Hasan Drowned

By Sabahattin Ali

Translated into English by Aysel K. Basci

Translator's Note:

Sabahattin Ali was probably the most powerful and effective of the 20th century short-story writers in Turkey who addressed social themes. Recently, I embarked on a project to translate six of what I regarded as Ali’s best short stories into English. This proved difficult, as he has many great stories to choose from. Eventually, I did settle on a list and “Hasan Drowned” is on that list.

“Hasan Drowned” features some compelling elements, among which is the story’s setting, Kazdağı (Mount Ida) in northwestern Turkey. Ali spent his younger years in the nearby town of Edremit, and his love for the environment found expression in his writings and poems on the natural beauty of the area. Second, Ali masterfully integrated a mesmerizing local legend into the story, one that captures the exquisite scenic beauty of Kazdağı and the tragedy of unrequited love and death. Third, the timing and main theme of the story are interesting. Ali wrote “Hasan Drowned” in 1942, almost at the same time as he was writing his masterpiece novella, “Madonna in a Fur Coat.” The two stories have a common main theme: breaking free of traditional gender roles and upending gender stereotypes. Furthermore, the two stories have a common secondary theme: deep feelings of remorse and guilt after losing a loved one. The close timing and similarity of the themes in these stories is not only intriguing, but also raises the question: Did the lesser known “Hasan Drowned” serve as a source of inspiration for “Madonna in a Fur Coat?”

Ali’s characteristic sharp wit and perceptive observations are on full display in “Hasan Drowned.” After reading the story, it is easy to imagine the author with a big smile on his face as he wrote sentences like, “Hasan cried like a baby bird that had lost its mother,” or “Emine could hold cows by the horns and hurl them anywhere she wanted.” I hope non-Turkish speaking readers will enjoy reading this story in English. 

 Hasan Drowned

By Sabahattin Ali

I was going to Kazdağı (Mount Ida) to visit a Yörük (1) tribe on the sea side of the mountain facing the Sea of Islands, and intended to stay there four or five days. Previously, I had befriended a tall, white-bearded Yörük at a bazaar in Edremit, where he came regularly to sell firewood and honey. On a few occasions, I had helped him resolve minor matters involving the government. He invited me saying: 

“If you can handle sleeping in a tent, you are welcome to visit. You will eat lots of fresh honey and drink lots of bitter black water!” 

I suggested that the next time he was in town we could go together, but one hot and totally windless morning I decided to go alone and took off. I knew the approximate location of the tribe at Yüksekoba, and hoped to get directions on the way from villagers. I intended arriving there by noon. 

I was walking slowly on an old, sunken road that passed through groves of olive trees that must have been hundreds—if not thousands—of years old. The sides of the road were blanketed with blackberries and chaste berries. As the sun headed higher behind me, it was stretching my shadow further and further on the curved cart tracks left on the road. A cool but mild spring breeze blew into my face off the sea, reminding me I was getting further away from the town. The smell of frosted soil and fresh grass was everywhere. Several skylarks and sparrows sang and hopped from tree to tree, and wavy vapors rose slowly from the areas receiving direct sunlight.

After a while I stopped at Zeytinli, a village on the outskirts of Kazdağı, and had some tea at a coffeehouse, which was shaded by weeping willows and had a pool. While there, I asked about the road to Yüksekoba. The owner of the coffeehouse said:

“I have never been there, but as far as I know, you will pass Beyobası, then walk along the Kızılkeçili Stream. After you arrive at the springs, you will start climbing the mountain from the left slope. When you finally reach an upland pasture, you will walk just a bullet-throw distance more.”     

I knew nothing about Beyobası or the springs, and I must have looked confused, because he smiled and added:

“It is not a place a stranger can go alone, you will get lost in the forests or on the mountains!”

I said:

“No, no, I will surely find it by asking around.”

He insisted:

“Who are you going to ask? After you pass Beyobası, you will not see anyone.”

I did not respond. He collected the teacup and went inside. As I began asking myself whether I should go back to Edremit and wait for Koca İsmail Baba to return, the coffeehouse owner came out again and said:

“You are lucky Mister. There is someone going to Yüksekoba; why don’t you go together?”

