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.
Baji-Gonilar
The clerical robes were an inheritance from his father. My father, who had once been a religious scholar, worked as a lawyer and owned a grand house with a greenhouse in the courtyard. When Reza Shah ordered the removal of traditional clerical clothing, my father was only too willing to trade his robes and turban for civilian clothes. My father had two wives: Qasim’s mother, his first wife, and my mother, his second. The two were co-wives, but they shared a bond as deep as sisters, peacefully coexisting under one roof. I was my mother’s only child, but Qasim had several siblings. He and I were the same age, and we were inseparable playmates, our days filled with the lively games of our neighborhood. Our favorite was ‘Shongal,’ a game of spinning wooden tops. Qasim was a champion of Shongal, unmatched in our neighborhood. With the other kids, we’d launch our wooden tops with long cloth-tipped whips my mother made for us, betting on who could keep their top spinning the longest. And Qasim’s top never failed to outlast the others, earning us a few coins with each game. With our winnings, we’d go buy tart plums, savoring the victory. Another game we loved was ‘Hilkan,’ where I skillfully rolled a bicycle tire up the Ferdowsi hill, guiding it with a stick all the way around Sabzeh Square and back without letting it fall. We’d play Hilkan for hours, honing our skills, each of us trying to outdo the other. One hot summer afternoon, Qasim and I were too restless to nap, so we slipped outside to play. The plan was to race each other around Sabzeh Square and back home. The winner would be the 'officer,' and the loser would be the 'thief.' I got a head start and was well ahead until I turned onto Ferdowsi Street and crashed into another boy on a broken bicycle. By the time I untangled myself and got back on my feet, Qasim had already kicked open the wooden door at home, laughing triumphantly. My mother, hearing our laughter, came out from the pool yard, bringing us two cups of cold sekanjabin syrup. She wiped the dust off my pants, dabbed the sweat from Qasim’s forehead, and reminded us to help her empty the pool once we’d rested. We sat by the pool and sipped the cool syrup. Then, as the 'thief,' I followed Qasim into the living room. We sneaked into the reception room, where the hunting rifle lay on the wall’s upper shelf, waiting for autumn hunts when our father and his friends would take it to the hills. Qasim gave me a boost, and I reached up to grab the rifle. Then we dashed into the yard, my heart pounding with the thrill of our game. Qasim, as the 'officer,' draped the rifle over his shoulder, marching around the yard. I hid behind a tree, and he spotted me right away. “Stop there, you scoundrel!” he shouted, chasing me as I darted out from my hiding place. We laughed and chased each other across the courtyard. Just as we closed the gap, I heard the crack of the gunfire. Qasim's legs buckled, and he collapsed onto his knees. Qasim’s mother, hearing the shot, ran out of the house. She threw her arms around him as my mother stood frozen, her water pot slipping from her hands. She turned to me, her face pale, and whispered fiercely, “No one will lay a hand on this child.” As darkness fell, I shivered, lost somewhere between feeling near and far. Am I here? Or somewhere else? I’m here, but am I not here? I am… or am I not? Note: Baghi Gouni-ler is a term rooted in tradition and storytelling; Gounaq typically refers to a central guest room, often a place for gatherings and important family moments.