Turkey – The Country

The country where the Simpsons meet medievalism. In Turkey you can buy designer clothes, have a Burger King double Whopper, sunbathe on beautiful beaches, stroll around the backstreets of Istanbul, hit the night clubs, wax up the Mastercard and tune into CNN. That’s the nice part-and there’s a lot of it. Alternatively, you can get yourself kidnapped by Kurdish rebels, meet people who would make Ayatollah Khomeini look like a moderate or be in the wrong place at the wrong time when one of Turkey’s numerous terrorist groups decides to liven up the place with a little car bomb. Yes, Britain is not the only country where shopping can be fun.

The modern Turkish state was founded by Mustafa Kemal Ataturk in 1923. Turkey has a strictly secular constitution, partially modeled on the French constitution. Turkey is a country where you’ll see girls in mini-skirts, hear the latest pop music and be able to drink yourself under the counter without anyone raising an eyebrow. Well, not much anyway. Try and bring in a bit of hash, though, and you are in deep sh*t. Bear in mind that the only people allowed to bring dope or heroin into Turkey are authorized mafia members, who pay the right people to turn both blind eyes and keep their heads firmly in the sand. You probably don’t qualify as the former, so don’t bother. Unless, that is, you want to spend a bit time in one of Turkey’s prisons.

DP has been in the slammer in Turkey and can reliably inform you that a Turkish prison is not a cool place to hang out in. (Turkey’s prisons are just one of many prisons DP has invariably been invited to stay in over the years.) But take consolation in the fact that if you are planning a career in terrorism, Turkish prisons are an excellent training ground. You will be joining a large number of Turks and Kurds who have been caught chucking bombs around the place and machine-gunning policemen. Strategically placed between the West and the East, Turkey is host to the U.S. Incirlik air base near Adana, which is periodically used to blast neighboring Saddam whenever he starts getting any ideas. The CIA has numerous listening posts in Turkey, which are used to spy on Russia and Syria, and anyone else un-U.S. friendly, for that matter.

If you head to the east, though, you won’t be finding much in the way of nightlife. Helicopter gunships and large numbers of troops are the most likely things and people you will see and meet. Why? Because there is something of a problem in the east. Well, actually there is war. The Kurdistan Workers’ Party (PKK) has led a 15-year insurgency for Kurdish autonomy in the southeast. Most of the southeast is inhabited by ethnic Kurds.

If you want to see trashed villages-there are lots of them-young men in jeans with AK-47s manning checkpoints, who will probably ask you lots of questions, then head off to the east. If you’re silly enough to travel at night, you might even get yourself kidnapped by the PKK.

So what’s all this PKK palaver? Well, for a long time the Kurdish language was banned. Turkey even refused to admit that there were any Kurds in Turkey (Kurds number 12 million out of Turkey’s 60 million population). Instead they were referred to as “Mountain Turks” and viewed as slightly retarded boys from the backwoods. Kurdish revolts in the 1920s and ’30s were crushed with the usual mass executions and burned villages. Turkey feared that recognizing Kurdish rights would encourage Kurdish nationalism and possibly cause the breakup of the country. But by not recognizing Kurdish rights, they got the PKK instead, which represents the most pissed-off bunch of Kurds you can find.

The PKK is probably the most organized and effective of all the Kurdish groups. It has a large support network in Europe amongst the Kurdish community there, and raises much of its funds in Europe. The PKK is also the most radical of all the Kurdish groups. Adopting a Marxist-Leninist ideology and demanding an independent Kurdish state carved from Turkey, Iran, Iraq and Syria, the PKK began its war in 1984 (See Kurdistan). In the early years of its rebellion, the PKK was also the most violent of all the Kurdish groups.

The PKK has repeatedly killed teachers in the southeast, claiming they imposed Turkish culture on Kurds, as it is illegal to have any education in Kurdish. Kurds who sided with the state and were armed by the military really got it in the neck from the PKK. Sometimes they and their entire families were killed. Nasty stuff. Things began to get out of hand; and in 1987 emergency rule was introduced in 11 provinces in the southeast. The nasty stuff was equalled by the Turkish military, who torched thousands of Kurdish villages, sending thousands more boys and girls to the ranks of the PKK, who by 1991 were turning recruits back and telling them to wait.

Death squads were unleashed in the southeast, and thousands of Kurdish nationalists began to disappear, only to reappear on roadsides with bullet holes in their heads. Suspicion fell on the police. The number of Kurds entering police stations in perfect health, only to fall down the stairs, stub cigarettes out on themselves, try and plug into the electricity mains manually or jump out of windows rose dramatically.

As the PKK reached its zenith between 1991-1993 things really went haywire. The PKK were taking on the Turkish military in pitched battles, taking out big military camps and generally getting way out of control, even attempting to take sizeable towns such as Sirnak in 1992. Turkey’s generals began to get very nervous indeed. A massive military crackdown, burning lots more villages and killing more people ensued. So, how many people have been whacked in this war so far? I hear you ask. Well, to date and by official Turkish government figures 37,000 people have been offed. And the real number is probably higher. In the nine-year period between 1987 and March 1996 the government figures that it knocked off about 10,663 terrorists while they only lost 3,400. Oh yeah, about 3,938 civilians got aced in the cross-fire and about 3,000 villages (give or take a few) have been razed to the ground by the Turkish army.

Is that a Grenade in Your Pocket or Are You just Happy to See Me?

Most of the PKK (and now the YAJK) suicide bombers are young women in their 20s. Often they prematurely detonate themselves when stopped at police checkpoints on their way to military barracks or police stations. Often the women carry grenades and explosives hidden under their jackets.

As for whether tourists should worry Abdullah Ocalan’s brother, Osman Ocalan said that every Kurd will be a “living bomb” and “our people must make life an inferno for the Turkish state.” And then, in Stern magazine, he said that there would be no harm to tourists who visit Turkey. Go figure.

In the mid-1990s the PKK went through a kind of glasnost, removing the hammer and sickle from its flag and tuning down its demands to Kurdish autonomy inside Turkey. The Turkish military were not impressed. So, the PKK said “ya boo sucks to you” and began to target the tourist industry for additional fun and games. At US$7 billion a year the tourist industry raises almost as much as the PKK war costs. Bear that in mind the next time you stop off in Turkey or look at posters of those sunny beaches. In 1993, there were seven attacks against tourist facilities by the PKK, injuring 27 tourists. The PKK also kidnapped 19 foreigners (one American) in southeastern Turkey. That same summer, a series of bomb attacks in Antalya wounded 26 persons; in Istanbul, a grenade was thrown under a tour bus, injuring eight persons, and a bomb was thrown at a group of tourists as they were sightseeing around the city walls, resulting in six injuries. A hand grenade was found buried on a beach southeast of Izmir, and there were reports of similar incidents in other areas along the west coast. In 1994, the attacks continued, PKK bomb attacks were conducted on some of Istanbul’s most popular tourist attractions, including St. Sophia and the covered Bazaar, resulting in the deaths of two foreign tourists.

