Nazar Look 2013-12

BAŞ KABÎMÎZDAON THE COVER Denis Bell Photo: Cynthia Bell

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 bywww.nazar-look.com

CONTRIBUTORSMEMBALAR Cynthia BellDenis BellVladimir NicolasW. Jack SavageTom SheehanRam Krishna SinghAli Tal

2gennady aygi

In the Mist - Tuman íşínde4marin sóreskúw

Duwaday bírşiy6taner muratscythia minor (little crimea)

Kókten sesler - Temúçin (XXIV)

8tom sheehanmassachusetts, usa

The Short Tale of Gunfighter Shjon Oh’s

14ram krishna singhjharkhand, india

Echoes Haunt - Kaytawazlar ğoklap turarQuakes in Elements - Elkelerde zelzeleler

16denis bellflorida, usa

InterviewMulgravia

24ajiniyaz qosibay-uli

Bozataw26w. jack savagecalifornia, usa

Fabric StoreUncle BillMen in TreesTeen Tiger

30vladimir nicolasquebec, canada

Monster Society

32ali talengland, uk

Unbounded Void (IV)38edmund spencer

- Travels in Circassia, Krim Tartary, &c. (XVIII)

40Nazar Look Prizes 2013 Winners40Pushcart Prize Nominations

NAZAR LOOK Attitude and culture magazine of Dobrudja’s Crimean Tatars

Tomrîğa Kîrîm Tatarlarîñ turuş-mamuriyet meğmuwasî

ISSN: [email protected], Romania FOUNDER & EDITOR-IN-CHIEFBAŞ-NAŞIR

Taner Murat EDITORSNAŞIRLER

Emine ÓmerUyar PolatJason Stocks

COMPUTER GRAPHICSSAYAR SÎZGAĞÎSÎ

Elif AbdulHakaan Kalila (Hakan Calila)

CREATIVE CONSULTANTSESER KEÑEŞÇÍSÍ

M. Islamov

Nazar Look 1www.nazar-look.com

2 Nazar Look www.nazar-look.com

gennady aygi(1934 - 2006)


gennady aygi(1934 - 2006)

In the Mist full of mistall night the allotment - like a gardenand beyond itbeyond the fence in mist-forestthe cuckoo's voiceas if ever-quieter-unquietnessin the distant father-peoplelongand long agomy father(In the billowing crowdof procession-and-singing) 1980

(From From the Ends to the Beginning: A

Bilingual Anthology of Russian Poetry)

Tuman íşínde tuman tolîbútún keşe úleştírúw – bakşadayánaw yagînda datumanlî-tawdakî kalawuñ ánaw yagîndakukuk sesísanke ebediy- raát-raátsízlíkuzak ata-kalkîmdakayetkayet eskí zamandaatam(alaylî-şarkîlîdalgalangan kalabalîkta) 1980

(Íngílízğeden terğúmesí Taner Murat’tan)


marin sóreskúw(1936 - 1996)


marin sóreskúw(1936 - 1996)

Duwaday bírşiy Mením nem bar bílmemKe yukîlaganda yukîlamam,Mením nem bar bílmemKe uyanîk tuwulmanUyanîk bolîp turganda. Mením nem bar bílmemKe heşbíryerge bara-almamĞúrgende. Mením nem bar bílmemKe bír yerde otîrgandaKayet-kayet uzaklardaman. Allayîm, kaysî balşîktanAldîñ mení sîğak awuşuña daKaysî awuzsuwî manKamîrîmnî şaynap uwduñ? Şúnkí mením nem bar bílmemKe barman,Mením nem bar bílmemKe bírşiyím kalmadîSenden başka.

(Taner Murat’nîñ terğúmesínde)


scythia minor (little crimea)www.tanermurat.com

Kókten sesler - Temúçin (XXIV)

Kesím 48Ğan şokragî

Onlarnîñ keliyatîrganîn uzaktan kóríp

bírden ğatsîrap yamansîrap Merkít balasî Úyken Şiledúynúñ íşínden bír korkî kelgendiy boldî. Ğuyrugun kamîşlay-kamîşlay bír bayîrnî aşîp kózden ğok bolawuydî. Úş ğígít te şañgîtîlgan toznîñ-dumannîñ artîna túşúp atlarîn kamîşlay-kamîşlay onî kuwalamaga başladîlar. Úyken Şiledúy bír kanaranî dolaşîp kapattî, gene ózín kaşkan ğolîndan aylanîp arabasîna kaytîp keldí. O zaman bonlarnîñ hepísín arabadan pîsîp kóríp algan kelíní, Elinay Biyke, Úyken Şiledúyge bonday aytîp şîktî:

- Úş ğígítní kórgensíñdírKóríp te añlagansîñdîrŞîray tuwul şîraylarîĞanîñdîr ístegenlerí.

Kaber kaybetme tek ğandan,Kaşîp uzaklarga, saklan!Ğanîñ bolsîn, ğanîñ bolsaKîz tabîla.Başka arabadanTabarsîñ kîz.Ğan şîkmadanUmut kalaKîskaayaklî tolîKúlúmsúrep şîgar sagaBaşka karaBaşka kaplî arabadan.

Kaber kaybetme tek ğandan,Ğálatlardan kaşîp, saklan!Ğanîñ bolsîn, ğanîñ bolsaElinay atîn taşîganKîz tabîlaTabîlmasa da,Kîz bolsîn! At? Tagîla.

Kaber kaybetme tek ğandan,Zaman taray, kaş, korşalan!Mína, aştîm kelínlíkníKetíriyím akîlîñaTírílíkní.Kókíregím aşîk turaKokîp karaĞan şokraknî!Şalt, yakînlap,Deren koklaKel ózíñe!Soñra artkaKaramadanÓz şáreñeÓzíñ kara!

Kaber kaybetme tek ğandan!Kaş! Korşalan! Kaş ğálattan!

Atîndan aşaga uzanîp Úyken Şiledúy

kókíregí aşîk turup kalgan Elinaynî kuşaklap bawuruna basîp aldî. Endí artîndan kuwalaganlarnîñ, aralîknî kapatîp, dúbúrdemelerí kele başlayatîr edí. Ğuyrugun bírtaa kamîşlap, Onan Múrenníñ óz yagîna, ğanîn korşalap, at terlettí.

Kesím 49Kaldîm kelínlík men, men

Aka-kardaşnîñ úşí de gene artîna

túşúp murunundan tutağak boldîlar. Tap Yedí Tóbegeşík kuwalap turdular lákin Yedí Tóbení atlagan soñ kaşîrganlarîn añlaganda arabaga kaytmaga karar aldîlar. Elinay Biyke beklep turgan arabasîna kelgende, Yasugay Batîr kolîna telbewlerní aldî, akasî Nekún Tayğa arabanîñ aldîna geştí, Darîtay Ózegin ínísí de arîş katîndan ğúrúp, úy ğolîn aldîlar. Ğolda Elinay Biyke şúndí ğîlap ğíbere, şúndí ğîlap ala:

- Ğanîm-kózím, Şiledúy aka,Kímge niyet,Kímge kîsmet?Ána, ğaktîlar ğanîñnîWurdurdular ğellerge şáşíñníKuwaladîlar uzak kîrlargaŞektírdíler aşlîknî.


scythia minor (little crimea)www.tanermurat.com

Yagî aldîma túşkenYagî artîma ketkenYagî soyîma kelgenYagî soñîma ğetkenKaldîm kelínlík men, menEndí ka-termen? Bílmem!

