Ja sam pripovjedačica. To je ono što radim u životu - pripovjedam priče. pišem novele - i danas bih vam željela ispričati par priča o umjetnosti pripovjedanja i također o natprirodnim stvorenjima zvanim džini. Ali prije nego dođem do toga, dopustite mi da podijelim sa vama posebne trenutke iz mog privatnog života. Naravno to ću uraditi pomoću riječi ali također i geometrijskog oblika - kruga tako da ćete se kroz moju priču susresti sa nekoliko krugova.
I'm a storyteller. That's what I do in life -- telling stories, writing novels -- and today I would like to tell you a few stories about the art of storytelling and also some supernatural creatures called the djinni. But before I go there, please allow me to share with you glimpses of my personal story. I will do so with the help of words, of course, but also a geometrical shape, the circle, so throughout my talk, you will come across several circles.
Rođena sam u Strasbourgu u Francuskoj kao dijete turskih roditelja. Nedugo nakon mog rođenja roditelji su mi se razveli, i preselila sam se u Tursku sa majkom. Od tada sam odgajana kao jedino dijete samohrane majke. U ranim 1970-im, u Ankari, to je bilo dosta neuobičajeno. U našem komšiluku je bilo puno velikih porodica, gdje su očevi biti glave porodice, tako da sam odrasla gledajući svoju samohranu majku u patrijahalnom okruženju. U stvari, odrasla sam posmatrajući dva različita svijeta žena. Na jednoj strani je moja majka, obrazovana, moderna, turska žena zapadnjačkih i sekularnih shvatanja. Na drugoj strani je moja nana, koja se također brinula o meni, i koja je bila više spiritualna, a manje obrazovana i zasigurno manje racionalna. Ona je bila žena koja je proricala budućnost iz taloga kafe iz šolje i otapala olovo u mistične oblike da stvori zaštitu od đavoljeg oka.
I was born in Strasbourg, France to Turkish parents. Shortly after, my parents got separated, and I came to Turkey with my mom. From then on, I was raised as a single child by a single mother. Now in the early 1970s, in Ankara, that was a bit unusual. Our neighborhood was full of large families, where fathers were the heads of households, so I grew up seeing my mother as a divorcee in a patriarchal environment. In fact, I grew up observing two different kinds of womanhood. On the one hand was my mother, a well-educated, secular, modern, westernized, Turkish woman. On the other hand was my grandmother, who also took care of me and was more spiritual, less educated and definitely less rational. This was a woman who read coffee grounds to see the future and melted lead into mysterious shapes to fend off the evil eye.
Puno ljudi je posjećivalo moju nanu. Ljudi sa problemima s aknama na licu, ili bradavicama na rukama. Svaki put, moja nana bi promumljala neke riječi na arapskom, uzela crvenu jabuku i probola je sa toliko trnja ruža koliko bi bradavica željela ukloniti. Onda bi jedan po jedan trn okružila tamnom tintom. Sedmicu kasnije, bolesnik bi se vratio na kontrolu. Svjesna sam da ne bih trebala reći ove stvari pred publikom obrazovanih ljudi i naučnika, ali istina je da su svi ovi ljudi koji bi posjetili moju nanu zbog problema sa kožom nisam vidjela nikoga da bi otišao nezadovoljan ili neizlječen. Pitala sam je kako to radi. Da li je to moć molitve? Odgovorila bi mi "Da, molitva je efikasna, ali također moraš biti svjesna moći koju krugovi imaju."
Many people visited my grandmother, people with severe acne on their faces or warts on their hands. Each time, my grandmother would utter some words in Arabic, take a red apple and stab it with as many rose thorns as the number of warts she wanted to remove. Then one by one, she would encircle these thorns with dark ink. A week later, the patient would come back for a follow-up examination. Now, I'm aware that I should not be saying such things in front of an audience of scholars and scientists, but the truth is, of all the people who visited my grandmother for their skin conditions, I did not see anyone go back unhappy or unhealed. I asked her how she did this. Was it the power of praying? In response she said, "Yes, praying is effective, but also beware of the power of circles."
