Uđur Mumcu   |   From His Articles   |   The Address…
The Address…

Each one of us was a mountainous young man. Our father used to bring home the bread, carrying load behind his back. While the cars were passing by the streets with their glittery lights, we used to finish our books by a candle light. We joined that big struggle, feeling inside the hearts of thousands of poor living like us. We were killed untimely. We were beaten, shot, hanged.


We were shot my people, don’t forget us!


Our wrists, had never beaten by poverty, were tied with steel handcuffs. We smelled the lamps in torture cells repeatedly. If we had wanted, we would have used our diplomas as notes that will bring us purple thousand Turkish lira banknotes. We were architects, engineers, doctors, lawyers. We could have owned summer and winter houses, as well as cars. Our hearts beat together with workers and peasants. We devoted the most beautiful years of our lives to the society, like fresh flowers. They have always wanted to destroy us.


We were killed my people, don’t forget us!


We were willowy young women. Life used to flow like a splashing waterfall from the pupils of our eyes. At the age of 20, 21, 22, we were exposed to the relentless hands of torturers. Resisted with our tiny hearts, resisted with the honour of a young woman. At their faces, which deserve to be spitted in, we threw our fresh beliefs like empty gloves. They did not feel ashamed of their humanity; they did not feel ashamed of their manliness.


We were thrown to the cells my people, don’t forget us!


We were deadly ill. Our intestines were knotted up. In the hands of the torturers who had doctors’ identity, who had taken the Hippocratic Oath; we were killed without mercy. Our wedding dresses were freshly ironed yet. We were dispersed to the hearty feelings of our jailed husbands, like gravestones. Conscience remained silent. The law remained silent. Humanity remained silent.


We were killed blatantly my people, don’t forget us!


We had cancer. Death was slithering through our skins everyday, like a snake. They locked us into the cells by taking advantage of some fabricated cases. We were ill. We could have recovered if we had managed to go abroad. We would not have left our one-and-a-half-year-old daughters orphans. First, we cut our arms from the end of the shoulder and threw them as a pound of flesh for our patriotic duties. Then, at the age of 32, we passed away untimely.


We were killed my people, don’t forget us!


The poor peasants of Giresun. We died for you. Tobacco workers in Aegean Region. We died for you. Landless peasants from the East. Workers in Ýstanbul, in Ankara, we died for you. The workers who pick white cottons in Adana with their smashed hands, we died for you.


We were shot, hanged, killed my people, don’t forget us!


Independence was a gift to us from Mustafa Kemal. We spilled blood onto the streets for the independence of our country that was resigned to imperialism’s octopus arms. Those who govern the state by stepping on our gravestones, wanted to smash our heads and suck our blood with their secret orders. When we asked for the removal of US bases in our country, they shot us unquestioningly in the middle of streets.


When we were shot, we were around 22 my people, don’t forget us!


We defended our state against foreign oil companies: We were called as communists. We said that our country was not an independent one and they came on with their handcuffs. All we struggled for was to be able to hold our flag straight. The flag that we waved against imperialism during Independence War.


They did not listen to us, not even once.


They did not want to understand us, not even once.


We were shot my people, don’t forget us!


We even had not lived our childhood yet. We had not touched a woman’s hand yet. We had not received a single letter from a beloved yet. One night, towards morning, fettering us hand and foot, they forced us to step on to gallows. As everybody witnessed, we held no fears. We did not wince. Fresh as the earth of a grave, standing erect as a gravestone, we craned our necks to the greasy ropes.


We were hanged my people, don’t forget us!


Those who killed us, hanged us, shot us in the middle of streets were at the age of our big brothers or fathers. Either they lubricated the wheels of the system by partaking in its dirty businesses, or they stayed silent to all the things going-on. We were killed under the very eyes of the people who could not spill out their hatred against anyone. In the name of law, in the name of democracy and in the name of western civilization, they strung us up at a dawn.


We died fearlessly my people, don’t forget us!


One day, roses will flourish on our graves my people, don’t forget us…One day our voices will echo in your ears my people, don’t forget us!


Now, we are like a bouquet of flowers dedicated to freedom. We are always together my people,


Don’t forget us,


Don’t forget us…


Cumhuriyet, 25th August, 1975