“I hpoe those who criticize the broadcast ban die in another explosion and understand why the ban is crucial.”
The television anchor sat in shock as she heard these words from the man on the air with her. This man, who was wishing ill on critics of the government, kept talking. Waving his hand at her, he said, “Tell me, what are they going to do when they hear the news, ah, tell me?”
This unfolded on television, approximately 20 minutes after the horrific attacks at the Istanbul airport, and only a few minutes after the government’s broadcasting ban — a routine prohibition on airing too much specific information after such incidents — went into effect.
The man on the screen was a member of Parliament, from the governing party, known for his loyalty to the president. I flipped through the other channels — they were also invaded by spin doctors of the governing party, telling the audience not to question authority. The only information I could find on the attacks that night was an outside view of Ataturk Airport, a place that is like a second home to me because I travel so often, and the rising death toll: 26, 27, 28 and more into the evening. By the end of the week it was up to 44.
By banning the broadcasting of information, the government doesn’t just stifle debate and news; it also represses the nation’s emotions. Keep calm, we are urged. Don’t feel panic, don’t question anything.
The emotional suppression is not new to us. In the last year, the country has experienced 14 attacks. Each time the response unfolds in the same way: attack, broadcast ban, representatives of the government shouting at us on TV before we know anything. Then, the blocking of social media just after Facebook sends the safety-check message. (“Yes, I am alive, dear Facebook, but I cannot reply because our government unplugged the internet.”) By now, even the grannies have learned how to alter their internet settings to connect from another country.
The next day, the government-supported mainstream media condemns the attack, yet we have no real news for 24 hours. Then, usually, we see President Recep Tayyip Erdogan taking the stage to talk about how well Turkey is doing. He talks mostly about the recently built bridges or new roads. He finishes with a loud chorus of “let’s stick together.” Any other emotion but solidarity is unpatriotic.
In the city center the morning after the attacks, it was awkwardly silent. Only the really passionate tourists were trotting around, finding the best shot to Instagram. I had to venture out to pay my taxes. I ended up having a strange conversation with the tax officer. It was as if we were both dubbed: Our faces were expressing the horrors of the night before; our voices were talking about dates and money due.
Walking around, I heard snippets of small talk between strangers — breaking what was mostly silence — as if they were sound bites from a broken record, having almost no line of logic.
“I cannot take it anymore.” “He didn’t talk yet,” referring to our president. “Nothing will happen.” “Maybe I lost it completely.” “Is Facebook on yet?” “Did you see that ‘Survivor’ was first in ratings last night?”
Meanwhile, the airport was washed clean of the human blood and flesh. By early morning Wednesday, the state media was heralding that the airport was operating already.
Some people, likely supporters of the government, took to social media to boast about this: “It took days in Belgium, but we managed to get over it only in hours.”
This cheerful comment is one example among many showing how we are being pushed to indifference by those in power. The turn toward this indifference has been building over the past few years. Some troubling moments stand out.
In 2013, a 14-year-old boy named Berkin Elvan was hit on the head by a police-fired tear gas canister while fetching bread from the market during anti-government demonstrations stemming from the destruction of Istanbul’s Gezi Park. He died after almost a year in a coma. Sympathy for this innocent victim drove more protests, until a few days after his death, Mr. Erdogan, the prime minister at the time, publicly labeled the dead boy a terrorist. He encouraged a crowd to boo the child’s family. The crowd did boo, with limitless enthusiasm.
This is how you lose it. This is also how you learn to pretend life can just go on as it was. Any belief to the contrary requires standing up to a mob of cruelty — a mob that has the weight of the government behind it.
Thirty hours after the attack, I was scheduled to fly from Ataturk Airport to Berlin. Of course, my flight was not canceled. On the road to the airport, I made up my mind to express my condolences to members of the airport staff. But once I walked in the terminal, the mood was completely normal, too normal, so I did not bother.
Instead I look around to check if the young security officer, the one who smiles at me when we run into each other, is alive. He is, good. The young woman at the counter at duty free? She is alive as well. Finally, the guy I always tease for selling the most expensive coffee on the planet, he is still there, too. Though who knows if there are injuries I cannot see. Everyone is silent. Pain can choke you when it isn’t shared.
While waiting at the gate to board, I checked Twitter. People were retweeting alarming words from Serif Turgut, a prominent war journalist who has reported from Bosnia, Kosovo, Chechnya and Iraq. “There is a threshold before getting into a civil war,” she wrote in March. “The threshold is set by normalizing and systematizing the mass killings.” She added, “Don’t let them make you get used to mass killings.”
Her tweets made me ask: In a society where crowds boo a dead child, or simply dismiss death and go on as usual after the unimaginable, what can happen next?
I didn’t want to dwell on this idea. I turned to the window, where I saw the rain pouring down, quite unusual this time of year. Then the sad announcement started: “The memorial service for those we lost in the bomb attack will take place today at …”
The airport fell silent for only a few seconds. Everybody looked down or away, anything to avoid exchanging looks with a fellow passenger. Then a woman started speaking loudly, as if waging a war against the heavy silence. “The rain,” she said. “It is really raining cats and dogs out there, eh?” Nobody answered. No one wanted to talk about death, but small talk about the weather was too much to bear. We all turned to watch the rain.
Ece Temelkuran, a journalist and novelist, is the author, most recently, of the forthcoming Turkey: The Insane and Melancholy.