by Orhan Pamuk
As to the Republicans in the front rows, they weren’t too happy with the situation either. Having expected a bespectacled village girl, pure-hearted, bright-faced, and studious, to emerge from beneath the scarf, they were utterly discomfited to see it was the lewd belly dancer Funda Eser instead. Was this to say that only whores and fools take off their head scarves? If so, it was precisely what the Islamists had been saying all along. Several seated near him recall the deputy governor shouting, “This is wrong, all wrong!” While a number of others joined the chorus—perhaps to curry favor—Funda Eser persevered. Still, most people in the front rows, however anxious, continued to watch with quiet appreciation as this enlightened Republican secular girl stood up for the freedoms they all hoped to enjoy, and while a few protests did issue from the religious high school boys, no one felt intimidated by them. Certainly not the deputy governor, flanked on all sides by other top officials who saw little to fear in the antics of a few boys from the religious high school who ought to have known better. This retinue included Kasιm Bey, the courageous assistant chief of police, who in his day had made life so difficult for the Kurdish PKK; a number of army officers in civilian clothing, accompanied by their wives; the branch manager of the ordinance survey office, joined by his wife, two daughters, four sons in suits and ties, and three nephews; and the city’s cultural director, whose main job was to seize banned tapes of Kurdish music and send them to Ankara.
It could be said that all these officials put their faith in the plainclothes officers planted throughout the hall, the uniformed officers lined up along the walls, and the soldiers they’d heard were waiting backstage. Their only real concern was the fact that the performance was being broadcast live; although it was only going out locally, these grandees could not help feeling as if all of Ankara—indeed, all of Turkey—were watching them. The great and the good in the front rows, like all those behind them, could not quite forget that the scenes playing out before their eyes were simultaneously appearing on television; this alone can explain why the vulgarities and political provocations and nonsense they witnessed seemed to the audience more elegant and magical than they really were. Some were so concerned to know whether the cameras were still running that they were turning their heads every other moment just to check; like the ones in the back continually waving at the camera, and the others periodically shouting “Oh, my God, they can see me on television!” the front row found this prospect so unnerving that they could barely move, even though they were sitting in the most secluded corner of the hall. As to those citizens not in attendance, the city’s first live broadcast did not inspire in most a desire to see the stage on-screen; rather, it made them long to be in the theater, watching the television crew in action.
By now Funda Eser had removed her scarf and tossed it like so much laundry into a copper basin. She then sprinkled it with gasoline—carefully, as if adding detergent—and plunged her hands into the basin as though stirring the wash. By a strange coincidence, they’d put the gasoline into an emptied bottle of Akif liquid detergent, a brand much favored by Kars housewives at the time, and this was why everyone in the auditorium—everyone in Kars, for that matter—took it that the freedom fighter girl had changed her mind: seeing her plunge her hands into the washbasin, they all relaxed.
“That’s the way to do it!” someone shouted from the back. “Scrub out all that dirt!” There was a ripple of laughter, annoying some of the high government officials in front; still, everyone in the hall thought they were watching a woman doing laundry. “So where’s the Omo?” someone shouted.
He was one of the religious high school boys: although their noise was beginning to annoy some people, no one was very angry. Most of the audience, including the officials up front, were just hoping that this dated, provocative piece of Jacobin theater would end without incident. Quite a few of those I interviewed years later, from the most august official to the poorest Kurdish student, told me that most of the Kars residents in the National Theater had come to the performance hoping for one thing: to be transported from their everyday lives for a few hours and maybe even to enjoy themselves.
Funda Eser was doing her laundry with just as much relish as the happy housewife in the commercials; like all happy housewives, she refused to rush. But when the time came to remove the black scarf from the basin and shake out the wrinkles to prepare it for the clothesline, she unfurled it like a flag before the audience. While everyone was still exchanging glances, struggling to work out what was going on, she produced a lighter from her pocket and lit one of the scarf’s corners. For a moment, there was silence. Everyone heard the breath of the flame as the burning scarf cast the entire hall in a strange and fearsome light.
