How Does Flagyl Work For Trich

Dynamics in Turkey. Despatch I. All this is in many ways. The sound of loneliness


After nearly a century of existence, the history of the Turkish Republic has not yet been written. At present, there are official versions of events have occurred since the state was in 1923, but beyond these narratives a crowded chorus of press refused to tell his version of events, or to remember events quite removed. The reasons for this "oblivion imposed" to be found in the rhetoric that government, from Mustafa Kemal Ataturk ("father" of the country), has constructed and imposed an image of Turkey based on the unity of language, values \u200b\u200band efforts of the people towards goals municipalities in an attempt to cancel the differences in the name of a common belonging to the Turkish nation. A concept based on the notion of "citizenship", which in its practical application has taken on ethnic overtones dangerously totalitarian. I'm talking dell'Ataturkismo or Kemalism, 'being turkish "as the only identification to be granted and accepted and the only historical point of view common to all levels of society, the ideology of the state in which the defense has played a role important to the turkish army. Auto promulgatosi defender of the values \u200b\u200bof the country, secularism and the legacy of Ataturk, the army has always been a significant presence of republican history, acting behind the scenes or openly, breaking the momentum with three parliamentary coups (1960, 1971, 1980) and speaking publicly on any matter on the agenda. Of course, the generals, with the two currently in the opposition nationalist parties (CHP and MHP), support the continuation of laws that are the most genuine expression Kemalist ideology: Article 301 of the Penal Code which punishes "insulting the Turkey and the Turkish identity ", adopted a mechanism of the right to strike any dissenting opinion or alternative version of the facts and the constitutional law that punishes anyone who" incites separatism "(finalized from the "Anti-Terrorism Act" of 1991), legal weapon used to those parties or individuals who dare to affirm the existence of multiple ethnicities and multiple identities in turkish territory. Although much has changed since there was only one legal party in Turkey, the Republican Party, and when the laws that restricted the rights of minorities were ironclad and indisputable, there is still a public space for discussion that allows a comparison of the history and free the present without consequences for the people. Moreover, it is only very little that the Turkish government acknowledged the existence of a "Kurdish question" in the country, risking a possible ban for posed the problem. The fact is that years of propaganda have shaped people's mentality, making it socially acceptable abuses and restrictions on freedom of expression. The constant shadow of the army and a bloody conflict that has lasted for twenty-five years between the State and the fighters of the Kurdistan Workers Party (PKK), intimidation, kidnappings and destruction that have suffered the country's minorities, the presence of underground power networks connected to the state apparatus, are some of the nodes that Turkey must find the courage and humility to deal with. Only by opening dialogue, only with the participation of more voices in the public debate, and only by coming to terms with its past you can build a working democracy and look to the future with more confidence.

Living in Turkey will soon learn the difference between individuals is the most salient feature of the turkish people, if there is a turkish people. Sometimes you hear so many versions of the same story, or opposing opinions on the state of things, which in most cases, for a quiet life, you avoid certain topics. For example, the deep conflict in the east between the army and guerrillas of the PKK (officially under way since 1984). It's like reaching a critical point of contradictions when it comes to the facts and reasons for the war. Nor is there a unique way of naming: fratricidal war? Liberation struggle? Separatist war on terrorism? There are families who are the personification of this short circuit does not really know what to think when one of your children is a soldier of the regular army and the other joined the guerrillas in the mountains. If you die, which one will be a martyr? The only thing that remains clear at this point and without partisan differences, is the mother plant. Or the value of the Republic, its sanctity must be defended or fought? Living in a wealthy district of Istanbul, worrying about the many possibilities offered by a growing economy, makes the past a bulky weight and support the state a natural inclination. But if you are born and grow in a village on the border with Iraq, the depression of underdevelopment around you, the language of your parents is different from what they teach you in school and do not clearly know who you are and where you take your condition. There are sad stories everywhere, if you know how to listen. And music, and sound and costumes, which are not merely folk variety, as they would like the quiet middle-class urban, but manifestations of strength irreducible. It is a dilemma that is open, has no solution, the enemy is the mirror in which each side sees his nightmares. The unconscious fear of reliving the break up of the Ottoman Empire under the pressure of different ethnic groups, shake the dreams of the nationalists. And the threat of repeated raids keep you awake at night by hooded men of the old Tunceli, of Nusaybin, in Diyarbakir. Many stories overlap, occurred in the throes of constant Turkish history. To get closer to understand one must listen to each of these items because, as Herodotus said, all is in many ways.

Note from the south-east, the highlands and mountains of Anatolia, the many souls of the country shows no mediation. Just travel to Gaziantep Sanliurfa and Mardin, Batman pointing. Between long stretches of flat desert are numerous scattered villages, and destroyed some poor, others green and with a placid life marked by slow rhythms of the earth. It is interesting to know that every town, village, group of houses that you meet along the way is to have two names. The official name, the one written on the maps and records, is the latest, and turkish, invented a table diligent National Geographic. The other name has a sound that is clearly different, is a Kurd, is written in the air and on the stones, in memory, and you know it only by asking the local and only if you trust. Kurdish writer Musa Anter, in his autobiographical books, is committed to preserving the memory of the lives of Kurds crushed by a permanent denial, and recalls in his writings, even the old names transmitted from generation to generation, before the advent of the Turkish Republic: "D e are a look at my situation: Kurdistan is the most backward region of Turkey, the city of Mardin is the most backward city of Kurdistan, Nusaybin is the most problematic of the province of Mardin. Stelile (Akarsu renamed by the Turks) is the poorest village of Nusaybin. Zivinge (renamed by the Turks Eski Magara) is the most underdeveloped village Stelile according to the data archive and I was born on a Caye, No. 2 .(...) For 7000 years our caves were known by the name of Zivinge but now without consulting the inhabitants of a brutal government, as if giving a name to a dog or a cat, our village has renamed Eski Magara (old cave) ... so after 65 years I have become an inhabitant of the old cave! It is interesting to recall that when the independent Bulgaria began to change the names of Bulgarian Turks, there was a riot as if they were affected human rights. I wonder if the Bulgarians have learned this trick from the Turks? "

