Mother Land

By Dmetri Kakmi

Mother Land is an autobiographical novel, a minutely remembered description of childhood on an Aegean island, marked by the furious opposition of hostile yet neighbouring cultures. Dmetri Kakmi was born into an age-old Greek community on the now-Turkish island of Bozcaada in the early 1960s. His nine-year-old self tries to make sense of the escalating tension between Greek and Turk, Muslim and Christian, just as he tries to understand the violence between his cosmopolitan mother and his fisherman father. Before the family emigrates to Australia, leaving behind their beautiful, if impoverished, homeland, he reveals with chilling clarity how violence begets violence, in even the most unexpected of people. Returning as an adult to try to make sense of his experience and to make peace with the past, Dmetri Kakmi uncovers a number of family secrets and the final pieces of the jigsaw fall into place.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eland Publishing
• Release date: May 18, 2012
• ISBN: 9781906011895

Book preview

Turkey, Gallipoli Peninsula 2002

Candidate to exile, whatever your destination, one day or other you will return to your starting point.

DAHMANE EL HARRACHI

ISTAND at land’s end, gazing at the Aegean Sea. The day is stifling. There is not a breath of wind. Far beneath, waves lick the base of the cliffs. But there is no heart to their effort. They froth and dissipate. Even the gulls have given up and drift in wide, lazy circles against the pale sky. On the opposite shore of the Dardanelle Straits, the ruin of Troy is a pimple on the fertile plain.

‘Here, I brought these for you,’ says my friend Sinan, handing me a pair of binoculars. ‘I thought you might want to see the island from here.’

I take them, touched and grateful for his thoughtfulness. He is kind and sensitive, and I do not know if I would have ventured this far had it not been for him. I turn to face the open sea and adjust the binoculars until murky distance leaps into sharp focus. Sitting on the southwest horizon is an island. Its lavender hump trails a lumpy tail on the ultimate cliché: Homer’s ‘wine-dark sea’. All the same, there they are, the narrows that inspired the fabulist historian to such rapturous declamations; wine dark, indeed. There too is the place he wrote about when time still followed a pagan rhythm: Tenedos, or Bozcaada as it is known today. In the haze, it resembles a prehistoric beast stretched out and lazing in the setting sun. As my eyes linger on its curves and indentations, something else steps forward to claim the stage – something I have not seen or thought of in many years.

Three islets sit low on the water. I hold my breath. As a boy, I used to be captivated by their aloofness and solitude. When I’d had enough of people, I yearned to build a hut and live on one of them, alone, separate and untouched by a world that, even at that age, seemed capricious and delinquent beyond reckoning. Back then the islets seemed like sailors, braving the immense savagery of the sea that darkened and swelled in winter, battering, overwhelming everything, sending thick sheens of spray into the air and threatening to tear down the foundations of the land, and rake out to the depths the thin soil, the grasses and the yellow cat’s ear flowers that sprouted in warmer months. But that was in another time, another place. Before the tide of history and politics compelled my family to abandon our homeland and to settle in Australia, a voluminous, yet no less insular island on the other side of the world. And here am I now, gazing from across the water at Tenedos, the birthplace I have not set foot on for more than three decades. Strange how the line never really breaks; strange how one is reeled back, easy as fish.

When Greeks lived on Tenedos in greater numbers, they called the biggest islet Mavriya. At its centre stood a lighthouse. Beneath it sat a whitewashed chapel dedicated to Saint Nicholas. For some reason, the villagers thought it a suitable place to graze their donkeys during the summer months, which accounts for why the more literal-minded Turks called it Donkey Island. Alongside is Snake Island, so called because it was said to be, and perhaps still is, teeming with serpents; and because of its crescent-moon shape, the third islet is known as Sickle Island. Though it could as easily have been named Goat Island, since the islanders used to bring their goats to fatten themselves on the lush grasses that sprouted after the spring rains. At least that’s how I remember it …

