A Palm Sized Plot

Suleiman Mehmet was a middle-aged landless peasant living in a village in Eastern Anatolia when the Land Reform Lottery was declared. The newspapers were full of the news: Untilled government lands alongside the sealed Syrian and Iranian borders to the South and East of Urfa and Diyarbakir were to be opened and distributed to the public by lottery. The lottery would be in a novel form: Regular lottery tickets would not be sold, instead tiny plots of land, the size of the palm of a man's hand would be auctioned. Then, eventually, a nationally advertised lottery would take place in which the bills of ownership of these tiny plots would be used as the tickets for which lucky owners could perhaps win large real plots of land. This whole outlandish idea was a brainstorm thought up by the American educated son of a Government official, who held a minor position in Public Relations in the Ministry of Agriculture. From the beginning, he reasoned, people could own actual and tangible plots of land, although this was of course only symbolic. The son was sure that interest would be drummed up by this gimmick. He was right, at least in the case of Suleiman Mehmet.
What wasn't at all clear and certainly wasn't being talked about was; when would the distribution of these lands, the real lands, actually take place. There were good reasons for this; either the lands belonged to Mountain Turks, Kurds that is, or the borders themselves were disputed by the Syrian or Iranian Authorities. Not for nothing were the lands lying fallow for so long. The Army tried, with indifferent success, to control parts of the area. Terrorism was rife throughout the area. The few impoverished villages there were almost deserted. Kidnapping and murder were an everyday affair.
The news of the lottery spread like wildfire throughout the country. At first there was tremendous excitement even in the large cities. Just think about it: Buy at auction a hand sized plot for a few lire and then maybe in the future one could, with a little bit of luck become a landowner! Then of course, at least in the more sophisticated urban centers, the interest began to fade. People began to have second thoughts about the real nature of these lands; hot baking dry lands on the edge of the Desert, with Kurds and Syrians and Iranians and what not, all claiming ownership. This lottery might not be such a great idea after all.

But the news of the lottery struck Suleiman Mehmet's village like a bolt of lightning. Suleiman heard of it from his cousin Ali while washing before prayers. He couldn't believe it. Who would sell land this way? But soon enough he believed, as did all the villagers. They all saw, even the illiterates, the prominent photographs of the clearly marked minute plots of land in the weekend edition of Milliyet. Who argues with that? And so he began to plot how to get enough money to buy land. The small plots of land were to be offered for sale in a week's time and it was said that only five plots were available for the villagers. He was determined to be one of them.
The money, where would he get the money? All he owned was a pair of bullocks and a long wooden plough with which he rented himself out each spring to land-owning villagers. Now that he aspired to ownership himself it would be folly to sell. After all he would need the pair and the plough to work his own land. No, he thought; there's nothing to do but sell the sheep. He owned five ewes and a number of lambs. His wife and his younger son, Mirza, tended them, producing milk for yoghurt, some carpet wool and a fat lamb or two for slaughter on Kurban Bayrami. They'd have to go; there was nothing else. He rubbed his mustache. His wife wouldn't like that because the small herd had once been part of her bridal price. But she'd be proud when he owned land, real land.
Suleiman Mehmet was a tall somber man who wore a dark suit, heavy boots and a flat black cap winter and summer. He owned no land, his whole clan owned no land. They all worked as day laborers and as herdsmen for the other village clan, which did own land. He had two sons. Yirmaz was in the Army, God knows where. The military had taken him for his service two years before and nothing had been heard from him since. He still had another year to serve. Mirza was his younger son, too young yet to be of much use, although he was old enough to tend the sheep. He had had a daughter too, but no one dared to mention her anymore. She had had a sad fate.

Early before dawn on Thursday morning he rose and left the house. He had told his wife the night before. She had bowed her head silently. He called Mirza and they set out for the nearby animal market in a neighboring town leading the small flock. Later that evening they came back, without the flock. Mirza wore a new cap and Suleiman Mehmet had coins and bills burning in his pocket. He ate the meal his wife gave them silently and that night his hands twitched all night as he slept, dreaming of his plot of land.