schizophrenia

This identification began well before the birth of the Republic. While the Ottoman Empire was crossed by riots in 1910, the desperate attempt by the central government to maintain the cohesion was to rename the villages that inexorably moving away from its orbit control, not only the Kurdish names, but also Greek names, Armenians and Bulgarians were changed. Not much use, the Empire was in terminal crisis, but the practice was also adopted by those generals, first of all Ataturk, who gave the task of founding a modern state. Yet the memory is not lost. Then as now, the presence of Kurds in Turkey is large, we are talking about 15 million. Of these, several thousand were forced to flee their villages during military operations in the east, emigration to the suburbs of big cities. Still anxious to return to their homes. About 7000 Kurds flock to the state prisons, with charges ranging from terrorism to separatist propaganda, for the most part only guilty of having participated in demonstrations or having distributed leaflets. They also expect amnesty repeatedly announced but not implemented. Until 1991, the Kurdish language was illegal, those who listened to music or read books in Kurdish was under arrest. It was not possible to produce any kind of culture, and it was even forbidden to give their children Kurdish names. In Turkey, the Kurds have been persecuted because of their different feel, they say the facts, the only possibility for the government was forced assimilation. But a culture can not be erased, he is living in people and is so deep that resist matches live. He told me an old lady who met in secret Kurdish families at night and in the light of kerosene lamps were talking in their own language until the morning, teaching the children the stories passed down from heroes and poets. The oral transmission of knowledge has been for millennia the only form of memory of the Kurdish people. Musa Anter is one of the intellectuals who tried to carry this memory in writing, and telling traditions and customs never abandoned. Its author was the turkish language, by fate rather than choice, irony of history. It was also politically engaged, in 1990 he participated with other members of the culture to create a party that was the expression of the Kurdish minority, the People's Labour Party (HEP; "hilkin Emek Partisi). Declared illegal, its representatives were arrested, on charges of "fomenting separatism." No need to break down confidence in Anter. Among many difficulties founded and directed the Kurdish Institute in Istanbul, came to life as an editor and two major newspapers: the weekly Yeni Ülke and the newspaper Özgür Gündem. To the last he was constantly engaged in the story of his time, from the standpoint of the Kurds. Until they killed him. In the city of Diyarbakir, during a cultural event, was taken from his hotel by someone she knew, and was brought along his nephew Orhan Miroglu in an isolated place. There, he was shot at least eight shots. It was December 20, 1992. For 15 years the surveys have been of an full stop. The files relating to the murder were classified as "state secret", even if the prosecutor has admitted that state agents were to act. In 2007, Sweden, the former guerrillas of the PKK and former member of JITEM (secret police apparatus used in the "war on terrorism"), Abdulkadir Aygan began to speak, revealing that the murder was done in ' context of JITEM, ordered by government officials. Why? A writer is armed only with words, and in his writings Anter spoke of the past. He had spent too harsh words against the PKK, accusing some members of harassing the Kurdish civilians with taxation, and to participate jointly element-state drug trafficking. To find the motive, we must look elsewhere, to the activities of secret organizations within the state acting (acting?) On behalf of their interests, in order to foment chaos and instability. Many bloody events with no apparent explanation of the recent Turkish history, viewed from this perspective, would perhaps a solution.

Musa Anter

hands raised to heaven and prayer, I am the mother of Baran's answer to my questions about his past. Village near Halfeti, province of Sanliurfa, the days of Kurban Bayram, or Eid, the feast of sacrifice most of the Muslim calendar. The language we speak in the streets is the Kurdish, the children grow up bilingual. The next morning at school with the teacher before class, profession of faith to speak the native Turkish: "Ne Mutlu Türküm Diyene" "Happy the One Who Can Say Turkish", decision of Ataturk written in every corner of the country, while at night with the family singing the songs of their people, if you do not have TV to watch satellite channels Kurds. Political issues here are far away, and at the same time are next to the bread that we eat every day. Many families live a daily life difficult, made sacrifices and hardships that are not open to speculation. The desire of young people is mainly to find a job, leave the village, seeing the world. Not all. Some feed themselves in constant hatred for the Turkish tank in the dirt roads that pass, too big and threatening to this country of shepherds and farmers. On the skin of young Kurds to play a dirty game of propaganda cross: on the one hand, the assimilation at any cost, other guerrillas to death. The genuine spirit of revenge that can prove a Kurd aware of its history, is channeled by the followers of PKK also to actions not proper resistance. Distinguishing is difficult if not impossible. Deviated segments of the Workers Party of Kurdistan cooperate with men of the State in the drug trade in these parts is not a mystery. Some say to finance the war of resistance, but others are sure that there are secret agreements between the parties to the war never ends. The conflict often results in violent killings between the army and fighters, mines placed in the streets involving innocent civilians, and army shelling on the villages of shepherds. Where does the trail of blood? Finding a compromise between these two extremes is what we decided Baran. He studied hard at university history Gaziantep, and what does not make him study deepens it on their own. As the revolt and the massacre of Dersim, in the years 1937-38, where they were killed according to estimates downward from at least forty thousand Kurdish Alevis (a sect of Islam) and Christians. Today it is called Dersim Tunceli, but the old still remember. Yet, the faculty of history teachers have never heard of ... Baran lives his identity with courage, streets looking for revenge that does not pass through a rifle. Meanwhile, in his house, the mother can not help but keep on turning on the television channel broadcasting from Iraqi Kurdistan, perhaps a reminder that there are places where the Kurds are free to be yourself.

