{"id":962,"date":"2015-11-04T17:50:39","date_gmt":"2015-11-05T01:50:39","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/modernslavery.calpress.org\/?p=962"},"modified":"2015-11-04T17:50:39","modified_gmt":"2015-11-05T01:50:39","slug":"rojava-dispatch-final-journey-home","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/modernslavery.calpress.org\/?p=962","title":{"rendered":"Rojava Dispatch Final: Journey Home"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"IMG_0241\"<\/a>El Errante<\/h5>\n

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\u201cMr. Errante \u2026 did you visit Syria?\u201d The US Border Patrol officer stares at me through the bulletproof plastic that separates us. He shifts in his seat. The man wants an answer.<\/p>\n

\u201cMe? Syria? No. No way \u2026 too dangerous,\u201d I say. Praying the lie doesn\u2019t show on my face. I\u2019m in Dublin, at US Pre-clearance, almost back to the States and now, it seems, I may have some explaining to do.<\/p>\n

He scoops up my passport and customs declaration in his right hand and says, \u201cCome this way Mr. Errante. We\u2019re going to search your luggage.\u201d For the first time, during the entire trip, that sickening feeling of real fear rises inside me.\"IMG_0404\"<\/a><\/p>\n

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Two days earlier\u00a0\u2014 Paris. A singular morning, fresh sun and breeze, the kind of daybreak that only the Mother of the Revolutions can serve for breakfast. I walk through P\u00e8re Lachaise Cemetery my head and shoulders hunched forward. I know this old boneyard like a good friend, and there\u2019s one memorial that calls me now. The Mur des F\u00e9d\u00e9r\u00e9s (the Wall of the Federals). A place on the enclosing wall of the old cemetery where several hundred Communards were taken to be slaughtered by the forces of law and order. The memorial comes into view, a simple plaque on a wall of stone. Nothing more. I pull a YPG flag from my bag \"IMG_0424\"<\/a>and drape it over the memorial. I take a photo. A German man and his daughter walk around the corner. I ask him to take a photo of me and the wall and the flag. As he preps, my hand once again rises, almost unconsciously in the V salute and he snaps a few photos. I am not done. There are two more photos to be taken. One photo with the flag draped over Oscar Wilde\u2019s tomb, and one photo at the sculpted bronze cap that seals Nestor Makhno\u2019s ashes into the Columbarium. Taking the final picture I notice an odd thing, did the likeness of Makhno smile a bit when I placed the YPG flag? Or is it me?<\/p>\n

The Border Patrol officer walks me to a holding room in the Pre-Clearance area. I am told to sit on a row of benches. As I sit I see that I am facing a wall of waist high one-way mirrors. In the reflection I can see several officers directly behind me looking at my passport and paper work. They talk quietly and nod.<\/p>\n

\"IMG_0418\"<\/a><\/p>\n

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My mind begins to play smuggler\u2019s games. I go through all the potential contraband in my bags, numerous YPG\/J flags, buttons, and patches. A book called Stateless Democracy, TEV-DEM flags, HPC flags and an HPC emblazoned brown uniform vest including two Velcro pockets that exactly fit a Kalashnikov banana clip for 7.62mm X 39 mm bullets. Additionally, several pro-YPG\/J, TEV-DEM magazines in scary Daesh-looking Arabic and latinized Kurmanji. Welp, enough there for a few hours of interrogation, maybe even a day or two of detention. One of the Border Patrol officers calls me to his window. I stand, turn, and walk with measured steps to where he motioned me.<\/p>\n

After the stroll through P\u00e8re Lachaise I hail a taxi and head to the hotel. The taxi driver swerves through the Place de la R\u00e9publique on our way back to the Left Bank when it catches my eye. A flag; the yellow\/red\/green flag of the Kurdish Autonomous Region, then two, and then three of them. Finally I see a huge YPG pennant, yellow with red star, as it lazes and hops in the mid-afternoon swirl. I yell at the taxi driver to stop and pay the fare frantically. I hop into traffic on the Rue du Temple and quickly read the sign over the bandstand, \u201cInternational March against Daesh, For Kobane, For Humanity.\u201d\"IMG_0427\"<\/a><\/p>\n

