We are Silivri's mandatory visitors. For now, some of us, but potentially all of us. Although we cannot fully know or understand what our loved ones in prison are going through, there is one thing we have learned through experience: what it means to be an intimate of a prisoner. And I quickly learned the number one rule of being an intimate of a prisoner: to wait.
Silivri Prison.
Perhaps you know it from the phrase ‘Silivri is cold,’ which has become a saying. I know that this phrase brings to mind a veiled threat, fear and censorship. But any one of you could end up here one day. Don't relax and think, ‘Nothing will happen to me.’ This is Turkey, and what is happening is clear for all to see. Anyway, I say Silivri, but its new name is actually Marmara Closed Prison. As you may remember, the name was changed a few years ago because Silivri district became known for its prison. Nothing has changed, it is still the same prison.
Today Silivri is full of politicians, mayors, lawyers, human rights defenders, journalists, workers and students. Actually, I have been here several times to make news. But for the last two months or so, things have been different. This time I am “going inside.” It's no oil painting, of course, but now I am a ‘relative’ of a prisoner. At least that is how the Silivri administration defines me.
As you read this article, I am travelling to Silivri for the seventh time as one of the visitors of journalist Furkan Karabay, who will be waking up to his 67th day in prison. So far, I have visited him six times, three of which were open visits.
God forbid, but in this country where anything can happen at any moment, I am writing this article in case your route is forced to take you to Silivri. Or perhaps I am listening to the inner voice that I cannot suppress, whispering, ‘Write it down,’ I don't know... To be honest, I hesitated before writing. I didn’t start writing with the intention of saying, “Look at what I’m going through.” I was also afraid it might be perceived that way. Journalists, politicians, human rights defenders, students, workers; held captive there without due process, even without trial; prisons are overcrowded, inmates are sleeping on the floor, sick prisoners are being left to die, dozens are on hunger strike, and some are being subjected to torture—my weekly ordeal of visiting Silivri doesn't even begin to compare to what they are going through.
Being a relative of a prisoner: The art of waiting
But as I said, we are the mandatory visitors of Silivri. For now, some of us, but potentially all of us. Although we cannot fully know or understand what our loved ones in prison are going through, there is one thing we have learned through experience: what it means to be an intimate of a prisoner. And I quickly learned the number one rule of being an intimate of a prisoner: to wait.
Waiting for the day and time of the visit, waiting for the service that will take you there, waiting for traffic if you are going by car, waiting for the execution guards (we know them as prison guards, but they don't like that word) to register you, waiting to be searched, waiting in the visiting room, waiting for the indictment to be written, waiting for a letter to arrive, waiting for the trial date... W-A-I-T-I-N-G. But don't worry, you'll find things to keep you busy while you wait, like counting. Counting days, counting steps, counting things you need to do... For example, I know that the corridor of the closed interview room is 12 steps long.
303B: Destination Silivri
Getting to Silivri is quite a hassle. If you have a car, you have to deal with traffic, and if you use public transport, you have to follow the bus routes and try to catch the right bus. I always see the 303B public bus in front of Silivri Prison. This bus stops at 53 stops and runs between Silivri and Bayrampaşa Otogar. After that, it's another series of transfers. There are other buses as well, but their schedules and stops vary.
Let's say you somehow arrived at Silivri. Is it over? No! Now you're embarking on a new adventure. You walk towards the car parks next to that famous large gate you saw on the news. After passing the visitor and lawyer car parks, you come to a cafeteria which serves for visitors. There are toasts, tea, a few types of biscuits, crackers and one type of cigarette. Some of the people working here are prisoners. The toast is famous and quite large. Don't ask, ‘It's too much for me, can you cut it?’ Prisoners are not allowed to use knives, a lawyer friend told me. There are a few shelters and benches around. The visitor restrooms, unfortunately in a deplorable state of cleanliness, are right behind them. There are also mosques nearby. Some of the inmates' relatives come to sit and wait for visiting hours after praying.
