When One Voice Gave Courage to Thousands Leyla Zana

 

I first saw Leyla Zana in Bulanık sometime in 1991 or 1992. Thousands of people had gathered in the town’s marketplace to welcome her. She stood on a simple wooden chair, elevated just enough to be seen by the crowd. The yellow, red, and green scarf wrapped around her neck, and the hair clip in the same colors, are images that have stayed with me ever since. All around her were people watching with enthusiasm, listening with rapt attention—some unable to hold back their tears, others smiling with a joy that lit up their faces.

That day, it was not just one person being welcomed. Years of suppressed emotions, unspoken words, and unfinished dreams were finding a voice in that square. The crowd was filled with hope, defiance, and resilience. The same expression was visible on every face: “We are here too.” When Leyla Zana spoke, silence would fall; when she paused, slogans rose with applause and seemed to blend into the sky.

In that moment, I witnessed for the first time how the mere presence of a single person could give courage to thousands. Years have passed since then, and time has changed many things, but the image of that day—the enthusiasm of the crowd and the hope in people’s eyes—remains vivid in my mind. Some moments never make it into history books, yet they never fade from memory. The day I first saw Leyla Zana in Bulanık is exactly such a moment for me.

The Leyla Zana I saw that day had already come from a life shaped by hardship and resistance. She was born in 1961 in a village near Silvan, in Diyarbakır province. Married at a very young age, she spent her early years amid poverty, pressure, and limited opportunities. She learned Turkish later in life but held firmly onto her Kurdish identity. Perhaps this was what made her so powerful in the eyes of the people: her personal story closely mirrored that of her community.

In the 1991 general elections, she was elected to the Turkish Grand National Assembly as a member of parliament from Diyarbakır through an alliance between the People’s Labor Party (HEP) and the Social Democratic Populist Party (SHP). Her presence in parliament alone marked a historic rupture. Yet the moment that brought her national and international attention was her oath-taking ceremony. The few sentences she spoke in Kurdish triggered a political storm. Instead of applause, she faced outrage; instead of understanding, hostility. The anger that erupted in parliament that day reflected an entrenched intolerance toward an identity that had long been denied.

What followed was even harsher. Her parliamentary immunity was lifted, she was tried, and in 1994 she was imprisoned along with her colleagues. Nearly ten years behind bars followed. Yet outside the prison walls, her name continued to be spoken with hope—just as it had been in the square in Bulanık. In 1995, the European Parliament awarded her the Sakharov Prize for Freedom of Thought, a sign that her struggle had resonated beyond Turkey’s borders.

When she was released, she was no longer just a politician but a symbol shaped by sacrifice. Her political life continued with many ups and downs: parties were closed, paths were blocked, and new beginnings were attempted. At times she was criticized, at times accused of falling short of expectations. Her silences were debated as much as her words; her restraint carried as much meaning as her defiance. Yet regardless of these controversies, Leyla Zana’s name remained inseparable from the most critical periods of the Kurdish political struggle.

In my memory, however, she is still the woman standing on a wooden chair in Bulanık, instilling courage in a crowd with a tricolor scarf around her neck. All the contradictions, debates, and fractures of her political career aside, what she represented that day was far simpler: a people’s need to say, “I exist.”

Perhaps this is why some names are remembered not only for what they did, but for where they stood. For me, Leyla Zana remains one of those rare figures who carried pain, courage, and hope all at once. What history will ultimately write about her is uncertain—but she has already been written into the hearts of those whose eyes filled with tears in that square in Bulanık.