Notes: 1- The still living G. Scognamillo, reveals on the Internet, that W. Sperco was a writer / newspaper man in the 1930/40s working for the Istanbul Levantine papers in French, ‘Beyoglu’ (owned by Gilberto Primi) and ‘Journal d’Orient’.

2- Willy Sperco appears to be most prominent Levantine writer, specialising in subjects of history, including his observations of wartime Italy where he seems to have spent some time. The books published include ‘L’ecroulement d’une dictature – choses vue en Italie Durant la guerre 1940-45 [collapse of a dictator – things seen in Italy during the war] – Paris, Librairie Hachette – 1946’, ‘Ataturk, créateur de la Turquie moderne [Ataturk, creator of modern Turkey] (1882-1938) – Paris – 1958’, ‘Turcs d’hier et d’aujourd’hui, D’Abdülhamit a nos jours [Turks of yesterday and today, from Abdülhamit to present time] – 1961’, ‘Yüzyılın başında Istanbul [Istanbul at the commencement of the century] – 1989’. For his work he was decorated with the Italian commador merit, the French legion d’honneur, and the Dutch orange-Nassau office.

3- Another prominent Levantine writer of Istanbul was Said Duhani whose two books partly explore his city and his heritage: ‘Quand Beyoglu s’appelait Pera [when Beyoglu was called Pera] - edited at the magazine La Turquie Moderne 1956’ and ‘Vieilles Gens, Vieilles Demeures [Old people, Old Residences] - 1947’.

4- Though not a Levantine, mention must be made of the British consul for Smyrna (more probably a consular offical) John Cleland, who led the ‘Society of Dilettanti’ (founded in 1732 by wealthy young men who had undertaken the Grand Tour, the Society of Dilettanti sponsored the study of the fine arts, especially of antiquity), making important contribution to the then infant field of archaeology. Cleland was later to fall on hard times, forcing him to write the scandalous novel ‘Fanny Hill’ that was banned in most of the world till a generation ago.
John Cleland (1709-1789) was probably a son of William Cleland, a friend of Pope, the poet. He was entered at Westminster School in 1722, was afterwards a consul at Smyrna and thence went as far as Bombay, where in 1736 he was in the service of the East India Company. He soon left Bombay in a destitute condition, somewhat hurriedly, for reasons connected with a quarrel with the Members of the Council at Bombay; and for many years subsequently wandered from city to city without any defined employment, and is said to have been more than once in a debtor’s prison in England. Lord Granville, who had been at the Privy Council, procured Cleland a pension of £1oo a year, in order that he might make a worthier use of his talents, or perhaps with a view to his prospective services as a newspaper writer. After this, Cleland wrote for the theatre and the newspapers.

5- There is also a small group of writers active today who have Levantine roots, such as Andrew Mango with books such as ‘Turkey (New nations and peoples)’ (Walker - 1968), ‘Discovering Turkey’ (Hastings house - 1972) ,‘Turkey, a delicately poised ally (The Washington papers)’ (Sage - 1975), ‘Turkey: a challenge of a new role’ (Praeger -1994), ‘Ataturk: the biography of the founder of modern Turkey’ (The outlook press - 2000) which has received high praise and was followed by ‘The Turks today’ (John Murray - 2004). Mr Mango’s last published book (Nov 2005), ‘Turkey and the war on terror: For thirty years we fought alone’, has also received favourable reviews.

The other living Levantine writer of note is Loren Edizel, the author of ‘İzmir Hayaletleri [The Ghosts of Smyrna], Şenocak Yayınları, Izmir (2008)’, a novel of love and war. A more recent (2009) publication by a fellow Levantine of that city is Gianna Paradiso, whose work ‘Tanrim Bana Kim Olduğumu Söyle [God tell me who I am]’, is a record of her spiritual journey.

The background to the book, ‘The Ghosts of Smyrna’ Interview conducted with the author Loren Edizel in February 2009

Is this your first book / written work?

