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Turkey's Exiled Intellectuals Find Haven In 'Little Istanbul' Of Berlin

Writers, artists, journalists and others fleeing oppression in Turkey are settling in the Kreuzberg neighborhood of Berlin. But the dream is always to go back home.

View of the Kreuzberg quarter of Berlin
View of the Kreuzberg quarter of Berlin
Timo Lehmann

BERLIN — It was in January 2017. Yildiz Cakar, a Kurdish writer, had barely arrived in Berlin when she received a call from her family: the staff and members of their association for Kurdish authors were arrested in Diyarbakir, one of the most important cities for Kurds in southeastern Turkey, in a region they call Kurdistan. Yildiz Cakar had come to Berlin with nothing but hand luggage to attend a conference about literature. After the call, she feared that as soon as she would get off the plane in Turkey, she would be placed in handcuffs. "Propaganda for a terrorist organization" was the accusation. Since then, the author has been stranded in Berlin, where she's staying in the Kreuzberg refugee camp.

"I cannot write a single line here," she says. Back home, she's had several novels and hundreds of poems published. She is visibly nervous. Even in Germany, she is confronted by supporters of Turkish President Recep Tayyip Erdogan. She doesn't know whether the Turkish intelligence service is monitoring her. Her husband and her children, who are not allowed to leave Turkey, are in daily contact with her. The life of Yildiz Cakar has gone awry.

Berlin has become the city of the Turkish diaspora. It's made of artists, musicians, painters, directors, intellectuals, authors, and journalists who have clashed with the Turkish government or whose freedom has been restricted so much in their homeland that their existence as a cultural entity is no longer possible. The exiles are talking about a "New Wave" of Turkish immigrants coming to Germany. Though some have gone to Paris, London and New York, Berlin offers the best conditions for most of them: an international scene, affordable rents, an already-existing Turkish cultural life, one to which they can connect. For the first time after decades of immigration from Turkey's rural areas, a part of the Istanbul intelligentsia is now coming to Germany. In May 2017 alone, 750 asylum applications from Turkish people were approved. The Berlin-Kreuzberg area is the new Berliners' stronghold. Since the 1960s, many people with a Turkish background have been living in the neighborhood. They call it "Küçük Istanbul" — little Istanbul.

One of the most prominent newcomers is the 56-year-old film director Mustafa Altioklar. With his sensitive 1997 gangster movie Agir Roman (released in English under the name Cholera Street), he became part of Turkish cinema's history. But since then, he has repeatedly been in conflict with the government of Erdogan, who first came to power as Prime Minister in 2003. The filmmaker sees himself as a political opponent. He is close to the left-wing of the social-democratic and secular Republican People's Party.

Mustafa Altioklar originally studied medicine. In an interview with a Turkish newspaper in April 2014, he diagnosed Erdogan with "narcissistic personality disorder". He was promptly brought to justice for insult. During his hearing, Altioklar said he would make the same diagnosis about himself, "but I do not rule any country," he added. The court sentenced him to eight months in prison. There are other charges pending against him.

Five years ago, the Turkish culture minister declared the local art scene the "backyard of terrorism". More and more activists, intellectuals, and artists who are critical of the government are being incarcerated, often without a trial. Since the failed coup attempt of July 2016 and the proclamation of the state of emergency, the government has had free rein to arrest inconvenient critics.

The government is now also keeping watch on the film industry. Mustafa Altioklar lost his grants and his investors. "They took away my life's purpose. I had no other choice: I had to go." In October 2016, in Kreuzberg, he opened a small drama school, "B'ACT Academy". He's been teaching here and in his own classroom. Other exiles come as guest lecturers. One year later, the evening school has two classes, each with 20 pupils.