Bek yaman bakîra-şakîra ğîlaganîn,

ğekíríp ókírgende tawlar şayîrlar gúdúrdegenín, sesínden Onan Múrenníñ şalkalanganîn kórgende, arabanîñ katîndan ğúrúp ketken Darîtay Ózegin bíraz góñílín aşmaga karadî:

- Artîndan ğîlaganîñKertelerní kópten kestíArtîndan ókírgeníñSuwlarnî atlap geştí.

Bolağagî, endí bolgan,Bayîr aşkanKópten koyan.

Ne yapsañ da,Kórmez seníArtîna aylanîp karasa.

Ğîlasañ daŞîkkan yeríUzak saga, îraklarda.

Endí, toktamaga kara!

Ondan soñra ğollarîna karap úyleríne

bardîlar. Kader bonday aşîlîp túştí, Yasugaynîñ Elinay Biykení alîp kaşîrmasî bonday bolîp píttí.

Kesím 50Temúçin Úgení Delígún Boltakka

akelgende

Tatarlar man kawga-típ kagîşkanlarî pítmiy edí, taa. Yasugay Batîr gene marebede. Ána, bír tînîş wakîtînda Yasugay Batîr úyúnde beklegen Elinay Biykení ğoklamaga bardî.

O zaman ğurtî Onan Múrenníñ

Delígún Boltagînda bolganî tam bellí, ekísínmesízdír.

Yasugay Batîr şo wakît úyúne kaytkanda, katkîldawlarda hakk etken, bakîrtîp tutkan, Tatarlardan algan şikáarlarîn da, kulun-kólesín de katîna salîp kaytkan edí. Şo katkîldaw şikáarlarnîñ arasînda, Tatarlîknîñ mañlayîndan aytuwlî ğeñkşíler, Temúçin Úge men Kóriy Buga da tabîla edí.

Yasugay Batîr kîskaayaklîsîn sagînîp, dayanmay, "Bír parşakay aldîna barayîm!" dep, úyúne yakînlayatîrganda ğeñkşílerín artta taşlap, ózí atîn terletíp bargan edí. Hesapta, Delígún Boltakka kîskaayaklîsîn kórmege bargan Yasugay Batîr, úyúne ğetkení men kór-almadî, Elinay Biykesín. Brakmadîlar:

- Şúndí zamanî tuwul. - dedíler, dogrîsîna şîgîp.

- Sabîr et terakayşîk! - dedíler.- Az kaldî, şúndí bolîr, gezíp tur! -

dedíler.Ğeñkşílerín artta taşlap, şabîp úyúne

kaytkan Yasugay Batîr, şabuwundan kár kórmedí. Ğeñkşísí men kulî artîndan ğetíp kelmegenşík kór-almadî, kîskaayaklîsîn. Onlar kelgende, ekí yaktan ekí kîyamet koptî. Bír yaktan koñşî ballarî, bír súrúw bolîp, buwulgalî akelíngen Tatarlîknîñ mot mañlayî Temúçin Úgeníñ tabarînda, batarînda sekíríp:

- Temúçin, Temúçin! Yasugay Batîrnîñ Temúçiní keldí! - dep bakîrîşa edíler.

Başka yaktan: - Ulî, ulî, ulî bar! Yasugaynîñ ulî bar! - dep bakîrîşa edí ibanaylar, úyúnden şîgîp.

Temúçinníñ o zaman tuwganî kesíndír, belkímsízdír. Atî, tuwganînda kopkan ekí şamata bírleşúwúnden şîktî, başkabír at takmaga bírewnúñ akîlîndan bírem geşmedí.

Tuwganînda, kúnbatar kolînda elma kadar uyugan kan tobî tutup tuwdî Temúçin. Bo dúniyaga şonday etíp aştî, kózín.

(dewamî keleğekke)


massachusetts, usa

The Short Tale of Gunfighter Shjon Oh’s

The first public scenes in the life of Shjon Oh’s, as far as we know, occurred in the spring of 1867 in the small Idaho town of Hilton Elvers, on the Snake River and within hailing distance of Oregon. The first scene evolved in the saloon after a discussion of names and when Oh’s‘s name came up the town fist-bully and gun-bully said, “Where in hell did you get a crazy name like that one, fella?” to which Oh’s said, “From my most honorable father and if you have a problem with that, spit it out or shut your mouth, which is too big for such a little man.”

The bully of all sorts was suddenly staring down the barrel of a pistol too close to his nose to ignore, to which posture Oh’s said, “We can buy one another a drink to save spilled blood, or get to it right off.”

The bully slid a coin on the bar.

Deep thanks and relished outcome, showing mouths still open in surprise, floated through the saloon the way a cloud’s shadow moves on certain days of summer. The day was like many past days when elvers, the delicacy spawned in the river, continued their soft, effortless glide to favored grounds; downstream or found on cast iron skillets on a riverbank fire. Of course, that’s how Hilton Elvers got its name, when Dupont Hilton, a fisherman of note from across the seas, decided to change the cooking habits of western women.

The next day, just before noon, the

Hilton Elvers Bank was being robbed by four men who broke out of the bank toting their loot, wielding guns and shooting every which way to scatter town folks. In his second public scene, the robbers ran into the spit storm of Shjon Oh’s, whose bullets found all four in a gunfight that lasted less than three minutes. Three men were wounded, one man died, and Oh’s had not taken a deep breath in the whole matter. Quickly he refused an offer to become the new sheriff of Hilton Elvers; the Hilton Elvers sheriff had disappeared at the start of shooting, swearing he had immobilized his shooting hand and severely sprained his leg in a fall rushing to the bank.

Few people believed the sheriff’s story except Shjon Oh’s who had seen him fall. He had also seen where one of the robbers, which turned out to be one Truford Dexter, when he fell wounded, dropped a bag of loot under the boardwalk where it abutted close to the bank. In the middle of that same night, Hilton Elvers dark as a cave, Oh’s retrieved the loot and left town the early morning. The dead robber turned out to be Truford Dexter.

A week later, further along the Snake River, in a settlement called Albatross Rim, Oh’s bought a small ranch from a local girl


massachusetts, usa

who had been waiting for him, and married her. He wanted to raise horses. The ranch once belonged to her father, Blanford Dexter, and her uncle, Truford Dexter.

But back at Hilton Elvers, when the recovered stolen money was counted, a single bag was declared missing, unaccounted for, and suspicions ran rampant in the town as to where it was and who took it there.

The banker, Winston Hughes, III, was not only the best dressed man in town; he was the only well-dressed man in the town. Once of London and Derry in Northern Ireland, he was smart as a good pencil or a new spur, and eventually checked on who had left town right after the attempted robbery; it was assumed the bag was taken out of town. The drivers and shotguns of both a stagecoach and a freighter’s wagon had been all day in the saloon during the day of the robbery, left the very next day, and so could not be involved; the only other person that left the town, as far as the banker and all witnesses knew, was Shjon Oh’s.

Was it he who took the valued bag? Was it not he?

The banker Hughes also pursued the real identities of the robbers, three now in prison and one dead, and any available information on them. The three imprisoned were proved nothing more than road dusters, no serious work history available and therefore most suitable for quick ‘n’ dirty hire, and any regular connection would be rare or accidental. But the fourth man hailed from a small settlement down the Snake River, Albatross Rim. He was the man killed by Oh’s, the aforementioned Truford Dexter, once of Derry, Northern Ireland.

