Original language: German
In September 2007, the Heinrich Böll Foundation Turkey co-organized a conference on the “Kurdish Question” in Diyarbakır. Nebahat Akkoç was also in attendance and attempted to redefine the issue in her own words and against the backdrop of her own personal history.
Dear guests, welcome!
Today I would like to express my gratitude twice. First, I would like to thank everyone who worked to make this important event a reality. I will express my second thank you after my presentation.
As you know, KAMER celebrated its 10th anniversary in September 2007. The poster for the celebrations read: “The methods women have developed to free themselves from violence create the possibility of imagining a different world—that is what we trust in.”
Before we could say those words, we had to spend ten long years working with more than thirty thousand women on the issue of violence. This important insight, gained through hard work, demonstrates once again that violence against women is not violence perpetrated by a quarrelsome, sick, uneducated, poor, unemployed, or alcohol-dependent man.
Violence against women is, at its core, the starting point of hierarchies, racism, discrimination, and nationalism, which together form a culture of war, conflict, and violence. Violence against women is systematic and planned. It aims to establish a militaristic system in which women are first isolated in order to ensure their obedience and compliance.
When women begin to resist this violence (and they do so only when the violence becomes unbearable), they start to question hierarchies, racism, discrimination, nationalism, and wars—all of which are individual components of militarism.
The more they question these, the more they change. The more they change, the better we can imagine a world without discrimination, in which all people—with all their differences—are valued.
Being aware of violence and questioning it shatters our entire framework of relationships and everything we’ve learned so far. This phase is painful; it wears us down; we feel homeless and uprooted.
In this phase, it is therefore extremely important for women to support one another. Such solidarity sets new discoveries in motion. We begin to explore every situation, every relationship, and every sentence anew with fresh eyes; we see things we had previously overlooked, redefine them, and give them a different meaning.
We feel as if we’ve been reborn. For we are no longer the daughter of …, the wife of …, the sister of …, the mother of …, we are no longer members of an organization or party that we do not question, where our only duty is to obey and carry out orders. We do not remain objects but become the subjects of our own lives.
To achieve this means understanding everything with our own minds. As a woman who has lived through all of this myself, I have tried to redefine the “Kurdish question” in my own words and against the backdrop of my own history.
What is my “Kurdish question”?
My “Kurdish question” is…
... as someone whose family didn’t speak Kurdish at home, looking enviously at my Kurdish-speaking friends and struggling to be one of them, because they seemed to have more fun and be happier when they were together in groups.
... my childlike eagerness to learn Kurdish, even though my mother and father would scold me, saying, “First learn Turkish properly; then you can always learn Kurdish.”
... my curiosity about why Kurdish wasn’t spoken in our home.
... my literature teacher Türkan, who yelled “Dirty Kurdish girl” at me in 1970 at the girls’ elementary school in Manisa when I arrived late for theater rehearsal.
... dozens of men of all ages who were rounded up in a square in Silvan in 1970 or 1971 and ordered to stand in a line, do a handstand, and crawl on the ground because they had allegedly engaged in “Kurdish separatism”—and the women watching them.
... how, in 1971, in the village of Zeydan near Dicle, where I took my first teaching position, I couldn’t even communicate with my students—who didn’t speak Turkish—in Kurdish, and so I quickly learned a third language, Zaza.
... the prison visits to my husband and my brother, who were imprisoned at the time of the 1980 military coup. My friendship with the women waiting outside the prison—all the women who were forced to wait because they spoke only Kurdish or Zaza, but not Turkish, and could neither read nor write. Each of these women told dozens of stories about the prisoners’ experiences of violence. Each of these women was humiliated, beaten, and imprisoned right outside the prison gates.
... the deep-seated pain on my mother-in-law’s face—she couldn’t speak to her son because she didn’t speak Turkish—and my rebellion against it.
... my time as chair of the local teachers’ union in 1991, the daily news of deaths, my beloved fellow teachers who were murdered or narrowly escaped being murdered.
... investigations, interrogations, and punishments against me because I rebelled against the dying and the killing.
… the Democracy Platform, which we founded out of a dream to establish a counterforce against violence.
... the various activities of the Democracy Platform and, most importantly, the conference on the right to file individual complaints with the European Court of Human Rights (ECHR); followed by the first individual complaints filed with the ECHR.
... my legal battle, which I began in 1992 and which dragged on until the year 2000.
... my husband, who was murdered in 1993.
... the torture and imprisonment I endured between 1994 and 1997; the first steps toward questioning violence and what it means to be a woman.
… my interest in questioning what it means to be a woman, which grew day by day.
... my discoveries about why Kurdish wasn’t spoken in our home: I learned that my mother’s father had been murdered in the village of Garip Uşağı in the Ovacık district of the Tunceli province, and that my mother was actually an Alevi but had grown up in a Turkish Sunni family. I discovered that my father was the child of a family of emigrants who had been resettled from Van to Urfa.
