The traditional Iñupiaq village of Teller sits on a long spit of land separating two bodies of water off Western Alaska’s Seward Peninsula. The bay of Port Clarence is west toward the Bering Sea, and Grantley Harbor is inland to the east. (Berett Wilber for Northern Journal)

SEWARD PENINSULA, ALASKA — Ducks and swans flew overhead as Sylvester Ayek, 82, and his daughter Kimberly, 35, hauled rocks to anchor their small salmon net on the bank of a deep, tidal channel — 25 miles inland from the open Bering Sea coast. 

Nearby on that July day, Mary Jane Litchard, Ayek’s partner, picked wild celery and set out a lunch of past subsistence harvests: a blue-shelled seabird egg, dried beluga whale meat and red salmon dipped in seal oil.

Then, as they waited for fish to fill the net, the family motored Ayek’s skiff up the channel, known as the Tuksuk, spotting birds and seals and passing family fish camps where drying salmon hung on racks. Soon, the steep channel walls gave way to a huge, saltwater lake: the Imuruk Basin, flanked by the snow-dotted peaks of the Kigluaik Mountains. 

Ayek describes the basin as a “traditional hunting and gathering place” for the local Iñupiat, who have long sustained themselves on the area’s bounty of fish, berries and wildlife.

Sylvester Ayek, an Iñupiaq hunter, fisherman and sculptor, prepares to set his salmon net off the bank of the Tuksuk Channel on the Seward Peninsula. (Berett Wilber for Northern Journal)

On a day trip fishing in the Tuksuk Channel, Mary Jane Litchard, 72, holds up a part of her family’s lunch: a hard-boiled murre egg. (Berett Wilber for Northern Journal)

But despite a long Indigenous history, and a brief settler boom during the Gold Rush more than a century ago, a couple of weather-beaten cabins were the only obvious signs of human impact as Ayek’s boat idled — save for a set of tiny, beige specks at the foot of the mountains.

Those specks were a camp run by a Canadian exploration company, Graphite One. And they marked the prospective site of a mile-wide open pit mine that could reach deep below the tundra — into the largest known deposit of graphite in the U.S.

The mine could help power America’s electric vehicle revolution, and it’s drawing enthusiastic support from powerful government officials in both Alaska and Washington, D.C. That includes the Biden administration, which recently announced up to $37.5 million in subsidies for Graphite One through the U.S. Department of Defense. 

So far, the announcements from the project’s politically connected boosters have received far more attention than the several hundred Alaskans whose lives would be affected directly by Graphite One’s mine. 

While opinions in the nearby Alaska Native villages of Brevig Mission and Teller are mixed, there are significant pockets of opposition, particularly among the area’s tribal leaders. Many residents worry the project will harm the subsistence harvests that make life possible in a place where the nearest well-stocked grocery store is a two-hour drive away, in Nome.

Kimberly Ayek picks a salmon from her family’s net in the shallows of the Tuksuk Channel. (Berett Wilber for Northern Journal)

“The further they go with the mine, our subsistence will just move further and further away from us,” Gilbert Tocktoo, president of Brevig Mission’s tribal government, said over a dinner of boiled salmon at his home. “And sooner or later, it’s going to become a question of: Do I want to live here anymore?”

Despite those concerns, Graphite One is gathering local support: Earlier this month, the board of the region’s Indigenous-owned, for-profit corporation unanimously endorsed the project. 

The Nome-based corporation, Bering Straits Native Corp., also agreed to invest $2 million in Graphite One, in return for commitments related to jobs and scholarships for shareholders.

The tensions surrounding Graphite One’s project underscore how the rush to bolster domestic manufacturing of electric vehicles threatens a new round of disruption to tribal communities and landscapes that have already borne huge costs from past mining booms.

Sylvester Ayek points toward the Kigluaik Mountains and the site of the Graphite One exploration project as his skiff bobs in the Imuruk Basin. (Berett Wilber for Northern Journal)

Sylvester Ayek and his daughter Kimberly set their gillnet in the Tuksuk Channel. (Berett Wilber for Northern Journal)

Across the American West, companies are vying to extract the minerals needed to power electric vehicles and other green technologies. Proposed mines for lithium, antimony and copper are chasing some of the same generous federal tax credits as Graphite One — and some are advancing in spite of objections from Indigenous people who have already seen their lands taken and resources diminished over more than a century of mining.

The Seward Peninsula’s history is a case in point: Thousands of non-Native prospectors came here during the Gold Rush, which began in 1898. The era brought devastating bouts of pandemic disease and displacement for the Iñupiat, and today, that history weighs on some as they consider how Graphite One could affect their lives. 

“A lot of people like to say that our culture is lost. But we didn’t just go out there and lose it: It was taken from us,” said Taluvaaq Qiñuġana, a 24-year-old Iñupiaq resident of Brevig Mission. A new mining project in her people’s traditional harvesting grounds, she said, “feels like continuous colonization.”

Taluvaaq Qiñuġana, pictured in her home village of Brevig Mission, is opposed to Graphite One’s proposed mining project. The open pit mine would be built in the area of her family’s traditional harvesting grounds. (Berett Wilber for Northern Journal)

But other Indigenous residents of Brevig Mission and Teller say the villages would benefit from well-paying jobs that could come with the mine. Cash income could help people sustain their households in the two communities, where full-time work is otherwise scarce. 

Graphite One executives say one of their highest priorities, as they advance their project toward permitting and construction, is protecting village residents’ harvests of fish, wildlife and berries. They say they fully appreciate the essential nature of that food supply.

“This is very real to them,” said Mike Schaffner, Graphite One’s senior vice president of mining. “We completely understand that we can’t come in there and hurt the subsistence, and we can’t hurt how their lifestyle is.”

The Iñupiaq residents of the village of Brevig Mission depend on local harvests of fish, wildlife and berries. Some fear a planned graphite mine nearby could interfere with their way of life. (Berett Wilber for Northern Journal)

U.S. produces no domestic graphite

Graphite is simply carbon — like a diamond but far softer, because of its different crystal structure. Graphite is used as a lubricant, in industrial steelmaking, for brake linings in automobiles and as pencil lead.

It’s also a key component of the high-powered lithium batteries that propel electric cars. 

Once mined and concentrated, graphite is processed into a powder that’s mixed with a binder, then rolled flat and curled into the hundreds of AA-battery-sized cylinders that make up the battery pack.

America hasn’t mined any graphite in decades, having been undercut by countries where it’s extracted at a lower cost.

China currently produces more than half of the world’s mined graphite and nearly all of the highly processed type needed for batteries. The country so dominates the supply chain that global prices typically rise each winter when cold temperatures force a single region, Heilongjiang, to shut down production, said Tony Alderson, an analyst at a price tracking firm called Benchmark Mineral Intelligence.

Some forecasts say graphite demand, driven by growth in electric vehicles, could rise 25-fold by 2040. Amid growing U.S.-China political tensions, supply chain experts have warned about the need to diversify America’s sources of graphite. 

Last year’s climate-focused Inflation Reduction Act, written in part to wrest control of electric vehicle manufacturing from China, is accelerating that search.

For new electric cars to qualify for a $3,750 tax credit under the act, at least 40% of the value of the “critical minerals” that go into their batteries must be extracted or processed domestically, or in countries such as Canada or Mexico that have free-trade agreements with the United States. 

That fraction rises to 80% in four years.

Graphite One is one of just three companies currently advancing graphite mining projects in the United States, according to the U.S. Geological Survey. And company officials are already marketing their graphite to global electric vehicle makers.

But when they presented their preliminary plans to Tesla, “they said, ‘That’s great, we are interested in buying them, but we would need to write 40 contracts of this size to meet our need,’” Schaffner, the Graphite One vice president, said at a community meeting this year, according to the Nome Nugget. 

In response, Graphite One is now studying a mine that could be substantially larger than its original proposal.

The Tuksuk Channel, which reaches inland to the Imuruk Basin and its surrounding tundra, is a vital area for harvests by residents of the nearby Iñupiaq villages of Brevig Mission and Teller. (Berett Wilber for Northern Journal)

It’s too early to know how, exactly, the mine’s construction could affect the surrounding watershed. One reason is that the level of risk it poses is linked to its size, and Graphite One has not yet determined how big its project will be.

While graphite itself is nontoxic and inert, the company also hasn’t finished studying the acid-generating potential of the rock that its mine could expose — another key indicator of the project’s level of risk. Stronger acid is more likely to release toxic metals into water that Graphite One would have to contain and treat before releasing back into the environment.

One fish biologist in the region has also said he fears the mine’s construction could negatively affect streams flowing out of the Kigluaik Mountains, though Graphite One officials disagree. The streams’ cool water, according to Charlie Lean, keeps temperatures in the shallow Imuruk Basin low enough to sustain spawning salmon — a critical source of abundant, healthy food for Brevig Mission and Teller residents.

