Maia Jaliashvili
Dialogue of Silence and Memory:
Gradations of the Father-Son Relationship (on Deniz Utlu's novel "You Will
Never Be Alone, Father")
Introduction
Georgian and world literature are characterized by numerous works that portray the contradictory relationship between a father and son, a multilayered theme presented in various forms. Among these, we must consider the novel "You Will Never Be Alone, Father" by the contemporary German-speaking Turkish writer, Deniz Utlu, in which autobiographical facts and events are enriched by the author's imagination and artistically transformed. In this novel, the father-son relationship is not defined solely by material time and space; it also encompasses a metaphysical dimension. This relationship gains even greater significance and value after the father's death. The father's unceasing voice in the novel becomes the main driver of the protagonist's memory and his moral compass. This voice reveals the values he passed on to his son to guide his life path and define his identity. The novel was translated by the excellent and experienced translator, Maia Peter-Mirianashvili, who gave it new life within the Georgian literary space. This novel won the European Union Prize for Literature in 2024.
The Father's Voice: A Determinant of Identity
The novel presents not only the intimate stories of a father and son, which reflect the bittersweet history of a family, but also universal themes explored within this context: the essence of memory, identity, cultural heritage, and others. The father's "voice" (or presence) is central for the narrator, who is the author's alter ego, in establishing his identity. This voice is deeply and powerfully etched in his childhood and follows him like a shadow throughout his life. The novel is built on the memories of the deceased father. The narrator recounts his father’s stories and, at the same time, shows how he himself grows and develops as a person. He seems to dive into a "sea of memories and imaginations," and can no longer distinguish which father is real: the one brought to life from memories or the imagined one? "It feels more like a dream, like talking underwater, when the rivers of memory and imagination flow into a single sea" (Utlu, 2025, p. 158). In one episode, he tells his mother that he wants to live a life full of dangers and obstacles, like his father, so that he will have "stories to tell" later. This shows that the father is the impetus for the writer to exist and share his own experiences with others, the readers. It is also worth considering that he liked how impressively his father told stories: "For my father, there was no clear boundary between his childhood and the language of fairy tales. Memories and stories told came from the same world" (Utlu, 2025, p. 45). The author also notes that he inherited the gift of narration from his father. He was thirteen years old when his father suffered a stroke and became bedridden. This event shook the teenage boy and made him start thinking about topics he had never considered before. When he went to visit his father, he felt that his father was telling him with his eyes that he loved him and would never leave him alone.
The thought of death, eternity, and other existential questions were born in the protagonist's consciousness. In his memory, the actually experienced and the imagined became intertwined: "I have summoned my father's story so often within me that it is no longer his: it is now difficult to find the difference between the core of the story that was actually experienced and what was added during the time of remembering and narrating… Perhaps this is precisely the infinity of memory, and of narration" (Utlu, 2025, p. 157). In this stream of memories, the father’s image also became loaded with symbolic meanings. At times, the boundary between him and his father seemed to dissolve; they even seemed to change their earthly "roles" in such a way that he imagined his father as a son: "The person I imagine is more like a son and not the other way around" (Utlu, 2025, p. 157). The "search" for his father became a path to self-knowledge and an understanding of the world. "I am already the person I became after my father's stroke" (Utlu, 2025, p. 10). The life journey of his father became an example that a person should never give up, but fight and get back on their feet after every fall. His father traveled a difficult road: he came from Turkey to Germany and became an immigrant. He searches for his father not only in the past but also in eternity, and on this path, the metaphysical world, with its inexplicable "regularities," actively intrudes into his consciousness. In one episode, the protagonist wonders what makes a forest more special: its leaves or the space between the leaves? He then concludes: "There is emptiness between the leaves, but in this non-existence, there is something unique about the outline. We were the leaves, my father was the emptiness between the leaves. Most people only perceive the leaves and not the space between them" (Utlu, 2025, p. 131). In these lines, a deep philosophical idea is poetically conveyed. The leaves are everything that is on the surface, that is visible, that moves, that makes noise (words, actions, visible relationships, individuals). The emptiness between the leaves, on the other hand, is an unseen and non-existent but defining space that truly creates form, symmetry, depth, and breath. This question also makes the reader think: Is our being defined only by what we have and what we do, or also by what we do not have, what we could not say, what we have lost? This is why this complex and melancholic phrase, "We were the leaves, my father—the emptiness between the leaves," does not devalue the father's absence. On the contrary, it gives value to this very absence as a link between the visible and the invisible. The father gives the possibility of "movement" (of thought) (for without space, the leaves cannot rustle); this prompts the protagonist to understand his own distinctiveness (each leaf is, after all, unique); this space both limits and, at the same time, frees him. The father is like a ghost from which you cannot escape. This might remind us of the relationship between Hamlet and his father's ghost. This novel is from beginning to end a kind of journey toward "deciphering the form of non-existence." The father's silence, his emotional inaccessibility, is the source of the son's pain, but at the same time, it is precisely in this absence that the power of his hidden influence lies.