The Ghosts of Smyrna (İzmir Hayaletleri) is my first novel. I have previously written screenplays, poems, short stories. In fact, I have written something or other ever since I could write. This novel was the result of many transformations. About a decade ago I got a Canada Arts Council grant to write a screenplay about the fire of Izmir. It had an entirely different storyline, characters and a very different feel to it. A few characters from this book were already there, but behaved differently. It was called Bitter Oranges. The script had perhaps a more epic feel to it, there were a lot of million dollar scenes that I loved imagining, but could not possibly produce. I studied filmmaking, so I wanted to make this movie. The manuscript lay around the house for a while as I eventually came to terms with the fact that no one in their right minds would produce such an expensive movie. A friend of mine who’s a documentary filmmaker and writer said one day, “Forget about screenplays. Why don’t you write a novel?” One night, out of the blue, I sat down and started writing vignettes about life in Izmir before the great fire. I wrote about ten of them and really enjoyed the process. I sent the package to a writer friend who told me to run with it. So I did.

What prompted you?

A conversation I had with my brother prompted me to write about that particular period in time. As a person who has moved away from the ancestral home in Izmir I felt one of the great issues for me centered around identity. Another one was loss. Displacement. Growing up, identity was a rather prickly issue, too. I was part of a small Christian Levantine minority in a predominantly Muslim society. I suppose having a ‘hybrid’ identity has given me much to think and write about and has afforded me a certain perspective – that of an outsider and an insider, all at once.

The Ghosts of Smyrna is about a very specific time in Izmir’s history. The Ottoman Empire is about to collapse after WWI, and a multicultural way of life that owed its existence to the particularities of that empire is also about to disappear with it. Nationalism is rearing its head. People from various ethnic backgrounds who used to live peacefully find themselves in enemy camps. The great fire itself was symbolic; one era lay in ruins, another got built over it. Izmir’s history of thousands of years has witnessed such destruction over and over, whether it was because of war or natural causes. I wanted to talk about a city that no longer exists except in memories and stories. I wanted to bring it to life in people’s imaginations.

I wanted to write a book about everyday people from all walks of life who lived there, who had nowhere to run and whose lives were ruined regardless of their religion, ethnicity, background etc. History books don’t expose the poignant details of devastation, the tragic loss of human lives, connections caused by war at the individual level. They are concerned with “les grandes lignes” and are often informed by a political/ ideological agenda which doesn’t necessarily correspond to what is remembered by those who lived through these events, the “vécu”. Novels, works of fiction bring history to the reader through the lives of characters affected by events. In my small way, I wanted to talk about these forgotten tragedies.

How long did it take?

Technically, there were a few years of research, note-taking and thinking, developing characters. The actual writing of the novel took one year. But ever since I’ve known myself, I have listened, observed, thought and also felt the need to write about things. I’d be looking at the sky, a particular moment, a face or gesture and writing it inside my head while wondering if all these observations, thoughts, images would ever culminate in something unified, one big picture. I’m grateful they did and still do.

What inspired you?

Family stories. My elders have all been wonderful storytellers. A lot happened to them; they lived through incredible hardships. As a very small child, I would sit by my grandmother and listen to stories about her childhood in Kırkağaç (a small town north of Izmir), her life in Izmir; she would say to me “someday you will write the story of my life”. My father too was a delightful storyteller – listening to him was like watching a breathtaking movie or reading a novel. There was suspense, humour, profound thought and emotion all at once.

In my immediate family, we are all multilingual. My paternal grandmother whose ancestry hailed from the Austro-Hungarian Empire (possibly Slovenia, I don’t know) spoke only Greek; when she was growing up Levantines spoke Greek. So we spoke Greek with her. My parents spoke Greek between themselves and French to us. With friends and siblings we spoke Turkish. Italian was the language in which my father swore while driving and the language in which we listened to Sunday mass. Then we learned English. We think in many languages and among ourselves we tend to speak them all at once, stringing together multilingual sentences. A language is not only a means of communication; it is a cultural expression, it is a way of thinking and perceiving things. In Canada, for instance, if you are perfectly bilingual in French and English (the official Canadian languages) your perspective of the social landscape and history may be quite different from someone who is unilingual. You can understand both points of view, and where others may see a social-political divide, you may see a bridge. A Levantine is someone who can potentially do that in a multiplicity of ways and directions. Not that Levantines necessarily do that; but it is theoretically possible. It’s a rather unique situation - painful because in places and cultures where the Levantine feels at home, he/she is not perceived as truly belonging. But the Levantine paradox can also ideally point at the possibility of a human being who is first and foremost a “citizen of the world”, and a way of thinking and living that is inclusive, truly multicultural and tolerant. The ingredients of democracy as it is desired.