Whooomp, there it is, it\u2019s November 1st \u2014 International Kobane Day, and one more time, I am enmeshed in the Revolution.<\/p>\n

I walk through the crowd, smelling the food, seeing the colors, transported back to Kobane and Cizere by the sound of spoken Kurmanji, and the feeling of rebirth, of making a new world. There is a tent where representatives of the Halklar\u0131n Demokratik Partisi (Turkish, HDP) sit, drink tea, and converse. I walk over and introduce myself. I show them some of my photos and posts about Rojava. They speak together, then someone is sent to find a translator fluent in Turkish, French, Kurmanji, and English. After what might be my last glass of Kurdish style tea for a very long time, the translator arrives and we begin to talk about how HDP integrates activities with events in Rojava. As the conversation runs I once again feel it. The openness, the excitement, the lack of fear, the infectious hope in everything these folks do and believe. The. Damned. Hope.<\/p>\n

The Border Patrol officer eyeballs me up and down and asks if I have any cigarettes in my bag. I grin and say, \u201dYup, 15 packs of Gitanes and Gauloises, can\u2019t buy\u2019em in the US anymore, y\u2019know.\u201d<\/p>\n

A slight smile crosses his face and he asks about money, gold, anything else I might try to be getting across the border. I answer that I have a few Euros, a few dollars \u2014 maybe a total of $100 altogether. No gold, no cheese, nada. He tells me to have a seat while they x-ray my bag. I return to my seat. Only one thought crosses my mind now, did the YPG\/J use any paint on those flags that might show up on an x-ray? Oh well, what the hell. I\u2019ll find out soon enough.<\/p>\n

\"IMG_0395\"<\/a><\/p>\n

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As I leave the rally one last sign catches my eye, white on black, and bold, cutting statements in French \u2014 demanding victory for the YPG. Well, it\u2019s the folks from the F\u00e9d\u00e9ration Anarchiste (FA), come to voice an opinion. I saunter over and introduce myself, they know me a bit, I know them a bit. I am invited back to their infoshop just off the Place de la R\u00e9publique. I sit for a while, tell them what I\u2019d seen in Rojava. They ask questions. I have some answers \u2014 not many. I walk around their space, buy a few posters, thank them and leave. Now, a short night\u2019s sleep, a long day\u2019s flight, and home.<\/p>\n

The Border Patrol officer calls me to his window. I am now frustrated and angry and hope I can hold my tongue. He looks me up and down one last time and says, \u201cMr. Errante, you can proceed. Your bags will be put back on the plane. Sorry for any inconvenience.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo inconvenience at all, really,\u201d I respond. And with that final lie I leave Preclearance, feeling very much, sodomized.<\/p>\n

At the San Francisco airport I debark the plane and walk slowly toward the bag claim. It\u2019s taken me 26 hours to travel what should have taken 13. My back and legs ache and my head feels like a tree is growing in it. As I round the final corner my compa\u00f1era appears up ahead. She smiles and we walk quickly to each other. I touch her hand, it is cool and warm, it feels like love. We embrace, I smell her hair, and I whisper, \u201cI made it.\u201d
\n\u201cHome,\u201d is all she replies. The sound of her voice\u00a0\u2014 dusky, low, familiar \u2014 tells me the rest.<\/p>\n

(My name is El Errante. My name is Paul Z. Simons. Thanks for reading \u2014 hope you enjoyed the Dispatches.)\"IMG_0436\"<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

El Errante   \u201cMr. Errante \u2026 did you visit Syria?\u201d The US Border Patrol officer stares at me through the bulletproof plastic that separates us. He shifts in his seat. The man wants an answer. \u201cMe? Syria? No. No way…<\/p>\n

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