pal action and past traumas

Things make more sense when I try to empathise with others.

The British government is planning to designate PalAction as a terr.rist organization. Pal Action as the visualisation of resistance in the West. PalAction as the voice of the voiceless. PalAction, heroes without capes. PalAction, the superheroes of my children, who love watching videos of them breaking into we.ap.ns factories.

Now, the empathy part.
It is easier for me to empathise through the lens of my past wounds. My apologies for not being able to do it better.

When wearing hijab was banned in most public spaces in my country, women who wore it were seen almost as terr.rists. My mother was denied her right to education at the age of 13. As if that weren’t enough, the label of “terr.rist” followed her for decades. When my father tried to rent a house, the landlord contacted our previous landlord to ask whether our family had any terrorist ties — simply because my mum wore a hijab. She wasn’t allowed to visit her brother, who worked at a hotel located in a military area — because she might have been a threat to national security. She was denied entry to a military history museum for the same reason. She and her friends were even banned from using the shared common room in our apartment building.

This label — “terr.rist” — was given to her by the state. But it followed her into every corner of life. Even ordinary people used it to ostracize her. Once, the parents of one of my childhood friends found out my mother wore a hijab, they no longer allowed their child to see me.

Labeling someone as a terr.rist is not a one-time act. It spreads. It radiates. It touches everyone around. And it hurts and leaves a scar.

Pal Action members are just human beings — with hearts, with consciences. Like my mum.

But terr.rists — real terr.rists — lack both.

the eyes shed tears, and the heart grieves

There are some rare moments in life, you freeze them, frame them and store them in your gallery of memories. Another happened today. I believe it will stay with me for a long time. A Palestinian man was shouting at a giant, Israeli-owned arms factory as he passed by. That moment broke my heart and filled me with mixed emotions.
I probably empathised with him unintentionally. His land is a foreign land to him. His homeland is no longer his. This factory is, in a way, responsible for that. There was nothing else concrete he could protest — except this. Maybe I was just projecting at that moment. But I felt the rage. The grief. The factory was blind and deaf to his call.
He hoped.
I was lost for words — my head spinning, my heart aching, my eyes burning.

And I remembered: “the eyes shed tears and the heart grieves” (pbuh). Dua.

“day dream”

not a dream, not a daydream. beyond reality. knees shaked, literally. a dreamlike moment that felt like a daytime dream. shukr.

bek-le

bekletmen değil, beklemiş olmam daha çok kırdı kalbimi. beklediğime kızdım.

“gelme artık neye yarar” diyemememe.

who are you to talk on my behalf?

If you know a bit about the recent history of Turkey, you might have heard about the hijab bans in public space. It was banned in schools, universities, in some hospitals and even in some museums, not just for the personnel, but for students and visitors as well.

This ban was in force for at least fifteen years of my life.

Only couple of years ago, I had realised how traumatic experience it was. Until then, I had thought it was as it should be, it was the norm or the “normal” and I had adopted myself to this situation. It was normal to be kicked out from school, to be chased by campus security, to be insulted by a professor of law, to be harassed by random people on the street on in a bus. I had my own strategies to deal with all. I could even make jokes out of these.

While I believed I was living a normal life, my hijab was a political subject. For many years, hijab ban was discussed in the parliament and in the media mostly by men. Men with different backgrounds, either secular or religious, legal professionals, journalists, politicians, academics. They all talked about me and my hijab, the “motivation” behind the hijab, and the “logic” behind the ban. These people who are not related to hijab in any ways. Nobody asked a random hijabi about her hijab, about how she felt about the ban. I was the object of all political debates among a bunch of men and some women, who are unaware of the realities of hijab. It took some time to realise how awkward it was.