Deniz Utlu echoes both Western and Eastern philosophical perspectives when he portrays the father not as an active figure but as the invisible space in which the son acquires his "form." The deceased father coexists with him through books, music, pain, and love. From the author's point of view, it is the spiritual, invisible world that makes us the people we are. This may also remind us of James Joyce's short story "The Dead," which shows the influence of a deceased lover on a young woman. The father's "absence" becomes the strongest support for the protagonist's existence, because neither the father nor the son will ever be alone (as stated in the title); they are "one."
The writer also echoes the viewpoint of Lao-Tzu in the "Tao Te Ching": "A vessel is made of clay, but the essence of the vessel is created by the emptiness it holds"; "The greatest fullness seems empty, but its action is inexhaustible" (Lao-Tzu, 1983, p. 110). This implies the eternal dialogue between being and non-being, visible and invisible, matter and form, which reveals not only human relationships but also the essence of life, love, memory, and existence. This kind of thought on the mystical father-son relationship also reminds us of Grigol Robakidze's "The Snake's Skin," in which Archibald Mekesh searches for his father and, on this path, delves into the essence of the phenomenon of fatherhood. For example, he thinks: "Father and son together in one another. Father: 'One.' Son: Father and at the same time 'Other.' Father: The inner backbone of the universe. Son: Standing aside. Deviation. Father: Necessity. Son: Freedom. The first: Judge and curser. The second: Attacker and prodigal. Everywhere: in the stone and in the plant. And in this clash: the being of the universe. And in all fathers: the common father. The Nameless" (Robakidze, 1991, p. 31).
In the protagonist’s life, his father can no longer participate or speak due to his illness, but precisely through this silent, invisible existence, he still has a great influence on the son, who thinks about everything he experienced with his father. His told stories, advice, prohibitions, and permissions take on a new meaning. The protagonist often wears his father's clothes, as if he wants to get into his skin in this way, trying to perceive the world through his eyes, soul, and heart. At the same time, he also wants to separate from his father to highlight his own individualism. This desire to simultaneously be like his father and different from him also reflects the main principle of the eternity of life, according to which the development of the universe is spiral.
Deniz Utlu's novel portrays a living relationship between a son and his deceased father. The father is also a symbol of the Freudian superego for him, because he dictates the rules of behavior and the son always feels his gaze. In the novel, the father is presented not only as a biological parent but also as a determinant of his linguistic, cultural, and religious identity. The Turkish language is their mother tongue, Arabic is his father's mother's, his grandmother's, language, and German has become the language of their life and social relationships. The French language was also added, which his father loved and encouraged his son to learn. "But French remained a foreign language for me, despite the fact that it somehow touched my heart, as if my father's voice also sounded in this language..." (Utlu, 2025, p. 46). Here, language is presented as a kind of "prism of memory" in which the father's lost voice is heard again, as if the father's unfinished phrase continues in the son. In the novel, the issue of language is explored not only in a cultural context but also in the context of identity. For the author, Arabic, Turkish, German, and French perform different functions at different stages. For example, the French language is perceived as the father's "audible shadow"; "Albert Camus's voice resembled my father's." Albert Camus is the protagonist's favorite writer. In general, French literature is his main spiritual sustenance. This linguistic diversity creates a polyphonic resonance of the father's voice. "For ten years, when my father could only speak with his eyes and not his mouth, I only spoke to him in Turkish... I think that during the years of loneliness, my father did not speak at all, and if he did, it was probably only in German. This was also the language of his loneliness..." (Utlu, 2025, p. 5). The son first connects with his father through "languages" and then through silence. This silence is passed on to the son as a "traumatic inheritance," and at the same time, as a space for the search for identity. The father's image, the movement of his eyes, helps the son to think about his origin, his lineage, his ancestors, his historical memory, and his grandmother's Arabic language. This silent relationship connects the son with his own roots. The father tries to convince the son of the value of his own language and culture, but he himself finds it difficult to remain loyal, as if he does not fully "belong" to any one language. "Even if you manage to follow your parents' religion in some way, your children will no longer do so... Here, in Germany, the chain connecting us to our culture is already being broken" (Utlu, 2025, p. 4).
