Abraham was…. By this sacrifice we say that we are willing to lose even the thing that is most precious to us. We love God so much, little lady, that for Him we give up even the thing we love most. And we do that without expecting anything in return.”
“Isn’t there any heaven at the end of it?” I asked slyly.
“As God has so written … That will become clear on Judgment Day. We don’t make the sacrifice to get into heaven. We make the sacrifice because we love God, and without expecting anything in return.”
“You know a lot about religion, Çetin Efendi.”
“Kemal Bey, you’re embarrassing me. You’re so educated, you know so much more. Anyway, you don’t need religion or a mosque to know such things. If there is something we value greatly, something we have lavished with care, and we give it to someone truly out of love, it is without expecting anything in return.”
“But wouldn’t the person for whom we have performed this selfless act then feel upset?” I said. “They’d worry that we want something from them.”
“God is great,” said Çetin Efendi. “He sees everything and understands everything…. And He understands that we expect nothing in return for our love. No one can fool God.”
“There’s a shop open over there,” I said. “Çetin Efendi, could you stop here? I know they sell liqueurs.”
In a minute Füsun and I had bought two bottles of the government monopoly’s famous liqueurs, one peppermint and one strawberry, and climbed back into the car.
“Çetin Efendi, we still have time, can you take us on a little drive?”
So many years later Füsun was able to remind me of most of the things we talked about during our long drive around the city. In my own memory only one image remained of that cold, gray holiday morning: Istanbul resembled a slaughterhouse. It was not just in the poor areas, or the empty lots in dark and narrow backstreets, or among the ruins and burned-out lots—even on the big avenues and in the richest neighborhoods, people had been slaughtering lambs, tens of thousands of them since the early hours of the morning. In some places the sidewalk and the cobblestones were covered in blood. As our car rolled down hills and across bridges and wound its way through the backstreets, we saw lambs that had just been slaughtered, lambs being chopped into pieces, lambs being skinned. We took the Galata Bridge across the Golden Horn. Despite the holiday and the flags and the crowds in their finery, the city looked tired and sad. Beyond the Aqueduct of Valens we turned toward Fatih. There we saw hennaed lambs for sale in an empty lot.
“Are these going to be slaughtered, too?” asked Füsun.
“Maybe not all of them, little lady,” said Çetin Efendi. “It’s almost noon, and these still haven’t been sold…. Maybe, if they’re not bought by the end of the holiday, these poor animals will be saved. But eventually, the drovers will sell them to butchers, little lady.”
“We’ll get there before the butchers and buy them, and save them,” said Füsun. She wore an elegant red coat and as she smiled, she gave me a courageous wink. “We can rescue the sheep from this man who wants to slaughter his children, can’t we?”
“We certainly can,” I said.
“You’re very clever, little lady,” said Çetin Efendi. “Actually the prophet Abraham didn’t want to kill his son at all. But the command was from God. If we don’t submit to God’s every command, then the world will turn upside down, the Judgment Day will be upon us…. The foundation of the world is love. The foundation of love is the love we feel for God.”
“But how could a child whose father wants to kill him understand this?” I asked.
For a moment I met Çetin Efendi’s eyes in the rearview mirror.
“Kemal Bey, I know you are just saying these things to tease me and have a good laugh, just like your father,” he said. “Your father loves us very much and we respect him
“Isn’t there any heaven at the end of it?” I asked slyly.
“As God has so written … That will become clear on Judgment Day. We don’t make the sacrifice to get into heaven. We make the sacrifice because we love God, and without expecting anything in return.”
“You know a lot about religion, Çetin Efendi.”
“Kemal Bey, you’re embarrassing me. You’re so educated, you know so much more. Anyway, you don’t need religion or a mosque to know such things. If there is something we value greatly, something we have lavished with care, and we give it to someone truly out of love, it is without expecting anything in return.”
“But wouldn’t the person for whom we have performed this selfless act then feel upset?” I said. “They’d worry that we want something from them.”
“God is great,” said Çetin Efendi. “He sees everything and understands everything…. And He understands that we expect nothing in return for our love. No one can fool God.”
“There’s a shop open over there,” I said. “Çetin Efendi, could you stop here? I know they sell liqueurs.”
In a minute Füsun and I had bought two bottles of the government monopoly’s famous liqueurs, one peppermint and one strawberry, and climbed back into the car.
“Çetin Efendi, we still have time, can you take us on a little drive?”
So many years later Füsun was able to remind me of most of the things we talked about during our long drive around the city. In my own memory only one image remained of that cold, gray holiday morning: Istanbul resembled a slaughterhouse. It was not just in the poor areas, or the empty lots in dark and narrow backstreets, or among the ruins and burned-out lots—even on the big avenues and in the richest neighborhoods, people had been slaughtering lambs, tens of thousands of them since the early hours of the morning. In some places the sidewalk and the cobblestones were covered in blood. As our car rolled down hills and across bridges and wound its way through the backstreets, we saw lambs that had just been slaughtered, lambs being chopped into pieces, lambs being skinned. We took the Galata Bridge across the Golden Horn. Despite the holiday and the flags and the crowds in their finery, the city looked tired and sad. Beyond the Aqueduct of Valens we turned toward Fatih. There we saw hennaed lambs for sale in an empty lot.
“Are these going to be slaughtered, too?” asked Füsun.
“Maybe not all of them, little lady,” said Çetin Efendi. “It’s almost noon, and these still haven’t been sold…. Maybe, if they’re not bought by the end of the holiday, these poor animals will be saved. But eventually, the drovers will sell them to butchers, little lady.”
“We’ll get there before the butchers and buy them, and save them,” said Füsun. She wore an elegant red coat and as she smiled, she gave me a courageous wink. “We can rescue the sheep from this man who wants to slaughter his children, can’t we?”
“We certainly can,” I said.
“You’re very clever, little lady,” said Çetin Efendi. “Actually the prophet Abraham didn’t want to kill his son at all. But the command was from God. If we don’t submit to God’s every command, then the world will turn upside down, the Judgment Day will be upon us…. The foundation of the world is love. The foundation of love is the love we feel for God.”
“But how could a child whose father wants to kill him understand this?” I asked.
For a moment I met Çetin Efendi’s eyes in the rearview mirror.
“Kemal Bey, I know you are just saying these things to tease me and have a good laugh, just like your father,” he said. “Your father loves us very much and we respect him
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