Essay by Zeynep Coskun
Imagine living in a country, where nearly five-hundred women become the victims of femicide each year. Every time you sit before the TV, a gut-wrenching feeling rises from your body; a feeling you are well acquainted with. You know what’s about to come, and you give rein to your foolish hopes; maybe not today. You turn on the TV and encounter a picture of her on the big screen. She looks content and peaceful, juxtaposing the somber reporter standing right before her picture. He looks at the camera, and says “She was only sixteen.” Her friends and family do not seem to be astonished by the frightening news. They say it was her dress, her smile, her failure to be a loyal and obedient wife. It was her fate. No one deems it a necessity to acknowledge her parents who forced their young daughter to marry a grown adult, the police officer who disregarded her desperate cries for help, and the man who stole away her hopes, her dreams, and eventually her life.
According to the statistics from Kadın Cinayetlerini Durduracağız Platform, the rate of women murdered by men increased by two hundred and sixty percent in the last ten years in Turkey1. This is not a coincidence, but the product of an ingrained male dominance in Turkish society, and the lack of legislation to protect women against violence. Despite the sharp increase in the rate of femicides in Turkey, the president declared Turkey’s withdrawal from the Istanbul Convention in 2021. This convention was crucial for Turkish women since it recognized violence against women as a breach of human rights, and ensured women’s safety against violence in cases where the law was not sufficient by itself. Two days after Turkey’s withdrawal from the Istanbul Convention, twelve women were murdered in only six hours in Turkey. Supporters of the president’s decision argued that the Istanbul Convention was a threat to the unity of the family and that it was destructive of the traditional Turkish family structure. They argued that it was more important to preserve the unity of cultural Turkish families than to protect our women from violence.
In other words, the biggest challenge facing women and girls in my country is that our most basic right, to live, is a matter of politics in Turkey. Thus, we have to live with the fear of death, at any time and in any place. We are afraid to use public transportation, as we remember Özgecan Aslan who was raped and murdered by the bus driver. We are afraid to be alone in our own homes, as we remember Aylin Sözer who was burned to death by her ex-boyfriend in her own house. We are afraid to invoke the help of the police, as we remember Sevtap Şahin who was strangled to death by her husband even though she reported her abuse to the police sixty times before she died, no precautions were taken. We are afraid, even in public spaces, as we remember Emine Bulut, whose throat was cut in front of her ten-year-old daughter during the daytime in a public place. Her last words were: I don’t want to die!
Emine’s scream to live is the scream of all Turkish women. We don’t want to die. And to change the current status quo in Turkey, we must not be afraid to raise our voices against the government’s promotion of gender-based violence. In 2014, our president announced at a summit on Women and Justice that “Women are not equal to men because it goes against the laws of nature,” and that Islam has given women “the calling of motherhood.” 2 While this caused some outrage around the world, it was disregarded in Turkey. Even though it is understandable for Turkish people to be afraid to speak up against our government, we shouldn’t forget that the words of the governors have a grand impact on a big part of Turkey’s population, and it is crucial to speak up against them to take a step further against gender-based violence in our country.
By refusing to stay silent; we can educate people on the matter of violence against women, and we can spread awareness around the world about the suffering that Turkish women are subject to. We must remember that it is never too late to make a change, and maybe someday when we turn on the TV, we won’t have to see the picture of another woman that became the victim of our impassiveness.