Ferdi’s leaving mevlit turned out to be a much moresombre affair than I had anticipated. He had spent the last week in high spirits, almost manic at times but on Saturday he uncharacteristically moody all morning. Sezgin suggested, perhaps accurately but unsympathetically, that a week of heavy drinking every night had taken its toll and in fact all the men have a slightly schandenfreudistic attitude to the hardships Ferdi will soon be experiencing. They’ve all been there, they’ve all suffered and now it’s his turn seems to be the underlying sentiment.

Not so with the women, Duygu’s face was alredy bloated and red from crying when we arrived and she was unable to look at her son without welling up. Her sisters, tearful but not to the same extent, took turns in consoling her. Perhaps they said he would be chosen for the navy or a diplomatic unit and not see any actual fighting. While one passed her tissues the other hummed busily around the kitchen enjoying the cooking and endless distribution of tea. I came early to help and was soon enlisted in preparing paper plates with sweet and salty biscuits on paper napkins to be taken out into the garden to the men and into the loungs where the female guests sat and nattered.

The hoca arrived around midday and anticipating the religious ceremony beginning soon I got ready to dash off another round of titbits to fortify us all through the interminable arabic prayers but my enthusiasm was reigned in by Duygu. More au fait with the proceedings than myself she knew that the hoca would spend an hour or so chatting about fishing (his favourite secular activity) outside. When he finally came in he sat cross legged on the lounge carpet and some of the men and Ferdi came in. Everyone held their hands up, palms facing them and listened as he gave a short speech on every young man’s duty to his country and god, then he prayed and at the appropriate moments we passed our hands over our faces and responded ‘Amin’. Surprisingly in fifteen minutes it was all over, the men shuffled back out and the hoca told another tale of the one that got away.

It seemed too brief considering what was happening to Ferdi, he was at a juncture that would change and mark his life forever. I expected the crowd of visitors to disperse but when most of them were still there an hour later I realised that there was something they were waiting for. At two o’clock she arrived, Ferdi’s great-aunt came chauffeur driven by her son and looking regal on the back seat. She took fifteen minutes to make her way into the house as each of the men genuflected before her, kissing her expectantly proffered hand and raising it to their foreheads. ‘Welcome Hüsniye hanım, you are most welcome’ was the repeated phrase and I wondered at the hanim (Mrs) instead of the more usual teyze (aunty). Esra, Ferdi’s girlfriend, whispered in my ear; ‘That’s Yedi Bela Hüsnü, all the men are afraid of her, she killed her husband.’ Aunt Hüsniye’s nickname meant Seven Types of Trouble Hüsnü! She got a firm grip on Ferdiand took him inside stopping only to shoot an accusing look at his father Kadir who then sheepishly followed them.

The women of the house were set upon in short order and their proffered tea rejected as old and a new pot demanded. Ferdi, Kadir and Duygu sat on the carpet in front of Hüsniye, who first berated them for not organising someone to influence the decision about Ferdi’s deafness and then hugged each one in turn and gave Ferdi fifty lira. From the capacious black handbag at her side she withdrew a black nylon bag and placing it carefully beside her called imperiously for hot water, a spoon and an old plate. These having been fetched to her she undid the bag and scooped three tablespoons of a greenish black henna powder on to the plate.

Using the water she mixed the powder into a thick paste while she summoned blessings and intoned prayers over it and then pushing up Ferdi’s shirt sleeves she took his hand, opened his palm and smeared a thick layer of the paste into both his palms. Having applied a satisfactorily large dollop she rummaged through the handbag again and came out with a roll of neatly pinned bandage material which was then expertly wrapped round each hand and Ferdi instructed to leave it on till the following morning. Esra told me that no-one disobeyed Hüsnü hanım as her whiplash tongue and loquacious endurance were legendary and responsible for sending her slightly rebellious husband to an early grave.

In the morning when Ferdi took the bandages off he would have deep red marks on his hands that would not wash away for three to four months. Apart from use on womens hair henna has three traditional uses in Turkish society. It is put on animals to be sacrificed to show their closeness to God, it is put on a bride’s hands to show her closeness to her husband and it is put on the hands of  a soldier to show his closeness to his country and his willingness to be sacrificed.

Freed from Hüsnü hanım, Ferdi bolted outside to smoke a cigarette before his dad got out there and İ followed. I sat on the edge of the porch listening as his cousins looked at his hands and gave him their advice. Ibo said; ‘Choose your combat boots carefully, even a little large so they don’t rub against your heel. İf you can take something that you can use to crush and soften the leather at the back of the heel. You know the saying ‘ a cheat always hits you from behind’ – well in military service the worst hitting from behind comes from your boot!’ That seemed very practical I thought and waited for someone else to pitch in with more tips; ‘Yes, take some shoulder pads if you can and put them in your boots, I know it sounds strange but you won’t regret it’ added Ahmet. OK, I thought that made sense too; ‘Make sure you take lots of talcum powder and never wash your feet with warm or hot water. Otherwise you’ll get athlete’s foot’.

I finished my cigarette and left thinking that a soldier’s life is obviously dominated by his feet and that unless I planned to go hiking in new boots that I wasn’t missing any especially sage words. I had spent some time though thinking what I might say to Ferdi as he left and in the end I brought him a small pocket diary and wrote inside ‘Count the days that have passed rather than the days you have left – chin up soldier!’ He’s gone now and with him go my best wishes and a strong sense of loss, he was one of my first friends here. I hope he comes home safely.