A Young Man in Pursuit of Revenge

A YOUTH IN PURSUIT OF REVENGE

(Dear readers! This time, I will publish a short story in my column. A bit of variety refreshes the mind.

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The story you are about to read below is based on a true event. Since childhood, I have heard several different versions of this tragic tale, and I found myself hesitant about which version to take as the basis. Imagine this situation:

At the request of the apartment management, an official enters each apartment and conducts pest control. The next day, when you knock on your neighbors' doors and ask if an official came the day before to spray and, if so, what color their uniform was, the answers you receive will likely be something like this: “Yes, an official came. I think their uniform was brown” or “Yes, an official came. I think their uniform was gray.” As you can see, everyone agrees that the official came, but there are differing opinions about the color of their uniform. The event I will describe below is similar to this. The reality of the event is true, but it is inevitable that fiction has intervened in the transitions.)

BEGINNING

I think it must have been the year 1940. The Second World War was raging with full force, especially in Europe. Nazi Germany had occupied Greece and was ready to attack Turkey at any moment. The Turkish army expected this attack to come through Thrace, so its most significant forces were deployed there, and dozens of deep and wide trenches had been dug to block the passage of German tanks. The Turkish army was waiting, prepared to face the first assault of the Germans’ Sturmabteilung stormtroopers. Since the Soviet Union had not yet entered the war, there was no longer any point in keeping many troops on the Eastern Front. During such a time when security was low in Eastern Anatolia, a tragic event occurred in the region between Iğdır and Doğubayazıt.

As I mentioned earlier, while Europe was drowning in war, life in Eastern Anatolia was calm. Tribes prepared for the highlands with the arrival of May, spending the summer heat in the cool air of the highlands as they were accustomed. Generally, each tribe had its own highland. Occasionally, families arriving from distant places would pitch their tents alone, far from the larger tribes, and spend the summer with their ten to fifteen sheep without disturbing anyone.

In the summer of 1940, such a family arriving from Diyadin pitched their tent in an open area far from the main road before reaching Karabulak village, on the way from Iğdır to Doğubayazıt. They had two donkeys, ten to fifteen sheep, and two dogs. A mouse-hunting cat was also with the family. Since the man of the house had been killed in a blood feud in Diyadin, the family, estranged from their tribe, chose to move far away from Diyadin. The extremely poor family’s small wool tent stood precariously on four or five poles, providing shelter only on rainy days.

IMAGE: Wool Tent (representative)

One day, a horseman approached the tent. The dogs barked to greet him. A 14-year-old boy emerged from the tent, shooed the dogs away, and approached the traveler. The horseman asked for a glass of water. One of the young girls in the house handed him a ladle filled with water. As he drank, the horseman couldn’t take his eyes off the girl. She was a green-eyed, world-class beauty. Soon, her sister and mother also came out to the front of the tent, glancing shyly and timidly at the stranger from a distance. The horseman asked the young boy:

“What’s your name?”

“Mısto!”

“Which tribe are you from?”

“Badoyî!”

“Where is your original settlement?”

“Diyadin!”

“Why did you come here?”

“Our father was killed in an intra-tribal blood feud. We left the tribe in resentment and came here.”

“Are there only four of you?”

“Yes! My two sisters, my mother, and me!”

The horseman scrutinized the girls and the woman deeply, then sharply whipped his horse’s flank, saying, “Farewell! May God bless your bounty!” and rode away.

A COFFEEHOUSE IN IĞDIR

The horseman soon arrived in Iğdır. He entered the coffeehouse where he always sat to drink tea and meet with friends. Two of his friends were sitting in a dark, smoke-filled corner of the coffeehouse, sipping tea and chatting as if they were waiting for him. As soon as he sat down, the horseman reached for the tobacco pouch on the table. He rolled his cigarette gently. By the time he blew the first puff of smoke, tea had been served in front of him. He quietly took a few puffs from his cigarette. Suddenly, he leaned his head forward as if about to tell his friends something secret. They leaned in curiously.

“How about spending a pleasant time with the most beautiful girls in the world?”

The other two listened with curiosity. One of them asked:

“A brothel or someone’s house?”

“No! No!” replied the horseman. He recounted what had happened and described the two girls he had seen and their still young and beautiful mother.

“Our job is very easy! We’ll tie up the boy! No matter how much they scream, no one will come to help. What do you say?”

“Where is the tent?”

“Not far! If we set out now, we’ll be there in three hours. It’s just beyond the Çille Pass.”

The three companions wasted no time, mounted their horses, and set off. The sun had just set, and the surroundings were bathed in a reddish light.

MURDER AT THE TENT

As the three horsemen crossed the hill ahead, they saw a light in the distance. A sailor’s lantern hung from one of the tent poles. Since the surroundings were pitch black, the horsemen could make out the faint light of the lantern even from afar. Throughout the journey, the horseman who had drunk water from the girl’s hand kept describing her beauty, stirring an uncontrollable lust in his companions. Like hungry wolves cornering their prey, they advanced toward the faint light.

The dogs were the first to notice the horsemen’s arrival. Their prolonged howls alerted the tent’s inhabitants to the approaching strangers. Mısto sat up from his bed, took the sailor’s lantern hanging from the pole, and walked toward the front of the tent. He began to watch the black shadows playing in the darkness, growing closer.

One of the horsemen took his gun off his shoulder, loaded two cartridges into his shotgun, and fired at the ferociously approaching dog. The dog whimpered and fell to the ground. At the sound of the gunshot, the mother and her two daughters, who were lying in the same bed, quickly straightened their clothes and rushed outside. Mısto, who had moved quite far from the tent, ran back toward it in fear. The mother and her three children clung to each other, staring at the approaching horsemen. The horseman who had previously visited the tent shouted:

“Mısto, come here!”