There isn't enough seating, but never mind! This is ‘Turkey's most modern and high-tech prison, the largest in Europe.’ As soon as people find out I'm a journalist, they start complaining. “There’s no such thing as justice,” “Look at the place they’ve given us—a few benches,” “Well, they committed crimes, that’s why they’re here, but no one treats us like human beings.” The complaints go on and on, and each time I shake my head helplessly.
It is still possible to forget both the crime and the punishment
We are the ones who come to see our loved ones, regardless of their ‘crime.’ We chat frequently. I must admit, I cherish these moments the most. Of course, all sorts of things come to mind, such as ‘criminals, bad people, they are serving their sentences.’ But from the moment you arrive here, nothing else matters. A woman who came to visit her husband, who had been in Silivri for three years, said one day, pointing at me, “She has blonde hair, painted nails, and is beautiful. Would you ever think she would end up here?” Since I won her heart by saying, “You are also have a brunette beauty, and everything happens for a reason, doesn't it?” we greet each other whenever we meet. And in moments like these, you forget about “crime” and “punishment.”
How could the crime committed by a woman's husband matter at that moment, when she was crying because she couldn't breastfeed her crying baby due to the cameras in the visiting rooms? Or what good would it do to tell a crying child after the visit about his father's “crime”?
It's time to enter the visiting area. Once you pass the pergolas, the visitor entrance is right in front of you, with the lawyer entrance right next to it. Here, you will undergo an initial search. You will also need to hand over your mobile phones for safekeeping. After leaving your mobile phone, you will be given a card, which you can use to retrieve your phone when you leave. Let's say you have a bag, wallet and other belongings. You can take it with you when you pass by here, but you will not be able to take it with you when you enter the prison. You will need to leave it in the lockers at the security checkpoints in the building you will arrive at shortly. You will need a key for that. You can purchase one inside the prison for 40 TL.
After passing through the visitor entrance, you have to wait for the shuttle to take you to the prisons. Once you pass the security checkpoint, you enter a waiting room. From where we entered, it is about 60 steps to the end of the corridor – I can't be bothered to walk all the way to the end every time. There are huge paintings on the walls painted by the prisoners. I go up to one and examine it closely; it's painted directly onto the wall. There is no name or signature underneath. Most of them are landscape paintings. On one of the walls there is a television. Every time I look up to check the time, it's usually tuned to a news channel – no, not TRT or A Haber.
The state plays jokes sometimes: Free Tourism
We board the buses according to the prison we are going to. The bus for the famous No. 9 is separate. The buses for lawyers are completely separate. Speaking of buses... Silivri Prison is a place full of surprises. In this prison where journalists, politicians, students, lawyers, and human rights defenders are detained, the buses that take us to see our loved ones have “FREE Tourism” written on them. The journalist Can Bursalı, who went with me to the visit, poked me in the first week, laughing, and said, “Look, what is written on the bus?”
Speaking of my first visit... I was so excited that day and worried that something might go wrong, that I was eagerly examining everything around me. When I saw a few small holes in one of the buildings rising beside me, I turned to Can to calm myself down a little and said, “Look, bird nests!” Can repeats the laughter he first heard with the same enthusiasm every week. Of course, it was the partition where the staff waited and watched outside. Let this remain a secret forever between Can, me, and those who read this. I don't think the birds like it here either.
After boarding the buses, we are dropped off in front of the prisons we will visit in order. There, officials waiting for you will register you. It is advisable to arrive early for your first visit, as procedures such as eye scans and registration can take a long time. After completing the registration, you will be separated into separate search areas for women and men. At the door of the room where women will be searched, it says, “Please knock on the door.” Once, after being warned by a female officer to ‘not knock too loudly,’ I was allowed to enter. Since then, I have knocked gently every time. I learned that some doors should be knocked on quietly. Here, your pockets are searched, you are asked to lift your T-shirt, and you are expected to lift your bra from the bottom and top. The question, “You don't have any jewellery such as necklaces, earrings, or bracelets, do you?” comes up. By the way, it was said that piercings are not a problem. But I say there's no need to take the risk. Because the next week, the staff member who called me said that, unlike his colleague, I couldn't come in with my piercing.
