Losing A Pen - Hrant Dink

My father had given me a blue ballpoint pen when I graduated from college. I kept it, guarded it, carried it for 15 years. I rarely used it. I treated it gently out of fear that something might happen to it. I only used it when signing important papers - my mortgage, a contract, an acceptance letter for a new job.

Last week I lost my pen - possibly at an airport. Just like that, it fell out of my bag. It disappeared on me. I am waiting for it to come back, but in the back of my mind I know the pen lived only 15 years for me.

The word pen is also used to describe journalists in Turkish--which carries the emotional, mystical aspects common to many Eastern languages. And last week Turkey also lost a pen. Hrant Dink, a Turkish journalist, a prominent member of the Armenian community, a thinker, a humanist, a father, a husband. He was shot in the middle of Sisli, a busy hub of Istanbul. In the middle of the traffic, in the middle of the hustle and bustle, in the middle of an unfinished discussion about what truly constitutes the Turkish national identity.

The night I learned about Hrant Dink's murder, I had just arrived from the airport. Busy with everyday thoughts, I had sat at dinner and flipped through the channels to see if I could find some music program. I was trying to think of what might have happened to my pen, whether I should tell my dad, whether I could ever replace it. Then I saw the headlines, followed by images of Dink's feet, facing up. His body faced down. I guessed it right. He was shot from the back. Cowards, I thought...for not being able to face him, for not being able to hear and respect his thoughts, for fearing his pen. Are they so insecure in their national identity that they can feel threatened by one man who said he was as Turkish as he was Armenian. Dink was Anatolian, he was from this country, whatever his religion might be. Wasn't Anatolia the crossroads of civilizations? Wasn't Dink a part of their history?

I waited more than a week to write about this atrocity. I was upset. I was scared. I thought of calling my dad and telling him not to use his first name in public. They would not know the difference. Something that doesn't sound "Turkish enough," might get him into trouble.

I saw pictures of Dink's daughter, bursting in pain. I missed my father. I called him. I told him about the pen. He said I would find it. He had a good feeling about it. I asked him about Dink and where it happened. "A few blocks from my old office," he confirmed. I told him my thoughts about using his name publicly. He laughed it off. "Nothing will happen," he said.

Maybe so. I read that neither the president, nor the prime minister attended Dink's funeral. Did they not feel safe? Did they not want to make a statement? Nothing will change if the powers to be do not respond beyond polished statements sent to the media.

Thousands of people took over the streets and walked in support though. They wished Dink's pen would write more, whether they read his column or not, whether they agreed with him or not.