As Mısto approached with timid steps, the three strangers dismounted from their horses. They tied their reins to the stake in front of the tent. One of the men approached Mısto, grabbed him, and threw him to the ground. They tightly bound his hands and feet and tossed him into a dark corner among the rocks behind the tent. The two girls began to cry. Their mother, gathering her courage, kept shouting, “What are you doing? Who are you?” At first, she thought it was a continuation of the blood feud that had arisen after her husband’s murder.

Two men seized the woman and tied her tightly to the pole holding up the tent. To prevent her from screaming, they gagged her mouth tightly with a scarf. The two young girls were huddled together in the bed. The three men turned toward the girls simultaneously. They forcibly removed or tore off the girls’ clothes. The two sisters, now completely naked, clung to each other and began to sob. One of the men grabbed the girl closest to him and forcibly separated her from her sister. The other man had already taken off his pants.

The man who had removed his pants shouted, “Beko! Hold the girl’s hands tightly!” Beko clasped the young girl’s hands together and placed them on his knee. The half-naked man pounced on the 15-year-old girl. Her screams and cries echoed through the air. Beko slapped the girl hard across the face. She fell silent. The man holding the girl’s hand called out, “Beko, enough! It’s Hesso’s turn!” This time, the half-naked Hesso, who had been waiting his turn, lay down on the girl. Soon after, the man holding the girl’s hand called out again, “Hesso, my turn!” Zeko also raped the girl. Then they brought the second girl. The scenario repeated.

Mısto watched what was happening from among the rocks, too afraid of being killed to make a sound. In the sooty light of the sailor’s lantern, he examined the men one by one, etching their words and silhouettes into his memory. The man named Beko had a large scar on his right leg. He paid attention to the facial features of the other two. Zeko was bald. Hesso kept shouting, “Hurry up! Tomorrow morning, I have to take a truckload to Istanbul early. Oruç Vurgun fires drivers who deliver goods late.” The other asked:

 “Where is Oruç Vurgun from?”

“From Iğdır. He settled in Istanbul. He has hundreds of trucks and drivers working for him.”

Mısto could even see the large oriental sore on Hesso’s right cheek from a distance. He tried to commit what he heard and saw to memory so he would never forget. His mother, tied to the pole, was weeping uncontrollably with her head bowed.

The three men put their pants back on and sat cross-legged. Zeko threw the tobacco pouch he took from his pocket onto the ground. They rolled and smoked their cigarettes in turn, their faces calm. As thick smoke rose, all three wore shameless smiles and expressions of cruelty.

Beko spoke up: “Should we leave them like this?” Zeko intervened: “No! The best thing is to cover our tracks. Let’s kill them and throw them in a pit.” Hesso agreed. Zeko stood up and aimed his rifle at the two girls. He fired. He reloaded and shot them in the head this time. He wanted to make sure they were dead. The mother had already fainted from the pain she witnessed. Zeko then pressed the rifle against the woman’s head, which was hanging toward the ground, and fired.

As they pondered where to bury them, Hesso, who knew the area well, pointed to the distant Iğdır-Doğubayazıt road: “There are deep pits on the paved road. We’ll dig a bit more. We’ll bury the bodies and cover them with soil. That way, we’ll also avoid the trouble of digging a pit.”

They tied the bodies with rope and dragged them away with their horses. They didn’t forget to take the pickaxe and shovel from the house.

Hesso was right. The paved road was in terrible condition. They found a deep pit. They threw the mother and two girls on top of each other. They covered them with gravel and soil, filling the pit. They topped it with larger stones. It was impossible for anyone to know that three bodies were buried there.

Mısto watched what was happening from a distance in the moonlight. As soon as he saw the horsemen moving away from the house, he crawled to the kitchen area and grabbed the knife on the ground with his mouth. He crawled toward the stone wall. His hands were tied behind his back. With difficulty, he wedged the back handle of the knife between the stones. He aligned the rope binding his hands with the sharp edge of the knife. Moving his hand up and down, he cut the rope. His hands were now covered in blood. He quickly cut the rope around his feet. Afraid they might find him with the lantern, he extinguished it, grabbed it, and ran down toward the valley. He squeezed himself between two large rocks and hid safely. The other dog lay beside its dead companion, whimpering as if mourning.

Beko remembered the young boy: “Let’s go kill the boy we tied up too. No evidence left!” The horsemen quickly headed back to the tent. Mısto was not where they had left him. The area was plunged into pitch darkness. After searching a bit more, they rounded up the two donkeys and sheep waiting near the tent and set off toward Iğdır.

Mısto, his mind in turmoil, crouched in fear between the two rocks, waiting for morning without sleep. As the first light of dawn filled the area, the other dog found Mısto and lay in front of him, whimpering. Mısto emerged from his hiding place and crawled toward the tent. The horsemen had left. As daylight broke, he saw the pooled blood of his sisters and mother inside the tent. While crawling on the ground to retrieve the knife, his own clothes became stained with his siblings’ blood. He acted without much thought. He changed his shirt, but since he didn’t have a second pair of pants, there was nothing he could do. The black pants had absorbed the blood, but the red color wasn’t noticeable.

The house cat kept meowing. Mısto’s eyes fell on the tobacco pouch on the ground. He picked it up and put it in his pocket. He pulled the knife he had used to cut the rope from between the stones. He put on his father’s coat. The coat was too big. He rolled up the sleeves. He placed the knife in the side pocket. He dismantled the tent and its poles. He piled everything on top of each other. He sprinkled the kerosene from the sailor’s lantern around. He lit a match and threw it onto the felt tent. The flames rose quickly. Now, nothing remained of his family. Mısto picked up his cat. The dog followed him. He reached the roadside where his mother and two sisters were buried. To remember the spot, he piled up some stones. He repeated his vow of revenge a thousand times in his heart. Silently, he set off toward Doğubayazıt.

MISTO’S DAYS IN DOĞUBAYAZIT

As Mısto approached a neighborhood on the outskirts, he stopped in front of a house. No one was around. During the summer pasture season, the town’s population halved. He headed toward the city center. He saw a garden where children were playing. When the house dogs and his own dog growled at each other, the poor cat, frightened, leaped onto the wall and disappeared. A woman, hearing the dog’s bark, shouted from a distance:

“Who are you? What do you want?”

