For those readers familiar with author Louis de Bernieres' successful novel, "Corelli's Mandolin," his latest work of fiction, "Birds Without Wings," appears at first glance to chart the same familiar territory.
"Mandolin," published in 1994, presented us with a community in the throes of World War II and explored the near futility of individual relationships in a world where the country you served was of more importance than the person you were. The young love between the Greek girl Pelagia and her Italian mandolin -playing Romeo Corelli was doomed from the start. Rarely does love remain unscathed in novels of war.
In "Birds Without Wings," de Bernieres' story revolves around the same themes, albeit with a different community and a different war. The community is that of Eskibace, a coastal village in the Ottoman Empire of both Muslims and Orthodox Christians. Perhaps what makes this community so special (and some would argue unbelievable in these cynical, contemporary times) is that the two cultures live in relative harmony.
While there are no doubt small punctuated instances of conflict, this pre-WWI community lives in relative peace. It is a peace best exemplified in the relationship between the community's two religious leaders, Abdulhamid Hodja, the imam, and Father Kristoforos, the priest. As de Bernieres writes: "the two men had for many years enjoyed greeting each other as Infidel Efendi," the one in Turkish and the other in Greek, and had struck up a cordial relationship based on mutual respect, somewhat tempered by an awareness that there were many of both faiths who would look askance at such a friendship. They visited each other's houses only when it was dark, and were much inclined to waste entire nights in long and occasionally heated theological discussions that always ended with one or the other of them saying: "Well, after all, we are both peoples of the Book."
Of course, any alert reader of war-novels knows that such peace and harmony are not going to last for more than 100 pages. And soon enough this microcosm of religious and cultural tolerance is ripped asunder with the onslaught of World War I.
But de Bernieres is quick to point out that it is always the children who suffer worst in these situations. The lifelong friendship between two village children, the Muslim Karatavuk and the Christian Mehmetcik, is all but lost once the former is recruited into the Turkish army and the latter forced into work detail. Friendships are destroyed, childhood loves are lost and lives everywhere, regardless of religion or culture, are ruined.
Yet what sets "Birds Without Wings" apart from its predecessor is that the real threat is not just war but the ideas of imperialism and nationalism. As we read about the blooming children of Eskibace, so too are we privy to the history of Mustafa Kemal Ataturk. In alternating chapters we witness his rise to power in the Ottoman Empire and his role in the foundation of a modern, secular Turkey. His dream is one suffused with nationalism, the idea of a Turkish state within secure borders, with the accretions of empire permanently removed. Amid the cries of "Greece for the Greeks" (Jews and Turks out) and "Bulgaria for the Bulgarians" (Jews and Turks out) it is hardly surprising that sooner or later someone will begin to say "Turkey for the Turks?"
And if there is anywhere de Bernieres excels in this novel, it is with his descriptions of the horrors of both war and countries consumed by nationalist desires. As the Ottoman Empire dies and a secular Turkey arises at the expense of countless lives on both sides of the equation, he gives us rotting battlefields suffused with the buzzing and stinging of flies, nightmarish exoduses from homes and families, murders and executions. Toward the end of the novel, the harmony we were presented with in the beginning seems irrevocably lost. And again, a familiarity with de Bernieres' literature clues us in that not all is lost forever. But the damage, as they say, is done.
Though the scattershot perspectives can be overwhelming at times, they aid in creating a sense of community and interconnectedness that is part and parcel of any anti-nationalist text. But de Bernieres is a storyteller first and foremost, and the tales he weaves allow for some memorable episodes and some amazing writing.
The best of this involves the rant of a dying Greek during the famous hazing of the port at Smyrna. As George P. Theodorou sinks into the murky depths he observes: "Not far off I can see someone else sinking to the bottom, but her skirts have floated up around her face, and I wonder if she is concerned about dying in a state of immodesty." It is a disturbing episode, yet it retains the humor and grand emotion one expects from a talented storyteller.
Perhaps a good blurb on the back jacket of this novel would have been Rodney King's famous lament: "Why can't we all just get along?" Despite how promising that idea seems, "Birds Without Wings" argues that in an era of nationalist pride, we cannot "just get along." We can interact, sure, but eventually the time comes when we have to say our goodbyes and march, however unwillingly, back to our own camps.
Zak Sahil can be reached at bookmarks@cavalierdaily.com
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