Nilin Brings Down the Wall

Thanks, Joe DeRaymond

Joe DeRaymond sharing a sunset with Ivan and Perrucho in La Union, 2003

I'm sitting in a little Damascene cafe, preparing for my Monday morning presentation on International Humanitarian Law and its relevance in today's world, sipping a slightly bitter lemon juice. Usually I come here with my friends to play chess or smoke the sheesha or just chat after school, when the place is bustling with students, writers, idiots and thinkers. Now, on a Friday morning, it's quiet and calm.

Actually, I wish it were a little busier right now. I suddenly feel drained of energy and there's a whirling pit in my stomach which makes me feel a little dizzy and off-balance. I just learned that Joe DeRaymond, a solid, long-time revolutionary and my former FOR companion in San José de Apartadó (Colombia), has passed away after a long struggle with brain cancer.

It wasn't just Joe's massive physical presence that impacted you (I remember all the donkeys were too small in San José to carry Joe 2 hours up to La Union, so despite his leg pains, he'd bow his head and quietly trudge up the mountain), it was also his intellectual capacity and ability to empathize with oppressed people everywhere. He gave everything to the struggle.

I was a crazy 21-year old eager to run up the mountain and swing a machete and be crazy, and he was a cured fighter, quietly whittling away at discarded pieces of wood with his pocketknife and fashioning them into little figures which he would set on his windowsill, or give to people who stopped by the old school where he slept. I remember one time, I came to that windowsill and watched him carve and he slipped and cut his finger. He roared a profanity that scared the shit out of me and everyone in a 2 mountain range-radius, but later continued his work. He was funny.

Don Ramon one time came up to us and told us that he was constipated and couldn't seem to expel anything. Joe, the medic, had some raisin and told him to eat it. The next day, Ramon came back, visibly relieved, and we all shared a hearty laugh.

Joe, also an amazing writer, wrote a paper last year after coming back from El Salvador, when he first learned of his brain cancer. Perhaps he risked his own life by reporting on atrocities and injustices committed against others.

Thanks, Joe, for everything you did and for being a regular hero and a comrade. We'll miss you.

P.S. FOR (Fellowship of Reconciliation), the group Joe and I worked with for a year in Colombia, is currently going through a process of independentization and they need your help. They are still doing some awesome work in San José, accompanying the Peace Community, but have also extended their solidarity to other groups in Colombia. If you are able and willing to donate a few dollars to their awesome project, click http://www.forcolombia.org/ for more information, or contact Liza Smith at liza@igc.org.

Al-Quneiytra

I got my permit to go to Al-Quneiytra, the Syrian city at the entrance of the Golan Heights, and this morning set off on my little yellow bike, southwards along the Eastern Lebanon Mountain Range (or, according to the "Western" name, the "Anti-Lebanon Mountain Range"... hmm, that's not political at all), past olive fields and apple orchards. As you get closer to the Golan, the breeze gets cooler and carries the smell of pine. It's a refreshing change from the gridlock and grime of Damascus.

Today was also the Muslim holiday of Eid Al-Fitr, marking the end of Ramadan. I suppose people celebrate that not only by eating and congratulating each other, but actually giving plastic guns to their young sons. So all along the road I was being shot at by hordes of little brats. One of them actually gave me a welt on my belly... what the hell happened to Legos? Maybe those were the "arms sales" the Russia recently announced to Syria. I think the Syrians should be wary of those Russian arms; the last time they used them, they lost the Golan.

I left home at 6am, and 4 hours, 40 miles, one flat tire, one shwarma, two nasty Spam sandwiches and one cucumber later, I found myself in the Liberated City. It's pretty liberated: no one is living there, except for the few secret police who accompanied me around the city, showing me the ruins of houses, hospitals and churches the Israelis left behind as they retreated. From the third floor of the bombed-out, bullet-ridden hospital (one guard takes his position on the second floor which must be really boring), you can see the mountains of the occupied Golan Heights, with a huge Israeli surveillance base watching us.

After a few jokes, my police companions lighten up, and the officer tells his subordinate to ride my bike and he offers to take me around on his motorcycle. For a second, I think about equality and comraderie, but then quickly brush that thought out of my mind and happily jump on the motorcycle. We go past more houses, mined-areas and generally depressing scenes from a city that once was home to some 16,000 people, according to Officer "Can't-Tell-You-My-Name". When I ask him about peace with Israel, he candidly admits, "In Sha Allah". He catches me off-guard when he says that Syria would be willing to share the precious water of Lake Tiberias with the Israelis, but says that Israel doesn't want that, and I think he might be right. The Golan Heights is one of the more fertile areas of Syria, and now of Israel, and an important source of water in the region. The Golan Heights have also entered the realm of cyber-war recently, with Facebook allowing their users in the occupied territories to choose between describing their location as "Israel or Syria".

