FIGHT FOR DEMOCRACY IN TURKEY -13-

FETHULLAH GULEN: MOST DANGEROUS ISLAMIST CONTROLLING TURKISH POLITICAL ARENA FOR THE LAST 20 YEARS

FIGHT FOR DEMOCRACY IN TURKEY -12- FOR FRENCH SPEAKERS ONLY

Délinquances policières en bandes (dés)organisées 

     Enfant, dans la proche campagne smyrniote, tandis que je traversais les oliveraies de mon-grand père, pour aller cueillir des figues fraîches sur les arbres bordant les champs, il m’arrivait de croiser des animaux errants. Échappés d’un enclos ou débarrassés de la longe qui les retenait, béliers, taurillons, chevaux, mulets ou autres quadrupèdes divaguaient parfois dangereusement, mais fort de mes expériences champêtres, je savais où et comment me mettre à l’abri. Sauf… si le hasard avait mis sur mon chemin un chien enragé, ce qui m’est arrivé un jour, et m’a coûté une belle morsure, puis deux semaines d’injections de sérum antirabique. La rage  était encore très répandue en Turquie. Tête baissée, les mâchoires verrouillées et écumant de salive, les yeux révulsés, chargeant tout ce qui bougeait et n’importe quoi, ces animaux m’impressionnaient en raison de leur comportement totalement imprévisible et agressif. Je les plaignais aussi, car je les savais condamnés à une mort toute proche.

    Ce souvenir d’enfance a été réveillé par les bouleversements que connaît actuellement la Turquie. Hormis les moments où ils forment un bloc humain face aux contestataires, des escadrons de policiers ― certains en civil, mais sont-ce vraiment des policiers ? ― errent dans les rues et ruelles d’Istanbul, de nuit comme de jour, vocifèrent, insultent, arrêtent des jeunes, frappent des citoyens qui ne font que passer, chargent souvent à plusieurs une même personne déjà à terre… Certaines scènes, où l’on voit de jeunes policiers revenir sur leurs pas pour tabasser des hommes qui sont deux fois plus âgés qu’eux, sont tout simplement obscènes, indignes d’un État de droit. Oui, ces policiers sont étonnamment jeunes. Mais qui sont-ils ? Des frustrés testant en public leur virilité anti-intellectuels-laïcs-féministes-homosexuels-étudiants-étrangers-alévis-kurdes-artistes ? Auraient-ils été recrutés dans les milieux islamistes, et/ou parmi les anciens militants fascistes ? Où et quand auraient-ils engrangé cette violence haineuse qu’ils vomissent sur leurs concitoyens ? Auraient-ils été savamment manipulés par les têtes pensantes du parti islamiste au pouvoir ― et non islamo-conservateur modéré, comme on l’a répété à satiété et à dessein ? Auraient-ils prêté un serment d’allégeance, par idéologie islamiste, ou en échange de bénéfices secondaires ? Si tel est le cas, et nous avons beaucoup de raisons de le penser, cette police serait une milice déguisée, et le gouvernement turc, de plus en plus fascisant.  

     Dans un état de tension sociale provoquée et alimentée par ce même gouvernement, de nouvelles lois sont votées par l’Assemblée AKPtiste, afin de faire taire les voix de la contestation qui se généralise. Personne n’est à l’abri d’une arrestation, d’une mise en examen, voire d’un emprisonnement expéditif. À l’instar de ses policiers et de ses partisans armés qui cognent, blessent et tuent impunément, le gouvernement frappe tous azimuts, et tente de supprimer tous les espaces de liberté et les droits inaliénables. Mais c’est peine perdue… Ce gouvernement et les ténors de l’AKP ont perdu toute crédibilité.  Et les démocrates turcs, quelles que soient leurs spécificités, sont en train d’insuffler une nouvelle force à la dénonciation des dérives du gouvernement et de ses projets de société. Las de vivre dans un pays où la diversité a été gommée, dénaturée ― par des idéologies qui ont marqué l’histoire des peuples anatoliens des débuts de l’Empire Ottoman jusqu’à nos jours ―, afin de monter les différentes composantes de la société les unes contre les autres, les démocrates ont pris les chemins de la solidarité et du “vouloir vivre ensemble” fraternel.

     Restera alors à l’AKP et à ses défenseurs le probable appauvrissement de l’entre-soi idéologique, le ressentiment et l’illusoire certitude de détenir la vérité ― celle de l’Islam, selon eux ―, alors que les “tables terrestres”, comme les appellent les contestataires, montrent joyeusement l’exemple d’une fraternité délestée de ses impératifs sectaires. Quelle réponse émouvante et cinglante à d’autres iftar[1]où seul le don de soi à la cause de l’AKP vous autorise à vous asseoir à une même table. Sciemment mutique sur la terreur que tente de semer “sa police”, à la source des arrestations arbitraires paraphées par “ses procureurs”, le gouvernement turc incarné par l’AKP est encore loin de représenter une “démocratie de première classe”, comme l’affirmait le ministre turc des affaires étrangères, M. Davutoğlu, offusqué par les mises en garde de l’Europe. Hélas, il ne peut actuellement prétendre qu’au titre de “despotisme oriental” d’un autre âge...

