Background
Following Turkey’s botched military coup in 2016, the government rounded up plotters, real or imagined, suspected non-loyalists within the ranks of the bureaucracy, and perceived political enemies in a sweeping purge like no other in the republican history. Several prisons in Istanbul, Ankara, and Izmir have become notorious for accommodating high-profile figures of the abortive coup. Some became notorious simply for abuse, mistreatment, and torture against inmates.
The major incarceration complex in the central province of Tokat joined the list of those prisons for the harsh treatment of political prisoners swept up in the midst of the post-coup clampdown. In this unforgiving world, a female lawyer, imprisoned yet undeterred, navigated the corridors of Tokat prison that had become her new home for many years. With her was her daughter, barely a year old, a symbol of innocence in a place where such a thing seemed lost forever.
Özge Elif Hendekci, a lawyer who fell on the radar of the regime by providing legal counsel to victims of the political terror, herself fell victim to the judicial machine that began to devour citizens. After she landed in Tokat’s infamous jail, Hendekci’s journey often led her to the office of prison director, a man known for his mercurial temperament.
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“When we entered [prison], my daughter was only three months old,” the lawyer recounted, her voice tinged with a weary strength. She was placed behind bars in late 2017.
The Director’s Room
One day in December 2017, her path crossed with the director’s. In a meeting in his office, the director, initially polite, listened as she presented her grievances, the myriad issues that often plagued her jail life. But the conversation suddenly turned darker when she inquired about her long-pending transfer petition. “I’ve been waiting for months without any reason,” she pressed, seeking answers. The director’s facade of politeness crumbled, revealing a core of anger and hostility. He insulted her, attempting to cover his own inadequacies.
Unfazed, Hendekci reminded him of her legal rights. “I am indeed a human, and you cannot speak to me that way,” she asserted. The director, she later recalled, erupted in a tirade of accusations and screams, labeling her a terrorist, a member of “FETO.” (The term refers to the faith-based Gulen community, which was designated an outlaw organization by the Turkish authorities.) She stood her ground, stating, “I am still only under detention, not yet convicted of any crime.”
Her daughter began to cry, her small body shaking with fear. The lawyer’s resilience only aggravated the fury of the director, who threatened to compose a report against her. “Of course, let’s write it down,” Hendekci challenged; her knowledge as a lawyer was her shield against the director’s would-be overreach.
The confrontation escalated, with the director having her removed from the office. Days later, Hendekci received a report filed against her, bearing signatures that outnumbered the officers present. In the ensuing hearing to review the case, the lawyer faced a young judge around her age. She explained the situation and defended her stance. “He was being rude,” she told the judge.
“You called him rude,” the judge said. “Yes, he was acting rude,” she replied.
Caught between duty and his conscience, the judge approved the disciplinary report against her. “I am issuing it. You can appeal to the higher court,” the judge reluctantly stated, implying that there was little else he could do other than stand by the prison officials.
Settled in a European country after five years of imprisonment, Hendekci recounted her ordeal behind bars, all the while raising a child, for The Arrested Lawyers. Like in “Life is Beautiful,” she had to devise creative ways to shield Bahar from an environment ill-suited to nursing a toddler. During five years, one incident after another showed the limits of her power to protect her daughter from ills and hazards, typical hallmarks of a malfunctioning prison complex.
Like in “Life is Beautiful,” she had to devise creative ways to shield Bahar from an environment ill-suited to nursing a toddler. During five years, one incident after another showed the limits of her power to protect her daughter from ills and hazards, typical hallmarks of a malfunctioning prison complex.
The Wrist Injury and Guards
Time, as writer Arthur Koestler once observed firsthand during his imprisonment in Spain during the Spanish Civil War (1936–39), moves differently behind the walls. It moves slowly. The somber cells, lined with barren surfaces, echo the sounds of confinement — a world far removed from childhood innocence. In this place that tests the limits of human endurance, the presence of a toddler was like a blessing for Hendekci, no matter the conditions.
