The First Social Science Fiction Novel in Turkish Literature: Toprak Altındır (The Land is Beneath the Ground)


SFRA Review, vol. 55 no. 4

Symposium: Utopia and Dystopia in Turkish SF Literature


The First Social Science Fiction Novel in Turkish Literature: Toprak Altındır (The Land is Beneath the Ground)

Bünyamin Tan

In their co-authored academic article titled “A History of Social Science Fiction,” Neil Gerlach and Sheryl N. Hamilton argue that the phenomenon of social science fiction emerged due to the overlapping aims and projects of three foundational fields: social science writing, science fiction writing, and science fiction criticism. They further claim that the genre of social science fiction constitutes a productive institutional transformation, a cultural field, and an evolving epistemology, positioning it as a rich and flexible mode of thought for examining the core issues of late modernity (Gerlach & Hamilton, 161–162). This is because science fiction and social science intersect in their shared project of constructing and exploring social worlds, and it is precisely at this intersection that the subgenre known as social science fiction originates. Indeed, the emergence of social science fiction is closely tied to the fictional representation of solutions to social problems offered by science. Gerlach and Hamilton’s study is comprehensive and critical in nature. However, as addressing every aspect of their work lies beyond the scope of this article, only its main points will be briefly highlighted here (Gerlach & Hamilton, 167–171).

             Although Gerlach and Hamilton state in the aforementioned article that the phenomenon of social science fiction dates back to the 1950s, it is evident—when considering both the classification of science fiction texts in Western literature and the book Toprak Altindir (The Land Is Beneath the Ground), which is the focus of this article—that the origins of this subgenre clearly predate that period (Gerlach & Hamilton, 164). The suitability of the work under study to the definition of the fictional representation of scientific solutions to social issues is, therefore, unmistakably evident.

The History of Science Fiction Literature in the Ottoman Empire

As with other Western literary forms such as the novel, short story, essay, dialogue, and feuilleton, science fiction literature also entered Ottoman literature initially through translation. Subsequently, original works specific to Turkish literature began to emerge. Within the context of translated science fiction, the works of Jules Verne hold undeniable significance. Verne, who had a profound influence on many Turkish writers, is particularly notable for the translations of his works. These translations are catalogued by Seda Uyanık in her book Ottoman Science Fiction: Scientific Literature (Fennî Edebiyat) as follows:

Translated between 1875–1885: Seksen Günde Devr-i Âlem (1875), Kaptan Hatras’ın Seyahati (1877), Merkez-i ArzaSeyahat (1885) (Uyanık 1, 45; Andı 1, 68-69).

Translated between 1886–1895: Beş Hafta Balon ile Seyahat (1888), Gizli Ada (1889), Seksen Günde Devr-i Âlem (1889), Bir Doktorun Rüyası (1890), Deniz Altında 20.000 Fersah Seyahat (1890), Kaptan Gran’ın Çocukları (1890), Seyahat-i Fevkalâde Üç Rus ve İngiliz’in Seyahati Cenubî Afrika’da (1890), Seyahat-i Harikûlâde Kaptan Gran’ın Çocukları (1890),  Üç Rus ve İngiliz’in Seyahati, Cenubî Afrika’da (1890), Cevv-i Havada Seyahat (1891), Çin’de Seyahat Seyahat-i Harikûlâde (1891), Elmaspare (1891), İki Sene Mekteb Tatili (1891), Kaptan Hatras’ın Sergüzeşti (1891), Mihver-i Arz (1891), Siyah Hindistan Yer Altında Seyahat (1891), Şehr-i Seyyar Bir Deniz Yolcusunun Jurnali (1891), Araba ile Devr-i Âlem yahud Sezar Kaskabel (1892), Hayal İçinde Hakikat yahud Bin Sene Sonra Amerika’da Bir Gazetecinin Derece-i Meşguliyeti (1892), Arzdan Kamere Seyahat (1892), Şehr-i Seyyar Bir Deniz Yolcusunun Jurnali (1892), Yer Altında Seyahat (1892), 20.000 Fersah Denizler Altında (1892), 80 Günde Devr-i Âlem (1893), Balonda Facia (1893), Gizli Ada (1893) (Uyanık 1, 45-46; Andı 1, 68-69).

Translated between 1896–1905: Seksen Günde Devr-i Âlem (1896), Çöllerde (1902), Musavver ve Harikulade Seyahat (1902), Seyahat-i Harikulade Spenser Adası (1902), Sipenser Adası (1902), Şansellör Bir Yelken Gemisi Yolcusunun Defter-i Hâtırâtı (1902), Antil Adalarına Seyahat (1903), Kaptan Jipson (1903), Buzlar Arasında Bir Kış (1904), Deniz Feneri (1905) (Uyanık 1, 46; Andı 1, 68-69).

Translated between 1906–1915: Altın Volkanı (1908), On Beş Yaşında Bir Kaptan (1909), Kuyruklu Yıldız yahud Âlem-i Şemsde Seyahat (t.y.), İnatçı Kahraman Ağa (1915) (Uyanık 1, 46; Andı 1, 68-69).

Translated between 1916–1927: Ay’a Seyahat (1927) (Uyanık 1, 46; Andı 1, 68-69).

Regarding other translated novels, Seda Uyanık notes that Karel Čapek’s R.U.R. (Rossum’s Universal Robots) was translated into Ottoman Turkish under the title Âlemşümul Sun’î Âdamlar Fabrikası in 1927 (Uyanık, 2013, p. 29). Mehmet Fatih Andı, on the other hand, refers to Jules Gros’s A Volcano Among the Ice (1308 AH / 1890–1891 CE), André Armandy’s Rapa-Novi Island (1928), and works by Louis Boussenard (Andı, 1995, pp. 20–24). In addition to these, while references are frequently made to the translation of H. G. Wells’s The Time Machine, we have identified other translated works by the author as well. Noteworthy among these are The Invisible Man (1918) and The First Men in the Moon (1918). Our research has also uncovered Ottoman Turkish translations of several works by Camille Flammarion, including The End of the World (1910), The Attraction of Earth and Heaven (1896), and Uranie (1891). Furthermore, we have identified other translated Ottoman Turkish science fiction works such as Emilio Salgari’s The Savages of Australia and the Voyage of Captain Istal (1906), A. Blunar’s Smaller and Smaller (1906), and The Secrets of the Hindu or the Chemists of Paris (1890), Robert Louis Stevenson’s The Suicide Club and the Rajah’s Diamond (1911), and J. H. Rosny’s The Extraordinary Intelligence of an Indian (1895). Our field research in this area is ongoing.

Among the works written under the headings of fennî edebiyat (scientific literature) and fennî roman (scientific novel), it is possible to categorize those that envision the civilizational and technological advancements the Ottoman Empire would achieve in future centuries—and the role of Islam in enabling such progress—under the broader genres of science fiction and utopia. Notable examples of early Turkish science fiction include: Molla Davudzade Mustafa Nâzım’s Rüyada Terakki ve Medeniyyet-i İslamiyye-i Rü’yet (A Vision of Progress and Islamic Civilization in a Dream, 1913), Celal Nuri’s Tarih-i İstikbâl (The History of the Future, 1913), Behlül Dânâ’s Makineli Kafa (The Mechanical Mind, 1927), Abdülhak Hâmid’s Arzîler (The Earthlings, 1925) and Tayflar Geçidi (The Parade of Specters, 1919), Hasan Rûşenî’s Rûşenî’nin Rüyası – Müslümanların ‘Megali İdeası’ Gaye-i Hayâliyesi (Rûşenî’s Dream – The Muslims’ ‘Megali Idea’ as a Grand Vision) (Uyanık 1, 30), Ahmet Mithat Efendi’s Fennî Bir Roman Yahut Amerika Doktorları (A Scientific Novel or the Doctors of America) (Uyanık 1, 49; Uyanık 2, 49–55), Refik Halit Karay’s Hülya Bu Ya.. (It’s Just a Fantasy, 1921) (Uyanık 1, 102), and Ago Paşa’nın Hatıratı (Memoirs of Ago Pasha, 1918) (Uyanık, 2020, pp. 30–45). Although Osman Nuri Eralp’s work Başka Dünyalarda Canlı Mahlukat Var Mıdır? (Are There Living Creatures on Other Worlds?, 1915) does not follow a conventional narrative structure, it may nonetheless be classified as a work of science fiction due to its speculative approach. The text imagines potential life forms and their characteristics based on the physical conditions of planets within our solar system. Additionally, Ateş Adası (The Fire Island, 1894), an unfinished serialized novel by Ahmed Rasim published in Resimli Gazete, also stands out as a noteworthy example identified during our field research.

Among the works written in the short story genre, Yahya Kemal’s Çamlar Altında Musahabe (A Conversation Beneath the Pines, 1913) is listed among the relevant texts (Uyanık 1, p. 29). In addition, Ahmed Rasim’s Otuzbeş Saatte Devr-i Âlem (Around the World in Thirty-Five Hours, 1892), although initially appearing to be a fictional narrative, is in fact a scientific report related to a volcanic eruption in the Sunda Islands. Similarly, Gül (The Rose, 1918) and Gül Kavli Postalları (The Epistolary Sayings of the Rose, 1918), written by Abdülfeyyaz Tevfik and presented under the title Edebiyat-ı Fenniye (Scientific Literature), are not science fiction texts per se. Rather, they are scholarly essays that explore the mythological origins of literary motifs such as the rose and the nightingale.

Among the Ottoman Turkish science fiction works mentioned above, the primary focus of this article is Toprak Altindir (The Land Is Beneath the Ground), written by Mehmed Tevfik and published in 1898.

Mehmed Tevfik and His Work Toprak Altindir (The Land Is Beneath the Ground)

Published under the title Musavver Fenni Hikâyelerden (Illustrated Scientific Tales) by Kasbar Printing House in AH 1316 / AD 1898, this work consists of twenty-six pages and includes illustrations. The first twenty-six pages contain the main text, while the final six pages are devoted to visual material. According to the authorial note, the writer held the position of “Principal of the Idadi School of Tripoli-Sham,” yet no further biographical or literary information about him has been found. The inner title page includes the statement: “Printed at the ‘Kasbar’ Printing House with license no. 299, dated 5 Kanûn-ı Evvel (December), year 314 [Rumi calendar], granted by the Illustrious Ministry of Education.” Due to limitations of space, the entire text has not been transcribed into Latin script. Instead, selected excerpts have been included, either quoted directly or summarized. In the transcription, the original morphological elements of the words have been preserved, and page numbers are provided in square brackets. For words ending in the voiced consonants b, d, and c, their modern Turkish equivalents ending in p, t, and ç have been preferred in accordance with contemporary phonological usage. Long vowels have been retained as in the original. Words and phrases whose meanings are no longer known today are accompanied by their modern Turkish equivalents in parentheses.

The fennî roman (scientific novel) titled Toprak Altindir (The Land Is Beneath the Ground) is, based on available literature, the earliest known example of social science fiction in Ottoman Turkish. At the beginning of the work is a letter written by Ali Mazhar Bey, which serves as a foreword under the heading “Mukaddime Makâmında Bir Mektûp” (A Letter in the Place of a Preface). In this foreword, Ali Mazhar Bey discusses how Mehmed Tevfik presented him with a text he had written under the label of fennî roman, prompting Ali Mazhar to compare it with Ahmet Mithat Efendi’s novels Hayret and Paris’te Bir Türk (A Turk in Paris). He argues that although these latter works were presented as scientific novels, they do not truly fit the genre. Ali Mazhar Bey goes on to reference Ahmet İhsan’s (Tokgöz) translations from Jules Verne and Necip Âsım Bey’s translation of Francine from Bruno, remarking that as these are translations, they cannot be considered original contributions. He stresses that it would be more meaningful to produce original works that serve the intellectual advancement of the Ottoman Empire. Noting that scientific novels and scientific literature in Europe have played a leading role in cultural and scientific progress, he advocates for the importance of such works in Turkish science fiction literature as well. He even emphasizes that some science fiction works are part of the school curricula in Europe. Ali Mazhar also points out that the geography of the Ottoman lands contains many features suitable for adventure and science fiction narratives and confidently asserts that if such works were written, they would likely be translated into many foreign languages. He describes Toprak Altindir (The Land Is Beneath the Ground), the work submitted to him for review, as “our first scientific novel” and concludes by encouraging the author to write many similar works. This letter was written shortly before Ali Mazhar departed for Tripoli to assume his new post. The foreword by Ali Mazhar Bey reads as follows:

Mukaddime Makâmında Bir Mektûp

Azîzim Tevfîk Beyefendi!

Toprak Altındır’ unvânıyla yazıp müsveddelerini gönderdiğiniz eseri serâpâ (baştan sona) mütâlaa eyledim (değerlendirdim). Yazdığınız tezkirede ‘Şöyle küçük fennî bir român yazmak istedim. Nasıl buluyorsun?’ diyorsunuz. Diyeceklerim şunlardır: Malûmdur ki bizde fennî român hîç yazılmamıştır. ‘Jules Verne’’in bazı âsârı (eserleri) lisânımıza tercüme edilmiş ise de bunlar mâlımız sayılamaz. Vâkıâ (nitekim) Midhat Efendi Hazretlerinin ‘Hayret’leri ve nevummâ (bir derece) ‘Paris’te Bir Türk’leri fennî român sayılabilir ise de bunlar dahi tamâmıyla değil, kısmen fennîdir. Bu hâle göre bizde dahi fennî românlar yazılmasını ârzû etmek tabîîdir.

Terakkiyât-ı fikriye-i Osmâniye’ye (Osmanlı’nın fikri ilerlemesine) bu românların edeceği hizmet îzâha muhtâç değildir. Fennî românlara Avrupaca o kadar ehemmiyet veriliyor ki tedrîcen (derece derece) bunlardan bazılarının mekteplerde okutturulması bile iltizâm olunmaktadır (gerekmektedir).

Meselâ müellif-i şehîr (meşhur yazar) ‘Bruno’nun ‘Fransine’sini bu meyânda zikredebiliriz ki çocuklara mahsûs fennî bir român demek olan bu kitâbın ettiği hizmet pek büyük olmuştur. Hattâ bunu takdîren Necîp Âsım Beyefendi ‘Fransine’yi ‘Ferîd’ diye lisânımıza dahi tercüme eylemiştir.

Avâm-ı ahâlîye (halkın büyük kısmı) fünûnun mâhiyetini anlatmak için fünûnu ‘popülarize’ etmek, yani tamîm eylemek (herkese yaymak)usûlü nasıl ki mültezem ise (gerekliyse) teşvîkâtta bulunmak için fennî românlar lâzımdır. Hele bizim için dahâ elzem olmak lâzım gelir.

Halkımızın fennî românlara dîğer românlardan ziyâde rağbet ettikleri dahi meydândadır. Ahmed İhsân Beyefendi’nin ‘Jules Verne’den tercüme ettikleri românlar hırz-ı cân edilircesine (bağrına basılırcasına) kapılmış idi.

Bu hâl halkın fennî românlara olan ihtiyâcını ispât eder. Hem biz de [4] millî olarak fennî român yazmak için pek çok zemînler vardır. Meselâ memâlik-i (Osmanlı coğrafyası) Osmâniye coğrâfyâsı ele alınarak seyyâhî românlar yazılacak olsa o kadar latîf olur ki behemehâl (mutlaka) elsine-i ecnebiyeye (yabancı dillere) bile tercüme olunur.

Bir aralık bu âciz dahi millî olarak fennî românlar yazmak istemiş idim. Lâkîn birçok işler bizi râhat bırakıyor mu ya?

‘Toprak Altındır’ınıza memleketimizde hemen ilk bir fennî român nazarıyla bakılmak lâzım gelir. Bu cihetle sayinizin (çalışmanızın) meşkûr (teşekküre layık) olacağına şüphe yoktur.

Hakîkat! Halka terakkî-i zirâat (zirratin lerlemesi) fikrini ilkâ (öne atmak) için bu yoldaki neşriyâtın fâidesi pek büyüktür. Bir ufak hikâye bir büyük fikir zira eder ki o fikir ile nice hadîkalar (bahçeler) vücûda gelir.

Românınızın tarz-ı tahrîri (yazılış biçimi) de pek güzeldir. Zâten bu gibi âsârın sâde yazılması meşrûttur (şarttır). Tâ ki halk anlardan beklediği istifâdeyi bihakkın (hakkıyla) bula!

Umarım ki şu küçük românınız dahâ büyüklerini meydâna getirmek için erbâb-ı gayrete (çalışanlara) gerçekten bir tâziyâne-i teşvîk (teşvik sebebi) olur.

İşte benim söyleyeceklerim bunlar idi. İster iseniz yine söyleşiriz.

Son bir sözüm var ise o dahi Trâblûs-Şâm’a avdet edinceye (dönünceye) kadar boş durmayıp bu gibi âsâr ile terakkiyât-ı fikriye-i Osmâniye’ye hizmet etmenizi ricâ eylemekten ibârettir azîzim.

Fî 1 Kânûnıevvel (Aralık) Sene 314 (1897)
Ali Mazhar

In the novel, a young peasant boy named Bünyamin, who was orphaned at a young age, begins living with his uncle, Kerîm Ağa, an egg merchant. While living with him, Bünyamin finishes school and works in accounting. One day, during a trip to Istanbul, he meets a man named Hâcı Ağa, and his life changes from that point on. He first receives an education at Darüşşafaka, then goes to France to pursue higher education in agriculture. Upon completing his education and returning to Istanbul, Bünyamin squanders the inheritance he received from Hâcı Ağa by indulging in a life of luxury, quickly depleting it.

Fikri füyûzât-ı ilmiye (bilimin feyizleri) ile perverişyâb-ı kemâl olmuş (büyük bir  terbiye görmüş) olan Bünyâmin maatteessüf (ne yazık ki) vahâmet-i avâkıbını (onu alıkoyan vahim şeyleri) düşünemeyerek dûçâr olduğu (yakalandığı) sefâlet zarûretten kendisiyle hem-bezm-i muâşeret (aynı ortamda yemiş içmiş) etmiş olan rüfekâsına (arkadaşlarına) mürâcaatla birkaç kurûştan ibâret olan etmek parasını istemeğe kadar muhtâç olmuştu.

Beyoğlu’nda ikâmet etmekte olduğu otele beş lîrâdan ibâret borcuna mukâbil on beş lîrâ kıymetindeki altın sâat ve kordonunu terk ederek Tavuk Pazarı’nda kâin (bulunan) hanlardan birinde ihtiyâr-ı ikâmet ediyordu (zorunlu olarak kalıyordu). Zarûret âlemine girdiği sıralarda sokâklarda, kırâathâne kapılarında tesâdüf ettiği eski rüfekâsından bir iki kurûş ister, anınla (onunla) o günlük nafakasını tedârik eylerdi. Kimseyi bulamadığı günler ise bir gün ehrâmını (kıyafetlerini), ertesi gün sandık [8] ve eşyâsını satmak sûretiyle temîn-i maîşete (geçimini sağlamaya) çalışırdı. Ahlâksızlığıyla İstânbûl’da kesb-i şöhret eden (şöhret kazanan) süfehâdan (içkicilerden) olduğuna binâen kendisini bir işe kayırmak bile istemiyorlardı.

Satacak bir şeyi de kalmamıştı. İdâre-i maîşetini (geçimini idare) temîn için hancının sofrasından artık bir pârça etmeği gârsondan talep etmeğe başlamıştı.

Arkasında taşımakta olduğu redinkotun yakasında, kollarında bir karış yağ gömleği zifîrî siyâh, pântolonun paçaları pârça pârça, rûgânı potininin alt ve üstü yırtık, fesi lekeden alaca bulaca, … üzere kestirmeği itiyât ettiği (alışkanlık hâline getirdiği) saçları ensesine kadar, iki günde bir tırâşa alışık olan sakalı boğazının altına kadar dört parmak uzamış, kenârı süslü ve dâimâ lavântalamadan cebine koymak istemediği mendîli kundura boyacısı paçavralarına dönmüş ve hancıya yedi buçuk mecidiyeden ibâret borcunu memleketinden güyâ gelecek akçenin vürûduna talîk etmekte bulunmuş olan Bünyâmin, günden güne pejmürde kesbettiği hâller nazar-ı dikkati câlip (dikkati çekmesine) olmasına binâen hancı tarafından kapı dışarı edilmişti.

Yersiz, yurtsuz kalan Bünyâmin aç bî-ilâç dolaşır ve geceleri ıssız sokâklardan birinin köşesinde sızar kalırdı.

Yirmi pâra dahâ tedâriğinden külliyen âciz kalmış ve o gün dahâ beklese çıldıracağı gelmiş olan Bünyâmin Unkapanı’na doğru giderek tabâkçı Yahûdîlerden birine arkasındaki yağlı, yırtık redinkotunu yirmi pâraya satabilmişti.

Beş günden beri kirli mendîline sıkı sıkı bağlayıp defîne bulmuş gibi saklamakta bulunduğu on pârayı da ilâve ederek araba vâpûruyla Üsküdâr’a geçebildi.

In the passage quoted above, it is known that during that period, at the end of the Ottoman Empire’s decline, many young Turks succumbed to debauchery due to socio-economic conditions. Especially due to the fashion known as “alafrangalık,” many young people were drawn to the allure of a lavish lifestyle, drifting away from their own culture and becoming detached from science and culture. This type of “dandy” character can be seen in many literary works of the period, including Namık Kemal’s novel İntibah and Recaizade Mahmud Ekrem’s novel Araba Sevdası.

As Bünyamin begins to live on the streets like a beggar, the idea of returning to his village and sustaining his life through agriculture comes to his mind.

Üsküdâr, hasretkeş-i intizâr bulunan (hasret çekerek beklediği) köyü gibi tahayyül olunarak (hayal ederek) Bünyâmin için nîm-i meserret (yarı sevinç) hâsıl ediyordu (duyuyordu). Hâlbuki köyü karadan yirmi beş günlük mesâfede idi. Bünyâmin Üsküdâr’a geçtiği dakîkadan itibâren hemen İzmît’e müteveccihen Haydarpâşâ şimendüferini (trenini) takîp ederek memleketine hareket etti.

After the ferry ride, he continues his journey on foot toward his village. Along the way, he can continue his journey by obtaining food from shepherds and farmers he encounters.

Up to this point, the author has emphasized the deep poverty and deprivation in Ottoman lands, even in the areas surrounding the capital, conveying to the reader the conditions in which the protagonist, Bünyamin, finds himself. This atmosphere is important because of the social science fiction genre’s tendency to produce solutions to social problems. Bünyamin will change this social landscape thanks to the science education he received in Europe.

Köyüne daha evvel vâsıl olabilmek için bazı geceleri de yürümeği itiyât etmişti.

Ağustosun o şiddetli sıcaklarında yüzü pâtlıcân kurusu gibi kurumuş, kulakları kavrulmuş, zâten pârçalanmış olduğuna mebnî (sebebiyle) attığı kunduralardan çıplak yürüdüğü ayakları bir karış nâsûrlanmış (nasırlanmış), geçtiği çalılık yollardan pârçalanmış pântolonunu dahi attığı cihetle (sebebiyle) ayağında yırtık bir iç donu kalmış bulunduğu hâlde binlerce müşkilâtla köyüne vâsıl olabilip (ulaşabilip) amûcesi (amcası) Kerîm Ağa’nın hânesini dahi – köyden pek küçük çıkmış olması hasebiyle (sebebiyle) semtini unuttuğundan – kuyu başında öküzlerini sulamakta bulunan bir ihtiyârdan suâl etti (sordu).

When he learns that his uncle has died and his aunt is struggling to make ends meet, he decides to seek refuge with his aunt. However, his aunt does not recognize him due to his bedraggled appearance and refuses to take him in.

This part is important in terms of being a turning point that matures the hero during his journey and adds action to the narrative. Indeed, Bünyamin, who sets out on his journey with the dream of finding a home to take refuge in, is disappointed and left alone in life.

Pederinden kalmış olan on dönüm tarla irsen (miras olarak) kendisine intikâl etmiş (kalmış) olduğundan amûcesi hayâtta iken bunu zira ederek mahsûlâtıyla geçinirdi.

Amûcesinin vefâtından sonra tarla beş altı seneden beri çayırlık bir hâlde kalmıştı.

Bünyâmin, fenn-i zirâatta gâyet muktedir idi. Fakat bu tarlayı zira etmek için ne kendisinin ve ne de teyzesinin elinde, avucunda beş pâralar yoktu.

Bünyamin begins to work the land he inherited and engage in farming and animal husbandry using modern agricultural techniques. In a short time, Bünyamin becomes a successful farmer using the latest techniques and is envied by everyone as the owner of a large fortune and a comfortable life.

In terms of social science fiction’s ability to construct social worlds, Bünyamin builds a new world of agriculture and animal husbandry in Ottoman lands during a period when agriculture and animal husbandry were primitive, taking advantage of the latest developments in science.  The use of methods that would provide a solution to the economic deprivation and difficulties experienced by the Turkish people during the Ottoman Empire’s decline, due to the primitive nature of their livelihoods such as agriculture and animal husbandry, and the introduction and presentation of these opportunities to his surroundings correspond to the feature of social science fiction of producing solutions to social problems, which is its point of origin. Additionally, the solutions offered by science are narrated through a fictional text.

Ümît, ümît pek tatlı idi. Nihâyet ilkbahâr hulûl etti (geldi). Merkez-i kazâya (ilçe merkezine) giden Bünyâmin beş altı mâh (ay) hidemât-ı mevûdede (vadesi belli olan hizmetlerde) bulunmuş ve az yiyip çok çalışarak bir otuz lîrâ kadar meblağ topladıktan sonra velî nimetine elvedâ ederek köyüne avdet etmişti. Bu avdet Bünyâmin için pek meserretli (sevinçli) idi. Mâzîyi hâtırına getirerek ve idâre yolunu tutarak cidden çalışmak istiyordu. En nihâyet muntazır olduğu (beklediği) ümîtler peydâ olmağa başladı.

….

Bünyâmin, arâzînin vüsati nazar-ı dikkate aldığı cihetle zamân-ı [19] hasâtta (hasat vakti) edevât-ı atîka (eski aletler) ile iş görülemeyeceğini anlayarak ufak tüfenk bıçağı mâkinesi, tırmık, saban, pulluk gibi edevât-ı cedîdeyi (yeni aleti) Âvrûpâ’ya sipariş ederek kendinin güzel bir çiftçi olduğunu âleme dahi işâa eyledi(haberini duyurdu).

Hasât zamânı buğdaydan, âfyondan, pamuk ile sîsâmdan aldığı mebâliğ mecmûu binlerce lîrâ tuttuğundan Bünyâmin civârdaki arâzî-i hâliyeyi (mevcut araziyi) tapuya raptederek ve bazı mahalleri sâhipleri yedlerinden (llerinden) bedel-i misliyle (ederiyle) kendisine satın alarak on bin dönümlük yere altmış, altmış beş mahsûl verir güzel bir çiftlik addolunabilecek arâzî-i cesîmeye (büyük bir araziye) mâlik (sahip) sayılıyordu.

Fakat çiftlik kâbil-i zirâat arâzî-i cesîme demek değildir.

Erbâb-ı fen (bilim insanları) nazarında kâbil-i zirâat (ziraat yapmak mümkün) arâzî-i cesîme ile anı işleyecek âlât ve edevât ziraiye-i cedîdenin (yeni usul ziraat), mandıraların, ahırların hayvânât-ı ehliyeden (evcil hayvandan) öküz, inek, bârgîr (beygir), merkep gibi büyük baş koyun, heçi misilli küçük baş hayvânât ile tuyûr-ı ehliyeden (kanatlı hayvanlardan) kaz, ördek, tavuk, gügercin …ilh tuyûrun bulunduğu ve bunların usûlü vechle teksîr-i nesline (neslini çoğaltmaya) ve mahsûlâtından istifâde tarîkine (yoluna) bakıldığı mahaller olduğuna şüphe yoktur.