Hughes found out Oh’s’s new wife, Peggy, was the niece of the dead Truford

Dexter who once was part owner of the ranch that Oh’s now owned. Truford Dexter had been allegedly cheated of his share in the ranch by his brother, and Peggy’s father, Blanford Dexter. Blanford Dexter was also dead when shot by a mysterious assailant met on the trail. “By a cowardly bushwhacker,” Peggy contended every time she was asked. She also discredited the creditors who were exerting undue force on her to part with the ranch, some for obvious reasons; she was often referred to as “The prettiest thing west of wherever,” and known far and wide as a woman who could ride and rope with ability that matched many men.

Hughes, as a fastidious and organized man, slowly began to assemble his “book” on the robbery.

More than once he sat up abruptly in the middle of the night, directly from his sleep, perhaps from his dreams, his sense of mystery whetted by some floating imagery often eluding him. Hughes, a lover of mysteries or puzzlers he found in Poe’s “The Murders of the Rue Morgue” and “The Woman in White” by Wilkie Collins. They enchanted him and he licked his lips on these and other occasions when he began to assemble the foregoing information into a palatable package. It did bring a momentary fear that he’d spend more time on the package than on his bank duties. Yet somewhere inside his structured thought lingered the idea that he had on his hands the makings of a damned good mystery that called for the return of a bag of gold nuggets stolen from the Bank of Hilton Elvers. His bank.

A full week later, musing to himself on a busy day at work, his mind suddenly drifted elsewhere, Hughes said under his breath, “Oh’s saw me the day of the robbery, for that’s what it still is. He saw me, but only for a short time. I could, in reality, become someone else and get closer to things down there in


massachusetts, usa

Albatross Rim. Do some investigating, go digging.” He rubbed his hands in expectation and tittered, likewise again to himself , “And perhaps all the luck in all this world might come my way in spite of what Coleridge had to say back there at the turn of the century.”

With a fevered pitch to his interest, the bank manager rode down the trail, along the Snake River and loving the country all the way, to Albatross Rim that sat in the middle of a great saucer of land where the river twisted itself in a quick torture. Dressed in old cowboy clothes he had scrounged from the livery, a hat as old as the mountains themselves, a gray-black shirt looking like it had been found on the edge of the desert, and a pair of Levis shot through with tear and wear, he looked like a down-and-out cowpoke who’d messed up his last job, spent his last dime, but held fast to the last dream … and his horse and saddle, the horse being a spirited red “as big as the King’d allow.”

The only fear he had was opening his mouth to say the right word in the wrong dialect; and he didn’t know if he could correct the eventual impression.

“Ridin’ and ropin’ an’ cattlin’,” he’d said aloud during his approach to Albatross Rim, trying to capture the western dialect in full flavor, knowing he’d try it at least once to speak for his past. He knew he’d probably fail. It was inevitable; “Brits don’t make good cowboys,” he might have also said.

And as it had been proved in this case, they don’t make good bank robbers either. He afforded himself another chuckle at this revelation.

Oh’s, before the robbery came down, was the only hand working the Dexter ranch. He was deeply in love with Peggy and realized he’d like to skewer the creditors hounding her

and her uncle, and had undertaken a number of activities, some that came accidentally and some that had grown out of simple musings of his mind, all which dealt with Peggy’s comfort and with his love for her, and his own good will for making amends in her behalf.

He knew that accidental intentions and intentional accidents were not the same from all angles, and when he overheard Peggy’ s uncle and three strange men discussing and planning the robbery of the bank at Hilton Elvers, he remained quiet and hidden in the loft of the barn. It had been where he’d been idly stringing some odd ropes, and it was a moment of Fate, he understood, that had come calling on his attention.

“Go out the same way you came in,” the uncle had said to those men with him in the barn, “and do your mighty best not to appear in the face of anybody for the next few days. Camp in solitude, if you can, off the trail along the river. Find a hidden spot that will keep you secreted, mold yourselves quiet for the while. Under the one big tree north of here you’ll find food, plenty of it, and a few bottles of the best available to keep you happy. Do not go into Hilton Elvers until Thursday morning next at the 8th hour. That’s two days from now. Proceed right to the bank at that time and I’ll meet you on the way. It’ll be a favorable for us, a cinch as all cowpokes say, a knotted rope. I’ll take care of the arrangements to make it so.”

He had paused and Oh’s could imagine him getting ready for a special pitch to the strangers whose voices and language were entirely different. It came as, “We can, each one of us, knock it sure and be set for the rest of our days. Knock it sure.” He clapped his hands and Oh’s could see the image clearly, though he was deep in the hay.

On the prescribed day, two days hence,


massachusetts, usa

Oh’s made sure he was in the right place at the right time, hoping for a good reward, a better position, some advancement in life, but never did he imagine the sight of a bag of gold being made so accessible to him. Fortune can swing a wide path, he often thought. And so he cleaned and oiled his pistols several times in the two days following, helping along that thought, making ready his own fate.

Choosing his place for the event of robbery, he secured the best possible spot, did his thing, sprayed the bank robbers, saw the bag of nuggets fall where it was difficult to see, changed his plans; Fate giving him the faintest nudge to a new plan.

It should be noted here that Shjon Oh’s’s father was Ollie Oh’s, whose childhood tormentors pushed him towards artistry with the handgun. It was his father’s reaction to the constant screams of those tormentors deriding him in his youth with their cries of, “Ollie Ollie oxen free," derived from the German settlers’ "Alles, Alles auch so ein frei!" His gun artistry came to him after serious practice and several years of his adolescent years, and eventually the same for his only son, Shjon, born in 1844 in a fast western town in the Kansas territory, 17 years before it became 34th state of the union. He was an anxious child aimed at his manhood, after being tormented as “Shjon Oh’s the pretty Rose,” or Shjonny Oh’s has 16 toes,” and other such sobriquets, some not so petty or pretty. For Oh’s was a handsome young man whose image Peggy Dexter, from her first sight of him, took to her covers each night thereafter, until the image was real, as we have seen.

Banker Hughes, as can be said, was smooth, as smooth as a good knight of the crown could be in a motley cowboy outfit. His hang-up was that he remained “still desperately British. “If I keep my mouth shut for the nonce, I may proceed to some fruition

here.” He was optimistic at the least point. Some people, he knew, could tell where a man came from by a few words out of a man’s mouth, at least where that man had spent his early years bred on local time and timbre.

But he was dog thorough, mole deep, and set out to prove it, though with cautions and considerations in mind at all times. Those reflections he could have listed, and often did so in a mental sweep to keep alert:

Somebody in Hilton Elvers has gained in the theft.

That someone has secreted away the gold in some manner.

It may have been planned or it was accidental, as influenced by the shooting.

Oh’s was in on the shooting, “which is why I am here in Albatross Rim.”

Oh’s has seen me in Hilton Elvers, though for a short time.

I have to keep an eye on Oh’s without Oh’s seeing me.

I have to determine the kind/color of the horse(s) that Oh’s rides, so as to know when he is in Albatross Rim, tied at which rail, in what building, and the time/habit of such visits. These included visits to the saloon, which all men visit, if not for drink, then for socializing, cards, news, or rumor.

I need to have a vantage point for this watch. (One offering a view of the town’s main street, and the best place in the saloon for indiscrete observation.)

The hotel, small as it was, had two front rooms that were suitable, but both were plainly occupied. He had to reserve one for the first availability once vacated, which he set out to


massachusetts, usa

do.

On his way to the hotel, walking along the main street in the town, he felt adrift … but determined. Nor did he entertain any random thoughts of Fate’s intervention, but such a worldly man was supposed to be alert to such an appearance. “Luck has funny legs that it dances with,” he remembered one customer at the bank saying when he’d found a gold coin in the street.

