Red Kurte

By Ovezmyrat YERBENDI.

Preface of the translator.
The Turkmens equate the concept of “going to battle, defending their own country, or nation” with the phrase of “going to toý² – feast, festival or wedding-party”. This phrase embodies the boundless patriotism, great patriotic feeling, the ultimate principle of defending our homeland, and high morality of the nation. Because, for our brave Turkmen men and women, from seven to seventy years old, there is nothing more sacred than the sacred birth-place – the  Fatherland.  

   As is known, at the 78^th session of the General Assembly of the United Nations, the Resolution 2025 was announced as “the Year of International Peace and Trust”, proposed by Independent and Neutral Turkmenistan. It was unanimously adopted with the co-authorship of 86 states. Also, this year the whole progressive mankind  marks the 80^th anniversary of – the Great Victory, the end of the Second World War that took place in 1941-1945.

     Our compatriot Ovezmyrat Yerbendi’s story “The Red kurte” is about Meretli, who voluntarily went to war in order to liberate the whole world from fascistic plague just on the day of his wedding-party. His bride Govher met him just for some hours. The mullah even couldn’t have time to carry out their wedding ceremony. Married by our national tradition, they loved each other very much. Govher devoted her life entirely to her new family. And the red kurte, a vivid example of the sacred love to her husband, the Turkmen people for her homeland,  and the traditional way of life of hundreds of thousands of our people. The publication of the story “The Red Kurte” in English demonstrates our nation’s  great peace-loving policy to the whole world once again.

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The people of our village still remember this sad, as if it was taken from the Bible story, I think they never will forget it. The reason is love, and even then, it is about love that is a couple loved only once in a lifetime, without seeing each other’s faces. Only three people know that love – my youthful eyes, the unhappy cranes in the sky, and the gloomy winds of my native Yerbent³.

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1. 1. Kurte (young woman’s embroidered with national ornaments hand-woven silk fabric keteni headwear. Red kurte – a headwear is traditionally once worn by Turkmen girls only on their wedding-party. (footnotes from here and on made by the translator).
2. Yerbent – a place in the very centre of the Karakum desert.
3. Toý – “wedding party or any other kind of party, that is a feast, festival”. The Turkmens’ call it a battle when they go to the battle to defend their Motherland.

***

It happened during the great patriotic war of 1941-1945, when the whole people of the Soviet Union waged war against the German fascism.

… I remember that day like today, even I was a young lad then. On the day of the wedding, instead of he was about to get married, Meretli, had gone to the city to buy some things. His bride received a short, but a quite clearly expressed message  from him. The message was written on the edge of a crumpled up piece of an old newspaper. It seemed writing such a message was not easy for him. It was written with a pencil was like the handwriting of a people who did not get more than a “three” mark. The letter was addressed directly to his bride. “I have to go to a toý – battle. I would like to ask you not to take off your kurte from your head until I return. I will return. Wait for me”.

Everything was clear now. There was a war going on in the world. Her bride-groom Meretli, of course, was not going to visit his uncles, she understood, therefore, the bride was afraid.

The wedding ceremony was to be held in the evening. What should they do now? A solution of a complicated case was provided by our old national tradition.

Just as a mother’s chest always smells of pleasant milk for her child, Meretli was always wearing ak telpek¹, which soaked with sweat.

It should be here said that in Turkmen society there was a national tradition, according to which when a bride-groom was alive, but was out wedding ceremony place because of solid positive arguments, a mullah² could perform the marriage ceremony with a bride-groom’s telpek. And such kind of wedding ceremony took place with this young bride – Govher.

And from that day on, Govher – that was my sister-in-law’s name – did not take off her red kurte. Now, even when she went to fetch water from the well, or even to milk a camel, she would never take off her kurte.

     Of course, she did it because Meretli had ordered her. But wearing kurte made her more attractive. The reason was that the red kurte reminded her the day of their marriage.

Our fellow-villagers liked this red kurte too, because it reminded them wedding party.

