“Ah, okay, we’re coming back,” Hassan said.
As we waited for them in the locker room, I thought about Hassan and Sibel, and the horror and pain that lay ahead for them. I didn’t know how I would be able to look at them when they walked in. Some of Can’s cousins asked to wait outside. The police, fearing that Can’s parents would see their red eyes and damp faces, advised against it. But the young people insisted.
A few minutes later, one of the cousins returned, shouting, “Come up, hurry, Sibel is screaming and breaking down! She just learned Can is dead!”
We all ran upstairs, where a crowd of anxious people, many also awaiting news of their loved ones, stood watching Sibel and Hassan. Sibel was lying on the ground, pulling her hair. Hassan walked around shouting and screaming Can’s name over and over. Apparently one of the female volunteers had told Sibel “I’m sorry” as she and Hassan climbed off the bus.
“Noooo, noooo, my son is not dead!” she screamed, beating her hands against her head. “Can!” Hassan, meanwhile, screamed and sobbed in his brother’s arms. Sibel began biting herself. “Kill me now,” she said. “Just kill me. Why would somebody take my beautiful son? He hasn’t done anything.”
Hassan just sat there, crying. He tried to hold her. “Don’t touch me!” she yelled. “Just bring me my son.” She begged God to take her life and bring Can back. “Please, you are all lying to me, my son is not dead,” she said. “No, no, my son is not dead. They said he will come on the bus.” She cried and screamed his name again.
This went on for what seemed like an eternity. Then I heard another man and woman screaming nearby and knew that some other family had just learned their own bitter news.
Somehow, we found our way back to Hassan and Sibel’s apartment, where we stared helplessly at pictures of Can hanging on the walls. Sibel was screaming and beating herself. It was as if she were trying to wake herself up from a nightmare. Hassan went into the bedroom, closed the door, and cried.
“Souad, my son is not dead—right, Souad? Can is coming back?” Sibel cried. “Please tell me you all lied to me. Please, Souad.”
I held her. “Sibel, I wish we had lied.” I felt weak and useless as she shouted and screamed. Then we heard shouting from the house next door, whose balcony was only a few feet away. Another father and mother were screaming for their son.
“Who are they?” I asked my aunt.
“They are the parents of Sel?uk Kili?, Can’s best friend. They grew up together.”
I learned that Can and Sel?uk, who was fifteen, had been like brothers. Both families were Muslim, but Can was Shia, and Sel?uk Sunni. For hours, two families and their friends mourned the loss of boys who’d shared everything. Hassan and Sibel’s apartment filled with relatives and friends. Whenever the doorbell rang, Sibel asked if it was Can coming back.
At 5:00 a.m., I called a taxi and went back to my hotel. I wore my big sunglasses to hide my eyes. I’d told my parents and siblings, as well as my editors, as soon as we’d heard. I had come to cover a story, and now I was crying for a family member. In my hotel room, I called my police source. This time he picked up.
“You saw my message?” I told him in a low, tired voice. “The boy is dead.”
“I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I got a list with the victims’ names around midnight and was on my way to a briefing.”
I held the phone closer to my ear so as not to miss a word.
“When I saw the name Can Leyla, I was in shock,” he said.
I felt tears flood my eyes. “Why? Can you tell me why he killed Can?” I whispered. “I need to know, please.”
We agreed to meet soon. I hung up and pressed my face into the pillow, shouting and sobbing as I hadn’t been able to do while caring for Hassan and Sibel.
I stayed in Munich to help out, going to Hassan and Sibel’s house every day to grieve with them and other relatives and friends. A few days later, a police officer from the crisis center called. “We are finished with the autopsy and would like to organize for the family to say good-bye.” He asked if someone would come to see Can and decide where and how he should be buried. They invited a family representative to come to the funeral home where the body was being kept to prepare it for a viewing.
“Do the parents want flowers? Some would like to see their son wearing something special. All this could be taken care of before the parents will see him,” he said, “but somebody will have to come for that.”
Hassan and Sibel’s two-bedroom apartment was still packed with relatives and friends, but everybody seemed overwhelmed. When I told Hassan what the police had said, he begged me to go and see Can’s body. Sibel’s cousin’s roommate Kader, a medical doctor by training, said she would come with me.
I asked Hassan if he wanted Can to wear something special. He requested that Can be dressed in the shirt of his favorite soccer team, Fenerbah?e Istanbul, whose colors were blue and yellow. I took the shirt, and Kader and I drove to the funeral home, stopping on the way to buy two big bouquets of yellow and blue roses. Inside, we saw a white coffin. The undertaker, who happened to be Turkish, said we should let him know when we wanted him to open it. I didn’t say a word and wondered if maybe there had been some misunderstanding, and this might not be Can. I found myself hoping the coffin held someone else.
“Are you all right?” I heard Kader asking. “Are you ready?”
“I am ready.”
It was Can, all right. I looked at his face, the cold, pale skin and long eyelashes. His mouth and eyes were half open, as if he were surprised. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. They’d dressed him in a long white tunic and put a white bow tie around his neck, presumably to hide the incision made there during the autopsy. His feet were bare.