                                                                                    Ali Terzioglu               

    

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[1]Repas du soir, marquant la fin du jeûne quotidien pendant le mois du Ramadan.

VERMONT & GREEN MOUNTAIN 2013 -6-

Farmer's Market in Stowe

I had already planned to hike up to the summit of Camel's Hump, south of Waterbury on my last day in Vermont. I leave Stowe and Stowe Inn with pleasant feelings after visiting their farmer’s market where I buy trivets and coasters with herbal designs on them. On the way to Waterbury, I come across the Green Mountain visitor’s center. Without hesitation I stop by and buy a water thermos, and a book on Vermont, with its beautiful scenery documented in generous photographs.

Green Mountain Club Visitor's Center

Waterbury is not that far and as I drive through town just to get a sense of it before I head south, serendipitously, I come across the Green Mountain Coffee Roasting company. Its cafe is built in the old/current railroad station, from which there is Amtrack service, who knows where, but it is helpful to keep in mind. This station means, one may come to Waterbury to enter the Green Mountain range to backpack. I buy my cup of coffee for the morning at the café and also a bag of ground coffee to take home. It is the best coffee I ever had I must say. With this delightful taste in my mouth, I leave Waterbury behind and head toward the trailhead.



Green Mountain Coffee Roasting Company in Waterbury



When I am finally ready to start my hike, at the trail head of the east loop of Camel’s Hump, it is already drizzling. I resolve, worse comes to worse, I will get soaked, won't be able to make it to the summit, all is welcome, that is the beauty of being in the nature. I recall the sweet memory of this shift taking place in my mind in 1991. I was a novice on the hiking trails when I decided to take my vacation up on the mountains instead of the beach, which was our routine then. My friends from the hiking club I had just joined at age 32 was planning to go to Ilgaz Mountains with an altitude of 12,000 feet or so. We arrived at our campsite to be around 11 am, put up our tents right away since we knew it could rain any time by the Black Sea coastal mountain range. And sure enough, we barely were able to throw ourselves into the tents when the sky started pouring all its juice on us. Initially it was fun to listen to the music of the rain over our tents. But after an hour or so, I started feeling sour. I couldn’t help but think “What was I thinking, I could easily be on the beach now enjoying the Mediterranean and the sun…” My dear friend Cavidan as if she had read my mind gently gave me the best lesson about nature: “My friend, this is the beauty of nature, we can’t control anything but learn everything mother-nature throws at us with humility and make the best of it.” I will never forget how childish and embarrassed I had felt with her sentiments.

Right around that time our friends from a larger tent had invited us to their tent to play cards. We both cheered up and spent another 6-8 hours in their tent, telling stories, playing cards and other games, laughing, singing, having the best time of my vacation days until 9 pm, when the skies gave way to us and our campfire around which we had dried all of boots, and socks and coats until midnight. The next day we had got up at 5 am and climbed up to the summit and come back down before dark to another wonderful night of campfire and stories and more laughter. That is how I came to peace with what the nature throws at us. And I am so appreciative of my dear friend Cavidan for giving me that gift.

The fog and the forest up to Camel's Hump

With these thoughts, I start my hike on Monroe Trail, and soon I find myself in a surreal environment, everything being surrounded with a light fog like mist, under a sweet drizzle of rain accentuated by the taps on the leaves... Nature gives me so many revelations. During this hike, I notice, the brooks down below are vigorous, loud, energetic, fun, sometimes out of control. As I climb up higher, the streams become less loud but more peaceful, confident, if you will, more under control with their seeming modesty. These are almost meditative, almost benevolently but mischievously aware of the excitement and joy they will generate down the road, downhill. I couldn't help wishing, all the rulers at the heights of the society could be as pleasant and peaceful and respectful and maturely confident as these little streams of high country in ruling our societies instead of being so loud and obnoxious and oppressive just like Turkish prime minister has been for the last ten years.

Summit of Camel's Hump with the only pine tree

Camel's Hump turns out to be an extraordinary experience: It is totally bare of any trees except for a dwarf pine tree holding onto the west side. However, the crevices among the boulders are flush with lovely flowering low plants and other alpine vegetation. The unique experience comes from the surprising fog that surrounds me and everything else all around; I can see only about 50 feet or so all around me. The hopes of being able to view New York state and Lake Champlain are definitely out. But this serene solitude (I am the only one at the summit at that relatively late hour) is yet another unexpected extraordinary experience the nature rewards me with one more time. I decide to have my lunch in that solitude and sit down on a rock making sure I am not hurting any of the plants around me.

Plants filling the cracks between rocks at the summit

However, after a few bites, noticing the fog getting thicker and thicker minute by minute, I decide to sacrifice my adventure and head down. I am grateful that it at least did not rain when I was up there since the vertical rocks I end up walking on until I find my way to the Long Trail South, could have been more than a threat to my well-being on the way down. Interestingly, it starts drizzling again half way down to the road. I don't even bother putting on my rain jacket. I just let the drizzle wash my arms and head anew. With such wet conditions, snails are all over. Unfortunately, in Turkish culture, the reaction to snails is invariably "Yuck!". Eating escargot to a Turkish is like eating brains to an American. With that deeply engrained feeling of "Yuck" I am trying to avoid touching snails as I try to hold onto tree trunks at times. However, I fail so many times, I eventually get desensitized and the "Yuck" feeling disappears by the end of the trip!

