Dear friends who cherish the words, the life, and the legacy of Hrant Dink, 

It is a profound honour to be here this evening, to receive this award that bears Hrant Dink’s name. His life showed us the heavy price of speaking the truth and demanding justice, and yet also the dignity of insisting on a future filled with hope.

At times, the conscience of the public is embodied in a single person — especially in those who speak with sincerity, courage, and an authenticity that touches the human soul. Hrant Dink was such a person: a voice that still resonates in this country’s conscience, calling not for hatred but for love, not for conflict but for solidarity, not for division but for shared human values. He was a voice inviting us to share the sorrows of the past and to live together in peace.  

This award holds a unique significance, as it is rooted in the life, the struggle, and the unfinished words of the man whose name it carries.  

When I was asked to prepare a speech for the award ceremony, I initially felt a sense of panic. I wondered what I could say, how I could possibly find the words to mark this meaningful award. After a while, the first thought that came to mind was my dear uncle, Ahmet Albay. He was killed in 1980 in what was called an “unsolved murder”, though we all knew the perpetrators. I could not help but draw a connection between his life and that of Hrant Dink. He too was fighting for justice and equality, he too defended humanity and the human spirit — and he too was silenced. Just like Hrant.

These people, who gave their lives for their beliefs and ideals, give us strength. They remind us that another kind of life is possible. Their memory now asks us:

Can we truly mourn?

Can we preserve our memory?

Can we confront the past?

Can we find the words to continue after them, to amplify their voices, to carry their struggles forward?   

My uncle Ahmet was a lawyer. In the 1970s, he took on many risky cases, most notably the Maraş Massacre. On 3 May 1980, he was killed in an armed attack carried out by forces we today call the “deep state.” A few months later came the 12 September military coup, which shattered Turkey’s brightest generation. This is one of the main reasons for the social collapse we experience today…

Those who killed my uncle roamed freely in Turkey for years, committing further crimes. They were only arrested abroad, and only because their drug trafficking extended beyond the country.  After being extradited and serving a short prison sentence, they were released under a special amnesty in 2012. One of the killers, who had been a vocational high school student at the time of the murder, said after his release, "I did what had to be done, therefore I feel no regret or remorse whatsoever." He could utter this sentence. Of course, the perpetrators should be named. But not here. Not tonight. 

Hrant Dink once wrote: "Longing is the call of lived experiences. It is the nostalgic cry of the past, of memories, of old friends echoing in our souls." 

This is a phrase that weighs heavily on my heart whenever I think of it, because it carries a completely different meaning too. Longing is not only for what has been, but also for what can no longer be, for a future that has been lost. When we mourn the people we have lost, like my uncle, and our beloved Hrant Dink, we also mourn the life we could not live with them, all the possibilities that are now gone.

And within this longing there is often a heavy sense of guilt. When a loved one is torn from life, we cannot help but feel as if it were somehow our fault. Questions never cease: "What if things had been different?", "What if we had done this, or acted earlier?" A profound guilt gnaws at you.

And these feelings sink into a void that makes the absence of justice palpable at every moment. I don't know how justice can be attained in such circumstances. For in this country, even the pursuit of justice is often built upon the absence of justice itself.

After losing my uncle, and after enduring the oppression of the 12 September coup, my family sank into a long silence that lasted for years. Injustice, helplessness, and that gnawing guilt eventually found expression in silence. Perhaps silence did not come from a desire to heal the wound, but rather from the impossibility of finding words to describe it.

As the years passed, I came to realise how many wounds remain unhealed in this country’s history, wounds that are still open, still bleeding, and still lacking justice — both on an individual and societal level. One of those wounds was opened in the heart of my family.

My uncle was 35 when he was murdered; I was just a kid in my final year of middle school. His office was very close to my school, and I often visited him after lessons. I have many memories to share, but here I will recount one of our cross-country trips—one of the most unforgettable memories of my childhood. Years later, I realised that this trip might have been the first time I connected personal grief with societal wounds...

It was 1977… I had just finished primary school.  My first intercity trip from Adana, the city where I was born, to Istanbul during the summer vacation is still fresh in my memory.
We drove in my late uncle Ahmet's car. In Istanbul, we stayed a few days with relatives in Küçükçekmece.

At that time — as anyone who grew up in the seventies will know — the streets belonged to us children. I played all day with a child I had met there.  At one point, we told each other our names. But immediately after saying his name, he felt the need to explain: "I'm Armenian", he said. I shrugged and replied, "So what?" — and we carried on playing. 

That day, we were just two children brought together not by identity, but by the game and by childhood. I learned the rest much later.

I attended middle school in Adana, in a building constructed in 1880, originally serving Christian students, later renamed Tepebağ Middle School.
Hrant Dink once wrote: "School is not a place where knowledge is dictated, but where it is questioned."
But the school I attended was far from that ideal.

Some of our teachers would describe the school as "an old Armenian school" and make insulting remarks about Armenians. At those moments, I would always think of that child I used to play with in Istanbul. I would think, "He would be so hurt if he heard this." I would listen to what was being said half-heartedly, never believing those words.
What gave me this sceptical stance was my surroundings.

