Part 8, Turkey 2011: Diyarbakir is Burning
Diyarbakir is a metropolis unlike any other I've ever encountered. Regarded as the capital of Kurdistan and spoken of as a dangerous place to be, even by others in Eastern Turkey, it's a place that is at once remarkably homogenous (almost exclusively Kurdish, you would be hard-pressed to find any foreign settlers or tourists here) and yet is culturally fascinating, perhaps for that very fact.
Most striking about Diyarbakir is that it's a place where the Kurds, though heavily repressed in Turkey, have flourished.
(A gentleman in the stately traditional dress of the Kurds)
On any street corner, men can be seen sitting outside cafes having chai or Kurdish coffee, worrying prayer beads in their hands:
Traditional ayran (a salted and fermented goat-milk drink) sellers roam up and down the alleys. ringing bells and dispensing aryan from backpack-like machines:
Alongside them are young boys go from restaurant to restaurant, haggling over prices for the stacks of freshly baked bread they balance atop their heads:
Or sell plums
Or simply pose for photos with their friends (they actually ask you to take their photos here)
Stranger still were the groups of boys who would run in front of you and place analog scales at your feet, demanding a lira for the courtesy of telling you your weight:
(See the scale at their feet?)
In a world where many people cannot afford something so frivolous as a scale, it makes sense, however old or faulty the devices may be.
It's impossible to state how fascinated I was by this city everyone warned us not to visit. It was alive and earthy. People were friendly and curious, pleased to see that Westerners were interested in their beautiful corner of the world. But after visiting I'm amazed that more are not drawn here, the food alone is worth a visit:
(The best baklava you'll ever eat)
(Our Kurdish guide, Remzi, purchasing fresh mulberries for us to share)
(A typical food stand)
And I must admit, although I don't drink coffee, I could not resist when a rare English-speaking man insisted we try Kurdish Coffee. So, after sitting us on low stools around a tiny table and bringing a bonsai out especially for our visual enjoyment, the man served us piping hot cups of black, mud-thick coffee that was indeed delicious:
Nearby, stray cats poked their heads out from behind the neighborhood mosque and Remzi, whose silent-but-gentle ways were rapidly growing on us, purchased some liver to feed the strays that alternately rushed and backed away from us like frightened birds:
After coffee, we ventured ever more into the heart of the city, and it was here that wonder took a turn for despair. Granted, there is no shortage of beggars in Eastern Turkey, they sit on the street with hands outstretched, grateful for any food or lira that come their way:
(note the traditional tattoos on her wrists)
But here, on this street corner in Diyarbakir, I encountered something I had never seen before, a land-mine victim. He wore the elegant three-piece suit of the Kurds, with one sleeve and one pant leg tacked up on account of his missing limbs. Gone were his eyelids, nose, and lips -- leaving exposed teeth and the outline of his skull covered in stretched and scarred flesh. As soon as I saw him I wanted to weep. But instead I knelt down, took his outstretched hand in mine and laid a 10 lira note. I looked into his face and smiled because I didn't know what to say, and I surely didn't want him to feel less than human. He murmured thanks and praise to God in Kurdish and Arabic, and I hurried to catch up with Sean and the guide, fighting the sob that welled up in my throat.
I will never forget that man nor will I ever stop wondering what his story was. Our guide said his injuries were, sadly, most likely the result of land mines laid by people who remained unnamed. It would have been illegal to name the likely culprits and he knew that. Just as do 500 journalists currently imprisoned in Turkey. Here, silence is often born of necessity as much as it is of an ingrained culture of oppression.
Despite grim reminders of the struggles endured by people here, there are many reasons for those here to be proud. From their intricate basalt mosques where men stand at the door to rub myrrh oil on your wrists:
and the overgrown ruins of ancient churches nearby:
And the glorious, medieval Caravansarai (free lodging for camels and traders on the Silk Road) where we stayed:
(Our room with its characteristic low door)
(A view of the courtyard from outside our room)
To, most spectacular of all, the towering black basalt walls which surround the city.
Built around 1,900 years ago, these walls are the second largest in the world after the Great Wall of China and can, like it, be viewed from space. Once made to guard the city, now they act as a place to stroll about and explore within:
(note the center grate window)
(This is what was inside that grate window)
Leaving the walls, we made an obligatory detour to one of Mustafa Kemal Ataturk's (the founder of the modern Turkish Republic) homes.
(I think he's watching me)
Set upon the fabled sister to the Euphrates, the Tigris River:
The home is the very picture of fine, modern Turkish living. Modest compared to the Ottomans, the home more than makes up for it in stone-faced patriotism, witness, for example, Ataturk's bed:
And the eerie, stoic photograph above it which features Ataturk and presumed female relatives:
Fortunately, in Turkey there's always someone around to lighten the mood whenever things get too serious. On this day, it was this lovely woman:
She spoke all of 5 words in English, but boy was she thrilled to meet us. Somehow she conveyed that her brother lives in Charlotte,NC, and that she "loved" us, embracing us repeatedly and laughing and smiling in an especially infectious manner.
The day that had taken a dreary turn before suddenly appeared bright and optimistic once more. But as we drove back into the town, the sun began to set and clouds settled in and brought rain which poured down on us. Ataturk cast his long shadow over this city of the Kurds
Jandarma prowled the streets in armored cars, children rushed for shelter lest their loaves of bread become soggy, and somewhere in the street a man with little left to lose sought to keep his head dry. And we never talked about any of it. We settled in with our cups of chai and talked religion with Remzi instead, a far less controversial topic.
