A group of international academics, lawyers, trade unionists and activists travelled to Turkey’s Kurdish-majority southeast as election observers to witness the country’s epochal elections to be held on 14 May. In a series of articles to be published every day by Medya News leading up the elections, members of the UK delegation share the international election observers delegations’ findings from the ground.
Anne Ohne
The days here are always busy, with each candidate and supporter inspiring us with endless motivation and energy on the campaign trail. Yesterday evening we attended a plentiful village peace dinner with speeches from candidates, photographs, çay (chai – tea) and discussions about peoples hope for the election. Today, we set off early on Tuesday morning and joined a 20-car convoy from Amed (Diyabakır), bedecked in YSP (Yeşil Sol Parti – Green Left Party) flags, heading for the villages of the Amed region. As we went, we stopped at YSP offices and collected more and more cars for our convoy. By the time we were truly on the way, the cars numbered close to one hundred. Some people blasted Kurdish music from their speakers, some stood in the beds of trucks, some hung from windows and sunroofs and all cars were filled with revolutionary spirit.
The days are also full of joy. Resistance is a joyful thing, and joy in the face of oppression is a powerful form of resistance. With music, cheers, çay and victory signs the convoy spreads joy and hope throughout the villages and fuels the fires of resistance. No movement I have been part of has brimmed with so much joy. No revolution dances so much as the Kurdish one.
Faces of Kurdish children
The purest joy we saw was in the faces of the Kurdish children we passed. The joy of the children snatching flags from the hands of hevals (heval – a Kurdish term for comrade or friend) as they waved from car windows, running alongside the convoy shouting and cheering. The joy of children leaning out of windows giving us the victory sign. The joy of the next Kurdish generation recognising that this winding snake of Yeşil Sol cars represents their free futures. I have never seen young children so invigorated by a campaign until now.
But as we drove through village after village I began to wonder whether young children should be so excited to see their future fought for. Perhaps they shouldn’t understand at all – should they not be concerned with the finer politics of playground etiquette and sibling rivalries? In their excitement, the children made it clear to me that they also pay the price of fascist state violence, and know too well what it is to be a part of a racialised community. They come face to face with their oppression far too young, and already they understand what it is to be oppressed far more than they should ever have to.
In the evening, we sat with a family drinking çay. A young boy was kicking a football around outside, laughing with the other children. He is 4 years old, but seemed particularly small for his age. As we watched them play, we were told by the women we are sharing çay with that this boy will go to prison tomorrow. Most children I know that age have only just begun to understand the concept of freedom and oppression, and this in the form of parental discipline; through bedtimes, vegetables and turning off the TV. But for this child – and so many like him – it is all too literal.
His mother was arrested a week ago, and is being held in prison, where he will join her. She will remain there while she is awaiting her sentencing – which can take months or even years. His grandmother is living this part of her life behind bars too – as goes the story for so many Kurdish women fighting for their Azadî (Freedom). Our friends told us, ‘they come for the women first because they are afraid of our strength’.
Resistance, love, solidarity, hope
We may be surrounded by joy – but spending time with families, there is also a persistent hum of loss and yearning. It is impossible to express how inspiring it is to see so much hope shared by so many people, but also how wrenching it is to imagine the sacrifices they have made in the past – as well as the potential sacrifices they will be making in the future, and what they’re putting on the line to fight for their existence. Because for these people there is no alternative to fighting.
Here, we meet so many people full of resistance, love, solidarity and hope. But beneath this, there is a strong undercurrent of desperation. As in, this election is the last chance – because there is no alternative. The reality of their oppression continuing, worsening – and of the impact this will have on the lives of their children, and their childrens’ children. So many hevals have martyrs in the family. So many are in prison, have family members in prison, have spent time in prison themselves and face the imminent prospect of imprisonment. At this moment, there seems to be a deep understanding that all of that has been, and all of that may continue to be – but here, now, there is a glimmer of hope. A hope and defiance that inspires many parents to choose to fight for their childrens’ futures whatever the cost. Hevals with young children are on the campaign trail every day – leaving children in the care of family and community, or even bringing them along with them.
It is not uncommon for infants and young children to join their mothers behind bars. And of this particular child, our friend said, ‘He will live his childhood within four walls. For how long, we don’t know.’ As she told me this, she was feeding him rice while he played on a phone. They explained to us that, too young to understand, he was told his mother was in hospital. But when they visited, he cried and said ‘this is not a hospital’.
Time to say goodbye
Late in the evening, the time came for them to say goodbye. Sharing this moment with them was at once heartbreaking and deeply inspiring – because they were not hopeless. These Kurdish women are defiant, even in the face of such tragedy. They held him tight as they said goodbye, plastering him with kisses though he squirmed, not understanding why they were being so affectionate. They laughed with him and smiled, waving after him as he left. Only after they were gone did they share tears. They told us, ‘We must build a better future for our children. We have to rise up.’
This family’s story is not a unique one – and the mood of the supporters is that unless something changes, then how many more young children will have to spend their childhood behind bars, sharing the trauma of their mothers, grandmothers, sisters, fathers, brothers, aunts and uncles?
Once the boy had left, our friend turned to me and said; ‘Unfortunately, our goodbyes are always so heavy.’
