Mezopotamya Agency editor Sedat Yılmaz was arrested and sent to prison at the beginning of May in Turkey in the wave of pre-election raids and arrests targeting pro-Kurdish circles. He awaits trial. There are currently at least 66 journalists in prison in Turkey, 33 of whom have been arrested over the past 10 months, according to the Turkish Media and Law Studies Association.
Below is a translation of journalist Sedat Yılmaz’s latest article from Turkey’s Sincan F-Type Prison.
Sedat Yılmaz
Whether it had lost its mother or lost its way, whether it had been evicted from its family, driven from its neighbourhood for some sin it had committed or caught up in a merciless near hurricane-strength wind we cannot know, but a ladybird fell into our courtyard. It was agile and quick, and its gloss indicated it was young. It had seven black dots and six white points on its dark red wings. In fact, our courtyard is like a zoo of numerous and various creatures with the appearance of little, skinny, feeble, neglected workers. Beetles, flies, ants, butterflies, reptiles as well as innumerable tiny tiny creatures that I cannot name. Such a rush and bustle all around! All are in a hurry, but none of them can get over the high walls constructed with “local and national” architecture.
I noticed that none of them were looking for food. None of them turned to look at the breadcrumbs I left out for them. They were all looking for an exit, a way out. Perhaps they were asking questions like, “What is this place, how did we end up here, who put us here and why?” But none of them say, “There is no liberation alone, it’s all together or none at all.” This simple sentence, this philosophy of liberation somehow does not occur to these little creatures. I watch them one by one, there is no communication between them at all. They turn out of their paths like enemies who don’t want to meet eye to eye. They all wander around that exercise yard all day long until a heavy rain comes. How would they know that the place they wander round in and the many metres of height they can’t get over is a dungeon made for humans to punish each other?
On top of this, Napoleon the pig is not here to lead these tiny creatures. It is painful to think of the end of these lonely, weak, landless and unprotected tiny things. There is no nest, no step to shelter under, not even a handful of soil in the place where they have fallen. Some of them are defeated by the vain desire for a way out on the one hand and not to be crushed under the feet of the elephantine humans on the other. But let me return to the ladybird. A piece of advice my mother gave me in my childhood about this creature came to my mind. She said, “Be sure not to kill it”, because ladybirds brought good luck. She used to say that if it flew away when you took it in your hand that was extra luck. I don’t know how many thousands of times I have tried this out, they always flew away. This belief has brought the ladybird some protection from danger and the chance of life. It has earned lifelong immunity from harm by being seen as sacred. Humanity has sanctified it and rendered it immune from harm, but somehow, it has now become imprisoned by walls this same humanity has constructed.
I took it into my hand to free it and help it fly. It tensed and became stressed as if it had fallen into the hand of an enemy, and shat itself from fear. It was terrified and licked its front legs frantically as it looked for an escape. I threw it up as high as I could, it flew a few metres but it could not get over the high walls. Hopeless, it allowed itself to fall into the void, and the place it landed was like a valley. The puddle extending to the storm drain was like a long stream, the greenish mould surrounding it a forested valley. The ladybird, with no strength left to fly, walked through the stream longways. It crossed the valley, resting on the rocks. Sadly it could not find a way out, it took to the air again, but after only a metre or two flew into one wall then another, then collapsed to the ground. It collapsed to the ground like an elderly, worn out, winded giant. A few minutes later it made another attempt, and another. All its efforts were in vain, it could not get over the high walls built by humans.
At sunset, the ladybirds and all the other tiny creatures were tired out and exhausted. None of them had any blood, power or strength left in them. The door to the exercise yard closed, then thunder, such rain, such a storm. All the tiny creatures, dead bodies with no coffins, floated on the water to the storm drain, to obscurity. Dawn broke, the door was opened, the sun shone on the pristine exercise yard. The concrete shone like a mirror. Then a ladybird fell in, then more bugs, flies, reptiles…
I have observed wars, earthquakes, landslides and disasters. I have followed terrible events. But it is the first time I have been witness to the drama, the struggle, the departure through the storm drain of these tiny, insignificant and unremarkable creatures. And this hell is a vicious circle that repeats itself every day. I am reporting myself as being present at a murder scene. The tiny creatures can never learn that this is a prison.
Sincan F-Type Prison No.2, Turkey, June 2023
Sedat Yılmaz is a journalist working in the fields of regional inequality, income distribution injustice, poverty, working life, workplace deaths, media criticism and power relations. He was sent to prison on 3 May and is currently held in Sincan F-Type Prison awaiting trial.
