Today, January 19th 2010, it has been 3 years that Hrant Dink was brutally murdered. He was assassinated after years of being threatened, being ridiculed and hated upon. This was brought upon by nationalist, racist and fascist people, government and law. Till now only 5 people are under prosecution but there hasn’t been a verdict yet. It also seems clear that not only those 5 people are responsible for the murder of Hrant Dink.
Many more persons and even institutions inside the Turkish Republic are as such responsible. First and foremost for not protecting Hrant Dink for his right of freedom of speech and as one of the biggest fighters for Democracy in this country. But also for making it possible that there was a flood of hate against the man that only had the best in sight for a country that also he considered his home although he was from Armenian-Turkish descendant and therefor the victim of much racism. They are also responsible for hindering justice for the culprits behind the murder are still protected by those people and institutions and even are part of those very institutions that would make up this pretense of a democracy.
Thousands have stood, listening to friends and family of Hrant, this morning on the place where he fell. Thousands have walked Istiklal to ask for justice this evening. As they have done for several moments during these past 3 years. But still the culprits of the murder. The murder of the pretense of democracy. Are not even punished. They are being protected by whatever state calls itself a democracy. A democracy that can not even provide justice in a murder-case where evidence is very clear. Very clear that this Republic is rotten. Rotten by hatred. Rotten by the murder of innocents.
It is time that this passes. That this is cleaned up. That justice prevails. That democracy shines its light upon this country and that the hatred can be shot instead of those who want to bring peace and understanding. For Hrant. Because we’re all Hrant in this country. We’re all oppressed. We’re all Armenian.
An individual has not started living until he can rise above the narrow confines of his individualistic concerns to the broader concerns of all humanity.
It fills me with happiness
Happiness that brings back a memory
A memory of you
You lying on that pillow
That pillow I now cover my face in
My face that smiles entirely with only the thought of you
You who held my hand
My hand that you squeezed
Squeezed to let me know this was a moment beyond words
Words that can not tell the tale
The tale of love.
Love that is certainly not ment to be
Many bitter tears I’ve shed tonight. Much shit has been spilled tonight. And it has been good. For the first time in a very long time – and maybe for the first time I’ve felt like myself. Myself. And that’s a bloody hard thing for me.
I’ve come a very fucking long way. I’ve moved here to Istanbul with the illusion to find myself. With the pretext that in Belgium I couldn’t find myself. Drawn back from reality. Far and far away from anything that felt even remotely real. Not even close to be myself. Not in identity. Not in Thinking. Not in feeling. Thinking it was the Western European Way of things. That that was what I couldn’t feel. But here. Where I built this illusion to be close to what i really am i can’t even get close to anything. I’m even further away from finding myself.
And that realization that everybody. Every fucking body here in Turkey is so fucking far away from their own identity. From their own feelings. That that coldness. That that embodiment of being closed down is everywhere. That is killing me.
After all these years of feeling excluded. Of feeling left out. Of thinking of differences I finally wanted to come home. To feel a part of something. But apparently even that seems impossible. There will always be a non)belonging. That’s for sure. As it i impossible to live in 2 worlds. There’s only 1 world. And I don’t belong. I don’t feel it. Therefor I shouldn’t be. Just not be.
Listen oh listen to my plaintive cry
Listen to my my longing or else I die
From the sweet home of my bed I was torn
So my pain and crucial longing was born.
With so many secrets I sing aloud
But none sees nor hears in this crowd
Oh for a friend to know my burning state
That our souls may mingle and contemplate.
The flame of Love discourses in me
The wine of Love so enforces me.
Do you wish to know the fire, the flow
Listen my listener then you shall know.
“Donî monî mal ava, Xwedê kurê we bike zava. (Doni moni eviniz sen olsun, insallah oglunuz damat olsun.) Serê salê binê salê, Xwedê kurekî bide Kevanîya malê (Yillin basi yillin sonu, Allah bir cocuk versin ev sahibine.) Qerqus merqus, xwedê kurekê bavêye dergûs, para min kakil û mewij (Karakus marakus, Allah bir cocuk atsin besiginize, benim hakkima da düssün ceviziçi ile üzüm.) Serê salê binê salê, pîr bi qûrban qopê kalê. (Yilin basi yilin sonu , yaslilar kurban olsun dedenin kamburuna.)”
I don’t know if it’s just that time of the year, if it’s what I am encountering here in Turkey or if it’s my hormones playing up or whatever. But I’ve been asking myself more than often that same question over and over; “What is actually that emotion people describe as love?”.
I’m not sure. Through the years I’ve had various definitions of love. Different descriptions of that very important emotion. But I doubt if I’ve ever fully grasped it. Maybe even that is not possible. And it might change with time and experiences.
The only truth in this may as well be that ever since I was born I have tried to find love. Wherever possible. With my parents. With the very wrong friends or boyfriends. With people that deserted me after a while for all the obvious reasons. I’ve tried loving. Loving to the core. Loving in the fullest possible manner. Because I always felt that that particular emotion was missing in my existence. I’ve simply never encountered love in any sense when I was a kid. This is not something to be sad or depressed about. It’s just a fact like any other.
And to be frank, even if that was a fact in my childhood, I’ve never ever felt loved in my life. Of course looking back objectively I must say that there were people that surely loved me. But it never felt that way. It was nearly like I programmed myself that I was not deserving to be loved. I was only capable to give love. Not expecting anything in return. Except maybe to be disappointed and heartbroken.
It’s maybe something I’ve come to think about since experiencing the society here. Where emotions like love are so well hidden from each other. It might as well not be possible to love out in the open in this country. Or even to feel anything besides hidden friendship for each other. But what really is love?
If it is really something I do not feel secure enough to deserve then what? If it’s nothing I can receive but only give? If it’s only something that needs to be hidden far, far away from the public eye? If it’s really a rationalizing of what is possible and what not? Is it really worth it then? Or is it just worth anything? Is it everything you can wish for; to love and to be loved?