Mısto wanted to speak, but he realized his tongue was tied. He couldn’t speak. He made a hand gesture meaning “I’m hungry.” The woman entered the house and came to Mısto’s side with two tandoori breads in her hand. The woman asked questions but received no answers. Mısto tried to explain what had happened through hand gestures, but the woman couldn’t make sense of his strange movements. Mısto sat on the ground. He split the bread in two. He threw one half to his dog. He ate the other half himself. He hid the second bread inside his shirt. He left through the garden gate and plunged into the crowd. When he looked back at one point, he couldn’t see his dog. It had disappeared.

Mısto stopped in front of a teahouse. He sat on the curbstone beside it. The waiter serving tea to customers was also the owner of the teahouse. He was alone because his apprentice had gone to the highlands. When he noticed Mısto sitting quietly and still on the curb a little further away, he called out, “Hey! Young man!” Mısto turned his head and looked. The waiter asked, “Do you want to work?” Mısto stood up and walked shyly toward the man. The man said, “My apprentice went to the highlands! I can’t manage the work alone. You’ll just take the tea to the tables and bring back the empty cups. Agreed?” Mısto nodded his head, meaning “Yes!” The man asked, “What’s your name?” Mısto pointed to his tongue with his hand, trying to explain that he couldn’t speak.

The man didn’t pay much attention to this. “You don’t need to speak anyway! You’ll just serve tea and collect empty cups. Let me give you a name: Your name will be Halis. It was my late grandfather’s name.” Mısto slightly bowed his head as if in agreement. “Do you have a place to stay?” Mısto shook his head side to side, meaning “No!” The boss was a practical man. He took Mısto to one of the back rooms. “Halis, this room is yours! You’ll open the shop and clean it before I arrive in the mornings. Start working right away!”

In the early days, Mısto, clumsy due to his inexperience, would knock over cups and spill tea. But he soon learned to perform his duties perfectly. The shop owner was pleased with this and would proudly shout from time to time, “Halis, the tea is ready!” Mısto would collect the empty cups and keep the tables clean without the boss having to say anything.

Mısto had learned his job without needing the boss to give orders. In the evenings, he slept on the floor mattress in the small room, woke up early, cleaned the shop, arranged the tables and chairs in front of the shop in a row, and didn’t stop there—he sprinkled water on the front of the shop and the road. When the boss arrived and saw everything done better than he expected, he would praise him, saying, “Bravo, Halis! You’ve learned this job quickly!” Every evening, Mısto would repeat these words in his mind so as not to forget them: “Zeko, Hesso, Beko, Oruç Vurgun!” Then he would take out his knife and sharpen it for a long time with the whetstone he had.

Occasionally, his mind would drift to the murder of his father. His father was a peddler, a traveling salesman. He had five donkeys. He would go to the city center of Ağrı, buy all kinds of household items, even fabric for women, and travel to villages like Mengeser, Suçtağı, and Yoncalı, where the Terekeme population predominantly lived, to sell his goods. In Kurdish villages, there was no cash. He wasn’t willing to exchange goods for butter or cheese either.

From the age of ten, Mısto would follow his father’s donkey caravan, load the goods they bought in the city center of Ağrı onto the donkeys, and visit Terekeme villages one by one. Having done this job continuously for four years, Mısto had also learned Turkish in the process. Sometimes, when his father was unwell, he had the confidence to manage the work alone.

Mısto was 14 years old. One day, after selling their goods with his father, they were heading toward their village in Diyadin to rest for a few weeks. Two armed horsemen appeared before them. One of them shouted:

“Do you recognize me?”

Mısto’s father simply replied, “No!”

The horseman continued:

“Twenty years ago, your father killed my father. Hand over the money!” he commanded harshly. Mısto’s father was tall, slender, and strong. He responded firmly, “I have money, but I won’t give it to you!”

One of the horsemen fired his gun. Mısto’s father, wounded in the chest, collapsed to the ground. Mısto didn’t know what to do. All he remembered was crying uncontrollably, shouting, “Bavo! Bavo!” The man who fired the gun dismounted, collected all the money from Mısto’s and his father’s pockets, jumped back on his horse, and rode away with his companion.

Mısto was left alone with his father’s corpse. With difficulty, he lifted it onto one of the donkeys. He arrived at the village in this state! The screams of his mother and his 16- and 17-year-old sisters filled the air. From that day on, Mısto began to harbor an indescribable hatred and desire for revenge against people. After witnessing the deaths of his mother and sisters, he lost his feelings toward people and fell silent.

Mısto worked as a tea server for three years. By now, he was a 17-year-old young man. His workplace was in the city center. Military police were roaming around, catching young men of conscription age and taking them to the Recruitment Office for enlistment. While Mısto was cleaning the tables, two military police appeared beside him:

“Have you completed your enlistment?”

Mısto tried to explain through hand gestures that he couldn’t speak. The boss had seen them and came over:

“This is my son! He has a speech disability!”

“Get a medical report stating he has a speech disability and take it to the Recruitment Office.”

The boss had an 18-year-old son. All the work in the highlands fell on him. His aim was to get Mısto declared unfit so his own son wouldn’t have to go to the military. Without wasting any time, they locked the shop and stopped by the house with Mısto. They took his son’s birth certificate and went to the State Hospital together. The boss explained the situation to the doctor. He said Mısto was his son but had a speech disability and that he had forgotten to bring him for enlistment.

The doctor examined Mısto and asked questions. Mısto could understand but couldn’t answer. As the doctor sat at his desk, he told the boss he could issue the report if he brought two witnesses. The boss left Mısto at the hospital. He hurriedly brought two acquaintances and returned to the hospital.

