Books and Events That Shattered My Mind

Dear Readers:

Life has a paradoxical (contradictory) essence. When you struggle, strive, read, and think, life tires, wearies, and tries to discourage the human mind, but it also enlightens, refreshes, and helps you understand yourself and the universe.

Those who cannot tolerate the paradoxical nature of life leave their books unfinished, turn to professions far below their talents to escape career and future anxieties, and in short, deceive themselves.

On the other hand, for those who take their careers seriously, life first descends upon them like a nightmare, frightening, intimidating, and keeping them awake for years, but in return, it eventually offers them the riches of the world on a silver platter.

MY FATHER'S LIBRARY

I cannot speak for everyone, but for me, my father was an idol. I admired his posture, his speech, his walk, his attire—in short, his charisma. Perhaps because of this, the books my father read interested me; I took them seriously and tried to read them.

Among hundreds of books, only three wearied me, hindered my pleasure in reading, and shattered my mind:

1. Goethe’s book, Faust,
2. Nietzsche’s book, Thus Spoke Zarathustra,
3. Dante’s book, The Divine Comedy.

I was in my last year of middle school. I was browsing and reading the books in the library one by one. Some books opened my soul, gave me pleasure, and I didn't want to put them down. But whenever my hand reached for the three books listed above, a fear and pessimism would settle within me, and the book in my hand would grin and, in a sense, speak to me: "You're having trouble reading me, aren't you? Forget the other books, they're children's tales... The important thing is to understand me."

I must confess, I struggled for many years to unravel the secret of all three books. I read them, or rather, tried to read them, from different translators many times, but I couldn't succeed in reading them thoroughly, to the end, as they say, in one breath. Even though I picked up these books many times during my university years, my attempts to read them always remained incomplete. All three books seemed to challenge me, appearing wherever I went.

My uncle, Fetullah Kakioğlu, and Enver Aytekin, the founder of Sosyal Yayınlar, were detained together during the arrests that went down in history as the "Incident of the 23" in 1963, targeting Kurdish university students and intellectuals, becoming comrades in fate.

I was a permanent boarding student at Kabataş Erkek Lisesi (1973-76). My uncle was my guardian. Occasionally, with my uncle's permission, I would be free on weekends and stay at his place for two nights. My uncle had a printing house. He mainly printed business cards, invoices, and similar items. Once he had his affairs in order, he would leave the printing house to his partner and enjoy visiting his wide circle of friends for conversation.

It was one such day. My uncle and I walked towards the Sosyal Yayevi (Sosyal Yayınlar) building. Enver Aytekin was an important literary expert who never let go of his pipe, and whose speech, demeanor, and gaze reminded one more of Einstein. He had a seriousness and weight to his words.

When we entered, Enver Aytekin, who was always mild-mannered and understanding, was addressing the person opposite him in an angry tone. Words that made my heart jump came out of his mouth:

"What kind of translation is this? Is this how Faust is translated? Is the crown jewel of world literature translated like this?"

The person opposite him was embarrassed and silent. Enver Aytekin continued:

"İsmet, translate it again. Don't rush, work on it! Don't worry! I will pay a good fee. Just bring me a translation that is true to its literary essence!"

So, the gentleman was a translator. The gentleman, whose name I would later learn was İsmet Zeki Eyüpoğlu, quietly stood up, gathered the papers on the table, and left.

When Enver Aytekin saw my uncle, his facial muscles relaxed. While drinking tea, he shared his distress:

"Feto (that's what he called my uncle), no one can translate Faust properly! I guess they don't understand the author's spirit. They bring me simple translations. I'm going to explode!"

These words were like medicine to my soul. So, I wasn't the only one who didn't understand Faust; the huge Sosyal Yayınlar was looking for someone who could truly understand and translate Faust.

My uncle was right in the middle of the literary world, but he had no habit of writing or reading books. He asked Enver Aytekin the question I had asked myself during my middle school years:

"Enver Abi, what is the subject of the book Faust?"

Enver Aytekin puffed on his pipe and took a deep breath:

"It's an allegorical book. An alchemist (people in the Middle Ages eager to obtain gold from minerals) sells his soul to the devil named Mephistopheles to gain magical powers and learn the unknown. The author (Goethe), in this book, expresses the moral, artistic, and philosophical questions of his time that troubled his mind, using symbols in a poetic language. The book summarizes and presents the human tragedy. It seems simple, but no one understands its author!"

