Killing time

As tension grows in Turkey's Kurdish southeast, many are wondering if the war in Iraq will shatter the calm that had begun to settle on this troubled region. In Diyarbakir, Nyier Abdou looks at the legacy of almost two decades of civil war

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WAR IN A TIME OF PEACE: Kurdish villagers flash the victory sign during a local wedding. Strong support for the PKK remains in Turkey's southeast

"I'm a Kurd. I don't speak Turkish. Even if I lose my head, I want to say it: I'm a Kurd. I'll never deny who I am."

Being a Kurd has brought a mountain of sorrow for Hatice Tekdag. At 50, she looks far older than her years, her eyes somewhat glassy and vacant, her mouth turned down. In her flat in Baglar, a migrant district of Diyarbakir, Tekdag is attended by her three daughters, but it is the family that is no longer with her that haunts her.

Her husband, Ali, disappeared in 1994, after being taken by the police while the two were walking on the street in Diyarbakir. A member of the Kurdish Political Party HEP, Ali was long suspected by authorities of anti-government activities and supporting the militant nationalist group, the Kurdish Worker's Party (PKK). Amid the heightened tensions of the government's almost two-decade-long guerrilla war with Kurdish separatists, any form of political activity could draw unwanted attention, and Ali was only one of thousands of Kurdish politicals whose activities were tracked.

From 1982 to 1983, Hatice and Ali were visited by the police 19 times. Each time Ali was taken for questioning. Finally, he was arrested, tried and convicted. "He didn't commit any crime," says Hatice, her eyes fixed straight ahead, but focussed on nothing. "His crime was being a Kurd."

Released after five years and six months in prison, Ali took the family to the town of Ergani, some 60 kilometres from Diyarbakir, where he opened a patisserie. Hatice recalls that for more than a year, they lived comfortably. But when the police began to come around again, Ali sent the family back to Diyarbakir and escaped to Izmir.

While Ali drifted from job to job trying to make enough money for his wife and eight children, police visited Hatice regularly, hounding her about Ali's whereabouts. Deciding to take his chances, Ali returned to Diyarbakir. But for those under suspicion, these were dark times. Two family friends, whom Hatice identified as Mehmet and Necati, were taken to court for anti-government activities. When their cases were thrown out for lack of evidence, they were released. Two days later, their bodies were found in the Amber river, near the town of Bismil.

It wasn't long after that Ali was picked up again, on 13 November 1994, this time never to return. When Hatice realised that this time was different -- that this was no mere questioning -- she frantically searched for news, filing requests with police stations. The response was indifference, with officials questioning her story and stating that they had no record of Ali in their care. "I applied everywhere," she says quietly. "But I got the same answer, the same response."

It wasn't until six months later that the news came, by chance. An article in the leftist Kurdish daily Evrensel (Universal) named Ali in a story about a secret service sergeant who revealed the detention and torture practices of his unit.

Hatice is unresponsive as we look at a copy of the article, which describes the death of her husband. After months of torture, his body was burned, his existence erased. On the wall hang pictures of Ali, his brother, Mehmet, and Hatice and Ali's son, Mustafa. Mehmet was shot on the street in Diyarbakir in 1993. The case was never resolved.

Mustafa, who had joined the PKK after his father's disappearance, died at the age of 18 in a shoot-out with the military on 21 March 1995, one month before the Evrensel article came out. His body was never found either. "We had no body, we knew nothing about him," says Hatice. It was more than two years later when his death was finally confirmed, this time when his picture was shown on television on the news.

LEGACY OF ILLS: Today Diyarbakir is not the gritty war zone it once was during the military lock- down that extended across southeastern Turkey for almost 20 years, when sunset curfews were the norm and local villages were not spared the luxury of remaining neutral.

Choosing sides was a roll of the dice. While most locals were sympathetic to the PKK's call for resistance, many feared retaliation by the military for their support. Those who threw in their lot with the military in a bid for safety, however, risked the PKK's sometimes brutal vengeance.

According to Selahattin Demirtas, chairman of the Diyarbakir branch of the Human Rights Association, some 3,688 villages were burned or destroyed in the 15 years of fighting between the military and the PKK. "That's almost all the villages," says Demirtas. "Those that were far from the towns and cities -- almost none are left."

Though the region has been quiet since the cease-fire called by jailed PKK leader Abdullah …calan in 1999, martial law was only lifted late last year. In the last two years, the government has begun to allow people to return to their villages, but because the government offered no monetary compensation, most people cannot afford to rebuild their homes or businesses. "People are just living in tents," says Demirtas. "Most did not go back."

