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.
Ja sam pripovjedačica. Time se bavim u životu - pričam priče, pišem romane. Danas bih vam željela ispričati nekoliko priča o umjetnosti pripovijedanja i o nekim nadnaravnim bićima koji se zovu džini. Ali, prije nego počnem, dopustite mi da s vama podijelim dijeliće moje osobne životne priče. To ću, naravno, učiniti uz pomoć riječi, ali i uz pomoć jednog geometrijskog oblika, kruga. Dakle, tijekom mog izlaganja naići ćete na nekoliko krugova.
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.
Rođena sam u Strasbourgu, u Francuskoj od turskih roditelja. Moji se roditelji ubrzo razvode i ja s majkom odlazim u Tursku. Od tada me kao jedinicu odgaja samohrana majka. To je, međutim, u Ankari početkom 70-ih bilo pomalo neuobičajeno. U našem susjedstvu bilo je puno velikih obitelji, u kojima su na čelu domaćinstva bili očevi. Rasla sam, dakle, promatrajući svoju razvedenu majku u patrijarhalnoj sredini. Ustvari, rasla sam promatrajući dvije različite vrste žena. S jedne strane, moja majka, obrazovana, svjetovna, moderna, pozapadnjačena Turkinja. S druge strane, moja baka, koja se također brinula o meni i koja je bila duhovnija, manje obrazovana i zasigurno manje racionalna. To je bila žena koja je iz taloga kave predviđala budućnost i talila olovo u tajnovite oblike kako bi rastjerala uroke.
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."
Mnogi su posjećivali moju baku, ljudi s gadnim aknama na licu ili s bradavicama na rukama. Baka bi izgovarala riječi na arapskom, uzela bi crvenu jabuku i u nju zabadala onoliko ružinih trnova koliko je bradavica htjela ukloniti. Tada bi jedan po jedan trn ocrtala crnom tintom. Tjedan dana nakon toga, pacijent bi se vratio na kontrolni pregled. Svjesna sam da ne bih trebala ovo govoriti pred publikom u kojoj sjede učenjaci i znanstvenici, ali istina je da od onih koji su mojoj baki dolazili zbog problema s kožom nikoga nisam vidjela da odlazi nesretan ili neizliječen. Pitala sam je kako to čini. Radi li se o snazi molitve? Odgovorila mi je, "Da, molitva pomaže. Ali, budi svjesna i snage krugova".
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.
Od nje sam dobila, uz puno toga drugoga, jednu jako dragocjenu poduku. A ta je - ako želiš nešto na ovom svijetu uništiti, bile to akne, mrlje ili ljudska duša, dovoljno je da je opkoliš debelim zidovima. Unutar njih će se sasušiti. Svi mi živimo u nekoj vrsti društvenog ili kulturnog kruga. Svatko od nas. Rođeni smo unutar jedne obitelji, naroda, klase. Ali, ukoliko nismo povezani sa svjetovima izvan onog kojeg uzimamo zdravo za gotovo, tada i mi riskiramo da se unutar tog kruga sasušimo. Naša mašta se može stisnuti. Naša se srca mogu smanjiti. A naša čovječnost može uvenuti ako predugo ostanemo unutar vlastitih kulturnih čahura. Naši prijatelji, susjedi, kolege, obitelj -- ako nam svi ljudi u našem unutarnjem krugu nalikuju, to znači da smo okruženi svojim odrazima u zrcalu.
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.
Još nešto što žene poput moje bake u Turskoj rade je prekrivanje ogledala baršunom ili vješaju ogledala na zid tako da su okrenuta prema zidu. To je drevna istočnjačka tradicija koja se temelji na vjerovanju da za ljudsko biće nije zdravo previše vremena provoditi buljeći u vlastiti odraz. Ironično, zajednice istomišljenika jedna su od najvećih opasnosti današnjeg globaliziranog svijeta. A to se događa svugdje, među liberalima i konzervativcima, agnosticima i vjernicima, bogatima i siromašnima, na Istoku, i na Zapadu. Težimo okupljanju u skupine na temelju sličnosti, a potom stvaramo stereotipe o drugim skupinama ljudi. Smatram da je jedan od puteva nadilaženja ovih kulturoloških getoa vodi kroz umjetnost pripovijedanja. Priče ne mogu uništiti granice, ali mogu probijati otvore u našim mentalnim zidovima. A kroz te otvore možemo opaziti nešto drugo, nešto što nam se možda i svidi.
