Towards midday, strangely enough still alive, I had made it halfway to Diyarbakir.
Once the passing drivers saw that none of their warnings about terrorists were working, they went on with more reasons for fear:
“There is no road to Diyarbakir.”
“The road to Diyarbakir is closed.”
“The road to Diyarbakir is snowed in.”
Here I am standing on the outskirts of a smallish town, rather worried. I almost believe that there really won’t be a way to go further. The road does indeed go through a mountain pass. The mountains surrounding me, covered in white duvets, assert themselves eloquently.
There are almost no cars.
All of a sudden I see a silvery car, a foreign make. I extend my arm, and it cautiously, as if fearfully, stops.
The driver is a young man, about 25, Turkish, in a business suit.
“Do you speak English?” I ask.
“Yes,” he answers with a surprised-fearful, childishly sweet expression.
“I’m going to Diyarbakir, could you take me there?”
He gets out of the car, opens the trunk and shamelessly checks me out as I’m putting in my backpack.
Finally we set off. He turns to me, eyes full of wonder, eyebrows furrowed:
“Tell me,” he says, pronouncing the unfamiliar English words slowly, “how did you end up here, all on your own?”
“I’m traveling. I’m from Russia. I’m on my way to Diyarbakir. I’m hitchhiking.”
“But that’s very dangerous. You may run into very bad people.”
“But I ran into you.”
“You’re lucky.”
Oh, I know! How many times Russian drivers told me:
“Hitchhiker? No one will take you!”
“But you did.”
“You just got lucky this time.”
They believe they are the only ones capable of doing a good deed.
Soon we start talking. His name is Ozgiur and he is driving to Diyarbakir, where he lives and works. It turns out that he is only half Turkish; his other half is Kurdish. It is perfectly appropriate that he should be the one taking me from Turkey to Kurdistan.
The whole way we talk about Ozgiur’s job which puts him at odds with his religion since he sometimes has to drink alcohol at company events. He tells me about his family, about his parents, who are devout Muslims but who have never forced their children to be devout as well. Ozgiur wants to travel because he hasn’t been anywhere outside of Turkey. He has no time because of work, which “isn’t very interesting but in three years he will be a senior manager and after five more…”
We only stop once, for lunch. Ozgiur orders several dishes for me and only one for himself, which he won’t even eat because he isn’t hungry.
Diyarbakir welcomes us with the light of streetlamps as evening sets in. Ozgiur gives me a tour of the city. He invites me for coffee and traditional local sweets. He spends a lot of energy trying to convince me not to go any further, to spend the night here, in a hotel, where he would even get me a room. I don’t want him to spend more money on me. I’d stay if Ozgiur invited me to his house but he doesn’t, which puzzles me until I realize that he is simply afraid I would misunderstand him. I had the same problem at Nurula’s parents’ house in Erzurum. Why hadn’t the men in the living room paid any attention to me, a stranger and a guest? Because according to the rules of Islam, men are not even supposed to speak with women if they are not bound by family ties. Why did Ramazan look at my hands when talking with me? Because he wasn’t supposed to look at my face or make eye contact.
Ozgiur is also afraid of offending me. In appreciation of the tradition and the religion responsible for this attitude towards women I don’t mind sleeping in the open air. There was one thing I could not refuse — Ozgiur was unbending — he insists on buying me a bus ticket to Mardin, the next city in Kurdistan and very close to Syria.
Wishes fulfilled
Now I am in the very center of Kurdistan; it surrounds me from all sides, even touching my clothes. I am traveling in a bus crowded with Kurdish men and women. They have a different language, different facial features: bold noses and darker skin than the Turks. It’s time to remember all the warnings that haunted me all the way here.
I’m lost in my thoughts: what a long road I have covered today, from Erzurum to Mardin where we’re just about to arrive. But thanks to the eloquent darkness in the window, the clarity of my thoughts about the day is replaced by vaguer thoughts about the night. “Of course, I’m grateful to Ozgiur for the bus ticket, but… if I’d hitchhiked and someone picked me up it would mean he’s a good person. And a good person would have invited me home. When you are in someone’s car you are already his guest. On this bus I’m nobody’s guest… Where will I sleep tonight?”
A Kurdish man of about thirty-five turns to me shyly:
“Where are you going?” He suddenly asks in English, rather haltingly.
“To Mardin, then to Syria.”
“And where are you from?”
“From Russia.”
“Oh! From Russia!”
Soon we’re sitting on the floor, a large tin tray in front of us covered with plates of food: yogurt, fried eggs, rice with meat, homemade bread. For the first time on this trip I’m eating on the floor.
It turns out that the Kurd from the bus is a schoolteacher. He, of course, wants to know where I’m planning to spend the night. When he learns that I plan to sleep in a tent he thinks for about half a minute and says:
“My mother and I are going from Ankara to see my brother in Mardin. If you don’t mind, I would like to invite you to his house.”
In the darkness of the poorly illuminated streets we step out of the bus, my expectations for the evening already infused with the warmth of my travel companions’ hospitality.
The three of us walk home together and have a lively conversation. I remember all the warnings about Kurdistan and smils to myself quietly.
Chapter 2. Arabic Christianity
Neon crosses
Will I really have to sleep in a tent in Syria? Have I not been surprising my friends with stories about how Syria is the most hospitable country in the world, that you need only raise your hand on the road and the first car will stop? That you need only make eye contact and people will immediately invite you for tea or lunch, or offer you a place to spend the night.
The day is ending and night is taking over covering the sky with a black blanket moth-eaten by shining stars. Night finds me on the highway from Aleppo to Damascus. The highways are alive with cars racing at high speed, hurrying to finish the day in the warmth of their own homes. And my outline barely visible in the dim light of streetlamps is too weak to tear them away from their thoughts of home.
At some point I turn around to face the traffic and notice the inviting red rear-lights of a little truck which has stopped to pick me up. Syria is Syria — you only need to raise your hand…
The driver doesn’t speak a word of English and this is my first day in an Arabic-speaking country. With what words could I thank him? Involuntarily, I smile broadly. How can he express hospitality and good wishes? A small illuminated shop by the side of the road is selling hot chocolate. The driver slows down.
I’m holding a big cup of chocolate. I carefully take a sip and immediately burn my tongue. Waiting for the chocolate to cool, I concentrate on holding the cup so it doesn’t spill on the bumpy road.
I want to enjoy this tasty treat down to the last sip but the very last drops end up on my light blue jacket.
The driver and I exchange understanding looks and laugh merrily.
I take out my notebook and illuminate the Arabic words with the help of a flashlight. Somehow or other I have explained something to the driver. And it seems I have understood some things too: we are going in the direction of Hama, a city on the road to Damascus and Jordan. The driver’s name is Salim, and it even looks like I’ll have a place to sleep tonight.