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Jan 25 2007
Ode to a Murdered Turkish Editor
Istanbul, Turkey
Dear Hrant,
Friday, Jan. 19. The day you were murdered. I stare at the TV, at
your tall, thin body lying dead on the sidewalk of a busy street in
Istanbul . You are in front of your office, the office of the
Turkish-Armenian weekly you worked so hard to launch and sustain. I
cannot take my eyes off the soles of your shoes. Worn out and tired,
your shoes are a mute response to all those ultranationalists who
accused you of being in the pay of the Armenian diaspora to disrupt
the status quo in Turkey .
I feel numb. And I know you wouldn't approve of that. All your life
you have struggled to encourage both Turks and Armenians to shake off
the mutual numbness in their hearts so that they can start feeling
each other's emotions and hearing each other's words.
On the day you were finally given a passport, after being denied one
by the state for many years, you were as happy as a kid. "Can you
believe it?"
You said. "I can travel now!" And so you did, commuting between
America , Europe , Turkey and Armenia , bridging gaps that people on
all sides took for granted. Always a maverick, you never just gave
your audience what they wanted to hear. The myriad prejudices and
generalizations in the Armenian diaspora about Turkey and the Turks
frustrated you. "Yes, there are bigoted Turks," you would say, "but
there also countless progressive, open-minded ones, and they are my
friends, brothers and sisters."
The myriad prejudices and generalizations in Turkish society about
Armenians saddened you, too. You also wanted us Turks to break the
deep silence regarding the massacres and deportation of Armenians in
1915, to question our collective amnesia. Nevertheless, you fervently
opposed the Armenian genocide bill approved by the French Parliament,
which would make it a crime to say that the events of 1915 were not a
genocide, because, first and foremost, you believed in freedom of
expression. You said it was not up to Western politicians to write
our history. Turks and Armenians had to do that, build a dialogue
and, eventually, learn to reconcile.
You could have gone abroad to live in greater safety and comfort. But
you were passionate about Istanbul and would always say, "This city
belongs to us all, regardless of religion and ethnicity."
Tuesday, Jan. 23. The day we buried you. "Yes," you once said, "we
Turkish Armenians do have a claim to the soil of this country, but
not to take it away, as some accuse us of secretly plotting, but to
be buried deep under it." Your funeral was spectacular. Tens of
thousands marched. They carried signs that said, WE ARE ALL HRANT, WE
ARE ALL ARMENIANS.
The Turkish press, left and right, condemned your assassination. You
united people of all ideological backgrounds and made them recognize
their common faith in democracy.
At the Armenian cemetery, the crowd was asked to wait outside, but
people refused.
Muslims and Christians buried you together. On your gravestone there
sits a marble angel, her eyes turned toward the sky, as if awaiting
an explanation, or else, consolation. But that solace won't come from
above. It will come from Turkey, from the land you loved.
ELIF SHAFAK
Shafak, a longtime friend of Dink's, recently published her novel The
Bastard of Istanbul, about Turks and Armenians, in English
http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article /0,9171,1582145,00.html?cnn=yes
Jan 25 2007
Ode to a Murdered Turkish Editor
Istanbul, Turkey
Dear Hrant,
Friday, Jan. 19. The day you were murdered. I stare at the TV, at
your tall, thin body lying dead on the sidewalk of a busy street in
Istanbul . You are in front of your office, the office of the
Turkish-Armenian weekly you worked so hard to launch and sustain. I
cannot take my eyes off the soles of your shoes. Worn out and tired,
your shoes are a mute response to all those ultranationalists who
accused you of being in the pay of the Armenian diaspora to disrupt
the status quo in Turkey .
I feel numb. And I know you wouldn't approve of that. All your life
you have struggled to encourage both Turks and Armenians to shake off
the mutual numbness in their hearts so that they can start feeling
each other's emotions and hearing each other's words.
On the day you were finally given a passport, after being denied one
by the state for many years, you were as happy as a kid. "Can you
believe it?"
You said. "I can travel now!" And so you did, commuting between
America , Europe , Turkey and Armenia , bridging gaps that people on
all sides took for granted. Always a maverick, you never just gave
your audience what they wanted to hear. The myriad prejudices and
generalizations in the Armenian diaspora about Turkey and the Turks
frustrated you. "Yes, there are bigoted Turks," you would say, "but
there also countless progressive, open-minded ones, and they are my
friends, brothers and sisters."
The myriad prejudices and generalizations in Turkish society about
Armenians saddened you, too. You also wanted us Turks to break the
deep silence regarding the massacres and deportation of Armenians in
1915, to question our collective amnesia. Nevertheless, you fervently
opposed the Armenian genocide bill approved by the French Parliament,
which would make it a crime to say that the events of 1915 were not a
genocide, because, first and foremost, you believed in freedom of
expression. You said it was not up to Western politicians to write
our history. Turks and Armenians had to do that, build a dialogue
and, eventually, learn to reconcile.
You could have gone abroad to live in greater safety and comfort. But
you were passionate about Istanbul and would always say, "This city
belongs to us all, regardless of religion and ethnicity."
Tuesday, Jan. 23. The day we buried you. "Yes," you once said, "we
Turkish Armenians do have a claim to the soil of this country, but
not to take it away, as some accuse us of secretly plotting, but to
be buried deep under it." Your funeral was spectacular. Tens of
thousands marched. They carried signs that said, WE ARE ALL HRANT, WE
ARE ALL ARMENIANS.
The Turkish press, left and right, condemned your assassination. You
united people of all ideological backgrounds and made them recognize
their common faith in democracy.
At the Armenian cemetery, the crowd was asked to wait outside, but
people refused.
Muslims and Christians buried you together. On your gravestone there
sits a marble angel, her eyes turned toward the sky, as if awaiting
an explanation, or else, consolation. But that solace won't come from
above. It will come from Turkey, from the land you loved.
ELIF SHAFAK
Shafak, a longtime friend of Dink's, recently published her novel The
Bastard of Istanbul, about Turks and Armenians, in English
http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article /0,9171,1582145,00.html?cnn=yes