hipeter924
Not a zombie yet
ANDREW FINKEL
The Hrant Dink Award
Any regular reader of this column -- or indeed anyone who has read it more than once -- will appreciate that while I sometimes take a stab at being sentimental, it is not really what I do best. So I am at a loss at how to describe the ceremony I attended the other night in İstanbul.
It was to bestow the second annual award named after the Turkish-Armenian editor Hrant Dink. The award is presented to two people from inside and outside Turkey, or so the rubric runs who work for a world free of discrimination, racism and violence, take personal risks for their ideals, use the language of peace, and by doing so, inspire and encourage others. It took place on Sept. 15, the day of Hrants birthday, and not Jan. 19, the day that he was slain. This, I take to mean, is that it is designed to commemorate his work and not to mourn his sacrifice. Yet the truth of the matter is that I found the occasion terribly, terribly sad.
I am sure I have succumbed in the past to the temptation of claiming a friendship with Hrant and to be affected by his death in order to justify my own opinions. This is what Hrant thought, I argued -- and so it has to be so. It is true that I liked him as a person and respected his opinions. I interviewed him once in detail and would phone to ask his view on this or that; but our lives did not intersect all that much and, if pushed, I would have to describe him as a colleague or acquaintance. I did write a public letter once protesting the cruel imbecility of the court sentence he received for insulting Turkishness and I am proud of my reward -- a big bear hug the next time he saw me. This, oddly enough, was at the trial of Orhan Pamuk, where Hrant was baited by the ultranationalist crowd in the street outside. I associate that hug with the one I received from the Armenian patriarch, Mesrob II, at Hrants funeral, his body wracked with sobs. That was the last time I saw Mesrob as well. He now suffers from a wasting illness.
The Hrant Dink Award- ANDREW FINKEL
The Hrant Dink Award
Any regular reader of this column -- or indeed anyone who has read it more than once -- will appreciate that while I sometimes take a stab at being sentimental, it is not really what I do best. So I am at a loss at how to describe the ceremony I attended the other night in İstanbul.
It was to bestow the second annual award named after the Turkish-Armenian editor Hrant Dink. The award is presented to two people from inside and outside Turkey, or so the rubric runs who work for a world free of discrimination, racism and violence, take personal risks for their ideals, use the language of peace, and by doing so, inspire and encourage others. It took place on Sept. 15, the day of Hrants birthday, and not Jan. 19, the day that he was slain. This, I take to mean, is that it is designed to commemorate his work and not to mourn his sacrifice. Yet the truth of the matter is that I found the occasion terribly, terribly sad.
I am sure I have succumbed in the past to the temptation of claiming a friendship with Hrant and to be affected by his death in order to justify my own opinions. This is what Hrant thought, I argued -- and so it has to be so. It is true that I liked him as a person and respected his opinions. I interviewed him once in detail and would phone to ask his view on this or that; but our lives did not intersect all that much and, if pushed, I would have to describe him as a colleague or acquaintance. I did write a public letter once protesting the cruel imbecility of the court sentence he received for insulting Turkishness and I am proud of my reward -- a big bear hug the next time he saw me. This, oddly enough, was at the trial of Orhan Pamuk, where Hrant was baited by the ultranationalist crowd in the street outside. I associate that hug with the one I received from the Armenian patriarch, Mesrob II, at Hrants funeral, his body wracked with sobs. That was the last time I saw Mesrob as well. He now suffers from a wasting illness.
The Hrant Dink Award- ANDREW FINKEL