There are unmistakable signs of an ongoing change in policy and perception of the "Kurdish question ". Since in 2005 the turkish Prime Minister Recep Tayyip Erdogan made his famous speech in Diyarbakir in which he recognized the existence of the question, it was like opening a pressure cooker where a lot of hope have emerged. Until then, the Kurds in Turkey and spoke of how "successfully integrated" or as "supporters terrorists ", denying the existence of any a priori shared problem. It seemed impossible to even imagine what is happening today. See, for example, Foreign Minister Ahmet Davutoğlu turkish flags and surrounded by smiling Iraqi Kurdistan while shaking hands with President of Kurdistan Regional Government, Massoud Barzani, to send a message of friendship (published in Kurdish) and describing Erbil, the capital of the Iraqi Kurds, like home. A truly historic moment and a step policy Davutoğlu "zero problems with neighbors, which is leading to changes in relations with the troubled Syrian government and led to the first tentative overtures to Armenia. Another event that breaks with the past was the creation Tuchia in early 2009, the first Kurdish-language television channel, started with the restrictions on playing times, but that is slowly gaining autonomy. Still, the opening of the first Kurdish language and literature department at the University of Mardin, which became operational after many delays and intimidation. An important role in this match had the pressure of the European Union, for which the expansion of cultural and linguistic rights is an indispensable prerequisite to the entry of Turkey into the European club. And the Justice and Development Party (AKP) by Erdoğan is increasing its efforts in this direction. In late summer it was announced a package of reforms to ensure the rights of minorities, first called "the Kurdish initiative" and the "democratic opening" and then sealed as the "project of national unity." 45% of the population, according to a recent survey, supports the process in place, too many years of war and too many deaths (estimates talk of 40,000 victims) are convincing the public of the inability to resolve the conflict with the PKK only with weapons. Even the commanding General İlker Başbuğ made history by being the first to recognize that the general turkish army alone can not solve the conflict. Some commentators, including Cengiz Candar (journalist with the daily Radikal ), connecting the series of reforms in place a strategy Anatolia economic stabilization and normalization of relations with the Kurds Iraqis. With the imminent departure of U.S. troops from Iraq (as announced at the latest by the beginning of 2011) the Turks will no longer have carte blanche to their raids across the border to "hunt terrorists" and the presence of hydrocarbon deposits in territory of the Kurdistan Regional Government requires the consolidation of alliances commericiali (tralatro in place for some years with investment in Turkish territory) rather than further conflict. There are major projects in the pipeline for the construction of pipelines through Iran and Turkey to Europe (the Nabucco project) and the turkish state has an interest in the pacification of Europe to prevent attacks during the work. Gas reserves that are coveted by the Europeans, to limit the nell'approvigionamento energy dependence on Russia, which are leading to a convergence of interests. The main problem, and the primary purpose of the 'Kurdish initiative "is the end of the war with the PKK, and the return of some 5,000 guerrillas from Mount Quandil and the mountainous terrain of northeastern Iraq. To reassure the combatants on the good intentions of the government, the president Abdullah Gül announced that those who were until recently considered "terrosti," if they return, will be reintegrated into society. And to test these opening words at the beginning of October, 34 fighters were handed over to Turkish authorities, beginning the descent from the mountains. Welcomed as heroes by many Kurds in Turkey, that has provoked bitter criticism from opposition parties, the ex-guerrillas handed over a declaration of the PKK, which wants to be a helping hand to the reforms implemented by the AKP. If the rights of Kurds in Turkey will increase and if the ex-combatants will be pardoned, the PKK is committed to cease hostilities. Even Abdullah Ocalan, the PKK leader, from prison of Imrali where he is serving a life sentence, has sent his lawyers a road map to peace-building, currently under investigation by the government.

A major player, whose fate is uncertain, it remains the Democratic Society Party (DTP), which represents the legal Kurdish party in parliament in March elections and that has increased its political base. Two years ago, and begin any legal proceedings dall'Uffcio the Prosecutor of the Supreme Court of Appeals against the DTP, accused of fomenting separatism and to maintain relations with the PKK. The party may end the exclusion from policy of 219 members for five years. The hearing began on December 8 of the Constitutional Court which will decide the merits of the allegations. The timing is delicate, and the possible closure of the DTP could be a serious obstacle to the process of "democratic opening" supported by the AKP. In recent days, many cities in Europe and Istanbul, there were protests by Kurds in the streets resulted in clashes with security forces. The protestors also called by the proclamations of the DTP, accused the government of having worsened the conditions of imprisonment of Abdullah Ocalan, moved to a new cell that lawyers are said to be smaller and illumined the worst while the former Minister of Justice said to be in line with European standards. He has so much the smell of a pretext, and collected by the discontent of the Kurds became the casus belli parlamenteri DTP. This does not pose for them, while the Constitutional Court undertook to decide whether the actions and declarations of the party whether or not "contrary to the integrity of the state." The only thing at this point can save the DTP is a change of the "Law on political parties, long criticized for its anti-democratic aspects. But this is difficult, as it is also necessary to the contribute of the nationalist parties, which do not hide their strong opposition to the process of democratic opening. " How will the AKP in case the Constitutional Court decides to ban the DTP? The initiative of the government to extend its rights and democracy will suffer adverse effects? You will be able to expect a convergence of efforts in the project of national unity in the streets while the parliament is being fought and decimated by anti-democratic? In all this, the nationalist parties of the CHP and MHP are continuing their propaganda that demonizes the AKP, accusing him of conspiring to separate the country and come to terms with the terrorists. Further fuel to the fire in a tangle of tensions that you do not see the end.

There's a picture that speaks to this better than a speech. It is a picture of these days, one of the events in the east, which are bursts of anger and pride that come from afar, speaking of tragedies past and wishes for the future. There are children throwing stones, dozens of children. Are obviously too small to have political opinions, but not so unaware by unaware of the danger they face. They are asking to be taken into account. They do it in a violent way because for too long, the violence was the only language common to all the warring factions. Demand to be recognized, to have a story, happy to see the mothers, the brothers return. The road taken by some political parties and social groups can lead for the first time in a very radical change in relations between individuals in Turkey, a dialogue between differences, in an open discussion on issues common to reach shared decisions, free of schizophrenia authoritarian and dreams, nightmares, uniqueness and purity of identity. Sooner or later, the Constitution of this country must change, its assumptions are limits to ethnic co-existence of diversity and free expression of opinion. Today we see a little light in the darkness prevailing, feed and grow is the only wise thing to do.

Zimbra Incoming Configuration

On the threshold of the cloudy night, when the first cold autumn caresses, dripping I speak on the life of Gaziantep, dark matter that she wiggles out there. Lurking in the clearing of failure, my roof is a window on the unspoken desire to fly. Also fly away, no matter who is away. I feel, are hunted. I invades' Hüzün, already swelled in hurried steps back from the bazaar. Now, here at home, the glass fogs up my loneliness, blurs the outlines of things, they stay silent. L 'Hüzün. Restless soul looking for something missing. It 'like a hand in the dark melancholy that stretches to embrace love, and looks even touches only darkness. Do you happen perhaps when you're sitting on a wet bench, surrounded by trees that seem indifferent more than welcoming, and you look at the shoes, the tips of your shoes, wondering if you can ever make in a place that is worthwhile, or just to ' yet another bench. The old that forwards with skill between the toes of small beads are well aware of the 'Hüzün, it is life when it mixes with thoughts on life, as water is added to the raki, a clear liquor, and together they become as white as milk turbid. It 's a suspended condition, that pertains to the individual but floats in the air. Hovers in one place, on a portion of humanity, and penetrates through the cracks in each of his distraction.



writer Orhan Pamuk has recognized this feeling in the streets and in the history of Istanbul, his hometown, coming to identify with it the spirit of its people without them knowing what moves them, it nurtures dreams and direct its actions. But in Istanbul, the night can make you forget even your name, leads to madness in a trail of emotions. It is no longer the foggy city of his childhood, where it could happen to cross the Galata bridge desert. It is now a megalopolis get enough electricity to be confusing her with everything that passes through it. L 'Hüzün has not abandoned, just more lies hidden in wooden houses still standing, with blackened walls and windows closed, or in the streets of Fatih at sunset, while the azan call to prayer and the men slowly slip off your shoes before entering the mosque. In Istanbul, a club with no sign stuck in the attic of art nouveau buildings, there are single men, lost in clouds of gray smoke, with glasses of which never see the bottom. They explore the approach of day deciphering the fragments of the Ottoman Empire crumbled, far from the economic achievements of modern Turkey, away from discussions on entry into Europe, opening away from democratic reforms. What remains of the past? On old jackets torn settles the dust of history without meaning, and do not know who we are or where we are going. But we want to be. And here we measure the size, active insatiable desire, which connotes' Hüzün, a closed door behind him, in a heavy coat, and away into the night and his best offer. The clouds thinned out, sooner or later. In the meantime, he asks a woman to open the clenched fists, and forget the wrongs, the war has left scars even in the words and you prefer the silence, indulging in a tender embrace. That light will go out alone, and will bring the shadows.