The PKK’s head honcho is Abdullah Ocalan, aka Apo. Apo used to live in Syria; he now lives in jail, for now. He moved back to Turkey in February 1999, taking the plane directly from Nairobi, Kenya. He even got the flight for free. And he was helped to Turkey by some nice men from Turkish intelligence who had thoughtfully drugged him for the flight, just so he didn’t get airsick or anything like that. Apo has since been given an island all to himself, just off the coast from Istanbul, and the Turkish government generously picks up the tab for his accommodation. He has obviously been treated well and has managed to lose much of his pot belly since his arrival in Turkey. Oh, I almost forget to mention, Apo has also been sentenced to death. The PKK didn’t really appreciate Apo’s rehousing arrangements by the Turkish government. In Europe, 15 Greek embassies in different countries were occupied by PKK supporters, after Greece was accused of helping the Turks capture Ocalan. (Actually it was the United States who played a key role.) In Bonn, Germany, Israeli security guards opened up when Kurds tried to storm the embassy killing three protesters. Across Europe, about 70 men, women and children poured petrol on themselves in protest against Apo’s arrest. Then they got the zippos out. London and Moscow were just two cities where Kurds became part of a new outdoor central heating system. A wave of bomb attacks rocked western Turkey. Suicide bombers blew up themselves-and anyone else they could-in Taksim square in the center of Istanbul. Car bombs also went off near Ankara. The PKK threatened to unleash a whole new bombing campaign in the west of Turkey. As one PKK source told DP, “It’s time to play ball in the Turkish half of the country.” Perhaps it is fortunate that this was an activity that the PKK managed to carry out with staggering incompetence. The more effective car bombs were subcontracted by the PKK to TIKKO, a Turkish Maoist group with slightly better bomb-making technicians. Most of the suicide bombers killed only themselves, mainly injuring passersby. Sounds like they should be off to the Gaza Strip or west Belfast for a few lessons. It was enough, though, to reduce Turkey’s 1999 tourist influx to a rather pathetic trickle in comparison to most years. Approximately 2.5 million people canceled their holidays to Turkey with a loss of US$2 billion. In poor old Apo’s enforced absence from the scene, the PKK established a “Presidential Council” to run the day-to-day business of zapping Turkish soldiers. It comprises ten senior commanders, including Apo’s little brother, Osman Ocalan (see “Kurdistan” chapter). But the PKK say that Apo is still their leader, until-I guess-he takes the big drop.

Then, in August 1999, from his prison cell, Apo announced a cease-fire and a withdrawal of all PKK forces from Turkey. Cynics see this as just another ploy by the fat man to avoid having his neck stretched. And before you ask-no . . . the Turkish government is not wildly impressed by the offer, nor in Apo’s claim that he has a God-ordained mission to solve the Kurdish question in Turkey. The official line in Ankara is that there is no Kurdish question in Turkey, which is about as silly as you get really. Have a nice flight. . . . In 1998 a lone Kurd hijacked a plane flying from Adana to Ankara on the 75th anniversary of Turkey’s founding. Armed with a hand grenade and pistol, he demanded to be flown to first Bulgaria and them Lausanne, Switzerland. The plane landed at Ankara. Turkish security officials pretended to be diplomats from the Turkish embassy in Sofia. The hijacker sounded off about Turkey’s unitary cultural system and denial of Kurdish identity. The security guys strung him along in the cockpit and the special team climbed in the back door . . . and shot the hijacker dead.

More than 80 Turkish journalists, academics and writers have been imprisoned for speaking out on the Kurdish issue. One of the more prominent people to be carted off to the slammer in 1999 was Akin Birdal, head of Turkey’s Human Rights Association (HRA). Birdal has had a rough time as head of the HRA. In 1998, two men walked into his office and shot him six times after the military leaked a report saying he was in the pay of the PKK. The supposed source of this much-vaunted report? Why, none other than that paragon of virtue and reliable info, step forward . . . Semdin Sakik, as “Fingerless Zeki,” the forcibly retired former PKK commander of Tunceli province who was captured in northern Iraq in 1998. Birdal’s most recent crime was to call for dialogue in solving the Kurdish question in the southeast. That got him nine and a half months for “incitement to racial hatred.” After Apo got himself slung in the cop-shop, the Turkish Ministry of Foreign Affairs introduced a new set of literary guidelines to help the Turkish press in its coverage of the PKK and Apo saga. The PKK were to be referred to as a “criminal gang.” Ocalan had to have the prefix “terrorist,” villages that had been torched by the military had in fact been “evacuated,” and Kurds had to be called “Turkish citizens of eastern origin.” Oh, and when Ocalan offered a cease-fire, it had to be described as “a cessation of terrorist activity.” What the government neglected to say was that many, many “Turkish citizens of eastern origin” were hoping that the government would perhaps let them return to their “evacuated villages” and take advantage of the “terrorist Ocalan’s offer of a cessation of terrorist activity.” Generally speaking, though, the Turkish military have got the upper hand these days. Not surprising, given that there are about 350,000 security personnel in the southeast at the moment. Torching about 3-4,000 Kurdish villages has helped. The war has now been pushed deep into the mountains. But the PKK is still hanging in there, and in strongholds like Tunceli still manages to control strategic valleys like Kutu Deresi (Box Valley). On the Turkish terrorist scene, the Turkish Workers and Peasants Liberation Army-what a mouthful!-has been taking over the running from Dev Sol, who appear to be off on holiday these days.

