March 8 2019, Istanbul.

A friend writes: “A fan­ta­sized March the 8th. The only ones to prof­it were the sur­round­ing bars. After-par­ty, they called it. What was there to cel­e­brate? I did­n’t feel like danc­ing tonight. Drink­ing, maybe.”


English | Français

 I looked at your images on my phone all evening. Sto­ry, sto­ries, dashed off and for­got­ten the next day, like the march over there, tonight, that did­n’t take off. It did­n’t work over here either, you know. We would rather sit on the ter­races as spring erupts rather than  clam­or, again, under the boo­ing from bunch­es of guys fill­ing the court­yard. Still, you are smil­ing.  A friend writes: “We knocked down the bar­ri­cades they had set up to block off the street.” I watched the news, read the arti­cles, there was bare­ly a word to account for all your sto­ries: “vio­lent repres­sion of a wom­en’s demon­stra­tion.” Key-words, a few lines. Writ­ing to spec­i­fi­ca­tions. You are hurt­ing. I would love to embrace you. I would love if we knocked down all the bar­ri­cades together.

April 17, Istanbul.

I wrote: the ash­es from Gezi are still warm.  I said “the ash­es”, not the embers, make no mis­take about it. Tonight Ekrem Imamoğlu received his man­date cer­tifi­cate and you are smil­ing. A friend tells me: “I had left, I did­n’t think I would vote because I don’t believe in this dis­ap­point­ing polit­i­cal sys­tem any­more. I had left and then, at the last minute, I went back. I vot­ed. He won. For the first time in four years, I…” She hes­i­tates. “I have hope.” Tonight on Istik­lal, there are no bar­ri­cades. There is a fra­grance of spring, spring­time for­got­ten in some spot in the body, tinged with rebel­lion and desire.

Tonight, I embraced my friends and they spoke of hope, a tiny lit­tle hope they had stored away beside de rebel­lions and the desire. Togeth­er, we watched films that spoke of love, of women who love, of hope, of desire, of rebel­lions. We said we would do it all again. Tonight, on Istik­lal, there were too many smiles for this to be coin­ci­den­tal.  Tonight, I hear singing in Kur­dish and the police keep a low pro­file. Tonight, the ash­es of Gezi are still warm.

May 1st 2019, Marseille.

Tonight, we watched some movies. They talked of how one arrives in Istan­bul and gets lost in its ten­ta­cles, in its invis­i­ble remi­fi­ca­tions, how one los­es foot­ing at times in the over­ly vast waters of the Bospho­rus and how one ris­es to the sur­face, in tri­umphant hope. They talked of the work done by the women no one sees, of exiles that throw a dif­fer­ent col­or on ours, of bleed­ing hearts, of hands that stay clasped despite fear and rejec­tion. They talked of our pride, our strug­gles, our wish­es and our will to be, to become, to remain sis­ters, broth­ers, bris­ters? Despite the dis­tances. Tonight, we watched movies and we wrote to those who could­n’t be with us. A lit­tle girl drew a sun for a jailed child. I glued pho­tos of your faces on a friend­ly spot.  We embraced too many times to keep count. Tonight, a friend come from Istan­bul to share these movies told me: “It’s the first time I get these feel­ings while show­ing movies.” We stayed togeth­er all evening, all night, not want­i­ng it to stop. The next day as she was leav­ing, my friend said: “See you in Istan­bul for the Pride. This year, we’ll be able to orga­nize it.” She smiled.

May 6 2019

My friend wrote: “The gov­ern­ment has just annuled the Istan­bul elec­tion.” With a smi­ley, turned upside down. Your sto­ries have turned dan­ger-red and mem­o­ry-green. Past. Present. You tell me you are sad. My friend is wait­ing for the date, she knows they will announce a date.  A date for the re-elec­tion. I tell her we will show some movies and, mabye, it will work again , that he won’t win, that they won’t win. The naive hope of mag­i­cal think­ing in future tense. She agrees any­way. But all of a sud­den it’s as if the future were blocked once again, as if  hope, rebel­lions and  desire had been scared off.  We talk in the present, the time­lapse of a dis­ap­point­ed sto­ry that nev­er ends. You are dis­gust­ed. I would love to embrace you, to see you smile, to tear down bar­ri­cades with you. I would love us to stir up the warm ash­es to rekin­dle the wish­es, the hope, the rebellions.

Your friend J.


Translation by Renée Lucie Bourges
iknowiknowiknowblog.wordpress.com
Vous pouvez utiliser, partager les articles et les traductions de Kedistan en précisant la source et en ajoutant un lien afin de respecter le travail des auteur(e)s et traductrices/teurs. Merci.
Kedistan’ın tüm yayınlarını, yazar ve çevirmenlerin emeğine saygı göstererek, kaynak ve link vererek paylaşabilirsiniz. Teşekkürler.
Ji kerema xwere dema hun nivîsên Kedistanê parve dikin, ji bo rêzgirtina maf û keda nivîskar û wergêr, lînk û navê malperê wek çavkanî diyar bikin. Spas.
You may use and share Kedistan’s articles and translations, specifying the source and adding a link in order to respect the writer(s) and translator(s) work. Thank you.
Por respeto hacia la labor de las autoras y traductoras, puedes utilizar y compartir los artículos y las traducciones de Kedistan citando la fuente y añadiendo el enlace. Gracias
Auteur(e) invité(e)
Auteur(e)s Invité(e)s
AmiEs con­tributri­ces, con­tribu­teurs tra­ver­sant les pages de Kedis­tan, occa­sion­nelle­ment ou régulièrement…