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 pripovedač. To je ono čime se bavim u životu - pričam priče, pišem romane. I danas bih volela da vam ispričam nekoliko priča o umetnosti pripovedanja i nekim natprirodnim bićima zvanim đini. Ali pre nego počnem sa tim, dozvolite mi da podelim sa vama deliće moje lične priče. Uradiću to naravno uz pomoć reči, ali i uz pomoć kruga. I tokom mog govora, 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 Strazburu, Francuska u turskoj porodici. Nedugo potom, moji roditelji su se razdvojili, i otišla sam za Tursku sa svojom mamom. Od tog momenta na dalje, odgajana sam kao jedino dete samohrane majke. U ranim '70-im, u Ankari, to je bilo pomalo neobično. Naše susedstvo je bilo puno velikih porodica, gde su očevi bili glava porodice. Tako da sam odrastala gledajući svoju razvedenu majku u patrijarhalnom okruženju. Ustvari, odrastala sam posmatrajući dve različite vrste ženskosti. Sa jedne strane tu je bila moja majka, dobro obrazovana, sekularna, moderna, zapadnjačka, turska žena. Sa druge strane je bila moja baka, koja se takođe brinula o meni i bila više duhovna, manje obrazovana i definitivno manje racionalna. Ovo je bila žena koja je čitala budućnost iz šolje i topila olovo u misteriozne oblike da otkloni urok.
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 ljudi su posećivali moju baku, ljudi sa ozbiljnim problemom akni na licima ili bradavica na rukama. Svaki put, moja baka bi mrmljala neke reči na arapskom, uzela crvenu jabuku i zabola onoliko ružinih trnova koliko bradavica je htela da ukloni. I onda bi jedan po jedan trn okružila tamnim mastilom. Posle nedelju dana, pacijent bi se vratio na kontrolni pregled. E sad, svesna sam da ne bi trebalo da govorim ovakve stvari pred publikom stručnjaka i naučnika, ali istina je da, od svih ljudi koji su posetili moju baku zbog problema sa kožom, nisam videla ni jednu osobu da se vraća nesrećna ili neizlečena. Upitala sam je kako to radi. Uz pomoć molitve? Odgovorila je, "Da, molitva pomaže. Ali takođe se pripazi moći 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 naučila, pored mnogih drugih stvari, vrlo dragocenu lekciju. A to je da ako želite da uništite nešto u ovom životu, bilo akne, mane, ili ljudsku dušu, sve što treba da uradite jeste da to okružite debelim zidovima. Osušiće se iznutra. Danas svi živimo u nekoj vrsti socijalnog i kultrunog kruga. Svi živimo. Rođeni smo u određenoj porodici, naciji, klasi. Ali ako uopšte nismo povezani sa svetovima izvan onoga koji shvatamo zdravo za gotovo, i nama preti opasnost da se osušimo unutra. Naša mašta može da se skupi. Naša srca mogu se smanjiti. I naša humanost može uvenuti ako ostanemo suviše dugo unutar svojih kulturoloških čaura. Naši prijatelji, susedi, kolege, porodica - ako svi ljudi u našem unutrašnjem krugu liče na nas, to znači da smo okruženi sa našim odrazom u ogledalu.
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 jedna stvar koju žene poput moje bake čine u Turskoj je da pokriju ogledala sa kadifom ili ih kače na zid tako da je poleđina okrenuta napolje. To je stara istočnjačka tradicija zasnovana na znanju da nije zrdavo za ljudsko biće da provodi suviše vremena gledajući u svoj odraz. Ironično, zajednice istomišljenika predstavljaju jednu od najvećih opasnosti današnjeg globalizovanog sveta. I to se događa svuda, među liberalima i konzervativcima, agnosticima i vernicima, bogatima i siromašnima, na istoku kao i na zapadu. Imamo tendenciju da stvaramo skupine zasnovane na sličnosti, i onda stvaramo stereotipe o drugim skupinama ljudi. Prema mom mišljenju, jedan način prevazilaženja ovih kulturnih getoa je preko umetnosti pripovedanja. Priče ne mogu rušiti granice, ali mogu da stvaraju rupe u našim mentalnim zidovima. I kroz te rupe, možemo uvideti nešto drugo, što nam se čak može svideti.