He reminded them that the boy’s real name was “Mustafa,” not “Halis,” because his own son’s name was also Mustafa. They all went into the doctor’s office together. The doctor asked the witnesses how long they had known Mustafa. The witnesses swore they had known Mustafa for years and that he had a speech disability. The doctor had the witnesses sign. He handed the paper to the teahouse owner:

“Now you can go to the Recruitment Office and get your son declared unfit.”

The boss was overjoyed. It was wartime. Military service lasted 5-6 years. This way, he would save his own son from going to the military.

When the official doctor at the Recruitment Office read the report, he also asked for Mustafa’s birth certificate. He sat at his typewriter: “The bearer of this document, Mustafa……born in ….., has been declared unfit due to a speech disability.”

The military official handed the official document to the boss. The boss, without showing his joy, quickly left the place. As he walked down the road, he handed the paper to Mısto:

“Keep this with you! When the military police stop you, show them this paper.” Mısto carefully folded the paper handed to him and placed it in his pocket.

That evening, after closing the shop, Mısto retreated to his room. He lit the sailor’s lantern. As he did every night, he took out the knife he had carried with him for years from under the bed. He picked up the whetstone. While thinking of his sisters and mother, he sharpened the knife with hard, hate-filled strokes. With the military exemption report in his pocket, he could now set off for Iğdır without worry. The fire of revenge burned in his heart.

He got dressed. He carefully placed the knife in the side pocket of the coat he had inherited from his father. He didn’t forget to take the whetstone and tobacco tin either. The military exemption report was also on him. In the middle of the night, he opened the shop’s shutter. He locked it from the outside. The boss had a key too. Getting back in wouldn’t be a problem.

REVENGE FROM BEKO

Mısto set off for Iğdır with quick steps. He avoided the Iğdır-Doğubayazıt road. He passed through Örtülü village, then Gevro village, and descended into the Iğdır plain. Despite three years having passed, Mısto had etched the names and faces of the murderers into his memory like words carved in granite.

When he reached Iğdır, he wandered around the town center. He entered one of the coffeehouses on the street where Kurds were concentrated. As he sipped his tea, his eyes were on those coming and going. The only thing on his mind was: How would he find those three murderers? He reached into his coat pocket. He placed the silver tobacco tin belonging to one of the killers on the table. He rolled a cigarette. Not everyone had such a silver tobacco tin. He hoped it might catch someone’s attention.

Towards evening, he turned into the side street where the bathhouse was. He was looking for an empty or abandoned house to sleep in. He had money in his pocket. He could have stayed at an inn if he wanted. But he thought it more appropriate to hide himself from crowds. Behind the bathhouse was a two-story building made of mud bricks. Half of it was in ruins. No one lived there. He went up to the room on the second floor. He curled up in a corner and fell asleep.

In the morning, he woke up to a heavy smell of sulfur. He went downstairs and wandered around, spotting the bathhouse. Since all the young men had been drafted, the bathhouse owner needed a young hand to work. The job was simple. Emptying the ashes, carrying coal, and keeping the large cauldron constantly hot. The boss, who needed a strong young man, called out to Mısto in Azeri:

“Hey boy! Come here!”

Mısto was encountering Azeri for the first time. The boss made his offer:

“Do you want to work?”

Mısto simply nodded. When the boss asked, “What’s your name?” Mısto took out his exemption report and handed it over. Seeing the phrase “speech-impaired,” the boss understood the situation. “That’s not important. I’ll show you the job. We also have a place for you to sleep. So your name is Mustafa!”

On his second day in Iğdır, Mısto had found both a job and a place to sleep. His whole day was spent emptying the ashes from under the large cauldron and feeding the fire with coal carried in a wheelbarrow. It wasn’t exhausting work. The boss even brought him lunch with his own hands. He was a good man.

One day, the boss called out to Mısto from a distance: “Mustafa, come here, let me show you the bathhouse. There are few customers today! You can bathe too!”

Mısto was entering the bathhouse’s entrance building for the first time. In the lobby, some men were undressing, while others were getting dressed, preparing to leave. Some were wrapped in towels, lounging on the benches, sipping tea in relaxation.

The bath attendant showed Mısto a spot. He asked him to undress. Then he wrapped the loincloth around Mısto’s waist himself, tucking one end into the other side. Mısto took off his underwear and put on the wooden clogs. He was encountering the smell of hot steam and the bathhouse for the first time. He followed the boss, slowly moving forward. When the boss opened the thick wooden door, a dense steam rushed out. As they entered and the door closed, Mısto thought he had gone blind for a moment. Inside was filled with steam so thick it took one’s breath away. The boss, laughing, took his hand and sat him down at one of the basins. He handed him soap and a scrub. In a pleasant voice, he said, “Bathe as you like! No rush! The cauldron is full of hot water.”

Mısto’s eyes gradually adjusted to the steam. He could now make out the half-naked figures in the distance. He opened the faucet and began to wash. For the first time in his life, he felt so happy and at peace. He soaped his body repeatedly, scrubbing with the loofah. At one point, curious, he wanted to see what was happening in the distant rooms. In front of two small rooms with loincloths hanging on their doors, people were lining up for pubic hair trimming. On the right side, there was a place resembling a funeral slab. One man was lying down while another was vigorously scrubbing him. When the scrubber took a deep breath and told the man to turn over, Mısto’s heart skipped a beat. He recognized the scar on the man’s right leg. It was the scar of Beko, who had raped his sisters! There was no mistake. This was Beko! The scrubber wanted to scrub the part where there was no hair, looking like peeled skin. Beko said, “Don’t touch that! I fell off a cliff when I was a kid. That’s the mark.”

Mısto also recognized Beko’s voice. He quickly left the steam room. Without waiting for the boss, he dried himself with a towel. The boss approached with a kind and smiling demeanor: “The first time in the bathhouse is tough. You’ll get used to the steam in time!” Mısto nodded, meaning “Yes.”