The narrator’s final identity is not connected to any specific language—not Turkish, German, Arabic, or French. He is seemingly at the intersection of languages, at a crossroads. This is how the "linguistic" backbone of the author's "self" is created, which becomes the support of his spiritual wholeness. "For my father, Turkish was, to some extent, the same as German was for me, and Turkish was to me what Arabic was to him—a language that connected us to his mother, different from the language in which we lived our lives and sought our 'self'" (Utlu, 2025, p. 5). This important phrase shows that the search for identity is endless, and it leads us both to our father and to ourselves along the way.
The Father's Voice as a Moral Compass
The father is a moral authority for him and the source of his ethical views. Since childhood, the father instilled values in him, sometimes strictly and sometimes leniently, which at times seemed contradictory, but for the son they were like an unwritten law. The father’s voice resembled a "court" that judged, exposed, and taught him how to live. This voice also resembled the voice of God. Once, while preaching respect for bread, he also told him that bread is God and that the idea of God "transcends human imagination." He then raised his hands and drew a circle in the air, an incomplete one, because a part of his index finger was missing: "God is energy, power. He is in everyone and everything" (Utlu, 2025, p. 74).
The narrator's name is Yunus, which means dolphin. That is why he has the feeling that he is "carrying the sea." His father loved poetry and also wanted to give him the middle name Emre. Yunus Emre was a medieval Turkish-speaking Sufi mystic poet. His father loved "foreign names, unpronounceable letters." In this way, the father seems to "dictate" to him not to lose his closeness to poetry.
During his lifetime, his father
talked to his son about morals, religion, courage, education, music, and a
thousand other things. He was an authority for his son. In one episode, when
the father notices fear in his son, he says to him: "What a disappointing
person you are, cowardly, helpless... There is not even a trace of heroism in
you, you are far from being a man. Are you even my son?..." (Utlu, 2025,
p. 12). Here, the father associates "manliness" with courage and the
ability to make decisions. The father's goal is to make his son a
"man." This, in turn, must be achieved by solving numerous dilemmas
(moral, social, etc.). These words remain in the son's mind and later, during
self-reflection, are heard again loudly or in a whisper in his consciousness.
The father's voice, then his silence, and finally only his remembered image
create the narrator's "inheritance" that he keeps alive in his mind
his entire life. That is why he considers, judges, and evaluates every step he
takes through the prism of dignity. Sometimes it is a heavy burden, because he
is constantly accompanied by a feeling of guilt, but he can no longer imagine
living otherwise.
The father advises his son on the necessity of knowledge and education, teaching him that effort always has value: "This is something that accompanies a person their entire life... Imagine music as a companion, a second half... like a language, like a friend" (Utlu, 2025, p. 7). In this way, the father imparts a work ethic. He makes the boy realize that talent is not a luxury but a responsibility. Here, the father's voice connects labor with a moral purpose. After the father's stroke, a significant turning point occurs in the boy's life: at first, when the father's voice disappears, he seems to become morally weaker. Now the boy himself has to find his moral compass, but the ethical frameworks established by the father still remain, as the father continues to talk to him with his eyes. Later, the moral voice was replaced by silence, and the feeling of responsibility grew even more. The novel often contains the father's advice, like maxims and exhortations, which sometimes have an ironic or sentimental tone. For example: "Music is a friend," "He who does not know the value of a penny is not worthy of a dollar," "If you want, you can become a millionaire," "Truth continues to exist even when it is erased." The latter is a deeply philosophical idea and primarily means that man is not the measure of truth. It exists independently of him. Its "erasure" is only an illusion. Man does not create truth but only discovers it, and if he "erases" it, forgets it, or denies it for some personal reason, he only covers it with a temporary veil. When the sun sets, it does not disappear, but is temporarily hidden. It is the same with truth.
