Who knows, apart from him, what he meant that during August there are no news.
Did he mean that it doesn’t get the appropriate attention under the burning sun at a beach?
Does the dizziness from beer diminish the news?
Is it news that the burnt body of a trans woman was thrown away, like a bag full of “conscience” trash?
Why would we consider this news more important because she was trans, letting more tears flow, mixing with the saltiness of sweat and summer, lest we show more “sympathy” than we should?
May I remind you, a bit paradoxically, the difference? Not between lives. Between deaths.
You have a wonderful house. You instruct and share your ideas with your gardener, tell him how you want your garden to be spectacular. With its romantic kiosks. You imagine idyllic nights with a full moon in the embrace of people you love. With small paths, where you are strolling in the night, safe, the only danger being some gnats and mosquitoes. Beautiful, right? You are lucky and loved, because you generously offer your “goods”, since you can, where you can.
Let’s go to another neighborhood. A lovely little house. It has a big yard, but with no flowers. Rocks, empty paper bags with crumpled dreams, a dry land. A land thirsty for the cheapest and yet most expensive good. In a small corner, quite sunny and safe from the wind, there is a small purple flower growing. On an almost non-existing stem, the flower hangs, as if it wants to fall. To run. To escape this wasteland.
The flower grows. Expands. Nature gave it only a drop of scent, yet its fragrance fills the yard. And a bit further outside. Isn’t it beautiful? Its colour changed, too. It added some iridescence to its purple. It shines. No, it doesn’t shine. It’s self-luminous.
When it’s windy, the flower clutches onto the entrance of the yard, for fear it will break. When it’s raining, it bends some more, it tilts, it loves its life, but has no one to take care of it. Meanwhile, the others…
Pruning, spritizing with nutrient chemicals, cooling during August nights. So many goods. Yet that purple flower with the iridescent petal is more beautiful. Special, maybe? More special.
It grabbed whatever was taken from it. Whatever it was given. It fought for its life, its existence. It laid its body in beds it didn’t know. Unknown spots, cotton ones, filled with worms and lice. However you try to shake them off, they leave their mark. So many hands. Coarse. Calloused hands and minds. Irritable.
She was going to such a bed that day. A few days ago, she was screaming for the right to a beautiful soul, with a truncheon over her head, the Sword of Damocles, as always. The right to a soul without thorns. Thorns fucking hurt. They make you bleed. They leave scars that no gardener can erase.
Do you understand now why Hande, from Turkey, suffering a horrible death, is important news? Especially during August.
P.S. For the record, let it be mentioned that Hande Kade’s body was found by the side of a road last week in Istanbul(2016), after she had been reported missing. The last time she was seen, she was entering a client’s car, and soon it was revealed that she was burnt alive. She is the last victim in a series of hate crimes in Turkey, against the LGBTQ community.

Μετάφραση Μαριάννα Κουφοπούλου

 

 

 

 

 

 

Βιντεοκλιπ με τρανς απο την Τουρκία αναδεικνύοντας τη βία και τη μισαλλοδοξία.

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