He mulled over his coming encounter with the hotel clerk/owner, and found something measuring him for possible action. It caused only a slight hesitation to his step at the same time he saw rider dismount and walk into the hotel ahead of him.

Hughes hurried his step.

He stepped into the hotel and heard the new arrival say, loudly, “Whadyamean you ain’t got no room. I’m trail-busted and road-dusted and need a room.”

Hughes was greatly surprised to hear the clerk say, in a definite Londoner’s tone, “It’s as I said, ‘eh Mate; we have no vacancies.” He looked at Hughes, as if sharing his response and shrugged one shoulder in the most subtle manner.

Hughes, stocked with surprise, and a sudden glee, shifted his head slightly toward the street, to which the clerk smiled and said to the angered man, “Well, mate, you come in later in the day or on the morrow and we’ll see what’s in fare, if there is a room possibility.”

The new arrival, without a look at Hughes, turned and walked to the door, muttering, “The country ain’t safe even three wars later from them damned Brits.” The door slammed behind him.

Hughes said to the clerk in his old

Yorkshire way, “Now then, my good man, that was a bloody neat comeuppance for that barmy lad. Blimey, ‘ey what.”

Hughes had his room that evening, overlooking the main street of Albatross Rim, and with it came a long talk with the clerk.

That very evening, from a corner table of the Broken Wing Saloon, still in his cowboy get-up, the banker from Hilton Elvers spotted Shjon Oh’s when he entered with two companions, all three going right to the bar and ordering whiskeys.

One of Oh’s’s companion said, “Well, Shjon, we got to toast your good luck in finding that gold in a mine that’s been done in for years. And damned thoughtful to file that claim on it. Peggy’s got to be damned happy to get the yoke off her back, now that you bought things outright and clear.” He tipped his glass to Oh’s and said, “Here’s to you, Shjon. Luck comes to them that looks for it. You always said that, yes siree, even when you was looking at Peggy from outside the fence.”

All three of them laughed, as Hughes, unnoticed by them, slipped out of the saloon and went to the local land office. He received little information other than the claim was left useless and abandoned some 20 years earlier with never any follow-up action until recently, the fortunate discovery of a bag of gold presumably lost or hidden for years in or near the mine, but not fully qualified by the finder. There were no legal ramifications bound upon the find.

That was the cover story Oh’s furnished on several occasions.

Without spending much thought on it, Hughes knew he needed an ally, a person of influence, to carry his mission to completion. It would not be the Albatross Rim’s banker, or


massachusetts, usa

the sheriff, or the hotel owner/clerk or a barber or the owner of the general store across the street from the hotel. It was not somebody back at Hilton Elvers.

It had to be somebody here at Albatross Rim.

It had to be Peggy Oh’s, and the idea struck him with its irony: Peggy Oh’s owes. He’d put it in her lap. It was the only chance he had; Shjon Oh’s was too ingrained in the community, too secure in his status as landowner, businessman, new husband in an old love story.

Almost untouchable. Almost.

It was revealed that Oh’s had a Saturday habit of spending a good part of the day at the Broken Wing Saloon. So when he came into town that Saturday, Hughes rode out of town, and eventually introduced himself to Peggy Oh’s. He was wearing his banker’s clothes, and she was impressed with his qualities, his voice, his language, and his manners.

“I hesitate to bother you, Mrs. Oh’s,” he said. “I am Winston Hughes, III, and I own the bank up river at Hilton Elvers. It was robbed, as you know, and your uncle, as you also know, was killed in the supposedly unsuccessful robbery.”

Peggy Oh’s replied, “Oh, call me Peggy, please. Mrs. Oh’s sounds rather stuffy. We know each other already. And he wasn’t my favorite uncle”

“I think it would take me a whole day to get to know you, Ma’am. Maybe more than that.”

“We definitely have a head start,” she said. “What can I do for you, Winston? It’s

surely about the robbery, isn’t it?”

“You have a feeling about the affair?”

“I do.”

It did not take him long to reveal to her, piece by piece, the background of the robbery of a bag of gold, and all the ensuing activity; some of which she knew already.

“If there was a retrieval of a good part of the stolen gold,” Hughes said, “there might be a good chance of a compromise. My main duty is to recover what was lost while it was in my custody.”

The understanding sat directly in front of them.

It did not take long after Peggy asked her husband the next day to show her where he found the bag of gold. “That bag was not even worn out a little from the weather or time, which most people think was about 20 years ago, unless it was stolen more recently and hidden there.”

The law of the kitchen and the bedroom hovered over the Oh’s until he admitted to most all things, but not saying that he knew her uncle would be in the robbery, or that the man had it coming to him as the man suspected of killing his own brother.

It was late in the evening when Oh’s finally said to his wife, “All I saw were men who were about to kill some innocent people of the town, so I started shooting.”

The lie, in due time, saved a banker’s sense of responsibility and a new marriage with all the associated intangibles, as Fate would have it.

* * *


ram krishna singhjharkhand, indiawww.rksinghpoet.blogspot.in

Echoes Haunt Sleepy roadswith or without lighttear the sky I watch the murmurin the misty darknessTao of midnight tranquil emptiness:breathing deceptive coldthe echoes haunt

Kaytawazlar ğoklap turar Yukulî ğollarğarîklî-ğarîksîzkókyúzún ğîrtîp parşalar şîrîldamanî siyír etermenkeşeyarîsî Tawo’sîtumanlî karañgîda sessíz boşlîk:kandîruwğî suwuk solîşlîkaytawazlar ğoklap turar

(Taner Murat’îñ kaytarmasînda)


ram krishna singhjharkhand, india

www.rksinghpoet.blogspot.in

Quakes in Elements She trusts her reading of my horoscopeand predicts a comfortable future even as I know my toothachenow means the fall of my teethand anal bleeding means sure surgery my dying libido is as uncomfortableas the dream of humans sleeping on the ceiling: their flattened naked back amuses mewho knows who’ll fall first? before I wake up I try to gauge the selvageof restless lines, moon, saturn and venus conspiring new challengesfor the quakes in my elements it’s already mid-Novemberand the bouts of bronchial allergytell of the cycle of incarceration:her moving lips are no soporific

Elkelerde zelzeleler O mením yîldîz falîma inanîpkeleğegím raát bolağagîn ğorar kaberlí bolsam da ke tîşîmnîñ awuruwîtúşeğegí demektírkoñk kanamalarîm ameliyat demektír óliyatîrgan ğínsiy meragîm mení raátsíz etertawanda yuklagan insanlarîñ túşí gibí: basîlgan arkalarî hoşîma ketesíptí kím túşeğegín kím bílír? uyanmadan ewel sîzîk, yîldîz, şolpannîñraátsíz tereklígín ólşiyğek bolaman kím arttan íş kóríp ğol aşarelkelerímdekí zelzelelerge tap kasîm ayîñ ortasîndamîzbîronşit tutmalarî damápís deweranîn añlatîr:onîñ oynagan eríní yuklatuwğî tuwul

