Dear Osman,

It’s been a while since I’ve wanted to ask you “How are you?” but I am afraid to do so.

The world outside your prison is not the same place since we last saw each other. I still remember our last meeting vividly. It was in September 2016, at the eighth International Hrant Dink Award ceremony in Istanbul. I arrived there by chance, as I was briefly in Istanbul on my way to Antep (officially Gaziantep, though its ‘victory’ came at the cost of my people’s existence). I was traveling to conduct research on Syrian opposition groups and the challenging humanitarian situation in areas under their control. We met in the hall of the Hrant Dink ceremony, and you told me you wanted to speak with me.

We agreed to meet the next day, but that meeting never happened. A Syrian opposition leader wanted to see me, and I called to apologize. We decided to catch up soon, and I promised I’d return to Istanbul to meet you. Back then, I traveled to Istanbul often, and you were a free man.

Dear Osman, I don’t know if you still remember what you wanted to tell me. I don’t know how important it was or whether it still holds relevance in today’s world. What I do know is that I carry a deep feeling of rendez-vous manqué within me—a sense of missed opportunity, a pang of guilt each time I think of you.

Since September 2016, I haven’t returned to Istanbul—a city I used to visit two, three, even four or five times a year. I miss Istanbul—our Bolis, the capital of Western Armenian culture, The City, the lost paradise. I miss Bolis, but I don’t dare to return. How can I go back, break my promise to you once again, and be unable to meet you, to talk, to dream together of ways to make our world a better place?

I am afraid to see ugliness where I once saw beauty. 

Dear Osman, so much has changed since we last met. I’m sure you’re following the news from your prison cell. Since your arrest under unfair and unjust accusations, the world has turned upside down. Turkey has become an even harder place, and the efforts you championed for mutual understanding and a culture of dialogue have become more challenging to achieve. Instead of moving toward peace with the Kurds, the war against them persists, with Kurdish villages attacked nearly every day. Rather than acknowledging the Armenian genocide and attempting to repair what still can be repaired, Turkey supported Azerbaijan in attacking Armenia, leading to the ethnic cleansing of the entire Armenian population there. Now, Karabakh Armenians share our fate: their towns occupied, their villages destroyed, their churches desecrated. Like us, they are uprooted and cast to the wind.

This is not all. Vladimir Putin has decided to “liberate” Ukraine, killing Ukrainians and destroying every town in his path. In the Middle East, the situation is equally grim. Israel, a country founded by survivors of genocide, now faces accusations of committing genocide against another people, the Palestinians. The killing of innocent Palestinian civilians continues daily, to a point where I can no longer bear to watch the news.

As if that were not enough, Israel is devastating Lebanon—the country where I was born and raised—destroying village after village, building after building. Our so-called ‘Western democracies’ support these war crimes rather than aiding the victims. Instead, they empower the aggressors with words, funding, and arms, while silencing those who dare to criticize these crimes in the Middle East or question their own governments’ complicity.

Dear Osman, you have been in prison for too long now—seven long years. So much has changed in that time. Thousands of people continue to enjoy the beautiful trees of Gezi Park, yet they are not free. Beyond the prison walls, millions remain enslaved to those in power. Those accusing you of ‘criminal activity’ or ‘violence’ either do not truly know you, or they fear the beauty of the person you are.

I still dream of a world where I can return to Istanbul, a world where Osman Kavala is free, where we can meet again and talk about how to make our world a better place.

Dear Osman, you may be in prison, yet you are truly a free man. But without you, the outside world is a much less beautiful place.

Vicken Cheterian, Geneva