TURKEY’S WARS: QUELLING KURDISH UPRISINGS, AD SUFFERING FROM TERROR ATTACKS
In Kurdish areas of Turkey, fear and destruction have returned as facts of life after government offensives leveled parts of rebellious cities. And a barrage of terrorist attacks by the Islamic State and Kurdish groups is changing people’s sense of personal safety. This is the fourth part in the State of Emergency series, in which our correspondent takes us behind the scenes of today’s Turkey, a nation in crisis.
‘We’re Trapped Between Two Forces’
You’re looking at what I saw this month as I drove into the heart of Sirnak, once a busy provincial capital in southeastern Turkey. Government tanks rolled in last year to crush a Kurdish uprising here and in several other places, leaving little behind — some of these city centers are practically ghost towns, and the Kurds who still live here seem haunted, too.
Just a few years ago, after securing a truce with Kurdish separatists, President Recep Tayyip Erdogan seemed destined to become the leader who finally put a halt to decades of bloodshed here. But the negotiations broke down in 2015, and Mr. Erdogan now presides over the resumption of one of the country’s most traumatic wars.
It is hard to reach this part of Turkey, near the Syrian and Iraqi borders, at all these days, as the area is still under lockdown. There are now seven government checkpoints between Sirnak and the closest airport. When I reached the third, at the entrance to a town called Cizre, my passport was confiscated and I was questioned for an hour. Who am I? What am I doing here?
“You are crazy,” the senior officer concluded. “This place is very dangerous.”
He rolled up his sleeve to show the scar he carries after one attack here by the P.K.K., the Kurdish separatist group that encouraged last year’s uprisings in this region and is widely listed as a terrorist organization. He said he pined for his placid hometown, far away on the shores of the Mediterranean. “Psychologically, this is very difficult,” he said before finally letting me go.
As I left Cizre, I passed the basements where dozens of Kurds burned to death in unclear circumstances during a government raid in February 2016.
Just before dusk, I arrived at a village on the outskirts of Sirnak. The mayor here was recently arrested and replaced by a state “trustee,” one of more than 80 elected Kurds who have recently been replaced by government edict.
Unlike in Sirnak or Cizre, tanks did not fire on the village last year, or destroy its houses. As a result, it became a shelter for some of the estimated 500,000 people displaced by last year’s fighting. After sunset, and amid a power failure, I met with one family.
The father, a 53-year-old janitor, said they were from Sirnak. When the rebellion began in late 2015, he, his wife and their eight children fled to a different city. But their new landlord later needed their apartment for his own displaced family, so they moved to this village. Fearing that both the security forces and Kurdish militants might harass them if the family were identified, they asked me not to use their names.
For months they lived in a shed, sleeping next to chickens and cows, before a neighbor found them a cleaner place to stay. In the meantime, their home in Sirnak was destroyed, along with much of the city center.
As we spoke, the power came back on, allowing their youngest daughter to do her homework. “This room is for everything,” her mother said. “Studying, sleeping, eating.”
They say they resent both the insurgents, who prolonged a fight they were never going to win, and the state, which left three of their relatives buried in the Sirnak rubble. “We’re trapped between two forces,” the mother said.
“Our lives are the lives of refugees,” the father added. “We’re just waiting.”
After Attack, Night Life Catches a Chill
Turkey is suffering from two different terrorism campaigns: one led by the Islamic State, and the other by Kurdish separatists. One big attack in particular — when an ISIS gunman killed 39 people early New Year’s Day at Reina, a noted Istanbul nightclub — seemed to strike right at the city’s reputation as a hub for night life. Wondering how this had affected people’s attitudes, I went on a recent Friday night to a collection of chic clubs, restaurants and bars in a former Istanbul beer factory.
“We went to a concert two weeks ago, but I imagined that there might be someone with a gun. It was scary for me. … Crowded places, we try to avoid. Malls, we try to avoid. … Here, it’s nearer our houses so we feel safe.”
— Ezgi Ates, a 32-year-old teacher, who said it was only the second time she and her friends had been out for the evening since the New Year’s Day attack.
“When we’re using the metro, it’s always on our minds that something might happen. … I’m not feeling comfortable, but we’ve gotten used to it because it’s been happening so frequently.”
— Mine Ak, a 19-year-old student, who for safety reasons canceled plans to see a favorite band.
“I think the economic crisis is also affecting night life. I’m a bartender, and the amount of money people pay has diminished. People are still going out, but they’re drinking less.”
— Ugur Berber, a 21-year-old bartender, who wondered if there were other reasons for a downturn.
“Even when I was just entering the place, I wondered if there would be some guy shooting here. I’ve started not reading the news. It depresses us, affects our psychology. It makes us unhappy.”
— Can, a 29-year-old government employee, who asked not to be photographed or fully named for fear of falling victim to a continuing purge of dissidents.
“I don’t know if it’s related to the terror attacks, but I’m not going out as much as before. It’s something to do with the people in society. … Either they’re not interested in what’s going on or they’re just repeating the same talking points – and that includes us, too!”
— Denis Barsdemir, a 20-year-old worker for a tech start-up, who wondered if Turks were staying away from clubs because they wanted to stay inside their own bubbles.
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