Wild Furnace

Wild Furnace | By Murat Saban (PhD)

Jul 17, 2026

Did someone say freedom?

That story of boundless spaces where everyone breaks their chains… What freedom? Poverty was the greatest prison. When you had no coin in your pocket the freedom to choose where to go what to eat how to live was nothing more than a fantasy written in ivory towers. Our freedom was limited to the boundaries of the minimum wage thrown before us so that the wheels of the system would keep turning. That massive exploitation mechanism they called “market dynamics” had reserved the children of the suburbs as a cheap labor reservoir. With those crumbs handed to us at the end of each month (crumbs that were only enough to keep us alive) we indeed had the freedom to watch the glittering shop windows from afar. As the gap in income distribution split the city map into two with thick lines we indeed had the freedom to move comfortably only within the boundaries of our own living area. On one side the privileged minority multiplying wealth having tax debts erased living in a paradise on earth; on the other side the unnamed classes waking up every morning to the same poverty. The detective interrogating me while living in the small comfort zone the system had assigned to him should have looked at the state of us invisibles and been grateful for what he had. He covered his discontent with a mask of loyalty to the state and was more than satisfied to play the role of the glorious law enforcer; so much so that he could not realize that he had placed the real shackles on his own mind. Was he a slave? Yes but he was a slave content with his condition. Because he could not find the courage to step outside the boundaries drawn for him he labeled our will to burn and tear down those boundaries as “crime.”

The coolness brushing against my face, the brightness straining my pupils. What I was seeing was a bearer of light. They were the visual figures proving that the system wasn’t all that bad; sparkles within the darkness, white angels dispensing healing to souls. Yes, I am talking about nurses. The very last thing you might want to see before you die could be one of these angels, and one of them is standing right by my side at this very moment. First she looked at the file in her hand, then into my eyes. Her smile was healing. “The doctor will be here shortly,” she said, and left.

I catch the sharp scent of antiseptic. The walls are white, the sheets stark white. There are a few other patients in the room; some are sleeping, others are talking to their visitors. The only thing to pass the time with is the television across from me. A cartoon: colorful characters, playful dialogues. I watch the child in the bed next to me join in on the cheerful images on the screen. Have you ever been a child? I was, once. I trusted unquestioningly; I measured time with games. I played soccer in the street, drew little sketches between the pages of my school notebooks; I had marbles I carefully hoarded, and colorful gaming cards. I had a secret corner of my own. And, of course, dreams. Yet, the most vital thing that makes a child a child is the scent of a mother.

Some of us may not have lived through this sensory-driven phase as we should have. The cost of this is living with a void whose place can never be filled. But it must be known that this void will be occupied by experiences that others do not possess. You know how you look back and ask, did it have to be this way? and can never find the answer; that is exactly where the trick lies. Some questions have no answers. Because they are not meant to be answered. They are meant to be an invitation. They demand that you embark on a journey. A person left in such a state often chooses to resent their fate. In truth, they should accept the invitation offered to them, step through the door opened for them, and begin their journey.

Because an answer is completeness; a completed whole leaves no room for new experiences. An unanswered state, however, is the continuation of the search. Therefore, the lack of an answer is not a deficiency, but the engine of growth. This is how my journey began. Losing my mother’s scent during the early stages of childhood allowed me to pass through that door fate had prepared for me and begin my own journey.

In immigrant families, the loss of a mother usually results in the splintering of the family. The children who eat the bread brought home by the father can never find that old flavor in the soup he makes himself. The salt, the aroma, the consistency is never the same. When the dining table loses its flavor, the house falls apart too. The void born from my mother’s absence had now become the only common ground our family shared. My fascination with clocks and watches began back then. My first job was dusting antique clocks in a small watchmaker’s shop owned by an elderly veteran (an experienced legionnaire). The first thing this old veteran of immigrant-French origin etched into my mind was the quote on the sign he hung in large letters on the shop wall: “Time moves forward, the road goes on.” I would adopt this as a philosophy of life. During this period, I listened to many stories from him. Some were filled with heroism, some with losses and tragedies; each was a different stage of life. The idea of joining the military was planted inside me through these stories. By the time I turned eighteen, I was in the legionnaire unit, just as many young immigrants preferred. There were hundreds like me.

The moment you step into the legionnaire unit, your past is left at the door. The system opens a new identity for you. No matter where you came from, no matter what your ethnic background was, you have entered a wild furnace to be kneaded and baked until you are identical to one another. Here, everyone is a stranger, yet everyone is a brother. The erasing of your past identity and the building of the new one is called “discipline.” Cleaning weapons, polishing boots, digging trenches... with each movement you repeat thousands of times, you don’t even realize you are turning into a mechanical piece of the system. The routine marches carried out with forty-kilogram gear are not about physical destruction, but about pushing past your physical limits. With the patience, fortitude, and courage instilled in you, you leave your mental boundaries far behind as well. Contrary to popular belief, emotionality is not a weakness; rather, it is the most elegant demonstration of loyalty to the system.

When you emerge from the furnace, you have become one of the small cogs that make up the system. Three years later, the system honors you with French citizenship. Now, just like everyone else, you can take pride in this. In the following periods, I had the opportunity to personally experience the stories that the old veteran in that tiny watchmaker shop had told, and even more. As my brothers fell to the ground one by one, I began to question the meaning of all that was happening. Concepts like homeland and nation, which were always on the lips of many, were being erased from my mind. We seemed equal, but we were not equal. Even the professional careers of immigrant children were limited. We were more like weapons used for the purposes of the system.

And I could no longer endure this situation.