Difficulties in Diyarbakir

It is not unusual to meet Turks in Istanbul who have never been farther east than Ankara, the capitol in the center of the country. Turkey is large, but it’s not gigantic, so the common refrain of Turks who haven’t experienced half of their homeland could seem a little bizarre.

To understand why, it’s important to understand Diyarbakir.

The region of Southeast Turkey is also known as Kurdistan, and Diyarbakir is Kurdistan’s historic center. As the largest city east of Gaziantep, it’s an unofficial capitol city, and the fulcrum of the unrest that has defined this region for many Turks. Diyarbakir calls up the memories of the riots, terrorist attacks, and fighting that happened throughout the ‘90’s, as the Kurdistan Workers’ Party (abbreviated as the PKK) clashed with the Turkish government. Diyarbakir still carries a stigma—when I would tell friends the itinerary of my Southeast trip, Diyarbakir was the only place that got the reaction, “Why would you go THERE?”

Well, I’m insatiably curious, and it is the major city in that area, and more importantly: the cheapest flight back to Istanbul left from the Diyarbakir airport, so it was inevitable that I’d end up there. Also, Diyarbakir has been more or less peaceful for over a decade, though police vehicles and checkpoints are far more common in and around the city. I wasn’t scared about Diyarbakir, and I wanted to see this city that so many Turks had no desire to go to. I found a fascinating city, but not an easy one.

Diyarbakir has a different vibe than Urfa or Mardin. The city is dominated by a dark ancient wall. Parts look like leftovers from medieval Europe, while other sections stand broken down like jagged teeth in the city center. It gives a distinct feel to the place. Even their major mosque, with its gray stone and dark red carpets and shelves of books, weirdly resembles ancient England rather than the rest of Turkey.

This is a rough city. I was torn between my fascination with the textures of the place, the life on the street, and the ever present discomfort I felt as a foreign woman. More than anywhere else on this Southeast jaunt, my otherness was apparent and held me back. The poverty was more visible, and much of the city (especially around the old walls) had the roughness of Tarlabasi in Istanbul– a neighborhood I love. But Tarlabasi is just a small part of the city, surrounded by very different (and traditionally safer) neighborhoods; Diyarbakir feels in parts like a giant Tarlabasi.

When men followed us or small boys made rude gestures, it became easy to write off the city completely. But then there were small delights: a man pushing a green wheelbarrow full of live chickens. The waiter who went out of his way to make us a table when his restaurant was full of people breaking their fast. The view of the Tigris from the top of the old city walls. The boy who spent ten minutes making sure I got on the bus that would take me to the airport, even though he didn’t speak any English.

Nothing is ever straightforward in Turkey. Even the most difficult cities can surprise you.

(As in my post about Mardin:  It is important to do research about the current situation in Diyarbakir before you travel there. When I was there in July, there were no problems. However, with the ongoing fight in Kobane, there have been riots in Diyarbakir that have turned violent. Remember the refrain: be smart, not scared. Do your research before you show up, but know that the city is not at war. This is a difficult and fascinating city, and unlike any other I’ve been to in Turkey.)