Product Description

When The Bastard of Istanbul was published in Turkey, Elif Shafak was accused by nationalist lawyers of insulting Turkish identity. The charges were later dropped, and now readers in America can discover for themselves this bold and powerful tale. Populated with vibrant characters, The Bastard of Istanbul is the story of two families, one Turkish and one Armenian American, and their struggle to forge their unique identities against the backdrop of Turkey’s violent history. Filled with humor and understanding, this exuberant, dramatic novel is about memory and forgetting, about the tension between the need to examine the past and the desire to erase it.

Product Details

• Amazon Sales Rank: #69664 in Books
• Published on: 2008-01-29
• Original language: English
• Number of items: 1
• Binding: Paperback
• 368 pages

Features

• ISBN13: 9780143112716
• Condition: NEW
• Notes: Brand New from Publisher. No Remainder Mark.
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From Publishers Weekly
In her second novel written in English (The Saint of Incipient Insanities was the first), Turkish novelist Shafak tackles Turkish national identity and the Armenian "question" in her signature style. In a novel that overflows with a kitchen sink's worth of zany characters, women are front and center: Asya Kazanci, an angst-ridden 19-year-old Istanbulite is the bastard of the title; her beautiful, rebellious mother, Zeliha (who intended to have an abortion), has raised Asya among three generations of complicated and colorful female relations (including religious clairvoyant Auntie Banu and bar-brawl widow, Auntie Cevriye). The Kazanci men either die young or take a permanent hike like Mustafa, Zeliha's beloved brother who immigrated to America years ago. Mustafa's Armenian-American stepdaughter, Armanoush, who grew up on her family's stories of the 1915 genocide, shows up in Istanbul looking for her roots and for vindication from her new Turkish family. The Kazanci women lament Armanoush's family's suffering, but have no sense of Turkish responsibility for it; Asya's boho cohorts insist there was no genocide at all. As the debate escalates, Mustafa arrives in Istanbul, and a long-hidden secret connecting the histories of the two families is revealed. Shafak was charged with "public denigration of Turkishness" when the novel was published in Turkey earlier this year (the charges were later dropped). She incorporates a political taboo into an entertaining and insightful ensemble novel, one that posits the universality of family, culture and coincidence. (Jan. 22)
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.

From The Washington Post
Reviewed by Barry Unsworth

Two extended families, one Turkish living in Istanbul, the other in San Francisco, part of the Armenian diaspora. Through the interactions among and between them, we trace the tragic patterns of blame, denial, suppression of memory that have characterized relations between the two peoples since the massacres and deportations suffered by the Armenians at Turkish hands in the early months of 1915, perhaps the first example in the 20th century of what has come to be called ethnic cleansing, and systematic enough to be regarded as a policy of genocide -- two out of three Armenians living under Ottoman rule were done to death. The Turkish state has yet to acknowledge these atrocities, in spite of ample historical documentation.

Elif Shafak has chosen to write The Bastard of Istanbul in English, a decision to be applauded, though with mixed feelings. The novel deserves to reach a wide readership, for reasons not entirely literary. By putting into the mouths of her characters explicit reference to these events, for using the word "genocide," Shafak fell afoul of Article 301 of the Turkish penal code and was tried on a charge of "insulting Turkishness," which carries a prison sentence. It is only a few months since this charge was finally dropped. The case received wide press coverage both in the United States and in Europe and has served as a highly public -- and highly salutary -- example of the lengths to which an insensate nationalism can go in the suppression of elementary freedoms. It has also, of course, acted as an extreme example of the denial that is a central theme of the novel.

However, a novel is first of all a structure of words, and it has to be said that the structure is sometimes shaky in this one. Certainly we British must be on our guard against looking upon the English language as the last of our colonial possessions, quite failing to notice that it was lost long ago under the combined assault of a billion or so people all over the globe who regard it as theirs too, and often use it more vividly and inventively than we do. There is also the risk of being regarded as an inmate of a Home for Aged Pedants who has been let out for the day. All the same . . . "A tortuous moment," what can that be? How can a person's nose be called "blatantly aquiline"? How can you "listen to your Middle Eastern roots"? What does it mean to say that "sex is far more sensual than physical" or to describe a truth as "stringent and stolid"? These perplexities intensify at times to outright rebellion. No, no, no, a person cannot, at one and the same time, be "almost paralyzed" and "wallowing" in something. A gaze of mutual love cannot be called, in the same breath, "a prurient moment."

These are just a few random samples. I am pretty sure Shafak would not write things like this in her native Turkish. Should it matter? Too large a question to deal with here. Irritation at the way the author seems sometimes to muffle up or undermine her own meanings is compounded with regret by the fact that a lot of the time the writing is very good, eloquent, bold, full of shrewd insights, with veins of satire and poetry and fantasy running through it, and turns of phrase that are witty and aphoristic, like the description of the way her family deals with the extremely difficult Auntie Feride: "They had figured out one way of dealing with insanity, and that was to confuse it with a lack of credibility."

