YOL - The Road to Exile. The Book. E-Book

Edi Hubschmid

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Serie: Yol-the book
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 190

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

How, from prison, Yilmaz Güney wrote and oversaw the shooting of his film YOL. How he arranged his escape to Switzerland and was crowned with the Palme d'Or in Cannes 1982. In this detailed and richly illustrated book, Edi Hubschmid tells a story that is exciting as it is daring. It is also a drama. For years, the Turkish government had condemned the Kurdish Turk Yilmaz Güney, the popular actor, screenwriter and director, for being a Marxist. In 1974, after a shooting incident in a café, Güney was arrested. In 1976, he was sentenced to 19 years in prison. Güney's film YOL was a critique of repressive Turkey of the day - a society enslaved by the yoke of honor and revenge. And today still, YOL remains a relevant critique of the Turkish state, exacerbated by the president's dictorial policies and the increasingly brutal repression of the Kurds. In a book as gripping as a thriller, Edi Hubschmid describes how events unfolded with the production of YOL, Güney's successful escape from prison, his exile in Switzerland, and the completion of the film in France in secret locations. Turkey had requested Interpol issue an international arrest warrant, and Güney remained in France, where he was well hidden by the Swiss. When YOL premiered in May at the Cannes Festival, the film received the Palme d'Or jointly with Missing by Costa-Gavras.

Leseprobe

YOL [in Turkish] means:

The Journey

The Road

The Route

The Way Out

The Passageway

The Answer

The shaded (hatched) area shows the area inhabited by Kurds, regardless of political boundaries

Table of Contents

Foreword

Preface

Departure and Arrival

Yılmaz Güney – Career to 1979

YOL – Production

Escape From Turkey

YOL – Post-Production

Cannes Film Festival

Epilogue

Credits

Background Information

A Short Filmography of Yılmaz Güney

Press Book for YOL May 1982

Notes on YOL by Yılmaz Güney

Excerpts from aconversation with Yılmaz Güney

Index

Photo Credits

Glossary

Foreword

Xavier Koller

I never met Yılmaz Güney in person. My first encounter with him was on the screen, with SÜRÜ. Its powerful images stayed with me. That’s a strong, intelligent mind at work, I thought at the time. Cactus Film released the film in theaters in Switzerland. Later, when I learned that the author of the film, Yılmaz Güney, was in prison, that Zeki Ökten had shot the film under Güney’s directions from jail, my interest in Güney himself was truly awakened. Who was this man? How was producing, and controlling, such a strong film possible from captivity? How did he create the conditions to make it possible? Where did this Güney come from? What was his past? What crime had put him in jail for 19 years? Who were his associates, the creative collaborators he entrusted with making the film? There was so much I could not know because it was impossible to find anything published in German.

Then came YOL. Shot by Şerif Gören. Edited later by Güney. This film impressed me even more than SÜRÜ! After YOL won Cannes, more information came out about Güney. It emerged that, exactly as depicted in YOL, he had used the sacrificial Feast of Bayram, when prisoners were allowed to visit their families for a few days, to make his own escape from prison. Absolutely brilliant!

In this detailed and impressive book, Edi Hubschmid tells the story of Güney’s personal Yol (journey) into exile. He shows us the creative calculations Güney had to make, the creative power he had to endure the punishment inflicted on him. How he used his film YOL strategically (my own assessment) to secure a life outside prison. His early death after DUVAR (THE WALL) makes me think that he must have decided it was better to die free than perish in captivity.

In 1989, during preparations for my film JOURNEY OF HOPE , Edi Hubschmid gave us the names of people to contact in Istanbul. Edi himself could not yet travel to Turkey, because YOL was still banned there. Among others, we met Serif Gören, Tuncay Akça, and, especially, Necmettin Çobanoglu, who later starred in my own film. I had discovered him by watching and re-watching YOL for possible cast members. Serif told me that Necmettin had been on YOL primarily as a production manager, not an actor, but when the actor intended for the role did not show up for filming, he had asked Necmettin to play the part. A stroke of good fortune for me, as it turned out.

Serif, Feride Çiçekoglu and I stayed in a hotel in Alanya for a few days – a hotel designed by Feride’s husband, Zafer, who was an architect. We discussed my film treatment and worked on the structure of the possible script. Since I was not familiar with Turkish culture, I asked Serif to shoot the sequences set in Turkey, while I took care of the rest in Italy and Switzerland. He agreed.

I kept pestering Serif with questions about Güney, but he was always very reticent. Just before we started shooting, I found out why. Serif was frustrated and angry with Güney because he had not shown much appreciation of Serif and his work on YOL, and had taken all the credit for himself. The result of this was that Serif made me this ultimatum: “Either I do the whole movie, or I’m out. I don’t want the same thing to happen to me again!”

