Hinter dem Burgberg
sei Abrahams Geburtshöhle, und auch das Grab des Propheten Hiob wird verehrt dort.
Kein Schild, keine Markierung, wir tasten uns durch die engen steilen Gässchen hinunter, hinauf. Man will uns immer wieder umleiten, um die Wohnbezirke herum, wir nicken und setzen unseren Weg fort, sparsam mit dem Atem bei der Hitze. Über Pflasterstufen. Entlang ballspielender Kinder. Frauen schauen uns scheu nach, von unserem Auftauchen hinter dem offenen Hofttor überrascht. Ein über die Stufen gegossener Abwasserkübel, Unrat entlang des Weges. Mancher Schelm ringt um eine vorlaute Frage, um irgendein schnelles Geschäft, doch wir sind schon um eine Ecke.
Dann oben angekommen, weiter Blick:
In die Urzeit von Ur
Am Nachmittag nach HARRAN. Klemen, Marscha und ich im Dolmus, eine Stunde entlang mesopotamischer Teeplantagen. Wir halten bei einigen Hütten und wimmeln jugendliche Führer ab. Und dann schreiten wir auf das Stadttor zu, auf alte, brüchige Mauern, und dann den leeren Hügel hinauf. Unbeschreibliche Hitze hier, kaum ein Luftzug, kein Flecken Schatten. Die Ruinen der Moschee am gegenüberliegenden Fuß des Hügels, der Zitadelle auf der anderen Seite. Dazwischen dürres Gras, Staub. Die warme Wasserflasche in der Hand, den Fotoapparat umgehängt. Keine Bewegung zuviel, kein Wort.
Dann von weitem die seltsamen Häuser. Aus Lehm, wie Schwalbennester entlang des Hügels. Der Eingang ist offen, wir treten in den Hof, es ist eine Art Museum, wir sehen den Stall, die Küche, die Wohnhäuser. Kühler hier, mit Teppichen, Geräten, fein eingerichtet. Später sehen wir die gleichen Häuser bewohnt, belebt, mit Ställen, Mauern aus Lehm oder Beton, aber immer wieder die Schwalbennester, Männer, Frauen, Kinder gucken heraus, ein Esel schreit, Pferde traben durch die sandigen Gassen. Wir gehen die Burg entlang, ein Türke sieht uns, ruft „Fünf Lira!“, wir winken ab, gehen weiter, er meint, schon für den Blick von außen müssten wir zahlen, wir lachen, gehen, er schimpft, rennt uns nach, wir lachen, schimpfen zurück, kommen ins Dorf, Ruhe, Stille, Schafe vereinzelt. Draußen auf der Straße das eine oder andere Auto, diese Kleinbusse, vollgestopft, wir gehen, die Hitze, krebsrot inzwischen, warmes Wasser hineingegossen immerzu, weitergehn, um das Dorf herum, Plantagenarbeiter im Tee, eine Frau läuft mit einem Kübel zu ihnen, lachend uns zugewandt. Das war uns Harran – und Gottes Ankündigung für Abraham? Überhört
It is said, that behind the castle’s hill Abraham’s birth-cave and prophet Hiob’s burial can be found. Again, no signs, no marks. We walk through steep lanes down and up. One tries to lead us elsewhere, out of the housing quarter. We nod and continue, try to recover breath in the heat. Over paving-stones and stairs. Along ball-playing children, women gaze after us shyly, surprised by our appearance behind the open yard-door. A tub splashed over the stairs, waste along the way. Daring questions regarding any kind of quick businesses – but we are already around the next corner.
Finally, arriving on the top. A wide view - in the ancient time of Ur.
TO HARRAN in the afternoon. Klemen, Marsha and me in the Dolmush, one hour along Mesopotamian tea-plantations. We stop at some huts and brush off children guides. Later, we walk to the town gate, to old fragile walls, then up the empty hill. Indescribable heat, no breeze, no shadow. The ruins of a mosque on the other side of the hill, the citadel opposite to it. In between dry grass, dust. The warm water-bottle in the hand, the camera under the shoulder. Don’t move to much, no word.
