When I started this
blog, its purpose was to alleviate some of the boredom resulting from my
unemployment, and to simply give voice to the things I see/wonder every
day and relate them to my interests. I
have never intended for it to be political in context - commentaries such as the one that follows will be few and far between.
The information and quotes in this narrative have been pieced together from various archived sources on the Internet and are attributable to many journalists and activists who have followed Ahmet's story. It makes me alternately horrified, angry and sad; after first becoming acquainted with it, I felt I had to do my own something to make sure Ahmet is not forgotten. I hope that after reading it, you will see why and contribute some personal outrage of your own by reaching out and sharing it with others. Make no mistake: this could have been me, you, or anyone we know. It could have been any of us.
I keep a printout of Ahmet's poster by my computer as a reminder of that simple fact. I am Ahmet's family - and I say, "Justice
for Ahmet. Justice for all of us.”
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They came first for
the Communists,
And I didn’t speak up
because I wasn’t a Communist.
Then they came for
the Jews,
And I didn’t speak up
because I wasn’t a Jew.
Then they came for
the trade unionists,
And I didn’t speak up
because I wasn’t a trade unionist.
Then they came for
the Catholics,
And I didn’t speak up
because I was a Protestant.
Then they came for
me,
And by that time no
one was left to speak up.
This statement, attributed to Lutheran pastor Martin
Niemöller (14.01.1892 – 06.03.1984), has become a legendary expression of the
lesson of the Holocaust. There is some
disagreement over the precise wording
of the poem, as differing versions exist and all are attributed to Niemöller. (Niemöller presented it differently in speeches
on several occasions). This particular
version is inscribed on a plaque at The New England Holocaust Memorial in
Boston, Massachusetts. Ironically,
Niemöller had delivered anti-Semitic sermons early in the Nazi regime and was
initially a supporter of Adolf Hitler, but he later opposed The Führer and was interned at the Sachsenhausen
and Dachau camps from 1938 to 1945.
After his imprisonment he expressed his deep regret at not doing enough
to help the victims of the Nazi purge and became a noted pacifist and anti-war
activist.
The country of Turkey (known in the past as Asia Minor and
Anatolia) is a mass of contradictions.
Although I have never been there, I have several friends of Turkish
ethnicity who invariably compare it to the ocean:
- Turkey is all water, but some of it is warm, some cold;
- At times it is blue, others green;
- It can stretch for miles and be uncharacteristic for its sameness, or it can be treacherous and unforgiving.
Modern Turkey is an amalgam of the secular state with a
predominantly Muslim population; it provides for freedom of religion and
conscience; it was one of the few nations with a Muslim majority to have universal suffrage, yet its human rights record (especially as of late, with
the protests aimed at Prime Minister Recep T. Erdoğan) has been criticized
within the international community; it is a founding member of the United
Nations, but is encountering difficulty with its bid to enter the European
Union because of internal controversies.
Ahmet Yıldiz of Sanliurfa was born into this mass of
contradictions. A 26-year-old physics
student at Marmara University, he had represented Turkey at an international
gay gathering in San Francisco in 2007, and was living with his boyfriend in
Istanbul. On July 15, 2008, as he was leaving
his apartment to buy ice cream, he was shot five times in a drive-by
attack. Ahmet attempted to flee the
scene in his car, but crashed into a building; his partner, Ibrahim Can, heard
the shots and witnessed the collision from an upstairs window. By the time he reached the car, Ahmet was
dead.
Random violence? No.
Ahmet is believed to be the first known victim of a gay
honor killing in Turkey, and has since become that nation’s “gay poster
boy.” Those closest to Ahmet believe he
is as much a victim of Turkey’s friction between growing liberalism and
conservative traditions as much as he is that of anger, fear and
prejudice. Sedef Kakmak, a friend of
Ahmet’s and a lobbyist for gay rights in Istanbul, says, “He fell victim to a
war between old mentalities and growing civil liberties. The more visible we [in the gay community]
become, the more we open ourselves up to this sort of attack.”
What makes Ahmet’s case so tragic is that there were warning
signs of impending violence. Rattled by
their ferocity, Yıldız reported to the State Prosecutor’s Office in Istanbul
that he had received death threats.
Rather than take action, the Prosecutor passed the complaint to a
neighboring district. As Turkish law currently provides no explicit protection against discrimination based on sexual orientation or gender identity, no protection was
provided; the complaint wasn’t even
investigated.
Can told prosecutors that Ahmet’s computer had been hacked,
with all of its photos downloaded.
Further details of a conspiracy emerged from Ahmet’s cousin, who claimed that when Ahmet
told his parents he was gay in October, 2007, “Ahmet’s [deeply religious,
Kurdish] father … warned him to return to their southeastern village and to see
a doctor, to see an imam, in order to cure [himself] of his homosexuality and
to get married. Ahmet refused. [His only crime] was to admit openly that he
was gay.”
A neighbor agreed with the cousin’s account. “From the day I met him, I never heard Ahmet
have a friendly conversation with his parents.
They would argue constantly, mostly about where he was, who he was with,
what he was doing.” Family pressure
increased, and less than a year later, Ahmet was dead. “He could have hidden who he was,” the
neighbor continued, “but he wanted to live honestly. When the death threats [came, Ibrahim] tried
to persuade him to leave … but he stayed.