I dwelled in hope. Every time I saw my young sister-in-law, it seemed to me that if not today, then tomorrow would definitely be the day of their wedding. The reason was that even though the kurte was only worn for a month and forty days, it was decorated with the greatest diligence and eagerness of girls. It was the only veil between the world of virginity and the world of marriage. Then how could she not be honored?

***

Some days later it was clear why Meretli could not attend to his wedding-party. Five or six days before the wedding-party he returned to the city to buy some things for the wedding ceremony. Having heard that there was a war in his native

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1. Ak telpek – a young Turkmen man’s headwear, symbolizing happiness and pride of youth.
2. Mullah – a Muslim representative who is authorized to carry out wedding ceremony according to Sharia.

 land, he went to defend the Motherland on his own initiative. Even if he wanted to get back, he would have to travel three days by camel to his native Yerbent. That’s why he had to send that letter to his bride Govher.

***

The new bride Govher  was not a girl from our village. She from a farthest village of Tejen etrap. We paid a visit to their place to give permission her to marry to our Meretli.

But even though she was unmarried, she was familiar with our village. Because, even she had never seen her husband, she loved her husband with a love that she only love once in her life. I could feel her behaviors as I was secretly observing her. Because in the evenings, she would smell Meretli’s clothes one by one and hanging them on the tarim² – (the lower part of the Turkmen yurt’s wooden frame).

Saying: “It’s great if the house smells of a man,” she would take out everything that reminded her Meretli. She would even put her husband’s things at hand just on front of the door, as if he would come and put on his chokay or yelken.

Often, without being noticed, she would clasp to her bosom the white telpek that smelled of Meretli, and put it on her lap. And she never took off her red kurte.

But she would only take off her kurte when it bent. Even as if she was got caught in something of trash or the wind blew it off her head, she would quickly put it on as if it she had done something unconsciousness.

Sometimes, she would ask me shyly.

– Tell me, my dear brother-in-law, what kind of lad Meretli was?…

Meretli had wide nostrils. He would stomp his feet when he walked. This was because he had ridden a horse a lot. But in  his deep sad eyes, there was a childish tenderness hidden in these eyes, and a bright face like that of a young lad. That’s why I would tell only respectable  things about him.

My sister-in-law, Govher, would listen to my childish stories and look at me sweetly, as if saying, “Tell me again…” And I wanted to be pleased with her. Even he hadn’t tried to catch a single rabbit in his life, I would say that Meretli was a hunter and even he never had wrestled I would call him a good wrestler.

When I got all excited, I would say, “Where is Meretli, you needn’t to have friends, he’s a brother to everyone in our village|”. My sister-in-law Govher would laugh at this. Instead of getting angry when she knew I was joking and cheating, she would laugh even more louder.

Sometimes, she would ask what Meretli liked best. Then I would tell her my favorite food.

– Unash⁵ with some red pepper in it… And the smell of roasted pumpkin seeds.

That day, my sister-in-law Govher would cook unash. She would also find

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1. Gelneje – sister-in law, in addressing to a young woman.

2 Tarim – the lower part of the Turkmen yurt’s wooden frame.

3. Chokay – handmade leather shoes.
4. Yelken – a type of summer shoes homemade of woven of rope.
5. Unash – noodles, pasta (a Turkmen soup-like dish, consisting thick noodles and other ingredients).

pumpkin seeds from somewhere and roast them. Then, just as the smell of roasted pumpkin seeds would fill the yurt¹.  Meretli’s slight sweat would also smell here.

That day, my sister-in-law would cook unash. She would add a little more unash to Meretli’s dish – his portion. Then, imagining as if Meretli was sitting next to her, she would put another wooden spoon on the edge of his wood bowl.

***

Our village was not big enough. There were only twenty-one households. So, thirteen of the existing adult male people had gone to war. Thirteen people from twenty-one households – that was a lot for our settlement². But even then, every family was carrying the wound in the bottom of the hearts in their own way. It was quite clear without a word. People, living in sorrow for a long time, could understand just looking at each other. There was no need to talk. My fellow villagers lived in deep sorrow, expressing sympathy with each other’s sorrow.