(Note: The Faust in my father's library was the two-volume translation by the Ministry of Education, Maarif Vekaleti.)

THE TOWN OF STAUFEN

Many years passed. I moved from the USA to Germany to pursue a doctorate in economics. To enroll at the University of Freiburg, I either had to pass the German Language Proficiency Exam offered by the university or present a certificate showing that I had successfully passed the highest level German exam, Das Goethe-Zertifikat C2, from the Goethe-Institut.

As a result of my research, I decided to go to the Goethe-Institut operating in the small town of Staufen, 20 km south of Freiburg, at the foot of the Black Forest. Staufen was a quiet town, nestled in nature, where wealthy retired Germans lived. It seemed like an invaluable place for me to purify my soul, even if for a short time.

One day, our teacher said, "Come on, let's all take a tour of Staufen. Everyone choose a topic and write an essay!"

Ten or fifteen students followed our teacher. We visited the famous wine producer named Wasenhaus in Staufen. We toured the town hall. Then we entered a two-story hotel. We went up to the second floor. "Johann Faust" was written above the door. My God, Faust had appeared before me again!

The plaque on the entrance wall of the house (now a hotel) where Doctor Faust, who lived years before Goethe, stayed.

From the teacher's guidance, I understood that a doctor named Johann Faust had once lived in this room, dedicating his time to alchemical pursuits. He died, but left behind a legend. Years passed. A writer named Goethe read the life of Johann Faust, was influenced, and wrote his own Faust. This was, of course, a detail I didn't know.

I registered for a doctorate in Economics at the University of Freiburg. My doctoral supervisor, whom they called "Doktorvater" in German, was a German from Kazakhstan. From his behavior, I understood that he hadn't adapted to Germany and wanted to return to Central Asia at the first opportunity. Years later, he would leave Germany and move to the National Academy of Sciences, which is like TÜBİTAK of Kyrgyzstan. I would also complete my doctorate in Kyrgyzstan, albeit intermittently.

The Faust Opera was frequently staged in Freiburg. Additionally, there was a course called "Understanding Faust" at the Volkshochschule, a public high school for adults. Germans of all ages interested in the subject were in the class. The discussions, instead of clarifying my mind, made it more complex.

One day, the teacher posed a question: "We constantly discuss Faust. Have you ever wondered why Goethe wrote Faust?"

The question was interesting. I was curious. Faint voices came from the class, but they were not satisfactory. The teacher gave his explanation:

"Goethe witnessed an event as a child. A woman was condemned to death for killing a child. The woman was executed by hanging in a public place. Child Goethe could never forget this scene throughout his life. What he saw turned his soul upside down. His restlessness was reflected in his early youth and loves. This execution took over Goethe's life like a spell. That's why the author, by writing Faust, in a sense, settled accounts with his soul and societal values, so much so that he didn't want to finish the book immediately, continuing to work on Faust until his death at the age of 83. Writing Faust was, in a sense, Goethe's attempt to escape the execution scene he witnessed in his childhood."

Upon hearing this, I was startled. I thought about myself. Was there an event in my life that, without my realizing it, took over my mind and soul like a spell, causing anger and hatred within me? I thought. Yes, there was!

THE EXECUTION OF DENİZ GEZMİŞ AND HIS COMRADES

Deniz Gezmiş, Hüseyin İnan, and Yusuf Aslan were executed on May 6, 1972. I was a child, 13-14 years old. The newspaper clipping is as vivid in my mind today as it was then.

I retreated to the guest room. I started listening to a cassette by Mahzuni Şerif or İhsanî. These executions had fallen upon me like an ominous spell. I began to question: "A person can make mistakes, commit small and large crimes. This is individual behavior. It's understandable. However, the entire Grand National Assembly puts the execution to a vote, and the entire body of deputies raises their hands to approve the execution. Where is societal morality?"

The executions seemed unacceptable to me. I began to question society, moral rules, and value judgments.

During my university years, I saw that the left-wing youth were engaging in revolutionary activities under the spell of 3-4 mass killings, torture, and executions. The killing of Mahir Çayan and his comrades in Kızıldere; the killing of Sinan Cemgil and his comrades in Nurhak; the killing of İbrahim Kaypakkaya through torture (his head being cut off and delivered to his father); and the execution of Deniz Gezmiş and his comrades...