(Taner Murat’îñ kaytarmasînda)


denis bellflorida, usahttp://www.unf.edu/~dbell


florida, usahttp://www.unf.edu/~dbell

Interview TM: Denis, you are a Professor of Mathematics. How did you decide to become a writer? Do you find writing relaxing? Denis Bell: Until fairly recently I’d never remotely considered writing fiction, or that if I did, that anybody would be interested in reading it. (In high school it took me three attempts to pass my English “O-level”!) Then a few years ago my daughter showed me an anthology of short stories she was reading, called The Death Machine. The stories were by a collection of people, mostly not professional writers, on the common theme of a machine that could predict how any given person will die. I thought, this seems like fun, so I sat down and wrote a “Death Machine” story. A pretty feeble effort as it turned out, but I found I really enjoyed the writing process. Later, ideas for other stories

occurred to me and it progressed from there. I find writing both relaxing and exciting. TM: Do you believe that literature can help humanity to become more tolerant or collaborative? Why or why not? Denis Bell: It’s a good question. Obviously the writings of philosopher/politicians such as Gandhi and Nelson Mandela have had an enormous impact in this regard, as has the work of writers such as Eli Wiesel. I think the case for pure fiction is harder to make. I remember discussing this issue once with my brother, who studied Literature in college. He said he thought there is little evidence to suggest that even the work of such great a writer as Jonathan Swift, who apparently wrote with a moral purpose, has had much impact on the way people treat each other, either in his time or later. I have to say I agree. It seems that literature, and art in general, ought to



have the power to unite people by revealing to us our common humanity. Certainly one would expect, at the very least, the overall impact to be uniting rather than divisive. TM: Are you the only writer in your family? Denis Bell: As far as I know. I hope my kids will write one day. My wife, too. TM: Can you tell us your biggest creative influences and how they have affected your work? Denis Bell: My favorite authors are Kafka, Dostoyevsky, and Dickens. Also the plays of Harold Pinter. (I actually attended the same high school as Harold Pinter - Hackney Downs School in London, though much later.) I like the short stories of Roald Dahl. Singer/songwriters such as Bob Dylan, Beatles, Paul Simon. Since I’ve been writing, I’ve read a lot of short stories online and come across some amazing work. Pieces of great power and beauty, generally by writers not by any means famous (they may be in the process of becoming famous), many of them women. I think this has influenced me more than anything. It’s difficult to say how, exactly. Mainly I suppose in terms of timing and the creation of mood. TM: Is there anything you consistently draw inspiration from?

Denis Bell: Just what I see around me. Mulgravia was inspired by a soccer game I watched on TV between England and San Marino. One of my stories, by a biography of Isaac Newton. TM: How would you describe your work? Denis Bell: I favor a minimalist style. Perhaps influenced by my training in mathematics, where the emphasis tends to be on the analysis of a central idea and conciseness of expression. TM: Whom do you picture as the ideal reader of your work? Denis Bell: I hope it might appeal to a variety of readers. TM: How do you balance reading and writing? Denis Bell: I don’t make a conscious effort to do this. There seems to be time for both. TM: Is your work process fast or slow? Denis Bell: Actually, it’s both. When I decide to write a story, I usually knock out a first draft in a few hours (they’re all rather short). Then I spend the rest of forever revising, up until the time the story gets accepted for publication (if it gets accepted). Largely silly things like



changing an “a” to a “the”, and back again. Adding or deleting sentences here and there. Usually the story ends up about twice its original length. TM: Where do you write? Denis Bell: At home. Mostly horizontally, either lying on the couch or in bed with the laptop propped on my chest. TM: Do you write at night? or during the day? Denis Bell: Usually at night. I don’t teach in the mornings, so I tend to stay up most of the night anyway and sleep late. TM: Do you admire your own work? Denis Bell: Not really. Occasionally I’ll reread a sentence I wrote and think, I like the way that sounds. TM: If you were to stop writing, what would you replace it with? Denis Bell: I’d probably be even more of a couch potato. Rather, I’d be the same couch potato but I’d start watching Doctor Who reruns. TM: If I were to follow you around to see Jacksonville, which places would we go? What would we see?

Denis Bell: I’m afraid you’d be rather bored. My wife and I, we’re pretty much homebodies. The occasional move, restaurant, that’s about it. I’d take you out to the beach, which is nice. TM: Do you have any obsessions that you would like to share? Denis Bell: I think I’d sooner not. TM: Where can we find you on the web? Denis Bell: You can find me and my efforts (both literary and mathematical) on my website http://www.unf.edu/~dbell. TM: What is ahead for Professor Denis Bell? Denis Bell: I suppose I’ll write some more stories. I also need to do some math(s). I’m scheduled to speak at a conference in France in May, and it would be nice to have something new to talk about.

http://www.unf.edu/~dbell







Mulgravia General The principality of Mulgravia is located in the foothills of the Ural mountains and occupies 8.5 square miles of land. The official population is 9,357 according to the latest census conducted in 2005 but the figure could be misleading as it is thought that up to 15% of households may not have returned the form. Mulgravia possesses a remarkable physical characteristic. It is situated between landforms in such a way as to be virtually invisible from outside. Perhaps for this reason the country is cloaked in a shroud of anonymity. The principality appears on no world maps, is never featured in foreign travelogues, nor is the subject

of questions on trivia shows in foreign lands. Indeed, a strange psychological mechanism appears to hold sway. People the world over seem unaware of Mulgravia’s existence until some unusual circumstance brings it to the fore and tend to forget about it as soon as said circumstance is passed. Some maintain it is a myth like the lost city of Atlantis. Mulgravia has thus been largely ignored by the rest of the world throughout much of its history. This has proven advantageous at times. The country remained untouched by the many wars that swept through Europe and served as a refuge during WWII for Jews and other targets of Nazi persecution. Religion Mulgravia has likewise avoided incursions from religious groups. Crusaders, Jihadists and missionaries never came to the land. As a result, mainstream religion has not taken root there. Instead, many of the people follow an ancient homegrown system of beliefs known as Luvetsk (a term that loosely translates to “life essence”). The doctrine is nature-based, reminiscent of some Native American tribes combined with Druidic elements. Military The Mulgravian military has two branches, Army and Air Force (since the country is landlocked



there is no Navy). The Army, consisting mostly of volunteer reservists, conducts training exercises every other weekend. The chief drawing card is the uniforms, which are said to be the most ornate in the whole of Europe. The Air Force operates on a similar basis. It has recently acquired its first helicopter. An intense rivalry exists between Army and Air Force focused largely on the uniforms. This unfortunate situation resulted in a duel with pistols in 1903 between the heads of the two branches, Marshal Gunnar Koch and Wing Admiral Viktor Tietze in which the Marshal was fatally wounded and the Wing Admiral killed outright. To diffuse tensions, heads of the two branches are now required to dine together twice a year in civilian dress with no side arms. The Mulgravia Color Guard, founded in 1293 as bodyguard to the Royal Family is still in existence today although its function is purely ceremonial. The eight standing members of the Guard parade outside the Royal Palace and provide demonstrations of crossbow shooting at pageants. Economy A major source of revenue is copper, a rich vein of which was discovered in the north of the country in the early 1900’s.

