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? Continue reading On Winter, Who Wants to Be a Millionaire & Home
.. 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. Continue reading Istanbul, Not Constantinople… ?
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.” Continue reading Leila Aboulela: Home, The Nile & Roasted Watermelon Seeds
Hi, I’m Neriman! A writer, teacher, researcher, life-long traveller and a book lover.
I grew up reading such geniuses as Ömer Seyfettin, Louisa May Alcott, Eleanor H. Porter, Jules Verne, and Evliya Çelebi. Then did a PhD in Contemporary Global Anglophone Literature.
I live with my cats Vivi who can’t stand traveling and Ofi who is a nomad. We are trying to figure it all out.
“…we have to grope our way through so much filth and rubbish in order to reach home! And we have no one to show us the way. Homesickness is our only guide.”-Steppenwolf, Herman Hesse
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.
In his essay, “Minimal Selves,” Stuart Hall writes that every migrant is accustomed to two questions: “Why are you here?” and “When are you going back home?” The answer to the first question comes easily: for education? to better my life? political asylum?… what have you. The second question, however, is a turning point in every migrant’s life because the migrant, possibly for the first time, confronts the fact that there is no answer to it. “Migration,” Hall writes, “is a one way trip. There is no ‘home’ to go back to” (44).
I would also add: once one leaves, there is no home to go back to even if one returns.
This complex notion of home is the point of departure for my research on diaspora literature. I’m beyond excited about my research and the cultural and sociopolitical possibilities that it opens up. But I want my posts here to be concise and explorative. I want theory and research to be accessible and meaningful. My hope is to bridge the gap between theory and popular discourse and to offer insight into the powerful connection between fiction and truth.
I will be writing about my travels, my ongoing exploration of ‘home,’ and all the wonderful books that are helping me shift my perception about home, identity, and what it means to belong.
(Maybe a few posts about my cat Vivi too)
(You’re right. I’m joking)
What is it about the olive tree?
The title of my page is inspired by my upbringing. Although I grew up in the city, my grandparents had a summer house right across Greece in the beautiful Aegean. Starting at the age of six, I spent every summer in the sun by the sea among olive trees. I am thirty-one now as I write this blurb, and this tradition hasn’t changed at all. In fact, last summer I spent my mornings reading and writing at a cozy coffee shop outside under the shade of olive and fig trees. The sun, the sea, the smell of thyme and oregano, grapevines, and olive trees all remind me of home, well, … all are home.
Feel free to drop me a line, say hi, and/or share your thoughts–I’m enjoying the wonderful discussions I’ve been having with other readers and writers here!