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Nomads Of
Ararat
 Author:
Lee Ridley
Hanim is fifty-one years
old, but she looks at least thirty years older, and for good reason:
She's the leader of the Hasasori, a small family of semi-nomadic
Jelali Kurds who eke out a simple existence farming sheep on the
southern slopes of Mount Ararat in East Turkey, and life is far
from easy.
The region known as Kurdistan
lies across the borders of five countries: Turkey, Armenia, Iran,
Iraq and Syria and is home to some 25 million Kurds. Within this
population many ethnic tribes have evolved, of which the Jelali
(pron: je-LAH-li) have emerged as one of the largest and strongest,
with notoriety for being accomplished fighters. The Jelali can be
found across many parts of Anatolia but are predominantly based
in the region around the town of Dogubeyazit, most commonly associated
with the towering presence of the snow-topped Mount Ararat that
dominates the scenery on the outskirts of town. The people are darker
skinned than many of their Kurdish cousins, the men taller and stronger,
and the spoken language is Kurmanji, common throughout the northern
Kurdish region but with minor dialectal variations.
 Over
the last few centuries, within the Jelali community a large proportion
of the people have adopted and established a semi-nomadic lifestyle
around the slopes of the biblical Mountain. Originally intended
as a means of defence against incursion and subsequent assimilation
from other cultures, the migration to the higher slopes was also
found to be useful as it allowed the shepherds to escape the uncomfortable
heat of mid-summer and find respite in the cooler mountain air.
Now the threat of cultural "pollution" is of less concern,
the shepherding families spend only the hot summer months at altitude
on the summer pasture, referred to in Kurmanji as the "yayala"
and return to the relative comfort and safety of low lying villages
from October through till the end of May.
 At
5137 metres, Ararat is the highest mountain in Turkey and according
to the book of Genesis in the old testament, it is the fabled resting
place of Noah's Ark. It's an isolated volcanic peak that lies very
close to the border with Iran, Armenia and Azerbaijan and until
recently has remained off-limits to outsiders because of civil unrest
between the Kurdish population and their Turkish hosts. Now the
restrictions have been lifted, mountain climbers and those in search
of the Ark have become a familiar aspect of the nomads' life and
its not uncommon for the Jelali to welcome passers-by in for a glass
of tea. Generally speaking though, each nomadic family keep themselves
to themselves and rarely interact with outsiders including other
camps that may be only a few hundred meters away on the mountainside.
It's mid-afternoon by
the time I arrive at the camp with Aysegul, my guide and translator.
The jeep is only able to take us to 2000 metres at which point the
"road" is impassable and we have to disembark and continue
on foot. Behind us the flat plains shimmering in the heat fall away
as we climb, the Iranian border just a hazy line of hills in the
distance. We stop for a short rest and listen to the "voice
of the mountain" as my Kurdish guide puts it: The wind rushing
through the long grass and about the rocks; the skylarks trilling
as they hover overhead and the plaintive whistle from the wheatears
atop their stony perches regarding us warily. It's a perfect moment
and one I am keen to prolong as much as possible before we recommence
our slow trudge up the steep mountainside. We only need to climb
a further few hundred metres but the thinning air and the afternoon
sun conspire to make it difficult. Ahead of us, and some two thousand
feet higher I can make out a handful of nomadic camps dotted across
the face of the mountain, not far short of the snowline. The traditional
black sheep-wool tents have been almost entirely replaced by government
issue white tents that stand out clearly against the dark backdrop
of the mountain. I silently hope that the Hasasori haven't set up
camp too high, and my prayers are answered when after only 400 meters
climbed, we reach a plateau and the small camp comes into view.
 The
family are not expecting us, how could they be? But in the communal
tent they are prepared for our arrival with a large bowl of icy
cold water for our sore feet. As I remove my boots and step into
the bowl, one of the women explains that they did know we were coming
because 2-year-old Özdem has been staring down the mountain
all morning; something she only does when visitors are on their
way. It's not clear if everyone shares this superstition.
We sit down on soft mats
and within seconds a small glass of tea is placed before me. Much
weaker than the tea that is served elsewhere in Turkey, I finish
mine quickly and put the empty glass down. Before I have a chance
to speak, the glass is recharged and placed back in front of me.
After four refills, I finish my tea and lay the empty glass on its
side to signal that I do not want more. Instead, I am given a large
glass of "yurt" a watery yoghurt drink made from sheep's
milk. There's a strong cheese flavour to it that remains on the
palette and I drink mine quickly so as not to prolong the experience.
