I am not a politician. I am not trying to justify what happened in Gezi Park.

I just want to say what I felt during the past months. For the first time, the so-called apolitic Turkish youth banded together to take a stance against oppression. This was new for Turkey. The government was used to deploying force to make their problems disappear. People accepted it in the past — no one even blinked an eye. Not this time though. When current Prime Minister of Turkey Recep Tayyip Erdoğan authorized the use of tear gas against peaceful protesters trying to save their park and allowed the police to set fire to the tents, Turkey decided that he had gone a step too far. At first, little gatherings started all around the country as a response. Erdoğan’s reaction, in turn, was to play Whack-A-Protester, labeling them as bandits and directing armed police forces on them. To his surprise, wherever he pushed, Gezi Park pushed back harder.

Photo by Alistair Blacklock/The Gazelle

On the fourth day, there was a crowd of at least 10,000 protesters in central Istanbul to stand guard against the police. I, wishing to see the news I had heard from Twitter, turned on the TV. Not even a single Turkish channel was covering the protests in the news. This didn’t come to me as a surprise. I live in the country with the most imprisoned journalists, after all. I had to watch international news to learn what was happening in my own country. On the screen, I witnessed inspiring acts of heroism and scarring tragedies. It didn’t take long for me to decide that I had to do my part.

I found myself in the protests. It was fun and games for a while with people laughing, dancing and drinking. There were open yoga classes, a makeshift library and dozens of mothers cooking for the hungry. Falling prey to my naive sense of duty, I decided to venture a bit further into the front-lines. I considered myself a brave person, but your concept of bravery changes drastically when faced with things that you had only seen before in the movies.

I never thought sounds could be this scary. The sound of gas canisters being fired, a boom followed by screams, shouts and a cry of agony some seconds later. Some people tried to organize the crowd, some trembled in fear and some provoked the police for more. It was scary. And the tear gas itself ... How bad can it be, right? Just to put it in perspective, we carried lemon juice to pour into our eyes. It reduced the pain. You get used to it, quickly. But there were things I still couldn’t handle.

Tear gas was bad, but seeing people get kicked and beaten to a pulp was worse. What I couldn’t handle was to see the police cheer whenever a protester was struck with a canister and fell to the ground. I saw doctors and lawyers get beaten by the police while they desperately tried to save another life. I still cannot comprehend how the mayor of Ankara could announce that Mehmet Sarisuluk was killed by a stone thrown by protesters, even though a governmental forensics report indicated a lethal gunshot wound. I still can’t believe that a man who attacked protesters with a machete could evade punishment.

Photo by Alistair Blacklock/The Gazelle

Even though these images still haunt me at night, I also witnessed some wonders I will never forget. I saw how eternal enemies, our infamously violent football teams, banded together to make a difference. I saw how atheists made a wall to protect those who were performing salaat. I saw the differences between Turks, Kurds, Albanians and many more vanish into thin air. I saw Turkey standing up against injustice.