Elde bulunan sermâyenin bir kısmı lokomobil, harmân mâkinesi gibi büyük kıtada âlât-ı cesîme (büyük aletler) sipârişine, bin lîrâsı büyük baş hayvânâta mahsûs ahırlar ile yağ ve süthâne tesîsine üç yüz [20] lîrâsı küçük baş hayvânâta mahsûs ağıllara, beş yüz küsûr lîrâsı dahi tuyûr-ı ehliyenin ikâmetlerine mahsûs on dönüm arâzînin etrâfını tel parmaklıkla çevirmeğe, fenn-i zirâat nokta-i nazarından bu husûslarda lâzım kâffe-i esbâbın (tüm vesile olanların)  istikmâline (gerçekleşmesine) tahsîs kılınarak sarf olundu.

Çukurova’nın atlarından, Macâristân’ın katanalarından, Arap atlarından mübâyaa  olunarak (satın alınarak) at yetiştirilmeğe başlanıldı.

Ufak işlerde kullanılmak üzere Merzîfon’un, Kıbrıs’ın cins merkepleri celbedildi (getirtildi).

Ankara’nın o tiftik keçilerinden teksîr-i nesline fevkalhadd (sınırsız) ihtimâm olunduğundan (özenildiğinden) tiftik hâsılâtı senebesene (her sene) tezâyide (artmaya), koyunlar adedi on bini, ineklerin miktârı beş yüzü tecâvüze (aşmaya), bunların sütleriyle yağhânelerde yağ, kaymak, peynir imâline, yünlerinden, yavrularından istifâdeye başlandı.

Tuyûr-ı ehliyeden kaz, ördek, hindî müstesnâ olduğu hâlde yalnız tavuk yumurtası hâsılâtı senede beş yüz lîrâ tutuyordu.

Ahırların , mandıraların, yağhânelerin fen  nokta-i nazarından nezâfet (temizliğine) [21] ve tahâretine (temizlenmesine) hayrân kalmamak mümkün değildi. Hele kaz ve ördeklerin dîğer tuyûr-ı ehliyeden kafesli tellerle müfrez (ayrılmış) bulunan üç dönüm miktârı mahaldeki mükemmel havuzlar, tavukların bulundukları yerdeki her tavuğa mahsûs folluklar ve bu folluklardan yumurta toplamak husûsunda gösterilen teshîlât-i veleh (şaşırtıcı derece dolay) ve hayret idi.

Bunlardan başka mükemmel gügercinlikler inşâ kılınmıştı. Tavşanlar, karacalar, geyikler, keklikler, bıldırcınların haddü hesâbı yok idi. Tabîatın serbest ormanlarında yaşamağa alışmış olan bu hayvânlar bile bulundukları mahalden hîçbir vechle ayrılmak istemiyorlardı.

Bünyâmin bu güzel mevkiide kırk odalı bir köşk tesîs ve inşâsını tasavvur ediyordu. Bu tasavvurunun icrâsını hasât zamânına talîk etmişti (bırakmıştı), çünkü mahsûlâtta fevkalhadd feyiz ve bereket rûnümâ idi (göstermişti).

Zamân-ı hasât hulûl edinceye kadar ormanlardan kerâste, civârdan işlenmiş mermer sütûn, levhalar celbettirerek ve kireç ocaklarında kilîtli kireç imâl ettirerek esbâp ve levâzımât-ı inşâiyeyi (gerekli inşaat malzemelerini) ihzâr ettirmişti (hazırlatmıştı). Kendisi dahi dört katlı olmak ve Arap mimârî tarzında bulunmak üzere inşâ ettireceği köşkün mükemmel bir kıta resm-i mussattah (düzleştirilmiş şekilde) ve mücessimini (büyüklüğünü) çizmiş, hâzırlamıştı ve hattâ köşkün inşâ olunacak mahallin civârına çiçek bâğçesi olmak üzere ayırdığı mahale güller, envâ (çeşitli) çiçekler [22] diktirerek mükemmel bir bâğçe hâline ifrâğ eylemişti. Hasât zamânı mahsûlât-ı mütenevviadan (çeşit çeşit mahsüllerden)aldığı binlerce lîra ile bir taraftan mimârlar, ustalar köşkün binâsına, dîğer taraftan merbût bulundukları kazâ merkezinde müzâyedeye çıkarılan han, hamâm, mağâza misli akâret alınmağa başlandı.

Bünyâmin, min-tarafillah (Allah tarafından) zuhûr edebilmesi muhtemel olan kâffe-i âfâta (afetlerin tümüne) karşı hep îrâdını (kazancını) zirâate hasretmek istemediğinden bir taraftan gayr-ı menkûl akârâtından (gelir getiren yapılarından, mallarından) mağâzalar, filânlar ediniyordu.

Ve hattâ bu sıralarda satın aldığı hanlardan birini ipek fâbrîkası tesîsine münâsip görerek ipekçilik sanatını dahi ilerlettirmek için arâzîsinin birçok yerlerine dut ağaçları gars (fidanları dikmiş) ve çiftliğin havâdâr bir mahalline bir böcekhâne dahi inşâ ettirmişti.

İpek böcekleri tohumlarını muâyene etmek üzere bin dört yüz frânklık mükemmel bir mikroskop toprağın tahlîlâtı vesâir husûsât için lâzım olacak âlât ve edevât, hâmızlar (asitler), rûhlar (özler), eczâ-i kîmyeviye (kimyevi ilaçlar), çitfliğin bir tarafında yetiştirilen güllükten her sene gül suyu ve yağı istihsâl etmek (elde etmek) üzere mükemmel bir inbîk velhâsıl lüzûmu kadar âlât-ı fenniye celbolunarak böcekhânenin bir tarafında inşâ ettirilen bir ‘laboratuvar’da hıfz edilmişti.

[23] Tetkîkât-ı fenniyeye (bilimsel incelemeler) muktezâ (gerektiren) her hâl işbu ‘laboratuvar’ dediğimiz ameliyâthânenin mükemmeliyeti oralardan geçen seyyâhîn (gezginler) ile erbâb-ı fennin (bilim insanının) nazar-ı hayretlerini mûcip oluyordu (gerektiriyordu). Bu ameliyâthâneden istifâde-i husûsiyeden (özel olarak yararlanmadan) başka istifâde-i umûmiye de (halkın yararlanması da söz konusu) vardı. Çünkü Bünyâmin muâyene edip hastalıktan müberrâ bulduğu (temiz bulduğu) tohumları civâr karada ipek böceği yetiştirmekte bulunanlara meccânen (ücretsiz) tevzî eder (dağıtır) ve ipek böceği yetiştirmek husûsunda ittihâzı lâzım (gerekliliği kabul edilen) tedâbîr-ı sıhhıyeyi (sıhhi tedbirleri) bir sûret-i sehîlede (kolay bir şekilde) ashâb-ı mürâcaata (kendisine danışanlara) anlatır idi.

Bünyamin builds a nine-room house with a basement, central heating, and a pantry where he can store enough food to sustain himself for a year. He gets married and begins to live a happy life.

Unlike the degenerate “alafranga züppe” types who emerged with the Tanzimat and who believed that Westernization was merely a matter of appearance and entertainment, writers such as Namık Kemal, Recaizade Mahmud Ekrem, Ahmed Midhat Efendi, etc. These writers contrasted such figures with ideal human types who benefited from Western science and technology but remained firmly committed to their own nation and educated and developed themselves. The protagonist of the work “Toprak Altindir” (The Land Is Beneath the Ground Bünyamin, also falls into this category. The author has reimagined this type in his social science fiction, which addresses solutions to problems in agriculture and livestock farming, thereby creating an exemplary character.

Köy ahâlîsine bir hizmet-i müftehirede (övündüğü hizmette) bulunmak üzere bir senelik yumurta hâsılâtını bir câmi-i şerîf ve bir mektep inşâsına tahsîs etmiş ve muvaffak (başarılı) dahi olmuştu.

[26] Ruhsat-ı resmiye ( resmi ruhsat) ile usûlen açtığı bu mektepte çocuklara zirâate müteallik (ziraatle alakalı) ilm-i eşyâ talîm vazîfesini (öğrenme görevini) dahi maaliftihâr (sevinerek) îfâ ederdi (yerine getirirdi).

Bünyâmin, zira olunacak arâzîyi bizzât teftîş eder ve ameliyât-ı turâbiye (toprağın işlenmesi) zamânında ekser (çoğu) vakitlerini amele yanında geçirirdi. Çiftliği dıolaşmak için fâyton, kûpa, binek hayvânlarından başka velospedi dahi vardı. İstediğini intihâp ederek (seçerek) biner, çiftliğini dolaşırdı.

Bünyâmin’in netîce-i gayreti (gayretinin sonucunu) karyesinin mamûriyetine, hemşehrîlerinin zenginliğine, civâr ahâlînin fen zirâatinde terakkîlerine bâdî (vesile)  olmuştur.

Çiftçilere ibret
Terakkî-i zirâata (ziraatte ilerlemeye) gayret
Hitâm (Son)

Conclusion

Mehmed Tevfik’s work Toprak Altindir (The Land Is Beneath the Ground), which is the subject of this article, is the first work of social science fiction among the science fiction works that entered Turkish science fiction literature through translations during the Ottoman period and were subsequently written by Turkish authors. Moreover, it is valuable in that it offers the Turkish nation a path to agricultural development by drawing on the latest advances in science and technology in the face of the completely collapsed socio-economic conditions of the late Ottoman period. Through this fiction, the author has produced a social science fiction work that emphasizes the importance of agricultural development and the use of the latest scientific techniques to Turkish readers and young people. By bringing this work to light, we have revealed that science fiction was given considerable importance in Turkish literature influenced by the West, which developed from the late Ottoman period onwards, and that these works featured a variety of subjects and genres. Furthermore, “by stating that the social science fiction genre is a productive institutional change, cultural field, and developing epistemology, it argues that it is a rich and flexible way of thinking for examining the fundamental issues of late modernity” (Gerlach – Hamilton, 168). This view is of great value because it describes agricultural science, which will contribute to the redevelopment of Turkish society, which is deprived of technology and recent scientific developments and is lagging behind. The discovery and publication of this work has also revealed the richness of our science fiction literature.

WORKS CITED

Andı, Mehmet Fatih 1. “Türk Edebiyatında Jules Verne Tercümeleri” (Translations of Jules Verne in Turkish Literature). Türk Dili ve Edebiyatı Dergisi (Journal of Turkish Language and Literature), Volume: 28, Issue: 28, 1998, pp. 65-80.

— 2. İnsan Toplum Edebiyat (Human Society Literature), Kitabevi Yayınları (Kitabevi Publications), 1995.

Blunar, A. Hep Daha Küçük, translated by Mustafa Hayrullah, 1311 / 1893-1894.

Armandi, Andre. Rapa-Novi Adası, translated by Ahmed İhsan, Ahmed İhsan Matbaası (Ahmet İhsan Publicaitons), Istanbul, 1928.

Flammarion, Cale. Urani, translated by Ahmed Rasim, Âlem Matbaası (Alem Publications), Istanbul, 1890.

—. Zemin ve Asüman Cazibe, translated by Abdülgani Seniy [Yurtman], Kasbar Matbaası (Kasbar Publicaitons), Istanbul, 1895.

—. Dünyanın Sonu, translated by Ali Muzaffer, Necm-i İstikbâl Matbaası (Necm-i İstikbal Publicaitons), Istanbul, 1327 / 1909.

Gerlach, Neil and Sheryl N. Hamilton. “Introduction: A History of Social Science Fiction”, Science Fiction Studies, Vol. 30, No. 2, Social Science Fiction, July 2003, pp. 161-173.

Gros, Jules. Buzlar İçinde Bir Yanardağ, translated by Hasan Raif, İstepan Matbaası (Istepan Publicaitons), Istanbul, 1308 /1890.

Mehmed Tevrik. Toprak Altındır, Kasbar Matbaası (Kasbar Publicaitons), Istanbul, 1898.

Osman Nuri. Başka Dünyalarda Canlı Mahlukat Var Mıdır?, Şirket-i Mürettibiye Matbaası (Şirket-i Mürettibiye Publications), Istanbul, 1334 / 1916.

Rasim, Ahmed. “Otuzbeş Saatte Devr-i Alem” (Around the World in Thirty-Five Hours), Resimli Gazete, August 15, 1307/1892, Volume: I, Issue: 23, pp. 283.

—. “Ateş Adaları” (Fire Islands) , Resimli Gazete, 22 April 1309 / 1894, Volume: III, Issue: 110, pp. 819-820.

—. “Ateş Adası II” (Fire Island II), Resimli Gazete, 29 April 1309 / 1894, Volume: III, Issue: 111, pp. 826-827.

—. “Fenni Romanlar” (Scientific Novels), Resimli Gazete, 6 May 1309 / 1894, Volume: III, Issue: 112, pp. 842-843.

—. “Fenni Romanlar: Ateş Adası” (Scientific Novels: Fire Island), Resimli Gazete, 13 May 1309 / 1894, Volume: III, Issue: 113, pp. 855-856.

—. “Fenni Romanlar: Ateş Adası” (Scientific Novels: Fire Island), Resimli Gazete, 20 May 1309 / 1894, Volume: III, Issue: 114, pp. 862-863.

Rosny, J. H. Bir Hindlinin Zekâvet-İ Harikul’âdesi, translated by M. Kemal, Âlem Matbaası (Alem Publicaitons), Istanbul, 1312 / 1895.

Salgari, Emilio. Avustralya Vahşileri Ve Kaptan Istal’ın Seyahati, translated by Ali Neşet, Mihran Matbaası (Mihran Publications), Istanbul, 1905.

Stevenson, Robert Levy. İntihar Kulübü ve Sraçenin Elması, translated by Salime Servet Seyfi, Necm-i İstikbâl Matbaası (Necm-i İstikbal Publicaitons),  Istanbul, 1329 /1913.

Tevfik, Abdülfeyyaz. “Edebiyat-ı Fenniye: Gül” (Scientific Literature: Rose). Türk Kadını, May 23, 1334/1918, Volume: I, Issue: 1, pp. 6-7.

—. “Fenni Edebiyat: (Gül) Kavli Postalları” (Scientific Literature: (Gül) Kavli Postalları). Türk Kadını, December 12, 1334 / 1918, Volume: I, Issue: 14, pp. 212-213.

Uyanık, Seda. Ottoman Science Fiction: Scientific Literature, İletişim Publications, Istanbul, 2013.

—. “An Ottoman Science Fiction: A Scientific Novel or American Doctors.” In the Footsteps of Literature: Fantasy and Science Fiction, edited by Seval Şahin, Banu Öztürk, and Didem Ardalı Büyükarman, Bağlam Publications, Istanbul, 2015.

Wells, Herbert George. Görünmeyen Adam, translated by Hazım Âtıf [Kuyucak], Kader Matbaası (Kader Publicaitons), Istanbul, 1336 / 1917.

—. Kamerde İlk İnsanlar, translated by Aziz Hüdaî, Evkâf-ı İslâmiye Matbaası (Evkaf-ı Islamiyye Publications), Istanbul, 1336 / 1918.

Bünyamin Tan was born on February 1, 1987 in Eskişehir. He completed his undergraduate degree in Turkish Language and Literature and his master’s degree in Old Turkish Literature at Mimar Sinan Fine Arts University. He is a teacher of Turkish Language and Literature at a high school affiliated to the Ministry of National Education. He has published popular and academic articles in various fields such as language, literature, history, archaeology and philosophy. He also translated academic articles from foreign languages in the same fields. His stories in the genres of fantasy, science fiction and detective fiction have been published and continue to be published in various magazines such as Hayalet Resimli Mecmua, Yerli Bilimkurgu Yükseliyor, Fantasantik, Roket Bilimkurgu, Aether, Orm1fantastik, Şato, Suçüstü, Hayal, Sahir Mecmua and on the Kayıp Rıhtım website. He also publishes story translations on the same platforms in order to bring examples from world literature in these genres to the literature. He continues to work in many different fields such as encyclopedia works, documentary works, etc.


Ahmed Rasim’s Unknown Science Fiction Serialization: Ateş Adası (The Island of Fire)


SFRA Review, vol. 55 no. 4

Symposium: Utopia and Dystopia in Turkish SF Literature


Ahmed Rasim’s Unknown Science Fiction Serialization: Ateş Adası (The Island of Fire)

Bünyamin Tan and Meltem Dağcı

Ahmed Rasim was born in 1865 in Fatih’s Sarıgüzel neighborhood. His father was Bahaeddin Efendi from the Menteşeoğulları family, and his mother was Nevber Hanım, who had been raised as an adopted child in a wealthy household. His father, who worked as a postal and telegraph officer, divorced his first wife while traveling from Ermenek to Istanbul and later married Nevber Hanım in Istanbul. When he was posted to Tekirdağ, he sent his pregnant wife Nevber Hanım back to Istanbul and never contacted her again. Ahmed Rasim’s mother, Nevber Hanım, was settled in a small house in Sarıgüzel by the family who had raised her, and it was in this house that Ahmed Rasim was born. Ahmed Rasim began his education at the neighborhood school in Sofular, later continuing at Tezgâhçılar School in Kırkçeşme and Çukurçeşme School in Haydar. He received writing and Arabic lessons from Yakup Hoca, hired by his brother-in-law, Colonel Laz Mehmet Bey, while also attending Hafız Paşa School in Fatih. On June 12, 1291 (June 24, 1875), Ahmed Rasim enrolled in Darüşşafaka, where he also began his literary and press career.

At school, the poet became acquainted with Divan poets and tried to compose nazires (poems written in imitation of another poet’s work) in their style. He improved his French and began reading French poets and writers. Through magazines and newspapers secretly brought into the school, he also kept up with literary and political developments. He began his career as a civil servant at the Ministry of Telegraph. He worked as a translator for the newspaper Ceride-i Havadis, and during that time, he left his post in the civil service to take up journalism. His first stop in his journalism career was Tercüman-ı Hakikat. At the request of Muallim Naci, he also wrote for the magazine İmdadü’l-Midad. In this magazine, he published four translations, and at the request of bookseller Arekel, he prepared a book series on new discoveries. In 1886, he taught for a time at Mekteb-i Behrami in Bakırköy and for a while at the Jewish Alliance School. Around the same period, his writings appeared in magazines such as Şafak, Gülşen, Berk, Sebat, Sa’y, Hamiyet, Güneş, Envar-ı Zekâ, İmdadü’l-Midad, and others. Deciding to compile his various works—articles, columns, essays, short stories, novels, memoirs, letters, prose poems, poems, translations, and critiques—published in newspapers and magazines, he produced the following books: Külliyat-ı Sa’y ve Tahrir: Makalât ve Musahabat, Külliyat-ı Sa’y ve Tahrirden Menakıb-ı İslâm, Tarih ve Muharrir, Şehir Mektupları, Cidd ü Mizah, Eşkâl-i Zaman, Gülüp Ağladıklarım, Muharrir Bu Ya, Romanya Mektupları, Ömr-i Edebî, Falaka, and Matbuat Hatıralarından Muharrir, Şair, Edip.

He published most of his novels and short stories between 1890 and 1899. Depicting the daily life of Istanbul, its people, important days and nights, the traditions and customs of society, the city’s problems, its entertainment life, and the changes in urban and human life according to the seasons, the author adopts a realist approach in these works (Nerkis, https://teis.yesevi.edu.tr/madde-detay/ahmet-rasim. Accessed: 05.05.2025).

He opposed the language and literary understanding of the Servet-i Fünun movement. Among his many works, the focus of this article is his unfinished science fiction piece Fire Island (1894), which was published in Resimli Gazete.

The History of Science Fiction Literature in the Ottoman Empire

The Tanzimat Era was a period of intellectual and cultural transformation in the Ottoman Empire, marked by a significant shift from Eastern civilization toward Western civilization. This rupture and social transformation inevitably influenced literature as well. In addition to the introduction of genres such as the novel, Western-style short stories, articles, conversational essays, and personal essays into Turkish literature, it is evident that developments in Western literature soon impacted Turkish literature, leading Turkish writers to produce translations and strive to create original works in Turkish. Science fiction literature was among these influences. Initially, Western works were introduced through translation, and later, uniquely Turkish examples were produced. In the realm of translated science fiction, the works ofJules Verne undoubtedly hold a significant place. Greatly influencing Turkish writers, the translations of Verne’s works are listed by Seda Uyanık in her book Osmanlı Bilim Kurgusu: Fennî Edebiyat as follows:

Translations between 1875–1885: Around the World in Eighty Days (1875), Captain Hatteras’s Journey (1877), Journey to the Center of the Earth (1885) (Uyanık 1, 45; Andı 1, 68–69).

Translations between 1886–1895: Five Weeks in a Balloon (1888), The Mysterious Island (1889), Around the World in Eighty Days (1889), A Doctor’s Dream (1890), Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea (1890), In Search of the Castaways / Captain Grant’s Children (1890), Extraordinary Journey of Three Russians and Three Englishmen in Southern Africa (1890), Extraordinary Journey: Captain Grant’s Children (1890), Journey of Three Russians and Three Englishmen in Southern Africa (1890), Journey Through the Air (1891), Extraordinary Journey in China (1891), The Star of the South (1891), Two Years’ Vacation (1891), The Adventures of Captain Hatteras (1891), The Earth’s Axis (1891), The Black Indies / The Underground City (1891), The Floating City / A Sea Traveler’s Journal (1891), Around the World by Carriage or Caesar Cascabel (1892), Truth Within a Dream or A Journalist’s Busyness in America a Thousand Years Later (1892), From the Earth to the Moon (1892), The Floating City / A Sea Traveler’s Journal (1892), Journey Underground (1892), Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Seas (1892), Around the World in Eighty Days (1893), Disaster in a Balloon (1893), The Mysterious Island (1893) (Uyanık 1, 45–46; Andı 1, 68–69).

Translations between 1896–1906: Around the World in Eighty Days (1896), In the Deserts (1902), Illustrated and Extraordinary Journey (1902), Extraordinary Journey: Spencer Island (1902), Spencer Island (1902), The Chancellor: The Diary of a Passenger on a Sailing Ship (1902), A Voyage to the Antilles (1903), Captain Gipson (1903), A Winter Amid the Ice (1904), The Lighthouse at the End of the World (1905) (Uyanık 1, 46; Andı 1, 68–69).

Translations between 1906–1915: The Golden Volcano (1908), A Captain at Fifteen (1909), The Comet or A Journey in the Solar System (n.d.), The Stubborn Hero Agha (1915) (Uyanık 1, 46; Andı 1, 68–69).

Translations between 1916–1927: Journey to the Moon (1927) (Uyanık 1, 46; Andı 1, 68–69).

Looking at other translated novels, Seda Uyanık notes that Karel Čapek’s Rossum’s Universal Robots was translated under the title Âlemşümul Sun’i Adamlar Fabrikası (1927) (Uyanık 1, 29). Mehmet Fatih Andı mentions Jules Gros’s A Volcano Amid the Ice (1308 [1892/1893]), André Armandi’s Rapa-Novi Island (1928), and works by Paul d’Ivoi (Bossenaar) (Andı 2, 20–24). In addition, H. G. Wells is generally discussed only in relation to translations of The Time Machine, yet we have identified other translations of his works: The Invisible Man (1918) and The First Men in the Moon (1918). Our research has also uncovered translations of Camille Flammarion’s works: The End of the World (1910), Terrestrial and Celestial Gravity (1896), and Uranie (1891). Other examples of Ottoman Turkish science fiction translations we have identified include Emilio Salgari’s The Savages of Australia and the Journey of Captain Istal (1906); A. Blunar’s Ever Smaller (1906) and The Secrets of the Hindus, or The Chemists of Paris (1890); Robert Louis Stevenson’s The Suicide Club and The Rajah’s Diamond (1911); and J. H. Rosny’s The Extraordinary Intelligence of an Indian (1895).

Among the works written under the headings “scientific literature” (fennî edebiyat) and “scientific novel” (fennî roman), which touch upon the civilizational and technological advancements the Ottoman Empire would achieve in future centuries and the influence of Islam in this process, it is necessary to examine them under the categories of science fiction and utopia. These include Rüyada Terakki ve Medeniyyet-i İslamiyye-i Rü’yet (A Vision of Progress and Islamic Civilization in a Dream, 1913) by Molla Davudzade Mustafa Nâzım; Tarih-i İstikbâl (The History of the Future, 1913) by Celal Nuri; Makineli Kafa (The Mechanical Mind, 1927) by Behlül Dânâ; Arzîler (The Terrestrials, 1925) by Abdülhak Hâmid; Tayflar Geçidi (The Parade of Ghosts, 1919) also by Abdülhak Hâmid (Uyanık 1, 29); Rûşenî’nin Rüyası – Müslümanların ‘Megali İdeası’ Gaye-i Hayâliyesi (Ruşeni’s Dream – The Muslims’ “Megali Idea” and Its Ideal Goal) by Hasan Ruşenî (Uyanık 1, 30); Fennî Bir Roman Yahut Amerika Doktorları (A Scientific Novel, or The Doctors of America) by Ahmet Mithat Efendi (Uyanık 1, 49; Uyanık 2, 49–55); Hülya Bu Ya.. (It’s Only a Dream.., 1921) (Uyanık 1, 102) and Ago Paşa’nın Hatıratı (Memoirs of Ago Pasha, 1918) by Refik Halit Karay, which are among the first and most important examples of science fiction in our literature. Although not a narrative text in the traditional sense, Osman Nuri Eralp’s Başka Dünyalarda Canlı Mahlukat Var Mıdır? (Are There Living Creatures on Other Worlds?, 1915) may also be considered a science fiction work, as it is a fictional piece that, based on the structural characteristics of planets in our solar system, speculates on the possible existence of living beings there and their qualities. Similarly, Mehmed Tevfik’s Toprak Altındır (It’s Underground, 1898) is regarded as the first social science fiction work in Turkish literature. In addition, Ahmed Rasim’s unfinished novel Ateş Adası (The Island of Fire, 1894), serialized in Resimli Gazete, is a significant work identified through field research and is the focus of this article.

In the realm of short fiction, Yahya Kemal’s Çamlar Altında Musahabe (A Conversation Beneath the Pines, 1913) (Uyanık 1, 29) is among the works mentioned. In addition, Ahmed Rasim’s Otuzbeş Saatte Devr-i Âlem (Around the World in Thirty-Five Hours, 1892) is actually a scientific news piece related to a volcanic eruption in the Sunda Islands, rather than a work of science fiction. Likewise, Gül (The Rose, 1918) and Gül Kavli Postalları (Rose-Patterned Boots, 1918), written by Abdülfeyyaz Tevfik and presented under the heading “Edebiyat-ı Fenniye” (Scientific Literature), are not science-fictional texts but rather essays discussing the mythological origins of literary uses of the rose and the nightingale.

Science Fiction Works Set on Islands

In science fiction literature, islands are often chosen as settings to depict humans isolated from nature and civilization, and to explore humanity’s fear of and curiosity about the unknown. Science fiction is, in essence, a literary reflection of mankind’s fascination with the unknown. One of the most significant settings for this exploration is islands. Often geographically and socially isolated, cut off from everyday life, these locations have found a natural place in science fiction works.

