Rasoul Bafeyi
Like any other Kurdish family, we have weddings, too. You all know how Kurdish weddings are held. Our marriage ceremony begins with a quarrel. Although we invited everyone including all the sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles, cousins, and … they still are not satisfied with us.
Before the wedding begins, the relatives come in, they start camping as if it is the Munzour river bank. They all have baggage and are looking for a place to put their baggage there. After they find a place, they start greeting and talking about the trip they had, their neighbors, their work, and their duties in that country.
- Why didn't Haji come?
- The poor man could not find a job.
- Is he still visiting the building projects?
- What can we do? There is nothing else to do.
After greetings, everyone sits down and begins:
Wait for my nephew.
Please have a seat.
Don't touch that honey …
I feel more anxious, I breathe hard and I lose my mind. Because one kid is touching my computer, another is picking up my books, another kid breaks my pencil and draws pictures on the wall, yet another is pouring water (this summer water is scarce in our town, we even have produced a short film about water) and finally, another kid breaks my heart. Since children are sweet, I cannot get angry with them. When I catch them, I kiss them but it is a sad kiss.
I am looking for a quiet place. Our house is very big but there is no place for me to get some rest. Let it go, I cannot talk to my lover. I message her: "Honey, I have guests, sweetie I am not in a good place right now; sweetheart I'm cooking". This way I make my lover feel happy but she is in my mind. In fact, I have not had a girlfriend for the past one hundred and twenty-four years.
As soon as I have an opportunity, I will escape the house. I still have not left when my sister says: "buy two chickens and an orange coca kola for dinner." Rasoulo Papouko, the smallest member of the family is the family's dog. There is actually someone who is younger than me, but he is also very useless. My uncle always says: when you need to do something, give it to Rasoul, because he has nothing else to do.
My sister puts twenty kilograms of tomato in this basket (it is strange why they call it foreign or Istanbuli, I would like to call it Bafeyi; why should not Kurds claim it to be their local vegetable?) with twenty kilograms of eggplant and some pepper, then they put them in the gusts room. They all sit there to make winter pickles together. One might think this is madness even in my house. They all are occupied with their duties meanwhile they talk. One says I will put on my red dress, someone else says I will put on my green dress. They all talk together. They all understand each other and they all feed their children.
My sister is eating a tomato, and as she bites it, the tomato juice drops onto her white T-shirt. It is no longer white, it is red. This T-shirt will not clean up. I am looking for my socks. I cannot find one of them. I said loudly: "One of my socks is lost, it is black with green strips on it, if anyone finds it I would appreciate them bringing it to me." Nobody answers but one of them asks:
Dearest Rasoul, when will you marry?
The day we are liberated.
They all laugh at my words. They made fun of me. One of them patted my head with her wet hands. I do not need to wait any longer. I left the house with only one sock. I have not gone to any weddings since that day and strangely enough, nobody asks me: "When will you marry, Rasoul? What did you say? You have never got married?"