Snails on the rocks and tree trunks all over

Once I reach my car, I am happy for two things: that this is my last day of hiking since by the end of the day, I had used up all my clean clothes, everything very well muddied up except for just one set I had saved for my flight back. and that I have a bunch of nuts and dried fruit in my bag, I can munch on as I drive since I am starving! I drive along Winookie River all the way to Richmond to avoid the highway and enjoy another aspect of the nature in Vermont just a bit more. Vermont, I definitely will come back to you, in the fall, some day, to enjoy your foliage, in my own way.

Sunset over Lake Champlain

VERMONT & GREEN MOUNTAIN -5-

Canada in the distance from Madonna Peak

Sterling Pond-Madonna Peak hike definitely is nothing compared to Hell Brook-Long Trail loop. As I approached the summit, yes, the boulders got bigger and more difficult to conquer and yes, the saturation of all surfaces with the rainfall of the day before made footing difficult, but at least the terrain always had a grade to it, it was never a straight up wall like Hell Brook was at many points.



The lillies on Sterling Pond



On my way back, though, I take my time off, sit on a small rock right where the pond is spilling into a small stream, take off my shoes and socks and dip my battered feet and toes into cold high country water. What an ecstasy my goodness. I close my eyes and meditate to the feelings in my feet the near icy-cold water triggers. When it gets too cold, I take one foot out, at a time and rest it on another small rock for a while before alternating. My feet eventually come back to life with the elimination of the edema in cold water followed with the rush of circulation under the caress of the sun and my feet and I feel totally refreshed at the end of a 15 minute meditation and I head down.



This is how wet the footing was on the Green Mountain



I guess, for the natives, or more acclimated, Sterling Pond is nothing since it is so interesting to see footwear on people's feet, which terrain in my mind, required no less than real hiking boots. It is rare, almost exclusively limited to backpackers to see people wearing proper hiking boots. Two most outrageous though, are of note: I see a woman of continental Indian origin, for that matter, wearing one of the plastic toe shoes, I can’t help but cringe "ouch", silently, imaging how she must feel on pebbles seeing how cautious she is with where she steps on. But the most awkward is a woman with flip flops that makes me almost exclaim, but I control myself down to a friendly: "You are brave, to climb up this trail with these..." when we have eye contact. She smiles and replies "I am a country girl” and she looks it, too. “When it is difficult, I just take them off." and that's exactly what she does a few feet ahead of me and jumps from one rock to the other like a little kid despite her relatively large size. So much more to learn from people on these trails, such a humbling experience. Altough, today's hike was not as difficult as the first day's, considering the "second impact" phenomenon, my muscles don't feel any better than the first day. A bath and shower are in order again, which revive my achy body one more time and this time it is somehow easier to get back to normal.

Sterling Pond leanto, under worse conditions, could house a dozen people

After I put on some nice clothes, I ask the receptionist for her recommendation on where to eat. As pleasant as all the other receptionists at this place, she gives me several options, but states, her most favorite one is Pie Casso pizza and pasta place: I don't think I want to eat at a pizza place in this lovely place, but as they always say, “eat where natives do while traveling”, which I try to do as much as possible. She is so adamant that this place is her choice above any of the eateries in Stowe and that every single visitor she sent there came back to thank her, I decide to listen to her. I certainly choose to eat out on the porch to be closer to the mountains, without knowing that "they had been promising rain after 3 PM this afternoon" as a gentleman who is eating with his wife, his son and daughter-in law and their kids tell me as they are leaving at the onset of the promised rain. He is so kind, he helps me move my table to under an umbrella they are freeing as they were done eating. And sure enough, as soon as they leave, the little bit of drizzle we have had for a while turns into real rain. At the end of my dinner, the bench I am sitting on is covered with water save for my seat and perhaps a foot around me and my table top. I am the only one on the porch now, having refused to go in to have a seat at the bar, which I thoroughly enjoy. When it is time to leave, I salute to the receptionist in my mind: the pizza I ordered loaded with mushrooms, tomatoes, spinach, artichokes, and red pepper was superb.

Covered bridge in Stowe, one of many in Vermont

VERMONT & GREEN MOUNTAIN -4-

We take our bodies for granted for so long until we do something out of the ordinary when, all of a sudden, we discover a multitude of muscles we never knew existed. That's what I am amazed with as I lower my achy body into the bathtub in the evening after returning from Hell Brook trailhead at Stowe Inn. I can feel the Musculus Gracilis, extending from the medial (inner) side of the knee join toward the hip, all four heads of my quadriceps, the muscles underneath the Musculus Gluteus deep in my buttocks, on and on. From my waist down, a muscular orchestra is playing a cacophony, beyond the sweet soreness of having worked out. I do love that sensation coming from my muscles after a good work-out, that, which is right at the brink between pain and pleasure, that "sweet ache", as I call it. But, I murmur to myself “this is way beyond that sweet soreness. I also must confess that night, I wake up multiple times with that sensation around my knees looking for pillows to make them a bit more comfortable to be able to go back to sleep. I know from experience, though, that this shall, too, pass, in couple of days having worked out all these now-achy muscles to their full capacity, they will reach a new level of strength and I will no longer feel their existence, a new level of taking for granted…