Who are your favourite authors?

I have so many it would probably sound like a grocery list! It saddens me to think a lifetime is not enough to read all the wonderful books in the world. For me, the beauty of a book is in the moments- it could be a paragraph, even a single sentence- that resonate deeply in one’s mind, that make one feel a writer has gone beyond words with mere words and described the indescribable which is life itself, distilled. A great writer is one who is capable of doing this, of suffusing a story with such exquisite moments and giving the reader the gift of exploring his/her own humanity. In my opinion, to read a book for its plot is to miss the point entirely. A plot can be nice and carry one along; but the great beauty of literature lies elsewhere.

How does your childhood / parentage influence these writings?

My father (Jak Edizel 1913-1994) was an artist, and an intellectual. He spoke his mind and like most artists and creative minds - without really being aware of it – he was a true anarchist. He had a wonderful sense of irreverence and the absurd. There were no sacred cows. Our parents spoke to us with respect, like equals. We could disagree about things, we could argue for hours and if we made a good convincing point they would accept that argument. They raised us to think for ourselves and to have open minds.

I wrote my first poem at the age of 6. It was a love poem for my mother that I wrote in Turkish. The problem was that my vocabulary was not good enough to make the perfect rhymes. I remember it was a very long poem with 4 quatrains and I wanted to surprise her but I definitely needed adult help. My father sat with me and helped me finish it. He would give me ideas too, like “Mom, you are the column of this family” because it rhymed with something else. The thought that my mom was a column struck me as very original and I said “sure, let’s put that in, I like it.” To this day, the only thing I remember about that poem is the column-woman; and it wasn’t even my idea!

I was a busy girl. I wrote. I wrote on small pieces of paper, on napkins. I always had notebooks and diaries I could lock. I liked writing letters and poems. My favourite pen-pal was my uncle (Joseph Edizel) from Istanbul. He taught French literature and was a poet in his own right. If I wrote my thoughts about life to him, he always wrote his own thoughts back in letters that were 2-3 pages long. I absolutely adored him. I loved reading also. I read whatever books I could lay my hands on, and I loved writing short stories for school work. I was made to read them out loud in class. Once in 9th grade I stood up and read two of my stories back to back. I was only required to write one, I wrote two. The teacher –it was Turkish literature- after I had finished, asked me where I had copied them from. When I told her I had written them all by myself, she lowered her glasses slowly and looked at me with her piercing eyes, asking me if I was very sure about that. It scared me out of my mind, I got the shakes thinking she would give me a zero for something I had actually imagined and written myself. It was a wonderful compliment in a scary package. I had a lot of encouragement at home and at school and it seemed everyone knew I would be a writer, except myself. I wasn’t so sure for a long time. But they were right. It is what I love doing.

Did you delve into historical archives to research the fire of Smyrna or were they based on family / community folklore?

I spent quite a bit of time doing historical research in Montreal, namely the Concordia and McGill University libraries - reading everything I could about that period as it related to Europe, the Ottoman Empire and Izmir, in particular. I basically read everything that was available to me, and took notes. At that time, I did not yet have the story outline in mind. I looked for novels, books, short stories that were about that time and place. Then I went to Izmir. I wandered around looking for books about that period. In Kemeraltı I walked into tiny bookstores that actually sold Greek books with many black and white pictures of Smyrna and its various quarters, the great fire. I bought a lot of books, some of which were second hand. Some booksellers sent me to others. I went to the Faculty of Fine Arts /Architecture and met a professor there whose name I unfortunately no longer remember, as it was more than a decade ago. He shared archival material with me. Everyone who knew I was researching the subject was more than willing to share what they knew. There were documentaries to watch. There was a documentary movie on the fire of Smyrna and the exodus of Smyrnian Greeks with archival footage that I tried to get my hands on, through a film distributor in New York. Unfortunately I couldn’t get my hands on that one. But there was a lot of active research. My father who was really excited about my project completed a few audio cassettes for me about his recollections as a child. He actually helped me a lot. He drove me places so that I could take pictures of old Smyrnian buildings and houses. He took me to see the journalist and writer Yaşar Aksoy who had done his own research about the city and offered me further information. Then, as the story started to take shape in my mind, there was a period of passive research when I was basically looking into particular questions that arose while I was writing.