You are now at the eye scan and ID submission stage. Keep going, once you pass this stage, you are one step away from seeing your loved one. Here, after passing the eye scan with the commands “Approach, now step back a little,” you submit your ID. From that moment on, your name and identity no longer matter. After stating the name of the inmate you are visiting, you are given a document confirming that you are a "relative" of the inmate, which includes the inmate's name and cell number. If you want to deliver items to a prisoner, you hand them over to another officer there. Of course, you cannot give them everything you want. There are some items that cannot be sent inside, and there are restrictions on the colour and number of items you can deliver.
The wish ritual at the iron gates
Now you are in another phase of waiting. We line up in front of the blue door. It doesn't matter what time the visit is scheduled for; you cannot enter until you are told to “come in.” From this point on, we begin chatting as relatives of the prisoners. Questions such as “Who are you visiting? How long have they been in prison? Has the indictment been prepared? Are they detained or convicted? Where are you from? Which cell are they in?” are flying around. With a touch of sadness at meeting those you already know once again — meaning his/her relative haven't been released yet — you start chatting. The staff are familiar with our faces now. There are benches and a small canteen there too. Last week, I noticed that one of the trees surrounded by wire had borne fruit. I'll take a closer look at what kind of tree it is this week... The wire I mentioned also has something you're used to seeing in tourist areas: a pile of padlocks... Visitors hang their locker keys there after their loved ones are released. I thought Silivri was a place full of surprises, but that's not where the magic is. It's in the people who are trying to find a glimmer of hope in every hardship.
We line up in front of the blue door, behind rows of iron bars of the same colour. Names and dates are written on the walls and the blue-painted iron bars. Then there is a commotion. This means that the officer is starting to let people in. We usually enter in groups of five. Here we come to the search point once again. Now you are not allowed to have anything except your visitor card. We take off our shoes and go through the x-ray machine once more. And this time we enter the search rooms for the last time.
I hate this last search. I don't know if it's because I'm impatient or because my breasts, which I've already freed from my bra, are being searched again. The waiting line for women is always longer anyway. Inside, we are asked to take off our shoes, and our pockets and clothes are searched. To avoid setting off the alarm when going through the X-ray, you need to wear clothes that are as button-free as possible and do not contain any metal accessories. Of course, bras are a separate issue. Once, to avoid the hassle, I wore skin-coloured bands, which are known as a lifesaver for evening dresses. I was so happy that it went smoothly, but the security officer who was searching me said, “Please lift your shirt and remove your bra,” and when she saw the tape, she tried to remove it as well. When I explained, “These are just tape to prevent the beeping,” she told me not to wear them again. I always learn something new, don’t I?
Visiting room: “Can we hug?”
You exit the search room, pass through a long, metal security gate after your eyes have been scanned, and there you are in the visiting room – 19 steps later. For the monthly open visits, you go up to the upper floor.
Let me start with an open visit. Plastic, white tables await you, lined up in rows. Prisoners bring snacks they have bought from the canteen to offer their "guests"; that is the "peocedure." One does not know what to do here. You may even find yourself asking, "Can we hug?" Officers are walking around, but you can sit at the same table and chat for an hour.
Closed visits are not that "comfortable." No matter what time your visit is scheduled for, you have to wait for the prisoners to arrive because they also have to go through a search. There are a few warnings on the dirty walls telling you not to speak loudly and that visiting hours begin after the prisoners arrive... The lights on the prisoners' side come on, and everyone takes turns looking through the glass partitions to find their loved ones. Once you find them, you talk on the phone, and sometimes the voices get mixed up. After an hour, the execution guards arrive, and you realise that you have to hang up. My humble suggestion is to wait for your loved one to leave. Because turning your back and walking away isn't as easy as it seems. You feel bad and guilty – as if you could have done something.
That’s it. Yes, there’s a huge nightmare of returning home ahead of you, but you’ve made it through another visit day. Now you can “reclaim your freedom.” I’m writing these lines at the end of a visit day, after finally getting my phone back. Now I can return to my duty: waiting.
This time, for the next visit day.