Here is distant Istanbul. Here the space without stealing the life expectancy, and each village does not know his neighbor. We could hide forever in these mountains and hills, in caves in paleolithic forgotten valley. The city is an oasis of concrete, tall buildings speak for themselves of modernity, while unbeknownst to them are endless suburbs. Surrounding roads, and donkeys. Sidecar crammed with ramshackle wood trot to the farmers' houses, where electricity was immediate. And the uncertain fate collect bus humanity huddled on the sidewalks. I was also there, among them confused citizen Gaziantep, a stranger with my face every day that change imperceptibly. Clutching the keys in the pockets I got on the first bus out of town towards the mahalla, the neighborhood of the "new arrivals", the crowd of refugees from the east. Living on the streets, along the doors, lactating women in the doorways. They have tattoos mysterious marks on the forehead and hands, wrecks graphs of Islamic land, pay, tied to magical practices to ensure health and happiness. They look at me go without asking who they are, they teach children who do not represent a danger. And everything is far from here, while a Kurdish girl likes to insult me \u200b\u200bwith furious eyes and a grotesque smile. I eat my doner tavuk breathless at a table in the corner. Ataturk yellowed looked at me sternly, and two old staring into space waiting for the cold Çay is served by a boy. There is elegance even in poverty, if you care to keep the needs of the highest, most sacred of inner purity. Not like those philistines who go about to convert, to organize a revival of radical and false images of "good Muslim" who would see only veiled women and men in long coats, while I laugh to imagine the men and veiled women mistress.



The slowness of the baker in the house is my peace of mind for two Turkish lira. I often stop to talk, to improve my turkish, and in the meantime there's always a warm freshly baked borek, which gives me a stramacchio Ali. With cheese and olives for breakfast, with Today's Zaman and the cigarettes under his arm put aside, I return home. I think Turkish verses of poets in this city meetings only in the cafes closed. I mark time, climb the stairs with me to the attic where they return to dance, to reveal, finally, brutal whispers of those who saw the making and unmaking of the world.

Sesler

Gecenin Evin bir zaman gelince
Kilitte duyuyorsan anahtarın Sesini
ANLAI ki yalnızsın

Elektrik düğmesini çevirince
Cited diye bir ses duyuyorsan
Anla ki yalnızsın

Yatağına yatınca
Yüreğinin sesinden uyuyamıyorsan
Anla ki yalnızsın

Odanda kâğıtlarını kitaplarını
Duyuyorsan zamanın kemirdiğini
Anla ki yalnızsın

Bir ses geçmişlerden
Çağırıyorsa eski günlere
Anla ki yalnızsın

Değerini bilmeden yalnızlığının
Kurtulmak istiyorsan
Kurtulsan da yapayalnızsın

Suoni

Se senti il suono della chiave nella serratura
when you come home at night
you know that you are alone.

If you feel a slight crunch
when you press the light switch
you know that you are alone.

If the beating of your heart will not let you sleep when you go to bed

you know that you are alone.

If you feel the time gnawing
books and papers in your room
you know that you are alone.

If a voice from the past
you back to your old days
you know that you are alone.

If you want to escape from loneliness

not appreciate it then you're really alone, even if you can escape.

-Aziz Nesin-

Electric Toothbrush Diagram

uzak Bilek


Approximately half an hour far from Gaziantep, rises the village of Bilèk. It has more then three thousand inhabitants, scattered in anonymous brick houses, living with few things, just the necessary. There is a school for the many children living there; all them, the day we went to the village, followed our group showing us their favourite places for playing and the hidden corner where they think there is some beauty. The children were really curious about us, and especially about me, the stranger, and it was clear that their enthusiasm was doubled by this unusual visitor, from a far country. It seemed that in the poor life they live everything could turn into a game, their needs are simple and their desire for human contact huge. There were especially male children, and some female, but of course very shy. Since their childood, the girls learn to be aside, to not be open and to not speak too much with boys and men, especially if strangers. Therefore i can say in Bilèk the patriarchy custom is still strong, and deep interanlized laws rule the village life.

Me and my classmates were free to walk and discover the village, and all the population seemed to be very happy of our interest. We entered in two houses with courtyard where some women were engaged in their work: the preparation of local sweets. There were just women attending every phase of the work, a long and patient work, that give as result very good sweets: the “cevizli sucuk”, some kind of buds with walnuts, and the “pestil”, a sweet sheet useful to making cakes. To make these food they do not use white sugar, but only the sugar from a grape jam, left to heat in large pot. This means the extremly healthy quality of the food, done as centuries ago.
During their work they seemed happy, and also glad of our presence. We tried everykind of just made food and we went away really full. The kindness of this people always surprises me, no matter the language, the cultural difference and different behavior, they will always open their houses for the stranger, they will give what they have, and if they have nothing they will give smiles. It is the kind of solidarity common in cohesive communities, where culture is something that teach without any doubt how to be with guests. There is no fear for the one who brings only curiosity, like an old memory that knows what does it mean to be far from home and, maybe, painful.For this the tradition teaches to help and to host.

As I saw the village has some structural problems: the buildings and the roads require maintenance that lack, there is no safety place for children playing, and they risk everyday to broke their bones on the rocks laying everywhere. I’m not sure about the chance to get a doctor or to go hospital in short time if it is necessary. No police or someone that reminds a governement, somewhere. And also, no work, except the traditional one or few necessary shops.

When we went away the cildren followed the bus for many metres, laughing and screaming. I'm sure, They will wait for us, or for anyone to pass will Bilek.

