FROM ARMENIA’S TURK TO HRANT DINK
Today’s Zaman, Turkey
Jan 25 2015
Dear Hrant,
In early November, I moved from NiÅ~_antaÅ~_ı, a neighborhood
where high-end brands line up in Istanbul, to a slum in Yerevan,
Armenia. On my street, I used to hear the high heels of coquettes
tapping on pavements. Now, I hear the squeals of rats hiding under
trash containers.
I’m here as one of the three fellows chosen by Hrant Dink foundation.
We came here to cross borders. To fire Armenian-Turkish friendship.
But one of us got hit by a car and died. The other got emotionally
overwhelmed. She leaved temporarily for Istanbul. I stayed.
Today is January 19th, 2015. Eight years passed since you marked
our memories with your hollowed shoes. I am walking on Alek Manukyan
street right in the center of the city. It’s sunny. Winter leaves,
spring comes. So sudden.
My friend Anna and I are meeting up to commamerate you at the Genocide
Museum. When we arrive, the sun is on top of us. There are a few
people, clustered, here and there. Two police men stare at their shoes
as they talk to each other. There aren’t thousands of people like
there are in Istanbul. Recalling you in this land is a private matter.
It’s intimate. You know, I like it.
The lady who has organized your commemoration is walking towards me
and Anna. She has a plastic bag full of banners. Her red lipstick
had colored her teeth. I don’t say a word. I don’t know what to do
when these things happen.
“We won’t forget.”
“Justice for Hrant”
“We won’t be silenced”
Are written on the banners. But there’s one that causes me emotional
distress:
“We won’t forgive”
If you were alive, you wouldn’t like this banner. Or so I think. Your
heart is made of honey and cinnamon. It forgives. Your spirit seeks
justice with no bitterness or hostility. Your smile is forgiving
and emancipating.
But again, what do I know? I am hurt that you are murdered. But I
have no capacity in me to develop anger towards your assasin(s). I am
sorry for them. They live their own tragedy. They didn’t “get” you
because of their fears. Childhood wounds? This is no excuse. I want
justice for you. I need justice for us. But I also want forgiveness.
We walk from the Genocide Museum towards the Opera building. You have
been here. You know what I’m talking about. The football stadium
is on our left. Mount Ararat is imbued with a pink sunset. We
cross a bridge. Noy Vodka Factory stands behind us. Next to me
is a twenty-two-year old journalist. Her name is Siran. She is so
beautiful! She says she made Turkish friends during her trip to Italy.
Kurdish Osman talks to me: “Race isn’t important.” Then what’s
important, Osman brother? “Humanity.” There is a French-Armenian guy.
He says he wouldn’t say no to kebab and kunefe (cheese pastry soaked
in sweet sugar-based syrup) now. You know, our food. Anatolian
cooking. I’m hungry, you know. Born and raised in Paris. Got married
and settled in Yerevan. The kunefe guy says “I am Anatolian.” How
come? “That’s my home.” Origins, ancestors, legends, culture and
history. Food and justice. And you wouldn’t believe but David is here.
That PhD student from Hamburg. He is fluent in Armenian and Turkish.
“My stork was carrying me to Anatolia but it dropped me to Germany”
he says. For sure, if you met them in person, you would have so much
fun with these people. You would laugh together. Share your bread.
And this is exactly what we did. Hrant. Not easy. We walked the whole
city for you. Tired, hungry. Cold too. Hand in hand, we crossed Abovyan
Street. Couldn’t wait for the green light. We entered to Crumbs and
ordered some soup from a young waitress with braided hair.
When the food arrived, we were a family. We spooned hope and
friendship.
Stay amazing,
Meltem