Graphite One plans to store its waste rock and depleted ore in what’s known as a “dry stack,” on top of the ground — rather than in a pond behind a dam, a common industry practice that can risk a major breach if the dam fails. 

But experts say smaller-scale spills or leaks from the mine could still drain into the basin and harm fish and wildlife.

“There is always a possibility for some sort of catastrophic failure. But that doesn’t happen very often,” said Dave Chambers, president of the nonprofit Center for Science in Public Participation, which advises advocacy and tribal groups across the country on mining and water quality. “There’s also a possibility there will be no impact. That doesn’t happen very often, either.”

Freshly cut salmon dries on racks in Teller, a traditional Iñupiaq village on Western Alaska’s Seward Peninsula. Salmon are an essential food source for Teller residents, who otherwise must drive 70 miles on a gravel road to reach affordably priced groceries. (Berett Wilber for Northern Journal)

Alfred Kakoona, 45, cuts up his morning’s catch of fresh salmon, a staple food for the Indigenous peoples of the Seward Peninsula, on the beach at Brevig Mission. (Berett Wilber for Northern Journal)

A way of life at stake 

There are no Teslas in Brevig Mission or Teller, the two Alaska Native villages closest to the proposed mine. 

To get to the communities from the nearest American Tesla dealership, you’d first board a jet in Seattle. Then, you’d fly 1,400 miles to Anchorage, where you’d climb on to another jet and fly 500 more miles northwest to Nome, the former Gold Rush town known as the finish line of the Iditarod sled dog race.

A 70-mile gravel road winds northwest through tundra and mountains before dipping back down to a narrow spit on the Bering Sea coast. The road ends in Teller, population 235, where most residents lack in-home plumbing — let alone own electric cars.

If you need a bathroom here, you’ll use what’s known as a honey bucket.

Brevig Mission, population 435, is even more remote than Teller. It sits across a narrow strait and is accessible only by boat or plane.

(Berett Wilber for Northern Journal)

The region’s Indigenous history is memorialized in the 1973 book “People of Kauwerak,” written by local elder William Oquilluk. It documents the founding of Kauwerak, an Iñupiaq village by a sandbar near the Imuruk Basin’s innermost reaches.

The area was chosen, according to the book, for the same reasons it’s treasured now: abundant fish and birds, berries and moose, even beluga whales. Kauwerak became one of the Seward Peninsula’s largest villages before it was abandoned in the 19th century, as residents left for jobs and schools.

Whalers, then gold miners, brought profound changes to the Indigenous way of life on the Seward Peninsula, especially through the introduction of pandemic diseases. One outbreak of measles and flu, in 1900, is thought to have killed up to one-third of residents in one of the region’s villages. In Brevig Mission, 72 of 80 Native residents died from the 1918 Spanish flu.

Today, the miners and whalers are gone. In Teller, the population of 250 is 99% Alaska Native. 

Four in 10 residents there live below the poverty level, and a typical household, with an average of three people, survives on just $32,000 a year, according to census data.

At the community’s main store, the shelves are completely barren of fresh fruits and vegetables. A box of Corn Chex costs $9.55, and a bottle of Coffee-Mate runs $11.85 — more than twice the Anchorage price. 

Residents can buy cheaper groceries in Nome. But gas for the 70-mile drive costs $6.30 a gallon, down from $7 in July.

The main store in Teller lacks fresh produce and charges steep prices for groceries, making hunting and fishing essential for the village’s Iñupiaq residents. (Nathaniel Herz/Northern Journal)

The high cost of goods combined with the few available jobs helps explain why some Teller and Brevig Mission residents are open to Graphite One’s planned mine, and the cash income it could generate. 

As Ayek, the 82-year-old subsistence fisherman, pulled his skiff back into Teller with a cooler of fish, another man was slicing fresh sides of salmon a little ways down the beach.

Nick Topkok, 56, has worked as a contractor for Graphite One, taking workers out in his boat. As he hung his fish to dry on a wood rack, he said few people in the area can find steady jobs.

“The rest are living off welfare,” Topkok said. The mine, he said, would generate money for decades, and it also might help get the village water and sewer systems.

“I’ll be dead by then, but it’ll impact my kids, financially,” he said. “If it’s good and clean, so be it.”

Topkok also acknowledged, however, that a catastrophic accident would “impact us all.”

Many village residents’ summer fishing camps sit along the Tuksuk Channel, below the mine site. Harvests from the basin and its surroundings feed families in Brevig Mission and Teller year-round.

“It’s my freezer,” said Dolly Kugzruk, president of Teller’s tribal government and an opponent of the mine.

Researchers have found all five species of Pacific salmon in and around the Imuruk Basin. Harvests in the area have hit 20,000 fish in some years — roughly 30 per fishing family, according to state data.

At a legislative hearing several years ago on a proposal to support Graphite One’s project, one Teller resident, Tanya Ablowaluk, neatly summed up opponents’ fears: “Will the state keep our freezers full in the event of a spill?”

Some 30 miles outside Nome, supplies for Graphite One’s remote mining exploration camp wait at a staging area the company uses for its helicopters. (Berett Wilber for Northern Journal)

Gold Rush prospector’s descendants would reap royalties

Elsewhere in rural Alaska, Indigenous people have consented to resource extraction on their ancestral lands on the basis of compromise: They accept environmental risks in exchange for a direct stake in the profits.

Two hundred miles north of the Imuruk Basin, zinc and lead unearthed at Red Dog Mine have generated more than $1 billion in royalties for local Native residents and their descendants, including $172 million last year. On the North Slope, the regional Iñupiat-owned corporation receives oil worth tens of millions of dollars a year from developments on its traditional land.

The new Manh Choh mine in Alaska’s Interior will also pay royalties to Native landowners, as would the proposed Donlin mine in Southwest Alaska.

No such royalties would go to the Iñupiaq residents of Brevig Mission and Teller, based on the way Graphite One’s project is currently structured.

The proposed mine sits exclusively on state land. And Graphite One would pay royalties to the descendants of a Gold Rush-era prospector — a legacy of the not-so-distant American past when white settlers could freely claim land and resources that had been used for thousands of years by Indigenous people.

Nicholas Tweet was a 23-year-old fortune seeker when he left Minnesota for Alaska in the late 1800s. His quest for gold, over several years, took him hiking over mountain ranges, floating down the Yukon River by steamboat, walking hundreds miles across beaches and, finally, rowing more than 100 miles from Nome in a boat he built himself.

Tweet settled in Teller with his family, initially prospecting for gold. 

As graphite demand spiked during World War I, Tweet staked claims along the Kigluaik Mountains, and he worked with a company that shipped the mineral to San Francisco until the war ended and demand dried up. 

Today, Tweet’s descendants are still in the mining business on the Seward Peninsula. And they still controlled graphite claims in the area a little more than a decade ago. That’s when a Vancouver entrepreneur, Anthony Huston, was drawn into the global graphite trade through his interest in Tesla and his own graphite-based golf clubs. 

News of a possible deal with Huston’s company arrived at one of the Tweets’ remote mining operations via a note dropped by a bush plane. They reached an agreement after months of discussions — sometimes, according to Huston, with 16 relatives in the room.

So far, the Tweet family, whose members did not respond to requests for comment, has received $370,000 in lease fees. If the project is built, the family would receive additional payments tied to the value of graphite mined by Graphite One, and members could ultimately collect millions of dollars.

Bering Straits Native Corp., owned by more than 8,000 Indigenous shareholders with ties to the region, recently acquired a stake Graphite One’s project — but only by buying its way in. 

The company announced its $2 million investment this month. The deal includes commitments by Graphite One to support scholarships, hire Bering Straits’ shareholders and give opportunities to the Native-owned corporation’s subsidiary companies, according to Dan Graham, Bering Straits’ interim chief executive. He declined to release details, saying they have not yet been finalized.

As it considered the investment, Bering Straits board members held meetings with Brevig Mission and Teller residents, where they heard “a lot of concerns,” Graham said. Those concerns “were very well thought through at the board level” before the corporation offered its support for the project, he added.

“Graphite One is very committed to employing local workers from those villages, to being as transparent as possible on what the development is,” Graham said.

Graphite One officials say they have work to do to ensure the region’s residents are trained for mining jobs in time for the start of construction. The company had a maximum of 71 people working at its camp this summer, but Graphite One and its contractors hired just eight people from Teller and Brevig Mission. Sixteen more were from Nome and other villages in the region, according to Graphite One.

Company officials say they have no choice but to develop a local workforce. Because of graphite’s relatively low value in raw form, compared to gold or copper, they say the company can’t afford to fly workers in from outside the region.

