Finding the Grey

May 1st is important in Turkey. For Turks, International Worker’s Day or May Day or Labour Day, carries importance far beyond the rights of unions and workers. ‘Bir Mayis’ represents a dark day in Turkish history where an unsolved massacre inspires Turks to not forget and to continue fighting in an ever-expanding globalized world.

On May 1, 1977, chaos erupted in the heart of Istanbul. Automatic gunfire rained down from surrounding rooftops into a worker’s rally in Taksim Square. Between 34 and 42 people(reports vary) were killed.

In the aftermath many blamed the right-wing Nationalist Front for conspiring with the CIA to temper a socialist movement. Others blamed leftist groups. 98 (seemingly random) individuals were eventually arrested but later acquitted. Further investigations were delayed and eventually the investigation was swept under the rug as a 20-year statute of limitations kicked in.

May 1, 2010 marked a small and somber victory for those determined to re-open the investigation and not forget. Taksim square was opened for May 1 demonstrations for the first time since 1977. In past years rioting and clashes between police and protesters were the norm. This year some 200,000 people took part in peaceful demonstrations.

Thanks for looking.

Jonathan

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Just got around to looking over all my photos from Azerbaijan…I should be posting another story shortly. Here is a mishmash of images that didn’t fit into any stories I worked on.

If I were forced to sum up my time in Azerbaijan into one word (when does this ever happen?) it would probably have to be…confounding. Half my days were filled with adventure, shared experiences with amazing Azeris and lots and lots of learning. The other half…frustration.

Contradictions exist in every country. Corrupt governments are the norm. Injustices are far too common. Situations in other places are far more dire than in Azerbaijan but I’ve never been to a place where I detected so little ‘hope’.

Azerbaijan is an example(they’re not the only one—look up countries ending in ’stan’) of the ugly combination of oil/gas wealth, corrupt governments and a post-Soviet slumber. A significant portion of the oil wealth ($12 billion per year) ends up in the pockets of politicians or their 12-year old son’s . Or it’s used to beautify the center of Baku to impress visiting businessmen. You want running water for more than 2 hours a day in the capital city? Sorry. You want basic civic services such as garbage pick up or a sewage system? Sorry. You want to pass any piece of paper through a hospital, school or any other government building without receiving a bribe? Good luck.

Those that question the government publicly usually face ridiculuous obstacles. I advise against dressing up in a donkey suit.

Why do beautiful normal human beings gotta go and destroy what governments design for them?

Some of these frustrations were borne from my own experiences. Everyday my camera bag was searched at least once. I was stopped by police multiple times(without a bag check) and asked why I was in Azerbaijan— I thought I answered that when I obtained my visa and entry into your country. Bribed? Yeah, I was.

These situations are not pleasant. They stem from a deep rooted history of suspicion and control hammered down for decades by whomever was in control of Azerbaijan. This psyche got into my head and I found myself becoming suspicious and controlling. I felt the need to close myself off from people, which made me feel like I was sacrificing experiences. My mind closed a bit each time it happened. In one month these ethos seeped into my head— the trivial head of a traveling journalist. Imagine a life of this treatment. In Azerbaijan the message is loud and clear— the State is more important than you. You are not important.

These experiences taught me a lot. Talking with my Azeri friends about their versions of these experiences taught me even more. Many want to leave. Many don’t see things getting better. The Azeri people harbor great potential but it appears that most of them are being squeezed through a bottleneck of opportunity.

The inspiring thing about the Azeri people is that they are able to overcome the institutions pressing down on them. Eventually suspicions ease— if you are patient enough— and I was met with an Azeri spirit that was unique and uplifting. Generous, curious, proud and pretty damn hilarious. “Please, please, please come join us” with a leading head nod was a daily occurrence. I think back on the hours and hours of real conversation I was able to have with normal Azeris, where I felt so fortunate to have penetrated into the real Azerbaijan. I think about approaching a lone man on the street for help with directions and ten minutes later shaking ten different hands after receiving ten different opinions on the best way to go. I think about a road being blocked in the mountains by fallen rocks and instead of waiting around for the workmen to clear the debris each and every man in approaching cars got out and got to work. I think back to the many times I heard, “your money is no good here”.

In the end the mix of frustrating and enjoyable experiences reminded me of the fine line between suspicion and curiosity, control and protection, fear and anger…if you can tweak your subjectivity just a bit, a lot can change.

Thanks for looking.

Jonathan

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Above is a picture of the only pair of shoes I’ve worn during the past three months in the Caucasus. It’s a love/hate relationship at this point. Between my feet is a deep pile of cow love, which is exactly what I was in(figuratively) for my last 24 hours in Stepanakert, the capital city of Nagorno-Karabakh.