***

Three years had passed since the war was on. But Govher gelneje had still not taken off her red kurte from her head. My fellow villagers have got accustomed to her red kurte comparing it with first red banner of victory raised in the very centre of our village.

On one of such days, when the war was coming to an end representatives of the local government came and loaded Meretli’s Kumushguyruk horse into a long black truck and took it away. As it was explained that it was for the needs of the war, no one said a word. Without Kumushguyruk our village seemed even more devastated³. But the worst this Govher was quite upset about it. Meretli’s horse was the alone alive vivid recollection of her beloved husband.

Every whinney, every rolling on its back , every gallop of  Kumushguyruk reminded her of Meretli. That’s why she would whisper to herself softly, trying to calm her heart: “If  he is alive, he’ll come back on his horse as a winner…”.

I could hear the painful voice of her heart then.

Next day, while we were drinking tea, my daughter-in-law Govher saw a single tea-stick in her cup. She was happy like a child.

– Look, a single tea-stick sits in the cup, good news is coming⁴…

I was also happy at this word. It seemed to me that a dark figure of a man

appeared behind the floodgates, as if to announce that Meretli was alive.

Finally, a stranger arrived. But he didn’t come that day, it was the next day. __________________________

1. Yurt – a conical Turkmen tent made of wooden lattices and covered with felt.
2. According to the archival documents of the Defense Ministry of the Soviet Union, just

from one family of a farmer named Tagan Özbek, living in the “Güyç” farmers’ association in Turkmengala region  11 sons of their own free will went at once to defend their Motherland showed heroism on the battlefield.  – The translator’s note.

3. According to the above-mentioned documents, Anna Amanov from Ashgabat district, who participated in the Ashgabat-Moscow horse race in 1935, sent 35 horses of his own to the war. – The translator’s note.
4. There is a belief among the Turkmens, that is if a single tea-stick sits in the cup, this is considered a good omen. – The translator’s note.

 The guest was a man who had been looking for his camels in the Baherden region, and had stayed here for a while. Even he didn’t say anything about Meretli’s future, he brought good news to us.

– Our soldiers are pursuing the enemy. In very short step, they will catch them.

That day, not only me, but also Govher fell asleep peacefully. She said this before she even put her head on the pillow.

Before going to bed she said:

– It will be difficult for our soldiers to chase on foot. Once they mount Kumushguyruk, they will catch with up in no time…

We slept with this thought. Because Meretli’shorse was ýary fast.

***

The war was çoming to an end. People began return from th battle plaçe. Some of them were wounded, some were sound. But no matter how much Goýher trembled for her husband, Meretli did not appear.No matter how she tried to be courageous, the woman’s heart couldn’t resist it. Especially if a wounded man returns to our village from the battle, all of our fellow-villagers would visit him to ask how well they were.

Of course, my sister-in-law Govher, would go with them there too.  Since there was no any news from Meretli, she would be upset again. I would not try to look at her miserable face then. Anyway I did. But even then she would pretend to show a smile in a her brave face.

However looking at young mothers who had two or three children, she would be humiliated as a woman. She would happily look at the little children who were playing joyfully.

Even I was a young boy, I felt then that Govher would be a kind mother.

Once, as I was passing by, I saw one of the neighboring mothers, who had a strong sense of love to her child, was trying to put her baby to bed, patted the cradle  with her motherly caress. But the baby would not want to sleep. That is why the young mother had to sing her lullaby, demonstrating the baby her endless . affection. It was familiar to me; I remember this lullaby since my childhood.  Our young mothers would sing it anyway, wishing their babies kind prayers at Laylat-al-Qadir  – the night of atonement  during the month of Ramadan.

 My baby is a part of the Moon,

The wing of the sparrow bird.

