The Bastard of Istanbul

Elif SHAFAK, Viking Books, 2007

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When you didn’t tell anyone the extraordinary, everyone assumed the ordinary . . .

Imagination was a dangerously captivating magic for those compelled to be realistic in life, and words could be poisonous for those always destined to be silenced . . . If you couldn’t help harboring higher aspirations in life, you should at least harbor only simple desires, reduced in passion and ambition, as if you had been de-energized and now had only enough strength to be average. With a fate and family like this, Armanoush had to learn to downplay her talents and do her best not to glimmer too brightly.

Dedim sana altin liralar icin gelmiş olmah

At three o’clock in the afternoon, exhausted and hungry, they entered a restaurant, which Asya said was a must, since it was here that one could find the best chicken döner in town. They each got a döner and a large glass of frothy yogurt drink.

An expression of puzzlement passed over Armanoush’s face.
“But you also said you didn’t want to know your past. Now you sound different”
“I do?” Asya asked. “Well, let’s put it this way, I have conflicting voices inside me with respect to this issue.”

I don’t think zealousness is going to help us,” he said, barely getting his voice above a whisper. It was his belief that nationalist zeal would solely serve to replace one misery for another, inevitably working against the deprived and the dispossessed. In the end, minorities tore themselves apart from the larger entity at a great cost, only to create their own oppressors. Nationalism was no more than a replenishment of oppressors. Instead of being oppressed by someone of a different ethnicity, you ended up being oppressed by someone of your own.

But instead of an answer all she got from her benevolent djinni was a bashful smile and a sudden shimmer of the corona around her head, flickering in shades of plum, pink, and purple. Together with the djinni’s corona, a thorny question flares up: Was it better for human beings to discover more of their past? And then more and more . . .? Or was it simply better to know as little of the past as possible and even forget what small amount was remembered?