On my last evening of an enjoyable and exhausting two-week stay in the internationally unrecognized Republic of Nagorno-Karabakh(or Artsakh), seven policemen—one in uniform, six plain clothes— entered my hotel room wanting to know what exactly I was photographing in Artsakh. My American natural instinct was to respond with “for what reason are you asking?”, but my better judgement took over, realizing quickly that I was in a de facto republic with only one monosyllabic English translator among my seven visitors.

“Are seven of you really necessary for this?”, I asked the translator.

“Yes. Us. Seven. All. Necessary.”

And so began a crash course introduction to Artsakh style interrogation techniques.  One officer devoted to every pocket on every piece of clothing. Another browsing the contents of my laptop. Another looking through my books. Another listening to my ipod. One guarding the door. One asking questions and the translator—my new best friend.

Before you read below, remember(or learn) this— Artsakh is controlled by Armenians within Azerbaijan’s borders. A brutal war, fresh in the daily consciousness of both Armenians and Azeris, only ended in 1994. Tensions are always high and the threat of war is permanently on the horizon. Peace seems remote, no matter what the politicians are saying. Oh yeah, there’s a little issue with Turkey as well—the Armenian genocide.

The stories I had been working on for two weeks were generally positive stories about Artsakh and its people. I really had nothing to hide but as the contents of my backpack(and life for the last three months) were laid upon my bed, I started to realize that I actually possessed quite a few items that would make policemen of a war torn country suspicious of me.

“Yes, that is an Azerbaijani key chain.”

“Yes, those are 10 stamps in my passport from Turkey”

“Yes, that is a hand-written poem in Azeri praising the former president of Azerbaijan Heydar Aliyev”

“Yes, that is a video of a land mine being detonated”

“Yes, those are rusted bullet casings I collected from a field that I planned to make a wind chime out of”

All you can think when such evidence is being laid out against you is, “How could I have been so stupid?”. You put your head down. You shake your head. You’re not winning.

Off to police headquarters we went. The next five hours consisted of reasonable questions about my time in Artsakh and my time in Azerbaijan. Natural questions considering the prospect of war facing these men day in and day out. Most of the policemen I was with had fought 16 years earlier and are ready to fight if war breaks out again. But with any interrogation there are bound to be questions ridicules…

“Do you support Azerbaijan or Artsakh?”

“What do you think about the genocide?”

“Are you a Russian spy?”

“Why are you not married?”

My favorite round of questions were when they went through each and every name in my notebook of the last 9 years—”Who is Kevin from Tucson?”

Over time I was able to calm down and answer each question in the most basic English I could utter to avoid any confusion with my translator. Some of the police took on the role of good cop and offered me tea and cigarettes or threw in a question about Artsakh girls.

After five hours I was told that my computer would be searched over night for “files dangerous to the Mountainous Republic of Nagorno-Karabakh”. More worrying than potential arrest or military tribunal, was that I have a Mac and I highly doubted that the IT team I was dealing with knew that you needed to eject external hard-drives before disconnecting them, thus jeopardizing all the work(not backed up yet) I had done the past three months. I feared they would find images and video that I had of explosives and maps (land mine story) and deem such files “dangerous” enough to delete all the work from my time in Artsakh. I didn’t know what to expect.

I was escorted back to my hotel room and told not to leave until they returned (the next day at noon). With all types of scenarios swirling in my head I finally fell asleep around 4am during a Russian dubbed version of The Matrix.

The following day three of the policemen— ironically the three playing good cop the night before— knocked on my door.

“Jonathan. Map pictures. Delete. Everything else ok. We go to police station now.”

Relief. An unbelievable lifting joy pulsed through my body. Little did I know that I had five additional hours of interrogation in front of me.

This time they really digged about my Azeri contacts and asked me questions about them I had no information on. It was frustrating to say the least but I knew I was somewhat out of the woods and had nothing to hide about anyone who was remotely a threat to Artsakh. I knew they were wasting our time with such questions but in the end these men were just doing their jobs— doing their best to protect their fragile country.

Finished with the official questioning I signed a document stating that I had not been harmed nor had any of my possessions been damaged. With all official duties completed the police loosened up and we discussed the girls of the Caucasus and Artsakh food. The policemens’ consensus best film of all time— The Day After Tomorrow. I was invited to lunch but declined— unable to endure another hour of questions, no matter how innocent their nature.

