Father of the Turks

As the content suggests, I wrote most of this a little while ago, but I only just managed to post it. My apologies for the delay.



Today, a country stopped everything for one man. So I figured I would stop the program of my blog for a bit for him too. If you have ever had even a glimpse of Turkish history, you know exactly who I mean: Atatürk.

For those of you don’t, I wish there was some kind of easy analogy I could make to some American leader of similar importance to give you a sense of who he is to Turkey, but there is no one. No American figure has ever been anything comparable to Atatürk. He is like every founding father on Mount Rushmore combined, and then multiplied by John F. Kennedy, plus Martin Luther King. But bigger.

Today was the anniversary of his death. Needless to say, there was a little to-do.

9:05 a.m. November 10th 1938, this country said goodbye to its beloved founder and creator. Now, at that exact minute, every year, something rather incredible happens. An entire nation, stops. Everything. Cars come to a halt in the middle of the road, conversations are dropped mid-sentence, and 73 million people seem to hold their breath. I have not experienced a quiet moment in this city since I arrived, but at 9:05 not a sound could be found. Not a sound, save a long, mournful siren.

At my school, everyone was gathered in the gym, which had been transformed into a rather grand conference hall, complete with an enormous flag and portrait of Atatürk hanging from ceiling to floor. All 2,000 students and a significant number of faculty members sat in stands that had been opened for this. I tried to imagine Telluride’s whole population occupying the seats, a sea of familiar faces – my whole school, the clerks from Clark’s, the lifties, maybe even Big Bird Jesus. It feels as though the entirety of my past life could fit in this room.

However, something very different is in the room. There is an incredible spirit here today, and even I, although I am not Turkish in any way, can really feel it. The presentation began with a video projected onto a giant screen at the front – a run through of Atatürk’s life, told through a stream of dated pictures that tried to give a sense of all he had done. But when the dates reached 1938, the slideshow abruptly stopped. The suddenness felt wrong, exactly as their leaders sudden death must have felt to his people. The screen cut to black, with only the numbers 1881-1938 printed across it. The 8 at the end was turned on its side, to form the infinity symbol. Mustafa Kemal Atatürk: 1881-infinity. The music was suddenly just a long monotone note, a sound I know only from Grey’s Anatomy; the sound that accompanies the stop of a heartbeat, the sound of death. Then, slowly, a siren began to wail. It went on for what felt like a minute or more. No one moved. Finally, two words appeared on the giant screen.

Unutmadık.
Unutmayacağız.

We did not forget.
We will not forget.

I have not I grown up with the unconditional adoration of Atatürk that everyone around me has, and I am not generally easily awed by politicians, but this stirred somthing deep in me. The lights slowly came up, and the ceremony moved forward, but I remained unmoving. The effect that one man has had on this country really is incredible. As overly sweeping a statement as it is, the reason that Turkey is in such a different position than the many impoverished, corrupt, and/or oppressed nations to the east is more than anything else, due to this man. I’m not saying he didn’t have his flaws – he did. He is after all, still only human. But what he accomplished for being only human really is astounding.

This was followed by a choir of students singing national songs (the same ones every year, my friends beside me whispered) and several dances also by students. One dance, however, was performed by a professional dance troupe. It was the traditional Zeybeck dance, done in full costume and perfect synchronization. It is done only by men, to display their self-assurance, honesty, and bravery. There were also readings, a mini play, and a number acts, but these were entirely reliant on language and thus obviously more difficult for me to follow. However, my limited understanding of Turkish did let me catch a few interesting things. For example, Atatürk is addressed not as ‘siz’, the more formal respectful form of ‘you’, but as ‘sen’, which is usually reserved for close friends and children. Each Turk feels connected enough to their founder they can call him sen, despite his obvious higher status (and age). He is also often called ‘Mustafam’, which is his first name (Mustafa) but in the “my” form. There is a definite intimacy to that term. He is seen not just as the Father of the Turks in general, but a father to each individual Turk, even those born long after his death.

The presentation had been conducted with a stiff formality throughout, yet the choir concluded with, not another march song or anthem, but with Sertab Erener’s Koparılan Çiçekler. A wild pop song to close the official ceremony ? Why not. It’s Turkey.