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 da pišem fikciju oko osme godine. Moja majka je došla jednog dana sa tirkiznom beležnicom i upitala me da li bih bila zainteresovana da vodim svoj lični dnevnik. Kada pogledam u nazad, mislim da je bila pomalo zabrinuta za moj zdrav razum. Stalno sam pričala priče po kući, što je bilo dobro, jedino što sam ih pričala svojim zamišljenim prijateljima, što nije bilo toliko dobro. Bila sam introvertno dete, toliko da sam razvgovarala sa bojicama i izvinjavala se objektima kada bih naletela na njih. Tako da je moja majka mislila da će mi koristiti da zapisujem svoja svakodnevna iskustva i osećanja. Ona nije znala da sam svoj život smatrala užasno dosadnim, i poslednja stvar koju sam htela da radim jeste da pišem o sebi. Umesto toga, počela sam da pišem o drugim ljudima i stvarima koje se nikada zaista nisu dogodile. I tako počinje moja životna strast za pisanjem fikcije. Dakle, od samog početka, fantastika je za mene bila više transcendentalno putovanje u tuđe živote i mogućnosti, nego autobiografska manifestacija. Molim vas ostanite sa mnom. Nacrtaću krug i vratiću se na ovu tačku.
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)
Desila se još jedna stvar u isto vreme. Moja majka je postala diplomata. Dakle, od te malog, sujevernog, srednjeklasnog susedstva moje bake, prebačena sam u tu modernu, međunarodnu školu, gde sam bila jedina turkinja. Ovde sam imala svoj prvi susret sa onim što zovem "predstavnik stranaca." U našem razredu bilo je dece svih nacionalnosti. Ipak, ova različitost nije nužno vodila u kosmopolitsku, izjednačujuću odeljensku demokratiju. Umesto toga, stvorila je atmosferu u kojoj svako dete nije viđeno kao samostalna individua, već kao predstavnik nečeg većeg. Bili smo nešto kao malene Ujedinjene Nacije, što je bilo zabavno, sem u onim slučajevima kada bi se nešto negativno u vezi sa nacijom ili religijom dogodilo. Detetu koje je predstavljalo naciju, bi se rugali, ismejavali ga i beskrajno maltretirali. A ja to znam, jer tokom mog boravka u toj školi, vojska je preuzela vlast u mojoj zemlji, atentator moje nacionalnosti je skoro ubio Papu a Turska je dobila 0 poena na takmičenju za pesmu Evrovizije. (smeh)
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.
Često sam bežala iz škole tih dana i sanjala o tome da postanem mornar. Tu sam takođe osetila ukus kulturoloških stereotipa. Druga deca su me pitala za film "Ponoćni ekspres," koji nisam gledala. Zanimalo ih je koliko cigareta popušim za dan, jer su mislili da su svi Turci teški pušači. I pitali su se sa koliko godina ću početi da pokrivam svoju kosu. Shvatila sam da su to tri glavna stereotipa o mojoj zemlji, politika, cigarete i feredža. Posle Španije otišle smo u Jordan, Nemačku i ponovo u Ankaru. Gde god sam otišla, osećala sam da je moja mašta jedini kofer koji sam mogla da ponesem sa sobom. Priče su mi davale osećaj stabilnosti, stalnosti i sklada, tri velika S, koja su mi inače nedostajala.
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.
