Hospitality of strangers

I'm finding it hard to keep up, working again full time and trying to spend as much time enjoying the city and the people as possible. I often don't have a chance to write, even in my little journal (thanx MC!). But I have to relate my most recent adventure. Ziad, my friend who picked me up my first day, asked me to join him and his wife at her cousin's for dinner last night. They picked me up again, and we drove a short ways into the main part of the city. The houses in the newer parts of Aleppo are often large stone buildings, beautifully designed, usually about three stories, with each story belonging to a different family. Zahar's cousin lives on the second floor with his wife, three of his daughters and one of his sons. An older son and daughter are living in the UK, going to college. They welcomed me graciously, and we proceeded to practice each others languages; they would ask me questions in English, I would attempt to answer with Arabic. Throughout the evening, Ziad acted as a translator, providing each side with words and giving me a running synopsis of the news we were watching in Arabic.

The food they served was wonderful, as it always is. A salad consisting mostly of carrots and radish, a soup of chickpeas and almonds in a creamy white sauce also made of chickpeas I think, and a dish I think was called hamil, though I may be mistaken. The last are something I've had multiple times, and they consist of rice and meat fried inside a breaded shell. These were arguably the best I've had to date, however, and included bits of walnuts. When the food was served, the father, Abu-Abuti, moved to my couch and sat next to me. His name, or rather his traditional nickname, means "father of Abuti", his oldest son. He pushed me to eat more and more, gesturing from his heart, to his stomach, and hugging himself while saying "how much you eat, how much you love." By this he meant that how much I ate was a show of how much I liked his family. I liked them very much, and the next morning, I still feel full.

After the meal, the daughters disappeared, and returned carrying water pipes (hubblebubbles is how they refer to them, though the traditional name is narghile or hookah). Like dinner my first night, these were grape flavored, and we spent the next couple of hours sharing the pipes and watching the news. When I commented on what my mother would think of the pipes, someone brought out a camera and Ziad took pictures for me to show her. We ended up taking pictures of much of the family, and the extravagant plates of fruit they brought out for dessert. One of the daughters, Alaa, set up a voice chat on the computer with their brother in the UK, and I talked to him for a while. They showed me family pictures, of the siblings living in the UK, and of a family trip the rest had taken recently to Palmyra. Palmyra is an ancient Roman city and one of the most famous sites in Syria. I plan to visit there myself.

At some point in the evening, I was presented with a beautiful pink rose from Abu-Abuti's garden, and when we left, Alaa presented me with a parting gift. They insisted I have to come back again, and I hope to do so. Back at my room, I checked out my gift. It consisted of a small box of rose shaped candles, and a small shiny silver and blue treasure chest wrapped in a pink bow. The box contained a silver bracelet and a necklace of silver and blue beads, which I'm wearing now. :) I'll get the rest of the pictures from Ziad soon, but he sent me this one by email this morning.

Buses, religion and politics

So another story. Sunday was my first day at ICARDA. I was given an office, a phone, and Amor is arranging all the meetings for me. I spent the day alternately reading papers (mostly Ed's and Olivier's) and shadowing Amor. ICARDA is about 40km southwest of Haleb, an I was brought by shuttle in the morning, and told I would return the same way. However, when I went to meet the shuttle at 3:15, there were multiple buses and I realized I didn't know which to take. I asked someone, he pointed, and I hopped on. I quickly realized none of these people had been on my shuttle in the morning, and assumed I had picked the wrong one, however it was heading to Haleb, so I figured I'd just hop off somewhere, do my shopping, and take a taxi back to the guest house. However, the driver and passengers realized I was on the wrong bus, since none of them knew me, and asked me where I was going, smiling slightly at my response. I explained that I knew I had taken the wrong shuttle, but that I was planning to shop and take a taxi back, and knew the city well enough.

One woman suggested I get off at her stop, so I did, and she invited me to her home. In the US, this would probably seem weird, but it's rather common behavior in the Middle East, though I'd be wary of going with a man I didn't know, more for image it would give than for safety. As we walked up the stairs to her apartment she explained that she was an only child (in her forties or fifties) and lived with her elderly mother. She offered me lunch, and having not expected company the food was set up in the kitchen, whereas guests would usually be entertained in the living room, and she asked if I minded. Of course I did not, and we sat at a small table in a small kitchen and ate a wonderfully simple meal of boiled wheat, lamb salami, and something similar spinach wrapped around rice and meat with a yogurt sauce spiced with garlic and peppermint. Over lunch we talked about where I was from and what I was doing in Syria, why I had wanted to travel to the Middle East. Though fluent in English, it was not her first language so when she asked, "Why would you want to come here?" it was not meant with the negative insinuation it seems to carry in writing. The paradox of the statement and her intent made me laugh.

