Reminiscence from Anatolia- Part Twenty Nine: Reaching Hassankeyf
But first thing first… I was very hungry… an early bus from Urfa, followed by a trip to Saffron Monastery… all on empty stomach.
When I travel… I keep some money on my out-pocket for incidental expense and some in the inner pocket in my boxer shorts. I spend from the out-pocket and when the money in it dwindles, I take out another small portion from my inner pocket to replace it. This way… I ensure that my money always remain secure… but a sine-qua-non of this practice in finding a toilet or confined area to do just that…
When I reached out for my pocket… to get some money to eat… I realized that I had precisely 2 Liras left… and I was amidst the hurly burly of market… so no chance of reaching out to my inner pocket for rescue.
I have come across such situation earlier too… and have realized that such situations make me innovate… reach out to untried things… like it did that day… I saw round ring shaped dough… on sale… for 0.50 Lira… called Simit… sprinkled with a heavy dose of white sesame seeds, they looked inviting… and I decided that today my frugal lunch would be done with it. I had two of them...
Satisfied with the frugal but tasty lunch… I ventured on the streets of Mardin. The streets of Mardin are magical… the more you travel on them… more you feel like lost in the maze of Arabian nights… a mosque here… a madarassa there… an old crumbling house… a caravanserai… a few playing children… a housewife… callously drying her recently washed clothes… dressed in Arabian gown… displaying the contours of her voluptuous body.
Mardin, I opine, is worth more than a few hours stay… it is a gem, uncut… like most of the places in Kurdish areas… lost in the maze of a political strife. Very few venture out here… very few stay back… and very few relish its tempting beauty… lying at the cross roads of Arab, Turk and Kurd identity… it waits for weary travelers, who would come and uncover the momentous history behind its dreary and mundane exteriors.
It was time to say good bye to this lovely little town… which has lived its historical utility and now awaits salvation from an un-needed and un-heeded existence amidst the modern socio-political realities.
It started drizzling… when I was walking back… I saw two very pretty school girls walking down the street… dressed in lovely colorful poncho… I smiled at them and they smiled back… I showed them my camera and gestured if I could take their photos… and they were so happy to get clicked… while going back they offered me a candy… Mardin has one specialty… lest I forget… It is famous for its sugar candies called leblebie or almond candies... the road-side shops sell them… Alas I had just 1 Lira in my out pocket and could not buy those candies.
I boarded the bus… it was a rickety… most of the buses in this part of Turkey are far cry from their smart cousins in Coastal Turkey… these buses depicted a story of neglect…
Strangely but expectedly… most of the bus-mates spoke Arabic… it was time when I realized that the Turkish and Kurdish veneer is just that… a veneer… Mardin is a predominantly Arab town… a frontier town… which has more in common with Syria than with Turkey… more Arab than Urfa, which has acquired a certain degree of cosmopolitanism over the years given its size and importance.
I was off to Hassankeyf… a few kilometers ahead I saw Midyat… it seemed that I have entered some portal and sucked into a small European parish… full of life… fashion… and gaiety… it was one of the last frontiers of Syrian Orthodox church in Turkey… I remembered someone telling me… the Syrian minority is a lost case… nobody talks about them anymore… they are forgotten amidst the big fight between the Turks and the Kurds… and Syrian Christians… actually don’t mind it… they have a fairly recent history of being targeted… the stories of atrocities reverberate in their communal anecdotes… if they remain invisible… the history might not get repeated.
Midyat is also home to some very interesting monasteries… the most famous of them is Mor Gabriel Monastery… which faces an uphill land dispute… encroachments from nearby Muslims…. It has seen a lot of litigation and support from European Union… People told me… it was a beautiful monastery… but alas… I had a journey to make… I had to reach Hassankeyf… which, according to some, was an epitome of poignancy… a whole town going to get submerged once the dam on Tigris comes up… drown along with its heritage, history and hopes.
Hassankeyf is a small… a very small town by the river Tigris… it wasn’t always like this… once, a few years ago, it was a vibrant trading town… but slowly the hydro-electric project came up… and population displacement started… now most of them are gone… a few remain just to keep the town functional… ten years from now… they too would be gone… and the town would be submerged forever.
Before seeing Hassankeyf… I was vociferously against the post-modernists who challenged high dams on grounds of saving indigenous population… a few tribals by the bank of Narmada… why should they hold a totem of development at ransom… Why indeed… I got my answers when I saw Hassankeyf…
Every small piece of land holds a heritage… and its gone forever when societies take selfish steps… I remember a Chinese diplomat defending Three Gorges… so what if we lose some of out historical legacies… we have plenty more… a loss of few doesn’t make a difference… it does… something unique is lost forever… when we had options of not losing it. It pains.
I alighted at the bus stop… the bus driver pointed out a small inn… that is the only option for travelers like me who venture in these unchartered areas.
