BY ALP RODOPLU (HIST/MA)

Hür İnsanların Tarihçisi: Küçük Halil
(The Historian of the Free: Little Halil)

The dog charged into the classroom to make sure—in his own way—that the room was safe for his owner. The students were catching up on their geography, and Küçük Halil was busy drawing a map. Halil was called “Küçük Halil” quite appropriately—not only were the two other Halils in his class taller than he, but he was also little enough to have been seated in the very front row. The man entered the room in the manner that a poet once described, “alev parçası gibi” (like a grand blaze of fire). He approached Halil, who, unable even to raise his head for a glimpse, trembled.

As he retold the story of more than eighty years ago—which he had previously done countless times—the narrator’s eyes filled with tears. The auditorium, packed to its limits, trembled for a second—or at least so it seemed. An infinitude of feelings and thoughts were concentrated in the minds of those present. I, for one, was reminded of how Nietzsche once described hearing one of Wagner’s overtures: “once again, for the first time.” It was as if “Küçük” Halil was retelling [t]his story once again, for the first time.

The story dates back to the early 1930s, and the classroom that was its stage used to be the Gazi Terbiye Enstitüsü, now an administrative building of Gazi University. The man with the dog was none other than Atatürk; the little boy, today a giant, was Prof. Halil İnalcık.

Like that of my fellow graduate students in the Department of History, my familiarity with Halil Hoca’s scholarship extends from the historical knowledge he has uncovered with his research, to the historiographical methodology he developed and has been practicing since a time before most Bilkent students’ parents were born. I have not been fortunate enough to receive his instruction, which I would—should this happen one day—treasure till my last hour. Yet, I nonetheless consider myself a student of his, since I am studying in the department he founded over two decades ago, and continues to oversee. I have had the privilege of hearing Prof. İnalcık speak more than once, and on numerous occasions, I have been offered the opportunity of reporting on his words for this very publication. And last Wednesday, February 19, I was there when Halil Hoca accepted the invitation of the Career Center to spoke to the student body. The talk was fittingly entitled, “Halil İnalcık Anlatıyor…”.

Kierkegaard once described Descartes as worthy of being called a true philosopher, because he believed Descartes to have written what he did and to have done what he wrote. Being deemed a true philosopher might be a proper appraisal in philosophy, but it does not really have a counterpart in the social, or human, sciences. Although many professional historians think of some of their colleagues as not really deserving to be called historians, it is seldom, if ever, that you see someone referred to as a true historian. Yet there are individuals, like Prof. İnalcık, for whom something on a par with “true philosopher” must be said. Kierkegaard’s justification becomes noteworthy in this context, because it seems quite an appropriate standard of measure.

It was enlightening to hear Halil Hoca explain what he believes to qualify him and his scholarly work as deserving of the international recognition they receive. “But,” he premised his explanation, “the most important of my achievements never seem to be mentioned by those talking about my biography.”  It is acknowledgement by persons, societies, academies and institutions of teaching that Prof. İnalcık claims to treasure above all. There can be no debate about the extent and diversity of his contribution to historical scholarship, and his work will likely to remain relevant for decades to come. Many may have thought that it is by virtue of this that Prof. İnalcık enjoys such acknowledgment. It seemed to me, however, that he had something more in mind last Wednesday.

Halil Hoca not only mentioned the recognition he had received; he also himself recognized those who had made him and his work possible. The ruling principle here appears to be one of “paving the way” for others; in a way, to make it possible for succeeding generations of scholars and intellectuals to be able to think in categorically different and novel ways. This occurs not when one simply adds to the body of human knowledge, but rather when new ways of thinking and of discourse are rendered feasible.

In this sense, it could not have been a coincidence for Prof. İnalcık to have spoken about the Enlightenment that day—about Voltaire, Diderot, Rousseau and others. It was the thought of those figures that underpinned  the modalities of succeeding ages’ belief and value systems. And it seems to me that it would not be too grand a claim to say that Prof. İnalcık has now become, in similar fashion, a figure of enlightenment for our young generation today, most deserving of being recognized as a “true historian.”