He quickly dressed. Without drinking the tea the boss brought, he rushed out of the bathhouse. He entered the room next to the bathhouse where he was supposed to sleep. He put on his father’s coat. He placed his hat on his head. Taking the knife, whetstone, tobacco tin, and exemption report, he left the room. He passed through the poplar trees and hid in the vineyard across from the bathhouse (where Hacı Ömer Şark’s Çırçır factory once stood).

It was impossible for anyone outside to see him. He fixed his eyes on the bathhouse door, waiting for Beko to come out. It was almost evening. Suddenly, his heart leaped. Beko came out of the bathhouse with a bag in his hand. He slowly turned into a side street. Mısto wasted no time and began to follow Beko. Beko, tired from the bath, was taking small steps, swinging the bag in his hand.

Beko entered an alley leading to Baharlı Neighborhood (14 November Neighborhood). It had grown dark. Mısto gripped his knife. He looked around. There was no one coming or going. With the speed of a panther, he plunged the knife into Beko’s back, aiming for his heart. At first, Beko felt nothing. This time, Mısto pressed the knife to his throat. The knife, sharpened with years of hatred, slit Beko’s throat in one stroke. Blood gushed like a fountain. Beko collapsed to the ground. Mısto cut off Beko’s head and flung it far away. He took the wallet from Beko’s pocket. Quickly, he disappeared into the darkness. Passing through the poplar trees and vineyards, he returned to the half-ruined house behind the bathhouse where he had stayed on his first day. He lay down, breathing deeply. He wanted to sob uncontrollably, but he feared someone might hear him in the silence of the night.

When Mısto woke up, it was already noon. He left the house without being seen by the bathhouse keeper. The bathhouse keeper had given Mısto’s job to someone else. An old man was struggling to carry coal.

Mısto headed towards İdirmava. He washed his knife in the stream without anyone noticing. He checked to see if there were any bloodstains on it.

The news that a man had been found decapitated in an alley in Baharlı Neighborhood was relayed to Hüsnü Bingöl, the Chief of National Security. Hüsnü Bingöl arrived at the scene shortly after. Lighting his pipe, he inquired with the police chief:

“Sir, the incident must have occurred last evening. It looks like a robbery! The man’s wallet is missing!”

Hüsnü Bingöl glared at the police chief:

“Since when do they cut off heads for robbery!”

“Then it must be a blood feud!”

Having learned Beko’s identity, Hüsnü Bingöl glared again:

“Kurds don’t cut off heads in blood feuds. They shoot and leave. Where will he be buried?”

“In the cemetery of Baharlı Neighborhood!”

“Keep a close eye on those who come to the cemetery. The killer might be among them.”

REVENGE ON ZEKO

Mısto entered one of the coffeehouses frequented by Kurds in the city center. He eagerly ate the bread and halva he had bought from the grocer. He drank his tea. He listened intently to the conversations. Everyone was talking about the murder from the previous evening. He heard that the funeral would be held at the cemetery in Baharlı Neighborhood. Would Zeko and Hesso also attend the funeral? He thought this might be a good opportunity. But he couldn’t speak. How would he ask where the cemetery was? He gave up.

He wandered around the town center. He ate lunch. Towards evening, he bought some supplies and returned to the dilapidated house behind the bathhouse. Mısto had already forgotten about Beko’s murder. Now, his mind was preoccupied with Zeko, the bald-headed man, and Hesso, the driver with a large oriental sore on his right cheek. He knew the silver tobacco case he carried belonged to Zeko. That was all the information he had at the moment.

For a month, Mısto visited the coffeehouses where Kurds gathered, deliberately placing the silver case on the table, rolling cigarettes, and intently watching those who came and went. One such day, a man at the next table asked for permission to roll some tobacco. Mısto handed him the tobacco case. As soon as the man took it, he exclaimed in surprise to his friend, “This is Zeko’s tobacco case!” The man asked Mısto where he had gotten the tobacco case, but Mısto gestured that he was mute and left the questions unanswered.

The man got up from the table and hurried outside. Mısto knew what this meant. The man had gone to fetch Zeko. Mısto paid his bill and rushed out. He hid himself in a corner and began to watch who entered the coffeehouse. Before long, Zeko, his bald head visible even under his hat, entered the coffeehouse with the man who had rolled tobacco from the silver case. Mısto patiently continued to observe the coffeehouse.

Soon, Zeko rushed outside, scanning his surroundings. Clearly, he was looking for Mısto. Seeing that he wouldn’t find him, he began to walk in the direction he had come from. Mısto secretly followed him. When Mısto turned into an alley and emerged onto the main street, he saw Zeko entering a shop in the distance. It was a fabric shop.

Mısto crouched down and waited for the shop to close. Evening darkness had just fallen. Zeko noisily closed the shop’s shutter, locked it, and began walking down the main street. Mısto got up and followed him. Zeko entered a grocery store. He finished his shopping. His hands were full of items. He wanted to take a carriage. He signaled to every passing carriage, asking them to stop, but each time the carriage drivers shook their heads in refusal. At this hour, when everyone was closing their shops and heading home, finding an empty carriage was difficult.

Realizing he had no choice but to walk, he headed towards Halfeli Street. Mısto followed Zeko like a tiger stalking its prey. Zeko stopped in front of a garden gate. He knocked on the door knocker several times. A woman opened the door. She took the items from Zeko’s hands. Zeko spoke with the woman for a while. Then he turned back towards the market. He had forgotten to buy kerosene. In those years, there was no electricity in Iğdır. Pitch darkness quickly descended, everyone retreated to their homes, and the side streets became deserted.

Zeko bought a bottle of kerosene. As he walked, he ran into some friends. They engaged in a long conversation on the spot. Then he set off towards his home again. It had grown dark. It was becoming difficult to see even five meters ahead. Mısto gripped his knife. Zeko was just four or five houses away from his home. Mısto looked around. There was no one in sight. Like a tiger, he lunged and plunged the knife into Zeko’s back, aiming for his heart. Without wasting any time, he swiftly pulled the knife out and pressed it to Zeko’s throat. Blood gushed like a fountain. Zeko collapsed to the ground. Mısto cut off Zeko’s bald head and flung it far away. He took the money from Zeko’s pocket and disappeared.

