Merhaba. Aşağıda Ertuğrul Özkök'ün 23 Şubat 2007 tarihli "Türkler bir Irk mıdır?" başlıklı yazısına (http://www.hurriyet.com.tr/yazarlar/6003915.asp?yazarid=10 ) cevaben yazdığım mektubu bulacaksınız. Bilginize..
Sayın Editör,
Ankara ve Pensilvanya Üniversitelerinde Anadolu populasyon tarihi üzerinde çalışmalar yapmakta olan bir antropoloğum. Ertuğrul Özkök'ün 23 Şubat 2007 tarihli yazısınızda çok önemli konulara değindiğini ancak bu konularda bilinçsiz ve sığ saptamalarda bulunduğunu düşünüyorum.
Özellikle uzmanı olmadığı ve son derece hassas olan konularda, ve bu yazının özelinde 'Türk Irkı' ile ilgili olarak, Jean-Paul Roux'tan kısmi alıntılarla yapılan saptamalar son derece üzücü. Öncelikle kıta Avrupa'sının toplumların oluşumu ile ilgili eskimiş ve Avrupa merkezci düşünceleri hiç bir eleştirel filtreden geçirmeden olduğu gibi kaynak gösterilmesi sorunlu.
Bugün, ırk kavramının biyolojik gerçekliğinin olmadığı ve dünya toplumlarının birbirlerine biyolojik olarak eskiden düşünüldüğünden çok daha yakın oldukları kabul edilmektedir (bkz: American Association of Anthropology, statement on race. http://www.aaanet.org/stmts/racepp.htm). Bu durumda, Türk ırkından bahsetmenin, bu grubun ırksal özelliklerinin olmadığı veya seyreldiği savunulsa bile, Özkök'ün yapmaya çalıştığı gibi bilimsel bir temeli yoktur. Hele "kan" kavramının bu kadar hoyratça ve düşüncesizce Hürriyet gibi büyük bir gazetenin editör köşesinde yer alması son derece üzücüdür.
Bir bilim insanı için kan, temel görevi Oksijen taşımak olan bir dokudur. Sosyal bilimlerde ki önemi ise tabii ki bir çok toplumun kan kavramına son derece büyük önem vermesindendir. Ama Roux'un yazdığı ve Özkök'ün aynen kullandığı "yabancı...kan," "eski Türk kanı" gibi ifadeler hem gerçek genetik tarihin karmaşıklığını hiçe sayan, hem de ırkçı düşüncenin kendine slogan bellediği kavramlardır.
Özkök, yazısında, toplumların populasyon tarihlerini anlamak için çalışan, çağdaş antropoloji ve adli bilim dallarını tamamen hiçe saymış ve de tek bir kaynaktan yola çıkarak yazısını kurgulamıştır. Toplumların tarihleri gibi önemli ve hassas konuların tabi ki tartışılması gerekmektedir. Ancak, bu tartışmaların yoğun, karşılaştırılmalı araştırmalar bağlamında yapılması ve tekil fikirlerden kaçınılması esastır. Özkök'ün yaptığı şekilde yarım yamalak araştırılmış verileri, hiç bir kontrol olmadan, bilimsel gerçeklik olarak sunmak, herhalde ancak büyük gazete editörlerinin yapabileceği cinsten bir gaflettir.
Saygılarımla.
‘Yaz’ olmalı idi ilk söylenen, ‘oku’ değil. Biz tanrısı değil miyiz bilincimizin? Bizim beynimiz değil mi her suçu unutan? Biz değil miyiz ki her düşünceyi çarpıtan? Yazmalıyız ki sözümüz kök salsın, yazmalıyız ki değişen anlamların geri dönebileceği, yeniden başlayabileceği bir evi olsun. Yazmalıyız ki, suçlarımız ve suçluluklarımız ve hatalarımız yüzümüze çarpılabilsin. Bu değil midir hayatımızın anlamı?
Dec 11, 2007
Fish, Squid and Simplicity
September 6th 2007. 8.30pm. In some small tavern in Split.
From my travels in Split, I remember one little room the most. If you ask me what exactly in this room caught my attention, my answer would be simple: Nothing!
It was late evening and I had still a couple of long hours to kill in Split, before I catch my bus to Sarajevo. So, I was wandering around the city without any real purpose. One small door caught my attention as two pretty girls, who were obviously tourists –American ones for that matter- just got out of that door.
I, struck with horror, tried to explain myself until I realized she was not cursing at me. She was, in fact, repeating the words Fish and Squid in a completely unintelligible accent.
I felt that this dimly lit room was one place I was to remember in Split. But, I wondered, what was so special about it. The walls, which were painted to a dull yellow, carried the only clues to the history of this place: two photographs. One showed a guy (the husband, the brother, the son?) holding a big gun, with pride and with respect. In another, you found a young kid, with a huge smile on his face. The fact that he missed two or more teeth, made him look like an extremely cute boxer with an unnaturally big head. Of course, it has to be mentioned that Elvis Presley was the music of choice in this magically cozy place.
