I let another half-hour go by, and then, completely exhausted, I reiterate my demand. In further support, I open the door, awkwardly inviting my hosts to give me some privacy. A long silence settles over the room once again; no one budges. I implore the assembly a third time and sense that I’m beginning to lose all patience. Another silence, then one of the spectators—for this has indeed been quite the show—gets up and heads out the door. Two others follow him. I thank them, loudly wishing them “iyi geceler (ee-gah’-djeh-lehr) (good night).” A young student asks me on his way out:
“At what time are you leaving tomorrow?”
“7:00 a.m.”
“I’ll be there and will walk with you.”
I appreciate his promise, and it gives me the assurance that I won’t be alone as I walk through the infamous Shiite village Fazil told me about. When he leaves, a dozen more do the same. I continue to hold the door and cast a rather nasty glance at the remaining attendees. The muhtar’s son and the two thugs stay put. Fatigue is making me pushy. I’ve done everything I can to remain calm and I’m pleased with myself for that, but now, overwrought, I literally shove them out the door.
Behind them, I slide the iron latch. Now very cautious, I check around to be sure that it’s the only entrance in to the place where I’m going to sleep. The middle lock has no latch, and I don’t have the key. I block the door with my walking stick. There’s no way to secure the small window, which can be held shut with two wooden pins pivoting on a nail at the top and bottom. One good strike of the elbow, and they’ll give way. Inşallah.
From the faucet in the first room, I fill my water bottle for the next day, dropping in a few tablets to sterilize the water overnight. I quickly freshen up with some ice-cold water and jump into my sleeping bag. I try to sleep, but it isn’t easy after the day’s events. On top of it all, the entire village has gathered outside the house. The conversations are in keeping with all that has transpired: intense, vehement, their voices impassioned. People are shouting out to one another, laughing and screaming. As far as anyone in the village can recall, it must be that no one has ever seen a foreigner. I know how pathologically curious the Turks are, but the commotion is beyond belief. The muhtar never came. Is he really away, or has he refused to receive me, and if that’s the case, then why?
I turn out the light. They’ll soon calm down and go home. I finally relax and fall asleep. I must have been asleep only a few moments when I wake up. The hubbub has grown louder. Annoyed, without turning on the lamp, I go over to the small window and imperceptibly pull back the curtain. What I see makes my blood run cold. A man—one of the spectators a short while ago, as I noticed his unbelievable mustache—is clutching an army rifle, old breech-loading model. Standing still, as if at attention, his eyes are fixed on the door of the building I’m in, paying no attention to the commotion around him. The whole village is there. The little girls have even been allowed to slip in among the men. People are chattering away, making wild gesticulations in the faint light of a bare bulb hanging from the wall of a neighboring house.
Standing in my birthday suit, behind the window, I suddenly start to shiver. I’m tempted to hop in my sleeping bag, but then I think to myself that if they’re going to kill me, I’d better at least look presentable. For what kind of respect would they have for an enemy dressed in nothing but his birthday suit? I pull my clothes on in the shadows. What am I waiting for? Are they going to break down the door? I’m cold. Fully dressed, I slip into my sleeping bag and pull a blanket over me. I’m shivering, from either the cold or the fear. I know it’s childish, but I take my pocketknife out of my bag, a handsome Laguiole that my sister Hélène gave me, with my name engraved on the blade. I put it under my pillow, ready to defend myself, if it comes to that. But I’m under no illusions. Imagine the scene: on whom would you place your bets? One thing is now perfectly clear: the gods have abandoned me. What do these pitiable little people want from me? Are they planning to rob me? To kill me? Or both? What are they waiting for to break down the door? If they wanted to plunder me, or polish me off, why didn’t they do so earlier? I obviously have no answers to these questions that I’m simply asking myself to pass the agonizing time. Minutes seem like hours. I’m dead tired. My watch reads half past midnight. Little by little, my fear begins to fade, giving way to exhaustion. I slowly begin to sink, and then fall headfirst, into a deep sleep. For how long? I haven’t the slightest idea, when someone suddenly begins knocking on the window, jolting me out of bed. What, for heaven’s sake, do they want from me? Exhausted, exasperated, I decide not to answer. Let them prepare their devilish deed; I’m not about to place my own head on the chopping block. They knock again, this time at the door, then once again on the windowpane. Someone yells something I don’t understand. The chatter stops. This sudden silence has me worried. In stocking feet, I walk across the room and lift a corner of the curtain. A soldier in camouflage is standing at the door, pointing a machine gun. I can’t hold back a gasp. The bastards! They’ve called the jandarmas.
