I have fallen asleep with a book in my lap. Mom has been back for some time, and now she is standing over me. “Now get up and try these.”

“What are those, mom?”

“Wool underwear, son. I had Sabiha Hanım sew them for you. Come try them on.”

Aunt Sabiha graduated from the vocation school for girls. She is good with her hands. Mom asked her to make underpants out of the sacks of sugar dad uses when he makes syrup for his soda. Happily I try on the underwear. They are nice but they seem a little rough and a bit of scratchy. But that’s not a problem. Smack dab on the back is the brand name seal of the Kayseri Sugar Factory. Right out in the open. Which means it hasn’t come out in the wash. I don’t say anything about it to mom. Because she’s so happy. But the label is there for all to see. What am I going to do when I have to change in front of everyone in gym class? I spent two years changing in the bathroom before class because of the sugar label on those shorts mom had Aunt Sabiha make for me…

*

During my years of mandatory civil service, I became familiar with the judiciary seal.

A nine or ten years old child is silently sitting across from me. Mentally disabled from birth. There is a gendarmerie officer beside me. A little further on is the boy’s father lost in thought, his head bowed. The gendarmerie hands me the report. “Anal intercourse.” It was the boy’s uncle. The official report itself is a disaster. When they took down statements they made a real mess of everything. All these strange questions and needless details. They asked and came to their own conclusions.

Have you ever felt ashamed for simply sharing the same world with someone? This was one of those times.

I look at the boy. He hardly knows what has happened to him. What’s troubling him is the purple justice department seal on the inside of his wrist. Now and then he looks at it and at one point I see he is trying to rub it off. Slowly he brings the seal to his lips, spits and tries to wipe it off. The gendarmerie nudges the boy in the shoulder:

“Don’t rub it off.”

Helpless, the boy stops. I call over the nurse:

“Bring me a cloth with some alcohol on it. Let’s rub this off your wrist.”

The gendarmerie grows nervous and objects.

“I will speak with your commanding officer. You don’t need to worry about it.”

A little later a faint smile takes shape on the boys face. What did I do? That smile was probably one of the best gifts I received in all my days.

*

About a year has passed since the coup. I am at school in Izmir. Not out in public very much. Now I can’t remember if there was an incident or if it was just that my name was bandied about when dad calls me from Avanos.