The father's image becomes the
voice of the son's conscience, which is not only a judge but also a moral
supporter in difficult life situations. As soon as the father loses the ability
to speak, the bridge between them is no longer audible; it is transformed into
a "language of silence." "For ten years, when my father could
only speak with his eyes and not his mouth, I only spoke to him in
Turkish..." (Utlu, 2025, p. 191). The linguistic silence is replaced by
gestures and facial expressions (e.g., blinking, etc.). In the novel, the
father's voice is personified and appears in fragments: in the form of
individual advice, phrases, words, and emotions. Despite the fact that the
father has been sick for a long time and cannot speak physically, his voice
continues to exist: "My father could no longer speak, but a whole language
lived in his eyes." The boy would read the Quran aloud to his father from
time to time. In this way, he seems to be in search of a deep spiritual
connection with him. He even tells his father about his girlfriend:
"Standing by the bed, I told my father about my girlfriend. He opened and
closed his eyes" (Utlu, 2025, p. 137).
The Concept of Water in the Novel
The narrator, like his father,
loves water and has felt a bond with it since childhood. He seems to be drawn
to it by a primordial instinct. Water is his "spiritual homeland,"
where he feels secure: "I liked the connection with water: my lungs were
dormant gills. I felt at home in the water... there the boundary between inner
and outer silence, between me and the world, disappeared" (Utlu, 2025, p.
8). In this fragment, water is a means of crossing "inner
boundaries." The desire to merge with water psychoanalytically implies a
return to the origin, symbolically, to the mother's womb, where there is not
yet a distinction between the self and the world. For the narrator, learning to
swim is a kind of "initiation ritual," as he seems to be growing and
transforming. All this is preceded by fear, pain, and defeat, and
finally—achievement, gaining self-confidence and self-assurance. The swimming
instructor says to him: "You have already learned everything... now the
main thing is to overcome yourself." Overcoming oneself is a key issue
throughout the novel. Learning to swim was followed by the protagonist’s
"coming of age." "Both of them were excellent swimmers. Now—I
was too... My father and I were not afraid to swim far" (Utlu, 2025, p.
66). Swimming together in the open sea contrasts with other family scenes in
which the father appears dominant or alienated. When swimming, they seemed to
be on equal terms. When the narrator swims from the Maiden's Tower to the
shore, it implies a path to freedom. "That summer... we swam together in
the open sea... I can only remember which summer it was thanks to that
song" (Utlu, 2025, p. 18). Here, the sea is a sanctuary of time, just like
the "Madeleine cake" in Marcel Proust. The past comes alive through
sensations. In this way, water is presented as a transcendental space, as an
allegory of the connection between memory and time.
In the final episode of the
novel, the writer also portrays the sea. The father has the son make a window
in the sand castle. Symbolically, this means that a person should not be locked
in their own shell and must have at least a window so as not to lose contact
with society and life. "The world is full of life," Zeki's face
radiates with a smile like the sun. "'He who has touched the earth for at
least one moment remains here forever,' thinks Zeki, and breathes deeply, as if
he wants to suck the whole world into his body. 'Life tastes like the
sea!'" (Utlu, 2025, p. 190).
The Search for Traces of the Past in Objects and Photographs
In the novel, objects (for example, a watch, a guitar) are shown as a link to the father, which the writer uses to stage an emotional dialogue between the father and son. Despite the family's financial difficulties, the father bought his son his dream guitar. For the protagonist, the childhood gift becomes a path to his father in adulthood. The same goes for the watch left by his father. These objects seem to have become carriers of audio-visual resonance. For example, in the silence, the ticking of the watch reminds him of the rhythm of his father's breathing. His father convinced him that, regardless of his religious affiliation, he had a pure heart and that the angels would help him when he crossed the hair-thin bridge to the afterlife. This hope accompanies the ticking of the watch years later. An old, familiar object acquires a new function, restoring a spiritual connection with the one who is physically lost.
