by Rojda Yavuz

Rojda Yavuz is a multidisciplinary creative with a practice rooted in writing and moving images. Their interests include the body and digital subcultures which they approach through a critique of power and coloniality. They are currently based in Brussels and can be found on Instagram via rrrrrojda.
Visual communication and imagery on Kurdish cyberspace have held my fascination for the longest time. Extensive hours and cloud storage have been spent on curating and collecting digital ephemera in the format of memes, texts and videos from social media platforms, blogs and chat rooms, in the hopes of catching them before they disappear in this era of digital plenty. Whilst it would be unrealistic to allocate a transcendent or revolutionary quality to these time-based and profit-driven platforms, I fully confess my excitement about the potentialities that they have brought in the struggle against cultural repression and linguicide in Turkey Northern Kurdistan, and for colonised people as a whole.
I. The ban of a language
The Kurdish language has been a source of great anxiety in the Turkish imagination ever since the inception of the Republic in 1923, as it demystifies the category-blind national philosophy borrowed from France: “one state, one nation, one language” (Kadıoğlu 1996, 5). The corpora of public settings – spatial, textual, interactional, institutional – became overtly and decisively marked for the use of Turkish, and Turkish only (Jamison 2015 p.36). This fear was finally crystallised in 1983 into Law No. 293, “The Law Concerning Publications and Broadcasts in Languages Other Than Turkish”, officially banning the use of Kurdish in public and private spaces and declared that “the mother tongue of all Turkish citizens is Turkish” (HRW 1999). As such, any utterance of Kurdish, through an audio-visual broadcast or the name of a newborn, on what was known as “Turkish territory” and thus also in Kurdistan, became punishable by law. The law was retracted in 1991, coinciding with Turkey’s attempts at joining the European Union, but was swiftly followed by an “anti-terrorism” law that permitted the witch hunt on the language to continue. The Republic has since undergone a shift in political landscape with its current Islamist government performing a different attitude towards Kurdish, aiming for the hearts and votes of Kurds. The Erdoğan government repealed the language ban in 2001 and amended the law on radio-television broadcasting in 2002 (Arsan 2018). Erdoğan introduced courses for Kurmancî (the Kurdish dialect spoken in Northern Kurdistan) at private institutions as a “foreign language course” and approved Kurmancî broadcasting programs on national television, all part of his policy package coined “the Kurdish opening” (Derince 2013). In 2009, the Republic even witnessed the creation of its first state-owned Kurdish-spoken TV channel, TRT-Kurdî. As such, undoubtedly seeming like a historical moment, the Kurdish language was officially and legally introduced to the public.
However, Erdoğan’s language efforts failed to persuade Kurds en masse and instead were viewed as a tool to decontextualise and trivialise Kurdish language rights. This is primarily due to the ongoing violent repression of the Kurdish political struggle in Northern Kurdistan and Rojava that was not halted but instead appeared in concert with his “Kurdish opening”. Conjointly, the content of the channel is strictly curated along state ideology, with a heavy restriction on anything echoing kesk û sor û zer (“green, red and yellow”, the colours of the Kurdish liberation movement). Neither the language courses, nor the broadcasting programs were designed in dialogue with Kurdish activists but instead, took place behind closed government doors, as the state’s primary concern was, and still is, to expand its network of domination (Derince 2013).
What is more, the contested place the Kurdish language holds in the Turkish imagination remains untouched by this seeming tolerance conveyed by the AKP government. Though no longer outlawed, teaching, speaking or singing in Kurmancî still elicits cruelty in Turkey. In May 2020, a 20 year old Kurdish man Barış Çakan was murdered in Ankara for listening to Kurdish music in a public place (Bianet 2020). On 24 August 2021, news anchor and TV-show host Didem Arslan Yılmaz interrupted an interviewee on national television when they spoke Kurdish, shutting the words down with “Doğru düzgün Türkçe konuşsun. Burası Türkiye Cumhuriyeti.” (“Speak proper Turkish. This is the Turkish Republic.”) (Bianet 2021). Kurdish street musicians performing on İstiklal Avenue and elsewhere in İstanbul are constantly harassed by Turkish police officers who halt their performances and confiscate their instruments (Sol 2022). On 2 May 2023 Cihan Aymaz was stabbed to death in Kadıköy by a Turkish passerby after he refused to sing “Ölürüm Türkiyem” (“I’ll die for you my Turkey”), a Turkish nationalist hymn. A few days earlier on 26 April six members of a Kurdish theatre group in Diyarbakır Amed were arrested and held for 3 days by Turkish police (Bianet 2023).
