before and after

how taking a stretch in translation can make nonsense sound nice:

original:

As it was in all four corners of the Earth, the women in Diyarbakir hadn’t figured out an effective or special formula for giving birth to sons. There’s a point in saying this; in the skies over Diyarbakir, in general, our women tried to have their wombs ready for when the great God passed between the Big Dipper and the Little Dipper. The sex of the child to be would be determined by the designs and wishes of his supreme designs. Even if our women had sent their pleas and wishes with their ambassador “My lord, supreme and great God, who creates all, who decides over all, who forgives his sinful servants and who bestows upon them, please preserve their black faces! Because you are great...” These types of saying even father Arsen would get into the cycle of saying things in a language God would understand, knowing that he was satisfied with such flattery.

As for the present day here, we mention these facts in the presence of God, without further delay, let’s also add that, making do with two or three kids wasn’t quite normal. If she was any kind of Woman, her belly would have ballooned out five-or-six, seven-or-eight to the size of a huge Diyarbakir watermelon. If she didn’t they would say that her plowed field wasn’t blessed. It would be counted as a barren field. They would go so far as to call it scorched Earth.  So when young girls reached the age of marriage, those around fifteen or sixteen, girls of fourteen, even those pushing up against thirteen, they were urged to leave childhood behind for the bosoms of husbands. “What’s the rush, she’s still really young” Anyone who said that, girls who had reached eighteen and were still living at home, they were made to have our ancestors terse saying hang from their ears like the elegant earring of the hunchback jeweler Minas:

“Early to rise take the road, early to marry takes the offspring”

Okay let’s move on...so Kurdish children, sometimes chasing after Father Arsen shouting “a monk a monk, stick a glass in his rump” making him quite cross with their shouting until he began to chase after them with his walking stick made from the cane tree, with his beard and black robe like that of any other priest, from home to church, from church to home with the punctuality of a clocksmith, inside of his pocket, a cross upon it, with a picture of the crucifix, a small Bible with a red cover, as well as in every other nook and cranny, what was written, what was commanded?

“Be fruitful and multiply...”

Second draft:

Just like anywhere else on the face of the Earth, the women in Diyarbakir hadn’t yet figured out any special formula for giving birth to sons. Not for lack of trying. I can remember our women trying to have their wombs ready for when the good Lord passed between the Big Dipper and the Little Dipper in the skies over Diyarbakir. It was believed that the sex of the child would be determined by the designs and wishes of his supreme design. They would send off their pleas and wishes with their holy ambassador Father Arsen “My lord, supreme and great God, who creates all, who decides over all, who forgives his sinful servants and who bestows upon them what he wills, please preserve the unlucky ones! Because you are great...” Even Father Arsen would succumb to this type of pleading, using just the right kind of language he thought God would understand, knowing that he was pleased with such groveling.

And as long as we’re speaking now in the presence of God, you’ll know I’m being honest when I say that it wouldn’t seem right to stop at two or three kids either. Around here you weren’t any kind of woman if your belly didn’t swell up like a plump Diyarbakir watermelon five or six times; and more often seven or eight. Any woman who didn’t would be said to have had her field left fallow. For some, her field might as well have been barren. For this reason our women were sent off to the waiting embraces of husbands as soon as they reached the age of marriage, which around here meant around fifteen or sixteen, girls of fourteen, even girls pushing up against thirteen years old. If anyone were to have said “what’s the rush, she’s still really young?” of their 18 year old daughter still living at home, someone would be sure to chime in with that old saying.

“Early to rise takes the road, early to work gets the load.”

They would end up getting more of an earful than a pair of those extravagant earrings made by the hunchback jeweler Minas. The other proverb you’d hear could be found back with Father Arsen, wagging his wooden walking stick angrily at Kurdish children who had been harassing him  by singing “a monk a monk, a glass in his rump.” If you followed him as he went back and forth between home to church, and church and home with the punctuality of a clocksmith, you’d see written on the bible with the cross on it that he kept in his pocket, as well as upon his seat of honor.     

“Be fruitful and multiply...”