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ALL PERSONS AND INCIDENTS ARE IMAGINARY, AND BASED ON FERIT EDGÜ'S NOVEL "O"

A SEASON IN HAKKARI

Welcome.

Do you intend to stay?

- Yes. - Really?

Really.

Why am I here?

How did I come here?

Am I an exile?

Exiled by whom?

Exiled by others, or...

I’ll spend a season of my life here.

Between these four walls.

And when I'm outside, covered with snow.

And when I'm outside, in the midst of men.

Well, tomorrow is another day.

I, who can't recall where I have come from, nor why,

just because I know that it won't do me any good,

perhaps, one day, here, searching for myself, I’ll find the others.

Why not?

Don’t worry.

We’ll tidy up the room with the children.

Fazil, call everyone you can find.

Just teach them to read, write and calculate.

That will do. And we’ll always pray for you.

You just start, and everything will follow.

- Good morning, teacher. - Come in, Ramazan.

Congrats for your school.

Thank you, Ramazan. Please sit.

That's a fine radio, teacher.

Praise be! It's heavy!

- Can it receive Istanbul? - Why should it receive Istanbul?

For the news, for the songs. That's why.

News and songs, we have them here too.

I’ll roll you a cigarette.

Put your notebooks and pencils in front of you.

Don’t you have any?

Well, as you neither have notebooks nor books,

let us have our lesson outside.

Look children.

That is the Sun.

The Sun which warms us, which gives life to the plants.

Our Earth revolves around the Sun.

That is how we have day and night;

that's how we have summer and winter, spring and autumn.

Look here now. Look here!

Stop. Stop.

You, come here, you are the Sun and you are the Earth.

You are going to revolve around the Sun.

Come on.

See?

Where are you going?

To Palanis.

What will you do in Palanis?

They told me, but I did not believe it.

- What did they tell you? - That you’ll take another wife.

I did not believe it.

It is true, then.

Hey, teacher. They closed the school quite early.

- What? - The school, I say, the school.

I am preparing to go to town to do my winter shopping.

You are not drinking the tea I made.

Do you think I put poison into it?

Tell me what's on your mind, already.

The second wife! That's what troubles you!

You are ashamed to confess.

I am going to marry again, Zazi. It's just a matter of a week.

Prepare yourself.

Come have tea with me, teacher.

No, thank you, Ramazan. I am tired, I'd better go home.

Not the sea, but the mountains.

Not death, but life. No!

Both the sea and the mountains. Both life and death.

To write.

Am I intruding, teacher? Sorry, I just came.

I got back to the village just today.

I wanted to see you.

I like strangers.

Because I am a stranger myself.

Aren’t you from this village?

I am living in this village, but I’m not from here.

One of my homes is here.

My sister Zazi too, the wife of Muhtar, you must have seen her.

And once you see her, you will never forget.

One of my wives and my children are here.

But I come here only rarely.

But where do you live?

Everywhere and nowhere.

Sometimes in Yüksekova and sometimes here.

Sometimes in prison...

and sometimes in Oramar.

As I said before, I'm not originally from here.

But you say your home is here.

Yes, but is that enough?

Now, your home is here too.

Can you say that you are from this village?

I am both a local and a stranger.

I'm a guest here, and a guest there, too.

Where is this place you talk about?

Let’s say,

it is Oramar.

I'm from Oramar.

Because I also have a home there.

I also have a wife there.

And my two children out of four.

You just go on with your work.

I've just come to say welcome. Excuse my disturbing you.

If you need anything, don’t forget to knock at my door.

If you could come here and see how I am living,

and how these people are living.

My love, you say that you know me,

you love me, you are waiting for me.

You want me to send you photos.

You know very well that I have never even touched a camera in my life.

But what you say is a logical proposal.

Logical and effective, and contemporary.

Just take a photo rather than try to describe with lacklustre words.

"Look, this place is exactly like that. Just as you see it."

"This is just where I live."