My binoculars seek the once familiar sights of Mavriya. I work my fingers to sharpen the focus. For a moment the world refuses to be corralled inside the lens. It flies out in alarm on both sides. Then two different times, two worlds, waver and fight for supremacy before my eyes. Past and present, superimposed over one another, merge, separate and melt. What I want to see, and what is actually there, grapple and fight a desperate battle. When the victor finally raises his arm, the ruins, lying close to the soil, reveal themselves. The lighthouse is a mottled stump. The chapel is no more than a low crumbling wall. I linger for a moment, searching for signs of life. Nothing stirs. Not even a blade of grass. My eyes fly across the island of snakes to settle on the westernmost peninsula. Where there was once nothing but wilderness, there now turns a regiment of wind turbines. They march across the strip of land in single file; their great white blades slice the air in ghostly silence, as if rock and soil were a fantastical vessel destined for unknown shores. It could not have been a more incongruous sight had a craft landed from outer space.

Modernity has obviously made inroads here as well. As late as 1971, there was no electricity or running water on Tenedos – at least not in most private homes. Automobiles were a rarity, perplexing and alarming symbols of a world beyond reach or even imagining. Islanders used to get about on horse, mule and donkey; kerosene lamps illuminated the majority of homes, and water was brought from the numerous fountains scattered about the village. Most of the inhabitants were peasants in every sense of that anachronistic term, and eked out a living by attempting to tame sea and soil.

As I watch, a ferryboat detaches itself from the Anatolian mainland, heading for the island. It is weighed down with vehicles. Once, Captain Yakar’s boat had taken passengers back and forth, and that only in calm weather. In winter, we were mostly cut off. Sometimes even the phone in the post office died and no news was to be had. Now technology has pulled the island closer to the world. Most inhabitants probably have cell phones and western-style flushing toilets – unheard-of luxuries in our day.

Sinan tells me that it is time to leave. I nod absent-mindedly. The sun licks the horizon, painting the sea a misty mauve on which sparkles an oily gold suffused with shades of oyster pink and bronze. Reluctant to let go the vision, I lift the seeing glasses again and train them on Tenedos. If only I could catch a glimpse of our house, the old neighbourhood, the church. If I could establish their veracity, I would sleep well tonight; but, in the profusion of dwellings, old and new, only a minaret stands out. As darkness falls, a gloom rolls from the foot of the hill. It stretches and enfolds the village. I imagine that my eyes can actually see, from this distance, a string of fairy lights flicker round the base of the fortress on the shore, knowing that the café will be about to open for the nightly trade. I thought I heard, coming from across the water, the evening call to prayer. Allahu ekber, God is great, surely the most piercing lullaby in the world. For a moment I glimpse a gangly boy with close-cropped hair running beneath the linden trees, heading with great urgency for the pier. For a second, he is almost real. For the blink of an eye, he looks across the wastes of time, straight into my eyes, and we almost recognise one another. Then he too falls into the obscurity that devours all, and Tenedos melts into darkness as if it had never existed.

Strange to think that Sinan and I will be on the island the next day; it feels as if I am returning to a place that is mythical, a figment of an overheated imagination.

In my breast pocket, I have a black-and-white photograph of my mother taken in the late 1950s. It shows a striking young woman, composed, self-assured, a Mona Lisa smile on her painted lips. She must have been sixteen, seventeen at most when the likeness was taken. Before flying out of Australia, I had vowed to bury the photograph on Tenedos. It is where the young girl ought to rest now that she is no more. Just as I hope that, when my time comes, someone will bring my ashes here, too.

Sinan rests a hand on my shoulder. ‘It is time to go back,’ he whispers. His thick eyebrows meet over the bridge of his nose, making him look like a prince out of an Ottoman miniature. I smile and nod, fighting back the urge to clasp his hand – a common enough Turkish affectation that does not meet with his approval.