Graphite One says it’s also taking direction from members of a committee of local residents it’s appointed to provide advice on environmental issues. In response to the committee’s feedback, the company chose not to barge its fuel through the Imuruk Basin earlier this year; instead, it flew it in, at an added cost of $4 a gallon.

Since Graphite One acquired the Tweets’ graphite claims, progress on the development has been slow. But now, escalating tensions with China and the national push to Americanize the electric vehicle supply chain are putting Huston’s project on the political fast track.

In Nome, U.S. Sen. Lisa Murkowski walks away from a helicopter that flew her to the Graphite One project, a mining exploration camp that the Canadian company is developing to build an open pit graphite mine. (Berett Wilber for Northern Journal)

U.S. Sen. Lisa Murkowski, R-Alaska, stands in the Nome airport, holding a bag with chunks of graphite she received at Graphite One’s exploration project. (Berett Wilber for Northern Journal)

‘We don’t have a choice’

In July, U.S. Sen. Lisa Murkowski boarded a helicopter in Nome and flew to Graphite One’s remote exploration camp overlooking the Imuruk Basin.

A few days later, the Alaska Republican stood on the Senate floor and brandished what she described as a hunk of graphite from an “absolutely massive,” world-class deposit.

“After my site visit there on Saturday, I’m convinced that this is a project that every one of us — those of us here in the Congress, the Biden administration — all of us need to support,” she said. “This project will give us a significant domestic supply, breaking our wholesale dependence on imports.”

U.S. Sen. Dan Sullivan, R-Alaska, U.S. Rep. Mary Peltola, D-Alaska, and GOP Gov. Mike Dunleavy have all expressed support for the project.

Graphite One has enlisted consultants and lobbyists to advance its interests, according to disclosure filings and emails obtained through public records requests.

They include Clark Penney, an Anchorage-based consultant and financial advisor with ties to the Dunleavy administration, and Nate Adams, a former employee of Murkowski and Sullivan who’s worked as a lobbyist in Washington, D.C.

Murkowski has said the mine will reduce dependence on foreign countries that lack America’s environmental and human rights safeguards.

“Security of supply would be assured from day one, and the standards for the mine’s development and operation would be both exceedingly high and fully transparent,” Murkowski wrote in a letter to the Biden administration in 2022.

The Defense Department, meanwhile, announced its grant of up to $37.5 million for Graphite One in July. This month, the company also announced it had received a $4.7 million Defense Department contract to develop a graphite-based firefighting foam. 

In a statement, a department spokesman said the July agreement “aims to strengthen the domestic industrial base to make a secure, U.S.-based supply of graphite available for both Department of Defense and consumer markets.”

In Teller and Brevig Mission, Graphite One’s opponents have noticed how the electrical vehicle transition seems to be driving interest in the mine planned for nearby. 

Gilbert Tocktoo is the president of the tribal government in Brevig Mission. In an interview at his home, he said he opposes the large graphite mine planned on state land near the Imuruk Basin. (Berett Wilber for Northern Journal)

As the project gathers outside political support, some village residents said that local attitudes have been shifting, too, in response to the company’s offers of jobs and perks. 

Tocktoo, the chief of Brevig Mission’s tribal council, said resistance in his community has diminished as Graphite One “tries to buy their way in.”

The company awards door prizes at meetings and distributes free turkeys, he said. Two years ago, the company gave each household in Brevig Mission and Teller a $50 credit on their electrical bills.

The project, though, remains years away from construction, with production starting no earlier than 2029.

Before it can be built, Graphite One will have to obtain an array of permits, including a major authorization under the federal Clean Water Act that will allow it to do construction around wetlands.

And the project also faces geopolitical and economic uncertainties. 

At least last year, Graphite One was tight on cash. It had to slightly shorten its summer exploration season because it didn’t have the money to finish it, company officials said at a public meeting this year. 

And while Graphite One is counting on a partnership with a Chinese business to help set up its graphite processing and manufacturing infrastructure, the partner company’s top executive has said publicly that U.S.-China political tensions may thwart the transfer of necessary technologies.

Murkowski, in an interview at the Nome airport on her way home from her visit to Graphite One’s camp, stressed that the project is still in its very early stages. 

The permitting process and the substantial environmental reviews that will accompany it, she added, will give concerned residents a chance to pose questions and raise objections.

“There’s no process right now for the public to weigh in. And it’s all so preliminary,” she said. “When you don’t know, the default position is, ‘I don’t think this should happen.’”

Lucy Oquilluk is president of the tribal government of the Iñupiaq village of Mary’s Igloo. Though the Mary’s Igloo village site near the Imuruk Basin is now abandoned, the area is still an important place for tribal members to fish, hunt and gather food. Many of them live in the nearby community of Teller and maintain their own tribal government. (Berett Wilber for Northern Journal)

But opponents of the project in Brevig Mission and Teller say they fear their objections won’t be heard. Lucy Oquilluk, head of a Teller-based tribal government, said she feels a sense of inevitability.

“It just feels like we have nothing to say about it. We don’t have a choice,” Oquilluk said. “They’re going to do it anyways, no matter what we say.”

This story was produced by Northern Journal, APM Reports and Alaska Public Media as part of the Public Media Accountability Initiative, which supports investigative reporting at local media outlets around the country.

Nathaniel Herz is an Anchorage-based journalist. He’s been a reporter in Alaska for a decade, and is currently reporting for Alaska Public Media. Find more of his work by subscribing to his newsletter, Northern Journal, at natherz.substack.com. Reach him at natherz@gmail.com.

The post Tesla wants graphite. Alaska has loads. However mining it raises fears in close by villages. appeared first on DAILY SAN FRANCISCO BAY NEWS.

Am 24. Oktober 2021 veröffentlichte der San Francisco Chronicle ein Interview, das die politische Landschaft der Stadt im Alleingang verändern würde. Das Thema war Brooke Jenkins, die das Büro der fortschrittlichen Staatsanwältin der Stadt, Chesa Boudin, verließ und ihm Inkompetenz, ideologische Starrheit und eklatantes Missmanagement vorwarf.

Brooke Jenkins spricht während eines Interviews im Mai über die bevorstehende Rückrufwahl der damaligen Bezirksstaatsanwältin von San Francisco, Chesa Boudin. (Hafen Daley/AP)

„Das Büro der Staatsanwaltschaft ist jetzt ein sinkendes Schiff. Es ist wie die Titanic, und es geht mit der öffentlichen Sicherheit einher“, sagte Jenkins dem Chronicle. Sie kündigte auch an, dass sie sich einer Kampagne für die Wahlmaßnahme anschließen würde, die, wenn sie von den Wählern ratifiziert würde, Boudin entfernen und es Bürgermeister London Breed ermöglichen würde, einen Ersatz zu benennen.

Jenkins, eine schwarze und lateinamerikanische Frau, die in der Bay Area beheimatet ist, wurde zum öffentlichen Gesicht der Boudin-Rückrufbemühungen, die als Referendum über eine fortschreitende Reform der Strafjustiz landesweite Aufmerksamkeit erlangten.

Der Versuch der Recall-Gegner, die Opposition gegen Boudin als Putsch der Republikaner darzustellen, konnte die Wähler in dieser überwältigend liberalen Stadt nicht überzeugen. Im Juni verdrängten San Franciscans Boudin mit großem Vorsprung. Einige Wochen später ernannte Breed Jenkins zu seinem Nachfolger. Und erst vor wenigen Tagen gab Jenkins bekannt, dass sie beabsichtigt, 2022 für eine volle Amtszeit zu kandidieren, wenn Boudin eine Wiederwahl angestrebt hätte.

San Francisco, eine Stadt, in der Afroamerikaner weniger als 6 % der Bevölkerung ausmachen, hat jetzt drei schwarze Anführer: Breed, Jenkins und Polizeichef William Scott. Aber die Stadt, die sie beaufsichtigen, ist mit Herausforderungen konfrontiert, von leeren Bürotürmen bis hin zu Straßen in der Innenstadt, die mit Injektionsnadeln übersät sind. Nicht zuletzt war Boudin mit seinem privilegierten Hintergrund und seinem ungeschickten politischen Stil ein einfacher Sündenbock.

Seine Verleumder haben endlich all die Macht, die sie ihm zwei Jahre lang abgerungen haben. Was werden sie damit machen? Jenkins hat geschworen, enger mit der Polizei zusammenzuarbeiten, Verstöße gegen die Lebensqualität zu verfolgen, Wiederholungstäter zu verfolgen und die Geißel der harten Drogen einzudämmen. Das sind enorm ehrgeizige Ziele, für die Jenkins nicht viel Zeit hat: Jenkins muss im November kandidieren, um ihren Job einfach für den Rest von Boudins erster Amtszeit zu behalten, und dann noch einmal im November 2023, wenn sie eine volle Amtszeit will ihrer eigenen.

