The Village Of The Chicken Who Named Itself

Writer: Hümeyra İşcan

Translator: Nefise Karaduman

 “Pat” I woke up with that sound. I opened my eyes but everywhere was black and dark. I tried to stand up but ı couldnt. Then the weight on me suddenly decreased. When I stood up, I found Cemal in front of me. He pushed me off the bed and got on top of me. Funny kid. Cemal is my middle brother. We are three siblings. Im the eldest of them. I dont know if it's because of this but, Cemal pranks me a lot. While ı was chasing Cemal, Ezan started. I didnt even attempt to go to mousqe; because there is only a small mousqe in our village and villagers are almost going to set up a camp to have morning namaz. I can swear that theyre going to mousqe at three in the morning and waiting for the mousqe to open but ı can't prove it. By the way, im Dursun. Im living in the village. Im 12 years old and ım having all my namazs full since ı was 9. Like almost every day, I have my morning namaz at home, with the delicious smell of su böreği. By the way, even though our mosque is small, I won't let anyone speak ill of my village. Some city dwellers belittle villages, but you can't even find a pinch of natural beuty there. Also, the problem is theirs; do they grow every vegetable and fruit they eat in the city themselves, or do they end up with the hormone-treated foods sold in markets? While they pay a fortune for organic eggs, we get our eggs from our own chickens. We milk milk from our cows. Even if they paid me on top of it, I would never live in a city. I prefer our modest village houses over concrete apartment buildings. Contentment is better than richness. After namaz, I had breakfast with the su böreği my grandmother made with her own hands, Sarıkız’s milk, and Gıtgıt’s (he named it himself) eggs. My mother was teaching my sister how to weave a rug. My sister Zehra said that she was weawing a small rug for the cloth dolls my mother sewed. I smiled. When Zehra grows up, she wants to weave rugs like her mother, to weave the words in her heart into the rug with motifs without opening her mouth, and she has already started working on it. After all, the tree is bent while it is young. By the way, Zehra is also learning to play the kemençe from my father. I took my bucket and went to milk Sarıkız. At that moment, my father was also leaving the house to go to the field. After ı milked the cows, ı went to my tree to say hello. Every kid in our village has a tree. Mine is a linden tree. I love my tree.    . My sister also has a mulberry tree. She’s werry attached to her tree. She even gave it a name: Fatma. Although my tree also has a name. I named it Nasreddin. Im telling him Nasreddin Hoca jokes every day. I also. If you were with me, while I was telling the joke, you could see the lush green grass behind our trees, the tall mountains in the distance, the sheep and goats happily wandering, and the shepherd. You wouldn't have missed the hazelnut trees either. Of course, if you can take your eyes off Zehra's and my trees. While I was talking to my tree, Temel suddenly appeared and shouted at me, "Do you know what your stupid brother Cemal said to me? He said, 'You can't dance the horon.' Tell him I can beat him up.  As if you dance it perfectly." I grinned. "I will dance the horon. I will dance the horon that Cemal couldn't dance." He said and walked away. When I returned home, I found my grandmother making baklava. She was preparing because next week was the bairam. We make baklava every bairam. We invite our relatives from the city. (Those who do not look down on the villagers) And the entire village haves the bairam namazı at the mosque. Since the whole village does not fit in the mosque, most of us take our seccades and have their namaz that way. On bairams, birds chirp more cheerfully, and hens cluck more joyfully. Of course, we also slaughter a sacrificial animal. I watch the gaze of sacrificial animals. With their eyes, they seem to say, 'I know you are slaughtering me for those in need, thank you. I am sacrificed to you. I watched my grandmother make baklava for a while. My grandmother makes the most beautiful baklava in the village. She always says that the secret ingredient is love. Then I went to my room. From my rooms window, I can see the stream. We have a wonderful stream. It flows gurglingly. I can also see the field. I have a lush green view. But today, I watched my sibling and friends running around cheerfully. Suddenly, I saw men in black! Just kidding. It was only my father coming from the field. I could see Zehra running to my father. There was love in her gaze...