Wherever they are, whether in the city center of Diyarbakır, in the outlying villages, in Mardin, in Nusaybin or in Şırnak, they smell the same -- like soap mixed with great pain and hope. The mothers here, especially when they are at home, cover their heads with white, very light scarves with barely noticeable embellishments. They put these scarves on their heads, wrapping one side under their chins very loosely. Underneath the scarf, one can see the hairs that have gone white before their time.
I discovered this scent, which I can still smell now, when they were crying on my shoulder, during or after our interviews. They were the mothers or wives of the disappeared during the 1990s, when many extrajudicial killings, forced village evacuations and incidents of torture were taking place.
Most of them did not know Turkish, and those who were able to speak it didn't know how to read or write but tried to describe the pain that they had experienced. They talked about how they were forced into situations that were unimaginable and about their struggle to learn something regarding the fate of their sons, husbands or fathers. They told me how they ran from one door to the next, from public prosecutor's offices to lawyers, from human rights organizations to anyone who might be able to help.
Though the scent wafting from their white scarves was the same, their stories, ages, struggles and thoughts were different; however, there was a common aspect in their homes -- they were extremely clean, so much so that one would think they had been cleaning them round the clock. There is a reason for this extreme cleanliness; though their mouths are voicing that their loved ones who disappeared 10 years ago are most likely dead now and that the only thing they wish for is to have a grave to be able to visit, deep down they are still hoping that one day a knock will come on the door and their husbands, sons or fathers will be standing there when they open it. When that happens they want to make sure that the house is clean, that the beds which will ease the tiredness of all these years are ready. There is always a pot of soup ready on the stove, a precious thing in their humble homes, and I am so grateful to all of them for always offering some to me when I visited them.
I hope that you will soon be able to read their stories -- the story of Granny Dirşat, whose husband was detained when he was 70; Hayat, who saw her 13-year-old son for the last time when he was being tortured; young Vesile, whose father was taken into custody when she was just 6; Rukiye, who gave birth to her son five months after her husband's disappearance and had to move to another city to work as an agricultural laborer to feed her children; and Ayfer, who hasn't even changed the curtains in her home though they are pocked with bullet holes.
Some of these women are not even able to utter the word "Ergenekon." They sometimes just call it a gang, sometimes Ergenekom, sometimes Engerekon, but they are well aware of what it is; they have always thought that such an organization existed. Apart from a grave at which to visit their loved ones, most of them are also hoping to see the punishment of the gang by the courts, not only for the sake of justice but also to save their children from any possible violence in the future.
Turkey owes them a lot -- a grave to visit, information about their loved ones, justice, a prosperous future for their children, their lost youth, their health, which suffered due to all the tragedy. This country owes them because the honor of Turkey is the common smell which drifts from their white headscarves.
