10 h, jan 28, 2022 y - Program: Al Kan Kuşak

Description:

The Bloody Red Belt (2020)
Translation by Didem Gülçin ERDEM and Chelsea Hollow

I.
I’ve known women who had to wait for dark to escape.
As deep as they were in their wells, they still thought they could get out.
At home, there were things that didn't work:
clothespins and ropes
— and mothers
KNOWING, GOING, DYING.
What it is to carry the burden of a house, we knew.

II.
My name is Zeynep.
I am Zeynep, born from my mother's shadow;
born of my father's unrelenting rage;
born the seventh daughter of a woman.
I took my mother’s eyes and put them on my own face.
How it feels to live with the pain of internal bleeding, I knew.

III.
All my mother knows of the world, she squeezed from lemon peels.
She doesn’t yet have joint pain, but so many bruises;
She’s never received gratitude or praise
— besides the fact that her white body will bring white children.
But if she rides that carriage too soon, she’s promiscuous.
THE WORLD IS FULL OF WOMEN WITH ACHING SIDES!
"It hurts me!" moans my mother.

IV.
My name is Ayşe.
I am Ayşe, a never-opened window, Ayşe.
Never once asked for anything, Ayşe.
Forty layers of curtains kept me hidden from the world
Before everyone threw a handful of dirt,
Threw it on my face.
What color you get when you mix dirt with blood, I knew.

V.
I used to be a girl with good legs
I USED TO BE A HOT TEA KETTLE, BREWING PASSION
You blew on me to cool me off
— “Be more ladylike!”
Waking up fresh in the morning, being interrogated
— “Where were you at night?”
Stop with the chastity belt; stop binding me to your past;
And also, stop strangling my life; stop suffocating me;
And also, I WAS BORN OUT OF A WOMAN EMPTINESS!
Little by little, I watered myself and became purple violet.

VI.
My name is Fatma
I am Fatma.
A big black glove shut my mouth.
I felt the weight of death ravage my chest.
The only nourishment I could suckle was from the sky.
My depression dropped me from the fortieth floor to the basement.
How to live a breathless life, I knew.

VII.
I pointed out the sun to an Anatolian woman;
she pointed out her middle aged neck.
ANOTHER WOMAN CRUSHED UNDER EIGHT TONS OF FAMILY SUFFERING!
— Gülünya, İpek, Ceylan (names of murdered Turkish women)
Suddenly there was poverty like the middle of winter…
— Yasemin, Hande, Canan (names of murdered Turkish women)
She has never even worn heels…
— Hülya, Gamze, Özgecan (names of murdered Turkish women)
She is passion—unrealized, undeveloped, un-nurtured passion.
Destitute was all a woman could be, I knew.

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