Crna Brdo, Sanjak of Bosnia - 1461
I had always believed that I would live out my days in Crna Brdo. I'd never leave it, and that would be it. I would marry a beautiful woman, we would have many children, and never have to worry about the Sultan and his politics. I had a foolish imagination, for a ten year old. My mother, Marijam, always told me, "Husejin, you will be a great man, I know." Of course, I always thought she was just being silly. She was, strangely, right. But I was the only one to think I was great. Most people just thought I was a presence nobody wanted around. But, I wasn't the weakest of people, and hardly the least interesting. Such a shame what had to happen beforehand.The devsirme riders came just after fajr. We had all been walking home from the mosque when a swarm of horses with soldiers atop rode into the village. They all had swords and rose them as they passed us. They shouted in the Lisan that we were to return to our homes, and were not to leave until told so. A young woman, Lejla, had to translate the Lisan into Bosanski for us. I could see my mother crying, and she held my hand and my brother's hand. My father held the hands of my two sisters, Fatimah and Zahra. We got home silently and quickly. My father's face was stony, and my mother's broken. We sat in one room, doing nothing but staring at the floor. The three harsh knocks on the door shook us out of our fear, as my father slowly walked to door.A soldier stormed into the house. He was tall. So very tall, it was scary. Behind him, came a young man, he must have been nineteen at most. He was wearing the robes they wore in Kostantiniyye, but he looked like one of us, Bosnian, or maybe even Albanian. He looked sadly at us, while the soldier stared angrily at my father. "Selam. How many sons do you have?" The soldier's voice was gravelly and harsh to the ears. My father stammered as he replied. "Just two, just my two boys." The soldier looked at me and Hamza, like he was assessing us. The boy behind him wrote something on the parchment in his hand. After my father told the soldier my age, and then Hamza's age, he grabbed me by the shoulder. "Him. Tell me your name, boy." I couldn't speak. I just stared up at him as he glared."Hu-hu-hu-hu-husejin. Husejin Hadzic. I am Husejin Hadzic." The words fell out of my mouth. My mother cried louder and louder as the boy took note of my name. The soldier nodded to my father, who fell to his knees. I knew what was happening. I knew that in every house in Crna Brdo, one boy would be taken. But I'd never imagined it would be me. Hamza was my little brother, why would they take a first son? I suddenly felt horrible and selfish. No, it had to be me. Or Hamza would never have a good life. I had to follow the soldier or my family would be executed.I could not turn around. If I turned around, I would run back and never leave. That would result in my father being hanged. My brother being hanged. My sisters hanged. My mother raped. Then hanged. All in front of me, all before I was hanged. I could hear my mother crying. I heard running footsteps behind me, and arms putting a piece of cloth on my shoulders. It was my mother's hijab. The black cotton was the finest piece of material in our home. I felt my mother's kiss on my head, but I couldn't cry. She whispered the words 'be safe' to me before she ran away. I could imagine the sight. Her pale skin, her black hair, her clear tears... I held back the flood of tears behind my eyes. I would be brave.
Plovdiv, Rumelia Elayet - 1462
We had been taken in December. It had been a whole two months since I left Crna Brdo. We had stopped in Plovdiv for a week, to wait for the devsirme from the Rumelia Elayet. There were fourteen boys from Crna Brdo. I knew all of them, and we had all become friends. There were some Albanian boys as well, but we could not speak to each other. They could not speak Bosanski, we could not speak Shqip. One day, a large group of Bulgarians were brought to the barracks in Plovdiv, where we were. I was called forward, by the same soldier who took me from my family. "Boy, you must have a new name. A name for a Turk. This will be your name until your death." They wanted to take my name. But... I'd always been Husejin Hadzic. I didn't want to be anyone else! But the soldier ignored me. "Cevdet. You are Cevdet Boşnakça."I didn't want to be Cevdet Boşnakça. I wanted to be Husejin Hadzic. I lay awake all night, just thinking of the new name. I could not like it. I would not like it. Ever. Ever ever ever ever ever. I would always be Husejin. We left Plovdiv the next morning, and none of us had our names. I only wished that my name was the only thing they would take from me. Oh, I was a fool.
Kostantiniyye - 1462
When we arrived in Kostantiniyye, we were separated. Most of my friends with Crna Brdo were taken away, off to become Janisseries. However, the soldiers agreed I was not the fighter type. I was a thinker, and I was to become one of the enderun. I was to serve the Sultan himself. The Sultan! I was scared. More scared than I ever had been. I was only ten, I had heard all sorts of things about him. I'd heard he was bloodthirsty. However, I studied intently. I learned the Lisan, the Qu'ran, Persian, tactics, history, everything. I was going to make my father proud. I had to.
Plovdiv, Rumelia Elayet - 1466
I rested my arms on the stone rail of the balcony. My kaftan, pure black, with white embroidering, stood out against the white marble of the house in Plovdiv. I had never thought I would be like this. I was with the soldiers, performing the devsirme. I was the one taking the notes, informing families of what would become of their children. Taking a sip of the water from the gold cup in my hand, I looked down at paper. I had been told to collect and analyse the notes taken. There were two words I thought I'd never see again: Crna Brdo. Three boys taken. The number had dropped, almost scarily. However, Hamza hadn't been, so he was safe, masha'Allah. I looked up, taking in the blackening sky and the awakening stars. Some called Allah a cruel god, but only a truly great god could create such beauty, surely?Lost in my thoughts, I did not notice the voice behind me at first. "Salam, effendi." When it was repeated, I finally turned around. It was Qasim, a Tatar soldier I had come to befriend in the past year. I found it difficlt to believe I was only fifteen years old, with such maturity thrust upon me. "Selam, Qasim. Can I help you?" I smiled at him, as he stumbled over his words, his mouth not appearing to move in time with his voice. "The... er... the... er... Sultan, yes, His Most Gracious Majesty, the Sultan, requires your presence in the capital." I stood, stunned. The Sultan required my presence? Me, in particular? Insha'Allah! I went to pack immediately.Once again, I left Plovdiv first thing in the morning.This time, I did not lose my name. I was still Cevdet.
YOU ARE READING
Bosnacksa
Historical FictionIn 1461, in the village of Crna Brdo, in the Sanjak of Bosnia, a young boy is taken from his family as part of the devşirme, the blood tax of the Ottoman Empire. Afraid of the world, Husejin Hadzic is taken, changed, and made an enderun, a close adv...