Mistakenly they think this means I am enjoying it and another large
measure is forthcoming.
 I
look around at the faces all regarding me with fascination. To my
left is Hanim (pron: HAH-num) the oldest member of the family and
subsequently the highest authority. Her colourful face is etched
with deep lines and creases and my first thought is for my camera
but I refrain, knowing its best to spend time with formalities.
Next to Hanim is Mehmet. Also getting on in years, Mehmet looks
like he may one day become Hanim's successor. He's quick to laugh
and enjoys the fact that I can't understand him. Two young girls
of about 7 years old draw my attention: The nearest is squatting
very close to me and regards me passively. When I stare back, she
looks to her mother for reassurance and then smiles at me. Her hair
is mousy and is woven into a long plait, which hangs loosely over
her shoulder. Her eyes are almond shaped giving her an almost Mongolian
appearance; again, I think of the camera. Her friend is also squatting
close by. She has darker hair, darker skin and is equally pretty;
she isn't so quick to smile. Their clothes are bright but a little
on the grubby side and their hair is clean but unkempt. The two
together conjure an image of wild children of the mountain. I learn
their names are Elif and Derya, aged 7 and 8, and over the next
few days, they hardly leave my side.
The communal tent we
are sitting in is about 20 square metres and is made from a large
green tarpaulin suspended on supports over a dry stone enclosure.
The stonewalling is precarious and the slightest touch can precipitate
a chain of events that could easily result in broken bones; I am
careful where I sit.
 Across
from me, a woman in her thirties squats in the corner by a large
bowl full of dough and busies herself making flatbread. She spends
the next four hours skilfully rolling and flipping the dough into
wafer thin forms and casting it on a red-hot steel dome that is
resting over a small fire. The fire is fed with dried sheep dung
and the woman periodically fans the flames with the edge of her
skirt. It looks like hot, uncomfortable, painstaking work and at
times she looks like she'd rather be anywhere than here. Occasionally
smoke fills the tent but no one complains. By the time the dough
has all been used, there are over a hundred flatbreads piled on
the floor. I'm told this is enough to feed the family for three
days only, along with mutton and yurt, which comprise the staple
diet for the Hasasori.
The day-to-day life of
a Jelali nomad is simple. They rise and set with the sun and worry
little about the world outside of their immediate social circle.
On an average day the boys take the sheep to pasture first thing
in the morning and although they tend to remain within sight of
the camp they don't return until late afternoon. The women wash,
cook and make bread and the men will milk and shear the sheep if
necessary and generally assist in the running of the camp. The young
children are tasked with helping the adults and their duties will
include baby care, fetching water, and bagging up the wool when
shearing. There is no school because the children can learn everything
they need from daily life and "emigration" to town life
is extremely rare.
 Marriages
are arranged as tradition dictates but its no longer as rigid and
inflexible as in previous generations. Young men and women tend
to meet each other under various circumstances and then seek family
approval if they wish to form a relationship. The result is that
now people are choosing their own partners, more marriages are surviving
and equality in the marriage is more noticeable. Women are marrying
later too: Whereas the average age for a young girl to marry used
to be in the early teens, now more and more women are waiting until
they are in their twenties. There are two women in the Hasasori
family who are eligible for marriage and I am asked not to photograph
them or try to engage them in conversation. Despite this I frequently
catch them watching my every move from behind their veils.
Hanim complains, half
in jest, half in earnest that she feels she is losing control over
her family. The boys don't want to take the sheep to pasture, the
girls won't do their chores, the women are generally dissatisfied
with their lot and the men are always off taking care of business
and not involved enough with the running of the camp. On top of
this she feels there are not enough babies being born to ensure
a strong future. I laughingly suggest she thrashes her subordinates
into compliance with a big stick and Hanim is quick to laugh and
retort that she has tried it already without success, but I know
the implications behind Hanim's comments are dire and shouldn't
be dismissed.
I study her while she
is talking with the others, and estimate her to be in her eighties.
I'm staggered to learn later that she's only fifty-one. People age
very fast in this part of the world it seems but on top of that,
Hanim has recently lost one of her brothers in a fatal car crash.
He was a local mullah or holy man and the two of them were very
close. A protracted term of grieving has left its mark and she now
looks ten years older than her older sister who lives with another
family elsewhere on the mountain.