Do you know the extent to which your family was personally affected by the fire?

My father was a young boy. His family lost all their belongings during the fire. They sought refuge at a relative’s house in the hills of Bayraklı where they lived for a few years. He remembered that time quite vividly.

If you could be transported in time, when and where would you like to be transplanted to?

I like where I am! If I must choose, I suppose I would go to the distant future, hoping the human race will have figured a way to live in peace. Well, if nothing else, I can at least travel through the galaxy in search of intelligent life!

There is gross injustice, inequity, greed and ferocity in the world we live in. There is also great hope, great possibilities for change. Maybe it’s a constant in human existence – we’re not terribly bright, but we live with hope.

Do you think books can help to bring understanding between communities? Do you feel the weight of historical responsibility sometimes?

I believe so. I think literature and the arts in general have the capacity to widen mental horizons and refine sensibilities by challenging the status quo, the accepted ways of doing, saying and seeing things. A society that does not encourage and promote the arts, or tolerate critical thinking and free speech becomes ignorant and rigid; forcing everyone to see through the same funnel, as it were, by eliminating dissent. Humankind is phenomenally diverse. I think books, knowledge in general, enrich our minds making us more aware of realities other than our own. The question of historical responsibility is an important one in that context as well. How a society chooses to deal with its past has great bearing on how it functions today.

What are your future projects?

I wrote a second novel, “adrift”. The story takes place in Montreal. It recounts the life of a solitary man who works the night shift at a hospital and writes his thoughts and stories in a notebook. The narrative flows across continent and oceans, going in and out of characters’ lives and minds exploring questions of identity, displacement and meaning. Currently I am working on another project; a ‘road’ novel. I’d like to work on another Aegean story after that, but who knows...


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The background to the book, ‘The State of Ata’ Interview conducted with Chantal Zakari and her husband and co-author Mike Mandel in August 2010

When did you first start writing? Is this your first book?

We started working on this project in 1997. The actual work on creating the book didn’t start until when we were at the MacDowell Art Colony (New Hampshire) in 2002. We knew we wanted to make a book even in 1997 but at the time we were more focused on gathering imagery and interviewing. We were in the research mode. We’ve always considered this as an artists’ book, a collection of our own imagery, found imagery, texts, interviews...

Mike has been self-publishing his artwork since 1971, in the form of ten different projects. Together we did The Turk and The Jew, first as a web narrative then as a book.

You spent 13 years researching the notion of the symbol of Ataturk with your husband? This is an impressive length of time for any study. Did the aims change through time, and how much did you change?

13 years seems long but not that long when you consider that we had to travel back and forth each year. There is an advantage in pursuing a project for a long time. Because 1997 was the year of the “soft coup” there was a heightened interest in using the imagery of Ataturk in opposition to the controversial religious government that was in place. We found ourselves in the middle of it. Thirteen years later we find that this is the perfect time for this book to be published.

Right from the beginning we were interested in looking at how Ataturk’s imagery was used in popular culture. We came to understand that this imagery was not only a popular response but a propagandistic tool to promote the interests of the secular media and the military. Soon we recognized that this symbol was in relation to other symbols that were also important, the headscarf for example, which is not only a religious but a political statement against restraint of freedom of speech.

Being from a Levantine family in Izmir, was your exposure to the imagery of Atatürk start at primary school? Do you think the imposition of this symbolism was to the same measure as say Jesus Christ?

Yes, my exposure began in primary school but even before that public sculptures and pictures were part of my daily life. Primary school was my connection to the wider culture and to the official story. The myth and the imagery is very similar to religious iconography.

Do you think your Levantine identity helps you to see outside the box, yet understand the complexity of the Turkish psyche?

Of course as a member of a minority group I am somewhat removed from the mainstream culture. I speak to this issue extensively in the book. We didn’t have a picture of Atatürk in our house. On the other hand, I received a secular education in the public school, and my teacher would give me a Christmas present each year. So even though I was part of a minority I didn’t feel completely left out. But really it is only when I moved to the US to study art that I realized that the imagery of Atatürk was so prevalent in Turkey. I was able to look at my own culture as an outsider.

