Janissaries were the eldest sons of Christian families in the Ottoman Empire who were taken as infants from their families and brought up as strict Sunni Muslims who often became the cruellest soldiers in the Ottoman armies - but not always.

I'd love to wander far from this meagre time and place.
Back to the ashes and the dust of what I remember
A besmirched, a frightened, a human place,: my mother's face..
But they drag me back to these intricate losses that serve to mark
My constant passing, my unaccompanied loss of place,.
Grey-black thunder clouds mount the Bosphorus and all my
Comrades are afraid. Fearing the spirits of the earth. Fearing
Their death with so much Christian blood on their hands.
The Ottomans use us against our own people. And still
They will not convert. My people. O! How I hate this pretence:
But power is power and patience is a necessity
And, so,  I must bide my time. Wait in line.
And practise breathing as the Hindus teach. And as I breathe I see
Their lined, sad faces, like the crumpled leaves of autumn
in the wet, forests of the north. I see merchants from Arabia,
Dhows packed with slaves to sell. This hellish trade
Makes me turn my face towards the mountains of purple Bougainvillea:
All beauty carries a crown of thorns.
Just as the wine from Al-Andalus lifts
And then dashes down my fluttered heart:
The poetry of Rumi then the music of the harp.
These Ottoman commanders taught us underlings to smoke
Hashish. 'You will become a loyal assassin of the Sultan.’ 
It doesn’t work with me. It makes my anger burn
Stronger more silently. My hatred stings fiercer every day.
In the slave market on this clear-sunned March morning:
I see a young Ezedi girl being prodded by her Arab owner.
She has blue eyes like mine. She will be sold
For a heavy price in gold, to an old, rich man.
Our eyes meet. I tell her in the silence of the cool of the morning to be
Strong, to wait for the right time then to take her revenge
Without mercy. It is our song. We are strangers in this land.
The alchemist bled me today and prescribed a tincture of opium
These prescriptions do not ease the pain I feel. There is no
Solution to my deep heart’s ache, the ache that afflicts my soul.
I long for rain and cold, instead the heat and dust of deepest Anatolia
Dries my mouth and throat. We are hunting Kurds and Ezedi.
Zoroastrians maybe. I do
My best not to find them.
The Sultan wants more galley slaves, more bodies of infidels
More blue-eyed girls for his harem.
Their lust is never satiated. Never.