My name is Þerafettin Encü
My name is Þerafettin Encü
My name is Þerafettin Encü.
My story begins in a summer day, at the time of new greening gleanings. The first child of my family… My parents had six
other children after me and each one is special to them…
I never lived in wealth, that is why I cannot know how poverty is.
I lived like everybody and as much as everybody in this territory.
I also had dreams which were greater than my world and smaller than your bombs.
I lost the smile and hugging of my mother at the age of twelve…
I was left an orphan in this huge world at the age of twelve.
I don’t know if I would ever become a great man but I used to love our school manager very much. I could have perhaps been a manager at a village school and become the dream of others.
However, I couldn’t. My father was poor and I was proudhearted.
I couldn’t just watch him looking after seven children, I couldn’t go aside and go into the dreams of my own…
We held on to the job of our grandfathers. Border trade with my words and smuggling with yours; it doesn’t matter in the face of death.
We were thirty four people and all of us were relatives.
Who will cry for whom after us, for which of us will the people mourn?
My story which began in a summer day ended in winter, on the way of smuggling.
All I lived is just eighteen years.
My blood fell down on the white snow, huge bombs were dropped on us.
I am one of those stories, I am one of the thirty four lives that fell down on the white snow in a winter day.
The orphan child fell down on the ground, one more grave has been opened near his mother.
That is how my story shall be known.
It was not a dumdum bullet but huge bombs that were fired on my body…
We once again didn’t defeat one-on-one, the ambush was once again malicious.
Let the poet write it in this way!
It wasn’t even a dumdum bullet this time!
. . .
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.
My story begins in a summer day, at the time of new greening gleanings. The first child of my family… My parents had six
other children after me and each one is special to them…
I never lived in wealth, that is why I cannot know how poverty is.
I lived like everybody and as much as everybody in this territory.
I also had dreams which were greater than my world and smaller than your bombs.
I lost the smile and hugging of my mother at the age of twelve…
I was left an orphan in this huge world at the age of twelve.
I don’t know if I would ever become a great man but I used to love our school manager very much. I could have perhaps been a manager at a village school and become the dream of others.
However, I couldn’t. My father was poor and I was proudhearted.
I couldn’t just watch him looking after seven children, I couldn’t go aside and go into the dreams of my own…
We held on to the job of our grandfathers. Border trade with my words and smuggling with yours; it doesn’t matter in the face of death.
We were thirty four people and all of us were relatives.
Who will cry for whom after us, for which of us will the people mourn?
My story which began in a summer day ended in winter, on the way of smuggling.
All I lived is just eighteen years.
My blood fell down on the white snow, huge bombs were dropped on us.
I am one of those stories, I am one of the thirty four lives that fell down on the white snow in a winter day.
The orphan child fell down on the ground, one more grave has been opened near his mother.
That is how my story shall be known.
It was not a dumdum bullet but huge bombs that were fired on my body…
We once again didn’t defeat one-on-one, the ambush was once again malicious.
Let the poet write it in this way!
It wasn’t even a dumdum bullet this time!
. . .
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.
