Sırrı Süreyya Önder … The Struggle in the Geography of Pain

Sırrı Süreyya Önder‘s life did not have the heroic beginnings often woven into the biographies of public figures. There was no hint of an extraordinary destiny, nor any indication that a child from the depths of Anatolia would one day become a symbol of resisting authority. In fact, there was nothing remarkable about that beginning—just the story of a boy growing up in a hardworking family in a forgotten rural area on the fringes of the modern republic. Yet, sometimes life lifts the veil from ordinary people, leaving them exposed, face-to-face with history.

In July 1962, ‘Brother Sırrı,’ as his admirers affectionately call him, was born in Adıyaman, in southeastern Turkey, in a small house with little more than luck—his father’s labor in a barbershop and his mother’s effort at home.

His father passed away when he was eight years old, leaving behind the first scar in Sırrı’s life—like an early sign of wounds yet to come. The grief seemed too overwhelming to comprehend at the time, but it continued to teach his heart how to become tougher than childhood. The family moved to live with his grandfather, and he had to learn the lesson of loss early on.

The father left behind only a name, a memory, and a social environment close to the Turkish Workers’ Party (TIP), but he left a profound impact that would soon manifest in Sırrı’s drive for achievement and his compassion for the weak and oppressed. Like any poor child in Anatolia, Sırrı became involved in work early, moving between small workshops, most notably a photography studio. He spent his days balancing work and school, and his evenings reading as much political literature as he could, mostly Marxist in nature.

He engaged in politics as if it were an inescapable destiny. Politics was like a river that sweeps you away, because it is the first question and the first answer to people’s conditions and lives. Sırrı’s father was a prominent activist on the Anatolian left and one of the founders of the Turkish Workers’ Party branch in their region. Therefore, their social environment was highly politicized. It was not uncommon for the young boy to find himself in the front lines during the protests against the Marash massacre targeting Alevis in 1978. He was barely sixteen when he was arrested for the first time, marking a pivotal moment in his memory and life path.

After completing high school, in 1980, he enrolled at the Faculty of Political Science at Ankara University. It seemed as if he was trying to forge a new horizon, but the coup of September 12 of the same year turned his path upside down. In his second year, he again found himself in the crosshairs of the authorities due to his participation in anti-coup protests. He was sentenced to twelve years in prison, serving seven of those years in Mamak, Ulucanlar, and Haymaneh prisons.

The pain there was an unforgiving routine; torture was daily bread, and isolation was a constant companion that never left his heart or body. Yet, something inside him remained silent and vigilant, as if he was observing the pain from afar, refusing to break under its weight. His seven years behind bars were a harsh lesson in resilience—facing fate and enduring suffering.

Later, he summarized this experience with a captivating phrase: “There, I learned the geography of pain.”

After his release from prison in 1987, he found himself in a world devoid of clear features. He had to grasp its rhythm. He moved between temporary jobs: day laborer, truck driver, seasonal worker. He seemed to be experimenting with life without finding a solid footing. Yet, the obsession to transform pain into a living act of resistance remained with him like a shadow.

In the early 2000s, he met director Barış Pirhasan at a film workshop, a meeting that would change the course of his life. In 2006, he made his first film, “Between the Sects”, in collaboration with Muharrem Gülmez. The film is a satirical political tragedy that tells the story of a band in a remote town forced to perform a musical piece during an official visit under an oppressive military regime. However, instead of the anticipated celebratory melody, the band inadvertently played the ‘Anthem of Internationalism,’ leading to accusations of promoting communism and their subsequent arrest. The film served as a poetic testament to years of repression.

As a protest against the amnesia that began to seep into public life after the relative prosperity of the early years of the Justice and Development Party (AKP), the film won the Grand Prize at the Altınköza Film Festival. This victory served as a confirmation that this man had not broken despite the bitterness he had endured. Since then, his presence in the public sphere has become an unavoidable reality.

In 2012, he co-directed F Tipi, a documentary that exposes daily life inside the solitary confinement cells of Turkey’s “F-Type” prisons, known for their harsh conditions. The film is a multi-director project that captures the isolation devouring prisoners from both inside and outside.

His subsequent film, I Have an Objection (2014), revolves around Imam Salman Bulut, the imam of a mosque in Istanbul, whose life is suddenly turned upside down when a worshipper is murdered inside the mosque during prayer. While the police handle the case with indifference, Imam Salman, with his calm demeanor and pursuit of truth, decides to take on the investigation himself. Throughout his search, he faces complex challenges that force him to confront his personal legacy and grapple with profound questions about faith and justice, raising new inquiries about the role of religion in society. This film exemplifies Sırrı Süreyya Önder’s cinematic project: a clever blend of deep social critique and black humor, without abandoning its liberating dimension, which simply and unapologetically asserts itself. Önder employs black humor as a tool to explore essential questions regarding justice, faith, and society.