He entered a large apricot orchard. Passing through the barking dogs, he ventured into the side streets. He washed the knife in the stream by the roadside. He didn’t feel hungry. He returned to his room behind the bathhouse. He picked up a whetstone and, while thinking about the day’s events, sharpened the knife with heavy strokes. He had taken two lives, but the hatred and thirst for revenge within him hadn’t diminished in the slightest.

“Now it’s that dog Hesso’s turn. The truck driver. He works at Oruç Vurgun’s trucking company.”

Mısto had been repeating these sentences for three years. It was impossible for him to forget.

The next day, Inspector Hüsnü Bingöl returned to the crime scene. As he smoked his pipe, the police chief listed the information he had gathered.

“Sir! The method of killing is the same. First, he struck from behind, then cut off the head and threw it away. He also took the money from the victim’s pocket. Sir, I think this is a very ruthless thief!”

Hüsnü Bingöl managed a faint smile:

“Let’s assume it’s a robbery! How could he guess how much money the man had in his pocket? What if the man had no money at all after he killed him? Muhlis Bey, we’re dealing with a ruthless person filled with hatred and vengeance. It’s not a robbery! Let’s assume he confronted the man, drew his knife, and demanded his money. The man resisted, refusing to hand it over. In that case, he would have stabbed him from the front, not the back. The killer must be someone from outside Iğdır. Tighten identity checks, round up all foreigners coming from outside Iğdır, and line them up. Inform me! I’ll recognize the killer at a glance.”

When Mısto headed toward the city center around noon the next day, he saw that the area was swarming with police. IDs were being checked, and people were being searched. He sensed danger. The net was closing in. There was a chance he could be caught at any moment.

REVENGE FROM HESSO

He found the road to Tuzluca by cutting through backyards. He was hungry. There were no grocery stores or anything along the way. He was resilient to hunger. He kept walking all night. He remembered the day he had walked from Doğubayazıt to Iğdır. By dawn, he had reached Tuzluca. He ate his fill. A truck from Iğdır stopped in front of a teahouse. He eavesdropped on the conversation between the teahouse owner and the driver. The truck was heading to Kars.

Mısto approached the driver and tried to explain with hand gestures that he wanted to travel with him. The driver said, “I’ll take some money; it’s not free!” Mısto gestured with his fingers, “How much?” The driver raised all ten fingers to indicate “Ten.” Mısto walked away. He took ten lira from the money he had hidden in a secret compartment and handed it to the driver. They set off together.

The dirt road was full of deep potholes. To prevent the load from tipping over, the driver sometimes got out and filled the deep holes with stones. During these moments, Mısto’s throat tightened, his mind was in turmoil, and he couldn’t help but think of his mother and sisters buried in that dirt road.

At one point, the driver asked:

“Are you staying in Kars or going further?”

Mısto gestured, waving his hand to indicate “further.”

The driver continued:

“Ankara?”

Mısto shook his head, meaning “No!”

“Istanbul?”

Mısto nodded with a hint of joy, confirming. The driver stopped for a break along the way. He took out a piece of paper and wrote: “I’m mute. I can’t speak. I can’t read or write. I want to go to Istanbul. Please help!”

“When you get to the station, show this paper to the man at the ticket counter. They’ll understand you’re going to Istanbul.”

“Do you know anyone in Istanbul?”

Mısto shook his head, meaning “No!”

“Are you going there to work?”

Mısto nodded in confirmation.

“Go to Sirkeci! All the trucks load and unload there. You can work as a porter!”

The driver stopped the truck. He took back the paper he had given Mısto and wrote on the back, “I want to go to Sirkeci. I’ll be a porter!”

“When the train arrives in Istanbul, show this, and people will tell you what to do. Istanbul is a big city. I also go there sometimes to pick up goods from Sirkeci and take them to Kars, Ağrı, and other places. Only Oruç Vurgun’s trucks carry goods to the Eastern Anatolia region. He’s from Iğdır. He’s a good man. Go to him.”

When Mısto heard the name “Oruç Vurgun,” his heart nearly stopped. Hesso had worked as a driver for Oruç Vurgun. That name had been in his memory for years.

The driver stopped the truck again. He wrote at the bottom of the paper, “I’m looking for Oruç Vurgun, the owner of Iğdır Warehouse.”

“When you get to the truck market in Sirkeci, show this paper to the drivers! They’ll point you to Oruç Vurgun’s office. Young men from the East are strong and sturdy. They’ll give you work right away.”

When Mısto arrived in Kars, his first task was to find the train station. He handed the piece of paper the driver had given him to the old man at the ticket counter. The attendant took out 40 TL and showed it to him. Mısto handed over the money. The old man pointed to the watch on his arm and gestured to the number 5. Mısto understood that the train would depart at 5 o’clock.

After a long journey lasting five days, the train arrived at Haydarpaşa Station. Mısto’s mind was elsewhere, so he didn’t even feel how the five days had passed. He felt lucky because of the driver he had met in Tuzluca. He had even learned where Oruç Vurgun was.

When the train arrived at Haydarpaşa Station, Mısto got off onto the platform like everyone else. He approached an elderly man who was struggling to carry his suitcase and handed him the paper:

“Son, I’m also crossing over. Follow me!”

Mısto took the suitcase from the old man’s hand. They boarded the car ferry. Mısto watched the sea and Istanbul with admiration. They got off at Eminönü. The old man stopped a minibus heading to Sirkeci.

“Driver, this young man is mute. He’s getting off at Sirkeci. How much is the fare?”

“50 kuruş!”

The old man handed over 50 kuruş. Mısto sat in one of the empty seats. As the minibus struggled through heavy traffic, Mısto was lost in watching the crowd. When they arrived at Sirkeci, the driver signaled for Mısto to get off.