Die Geschichte geht weiter

Chesa Boudin und seine Frau Valerie Block am Wahlabend in San Francisco im Juni. (Noah Berger/AP)

„Wir hoffen, Änderungen sofort auf der Straße zu sehen“, sagte Jenkins kürzlich in einem Telefongespräch mit Yahoo News. Sie sagt, dass sich die Menschen bereits „beginnend sicherer fühlen“, nachdem Boudin gegangen ist und seine ablehnende Haltung gegenüber der Polizei vermutlich nicht mehr vorhanden ist. „Zweieinhalb Jahre lang wurden sie völlig ignoriert“, sagt sie über die einfachen San Franciscaner, die vor der Vertreibung Boudins aus dem Amt einen Hinweis darauf gaben, wie tief ihre politische Frustration geworden war, indem sie drei Schulvorstandsmitglieder in Erinnerung riefen, die sich auf ideologische Weise eingelassen hatten eigene Kreuzzüge. „Sie wollen nur gehört werden.“

Yahoo News traf sich zum ersten Mal im Februar mit Jenkins, mitten in der Rückrufaktion von Boudin. Beim Mittagessen in Chinatown drückte sie ihre ungeschminkte Bestürzung darüber aus, was aus San Francisco wurde, eine Pointe von Fox News über den Amoklauf des Liberalismus.

„Ich denke, seine allgemeinen Ziele sind edel“, sagte sie damals über Boudin. „Die Art und Weise, wie er sie erreicht, ist rücksichtslos. Und es ist gefährlich.“

Jenkins sprach im Juli ein zweites Mal mit Yahoo News, nachdem sie mehrere Wochen im Amt war. „Ich bin in ein Büro gegangen, von dem ich wusste, dass es viele Probleme hatte“, begründete sie frühe Personalentscheidungen, die aus ihrer Sicht zwar notwendig waren, aber nicht wenig Kontroversen ausgelöst haben.

Einer der ersten Schritte von Boudin im Jahr 2020 war die Entlassung von sieben Staatsanwälten, was einige befürchtete, eine ideologische Säuberung, die das Büro behindern würde. Jenkins tat bei ihrer Übernahme das Gleiche und entließ 15 von Boudins Top-Mitarbeitern. Viele von ihnen beschwerten sich bei progressiven Medien, die Boudin wohlgesonnen waren.

„Ich kam ins Büro von DA Boudin, um für eine Reform der Strafjustiz zu kämpfen; Dieser Kampf war noch nie so dringend“, sagte Rachel Marshall, ehemalige Sprecherin von Boudin, die von Jenkins gefeuert wurde, gegenüber Intercept. „Es steht außer Frage, dass sich der Ansatz von DA Jenkins dramatisch von meinen Werten unterscheidet.“

Freiwillige auf der 19th Avenue in San Francisco im Mai fordern Autofahrer auf, Boudin zurückzurufen. (Hafen Daley/AP)

Boudin hat ihre Beschwerden eifrig verstärkt und kürzlich ein Flammen-Emoji verwendet, das häufig verwendet wird, um ein feuriges Argument anzuzeigen, das der Zustimmung wert ist, um Marshall zu retweeten. „DA Jenkins verwendet progressive Rhetorik, um einen regressiven Ansatz der Strafjustiz zu maskieren“, lautete Marshalls Nachricht. „Es ist nicht ‚fortschrittlich‘, strengere ‚Konsequenzen‘ (sprich: Inhaftierung) für Eigentumsdelikte oder mehr ‚Rechenschaftspflicht‘ (sprich: Inhaftierung) für Drogen zu fordern.“

„Ich schenke Twitter keine Beachtung“, sagt Jenkins, die aus ihrer Abneigung gegen Boudin keinen Hehl macht. „Er hat das Recht, die Gefühle zu haben, die er hat. Ich bin nur hier, um die Arbeit zu erledigen. Zeitraum.” (Boudin antwortete nicht auf mehrere Anfragen nach Kommentaren von Yahoo News.)

Ähnlich wie Eric Adams, der frühere New Yorker Polizeibeamte, der Anfang dieses Jahres Bürgermeister der Stadt wurde, tat Jenkins den Twitter-Diskurs als Domäne von Eliten ab, die von alltäglichen Sorgen entfernt sind. „Ich bin eine schwarze und lateinamerikanische Frau, die in der Bay Area aufgewachsen ist. Ich kenne – nicht aus einem Buch gelesen oder es in einem College-Klassenzimmer gehört – die Notlage der Farbigen in diesem Land“, sagte Jenkins gegenüber Yahoo News.

„Polizeibrutalität war für mich schon immer real. Ganz ehrlich, ich bin nicht mit Vertrauen in die Polizei aufgewachsen“, fügt sie hinzu. „Ich habe als Kind miterlebt, wie mein Onkel rassistisch profiliert wurde.“

Boudins Beziehung zu Scott, dem Polizeichef, verschlechterte sich zu einer Reihe von Vorwürfen, wie viele befürchteten. Boudin beschuldigte die Abteilung, zu wenige Verhaftungen vorgenommen zu haben; Die Abteilung – und insbesondere die kämpferische Polizeigewerkschaft – beschuldigte Boudin, Fälle nicht strafrechtlich verfolgt zu haben. Anfang Februar kündigte Scott eine Kooperationsvereinbarung mit der Staatsanwaltschaft, ein Zeichen dafür, dass seine Verzweiflung über Boudin (von der Breed bekanntlich geteilt hat) ihren Höhepunkt erreicht hatte.

„Es ist unsere Pflicht, unsere Verpflichtung, mit anderen Strafverfolgungsbehörden zusammenzuarbeiten“, sagt Jenkins. Aber sie lehnt auch die Vorstellung ab, dass sie in eine Zeit zurückkehren will, in der Polizei und Staatsanwaltschaft zusammengearbeitet haben, ohne Rücksicht auf bürgerliche Freiheiten. „Ich möchte, dass meine Anwälte wissen, dass sie, wenn sie etwas in einem Polizeibericht lesen, das nicht richtig sitzt, zum Management gehen und darüber sprechen können.“

Der Polizeichef von San Francisco, William Scott, bei einer Pressekonferenz im Januar. (Gabrielle Lurie/San Francisco Chronicle über Getty Images)

Vorwürfe, sie werde die Überpolizeiung von Minderheitenvierteln fördern und auf eine belastende Verurteilung drängen, seien „ungenau und unfair“, sagt Jenkins, die erste schwarze Frau, die das Amt des Bezirksstaatsanwalts von San Francisco innehatte, seit Vizepräsidentin Kamala Harris dies zwischen 2004 und 2011 tat. Jenkins sagte, ihr Hauptziel sei es, die Ordnung in einem Büro wiederherzustellen, das im Tagesgeschäft so schlecht geführt worden sei, dass ein Richter Boudin einmal von der Bank aus denunziert habe.

„Menschen wollen Kompetenz.“ sagte Jenkins. „Sie wollen Menschen, die sich kümmern. Es gibt eine Menge, die wir hätten tun können, was einfach nicht getan wurde.“

Und sie argumentiert, dass die Welle der vorzeitigen Entlassungen notwendig gewesen sei, um das Vertrauen in das Amt wiederherzustellen. „Der größte Teil des Managements bestand aus Leuten, die keine Erfahrung mit der Staatsanwaltschaft hatten“, sagt sie über Boudins oberste Stellvertreter, von denen die meisten seine ideologischen Ansichten teilten, aber wie der Bezirksstaatsanwalt selbst keine Erfahrung in der Strafverfolgung zu haben schienen.

„Ja, sie waren kompetente und fähige und respektable öffentliche Verteidiger“, fügte Jenkins hinzu. „Aber das Problem war, dass sie keine erfahrenen Staatsanwälte waren.“

Jenkins, Absolvent der University of California, Berkeley, und der juristischen Fakultät der University of Chicago, trat 2014 in die Staatsanwaltschaft von San Francisco ein, um für George Gascón zu arbeiten. Gascón, der weithin als fortschrittlich angesehen wird, ging 2019 nach Los Angeles und bereitete die Wahl vor, die Boudin in diesem Jahr knapp gewann.

„Ich werde nicht wegwerfen, was ich von Gascón gelernt habe“, sagte Jenkins über den Bezirksstaatsanwalt von LA. „Ich habe es genossen, für George zu arbeiten.“ (Gascón, der sich seit seinem Ausscheiden aus San Francisco in Fragen der Strafjustiz deutlich nach links bewegt hat, sieht sich nun einer eigenen Rückrufinitiative gegenüber.)

„Die Strafreform hat nicht mit Chesa begonnen und wird nicht enden“, sagt Jenkins und beschreibt Boudin als „weißen Mann, der in Reichtum aufgewachsen ist“.

