Author's Note:

Relevant Turkish terms:
"anne" means "mother"
"çocuk" means "child"
"baba" means "father"

Misc. info on Turkey:
Lira is the form of currency used in Turkey.
Gaziantep, Turkey is usually referred to as "Antep" and is famous for producing pistachio nuts.
In 1980, a military coup took control of Turkey's government, temporarily disbanding all political groups within the country. During this time, political activists were imprisoned (and were known to be victims of human rights violations) and no political activity was allowed again until 1983, when the military allowed the reintroduction of three political parties, the drafting of a Western-influenced national constitution, and elections that were held in September 1983.
All Turkish men are required to complete compulsory military service, for periods ranging from 8 to 18 months (these terms were recently reduced).

"A family is a tyranny ruled over by its weakest member."- George Bernard Shaw

Baba

Zayif Taraf

("Weakness")

Gaziantep, Turkey, May 1976.

Everyone loved his mother.

She was stunningly beautiful, but balanced by modesty. After the death of his father when he was eight, she moved to the city without complaint, found her own work, and never remarried. The old photograph of her husband was still framed, and it watched them from its place at the end of the table next to a vase of white tulips that were faithfully watered and replaced so they never seemed to brown. When she told her unfortunate story to curious diners, they expressed sorrow for the pious young widow, and left larger tips for her to pocket.

She was still in her work outfit when he entered the apartment – her flowery headscarf was tied hastily under her hair, but her white skirt revealed her calves and bare feet, and Navi paused after closing the door, watching as she stepped away from the stove, the hem of her skirt floating gently around her knees. His mother looked up at him briefly, and then back down to the bowls she was removing from the drain rack.

"Where were you?" she poured the light green soup into the bowls and Navi put his bag in the chair near the door.

"I was doing something for Hasad," he muttered, taking glasses from the rack and putting them on the table. She eyed him suspiciously for a moment, and set the bowls down.

"I don't like you going there, çocuk." As she sat down, he pulled out a moderate sum of lira and put it on the table between them. His mother's eyes went to the money, and up to him.

"I just fixed the television he has in there," Navi said, somewhat defensively. "He needs it done and pays me for it. That's all."

His mother didn't say anything, but motioned for him to sit down. For a moment, he ate while she just watched him. She didn't reach out for the money that was place between them.

"Navi, those men are just not a good influence on you," she murmured. "They gamble and drink, and I don't want you –"

"I wouldn't do that, anne," he interrupted, leaving his spoon in the soup. "We can use the money. I just do work for Hasad – I don't talk to the customers."

She didn't look completely convinced, but put her hand on the money and slid it across the table toward him. He looked up to her, but she started eating.

"Anne-"

"You earned it, so you can have it," she said flatly. "You'll need it in a few years."

He looked down at the lira, and then up to his mother, as she gracefully spooned up her soup. Studying her movements had been a secret obsession of his since childhood – the way her eyes flickered like flames, and how she moved without any hint of clumsiness. As if she always knew exactly what to do. Her dark hair was slipping out from under her headscarf, and she noticed him watching her.

"What is it?" she asked. Navi's eyes went to the photograph of his father.

"Why do you care if I work for Hasad when you work for Americans?" She put her spoon down, and suddenly seemed awkwardly aware of her exposed skin and low neckline. After a moment, he regretted the question, as she frowned and stood up, tossing her napkin onto the chair.

"You're still young, çocuk," she muttered, folding her arms and looking away. "You don't understand everything."

He wanted to tell her that he understood more than she knew. But, he knew if he told her, he'd reveal that he'd been weak – that he watched her when he shouldn't have. He knew she was the reason his father now only existed in a photograph.

"I'm not çocuk anymore," he said instead, standing up. His mother looked over at him, her face completely impassive.

"Then you'll understand," she said coldly, "that this isn't the same. We're soldiers, Navi. While those men sit idly with their alcohol and cards and American cigarettes, we are always working. That's what you need to know right now."

When Navi didn't say anything, she walked up to him, and touched his face. He suppressed the tingling sensation in his stomach as the back of her fingernails traced his cheek.

"Sometimes we want to be weak when we must be strong," she whispered, and he felt like she could look right through him. Like she knew what he'd seen. "It's a fault, Navi. Nothing else matters – you must be strong."

"Did you kill father because he was weak?"

She didn't react at all – she didn't even take her hand from his face.