As you can probably guess, TIKKO-as the former is known-is yet another of Turkey’s leftist terrorist groups. And just to be different from the others, they’re Maoist. They set off three car bombs around Ankara and Istanbul in March 1999. Further east, they’ve been busy gunning down civilians in Tunceli province. In September, a TIKKO suicide bomber in Tunceli managed to kill a grand total of one person: himself. TIKKO are not impressed with the PKK’s declaration of a cease-fire. Somewhat sulkily, they’ve decided not to cooperate with the PKK anymore. Terrorism aside, Turkey, you should be aware, is prone to the occasional earthquake. In August 1999, an earthquake in the town of Izmit, near Istanbul, killed 15,486 people in a mere 45 seconds and injured another 24,376 by official statistics. The quake affected six provinces of western Turkey and is estimated to have caused US$10 billion damage to homes and property. Some of the wilder casualty figures given by the media reached 50,000 dead. But the truth is that nobody really knows how many people died and the government ain’t telling if they know. Why did so many people die? Because certain Turkish construction companies didn’t bother building the houses to the standards required under Turkish law, which incidentally are the same building standards as California. In order to make a fast buck and avoid too many overheads the construction companies decided not to bother using too much cement. Whoops! 15,486 people later they’re wondering if it was really such a good idea. Interestingly, houses built by British firm, Balfour Beatty-to the correct standard-received only cracks in the structures, compared to most apartment blocks built by Turkish firms which . . . er . . . collapsed instantly. For the dazed survivors it took a while for any kind of help to come from the government, which also refused aid from Armenia. Eventually, well . . . 24 hours after the quake, the military rocked up to see what could be done. Instead of turning up with picks and shovels, though, they rolled up with M-16s. As one well-known Western hack rather unkindly put it, they’re very good at burning and bombing thousands of Kurdish villages, kidnapping Apo, arranging a show trial, but they can’t organize a soup kitchen! Oh you’re so generous! In the midst of Turkey’s earthquake, Osman Ocalan was interviewed on the pro-PKK Medya TV. The ever-thoughtful (mentally deficient?) Osman said that the quake proved Turkey’s military could only destroy, rather than build. He offered to send PKK guerrillas to the earthquake zone to help find victims and rebuild the area as a gesture of goodwill between Turks and Kurds. I mean, what is this guy on?! It seems that like Big Brother, Osman is very good at talking a lot of BS. Either that or the man should be certified. Talk about the kettle calling the pot black! So, you know about terrorism, bombing and earthquakes in Turkey.

D’you wanna know what’s really dangerous? DP can now tell you that both terrorists and earthquakes pale into the background when it comes to traveling around in Turkey. Yes, you are in more danger on Turkey’s roads than anywhere else. It’s a sad reflection on the competence of Turkey’s terrorist groups that you are probably in more danger on the road than from them. Turkey has the worst road accident record in the whole of Europe. In 1997, approximately 5,000 people died on Turkey’s 61,350 kilometers of roads. There are 15 times more deaths from road accidents in Turkey than in Great Britain, and twice as many as Spain, which has twice the amount of traffic. Public holidays are usually the worst time to go for a drive in Turkey. Between April 3 and April 11, 1998, 164 people were killed and 317 people were injured in traffic accidents as the Turkish populace left the big cities on the Sacrifice Holiday, the equivalent of a long bank holiday weekend. When the Turkish government introduces regulations that theoretically oblige every driver to have a body bag in his or her car, you know the situation is not cool! I say theoretically because Turkey has numerous laws, it’s just that everybody ignores them (like the laws about building houses to earthquake standards). In an effort to get people to drive sensibly and soberly, the government has taken to putting signs along the road: Don’t be a Traffic Monster or Stop the Traffic Monster Within You, they urge Turkey’s drivers. It’s a campaign the Turkish government says is working. In 1998, the death toll for the first two months on the roads was down by 9 percent. In January 1998, a mere 268 people were killed on the roads as opposed to 281 in January 1997. In February 1998, the toll was a piddling 269 compared to the previous year’s 302. Still, DP can testify that driving in Turkey can be a truly terrifying experience (nothing compared to Pakistan, though). You want to increase the odds of your survival driving in Turkey? Well, don’t drive between 6 p.m. and 4 a.m., which is when most accidents happen.

Knowing all this, you will probably not be surprised to hear that one of Turkey’s biggest scandals revolved around a car accident. Near the town of Susurluk, on November 12, 1996, a Mercedes slammed into a lorry, killing three of the four occupants. The occupants consisted of one of the most wanted right-wing hit men in Turkey, a beauty queen, a police chief, and DP’s old buddy, Kurdish warlord Sedat Bucak. In the back of the car were pistols, silencers and ammo. It was the most glaring evidence of Turkish state collusion in death squads that has ever come to light. Bucak survived, but when he came around, discovered the joys of amnesia.

Turkey – The Scoop

Although you will hear about terrorist activity in Turkey, it would be more accurate to say that-with over 37,000 people killed since 1984 in violent encounters with the PKK and the rest of the happy gang-the situation is better summed up as an ongoing civil war. The group with the most bucks and bullets is the PKK who, despite their leftist leanings, make some decent change babysitting drugs coming from the East and have a Smack ‘R’ Us franchise in Europe. They have a big enough allowance to afford a satellite lease and a TV station, so business must be good (also see the Kurdistan chapter). You may be wondering why the Turkish government doesn’t bang on about the supposed PKK involvement in drugs. The reason is that more than a few Turkish politicians are involved in it themselves, not to mention the Kurdish tribal chieftains, who are paid handsomely to fight the PKK in the southeast of the country. But keep that quiet, okay?

Turkey – Getting Around

DP has traveled extensively in southeastern Turkey, both alone and with an armed military escort consisting of armored personnel carriers and commandos using Land Rovers. Travel by road after dark is hazardous throughout southeastern Turkey and quite possibly you won’t be allowed to travel at night, anyway.

In Tunceli province no traffic is allowed on the roads after 4 p.m. Depending on the situation, other provinces may or may not have similar restrictions, so plan your itinerary accordingly. Buses are common but are subject to lengthy searches at all checkpoints. As a foreigner you will probably be left alone (unless you are a journalist-in which case expect to be followed everywhere), although you may have to flash your passport from time to time at checkpoints. But it is not unheard of for foreigners to be subjected to lengthy questioning in the southeast. Much of the time this will be because soldiers or policemen are simply a bit bored or curious about you.

Not very many tourists go to the southeast. Well now, that’s a surprise. Okay, now you might be asking yourself, “Cool, so how do I get to meet the PKK kids in the mountains?” Not easily, is the answer; and you’ll need some damn good contacts who are possibly willing to risk their necks. The political wing of the PKK in Turkey is the Democratic Peoples Party, known as Hadep. A lot of the Hadep activists have close links to the PKK. More than a few Hadep people are also in prison. You too can join them in prison if you start messing around in the southeast. The Turkish government does not take kindly to foreigners poking their noses into the region.

But if you’re the really determined type, then start in Europe-that’s if you have no contacts in the region. The PKK has numerous front offices in Europe. But don’t expect them to hand you anything on a plate. They will want to know who you are and why they should be giving you the time of day.

A word of warning, gentle reader. You should bear in mind that the Turkish security forces tend to monitor Hadep activists-and anyone else considered subversive-as closely as they can. Yes, you can be paranoid. So watch out for the guys with radios and something bulky stuck down their pants, and it isn’t because they’re pleased to see you. You won’t be on a fun run if you’re caught messing around with these people. A press card will help, but then you will have to be a genuine hack or hackette to get a Turkish government press card. (This is handy to flash if you’re in trouble and a foreigner-sometimes. One journalist was stripped down to her underpants by pissed-off security police in Kiziltepe. Another hack was physically frogmarched back to the airplane at Diyarbakir airport on arrival and sent to Istanbul, even though he lived in Ankara.)

