Vacuum of Non-Existence - 2

What made me try to imagine and write about my grandfather, Ejder’s death, was a series of important developments in my family and particularly an interesting anecdote that got refreshed on my memory after a recent family meeting. I don’t know why but most of the thoughts on my mind nowadays are about “The Family”.

I was only 40 days old when he died. Now looking back, during my early childhood that I spent in his apartment with my mother, aunts and widowed grandmother, they seemed to be living in a state of sad harmony with a continuous sense of supporting each other as if they were navigating through some crisis. Only I didn’t know what the crisis was all about by then apart from the very evident feeling of that emptiness that seemed to be sharing the apartment with us. It was like an invisible creature that would first provoke generation of emotions and then suck them all in like a black hole in an urge of survival of the family universe. It was the vacuum of his non-existence that he left behind in the family and the vacuum alone became my grandfather.

At first he was like a mystical myth. Stories told about him had left an impression of perfection on me and as my limited life experience by then wasn’t rich enough to allow me to question the hero concept, he became my hero. A clever intellectual who had marginal/mystical interests (namely, claiming to be a medium, an enthusiast of telekinesis and member of some esoteric organization), someone who wasn’t afraid to stand out. Growing more powerful on me with the help of this charismatic image, this emotion vacuum I grew up around, became something due to be filled in me during my teenage years.

Objects have helped a great deal in this quest. When I was 16, I started to smoke his pipe that I had found in his dusty closet of books to be still filled with the ashes of his last smoke. And when I was 18, I was given his watch which I’m still keeping today.

As I grew on though, stories told about him started to change. Perhaps it was only the length of time that had passed since his death. Or the urge the three sisters and their mother felt to come into peace with their past. But they started to dig out most private things even in our, their children’s presence. I always liked this openness in my greater family which I attribute to the female dominance in it. His weak sides started to appear as well among the ones of my grandmother.

As his perfect image started to decay, I started to feel even more connected to him. And perhaps most ironically, something else started to happen. Even though we didn't have much in common in the way we look, more and more cases started to occur, where older relatives would catch odd things like a look, a comment I would make upon a little thing, where they would say that they caught Ejder in me.

His vacuum became a teacher – a mentor if you will – for me, showing we are not supposed to be perfect and if we try to be perfect, we are doomed to lead a crippled life.

About 10 years ago, I came back from school to find a little red agenda lying on our dining table. It looked like as if it was beamed there from outer space. Its binding was quite worn but intact. With a great curiosity, I started to page through. It was more like a diary written by someone with a hard to read hand writing. Owner's name wasn't written.

I called my mother in awe to ask where it came from. She was still excited about the story: Apparently a week before, it was found in a second-hand bookstore by one of my aunt's rather strange friends who was into old books and diaries. He immediately recognized it to be my grandfather’s diary for by then his wife in future's, my now grandmother's name, Süverce, which was frequently mentioned in the diary is a really rare name. We don't believe there are more than a handful people with this name in Turkey. So thinking that she must be that Süverce, he brought it to my aunt which was then relayed to my mother.

"Ask for your grandmother's permission if you want to read" my mother said. I didn't listen to her. I perceived it to be a crucial document to understand my roots, not a document of privacy. I also felt that learning about private matters about my grandmother from 50 years ago wouldn't harm anyone or anything. Besides, even if she had allowed me to read it, she still could have felt bad about it. So without having the slightest bit of bad conscience I started to read.

I read about this young man who was about the same age as me when this encounter happened. He was apparently in love with his fiancée, Süverce, that was the most frequently mentioned figure in his diary. I read about their almost daily routine where he would pick up his sweetheart in the evening to go to movies together at Istiklal street - a street where 40 years later I would spend my high school days. Movie names, actors and actresses’ names were exclusively recorded. I read about his depression about working at his father's publishing house and his protest yet submissive style when describing his father's trips to strange places. Then about their moderate wedding and some other interesting details I won't disclose here.

At last, this was a direct contact to the owner of the vacuum.

The taste remained after that reading is still very vivid today. There are not many things in the world that is as fulfilling as to learn more about someone whose vacuum you have been used to. 


