Orhan Pamuk: The Calculus of a Writer

Orhan Pamuk was coming to the Sharjah International Book Fair and I was not going to be late. I had been waiting for Turkish Nobel laureate to come Sharjah for at least ten years. I did not have time to waste. I threw my abaya in the machine, set it on the 15 minute wash cycle. Next, I boiled the macaroni and threw in the pizza sauce for dinner later that night because we are always starving by the time we got home.
I arrived 15 minutes early. Surprisingly, the exhibition hall’s grand ballroom was nearly full. I had to walk all the way to the other side of the black curtain covered walls. I took my place in the third row of everybody seats, just behind the two rows of white, cushioned, side sofa chairs.These were reserved VIP’s only. Behind these, were about five hundred black folding chairs, divided into three sections. The last two, towards the far left, were divided by a bright red carpet cordoned off on both edges.
I knew Pamuk was famous, but I did not think he was that famous in Sharjah. I thought I would have him all to myself. You see, to me, he was my author. I am sure that I was the first person, at least in Sharjah, to read his book, The New Life, in 1997; not even the Nobel Prize people knew about him back then. As I sat in my little apartment in Istanbul’s Bostanci neighborhood, reading his dream-like prose, it was just me, Pamuk, and his protagonist, Osman, as we set out on a journey together towards the light.
I had imagined this event would be in a small, cozy, room where we could reminisce about our lives in the most magnificent city in the world, Istanbul, often the central theme of Pamuk’s novels.

However, walking into the ballroom, slapped me out of my naïve fanatasy. I quickly found out his books were translated into Malayalam, the language of of India’s most literate state, Kerala. And as you can guess, Keralites came out in droves. As soon as his talk was over, they all ran up on stage. At the center of this swarm, was Pamuk sitting calmly, despite the flashing cameras and clamor. Security had to scold them and the PR manager had given up and moved on to other things.
I hate crowds, so I stood on the sidelines, until, I found out that the mob, was actually the book signing line. By the time I got up there, the Emirati ushers had shouted everyone into two lines-male and female. “He will sign one book only, open it up to the first page,” were the stern instructions given to us. “No, book? Well, get out of line,” they said as the checked each of us. And me, I had brought my whole collection from home, but only got one signed. I was happy all the same.
Like most authors for whom the book tour is a norm, he seemed to have his speech memorized because, to my shock, I found the exact words in his book, the Naïve and Sentimental Novelist. Nonetheless, his interviewer, Omar Saif Ghobash did his best to tease some unscripted insights out of him.
Ghobash asked Pamuk’s willingness to “speak truth to power” where he said his pat response, “I do not want to complain, but, as you can see, I am safe. He was referring to his many skirmishes with his critics, the most powerful of them, the Turkish government who took him to court offer his Armenian massacre comment. I’ve often wondered, why is he still safe, while other writers are exiled, in jail, and some even killed? Maybe international fame has to something to do with it. Or perhaps, Erdogan’s rule is not as crushing as some make it out to be.

Just after the Gezi Park protest in 2013, when Western media was saying Turkey was the worst place on earth to be a journalist, I wrote to Seref Oguz. Oguz, at the time was a journalist at the Turkish daily, Sabah. I asked him were these accusations true, his answer was this:
In the ‘80’s a journalist’s life had no value. Many gave their lives and suffered for their craft during that time. Today, it is not the same, so far, none of us has taken a bullet. Even after the 1997 coup, the worst that has been done, is many have been forced into confessing in favor of the state or have been put in jail.
Still, Pamuk is not taking any chances. And why should he? In the end, his answer was, “I speak truth to power as much as I can.”
Why shout out, when you can write? Hidden within his novels very subtle hints to the public, look at this, why is it like that? Think about it? What can we do to change it? He asks his reader to examine, ponder, and maybe, if they have the guts, to act. Many Turks, truly believe in democracy and as we can see, their elections mean something, so going out and taking action is a natural phenomenon for them. A single voice, has no power compared to the masses. Pamuk has learned this lesson well.
“I am not Muslim, I am secularist,” answered Pamuk, when asked by his host about his faith. Some in the audience were taken back. “Whatever. I didn’t like him after he said that,” said one young woman said. Sharjah has been crowned the Islamic capital of 2014, so, this sort of response is natural.
In Turkey, lines of longitude and latitude divide secularists from those who admire or practice Islam to those who are staunch atheists. However, within the Turkish context, secularism is an alternative faith-with its own meaning and rituals. This often marked by references to rationality, science, and logic. Despite Pamuk’s use of Islamic references in his books, one should not be mistaken, it is just a tool, nothing more.
Within his work, for those familiar with Turkish culture and political history, his secular, leftist leaning is obvious. In his novel, Black Book, he quizzes and taunts his readers, with literary quadratic equations, “I will name a writer by a pen name of an Ottoman sultan, if you can find it, then you are worthy of knowing who I am talking about.”
Still, as a writer and one who has become mega-famous, he said, “Even thought I am a leftist, many of my friends would never go near Islam. I am the only one looking into our Ottoman past.” And he owes much of his success to the Turkey’s Islamic heritage. Pamuk’s use of Islam in his novels is not own of admiration, but of scrutiny.
In his novels, My name is Red, The New Life, and Snow, Islam hangs like a fat cloud threatening a storm. And like any storm, there is both havoc and life giving water. Could he write the same kinds of novels had he been born in Milan or London? No, and he knows this.
He was criticized for his examination of the hijab ban in Turkey, something that hardened Kemalists demanded. In Snow, young women were committing suicide, because they would rather die, the take off their headscarves.
“My job as a writer is to tell the story of my city, Istanbul. I am always in a dilemma because of this. I want to record the past and look towards the future.” The Turks say, “Dort gozu bak,” look out with all four eyes. Although, it may be nearly impossible, Pamuk, like the mythological, Argus, seems to have eyes everywhere.
From his novels to his essays, to his ethnography based novels. He has mastered the art of writing less through passion but by calculation. “I come from a family of engineers,” explains. “I was supposed to be an architect,” he tells the audience. Was supposed to be, even this, is a calculated response. If you have read any of his novels, you will quickly learn, Pamuk, is an architect. One who lays out ideas, scaffolds memory, and word by word, constructs a world for us to revel in. I am thrilled to have been at the Sharjah International Book Fair to see him.
