Turkey - Dead Kids Walking

The sun beats down unmercifully. Rivulets of sweat are coursing down my face and body. My clothes are wet with sweat and my rucksack feels like a lead weight strapped to my back. Ahead and on either side of me, vast mountain ranges reach far into the sky. I seem to be the only person trudging through the valley, and though I am constantly straining my ears, the only sound is that of my boots clumping over the rock-hard earth. Far in the distance I can see a few houses. I begin to change my course and climb the mountain slopes, hugging the mountainside and the trees dotted over it for cover.

Stopping underneath a tree, I sit on a rock and pull out my water bottle and gratefully take a swig. Reaching for the binoculars, I scour the slopes and valley for any sign of activity. I have been walking for two hours and have another hour to do before I will reach the rendezvous. I am searching for any sign of Turkish military activity. It would be hard to explain my presence here, walking through the middle of southeastern Turkey, the heartland of Turkey's Kurdish war. I have been mulling over excuses and explanations for the best part of several days, and there really aren't very many. Even more so when the people I am expecting to meet at the rendezvous point are the Kurdish guerrillas fighting the might of Turkey's army.

Five minutes later I set off again, negotiating the stone-littered paths and swerving through the trees. Through the misty haze of heat, I make out the outline of some houses. This time I don't change course. Ahead is the rendezvous. Trudging up the pathway, I hear the distant sound of rotor blades. I stop and watch the horizon. On the opposite side of the valley, just above the skyline, two helicopter gunships cruise shark-like through the air. I watch them, momentarily transfixed, until they dip back below the horizon and disappear from sight.

Arriving at the village, I am greeted by the stare of a curious child who quickly runs shouting to the nearest house slamming the wooden door. A woman peers out before ducking back into the house. Finally a man emerges. He is wearing the traditional baggy Kurdish trousers and a cummerbund around his waist. He beckons me forward into the house.

Inside I am offered first water and then a small glass of sweet tea. I sit grateful to have the rucksack off my back and be able to rest my feet. It is half past six in the evening. I will have to wait for some hours, possibly even a day or so, before the arrival of the PKK guerrillas. I ask the old man if he knows when "the friends"-as the PKK are referred to-might be arriving. "Usually they will come in an hour or so," he says, as dusk falls. So, perched on the wooden balcony, I sit and wait, watching the mountain slopes for any sign of human forms making their way down through the trees. But I see nothing and eventually give up. "Come on, you must be hungry," says the old man. "You should have something to eat." I say I would rather wait, and he leaves to herd the cattle into the wooden barricade for the night.

It is the sound of several pairs of feet trudging through the yard that alerts me to the presence of the guerrillas, and looking to my right I suddenly see figures emerging wraithlike from the darkening gloom. There are seven of them as they climb the steps of the balcony. I stand at the top and we shake hands one by one. Their faces are expressionless, their eyes dead. There is an aura of death around them. Kalashnikov assault rifles are slung casually over their shoulders with ammunition clips and hand grenades strapped to their waists. They are all wearing the traditional Kurdish dress. Some of them have badges pinned to their shirts. In green, yellow and red-the colors of Kurdish nationalism-the letters ARGK are emblazoned on the badges, National Liberation Army of Kurdistan, the military wing of the Kurdistan Workers Party or PKK.

Villagers crowd around to greet them. Once again, they go through the ritual of shaking hands and kissing the men on the cheek. We all go inside the house to eat. I notice they don't bother taking off their shoes, as is customary. Their sneakers are the "Mekap" make. A cloth is laid on the floor and food is brought. Children crowd shyly round the doorway to look at the guerrillas until the old man sharply tells them to leave, which they do to the sound of giggles and the patter of fleeing feet.

We chatter over food. I ask them about the amnesty that the Turkish government has offered PKK guerrillas since the capture of PKK leader Abdullah Ocalan. Have any of them thought of taking up the offer? One of the guerrillas grins and silently points several times at his neighbor, raising a finger to his lips. The whole group bursts into laughter, their eyes momentarily flickering superficially with life and humor.

We wash down the meal with diluted yogurt, called mastaw in Kurdish, and it is time to leave. Darkness is now complete. The assault rifles are picked up and once again slung over shoulders as we make our way out into the yard. A villager gives the guerrillas a bag full of food and cigarettes as we set off into the darkness.

The moon provides a soft yellowish light for us as we make our way through the trees and across the mountain slopes, quickly leaving the village lights far behind us. The only sound is the tread of our feet on the ground. Reflected by the moonlight our shadows flit across the ground, distorted by trees and rocks. The stars are brighter and clearer than I have ever seen. Every so often there is a streak across the sky as a shooting star expends its final energy.

We begin to climb the mountainside, my shoes slip on the loose stones sending a small avalanche cascading down. Halfway up we start traversing the slope. I try to look for the pathway we are supposed to be following, until I gradually realize that there is no path. There is just the mountainside at an angle of about 50 degrees. Across the other side of the valley I can see the occasional village light. A warm wind blows gently in my face. In the distance a flare rises slowly into the night sky. Falling back to earth it gives off an illuminating glow, a small temporary moon, lighting up the hilltops a few kilometers away. There's a degree of surrealism, as we walk so casually through the trees yet knowing that the now dimming flare represents the terrible threat of soldiers with night vision equipment and helicopters backing them up. A couple of hours walk sees us into another village. One of the guerrillas knocks softly on a door. A man opens the door and we all troop in. For the guerrillas it is time to catch up on the latest news of troop movements and drink some scaldingly hot tea. For me it is time to catch my breath, let the sweat cool on my body, drink several bowls of water and smoke some of my precious supply of cigarettes.