These cases of violence are not anomalous but are in line with Turkey’s violent repression of any mark of Kurdish existence. The language continues to be banned from all public institutions in Turkey and Northern Kurdistan, including schools, thus stripping Kurdish people away from their right to education in their mother tongue. It is important to note that the freedom of the language is directly related to the liberation of the Kurdish people, as the repression of the language is a symptom rather than the cause of Turkish colonialism. It also follows as such that any element relating to the Kurdish language, regardless of a potential personal or intimate nature, will always be political for Kurds from Northern Kurdistan, and that we should not, and we do not, rely on our oppressor for the dissemination and preservation of our language.
II. Webs, networks and the popularisation of a language
(Figure 1: screenshot taken on 22 June 2022 from the chat site tirşik.net. The text on the image reads “We had only just moved to the city. We didn’t have med-tv at home. One day during a visit I became acquainted with med-tv and I was bewildered. Dear god in heaven, what is this? I turned to my brother. I said: oh my god!!! The television can speak Kurdish!!????”)
Kurmancî television predates any efforts of professed tolerance by the state of Turkey. Witnessing the language on screen evokes early childhood memories marked by a living room, a television and my father sitting next to me, fixated on the green, red and yellow logo that spelt MED-TV. MED-TV was the first Kurdish satellite television established in 1995 by Kurdish refugees in Western Europe through a coordinated effort from studios in London and Denderleeuw (Belgium). The channel aired talk shows, news broadcasts, songs, documentaries and children’s programs in Kurmancî primarily, but Soranî, Aramaic, Zazakî and Turkish also made their appearance on screen. Needless to say that MED-TV marked a historical moment for Kurds and thus instantly became popular. The language that was previously cornered into the private sphere now became a public tool of consciousness building through a satellite. MED-TV’s Kurdish content, alternative news broadcast from the military fronts and live performances of revolutionary songs undermined Turkish sovereign rule and held the allure of a united Kurdistan. The channel connected Kurdish people through satellite links across state borders, reaching West Asia, North Africa and Europe, crisscrossing from the four parts of Kurdistan to its diasporas. As a nation constantly on the move, dispersed, incarcerated and exiled, MED-TV spatially brought Kurdish people together, where satellite footprints functioned as national borders, and thus through networks realising the dream of Kurdish sovereignty (Hassanpour 2020).
(Figure 2: a meme from my collection referring to the then-popular “Sizin orda da germ e” phrase on Kurdish social media)
What is most relevant about MED-TV is how the channel creatively exerted the right to communicate audio-visually in Kurmancî. Turkey’s ambitions to put the language to sleep had created a lack of Kurdish audio-visual products and popular culture, thus causing a cultural deprivation. MED-TV mended exactly this wound. These visual efforts offered not only a new window on the Kurdish language, but on the world and life itself. However, the physicality and visibility of MED-TV’s infrastructure, from the satellite dishes of the viewers to the studio spaces of the producers, rendered the channel vulnerable. The channel was eventually shut down through a coordinated effort by Turkey and its Western European allies.
It is within this context that the utopian promise inherent to the internet and the mobile infrastructure required for digital cultural production prove helpful. In recent years Kurmancî meme pages have sprung up like mushrooms in cyberspace, decorating the walls of network sites such as Instagram, TikTok, Twitter and Facebook. The specific content and meaning of these memes have no pertinence to this essay, rather the language as methodology becomes relevant; the practice of writing and creating digitally in Kurmancî is what underpins my earlier-stated excitement. What is noteworthy is that these digital efforts are pioneered by individuals living in Kurdistan. This stands in contrast to Kurmancî television production in the 1990s and early 2000s, led exclusively by Kurds in the diaspora due to the absence of political freedoms in Kurdistan (Hassanpour 2020 p.179). The means to run a meme page consist of a smartphone, internet connection and digital know-how, as opposed to the vulnerable infrastructure of studio spaces and satellite dishes required for the former.
