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'Two years ago, we were
more isolated. Everyone was scared'
Turks in Green Lanes
The 29 bus route tells the story of Turkish London.
From Trafalgar Square, it rolls up past grimy
Camden, where the first Turkish Cypriots opened
small businesses in the 1950s. On through Islington
to the Seven Sisters Road, clipping Stoke Newington,
where the prosperous Turkish families were quick to
set up shop.
Then into Haringey, swinging hard left on to the
middle section of Green Lanes. Few parts of the city
have been so absolutely colonised as Green Lanes,
one of the longest roads in London. At its centre is
the confusingly named Harringay district, where the
Grand Parade section of the street has been
revivified by its settlers. Officially, out of
200,000-250,000 in London, there are 30,000-40,000
Turkish-speaking people in Haringey. All but a few
shops are conspicuously Turkish, and all bar none
are doing brisk business on a wet Saturday
afternoon.
This street is often mentioned as a symbol of how
warring communities - originally Turkish and Greek
Cypriots - can forget their grievances and relearn
to be neighbours. The symbol remains, but since most
of the Greeks moved up the road to Palmers Green,
the antagonists have been recast as Turks and Kurds.
There are now about 30,000 Kurds in London, and most
businesses on this stretch are in fact
Kurdish-owned. Today, despite the rain, the mood is
cheerful; everyone says that relations are good
between the communities. But then they lower their
eyes to admit that, "two years ago", things weren't
so good.
Shortly after 4pm on November 9 2002, something like
a war broke out on this stretch of road. After an
altercation in a social club, more than 40 Turkish
and Kurdish men fought a running battle with sticks,
knives and guns. Alisan Dogan, an innocent
43-year-old cleaner, was killed. It was not the
first horror to be perpetrated by Harringay's heroin
gangs - part of a vast international business
reputedly connected to Kurdish separatists in
southeastern Turkey - but it shook the community. A
friendly and thriving neighbourhood became infamous
in an afternoon.
"Everyone was scared," says Nilgun Canver, a local
councillor and chair of the Green Lanes Strategy
Group. She sips at her coffee in a gleaming cafe
just yards from where Dogan was killed. "They did
not know what was going on. They didn't know what
these people were about, and because it involved one
or two shop-owners as well, people began to think,
'Oh, are we surrounded by criminals here?'"
Canver is Turkish - neither Cypriot nor Kurdish. She
arrived as a student in the 1970s, and has the
unmistakable bustle of a woman who gets things done.
Her first response, two years ago, was to keep Turks
and Kurds talking to each other, "so they could
understand they were not all criminals". The effect,
ironically, seems to have been positive. "Two years
on, we are at a different point, definitely. Two
years ago, we were more isolated." This morning,
Canver hosted the first combined event for
Haringey's three Turkish-speaking groups. It seemed
to go well.
A little north of our cafe, on the other side of the
road, is a Green Lanes institution, Yasar Halim - a
Turkish grocers and bakers known all over the city.
It was opened in 1981 by Mr Halim, a Turkish
Cypriot, who felt that no one was selling decent
food like he used to get back home. It is very busy,
and all the staff - Turks and Greeks - seem to be
having a great time.
The manager is a Turkish woman, Birsen Tuna. Within
a minute of sitting down in her office, she is
talking about "that day". Her tone is one of relief.
"Now they have cleared it up," she says, producing
an invitation to one of Canver's meetings. "It
really affected our business, last year especially.
But everything's safe now." The proof is clamouring
for pide (Turkish pizza) and baklava outside.
Tuna is toying with the idea of going to live in
Cyprus one day, but this is not Mr Halim's plan.
"I've never said I'll go back to live in Cyprus in
my life. I never think about that," he says,
passionately. Why did he come to London? "One day my
father was upset, we fought and I left," he says. It
sounds like a very bare synopsis. And does he like
it here? "Yes." His voice softens in an instant. "I
like it here."
Last stop on the No 29 is Wood Green - a shopping
centre where nothing is green or wooden. But it is
home to the Kurdishowned Wood Green Kebab Centre.
Idyllic rural scenes cover the walls, evidence of an
idealistic streak among the stateless Kurds. The
boss, Bayram Al, says he gave up politics when he
left Turkey, although he still marches in London for
Kurdish rights. A waiter, Irfan Tek, is more
laid-back about his people's cause. He has other
problems.
Tek arrived in London alone, and a week later his
daughter, Ozlem, was born. She is now 12 and lives
with his parents in Turkey, but Tek has never met
her. He works up to 11 hours a day, six days a week,
and sends most of his money home. He phones Ozlem
every week. For now, he has to make do with
pictures. "People tell me, 'Your daughter is so
gorgeous, so beautiful.' She has my picture, she'll
recognise me. I'll hug her, I'll kiss her - how many
times, I don't know. I'm going to feel like
Superman."
'Our forefathers were very, very neat - the neatest
in the world'
http://www.guardian.co.uk
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