I felt embarrassed when my friend cancelled his trip to Turkey last summer after the Gezi Park protests. “It’s too dangerous,” he said. “They’re throwing tear gas at people!” Turkey’s image being tainted in his eyes tugged at my insides. He had us all wrong; we were a strong, safe country. It was just the news exaggerating, I said.

A few weeks later I went to Gezi Park, trying to prove something to myself. Just looking at the park, it didn’t seem possible that anything horrific happened there. When walking through the park’s path, however, I began to feel uneasy. My father and I exchanged glances, not wanting to say out loud what we were thinking: the calm felt artificial. There was a quiet, but it was tense. Every person that walked past had a look in their eyes that I couldn’t decipher, and no one held my gaze for long.

My parents went to buy pins that the protestors were selling. I wondered away, thinking of all the news I had heard. A twenty-one-year-old college student was brutally attacked by police with their batons and their rods; maybe it happened by that tree over there. And perhaps that bench was where police fired a bullet at another student’s eye, blinding him instantly. These people are my generation, I thought. If I had lived in Turkey, maybe I would have joined them.

As we walked out of the park, I heard a man say to his friend, “There’s about to be a scene, Hasan. Look.” I followed his gaze, and I saw it: the convoy of police fully armed and fully equipped. With their uniforms on, they didn’t look like real people. Drenched in black, they carried a body shield in one hand, and a gun in the other.

But strangely enough, I wasn’t scared. I was angry. It all became so real in that moment. I realized that before I hadn’t believed what the news said – not really. But here it was in front of me, and I stood powerless. They were far away, but I swear one of the policemen had the same face as my brother. I wondered if they felt remorse; did they hesitate? We were all citizens of the same country. Behind their masks, they were people, too, with insecurities and quirks and favorite songs. Did they question why they attacked the student with their batons? Or shot the other in the eye? Or did they stop feeling somewhere in between? The police were meant to be our protectors, but instead my father tugged me away at the sight of them. We left the park, but I kept looking back.

At the end of it all, I feel guilt: guilt that I don’t know what’s happening like I should, guilt that I’m away from it all, and guilt that I won’t ever make a change there. But that doesn’t mean I can’t try. My home is America, but Turkey is home too.