Thirty-Three Bullets

by Ahmed Arif (Turkish original - Ankara, Turkey)by David Selim Sayers and Evrim Emir-Sayers (English translation - Paris, France)

THIS translation is of the poem “Otuz Üç Kurşun” by the Kurdish-Turkish poet Ahmed Arif (1923-1991). You can hear it performed by Ahmed Arif himself at this link. For a classic song adaptation of the third part, check out “Vurulmuşum” (I Am Shot) by Fikret Kızılok at this link.

1.

This mountain is called the Clamp[1]On Van, from here, breaks the dawnOf Mount Nimrod it is the spawnOn Nimrod, from here, breaks the dawnOne side bedecked with avalanche, the Caucasus its kenOne side unfurled like a prayer rug, down into Persian landsIcicle vines on its peaksWayward doves by its brooksRoe deers roaming in herdsAnd partridge flocks…

Bravery brooks no denialThey never succumbed one-on-oneFolk of these parts for thousands of yearsHow, then, to break such news?This is not a flock of cranesNor is it a pattern of starsIt’s thirty-three hearts, shot through with lead,Thirty-three fountains of bloodThat never drain outThat make up a lake on this Mount.

2.

A hare appeared down the bendA poor mountain hare with two soulsSpeckles on its backIts belly white as milkIts heart in its throat, so unkemptIt could make anyone repentStill, still was the hourA flawless, unadorned dawn

One of the thirty-three looked upHis belly full of hunger’s heavy voidHis hair, his beard unkemptAnd on his collar, liceA daredevil, heart forged in hell,He looked up, his arms all bound,Once at the wretched hare,And once he turned around.

He thought of his flintlock, so coy,How under his pillow it sulkedOf the foal that he rode from the Harran plainHer forelock beaded in blueA blaze across her faceThree of her heels were whiteHer gallop seductive and lightHis chestnut Saklawi mare.How across Hozat they’d flown!

And now, if he were not foundSo utterly helpless and boundThe cold steel in his backThe peaks would have sheltered himThe peaks are his brothers, they care for himThese lands won’t let you down, by God,Skillful handsThat blow off at first shotA burning cigarette’s ashA viper’s tongueFlaming, forked, in the sun

Not once were these eyes deceivedHis eyes that could foreseeThe doom of snowslide-pregnant passesThe snowy, soft treacheryOf ravines…There was no availHe’d be shotHis fate had been decreedWell, then, leave the blind reptiles his eyes,His heart for the vultures to eat!

3.

I am shotOn a well-hidden mountain trailAt the time of the morning prayerAnd I lieBloody, outstretched…

I am shotMy dream is darker than nightWho’s to deem that it promises light?They beat the reaper to my lifeIn volumes it couldn’t be storedA cypher’s decreed by a lordAnd I’m shot, unquestioned, untried

Kinsman, write down my fate without failLest it be thought a mere taleThat is not a rosy breastBut a dumdum bulletFlush in my shattered mouth…

4.

Carrying out the sentence of death,They sullied the blue mountain mistAnd the sleepy-eyed breeze of dawnWith blood.Then, stacking their rifles right there,They timidly felt up our chestsAnd, turning us inside out,They searched.They took my red Kermanshah belt,My rosary, my cigarette case,All gifted from Persian lands, and left.

We’re kinfolk, blood-bound, brothersWith the towns, the tribes of the other sideFor centuries, we’ve exchanged bridesWe’re neighbors to one anotherOur chickens intermingle,Not out of negligenceBut out of need.We never warmed up to passportsThat’s the crime for which we are slainAnd brigand becomes our name,Smuggler,Bandit,Traitor…

Kinsman, write down my fate without failLest it be thought a mere taleThat is not a rosy breastBut a dumdum bulletFlush in my shattered mouth…

5.

Shoot, then,Shoot,I don’t die easily.There’s an ember in my furnace, still,And a promise in my bellyFor those who have felt like me.At Urfa, my father offered up his eyesAnd three of his brothers as wellThree slender cypresses they wereThree mountain shards, thirsty for lifeAs from towers, minarets, hillsThe mountains’ children, kith and kin,Fended off the French siege

Nazif, my youngest uncle,His mustache just grown outHandsome,Light,Good rider,Strike, brothers, he criedAs he reared his horse,The day of honor has come!

Kinsman, write down my fate without failLest it be thought a mere taleThat is not a rosy breastBut a dumdum bulletFlush in my shattered mouth…

Also by Ahmed Arif:

The Moon Is Dark

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[1] A literal translation of Mengene, the Turkish name of the mountain located on the Turkish-Iranian border.