Saturday, August 22, 2009

Back again!

I had used a few proxy servers to get on to Blogger, but they didn't work, finally I found a good one. Proxyblind.com. So, I'll put up my last Wordpress entry here, too.

hey everyone,
hanging out with some Kurdish fellows in the town of Nusaybin, and we were waiting for a protest to erupt against Turkish occupation. All the businesses were closed in solidarity, and I couldn't find any doner to eat, so they brought some cheese and olives for me from their houses.

As I crossed the border, I waved back to my new friends and said "Long Live Kurdistan", in Kurdish, to which the Turkish borders guards, already red from the near 45-degree temperatures (that's Celsius, guys), got even redder. Haha.

After about an hour of questions, all laughing though, I was allowed into Syria. In the town of Al-Qamishli, a mostly Kurdish town, I hung out with some more Kurds that go to Damascus University.

(Now the real depressing part, sorry that was just a prelude, a teaser.)

It was actually pretty depressing, because they were telling me how the Syrian government treats the Kurds (the same as the Turks). The only difference is that the Kurds can't really have a armed rebellion because in that area it is mostly desert (not much place to hide), and also Bashar's daddy, Hafez, taught everyone a lesson, when at the beginning of the 1980's, he squashed an Islamist uprising in the town of Hama by razing an entire section of the city with bombs. Result: a few thousand dead, and everyone knew who was the boss.

I saw how the police come by, and just to mess with people, take their bikes or whatever and say that they are in offense, and make them pay a fine. They came up to my Kurdish guests shoe stall and tried to say that suddenly they were in violation for something. Everything was settled with approximately 0.75 cents and a pat on the back. (That's a large sum considering a shoe salesman's worker makes about $3 a day). Corrupt as hell. They tried to come after me for something, but when I started speaking Arabic and said that I was Obama's long-haired brother, they gave sheepish grins and said "Welcome!"

Damascus is big. It's a tad cooler than Cairo, putting it around 110 degrees (that's Faranheit, guys). I'm trying to figure out how to find an apartment and get ready for school registration. I think that should be exciting.

So we'll see how this Syrian sojourn goes. If I end up pooping on a police car and going to jail, you guys will start a campaign to free me, right?

Oh, one thing, about militarism in the Arab world. It sucks and is really depressing. Check out this great article by one of those "backpackers" who was recently arrested in Iran after crossing from Iraq. http://www.thenation.com/doc/20090622/bauer. It's too bad that the empire and the rest of the world props up these guys to suit their own ends. Oh wait, that's the same story in Latin America, Africa, Asia and any non-Westernized country, right? I keep forgetting that and get all these romantic delusions. Damn.

And I promise that I won't try growing another Bashar-like moustache.

Monday, August 17, 2009

Among the "Children of the Sun"

Bigee Kurdistan! Viva Kurdistan!

I'm writing from the city of Hakkari, population 200,000, close to the border with Iran and Iraq. These past few days have been a mixture of awe, hope, sadness and revolutionary energy. But that is why I came to Kurdistan in the first place, to understand and feel those emotions.

I had read in the newspaper that Abdullah Ocalan ("Apo"), the PKK's jailed leader, would announce the rebels' peace plan on August 15th, coinciding with the 25th anniversary of the PKK's first armed action. It would be held in the same town that witnessed the start of this bloody war, a small town called Eruh, in the Şirnak province. (Eruh, by the way, is the Turkish name. Dihe is the Kurdish name. As part of the Turkish nationalism and subsequent intent to disappear the Kurdish people, all town and city names were changed to Turkish). What I thought would be a simple reading of the peace plan, with possibly some celebrations, was actually a cultural and political reinvindication on a massive scale: some 20,000+ Kurds from all over the country flocked to this tiny town, dancing up a dust cloud, chanting PKK slogans, and in general, feeling proud to be Kurdish.

