Tragic Love Stories
Untold Love Story
Love Story Part 2
My name is Yagmur (it means "rain"). I was born
in rural Turkey, in a village. Generally Turkish women enjoy
many freedoms, which our Arab sisters cant even think of.
Rural Turkey is a different story. Honour killings take
place every day, women dont have much say (if any) in household
matters and female employment is out of question. However,
much hard work is done by women because men dont want to
strain themselves; women are like cattle or slaves.
If husband tells you to do something, you have to obey.
My mother was a fairly educated woman, she taught me at
home and I even went to school. My hobby was reading books.
Through them I learnt different languages and acquired a
lot of knowledge.
I was a disciplined and obedient girl, unlike my sister
who was somewhat uppity. When she was 18, she fell in love
with a young man. They both loved each other but he was
meant for another girl, thus his parents had decided. Dating
is utterly forbidden in Islam, marriages are arranged and
often young people meet on their wedding day.
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My sister was rebellious. She dated that young man. Every
night she would go to see him. They even kissed and actually
their relationship went too far. She got pregnant. At first
they planned to run away to a big city where they would
be safe. They knew in villages, religion rules and they
could be in trouble. Authorities dont care whats going on
in rural Turkey. Sometimes imams, mullahs and elders who
try to practice Sharia and break the secular state law are
punished but usually authorities are more interested in
big cities full of tourists and turn a blind eye to what
happens in villages.
I remember their young faces. I didnt understand the whole
situation; I was a little girl. But when I looked at them
I could see they were happy. Their happiness made me happy
too and I wanted to smile.
Instead of eloping, they decided to speak to my father.
"Pregnancy is a very good reason to get permission
for marriage", or so they thought.
Alas, my sister had miscalculated my fathers love for her
and his obsession with his religion. He became furious.
Instead of letting the two young lovers marry and build
their nest of love, he took her to the religious elders
and they ruled that she had committed adultery. She was
sentenced to death by stoning. They showed no mercy even
for her unborn child. She had stained the honour of the
family and the only way to remove that stain was to nip
her life in the bud. Her unborn baby was a stain too and
that little creature had to be destroyed as well, so my
family could live honorably.
In the evening before her execution, she came to my room
and told me that she would miss me. She was crying and hugged
me to her bosom. Then she smiled and said that soon she
would see her unborn baby. I was blissfully unaware of her
fate, but I felt that something bad was about to happen.
I was so scared!
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I still remember her black eyes; she stared at the sky
while she was dug into the ground. She was wrapped in white
sheets and her hands were tide to her body. She was buried
up to her waist. The rabid mob circled her with stones in
their hands and started throwing them at her while the roars
of Allah-u-Akbar Allah-u-Akbar added to their frenzy. She
twitched with pain as the stones hit her tender body and
smashed her head. Blood gushed out from her face, cheeks,
mouth, nose and eyes. All she could do was to bend to the
left and to the right. Gradually the movements slowed down
and finally she stopped moving even though the shower of
the stones did not stop. Her head fell on her chest. Her
bloodied face remained serene. All the pain had gone. The
hysteric mob relented and the chant of Allah-u-Akbar stopped.
Someone approached and with a big boulder in his hand smashed
the scull of my sister to finish her off. There was no need
for that; she was already dead. Her bright black eyes that
beamed with life were shut. Her jovial laughter that filled
the world around her was silenced. Her heart that beat with
such a heavenly love for only a short time had stopped.
Her unborn baby was not given a chance to breathe one breath
of air. He (or she) accompanied his young mother in her
solitary and cold tomb, or who knows, maybe to a better
place where love
reigns and pain and ignorance are not known. These two budding
lives had to be nipped so my father could keep his honour.
She wanted to marry a man whom she loved. She dreamt wearing
a white wedding dress, that there would be a big ceremony,
lots of people would be invited and they all would congratulate
her, chant merry songs and throw flowers and confetti at
her. Yes there was a ceremony, but it was not her wedding.
She was dressed in white but that was not her wedding gown.
Lots of people came to the party but they came to curse
her and to throw stones at her. No music was played and
no merry songs were sang; only screams of Allah-u-Akbar
filled the air. The only hug she got was from the cold earth
in which she was half buried. The only kisses that she received
were from the rocks thrown at her that tore her flesh and
broke her bones. They were the kisses of death. She was
not united with the man whom she loved but was wed to death.
This was a tragedy for my sisters young lover. His life
lost its meaning. He got lashes but nothing more. He could
well forget about the whole affair and get along with his
life, but he didn't. I recall seeing him standing in front
of our house every day, as if waiting for my sister to come
out and meet him. I could see him crying. I can only imagine
that when he was not crying in front of our house he was
in the cemetery, crying over the grave of his love and his
baby. One day he could no more bear his pain and hanged
His death was hushed and no one talked about it. Maybe
no one cared. He was reunited with his love and his baby.
No one can hurt them anymore. No one can separate them from
one another again.
Story Part 2
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