Places of Memory
“If I’d gone, the neo-Nazis would have won. They wanted to send us away anyway.” That is why Gülüstan Ayaz stayed in Germany; she brought up her son on her own and fought for years to ensure her husband’s name would not be forgotten. As a result of this struggle, the area in front of Landwehr Station, where Ramazan Avcı was murdered, was renamed ‘Ramazan Avcı Platz’ in 2012.
From Ramazan Avcı Platz to Madımak…
It was the first few days after we’d arrived in Hamburg. Everything was unfamiliar: the streets, the people and even the names of the bus stops… My wife and I were trying to get to our daughter’s school. On the bus heading towards Burgstraße, as the stops were being announced one by one, we heard a name:
“Ramazan Avcı Platz.”
My wife and I looked at each other.
“Did they just say ‘Ramazan Avcı’?” we asked each other.
Then we said, “No, surely not.”
When the bus stopped at the stop, our eyes fell upon the large square. A huge sign read ‘Ramazan Avcı’. Beneath it were a date of birth and a date of death. Two dates reminiscent of a gravestone… Until that moment, we’d never heard the name Ramazan Avcı.
My wife said curiously, “Who on earth was this man? They’ve named a whole square after him.”
I grabbed my phone and, a few minutes later, found myself confronted with a date I didn’t know and a grief I didn’t recognise.
Ramazan Avcı had been the victim of a racist attack by a neo-Nazi group on the night of 21 December 1985 in Hamburg’s Landwehr district. He had been severely beaten and died three days later, aged just 26. What’s more, he never got to see his son, who was due to be born just a few days later. The last words he’d said to his pregnant wife as he left the house were, “I’ll be back in an hour at the latest,” but as it turned out, the place he returned to was, sadly, the hospital.
Years later, a sentence spoken by his wife, Gülüstan Ayaz, was the one that struck me deepest of all I had read:
“When Ramazan died, so much died inside me too.”
Following this emotional statement, she added: “If I’d gone, the neo-Nazis would have won. They wanted to send us away anyway.” That is why Gülüstan Ayaz stayed in Germany; she raised her son on her own and fought for years to ensure her husband’s name would not be forgotten.
As a result of this struggle, the area in front of Landwehr Station, where Ramazan Avcı was killed, was renamed ‘Ramazan Avcı Platz’ in 2012. Over the years, the square became more than just a name on a sign; it was transformed into a space of remembrance, complete with monuments, information panels and a place where people could pause and reflect, because Hamburg had chosen to make the pain visible rather than hide it.
Time passed.
One day, I found myself at the Altona Museum.
Whilst touring the museum, I explored many layers, from maritime history to the city’s cultural transformation, but in one section, a familiar sight caught my eye once again.
Turkish names…
With dates of birth and death beneath them…
At first, I couldn’t make sense of it.
Thanks to my broken German and a few quick Google searches, I learnt that these were migrants who had lost their lives as a result of racist attacks in Germany.
The museum had created a memorial space for them.
Photographs, newspaper clippings, official documents, video recordings, interviews with the relatives of those murdered, and statements from MPs, academics and civil society representatives…
They all conveyed a single message:
“If we forget this pain, it will happen again.”
This is why I was particularly struck by the fact that German society chose to confront the dark chapters of its own history rather than hide them from future generations, because collective memory can only truly take shape when we confront our pain.
This year, too, 2 July came and went on the calendar.
But this year marks 33 years since the Sivas Massacre.
At the Madımak Hotel, 33 intellectuals, artists, young people and children were burned alive. Many of the perpetrators have continued their lives without receiving the punishment they deserved, due to statutes of limitations. In contrast, time has not passed at the same pace for the families of those who lost their lives. It was not just their loved ones who were taken from them, but an entire lifetime.
As is the case every year, various commemorative events will be held in Hamburg this year too to ensure that Sivas is not forgotten.
As I write this, I cannot help but recall Ramazan Avcı Square and the ‘Memory’ section at the Altona Museum.
I ask myself: ‘Are we, too, able to confront our own pain with the same courage?’
Then, as a citizen, I answer this question as follows: The Madımak Hotel should not merely be the site of a painful event from the past; it must be transformed into a genuine museum of social memory where future generations can see what hatred can lead to, because pain that is not confronted is not forgotten; it merely falls silent. And silence, more often than not, gives rise to new pain.
Bearing witness to history is not merely about recounting victories.
Leaving a fine legacy for history means being able to honestly reveal the dark pages of our past as well.
As I whisper these thoughts to myself in a square in Hamburg, in the silent corridors of a museum, I share these hopes with you too.
I hope that one day we too can show the same courage for our own memory, for only societies that can come to terms with their past can truly change the future.
