Dear Shameless Death

INTRODUCTION

BY SALIHA PAKER

Latife Tekin was twenty-three when she decided to write what she described as ‘a razzle-dazzle novel, a book full of sound and shimmering light, whichever way you looked at it’.¹ She had finished high school, was married and had a son. The military coup of 1980 had put an end to all activism, so she devoted herself entirely to her book. When Tekin announced to her family that she would be writing a novel about her village, her father made her write down all the fairy tales, folk epics, games and türküs (folk songs) that he knew. Her elder brother organized a gathering of fellow villagers, now migrants in Istanbul, who had known Latife from childhood and were ready to offer their contribution to a ‘collective novel’. Each man was appointed to give an account of his recollections of the village. But Latife had to remind them first of the painful experience of separation from the village she could never forget, and of the suffering they had all endured in the city. ‘Everyone was silent, their eyes cast down. Finally a very old man addressed me formally and respectfully and began his tale. I listened to incredible stories of poverty and thieving. The most striking account concerning djinns and fairies was about Sarıkız. I dreamt of her that night,’ explained Latife Tekin in a piece she wrote in 1984.² Sarıkız, the fair-haired witch, would appear in an early section of Dear Shameless Death riding naked on the back of a donkey, terrorizing the villagers at night.

Every culture has its mysteries, ones that are elusive, sometimes impossible to define to outsiders. However, a work of fiction can, in an unexpectedly imaginative manner, find its way into a culture, into indigenous resources, and draw readers into its own universe where mysteries are part of life, no matter how different or alien that culture may be. Latife Tekin’s Dear Shameless Death was recognized as such a work of fiction by a Turkish readership that was at once captivated and mystified by the novel when it was first published in 1983.

Latife Tekin was no doubt aware of how strange her own fictional world would appear in the eyes of the ‘enlightened’ urban Turkish reader, wary of magic and superstition. Yet when she wrote the statement for the back cover of the first edition of Sevgili Arsız Ölüm, published by Adam Yayınları, she mentioned her acquaintance with djinns in the same breath, and in the same factual manner, as her place of birth, her early schooling and her family. By introducing djinns among her autobiographical facts, she was calling upon the reader not simply to connect life with fiction but also reality with magic. Her telling statement, never reproduced in any of the subsequent editions of the book, which was an instant bestseller, will be remembered as Latife Tekin’s very first comments on her début as a writer:

‘I was born in 1957 in the village of Karacafenk, near the town of Bünyan in the province of Kayseri. I started school as soon as I learnt to walk. The school was the men’s lounge in our house. I learnt to read and write as I played with the djinns under the divans. Djinns and fairies used to live under the divans in Karacafenk. I spent my childhood among them, secretly joining their community. I went to see their homes, their weddings and learnt their language, their day games and night games. My father used to work in Istanbul. I forget now who told me that my mother was a strange woman with a broken heart. She was literate, she knew how to sew, give injections and speak Kurdish and Arabic. She used to enquire from the gypsies that came to the village about places and people unknown to me. Her searchings for her past were the first pains that touched my childhood. My father used to come back from Istanbul with sacks full of money and gather the villagers around him. There were strange gadgets, magic metals in and around our home: a clock, a radio, a gramophone, a big blue bus, a harvester, a water pump, a truck and a tractor. I didn’t really know what they were for.

‘In 1966 I came to live in Istanbul. It felt like a sharp pain that split up my childhood. Unfulfilled dreams tore apart the people that I grew up with. My father quickly became working-class, then gradually fell into unemployment. Three brothers worked on construction sites. I finished high school, slipping away like a trembling shadow from seven brothers and sisters. I paid the price of going to school in fear and loneliness, subjected to a thousand denials and pressures and buffeted unimaginably. I fought hard to keep up with the city and was bruised all over. During my struggles I fell apart from those that I grew up with. But I resisted so that I wouldn’t lose my own values, my language and the constant and passionate love that those people bore for me. This book is the reward for my resistance, from the people I grew up with. As for the narrative, I wish I had broken it up and written it sooner, and more breathlessly.’