I told her about the religions class I'd taken, about how the Christian students had responded so poorly when their religion was talked about, the ugly histories, when they had sat avidly taking notes during the discussions of Jewish and Muslim atrocities. She opened the conversation to politics and religion, so I felt comfortable telling her these things, and explained that there is so little cultural diversity in Montana that I wanted to see for myself and be able to tell people when I returned. We sat in the living room with coffee (Turkish coffee, ironically, which I never drank in Turkey) for another hour, talking about Syrian culture and the republic, America, and Israel. Yes, I know, tender topics everyone tells me, yet I find people very willing to discuss them, rationally and intellectually. She stressed how much equality the different religious groups had in Syria, how much everyone loved the president, Bashar Assad, and how a good dictator was much better than the alternative of life under a extremist group, the only alternative she sees.

Bashar Assad, the second son of the late president, was elected by an almost unanimous vote upon his father's death. There is only one party here, and the presidency is expected to be passed on in the ruling family. From what I know of his regime, I have to admit, a dictator he may be but he seems to be doing only good things. As Ziad stressed at dinner the first night, he takes care of his country from the inside and that makes him a good leader. Bashar Assad had taken many steps towards modernizing the country, and has attempted to forge better relations with the US and UN, but his gestures have often had less than friendly receptions. He was quoted as saying, about a year ago, that Syrian/American relations could not improve until there was a change in American leadership.

My host brought up the even more sensitive issue of Israel, and how much she wished to see Jerusalem, but her nationality forbid it. Anyone holding a passport from a Muslim country is not allowed to enter Israel, as they do not officially recognize its sovereignty. As a Christian, this is difficult for her, and she cherishes the cross pendant and wooden crucifix given to her by a foreign friend who visited the country. She told me that, as I had predicted, the image of our president was more important to Syrians than the actual person of the president-elect. That American elected a black man said a lot to the world, and she asked me to clarify that he is not Muslim, not out of any negative thoughts towards Muslims but simply in an informative sense. "If he had been Muslim?" she asks. "We would not have elected him," I replied. Her blunt conversation deserved a blunt and honest answer, and I felt comfortable with her.

We talked then of how in much of America, due mostly to mass media, the only time we ever hear the word Muslim is in connection with words like terrorist, car bombing, jihad, mujaheddin, martyr. The definition of these words are in themselves skewed in our views. I explained that most people don't even understand the true meaning of jihad (to struggle for your faith, not offensive holy war) and mujaheddin (those who struggle, not holy warriors). Here I was disappointed to find that either I'm wrong myself, though my understanding comes from multiple reliable sources, or that this misunderstanding is not unique to Americans. I lean towards the later and I was saddened at this. It seemed to contradict her earlier comments on the equality of the religions. One moment insisting that they were Syrians first, and Jews or Christians or Muslims second; the next insisting that Koran promoted holy war, offensive tactics, and killing. I no longer felt comfortable in pointing out to her that the bible has similar passages and that her own religion has a bloody history. I felt like I was sitting in Cohen's religions class again, watching five students walk out mid-class while many more scowled in their seats.

Saftypins Borders and Food

Syria, finally. I arrived in Haleb (Aleppo), Syria, on Thursday, the 20th of November. I crossed the border by bus from my temporary hideout in Antakya, Turkey. The border crossing went relatively easily, well I suppose I'm not sure what to compare it to, but I wasn't interrogated or anything. My lack of even conversational Arabic (I'm learning!) required the assistance of one of the bus attendants who lead me around the immigrations office and handed my passport to the right people. He took me into an office where a large Syrian officer was on the phone, the three stars on his sleeve held on with a safety pin. The man took my passport, set it on his desk, gestured me to a seat, and continued about his business as if I hadn't arrived. Someone brought tea, passed through a window between the office and the immigrations desk, and the woman sitting across from me smiled at me when we both sipped the too hot drink and flinched simultaneously. I killed time trying to read every bit of Arabic I could spy in the room, able to pronounce most of it uncomprehendingly. I smiled when I read the word "Haleb" and "Palmarya", a famous ruined city in central Syria.