In addition to his film work, Önder has been a regular presence in the Turkish leftist press. Since the early 2000s, he began publishing weekly articles in Radikal before moving on to write for Birgün and Beyanât. Önder’s writings are characterized by a blend of autobiographical storytelling, literary language, and political analysis. His work was preoccupied with the concept of ‘memory destruction’ as a tool of domination, while advocating for a ‘solidarity remembrance’ that resists the appropriation of collective narratives by those in power.

Upon entering parliament, Önder chose to refrain from journalistic writing out of respect for the independence and principles of the press. However, his political rhetoric was not devoid of his literary and artistic style. Despite the parliamentary formality, his language retained a cultured, populist tone that combined simplicity with sarcasm—embodying a living paradox between the language of the people and that of authority. Önder was not merely a politician reciting statements; his words were more like an attempt to grasp reality without falling into the trap of straightforwardness. He often invoked poets, films, and myths in his speeches and dialogues, giving his language a contemplative dimension that freed it from the weight of direct political discourse and touched the conscience of the people.

As the country’s political climate veered towards authoritarianism, Serri realized that words alone were no longer sufficient. Especially since, beginning in 2009, Turkey experienced an accelerated expansion of power over the media, the judiciary, and educational institutions. The hopes that had accompanied the early years of the AKP’s rule, when democracy was the prevailing discourse, gradually gave way to an increasingly authoritarian tendency characterized by the party’s monopolization of institutions and their transformation into obedient tools serving its interests.

As the government tightened its grip on the public sphere, leftist intellectuals faced a pressing question: Is withdrawal from public life the appropriate response to the shrinking of free spaces, or is engagement and direct confrontation the only viable option? Sırrı, as always, chose the more courageous and necessary path: direct confrontation.

For Sırrı, entering parliament was neither a personal ambition nor a career move; it was an act of possible civil resistance. He decided to run as an independent candidate on the list of the Labour, Democracy, and Freedom Bloc—a left-wing coalition supported by the Peace and Democracy Party (BDP).

His candidacy in Istanbul carried a double significance: a non-Kurdish, leftist, socialist filmmaker who places himself at the service of the Kurdish struggle. He chose to be a voice in a fight that does not ethnically belong to him but which resonates with him on a human and political level. This was not an easy step in Turkish politics, but it was consistent with his belief that solidarity does not end at the boundaries of identity but rather fosters the creation of more cohesive, plural identities.

He succeeded. Sırrı won his seat and entered the Grand National Assembly as a deputy who did not hesitate to oppose the deep-rooted unilateralism within the state’s structures and institutions.

Later, Önder joined the Peace and Democracy Party (BDP) and quickly became a prominent voice embodying the conscience of intellectuals on both the Turkish and Kurdish left. With his calm presence and language that combined radical critique with impactful simplicity, he came to represent those who refuse isolation and seek justice through expanding the circles of dialogue.

Subsequently, he embarked on a new experience when he ran for mayor of Istanbul with the Peoples’ Democratic Party (HDP), a newly established, multicultural left-wing party. Although he did not win the election, his candidacy caused an earthquake in the political consciousness of urban residents. For the first time, the idea of a pluralistic, leftist Turkey that transcends traditional divisions was presented. His candidacy was a declaration of a new political project that views diversity as a strength and dialogue as a means to counteract the ossification of power.

May 2013 marked a pivotal turning point—for Turkey and for Sırrı Süreyya Önder alike. The Gezi Park protests erupted after an attempt to demolish a small green space in Taksim Square, Istanbul. This spark quickly ignited a broad popular uprising against repression, police violence, and the dominance of religious nationalism in the public sphere. Önder was among the first to arrive at the square, driven by a sense of solidarity and feeling that he was one of the people.

In an iconic scene that will remain etched in memory, when bulldozers advanced to demolish the park, Önder stood in front of them with his body, without a helmet or armor. This was not merely a political stance but a powerful presence of an unarmed individual confronting the machinery of authority with a bravery that required no slogans. He was struck by a tear gas canister and injured, yet he remained standing, reaffirming his presence as a voice that does not compromise or bow. This stance became a symbol of an alternative politics: bold, transparent, rooted in the street. Many who had lost faith in traditional opposition saw in Sırrı a moral voice that, while only resembling himself, spoke on their behalf.

From within the parliament, Önder leveraged his legislative position to speak on behalf of the protesters, condemning repression, demanding amnesty, and calling for a new relationship between the state and its citizens. His speeches were neither populist nor performative; he narrated stories, recounted people’s experiences, and employed parables and metaphors in an almost novelist-like style. He understood that politics which does not tell the stories of people fails to touch their conscience.