Između ostalog od nje sam naučila jednu vrijednu lekciju - ako želiš nešto uništiti u životu, bila to akna, nedostatak, ili ljudska duša, sve što trebaš uraditi je da to okružiš zidovima. Ono će se osušiti unutra. Trenutno svi živimo u društvenim i kulturalnim krugovima u nekom smislu. Svi mi. Rođeni smo u određenoj porodici, naciji ili klasi. Ali ako nemamo nikakvog dodira sa svijetom izvan našeg, koji uzimamo zdravo za gotovo, onda također postoji rizik da ćemo presušiti. Naša imaginacija će se sasušiti, srca će nam splasnuti, i naša ljudskost može uvenuti, u našim kulturalnim čahurama. Naši prijatelji, komšije, kolege, porodice - ako bi svi ti ljudi unutar naših krugova bili slični nama to znači da smo okruženi slikom nas samih.
From her, I learned, amongst many other things, one very precious lesson -- that if you want to destroy something in this life, be it an acne, a blemish or the human soul, all you need to do is to surround it with thick walls. It will dry up inside. Now we all live in some kind of a social and cultural circle. We all do. We're born into a certain family, nation, class. But if we have no connection whatsoever with the worlds beyond the one we take for granted, then we too run the risk of drying up inside. Our imagination might shrink; our hearts might dwindle, and our humanness might wither if we stay for too long inside our cultural cocoons. Our friends, neighbors, colleagues, family -- if all the people in our inner circle resemble us, it means we are surrounded with our mirror image.
Još jedna stvar koju žene kao moja nana rade u Turskoj je prekrivanje ogledala baršunom, ili vješanje ogledala na zidove tako da im se vidi poleđina. To je stara istočna tradicija zasnovana na vjerovanjima da nije zdravo za čovjeka da provodi previše vremena gledajući u svoju refleksiju. Ironično, društva istomišljenika su jedna od najvećih opasnosti današnjeg društva. I to se dešava svuda, među liberalim i konzervativnim ljudima, agnosticima i vjernicima, bogatim i siromašnim, na Istoku i Zapadu. Težimo da stvorimo grupe zasnovane na sličnostima, i onda stvaramo stereotipe o drugim grupama ljudi. Po mom mišljenu, jedan od načina prevazilaženja ovih kulturalnih geta je kroz umjetnost pripovjedanja. Priče ne mogu uništiti granice, ali mogu probiti rupe u našim mentalnim zidovima. I kroz te rupe možemo dobiti uvid u druge, i ponekad nam se može dopasti ono što vidimo.
Now one other thing women like my grandma do in Turkey is to cover mirrors with velvet or to hang them on the walls with their backs facing out. It's an old Eastern tradition based on the knowledge that it's not healthy for a human being to spend too much time staring at his own reflection. Ironically, [living in] communities of the like-minded is one of the greatest dangers of today's globalized world. And it's happening everywhere, among liberals and conservatives, agnostics and believers, the rich and the poor, East and West alike. We tend to form clusters based on similarity, and then we produce stereotypes about other clusters of people. In my opinion, one way of transcending these cultural ghettos is through the art of storytelling. Stories cannot demolish frontiers, but they can punch holes in our mental walls. And through those holes, we can get a glimpse of the other, and sometimes even like what we see.
Počela sam pisati fikciju kad mi je bilo osam godina. Moja majka se vratila kući jedan dan noseći tirkiznu svesku i pitala me da li bih željela da vodim privatni dnevnik. Gledajući iz ovog ugla mislim da je bila blago zabrinuta za moje mentalno zdravlje. Stalno sam kod kuće pričala priče, što je bilo dobro, osim što sam ih pričala svojim imaginarnim prijateljima, što nije bilo tako dobro. Bila sam introvertno dijete, toliko da sam komunicirala sa bojicama i izvinjavala se objektima, kad bi se sudarila s njima, tako da je moja majka mislila da bi bilo dobro da zapisujem svakodnevne doživljaje i emocije. Ono što ona nije znala je da sam mislila da je moj život užasno dosadan i zadnja stvar koju bih željela da radim je da pišem o sebi. Umjesto toga, počela sam da pišem o drugim ljudima i stvarima koje se nikada u stvari nisu desile. I tako je započela moja doživotna strast za pisanjem fikcije. Od početka za mene je fikcija bila manje autobiografska manifestacija nego što je bila transcedentalno putovanje u druge živote i mogućnosti. Molim vas budite strpljivi: sada ću napraviti krug i kasnije ću se vratiti na ovu priču.
