A few months ago, Haaretz published an interesting article by Orhan Pamuk, who was then only a nominee for the Nobel Prize for Literature. The article - about which audiences Turkish authors are really targeting - had first appeared in The New York Times.

Istanbul is much closer to Jerusalem than New York, but hell would probably freeze over before any self-respecting Israeli newspaper would print an article by Pamuk that appeared "only" in an Istanbul-based newspaper. On the other hand, an article published in New York by Pamuk, or by anyone else for that matter, has excellent prospects of appearing here in Hebrew translation.

It thus seems that much of the dialogue between countries in the world's "periphery" - in this case, Turkey and Israel - which are in geographical and cultural proximity to one another, is conducted through the mediation of a world "center" - such as New York, the modern-day successor to ancient Rome, and Stockholm, capital of the Nobel Prizes.

	Advertisement

Pamuk is keenly aware of the paradoxes between the center and the periphery (or, perhaps, a better word would be "diasporas"), specifically between Turkey and the West. He showcases them in his memoirs, "Istanbul." On the one hand, the literary image that has developed of Istanbul is, to a great extent, the work of foreigners - 19th-century French and English authors. From them the Nobel laureate has learned to see his city through the eyes of foreigners, to love the aesthetics of their perspective while rejecting the image they depict. A large part of his literary activity is devoted to rebuilding the literary Istanbul - both through their perspective and in flagrant opposition to it. On the other hand, even the melancholy native authors of Istanbul who preceded Pamuk, whom he admires and hopes to follow (including Yasar Kamal), were trapped between a desire to write (and live) as Westerners, and the need to be authentic and express their own voice, one that would be distinct from that of the French or English. (Had these writers not written in a different style, French and English readers would certainly not have been interested in reading their work.)

As a result, nothing is more characteristic of Istanbul, nothing is more "authentic" in a Turkish author than a fixed westward gaze. That is why one finds so moving and so ironic Pamuk's declaration that, whenever he senses an absence of Western eyes, he becomes a Westerner gazing at himself.

Pamuk has frequently said that Turkey is the most Westernized country in the Orient and that Ataturk was the most Westernized of all Turks. That is why the inner clash that the writer experiences and his internal dialogue are invariably between Turkey and the West. And that is also why he will always compare Istanbul to itself and to Western cities, but never to other cities of the Orient. However, the saga of multicultural Istanbul - which in the 20th century surrendered to the pressures of a unifying, uni-cultural, national story that aspired to Westernization - is very similar to the saga of cities like Alexandria, Thessaloniki (Saloniki), Beirut and Jerusalem. Pamuk mourns the loss of his native city's multicultural past and its richly variegated multi-ethnic culture; he remembers, for example, a row of houses abandoned by Greeks, Armenians and Jews. Yet he himself is not an author whose main interests are immigrants and the transition from one language to another. The shift in the Turkish language from Arabic to Latin letters occurred before he was born.

'Author of place'

Orhan Pamuk is an "author of place." Whereas some people migrated to, or were forced to leave, Istanbul, he is the city's "legal" offspring (even if the residents of the slum neighborhoods regarded him as a foreigner when he was growing up). He is a native of Istanbul who grew up in the secular and Westernized upper class. According to him, he and his fellow residents wanted to appear different from what they really were, and essentially did not understand themselves at all. He seized the opportunity to see Istanbul through a foreigner's eyes as a defense mechanism in the face of nationalistic and conformist pressures, but also as a means to experience pleasure. However, despite the foreignness he adopted from time to time, Istanbul remained, when all was said and done, a sort of family. That is why he wrote that the city's residents could not help but love Istanbul, although they had to decide which part of it they loved and to justify that choice.

Pamuk wrote his article on the real audience of Turkish authors for The New York Times, perhaps without knowing that there was a good chance that it would be translated into Hebrew. Who did he imagine would read it? For the most part Americans, of course, although he may have imagined that some of the readers would, like him, be from the "periphery." These are people whose native tongue is not English, but who read what is written in English to stay abreast of events in the "center." He turned to the two groups simultaneously, feeling a closeness to both of them. He noted that the fact that the target audience of writers, for the most part, do not include members of their own national group is a source of great concern to the so-called "representatives of non-Western nations," who are suspicious of creative writers whose perspective regarding history and nationalism is not consonant with that of their own nation.

There is a considerable element of truth in Pamuk's irreverent explanation of the suspicious attitude of such representatives; however, a more thorough explanation is needed. There are additional, substantive reasons for their concern. One is the fact that, as their international fame grows, the finest authors from countries in the world's "periphery" - and this is true for both Turkish and Israeli writers - often turn to foreign audiences and their culture, at the price of turning their own culture into something alien and superficial (or, sometimes, exotic and mystical). These authors deliberately target foreign readers. However, they do not address just any foreign reader: Instead, they focus on the "Western eyes" that Paruk has so strongly been drawn to - on the affluent world and on speakers of English, which has become a true lingua franca.

An easier life

We are rapidly approaching an era when, even in the original version in their native language, Third World authors, seeking success in the affluent world, will try to make life as easy as possible for their future translators and readers. Thus, we are repeatedly being denied the opportunity for an ongoing, internal dialogue between adjacent cultures, which are being shunted to the sidelines - such as Turkey (of both the present and past eras) and Israel.

The English language to which many of the finest of today's writers orient themselves is not universal; it has specific cultural and ideological messages. Nor is English literature universal: It only represents the powerful economic and military forces that are operating in today's world. Holding a discussion in English, even when the language has only symbolic importance, represents a major concession of one's unique historical identity to a language that seeks to swallow up everyone with imperial magnanimity. (It is truly a dreadful situation when an Israeli Jew and a Palestinian from the territories conduct peace talks in English, rather than alternating between Arabic and Hebrew.)

Pamuk presents the simple fact that the readers of the most successful authors in the world do not reside in those authors' countries and must read their works through the mask of translation. However, this is not an alliance between peripheries, whether adjacent to or distant from one another. Rather, each periphery is seeking shelter under New York's wing or in its bosom.

Pamuk is quite easily accessible to Hebrew readers in Israel. Two of his books - his historical novel, "The White Fortress," and his classic and complex Istanbul-based "The Black Book" - have beautiful, legal Hebrew-language "offspring." Hopefully, now that he has been awarded the Nobel Prize, additional books by Pamuk will be translated into Hebrew.

Those who want to become familiar with the rest of Turkish literature - whether of the newer or older variety - which is so close to Israeli and Jewish culture (Jews occupy a respected place in Turkish literature), can do so only through the filter of other languages. Some comfort can be derived from the fact that Turkish literature translated into Hebrew is not in as dismal a situation as, for example, Afghani literature translated into that language: The only Afghan book with which Israeli readers are familiar is Khaled Hosseini's "The Kite Runner," which he wrote in America and in English.

I ask myself, "For whom am I writing this article?" For Pamuk, perhaps. However, he will have to read it in English, and not in either of our respective languages.