A FLOCK OF BIRDS
'So, I’m dead. Now listen and I’ll set you straight on a few things. I have something to tell you but if I open my mouth and a flock of birds flies out you have to catch them, all of them, hold them close to your heart and never let them go. What I’m going to say has to be held tight in the palm - not twisted and turned into a story for later. Oh no. This is just between you and me.'
On her last day alive Ferida tells us the poignant story of her life-long secret. Always the drudge, the stay at home sister pushed to the side, it unfolds that she found true love under every one's nose. Set in 1968 with flashbacks to the Ottoman Empire in 1915 a Flock of Birds is a lyrical tale that explores the many aspects of love while celebrating the beauty and sexuality of women at all ages.
This film is based on a chapter from The Seamstress of Ourfa. One of my favorite chapters. My great great aunt Ferida was the stay-at-home sister, the drudge, with a permanent broom in her hand. At one point she was the subject of scandalous gossip as her belly began to swell and people assumed that this aging virgin was mysteriously pregnant. And then, suddenly, not. What happened? Was it simply a medical condition like fibroids or was it an alternative story with a secret lover and a child conceived and subsequently lost? In the book, this story appears out of context and is told by a corpse and then everything reverts back to normal. So is it real? After all, how trustworthy is the word of a corpse?
It became my favorite story and I decided to film it. I cast friends and family, used my home and blended real life with story telling. My mother and Aunt play the all-seeing chorus, my cousin plays my great-grandfather. That is my house. Those are my dishes, my son, my neighbor, my dog. The actors are just people in costume, illustrating the tale. The costumes are clothes I have kept from my grandmother and great-great aunt.
It is set during the Armenian genocide of 1915 and later, in 1968 on Ferida's deathbed, but in fact time is irrelevant, as is place. It is fluid, as in the nature of storytelling.
I wanted to show how beauty transcends age. How love has many faces. A Flock of Birds is my presentation of fictoir. Fact and fiction blending with memoir.
It is set during the Armenian genocide of 1915 and later, in 1968 on Ferida's deathbed, but in fact time is irrelevant, as is place. It is fluid, as in the nature of storytelling.
I wanted to show how beauty transcends age. How love has many faces. A Flock of Birds is my presentation of fictoir. Fact and fiction blending with memoir.
TRAILER
FILM
GALLERY
STORY
A Flock of Birds
Ouzounian Street, Nicosia, Cyprus 1969
Ferida
Ouzounian Street, Nicosia, Cyprus 1969
Ferida
So that’s me. I’m dead. Me. Ferida. Iskender’s sister. Everyone's Umme. That’s me huddled at the foot of the bed looking like I’m about to climb off. Yes - you thought everyone died peacefully in their sleep looking as if they were about to float down a river with their hair undone. Well not me.
I had a fight with death at the very end. Saw it coming, didn’t mind, relaxed into its arms and then remembered where I had put the dolma scoop. You see, you need a long smooth instrument to scoop a courgette out cleanly. Tomorrow it’s dolmas for lunch and as I felt myself slip from life - before I had entered the tunnel of bright light - I remembered the scoop. It was up on the roof where I’d caught the kids using it as a telescope - trying to burn out their eyes by looking up at the sun, stupid dungulughs. If I didn’t get out of bed and bring the dolma scoop down to the kitchen, no one would be able to dig the pulp out of the vegetables. So, I sat up, almost touched my feet to the floor, but death had me by the ankles and that was that. A brief struggle and I gave up and lay in a heap.
In a few hours (hopefully before I go stiff) someone will find me and stretch me out into some kind of elegant pose. Imagine that. For the first time in years my body will be unbent – soft, pliable - and no one will complain at my hunched shoulders ever again. No, they’ll cry because I’m dead and even though we all know it’s coming, we still weep and wail at the time.
So, I’m dead. Now listen and I’ll set you straight on a few things. I have something to tell you but if I open my mouth and a flock of birds flies out you have to catch them, all of them, hold them close to your heart and never let them go. What I’m going to say has to be held tight in the palm - not twisted and turned into a story for later. Oh no. This is just between you and me.
