this, but yes, we can continue the conversation. I’ll be at the Karacabey Bear Sanctuary in Bursa, Turkey, next month. It’s a permanent home for former dancing bears. Can you meet me there?” he asked.
I looked at my calendar. I was scheduled to be reporting for CNN from a Greek island off the coast of Turkey. It was meant to be.
I called Jon in Australia and asked if he wanted to meet me in Turkey.
Karacabey Bear Sanctuary, Bursa, Turkey
The combined scent of pine and cedar hit me like a spray of perfume as I stepped out of the car at the Karacabey Bear Sanctuary, nestled high in Bursa’s mountains. Victor was waiting, and he embraced me like a long-lost friend. He was younger than I expected for someone with his accomplishments. He looked like he was in his late thirties and had light brown hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He was casually dressed in a collared, short-sleeved shirt and jeans.
As we toured the facility, Victor explained that it had been built in 1993 for a single purpose: as a place to release dancing bears kept illegally in Turkey by displaced Roma populations, often derogatorily referred to as gypsies. The moment the sanctuary was ready, Victor had led a late-night raid to rescue a dozen European brown bears held captive in Istanbul. The mission took eight hours as police and veterinarians worked together to tranquilize the bears, cut their chains, and load them into crates — all during a downpour. After another six hours of traveling, the bears were safely in Karacabey, free from their torturers.
The bears were big, over six feet tall when standing. Most of them were covered in light brown fur with rounded, upright ears. I found it hard to comprehend that these beautiful animals had ever been under the control of human beings. But as Victor explained, most of them had been stripped of their defenses. Their keepers had burned holes into their snouts with blazing metal rods so they could be controlled by a nose rope or ring. Their teeth had been knocked out and their nails removed. And they had been beaten into submission.
In the outdoor enclosure, I could see ten bears. Some were playing together while a few were in rough shape, mentally. One was walking in circles and two were rocking, exhibiting the same behavior I’d noticed at the cultural park in Laos. Victor explained that they suffered from a form of posttraumatic disorder.
The root of the cruelty and suffering they’d endured was an age-old problem: poverty. After centuries of persecution in Europe, many Roma people didn’t have homes or jobs. Some stole bear cubs from the wild because they knew people would pay to watch the bears dance. If people hadn’t paid, the abuse wouldn’t have continued. It is the same as when people pay to take selfies with chained elephants, captured dolphins, tethered monkeys, or lion cubs. Money drives exploitation.
“Let’s talk bear sanctuaries,” Victor said. “Write this down. It’s what you need to know.”
I fished a notepad and pen from my handbag and wrote the following:
1. Sanctuary should include natural bear habitat/forest.
2. Fence. Can be weld-mesh fencing or stone walls. 2–3 meters high. Fence foundations must extend 1.5 meters deep. Bears dig.
3. Protective barrier. Electric fence. Charge must be 7,000 volts. To prevent bears from going out and people from getting in.
4. Buildings for staff.
5. Quarantine den for newly rescued bears for adjustment period.
6. Enclosure should be 6 hectares or 15 acres to house 30 bears.
7. Must have: freshwater pools, trees for climbing, dens for hibernation, and areas of shade. Perfect setting is in natural forest.
“The male bears will need to be sterilized before going into the enclosure together,” he said. “You will want to have a vet clinic on-site. How confident are you that you can secure the land?” he asked.
“That’s the good news,” I said. “The government has agreed to give three acres.”
“For how many bears?” he asked.
“Five.”
“It won’t be enough. Once it’s built, people will want to surrender bears to you. When you build it, they come.”
“Will you help me build it?” I asked.
“Follow me,” he said. In his office, he unrolled a blueprint of the Karacabey Sanctuary.
“You need a drawing to work from. Use this one,” he said. “What are you thinking it will cost to build?”
“I’ve been estimating around eight thousand US dollars for the enclosure. To be honest, I didn’t even think about other buildings.”
“Triple that,” he said. “Can you raise that kind of money?”
“I’ll have to,” I replied.
An hour later, it was time to go. As Victor led me to the parking lot, I was upset but tried not to show it. He had given me drawings to build a bear sanctuary, but I hadn’t been able to secure what I wanted: a commitment from him to help. With a lump in my throat I took his extended hand, covered it with both of mine, and thanked him for the plans, his time, and his advice.
I rolled down the car window to wave good-bye, and Victor lifted his finger into the air. He approached the window and leaned in.
“You go raise the money. I’ll be in touch,” he said.
Perth, Australia
The sun was shining when I landed in Perth. Eight months had passed since meeting Victor in Turkey. I was in Australia to visit Jon and to raise the rest of the money for the bear sanctuary in Laos. So far, in my purse, I had $6,000 and fifteen pieces of donated jewelry, which I intended to auction. The money came from an American friend who donated a portion of one night’s proceeds from her restaurant. The jewelry was a gift from a couple of dear friends who, when asked for help, reached into the depths of their jewelry boxes and presented me with seldom-worn rings and necklaces.
Jon was confident his Australian friends would be generous if we threw a good party. I loved the idea but wasn’t sure how to pull it off. I knew very few people in Australia who might help. I did, however, have faith. Past experience had proven to me that when you set forth to right an injustice, you will find yourself surrounded by good people willing to help.
And that’s what happened. The first person I approached was Theresa Smith, a California girl married to an Australian and one of my first friends in Perth. Years before, for her fortieth birthday, Theresa had invited me and her friends to take surfing lessons, and we’d remained friends ever since. Theresa was popular, often hosting parties at her mansion in the exclusive suburb of Peppermint Grove, and I figured she’d know the best way to organize the party. Over a cup of tea under a giant peppermint tree, I showed her the pictures I’d taken of Fri and the other bears. She studied the photographs for ten seconds and then turned them facedown on a table.
“I need to introduce you to Jayne Middlemas,” she said. “You’ll like her. We’ll need a committee.”
The
