EVEN JAIL THREATS CAN’T SILENCE HER VOICE
By Mariane Pearl
Glamour
October 2007
New York
In Turkey, an author can be imprisoned–or even killed–for mentioning
the country’s violent past. Mariane Pearl visits Elif Shafak, a
best-selling novelist who speaks the truth no matter the risk.
Elif Shafak, Turkey’s most famous female writer, sits in her immaculate
living room in the suburbs of Istanbul; outside the windows are silence
and greenery. Her loosely tied hair falls across the baby daughter she
holds in the soft cradle of her arms. A long, black scarf around her
neck plays up the yellow flecks in her hazel eyes. Elif’s home might
seem like a quiet haven from urban sound and fury, but her home away
from the heart of the city she loves is a sad sign of the times. Elif
came here seeking not beauty but safety.
In January one of Elif’s dearest friends, Hrant Dink, a prominent
newspaper editor who wrote frankly about the long-running, painful
tension between Turks and Armenians, was shot to death by a 17-year-old
assassin connected to a far-right ultranationalist group.
Elif herself has narrowly escaped jail time for writing about the
Turkish-Armenian conflict and is believed to be under death threat
from the same extremist faction that murdered Dink. After his killing
the government began providing Elif with police protection, and she
cut short a book tour in the United States when her name appeared on
Turkish ultranationalist websites as an "enemy."
"My writing has made me very controversial," she says. In this
dangerous climate Elif needs protection; more poignant, though, she
needs freedom. Here in her apartment near Istanbul–the thirteenth
stop on my round-the-world journey for Glamour–this soft-spoken
intellectual looks to me like a wild bird trapped in a golden cage.
At the relatively young age of 36, Elif has written six novels.
"I give a voice to the underbelly of society," she says. Her first
book, Pinhan–The Sufi, tells the story of a hermaphrodite mystic. Her
most recent novel, The Bastard of Istanbul, published in 2006, was
a best-seller; a fascinating look into Turkish identity, it examines
themes of memory and forgetfulness through four generations of women.
The Bastard landed Elif on the hit list of writers targeted by
far-right groups. Its offense? Tackling Turkey’s unspeakable World
War I-era massacre of a million of its Armenian residents.
Turkey does not officially acknowledge the slaughter, which is often
called the first genocide of the twentieth century. Yet one of Elif’s
characters, speaking on behalf of a young Armenian American, boldly
says: "I am the grandchild of genocide survivors who lost all their
relatives in the hands of Turkish butchers in 1915, but I myself have
been brainwashed to deny the genocide…."
Elif just wanted to "build a bridge between Turks and Armenians,"
she says, but for the latter to forgive, the former must stop
denying. "I don’t know exactly what happened in 1915," she says,
"but I am interested in people–their stories, their silences, their
pains. I believe in recognizing human grief."
And yet merely mentioning the genocide is against Turkish law. The
internationally denounced Article 301 of the penal code makes
"denigrating Turkishness" a crime. More than 80 Turkish writers and
intellectuals have been under indictment or are standing trial because
of alleged offenses against Turkishness. Nobel laureate Orhan Pamuk
is in self-exile, apparently fearing for his life after speaking out
about the "Armenian question," as people here euphemistically call
it. Dink was murdered for taking a similar position. In Turkey some
die or suffer to defend freedom of expression; others threaten and
kill to impose a language of fear.
The controversy over Elif’s work comes as she and her countrymen
struggle with the question, What does it mean to be Turkish? A link
between Eastern Europe and the Middle East, this predominantly Muslim
country of 72 million is both a democracy and a relic of the ancient
Ottoman Empire. Since modern Turkey was founded in 1923, mosque and
state have been kept largely separate; for instance, Muslim head
scarves are banned in government buildings. In recent elections,
however, voters endorsed leaders who want to bring more Muslim
practices into daily life. Even so, the ultranationalists who prize
"Turkishness" above all continue to increase their influence.
In this bubbling cultural stew, even Muslim identity is open to
interpretation, as Elif’s own family demonstrates. Both of her
grandmothers were Turkish Muslims with similar backgrounds who had
dramatically different concepts of Islam. "For one of my grandmothers,
God meant fear–a celestial king watching every move," she says. "For
the other, love was the main element.
God wasn’t an angry God. It was the same religion, yet it wasn’t."