Young people enjoying the altitudes of Vermont

After being reborn with that long bath followed with shower, I find enough energy to go to Blue Moon Cafe on School Street. I head read about it in a book titled “Off the beaten path” for Vermont. It indeed turns out to be an adorable place where they have designated the enclosed porch area of an old house to small tables, thus, to couples. Dictated by the size of the table (more reasonable for one person to occupy a table for two), I am shown to the area of romantics, albeit without a partner. The couples around me are anywhere from their 40s to 60s and perhaps as varied in terms of geography as age. Understandably so, since most young people who can to afford coming to Stowe for a vacation are probably backpacking up on the mountains not interested both mentally and financially in enjoying urban pleasures in the middle of the mountains. They are all up in the mountains in one of the lodges or leantos enjoying themselves with kindred spirited people. All of the people around me look like upper middle class people, who are likely to come to a place like Stowe to stroll around during the day for a few hours, swim at their resort's swimming pool, the more adventurous ones perhaps would take a horse ride and in the evening top it off with a dinner at a place like Blue Moon Cafe. I smile to myself for being judgmental: How could I know that any or all of these people did not do The Chin, or Madonna's Peak, or Camel's Hump today? How could they tell that I was on top of Mount Mansfield today looking at me in my red fancy dress? I send an affectionate look to each couple and wish them well for whatever they find enjoyable and doable at their own age.


Add caption

 Every time I wake up in the night, I question myself about whether I will be able to do another hike tomorrow. But after finding a comfortable position for my achy knees, I drift back into a peaceful sleep and have a delightful sleep after all until 8:30 am. When I leave the bed, I am as stiff as can be, but after moving around a bit, I feel I can at least give it a try one more time. I fix my lunch box with bread, olives, feta cheese, cherry tomatoes, mini peppers and an avocado and head toward the trailhead of Sterling Pond. My goal is to go up to Madonna Peak, but, I also know my knees will dictate how far I will be able to go. Sterling Pond apparently is a favorite destination for many. The trail, relatively moderate terrain, is like a highway with people of all colors, ages, sizes going up and down, some at a running pace. Ah, youth…




Sterling Pond, lovely lake to swim in



The pond has crystal clear water, in which some of the visitors are swimming. I regret that I forgot to bring my swimming suit. I can only dream of the sizzle I would have felt upon touching the water with this heated up body, had I had my swimming suit on. After enjoying myself on top of a boulder by the shore under the sun for ten minutes, I head up toward Madonna Peak on the trail meandering around the lake over a cliff with lovely views of the lake from up above. On the way to Madonna, half way up to the summit, I bump into a backpacker in his 60s. He does look worn out and asks me about the leanto I just left behind. Feeling elated with the information that the leanto is just around the corner, we start chatting. He is a gentleman from Ohio, living near Erie Lake. He took an Amtrak train from Erie to the beginning of Long Trail near Canadian border and had been hiking for the last 6 days. He has been hiking from hut to hut along Long Trail and is planning to stay at Sterling Pond leanto tonight. He is visibly happy to hear that he is just a mile away from the hut. My heart goes to him, he has many more days to go, yet, to catch another train back to Ohio from the Massachusetts end of the trail. I wish him well and head up to Madonna to find two more backpackers at the peak in another mile.

Steve and Mark resting at the platform

We are all tired, they from backpacking and apparently forging many streams, and I climbing up for the last two hours, I from forcing another challenging upstream hike on my already exhausted knees. We greet one another and sit at the platform for the chair lift for skiers to have our lunch, looking west. The scenery is beautiful, Steve, who I will learn later, works at a company that produces laboratory goods, points out that we can see as far as Lake Champlain. His friend Mark is a science teacher in high school, they are long-time friends. One lives in Pittsburgh, the other in Maine. We have a lovely chat together after I disclose that I am Turkey. They want to know what is happening in Turkey lately with Gezi Park. I tell them all I know along with my interpretations. With this fulfilling conversation, we have lunch savoring the beauty down below, which we all know, sometimes may be difficult to appreciate when within. I feel for them when they take off their shoes and empty a few ounces of water out of each shoe followed with removing their socks and wringing off equal amount of water. They indeed had to forge some body of water on the way to. They are planning to do 38 miles of hiking and this is only their second day. I take their picture, they take mine to exchange when we return home.



As we head down toward the leanto, it is a pleasant surprise to bump into the trio of backpackers that I left at Taft Lodge last night on the trail heading to Bear Lodge. This comforts Steve and Mark since I told them the trio was planning to stay at Sterling Pond tonight. The trio heads up and Steve and Mark down, ahead of me to secure their comfortable space at Sterling Pond leanto. I take my time, enjoy the beauty thoroughly with no rush.


