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Haunting Stones: Sounds, Places, Times

Published onDec 10, 2022
Haunting Stones: Sounds, Places, Times

Haunting Stones: Sounds, Places, Times

Meral Akbaş - Özge Kelekçi

 Translated by: Meral Camcı

The stone waits. It waits since the world did not exist. Stone waits for billions of years. Geological epochs, destruction, regeneration. Stone waits. The first cells in the water. The first footprints on the beach. The stone waits. The first human voice, the first murder. The stone waits. It crosses millennia, breaks, spills, crumbles, is flooded, is carried. The stone waits. It waits for villages, cities, the rebuilding of villages and cities, their fall, collapse, decay. The stone waits. Grasses, mushrooms, flowers, cacti. The stone waits since the absence of the world. It waits for the world in its presence. When the world appears, it is first engraved on the stone, it emerges in it and opens up from there. The existence of the world is in the "non-existence" of the stone; even when the stone is absent, when it has disappeared, when it has retreated underground, the world is still with it. The stone always waits. Despite all the impatience of man, it waits patiently with all its majestic patience. For the lost to come again. The erased to be rewritten. The forgotten to be heard again. The stone waits.

 "Darling, you are even more beautiful than the stone on the policeman's face!"

(a graffiti in Greece)

In his book “Flesh and Stone: The Body and the City in Western Civilization”, Richard Sennett states that the biggest problem of the modern city is the loss of the senses, "sensory deprivation in space."[1] As the design and architecture of cities lose their connection with the human body, bodily diversity and bodily experiences, various sounds, smells, lights, movements, sensitivities or sensations, feelings are withdrawn from urban spaces, buildings and roads. [2] Their disappearance, what is now lost, missing, incomplete and absent, results from the definite separation of acceptable losses and sacrificial disappearances in modern cities. In this second text, in which we continue to search for stones and ghosts, we will try to confront the narratives of history, which have lost their senses, which Sennett calls "non-contact", that is, where encounter and new possibilities seem to be absent, with another plan, with the plan of the stone, with its sound, place and time, and to listen to the ghosts haunting the stones by opening the sounds, layers and times of the stones: "Because when stories are heard, the linear flow of time is interrupted."[3] As much as we can hear, as much as we can touch, but every sound we hear and touch will open a new place and a different time in the world; the sound, place and time of unrealised futures, of destroyed possibilities.

And now, in other parts of the modern city, where stones are made of concrete - because "old stone structures force you to touch them"[4] - and ghosts and dreams are tamed, we continue our way underground and in ruins, wrecks, archaeological sites, in the nooks and crannies of houses, in places where memories are buried. Following the truth of stones and ghosts.

The Sound of Stone

... Sound penetrates, whereas light isolates. What we hear are sounds that fill the space around us, whereas what we see are things that are abstracted or 'pulled' from the space in front of us. The body responds to sound like a vibrating pit, to light like a reflective screen. So the auditory world is dynamic, while the visual world is static; hearing is participatory, while seeing is watching from a distance; listening is communal, while watching is asocial or individualistic; listening is morally virtuous, while watching is unreliable; and finally listening is sympathetic, while seeing is indifferent or perhaps treacherous.[5] 

Archaeoacoustic studies aim to provide new information about past cultures by analysing the sounds of ancient buildings and spaces, the possibilities carried by these sounds that continue to resonate and circulate around the world today, and the relationships between historical places, social practices in these places, left-behind images and sounds. Archaeoacoustic research, which aims to reveal the sonic components of these cultures, opens very important discussions in terms of making the audible traces of the past visible and known.