Mulgravia has been involved in several commercial operations including whaling and overseas banking. In addition, a number of amateur athletes “represent” Mulgravia in sporting events, including unconventional events like the egg throwing world championship, which Mulgravia hosted and won in 2007. For a period Mulgravia camouflage passports were mass manufactured by a group based in Chechnya. The operation was shut down after protests by the Mulgravian ruling family and after the passports were discovered to be linked to several high profile crimes in Eastern Europe. According to Mulgravia News, a documentary about the country is in production by MTV (Mulgravia National Television). The documentary is scheduled for release in the Fall of 2014. Culture and Cuisine Every February 19, Mulgravia Day, the townspeople of Katyagrad, the capital city, gather in the town square to burn in effigy Gustaf Mulgra and his wife Katerina, the country’s tyrannical founders, and to partake of Mulgrafitch, a fragrant stuffed pastry (“fitch” being the vulgar Mulgravian term for the posterior). Prince Stephan, the current heir to the throne is by all accounts a genial fellow. He can usually be found in one of the many taverns on



Gustafstrasse (Katyagrad’s main thoroughfare) though to the chagrin of the national brewers he tends to favor imported beer, having a particular weakness for Newcastle Brown. Mulgravia has a famous cake known as the Drevnibus Tort (old bush tart), a flaky pastry covered in berries named for an ancient shrub in the botanical gardens in Katyagrad. The national delicacy is Skutzkwurst, a spicy sausage made from the entrails of the Skutzk, a small arborial rodent native to the region. The Skutzk appears on the national flag and serves as the mascot of the national sports teams (see Sports, below).The Mulgravian punk band Taxi Pankake is very popular on the word stage. At home a more melodic folk music holds sway, as exemplified by the legendary Carlotta Korinska (The Divine Lotte, 1911 – 1986). Education Mulgravia has a strong school high system. The Mulgravian Ministry of Education is traditional in outlook. For example, the use of calculators is prohibited in high schools. Outsiders would find the arithmetic somewhat daunting as Mulgravia uses a septagesimal number system. Mulgravia’s leading seat of higher education, the renowned MIT (Mulgravia Instituten Technologie) has rigorous admission standards. Areas of strength include Foreign Affairs and

Seal Husbandry. Currency The Mulgravian mint issues three coins, the Pek, the Sard, and the Mulgravian Crown, the last valued at approximately 1.5 U.S. dollars. There are 10 Pek to a Sard, and 20 Sard to a Crown. There is an ongoing push towards septagesimalization which, in spite of opposition by traditionalists, seems likely to be adopted in the near future. Titles of Nobility Mulgravia sells titles of individual nobility including Duke, Baron, and Viscount. Earldoms became available in the year 2000. Sports On the second Saturday in May a footrace is held around the perimeter of the country, a distance of approximately 13.5 miles. The race is tremendously popular, sometimes attracting as many as 100 entrants and is covered live on Mulgravia TV Channel 4. The winner receives a purse of 500 Crowns and a medal with the likeness of Orlov Kinski, Mulgravia’s most famous long distance runner, who placed fifth in the Olympic marathon of 1924. Medal and purse



are presented in a ceremony held in the gardens of the Royal Palace on the day following the race. The Mulgravian people are fanatical about soccer and have a national team that occasionally competes on the world stage. The team’s proudest moment came in a world cup qualifying match in 1961 when the Mulgravia Skutzkhin (Squirrels) held the mighty England team to a 3-0 victory at Wembley stadium. A week after the game the captain of the Mulgravia team, Lev Bronsky, received a letter from the great Bobby Charlton who scored two of the goals in the Wembley encounter. Charlton praised the “gritty determination of the Mulgravia team” and in particular, Bronsky’s defensive skills. The Charlton letter, beautifully captioned and framed, held pride of place above the Bronsky mantel for forty-five years until Lev’s widow passed away in 2006. It now makes the rounds of the households of the four surviving Bronsky children and will be donated to the National Museum upon their deaths. Outreach In recent years Mulgravia has sought to create an international presence. The National Bureau of Entertainments is currently auditioning talent for the principality’s first entry into the Eurovision Song Contest.

Further Reading “Mulgravia, Myth or Fact?”. World Almanac 1929. Justin Madison, Mulgravia’s Ark. Grobner Books. 1962. Roger Krayfish, Lotte Korinska, The Mulgravian Songbird. Blue Sky Press, 1992. “Mulgravia Passports Linked To Eastern European Rebel Group”. Reuters. 8 May 2001. “A Census of Population, Households and Dwellings in Mulgravia 2005”. Monstat. Retrieved 3 May 2005. “Mulgravia set to host 2007 Egg Throwing Championships”. Mulgravia Sports Monthly. 11 October 2006. “A Tale of Two Hotheads: The Legacy of Koch and Tietze”. Mulgravia At The Turn Of The Septenary. Muffin Press. 1970. “Septagesimalization scheduled for early 2014 despite fierce opposition from national bankers”. Mulgravia World Service. 15 Feruary 2013. “Crnya od das Krobni” (translation pending). Mulgravia Today. 25 October 2013.


ajiniyaz qosibay-uli(1824–1874)


ajiniyaz qosibay-uli(1824–1874)

Bozataw Century of Land with nation, nation is with land,

Grief is awaiting us, landless in exile.

We won’t forget the pain, tribe will disappear

You were our bread-winner, dear Bozataw.

Heard, firing started out before sunrise,

Slept as free before-woke up as a slaver,

Hands were tied up-where is the struggle…

Your son was captured suddenly, Bozataw.


california, usawjacksavage.com

Fabric Store



Uncle Bill (a sort of self portrait)(From Dislocate)



Men in Trees(From Em Dash Literary)



Teen Tiger(From Synchronized Chaos)


vladimir nicolasquebec, canada


Monster Society In the Cities of Gold, the society is a monster, the coldest creature. Fiend beast, that society sponsored the works that tired men.Despite it is affluent, the society stole the sweats of every man.The society worried families to overwork under its maniac pressure. Monstrous society, it is a cold monster eager of the golden income. In order to wipe out Love in our planet, hypocrisy is worshiped by that society.Fanatic devotee of the cows of gold, the monster society is selfish-hearted fromAbove to below, striving for fame and power, to sink our souls in its dark water.

quebec, canada


england, ukwww.arabworldbooks.com

Unbounded Void (IV)

5

The start of Spring saw a marked improvement in the weather. The snow on the slopes of the Golan Heights quickly turned into slush and streamed in torrents down into the gullies and valleys below. Whence the soil was even partially uncovered, the bracing dawn saw the fellahin, men, women and children, completely immersed in their fields. By the end of Nisan1 hardly any pupils attended the school. They all had joined their families in tilling the land for the Summer crops. With the class empty, I saw no need to stay in the village and packed my suitcase and travelled back to the turmoil of Damascus, fermenting with revolution against the French occupation.

My tearful mother was happy to see me safe and well. She was inwardly glad that, unlike my other brothers, I was away from Damascus. Deciding that I was thin, she straightaway began cooking my favourite food to fatten me up for what she called ‘the wilderness of the Golan’.

Fearful for my safety if I rejoined the battles of liberation that were raging right across the Arab World. It was fondly called,

‘From the roaring Atlas Ocean to the rebellious Gulf’2.

My mother wholeheartedly agreed with her Baal when he told me, ‘Ali, you must spend your summer-break preparing yourself to be a good teacher.’

Although, I fathomed the reason behind their advice, I had already planned to avoid the daily raucous protests3 and instead study primary schoolbooks that were taught in schools here, in Damascus. Apart from a few visits to see my friends and despite the constant buzzing and whizzing of bullets and big guns, I spent my vacation with my folk, reading and making sketches for lessons on various topics I thought would be suitable to teach. When I travelled back to the Golan Heights, I carried with me all sort of tomes that might be useful as references or give me ideas of what might interest the children and could be taught. The more I dug, the more I was convinced that teaching was my true



vocation and I was happy with that conclusion.

At the beginning of the month of first Tishrin, I bade my parents and siblings farewell and embarked on the bus back to Al Qunaitra. As you might imagine, I was rather anxious but also looking forward to commence my second year in the village. From the large increase in the boys enrolling in the Autumn term, it was obvious that the fame of my school must have travelled far. Even though a many beginners did dropout for all sorts of reasons there remained over forty pupils.

