[Xmca-l] Re: Best possible theoretical approach on learning from life experiences

[Ulvi İçil]

"Not books or
word-of-mouth propaganda or my social condition brought me where I am".

*Perezhivanie* is a Russian word, usually translated as “a lived
experience,” and used in connection with “social situation of development
in ( http://www.ethicalpolitics.org/seminars/perezhivanie.htm )

In one, "social condition", and in the other "social situation" makes me
think that the experience of seeing Anatolia (its poverty, human condition).

Please note the possible reason why he refers to his social condition: His
family is from Ottoman aristocracy.
So he is detached from that social condition and entered into another
aspect of social reality, a social reality which in class society not such
individuals from upper classes encounter with.

Thus, this life experience of Nazim Hikmet (to meet Anatolia) is not the
result of his social condition but rather his rupture of this very social
condition he was born into.







On 4 November 2017 at 13:41, Ulvi İçil <ulvi.icil@gmail.com> wrote:

> Dear all,
>
> For a study on Turkish poet, also a painter and playwright, Nazim Hikmet,
> whom learning seems to be heavily determined from life experiences at each
> stage of his life,
> I am looking for a best theoretical approach in general on learning from
> life experiences, then more specifically for such great poets, painters and
> play writers.
> Just to give a closer idea, please look at the section below from his
> novel, Life's good, brother.
>
> I appreciate highly any idea, proposal on such a theoretical approach.
>
> Thank you.
>
> Ulvi
>
> I sat down at the table in the Hôtel de France in Batum. A table with
> carved legs—not just the legs but the whole gilded oval table was covered
> with intricate carvings. Rococo . . . In the seaside house in Üsküdar, a
> rococo
> table sits in the guestroom. Ro-co-co . . . The journey I made from the
> Black
> Sea coast to Ankara, then from there to Bolu, the thirty-five-day,
> thirty-fiveyear
> journey on foot to the town where I taught school—in short, to make a
> long story short, the encounter of a pasha’s descendant—more precisely, a
> grandson—with Anatolia now rests on the rococo table in the Hôtel de
> France in Batum, spread out over the table like a tattered, dirty,
> blood-stained
> block-print cloth. I look, and I want to cry. I look, and my blood rushes
> to my
> head in rage. I look, and I’m ashamed again. Of the house by the sea in
> Üsküdar. Decide, son, I say to myself, decide. The decision was made: death
> before turning back. Wait, don’t rush, son. Let’s put the questions on this
> table, right next to Anatolia here. What can you sacrifice for this cause?
> What
> can you give? Everything. Everything I have. Your freedom? Yes! How
> many years can you rot in prison for this cause? All my life, if necessary!
> Yes, but you like women, fine dining, nice clothes. You can’t wait to
> travel,
> to see Europe, Asia, America, Africa. If you just leave Anatolia here on
> this
> rococo table in Batum and go from Tbilisi to Kars and back to Ankara from
> there, in five or six years you’ll be a senator, a minister—women, wining
> and
> dining, art, the whole world. No! If necessary, I can spend my whole life
> in
> prison. Okay, but what about getting hanged, killed, or drowned like
> Mustafa
> Suphi and his friends if I become a Communist—didn’t you ask yourself
> these questions in Batum? I did. I asked myself, Are you afraid of being
> killed? I’m not afraid, I said. Just like that, without thinking? No. I
> first knew
> I was afraid, then I knew I wasn’t. Okay, are you ready to be disabled,
> crippled, or made deaf for this cause? I asked. And TB, heart disease,
> blindness? Blindness? Blindness . . . Wait a minute—I hadn’t thought about
> going blind for this cause. I got up. I shut my eyes tight and walked
> around
> the room. Feeling the furniture with my hands, I walked around the room in
> the darkness of my closed eyes. Twice I stumbled, but I didn’t open my
> eyes.
> Then I stopped at the table. I opened my eyes. Yes, I can accept blindness.
> Maybe I was a bit childish, a little comical. But this is the truth. Not
> books or
> word-of-mouth propaganda or my social condition brought me where I am.
> Anatolia brought me where I am. The Anatolia I had seen only on the
> surface, from the outside. My heart brought me where I am. That’s how it
> is .
>