03/30/2004
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In many places on earth, being born as a woman guarantees a difficult life, often
even a tragic fate. Being born as a woman in Kurdistan, for example, means a hard
life, with few smiles, crushed between a chauvinist society and a world which
doesn’t acknowledge your rights.
Guldunya was one of them. She was, because her life ended in Istanbul in a hospital bed, shot dead in the head like in a gang vendetta. But Guldunya was not a criminal, she was just a mother, and her murderers are not members of a rival clan, but her own brothers.
Guldunya was 22 years old and came from Siirt, in the South-East of Turkey, deep in Turkish Kurdistan. One day, the young and pretty Kurdish girl attracts the attention of her cousin’s husband. A Kurdish family is a community, they all live together. In March 2003, after trying to escape the man’s advances in any way, not easy for a woman, Guldunya is raped by him. And she gets pregnant.
In many situations, the incident would make Guldunya a victim and the man a criminal, but in Kurdistan it’s different. Here, she is the guilty party. Her family tries to make up for the loss of honour in the only way that a deeply misogynic society could imagine: they ask the rapist to accept Guldunya as a second wife. Polygamy is officially forbidden in Turkey, but in many rural zones, particularly in Kurdish territories, this custom is still widely practised and tolerated.
But the rapist refuses and, after hurriedly collecting his things and his wife, he escapes at night and goes to a relative in Europe. Kurdish tradition is clear: together with the ticket to Europe for her cousin’s husband, the death penalty is issued for Guldunya. In fact, according to Kurdish morals, she is dishonoured, she is rubbish, and her family must wipe out the offence in the only way which is considered respectable: by executing her. But she wants to live.
She is only 22, and she is carrying a child. Someone capable of seeing beyond the limits of certain humiliating traditions helps her escape, and last February she reaches Istanbul. She is a country girl, alone in a big metropolis, and her child is going to be born soon. She turns to the police. This established authority, which has so often meant violence and imprisonment, bombs and reprisals for her people, now becomes the only hope.
The policemen take her to the Bakirkoy Develet Hastanesi hospital, where her child is born. A beautiful boy, in very good health. Guldunya calls him Unit, which means “hope”. The hope to stay alive, to have a normal life.
But the Turkish authorities, after taking her to hospital, stick to the law and inform the family. The male clan (father, brothers and uncles) go to Istanbul, to put an end to the regrettable events. In their own way. The girl refuses to go back with them, but the law’s blind bureaucratic language is clear. The only help that the Turkish authorities give the girl is an attempt at mediation by involving an imam from Siirt, the village of Guldunya’s family.
The elderly religious tries to make the relatives think rationally and to protect the young mother. He insists on taking the girl to the station and entrusts Unit (who is only few months old) to the care of a couple whose name he doesn’t reveal to the family. The father and the brothers reassure him, promising that Guldunya will be done no harm. They want to take her to Byrsa where they have found a husband for her, a man who is ready to marry her and be a father for the baby.
It’s easy to imagine Guldunya, observing all these people deciding her fate , while she can’t even say a word. In the end the imam trusts the girl’s relatives and lets them take her with them. In the morning of February 29, everything is ready to leave and the small group set off on their way, but after a few steps Guldunya’s elder brother takes out a gun and shoots her. In cold blood, in the middle of the street, like a dog.
The relatives run away, but the imam rushes to save her and, helped by some shocked passers-by, he carries Guldunya to hospital. It’s the Hastanesi again, where the girl gave birth to her Unit some time before. She struggles between life and death, but she could manage to survive.
She could, but only if the Turkish police realize the risk she runs and give her protection. But it is not to be. At three in the night her brothers, like consummate murderers in a bad movie, steal into the hospital, kill the defenceless Guldunya in her bed, and run away with no difficulty.
The murderers are wanted by the Turkish police, but the Kurdish area is an impervious territory, where the Ankara authorities venture to go only under absolutely safe conditions. The risk is very high. The morning after the murder, a crowd of Turkish and Kurdish women gather in front of the hospital to demonstrate their horror at what happened to Guldunya, whose only guilt was that of protecting her son and herself from violence.
Now the priority lies in saving little Unit’s life, because according to the Kurdish honour code he, too, must die. The child is found by the family where the imam had left him and then taken to an orphanage while the Turkish Bench makes a decision.
The director of this centre is Mr Kahramm, a middle aged man who sees stories of this kind every day.
“There’s a Turkish law which protects the victims of family feuds, but the minister must intervene with a formal judgment,” says the director, “because technically, if a child has a family, he or she must be given back to them and can’t be kept in an orphanage.”
The Minister for Women’s Rights, a woman herself, has already spoken about the subject, pressing for the restitution of the child to the family.
And here Dr Kahramm’s battle starts: he’s opposing this in any way, taking risks upon himself. In fact he is fired from his job, but he says “I won’t give in and I will keep on fighting for Unit’s life.” The associations for women’s rights are trying to be close to the child, who is still in an orphanage, in the hope that the legal battle which has started is won soon. The prize is Unit’s life.