You see, people always spoke to the others and slid around me silently. Because I scared them. They thought I knew nothing about life but what did they know? I knew love. You want to know how long I cried for my dog Grundug when he died? Months. Yes, grief fades with time but it takes a long time passing for memories to turn happy. I remember Khatoun telling me, in her way, what had happened to Grundug and the slam it gave to my heart. We try to bury memories with the dead but every now and then they spring up like ghosts to haunt us. Grundug had died in the winter and I remember seeing a shadow in the courtyard and thinking it was him and the pain hit me that he was gone. And I looked up at the sky and counted off the months and it had been a whole winter and some of spring and still I was crying for my dog. So laugh at me, but let me tell you - loving animals is not stupid. No. Your animal loves you through everything. Whether you are married or not. Or ugly. Or a bad seamstress. Or the elder sister, the maid, the cook, the floor-sweeper with the rickety legs, bad back and slipper in hand. Yes, our pets love us. And Grundug - let me tell you - he saw it all. He knew what I knew and sat patiently by my side while I lost my child.
Ah, now you’re listening but I’m well ahead of my story here, so be quiet and wait.
I knew from an early age my path was different. My sisters all got married - plucked like ripe fruits from my side while I began to wither. I wasn’t really interested then. Men seemed stupid to me, and women even more so. People joined up together for no reason other than their parents thinking they would make a good match - no talk about feelings. No whisper of love. In my mind, love is what makes marriage and family.
I have watched mothers with their children and they cannot help but love their child. But ask them how they feel about their man and they will tell you words like “respect” and “gratitude” and “sadness” because they are widowed, but they rarely say, “I will lay down my life for him.” No, for men and women, sometimes you have to wait, like I did, to find true love. Patience is an egg that lays great things.
So the years slipped by and people spoke of me like I was never going to hear their stories but I heard them all. I saw the looks and the heads shaking as my years passed. And then more passed and I earnt respect from other women and then, by then, where were we? My brother was an alcoholic; don’t let’s waste words. He would drink until everything came spilling out of his eyes instead of his mouth. He could tell you many things once, but even though it still went in, because of the drink, he filled up with sadness and that’s all that came out. I could have slapped him many times, my older brother. He saw and loved what he had in front of him but could he tell anyone? No. Just that pathetic note at the end of his life. Well, it was too late. A human being needs to hear those words. “I love you”. Trust me - I am one that knows.
And more years passed and it was war. You want to know how painful it is to survive? To watch shadows of yourself pass by in an endless stream with their hair unbound? To catch the eye of some young woman, still pretty despite disease, and say goodbyegoodbyegoodbye as her feet throw up dust? The shame of living as corpses gathered at my door and I had nothing to give them - just water and a pat on the head before I limed my hands rid of them. I couldn’t feed them all. Why delay death for them? Prolong it? I got to know the smell of death long before it caught up with the flesh and I got sick of it. Sick of the stench of pain and injustice and begging and refusal and shutting off my heart. That must be why it happened.
He came to our house and like everyone else I said how lovely he was - sweet, charming, polite - even to me. He noticed me in a small way - asked after my health - and I noticed him barely at all. And then, if I’m honest, I remember thinking one day that if I would or could or were not who I was, I might have liked him in that way - but my life was different. And so he came and we loved him, all of us, like an Auntie loves a boy and one day he came to the house and it was my birthday - and he took me in his arms to tell me “Bon Anniversaire!” and it was different. It hit me like a slab and from nowhere I fell, fell into love.
And where does that come from? One minute you are simply a friend and then ‘click’ a key turns and all you can think of is burying your head in their neck and smelling the warm, sweet air that nestles there. What is that? What does it?
Is it that you catch them looking at you in a surprise moment, unawares? Or that they then hold your gaze once caught? Is it that when they draw away from a friendly hug you imagine your neck elongating so that your face can dive headlong into the pool of warmth at their collarbone? Or that you kiss ‘hello’ in line with everyone else and the corner of your lip accidentally catches the corner of their lip and your stomach sinks into your deep wet sea and your knees want to buckle and you realise? Is it that they lean across you and you catch their smell and you want your hair to smell of them - that if your hair smells of them the way you want it to, it means you have loved them good - the way you suddenly want to?
