Act I

I have never been a stranger to violence, my life before me being taken isn't a paradise lost that I remember dimly with tears in my eyes, as is the case for many as I have come to learn.

I was born in Sulina where the Danube River meets the Black Sea. It was a beautiful fishing town, and my father was a fisherman. My mother died giving birth to me, it hadn't been a sudden death, she was in agony for months. All the residents of the village had endured her screams and didn't neglect to tell me all about it as soon as I was grown up enough to understand. They also told me that I was the spitting image of her. "It is like she gave birth to herself," old Paula told me one day. That used to frighten me.

My grandmother was my mother in all but name. She was a Russian priest's daughter who became pregnant with my mother during a Tatar raid. Unable to inhabit her village after this disgrace, she migrated south. She was a cold, serious woman, but she loved me. She taught me to read and write in Russian which she learned from her father. I grew up isolated from the other children of the village, speaking Russian, singing Russian lullabies while playing with my grandmother's brown braid.

My father hated me. I have never known why. Perhaps he resented my grandmother's influence over me, but he feared my grandmother, so he took it out on me. My grandmother who had never been subordinate to a man in her life drew the ire and fear of many in the village, and many rumored her to be a witch. People thought my father was crazy to have dared to marry her daughter whose father was rumored to be a demon. Perhaps he resented my mother too, he only married her because she was good at spinning and could make him a lot of money, "she was ugly like you" he frequently said, "only useful for her spinning". Instead of making him any money, she quickly became pregnant and died, and he was left with me.

My father was supposedly violent, but only towards me. Interestingly, though I remember all about my childhood and can recite you all the Russian tales my grandmother told me from memory, I don't remember my father ever being violent to me, I only remember crying about it to my grandmother once, and since no memory of my grandmother can ever be a false one, I conclude that he must have been violent.

And when I was fourteen, that fateful day came when I killed him at last. I don't remember the whys and hows of it, so I can't ever feel guilty about it. The only thing that I remember is that he had just returned from his fishing and had somehow learned that I cured his headache the other day with my grandmother's medicine. I vaguely remember him calling my grandmother a "whore". The next thing I remember is my grandmother eyeing me coldly while I held a bloodied bowl in my hands. My father's corpse's large empty-looking green eyes sent a chill down my spine. I remember my grandmother instructing me "Dumitra, wipe your hands".

We got rid of the corpse, but we couldn't inhabit this village any longer. People would notice the absence of my father and search for answers. We packed and ran away. We resided in another seaside village for a year. That year was the happiest of my life. Then the Turkish pirates raided the village, and I was taken. I have never seen my grandmother again.

Act II

After some weeks' journey crossing the Black Sea, I was taken to the slave inn at Istanbul where I would live in for three years and get my first education at being an efficient slave.

We would get lessons in music and writing. I have learned how to play the oud there. Most of the girls there were illiterate, but I had previous experience in writing, so I had a less difficult time in learning how to write in Turkish and quickly became a prized slave. My traders had high hopes of selling me for a good price to the Palace. Me acquiring these skills before coming to the Palace lead me to have my later career as a Kalfa, I can't deny that.

As female slaves, our beauty was highly valued. So much so that the traders would never beat us in our faces. Though my father's insults had always hurt me, I had never before considered how important a tool a woman's beauty was. I had never considered that I could have any charm for a man before coming to the inn. Even though I had feelings befitting my age, I had never seriously considered the relations between men and women before. The inn taught me the importance of men. You had to get their attention if you wanted to make any mark on the world. These lessons weren't considered as important for me as for the other, more beautiful girls. I was prized because of me being unusually adept at learning. I was considered smart, like an animal who is talented at conjuring tricks, and this gave me a sense of superiority over the other girls.

But our lessons in music, writing or even in pleasing men were all secondary to the real lesson we were taught. Unlike many other girls there, I had someone who could have been waiting for me out there in the world, so I had made an attempt at escaping once. I can't describe the pain I had endured as punishment.

The worst was the hunger. They wouldn't give us anything to eat if we were misbehaving, and escaping was the worst misbehavior a slave could commit. My hunger was gnawing at my insides like a monster stuck there. I could only eat something that day by giving my jailor, the man who had previously been the most violent towards me, favors. I had continued to give him favors for the rest of the time I had been at the inn. After that he was at my side and protected me from punishment, often blaming others, which made me enemies out of the other girls.

These are the real lessons you should learn as a slave: To beg, to give favors, to lie. It is a curious thing, the slow diminishment of my self-respect till there was none left. I had learned my lessons very efficiently indeed by the time I was taken to the slave market at the age of eighteen to be sold to the Palace. My masters wouldn't starve me there, but the lessons I have learned at the inn would undoubtedly be useful.