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.
Počela sam pisati priče s osam godina. Majka je jednog dana došla kući s tirkiznom bilježnicom i pitala me bih li željela voditi dnevnik. Danas mislim da je bila pomalo zabrinuta za moje mentalno zdravlje. Kod kuće sam neprestano pričala priče, što je bilo dobro, jedino što sam ih pričala izmišljenim prijateljima oko sebe, što i nije bilo tako dobro. Bila sam introvertirano dijete do te mjere da sam razgovarala s bojicama i ispričavala se predmetima ako bih u njih udarila. Moja je majka smatrala da bi za mene bilo dobro da svoja svakidašnja iskustva i osjećaje zapisujem. Ono što ona nije znala jest da se meni moj život činio užasno dosadnim, i da je zadnje što sam željela raditi bilo pisati o sebi. Umjesto toga, počela sam pisati o drugim ljudima i stvarima koje se nikada nisu dogodile. Tako je započela moja dugogodišnja strast prema pisanju priča. Od samog početka, fikcija je za mene bila ne toliko autobiografski izraz koliko transcedentalno putovanje u druge živote, druge mogućnosti. Molim vas, pratite me. Nacrtat ću jedan krug i vratiti se na ovo.
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)
Otprilike u isto vrijeme dogodilo se još nešto. Moja je majka postala diplomatkinja. I tako sam iz tog malog, praznovjernog, bakinog susjedstva ljudi srednje klase, prebačena u jednu otmjenu, međunarodnu školu [u Madridu], gdje sam bila jedina Turkinja. Upravo tu sam se po prvi put susrela s onim što nazivam "reprezentativni stranac". U našem razredu bilo je djece svih nacionalnosti. Pa ipak, ta različitost nije nužno vodila u kozmopolitsku, egalitarnu razrednu demokraciju. Umjesto toga, stvarala je atmosferu u kojoj je svako dijete bilo viđeno, ne kao zasebna individua, već kao predstavnik nečeg većeg. Bili smo poput minijaturnih Ujedinjenih naroda, što je bilo zabavno, osim kada bi se nešto negativno dogodilo u vezi s nekom državom ili vjerom. Dijete koje ih je predstavljalo bilo je zadirkivano, ismijavano i beskrajno maltretirano. Ja to znam, jer se, dok sam bila u toj školi, u mojoj zemlji dogodio vojni udar, atentator moje nacionalnosti umalo je ubio Papu, a Turska je dobila nula bodova na natjecanju za pjesmu Eurovizije. (Smijeh)
I skipped school often and dreamed of becoming a sailor during those days. 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.
Tih sam dana često izostajala iz škole i sanjarila da postajem mornar. Također sam po prvi puta imala iskustvo kulturnih stereotipa. Djeca su me zapitkivala o filmu "Ponoćni ekspres", kojeg nisam bila gledala. Pitali su me koliko cigareta dnevno pušim, jer su mislili da su svi Turci teški pušači. I htjeli su znati s koliko ću godina početi pokrivati kosu. Naučila sam da su to tri glavna stereotipa o mojoj zemlji, politika, cigarete i marame. Nakon Španjolske išli smo u Jordan, pa Njemačku i ponovo u Ankaru. Kamo god sam išla, činilo mi se da je moja mašta jedini kovčeg koji sa sobom mogu ponijeti. Priče su mi davale smisao središta, stalnosti i suvislosti, tri velika S koja inače ne bih imala.
In my mid-twenties, I moved to Istanbul, the city I adore. I lived in a very vibrant, diverse neighborhood 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.
U mojim srednjim dvadesetima, preselila sam se u Istanbul, grad koji obožavam. Živjela sam u jako živahnom, šarolikom susjedstvu gdje sam napisala nekoliko romana. Bila sam u Istanbulu kad ga je 1999. pogodio potres. Kada sam u tri sata ujutro istrčala iz zgrade, ugledala sam nešto što me prikovalo na mjestu. Trgovac iz dućana mješovite robe, mrzovoljni starac koji nije prodavao alkohol niti razgovarao s ljudima s ruba, sjedio je pored transvestita s dugom crnom perikom i maskarom razlivenom niz obraze. Gledala sam čovjeka kako drhtavim rukama otvara kutiju cigareta i jednu nudi njoj. To je slika noći potresa koju i danas imam u glavi -- konzervativni prodavač i uplakani transvestit kako zajedno puše na pločniku. Pred smrću i razaranjem, naše su se svjetovne razlike izbrisale, i postali smo jedno makar i na nekoliko sati. Oduvijek sam vjerovala da priče imaju slično djelovanje. Ne kažem da fikcija ima značaj jednog potresa. Ali, kada čitamo dobar roman, napuštamo svoje male, udobne stanove, odlazimo sami u noć i počinjemo upoznavati ljude koje nikada prije nismo sreli i prema kojima smo čak možda gajili i predrasude.
Shortly after, I went to a women's college in Boston, then Michigan. 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.
Nedugo nakon toga otišla sam u ženski koledž u Boston, pa u Michigan. To nisam toliko iskusila kao geografski pomak, koliko kao lingvistički. Počela sam pisati romane na engleskom. Nisam imigrantica, izbjeglica ni prognanica. Pitaju me zašto onda to činim. Kretanje između dvaju jezika pruža mi priliku da i sebe preoblikujem. Volim pisati na turskom, za mene je to jako poetičan i osjećajan jezik. A volim pisati i na engleskom, koji mi je jako matematičan i intelektualan. Tako da sa svakim jezikom osjećam različitu povezanost. Za mene, kao i za milijune drugih ljudi širom današnjeg svijeta, engleski je drugi jezik. Kada si u nekom jeziku pridošlica, događa se da tu živiš sa stalnom i i vječitom frustracijom. Kao pridošlice, uvijek želimo reći nešto više, ispaliti bolju šalu, kazivati bolje stvari. Međutim, uvijek na koncu kažemo manje zbog jaza između uma i govora. A taj je jaz vrlo nelagodan. Ali, ako uspijemo da nas to ne zastraši, to može biti i poticaj. Upravo sam to otkrila u Bostonu -- da je frustracija jako poticajna.
At this stage, my grandmother, who had been watching the course of my life 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.
U to je doba moja baka, koja je pratila tijek mog života sa sve većom zabrinutošću, u svoje dnevne molitve uključila i molitve da se što prije udam kako bih se konačno i zauvijek smirila. A kako je Bog voli, ja sam se zaista i udala. (Smijeh) Ali, umjesto da se smirim, ja sam otišla u Arizonu. A kako je moj suprug u Istanbulu, počela sam putovati između Arizone i Istanbula. Dva mjesta na zemlji koja ne mogu biti različitija nego što jesu. Mislim da je jedan dio mene oduvijek bio nomadski, u fizičkom i duhovnom smislu. Priče me prate, držeći na okupu moje dijelove i uspomene, poput egzistencijalnog ljepila.
Yet as much as I love stories, recently, I've also begun to think 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.
Pa ipak, koliko god volim priče, u zadnje vrijeme sam počela vjerovati da one gube svoju čaroliju ako ih se doživljava za nešto više od samih priča. A to je tema o kojoj bih želim da zajedno promislimo. Kada je moj prvi roman napisan na engleskom objavljen u Americi, dobila sam zanimljivu primjedbu od jednog književnog kritičara. "Svidjela mi se vaša knjiga", rekao je, "ali bih volio da ste je dručije napisali". (Smijeh) Pitala sam ga što mu to znači. Rekao je, "Pa pogledajte, u romanu je mnogo španjolskih, američkih i latinoameričkih likova, ali samo jedan turski, i to muškarac." Radnja se inače odvija na studentskom kampusu u Bostonu, pa mi se činilo normalnim da ima više međunarodnih likova, nego turskih. Ali, shvatila sam što je moj kritičar tražio. A shvatila sam i da ću ga nastaviti razočaravati. On je želio vidjeti očitovanje mog identiteta. U knjizi je tražio Turkinju jer sam to, slučajno, i sama.
We often talk about how stories change the world, but we should also see how the world of identity politics 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.