After about fifteen minutes and much discussion between my bus attendant/guardian and the safety pin officer, we were sent to the desk again, where the man looked up my passport while slapping away a few insistant house flies. He handed it back and sent us to the bank where I payed an entry fee of 16 USD. We were sent once more to the desk where my passport was finally stamped, and then curiously (and to my discomfort and annoyance) the man wrote inside the cover of my passport in pen some Arabic letters and numbers I've been unable to comprehend. No one else seemed to think this was strange, however. The stamp said only 15 days, but as I didn't yet know my plans, this was fine. I was met at the bus station by Ziad, a very nice local man who works with ICARDA. He drove me around town (city of 4 million) pointing out sites, picked up lunch for me, then drove me to the ICARDA guest house where I've been staying and will remain a few more days. The lunch was wonderful, the room is extravagant after spending months in hostels and tiny simple hotel rooms. The bathroom (hammam) is about the size of my bedroom back in Bozeman. The only downside is that my only internet access is by dialup connection on an aging computer downstairs.

Ziad returned that evening and he and his wife took me to dinner. He ordered nine dishes so that I could try as much as possible, and also water pipes with grape leaves to smoke. I've never smoked, but he assured me there was no substance in it, just flavor, so I tried it gladly and quite enjoyed the scent. The food was almost entirely unusual to me, with the exception of shish kebab chicken and fries. The most unique dishes were the eggplants stuffed with rice and soaked in a pomegranate sauce, and a dish of raw lamb meat mixed with wheat flour. Both were actually quite good.

The next day I headed out shopping, well wandering, taking a taxi from the guest house. I had assumed, wrongly, a taxi driver would know the word "University" to get me home, and only later realized that reading the Arabic word from the University signs would probably have helped. I finally returned home after the driver asked a friend for directions, and was met by Amor, the man who has organized all this for me. He had just returned from Turkey, and laughed to find out I was out exploring already. Over tea we talked about family (he has a daughter my age named Sonya going to school in Missoula), and what I would be doing in Syria, and my future plans for grad school. He has spent the last couple of days showing me around, introducing me to dozens of people, and has twice taken me to dinner at a family friends house. Amalie, his close friends mother, and her granddaughter Tamar (who is from Montana but moved to Syria to learn her heritage and the languages) are wonderful. Amalie cooks simple succulent dishes vicariously through her attendant as her mobility is limited, and has a dry sense of humor, a stubborn will, and wanders back and forth between English, Armenian, and Arabic. Tamar, like me, is learning Arabic. She speaks more of it, whereas I read more, and we both follow the gist of the conversation between Amor and Amalie, though often Amor plays the translator.

I have vague plans now for my time in Syria, which will probably be til at least the new year. This morning I signed a visitor's contract allowing me to stay til the 19th of January, though that can be extended. I'll be giving a seminar next Sunday (they have Fri/Sat weekends), and assisting in a couple projects while meeting and talking with various grad students and scientists. I have a couple more stories to relay, but this is already a book, so I'll delay. Besides, I have "work" to get back to. And yes, I know, post pictures. I will, haven't taken many yet.

Illumination

So I woke up this morning, in my hotel in Antakya (no hostels in this part of Turkey), to find that the power was out. No big deal, I had my traditional Turkish breakfast of fresh veggies, olives, cheese, bread and an egg served with a cup of cay, and figured I'd wander around a bit til the power came back on. I needed to use my computer to study Arabic and put together some slides for presentations I'll be giving in Syria next week, but I was hesitant to run down the battery with an indefinite power outage. For the most part, the city was normal in the midst of a black-out. A few shops had generators, but most made due in the dark, women shopping for clothing and having to try items on in near darkness, the bazaars running completely normally, and cashiers reverting to simple cash systems without electronic card readers or cash registers. The restaurants tend to cook on gas and flame, so other than the darkness were not much affected. At first I thought perhaps this was a normal event, turn off the power during mid-day to conserve energy? But alas, come 3pm, the power is still out, I've almost finished my book, I'm bored with shopping, and still not wanting to use up my battery so I decide to take a nap.

I wake up a couple hours later in a dark room, the sun sets around 4:30pm. It suddenly occurs to me that if the power is not coming back on soon, I should probably track down some candles so I can at least keep myself entertained writing and reading, and avoid stubbing my toes. So I head out of my room, escorted down the stairs to the front door by my mini-mag light and the desk clerk, and find the shop a few doors down I'd noticed before. They were selling everything from bits of jewelry and prayer beads to tea glasses and kitchen utensils, and seemed as likely a place as any to find candles. One clerk was checking shelves using a flashlight, and spoke a few words in English but only enough for me to confuse her. Thankfully a second flashlight was set up facing a corner containing candles for 1 lira each (bout 60 cents). I grabbed two, and a pack of lighters I noticed on the side, and pulled my flashlight out of my pocket. I unscrewed it, pulled the battery out, and showed it to the clerk. She nodded and showed me to the check out desk where they handed me a six-pack of duracell batteries, commenting gravely that it was 7 lira. I said that was fine and walked out moments later with 4 lighters, two good sized candles, and a pack of good old American batteries for the high price of about $6.

I was thinking about finding dinner, but wanting to wait a bit longer, so I walked up and down the street, evaluating life in a blackout. As I passed the grocery store, lit up slightly with generators to provide functioning tills and refrigeration, it occurred to me that having no idea how long the blackout would last, it was probably prudent to grab at least some bread and water. I usually keep some with me, but was in need of fresh stocks anyways. So I walked through the store quickly, grabbing a couple bottles of water and a loaf of bread, and just as I walk up to the cash register and set my items down, the lights flicker on. Across the street, the rest of the buildings are lit up like normal, including my hotel. Irony. I walked back into my hotel, and laughing at myself showed the clerk my purchases which elicited a small laugh from his normally gruffy demeanor. Well, they aren't bad supplies to have, so not a total waste of money. And its something to write home about.

As far as a travel update goes, I'm hanging out just north of the Syrian border for about a week, then heading to an international research center there where I'll be giving a couple of seminars on a oilseed crop produced in Montana that would be beneficial and well suited to the region. The research institute has provided my visa to Syria, saving me a decent chunk of cash, and are also providing my room and board while I'm there and will help me set up tours around the country. I'm hoping to also make some research contacts through the facility, which is home to researchers representing about twenty-five countries. In the mean time, my temporary home, Antakya, is the ancient Antioch, and boasts an ancient Church of St. Peter among its treasures. While much smaller than the other cities I've visited, it has a lot more character, and my hotel is pretty well situated in the city center. I even found a few small English book sections in local "kitabevi's." The first stash made me smile; among the handful of mass-market murder mysteries and romances was a couple copies of a Orhan Pamuk novel (famous Turkish author, even well known in the states) and a single copy of "Complete collection of sexual terms and definitions. This last was a slim volume proclaiming to describe various terms related to sexuality, gender, and anatomy so as to remove any confusion and was prescribed for students, teachers, and the general public. Well, with the power back, I suppose I have no excuse now not to get to work... except, I haven't eaten in a while... after dinner will be soon enough. :)

Modern cavemen (and women)

Goreme. Small village in the Cappidocia (Kapidokya) region of Turkey, south of the capital city of Ankara. I took the train overnight from Istanbul to Ankara, and a bus from Ankara to Goreme yesterday. All in all, about 12 hours of some of the most comfortable travel yet. The train was probably the nicest I've been on with the exception of the high speed train in France, and very reasonably priced ($12 to get halfway across the country), and the bus came complete with complimentary tea/coffee service en route. I took tea the first time around and was reminded that tea from a bag can't compare to the wonderful double boil system that is traditional for Turkish cay. So the second time the drinks were offered I figured I'd try the up and coming new Turkish national drink... Nescafe. Seriously. And to make things simple, they provide your "coffee" in 3in1 pack that contains a powder mixture of coffee, sugar, and cream which is actually 67% sugar.

The bus actually took me to Nevsheir, a few kilometers away from Goreme, and I was instructed to switch buses. The second bus took me to Urgup, a few kilometers on the other side of Goreme, and after discovering i was in the wrong town and hour later, a third local bus finally took me into Goreme. I wandered around the town and quickly discovered why they didn't bother giving directions for the hostel. The village is laid out in a bunch of small paths, barely big enough for a vehicle, winding up the hills around the valley and there are no real street names and while buildings have number, this is only for appearences. Even with my pack, the hour or so I wandered was interesting and comfortable. Many of the buildings were either closed off with bricks or falling apart, or under construction, but there were hostels and hotels around every corner and house made of carved stone or built into the spires and cliff sides. The hostels and hotels are not even recognizable, in a western sense, as hostels. They often are small simple dwellings with only signs outside to signify their purpose, and the signs hold an antique look about them as do the sun-faded advertisements; the reminants of a past tourist boom.

The history of the region is unclear the but references to the people who lived here date back at to least 400 BC. They also had many underground cities which I'm going to look into visiting, some of which housed upwards of 50,000 people for months at a time and were used by early Christians while hiding from persecution and raids.

My room in the hostel hosts ten beds in a cave cut into the rock, and while the ceilings are lower than a normal western room, its comfortably roomy. I picked a bed in the back corner and slept comfortably last night with an extra blanket stolen from an unused bed. Its definately autumn here, chilly, but not quite cold enough to warrant my winter coat I bought in Amsterdam. I ventured out this morning wearing my underarmor shirt and a light jacket and leggings under my pants. A couple hours later I was grateful for the choice in clothing as I found myself hiking through the caves and cliffs outside town. At first I just climbed around easily in the abandoned cave homes, and eventually found myself without a footpath to follow. So I jumped/slid down from upper level area I'd been taking panoramic shots from, and wandered through a couple tomato plots farmed by the locals with horse and plow (and occasionally small old tractors). Eventually I found a simple dirt road and started walking back towards town, vaguely. Then the road became a path, and then a trail, and next thing I knew I was walking through a dry riverbed between cave walls reaching about 20m over my head, following an almost invisible trail and a few footprints in the dust. Some areas got a little narrow, and I had to squeeze past a boulder at one point, and some areas where the water would have fallen in small waterfalls required climbing up. These had small hand/footholes carved into the stone around them, so it was no feat, but still facinating. I had no way to know if the handholds were a year old or a thousand, and the view if autumn treeds with falling orange leaves drifting around me was breathtaking.

When I made it back to the stone road into town, I was probably about 2 miles away, and stopped to eat at a tourist place en route. After a simple and cheap meal (bout $2.50) of Turkish ravioli with a light tomato sauce and yogurt on the side, I headed back to town and sat on a hill above town reading in the sunshine, watching children play in the street below me. After a simply beautiful sunset I wandered back to the hostel and along the way was greeted by a small boy, maybe three years old, who ran up to me grinning and hugged me, arms thrown around my knees. I smiled, said hi, and he ran away only to come back and do it again. I took a picture of him, playfully throwing a rock at me a few minutes later, but this computer is not so conducive to uploading pictures and an impatient Spanish speaking woman is waiting to use the computer. I'll post some pictures when I get internet on my own computer, tomorrow maybe. I'm not sure where to go from here, still got some time to kill. Looking at couchsurfing in Adana, near the Syrian border, or maybe another hostel there. At least it will be warmer, only bout 50F here, should be about 75F in Adana all week.

Arrogance and humility

On this hugely political day, I've been debating whether to post or not. I'd be lying if I said I had no interest in politics, especially in the Middle East. As some know, this is actually much of the reason I'm here. I want to see for myself what life is like in this region we know only through the lens of the mass media. At the same time, I want to focus more on the culture than on the day-to-day political bickering. However, I feel I must make some comments.

I'm listening to a program called Mosaic: World News from the Middle East. This is a podcast put out by Link TV which collects and translates news broadcasts from local and state news programs in the Mid East, including Israel. I highly recommend it. This particular issue is mainly concerned with the results of the American elections, which at the time it was posted had not been decided. If I was surprised by the novel enthusiasm for politics I've seen in the states the last year or so, I'm even more pleasantly surprised with the enthusiasm I've found abroad. I knew our elections would draw attention around the world, and I expected it to be hopeful, but the intensity of the hope, the readiness of the world to open up to America again with a change of leadership has given me new faith in a better day.

In Iran, according to this newscast, they are remembering the day of the storming of the US Embassy 29 years ago, which they call the "day of countering arrogance." Muslims make a practice of humility; it is a tenant of their faith and a way of life. Americans have often had a tendency to see ourselves as better than the rest of the world because of our technological and industrial advances. As a "superpower" we see it as our duty to share the gift of democracy with the rest of the world, even when it may be an unwanted gift. While well intended, this very idea shows our arrogance, our lack of respect for the people we are trying to help. On multiple occasions we have forced democracy on the world while acting as an empire; such as the recent debacle in which we crossed Syrian airspace uninvited. We make the rules, so we have no need to follow them.