If you want to hang out with any of the Dev Sol boys and girls, the best place to start is London, which has a small but active Turkish community heavily influenced by the left. DP will give you a head start: go to Hackney.

Ataturk Airport, near Istanbul, is the main international entry and exit point for Turkey. Istanbul is an excellent link between the east and the west. You can also get plenty of cheap tickets and just about everyone speaks English. Turkish air carriers are modern and safe. Ankara’s airport is the hub for domestic flights and about 20 miles from downtown.

Turkey – The Wild East

Eighty percent of the time you will be perfectly safe traveling in Turkey, but it’s the 20 percent that will kill you-with only the Turkish traffic and driving standards to worry about. The PKK has announced a cease-fire and a “withdrawal” of all its forces from Turkey. How long this will last is another matter. It is reckoned that maybe only 700 PKK guerrillas (the commanders) will be leaving Turkey for a mega PKK congress in the Qandil mountains on the Iran-Iraq border. The rest of the kids will stay put. So hiking is still off the menu in southeastern Turkey. The Turkish military don’t really care and have continued operations against the PKK all over the southeast.

Travel in Tunceli province might be particularly hazardous. TIKKO have continued fighting, occasionally zapping civilians for fun. Other provinces to steer clear of are Van, Hakkari and Sirnak. Over the past 15 years, several thousand Turkish civilians and security personnel have been killed in guerrilla attacks.

In the early ’90s, the PKK began kidnapping foreigners in eastern Turkey to generate media attention for their separatist cause. Over the years, a number of foreigners, including Americans, have been held by the PKK and eventually released. On October 9, 1993, an American tourist was abducted by the PKK while traveling by bus on the main highway between Erzurum and Erzincan, in Tunceli province. Due to the tense security situation, the climbing of Mt. Ararat near the border with Iran continues to be extremely dangerous, even with the required Turkish government permits. If you’re an American citizen give the embassy a call. But DP can tell you they will simply say “don’t bother” if you’re planning a trip to the southeast. So, now you don’t need to give them a call, do you?

Turkey – The Touristed Southwest

Things are benign where foreign dollars flow. But visitors should stay aware of recent incident reports. Terrorist activity was mostly designed to frighten tourists off, rather than actually kill them. Most of the paranoia goes back to the summer of 1994 when the PKK conducted a series of hand grenade attacks against establishments frequented by tourists in Antalya and planted at least six hand grenades in beaches around Izmir and Kusdasi. The Antalya attacks injured Turkish nationals and tourists, as well as causing extensive property damage. In early 1999 there was a wave of bomb attacks after Ocalan was caught and brought back to Turkey. The situation has calmed since the PKK announced a cease-fire, but don’t get your hopes up. TIKKO are still around and cease-fires have a habit of ending. The good news is that crime against Americans is rare in western Turkey other than the usual pickpocketing and petty theft. Generally speaking, you will be perfectly safe. I mean, hey, there should be another 8 million much fatter and slower tourists to give you cover.

Turkey – East Turkey: Rocking the Cradle of Civilization

The road is full of vehicles–tractors, horse carts, sawed-off buses with sagging rear ends, yellow taxis, overloaded motorcycles with sidecars–some carrying entire families with their goats. Everything is square and grey. The road and sidewalks are broken, dirty and patched. Unlike the deathly grey of the towns, the hills beyond are a rich chocolate-brown. The water is a sickly green-blue-black. The sky is the color of slate, with one enormous white cloud stretching off toward the hills in the distance. Acres of cheap boxlike housing sprout from the plains.

DP has come to the cradle of civilization, the uppermost tip of the fertile crescent, now torn apart by ethnic, political, tribal and religious strife. We are determined to get at the heart of this land, in order to understand why so much of the world is a dangerous place.

We stop to buy gas at a new petrol station. The attendant is baffled by our credit card. I run the card and sign the bill for him.

We drive past scattered groves of figs and pistachios. Trucks carry giant pomegranates. We are following the Iraqi pipeline on a highway originally built by the U.S., formally known as the “Silk Road.”

Cheap Iraqi diesel, or masot, sells for 10,000 TL (Turkish lira or lire) a liter. It is brought from Iraq by trucks fitted with crude, rusty tanks.

As we go east, the fertile soil becomes fields of boulders and sharp rocks. The hills are ribbed and worn by the constant foraging of goats. Not much has changed here in 1000 years.

At Play in the Fields of the Warlords

We drive through the nameless streets of Sevirek, a small town that serves as the center of the Bucak fiefdom. In this age of enlightenment, there are still dark corners in the world where ancient traditions persist. We are in the domain of the Bucaks, an age-old feudal area in war-torn southeastern Turkey.

As we drive along the cobblestones, we notice that there are no doors or windows in the stone houses, only steel shutters and gates. We ask the way to the warlord’s house. Men pause and then point vaguely in the general direction.

We pull up to the Turkish version of a pizza joint. From inside, two men in white smocks eye us apprehensively. The fat one recognizes Coskun and walks out to our car when we call out for directions.

We drive up a narrow cobblestone alleyway just wide enough for a car to pass. There’s a Renault blocking the way. Getting out of the car, we notice for the first time that there is a man behind a wall of sandbags pointing an AK-47 in our direction. The large house was built 200 years ago and is lost in the maze of medieval streets and stone walls.

We politely explain who we are and why we have come. We had telephoned earlier and were told that no one was at home–an appropriate response for someone who has survived frequent assassination attempts from terrorists, bandits and the army.

Out from a side door comes a large man with a pistol stuffed into his ammunition-heavy utility vest. He flicks his head at me and looks at Coskun inquisitively. He hears our story. He recognizes Coskun from a year ago, when the photojournalist stayed with the warlord for three days. He smiles and gives Coskun the double-buss kiss, the traditional greeting for men in Turkey. He then grabs me by the shoulders, does the same, and then welcomes us inside. We walk up one flight of stairs and find ourselves in an outside courtyard. We are joined by two more bodyguards. They’re older, more grooved, hard looking. Most of one man’s chin has been blown off his face; it tells us that we should probably just sit and smile until we get to know each other a little better. We sit on the typical tiny wooden stools men use in Turkey. These have the letters DYP branded into them, the name of the political party with which the warlord has aligned himself.

The bodyguards stare into our eyes, say nothing and watch our hands when we reach for a cigarette. It seems that Sedat Bucak, the clan leader, is out in the fields, but his brother Ali is here. We are offered chai, or tea, and cigarettes. The bodyguards do not drink tea, or move, but they light cigarettes. One of the bodyguards sucks on his cigarette as if to suffocate it.

When Ali finally emerges, he is not at all what one would expect a warlord to look like. The men rise and bow. Ali is dressed in shiny black loafers, blue slacks, a plum-colored striped shirt and a dapper windbreaker. He looks like an Iranian USC grad. That he and his brother are the absolute rulers of 100,000 people and in control of an army of 10,000 very tough men is hard to imagine.