(Figure 3: screenshot of my meme collection taken on 21 June 2022 from my laptop.)
In “Indigenous Memes and the Invention of a People”, Frazer and Carlson (2017) analyse the ways in which memes are entangled in the achievement of an anti-colonial politics for Indigenous people in the settler colony of Australia. Analysing memetic production and dissemination on the Facebook page of the Australian Aboriginal activist group Blackfulla Revolution (BFR), using Deleuze his notion of “assemblage”, they contend that memes both anticipate and produce an audience − they “contribut[e] to the invention of a people” (Deleuze 2013, p. 217 in Carlson and Frazer 2017, p.10). Internet users, both Indigenous and white Australians, are attracted to the BFR Facebook page to interact with the memes and consequently, with one another. I argue that algorithmic constellations and the temporal logic of memes both achieve this. The meme and the algorithm are underpinned by the promise of futurity. The user perpetually looks forwards and towards the next meme as the meme appears on its own through the nerves of the algorithm and does not require effort from its consumer. Hassanpour’s analogy of satellite footprints also proves helpful here. The algorithmic network creates a language community and contributes to the illusions of a virtual geography, therefore digitally transcending colonial language bans; the Kurmancî speakers come together on the meme page.
The most prominent Kurmancî memelord was nocontextkurd. Undoubtedly a pioneer in the practice of curating a Kurmancî meme page on Instagram, the user produced and shared digital artefacts in a range of mediums, including text, image and video with over five hundred thousand followers on his Instagram and eponymous Twitter account. The Kurmancî memetic realm is marked by global meme templates such as Tuxedo Winnie the Pooh, as well as context-specific puns tapered over found images that require the knowledge of the language and a material link to Northern Kurdistan in order to grasp it. The popularity of the Kurmancî meme, and other digital ephemera, should be attributed to the scarcity of Kurmancî comedic content, or any popular content, on a grand scale. Its humorous nature is easily absorbed and relatable to different audiences, spanning across geographies, generations and political ideologies. This stands in contrast to MED-TV’s programming, as well as the few other Kurmancî television efforts that have since come to existence. Most of MED-TV’s broadcasting time was dedicated to propagating the Kurdish cause for liberation. The intention to activate, fund and champion the cause created a content and tone that was heavy in nature and difficult to digest. Secondly, as MED-TV served as an attempt at language standardisation, the language used by the channel was technical and academic, far from what I had heard growing up. With no institutions in Northern Kurdistan in the 1990s dedicated to language, it follows that any organised attempt in Kurmancî would fulfil this role of language standardisation. MED-TV became an institution, much like a legislator of language or an academy, in which Kurmancî could be preserved, developed and disseminated (Hassanpour 2020 p.165). Although I made many attempts to join my father and uncles in watching the channel, the heavy content and technical language rendered it difficult to make a connection with the screen and resulted in my interest dwindling quickly.
(Figure 4: meme saved on 5 August 2022 from the chat site tirşik.net. Winnie the Pooh depicting the regression in the variations for the Kurmancî word “like so”.)
These trends continue to dominate Kurmancî television efforts in the present as the fight against Turkish colonialism is ongoing. Batman-based comedian Deniz Özer made a skit on this particular matter that he released on his Instagram page (Denoozer72 2018). In the video, Deniz is seen working as a waiter at a café and makes several (failed) attempts to understand a customer’s needs. The video concludes with the pun in which he describes the customer’s language as “Kurdî ya televîzyonê” (“The Kurdish spoken on television”), alluding to the language alienation caused for many people, including myself. As such, with a lack of television programs or other forms of popular culture mimicking the aesthetics and language of banal life, digital ephemera floating in the Kurmancî pockets of the World Wide Web carry a humorous tone and a relatability otherwise not popular in Kurdish visual media. The Kurmancî meme declares Kurdish existence in the most banal form. The playful content generated and expressed by Kurdish online users transport me back to my childhood home, where the language is used with simplicity and mirrors the intimacy of the family sphere outside the lines of nationalism or academia. Trivial every day gestures or bodily expressions of joy displayed in memes and Tiktok videos stand out from the conflict and war-ridden images of destruction and displacement that dominate the Kurdish imagination and visual archive, and instead propose and feed a different imagination of life.