While lacing up my boots, I tell myself that it’s better that way anyway. I’ll explain who I am, and everything will be resolved. Before opening the door that they’re now knocking on harder than before, I force myself to relax and calmly stow my knife back in its pocket. Behind the soldier, there are two officers. The entire village is there, elbowing one another to get a better look. The show, apparently, still goes on. When I open the door, for ten seconds, it’s so quiet you could hear the buzz of a mosquito. The two officers size me up. The taller one addresses me in clear English. They want to talk to me, he says. I step back to let them in. The mob is, predictably, ready to follow suit and cram their way in, but I stand in their way. If they want to play Judas, fine, but I’m not about to actually reward them for their betrayal.
“Not them!”
With a wave of the hand, the officer orders them to get out. One of the armed men has come in with the soldiers. He goes over to stand at other end of the room, still pointing his rifle at me.
“Is that your bag?”
“Yes. What’s the problem?”
“Your passport, please.”
Outside, the crowd is muttering.
“Please follow us.”
“Wait. I’m a tourist. I’m visiting your country. What have I done wrong? Are you arresting me?”
“Not at all. It’s for your safety. Follow us.”
“I’d like to know where we’re going.”
“Next door.”
The officer bars me from taking my backpack. The soldier grabs it. Out on the small square, the group of men who, a short while ago, told me that they liked me is relishing the spectacle.
As I make my way through the vengeance-thirsty throng, I have the one small consolation of shouting back to them in a booming voice a phrase I know by heart: “Thank you for your hospitality!” At least I feel as though I’m leaving the place with my head held high.
In the street that crosses the village, I’m flanked by two soldiers, while a third carries my pack. The crowd is close on our heels. They don’t want to miss the final act. For my part, in total amazement, I discover that there’s a real spectacle in front of us. Every ten meters, soldiers in camouflage fatigues have taken up position on each side of the main road, a finger on the trigger, their weapons aimed at the houses and the shadowy side streets, keeping close watch on an invisible enemy. They’re all wearing helmets and bulletproof vests. A vision of war. Above all, if you’re out there in the shadows, you’d better be careful not to sneeze: you’d be instantly shot. It wouldn’t take much to convince me that, in fact, there are snipers everywhere, their guns pointing at us. How many soldiers in all? They’re everywhere, like statues, keeping an eye out for the slightest movement. I’m dumbfounded. Finally, humor gets the best of me. Is this all just for me? At the head of the pack following us, the man who was guarding my door is now brandishing his blunderbuss like a church candle. The expression on his face exhibits the humble grav
ity of a hero. Oh yes, the joker can boast of having scared the bejesus out of me. This is an historic moment for the village. It was almost one for me, too.
For my part, I’m feeling at once quite angry with these people who tricked me, having violated the conventions of hospitality, but also extremely relieved. After I am sure at the sight of the rifle-toting joker that my final hour was at hand, the army’s presence is reassuring. We stop in front of a house with walls that overhang the street. Two troopers stand guard at the bottom of the steps. The two officers in fatigues, another soldier, and I head upstairs. I want to reclaim my gear. The officer instructs the soldier carrying it to come in. The landlord is one of the men who came to welcome me this afternoon, the old hypocrite. It’s he who called the jandarmas, since he’s the only one with a telephone in the village. Must be his way of welcoming tourists. I try to catch his eye, but he keeps looking away. In the presence of the officers, he kowtows, catering to their every whim. It’s grotesque. At the request of one of the officers, the informant leaves the room after having offered the use of his telephone. The officer who speaks English asks me for my map. I hand it to him with a chuckle: is he looking for treasure, too?