In the distance: Loam houses, like swallow’s nests on the hill. The entrance is open; we come to a yard which is a kind of museum. We see the stable, the kitchen and the living rooms. Cooler here, with carpets, tools, pretty fit up. Later, we see the same house housed, by people and animals, walls made of loam or concrete. Everywhere that house like swallow’s nests. Men, women, children, a donkey braying, horses trot through the sandy lanes. We pass the castle, one Turk shouts „Fife Lira“. We wave, continue our way. He says, we even have to pay for the gazing. We laugh and continue. Insulting he follows us. We laugh, shout back and reach the village. Silence. Single sheep sporadically. On the road one car or another, these little busses. We continue, red-skinned meanwhile, warm drinking water.
The village. Plantation workers in the tea. A woman running after them with a tub laughs towards us. This was Harran to us – and God’s announcement to Abraham? Missed?
MARCHING INTO DIYARBAKIR under maximum public notice of police, armoured cars, soldiers with demonstratively shown guns and riot sticks. Soon found a cheap hotel. Guided by boys, we must have looked confused, even policemen lead us, shurly not from here. A good dinner in a cantina, a waiter especially for us, speaking English. Life in town seems to be normal while under occupation. Loud and busy like any Turk city, only Curdic. A calm morning of farewell with the Slovenian couple in a café. After that two or three churches in the old part of town. The Armenian one surrounded by high walls, many pillows but no roof, as just burnt down. It’s hard for me not dig for candle-lamps or icons in the sand. A woman with children swarms around me. She wants to show me something, wants money. I do not listen, observe the ruin: in those churches women and children were locked and burnt alive. I escape through angular lanes, followed by children.
While looking for the other church I am found by a woman. She speaks friendly with me. How often does this happen in Turkey? Soon I am sitting in her yard. One of the two Christian families in this town. Her father, the sacristan, interrupts his work at the market and guides me to the church, the monastery. Back in the yard, children, aunts appear one by one. Attractive women, these four sisters, free and easy. We speak about the persecution of the Christians in 1915, in German language; the young man lived in Germany with the daughter of the house. He is satisfied with my level of information, respects my priesthood.
I held my breath: how they speak about spirit. Human spirit which raises men and lightens the world to them. They miss spirit here, life is obstinate here, they only come in summer. What could grow here without spirit? I prick up my ears:
Maybe this is the bridge from housing to existing: this yard
Kein Schild, keine Markierung, wir tasten uns durch die engen steilen Gässchen hinunter, hinauf. Man will uns immer wieder umleiten, um die Wohnbezirke herum, wir nicken und setzen unseren Weg fort, sparsam mit dem Atem bei der Hitze. Über Pflasterstufen. Entlang ballspielender Kinder. Frauen schauen uns scheu nach, von unserem Auftauchen hinter dem offenen Hofttor überrascht. Ein über die Stufen gegossener Abwasserkübel, Unrat entlang des Weges. Mancher Schelm ringt um eine vorlaute Frage, um irgendein schnelles Geschäft, doch wir sind schon um eine Ecke.
Dann oben angekommen, weiter Blick:
In die Urzeit von Ur
Am Nachmittag nach HARRAN. Klemen, Marscha und ich im Dolmus, eine Stunde entlang mesopotamischer Teeplantagen. Wir halten bei einigen Hütten und wimmeln jugendliche Führer ab. Und dann schreiten wir auf das Stadttor zu, auf alte, brüchige Mauern, und dann den leeren Hügel hinauf. Unbeschreibliche Hitze hier, kaum ein Luftzug, kein Flecken Schatten. Die Ruinen der Moschee am gegenüberliegenden Fuß des Hügels, der Zitadelle auf der anderen Seite. Dazwischen dürres Gras, Staub. Die warme Wasserflasche in der Hand, den Fotoapparat umgehängt. Keine Bewegung zuviel, kein Wort.
