In Turkey, where disputes last decades and can lead to loss of life, the 'Peace Father' works his magic with words, tears

DIYARBAKIR, TURKEY — Murat and Farida didn't know about the feud between their families when they first met at the university in this stone-walled town, a place where residents cling to long memories and ancient traditions. They found out only when Murat went home to tell his family, the Kamcis, that he wanted to marry a girl he had met at school whose last name happened to be Tarhan.

The news appalled the Kamcis and they forbade the nuptials. For 36 years, ever since a young Tarhan boy innocently let his goats graze on a Kamci pasture, the families had been at war. A member of the Kamci family slapped the Tarhan boy that day in the field and the blood feud was on. Four people were killed as a result of that slap, and dozens of others had been driven from their homes to preserve the dignity of the two names.

Distraught by their families' reaction, Murat and Farida went to see the local imam for advice. He told them that if they wanted to get married there was only one way - they must seek out the man known as the Peace Father.

Sait Sanli, the Peace Father's real name, is the 64-year-old wise man of Turkey's Kurdish southeast. Diminutive of stature, exceedingly polite and admittedly prone to tears, the former butcher is the man local residents turn to for advice when their blood starts to boil. By his own count, Mr. Sanli has resolved 449 blood feuds in the eight years since he agreed to mediate his first dispute, and he says none of the pacts he negotiated have since been broken. But his favourite story is the tale of Murat and Farida, the real-life Romeo and Juliet.

"They were crying. They told me they loved each other, but they couldn't get married because their grandfathers had a problem 36 years ago," Mr. Sanli said. "I cried with them."

The next day, Mr. Sanli went to work, travelling to see the elders of both families, as well as the widows and orphans on each side. He took an accounting of how much wrong had been done by each side over the decades. How many had been killed by each family (three Kamcis had died versus one Tarhan) and how much farming income had been lost (the Kamcis had seized 15 hectares of Tarhan land). Then he proposed a solution: Hadn't the blood debt owed by the Tarhans to the Kamcis been repaid by 36 years of free rent and farming income?

It was a simple suggestion, but one the two clans had never considered before. Mr. Sanli offered that the Tarhans should be allowed to return to their homes and that Murat and Farida get married. The two sides accepted and held a festive dinner in the Peace Father's honour.

Though the ending of the Kamci-Tarhan feud was celebrated on the front pages of newspapers across Anatolia, it was just another day at the office for Mr. Sanli. Day after day, he dons a grey business suit and one from a collection of brightly striped ties and sits on one of the cushioned benches at the back of the old funeral home to listen to a stream of heartache, pain and vitriol.

The Peace Father's reputation is such that last year he twice had to expand his conflict-solving operation, first to a five-man team, then this year to a squad of 14 people that he sends out around the region to mediate disputes. Mr. Sanli, whose parents pulled him out of school in the second grade, says that many of the blood feuds in this poor, predominantly rural and very conservative part of Turkey are fuelled by ignorance and a lack of education. The macho culture is another problem, and women and children are often the worst affected by the violence.

"If our people were educated, if they went to school, we would not see these blood feuds," he said. Many years-old disputes are resolved the way the fight between the Kamcis and the Tarhans was, with the exchange of land or small amounts of money. Himself a father of eight, Mr. Sanli says he's been successful in ending disputes because he tries to sympathize with all sides. "The truth is, I'm an emotional guy. When I see a mother who lost their son, I cry with her and kiss her hands and feet. I tell her, 'You lost your child. Don't lose your other kids. Don't let your other sons destroy their lives by taking revenge and then spending time in prison.' If I have to, I beg them."

It comes from the heart. When Mr. Sanli was a teenager his own family had to flee Diyarbakir because of a blood feud. He uses the memory of those days - afraid to go outside, scared even at home - to help him connect with those trapped in similar fights.

He says he doesn't want any prizes for his work and doesn't feel deserving of the Peace Father nickname. After all, he's just doing what he says comes naturally to him.

"Look at me. I'm short, ugly and not that strong. I do this to avoid conflicts and serve my country. I just don't want to see any more widows, or kids who don't go to school."

*****

Road to Jerusalem

As he nears the end of his time as The Globe and Mail's Middle East correspondent, Mark MacKinnon is journeying by buses, trains and taxis across the tormented region to take stock of how seven years of the "war on terror" have affected the people who live there, and what kind of Middle East Barack Obama or John McCain will inherit when George W. Bush leaves. He has reported from the region since Sept. 12, 2001. See his blog at globeandmail.com