March 2017 | 157
March 2017
Stage12
Efficient trolley loading
The main problem with carrying a satellite tracker is that everyone knows where you are . This is generally “ A Good Thing ”, as my mother has beaten into me on regular occasions . But when you ' re desperately trying to convince people that you ' re not planning to become an ISIS bride or join the fight for the caliphate and then you ' re seen wending your way inexorably towards the Syrian border , it can start to feel a little bothersome .
Yet contrary to popular belief , the Turkey- Syria border has far more going for it than just suicide bombers and marriage opportunities with theocratic maniacs . It also has mind-blowing baklava . This is not my opinion ; it ' s objective fact . Both UNESCO and the EU have endowed Gaziantep ' s pistachio nuts with protected status , giving each one its own armed sentinel and hotline to the president . Considering all this fuss , leaving without having a taste seems churlish to say the least .
I arrive in Gaziantep – or Antep to its friends – three days before Christmas . My Couchsurfing hosts are two male cousins aged 29 and 40 , H and E , who live in a brand new , predictably beige apartment downtown . H works for an NGO that helps Syrian refugees , while E owns a local construction company . Neither are fans of Erdogan , unsurprisingly . But E clearly isn ' t interested in talking politics . He just wants everyone to love each other . Soon after I arrive , he whips out his guitar for a sing-a-long , before realising he ' s too stoned to remember how to play – thank god . Genocidal jihadists I can take , but baked beatnik crooners on a bonding mission are a step too far .
The former are a slight concern , however . The border , controlled by ISIS , is just 30 miles away , and terrorist sleeper cells are known to operate in the city . During the week of my stay , Syrian journalist and vocal ISIS critic Naji Jerf is shot dead in broad daylight , and a police raid uncovers a large cache of explosives in an apartment . While most people reassure me I am safe , rumours abound that ISIS operatives stalk foreigners , and I am advised – as a conspicuous western , female cyclist – to be on guard .
On the surface , the city emits a bland sterility that I find unsettling , with endless half-built high rises doused in milkywhite sunlight extending as far as the eye can see . This veneer is thin , however , and easily cracked like paint . Below , I am aware of a latent , throbbing pulse ; the muffled creak of fault lines under pressure . Turks , Syrians , Kurds , diplomats , activists , refugees , spies , sex workers , terrorists and traffickers : all walk in shadows here , in cagey co-existence .
There are over 500,000 Syrians in the city , and – once I ' ve finished eating as much as I possibly can – I set about meeting some of them . My connection is a young American woman , E , who works for the Center for Civil Society and Democracy ( CCSD ), a Syrian NGO . When we meet , she gives her take on the neighbouring war . While ISIS are ' brutal murderers ', she says , Assad is ' far worse '. Statistics from the pro-opposition Syrian Network for Human Rights seem to support this : of the 16,000 civilian deaths in 2015 , 75 % were reportedly at the hands of the regime .
E introduces me to the head of CCSD , R , who projects a maternal steeliness . She tells me about the vast network of civilians working with them inside Syria , and the voice of the moderate opposition that has been ' silenced , but not killed '. ' The vast majority of people are still calling for freedom , justice and co-existence ,' she tells me . ' The revolution remains alive .'
Through R , I meet a 37-year-old woman , N , from Zabadani , a Syrian town currently under siege by the regime . Before fleeing in June 2014 , she and a group of women helped to broker a ceasefire between the regime and opposition . They also managed to negotiate the release of female detainees and the removal of women from checkpoint blacklists – all while maintaining the education of their children .
Many of these women remain in the region now , I am told , along with 22,000 other civilians . They are completely cut off from food and aid by the regime and Hezbollah . A kilo of rice costs $ 110 . Milk costs $ 250 . Babies are surviving on cornflour , while adults eat grass and steamed apricot leaves . Just yesterday , six men were killed by mines trying to escape : all members of N ' s family .
During our talk , N calls her friend in Zabadani . ' People are devastated ,' the friend says . ' But we know we have to go on . When you help a child to eat , to study , you know you are building the base for the future of Syria .'