Archaeoacoustic studies, which lie at the intersection of anthropology, ethnomusicology and archaeology, endeavour to make the sounds of "once upon a time" audible today, based on the arrangement of stones, the way they are carved, and the positions of stone paintings. This important discussion, which we can also define as "the sound dimension of prehistoric painted caves and rocks", includes the fact that most wall paintings, ornaments or markings are made in places with the best echo, so all these drawings are part of a common sound together with the rituals and songs sung inside the cave or outdoors.[6] However, while saying that the paintings are part of a sound world, it should also be noted that the stones on which the rock and wall paintings are made are in fact sound, sounding, crumbling and changing with sound: "The artist worked on the drawings as he would work on a stone axe: He crumbled the stones one after the other until they formed small pits on the surface, forming a single stain or line. As a result, he sometimes obtained high-relief paintings, sometimes almost three-dimensional."[7] Behind the paintings, that is, the sounds of the stones being struck together, the sound of the stone is always there. However, archaeoacoustic studies have mostly focused on prehistoric structures and archaeological sites such as Stone Henge (England), Avebury Monuments (England), prehistoric caves in Northern Spain and Southwestern France, Göbeklitepe (Turkey).[8] The sounds of state violence, wars, earthquakes, destroyed, occupied, ravaged villages and cities have not yet been included in the scope of archaeoacoustic studies. However, can the testimony of the stones and the voices of the ghosts wandering in the rubble and debris not be made audible through such studies? Could it not be possible to carry the power of the voices that once roamed the ruined spaces, the words of the stories that have been lived, together with their humming, to the present day?

Christopher Tilley and Wayne Bennett, in their study of million-year-old stones, emphasise that places of sacred, metaphorical or symbolic significance in particular have distinctive and special, rigidly defined sound systems and patterns.[9] These "special" sounds are reflected in the stones, echoed from the stones. By walking through the already known architectural features of ruins or archaeological sites, the sounds of the period can also be accessed: "What do rocks and carvings feel when one goes beyond sight? Do tangible changes matter? What about the carved rocks and the auditory experience that can be recorded in the surrounding area, such as the sound of a distant or nearby sea?"[10] However, the sounds of destroyed buildings, deliberately demolished villages, and other destroyed spaces remain outside the framework of their research; the agency of stone is described as if it belongs only to prehistory. Yet, the voices that once echoed in stone structures that were once whole, lived and experienced, and which have now been destroyed, have also been lost. To pursue lost voices in Turkey means to pursue the old stones brought together by Armenian stonemasons that form the basis of the architecture of modern cities, the walls and basements in Sur and Cizre, the buildings destroyed in the great earthquake of 1999, the old churches where the call to prayer is now heard or which have been destroyed and looted, the plundered houses, mills and destroyed cemeteries. In these places, "the sound of stone is like the sound of a human voice", but the voice of people who are no longer there, no longer alive, who have disappeared. The voice of those who are no longer there "echoes and howls in the stones and rocks... it turns into a disembodied pure sound... the stone is the trace of [their] body, the only remaining image."[11]

... As if our destiny

The most transparent minute trembles

Nomad on the sea. We don't realise it.

The stone sounds like a human voice.

A flower pot on the balcony, you look at it,

He's replaced the cloud.


Like the unresolved words of the walls

A murmur. Of today, of this morning.

No remembrance, no forgetting. A fleetingness,

With the red scents of the shores

Growing like the song of a crippled nightingale

In the heavy symbols of our gaze.

(Memduh Cevdet Anday, Nomad on the Sea) 

In one of the first scenes of Dengê Bavê Min (My Father's Voice, 2012), written by Orhan Eskiköy and co-directed with Zeynel Doğan, Basê visits a sacred site where stones are placed on top of each other. First, he kisses the edge of a stone. Then, praying in Kurdish, "God willing, she will return and come home!", she stacks her own stones on top of each other. Basê is a woman who does not speak much; but she speaks to the stones, she speaks with the stones.

