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WHAT DO WE SAY AFTER 9:05?
A country’s respect for its past also reveals itself in the language it uses today, the value it places on accurate information, and the stories it tells its children. As we commemorate Atatürk on November 10, we should also consider how we keep his memory alive in everyday life.
Every year, the same time, the same silence…
When the clock reaches 9:05, many things pass through our minds. A photograph, a poem read at school, a feeling we could not fully grasp in childhood but which has deepened over the years…
Then life goes on. News stories are written, phones ring, lessons begin, and people return to work.
The question I want to consider begins right here:
What do we say after that silence? How do we write, how do we think, and how do we listen to one another?
Because the place a memory holds in our lives is also shaped by what we do after the moments we set aside to honour it.
Our words carry responsibility, too
In both journalism and translation, we come to understand the weight of words more deeply over time.
A headline can change a reader’s view of an event. A mistranslated phrase can make someone’s intentions appear entirely different. A sentence taken out of context can become the beginning of an error that takes years to correct.
That is why trust lies at the heart of our work.
Readers want to trust that what has been written has been researched. Someone handing over a document expects their words to be conveyed accurately in another language. The public deserves information grounded in fact.
This is one of the responsibilities November 10 brings to mind for me: expressing our commitment to our country through the care we take in our work.
Checking information before publishing it, correcting mistakes when we discover them, remaining willing to learn about what we do not know… Each is a concrete expression of respect for the life we share.
Memory requires care
Today, the past seems easy to access. Within seconds, we can reach thousands of photographs, quotations, and historical accounts.
Yet there is a distance between access and understanding, and crossing it takes effort.
We need to investigate when a photograph was taken. We need to find out who actually said something. To understand the circumstances in which a decision was made, we need to read about the difficulties of that period.
We must show the same care when writing about Atatürk.
Our respect for him should make us more attentive to every sentence we share in his name. We should be prepared to research a quotation whose source we do not know and take the time to learn the story behind a historical image.
As journalists and publishers in particular, we must remember that the content we prepare today may become part of tomorrow’s memory.
Years from now, a child may learn about the past from something we have written. The accuracy of those words will also shape the trust that child places in us.
Understanding our own language, speaking with the world
Working between languages as a translator, I often reflect on this: the better we understand a thought in our own language, the more clearly we can express it in another.
That is why taking care with Turkish, preserving the meaning of words, and strengthening the habit of reading are so valuable.
Learning other languages also gives us access to the knowledge and experience of different societies. It expands our ability to share our own history, literature, and culture with the world.
We need clear, accurate, and accessible language when conveying the story of the Republic to future generations and to people in other countries.
This is a shared effort that begins in a teacher’s classroom, a journalist’s reporting, an author’s book, and the document on a translator’s desk.
Making room for children’s questions
The time we give to a child’s question about Atatürk matters.
Listening without brushing the question aside, opening a book together, visiting a museum, talking about a photograph… This is how memory is passed on. A conversation that begins with curiosity can become a desire to learn that a child carries for years.
To understand the past, young people need environments where they can express their thoughts, ask questions, and feel encouraged to investigate.
Our task is to create more of those opportunities.
On November 10, I remember Gazi Mustafa Kemal Atatürk with respect, gratitude, and a deep sense of loss.
And I ask myself:
How can I contribute to this country’s future today through a line I write, a piece of information I convey accurately, or a young person I listen to attentively?
May the meaning of the silence we share at 9:05 live on in the words we speak afterwards and in the work we do.
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