We don’t remember days , we remember moments
Göğsünü gökyüzü bellemişsin çocuğum. Geç, otur karşıma.
Bir gün yıldızların da sönebileceğini sana anlatmam lazım.
“But in general, take my advice, when you meet anything that’s going to be human and isn’t yet, or used to be human and isn’t now, or ought to be human and isn’t, you keep your eyes on it and feel for your hatchet.”
- C.S. Lewis, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe
Ölüm güzel şey, budur perde ardından haber… Hiç güzel olmasaydı ölür müydü Peygamber? Şu gideni çevirsem tutupta eteğinden, Soruversem:‘Haberin var mı öleceğinden? Büyük randevu bilsem nerede saat kaçta? Tabutumun tahtası bilsem hangi ağaçta? (…) Minarede “ölü var!” diye bir acı salâ… Er kişi niyetine saf saf namaz.. Ne alâ! Böyledir de ölüme kimse inanmaz hâlâ! Ne tabutu taşıyan, ne de toprağı kazan…(…)
Their reasons for keeping quiet are women’s reasons. Because they are women, their sexuality or even perceptions of it can dis credit or hurt or destroy them—inexplicably shame them; provoke rage, rape, and ridicule in men. Dissociation from other women is always the safest course. They are not sluttish, but other women who have had abortions probably are. They tried not to get pregnant (birth control being illegal in many parts of the country before 1973), but other women who had abortions probably did not. They love their children, but other women who have had abortions may well be the cold mothers, the cruel mothers, the vicious women. They are individuals of worth and good morals who had compelling reasons for aborting, but the other women who had abortions must have done something wrong, were wrong, are somehow indistinct (not emerged from the primal female slime as individuals), were sex not persons. In keeping the secret they cut themselves off from other women to escape the shame of other women, the shame of being the same as other women, the shame of being female. They are ashamed of having had this bloody experience, of having this female body that gets torn into again and again and bleeds and can die from the tearing and the bleeding, the pain and the mess, of having this body that was violated again, this time by abortion…
There is the fear of having murdered: not someone, not real murder; but of having done something hauntingly wrong. She has learned (learned is a poor word for what has happened to her) that every life is more valuable than her own; her life gets value through motherhood, a kind of benign contamination. She has been having children in her mind, and getting her value through them, since she herself was a baby. Little girls believe that dolls are real babies. Little girls put dolls to sleep, feed them, bathe them, diaper them, nurse them through illnesses, teach them how to walk and how to talk and how to dress—love them. Abortion turns a woman into a murderer all right: she kills that child pregnant in her since her own childhood; she kills her allegiance to Motherhood First. This is a crime. She is guilty: of not wanting a baby…
The woman’s responsibility to the fertilized egg is imaginatively and with great conviction construed to be her relation to the adult male. At the very least, she must not murder him; nor should she outrage his existence by an assertion of her separateness from him, her distinctness, her importance as a person independent of him.
- Andrea Dworkin, “Right Wing Women”