Not all political opponents

Some of the Turkish artists living in Berlin have been friends for a decade. Others have only met in Germany. A few weeks ago, Altioklar met the cartoonist Serkan Altunigne. He used to work for the satire magazine Penguen, which was repeatedly sued by the Turkish government for several years. In 2015, two of the publication's authors were slapped with a prison sentence of 11 months. In May 2017, the editors had to cease publication. Serkan Altunigne found no job in Turkey and went to Berlin.

Others have been able to rekindle old contacts in Germany. The Kurdish screenwriter Önder Cakar, who cannot return to Turkey because he risks a prison sentence for his films about the Kurdish region, is currently working with the Turkish-German film director Fatih Akin on a movie about the Kurds' defensive battles around the Syrian town of Kobane in 2014. He, too, stands accused of having links to terror.

Not all of the exiles see themselves as political opponents: Many want to find strength and space for their work, away from the charged atmosphere in Turkey. It's impossible to say exactly how many Turkish artists have fled to Germany. Some live with refugee status, others with a work or student visa.

Most Turkish artists who have managed to flee want to return as soon as possible, but others will have to stay longer.

A group of 30 artists around Mustafa Altioklar want to start a club for Turkish exiles. Altioklar is sitting with the Armenian writer and journalist Hayko Bagdat and the screenwriter Baris Pirhasan in Kreuzberg. The three meet regularly to discuss how to build the club. The group, which formed around Altioklar, includes artists from different sides of the political spectrum — left-wing Kemalists, Kurdish activists, Armenian people who fought political battles in Turkey, and the like.

We share a destiny.

Their goal is to provide a starting point for newcomers and to help them as they deal with the German authorities, regardless of their political preferences. In the middle of this Kreuzberg café, the Turks revel in nostalgic memories of their lives back in Istanbul. Most of them used to live in the districts around Taksim Square and Istiklal Avenue, the largest pedestrian street in the city, where hundreds of bars, cafés, cinemas and galleries are disappearing. Mustafa Altioklar says the diaspora will continue to gather in the cafes of Kreuzberg, their "little Istanbul," only until the day they can return to speak freely on the streets of the real one again.

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In Northern Kenya, Where Climate Change Is Measured In Starving Children

The worst drought in 40 years, which has deepened from the effects of climate change, is hitting the young the hardest around the Horn of Africa. A close-up look at the victims, and attempts to save lives and limit lasting effects on an already fragile region in Kenya.

Photo of five mothers holding their malnourished children

At feeding time, nurses and aides encourage mothers to socialize their children and stimulate them to eat.

Georgina Gustin

KAKUMA — The words "Stabilization Ward" are painted in uneven black letters above the entrance, but everyone in this massive refugee camp in Kakuma, Kenya, calls it ya maziwa: The place of milk.

Rescue workers and doctors, mothers and fathers, have carried hundreds of starving children through the doors of this one-room hospital wing, which is sometimes so crowded that babies and toddlers have to share beds. A pediatric unit is only a few steps away, but malnourished children don’t go there. They need special care, and even that doesn’t always save them.

In an office of the International Rescue Committee nearby, Vincent Opinya sits behind a desk with figures on dry-erase boards and a map of the camp on the walls around him. “We’ve lost 45 children this year due to malnutrition,” he says, juggling emergencies, phone calls, and texts. “We’re seeing a significant increase in malnutrition cases as a result of the drought — the worst we’ve faced in 40 years.”

From January to June, the ward experienced an 800 percent rise in admissions of children under 5 who needed treatment for malnourishment — a surge that aid groups blame mostly on a climate change-fueled drought that has turned the region into a parched barren.

Opinya, the nutrition manager for the IRC here, has had to rattle off these statistics many times, but the reality of the numbers is starting to crack his professional armor. “It’s a very sad situation,” he says, wearily. And he believes it will only get worse. A third year of drought is likely on the way.

More children may die. But millions will survive malnutrition and hunger only to live through a compromised future, researchers say. The longer-term health effects of this drought — weakened immune systems, developmental problems — will persist for a generation or more, with consequences that will cascade into communities and societies for decades.

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