I immediately got up. Standing in front of the coffeehouse was a Yörük woman, her face burned from the sun, her thin braids falling on her back. She was wearing a canary-yellow üçetek (2). The owner of the coffeehouse asked: 

“Hacer, the Mister wants to visit Koca İsmail Baba in your tribe. Will you take him?”

She casually looked at me and said:

“Let’s go!”

As she turned her face, I was surprised to see how young she was – not older than 18 or 20. As we walked, she was always a few steps ahead of me, and I struggled to keep up with her. The owner of the coffeehouse watching from behind saw my efforts to keep up and smiled.

As soon as we got out of the village and arrived at an olive grove, Hacer tucked the skirts of her yellow dress into the waistband of her shalwar, then removed her low-heeled leather shoes and put them in her saddlebag. She then began walking barefoot, her feet leaving imprints on the soil. With each step, the fez on her head which looked like a small honey box, decorated with gold and covered with a thin scarf embroidered around the edges, shook slightly. Because of the weight of her saddlebag, her tall body was bent slightly forward as she walked.

We walked for an hour without talking. We passed by Beyobası, which consisted of five-ten houses spread among fruit trees, and a little later we came upon an abandoned and derelict water mill under the shade of a huge chinar. The olive trees ended there and the pine forests took over. We ascended into a dim, shadowy strait which did not get much sunlight. A huge, steep mountain reared up before us, and we began to hear the roar of a fervently flowing stream from the direction of the mountain’s flanks.

A little later, Hacer turned her head and warned me:

“We are going to walk by the stream. It carries a lot of water, so be careful where you step!” 

We descended from a steep narrow trail between large rocks and arrived at Kızılkeçili Stream, where two shoulders of the mountain merged. The noise of water bubbling and gushing from rock to rock filled our ears. We were walking at the edge of the water, often skipping on the rocks. At times, we descended to the edge of the stream; at other times, we climbed high on the shoulder of the mountain from where we could look down and see white foam generated by many waterfalls below. The path was narrowing further and pine trees grew sideways from the cracks of steep rocks on both sides, reaching out into emptiness. I was having difficulty keeping up with Hacer, who was skipping barefoot on rocks polished smooth by the constant washing of the waters. All along the stream, boulders—some as large as houses—had rolled down from the peaks and the water had gouged out hollows in the rocks to create many large, deep pools of water.

These pools (büvet, in Turkish), whose mirror-like surfaces reflected the nearby pines and chinars, were full of foamy water falling from large rocks often a few men high. When we reached these pools, Hacer, without turning, announced:

“This is called Deli Büvet!”

Or,

“This is called Kunduzlu Büvet!”

Eventually, we arrived at a wider part of the strait and I heard a thundering noise. Hacer shouted:

“We are at Sutüven Falls!”

I looked around in awe. The stream flowed exuberantly as if gushing out of a pipe two-and-a-half meters in diameter, and when it reached a white rock, it became airborne. For a second, it almost stopped and hesitated. Then, in the form of pure foam, it poured into a deep hole below with greater speed and vigor than when it had arrived. Once there, the waters percolated for a while, eventually proceeding to the right. Then, sloshing and skipping over some rocks, the stream continued on its way.

If one walked near the edge of the falls and looked down, one’s face would be completely covered by a cool mist. The constant roar of the water created a howling echo on the mountains on both sides. While there, the first few lines of a poem about this waterfall was on my lips:

From a rock it jumps
17 meters, as fume,
Water, carrying
Mountain’s perfume.

Where it drops
Like fine hair,
It floats three strokes
Blue water, white foamy water!

Hacer was squatting in a corner, her eyes darting from me to Sutüven and then back again. Then she got up and swung her saddlebag over her shoulder. We began climbing again along the stream between the two shoulders of the mountain, which were getting closer and closer. As we approached the stream’s source, it was no longer flowing, but instead leapt from rock to rock as a series of waterfalls. We reached a point where the rocks on both sides of the stream were only two feet apart. Water already running at high speed accelerated as it entered this narrow five to six meter-long channel, its color turning almost black. At the end of the channel, the water, suddenly liberated, cascaded down to a stream bed covered with sand and pebbles, where it formed white bubbles and percolated as if laughing loudly.    

