Saniya Saraf

Pinar Gültekin’s murder stood testament to a phenomena that is revoltingly similar and intrinsic to the culture of my country. Beaten, strangled and burnt, her body was recovered days later in a forested area in the Yerkesik neighbourhood. It was later found to be a married man who in a fit of rage decided the price to pay for romantic refusal was bodily massacre. So when my social media started flooding with pictures of women in black and white, it felt insufficient and scanty. Another woman lost at the hands of whim. Protest filled the streets yet the ordeal felt familiar and repetitive – her story represents a far deeper rooted cultural detriment.

What surprised me was not the incident itself but the manner in which I was able to approach the news – as if it was no news at all. The notion that women’s positions in the world has drastically improved is a fragmented one. It is a privilege – one that not all cultures savour. ‘Pinar’ as a piece, to me illustrates the fundamental need of intersectionality in feminist theory. The femicide in Turkey represents a culture towards women that as alien as it may seem is so embedded that one stops to wonder how far we’ve really come in the evolution of feminism as both an ideology and a phenomenon.

It’s an unusually intense piece and you might find yourself debating its realism. I’d say go ahead and do it – that to me is the very point of writing it.

For context: https://www.theguardian.com/world/2020/jul/23/turkey-outrage-rising-violence-against-women

Strangling noises fill the air followed by multiple gasps. The sound ceases abruptly, mid-gasp and silence emerges. No sound is heard for eight seconds.

Woman’s voice:

(Eerily in a Turkish accent. The monologue is spoken in a deliberate and dawdling tone)

I can feel you (pause). I can feel the clutch of your fingers. They are wrapped around my neck. They are taking my breath away. You are (giggles loudly) taking my breath away.

(pauses)

(The tone becomes remembering, fond and gentle)

You always took my breath away. You were so powerful and strong. So handsome, (confirmatory in tone) yes, and so charming. Anne liked you. Before. (Thoughtfully) Sibyl liked you too. But that was all before. Before, you remember? (tone accelerating) before, uh, before (panicked) before, before, um, (hysterically) before. (In a frenzied tone) You remember, don’t you? (whispering, fearfully) I was clean then. (Panicked, as if trying to remember) Con-control? I had control? Shame? No, no, shame came later. (Tearfully, almost pleadingly) You know right?

(Pause, then quietly almost in a whisper)

I thought you respected me. I was not like my baci. She cooked and cleaned and helped baba. I went to school. I studied. They called me the Akıllı kız. (Thoughtfully) you never did. You praised me when you were, uh, when you were not in a mood. Güzelim. My beauty. It made me warm inside. Before. Not after. Before. When you said it just now, before you started stealing my breath, then It felt, (pauses) it felt like it feels now. Now when your hands are cuffing my throat. Your eyes are looking at me but I don’t see you, I see rage. Rage. (Quietly) Rage. (Pauses) Angry. You feel angry. You feel hurt. I said no. It hurt you. That is my mistake, I suppose. (Eerily)I should have said yes. It doesn’t matter, I suppose. What does it really matter? (Laughs loudly) You take away from me my breath. My physical being finally aligns with my internal self. I have not been living and now you are finally putting my dead out for them to see. (Loudly) All of you listening! You know them right? Who? (Laughs) Them! How could you not know them? They are very important. They keep me in check! They’re responsible for all of my achievements! Like now? I have such (laughs nervously) silly really, thoughts in my head? But don’t worry! They would cringe if I bothered you with them. They’re constantly watching me, correcting me! (Tone starts to shift, a slight hint of bitterness coming through) They’re lovely at regulating my bad habits. They gnaw at me when I start eating too much. They’ve been so good at it that now I can make it the whole day with just one meal If I eat more, they make me throw it up. I have a fantastic body and its all thanks to them. They said I’d be attractive once I lost all that god-horrid weight. But they, I think, they changed their mind? (Confused) I don’t know. They still think I could look much better. (Defensively) And I agree, of course! Self improvement is very important to me. (In a confirmatory tone, as if trying to convince) They help me better myself. I cannot say we don’t have our struggles, well, obviously we do. (Pauses) But they’re always there for me! Not always, always. Most of the time! Not when I’m being like that. When I’m normal, they reward me! First they came in form of baba. Baba loved me, but I could see a them in baba. I was his afet. His storm. (Laughs nervously) I gave him so much trouble. But my baba was ever so kind to me! He sent me to school. He let me study. (Reminiscing in tone) Baba was lovely. He never let me where shameful attire. He stoped my anne from being too lenient with me. He made me learn how to do chores. He instilled in me my femininity. Then, suddenly as I grew, they came to me from everywhere. I saw them in my abi. He never let me talk to the bad men. He picked who I could talk to. So I could stay safe. They were also there in all those men. You know, the ones who cat called, to remind me that I should not be walking on the streets during the late hour. They were there in the man who came before you, too. He reminded me I can’t stay unmarried for too long. (Chuckles) The women had them too. They came out in women through their support, love, acceptance. (Sadly in a quite tone) They could be seen in my anne’s tuned eye. But you (pauses). You had the most of them. You embodied them. So strong. You were so strong. They said so.

(A chorus of slogans starts resonating, quietly at first, growing louder as the monologue reaches its climax)

They spoke through you so well. They spoke through your hands. They speak now. (Voice grows somber) Your hands around my throat and they are screaming through you. They’re speaking now. But now they are, (pauses) now they are punishing me. (The tone turns disbelieving, almost in a whisper) They are punishing me because you left your karına ve çocuklarına. Your children and your wife suffer because you feel for me. They are punishing me for this. (Voice gradually becomes louder and distinctive) They scream at me as you drag my body across the back alley. I can hear their rage. It’s in the pit of fire that you now throw my corpse in. They (emphatically) scream as you dump my burnt body in the garbage. These are my consequences. (In a whisper) They finally caught up to me. They used you to do it. These women, my sisters they are shouting for me. Kadina şiddete hayır, some say. Istanbul sözleşmesi yaşatır the others follow. (Tone turns searching) All these women are there but where are they? Them? They are not here. (In a whisper, tearfully and disbelievingly) I am not here. They have you but (emphatically)what does it matter? No violence against women they shout. (Louder, raging) But I am not here. (Quietly) My answers? (Louder, with emphasis) Do you have my answers? They still live on don’t they? They live in (emphatically) you. They live in all of you. They still haunt my Sybil. Her daughter. Their sisters. They are always there. They lived in me. I helped them grow. They loved me, they did. They made me feel beautiful. But then after? After they left me (painfully and angrily) burnt. Burnt, broken and in the trash. To remind me of my body. To remind me that it is disposable. (Pauses) Kadina şiddete hayır you say. No violence against women. (Quietly) I hope they hear. Them.