By Sterling Pond



VERMONT & GREEN MOUNTAIN -3-

Camhalia talking on her cell phone

Camhalia, the sweet field staff in the above picture that I met at the summit of Mount Mansfield is, who convinces me to take the Long Trail going down rather than Hell Brook trail, the–semi upright-wall. It doesn’t take much effort on her part to do so, really, I'm at a point I’d take any route back but Hell Brook. It was a "hell" of a hike up both literally and metaphorically, I don't want to do it in reverse, which will be definitely more difficult on the already slippery and wet boulders. And at this point, I don't even know, yet, what the skies of Vermont are holding for my near future before I reach the road for the evening! Later on, I will realize what a smart guidance that was when I read on one of the flyers that Hell Brook trail is to be used for ascent only, not for descent.  

the father and son set I will meet twice



the color of the storm over Burlington



Thus, starts my down hike along Profanity Trail that is supposed to intersect with Long Trail as the light gradually but steadily fades away from the forest. I can't say, if this is simply because I am going deeper and deeper in to the dense forest or whether the rumbling wrath of the skies over Burlington I listened to throughout the half hour I was at the summit has something to do with the dark settling down more and more around me. To tell the truth, I am a bit frightened of going deeper into the forest all by myself. With these thoughts, I come to the intersection that drops me onto Long Trail where I come across one of the father-son duos that I saw at the summit. I wonder, quietly, if they will take Long Trail. When they tell me they are going to Taft Lodge, and that it is right around the corner, I think "Hmmm, why not? a few minutes of delay wouldn't hurt" and follow them. He is right, in 0.1 mile, we arrive at a well secluded small cottage, in very good shape. As I am marveling at what lovely and truly a lodge they, the volunteers had constructed in the middle of nowhere, we step into the one-room space of Taft Lodge. Before I can even complete my thought process of marveling, an unimaginable rain ensues. The roof sounds like it is going to collapse any minute with the beating it suffers under the whipping of the pour. Outside the open door is a sheer curtain of water pouring from up above. In Turkish we would call this as-if-the-bottom-of-the-sky-had-fallen-off kind of rain.



look carefully, you will see the sheet of water coming down



The father is stunned with how timely our arrival in the lodge has been, so am I. On one hand, I am enjoying this unexpected adventure from the safety of the Taft Lodge, but on the other, my mind is dealing with all kinds of questions: Am I going to be able to leave, am I going to be safe on the trail after this torrential downfall, can I stay here overnight with no water left? .... The three young men, who have already settled down at the lodge for the night and the father strike up a conversation about a couple going up when the thunder and the lightening had already started beating up the summit, this was after I left the summit, for sure. Before the conversation is over, a couple walks in, soaked from head to toe, sure enough that’s them. It becomes all too clear that I can't leave under the given circumstances. Diana is her name. They take off their wettest clothes they are able to take off in public and still remain decent, and they let the less wet ones to dry with their body heat. She takes two sandwiches out of her backpack, which were prepared with the hopes to eat at the summit just like we all did, alas, they have to suffice with the dry safety of the lodge and watch the end-of-the-world type of a scene outside through the open door. They collapse onto the bench and start eating their sandwiches as I learn more about them. After chatting about nature's surprises she volunteers that they are from New Jersey and she works at a bank. They share with me their dried, organic papaya; sweet, that is what people do on the trails. The father and the son declare this is their last day, they are to return home the following day via the Underhill area where their car is parked. The trio of young men on the other hand will continue north on Long Trail tomorrow and on for several more days. Their goal for today in fact was to push toward Sterling Pond leanto, which is the next shelter on Green Mountain Range, but under these circumstances, they choose to be safe. Smart boys, but what DO I do, under these circumstances? One positive thing is that Dianne, her husband and I are on the same boat. We are not prepared to stay at the lodge, we have to find a way to go down. And we will, at least I will, the skies listen to my silent plea and open up around 4, in fact even the sun comes out after that horrendous hour-long downpour! As soon as rain stops, I say my good-byes to everyone and take off, hoping Dianne and her husband will follow, they never do. Unless, they were much slower than I, they might have tried the summit one more time. I hope they did.

central beam documenting the lodge's age and name

I must say it is a scary down-path. The forest is saturated with water with all of its components, not only its soil under my feet but its leaves and branches above and below, its underbrush, and its rocks with all their cracks. Although it will never rain until I get into my car, I get soaked all the same since any branch I hold onto or even touch by mistake, and that will happen too many times, pour all the juice they have been nesting in that saturation over my soon-to-become useless rain jacket. Anything I put my foot on without holding onto something, is a trap calling for an uncalled for fall, most of which I manage to stop but two. I fall on my back on both times, thanks to my backpack with no severe injury except for a hematoma on my left forearm. The deeper I go into the forest, the more doubtful I become that I am on the right path. Typical delusion of wilderness. I check teh map in my mind many many times and decide there is no way I can be on the wrong path and I press on. I thank the volunteers over and over again, who have painted white patches on the rocks and trees, which come to my rescue every time I feel, “I wonder if I took a wrong turn.” I recall affectionately my colleague Tim who had once told us a story about his backpacking trip in the wilderness of Alaska. After being by himself for a week, he was interpreting every dark shadow as a grizzly approaching him and getting his gun ready in his paranoia. That's where I almost am. At some point I even call "Hello" in hopes that the couple may be close enough behind me, alas, with no response or I may scare away if there is any scary wild life near me. I manage to remain calm and listen to potential sounds of the traffic, from down below. Is it real or wishful delusion, I don’t know. But I am surely heading down toward lower grounds; that is a good sign. Without seeing any more souls on the trail I finally make it to the road and I must confess with a feeling of a slight triumph.

