We land at Agri's tiny Airport and drive an hour to the Kurdish village of Somkaya.

Over miles and miles of rugged desert and through a dying winter's still harsh climate, there is nothing to see but lonely telephone poles stuck in the frozen ground like toothpicks, lining an empty highway that seems to lead to the end of the earth.





The ground in Agri is all one color of unsympathetic brown. I'm told nothing much grows here, and the only way locals make money is either by raising the odd herd of cattle or smuggling cigarettes and diesel fuel from Iran.

We arrive at Somkaya village, where homes are huts peppered here and there in the mud, some with blue tarp sheets designed to protect from the rain and cold. A heat wave melted the snow and has made the roads into the village soggy and difficult to navigate.

Then, like an apparition, a dash of color: a brand spanking new building. A school, built six months ago, for the area kids. Nothing fancy; it's square and rudimentary; but against the brown of Somkaya, it stands out, especially considering there was nothing here last year.



In this inhospitable place on the edge of Turkey, it is one of thirty-six schools built with the money of one of the so-called "Bosphorous billionaires."

Sixty-three year old Husnu Ozyegin, who made billions selling his bank a couple of years ago, walks up to a welcoming committee in the windy school courtyard. He visits the school with his sister Dilek Belger, who as one of the heads of his philanthropic efforts, immediately notices a leaking ceiling outside of the teachers' lounge.

"I am asking them why this is happening and why we were not notified," she tells me with a tinge of urgency in her voice.

Ozyegin is offered coffee by one of the school's employees

As for Ozyegin, for whom this is the first visit to this particular school, which bears his name, doing good with his money is something he wants to be remembered for.

"It's important to do see the results of your philanthropy while you are alive," he tells me.

The children line up to go to their next class. Their skin is thick as leather and many of them are shivering in the cold, damp air.

"We gave them all overcoats when the school opened and I'm shocked so few of them are wearing them," he says. There is slight irritation in his voice as his says this. For Ozyegin, philanthropy should be managed with the efficiency of a business.

In another school, 16-year old Kubra says she wants to be a doctor, but that her parents want her to drop out. "As long as you believe, it can happen," Ozyegin tells her. He then moves in to kiss her on both cheeks.

He turns to me and says: "I've asked the local man on the ground to keep me updated on her situation. I told her if she makes it to university, I will pay for her education."

16-year old Kubra

After a tour of a couple of other "Husnu Ozyegin" schools, we head back to Argi airport for our flight back to Istanbul.

A teacher runs to the car and hands us a pile of thank you notes written by the kids. Producer Schams Elwazer tells me she saw Ozyegin's sister wipe a tear as she read the notes.

Istanbul seems like a world away from Agri. There, in a hotel penthouse Ozyegin is living in while his Bosphorous villa is being renovated, he says with a smile:

"I want to be remembered as the biggest philanthropist in Turkey."

(All photos Ayse Adanali)