More than one

Have you heard the sweet melodic sound of the bağlama, of course you haven’t, as it has no sound now, as young Memed will soon find out.

 He had found it trapped “hidden” behind a cupboard. He gathered his family together, rather large at that, in the living room that evening for a performance on the thing.

They looked on bemused, he hit the strings with venom but only the air moved slightly as his hand came crashing down again and again, only grumbles and moans heard as each time nothing.

Sweet Memed had made a fool of himself. “I think it’s a toy,” Papa Yılmaz said, remembering something. Memed rushed up stairs, slammed the door and cried and cried into his pillow. In the dead of night he wished so hard and then at first faintly then louder a sound and voice came from the wall: Neşet Ertaş, “Yalan Dünya.” He listened, picked up his bağlama and played along. Papa Yılmaz was dreaming of illegal sounds.

Memed woke up fried, no, that’s the wrong word, stirred with that long-lost ingredient emotions. No longer filled with the ONE. Into the now potent explosive mixture he met his close friend Zeynep in the hills. They walked, he then uncontrollably kissed her, nothing. “What are you doing?” She pushed him away, ah and yes, he ran upstairs slammed the door and cried into his pillow. I loved her what were these words and this water from his eyes and this ache inside, was he ill? We know, readers, that he had an incurable illness, love sickness. His pounding heart started to mix with the tender voice gently coming through the walls, Müzeyyen Senar, “Bir Kızıl Goncaya Benzer Dudağın.” Papa Yılmaz woke up startled, what is this water in my eyes.

She reluctantly came round, he opened his heart, the walls began to sing, he kissed her lips and with each one both surrendered to the dreamlike voices around and slept arm in arm, sweet birds of youth.

Now emotions are infectious and though they had been well and truly suppressed under the ONE and with no internet or normal outlets, it was thought they were extinct. Now Papa Yılmaz was getting hot and bothered, he was angry though he didn’t know it. He picked up a pen, the paper before him. Then through the wall he heard a voice guiding his words: Nazım Hikmet. The ink flowed, damning the mining company on his doorstep. 

The whole mood of the village was changing, Memed and papa Yılmaz had set it on fire. The noise of kissing filled the air like birds singing. Music, dance, classic films with tears falling like waterfalls. 

Anger burst out of the tea rooms as Yılmaz and his friends plunged all the mining equipment down the hill, stripped the managers naked, as they too ran down the hill.

The ONE heard this and cleansed the village. Three were taken away and the rest forgot the sounds, and slipped back into endless praise of the ONE. 

One night the village started smelling of sweet flowers and sounds were drifting towards the graveyard. Memed was lying there he was playing the bağlama with Neşet Ertaş by his side, he then kissed Zeynep with the longing songs of Müzeyyen Senar piercing the air.

The villagers looked at each other and in unison anger and in tears defiantly stated: “We are One and HE is no one.”