A Drive in the Country

Not quite sure why we’re here, he offers to show us a gazelle that he was given as a gift by one of his villages. The gazelle is kept in a stone enclosure and flies around the pen, leaping through doors and windows. We ask if we can visit with Sedat. Ali says, “Sure,” and repeats that he is out in the fields.

Realizing they would be embarking outside of their compound, they bring out an arsenal of automatic weapons from another room. Ali and his bodyguards get in the Renault and drive down the streets with the barrels of their guns sticking out the windows. Strangely, nobody seems to mind or notice. Even the soldiers and police wave as they drive by.

Following close behind, we are brought to their fortress, an imposing black stone compound that dominates the countryside. It is a simple square structure, each wall about 100 feet long. A central house rises to about 40 feet. The walls are made from kaaba, or black stone and are hand-chiseled from the surrounding boulders into squares, filled with special cement to make them bulletproof. One wall is over 20 feet tall.

The men appear nervous when I photograph the compound. This building is intended for combat. For now, it serves as a simple storage place for tractors and grain. From the top, one feels like a king overlooking his land and his subjects, which is exactly what the Bucaks do when they are up here. From this point, we can only see 50 miles to the mountains in the north, but we cannot see the rest of their 200 miles of land to the south and west of us.

We continue our caravan along a dusty road past simple villages and houses. The people here are dirt-poor. They subsist off the arid land. The children run out into the road to wave at us as we drive by.

Ali stops near a field where men, women and children are picking cotton. Cotton needs water, and there’s plenty of it. It also needs cheap labor, another commodity of which the Bucaks have plenty.

The people stand still, as we get out of our cars. Ali tells them to continue working, while we take pictures. They resume picking, but their eyes never leave us.

The men decide this would be an opportune time to show off the capability of their arsenal. For one nauseating moment, I have the impression they intend to gun down this entire village. Yet it is target practice that Ali has in mind. Boys will be boys. So we then start plinking away at rocks, using all sorts of automatic weapons. We aim for a pile of rocks about 400 yards away. We are only aware of little puffs of smoke, as we hear the sound of ricochets as the bullets hit the black boulders. Ali is more interested in our video camera, so he plays with that while we play with his weapons.

When boredom sets in, we continue our journey in search of Sedat. We finally locate him about three miles away. We know it’s him because of the small army that surrounds the man. His bodyguards are not happy at all to see us. We are instantly engulfed by his men poised in combat stances. Ali introduces us, but we still have to state our case. Sedat recognizes Coskun, but instead of the kiss, we get a Western-style handshake. We introduce ourselves to his dozen or so bodyguards. They do not come forward, so we reach for their hands and shake them. It’s awkward, unnerving. They never let their eyes stray from ours.

Ahmed, a chiseled sunburned man who wears green camouflage fatigues, seems to be the chief bodyguard. He appears to like us the least. He wanders over to our car and starts rummaging through the luggage and junk on the backseat. I deliberately put my stuff there so that it would be easy to confirm that I am a writer. He picks up a Fielding catalog and starts flipping through the pages. When he sees my picture next to one of my books, he points and then looks at me.

The Feudal Lord

We chat with Sedat. He is eager to present a positive image to the outside world. We have brought a copy of an interview he had just done with a Turkish magazine. In it, he proposes linking up with the right-wing nationalist party and, together he says, they could end the Kurdish problem. Coskun suggests that such a comment could be taken as a bid for civil war. Sedat says, “Hey, it’s only an interview. But I’m still learning.” We suggest getting some shots of him driving his tractor. He is happy driving his tractor. But out here there are few other farmers who drive a tractor with an AK-47-armed bodyguard riding behind on the spreader.

Turkey has been at war with the PKK, or Kurdish Workers Party, since 1984. The Kurds want a separate homeland within Turkey, but Turkey insists they possess all the rights they need for now. The Turkish government is correct, but it doesn’t stop the PKK from killing, maiming, executing and torturing their own people. The Bucaks are Kurds and the sworn enemies of the PKK, who are also Kurds. The difference is that the Bucaks have essentially carved out their own kingdom and even managed to integrate themselves into the political process in an effective, albeit primitive, way. They use votes rather than bullets to curry favor. They are also left alone by the government. They pay no taxes and have complete control over what goes on in their ancestral lands.

The Bucak family has been in Sevirek for more than 400 years. They are Kurds, but more specifically, they’re from the Zaza as opposed to the Commagene branch of the Kurds. They also speak a different language from the Commagene. They have always controlled a large part of southeastern Turkey by force and eminent domain. Their subjects give them 25 percent of the crops they grow, and, in return, they receive services and are protected by a private army of about 10,000 men. Many other groups have tried unsuccessfully to force them off their land. In times of all-out warfare, all the subjects are expected to chip in and grab their rifles. The Bucaks have wisely aligned themselves with the current ruling political party, the DYP. Realizing that the Bucaks can deliver 100,000 votes goes a long way toward successful lobbying and handshaking in Ankara, the capital of Turkey. Sedat Bucak is head of the clan, at the age of 40. A warrior and farmer by trade, he is now a sharp and shrewd politician. If he’s killed, his younger brother Ali will take the helm. Ali is only 24.

Sevirek has long been a battleground. The city was completely closed to all outsiders, including the army, between 1970 and 1980. During this period, there was intense street-to-street fighting between the Bucaks and the PKK. Thousands of people were killed; the PKK moved on to choose easier victims. The Bucaks cannot stray eastward into PKK-held territory without facing instant death.

The countryside the Bucaks rule consists of rolling plains, similar to Montana or Alberta. This is to the benefit of the Ataturk dam project, the fifth-largest dam project in the world.

Sedat can never travel without his bodyguards; neither can Ali. The bodyguards match the personalities of the brothers. Sedat’s bodyguards are cold, ruthless killers. They’re picked for the bravery and ferocity they showed in the last 10 years of warfare. Ali’s bodyguards are younger, friendlier, but just as lethal.

They pack automatic weapons: German G-3s, M-16s and AK-47s. They each also carry at least one handgun as well as four to six clips for the machine guns and three to four clips for their pistols. Ali and Sedat also carry weapons at all times. Their choice of weapons also reflects their personalities. Ali packs a decorative stainless steel 9mm Ruger, and Sedat carries a drab businesslike Glock 17.

Some of the bodyguards, such as Nouri, wear the traditional Kurdish garb of checkered headpiece and baggy wool pants. The salvars appear to be too hot to wear on the sunburned plains. One of the guards explains that they work like a bellows and pump air when you walk, an example of something that works. Others wear cheap suits. Some wear golf shirts; still others wear military apparel.