Quite a few leaped to their feet in horror.
No one had expected this. Even the most steadfast secularists were badly shaken. When the woman threw the burning scarf onto the stage, for many the first concern was the theater’s 110-year-old fixtures; the filthy patched-velvet curtains, dating back to the richest days of the city, seemed in particular danger of catching fire. But the greatest cause for alarm was, rightfully, the sense that the trouble had only started. Now anything could happen.
From the religious boys at the back there arose a terrible din of boos, catcalls, and angry whistles.
“Down with the enemies of religion!” one shouted. “Down with atheists! Down with infidels!”
The front rows were still in shock. Although the one courageous teacher stood up again to cry, “Be quiet and watch the show!” no one paid him the least bit of attention. With the realization that the booing and shouting and chanting were not going to stop and that things were getting seriously out of control, a ripple of panic spread across the hall. Dr. Nevzat, the branch health director, was first to head for the exit; he was followed by his sons in their suits and ties, his daughter, her hair neatly pulled into two braids, and his wife, in her very best outfit, a crepe dress in all the colors of a peacock. Sadιk Bey, one of the rich leather manufacturers from the old days, who had come back to Kars to oversee some work, and his classmate from primary school, Sabit Bey, now a lawyer affiliated with the People’s Party, also rose to their feet. Ka saw dread in the faces of everyone in the front rows, but, uncertain what to do, he stayed in his seat: His main concern was that in the confusion he might forget the poem still only in his mind, waiting to be recorded in his green notebook. At the same time, he wanted to leave the theater, to join Ïpek.
At that moment, Recai Bey, head manager of the telephone company, a gentleman respected throughout Kars for his erudition, made his way toward the smoke-filled stage. “My dear girl!” he cried. “We have all enjoyed your tribute to the ideals of Atatürk. But we’ve had enough now. Look, the audience is upset; we’re in danger of inciting a riot.”
By now the scarf had stopped burning and Funda Eser was standing amid the smoke, reciting the same monologue I would later find in the 1936 Townhall edition of My Fatherland or My Scarf, the passage of which its author would profess to being most proud. Four years after the events I describe in this book, I had an opportunity to meet the author, then ninety-two years old but still very energetic; during our interview, while most of his energy was consumed in scolding his naughty grandchildren (or great-grandchildren) who wouldn’t sit still, he nevertheless found the strength to tell me how sorry he was that of all his works (including Atatürk Is Coming, Atatürk Plays for High Schools, and Our Memories of Him), it was My Fatherland or My Scarf that would be forgotten. Unaware of its revival in Kars, or indeed of the events it precipitated, he went on to tell how, during the thirties, this play had had the same remarkable effect on lycée girls and state officials alike—it had moved them to tears and standing ovations wherever it was performed.
But now, no one could hear anything above the booing and catcalls and angry whistles from the religious high school boys. Despite the guilty, fearful silence at the front of the auditorium, few could hear what Funda Eser was saying: that when the ang
ry girl tore the scarf off her head, she was not just making a statement about people or about national dress, she was talking about our souls, because the scarf, the fez, the turban, and the headdress were symbols of the reactionary darkness in our souls, from which we should liberate ourselves and run to join the modern nations of the West. This provoked a taunt from the back rows that the entire auditorium heard very clearly.
“So why not take everything off and run to Europe stark naked?”
The comment brought laughter even from the front rows and some applause around the hall. But finally those in front were disconcerted and scared. Like many others, Ka chose this moment to stand up. Noise was coming from every mouth by now, and the voluble shouting persisted in the back rows; some who had headed for the door were now looking back over their shoulders. Funda Eser continued reciting the poem almost no one could hear.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Don’t Fire, the Guns Are Loaded!
A REVOLUTION ONSTAGE
From this point on, things happened very quickly. Two “religious fanatics” sporting round beards and skullcaps appeared onstage. These actors carried ropes and knives and left no doubt that they were there to punish Funda Eser for burning her scarf and defying God’s law.
