Sabri was born in a small town in Turkey. His dream was to become a police officer. At the age of 14, he entered the police college. He dedicated himself to his country, because being a police officer meant striving to protect life and uphold justice. Human rights, justice, and the well-being of his people… These were his most cherished ideals. From a young age, he was taught a sense of duty. Every morning, when Sabri put on his uniform and looked in the mirror, he saw not just a man but a symbol of the state, justice, and security. But life had never been easy for him. His days were spent fighting crime and criminals; it was never simple. He had pushed aside everything except his duty. There was always so much to do.
For years, Sabri and his wife had dreamed of having children, a dream that was fulfilled only much later. He missed the birth of his first son because he was on duty. He had learned to live with the regret of not being there for his son’s birth. But the real pain came from not being able to watch his second child grow up. As his rank increased, so did his responsibilities. His phone was constantly ringing; someone could call at any moment. When he would return home was always uncertain. Once, his son, with innocent eyes, looked up at him and said, “Dad, when will you finish catching the bad guys? One day, I’ll be a bad guy too, so we can spend more time together.” Sabri’s heart shattered at that moment. But what could he do? Sabri had been raised this way, he believed in it. His sense of duty had overshadowed his role as a father. He was working for the future of his children, even if it meant missing their childhood. And compared to the 90s, he and his colleagues were reaping the rewards of their hard work, transforming Turkey into a secure country on par with Western civilizations.
December 17 marked a turning point in Sabri’s life. It was another day when the police caught criminals, but this time, the culprits were different. Theft and corruption at the highest levels of government had been exposed. Suddenly, Sabri became an unwanted person. The colleagues he had once worked shoulder to shoulder with now avoided him. The world he lived in had become an unfamiliar place.
It wasn’t long before Sabri was sent to one of the eastern provinces. It was a time when the “Peace Process” had collapsed, and the conflict in the region was at its peak. Sabri continued his work. His goal wasn’t to suppress the events with force but to build bridges between the state and the local citizens. “Let glass break instead of lives,” he said. He was accused by his superiors of not suppressing the events or, worse, of inciting them. Eventually, he was removed from his position, left to sit idly from 8 am to 5 pm in a room with other unwanted individuals who opposed the government. As he wondered when this torment would end, the so-called coup attempt on July 15 happened. One day, Sabri was a police officer; the next, he was labeled a terrorist. An unimaginable break. Who would have thought? The next day, the police came to his house. Almost all of them had their heads down. Everyone knew that Sabri couldn’t be called a terrorist, but orders had come from above. Sabri was taken into custody. On the same day, he appeared before a judge. Normally, the prosecutor and the court would act based on evidence, but this time, they didn’t. Without any evidence, the prosecutor requested his detention, and the judge approved it. When the lawyer asked for evidence, the judge said, “It will arrive soon.” The law had been shelved. Sabri was imprisoned. His first indictment came a year later. There was no evidence, only suspicions and things like newspaper subscriptions. After 18 months, he stood before the court. He presented his defense. By the third hearing, the judges couldn’t say there was no evidence but sentenced him to 6 years and 3 months while ordering his release. Sabri was happy to be reunited with his family, but he was heartbroken to leave behind his dear friends, each of them unfairly imprisoned.
The outside world was just another kind of prison for him. No one would hire him. Everywhere he applied, they refused to take him. His children were subjected to bullying at school; neither the other children nor the school administration would help. Life outside left no room for him or his family to breathe. His country was suffocating him. He decided to leave his homeland. It was one of the hardest decisions a person could make—leaving the land he had worked for, the land he would have given his life for.
He decided to go to the Netherlands, a country where human rights were upheld at the highest level. After a long and difficult journey, he reached the Netherlands. When he arrived, he felt like he could breathe again. But there were challenges here too: camp life, long waits, uncertainty… Sabri didn’t give up. He took IT courses, improved his Dutch. He gathered all his strength to start a new life. But his dream of reuniting his family was shattered by the new measures the government was planning to implement. Family reunification was being delayed, and it was becoming nearly impossible for him to reunite with his 20-year-old daughter. In the land where he had started to breathe again, Sabri was slipping into hopelessness.
Many people, like Sabri, are at risk of facing new traumas during the immigration process.
At the Stichting Justice and Human Rights Foundation, we are aware of the traumas that individuals like Sabri experience. We believe that the policies being implemented should adopt a human-centered, not migration-centered, approach. A gradual transition based on humanity would be more appropriate, and we call on all segments of society who want to contribute in this field to offer their support.