Looking back now, I see:
I could have grown up in an environment woven with discriminatory, exclusionary thoughts. But there were other examples before me:

My uncle…
My father, who always said, "Do not earn your bread by causing suffering to others"...
My mother, who showed me that one can struggle and change their life at any age…
And my teacher Ruhi, who helped me see history through a different lens…

Without them, what kind of person would I have become? I do not know.

This is not only a question about my own life story.
It also makes me question how the society we live in is shaped.

How discrimination, exclusion, and violence are produced…and devalue a person or a community…

I don't believe that evil is inherent in human nature. It is learned in life. Unless we understand the source of evil, unless we question the darkness that turns a baby into a murderer... we can do nothing. Nor can we know how to spread goodness.

Only years later did I discover that the streets where I played as a child, the school I attended, the neighbourhood I grew up in, all carried a far more painful and bloody past than I had ever been taught in school. When I read Zabel Yesayan's book In the Ruins, which recounts the Adana Massacre of 1909, in which tens of thousands of Armenians were killed and their property seized,  I found it hard to comprehend how such a great carnage still remained unknown. 

Even today, most people living in Adana know almost nothing about this great destruction, unfortunately…

Without confronting the evils of the past, without sharing the pain, neither justice nor true social healing is possible.
A society that turns a blind eye, remains silent, and refuses to confront its past will, sooner or later, summon its own executioners: Hitlers, Mussolinis, Pinochets...
Sometimes, I think that the roots of the destruction and social decay our country is experiencing today lie in this very refusal to face the past, this turning a blind eye to injustices, this failure to reconcile with history.

In this country, speaking the truth, listening to the voices of those who are silenced, amplifying their voices often means loneliness, pressure, and threat. But I know that in a society where silence prevails, even a single word of truth can be a window opening from darkness to light. That is why being able to speak that word, to bear witness to the truth, is the most powerful way to pierce through collective silence and to keep hope alive — the way to heal the wounds of the past and safeguard the future... 

It is necessary to talk about the pains of the past, to heal the wounds that are still open. But just as important is preventing new wounds from being inflicted. Bearing witness therefore requires us not only to see what is before our eyes, but also to notice the wounds that are rendered invisible. 

Among these invisible wounds, the gravest and most painful is the exposure of children to toxic chemicals. Children are the most vulnerable group, feeling most deeply the burden of environmental and social conditions.

A child's upbringing in a healthy environment, access to clean water, and adequate and balanced nutrition play a decisive role in their entire life. Therefore, defending children's fundamental rights is one of the most critical measures of social justice, co-existence, and peace. It is the vantage point of every struggle for a life free from violence, for social harmony, and for a dignified future.

In our country, nearly 20 million children live under the risks caused by polluted air, water, and soil. Lead alone permanently damages the mental development and learning capacity of millions of children. This is not only a health issue; it is a matter of environmental justice. For children who live in areas of high pollution often also face poverty, food insecurity, and social exclusion. As a result, both their cognitive skills and learning capacity, as well as their life opportunities, are doomed to fall far short of their inherent potential.  

When a country’s air is poisoned, its waters contaminated, its soil saturated with heavy metals — and when all this is known yet ignored — there can be no justice, no equality, no dignified life. In such a landscape, not only nature is poisoned, but also the bonds between human beings.

Yet, humans are not islands; life is possible only with others.

Today, healthy nutrition, environmental justice, and social equality cannot be considered separately. However, these issues are often mistakenly reduced to questions of individual choice or personal responsibility. In this way, the real culprits, the true perpetrators are rendered invisible, and the problems only deepen. Silence makes the perpetrator's task easier. When the truth is left unspoken, lies gain strength and conscience becomes paralysed. That is why revealing the truth, exposing the real culprits of these problems, and bringing these issues before the public is not only a moral duty, but also a professional responsibility. This responsibility rests on the shoulders of all who care about the public good — above all, on scientists, journalists, doctors, and lawyers.

As a scientist, I strive to fulfil this responsibility. Hrant Dink's words illuminate my path: "If silence is taboo, then speaking is democracy."

Speaking up, taking a stance, and undertaking action can sometimes be risky. But let us not forget that taking an ethical stance means consciously stepping into difficult positions. True ethical behaviour sometimes requires standing against traditions, against social beliefs, and even against laws. When laws, conscience, fear and anxiety collide, it entails refusing to remain silent, refusing to step back, and choosing instead to step forward. Sometimes that first step is taken by a single person. We hope that the step we take will dispel the possibilities of injustice, loss of truth, and erosion of social conscience. But hope does not grow in silence; it flourishes when we stand side by side, when we take our steps together. 

These are days when we most need a shared hope that holds us together and binds us to one another.
For life gains its meaning by embracing the lives of others.
Hope is not born from waiting, but from initiative and action.
And there is no greater source of hope than taking action for a society where every child can grow up healthy, free, and happy.
It is possible to ensure that children grow up in good health —we just need to take the necessary steps in that direction.

Hrant Dink's legacy is not just that of one person. It is the legacy of living together, of fraternity, and of  justice.
This award brings me not only immense honour, but  also the responsibility of keeping that legacy alive.
I dedicate it to my family, who give me strength, and to the children of this world, its most precious beings.

Thank you.