Now I was in real trouble, both morally and legally. The production was financed based on my treatment and on being director. That is why, unfortunately, Serif left the film and I had to abandon my ideal plan of working together with him. Having no other choice I shot the film in a language I didn’t understand. And, regrettably, Serif did not share in the unexpected success of JOURNEY OF HOPE.

As it turned out, years after his death, Yılmaz Güney had a huge impact on my work and my life.

From left to right: Alfi Sinniger, Xavier Koller, Peter Christian Fueter, Dustin Hoffman.

Still from YOL: Mail is distributed to prisoners.

Preface

Edi Hubschmid, March 2017

In 1980 and 1981, I was a young film producer and travelled often to Turkey. We were in co-production with Güney Film in Istanbul and in contact with the Turkish film scene, especially with Yılmaz Güney, who was in prison in Isparta at the time. Güney had developed a sophisticated system for making films from prison with SÜRÜ (1978) and DÜSMAN (1979). From the outset of the YOL project, we had planned to cooperate very closely. When the film was finished, it was put on the Turkish ‘Index’ and banned for eleven years. As a result, it suddenly became inadvisable for me to travel back to Turkey.

Our then young company, Cactus Film AG, was a cooperative created in 1979 after splitting from the Zürich Film Collective. At the time, we were uncompromisingly committed to films by auteurs.

Even though, as a Swiss company, we were naturally interested in making films about Switzerland, we were also trying to work across language and national boundaries and broaden our scope. We were part of the left-wing film scene of the time and therefore our main interest was in political film auteurs who were working on socially relevant topics. We intentionally looked for this kind of cultural exchange. The solidarity created in the process corresponded to our credo in terms of content.

My motives for compiling the following notes, photographs and documents in this photo narrative are threefold:

To offer my own personal memories of an extraordinary artist who, with his irrepressible creative power and courageous attitude, made a great impression on me. In 2017, Yılmaz would have been eighty years old. That he left us so soon still distresses me.

To show Yılmaz Güney’s creative potential and how he was able to make movies from prison. I have also tried to take a look behind the scenes of film production and to explore what the prison walls of exile represent.

To relate my encounter with Güney as it really happened. All sorts of myths have been created around his life, especially in Turkey. The story dates back 32 years but has lost none of its relevance. Güney not only expressed himself through his films, but also in his writings and speeches. His 10-page article in the press book for Yol (see page 214) is still current and explosive.

I can only talk about the events I lived through (1979–1984). I have archive boxes full of various documents and photos. I also have my diaries from 1981 and 1982 and have used them to check my memory. My knowledge of what happened after 1984 is only fragmentary. There are additional documents, photos, and videos on the website www.yol-the-book.com. Some of these date back to that time and shed light on some special, production-related aspects (they are very incomplete); at the same time, they beg the question of what happened after that.

There are no books on Güney available in German. The only publication is the script for SÜRÜ (1980). There is an abundance of material in Turkish. I am familiar with the most important of these publications and have had them translated in part. Since Güney is a mythic figure in Turkey, what is written about him is error-prone and interpretive – people write about Güney’s work and activities from hearsay rather than fact. I would refer readers interested in this Kurdish filmmaker and his work (beyond the scope of this book) to the large amount of material on the Web.

My hope is that Güney Film in Istanbul will be able to preserve the technical integrity of his films and archive them to ensure that they endure as befits this great artist. Film negatives must be preserved, and DVDs, preferably with digitally restored versions (including various subtitled versions), should again be made available.

The production of YOL took place when there were no mobile phones or computers as we know them today. We did not always have a camera with us and so we made relatively few recordings of our own. Nevertheless I have chosen to use a picture-book format, using what I see as symbolic images. In principle, the production of a film is always carried out in the same way. Filmmakers from a wide variety of languages and cultures are able to work together without any problem so long as there is both common craft and a guide for carrying out this craft – the script – in a language that everyone can understand. This is usually English. But it can also work without words, with body language. For example, Güney and Swiss editor Elizabeth Waelchli often communicated merely with gestures: a small tap on the shoulder, a meaningful look, or the like, were enough for them to understand each other.

A wide variety of films have been made all over the world, under very different circumstances and influencing factors. A film is a bit like a tomato: you can’t tell how and where it has been cultivated just by looking at it. But when you eat the tomato, you know whether it has been grown hydroponically or in the sun on the vine. A film is the same. People do not watch films to find out how they were created.

