Golden Scars: The Art of Kintsugi and the Broken Pieces of Türkiye

Recently, I attended a TEDx event in County Wicklow, Ireland. One of the speakers mentioned the Japanese art of Kintsugi (金継ぎ), meaning “golden joinery.” I hadn’t heard of this art form before, so I got curious and researched its process.

Traditionally, Kintsugi is used to repair broken pottery like bowls, plates, or vases. The artists carefully collect the broken pieces, treating each one with respect. They apply a special lacquer called urushi(derived from tree sap) to the edges to rejoin them. They may also fill gaps or missing sections with a mixture of lacquer and powdered clay or flour paste. Urushi lacquer needs time to cure in a warm, humid environment—a process that can take days or even weeks, requiring patience, a key element of Kintsugi. Once the lacquer has set, the artists paint the cracks with a mixture of gold dust (or sometimes silver or platinum) and more lacquer.

Instead of concealing the damage, Kintsugi honors it, celebrating the object’s journey. In the end, the shimmering golden veins tracing the cracks make the object feel even more precious than before it was broken. It’s a beautiful reminder that scars—whether in objects or in ourselves—can hold stories of strength and transformation.

I was deeply moved by Kintsugi’s symbolic meaning.

I grew up in a culture where I was told, “If the arm is broken, it stays within the sleeve.” This popular Turkish proverb suggests that I should conceal my brokenness — whether emotional, familial, or social. The culture taught me to hide my flaws and maintain my ‘appearances’.

Kintsugi, on the other hand, offers a strikingly different perspective: celebrating imperfections rather than hiding them. It transforms flaws into something beautiful and valuable.

Türkiye’s political history is filled with broken and scattered pieces, and there’s no longer any place to hide them. I wondered what would emerge if we used the art of Kintsugi to bring these fragments together.

Since the founding of the Republic of Türkiye, people who have criticised those in power or expressed differing views have often faced imprisonment. Not only politicians but also writers, thinkers, and journalists—anyone seen as influential—have found themselves behind bars or standing trial.

The number of people imprisoned solely for their ideas or political stance is so high that it has inspired an anecdote:

In Sinop Prison (located in northern Türkiye), a prisoner once visited the library. He searched the shelves for a recommended book but could not find it. When he asked the librarian, the librarian checked the system and replied, “We do not have that book here, but if you would like, I can give you its author instead.”

Perhaps this anecdote is one of the golden veins in our broken political history—making us laugh at our misery. Or maybe justice reveals itself in supernatural ways, as in the story below. I don’t know. I just hope we have hit rock bottom—and that there’s only a way up from here. 

Once upon a time, there was a strange yet beautiful woman with long, golden hair. She lived alone in the forest and made a living by weaving on a loom made of black walnut branches.

One day, the rough and crude son of a coal merchant happened to see this beautiful woman. He became obsessed with her and forced her to marry him. Yet all the woman wanted was to rid herself of him, so she plucked a strand of her golden hair and gave it to the man. He took the golden strands and headed straight for the marketplace. He offered the traders the golden hairs in exchange for their goods. The traders mocked him, calling him a madman.

Both the man and the people at the marketplace were not able to weigh the true worth of golden hairs since they were not connected to the scales of their hearts. 

The man grew furious at the merchants’ ridicule. Blinded by rage, at night, he returned to the golden-haired woman’s cabin and strangled her with his own hands. Then he buried her body by the riverbank and pretended as if nothing happened.

For a long time, no one noticed that the woman had disappeared. No one asked after her. But where she had been buried, her golden hair began to curl and stretch above the soil. It grew, knotting and intertwining with itself, until it transformed into a dazzling field of golden reeds.

Shepherds came and cut the curling reeds, carving them into tiny flutes. And when they played these flutes, a song emerged from within:

“The golden-haired woman lies here,

Murdered in her own grave.

The coal merchant’s son took her life,

Yet she only wanted to live.”

Those who heard this song tracked down the man who had taken the golden-haired woman’s life and delivered him to justice. 

From that day on, those who lived in the wild forests of the world felt safe and fair.

Resources:

I sought help from ChatGPT for details about the Kintsugi process.

I first read the tale of the golden-haired woman in Women Who Run with the Wolves by Clarissa Estes. Here is my version of narrating this old folktale.