Instead, they stayed in the cities. The population of Diyarbakir in 1990 was around 300,000. Now it exceeds one million. Last month, the government reported that some 50,000 people returned to their villages. "That's a very small number," remarks Demirtas. The Human Rights Association estimates that there are another three million who remain internally displaced.

Those who drift into cities like Diyarbakir are faced with a depressed economy and the profound difficulty of adjusting to urban life. "This is the biggest problem," says Demirtas. "People lose their homes and they move here with absolutely nothing. They leave their fields, they leave everything. They come to the city and they can't find work, they have no access to healthcare, no opportunity to get an education. Maybe they can't eat enough. Out of desperation, some people turn to crime, or even prostitution."

Suicide rates are high among the migrant community. "People who were wealthy, or held high status in their village have become beggars in the city. It's traumatic for them and most people feel they have lost their pride. These problems will continue until a way is found for people to return to their villages."

THAT WAS THEN, THIS IS NOW: Poor living conditions and a sense of helplessness are breeding grounds for dissent, and although the Turkish government and the military have long declared the activities of the PKK -- now known as KADEK (the Kurdish People's Democratic Freedom Party) -- to have been purged from the region, recent events speak otherwise.

Two months ago 12 alleged PKK fighters and two Turkish troops were reported killed in an exchange of fire in the town of Lije, some 60 kilometres from Diyarbakir. In traditionally restive towns like Idil and Sirnak, the PKK is said to remain active and it is evident that the military is hyper-aware of the threat of a PKK resurgence in the region.

In cities like Diyarbakir, where Abdullah …calan remains a symbolic figure of resistance, anti-war demonstrations take on a particularly Kurdish flavour and are put down with swift force. Last month alone more than 1,500 people were arrested at demonstrations, the Human Rights Association reports, and more than 100 of those detained remain in jail today. More than 100 cases of torture during interrogation were filed at the organisation's 11 offices in the region during this period.

In 2002, some 228 torture cases came through the Human Rights Associations' regional offices. Of those, 56 were substantial enough to make it to court, but precious few get further than that.

"It's hard to find judges who are willing to look into the Kurdish problem," says Demirtas. "Most throw the cases out, or delay them indefinitely." If the case does make it into the courtroom, lawyers are hard pressed to produce the hard evidence demanded. "There's no one willing to come forward and say, 'I saw this happen' -- or maybe there was no one to see it in the first place." Often, the person claiming to have been tortured cannot identify the perpetrator, or produce physical evidence of the torture, which would have required a prohibitively expensive trip to the hospital.

Severe intimidation tactics are even harder to bring to court. "People are arrested, bound, isolated, sleep deprived, subjected to loud music -- we consider this intimidation," says Demirtas. "But the judge doesn't accept this charge. It is impossible to prove something like psychological damage under these conditions."

"Of course people are scared that if they file a report, something will happen to them," says Demirtas. In the last 14 years, he says, some 500 people are known to have "disappeared" in Diyarbakir alone. Demirtas says that the city is monitored vigilantly -- it has one of the largest police presences in Turkey -- and, he adds, nonchalantly, surveillance is always assumed. "If a bird flies from one place to another, the police know," he says. Then he smiles.

YOU SAY YOU WANT A REVOLUTION: With the eruption of war in Iraq and the uncertainty engendered in the Kurdish northern territories of Iraq, Turkey's primary concern is gaining fresh assurance that no independent Kurdistan will be declared. In the policy circles of Ankara and Istanbul, there is a potent fear that a potential Kurdish state would encroach Turkey's borders and there is strong internal support to do "whatever is necessary" to keep Turkey's territorial integrity -- even if it means defying the US with a military incursion into northern Iraq.

Obsessive concern that separatist aspirations in the north of Iraq will gain new momentum and seep back into Turkey's southeast has prompted the military to step up security measures in the region -- a move that has locals on edge. Though the region is far from quiet, war-weary locals say they had begun to see moderate improvement in their situation.

Few speak realistically of independence, instead pressing for equal rights and the chance to express Kurdish culture -- something that most Kurds maintain is being categorically erased by Turkey's established desire to forge a unified Turkish identity. But an increased crackdown by the military could quickly change the mood here.

Earlier this month a man identified by the police as a Kurdish militant of Syrian origin shot himself to avoid capture at the Iraqi border, near Habur gate, and another man was apprehended. The incident re-ignited speculation that the uneasy peace that has prevailed in the region since 1999 is more fragile than secure. The initial report was that there had been a suicide bombing -- a story that probably grew out of rumours circulating for weeks now that dozens of PKK fighters had infiltrated the region and were planning suicide attacks in Diyarbakir and Silopi.