In 1950, seven years before Latife Tekin was born, a school teacher by the name of Mahmut Makal published Bizim Köy (Our Village), a narrative account of his village in Niǧde. It was an unassuming piece, but the first of its kind to attract immediate attention to the hardships of rural life in Turkey.

Many years before, in 1932, Yakup Kadri Karaosmanoǧlu, a major novelist, had published Yaban (The Stranger), also a bleak portrait of a central Anatolian village, set during the War of Liberation preceding the foundation of the Republic in 1923. In Turkish literary criticism it has been important to dwell on the sociological dimension to these texts, pointing out, for instance, that Yaban was written by an outsider, from an outsider’s point of view, while Bizim Köy belonged to an insider, a native of the village. The immediate impact of Mahmut Makal’s narrative focused literary attention upon rural life and eventually gave rise to the so-called ‘Village Novel’, a genre that was to dominate realistic fiction for the next two decades. Dear Shameless Death, however, has nothing to do with the conventions of realistic Turkish fiction, rural or urban. Nor does it represent a subsequent literary ‘phase’. Along with Latife Tekin’s four later novels, it is the first in a unique corpus which, in essence, not only defies such conventions but explodes them.

Back in 1950, Makal’s book corresponded with a changing paradigm in Turkish politics. It was published in the same year the Democrat Party, formed in 1946 during the shift to the multi-party system, came to power, where it would remain until the military coup of 1960. In fact, the Democrat Party had won a stunning victory in the national elections on a rising tide of populist promises, heartily welcomed by the peasants. The change in government resulted in various policies which began transforming village and city alike in the 1950s. The most important of these, for an understanding of the background to Dear Shameless Death, were the economic policies that triggered migrations to the cities, which continue to this day, in search of better prospects.

It is also worth remembering, for the same reasons, that the Democrat Party, relying on the benefits of having joined the NATO alliance after taking part in the Korean War during the early 1950s, encouraged with renewed vigour the communist hunts that had begun in the late 1930s and were pursued intermittently into the 1940s. Both NATO and the Korean War find farcical echoes in the collective memory voiced in Dear Shameless Death and Latife Tekin’s second novel, Berji Kristin: Tales from the Garbage Hills. As for ‘communist’, the unmentionable bogeyman that kept its obsessive hold on Turkish society up until the 1990s, this concept finds its place in Dear Shameless Death, in the fantastic order of things.

Latife Tekin was nine years old and about to finish primary school when she moved to Istanbul with her family in 1966. Twenty-eight years later, in a 1994 interview,³ she described their migration from the village:

‘Our fathers were roadworkers. Mine too. First they built the roads. We came to this city building the roads, travelling the roads our fathers built. Poor and routeless, we had no other way. But that way we settled in houses which had been left to decay by their residents who did not want to live in them anymore, who were so angry about them that they wanted to burn them down and who finally abandoned them. We crowded into those houses in huge numbers. Our fathers then built new houses for the people who didn’t want the old ones any more. And this was a process for much celebration – just like that experienced when Turks first went to work in Germany. It was a joyful encounter. There was no sense of repulsion at first. I, too, experienced the happiness of that joyful encounter. For the people who came to the city promised something and found encouragement. So we settled in those unwanted houses. Their architecture, everything about them, was alien to us. We gazed in wonder at their ceilings, their wood panelling, their ovens. Our fathers built new houses for the old residents, and we paid them back in rent from the money our fathers earnt by building them new homes. Because those people were our landlords, the process had begun so unfairly that the two sides could never really meet; them and us were two extremities far apart and opposed to each other.’

The unnamed city in Dear Shameless Death is Istanbul. Latife/Dirmit and her family came to live there, not in the squatter huts, described in Berji Kristin: Tales of the Garbage Hills, built overnight, but in the derelict wooden mansions in an old neighbourhood of Beşiktaş, near the Yıldız Palace overlooking the Marmara mouth of the Bosphorus. They were the de facto heirs to the old heritage of Istanbul, about which they knew nothing. It is clear from interviews with Latife Tekin and from the narrative of Dear Shameless Death that impoverishment was the consequence rather than the reason for their displacement from the village.