Parliamentarians from the pro-Kurdish DTP party were present alongside women, men, elders, children, all flashing the "V" sign and calling for peace. The DTP party is undergoing a Batasuna-type persecution, as the Turkish government is considering banning them for alleged links to the PKK. Links to the PKK? They would have to try all 20,000 people attending the festival, because everyone I talked to and danced with were consumed by the PKK. Some elder women and men with whom I talked told me that they, too, had served in the Kurdish army. It was in the dances, the songs, the womens' ululations; it was in the air, in the dust, and even in the mountains, as at night, the seemingly elusive guerrillas defied the Turkish extra-security measures (tanks, army, riot squads, you name it) and from the mountain sides, lit fires that spelled out "Apo" and "PKK". It was surreal.

(As for criminalizing the DTP, Turkey should learn a good lesson from Colombia's civil war, when the government's politicide of the Patriotic Union forced many people back into the mountains.)

Apparently I was the only foreigner there, and people were either welcoming, curious or oblivious, but mostly the first two. I was put through impromptu intensive Kurdish-language courses and taught how to dance by linking pinky fingers and putting your whole heart and soul into it.

The guns in the mountains were silent that day, although the rest of my journey showed me that Kurdistan is a region under absolute and complete military occupation. On the road from Şirnak to Hakkari, there is a checkpoint almost every 10km, making the already torturous drive (everyone was puking from the winding roads) that much more horrible. Tanks and APCs line the highway. Almost every village along the road has a military base (the Turkish armed forces number some 1,000,000+, making it the secong largest armed forces in NATO after the US. If you figure the Turkish population is roughly 75 million, that makes 1 in 75 people...), and if there are no soldiers, you most likely catch sight of Kurdish men armed with AK-47s: the village guards. In Colombia, they are called paramilitaries or "Convivir", but other than that there is no difference. In exchange for near total impunity, the village guards are fully equipped and sent out to defend against PKK attacks. A massacre in May of this year by village guards at a wedding has not affected their utilization by the Turkish army.

On one bus trip, a pretty burly Kurd sat next to me, and after determining that I posed no threat, pulled out his mobile phone and showed me a video. It showed a dead Kurdish fighter on the road, his tongue having been cut out by the Turkish public forces before he was killed.

In Beytuşşebap, I was questioned as to why I was in this area. Aren't I afraid? Do I know the PKK? It reminded me all of Colombia. I could see the policeman (many of them dress as civilians) struggling to try to make a connection with the PKK. When I said that my parents were from Sri Lanka, I knew he was remembering the LTTE from his intelligence training; in Eruh, a few people asked if I knew Prabhakaran!

One police officer asked me if I liked this area, to which I replied that it was beautiful. He seemed sincere when he retorted "You think this SHIT is beautiful? It's nothing but rock!" I could only imagine what he thought of Kurds.

That night, in
Beytuşşebap, I met some friends of a friend who took me to a traditional pre-wedding ceremony. Some of the songs brazenly sung support of Apo. I had a lot of questions I wanted to ask, but the party, my hosts' barrage of questions to me and my own tiredness prevented me from asking about the divisions between the pro- and anti-PKK Kurds, about how their friends felt on their last night before entering the Turkish army (practically forced conscription of 15 months), what they thought about government efforts to pump money into Kurdistan in an attempt to buy their Turkish-ness, etc.

It's been an amazing time. Hope to keep you all updated on more stuff. Oh and by the way, Ocalan's peace map wasn't revealed after all on the 15th, because apparently it wasn't ready. Should be out by the 19th. The far-right MHP party and the CHP are already opposing the PKK plan as well as the ruling AKP's plan for the "Kurdish problem" saying that it goes against Kemalist (Ataturkist) notions of Turkish unity. So 2009 may see the end of the conflict, or once againg simply a lull in fighting. We'll see...

Pictures from Kurdistan, click here.



Thursday, August 13, 2009

From Kurdistan, with love

Checking in from the capital of Turkish Kurdistan (oh yeah, I said the K-word... and it wasn't Ataturk backwards), Diyarbakir, a pretty crowded and intense city on the banks of the Tigris River (I also crossed the Euphrates today, too!). It's a city with history: inside the old-walled city, there are Syriac Orthodox churches and Armenian churches. It's also a city under seige: just take a walk past the main police station (a few blocks from one of Turkey's oldest mosques, the Ulu Camii) and you can't miss the helmeted troops hunkered down in APC's, machine-gunned turrets swiveling back and forth. It's like Saravena or Barrancabermeja when the Colombian army started to take over those towns.