The entire experience was a mixed bag of emotions; fear, anxiety, frustration, confusion and relief. I learned a great deal about my ability to remain composed and gained a greater awareness to the responsibilities of policemen and military. I also learned the futile argument that “intentions” play when it comes to protecting a country— they’re thrown out the door and barely considered. These men had a job to do and in all honesty, they did it well.

Plus, it’s not a bad story.

Thanks for looking.

Jonathan

The blog mail issues appear to have been resolved. My mail subscription list got purged though so I repopulated it by memory and might have missed some of you. So if you want to subscribe for email updates please do so in the upper right corner. If you want to be removed I believe you can unsubscribe as well….if there are issues just let me know.

For their tireless work on resolving this matter— thanks to the management team of: Mr. Harcourt, Patrick, Ms. Huffington, Mr. Martin, Dennis, Atif, Efes, Lobna, the Mayis Kids and Mom of course.

(Or a lame excuse to get some computer images up that rarely see the light of day)

Thanks for looking.

Jonathan

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Today. Two shots, 10 minutes, 25 seconds apart.

Some days it just happens like this.

Going on 6 days without a shower and came across this guy and his shop in Quba…

…soviet clippers are surprisingly efficient…

…feeling a few kilos lighter and infinitely cleaner.

More to come from Azerbaijan soon.

Thanks for looking,

Jonathan

I don’t get much time in the snow. Never have really. Baku got about a foot last night and it’s howling outside as I write this.

This young girl was loving it. Floating along and humming as adults shuffled and groaned.

Thanks for looking.

Jonathan

As a foreigner living in Turkey the question “Have you been to Kapadokya yet?” tends to come up quite a bit. Kapadokya(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cappadocia), a region in central Turkey that is hard to explain in words(come on I’m a photographer), is probably the second biggest tourist destination in Turkey, outside of Istanbul, and a place that Turks are ardently proud of. Such spots around the world, “Top Tourist Destinations”, usually put me at unease; trampling crowds(including me), tour buses, “authentic” kitsch, bland food and permeating monoculture just depress me. Through 9 months of living in Istanbul, just around the corner from one of the world’s greatest buildings, Hagia Sofia, I had yet to visit it. Sorry, I’m a travel snob and I know it.

So, I’d never visited Kapadokya either. Everyone I ever talked to about the place said it was “so amazing” and I “had to see it”. A trip was inevitable, I knew that, but I just kept putting it off due to my past experiences with places so amazing that I had to see…they tend to come with a lot of baggage.

Enter, a visit from my loving mother (my brother came along too but possesses an even stronger aversion than I to such destinations). I nicknamed my mother “the pigeon”, on a previous trip to Italy, for her unyielding ability to poke her head into the most touristy of shop windows. Three overnight bus tickets to Kapadokya please…

Well, my instincts were all wrong. Dead wrong. Maybe it was because it was October but we basically had the place to ourselves. I was expecting a few rock formations here and there with perimeter guard rails but in fact this vast valley is overgrown with a landscape that resembles the moon interwoven with local villages and modern buildings. The only eye sores were 50+ hot air balloons filling the dawn sky for an hour or so. We hiked through steep ravines, burrowed through long tunnels, climbed white rocks, gorged ourselves on delicious wild grapes, apples and tomatoes, peeked into dark cave dwellings and walked around giddy as can be repeating “wow, look at that” all day long. It really is so amazing and a place you have to see, twice.

Thanks for looking,

Jonathan

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Tear gas sucks and so does the IMF.

Thanks for looking.

Jonathan

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Just got back from a trip to Georgia with my good friend Helen. To try to sum up the country after spending only a little over a week there would be both fruitless and premature but I can say that there are few places I’ve been where I have connected with both the people and their country so quickly. Chacha (sure I’ll have another), green green green empty mountain valleys, 6-hour supras, strong families, Kalashnikovs, avoiding spillage with your khinkali, everybody wants the guitar, picking fresh hazelnuts and eating them on the spot, outhouse visits, your daily dose of khachapuri, fishing for baby food, 5-hour 4×4 ride through wet mountains with one Russian pop album on repeat, dominoes, grandmothers, the craziest drivers ANYWHERE, grand churches being used by the locals, hot night winds, tour guide dogs….it is all good.

Also, I was there around the one year anniversary of Georgia’s war with Russia over disputed land in South Ossetia. The conflict is still fresh in the mind of Georgia’s collective consciousness and is bound to arise in conversation quite regularly. I noticed Georgians trying to assimilate back to the normalities of life with the ever present threat of uncertainty in relations with Russia heavy on the mind. I tried to capture this mood in my images the best I could.

I will return, for sure.

Thanks Helen.

Thanks for looking.

Jonathan

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