Instead of telling you about the children, I could just shoot their portraits.

Just shoot their bare feet, covered with deep cracks

cleaved by rocks and snow, and their leprous hands.

I could just send you photos of...

dust covered bureaucrat desks and haughty faces.

Photos of vicious large dogs, of treeless, barren mountains,

of this cold, earthy paradise inhabited by desperate people.

Yes, I can shoot and send you photos of this mountain village,

where people use their own breath to keep warm when their dung cake runs out.

Photographs mean civilization!

In this place where I shit on all the civilizations,

I can use this modern device and...

take hundreds and thousands of pictures and send them to you.

You may exhibit them under the title "Human Frescoes",

or publish them into a book.

I can send them not only to you,

but to all my acquaintances,

and to everyone who lives in the middle of civilization.

So that they cover their walls with these lovely photos,

and thank God for their living conditions,

beg for salvation day and night, present offerings.

Long live photography!

Long live my darling who makes me write these!

Long live civilization!

Halit?

Who is it?

The children!

Did something happen to the children?

Drink this, teacher.

I boiled herbs for you. Come on, that will do you good.

I did not sleep the whole night.

- What happened? - How should I know?

You got up in the middle of the night and opened the school.

In the middle of the night? The sun was already up!

That was probably the moon, teacher. It was full moon.

It looks like that in these parts.

But, the children came, too.

I saw the children.

The children...

They were playing on the roofs.

I asked the people around if they have ever seen the sea.

They didn’t understand.

I drew the sea, the waves and a ship on the snow.

They did not understand. How do you describe the sea?

Then I saw Zazi.

Asya!

Asya!

Asya!

And then the dogs...

No, teacher, it didn't happen that way.

You were dreaming.

The dogs did bark, yes.

Then I heard the sound of a gun.

I dashed outside.

Because I never sleep during the night.

And?

And then I saw you.

You asked me: "Where are the children?"

And?

I told you that they were sleeping.

I asked you if you were dreaming, or if you were ill.

"I fear something bad will happen to the children", you said.

"Wolves have entered the village", you said.

"But the dogs chased them away."

"The children are sleeping, don’t worry", I said.

I brought you back and put you to bed.

You fell asleep immediately.

Because you had a fever.

Drink this.

You’ll get over it by tomorrow.

Halit,

maybe it was you who was dreaming?

Why not, teacher, since everybody dreams.

I might have dreamt.

But the sound of the Mauser?

- Mauser? - Yes.

This morning, in the snow in front of the school wall,

I found these.

Does somebody want to kill me?

I don’t know, teacher.

All I know is that I found empty casings.

But don’t worry, perhaps it was me who was dreaming.

Take care of yourself. You look tired and weak.

Ask your mother, Fazil,

why she shouted last night, hauling roughage down the mountain.

My mother says she didn’t shout, teacher.

Good!

- Don’t mention this to anybody. - Alright, teacher.

Look children.

Here are your exercise-books, your notebooks.

And here are your pencils and erasers.

Now you’re going to write down all the words you know

on the first page of your notebooks, without erasing.

Understood?

No!

Okay, I will explain it again.

The words that you know. The words.

For instance stove,

teacher, desk, table, chair.

Write down all the words you know one over the other.

Explain this to the small ones,

I'm now handing them crayons and such.

They will draw pictures. Tell them.

You will write and they will draw. Come on, go ahead!

- Finished? - Yes!

Put your pencils down.

Now everybody may read me the words they wrote.

I'll write them down here as you read.

Okay? Let's go.

Snow. Mother.

Flag. Mountain.

Wolf.

Teacher.

Village.

Dog.

Snow. Flag.

Mountain. Horses.

Sledge.

Doctor. Wheat. To die.

Village. Pencil. Eraser.

Cloud. Tree.

Bread. Branch. Cheese.

Yoghurt. Brother. Father.

Allah.

Rock. Sky.

Snowshoe. Roof. Dung cake.

