An Open Letter to the First Lady of Turkey

Dear Berna Yilmaz,

	Because you are the wife of Prime Minister, you probably receive 
hundreds if not thousands of letters from people all over the country.
	Some ask for peace,
	Some for work.
	Other share with you a problem with the hope that you will be part of its 
solution.
	Some want to reach goals that may not be attainable.
	There are still others who write you and tell you that they can not pay 
the cost of an operation for their loved ones and those who can not pay for the 
prescribed medication.
	Some may be the relatives of deceased ones in the hospitals who may 
ask you to write to a hospital to let it release the body of the deceased person since 
they can not pay for the hospital costs.  And of course, there are other letters, 
the ones that congratulate you for your work or recognize you for your 
achievements.
	I thought I too would add a letter, be another one in your mail list.  You 
donšt know me or you may know me through the media or shall I say the way 
media has projected me.
	For example, a "Bandit!", a "Terrorist!", a "Separatist!" a "Traitor!" or a 
convicted member of PKK.  The list goes on.
	I am not the least concerned to be associated with these descriptions.  
They, in a way, point to the alleged players on the stage whose roots go back to 
history.  I want to refer to a bleeding geography and also to the concerted 
efforts of the ruling circles to deny the very existence of a people.  I am 
referring to the struggle of those who are standing up to oppression for peace, 
freedom, brotherhood, democracy and labor rights.  I have in mind their 
principled stands and how they were seen fit to assume those names.  In other 
words, I am referring to the reality of my country, of its peoples and the state 
of affairs that are unfolding in it.
	If it needs to be stated again, I belong to those who seek peace.
	I know you through the media.  Your warm disposition, friendly face, 
interested and humble ways that come across in numerous places.  So I am 
writing this letter to you as a woman and also as a mother.  Because I think we 
have at least those two things in common.  But then I may be mistaken.
	You may ask what prompted this letter?
	A few years back, I read in an interview your views about the ongoing 
conflict.  You were asked to comment on the war between the Turkish army 
and the PKK.  While you did the usual, calling the question a problem of the 
southeast, but you also uttered the taboo words, the need for peace and a 
humane approach to resolve the conflict.  I may not be quoting you verbatim, 
but I remember you saying that you did not want the mothers to cry and that 
you were very worried about the state of things.
	These words were moving, not the usual remarks of the wife of Prime 
Minister.  There was no disguised form of chauvinism, racism, and the talk 
about blood in your remarks.
	Then I remember the accident/incident in which your son hurting himself 
in a sporting event was sent to Austria with a private plane to get proper 
medical care.  The televised images of your sadness were real.  You were 
distraught.  You wanted to be with your son and the anxiety was showing all 
over your face.
	It was the anxiety of a mother.  Watching you, I did not want to think 
that you were the wife of Prime Minister, I wanted to understand you as a 
mother.  A part of you had been hurt and you wanted to be with your son as 
soon as possible.  And you finally got to see him.
	And yet, there are mothers in Turkey, forget about being able to be with 
their children, do not even know where they are.  They can not reach them, 
embrace them, smell them or touch them.
	They do not even have a grave site for them, a place these mothers 
could shed their tears.
	These mothers, for years now, every Saturday, meet in front of 
Galatasaray High School at noon, with pictures of their loved ones in their 
hands.  They want to share their pain by means of peaceful sit-ins.
	They do not loiter, they do not block the traffic, and they do not attack 
the spectators.
	They want to sit there in front of that high school to voice their 
deadening silence about their losses.
	The names of their loved ones were Mehmet, Hasan, Yavuz, Aysel and 
Savas at one time.  But they all have one name now: disappeared ones.
	The names of the mothers are Emine, Esma, Yildiz, and Pervin.  Now, 
they have one name as well: the mothers of disappeared ones or Saturday 
Mothers.
	Do you know what is happening to them for weeks now?
	Elite police forces with their batons, shields, and guns accompanied with 
the sounds of siren attack these mothers, pull their hairs, haul their bodies, 
beat their torsos, subject them to pressurized water and force them to board 
the waiting busses for police stations.  They are then kept for a few days and 
then released.  These mothers gather in front of that high school for what they 
feel in their hearts.  Will they ever stop coming?  Dauntlessly, they come back.  
Their crime is to be the Saturday Mothers.  Their crime is to love their sons 
and daughters.
	You are a mother and they are mothers.
	You have a son named Hasan and another named Yavuz.  They had 
sons at one time.
	You love your children.  These mothers are even denied a opportunity to 
express their love for their children.
	Moreover, these mothers donšt want other mothers to face their 
predicament.  In other words, they love the children of others as well.  They 
donšt want any disappearances.  They love peace so that war will not consume 
their loved ones.  And because of that, they keep coming back to the same spot 
for weeks and sit for hours without getting tired.  In other words, their love is 
boundless, deep and universal.
	One Saturday, I urge you, please, to go to Galatasaray High School.  Go 
see those mothers.  Take them a flower, a carnation, or a September rose, and 
be part of their pain.  If only for a few minutes, be a Saturday Mother, be a 
mother of the disappeared.  Don't be afraid of elite police forces.  Don't be afraid 
of the sounds of siren that have legitimized lawlessness, injustice, and 
oppression.  The police won't touch you.  No, they will not be able to touch you.  
Then, believe me, you will love yourself more and your children too.
	You can be one of the "first" ones to do so.  You can set aside the so 
called traditions of hundreds of years.
	Remember that Princess Diana broke the tradition of remaining aloof, 
and became one of the people, and was mourned by millions when her untimely 
death arrived.  And she lives today in the hearts of additional millions because 
of her principled stand against the threat of mines.
	Back to our country, the cease-fire that PKK declared goes on despite 
the provocation, despite the silence of many in the positions of authority. 
	You said, mothers should not cry.  But mothers are still crying even as 
one side to this war is willing to take the road of peace.
	Here is a golden opportunity for you.  You can bring the crying Turkish 
and Kurdish mothers together.  And the mothers of disappeared as well.
	Or you could choose to be the mother of only Yavuz and Hasan. ...

(Translated by the staff of the American Kurdish Information Network)