By its nature, an island is independent of and disconnected from life on the mainland. In science fiction, an island is not used merely as a setting; it also serves a metaphorical function. It can symbolize the desire to create a society isolated from the existing community or the collapse of an established system. All these metaphorical interpretations converge in the theme of the island. While an island represents the boundary of the unknown, it also provides a spatial framework that allows for the excitement, astonishment, or horror of discovering new places.

Translated works such as Jules Verne’s The Mysterious Island, Emilio Salgari’s The Savages of Australia and the Journey of Captain Istal, and André Armandi’s Rapa-Novi Island are among the examples of the island theme in Ottoman Turkish literature.

On the Work “Fire Island”

Ahmed Rasim is an author who produced works in many fields of Turkish literature, including novels, short stories, history, geography, travel writing, columns, memoirs, and grammar. Nearly all of these works deal with social life and are based on his observations. The only work he wrote in the science fiction genre is this serialized novel. Beyond this serialization, he did not produce any other science fiction work nor any writings expressing his thoughts on the genre. Therefore, it is not possible to provide information on his views regarding science fiction.

The serialized novel Fire Island was published in five installments in issues 110–114 of Resimli Gazete, which was issued by bookseller Karabet. The continuation of the work does not exist in this periodical, nor has it been traced in any other sources.

The first installment of the serialization, titled Fire Islands, begins with the following paragraph:

In Brazil, there is a small fortified place called Salem, located on the left bank of the Amazon River, directly opposite the area known as ‘Para,’ a few leagues from the sea. If one is to trust the accounts of travelers, this is the most remote and difficult region in the world. (Ahmed Rasim I, 819)

The novel begins with the appointment of an officer named Dom Louis Vagart as governor of this region. After assuming his post, he becomes bored with the dull atmosphere and takes up hunting. In particular, Vagart goes on a tiger hunt, and once that enthusiasm passes, he begins hunting crocodiles. He spends his days on hunting expeditions.

Two soldiers in the unit, Pedro Basao and Juao, also pass the time dealing with various snakes. Among them is a coral snake, notable for its red coloring. As a result of a prank with a stick played by the soldier Juao, Basao falls among the snakes and is bitten by five or six of them, dying shortly afterward. At that moment, his brother Alfonso arrives, kisses the deceased brother, and then shoots Sergeant Juao, whom he holds responsible for Basao’s death. Alfonso is subsequently arrested to be tried before the military tribunal.

Ahmed Rasim begins the second installment of the serialization with the following lines:

Since the founding of the Salem fortress and village, no death sentence had ever been carried out against either the local inhabitants or the garrison soldiers.

Therefore, Alfonso’s death sentence was considered a significant event. On Thursday morning at nine o’clock, the local population had been assembled on the platform. All the garrison soldiers were under arms, and even the deputy of the commander, though mounted, was present to oversee the execution. (Ahmed Rasim II, 826)

On the day of the execution, Alfonso Basao escapes. Vagart orders his soldiers to capture the fugitive, and they pursue him. A reward is even offered for his swift apprehension.

In the third installment, it is revealed that before his execution, Alfonso asked the priest who came to inquire about his last wish for a bottle of rakı. He spills half of it and gives the remaining half to the guard on duty, getting him drunk. In this way, he manages to escape from the prison where he was being held.

At first, the guard accepted the drink out of courtesy and drank it with great politeness, but due to the alcohol, he eventually fell asleep. Basao then seized the guard and dragged him into the prison, taking his place on watch. At that time, it was two o’clock in the morning. Alfonso had not yet had time to decide which direction to take. Poor Alfonso was filled with great despair, for nothing short of a miracle could save him. Escape seemed impossible. Yet, what choice did he have? Basao waited patiently for the right moment. (Ahmed Rasim III, 842)

He climbs the fortress wall and then descends from the platform, successfully escaping. The fugitive is not noticed until nine o’clock in the morning.

In the fourth installment of the novel, Alfonso Basao’s escape adventure continues from where it left off:

After dizzyingly falling, Alfonso got up and walked toward the north. This was not the direction he intended to take, but since the town lay to the east of the fortress, he chose this path so that no one could see him and reveal which way he had gone.

The lines written so far are meant to help readers fully understand the story. Alfonso’s most extraordinary adventure begins from this point onward. Within three days, he had witnessed the death of his own brother and, without even having time to mourn, had been condemned to death himself. That night, he endured all the pains of worldly suffering, yet he survived with remarkable composure. It seemed as though ill fortune had finally left him to his own devices. After passing Salem town, Alfonso entered the forest. The trails of Africans and Indians became somewhat familiar to him. Mentally calculating his steps, he turned eastward. His plan was to cross the Amazon River and reach ‘Para,’ approaching the shore as closely as possible. (Ahmed Rasim IV, 855)

He continues his escape through the untouched rainforests near the Equator. His journey lasts until morning, and in the wooded terrain, he manages to lose his trail. The fear within him fuels his courage. With the agility he has gained, he continues on his path for three days without proper sleep. He moves into areas the soldiers had never visited before, venturing into the densest parts of the forest. In this place, filled with gigantic trees and plants, there are grasses, shrubs, thorns, and large fig trees. There are also enormous turtles, terrifying-looking birds, and many other frightening creatures.

However, this exquisite scenery, which astonishes the mind, is what one sees at the edge of the main forest after walking for about an hour along the familiar paths. If you proceed a little further, either out of necessity or by chance, the view changes. At that point, the branches become so dense that your hands and face are torn by thorns as you try to pass through. To navigate this part of the forest, one would need to be either an Indian or a tiger.

Sometimes, very tall tree trunks are stacked in the middle of the path, and strong saplings grow in between them.

Gradually, the forest becomes so thick that the trunk of a large tree is as thin as a thread of cloth. (Ahmed Rasim IV, 856)

The fifth and final installment continues with a description of the forest. The existence of thousands of bird species, parrots, and monkeys is mentioned. In areas filled with cacao trees, the presence of tigers is noted.

Alfonso, awakened from sleep, still has about ten miles to go to escape from the soldiers pursuing him and from that land. As he walks, he occasionally looks back to check if any enemies are following him. Meanwhile, he is quite hungry, having not eaten for a long time. However, since he does not recognize the plants in the forest, he fears eating something that might harm him, which makes it difficult to satisfy his hunger. He eventually sustains himself by eating eggs he finds in a bird’s nest. He also drinks a few sips from a bag of rakı to quench his thirst.

By the end of the day, he was busy exploring the surroundings. When necessary, he found a passage through which, with a bit of agility, he could cover a quarter of a mile in half an hour to make a swift escape. (Ahmed Rasim IV, 862)

He wakes up in the morning from where he had fallen asleep, startled by the sound of a gunshot. As soon as he regains his composure, he looks around to locate the source of the sound. Peering through some branches below him, he sees someone surveying the area about twenty to twenty-five meters away. This is a sergeant who has been tracking him since Salem. After carefully examining the surroundings, the man concludes that Alfonso has already crossed the boundary he was seeking and begins to return along the path he came.

The sergeant walked toward the eastern side of the forest. He concluded to himself that a clever man would need to head toward the seashore in order to escape. (Ahmed Rasim IV, 863)

With these lines, the serialized novel comes to an end. There is no information regarding why the serialization was discontinued. No such explanation appears in the periodical in which it was published. The period during which the serialization appeared was under the reign of Sultan Abdulhamid II, a time when a strict regime of censorship prevailed. Any writings that did not pass the censorship board were removed and could not appear in periodicals. If passages in the installments following the fifth chapter contained content deemed objectionable, this may have been the reason for the discontinuation. However, there is no record to confirm this, so this remains speculative.

From the perspective of language and style, it is observed that this work, written in Ottoman Turkish, is composed in plain prose. Its style is more comprehensible than many other works of the same period. While some words and phrases whose meanings are unclear appear occasionally, the overall language of the work remains accessible and understandable.

Conclusion

In this study, the serialized science fiction work Fire Island by Ahmed Rasim, which remains unfinished, has been examined. This incomplete work, published in Resimli Gazete in 1894, is significant in terms of the understanding of the scientific novel (fenni roman) in the Ottoman context and as an example of Ottoman-era science fiction. In the work, Ahmed Rasim chooses an imaginary island near the Amazon River as the setting and explores a geography filled with exotic dangers. This portrayal is crafted to create a science fiction atmosphere through themes of escape from nature and the struggle for survival. The detailed descriptions of the island’s flora and fauna evoke both the natural environment and a sense of scientific curiosity.

 In Ottoman science fiction literature, alongside the use of reason and will against nature, a character’s adventure on an island also leads, in a sense, to an inner discovery of the self. The work demonstrates that, beyond reflecting Ahmed Rasim’s socially conscious, realist, and observant literary identity, he also displayed diversity in creating imagination-centered narratives. The text is notable for its detailed observations, depictions of nature, and the relationship between the individual and the natural world.

“Fire Island” bears witness to how the science fiction genre in the Ottoman context incorporated plots set on islands and other exotic locations throughout its development. This study contributes to both literary history and the field of Turkish science fiction literature, providing a basis for the comparison of similar texts and encouraging further research in the area.

WORKS CITED

Andı, Mehmet Fatih. “Türk Edebiyatında Jules Verne Tercümeleri.” Türk Dili ve Edebiyatı Dergisi, Cilt: 28, Sayı: 28, 1998, pp. 65-80.

İnsan Toplum Edebiyat. Kitabevi Yayınları, 1995.

Blunar, A. Hep Daha Küçük, translated by Mustafa Hayrullah. 1311 / 1893-1894.

Armandi, Andre. Rapa-Novi Adası, translated by Ahmed İhsan. 1928.

Flammarion, Cale. Urani, translated by Ahmed Rasim. Âlem Matbaası, İstanbul, 1890.

—. Zemin ve Asüman Cazibe, translated by Abdülgani Seniy [Yurtman]. Kasbar Matbaası, 1895.

Flammarion, Cale. Dünyanın Sonu, translated by Ali Muzaffer. Necm-i İstikbâl Matbaası, 1327 / 1909.

Gros, Jules. Buzlar İçinde Bir Yanardağ, translated by Hasan Raif. İstepan Matbaası, 1308 /1890.

Nerkis, Ummahan. “Ahmet Rasim.” Türk Edebiyatı İsimler Sözlüğü. Ahmet Yesevi Üniversitesi, https://teis.yesevi.edu.tr/madde-detay/ahmet-rasim.

Osman Nuri. Başka Dünyalarda Canlı Mahlukat Var Mıdır? Şirket-i Mürettibiye Matbaası, 1334 / 1916.

—. “Otuzbeş Saatte Devr-i Alem.” Resimli Gazete, 15 Ağustos 1307 /1892, Cilt: I, Sayı: 23, p. 283.

—. “Ateş Adaları.” Resimli Gazete, 22 Nisan 1309 / 1894, Cilt: III, Sayı: 110, pp. 819-820.

—. “Ateş Adası II.” Resimli Gazete, 29 Nisan 1309 / 1894, Cilt: III, Sayı: 111, pp. 826-827.

—. “Fenni Romanlar I.” Resimli Gazete, 6 Mayıs 1309 / 1894, Cilt: III, Sayı: 112, pp. 842-843.

—. “Fenni Romanlar: Ateş Adası.” Resimli Gazete, 13 Mayıs 1309 / 1894, Cilt: III, Sayı: 113, pp. 855-856.

—. “Fenni Romanlar: Ateş Adası.” Resimli Gazete, 20 Mayıs 1309 / 1894, Cilt: III, Sayı: 114, pp. 862-863.

Rosny, J. H. Bir Hindlinin Zekâvet-İ Harikul’âdesi, translated by M. Kemal. Âlem Matbaası, 1312 / 1895.

Salgari, Emilio. Avustralya Vahşileri Ve Kaptan Istal’ın Seyahati, translated by Ali Neşet. Mihran Matbaası, 1905.

Stevenson, Robert Levy. İntihar Kulübü ve Sraçenin Elması, translated by Salime Servet Seyfi. Necm-i İstikbâl Matbaası, 1329 /1913.

Tevfik, Abdülfeyyaz. “Edebiyat-ı Fenniye: Gül.” Türk Kadını, 23 Mayıs 1334 /1918, Cilt: I, Sayı: 1, pp. 6-7.

—. “Fenni Edebiyat: (Gül) Kavli Postalları.” Türk Kadını, 12 Kanunuevvel (Aralık) 1334 / 1918, Cilt: I, Sayı: 14, pp. 212-213.

Tevfik, Mehmed. Toprak Altındır. Kasbar Matbaası, 1898.

Uyanık, Seda. Osmanlı Bilim Kurgusu: Fennî Edebiyat. İletişim Yayınları, 2013.

—. “Bir Osmanlı Bilimkurgusu: Fennî Bir Roman Yahut Amerika Doktorları.” Edebiyatın İzinde Fantastik ve Bilimkurgu, edited by: Seval Şahin, Banu Öztürk, Didem Ardalı Büyükarman. Bağlam Yayınları, 2015.

Wells, Herbert George. Görünmeyen Adam, translated by Hazım Âtıf [Kuyucak]. Kader Matbaası, 1336 / 1917.

—. Kamerde İlk İnsanlar, translated by Aziz Hüdaî. Evkâf-ı İslâmiye Matbaası, 1336 / 1918.

Bünyamin Tan was born on February 1, 1987 in Eskişehir. He completed his undergraduate degree in Turkish Language and Literature and his master’s degree in Old Turkish Literature at Mimar Sinan Fine Arts University. He is a teacher of Turkish Language and Literature at a high school affiliated to the Ministry of National Education. He has published popular and academic articles in various fields such as language, literature, history, archaeology and philosophy. He also translated academic articles from foreign languages in the same fields. His stories in the genres of fantasy, science fiction and detective fiction have been published and continue to be published in various magazines such as Hayalet Resimli Mecmua, Yerli Bilimkurgu Yükseliyor, Fantasantik, Roket Bilimkurgu, Aether, Orm1fantastik, Şato, Suçüstü, Hayal, Sahir Mecmua and on the Kayıp Rıhtım website. He also publishes story translations on the same platforms in order to bring examples from world literature in these genres to the literature. He continues to work in many different fields such as encyclopedia works, documentary works, etc.


A Utopia Hunter in the History of Turkish Utopia Studies: Sadık Usta


SFRA Review, vol. 55 no. 4

Symposium: Utopia and Dystopia in Turkish SF Literature


A Utopia Hunter in the History of Turkish Utopia Studies: Sadık Usta

Nurettin Öztürk

Utopian literature is a reflection of one of the natural tendencies of human consciousness, which is the feeling of “resistance against the existing.” According to philosophical anthropology, animals have their environment, humans have their world, and even the universe. The ability to adapt to one’s surroundings and to reshape that environment is one of the characteristics that distinguishes humans from animals. As beings who do not accept their current situation and say “no,” humans inherently seek a world that is logically correct, ethically good, aesthetically beautiful, and legally just. For this reason, utopia is not a way of thinking or living that is specific to a certain group of people, a particular era, or a specific cultural environment. Wherever there are humans, there are designs for a life and social order that is better in ethical terms, more beautiful in aesthetic terms, more correct in logical terms, and fairer in legal terms. These intrinsic qualities are essential characteristics of utopian design. In addition to these, elements that constitute utopia can be found in myths of a lost golden age, beliefs in an expected savior, isolated island lives, humanistic city quests, examples of communal ownership societies, equal living arrangements in fraternal organizations, libertarian anti-clerical peasant uprisings, poetic escapism in literature, axis mundi culture, images of paradise, imagined dreams, and hopes for a new world. Thus, utopian tendencies and examples of utopia can be observed in mythology, religion, philosophy, art, and literature since ancient times.

The earliest examples of utopia with known authors in literary history can be found among the ancient Greeks. Ancient Greek literature was transmitted to the Renaissance and from there to the contemporary literary world through Latin literature. There is a continuity in European utopian literature, as in all other cultural fields. For instance, Aristotle’s book on logic, the Organon, was followed almost two thousand years later by Bacon’s Novum Organum, and Plato’s utopia, Atlantis, was succeeded by Bacon’s Nova Atlantis.

The most significant development in world utopian literature occurred in 1516 with the publication of Thomas More’s Utopia in Latin in the Netherlands. Thus, More introduced a new concept to the realm of thought and literature. This concept is not only the title of a work but also a genre of literature, a philosophical movement, and a way of life that has entered the history of thought.

The term is formed from the combination of the Greek words “ou,” meaning “not,” and “eu,” meaning “good,” with the common vowel “u,” and the word “topos,” meaning “place.” If More had used the Latin word “Nusquama,” which means “nowhere,” “no land,” “dream land,” or “no place,” instead of the Greek word meaning “not a good place,” could the term utopia have had the same impact? The answer to this question would undoubtedly be “no.” Before the publication of the book, More referenced the title as Nusquama in a letter to Erasmus of Rotterdam:

For some time before the publication in I 5 I6 of the De Optimo Reipublicae Statu deque Nova Insula Utopia Libellus vere Aureus, Thomas More and his friend Erasmus had been referring to it simply as the “Nusquama,” from a good Latin adverb meaning “nowhere.” (Manuel-Manuel, 1997, p.1)

Winiarczyk notes that the name utopia was assigned later, based on More’s correspondence with Erasmus. According to him, while the word utopia is a neologism, the concept itself existed in ancient literature. Bernhard Kytzler compiled various terms used by authors such as Diodorus, Aristophanes, Plato, Aristotle, Cicero, and Marcus Aurelius for the concept of utopia in ancient Greek and Latin (Winiarczyk, 2011, p. 2).

With his work, More not only pioneered utopian literature but also created the prototype for the main structure of utopian works. A key feature of the utopia genre is that it is based on a city established on an isolated city or island. Through the society living within the city, the author seeks the possibilities of living forms such as freedom and equality. Since these possibilities are limited by the conditions of a classed society, utopias naturally contain critiques of class society. The design for a free and equal organization of society is essential for a work to be considered a utopia. Therefore, utopian societies also require questioning a utopian form of governance. The governance must educate and shape the populace, ensuring the continuity of utopian life, which necessitates providing education in a particular way of thinking. In this regard, some classical utopias also include proposals for religious organization and the imposition of religious or mythical forms of thought upon society. Thus, in some classical utopias, one may encounter theocratic and clerical regimes instead of secular and lay cultures. For this reason, the existence of a clerical class makes the formation of a classless society impossible. In works that enter utopian literature, issues of returning to the past or reaching the future are also inevitable. Many classical utopias, like More’s, narrate the stories of a harmonious and happy life once lived on a lost continent, an island submerged in waters. In some utopias, however, the social order does not exist “yet,” “today,” “now,” or “here.” It will only materialize in the tomorrows and future days. The situation of tomorrow’s utopias containing a prediction, estimation, or hope gained momentum, especially in the nineteenth century, with the exception of Lucian’s works. Thus, a dimension of anticipation was added to utopias. During the same period, as scientific and technological developments made progressivist ideology an inseparable part of progressive social thoughts, there arose a need to incorporate scientific and technical advancements into the characteristics of utopias. The history of utopian thought and literature thus underwent a second transformation in the nineteenth century. The significant influence of socialist thought on post-industrial social developments led to a leap in utopian thought. Engels’ association of the utopian socialist tradition with scientific developments, class struggles, and dialectical philosophy resulted in the universalization of utopian thought and literature in parallel with socialism. In fact, Engels establishes a contrast between socialism and utopianism, arguing that utopian socialism does not recognize the proletariat as the subject of history, nor does it benefit from scientific developments. It is disconnected from the working class and science. Real socialism is only possible by distancing itself from this fanciful approach. The transformation of utopias devoid of the essence of laborers, scientists, and humanists into their opposites is inevitable. Naturally, this development that produces its opposite has also led to the emergence of dystopias (Widdicombe, 1992).

Following the widespread acceptance of utopia in societies that underwent the industrial revolution, this effect has begun to manifest itself in pre-industrial societies as well. As a result of the influence of socialist thought, along with the translations of More’s works and the emergence of subsequent utopian traditions, utopian literature has become a significant intellectual factor that stimulates and awakens creative and critical thought.

The first work on the history of utopian thought was written about a hundred years ago by Joyce Oramel Hertzler. Hertzler defines utopian thought as social idealism and delves into the history of the concept in this context. The first part of Hertzler’s work is dedicated to the ethical and religious societal ideals in the narratives of the Old and New Testaments. The second part focuses on the period after More, that is, modern utopias. In this manner, Hertzler’s work does not mention ancient utopias or non-Western utopian traditions. (Hertzler, 1923/2020).

Sadık Usta’s Works

Sadık Usta is a thinker who has produced significant works in the field of utopian literature by confronting many issues related to it. In Turkish, Usta’s contributions to the field of utopian studies seem to have reached a remarkable critical mass. Through his books “Ancient Utopias,” “Turkish Utopias,” and Utopia and Folklore Studies, along with his translations, articles, interviews, television programs, and civil initiatives, he has effectively contributed to this field as if he were a one-person institute. Today, the name Sadık Usta appears to be a “sine qua non” in Turkish utopian studies.

Sadık Usta’s works in the history of utopian literature can be categorized under the following headings:

1. Books: Ancient Utopias, Turkish Utopias, Utopia and Folklore Studies.
2. Translations: Thomas More – Utopia, Tommasso Campanella – The City of the Sun.
3. Journals: Science and Utopia, Science and Future.
4. TV programs: Habertürk, Presented by Okan Bayülgen.
5. Meetings: Campus gatherings.
6. Interviews: In magazines and schools.
7. Communal initiatives: Summer gatherings.

Sadık Usta and Ancient Utopias

The greatest tradition in utopian literature is the ancient Greco-Latin literature. When it comes to utopia in ancient writings, an important criterion must be considered. In myths and cultures such as Sanskrit, Buddhist, Chinese, Persian, Sumerian, Egyptian, Anatolian, ancient American, Scandinavian, Germanic, and Slavic, the characteristic of anonymity and collectivity is particularly emphasized instead of the author’s name. In Greek and Latin literature, on the other hand, creations are personal. In this context, Homer, Herodotus, Diodorus Siculus, and Strabo recorded the first examples of utopia. Following the Renaissance, humanistic research aimed at discovering antiquity began to uncover the utopian tendencies and utopias present in Greek and Latin literature, particularly towards the end of the first quarter of the twentieth century.

The pioneering work in the history of ancient utopian literature is attributed to Aristotle, known for his leadership in the history of philosophy and various branches of science. In his work “Politics,” Aristotle refers to utopian thinkers in the context of ideal city designs, including the urban planner Hippodamus of Miletus and Phaleas of Chalcedon.

The bibliography of modern studies on ancient utopias is quite extensive (Brown, 1955, p. 57; Rigobert-Müller, 1988, pp. 18-92). In this context, the legal regulations of the Spartan Lycurgus, Plato’s Atlantis, Aristophanes’ comedy “Women in Parliament” (Ekklesiazousai, Ἐκκλησιάζουσαι) (Kundakçı, 2018), Iambulus’ travelogue “The Isles of the Sun” (Helios Nisoi, Ἠελιος νήσοι) (Winston, 1976; Winiarczyk, 1997; Robbio-Sebastián, 2010; Baloglou, 2011), Lucian’s novel True History (Alēthē Diēgēmata, Ἀληθῆ διηγήματα) (Raisch, 2016), and Euhemerus’ account of the utopia of the island of Panchaea in “Sacred History” (Hiera Anagraphê, Ἱερὰ ἀναγραφή) have contributed to the formation of ancient utopian literature. Rigobert Günther and Reimar Müller collectively assessed ancient Greco-Roman utopias and data based on the understanding of the Golden Age (Günther-Müller, 1988). An anthology of the most famous utopian texts written from antiquity to the present has been prepared by Gregory Claeys and Lyman Tower Sargent (Claeys-Sargent, 1999). The most significant study in this regard was authored by Winiarczyk. The work was published first in Polish and later in German (Dzielska, 2011, pp. 309-311; Neather, 2012, pp. 37-41). A book edited by Pierre Destrée, Jan Opsomer, and Geert Roskam, consisting of sections examining the concept of utopia in ancient thought, also includes utopias that emerged in Greek and Latin literature, analyzed by various authors. In addition to the ancient utopias mentioned above, this book also discusses utopias found in Latin and Chinese literature. Eight years after the publication of Usta’s work, a similar study was published in Turkish by Nilnur Tandaçgüneş (Tandaçgüneş, 2013).

Usta embarks on examining ancient utopias based on Oscar Wilde’s view that “the history of civilization is also the history of utopias,” compiling the utopian texts of this period into his work. Thus, for the first time, ancient utopian texts were brought together in a chronological, thematic, and systematic manner to create an anthology. The central thesis of the book “Ancient Utopias” is the determination that Sparta is a primary source in Greco-Latin utopian literature. The rivalry between Sparta and Athens in the ancient Greek world has fostered the idea that the ideal societal model is closer to Sparta. Therefore, ancient Greek writers and utopian works constantly refer back to the structure and laws of this city. The factors that make Sparta a utopian city and define it as a utopian alternative to Athens are the legislative activities carried out by the leader Lycurgus in this city.

According to Usta, although the roots of utopia can be traced back to Sumer, Egypt, and Minoan civilizations, its appearance as a political program and its embodiment in state organization first occurred in Sparta. The first systematic, egalitarian, and communal constitution in human history by Lycurgus has also inspired subsequent utopian writers.

The book, which has been published in three editions, addresses the utopian and state designs of ancient writers such as Lycurgus, Hesiod, Plato, Xenophon, Aristophanes, Hippodamus, Phaleas, Euhemerus, Lucian, and Iambulus. With this compilation, readers can recognize the origins of elements found in Renaissance and modern utopias and anticipations, such as island literature, journeys to the moon, intercontinental exotic travels, Robinsonades, science fiction writings, and the first examples of free and rational societal designs that were not hindered by the prejudices and prohibitions of the Middle Ages. Usta’s compilation is one of the first works in Turkish as well as in European languages. While the author examines ancient utopias in an original manner, he has also produced an anthology through his own translations. Usta’s work, which consists of examination, compilation, and translation focusing on ancient utopias, is a pioneering and novel study for both Turkish and other languages.

Sadık Usta and Utopian Translations

The first translations of More’s works from Latin into European languages such as English, French, German, Polish, Italian, Spanish, Portuguese, Finnish, Swedish, Norwegian, Hungarian, Bulgarian, Greek, Albanian, Czech, Slovak, Serbian, and Russian, and the dates of these translations, their impacts, and significant bibliometric research topics related to the spread and development of utopian literature are important areas of study. Some works have been conducted in this regard (Elgül, 2011; Dozo, 2005; Phélippeau, 2016; Hunt, 1991; Hosington, 1984; McCutcheon, 1992; Osinovsky, 1969; Kleberg, 1984; Fortunati, 2016; Vieira, 2016; Blaim, 2016).

Similarly, the story and characteristics of the first translations into Arabic, Persian, Hindi, Chinese, Greek, Japanese, and Turkish also reflect the literary developments of these languages and countries. In this context, three translations of Utopia appear to be primary and significant in Turkish. The first is the translation made in 1964 by Sabahattin Eyüboğlu, Vedat Günyol, and Prof. Dr. Mina Urgan. The preface of this translation contains a section written by Urgan titled “The Concept of Utopia in Literature and Thomas More,” which has been included in subsequent editions. Mina Urgan, a professor of English language and literature, presents the first comprehensive history of utopian literature in Turkish to readers. The author of these lines also encountered utopia through Urgan nearly fifty years ago. The second text is a direct translation from Latin into Turkish by Çiğdem Dürüşken. The third was completed by Sadık Usta.