Gendarme. Partridge. Highland.

Tree. Soil.

Sheep. Hogget. Yoghurt.

- You must be hungry, teacher. - Thank you, Muhtar.

It’s my duty.

One must help the strangers, the poor.

- And the unmarried. - The unmarried, too?

- Yes, above all. - Come on, help me, then.

Other than giving me herb cheese, bulgur pilaf and yoghurt.

How will you put up with this life without a wife, teacher?

Don’t worry about me, I got used to it.

You are a young man from the big city. You got used to what?

To loneliness.

- Aren't you married? - Yes, I am.

Then, how come you are used to loneliness?

- It takes some getting used to! - You are kidding or what?

Well, you need a wife here.

Need?

Won't you let us find you someone from here or from the village across?

- How much would that be? - Oh, maybe 4 or 5,000.

You are bound to go. You probably won't take her along.

- And what would she do afterwards? - Who?

The girl that you'd sell me.

Her father would sell her to someone else.

No, thanks.

- I don't want to spouse anyone. - As you wish, teacher.

I just wished to do you a favour.

Apparently you saw Halit yesterday. Beware of him.

Don’t believe what he says. He is a dangerous man.

Don't believe him even when he says "the Lord is one."

Don't give him money if he asks.

What's up? Giving your daughter in marriage?

Nope, I'm marrying.

Show us some fine fabrics for my new woman.

Here you are. We have some beautiful fabrics.

Silvery velvet, floral velvet, skirt fabric with edging,

printed cotton, linen, honeycomb pattern.

How do you like it? Would it look good on my new wife?

A sunny day.

You are in your room. The others are outside.

The men, the women, the children.

The life...

The stagnant, silent, muted life is outside.

It waits, without knowing what for.

A dog barks.

Water runs.

The children play.

One would say that the men contemplate the world.

You go out.

A woman sees you and runs inside.

Another one comes down to fetch water.

A gendarme comes.

He manages to find you up on these mountains.

Asks for somebody.

Somebody you know. Somebody you don't know.

A sunny day during which nothing really happens.

Like any other sunny day.

What's up, teacher?

Why was the Gendarmerie looking for you, Halit?

Probably just a slander, teacher.

Did you kill somebody?

Lies. I also told this to the prosecutor.

They may put me in prison, but I’ll be free immediately.

Because there is no witness, no evidence.

No evidence at all?

In the mountains, how can there be evidence?

You’re right, Halit. No evidence in the mountains.

At most, there may be a witness.

- Witness? What kind of a witness? - How should I know?

The rocks, the grass, the dogs,

the sky, the sun.

Maybe a human being.

There was no human being in my case.

So you were freed for lack of evidence?

As I told you, there was no evidence. There was only a watch sold in Van.

A Persian watch. How can anyone tell it belonged to the deceased men?

Were they Iranians?

Yes, they wanted to cross the border.

And you were their guide?

Yes, we led them to the border, and then we left them.

Dead bodies were discovered next morning.

- Were there two of you? - Two Iranians and two of us.

So you killed one, and your friend the other?

I never kill.

But tell me, why did they let you go free?

I told the prosecutor that it was a pity he even tried.

"If you put me in, my Agha will come and free me."

He didn’t listen. He was right in his own way, too.

Is there a remoter place they can exile him, anyway?

He was a young guy, the prosecutor. I liked him.

Apparently he didn't fear death. Nor had he a greed for money.

He put me in prison.

And immediately my Agha got the news.

Would you like to have some tea, teacher?

No, Halit, it’s late already. Another time.

I never heard him utter a bad word.

Halit is a nice guy. He drinks.

But that's none of our business.

In three years, he never got in a fight with anyone.

He never steals.

He never touched anyone's daughter.

Never tampered with anyone's flock in this village.

Halit is a gallant man.

He has no land. He built a house.

He’s a smuggler in these mountains.

When God created these mountains, they wept. They wept a lot.

