The Crescent Moon Fox

By Murat Metin

The Crescent Moon Fox is a compassionate, heart-breaking, brutal, and occasionally, humorous, novel about Cypriot Turks. The reader experiences the lives of the inhabitants of one particular village during the lead-up to Independence from Britain and the tragic aftermath of the post-Colonial era in Cyprus - and in particular, of two of its young men: Zeki and Aydin. Zeki who, shaped and nurtured by the British Colonial system, is destined for great things; and Aydin, a misfit in his community who, in his own complex and disturbing way, achieves greatness and redemption.

The span of the novel is from the nineteen thirties to the first decade of the twenty first century - showing the life of the Cypriot Turks, unique and distinct as a minority, in the lead-up to Independence and to what they become in the modern era. It gives a voice to Cypriot Turks, of all different backgrounds, and particularly to the illiterate rural women of the Colonial Era. The Crescent Moon Fox is also a poignant journey of discovery of one's true identity...

----------

Metin Murat has chosen the trickiest of terrains for setting and characterisation in The Crescent Moon Fox. Greek Cypriot – Turkish Cypriot remain unsettled and the politics neuralgic but his story and the people who inhabit it break through all that. I cannot recommend it too highly.

—Matthew Parris | columnist with The Times and The Spectator

[…] I found this novel quite a page-turner; it never loses itself in “issues” so as to forget that novels are essentially about people, and the lure of “what happens next” to the various characters in whom the reader has become interested is strong. So I don’t want to go too much into plot details. But one thing I really like is the novel’s refusal to provide glib solutions to the problems it raises. People become personally close to individuals of the other community, yet this does not change their attitude to “the other” in general, nor prevent them from participating in atrocities against them. […]

—Sheenagh Pugh | British poet, novelist and translator

• Language: English
• Publisher: Armida Publications
• Release date: Apr 20, 2022
• ISBN: 9789925573981

Book preview

METIN_COVER.jpg

The Crescent Moon Fox

metin

murat

a novel

armida

Creedit page

Copyright © 2022 by Metin Murat

All rights reserved. Published by Armida Publications Ltd.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,

photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without permission of the publisher.

For information regarding permission, write to

Armida Publications Ltd, P.O.Box 27717, 2432 Engomi, Nicosia, Cyprus

or email: [e-mail]

Armida Publications is a member of the Independent Publishers Guild (UK),

and a member of the Independent Book Publishers Association (USA)

www.armidabooks.com | Great Literature. One Book At A Time.

Summary:

The Crescent Moon Fox is a compassionate, heart-breaking, brutal, and 
occasionally, humorous, novel about Cypriot Turks. The reader 
experiences the lives of the inhabitants of one particular village 
during the lead-up to Independence from Britain and the tragic aftermath 
of the post-Colonial era in Cyprus – and in particular, of two of its 
young men: Zeki and Aydin. Zeki who, shaped and nurtured by the British 
Colonial system, is destined for great things; and Aydin, a misfit in 
his community who, in his own complex and disturbing way, achieves 
greatness and redemption.



The span of the novel is from the nineteen thirties to the first decade 
of the twenty first century – showing the life of the Cypriot Turks, 
unique and distinct as a minority, in the lead-up to Independence and to 
what they become in the modern era. It gives a voice to Cypriot Turks, 
of all different backgrounds, and particularly to the illiterate rural 
women of the Colonial Era. The Crescent Moon Fox is also a poignant 
journey of discovery of one’s true identity...

[ 1. Cultural Heritage 2. Own Voices 3. Coming of Age 4. Family Saga 5. Friendship 6. Muslim 7. Political ]

Original cover artwork:

© Robert Farkas Bad Memories

https://robertfarkas.net/

----

This novel is a work of fiction.

Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

----

1st edition: April 2022

ISBN-13 (paperback): 978-9925-573-97-4

ISBN-13 (epub): 978-9925-573-98-1

ISBN-13 (kindle): 978-9925-573-99-8

Contents

Creedit page 2

Dedication 5

Acknowledgements 7

One 13

Two 23

Three 25

Four 29

Five 34

Six 43

Seven 57

Eight 70

Nine 82

Ten 94

Eleven 97

Twelve 107

Thirteen 113

Fourteen 118

Fifteen 125

Sixteen 133

Seventeen 140

Eighteen 143

Nineteen 148

Twenty 151

Twenty-One 154

Twenty-Two 171

Twenty-Three 176

Twenty-Four 182

Twenty-Five 191

Twenty-Six 196

Twenty-Seven 206

Twenty-Eight 211

Twenty-Nine 218

Thirty 227

Thirty-One 236

Thirty-Two 242

Thirty-Three 252

Thirty-Four 259

Glossary 262

About the author 265

Dedication

This novel is dedicated to all Cypriots,

irrespective of ethnicity, religion or political affiliation,

with the hope that reconciliation and common understanding

of our respective hurt and suffering may one day come to pass.

Acknowledgements

There are many who have been part of the journey of writing and producing The Crescent Moon Fox and I owe them a great deal.

The first of these is my publisher, Haris Ioannides, of Armida Books. It may seem banal and common practice to thank one’s publisher but anyone who is familiar with the history of Cyprus will understand the considerable act of bravery involved in publishing the work of someone from the ‘other side’. And so Haris’ decision to publish a Turkish Cypriot writer is a courageous and, in my opinion, a much needed gesture towards peace, reconciliation and a stand against the pernicious forces of extreme nationalism that have blighted our Island for far too long.

On a lighter note I must thank his editor at Armida, Kris Konnaris, whose attention to detail - historical, agricultural and even ballistic- has a special place in my heart – he so rightly pulled me up on some key details. Thank you Kris. I am smiling as I write these words, you know why.

If this work exists at all, it is because of the Poet and Professor, Matthew Francis, who was my Supervisor for the PhD (Aberystwyth University) from which this novel is drawn. Matthew, has been with me throughout the writing of The Crescent Moon Fox and his care, teaching and encouragement went far and beyond the call of duty. Thank you Matthew. And my thanks to his wife Creina, who was always so generous in her support to me as well.

Sally, Celine and Christian – well here it is, at last. You have been on the journey with me before I even knew where it would lead. You have my gratitude and love always.

Last, but not least, I must thank Nicole, who fully lives the ethos for better or for worse every day. I can only hope that there are more ‘better’ days than ‘worse’. I am all too conscious of what you have to put up with and I thank you from the bottom of my heart for your love, forbearance and support.

Metin

"The country that separates fathers and sons

has disoriented many travelers"

Hisham Matar The Return

PART 1 | 1933-1965

One

The night he was born there was a meteorite shower in the sky. It was so bright they say that it broke through the cold squally November sky and lit up the surrounding hills. They tell this story with a belly full of rakı. It is entirely possible that they have their stories mixed up and they are recounting instead a childhood fairy tale that, in their befuddled state, they have applied to him. But in the middle of winter when there is nothing else to do of an evening but drink yourself into a gentle stupor this story still catches the imagination. The teller of this story, who will certainly be interrupted by the other men in the coffee shop, knows to pace himself – for if he does the telling right he can down at least three glasses of their beloved ‘lion’s milk’ before the story ends. The details of the story, whilst vague and uncertain, will certainly be compensated by an increasing enthusiasm, correlating to the amount drunk and depending on the abilities of the evening’s narrator, with a greater or lesser degree of lyricism.

From the last days of November through to the end of February the cold seeps into the poorly insulated houses of the village like a malevolent force which no lucky charm or religious rite can overcome. The summer heat, which only a few months back was feared for its ferociousness, is now lamented, and the memory of its indelible dew of sweat marking every forehead in the village is forgotten. You find yourself shivering in front of a wood stove or, if you are unlucky, the evil-smelling, but reliable, gas heater fed from its big green rusty canister. You huddle waiting for the morning to come, as once the early Christians might have awaited the second coming. You wait for the sun to rise, to announce a new day, and for it to cast its warmth, however anaemic, across the rain-soaked valley covered in mist. It is during nights such as these that you cling to any story however blurred its truth, however preposterous and ill-timed the narration, however slurred the voice of the narrator.