While we are taking pictures of Sedat on his Massey Ferguson, the guards bring out the gnass, or sniper rifle (gnass is Arabic for sniper). It is an old Russian Dragunaov designed to kill men at 400-800 meters. When I walk down to take pictures, Ahmed, the cagey one, slides the rifle into the car and shakes his head. He knows that a sniper rifle is not for self-defense but is used for one thing only, as they explain to us, “With this rifle, you can kill a man before he knows he is dead.”

Many of the men have a Turkish flag on the butts of their clips. One bodyguard offers me a rolled cigarette from an old silver tin. It tastes of the sweet, mild tobacco from Ferat. We both have a smoke. I open my khaki shirt and show him my Black Dog T-shirt, a picture of a dog doing his thing. He laughs: Seems as if we’re finally warming up this crowd.

The younger brother of Ali’s bodyguard asks me if I am licensed to use guns. He likes the way I shoot. I try to explain that, in America, you need a permit to own a gun and that people are trained or licensed. He looks at me quizzically. It’s no use. I doubt they would understand a society that lets you own a gun without knowing how to use it.

We blast off some more rounds. Ali’s bodyguards are having fun. We then bring out the handguns. We are all bad shots. Trying to hit a Pepsi can, no one comes close. Then one of the bodyguards marches up to the can and “executes” it with a smile. It is a chilling scene, and I’m glad it’s only an aluminum can.

While Ali’s bodyguards clown around with us, Sedat’s bodyguards never move, or even take their hands off their guns. Nouri has his AK-47 tucked so perfectly into the crook of his arm, it is hard to imagine him not sleeping with it.

After chatting with Sedat and nervously entertaining his bodyguards, we head back into town. There, we’re taken to lunch at Ali Bucaks restaurant and gas station. We eat in Ali’s office. The bodyguards act as waiters, serving us shepherd’s salads and kabobs with yogurt to drink. They serve us quietly and respectfully. They eat with one hand on their guns. The SSB radio crackles nonstop, as various people check in. We talk to Ali about life in general. Can he go anywhere without his guards? No. What about when he goes to Ankara on the plane? They have to put their guns in plastic bags and pick them up when they land. What about in Ankara? They change cars a lot. Does he like his role? He doesn’t have a choice. Does he like feudalism? No, but he doesn’t have a choice. The government does not provide services or protect their people, so they must do it themselves. Who would take the sick to the hospitals? Who would take care of the widows? Since power is passed along family lines, it is his duty.

As we eat, a storm comes in from Iraq. Lightning flashes and thunder cracks. We talk about politics, baseball cards and America. They are all familiar with America because every Turkish home and business has a television blaring most of the day and night. The number-one show is the soap, “The Young and the Restless,” which comes on at 6:15 every night.

Sedat is a soft-spoken man–about 5 feet 6 inches tall, sunburned and suffering from a mild thyroid condition. He wears a faded green camouflage baseball hat, Levis and running shoes, as your neighbor might. He also carries a Glock 17 in a hand-rubbed leather holster. It is unsnapped for a quicker draw. Maybe not quite like your neighbor! He is never more than 15 feet from his bodyguards. Men drawn from his army as personal bodyguards have the lean, sunburned look of cowboys. He comes from an immediate family of 500 Bucaks. They make their money by growing cotton and other crops they sell in Adana.

It is hard to believe that this gentle, slightly nervous man and his forces are the only ones in Turkey who here been able to beat the PKK at their own game.

For now, everything is well in the kingdom. The dam will bring water for crops; the PKK is now concentrating on other areas; the people are happy, and Sedat is now a big-wheel politician. There is much to be said for feudalism. I offer to send him some of my books so that he can read about the rest of the world. He thinks this is a great idea. But he doesn’t speak or read English.

DP Fashion Tip

Mekap is the brand of sneakers preferred by the PKK. They can be identified by the red star on a yellow badge. If you ask at a shoe store for Mekaps, you will get a very strange reaction; the merchant will assume you’re from the police and testing him.

We drive from Sevirek to Diyarbakir. The city of Diyarbakir is built on a great basalt plain and has 5.5-km long walls made from this ominous looking black stone. The triple walls and functional look betrays its origins as an ancient military outpost. Today, the 16 keeps and 5 gates have barbed wire, sand bags and machine gun nests. We will pass from a feudal kingdom to a large, bustling city that is the flashpoint for much of the violence that grips Turkey. We realize as we drive down the lonely roads that we are leaving the protection of the Bucaks and will soon be in PKK territory. If we were to be caught with Ali’s address, we’d be killed. If the PKK had any knowledge of our contact with the Bucaks, we’d be instant enemies.

The PKK control the countryside and, it is said, the whole of eastern Turkey at night. It is not a particularly large group, perhaps some 8000 soldiers trained in small camps, but they’re armed with small weapons–AK-47s and RPGs and a few grenade launchers. They travel in groups of 12 men and can muster a sizable force of about 200 soldiers for major ambushes. Their leader lives in the Bekáa Valley in southern Lebanon, under the protection of the Syrian government. He calls for an independent Kurdistan, which Saddam Hussein has given him by default in northern Iraq. But he wants more. He wants a sizable chunk of Iran and Turkey as well.

Despite the numerous checkpoints and military presence in the area, there has been little success in defeating the PKK. The Turkish Army has set up large special ops teams and commando units that specialize in ambushes, foot patrols and other harassment activities. But once you see the topography of eastern Turkey, you realize that you could hide an army 1000 times the size of the PKK. The terrain is riddled with caves, redoubt-shaped cliffs, boulders, canyons and every conceivable type of nook and cranny. It is easy terrain to move in, with few natural or man-made obstructions.

The PKK go into the villages at night to demand cooperation. If villagers do not cooperate, they are shot. In some cases, entire families, including babies, are executed. The PKK follow a Marxist-Leninist doctrine and play out their guerrilla tactics similar to the former Viet Cong or the Khmer Rouge. The PKK also likes to kidnap foreigners for money and publicity, and they like to execute schoolteachers and government officials. Special ops teams report to the civil authorities and to the military. Turkey considers the PKK as criminals and is reluctant to use civil law and superficial civilian forces against it.

Turkey has been in a state of war for 10 years now–that being the war the military is waging within its own borders.

The Test Pilot

We decide to spend an evening with a former leader and trainer of special ops teams. Hakan is now Turkey’s only test pilot. In Turkey, this doesn’t mean flying new prototype planes; it means flying out to helicopters downed by the rebels, making repairs and then flying or sling-loading them out.

Hakan lives in a high-rise building, guarded by three soldiers, barbed wire and fortifications against attack. His apartment is modern and well furnished. There are no traditional rugs, just black lacquer furniture complete with a fully stocked bar. Except for the barbed wire, we could be in Florida, which is where he trained as a Sikorsky Blackhawk pilot.