"Who will take care of us?" they said.

"You have created us so snowy, so remote.

No one will ever come near these mountains."

And God answered the mountains, pointing to us:

"These people are desperate.

They don't have any means.

These people will inhabit here. And look after you."

The mountains waited.

The mountains wept.

Later, we nestled in these mountains.

You should talk to him. My mother says so.

She also wants you to talk to my father.

She says: "Ask him. Is Zazi sick or something?

Isn't she the foundation of your house?

Didn't she give you two sons?

Isn't she young?

Isn't she beautiful?"

Ask him if he fell in love with that girl.

If he says yes, that would be a lie.

He didn’t even see her face.

My mother says you are an outsider.

She wants you to talk to him, too.

"If he has given his word, he should keep it.

But then, he must consider me gone."

Tell him.

My mother says he might listen to you.

She wants you to talk to him even if he fails to understand.

You talk to him, too.

As an outsider.

"Maybe he will listen", she says.

Even if he doesn't listen, you should talk to him regardless.

That's what she asks.

Is the new bride coming from Palanis?

Tell him there will be no other bride. I’ll leave otherwise!

It’s like that here.

A second wife will come into Zazi's house. This is the tradition.

Nobody defends the rights of women or the orphan.

Zazi, my sister, and me, we are true orphans.

We did not know our father.

Somebody killed him when Zazi was already in the cradle.

I remember my mother only vaguely.

She looked like Zazi. God took her.

The mother of our Agha, breastfed Zazi.

Our Agha sheltered and fed us. It was him who gave Zazi to Muhtar.

I was opposed to it. That's the reason Muhtar dislikes me.

- One day, I’ll take you home. - But we are already at your home.

No, not here.

In Oramar.

I'm like a refuge in this village.

Oramar is my place.

I'll build myself a two-storey house in Oramar.

I’ll take my children there also.

The whole day I’ll sit and watch the mountains through binoculars.

I'll continue to hit the road now and then.

But I’ll always come back to Oramar.

I’ll buy a huge radio.

I’ll listen to Istanbul, Ankara, Baghdad,

and to places even farther away. I’ll go wolf-hunting.

I will have no dogs at my beck and call.

Yes, one day, I’ll finish that house.

And I’ll send you a message. You’ll come.

You'll come, no matter what.

When you are there, the kids will sleep downstairs.

Only you and I will be upstairs.

I'll even pull out the ladder, teacher.

One day we will go to Oramar.

Life is difficult here, teacher.

- Maybe you’ll write about all these. - Write what?

You are a writer, aren’t you?

In town, everybody knows that you are a writer.

Everybody knows that except me. I'm not so sure about it.

- I write poems, you know? - Really?

Yes.

- That's lovely. - May I read one of my poems?

Go ahead.

Away

A stranger faraway

A wire guards the hallway Don't keep distant, come this way

You, both laugher and a weeper

On the tree, a red apple

This is called love, don't let suffer Even my words don't much matter

You both goner and arriver

It's the mountains I know about Upon a sea, never beheld

At seeing, only the eyes failed You, both asker and the answer

Good. Very good.

- Only the measure isn't quite correct. - No measure altogether.

Well, since I’ve recited my poem, I should drop by Muhtar now.

Until the frost breaks, I’ll not come back here.

Send somebody to fetch your mail.

- Goodbye. - Thank you very much.

My love, I always think of you.

Day and night, I only think of you.

I am like a suffering which extends non-stop, sans period or comma.

I am like a loneliness, like a writing.

In such a state I'm writing to you. Please write back to me.

Tell me about those places and yourself.

Tell me about the local people and your relations.

Heard nothing from you until today. I'm about to go mad.

Are you dead or alive? Have you crashed into the rocks and sunk?

Or, have you forgotten me already?

Don't you feel like writing to me?

Don't you want me to write you?

Please reply.

Even a single word would do. I can't bear anymore.

If I knew I could reach you, I would hit the road.

If they let me, I would find you.