... my realization of why Turkish was spoken at home, why people were so afraid of the street, and why I had learned Zaza so quickly and with such joy.
... KA-MER, which we founded in 1997 with the desire to create our own independent space by women, for women. The daily increase in participation in KA-MER.
... the never-ending obstacles, humiliations, threats, and the price we constantly have to pay for freedom of expression, the right to organize, and the freedom to think independently—in a region divided into camps, and on top of that, as a woman.
... the violence, armed conflicts, grief ... and in the midst of it all, women’s growing awareness, their questioning, and the ways in which they confront these realities.
... the well-meaning “brothers and sisters” who advocate for violence and believe they are engaging in opposition. In doing so, they strengthen those who wish to suppress the independent women’s movement, and thereby also undermine the women’s resistance.
... the joy of being able to foster new hope together with women in the midst of violence and hopelessness.
... that every day, new reports of violence and conflict make my heart bleed.
Well—that is my “Kurdish question.”
What would I do in this situation?
I—and all of us, my friends at KAMER—strive, despite all the difficulties, to take a stand against violence. We believe that by taking this stance on the side of nonviolence, we have made an important contribution to resolving the Kurdish question. Nevertheless, the question kept running through my mind: What would I do in this situation?
I would…
… never think or say: “We fought together; we died together. We are a founding element of this state.” This means fighting for a share in power. If I had ever uttered words that could carry such a meaning, I would have apologized to all the oppressed and marginalized.
… the struggle for a share in power could never be mine.
… I would do everything in my power to put a stop to wars, violence, and armed conflicts.
… There would have been no reason for me to justify violence. I would develop every possible form of nonviolent resistance and, with the support of nongovernmental organizations, fight against violence and for a more civilized society.
… In this way, I would open a path into society for the people who spend their lives in the mountains.
… Instead of obstructing the path of independent women’s organizations—which are organizing to create a culture of nonviolence, recognize the link between the normalization of violence and sexism, and advocate for women’s liberation—I would strive to support them.
…I would recognize that sexism has existed for centuries and that we have all internalized it. Therefore, I would also understand that initiatives to challenge sexism must be independent. I would support and encourage them.
…I would not view those who are different from me or who are not on my side as enemies. With the understanding that diversity is an asset, and with a belief in freedom of expression and the right to organize, I would try to listen to these people, understand them, learn from them, and convince them—and I would be open to being convinced myself.
…I would never forget that, at its core, it is about people. In my search for my identity, I would reflect on who lived here a hundred years ago and what became of those people.
…I wouldn’t define myself by my status as a victim; rather, I would strive to recognize the disadvantages faced by every person and to be part of the solution.
…I would trust that the solution to the problem begins with me, and based on that trust, I would strive to create a new language for myself and adopt new behaviors.
…I would hold fast to the belief that participatory democracy is the only solution, and I would keep my ears open to everyone who has something to say about it.
…I would listen to women’s calls for participation.
Women say:
We want the right to think and act independently!
We want a world where people are not polarized, where everyone benefits from diverse affiliations but can live according to their own decisions. We have seen that it is not only women who are objectified. As long as participation is not guaranteed, this practice will continue—we know that, too.
We want a world without hierarchies!
To achieve this, we propose starting by sharing what we ourselves possess—not what others possess. We have come to understand that hierarchies are fueled by behaviors that seem utterly mundane in everyday life, yet which constantly reinforce these hierarchies anew. We know that it is possible to develop relationships without belittling anyone and without devaluing the knowledge and experiences of others. We also know that the solution to this problem begins with each and every one of us, and that we don’t need to look for the solution far away. We don’t want a world ruled by those who hold power in their hands.
We want a world without discrimination!
We want everyone to have the freedom to embrace their differences. No one should be belittled or marginalized simply for being different. Getting to know one another, talking to one another, and showing empathy are the tools we need to combat discrimination. Recognizing that every person is different and that each of us bears responsibility for how that diversity is described—this is the first step on the path to a world without discrimination.
We want a world without violence!
We long for a world where people are aware of the various forms of violence and where violence is never justified in any way.
We want a world based on sharing and solidarity!
We want a life that empowers us by sharing our knowledge and experience, our successes, duties, and responsibilities with one another.
We want a life in harmony with universal human rights, without losing our local distinctiveness!
No matter where we live, whatever language we speak, or whatever our economic situation or level of education may be—we hope for a world in which all people can live their lives, in all their diversity, in accordance with universal human rights.
As I conclude my presentation, I would now like to express my second expression of gratitude. Because I conducted an independent study and because I initiated efforts to combat sexism, I have been facing criminal charges for the past ten years. This was my first opportunity to give a presentation in this region and at a conference of this kind. That is why I would like to thank the Heinrich Böll Foundation and the Diyarbakır Bar Association for providing me with this opportunity.