FIGHT FOR DEMOCRACY IN TURKEY -11-

THE MOST DANGEROUS ISLAMIST ON EARTH

VERMONT & GREEN MOUNTAIN -2-

MOUNT MANSFIELD - THE CHIN

My goal for this first day of hiking is to do the "Elephant's Head + Sterling Pond" loop. However, the directions the book “50 Hikes in Vermont” gives me is not helpful at all. The Smuggler’s Notch picnic site parking lot not only doesn’t have any trailhead sign that I can see, it doesn’t have any cars parked, either. I go up and down Highway 2 for a while. Once I lose my hope that I will find the trailhead I pay more attention to a trailhead sign that is visible 0.5 a mile up the road: It reads "Hell Brook". The mountain biker I bumped into a while back is also in front of the sign getting ready to take this trail. It crosses my mind: Is this going to be a hell of a hike or a hike out of hell? Can’t say without trying and I decide "what the heck, I'll do this instead". I must confess, the mountain biker, without knowing it, helped me make this decision thinking “If this is a trail conducive to biking, it must be OK for a hiker”.

Hell Brook trail marker coming down from the summit

The biker was so quick, he started dragging his bike over the rocks on the trail and disappeared into the woods in no time. At this point I am still thinking, the tail will smooth out soon because there is a biker on the trail! How could I know this would turn out to be the most difficult trail in the area, which I will learn from another hiker, who has talked to a local. Initially, observing the biker evaporate in the forest leaves me with feelings of uselessness, which lasts until I bump into him on the trail 0.5 a mile up in misery struggling over the merciless boulders. The first thing I notice is the bleeding on his left knee, the physician in me can't help but mention it. He is surely aware of it, "as long as blood comes out, it is OK" was his medical opinion with an educational manner. I feel uncomfortable mentioning “I am a physician, can we at least rinse the dirt off your knee?”

What I see him doing makes me understand once and for good that this trail is never going to become compatible with mountain biking, these rocks will only get steeper if anything, that is quite liberating! He has been proceeding up the trail with “wearing” his huge bike over his shoulder as if it were a purse (!). He is grabbing couple of pine tree branches and pulling himself up onto the next boulder. and again, and again. I feel “This is insane, but who knows how many different kinds of thrill-seeking there is in the world?”

I will never be able to figure out whether he got onto this trail without knowing what he was getting himself into or whether it was an informed choice. That is why my feeling sorry for him but also admiration for the pain he is enduring will not leave me for a long time.

BIKE ON SHOULDER

I also figure out he is Scottish, from his accent, thanks to my dear friend Gerry, who is also Scottish. He and I almost play hide and seek. He takes off for a while, but slows down when boulders become unforgiving and I catch up. At some point he tells me he is trying to reach Hell Brook cutoff where our trail intersects with Long Trail. When he tells me he thinks "Long Trail will probably be more manageable" I figure out that he didn’t choose to be on Hell Brook, he just ended up on it just like me. At some point, I hear him holler from up above without discerning what he is saying. The first thing that comes to mind, of course, is “My gosh, he finally fell.” I start a climb half running, I didn’t know I had that capacity. Eventually, I reach him with the first question coming out of my mouth “Are you OK?”, he sure is, he was just letting me know he had come across the cutoff. He was just letting me know just in case I would like to bail out, too. No thanks, I’ve come this far, 2/3 of the way to the summit at that point, I will enjoy this sweet misery a bit more and reach the summit. But, not knowing at that point, what Long Trail is like, my heart calms down for him at least, hoping his misery is over. On the way down I will choose to take Long Trail, and as I try to conquer the boulders, no less large or merciless compared to those of Hell Brook, I will sorrowfully recall him wishing he made it safely to his wife since going downhill on a steep set of boulders is truly more dangerous than going up.

Lake of The Clouds, highest lake in Vermont

I finally arrive at the Lake of the Clouds, the highest lake in Vermont, which I thought would be the end of my hike for the day. However, I keep observing people disappearing into a crack among the boulders and not coming back. I try to figure out what to do next. Since this was a totally unplanned hike, I don't have my bearings as strong as I'd like to. I discover by chatting with people that I am in fact, very close to the summit of the highest mountain in Vermont, the summit of Mount Mansfield, in other words, The Chin: Apparently, the Green Mountain Range around this area has a skyline that looks like the profile of a man's face with his forehead, nose and chin. And I am almost there to step foot on The Chin. The path to The Chin, I learn is through that very crack that has swallowed many people in the last ten minutes. I head into the crack as well to discover it is indeed a vertical wall of huge boulders. Thanks to the branches hanging here and there, I manage to pull myself up inch by inch. In a little bit, the all-too-familiar summit breeze starts caressing my hair through the cracks and branches. Once I reach the top, I am delighted to see everybody that the Crack below had sucked into its bosom.  Some are lying on the rocks with their faces and legs exposed to the sun, which is playing peek-a-boo with us, some are strolling on The Chin, some studying the thunderstorm, which appears to be roaming the sky over Burlington, to our west.