Soon afterwards, walking became so difficult we had to hold on to nearby rocks, shrubs, or pine saplings. Then we saw the stream cascade over some rocks into a huge pool of water about 15 feet long and about three men deep. A chinar, the trunk of which could barely be encircled by four men holding hands, was leaning over the pool, its thin and thick branches stretching out to touch the water’s surface. The sun was now at the same level as the bottom of the strait. The milk-white pebbles and sand at the bottom of the pool sparkled in the sunlight, which filtered through large leaves. Some of the water flowing down from the rock above was running counter to the current and spilling onto the edges of the pool, but when it reached the bottom, it too found its way and continued to flow after leaping over a large rock. 

Hacer continued to walk without stopping. As I tried to keep up with her, I could not help to repeatedly turn back and look at this incredibly beautiful view. To make sure Hacer could hear me, I shouted louder than the noise of the water and asked: 

“Doesn’t this pool have a name?”

She responded:

“Hasan Boğuldu (Hasan Drowned, in English)!”

I asked:

“What did you say?”

“Hasan Boğuldu!”

“Who is Hasan?”

“From Zeytinli… Gardener Hasan!”

“When did he drown?”

“A long time ago… It has been forty, fifty years…” 

“How did he drown?”

Hacer stopped, turned back, and looked down at the pool whose surface was shining like the belly of a fish in the sunlight. Then she said:  

“After we reach the highland, we will sit and rest a little. I will tell you then.”

We continued to climb. When I looked back at the way we had come, I could see the plain in the distance; it looked very small. There were also villages dotted with red-bricked houses and white minarets among the olive and poplar trees. They looked like small toys.     

A little later, Hacer announced:

“We are at the springs; we will now turn to the mountain.”  

I looked ahead. On both sides of the stream, only a few hand-spans away, and located only one to two feet apart, were about 20 springs. Some shot up between large rocks, others from sandy soil, and they were flowing into and mixing with the stream with a noise similar to that made by a thousand birds. I ran, lay on the ground face down, and drank very cold water from one of the springs. Hacer too was filling her palms with spring water and throwing it into her face and hair. 

Next, we began climbing the mountain, and soon I could feel my entire body sweating. The stream was now behind us on the left. At times, to avoid accidentally slipping and rolling down from the narrow, pinecone-covered trail, I had to kneel and grab the nearest juniper branch, or try to hold on to a thyme only to see it come out of the ground with its roots. Finally, the slope eased and we were able to see ahead. In the distance, from among the sparse pine trees, I could see the sea. We walked a little more before sitting down at a shady spot to rest. 

Hacer, searching through her saddlebag, said:

“It looks like you don’t have any food with you. Come closer and we will share my bread.” 

Indeed, thinking I would reach Yüksekoba in three or four hours, I had not brought any food with me. Just then, I noticed how hungry I was. Meanwhile, Hacer spread a red cloth on the ground and placed some goat’s milk cheese, fresh onions, and bread on it. As I ate, I looked around. We were at an elevation of 1,500 meters. We could see the boats lined up at the pier in Akcay and the buildings sparsely located among the trees. They were as small as needle heads.

 Ahead, the Madra Mountains behind Buhraniye looked like shapeless masses. The sea, dazzling under the sun, stretched all the way to the distant Midilli Island, which was covered by a mixture of light and dark shades, and continued until it merged, under a mixture of fog, with the sky, before disappearing on the horizon. The flanks of Kazdağı, stretching all the way to the bay, rose up to countless mountains and peaks, each of a different color, size, and shape. Behind us, Sarıkız, the highest peak, reached treeless into the white clouds above.  

Hacer wrapped the leftover bread and cheese in a handkerchief and put it back in her saddlebag. I leant against a pine tree, as if trying to tell her I did not intend to get up right away, I said:

“You were going to tell me how Hasan drowned.”

She replied:

“No one saw how he drowned. They just say he drowned there.”

“Okay, but why did he drown?”

“After we get to the camp anyone you ask will tell you. Let’s continue on our way!”

“No way. It is not a good idea to walk right after a meal. Besides, at the camp, I will have many things to talk about with İsmail Baba. Why don’t you just tell me what you know?”

Holding on to her saddlebag, Hacer hesitated for a moment. She searched my face as if she was trying to discover how interested I was in the story, and how much of it I would understand. Her young face had a serious expression, and for a short while her large black eyes gazed at me. 

