As We Know It

Hidden Beneath

I remember I was all clear of clouds that spring day over the moorland plains of Southeastern Turkey. The poppies, which had just bloomed to bathe in the mild sun, had gloriously painted hundreds of acres of dry land to the color red.  The lowlands welcomed new life while the Euphrates River started to slightly rise, disturbing its softshell turtles out of their winter nests. Insects of all sorts were dazzled by the festivity the spring had brought while right below them, their predators, the hedgehogs, flickered their long ears and spiky hairs, dreaming of their midnight feast. In less than two months the prairie grass would dry out. The sheep would lose their afternoon liberties and be headed to their shaded stables. The beautiful splendor of ancient Mesopotamia would lose its God of Sheppards, Dumuzid, once more.

But that day was the first day of spring and children all over the scattered tiny villages were clinging to their mothers' skirts or their fathers' shirts for a break into the grass fields. They were whining, crying, pleading, doing anything that would get them the permission to set-off. The family elders were unsure, it was not a time to let your young wander off without supervision. But then, my old friend The Wind came along and blew a mild breeze and excited the young-lings even more. It was its same old trick - that whisper telling them to reach for their kites and beg for the chance to raise them high. Some parents could not resist, for they were kids trapped in certain boundaries and obviously children did not do well with limitations especially on beautiful dreamy days like this one. 

Civan, a young boy of ten, was one of the fiercest fighters for children's rights to play and his mother gave consent on condition that he took his little sister Bengi with him.

"No mother, please! No one else takes their stupid siblings!"

"Enough son, either you keep an eye on her, or I keep an eye on both of you."

Bengi, a mostly silent six-year-old girl, was fascinated by her older brother. When she was born Civan himself was too little to group a gang so he was around the house most of the time. He spent months examining how she transformed from a burpy, sleepy creature to a disturbed toddler that either giggled or cried her self to the noisiest of smelly panties ever. Bengi, who was unaware that her healthy digestive system was collecting all the attention Civan had to spare, was hypnotized by his big eyes, soft features, thin voice, and short height. In time she discovered that whenever she heard the sound "ciii" he'd somehow respond. Her discovery was so exciting for her that she could not keep her limbs from constant motion, she'd cheer out of happiness every time her parents called for him. One day, she managed to spurt the "cii" sound herself when Civan walked into the house, which came as a great surprise to everybody.  When she repeated it later on at the right moment again, the sound was accepted as her first word. Civan was shocked to have collected such admiration but was confused about why he was not credited for his success in having made the baby speak.

Years passed as she followed him around the house. She imitated his emotions, got frustrated when he left her out of his games, and grew disappointed when he went to school and left her alone all day.  The father had registered Civans' birth a few years late so he started elementary school at the age of 9. In his first week at school, Civan had intimidated Bengi about how serious the teachers were and how expectations were so high that it was no place for little girls who would surely disappoint everybody. After a couple of weeks of line drawing, he was taught how to read and write. Their father made him practice the teachings of the day at home one day.

"Anne elli elma al. Ali ile Ela el ele. Tonton anne tonton Ela."***

***"Mom buy fifty apples. Ali is hand in hand with Ela. Dear mother, dear Ela."

They were simple sentences that made Bengi giggle when Civan read them out loud. She started feeling much more sympathetic about school after the silly nonsense she'd heard. Out of curiosity, she slowly approached their study corner.  Every day she sat with them silently, listened to his repetition, and followed the pages carefully while Civan impatiently waited for his father to let him go and play. One day after Civan hurried outside for a football game, Bengi started reading imperfectly his study texts, unaware of her fathers' observation. He noticed the slight errors but was astonished by her will to read. To be sure he asked,