One of many father-son sets I will see on the trails on Long Trail

The moment I put down my backpack, my eyes come across Chamelia’s as I straighten back up. Her eyes are full of warm, friendly sparkles. Her innocent face is a big smile, the kind I love. We start chatting, she is a field staff at the Green Mountain Club, originally from Vermont. What a gem on top of a mountain! I start bombarding her with questions, which she was pleasantly delighted to answer. She grew up in Vermont until 8 years of age, when her parents decided to move to Northern Massachusetts. Once she was done with school (a biology major), she was joyed with the opportunity to return to Vermont just as her parents were since now they had an excuse to return to Vermont to visit their daughter. Her job would last until October, then she would consider many other opportunities. I encouraged her with “Enjoy the power of youth when you have many many opportunities in life.” She smiled back with her now familiar innocent smile.  

Chamalia, field staff of Green Mountain Club on The Chin

VERMONT & GREEN MOUNTAIN -1-

BURLINGTON AND LAKE CHAMPLAIN

As soon as I heard one of the conferences I attend with some regularity would be held in Burlington, Vermont, I signed up without even looking at the program. I knew the conference would be good, but more so, I wanted to visit Vermont. In 2005, I believe, when I was interviewing for a position in New Hampshire, I had discovered how conservative New Hampshire was compared to its neighboring upside-down twin, which was very progressive in every way. Ever since, Vermont has become a state I heard so much about, I wanted to visit it at the first chance, and here it was. And I am so glad I came. As I told one of my friends, the conference was good, but my overall experience in Vermont has been superb!

I arrived at my hotel in Burlington around 8:30 pm on June 26th, pleasantly surprised it was right on Lake Champlain. As soon as I checked in, even before carrying my luggage to my room, I crossed the road to the green belt between the water and the very manageable urban life of the city. How smart, Burlington's residents and/or founders seem to be. As soon as I pass over the soft hill down to the waterfront, I feel a deja vous: the little cove with many small yachts and boats facing west take me immediately across the Atlantic all the way back to Turkey, Foca (Phokai in Greek), one of the small coastal towns on the Aegean, one of my favorite destinations. No wonder I am instantaneously filled with "I already like this place".

Burlington waterfront

I am just on time to savor the tail end of a beautiful sunset over the mountains outlining the distant Champlain islands to the northwest of Burlington. I recall one more time, the memories of Lake George, when Bill and I had cruised along its western shore on the way to his daughter Sheila's goat farm (if you come across Nettle Meadow cheeses, don't miss it, they are deliciously tasty!). This was at least 8 years ago, but the memory of how big the lake had seemed is still fresh, perhaps refreshed by Lake Champlain, several times larger than Lake George, which looks like an inner sea. I remember even Lake George, a tiny fraction of Champlain had felt like the Aegean, let alone this much larger lake. The walk along the lake toward the sunset and back is meditative enough but I stand for a while by the wooden fence on the boardwalk looking at the horizon for a visual meditation. As I am heading back to my hotel room after sending the last rays of the sun under the horizon and up into the darkening clouds, I know what I will be doing the next afternoon.

                      

                          My visual meditation object

As soon as I am done with the conference day on the 27th, I head toward the Champlain islands where the sun set the day before.  Sure enough, the little bit of urban feel Burlington with its 40,000 population has, is left behind both literally and metaphorically within a few miles. The major highways in Vermont at least those I have been on have only two lanes each way. Highway 2, which will take me to the islands is “reduced” to one lane each way shortly I leave my hotel, just like country roads of Iowa and all over America, I love to travel on. The rural scenery is calming at a deep level but also and perhaps because of that, rejuvenating. Each bridge seems to leap from more complex to simpler playfully as my surroundings become more and more rural and more real, more what I need periodically after living in the urban setting, be it as small as Iowa City.

I drive through South Hero onto the Grand Isle and finally into North Hero, where I have planned to be. I hike for an hour, meditate on a staircase going down to the water at the end of a meadow. This time I do audio meditation to the sound of the ripples along the shore, some very close by, some at a distance. Just like Pema Chodron recommends, I try to differentiate the gentle melody of the near-most ripple softly disappearing into the grooves among the small rocks of the shore from the subtle caress of the distant-most ripples i can hear on both sides of the staircase. Ripples seem to come in a sequence. Just as the melody on my right ends, I hear the whisper in the distance on my left followed with a closer-by tune from a ripple on my left followed with a distant caress from a subtle ripple on my right, and on and on and on... The space indeed opens up in my mind and heart, just like Pema advises. I feel lighter, more joyful, I become Lake Champlain, the vast sky of Vermont… What liberation from the rat race of the urban.

Refreshed and rejuvenated, I walk back to North Hero House, an old homestead established in 1800s on the island, the porch of which I had envisioned for my dinner looking down on the eastern shore of Grand Isle. The customers on the porch look like me, all perhaps on the search of off the beaten path. I bet if I struck up a conversation with any of them, we could find a lot of common things. However, they are all couples and seem to be enjoying each other’s company to such an extent, it would be unacceptable to intervene with any of them. I keep it to myself. The escargot, calamari, fresh green salad and vegetable soup are all as fresh as they are promised to be and thus, superbly delicious. The water, tame and peaceful is just ten yards away across highway 2, which is also the Main Street of North Hero. As I drive back, a bright red sky announcing another beautiful  sunset is delightful surprise in my mirrors, which I keep checking all the way to Burlington with occasional stops to memorize the details of it to recall at times of routine boredom.