The most recent international efforts to return the occupied territory to the Syrians were interrupted when Syria unilaterally ended them in protest of last December's Israeli-massacre of Gazans. Obama's recent efforts have failed to produce anything, so for now, it seems that Al-Quneiytra will remain a ghost town, frequented by a few crazy gringos on yellow bikes.

My New Bike

So I finally bought a bike at a used (or stolen) bike street-fair (if you’re interested, held ever Friday in Zublatani). Most of the bikes are vegetable sellers’ bikes, and I was told that it is embarrassing to be seen riding one of those to the university unless you are delivering vegetables to the severely-understocked school cafeteria. And I would never dare to be seen as a vegetable seller. I already look strange enough with this weird hole that suddenly appeared in my beard. Does anyone know what to do? People told me to rub lemon and garlic on it (sounds lovely); if I were in Colombia, some campesino would tell me to put a freshly-laid egg on it, or even to rub some fresh horse shit into it. Oh! Why can’t I have Ben Bernanke’s lush recession-proof beard??

My bike is a nice, blinding yellow, indistinguishable between the yellow taxis zipping past me at 120 kph (that’s kilometers per hour, not Kansas Public Housing), and I actually enjoy surviving the 10-minute trip to university that I make every day. Past the pictures of Bashar in uniform, the pictures of Bashar amidst flowers, Bashar smiling. Why can’t they put up a picture of Asma, the first lady? Apart from sounding like a respiratory illness, she’s quite attractive and it would make my trip better. Actually, there are posters of Nasrallah, the cherubic Hezbollah leader, smiling at me from all the alley walls of my neighborhood. He looks almost as cute as Asma.

And I went to the permits office today to register for a permit to go to Qunaitrah, the city in the Golan Heights. Most Syrians can’t go there, but it seems to be easier for foreigners, I suppose because they want to show how Israel left the city. I thought it was pretty amusing when the official asked me, very seriously: “So you want to see the liberated city?” I asked, “You mean Qunaiytrah.” “Yes, the liberated city.” I wanted to say yes, I want to see the city that you Syrians had so bravely wrestled from Satan’s claws, but I second-guessed my sarcasm. Actually, historical check: I’m pretty sure it was through negotiations that they got that city back... anyone know?

If I get the permit, I will try to bike to the Golan Heights and let you all know how interesting or not it is. Actually, my housemate (who is still sleepy, but talks more now), has relayed to me - over several evening tea breaks - that he was a veteran of the 1973 “Yom Kippur” War (when Eygpt and Syria tried to take back the Sinai and the Golan, respectively). He has the shrapnel wounds to prove it. Apparently, he was on the front lines of this bloody conflict (that left some 10,000 dead in roughly two weeks), entered 5 km into Israeli territory, and he pointed out to me that when he took some Israelis captive, the first thing he did (after taking away their weapons) was to give them some of his army rations. That was a nice last meal. (Just kidding.)

Other than that, some of us took a trip to a small village outside of Damascus to go to a Greek Orthodox festival. It was quite fun, and interesting. It’s a small town with a majority Christian population. (In spite of the fact that the Orthodoxes - or is it Orthodoxi? - had littered the surrounding hills with hundreds of lit-up crosses, some wise guy decided to build a mosque right in the middle of town.) The festival got a little strange, however, when someone lit a cross on fire. Not sure if that was intended, but I felt a little strange. I got really anxious when I saw people dressed in robes, but then relaxed a little when I realized they were just nuns. Or were they penguins...? hmmm...

And my pops is visiting me in October. If any of you speak to him, convince him not to bring over those books I told him too, because they will probably cause me to be stranded on the Palestinian-Jordanian border, arguing with some 20-year-old budding fascist, and that would really blow.

That’s the news from out here. Wish me luck on my midterms and on my bike ride!

PS. I finally uploaded the video of the Kurdish dancers. You can check it out here.

First Day of Class

Sorry I haven't written, things here aren't nearly exciting as rebellious mountain dancing in the Turkish Southeast. By the way, I have been meaning to put up a video of this incredible Kurdish dance group, but everytime I spend an hour uploading it, at the end it says error. So until I can show you all the video, here is another one that is equally interesting.



Other than that, I started my first day of class today at the University of Damascus. It's ok so far, we'll see how it goes. I have a new roommate, a middle-aged Syrian man who is really nice and teaches me Syrian Arabic, but seems to sleep a lot. Maybe talking to me makes him tired.

Ok, that's it for now. Everything good. In Iraq, I guess things seem to be heating up between the Kurds and the Arabs, over Kirkuk's oil. And Iraq and Syria are having a little fight. US bombing Afghans and Pakistanis. Everything normal.

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.

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.