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 With
the PKK
Author: Lee Ridley
Posted: 27 May, 2004
In a region dominated
by the vast turquoise waters of Lake Van, the southeast corner of
Turkey is a land of contrasts: From the lofty barren mountains to
the broad green valleys; from the grey, noisy, urban sprawl of towns
such as Van, Dogubeyazit and Hakkari to the scenic fields of wind
swept grass just minutes out of town, and from the decorative apartment
blocks and towering mosques to the simple mud brick villages, there's
plenty here to capture the imagination of everybody including the
wide-eyed tourist who's desperately trying to dodge the carpet sellers
or the hardened backpacker, en route to northern Iraq or Armenia
and Azerbaijan.
With something like 90%
of the local population being comprised of the much-maligned Kurdish
folk, there's an undercurrent of tension wherever you go. As if
Kurds and Turks alike are regarding you through suspicious eyes,
lest you are a government plant or PKK sympathiser. Who can blame
them? Why else would a tourist want to come here?
I thought I'd go and
see for myself.
Kava is an enterprising
Kurd who runs a small carpet shop and tourist services from his
humble premises down a back street in Van. I first met him when
I travelled there in 2001 and stayed in his uncle's hotel. He's
about 34 years old, confident, and speaks fluent Turkish and Kurmanji.
He also speaks very passable English and Italian; languages he says
are essential if he is to survive in the dog-eat-dog world of Kurdish
tourism. I wasn't interested in buying carpets, but quickly built
a rapport with Kava, recognising that he could be a very useful
contact to discovering the more interesting aspects of Turkish Kurdistan.
We spent a couple of
days touring the area in his ageing Toyota, in which time I made
it clear that although the historical churches and Armenian ruins
were very interesting, I was far more keen to get an insight into
the heart of the Kurdish culture and so, the next morning, after
a simple breakfast of bread and cheese, we hopped back into his
car and headed south out of Van on the road to Hakkari.
After a while, we passed
wide flat fields of wind-blown grass, stretching away to the nearby
mountains. We cleared the inevitable, occasional military checkpoints,
and headed up a deserted mountain road. Weaving around the bends
slowly, always climbing, Kava was in high spirits and subjected
me to his deafening Kurdish folk music on the stereo, which he proudly
sang along to.
A small trail to the
side of the road, between a couple of large rocks barely registered
with me as we motored past, but it was enough for my singing driver
to hit the brakes, reverse a short distance and go off-road.
 Derabasi
is a very typical Kurdish mountain village: Nestling among the foothills
of the northern Zagros Mountains, the village is one of about thirty
mud-brick homes representative of the thousands of such settlements
that dot the mountain sides and valleys throughout this region.
Hidden from view from the road, it wasn't clear where we were headed,
until we reached the top of a slight rise and the village came into
view. As we slowed to negotiate the rough track, a crowd of young
boys appeared and surrounded the car, threatening to pelt us with
rocks; not the kind of greeting I was expecting, but understandable
given the feudal lifestyle that underpins the very social structure
of these mountain villages. Outsiders will always be treated with
suspicion.
We faced the boys silently
until an old man wandered up and spoke to Kava through his open
window. A few spoken words and the crowd parted as we drove ahead.
With the outer-perimeter security breached, all we now had to contend
with were chickens, dogs and excited children. We drove to the end
of the track and parked up between two derelict looking homesteads.
On an average working
day in a Kurdish mountain village, there are very few adult men
to be seen, as they are mostly out working in the fields, tending
to the crops or the livestock. In the village, the women are washing,
cooking and tending to the children whilst the children in question
are either in school or helping around the house with their mothers
and older sisters. We arrived in the early afternoon, not long after
school had finished for the day (schools finish at 13:00hrs) and
very quickly found ourselves being followed around the village by
an ever-increasing mob of excited boys and girls. There had been
a wedding that morning and although the ceremony and subsequent
festivities were over, there were still a large number of visiting
family members present.
A young man in his late
teens, wearing a black leather jacket approached us and spoke with
Kava.
"He says you are
invited to his house for lunch" said Kava.
"Welcome" added
the young man, and pointed in the direction of his house.
Inside the house we were
asked to remove our shoes and led into the main living room where
we sat on the decorative floor mats. A dozen or so of the excited
children were permitted to join us along with the older family members,
while the remaining mob, crowded around the windows outside, pressing
their faces against the glass and blocking out most of the sunlight.
Foreign visitors were evidently a rarity in these parts.
 The
man introduced himself as Ferat and as his sister, Zubeyde disappeared
into the kitchen to rustle up a spot of lunch for us, I studied
my humble surroundings. Almost devoid of furniture, the main feature
of the room was a sideboard that was home to a small stereo system
and a widescreen TV. Not so humble.
The main topic of conversation
turned quickly to English language and suddenly I had half a dozen
schoolbooks thrust in my face. As I went through the basics of numbering
and the most rudimentary vocabulary with the undivided attention
of all in the room, Zubeyde produced a fine spread of tea, eggs,
tomatoes, cheese, cucumber, yoghurt and bread, which she laid on
a large platter in the middle of the floor.
Unblinking eyes regarded
me as I started to eat, and then everyone else joined in, seemingly
satisfied that the eating habits of foreigners weren't all that
different from their own.
We stayed with Ferat
and Zubeyde for about an hour and then graciously bid our farewells
and returned to the car. A crowd of about 30 children chased us
noisily all the way down to the mountain road.
I didn't see Kava for
two years after that, but when I called to say I was returning,
he was there to meet me at Van airport. Business hadn't been good
since 9/11 as tourism in the region had dwindled to an all time
low and passing trade in the carpet business was sparse to say the
least. However, business in other areas was thriving and Kava and
his wife and two sons were living comfortably.