Sredinom svojih dvadesetih, odselila sam se u Istanbul, grad koji obožavam. Živela sam u vrlo živom, raznolikom susedstvu gde sam napisala nekoliko svojih romana. Bila sam tu za vreme zemljotresa 1999. Kada sam istrčala iz zgrade u tri ujutru, videla sam nešto što me zaustavilo na mom putu. Bila je tu lokalni prodavac - jedan prgav stari čovek koji nije prodavao alkohol i nije razgovarao sa marginalcima. Sedeo je pored transvestita sa dugom crnom perikom i razmazanom maskarom na obrazima. Posmatrala sam kako čovek otvara paklu cigareta drhatvim rukama i kako joj nudi jednu. I to je slika noći zemljotresa u mojoj glavi danas - konzervativni prodavac i uplakani transvestit puše zajedno na trotoaru. U suretu sa smrću i razaranjem svakodnevne razlike su nestale i svi smo postali jedno makar samo na par sati. Ali ja sam oduvek smatrala da priče takođe imaju sličan efekat na nas. Ne kažem da fikcija ima jačinu zemljotresa. Ali kada čitamo dobar roman, ostavljamo za sobom naše male, udobne stanove izlazimo u noć sami i upoznajemo ljude koje nikada ranije nismo sreli i protiv kojih smo možda imali nešto protiv.
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 zatim, otišla sam na ženski koledž u Boston, pa potom u Mičigen. Iskusila sam ovo, ne toliko kao geografsku, koliko kao lingvističku promenu. Počela sam da pišem fikciju na engleskom. Nisam imigrant, izbeglica ili prognanik. Pitali su me zašto to radim. Ali menjanje jezika daje mi priliku da se ponovo stvaram. Volim da pišem na turskom koji smatram vrlo poetičnim i emotivnim. I volim da pišem na engleskom, koji je za mene vrlo matematički i uman. Tako da se osećam povezanom sa svakim jezikom na drugačiji način. Za mene, kao za milione drugih ljudi širom sveta danas, engleski jezik je stečen. Kada se kasno upoznate sa jezikom, dešava se da živite sa konstantnom i upornom frustracijom. Kao takvi, uvek želimo da kažemo više, znate, ispričamo bolje viceve, kažemo bolje stvari. Ali završimo govoreći manje jer postoji praznina između uma i jezika. I ta praznina je veoma zastrašujuća. Ali ako uspemo da je se ne plašimo, onda je to i stimulativno. I to je nešto što sam otkrila u Bostonu - frustracija je bila vrlo stimulativna.
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 tom periodu, moja baka, koja je pratila moj životni put sa rastućom anksioznošću, počela je u svoje dnevne molitve da uključuje želju da se ja pod hitno udam kako bi se jednom zauvek skrasila. I pošto je Bog voli, ja se jesam udala. (smeh) Ali umesto da se skrasim, otišla sam u Arizonu. I pošto je moj muž u Istanbulu, počela sam da putujem na relaciji Arizona - Istanbul. Dva mesta na Zemlji koja ne mogu više da se razlikuju. Pretpostavljam da je jedan deo mene uvek bio nomadski, fizički i duhovno. Priče mi prave društvo, drže moje delove i uspomene zajedno, poput nekog egzistencijalnog lepka.
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.
Ipak, koliko god volela priče, nedavno sam počela da razmišljam kako one gube svoju magičnost ako i kada je priča viđena kao nešto više od same priče. I ovo je tema o kojoj bih volela da zajedno razmislimo. Kada je moj prvi roman na engleskom objavljen u Americi, čula sam zanimljivu opasku jednog književnog kritičara. "Dopala mi se tvoja knjiga", rekao je, "ali voleo bih da si je napisala drugačije." (smeh) Pitala sam ga šta misli pod tim. Rekao je, "Pa, pogledaj je. Postoji toliko likova koji su Španci, Amerikanci, Hispanosi, ali samo jedan turski lik i to muški." E sad, radnja je smeštena na univerzitetskom kampusu u Bostonu. Dakle, za mene, bilo je normalno da bude više internacionalnih, nego turskih likova. Ali razumela sam šta je moj kritičar tražio. Takođe sam razumela da ću nastaviti da ga razočaravam. Hteo je da vidi manifestaciju mog identiteta. Tražio je tursku ženu u knjizi, jer sam igrom slučaja ja to bila.