Once he was in my mind, I couldn’t get him out - he was there constantly, everywhere I turned. And I knew lust and desire and joy at the casual mention of his name. That soft brown skin, my lips hungry to suck. His arms around me. Oh, I dreamt his arms long before I felt them. He would stand near me, just feet away, and my body would arch towards his. If I had taken a knife, I could have cut the air between us, fed it to the birds and watched them fall to the earth like stones with the weight of it. I dreamt of him touching me everywhere. Under the moon, watched by the sun, by the light of the fire, in my hair, my breasts, my thighs. Thinking about him even now turns me to flame, and I’m dead. Just think about that.
It was at the Pink House. He came often - at times when everyone else would be asleep. That was most of the day in those times. We slept to avoid hunger and heat. And I slept in the kitchen because it was cool and because I knew that sometimes he would come. And when I let him in we never spoke of what was between us. But the way he held his head high and slid his eyes over to me - my knees would drop and my stomach would turn and I would flood and have to leave the room. And the thud of my heart broke down walls.
And you would come to the door and I would let you in and do anything that you bid of me. My own life meant nothing and the risks that you brought gave shape to my life. I would carry anything for you - take it wherever you asked. And one day your hand touched mine as you passed me a package and you held it there. And my heart flew through my veins, trembled in the palm of your hand and I shut my eyes and you moved behind me and I felt the heat of your chest as you put your lips to my neck. And we moved towards the darkness where not even the shadows slept and we lit it up with fire.
And you never knew that I carried you a child. A tiny little thing - just a few months in my womb - and Grundug sat with me the night that I lost her. There was nothing to see - just blood and blood and blood - and I sat in the bathroom and poured water over me in bucketfuls and our child was washed away. Never mind, never mind. I was past bearing children - that much I knew. I was not one of those women ripe into old age - I was barren from misuse and only the thought of you could fill my breasts with heaviness. I had no place being a mother. With a child everyone would question my morality and forget that I had conceived in love. And that is what matters. I mothered love and not one person knows.
And one day he left. You want to know how? Vanished. Came to the house, broken and torn and told us bad news. I nearly dropped to the earth when I saw him. Held his face in my hands, carefully, as if it were the most precious thing in the world, and Khatoun sewed him together. I cradled his face, drank it in. I only took the cigarettes so I could pass them to him, to touch him again. And later, on the roof, Khatoun stood with one arm around Iskender, the other on his shoulder as he lay casually against her leg. And was I jealous? Yes, but I loved Khatoun more because she could be close to him and I couldn’t. So I shut my eyes and flew though her body into her hands to feel his warmth.
And eventually we were alone and I said very little as I undressed him and bathed his sweet body. Let it seep away, I told him. And I meant it to myself because I knew he would go and I wanted it to be over already – I didn’t want to visit that pain at all. And my face...my face was burning when I left the white bathroom. And that was the last time.
He left me something and I tell you, I was too scared to open the rag he had pressed to my heart. Too scared even to touch it, so I gave it to Khatoun. When she unwrapped it and I saw his gold teeth, I knew that was all I would ever own of him. That, and the memory of his smile.
So lift up my pillow as you strip the bed and find those nuggets of gold I have kept safe all these years. And say what you want - that I was mean, I hid my gold in my mattress, I knew nothing of life and I died alone, without love. And I’ll laugh, because only I know.
I had a fight with death at the very end. Saw it coming, didn’t mind, relaxed into its arms and then remembered where I had put the dolma scoop. You see, you need a long smooth instrument to scoop a courgette out cleanly. Tomorrow it’s dolmas for lunch and as I felt myself slip from life - before I had entered the tunnel of bright light - I remembered the scoop. It was up on the roof where I’d caught the kids using it as a telescope - trying to burn out their eyes by looking up at the sun, stupid dungulughs. If I didn’t get out of bed and bring the dolma scoop down to the kitchen, no one would be able to dig the pulp out of the vegetables. So, I sat up, almost touched my feet to the floor, but death had me by the ankles and that was that. A brief struggle and I gave up and lay in a heap.