Figure 1The stones are waiting... [A scene from Dengê Bavê Min]

These stones, which we see only once in the film, are supported by other stones and stone stories, as if they constantly remind us of the presence of the missing one, Basê's eldest son Hasan, and replace his absence. For example, the walls of the old stone house in the village fall down, and a piece falling from the wall wakes Basê up: Has Hasan come? The sound of the falling stone is like Hasan's voice that has disappeared. Basê, who wakes up from her sleep with the sound of a small piece of stone falling from the wall, has stacked her own stones on a deserted hill in the middle of another silence in order to regain her son's voice. The stones call Hasan back, just as other stones there call other lost ones. This time the stone is hope, a wish. As can be seen in the photograph above, it is as if the stones stacked on top of each other, which remind a bit of human silhouettes, will suddenly come to life, walk away or return "home" immediately. In this state, the stones are both dead and alive; they both belong to the past and call the future with hope. In other words, the stone that replaces loss exists not only because of its material existence, but also because it replaces an absence. Thus, the existence of the stone is intertwined with absence, with non-existence, it becomes ambiguous; but this ambiguity is also a sign of existence, of different ways of being. The stone is also a ghost now and speaks, asks, calls: Hasan, the lost son of Basê, where are you?

Figure 2 Stones of Dersim. Nilüfer Saltık and Cemal Taş, Tertele: Dersim '38 in the Language of Lamentations

Where there is loss, where there are those who cannot return, where there is massacre, that is, where existence disappears, where it is destroyed, perhaps by the side of a road, sometimes "empty" stones take root in the centre of a field of earth; where they stand - in spite of all that lifeless, heavy, solid flesh that seems to contain no signs of life - they re-root the presence of the lost in the world. For this reason, if we take a little bit of the lines of Nomad Above the Sea, "the stone resembles a human being... a murmur [like] the unresolved words of walls". 

Place of the stone

The phrase "A stone is heavy in its place!" has been circulating in our minds for a long time; that is, when stones are displaced, they become lighter, get rid of all their weight and perhaps turn into ghosts. A stone is heavy in its place; but what if the stone is not in its place, wherever it is? When Rıza Nur ordered Topal Osman to "Leave no stone unturned!"[12] in the Greek villages, did he not show how he could not tolerate even the smallest trace of all the meanings, lives, experiences, all the different pasts, all the other possibilities of the present and the future hidden in the stone by destroying the stones and/or taking over the existence and reality of the stone? But what about the ghosts, the ghosts haunting the stones?

When the Ulucanlar Prison Museum opened, we immediately went there and found ourselves searching for the stone walls that we were sure existed but could not find in the museum space. We were looking for the women's ward, because one of us had stayed in that ward, and another one of us had waited for her friends in that ward at the door of the stone walls. Moreover, the memoir-novel Uçurtmayı Vurmasınlar (1986) written by Feride Çiçekoğlu, one of the texts on which the prison museum constructs its historical-spatial narrative today, was also filmed in this ward, Kadınlar Koğuşunda(Women's Ward) in 1989. Today, however, this part of the prison has been completely rebuilt, is closed to visitors, and is operated as a restaurant that is opened only on special occasions with permission. But, as a new piece of information, according to recent newspaper reports, the Women's Ward is being converted into a Women's Workshop: "The municipality is converting what used to be a women's ward into a vocational workshop for women. Renovation works have started for the workshop. After the works are completed and the area is ready, the place where the ward was will now be used as a workshop."[13] In other words, since the very beginning of the process of transforming the prison into a museum, the "place" of women imprisoned in the prison has either been closed or reused for other purposes outside the scope of the museum, and women's prison experiences have been completely invisible in the space of the prison museum. The first place(s) emptied, demolished and destroyed in the Ulucanlar Prison Museum are the place(s) where women accumulated their experiences and pasts.[14] The walls where women's lives are concealed are never shown to anyone.

During one of our visits to the museum, we learnt that the wards where Leyla Zana, one of the prominent figures of the Kurdish political movement in Turkey, and Kurdish women stayed were completely demolished and no trace of these places was left, and when we asked why these buildings were not protected, the response we received contained a frightening answer about how the experiences of Kurdish women were silenced in a museum space: "It was demolished because it was not a historical artefact!"[15] It was as if the tension between the "historical and sacred stone" and the "stone of experience and the destruction of experience" was standing before us with all its weight. We would later see other examples of demolition similar to what we have described in many other museums, and we would witness that these practices of destruction were not ordinary and unconscious decisions, but systematic practices of moving stones, demolishing walls, solidifying the distinction between what is historical and sacred and what is not, and making experience nothing in terms of the state's practices of remembrance. [16]

... And isn't it actually lonelier than you

The earth trembling beneath your feet?

