Every time I look at that photograph, my eyes are drawn to the same detail.
His left arm is bandaged.
He has clearly just come out of a hospital, an operation, or another grueling round of treatment. His body is exhausted. His face bears the marks of illness and repeated surgeries. He is being escorted slowly down the stairs, surrounded by police officers.
And cameras.
He is being paraded before them as though a dangerous criminal has just been captured.
As though the authorities have finally apprehended a “terrorist” they had been hunting for years.
Yet the man being led down those stairs was my colleague, Haşim Söylemez—a journalist with a brain tumor who had undergone surgery time and again.
A man who had never held a weapon in his hands, only a pen.
To me, that photograph sums up the final years of Haşim’s life.
On one side, a deadly disease.
On the other, the full weight of the Erdoğan regime—of a merciless state.
And caught between them, a journalist quietly struggling to stay alive.
We have lost Haşim.
There is so much that could be said after his passing. But perhaps the first thing that must be said is this:
Haşim’s life was a small but profoundly painful reflection of Turkey’s recent history.
He Began Life Several Steps Behind
Haşim was Kurdish.
He was born into poverty in a Kurdish village. From childhood, he experienced the discrimination that came with being Kurdish in Turkey.
Perhaps that was why he became an expert on the Kurdish question. There was scarcely a corner of the region known as Kurdistan where he had not set foot.
He loved to read.
He studied history.
He read voraciously.
He was curious.
He investigated.
Then he became interested in journalism.
That path eventually led him to Aksiyon magazine.
Those who knew Haşim will remember that he was never a journalist who sought the spotlight.
He never placed himself ahead of the story.
He had no desire to appear on television or become famous.
His job was to investigate.
To prepare in-depth reports.
To read.
To talk to people.
And when he began pursuing a story, to gather every last detail.
At Aksiyon, he produced outstanding reports and investigative files. We traveled together on many assignments. He was always positive and smiling.
It was almost impossible to provoke him. Yet he took journalism seriously.
Because he was a serious reader.
He knew history.
He had a powerful memory.
Most importantly, he was curious.
These are qualities that no amount of money can buy in journalism.
Haşim’s Table Was Open to Everyone
But the Haşim I remember was not only Haşim the journalist.
There was also Haşim my friend.
He was devoted to his family.
He was devoted to his friends.
He lived modestly.
His humble home in Yenibosna was a regular gathering place, especially for those of us who were single at the time.
Some people have homes whose doors you hesitate to knock on.
Haşim’s was not like that.
It was part home, part meeting place, part refuge. His wallet may not always have been full, but his heart was immeasurably rich.
Then Zeynep entered his life.
And the center of Haşim’s world shifted.
Zeynep…
His daughter.
His greatest joy.
While we sat in the newsroom discussing politics, debating stories and imagining that we were saving the country, Haşim would invariably have a piece of “Zeynep news” to share:
“Guess what Zeynep did today…”
“You know what Zeynep said today…”
“Zeynep learned something new…”
What sounded to us like a small childhood anecdote was, to Haşim, the most important development of the day.
Because he was not only a fine journalist.
He was also a wonderful father.
Then life dealt him one of its cruelest blows.
First Came the Illness
A tumor was discovered in Haşim’s brain.
It was a devastating diagnosis.
I remember as if it were yesterday the shock of seeing him collapse for the first time in the newsroom—the ambulance, the emergency room and the long hours at the hospital.
It was an ordeal so overwhelming that even facing it alone would have been more than most people could bear.
Then the operations began.
One…
Two…
Three…
Haşim underwent seven brain surgeries.
Think about that.
Seven times, his skull was opened.
Seven times, he was placed on an operating table.
Seven times, his family waited outside the operating room.
In a normal country, recovery would have been the only concern of a man in his condition.
That was not the case for Haşim.
Because on top of his illness came the crushing weight of Turkey’s political climate.
Then Came the State
During the Erdoğan government’s mass investigations targeting the Gülen movement, Haşim also became a target.
What was his crime?
Having worked for Aksiyon magazine.
The magazine to which he had devoted years of his life was unlawfully shut down by government decree.
He lost his job. His income disappeared. He was already gravely ill.
Suddenly, he was sick, unemployed and a “suspect.”
