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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.

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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.

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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.