He was too brave … too open.”
Ahmet himself described the crisis thus:
“I haven’t seen my
family for almost the last eight months.
I expected them to accept the situation during this time; however, it
didn’t happen. Their beliefs, perception
of honor and traditions created fears, which prevented them from discussing my
case even in their thoughts.
“They say there’s a
doctor here in Istanbul. Dad would come
and we’d go visit him together. So I’d
be cured. They think homosexuality is an
illness.”
For rights groups, such as those Kakmak works with, Ahmet’s
ostracism by his family and his inability to get protection in the wake of open
threats is a by-product of the indifference and hostility gays encounter by a
broad section of Turkish society. Men
applying for an exemption to Turkey’s obligatory military service must provide
proof – either in the form of photographs or in the form of a humiliating anal
examination. The media regularly ignores
or laughs off gay violence. Honor
killings are a staggering norm in Turkey (where the majority of victims are
women) because they “cleanse illicit relationships,” according to Mazhar Bagli,
a Turkish sociologist who interviews those committing such murders. (No official statistics are collected
regarding crimes against LGBTQ individuals in Turkey. However, rights groups have reported the
murders of four transgender women and one gay man between January and July 2012
alone.)
Investigators probing Ahmet’s murder soon focused on the
elder Yıldız, as records were uncovered indicating he obtained a car from a
business associate to drive the 600 miles to Istanbul. Cellular phone records place him in the area
the day of the killing, and upon the return of the car, its owner discovered
four empty ammunition cartridges.
Yahya Yıldız explained them away by telling car owner Orhan
Aymelek, “I went hunting.”
Following the murder, the family refused to retrieve Ahmet’s
body from the morgue, which is a general practice following honor
killings. A week passed before a distant
relative claimed him; Ahmet was buried quickly and quietly, and no one from his
immediate family attended. Yahya Yıldız,
Ahmet’s father, fled into northern Iraq and was tried in absentia in September, 2009, for buying and possessing
unlicensed firearms and the premeditated killing of his son.
Every June, Istanbul allows a single Gay Pride Event, and
Ibrahim Can returns from Cologne, where he relocated after Ahmet’s murder. He marches through the crowd each year,
honoring his deceased partner, his expression varying between sorrow, rage, and
determination. “I am fighting for his
rights, for justice. [Yahya Yıldız] is
on the run and Turkey is doing nothing to get the murderers in the court. Many men and women are murdered by their
families,” Can, who has become a central figure in the ascent for LGBTQ rights
in Turkey despite residing in Germany, says.
“Because the perpetrators come from the ranks of families, the homophobic
state is doing nothing to solve these [crimes].”
Witnesses are also shamed and threatened into silence,
claims Ummuhan Darama, a café owner and witness to Ahmet’s killing, who joined
the case as an injured party after being struck by a stray bullet during the
drive-by attack that claimed his life. “Others
are afraid to come forward. The
pharmacist, the neighborhood chief … [they will say nothing]. The state does not protect us.” The window of her café was further destroyed by
bullets after she offered testimony, which she perceived as a threat against
participation in the case. “I knew [Ahmet] as a
quiet, harmless boy. I’m very sad about
his death. I myself do not consent to
homosexuality because I believe in God, [but] nobody has the right to kill a
person, gay or not.”
To date, no one in Yıldız’ family has taken public
responsibility for his death, and Amnesty International, in its own investigative
report, concluded that Istanbul authorities failed to be precise and effective
in their efforts, despite pre-existing evidence and eyewitness testimony. Erdoğan and the majority of Turkish
politicians prefer not to acknowledge homosexuals as part of Turkey’s
population, having committed themselves to the Turkish state’s position that
“homosexuality is a disease, an abnormality and a social deterioration.”
In the five years
since Ahmet’s death, international interest in the case has grown in response
to the weak actions of the Turkish judicial system. Japanese artist Gengoroh Tagame produced a
black-and-white pencil drawing depicting Ahmet with the simple message, “Ahmet
Yıldız is my family.” From around the
world, numerous supporters of Ahmet’s cause have recorded and submitted video messages as part of the drive to stop homophobia: “My name is ___ from
___, and Ahmet is my family.” The LGBTQ and Bear Communities worldwide want to
pay homage to Ahmet Yıldız as a
reminder of all the people that suffer discrimination in the world based on
their sexual orientation, and to ask to all governments to fight
against hate crimes.
Beginning in
January 2013, Amnesty International has spearheaded a letter-writing campaign
to the Turkish Ministry of Justice to investigate the chain of events leading
up to Ahmet’s murder, including the lack of police protection; to call for the extradition of Yahya Yıldız to Turkey to face the appropriate
dispensation of justice for Ahmet’s murder; and to take immediate steps to
combat and prevent other honor killings and hate crimes against LGBTQ individuals. If you would like to participate in this campaign, appeal correspondence should include the salutation
“Dear Minister,” and may be submitted by mail or fax transmission to:
Attention: Minister
of Justice
Ministry
of Justice
Adalet
Bakanlığı
06659
Ankara
Turkey
+90
31241 77113
Ahmet's video memorials and Tagame's poster are available at
http://www.ahmetyildizismyfamily.blogspot.com/. You can view the entire Amnesty International publication by following the link
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