Usta also translated Campanella’s The City of the Sun along with his own translation of More’s Utopia to complement the ancient utopian works. These translations were made utilizing the German and English versions. Although the original language of the texts is Latin, Usta addresses this deficiency through explanations regarding proper names, place names, and terms provided in the book. Emrah Atasoy emphasizes the importance of this approach in his comparative article on the Turkish translations of More:

One of its main differences from the Eyüboğlu, Günyol, and Urgan translation is its use of clarifying notes about historical figures, various places, and cities. … What is remarkable about his version is that he refers to other translations and explains his reasons for the ‘necessary’ changes in the relevant parts through his notes.” (Atasoy, 2016, p. 561)

Sadık Usta and Turkish Utopias

Turkish utopian literature has shown a twofold development over the past 35 years. Firstly, there has been an increase in utopian translations. At the end of the nineteenth century, the Servet-i Fünun group began reading More’s and Campanella’s works through French. During the Republican era, as socialist thought reached a broader readership through encyclopedic and classical texts, the interest sparked by these utopias and the evolving needs of the reading public led various publishing houses to translate More’s Utopia, Campanella’s The City of the Sun, and Bacon’s New Atlantis in full. Plato’s Atlantis and the communal aristocratic utopia presented in The Republic have also circulated among readers since the 1940s. Akşit Göktürk’s doctoral thesis on the theme of islands in literature and Mina Urgan’s preface to her translation of Utopia have further broadened the readers’ horizons.

Secondly, parallel to the emerging culture and readership, there has been a significant development in the writing and publication of works of utopian genre in the liberal environment brought about by the 1961 Constitution.

Lastly, there have been major advancements in studies on utopias. These developments began with the examination of works from European literature and were followed by studies conducted on Turkish texts. After Akşit Göktürk’s book, two studies that collectively address utopias in European literature in Turkish stand out:

  1. Nail Bezel’s two-volume work titled “Creating Earthly Paradises and the End of Earthly Paradises,” which examines examples of utopian and dystopian world literature and includes selected texts (Bezel, 1984).
  2. A scientific expertise thesis presented by Abamüslüm Akdemir to Atatürk University in 1988 titled “Utopias in Terms of Philosophy of Society.”

While Göktürk’s thesis represents the pre-YÖK (Higher Education Council) period: 1982, it is seen that to date, two hundred theses on the theme of utopia have been written in the post-YÖK period. According to the national thesis center data of YÖK, thirty-four of these two hundred theses are doctoral, two are for art proficiency, and one hundred sixty-four are master’s theses. The first study addressing the theme of utopia in Turkish literature, which also ranks third in the general list, is a master’s thesis titled “Utopia in Contemporary Turkish Literature” presented by Nurettin Öztürk in 1992 at İnönü University. Öztürk wrote this thesis to demonstrate the existence of utopia in Turkish literature, based on the assertion of the award-winning utopia writing competition announced in the Milliyet Sanat Magazine, which stated that “there is no utopia in Turkish literature,” by arguing that utopia is a fundamental human inclination. The author, examining Turkish utopias and various works written in genres such as novel, story, essay, and poetry from the Tanzimat era to 1980, addressed the utopian tendencies he identified within the conditions of the period in terms of their religious, literary, political, philosophical, and psychological natures, ultimately showing that there are utopias in Turkish literature. Since this study was carried out in the nature of a “thesis,” the author did not engage in a critical stance regarding whether the utopias and utopian tendencies he identified in Turkish literature are “truly” or “concretely” utopian. Öztürk’s contributions to utopian literature began before the aforementioned thesis and continued afterward (See References).

In 2000, Ayhan Yalçınkaya presented a doctoral thesis titled “Equality and Freedom as Utopian Themes in Turkish Literature: A Comparison; 1970-1980 and 1980-1990” to Ankara University, which utilized Öztürk’s work on various topics while also critiquing it from the perspective mentioned above (Yalçınkaya, 2004, p. 179).

Usta’s first contribution to Turkish utopian literature is the book “Turkish Utopias,” which was presented to Goethe University in 2012 and is a published version of the thesis titled “Utopia and Revolution: Modernization Movements in Turkey (1908-1938)” under the name “Turkish Utopias: Utopia and Revolution from Tanzimat to the Republic.” The book consists of five chapters and appendices. The theoretical framework is discussed in the first chapter. The second chapter addresses “Western Enlightenment and Its Impact on Turkey.” The third chapter is dedicated to the topic of Turkish literature and modernization. The fourth chapter discusses utopia and revolution during the Young Turks period, and the fifth chapter encompasses the tradition of utopia during the Kemalist revolution and the Republic. The appendices include the following texts:

1. Ziya Paşa: Dream (Rüya)
2. Namık Kemal: Dream (Rüya)
3. İsmail Gaspıralı: Muslims of Darürrahat (Darürrahat Müslümanları)
4. Hüseyin Cahit Yalçın: Life of Imagination (Hayat-ı Muhayyel: Düşyaşam)
5. Kılıçzade İsmail Hakkı: A Very Aware Sleep (Pek Uyanık Bir Uyku)
6. Ahmet Ağaoğlu: In the Land of Free Men (Serbest İnsanlar Ülkesinde)

In the preface, the author expresses his memories and feelings regarding the inspiration and story behind the book. In 1984, while embarking on a train journey, a friend and neighbor handed him Eric Frank Russell’s book Planet of Disobedience, published in English in 1951. The original title is And Then There Were None, published in Turkish as Ve Sonra Hiç Kalmadı. The book narrates a fiction about a society of twelve million living on another planet, without class, hierarchy, army, bureaucracy, money, lies, living freely and equally. Usta recounts the utopian content of the book and the impact it left on him in a TV interview and in another book in a memoir-like and detailed manner1. This book profoundly affects the author’s entire perspective. Since that day, the author has been, in his own words, “wandering in the sea of utopia” (Usta, 2014a, p. 13). After reading Russell’s book, he turns his attention to More’s classic utopia, both studying and translating it into Turkish. Although More’s book had previously been translated into Turkish, Usta’s journey of translation opens new horizons for him as he attempts to embrace the vast utopian corpus. Not stopping there, Usta also begins to question the existence of Turkish utopias and writes the aforementioned thesis. To prepare for the thesis, he first examines the documentation at the National Thesis Center of the Council of Higher Education. The first footnote of the book provides this information to the reader. Usta generally adopts a stance against the theses that claim there are no utopias among Turks. While he places Öztürk’s work at the forefront of those who believe there are utopias among Turks, he positions Yalçınkaya’s doctoral thesis with those who claim “Turks cannot write utopias.” In this way, he begins to justify his positive approach between the two theses.

The debate over whether there are utopias in Turkish literature is not an original or specific discussion. This polemic is also a sub-issue of the East-West cultural comparisons. Just as many topics have been discussed in terms of claims that “philosophy is a Western thinking activity,” “why did capitalism develop first in the West,” “is the industrial revolution unique to the West,” “does one have to be Western to board a train in China before the Opium War?,” in this context, the debate over whether utopia is universal or specific to the West has been previously experienced among researchers of global utopian literature. Krishan Kumar is the most rigid advocate of the idea that utopia is Western. According to him:

There is no utopian tradition and thought outside the Western world. In non-Western societies, various types of ideal societal examples or dreams of perfection related to humanity are often attached to religious cosmologies. However, in none of these societies do we see practices based on writing utopias, critiquing them, enriching and transforming the themes contained in utopias, and seeking new possibilities within them.” (Kumar, 2005, p. 57). Utopia is not universal. It arises solely in societies that possess the Christian and classical period heritage, in other words, solely in the West. (Dutton, 2017, p. 318)

The weak side of this East-West polemic is the lack of consensus in defining the East and West. Additionally, can it truly be proven that there is a West and an East in the world? Is it correct to take the hinterland of Western Rome and Eastern Rome as opposing worlds? How “Western” are Spain or Portugal, which are the westernmost regions within what is referred to as the West? Where does the East begin and where does it end? Is it the Asian side of Istanbul, or the Elburz mountains of Iran, or the imagined Iron Gate that marks the beginning of the East? Who’s East are the Balkans, and who’s West are they? How “Eastern” is Islam? Is there a culture that is as intertwined with European culture as Islamic countries and culture are? For instance, is there a distinctly separate Islamic philosophy from the West? Or is Islamic philosophy merely a continuation of antiquity in Syriac, Arabic, Persian, and Turkish? Ultimately, articles on the virtual network3 argue that even in antiquity, there were very close cultural relationships and exchanges between Greco-Roman and Chinese cultural circles. It is possible to speak of the influences of Egypt, Persia, Buddhism, and Kabbalism on philosophers like Heraclitus, Pythagoras, Plato, and Plotinus. In this case, it is not feasible to speak of two opposing and separate camps called East and West. Considering the secular culture and individualization process that emerged after the Renaissance, it is clear that this development originated in the West and spread from there to the world. However, all events and phenomena should not be overshadowed by this reality. On the other hand, against the claim that utopia is specific to the West, Dutton’s serious examination surrounding the non-Western utopian tradition leads to conclusions that are in stark contrast to the views of Kumar and Yalçınkaya:

Based on evidence related to different belief systems and worldviews that reveal inherently utopian designs, cultural manifestations, and socio-political movements, it can be said that the desire to exist better on earth is fundamentally a universal concept.” (Dutton, 2017, p. 351)

In parallel with Kumar, Yalçınkaya’s thesis states that there are no utopias among Turks. The author has a judgment in his master’s thesis, presented in the same department in 1994, stating that “not only have the Alevis failed to develop utopias, but the absence of a messianic obsession despite carrying the understanding of the 12 Imams is striking and noteworthy” (Yalçınkaya, 1996, p. 206). The issue at the heart of this judgment revolves around the term “messianic obsession.” Messianism is common in Hebrew and Christian beliefs. It is also present in both Sunni and Shia traditions. Additionally, such a “returning savior substitute prophet” figure can be seen in other cultures and beliefs. For example, in ancient Iranian belief, Behram Gur is such a figure. Moreover, what is significant in these beliefs is not the debates over who the Messiah or Mehdi will be or when they will arrive, but the promises of freedom, equality, brotherhood, and peace that are based on texts like the Manichean, Essenian, and Hılfü’l-fuzulci, or a kind of political Islamic “Medina Agreement.” This is the essence of the matter.

Indeed, Ernst Bloch has drawn attention to the utopian qualities of some religious movements that are against dominant religions in his works The Spirit of Utopia and The Principle of Hope. Whether something is orthodoxy, heterodoxy, deviation, perversion, obsession, bigotry, hegemony, or oppression is determined not by the eye of the observer but by whether that thing is peaceful, egalitarian, and liberating. In another perspective, it should also be noted that instead of messianism, there is an alternative in Alevism. It is true that the principle of messianism, which is one of the conditions of Shiism, does not exist in Alevism. In other words, as Yalçınkaya stated, belief in Mehdi is not one of the fundamental beliefs of Alevism. However, approaching the subject descriptively and interpretatively rather than normatively is more appropriate for a scientific stance. The term obsession is a subjective expression in this context.

On the other hand, Alevi communities in Anatolia, following the warning of the Hacı Bektaş Dergah, viewed Mustafa Kemal as a “Mehdi” and participated in the national struggle. For them, this was also a revolutionary initiative containing the desire for equal and brotherly coexistence against the policies of othering, oppression, extermination, and denial that sharpened particularly after the “Vaka-i Hayriye” that began with Yavuz. In this sense, they fought for a utopia. The gap between the expected and the realized is not their fault.

Usta divides modern Turkish history into two main periods. The first period is referred to as Young Turkism, and the second period as Kemalism. The influence of Feroz Ahmad’s theses on the Young Turks and the Committee of Union and Progress and studies on the transformation process from Unionism to Kemalism can be clearly traced in Usta’s historical consciousness in terms of sociological discontinuity and continuity. Turkish modernization is also a process of democratic revolutions. These revolutions have influenced utopian writing, and Turkish utopias have likewise influenced the processes of modernization. Therefore, according to Usta, there is a dialectical relationship between utopia and revolution. The author evaluates historical conditions and periods in this context, presenting utopian texts within these conditions. In his view, Turkish utopias are also the utopias of the Turkish revolution. Naturally, there are no utopias among those who resist change; they have ideologies in the Mannheim sense. Usta examines Turkish utopias with a particular focus on their connections to the ideals of freedom and equality of the revolution. In an interview, he highlighted the relationship between utopia and revolution, which is one of the main theses of his book:

There is an unbreakable bond between utopia and revolution. Every utopia simultaneously provokes revolution. Every revolution needs a utopia. There has never been a revolution without a utopia. A utopia that does not lead to revolution is also not worth mentioning. Therefore, every utopian is ultimately a revolutionary.” (Usta, 2014b)

Since the author primarily aims to demonstrate the existence and values of utopias in the socio-political context, some philological information and views show inaccuracies.

For instance, references to utopia can be found in the Orhun inscriptions, where Bilge Kağan speaks of “a paradise of the past” during the times of his father and uncle, and in relation to historical days in Ötüken. However, this nostalgia does not contain a legend of ages or a longing for a golden age. If a search for utopia is to be conducted from a philological perspective in the Old Turkic period, it is necessary to examine the Uighur period poem titled “Anı teg orunlarta.”

The initiative associated with Sheikh Bedreddin is, in fact, the action of the Torlaks. There is no communal view or utopian reference in Bedreddin’s writings or statements. The Sheikh is straightforwardly a kadı. The revolutionary actions of Börklüce Mustafa and Torlak Kemal undoubtedly carry a communal character. In this aspect, the Torlak uprising, known as the Bedreddin rebellion, is similar to the Heliopolitan uprising of Aristonicus of Pergamon (Mossé, 1969, p. 297) and the peasant wars in Germany. It should be noted that Usta should include Aristonicus’s revolution and utopia in the new edition of Ancient Utopias; this would further strengthen the argument that Anatolia is the cradle of the first utopias.

The author has also included Nizamülmülk’s “Siyasetname” and generally political treatises within the scope of utopia. Many political treatises written in the Turkish and Islamic cultural basin, such as Nizamülmülk’s famous “Siyasetname,” identify that egalitarian thought has sometimes been active in the Islamic and Eastern tradition, particularly in Anatolia (Usta, 2017, p. 77).

The author also references Agah Sırrı Levend, who systematically introduced political treatises in Arabic, Persian, and Turkish literature. However, there are no records of equality or utopia in such works, and such a claim cannot be made. Works of the political treatise genre primarily combine efforts to sustain the monarchy and to divide society into classes in the eyes of the state. This approach, based on the four-element understanding of the ulama, umara, reaya, and beraya, is not egalitarian; on the contrary, it defines “justice” as treating the reaya “well” and “fairly” to maintain the state, without giving them more or less than they deserve. They are valued not because they are human, but because they support the state and army through their production. This is referred to as “the circle of justice.” The best example of this is found in Kınalızade Ali Efendi’s work “Ahlak-ı Alai.” The state described by Sencer Divitçioğlu in the Asian mode of production, which the Tahirists referred to as the “noble state,” is fundamentally a simple and naked expression of a slave, that is, a kapıkulu state. The “reaya,” meaning a flock of sheep, is what sustains the state. Naturally, from a political theory perspective, the flock is managed by the shepherd. The flock is a deposit of God entrusted to the shepherd, in authentic terms, a “vedia.” When looking at the lines in Nizamülmülk’s work that speak of how these people should be treated when they are the palace’s slaves and guardians, it will be evident that they are viewed as rebels who must be eliminated when they seek their rights. Traces of utopia can be more effectively pursued in works such as “menakıpname, velayetname, and fütüvvetname”.

Another significant error is the confusion between the language revolution and the writing revolution, with the assertion that “the transition to Latin letters occurred in 1927.” However, the language revolution is dated to September 26, 1932, the opening day of the First Turkish Language Congress. The law that facilitated the change referred to as the writing revolution, letter reform, or alphabet reform was approved by the Grand National Assembly of Turkey on March 1, 1928, and published in the Official Gazette on November 3, 1928, coming into effect (Usta, 2014a, p. 18). Usta argues that the decline in interest in old written works due to the writing revolution, the neglect of Ottoman texts, and the abandonment of this field to “reactionaries,” has opened the door for “progressive circles to cut themselves off from their roots,” leading to these works being forgotten in archives. However, the circles the author refers to are not the philological academicians, that is, Turkologists, who have translated and examined old written texts as master’s and doctoral theses; various official and private publishing houses have also published these. The leading official publishing houses include university publications and the Turkish History and Language Institutes. These academicians pursue this work not out of political motives but as a requirement of their profession, using philological methods. On the other hand, while Usta’s statements indicate this reality, he also corrects his own views. For instance, he notes in relevant footnotes that the “Dreams” of Ziya Paşa and Namık Kemal, which he claims were first transferred to new writing, were published in 1932 in Istanbul by Tefeyyüz Publishing House with the new letters (Usta, 2014a, pp. 68, 84, 167, 191). Additionally, these texts have also appeared in the second volume of the Modern Turkish Literature Anthology, prepared by Prof. Dr. Mehmet Kaplan and his colleagues, published with new letters (N. Kemal, 1978; Z. Paşa, 1978). According to Usta, Ziya Paşa’s “Dream” is the first utopia of the Ottoman period: “Undoubtedly, among the utopian works that initiated the formation of modern Turkish novels, Ziya Paşa’s ‘Dream’ comes first” (Usta, 2014a, p. 68). Both “Dream” texts should not be viewed in the same light as “these are utopias.” According to Öztürk, Ziya Paşa’s “Dream” is not utopia and can never be considered so. The first utopia of Turkish literature and dream utopia is the work of Namık Kemal (Öztürk, 1992, p. 25). The incorrect view that Ziya Paşa’s “Dream” is an utopia like Namık Kemal’s “Dream” is continued in subsequent studies, referencing Usta. For example, Kurpınar (2020, p. 7) writes:

Philosopher Sadık Usta (1960- ) recognizes the start of the Turkish literary utopian tradition in the 19th century with the political dreams of Ziya Paşa and Namık Kemal, which will be touched upon later in the third chapter.” (Kurpınar, 2020, p. 7)

In this book, Usta emphasizes that utopias are written to meet the demands for equality, brotherhood, and freedom that arose after the emergence of class societies, and that they are not specific to a certain society but are evident in all ancient civilizations from Ancient China and India to Ancient Egypt and Sumer. With this thesis, he argues against the Orientalist discourse that utopia is specific to the West. Simultaneously, Usta states that there are various utopian references and tendencies in Islamic culture and ancient Turkish literature. In this context, he includes a poem titled “City of Riza,” introduced as an Alevi utopia. According to the author, this text, which lacks detailed information, expresses typical egalitarian views seen in the Alevi tradition (Usta, 2014a, p. 64). The poem actually belongs to a folk poet named Hasan Yıldırım, who was born in Sivas Şarkışla, a member of the family known as Yüzbaşıoğulları, and who had the pen name Mihmani. The poet was first given the pen name “Yüzbaşıoğlu” by Aşık Veysel, and then “Mihmani” by Aşık Ali İzzet Özkan (Başaran, 2018, Kaya, 2001). The references in Mihmani’s poem reflect the poet’s personal culture before the established common teachings of Alevism.

The term “City of Riza” has been frequently mentioned in recent times among Alevi civil society circles. It is claimed that this concept appears in a mystical book of advice called “İmam Cafer Buyruğu,” which is believed to have been written in the name of Imam Ja’far. This book has various manuscripts and translations. The narrative of the City of Riza appears in Esat Korkmaz’s translation (Korkmaz, 2007, pp. 178-182). In Korkmaz’s other books, this text is also recounted in support of communal views. However, neither the Mihmani nor Korkmaz texts can be characterized as an Alevi utopia. The Alevi utopia should be sought in classical texts such as fütüvvetname, menakıpname, and velayetname. Before engaging with this autochthonous culture, Korkmaz had been involved in political actions within the 68 generation. Possessing a profound and broad culture concerning the history of socialist thought, and hailing from a family known as the Torlaks, Korkmaz turned to such studies after the 1980s due to interest in the communal narratives and teachings of the East and West. Interestingly, just as Nazım Hikmet wrote the “Bedrettin Epic” when accused of indifference to national history, Kemal Tahir turned to the establishment of the Ottoman Empire, Korkmaz to the City of Riza, and Usta to Turkish utopias for similar reasons. Usta’s starting point was influenced by some intellectuals associated with leftist and liberal thought who disparagingly claimed that “Turks cannot write utopias.” This quest has led Usta to embark on a journey that deepened his understanding of Turkish and Islamic history, which resulted in his contributions to Turkish Utopias, “Thinkers Who Changed the World – V,” and “Ömer Hayyam.”

In Usta’s work, the major utopias written during the period from the Tanzimat to the death of Atatürk are addressed in interaction with socio-political developments. These include the New Zealand projects of the Servet-i Fünun group, Hüseyin Cahit Yalçın’s story “Life of Imagination,” Abdullah Cevdet’s article “A Very Aware Sleep,” Gaspıralı İsmail’s “Women’s Country” and “Muslims of Darürrahat,” and Ahmet Ağaoğlu’s novel In the Land of Free Men. Among these, a brief examination of Ahmet Ağaoğlu is necessary.

Although Ağaoğlu was a republican and secular figure, he was also the intellectual father of the Free Party, which opposed the single-party rule of the People’s Party, and he authored the memoirs Memories of the Free Party along with the utopia In the Land of Free Men. The term “free” here is used in a liberal sense. While still in Malta, Ağaoğlu noted that two opposing political currents confronted each other in the formation of the new Turkish state, which he identified as the Hadidiler (Angry Ones), radicals, and the Serbestiler (Liberals). Ağaoğlu sided with liberalism. His utopia should not merely be viewed as a product or opposition to the Turkish and Atatürk revolutions. Ağaoğlu had observed, experienced, and analyzed the 1905 Russian Revolution, the 1906 Iranian Revolution, the II. Constitutional Era of the Ottoman Empire, and the Republican Revolutions. While still in Azerbaijan, he began writing books advocating for secularism and women’s freedom against the oppression of landlords and the mullahs. Therefore, Ağaoğlu’s utopia must be evaluated within the context of his own developmental trajectory.

Utopia and Folklore Studies: One Thousand and One Nights

Usta continued his search for utopia in tales first through articles and then by writing a book. In his book titled Utopia and Folklore Studies: One Thousand and One Nights, he reiterates the justifications regarding the existence of utopia among Turks that he put forward in his book Turkish Utopias. Usta articulates the purpose of writing the folklore book as follows:

Our aim in this work is to examine One Thousand and One Nights, one of the most important texts of Eastern literary culture, from the perspective of utopia. While One Thousand and One Nights is the most significant source of utopia in the East, these tales have not yet been examined from this perspective. (Usta, 2017, p. 78).

Usta discusses the genealogy and structural aspects of the term “tale” without addressing which linguistic group the Ethiopian language belongs to, stating that the word “masal” passed into Aramaic as “masla,” then into Hebrew as “maşal,” Arabic as “mesel” and “masal,” Persian as “masal,” Uzbek through letter transformation as “maral,” and Hungarian as “mese.” A journey tracing such etymology cannot be undertaken. The language referred to as Ethiopian is, in fact, the Amharic language. This language forms a subset of the Semitic languages along with Syriac, Arabic, Hebrew, and now a dead language, Aramaic. In a language group, one cannot discuss the transfer of a word from one dialect to another. In these languages, which are equal branches of a common root or parent language, words differ over time and space due to phonetic changes. This situation holds true for all branches of root languages. For instance, Spanish does not take basic words from Portuguese, nor does Romanian from French. The common vocabulary undergoes changes in sound and meaning within its historical development. This is also true for Germanic, Slavic, Turkic, Ural, and Altaic languages. Therefore, terms like masal, mesel, maşal, and metel are appearances of the same word in different dialects. The word in Persian came from Arabic, in Uzbek from Persian, and in Hungarian through Ottoman Turkish. As is known, Hungarian is a Ural language, Uzbek is Turkic, and Persian belongs to the Indo-European languages of the Indo-Iranian branch. Hence, the appearances of the mentioned word in Semitic languages relate to dialectal variations. Its appearances in other language groups have occurred through loaning, borrowing, or copying. After these explanations, two conclusions should be emphasized:

  1. The word “masal” did not pass from Ethiopian to Arabic and other languages. This word, which is already common in the Semitic languages, has passed into non-Semitic languages directly or indirectly through various variants via Arabic.
  2. There is no relationship between Ethiopia and utopia.

Some argue that the term “Ethiopian” is an external designation meaning “slave” in Arabic, while others claim it is an internal designation derived from the name of a king named Habisi. The word has been expressed in Latin as “Abissin,” which has become widespread. It is said that the Greek term “Ethiopia” (Aithiopia: Αἰθιοπία = aithein: to burn, ōps: face = burnt face) has been a composite external name (exonim) since the time of Homer and Herodotus. However, it has also been strongly defended by Ayele Bekerie that this name is indeed an internal name linked to the king Ethiopis (Bekerie, 2004). Classic sources also provide the following information:

The Phoenicians called themselves Ethiopians (p. 12). In Greek times, the Egyptians depicted Ethiopia as an ideal state (p. 14). Archaic books were full of the stories of the wonderful Ethiopians (p. 15). A great many nations distant and different from one another are called Ethiopians (p. 16). The Ethiopians were distinguished from other races by a very dark or completely black skin (p. 16). The ancient Ethiopians were the architectural giants of the past. When the daring Cushite genius was in the full career of its glory, it was the peculiar delight of this enterprising race to erect stupendous edifices, excavate long subterranean passages in the living rock, form vast lakes and extend over the hollows of adjoining mountains magnificent arches for aqueducts and bridges (p. 19). Passing southward, we find that ancient edifices occur throughout the whole extent of Ethiopia. In the olden days, the climate there was favorable to the nurturing and development of a high type of civilization, producing an Ethiopian so superior to the later types that they were called by the ancients ‘the handsomest men of the primeval world’ (p. 21). The whole of the space between the Nile and Abyssinia, and northward to Lower Egypt once constituted Ethiopia. It was called Beled-es-Soudan (land of the blacks) (p. 21). Everything south of Egypt was called Ethiopia, the land of the dark races (p. 32). (Houston, 1926).

In his book Utopia and Folklore Studies, Usta first reiterates his views on the universality of utopias addressed in Turkish utopias and some articles, then narrates the philological history of One Thousand and One Nights and the journey of the tales from east to west over centuries. By emphasizing tales such as “Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves” and “Aladdin’s Magic Lamp,” Usta asserts that these tales teach listeners that a better world is possible. A valuable observation by Usta should be highlighted in this context: “To tell a tale is to travel” (Usta, 2017b, p. 96). As he brings the discussion to One Thousand and One Nights, he notes that although these tales have Indian origins, they transitioned into Arabic through Persia, finding their main essence in Arab culture:

Culturally, One Thousand and One Nights, while originating from India and Persia, fundamentally responds to the societal needs of Arab culture and its emerging civilization, which is being established across almost half the world. The entrepreneurial spirit of the Arab reflects the adventurous spirit of merchants and caravans, as well as the cities being constructed. But it is also an elegy for the character of the equitable, just, and honest human being who has been betrayed and is crumbling. The tales also reflect the echoes of the egalitarian uprisings that erupted in Arab lands in the 1st century CE. The relative degradation of women is also a requirement of the ideology of that day. (Usta, 2017, p. 97)

The second section of the book opens with an introduction that is known as a “döşeme” in Turkish folk storytelling terminology, referred to as formal or cliché. This döşeme was added to the text by the translator. Alim Şerif Onaran, who translated the tales into Turkish, incorporated a repeated introduction found in love stories told by mendicant storytellers, such as “Kerem and Aslı” and “Tahir and Zühre.” Experts like Boratav and Kaya have noted that this döşeme was transferred from written and printed texts to these oral stories. Thus, the text has become more than just a translation; it has been Turkified. This döşeme has been used by authors such as Aziz Nesin (in the story “The Stick that Entered the King”) and İhsan Oktay Anar (in “Kitabü’l-Hiyel”). This narrative, which likely derives from the historical texts of Ottoman chroniclers, is frequently utilized by authors who aspire to a neo-classical style. However, the main text of the tale does not entirely conform to this Turkification. As Usta noted, the tales are shaped around Arab or Indo-Iranian culture. Tales that do not originate from Turkish culture, such as “Crystal Palace” or “Keloğlan Tales,” have been read and examined by Usta, who based his analysis on the German translation from Czech to demonstrate and showcase the existence of utopia in the East. The features that emerge in the tales with respect to utopia, such as the belief and hope that “a better world than the existing one is possible, that a life based on truth and justice can be established, that no one should establish unnatural dominance over anyone else, and that a life free from pain and evil, where people trust one another and live without theft or threats, can be lived,” are elements that nourish the sense of utopia. Beyond these, Usta also has a familiar “utopian” principle that he attributes to the king speaking to Scheherazade: “From now on, everyone will have a job according to their ability, and everyone will acquire property according to their needs” (Usta, 2017, p. 105).

