During my first years of university, I tried
my best to balance readings between the classics and contemporary British,
American and Turkish literature all at once. One of the authors whose writing I
enjoyed a lot then was Kürşat Başar (Konuştuğumuz
Gibi Uzaklara and Sen Olsaydın
Yapmazdın Biliyorum). Being a literature lover and student helped
explaining my non-stop reading mania, I could never get enough of reading. This
hunger or “fanaticism” of reading was replaced in time probably by healthier reading
habits. However, when I put my hands on Başar’s latest novel Yaz (Summer), that passion of reading
came back to me since I have associated his works with that period of my
life. Maybe it partially explained why I
read it so fast.
Kürşat
Başar gave a long break to writing novels for some reason. Yaz is also the
imperative form of the verb “write” (yazmak) in Turkish so at least I cherish
the double meanings after finishing the novel. It is about a writer, an
introvert but dedicated lover, and the story takes place in Istanbul and
Northern Cyprus. I began reading it on my way to Istanbul from Ercan (N.Cyprus
airport) and finished it in 3 days (328 pages).
I am mature enough now to know why a particular story (or art work in
general) strikes a chord with me even if it may be an average work for many
others. I don’t believe in being neutral or objective, it is a long-buried
concept for me when it comes to interpretation of art. The burial ceremony took
place in the second year of university and I commemorated the death of
objectivity many times since then thanks to many thinkers, scholars who wrote
about or around post-modernist ideas.
Yaz captured me quickly due to its
setting and the main character, Murat. The narrator tells us that he is back to
the island after many years so the story is structured in flashbacks. The
narrator never knew his mother and lost his father during the political turmoil
of the times. There is a famous “lost bus” incident –I should say famous for
the locals– in which 11 Turkish Cypriot passengers were nowhere to be found after
they left their office on 13 May 1964 in Larnaca. The story of his lost
father is a reminiscent of that (the bones of 11 were found in a well only in
April 2009). There is also the reference
to Erenköy defence in the novel. Erenköy sits several kilometres west of the
Northern Cyprus mainland and is a place with symbolic significance to Turkish
Cypriots, because of the events of August 1964. The site was defended by the
members of Turkish Resistance Organization and a Turkish Cypriot university
students who joined them from different cities. Today, there are graves of Turkish Cypriots who were killed
at the siege at Erenköy/Kokkina. The village itself still carries heavy battle
damage. A museum memorializing the defenders and the Turkish military is also
at the village. Erenköy is the site of annual memorial ceremonies attended by
high-ranking dignitaries of both the TRNC and Turkish governments. Although both incidents are well known and fresh in the
memories of Turkish Cypriots, they are hardly known elsewhere so Kürşat Başar
uses his novel as reminders of this very recent history.
Murat, having lost both parents, moves to Istanbul with his
grandmother and starts living with his uncle. The uncle is always in his room,
never leaves the house, reads all the time. One day, he commits suicide,
leaving his rich library to his nephew. In a way, Murat replaces him, becomes a
book worm and a secret writer (then no longer a secret one) until one summer
day… he meets Emel!
Sparkles, butterflies in the stomach, the whole package that
comes with love. They are only in their early twenties yet it proves to be a
strong and long lasting love. The butterfly on the cover has a special meaning
which the reader is told only later.
Among the
several passages that I underlined for myself I translated the following for
the blog:
I learned
that it was through writing that I can go anywhere, I can become friends with
anyone, I can solve all the mysteries, won’t be treated badly by anyone, make
time-travel true, select anything that I like, and discard the rest. I could
change the flow of life. But only on the white pages of a notebook since in
real life, such things don’t happen. I
realized that there is an evident connection between writing and leaving. (47)
I
mentioned the magic of words. Doesn’t it sound fancy! That magic has been lost
long ago, and was replaced by an electronic dictionary basic enough to enable
communication between the primitive people whereas I thought words were there
to stay forever. Aren’t people fine with sentences which are shortened every
day, ways of narration which got into a faster pace, a repetition of a feeling
which has remained indescribable after centuries-long attempts of writing in a
song in its most common form? I reckon that the answer is yes, they are fine
with them. (53)
***
If I were
to write a novel about Cyprus, I’ll make sure to compose scenes to introduce the
reader two of my favorite traditions regarding Northern Cyprus among dozens: Leis made of jasmine flowers and incense
against the evil eye made of olive leaves. I wish Kürşat Başar somehow included
these elements in his story. Instead he left them for me, I guess:) There is something so poetic, so
beautiful about the jasmine leis that melt my defenses. I slept with one last Saturday.
The mesmerizing scent of the whole room led me to peaceful dreams. Although I
was told that its lifespan is for one day only, I still kept it for another
day, this time in my closet. Best and the most organic perfume ever! Another
well-kept secret of the island.
Here are
references to jasmine leis in Mehmet Levent’s poem “Lefkoşa”:
…It is in this city
that we give necklaces
of jasmine blossoms
to our girlfriends
that are sold
by poor children….
The first time I saw the olive leaf incense being offered (!) was at a
restaurant called Archway in 2007 and
I had no clue then. Clean but poor-looking villagers were wandering around the
tables, people would smudge themselves and tip the sellers whatever they feel
like. Honestly, what is the price of warding off the evil eye? In time, I
learned how to approach and appreciate it. Now I make sure to gently smudge
myself with the smoke of the incense to be protected from the envious looks and
ill-meant gossip before I leave the house of my best friend. In fact, her
mother requires it:)
The tradition of burning olive leaves may simply stem from a
farming practice of burning old olive cuttings, to remove any remaining
disease, and invigorate the trees for the next harvest. The cuttings from the
trees provide a welcome source of extra firewood for the olive growers during
the winter months. Okay, someone please stop me because I can talk about olives
for hours and non-stop! I want to finish reading Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s Americanah
and move on to Ahmet Hamdi Tanpınar’s Beş
Şehir (Five Cities).
Note: My special
thanks go to Saritha Chandrasekhar who kindly agreed to edit this entry, and
to Zehra Gören for posing with her
fresh jasmine lei.
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