The narrative mode most resembles that of a storyteller in the oral tradition, leisurely and digressive and entirely arbitrary, moving from the horrors of the past to the pathologies of the present, through four generations, from Istanbul to San Francisco to Tucson, Ariz. Information is withheld from us until the moment is deemed ripe. Everything comes together finally in a resolution both powerful and moving, but this device of long-delayed information, which is employed throughout, can sometimes put a strain on our belief -- and on our patience. Early in the novel, the unmarried Zeliha, one of the Turkish contingent, announces to the assembled family that she is pregnant. Rage, consternation, abuse, tears. But not one of these five women thinks of asking her who the father is. A natural enough question, surely. We have to wait 300 pages to find out. Two-thirds of the way through the book and 19 years later, we are told quite casually that her daughter Asya has been having an extremely variegated and crowded sex life, going to bed with all and sundry. We have seen her grow up, we have been told all manner of things about her; why has this been kept from us? It is hard to see what purpose is served by these implausibilities of narrative.

One of the great strengths of the novel is the sometimes caustic but always humorously tolerant treatment of the various family members, especially those in Istanbul. A relish for the quirks and eccentricities of character runs through and irradiates the whole book. Auntie Feride, who changes her hair color and style "at each stage of her journey to insanity," so that in the end the doctors, in order to understand her illness, start keeping a hair chart; Auntie Banu, who comes into her own as a clairvoyant and believes that she has a djinn on either shoulder, one wicked and one good; Auntie Zeliha, audacious and independent, the woman of the future.

Recurrent throughout is the theme of past trauma and its effects in the present, the feeling of exile, the rooted sense of injustice, the rage at silence, the longing for a firm identity. Gradually the elements come together: the discussions online with fellow Armenians, the conversation of the strangely disembodied characters at the Café Kundera, the revelations of the evil djinn on Auntie Banu's left shoulder, and, above all, the friendship that develops between two girls from the different families. And we come to see that this need to confront the past, with all its load of error and guilt, is something that concerns not just Turks and Armenians but all of us, and that what is true between races and peoples is also true in individual lives. Throughout the novel, passing from one generation to the next, is a gold brooch in the shape of a pomegranate, a memorial to the unoffending victims and a symbol of continuity and reconciliation.

It is this last word that one keeps coming back to. But there is no reconciliation without justice. Elif Shafak's novel brings the possibility of it a step closer, and we are all in her debt for this.

Copyright 2007, The Washington Post. All Rights Reserved.

From Booklist
*Starred Review* The new Nobel laureate Orhan Pamuk has faced charges for making anti-Turkish remarks regarding the long denied mass killings of Armenians by the Ottoman Empire during World War I. Acclaimed Turkish writer Shafak has also been hauled into court for "insulting Turkishness." The case was dropped, and her bold and penetrating tale of the tragic repercussions of the Armenian genocide will live on. In her second novel in English following The Saint of Incipient Insanities (2004), Shafak tells a many-faceted, mischievously witty, and daringly dramatic story that is at once a study in compassion, a shrewd novel of ideas, a love song to Istanbul, and a sensuous and whirling satire. The novel's ruling force is gorgeous Zeliha, the unapologetically sexy proprietor of an Istanbul tattoo parlor. An unwed mother at 19, she has raised her daughter, Asya (now 19 herself and obsessed with Johnny Cash), in a chaotic, food-centric household that includes her mother, grandmother, and three sisters: Banu, the pious clairvoyant; Cevriye, the high-strung history teacher; and Feride, the neurotic. The sisters haven't seen their Americanized brother, Mustafa, for almost 20 years, and are stunned when his 19-year-old stepdaughter, Armanoush, whose mother is from Kentucky and whose father is Armenian, arrives in Istanbul to search for her Armenian roots. As Asya and Armanoush forge a tentative friendship unaware of all that they actually share, others panic over the looming revelation of shocking secrets. Shafak weaves an intricate and vibrant saga of repression and freedom, cultural clashes and convergences, pragmatism and mysticism, and crimes and retribution, subtly revealing just how inextricably entwined we all are, whatever our heritage or beliefs. Donna Seaman
Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved

Customer Reviews

One of the best novels I have read recently
I must admit I do not read fiction that often but after having read this book recently, I must revisit this.

Simply put, a beautiful book.

I heard Shafak's interview on NPR with Terry Gross and found her comments engrossing so that I decided to buy the book.

The structure of the book is the Armenian genoicide and role of memory, past, present and future and the different roles they play in Turkish and Armenian society.

More than this, the travels through to the US and back, relate a sense of flightlessness which helps shape the feelings of identity. The look inside at the relationships among Turkish women is conveyed in a delightful manner. The intergenerational relationships and ties are also brilliantly expressed.

A must read, a really, really beautiful book.