For three days, I whiled
away the hours in the carpet shop, watching people come and go and
brushing up on my Kurmanji. Kava and I made frequent visits around
town and outlying villages, wherever there was a sniff of tourists.
He clearly knew a lot of people and I wondered, not for the first
time, what other 'businesses' he was involved in. I began to ask
him more and more probing questions. I was even bold enough to mention
the PKK but as always, he was politely evasive.
I decided a more direct
approach may produce results and told Kava I'd like to be introduced
to the "workers" if he knew anyone that might be able
to arrange it, but he just said that would be far too dangerous
and they'd most likely rob me and shoot me. I didn't believe it,
but felt it unwise to be too pushy.
As the days slipped by,
Kava grew aware of how frustrated I was getting at not making any
headway.
"I have an idea",
he said on the afternoon of the fifth day.
"Tomorrow, we're
going to take a drive to the north". "I have a friend
you should meet"
Murat was a tall, solid
build, intimidating man, with short-cropped hair and a big smile.
He made me wary. When we first arrived at his restaurant, Kava and
Murat disappeared for a chat and I was left to drink tea with three
young, attractive girls who were also visiting. Eventually Kava
returned and told me he was going to drive back to Van, but I should
stay, and Murat would take good care of me. We bade our farewells
and Kava left.
Murat fixed me with an
intense gaze, studied me for a moment before smiling broadly and
said,
"Come, let's talk."
 And
so we talked, mostly him asking questions about my family, and me
but also offering information on his own background. It came somewhat
as a surprise when his tone became more serious and he asked if
I would agree to become his brother. I chose my words very carefully:
"Why do you want
me to be your brother", I asked, "you don't really know
me".
"Kava has talked
to me about you. I trust him; I trust you", he replied.
"I had three brothers", he continued, "Two of them
were shot, fighting for the PKK. Now, the other is in jail for the
same reason."
"You are with the
PKK?" I asked, quietly.
"Everybody here
is" said Murat. My eyes followed his around the room, taking
in the handful of restaurant staff.
Murat called over Ficat,
a tall, Arabic looking man and said something in Kurdish. A few
seconds later, Ficat returned clutching a Kalshnikov assault-rifle
and receiving a small nod from Murat, handed it to me. I checked
it over; unhooking the banana shaped clip, and seeing that it wasn't
empty, I reattached it and unfolded the gunmetal shoulder rest.
"Can we take it
outside for a little sport?" I asked, giving Murat a sly smile.
"Unfortunately,
no", he said, "It'll bring the military running".
I handed the AK back
to Ficat and he spoke a few words to Murat before spiriting the
weapon away. Ficat was a grim looking man, who hardly spoke a word.
I thought to myself "he's one to watch".
We drunk a lot that evening
and talked. I asked Murat for his views on the horrific stories
we hear about the PKK, the allegations of the mindless execution
of countless schoolteachers, tourist kidnappings and extensive bombing
campaigns. He replied that it was mostly misinformation spread by
the Turkish media to fuel anti-PKK sentiment. It's no great secret
that Kurdish newspapers and radio stations are a bit thin on the
ground and so there remains little that the Kurdish Workers Party
can do to counter the propaganda that so effectively reaches the
listening world.
"So are you saying
the teachers weren't killed then?" I asked.
"Yes, they were
killed" he said, "but they were working for the government
as spies. We know that." "The Turkish government want
you to believe that we will kill innocent people, but that's not
the truth".
I had a whole raft of
questions for Murat, and he certainly seemed happy to answer them.
However, the three girls I had met earlier joined us and the conversation
immediately changed to less clandestine matters.
As the beer flowed we
began taking it in turns to sing songs around the table, and outside
the sun set behind the distant mountains. Eventually, after numerous
songs and countless beers, Murat tried to say something to me in
slurred broken English but only succeeded in passing out with his
chin on my shoulder. Ficat and I help him to his room and left him
snoring loud enough to wake the dead. I went to my room and crashed
out fully clothed with my desert boots still on.
The following morning
I was woken by Murat's beaming face at the window. Considering my
pounding head, he seemed remarkably, (annoyingly) lively and when
I opened the door he bounded in and said,
"Come. We leave in 20 minutes".
I didn't know where we
were going but when Ficat clambered into the back of the car with
me and Murat leant over and handed him a Browning pistol, I began
to think I may have learned too much the evening before. Visions
of a hastily dug grave half an hour outside of town occupied my
mind and I had to remind myself that Kava had introduced me to these
people and he at least I knew I could trust.
 As
things turned out, we just took a drive into town to drink tea and
try to make contact with family members of the nomads who live on
the slopes of Mount Ararat. Murat had previously suggested that
I might want to spend time with the nomads and I had responded favourably
to the idea. That was enough for him to set the wheels in motion,
even though I may have completely forgotten the conversation. That,
of course is another story.
Unfortunately, time ran
out for me in East Turkey and I had to fly back to the UK, but shortly
before I departed, Murat took me to have lunch with his parents
at their place down a leafy back street in the centre of town. We
ate bread and cheese and drank tea before it was time for me race
to catch the bus. Ficat drove me the short distance to the bus terminal
and bade me farewell with the customary kiss on both cheeks. As
the local mosque sounded the afternoon aazzaan (call-to-prayer),
I climbed into the minibus and we rolled of down the baking hot,
dusty high street. Ficat waved, smiling his yellow-toothed smile.
He still never spoke a word to me though.
Author: Lee Ridley
Contact: editor@polosbastards.com
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