People strongly identify as Kurdish, and go wild whenever I say thank you in their language. I'm hoping to do a little more looking around this land before heading south into Syria. On August 15th, Ocalan, the PKK's imprisioned leader, is set to announce his "Roadmap to Peace", and if all goes according to plans, it will be read from Eruh, a tiny town not far from here where the first military action of the PKK against the Turkish state took place on August 15th, 1984. I hope to make it there.

This week, a famous Kurdish singer, Aram Tigran, died. He always said that the Turks, Kurds, Armenians and Arabs were brothers and sung in all those languages. He was much loved by the Kurds and his final wish was to be buried here in Diyarbakir. Unfortunately, the Turkish interior minister denied his burial here, and so yesterday he was buried in Brussels. This followed on the tail of a report of police in the western-city of Izmir banned the performance of
the play "Araf", about the murder of Kurdish journalist Musa Anter in 1992 in Diyarbakir.

On a rebellious note, last night as I was sitting around reading and watching a meteor shower over Mt. Nemrut, a young Kurdish guy who worked at the hotel walked past me humming "Bella Ciao". I had a fantasy that it was a secret password among comrades that I had inadvertently stumbled into. And when I asked a metal worker who picked me up on the way down the mountain about peace in Kurdistan, he said something in Kurdish, said PKK and flashed me what I thought was a subversive smile.

Anyways, on a realist note, check out this article about mothers of Turkish soldiers and PKK fighters coming together to say no more war. Another article here.

Update: Actually, singing Bella Ciao doesn't necessarily mean that one is PKK. Apparently, the PKK is more tuned into Kurdish music. So I'm not sure why the kid was humming Bella Ciao... sorry.

Saturday, August 1, 2009

New Pics from Turkey and Cyprus up


Check them out here!

You won't see pictures of the Imperial Treasury of the Topkapı Palace, because we weren't allowed to take pictures, but it was the craziest set of treasure I have ever seen. Lots of diamonds, rubies, gold, emeralds as well as the famous Topkapı Dagger, which was to be given to the Pasha of Iran from the Ottomans, but he died before they could get it to him. So they decided to keep it. (They were probably like, "phew! we really didn't want to give this away!")

There was also an amazing collection of religious artifacts, like Moses' stick (the one that Charlton Heston threw on the ground, dumbass), the footprint of Mohammed when he ascended to heaven, Mohammed's beard (!), and I think what was supposed to be St. John's arm. That was some weird shit, it was still in it's armor, but you could see the mummified hand inside.

The treasury just showed the opulence of the Ottoman empire, which someone still resonates today. Everything seems elegant here. I love just sitting by the Bosphorous and watching the people drink tea and enjoying themselves. (Yeah, I just sit for hours and pick a group of people to stare at until they get uncomfortable). People are so chill and inviting. The weather is great (oh by the way, I felt my first rain in 4 months last night!).

Also, down south, we visited the Greco-Roman ruins of the city of Ephesus, which was pretty cool, too. The Artemis Temple, one of the seven wonders of the world, wasn't there anymore.

I moved into a sweeeet apartment, a block from the Galata tower. From the living room you can see the Blue Mosque, the Hagia Sofia and the Topkapı Palace... and an amazing rooftop terrace. I'll be doing some reading and hopefully relaxing for 10 days here before moving on. I'm reading this great book called Wizard of the Crow by Kenyan Ngugi Wa Thiong'o. I should be reading about Turkey, though.

Enjoy the pics!

P.S. Oh, Youtube is blocked here, because of some online fight between Greeks and Turks, where the Greeks insulted Atatürk (a crime in Turkey). No more videos of labiaplasty and scrotum reduction, sorry guys.

P.P.S. They also blocked my cell phone, so for all of you who never call me, now you have a real excuse. (Apparently, you can't use a foreign cell phone with a local SIM card.)