Dann von weitem die seltsamen Häuser. Aus Lehm, wie Schwalbennester entlang des Hügels. Der Eingang ist offen, wir treten in den Hof, es ist eine Art Museum, wir sehen den Stall, die Küche, die Wohnhäuser. Kühler hier, mit Teppichen, Geräten, fein eingerichtet. Später sehen wir die gleichen Häuser bewohnt, belebt, mit Ställen, Mauern aus Lehm oder Beton, aber immer wieder die Schwalbennester, Männer, Frauen, Kinder gucken heraus, ein Esel schreit, Pferde traben durch die sandigen Gassen. Wir gehen die Burg entlang, ein Türke sieht uns, ruft „Fünf Lira!“, wir winken ab, gehen weiter, er meint, schon für den Blick von außen müssten wir zahlen, wir lachen, gehen, er schimpft, rennt uns nach, wir lachen, schimpfen zurück, kommen ins Dorf, Ruhe, Stille, Schafe vereinzelt. Draußen auf der Straße das eine oder andere Auto, diese Kleinbusse, vollgestopft, wir gehen, die Hitze, krebsrot inzwischen, warmes Wasser hineingegossen immerzu, weitergehn, um das Dorf herum, Plantagenarbeiter im Tee, eine Frau läuft mit einem Kübel zu ihnen, lachend uns zugewandt. Das war uns Harran – und Gottes Ankündigung für Abraham? Überhört
It is said, that behind the castle’s hill Abraham’s birth-cave and prophet Hiob’s burial can be found. Again, no signs, no marks. We walk through steep lanes down and up. One tries to lead us elsewhere, out of the housing quarter. We nod and continue, try to recover breath in the heat. Over paving-stones and stairs. Along ball-playing children, women gaze after us shyly, surprised by our appearance behind the open yard-door. A tub splashed over the stairs, waste along the way. Daring questions regarding any kind of quick businesses – but we are already around the next corner.
Finally, arriving on the top. A wide view - in the ancient time of Ur.
TO HARRAN in the afternoon. Klemen, Marsha and me in the Dolmush, one hour along Mesopotamian tea-plantations. We stop at some huts and brush off children guides. Later, we walk to the town gate, to old fragile walls, then up the empty hill. Indescribable heat, no breeze, no shadow. The ruins of a mosque on the other side of the hill, the citadel opposite to it. In between dry grass, dust. The warm water-bottle in the hand, the camera under the shoulder. Don’t move to much, no word.
In the distance: Loam houses, like swallow’s nests on the hill. The entrance is open; we come to a yard which is a kind of museum. We see the stable, the kitchen and the living rooms. Cooler here, with carpets, tools, pretty fit up. Later, we see the same house housed, by people and animals, walls made of loam or concrete. Everywhere that house like swallow’s nests. Men, women, children, a donkey braying, horses trot through the sandy lanes. We pass the castle, one Turk shouts „Fife Lira“. We wave, continue our way. He says, we even have to pay for the gazing. We laugh and continue. Insulting he follows us. We laugh, shout back and reach the village. Silence. Single sheep sporadically. On the road one car or another, these little busses. We continue, red-skinned meanwhile, warm drinking water.
The village. Plantation workers in the tea. A woman running after them with a tub laughs towards us. This was Harran to us – and God’s announcement to Abraham? Missed?
MARCHING INTO DIYARBAKIR under maximum public notice of police, armoured cars, soldiers with demonstratively shown guns and riot sticks. Soon found a cheap hotel. Guided by boys, we must have looked confused, even policemen lead us, shurly not from here. A good dinner in a cantina, a waiter especially for us, speaking English. Life in town seems to be normal while under occupation. Loud and busy like any Turk city, only Curdic. A calm morning of farewell with the Slovenian couple in a café. After that two or three churches in the old part of town. The Armenian one surrounded by high walls, many pillows but no roof, as just burnt down. It’s hard for me not dig for candle-lamps or icons in the sand. A woman with children swarms around me. She wants to show me something, wants money. I do not listen, observe the ruin: in those churches women and children were locked and burnt alive. I escape through angular lanes, followed by children.
While looking for the other church I am found by a woman. She speaks friendly with me. How often does this happen in Turkey? Soon I am sitting in her yard. One of the two Christian families in this town. Her father, the sacristan, interrupts his work at the market and guides me to the church, the monastery. Back in the yard, children, aunts appear one by one. Attractive women, these four sisters, free and easy. We speak about the persecution of the Christians in 1915, in German language; the young man lived in Germany with the daughter of the house. He is satisfied with my level of information, respects my priesthood.
I held my breath: how they speak about spirit. Human spirit which raises men and lightens the world to them. They miss spirit here, life is obstinate here, they only come in summer. What could grow here without spirit? I prick up my ears:
Maybe this is the bridge from housing to existing: this yard
weichensteller - 6. Jul, 23:27