The messenger of ruin, the prophets

Did they not bring it with them to our age?

(Furugh Ferruhzad, Window) 

In 2020, a mass frenzy began against the Kaaba artwork in the exhibition opened as part of the ongoing resistance following the appointment of trustees to Boğaziçi University. Students were detained for insulting the sacred, and the attacks on university constituents intensified.[17] In her text on these attacks, Nur Kıpçak opens the language of the Kaaba, its emptiness, directionlessness, and the Hajar-ul-Aswad (Black Stone) as a stone. Analysing the Kaaba's spatial emptiness and directionlessness, Kıpçak underlines the state mechanisms that try to occupy the sacred and the space; she states that only the Black Stone, in fact the "house of Hajar", has direction in the Kaaba: "The place believed to be the burial place of Hagar and her son Ismail, which the people of Mecca surrounded with a low wall before Islam because they could not raise enough money. This is Hagar's house... the tomb of a black slave woman. The directionlessness of the Kaaba only finds direction at the foot of Hagar."[18] However, this Black Stone has also had its share of what happened to other sacred and historical stones. There are only a few small fragments of Hajar-ul-Aswad in the Kaaba. Over the centuries, the Ottoman rulers, in order to take a piece of the Kaaba to their tombs, cut the Black Stone into pieces and placed them in their own mausoleums in Istanbul.[19] These rulers felt obliged to mark their eternity with the stone of an Abyssinian slave woman, probably because they believed that holiness could be transferred by carrying the sacred stone. On the other hand, according to Kıpçak, by moving the stones from one place to another, an attempt is also made to remove the displacement of a sacred place, the Kaaba; and then, by moving the stones from one place to another, each new area is occupied once again.

Robert Harbison begins his book titled Ruins and Fragments, which he wrote by combining his enthusiastic longing and love for ruins with literary/anthropological fragments, by describing what happened to the Temple of Pergamon.[20] It is known that a large part of the temple, the Altar of Zeus, Ishtar Gate, Miletus Marketplace Gate, Mşatta Palace and many other parts of the temple are in the Pergamonmuseum in Berlin. The Pergamon Temple was taken to Prussia soil in Berlin in the 1870s with the permission of the rulers who brought a piece of Hajar-ul-Aswad to their tombs. During the Second World War, the parts of the temple were moved to Leningrad in order to protect it from bombardments, but with the agreements made in 1957, they will returned to Berlin. However, the journey of a sculpture of this temple, which was dismantled from its place in Pergamon, ghosted and travelled from exile to exile, is quite different. This statue of Hercules, which fell into the hands of an engineer in Germany, was part of the outer wall of a building in England for many years. Later, the sculpture was carved out of this wall and given to sculpture students to experiment and work on it. Somehow, Hercules reappears in the 1960s when a greengrocer takes over the family home. The sculpture, which had been played on, chipped, destroyed, battered and smashed for decades, was condemned to death by being stored in the warehouse of a house. The statue of Hercules is now open to visitors in a house museum as a part of this three local, three-time dispersion. This statue of Hercules, which was torn to pieces, and the other stones of the Pergamon Temple scattered all over the world are a very important example of fragmented memory, of remembering practices under occupation. Just like the villages of the Greeks that were left untouched, the lives of revolutionary women in prisons and/or working women in factories whose stones were dismantled and who could not find a place for themselves, the fragments and stones that remain from the dismantled grave of Hacer, a woman who does not exist, and other fragments and stones that spread across the earth in different forms. 

Time of the Stone

... In the ruins, cut off from order and familiarity,

We encounter a wilderness marked by indeterminacy and uncertainty.

The second aspect of spatial degradation is to move the space to its temporal threshold.

underlines the uncertainty once again.

When we consider this threshold, the temporally homogeneous dimension of the city,

is shaken by the incomplete and fragmentary temporality of the ruin.