One day in January 2019, the toddler was playing with a friend in the ward. Bahar was around 15 months old at the time. Suddenly, her childlike wonder and joy were replaced with cries of pain. She clutched her wrist, tears welling in her eyes, her tiny voice breaking as she repeated, “It hurts, it hurts…” Her usual tranquility was shattered by inconsolable sorrow; she was a poignant embodiment of vulnerability in a world that had forgotten how to care.
Bahar’s mother, desperate and powerless, watched her daughter’s suffering as hours ticked by. Her pleas for help were met with a cold, bureaucratic heartlessness. The guards, ensconced in their routines and unmoved by the child’s agony, dismissed the situation with an unconcealed indifference.
An older inmate, Hendekci recounted, broke the silence and brushed aside the stubbornness of the guards. Her voice, stern and unyielding, cut through the apathy. “Can’t you see? The child has been moaning for hours. She wouldn’t cry this long if nothing were wrong,” she demanded. Her unflinching stance, supported by others, became a rallying cry that could no longer be ignored.
The guards, visibly annoyed at disrupting their routine half an hour before the end of their shift, grudgingly agreed. “There’s nothing wrong with this child, but fine, we’ll call an ambulance.”
When the ambulance and medical team arrived, the paramedic said that since it might be severe and since she was a child, they couldn’t treat her there. She needed to be taken to the hospital immediately. The paramedic’s insistence unsettled the officer overseeing Hendekci and her toddler. Eager to finish her shift in just half an hour, the officer, disturbed by the unexpected task, asked if the child could wait until Monday. “Such a delay would have left my daughter in agony for two more days, a plight seemingly of little concern to others,” the mother recalled.
However, the paramedic firmly declined, prioritizing Bahar’s well-being, insisting, “No, she’s a child; I can’t take that risk. I’m transferring her immediately.” On the way to the hospital, the guard kept dismissing the toddler’s condition as a minor sprain. “We’re going for no reason.” 💡ℹ️
Upon arrival at the hospital, the situation’s urgency was immediately recognized. An X-ray revealed the dislocation of Bahar’s wrist. Without delay, the doctor attended to her, skillfully setting the wrist back into its proper place. The distinct ‘click’ sound greatly relieved the depressed mother.
Delayed and painful though the process might be, the result was ingratiating. As the acute pain subsided, the daughter’s mood visibly changed. Her tears gave way to smiles, and she began to hop and jump around, her spirit rekindled by the treatment.
“That harrowing day, when they made my daughter suffer for four hours and plunged me into a sense of helplessness, was a day I could never forget,” the mother said. When Hendekci returned to the prison, her statement was taken for the incident.
A Nightmarish Journey in “The Coffin“
Hendekci’s yearslong clamor for a transfer to a better prison finally paid off in June 2019. The prison officials finally let her and her 20-month-old baby go. Yet, they must endure another ordeal to reach their next destination. The transfer from Tokat to Gebze prison in the western province of Izmit took place in a gendarmerie vehicle, dreadfully nicknamed ‘the coffin’ by those who knew its confines too well.
Aware of the grueling journey ahead, Hendekci had made desperate pleas for leniency. “I asked them, just for the sake of my child,” she recounted, her voice still heavy with the memory. “If I knew the week of our transfer, I could’ve spared her this.” But her requests fell on deaf ears; her petition produced no result against an unyielding prison bureaucracy.
As they boarded the vehicle on the morning of June 17, 2019, the tiny Bahar, unaware of what awaited them, was smiling in the confined space. “She was imitating the sound of a horse, ‘We going for travel, we going for travel’,” her mother recollected. But the moment the door clanged shut, sealing them in darkness, Bahar’s laughter soon turned to cries of distress. The absence of windows, the lack of ventilation — the air grew heavy, almost suffocating.
Inside the vehicle, the mother battled her own sickness, the nausea overwhelming her as the vehicle gunned forward. “I was torn between comforting her and dealing with my nausea,” she said, her voice breaking. “I placed her at my feet, trying to soothe her, all the while unable to lift my head.”
A gendarme guard opened the door to check about Bahar’s relentless crying. The gendarme said he would ask the commander if at least they could be moved to the back of the vehicle, a part different than the iron cage where inmates were confined. But their hopes were dashed as quickly as they had risen; the commander did not permit it, and the door was shut once more. As soon as the door closed, Bahar started screaming and crying again. She didn’t stop for hours.