Sympathy Templates For Word

A Bilek go there by accident. It 's so lonely and bare this village in the desert of stones ocher and blacks, among the sparse trees, nuts and fruits that you want a good reason to push you over there. Is about an hour from Gaziantep, lying on the rocks, topped by a small hill. There are farms around rivers and some field. Majestic eagles glide on and around the country, aiming carcasses. Shortly before the scattered houses to appear gray, swarms of goats along the way and slow down the pace. And smothered hot see the distant mountains to the light, dazzling in their hardness, before a sea of \u200b\u200bsand harsh, sharp and dry as a dead man's throat. Only a few men lost and still, watching, greets you in silence, others, farmers, prance through red scooters. What are you doing to Bilek? It is an attractive small town, not a town of art, and there is no landscape or cultural event to expect. Case, raw concrete with brick in sight, mosques closed for decades. Donkeys stunned as statues engaged in constant rumination of stunted brushwood. And roads are not roads, yet simple mule full of holes. I went down to the village, however, that reception. "Hos geldiniz" is the word that resonates after the creak of the gates that scihudono, Welcome. The atmosphere is festive. "It reminds us," and the timidity of veiled girls in the country for the first time can temper curiosity about trying to host foreign perilous.

I went with my class in sociology for research purposes, to observe the traditional methods of preparation of desserts premises. And to know and talk to the people, to ask ourselves together as is their life. Interesting discoveries are made in isolated places, such as whether the lack of a steady stream of innovations to retain memory blocks that are resistant to aridity. Many actions are repeated the same Bilek from time immemorial. Almost all the courts, those who can afford it, families working in the production of Cevizli sucuk and Pestil. The Cevizli sucuk are gems of walnuts or pistachios, dipped nell'uzum and left to dry in the sun raging east, while the sheets are Pestil of Uzume, necessary for the preparation of the famous baklava of Gaziantep. The Uzume, this sweet molasses and hot boiling relentlessly on a crackling fire, it's simple grapes crushed and mixed with other ingredients that increase the consistency. Sweet in the mouth, with no added sugar, you can enjoy even a spoon in the bowl, and is said to be healthy and energetic, a natural panacea. We offer it with a smile, and I can see the bright whiteness of the teeth, even though they produce sweet and consume in quantity, that makes me understand the goodness of the ingredients, the absence of sweeteners, and leading a healthy life here, against the desert . It 's a long and patient work to make Cevizli. Each pistachio nut or laundry is in the center with an awl and then passed through a piece of string twice. This chain broke, twenty or thirty fruits, then you add others, and are linked to a young industry. I'm so ready to be dipped one by one and many times, nell'uzum bubbling. The gesture was decided, as sinking into soft cloth in water, leaving gold and dripping and are left to dry on long poles with hooks. Once they are hardened Cevizli have a color of ancient amber and soft chewy candy with a hard-hearted and delicious. A kilo costs 20 pounds, about ten euro, and you just for a month. Here's a good reason to go Bilek, to get a bellyful of Cevizli, or maybe take in large quantities and sell them retail center in Gaziantep, and earn the bread. I met an old man who does this for twenty years, and there bell.

Women Bilek continue to pierce nuts and wait for guests and patrons. They are the soul of this work, he shall make every step working in silence or singing songs unknown. No matter the age, young and very old alive every backyard, in their pants funny, put to good with colored veils and hair dyed with henna. Kurdish, or seem likely, some do not even know, in this country does not really matter as long as you work. There is an old lady who invites me closer to the great cauldron. He wants to show the emergence of pastries from next door, and keeps me close my shoulder. E 'proud, or is simply everything he has. The wrinkles on his face tell hardships, but have not ditched the sweet smile that gives me serenity. Our eyes speak. And close in her dress torn, with tears and stains, with huge, sagging breasts, and bare feet, I think the guardian of the secrets to give Cevizli sweet taste they have. His granddaughter plays with a goat tied to an iron ring, and a daughter waiting for what seems to work without giving me confidence, so beautiful in its silence. The women here have no habit of talking to strangers, especially men, only the elderly who now have all the rites of growth behind it no longer worry of due discretion, and the community let him. But where are the husbands, the fathers of their children? Men do not take part in the work. A little farther on the road, next to an oven that cooks Borek, there is a shack of a bar with four tables and a television. There, heavy smoking cigarettes, you find some suspicious, all taken from the cards and Tavla, while the TV sends video turkish pop repeatedly. Other men are in the nearby countryside, others have left and live in the city looking for a job, but none is devoted to the preparation of desserts. Division of roles, slow the flow of time changing costumes, or patriarchal hierarchy? We can not know for a visit only, enter the life of Bilek means changing into his everyday prejudice Bilek.

we walk through the streets followed by a large group of children, almost all male. I am incredibly excited by us, they want to show the corners where their beauty lies, and their favorite places to play. They took us to a ruined house, where they love to hide in the rubble, hide in unlikely. Or on the hill where they found a litter of dogs, which pull out of a hole in the wall. They smile, cry, rant, argue. They are a force of nature, and I realize how all their energy explodes in every direction, looking for something to stick in the innocence of desire to have fun. My hand is stretched and some verrebero me in her arms in this commotion, except that we get to go into a tomb, where an old man who tells lies for 110 years, who speaks of a dead child, make me afraid to take all together. I say the dead are there. And we're all scattered around in a small house with a tiny entrance, and fetid. They do not have much here. Apart from the trees to climb, at the risk of broken bones, and chickens to chase, not even a place to pull four kicks the ball, a place that has the semblance of a children's park. There is a school, the building of the modern village, with the golden statue of Ataturk and glittering, but the doors broken open and no control. We entered, and all the kids love it, somewhat 'violent. While jumping on bugs and chairs, I had the unfortunate idea of \u200b\u200bproposing a flash of English lessons, just to teach the basics to get to know someone. All very happy of my initiative, I jumped on him repeating what I said without any consistency, as a game, which was soon transformed into a take the "master" by the throat, in the ecstasy of increasingly daring jumps and screams piercing. Has saved me a friend, Ercan, who explained me how these kids can lose control, neglected and poorly educated family members, often absent. Not so different from kids in Naples, eager to intense life and discoveries, to live a really hard, repetitive, or with dreams that are too large for these mule or arrive at a stone's throw from here. The next time you bring him a ball.