 I
decide to take a walk around the camp and excuse myself politely
from the communal tent. In the company of Nuri, one of the older
boys, and the two girls Elif and Derya, I run the gauntlet of the
camp's dogs. There are four dogs for me to avoid: Big grizzly beasts
that offer no brook, invite no quarrel and command a wide berth
at all times. They are an absolute necessity for keeping wolves
and bears at bay during the night and there is no question they
earn their keep on a regular basis, as I am to discover that night.
During the daytime they laze around the camp often sleeping, often
bickering. If they get to unruly they are dealt with swiftly and
harshly with a stout stick or large rock, but this is rarely if
ever done without good reason and a tight working relationship between
nomad and hound is maintained at all times. All the same, I am a
perfect stranger and the dogs don't recognise my smell. If I wander
too far from camp and am confronted by one or more of these animals,
chances are I'll be torn to shreds; I know it and its hard not to
believe the dogs haven't figured it out too.
 The
afternoon passes quickly and as the sun begins to drop behind the
mountain we all gather for supper. Aysegul and I had brought two
frozen chickens with us, so supper is chicken stew with rice, bread
and a generous measure of yurt. Everybody feeds in silence, although
most eyes are on me to ensure I am happy with the hospitality. I
remark, genuinely that this is one of the best meals I've had in
Turkey but am careful not to finish the contents of my plate too
quickly lest I create the impression I have not been given enough.
When everyone has finished eating, the plates are tidied away and
washed while tea is served. I take my lead from one of the others,
downing four measures before laying the glass on its side. We all
talk for a while and then abruptly, I'm on my own, as everyone disappears
to their respective tents to prepare for the night, leaving me to
contemplate my surroundings. From inside the communal tent where
I am still sitting, somewhere close, either Derya or Elif is singing
quietly to herself and faint voices carry from one of the other
tents. The camp is the embodiment of serenity as even the dogs are
silent for once.
 Darkness
descends on the mountain and people reappear for an evening of festivities.
Its not part of their usual routine, but my mere presence constitutes
reason enough for a shindig. Fortunately it's almost a full moon
so there's plenty of light for us as we take turns to sing songs.
We go through a large repertoire of songs and at one point I have
the whole Hasasori nomad family singing along to "Tit Willow"
from the Mikado by Gilbert and Sullivan. Then they invite me to
join in a group line-dance where they all link their little fingers
together but soon discover I have two left feet and politely encourage
me to take photographs instead.
The evening wears on
and it starts to get cold; the singing and revelries die away and
finally its time to sleep. It's decided that I'll share the communal
tent with Nuri. The girls, including Aysegul have a different tent
to share and the youngest children, Elif, Derya, Yusuf and Özdem
as always, sleep with their parents in the family tents. Thick mats
are laid out and I drag my sleeping bag out of my rucksack but only
use it as a duvet, rather than climb inside; it's cold but not that
cold. I wrongly assume that the day's activity and the copious fresh
air will instigate a good night's sleep, but whereas the evening
on the mountain had been quiet and peaceful, so the night is full
of sound: To my side Nuri's heavy breathing indicates that he has
dropped off straight away. From the sheep pen, the persistent coughing
of a bronchial ewe has a distinctly human quality and I can't help
but smile. From further afield a nightjar begins to "churr"
the noise drifting on the air, monotone and persistent. A donkey
brays, just to make sure I'm fully awake and the dogs wander around
the camp yapping at anything and everything, knowing that now, they're
in charge.
At two thirty a.m. wolves
are in the area. One of the camp's dogs is just on the other side
of the stonewall, barely a few feet from my head, and if I had fallen
asleep I'm most certainly wide-awake now: All four dogs start barking
together and then the dog near to me ceases and dashes to intercept
the night raid. There's no stealth in his movement and I hear his
heavy feet drumming the ground as he races out of camp. From a distance
I hear the same dog start barking again and the noise is maintained
for a further ten minutes until the opportunist visitors have fled.
 At
about four o'clock dawn breaks and in the absence of a cockerel,
the donkey self-appoints the role of alarm clock. The noise rips
me out of the precious little sleep I had attained and defeated,
I decide to get up and take a few pictures of the sleeping camp.
Outside I see Hanim is already in the sheep pen, checking on the
livestock. A quick headcount and she is reassured that the wolves
were unsuccessful; the dogs have earned their keep for another night.
