Bruno Cooke

Pictures from my journey. For more images and text, visit my blog

We Live Under The Same Sky-

Ibrahim, also at our table, is pro-Erdoğan — he is the only Kurdish Erdoğan supporter in the town, and proud to be an exception. Collectively, we talk about Election Day, 24 June, which looms. This is the first of many times my opinion is asked. To them, the West I represent is a cooperative amalgam of functioning democracies, operating with a collective goal in mind. Perhaps it is. Regardless of my own view, to them, in a sense, I represent an authority on the matter of successful governance. Asking me is like asking the teacher, except I don’t know how to answer. What do I think will happen? [...]

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Cappadocia Is Nuts

The bell-heads of rock formation are so far from irksome it is euphoric, and otherworldly — sprouting like so many stone balloons out of green grass, sunning themselves in the calmness of late afternoon, housing birds whose songs, resonating in the valley, remind of witches, of waterlessness and somehow of Lou Reed. And pigeons, I suppose. Stalking among the chimneys are four adults, adult yet intrepid. Yet? Yet and but like children snooping and climbing for the first time, explorers. Coaches rumble like big gnats, spilling bodies out onto the gravel; my socks are dry. It is all dry and all of a piece, except the bodies. [...]

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A Midnight Visit

I am perhaps 200m west up the hill from the straight road which cuts through the low mountains, the road which brought me here. In the distance lies a hunchback of houses on a perpendicular lane. Past these dwellings, down a steep bank, the Göksu, or “blue water”, flows softly into the Euphrates, the longest river of western Asia. This water which slips past me here will eventually reach Syria and Iraq, where it will combine with the Tigris and flow into the Persian Gulf. No one will ask it questions. This water will house the mangar, or ‘Tigris salmon’; soft-shelled turtles will plosh on its banks in the company of golden jackals, Syrian brown bears and the ghosts of Arabian ostriches. [...]

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