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Nov.-Dec. 2004

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DESTINATION: SOUTHERN TURKEY


Sacrifice Holiday in Sanliurfa

It was January in Istanbul, and my English class students were discussing what they were going to do over Kurban Bayram, a week-long holiday during the hajj. I had just committed the imprudent error of sharing my own plans.

"You cannot go to Southeast Turkey, Sarah," Gokce exclaimed. "Maybe you do not know, but they are not Turkish there! They are Kurds. They kill the Turkish peoples, many times! Everybody is having knifes and weapons. They will blow you up."

"They are uneducated," spat Ozlem, another student, "and they live in the mud."

"And," added Murat, his voice dropping, "there are Arabs."

"Also," added Gokce, "it will be crowded in Sanliurfa during Bayram, and it is so far! Maybe you go to Kusadasi instead? Nice Aegean Sea."

The class looked at me with a mix of hope and disapproval, their faces forecasting my imminent demise.

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My students had made dubious claims regarding their homeland before—the Turkish origins of "Ibrahim" Lincoln being my personal favorite—but these prejudices were harder to dispel.

Southeastern Turkey is the feared land of the Kurdish separatists, militaristic Turks and separatist Arabs in the Hatay. It is also home to some of the greatest cultural, historical and religious monuments in the world. My heart was set on Sanliurfa and the ancient cities of the southeast that lay beyond it.

So, on a frigid February day, my husband and I boarded an intercity bus for a 19-hour trip that took us over the Anatolian plains, into the Taurus Mountains, across the Euphrates River and, at 3 a.m., to an unlit road in the Mesopotamian desert.

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These were pious and tolerant Muslims, whose shared beliefs overrode the divisions between Kurds, Arabs, Turks, and even Americans.bar

When we stepped out of the bus, I discovered that the mud on the ground came up to my knees. We waded through a parking lot accompanied by an English-speaking Kurdish boy who found a cab to take us to Hotel Ugur, a hotel on the roof of a kebab house that cost $10 USD per night. The outside stank of blood and cumin. Mustafa, the hotel's friendly owner, brought us to our double occupancy room, equipped with heat and a Western toilet—both relative luxuries—where we immediately fell asleep, uncertain of what awaited us the next day.

Much closer to Syria and Iraq than Istanbul, Sanliurfa means different things to different people.

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