In a few hours (hopefully before I go stiff) someone will find me and stretch me out into some kind of elegant pose. Imagine that. For the first time in years my body will be unbent – soft, pliable - and no one will complain at my hunched shoulders ever again. No, they’ll cry because I’m dead and even though we all know it’s coming, we still weep and wail at the time.
So, I’m dead. Now listen and I’ll set you straight on a few things. I have something to tell you but if I open my mouth and a flock of birds flies out you have to catch them, all of them, hold them close to your heart and never let them go. What I’m going to say has to be held tight in the palm - not twisted and turned into a story for later. Oh no. This is just between you and me.
You see, people always spoke to the others and slid around me silently. Because I scared them. They thought I knew nothing about life but what did they know? I knew love. You want to know how long I cried for my dog Grundug when he died? Months. Yes, grief fades with time but it takes a long time passing for memories to turn happy. I remember Khatoun telling me, in her way, what had happened to Grundug and the slam it gave to my heart. We try to bury memories with the dead but every now and then they spring up like ghosts to haunt us. Grundug had died in the winter and I remember seeing a shadow in the courtyard and thinking it was him and the pain hit me that he was gone. And I looked up at the sky and counted off the months and it had been a whole winter and some of spring and still I was crying for my dog. So laugh at me, but let me tell you - loving animals is not stupid. No. Your animal loves you through everything. Whether you are married or not. Or ugly. Or a bad seamstress. Or the elder sister, the maid, the cook, the floor-sweeper with the rickety legs, bad back and slipper in hand. Yes, our pets love us. And Grundug - let me tell you - he saw it all. He knew what I knew and sat patiently by my side while I lost my child.
Ah, now you’re listening but I’m well ahead of my story here, so be quiet and wait.
I knew from an early age my path was different. My sisters all got married - plucked like ripe fruits from my side while I began to wither. I wasn’t really interested then. Men seemed stupid to me, and women even more so. People joined up together for no reason other than their parents thinking they would make a good match - no talk about feelings. No whisper of love. In my mind, love is what makes marriage and family.
I have watched mothers with their children and they cannot help but love their child. But ask them how they feel about their man and they will tell you words like “respect” and “gratitude” and “sadness” because they are widowed, but they rarely say, “I will lay down my life for him.” No, for men and women, sometimes you have to wait, like I did, to find true love. Patience is an egg that lays great things.
So the years slipped by and people spoke of me like I was never going to hear their stories but I heard them all. I saw the looks and the heads shaking as my years passed. And then more passed and I earnt respect from other women and then, by then, where were we? My brother was an alcoholic; don’t let’s waste words. He would drink until everything came spilling out of his eyes instead of his mouth. He could tell you many things once, but even though it still went in, because of the drink, he filled up with sadness and that’s all that came out. I could have slapped him many times, my older brother. He saw and loved what he had in front of him but could he tell anyone? No. Just that pathetic note at the end of his life. Well, it was too late. A human being needs to hear those words. “I love you”. Trust me - I am one that knows.
And more years passed and it was war. You want to know how painful it is to survive? To watch shadows of yourself pass by in an endless stream with their hair unbound? To catch the eye of some young woman, still pretty despite disease, and say goodbyegoodbyegoodbye as her feet throw up dust? The shame of living as corpses gathered at my door and I had nothing to give them - just water and a pat on the head before I limed my hands rid of them. I couldn’t feed them all. Why delay death for them? Prolong it? I got to know the smell of death long before it caught up with the flesh and I got sick of it. Sick of the stench of pain and injustice and begging and refusal and shutting off my heart. That must be why it happened.
He came to our house and like everyone else I said how lovely he was - sweet, charming, polite - even to me. He noticed me in a small way - asked after my health - and I noticed him barely at all. And then, if I’m honest, I remember thinking one day that if I would or could or were not who I was, I might have liked him in that way - but my life was different. And so he came and we loved him, all of us, like an Auntie loves a boy and one day he came to the house and it was my birthday - and he took me in his arms to tell me “Bon Anniversaire!” and it was different. It hit me like a slab and from nowhere I fell, fell into love.
