Instead of 1001 Night - Thousand and one day E-Book

Nurgül Sönmez

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 125

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Liya The struggle of an eleven-years old mother with the pitched war. She disregards her life for her children while her family was killed under her eyes. The aim of her is to avenge upon murderers of her family. While she thinks she feels ready for everything, her pain is doubled with another tragic event. Will Liya be able to withstand these difficulties any longer? Will she be able take revenge on murderes of her family? Will she be able to protect the rest of her family members, her children? A real life story! The traumatic story of a mother who has never lived her childhood.

Leseprobe

To all book lovers...

Biography

Nurgül Sönmez

21.08.1979

Germany

In the years between 1995-2020, she often received awards.

She began writing in 1995 and has written countless poems,

song lyrics and novels. Written based on true events.

The rights to over 50 novels and over 2500 song lyrics were taken over

by various publishers and famous composers.

Now she no longer stands behind the scenes,

but with her works in the middle of the stage.

AUTHOR'S WORKS

Her first book ANA (Poem - Turkish) was published in

2014

2015

YASEMİN’İN SAVAŞI (Turkish)

2017

YASEMİN’İN İNTİKAMI (Turkish)

2021

Matilda (Turkish, German)

1001 GECE YERİNE - BİN BİR GÜN (Turkish)

STATT 1001 NACHT - TAUSENDUNDEIN TAG (German)

YASEMİN’İN ÇARESİZLİĞİ 1 (Turkish)

YASEMİN’İN SAVAŞI 2 (Turkish)

YASEMİN’İN İNTİKAMI 3 (Turkish)

2022

Matilda (English)

YASEMINS VERZWEIFELUNG 1 (German)

MAAROUF (Turkish, German)

INSTEAD OF 1001 NIGHT - THOUSAND AND ONE DAY (English)

YASEMINS KAMPF 2 (German)

2023

YASEMINS RACHE 3 (German)

2024

YASEMIN’S DESPERATION 1 (English)

YASEMIN’S STRUGGLE 2 (English)

YASEMIN’S REVENGE 3 (English)

MAAROUF (English)

All books have been translated into French and are planned for future book projects. This will be followed by translations into Arabic and Spanish. If there is interest and demand, there will also be translation in other languages.

Her works © are based on true events and she continue to support social projects with the proceeds of the books.

Soon also available as audiobooks!

Thousands of voices can be hope for a voice.

The struggle of an eleven-years old mother with the pitched war. She disregards her life for her children while her family was killed under her eyes. The aim of her is to avenge upon murderers of her family. While she thinks she feels ready for everything, her pain is doubled with another tragic event.

Will Liya be able to withstand these difficulties any longer? Will she be able take revenge on murderes of her family? Will she be able to protect the rest of her family members, her children?

A real life story! The traumatic story of a mother who has never lived her childhood.

Story and characters are based on real life story.

Table of Contents

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

My name is Liya!

Liya means patience, the best patience, the most beautiful patience, the most patient of all the patient ones. I ask myself, after everything that has happened, do I fulfill the meaning of my name?

I was born in Aleppo on March 10, 1997. In my childhood, I heard the birds of paradise when I flew paper birds I had made with my friends from the neighborhood. But I only heard them when I was running to the supermarket, playing, or being chased around the corner. And suddenly, my birds of paradise were gone. The thought that they had moved away haunted me. Would the migratory birds come back? Would my birds of paradise return?

No. They never came back. Since that day, I have called them many times, on the street, in the neighborhoods, between the alleys, everywhere I had seen them fly before, but no sound came back. My birds of paradise had flown away, flown away to make other children happy. Never to return...

CHAPTER I

My father had three wives. He lived in the same house with my mom Samira and his second wife Zahra. His third wife, Afafet, lived in a house of her own and didn't want to live in the same house with us and be a family. My father was married to his first wife, my mother, with a civil marriage. Mother Zahra and mother Afafet were his religiously married wives. I was my mother's only child, and although I had no siblings, I had many half-siblings. Two years after I was born, my mother Samira had to have her ovaries removed due to a serious illness. Of course, my father didn't wait two years and married my mother Zahra. Mother Zahra gave birth to four children, three boys and one girl. After Mother Zahra gave birth to her second child, my father married Mother Afafet. His youngest wife, Mother Afafet, was sixteen years old at the time of the marriage. My father would have been about sixty-one years old at that time. Mother Afafet gave birth to five children, four girls, and one boy. That makes a total of ten siblings with me: four boys and six girls.

I learned to read and write in the first three years of school. After the third grade, my father, who didn't want me to go to school from the start, found excuses and stopped sending me to school. If elementary school hadn't been compulsory, I wouldn't have been able to read and write. Although elementary school is compulsory for children up to the third grade, I was taken out of school before I had finished the three years. Allegedly, I was kept out of school and education because I was of marriageable age and should have concentrated more on housework and what I could learn from school. This was the first time I was deprived of my freedom.

Everyone was very careful around my father. because even with the smallest things, my father would use violence against all of us. For example, he would say, "Why didn't you put the glass of water where I wanted it?" and he would do everything from throwing the glass of water to pouring boiling water over us. He started beating us with anything he could get his hands on: with a stick, with a piece of wood, with a whip, with a belt, with a broom, with a tire, with anything you could think of. Once he had started, nobody could take anything away from him. That was my father!

I am a Muslim. We belong to the Sunni faith.

