Without feeling the atmosphere of a language, alongside the unique experiences and cultural stages of its people, a writer finds it impossible to write authentically in that language.
Two months ago, an online film magazine in my homeland, Azerbaijan, asked me for a short article. The film critic who edited the article was a friend of mine for twenty years. At the same time, he had been a reader of mine for more than twenty years, and he knew very well what I wrote and how I wrote it. After the editing of my article was finished, the editor, who was both my friend and my reader, wrote me interesting feedback. “Gunel, when I read your article, it seemed to me that you were afraid of something, ashamed, cautious… Your bold, self-confident, tough rhetoric has completely disappeared. It has been replaced by a writer who seems to be afraid of offending everyone, who stands humbly before the reader. Is this you…?”
The editor’s words made me think a little about my occupational life in recent years — specifically, about the lack of this occupational life. After all, I haven’t written for the Azerbaijani press for about five years.
Every geography has its own rhetoric. This everyday rhetoric affects literature, journalism, and, in short, all forms of self-expression. The Caucasians also have their own rhetoric. Emotional, crazy, a little insane, a little violent, a little full of elements of power, a little overconfident.
And how could I truly represent Norway when I cannot write in its language with its cultural and historical references, and I have not been able to establish a meaningful relationship with its press? The main issue here is not just language but context and history. Every language develops alongside the unique experiences and cultural stages of its people. Without a deep, intimate knowledge of this, a foreign journalist or writer, even one fluent in the language, faces serious barriers.
I have always been against values that contradict human rights in my country. Despite patriarchy, masculinity, the system of corruption, bureaucratic arbitrariness, and class discrimination, I have never wanted to leave my country and live in a more comfortable country. I have always said that even though my country is hell, it is my native hell.
In 2012, my writer friend Rafik Tagi was stabbed and killed. Because of what he wrote, because of his pen. After the day he was stabbed, I constantly walked around with a cold stab wound in my stomach, seeing murderers in the strange men who got into the elevator with me. After every post, the threats that came to my messenger and phone terrified me. One day, I realized that I could no longer live with this fear. I left my homeland forever.
When I came to Norway nine years ago, I was still continuing my journalistic work in Azerbaijan. I was working from home, and I was a full-time employee. I was one of the leading writers for both of the media outlets I worked for, I was involved in weekly planning, and I traveled abroad almost every month to attend training courses that improved my qualifications as a journalist.
Levanger, where I dwelled as a guest writer, was a small town with a population of seventeen thousand. Although I will forever be grateful to this city for giving me shelter, the truth reveals itself. After living in capital cities like Baku, Berlin, and Tbilisi, life in Levanger seemed to have come to a standstill. It felt like someone had grabbed me in the middle of major life events, thrown me into a state of stagnation inertia, and left me, forgetting here. At that time, my journalistic activity, which I continued from a distance, was a salvation for me, a way not to get bored, not to go crazy in the deafening silence.
But how long could this continue… A few years later, I realized that I had two options. Either I would continue to live with the reality of Azerbaijan, with my body in Norway and my heart and mind in Azerbaijan, or I would learn the language of the country where I took refuge and lived and build my career and life in this country.
Learning Norwegian opened new doors for me. Looking through this door, I could see the values, character, behavior, and rhetoric of Norwegians. Most of these values were not new to me because they were in line with fundamental human rights, but seeing and feeling these values in the behavior of dozens and hundreds of people every day changed the picture. The dialogues and rhetoric of people in the society I lived in were also new to me.
As a Caucasian, I came from a society where the language of force, power, and violence was accepted as usual in both everyday and literary language. In this society, expressions such as beheading, cutting out tongues, and killing were easily used and were even abundant in the opinions of journalists, experts, and celebrities.
After learning Norwegian, I spent several years cleaning up the elements of violence and death from my rhetoric. Later, I started cleaning up the emotions that seemed extreme. Then, I will give my opinion, my position, and what I think about the topic. Over time, the Caucasian writer in me began to fade, shrink, and disappear.
According to my plans, a Nordic writer who thinks and writes calmly, with refined rhetoric and a politically correct writing style, should have replaced her, but… she didn’t… Because if — as Azerbaijanis say — you need “to bake forty ovens of bread to become a professional baker”, then in order to become a professional writer and journalist in the country you live in, you need to cooperate with dozens of press organizations, grow up in the local press from a young age, and know the historical and cultural context of the ongoing processes and events. But all this seems so much to me, so far away, so impossible…
Gradually during these nine years in Norway, I have begun to act more as an expert than as a journalist or a writer. An expert about Caucasus, Azerbaijan, the Soviets, women’s rights, etc…. When fateful events occur in the geography I come from, I receive article proposals. Every year, when International Women’s Day approaches, I receive invitations to events and… I continue my life as a calendar writer…
In recent years, when I have been asked to write for brochures and posters for festivals, I’ve been asked the same question by the organizers: Will you represent Norway or Azerbaijan?… At first glance, it is a simple question that requires a specific answer. But answering this question is so difficult and burdensome that I find myself explaining things at length to the organizers. In the end, we somehow find a way: the document says I represent Norway, but in parentheses, it says I am of Azerbaijani origin.
But if we were to return to the question itself, if we demanded a specific answer, we would see that there is no such answer. Because if the answer to the question is Norway, it would not be true. If the answer to the question is Azerbaijan, it would not be fair. After all, how is it possible that the travel expenses and hotel expenses of the foreign festivals I go to are covered by literary funds in Norway, financed by Norway, and I go there to represent a country — my native homeland — that does not give a damn about my writing career?
And how could I truly represent Norway when I cannot write in its language with its cultural and historical references, and I have not been able to establish a meaningful relationship with its press? The main issue here is not just language but context and history. Every language develops alongside the unique experiences and cultural stages of its people. Without a deep, intimate knowledge of this, a foreign journalist or writer, even one fluent in the language, faces serious barriers.
Even though I speak Norwegian, I lack a deeper understanding of the subtle nuances embedded in its expressions. Without feeling the atmosphere of the language, it is impossible to write authentically. So even though I learned the language, values, character, behavior, and rhetoric of Norwegians, after the Caucasian writer faded away, a Norwegian writer and journalist did not replace her. Of course, a lack of acceptance by the local press and the opportunities available also play a crucial role.