Then, she said, “Hasan was a gardener from Zeytinli.” As she talked, she was either looking down in front, or to the plain in the distance, and she was continuously stirring the soil in front of her with her thumb. She continued:

***

Hasan had a small garden where he grew melons in summer and worked for others harvesting olives during winter. He lived with his elderly mother. He was still very young, and his beard was just showing up. Until then, he had never looked at any woman other than his mother. Unlike his peers, at weddings and other celebrations, he did not indulge in alcohol or play stupid games. 

After he sold his melons at the bazaar, he always gave the money he earned to his mother. A few people from our tribe knew him, and they said a girl named Emine from the Yüksekoba tribe saw Hasan at the Edremit bazaar. My mother was just a child then, but she knew Emine. Her family kept eight honeybee hives. Emine and her mother looked after the bees, and her father harvested trees from the forest and sold them as lumber. Emine was exceptionally strong. She could hold cows by the horns and hurl them anywhere she wanted. She could descend this road we are on in two hours and climb it in three! She enjoyed playing games with children and often got the tribe’s girls to run in the forest until they were exhausted. 

Up in the highlands, there are no melons. So, one day this Emine bought a few melons from Hasan at the Edremit bazaar. As Hasan was helping her load the melons in her saddlebag, he asked:       

“Yörük Girl, your load is heavy and the road to Kazdağı difficult. How are you going to climb up there?”

Emine, laughing, responded:

“What did you think Yellow Boy? We live on the mountains. We climb trails with 50-kilo loads on our backs. You can’t climb these trails even without a load!”

Hasan was embarrassed. He looked down, and Emine went her way. The next Sunday at the bazaar Emine came to Hasan again and said:

“Your melons were good Yellow Boy! I brought you some honey.” 

Then, from her shoulder, she lowered her saddlebag in which she carried the honey and gave a large honeycomb to Hasan. Hasan’s face turned red:

“Why did you bother Yörük Girl?” he asked, but Emine left smiling, without a response. 

That afternoon, Hasan was returning to his village with his donkey ahead of him. When he reached the Kadıköy Cemetery, he saw Emine ahead, with her saddlebag on her shoulder. At first, Hasan became tongue-tied, but a little later, he found the courage to walk faster and catch up with Emine. He asked:

“Good afternoon Yörük Girl. Where are you from?”

“Good afternoon to you too Yellow Boy! I am from Yüksekoba. Where are you from?”

“I am from Zeytinli. Our road up to Zeytinli is the same. Why don’t you load your saddlebag on my donkey and walk comfortably until we get there?”

“No, no! If your donkey carries my saddlebag on the plain, how am I going to climb that steep mountain with this load?”  

They walked next to one another until Zeytinli; they talked very little; they glanced at each other a lot; and they both fell in love. After that, they always returned from the bazaar together. Once in a while, Emine came to Hasan’s garden just outside Zeytinli and brought him milk, cheese, and honey; and Hasan gave Emine mulberries and cherries harvested from his own trees. They were often seen next to one another, crouching and talking, under the quince tree at the center of Hasan’s garden. However, Hasan’s mother was not comfortable with this situation. One day, she talked with her son and said:

“My son, ever since your father died, you became the man of our house. I am old; I am here today, but I may not be here tomorrow. You need a woman for your home. I want to find you a suitable girl from our village, but if you are in love with that Yörük Girl, I am willing to go to her tribe and ask for her hand. Autumn is nearing; after the olive harvest we can have your wedding.”   

Hasan was also thinking about the same thing, but he could never open up to Emine about it. After a while, he realized there was no point in delaying it further. The next time Emine visited him in his garden, he sat her down next to him and said:     

“Emine, the spring has passed, the summer has passed, and the storks have migrated to their winter homes. Before winter arrives and all the roads are covered with snow, either you come to me, or I will come to you.”  

Emine’s face turned yellow. She responded:

“The trouble of winter has been on my mind too; the day for our separation is fast approaching. I cannot make it in your village; neither can you live with my tribe. This summer we committed a big sin, but now we must forget each other.” 

When Hasan heard these words he almost lost his mind; he grabbed Emine’s hand and said:

“Yörük Girl, my one and only Emine! How can anyone who hears your sweet words and sees your smiling face forget you? Don’t say this! Stay here. You can take care of my garden and I can work in olive groves; we can live comfortably without needing any help from anyone.”