Today, while I was reading about Syria, I had a déjà vu moment. Just as my experiences with the hijab ban were misrepresented, I noticed similar patterns in how Syria is discussed today. People are talking about Syria, making grand comments, geopolitical inferences, historical analyses. I wonder how much knowledge they have about Syria, its politics and history. Who are they to judge the joy of Syrian people?  

it’s this time of the year again

it was 19 years ago. boğaziçi summer school. pols 101. introduction to political science. I wrote my first (not really) academic  paper that time. it was on the Srebrenica massacre and Machiavellian politics. I have learnt a lot about Bosnian war and Srebrenica. after couple of years, I wrote another (a bit more) academic paper on Bosnian war. this time in Utrecht. for an anthropology course. culture, violence, trauma and reconciliation. I focused on “rape” as a war weapon/tactic of war. this time I read more. learnt more. cried more over the memoirs of women. 

every year, the first week of july, my heart gets squeezed commemorating those brutally killed and terrorised by this bloody war. this year, my heart bleeds more as history repeats itself in Palestine, Congo and Sudan. watching them live as a helpless and useless being is a burden on me. carrying the guilt of being a witness. a torture for us, the bystanders. all these pull me down to the depths of pessimism, hopelessness. 

last weekend, a beam of light appeared over this dark sea of hopelessness. attending a ride for Palestine. it is not the ride, but the feeling. the feeling of togetherness, solidarity. despite all the evil, knowing that I am not alone. knowing the existence of people with a heart, a good and warm heart. that brought some light to my eyes, warmth to my heart. a thought appeared on my mind. or call it a belief. it can be possible. with good people. a good future is still possible. a good world is still possible. with the existence of good people. there is still beauty. despite all evil. the evil I cannot describe. the extent of it is beyond my comprehension. still there is beauty. evil is noisy. evil is dark. evil is more visible and audible. like dark rain clouds. beauty still exists. still beautiful. shines from the deep. it needs to be sought. I will seek beauty in dark clouds and in thunders. I will seek beauty under deep seas and dark oceans. I will celebrate every bits of it. I love every piece of it. these bits and pieces provide some relief to my crumbled heart. some relief to  breath. relief to dream. help to continue.

I am grateful. to the people of good conscience. to good people I met in these days. and to him and to Him, who enabled all these and showed me his beauties. Al hamd!

asylumseeker

seeking asylum in the loneliness surrounded by crowds.

when

your significant other is not that significant or your significant other is just (an) other.

it’s been a while

It’s been a while or quite a long time. Eight months. I’m a year older, a year wiser maybe. A year that felt like forty years.

Some part inside me is dying. We continue our routine. Kids go to school. Kids come back from school. We have breakfasts and dinners. We go shopping. We buy food, we buy clothes, we buy toys. I take the kids to the library, to the museum, to the park. I teach. We go to mosque. We visit friends. We invite guests. I go to library trying to focus. I read, and read, and think, and think. A lot. But I cannot write. I cannot bring words together to make a sentence. I am lost for words. My vocabulary is drained. I feel numb. My mind is numb. My heart is numb.

Some part inside me is burning. I feel anger, I feel rage, I feel hatred. A tiny flash can make me crazy. I am not patient and calm anymore. I want to hit the walls, kick the doors, and break the glasses. I want throw everything away. I cannot stand people. I want to avoid any type of interaction with any single person. I walk. I take long walks.

Some part inside me is broken into pieces, crumbled to its particles, like sand, like glass. With every breath I take, it hurts. I go to bed very late, hoping that I can fall asleep fast. I can’t. Scattered sleep has been the norm for a long time. Feeling of guilt comes after happy moments. Like grey clouds, carrying the rain. Tears follow laugh(ter)s. Eid passed. Other eid is coming. Both kids had birthdays. A new baby nephew joined our family. These bittersweet moments hurt the most.  

“if only I were dust!” (78:40)

(it took me 3 months to write this.)

ptsd

it’s been two weeks since the disaster(s). and last night the earth has shaken again twice. it’s deadly. destroying. physically and mentally. how are we gonna heal from this? or are we even gonna heal? i am living with a fist in my throat, and a burden on my heart. words get stuck. tears as well. after dropping kids to the school, i wander around, on the empty streets, with loud music on the headphone. tears come down. feeling sad and angry, very angry. when i laugh, when i eat warm food, when i hug the kids, i feel guilty. that feeling hurts the most. prayers may help me, but not always. long way to go.