The two officers lean over the piece of paper. If they look hard enough, they’ll spot the little marks I scrawled to indicate the three Shiite villages Fazil told me about. They seem not to notice. They spend a long time on the phone. I’m too upset to try to catch what they’re saying. In any case, I have no idea how I could hope to derail the process already underway. Let’s wait and see: that’s the sensible attitude I need to have. When he hangs up, the man has very specific orders.
“You’ll have to follow us.”
“Where?”
“To headquarters. For your safety.”
“I am not in any danger.”
I can’t believe I had the gall to say that after just having the hell scared out of me. But I go on: “Where is your base? Is it far?”
“No.”
“One kilometer, ten?”
“Three or four.”
I try to object.
“No, I’m going to stay here. I want to leave early tomorrow morning.”
The officer gives an order to the soldier, who hurries to open the door where the other two soldiers are standing. One of them takes me by the arm to lead me out. I flare up:
“I can walk on my own. If I’m under arrest, then put handcuffs on me.”
The officer gives a new order to the soldier, and this time he leaves me alone. But it’s clear that I am indeed under arrest.
The situation is already crazy enough as it is. I’m not about to play the hero and descend into the burlesque. And with soldiers, you just never know. Visions of Midnight Express—with dank dungeons and brutal wardens—flash before my eyes. I no longer know what to think. I decide to follow them without a struggle. After all, Part Two might be just as interesting as Part One. What’s my best option? To be in the hands of these military men who see terrorists everywhere, or held by the villagers who fantasize about a “Silk Road treasure” and who could very well wind up slitting my throat just to steal my “treasure map”?
The throng that was expecting me to be shot as soon as I came out of the house watches on, sad to see me leave. The comments they’re making follow us, but not the people. Two soldiers hold them back while I’m led, under constant guard, toward some cars parked a short distance away. When the soldiers regroup, I’m curious enough to count them. There are forty-six of them, in addition to the two officers who have a black, unmarked car at their disposal. I’ve never had so many people concerned for me. I feel like I’m headed for stardom. The soldiers split up into three minibuses and an all-terrain vehicle equipped with a machine gun. In one of the minibuses, my two guards sit next to me on the first bench seat. And the caravan of vehicles heads off into the night. I turn around to catch a final glimpse of my “hosts.” The windshield is covered in dew, and all I can see is the surrounding night.
It isn’t long before I realize that the officer lied to me. On deeply rutted roads—the path to stardom is no doubt just as impenetrable as are the ways of the Lord—we creep along. The drivers zigzag to avoid potholes. We travel five, then ten kilometers. I ask where we’re going. The conscript to my right refuses to answer, the one to my left, who has a face like a farmer in Normandy, utters a single word: “Sivas.”
So they’re not taking me four, but at least forty or even fifty kilometers. During the ride, I don’t know what to think. The officers don’t seem hostile. Why, then, did they arrest me? Was I really in danger? In that case, two or three jandarmas could have warned me, protecting me if need be. Did the soldiers let themselves get worked up by the villagers, who perhaps told them I was a dangerous individual? What’s going to happen when we’re at the base? I’ve read several articles on the methods used by Turkey’s army and the jandarmas, and what they said is far from reassuring. Several days before setting out on my journey, I read an article in Reporters sans frontières (Reporters Without Borders) describing how a Turkish journalist had been tortured by the police. I am not Turkish, nor am I—officially at least—a journalist. But will they care? What if they were to find out that I’m a journalist?