As I stand at land’s end, two paths uncoil above me in the form of twined serpents. In their immense bodies are images of a lifetime. A great exhibition presents itself, and I wonder what it means and where it has come from. It tangles with the knotted roots of sea grasses, and gently rolls across the seabed forgotten amphorae, coins, bejewelled crowns, the empty shells of crabs and limpets and the skulls of soldiers. The serpents form a tendril song that links blood and tendon, bone and marrow, sky to earth, and to the many strata of rock, fossil, mud and clay, all the way down to the core of the earth. Here time does not exist. Life, death, creation, destruction, past, present, future have yet to find a name; and that which has been lost is still playing out its final act.

Turkey, Bozcaada (Tenedos) 1969–1971

And the god created Tenedos so that people can live longer.

HERODOTUS

‘BEFORE recorded time, when the world was younger than it is today, a mighty people lived on the opposite shore. They were called the Aeolians.’ That’s Grandfather Dimitro speaking. Listen because he knows a lot, and he does not take kindly to repeating himself. I am sitting with him on the peak of Saint Elias’s hill behind our country house, gazing across the narrows toward the mainland. It is the highest spot on the island and the view is spectacular. Byron, my white West Highland terrier, busily sniffs zigzags into the ground with his wet nose. For once the wind is holding its breath. A few miles across the sea, Anatolia wavers through the milky haze. ‘That’s where the Aeolian coastal towns used to be,’ Grandfather continues, pointing. His fisherman’s finger rakes the land from south to north, trembling. The wrinkled skin hangs loose on the bone. ‘In their time, before they were wiped out by the Persians, the Aeolians caused to be built two round hollow towers on the shores of the Marmara Sea, which were played like pipes when the wind blew, now plaintively whispering, and now wailing as if in sorrow, or again bursting forth in a joyous anthem.’ Grandfather falls silent. A ship’s horn reverberates across the landscape, booming in the vast sky. As if prompted, Grandfather goes on with the story. ‘The years passed without anyone noticing them. When the name of the Aeolians was but dust in people’s mouths and there was nothing left standing of the two round hollow towers, the wind could still be heard up and down the coast, playing its ghostly tune. These sounds that seemed to emanate from the bowels of the earth, and from the sky all at once, confused and frightened people. They chanted spells, burned incense and performed ceremonies until they drove Aeolus’ music across the channel to our tiny island. Aeolus is the god of the winds. When he set foot on Tenedos, the goddess Hymethea kindly allowed him to live in one of her many splendid caverns, beneath this very hill.’ Grandfather pats the earth beside him and smiles. Dust puffs up from the dry grasses, coating his fingers. ‘So the story goes,’ he says. ‘On windy days, you can still hear Aeolus and Hymethea sing the sad songs the islanders like to hear.’ I turn to face him. ‘Why do we like sad songs?’ I ask, perplexed. ‘It’s how we are,’ he answers, scratching his close-cropped white beard. A sound in the meadow far below claims his attention. He angles his head as if listening to a faint call. ‘It’s your mother,’ he says, his voice softening. ‘She needs your help. Go, because she has nobody else.’ I leap up and whistle for Byron. Grandpa swats my backside as I dash off. Remembering that I had to ask Grandfather in which cove to find the sea urchins, I turn round. But he has vanished, gone back to his resting place.