Once they’d captured her, Funda Eser writhed in a highly provocative manner as she struggled to break free. By now she had given up all pretense of being a heroine of the enlightenment; she had switched to that role she always found more comfortable, the woman about to be raped. But her practiced self-abasing entreaties did not arouse the men in the audience as much as she expected. One of the bearded fanatics (rather clumsily made up, having played the father in the previous scene) yanked at her hair and threw her to the ground; the other laid a dagger on her throat in a manner suggesting a Renaissance tableau of the Sacrifice of Isaac; it illustrated perfectly the fears of a reactionary religious backlash felt in westernized circles in the early years of the Republic. The older officials in the front rows and the conservatives in the back were the first to become alarmed.
For exactly eighteen seconds, Funda Eser and the “fundamentalists” held their grand pose without moving a muscle, though quite a few of the people I interviewed were sure that the trio had remained immobile for much longer. The crowd was out of control. It was not just the play’s affront to covered women that bothered the religious high school boys, nor was it simply the caricature of fanatics as ugly, dirty dolts. They also suspected that the whole thing had been deliberately staged to provoke them. So every time they heckled the players, every time they threw half an orange or a cushion onto the stage, they were one step closer to a trap that had been laid just for them, and it was the knowledge of their helplessness that made them even angrier.
This was why the most politically astute member of the group, a short broad-shouldered boy named Abdurrahman Öz (in fact, his father, who came from Sivas to collect his body three days later, would give a different name), did everything he could to settle and quiet his companions, but to no avail. Egged on by the clapping and booing from other parts of the auditorium, the angry students assumed that there were others in the anxious crowd who felt as they did. Even more important, the young Islamists, who were weak and disorganized compared with their peers in the areas surrounding Kars, had found the courage for the first time ever to speak with one voice, and they were pleased to see how much they could scare the officials and army officers in the front rows. They were all the more heartened to know that their show of solidarity was being broadcast to the entire city. They were not just shouting and stamping, they were also enjoying themselves—this is one thing that everyone later forgot.
Having seen the video many times, I can also say that a number of the ordinary citizens were even laughing at times at the students’ slogans and curses, and if at other moments they also clapped and booed with the students, it was because they were just a bit bored, though still determined to make the most of a theatrical evening that had turned out to be rather puzzling. One witness even said later, “If the people in the front had not overreacted to this feeble commotion, it would have prevented everything that followed.” Others insisted, “The rich men and high-ranking officials in the front rows who panicked during those eighteen seconds already knew what was going to happen; otherwise they would not have gathered up their families and headed for the door. Ankara,” they said, “had planned the whole thing in advance.”
Fearful of losing the poem in his head, Ka also left the auditorium. At the same moment, a man came onstage to rescue Funda Eser from the two round-bearded reactionaries: this man was Sunay Zaim. He was wearing an army uniform from the thirties with a fur hat in the style of Atatürk and the heroes of the War for Independence. As he strode purposefully across the stage (no one could have known he had a slight limp), the two “fundamentalists” took fright and threw themselves at his feet. The brave old teacher stood up once more and applauded Sunay’s heroism with all his might. One or two others shouted, “Bless you! Bravo!” Standing in the center of the spotlight, he seemed to all of Kars to be a wondrous creature from another planet.
Everyone noticed how handsome and enlightened he looked. The long and punishing years spent touring Anatolia may have left him lame, but they had not diminished his attraction; he still had the hard, decisive, tragic air and faintly feminine good looks that had made him such a sensation among leftist students when he played Che Guevara, Robespierre, and the revolutionary Enver Pasha. Instead of bringing the index finger of his white-gloved hand to his lips, he rested it elegantly on his chin and said, “Quiet!”
There was no need for this line, which wasn’t in the script: everyone in the auditorium was already silent. Those who’d stood up were back in their seats.
“They’re in torment!”