And where does that come from? One minute you are simply a friend and then ‘click’ a key turns and all you can think of is burying your head in their neck and smelling the warm, sweet air that nestles there. What is that? What does it?
Is it that you catch them looking at you in a surprise moment, unawares? Or that they then hold your gaze once caught? Is it that when they draw away from a friendly hug you imagine your neck elongating so that your face can dive headlong into the pool of warmth at their collarbone? Or that you kiss ‘hello’ in line with everyone else and the corner of your lip accidentally catches the corner of their lip and your stomach sinks into your deep wet sea and your knees want to buckle and you realise? Is it that they lean across you and you catch their smell and you want your hair to smell of them - that if your hair smells of them the way you want it to, it means you have loved them good - the way you suddenly want to?
Once he was in my mind, I couldn’t get him out - he was there constantly, everywhere I turned. And I knew lust and desire and joy at the casual mention of his name. That soft brown skin, my lips hungry to suck. His arms around me. Oh, I dreamt his arms long before I felt them. He would stand near me, just feet away, and my body would arch towards his. If I had taken a knife, I could have cut the air between us, fed it to the birds and watched them fall to the earth like stones with the weight of it. I dreamt of him touching me everywhere. Under the moon, watched by the sun, by the light of the fire, in my hair, my breasts, my thighs. Thinking about him even now turns me to flame, and I’m dead. Just think about that.
It was at the Pink House. He came often - at times when everyone else would be asleep. That was most of the day in those times. We slept to avoid hunger and heat. And I slept in the kitchen because it was cool and because I knew that sometimes he would come. And when I let him in we never spoke of what was between us. But the way he held his head high and slid his eyes over to me - my knees would drop and my stomach would turn and I would flood and have to leave the room. And the thud of my heart broke down walls.
And you would come to the door and I would let you in and do anything that you bid of me. My own life meant nothing and the risks that you brought gave shape to my life. I would carry anything for you - take it wherever you asked. And one day your hand touched mine as you passed me a package and you held it there. And my heart flew through my veins, trembled in the palm of your hand and I shut my eyes and you moved behind me and I felt the heat of your chest as you put your lips to my neck. And we moved towards the darkness where not even the shadows slept and we lit it up with fire.
And you never knew that I carried you a child. A tiny little thing - just a few months in my womb - and Grundug sat with me the night that I lost her. There was nothing to see - just blood and blood and blood - and I sat in the bathroom and poured water over me in bucketfuls and our child was washed away. Never mind, never mind. I was past bearing children - that much I knew. I was not one of those women ripe into old age - I was barren from misuse and only the thought of you could fill my breasts with heaviness. I had no place being a mother. With a child everyone would question my morality and forget that I had conceived in love. And that is what matters. I mothered love and not one person knows.
And one day he left. You want to know how? Vanished. Came to the house, broken and torn and told us bad news. I nearly dropped to the earth when I saw him. Held his face in my hands, carefully, as if it were the most precious thing in the world, and Khatoun sewed him together. I cradled his face, drank it in. I only took the cigarettes so I could pass them to him, to touch him again. And later, on the roof, Khatoun stood with one arm around Iskender, the other on his shoulder as he lay casually against her leg. And was I jealous? Yes, but I loved Khatoun more because she could be close to him and I couldn’t. So I shut my eyes and flew though her body into her hands to feel his warmth.
And eventually we were alone and I said very little as I undressed him and bathed his sweet body. Let it seep away, I told him. And I meant it to myself because I knew he would go and I wanted it to be over already – I didn’t want to visit that pain at all. And my face...my face was burning when I left the white bathroom. And that was the last time.
He left me something and I tell you, I was too scared to open the rag he had pressed to my heart. Too scared even to touch it, so I gave it to Khatoun. When she unwrapped it and I saw his gold teeth, I knew that was all I would ever own of him. That, and the memory of his smile.
So lift up my pillow as you strip the bed and find those nuggets of gold I have kept safe all these years. And say what you want - that I was mean, I hid my gold in my mattress, I knew nothing of life and I died alone, without love. And I’ll laugh, because only I know.
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