When I arrive at our country house, my mother is in a mood. She’s thirty, of medium height, and very pretty, with a full head of mahogany hair and intense eyes. ‘Where have you been?’ she snaps. ‘I’ve been calling for ages.’ She’s wearing a loose house dress and is short of breath. ‘On the hill,’ I tell her, ‘with Grandfather Dimitro.’ Mama presses her lips together. ‘Are you still on about that?’ she says. ‘It’s time you let the poor man’s soul rest in peace.’ The sun has burned her forehead and smooth cheeks. ‘You’re like your father. Never around when I need you,’ she complains. ‘Come on. Help me load up Train. I want to be back in town before dusk.’ Train is the name of our donkey. He’s a nervous, skittish beast. I help Mama pack. When I approach Train with something or other in my arms, he watches me with wild, suspicious eyes and bares his yellow teeth. He doesn’t trust me, or anyone else for that matter. Mama is the only one who can approach him without risking his flinty hoofs. ‘Give me that.’ She grabs a bundle of blankets and pillows from my arms. ‘You bring the stuff and I’ll load him up. Scaredy cat.’ I walk to the kitchen. Byron tangles up in my feet and I kick him aside, taking my frustrations out on him. He cowers for a moment but comes back again. I hate it when Mama calls me names. I do my best to care for her and my younger sister Electra when my father is at sea. No matter how hard I try, it’s never enough for her. She has to stick in the dagger. I return with the mortar and pestle and some pots and pans. ‘Where’s Electra?’ I ask, looking round for her. ‘She went back to town with your Aunt Irene,’ Mama replies. ‘She’s too little to be out in this heat. Give me those.’ She takes the kitchen utensils. ‘And go lock the chapel.’ I dash to the house of worship that sits in a field of asphodel. It’s a tiny structure made of rendered stone and a pitched roof. One by one, I blow out the candles and make sure that there are no oil lamps left burning. I close the shutters on the two windows and secure them. The light fades from the glinting dome and bare iconostasis. The precious icons were taken to town yesterday. At the entrance, I turn to face the sanctuary. I cross myself and bid the two saints who live here farewell. Then I turn the heavy key and lock the door. My mother is outside with the donkey. She’s wrapped a lavender scarf round her head to keep off the sun. Hopefully she will also fool the military police that patrol the island into thinking we’re Turks. ‘Get on,’ she orders. ‘It’s too far to walk in this heat.’ I click my tongue against the roof of my mouth and tilt back my head. ‘No, it’s all right. You can ride him. You’re more tired than I am.’ Mama won’t hear of it. ‘Get on,’ she says again, impatient. ‘We can take it in turns.’ She holds the donkey by the halter and brings him close to the steps. I climb on his back and grab the reins. ‘Come on, Byron,’ I call to the dog. ‘Be careful he doesn’t get under the donkey’s hoofs,’ my mother warns. ‘You know what happened to the last one.’ How can I forget! Black-hearted Train kicked my other terrier and broke his spine. The poor thing twitched and howled until my father put him out of his misery.

Now that it’s autumn, people are locking their country houses and moving back to town. The landscape is sad and empty. The soil knows it’s time to sleep. When next it wakes, in six or seven months, it will be fresh as a baby’s smile. At the end of every May, my father says, ‘Time to open the country house.’ And the packing begins. Now that it’s the beginning of September, the reverse is happening. The road to town is a snake coiling in the dust. It’s trafficky with men, women and children. All are trudging tiredly beside donkeys and mules loaded with wooden crates. Those travelling in the same direction as us, they’re carrying the grape harvest to the wineries. Those going in the opposite direction have already been and are returning to the vineyards with lighter burdens. ‘Hey!’ they shout. ‘Hey!’ as they pass. ‘You all right?’ ‘Yep, all right, and you?’ ‘Good. Good. Can’t complain …’ They flog their beasts of burden and, in a welter of noise and dust, move on.