I started writing fiction at the age of eight. My mother came home one day with a turquoise notebook and asked me if I'd be interested in keeping a personal journal. In retrospect, I think she was slightly worried about my sanity. I was constantly telling stories at home, which was good, except I told this to imaginary friends around me, which was not so good. I was an introverted child, to the point of communicating with colored crayons and apologizing to objects when I bumped into them, so my mother thought it might do me good to write down my day-to-day experiences and emotions. What she didn't know was that I thought my life was terribly boring, and the last thing I wanted to do was to write about myself. Instead, I began to write about people other than me and things that never really happened. And thus began my life-long passion for writing fiction. So from the very beginning, fiction for me was less of an autobiographical manifestation than a transcendental journey into other lives, other possibilities. And please bear with me: I'll draw a circle and come back to this point.
Druga stvar se desila u ovo vrijeme. Moja majka je postala diplomata. Iz malog, sujevjernog, srednjoklasnog komšiluka, došla sam do otmjene internationalne škole u Madridu, gdje sam bila jedina Turkinja. Tad sam se prvi put susrela sa onim što nazivam "strancem predstavnikom." U našem razredu je bilo djece svih nacionalnosti, ali ipak ova različitost nije uvijek stvarala kozmopolitsku, egalitarnu i demokratsku atmosferu u razredu. U biti, stvorilo je atmosferu u kojoj svako dijete nije bilo posmartano kao individualac nego kao predstavnik nečeg većeg. Bili smo kao male Ujedinjene nacije, što je bilo zanimljivo, sve dok se ne dogodi nešto negativno vezano za državu ili religiju. Dijete kao predstavnik bi bilo ismijavano i zlostavljano do beskraja. Znam kako je to, jer tokom vremena koje sam provela u toj školi, desio se vojni udar u mojoj državi i naoružani napadač moje nacionalnosti je pokušao ubiti Papu, i Turska je dobila nula bodova na Evroviziji. (Smijeh) Često nisam išla u školu, i sanjala bih da ću postati mornar u tim danima.
Now one other thing happened around this same time. My mother became a diplomat. So from this small, superstitious, middle-class neighborhood of my grandmother, I was zoomed into this posh, international school [in Madrid], where I was the only Turk. It was here that I had my first encounter with what I call the "representative foreigner." In our classroom, there were children from all nationalities, yet this diversity did not necessarily lead to a cosmopolitan, egalitarian classroom democracy. Instead, it generated an atmosphere in which each child was seen -- not as an individual on his own, but as the representative of something larger. We were like a miniature United Nations, which was fun, except whenever something negative, with regards to a nation or a religion, took place. The child who represented it was mocked, ridiculed and bullied endlessly. And I should know, because during the time I attended that school, a military takeover happened in my country, a gunman of my nationality nearly killed the Pope, and Turkey got zero points in [the] Eurovision Song Contest. (Laughter) I skipped school often and dreamed of becoming a sailor during those days.
Također, tamo sam prvi put iskusila kulturalne stereotipe. Druga djeca bi me pitala o filmu "Ponoćni ekspres", koji nisam ni pogledala. Pitali bi me koliko cigareta dnevnom pušim jer su mislili da su svi Turci strastveni pušači, i zanimalo ih je s koliko godina ću početi pokrivati kosu. Shvatila sam da su ovo glavna tri stereotipa vezana za moju državu: politika, cigarete, i marama. Poslije Španije, preselili smo u Jordan, pa Njemačku i opet Ankaru. Gdje god da sam bila, osjećala sam da mi je imaginacija jedini kofer koji sam mogla ponijeti sa sobom. Priče su mi pružile smisao za središte, stalnost i dosljednost, tri bitne stvari koje inače ne bih imala. Sredinom mojih dvadesetih preselila sam se Istanbul grad koji obožavam.