"Your father betrayed us," she murmured. "He was weak. And you can't be tempted to forget that, Navi, because they will only betray you again. If you are weak once, you will always be weak."

Navi finally couldn't look at her anymore, and his eyes went to the floor. She stepped back, and walked away to clean up the table.

Interrogation

Ankara, Turkey, July 1983.

The television set finally sparked and buzzed, and hazy black-and-white images lit up the screen. Navi leaned back from the wiring, closed the side panel, and began tampering with the knobs that lined the bottom of the set, bringing the figures into focus. The quality was still somewhat poor – the images were grainy and the figures rather blurred, but it was the best he was going to do with such equipment. He took a step back, and the other man in the room examined the images that came up on the screen.

"When do you finish your service?" he asked, looking at the monitor.

"In December, sir," Navi answered. He didn't particularly feel like a conversation, but he knew he wasn't going to avoid one by asking to leave. Instead, he stood by the door in the dark, waiting for the officer to say something.

"It's a good thing you're skilled, then," he said finally. Navi didn't respond.

"Are you married yet?"

"No, sir." He didn't have an interest in marriage, either. Navi wasn't interested in something that would cling and become burdensome, something that could ultimately prove an obstacle. In the short time between finishing his education and starting compulsory service, he'd focused on improving his proficiency in electronics and working in underground activist groups. His mother had no inclination to see him marry, and without close relatives or family friends, there wasn't much demand for it, either.

"You'll be getting old soon. You might want to think about it."

Navi didn't reply again. The figures on the screen were moving quickly in and out of the frame. His superior was still looking at the screen, and Navi was getting tired of this interrogation.

"Where are you from?"

"Antep, sir."

"So you like pistachio a lot?"

"No, not really, sir." Maybe he should have pretended to be mildly amused by the officer's joke. The officer didn't seem to care much, in any case. He just proceeded with his questioning.

"And your family is there?"

"My mother is –"

"And your father?"

"He was a soldier – he died in combat when I was younger."

He was privately hoping that this lie would satisfy the officer's curiosity. There was a moment of silence in which he thought the conversation might finally be over.

"But you don't plan to carry on the family tradition?"

Yes. I fight a far greater enemy. "No, sir."

The officer switched off the television set. There was a moment of total darkness before he turned on the bulb above them.

"Do you plan to vote September?" he asked. Navi knew this was a useless intimidation tactic, but played along all the same.

"Yes, sir."

"Have you decided yet?"

"I'll wait until September, sir." He knew what the correct answer to this question was, but he wanted to avoid acquiescing entirely. Navi wanted no part of a government stained with Western influence, but he knew he'd probably have to vote, and vote with the military's pocket party. It made little difference to him at this point – he'd just as well watch the ballot be cast into flames. He intended to work in more potent ways to shape the course of events.

Before the officer could respond, another man walked quickly into the room.

"They're waiting for you, sir," the man said. The officer abruptly left, and Navi reached to turn off the light.

"Did you get it working?" the other asked. Navi nodded as he clicked the light off.

"Teşekkürler, Habib," he added. Habib gave him a sly smile and left the room.

Distraction

Gaziantep, Turkey, April 1992.

When she finally came out, Dina was violently yanking her hair up and clipping it to the back of her head. Navi turned off the television as she entered the room, and walked in front of her as she headed to the bedroom.

"We have to talk."

"About what?" she said sharply, straightening her red bathrobe to further cover herself. She tried to move around him, but he took her arm and pulled her into the living room.

"You know what." She pushed him off and stepped away, looking at the wall.

"There's nothing to say," she didn't look at him when she spoke. "He attacked you and I took care of it. That's it."

"Look at me," he put a hand on her neck and pushed her face toward his.

Dina's anger was the first thing he'd admired about her. It was part of what had made her so impossible to marry – her inability to submit or yield to any authority, her prickled surface. She took work, and most didn't feel the need to deal with that when more properly mannered women were so available. But, once her anger was tapped, she was an ideal partner – her passion translated into a fierce dedication for their cause. When her eyes sparked and her voice dissipated into a smoldering murmur, Navi could feel his heart slow. Now under his hand, her skin was burning.

"You're not controlling your emotions, Dina," he said finally. She violently pushed his hand off her neck and took another step back.

"I don't need you to instruct me like a child," she spat.

"You can't let your feelings color your judgment," he shouted. She turned away from him, breathing unsteadily.

"I'm not sure about this."

"About what?"

"About having a child!" she yelled, rounding back on him with such fury that he moved away before she could strike at him.