The unfinished ruin will still be experienced, but not as a temporal locus, but as a haunted time.[21]


Hegemonic practices of remembrance seek to singularise the times of stones. By suppressing the plural voices from the past, it tries to draw them into a single time and history. However, as Dylan Trigg points out, ruins resist this suppression by becoming ghosts. Stone times, which cannot be placed within the hegemonic one, also underline that the past could have happened in completely different forms. This also shows that the future can also take completely different forms. Perhaps the most important trigger of the endeavour to bring order to the ruins, debris and rubble is to prevent this universe of possibilities full of ghosts from overflowing: 

The return of the "thing" gradually opens the compressed time criterion. What remains in the ruin are fragmentary traces of the past that cannot be placed in an overarching narrative; these traces settle into the present with the decay of the ruin. Being becomes mediated through the work of decay. The belated recognition of the active past, therefore, not only becomes known yet also revives, but this happens precisely at the same time as the presence begins to disappear. There is then a predicament; the presence of the vanishing past crystallises through temporal distance and creates an even greater resonance as it disappears.[22] 

Tim Edensor argues that this ambiguity, as well as the possibility of multiple pasts, is excluded from modern museum and memorial practices, and that things are only brought together in a certain order and sequence of meaning, detached from their experience and temporality: "Such things are placed in an orderly background - labelled "very well preserved", "most valuable", "typical", and so on. And they do not come together or confront other pieces, the multiple/intense semantic and sensory effects they carry are suppressed."[23] This order and ordering of meaning also uniformises temporality in museums and various conservation areas and archaeological sites. While in rubble, debris and ruins, time can be reproduced at any moment as past, future and present, in such regimes of remembrance, a specific and selected version of the past is often locked into a single narrative plane and historical point. Therefore, we can claim that only plausible ghosts haunt these spaces. However, one of the most fundamental features of stony memory spaces is that they provide temporal plurality, allowing unreasonable ghosts to make space for themselves in these spaces. 

I'm watching the buildings collapse in Glasgow. I see the wreckage.

I ask myself where this debris will go.

I discover that it's going to be pulverised and used for new pedestrian routes.

So people will walk on the ghosts of these old buildings.

(Cyprien Gaillard, New Romantic: In Conversation with Jonathan Griffin) 

Reflecting on the temporality of stones, the authors Edensor, Trigg and Huyssen consistently speak of an impasse. The claim to the singularity of the past, which is assumed to exist, is only marked by the absence of other plural pasts. What is revealed in the ruins is only the decay of the stone's past. As an imagined present, when the temporality of the stone/demolition/excavation is attempted to be singularised, reasonable ghosts are included, while silent and sacrificial ghosts, that is, those that are not reasonable/acceptable, are once again shut out. However, the temporality of stones is plural and contradictory.

The Beirut Archaeological Museum is perhaps one of the most important examples of this temporal collision and pluralisation, as it bears the traces of the Lebanese Civil War. The heavy bombardment marks and bullets found on the edges and in the centre of frescoes from thousands of years ago draw prehistoric artefacts into the present, albeit in a frightening way, and make them an issue for the future; because all these traces have effects, they do not only tell, but also demand answers or solutions. It can be said that Beirut as a city bears the traces of this temporal intertwining in every field. While historical artefacts and ruins from the Roman, Christian and Muslim eras stand side by side with buildings destroyed by the civil war, the wreckage of the harbour explosion in 2020 circulates the ghost(s) of another history and political economy in the city. I wonder which time it is for the stones of Beirut? 

Intention to Begin

In his book Stone, John Salis writes that stones shine, that truth shines in stone. As temporal and spatial witnesses of truth and memory, stones, such as the stones of Beirut, perhaps shine with the haunted existence(s) we have tried to explain so far.[24] They wait for millennia with this radiance. For their testimony to be voiced, to be articulated. They wait to come to the world again with this radiance. Ghostlore, to which we will return again as a way for the stones to regain their radiance, or rather, to be able to recognise the radiance of the stones, to be able to open, in Gaston Bachelard's words, "space[s] of imagination"[25] around the stones, while opposing the dominance and glorification of the "hegemonic present", which is insufficient for understanding the world, dislocates time by recalling both the pasts that did not/ could not have been and the futures that could not, could not be, as possibilities and potentials. Time is no longer something that moves in a straight line. On a ground where the present and the absent are equalised and/or related, it becomes possible to speak to and hear the irreplaceable "neither present nor absent", "neither alive nor dead", that is, ghosts. This possibility also means the opening of different times and spaces to each other.