ALP RODOPLU (HIST/MA)

[Preliminary. It had always been his mother’s dream to have her family live under the same roof.  Perhaps dream is too strong a word here — let’s hear this in terms of what it would connote in normal circumstances, i.e., something in line with aspiration, wish, intent or want.

It seems it was from this dream of his mother’s that his obsession, best encapsulated by the phrase “family comes first,” derived.  However, by family he often meant more than blood relatives, including those friends who were more family to him than many members of his extended — and at times close –family.

It was for this reason that he was struck by the irrefutable reality and utterly confusing purpose of existence — viz., suffering — for the first time, when his parents decided to call it quits.

The subsequent arrangement that this decision bore eventually led to an irony of sorts, as uncomfortable and wicked as the character of being-human.  He eventually identified himself with — or, better put, he believed completely comprehending — the nineteenth-century prophet of pessimism, who once wrote that “unless suffering is the direct and immediate object of life, our existence must entirely fail of its aim.”  The irony lay in that the prophet — like any prophet, for that matter — found it particularly difficult to get along with everyone, which included his mother.  His mother, in turn, got along very well with everyone — and when I say everyone, I mean the likes of Herr Goethe and Herr Hegel.

In any case, staying with father was initially deemed convenient for all parties. Mother had to start anew, or perhaps…well, perhaps she preferred it that way — could we ever know for sure?  Let us note that they did live in a society for which discrimination against women was the norm, and it was only normal for it to take time for her to win that roof under which her family would finally be together. Being-together turned out not to be enough for her — that is what he often said — they had to be wealthy, healthy and together. It seems that to him, wealth always took precedence over health, and often over unity — even if all three were musts in one way or another.

So, although he was almost thirty then, he continued living under that same roof, the one his mother provided. His maternal grandfather — his only living grandparent — was old, and he wished to be near his grandpa as long as he was around. Together, they enjoyed the comforts of the immediate circumstances of their existence. For him, the relationship he had with the space that home offered under that roof remained challenging, because spatiality of/between objects seldom guarantees spatiality/spaciousness for the subjects that dwell amidst them.

Nonetheless, he did enjoy their house — particularly their garden. Cultivating fruits, berries and vegetables, and growing roses, hydrangeas, magnolias, orchids, geraniums and other flowering plants, he enjoyed refuge from purpose to partake in a kind of apatheia and contemplative existence. And he looked after their cats and their dog; but, as he saw it, they looked after him as much as he did them — and so, he preferred to call it sharing, which together, they extended to friends, who were also family.]

The Point. This is a picture of our dog.  Her wait is over and this is the story of how a dog waits.

For about two months, it was she, our two cats and I that comprised the population of our house, as everyone else had left either for business or for leisure.  The first three weeks of that period were the most difficult for her, and I doubled the number of our walks, thinking it would cheer her up a bit. During those walks, she developed a heartbreaking habit — she would stop, sit and, looking away out into the road, she would sigh. She was waiting. She was waiting for the rest of her/our family to return. Sitting there, five, ten minutes at a time, she would then get up and begin walking back toward home, only to stop once more, sit, and go through the same ritual all over again.

She longed for the rest of her family — and unless they were together, it seemed she felt she had no family at all.

That you say, think or believe that family comes first is absolutely insignificant when you encounter an embodiment of the essential priority of family. This is an overwhelming experience, indicative of a disconnect from the truer in life.  And in any case, whoever said that one knows not what unconditional love (i.e., pure love) is, never having owned a dog — well, that person was spot on.

[Afterword.

B: “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

J: “No, I’m thinking what I’m thinking.”

B: “So, you’re not thinking what I’m thinking?”

J: “No, ‘cause you’re thinking I’m thinking what you’re thinking.”

From “We’re Both in Love With a Sexy Lady” by the almost-award-winning formerly-fourth-most-popular folk duo in New Zealand.]