I started walking towards the only hotel therein … Hotel Hassankeyf
When I travel… I keep some money on my out-pocket for incidental expense and some in the inner pocket in my boxer shorts. I spend from the out-pocket and when the money in it dwindles, I take out another small portion from my inner pocket to replace it. This way… I ensure that my money always remain secure… but a sine-qua-non of this practice in finding a toilet or confined area to do just that…
When I reached out for my pocket… to get some money to eat… I realized that I had precisely 2 Liras left… and I was amidst the hurly burly of market… so no chance of reaching out to my inner pocket for rescue.
I have come across such situation earlier too… and have realized that such situations make me innovate… reach out to untried things… like it did that day… I saw round ring shaped dough… on sale… for 0.50 Lira… called Simit… sprinkled with a heavy dose of white sesame seeds, they looked inviting… and I decided that today my frugal lunch would be done with it. I had two of them...
Satisfied with the frugal but tasty lunch… I ventured on the streets of Mardin. The streets of Mardin are magical… the more you travel on them… more you feel like lost in the maze of Arabian nights… a mosque here… a madarassa there… an old crumbling house… a caravanserai… a few playing children… a housewife… callously drying her recently washed clothes… dressed in Arabian gown… displaying the contours of her voluptuous body.
Mardin, I opine, is worth more than a few hours stay… it is a gem, uncut… like most of the places in Kurdish areas… lost in the maze of a political strife. Very few venture out here… very few stay back… and very few relish its tempting beauty… lying at the cross roads of Arab, Turk and Kurd identity… it waits for weary travelers, who would come and uncover the momentous history behind its dreary and mundane exteriors.
It was time to say good bye to this lovely little town… which has lived its historical utility and now awaits salvation from an un-needed and un-heeded existence amidst the modern socio-political realities.
It started drizzling… when I was walking back… I saw two very pretty school girls walking down the street… dressed in lovely colorful poncho… I smiled at them and they smiled back… I showed them my camera and gestured if I could take their photos… and they were so happy to get clicked… while going back they offered me a candy… Mardin has one specialty… lest I forget… It is famous for its sugar candies called leblebie or almond candies... the road-side shops sell them… Alas I had just 1 Lira in my out pocket and could not buy those candies.
I boarded the bus… it was a rickety… most of the buses in this part of Turkey are far cry from their smart cousins in Coastal Turkey… these buses depicted a story of neglect…
Strangely but expectedly… most of the bus-mates spoke Arabic… it was time when I realized that the Turkish and Kurdish veneer is just that… a veneer… Mardin is a predominantly Arab town… a frontier town… which has more in common with Syria than with Turkey… more Arab than Urfa, which has acquired a certain degree of cosmopolitanism over the years given its size and importance.
I was off to Hassankeyf… a few kilometers ahead I saw Midyat… it seemed that I have entered some portal and sucked into a small European parish… full of life… fashion… and gaiety… it was one of the last frontiers of Syrian Orthodox church in Turkey… I remembered someone telling me… the Syrian minority is a lost case… nobody talks about them anymore… they are forgotten amidst the big fight between the Turks and the Kurds… and Syrian Christians… actually don’t mind it… they have a fairly recent history of being targeted… the stories of atrocities reverberate in their communal anecdotes… if they remain invisible… the history might not get repeated.
Midyat is also home to some very interesting monasteries… the most famous of them is Mor Gabriel Monastery… which faces an uphill land dispute… encroachments from nearby Muslims…. It has seen a lot of litigation and support from European Union… People told me… it was a beautiful monastery… but alas… I had a journey to make… I had to reach Hassankeyf… which, according to some, was an epitome of poignancy… a whole town going to get submerged once the dam on Tigris comes up… drown along with its heritage, history and hopes.
Hassankeyf is a small… a very small town by the river Tigris… it wasn’t always like this… once, a few years ago, it was a vibrant trading town… but slowly the hydro-electric project came up… and population displacement started… now most of them are gone… a few remain just to keep the town functional… ten years from now… they too would be gone… and the town would be submerged forever.
Before seeing Hassankeyf… I was vociferously against the post-modernists who challenged high dams on grounds of saving indigenous population… a few tribals by the bank of Narmada… why should they hold a totem of development at ransom… Why indeed… I got my answers when I saw Hassankeyf…
Every small piece of land holds a heritage… and its gone forever when societies take selfish steps… I remember a Chinese diplomat defending Three Gorges… so what if we lose some of out historical legacies… we have plenty more… a loss of few doesn’t make a difference… it does… something unique is lost forever… when we had options of not losing it. It pains.
I alighted at the bus stop… the bus driver pointed out a small inn… that is the only option for travelers like me who venture in these unchartered areas.
I started walking towards the only hotel therein … Hotel Hassankeyf
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