Hakan Günday: "To a person who has already bought fear, you can sell anything: hatred, a fighter jet, missiles..."

BarcelonaHakan Günday (Rhodes Island, Greece, 1976), whose novel was published in Catalan by Periscopio Daha! In 2017, he is one of the most awarded writers on the Turkish literary scene. Considered lenfant terrible of Turkish literature and very critical of his country's regime, in My number is Zamir (Bunker Books), translated into Spanish by Sleyman Matos, speaks frankly about NGOs, the rise of the far right, and life and violence in refugee camps.

Zamir was born in a refugee camp where there is still hope. Why did you choose a camp on the Turkish-Syrian border in particular?

— Borderlands are zones where all hidden or forgotten tragedies become visible. And the first witnesses of these tragedies are those who live on the borders. Zamir is born to be a witness. Furthermore, since the novel was a way for me to ask questions like "How do you build peace?", I needed Zamir to be born on a border like the Turks-Sirian border, where peace and war have coexisted for more than a decade.

Are there refugee camps where hope is possible?

— In the novel, a refugee camp is a place where people wake up hoping for a better life and go to bed feeling like prisoners sentenced to life imprisonment.

Why do you write from the perspective of someone raised by an extremist cell?

— To explore the notion of peace throughout history, I needed to begin with a child who was a victim of the violence of war. I could then follow that child, surrounded by hatred, on his journey toward peace. A journey in which Zamir realizes that human life has value.

You talk about the manipulation of children, a very relevant topic today, not only in conflict zones. Why did you decide to address this issue specifically? Are children the most vulnerable victims?

— They are not only the most vulnerable victims, but also the natural resources, the armies of tomorrow, necessary to keep all conflicts alive. So, there's always a race to get inside the heads of as many children as possible. But on the other hand, a child, having not yet spent enough time on Earth to become accustomed to atrocities, is capable of asking questions. That's why the story I'm telling begins with a child questioning everything around him.

Are NGOs willing or unwilling accomplices of the very systems they claim to combat? Have you had any personal experience with this?

— No, I haven't had any personal experience, but if we recognize that war poisons everything, NGOs would be no exception. After all, NGOs are the result of conflict. In the novel, Zamir's life is saved and he is raised by an NGO. So, the NGO is his family. But over time, he realizes that the NGO is a kind of money-making machine. And later, Zamir understands that the first people exploited by the NGO are the very volunteers who work there. Zamir's criticism of NGOs stems from his disillusionment with these organizations, which were supposed to be the only reliable entity in a world of lies.

Do they contribute to the dehumanization of those they help?

— I think everyone contributes to the dehumanization of those affected by these conflicts. To understand this, just look at the history of media coverage of mass migration. We all know that mass migration is a consequence of economic inequality, exploitation, and war. So, it's as old as human history, but it only makes the news when it affects wealthy European countries. As humans, we have a tendency to dehumanize "others." We use NGOs as walls to protect us from the world's tragedies. We give money to NGOs, and in return, NGOs give us peace of mind!

Are there more humane and ethical ways to intervene in conflict zones?

— I think we can start by asking ourselves questions about governments' foreign intervention policies throughout history and about the weapons manufactured in the West and sold primarily in these conflict zones. Focusing on the causes of conflict rather than migration, which is merely a consequence, would provide a more humane approach, I think.

Can literature serve as an antidote to extremism?

— We know that literature, as a tool for understanding "the other," has the ability to break down walls, but it all depends on the reader. Literature is like an alarm clock. Once it starts ringing, you have two options: you can wake up or turn it off and go back to sleep.

Zamir's mother is a disturbing character: she's not overtly violent, but she plays an active role in the development of a murderer. How did you conceive this character?

— I wanted to write about a female character who becomes a "reaction machine." Zamir's mother lives in a violent environment where women have no identity. So she reacts. Constantly frightened by the reality around her, she decides to be more fearsome than the real world. She gives back to society the violence she has received. And she does it in an extreme way. So the violence she creates is as loud as a cry for help.

Fear prevails. Is this why authoritarian governments are gaining ground?

— There are two kinds of information: the kind you seek, and the kind that comes to you unsolicited. If you've searched and obtained information, that's fine. But if information has reached you via advertising or news, you should know that it's trying to sell you something. Sometimes it's a bank loan or a car, and other times it's a prejudice. But often, the element this information wants to sell is fear. It's a very practical commodity for the person selling it. Because to a person who has already bought fear, you can sell anything: hate, a fighter jet, missiles, anything. It's the government that tells you who your neighbor is. It's the government that tells you whether you should hate, fear, or love. And that's what we call authoritarianism.

Despite the rise of the far right, there is also mobilization; there have been protests in Türkiye against repression. Is there hope?

— Since we're still in the phase of protesting for the right to protest, I think it's a bit early to say whether there's hope or not.

I have read that it is identified with Journey to the depths of the night, by Louis-Ferdinand Céline. Céline's writing is like a ground-level camera, but he's a controversial author for his anti-Semitic views. What do you share with him?

— Journey to the depths of the night It's a novel in which the atrocities of the world and the cruelty of human beings are explained as they are. It's the novel that taught me that the best way to confront the harshness of life is to write about it. But it also taught me that it's impossible to imagine anything more sinister than reality. Because the author who condemns all kinds of hatred in his novel is the same one who hates reality. So I guess the only thing I share with Céline is a mutual friend named Bardamu [the protagonist of Céline's novel], a man who is horrified to be a man.