In the novel, a powerful means of restoring memory is photographs, which create a kind of "intimate archive." The photographs sometimes emerge in the novel and bring the scent of a passed, vanished time, accompanied by nostalgia. The narrator restores the past with the help of his parents' memories, sometimes photographs also help him, but he cannot read the thoughts of the father captured in the photo. A photo is a closed door, behind which you can catch a glimpse of the past but not fully perceive it. A photo freezes time, takes away its breath, which is why looking at photos is melancholic. A photo presents the father's external appearance, not his inner world. Accordingly, it is difficult to determine the source of the smile on his face: freedom, fear, disappointment, or love. "I was looking at a photo of my father with another person. There was some kind of closeness between them. But I could not say what kind of friendship, brotherhood, or love it was" (Utlu, 2025, p. 71). A photo does not provide definite answers, it only hints at them. Therefore, what is main and essential will always remain inaccessible and hidden. A photo captures a past moment that is no longer and can never be repeated. The father's photos are an indirect way of clarifying identity, because the narrator asks the father's face in the photo what he himself is concerned about and what will help him understand his own identity. The photos are not only the key to the father's past but also a means of understanding his own self. He looks for external similarities and differences with his father. The narrator worries that the photo cannot convey what the father felt when it was taken? Why did he take it? Who was the author of the photo? What is most painful: what did he not get to say to his son? There was a smile in the photo, but it did not explain whether it was sincere or masking something. Only a trace of that "something" was visible in the photo. The son tries to name this "something," but the photo, with its stopped time and silent voices, never gives us permission to "read" it completely. The photo is the silence of memory and the love of that silence. Photographs attract the viewer precisely because they do not fully reveal the secret they hold forever. A photo, although it cannot tell everything, reveals enough to warm the heart when you look at it. A photo depicts an absence that is a mysterious presence. In this way, photographs are excerpts of time that confirm the father's physical existence but cannot explain his spiritual life; the son tries to penetrate the past with these photos, but the longer he looks, the more he realizes that much will remain unseen and uncomprehended. Despite this, photos in the novel are still an important attempt to restore the past.
The principle of associative narration is used in the novel. In this way, the writer wants to draw a map of the protagonist's life, not only its physical but also its metaphysical time. The narrator does not tell the story from the past to the present, nor the other way around; rather, the past and present intersect and complement each other. The protagonist does not remember exactly whether some events of his life happened after his father's stroke or before, which is why the time of the narrative does not coincide with real time. This is a remembered time, which proceeds with emotion and sensations and does not coincide with a temporal calendar.
The narrator often dwells on
details that seem insignificant chronologically but determine the protagonist's
inner changes. For example, it might be a picture, a glance, a song, the sound
of a guitar, or colored pencils. These details float up from the past and
intrude into the present, or vice versa, the present is illuminated by an old
scene from the past. In the novel, the segments of time are not linked by cause
and effect, but by emotional associations: the melody of a song, sunlight, a
wave of water, the sound of a guitar, and others. For the author, what is
important is not when a particular event happened, but what change it caused in
the person. What influence did this memory have? The somewhat circular
structure of the narrative creates the feeling that the memory is not just
being brought to life, but is being rewritten each time. The father never says
"I love you" directly, but the narrator still reads this love. He
seems to perceive the unspoken, just as Lao-Tzu saw "form in emptiness."
By connecting these fragmented pieces of time, the protagonist grows personally
and finds spiritual peace. The reader seems to look through an open window into
the narrator's heart, into his inner world.
The epigraph of the novel is particularly noteworthy—a phrase from Antoine de Saint-Exupéry's "The Little Prince": "It took me a long time to understand where he came from in this desert." This makes the reader think about the father's past and his life philosophy. This phrase begins a search that defines the entire narrative structure of Utlu's novel. The desert is a symbol with multiple meanings and primarily refers to life. It is also the space of the father's loneliness, alienation, and silence. Just as Saint-Exupéry's pilot could not understand where the little prince came from, the narrator cannot fully grasp how his father filled his soul, heart, and mind. "Where did he come from in this desert" is also the main question of identity, which is followed by a trail of other questions: Who is he, what kind of man is my father? What path did he travel to reach me? What did he bring from his desert to my desert? What did he bring from the past, from Turkey, from his childhood? Throughout the novel, Deniz Utlu's narrator tries to connect his father's unknown past with the fragments of life that he himself has experienced. The epigraph is a spiritual map turned into a question, which is gradually colored and defined during the reading process, but is not completely solved. This epigraph also expresses the experience of migration and cultural duality, as well as the hope that we can at least partially grasp the twists of fate of our loved ones and the essence of our attachment and love for them. We may not be able to fully answer the questions raised by the epigraph and other key phrases of the novel, but the main thing is the stream of thoughts that arises when reading the novel and prompts us to delve into objects and events.