I also had my first taste of cultural stereotypes there. The other children asked me about the movie "Midnight Express," which I had not seen; they inquired how many cigarettes a day I smoked, because they thought all Turks were heavy smokers, and they wondered at what age I would start covering my hair. I came to learn that these were the three main stereotypes about my country: politics, cigarettes and the veil. After Spain, we went to Jordan, Germany and Ankara again. Everywhere I went, I felt like my imagination was the only suitcase I could take with me. Stories gave me a sense of center, continuity and coherence, the three big Cs that I otherwise lacked. In my mid-twenties, I moved to Istanbul, the city I adore. I lived in a very vibrant, diverse neighborhood
Živjela sam u jako živahnom i raznolikom naselju gdje sam napisala neke od svojih romana. Bila sam u Istanbulu kada se dogodio zemljotres 1999. Kada sam istrčala iz zgrade u tri ujutru, vidjela sam nešto što me je šokiralo. Vidjela sam lokalnog prodavca - mrzovoljni, stari čovjek koji nije htio prodavati alkohol i nije pričao s marginalcima. Sada je sjedio sa transvestitom sa dugom, crnom perikom i maskarom koja se slijevala po obrazima. Vidjela sam čovjeka kako otvara kutiju cigara dok mu drhte ruke i nudi joj jednu, i to je slika od noći kada se desio zemljotres koju još uvijek imam glavi - konzervativni prodavač i rasplakani transvestit puše zajedno na pločniku. U trenutku smrti i razaranja jedna svakodnevna razlika je nestala, i svi smo postali ujedinjeni barem na par sati. Ali također sam uvijek vjerovala da priče mogu imati sličan utjecaj na nas. Ne kažem da fikcija ima jačinu zemljotresa ali kada čitamo dobru novelu, ostavljamo mali, skučeni prostor iza nas, izlazimo sami u noć i upoznajemo ljude kakve do tad nismo znali, i prema kojima smo možda čak i stvarali predrasude. Nedugo nakon toga otišla sam na ženski koledž u Bostonu, a onda u Mičigen.
where I wrote several of my novels. I was in Istanbul when the earthquake hit in 1999. When I ran out of the building at three in the morning, I saw something that stopped me in my tracks. There was the local grocer there -- a grumpy, old man who didn't sell alcohol and didn't speak to marginals. He was sitting next to a transvestite with a long black wig and mascara running down her cheeks. I watched the man open a pack of cigarettes with trembling hands and offer one to her, and that is the image of the night of the earthquake in my mind today -- a conservative grocer and a crying transvestite smoking together on the sidewalk. In the face of death and destruction, our mundane differences evaporated, and we all became one even if for a few hours. But I've always believed that stories, too, have a similar effect on us. I'm not saying that fiction has the magnitude of an earthquake, but when we are reading a good novel, we leave our small, cozy apartments behind, go out into the night alone and start getting to know people we had never met before and perhaps had even been biased against. Shortly after, I went to a women's college in Boston, then Michigan.
Doživjela sam, ne toliko promjenu lokacije kao lingvističku promjenu. Počela sam pisati fikciju na engleskom. Nisam imigrant, izbjeglica ili prognanik - pitaju me zašto ovo radim - ali smjena jezika mi je omogućila da se ponovo stvorim. Volim pisati na turskom, koji je za mene jako poetičan i emocionalan, i volim pisati na engleskom, koji je za mene jako proračunat i cerebralan. Tako da sam osjetila povezanost s oba jezika na različit način. Za mene, kao i za milione drugih ljudi širom svijeta, engleski je prisvojen jezik. Kada ga naučiš u kasnijoj dobi, desi se da živiš sa stalnom frustracijom. Uvijek želimo reći više, smisliti bolje šale, i reći bolje stvari ali uvijek kažemo manje zato što imamo rupu u mislima i jeziku. I ta rupa je zastrašujuća. Ali ako uspijemo da se ne preplašimo, ona također može djelovati stimulirajuće To sam otkrila u Bostonu - frustracije su jako stimulirajuće. U to doba moja nana, koja je promatrala tok mog života,