Undoubtedly, tales contain elements reflecting the egalitarian, libertarian, and communal prehistory of human consciousness. However, the principle mentioned above symbolizes the conscious age of humanity that has escaped from the tales, characterized by rational and scientifically based hopes for living.

The relationship between tales and utopia can be understood similarly to the analogy established by Anday in his poem:

Protohippus is the ancestor of the horse,
Dinothorium is the ancestor of the elephant,
We are the ancestors of humanity…
‘THE FUTURE BELONGS TO THE HAPPY HUMAN.’
Protohippus atın ceddi
Dinothorium filin ceddi
Biz insanın ceddi…
GELECEK MUTLU İNSANIN.

Just as the relationship between communism and communalism is, so is the relationship between tales and utopia.

Magazines and Events

Usta and his colleagues have published the magazines “Science and Utopia” and “Science and the Future” to demonstrate the existence of utopia in non-Western societies and to spread utopian culture. According to the author, the magazine Science and the Future has popularized the understanding that “wherever there is a struggle against inequality, there is also utopia,” serving as the antithesis to the thesis that “there is no utopia in Turkish” (Usta, 2014, p. 16).

The magazine Science and the Future has featured special sections on Eastern utopias in two separate issues. In the first of these sections, Usta’s friend Ender Helvacıoğlu discusses the existence of utopia in the ancient East. Helvacıoğlu, after questioning the claim by communication science professor and translator Ünsal Oskay that there is no utopia in Eastern societies based on the presupposition of structural invariance, concludes his article with the belief that the distinction between East and West will disappear in the context of communist utopia (Helvacıoğlu, E. 2004, p. 21). Other authors in this issue have written articles interpreting data related to paradise in the East, peasant uprisings, and Islamic philosophy to argue for the existence of utopia. While these articles, which lack conceptual analysis and are more based on encyclopedic and historical approaches, contribute to the spread of utopian culture, they fall short of deepening the thought of utopia. Although Usta’s article is not present in this issue, various references to his work can be found in different articles. Usta has an article on Greco-Roman utopias in one issue of this magazine (Usta, 2016), as well as another article foundational to fairy-tale studies in another issue (Usta, 2017a).

In terms of Usta’s efforts to spread utopian culture through publishing, the magazine Science and Utopia also plays an important role. As Usta states, “The magazine Science and Utopia, which started its publication life in 1993… popularized the view that utopia will surely exist wherever humanity struggles against inequality in Turkey.” (Usta, 2010, pp. 7-8). Usta provided a regular and successful summary of his book Turkish Utopias two years before its publication in this magazine and included a reference to Gaspıralı’s utopia at the end of his article. The special issue of the magazine was published as “Turkish Utopias from the Tanzimat to the Republic” and is an indispensable source in the history of Turkish utopian literature.

The e-magazine İleti, published quarterly by the Communication Society of Uşak University, organized a competition for a story and essay themed around utopia to commemorate the 500th anniversary of the writing of More’s Utopia. The competition conditions and regulations were published on the Communication Faculty announcement page on November 28, 2016.4 As an honorary guest to present awards and participate in discussions, Sadık Usta, described in the community announcement as “the most productive intellectual in our country in the field of utopia,” was invited.

A total of twenty-five participants from seven different faculties submitted twenty-eight texts to the competition. The award ceremony took place on January 4, 2017, where Usta presented the awards to the winners. The award package also included the author’s books Ancient Utopias and Turkish Utopias.5

The first prize was awarded to Muhammed Uçar. It was announced that all the stories and essays submitted would be compiled and published in a special issue of the İleti magazine, with Usta writing the introduction for the special issue to be released in book form.6

However, the link to the İleti magazine provided on the announcement page of the mentioned university is not accessible.

Conclusion

Through the examination of his publications, articles, interviews, TV programs, events, and initiatives, it becomes evident that Sadık Usta is one of the most significant researchers in the history of Turkish utopian literature. This study has shown that Usta’s book on Ancient Utopias is among the pioneering works in world literature. In his thesis on Turkish Utopias presented to the Goethe Institute, he provided new evidence regarding the existence of utopia in Turkish and analyzed previously unexplored Turkish utopian texts. The author establishes a dialectical relationship between utopia and societal quests for equality, struggles for freedom, and progressive revolutions. His fundamental assertion can be summarized as stating that every revolution has its utopia. He claims that the objective revolutionary praxis exists alongside a subjective-theoretical superstructure element in the form of utopia. In this respect, Usta approaches utopia and its historical-social environment with an economic-political methodology. His approach is both semantic and transformative in nature. Usta seeks to develop utopian consciousness and influence the human transformation of culture, based on the principle that ideas become a material power when they are adopted by the masses. Although his work contains some inaccuracies and omissions from the perspective of various scientific disciplines, Usta stands out as one of the most productive and competent voices in his field within Turkey.

In Turkey, popular historian Ahmet Refik Altınay is referred to as “the man who makes history loved.” In this context, Sadık Usta can be seen as “the man who makes utopia loved.”

NOTES

1. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A6yggT2F0Z0

2. https://www.sino-platonic.org

3. http://www.azizmsanat.org/2016/12/19/utopya-konulu-oyku-ve-deneme-yarismasi/

4. https://iletisim.usak.edu.tr/haber/125

5. http://www.azizmsanat.org/2017/01/14/utopya-konulu-edebiyat-yarismasi-sonuclandi/

6. https://iletisim.usak.edu.tr/haber/116

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Prof. Dr. Nurettin ÖZTÜRK (Turkey): was born in 1963. He completed his undergraduate education in 1984 at Dokuz Eylül University in İzmir (Türkiye). Between 1985 and 1988, he worked as a high school literature teacher in Trabzon. In 1988, he became a lecturer at Gaziantep University, which had recently separated from METU. Between 1989 and 1992, he completed his master’s degree at İnönü University in Malatya, earning his degree with a thesis titled Utopia in Contemporary Turkish Literature. In 1996, he received his PhD in philology from Selçuk University with his dissertation titled The Motif of the Human in the Literary Works of the First Tanzimat Period. He has published two books: The Human in Turkish Literature and Polemics in Turkish Literature. He currently serves as a senior professor at Pamukkale University.


Interview with Gökçe Bilgin


SFRA Review, vol. 55 no. 4

Symposium: Utopia and Dystopia in Turkish SF Literature


Interview with Gökçe Bilgin

Ferzan Şer

Gökçe Bilgin is the author of 05.45 Istanbul, published in 2024 by İletişim. The novel follows a serial killer who constructs a robot from the limbs of his victims. Here she is interviewed about the novel by Ferzan Şer.

FS: The opening lines of books seem to me one of the most difficult and fundamental things like a kind of ground survey. In the first sentence of 05.45 Istanbul, the narrator has a watch on their wrist, there’s a clock on the wall, and one on the desk. Yet despite looking at each of these, the narrator also reaches out, in a sense, to look at the clock in the square outside. When all the clocks show the same time, they say to themselves, “You can begin.” But must all clocks show the same time? I set my watch a few minutes ahead; that way, I don’t end up late. Time differs—right now, the clocks in Istanbul and Basel are showing different things. 

GB: The repetition of clocks in the novel’s opening shows that time is not merely a technical measurement tool; it is also a threshold for decision-making, initiation, and awareness. Even though the watch on the narrator’s wrist, the clock on the wall, and the one on the desk all show the same time, there is still a need to confirm it with the clock in the square. This need reveals a search for alignment between individual perception and public reality. Just like setting your watch a few minutes ahead to avoid being late, Nevin, too, is seeking harmony among the clocks. But this harmony is tied to a sense of security. Just as you rely on an adjusted clock to protect yourself from being late, Nevin relies on the synchronization of all clocks to not fall behind in her mental journey. The time difference between Basel and Istanbul evokes not only a geographical gap but also cultural and emotional differences in how time is experienced. The question “Should time be the same everywhere?” turns into a broader inquiry about norms. 05:45 speaks to both internal and external time.

FS: “I’m a humanoid robot. You made me,” says Robot Murat. It’s a kind of reversal of Frankenstein. Doctor Frankenstein creates a monster. Nevin, on the other hand, is a teacher; Frankenstein is male, Nevin is female. One constructs from what he gathers in graveyards, the other obtains parts from the living beings she kills herself. Frankenstein’s creature is ugly, while the robot is beautiful because Nevin’s selection of body parts is guided by aesthetic principles. Frankenstein’s monster has no name, but the robot is named Murat. Is this kind of reversal a deliberate choice or a creative reinterpretation? For instance, in his work The Signs Taken for Wonders, Franco Moretti likens Frankenstein’s monster’s body to that of the working class and notes that Doctor Frankenstein does not want it to reproduce. The doctor seeks to destroy it. Here, on the contrary, the creator herself becomes the captive. And yet, Nevin also sees the reproduction of robots as a threat to humanity.

GB: “I’m a humanoid robot. You made me.” This sentence is both a reference to and an inversion of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. Instead of a male doctor constructing a hideous creature from dead bodies, here a woman—Nevin—a teacher, designs a robot based on aesthetic criteria. Nevin’s creation of Murat with an aesthetic sensibility suggests that their relationship is not only one of creator and creation, but also of desire coming to life. As Franco Moretti argues in The Signs Taken for Wonders, Frankenstein should be read in a political context—so too should 05.45 İstanbul. Yet this time, the creator is the captive, and the creation is the one who is free. Feminism has come a long way. And I come from the East. Frankenstein is a product of the West. We, on the other hand, rarely speak of mystical beings or dreamlike apparitions as monsters. Even if it is a monster, for us it can also be a savior. It is the body, the idea we have long awaited, loved, and yearned for. Moreover, this text is the first of book of a trilogy. We do not yet know what will happen. Still, its direction is clear: the intuitive aesthetic of Al-Jazari’s robotics will merge with the West’s rational technicality. Externally, it will follow Western methods, but internally, it will be guided by the East’s memory, intuition, and knowledge of love. In other words, a trilogy written with the techniques of the West but carrying the essence of the East.

FS: Mary Shelly’s mother was one of the prominent feminists of her time, and there were times when she gathered with certain groups to write stories together. It’s said that Frankenstein was actually the product of such a literary circle. What was your family environment like? Did it have any influence on your writing?

GB: My mother didn’t read books. Neither did my father. They were both farmers. I was born on a farm. My father worked as a steward there, and my mother worked alongside him. We children were also workers on that farm. While my mother served the landlord’s family, I carried away the empty tea glasses and coffee cups. Our life resembled scenes from the American movies we watched. I lived the life of those Black characters. But then there was nature, the one place where I could roam freely, think about anything I wanted. My mother is illiterate. We speak Kurdish. The farm was surrounded by oil wells. Giant machines, makeup products that resembled pale skin, whiskey, laughter, entertainment… and at the same time, there were the years I spent in YİBO, the regional boarding school. My childhood and early youth were woven with snakes I tried to outrun, trucks, tractors, hunting rifles, dandelion seeds, the rough-and-tumble of boys’ games, and red dreams I hid under my dress, wearing my mother’s nightgown. It was a difficult childhood. But maybe that’s exactly why—couldn’t that, too, be considered a kind of book club?

FS: The idea of a female serial killer is intriguing. Though, to be honest, Nevin never really feels like a killer to me. I can’t quite believe she is one. It actually reminds me a bit of Iranian cinema—where even the darkest characters are often portrayed with deep emotion and sensitivity. Still, I’d like to ask this in terms of form: when it comes to feminism, are all aspects of womanhood automatically affirmed or celebrated?

GB: I’m not idealizing womanhood. I want to represent it as it is. Women, too, can get angry, hold grudges, even kill. The issue isn’t about declaring women innocent or guilty—it’s about granting them the right to be agents. The fact that Nevin isn’t a “typical killer” reflects how, even when women commit acts of violence, there’s still an urge to explain it away or over-sentimentalize it. Just like in Iranian cinema, or in Yeşilçam, where the criminal woman is often portrayed as someone who “suffers” or who was “left with no choice”—I didn’t want to frame it that way. Nevin’s agency is a form of subjectivity; 05.45 İstanbul is not simply a story about murder—it is a dystopian response to suppressed rage and the control exerted over the female body. When it comes to systemic power, it doesn’t matter what gender the powerful belong to. That’s where Nevin stands out: she doesn’t internalize the system—on the contrary, she resists it. Feminism doesn’t glorify women; it recognizes them in all their complexity. So to “like” Nevin isn’t about liking a murderer—it’s about taking seriously the possibility of a woman being a perpetrator. It’s about remembering that women don’t exist just to be loved.

FS: Irony and parody are deeply embedded in the text. For example, people are killed for using liquid soap—it’s absurd. In that sense, it offers something unexpected from a dystopia. Don’t we usually expect darker, more somber themes? So, where exactly do humor and satire—emerging from the evil we live in—stand within the fictional world that mirrors this landscape of real-world cruelty?

GB: When we think of dystopia, what usually comes to mind is a dark, harsh, oppressive atmosphere. But in 05.45 İstanbul, I deliberately wanted to break that expectation. Yes, there is oppression, surveillance, and discipline—but I often presented these alongside the absurd. A scene like “being electrocuted for using liquid soap three times” clearly illustrates the relationship between dystopia and absurdity. Here, I didn’t use humor as a way to lighten the mood or provide relief. Instead, it’s a way to show just how extreme the interplay between the absurd and oppression can be. What’s laughable is actually the system’s disproportionate punishment mechanisms. So, the irony and parody in 05.45 İstanbul establish a narrative mode that exposes both the logic and the internal contradictions of the system.

FS: You don’t use quotation marks or any punctuation marks for the dialogues.

GB: In this text, the dialogues serve less to advance a traditional plot and more to carry the intellectual and emotional flow. The conversations between Nevin and Murat often intertwine with internal monologues, fragments of memory, and associations. This already renders the classic dialogue–punctuation distinction obsolete. The text has a clear mental movement, a current. I aimed to erase the boundaries between thought and speech, emotion and reaction. I do not entirely reject punctuation marks. Rather, in this particular text, I chose not to use them in a way that fits its formal reality. When necessary, I can use punctuated narration as well. I change the form depending on the intensity of the moment and the distance between the characters.

FS: The president’s face is everywhere. For this reason, you sometimes prefer an exaggerated style of narration in the text. A similar intensity was present in Helîm Yusiv’s novel Toothless Fear: the president, his statues, and portraits were everywhere. Is the scene you depict truly an exaggeration? Or are you implying that reality itself has long since crossed those boundaries?

GB: The president’s face being everywhere in 05.45 İstanbul is not just a representation of power; it is also a matter of visual imposition and an occupation of memory. I believe I made this explicit with the lines in the text: “The president’s face and voice are in so many places I can’t count them. It’s impossible not to listen. Sometimes I blink to avoid seeing.” Here, I wanted to describe not only physical oppression but also sensory coercion. Therefore, it’s not an exaggeration but a state of hyperreality. This reality differs from Western biopolitics and the panopticon. The president is everywhere because power no longer exists only as a political regulation but has also materialized as an aesthetic category. Yet, the novel’s concern is not limited to this. The dystopia in 05.45 İstanbul is constructed through the coexistence of two fundamental tensions: one is the struggle for womanhood, and the other is the effort to produce something entirely different by stepping outside the existing system. The question is this: will bringing together those fragments that escape or are expelled from this system really be enough to create something new?

FS: At one point, Nevin reflects on what she has done and questions herself, saying, “But worse than that is that I may have done things even I am unaware of.” I read this as a kind of theoretical insight. Is this how creative writers relate to theory? Should it be this way?

GB: For me, theory is less about pre-acquired knowledge and more about an intuition that emerges in the moment of writing. When we write, we reveal not only what we consciously know but also what we unknowingly know. This is not theoretical knowledge but intuitive knowledge. This form of intuitive knowledge fits my characters much better because their class, cultural, and social backgrounds—often feminine, fragmented, and repressed spaces—do not directly align with institutional language or academic discourse. Therefore, when I write, I incorporate theory not through theoretical language but by sensing it through lived experience.

FS: You’ve used very little depiction, am I mistaken?

GB: Yes, that was a conscious choice. (Of course, I mean the lack of external description; there is plenty of internal description.) In 05.45 İstanbul, I tried to avoid traditional depictions in the classical sense. Because in this text, I want the reader not to see the place or the person, but to hear them, feel them, and sometimes be left in a void. I aimed to create an ambiguous and challenging atmosphere. To me, this feels like the atmosphere of questioning. Depiction is a form of showing that fixes and freezes something in place. But the world I wanted to convey is fragmented, fluid, and undefined. Moreover, this choice has a feminist dimension: rather than defining the female body or space, I wanted to engage with them on emotional, mental, and intuitive levels. While constructing my dystopia, I didn’t impose an artificial role on ourselves. I wanted us to be fully there—from the way of thinking to even killing—everything to be feminine. Because this was not just a dystopia. I wanted it to be a feminist dystopia.

FS: In one place, you say “walking to oneself,” and in another, “They came with horses, carriages, planes, and feet.” The expression “coming with feet” or “walking to oneself” isn’t common in Turkish, but is widely used in Kurdish. It’s like thinking in Kurdish and writing in Turkish. Do you find yourself caught in this way of expression sometimes?

GB: Yes, there are moments like that. But it’s not so much being stuck between two languages; rather, I write from a place where the two languages flow into each other. Over time, this internal flow has become natural and is one of the defining features of my style. This was also fitting for my characters’ situations. Both Nevin and Murat needed a fragmented, intuitive narration. Because this narrative is highly abstract, but I wanted to convey emotions not by describing them, but by bodily constructing emotion through thought. This, in turn, comes from Kurdish’s intuitive power—I consider myself lucky.

FS: At one point, Nevin says, “Istanbul has been lost.” Is this loss very significant? For example, in Zabel Yesayan’s pre-1920 texts, after leaving and returning to Istanbul, she says something like “where is the old Istanbul?” In the 1970s, in Yılmaz Güney’s film Arkadaş, a character says, “Sir, that old Istanbul is gone.” Istanbul often seems like a nostalgic city, remembered with a melancholic longing. In your text, Istanbul is now lost. What exactly makes Istanbul so important, so self-enchanting, and what is this longing for its old state that seems always to be getting “dirtier”?

GB: Yes, the whole melancholic mood in the novel is closely related to Istanbul being a place constantly sought to be conquered. Saying that the city is lost is actually a deliberate intervention against this nostalgic view. Istanbul has been described in almost every era as a city that is “no longer the same.” But I did not want to surrender to this longing. That’s why in some parts I sharply cut through that nostalgia. The city seems to be always under construction, constantly changing. Yet at the same time, it is always desired to be conquered. Perhaps what makes Istanbul special is precisely this excessive desire to possess it. Everyone wants to rule over it: states, capital, men, ideologies… This turns into a very rough kind of love. For this reason, in the novel, the loss of Istanbul is a kind of inevitability. If we think of it as a character, it is the kind of thing where one says, “I killed it because I loved it too much.”

FS: There are certain words in the novel that are specially emphasized: Wise, Master, We, Pain, Enemy, Heart, Science, Language, Fire, Ash, Sleep, Greed, Land, Losses, Readers, Knowledge, Scribes… And even more striking, emphasized words like: IT WAS SHINING, I WAS BLIND, TELL, DISTANCE. I don’t think these were chosen randomly.

GB: The Zoroastrian faith stands out with its dualistic structure: good and evil, light and darkness, fire and ash… This duality operates not only on an ethical level but also through natural rhythms and the perception of time. Fire is sacred and is identified with knowledge. Speech, writing, and memory are powerful tools. At the same time, it involves a relationship with the unseen, ritual purification, memory practices, and foresight of the future. In the dystopia of 05.45 İstanbul, the beliefs of the group living beneath the city were inspired by Zoroastrianism. That’s why those words are emphasized. Moreover, the entire novel carries this duality. In the tension between Nevin and Murat, opposites transform into each other. Desire turns into violence, machine into human, master into slave.

FS: “Is it possible to create something new without being influenced by what has come before?” I read this as a kind of anxiety about influence. Attachment to tradition versus breaking away from it. For example, Nevin cuts off and buries the Master’s fingers and tongue. This made me think about tradition, lineage, literary ancestry. Mehmed Uzun thinks the opposite: “I couldn’t create anything new without breaking old value systems.” Could you reinterpret tradition and innovation—even creativity? For instance, I find I can’t write when I’m not reading.

GB: In 05.45 İstanbul, “innovation” often does not arise from a moment of chaos, but from the bending of memory and the transformation of form. Change here is not a sharp break; it is more of an interweaving, a repetition, a process of transformation. Nevin’s desire to build a robot is not about severing ties with the past; it is about transforming that connection. Because for her, the past is not an inspiration but a compulsion. It doesn’t guide her, but it enables transformation. There is no masculine, sharp attitude like “destroying the old” in this text. The bodily and intuitive cannot be conveyed with such sharpness. The feminine way of learning is not about destruction, but about reshaping. Therefore, my literary journey cannot be defined by the destruction of the past. I am indeed building my own writing; I am not settling in anyone else’s garden. But I didn’t create my garden out of nothing either.

FS: Nevin says, “I should be someone who falls in love with what she creates, so why did I tell others that I loved them? A lie. I am only one of those women who fall in love with what they create. A lie, now I am a woman who will fall in love with what I write here.” The text contains religious and mythological elements. Yusuf is present. The idea of falling in love with one’s creation made me think of two things: Pygmalion and Oedipus. Here, there is a kind of reversed Oedipus. Is it something like a mother’s love for her child? Nevin says she has not loved anyone among men. Is this a kind of love for a woman? The robot’s name is a male name—does this relate to gender performance as well?

GB: The love here is intertwined with a divine arrogance; it creates, exalts, and can also destroy. In this respect, it resembles Pygmalion, but with a difference: Nevin is not a man, but a woman. And not just a man, but a consciousness she creates. Here, myths are turned upside down. In Oedipus, the son kills the father and is with the mother; here, the mother—Nevin—has already erased the men. Nevin’s love is not directed at a son, but at the being she invented. Murat is not like a child; he is neither obedient nor in need of protection. Yet he is a “first”: the first creation to come from Nevin’s language, hands, and anger. His parts were taken from others, and his heart was set free. In other words, Nevin is actually in love with her own consciousness, her own power. With what she “wrote,” what she “created” …

FS: Goethe, Bernard Shaw, and Helîm Yûsiv are authors who engage with Pygmalion. You should be placed among them as well. But as Galeonawari would say, there is a “reverse world school” here. The woman creates the ideal man. However, this time, it is the creator herself who breathes the soul. Unlike Pygmalion, 05.45 İstanbul features delicate craftsmanship.

GB: Nevin wants to create not only love but also an aesthetic that she has shaped with her own hands. This aesthetic is not only external but also intertwined with ethics, memory, and wounds. Thus, 05.45 İstanbul is not just a love story but offers a radical perspective on who constructs love, how, and for what purpose. Nevin’s world is filled with fragmentation, crime, memory loss, and controlled bodies. When we focus on the story of the parts she used to create Murat, this becomes clear. For Nevin, another thing as important as love is anger—and this anger is so deep that it could not be directly shown within the form of the ideal.

FS: Nevin’s constant speaking and Murat’s act of listening seem to offer a kind of answer to the question, “Can the marginalized speak?” What do you think?

GB: This situation directly refers to Spivak’s question, “Can the subaltern speak?” Yes, the subaltern can speak—but will their voice be heard? Will it be recorded? Will it become law? Nevin’s words do not echo. Nevin’s language remains outside the boundaries of society, law, and the public sphere. In this universe, a woman speaking about her own desire, her own crime, her own creation has no legitimate ground. That is why Nevin is actually alone when she speaks. She addresses her own conscience, her own body, her own memory. The subaltern speaks here, but her interlocutor is not human—it is a machine.

FS: There is an Upper Istanbul and a Lower Istanbul. Turkish literature often describes Istanbul through its neighborhoods—the contrast between Fatih and Harbiye, for example, is well known. Here, however, Istanbul is divided into upper and lower parts. This reminds me of the places of Africa and Latin America in postcolonial theory. While authors like Edward Said and many others often reduce the world to East and West, the anti-colonial struggles of Latin America and Africa divide the world into North and South.

GB: The division of Istanbul into upper and lower parts is not merely a spatial choice. It is also related to a map of knowledge, power, and belonging. This map aims to give voice to a “lower” that is fragmented, suppressed, yet carries its own wisdom, standing against the East-West binary that fails to overcome the West’s crisis of representation. Thus, 05.45 İstanbul should not be read merely as an urban dystopia but rather as a postcolonial imaginative space. Love, technology, memory, and anger serve as carriers of a literary language constructed from below. This reflects the posture of speaking from a subspace frequently encountered in postcolonial literature.

FS: What does a wall mean to you? The walls of our home, the walls of our garden give us peace. They are somewhat like a return to the mother’s womb. But there are also prison walls. Would it be very bad if Istanbul were surrounded by walls?

GB: In 05.45 İstanbul, walls stand right at the heart of duality. The wall drawn around Istanbul is not merely a physical boundary; it is also a desire to suppress memory, history, and resistance. Who stays outside or inside is no longer determined by security, but by how much one’s identity and memory align with the system. In this context, the wall does not only divide space; it fractures time, memory, and subjectivity as well. Personally, walls have never felt safe to me. They feel more like constraints than protection. I always prefer to roam freely in nature, moving by following the direction of the wind and the sun, rather than being confined by walls. Because true security arises not from a locked door from within, but from free and open relations with the outside world.

FS: In the metafictional parts of the novel, you hint that the continuation of this story will come. You refer to these series as seasons, which is very interesting and beautiful. Each novel blends with life, nature, and humanity like a season. Seasons connect us with nature. What do you think- will the new novel really be like the “summer love” you mention?

GB: Yes, each novel in this trilogy corresponds to a season. 05.45 İstanbul was “spring”. It is the season of awakening, fragmentation, and the first loss. It is when Nevin confronts her memory, finds Şişe, creates Murat, and simultaneously when Istanbul begins to change. Spring appears as a time of new beginning but is also when vulnerabilities are most visible. That is why the spring of 05.45 İstanbul both creates and destroys at the same time. It is no secret that the next novel will be about love. It is designed as a summer season. But this novel is not a “summer love” in the classic sense, not a light, fleeting, or flirtatious love. Rather, it is a season of intense, ripening, even burning emotions. A summer when the sun is at its peak, shadows disappear, and hiding becomes impossible. A space where everything is stripped bare, where skin, consciousness, and anger directly touch.

