This is home too, from which I’m writing a thank you letter to Who Wants to Be a Millionaire, I suppose? Who would have thought?
.. I’m from Istanbul. No, really. Originally. My great-great-great-great x great grandparents had been Ottomans. I don’t know what ethnicity, but yes, Istanbulites. No, not Arabs. Rums, you say? Maybe. I’ve always suspected that. No, not Armenian. But maybe.
When I found out that I was reviewing “Muslim” for World Literature Today, I was elated. And you can read about why in my review in the summer issue of World Literature Today.
Migrant writer Aglaja Veteranyi once wrote that “[her] father says you remember the smell of your country no matter where you are but only recognize it when you’re far away.”
Fiction has the power to uncover what is left unsaid in headlines and social media posts. It disrupts the chain of narratives that insidiously silence the voices of those who demand to be heard.
As a self-proclaimed hyphenated spirit, I’ve dedicated my life to exploring what it means to be home. Growing up in Turkey and living in Europe and the U.S. have brought me closer to finding an answer to the complex question of home. Or so I thought.