The professor, the only one who speaks English for miles, approaching curious about my reactions. Still reeling from the 'attack' kids, and the strong sun gave me a little 'head. I'm confused by what surrounds me, my reason for seeking connections with other places and other times I visited, and found shelter in the countryside of my childhood, whose spirit is similar to the everyday life of this village, the stories and visions of the past. They seem to only the most neglected and most distant, to escape a large scale restructuring program by Ankara, which does not even have a mayor to turn to fix the roads. A place also left at certain times, you look through, from immoral traveler is not responsible for their destiny as you are, as yet another link in a long chain of events that do not touch them, do not change. But there is something wrong. I hear that Bilek is an ancient village, and had its solemnity and fame. Nobody knows me now, as it had just been born. The homes say it all, made of brick recent, some still under construction, building emerging from the mud as abortion, without any beauty or sign that characterizes them. Indeed, he says the professor, with no more than fifty years these houses, and have been brought up by their more practical function to enclose men, and not as a result of cultural expression. Bilek was an ancient Kurdish village, but houses and people were swept away in the twenties, from office and dall'esplosivo turkish army, in the work of "cleansing" of the country, carried out by the fathers of his country in the chaotic years of war independence and consolidation. The people had been evacuated, houses destroyed. There was nothing and nobody, just rubble, filled with memory. The new residents have come from the countryside more dispersed, they began to rebuild the places to live on the ruins of ancient residences. There was beauty, and was buried under concrete. The memory has been replaced with more memory, traveling wagons and on foot, to solidify, until one day after another. Bilek now know is that out of the village is the vast world, and some of the chase. E 'alive though, and churn out as Cevizli children, caring little where else to go to both.

We share the same crowd of kids which has the euphoria that greeted so warmly. Clap their hands on the window as if to say "do not forget to come back," chasing the bus and swallowing dust and throwing a few English words they have learned from the foreigner. Ercan looks at me, Bilek is strange for him, and I realize that only by living closer I could understand what it means to be born.

California Closets Garage Price

Leave the city life as seen from Gaza

In the nights in Istanbul, Turkey, enclosed in an anonymous room on campus Sabanci, lost in the midst of arid plains of the extreme eastern edge, we began to tell us slowly. Someone filled the silence with a few words the most serious, in waiting there somewhere, and the others were willing to listen: it was time for a story. This does not laugh when following coarse fragments of pop culture, drinking a beer or infinite Cay, or when we do not organize a joke or a stroke of genius to revive the nights of the students, "to arrange" in our jargon. But the stories, sooner or later, they came from. When the three of us were alone, I Yildirim, and Ismael, and waiting for the umpteenth Rolling the break of day, with cats that entered the window and the paths of the campus empty and ghostly. Then something is unlocked and in English, the lingua franca of our friendship, send us what lies at the bottom, our personal story that, in one way or another, had led us this far.

"Nobody can say what is right to do, you know, does not exist! Can you beat your head all you want, you'll never know the end is arbitrary, the right simply does not exist ". Does not say it lightly Ismael, which has the quite rational, and always slipping into a void of bitterness. For him the difference by which each day comes to terms, what separates the "do good" from "doing evil", is a thin line, sometimes non-existent. He is in Gaza, who was born and raised in the largest open air prison in the world. Gaza, the occupied territory, fertile soil and sunny, the heart of Palestine, lots of lives in hostage, open wound and aphonia speech, house, even if it bombed. Gaza, where you can wake up one morning and discover that he had lost a relative or friend, or you do not wake up again. Gaza, where you're so used to seeing people in uniform with machine guns and tanks pointed at you with that you innocently ask why should not you me to love you too. And this is what haunts Ismael. Killing is bad, people say, but if I kill to defend and revenge, and if the good around me without a doubt, this seems, what is my act then? When I oppose, resist when, convinced to fight for justice, supported and respected by my brothers, against an unbeatable power and fierce, when I launch into a certain death but has the honor of a sacrifice for my people, and not some god, who can tell me I'm doing wrong? At this point, the level of dust on Palestinian land, among the rubble and broken dreams, war becomes a moral imperative. And 'resistance, "Expulsion of the invader, is the 'now' in which we are called to witness to the need to have nothing to reproach in the face of history and face his own conscience. And dignity and pride, material need to continue to trust in something, to find the strength to act, to eat, to work, and desperate not to fall in inaction. Against all logic tactics, that give you inexorably defeated, the solitude and the silence of the world, against a counter-moral actor who wants you on his back of a tragedy written by others. It matters little whether you are on borrowed time, "fucking kill even a single Israeli soldier, and that everything goes to hell." At least, you no longer have to choose.

Yet, it happens that crescendo with the death of his side, after you know her as a companion grinning, to start being curious about other potential opportunities granted to life. Fighting has its meaning, but also build it. There is a vast world outside the bars, away from the checkpoint there are things to learn and people to meet, and maybe in the future, a better Gaza, an Israeli human. You can still believe that it is worth to breathe and to endeavor. Between the pain and destruction that allows the hope of survival is a dream that has somehow managed to resist the white phosphorus and missiles from the Israeli army. And 'the imagination of an alternative to blood and death you have been properly trained from infancy by irrefutable facts. It 's a possibility that seems crazy because not instantaneous, and therefore liable to fail, but that makes its way inside you to mature into a choice. Ismael has chosen to study, with all his might. And this choice he has to convince every day, with each new report of the massacre in his country, in any communication with the family at home and tells him a humiliation or a bereavement. I still do not know if it's just, more fair than fight, and if the application does not find a convincing answer. Clear however that does not want to sell: conquer knowledge and money, and return home. He wants to build a multipurpose center in Gaza for young people, there is still something that does not exist. A place where you can approach to information technology and foreign languages, where they can get in touch with the outside world, where making music, art, manual labor is not aimed at survival, but development-oriented spirit, and to meet, exchange ideas, have fun . He studied computer sciences, a field "practice" as he likes to emphasize, and his head is full of great ideas to apply, excellent to create useful services for people and businesses that will work. And 'This is the alternative that follows, which has so far withheld dall'imbracciare a gun.

the boy has no brain. He grew up strong and healthy from a mother who is already a saint, after twelve children, all educated in the process of, pulled up with genuine food in a few fields yet in production, studying hard inspired by older siblings, all of the means produced by the genes needed. There are seven brothers and four sisters. The largest is the United States where, after graduating in architecture, finally earns well and can help the family. One lives and works in Japan, another was arranged in Sweden, and everyone does everything possible to support back home. Thinking that his father and mother started poor, ate a bread and split a tomato head, working morning and night, squeezing in inhuman efforts, with the perennial risk of losing everything in an instant. But, who knows if luck or fate, they have grown up and trained well in the world. In his family there are the seeds by which Ismael has opted for the hard work, rather than the atrocious war. I stopped to ask him if he believes it is right now, we are staring at the empty set, then, pulling the money on our own, and that have never balanced. E 'already incredible that here it is, in Istanbul. A year and a half ago, thanks to his efforts and his intelligence was able to win a scholarship for a semester abroad in the best universities of Turkey. Assures me with a sorrow that you do not immediately explain, it is not easy when 100% of the students make a request to go anywhere, to flee. You have to be the best, and yet not enough. You have to rely on in a frantic competition, and you have to do against your brothers. For this you can not even tell you happy when you finally accept your application form, do not you can enjoy the joy so common for many Europeans, aware of your friends have to stay, you leave knowing that the family needs you, and the daily struggle that you turn your back, chasing a different future, I guess. Besides, Europe will pay the university, do not pull out of Gaza, what is your business.