Years later, when he was long gone, his sister Aysel, by then an old woman, was still a force of nature. She could be seen around the village, riding side saddle on her donkey. She was merciless in her use of stick to propel the animal forwards to the fields where she would collect tomatoes and okra for the evening meal. In earlier days she had gone faithfully each late morning to the other side of the hill where her husband would have taken their flock of sheep. She would bring him his tin lunch box filled with yoghurt, börek and okra stew. Together they would eat in the shade of an olive tree and then see out the high heat of the afternoon lying under the tree. And perhaps also that was where her children were conceived.

Before the Second World War, before independence, the village had close to a thousand inhabitants. It was famous in that part of the island, the Karpaz, for both its camel market (Wednesdays) and its watermelon market (Sundays). So thriving were these two markets that the village could boast two prostitutes, Berna and Dilara, as full-time residents (so the men in the coffee shop recount, their eyes and lips glistening). These two women lived mainly from those two market days when they would appear mid-morning at the coffee shop, transformed by make-up and rose-smelling perfume. The coffee shop owner – in those days it was Beşir Ali – provided them, for a small fee, two rooms down the open steps below the coffee shop. To get to these two rooms you needed to pass the outdoor clay oven where Beşir Ali’s mother baked bread and roasted sheep’s heads and other delicacies. It was in these two rooms that Berna and Dilara entertained their customers, most of whom came from the neighbouring villages for the market.

The other days of the week, like the other women of the village, Berna and Dilara kept chickens, grew vegetables and washed their clothes at the communal washing place. In time they grew old together. Two respectable old maids sharing a same house, a same bed, and eventually dying a month apart from each other.

Back then, before the Second World War, the village, in outline at least, looked much as it does today. Save that now there are only a dozen houses lived in all year round. The remainder have fallen into ruin, or are dilapidated – their ownership diluted across children or grandchildren living in London or Melbourne.

The village hides on the side of a hill overlooking the valley that produced its sources of modest income and nourishment: watermelons, olive trees, almond trees, wheat, carob, okra and of course its livestock of sheep and goats.

The word ‘hide’ is not used through any sense of poetic imagery but as a matter of historical veracity – or at least as close enough as you can get to truth in our society. For the village, it is said, used to be on the other side of the hill, down by the sea on the quiet strip of rock and coastline that looks out towards Turkey. In recent years a little fisherman’s harbour has been established to supply foreigners, and the restaurants serving them, with fish. However, despite the sea being in such close proximity, fish is something that the villagers, even today, touch only with suspicion and reluctance. Greatly preferred are the fatty grilled lamb kebabs cooked on an open mangal filled with bright burning charcoal. But apart from that little harbour and a few houses, the original site of the village is quiet and ignored. It is said that it was the constant incursions of Arab pirates, before the Crusaders arrived, that drove the villagers to rebuild their homes on the other side of the hill so that they were hidden from sight from any ship passing along the coast. Heavens knows what the village was called originally but somewhere in the hundred years after the arrival of the Ottoman Empire in the sixteenth century the village was renamed, with little imagination, as Bamyaköy, no doubt because of the abundance of okra in the fields surrounding the village.

But back to our boy. He did not have a father. At least not alive, at the time of his birth. As a result, his mother, Emine, was in a precarious position. She already had one child, a daughter named Aysel, when her husband Bülent caught pneumonia and died. At the time of his death she was seven months pregnant. His death was God’s will as the people in the village oft repeated. Untimely deaths were just part of village life. After some initial wailing and tearful mourning the usual fatalism came to the fore. There was no need to be more sentimental over the loss of a young man than over the loss of a prized ram. After all, the young men were deployed to be husbands when both the boy and the girl were young. If the girl was lucky the boy would be a little older and would have a better sense of what kind of fumbling he was supposed to be doing on his wedding night. But mostly the coming together at the age of fifteen or sixteen was a pragmatic recognition, so the villagers thought in those days, that it was better for a girl and a boy to expend the energy of their hormones within the confines of marriage rather than to risk shame outside it. In those days the selection of bride and husband was done much the same way that animals were chosen: for strength of limb, good teeth, breadth of hip for the girl, breadth of shoulder for the boy, and absence of mental illness in the family. Marriage in those days was just another act of breeding. So, sentimentality about a husband’s passing was understandably short-lived. The more pressing and pragmatic concern however was Emine’s situation: a grown woman alone without a man, and with a child – to make matters worse a daughter – and now a baby on the way.