Bezirksstaatsanwalt George Gascón am Montag auf einer Pressekonferenz in Los Angeles. (Jason Armond/Los Angeles Times über Getty Images)

Nachdem seine Eltern, Mitglieder des Weather Underground, 1981 wegen eines misslungenen Raubüberfalls, der zu drei Todesfällen führte, ins Gefängnis kamen, wurde Boudin von den wohlhabenden Radikalen Bill Ayers und Bernardine Dohrn aus Chicago großgezogen. Er besuchte die Yale University und reiste durch Südamerika, wo er seine Erfahrungen in einem Buch zusammenfasste, das eine bekanntermaßen vernichtende Rezension von der New York Times erhielt.

Jenkins hingegen stammt aus dem hartgesottenen Vorort Union City in der Bay Area. „Ich weiß, wie es ist, von einer alleinerziehenden Mutter aufgezogen zu werden“, sagte sie gegenüber Yahoo News und beschrieb, wie es war, zu Lebensmittelvorräten und Secondhand-Läden geschleppt zu werden. „Ich bekomme diesen Kampf und ich arbeite dagegen, eine Statistik zu sein. Das beeinflusst die Art und Weise, wie ich diese Arbeit mache.“

Im Jahr 2020 wurde der Cousin ihres Mannes, Jerome Mallory, bei einer Schießerei im Bayview-Viertel von San Francisco getötet, das seit langem unter kommunaler Vernachlässigung leidet. Sie und andere haben argumentiert, dass fortschrittliche Reformen der Strafjustiz wenig für schwarze und braune Gemeinschaften tun, die von Kriminalität geplagt werden.

„Das sind die Menschen, die leiden. Es sind nicht die Menschen hoch oben auf dem Hügel, die über Rassenunterschiede predigen können, die sie nie erlebt haben“, sagt Jenkins über die berühmte Topographie von San Francisco. Auf Hügeln gelegene Viertel wie Pacific Heights überragen den Rest der Stadt. Für die Reichen in viktorianischen Villen und gläsernen Wohntürmen kann die Notlage der Armen und Vernachlässigten nur allzu leicht vergessen werden.

Jenkins hatte nie den Luxus. „Sie sollten nicht so leben müssen“, sagt sie. Sie verspricht auch, es der einflussreichen chinesisch-amerikanischen Gemeinde der Stadt besser zu machen, die sich oft von Boudin beleidigt fühlte. Chinesischsprachige Wähler erwiesen sich sowohl für die Rückrufe von Boudin als auch für die Schulbehörde als entscheidend und werden sicherlich für Jenkins’ eigene Aussichten von zentraler Bedeutung sein.

„Es wird eine klare Verantwortlichkeit geben“, sagt Jenkins. „Sie werden gehört.“

Am Sonntag veranstaltete eine Gruppe von Aktivisten eine Kundgebung nach zwei Angriffen auf asiatische Senioren, von denen einer ein ehemaliger Stadtkommissar gewesen war. Unterdessen strömt Fentanyl weiterhin in die Bay Area. Jenkins hat versprochen, gegenüber Drogendealern viel härter vorzugehen als Boudin, der die Polizisten frustrierte, indem er verlangte, dass sie ihm „Kilos, keine Krümel“ bringen. Aber in jeder Hinsicht wird sie von der Zeit gelähmt sein, ganz zu schweigen von der berühmt freizügigen Kultur der Stadt.

„Ja, wir sind eine Stadt des Mitgefühls. Ja, wir sind eine Stadt der zweiten Chance“, sagte sie. Aber sie weigert sich, San Francisco zur Stadt eines dystopischen, konservativen Albtraums werden zu lassen. „Das sind wir nicht.“

The post San Francisco District Legal professional Brooke Jenkins, who changed Chesa Boudin, nonetheless has a lot to show appeared first on DAILY SAN FRANCISCO BAY NEWS.

As a world traveler, I had one goal on hold until three things aligned: finances, timing, and motivation. But with rumors of a travel ban on the horizon, I accepted the reality that money burns, time melts and memories are the only impressions we can cherish.

Before masked smiles and elbow bumps became an international form of communication, my husband Benjamin and I put our hands together in Turkey and gave what was to be our last trip for 18 months. We have longed for the sub-pink side of Turkey by dividing our trip into three parts: City, Country, Coast. It was our own geographic version of “Eat, Pray, Love” with no self-reflection.

From LAX we traveled non-stop with Turkish Airlines, offering free city tours and hotel accommodation for stops over five hours. Going “all in” for us meant, in part, that this would be a journey of firsts (and possibly lasts), including flying business class. I had to try everything including Turkish delight, turndown service and Versace amenities. Fifteen hours later we landed at Istanbul Airport – the largest in the world costing $12 billion.

We checked into the Ciragan Palace Kempinski Istanbul, adorned with marble columns and chandeliers taller than my truck. As the only Ottoman palace hotel on the Bosphorus, it introduced us to this narrow strait between Europe and Asia.

The best view of the water was from the hotel’s restaurant, Tugra. Black-tie waiters, candle-lit tables, and paintings by Fausto Zonaro made me and my husband financially anxious.

Ottoman and Turkish dishes of lamb shank and duck tandir were served with olives in oil, hummus, eggplant, feta and other mezze. Benjamin leaned forward and whispered, “Exhale. An appetizer costs less than $30.”

Living big with no regrets, we chose full sultan mode. During the day we sight-seeed the area, and at night we sank into tasseled pillows as we devoured home-made desserts: dried fruit, flaky baklava, and chewy lokum cubes of pomegranate, orange, and honey.

Calories were burned during our four days in Istanbul with Sea Song Tours. From the meditative Suleymaniye Mosque to the Constantine Column of the Byzantine Hippodrome, history came alive in this tangible textbook.

While Benjamin received insights into religion and architecture, I was mesmerized by some of the 250,000 stray dogs and cats that roamed the city. These healthy looking fur babies were everywhere, passed out on the sidewalk, bellies to the sky. The local government provides food and medical supplies, so technically they are “home” on the doorstep of a 16th-century mosque.

How could they not be? Between the mosaics and domes of Hagia Sophia, we too felt the comforting awe of this architectural masterpiece. Built in AD 537, this Orthodox cathedral-turned-Ottoman mosque honors both Christian and Muslim faiths in homage to one of Byzantine’s most important structures.

Religious freedom seemed almost celebrated in Istanbul, transforming my preconceived notions of a turbulent nation into one of peace. On the Asian side of the Bosphorus, the bohemian district of Kuzguncuk — known for its colorful townhouses with gingerbread balconies — had mosques, synagogues, and churches practically sharing walls. English services rang out from Christian churches while the Islamic call to prayer rang out from 3,000 mosques in the distance.

In a city of 15 million people, this testimony to religious pluralism and multicultural identity inspired a sense of coexistence and prosperity. Waterfront mansions framing the Bosphorus dwarfed Beverly Hills, but despite the affluence, locals were unpretentious and welcoming, especially in Bomonti.

This Brooklyn of Turkey has a community vibe where everyone knows their neighbor. At the House Hotel we met locals who invited us for Turkish coffee in Halisunasyon and dinner in Batard. We stumbled across farmers markets, the Ara Guler Museum and Glories Chocolate to try truffles with rosehip and lemon.

Stripped of burqas, musculature and din, Istanbul was brilliantly alive, poised in an urban stance with European play. I was addicted to Karakoy, a maritime trade hub that has transformed into a trendy arts, fashion and food district. Cobblestone lanes were lined with funky cafes and shisha bars tucked away beneath palatial old apartments veined with ivy and graffiti as if they were the hipster descendants of Marseille and San Francisco.

Paradoxical Istanbul soothed us in the Serefiye Cistern and woke us up in the Grand Bazaar. Among the merchants who haggled copper and carpets, there were courts that offered respite from chaos. Pungent aromas of leather, coffee, tobacco and spice were framed by a vibrancy that dismantled false perceptions of a dark and monochromatic city.

Our second hotel certainly helped. In the Zorlu Center of the Besiktas district, Raffles Istanbul is the core of around 3,000 boutiques, restaurants and galleries. This cosmopolitan property boasts an impressive art collection, Michelin-star chefs and the largest spa in Istanbul.

From the hand-blown chandeliers to the bespoke murals in each room, the design is meticulous with Byzantine silks, Turkish textiles and golden mosaics. After the pan-Asian fusion at Isokyo, we headed to the spa for a traditional hammam treatment.

As if lying naked on a slab of marble wasn’t strange enough, we had our hair washed, bodies scrubbed and bucketfuls of water poured down our thighs. With sandpaper gloves in motion, I rolled over to find Benjamin buried in a mountain of foam. “I think I’m missing a mole,” I whispered.