Both in this text titled "Haunting the Stones: Sounds, Spaces, Times, and in our previous text titled Turkey's Ghosts: Stones, Rubble, Ruins, we tried to discuss stones and ghosts together within the framework of being and non-being, being-made and non-being-made, the establishment of being through the succession of non-being. It seems that as stones and ghosts often substitute each other, as they try to open the possibilities of the past to the future instead of each other, they can create a power break in the acceptance of the present, in the sovereignty of the present. However, in order for these power ruptures, fragmented interventions, fragmented resistances not to be petrified - in the sense of being thrown out of life and losing their vitality - or ghosted - in the sense of suddenly disappearing - they need to become visible, readable, touchable, in short, palpable.

If ghostology has a method, it is the possibility that it can open theoretical and practical spaces for the revitalisation of the traces of pasts that did not exist, of experiences that could not be lived. The two texts we have written in this context and Stones, Rocks, Ruins: "Ghost-Presences" of Confronting the Past, which will last for ten weeks, is a part of the effort to think about unrealised/unfinished peace struggles in this vein and to include the language of the more-than-human in peace studies.

This is a modest call to read together the signs of believing in stones and ghosts. As we ended our first text, with the same lines:


I was broken, dismantled, crumbled; I returned to myself again

open, break, look; the whole earth is in every particle.[26]




[1] Richard Sennett, Ten ve Taş: Batı Uygarlığında Beden ve Şehir, İstanbul: Metis, 2018, s. 11.

[2] A.g.e., s. 11-17.

[3] John Berger, Bento’nun Eskiz Defteri, İstanbul: Metis, 2013, s. 88.  

[4] Richard Sennett, a.g.e., s. 17.

[5] Tim Ingold, The Perception of the Environment: Essays on Livelihood, Dwelling, and Skill, New York: Routledge Press, 2000, s. 251-252. Ingold’un, duymak ve izlemek arasında kurduğu bu çatışmacı tanımlamanın benzerini Sennett’in Ten ve Taş metninde de bulmak mümkündür. Çünkü Sennett’e göre, duyusal yoksunlukla ör(t)ülü kent mekânında tüm hassasiyetlerini, hissedişlerini yitiren beden duymaz, yaklaşmaz, dokunmaz ama belirli hedeflere doğru “pasif bir biçimde hareket eder”, seyreder ve tüketir, ve böylece “bedensel farkındalığı körleşir”; Richard Sennett, a.g.e., s. 12-13.     

[6] Mihály Hoppál, Şamanlar ve Semboller: Kaya Resmi ve Göstergebilim, İstanbul: Yapı Kredi Yayınları, 2016, s. 90-91.  

[7] A.g.e., s. 16.

[8] Tarih öncesi alanlardaki arkeoakustik çalışmaların örnekleri için bkz. [Erişim tarihi: 22 Ağustos 2022].

[9] Christopher Tilley ve Wayne Bennett, The Materiality of Stone: Explorations in Landscape Phenomenology, Oxford: Berg Publishing, 2004, s. 87-89.

[10] A.g.e., s. 223.

[11] Nermin Saybaşılı “mıknatıs-ses” kavramından yola çıkarak sesin silinemez varlığını anlatırken, Narkissos’a olan aşkına karşılık bulamayan Ekho’nun taş olup yankıya dönüşmesini anlatan mitolojik hikâyeye başvurur: “Ekho'nun bedeni taşlarda, kayalarda yankılanır, uğuldar; saf ve temiz, katışıksız ve bedensiz pür bir sese dönüşür. Ya da belki şöyle demeliyiz: Dönüştüğü taş onun bedeninin izi, kalan tek imgesidir”. Saybaşılı’nın mıknatıs-ses dediği “resmi dilin yasasına hücum eden bir aksisedadır”; yani Ekho taştır ve Ekho sestir, sürekli yankılanan sesiyle Ekho artık susturulamaz; Nermin Saybaşılı, Mıknatıs-Ses: Rezonans ve Sanatın Politikası, İstanbul: Metis, 2022, s. 47. 

