Of Icy Rivers and Silver Gates

This is the second time that I have been fortunate enough to come to Tunceli. Tunceli, masochistic readers will remember, is in Central Turkey, is home to a large Alevi population, and is best-known in Turkey as the place almost everyone is mortally afraid of going to.

Indeed, I perhaps could have taken a rather large hint about the security situation given that our minibus had to share the rather small ferry across Lake Keban with a very large tank and even larger military truck carrying it. Liberally plastered on every side of the tank were various Kızılay logos (the Muslim equivalent of the Red Cross), although I chose not to deign to ask the soldiers with rather large guns guarding said tank what exactly the International Committee of the Red Cross/Crescent needed a tank for. Having always assumed that trucks were better for carrying wounded combatants, I evidently stood corrected.

Depositing my bags again at the Hotel Demir (Tunceli being a four-street kind of town, one is not spoilt for choice in the hotel department), I set out to investigate the Munzur Gözeleri, curious rock springs whose origin is buried in Alevi folk tradition. The bus ride there, hugging the bank of the glacially fed Munzur River, can easily lull one into forgetting that the reason there were no other cars on the road was that this remains a major 'theatre of operations' in the renewed war between the Turkish army and the PKK --- indeed, it is hard to believe that this is a guerilla war zone, what with the blue/green Munzur winding its way through the sharp and jagged mountains; the landscape is not unlike a semi-arid Rocky Mountains.

Reminders of the 'troubles' come quickly, however: The surrounding fields and open spaces are fenced off with large 'Landmine' signs; A burnt-out and bombed semi-tanker near a remote police post, allegedly shot by nervous guards because its driver was refusing calls to slow down, served notice that nighttime is probably not as serene as the day. Last month, 8 soldiers were killed in a well coordinated PKK attack in another Tunceli district at another remote police outpost. Our drive to the rock springs proceeds slowly: The poor road, coupled with regular police checks, forms, questions, and interrogations (especially to the sole foreigner who decided to visit that day) does not make for a rapid journey.

But wherever one goes in Tunceli, known as Dersim (Silver Gate in the local Kurdish dialect) to the inhabitants, one finds hospitality, welcome and enlightened conversation. Indeed, despite the area's relative poverty, Tunceli's citizens having the highest education rate in all of Turkey. At the holy Gözeler, I have watermelon with an Tuncelili returning from France for his summer holiday; In Tunceli's centre, there is tea to be had with workers selling crafts along the river bank's edge; I intended to go home at 18.00, but the conversations on the street corners, about socialism, humanism, religion, politics, culture, and various other topics concerning differing Weltanschauungen, stretch until 11pm.

And in the end, this is the joy of Tunceli. In a small provincial capital, located in one of the most inaccessible parts of Turkey, under tight police and army control, there is not a lot to see or do. The people, however, make a Dersimli visit one of the most rewarding to be had in Turkey.