The Shore of Fear: Reflections Beneath the Silence of Guns

There is a whisper rising within me. Not a scream, but the trembling birth of a question formed in the womb of hesitation: Is what we feel today a true breeze of peace,´-or-are our steps approaching a storm disguised as calm? The PKK s declaration of disarmament stirred in me a tangle of emotions—like a heart daring to trust the light in a room where night still refuses to leave.

In the streets, there is a pale anticipation, flickering across people’s faces like a wandering light unsure of where it belongs. Some mutter bitterly, “Why lay down arms? Are you returning us to the old solitude?” Others whisper with weary hope, “Enough. We’re tired. We deserve peace.” And between those voices, a larger question sways like a ship lost at sea: Is this the beginning of the nightmare’s end—or merely an intermission before a new season of pain?

Clarity remains absent. The lack of transparency thickens the scene like fog, leaving only distorted silhouettes to guide us. The day Abdullah Ö-;-calan’s statement was read in Diyarbakı-;-r Square, heads bowed and crowds dispersed. There was no joy, no triumph—just a vague sensation, as if something essential had been lost but not yet named. Accusations of betrayal mingled with uncertain justifications: “Perhaps he knows what we do not.” But in politics, ambiguity is not always wisdom—it is sometimes the first step toward a cliff’s edge.

We know laws will soon be drafted, and papers turned on negotiating tables. But what are laws worth if they fail to provide true safety for the people? Suspicion still hangs heavy: Will peace morph into a new tool of surveillance? As long as young men feel a chill when a policeman passes, we are not living peace—we are enduring a nervous ceasefire, one that glances anxiously over its shoulder.

Something trembles inside me: If intentions are genuine, we may witness the birth of a fragile but beautiful solidarity between Kurds and Turks. But if this is only another maneuver, trust will crumble—like castles built of sand under a rising tide. I cling to the hope that excuses will dissolve, the way a child clings to the flicker of a candle, afraid it may go out before his voice reaches the one he loves.

The echo of Erdoğ-;-an’s words—“Today´-or-tomorrow”—rings in my ears like a clock without hands. Waiting has become a burden-;- trust, a candle burning low. Behind the curtains, negotiations flicker between Europe and elsewhere, slipping in and out like ghosts, moving with an eerie calm. Are we awaiting a press conference? A TV address?´-or-just another cold statement that does not know how to lay a gentle hand on our wounds? Truth is being eaten away, slowly, until it becomes no more than a fragile shell.

This new political process may reopen wounds we thought had healed. The arrest of İ-;-mamoğ-;-lu was not just a judicial move—it was a painful symbol, igniting fears that the dream could collapse before it even breathes. And in the distance, the Trump–Netanyahu map looms again like a recurring nightmare, sketching borders not on paper, but across living bodies. Those who say “details don’t matter” are often the ones hiding the deepest fear: that one slip could bring it all crashing down.

But do we learn? The past still speaks: a car bomb, a blood-soaked dream descending from the mountains—all remind us that caution must not fall a, even in the presence of hope. What shadow waits to strike this time? What dagger lies in wait for the next unsuspecting back? The questions multiply, and anxiety wraps around us like a blanket that offers no warmth.

And still... a spark remains, small and defiant in the face of nothingness. The silence of the guns—though temporary—may be the first fragile bridge toward a light we have yet to see. Yet even the creak of the door that opens toward "peace" carries a hidden dissonance, as if the question still lingers: Are we hearing the hymn of true peace,´-or-rehearsing another funeral march?

Our hearts dance on that narrow edge between hope and dread. And within me, verses of a Kurdish poet echo softly—I cannot tell if they are lullabies´-or-laments:
“Beneath the silence of guns, a dream curls itself inward.
It will either bloom—or be buried without a funeral.”

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