After the scrub, my skin felt like butter and my hair felt like silk. But once was enough as we embarked on the “land” portion of our journey to Cappadocia.

Fairy chimneys, drawers carved into cliffs and Dr. Seuss-like rock formations sculpted by centuries of wind and rain covered the Anatolian steppes of central Turkey. Beneath this lunar landscape are 36 underground cities including Kaymakli, dating back to 3000 BC.

To maximize our experience we relied on Ismail from Travel Atelier. From the rock sanctuaries in Goreme National Park to the tandir lamb in Aravan Evi, Ismail has delivered on all fronts, including a last minute 4am hot air balloon ride

Soaring 1,500 feet above Rose Valley, we were one of 100 hot air balloons peppering the sky.

Perhaps the most impressive viewpoint of the balloon colony was from our Hotel Argos in Cappadocia. In the mountain village of Uchisar, this ambitious transformation project turned 51 caves into luxurious rooms with reading nooks and private plunge pools.

Her Seki Restaurant has a sweeping view of the Pigeon Valley with vineyards, apricot orchards and stone spiers sticking out of the ground. In this historic cradle of silence, monks retreated into solitude, and today travelers enter a monastery of silence moved only by the song of nightingales and the wings of doves.

Our journey could have ended happily there, but we headed east to Alacatı on Turkey’s Cesme Peninsula. This seaside playground near İzmir is famous for its beaches, vineyards and stone houses, but it was the boutique hotel Alavya that wooed us.

Six historic homes face an open courtyard lined with white mulberry and olive trees, where a lap pool, garden restaurant, and yoga pavilion find shade under the canopies. The elegant rooms have beamed ceilings, linen robes, patchwork rugs and Carrera marble bathrooms. Our breakfast was almost sinful, with heaps of figs, plums, olives and honey-soaked cheese.

We would never have left our hotel if the city hadn’t been our victorious temptress, enticing us with whitewashed storefronts adorned with bougainvillea. Lazy dogs posed under Greek-blue shutters in Instagram-worthy moments, perfected only by kissing couples, yellow sundresses and gleaming Vespas.

That evening we ate at Asma Yaprağı (Grape Leaf) where Chef Ayse Nur invites guests into her kitchen. Pyramids of Mediterranean and Turkish dishes included braised artichokes, stuffed zucchini flowers, and baked pumpkin with sun-dried tomatoes.

Despite our morning craving for beach lounge, we couldn’t leave Alacatı without visiting the wine region. As the birthplace of Vitis vinifera (grape vine), Turkey’s Aegean coast accounts for 20% of the country’s wine production. After an hour’s drive, we arrived in Urla, where we tracked seven vineyards producing award-winning blends such as Urla Vourla and Nero D’Avola.

Finally we got our day in the sun in Bodrum on the south west coast of Turkey. This gateway to beach towns and five-star resorts has landed us at the Mandarin Oriental. Golf carts whisked guests between nine restaurants, a private beach, and rooms overlooking Paradise Bay.

Like hot air balloons to Cappadocia, so are sailing boats to Bodrum. We joined the crowds and cruised across the mesmerizing peninsula to nestled coves, where we hopped into the turquoise sea from the top sun deck. I must have snorkeled for five hours while floating over glowing coral and chasing schools of glitter. We ate roasted squid, tuna tartare and lobster tagliolini. And then I stretched out on the bow, rocked to sleep and dreamed of Turkey.

In my dream were utopian visions of a united metropolis with many faces. There were mysterious caves, satin pillows, and dogs and cats living in harmony. I saw a coast painted five shades of blue. Hundreds of hot air balloons floated over stone walls carved in time. And in the distance the echoing call of prayers echoed through the valleys and canyons.

My reverie ended in a familiar voice. “Wake up, sleepyhead,” said Benjamin. “It’s time to go home.”

The post Historic, stylish and vibrant, Turkey is ever a land of a lot appeared first on DAILY SAN FRANCISCO BAY NEWS.

As a world traveler, I had one goal on hold until three things aligned: finances, timing, and motivation. But with rumors of a travel ban on the horizon, I accepted the reality that money burns, time melts and memories are the only impressions we can cherish.

Before masked smiles and elbow bumps became an international form of communication, my husband Benjamin and I put our hands together in Turkey and gave what was to be our last trip for 18 months. We have longed for the sub-pink side of Turkey by dividing our trip into three parts: City, Country, Coast. It was our own geographical version of “Eat, Pray, Love” without soul searching.

From LAX we traveled non-stop with Turkish Airlines, offering free city tours and hotel accommodation for stops over five hours. For us, being all-in meant in part that this would be a journey of firsts (and possibly lasts), including flying business class. I had to try everything including Turkish delight, turndown service and Versace amenities. Fifteen hours later we landed at Istanbul Airport – the largest in the world costing $12 billion.

We checked into the Ciragan Palace Kempinski Istanbul, adorned with marble columns and chandeliers taller than my truck. As the only Ottoman palace hotel on the Bosphorus, it introduced us to this narrow strait between Europe and Asia.

The best view of the water was from the hotel’s restaurant, Tugra. Black-tie waiters, candlelit tables, and paintings by Fausto Zonaro had my husband wide open in financial anxiety.

Ottoman and Turkish dishes of lamb shank and duck tandir were served with olives in oil, hummus, eggplant, feta and other mezze. Benjamin leaned forward and whispered, “Exhale. An appetizer costs less than $30.”

Living big with no regrets, we chose full sultan mode. During the day we sight-seeed the area, and at night we sank into tasseled pillows as we devoured home-made desserts: dried fruit, flaky baklava, and chewy lokum cubes of pomegranate, orange, and honey.

Calories were burned during our four days in Istanbul with Sea Song Tours. From the meditative Süleymaniye Mosque to the Constantine Column of the Byzantine Hippodrome, history came alive in this tangible textbook.

While Benjamin received insights into religion and architecture, I was mesmerized by some of the 250,000 stray dogs and cats that roamed the city. These healthy looking fur babies were everywhere, passed out on the sidewalk, bellies to the sky. The local government provides food and medical supplies, so technically they are “home” on the doorstep of a 16th-century mosque.

How could they not be? Between the mosaics and domes of Hagia Sophia, we too felt the comforting awe of this architectural masterpiece. Built in AD 537, this Orthodox cathedral-turned-Ottoman mosque honors both Christian and Muslim faiths in homage to one of Byzantine’s most important structures.

Religious freedom seemed almost celebrated in Istanbul, transforming my preconceived notions of a turbulent nation into one of peace. On the Asian side of the Bosphorus, the artisan district of Kuzguncuk — known for its colorful townhouses with gingerbread balconies — had mosques, synagogues, and churches that practically shared walls. English services rang out from Christian churches while the Islamic call to prayer rang out from 3,000 mosques in the distance.

In a city of 15 million people, this testimony to religious pluralism and multicultural identity inspired a sense of coexistence and prosperity. Waterfront mansions framing the Bosphorus dwarfed Beverly Hills, but despite the affluence, locals were unpretentious and welcoming, especially in Bomonti.

This Brooklyn of Turkey has a community vibe where everyone knows their neighbor. At the House Hotel we met locals who invited us for Turkish coffee in Halisunasyon and dinner in Batard. We stumbled across farmers markets, the Ara Guler Museum and Glories Chocolate to try truffles with rosehip and lemon.

Stripped of burqas, musculature and din, Istanbul was brilliantly alive, poised in an urban stance with European play. I was addicted to Karakoy, a maritime trade hub that has transformed into a trendy arts, fashion and food district. Cobblestone lanes were lined with funky cafes and shisha bars tucked under grand old apartments covered in ivy and graffiti like the hipster descendants of Marseille and San Francisco.

Paradoxical Istanbul soothed us in the Serefiye Cistern and woke us up in the Grand Bazaar. Among the merchants who haggled copper and carpets, there were courts that offered respite from chaos. Pungent aromas of leather, coffee, tobacco and spice were framed by a vibrancy that dismantled false perceptions of a dark and monochromatic city.

Our second hotel certainly helped. In the Zorlu Center of the Besiktas district, Raffles Istanbul is the core of around 3,000 boutiques, restaurants and galleries. This cosmopolitan property boasts an impressive art collection, Michelin-star chefs and the largest spa in Istanbul.

From the hand-blown chandeliers to the bespoke murals in each room, the design is meticulous with Byzantine silks, Turkish textiles and golden mosaics. After the pan-Asian fusion at Isokyo, we headed to the spa for a traditional hammam treatment.

As if lying naked on a slab of marble wasn’t strange enough, we would then have our hair washed, our bodies scrubbed and bucketfuls of water poured down our thighs. With sandpaper gloves in motion, I rolled over to find Benjamin buried in a mountain of foam. “I think I’m missing a mole,” I whispered.