Due to our way of life in Syria, our household is very private. It is organized in such a way that no one outside the family can see the inside of the property. If necessary, an additional wall is built, but it remains closed and private. It's the same in our neighborhood. Privacy is respected. It was the same at home. At the beginning of the street, where the driveway had not yet been built, it was made of dust and earth; it was not paved as a one-way street. But we belonged to wealthy families and knew that civil servants in our country were well off compared to other classes. My father was also a civil servant and a registrar. Women, on the other hand, didn't work, or rather, that was the way it was in our family. Or perhaps because I hardly ever left the house, I don't know much about life outside. So I can't say anything about it.

My mothers, Samira and Zahra, had accepted and adapted to each other. We had our own order and we continued to live without much need of the outside. We had a three-storey house. Mother Zahra and her children lived on the third floor. My mother Samira and I were on the second floor, and the kitchen, bathrooms, toilet and living room were on the first floor. From the second floor, we could go straight out into the courtyard. Most of the time we sat outside and cooked our food over the fire. We spent our lives in the yard, far away from life outside. We washed our dishes and laundry outside with boiling water. We made our tea outside the door and drank it together. As we lived in a hot area, we didn't know rain and only knew cold in certain winter months. That's why we always stayed outside. We had three large covered sitting areas where we sat covered on the floor. It wasn't an ordinary seating area, however, but an upscale one. Surrounded by tulle bows and transparent fabric bows. Seat cushions, back cushions, head cushions, and various other cushions, are all made from the same fabric.

The food was served in the center. About 30-35 adults could sit comfortably, sometimes, if we moved closer together, up to 50 adults. There was a different place for the children and the women. When we were among ourselves, we sat mixed. It had an oriental feel. We had a large plot of land, so to speak. It was no ordinary farm. I spent my best years there. I spent my best years behind walls that were bigger than me. I wish I could go back to those years.

If you love what you have, you have everything you need..

CHAPTER 2

I was the first child to be married off. When I was eleven, I was married to a very old white-bearded man. They came from a town two or three districts away from us to ask for me. My wedding was celebrated according to the old custom, a veil was placed over my head and I was torn away from home and my family. I became the fourth wife of the white-bearded man to whom I was married. While his civilly and religiously married wives were supposed to treat me badly because they thought that everyone who came would leave, they treated me with maternal feelings because of my young age. They soon accepted me into their midst and began to regard me as their child. I became pregnant very soon. I was a child, but I was compelled to do so: To his wives, I was a child; to the old man I was married to, I was his wife in a religious marriage.

Anyone who sees this difference, please do not remain silent on this issue! Please be the voice of the silent cries. Please end this injustice, this ignorance, this child abuse, and do not turn a blind eye to this unbelievable ruthlessness. The priority of our girls, who are just learning about life, should not be marriage but rather reading and education. Because only with education you can have a marriage at eye level.

When I was still a child, in 2009, I had a son. His name is Ali Alhussain. Since the woman is seen as the one who consumes and the man as the one who procreates, the birth of a boy is seen as the birth of a fertile woman. Most of us could not accept this irrationality. Even if we thought that the woman has priority in procreation because she is the one who gives birth to children, we could not say so because we were afraid. People thought we were against men. What I couldn't understand was why only men should be glorified when it is the mother who gives birth? In this case, it should be recognized that both are necessary for the next generation.

Even before my child was born, terrible things began to happen in my country. People took to the streets, they started attacking each other, and the sound of gunfire was getting closer by the day. Unrest and fear filled the houses, people waited anxiously for what was to come. The attacks that had started between the state and the people had turned into religious, linguistic, and racial discrimination. People were killed because they were Sunni, Shia or other faiths. The call to prayer was suppressed and we were informed of the times and developments through announcements. We filled our cloth bags with as many belongings as possible and began to wait to be prepared for emergencies. After my husband joined the crowd on the street, he never came back. I thought about my family every minute. Mama Samira, mother Zahra, and my siblings.

A group of soldiers began to crowd the streets, their tanks could be seen on every corner. They began to pursue and torture everyone, guilty or innocent, as they were ordered. They shot in broad daylight. They didn’t shoot in the air to separate people, but targeted them. They were not separated, but collapsed where the bullet hit them. And not only that: the soldiers began to storm the houses day after day.

One of the women said: "You are the one who is closest to your father's house. We have to get youhome safely.

If your husband dies in the war, you marry his brother according to our custom. If his brother dies, you marry a relative. This cycle continues until you have freed yourself from this ignorance. But this is not comparable to a normal marriage. It’s not comparable at all. It was only for protection during the war. As you were left a widow, the rest of the family served as your protection, and this protection was implemented in this way. There were no normal marriage relationships in it.

Assuming that the soldiers would storm our house tomorrow, they at least wanted to save me. Since we were not led by a man, who knows what torture they would put us through. We put on our burqas, took the cloth bags we had prepared, and set off. We walked through the alleys, dodging here and there, but on the way, we saw that the doors of the houses and buildings were wide open. Shots were being fired from all directions. Nobody would leave their front doors open in these neighbourhoods. This made the sight all the more frightening.

There were more warplanes and fighter jets flying overhead than I had ever seen before in my life. I noticed that the tanks were flying flags of different colors and motifs that I knew were not from Syria. I later learned that these soldiers waiting with their pistols, Kalashnikovs, or rifles were German and American soldiers.

What did they do in Syria? What did they want from our people? Or did our government not tell us exactly what was going on? Why were all these soldiers carrying weapons with German and American flags? When did they come, when we, as people, could not solve the problem within ourselves and realized we could barely throw ourselves into our homes, when did they come? All these thoughts and similar questions went through my mind. When we realized that the situation in our country was more terrible than we had imagined, we moved on without lifting our heads. After everything we had seen, I could no longer imagine anything and could only pray: “God, keep me sane.”

Cars burning in the streets, stores robbed and looted, people fleeing... People who knew they could not defend themselves left their homes.