Balık baştan kokar

“A fish rots from the head down” 

Or; Corruption starts at the top

Every morning the men finished their work and pulled into harbour before the first blackbird stirred. Two bays, Küçükdeniz (Little Sea) and Büyükdeniz (Big Sea) joined together to form a crescent moon harbour around Karaburun. Sun basked the village in constant sepia tones, making everything old-fashioned. Little boat engines, the gnawing insistence of the cicada, warm rocks, mottled hushed exchanges. One felt constantly on the frontier there, looking out to the blue of distance, that unreachable, unknowable horizon. Karaburun was a door, through which all weather entered and exited. Low clouds would go, and blue sky would come within ten minutes. The weather had an opposite effect on the population; they were firmly rooted in one place. Heatwaves and deluges were merely a backdrop to routines so regular that they had not changed for thousands of years of waking and sleeping, dreaming, and doing.

It was the season of the lüfer and the *levrek. The colour of the sky that morning was fair skin; softly pink, translucent in quality, bruises all visible. Abdullah was drawn to it, the curve of the cloud, the delicacy of its dapple like lace. Baran noticed Abdullah’s vacant look, one he had seen on him before, as though he had just seen someone he recognised. He delivered each syllable of his admonishment with familiarly, “Abdullah! Will you stop staring at women and get on with it!”

Abdullah, startled, jumped into action, curling a rope around itself until it was tidied away in a neat pile, ready to be unfurled, refurled again tomorrow. Flecks of fish scales across the deck glittered in the sun. 

The sea was placid and glossy that morning. Still a swell or two passed, gently caressing the small wooden vessel, lifting it, and placing it back down. Those waves entered Abdullah’s conscience, ebb and flow. When his feet were on firm earth, he was never sure. It was only when he was at sea that he could breathe a sigh of relief.

A light breeze rustled the tight curls of hair on Baran’s thick forearms, tensed and ready to react. They were his defining feature. In fact, forearms were the distinguishing feature in their village, the trait that was the most highly sought after in a mate, above all else. For the women, it was a certain fish fleshed quality, tender and plump, the ability to glisten in a certain light—the sea. 

“The fish of today are not what they used to be,” Baran repeats. They have the same conversation over and over. Abdullah always wondered whether he realised, but indulged him all the same, responding with interested nods and intrigued ahs.

“On a good day we used to catch fifty kilos. Large shoals of fish used to rush into the bay, pulsating under the surface in their thousands, turning the water bright pink. All we needed to do was cast a net and we had completed a year’s worth of work in an afternoon. It has become harder year by year.”

“Yes, it is much harder now. You’re right.”

“There were more fish… you see. And the fish were bigger back then. We didn’t have to compete with the big fish trawlers, or the fish farms that are all along the coast now. The problem, you see, is that the fish at those farms are fed with bait, and especially during bad weather, the bait drifts away and attracts the fish that are swimming free in the sea; they have changed their route now, they go to deep water where we can’t catch them.”

“…Mm. I see.”

“Once, the Turkish seas had some of the best fish in the world. The Çanakkale strait was especially bountiful, all those sunken warships on the seabed became havens for small fish.”

“Really?”

“Yes, you wouldn’t think it, but rocks and sunken ships are important landmarks for fishing. Fishermen have a map of the underwater land in their minds, that’s how they know the best spots. It’s not easy, but it’s important.”

“Ah, yes. Very important”

Apart from these exchanges, they didn’t say very much at all. The sea did all the talking. 

*

Spring 1991. News came of a new plastic factory, due to be opened just five kilometres down the coast. A Turkish owned firm they were told, as though that would make the pollution more acceptable. Before anyone had the chance to object, it was inaugurated by a local politician with a ribbon and ceremonial scissors. 

It hung in the landscape like an ink smear on a neatly typed page. Tall metal chimneys like minarets stretching into the open sky. Vertical forms which broke the horizon, woven together with recurring motifs—chimney, pipe, tube, ladder. Repetition and narrowness, features of all factory life. From the chimneys came a terrible smoke, at first dense and dark, and then white. Mixed with the sun’s beams, it made all the colours strange. 

They watched it from their little boat, with horrified, morbid curiosity.

“Do you hear that as well?” Baran scrunched up his nose, squinted his eyes into small petals. 

“Hear what?” 

“That… listen! A sort of humming, whistling, high pitched...”

Abdullah strained his ears like a radio running through frequencies, the waves insistently lapping against the side of the boat.

“I don’t hear it… maybe my ears are no good.” 

Baran huffed, swatting at the air as though the noise were a mosquito buzzing around his head. 