Latife Tekin has often mentioned that her Istanbul experience is associated in her mind with ‘a sense of want’, which ‘never went away’ and which became acutely important for her when she realized that what ‘shut [her] out’ was language.⁴ In an interview given on the publication of her fifth novel Aşk İsaretleri (Signs of Passion),⁵ Tekin argued that ever since her childhood days in the city, power had always meant language to her. All doors seemed open to her and her people, ‘except the language of others, which filled the air with sounds and sentences, words, signs and implications’ that kept shutting them out, shutting them up, leaving them ‘in a fatal struggle for breath’. ‘That is why, when I made up my mind to write, I declared I would write in my home voice, the language we spoke at home,’ she said. Inseparable from this was her mother’s voice, which ‘had sunk in like burning hot lead flowing through her ears’ after her mother’s death.⁶ The punning Turkish title of Dear Shameless Death, which is dedicated to the memory of her mother, can also means ‘my dear shameless dead one’.

As a device that can ‘do and undo our world’,⁷ language has remained the central constitutive agent in all five of Latife Tekin’s novels. The internal dynamics of her fiction have called upon her to construct a different style for each, which gains an increasingly deconstructive thrust in her later novels. When she decided to write Dear Shameless Death, she could tell that the conventional discourse and dramatic framework for the realistic novel would not work for the kind of fiction she had in mind. About this she said: ‘In Dear Shameless Death, I laid my foundations on the logic of language, and the way it reflects how our people perceive themselves, the world and others. Interestingly, they proceed from the parts to the whole, not the other way around… I discovered this, exploring the logic of Turkish…thinking of my readership. My book had to be understood by fellow migrants, who tended to identify with the heroes in the traditional folk epics, but it also had to offer something to the enlightened public, something to which they could relate. In other words, I wanted to catch the universal.’⁸ The fact that Tekin has often identified herself as a ‘writer outside literature’ becomes more meaningful in this context.⁹

Drawing on the family idiom, the oral history sessions with the migrant community, their religious beliefs and superstitious practices, Latife Tekin embraced the fantastic and the supernatural in the tradition of Turkish storytelling and constructed a narrative which can accurately be described in the words of Gabriel García Márquez commenting on his own One Hundred Years of Solitude: ‘A linear history where the extraordinary fuses, in all innocence, with the commonplace.’¹⁰ The vulgarized versions of the epics of Battal Gazi, medieval Islamic heroic narratives which were Turkicized over the ages and committed to writing, is the only explicit reference made in Dear Shameless Death to anything remotely literary. But the critic Berna Moran has drawn up a list of Turkish and Ottoman sources, whose influence can be traced in Dear Shameless Death. These include tales from The Book of Dede Korkut, a major pre-Islamic epic which originated in Central Asia, and from Evliya Çelebi’s seventeeth-century Book of Travels.¹¹

Berna Moran has also observed that Dear Shameless Death is as much an outsider’s account of ‘village culture’ as an insider’s. This is in response to the critic Murat Belge, who had convincingly argued that the importance of Dear Shameless Death rests in an authorial perspective that is rooted inside the village. Belge had pointed out that the genre known as the ‘Village Novel’ ‘was a product of novelists of peasant origin who were educated at state teacher training (village) institutes, and who viewed the novel as a political act devoted to explaining rural reality to an urban audience for the purpose of transforming that reality’. In Belge’s view this was a ‘pedagogical approach’, representing ‘an outsider’s view of the village’: novelists who wrote in this genre had ‘internalized the dominant ideology of the urban intelligentsia and assimilated its world-view’, and had therefore ‘externalized the reality into which they were born’. By contrast, Belge argued that Latife Tekin does not write within the ‘westernisation-progress’ paradigm in modern Turkish fiction and that Dear Shameless Death ‘reflects a new reality, that of the social context of rural–urban migration’. Far from having anything to do with escapism, ‘Latife Tekin’s is a fantasy with definite social roots. In this sense, Dear Shameless Death cannot be called an imitation of the Latin American novel’. Like Yashar Kemal, working through ‘villagers’ consciousness’, Latife Tekin has produced ‘an insider’s view of Turkish rural life’.¹²