Mısto saw the trucks ahead and headed toward them. A simit seller appeared in front of him. He gestured to ask the price. “25 kuruş!” shouted the simit seller. Mısto sat on a bench and eagerly began eating the simit. He listened to the seagulls and stared in amazement at the towering minarets of the mosque in the distance. Istanbul had enchanted Mısto. It was a big city. A very big one!

He approached the drivers’ hut and handed the paper to someone. The driver who examined the paper stood up:

“Oruç Vurgun’s office isn’t far. Go down that street. Turn right! Ask the men there.”

Mısto did as he was told. When he turned right, he handed the paper to a middle-aged man who appeared in front of him. Realizing Mısto was a foreigner and mute, the man took him to Oruç Vurgun’s office. He went in and greeted him.

“Oruç Bey! This young man can’t speak. He’s a stranger here. Your name is written on the paper. I brought him to you. Well, take care!”

Oruç Vurgun was settling accounts with a driver. He told Mısto to sit on the chair. After the driver left, Oruç Vurgun gestured for Mısto to come closer. Mısto handed him the paper. Oruç Vurgun nodded.

“Do you have an ID?”

Mısto handed over the ID he had carried in a plastic bag since Doğubayazıt.

“So your name is Mustafa! You want to be a porter, right?”

Mısto nodded in confirmation.

Oruç Vurgun called his assistant:

“Ahmet, this young man seems sturdy. You know it’s easy to find porters, but we struggle to find drivers who can take goods to distant places. He’s mute, but it doesn’t matter. Since he made it here from Doğubayazıt, he knows what he’s doing. Plus, he’s exempt from military service. Teach him how to drive for a few weeks. Then go to our Fehmi Bey and get him a license! Find him a place to stay in one of the small inns!”

Ahmet listened carefully to the instructions.

“Come on, Mustafa, let’s go!” he said.

Mısto was very happy. He was going to become a driver. Before leaving, he handed the silver plate in his pocket to Oruç Vurgun. Oruç Vurgun, with a bashful demeanor, took the silver plate, which he thought was a family heirloom. He turned it over in his hands.

“Thank you so much! May God be your helper!” he said.

Mısto took a month-long driver training course. He was overjoyed when he got his license. Oruç Vurgun had covered his food, drink, and lodging expenses at the inn.

While Mısto was taking his first steps into the profession of driving, his eyes were always on other drivers. He was looking for Hesso, the man with a large oriental sore on his cheek.

Mısto made several trips transporting goods to Gaziantep and Diyarbakır. His friend, with whom he stayed at the inn, had taught him a bit of reading and writing. He could read signs easily. He had even managed to spell out and read newspaper articles at times.

In Sirkeci, there was a large restaurant where drivers ate their lunch. Whenever he got the chance, Mısto preferred to have his lunch there. The kebabs were delicious.

One day, while sitting and eating with his friend, he saw Hesso at the opposite table, the man whose face he could never forget, with the large oriental sore on his cheek. The food seemed to stick in his throat. He paid and went outside. He sat at a distance and waited for Hesso to leave the restaurant.

Hesso came out of the restaurant in a cheerful mood, a toothpick in his hand. He parted from his friends and headed towards the street with the inns. Mısto began to follow him. Hesso entered one of the inns. Mısto was happy to have found Hesso. He went to his own room, took out his knife, and began to sharpen it. He put on his father’s coat, which he had worn for years. He started pacing in front of the inn where Hesso was staying.

It was late in the evening. Hesso left the inn and walked towards the shore. Then he changed direction and entered the side streets. He planned to take a shortcut to the brothel. Mısto knew these streets well. Whenever he felt down, he would wander aimlessly to dispel the pains that haunted his mind. Hesso stopped for a moment and quickly rolled a cigarette. He took a deep breath and continued on his way.

Hesso entered the brothel on Yüksek Kaldırım Street. Mısto waited outside. He didn’t take his eyes off the door. He didn’t know how much time had passed. His mind was focused on the man he was going to kill. Suddenly, he saw Hesso come out of the door.

It was midnight. The narrow streets were even more deserted. He knew the best place to strike. Hesso turned into a narrow, dark street. Mısto lunged forward like lightning and stabbed him from behind. With the same speed, he pulled out the knife and pressed it to his throat. Hesso asked in fear:

“Who are you?”

“I am Mısto. You killed my mother and two sisters.”  

Blood gushed from Hesso’s throat as he fell to the ground. Mısto stood a little distance away. Then he approached, cut off Hesso’s head, and threw it. He walked briskly down to the shore. He threw the knife in his hand into the dark waters of the Golden Horn. Mısto was happy about two things at once. He had killed the last murderer, Hesso, and his tongue had been loosened. As he approached the inn, he washed his hands, face, and shoes at the fountain. He entered the inn quietly.

Mısto’s roommate was from Lice. He was asleep. Mısto also lay down on his bed, but sleep didn’t come to him until morning.

The news of Hesso’s brutal murder in one of the side streets spread quickly among the drivers. When Oruç Vurgun heard the news, he was saddened by Hesso’s death, but he also needed to find a new driver to take the load to Iğdır the next day. He called Mısto over and asked him to take the load to Iğdır. Mısto nodded in agreement.

That evening, Mısto lay on his bed, thinking over and over about what had happened. His friend from Lice entered the room. He lay on his bed and lit a cigarette.

Mısto said: “Ahmet, my tongue has been loosened. I’m speaking to you first. I’m leaving for Iğdır tomorrow. You are a dear and trusted friend. In fact, I’ve never had any other friend in my life. Would you like to hear what has happened to me since my childhood? You must promise me. You won’t tell anyone what I tell you. Also, I don’t want anyone to know that I can speak.”

Ahmet suddenly became very curious. Mısto recounted in detail everything that had happened to him since his childhood. He confessed that he had also killed Hesso two days ago.

