will happen. We’re supposed to stand beside our children. We aren’t animals; we’re supposed to raise our children. My father raised me in some ways, but he’s not here with me now.

I wish he were here. Years ago I was drinking beer on the beach, [in a fabulous city of my country], and said to myself, He should be here drinking with me. He should have taught me how to shave. A child needs so much teaching. I’m not a fawn you can toss on the ground… A fawn can bound away. I need him here with me.

Sometimes I find photos of us in the house, and pleasant memories come back to me. I spent a lot of time with my father when he was alive. He knew he was at the end of his life, so he gave me as much of his time, as many of his resources, as he could give. He was doing his best, and for some reason he was proud of me.

My father was the wealthiest man in the village. He spoiled me, though I didn’t end up as spoiled as the other village-children, or my brothers. Twenty years ago I already had a computer; I had internet access. This doesn’t seem like much to you now, but it was a lot for me, in that far-off place, when I was that age.

Thinking about it coldly, I see myself as the last stake my father drove into the earth. He wanted to be remembered; we all want to be remembered, and to make sure we will be, we have children. It’s an instinct. What I say sounds harsh, but I think it’s true. He drove me into the earth to be remembered.

L: What about your mother?

“H”: My mother is not a woman who shows her feelings. Her way of loving is to offer food, good food, and to set aside money for my interests. She sends me things from the village when I’m away. That’s all she does; I’ve never once felt my mother stroke my hair. Never once did she stroke my hair when I was sleeping.

My father was not like this. He thought I was precious. He would call me every day and ask how I was, what I was doing; he’d ask if I needed anything. I’m proud of you, he’d say, I love you very much. He’d call and say that, even if there was nothing else to say. My mother would buy peppers, and send them out to me.

They were the nicest peppers, but that was all her love. I don’t think she loves me fully. My brother always said, She doesn’t know. She never learned. We can’t blame her. We have to accept her as she is. She never learned how to love. They never taught her. Her father was a wastrel, a womanizer. She doesn’t know how to love.

I drank a lot of milk as a baby; I had a great appetite. So my mother told my father, I won’t give him milk if you don’t buy me gold. That’s the kind of woman my mother is. She deserves no authority over me. My older sisters raised me; the rights of motherhood belong to them when it comes to me. My father wasn’t like that…

He had an excellent understanding of things. Before he ever left the village he’d learned [a foreign language], in addition to [the language of our sacred book], and to [his native language] — though my dear father, my pasha, only learned [the language of my country] during his military service. [Laughs] His fourth language…

L: Have you ever met a woman you would like to have children with?

“H”: No… I think not. When I first met [a certain woman], I thought about it, but after a while it seemed wrong to me.

L: Why?

“H”: She’s beautiful as she is. She doesn’t need to be beautiful with a child. Children would change her life for the worse; motherhood would suit her, but her life would become worse. Even if she has a child someday, it needn’t be with me. I don’t think she’d want them with me. I’d rather lug stones than rock a cradle, any day of my life.

Stones never weep. A week ago I spent two days looking after my nephew, when my sister was ill. Truly I would prefer to haul stones… A stone is perfect; you set it aside somewhere, and it stays there. A child doesn’t stay where it is. It weeps and weeps. Stones never weep.

L: Why did you want to have children with her?

“H”: She has a womanly side to her, a side that’s very woman. It interests me, it pleases me. I thought, if someone has to bear a child, let it be this woman. If I am to have a child, let this woman bear it. Let the child be worth bearing. That’s what I thought, at least.

L: Do you have any love-relationships in [the village]?

“H”: Some [foreign] girls passed through recently… I don’t really look for love here. When [J] was visiting, my mother tried to banish us from the house. We’re having guests, she said, go stay somewhere else. She was anxious what the guests would say. Is there no space? I said. You have to go, she said.

So I stayed at my brother’s place for two days. My mother did settle down fairly quickly, but I found it all ridiculous. The neighbors will talk, she said. The girl lives in [the capital], I said, what would she care? What could the neighbors say, that would follow her to [the capital]?

L: Why did that relationship end? With [J]?

“H”: She went abroad; I was doing my military service. It became dramatic. I think it’s really over, I think we’re friends. I get jealous about her seeing other people, but we’re just friends in the end. I’m not in love with her anymore. She’s important to me, but I’m not in love. I can be honest with her now.

She complains that I’ve changed. I’m not a signpost; why shouldn’t I change? I’m not a vase; why shouldn’t I change? I’ve become harder, ruder, since coming here. I was more civilized in [the capital]; here, if you act that way, they take advantage of you. It’s useful, sometimes, to be rude. When you fuck people, they love you.