I believe to get to know someone is not strictly dependent on the amount of time we spend together. It is more like related to the depth of bondage you were able to build. In Ejder's case, I grew up around the vacuum of his non-existence which actually turned out to be as effective as his very existence. After all, the persons you love are not necessarily the ones you see most but the ones with whom you could connect and maintain that bondage.

3 minutes over Istanbul

I came across this video when looking for multimedia art pieces about Istanbul. It is by far my favorite so far. Most of the images in it are more likely to be from early 80s. Things covered look different than they do now and of course things that developed at mind numbing pace in the last 20 years are missing. But the essential feeling about Istanbul and about being an Istanbullu is to be felt in here. I could at best describe it as a mystical sadness that could only be found in the joy of living. Like the lover far away.

Vacuum of Non-Existence - 1

February in Istanbul can be strikingly cold. Temperatures rarely hit below zero, dominant northern winds and humidity swept from seas surrounding the city however make it nothing but painful to be outside especially at night time. It is such nights where you would rather stay at home to make some tea and appreciate the warmth of your home, perhaps watch TV, read a book or look through your window at deserted, wet streets, listening to sounds of a car or a rushing pedestrian rarely passing by.

It was a such cold night in 1978, when Ejder, a bald, chubby man at his mid 50's, was woken by a depressing feeling in his chest. He opened his eyes in the dark with an urge to put his point and middle fingers on his neck to feel his artery. The heart seemed to be beating fine. He checked with his hand on his wife sleeping by, seated himself in bed and listened to the cold silence of the sleeping apartment for a while. Then with a naughty hope that his restlessness might soothe if he grabbed a late night snack from the kitchen, he slowly stood up.

Trying to be as silent as possible, with clumsy steps he found his way to the hallway of the apartment which he found being bleakly illuminated by the reddish, heavy light that was oozing out of her eldest daughter's room. “Poor Mine” he thought to himself smiling and knocked on the door and opened it to find his daughter afoot trying to convince her newly born baby to sleep.

The young mother, Mine, was only 22 and it had been less than 6 months since she came back with a surprise baby in her womb along with a surprise fiancee holding her hand from Ankara where she actually was supposed to be studying engineering and not making babies.

Ejder remembered it very clearly the day they showed up in his apartment. He at first was shocked but then quite quickly he grew to like the imposed groom, a charming young man coming from a little, poor village in Thrace who was smart enough to make his way to the primary engineering school in the country despite his economical disadvantages. But why he liked his new son in law was mostly because he could convince himself he wasn’t class conscious, one of the many features in his character that he had developed as a passive aggressive reaction to his own father. He didn’t resist his father much openly when he had the chance but chose to be the opposite person instead to disappoint him. This was the way he was dealing with his dominant, highly individual, selfish, eccentric father.

The young lovers got married in a Blitz fashion before the belly became too visible and only one month after their surprising appearance, his daughter had to send her husband back to Ankara to finish his school.

Ejder walked in to caress Mine's tired head. He wanted to provide but also find some comfort. She however in all of her frustration, tiredness and loneliness in the absence of her husband wasn’t in a state to cope with such warmth. All she could think about was to put her son to sleep. She asked his father to leave her alone in an almost impudent, plaintive manner without even looking at him. Something she was going to regret for the rest of her life.

In slight disappointment, Ejder left her room and moved on through the dark hallway to kitchen. He opened the fridge door and stood in front of it for a while scratching his big belly in a sweet state of indecision. Then he took butter and jam out to prepare a slice of bread for himself. He quickly smeared the butter on the bread, spread the jam on it and took an impatient bite right there in the kitchen with a childish joy. There he felt it. The restlessness in his chest started to take shape of a sharp pain and grow to the point it felt suddenly as if something was trying to rip his ribcage open from inside.

Feeling utterly helpless, with the great pain, he tried to grab his heart, knelt down onto the kitchen floor first, then he laid down on his side. His eyes got fixed at the dust pile under the fridge he could see now. He made a last effort to scream her daughter’s name which was followed by another big blow coming out of his chest.

           

The panic air initiated by Mine invaded quickly the night in the house. All of his three daughters and his wife rushed into the kitchen waking up each other. All the screams, cries, efforts couldn't help and touch him anymore. Nevertheless, it was better not to be alone. He realized what was happening. A great fear coupled with a sadness captured his existence. “It is such an inappropriate time” he thought before giving in to pain that was pulling him away from his body.