Emine gave birth to the baby boy surrounded by women from the neighbouring houses. He was held for the first time by Zeynep who lived in the house down the slope from Emine. It was Zeynep who slapped the baby boy on his back to make him cry and to help him take his first big gulp of air.

The storm and the shower of meteorites, if indeed there had been such an event, had not interfered with the proceedings. The women did not notice any of that. They focused on clean water and towels. But there was something that the women noticed about the baby. It was the thing that caught all their attention even before taking in the fact that he had a full head of thick black hair. It was the sparkle in his eyes. They were like two pearls shining with intensity and curiosity. It brought silence and awe to them.

‘He’s going to be a clever one, that one,’ said Zeynep out loud. The other women nodded. Then they laughed. It was decided there and then that he would be called ‘Zeki’ which means clever in Turkish.

In their happiness the women did not see the grey–brown snake that slithered up the steps and through the open door. Even if it was cold outside the door had been left open to cool down the room. Something had wakened the snake from its deep sleep. Perhaps the shower of meteorites had something to do with it.

The snake was silent. Its priority, quite reasonably, was to find warmth. It first curled itself around one of the legs of the chairs. It was almost impossible to see the snake in the dull light of the petrol lamps.

Emine fell asleep with Zeki in her arms. One by one the women left, save for Zeynep who stayed with Emine.

Emine and Zeynep had been friends for always. Their lives growing up were, as with all the other women in the village, almost identical. The same expectations of work in the field and in the home. The expectation that they would always be subordinated to a man, first to a father and then later to a husband. But in personality they were different. Emine, if not content with the life of the village, was at least stoic about her lot in life. She knew how to absorb the blows and disappointments sent by the Most Merciful to test her. Nothing more than she could bear. Zeynep, on the other hand, was always the one to ask ‘Why?’ But despite her reputation for being difficult, or perhaps because of it, she had been married off early. She had married two years before Emine, when she was thirteen years old. It was a bit young but her father had thought her ready or at least that is what he told his cronies in the coffee shop. Ready for what? It was one of those questions to which the answer was never spelt out but which the knowing nods of people indicated that they knew all too well. Still, Zeynep’s young age was an inconvenience, even in those days. But in exchange for a few litres of olive oil the village head-man, the Muhtar, had given his permission and blessing to the marriage.

Zeynep’s husband to be, Hakan, was from another village – one of those up on the plateau where the Greek villages were. Unusually, and in defiance of tradition, it had been agreed that he would move to her village because Zeynep’s father had no living sons and Hakan had three strong brothers to help his own parents.

Hakan was five years older than Zeynep. Perhaps for a grown woman five years would not have seemed a lot but, for her, at thirteen years old, a year past her first period, there was a world of difference.

He shaved, he spat and he swore. His hands were already swollen and rough from days spent working out in the fields. He meant well. He was not a bad man. In fact he was admired for his broad shoulders and his ability to work. Zeynep’s father liked him precisely for these qualities. The women in the village said that her father had found her a good husband and Not one of those layabouts who spend their time in the coffee shop.

Her mother did not tell her what to expect during the wedding night. How do you prepare someone you love for an act of brutality dressed up as something else?

The night of the wedding Hakan climbed on top of Zeynep and performed an act of gratification that he may have learnt from watching the village dogs in rut. It was over quickly. But the pain of the tearing was not. Each night was the same. Each night the sheets were soaked with blood. He seemed not to notice, or perhaps he thought he was breaking her virginity each night, and yet each morning he went off to work whistling. Life was good. It was as it was supposed to be for him.

His nocturnal grunting was brought to a halt by a sudden fever that overwhelmed her. Zeynep’s breathing had increased to a state that suggested she was perpetually in the final leg of a race and her heart rate hammered away frantically.

Emine stayed with her then, tending to her, putting damp towels onto her forehead. One child tending to another. The darkening patches around Zeynep’s eyes scared them all. So much so that the Muhtar was called. The Muhtar thought at first to call the Imam as it looked as if Zeynep would not make it through the night. But he heard that an English doctor was in Malatya, the neighbouring town. Zeynep’s father was despatched by donkey to fetch this doctor.