Like a scene from a movie, the evening I spent in that village plays over and over again in my mind. With hindsight, the villagers’ behavior tonight becomes clear. If they refused to leave the house where I was holed up, remaining outside the door, it’s because they wanted to be there to witness my arrest. And if the muhtar’s son came back to see my passport, it’s because the military had asked for as much information as possible before moving in. So they all knew the jandarmas were coming. When I threw them out, I spoiled the dramatic turn of events they were hoping to see, imagining that my arrest would go something like this: “The armed men break into the room, machine guns in hand; I resist, gunshots ring out.” Or better yet: “A terrorist is killed, and the village is awarded a medal.” As for the clown with his toy rifle standing in front of my door, he was a surrogate, the kind the army sometimes recruits in villages. With their old rifles, they’re supposed to act as a kind of local militia, providing a measure of self-defense against the men of the PKK. They are, in a sense, their anti-Kurdish Harkis.* He had taken up position fearing I might escape before the soldiers arrived. Thank goodness I didn’t step out to pee: I’d have taken a bullet. That’s how destinies can play out one way or the other.
It is at least three o’clock in the morning when we finally get inside the garrison, guarded like Fort Alamo, armored vehicles at the entrance and soldiers everywhere. Once again, one of my guardian angels grabs me by the arm. I freeze and refuse to budge. He understands and lets me go. I’m led to the English-speaking officer’s desk. It’s in a large room with walls adorned with portraits of Atatürk. The officer’s name is inscribed on a plate on his desk: Gökgöz (blue eyes or blue sky). The name is everywhere: woven in two little rugs framed in miniature looms, on the walls. He is proud of his family name, and he must be glad that his grandfather chose that one when, after the fall of the sultanate, the Turks were enjoined to conform to the western tradition of a given name and surname. I notice, incidentally, that his eyes are not the least bit blue. Mendel’s law is harsh, but it’s the law.
He invites me to take a seat in front of his executive desk.
“Çay?”
“Yes.”
Trying to make the best out of a bad situation, I strive to keep my anger to myself, in spite of his big lie with respect to the distance between Alihacı and the base.
“I’m going to have to search in your backpack. The villagers reported you as a terrorist. It’s because of your pack.”
“Have they never seen a backpack before?”
“I have to search it.”
“I suppose I have no choice, but if you don’t mind, I’d first like to call my consulate first, to let them know I’ve been arrested.”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“Then wa
it until tomorrow to rummage through my pack. What’s the plan for right now?”
“We’ll put you up for the night.”
“So I’m under arrest…”
“No, you’re our guest.”
I chuckle. He’s got some gall, this tall, somewhat portly fellow who speaks with a high-pitched voice while drawing out his words, and graceful gestures like those of a clergyman. A grunt standing at the office entrance goes over to my pack, opens it, and begins the task of emptying it out. As he takes objects out of it, he hands them over to the other soldier. The second soldier carefully examines them and then sets them on the ground. Without reading it, the soldier hands Blue-Eyes anything handwritten or with typed letters on it. Blue-Eyes then fastidiously combs through everything, holding some of pieces of paper over his desk lamp, trying to see through them. Book, maps, notebook, address book (for postcards), pocket logbook: nothing escapes his fanatical eye. As I’m naturally cautious, in recording events or thoughts related to them, I never wrote the name of Öcalan, or the initials of his party, the PKK. I invented my own system of code. This is obviously what he’s looking for. Moreover, since I send my notes back to France each time I stay in a city, most of my narrative is already safely back in Paris. The documents that I’m taking into Iran and those I put in a separate location until needed (book, maps . . .) are also examined very carefully. I find this search extremely irritating. I feel like I’m being strip-searched. These objects that, as I said earlier, have no material value but are vital for my journey are now scattered all over the floor. Given how careful I’ve been since starting out to stow everything neatly away, it looks like one heck of a mess to me, and I show my displeasure by getting up from the seat where I’ve been confined since my arrival.
Out of Istanbul Page 19