I experienced this, not so much as a geographical shift, as a linguistic one. I started writing fiction in English. I'm not an immigrant, refugee or exile -- they ask me why I do this -- but the commute between languages gives me the chance to recreate myself. I love writing in Turkish, which to me is very poetic and very emotional, and I love writing in English, which to me is very mathematical and cerebral. So I feel connected to each language in a different way. For me, like millions of other people around the world today, English is an acquired language. When you're a latecomer to a language, what happens is you live there with a continuous and perpetual frustration. As latecomers, we always want to say more, you know, crack better jokes, say better things, but we end up saying less because there's a gap between the mind and the tongue. And that gap is very intimidating. But if we manage not to be frightened by it, it's also stimulating. And this is what I discovered in Boston -- that frustration was very stimulating. At this stage, my grandmother, who had been watching the course of my life
sa rastućom anksioznošću, počela je da se dnevno moli da se ubrzo udam da bih se smirila jednom za uvijek. I zbog toga što je Bog voli, ja sam se udala. (Smijeh) Ali umjesto da se smirim, otišla sam u Arizonu. Pošto mi je muž u Istanbulu, počela sam putovati između Arizone i Istanbula - dva mjesta na zemlji koja ne mogu biti više različita. Pretpostavljam da sam dijelom uvijek bila nomad, fizički i spiritualno. Priče mi prave društvo, drže dijelove i sjećanja zajedno poput egzistencijalnog ljepila. Ipak koliko god voljela priče, u skorije vrijeme sam počela razmišljati
with increasing anxiety, started to include in her daily prayers that I urgently get married so that I could settle down once and for all. And because God loves her, I did get married. (Laughter) But instead of settling down, I went to Arizona. And since my husband is in Istanbul, I started commuting between Arizona and Istanbul -- the two places on the surface of earth that couldn't be more different. I guess one part of me has always been a nomad, physically and spiritually. Stories accompany me, keeping my pieces and memories together, like an existential glue. Yet as much as I love stories, recently, I've also begun to think
kako gube svoju magiju ako se na priče počne gledati kao na nešto više nego priče. I voljela bih da svi razmislimo o ovome. Kada je moj prvi roman na engleskom izašla u Americi, dobila sam zanimljivu primjedbu od jednog književnog kritičara. rekao je "Sviđa mi se tvoja knjiga, ali bih volio da si je napisala drugačije." (Smijeh) Pitala sam ga kako to misli. Rekao je "Pa vidi, toliko je Španaca, Amerikanaca, Latino Amerikanaca u knjizi, a samo jedan lik iz Turske i on je muškarac." Radnja romana se dešava na kampusu u Bostonu, tako da mi je bilo normalno da će biti više internacionalnih likova nego Turaka, ali sam razumjela šta je mislio sa kritikom. I razumjela sam da ću ga opet razočarati. On je želio da vidi ispoljavanje mog identiteta. Htio je da vidi Turkinju u knjizi, kao što sam ja. Često kažemo kako priče mogu promijeniti svijet, ali isto tako trebamo da vidimo kako svijet politike identiteta
that they lose their magic if and when a story is seen as more than a story. And this is a subject that I would love to think about together. When my first novel written in English came out in America, I heard an interesting remark from a literary critic. "I liked your book," he said, "but I wish you had written it differently." (Laughter) I asked him what he meant by that. He said, "Well, look at it. There's so many Spanish, American, Hispanic characters in it, but there's only one Turkish character and it's a man." Now the novel took place on a university campus in Boston, so to me, it was normal that there be more international characters in it than Turkish characters, but I understood what my critic was looking for. And I also understood that I would keep disappointing him. He wanted to see the manifestation of my identity. He was looking for a Turkish woman in the book because I happened to be one. We often talk about how stories change the world, but we should also see how the world of identity politics
utječe na način na koji priče kruže, čitaju se i recenziraju. Puno pisaca osjeća pritisak, ali nezapadnjački pisci to osjete više. Ako ste književnica iz muslimanskog svijeta kao ja, od vas se očekuje da pišete priče o muslimanskim ženama, i po mogućnosti, da to budu nesretne priče o nesretnim muslimankama. Očekuje se da pišete informativne, dirljive i karakteristične priče i ostavite eksperimentalne i avangardne vašim kolegama sa Zapada. Ono što sam iskusila u školi u Madridu, sada se dešava u književnosti. Pisci više ne predstavljaju kreativne individualce, nego ih se posmatra kao predstavnike svojih kultura: nekoliko pisaca iz Kine, Turske, Nigerije. Svi misle da mi imamo nešto različito, ako ne i čudno. Pisac i putnik, James Baldwin, dao je intervju u 1984,