I would share your mountains, your winter,

your loneliness, your children with you.

Please write to me.

"If,

If one day,

you lose your way,

don’t try to find it.

Find yourself another way."

What does that mean, teacher?

If you lose your way in a forest or in the mountains, Alaadin,

don’t try to find the lost way. Try to find another way.

- But then I’ll be completely lost. - No, Alaadin, not you.

You have your sheep and your dog with you.

That’s true, teacher.

But if you lose your way?

Behold! They call this a generator.

You start it from here. And put gas in here.

Thanks to this thing, I will have my wedding under bright lights.

Come and take a look, teacher. I bought it in Palanis for the wedding.

Contraband. When you pull at the rope, everything lights up.

We'll be over and done with the wedding tomorrow.

It won’t be a gay one, I suppose.

It’s like I’ve been living here for years.

Was I born in this village?

Will I die here?

Nothing surprises me.

As if I have gone numb. I have forgotten everything.

Everything.

My past, the big cities, the sufferings of people.

"This is how you live here", Muhtar told me.

"Life is not what you think it is", says Halit.

I’ve even forgotten despair.

What’s the matter, Alaadin?

My brother is ill.

- What’s the matter? - He has a fever.

Then I’ll give you some medicine.

No, no medicine.

You better give him an orange. He’s never eaten an orange.

He comes from Gezne.

Two more babies are dead.

Let’s go and see.

Let’s go and see, Muhtar.

If seeing dead babies serves any purpose, then let’s go.

Take along your medicines.

How can I give them medicines? We don't know what makes them sick.

The other day, your medicine immediately cured my stomach-ache.

But the babies are dying, Muhtar. One after another.

I cannot give any medicine.

The only thing I can do is write to the town.

And we'll send a telegram to the ministry.

I'll write it down. You take it there. Let's make them send doctors.

Yes, write. We’ll send Ramazan.

From this day onwards we are brother and sister, Muhtar.

You are my wife. The mother of my children.

Then, let me stay that way.

Zazi, open the door for me!

Zazi, open the door!

You are afraid.

You are afraid to die.

You feel for them, but you are also afraid.

Afraid to die in these remote mountains.

You are afraid to see your belly, hands, and feet get bloated,

making you kick the bucket in four or five days like those babies.

You are afraid to be buried under the snow.

Did I come for that?

Was that the reason why they exiled me here?

Come on, stop dwelling on those things.

Since you cannot sleep, light your lamp.

Come on, strike your match!

To write about the babies, about those who die without having lived.

About those who are dying.

Come on, don't stand idle. Come on, write.

There are many patients. Patients die.

Sick babies. No doctor.

Medicine, teacher.

Everybody is... Everybody is dying.

If you get sick, you die.

No doctor. There is death.

My brother is dead.

Wolf has eaten the dog.

He doesn't wash his clothes. There is lice in clothes.

His head aches. Don't let your belly get sick.

His eyes itch. He washes his hands and wanders.

Ahmet's brother is sick. No vaccines.

No doctors. He doesn't wash with soap.

The infectious disease covers his hands.

Children and babies die. Infectious disease.

They come to school. There is no disease.

Gets vaccinated.

Where is the doctor?

What doctor, teacher? Is there a doctor in the town?

Even in the town there isn’t a doctor.

There is nobody. Don’t you know?

- Did you send the cable? - Yes.

- The letter? - They took it out of my hands.

They told me that they would do what is necessary. I waited for four days.

Every day I dropped by and asked.

They said: "We have sent it. You can go now."

I told them that without a reply, I couldn’t return to the village.

Didn’t they give you any medicine, or say they would come here?

There's no one to come here.

Absolutely no one.

They also know what you wrote about.

They heard about it, too.

But there is no one to come. They have no remedy to spare.

And didn’t they say anything?

They asked about you.

They asked: "What does he talk about with your people?"

"Go tell him:

He must not send cables to the Ministry again.