During the two breaks, Hendekci was able to change her diaper. Bahar’s spirits momentarily returned as they got out of the vehicle. “She started running around, scattering smiles, continuing to say ‘we travel, we travel.” But these moments were short-lived. Each time they had to reboard, getting the kid back to the vehicle was pretty difficult. Bahar’s despair would return, her tears a stark reminder of their unpleasant reality.
As the journey continued, Bahar eventually succumbed to a fitful sleep on her mother’s feet. “For ten long hours, that’s how we traveled,” the mother said. “Me, trying to keep her calm while fighting my frailty and nausea.”
Upon their arrival, the physical toll of the journey manifested itself. The mother, barely able to stand, held onto a truth that deepened the sting of the journey: “I later found out they [authorities] could have let my family take Bahar. They chose not to. They deliberately and willingly chose to make us suffer,” she said. This realization, as much as the journey itself, marked a moment in their lives.
Yet, Hendekci’s nightmarish journey was not an isolated case. Authorities intentionally inflicted similar pain on tens of thousands of other inmates when they were transferred to another correctional facility in a remote corner of the country. Especially, prisoners affiliated with the Gulen community bore the brunt of a deliberate policy designed to inflict maximum suffering.
Playroom
In the monotonous world of the prison, the playroom area is a rare place of color and joy. There, toddlers blend into each other, touching toys that are otherwise denied. They would play there for some time until a guard would step in and announce the end of the precious but limited time allotted to each toddler.
As the global COVID-19 pandemic ended, prison officials in a sprawling prison complex in Gebze in western Turkey arranged for children to enjoy creche, the playroom, some days during the week, in 2022.
“Bahar would count down 3–4 days in advance,” the lawyer recalled. “She knew that on playroom days, she could take her little cracker, her tiny slice of normalcy, to the room.” Each inmate’s toddler was allowed to the sacred zone only twice a week. For some reason, prison authorities allowed only one inmate and her toddler at once in Gebze to avoid blending among toddlers.
As the day approached for kids to enter their Disneyland behind bars, most mothers would prepare cookies, snacks, and even chocolate cakes so their toddlers would take a bite once in a while during their play. Bahar’s mother was no exception. She bought some crackers, a coveted snack by toddlers, prepared a lovely cake, and placed them in a bag.
But on that fateful day, a routine check by a female guard turned their world upside down. “It’s forbidden; you can’t bring [cracker],” the officer declared, pointing to Bahar’s snacks in the bag. The mother pleaded, “We weren’t aware . . . please, just this time.” The guard didn’t budge. Bahar’s refusal to part with her cracker and her tears were more than just about a snack; they were a cry for the little freedoms they were denied behind the walls.
“I couldn’t bear it,” the mother whispered, “seeing her cry over something so small and yet so big for her.”
As they walked into the playroom nestled in a separate area inside the prison, the mother’s tears mirrored her daughter’s. When lost in the wonder of toys and plays, the kid forgot the cracker. But her mother did not. She silently kept weeping in a corner for a while.
Hendekci couldn’t help expressing disdain against the guard’s indifference. “Let your heart suffer, too,” she incoherently mumbled. She had no idea that her little protest would later cost her dearly. In this place, guards were thin-skinned; they would brook no dissent. Not long after, the guard fashioned a complaint against her barely audible curse. It translated into another disciplinary action against the lawyer whose insider knowledge of legal procedure often pitted her against prison officials. They often felt threatened and unsettled by the protests and petitions of an all-knowing inmate. This latest ban meant Hendekci’s upcoming parole review would be in jeopardy if a judge, who oversees prison violations and disciplinary motions, did not overturn it.
The story of how and when a toddler would enjoy playroom in jail may not make headlines or grab a spot in a national paper. But Hendekci and her little daughter’s journey in Turkey’s ever-expanding incarceration complex was bound up by more prominent undercurrents that defined far larger flaws in the judicial system. It was not just a battle over amenities and pleasures accessible to little kids. It was about the far-reaching regime of restraints to limit prisoners’ rights envisioned in national and international laws. The post-2016 era, as Hendekci’s personal story would tell anything, was quite revealing to demonstrate how far the Turkish authorities would go in punishing its citizens deemed as public enemies.