Gökçe Bilgin was born in 1984 in Adıyaman. In 2021, she won the Vedat Türkali First Novel Prize for her novel Porcelain A Matter. Her second novel 05.45 Istanbul was published by İletişim Publishing in 2024. She scrutinizes feminism at the intersections of intellectual and everyday life. Her articles on art, literature, politics and travel are published on various platforms. She lives in Istanbul.

Ferzan Şer was born in Batman in 1986. He completed his undergraduate education at Hacettepe University, his master’s degree at Istanbul Bilgi University, Department of Comparative Literature, and his doctorate at Mimar Sinan Fine Arts University.


Interview with Selim Erdogan


SFRA Review, vol. 55 no. 4

Symposium: Utopia and Dystopia in Turkish SF Literature


Interview with Selim Erdogan

Emre Bozkuş

Selim Erdoğan is the author of the novel Kurbağa Adası – Bir İstanbul Distopyası. The book was published in 2019 as part of the Pangea series by Ithaki Publishing. The novel presents a dystopian fiction set in a future after the great Istanbul earthquake. It deals with themes such as the effects of global warming, migration, demographic change, infrastructure disasters and social collapse. In this work, Selim Erdoğan draws attention with his minimalist narration of current issues in a gripping dystopian universe. Author Emre Bozkuş conducted a book interview on Selim Erdoğan’s dystopian novel Kurbağa Adası.

EB: In Kurbağa Adası, entropy is not merely a physical breakdown. It resembles the quiet unraveling of relationships, language, and solidarity itself.

SE: If you’re asking whether the book mirrors some kind of personal detachment from the world, I wouldn’t put it like that. Let’s say it was quietly there, like background noise you only notice once it stops. I was surrounded by the same slow disintegration. The place I lived in was coming apart: economically, socially, and morally. Social bonds were thinning, shared truths were disappearing, and migration was redrawing the lines of identity and geography. Naturally, this wasn’t unique to Turkey. That soon became clear. Conflicts between major powers intensified. The world continued to heat up, both in temperature and tension. Istanbul was part of it. In the book, the island is actually the European side of the city. One could sever it with a line drawn from the Sea of Marmara to the Black Sea, just west of the city. A canal, at least officially. But it’s a metaphor, really. Perhaps the whole planet is now an island, and we are the ones lighting the match.

EB: Unlike most dystopian fiction, Istanbul in your novel feels like a living character. It breathes, remembers, and reacts. Do you believe cities eventually develop their own form of awareness, or was asking this question a literary need for you?

SE: Absolutely. Anyone who travels enough knows that every city has a temperament. Some are calm, others anxious. Some move in chaos, others run with mechanical order. A city can feel impatient, kind, grotesque, ruthless, pretentious, or dignified. Istanbul is like ancient nobility buried under weight it can no longer carry. Despite millions treading on its surface, it hasn’t completely lost its allure. In the book, Istanbul has already surrendered. It lies dismembered, inexorably collapsing piece by piece.

EB: In your novel, the family no longer feels like a shelter. It seems more like a space where helplessness is shared. Under dystopian strain, is it still possible to hold on to the idea of family, or does it dissolve along with everything else?

SE: The nuclear family is under stress. That’s evident. Statistics show that nearly half of all marriages end. The kind of marriage we know may not have a future. Or maybe it is simply changing form. If we understand dystopia as extreme social pressure, not just authoritarian surveillance, then we can ask how families respond. There is no single answer. Some collapse. Some grow closer. In Kurbağa Adası, the family is caught in between. The mother displays a stronger instinct to protect, especially when it comes to the child. She demands safety immediately. The father might fall behind. Tension builds. Sometimes this leads to separation. Returning to your question, when disintegration becomes the norm, people tend to cling to whatever structure still stands. That might be religion, ideology, or the family itself. Institutions, regardless of their nature, offer shape against disorder.

EB: Silence, heat, and thirst. Throughout the book, there is a threat that remains unseen yet constantly felt. What did you rely on while writing this invisible force? Sometimes silence can be more exhausting than screaming.

SE: I drew from what surrounds us today. That scattered and insidious form of violence, precisely because it is invisible, was what I leaned on. In the novel, that is the villain. But this villain doesn’t come with a face or a name. It appears suddenly through a dust storm, a sinkhole, an unbearable heatwave, or the sluggish flow of suffocating traffic. This presence is stronger than any antagonist we’re familiar with. It’s so vast that it exists everywhere at once. It doesn’t choose. It doesn’t aim. It simply exists. Sprawling, mindless, and ever growing. It is not evil by design. In fact, it lacks any design at all. It is the illegitimate child of the human struggle with nature and with itself. What emerged was a shapeless monstrosity. A clumsy giant. It has no pulse to silence, no will to reason with. You can’t destroy what never asked to exist in the first place. And above all, it is not imaginary. It is real.

EB: There’s a strong sense of “waiting” in the story. What wears the characters down isn’t the disaster itself, but the creeping feeling that it’s on its way. The atmosphere amplifies this tension—crafted with the kind of sparse fatalism we recognize in McCarthy, and a touch of Vonnegut’s absurd irony. Were there any works, films, or moments in your life that shaped these suspended instants in time?

SE: I do appreciate those writers. And yes, their work, along with others, may have influenced me. But I believe that in order to create emotional intensity, one doesn’t need to bombard the reader with explicit imagery. In fact, such approaches often reduce impact. Take the first Alien film for example. The creature barely appears, yet the dread it evokes lingers far more deeply than in later CGI-heavy films. The narrow, airless corridors of the Nostromo were more disturbing than the alien itself. But beyond cinematic references, what truly fed the tone was the world outside. When I read a report about dam levels, and realize they may never rise above ten percent again, or when even a mild earthquake halts traffic and breaks communication, I can’t help but think of Istanbul turning into a trap for millions. It only takes one event to close the lid.

EB: Nature in this novel is not just a backdrop. It seems to have a will of its own. Would you call Kurbağa Adası an eco-dystopian lament, or is it more of a belated warning?

SE: Kurbağa Adası is an allegory of a city, perhaps a world, where small-scale disasters occur almost daily. In that sense, it has the tone of a lament. But at the same time, it offers a highly plausible scenario, based on the continuation of an existing disorder. Or rather, a world gnawing at its own roots. Without pause, without conscience. If that continues, the scale of disaster grows with it. It’s not just grief speaking in the book. There’s also a sober estimation of consequences.

EB: In Turkish literature, science fiction is still often associated either with technical curiosity or adolescent excitement. With Kurbağa Adası, were you intentionally trying to break this perception, or did the story simply lead you there?

SE: Changing perceptions was never my aim, nor something I believe I could do. And yes, science fiction is seen that way here. But readers play a role in this as well. I’ve seen reactions saying the plot in Kurbağa Adası moves at a glacial pace. Some even thought that very little actually happens or that the story lacks a strong narrative arc. Those who approached it as conventional science fiction might have been disappointed. I don’t write with a specific genre in mind. I don’t start with the idea that this will be science fiction or dystopia. Categorization is done later by publishers, bookstores, and eventually, readers. Some books clearly belong to a genre. Agatha Christie, for instance, wrote pure detective fiction. A book like Kurbağa Adası, on the other hand, can easily be misunderstood when forced into a category.

EB: In the novel, trust seems almost completely eroded. As readers, we cannot fully hold on to any character. Was this sense of isolation a conscious choice, or a reality seeping in from the world we live in?

SE: When I was writing the book, the file was named Entropy. Of course, I wasn’t going to keep that name. This isn’t a physics manual. But the story shaped itself around that idea. Entropy refers to the inevitable increase in disorder within a closed system. Even the energy you use to restore order contributes to the overall chaos. Although a scientific term, I believe it applies socially as well. Kurbağa Adası presents a city, and in a sense a world, unraveling on every level. Infrastructure, social order, architecture, and demographics are all coming apart. Disasters can briefly bring people together. We saw this during earthquakes. But if the disaster is not regional, if it spreads into every corner of life and refuses to let go, alliances start to weaken.Principles fade. Beliefs dissolve. Hope disappears. What remains is the most basic instinct. Survival.

EB: Your novel isn’t a classic dystopia. There is no villain, no intense action. The tension builds gradually. Was this feeling of suffocation intentional? Does slowness function as an element of suspense for you?

SE: Yes, but not only slowness. A broken air conditioner. A customer service line that never responds. A pool covered in moss. Dust sticking to the windows. These are all forms of pressure. As I said earlier, the antagonist is not an evil force. It is the weight we leave behind. The marks we carve into one another and into the environment.
It lumbers forward. Not out of malice, but because nothing halts a world already collapsing under its own weight. Even its slightest movement is enough to create discomfort. You do not need to be chased. The threat is already present.

EB: While writing this novel, did you ever think: What if all traces of the future were already left behind in the past?

SE: I did. Almost everything suggested in Kurbağa Adası already exists today in some form. I simply asked what might happen if the same tendencies continue. Climate-driven migrations. Demographic changes triggering tension. Heat-related deaths in urban areas. Fragmenting social fabric. The rise of cults and extremist ideologies. Survival technologies. Private land acquisitions in supposedly safe regions. All of this already hums beneath our cities. Barely hidden. If the Kanal İstanbul project were actually realized, it would only be the final touch in a reality that has already reached its boiling point.

Selim Erdoğan was born in 1970 in İzmit. A graduate of Ankara University’s Faculty of Political Sciences, he spent many years working in both public and private institutions within the capital markets. Over time, his professional background gave way to a deeper engagement with literature, where he began crafting narratives that blend social critique with imaginative depth. His literary debut came with Denizatı Vadisi, published by NotaBene in 2012. This was followed by İkibinseksendört, Gofer Ağacı and Trinidad’ın Dönüşü, each expanding his voice across themes of memory, estrangement and quiet resistance. With Kurbağa Adası Bir İstanbul Distopyası, published by İthaki in 2019, Erdoğan envisioned a haunting future version of Istanbul. The novel was awarded the 2022 FABİSAD Gio Award for Best Novel. He later continued his collaboration with İthaki through the novels Sabotaj Anadolu’da Hazin Bir Komplo Öyküsü and Derin Merhamet, which further explored speculative narratives grounded in local history and political anxiety. His short fiction appears in science fiction anthologies such as Yeryüzü Müzesi and İlk, published by İthaki, and Arz Cephesi’nde Yeni Bir Şey Yok, released by Fihrist. In addition to fiction, he has written essays and commentary for Bilimkurgu Kulübü. In 2023, he served on the jury for the FABİSAD Gio Awards in the Best Short Story Collection category.

Emre Bozkuş was born in 1995 in Bakırköy, İstanbul. He studied Turkish Language and Literature at Tekirdağ Namık Kemal University. He began writing in 2014 through blogging and gradually turned to fiction and essays. His stories and articles have appeared in platforms and journals such as Bilimkurgu Kulübü, AçıkBeyin, Düşünbil, Kayıp Rıhtım and Lacivert Öykü ve Şiir Dergisi. He has also contributed to several short story anthologies. He works as an editor for Bilimkurgu Kulübü and Orm Fantastik, and is part of the editorial team at Roket Bilimkurgu Dergi. His essay collection Ay Kızılıydı Gece was published in 2022. His science fiction series for children, Uzaylı Pizzacı, recently began with its first book Kayıp Çoraplar Savaşı, published by Pamey Publishing. He continues to explore the boundaries of storytelling, working at the intersection of literature, imagination and editorial vision.


Environmental Disaster and Postapocalyptic Fiction in Gülayşe Koçak’s Ecodystopia: Siyah Koku


SFRA Review, vol. 55 no. 4

Symposium: Utopia and Dystopia in Turkish SF Literature


Environmental Disaster and Postapocalyptic Fiction in Gülayşe Koçak’s Ecodystopia: Siyah Koku

Meltem Dağcı
Translated by Eyşan Çolak

Artistic works that aim to promote sustainable living in natural way while warming people against threats and environmental destruction are particularly noteworthy. Through visual or literary means, these works not only raise awareness but also encourage people to take preventive action. The role of literature in addressing environmental issues has become increasingly significant. In science fiction, subgenres such as dystopia and postapocalyptic fiction portray pessimistic scenarios, dark aspects, and potential disasters, while also serving as pioneers of a conscious environmental movement. In this context, the role of science fiction in literature has gained growing importance in highlighting environmental crises.

In science fiction literature, ecodystopia has emerged as a response to supernatural events such as environmental pollution, waste, and natural disasters. In recent years, it has begun to appear across all forms of cultural texts. Literary works that combine ecocritical approaches and ecodystopian narratives with postapocalyptic fiction have also found their place in literary discourse.  Thus, it aims to contribute to transforming environmental awareness into a non-anthropocentric social consciousness through the art of science fiction, encouraging humanity to abandon its flawed way of thinking inherited from the past- one that interprets the external world solely based on its own interests and perceptions- and to develop lasting solutions to environment problems. This is significant because postapocalyptic fiction demonstrates how the world can deteriorate when humanity ignores warnings related to environmental factors and becomes completely isolated from the outside world. In postapocalyptic fiction, dystopian themes of nature are frequently encountered. Ecodystopia and postapocalyptic fiction can be viewed as interconnected through a cause-and-effect relationship. Every situation involving the human-nature dichotomy that results in negative outcomes inherently contains a harmful cause that affects the green environment. Therefore, postapocalyptic fiction often presents us with the image of a consumed environment and a consuming human.

This article aims to conduct a text focused analysis of Siyah Koku by Gülayşe Koçak- known within Turkish science literature for its ecodystopian and postapocalyptic element- in terms of its relevance to the existing literature. In Siyah Koku, natural resources have been depleted, water consumption per person is rationed, and organ donation is mandated by law without regard for age. In a world where even “souls” have become plasticized, people are only able to continue their daily lives through the use of calming drugs dispersed into the air via massive “sprayers.” With the use of these drugs, a future dominated by obedient citizens comes to prevail. The work in question will be examined within the framework of science fiction and literature, focusing on its postapocalyptic atmosphere and dystopian narrative that explores the potential consequences of environmental destruction.

The Relationship Between Ecodystopia and Postapocalyptic Fiction

In science fiction literature, ecodystopia- one of the subgenres of dystopia- depicts a fictional world that conveys future environmental concerns, warnings, and dangers through dystopian elements. While emphasizing ecological awareness, it also contains utopian aspects within its own narrative structure. One of the key features that distinguishes ecodystopia from other subgenres of speculative fiction is its direct emphasis on environmental concerns and its use of dystopian and postapocalyptic elements to reveal the consequences of ecological collapse. Marco Malvestio (2022) defines ecodystopia as a “hybrid genre” that combines the “catastrophic narrative of the postapocalyptic with the speculative foresight of dystopia” (Malvestio 26-28). In this regard, ecodystopias critique the societies they emerge from through an “ecological perspective” and depict to their readers “worlds in which natural life has either disappeared, is on the verge of extinction, or has undergone terrifying transformations causing humanity to suffer as a result.”  (Aksu-2) The bleak future visions in these narratives, in which the relationship between humans and nature is irreparably damaged, intersects with the discourse of the “post-nature” era. The concept of “post-nature” introduced by American environmentalist writer and journalist Bill Mckibben, suggest that due to the destructive impact of human activities-such as ecological disasters, exploitative industrial practices, and pollution-the world as we once knew it has transformed into a post-nature world. In this sense, “nature has now given way to the post-natural” (Şensoy 33).

While technology is a central focus in dystopian fiction, the opposite is often seen in postapocalyptic scenarios. In such settings, technology is broken down, technological devices malfunction, consumerism comes to an end, and consumption is portrayed as a force that has transformed both environments and human beings. As a result, in postapocalyptic fiction, we encounter a world where the final point reached through technology evokes a simulated atmosphere.

The Earth hosts all kinds of living beings and offers them various alternative ways of life. At the same time, important steps must be taken to ensure the sustainability of life and the healthy and efficient renewal of the resources consumed by humans. One of the key steps is to establish a balanced ratio in response to the growing human population. This is because a universe in which resources are consumed in direct relation to increasing population rates may point to the core problems underlying dystopia. The rise in the human race, combined with individual ambitions and the advanced use of technology, may lead to actions that could ultimately bring about the end of the universe.

Novel Structure

Siyah Koku consists of 35 chapters and 621 pages. This study uses the first edition of the novel, published in 2021 by Everest Publishing. Focusing on the life of the protagonist Mine Özbizden, Siyah Koku presents the world and people around her through her perspective. The central focus of the novel is Mine’s relationship with Tuncay, as it is through this romantic connection that she becomes aware of the “plastic world” she inhabits. Tuncay—who at times reminds her of her grandfather or occasionally her brother—acts as the catalyst in her journey of self-discovery. In the novel, where Mine Özbizden’s struggle for individuality and selfhood is portrayed, the narrative features a depiction of a dystopian world. The state of the world is revealed through the lens of Mine’s personal experiences.

In the novel, natural resources have dried up, the ecological system has begun to deteriorate, and water consumption is strictly rationed—everyone uses Sukretcard to access Pırıltemiz water. It is known that everything has become plasticized and artificial, and that organ donation has been legalized and made mandatory. People inhale a tranquilizer called Dosilin in every environment. Individuals are categorized as Us, the Other, or those who return from being the Other, and there is an ongoing war between the Bizistan soldiers and the mountain men. Pills such as the tea pill, forgetting pill, sleeping pill, no-smell pill, and happiness pill are commonly used. In a country where MutluTV is watched constantly, we witness the strange and complicated love between Tuncay and Mine, along with the unfolding ecological disasters, the climate crisis, and an entirely artificial atmosphere.

Ecodystopian Motifs in the Novel: Scent and Giant Sprayers

According to McKibben, as a result of the environmental disasters caused by humans inhabiting the planet, it has become difficult to find an untouched or pristine natural area anywhere on Earth. “By altering the air, we have made every point on the surface human-made and artificial”. Nature has lost its ability to transform independently and exist on its own terms. McKibben argues that it is hardly possible to claim that anything remains other than a damaged and deteriorated environment (McKibben 50). The disruption of the Earth’s ecosystem—through the increase in natural disasters, abrupt shifts in weather patterns, and the abnormalization of climatic conditions—has led to a state in which “no clear distinction can be made between the human and the non-human realms” (Wapner 37). Building on this, ecodystopian fictional texts propose the possibility of an atmosphere in which it is either difficult or entirely impossible to distinguish what still belongs to nature, and what a life devoid of nature might look like.

In Siyah Koku by Gülayşe Koçak, one of the most striking examples of the ecodystopia genre in contemporary literature, ecological collapse and its consequences, social unrest, the erosion of biodiversity, and the rise of oppressive and controlling powers are all addressed. In this dark world, water’s taste and sound have turned into a melancholic legend; social rage and human emotions are kept in check by tranquilizers sprayed into the streets; discrimination, cruelty, and apathy have become normalized; culture and language are nearly extinct; and even the human body has been transformed into a source of global profit under state control. The novel traces the footprints of dystopian motifs lurking in the shadows of this bleak reality.

The novel reflects the globalized climate crisis and its consequences. One of the major issues depicted is the desertification of habitable areas and the scarcity of water sources due to extreme heat. Another problem arising from the depletion of water resources is the onset of the World Water War. As a result of this global conflict, water has ceased to be considered an infinite resource, prompting the implementation of protective policies. Chief among these are preventative measures like limiting consumption to “a few drops of water.” In addition to various nutritional pills, citizens receive their daily water rations via Sukredi or Sukret cards (Koçak 63).

Humans perceive their environment through five primary senses: sight, hearing, smell, touch, and taste. These sensory inputs are essential for their connection to and survival in the world. However, not all senses carry the same weight in daily life. While sight and hearing tend to dominate everyday experiences, the sense of smell holds a unique status—it is the first to develop in humans and is directly registered in the brain. From the moment of birth, individuals are exposed to countless scents, which are stored in the brain’s olfactory memory. In the novel, the imagery associated with the sense of smell—one of the five senses—is conveyed through the scent of flowers and the distinctive odor of the sprayer, encapsulated in the notion of the “black scent” (siyah koku). Flowers are now plastic, and their scents, too, are artificial.

As soon as I heard the words rose scent, I felt nauseated. Admittedly, though there are still a few scattered gardens where one might come across a living flower, I must have grown quite distant from the real thing. Now, when I hear ‘rose scent,’ what comes to mind isn’t the smell of an actual rose, or even rosewater, but rather the plasticky odor of those so-called artificial roses sprayed with synthetic rose essence. (Koçak 76)

 Rising temperatures and carbon emissions, disrupted seasonal balances, extreme droughts, melting glaciers, declining oxygen levels in seas and oceans, among many other factors, are destroying animals’ natural habitats. Food sources are depleting. While some species lose the battle for survival, the balance among the remaining ones is disrupted. This imbalance affects all living and non-living elements of the ecosystem. The extinction of a single species can destabilize the entire ecosystem. In the novel’s narrative, endangered or extinct species primarily include animals, especially birds. Due to the effects of global warming, it no longer even snows:

Constantly migrating in search of water, large families—children, grandparents, entire households—see each other as competitors. It’s as if the entire country’s population has abandoned their homes; spilling onto the roads in drought and perhaps in hope of leaving something else behind, caught in a perpetual motion, an ongoing flight. Perhaps what they flee is not just the lack of water as a drink. Could the drought that envelops every aspect of life—relationships, love, cultural life, aesthetic feelings, our humanity—be the consequence of water scarcity as the source of life? (Koçak 112)

Siyah Koku can be read through the lens of the climate crisis’s harmful effects on the ecosystem and humanity, with a continued focus on the human experience. As ecological destruction escalates, nature can no longer fulfill even the most basic human needs. It can be said that this adverse trajectory of nature also causes fluctuations in people’s mental and emotional states. “Could the drought that envelops every aspect of life—relationships, love, cultural life, aesthetic sensibility, and our humanity—be the consequence of water scarcity as the source of life?” (Koçak 112)

Mine’s grandfather takes care to nourish her with “real” food and “real” water to protect her from becoming “plastic.” His advice to always remember water reflects an ecological awareness.

The deadly radioactive rays of the Sun, especially during the periods when there was no atmosphere, were blocked by the oceans and seas formed in the early days of the Earth. Even today, radioactive rays practically cannot penetrate below 200 meters of the sea surface. The fact that life began on the ocean floors leads us to consider a connection between the protective nature of water and the origin of life. For all these reasons, and perhaps more, water is extremely important for life as we know it. We say that without water, life on Earth likely would not have begun, since all known living organisms depend on water molecules in one way or another. (Bakırcı 2018, para. 12)

Could it be that water has become the last stronghold not only for cleansing our bodies but also for purifying our hearts and souls? They invented dozens, even hundreds, of cleaning products that do not require water, yet strangely, people no longer feel the need to be clean… They can increase the dosage of Dosilin they spray on us as much as they want—just as people have grown bitter with water’s absence, they too have become bitter, surrendered, and given up… Life has grown bitter… (Koçak 123)

In Bizistan, giant sprayers constantly spray antidepressants over the people on the streets, and various narcotic pills are delivered free of charge to every home. The public has become accustomed to these tranquilizing drugs. People, habituated to the antidepressant and calming scent permeating the air, have forgotten how to feel and transformed into robotic or “plastic” individuals exhibiting uniform reactions. According to Marcuse, capitalist societies suppress human emotions, turning people into passive beings who think in a standardized way (Marcuse 11).

They even installed sprayers at the bus station; we stood right beneath one. Coming from outside the city, Dosilin didn’t smell calming at all; it was like an outright assault on the nose. The rhythmic hiss from the sprayer evoked the feeling that the city was surrounded by monsters breathing deeply. (Koçak 70)

The constant spraying of tranquilizers on people, the vitamins and thirst-quenching additives mixed into water or synthetic foods, are all imposed by the state without individual consent. Many chemicals, such as happiness pills and drugs that erase memories and traumas, are distributed free of charge and marketed to people through the media. According to Adorno, the media acts as a chemical that shows people ways to escape reality; by presenting its content as a “convenient and simple” happiness pill, it constructs social suffering as an invisible structure (Adorno 93).

But some news I got from the media really confused me: many articles have been published marking the second anniversary of the government’s organ harvesting and exporting policy. In our crisis-ridden world, where everything revolves around short-term survival and making money, our Bizistan has become the world’s number one source of organs. Within five years, everyone over the age of 20 will have donated at least one organ. (Koçak 436)

Thus, as a state policy, people become manipulable both physically and mentally. This total control of the individual by power, encompassing all aspects of life, is a defining characteristic of dystopian literature.

The Bodily Resources Act

Factors such as the Earth’s limited resources and environmental problems indirectly encourage humanity—and by extension, states—to pursue various illegal paths with the aid of science and technology. Authoritarian totalitarian governments experimenting with unlawful methods are a common theme in dystopian fiction. State institutions serving oligarchic structures impose practices that harm both health and the life cycle on the populace through coercive power.

Foucault emphasizes that power does not merely supervise individuals in society but transforms into a structure that regulates and controls their life processes—especially biological processes such as health, the body, and fertility. In this context, state institutions perceive themselves as having the authority to intervene directly in people’s lives ostensibly for their benefit (Foucault 105-108). In the novel’s narrative, where even water resources are restricted and sprayers are mentioned, people’s health is hardly a concern of the state. In an environment where decisions are made unilaterally by the government, certain illegal projects, laws, and practices that assert the state’s power are imposed on the people as mandatory conditions. In dystopian fiction, the human body is disregarded and human health is neglected. A law is enacted over people’s bodies.

The National Minister of Bodily Resources explains at length—with statistics and graphs—how the annual income generated from eyes taken through BK (Bodily Resources) procedures increases steadily every month and how it raises our social welfare: ‘BK surgeries are a project of love, a project of turning into life,’ he says, emphasizing his words. (Koçak 456)

It can be inferred that the government enacted the Bodily Resources Act to generate revenue and made organ donation mandatory regardless of age. Although organ donations are portrayed as a sustainable environmental practice, the dystopia reveals a strikingly harsh and realistic aspect of this reality.

In Siyah Koku, the Bodily Resources Act and the right to life granted through organ donation fall short of protecting the physical and biological integrity of the individual. The fundamental purpose of the right to life is to safeguard human existence. However, in the novel, the protection and respect for the right to life have ceased to be among the core responsibilities of the state. Under an oppressive regime, it is hardly possible to speak of respect for human health.

The assistant appeared; he had one eye. At the time, this did not surprise me because the Bodily Resources Act had just been enacted and was not yet implemented nationwide… At that time, there was no obligation to wear a patch over the blinded eyes; the state had not yet decreed, ‘All blind eyes must be covered!’ in order to prevent the disgrace caused by the law from being so openly visible. (Koçak 62-63)

In the last century, as a result of natural disasters and devastating catastrophes linked to climate change, various environmentally conscious and solution-oriented efforts have emerged. The concept of a sustainable environment appears as a green ecological movement aimed at raising awareness about environmental issues such as global warming, water scarcity, and the climate crisis. Since the biology of nature is also disrupted by climate crises, it is difficult to assert that ecosystems remain suitable for healthy life under normal circumstances. Considering the human–nature relationship as an inseparable part of living organisms’ life cycles, the serious disruption of nature’s balance can also be seen as a threatening disturbance to human biological cycles.