"Dina, we must maintain appearances-"

"You can't control a child, Navi!" she shouted, this time closing in on him. "You cannot make it like you! It can turn on you!"

At this point, her rage had subsided, and she fell on the sofa, wiping her eyes and struggling to slow her breathing. Navi sat down next to her and touched her shoulder, but she looked away.

"We can't afford suspicion," he hissed, growing impatient with her.

"Listen to me," she turned to him and took his hand, clearly trying to calm him down. "My parents tried to control me. They tried to make me like them – and it only made me hate them. You know I haven't spoken to them in –"

"That's because you were strong, aşkım," Navi interrupted, squeezing her hand. "You resisted their attempts to Westernize you."

"If we try to force this life on a child," she whispered forcefully, "it could become a liability."

"Dina, you know what the priority is," Navi said seriously, "you cannot put anything else above it."

"I know that. I just don't want to risk a distraction."

"Aşkım, you are strong," he put her hand to his lips, kissing it almost ferociously. "You know how to resist such weakness."

She smiled and moved her hand down to his shoulder. "I don't want to regret this," she mumbled.

"It will be an ally, not an enemy."

Dina shook her head. "You cannot know that."

"It will," Navi insisted, taking her hand off his shoulder and caressing her palm between his fingers. "We will make sure of it."

Responsibility

West Valley, California, March 2010

"You need to control yourself."

"Don't lecture me, Dina."

She scribbled a signature and neatly stacked up the papers, sliding them into the pocket of a gray folder. Navi watched her, and checked his watch again as 8:30 ticked by. Dina capped the pen, closed the folder, and handed it to him as she walked around the kitchen table.

"You're going to have to trust him now," she said carefully. He opened the folder and looked away from her.

"How am I supposed to do that when he's not being truthful with us?" Navi asked flipping briefly through the documents before closing the folder. He looked up to see her right next to him, watching him gravely.

"If there's mistrust between you two, it could put our work in jeopardy."

Navi paused, but realized she was changing the subject to distract him. A very clever, subtle move, making this about their mission rather than their increasingly distant son. She was watching him closely, and he knew she was waiting to see how he would react.

"He's made you soft," Navi hissed and walked away to put the folder in his briefcase. Dina stayed standing at the table, following him with her eyes. She looked over to the glass doors, and walked up to him.

"If you're challenging my commitment –"

"I'm not," Navi snapped at her, making her stop short, "it's his that I'm concerned about."

"Navi, he's a teenager, he's going to be out late –"

"No, Dina," Navi closed the briefcase and set it on the floor. "He's not just a teenager."

Before she could say anything, they both turned to hear the sound of a car pulling up outside. Headlights flooded the front curtains, then disappeared. Navi pushed the kitchen door open as he stepped into the entrance, Dina's footsteps behind him. A few moments later, his son stepped into the doorway, a navy backpack slumped over his shoulders. He closed the door without looking up, and began to sling the backpack off before noticing Navi's eyes on him.

"It's late," Navi called. Behrooz carried the backpack into the room and put it on the floor next to the white armchair.

"I said I was going to a study session," he replied, and Navi could sense the slight hint of hesitation in his voice.

"For what class?" Dina approached her son, her tone concerned rather than interrogative.

"Econ," he answered, his eyes on his father.

"Until eight-forty?" Navi asked.

"And I gave someone a ride home."

"Who?"

"No one," Behrooz said a little too quickly. "Someone in my class. He'd left his keys in the classroom after Mrs. Dietrich locked it. I had to drive him home because his parents didn't answer when he called."

Navi glanced at Dina, who returned his look with an uncertain face. She reached over, picked up the backpack, and unzipped it. Behrooz didn't say anything as she pulled out a blue Economics book, and flipped through it to find a few loose-leaf notebook pages covered in bullet points and definitions. She put the book back in the bag and looked to Navi, who stepped between them, leaning very close to his son.

"If you're not telling us something," he said coldly, "we'll know."

"I'm not," Behrooz replied in the same tone. He gruffly took his bag from Dina and headed up the stairs. Dina turned to Navi, and he was glad to see she looked just as skeptical as he felt.

"What are you going to do?" she asked. He didn't reply. His son didn't seem to understand how much depended on him, and Navi knew that was his responsibility. He listened to hear Behrooz's door close, then looked back down at Dina.

"Make sure he isn't using the phone," he told her. Dina nodded and followed her son as Navi instead went to the computer in the other room.