Sırrı Süreyya Önder, Deputy Speaker of Parliament of the People's Equality and Democracy (DEM) Party and a member of the Imrali delegation, passed away yesterday at Florence Nightingale Hospital in Istanbul. He was laid to rest at the Atatürk Cultural Center (AKM) as thousands from all walks of life attended the ceremony, which continues with speeches.

 

Ceren Önder Kandemir made a brief speech in memory of her father. Speaking through tears, she shared, “Whenever I wrote something, I would call my father and read it to him over the phone. We were like one person. I would read as if I were reading my own work, spotting my mistakes.”

 

SHE READ THE LETTER SHE WROTE TO HER FATHER

 

Ceren Önder Kandemir then read the letter she wrote to her father: “Dad, all the colour of life is gone. The life I knew is over. A new life is starting now. It is frightening, full of uncertainties. The possibility of hearing something from you that I have never heard before is gone, an irreversible loss. I have been afraid of losing you as long as I can remember. This was my only nightmare, my weakness, the ache in my nose, the lump in my throat, my stomachache. You were so good, so unique, that I used to think, ‘This man can only make me suffer by dying.’ The sound of the violin you played at night, the oud, the poems you recited by heart, the coffees we drank five times a day, each time like it was the first meeting, you inability to stay in one place, your unwillingness to harm anyone, your reluctance to break anyone’s heart… I would call you and say, ‘Dad, my heart is broken.’ ‘Dad, I have the flu, my cough won’t go away, my cat died, I fell in love, I could not sleep…’ I was so satisfied with your fatherhood, what you gave was enough not just for me, but for my son and even his child. You fed me until I no longer needed a father. But I could never get enough of your friendship. Can one ever get enough of such friendship?

 

Now I want to be angry. I want to be mad at you for saying, ‘In two weeks, a peace protocol will be signed, then I will be at ease, I will have surgery.’ I want to be angry at you for saying, ‘What will happen in two weeks?’ I want to be angry at hunger strikes, the torture in prisons… I want to be angry at your constant lack of self-interest, but I can’t. I can’t be angry because of the letter you sent me from Kandıra Prison. You said, ‘You wouldn’t want a father who had no path to take, no purpose, and was always absent.’ I wish you didn’t have to leave. You used to tell me, ‘Don’t build up anger for those who are angry at you, for poverty and deprivation, don’t store anger for it.’ Since the day you were born, with a life full of poverty, deprivation, and orphanhood, where did you hide your anger? I never saw it. Probably in your heart. You leave this world without acquiring property, without buying a second sweater, without asking anyone for anything, debt-free, and with honour, nourishing your honour rather than your throat.

 

As you leave, you are leaving a bit of your joy with Can and Yasin, but you are taking your entire colour with you. I was able to love you until I was satisfied. I told you I loved you every day. Once satisfied, I kissed you, I smelled you. Now, all my colours are yours. Although, I am sure you will find your friends there too. (Gülten sister, Pervin sister, where are you?) Now rest, my Crane Bird. We will be okay. We will always tell the children about you. Even if our attepts to imitate your jokes fall short, we will try. There is a peace inside me that I can’t quite describe now. The peace of knowing you no longer have to struggle. The last time we saw you standing, you gave us a bag of oranges and a box of eggs. I will never forget how you always kept mandarins in one pocked and peanut butter in the other for Can, or your love for the honey in cans and the rest areas. 

 

You said you wouldn’t leave without seeing Can’s wedding. You had no unkept promises, did you? You wanted to see peace. The thought of children being orphaned broke your heart. Was it peace? I do not know; in the hospital corridors, in a classless, flagless, sorrowful yet hopeful crowd, I saw something resembling peace. With the verses you read to me in your beautiful voice; ‘I know the rain will never fall upwards again. The trace of your knife will disappear, but no wind can fill the emptiness left behind. From one life to the next, the place of cranes flying together in the sky.’ I am proud of you.”