Nejat is Washing the Sheep’s Wool

I remember Mount Moria, I remember Abraham the father, I remember Isaac the son, and the knife that could not bear to cut the son’s throat. Sadly, I know there is no picture of that scene, and in this photograph, neither Abraham nor Isaac nor a sacrifice exists. It’s a pity, but I know Nejat is washing his sheep. There is no escape; again the name Nejat — after all, his son was saved from death — and his eyes lead my thoughts to the story of the sacrifice. Eyes that have endured the flash of the camera and have not closed, and a shadow that flows in the corner of the eye like a father’s tear. Where is the photographer standing? Have his feet touched the water like our gaze? Did he ask Nejat to momentarily lift his mask with those wet hands? Hands that held the voiceless animal just for the picture. I see the traces of its struggling body in the water. The water has separated its head from its body, just as the blue mask has separated Nejat’s head from his body. How can I not think of the sacrifice?