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    After a month at the prison depot, I was transferred to (3/July/1982) 11, Landesgericht Strasse to be judged and sentenced on the 8th of July at 9:30am. I prepared my defense assiduously and awaited the trial with an emotion approaching enthusiasm. The day before the fateful confrontation with the judge, on the 7th, I was summoned into a room and confronted with 2 men and 2 women, from the ministry of justice. They informed me that anything that I had to say meant nothing to them, that the complaint lodged by the poor S. and her racist father was all that counted. They had drawn up a confession that they pushed across the table for my signature. I told them that we would see whose arguments carried the most weight when I was accompanied by an attorney at the trial the next day. I prepared to leave. It was then that they informed me there would be no trial in the framework of a new and more "efficient" procedure concerning cases such as mine. I shouted that I was in a position to demand a fair trial, that I had been robbed and abused, that I was a student of the fine arts and that the truth in my case should be made known.
    A man, dressed like a tap dancer in a white suit and red tie, who up to then had said nothing, took this occasion to inform me that it was he, the presiding magistrate, who would decide what had to me known and told me that it was in my own best interest to sign the confession and to speak out as little as humanly possible insofar as Austria and the Austrians had no need whatsoever of Turks in their society. He continued saying that the best place for me as well as for all Turks was a country called Turkey and that he would do his utmost so that all Turks who crossed his path found there way back to that land. He concluded saying that there would be no trial because there was no point in having one!

   I was deeply shocked and barely able to move. I shivered as I answered him, saying that even if I had to spend eons in his filthy prison, I wouldn't sign away the rights that I knew were mine, even as a foreigner. "As a duly empowered magistrate, you must know that the racist commentary you've just broached is perfectly unconstitutional", I told him, and continued saying, "I've wondered in recent days how the testimony of a psychologically weak young woman and her xenophobic father could sway an entire institution. It is clear to me now why it's been so easy".  

At cell number 27a
He proffered the confession one more time and when I shook my head in defiance, he waved me out with the flick of his wrist, as if batting away a fly. I returned to cell number 27a, a zone reserved for those destined to be extradited. I saw a public defender on two occasions, just long enough to understand that the state had no tangible criminal charges against me and I hoped for release and a little time to gather my poor lost paintings together before I was expelled from the country.