Emine smiled bitterly and said:   

“Wherever we go, our livelihood goes with us. So, I am not concerned about that. But, I am from the mountains and cannot live on these flat plains. I cannot mix with the girls from your village whose hands are decorated with henna, and this would be trouble for you. These girls would be fretting. ‘The girl from the mountains came and stole Hasan from us’, they’d say, and this would be trouble for me. We Yörük girls should not come from mountains to villages, nor should we move from tents to houses. I should not have looked at you. After I saw you, I should not have listened to you. But, alas, your sweet words and smile are the cause of all that has happened. My Yellow Hasan, pretend we saw each other in a dream, and we woke up. Let me go to my mountain!”

She got up and flew away like a bird. Hasan was left looking behind her… 

***

Hacer wiped some of the soil she had been playing with on her dress; then she first looked at me, and then to the emptiness ahead. My eyes were fixed on her face. I was still under the influence of her gaze. It was as if this young girl—who could understand the deep, intricate and very complicated nuances of the human spirit and who could talk about such complex topics with surprising ease—had suddenly grown up. Her head turned, and she looked down to the sparkling plain with its greening trees, fresh crops, dark leafed olive trees and streams, which intermittently appeared and disappeared.   

Her eyes were deep in reflection under her black, disorderly eyebrows; her tightly closed thin lips, her dusty and still sweaty cheeks were all shining in the sunlight that seeped through the pine branches; her face, which still retained a few childish lines, bore a strangely mature expression. 

The noise from the stream below waxed and waned with the murmur of the pine trees in the wind. A suffusion of thyme and pine filled the air with a lovely fragrance. Hacer took a pinecone from the ground and began peeling off its teeth one by one. Then, she turned to me and with a soft voice mixed with the crackling sounds made by the pinecone’s teeth as they were broken, she continued with the story:

* * *

After that day, Hasan’s face didn’t smile, and it was always pale. He could not be happy anywhere, and he did not talk much with anyone. He went to the bazaars to sell the fruits of his pomegranate and quince trees, but he came back without knowing how much he had sold, or how much money he had earned. Eventually, he could not bear it anymore. One afternoon, on the day of the Edremit bazaar, he walked up to the road which went to Yüksekoba and sat on the side to wait for Emine. He knew Emine would go to the bazaar that day. Later, as expected, Emine appeared. Her face was also pale and she too looked unhappy. When she saw Hasan, her heart began racing, and she tried to walk away without acknowledging his presence. But, Hasan stopped her and said:

“Emine, even the bravest of men can’t go against his heart. I am begging you, if your crazy heart can’t be happy in our village on the plain, take me to your tribe on the mountains! Your mother will be my mother and your father my father; I will milk your cows and shepherd your animals; I will help your father cut trees in the forest and carry lumber on my back; if only you will not leave me here, alone.” 

Emine stopped, went down on her knees next to Hasan, and wiped her tears on her sleeve. She said:

“Hasan, you pierced my heart, but what you want is impossible! One who is raised on the plain cannot make it on the mountain. The mountain’s water is cool but its road is steep, its winter arduous. Chopping wood in the snow is not like planting melons in the garden. The fellow I take to my tribe as my man should be beyond any reproach by the stalwart members of my tribe. I saw you, now I have no eyes for any other man. But I don’t want to belittle you in front of my mother, father, or peers. Set me free, let me go!”         

Hasan would not relent and pleaded: “I will do any work; the stalwart members of your tribe will be my brothers; if I ever showed the slightest remorse, you could send me back to my village!” 

Emine was not convinced, but her heart softened, and she said, “Meet me here next week and hear my decision.” 

A week later, Hasan embraced her mother and bade her farewell. Then he went to the same place to wait for Emine. A little later Emine arrived. She had a large sack on her back which she was carrying comfortably as if it was full of cotton. She said:

“Hasan, I consulted with my parents and they consulted with their elders. To date no girl from Yüksekoba has gone to the plain as a bride, and no man from the plain has come to Yüksekoba as a groom. They called me crazy and asked why I couldn’t find someone in our tribe to give my heart to. I told them every girl’s heart selects her own hero.” They said, “Okay, but put this young man to the test and find out if he is a good match for Yörük Emine from Kazdağı.” We talked and agreed on the following: “I bought 50 kilos of salt from Zeytinli. If you can carry it to Yüksekoba, without a break, we will have our wedding next week. After all, nobody in our tribe would question your suitability if you are able to pass this test. If you fail, we will go our separate ways!” 