                                     Sunset in North Hero

Burlington indeed has a feel of a New England town. Some of its buildings are clearly over 100 years old, perhaps close to 200. They do have a cross shaped pedestrian Mall just as we do in Iowa City, lined with shops of various sorts, from jewelry to maple products, to ice cream, to a hidden mall. Clever, though, the entrance looks like I am entering another shop. Only when I am inside, I realize, this shop front in fact is couple blocks deep housing a huge urban mall. I am all too ready to head to my final destination, the reason I jumped to visiting Vermont. I know the greatest reward of Vermont for me will be around Stowe, a small town located in the heart of the Green Mountain Range. I have reservation at an old place to stay at in Stowe: Stowe Inn, another house established in 1800s. The second owner of the house built a carriage factory on the premises, the third one converted it all into the largest creamery of New England. Apparently, the close-to-1000 cows on the farm gave enough milk to produce 90 tons of butter a day at some point! It is a charming place furnished with antique furniture, its restaurant looking down at the chalet of the house. This place will become my hub for the three memorable hikes of my vacation in Vermont, and will treat me very well including its very tender prime rib served almost every night.  

FIGHT FOR DEMOCRACY IN TURKEY -10- TURKISH MEDICAL ASSOCIATION'S PRESS RELEASE

Press Release

29 June 2013

WE HAVE BEEN PRACTICING MEDICINE HERE ON THIS LAND FOR THOUSANDS OF YEARS

AND KEEP DOING THAT!

For about a month now, Turkey is experiencing extraordinary days.

Demonstrations first starting as a protest against the initiative to do away with a public park in Taksim, Istanbul, then turned into a popular rise against the policies of the ruling government to reshape the society according to religious norms, Prime Minister’s projects to create “religiously devout generations” fit to his thinking, his “ideas” that intervene in women’s private life from abortion to fertility, his authoritarian style of governing and plans for dictatorship.

All over the country, millions of citizens sensitive about trees, public parks and their way of life demonstrated their reaction in streets.

The response of the AKP Government to these democratic protests was intensive police terror. The police attacked purely peaceful demonstrations with its armoured vehicles, tear gas, water cannons and clubs. Mehmet Ayvalıtaş, Abdullah Cömert and Ethem Sarısülük were killed. Thousands of citizens were injured.

Including academic personnel at all levels and young students of medicine, hundreds of people from medical profession rushed to the help of demonstrators wherever they need it, in parks, squares and streets starting from the first day of demonstrations. We rushed to the help of all citizens suffocating as a result of tear gas, burned by various chemicals used and shot by plastic bullets. We tried to heal their wounds and pain.

And that is why we are the target of the Government now.

Doctors with no other deed but delivering health services were beaten and detained. There were teas gas attacks to infirmaries and hospitals where we treated wounded people.

There is the sheer lie that people drank alcoholic beverages in the Dolmabahçe Mosque where we gave first aid to injured people during those terrible nights of violence. And the Prime Minister keeps repeating this lie.

Here is how the Prime Minister accused us doctors as those “responsible” for the whole process:

“Where is your love for the people? Where is your commitment to take care of them?  You have no worry such as humanity and human beings. All you do is to pursue your personal interests…” 

(Mr Prime Minister, the “humane” nature of you and your Government is closely known by people living on this land from Taksim Square to Uludere. Corridors, yards of hospitals and clinics, patients and emergency aid seekers all know about your human affection. People with bruises, fractures, lost eyes and spleens...All are aware of that...

As if all these are not enough, the Ministry of Health started investigation about “volunteer infirmaries” we established during demonstrations.

We are asked to give the names of our colleagues worked in these places as well as names of our patients.

We are asked on what permission and authority we practiced medicine there.

We are asked to submit our defence for extending health services to people.

(In addition, with the new draft law that is no doubt intended as a revenge for the attitude of doctors during demonstrations and in spite of annulment of the earlier one by the Constitutional Court, we are asked to violate patients confidentiality and submit all health data of patients to the Ministry of Health; we are threatened to be banned to practice our profession by the decision of the Board for Health Professions which is under control of political authority.) 

We reply:

We practice our profession here on this land once hosted the founders of the science of medicine: Hippocrates of Kos and Galenos of Pergamon...

We have practiced our profession with the strength and motivation we derive from our people whose pains have ceased; from feelings of gratitude of our patients whose survival we helped; from joy of life we catch in the eyes of elderly people after our successful surgery; from kisses we received from minors whose measles, pneumonia and fever we healed and from the universal solidarity of our colleagues taking side with us in our most difficult days...

We have done the last one with the authority given by our profession committed to human life.

We have done it in spite of the existence of despising, disrespectful and rude managers, dictators saying “keep doctors tied to trees so they cannot run away” and their copycats declaring the close of the period of esteem for doctors.

And we continue doing so fearlessly.

For thousands of years we have seen many leaders, kings and sultans on this land (even more we have seen their copycats)

They have all gone as we remain here.

They will go as well …

And we shall continue!       

TURKISH MEDICAL ASSOCIATION

CENTRAL COUNCIL

FIGHT FOR DEMOCRACY IN TURKEY -9-

LANCET: most recent adolescent maltreatment by the government of Turkey