"This war is extremely dangerous for Kurds in this region," says Demirtas. "There's a real risk that it could create new problems here." Speaking of the devastating impact of 15 years of violence in the region, Demirtas remarks, "It was all supposed to be about Kurdish rights. The reality is, after all those years of fighting, there is still no solution to the Kurdish problem here. Before the war, there was hope it could be resolved by political means. Now, because of the war, there's a risk that we could slide back into another confrontation."

THE PRICE OF RESISTANCE: The café of the Kurdish cultural centre in Diyarbakir is packed on a Sunday afternoon. The small courtyard, hidden deep inside a narrow alleyway, is diffused with late-day light. Students, artists and activists lean across tables swapping stories. We're here to meet with Mehmet, a former Kurdish militant, who preferred not to be identified. The woman at the counter of the small bookshop selling Kurdish publications and music eyes me warily and tells us to return in the evening.

That night Mehmet is holding court in the back of the café. He walks with a slight limp and a cane, but his presence is commanding, if for nothing else because of the deference he is paid by all who frequent the centre. He's a handsome man, straight-backed and friendly, but one senses immediately that he is on guard, and that he is probably always so. At 41, he has spent half his life in prison.

Arrested at the age of 18, Mehmet was tried for being a member of the PKK. At the time, the PKK was solely a revolutionary political grouping espousing independence -- it did not start its militant activities against Turkish targets until 1983, three years after Mehmet was sent to prison.

"I'd just like to say that if you are born a Kurd, you are already branded as potentially guilty," says Mehmet, speaking as though he were giving a lecture. "What was my crime? They said, 'You're a member of the PKK'. But what does that mean? If you look at the world today, it's not a crime to defend your ethnicity. But in Turkey, those who do this -- the government wants them eliminated. They're considered dangerous."

Tried in a high-profile military tribunal in Diyarbakir in 1980, freedom was easily within reach -- but at a price Mehmet considered too dear. "When we got into the courtroom, some of us said what they wanted to hear. They said, 'I'm not a Kurd; I'm a Turkish citizen.' Those people were released. The rest of us just said, 'I'm a Kurd. I believe in the right to be a Kurd.' At the time, that was enough to prove that you were 'active'. To make that statement was to prove how dangerous you were."

The sentence was death.

For the next 20 years, Mehmet would see the inside of 16 different prisons throughout Turkey, among them the military prison in Diyarbakir. Studiously, he lists them all, finally stating bluntly: "Twenty years I sat in prison -- 20 years."

The death penalty was upheld in a higher court in 1983, but in 1986, a higher commission sent the issue to parliament, where it languished for years. The fate of Mehmet and numerous other jailed radicals changed drastically in 1991, however, when new laws were issued abandoning the death penalty for such cases. Under the new laws, leftists and other political prisoners served no more than 10 years. Those convicted of PKK activity served 20.

Officially, no one was ever executed for membership in the PKK, but Mehmet maintains that this is just on paper. Between 1981 and 1983, he recalls, political prisoners were routinely threatened and tortured. More than 50 prisoners that he knew of died while incarcerated.

Mehmet is stoic as he recounts his time in prison. "Human beings are social animals," he says. "They want to be free, to be with others. You miss life -- trees, your house. Every day, every night, I thought of nothing but escape."

A manic fixation on freedom led Mehmet and some of his fellow prisoners to hatch an escape plan. Their desperate efforts sound almost ludicrous -- the stuff of clichéd Hollywood farce. In 1998, the group began digging a tunnel. But after almost a year of slow but steady progress, they realised that they had dug in the wrong direction. If Mehmet sees the irony in this, he doesn't show it. "We just wanted to be free," he says evenly.

Undeterred, the group began digging in the right direction. But by this time, Mehmet says they realised there was only a year left before their 20-year sentence was up. The tunnel was abandoned and in 2000, Mehmet was released.

Today he works unofficially with the Kurdish political party DEHAP, which last month was put under investigation by the government. DEHAP is the latest incarnation in a long string of banned Kurdish parties, from HAP, to DEP, to OZDAP, to HADEP. Since 1999, no less than 10 Kurdish parties have been founded, and the first nine have already been shut down, remarks Gani Alkan, vice-president of the Diyarbakir branch of DEHAP. No Kurdish party has lasted for more than nine years.

"The history of the Kurds is fighting for our rights," says Alkan. "Turkey wants to be a part of the European Union, but that means it will have to comply with international law. There have been some improvements, on paper. But in real life, in our daily lives, nothing has changed."