Without a word, Hasan took the sack from Emine and began carrying it on his back. Emine led the way, and behind her, like a bird, Hasan was flying with the greatest of ease. They passed Beyobası. Once they began ascending the mountain, Emine noticed a lot of sweat coming down from Hasan’s face and hands. Her heart contracted. 

“Don’t do this to yourself!” she said. “Give me the sack and return to your garden!”

Panting for breath, Hasan responded: 

“I promised myself that if I have to go back, I will not go alive.”

He continued to walk. Emine’s heart contracted more, but there was nothing she could do. After they passed the old mill and arrived near Sutüven, Hasan stopped.  

“Emine,” he said, “you are torturing me! The salt is burning my back… Stop and let me catch my breath!”

Emine responded, “There is no resting in our agreement!” and continued to walk. Hasan skipped from rock to rock and followed her. They walked a little more, but Hasan stopped again and begged:

“Emine, you went along with your cruel parents; your test is too harsh. This is enough, let’s go back to my village.”

Emine’s heart broke into pieces but she was determined not to reveal her feelings. She said, “I told you, these mountains are not for you! Give me the sack and let me go.” Hasan made an effort and walked a little more. Earlier when we passed by, and I said Hasan Boğuldu, it used to be called Gök Büvet. When Hasan got there, his knees buckled and he fell down. Sighing, he said: 

“Emine, you are wasting me unnecessarily. I cannot climb these mountains, let’s return to my village!”     

Emine, without a word, picked up the sack Hasan had dropped and alone she started to walk without turning back. As she disappeared in the undergrowth, Hasan cried like a baby bird that had lost its mother:  

“Emine, I can’t climb to your mountain and I can’t return to my village; don’t leave me here!” 

Emine stopped and hesitated for a minute, then without turning her head, she continued to walk. She could hear Hasan cry until she arrived at the springs. There, despite the noise of the springs, she heard him plead:

 “Emine, I couldn’t follow you, why don’t you follow me?” 

Without stopping and without once turning back, Emine arrived at Yüksekoba with the 50 kg of salt on her back. When her parents saw her, they understood. She threw the sack on the ground, fell down and passed out. However, before it got dark, she got up and asked:

“Did you hear? Hasan is calling me!”  

Her parents:

“Where did you leave him?”

“Near Gök Büvet.”

“Have you lost your mind? How can you hear him from a place two hours away?”

Emine did not see or hear anyone; she just repeated: 

“Mom, listen how he is calling! What a pity… I should go take a look!”

In the evening, they had difficulty controlling Emine. She wandered in a nearby forest all evening. Early the next morning she went to Gök Büvet, where she had left Hasan. No one was there. As she walked by the pool, she saw Hasan’s head cover, stuck on the branch of a huge chinar sticking out of the water. She rescued the cover and placed it on her bosom. Then, screaming, she began pacing up and down by the pool:

“Hasan, call me so I can come to you!”

Each time, she heard the mountains and the rocks respond:

“Emine, I couldn’t follow you, but you will follow me!” 

For three days, she searched for Hasan in the mountains, in the forests, and near the streams. She went to Zeytinli and asked his mother where he was. The old woman was crying and mourning her son. 

The villagers were convinced Hasan had drowned in Gök Büvet. They speculated that the stream’s waters had risen due to the autumn rains and Hasan’s body had probably been carried away by strong currents to some remote cave, or all the way to the sea.

When Emine heard this she screamed, “Lies, lies! Hasan did not die. He is calling me all the time, but he is not saying where he is. I will keep searching until I find him.”    

Her parents tried to control her. They even locked her up many times. But each time she found a way to escape, go near Gök Büvet and call out for Hasan. There, she sat on the nearby rocks and composed and sang ballads for him. 

One day she said to her mother, “Hasan called out for me again; he will wait for me at Gök Büvet. This time we made a firm agreement. Finally, we are going to be together.” 

Her mother cried, “What has happened to you!” But, Emine found a way and disappeared. That afternoon, people passing by Gök Büvet found Emine hanging from the branch of a large chinar nearby, Hasan’s head cover tied around her neck. 

