En route

The train left Damascus at 8am on Monday morning. I was ready to go - my mind was full of thoughts gleaned from times of reflection and warm memories received from generous and quite random hospitality. I had seen dead cities, stark on a lonely hill and lived in vibrant places, hubs of trade and connection. I had witnessed the orb of the setting sun casting a hue of molten lead on the river Euphrates. I had listened to the cries of muezzins from a hundred minarets stretching across the marketplaces of Aleppo as I sat perched on the citadel that no crusader was able to conquer. Whispered prayers uttered in Mar Musa, smoke and incense wafting to the heights at St. Thecla's convent. I was ready to venture into the lands of the East.

Sweet rice breakfast

Delight

View over Aleppo from citadel heights.

Men of the old city, Damascus.

The faithful at prayers, Imam Reza Shrine in Damascus.

The tired at prayers, Imam Reza Shrine in Damascus

Faithful in contrast.

Hubbly Bubbly, Nargileh, Sheesha, Qeylan, Water Pipe...a pleasure with many names.

Ummayid Mosque, Old City, Damscus

Lights of the time, Old City, Damascus.

I found my berth and settled in for the long journey. The two person berth was actually quite comfortable, but the toilets left something to be desired, namely a paint job.

Is it possible to avoid the toilet for 70 hours? I was going to try.

We continued on into Turkey and I enjoyed the company of a young Iranian couple from the next room. They taught me Farsi using sign language and sound effects (charades is the favourite game of the traveler); they also shared food and laughs with me as we made our way slowly across landscapes where human civilizations stretched out even before the time of the ancient civilizations, such as the Hittites. Crossing into Turkey was a quick stamp in the cold night air and after many an hour and a some shut eye we were well into Southeastern Turkey. A train ride is a great place to review the days and experiences that culminate into a determining shaping force. I thought back to one such experience weeks before in the town of Urfa, Turkey.

I was walking out of the park after a day of relaxing when a man stopped me and asked where I was from. Truly, I was getting a little tired of this question by this point since it was asked by everyone immediately. For me, one's source of origin does not seem to be such an important determining factor in the quality of a person's characater. I told the man that I was from Canada. He smiled suspiciously and asked if I was a "real" Canadian. I burst out laughing. I told him I was one of those pesky fake Canadians. He had apparently met them before. "Name a town that starts with an 'n'" he demanded. "Nelson, of the pot smoking variety," I replied. I was wrong. "A different one...that's not it." My second attempt was better than my first and he was satisfied that I was indeed valid.

I wondered after all that if he actually liked Canada. His expression said it all, "No!" he replied. I smiled, realizing this could become quite an interesting conversation. I was not disappointed. The conversation meandered from Israeli politics to American realpolitiking in the Middle East before settling on the Genocide of the Armenians in the 20th Century. According to my doubting Thomas, the forced expulsion of Armenians of Southeastern Turkey that resulted in more than one million deaths never actually occurred. The West has been misinformed by a smear campaign on Turkey. He did agree that the Armenians did leave their homes en masse but he stressed that it was strictly voluntary. "Yes, some people did die on the way, but that was to be expected when people leave their area as they did." Most countries around the world have officially acknowledged that the removal of Armenians from their homes and the wide-scale massacres were in fact genocide. There are only three countries of diplomatic prominence that have avoided such language; these include the USA, Israel and the UK.

There are bold authors within Turkey (and some outside) who have spoken publicly about the genocide. In 2005, Orhan Pamuk was charged under Article 301, which states: "A person who, being a Turk, explicitly insults the Republic or Turkish Grand National Assembly, shall be punishable by imprisonment of between six months to three years." The charges were dropped on a technicality, but the topic remains a sensitive one across Turkey. Pamuk's books were burned as a sign of protest to his statements. Pamuk stated simply that "Thirty thousand Kurds have been killed here, and a million Armenians. And almost nobody dares to mention that. So I do." (Daz Magazin, February 2005).

As the sun went down over the rolling hills of Turkey's bucolic southern corner my heart was sad for the people who had suffered and for those who accept their facts based on prejudice. As the train rolled on further East I wondered, "Are we not all like that man in the park, holding onto our prejudices as truth?" My heart was heavy. I slept without dreaming.


A handful of almonds, two mandarin oranges, a five hour ferry ride across the lake and we reached Iran. The steam poured from the vents of the train and gave the station platform the feeling of a 1940's Humphrey Bogart film. "Sing it again sweetheart" were my thoughts as my passport was stamped by the surgical mask wearing immigration official. In Iran I was to learn that H1N1 was a big deal. (Sidenote: at a bank I was asked if I have swine flu after sneezing in front of an audience of bank tellers).

The train is always on time in Turkey. Mmmmm...yes right of course.

These were the thoughts taken from my journal while looking at the scenes that slowly passed us by:

The valleys are filled with trees burning with the colourful tremors of late Autumn, as winter shakes the branches with its icy breeze. Streams are trickling along to find their rivers. Tractors ply the fields in search of one more potatoe to harvest before the snows bury life like a secret. Tunnels and darkness. Syrian men talking of long lost romances. Iranians happy to be home or at least close. Children happy to see their mothers and fathers happy. We walk the halls of the train with a "salaam" and a smile. I am in Iran, the land that was once was known for its towering gardens, exquisite carpets and poets ahead of their time. Today it has the unfortunate media labels (in the West) of being a backwards nation that is hellbent on nuclear arsenal and willfully supporting terrorism. In 2002 it was vilified that famous cowboy from Texas as being somewhere in the middle of the "axis of evil." After many years of questioning media representation, I was finally here in a country under threat of future attack and the present weight of sanctions. What will I see, what will I feel? More importantly, what is daily life like for the father in Tehran or the mother in Qazvin? I was bound to find out.

One word: bucolic.

One word: Delicious. Labneh in the morning is always a welcome sight.

You know you are in Eastern Turkey when...

The trip was filled with scenes of serenity and a whole lot of army personnel