20 November 2003

Three Words in Turkish

The moon of Ramadan is a slim fingernail of sliver now, and this savage observance will soon pass into history. Not fast enough, though.

"We will now learn three words in Turkish," goes the old Firesign Theater comedy routine, "Towel. Bath." A pause. "May I see your passport, please…." It then leads to a dreamlike sequence that rolls James Joyce into popular American culture of the 1970s, which if you were around, represented the worst cars worst fashions and worst music of the last century.

It is dreamlike this morning, too. It is not that I am not awake, I am, painfully so. Hyper-alert with the radio going in the background and a steaming coffee mug by my side. But I cannot begin. I should note something about the anniversary of the Nuremberg Trials, when the Four Powers sat in judgement of the surviving Nazi leadership. It is too easy to conjure them up, their faces gray in gray print, Goering's tunic stripped of Hitler's awards and medals. But the past seems content today. We executed the most appalling of them, though Goering cheated us of vengeance before the hanging by a dose of poison in his cell. Mad Rudolf Hess and Baldar von Shirach the Nazi Boy Scout and poor Grossadmiral Karl Doenitz were sentenced to long terms. They rotted in Spandau until their sentences passed. Gray and old they were set adrift in the new Duetchsland while Rudolf sat alone in the vast prison, Guarded by rotating formations of troops from the Four Powers that convicted him.

The ones we hanged were disposed of with alacrity. They were swiftly cremated and their ashes hustled to waiting sedans and strewn by the roadside. No memorials.

Doenitz was left holding the bag as the last phony Fuhrer. His radio address to the falling Reich was in German, but transcribed in a language we understand by the Federal Communications Commission: "…our Fuhrer Adolf Hitler, fighting to the last breath against Bolshevism, fell for Germany this afternoon in his operational headquarters in the Reich Chancellery….German men and women, soldiers of the armed forces…In the deepest sorrow and respect the German people bow."

They bowed, all right. A Red Army Commander vowed that a million Russian children would be born in Germany the next year and he may have made his goal.

I wish we could rid ourselves of our current demons as decisively as we did the Nazis. I am tired of writing about the bombing. This morning's string of attacks was in Turkey. It appears to be coordinated and it can only be our pals from al Qaida. The word comes at a time when the commentators are unprepared. The calls are made direct to the scene, and the words are interchangeable with all the other attacks, shattered glass in narrow streets. Body parts, stunned civilians with blood running down their faces.

The targets are opportunistic, of course. The American Consulate in Istanbul recently moved to a more secure location. The British did not. Their building remained in the old diplomatic district that remains from Ottoman days. The HSBD Bank was hit as well, another symbol that looked vulnerable by virtue of its location. There are reports that a white van, the ubiquitous white van, was seen in the area shortly before it detonated. Was the attack timed to coincide with the state visit to London by the President? Was it a part of a statement on the nature of the holy month? When the men and women they kill are co-religionists celebrating their holy month what does it mean? That the struggle is about the fundamental notion of secular society?

Where do we stand as the Ramadan moon dwindles? I am engaged in a small part of the great Homeland Security parade, setting up networks by which Washington will communicate with the State and Local officials who will be dealing with shattered glass and worse. Preparing phone lists and points of contact, establishing a twenty-four hour position to respond to disaster. Preparing for what comes next.

The sun is rising, crimson, and the sliver silver of the Ramadan moon is fading into what will be a blue sky. Afternoon shadows are lengthening in Istanbul and the faithful will be able to break their sacred fast. I watch from the balcony as the traffic rushes by, headed downtown. I see one of the ubiquitous white vans, changing lanes, speeding somewhere.

There are words for what is happening. They are in Turkish today. I do not know what dialect we will have to learn tomorrow.