After the scrub, my skin felt like butter and my hair felt like silk. But once was enough as we embarked on the “land” portion of our journey to Cappadocia.

Fairy chimneys, drawers carved into cliffs and Dr. Seuss-like rock formations sculpted by centuries of wind and rain covered the Anatolian steppes of central Turkey. Beneath this lunar landscape are 36 underground cities including Kaymakli, dating back to 3000 BC.

To maximize our experience we relied on Ismail from Travel Atelier. From the rock sanctuaries in Goreme National Park to the tandir lamb in Aravan Evi, Ismail has delivered on all fronts, including a last minute 4am hot air balloon ride

Soaring 1,500 feet above Rose Valley, we were one of 100 hot air balloons peppering the sky.

Perhaps the most impressive viewpoint of the balloon colony was from our Hotel Argos in Cappadocia. In the mountain village of Uchisar, this ambitious transformation project turned 51 caves into luxurious rooms with reading nooks and private plunge pools.

From their SEKI restaurant you have a wide view of the Pigeon Valley with vineyards, apricot orchards and stone pinnacles sticking out of the ground. In this historic cradle of silence, monks retreated into solitude, and today travelers enter a monastery of silence moved only by the song of nightingales and the wings of doves.

Our journey could have ended happily there, but we headed east to Alacatı on Turkey’s Cesme Peninsula. This seaside playground near İzmir is famous for its beaches, vineyards and stone houses, but it was the boutique hotel Alavya that wooed us.

Six historic homes face an open courtyard lined with white mulberry and olive trees, where a lap pool, garden restaurant, and yoga pavilion find shade under the canopies. The elegant rooms have beamed ceilings, linen bathrobes, patchwork rugs and bathrooms with Carrera marble. Our breakfast was almost sinful, with mounds of figs, plums, olives and honey-soaked cheese.

We would never have left our hotel if the city hadn’t been our victorious temptress, enticing us with whitewashed storefronts adorned with bougainvillea. Lazy dogs posed under Greek-blue shutters in Instagram-worthy moments, perfected only by kissing couples, yellow sundresses and gleaming Vespas.

That evening we ate at Asma Yaprağı (Grape Leaf) where Chef Ayse Nur invites guests into her kitchen. Pyramids of Mediterranean and Turkish dishes included braised artichokes, stuffed zucchini flowers, and baked pumpkin with sun-dried tomatoes.

Despite our morning craving for beach lounge, we couldn’t leave Alacatı without visiting the wine region. As the birthplace of Vitis vinifera (grape vine), Turkey’s Aegean coast accounts for 20% of the country’s wine production. After an hour’s drive, we arrived in Urla, where we tracked seven vineyards producing award-winning blends such as Urla Vourla and Nero D’Avola.

Finally we got our day in the sun in Bodrum on the south west coast of Turkey. This gateway to beach towns and 5-star resorts has landed us at the Mandarin Oriental. Golf carts whisked guests between nine restaurants, a private beach, and rooms overlooking Paradise Bay.

Like hot air balloons to Cappadocia, so are sailing boats to Bodrum. We joined the crowds and cruised across the mesmerizing peninsula to nestled coves, where we hopped into the turquoise sea from the top sun deck. I must have been snorkeling for five hours, floating over glowing coral and chasing schools of glitter. We ate roast octopus, tuna tartare and lobster tagliolini. And then I stretched out on the bow, rocked to sleep and dreamed of Turkey.

In my dream were utopian visions of a united metropolis with many faces. There were mysterious caves, satin pillows, and dogs and cats living in harmony. I saw a coast bathed in five shades of blue. Hundreds of hot air balloons floated over stone walls carved in time. And in the distance the echoing call of prayers echoed through valleys and ravines.

My reverie ended in a familiar voice.

“Wake up sleepyhead,” Benjamin said. “It’s time to go home.”

—-

when you go

MEAL

Tugra restaurant

www.kempinski.com/en/istanbul/ciragan-palace/dining/tugra/

Isokyo

www.isokyo.com

SEKI

www.argosincappadocia.com/en/dining/seki-restaurant.html

Aravan Evi

www.aravan.com

grape leaf

www.asmayapragi.com.tr

STAY

Cıragan Palace Kempinski

www.kempinski.com/en/istanbul/ciragan-palace

Raffles Istanbul

www.raffles.com/istanbul

House Hotel Bomonti

www.househotels.com

Argos in Cappadocia

www.argosincappadocia.com

Alavya

www.alavya.com.tr

Mandarin Oriental, Bodrum

www.mandarinoriental.com/bodrum

VISIT

Sea Song Tours

www.seasong.com

travel studio

www.travelatelier.com

Turkish Airlines

www.turkishairlines.com

—-

About the writer

Marlise Kast-Myers (marlisekast.com) is a San Diego-based writer and journalist. She and her husband live on the historic Betty Crocker Estate where they operate Brick n Barn (bricknbarn.com).

The iconic Hagia Sophia served as the religious center for the Byzantine world. (Benjamin Myers/TNS)

Fairy chimneys and cliff-hewn drawers of Cappadocia. (Benjamin Myers/TNS)

More than 100 hot air balloons soar 1,500 feet above Rose Valley. (Benjamin Myers/TNS)

Napping and fashion go hand in hand in Alacatı on Turkey’s Cesme Peninsula. (Benjamin Myers/TNS)

The post Historic, fashionable and vibrant, Turkey ever a land of a lot appeared first on DAILY SAN FRANCISCO BAY NEWS.

As a world traveler, I had one goal on hold until three things aligned: finances, timing, and motivation. But with rumors of a travel ban on the horizon, I accepted the reality that money burns, time melts and memories are the only impressions we can cherish.

Before masked smiles and elbow bumps became an international form of communication, my husband Benjamin and I put our hands together in Turkey and gave what was to be our last trip for 18 months. We have longed for the sub-pink side of Turkey by dividing our trip into three parts: City, Country, Coast. It was our own geographical version of “Eat, Pray, Love” without soul searching.

From LAX we traveled non-stop with Turkish Airlines, offering free city tours and hotel accommodation for stops over five hours. For us, being all-in meant in part that this would be a journey of firsts (and possibly lasts), including flying business class. I had to try everything including Turkish delight, turndown service and Versace amenities. Fifteen hours later we landed at Istanbul Airport – the largest in the world costing $12 billion.

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We checked into the Ciragan Palace Kempinski Istanbul, adorned with marble columns and chandeliers taller than my truck. As the only Ottoman palace hotel on the Bosphorus, it introduced us to this narrow strait between Europe and Asia.

The best view of the water was from the hotel’s restaurant, Tugra. Black-tie waiters, candlelit tables, and paintings by Fausto Zonaro had my husband wide open in financial anxiety.

Ottoman and Turkish dishes of lamb shank and duck tandir were served with olives in oil, hummus, eggplant, feta and other mezze. Benjamin leaned forward and whispered, “Exhale. An appetizer costs less than $30.”

Living big with no regrets, we chose full sultan mode. During the day we sight-seeed the area, and at night we sank into tasseled pillows as we devoured home-made desserts: dried fruit, flaky baklava, and chewy lokum cubes of pomegranate, orange, and honey.

Calories were burned during our four days in Istanbul with Sea Song Tours. From the meditative Süleymaniye Mosque to the Constantine Column of the Byzantine Hippodrome, history came alive in this tangible textbook.

While Benjamin received insights into religion and architecture, I was mesmerized by some of the 250,000 stray dogs and cats that roamed the city. These healthy looking fur babies were everywhere, passed out on the sidewalk, bellies to the sky. The local government provides food and medical supplies, so technically they are “home” on the doorstep of a 16th-century mosque.

How could they not be? Between the mosaics and domes of Hagia Sophia, we too felt the comforting awe of this architectural masterpiece. Built in AD 537, this Orthodox cathedral-turned-Ottoman mosque honors both Christian and Muslim faiths in homage to one of Byzantine’s most important structures.

Religious freedom seemed almost celebrated in Istanbul, transforming my preconceived notions of a turbulent nation into one of peace. On the Asian side of the Bosphorus, the bohemian district of Kuzguncuk — known for its colorful townhouses with gingerbread balconies — had mosques, synagogues, and churches practically sharing walls. English services rang out from Christian churches while the Islamic call to prayer rang out from 3,000 mosques in the distance.

In a city of 15 million people, this testimony to religious pluralism and multicultural identity inspired a sense of coexistence and prosperity. Waterfront mansions framing the Bosphorus dwarfed Beverly Hills, but despite the affluence, locals were unpretentious and welcoming, especially in Bomonti.

