in the empty lot next door.
As Füsun and I, still silent, walked up to Alaaddin’s shop a cool wind hit us passing Teşvikiye Mosque and I felt almost as if it was my disquiet that made me shiver.
“Did that frighten you back there?” I asked. “We shouldn’t have looked….”
“The poor lamb,” she said.
“You know why they sacrifice the lamb, don’t you?”
“One day, when we go to heaven, that lamb will take us over the Sırat bridge, which is thin as a hair and sharp as a sword….”
This was the version for children and people with no education.
“There’s more to the story,” I said, with a teacherly air. “Do you know how it begins?”
“No.”
“The prophet Abraham was childless. He prayed to God, saying, ‘O Lord, if you give me a child, I’ll do anything you ask.’ In the end his prayers were answered, and one day his son Ismail was born. The prophet Abraham was filled with joy. He adored his son; kissing and caressing him all day long, the prophet was exultant and every day he thanked God. One day God came to him in his dream and God said, ‘Now slit your son’s throat and sacrifice him.’”
“Why did he say that?”
“Listen now…. The prophet Abraham did as God instructed. He took out his knife, and just as he was about to slit his son’s throat … at that very moment, a lamb appeared.”
“Why?”
“God showed mercy to Abraham: He sent him the lamb so that he could sacrifice it in his son’s place. God saw that Abraham had been obedient.”
“If God hadn’t sent the lamb, would the prophet Abraham really have slit his son’s throat?” asked Füsun.
“He really would have,” I said uneasily. “It was because He was sure that Abraham would slit his son’s throat that God loved him so much and sent the lamb to spare him terrible grief.”
I could see that I had not told the story in such a way as to make it clear to a twelve-year-old girl why a doting father would try to kill his son. My unease was now turning into annoyance at my failure to explain the sacrifice.
“Oh no, Alaaddin’s shop is closed!” I said. “Let’s go check the shop on the square.”
We walked as far as Nişantaşı Square. Reaching the crossroads, we saw that Nurettin’s Place, which sold newspapers and cigarettes, was also closed. We turned back, and as we walked silently through the streets, I thought up an interpretation of the story of the prophet Abraham that Füsun might like.
“At the beginning, of course, the prophet Abraham has no idea that a lamb will take the place of his son,” I said. “But he believes in God so much, loves Him so much that in the end he trusts no harm can come from Him…. If we love someone very much, we know that even if we give him the most valuable thing we have, we know not to expect harm from him. This is what a sacrifice is. Who do you love most in the world?”
“My mother, my father …”
We met Çetin the chauffeur on the sidewalk.
“Çetin Efendi, my father wants some liqueur,” I said. “All the shops in Nişantaşı are closed, so could you take us to Taksim? And after that maybe we could go for a ride.”
“I’m coming too, aren’t I?” Füsun asked.
Füsun and I sat in the back of my father’s ’56 Chevrolet, which was a deep cherry red. Çetin Efendi drove us up and down the hilly, bumpy cobblestone streets as Füsun looked out the window. Passing Maçka, we continued down the hill to Dolmabahçe. Apart from a few people in their holiday best, the streets were empty. But as we passed Dolmabahçe Stadium, we saw another group performing a sacrifice.
“Oh, please, Çetin Efendi, could you tell the child why we make sacrifices? I wasn’t able to explain it to her properly.”
“Oh Kemal Bey, I’m sure you explained it beautifully,” said the chauffeur. But he still seemed pleased to be acknowledged as more expert in matters of religion. “We make the sacrifice to show we’re as loyal to God as the prophet
As Füsun and I, still silent, walked up to Alaaddin’s shop a cool wind hit us passing Teşvikiye Mosque and I felt almost as if it was my disquiet that made me shiver.
“Did that frighten you back there?” I asked. “We shouldn’t have looked….”
“The poor lamb,” she said.
“You know why they sacrifice the lamb, don’t you?”
“One day, when we go to heaven, that lamb will take us over the Sırat bridge, which is thin as a hair and sharp as a sword….”
This was the version for children and people with no education.
“There’s more to the story,” I said, with a teacherly air. “Do you know how it begins?”
“No.”
“The prophet Abraham was childless. He prayed to God, saying, ‘O Lord, if you give me a child, I’ll do anything you ask.’ In the end his prayers were answered, and one day his son Ismail was born. The prophet Abraham was filled with joy. He adored his son; kissing and caressing him all day long, the prophet was exultant and every day he thanked God. One day God came to him in his dream and God said, ‘Now slit your son’s throat and sacrifice him.’”
“Why did he say that?”
“Listen now…. The prophet Abraham did as God instructed. He took out his knife, and just as he was about to slit his son’s throat … at that very moment, a lamb appeared.”
“Why?”
“God showed mercy to Abraham: He sent him the lamb so that he could sacrifice it in his son’s place. God saw that Abraham had been obedient.”
“If God hadn’t sent the lamb, would the prophet Abraham really have slit his son’s throat?” asked Füsun.
“He really would have,” I said uneasily. “It was because He was sure that Abraham would slit his son’s throat that God loved him so much and sent the lamb to spare him terrible grief.”
I could see that I had not told the story in such a way as to make it clear to a twelve-year-old girl why a doting father would try to kill his son. My unease was now turning into annoyance at my failure to explain the sacrifice.
“Oh no, Alaaddin’s shop is closed!” I said. “Let’s go check the shop on the square.”
We walked as far as Nişantaşı Square. Reaching the crossroads, we saw that Nurettin’s Place, which sold newspapers and cigarettes, was also closed. We turned back, and as we walked silently through the streets, I thought up an interpretation of the story of the prophet Abraham that Füsun might like.
“At the beginning, of course, the prophet Abraham has no idea that a lamb will take the place of his son,” I said. “But he believes in God so much, loves Him so much that in the end he trusts no harm can come from Him…. If we love someone very much, we know that even if we give him the most valuable thing we have, we know not to expect harm from him. This is what a sacrifice is. Who do you love most in the world?”
“My mother, my father …”
We met Çetin the chauffeur on the sidewalk.
“Çetin Efendi, my father wants some liqueur,” I said. “All the shops in Nişantaşı are closed, so could you take us to Taksim? And after that maybe we could go for a ride.”
“I’m coming too, aren’t I?” Füsun asked.
Füsun and I sat in the back of my father’s ’56 Chevrolet, which was a deep cherry red. Çetin Efendi drove us up and down the hilly, bumpy cobblestone streets as Füsun looked out the window. Passing Maçka, we continued down the hill to Dolmabahçe. Apart from a few people in their holiday best, the streets were empty. But as we passed Dolmabahçe Stadium, we saw another group performing a sacrifice.
“Oh, please, Çetin Efendi, could you tell the child why we make sacrifices? I wasn’t able to explain it to her properly.”
“Oh Kemal Bey, I’m sure you explained it beautifully,” said the chauffeur. But he still seemed pleased to be acknowledged as more expert in matters of religion. “We make the sacrifice to show we’re as loyal to God as the prophet
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