The writer writes that he often
remembers the characters of the novel as if they were real acquaintances and
can no longer feel the difference between a memory of a book character and a
real person. In his opinion, the last page of a book is like the last hour of a
person's life. "However, you can read the book again and meet its
characters, but a real person remains only in memories." As for his
father, he fears that he will no longer be able to remember anything and that
after finishing the last page, his father will finally leave him: "Is the
moment approaching when, by reading this book of memories, my fatherlessness
will become complete... How many times or in what form can I summon memories
within me?" (Utlu, 2025, p. 157). This is an unanswered question.
The attempt to deeply study and
understand his relationship with his father makes the protagonist think about
his relationship with his mother. When reading Sartre's novel "The
Words," he pays special attention to the phrase that reflects his own
experience: "After his father's death, Sartre did not have to obey anyone.
Besides, he was freed from doubts, from aggression, his mother now belonged
only to him" (Utlu, 2025, p. 144). Here we can also see a reflection of
the Freudian "Oedipus complex."
Just like the narrator, his father also met many people on his life path who left their mark on his soul and memories. One such person is a young Georgian sailor, Fehmi, with whom Zeki (the father) became friends while on a ship. Fehmi played the panduri and sang heart-wrenchingly. Fehmi became a sharer and empathizer of his sad stories.
Literary fiction also helps the protagonist in clarifying his own and his father's identity. For example, the Count of Monte Cristo (with Dumas's "locked-in syndrome") reminds him of his father: "The Count of Monte Cristo was an outcast. His love and youth were unjustly taken away. He was left alone, went on a journey, and now returned to take revenge on society" (Utlu, 2025, p. 171). The protagonist’s life was enriched and diversified by books (including Max Frisch's "Stiller," Antoine de Saint-Exupéry's "The Little Prince," Jean-Paul Sartre's "The Words," Franz Kafka's "The Metamorphosis," Albert Camus' "The Stranger," Paul Celan's poems, and others). The literary works reflect the pain that comes with inner transformation, self-knowledge, and the search for a justification for existence.
The novel raises many thoughts
and questions, the answers to which can be found at different stages of life.
Life is a labyrinth, and to not get lost in it, our loved ones help us with
their visible and invisible guidance. With this novel, the son creates a world
in which the father's voice, full of pain, nostalgia, and love, resonates as an
eternal echo.
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References
Lao-Tzu. (1983). Tao Te Ching.
(Leri Alimonaki, Trans.). Sabchota Sakartvelo Publishing.
Robakidze, Gr. (1991). The
Snake's Skin. Merani Publishing.
Utlu, D. (2025). You Will Never
Be Alone, Father. (Maia Peter-Mirianashvili, Trans.). Ibisi Publishing.
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Maia Jaliashvili
The Dialogue of Silence and
Memory: Gradations of the Father-Son Relationship (on Deniz Utlu's novel
"You Will Never Be Alone, Father")
Abstract
This paper offers a close
literary analysis of Deniz Utlu’s novel "You Will Never Be Alone, Father“,
exploring the complex relationship between a son and his dying father through
themes of silence, memory, identity, and inheritance. The narrative is shaped
by a fragmented structure that mirrors the son’s inner search for meaning and
belonging. The father, mostly silent and emotionally distant, becomes a central
figure through absence rather than presence — a presence that lingers in
photographs, gestures, and incomplete stories. Drawing on philosophical
reflections and literary intertexts, including works by Antoine de
Saint-Exupéry, Max Frisch, Franz Kafka, and Paul Celan, the paper examines how
literature and language help the narrator articulate the inarticulable. Water,
swimming, and the sea function as metaphors for transformation and
self-knowledge, while photography serves as a silent archive of unknowable
pasts. The essay ultimately argues that the novel’s power lies in its capacity
to portray intimacy through quietness and rupture, and in its insistence that
identity is shaped not only by what is said, but by what remains unsaid.
Keywords: Deniz Utlu; Memory;
Identity; Literary Inheritance