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 kako priče menjaju svet. Ali trebalo bi da vidimo kako svet politike identiteta utiče na način na koji se priče šire, čitaju i ocenjuju. Mnogi autori osećaju ovaj pritisak, ali autori koji nisu sa zapada to mnogo više osećaju. Ako ste žena pisac iz muslimanskog sveta, poput mene, onda se očekuje da pišete priče o muslimanskim ženama i po mogućstvu, nesrećne priče o nesrećnim muslimanskim ženama. Očekuje se da pišete informativne, dirljive i karakteristične priče, a da eksperimentalne i avangarnde priče ostavite svojim zapadnjačkim kolegama. Ono što sam doživela u onoj školi u Madridu kao dete dešava se u književnom svetu danas. Pisci nisu viđeni kao kreativne individue, već kao predstavnici svojih određenih kultura. Nekoliko autora iz Kine, Turske, Nigerije. Misli se da svi imamo nešto vrlo drugačije, ako ne posebno.
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, Džejms Boldvin, dao je jedan intrevju 1984. u kojem je konstantno bio pitan za svoj homoseksualizam. Kada je novinar pokušao da ga svrsta u kategoriju gej pisca, Boldvin je stao i rekao, "Ali zar ne vidite? Ne postoji ništa u meni što ne postoji kod svakog drugog, i ništa u drugima što ne postoji u meni." Kada politika identiteta pokušava da nas kategoriše, naša sloboda mašte je u opasnosti. Postoji nejasna kategorija nazvana multikulturalna književnost u kojoj su spojeni svi autori izvan zapadnjačkog sveta. Nikada neću zaboraviti svoje prvo multikulturalno čitanje na harvardskom trgu, pre nekih 10 godina. Bil je nas troje pisaca, jedan sa Filipina, iz Turske i Indonezije - poput nekog vica, znate. (smeh) A razlog zbog kojeg smo bili zajedno nije naš umetnički stil ili književni ukus. Već naši pasoši. Od multikulturalnih pisaca se očekuje da pričaju prave priče, ne toliko izmišljene. Funkcija se odnosi na fikciju. Na taj način, ne samo sami pisci, nego i njihovi izmišljeni 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 da dodam da ova tendencija da se priča vidi kao nešto više, ne dolazi isključivo sa zapada. Dolazi sa svih strana. I lično sam to doživela prilikom suđenja 2005. zbog reči koje su moji izmišljeni likovi u romanu izgovarali. Namerila sam da napišem konstruktivan, višeslojan roman o armenskoj i turskoj porodici, viđen kroz žensku perspektivu. Moja mala priča je postala veliki problem kada sam krivično gonjena. Neki ljudi su me kritikovali, drugi hvalili jer sam pisala o tursko - armenskom konfliktu. Ali postojala su vremena kada sam htela da podsetim obe strane da je ovo fikcija. Bila je to samo priča. I kada kažem, "samo priča", ne pokušavam da umanjim svoj rad. Želim da volim i slavim fikciju zbog onog što jeste, a ne kao sredstvo za postizanje cilja.
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 sopstveni politički stav, i postoje odlični politički romani, ali jezik fikcije nije jezik dnevne politike. Čehov je rekao, "Rešenje problema i ispravan način postavljanja pitanja su dve potpuno različite stvari. A samo ovo drugo je umetnikova odgovornost." Politika identiteta nas razdvaja. Fikcija spaja. Jedno od njih je zainteresovano za brisanje generalizacija. Drugo za nijanse. Jedno crta granice. Drugo ne prepoznaje barijere. Politika identiteta je sagrađena od čvrstih cigli. Fikcija je tekuća voda.
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.
