I am not afraid of repeating myself because what I am writing, what I am saying, does not answer to the standards of literature, but to those of necessity and desperation, to standards of fire.
Bu sabah gök güzel, tertemiz
İçimden geçiyor aydınlık bir iz
Öyle bir saadet ince belirsiz ,
İnandım ki artık ben gülüyorum.
💫
Bu sabah sütünü emdim sevincin;
Düştü kabuk gibi haset, fitne, kin;
Umut kirmeninde eğrilmek için
İpek gibi tel tel sökülüyorum.
💫
Kovdum yüreğimde yatan garibi;
Bu sabah şu ufkun benim sahibi .
Bir ışık içinde akan su gibi
İçimden içime dökülüyorum (
I’m afraid of men not because of any singular encounter with a man. I’m afraid of men because of the cumulative damage caused by the everyday experiences I’ve recounted here, and by those untold, and by those I continue to face.
None of these stories are exceptional. I’m afraid of how common, if not mild, my experiences are. Many people have endured more savage forms of violence inflicted by men. I’m also afraid that the most prevalent response these stories will elicit is pity. Even worse, I’m afraid of the necessity of eliciting in order to generate concern or to galvanize change.