affects the way stories are being circulated, read and reviewed. Many authors feel this pressure, but non-Western authors feel it more heavily. If you're a woman writer from the Muslim world, like me, then you are expected to write the stories of Muslim women and, preferably, the unhappy stories of unhappy Muslim women. You're expected to write informative, poignant and characteristic stories and leave the experimental and avant-garde to your Western colleagues. What I experienced as a child in that school in Madrid is happening in the literary world today. Writers are not seen as creative individuals on their own, but as the representatives of their respective cultures: a few authors from China, a few from Turkey, a few from Nigeria. We're all thought to have something very distinctive, if not peculiar. The writer and commuter James Baldwin gave an interview in 1984
u kojem je više puta pitan o svojoj homoseksualnosti. Kada ga je novinar pokušao smjestiti u koš sa drugim gay piscima Baldwin je odgovorio: "Zar ne vidiš da u meni nema ništa drugačije nego u drugima, i ništa u drugima što nema u meni." Kada politički identitet pokuša da nas etiketira, naša sloboda imaginacije je u opasnosti. Postoji jedna nejasna kategorija zvana multikulturala kniževnost u kojoj svi pisci izvan Zapada ubačeni zajedno. Nikad neću zaboraviti moje prvo iskustvo sa čitanjem multikulturalne književnosti na Harvard trgu pije desetak godina. Bilo nas je troje, pisci sa Filipina, Turske i Indonezije - kao u vicu, znate. (Smijeh) I razlog što su nas svrstali zajedno nije zato što smo dijelili umjetnički stil ili ukus u književnosti. To su uradili samo zbog naših pasoša. Očekuje se da multikulturalni pisci pričaju istinite priče i da ne koriste previše imaginacije. Fikciji je dodijeljena funkcija. Na ovaj način ne samo pisci nego i njihovi likovi, postaju reprezentativci nečeg većeg. I moram brzo da dodam da ova tendencija da se priča sagleda
in which he was repeatedly asked about his homosexuality. When the interviewer tried to pigeonhole him as a gay writer, Baldwin stopped and said, "But don't you see? There's nothing in me that is not in everybody else, and nothing in everybody else that is not in me." When identity politics tries to put labels on us, it is our freedom of imagination that is in danger. There's a fuzzy category called multicultural literature in which all authors from outside the Western world are lumped together. I never forget my first multicultural reading, in Harvard Square about 10 years ago. We were three writers, one from the Philippines, one Turkish and one Indonesian -- like a joke, you know. (Laughter) And the reason why we were brought together was not because we shared an artistic style or a literary taste. It was only because of our passports. Multicultural writers are expected to tell real stories, not so much the imaginary. A function is attributed to fiction. In this way, not only the writers themselves, but also their fictional characters become the representatives of something larger. But I must quickly add that this tendency to see a story as more than a story
kao više nego priča nije prisutna samo na Zapadu. Prisutna je svugdje. Ovo sam osjetila iz prve ruke kada sam bila na suđenju 2005. zbog riječi koje je lik iz mog romana rekao. Željela sam da napišem konstruktivni, višeslojni roman o armenskoj i turskoj porodici kroz oči žena. Moja mala priča je postala veliki problem kada sam optužena. Neki su me kritikovali, drugi hvalili zbog toga što sam pisala o tursko-armenskom sukobu. Ali htjela sam podsjetiti obje strane da je ovo samo fikcija. To je bila samo priča. Kada kažem "samo priča" ne želim da obezvrijedim svoj rad. Želim da volim i slavim fikciju zbog onoga što ona jeste, a ne kao sredstvo za neki cilj. Pisci imaju pravo na svoje političke stavove, i ima jako puno dobrih političkih romana,
does not solely come from the West. It comes from everywhere. And I experienced this firsthand when I was put on trial in 2005 for the words my fictional characters uttered in a novel. I had intended to write a constructive, multi-layered novel about an Armenian and a Turkish family through the eyes of women. My micro story became a macro issue when I was prosecuted. Some people criticized, others praised me for writing about the Turkish-Armenian conflict. But there were times when I wanted to remind both sides that this was fiction. It was just a story. And when I say, "just a story," I'm not trying to belittle my work. I want to love and celebrate fiction for what it is, not as a means to an end. Writers are entitled to their political opinions, and there are good political novels out there,