Act III

I have entered the Harem five years into the reign of Selim I. I was specifically chosen for the Imperial Harem because of my stellar education, and this gave me a distinction from the first day. Most of the other girls who entered the same time as me were gifts from other rulers and couldn't speak any Turkish when I could speak and write in Turkish perfectly. It was a sure thing that I would climb the ranks quickly in the Harem.

Many of the other girls were Russian, and I could speak in Russian with them when our instructors weren't looking. I have told them my grandmother's tales and quickly I had gained a modicum of popularity in my surroundings for the first – and perhaps the last- time in my life.

But I have quickly made an enemy as well. During the first days of our education, we were explained what our roles would be: There were those who would be presented to the Sultan and become his women, there were those who would excel in their education and would become Harem servants "Kalfas", and other girls would be married off after getting their education. A dark-blonde-haired heavy-set Albanian girl named Arta who was sitting next to me whispered into my ear "I am assuming you will become a Kalfa, since you have no beauty, and no man would ever take you". I have smiled to her and said, "And what will become of you, since you have neither brains nor beauty?". She was very angry, but I did not care, I have never had aspirations to be a Sultan and she could not offend me.

It turned out that none of us would ever have the chance to become a Sultan. Selim I was always in battle and was deeply devoted to his main consort and the mother of his five children the Crimean princess Ayşe Hafsa Sultan. Ayşe Hafsa Sultan was in Manisa with her son when I came to the Harem, and the Harem was ruled by his other consort Ayşe Hatun. I was deeply unimpressed when I first saw Ayşe Hatun and her only child Gevherhan Sultan. They didn't have much intelligence or charisma, yet they ruled over all of us and lived lives that none of us could ever dream of. They were simply at the right place at the right time or were born into the right family. I must admit that I was in awe of their power but not of the source of it.

Arta became obsessed with ruining me after our first encounter, and I had reason to believe that she could become violent. Fortunately for me I had protectors. To the eternal annoyance of Kızlar Ağası Sümbül Agha, I have gained some admirers among the other Aghas. The chief one among them was Gül Agha who always protected me from Arta in exchange of some mere kind words. This did stroke my vanity admittedly, but I still could not have full confidence in my beauty. Aghas weren't real men after all, and they were Harem servants like I would hopefully become.

One day Ayşe Hafsa Sultan came to visit from Manisa and brought her two youngest daughters Hatice and Fatma with her. She had quickly heard of my talent in telling Russian tales and wanted to hear it for herself. I didn't find her much intelligent, but she certainly cut a more impressive figure than Ayşe Hatun. She had the bearing and the smug confidence of being born a royal. I thought that she would always think of herself as the most valuable and important person in the room despite all evidence to the contrary.

She was very impressed with my talent in telling stories and my wits and called for me to her room time and time again to hear me talk. One day she asked me whether I thought of becoming a Muslim. I did hesitate a bit, I was attached to my grandmother's religion, but I quickly remembered that all the Kalfas at the Palace were Muslim and that I wanted to become a Kalfa desperately. I have agreed to convert.

It was time for me to change my name. Ayşe Hafsa Sultan and her daughters decided to choose a name for me themselves. I didn't pay much attention to her daughters before as they didn't know Russian. Fatma Sultan was a mere child, but Hatice Sultan was only a year younger than me and was very beautiful. She had the daintiness of a willow tree and looked like how I imagined the princesses in the tales to be.

Hatice Sultan raised her head from the book she was reading and smiled at me. She said, "Let's have your name be Nigar, "beautiful like a picture", since you look like the people in the miniatures in this book". She showed me the miniatures. I wasn't impressed with them as art works, as I am never impressed with the two-dimensional Ottoman art. But people in the pictures really did look like me, especially the women. Ayşe Hafsa Sultan agreed with her daughter, "Oh, Hatice, what a nice name you have chosen for her". And it was decided that my name would be Nigar, I didn't have much say in the matter, but I liked my new name. Ayşe Hafsa Sultan instructed her right-hand Daye Hatun to be especially concerned with my education.

Then Hatice Sultan began to talk to me about the story she was reading, Leyla and Mecnun, and she got tears in her eyes as she talked about Mecnun refusing to see Leyla again because the real Leyla was the one in his heart. I thought her silly, my time at the inn made me eternally cynical on the subject of the relations between men and women and I couldn't imagine one that didn't have a physical dimension. But I dutifully said, "It is a beautiful story my Sultana".

I have soon learned why this story affected Hatice Sultan so much. One day, when her mother was outside the room, she produced a slip of paper. On it was a love poem written by her secret beau she left at Manisa. They could never be together, she said, because she would be married off to a Pasha. She cried while reading the poem to me. God, it was easy to make her cry!

I don't know if I have found the poem to be genuinely good. It was full of cliches, didn't rhyme, and her eyes were likened to stars twice in it. But I still thought about it that day while lying in my bed at night. I have never known that a man could value a woman this much.

Creds to author!!!