THE IDEOLOGUE: Abdullah …calan, while relieved of the death penalty due to Turkey's bid for European Union membership, would have to pull an escape story beyond the capacities of Hollywood screenwriters if he were ever to see the light of day. Still regarded among most of the Kurdish community as their ideological leader, …calan retracted his call for militancy when he issued a unilateral cease-fire in 1999.

The move ushered in the period of calm that eventually led to a relaxing of martial law in the region and the refashioning of the PKK as KADEK, which …calan maintains is seeking a political solution to the Kurdish problem. But again, activities of the group, based in northern Iraq, speak otherwise, and the seemingly ardent determination within the Turkish military to enter northern Iraq is driven by the desire to eradicate the group.

Today, …calan is sequestered under astoundingly stringent conditions in a prison on Inrali island, in the Marmara Sea. He is the prison's only inhabitant, but more than 1,000 soldiers are maintained there to guard him. The prison was once an open-air facility, but when …calan was apprehended in 1999, it was converted to a maximum security prison.

"His incarceration is like nothing you can imagine anywhere else in Turkey," says Bekir Kaya, a Diyarbakir-based human rights lawyer and one of …calan's 200-strong legal team. "It's appalling."

Once a week, on Wednesday, …calan is allowed one hour of visitation rights, which he alternates between seeing his family and his lawyers. His only source of news comes from the three newspapers brought to him by his lawyers when possible. The papers -- Sabah, Hürriyet and Milliyet, are all official Turkish papers.

"The conditions he is kept in are really terrible," says Kaya. "He is not given the basic rights expected for a prisoner -- not even the rights codified by the United Nations."

From 27 November of last year to 12 March, …calan was suddenly and inexplicably isolated. The policy was not official, but each time his lawyers tried to reach him on their appointed day, they were turned away. "For the first couple of weeks they said the ferry wasn't working," says Kaya. "Then it was bad weather. But isn't it strange that there were some 1,000 soldiers who were able to keep up their rotation. The weather was good for them."

"For three and a half months we didn't know his situation," says Kaya. "He was barely living. He was going mad. He even tried to talk to the security guards, but it was like he wasn't there."

Kaya says that …calan has no delusions of a dramatic release, but many Kurds see him as a Nelson Mandela figure -- someone who could one day lead the government of an independent Kurdistan. Kaya says that from his days as a militant leader to his now toned-down call for equal rights, the issue remains the same for …calan: the right for Kurds to live like Kurds.

"He knows that this is all about politics and he knows that he is imprisoned for being the leader of the PKK," says Kaya. "He knows what that means. He knows that he is facing down the government that he has been fighting for 20 years. Obviously, he's aware that he cannot hope to gain any sympathy from this government, that they are not looking to do anything for him. Governments always change, but the political situation remains the same."

IN THE HEARTLAND: On a hot, sunny afternoon, we make our way to Siverek, near the city of Urfa. We've been invited to a wedding in a local village, and from a distance, we spot the red flag flying over the main house -- the sign that a wedding is taking place. The wedding stretches out over three days, so there is time between energetic bouts of music and dancing to talk a little politics with a visiting journalist.

No prompt is necessary for people to unload a cache of grievances. A few men crowd around the village chief as he expounds on the need for equal rights. "We are Kurds, we are not Turks," he says.

"Is it too much to ask for the development you see in the west of Turkey," asks one young man, as others nod approvingly. Behind us a group of people gather in a circle, dancing merrily. When they look over at us, they flash the victory sign ardently, purposefully. Here, I'm told, this is a show of support for the PKK.

Despite years of war and uncertainty in the Kurdish southeast, few people are willing to lay the blame at …calan's door. Kaya claims that "99 per cent" of Kurds blame the government, "and the last 1 per cent don't blame the PKK". Conceding that there may be some people who feel differently, Kaya maintains that in Turkey's Kurdish provinces, the PKK was seen as fighting for a Kurdish identity and for human rights. Few would identify them as terrorists.

Many Kurds, however, have grown disillusioned with …calan, feeling that he gave up, or sold out in a bid to make amends with the Turkish government. Mahmoud, a local school teacher whose cousin died fighting with the PKK, says that …calan should never have let himself be taken, adding that …calan tarnished the spirit of resistance that had once given Kurds a sense of pride. "My cousin died fighting for him. He believed in him. He died for nothing."

I ASKED Hatice Tekdag, whose husband Ali died in captivity, whether her husband had been a PKK militant -- if he had taken part in the attacks on the government and military. Today, the security police still come to her house regularly, asking about her family. Often, when someone knocks at the door at night, she stays in her room.

"I don't know what he did," she says wearily. "But please, just for a minute, put yourself in my shoes. You've lost your husband, your son, your relatives. Let me ask you: which side would you support?"