I smile at her and indicate that I'm going for a climb with the
camera and she nods and mutters something I don't understand. When
I'm about a hundred meters from camp and climbing, the dogs spot
me and give chase. Apart from Hanim, the whole camp is asleep. My
mind races; I have about 15 seconds to assess the situation and
act knowing that my life could depend on it. I look for a sizeable
rock to arm myself with but everything is either too large or too
small and the dogs are almost on me. In the nick of time I seize
a suitable projectile and hold it aloft as I stand with my back
to a large outcrop to prevent myself from being surrounded. The
dogs face me barking and snarling but keep a safe distance and I
wonder how long I can hold this defence. But Hanim is alert to the
situation and is on her way, bounding up the stony mountainside
to rescue me from the seething hounds. She covers the distance in
a fraction of the time it had taken me and cuts a formidable figure
as she hurls a rock at the nearest dog. I'm forgotten as they drop
their tails and try to avoid their hissing and cussing master. As
the dogs run obediently back to camp, Hanim ushers me on my way
and turns to follow them, forgetting me just as quickly.
 For
the next couple of hours from my elevated position, as the sun rises
from behind Ararat I watch the mountain's shadow retreat across
the land below. Moorland birds flit around me among the nearby rocks
and pay me little regard, while slowly the camp stirs to life. When
two of the boys lead the sheep from the pen and towards me for the
day's pasture, I take the opportunity to return amidst the activity
and elude the dogs and another confrontation.
Breakfast is not a social
meal like supper and I'm given flatbread and yurt to eat on my own,
although Elif and Derya are quick to join me; Aysegul is sleeping
in, which is the source of some amusement as I was the one expected
to rise late.
There is much to do in
the camp today, as more sheep are being herded up the mountain to
join the already large flock. Before they arrive, the sheep that
are already here need to be shorn; Memet and Derya's mother Naide
will take care of that and will start as soon as the children are
fed.
 I
join the group in the sheep pen and photograph them while they work.
It's an unhurried affair, punctuated by frequent tea breaks and
it's not until late morning that Memet pins down the last sheep
and relieves it of its woolly coat using a lethal looking pair of
18 inch shearing blades. The girls are on hand to bag up the wool
and finish off by sweeping up the sheep pellets with a small brush.
When I look at the people
as they work and play, they look happy enough on the surface, but
I know there are deep concerns throughout the entire Jelali community.
High levels of sodium fluoride exist in the water that flows from
Mount Ararat; water that thousands of people depend on for drinking,
the Hasasori included. Highly toxic, in any great quantity sodium
fluoride destroys tooth enamel, shortens life span and promotes
various cancers. There doesn't appear to be any solution to the
problem forthcoming and many would argue that it's not in the Turkish
government's interest to afford any priority to it. After all, what
better way is there to subject the oppressed Kurdish population
to more torment and misery? Now a Swiss scientist and a local student
are working hard to pressure the government to act, and a glimmer
of hope lies on the horizon. In the meantime the Hasasori and many
like them will continue to rely on the mountain streams as their
only source of drinking water. 
During my time with the family at the summer camp, I realise that
there is little or no conversation about the world outside of their
immediate community and I wonder if this is the result of a lack
of knowledge or lack of interest. The next time we are all together,
I ask how they feel about the current unrest in Iraq, just a few
hundred miles to the south. The response is not what I expected
as suddenly four of the women start shouting and waving their hands
in animated debate. Aysegul smiles and explains: The war in Iraq
means little to the Jelali as their lifestyle results in very effective
isolation from outside influence. However, they're very aware of
the hostilities and feel nothing but anger towards Bush and Blair,
firmly believing that the Americans and the English have their own
agenda in the Gulf, which has little to do with the interests of
the local populace. I venture that it could mean a better future
for the Kurds, but they highly sceptical and in any case dismiss
that possibility as largely irrelevant to their existence.
 When
the time comes for me to leave Hanim and her family, they all come
to see me off and wish me well. They invite me to return whenever
I like and ask that I bring some photographs of my family; I promise
to do so. As Aysegul and I begin our trek down the mountain I look
to see if young Özdem is watching us go but she's nowhere to
be seen; I guess there will be no mountain climbers passing this
way today.
I wonder what the future has in store for the Hasasori and the other
nomads of Ararat. Tradition is well preserved up here at 7000ft
but modernisation is spreading across the land below and is never
far away. When I return, maybe Elif and Derya will be hidden behind
veils and forbidden from talking to me, Yusuf will undoubtedly be
leading the sheep to pasture each day and perhaps Mehmet will have
ascended to authority.
The history of the Jelali
has been troubled and arduous; there's every reason to expect the
future will be no different.
Author: Lee Ridley
Contact: editor@fourcornersexplorer.co.uk
http://www.fourcornersexplorer.co.uk
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