Menaf Osman (Abdelmonaf Othman) is a Syrian-Kurdish writer and painter, born in Hasake in 1965. He studied geology in Damascus and was interested in literature and painting from an early age. He was arrested and tortured in Syria because of a book of Kurdish poetry. In the 1990s, he fled to Turkey, where he was arrested again for alleged propaganda and sentenced to life imprisonment. After 31 years, he was released in 2024, deported to Malaysia and later came to Munich, Germany with a scholarship from PEN. Osman has published nine books to date, including novels, short stories and a play, as well as translations into Kurdish - including The Count of Monte Cristo, The Little Prince and One Thousand and One Nights.

Today is Tuesday.
Every week we wait for Tuesday as if it were a holiday! Every week we look forward to it with great anticipation and excitement. The evening before, we take a bath, put on fresh clothes and, above all, look for gifts that we can give to our visitors, to somehow feel connected with society: a beaded wall clock, a wooden boat, a bracelet, a necklace or a handbag -  things we can buy from the prisoners who do crafts, although it's always very difficult from inside the cell.

Because we have saved up all our happiness for this day, our Tuesday is a truly joyful day, like a holiday in the midst of stressful days. It's a bit like a solitary flower in a field of thorns. Since we've shifted pretty much all the dynamics of real life to this day, Tuesday is our happiest day. It's as if, amongst all this confinement, Tuesday is a day when we can almost smell freedom.

In fact, we're all preparing as if we're actually going to be released today. Some of us even write down all our expectations and hopes on a small piece of paper, just to be prepared! Mehmet, for example... Anything he wants to discuss with his visitor, he'll write in a list beforehand, so that everyone can hear it! He does this so that he doesn't forget what he wants to say in the excitement of the thirty-minute visit... "I'm going to learn this... I will say this... I will recommend this... I will also ask this... I will also ask this... etc., etc."

I don't think it would be wrong to say that our excitement is childlike. In fact, many of these wishes and expectations are similar to those that children have of their parents. Here we love our families, whereas outside, we'd be wanting to escape from them, like children! Outside, I regularly avoided my family. Here, on the other hand, I miss them more than anything, but unfortunately none of them are here! The worst thing is that the family member we liked least outside becomes the best person in our eyes when they visit us. He's the only one who reminds us that we have not yet died, that we have not been forgotten and that we are still among the living after all these years of imprisonment. In a sense, it is he who gives us life! He is also the one who ensures that our lifeline is not cut off.

But although Tuesday is the start of all these beautiful things, it can also be the beginning of disaster for some of us... After all, if no one comes to visit, all those plans and dreams go unfulfilled, and in the afternoon, things start unravelling, which God forbid should happen to anyone. Of course, those who are least affected by this are those who, like Eyo, receive regular visits every week. If the visitor who comes regularly doesn't show up, it's not so bad for him. But then, of course, there are also those like me who are excluded from all this hustle and bustle. Of the 280 political and ideological prisoners in this prison, there are only three of us who have not had any visitors for years and, as 'lifers', are not affected by the ups and downs of these Tuesdays. And if we do allow ourselves to be drawn in to this mood a little, it's only because of our connection to our friends.

I, for example, am always like that. I'm not really someone who is right in the thick of the life I described above. It would be more accurate to say that I'm much more of a spectator. I am only involved in this turmoil to the extent that I empathise with my friends. Sometimes I am also negatively affected by it. Because when you can't take advantage of a right that benefits everyone, you feel disadvantaged. Nevertheless, in a circle of friends where everyone is beaming, I try not to look grumpy. I'd rather not spoil the joyful moments of my friends. Isn't that what life's all about? Even if I can't quite get myself in the mood, I have developed many methods to hide the sad expressions on my face. It was the same today. While my three roommates were exceptionally excited and cheerful, I couldn't join them and retreated to my bed, pretending to read a book. But our attentive Memo noticed and said, "Why are you so sad, comrade?" In my opinion, this approach was exactly the opposite of camaraderie. Besides, it wasn't the first time Memo had done something like that. Nevertheless, this time I was more sad than angry with him. Memo, with whom I had shared my whole life and the most difficult moments of my struggle, couldn't even put himself in my shoes! It really upset me because I liked him very much and naturally had corresponding expectations of him. Without realising it, Memo always wanted to get me on his side and sometimes really imposed himself on me. For some reason, I get very angry in situations like this! I feel less like a friend and more like a slave, with him the master that I have to obey. I know, of course, that he said this without thinking, but I can't hold back my anger. And I don't know exactly what to do in these situations either.

Sometimes, when you are a minority in the group or in a particular situation, you are faced with a stark choice, two deeply contradictory options - I've come to realise that, here in this dungeon. Either you conform to the majority and give up the characteristics that make you different; you become their slave, so to speak, or you rebel and shout as loud as you can: "I am different from you! ..." I know that either means no longer being myself. Death lies both in rebellion and in the acceptance of disappearing into the masses. If the wheels of life as a whole are geared towards the majority, how can one person or a small minority bring this huge mill to a standstill single-handedly?

At that moment, I remembered the rebellion of Simo, who lived in our street twenty years ago and who was disabled. He also cursed constantly: "You bastards! You greedy sods! Okay, everything's already the way you want it, everything is arranged and set up for you. I have nothing to say about that. But when you built those pavements and crossings, you could have spared a thought for Simo and his wheelchair!"

But in this huge district, in this forgotten, run-down city in the Middle East, it was simply impossible to take a single disabled person into account and to design the road and traffic regulations with his individual needs in mind! Now, here in this cramped dungeon on this visiting day, with no visitors, I feel just like Simo. In other words, disabled! Oh Simo! Where are you now? If I could see Simo again, I would love him more than anything, listen to him intently and not get annoyed by his swear words like I used to. Even though, of course, now I'm the one swearing at Simo!

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The Turkish original can be downloaded here: