Language Identity Culture Common Values
Whether or not you notice it, some names will follow you throughout your life. Kirkuk is one such name. Everyone in Turkey is connected to this city through an emotional bond even though they’ve never been to it. Barzani is another such name to which Kurds in Turkey are connected. Regardless of whether they are aware of it, the name Barzani occupies a central place in the lives of Turkey’s Kurds.
I recall my grandfather and other elderly people in the village secretly listening to radio broadcasts about Molla Mustafa Barzani and his struggle in the early 1970s. Maybe there was no familiarity with the Kurdistan Democratic Party (KDP) of Iraq as a title; however, in the dark days of the 1970s, Barzani represented the heart of an exhausted body that remains alive for the Kurds. In a remote country behind the mountains, some called themselves Kurds and were fighting for the honor of their identity. I felt that my grandfather and the other elderly people in the village were secretly proud of being Kurdish. Then folk songs by Ayşe Şan were broadcast on the radio stations; all old people became close to their Kurdish brothers and sisters in our village, which lacked electricity and was illuminated at night only by starlight. They were proud of being related to them. Just like the radio station they listened to, their emotions made them feel like fugitives. This was the case for the Kurds living in Turkey. Molla Barzani's struggle for Kurdish identity was making life in a country where their existence was ignored bearable. Yes, they were unable to do anything to protect their identity, but some sort of center of attraction was making their life bearable. Most of the Kurds experienced this sense of fugitiveness and the impact of these radio stations.
Back then, having a Kurdish identity was simply equal to living a life that was between existent and absent. It was as if the border dividing the north and the south was drawn along their bodies. The border broke the balance and stopped the circulation of blood. Maybe it was for this reason that we grew up with stories of smuggling, knowing that those who remained on the other side of the border were part of our stories. The best clothes and the best fragrances were left on the other side of the border; they were in Aleppo, Damascus and Baghdad. This was the case even with the songs; radio stations broadcasting on the other side of the border promoted the spirit of Kurdishness, but it was as if those of us who remained on this side of the border had lost our souls.
I, like everyone else who saw Kirkuk, sobbed
Colors represented by clothes such as the flig and the şar as well as the silk left, along with the relatives. We remained trapped under the control and surveillance of the military on this side. Whenever there was a wedding, people became concerned about how to bring colorful traditional and local items and clothes from the other side because we had sent the weavers of these clothes there. What was left on the other side were relatives and life itself. Then mines were laid between us -- maybe because the border drawn between relatives failed to eliminate the bond holding them together, mines were considered a solution. Unfortunately, mines exist today as well.
For a long time, crime and arms crossed the border through which dowries, clothes and other pleasant items had in the past been transported. The border thus became the venue of evil and crime. No one can tell it is not the same now because it was designed as a line of peace, because it was unjust; it was so unjust that it was something that had to be violated when Saddam was driving thousands of Kurds away from their lands. It was not fair; it was not shaped based on the soul of that geography and history. While the Euphrates and Tigris rivers flowed onward, following their natural course, people were not allowed to do the same. Recounting all these stories will fill several lifetimes. All are tragic; all bear a drama and sadness depicting everything from trade to love. These stories are not confined to a commercial relationship -- they encompass a full range of emotions, including unfairness and rage. It is intense -- so intense that it could never be compared to any other border in the entire world. Maybe those stopped at the Halil İbrahim gate are unaware of politics or history, but they feel that what is there is not compatible with the soul of that area. Being greeted by Kurdish officers welcoming Kurds crossing the border with their passports shows that the drawn border is actually nonexistent in daily life.
I crossed that border in the spring of 2007; I was preparing a series for Today's Zaman. As someone who has been to a number of countries before, I realized that my excitement there was about the image of my grandfather leaning on the radio to better hear what was being said. I was going to the country where my grandfather felt he belonged to, the country of those who struggled for a decent life on these mountains, the country under construction, the land of the Kurds. The excitement about getting to know the remote Kurds convinced me to take a slow journey. I had to take the land route. I had to do so to feel the soil and the change in the geography. I left İstanbul to cross through the Halil İbrahim gate. My road mates were a Turkmen and his nephew I met on a flight to Diyarbakir; they were running a business in Arbil. They bought their goods in İstanbul and the nephew also studied in the city. I was excited just like every Kurd who had the opportunity to go to a country whose spiritual bond affects all of us. On the soil where the Kurdistan was used freely, it was exciting for me to witness how Kurds governed themselves. I was interested in the possibility of freedom rather than the possibility of a country.
An image of Kirkuk I had seen years ago was on my mind; I took a road described in a folk song about Kirkuk's prisons. Seeing Kirkuk was like holding open a door to the understanding of what was happening in that area. And that was what happened. Kirkuk was upset. I, like everyone else who saw Kirkuk, sobbed. I spoke with the Kurds who since the 1950s had to leave their homes and returned to their lands only after Saddam Hussein was gone. They told me stories from Baghdad, Mosul and Diyala. They spoke of their connection and bond to Kirkuk. I saw how they hung onto the concrete neighborhoods outside the city. The same commitment to the city was also observable in Arabs who were brought to the city by Saddam. They did not want to go anywhere; everybody there viewed the city as their home.
Kirkuk was poor and fear was visible throughout the city. But it was still the city of the people who speak each other's languages and listen to both the sound of the call to prayer and the church bell. Despite escalated tension, Kurds, Turkmens and Arabs never want to leave. The exile of Kurds from the city did not last long enough and Arabs forcefully settled in the city by Saddam do not want to leave. Fire at oil wells around Kirkuk told of the city's sadness. This sadness did not seem to be ending anytime soon. During the trip, my travel mates spoke to me in the Badini dialect of Kurdish. They told me how much they like İstanbul, how they get along with the Kurds, and how the Kurds, the Turkmens and all others were intertwined in the city. This made me optimistic about this area even before arriving in the city, but it also made me sad. This was something we, the Kurds in Turkey, did not have and enjoy. Turks were unable to speak the language of their brothers, the Kurds. Regardless, we approached the Halil İbrahim gate singing songs in the Kurdish language together with the uncle and his nephew. There was no boundary in their minds. For them, Arbil, Mardin and Diyarbakir were all the same. İstanbul was a dream city for them all.
Is it that easy to separate somebody from others in this city?
I came to Kirkuk out of curiosity. I walked along its streets and through its markets. I felt and experienced the amazement and excitement of the languages and religions existing side by side. I sat through classes for poor students and spoke with the pupils. I experienced the warmth and sincerity of the teachers who speak the Sorani dialect in history class and the Turkmen language in biology class. This showed me that brotherhood is still possible despite painful sufferings in the past. I became optimistic about this soil because what I saw preserved the brotherhood. Maybe they got to know each other while escaping from Saddam's brutality. It did not matter why, though; I envied the administration expending efforts to preserve the plurality present in this great city. The democratic ground created by complex legislation in advanced European democracies already existed here. Who will you take away from whom? Which language from what dialect? Their roots were intertwined -- so intertwined that it was impossible to separate one from the other. The efforts of those who were working to protect this richness and create a suitable system that works for all could not be ignored. Maybe we were far more advanced than them, but we had a lot to learn from them because they were living in pluralism and multiculturalism.
During my stay here, I missed the Turkish language just like I missed Kurdish while in İstanbul. I could not decide which one was home and which was not. We and I were mixed. Everywhere was home and everywhere was abroad; this being the case, I learned how to take a look at the human being. I believe the brotherhood between the Kurds and the Turkmens who fled Saddam's persecution was real. This was an indivisible region. I believe that because it was the mountains that drew the lines between us. The feelings and the folk songs were all the same on both sides of the border. I agree with a statement made by journalist Cengiz Çandar: "We are part of one nation; maybe we do not understand their language, but we are united and we are the same." Just as I find a resemblance between the amount of ingredients they used in their meals and that of my grandmother, I believe the days and the nights will unite us.
İstanbul and Diyarbakir were missing in Arbil just as the Kurdish language and Kirkuk are missing in İstanbul. Just as the Kurds, proud of seeing the flag and map of their fellow brothers, were eager to return from this land to Turkey after fulfilling their desire to see the area, I noticed the same while talking to Rebwar Karim along the magnificent Lake Abant in Turkey. Rebwar said, "I would not trade life in Arbil for anything." That was his city. And an identity is something like that, it is how we feel about ourselves. It is a feeling of our sense of belonging. In this sense, of course, the Turkish language is my home. But I was also connected to those on the other side of the border who were trying to promote their identity even though I had never seen them. This was the case even though I was missing İstanbul when I was in their cities. Somebody from Turkey would feel he belonged to Kirkuk and to the sadness and songs of that city without actually seeing it; this is the case with the Kurds. Of course, there is no mechanical narration of where this sense of belonging takes us, unites us or separates us, but it is our emotions and senses that will keep politics and borders alive and existent. Healing a sick body requires transparency at the border.
What we need is sincerity, not bravery
The Middle East hosts a number of cultures. Our languages may be different, but our time and soil is the same. It is us who will ensure that the Kurdish language integrates with the world in the same way the Turkish language might not survive without the East and the Middle East. For this reason, we have to first honor the word brotherhood. It is now easier to notice the insincerity of those who speak superficially of brotherhood and neighborhood. Those who generated biases between us abandoned not only the Kurds, but the entire set of Middle Eastern values. Iraqi Kurds were excluded from the lives of the elites not only because they were Kurds, but also because they were Iraqis.
Luckily and happily, the belittling attitude of the Turks vis-à-vis the southern Kurds is changing. Turkey, eager to generate a policy embracing the Middle East, is now aware that it cannot do this without the Kurds. We have all witnessed that every decision excluding the southern Kurds made the Kurds in Turkey and the Kurds in Iraq closer. Differences between the Kurds were bridged when it came to common values. It was impossible for Turkey to generate policies humiliating them while Kurds in Turkey were affected by every humiliating remark. Turkey is now set to become the country of truth and facts; its goal is to become the country of truth imposed by life.
For further democratization, southern Kurds need Turkey, but Turkey also needs southern Kurds for the same goal. To this end, an alliance with southern Kurds is pretty important, but the actual source of the problem should not be overlooked. Domestic politics is where to start for such an improvement. Turkey may not become a regional leader in the Middle East without reconciling with its own Kurds. Turkey should first learn how to trust its own Kurds. It needs to be brave in diplomacy, but it also needs to promote confidence.
It is still possible for the Middle East to become an island of peace because the roots of our senses are still fresh. What is needed for this matter is sincerity rather than bravery. When we become that sincere, we will notice that the size and magnitude of the brotherhood will be greater than we expected. Maybe we should start with using brotherhood to overcome the most difficult obstacles because what will revive the forgotten brotherhood is good faith and sincerity rather than power. I hope that this meeting, showing that the border between the north and the south is not endorsed by the hearts, will be the first step of sincerity.
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