Probably this is only half of what Sunay Zaim meant to say, because no one had the faintest idea of who was meant to be in torment. In the old days, this would have been a reference to the people or the nation, but his audience was not sure if this man was referring to them or to Funda Eser or to the entire Republic. Still, the feeling evoked by the remark was palpable. The entire audience fell into an uneasy hush.
“O honorable and beloved citizens of Turkey,” said Sunay Zaim. “You’ve embarked on the road to enlightenment, and no one can keep you from this great and noble journey. Do not fear. The reactionaries who want to turn back time, those vile beasts with their cobwebbed minds, will never be allowed to crawl out of their hole. Those who seek to meddle with the Republic, with freedom, with enlightenment, will see their hands crushed.”
Everyone in the hall heard the taunt from the boy two seats away from Necip. Again, a deep silence fell over the crowd; there was awe mixed with their fear. They all sat still as candles, as if hoping to hear one or two sweet nothings, a few clues to help them make sense of the evening when they went home, with perhaps a story or two.
At that moment, a detachment of soldiers appeared on either side of the stage. Three more came in through the main entrance and down the aisle to join them. The people of Kars, unaccustomed to the modern device of sending actors among the audience, were first alarmed and then amused.
A bespectacled messenger boy came running onto the stage, and when they saw who it was, they all laughed. It was Glasses, the sweet and clever nephew of the city’s principal newspaper distributor; everyone knew him as a constant presence in the shop, which was just across the street from the National Theater. Glasses ran over to Sunay Zaim, who bent down so the boy could whisper into his ear.
All of Kars could see that the news made Sunay Zaim very sad.
“We have just learned that the director of the Institute of Education has passed away,” Sunay Zaim told the audience. “This lowly murder will be the last assault on the Republic and the secular future of Turkey!”
Before the audience had had a chance to digest the news, the soldiers onstage cocked their rifles and took aim straight at the audience. They opened fire at once; t
he noise was thunderous.
It was unclear whether this was another theatrical ruse or an honor guard requested by the company to mark the sad news. A number of Kars residents—out of touch as they were with modern theatrical conventions—took it for yet another bit of experimental staging.
A roar rose as a strong vibration was felt through the hall. Those frightened by the noise of the weapons thought the vibration had issued from the agitation in the audience. Just as one or two were standing up, the bearded “fundamentalists” onstage ducked for cover.
“No one move!” said Sunay Zaim.
Once again, the soldiers cocked their guns and took aim at the crowd. At the exact same time, the short fearless boy two seats away from Necip stood up and shouted, “Damn the godless secularists! Damn the fascist infidels!”
Once again, the soldiers fired.
As the shots rang in the air, another strong vibration was felt through the hall.
Just then, those in the back rows saw the boy who had uttered the taunt collapse into his chair before rising up again, now with his arms and his legs jerking wildly. Among those who had been enjoying the antics of the religious high school students and laughing all evening at everything they couldn’t understand, several took this as yet another joke, and when the student’s jerking continued—violent as the throes of death—they laughed a bit more.
It was only with the third volley that some in the audience realized that the soldiers were firing live rounds; they could tell, just as one could on those evenings when soldiers rounded up terrorists in the streets, because these shots can be heard in one’s stomach as well as in one’s ears. A strange noise came from the huge German-manufactured Bohemian stove that had been heating the hall for forty-four years; the stovepipe had been pierced and was now spewing smoke like an angry teapot at full boil. As someone from the back rows stood up and made straight for the stage with blood streaming from his head, there came the smell of gunpowder. The audience looked ready to erupt in panic, and yet everyone was sitting in silence, still as statues. As in a bad dream, everyone felt very alone. Even so, the literature teacher Nuriye Hanιm, who attended the National Theater every time she visited Ankara and was full of admiration for the beauty of the theatrical effects, rose to her feet for the first time to applaud the actors. At precisely the same time, Necip rose to his feet, like an agitated student trying to catch his teacher’s attention.