L: If you’re not in love with her, why are you jealous?

“H”: I just think, I could be there with her. I could offer her what these people offer. I feel bad for not selling out my homeland. I could sell it out, say I’m oppressed, get a residence permit [in that country]. But I don’t want to do that. That’s the truth; I don’t want to do it. If something happened, I would have to sneak back into [this country].

Why would I sneak like a bandit into [my own country]? Into my homeland? The same feelings moved me when I did military service. I could have paid to get out of it; I had the means. I chose not to pay, and even then I felt bad. The other soldiers said, Why did you come if you had money? But that just seems ridiculous to me.

What does money have to do with soldiering? It’s ridiculous that you can do this, that you can pay to do a shorter service. Whose sons will they send to war when the time comes? Will the rich stay back, but not the poor? It doesn’t make sense. I found it unjust. It doesn’t matter if I have money. I serve like everyone else.

And I admit, I didn’t want to give them the money. I didn’t want to give some government official pocket change for his drug habit. With that same feeling, I won’t denounce my homeland. But I get jealous: I want to be there for her. She acts coyly with me; she wants my attention. I can feel it. I understand it. She’s lonely.

I need affection too. What I don’t get from my mother, I want to give to her. I know I’m a beggar for love; I beg for love from my lover, and the love I give her is my lure, my temptation to her to grant me love. I need to speak to someone, sometimes, but I rarely do. I’d rather speak to concrete than to a woman who doesn’t want me.

L: Are you religious?

“H”: I used to be. I’d pray five times a day. Even if it was cold outside, I’d go to the mosque and purify myself, perform the ritual prayers of the body. I never went to Friday prayer; it was a personal rule, because most of the people who went on Friday didn’t pray at other times. That was a contradiction I couldn’t stomach.

If I have to pray with these men, I thought, with hypocrites, deceitful men I don’t like, I’d rather not go at all. I still don’t go, on principle, even though I don’t perform the five prayers. Ever since my father died, I haven’t wanted to pray. I’ve been averse to ritual worship. Something’s flowed out of my heart.

L: How do you square your religion with the sex? With the lack of prayer?

“H”: I’m still Muslim, but I’m pragmatic. I believe in God. I believe in his prophet. Therefore I am Muslim. If I reject this act or that, it doesn’t reduce my faith in God. When I was doing military service, my friends would ask, What makes you different from those men you despise? I am different from them because I believe in God.

I believe in his angels. I believe in the Qur’an. I believe God brought a ram down from Heaven. I accept that God brought İbrahim a ram down from heaven. I accept even this, so I call myself a Muslim. It’s beyond reason, because many religions are so similar, and I think so much of each religion was conceived to placate people.

You have to promise people there’s a heaven beyond earth to keep them quiet, keep them from killing each other. What else can you do? But I earnestly believe in God. What if God exists? I ask, and it seems necessary to believe. I’m not like the radical primitives of the village, like true believers, who love God. Still I believe in Him.

L: Do you think you will marry?

“H”: I think I will, but it won’t be happy. I don’t think I will ever be happy. Nothing is enough for me. I enjoy my routines, but when I exit my routines I enjoy the disorder, and when I return to my routines I enjoy them again. I don’t believe anything can satiate me. I don’t believe I can ever be happy.

There’s not a single thing that can satisfy me. Nothing. Not a thing. Neither sex, nor children, nor a great marriage, nor a lovely wife. If I were a billionaire, the richest man in the world, I wouldn’t be much happier than I am now. This is what I am, this is my property. [Gestures to himself] This is what I have. Nothing more or less.

This is what I’d be if I had billions of dollars. I’d just be what I am. I’d just be what you see. I’d be happy, for a week, maybe, and I’d go back to the way I am now. What good would it do me to have that money? What would change for me? I’d eat just as much food and no more. I’d live as many days, and no more. What would change?

This is the truth. I’d buy a house in [the capital], many acres of land, but that’s all I would do… This Hürriyet you see would be the same Hürriyet. My personality has settled; I’m at a certain age. The me inside me is me. It’s greedy. Whatever it has, it wants more. If I lived a hundred years, I’d live a hundred more.

L: What would you die for?

“H”: I would die for my friends. I would die for my family. I wouldn’t move a fingernail for my other relatives… I used to say I would die for my country; I still would, but not while [this president] is in power. I wouldn’t die for him. I love my country; I would fight, I’d go to war, so long as [this president] doesn’t send me.

I would die for justice. Injustice disturbs me. For what’s right I would die.

For the truth. For what’s just I would die.

That’s all. I’d die for nothing more.

Post image from Thunder over Mexico (1933), dir. Sergei Eisenstein.