ali jezik fikcije nije isti kao jezik svakodnevne politike. Chekhov je rekao: "Rješenje za problem i ispravan način postavljanja pitanja su dvije potpuno različite stvari. I umjetnikova dužnost je samo ova druga." Politički identitet na razdvaja. Fikcija spaja. Jednu interesuju generalizacije, drugu nijanse. Jedna pravi zidove. Druga ne poznaje granice. Politički identitet je napravljen od čvrstih cigli. Fikcija je tekuća voda. U vijeme Osmanlija, postojali su putnici pripovjedači zvani "meddah." Išli bi u kafane,
but the language of fiction is not the language of daily politics. Chekhov said, "The solution to a problem and the correct way of posing the question are two completely separate things. And only the latter is an artist's responsibility." Identity politics divides us. Fiction connects. One is interested in sweeping generalizations. The other, in nuances. One draws boundaries. The other recognizes no frontiers. Identity politics is made of solid bricks. Fiction is flowing water. In the Ottoman times, there were itinerant storytellers called "meddah." They would go to coffee houses,
gdje bi pričali priče pred publikom, često imporovizirajući. Za svaku osobu u priči, meddah bi promjenio svoj glas, oponašajući tog lika. Svi bi mogli ići i slušati - obični ljudi, ili čak sultani, muslimani i nemuslimani. Priče prodiru kroz sve granice, kao priče o Nasretin Hodži, koje su bile jako popularne na Srednjem istoku, Sjevernoj Africi, Balkanu i Aziji. U današnje vrijeme, priče i dalje prevazilaze granice. Kada palestinski i izraelski poilitičari govore, obično ni ne slušaju jedni druge, ali Palestinci još uvijek čitaju romane izraelskih autora, i obrnuto, spajajući i suosjećajući sa naratorom. Književnost nas uzdiže. Ako to ne uspijeva, onda to nije dobra književnost. Knjige su spasile introvertno, stidljivo djete koje sam ja nekad bila.
where they would tell a story in front of an audience, often improvising. With each new person in the story, the meddah would change his voice, impersonating that character. Everybody could go and listen, you know -- ordinary people, even the sultan, Muslims and non-Muslims. Stories cut across all boundaries, like "The Tales of Nasreddin Hodja," which were very popular throughout the Middle East, North Africa, the Balkans and Asia. Today, stories continue to transcend borders. When Palestinian and Israeli politicians talk, they usually don't listen to each other, but a Palestinian reader still reads a novel by a Jewish author, and vice versa, connecting and empathizing with the narrator. Literature has to take us beyond. If it cannot take us there, it is not good literature. Books have saved the introverted, timid child that I was -- that I once was.
Ali sam također svjesna opasnosti stvaranja fetiša prema knjigama. Kada je Rumi, pisac i mistik, upoznao svog duhovnog prijatelja, Šemsa iz Tabriza, jedna stvar koju je kasnije uradio, bacio je Rumijeve knjige u vodu i gledao kako se slova rastapaju. Sufije kažu: "Znanje koje vas ne uzdiže je gore nego neznanje." Problem s današnjim kulturalnim getima nije manjak znanja - mi znamo puno jedni o drugima, ili tako mislimo - ali znanje koje nas ne uzdiže stvara od nas elitiste, distancirane i isključene. Volim ovu metaforu: živjeti poput šestara. Kao što znate, jedna strana šestara je statična, ukorjenjena u mjestu, dok druga strana pravi krug, stalno se pomjerajući. Isto kao moja fikcija. Jedna strana je ukorjenjena u Istanbulu, sa snažnim turskim korjenima, ali druga strana putuje svjetom, spaja se s drugim kulturama. U tom smislu, volim misliti o svojoj fikciji kao lokalnoj i univerzanloj, kao odavde i bilo gjde drugo. Vi koji ste bili u Istanbulu vjerovatno ste vidjeli Topkapi Saraj,
