Read Online Let Our Fame Be Great by Oliver Bullough - Free Book Online
Authors: Oliver Bullough
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shooting unregulated and uncontrolled. In short, this Circassian tradition had become excessive and, thus, non-Circassian.
âThe night this woman was killed, we were sat drinking coffee here and I used very strong words,â remembered Agumba. âI said that anyone who shoots in the air should be shamed before his family, that he should be dishonoured. Anyone who serves them at the wedding should be dishonoured, we should not attend the weddings of these people, or their funerals. There were very strong words.â
We were sitting in a corner of the wedding set aside for the old men. The men â grey-haired, straight-backed and dressed in suits and trilbys â nodded at Agumbaâs emphatic points. Some of them even turned
away from the dancing, which in this mainly Abkhaz village was more intricate and involved less obvious courtship than at the Circassian weddings. Abkhaz, though ethnically very close to the Circassians, have customs of their own and this dance appeared to have more in common with those of Ireland than those of their ethnic kin.
âThese youths who were shooting were influenced by gun culture on television. They did not learn like we did how to use guns, and how to control themselves. The main thing in our culture is respect. This is like an unwritten constitution. If someone dies, all sixty or seventy Circassian and Abkhaz villages in this region send people to the funeral. It is the same for a wedding. We share happiness, we share sadness. And if someone is older than you, you respect him, even if he is two or three years older. It took time, but the young people agreed to stop shooting.â
In the nearby village of Tashkorpru, I asked the young men if they were prepared to submit to the authority of the elders like their ancestors always had. The general response was that, yes, they would stop shooting if it was insisted on, but they were not happy about it.
âI have never talked to anyone of our age who thinks it is right that we cannot shoot in the air. Probably 80 per cent of us do not agree with this,â grumbled Omer Shakoomda, a 45-year-old sitting in the village coffee house with a crowd of younger men.
âIf the hosts of the wedding insist that we should not shoot then we will not shoot. We still think though that if there are thousands of gunshots it shows the amount of respect people have for that family,â said Nejat, one of his friends at the bar.
âAt the last wedding I went to there was shooting. The man who asked us to stop was not really respected so people shot in the air anyway. If there is a sign saying âPlease do not shootâ then people will obey it. But this is a logistical issue. If a new group arrives, they will not know you cannot shoot. It is mainly the ladies who want us to stop shooting. And groups with a lot of girls in them will leave if there is a lot of shooting.â
There was a lot of nodding around the table at this comment, and some heads were shaken in disappointment at the shame of it, but it
seemed the community leaders were determined to enforce the ban. Circassians would not bring in the police â it is an article of faith that they sort out their own problems â but they had mobilized to create a regional council to sort things out. The councilâs development was particularly interesting, since Turkey is very sensitive to any sign of separatism, but it appeared to have been tolerated by the government so far.
Afitap Altan, a woman in her fifties who heads the cultural centre in the city of Dubze and who acts as a delegate at the council, said Abkhaz weddings were now largely shooting-free, but the Circassians still shot a little.
âYou do not have the power to stop people shooting but when the elders say stop, there is a feeling that people should stop. I do not share the same ideas as the elders, but I will not argue with them. The elders will have found a compromise among
âThe night this woman was killed, we were sat drinking coffee here and I used very strong words,â remembered Agumba. âI said that anyone who shoots in the air should be shamed before his family, that he should be dishonoured. Anyone who serves them at the wedding should be dishonoured, we should not attend the weddings of these people, or their funerals. There were very strong words.â
We were sitting in a corner of the wedding set aside for the old men. The men â grey-haired, straight-backed and dressed in suits and trilbys â nodded at Agumbaâs emphatic points. Some of them even turned
away from the dancing, which in this mainly Abkhaz village was more intricate and involved less obvious courtship than at the Circassian weddings. Abkhaz, though ethnically very close to the Circassians, have customs of their own and this dance appeared to have more in common with those of Ireland than those of their ethnic kin.
âThese youths who were shooting were influenced by gun culture on television. They did not learn like we did how to use guns, and how to control themselves. The main thing in our culture is respect. This is like an unwritten constitution. If someone dies, all sixty or seventy Circassian and Abkhaz villages in this region send people to the funeral. It is the same for a wedding. We share happiness, we share sadness. And if someone is older than you, you respect him, even if he is two or three years older. It took time, but the young people agreed to stop shooting.â
In the nearby village of Tashkorpru, I asked the young men if they were prepared to submit to the authority of the elders like their ancestors always had. The general response was that, yes, they would stop shooting if it was insisted on, but they were not happy about it.
âI have never talked to anyone of our age who thinks it is right that we cannot shoot in the air. Probably 80 per cent of us do not agree with this,â grumbled Omer Shakoomda, a 45-year-old sitting in the village coffee house with a crowd of younger men.
âIf the hosts of the wedding insist that we should not shoot then we will not shoot. We still think though that if there are thousands of gunshots it shows the amount of respect people have for that family,â said Nejat, one of his friends at the bar.
âAt the last wedding I went to there was shooting. The man who asked us to stop was not really respected so people shot in the air anyway. If there is a sign saying âPlease do not shootâ then people will obey it. But this is a logistical issue. If a new group arrives, they will not know you cannot shoot. It is mainly the ladies who want us to stop shooting. And groups with a lot of girls in them will leave if there is a lot of shooting.â
There was a lot of nodding around the table at this comment, and some heads were shaken in disappointment at the shame of it, but it
seemed the community leaders were determined to enforce the ban. Circassians would not bring in the police â it is an article of faith that they sort out their own problems â but they had mobilized to create a regional council to sort things out. The councilâs development was particularly interesting, since Turkey is very sensitive to any sign of separatism, but it appeared to have been tolerated by the government so far.
Afitap Altan, a woman in her fifties who heads the cultural centre in the city of Dubze and who acts as a delegate at the council, said Abkhaz weddings were now largely shooting-free, but the Circassians still shot a little.
âYou do not have the power to stop people shooting but when the elders say stop, there is a feeling that people should stop. I do not share the same ideas as the elders, but I will not argue with them. The elders will have found a compromise among
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