If she has a kind wish on the night

of Laylat-al-Qadir,

Her wish will come true…

That day my sister-in-law Govher was listening to the young mother’s lullaby. Closing her eyes and dreaming, she stood there for a long time. The tender and kind lullaby was trickling of the young mother’s gently soul. My sister-in-law listened to the lullaby until the young mother ended it. It was clear enough to me that my sister-in-law was suffering from her childlessness.

Once, when she met a pregnant woman, she moved towards her without knowing it. Then, until the baby was born, she suffered as if she was feeling labor [birth] pains. Sometimes she would moan sweetly, as if experiencing a pleasant fatigue. Sometimes, she would moan with a sad, sweet moan. I would try not to notice her sweet, at the same time worried feeling that she was experiencing. But I would anyway feel that. And even I was a small boy, I would think, that there was no greater happiness for a woman in the world than the happiness of being a mother.

It has passed a long time since the war over. The snow of the winter of the fifties sprinkled on my sister-in-law’s hair. Now, instead of her red kurte, she was wearing a green velvet kurte. This kurte suited her better, because its colour was green, I think. Nevertheless, I loved her red kurte much more, because it reminds me of that wedding-party day.

It is said that every age has its own beauty. The spring of her fiftieth anniversary my sister-in-law Govher celebrated well. In her green kurte with her silver hair she looked even more attractive than before. Except of the fact that her hair was gray, she looked as beautiful as in her youth. Now everyone in our village, – young and old, – added the word “bride” to her name and addressed her as “Govher gelin.”

So the colorful chain of events of our life was passing on.  My sister-in-law Govher grew a little older, and she spoke less than before. Instead, she thought

a lot. I did not know what she was thinking about. But I felt that she was different, more amazing. Because I noticed that she was sometimes absorbed in thoughts

and as if she was worried of the very thoughts.

Lately, she had begun to climb up the “Enebeyik” hillock in front of our village and wait for the cranes to come.  Just seeing the cranes in the sky that reminding her the silver button ringing voice of them, she stood up involuntarily and was whispering:

– Cranes are coming back and Meretli will return too…

Then she would look at the cranes until they disappear from her sight. At that moment, it seemed to my boyish opinion that my sister-in-law who was absolutely tired of waiting for her husband and her exhausted body joins the flying cranes.

That day she felt herself relaxed a little bit. Then boring and monotonous life went  on again.

In this way, even there was no any reason, we were looking in the sky waiting a long time for the cranes returning again. Early spring was coming again.  And we heard the exhausted voice of cranes flying back from a long distance.  Again these familiar whispers were carried a long away by sad winds of Yerbent …

***

From now and on I was hearing my sister-in-law’s whisper  “Cranes are coming back”. I met the woman aged nearly seventy wearing green kurte every day. I was witness of passing yesterday which will be remembered tomorrow…

***

The cranes were flying and flying. They would fly above our village, and flutter their wings joyfully in the blue sky as if saying goodbye to us. Sometimes they would land on takyr¹, our camel-drawn carriage , turning white like a broken glass beads. Then my sister-in-law Govher would specially go to watch them. Then she would put her hands  on the face, praying her Meretli come alive and wait patiently until they rise into the sky. Even after they rise into the sky, she would watch them until the last crane’s cry disappeared and say:

– My brother-in-law, do they fly low or high?..

If I tell her that they fly low, she would be delighted like a child. Because if cranes fly low and slow, they would not go far and land nearby, on the Yerbent plateau. If they fly high, only God knows where they will land.

Govher gelneje grew now very old. The  relentless time had already bent her waist. But even then, she had not put her green kurte off her head. But now her body had shrunk with age. That is why the green kurte that once covered her waist no longer showed even her ankle. Therefore Govher gelneje would always stumble when she tried to walk.

