As a Kurdish child who escaped with her family to Australia, as a so called ‘legal’ refugee, I grew up in the hell of Saddam’s war on the Kurds and then in the caves and mountains, and if lucky refugee camps, or in people’s homes, living on the charity of the starving; where eating was a luxury afforded to us sporadically. We were only children, little Aylan’s ourselves, but we knew the colour of fear, we tasted hunger early, learned to savour its flavour and understood that our crime was the burden of being landless people…
As Kurds, as refugees, as people from war ravaged communities when we share these pictures we need the world to see what we suffer and go through every single day. We need the world to see pictures that are our daily reality and life! We do not have the luxury of not seeing these pictures. For many of you it may be one or two friends who share this image. On my feed, the hundreds of Kurdish families, friends and fellow refugees share their grief and pain by sharing little Aylan’s image. I couldn’t escape seeing his little body twisted on that sandy shore even if I wanted to! As oppressed people our unbearable grief- wounds that never really heal and forever remain bleeding invisible rivers of blood, carried with us across distant shores not so long ago- only finds comfort in speaking about this pain so heartbreakingly eulogized by Aylan’s little body; his little shoes skewed, taken away too soon from a life where death is the first word children learn- and still, I wonder “why didn’t they wrap his little cold body in a blanket?!”, he must have been so cold, so cold! and my heart slams itself against my rib cage so hard again and again because I feel so much pain; this is what it means to be a refugee. Even your heart wants to escape the traps of your body, your pain.
We run across distant lands and navigate treacherous seas as refugees but for many for us this is the safest place. It is when we land on our 'safe harbour’ that the apathy, the hate, the racism, the exclusion, the deliberate systematic, constant feelings of not belonging, of being shamed for your homelessness, your landlessness, your differentness, your otherness is painted across your consciousness. Be ashamed, be silent, be grateful, swallow the hateful words like the choiceless widows left with no husband and too many hungry little mouths to feed in refugee camps. And so you remain silent because you also remember Saddam’s bombs falling too vividly, the smell of chemical weapons meant to kill you when you were exactly the same age as Aylan yourself…
And so we share images of his little body BECAUSE we are heartbroken, BECAUSE we have left too many little bodies across our own borders and shores, BECAUSE we may be safe but my uncle, grandfather, cousins, neighbours are still getting on rickety boats organised by greedy, beady eyed smugglers whose fistful’s of money shrewdly hide the blood stains tattooed on their hands. Don’t silence us as we share our grief; we have been silenced for so long! Speak with us! Stand with us! Shed tears with us! Share images of the other hundreds of our little Aylan’s with us! break open your heart and let yourself bleed with us! Stand on street corners with us as we call for change! Sign petitions with us! Make friends with us! Reach out to us! But don’t ask us to hide the bodies of our dead children; because for many of us, this is all we have left.
I have shed so many tears today; I am so tired of my ethnicity, a crime I committed before I was even born, drawing bullets like sharks smelling blood; too many sleepless nights, too many stories of grief, too many people to educate and inform, too many dead and broken bodies of our little ones. Don’t ask me not to share my grief. Don’t tell me to hide my pain, to be silent so that you may remain comfortable for a moment longer, because you may as well ask me to strip my skin, shed my heart and stop breathing.
Oh my little Aylan, I could never shed enough tears for you. I will never let them silence me. For you- I will speak forever.
SYRIA, AIN AL-ARAB : A Kurdish fighter holds his child in the center of the Syrian border town of Kobane, known as Ain al-Arab, on January 28, 2015. Kurdish forces recaptured the strategic town on the Turkish frontier on January 26 in a symbolic blow for the jihadists who have seized swathes of territory in a brutal onslaught across Syria and Iraq. AFP PHOTO / BULENT KILIC
Koro halinde susuluyordu
yüksek sesle konuşanlara
İnanır olmuştu insanlar.
İncelik yalnızlığa dönüşe dönüşe bitmişti.
elbette gökyüzü bir lükstü
Ve ancak yağmur yağınca anımsanıyordu…
Kurdish media outlets are abuzz with a photograph of a Peshmerga woman, sitting beside an automatic weapon, breastfeeding her child. The picture has been widely distributed on social networking sites, highlighting the strength of Kurdish women and the resilience of female combatants in the ongoing fight against ISIS.
haydutlar uçaklarıyla, magriplilerle haydutlar yüzükleriyle ve düşeslerle, haydutlar kara keşişleriyle ve dualarla indiler gökten yere öldürmeye çocukları. koştu çocuk kanı gibi sokaklarda çocukların kanı.
Doğan ulu günün ortasına bakın: Bu topraktan güler ölüleriniz. Kalkık yumrukları titrer,
Buğdayın üstünde, Bilesiniz.
Pablo Neruda Görsel : İlyas Akengin (AFP) - Silopi - A women and her children stand in the ruins of battle-damaged house in the Kurdish town of Silopi, in southeastern Turkey, near the border with Iraq on January 19, 2016
Bir insanı, hele hele bir çocuğu iyi yola sokmak istiyorsan itip kakmayacaksın onu… Çocuklara bir kat daha özenle davranmak gerekir. Ah siz ilerici kafasızlar, dünyadan haberiniz yok! İnsana saygınız yok.