Power of Word

24 January 2007 Yesterday was the funeral of Hrant Dink in Istanbul, shot at the broad daylight in front of his newspaper office last Friday, Jan 19th. Now we say it quietly, as a fact. As if we knew it had to happen. How else? Dink was best known for his role as editor of “Agos” bilingual Turkish-Armenian weekly in Istanbul, started since 1996. He was charged and convicted of insulting Turkishness in Turkey, which were denied by him. Some hundred thousands of people were after his coffin. Glorified after death? There are no prophets in their countries. This time – born in Turkey, citizen of Turkey, but a real Armenian by his heart and deeds. Yesterday here in New York, like in many other cities through the world, there was a candle memorial demonstration in the evening, on 46str./1Av. Around 300 Armenians all over New York state gathered to protest and mourn. And, across the narrow 46 St. some 10-15 Turks – opposite us – across. With signs like “Stop Armenian lies…Open Archives…” Lies…The liar telling you that you lie. Almost a century passed – still the same. That much blood, martyrs, innocent people. How many more they need? They still stay opposite, shouting and singing, shouting over quite speeches and civilized mourning of the Armenian crowd. Bursting barbarian aggression into the air, across the street. You wouldn’t want to stand near them – so aggressive they made the area around them. They feel “Europeans”, ready to enter the EU. And yet not capable to cross a narrow street and join the Armenian demonstration in raising a voice against the violence, to say “we’re sorry, we’re with you”. Like Hrant Dink was saying about denial of Armenian genocide by Turks: “What’s for me in that? I don’t have anything in it. That’s your interest – by acceptance for you to become human…” I was upset to see even those few Turks – opposite – distracting conversation and prayers – like a mock, offense. To see their behavior. Something never changes or changes only on the surface. Violent, brutal, wild. Oh, I know these faces, these features, the sound of language – it’s imprinted in my genes memory without even communicating them in my younger age. I wanted to post a photo and express my feelings in writing. What image? Nothing came to my mind. Just blank. Blank, the way our life is when we come here and start writing a new story. Blank – the death is at the moment of crashing the life and starting to write its story. The story of life and death, fear and heroism, truth, consciousness…Or an image of a flying pigeon? Yesterday I was watching by internet the photos of Hrant’s funeral and videos of his speeches. So wise, educated, smart, well-balanced, fair, true, so true…“I do not know how real these threats are, but what’s really unbearable is the psychological torture that I’m living in. I am just like a pigeon… I look around to my left and right, in front and behind me as much as it does. My head is just as active…but also know that in this country, they love pigeons and do not shoot them”, - I read there. His wife and children released a pigeons into the skies at his funeral. I didn’t know this – just saw it yesterday.Then, the only image appeared in my head were our letters, our beautiful Armenian letters. Or book. I don’t know why. Maybe because these letters and language helped us to sustain philosophy, literature, thoughts, thinking – being human. Maybe because Hrant was and is a writer, dreamer, philosopher freely expressing himself through these divine language and letters. Knowing so well the power of word, of thoughts expressed in words. So powerful that you can be killed for that – to make you silent. For the moment. But word is like a bird – once released, high up – it flies and has its own life…news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/europe/6279241.stmnews.yahoo.com/s/afp/20070120/en_afp/turkeyarmeniamedia_0...news.yahoo.com/photos/ss/events/wl/011907hrantdinkwww.armeniapedia.org/index.php?title=Hrant_Dinkwww.turkishdailynews.com.tr/article.php?enewsid=64795