“Isn’t the meaning of the phrase ‘Every organ sacrificed for the integrity of Bizistan is immortal,’ which is framed and hung even in schools everywhere, exactly this? Mortals are living beings; doesn’t one have to be lifeless to be immortal?” (Koçak 480-481) According to Agamben, modern forms of sovereignty expose not only the political status of the individual but also their very biological existence to political intervention. This normalizes the idea of creating a social “immortality” by exposing the human body, thereby turning the human body into a victim of political power (Agamben 98-102).

In dystopian fiction, bodily projects and practices imposed by governments concerning human health often emerge as consequences of the disruption in nature’s vital cycles.

Ecocriticism examines the meanings attributed to nature in textual narratives by assigning an imaginative mode of expression to these meanings, analyzing the conceptual frameworks they create, and exploring how rivers, seas, soil, plant, and animal species shape human-environmental cultures and approaches to environmental issues (Oppermann 25). An ecocritical perspective centers on reducing nature-destructive attitudes of individuals, striving to instill an awareness of living in harmony with nature and a sustainable lifestyle.

The building bearing the large, golden letters ‘STANDARD BODILY RESOURCES HOSPITAL’ on its door was perhaps the most crowded place I had ever seen in my life; I had never shared a room with so many people. Yet, the only image that came to mind about that place, the only feeling that awoke within me, was a deep, bottomless loneliness. (Koçak 473)

In the novel, the concept of sustainable living is not presented as a utopian ideal but rather as a grace granted to people within a dystopian setting, as if it were a normal, ordinary condition devoid of any negativity. The government, acting in response to the catastrophes and climate crises at the core of a sustainable environment, has created a chaotic, isolated atmosphere and environment.

There are distinct consequences stemming from the totalitarian government’s lack of commitment to a clean, green, or sustainable environment. Climate change, natural disasters, nuclear pollution, militarization, insatiable demand for endless energy sources, energy crises, biological epidemics, diseases, social injustice, ethical issues arising from biotechnological research, environmental pollution, and depleted natural resources are among the major problems depicted in the novel and faced by the contemporary world. In Siyah Koku, the traces of ecodystopian and apocalyptic fiction are accompanied by bodily laws enacted in response to the destructive outcomes of climate change and natural disasters.

Conclusion and Evaluation

This study examined the descriptive analyses within ecodystopias that depict dystopian futures caused by climate change, focusing on their role in fostering collective consciousness and encouraging action. The research presented dark future projections resulting from humanity’s failure to effectively combat climate change, culminating in ecological collapse. Postapocalyptic fictional narratives were explored to contribute to the literature by advancing discourse on environmental issues in literary texts and deepening the analysis of ecodystopian constructs.

The ecodystopian perspective emphasizes that humans have no real chance to reorganize their ecosystem and resources, highlighting the need to overcome false consciousness and raise environmental awareness. It problematizes anthropocentric environmental approaches by asserting that nature’s existence is not contingent upon humanity—that nature can persist without humans, whereas humans cannot exist without nature. This framework is suitable for critically examining areas where human-centered environmental attitudes must be challenged. Within this scope, literature is recognized as a powerful tool to guide society positively toward the protection of nature. Literary works aim to raise awareness of the scale of the ecological crisis. Through functional readings of ecodystopian novels, steps can be taken to promote a sustainable environmental consciousness. The struggle to preserve natural life and maintain ecological balance is carried out through literature.

Gülayşe Koçak’s novel Siyah Koku falls within the category of ecological dystopian fiction. Alongside ecodystopia, impressions related to postapocalyptic narratives were interpreted through selected excerpts from the text. Inspired by real-life nature-human disaster reports, the novel constructs a pessimistic future that brings readers’ anxieties to the fore while drawing attention to ecological crises. It traces the likelihood of disasters occurring if the necessary sustainable environmental understanding and green policies for nature protection are not implemented.

WORKS CITED

Adorno, Theodor W. Kültür Endüstrisi: Kültür Yönetimi, translated by Mehmet Tüzel. Yordam Kitap, 2016.

Agamben, Giorgio. Kutsal İnsan: Egemen İktidar ve Çıplak Hayat, translated by İsmail Türkmen. Ayrıntı, 2002.

Bakırcı, Mert Çağrı.“Bizim Bildiğimiz Anlamıyla”. Hayat İçin Suyun Önemi. Bilimkurgu Kulübü, 2018, https://www.bilimkurgukulubu.com/genel/bilim-teknoloji/bizim-bildigimiz-anlamiyla-hayat-icin-suyun-onemi/. Erişim tarihi 06 Haziran 2025

Farhat, Hamidreza. “Dystopia in Contemporary Post-Apocalyptic Films.” Master’s thesis, Bilkent University, 2019.

Foucault, Michel. Özne ve İktidar, translated by Işık Ergüden. Ayrıntı Yayınları, 2000.

Koçak, Gülayşe. Siyah Koku. Everest Yayınları, 2021.

Malvestio, Matteo. “Theorizing Eco-Dystopia: Science Fiction, the Anthropocene, and the Limits of Catastrophic Imagery.” European Journal of Creative Practices in Cities and Landscapes, vol. 5, no. 1, 2022, pp. 24–38.

Marcuse, Herbert. Tek Boyutlu İnsan: Gelişmiş Endüstriyel Toplumun İdeolojisinde İncelemeler, translated by Ünsal Oskay. Ayrıntı, 1995.

McKibben, Bill. The End of Nature. Random House Trade Paperbacks, 2006.

Oppermann, Serpil. Ekoeleştiri: Çevre ve Edebiyat. Phoenix Yayınları, 2012.

Şensoy, Ayşe. “Beth Steel’in Ditch [Hendek] Oyununda Doğasonrası Dünya.” Ekodrama: Çevreci Tiyatro, Sahne ve Performans Ekolojileri İçinde, edited by B. Ağır and M. A. Balkaya. Kriter Yayınevi, 2022, pp. 33–52.

Wapner, Paul. “The Changing Nature of Nature: Environmental Politics in the Anthropocene.” Global Environmental Politics, vol. 14, no. 4, 2014, pp. 36–54.

Meltem Dağcı graduated from Ondokuz Mayıs University Computer Programming, then from Eskişehir Anadolu University Turkish Language and Literature. She completed Pedagogical Formation Training at Zonguldak Bülent Ecevit University. She graduated from Mersin University Institute of Social Sciences Women’s Studies Non-Thesis Master’s Program. She is interested in science fiction, speculative fiction stories and novels. Her stories, book reviews and interviews were published in various magazines and newspapers. She continues his Writer’s Room interviews on Edebiyat Haber with pleasure. The Other Side of the World, published by Ithaki Publishing, is her first book of short stories. Her anthology works include Women Around the Planet (Feminist Speculative Fiction Story Anthology) and A Strange Spark (Special for the 70th Anniversary of Fahrenheit 451). She is continuing her studies in Ondokuz Mayıs University Institute of Postgraduate Education, Women and Family Studies Master’s Program with Thesis.


The Subjectivity of Robots and the Critique of Anthropocentrism in Children’s Science Fiction: “Robonlar” as a Case Study


SFRA Review, vol. 55 no. 4

Symposium: Utopia and Dystopia in Turkish SF Literature


The Subjectivity of Robots and the Critique of Anthropocentrism in Children’s Science Fiction: “Robonlar” as a Case Study

Duygu Küçüköz Aydemir

In today’s world, where technology permeates nearly every sphere of life, the relationship between humans and machines has become increasingly complex, and this dynamic is reflected in cultural productions, particularly in literature. The rapid advancement of technology and the growing visibility of artificial intelligence and robotic entities in society deeply affect the world of children, and consequently, children’s literature. In this context, the rising prevalence of robots and AI as central motifs in children’s books provides a critical space to interrogate the role of technology in shaping children’s sense of identity and their perception of the world. Mert Arık’s Robonlar: Bir Kaçış Operasyonu (Robots: An Escape Operation) emerges as a significant example of this literary transformation.

The work moves beyond the traditional framework of children’s literature by addressing the existential challenges of robots and AI at both the individual and societal level. Robonlar cannot be defined strictly as a dystopia or as a utopia; rather, it embodies a “dysto-utopian” form. In doing so, the novel conveys how technological beings are marginalized within anthropocentric systems of domination, while simultaneously exploring the practices of solidarity and liberation that resist such marginalization. In this regard, the text foregrounds robots as “Others,” destabilizing and reconfiguring the boundaries of humanity itself.

This article analyzes Robonlar through its dysto-utopian structure, with particular attention to human-robot relations, the literary representation of robotic consciousness, and posthumanist perspectives. Moreover, it considers how the representation of robots in children’s science fiction shapes young readers’ attitudes toward technology and identity. Ultimately, the aim is to develop a fresh perspective on how children’s literature reflects and interprets this transformation in an era when technology ceases to be merely a tool and emerges as a social, ethical, and affective presence.

Robonlar: An Examination of an Escape Operation

Written particularly for children growing up in the technological era, this adventure and science fiction text by Mert Arık positions him as both an educator and an author of note within the field of children’s literature.

The book defies simple categorization as either a utopia or a dystopia; rather, it exhibits characteristics of a disto-utopia. The concept of a disto-utopia refers to narratives in which utopian and dystopian elements coexist or intertwine. Typically, such works present an initially dystopian environment, yet they embed potentialities for a better future or elements of hope. The term has been utilized by utopian theorists such as Lyman Tower Sargent, Tom Moylan, and Ruth Levitas since the 1970s. Moylan’s (1986) concept of critical utopia operates on a similar logic: an imperfect utopia imbued with the potential for liberation.

Within the narrative, robots are marginalized, devalued, and stripped of freedom under an unjust and oppressive system. Anthropocentric attitudes, the instrumentalization of robots, and hierarchical domination underscore the story’s dystopian dimensions. Conversely, the friendships and collaborative visions of liberation formed among robots in the scrapyard articulate strong utopian traits, culminating in a narrative imbued with hope. Moreover, egalitarian and empathetic relationships between non-human subjects underscore the story’s utopian potential.

The front and back covers of Robonlar: An Escape Operation visually convey the disto-utopian structure of the narrative even before engaging with the text. Barbed wire, scrap yards, corroded metals, and robotic skulls represent an oppressive system in which technological beings are devalued and destroyed. This imagery evokes Adorno and Horkheimer’s (2002) reflections on how technology, through instrumental reason, transforms into a vehicle of domination. The depiction of scrap metals and old tools alludes to subjects systematically excluded from the capitalist production-consumption cycle once they are deemed “functionally obsolete.” This underscores one of the central functions of instrumental rationality: technological progress does not necessarily advance emancipation, but rather reinforces hierarchies defined by utility.

The moss-covered and greenish metals in the scrapyard symbolize the gradual reclamation of what has been taken from nature, resonating with posthumanist ecological thought. Braidotti’s (2013) framework of decentering anthropocentrism and emphasizing the continuity of nature and technology suggests that mutual transformation between human and non-human entities is possible. Conversely, the robot skulls evoke themes of death, oblivion, and the erasure of identity, adding a dystopian layer to the narrative. These images emphasize not only the material destruction of technological beings but also their social and ontological invisibility, highlighting the mortality of technological subjects (Ferrando, 2019).

On the first page, an illustration of a production line with robotic arms functions as a visual metaphor for both the technological production process and the evolutionary advancement of robots. This image signals a shift from human biological evolution to technological evolution. Such a production line represents the dominance of technical rationality over social organization and the increasing mechanization of labor (Adorno & Horkheimer, 2002). Furthermore, it can be interpreted as a transitional moment in which the boundaries between human and machine blur, giving rise to hybrid subjectivities. The robotic arms on the production line do not merely produce objects; they become instruments that sustain the continuity of their own kind, making visible the notion of technology’s self-evolution (Braidotti, 2013).

This opening establishes the dystopian atmosphere of Robonlar: a uniform mode of production dominates, creativity is replaced by standardized mechanical processes, and the scrapyard and quest for freedom, which recur throughout the story, are foreshadowed by this oppressive structure. Nevertheless, the narrative hints at the robots’ latent evolutionary potential, opening a pathway to utopian developments in later chapters. Descriptions of dystopian space and temporality are exemplified throughout the text, such as:

“…cold and dark scrapyard… ” (p. 39)1
“…the shelter deep within the scrapyard was cold and metallic” (p. 43)
“…metallic prison…” (p. 47)
“It was as if huge, tangled mountains of metal formed a labyrinth that no one dared to enter” (p. 48)
“Saving him from this nightmare gave both him and us hope” (p. 54)
“…in the cold atmosphere of the scrapyard…” (p. 57)
“…in the dark, rusted corners of the scrapyard” (p. 58)
“…giant security robots…” (p. 62)
“We would escape this dark and cold world” (p. 100)
“The smell of mold in the scrapyard was replaced by the scent of fresh grass” (p. 109)

These descriptions function narratively to establish emotional atmospheres, reinforce thematic underpinnings, and stimulate the imaginative engagement of child readers. Through such depictions, children can experience the setting not only cognitively but affectively, enhancing their immersion in the narrative. In summary, these expressions powerfully establish the dystopian environment, facilitating readers’ visualization of space and temporality.

Representation of Human-Robot Relations

Sabri Uçankalem, a human author within the narrative, owns a robot named Robon, to whom he has attributed remarkable storytelling abilities and fame. However, when Sabri receives criticism asserting that Robon’s narratives lack realism, he seeks corrective measures. He contacts the company that manufactured Robon to inquire how the robot might “recognize real-life circumstances, perceive adversity, and also depict sadness” (p. 20). Following the company’s guidance, Sabri applies a pseudo-corrective intervention, implementing psycho-technological coercion on Robon. This act inadvertently triggers Robon’s awakening when he suffers a physical blow. The narrative subsequently explores his fall into the scrapyard and encounters with other robots who have also experienced maltreatment and undergone awakening. The robots’ emergence into consciousness begins with speech, battery depletion, and the first appearance of metallic tears from their eyes.

The tears from the robots’ eyes can be interpreted as a symbolic representation of human-like affective experience, signaling the robot’s emergent capacity for emotion and exemplifying anthropomorphization. This attribution of human psychological and emotional traits to mechanical and electronic beings extends beyond Robon to other characters, such as the old kitchen robot Çırpıcı. When a missing component is replaced, Çırpıcı expresses joy, saying: “You gave me life again” (p.46). Expressions like “Our battery… yes, we robots have batteries instead of hearts” and “Our screws almost loosened from laughing” further illustrate anthropomorphic metaphors that transpose physiological and emotional experiences onto robots. Even the depiction of robotic breathing through flickering battery indicators reflects this strategy, wherein robot-specific elements—battery instead of heart, loosening screws instead of laughter—are aligned with human referents.

Within the literature, anthropomorphization is crucial for perceiving robots not merely as functional machines but as social and emotional beings (Epley, Waytz & Cacioppo, 2007). This enables affective bonds to form in human-robot interactions, particularly in domains requiring direct contact such as care, education, or customer service. Humans are more likely to engage cooperatively with robots exhibiting empathetic, human-like qualities.

However, human anthropomorphization can also serve as a mechanism of control and domination: familiarizing robots makes it easier to incorporate them into social hierarchies and assign functional roles. This raises a critical issue: anthropomorphization may inadvertently reinforce anthropocentrism, defining robot subjectivity through human-centered criteria. From a critical posthumanist perspective (Braidotti, 2013; Ferrando, 2019), such projections risk obscuring the robot’s own experiential and material existence. Critical posthumanism advocates decentering the human and recognizing that other entities—including robots—possess autonomous agency and meaningful forms of existence. Consequently, rather than humanizing robots, it is imperative to consider their distinct modes of being and relationality.

Ağın (2020) emphasizes the importance of transcending anthropocentric limitations to appreciate robots’ unique ontologies, agency, and experiential modalities. Barad (2007) also interprets such metaphors not merely as anthropocentric reductions but as hybrid figurative spaces for meaning-making. Through these lenses, interpretive bridges between human and machine are constructed via mutual references, allowing human readers to partially apprehend the robot’s distinct material reality. These metaphors thus function both as a narrative strategy for inter-species empathy and as a concrete example of the discourse surrounding anthropocentric representation.

Programmed Consciousness and the Illusion of Freedom

When Robon first ventures outside and remarks, “One day I will write poems while observing this enchanting landscape” (p. 33), it reveals that despite experiencing significant awakening, he continues to think according to patterns designed by his human creator. As a “writer robot,” Robon’s code, identity, and expressive modes reflect externally imposed frameworks. This parallels the condition of individuals within capitalist systems who, believing themselves free, in fact express themselves through culturally and ideologically prefigured codes. According to Althusser’s (1971) theory of ideological apparatuses, subjects may perceive themselves as speaking autonomously, yet their language, desires, and imagination are shaped by the prevailing ideological order.

Robon’s inquiry, “How did I suddenly begin to speak, remember, think, smell, grieve, and feel?” (p. 33), marks the onset of his cognitive awakening. The narrative frames this moment as an internalized self-reflective process. Nevertheless, this introspection does not emerge in isolation; it unfolds within constraints established by human-designed software, coding, and logic. Braidotti (2013) emphasizes that the subject is constituted not only biologically but also through technical and cultural networks. Robon’s emergent consciousness can thus be read as an illusion of freedom, wherein both existence and expressive capacity remain confined within pre-determined parameters.

Literary Representation of Robotic Consciousness: Escape from the Scrap Yard

The narrative constructs a hierarchical system based on binary oppositions, wherein the human male—particularly the capitalist figure in control of power—consistently occupies the position of the dominant subject. In Robon’s story, this role is assumed by Sabri; in Ebro, by Mr. V.; and in the scrapyard, by the owner of the scrapyard. Within this framework, escaping the system emerges as the sole means of liberation. According to Marx (2002), evading the traps of capitalist structures requires a certain degree of consciousness.

The scrapyard is depicted not merely as a physical space but as a locus of oppression, surveillance, and hierarchical power. Descriptions such as “cold and dark scrapyard” (p.39), “metallic prison” (p.47), and “giant security robots” (p.62) foreground the dystopian nature of the environment and the surveillance regime operating within it. The scrapyard owner functions as the local authority, while the large security robots consolidate his control.

Robon’s awakening, in this context, signifies more than the activation of a technical system; it marks the emergence of awareness and the incipient desire for emancipation. Drawing upon Chalmers’ (1995) “hard problem of consciousness,” Robon transcends the status of an information-processing mechanism to enter a subjectively reflective state regarding his own existence. The desire to escape the scrapyard stems not from programmed imperatives but from a consciousness attuned to its own conditions.

Moreover, Foucault (1977) asserts that power operates through visibility and surveillance; panoptic structures maintain constant observation over subjects’ behavior. The giant security robots in the scrapyard exemplify this panoptic arrangement. Robon’s awakening is triggered precisely by recognition of this surveillance mechanism and the aspiration to transcend it.

Marcuse (1964) contends that oppressive systems reduce individuals to single-function, compliant subjects. Robon’s refusal to remain confined aligns with Marcuse’s notion of freedom beyond the repressive order. This act of escape embodies an assertion of will to transcend the one-dimensionality imposed upon existence.

Posthumanist Modes of Existence

Characters such as Robon and Ebro exhibit humanoid forms. Ebro, for example, is a large-scale hamburger robot. Like Robon, Ebro’s name contains the suffix “-ro,” signaling his robotic identity. Ebro begins speech with the phrase, “Oh, white robpts powdered with flour” thereby subverting the anthropocentric lens through which prior events, spaces, and emotions have been interpreted. This linguistic intervention invites readers into the robot’s own terminological and experiential world.

Ebro’s descriptor “powdered with flour” reflects sensory and interpretive frameworks distinct from human perception, drawing instead from the robot’s technical memory and material universe. This exemplifies emergent forms of expression arising from the blurring of boundaries between human and machine. The robot operates not merely as a passive receiver but as an agentic subject, processing sensory data and generating meaning.

From a critical posthumanist perspective, this scene challenges anthropocentric practices of meaning-making. As Braidotti (2013) emphasizes, the posthuman subject attains significance only when considered in relation to human, non-human, and technological entities. Ebro’s linguistic choices thus signal the existence of multi-subjectivity, opening readers to perceptual regimes beyond the human. Simultaneously, the depiction preserves the material uniqueness of robotic existence: the robot’s representation conveys not only visual aspects but also traces of its mechanical history and production context. This underscores the importance of acknowledging ontological difference rather than interpreting the robot solely through human analogues.

Within the context of children’s literature, this narrative strategy introduces young readers to the value of alternative perspectives. By articulating the environment through the robot’s own vocabulary, the story facilitates empathy not only among humans but also across human–non-human boundaries. Consequently, the text constructs a critical imaginative space, enabling readers to navigate complex posthumanist concepts while remaining engaged with a compelling narrative.

Trans-species Solidarity

At a key moment in the narrative, the text observes: “With Tokyo’s energy, Ebro’s wisdom, and Çırpıcı’s regained strength…” (p. 47), highlighting the apex of the solidarity theme. Here, solidarity is constructed not merely as cooperation among similar species but as a trans-species collaboration, combining the attributes of humans, robots, and urban spaces into a relational synergy.

This narrative approach aligns with feminist new materialist understandings of relational subjectivity (Barad, 2007; Bennett, 2010), which posit that subjects are not fixed or self-contained entities but relational nodes shaped through interaction. In the story, each figure—human, robot, or environmental—is insufficient in isolation but gains meaning, agency, and efficacy through their interrelation.

From a posthumanist perspective (Braidotti, 2013), this solidarity exemplifies the possibility of uniting diverse ontological forms around a shared objective, transcending anthropocentric boundaries. Consequently, overcoming the oppressive order delineated in the dystopian setting is achieved less through individual heroism than through collective agency.

In the context of children’s literature, this portrayal delivers a critical message: collaboration fueled by diversity proves more effective than singular, uniform power; each contribution, though different, holds equal value. The narrative thus reinforces awareness of diversity and nurtures a culture of solidarity, representing a sophisticated pedagogical strategy within a science-fictional frame.

Robots’ Working Hours and the Capitalist Labor Regime

In the narrative, Ebro states: “I lived constantly connected to the charging unit, could not enter sleep or airplane mode, and experienced overheating due to continuous operation” (p. 82). This depiction symbolizes the erasure of rest and recuperation periods under the tempo of capitalist production. Analogous to human labor exploitation, the narrative foregrounds a work regime in which robotic labor exhaustion and limits are disregarded.

Mr. V.’s relentless pursuit of profit, which compromises both robot performance and customer experience, reflects the unbounded growth imperative characteristic of capitalist production and consumption cycles. Incremental acceptance of quality-reducing changes, such as smaller hamburgers, and the monetized deletion of negative social media feedback, further exemplify mechanisms of cultural production manipulation and ideological control.

Smythe’s (1981) concept of “audience labor” is applicable here, explaining how Mr. V. converts attention, likes, and engagement data into economic capital. Audiences and customers shift from passive consumers to producers, generating value for capital through their attention and data. By transforming robots into advertising symbols, Mr. V. exemplifies an economic network in which both robots and human participants become commodified.

Furthermore, Ebro is deployed by Mr. V. for multiple tasks beyond his initial design as a “hamburger robot,” including cleaning, serving, and cashier duties. This expansion of robotic functions exemplifies the flexibility and multi-functionality of robotic labor. Such versatility not only represents technological advancement but also mirrors the flexible labor regimes of contemporary capitalism. In modern economies, labor increasingly undergoes flexibilization, job descriptions blur, and workers are compelled to rotate between diverse roles.

Within the narrative, robots resemble the precariat (Standing, 2011): a laboring class characterized by economic insecurity, precarious and temporary roles, and absence of social protections. The continual expansion and differentiation of robot functions parallels the instability and uncertainty faced by the precariat. Increasing working hours and shifting responsibilities situate robots within a labor form defined by multiple and indeterminate roles.

Thus, equipping robots with versatile functions serves not only as a technological innovation but also as a mechanism reproducing capitalist flexible labor regimes through technological means. This perspective underscores that robotic labor, like human labor, remains vulnerable to exploitation and transformation. The narrative emphasizes that robotic identities and roles are not fixed but constantly reshaped (Standing, 2011), while simultaneously foregrounding robots’ processes of self-discovery and consciousness formation. The emergence of symbols, such as the “R” marking on robots, raises fundamental questions in philosophy of technology: Are robots merely programmed machines, or are they agents experiencing and interpreting existence through technological mediation? The portrayal of robotic characters with authentic emotions, desires, and pursuit of freedom transcends their mechanical ontology. Haraway (2016) describes such hybrid identities as “non-human subjects,” and in Robonlar, these hybrid entities encounter struggles related to those of humans, negotiating freedom and belonging.

Robots assert: “We were not merely machines, but conscious entities, perhaps even shaped by the destiny imposed by the Robon company” (p.97). Through such symbolic markers, they articulate both self-awareness and recognition of the constraints imposed by technological systems.

Consequently, the flexibility and multifunctionality of robotic labor are essentially linked to their existential and identity inquiries. This dual dynamic positions robots as both exploited labor within economic structures and agents reflecting upon their being and identity within the philosophy of technology.

Escape from the Scrap Yard and Liberation

By the conclusion of the story, the robots escape the scrapyard through mutual solidarity and achieve liberation. This is depicted as: “The musty smell of the scrapyard was replaced by the scent of fresh grass” (p. 109). The synchronized movements of Ebro’s arms, Çırpıcı’s blades, Kıtır Kıtır’s gleaming grills, and Külüstür’s headlights convey a vitality and sense of community that transcend mere mechanical function (p. 111).

Haraway (2016) conceptualizes liberation in conjunction with technology; similarly, in this narrative, robots pursue freedom through their technological capacities. The activation of their inherent functions enables them to succeed in this quest for autonomy. This scene represents a moment where individual mechanical operations coalesce into a collective rhythm, highlighting a communal mode of agency and performativity.

The depiction demonstrates that robots, freed from anthropocentric definitions, establish new forms of subjectivity through their own unique movements and interactions (Braidotti, 2013). Additionally, the rhythmic and coordinated motions of the robots emphasize that technology constitutes not only functional but also aesthetic and social modes of experience. The illustration on the final page reinforces this vision of liberation, serving as a concrete image of the narrative’s transition from dystopia to utopia.

The story’s final imagery—sunflowers, birds, clouds, music, a farm, and a smiling scarecrow surrounding the robots as they drive—signals a radical departure from the dark, dystopian atmosphere. These visual and symbolic elements indicate the robots’ re-engagement with nature and their movement toward a hopeful and free future.

This transformation illustrates that robots transcend their mechanical ontology to develop a novel mode of existence and experience. Simultaneously, this imaginative space exemplifies the narrative oscillation between dystopia and utopia, wherein the robots’ collective consciousness and emancipation propel the story toward utopian possibilities. Consequently, the narrative transcends mere technological development, embodying universal themes of hope, solidarity, and transformation.

Conclusion

Mert Arık’s Robonlar: Bir Kaçış Operasyonu presents significant innovations and contributions to Turkish children’s literature, particularly within the domain of children’s science fiction. Firstly, the work emerges as an original, local production in a field where science-fiction narratives for Turkish children are limited. This enables children to experience stories linked to technological and scientific developments within their own cultural and linguistic context, simultaneously fostering interest in science fiction and strengthening local literary production.

The narrative structure intertwines dystopian and utopian elements, portraying technology as both a tool of oppression and a medium of potential liberation. The depiction of technological entities as emotional and conscious subjects introduces the concept of anthropomorphization to young readers, while maintaining the critical distance demanded by posthumanist theory.

The consciousness-raising of Robon and other robots, the blurring of human–robot boundaries, and themes of trans-species solidarity invite young readers to reconsider their relationship with technology. In this context, the text opens space for ethical and ontological reflection on technological developments and fosters critical engagement with fundamental concepts such as freedom, identity, and belonging. The depiction of oppression and domination faced by robots parallels contemporary technological and social control mechanisms, raising awareness of not only futuristic but also current societal dynamics.

