Şerife
Şerife was born on December 12, 1951, in the high, forested hills of the Black Sea interior near Azdavay in Kastamonu. The Republic of Turkey governed the area through the district offices, the gendarmerie post, and the village headman, and the calendar that mattered at home followed the school year and the religious year. Her family spoke Turkish in official settings and Adyghe among themselves, and they kept Sunni Hanafi practice with care.
Her father, Mehmet, traded in small things that moved through villages—tea and sugar when he could get them, a sack of flour, a calf bought cheap and sold a little later. He also kept a patchwork of fields and a few animals. When Şerife was an infant he was frequently away, sleeping in a relative’s house near the market or riding with a neighbor who had a truck. Her mother, Fatma, ran the home with the steadiness of someone who woke before light without complaint. She washed at the basin, laid out a prayer rug, and whispered the morning prayer while the stove warmed. Then came milking and feeding, kneading dough, stirring a pot, checking a baby’s face for fever.
Şerife learned early that a day could be counted in tasks. Her hands found work without being asked. She could carry a bucket without spilling, and she got irritated when a younger cousin left a gate unlatched. Her height never made her stand out—she stayed on the shorter side of average—and her face drew little comment except from the occasional sharp-tongued aunt. Fatma deflected those remarks and put the focus on what mattered: clean clothes, straight seams, bread that rose properly.
Three sisters followed: Fadime in 1954, Emine in 1957, and Ayşe in 1961. Şerife became the pivot of the girls’ line. She set the tone of games and chores, and she corrected her sisters without softening her voice. Fadime trailed her in the yard and copied her knots when tying bundles of kindling. Emine learned to step in when Şerife’s bluntness caused offense; she could hand over a cup of tea and change the subject. Ayşe watched from a distance and tried to keep up.
When Şerife started primary school, she liked the order of the workbook and the certainty of sums. She came home and practiced letters on scrap paper kept behind a tin of buttons. She read out shop signs in town on market days and took satisfaction from it. At home, Adyghe carried the older people’s jokes and scoldings. Her paternal grandfather Hasan, who lived nearby and expected the household to follow strict manners of greeting and hospitality, sometimes corrected her for answering too directly. She stared back and then did what was required anyway.
School ended after five years, as it did for most village girls. The years between primary school and her teens passed in labor: tending animals, hauling water, collecting wood, weaving and spinning alongside her mother and grandmother. Şerife took on more each year. Hasan died in 1966. The day of his funeral men streamed to the mosque, women gathered at the house, and Şerife poured water for ablutions and kept the younger girls from pulling at the mourners’ sleeves.
By her early teens she worked like an adult. She rose for prayer, covered her hair, and moved through the morning without lingering. She milked, strained, and skimmed. She salted cheese in earthenware and turned the rounds with clean hands. When Mehmet came back from market days with news—someone in Istanbul had found factory work; a cousin in Ankara had sent money—she listened with a curiosity that made her ask questions until her mother told her to stop prying. She liked the radio when it was on, especially the practical announcements and the songs with clear words.
Her grandmother Zehra could soothe a baby without fuss and carried a quiet authority among the village women. She taught Şerife a tighter stitch for socks and a neat way to hem a scarf. On summer evenings neighbors came to sit in the yard, shells of sunflower seeds collecting on a tray, and women compared patterns on knitted cuffs. Şerife teased a neighbor girl named Safiye about how slowly she spun wool; Safiye teased back that Şerife’s tongue moved faster than her spindle. Şerife laughed at that.
Marriage negotiations started in 1971. Suitors came through family channels. The talk focused on her work, her prayer, her dowry pieces stacked in a chest: woven cloth, crocheted lace, embroidered pillowcases. Şerife argued about details—how far she would move, what would be expected from her, whether she could keep selling what she produced. Fatma told her the arguments would not stop a match; they would only sour it. In 1972 she married İsmail from a nearby village and moved to a compound where his parents lived close by. Şerife and İsmail had their own small dwelling but shared the yard, the oven, and daily routines with his family.