Berna Moran, on the other hand, draws attention to the two worlds present in Dear Shameless Death: the sacred world of beliefs and the material world, which overlap and become one in the peasant villagers’ perception of reality. These gradually become differentiated as the narrative follows the migration to the city, engendering ‘an ideological conflict’ between Dirmit and her family. Atiye, the omnipresent mother, is the most conservative and remains firmly rooted in the undivided world. To cope with problems in the city, she relies on the irrational even more than she did in the village: casting and breaking spells, turning on the taps of fountains to open the way for good fortune, consulting hodjas for amulets to protect against evil, pouring molten lead into boiling water to get rid of the evil eye, etc. Ironically, it is Atiye who insists on a secular education for her daughter, so Dirmit goes to school and turns into a headstrong teenager with a will and a way of her own. Moran points out that Dirmit’s gradual ideological and cultural detachment from her family is one that is ‘shared’ by the narrator’s voice in Dear Shameless Death. This voice is intimately rooted in the family’s common language and culture, and duly exploits the supernatural and fantastic devices that belong in the tradition of Turkish fairy tales, folk tales, popular epics in a manner similar to that of Márquez, Asturias and Rushdie, among others, but it can also adopt a mischievous, mocking distance to family perceptions and behaviour.¹³

However, Dear Shameless Death is not all irony and humour. The narrator’s external perspective also brings in a different dimension, that of the ‘other’. A telling example which became apparent during the translation of this book, is the author’s double designation for ‘God’. In the vocabulary attributed to Atiye and her family, the supreme divinity is the traditional Allah of Islam, which we have kept as ‘Allah’, while in the narrator’s idiom it is the secularized ‘Tanrı’, a word of ancient Turkic origin, which we translated as ‘God’. This can be taken as a further indication of a religious–ideological difference, or of the emerging difference of modernity in a culture that now aspires to rational thinking, with which Dirmit connects herself – even while in the village, experimenting with the radio – through her questionings and passionate desire for seeking and finding reasons.

It can, however, also be related to a subversive strategy in the narrative. Some significant thematic links seem to exist between the so-called primitive and modern worlds in Dear Shameless Death, regarding the functions of djinns and communists. Djinns originated in the collective imagination of the pre-Islamic peoples. Passing into Islamic folklore, they were conceived as supernatural creatures that could also assume human or animal form. Studies in Turkish folklore show that such figures in Dear Shameless Death as the fair-haired girl-witch Sarıkız, the exhibitionist Neighing Boy, who is possibly a cross between a young man and a horse, and Dirmit’s imaginary donkeys that bray ‘ninnisare’, a nonsense word coined by the author, could well be djinns in disguise. Djinns are believed to be capable of harm when disturbed by human beings, but also of assisting them under special circumstances, as is the case with Kepse in Dear Shameless Death. In the Koran it is said that some djinns chose the path of Allah while others remained evil, destined to burn in hell. Belief in their evil power is heresy according to official Islam, but in popular practice an exorcist like Djinnman Memet can be called upon to cleanse a person of what appear to be signs of possession by djinns, as happens when Atiye is pregnant with Dirmit.

In Dear Shameless Death, Kepse appears as a particularly powerful djinn whose possible association with Huvat is rumoured to be the cause of Huvat’s exceptionally enterprising travels outside the village. As for Dirmit, her fated affinity with djinns is marked, or ‘notched’, by the exorcising Djinnman Memet, even before her birth.

If djinns belong to the realm of the fantastic in Dear Shameless Death’s, village setting, so does the notion of the ‘communist’. Generally pronounced ‘commonist’ – komonist – by countryfolk, it can alternately be used to identify Dirmit’s favourite school teacher who suddenly disappears, an aeroplane that flies over the village and frightens everybody, and somebody’s son-in-law who flies an aeroplane. These mysterious metamorphoses turn out to be a major source of both confusion and fascination for little Dirmit’s rational way of thinking. Like djinns, ‘commonist’ is implicitly understood to be elusive, sinister and subversive. In the urban setting, however, djinns and communists connect instantly and explicitly when Huvat, on hearing that she is not a believer like he and the rest of the family, denounces Dirmit, the ‘djinned girl’, as ‘commonist’.

