Opinion: Callus on My Finger

Cumhuriyet columnist Barış Pehlivan has been handed a 3-year and 9-month prison term in the ongoing lawsuit filed against him in 2020. This marks his fifth sentencing.

Pehlivan was found guilty of disclosing the identity of a deceased member of the National Intelligence Organization (MİT), who had been stationed in Libya, through one of his articles.

Notably, on this occasion, Pehlivan composed his column for Cumhuriyet while behind bars:

Callus on My Finger

I was 27 years old and accused of being a member of a terrorist organization. Within the prison walls, amidst the gloom, I encountered my friend, Barış Terkoğlu. He was returning from a lawyer's visit.

Had we not been apprehended weeks earlier, our debut book would have graced the publisher's hands. Denied that privilege. On the morning of February 14, 2011, a battalion of police officers descended upon our home, confiscating us and our computers. Amidst the chaos, I called out to Barış, whom the guards were hurrying into the cell, "The book is lost too, all that effort in vain." He replied, "Don't bother, brother, we'll write it again..." Were we truly writers? How? When we couldn't even catch sight of one another...

In a compact interview room, my attorney and I conversed. He passed me a letter, inked by Barış, meant for my eyes only. "Let's write," he said. Taraf (newspaper) was curtailing and disseminating WikiLeaks documents, omitting parts incriminating the Gulenists. Given the scenario, we must wield our pens now, and challenge those who confined us.

Sub-rosa communication ensued for days. Topics were exchanged, and duties were delegated. Our fellows on the outside translated materials into Turkish, while we clandestinely smuggled in sections, page by page. Nightfall would find us at the prison cell's plastic table, manually transferring words onto virginal white sheets. Our handwritten offerings then surreptitiously exited the premises, transcribed into computers by our wives. A concealed endeavour, safeguarded from eavesdropping or interruption, spanning months.

A day arrived when we stood trial at the Çağlayan Courthouse. A beautiful day it was, seeing our loved ones, even in the dock. There, we locked eyes with Haluk Hepkon, the owner of Kırmızı Kedi Publishing House. Through a cordon of gendarmes, Haluk delivered a scrap of paper. Misunderstood by all except us, it bore a book contract.

Court adjourned, and within the courthouse's subterranean holding cell on the floor minus 7, we inked the pact. Upon our ascent to the courtroom, we returned the document. Our hearts raced, awaiting the imminent publication of our maiden book...

Then the day dawned. Agitatedly pacing the cell, I reread newspaper articles about our book ad nauseam. Triumph was ours. Arrested for journalism, still under arrest, yet champions of journalism. A precedent perhaps unprecedented globally: Barış and I had coauthored a book behind prison bars, sight unseen. The preface, authored by journalist and author Doğan Yurdakul, an unwavering presence in a separate cell, stood as testimony.

This marked the inception of our book, "Famous Turks in Sızıntı/WikiLeaks (Sızıntı/WikiLeaks’te Ünlü Türkler). Our labour unmasked how this realm's injustices were choreographed through veiled American documentation. We unveiled the sullied briefings provided to ambassadors by the state-implanted terrorist organization. Yes, some deemed us terrorists, yet we were also authors of a book that dominated readers' attention for months...

Nineteen months imprisoned. Then one day, the state extended a "Pardon," and exoneration was bestowed upon us. The judges who presided vanished, the prosecutors who arraigned absconded, the officers who shadowed us fled. Even the so-called experts they introduced scampered away. On the flip side, "homeland" and "freedom" were inscribed upon our souls.

I now stand at 40, bearing witness to calluses on our fingers. As I pen these lines, I gaze upon it. The callus, etched by a tome crafted with our very hands a dozen years past, beckons me, "We will write again."

Now I embark upon a novel battle. Experience teaches me no harbour of safety awaits. Yet let none doubt, I shall wield my pen once more.

Turkish poet Ahmet Telli's words resonate beautifully: "Perhaps I shall return one day if someone lends voice to my voice..."