While Turkey’s religious conservatives have criticized Elif’s
writing–they reject her frank exploration of sexuality and gender–her
most vocal opponents are the secular right-wingers who were behind
Dink’s murder. Because she embraces diversity, they accuse her of
hating her country. Certainly, Elif’s work resists the extremists’
simplistic take on the world–hers is a kaleidoscopic view of humanity,
one that’s been enhanced by differences. "I question mental frontiers,"
she says.
"That is what literature is about: transcending boundaries."
For this, Elif has paid a heavy price.
One day in June 2006, while shopping at her local market, Elif received
a call informing her that charges of "denigrating Turkishness" had
been brought against her because of her character’s remarks on the
genocide–a first for a work of fiction. She faced up to three years
in prison if convicted. Her trial took place in September of that
year, but she was unable to attend because she had just given birth
to her first child, Scheherazade. From the maternity ward she watched
television coverage of the trial, including right-wingers burning a
poster bearing her image. After an hour and a half of deliberation,
Elif was acquitted; there was no evidence she had violated the law,
the court ruled.
"There are some narrow-minded people in Turkey," Elif says, "but
there are also multiple voices, clashing and coexisting."
Sipping tea at a café beneath one of Istanbul’s elegant arched
galleries, Elif reflects on her brush with the law and the death
of her friend. When a bullet silenced Dink, she recalls, thousands
of Turks–Christians and Muslims together–marched in the streets
in protest. This was the silent majority for whom he sacrificed his
life. "In a country like Turkey," Elif says, "writing has an amazing
transformational power." Although shaken by recent events, Elif says
she plans to go back to her writing. And exploring Turkey’s dark past
is only one part of her literary quest.
"My struggle is to help readers snap out of a black-and-white approach
to the world," she says. "In our times gray is the most difficult
color to convey, yet the world is all shades of grays."
I can identify with Elif’s multicultural upbringing. We were both
born in France though neither of us is French. My mom was Cuban and
my father Dutch, but I have never lived in their native countries.
Elif was born to Turkish Muslim parents and raised by her diplomat
mother in Spain, Jordan and Germany before settling in Istanbul.
"I’ve always been a nomad," she says. "I started writing at an early
age because I was an only child and lonely.
Fiction was the only suitcase I could take with me."
While living part of the year in Istanbul with her husband,
a journalist, and their daughter, Elif also teaches Near Eastern
Studies at the University of Arizona in Tucson. But Turkey is where
her heart is: To see it through Elif’s eyes is to view a culture so
rich that it makes your head spin–much like the country’s famous
whirling dervishes.
Strolling through the city’s crowded streets, we pass transsexuals and
Goth teenagers; professional women perched on high heels and elderly
men who appear polished by the same winds that carved the centuries-old
monuments. There are young women wearing the veil and older ones
who aren’t, and some who are covered head to toe. During monumental
traffic jams, hundreds of hands holding half-smoked cigarettes jut
from car windows. As Elif silently absorbs the scene around us, the
exotic and poetic, the old and new, her gaze seems to say: This is my
country–this is who we are. No black and white, just shades of gray.
After being labeled unpatriotic at home, Elif feels she is categorized
differently when she’s abroad. "In America I am only seen as a Muslim
woman writer. But I want to identify with a Chinese homosexual man
if that is what comes to me," she says.
"Sometimes," she adds, "keeping a good sense of humor is the best way
out." I am reminded of a funeral car driver in The Bastard of Istanbul
who recalls seeing a coffin covered by a soccer banner instead of
the traditional Muslim sage drape. "What do you need a soccer flag
for?" he says. "Has Allah built a stadium up there?"
Later I visit the beautiful Armenian cemetery in Istanbul; each grave
is adorned with beautiful flowers. Hrant Dink, Elif’s murdered friend,
lies here; the photograph on his grave shows a man of almost unbearable
gentleness. His voice may be quiet now, but his work lives on. Looking
at the faint smile on Dink’s lips, I am reminded of a prayer said by
one of Elif’s characters: "Allah…either give me the bliss of the
ignorant or give me the strength to bear the knowledge." In Elif’s
case, as in Dink’s, the strength to bear knowledge lies in the pen
and the hand that holds it.
Mariane Pearl is a documentary filmmaker and the author of A Mighty
Heart: The Brave Life and Death of My Husband, Danny Pearl.
–Boundary_(ID_EWFv7Ooe/y6fpSHligjtoQ)–