Is Baby Azra the Murderer?


BY BURAK ŞAHİN (IR/IV)
burak_s@ug.bilkent.edu.tr

Some things make you question what you did
Or what you didn't,
Or what you wanted to do but couldn't.
7.2 made us question many things.
Van was our litmus test
As the city lay there red in its own blood...

We should have done something, but what?
That something should have been many things,
And those many things should have gone to many places.
There should have been something to set alight the spark inside us
While they were freezing there.

A father appeared on the TV screen.
"My four-month-old child and my wife," he said
Or, more like, begged.
The rubble had collapsed on us, too, not just them.
The earthquake that shook our hearts was so strong
Even Kandilli couldn't measure it right...

We couldn't stop the weeping
Of those who had lost their near and dear.
But what about the survivors?
And their tears, frozen by the cold?
We couldn't put out the fire in their hearts.
But we could have at least tried to warm the homeless.
We did try…but we don't know if we succeeded.

A kid stopped by while we were collecting donations
And said, "I had my mom wash them all."
"I had them ironed...neatly," he added.
And his eyes filled with tears, as if what he meant to say
Was, "This is all I can do..."
As if he wanted to get inside a box and go there
So he could see his clothes warm another kid.

And in the meantime, the news kept coming.
When we felt like sitting down and resting for a little bit,
Baby Azra told us not to.
"I've stood it for two days," she cried, "you can too."
So we kept on working: 100, 200, 300 boxes...

I did things I'd never done before.
I'd never advertise the help I give,
If it weren't to bring in more,
To make people see, the ones who'd rather ignore it all.
"Come," I said, "We're doing something good, so come!"

An exchange student stopped by, with his backpack on.
Speaking in Turkish to share our pain,
"It's all for Van," he said, and dumped out everything he had.
He spilled his heart, his guts out there,
Adding "I'll bring more, this isn't enough."

The pain isn't enough for some.
They live off pain and hatred.
All they wanted was a place where they could throw up what was inside them,
And the geography was in favor of that.
They wanted to cover it up with blood or puke.
Van was covered in blood, and they puked...

We only worked harder as they spewed out their venom.
People who hadn't met each other before
Became one hand, one box...
One became a blanket, another clothing...
We kept on working: 400, 500, 600 boxes...

As we were getting cold outside, they were freezing there.
When we wanted to take a lunch break,
We thought about how they didn't have bread to eat.
While they didn't have water to drink,
The water we drank hurt our throats,
Tore at them, like the rubble of crushed buildings.

Then it became 750, and we filled a truck.
We hoped, you know,
That the aid would end up in the villages,
The ones that couldn't be reached, you know,
There are some villages way out there...
We hoped the aid was going to reach them.

The news arrived once again, from Van...
Some boxes turned out to be filled with rocks,
The gifts of stonyhearted people.
Remember what we said:
7.2 was a litmus test,
And some people's hearts didn't pass it.

There were lots of questions inside my head, like
Who was so cruel as to send a box of stones to that father?
Who, as Yunus was pulled alive from the rubble,
Was the one who cursed him to die?
How would anyone dare to say
That it was okay for Özlem, the teacher, to die?
Was 14-day-old Baby Azra
The murderer of those soldiers?

For the original poem, which is in Turkish, please see http://brkshn.tumblr.com/post/11994938875/katil-azra-bebek-m