"Well, it doesn't surprise me that they chose an unobtainable channel," he said. But when I was finally able to find TRT 6, the new Kurdish-language channel, and just as the first few words came from the TV, a very big smile spread across his face and stayed there for quite some time. His smile took me back to my childhood.I remember very well that we had a green radio with a gramophone on top. From time to time he'd put on a record, lower the needle on it and as soon as it began to play, he would smile just as he did when I first saw TRT 6. He sometimes mumbled the song while listening to it, leading me to think that he was in some way connected to Native Americans, though he is my father.
Yes, when I was a child, I thought my dear and lovely dad was able to speak and understand the language of Native Americans. I at the time had no idea that the Kurdish language and people existed, even though it was my father's native language; he, after all, is a Kurd.
The reason behind my childhood understanding was my grandmother, who passed away when I was 11. She had very long red hair put into two braids, visible under her white headscarf. She also wore a colorful band over her headscarf and across her forehead in addition to a long skirt with a huge belt. My grandmother also carried candy all the time to give to me. She had on shoes that nobody around us wore: black plastic shoes. She spoke to me with words I could not understand. And so with this style of dress and this language, I thought she was one of those Native Americans I saw in films on TV. I knew, or at least that was what I was told, that she was my grandmother, but I have to admit that I was a little afraid of her -- especially when she took me by the arm and made me sit on her lap. Every time she did so, she softly caressed my hair, but I could not stop myself from thinking that she would suddenly pull on my hair and rip my scalp off -- because, after all, she was a Native American and that is what they usually did in movies.
She was always sad; I never saw her laugh. She was most likely afraid of the world around her -- a world very far from the place she was born. She usually sat on the floor, next to the stove. I remember very well that on one occasion I decided to make her happy and make sure she felt at home. I began running around her while making strange noises -- just like Native Americans do in films when they dance. As I danced around her, I noticed that this quiet, unhappy woman was crying silently. Even when she passed away I did not know the reason for this. That day, the day she passed away, was the last day my father spoke in Kurdish.
It was only after I became politically aware that I learned why. But by then, the records my father listened to had already been burned on the morning of the Sept. 12, 1980 coup d'état.
One day when I was being rebellious, a frequent occurrence at the time, I asked my father in an accusatory tone why he did not teach me his native language. He answered me in a calm voice: "My native language was prohibited. Had I tried to teach it to you, you most probably would not have been able to go to the university you are attending now. I had to make a choice."
When I saw my father's big smile as he watched TRT's Kurdish channel, all these things came to mind. It was very lovely to see my father then pick up the telephone and speak with his relatives in Kurdish. The only word I understood was "şeş," six in Kurdish.
The state, responsible for the well-being of it citizens, has finally returned my father's language to him, but it still owes me my grandmother, may her soul rest in peace.