[12] Rıza Nur, Hayat ve Hatıratım: III. Cilt, İstanbul: Altındağ Yayınevi, 1967, s. 792-793.

[13] İlgili gazete haberi için bkz. Murat Yılmaz, “Kadınlar Koğuşundan Kadınlar Atölyesine”, Hürriyet, 19 Mayıs 2021; [Erişim tarihi: 10 Kasım 2022]. 

[14] Özge Kelekçi ve Meral Akbaş, “Emptied, Displaced, Assimilated: Spatial Politics of Gender in Ankara Ulucanlar Prison Museum”, Joshua G. Adair ve Amy K. Levin (der.) içinde Museums, Sexuality, and Gender Activism, London, New York: Routledge, 2020. 

[15] Meral Akbaş ve Özge Kelekçi, “Geriye Kalan: Yıkıldı, Çünkü Tarihî Eser Değildi!”, Meral Akkent ve S. Nehir Kovar (der.) içinde Feminist Pedagoji: Müzeler, Hafıza Mekanları ve Hatırlama Pratikleri, İstanbul: İstos, 2019, s. 44-55.

[16] SEKA Kâğıt Müzesi’nde başladığımız ve Taşlar, Kayalar, Harabeler ve Yokluklar: Türkiye’nin Şiddet Geçmişiyle Yüzleşmenin “Hayalet-Varlık”ları başlıklı bu araştırmamızın çerçevesinde bir kısmını gerçekleştirdiğimiz başka bir çalışmanın da gösterdiği üzere, bu sefer bir fabrika, SEKA Kâğıt Fabrikası müzeye dönüştürülmüş ve yine kadın işçilerin uzun yıllar, gün içinde uzun saatler boyunca çalıştığı yerler tamamen boşaltılmış, genellikle ziyaretçilerin oturup dinlendiği bir yer haline getirilmiştir; Meral Akbaş ve Özge Kelekçi, “From Factory to Museum: The Obliteration of the History of Resistance”, Adele Chynoweth (der.) içinde Museum and Working Class, London, New York: Routledge, 2021; Meral Akbaş ve Özge Kelekçi, “Bir Kâğıt Fabrikası’nın Saklı Hafızası: “Bir Var Bir Yok” İşçi Kadınlar”, Türkiye’de Arşivciliğin Bugünü ve Yarını, Kadınların Arşivlerdeki Yeri içinde, yayım aşamasında. 

[17] Bkz. [Erişim tarihi: 15 Ağustos 2022].

[18] Nur Kıpçak, “Kâbe’den Boğaziçi’ne: Kutsal ve İşgal”, 5Harfliler, 16 Mayıs 2022; [Erişim tarihi: 12 Ağustos 2022].

[19] Hacer-ül Esved’in (Kara Taş) İstanbul’da bulunduğu yerler için bkz. [Erişim tarihi: 12 Ağustos 2022].

[20] Robert Harrison, Ruins and Fragments: Tales of Loss and Rediscovery, London: Reaktion Books, 2015, s. 11-23.

[21] Dylan Trigg, The Aesthetics of Decay: Nothingness, Nostalgia, and the Absence of Reason, New York: Peter Lang Publishing, 2006, s. 131.

[22] A.g.e., s. 136.

[23] Tim Edensor, “The Ghosts of Industrial Ruins: Ordering and Disordering Memory in Excessive Space”, Environment and Planning D: Society and Space, 2005, 23: 829-849, s. 831.

[24] John Sallis, Stone, Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1994, s. 1-5.

[25] Gaston Bachelard, Mekânın Poetikası, İstanbul: İthaki, 2014, s. 79. 

[26] Birhan Keskin, “Taş”, Ba içinde, İstanbul: Metis, 2007, s. 35.

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