Due to their greater number, I figured that my workload was going to be heavier than in the previous year. A few weeks into the Autumn term, I bashfully spoke to the village chief.

In private I told him, ‘Sheikh, we have to reassess the school fees! With more students I will need to buy more books, pencils, colours, papers and exercise books and so on which each boy will need.’

He did not look surprised. With a light smile hovering on his lips, he looked me in the face and immediately said in a matter of fact voice, ‘Of course, teacher Ali. I was waiting for you to open the subject.’

One Friday afternoon about two weeks later, I was summoned to the mathafa by a

messenger from the village chief. To my surprise, when I entered, I found the village elders were holding a meeting. Guessing the reason for their gathering, I was visibly embarrassed and at a loss as to what to say. By a node from their sheikh, the men quietly yakked amongst themselves. When the village chief judged that my taut nerves had relaxed, he suddenly coughed, putting an end to the chinwag.

In a deep tone of voice, he announced, ‘Teacher Ali is now in our midst as one of us. For his services and hard work he deserves our thanks and gratitude.’

An abrupt hum of voices and nodding of heads agreeing with their sheikh erupted for a few seconds. The noise died as quickly as had broken out. I thought, ‘Clearly the elders have been discussing the matter of the school fees and have reached an agreement.’

After a few loaded silent moments, reflecting on how best he could explain their agreement, the village chief continued, ‘Teacher, Ali, we are poor fellahin and live on what the land produces. Every year the French demand their share in our toil. If a season fails there would be famine. We are the victims of continually climbing taxation. It hangs over our heads like a flourished sword. The sudden raids by the French soldiers searching for our young men to imprison or recruit to be slave labour in the foreign army, is a terrible



nightmare we live under. The village elders have agreed that the school fee should be raised. We offer a measure and a half of wheat or its equivalent per pupil every term.’

After the harangue I heard from the village chief, I initially thought that there will be no rise in fees. Considering the rationale that had brought me here in the first instant, I would have accepted his argument and forced myself to make do with what I had. But since his offer was in line with what I had been expecting, I instantly agreed. Indeed, until the war of nineteen sixty-seven which scattered the fellahin in all directions, like insects when their stone is lifted, the fee remained fixed at that level.

As the wheat and grains were of no use to me, I had contracted a grain merchant from Al Qunaitra. A fortnight into the term, he would arrive with his horse-drawn cart to buy whatever fees I had collected.

You would be right to think that by the fellahin's standard, I became rich and lived in ease and comfort. The villagers left me in need of little provisions. They filled my jars with cheese, pickled olives and olive oil. If anybody slaughtered a goat or a sheep I had a share. The boys brought with them eggs, freshly backed bread, soft sheep cheese and things of what the country folks in these part keep as provisions. The extraordinary generosity of the fellahin towards me, though I was not in

need, was the complete opposite of their meanness towards Fatimah and she was really poor and hungry. Over the years, as my wealth increased, each month I started to send a few liras to my father, not because he was short of money. It was expected me as a dutiful son. That was the way we were brought up in those long gone days. Every Friday, if not invited to lunch by the father of one of my pupils, I dined with the village chief and his four sons in the mathafa.

As if my future had been drawn and settled, that second Autumn, with the money that was left over from purchasing the school necessities and on the urging of my mother to feed well, I bought three she-goats to have fresh milk. At night time, I penned the goats with my jennet. Early, each morning, after milking the goats and leaving the milk outside my door, the shepherd’s daughter took them to pasture in recompense for her brother’s school fees.

In the evening of a really hard day’s work of teaching then cleaning and tidying the school up, in passing I told the village chief, ‘After a long day wrestling with boys what I hate most is cleaning and washing-up. It really tires me out. Keeping the school neat and orderly, is quite a testing task.’

Although, having a woman to come and clean had occurred to me and I had even thought of Fatimah as the obvious choice for



the task, I was not sure that any woman would allow herself to enter a bachelor home especially in a small village where everybody knew everybody’s business. Until that idea had occurred to me, I was hardly aware of Fatimah’s existence. So I was rather taken aback when he said, ‘Not to worry, I shall ask my wife to speak with Umm Ahmad4 if she can spare the time. She is a good worker.’

A week letter I had a house keeper. Umm Ahmad was a matronly widow in her early thirties. Living in such state of dearth of life basic sustenance, thievery was quite rife and it was even considered manly. Driven by paucity, Umm Ahmad’s husband and their only son, Ahmad, were caught red-handed stealing grains by an irate merchant who shot them both on site. Ahmad left behind him a teenage wife, two boys and a girl. As it was the custom, after the elapse of the Shari’a four months, the young wife was forced by her father to leave her children as he carried her back to his household. I latter learned that the father collected a second dowry when he had her wedded again in another village. Umm Ahmad was left with three young grandchildren to bring up alone. Without men in the house, she was unable to work her meagre land. She hired it out to the miserly cousin of Fatimah to toil for a fixed tithe of its crop.

The widow's legs worsened and became gangrenous. She could not move of

her pains. Fatimah took very good care of her mother who refused to give her daughter one consolatory word. If visitors came to see her, she would complain about her bad daughter and blame her for her worsening conditions.

With tears standing on her eyelids, the widow would wail, ‘All my sorrows are brought upon me by this undutiful daughter. Had Allah taken her when she ran away with that lecherous man, it would have been a mercy. Woe is me! Fatimah will shame me to the last second of my unhappy existence.’

Sitting crossed-legged on the tattered mate around her, the women would shake their heads in agreement and say, with Fatimah sitting at the doorstep ready to serve them, ‘It would have been more honourable if she had stayed to take care of her sick mother.’

After the death of the widow, the charity stopped reaching the hut. If Fatimah knocked a door to seek employment or to beg for food, they would call her bad names and throw her out. Many did not hesitate to strike her. Seeing how the adults were treating her, the children began to follow Fatimah and throw stones at her. It became clear to me, and I am sorry to say that then I was still on the sidelines strutting in my honourable position. Watching the tragedy from afar, I saw everybody spiting and mistreating her and I preferred not to get involved. For in their eyes she had no feelings to be hurt. If her name was



accidentally mentioned in the mathafa, the men would condemn her and call her by the worst names they could think of in polite company. When her paternal cousin came to collect his share of the widow's legacy, Fatimah cried and begged him to leave her another mattress to lay her aching bones on the cold floor or give her one more blanket to cover herself with.

Without any pangs of conscious, he retorted angrily, ordering his son to empty the hut, 'Half of everything here is mine. My family is more deserving than you.’

You might be astonished to read this extraordinary behaviour and wonder, ‘What did the poverty stricken widow leave? Thus far has meanness reached?’

That same parsimonious relative who had signed her marriage contract to the trinket salesman refused to walk behind the widow's funeral procession nor did he attend the burial. The village chief and I were amongst half a dozen men who attended the prayer in the mosque. It was a humble room of lime and stones with a ceiling of bamboo sticks supported by crooked horizontal wooden rafters.

In a breezy cold mid-afternoon, the men took it in turns to carry the open top coffin to the nearby village cemetery. The inconspicuous funeral procession left the mosque led by the muezzin. Without the

usual due respect for the dead, he was practically jogging, loudly delivering Surahs5 from the Qur’an. Overweighed by winter clothes, the tired village chief shouted at him, ‘Show respect to the dead. Slow down.’