A novel of lovers in Turkey
Any review of Elif Shafak's latest novel, THE BASTARD OF ISTANBUL, is sure to mention the surrounding controversy. When the book was published last year in Turkey, Shafak ended up facing a prison sentence because of what her fictional characters say about the massacre of Armenians under the Ottoman Empire, a tragedy not officially recognized by the Turkish government. This drama could overshadow the book itself, but instead it should contribute to the poignancy of the story.

The titular bastard is Asya Kazanci, a young woman living in Istanbul in a house of eccentric and loving women. Asya is rebellious, even though her "aunties" are fairly tolerant. She is obsessed with the music of Johnny Cash, smokes cigarettes behind her family's back, and ditches the ballet lessons they pay for so that she can sit and drink in a cafe with a bunch of world-weary existentialists. Asya's rebellion is inherited from her mother, the stunning "auntie" Zeliha who had Asya when she was just 19 and now runs a tattoo parlor catering to the artistic and secular of Istanbul. Shafak suggests that Asya's rebellion is part of being an Istanbulite, and the city itself is a major character in the novel. Zeliha has never revealed the name of Asya's father, and much of Asya's identity is tied up in her being a "bastard." But her identity as a woman, as a Turk and as a daughter of Istanbul will be challenged when a bold Armenian American woman arrives on her doorstep.

Armanoush Tchakhmakhchian is a college student in Arizona. Raised between her Armenian family in San Francisco and her mother and Turkish stepfather in Tucson, she, like Asya, struggles with identity. She feels deeply connected to her Armenian ancestry and is often ashamed of the fact that her mother married a Turk, Mustafa, after she and Armanoush's father divorced. She decides that a trip to Istanbul, to explore her family's past and to reconcile her feelings for Turkey, will allow her to move on with her life and sort through some of her confusion. She decides to stay with Mustafa's family in Istanbul, and Mustafa's niece happens to be Asya.

When Asya and Armanoush meet, they each begin to sort out their personal, national and ethnic identities, and uncover several family secrets.

THE BASTARD OF ISTANBUL is both funny and sad. Shafak's prose, although sometimes heavy-handed, conveys the spirit of both young women and the city that connects them. Readers feel for the characters who, often kooky, seem quite real (and mostly likable). The violence against the Armenians is addressed with respect and without being preachy. It is only sentences such as this that can slow the story down: "If there is an eye in the seventh sky, a Celestial Gaze watching each and every one from way up high, He would have had to keep Istanbul under surveillance for quite some time to get a sense of who did what behind closed doors and who, if any, uttered profanities."

Shafak nicely blends realism with a touch of the supernatural and mystical for an enjoyable and subtly thought-provoking read. She evokes the sights, sounds, smells and especially the tastes of Istanbul; her portrait of the city is at once romantic and brutally honest. It soon becomes clear that, despite the title, Asya is not really the central character. The story focuses on the relationship between Asya and Armanoush as each tries to negotiate a partially concealed past and an unknown future. This allows the unfolding of the stories of the two families, the Tchakmakhchains and the Kazancis, and how they are deeply connected. By the end of the novel, family secrets are revealed, and while the characters learn much, Shafak allows them to maintain certain notions and prejudices even as she attempts to strip them from her readers.

In the end, despite some problems with the prose, THE BASTARD OF ISTANBUL is an interesting book from a young novelist who already has made her mark in world literature and deserves to be read apart from the surrounding controversy.

--- Reviewed by Sarah Rachel Egelman

Overrated
Altogether a beautiful book, however, in its attempt to emulate a languid oral storytelling tradition, the end result is far more akin to an MTV video debut: crammed with disjointed scenarios strung together with a weak and somewhat far-fetched storyline. Characters, events, objects are all either over or under described. It either leaves nothing to the imagination or leaves one with the feeling of overwhelming clutter. One can easily imagine what Rose is like and may even know someone like her in life. Her ex-husband Barsam on the other hand, practically disappears after the first chapter and only resurfaces at the end of the book to relay bad news. And Zeliha, from whom the story is launched and is certainly not your typical Istanbulite, how did she become the way she was? Describing her as the rebellious youngest daughter over and over again does not reveal anything.

Chronological figures also do not seem to be the author's strength. Petit-Ma is described as a "little girl" in 1923 when judging from the rest of the story, it appears that she was born circa 1908. Worse, 20 yr. old Mustafa is described to be in Istanbul with Zeliha just when the family secret is revealed which is contrary to an earlier chapter that describes the 18 yr. old being shipped off to the US.

The book's dialogue is also curious. Asya and her friends at Cafe Kundera greet each other with "Yo, ....". Do Istanbulites actually greet each other with "Yo" or are they all wannabe homeboys? There are also plenty of "yeahs" from the non-Americans. I'm quite sure that every language has its equivalent of "yeah" but the overall effect in the book gives the impression that the story could have occurred anywhere, not just Istanbul. At one point, I was wondering if the book was translated to English and in the process, was injected with a little street cred.

In all, I was quite disappointed with the book given all the glowing customer reviews that I had read about it. Describing intricate details and emotions certainly set the mood but can not save an average story.