Za vreme otomansko carstva postojali su putujući pripovedači zvani "meddah". Odlazili bi u kafeterije, gde bi pričali priče ispred publike, često improvizujući. Sa svakom novom osobom u priči, pripovedač bi promenio svoj glas, dočaravajući taj lik. Svako je mogao da dođe i da sluša, znate - obični ljudi, čak i sultan, muslimani i nemuslimani. Priče prelaze sve granice. Poput "Priče Nasredin Hodže", koje su bile vrlo popularne na Srednjem Istoku, Severnoj Africi, Balkanu i Aziji. Danas, priče nastavljaju da prevazilaze granice. Kada palestinski i izraelski političari govore, obično se slušaju jedni druge. Ali palestinski čitalac i dalje čita roman jevrejskog autora, i obrnuto, povezujući se i saosećajući sa pripovedačem. Književnost mora da nas odvede dalje. Ako ne može to da učini, 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 introvertno, stidljivo dete koje sam bila - koje sam nekada bila. Ali sam takođe svesna opasnosti njihove fetišizacije. Kada je pesnik i mističar, Rumi, upoznao svog duhovnog saputnika, Šamza iz Tabriza, jedna od prvih stvari koje je ovaj drugi učinio - bila je da baci Rumijeve knjige u vodu i gleda kako se slova rastvaraju. Sufisti kažu, "Znanje koje vas ne vodi izvan sebe je mnogo gore nego neznanje." Problem sa savremenim kulturološkim getoima, nije nedostatak znanja. Znamo mnogo jedni o drugima, ili bar mislimo. Ali ako nas znanje ne odvede izvan nas, čini da postanemo elitisti, udaljeni i nepovezani. Postoji metafora koju volim: živeti poput kompasa. Kao što znate, jedna kazaljka kompasa se ne pomera, učvršćena je. U međuvremenu, druga kazaljka pravi širok krug, stalno se pomerajući. I moja mašta je takva. Jedan deo je ukorenjen u Istanbulu, sa jakim turskim korenima. Ali drugi deo putuje svetom, povezujući se sa različitim kulturama. U tom smislu, volim da mislim da je moja fikcija i lokalna i univerzalna, odavde i od svuda.
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 od vas koji su posetili Istanbul, verovatno su videli Topkapi Zamak, koji je bio rezidencija otomanskim sultanima više od 400 godina. U zamku, izvan dela sa omiljenim konkubinama, je Mesto Okupljanja Djina. Nalazi se između zgrada. Interesuje me ovaj koncept. Obično ne verujemo tim delovima koje se nalaze između. Vidimo ih kao oblast nadnaravnih čudovišta poput djina. koji su napravljeni od vatre bez dima, i simbol su nedokučivosti. Ali ono što želim da kažem je da je taj nejasan prostor ono što pisci i umetnici najviše trebaju. Kada pišem fikciju, čeznem za nedostižnošću i promenljivošću. Volim činjenicu da neću znati šta će se desiti 10 strana kasnije. Volim kada me moji likovi iznenade. Možda ću pisati o muslimanskim ženama u nekom romanu. I možda će to biti vrlo srećna priča. I u mojoj sledećoj knjizi, možda ću pisati o zgodnom, gej profesoru u Norveškoj. Sve dok dolazi iz naših srca, možemo da pišemo o svemu i svačemu.
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.
Odri Lord jednom reče, "Beli očevi su nas učili da kažemo, "Mislim, dakle postojim." Predložila je, "Osećam, dakle slobodna sam." Mislim da je to divna promena paradigme. Ipak, zašto je prva stvar koju danas učimo studente na kursevima kreativnog pisanja da pišu ono što znaju? Možda to uopšte nije ispravan način da se započne. Maštovita književnost nije nužno povezana sa pisanjem o tome šta jesmo ili šta znamo ili šta predstavlja naš identitet. Trebalo bi da učimo mlade ljude i sebe da proširimo svoja srca i da pišemo ono što osećamo. Trebalo bi da izađemo iz našeg kutlurološkog geta i da posetimo ostala.
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 kraju, priče se kreću poput dervišovog plesa, praveći krugove izvan krugova. One povezuju čitavo čovečanstvo, bez obzira na politiku identiteta. I to je odlična vest. I htela bih da završim sa starom Sufi pesmom. "Hajde, budimo prijatelji bar jednom; hajde da olakšamo život; hajde da volimo i budemo voljeni; zemlja nikome neće biti ostavljena."
Thank you.
Hvala vam.
(Applause)
(aplauz)