*

The summer after the factory opened, the season started badly; only a few scrawny fish came up. The type who had been cast out from the shoal, the weak and weedy ones who couldn’t keep up with the group. Baran knew those types when he saw them, their eyes gave them away. He always threw them back.

If, on the other hand, he had managed to catch a group of strong, confident swimmers, he wouldn’t have hesitated to keep them slowly suffocating until they eventually died on deck. But no, there were no such species that year. Strong currents churned up the sea floor, making the water muddy and pond-like. 

As the disappointing season dragged on, the hot sun beat down, slowly, one by one, the fishermen gave up. In ordinary circumstances they would have continued no matter what the season held; it would have been their only choice. But now with the looming factory and the promise of a well-paid job, there seemed to be little point in continuing. It was much easier, they said, to work in the factory.

“Why would you want to wake up at 4.30 and work like a dog, when you can wake up at 9:00, get driven to the factory, and stand around all day! It’s the easiest thing. And the salary is guaranteed! We don’t have to wait on the whims of the waves for our bread!” 

Baran gritted his teeth and squinted his eyes, though they were hidden behind dark sunglasses. 

They continued though the season, Baran’s faith in the sea unshakeable. They were rewarded later when a huge shoal of lüfer came into the bay, attracted there by the murky water which made good breading grounds. Baran had spotted them on the horizon, the young fish charging toward the bay at extraordinary speeds, darting through channels of rock and sprinting through dangerous patches of open water. 

When they returned to shore with their incredible catch, the reception was contemptuous. “It’s a lucky fluke! You know yourself that these things happen once every ten years at the most. Unless you are delusional of course! I wouldn’t be surprised, spending so much time with that simple minded boy!”

Once again, Baran had nothing to say, but whether it was through stubbornness, or the sheer force of habit, he refused to give up. The past living within him, until so much memory had become institution, sheer weight, undeniable gravity. Abdullah, of course, never far from Baran’s side. 

When the fishing season ended, they began winter sleep. Rising at a late hour, spending a few hours lazily repairing nets before sitting down to rest in a quiet corner of the harbour, drinking çay until the light faded. In the dark hour, they would wait for the workers to return. Their smell announced their arrival before you saw them; chemicals permeated anything soft: skin, cotton. It blended with the smell of cooking onions, tomatoes, garlic, as they prepared their evening meals.

It was one evening in particular, playing *tavla, where Baran noticed their bloodshot eyes—swollen, their noses red and raw. It was his turn to lecture the group, though he did so quietly between sips and with all the casualness of taking a breath. “It’s because of the factory that you have become ill. Working inside like that cannot be healthy.” 

A chorus of dissent swelled, “Of course not!” 

“The bosses reassured us that it is safe.”

“Much safer than going out into the sea in a tiny boat!”

 “It is just a case of conjunctivitis and winter flu which is being spread around.”

 “We work so close together, it is bound to happen.”

“You are just jealous that we earn more money while working less.”

“You should have given up the fishing while you had a chance!”

Baran was stern, unshakeable, continuously sipping from the fluted tea glass. He didn’t need to be convinced or berated; he had the truth within him. But Abdullah, usually quiet, felt his hands curling into fists, anger rippling his insides, expanding into every corner. Before he knew what he was going to say, he violently cast his dice. It clattered from the table, and across the floor. A table-full of eyes watched it land on a three—

“—You know, in Mersin the fishermen all stood up against the planned nuclear power plant! And you know, I heard that tobacco growers in Adiyaman, they all went on a march to protest the toxic gasses. Farmers in Murgul, they all protested the pollution from the copper mines!”

“So, what?” retorted the group, “What happened afterwards?”

Abdullah had lost his train of thought, and with all those faces looking at him, he could no longer think. “I… I’m not sure.” His hands slinked into his pockets as his gaze found his dice on the floor.

*

When the new season bloomed, Baran noticed something strange in the deep waters. He couldn’t tell what it was from land, but as they drew closer, the stench of rotting fish became unbearable. A floating carpet of shining bodies, rippling with each passing swell. Baran cast his eye toward it accusingly, its dusky black, puffing chimneys looming. 

Sometimes the current would pull the bodies out to sea in a slow funeral procession, other days the water was so still, that the only thing they could do was rot together in the heat, a sad swollen stench. But what remained the same, day after day, was the arrival of new bodies. 

Baran and Abdullah continued to venture out each morning, though they didn’t cast any nets. It was as though they had just come to bear witness. That August, Abdullah found himself once again gazing back into town, soft light on the burgundy soil, the opulent pines. Despite the stillness of dawn, it was as though everything was in motion.

Footnotes

1. Species of fish: Lüfer; Bluefish, Levrek; Seabass

2. Backgammon