An open letter to anyone who plans to visit Istanbul this summer: Don’t.

Yes, Istanbul is a city that is hugged by different layers of history and culture; it is true that we have amazing food here, the weather will make you forget about the harsh winter and probably it is going cost you way less than any other city in your list. Plus, probably you are not required to obtain a visa to come. But there is one thing you should know; you are going to visit a city in which politicians are calling ‘necrophiliacs’ to hundreds of thousands of people who gathered for the funeral of a 15 year old boy who was shot by the police on his way to buy bread.

If I was told things would come this far when I was running from the tear gas bomb to save my life on May 31st, 2013, probably it’d take some time for me to agree. I always knew Gezi was going to change things; I was at least sure that the park was there to stay. However there was one thing I couldn’t foresee and that was how we were going to witness what sort of twisted minded people have been assigned as the representatives of the country.

Since 31 May 2013, 8 people died in Gezi Protest because of the police terror. An individual with an healthy mind and conscience would never compete the sadness resulted from these. Those 8 will remain as the permanent heartache of the people living in Turkey who haven’t lost their ability to question, judge and sense of justice.

However one must admit that the sadness surrounded the people on the morning of March 11 was different. Berkin Elvan, a 14 year old boy who was shot on his head by a tear gas canister died after trying to survive for 269 days.

I remember the day I read he was shot on his way to buy bread. His being a kid, the thing he was doing when he was shot, his beautiful black eyes and his pure innocence which minimise the possibility of being aware of what had been going on then had tormented me. I couldn’t stop asking why and how.

He was strong, I always felt that. He was going to be okay, he was going to recover and it wouldn’t take so long for him to be back to school, reunion with his friends and catch up. Maybe he would never know who we were, but we were going to remain as his sisters and brothers who would always keep an eye on him.

I came to realise he was actually meaning a lot more to me when I heard he died. It has been so long time since I had felt that desperate; Berkin’s recovery was the sole good thing that could end this era of darkness, at least for me and a lot of other. I’ve put a lot of hope in him, he was going to be the light at the end of the tunnel. It was as if he was going to cure every each of us and prove everything was going to be alright.

He couldn’t make it. His little body couldn’t stand anymore after 269 days.

I don’t know how I could make it to the office that day. I remember seeing a lot of really sad and angry people on the street but all of them were too devastated to talk. The pain was lingering in the air. If one could say his name loud, all the people were going to scream their lungs out on the streets, crying.

My conscience was heavy to carry. I asked myself over and over, why it was Ali Ismail, Ethem, Abdullah, Mehmet, Ahmet, Berkin but not me? Had I been only lucky? Was luck the only thing to survive a demonstration in which you asked for justice and equality for one and all in this country? Their way of handling things made me feel guilty because I was alive.

Then I started to question when the people who cannot even articulate a proper sentence without God’s name become this reckless? Where did these people leave their heart at? Have they ever got one?

Berkin was not even buried when I could stop asking myself these questions. The former minister of EU Relations was there to answer my questions in his very own way; redefining low:

Another congressman of the ruling party tweeted Berkin’s life may given an end on purpose that day because it was the anniversary of Gazi Quarter Riots of 1995.

I think I did a good job by keeping my sanity after I read these until Berkin was buried. It was exactly the moment when I heard police was using tear gas and water cannons once again to the hundreds of thousands people who gathered to say goodbye to him, I couldn’t keep it together and I ran to the office bathroom to burst into tears.

It was yesterday I guess, the prime minister of Turkish government declared a 14 year old boy who was shot on the head by the police’s tear gas canister and died after 269 days in a coma, a terrorist.

I don’t know how it looks from where you are living, but I just wanted to picture what has been going on here and what sort of a psychological trauma Turkish people are being pushed into. Boycott what has been going on here. Boycott these people who have forgotten about how it was to be human and how to respect another being who may not agree on what they think. Boycott the way they are treating their society. Boycott the corruption that includes ministers’ and their children’s names, boycott the newly assigned rules that made them step out of the jail. Boycott the unjust, boycott the police violence that took 8 people’s lives. Boycott the oppression that Turkish people are made to live with.

If one day we could leave all these behind, if we could call Gezi Park ours, if we could name the schools, sport halls, streets, boulevards after those 8 beautiful people who lost their lives just because somebody wanted to keep their place for good, if we could gather and ask for what we want and not be beaten to death on the streets or teargassed, if we could live the way we want, if we could make some people remember how it was to have a conscience, then we will be happy to welcome you with that Turkish hospitality you have heard a lot about.

But not now.

Don’t come to Istanbul.

Don’t come to Turkey.