No Use Crying Over Spilt Blood
There was a bomb threat when I used to live in Ankara. Before the dangerous days of Erdoğan these events were rare and not seemingly part of something large, sinister and obvious the way it is now. My house, perched on the edge of a valley, overlooked the entire city and I sat glued to the window in terror imagining a blast of fire and debris shooting up from downtown. I wrote a poem called 36 kilos, which was the amount of explosives found. The terror came, then subsided. On that day, the streets remained the same.
But the streets haven’t been the same for a while now. During the Gezi protests I stayed on Twitter and Facebook for hours on end, passing messages back and forth with the comfort of knowing I couldn’t be arrested from the safety of Ireland. I was sent an article with a photo of the street where I used to live shrouded in tear gas. Turkey was a home, and piece by piece it was cracking and disintegrating. What street was this? Not mine, not mine anymore.
Since then blood has broken on the grey concrete slabs of Turkish pavements, drop by drop but yesterday it flowed, it spilt on the dusty autumn ground. It made the air rank with death while tear gas filled the lungs of survivors, more insult to horrific injury. As of today 96 have died in the two Ankara bomb blasts during a peaceful rally. According to reports they were holding hands and dancing and singing when shrapnel tore through hopeful, optimistic flesh.
The government blocked social media and threatened news outlets, attempting to stop the spread of news about the bombings. A bloodied fist trying to wipe away the bodies, no, nothing to see here. No use crying over spilt blood. Friends of friends of friends lie under peace flags, growing colder than the ground they’re on, three degrees of separation but that’s already too close for comfort.
So what now? What can my friends do when their lives are in serious danger if they go to a protest? The message was clear: give up, stop, or more death will come. But giving up is not an option. So what can they do without risking their lives?
Keep talking. Keep sharing. In the safest way possible, keep fighting. And on November 1st you can show them that you are not scared, because no matter what they do ballots will always be stronger than bombs.
And from here, I’ll keep writing so I can fight the squirm of burning hot helplessness in my gut. My feet are not marching on Turkish streets, and my vote will not be on a ballot on the day it matters. I am not Turkish and never will be, but it was a home that welcomed me and loved me back. It was a home that gave me a family and an identity that will last a lifetime. It is a home that I am losing, and as it falls away I try my best to keep it tied to me with words.
I will write, because it’s all I can do.
Hurriet Daily News: Protesters gather at scene of Ankara bombings; 95 dead
BBC: Ankara explosions leave almost 100 dead
Independent.co.uk: Ankara terror attack: Turkey censors media coverage of bombings as Twitter and Facebook 'blocked'
Ankara attacks: innocent hearts beating for peace are brutally stopped