Like many other people, I find that the current situation on this earth sometimes seems so chaotic, unjust and brutal that it is difficult to hope for a better future. For example, recent developments in Turkey are extremely worrying. It seems as if we are going back to the 1980s. For us, the now retired ’68ers, we seem to be waking up back then. It was on September 12, 1980, that the military replaced the Prime Minister and installed an extremely repressive dictatorship. Today, once again, prisons are overflowing. In Turkey, anyone free and harmless can be arrested if they express any criticism. Repression is such that Turkish consulates and embassies are keeping track of everything, of what is said or written about the country.

It is not uncommon for a charge to originate from the ‘Man in Ankara with the thousand rooms.’ In Turkey now, there appears to be something akin to a thought crime. You can be arrested and not know how many charges have been filed against you. The way the government is being run from Ak Saray (the ‘White House’), there is a danger that the Turkish population will be sanded down, like sandstone, and disintegrate into hostile groups.

I sit here in my comfortable apartment in Zürich, in this beautiful and orderly Switzerland. A country that radiates peace and quiet, but daily struggles to make direct democracy truly live. Moreover, my country is still seeking its place in Europe and can neither decide for or against.

Many Swiss people of my generation believe in the cliché of Switzerland’s pure white cloak, in the myths of William Tell and the Rütli Oath. The fictitious act of Switzerland’s founding into a state in 1291 is nothing but dusty legend, which at best serves the purposes of tourist advertising. The right-wing conservative circles in Switzerland continue to harp on about this mythical, transfigured state. They deliberately ignore that today’s Switzerland was only founded with its first constitution in 1848, moving from a confederation of states to a federal state. In 2006, those same conservative elites went to Turkey to celebrate the anniversary of the establishment of the Civil Code, copied from Swiss legislation (ZGB). At the celebration in Ankara, then Federal Councilor Christoph Blocher forgot to ask whether these laws were being applied in Turkey today.

Frankly, I am ashamed that Switzerland has missed so many opportunities since the end of the war in 1945. Its arrogance prevents the country from freely and emphatically taking clear positions. It is only when outside pressure builds that Switzerland is forced to accept and admit misconduct, and then change its laws. The analysis of historians only came with the Bergier Report, published in 2002. Among others, the following topics were covered: the Nazi gold scandal, dormant assets, banking secrecy, the platform and hub for organized crime, tax evasion, refugee and asylum policy, the ‘boat is full’ mentality, arms exports.

In the 1970s and 1980s many Swiss filmmakers were “fouling the nest.” For example, DIE ERSCHIESSUNG DES LANDESVERRÄTERS ERNST S. (THE RESOLUTION OF THE COUNTRY REPRESENTATIVE ERNST S.) by Richard Dindo or DAS BOOT IST VOLL (THE BOAT IS FULL) by Markus Imhoof spoke the unsayable, which often led to parliamentary attempts to reduce the funds available for financing films. In Zürich, for example, the government councilor Alfred Gilgen, head of the education department (1971–1995), often refused to award the Zürich Film Prize to a particular film. As a result, filmmakers would collect money so that they could give the non-awarded filmmaker a consolation prize.

I mention these events in Switzerland because I wonder how long it will take for Turkey to come to terms with the past when that process begins – something which, in light of the current political situation, does not even seem possible right now.

It was impossible to get a grant from the Swiss Film Commission for filming Yol because even back then there was no co-production agreement between Turkey and Switzerland. And we were disappointed, but not at all surprised, when it became clear that a request for asylum in Switzerland for Güney and his family had no chance of success. We therefore had to leave my country as soon as possible.

I am aware that there are many people around the world who are exposed to violence. Many people have had Güney’s bitter experience. And, unfortunately, such evil continues in any number of hot spots around the world. This book is dedicated to all victims of oppression and exclusion, and I hope will serve as a reminder and a memorial. Yılmaz Güney would have agreed.

As I have said, this book recounts events from 1980 to 1984. In a second volume, I will write a sequel, What Happened Next? – The People, The Companies and The Film Yol.

Departure and Arrival

October 1981

Yılmaz Güney and Edi Hubschmid.

On the morning of October 14, 1981, Yılmaz Güney and I waited at a departure gate at Athens airport. The Air France plane was ready and we boarded, keeping our inner turmoil in check. Destination Paris.

We took our seats, and immediately immersed ourselves in the magazines provided. We only said a few words to each other. What enormous relief we felt being shoved back against the seat as the plane took off. There was no turning back now...

At almost the same time, Fatoş Güney and her son Yılmaz Jr. stood at passport control at Istanbul airport. Kerim Puldi had just driven them to the airport. Fatoş was clearly flustered. She had three first-class tickets to Zürich in her handbag – for herself, her son and her stepdaughter, Elif. But Elif had not been at the meeting place where they had arranged to pick her up before going on to the airport.

