Social history, unlike political history, examines various aspects of life and culture from a bottom-up perspective—how governmental regulations affect people’s lives and behaviors. It delves into the processes and outcomes of human actions to provide a more complete picture of a period, beyond the achievements of political or intellectual history.
Orhan Pamuk, a Turkish writer, portrays a part of Istanbul’s history by writing the historical novel “The Museum of Innocence,” set in Istanbul, and by collecting objects related to fictional characters and events in the novel, establishing a personal museum in a building in Istanbul. He sees the philosophy behind setting up a museum as overcoming the linear course of time. In his novel, in accordance with Aristotle’s theory, he views time as having two aspects: the timeline (which ends in death) and the present time. According to Pamuk, this timeline connects all objects and moments, but contemplating this temporal course is very painful because it leads towards death. Yet sometimes these moments we call “now” can bring such joy and pleasure that it lasts for a century. The author considers collecting objects related to his lover as preserving these present moments. He believes objects have a soul that preserves and conveys the historical essence of the moment forever. For me, my hometown of Zanjan was akin to Pamuk’s character “Fusun,” his lover, which inspired me to try and document the existing artifacts by collecting objects related to each story and arranging them as a visual record.
This personal interest stemmed from the absence of written sources about cultures, rituals, and stories, and the fear of losing the customs and traditions of a period when my grandparents and parents lived. This led to the collection of stories, events, and the lives of the people of Zanjan from the 1920s to the 1950s, aiming to document a part of Zanjan’s social history.
Human sensory perceptions are one of the most important components in social history studies. The necessity of documenting Zanjan’s social history compelled me to attempt documenting the existing artifacts by collecting objects related to each story and arranging them visually. The result was an exhibition combining photography, literature, and arrangement, allowing viewers to touch, smell, taste the objects in the photos, and listen to the stories they represent.
Aba
She was truly a collection of contradictions. She kept an old tea tray with a photo of the Pahlavi family printed on it on her mantle, alongside an election poster of Mohammad Khatami, the last president she had seen in person. When we asked out of curiosity about this contradiction, she would reply, “When Farah came to Zanjan, everyone was standing in front of the Bimeh Hotel to see her. I fell in love with her turquoise earrings.” Regarding Khatami, she believed, “He’s very handsome and has a professor’s beard!” No matter how much we explained, she wouldn't be convinced. Just as she didn’t see a distinction between the two contrasting photos. Another contradiction was that, despite being a lonely woman, she was friends with many families, visited their homes, and had a broad social circle. She loved everyone dearly but had a sharp tongue. Every misfortune she suffered was due to this sharp tongue. She herself recounted how her mother used to say in her childhood that her words were like a snake’s bite, stinging everyone. When her suitor from Mashhad proposed, she held a wedding and immediately had a child. Her husband, who hadn’t completed his military service, was forced to serve. She believed that her husband had hidden his lack of military service before marriage, but everyone knew that due to her temperament, her in-laws took her only daughter away whenever they could, eventually leading to her divorce. After this incident, she, being a tasteful woman, worked as a cook in the Zolfaqari family’s house, one of the prominent families in Zanjan. It seems she lost her job there too by offending others. When my grandmother’s first child was born, despite warnings from others, she took the newborn out into the winter cold of 1934, and the baby caught pneumonia and died. This incident led to my grandfather hiring her as a nanny for my mother and to manage household affairs. Being a strong and self-made woman, she soon took control of the household and became indispensable, so much so that she hardly allowed my grandmother to hold my mother. This love and attachment grew to the point where, after a few years, when my grandmother had matured and became weary of her interference, they had a confrontation. My grandmother called my grandfather and demanded he choose between her and her nanny. After that, she got a job at the Bimeh Hotel through my grandfather and eventually retired from there. She, who loved my mother dearly, reconciled with my grandmother after a few years and was allowed to visit their home and occasionally take my mother to the hotel for lunch and bring her back. Years passed, and she retired from the hotel. It seems her real daughter visited her once during these years, but she didn't welcome her warmly. Throughout all these years, she visited my grandfather’s house weekly as a guest and, after my mother’s marriage, came to our house monthly. She always complained about why her daughter hadn’t sought her out all these years and referred to my mother as her real daughter. But because of her sharp tongue, this excessive affection for my mother would quickly turn into backbiting, and as soon as my mother entered the kitchen, she would tell my father, “I don’t know who this girl takes after; she’s so tasteless and incompetent!” She rented a small room in an old house in the traditional neighborhood of Zanjan known as Yedi Borukh (Seven Turns). She received a small social security pension but would spend much of it on treats for the neighborhood children before reaching home from the bank. She always wished to go to Mecca, and whenever she saw the Kaaba on TV, tears would stream down her face. She waited in line for years for her turn to go to Mecca, but since the wait was long, my grandfather encouraged her to sell her Mecca voucher and use the money to visit Syria and Karbala. She had left her VHS tape of her Karbala trip at our house, and every time she visited, we had to watch it. During her trip to Syria, she was so worried about missing the bus that she didn’t eat anything, and she carried the bedspread she had bought as a souvenir for my mother in her arms throughout the journey to Zanjan, lest it get damaged in the luggage compartment. Her affection didn’t stop there; 90% of the photos on her mantle beside the Pahlavi family and Mohammad Khatami were of my mother. Despite having many friends and constantly being a guest at various families’ houses, and occasionally being visited by others, she feared becoming bedridden and worried that no one would take care of her. Every year when we visited her at New Year’s, she would say, “I won’t see the end of this year.” One day, the phone rang, and my grandfather informed us that she had a stroke and died instantly. My mother handled all the funeral arrangements. After her death, my grandfather tried hard to find her daughter. After several months of persistent efforts, he succeeded in bringing her daughter to Zanjan. Her daughter, who had also aged, came to my grandfather’s house. For us, the resemblance was astonishing; it was as if we had found her again. The only difference was that her daughter was Persian. She took her mother’s belongings except for the photos on the mantle, and we haven’t heard from her since.