President-elect Barack Obama has revived something long dormant in America, a sense of people, a sense of humility, and the desire to have a better world. That better world starts with being informed. I started out on this journey to learn about the peoples of the Middle East. I find, more than anything, I'm learning much about myself and my people. I've never used that phrase before... my people. Much like Michelle Obama, I've never been very proud of my country until recently. I hope she goes down in history, favorably, for that quote, for it is true of so many of us and I respect her for having said it out loud when the rest of us only whispered it to each other over coffee.

So get up, check out the news, see the world around you as it is. Read between the lines, learn a bit of history about the world, who we are, how we've developed as a world. I dare you to name 10 heads of state, 25 countries. Can you pick out Iraq or Burma on a map or describe to me the difference between a Muslim and a Jew? Is there a difference at heart? Think for yourselves, dare to hope, and perhaps there will be better days for us all.

Expat in Istanbul

I guess I'm finally doing it, really living outside the states. I mean, throughout Europe I was just a tourist, passing through quickly; picture here and dinner there. Trying to get a taste for each city, each country in a matter of hours. But no where felt like home, felt real. I was taking pictures of postcards, not living the sights myself. I've been in Istanbul now for five days, the longest I've been in any one place since I left home. I've already fallen into a bit of a routine consisting of waking up earlier than I used to, eating a breakfast of fresh fruit and veggies, spending my day however I wish, often involving a cup of chai (like back home!) and a doner kebap (lamb skimmed off a spit and rolled in bread with peppers/tomatos and sometimes french fries) and falling asleep exhausted after wandering the city all day or working on my papers and Arabic. My sister used to say (perhaps she still does) that all she needs to be happy is a good book, a hot cup of coffee and a new pair of socks. I've got the book, and cay instead of coffee, negatory on the socks, but I did find a pair of amazing new pants.

Meanwhile, I'm surrounded by an evolving culture, a beautiful people caught between tradition and "modern life." I was somewhat sad to find that Istanbul was not as traditionally Muslim as even my 2 year old travel guide suggested. I haven't had issues being seated next to men in restaurants or public transportation. In fact the metro cars are akin to sardine cans packed to exploding capacity. And while I have gotten some attention for being American and/or a lone female, most of this consists of young men telling me I'm "pretty" as I pass by. There are a few women here and there in burqas (the textbook image of a Muslim woman covered in a shroud), and many wear head scarves, but the majority of Turkish women I've met and seen are modestly dressed in western style clothing. One of the more interesting sights I've been lucky enough to chance across, a hundred men kneeling to pray in a back street, facing Mecca, wearing jeans and suit jackets, their Nike shoes and cell phones waiting on the ground beside them. An American comparison just doesn't exist.

A high percentage of Turks speak at least basic English and almost every bookstore I've found has had at least a fair selection of English language books. However after searching about twenty new book stores and a collection of small used shops I've yet to find an English/Arabic dictionary, excepting two that weren't quite what I wanted. One was an English/Arabic/Turkish dictionary, which while intriguing and cheap was badly designed and lacked prounounciations. The other was exactly what I want in content, but was about four inches thick, hard bound, and weighed probably ten pounds. Not the best for backpacking.

The city itself is intriguing, modern and ancient combine so beautifully and often in an artistic sort of clash that I can't help but smile. Three hundred year old mosques form the backdrop to Burger King and cell phone shops. The covered network of shops called the grand bazaar, home to 6000 shops and hundreds of thousands of shoppers daiy, is only a block away from one of the main tram stops. Sitting in an metro coffee shop, the call to prayer can be heard through the window, a lamenting male voice chanting in Arabic. It's no wonder the people themselves often seem caught between their traditions and the modern world that is taking over by storm.

I'm posting a few more pictures of the city in my travel photos, then I'm heading back to Istiklal, the main shopping street in hopes of seeing another protest. The PKK issue has been a hot topic here lately. I chanced across a small demonstration near a monument in Istiklal last night, but didn't have my camera. Listening to the group of about thirty men and women chanting in Turkish, holding pictures of what I can only assume are the martyrs of their cause, I suddenly felt a chill on an otherwise warm night.