Do you know when and where your various family branches came from and why to Turkey? Was a relative a ‘mentor’ to you in your early years? Is Izmir still ‘home’ for you?

Both sides of my family come from Italy but my dad’s side has lived in the Ottoman lands for eight generations. My great grandfather was a railroad engineer. My paternal grandfather Charles Zakari was born in Edirne, Karaağaç (a satelite neighbourhood of this city) in 1900. His father Jean Zakari lost his job right before the Balkan War because he was involved in a workers uprising. Sometime around 1910 the family moved to Istanbul and then in 1912 to Izmir where he found a new job.

My grandfather briefly served in the Ottoman army in 1920 but because army officials did not trust non-Muslims they were soon let go. After the Revolution the family adopted the Turkish nationality. They changed the spelling of our last name from Zacharie to Zakari, a more phonetic version. He worked for the Ottoman Bank, a bank financed by Europeans, during the Revolutionary war (1919-23) and continued until his retirement in 1962. During World War 2 (1941-42) he was interned for 7 months along with other non-Muslims in Abant where Inönü’s government gathered non-Muslims for forced labour. They were forced to do hard labor breaking stones for the builidng of the Bolu-Abant road.

My maternal great grandfather, Maresia, came from Italy and found a job working on the yacht of the Ottoman Bank in the late 19th century. My mom’s maternal grandfather was a Frenchman who was married to a Greek woman. He owned a shop, Maison Renault, on Pera street (today’s İstiklal Caddesi) and was the tailor of the palace.

All four of my grandparents worked for the Ottoman Bank because they were French and that was their primary language and language of commerce during Ottoman times.

My dad opened his own agency ICT Turizm in 1990. He was doing mostly incoming tourism. He put a lot of imagination into his work. Once he convinced carpet merchants to lend him carpets in order to cover a hill in Cappadocia so that the tourists would sit on them and watch a ballet performance against the volcanic rock formations. Another time he rented a ferry boat that carried cars across the Bosphorous. With the help of an interior architect and a gardener he transformed it into a floating harem. He is an inspiration to me. When he passed away in 1999 my mom continued the family business. Izmir is home for me.

Mike is from California. He had no previous exposure to Turkey and approached the project completely as an outsider. He studied photography and has been a practicing photographic artist since his days in college.

Is there a time an artist should back off subjects that can create too much friction or confusion in the community / society. Are you good at such compromises?

For us art can have conceptual power beyond the aesthetics. It’s not only a beautiful painting on the wall, art has power to enter into a dialogue that may include social issues, but for us it’s not a vehicle that is propagandistic or didactic. The space in between creates an opportunity for a lot of questions to open up, which can be provocative and disturbing but they don’t need to be answered by the artist. A work of art can create an opportunity for the audience to find their own answers.

In other interviews you have been quite critical of the Turkish press, accusing them of dumbing down the news, creating sensationalism and at times distorting the truth, and yet justifying this shortcoming by stating the ‘population wants this’. Do you think this is one of the tragedies of Turkey, a lack of good journalism leading to an ill informed public who are not given the tools to make good judgements of situations.

You don’t need to look far to find irresponsible and inadequate thoughtfulness in the way the mainstream media creates the news everywhere around the world. Turkish mainstream media is really no different than our experience of tabloid American journalism.

Is Turkey unique in interpreting in diverse ways the legacy of their national hero?

Turkey is not any different in creating a myths out of the legacy of the national hero. What may be unique in Turkey is that an entire narrative lays on the shoulders of one single person. For example, we were interested in photographing sculptures of Atatürk where he is portrayed as the great leader, teacher, warrior, father of a nation. In fact, even a political Islamist could find a picture of Atatürk to relate to. Toward the end of our project we would see in some cities new posters that showed Atatürk in the act of prayer.

During your long years of travel and research across Turkey what incident was the most bizarre?

We came with the intention to study and observe a powerful symbol in Turkish culture, and then inadvertently one morning in Ankara I became a symbol myself by holding up a picture of Atatürk. Certainly that was the most bizarre sequence of events.

Also bizarre and surprising to us was that we could find no trace of a real original image of Ataturk in any of the official government archives where we visited. Everything we found were third or fourth or tenth generation reproductions of images that I had seen since my childhood. The archives did not have a singular, authentic image of this man.

