"NOOO!" my cry echoed through the deafening voices of cannons going off, however unable to compare. With a blood-curdling cry of desperation, my mentor, closest friend, and a piece of my soul had fallen. "Brother..." I wailed incessantly, collapsing on my knees. Nonetheless, no one could afford to bat an eye. This was war; ignorance was obligatory.
I watched in a trance-like state, refusing to pass by faster than slow motion, arose within the chaos of war. It was endless agony. As I was forcefully tugged away from my dead brother's body, refusing to let go, refusing to accept I would never get to say goodbye, my body abruptly went limp with a sudden realization: he would want me to proceed. The thought was urging me to delude myself. So I did. Grief could wait if it meant my help could contribute to my country's freedom.
The Gallipoli peninsula had many battlefronts, but the one I was assigned to was at the entrance of the Dardanelles Strait: The Seddülbahir Front. Our commanders had been aware of the Allied Forces' plan to land at our front, so we knew the hot race would be as brutal as ever that day. I sighed and flipped to a blank page: 25th of April, 1915. Journal entry #41 We're awaiting the Allied Forces with guns loaded and artillery filled along the coast. I have to have a funeral for my brother to grieve him properly.
Startled by the gunfire initiating, my grip loosened and my journal fell open before I could place it back in my faded-blue military uniform. I must have reacted too sharply, for my vision faded dark in a second.
When I opened my eyes again, the sea had turned to spilt wine. Bullets were bottle-openers, unconventionally shattering the wine bottles. Never had I ever seen such bloodshed. Endeavouring to fully comprehend the sinking figures ahead, I rose to my feet.
A sharp warmth... That marked my final act as a soldier as I fell harshly on my knees with a sudden impact. An Ottoman bullet in my back. A bullet of our own ripping my flesh was how it was going to end—at the very location my brother had fallen. Brother... I reminisced. We can never be apart after all, I thought, smiling.
"Why does my uncle have only one date written on the stone, mum, 25th of April 1899–1915?" he asked.
"Your uncle... He died a hero just like your father, son. It was his birthday," the mother replied sorrowfully.
She went over to an embedded box next to the uncle's headstone and opened the lock, handing something to her son.
"A notebook?" inquired the kid.
"A journal, his last words signed with his own blood. It's our history, Kemal."
The boy understood the depth of the situation, determined to uncover his father's and uncle's untold stories and honour the future they never got to witness.
Kemal opened the journal...