Hacer fixed her black eyes on me and continued:

“Since then, Gök Büvet has been called Hasan Boğuldu, and the large chinar next to it is called Emine’s Chinar. Let’s continue on our way without more delay!” 

Night was falling and the noise of the stream coming from below could now be heard more clearly. We got up and began to walk. The sun was hiding behind Sarıkız, leaving us at the mercy of cool winds. Night had fallen on this shoulder of Kazdağı, covered with pine trees up to her skirts and with olive trees up to the shore. It was as if the sun, by hiding behind the 1700-meter high peak earlier than usual, was deliberately trying to lengthen this most beautiful part of the day. A wind blowing from Middilli was constantly changing direction as it passed through the bay’s coves and capes, creating small waves on the surface of the sea in many directions. The sun’s last rays were painting the clouds above the Madra Mountains crimson, then reflecting on the sea, creating various colors as they fell on wrinkles of water moving in different directions. The peaks towering over the flanks of the mountain, some reaching all the way up to us, looked like dark clouds piled on top of each other. Further away, because Kazdağı could not shield them, the low peaks of Cunda Island across from Ayvalık were still burning with the sun’s crimson lights, stretching all the way toward the arms of Midilli further behind. 

Hacer was walking ahead of me. The wind was howling through the branches of the trees, and blowing about Hacer’s skirts and braided hair. After walking with her for many hours, I noticed how beautiful and harmonious Hacer’s movements were as she walked. She moved her knees slightly up as if walking in a mature wheat field, and as she took steps, her head swayed slightly back and forth. As she stepped on colorful flowers with her bare feet, she gave the impression that her body had no weight at all. 

I went near Hacer and asked, “Do you know any of the ballads Emine sang at Gök Büvet? Before we reach Yüksekoba, will you sing one for me?”  

She stopped, her eyes widened and she gazed into the distance, as if lost in the beauty of our surroundings and the story she was telling me. Thick lines of sweat had formed on her temples and had dried off after mixing with dust. She was breathing deeply. At that moment, it was impossible to separate her from the nature enfolding her. In the falling night’s dim light, she looked like a creature that had sprung up and now grew among the flowers. She moved her lips slowly:   

“I will sing one of Emine’s ballads for you. They say she sang it shortly before joining her Hasan!”    

She reflected for a moment and, with her eyes closed, she added, “Who knows…”

Then, she turned her back on the pine tree behind her, lowered her saddlebag from her right shoulder, fixed her eyes on the ground in front, and began to sing the following ballad softly, but with a most moving voice that would give goosebumps to anyone listening:

Heard your voice from a distance,

Found your head cover in a stream,

Knew where you had gone,

I followed you Hasan!

My blond forelocked, slender,

Pale faced, quince haired,

Soft spoken, gentle tempered,

Hasan, I followed you!

Expelled from the plain and the highland,

Drowned in clear waters,

Crumbled as foam and mist,

I followed you Hasan!

The one I dragged to steep mountains,

Lost too soon,

Buried without a white shroud,

I followed you Hasan!

The one making Emine mourn,

Becoming Kerem as I, like Aslı, burn, (3)

The one the mountains are crying for,

I followed you Hasan!

*

Footnotes:

1. Anatolian tribes used to be nomadic in the past, but now live on the highlands.

2. A traditional dress with a three-paneled skirt worn over a shalwar.

3. Kerem and Aslı are the ‘Romeo and Juliette’ of Turkish folklore.

*

Sabahattin Ali (1907-1948) was a prominent Turkish novelist, short-story writer, poet and journalist. His short novel “Madonna in A Fur Coat” (1943) is considered one of the best novellas in Turkish literature. This novella’s translations have recently hit the best seller lists and sold record number of copies. With this novella, Sabahattin Ali became one of the two Turkish novelists whose works became Penguin Classics.

Aysel K. Basci is a nonfiction writer and literary translator. She was born and raised in Cyprus and moved to the United States in 1975. Aysel is retired and currently resides in the Washington DC area. Her essays and literary translations have appeared in the Michigan Quarterly Review, Adelaide Literary Magazine, Entropy, Bosphorus Review of Books and elsewhere. Several of her essays have been anthologized.

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