The morning of the auction came. Suleiman Mehmet was calm; it had all been carefully prepared. The clan had helped and the local government official knew what he had to do. He had been taken care of. Soldiers were stationed in the village that morning in case of trouble but all went smoothly because of the arrangement. When his name was called Suleiman Mehmet rose on trembling legs and went to the government table in the village square. He made his mark and paid his price and in return he received the printed form of ownership marked with the exact location of his plot. Now he too, was a landowner. Mirza stood next to him and gazed with awe at the bill of ownership.
When the sale was over they went and waited by the government official's car. Suleiman Mehmet hunkered down patiently in the shade of the big car and when the official finished the meal brought to him by one of the soldiers he looked inquiringly at Suleiman Mehmet.
'Yes?' he asked, picking his teeth. You are pleased, I assume.'
'Yes sir, I am,' Suleiman Mehmet answered. Now I wish to go to see my land.'
'Your land,' the official looked at him mystified. You have no land yet. The lottery hasn't been declared yet.'
'I do have land,' Suleiman Mehmet said, waving the bill of ownership. This is my land.'
'Don't be silly!' the official laughed showing gold in his mouth. That's not real land. That's just a symbol. You know what is a symbol?'
Suleiman Mehmet shook his head. The official looked at him. These peasants, he thought, you have to explain everything. You see,' he explained slowly, this plot you own is meaningless, you cannot do anything with it'
'Why?'
'Why?' the official was enraged. Because it's too small! It's smaller than a handkerchief, it's as small as the palm of your hand!'
'But it's mine?'
'Yes!' the official shouted. Yes, it's yours, but that means nothing! At all!' White speckles of spit were on his lips. Only after the lottery will there be real land. Then maybe, just maybe you will win real land. Not now!'
'All the same I want to see my land now.'
'Get away from me!' the official said, getting back into his car and driving off crazily. Suleiman Mehmet stood watching the dust clouds raised by the disappearing car and then he went to the sergeant and the soldiers.
'Go to the Government,' the sergeant laughed, nudging one of the soldiers who grinned too. Go to Ankara, talk to the President!' All the soldiers burst out laughing. Suleiman Mehmet looked at them. 'I will,' he whispered.
'Forget it,' the sergeant said kindly. Just wait for the lottery. Who knows? Maybe you'll win a big plot of land,' he grinned and patted Mirza on the head. Just forget it now, there's nothing to be done.'
Suleiman Mehmet watched the soldiers climb aboard their lorry and drive off. He nodded his big head twice and whispered to Mirza, I'll go to Ankara, I'll see my land!'

The big Mercedes bus rode smoothly through the flat Anatolian night. Suleiman Mehmet sat looking out the window though there was almost nothing to be seen. It was very late at night and all the lamps were turned off in all the small villages. He couldn't sleep and all he could think of was his land. Until he could see his land and touch it he was afraid that it was all a dream. Tomorrow morning he would reach Ankara and he would see someone, anyone who would allow him to go to see his land. Soon, soon, he whispered, putting out his cigarette and closed his eyes.
Suleiman woke with a snort. He suddenly realized that the bus wasn't moving . He sat up and looked out the window and around him. The bus was almost empty, only a few old women sat patiently in their seats. Everyone else was outside the bus standing on the Tarmac. He got up and went outside.
'What goes on, Brothers?' he asked.
The men shrugged and one pointed off the road with his chin. A small group of soldiers stood in the field digging a gun emplacement. In front of the bus and behind it were long lines of trucks and buses. The sky in the East was dark red, the sun would be up soon.
'Who are they looking for?' No one answered.
About a hundred meters in front of the bus was a crossroad and Suleiman Mehmet saw several policemen standing there. He walked to the crossroad.
'What is it, Brother?' he asked a policeman who stood at a small brazier brewing tea for his officer. Better not to ask, you know that,' said the policeman. Suleiman Mehmet nodded.
Every once in a while a police car, its siren wailing, rushed past on the road. The policemen jumped to attention and saluted the speeding cars.
Time passed and the sun rose in the sky. Suleiman looked around, there were many soldiers and police nearby. In the distance he began to hear the howling of many sirens and he could make out the flickering of headlights a long way off. The policemen sprang to attention and pushed Suleiman Mehmet and the other passengers back from the road. The sirens grew louder and then with a rush dozens of police motorcycles drove past, escorting a closed limousine. In the back of the limousine Suleiman Mehmet caught sight of a smiling man wearing a gold-encrusted uniform. The man waved once or twice languidly and in an instant the car was past followed by more motorcycles. For a few seconds there was silence and then one of the policemen blew his whistle and everybody ran to the vehicles. The buses and trucks jockeyed for position and then they all drove off.
'Who was that, Brother?' Suleiman Mehmet holding out a cigarette, asked his neighbor in the bus.
The man looked at him and accepted with a nod a cigarette and then a light. That was the President. Haven't you seen his picture in the papers?'
'I don't read.'
They sat smoking quietly, looking out the window at the flat empty fields scattered with tiny flocks of sheep and soon the driver's assistant went around with his bottle of perfumed water to refresh the passengers just before the bus pulled into the terminal at Ankara.