After the conquest of the place in the ranking, began the most incredible adventure in the life of Ishmael, the two months that have changed forever. She knew she must leave Palestine for an indefinite period, his brothers never returned home before completing the course, or those who are five years, because if you can back out then it is equally difficult, not to mention leaving again. What I, as an Italian in Turkey, it seems normal, "maybe I come back at Christmas for the holidays," he is denied a priori. By the time the bag is his, and everything is decided, you know that there are agencies Travel to help you get to Istanbul, but that the first step is the opposite: to go south, to Egypt, to wait at the border does not know what, until that wall is reinforced for some time will pass and he can . The journey begins with the goodbyes. Shook so hard her mother to get hurt, and if she had not driven out by closing your eyes in tears, probably would not go. Together with his brother arrived at the border, a few clothes to luggage, the money hidden on him and important documents, including the Palestinian passport. Two weeks have bighellonato him, his brother and a friend who started the same journey around the Egyptian soldiers, in search of news, new, waiting to pass. It is nice to see the neighboring Muslim brothers with the same faces grim and indifferent that you know well, a country that declares itself a friend of the Palestinians, but that does nothing to make their life easier. They expect hundreds massed on the border, a sign that gives the go-to forward flight, a crack in the block, all perpetual care. It 's a challenge that fiber, that takes away health, knowing that at any time the space is open and you must be ready. All looked, and behold, the moment arrived, the defenses are opened, the mass moves. Nobody knows why, could be a critical point reached by the crowd that is diluted by giving the transition to a party, or a moment of confusion between the roles of the soldiers used by the organization of spontaneous refugees too tired, so much so that we must run and pass, now or never. Ismael has the time to look one last time his brother, who just screams "Go!" Before forcing her legs hesitant to base energy, to run away as fast as the soldiers' Clutching at random grounded the less fortunate, to do more quickly than others, to overcome that fuckin line of his beloved land. Up to succeed.

friend also had the same luck, euphoric embrace, is the first step, now I'm traveling. Before them the Egyptian desert without end is a mystical vision at all, hundreds of miles of nothing as far as the eye, with no roads or signs, just sand and anonymous terrible. Next stop: Cairo, but how? Are caught in the truck of a Bedouin who knows the desert and is willing to carry them upon payment. Rise to the winds where there is only room for five, and travel for hours in the gloom, with a single window that provides air, hot bodies and tight is smelly, too happy to complain about anything. Bumps, curves taken at speed, some vomit and the stench rises, there is not enough space to drink or to turn around, there is no space to do anything. On arrival, refugees literally explode from the back of the truck, Ismael has time to look around, suburban buildings, roads, Cairo, then sees everything white, the world does a pirouette and collapses unconscious.

Cairo is said to be one of the most dangerous of the Hooch and North Africa. There is a humanity that poor margins and gasps in the interstices of the city, and among them a bunch of scum who has nothing to lose and two kills for money. Ismael are hardly aware of this now, so spend time with the group of Palestinian refugees who are nomads in the city, are among friends and watching their backs. They move from one neighborhood to another to avoid the police, if they were caught one-way trip to Palestine, and in poor condition. To sleep, every night a different road, a park or a bus station, doing guard duty not to end up robbed. No choices for them, illegal immigrants are not allowed, managers end up in trouble. Wash, little, eat, messy and fast. In the long nights Egyptian Ismael was observed to change. He had never left his town, and now suddenly had to dig deep to learn all his tenacity for life as a fugitive. Grow, to know men, and his condition seemed not pieces of bread. On the other hand, the relationship with his friends join and become brothers, given by a common destiny that they always want stronger than the others to get an equal footing. Stamps for the visa office in Cairo, the crowd is constantly whispering, keeping an eye on officials in uniform. They must, Ismael and his friend, get at all costs the sign indicating that they have control over the passport to leave the country, and finally fly to Turkey and Canada. The ultimate challenge, the most important and most difficult. The stamp you have to earn it like everyone, to the detriment of others, not to make the trip pointless. From a side door out into the courtyard where a sergeant applicants were being stored fat. Switch between faces long stalks, hundreds of lives are hanging in its sole discretion, to the mood of the day and his sympathies trying for a face or expression. Ishmael knows he can not afford not to be chosen and studied in those few moments that seem to be the criteria in the head of the military, and sports a straight face, not appealing, because if you do not feel sorry for is chosen, not angry, not to thwart , a cross between the appearance of one who knows a lot and who is there on vacation, but also eyes, hard, almost hypnotic. When the sergeant in front of him, my head feels completely flip, prayers mingle with curses in his thoughts, but must cover up everything. "... Mmm ... You! Promotes passport ...". It 's almost a divine sentence, his hands shaking as lengthens the document and feels confusedly that has done it, that Turkey is there only a few flight hours, waiting for him. Our friend has gone wrong in the chaos a petty thief has stolen the briefcase with the documents and now has no chance to ask anything, without the piece of paper you're nobody, and there is no authority to which to appeal. She cries as an infant abandoned on the edge of the sidewalk, and there are no words to comfort him. Ismael says he has to go to, can not miss a minute, and need not worry, next time will be better. He's right. One year after a telephone call from Canada, his new home, has done it too.

The first shower in twenty days Ismael able to enjoy it in his new room on the campus of Sabanci University, Istanbul, as a student scholarship recipient of a scholarship. Now he has clean clothes, a bed with his kind and helpful people around, great teachers, and friends. The university also gave him a computer, and through skype feels his family whenever he can, when Gaza is current and there when the lines are not interrupted. Studies, and with the excellent results achieved failed to renew the scholarship for another six months, and then again six. Can not afford to take low grades, as the Sabanci is a private university could expel him. He can not do shit, which after a couple of times You got sent to the Disciplinary Committee expelled six. But he can live this wonderful and vibrant city, it can broaden its references to excess, can find a girl and loving it. Although, she says, is no longer capable of loving. To my persistent questions, one night, it was open and told me: "I had a girl in Gaza, had to get married. I loved her for the first time in my life I was sure of something. And Israel has bombed his house. E 'life with his family. After I saw the pieces of his body strewn on the floor, after the pain I've felt, will never allow myself to love more. "

Live Ismael, and the war Fight it with your dream.

Womens Showing The Breast

Life is not a joke, Nazim Hikmet and Istiklal



Life is not a joke.

