Curiosity: a most suitable state for cats and humans alike

Sunday, November 12, 2006

The BBC broadcasts an auction show where people can bring in artifacts buried for the longest time in the depths of their homes or in the bottom of grandfather chests to learn about the appraised price, and in some sense, about the history of these objects from experts on the era a given object is from. The information one can learn about these erstwhile articles includes the time they were built, according to which style of the age it was designed and the dominant trends of that age in clothing, fashion and furniture and similar details.

ELİF Şafak

  The BBC broadcasts an auction show where people can bring in artifacts buried for the longest time in the depths of their homes or in the bottom of grandfather chests to learn about the appraised price, and in some sense, about the history of these objects from experts on the era a given object is from. The information one can learn about these erstwhile articles includes the time they were built, according to which style of the age it was designed and the dominant trends of that age in clothing, fashion and furniture and similar details. After acquiring this information, the item-holders might wish to put the object up for sale or continue to hold on to it, being knowledgeable about the artifact, if nothing else. Now imagine a similar show running in Turkey. Could that ever happen? Would we be interested at all in the story of an ancient grandfather clock, an engraved hardwood chest or an age-old set of china? Do we preserve these old objects, or do we rapidly defenestrate them in a coarse process of modernization and urbanization, only to replace them at the first opportunity we get? To what extent would this culture, which holds “tradition” to be the same as “bigotry” and deems the “old” as equal to “worn-out,” appreciate its own historical fabric?

  We are a society ignorant about our past and with a dislike for history. A simple, practically essential value that we ve been losing is eroding with every passing day -- the feeling of curiosity. Being intrigued by small things, by the curtains behind what appears to be ordinary. Wondering who lies beneath the tombstone we pass by every day or what the inscription of an epigraph says, wondering the names of the people hanged in this square or the story of that old mansion and thousands of other questions big and small are what reanimates our knowledge of history and keeps it alive. For example, being curious about what records of official history are silent on and what they conceal, and trying to read and understand the past through the eyes of those who have passed those curves.

  One of the many reasons that many aspects of Turkish political history are left in silence and in the dark is the lack of “autobiographical and biographic” works. If more biographies were written and published, history would become more articulate, more readily sensible -- at least, our recent history would. However, in order for biography and autobiography writing to become widespread, before anything else the “individual” and “the ability to individualize” should be esteemed. It is no coincidence that portraits -- paintings based on the individual -- and biographies became a widespread form in arts only after the Renaissance. Culture and society should first treasure the individual to be interested in the story of the individual. Improvement of this genre would also prevent the idolization of popular personalities. Reading about the past of a political leader from his biography or autobiography would provide us the opportunity to get to know that leader with his deeds good and bad, his ventures and weaknesses. Even more than that, it will at the same time give the opportunity to know a historical period. 

  Last week, we lost Bülent Ecevit, whose story I had many times wished to hear from various angles and who, undoubtedly, is one of the most significant visages of Turkey s political history.

  When we lost him, we did the thing we always do when a political funeral is in question. We covered his body with a coat of silence, a silence basically apathetic to death, albeit respectful. We did this by confusing mourning with indifference; with being devoid of curiosity and cognizance.

  Yet, imagine a book on Ecevit, each of its chapters written from a different individual s point of view. One chapter is written by someone who was part of the communist movement of the 1970s, another chapter by someone with a background in the ultranationalist idealist movement. Both tell of what they witnessed, both tell of history from their own perspective. A chapter could be written by one of the many people who voted for him, who preserved confidence in him year in and year out -- say such as a miner. Still another chapter could be written by someone who found him to be a social democrat at one point but turned his back on him, finding him too nationalistic after a certain time. Likewise, say a chapter was written by a Cypriot Turk, while another was written by a Greek Cypriot. What a lively, striking and sophisticated book would emerge in the end. Just like, or at least like, the period it bears witness to.

  Just like, or at least like, the leader it describes.

  We lost Ecevit. We lost a socio-cultural icon who made his mark on a period and, whether we like it or not, consistently preserved his singular stance in politics. Being in the limelight (even being in government) does not necessarily amount to being known or being understood. I think, we, the generation that grew up seeing Ecevit almost every day, actually lost him without getting to know him. Now what? The rest is up to the feeling of curiosity. It is up to us to be curious about him and his ear with no pretense and inquire and up to our ability to perceive him from more than one angle.