'Let me understand this completely, Brother. You bought a plot of land, one of the tiny plots which were offered to advertise the coming land lottery and you wish to see this little plot of land and no one in the Government will allow you to see it?' The reporter in the office of the newspaper, Milliyet, spoke slowly and seemed amused.
'That is so,' Suleiman Mehmet said.
'Why?'
'Why? It's my land. Mine. I don't care how small it is. It's mine and I want to see it, to touch it. Is there anything wrong with that?'
'Not at all!' the reporter hastened to say. I see no reason why you shouldn't be allowed to go and see your, your land, if you want to. I will write about you in Milliyet and you will see that they will have to allow it. Alright?'
'Yes, thank you.'
'Good!' the reporter rose, slapping the table top. Come with me,' he said. We need a photographer!'

'Alright,' the sergeant said. You wanted to see your land. You'll see it. Sign here, make your mark. Yes. Now, tomorrow morning we'll take you there. Not all the way, the area's still closed but you will be allowed in, on your own responsibility. The army will not be responsible if anything happens. Clear?' the sergeant looked at Suleiman Mehmet, 'and no more newspapers!'
'Yes.'

That night Suleiman dug up his grandfather's gun, a big Australian revolver Grandfather had brought back as booty from the war under the Empire. It was buried under the outer wall of the house. His grandfather had showed it to him once and when Ataturk had come to power, had buried it. He thought that he wouldn't ever need it anymore. The revolver was rusting inside the big leather holster and the big fat bullets were green with verdigris. Suleiman pushed on the stirrup catch, breaking open the revolver. The barrel was clear and Suleiman cleaned and oiled the gun, polishing the bullets carefully and then he carefully loaded the heavy gun. The holster was falling to pieces and the leather lanyard attached to the bird-beak butt was rotten. He cut it off and simply tucked the gun into his belt and waited for the soldiers to take him to his land. At dawn the soldiers came. There was a lorry and four soldiers; young recruits, villagers from western districts under a corporal. They had orders to take him to where he could go to his land.
They drove almost due South for hours through the baked land. The driver and the Corporal sat up front and Suleiman Mehmet and the other soldiers were in the back breathing dust as the lorry went off the road onto a series of dirt paths. The soldiers were used to it and one of them hummed a monotonous little ditty off and on.
'Where are you from, Nephew?' Suleiman Mehmet asked the soldier sitting next to him on the hard bench.
'From near Konya,' the boy said. I have nine months left, Uncle.' He smiled showing tobacco-mottled teeth.
'Maybe you know my son, Yirmaz? From the village?' Suleiman Mehmet asked.
The soldier shook his head sadly.

'Alright, here,' the corporal pointed, showing him the path down into the valley. you go down there and stay on the path. The fields are mined. You understand?'
Suleiman Mehmet nodded.
'Soon you'll see the plots. Look for your number, this one,' he pointed to the number written on the bill of ownership. That's yours, see?'
Suleiman looked at the number carefully and again nodded.
'We'll wait here for you, but don't take too long!'

The path was really only the double tracks of some jeep or small truck that had gone down here before, probably to mark out the plots of land. Here and there on both sides were barbed wire enclosed areas marked by red-painted metallic triangles. These were the mine fields the corporal had warned him of. But the path was clear and he walked safely down into the valley.
It was very hot and still there. The sky was cloudless and blue and there was much glare. The ground was baked dry and white and only a few dried thorns showed that something could grow there. The valley was rocky and narrow. The horizon was marked by low grey hills and a dust devil swirled across the slopes. Suleiman Mehmet walked through the plots looking for his number. There it was. He hunkered down in front of his plot. It really was tiny; a hand-sized piece of land partly hidden under a couple of pebbles. He brushed away the pebbles and took up a pinch of his land and slowly rubbed it between his palms. It turned into a dry smooth powder. He brought the dust to his nose and smelled the earth. Then he stood up and brushed off his hands on his trousers.
A shot rang out somewhere. Suleiman Mehmet dropped to his knees and drew out the revolver. He looked all around carefully but there wasn't anything to see. The shot hadn't been aimed at him. There were shots fired often here. He stood up over his plot of land for a few moments looking around in the hot still air and then he walked back slowly to where the lorry and the soldiers waited.

'Are you satisfied now?' the official asked. I've shown you your plot and it's real. Now you can wait like everybody else for the lottery.'
'Yes,' Suleiman Mehmet said. I saw my land and next year in the springtime I shall go back to it again.'
'Again? What for? You saw that it is real. There's no need to go back again!'
Yes I must,' Suleiman Mehmet said. 'Next year I shall return to my plot and plant barley...'


The End