I
I am Bashir. Bashir, born after four daughters, the reward of years of prayers. Bashir, for whom sacrifices were made, sweets were distributed door to door, weddings and celebrations were held. Bashir, whose name spread from one village to another, who became the talk of those who saw him. Bashir, envied for the light in his eyes, loved for the glow on his face. Bashir, whom Zarifa mother called her home and family, the descendant of shepherd Hasan... But in one word, Bashir, whose fate turned away from him, whose life faded away. When he learned he could not speak, he became nothing in his father’s eyes; when it was known he had a mental disability, he turned into tears in his mother’s eyes. Bashir, whom his sisters could not believe as their brother, whom their children were ashamed to call uncle. Bashir, pitied by the village elders and mocked by the youngsters. Sleep, Bashir... wake, Bashir... laugh, Bashir... cry, Bashir! In short, I am the famous Mad Bashir.
“Bashir, hey Bashir! Where have you disappeared to?!”
My father was shouting, calling me. I quickly got up and ran towards him, up the hill. It seemed something had happened. From afar, he motioned for me to hurry. His face showed he was angry. When I reached him, I looked at him with questioning eyes.
“Where the hell have you been all this time? I’ve been looking for you since morning.”
I tried to show him the book in my hand to say I was reading.
“Is this the time to read a book?” He snatched the book from my hand and threw it aside. “Hurry up and run upstairs! Get ahead of the herd! It’s getting dark!”
I nodded with a smile and quickly ran uphill toward the mountain. The sheep were scattered around. I had to gather them. In less than ten minutes, I had gathered the sheep in front of me and brought them to my father. But since his anger hadn’t cooled down, he was still irritated. He kept shouting at me.
When we reached the village, it was almost dark. We herded the sheep into the pen in front of the barn, and I watched my mother milk them. She handed the milked sheep to the lambs. The lambs fought among themselves, trying to suck a little milk from their mothers’ teats.
After my father closed the barn door, the three of us headed home. He was still angry at me. I could hardly understand him. He kept shouting and getting upset. True, he hadn’t hit me even once, but he never really loved me either. I don’t know why. Maybe it was just his nature.
After my mother set the table, the three of us sat down together for dinner. Nobody said a word during the meal. My father was silent; my mother was watching me. Occasionally, our eyes met and we smiled at each other. My father didn’t lift his head; he ate his food frowning, as if taking out his anger on the meal. Suddenly, he stood up quickly and pushed his chair back.
“Bring the tea to the room. I’ve eaten what I wanted.”
“All right, mister,” my mother said, getting up behind him and going to the samovar.
I hadn’t finished eating yet. I quietly scooped soup with my spoon, wiping my mouth occasionally with the sleeve of my shirt. I liked doing that — it kept the edges of my mouth clean.
Meanwhile, my mother had poured tea into the traditional pear-shaped glass and taken it to my father. Not even a few minutes had passed before I heard them arguing about something.
“Slow down, man. The child will hear you.”
“Let him hear! As if he understands anything by listening!”
“Don’t say that, my dear. Why are you angry at him? What’s wrong with him reading a book? Maybe...”
“Maybe what?! Maybe he’ll become a scholar? We can’t even get two words out of his mouth properly. What’s the use of him reading? Who’s he going to talk to about what he reads? I think your memory is failing… your son is mute,” my father’s irritation grew with every word, and it showed in his voice. My mother started to cry softly, trying to calm him down with her hand.
“Don’t say that, Hasan. God is watching! So what if he can’t speak? What does that have to do with books?”
“Maybe he doesn’t even understand what he reads and just flips the pages for nothing. Tell God—what have we done to deserve this? He can’t talk, nor can he really comprehend anything properly… What does he want from me? Ask him!” He raised his index finger as if swearing an oath. From the doorway, I could see this clearly.
“Hasan, my dear, you know in your heart you don’t mean these things. So don’t get more upset. Go to sleep, rest.” My mother wiped her tears and stood up.
I turned my face away again and kept eating, trying to show that I wasn’t listening. My mother left the room and came over to me.
“Eat, dear. Don’t mind your father. He loves you very much. He’s just been stressed because of work today. His anger will pass by tomorrow.” She kissed my head and opened the small wooden door leading from the porch to the backyard, heading toward the kitchen.
I slowly moved my spoon around the plate, trying to grasp what was happening. As I grew older, I understood that I couldn’t even cry. I just stayed quiet, frozen and unmoving. The only thing I could do was smile. Nothing else. I couldn’t get angry at my father. I simply couldn’t. Maybe he was right. Maybe I didn’t belong here. But surely there was a reason for it. If fate allowed, I would come to understand it with time.
***
