My name is Fadýl Encü
My name is Fadýl Encü
My name is Fadýl Encü.
I am not a statistic
I am a “human being”!
And I have a story too…
I was the twenty year old son of a poor family, the eldest of eight siblings…
I buried my dreams in “smuggling” and covered them with the rebellion of a poor person, on the way to green the hope of my seven siblings. Apart from that, I had modest matters, such as living…
The disease I went through in my childhood was the most difficult period of my mother as my father was performing his military service in the army. My mother therefore used to fall all over me; she was deeply hurt even when I happened to suffer a smallest pain… She used to see me off with sadness but compulsorily every time I went to the border to smuggle…
I was also good at playing football. We had held a match with friends that day and I was still wearing my football uniform while on the way to the border… With my friends Serhat and Celal, we were as if going to a wedding ceremony, not to smuggling. We were three good friends and we had promised each other to go everywhere together…
We hit the road once again that day, to have some cooked food to eat at home…
And each of us became “one of the thirty four”, to buy some food to eat at home…
I was hunted by a bomb at that black night, without understanding what was happening! Had I happened to realize the connon ball thrown on us, I could have perhaps made a reverse shot since I was good at football…
I couldn’t count how many faces fell down on my face and to how many pieces my body was fell. The fireballs rained on us broke our life line to pieces …The parts of the bodies of each of us remained under snow…
My father passed over the parts of my body many times while looking for his son…
Only when seeing me for the fifth time, he recognized me by the Milan t-shirt remaining on a part of my body…
The walking stick I was holding while going to smuggling was tightly held by my right hand which had torn apart from my body and was standing somewhere near to where he found me…
I am “one of the thirty four”, we were the damages born from the fight against terrorism, in accordance with the law no five thousand two hundred and thirty three…We died in a century when death had lost its old sorrow, we were recorded as statistics on “official” reports…
My name is Fadýl Encü;
my family looked for me for three days and couldn’t find many of the parts of my body. Like many others, I was also buried with missing body parts… My watch got lost with my left arm, give it to my brother if you happen to find it…
This may annoy you but I have several words to say;
I demand justice,
If the bombs that killed me didn’t kill the justice too…
Doesn’t everyone have the right to justice?
Or,
Should I apologize to the state because it has warted those huge, expensive bombs for killing me,
Should I thank the General Staff for not missing the target and for killing me?
* Platform for Justice for Roboski publishes the life story of 34 people from the villages of Roboski and Gülyazý who were killed by bombs on 28 December, 2011. These stories which will be published for 34 days are also sent to the offices of President, Prime Minister, Ministry of Justice and Interior Ministry via fax and mail.
I am not a statistic
I am a “human being”!
And I have a story too…
I was the twenty year old son of a poor family, the eldest of eight siblings…
I buried my dreams in “smuggling” and covered them with the rebellion of a poor person, on the way to green the hope of my seven siblings. Apart from that, I had modest matters, such as living…
The disease I went through in my childhood was the most difficult period of my mother as my father was performing his military service in the army. My mother therefore used to fall all over me; she was deeply hurt even when I happened to suffer a smallest pain… She used to see me off with sadness but compulsorily every time I went to the border to smuggle…
I was also good at playing football. We had held a match with friends that day and I was still wearing my football uniform while on the way to the border… With my friends Serhat and Celal, we were as if going to a wedding ceremony, not to smuggling. We were three good friends and we had promised each other to go everywhere together…
We hit the road once again that day, to have some cooked food to eat at home…
And each of us became “one of the thirty four”, to buy some food to eat at home…
I was hunted by a bomb at that black night, without understanding what was happening! Had I happened to realize the connon ball thrown on us, I could have perhaps made a reverse shot since I was good at football…
I couldn’t count how many faces fell down on my face and to how many pieces my body was fell. The fireballs rained on us broke our life line to pieces …The parts of the bodies of each of us remained under snow…
My father passed over the parts of my body many times while looking for his son…
Only when seeing me for the fifth time, he recognized me by the Milan t-shirt remaining on a part of my body…
The walking stick I was holding while going to smuggling was tightly held by my right hand which had torn apart from my body and was standing somewhere near to where he found me…
I am “one of the thirty four”, we were the damages born from the fight against terrorism, in accordance with the law no five thousand two hundred and thirty three…We died in a century when death had lost its old sorrow, we were recorded as statistics on “official” reports…
My name is Fadýl Encü;
my family looked for me for three days and couldn’t find many of the parts of my body. Like many others, I was also buried with missing body parts… My watch got lost with my left arm, give it to my brother if you happen to find it…
This may annoy you but I have several words to say;
I demand justice,
If the bombs that killed me didn’t kill the justice too…
Doesn’t everyone have the right to justice?
Or,
Should I apologize to the state because it has warted those huge, expensive bombs for killing me,
Should I thank the General Staff for not missing the target and for killing me?
* Platform for Justice for Roboski publishes the life story of 34 people from the villages of Roboski and Gülyazý who were killed by bombs on 28 December, 2011. These stories which will be published for 34 days are also sent to the offices of President, Prime Minister, Ministry of Justice and Interior Ministry via fax and mail.