The next day, after we left, the silence would break on the city streets:
(Photo Orig. Courtesy Al Jazeera via CoolPix)
(Photo Orig. Courtesy Al Jazeera via CoolPix)
(Photo Orid. Courtesy Al Jazeera via CoolPix)
Most striking about Diyarbakir is that it's a place where the Kurds, though heavily repressed in Turkey, have flourished.
(A gentleman in the stately traditional dress of the Kurds)
On any street corner, men can be seen sitting outside cafes having chai or Kurdish coffee, worrying prayer beads in their hands:
Traditional ayran (a salted and fermented goat-milk drink) sellers roam up and down the alleys. ringing bells and dispensing aryan from backpack-like machines:
Alongside them are young boys go from restaurant to restaurant, haggling over prices for the stacks of freshly baked bread they balance atop their heads:
Or sell plums
Or simply pose for photos with their friends (they actually ask you to take their photos here)
Stranger still were the groups of boys who would run in front of you and place analog scales at your feet, demanding a lira for the courtesy of telling you your weight:
(See the scale at their feet?)
In a world where many people cannot afford something so frivolous as a scale, it makes sense, however old or faulty the devices may be.
It's impossible to state how fascinated I was by this city everyone warned us not to visit. It was alive and earthy. People were friendly and curious, pleased to see that Westerners were interested in their beautiful corner of the world. But after visiting I'm amazed that more are not drawn here, the food alone is worth a visit:
(The best baklava you'll ever eat)
(Our Kurdish guide, Remzi, purchasing fresh mulberries for us to share)
(A typical food stand)
And I must admit, although I don't drink coffee, I could not resist when a rare English-speaking man insisted we try Kurdish Coffee. So, after sitting us on low stools around a tiny table and bringing a bonsai out especially for our visual enjoyment, the man served us piping hot cups of black, mud-thick coffee that was indeed delicious:
Nearby, stray cats poked their heads out from behind the neighborhood mosque and Remzi, whose silent-but-gentle ways were rapidly growing on us, purchased some liver to feed the strays that alternately rushed and backed away from us like frightened birds:
After coffee, we ventured ever more into the heart of the city, and it was here that wonder took a turn for despair. Granted, there is no shortage of beggars in Eastern Turkey, they sit on the street with hands outstretched, grateful for any food or lira that come their way:
(note the traditional tattoos on her wrists)
But here, on this street corner in Diyarbakir, I encountered something I had never seen before, a land-mine victim. He wore the elegant three-piece suit of the Kurds, with one sleeve and one pant leg tacked up on account of his missing limbs. Gone were his eyelids, nose, and lips -- leaving exposed teeth and the outline of his skull covered in stretched and scarred flesh. As soon as I saw him I wanted to weep. But instead I knelt down, took his outstretched hand in mine and laid a 10 lira note. I looked into his face and smiled because I didn't know what to say, and I surely didn't want him to feel less than human. He murmured thanks and praise to God in Kurdish and Arabic, and I hurried to catch up with Sean and the guide, fighting the sob that welled up in my throat.
I will never forget that man nor will I ever stop wondering what his story was. Our guide said his injuries were, sadly, most likely the result of land mines laid by people who remained unnamed. It would have been illegal to name the likely culprits and he knew that. Just as do 500 journalists currently imprisoned in Turkey. Here, silence is often born of necessity as much as it is of an ingrained culture of oppression.
Despite grim reminders of the struggles endured by people here, there are many reasons for those here to be proud. From their intricate basalt mosques where men stand at the door to rub myrrh oil on your wrists:
and the overgrown ruins of ancient churches nearby:
And the glorious, medieval Caravansarai (free lodging for camels and traders on the Silk Road) where we stayed:
(Our room with its characteristic low door)
(A view of the courtyard from outside our room)
To, most spectacular of all, the towering black basalt walls which surround the city.
Built around 1,900 years ago, these walls are the second largest in the world after the Great Wall of China and can, like it, be viewed from space. Once made to guard the city, now they act as a place to stroll about and explore within:
(note the center grate window)
(This is what was inside that grate window)
Leaving the walls, we made an obligatory detour to one of Mustafa Kemal Ataturk's (the founder of the modern Turkish Republic) homes.
(I think he's watching me)
Set upon the fabled sister to the Euphrates, the Tigris River:
The home is the very picture of fine, modern Turkish living. Modest compared to the Ottomans, the home more than makes up for it in stone-faced patriotism, witness, for example, Ataturk's bed:
And the eerie, stoic photograph above it which features Ataturk and presumed female relatives:
Fortunately, in Turkey there's always someone around to lighten the mood whenever things get too serious. On this day, it was this lovely woman:
She spoke all of 5 words in English, but boy was she thrilled to meet us. Somehow she conveyed that her brother lives in Charlotte,NC, and that she "loved" us, embracing us repeatedly and laughing and smiling in an especially infectious manner.
The day that had taken a dreary turn before suddenly appeared bright and optimistic once more. But as we drove back into the town, the sun began to set and clouds settled in and brought rain which poured down on us. Ataturk cast his long shadow over this city of the Kurds
Jandarma prowled the streets in armored cars, children rushed for shelter lest their loaves of bread become soggy, and somewhere in the street a man with little left to lose sought to keep his head dry. And we never talked about any of it. We settled in with our cups of chai and talked religion with Remzi instead, a far less controversial topic.
The next day, after we left, the silence would break on the city streets:
(Photo Orig. Courtesy Al Jazeera via CoolPix)
(Photo Orig. Courtesy Al Jazeera via CoolPix)
(Photo Orid. Courtesy Al Jazeera via CoolPix)