Not strange, but specific to Turkish culture, we learned how to navigate the nuances of Turkish public relations. While seeking access to the archives at TRT that we thought might yield something special we were directed to speak with “Ayşe hanım, the pregnant lady”. We soon discovered that Ayşe hanım had delivered her baby almost a year ago and that the archive was of little use, but what was curious to us was the convoluted path we had to take to get there.

More recently we made a portrait of a man in the streets of Afyon. He posed for us willingly, but a few minutes later we saw him running to catch up with us and asked us not to use his picture because it might be misinterpreted. His fear was that “this American” would take it out of context and who knows, in some newspaper he might be labeled as a terrorist. As this happened toward the end of the project it seemed a metaphor for a more contemporary anxiety about how people relate to foreigners.

Your art, and this book is clearly more art than history, seems to ask questions and yet offer no direct answers. Do you think it is a difficult notion for non-Turks to navigate this somewhat Eastern paradox, if I may put it that way?

We always considered that a significant part of our audience would reside outside of Turkey, primarily because the image of Atatürk is not that is not well recognized outside of Turkey. Especially after 9/11 the Western world is much more sensitized to the dynamic between the tradition of secularism and religion and how they collide and co-exist.

Any future projects planned?

Hard to tell at this point. This coming year we will be busy giving lectures about the book. We have lectures planned in the SW of the US, New York and Chicago. And a show in September 2011 in Boston.

Who are your favourite artists / authors?

This book is inspired by many artists’ projects and artists’ books we admire; Sophie Calle, Bill Burke, Susan Meiselas, Larry Sultan, Jim Goldberg.

If you could go back in time and space, which period and where would you like to live, at least temporarily?

It would be easy to connect with the nostalgia of earlier times when life was slower and less fragmented but at the same time people died younger and didn’t have as many experiences of the world. It’s always a give and take. But on the other hand as Ezra Pound once famously said, “the artist is the antennae of the race.” We may no longer need antennas but our role is to be responsive to the to social issues and mores of our time.

Do you think we are all tribal in nature, feel the need to belong to a series of interlocking communities, the overarching one being nationhood and to make us feel secure and advertise this ‘contentment’ we need to cling on to symbols to represent this belonging.

Chantal: We can talk about ourselves and our needs but the theory belongs to sociologists. I like coming back to Turkey, seeing my family, eating the food I grew up with, the smells, the chaos, the sun. I also belong to many communities in the U.S. my school, my neighborhood, my art community... Nationhood for me is different. I recently became a U.S. citizen and I will enjoy the right to vote. But I see nationalism as a forced identity. My family’s history and many other Levantine family’s history proves that belonging to a nation is a roll of dice.

Mike: Nothing would make me happier than to have a sense of national identity. But the United States seems to have lost its way. We have an historic moment with an African American president, he’s inherited wars that have left this country divided and alienated. The opposition party seems only interested in obstructing his programs no matter what they may be, so the end result is that any real sense of national purpose is lost within the inertia of a dysfunctional political system. People do believe in a variety of social, ethical, and economic values, and we do look for symbols as a shorthand to represent our thinking. Are you concerned about a “green” approach to how we plan for the impact of climate change? Then you have found a word, a symbol, to represent a very complex set of interconnected actions. As artists we create symbols within our imagery in order to affect our audience on a psychological or emotional level. Symbols are what we have to work with. If you’re asking, “Does Turkey need the symbol of Atatürk in order to maintain a sense of national unity and commitment to a secular future.” Well, let’s hope that Turkey’s future success as a nation will derive from more than just the memory of its first leader who has been out of the picture for the past seventy-two years.

Anything you would like to add?

Our distributor in the USA, D.A.P. is the largest art book distributor. Their European partner (which includes Turkey) is Thames & Hudson. When they saw our book they decided that it would be risky for them to distribute a book about Atatürk. Even though the book does not take an ideological position about Atatürk, Thames & Hudson, a European company, censored the distribution. Ironically, we have shown the book to journalists in Turkey and we’ve received 3 reviews in major national newspapers, Hürriyet, Vatan and Taraf. (For your Turkish readers I am including the links). All three reviews are positive which proves to us that Turkey is ready to embrace the discussion on this subject.


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