"My father represented his country as a writer and a poet. He had packed numerous awards into his short life. At the same time, he was a doctor, a neuro-psychiatrist. He was one of the sought-after intellectuals in our country. If those who set him on fire had read a line he wrote, they wouldn't have set him on fire; they would have embraced him. Over the years, while leaving flowers at his grave, quietly shedding tears, I tried not to lose the prudence he taught. But at times, it turned into true hell. It overflowed from within me, becoming a rushing river. I ask you... How will I tell my child now, 'Your grandfather was a poet, a writer, a doctor, the enlightened face of this country, but how he was burned?' I will say nothing can be as terrifying as ignorance that attempts to revolt. At the same time, how will I convince him that people will not be burned alive again one day? Because if identity is a citizenship document, my father's burned identity still sits on the desk. If identity is the official document of the state, my father's burned identity looks at me every day."