In town, my mother and my sister Electra unload Train and put everything away. I tie Byron in the backyard and head for the hill that’s behind the Greek Quarter. My cousin Timon and the other guys are up there, waiting. As soon as I leave the last house behind and step onto the incline, I sense it: the ever-present wind. It shoulders its way over the crest and round the coves, restless and sighing. It is late afternoon and the weather has cooled somewhat. I walk further up the hillside and open my lungs. I breathe in deep. I take another breath and kneel. I touch the earth with the palm of my hand, like my grandfather did, and listen through my fingers. Here is a learning I made: when our Greek ancestors first settled on Tenedos they could not have known about the north-easterly wind. They could not have guessed that these blasts from the Asian steppes would carve a highway on the seas, bringing ideas that weren’t native to our island. Nor could they have known that the winds would eventually cleave the island in two: upper and lower, Greek and Turkish, Christian and Muslim, love and hate, and something else – something that’s like the uneasy truce between an island and the sea. The drunks in the tavern reckon that it’s impossible for Greeks and Turks to live together. These cynics exist on both sides. Far as I can tell, Greek and Turk, Christian and Muslim, they’re one and the same; differences are skin deep. ‘We’re all Allah’s people, aren’t we?’ says my father’s Turkish friend Ezet, and I trust him. ‘Scratch a Greek and you’ll find a Turk under the skin. Gaze into a Turk’s eyes and a Greek will look back at you,’ he’s in the habit of saying. ‘We’ve lived together so long we can’t distinguish one from the other.’ Hereabouts, they call the north-easterly wind poyraz. It’s a Turkish word. Poyraz is everywhere. It gets in the water you drink and the food you eat. It gets under your skin and inflates it like a bladder. I’ve lived with the island’s fierce and unpredictable winds for so long, I wouldn’t be able to breathe any other air if I tried. That’s how it is. Tenedos gets in the blood and the sea-breeze becomes part of you. You breathe it and you swim in it. After a while, it begins to sing in your lungs and speak through your mouth. ‘One day,’ my mother once said, ‘this wind will carry us away.’

‘Are you coming or not?’ It’s Cousin Timon. He’s tired of waiting for me. The other gang members – Apostoli, Yerasimo and Aristo – have gone ahead. The rocks have swallowed them up. Timon looks a lot like me. He’s gangly and thin as a switch, with a crop of dark brown hair. I usually know what he is thinking. Right now what’s going through his sharp brain is this: I shouldn’t have brought him along. He’s too young. He’s not up to this. ‘Come on,’ he insists, holding out his hand. He doesn’t give up easily and will persist until he gets his way. ‘You go ahead,’ I tell him. ‘I’m tired. This wind is giving me a headache. I’ll join you later.’ He’s standing further up, looking down at me. Behind him the narrow path coils round the shoulder of the hill. The wind causes the clothes to ripple round his body. Timon knows I’m fibbing. He knows that I have no intention of joining the gang later; I just wanted to see him. I’m not one for boisterous games and snake hunting in the old castle. He knows that too. Timon and I, we’ve been tied together since birth. Because we’re virtually twins, people think we’re brothers. We’re nothing of the sort. He’s two years older than me, the son of my mother’s older sister Irene. Timon touches the scar above his right eyebrow and dashes off, agile as a goat. ‘Wait for me,’ he yells to the others, waving his arms over his head. ‘I’m coming!’ Up high three dark dots are drawing closer to the castle that is a black tooth in the otherwise empty landscape. They stop briefly; then start moving again. Halfway between heaven and earth, beneath a pile of slow-moving clouds, another dot appears, closing the gap. I rest on a rock and sulk. I’ve let go my big chance. More than anything, I want to prove to the others that I am worthy of joining the gang. They’re all two to three years older than me. My legs aren’t as fast, nor my heart as brave. To them, I’m a pipsqueak and a nuisance; someone that holds them back from pushing their growing bodies to the limit.

Thunder growls behind the clouds. The breeze picks up. It’s making earth music in the wild sage and thyme and oregano bushes. Timon, Apostoli, Aristo and Yerasimo descend the hill. They are walking single file, like the Indians in the Tom Mix comics we read. Aristo is swinging a dead snake in great loops over his head. He is the oldest in the group and furtive as a fart. His father has a vile temper and his older brother is simple. They say that Aristo is touched with both afflictions and that, one day, he will end up in big trouble. There’s usually tension between Aristo and Timon, because my cousin is the leader of the gang and Aristo doesn’t like playing second fiddle. He wants to take over. Thankfully, the other two guys won’t vote him in. If I were allowed to vote, I wouldn’t back him either. He’s an ox, with legs that are too short for his long torso and arms that dangle low. When they are close, I walk part way to meet them. Aristo is ahead of the rest. He scowls at me. ‘This is for you, shrimp,’ he says, swinging back and