He has a two-month-old baby and is looking forward to being transferred back to western Turkey. His contempt for the PKK is obvious, having killed many of its members and having many PKK rounds aimed at him. He feels that the PKK is winning in this part of the country, but there will be no victory. The PKK problem cannot be solved militarily. It must be solved economically, by making the Kurds the beneficiaries of government help and giving them a stronger political voice. Killing terrorists is merely his job. He can’t wait to get transferred out of Dyabakir. His wife plays with their baby on the floor. The baby never stops smiling and laughing. I think of the barbed wire and nervous soldiers downstairs. He can offer no political insights: PKK are people who he is paid to fight. When he is in Ankara, he will occupy himself with other things.

Eastern Turkey is the poorest and least developed part of the nation. Most educated people come from western Turkey. Most of the soldiers, politicians and professional classes are from western Turkey. The government sends these people to eastern Turkey for a minimum of two years of service. Most can’t wait to get back to Istanbul or Ankara. Eastern Turkey has much closer affiliations with Armenia, Iran, Iraq, Azerbaijan, Syria and Georgia. Western Turkey has the ocean as a border. Eastern Turkey is rife with dissension and must deal with its warlike and poor neighbors. Iraqi, Iranian, Armenian and Syrian terrorists actively fight the government and each other. Hezbollah, the Iranian-backed fundamentalist group, hates the PKK. The PKK hates the government. The militia hates all rebel agitators, and the army and police clean up the messes left behind.

The Governor

I decide that we need another point of view. We go to Siirt about 40 km from the Syrian border and directly in the heart of PKK territory. Siirt was once a great city during the Abbasid Caliphate with the remnants of 12th and 13th century mosques. We are definitely in harm’s way, since the PKK travel from Syria into the mountains behind us. Just down the road is the military outpost of Erub, designed to control a critical mountain road that leads down toward the Syrian border. There is another reason why we have chosen this tiny town. Coskun was born and raised in Siirt. I suggest that we go and chat up the governor and get his point of view.

Coskun is somewhat hesitant about meeting with the governor of Siirt province because he has a natural (and well-founded) aversion to politicians. But since we will be traveling directly into and through the war zone, we want to be sure that when we get stopped by the military we can drop names, flash the governor’s card and ensure at least a moment of hesitation before we are shot as spies or terrorists.

As we pass the heavy security of the Siirt administration building, it seems that the governor is in. His bodyguards are quite perturbed that these strangers have walked right in and asked for an audience. They quietly talk into their walkie-talkies and stand between us and the soundproof door that leads into the governor’s office. The governor takes his time to put on his game face and finally invites us in. It is kisses all around, chocolates, tea and cigarettes. We thank him and tell him our business. We are here to see what is going on in Turkey. He is proud to have us in his region. Two of his aids sit politely on the couch. The governor speaks in long, melodious, booming soliloquies that, when translated into English, come out as “We are maligned by the press” or “There is no danger here.” Finally, they ask me what I have seen and what I think of their country. I tell them the truth. The people here are extraordinary in their friendship and warmth, but we are in a war zone. He launches into a response that boils down to “It’s safe here, and we want you to tell your readers to come to Turkey and Siirt province.” He then tells us of the attractions that await the lucky traveler: canyons as deep as the Grand Canyon, white-water rafting, hiking, culture, history, etc. We say great, give us a helicopter and we’ll go for a spin tomorrow.

He goes one further. He invites us to dinner that night so that he can spend more time with us. Coskun wants to kick me, as I accept. Later that night we go to the government building for dinner. Joining us will be the head of police, the head of the military, three subgovernors and a couple of aides.

We pass through security and are ushered into the dining room. Sitting uncomfortably, we make small talk while a television blares away against the wall. As we sit down to dinner, we indicate that we are curious and ask the military commander just what is going on. Everyone is dressed in a suit and tie or uniform. Coskun and I do the best we can with our dusty khakis. Either because the room is hot or they are just being polite, they take their jackets off for dinner. The governor carries a silver 45 tucked into his waistband. His formal gun? As the men sit down to dinner, something strikes me as funny. Coskun and I are the only ones not packing a gun for dinner.

The dinner is excellent: course after course of shish kebob, salads and other delicacies washed down with raki (a strong anisette liquor) and water. The taste of the raki brings back memories of the hard crisp taste of Cristal aquadiente, the preferred drink of the Colombian drug trade. Throughout dinner, the head of police is interrupted by a walkie-talkie-carrying messenger who hands him a piece of paper. He makes a few comments to the side, and the man disappears. Every five to 10 minutes the man returns, the police chief makes a quiet comment, and he goes away.

Meanwhile, the governor continues to extol the beauty of his country–nonstop. He is the center of attention, simply because no one else is speaking. The others nod, smile or laugh. Most of their attention is on the television blaring in the corner. Suddenly, the red phone next to the television begins ringing. The call is answered by the attendant. It is for the colonel. The colonel excuses the interruption and speaks in low tones. The police chief puts his walkie-talkie on the table. It becomes apparent that the base is under attack by a group of PKK of unknown size. Throughout dinner, the conversation steers toward politics as it must. Like many countries, there are two parallel worlds here: the world of administrators, occupiers and government, then the world of the dispossessed–the people who till the soil, who build their houses with their own hands, who bury their dead in the same ground that yields them their crops. Tonight and every night, that world is ruled by the PKK, Dev Sol, Armenian terrorists, Hezbollah and bandits. At dusk, the world is plunged into fear, ruled by armed bands of men that are neither chosen nor wanted by the ordinary people. At dawn, the country is back in the hands of the government, the people and the light. During our conversation, there is no right and no wrong, only an affirmation that each side believes it is in the right.

The red phone continues to ring, and the little pieces of paper continue to be brought up to the police chief. The police chief is now speaking directly into his walkie-talkie. Meanwhile, the governor continues to regale us with stories about Siirt. As we eat course after course, I am offered cigarettes by at least three to four people at a time. Doing my best to accommodate my hosts, I eat, smoke and drink the sharp raki, all the time keeping one ear on the governor’s conversation and the constant mumbled conversations being carried out on the phone and the walkie-talkie.

The governor is very proud of the tie he wore especially for me–a pattern of Coca-Cola bottles. He brings in his young daughters to meet me. They are shy, pretty and very proud of their English. We chat about life in Siirt, and I realize that they are virtually prisoners in the governor’s compound. The governor tells us of a road we should take to enjoy the scenery, a winding scenic road to Lice via Kocakoy. Finally, the colonel is spending so much time on the phone that he excuses himself. The police chief is visibly agitated but is now speaking nonstop on the walkie-talkie. Messages continue to arrive.