I read Halit Çelenk's book, Memories of the Night of Execution, many times. Each time, I would get caught up in a "martyrdom spell," criticize society, and, like Goethe, question the helplessness and wretchedness of humankind with a thousand questions. Goethe tried to free his soul by writing Faust; but what about me?

Folk songs were composed about these events. Listening to them, we would lose ourselves, nurturing an undefined anger and hatred within us. If only we had the power, if we could turn back time and save them! We would fall into such a state of mind as if we were responsible for all these murders.

We carried an eternal grief in our hearts. We had surrendered to a "cult-like" understanding that imprisoned our minds and souls in a melancholic life. The death anniversaries, meetings, seminars, distributed brochures, and shouted slogans deepened the spell that enveloped our being, and the folk songs we listened to constantly stirred up "revolutionary melancholy" within us.

I would like to include one of these folk songs here:

May Allah not let his beloved servant, oy-oy

Fall into Şarkışla, oy

They intercepted Deniz Gezmiş's path

In Gemerek

He stayed in Elmalı for the night, oy-oy

He asked for Hamamcı Ali, oy

One of those prolonged scoundrels

Shot Yusuf in his heedlessness

Long live the Turkish army, long live, oy-oy

The world was astonished by such a deed, oy

The army sent a medal

To the sergeant who shot Yusuf

Oh, what I wish I had been, oy-oy

I wish I had been literate, oy

Deniz fell into court

I wish I had been his lawyer

ABROAD AND RETROSPECTIVE

Once I went abroad, these events and folk songs that had enveloped and enslaved my being and thoughts like a spell, pushing my mind senselessly towards revenge against myself and society, slowly faded and disappeared. However, like Goethe, I had not transcended myself by questioning society's moral values through my own efforts. I had merely pushed and suppressed my emotions into my subconscious.

In Paris, in the St. Denis neighborhood, there was a small Turkish bookstore. The owner was a plump French lady. She could speak broken Turkish.

Due to the intensity of my work, I hadn't been able to go to the St. Denis neighborhood, where Turkish immigrants lived in large numbers, for a long time. One day, I finally visited St. Denis to buy new books and taste the dishes I missed at a Turkish restaurant.

When I entered the bookstore, the "Şarkışla" folk song was playing from Zülfü Livaneli's voice. The melody took me back to a deep past. My heart filled with unease. The spell was inviting me to my forgotten past. Although I had read it many times, I picked up Halit Çelenk's book again. While eating at the restaurant, I pondered this "societal spell," evaluating how it had shattered the souls and minds of a generation of youth. No, I would not fall into the trap! I decided that I needed to overcome revolutionary melancholy by questioning it. I left the book I had bought on the table and departed.

When I returned home that evening, I began to think about my early youth and university years. "Revolutionary melancholy" had woven and shattered my mind like a spider's web. I could see this clearly. Due to my work, my time was usually spent among the French. There were very few people from Türkiye among my friends and acquaintances; it would perhaps be more accurate to say there were none. If I had stayed among people from Türkiye since the day I settled in Paris, perhaps I would not have had the chance to question myself retrospectively.

That evening, I was alone at home. I decided to make an effort to cast out the "revolutionary / rebellious melancholy" that shattered the minds of Turkish and Kurdish revolutionary youth and prevented them from living as free individuals, from my soul and mind. Melancholy resisted like a deeply rooted tree. It stubbornly cried like a child who didn't want to be separated from its mother. I had created "melancholy" with years of effort(!); it wanted to live with me. Sometimes I felt sorry, giving up on attacking "melancholy"; sometimes, believing I needed to cleanse my mind and soul from it, I took action.

This struggle continued for years. And one day, without realizing it, I felt liberated and tore the web of "melancholy" from my mind and heart.

Life sometimes presents us with books like Faust that shatter our minds because we read them but don't understand them; and sometimes it traps us in a way of life that shatters our minds by ensnaring us in a meaningless and undefined "melancholy." In both cases, salvation lies in free will.

Therefore, do not enslave your "free will" to any political view or thought. You exist as much as you are free; do not forget this!

Sincerely,