Sometimes people ask me in which language I think. It depends. However, it doesn’t make a difference whether I’m in Turkey or in Germany, it depends on what it is, that goes through my mind.
Some people say language means thinking. I don’t know, but at times there are certainly thoughts that I would rather to express in Turkish, even when I’m talking to someone in German, and vice versa. It is a lot more than just the specific meaning I would look to explain, it is also the sound, the rhythm, the colour that creates what you think or feel in that very moment.
Today, it must have been the moment when all of that wouldn’t find any word, no matter which language. It must have been the moment when Ismail Yozgat appeared at court today to witness what he has seen on the day when he found his blood covered son Halit Yozgat dead, murdered at the age of 21 in his internet café, presumably by the NSU right-wing terrorists Uwe Böhnhardt und Uwe Mundlos.
Even though Ismail Yozgat tried in Turkish he could actually hardly describe what happened, he couldn’t help but scream his head off, he cried, he shouted towards the judge, the lawyers, the witnesses, the visitors, the accused, and the murderers who where not there.
I don’t know whether this saying exists in Germany, in Turkey they say:
If your mother or your father dies, we call you an orphan.
If your husband or your wife dies, we call you a widow or a widower.
If your child dies, there is no word, because the pain is too big to find one.