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A child is waiting to learn his destiny: free to live or victim of the Kurdish tribal code?
In many places on earth, being born as a woman guarantees a difficult life, often
even a tragic fate. Being born as a woman in Kurdistan, for example, means a hard
life, with few smiles, crushed between a chauvinist society and a world which
doesn’t acknowledge your rights.
Guldunya was one of them. She was, because her life ended in Istanbul in a hospital bed, shot dead in the head like in a gang vendetta. But Guldunya was not a criminal, she was just a mother, and her murderers are not members of a rival clan, but her own brothers.
Guldunya was 22 years old and came from Siirt, in the South-East of Turkey, deep in Turkish Kurdistan. One day, the young and pretty Kurdish girl attracts the attention of her cousin’s husband. A Kurdish family is a community, they all live together. In March 2003, after trying to escape the man’s advances in any way, not easy for a woman, Guldunya is raped by him. And she gets pregnant.
In many situations, the incident would make Guldunya a victim and the man a criminal, but in Kurdistan it’s different. Here, she is the guilty party. Her family tries to make up for the loss of honour in the only way that a deeply misogynic society could imagine: they ask the rapist to accept Guldunya as a second wife. Polygamy is officially forbidden in Turkey, but in many rural zones, particularly in Kurdish territories, this custom is still widely practised and tolerated.
But the rapist refuses and, after hurriedly collecting his things and his wife, he escapes at night and goes to a relative in Europe. Kurdish tradition is clear: together with the ticket to Europe for her cousin’s husband, the death penalty is issued for Guldunya. In fact, according to Kurdish morals, she is dishonoured, she is rubbish, and her family must wipe out the offence in the only way which is considered respectable: by executing her. But she wants to live.
She is only 22, and she is carrying a child. Someone capable of seeing beyond the limits of certain humiliating traditions helps her escape, and last February she reaches Istanbul. She is a country girl, alone in a big metropolis, and her child is going to be born soon. She turns to the police. This established authority, which has so often meant violence and imprisonment, bombs and reprisals for her people, now becomes the only hope.
The policemen take her to the Bakirkoy Develet Hastanesi hospital, where her child is born. A beautiful boy, in very good health. Guldunya calls him Unit, which means “hope”. The hope to stay alive, to have a normal life.
But the Turkish authorities, after taking her to hospital, stick to the law and inform the family. The male clan (father, brothers and uncles) go to Istanbul, to put an end to the regrettable events. In their own way. The girl refuses to go back with them, but the law’s blind bureaucratic language is clear. The only help that the Turkish authorities give the girl is an attempt at mediation by involving an imam from Siirt, the village of Guldunya’s family.
The elderly religious tries to make the relatives think rationally and to protect the young mother. He insists on taking the girl to the station and entrusts Unit (who is only few months old) to the care of a couple whose name he doesn’t reveal to the family. The father and the brothers reassure him, promising that Guldunya will be done no harm. They want to take her to Byrsa where they have found a husband for her, a man who is ready to marry her and be a father for the baby.
It’s easy to imagine Guldunya, observing all these people deciding her fate , while she can’t even say a word. In the end the imam trusts the girl’s relatives and lets them take her with them. In the morning of February 29, everything is ready to leave and the small group set off on their way, but after a few steps Guldunya’s elder brother takes out a gun and shoots her. In cold blood, in the middle of the street, like a dog.
The relatives run away, but the imam rushes to save her and, helped by some shocked passers-by, he carries Guldunya to hospital. It’s the Hastanesi again, where the girl gave birth to her Unit some time before. She struggles between life and death, but she could manage to survive.
She could, but only if the Turkish police realize the risk she runs and give her protection. But it is not to be. At three in the night her brothers, like consummate murderers in a bad movie, steal into the hospital, kill the defenceless Guldunya in her bed, and run away with no difficulty.
The murderers are wanted by the Turkish police, but the Kurdish area is an impervious territory, where the Ankara authorities venture to go only under absolutely safe conditions. The risk is very high. The morning after the murder, a crowd of Turkish and Kurdish women gather in front of the hospital to demonstrate their horror at what happened to Guldunya, whose only guilt was that of protecting her son and herself from violence.
Now the priority lies in saving little Unit’s life, because according to the Kurdish honour code he, too, must die. The child is found by the family where the imam had left him and then taken to an orphanage while the Turkish Bench makes a decision.
The director of this centre is Mr Kahramm, a middle aged man who sees stories of this kind every day.
“There’s a Turkish law which protects the victims of family feuds, but the minister must intervene with a formal judgment,” says the director, “because technically, if a child has a family, he or she must be given back to them and can’t be kept in an orphanage.”
The Minister for Women’s Rights, a woman herself, has already spoken about the subject, pressing for the restitution of the child to the family.
And here Dr Kahramm’s battle starts: he’s opposing this in any way, taking risks upon himself. In fact he is fired from his job, but he says “I won’t give in and I will keep on fighting for Unit’s life.” The associations for women’s rights are trying to be close to the child, who is still in an orphanage, in the hope that the legal battle which has started is won soon. The prize is Unit’s life.
Christian Elia
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