He needed money for his treatment.
He had none.
Those of us living abroad—his friends and former colleagues—collected money among ourselves.
We simply wanted to contribute to his treatment.
We wanted our friend to survive.
Even that financial assistance became the subject of an investigation.
Can you imagine?
Money sent by friends to help pay for the treatment of a journalist with a brain tumor…
It was treated as suspicious.
That is the story behind the photograph on those stairs.
Haşim was seriously ill.
He was still suffering from the effects of his operations.
His left arm was bandaged.
Yet the state detained him.
It marched him past the cameras.
And presented him to the public as a “terror suspect.”
I look at that photograph again today, and one question inevitably comes to mind:
Who did what to whom?
Whom did Haşim persecute?
Whose life did he destroy?
Whose rights did he violate?
At whom did he ever point a gun?
The answer is simple: no one.
He was merely a journalist.
Punished Twice Over
There was a deeply painful irony in Haşim’s life.
He was born in an impoverished Kurdish village.
He emerged from the discrimination, poverty and unresolved Kurdish question that had scarred Turkey for decades.
He studied.
He became a historian.
He became a journalist and an expert on the Kurdish question.
Through his own efforts, he built a different life for himself.
Then, because of the newspaper and magazine for which he had worked, he was targeted once again—this time over a different identity imposed upon him.
At the beginning of his life, he was marginalized for being Kurdish.
At the end of it, he was branded a “terrorist” for having worked at Aksiyon.
Haşim had, in a sense, been displaced because of his ethnic identity and then subjected to systematic persecution because of his profession.
He was crushed between two different realities of Turkey.
Yet throughout it all, he remained the same Haşim.
Quiet.
Humble.
Doing his job.
Devoted to his family.
Devoted to his friends.
A journalist.
Then He Was Gradually Isolated
A bullet is not the only way to destroy a human being.
Sometimes you take away his job.
You cut off his income.
You confiscate his passport and restrict his freedom of movement and his hopes for the future.
You open investigation after investigation against him.
You drag him from police stations to courthouses while he is gravely ill.
You make even the help offered by his friends appear suspicious.
And then you expect him to keep fighting his illness.
Haşim fought the tumor in his brain on one front.
On another, he fought the investigations.
On one side, he struggled with hospitals.
On the other, with the state.
His magazine had been shut down.
He was unemployed.
He had no money.
His access to treatment became increasingly limited.
Yet despite everything, I do not remember Haşim as an angry man.
Perhaps that is the most painful part of all.
He lived quietly.
He resisted quietly.
And in the end…
He died quietly.
Only a handful of colleagues attended his funeral and carried his coffin.
The man who had once produced remarkable investigative reports, raced through newsrooms, debated the great questions facing his country and welcomed his friends into a home whose door they never hesitated to knock on…
Was carried to his final resting place on the shoulders of just a few people.
What Remains Now?
There are several versions of Haşim in my memory.
Haşim sitting at a table, discussing a story.
Haşim always out in the field, carrying his equipment on his back.
Haşim with a book in his hand.
Haşim welcoming friends into his home.
And Haşim the father, his eyes lighting up as he began:
“You know what Zeynep did today…”
Then there is Haşim on those stairs.
His left arm bandaged.
His body worn down by repeated surgeries.
Walking slowly…
Surrounded by police officers…
Displayed before the cameras like a “terrorist.”
Perhaps years from now, those who see that photograph will not know the details of his case.
They will not know Aksiyon magazine.
They will not remember the political climate of those years.
But I know what I see when I look at that photograph.
I do not see a terrorist.
I see a fine journalist.
I see a good friend.
I see a father who adored his daughter.
I see a man who read, questioned and investigated.
And I see a human being who was marginalized at different stages of his life for different reasons.
Haşim’s story was left unfinished.
But his journalism will not be forgotten.
His friendship will remain with us.
Those who knew him will remember that humble home whose door was always open.
And, of course, Zeynep will remain.
Perhaps, as we bid Haşim farewell, the truest words we can offer him are these:
You were not a terrorist, Haşim.
You were simply a good journalist.
A good friend.
A good father.
Farewell, my friend.
We bear witness that you were a good man, and we send you on your way with our deepest love and gratitude.
May you rest in eternal peace.
