Fréderike Geerdink
“I was looking for my son. They showed me the smallest of the bodies. I said my son is tall, he always bent over when he kissed me.” I think of this mother today, as it is exactly thirteen years ago that she lost her tall son in a bombing by the Turkish state. He was earning some extra money as a border trader with a few dozen others when a Turkish fighter jet appeared and bombed them to death. He was one of the 34 men and boys who didn’t survive.
I wish I could have been there today, in the village of Bujeh (Gülyazı), where most of the victims were from and where they have been laid to rest. As I did at the commemorations of 2012, 2013 and 2014, which I attended, I would have gone at least one day earlier. Not just to be on time in the morning, but also to just be there. To commemorate, not to hurry.
I would have gone every year if I had been able to. Unfortunately, Turkey expelled me in 2015 and I haven’t been allowed to go back since. It’s hard to stay in touch, impossible even. You can only know how the village and the people are if you are there, with your feet on the ground. Only by talking and observing, by listening and taking time to live everyday life, can you start to comprehend how the massacre of thirteen years ago still impacts life today.
Energetic
When I visited the village, I used to stay with Pakize and her three daughters and two sons. They had lost their husband and father, Osman, in the bombing. I went rather often because I was investigating what had happened for a book I was writing, showing how the massacre was inextricibly linked to the horrors of the suppression of the Kurds since before the foundation of the Republic of Turkey.
I remember little Mahmut, the youngest son of the five children of Osman and Pakize. Mahmut was five years old when he lost his father. He didn’t comprehend yet what had happened, he could only feel the emotions of the people around him. He was a very energetic, happy and funny boy, running around in the small house and the land around it, climbing on doors and swinging back and forth, climbing in trees and running around in the village with his best friend.
He only changed when the family went to the graveyard every Thursday with the other families, or on other occasions on which he held the framed picture of his father. Then he would instantly sit down quietly with a sad expression on his face, holding his treasure carefully. Mahmut is 18 now, an adult. Still the little one, I suppose, for his sisters Hülya, Sinem and Esra and big brother Özkan.
Evidence
How are they? What are their thoughts about the incident in which they lost their father, now that they are adults and have learned to understand what the state did to them? How is Pakize doing? I’d love to sit down and talk. I may call them today, to let them know I never forgot them and never will. They’ll say: “We are doing well.”
Justice has never come. The judicial details are a tangled mess, as usual after Turkey commits a crime against civilians. For some time, it seemed all judicial routes had led nowhere and that justice would never ever be served. I won’t confuse you with the details. But hope has emerged again, in the form of a procedure at the Human Rights Council of the UN, and at Turkey’s Constitutional Court. This was made possible by new evidence that emerged – more details here.
According to procedure, Turkey must respond to the case brought to the Human Rights Council by the end of this year or ask for an extension. So there will be news on this very soon. Whatever the news is, it will only be a small step in the long road ahead. But there is a dedicated lawyer this time, which helps.
Closure
No conflict lasts forever. At some point in time, the full truth will come out, either via the courts or via a real peace process in which the state takes responsibility for what it has done. Don’t think it is unrealistic to hope for this. The unthinkable is unthinkable only until it happens. By then, Pakize and Osman’s children will have built their lives, still with this one big hole in their hearts and scar on their souls. Can the truth one day bring them closure? Can they one day place flowers on his grave and sit by it in peace without demanding justice, because it has been served?
Dear Pakize, dear children, dear village, I am with you today. From a distance, but close. May my heart shrivel if I forget Roboskî.
Fréderike Geerdink is an independent journalist. Follow her on Bluesky (or X) or subscribe to her acclaimed weekly newsletter Expert Kurdistan.