As a teenager, Dirmit grows up in the Istanbul of the 1970s, a decade of political repression and unrest. The city saw protests, rioting and violence between extreme leftists, nationalists and religious fanatics like the black-bearded hodja who leads Dirmit’s father, Huvat, into the thick of a violent demonstration against students. Huvat’s intermittent devotion to the holy ‘green books’, the temporary conversion of Dirmit’s elder brother, Halit, first into a hodja dressed in a black shalvar, then into a reader of books on Turkism, the Turkish nationalist movement whose origins date back to the nineteenth century, and Dirmit’s participation in the left-wing teachers’ protest march are further signs of an ideological diversity that is reflected in the family. Simultaneously an insider and an outsider, Latife Tekin forges a certain link between identifying the ‘other’ as ‘djinned’ and as ‘commonist’. This has implications for an understanding of the entire narrative. As Fredric Jameson explained in his essay ‘Magical Narratives: Romance as Genre’, identifying difference as evil ‘is at one with the category of otherness itself: evil characterizes whatever is radically different from me, whatever by virtue of precisely that difference seems to constitute a very real and urgent threat to my existence’.¹⁴ In Dear Shameless Death, it is not only Dirmit who is stigmatized as ‘other’, but Atiye, too, at various points in the narrative, for example when she is pregnant with her first child and later starts speaking a different language, presumably Kurdish. And, most conspicuously, Zekiye comes to represent ‘otherness’ when the witch Sarıkız inflicts upon her – and all the other young brides in the village – the oppression of silence, characteristic of daughters-in-law serving the family. Using the fantastic mode, Latife Tekin has not simply textured an unusual, ‘authentic’ folkloric interpretation of a community’s culture which is both homogeneous and capable of being easily captured in realistic terms for a realistic narrative. By the very use of the fantastic, she has subverted the homogeneity of such an interpretation, making ‘otherness’ visible both within that culture and in the much broader modern cultural framework in which it is located.

It was perhaps just such a feature of the narrative that led John Berger to comment on the French version of Dear Shameless Death: ‘Latife Tekin…too knows that life stories are composed of gestures and murmurs, rather than of words and deeds. This book (about her native village) is a carpet of immutable gestures woven by country women. Each gesture is a white knot, a black knot, or a brightly coloured one, tied fast by four nimble fingers, at the end of our dark century. I know of no other storyteller with hands like Latife Tekin’s.’¹⁵

REFERENCES

1 ‘Dinlediklerim gözyaşı olup akarsa, neyi yazarým?’ Gösteri, January, 1984, p. 81.

2 Ibid.

3 ‘Istanbul is hurt about us’, translated by Saliha Paker in Mediterraneans 10, Istanbul, Many Worlds/Méditerranéens 10, Istanbul, un monde pluriel, (eds) Kenneth Brown and Robert Waterhouse, Winter 1997–1998. L’Association Méditerranéens, Paris, France and Yapi Kredi Culture & Arts Publications Inc., Istanbul, pp. 128–129.

4 Ibid.

5 Interview with Gamze Varim, Cumhuriyet, March 18, 1995.

6 ‘Dinlediklerim…’ op.cit.

7 Milliyet, February 23, 1995.

8 Gösteri, March, 1984, p. 89.

9 Hürriyet, September 5, 1988.

10 Plinio Apuleyo Mendoza. 1988. The Fragrance of Guava, Conversations with Gabriel García Márquez. London/Boston: Faber & Faber. p. 74.

11 Berna Moran, ‘10 yıl sonra Sevgili Arsız Ölüm, Gösteri, February, 1993, p. 12–13.

12 Murat Belge, from the English summary of ‘The Turkish Novel and Sevgili Arsız Ölüm (Dear Impertinent Death)’, Toplum ve Bilim, no. 25/26, 1984, p. 69.

13 Berna Moran, op.cit., pp. 14, 16.

14 Fredric Jameson, ‘Magical narratives: romance as genre’, New Literary History, 7, no. 1 (Autumn 1975), p. 140.

15 John Berger, ‘Livres – Hommages des Auteurs’‚ Libération, January 1, 1998.

Huvat Aktas travelled for a whole day and a night, ending his journey at noon by the sheepfold in the village of Alacüvek. This time he brought a bright blue bus with him. The bus had collected quite a bit of dust along the way but it still stood gleaming like a mirror in the fiery rays of the sun.