The villager asks who I am. "A journalist," say the guerrillas, "who has come to report on the situation."

"Welcome to Kurdistan," says the man. I just sit and nod, too tired to do much else. His wife and children sit at the back of the room talking with some of the guerrillas. We are offered food, but decline. With tea time over we set off once again. A horse is waiting for us at the door. One of the guerrillas takes my backpack, which is duly slung across the horse's back.

We head off again on what appears to be the standard nightly "village tour." We reach a river: the guerrillas slip quickly into the water, wading stealthily across. I follow suit, stealthily slipping into the water . . . slipping so far, in fact, that my legs are soon pointing at the sky and I land with a loud splash in the water. Hands quickly haul me to my feet again and I resume my attempt to imitate the guerrillas . . . failing pathetically as my feet slip once again on the stones in the riverbed.

It's a very wet hack who eventually reaches the other side of the river. I am given the horse to lead. About to ask why, I notice that the Kalashnikov's are now being unslung and there is a brief discussion in Kurdish. "Follow at least thirty meters behind us," says the commander. With a brief thrill of fear I watch as the guerrillas move off ahead of me into the darkness. This time they are moving slowly and are well spread out, sometimes kneeling on the ground to see if they can catch the outline of troops lying in ambush against the moonlight. I strain my eyes in an effort to keep the last guerrilla in sight. The moonlight fades, blocked by moving clouds. I lose sight of my escort. The only sound is that of the horse trying to munch at the grass on the ground.

Lost in the middle of the night, soaking wet, with a horse in the middle of a war zone. Not the ideal situation.

I strain my eyes even more and catch sight of movement. I blunder forward only to find that my eyes are playing tricks on me. It is a tree, and has definitely not been walking around. Every second now seems an hour as I cautiously move forward, wondering if it really had been such a good idea to link up with the PKK inside Turkey. No one else had ever done so. Fairly fucking obvious why, I think to myself acrimoniously. I wonder if I can perhaps somehow surrender. A cup of tea, a quick chat with the soldiers, a warm bed and off home. A delightful prospect. Probably a tad unrealistic, though. Better to just carry on, and if occasion demands perhaps a long whine for mercy might get me off the hook. Doubtful.

All in all it was probably no more than two minutes before I catch a glimpse of what actually is movement and an outline that, as I moved closer, quickly formed the shape of a guerrilla.

We're on the march again. Now the pace is fast and caution appears to have been thrown to the wind. We enter another village, quickly entering a house for more tea. The horse is left in the village as we leave and a guerrilla puts my backpack on his back. A hundred meters or so from the village the commander stops and we all sit down. "We're waiting for some friends," says the commander. A soft whistle cutting through the night is answered by a whistle from the commander. Three figures emerge from the darkness. I notice briefly that they have no weapons; but they join the group and we set off again.

We descend a gully. As usual there is no path, just a 70-degree slope of loose soil, which we slither down trying to brake the speed of our descent with our feet, sending several mini-avalanches of rock and loose earth cascading down the slope. I notice a large rock, about what I think is a couple of feet down. I jump down, but misjudge the distance. It's more like four feet and I land awkwardly, smashing my knee against the stone. We climb up the other side of the ravine, using branches from the bushes to haul ourselves up the slope. At the top there are thickset bushes. I can already hear guerrillas pushing their way inside, smashing down branches inside to make room for us to sleep, undetected from the exterior. I push my way inside and slump down on the ground, grateful for the warm summer night, and am soon asleep.

I wake to the distinctly unpleasant sound of several helicopter gunships buzzing overhead. But they are passing by, and the bushes are dense-concealing us well-even though movement inside is difficult. The guerrillas are already awake. I ask what's going on. There's a Turkish military operation going on says the commander, whose name I discover is Murat. I ask where. About 10 kilometers away, says Murat. Will troops be coming here? I ask. No, no, says Murat with a casual wave of the hand. To put me at ease another guerrilla cheerfully tells me how he has been in the valley for nearly three weeks. "The enemy launched a four-day operation here to find us," he says, "but we just moved ahead at night and then doubled back . . . you've got nothing to worry about." We spend the day listening to Kurdish folk music on a tape recorder and Turkish military radio reports coming through on the radio scanners. Above us is a constant roar of jet fighters and the drone of helicopters, supporting the operation just a few kilometers away. For lunch food given by the villagers is taken out of the bag. Tomatoes, cucumbers, cheese and bread appear to be the staple mountain diet.

I notice the three youngsters who had joined us the night before. "They're new friends," explained Murat, meaning new recruits. "We'll get them some weapons in a couple of days." I ask one why he has joined the PKK. "To fight for the rights of the Kurdish people," he says. I push a bit further and ask which village he is from and whether he is local. "My home was burned a year ago by the military . . . alongside our entire village," he says blankly, before adding, "I have been waiting all this time to join the PKK."

-Anonymous