STOCKHOLM SYNDROME

leftovers of the sword

Photo by Mattias Milos on Unsplash

My parents were Christian, Serb I remember the icons in my mother’s house, The smell of roasting meat on feast days.

One orthodox Christmastide, I think I was nine or ten, My parents made me hide when the Turks Came to our village in Kosovo Looking for boys and women.

My father was ashamed. He hung his head. I pretended I was dead. Hiding under my sister’s bed.

The devşirme sought me. Took girl hostages. Told the elders they would let the soldiers loose They’d rape them. Until they were dead. They said.

So, slowly, I showed my head. And the Turk commander smiled Put a börk on my head, a cap Full of dread That meant I belonged to him.

Only then did I arrive in the world of men. I had joined the kaşık kardeşliği, The brotherhood of the spoon, and was soon In Constantinople, in a harem of boys, an ortas, We were toys for the corbaci: Bulgars, Greeks, Armenians, Turks were the worse.

And then the training started And I was broken-hearted. I was told I was a Muslim Now, a Janissary, a soldier of the Sultan,

I attended a Madrassa in the Hagia Sophia, I knew the images of Saint Sophia were still there, Hidden by the Muslims, but still there. I learnt Arabic, I read the Qu’ran My mind training had begun.

I was told slave taking is lawful and good. That this was a tax and the tax was in blood. My nightmares had ended; I’d learnt to pretend, I did what was expected, I’d learnt how to bend.