Take it seriously as does the squirrel, for example,

not expecting anything from the outside or in the hereafter.
You will not have to do is live.

Life is not a joke.

Take it seriously but seriously to the point that
placed against a wall, for example, their hands tied, or in a laboratory

with white coat and big glasses, you die to live

men men referred not know the face, and die

knowing that nothing is more beautiful, more real of life.


Take it seriously but seriously to the point that
at seventy, for example, will plant olive trees remain
not because your kids
but because they believe his death while
temendola,
and life will weigh more on the scale.

Silver Fern New Zealand Tattoo

Tarlabasi

here. The noise sound if you only watch. I know you're catapulted thousands of miles from home, voluntarily transferred from ship to train to bus to taxi, and then delivered as a package dented your destiny, but you should strive not to blow it to hell. The Turkish Republic is located exactly to your feet, as a vast area of \u200b\u200btension, mountains, deserts and happiness. The language, this talk about music whose handwriting and sentence structure have been set and imposed by decree from the Father of the Turks, Mustafa Kemal, and whose words emerge from centuries of trade between Arab, Persian and Ottoman empires, the language in which you are immersed, You have to learn. And you have to start now. As the old saying goes turkish: "Su Akar yatağını bulur", the water is running its course. So, it starts to flow. Only by adapting your being in and out, absorbing and making you absorb, you can be you, yourself a new, yet unknown, which is slowly, over time it takes to learn a new language. Let yourself go and get strong, open and look, flow.

As the boats in the Bosporus. An endless procession of pilgrims water, all made and measures, as fast as the load or orders requiring, bound for ports or the oceans. Every time he cast his eyes on this strip of sea between two continents remains impressed by the crowd that plows. A small boat fishing tackles huge oil tankers, to provide fish for his family of Fathi. Swaying slowly against the current of the Bosporus, a short stretch Turkish flag in the wind, a few tools of the trade and the look that far from the coast peers. Barely half a kilometer, the commercial port of Istanbul, near Kadikoy, is in full swing. The mechanical arms sorting 200-ton container, filled with Chinese goods. The wound of the port here is a glimpse of where they spend fortunes and empires. Right from the beginning dock hundreds of stories, and watch as the boat takes me to happen to Kabatas, still dazed and foreign.

Turn Istanbul only makes you feel insignificant. And powerful. The entire town conspires to make you lose, making it appear that you're managing the game. Everything passes through here. It overwhelms you. The irreconcilable contradiction is a sign of life in Istanbul. From Taxim Square, one of the squares of the most important and popular part European part of Istiklal Caddesi, the pedestrian street of the richest, with great brands, major hotels, fine and warm center of the economy, and junk food. Sometimes it's so crowded that you do not walk, you lead others. The low tables of the narrow side streets have more space between Cay, beer and Tavla. There are times when you see so many faces that you believe to be the center of something big, and all we're waiting, read it in the eye, is about to happen. But then the wheel keeps turning, people change, and the crowd left, the musicians never cease to complain of absences or singing heroes, money flying from wrinkled pockets pockets, water still bubbles to other Cay, and you can see meat guzzling models half-naked women and veiled. It 's a long Istiklal street, and at every point is a microcosm of learning: there are the sellers of lottery tickets, turkish lot, next to those toasts corn and sells donuts, a bank there, two feet away a restaurant shows pounds of bloody meat to the delight of patrons. The very different lives that intersect in the walk, you can see them spinning as colored lines, each following its course, guided by his faith, sacred or profane. Some faces will not go unnoticed, and it is not beauty. From the light in your eyes recognize the wily pickpocket sniffing passers-by, but can only imagine her booty. There cops are every hundred yards, cautious and stringent, to ensure on unsuspecting tourists drunk buyers. I know that thieves have come a long way, their homes are nearby, but no one pays them a visit. Two hundred yards, that's all, and you find yourself in another world. Just take one of the side streets to the right if you come from Taxim Square, and after a maze of narrow streets, you see an unusual scene. Clothes hung out to dry on a wire stretched between two buildings, I was not even a fork, a clear sign of the presence of Gypsies and other ethnic groups, other habits. Tarlabasi, via the depths of the people living in the light.

runs parallel to Istiklal but his sister seems cursed. Old Ottoman houses, now falling, look out over an anthill dirty and disreputable, where you hear other languages \u200b\u200band see other faces. Here also is a center of small and large economy, but different type. Nothing makes many tricks. And drugs and weapons, if you want to party with anyone here have what you need. But, of course, see to go there with a good model of the place and your face bad or prepared to smile at rowdy boys, and between a ball and chewing gum are attracted to, rare newcomers. What's underneath you see if you are ready to recognize it, without finding slanders which only has poverty, but in the wake of trade and transitions between the real masters, confused in the neighborhood. There is a diverse humanity Tarlabasi in here many Kurdish families have fled, especially after the terrible attack of the early nineties turkish army in the east, where entire villages were destroyed. There are the Roma, Gypsies, for so long that they have forgotten from where they started. And Armenians and Greeks, the ancient inhabitants of the district, now in the minority, after the bulk has fled the country during the Turkish pogroms of the early twentieth century. Even today, the wretched humanity that comes to Istanbul, passing through Tarlabasi. And there's always room between the houses deserted and shops closed, waiting for new inhabitants. You walk and you wonder how you can always see Istiklal linda despite the density of people and their waste, while in the trash Tarlabasi mildew for days. Why not go here once a month that the garbage collectors? And because the renovations were done the last time when Turkey was a sultanate? The open sewers are difficult to live with a stench. In fact, the administration plans to "clean up" this road, build new homes, and to dislodge the squatters. In short, make it attractive to foreign buyers, to make a twin of Istiklal. Try to eliminate some contradictions may seem noble, but what about the old people? Maybe he sent them into huge, anonymous suburbs of Istanbul, Secondigliano of the cube. Someone tells me that the degradation and the poverty of Tarlabasi took to confuse the police, shady deals and poor mixing, as long as they are inextricable there will be more freedom of movement. Go in a hovel of stairs and you'll find more money to 'AK bank. However it will be impossible to change anything until the best whores in Istanbul will be Tarlabasi. We happen to walk there. Turkish friends say there is only crap, but I see money move beyond the stench. Here is the dark side of sparkling windows and nights out with stunning women, there are hidden researchers who have risked too much and future bosses and murderers are born here, or we come to complete the training. The two sides of appearance, the other a wealthy criminal, are bound tight as a knot of torture. The two parallel roads, and Istiklal Tarlabasi, meet in a point, beyond the superficial difference. Under the shit is gold to someone. Another story to be excavated, yet another in this world that contains other very much.