After continuously being harassed and reported by fascist trolls and anonymous bullies, Instagram shut down nocontextkurd in 2021 for “violating community guidelines”. Turkish efforts in repressing expressions and celebrations of Kurdish culture predate Kurdish migration to cyberspace. Similarly, the Republic pulled many of its European diplomatic strings and enforced various forms of intimidation to stop the emission of MED-TV’s television signals, leading to the channel’s official termination in 1999 (Hassanpour 2020 p.187). However, the time for mourning the loss of the meme page was short as the user’s back-up account nocontextkurd2 was already in existence, alluding to the anticipation of Turkish violence. What is more, nocontextkurd has since been reopened as an Instagram account and plenty of other meme producers and curators have been established since then, with nan.u.pivaz, pozmezzin_ and kendimebatman as the memelords of our time. It is first and foremost an indication that irregardless of the many efforts made by the state of Turkey or its people in silencing and smothering the Kurdish language and culture, new culture will always be built and this time it is in the form of a meme.
Sources
Arsan, Esra. “Kurdish broadcasting via state TV in Turkey – Cultural diversity or government’s propaganda machine: The case of TRT 6.” Catalan journal of Communication & Cultural Studies 10, No. 1 (2018): 3-24. https://doi.org/10.1386/cjcs.10.1.3_1
Denoozer72. 2018. “Kurdî ya televîzyonê”. Instagram video, February 2, 2018. https://www.instagram.com/p/BespiOvFKpv/
Derince, Mehmet Şerif. “A break or continuity? Turkey’s politics of Kurdish language in the new millenium.” Dialectical Anthropology 37, no. 1 (March 2013): 145-152. www.jstor.com/stable/42635387
Hassanpour, Amir. Essays on Kurds: historiography, orality and nationalism. New York: Peter Lang, 2020.
Human Rights Watch. “IX. Restrictions on the use of the Kurdish language”. Accessed August 19, 2022. https://www.hrw.org/reports/1999/turkey/turkey993-08.htm.
“İstiklal’de polisin yasakladığı Kürtçe şarkı Meclis’e taşındı”. Sol, January 31, 2022. https://haber.sol.org.tr/haber/istiklalde-polisin-yasakladigi-kurtce-sarki-meclise-tasindi-324854
Jamison, Kelda Ann. “Making Kurdish public(s): language politics and practise in Turkey.” PhD diss. The University of Chicago, 2015.
Kadıoğlu, Ayşe. “The paradox of Turkish nationalism and the construction of official identity.” Middle Eastern Studies 32, No. 2 (1996): 177-194. https://doi.org/10.1080/00263209608701110
Ryan Frazer, Bronwyn Carlson. “Indigenous Memes and the Invention of a People.” Social Media + Society 3, No. 4 (October-November): 1-12. https://doi.org/10.1177/2056305117738993
Torî, Wesîla. “Evîn Tîryakî: “Êrîşên dawî yên li ser hunermendên kurd bi hilbijartinê ve girêdayî ne”. Bianet, May 08, 2023.
https://m.bianet.org/kurdi/mafen-mirovan/278389-evin-tiryaki-erisen-dawi-yen-li-ser-hun
ermenen-kurd-bi-hilbijartine-ve-giredayi-ne
TP. “Kürtçe konuşan kadını hattan alan Arslan Yılmaz’a tepki.” Bianet, August 25, 2021. https://m.bianet.org/bianet/insan-haklari/249280-kurtce-konusan-kadini-hattan-alan-arslan-yilmaz-a-tepki
TP/SD. “‘Kurdish Music’ Allegation About Killing of 20-Year-Old Çakan”. Bianet, June 1, 2020. https://bianet.org/english/human-rights/225019-listening-to-kurdish-music-20-year-old-cakan-kiled

