The television is now featuring swimsuit-clad lovelies and has captured the attention of the governor’s aides and his subgovernors. As the dinner winds down, we retire outside to have coffee. I am presented with a soft wool blanket woven in Siirt. We have a brief exchange of speeches, and I notice that the colonel and police chief have now joined us. I ask them what all the commotion was about, and they mention that it was a minor incident that has been handled. The governor reminds us to tell people of the beauty of this place, the friendliness of the Turkish people and the people of Siirt.

As we prepare to go, they wrap my blanket in today’s newspaper. Smack dead center is a full-color photograph of a blood-soaked corpse of a man who has been executed by the Dev Sol terrorist group for being an informer.

The next day, there is no helicopter waiting for us. When we inquire as to its whereabouts, we are told that it was needed to do a body count from the attack the night before. We ask the blue-berated special ops soldier what the best way is to see the countryside. He assumes that we must be important, and, instead of telling us to get lost, he carefully reviews our options. As for the road we want to take into the mountains, he informs us that it is heavily mined and would have to be cleared before we could attempt a crossing. In any case, we would need an armored car and an escort of soldiers and probably a tank. We ask about the helicopter, which would be safer, but we will need to wait until he can get a gunship to accompany us.

A Place in Time

We figure the only sightseeing we are going to do today is on foot. Coskun reminisces with his first employer, a gentle man who puts out a tiny newspaper with a 19th-century offset press and block type. He has broken his arm, so he apologizes on the back page for the paper being so small. Everyday he laboriously pecks out the local news with one finger using an old Remington typewriter; he then reads his copy, marks it up, and hands it to the eager teenagers who sort through the dirty trays of lead type. He has a choice between two photo-engraved pictures that sit in a worn old tray. One is the governor, the other is the president of Turkey. When the type is hand-set, they laboriously run off a couple of hundred copies for the dwindling number of loyal readers. I leave Coskun with his old friend.

Siirt is a dusty, poor Kurdish town, with a history of being occupied by everyone from Alexander to the Seljuks to the Ottomans. Some of the people are fair-skinned, blonde and blue-eyed. Others have the hard Arabic look of the south; while still others have the round heads and bald spots of the Turks. Siirt is a happy town, with the children contentedly playing in the muddy streets. As I walk around the town, the children begin to tag along with me. All are eager to try out their words of English. I urge them to teach me Kurdish. They point at houses, dogs, people, and chatter away, “Where come you from?” and “Hello mister, what eeze your name?” I wonder where I would ever need to use Kurdish. Some visitors say Siirt looks like a poorly costumed bible story. Here and there along the broken streets are ancient houses with tapered walls; many people still use the streets as sewers. Goats, cows and chickens wander the streets. Near the mosque, the less fortunate goats are sold and then slaughtered on the spot. Donkeys sit patiently. Men physically pull me over to where they are sitting and demand that we have tea. I realize it would take me years if I stopped and had tea with everyone who wanted to chat. I begin to respect the delicate but strong social web that holds this country together. Soldiers, fighters, rebels, farmers, politicians, police all offer us hospitality, tea and a cigarette. The tiny parcels of information and face-to-face encounters transmit and build an understanding of what is going on, who is going where and why.

In every shop a television blares. Western programs and news shows constantly bombard these people with images that do not fit into their current world. At 6:10 “The Young and the Restless,” dubbed in Turkish, captures the entire population. It is typically Turkish that they would treat the TV like a visitor, never shutting it up and quietly waiting for their turn to speak. I can only imagine that the blatant American and Western European images are as familiar and comforting to the older generation as MTV’s “The Grind” is to us. As with all small rural towns around the world, the young people are moving to the big cities. The future is colliding with the past.

They’re Your Modern Stone Age Family

We decide not to hang around and wait for the helicopter and the helicopter gunship to be arranged. Instead, we decide to drive into the countryside, where the army has little control. Along the way, we stop in a little-known troglodyte village called Hassankeyf. This was once the 12th century capital of the Artukids, but today, it is a little visited curiosity. Here, Coskun knows an old lady who lives in a cave. This historic area will be underwater when the massive hydroelectric dam is completed. Hassankeyf could be a set from “The Flintstones.” The winding canyon is full of caves that go up either side, creating a cave-dwellers high-rise development. Far up in the highest cave is the last resident of this area. The lady claims to be 110-years old. My guess is that she is closer to 80. But it probably doesn’t matter, since in this land, she could be older than Methuselah and have seen nothing change. We climb up to chat with her, while down below the golden rays of the sun illuminate the Sassouk mosque. Across the canyon are the ruins of a Roman-era monastery. This was once a remote outpost for the Romans.

She doesn’t seem pleased to see us. In a grouchy manner, she invites us into her cave. The lady lives alone with a cat and her donkey. The donkey has his own cave carved cleanly and laboriously out of the soft limestone.

The cave where the old woman lives leads back into a rear cave, where she makes her bed on straw and carpets. The roof is covered with a thick greasy layer of soot from the small fire she uses for cooking. She says she is ill and needs medicine. We have brought her a bar of chocolate but we do not have any medicine with us. We give her some money but realize she is days away from any drugstore and her only method of transport is her donkey or a ride from one of the villagers.

People from across the steep valley yell and wave at us. They do not get many visitors. We take pictures of the lady. She seems happy to have someone to talk to, and, after her initial grumpiness, she offers us some flat bread. It crunches with the dirt and gravel baked into it. We smile and say it is good.

As the sun sets further, the ancient ambience is broken by the loud thumping and hoarse whistling scream of a Cobra gunship returning to Siirt. This was probably our escort, but we are glad to be sitting here in the cool golden dusk in a cave, in a place that will soon be erased off the map.

We have to leave. Travel at night is not safe. The PKK control this area and the military will fire at anything that moves on the roads at night. We must make it to the Christian town of Mardil, or as the locals call it Asyriac, before it gets completely dark. The old lady wishes us well. The Christians who live in the town of Mardil speak the language of Jesus: Aramaic. Strange that we are also in the land of the Yezidi, the religion that prays to Satan. We are told the PKK do not attack Asyriac because of their ties to Assad. Here, we will spend the night with some people who hold the honor of having the most dangerous profession in east Turkey: schoolteachers.

The Most Dangerous Job

Schoolteachers are part of the colonial oppression against which the PKK is fighting. Kurdish children are not allowed to speak the native tongue in school. Teachers in Turkey are assigned to work for four years in East Turkey before they can work in the more lucrative eastern cities of Istanbul and Ankara. Here, they are paid 8 million Turkish lira a month, about US$220 and about 30 percent more than they would usually make. About 30 percent never do their time in east Turkey and buy their way out of the dangerous assignment. By comparison, soldiers get paid 35-40 million Turkish lira a month.

The teachers live in simple stone houses–one room for living and one room for sleeping. There is no plumbing; the bathroom is an outhouse about 20 yards from the house. But t

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