If he has something to ask, he can apply to us."

And why didn’t you ask them?

Why didn't you? Can’t you speak?

Why didn't you demand a doctor for the dying babies?

Hurry up children, this lesson is about playing games.

Let's go outside and make a snowman together.

Is there another way to save us from this poverty?

There is nothing but snow.

He gets out and sees the snow, gets in and sees the children.

I’ll leave when the roads clear up. There is no land here. No flocks.

Even if you get some, there is no life.

My pal from the Army works in a factory in Adana.

I'll go stay with him.

You surely know those parts, teacher.

The human scenery, or remote scenery.

The sound of silence.

Time has stopped somewhere.

Snow and poplar trees.

They all have a voice.

I'm listening to those voices nowadays.

Just as I listen to the voices of the never-coming spring

and never-melting snow.

- Where’s Halit? - How should I know?

One morning he left.

He never tells me where he’s going.

Did he leave a message for me?

No, nothing.

Halit, where are you?

Listen to me, teacher.

Do you think I don't know that murdering someone is a sin?

But living is tough, too.

There is a thing called servitude.

I’ve done everything they asked of me.

Because I was an orphan. And I’ve been in debt since the cradle.

Write that down somewhere.

One day it might be useful to you.

It's the inspector.

- Good morning. - Good morning.

You may close the school next week.

What?

You can close the school next week.

The thaw has started. The roads are open.

I've come to give you this good news.

What shall I do after closing the school?

You are free.

Once you close down the school, you’re free.

I'll give you a good report.

I will not even attend your class tomorrow.

What I’ve heard, what we’ve talked over, are enough for me.

That's not what I'm asking you.

What shall I do after?

Well, nothing compels you to stay here.

Just one more week.

Then you may hand the school key to Muhtar and go wherever you please.

But I don’t have a place to go.

There is no place I’d wish to go.

You aren't going to stay here?

I didn't even think that one day, all this would be over...

and that suddenly, I would be obliged to leave.

There is an end to everything.

Even to exile, prison, illness. Isn't there?

Yes.

The dinner is served.

They’re waiting for you.

I’m leaving my dear children.

My time’s up.

I don’t know whether we’ll meet again.

I taught you many things while I was here.

You’ve learned many things.

For instance, that the Earth revolves.

How the planes fly, how the ships sail.

Evolution of humankind, formation of the mountains.

How we eat, how we digest, how we die.

You’ve learned all this. Haven’t you, my dear children?

Yet, just before I leave, I’ll ask of you something.

Forget all that I’ve taught you.

The world does rotate.

But perhaps you’d better not know it...

in this middle of nowhere.

I’ve taught you lessons about life.

But you’ll learn about the reality of life by yourselves,

right here in your mountain village,

Then during your military service in far away towns or during your imprisonment.

Don’t forget that books do not always tell the truth.

What’s true for me, may not be true for you.

What’s real for me, may not be real for you.

Forgive me if that’s what I’ve mostly taught you.

You see, I come from somewhere else.

And here I leave with the melting of the snow.

It is you who’re going to live here.

You’re those who walk barefoot on the snow, yet do not die.

People, my dear children,

can live without dying from unknown diseases at three months old.

Leprosy, trachoma, are not fate.

Nothing is fate.

That’s all.

That’s all I had to tell you.

Come on now, class dismissed. Our lesson is over.

I said class dismissed, didn’t you hear?

You’ve all passed your classes. Class dismissed.

The lesson’s over.

Alright then, let’s finish our last lesson in the open air.

Let’s all go outside together,

Take to the mountains together one last time, altogether.

Come on.

THE FILM WAS DUBBED IN THE MANAVIZYON STUDIO

AND DEVELOPED IN THE LABORATORIES OF THE CINEMA-TV INSTITUTE.

WE THANK THE YONCALI VILLAGERS AND THE LOCAL COMMUNITY

WHO HAVE BEEN MORE THAN HELPFUL TO US.