Često govorimo o tome kako priče mijenjaju svijet. Ali, trebamo uočiti i kako svijet politike identiteta utječe na način na koji priče kruže, čitaju se i recenziraju. Mnogi pisci osjećaju ovaj pritisak, ali ne-zapadnjački pisci izloženi su mu još i više. Ako si spisateljica iz muslimanskog svijeta, poput mene, tada se od tebe očekuje da pišeš priče o muslimanskim ženama i to, najbolje, nesretne priče o nesretnim muslimanskim ženama. Očekuje se da pišeš poučne, dirljive i tipične priče, a da eksperimentalne i avangardne priče prepustiš svojim kolegama sa Zapada. Ono što sam kao dijete doživjela u onoj madridskoj školi događa se i u današnjem književnom svijetu. Pisce se ne doživljava kao samostalne kreativne pojedince, već kao predstavnike svojih kultura. Nekoliko pisaca iz Kine, nekoliko iz Turske, nekoliko iz Nigerije. Svih nas se doživljava kao vrlo osobite, ako ne i čudnovate.
The writer and commuter James Baldwin gave an interview in 1984 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.
Pisac i putnik, James Baldwin, 1984. je dao jedan intervju u kojem ga se više puta upitalo za njegovu homoseksualnost. Kada ga je novinar pokušao smjestiti u ladicu s homoseksualnim piscima, Baldwin je zastao i rekao, "Ali, zar ne vidite? U meni nema ničeg čega nema i u svakom drugom čovjeku, i u drugima nema ničeg čega nema i u meni." Kada nas politika identiteta pokušava etiketirati, ugrožena je naša sloboda imaginacije. Postoji jedna pomalo nejasna kategorija poznata kao multikulturalna književnost, u koju su zajedno ubačeni svi pisci izvan zapadnjačkog svijeta. Nikada neću zaboraviti svoje prvo multikulturalno čitanje, na trgu Harvard prije 10-ak godina. Bilo nas je troje pisaca, jedan s Filipina, jedan iz Turske i jedan iz Indonezije -- znate, kao iz viceva... (Smijeh) A razlog zašto su nas okupili nije bio zato što smo dijelili isti umjetnički stil ili književni ukus. Jedini razlog su bile naše putovnice. Od multikulturalnih pisaca očekuje se da pričaju stvarne priče, a ne izmišljene. Fikciji je dodijeljena funkcija. Na taj način, ne samo pisci već i njihovi likovi postaju predstavnici nečeg većeg.
But I must quickly add that this tendency to see a story as more than a story 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.
Ali, moram brzo dodati da ova sklonost da se priču doživljava kao nešto više od nje same nije prisutna samo na Zapadu. Prisutna je svugdje. A to sam iz prve ruke doživjela kada sam 2005. sudski optužena zbog riječi koje su moji izmišljeni likovi izgovarali u romanu. Bila sam namjeravala napisati konstruktivni, višeslojni roman o jednoj armenskoj i jednoj turskoj obitelji iz perspektive jedne žene. Moja mikro priča na suđenju je postala makro problem. Neki su me kritizirali, neki hvalili zbog toga što sam pisala o tursko-armenskom sukobu. Ali, u nekim sam trenucima obje strane željela podsjetiti da je riječ o fikciji. Da je to samo priča. A kada kažem "samo priča", ne nastojim podcijeniti svoj rad. Želim voljeti i slaviti fikciju zbog onog što ona jest, a ne kao sredstvo za određeni cilj.
Writers are entitled to their political opinions, and there are good political novels out there, 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.
Pisci imaju pravo na svoje političke stavove, i u svijetu ima dobrih političkih romana, ali, jezik fikcije nije jezik svakodnevne politike. Čehov je rekao, "Rješenje nekog problema i ispravan način postavljanja pitanja dvije su potpuno različite stvari. A umjetnik je odgovoran samo za ovu drugu". Politika identiteta nas razdvaja. Fikcija nas spaja. Jednu zanimaju široke generalizacije. Drugu nijanse. Jedna ocrtava granice. Druga granice ne priznaje. Politika identiteta sačinjena je od tvrde opeke. Fikcija je voda tekućica.
In the Ottoman times, there were itinerant storytellers called "meddah." They would go to coffee houses, 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.
U otomansko doba, postojali su putujući pripovjedači nazvani "meddah". Odlazili bi u kavane, gdje bi pred publikom pripovijedali priče, uglavnom improvizirajući. Sa svakim novim likom u priči, meddah bi promijenio glas, utjelovljujući taj lik. Svi su mogli ući i slušati, obični ljudi, čak i sultan, muslimani i ne-muslimani. Priče preskaču sve granice. Poput "Priča o Nasrudinu Hodži", koje su bile popularne širom Srednjeg Istoka, Sjeverne Afrike, Balkana i Azije. I danas, priče nastavljaju prelaziti granice. Kada palestinski i izraleski političari razgovaraju, obično jedni druge ne slušaju. Ali, palestinski čitatelj i dalje čita roman židovskog pisca i obratno, povezujući se i suosjećajući s pripovjedačem. Književnost nas mora odvesti onkraj. Ako nas ne može tamo odvesti, to onda nije dobra književnost.