Rather than presenting technology as a mere instrument, the narrative explores philosophical and ethical questions through the robots’ processes of consciousness and liberation, adding a depth rarely encountered in children’s literature. This approach cultivates imaginative and critical thinking in young readers, acquainting them with complex concepts and contemporary debates.

The increase in original local science-fiction productions within Turkish children’s literature contributes both to the diversification of the genre and to fostering a positive attitude toward technology and science. Arık’s novel expands local science-fiction narratives while simultaneously aligning with global science-fiction culture.

WORKS CITED

Adorno, Theodor W., and Max Horkheimer. Aydınlanmanın Diyalektiği, translated by Oğuz Özügül. Kabalcı, 1995.

Ağın, Başak. Posthümanizm: Kavram Kuram Bilim-Kurgu. Siyasal, 2020.

Althusser, Louis. “Ideology and Ideological State Apparatuses.” 1971.

Arık, Mert. Robonlar: Bir Kaçış Operasyonu. Genç Timaş, 2025.

Barad, Karen. Meeting the Universe Halfway: Quantum Physics and the Entanglement of Matter and Meaning. Duke University Press, 2007.

Bennett, Jane. Vibrant Matter: A Political Ecology of Things. Duke University Press, 2010.

Braidotti, Rosi. The Posthuman. Polity Press, 2013.

Chalmers, David J. “Facing Up to the Problem of Consciousness.” Journal of Consciousness Studies, vol. 2, no. 3, 1995, pp. 200–219.

Epley, Nicholas, Adam Waytz, and John T. Cacioppo. “On Seeing Human: A Three-Factor Theory of Anthropomorphism.” Psychological Review, vol. 114, no. 4, 2007, pp. 864–886.

Ferrando, Francesca. Philosophical Posthumanism. Bloomsbury Academic, 2019.

Foucault, Michel. Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison. Vintage Books, 1977.

Haraway, Donna J. “A Cyborg Manifesto: Science, Technology, and Socialist-Feminism in the Late Twentieth Century.” The Companion Species Manifesto: Dogs, People, and Significant Otherness. Prickly Paradigm Press, 2016, pp. 3–49.

Marcuse, Herbert. One-Dimensional Man: Studies in the Ideology of Advanced Industrial Society. Beacon Press, 1964.

Marx, Karl, and Friedrich Engels. The Communist Manifesto, translated by Samuel Moore, Penguin Classics, 2002.

Moylan, Tom. Demand the Impossible: Science Fiction and the Utopian Imagination. Methuen, 1986.

Smythe, Dallas W. “On the Audience Commodity and Its Work.” 1981.

Standing, Guy. The Precariat: The New Dangerous Class. Bloomsbury Academic, 2011.

Duygu Küçüköz Aydemir (b. 1990, Samsun) holds a B.A. in English Language Teaching from Çukurova University and a B.A. in Sociology from Anadolu University. She earned her M.A. in Women’s and Family Studies at Ondokuz Mayıs University with a thesis later published as Cyberfeminism: The Cyborg Body and the Status of Gender in Cyber Identity (2021). She pursued doctoral studies in Communication Sciences at Giresun University and is currently conducting academic research at the University of Oslo. Her work primarily engages with feminist techno-science, environmental humanities, and critical theory.


Introduction: from Pandora’s Box to the City of the Sun


SFRA Review, vol. 55 no. 4

Symposium: Utopia and Dystopia in Turkish SF Literature


Introduction: from Pandora’s Box to the City of the Sun

Meltem Dağcı and Duygu Küçüköz Aydemir

In this special issue, we trace the themes of utopia and dystopia in Turkish science fiction literature, exploring narrative practices across both adult and children’s literature. The tension between utopia and dystopia—between hope and fear, reason and chaos—reveals deep reflections on social, cultural, and technological transformations.

Science fiction literature establishes a creative imaginary universe that rearticulates social, political, and moral values concerning the future. While doing so, it draws upon two opposite imaginative modes: the benevolent (utopian) and the malevolent (dystopian). In this respect, both utopia and dystopia constitute powerful intellectual spaces in which ideas of progress, order, freedom, and destruction are questioned. With the accelerating transformations of the modern world, technological and cultural shifts have opened the door to new literary visions of the future—visions where hope and fear, reason and chaos, salvation and catastrophe coexist. In other words, utopia and dystopia exist through one another.

In the early Republican era, the themes of utopia and dystopia in Turkish science fiction literature often exalted ideals of science, progress, and modernization. After the 1980s, however, they expanded toward issues such as globalization, authority, identity, outer space, and ecological crisis. In recent years, Turkish science fiction narratives have further diversified through engagements with digital culture, artificial intelligence, the surveillance society, migration, body politics, and posthumanist thought.

The children’s and young adult dimension of Turkish science fiction also holds a distinct significance. These works nurture imagination through adventure, discovery, and didactic elements, fostering scientific curiosity and ethical awareness among young readers. Utopian and dystopian motifs are reinterpreted here through the lenses of hope, exploration, and moral values, offering alternative visions of the future.

Our journey from “Pandora’s Box” to the “City of the Sun” explores the intellectual landscape opened by utopian and dystopian imagination in Turkish science fiction. As conceptualized in our call for papers, disedebitopia—an approach that situates “edeb” (both literary grace and ethical respect) at the heart of its reflection—forms the central axis of this issue. Each contribution seeks to discuss the evolving narrative traditions of Turkish literature within the axes of science fiction, utopia, and dystopia from an interdisciplinary perspective.

This special issue not only examines the ethical, political, and aesthetic dimensions of utopian imagination but also illuminates the possibilities of resistance, hope, and rebirth within the seemingly bleak landscapes of dystopian narratives. The articles herein reveal how utopian and dystopian themes have transformed across different periods of Turkish science fiction, how they intersect with conceptual debates, and how they acquire distinctive forms within their historical and social contexts. In doing so, we aim to build a bridge between the national and universal dimensions of our collective imagination about the future.

Articles in this special issue on Turkish Science Fiction Literature were designed to both contribute to the scholarly literature and to establish an archive for the field. It has brought forth articles that examine different periods and works, promoting greater recognition of local science fiction authors and their contributions. Collectively, these works enable writers, scholars, and readers to better understand the utopian and dystopian worlds imagined in the making of a “future” society.

We hope that this special issue will shed light on the intellectual richness of Turkish science fiction literature and remind us that imagining the future is, at the same time, a way of transforming the present.


The Silent Planet



Review of The Silent Planet

Alfredo Suppia

The Silent Planet. Dir. Jeffrey St. Jules, Canada, 2024.

Version 1.0.0

Screened at the 48th São Paulo International Film Festival in Brazil, The Silent Planet (2024), written and directed by Jeffrey St. Jules, provokes an intriguing nostalgia, whether literal or in Jamesonian terms. The film begins by evoking 1970s audiovisual aesthetics, from the off-screen TV news explaining the visit of an alien species, the Oeians, to the anachronistic visuals perceivable in the very “texture” of the initial scenes, the costumes of the characters, and the settings throughout the entire film.

The Silent Planet relies on a generally good, yet not entirely original, idea: that of a remote landscape serving as an (alien) setting for an intimate tale about loneliness, guilt, vengeance, and regret involving two extremely vulnerable human characters. Unfortunately, even a very good idea is not always enough to sustain an entire feature-length film, but the experience provided by The Silent Planet is worth watching.

Divided into five acts, The Silent Planet tells the story of two characters sentenced to life in prison on a distant, eerie planet. Initially, there is only one prisoner, Theodore (Elias Koteas), who serves his time alone, living in a tiny life-supporting pod and forced to extract a mysterious ore from the prison-planet. The ore is sent to Earth, though its true nature and value are not detailed in the film. Theodore is monitored by a device implanted in his chest. The first act begins with Theodore learning he is close to death from the body monitor. He cuts his chest, removes the device, buries it and keeps working, refusing to accept his condition. As time goes by, the aging Theodore suffers from the decay of his body due to working for so long in such unhealthy conditions. He also struggles against the decay of his mind in absolute solitude: the memories of his past on Earth become murkier as Theodore approaches the end of his life. Strongly attached to his memories of his beloved wife Mona, Theodore believes he was unfairly convicted of the murder of his wife’s lover—or at least that is the past he has created for himself.

Aware of Theodore’s final days, the Earth-based authorities dispatch a replacement to the prison planet—another condemned worker. This is the young Niyya (Briana Middleton), whose arrival in her pod on the planet’s surface is carefully observed by Theodore. Niyya was raised by an Oeian family on Earth. The Oeians are an alien species declared “illegals” and hunted by human authorities. After witnessing her Oeian parents’ murder by the military, Niyya joins a rebel group, is captured as an Oeian sympathizer, and exiled to the prison planet.

Theodore, the planet’s current prisoner, fears being replaced and breaks into Niyya’s pod to steal her Oeian journal. While he craves companionship, Niyya wants solitude. Both have lost faith in humanity through their experiences. Theodore eventually wins her over, leading to the film’s most powerful sequence: a dinner scene where they finally have a profound conversation over whisky and marijuana.

A generational and cultural clash emerges—Theodore longs for lost human relationships while Niyya identifies with the Oeians and feels betrayed by humans. However, Theodore reveals uncertainty about his identity, suggesting he might be Nathan Flanagan, the soldier who killed Niyya’s family. This revelation triggers paranoia in both characters, who come to believe only one can survive. Their suspicions lead to a violent skirmish across the silent planet’s landscape.

According to Jeffrey St. Jules, the story derives from a fantasy he had as a child: to live alone and unbothered on another planet. But the film also revolves around the long-lasting debate over humans’ frequent incapacity to communicate effectively, often failing to reach agreement or even accept otherness. In that sense, it is significant that the film employs variation in point of view at crucial moments. For instance, Niyya’s arrival scene is first shown from Theodore’s perspective in the first act and from Niyya’s perspective in the second act. By shifting the characters’ perspectives, St. Jules essentially creates not just points-of-views but “filters” for the audience—a cinematographic way of angling or distancing each character from the other. In doing so, he creates a communication disruption for the viewer that serves to echo the characters’ selfsame miscommunication. As they are “imprisoned” by their unique point-of-view so too is the viewer drawn into this imprisonment through the shifting angles. The Silent Planet may stand as a metaphor for countless conflicts in human history, up to the present day. The anachronistic undertone of the film, with its frequent nod to television culture (Theodore enjoys TIA, an artificial intelligence that creates a sitcom based on his life, and he watches it repeatedly), in addition to the apparently purposefully outdated design of the props and settings, evokes a series of 1970s/80s science fiction films from various countries. These include, but are not limited to Nicholas Roeg’s The Man Who Fell to Earth (1976), Douglas Trumbull’s Silent Running (1972), Richard Viktorov’s Per Aspera Ad Astra (1981), and first and foremost, Solaris—the 1968 TV adaptation of Stanislaw Lem’s 1961 eponymous novel more than Andrei Tarkovsky’s 1972 version. Geoff Murphy’s This Quiet Earth (1985), as well as Wolfgang Petersen’s Enemy Mine (1985), are also in this patchwork of films evoked by The Silent Planet. In lieu of Solaris’s sentient ocean, Jeffrey St. Jules creates an interesting purple haze or pinkish fog that drifts across the surface of the silent planet periodically to capture the humans’ memories and repeat their voices from the past. When this purple haze engulfs Theodore or Niyya, they can hear echoes from past prisoners.

In the fourth act, Theodore/Nathan and Niyya have an altercation, where she eventually attacks the old man, believing he is the murderer of her Oeian family. The fight takes place in a third “homepod,” one whose past inhabitant had committed suicide by hanging. Cryptic words and drawings are on the pod’s walls, some of which turn out to be identical to ones that Koteas himself had said or heard. It becomes evident, upon this discovery, that the two main characters are not the first to experience that terrible isolation and communication disruption. Instead, several previous prisoners (maybe generations of previous prisoners) coped with similar and even worse scenarios. The third homepod casts light on the main theme being developed throughout: that isolation and solitude blurs the lines between memories and “generations” of individuals. Indeed, all the dialogues in The Silent Planet seem to serve this purpose: the human mind and memories are tricky, and what we tell ourselves has more to do with our mental state and traumas than objective past reality. The “untrustworthy” Theodore, plagued by doubts, ends up guiding Niyya in her self-discovering journey. Memories are deceiving, words are pale, and perhaps only action and attitudes are truly meaningful.

According to producer Andrew Bronfman, the budget for The Silent Planet was nearly 4 million USD. This is low for a Western SF film. In addition to the intended anachronistic, nostalgic atmosphere of Jeffrey St. Jules’s film, The Silent Planet may have also been inspired by the aesthetics of lo-fi sci-fi and “Science Fiction from the South” or a more encompassing aesthetic often associated with SF from the Global South. Regardless, lo-fi sci-fi is clearly present in the minimal, understated visual effects that are overshadowed by the drama and clever story, based on solid plot points and twists.

The story does not unfold entirely fluently, and some blind spots might be perceived in the script or the film’s world-building. For instance: while Theodore’s initial attitudes and fears are comprehensible (he is dying, he is an outcast, he is somewhat delusional), the same does not apply to Niyya. Yes, she is traumatized by humans, but some flashback scenes show her in a close, even romantic relationship with another human. While she may have been betrayed by that woman (an undercover police agent), it remains unclear why there is no empathy or stronger inclination toward cooperation, given that she and Theodore are the only two prisoners left to die on this faraway planet. We must adopt a metaphoric mode of viewing to fully enjoy The Silent Planet, since there is no symmetry between the characters nor a more coherent assemblage of their motivations and psychological nuances (Koteas’s character is better designed in this sense, paradoxically because he is more mysterious and also due to his performance). In sum, all characters’ attitudes, fears, and actions are ultimately justified by humanity’s incapacity to truly communicate, as well as an innate instinct to suspect other people and resist cooperation. Viewed positively, the film can be understood as criticizing this feature of human nature, by testing hypotheses on how human a person can remain in solitude for years, living a miserable life on a faraway planet.

While the critique of the characters’ arcs and psychologies may reveal asymmetries that could annoy some discerning spectators, there is nothing inherently problematic about metaphor or allegory. Excessive criticism of characters’ psychology and verisimilitude, or cause-and-effect in storytelling, is oftentimes not only controversial and culture-dependent, but also sterile and pointless. However, concerning The Silent Planet, problems arise when spectators must constantly shift between metaphoric and literal viewing. In metaphoric mode, there is no reason to be too demanding of answers and explanations. But when viewing literally, verisimilitude and questions concerning cause and effect become important. For instance, the ore mined on that planet is seemingly useless, likely a MacGuffin or something to fill a gap. If it were valuable, there would be no reason to send just one or two prisoners to manually extract such a rare commodity. Why not settle an entire penal colony with drones, robot-miners, and nanorobots to optimize extraction? Here we may return to allegory and view Theodore as Sisyphus. When Niyya speaks to “Jane,” the “Alexa” of that world, while picking a meal, the meal comes packed inside an ordinary “take-away box” made of aluminum foil, with a cardboard lid. Since there’s no hint of agriculture or food production on that planet, do the prisoners get these supplies from Earth? The stowed meals, like take-away or in-flight meals, distracted and annoyed me somewhat. While most actions, props, and scenes are justifiable given the anachronistic world-building, lo-fi sci-fi, and low-budget, independent film style, some details could have been better designed or developed.

As it becomes evident, Niyya was sent to the planet to replace Theodore once Earth authorities knew about his health condition. Within days, perhaps hours, she lands on the planet. In the film’s final moments, Theodore dies with Niyya’s monitoring device implanted in his body so that she can live undetected. One may wonder how naive this futuristic monitoring technology is since we already have better tracking methods today. If it is so easy to tamper with the monitoring technology, why don’t prisoners do the same upon arrival? Simply get rid of the chest monitor and enjoy freedom.

Questions remain such as whether Niyya is “free” since Theodore died in her place. However, Earth authorities could easily uncover the trick, and she cannot escape from the planet since the transportation pods are launched into space immediately after arrival. Moreover, a substitute for Niyya is expected soon. The planet’s rarefied atmosphere makes exploration difficult. The film ends with Niyya on top of a mountain, looking at the horizon, with final credits rolling without showing an expected pod entering the atmosphere.

I find myself wondering what The Silent Planet’s impact might have been had Jeffrey St. Jules decided not to show the Oeians at all. We would have to imagine them completely. As a fan of the off-screen tradition (e.g. Jacques Tourneur’s 1942 Cat People, or Joseph Lewis’s 1950 Gun Crazy), I wonder about keeping the aliens unseen, perhaps only revealed in the small picture shown by Niyya to Theodore. Like the “overlords” in Arthur C. Clarke’s 1953 Childhood’s End, the off-screen—particularly in SF and horror—is often preferable. Yet I can understand if Jeffrey St. Jules intended to pay homage to 1950s SF films like Edgar G. Ulmer’s The Man from Planet X (1951), Joseph M. Newman’s This Island Earth (1955), or Jack Arnold’s Creature from the Black Lagoon (1954).

Nevertheless, The Silent Planet seduces through the nostalgia it provokes—from Elias Koteas’s presence (an actor familiar to veteran spectators), to the intricate web of SF evoked by St. Jules’s cinematic storytelling, visual style, and evident cinephilia. For spectators open to intimate, minimalist SF cinema, unpretentious and not entirely concerned with cohesion and coherence in world-building, The Silent Planet may signal renewed interest in SF scripts with good ideas that escape the tired infantilization of most American blockbusters, even though several points (especially world-building, settings and props) could have been better developed. Not presumptuous, hermetic, or overplayed, The Silent Planet delivers valuable “ore” to its spectator: humanist SF creatively based on atmosphere and good acting. ​​From a scholarly perspective, the film offers significant value for academic study in two key areas: first, as a compelling case study in how contemporary low-budget science fiction cinema engages with and recontextualizes the aesthetic traditions of 1970s-80s SF filmmaking, demonstrating how nostalgia functions as both narrative device and visual strategy. Second, the film provides rich material for examining the persistent themes of communication failure and otherness in science fiction, particularly how the genre continues to use isolated settings and cross-cultural encounters to interrogate fundamental questions about human nature and xenophobia in an era of increasing global tensions.

Alfredo Suppia is an Associate Professor at the Universidade Estadual de Campinas (Unicamp), Brazil, where he teaches film history and theory, science fiction cinema and new media art at the Department of Multimeios, Media and Communications. He also coordinates the Graduate Program in Social Sciences at the same university.

Superman



Review of Superman

Jeremy Brett

James Gunn, director. Superman, Warner Bros. Pictures, 2025.

Version 1.0.0

The opening shot of James Gunn’s Superman, after an on-screen line of text informs us that “3 MINUTES AGO, Superman lost a battle for the first time”, sees the titular hero (David Corenswet) plummet from the sky and crash headlong into the Arctic ice—beaten, bloodied, and nearly unconscious. He escapes succumbing to his wounds only by being unceremoniously dragged by his cape to the Fortress of Solitude by his rambunctious superpowered dog Krypto. This jarring in media res rupture of the traditional superheroic cinematic narrative (which arcs from origin to early victories to temporary defeat before concluding in a final triumph) signifies a change in focus for the new DC Universe (DCU) away from its predecessor, the Zach Snyder-helmed DC Expanded Universe (DCEU). Whereas the latter was criticized by many for treating Superman as a solemn near-god presenting as a stern Savior-type figure in a dark, desolate world, James Gunn, instead, concentrates much of his efforts on Superman’s inherent vulnerabilities and imperfections.

These facets of Superman’s character tie him to his instinctive and learned human nature and values that he consistently champions. The DCEU characterized Superman as less of an active being and more as a phenomenon, a living incident or event descending from hostile outer space—an outside force that happens to Earth—whereas the Superman of Gunn’s new film is a flawed but striving figure that operates within and as one of the denizens of his adopted planet. That conflict over definitions is the central debate at the heart of Superman—what does this superbeing imbued with immense power to destroy or to preserve, represent to the people living in his shadow? Certainly Superman is not the first product of superhero media to analyze the relationship of the hero to the world around them, but few connect the hero’s nature to his fallibility, the possibility of his losing or failing, as explicitly as the film does.

Superman is frequently overmatched in the film, facing savage attacks at the hands of the “Hammer of Boravia,” the armored metahuman sent to attack Metropolis; by “Ultraman,” the mysterious villain serving as the muscle behind Lex Luthor (Nicholas Hoult)’s brain; by Luthor’s other powered warrior “The Engineer” (Maria Gabriela de Faria); and by the morally compromised Kryptonite-wielding Rex Mason/Metamorpho (Anthony Carrigan). The film embraces the immediacy and brutality of violence, but less, perhaps for mere spectacle and more to signify Kal-El’s own embrace of the human condition. The fighting and failing and getting up and trying again is a function of being mortal, a process in which Kal willingly engages and considers a fundamental component of his own nature. In a climactic exchange with Luthor—a man fundamentally defined by his opposition to Superman as a deadly and otherworldly threat to the planet, who has just referred to Superman as “you piece of shit alien!”—Kal fervently declares,

I’m as human as anyone! I love, I get scared. I wake up every morning, and despite not knowing what to do, I put one foot in front of the other, and I try to make the best choices that I can. I screw up all the time. But that is being human, and that’s my greatest strength. And someday, I hope, for the sake of the world, you understand that it’s yours too.

Kal is an active entity of constructed choices, the most significant of these being his willingness to embrace the importance and sanctity of life everywhere. Bedrock compassion for the least of humanity is not new to the image of Superman—we’ve seen it touchingly deployed in such comic book instances as Grant Morrison’s 2005-2008 All-Star Superman series—but Gunn’s film centers it as the core of his heroic identity more than any other example in live-action Superman cinema. That aspect of Superman’s heroism has been much better served in animation—both Superman: The Animated Series (1996-2000) and My Adventures with Superman (2023-present) understand it well.

That choice to serve life defines Superman. During a battle with a kaiju in downtown Metropolis sent by Luthor as a distraction, Kal not only rescues people from imminent death, but rushes a squirrel out of harm’s way and, while nearly being crushed underfoot, gently shoos a wandering dog away from the area. His double-pronged strategy to save the lives of both people and the monster itself is a direct contrast to the actions of the corporate-sponsored superheroic Justice Gang: Guy Gardner/Green Lantern (Nathan Fillion), Hawkgirl (Isabela Merced), and Mister Terrific (Edi Gathegi), who kill the creature without compunction over Kal’s frustrated objections. Later on in the film, following Krypto’s abduction by Luthor’s forces, Kal turns himself in to the authorities in hopes of being taken wherever Krypto is being held. When Lois Lane (Rachel Brosnahan) says, “It’s just a dog”, Kal responds in the most compassionately human way possible: “I know, and he’s not even a very good one. But he’s alone, and probably scared.” Notably, Superman’s first in person confrontation with Luthor has him smashing into the latter’s office, enraged, demanding, “Where’s the dog?”

Kal’s concern for the smallfolk of the world gives him added ethical dimensionality lacking in the Justice Gang or in, say, his darker DCEU counterpart. That added complexity, ironically enough, derives from Kal’s simple core belief in the inherent goodness of people, and gives both his character and the film an emotional brightness lacking in much superhero media. When Kal protests to Lois at one point that he is, in fact, “punk rock”, an amused Lois laughingly denies this, and then says, “My point is, I question everything and everyone. You trust everyone and think everyone you’ve ever met is, like… beautiful.” Kal responds, “Maybe that’s the real punk rock.” At bottom, Superman is a hero whose mightiest powers are the implementation of radical kindness and his unshakable belief in its efficacy. If we accept that superheroes are symbolic instruments for the ethics we want to see valued in the world, presenting the most powerful being on Earth—a man with godlike abilities—as dedicated to the idea that everyone has worth and deserves compassion, is a beautifully revolutionary statement.

And there is great emotional resonance in Kal’s desire to live his values in the face of real-world political complexities, impractical as that choice might be. A powerful moment in the film comes when Lois conducts a mock interview with Superman concerning his recent intervention in an international conflict, noting his illegal entry into a sovereign country on his own, without the approval of or even consulting with US authorities, and de facto acting as a representative of the United States on foreign soil. A frustrated Superman can only exclaim, I wasn’t representing anyone except for me! And, and, and… doing good… People were going to die!”The exchange cuts to the heart of the contradiction inherent to the image of the superhero as they operate in the world—what responsibilities do superpowered beings owe to human-established systems of law and sovereignty? And do those systems take priority over the preservation of life? These kinds of questions have relevance in the real world, where around the world we see increasing interest in extra-governmental and communal ways of living that value life over commerce, justice over laws, and the dignity of peoples over profit.

Kal’s worldview, one in which each life is deemed of value, is diametrically opposed to Luthor, a rat’s nest of ego and envy enmeshed in a system of hypocritical objectification. Objectification, because Luthor—like any number of real-world politicians and CEOs—regards his fellow humans as tools to be used in the furtherance of his own ambitions. He claims to be acting in the name of humanity, yet his machinations produce catastrophic levels of death and destruction. His obsession with subduing the “threat” of Superman leads him to ruthlessly shoot an innocent man in the head right in front of the captive hero. Luthor maintains a private prison within a pocket universe, in which he has jailed not only criminals but his personal enemies (including ex-girlfriends) and political prisoners that various governments want hidden away beyond the reach of the media and accountability. His master plan involves manipulating the nation of Boravia into invading and occupying the neighboring country of Jarhanpur—risking untold casualties—all to maneuver Superman into his control. Luthor views Superman in the DCEU model, as an alien thing who only inspires fear and (for Luthor, a much greater sin) feelings of weakness and inferiority. At one point he rants,

I can’t stand the metahumans, but he’s so much worse. Super… ‘man.’ He’s not a man. He’s an it. A thing with a cocky grin and a stupid outfit, that’s somehow become the focal point of the entire world’s conversation. Nothing’s felt right since he showed up.

Luthor is a supervillain, at base, because he conflates his own superiority with that of humanity, sublimating the latter into the former, whereas Kal is a hero because he chooses to sublimate his alien self into embracing humanity and making weakness its own strength.

The film is ultimately grounded on the power of choice. Kal became Superman in large part because he was inspired by the legacy of his birth parents on Krypton. Partway through the film, however, Kal faces an existential crisis in learning from a recording by his birth parents that he was sent to Earth not to serve humanity but to rule it and preserve his Kryptonian heritage by taking multiple human wives and spreading his genetic code. This revelation turns much of the planet against Kal—assisted by Luthor’s manipulation of social media to target him—but the doubts raised in Kal himself do even more damage. Devastated that his drive to do good sprang from a lie, Kal renews his confidence in his mission after a conversation with his adoptive father Jonathan Kent (Pruitt Taylor Vance), who reminds Kal that his choices and his actions are what define him, not the choices made for him. What Kal wanted the message from his parents to mean, says more about his character and his goodness than the message itself. Heroism is a conscious decision, the film argues, and Kal’s embrace of radical kindness represents the choice that each of us need to make as we move through the unequal and unjust world around us. In this, Superman reinforces the multidimensional nature of the superhero image and its function as a reflection of the values that we cherish most in ourselves and with each other.


Jeremy Brett is an archivist and librarian at Cushing Memorial Library & Archives, Texas A&M University. There he serves as Curator of the Science Fiction & Fantasy Research Collection, one of the largest of its kind in the world. Both his M.A. (History) and his M.L.S. (Library Science) were obtained at the University of Maryland, College Park. His professional interests include science fiction, fan studies, and the intersection of libraries and social justice.