In the same year, Sırrı Süreyya Önder became involved in an extraordinary initiative within the Turkish political scene: the ‘Dolmabahçe Process.’ When the government of Recep Tayyip Erdoğan—then Prime Minister—began an indirect dialogue with Abdullah Ocalan’s Kurdistan Workers’ Party (PKK), aiming to find a political resolution to the armed conflict between the Turkish state and the Kurdish armed movement. Önder, along with Perwin Bulent and İdris Baluken, was a member of the parliamentary ‘Imrali Committee,’ which acted as a mediator between the conflicting parties. The committee carried messages from Öcalan, oversaw informal communication channels, and sought to build mutual trust between two sides long divided by battle and bloodshed.

During the 2013 Newruz celebrations in Diyarbakır, Önder stepped onto the stage in front of hundreds of thousands and read Öcalan’s letter announcing the peace initiative between the Kurds and the Republic. For many, that moment felt like the beginning of a new era. Önder did not appear as a party leader or a spokesperson for a rigid ideology, but as a living bridge between two shores that were on the verge of diverging irreversibly, carrying in his voice a pulse that rekindled the possibility of reunion.

However, the political developments in the subsequent years dashed all those hopes. After the collapse of peace talks in 2015, the escalation of violence in cities such as Cizre and Sur, the attempted coup in 2016, and the shift towards a centralized presidential system, it became clear that the path that once seemed attainable was completely blocked. The peace project had become nothing more than a faint memory amid an increasingly bleak reality.

The authorities did not merely close the door on reconciliation; they also tightened their grip on the political sphere. Dozens of HDP leaders were imprisoned. In 2018, Sırrı Süreyya Önder was sentenced to prison for a speech he delivered in 2013 during the height of the peace process. The verdict was a stark declaration that justice had turned into an instrument of revenge, and that the law intended to protect dialogue had become a weapon aimed at those who attempted to negotiate. Although the Constitutional Court later overturned the verdict, the message was clear: dialogue had become a crime, and those who sought to build bridges were accused of destroying them.

For Önder, this was not merely a political setback; it was a tragedy that brought the state back to its old narratives. He later reflected, “We held a historic moment in our hands, but the memory of this country has been erased once again.”

But he did not retreat. In 2023, Önder decided to run again, this time as the candidate of the Peoples’ Equality and Democracy Party (DEM), which had inherited the HDP’s project. He won another parliamentary seat and was elected deputy speaker of parliament—a position that was symbolic in an institution dominated by a majority mentality. Önder remained true to himself: a mediator who combines clarity of position with sensitivity of presence and a factor that disrupts the political equation run by a power accustomed to conformity.

As the year 2025 began, with a new and secret round of talks with Abdullah Öcalan on the island of Imrali, Önder returned to be part of the mediation delegation. His presence at that moment was a testament to his unbroken resolve despite the wounds, as if he was betting that this attempt might break the cycle of obstruction and give history a chance to break free from its labyrinth.

He met with Turkish President Erdoğan and participated in closed-door consultations, seeking to reopen a political language that had been closed by decrees and courts. He was betting on the possibility of reviving a dialogue that had faded in the stalemated political climate.

But the body that had been scarred by the wounds could no longer bear the weight. On April 15, 2025, he suffered a rupture of the aorta, and the body that had faced the bulldozers without armor fell into a coma. He hung between life and death for weeks, as praying hearts waited for a miracle that never came.

On May 3, 2025, Sırrı Süreyya Önder’s heart stopped in Istanbul. The city was no stranger to him; he knew it as intimately as his own weary body. He knew how it regained its rhythm after every confrontation and how it caught its breath when weighed down by grief. It was a heavy moment, as if politics itself had stopped for a moment. The news of his departure spread across the country, and the grief was not limited to the Kurds or the left; his absence was devastating, as something that had set the rhythm of the country seemed to have disappeared without warning.

Sırrı is dead. But his legacy lives on, telling the story that resisting oppression is not about going along with its logic, but about clinging to memory as the last line of defense against erasure. Önder was not a legendary hero, but an ordinary person who faced oppression much like a child faces the absence of a father—with stubborn sadness. He understood that battles are not always won, but retreating from them means the victory of oblivion.

Yet, people did not forget him. His films are still screened, his writings are still read, and his speeches are recalled whenever someone tries to restore the true face of politics—where ideas and dignity meet. The body may be gone, but the imprint remains, reminding us that politics is not merely about wielding power but about keeping the spirit alive, despite everything that weighs it down. He always said: “The worst thing that can happen to a country is not injustice, but oblivion.”