Books have saved the introverted, timid child that I was -- that I once was. 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.
Knjige su spasile introvertirano, sramežljivo dijete kakvo sam bila -- kakvo sam nekoć bila. Ali, svjesna sam i opasnosti doživljavanja knjiga kao fetiša. Kada je pjesnik i mistik Rumi sreo svog duhovnog pratitelja, Šemsa iz Tabriza, jedna od prvih stvari koje je ovaj potonji napravio bilo je baciti Rumijeve knjige u vodu i gledati kako se slova rastvaraju. Sufiji kažu: "Znanje koje te ne uzdigne iznad sebe samog daleko je gore od neznanja." Problem današnjih kulturalnih getoa nije manjak znanja. Znamo puno jedni o drugima, ili barem tako mislimo. Ali, znanje koje nas ne uzdiže iznad nas samih, čini nas elitistima, hladnima i udaljenima. Ima jedna metafora koja mi se sviđa: živjeti poput šestara. Kao što znate, jedan kraj šestara je nepomičan, ukorijenjen u jednoj točki. Za to vrijeme, drugi kraj ocrtava veliki krug, i neprestano je u pokretu. I moja je fikcija takva. Jedan dio nje je ukorijenjen u Istanbulu, s jakim turskim korijenjem. Ali, drugi dio putuje svijetom, povezujući se s različitim kulturama. U tom smislu, svoju fikciju volim doživljavati i kao lokalnu i kao univerzalnu, koja pripada ovdje i svugdje.
Now those of you who have been to Istanbul have probably seen Topkapi Palace, 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.
Oni među vama koji su bili u Istanbulu, vjerojatno su vidjeli palaču Topkapi koja je bila rezidencija otomanskih sultana više od 400 godina. U palači, odmah uz prostorije njihovih najdražih konkubina, postoji takozvano 'Okupljalište džina'. Nalazi se među zgradama. Ova ideja me jako zanima. Često smo nepovjerljivi prema područjima koja se nalaze u međuprostoru. Vidimo ih kao oblast nadnaravnih bića poput džina, koji su načinjeni od vatre bez dima i simboliziraju neuhvatljivost. Ali, ono što želim reći je da je možda upravo taj neuhvatljivi prostor ono što je piscima i umjetnicima najpotrebnije. Kada pišem romane, raduje me neuhvatljivost i promjenljivost. Volim ne znati što će se dogoditi 10 stranica iza. Volim kada me moji likovi iznenade. U jednom bi romanu mogla pisati o muslimanki. I to će možda biti jako sretna priča. A u sljedećoj bih knjizi mogla pisati o zgodnom profesoru homoseksualcu u Norveškoj. Dok god pišemo iz srca, možemo pisati o bilo čemu.
Audre Lorde once said, "The white fathers taught us to say, '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.
Audre Lorde je rekla: "Bijeli oci su nas učili da kažemo: 'Mislim, dakle postojim.'" Ona je predložila: "Osjećam, dakle slobodna sam". Mislim da je to bila krasna promjena obrasca. Pa ipak, zašto danas na tečajevima kreativnog pisanja prva stvar koju učimo studente je da pišu o onom što poznaju? Možda uopće nije dobro tako započeti. Književnost ne znači nužno pisati o onom što jesmo ili o onome što poznajemo ili o svom identitetu. Trebamo učiti mlade i nas same da širimo svoja srca i pišemo o onome što osjećamo. Trebamo napustiti svoje kulturne getoe i obići neki drugi geto, i još koji.
In the end, stories move like whirling dervishes, drawing circles beyond circles. 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."
Na koncu, priče se kreću poput derviša u vrtnji, crtajući krugove preko krugova. One povezuju čitavo čovječanstvo, bez obzira na politiku identiteta. I to je dobra vijest. Voljela bih završiti starim sufijskim stihovima. "Dođi, budimo načas prijatelji; olakšajmo si život; budimo ljubavnici i voljeni; zemlja neće ostati nikome."
Thank you.
Hvala.
(Applause)
(Pljesak)