The first child, Mustafa, arrived in 1973. Şerife was back at the animals within days, sore and tight-lipped, but efficient. In 1974 Zeynep was born, and that same year Zehra died, removing one of the few older women in Şerife’s life who offered comfort without judgement. İsmail’s mother, Hacer, helped with the babies yet commented on everything—how Şerife wrapped a swaddle, how much oil went into the pan, how she greeted visitors. Şerife answered plainly and did not hide irritation. Osman, her father-in-law, cared about quiet. When voices rose, he stepped into the doorway and stared until the volume dropped.
Şerife began to bring in cash. She sold eggs, cheese, and sometimes a knitted item to a trader named Muzaffer who came through collecting goods. She counted carefully and wrote simple notes: who paid, who delayed, what was owed. She refused short weights. If Muzaffer tried to argue, she met his eyes and demanded the scale be set again. Those confrontations left gossip behind, but the money helped. It bought school supplies and cloth. It bought tea and soap.
Conflict with İsmail sharpened after the second birth, when he began to treat the small earnings as his to direct. He wanted the proceeds for a purchase or to pay a debt he would not explain; she wanted shoes for Mustafa and extra flour. One night, after she refused to hand over what she had saved in a jar, he slapped her and hit her again when she spoke back. She covered bruises with long sleeves and went on with the milking in the morning. Hacer heard the noise and told Şerife to keep her voice down; Osman muttered that a man’s temper should not be provoked.
Emine, her third child, arrived in 1976, and Hatice followed in 1977. The pregnancies came close together, and Şerife’s body began to register the strain in ways that did not fit a single injury. During a postpartum week, after an argument about money for medicine, her legs stopped holding her and she collapsed on the packed earth of the yard. She shook and could not speak for a short time. Hacer said it was “sinir,” nerves, and pressed tea into her hands. Şerife lay still until the shaking eased, then got up and tried to resume work. When the next dispute came, İsmail accused her of putting on an act; the accusation itself triggered another bout of weakness.
Her sister Fadime visited when she could, usually around holidays, and they exchanged letters when visits were not possible. Şerife wrote in short sentences about the children, about prices, about small domestic victories. She did not write about the bruises.
In the late 1970s prices rose fast and basic goods were harder to secure. Fuel and sugar became problems, and people talked about shortages. A livestock illness passed through nearby holdings and reduced milk for a period; Şerife adjusted by stretching what she could, making smaller cheeses and selling more textiles. She experimented with patterns she’d seen on a cousin’s visit from a coastal town and produced a tidy set of baby clothes that sold quickly. That brought a sense of satisfaction she did not talk about much. She did allow herself small pleasures: the first hot bread from the outdoor oven, eaten standing with a pinch of salt; sitting on the step after the evening prayer when the yard finally quieted.
The violence at home worsened in 1978 and 1979, in the middle of these pressures. İsmail punched her during a dispute about a debt and shoved her into a wall when she refused to stop selling directly to Muzaffer. A few days later she walked to her in-laws’ house in the compound and asked Osman to tell his son to stop. Osman told İsmail to keep order and reputation, not to keep his hands to himself. The rule was appearance.
Ali was born in 1979. Mustafa, now six, fetched water and watched the younger ones when Şerife’s spells hit. Zeynep, five, stayed close, carrying a baby on her hip when told. In 1980 the youngest, Meryem, arrived. Şerife returned from the birth pale and exhausted. Within weeks, heavy bleeding began again. Hacer called for a neighbor’s truck and they drove her to the district hospital in Azdavay, but by the time she arrived she had lost too much blood. She died on March 7, 1981.
Women washed her body and wrapped it in a plain shroud. Men carried her to the mosque for the funeral prayer and then to the village cemetery, where she was placed in the ground facing the qibla and the soil was packed down over her. Six children under eight remained. Hacer and the extended family absorbed them into the daily work of the compound.