Thankfully, the English doctor in question was not concerned with payment, unlike the local doctors who would not have left their beds at that time of night unless of course it was for a wealthy household. The Englishman was part of the colonial service. He was of that class of Englishmen who learnt Latin and Greek at school and had a belief that theirs was a life given over to service, particularly to ‘indigenous’ populations. For this reason he was persuaded to leave Malatya and make his way to Bamyaköy in the middle of the night.

Zeynep was scared at being examined by a man. The only man who had ever touched her was Hakan. Emine was scared that Zeynep would die. Throughout the examination Emine held Zeynep by the hand.

The doctor was tall and had thin blond hair. Emine looked up at him shyly. What she saw was his blue eyes, his pale smooth skin and narrow shoulders and waist. Unlike the men from the village he had little hair on the back of his hands. His fingers were delicate. They looked soothing. They looked like they were accustomed to playing some type of musical instrument. For a brief moment she caught herself envying her friend who had this foreign man’s soft touch on her skin.

When the doctor had finished his examination he called for the Muhtar.

‘How old is this girl?’

The Muhtar, who normally was so loud, and who walked around the village as if every household owed him a living, looked down at the ground as he spoke. Emine looked at him standing there in his sandals, greasy trousers and the wide leather belt that did a poor job at keeping his paunch in place.

It was the first time that she had seen the Muhtar looking submissive. She would never look at him again with respect or fear.

‘I don’t know,’ he answered, not looking directly at the doctor. ‘I think she is thirteen or so.’

She looked back to the doctor to see what he would say. Even at this time of night he wore smartly polished leather shoes, a neatly pressed khaki coloured suit and a white shirt. The Englishman was considerably taller than the Muhtar. This was a different kind of man she thought. The kind of man who gives orders and gets them obeyed without question, without doubting that his instructions will be carried out.

‘This child will die if we don’t get her to a hospital tonight. She has an infection of the blood.’ The doctor had hesitated with his choice of words. In fact he had meant to say septicaemia but did not want to complicate matters.

‘We have no way of getting her to the hospital.’

The Englishman looked down at Zeynep lying in the bed.

‘I will take her in my car.’

He turned to Emine. ‘What is your name?’

Emine was shy of answering and said nothing. The Muhtar answered in her place. ‘She’s just one of the girls from the village.’

The Englishman turned to the Muhtar and said in a low menacing voice ‘What is her name?’

The Muhtar wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and then said, ‘Emine.’

‘Emine, you will come with us and be her nurse.’ And then he smiled at her, like no man had ever smiled at her. It was a smile full of kindness.

Emine was filled with fear. But she trusted this man. She had never left the village before. The last thing she remembered as she left the village in the English doctor’s car was the sight of Hakan staring uncomprehendingly, like a dog who has been kicked by a beloved master.

That was five years before. And now here was Zeynep being a nurse in turn to her friend. Emine drifted in and out of consciousness. But she was safe in the knowledge that she had delivered a boy and that her friend Zeynep was with her, holding her hand.

The snake, who had been awoken from its deep sleep by the storm, was hungry now. It flicked its tongue out. It detected that there was a smell of milk and other fluids in the air. Smelling these, and drawn towards the warmth, the snake made its way to the bed.

Zeynep was still looking down at her friend. Patting her head. Making soft cooing noises that might even have been an attempt at a song.

The snake made its way up the bed frame. And then fell lightly on to the bed. It made its way silently up the bed without touching Emine’s leg. Then it stopped and made itself erect. It was within range of the mother and child.

At that moment a scrabbling noise under the cupboard, most likely a mouse, distracted Zeynep. She turned her head to see what manner of rodent it was and saw both the snake and its shadow reflected against the wall.

She did not scream. She had seen many snakes before. But this one, she knew, was one of the few to carry venom.

She knew she could not hesitate. She had nothing to hit it with. But knew she had to move. As hard and as fast as she could she slapped it to the side of the head. The snake fell on the floor buying Zeynep a few more seconds. She picked up a chair and pushed the snake away with it. With that the snake slithered out through the open door.

For years after Zeynep was to think of that snake and how she staved off its attack. At first, she thought that she had simply been an instrument of an angel sent to protect a new-born and part-orphaned child. But later, when wisdom had come to her through an angel of her own, and she had given up her belief in God the Most Merciful, she understood something different of that reptile: it was an evil postponed, not just