Whilst the village women sat cross-legged in their homes around the noqra fire, gossiping and warming their hands, the only female that walked behind the men was the inconsolable Fatimah. She was desperately sobbing, pulling her hair, striking and scratching her bloodied face with her nails in lamentation. Not one of the righteous females cared to mention the death of the widow nor came out to give solace to her bereft and desolated daughter in her hour of total grief and isolation. In the long shadows of the approaching evening, the figure of Fatimah alone stood in the cemetery like a ghost amid the gravestones.

That winter advanced without pity. The biting wild wind of the north howled in the village lanes. In the chilled air, hunger forced Fatimah to come out to beg for scraps of food, but to no avail. The villagers’ hearts were shut against the desperate woman. With little food to sustain her and nothing substantial to keep her warm, Fatimah's asthma worsened and she coughed blood. Her total humiliation came when the clothes she wore became tattered and worn and failed cover her body. Embarrassed, she was ashamed to come out during the daylight to search for food in



dustbins.

It was not strange at all to see the fellahin bare foot. In fact they were mostly so, but semi-naked with nothing to veil their private parts, never. When Fatimah had reached the far end of her tortured existence, in loneliness and in need, the children began to organise themselves into gangs and raid her hut and throw dirt and stones at it. Even then I did not interfere, and worse still, I almost adopted the village's attitude towards its weakest member. I felt nauseous if I accidentally saw her and refused to lower myself to talk about such a dejected and sinful creature like her. Sometimes I saw my pupils amongst the children who chased her if she came out in the early evening to search for food. The parents watched their children amusing themselves with the debased being and said, ‘It is the unremitting punishment of Allah for being such an undutiful sinner. She deserves worse. She is the cause of her mother's early death.’

After the passage of all these years, I find it extraordinarily difficult that I accepted such guilty verdict from the people who absolutely and completely believed in Fate.

It seemed that all of the village population, including me, had forgotten that the widow had been chronically ill for months until the gangrene poisoned her blood. If anybody mentioned her death, his face wore a

sad look and said, ‘She has rested from the pains of living.’

Of course, nobody’s heart softened nor it was aroused with pity or felt merciful not even cared to mention the terrible fate that had befallen Fatimah.

Whatever I do to penalise myself will never atone my culpability in h

Fatimah‘s cheerless fate. Why did not my heart move or soften at her pathetic sight. If any pangs of conscious or feelings pity had ever touched my soul, I quickly squashed them.

* * *(to be continued)

-----------1 - Nisan was the first month of the ancient Semites calendar. Nisan corresponds with April. The first of Nisan was the spring equinox which is called Nowruz (new year day) and it is still celebrated in the Middle East, especially in Iran. In modern Eastern Mediterranean countries Nowruz falls on 21 of Adar (March). The second Kanon is now the first month of the year corresponding with January. 2 - Atlas Ocean (corrupted to Atlantic Ocean) means black or darkness sea. Some Arabs derogatorily refer to NATO as the Northern Darkness Treaty. 3 - All of the Arab world was in turbulence against the imperialist powers (Britain, France and Italy). Outraged by the policy of the British mandate which was letting in more and more Jews, the demonstrations in Palestine progressed to an armed struggle lasting until 1948 (the year of diaspora) when the mandatory authority handed Palestine to Ben Guerin and his band of Zionists.4 - That is the mother of Ahmad. Ahmad would be her first male born. 5 - Chapters from the Qur’an


Travels in Circassia, Krim Tartary, &c. (XVIII)

Among our cabin-passengers, the

brave Magyar was the most original in his

manners. He was in the prime of life, full of

fire and animation, with not a little of the

assured confidence of a man accustomed to

command; he was a complete horror to our

refined countrymen, whose every word and

gesture was studied, and whose

conversation was carried on in a sotto voce

tone, certainly not intended to communicate

with those whose auricular organs were in

the slightest degree disordered. In direct

opposition to this, every sentence uttered by

our Hungarian friend was in a voice so

pitched in alto, as to resemble that of a

seaman in a storm. In addition to this sin

against good manners, he used his fork for

a tooth-pick, and expectorated much too

freely on the floor, and never thought it

necessary to listen to any other conversation

than his own; which flowed on in one

continued stream, most unfortunately for his

hearers, for he was a man of limited

information, though he conceived himself to

be a living encyclopedia, and competent to

discuss every subject. This partly resulted

from his high station in his own country,

where he was a " doctor of laws and

philosophy," and also a seignior of two or

three most unpronounceable lordships: still,

notwithstanding these foibles, he was a truly

estimable man, honest in his principles, and

an excellent travelling companion.

On arriving at the Pruth, which forms

the boundary between Besserabia and

Moldavia, we perceive the town of Reni, or

Timorava. Here the possessions of Russia

commence; and a little lower down, at

Kartal, opposite the Bulgarian fortress

Isakscha, is the fatal spot where the armies

of that power were accustomed to throw

over a bridge of boats, when about to

invade the Turkish territory: a situation well

adapted to that purpose, owing to the

number of islands and the contracted bed of

the river. On passing the great lake Jalbug,


Ismael becomes visible. This town, called by

the Turks Smir, is also famous in the history

of the wars between Russia and Turkey.

Suwarrow took it in 1789 by storm, and, not

contented with delivering up the ill-fated city

to be plundered by an infuriated soldiery,

reduced nearly the whole of the town to

ashes, and massacred, according to the

Turkish accounts, twenty thousand of the

inhabitants. Thus, from being one of the

most beautiful and commercial towns in the

Ottoman empire, adorned with palaces and

mosques, and a population of thirty

thousand, Ismael has now become of so

little importance as scarcely to deserve

mention.

A short distance from Ismael

commences what is termed the Delta of the

Danube, a perfect sea thickly studded with

islands, extending for leagues in every

direction. These islands are for the most

part swampy, with little or no vegetation,

save bulrushes: as to cultivation there is

none, being litejrally a desolation of

desolation. Here, also, the river divides itself

into the various arms which discharge this

vast body of water into the Black Sea. The

number of these varies according to different

accounts; some give them at seven, while

others limit them to five. For myself, I should

be inclined to confine them to four; as that

arm of the river which runs into the Ramsin

lake, although it empties its waters into the

sea in three diff'erent places, can in reality

only be considered as one. Plinius estimated

them at six, which agrees with the Turkish

calculation, from whom they have also

received their present appellation.

We took the channel called Suline

Bogasi, which is that generally used by

mariners, and considered to be the principal

stream; and, according to the late Russian

treaty with the Ottoman Porte, it was agreed

that the centre of this arm of the Danube

should form for the future the boundary line

between the two empires, each reserving to

itself the right of navigation.

(to be continued)


Nazar Look Prize for Short Story

Tom SheehanMassachusetts, United States

Valery PetrovskiyChuvashia (today in Russia)

Nazar Look Prize for Tatar and AltaicLiterature

Hamit Latif (Latipov)Tatarstan (today in Russia)

Nazar Look Prize for Visual Arts

Sagida Siraziy (Sirazieva)Tatarstan (today in Russia)

Nazar Look Prize for Poetry

Jack PeachumVirginia, United States

Ram Krishna SinghJharkhand, India

We are pleased to announce the selection of the first recipients of our newly established annual Nazar Look Prizes for literature and the arts:

Short StoryTom SheehanMassachusetts, United StatesforSummons of the Mountain

PoetryJack PeachumVirginia, United StatesforDarwin

PoetryRam Krishna SinghJharkhand, IndiaforI Am No Jesus

PoetryAlan D. HarrisMichigan, United StatesforPearlsEmancipated Innocence

PoetryKevin Marshall ChopsonTennessee, United StatesforOn the Sleeping Body of God

PoetryLarry LefkowitzIsraelforBlazeA Flowered Vest


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