Introduction for the second volume of Boğaziçi Chronicles

Reading through both volumes of Boğaziçi Chronicles one after the other, perhaps
also because residents’ chronicles and interviews are placed in chronological
order, left me with a very particular sense of the two-year long trajectory of
Boğaziçi University from October 2013 to December 2015. This is a proof, at
least for me, that this residency project, launched in part in order to revitalize
(albeit with a “twist”) the revered tradition of chronicles and travelogues by the
missionary founding fathers of Robert College, has indeed achieved this
particular objective. During these two years, nine different and exceptional
individuals, all coming from different disciplines and bringing in their diverse
sensibilities, have reflected on Boğaziçi University, Istanbul, Turkey, the region
and the world, registering not only the particular concerns of the immediate
period of their residency but also, in various ways, the place of this institution in
the longue durée of the history of Bosporus.

Here, I use the term Bosporus as a metaphor of an ontological rift, a geo-

philosophical cleavage that constitutively divides not only history temporally and
geography territorially, but also the individual and society. Alberto Manguel, in
a chronicle that foregrounds the timeless figure of the cats of Boğaziçi — “for
cats,” he writes, “time is infinite” —, notes that “cats don’t speak in order not to
be misunderstood.” This reminded me immediately of French psychoanalyst
Jacques Lacan and his ideas pertaining to the impossibility of communication
and the utopia of a perfect language. Lacan, combining Freudian psychoanalysis
and Saussurian structuralist linguistic, argues that individuals are always
compelled to communicate through a language that is ultimately imposed upon
them. As Manguel further drives home the point, “language is a game, and that
in the utterance of words, sometimes, rarely, if the stars are kind, a meaning

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might be conveyed.” We are split not only from others but as individuals because
of this foreignness of language (even when it is our mother-tongue): we have no
other way to make sense of ourselves and communicate with others, yet we
always fail, and precisely because we fail, we keep on trying to convey meanings
to others and to ourselves. For me, Bosporus, a signifier that inevitably appears
in every chronicle and a trace that covers the cover of the book that you are
holding, at a most fundamental ontological level, is a figuration of this rift that
marks both the individual and the society.

But it is also a metaphor for temporal rifts that marks the moments of historical
ruptures, such as the conquest of Constantinopolis in 1453 (marking the end of
the Roman Empire) in the really long view that the Yes Men sketch in their
chronicle or the year one that led Susan Buck-Morss to Aphrodisias (Geyre)
during her residency or the recurrent theme of the Gezi Park uprisings as an
event that, in one way or another, has indelibly shaped the lives of almost all the
students that take part in various chronicles. It is through the shifting
representations of the Gezi Park uprising in each chronicle that we can trace the
trajectory of the University. This important political and cultural event features
rather prominently in the first volume: in Buck-Morss’ analysis of the rapidly
erected architectural dreamscapes of an increasingly neoliberal Istanbul as a
representation of the process that provoked the uprising in the first place; in
Amitav Ghosh’s comparative study of Turkey and India’s parallel trajectories
toward neoliberal authoritarianism; in Michael Hardt’s political retrospective on
the obstacles and the potential pathways forward for the Gezi movement; and in
Juliana Hodkinson’s essay that traces the link between the military rhythms of
Ottoman Mehteran and the sonic structures of an increasingly militarized urban
landscape of post-Gezi Istanbul.

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In the second volume, the Gezi theme remains but inevitably recedes to the
background. In this volume, we read The Yes Men inviting the Gezi movement
to take a much longer perspective, a civilizational perspective that spans across
four millennia. “We need the long view, long in time, and long in space” they
write. And they add that “change will come, because it has to.” These remarks,
while resonating with prospective suggestions of Hardt from the first volume,
can be read as a compassionate counsel to a youth gradually getting disillusioned
and disheartened by the rapid installation of an authoritarian regime. During the
public conservations, a recurrent question from the audience is how to
implement the type of détournements and subversive satirical acts in a political and
cultural atmosphere that has become increasingly intolerant in the period
following the Gezi uprisings — perhaps precisely because humor was the most
powerful device of the Gezi movement. In response to one such question, Andy
Bichlbaum says “…so you have to think of other ways to do things. […] Just
read about the various things that people have done. Effective or not.” And
elsewhere Mike Bonanno emulates a similarly optimistic tone when he suggests
considering “failures as a pathway, a road to success.”

