Crying Man
American Istanbul-based writer James Ryan tells a story about his visit to the exhibition of legendary Turkish artist Bedri Baykam whose latest work focuses on the Gezi Park protests, a visit which ended on an interesting note.
James Ryan
Last night I attended the opening of the magnificent multi-media Gezi Park exhibition at Bedri Baykam’s Piramid Sanat in Istanbul. Do not miss this sensual feast. Afterwards, I, my wife and some friends walked across the waste land called Taksim Square. Concrete everywhere, taste nowhere…the standard aesthetic ignorance of the fascist ruling party on full, brutal display. The real Gezi Park stands in all its fragility amidst this enormous gray slather of cement and despair. It is indeed depressing. The first anniversary of the Gezi resistance is two days away. That, too, is depressing. Istanbul Governor Hüseyin Avni Mutlu, an experienced expert in police brutality, has assembled 25,000 of his fascist cops, 50 killer water cannons, assorted other armored vehicles and a few helicopters in case nuclear weapons need targeting. All this military garbage will secure Taksim Square and Gezi Park this Saturday. Everything will be the same…the stupid, mumbo-jumbo official-speak and the fascist violence against peaceful protesters. But worst of all, Erdoğan, the liar, the murderer, the outrageous menace to all that is human in Turkey and the world, is still among us. He still leads this most distressful nation. He still targets any and all groups that can be labeled. He still sets all against each other. It is really too much to bear. How can a western government behave this way? It has neither human standards nor shame.
And the political opposition, if that be its name, still sits on its collective seat, twiddling its collective thumbs. The people cry out for action. Their elected political hacks squat and scratch their noses, apparently their full-time job. There is no democracy in Turkey. There is little hope in Turkey. The thought that more young people will be maimed, some will die, and all will be persecuted by this diabolical government is too much to bear. And having just read that Obama will be collaborating with Turkey to train “moderate” terrorists in Jordan to continue the siege against the Syrian people…well…that finished me. Such deceit and war criminal behavior. What more can be said? What can one do? Except to swear resistance against these American interlopers that impose their imperialistic will against innocent people. To swear resistance against any and all paid-off puppet governments that are lapdogs of America’s criminal purpose. Too bad John F. Kennedy couldn’t have destroyed the CIA before it destroyed him in a sunny Dallas street. Yes, it’s all too, too bad. And the collaborating Turkish big business moguls, the obscenely rich families, Koç and Sabanci, who all deny advertising to the struggling opposition media. For all their billions they have the patriotic instincts of sheep and the courage of rabbits. Too bad for them. Too bad for their wealth.
But so what? Who really cares? The World Cup is coming. And Brazil is the host. Hooray! Hooray! You remember Brazil…the felon nation that sold the pepper gas canisters that killed and blinded Turkish kids. So hurry up and watch the World Cup! Celebrate how wonderful Brazil is. And America too. Not me though. Not anymore. All these thoughts riddled me as I, my wife, and some friends made our way along İstiklal Avenue to have dinner in Nevisade. And then…
Look, my wife said, That man is crying.
Maybe it’s Bulent Arınç, I mumbled, lost in black thoughts.
No, no…Look!
I looked. A man, middle-aged, was weeping hysterically, crouched against the wall, on his knees, bent over, face in his hands.
Do you have five lira?
I only had a ten.
She put it in the small cardboard box in front of him. He never looked up.
Our friends gave him ten more. Same thing, the weeping continued.
The ladies attempted to engage him in conversation. I reached for another ten.
It was of no use, any of it. He would become dehydrated from these tears.
If we gave him the world’s collective savings arranged in neatly stacked shoe boxes with a few towers of gold ingots mixed in, I don’t think it would have made a difference. Was there some point where money would save him? I think not. Money is the poorest solution of all.
Look at Erdoğan, for example. A lost, terminally angry soul, who erupts in carpet-chewing rages at his enemies, both real and imagined. A head of a country who cannot go into the street. A man who never smiles, with a face that contorts itself into sarcastic spasms as his toadies thunderously clap-clap-clap his heavy-handed insults. A so-called man of the people who hates people. A plunderer of the dream that was Turkey. He is still here. And he has grown even more pathetic. And surely someday he, too, will be on his knees, weeping. And no one will give him one thought.