But I'm also aware of the danger of fetishizing them. When the poet and mystic, Rumi, met his spiritual companion, Shams of Tabriz, one of the first things the latter did was to toss Rumi's books into water and watch the letters dissolve. The Sufis say, "Knowledge that takes you not beyond yourself is far worse than ignorance." The problem with today's cultural ghettos is not lack of knowledge -- we know a lot about each other, or so we think -- but knowledge that takes us not beyond ourselves: it makes us elitist, distant and disconnected. There's a metaphor which I love: living like a drawing compass. As you know, one leg of the compass is static, rooted in a place. Meanwhile, the other leg draws a wide circle, constantly moving. Like that, my fiction as well. One part of it is rooted in Istanbul, with strong Turkish roots, but the other part travels the world, connecting to different cultures. In that sense, I like to think of my fiction as both local and universal, both from here and everywhere. Now those of you who have been to Istanbul have probably seen Topkapi Palace,
u kojoj su živjeli osmanski sultani preko 400 godina. U toj palači, odmah uz prostorije njihovih najdražih konkubina, postoji mjesto zvano Mjesto gdje se sastaju Džini. Ono je između građevina. Intrigirana sam ovim konceptom. Obično ne vjerujemo ovim mjestima koja se nalaze među drugim stvarima. Smatramo ih područjima gdje se nalaze nadnaravna bića kao što su džini. Oni se sastoje od vatre bez dima, i simbol su nedokučivosti. Ali moja poenta je da nedokučivo mjesto je ono što pisci i umjetnici najviše trebaju. Kada pišem fikciju ja gajim nedokučivost i promjenljivost. Volim da ne znam šta će se desiti nakon deset stranica. Volim kada me moji likovi iznenade. Možda ću da pišem u jednom romanu o ženi muslimanki, i to će vjerovatno biti sretna priča, i u sljedećoj knjizi možda ću pisati o zgodnom gay profesoru u Norveškoj. Dok god dolazi od srca, možemo da pišemo o bilo čemu. Audre Lorde je jednom rekla: "Bijeli očevi su nas naučili da kažemo,
which was the residence of Ottoman sultans for more than 400 years. In the palace, just outside the quarters of the favorite concubines, there's an area called The Gathering Place of the Djinn. It's between buildings. I'm intrigued by this concept. We usually distrust those areas that fall in between things. We see them as the domain of supernatural creatures like the djinn, who are made of smokeless fire and are the symbol of elusiveness. But my point is perhaps that elusive space is what writers and artists need most. When I write fiction I cherish elusiveness and changeability. I like not knowing what will happen 10 pages later. I like it when my characters surprise me. I might write about a Muslim woman in one novel, and perhaps it will be a very happy story, and in my next book, I might write about a handsome, gay professor in Norway. As long as it comes from our hearts, we can write about anything and everything. Audre Lorde once said, "The white fathers taught us to say,
'Mislim, dakle postojim.'" Ona dodaje: "Osjećam, dakle slobodna sam." Mislim da je ovo divna promjena paradigme. I ipak, zašto u današnje vrijeme na kursevima kreativnog pisanja prva stvar koju nas nauče je "pišite o onome što znate"? To nije dobar način da se počne. Književnost nije obavezno pisanje o nama ili onome što znamo ili predstavljanje našeg dentiteta. Trebamo učiti mlade ljude da i nas same da proširujemo naša srca i pišemo o onome kako se osjećamo. Trebamo izaći iz svog kulturalnog geta i posjetiti druga. Na kraju, priče su kao derviši koji plešu, prave krugove izvan krugova.
'I think, therefore I am.'" She suggested, "I feel, therefore I am free." I think it was a wonderful paradigm shift. And yet, why is it that, in creative writing courses today, the very first thing we teach students is "write what you know"? Perhaps that's not the right way to start at all. Imaginative literature is not necessarily about writing who we are or what we know or what our identity is about. We should teach young people and ourselves to expand our hearts and write what we can feel. We should get out of our cultural ghetto and go visit the next one and the next. In the end, stories move like whirling dervishes, drawing circles beyond circles.
Oni spajaju humanost, bez obzira na politički identitet, i to je dobra stvar. Željela bih da završim sa starom sufijskom pjesmom: "Dođi, budimo prijatelji na trenutak olakšajmo živote jedni drugom budimo ljubavnici i voljeni zemlja neće ostati nikome." Hvala vam. (Aplauz)
They connect all humanity, regardless of identity politics, and that is the good news. And I would like to finish with an old Sufi poem: "Come, let us be friends for once; let us make life easy on us; let us be lovers and loved ones; the earth shall be left to no one." Thank you. (Applause)