 It all ended quickly. When the three young women and their mother realized they lost the father of the house, the loud panic melted into a silent grief that could only be caused by a deep shock. They just stayed in the kitchen, looking at his body with wet eyes. It felt like they were part of an imaginative death cult ritual for a while.

The baby crying from the back of the house brought them back to life. Sisters looked at each other with confused eyes. Mine left the kitchen to check on her son leaving her sisters, mother and death behind in the cold kitchen.

Invitation for Ejder Gulen Akisan's remembrance service to be conducted in Tesvikiye Mosque on March 18th. 1978, 40th. day after this death.

Utanıyoruz! *

Yes - today I'm ashamed to be a Turkish citizen. I'm ashamed to carry the citizenship of a country which sees no problem in hosting an official war criminal - El Beshir, Sudan's president, primary responsible authority for Darfur crimes. And this isn't the first time we did it. It is already the third time in two years of time. But this is the first time after he was officially declared as a war criminal by International Criminal Court in The Hague.

* WE ARE ASHAMED! 

Update on November 8th: What a relief! He's not coming.

Youth for Human Rights

Speaking of incompetent education systems; here is a brilliant campaign that could be a bit of help to fill the gap.

Beat It

Of course, Istanbul had to do it as well. MJ@ Galatasaray square.

Movie Sum Up

As the summer comes to an end, I have started to spend more time on watching movies at home. Here is a short sum up of what I've been seeing in the last couple of weeks and short descriptions of their impression on me:


High and Low / Akira Kurosawa / 1963





This one has been waiting for my attention ever since I came back from India. Calcutta's entertainment stores had a surprisingly good selection of movies at very cheap prices so that I could sample some lesser known Kurosawa and Bergman movies. 


High and Low was a nice and surprisingly entertaining thriller. What I particularly liked about it is the ability to observe how Japanese culture re-interprets itself  to cope with the capitalist world. 


Of course Kurosawa's touch is very evident. His style could at best be described as theatrical. You can tell this by only looking at the way he positions his characters on the screen as if it was a stage. Particularly at negotiation scenes at the main character's villa, every move of his characters (almost 10 of them), number of steps they should walk, angles they should hold to the camera is clearly calculated in great detail and dictated. Just like in Bergman's cinema.


Hiroshima Mon Amor / Alain Resnais / 1959





This one is a tough one. One of the best movies I have seen for quite a long time. 


Actually this wasn't the first time I saw it. I had seen it in Istanbul's film festival some 10 years ago. But by then  the movie just couldn't attract my attention and had bored me to death. It is funny how sometimes you have to experience life first before you can understand such creations.


Hiroshima Mon Amour is about two married people, a Japanese architect and a French actress, falling in love and about the only two days they spend together. The movie is set in Hiroshima with occasional flashbacks to French woman's youth at her home town of Nevers. The terrible emotional baggage Hiroshima carries and scenes shot in Nevers where she had her own share of WWII's horror, act as a brilliant Leitmotiv between the characters' past and today and for that matter between the two characters as well.


The movie has a very famous but also a quite disturbing opening sequence.


Elle: Hi-ro-shi-ma. Hiroshima. That is your name.
Lui: Yes, that is my name. Your name is Ne-vers. Nevers in France. 
---
Elle: You're destroying me. You're good for me. 


Der Baader Meinhof Komplex / Uli Edel / 2008


I think new products of the German cinema like Der Untergang, Das Leben Der Anderen and Fatih Akin's movies mark the brilliant point it has come to. They are easily entertaining yet they never compromise from European sensibility. 


This particular movie is about Rote Armee Fraktion - RAF (Red Army Faction), a terror group which influenced German politics quite harshly in 70s. What I have found particularly interesting was how lost  people could build and rebuild their values to justify their terrible actions; actions that cause them to become marginalized even further and eventually become ever more lost.





The movie opens with the best demonstration scene I have ever seen. It is so well taken that depicted unsymmetrical violence applied by Iranians and by the German police brings tears to your eyes. And the music used at this scene. Oh boy.