By the time Mısto finished speaking, the morning light was breaking. Ahmet was filled with strange emotions. He asked curiously:

“Why do you cut off their heads? Isn’t killing them enough?”

“Perhaps it’s because of the hatred and desire for revenge that has been choking me for years! Also, my father used to say that those buried with their heads cut off would go to Hell in the afterlife.”

Ahmet felt tired and, without realizing it, fell asleep. Mısto went to his truck, sat in the driver’s seat, started the engine, and embarked on the long journey to Iğdır.

After five days of travel, Mısto arrived in Doğubayazıt. His heart began to beat rapidly. The teahouse where he once worked was still open. The road connecting Doğubayazıt to Iğdır, after passing the village of Karabulak, became narrow and wound like a snake along the edges of cliffs. No one dared to drive a truck on this road in the dark of night. Mısto knew he had to cross the Çille Pass before nightfall.

Mısto got into his truck and continued on his way. After passing Karabulak, his throat tightened. He was approaching the graves of his mother and two sisters. Soon, he saw the stones he had laid himself. He stopped the truck. He had reached the place where his family was buried. He began to sob. “Rest in peace! I have avenged you on those dogs! I will drive over you with the truck soon, forgive me!”

Night was falling quickly. Mısto drove the truck and began to climb towards the Çille Pass. His crying didn’t stop. Tears were flowing so heavily that he could hardly see the road ahead. As the truck rounded the bend and reached the top, the Iğdır plain appeared in the distance, dimly lit. Mısto was still crying. He carelessly turned the steering wheel sharply, and the truck lost its balance and rolled off the cliff. The huge truck tumbled several times. Mısto died instantly.

Weeks later, when his roommate from Lice heard the news of Mısto’s death, he told Oruç Vurgun everything he knew. Oruç Vurgun took out the silver plate he had kept in the drawer and handed it to the driver from Lice. “Take this and sell it! It brings bad luck!”

From that day on, various versions of this story circulated from mouth to mouth. It is said that whenever a car passes over the road where the mother and two daughters are buried, three “Ah!” sounds are heard.

THE END

TWO HEROES MENTIONED IN THE STORY:

WHO IS ORUÇ VURGUN? (As told by the late Hamza Aygün)

“Oruç Bey was originally from the Iğdırmava neighborhood. He was engaged in trade in Iğdır. In the 1930s, he migrated to Istanbul and left Iğdır. He never returned, not even for a visit. In Istanbul, he established a company called Iğdır Ambarı and quickly made a name for himself in the Eastern region. In those years, all the eastern provinces were connected to Istanbul via Trabzon, and they conducted their trade through this route. Iğdır Ambarı transported goods to all the provinces along this route, especially Erzurum, Kars, Iğdır, Ağrı, and Van. As a result, Oruç Bey quickly earned good money and became wealthy.

Merchants or tradesmen traveling from the East to Istanbul would stop by Oruç Vurgun Bey. Sometimes, when fellow townspeople ran out of money in Istanbul, Oruç Bey would extend a helping hand, ensuring they returned home safely.

Oruç Bey served as a gateway for the people of Iğdır. He was a trusted address. Families sending their children to school or the military would send money through Iğdır Ambarı.

Oruç Vurgun, who never married, brought his relative Ayhan Özmen to Istanbul to manage his affairs as he began to age. Ayhan Bey, a talented young man, quickly grasped the business. After Oruç Vurgun Bey’s passing, he expanded the business further and became wealthy. Initially operating in Sirkeci, Iğdır Ambarı now continues its services at a new location designated by the municipality.”

WHO IS NATIONAL SECURITY INTELLIGENCE CHIEF HÜSNÜ BİNGÖL?

Who was Hüsnü Bingöl? Very little has been written about him, but much remains buried in minds and hearts. Who was Hüsnü Bingöl, who left his mark on an era, fiercely devoted to his duty for the homeland while leaving behind tearful and heartbroken people? Was he an ordinary MIT agent, an officer? Or a state official who abused his position? Unfortunately, these ordinary and perhaps trivial questions will never be sufficient to understand him. To some, he was a hero; to others, a tyrant. To the state, he was a hero whose value was later recognized—someone forgotten and rediscovered.

The events that occurred and the duties and responsibilities he undertook prove that it is impossible to compare Hüsnü Bingöl to a modern-day MIT director or undersecretary. Such a comparison would belittle Hüsnü Bingöl and overshadow his impressive and captivating personality. Today, one undersecretary leaves, and another arrives. There is a well-established and smoothly functioning national security and intelligence organization. However, Hüsnü Bingöl was not so fortunate. The conditions he faced were extraordinary. With great dedication and determination, Hüsnü Bingöl quickly adapted to these extraordinary circumstances. In this remote corner of the country, he painstakingly built a spy-counterespionage network, as if carving rock with his nails. He won the hearts of part of the local population and made them a part of this struggle.

In the history of the Republic of Turkey, no intelligence officer in any period or region has ever been as deeply intertwined with the people as Hüsnü Bingöl, nor has anyone convinced ordinary people to become part of a counterespionage project or awakened the sentiment, “We must protect this homeland entirely.” He entered the world of the region’s diverse ethnic and religious communities, winning them over while taking his own measures to eliminate those he deemed “harmful.” In short, Hüsnü Bingöl was not an intelligence officer who collected his salary, completed his day, and eagerly awaited promotion. On the contrary, he was a patriot and state official who cared little for money or comfort but sought to fulfill his duty. Especially during certain periods, his reports and timely updates on potential developments enlightened important statesmen like the President and Prime Minister, helping them skillfully navigate international politics and diplomacy.

In short, Hüsnü Bingöl was an extraordinary figure of an extraordinary era. With his sins and virtues, he held the fate of Iğdır and the country in his hands for many years (1932–1954). On days when he was angry, he scattered the thunderbolts of Zeus’s wrath around him, while at other times, he embraced people with the compassion and generosity deep within his heart.