At first the villagers were horrified by this outlandish contraption the likes of which they had never seen. But in that moment of pure amazement, while some blew prayers to the right and left or panicked and almost wet their pants, a few risked touching the bus gingerly. Huvat Aktas was so childishly delighted with the effect the bus had on the villagers that he didn’t even mind that they ignored his smoke-coloured suit and felt hat. With the help of the driver he embarked on a long explanation about the bus and its virtues. He opened the baggage compartment to show off its interior and lifted the hood so they could take turns inspecting the engine. Most of the villagers, however, except for a few adventurous souls, mostly children, refused to set foot in the bus.

Before then, the inhabitants of Alacüvek hadn’t done much travelling, even on donkey-back. They only went short distances from the village. And to get to town, which they didn’t visit all that often anyway, they had come up with an ingenious way to shorten the long trip. As soon as they left the village they used to break into a run as if a wild bull were breathing hard down their necks. Once exhausted, they would heave a huge rock onto their backs and trudge on for a while, puffing and panting. Then they would throw down the rock and, feeling as light as a bird, dash on again. So when they first saw the bus they weren’t immediately able to shake their fear of it. However, once they had tasted its pleasures, they began to see how tiring and pointless it was to walk. Then they started taking the bus to the fields, the vineyards and even the sheepfold.

Of all the novelties Huvat had brought to the village up until then, the bus was undoubtedly the best. The first time he had shown up with a stove. He thought it was an important invention that would save people from having to crowd round the tandır oven all winter. But the villagers were so uninterested in the stove that Huvat lost his temper.

Before he had even wiped the dust off his shoes, he let loose a bellyful of words, trying to explain the stove’s benefits to those who had gathered around him. After burning up half a hayloft of vetch-grass in it, he grew so angry that he left the village, firmly vowing never to set foot there again. But one day he did show up again, this time with an enormous box under his arm. It was a talking box, and all of Alacüvek was thrown into an uproar over it. Everyone stopped eating, drinking and sleeping. Two women were so scared that they miscarried, and over half the villagers felt faint whenever they stood near the radio. But it wasn’t long before Huvat arrived with something that made them forget all about the talking box. This time it was a woman, with flame-red cheeks and milky skin. And her head and legs were bare.

For days on end the poor woman was surrounded by a crowd of women and children, who never stopped pawing her. They rubbed her face with the edge of their yashmaks moistened with spit to see if the redness was real and they tugged at her hair and skirt. She was soon worn down to skin and bones. Finally she collapsed and fainted. Then they knew why three sheep had bloated up and died one after the other, why the hen who laid double-yolked eggs had stopped laying and why Huvat’s mother had fallen off the wooden veranda. All were caused by the ill-omened woman who was possessed by a djinn. Their first thought was to strangle her and dump her body somewhere, but they were afraid of her djinn, so they threw out her mattress and bedding and, after a lot of talk, shut her up in the stable.

On her first night in the stable the woman dreamt she was bending over an iron cradle to kiss a sleeping baby. Then she left through an iron door. From that time on, whenever she closed her eyes she had the same dream until she was having it while she was awake. This went on until a long-haired, snow-white talking goat charged at her. She shouted at the top of her voice, but the goat muttered some incomprehensible words instead of backing off, and hurled itself straight at her. Just then a ball of light dropped from above and the goat’s hair turned pitch black. Slowly the goat backed away and disappeared. From then on the saintly Hızır Aleyhisselam never left the woman alone in the stable. Sometimes he appeared as an old man with a radiant face and snow-white beard and at others as a ball of light. Sometimes he was only a voice. One evening, when the woman had been in the stable almost nine months, she was seized by stabbing pains from her waist down to her tailbone. She writhed about on the ground and bellowed like a calf as tears streamed from her eyes. The pangs were so powerful that after a while her bones cracked open and her waters broke, gushing hot from her womb. And there on the straw at her feet lay a girl-child as big as the chimney of a paraffin lamp.

At that moment, Hızır Aleyhisselam came to the baby’s rescue, this time sending Akkadın, White Woman, in his place. For years Akkadın had been awaiting her day of fulfilment. ‘Hu Allah!’ she would call in winter by the tandır and from the veranda in summer. She came