Time was running out and Fatoş was getting increasingly agitated. When the final call for the Swissair flight to Zürich came and Elif had still not shown up, Fatoş handed Elif’s ticket and all the Turkish money she had left to Kerim and told him to make sure that the girl followed them to Zürich as soon as possible. Then she turned and, holding Yılmaz Jr. by the hand, disappeared through passport control.

In Zürich, Fatoş and Yılmaz Jr. were given a warm welcome by Donat Keusch and Nihat Behram. The question of Elif’s whereabouts was brought up on the way to Donat’s apartment and discussed in detail: Nihat had already heard from Kerim in Istanbul, who had phoned to say that Elif was planning to take the next plane to Zürich. Apparently, her birth mother had not signed her exit visa, but this particular hurdle had now been cleared and her flight confirmed.

However, there was still no relief for Fatoş even once they arrived at the apartment of Donat and his partner, Eliane Stutterheim. It was not only Elif’s well-being that concerned her, but also that of her husband, Yılmaz, who was on his way to Paris. She immediately called Marie-Christine Malbert to find out whether Yılmaz had arrived safely, but all she heard at the other end of the line was a voice on an answering machine.

Yılmaz and I were sitting in a taxi on our way into Paris from Charles de Gaulle. We were heading to 3, rue de l’Agent Bailly, to Marie-Christine’s apartment. When we arrived, she was not home. So we took the key from under the doormat, despite the doormat having the perfectly sensible inscription: “The key to the apartment is not under this mat.”

As soon as I got into the apartment, I called Zürich. When Eliane picked up, I immediately handed the phone over to Yılmaz so he could talk to Fatoş. They spoke to each other in Turkish. We all felt great relief that everything had gone well. We agreed with Nihat that we would meet in Marseilles the following day. Only then did I go to a nearby market for food.

The next day

we were

all together

in front

of Marseilles

police headquarters:

Yılmaz and Fatoş, Nihat and I. Yılmaz asked Nihat, who had travelled from Zürich to Marseilles with Fatoş, for the passport photos. But Nihat did not have any with him. We first had to go to a photography studio to have them done. Only then could we go into the police station.

I went in ahead and showed a business card to the policeman at the reception desk, whereupon a civilian official was immediately summoned and led the Güney family into an office. Nihat waited outside while I was called in as interpreter. Although I do not speak Turkish, I was able to communicate with Yılmaz and Fatoş in rudimentary English and could translate this into French for the policeman. An hour later, we were outside the police station. The Güney family had the necessary French cartes de séjour (residency cards)! We all felt as if we were in a dream… and then slowly we realized what it all meant: Yılmaz was free and reunited with his family... But soon he was to be in a new kind of prison again. Was I going to have to act as his ‘jailer’ from now on?

Fatoş and Nihat flew back to Zürich that same day, while Yılmaz and I took the train. Going through passport control at Zürich airport with Yılmaz and his (fake) Swiss identity card seemed too risky – a judgment that later turned out to be right. We decided instead to cross the Swiss border inconspicuously in Geneva as regular tourists and meet up later at Donat and Eliane’s apartment in Zürich.

On the long train ride we had enough time to collect ourselves, sleep a little, eat a little, and go back over the last few days. We each remembered slightly different details and had been struck by things the other hadn’t noticed.

Not only had Yılmaz and I met under special circumstances a year earlier, but we also came from very different backgrounds. Moreover, I was ten years younger and therefore extremely captivated and impressed by his wealth of experience. Yılmaz was a very pleasant conversation partner. He spoke calmly and deliberately. Our shared basic English sometimes made us laugh. Often a simple gesture helped when we could not think of the right words.

In appearance, Yılmaz was of delicate build and elegant. He did not put on airs or make a fuss. His personality impressed me.

Yılmaz Güney

But our story began much earlier – in Turkey... in a prison. Although I had not even been around at the beginning...

Yılmaz Güney — Career to 1979

Once upon a time...

There was a famous actor in Turkey…

Yılmaz Güney (pictured below with his mother) was born Yılmaz Pütün on April 1, 1937, in a village near Adana in southern Turkey. His Kurdish parents met in Adana and started out their lives as simple farmers. Yılmaz had many fond memories of his childhood. His mother was a wonderful storyteller and in the evenings, after work, she would tell the whole family long, exciting tales. Those evenings were so special that half the neighborhood would come to their parlor and listen. His father played a musical instrument and Kurdish songs were sung. When Yılmaz’s father, at 35, became administrator and right hand man to a landowner, Yılmaz soon realized that there were two classes of people in his village.

When he was 14, Yılmaz left his home and his village to go to high school in Adana. He planned to become a writer, but after graduating from high school he studied law and economics at the universities of Ankara and Istanbul. After two years he dropped out without a degree: there was no room there for the Marxist ideas he had embraced.

Yılmaz Güney