Their longue durée perspective is also found, in a magical manner, in Michael

Taussig’s description of ships crossing the Bosporus at a glacial speed. Taussig
writes about “the ships’ likeness to fairy castles moving silently through the
forest.” And elsewhere, he notes “they upset scale.” But he ruptures these
magical descriptions with a grain of geopolitical realism when he suddenly
invokes tankers carrying oil back and forth across the Bosporus or the Syrian
refugees crossing the Aegean Sea. Elsewhere, in his long and rich interview with
Pelin Batu, he further explores the magical in the context of state theory and the
problem of cult of personality. Curiously, Stalin graces us with his presence

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twice in this volume. Manguel narrates the powerful story of Pasternak’s stand
against Stalin which transformed a Shakespearean sonnet, across three
centuries, into “a promise of hope addressed to the reader, an affirmation of our
triumph over the triumph of Eternity, far beyond the end of any story and the
will of any mere dictator.” A magical act of resistance, indeed.

A similar account of a magical experience can also be found in Jocelyn Saab’s

treatment of the bridge theme. She begins her chronicle by confessing that she is
drawn to bridges. She is compelled by an urge: “I have to understand what this
bridge, which is for me a poetic manifestation of love, is guiding me towards. I
need to see it from every angle at every time of day.” But she also frames this
discussion of bridges with those of refugees crossing the geo-political cleavage
that separates the East and the West. And she is also acutely aware that the
lights of the bridge (viewed from the Tubini House) places her “more in
Disneyland than in a place of transformation that opens up new paths or that
pushes us to search for an ancient identity.” But despite this soberness, Saab’s
insistence on the bridge metaphor as against the cleavage appears to be a
deliberate choice: “Do I still have the optimism to grab life with both hands as
though I were the director on the set of a new film?” A question that appears
twice in her chronicle.

*** *** ***

Across the two volumes and across chronicles, not only themes but also moods
shift. If the first volume is more analytical and urgent, the second volume is more
magical and contemplative. This cannot be a coincidence. While the selection
process of invitees has been a collective and distributed curatorial effort enacted
through mobilizing an expansive network of connections, the distribution of the
names across two volumes, their particular order, have been much less

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deliberate; more a serendipitous outcome of exigencies of the residents. Given
this degree of randomness, and given the fact that the residents come from
remarkably diverse backgrounds, the thematic coherence of each individual
volume can only be explained as a reflection of the zeitgeist of the period.

These chronicles also reveal something else, something that is difficult for those
who are studying, teaching, researching, working at Boğaziçi University to
discern from their immersed vantage point. One of the objectives of the Boğaziçi
Chronicles residency program was to host renowned artists, writers and thinkers
for an extended period of time so that they can come into contact with the
multitude of student-produced cultural and arts activities that are already taking
place on the campus as well as bring these campus-based cultural activities in
contact with the broader cultural landscape of Istanbul and beyond, through the
mediation of resident luminaries. The hope was, with their presence
(materialized through public talks, workshops, screenings) as well as their
chronicles, an aesthetic sublimation of the campus might be produced. My sense
is that looking back two years later, Boğaziçi Chronicles produced much more
than an aesthetic sublimation of the campus; it rendered visible, at least for me,
an already existing political sublimation that makes Boğaziçi University a unique
place.

By political sublimation, I refer to the construction of an agonistic public sphere

that is open to a diversity of conflicting opinions and perspectives, one that
upholds freedom of speech as the principle of conduct on campus, one that is
open to experimentation, and perhaps most importantly, one that does not seek
to say the last word or to achieve perfect communication — an impossible, if not
totalitarian, task. Yet, one has to be careful not to confuse this idea of political
sublimation with the idea of the ivory tower. While the latter refers to an a-

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political realm where academic activity is enclosed into the sterile environments
of labs and classrooms, the former opens this public sphere to its outside—not
only by making what is going inside the academia accessible, but also by publicly
reflecting on and reacting to what is going on beyond the campus. In particular,
in a polarized political arena where there is no room for public debate beyond an
exchange of sound bites, accusations and insults, the presence of a sublimated
public sphere where a civil, serious and open discussion can take place is
invaluable, to say the least. This is what makes Boğaziçi University a unique
place, yet it is also that which makes it a very fragile place that needs to be
jealously protected—especially in an increasingly authoritarian context. Reading
these chronicles enabled me to register both the uniqueness and the fragility of
the campus as a sublimated platform.

Yahya M. Madra

Ithaca, NY / April 2016