Almost seventeen years after its publication, picking up this book which has been in my reading list for quite some time, I pondered if I was truly ready to read The Bastard of Istanbul. Every book I’ve read so far has had a strong effect on me. If it was a romance novel, I'd feel the yearnings of the characters way after the book ended, if it was a comedy, the next few days would be full of sunshine. But the tragedies gave me sleepless nights. And I’m quite fond of sleeping.
And so I’ve stalled reading this book half on account of the various non-spoiler reviews friends gave me and half due to the title ominously pasted in pale white amidst the glistening golden art bordering it. When there’s a book that has been read by your peers and verbally reviewed in so many ways, there’s almost no fresh start to the story, you expect it to hit and simply brace yourself.
For many of us here, Istanbul and Turkey represents the stories of the Hagia Sophia’s architectural marvel, vibrant rugs and carpets, colorful mosaic lamps that we find ludicrously expensive yet unable to take our eyes off at our international trade fair stalls, baklava, and my personal favorite - Turkish coffee.
But the idea of a bastard, in one of the proud and notable Muslim countries isn’t easy to swallow, especially when according to the laws of the shariah, women are stoned to death if they commit adultery. Yet, the laws of the world are always changing, and it’s easier to ignore and deny the truth of our 'sins' than to admit guilt and take responsibility for the atrocities committed. Just like when Grandma Gülsüm, the oldest lucid matriarch of the Kazanci family calls her daughter Zeliha a divorcée, to which she replies, “Ma, for me to be a divorcée, I would have had to have gotten married first. Don’t distort the facts. I cannot be called a divorcée or a grass widow or any of those sticky terms you have in reserve in your glossary for unfortunate women. This daughter of yours is a sinner who wears miniskirts and she loves her nostril ring and she loves the child she gave birth to out of wedlock.”
Much like Zeliha’s miniskirt, and nostril ring, her daughter Asya, turns out to be quite rebellious herself. A nihilist who internalizes the label of 'bastard' to which she’s first introduced to by Grandma Gülsüm. She makes a list in her mind in her Personal Manifesto of Nihilism: “Article One: If you cannot find a reason to love the life you are living, do not pretend to love the life you are living.” Asya goes as far as missing ballet class, rolling her own tobacco, drinking beer and wine, and sleeping with a married dipsomaniac political cartoonist on the verge of going to jail, to keep up not pretending to love the life she is living.
Hers was a life full of eccentric women at home, acquaintances disinterested in each other’s private life at a particular cafe Kundera, and a guest that was arriving from far away with a lot of baggage. Armanoush Tchamakhchian is half from an Armenian family that survived the inhumane mass deportation of 1915, and half from an American mother who’s re-married to the only living male of the Kazanci family - Mustafa, son of Gülsüm. In the hope to put herself in place with the history of horrors and brutality, and finally move forward, Armanoush visits the Kazanci family in Istanbul.
At cafe Kundera, Armanoush is narrated as “a flamboyant gift box with unknown content” when she’s announced as the Armenian American to Asya’s cohorts. As the discussion about her past surfaces, the conversation around the cafe table picks up and quickly escalates. Like so many past tragedies of nations that get sidelined, mixed with misinformed counterpoints, and eventually denied, the conversation of the Armenian ethnic cleansing is also treated similarly.
To bear the knowledge of the crimes committed by one’s ancestors, one must have the resilience of being able to carry the responsibility of humility and empathy
One of the cohorts addressed as the Nonnationalist Scenarist of Ultranationalist Movies, and quite ironically named too, instantly denies the incidents of 1915 simply saying “that didn’t happen.” He moves on to say that there were Turks who were killed by the Armenian rebels too, and that since it was during the Ottoman Empire and not the Turkish regime, he is not responsible and thus cannot be held accountable for any such “pre-modern tragedy” of the “pre-modern era”.
Just like how we resort to fantasy and fiction to escape reality, the character Auntie Banu resorts to magic realism to look into the past and see reality in person with the readers. Her malevolent spiritual guide transports her to the time where the harrowing malfeasance towards Armanoush’s great grandfather occurs. A chain of events follow the brutality to the eventual existence of our title character. Like Auntie Banu’s prayer, we share the sentiment of finally looking at the truth and coming to terms with reality: “Allah, give me knowledge, for I cannot resist the urge to know, but also give me strength to bear that knowledge.”
To bear the knowledge of the crimes committed by one’s ancestors, one must have the resilience of being able to carry the responsibility of humility and empathy. The discussion ensues in an online group chat platform named cafe Constantinople where Asya and Armanoush are met with bitterness. When Asya asks what she can do to ease the pain of the memories of brutality that the Armenians were carrying, someone replies to her saying “Your state can apologize”.
Like so many stalemates of two parties involved in crimes committed and crimes endured during tiring times, The Bastard of Istanbul definitely tries its hand on catharsis and poetic justice through its idealistic conclusion. Nonetheless, the past continues to live through to the present in the book, even after the guilty have convicted themselves and passed the verdict.
The closure falls like rain and dignifies the seemingly fragile that survived through the burden of the past.
* Jannati Hossain can be reached at [email protected]