Then, I realized. How much the simplicity of the room highlighted the people inside.
An Asian traveler, with a fancy backpack and cool hair was sitting at one of the tables. He would have been completely unremarkable anywhere else. But, there he was, standing out like a heroic Manga character. I almost expected him to carry a sword or a laser gun. He looked at me, I smiled at him, and it did not work. He just snorted and got back to his squids, as any cool Samurai would.
The next table was occupied by a Spanish couple; both very beautiful, and completely ignorant of their surrounding. Her plumpness contrasted to his grungy attractiveness, and they were ridiculous examples of a happy couple, touching each other’s faces every five seconds, their eyes locked.
These five people were so visible, so unique, and so powerfully present in that little restaurant that I realized this was the magic of the place. It had the power to show what was human and just made sure that people were what they were. In that place, none of us were tourists, none of us had nationalities. We were what we were.
Simplicity… Sometimes that is all it takes to make a place memorable. If you ask me to tell one place in Split, a city of palaces and cathedrals, narrow streets of cobble stone and small cafes, I would tell you about one nameless restaurant in a forgotten, ordinary neighborhood.
From my travels in Split, I remember one little room the most. If you ask me what exactly in this room caught my attention, my answer would be simple: Nothing!
It was late evening and I had still a couple of long hours to kill in Split, before I catch my bus to Sarajevo. So, I was wandering around the city without any real purpose. One small door caught my attention as two pretty girls, who were obviously tourists –American ones for that matter- just got out of that door.As I poked my head into the small opening, a big woman, with simple but strong face, appeared without any warning and started shouting at me.
I, struck with horror, tried to explain myself until I realized she was not cursing at me. She was, in fact, repeating the words Fish and Squid in a completely unintelligible accent.
In ten minutes time, I was sitting comfortably at one of the four tables in the room, eating my deliciously cooked fish and squid and sipping from a glass of Kaltenberg Pils. Apparently, this place only served exactly those things that I was enjoying; fish, squid and beer.
I felt that this dimly lit room was one place I was to remember in Split. But, I wondered, what was so special about it. The walls, which were painted to a dull yellow, carried the only clues to the history of this place: two photographs. One showed a guy (the husband, the brother, the son?) holding a big gun, with pride and with respect. In another, you found a young kid, with a huge smile on his face. The fact that he missed two or more teeth, made him look like an extremely cute boxer with an unnaturally big head. Of course, it has to be mentioned that Elvis Presley was the music of choice in this magically cozy place.
Then, I realized. How much the simplicity of the room highlighted the people inside.
An Asian traveler, with a fancy backpack and cool hair was sitting at one of the tables. He would have been completely unremarkable anywhere else. But, there he was, standing out like a heroic Manga character. I almost expected him to carry a sword or a laser gun. He looked at me, I smiled at him, and it did not work. He just snorted and got back to his squids, as any cool Samurai would.
At another table, an old Croatian couple was sitting. They were eating and drinking fearlessly, as if they were 20. Once in a while, the old man leaned over the table and touched his companion’s hand. Their, happiness and content were so visible that it felt as if this was a film scene.
The next table was occupied by a Spanish couple; both very beautiful, and completely ignorant of their surrounding. Her plumpness contrasted to his grungy attractiveness, and they were ridiculous examples of a happy couple, touching each other’s faces every five seconds, their eyes locked.
These five people were so visible, so unique, and so powerfully present in that little restaurant that I realized this was the magic of the place. It had the power to show what was human and just made sure that people were what they were. In that place, none of us were tourists, none of us had nationalities. We were what we were.
Simplicity… Sometimes that is all it takes to make a place memorable. If you ask me to tell one place in Split, a city of palaces and cathedrals, narrow streets of cobble stone and small cafes, I would tell you about one nameless restaurant in a forgotten, ordinary neighborhood.
Dec 5, 2007
One man's suffering is another man's glory
Does writing about the misfortunes of men help? Does glorifying these misfortunes not only for glorifying our own agendas? Do we not convert the raw agony of others into mythical and epic stories of our own creation? And above all, do we not put our names on the stories of others?Human suffering is ugly. The world of people is just like Camus’ Oran, chaotic, corrupt, and generally horrendously unaesthetic. So, what is there to write about human suffering?
“Do you know, my child, right now, I am sitting on top of my wife and kids? I curse god, and I curse every force in the nature that made this horror possible” This was a man, sitting on top of a rubble, half of which was eaten by a peaceful looking sea. I stood there, speechless, nothing to say, nothing to do. I just left him, back to my humble job, distributing the food for the victims in the area.I dug out this paragraph yesterday. It was among the many pages, I wrote, when I went to “help” the victims of the Gölcük earthquake. I realize now (thanks to Radu), it is cheesiness on ecstasy. It is exploitation of the victims, profiting from other people’s horrors and most importantly a masochistic therapy to deal with the personal responsibility in those events.
Wars, famines, inequalities, raped children, poverty... I almost constantly feel horrible. Yet, I realize now that I should expect no escape from this feeling. Writing about the suffering does not and should not take away the responsibility.
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