The “Existence” of Hunger

Alena SAR

I won’t explain the literal meaning of hunger to you, I won’t overwhelm you with Freudian anecdotes starting from our breast milk adventure, and contrary to your expectations, I won’t talk about Africa. I will talk about the little person.

When I decided to write about hunger, I found myself wondering from which angle I should approach it. Death fasts, pandemics, vampire series, and the even worse hunger for blood; here our writer is talking about politics; with it being so prominent in the headlines, I needed to narrow this topic down from the general to the specific. When I say general, it’s not that the big picture is unimportant, but that we little people within the big picture are also important. I won’t explain the literal meaning of hunger to you, I won’t overwhelm you with Freudian anecdotes starting from our breast milk adventures, and contrary to your expectations, I won’t talk about Africa. I will talk about the little person. Not about their hunger for attention or social media likes; I will talk about their small life, our small but significant lives. There is a hunger for life.

In Dey Hafer, 60 km from Aleppo in Syria, a woman collects food. The WFP works with the Syrian Arab Red Crescent to distribute food to the most vulnerable and to ensure families are aware of COVID-19 and safety precautions. Photo: WFP / Khudr Alissa

I am writing this in June 2020. There is a hunger for freedom. The pandemic is on Europe’s agenda, racism is on America’s agenda, and in Africa, it’s all of the above; as I said, on all continents: there is a hunger for freedom. There are police officers under orders from those in power who are drowning out the black community. There are soldiers under the command of the administration who are suffocating brown people in the conflict over oil and weapons. There are soldiers under the command of the book who are suffocating freedom. Of course, I am not saying that all soldiers and police officers are bloodthirsty killers; some may not have had the opportunity to reach the level of murderers. I don’t want to be unfair. There is injustice in other areas. We could say there is a hunger for human rights. I have a problem with colours because while soap is sold to whiten skin in India, it’s hard to find a solarium appointment in France. There is a hunger for equality.

I don’t get along with languages either; the human race becomes savage when it understands. I apologise to Wittgenstein, but if he were to rise from the dead and experience Istanbul—where he is invited to pray in Arabic five times a day, overhears Kurdish conversations on the minibus, hears Arabic in Taksim, lives with a family that speaks Turkish at home, and listens to bloodthirsty leaders on television—I’m sure his head would be a bit confused too. Here, our writer’s head is spinning. I live in a country accustomed to the banning of languages. And the selective banning of religions. Although I consider my reading skills to be good, I find it difficult to follow the news. I can’t breathe while reading; sometimes those who write the news are arrested without breathing anyway. There is a hunger for breathing.

I want to talk about beautiful things so that our morale doesn’t get ruined. Love and affection are still on the agenda. Mothers who love their children can, of course, continue to love them. Sometimes their children disappear, and mothers wonder where they are on Istiklal. Sometimes their children, and I mean young children, can be shot while going to buy bread. Mothers continue to love and wonder. They are never hungry for love; perhaps it is because they are not hungry for love that they wonder. Then there is love, the kind that is legal between a woman and a man. Pardon me, I’m correcting myself: it’s the acceptance by the state of love that is legal only between a woman and a man. The others wonder why their love does not comply with the law. The absence of hunger for love and affection is a beautiful thing. For the curious, there is always pepper spray at the buffet. There is satiety in pepper spray.

There are beautiful palaces, equipped with gold-plated radiators. Palaces where you can sit without worrying about the natural gas bill. There are drinks with dragon fruit added. There is the greatness of the state, which is very beautiful. In the minor leagues, there are those who commit suicide because they cannot feed their children. There are those who have been furloughed from work due to the pandemic. There are those exercising at their seaside villas. There are those who commit suicide because they owe 314 lira. We have our flag. We have soldiers in lands that are not ours, in wars that are not ours. There is blood in lands that are not ours. There are soldiers returning in coffins. I don’t want to repeat myself, but sometimes even at funerals, yes, there is tear gas. If you’re unlucky, there are even batons. We are not hungry because we do not buy bread with dollars or euros. We have a state. There is fullness in the fairy tale.

As I said, there are truly beautiful things too. Those who seek their rights, those who protest inequality and death, those who stand their ground every Saturday, those who fight inequality with their colours, their languages, their voices. Perhaps most importantly, there is hope. There is unity. There are songs in languages we know and don’t know. There are little people. There are Turks in Berlin, blacks in Minnesota, Kurds, Alevis, Armenians, Jews, Syrians, Arabs, Greeks in Istanbul; there are Algerians in Paris. Everywhere there is motherly love and legal and illegal loves. On all continents, there is hunger for freedom.