While we were witnessing such days, a foreigner and an interpreter came to our village. He was a journalist and arrived from France, they said. He was a pale yellow man with glasses. The journalist came to our village to write an article about my fellow countrymen. One of the villagers told to the journalist about Govher gelneje and the interpreter translated it. The life story about this ordinary Turkmen woman impressed him greatly. Taking out his camera the journalist took some pictures of Govher gelneje. Then he said something in French. The interpreter translated his words into Turkmen immediately. The words that the journalist said I still remember; to my mind I never forget his words. Because the French journalist spoke about the greatness of the Turkmen woman. He said:

– Every nation differs from each other in its national character. A Turkmen woman, even without seeing her future husband’s face, got married him, lives without taking off her wedding veil for many years. This struck me greatly! Such tradition demonstrates Turkmen wives’ respectful relation to their sacred family.

The fact that such a woman is a Turkmen woman raises her nation even more than before. Such a woman deserves to be erected as a statue, to be the hero of feature films. It deserves to praise her!

Hearing the exciting speech of the foreign journalist, I imagined a statue of my Govher gelneje in the white takyr of Yerbent, where cranes usually land. I was also happy that her image, which would be shown in feature films, would spread to the whole world.

Then I became interested in writing and writing and went to the city. And that was my worst mistake. When my feet, which I had learned to walk on the quicksand(s), stepped on the hard asphalt, I realized that I was wrong, and very wrong, but it was too late now. If I had not grown up and stayed in my native village, my life would have been intertwined with those dearest fellow countrymen. It would remain a sweet memory for the rest of my life…

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1. takyr – flat, barren lowlands in the desert.

***

The things that the years had poured into my mind, the strange life that had become, brought me back to the village. The village was the same old village, nothing had changed. My sister-in-law Govher’s hut was plastered on the outside with new mud. Someone was lighting a fire in the large circular clay oven . The smell of bitter wormwood hit my nose. No matter how much I stretched out my neck to see my sister-in-law Govher, her green kurte, I couldn’t see her. But the front door was open. At the door, a hen was clucking, dragging a group of her chickens around her – nine of them. Suddenly a woman’s voice was heard,

as if it come out of the ground:

– Are you looking for Govher gelin?  She must have gone to Enebey these days, since it was the time of the cranes’ migration. She will return home later. Wait.

My sister-in-law Govher was reaching Enebeyik hill. Her back was even more bent than before. Even now she was wearing that green kurte. But it faded  a little in the sun.

As her back was bent enough, the kurte, as if pressing her small body, prevented her walking. This look was like a picture painted by a skilled artist, but slightly faded in the sun.

As I headed towards her absent-mindedly, two bodies appeared from behind a  bush. Older of the two boys looked at me with curiosity.

– Uncle, are you one of those who write?..

This question reminded me of my boyhood years once again. Because not many people from the city came to our village. If they did, they were either from the newspaper or the radio. They also wore glasses. Their hair was a little longer. I had lost some of my hair too.

I didn’t say a word. The older boy couldn’t stand up again.

– If you are one of those who write, there is a woman in our village who has been wearing a veil since her wedding day. We call her “Govher gelin” even though she is old. I was going to tell her to write about her…

I didn’t say anything again. Once, the younger boy next to him joined us.

– Well, he is not one of those who write. Even if the writers, don’t know you, they smile at your face. But he is always smiling as if he has never stepped on sand in his life. Or maybe he can’t write as good as others do…

I hardly managed to climb over my always-running Enebeyik hill. My sister-in-law Govher Gelin was sitting there, almost incurvated. Tears poured out in her eyes when she saw me. I wasn’t surprised by her. The reason was tears of hope and expectation of her husband for eighty years. She hadn’t cried at her twenty. She hadn’t cried at her thirty, forty, fifty, or even seventy. Watching at her voiceless cry made my eyes tear too. I could never hold back my tears in a place where human hearts were understood.

… That night, sitting under the pinkish shining stars, my dear Govher gelneje weeped bitterly all the night. Even if it was wrong to cry, I wanted her to cry now. They say that tears can ease a person’s burden.

Translated by:

Amangeldi Baygeldiev,

Yagshygeldi Kakaev International Oil and Gas University,

Senior lecturer, Candidate of philosophical sciences.