A Tiny Soul During Pandemic
Though the world settled into an uneasy routine during the global pandemic, such serenity proved deceptive for some folks behind walls. While the outside world was grappling with the social and physical toll of an unseen virus, a different battle was being waged inside Gebze prison — one for basic human dignity and one for survival. The quarantine cells, a chilling testament to this struggle, remained a poignant reminder of the inhumanity that pervaded forgotten corners. Designed for 12, these cells quickly became uninhabitable, accommodating 26 or 27 inmates, each fighting for a breath in a space that offered none. 💡ℹ️
In this troubling environment, a mother and her three-year-old daughter were trapped by the walls around them and the thick, smoky air that filled their lungs. As Hendekci recounted, the chaos of the pandemic further blurred the lines of justice as convicts and pre-trial detainees were bundled together in a desperate mix.
What doubled down their ordeal during the pandemic, Hendekci noted, was smoking in cramped, filthy cells. The air, heavy with the smoke of roll-up cigarettes, was a toxic shroud that hung over them day and night. One day, Hendekci watched her daughter through this haze as a coughing fit seized the toddler.
The mother was overwhelmed by fear. A doctor’s previous words stalked her mind — her daughter was showing early signs of asthma, a diagnosis that would spell danger in their current confines. As Bahar was overtaken by the coughing fit, the mother pleaded for her to be allowed into the yard to breathe air untainted by smoke. Hardened by prejudice and duty, an officer turned them away with indifference.
The prison settled into a rhythm of heavy breathing as night descended. Hendekci could not sleep. She lay awake, her daughter’s fitful sleep punctuated by coughing fits. They were isolated in a makeshift cell from a converted storage room at the back of the prison. This space, designated for quarantine, was a cruel irony — a place where health was an elusive element and illness a near certainty.
As Hendekci recalled, the quarantine policy was a vicious cycle — 15 days extended endlessly with each positive test, a limbo from which escape seemed impossible. It was in this purgatorial space that the mother’s worst fears came to life. Her daughter, only three, was gripped by a menacing crisis. The little girl’s eyes darkened, her small body trembling as she struggled to breathe.
In desperation, the mother pressed the emergency button, a call for help that seemed to disappear into the void of the prison’s inhumane system. Time felt as if it didn’t pass while the mother held her daughter, feeling the life struggle within her tiny frame. Only after other inmates, having their sleep interrupted and sensibly disturbed by the toddler’s struggle, began to kick the doors and shout, did the guards take notice.💡ℹ️
That night, amidst fear and chaos, the daughter was provided oxygen. Hendekci watched as life slowly returned to Bahar’s small body. The recovery was slow, but each step was comforting to the agonized mother. In Gebze prison, Hendekci and her little daughter endured a night they would never forget.
Epilogue
Hendekci’s imprisonment took place during one of the worst periods of Turkey’s political history. Central pillars of democracy and the rule of law have vanished during a reign of political terror that swept through the Turkish political landscape after 2016. More than 150,000 public servants, including judges, prosecutors, diplomats, military and police officers, were sacked without due process.
The judicial system, subdued and compromised by the authorities’ political agenda, made the experience of imprisonment harsher and unendurable. In this troubling context, Hendekci and tens of thousands of other women, who were caught up in vicious political repression, were pinned down by a strained prison system that functioned poorly.
The incidents Hendekci chronicled during her days behind walls were a chilling demonstration of the lack of empathy and compassion for human life that permeated deeply into the very fabric of incarceration. It was not an individual case. The abuse, mistreatment, and lack of care became the very defining features of the imprisonment experience itself.
💡ℹ️ Fact: The reports from the Council of Europe’s Committee for the Prevention of Torture, along with other credible sources, consistently highlight significant difficulties in accessing healthcare for inmates in Turkish prisons. These findings indicate that healthcare services are not only inadequate but also frequently subject to substantial delays, even when they are accessible. Overcrowding is also a persistent problem in Turkey. In Turkey, 520 children under the age of six in prison with their mothers.
Children in Izmir-Sakran Prison
Categories: Turkey Human Rights Blog