This Brooklyn of Turkey has a community vibe where everyone knows their neighbor. At the House Hotel we met locals who invited us for Turkish coffee in Halisunasyon and dinner in Batard. We stumbled across farmers markets, the Ara Guler Museum and Glories Chocolate to try truffles with rosehip and lemon.

Stripped of burqas, musculature and din, Istanbul was brilliantly alive, poised in an urban stance with European play. I was addicted to Karakoy, a maritime trade hub that has transformed into a trendy arts, fashion and food district. Cobblestone lanes were lined with funky cafes and shisha bars tucked under grand old apartments covered in ivy and graffiti like the hipster descendants of Marseille and San Francisco.

Paradoxical Istanbul soothed us in the Serefiye Cistern and woke us up in the Grand Bazaar. Among the merchants who haggled copper and carpets, there were courts that offered respite from chaos. Pungent aromas of leather, coffee, tobacco and spice were framed by a vibrancy that dismantled false perceptions of a dark and monochromatic city.

Our second hotel certainly helped. In the Zorlu Center of the Besiktas district, Raffles Istanbul is the core of around 3,000 boutiques, restaurants and galleries. This cosmopolitan property boasts an impressive art collection, Michelin-star chefs and the largest spa in Istanbul.

From the hand-blown chandeliers to the bespoke murals in each room, the design is meticulous with Byzantine silks, Turkish textiles and golden mosaics. After the pan-Asian fusion at Isokyo, we headed to the spa for a traditional hammam treatment.

As if lying naked on a slab of marble wasn’t strange enough, we would then have our hair washed, our bodies scrubbed and bucketfuls of water poured down our thighs. With sandpaper gloves in motion, I rolled over to find Benjamin buried in a mountain of foam. “I think I’m missing a mole,” I whispered.

After the scrub, my skin felt like butter and my hair felt like silk. But once was enough as we embarked on the “land” portion of our journey to Cappadocia.

Fairy chimneys, drawers carved into cliffs and Dr. Seuss-like rock formations sculpted by centuries of wind and rain covered the Anatolian steppes of central Turkey. Beneath this lunar landscape are 36 underground cities including Kaymakli, dating back to 3,000 BC.

To maximize our experience we relied on Ismail from Travel Atelier. From the rock sanctuaries in Goreme National Park to the tandir lamb in Aravan Evi, Ismail has delivered on all fronts, including a last minute 4am hot air balloon ride

Soaring 1,500 feet above Rose Valley, we were one of 100 hot air balloons peppering the sky.

Perhaps the most impressive viewpoint of the balloon colony was from our Hotel Argos in Cappadocia. In the mountain village of Uchisar, this ambitious transformation project turned 51 caves into luxurious rooms with reading nooks and private plunge pools.

From their SEKI restaurant you have a wide view of the Pigeon Valley with vineyards, apricot orchards and stone pinnacles sticking out of the ground. In this historic cradle of silence, monks retreated into solitude, and today travelers enter a monastery of silence moved only by the song of nightingales and the wings of doves.

Our journey could have ended happily there, but we headed east to Alacatı on Turkey’s Cesme Peninsula. This seaside playground near İzmir is famous for its beaches, vineyards and stone houses, but it was the boutique hotel Alavya that wooed us.

Six historic homes face an open courtyard lined with white mulberry and olive trees, where a lap pool, garden restaurant, and yoga pavilion find shade under the canopies. The elegant rooms have beamed ceilings, linen bathrobes, patchwork rugs and bathrooms with Carrera marble. Our breakfast was almost sinful, with mounds of figs, plums, olives and honey-soaked cheese.

We would never have left our hotel if the city hadn’t been our victorious temptress, enticing us with whitewashed storefronts adorned with bougainvillea. Lazy dogs posed under Greek-blue shutters in Instagram-worthy moments, perfected only by kissing couples, yellow sundresses and gleaming Vespas.

That evening we ate at Asma Yaprağı (Grape Leaf) where cook Ayse Nur invites guests into her kitchen. Pyramids of Mediterranean and Turkish dishes included braised artichokes, stuffed zucchini flowers, and baked pumpkin with sun-dried tomatoes.

Despite our morning craving for beach lounge, we couldn’t leave Alacatı without visiting the wine region. As the birthplace of Vitis vinifera (grape vine), Turkey’s Aegean coast accounts for 20% of the country’s wine production. After an hour’s drive, we arrived in Urla, where we tracked seven vineyards producing award-winning blends such as Urla Vourla and Nero D’Avola.

Finally we got our day in the sun in Bodrum on the south west coast of Turkey. This gateway to beach towns and 5-star resorts has landed us at the Mandarin Oriental. Golf carts whisked guests between nine restaurants, a private beach, and rooms overlooking Paradise Bay.

Like hot air balloons to Cappadocia, so are sailing boats to Bodrum. We joined the crowds and cruised across the mesmerizing peninsula to nestled coves, where we hopped into the turquoise sea from the top sun deck. I must have been snorkeling for five hours, floating over glowing coral and chasing schools of glitter. We ate roast octopus, tuna tartare and lobster tagliolini. And then I stretched out on the bow, rocked to sleep and dreamed of Turkey.

In my dream were utopian visions of a united metropolis with many faces. There were mysterious caves, satin pillows, and dogs and cats living in harmony. I saw a coast bathed in five shades of blue. Hundreds of hot air balloons floated over stone walls carved in time. And in the distance the echoing call of prayers echoed through valleys and ravines.

My reverie ended in a familiar voice.

“Wake up sleepyhead,” Benjamin said. “It’s time to go home.”

The post Historic, fashionable and vibrant: Turkey is ever a land of lots | Way of life appeared first on DAILY SAN FRANCISCO BAY NEWS.

As the US continues to have a surplus of protective Covid vaccines, some experts hope that a transition from the EEA to full approval status for the two mRNA vaccines will boost public confidence in them and, in turn, just increase the country’s vaccination rates It’s time to block the resurgence of Covid we’re seeing elsewhere, powered by the Delta variant.

While such a rapid upward shift can have this immediate effect, we shouldn’t lose sight of the fact that the FDA will likely review the Pfizer / BioNTech and Moderna vaccines in record time. And their huge pool of real safety and manufacturing data doesn’t make that easy. Even so, the FDA plans to have its Covid vaccine regulatory exams take about half the time (3-4 months) it currently takes the agency to sign a priority drug / vaccine application (6 months) and only a fraction of that the time for a new application that is not accelerated (12 months).

There is no question that the agency should pick up the pace on both Pfizer and Moderna’s filings. Employers may be more willing to push for mandates once vaccines are fully approved. Let’s not forget the reason we find ourselves in this enviable position, with nearly 160 million people fully vaccinated in just over a year and a half since the pandemic began in the US: the FDA was able to quickly improve the outstanding effectiveness of both data To provide vaccines and to ensure that the manufacturing process was robust enough and could be replicated in such a way that all of these hundreds of millions of doses could be made safely and efficiently.

A push from the EUA to full approval does not help the millions of Americans who are still not vaccinated, they may hesitate or be completely against the idea because of the EUA status. And with the EEA transitioning to full approval, employers across the country need to be strong and require vaccinations so we can stay protected. As lawyers have indicated, it is not illegal to require vaccines to be administered under EUAs.

Eric Topol, Professor of Molecular Medicine at Scripps Research, recently penned a comment in the New York Times urging the FDA to now fully approve the mRNA vaccines. independent research and the experience of millions of people around the world who have received it. “

However, FDA reviews of Pfizer and Moderna vaccines have taken less than 3 months to complete. And there is nothing in the EEA or real world data for the Moderna or the Pfizer / BioNTech vaccine that should initiate a pause or in any way suggest that the vaccine’s clinical data package is not comparable to other mandatory vaccines that already have the have received full approval.

And while some seem to suggest that the FDA is stretching its feet, the size (thousands of pages long) and complexity of a full package of approvals shouldn’t be taken lightly. If the FDA takes longer to make sure the vaccines are made properly enough to get full approval, so be it.

Peter Marks

As FDA Chief Vaccine Officer Peter Marks made it clear from the start, vaccines were released at a higher bar than the other treatments EUAs received, and the American public should trust vaccines under EUAs as much as under full approvals.

For those who remain unvaccinated, in a stakeholder call last week, Marks and Janet Woodcock reiterated the urgent need to move now, even with the very rare risk of myocarditis in mostly younger men. The CDC also made it clear on Tuesday evening that now more than half of all cases in the USA can be traced back to the Delta variant from India.

“The delta variant is increasing in this country and its incidence could double about every week, and experts expect it to be the dominant variant within a month or so,” said Woodcock. The time for vaccination is now, with or without permission.

The post The FDA’s mRNA vaccine full approval critiques are shifting a lot quick. Begin the mandates now – Endpoints Information appeared first on DAILY SAN FRANCISCO BAY NEWS.