Following the success of his award-winning novel Deli İbram Divanı, Ahmet Büke returns with Kırmızı Buğday, his latest work of fiction.
Ahmet Büke is once again at the forefront of Turkish literature with Kırmızı Buğday, his new novel. His previous work, Deli İbram Divanı—which won the 2022 Vedat Türkali Novel Award—captured the shifting political and economic atmosphere of 1950s Izmir. In Kırmızı Buğday, Büke takes readers even further back in time, to explore issues of land ownership and class conflict in Western Anatolia during the waning days of the Ottoman Empire. Building on the themes of Deli İbram Divanı, Büke once again turns his focus to the struggles of peasants and the dispossessed, delving into a narrative of survival that speaks to the foundations of a nation. We spoke with Büke about the personal and historical inspiration behind Kırmızı Buğday, the detailed research that shaped his writing process, and his commitment to amplifying the stories of those whose voices have long been marginalized.
In an interview, you said, “I write to learn something.” What did you seek to understand in Deli İbram Divanı, and what led you to write Kırmızı Buğday?
When I completed Deli İbram Divanı and submitted it to the publisher, I was still haunted by questions. That novel is set in Western Anatolia during the 1950s—a time of profound change for both the region and the country as a whole. It was a period marked by intensified class conflicts and new alignments in the struggle. It struck me as a pivotal moment, and I became curious about what came before. I asked myself: What kind of country and world existed prior to the 1950s, when class divisions were becoming so sharply defined? My curiosity led me not to a chronological account of history, but rather to questions like: Why did things unfold the way they did? Could they have happened differently? What material conditions produced these outcomes? For instance, in places that were geographically and culturally close to one another, why did people react so differently to the occupation? That’s a compelling question. And it raised an even broader one: Could these contrasting responses be tied to differences in land ownership, class structure, and the struggles rooted in them?
The novel is set in Gördes, where you were born and raised. Did elements of your own family story find their way into the book?
Absolutely. I dedicated the novel to some of my great-grandfathers, whose names I used. They were farmers, tobacco growers—ordinary people who played a part in the resistance movement in Western Anatolia. Even before I began writing the novel, I knew I wanted to include elements of their lives to help flesh out the background of Deli İbram. But I want to be clear: I’m not writing an academic paper. I’m not a historian. I write fiction. Still, I needed a central question and material to propel the narrative forward. One key point stuck with me: exactly 100 years ago, shortly after the occupation of Izmir, Gördes was among the first towns to send a telegram to the resistance headquarters, declaring, “We reject this occupation and, if necessary, we will take up arms.” Gördes is a small and impoverished town nestled in the mountains. Around the same time, Colonel Bekir Sami Bey arrived in Anatolia to organize the regional resistance. İlhan Selçuk’s Yüzbaşı Selahattin’in Romanı is a novel based on the memoirs of Captain Selahattin, Bekir Sami Bey’s aide-de-camp, and recounts their arrival in Akhisar. Gördes and Akhisar are barely an hour apart by bird’s flight. Yet, while the poor residents of Gördes quickly organized resistance, the influential figures in Akhisar rejected Bekir Sami Bey and Captain Selahattin. This contradiction stuck with me. How could two communities, so geographically close, respond so differently? Again, I returned to that same question: Could land ownership, class structure, and class struggle be the underlying factors? That’s where I began.
What are the key differences between Gördes and Akhisar?
Gördes is a poor, mountainous region mostly populated by Turkmen and Yürük tribes. It has limited arable land and no real wealth. Akhisar, by contrast, is flat and fertile, home to large landowners, and a hub of trade. It sits at a crossroads of commerce, with a railway line running through it—very much a center of wealth and influence.
In the book, you describe something called the “ağa pulu.” What exactly is an ağa pulu, and how did you come across it?
A friend of mine, while visiting the Kaz Mountains, bought what he thought was a souvenir—a small token—for me. It turned out to have Ottoman Turkish script on it. The shopkeeper told him, “Our grandparents used to receive these from the olive tree owners a hundred years ago.” That piqued my curiosity. I showed it to my friend Alp Yücel Kaya, an expert in economic history at Ege University who can read Ottoman Turkish. He deciphered the stamp: “Such-and-such Olive Farm.” He was excited and suggested we dig into it further. Before I even began writing the novel, we investigated this object. There was an “S” stamped on the back, and for a long time, we couldn’t figure out what it meant. Eventually, as we researched the structure of olive farming, we found the answer. In olive harvesting, there are two types of laborers: pickers, who use long poles and do more physically demanding work, and gatherers, who collect the fallen olives—often women and children. Pickers were paid more. The “S” likely denoted the higher-wage workers, the pickers.
Why were these tokens given to workers in the first place?
It had to do with the structure of the olive harvest. The season typically begins in December and ends around January or February. After that, the olives are either pressed or sold, but the money doesn’t come in until around April or May. In the meantime, the olive merchant has two options: pay the workers out of pocket or take a loan. To avoid both, many developed a token system. They would give one pul per week to each worker. The hole in the center allowed workers to wear them as necklaces to avoid losing them. Once the harvest was sold and the merchant had real money, he’d tell the foreman, “Bring the workers.” The foreman would multiply the number of tokens each worker held by their daily wage and pay them accordingly.
How did the workers manage to survive during those five months?
This question gets to the heart of how the system functioned as a tool of exploitation. The landowners also owned shops in the local market, where goods could be purchased using these tokens. But everything in those shops was sold at inflated prices. For instance, a unit of flour that would normally cost one kuruş on the open market might cost three kuruş at the landlord’s shop. So in effect, the landowner was just transferring money from one of his pockets to the other, keeping the laborers dependent and indebted. It was a system built not only to avoid financial risk, but also to reinforce social hierarchy and control.
The “pul” system isn’t unique to this region, is it?
No, not at all. This is actually part of a broader labor practice known as the “truck system,” which was used across a variety of sectors during the industrialization era—from mining to railways to agriculture. In essence, it refers to compensating workers not in cash, but in kind—through goods, tokens, or vouchers.
These tokens are referred to as “truck money.” In the 19th century, it was among the most exploitative systems that labor unions in the West rallied against. Their demand was clear: “We want to be paid in currency that is universally accepted, not in truck money.” In many ways, I believe the meal cards given to white-collar workers today resemble this system. They too are a form of truck money. Even how we can spend these cards is dictated by the employer: “You can’t buy this with it. You can’t use it there.” So the novel tries to weave together the past and the present—and even gestures toward the future. Today, there are efforts to digitize money. Soon, workers’ wages may be paid in digital currency issued by the Central Bank of the Republic of Turkey. But the system might again determine where and how this digital wage can be spent. It could be, for instance, that “you can’t use this digital currency for travel,” or “you must save a certain amount.” This, too, would be a form of labor control and economic discipline.
How did your friends and family react when you told them you were writing a novel about the War of Independence? And what makes Kırmızı Buğday different from other novels about that period?
When I shared the idea with a few friends, some of them said, “There are already so many novels about the War of Independence. Why add another?” And they’re right—many have been written, and some are quite good. But from what I’ve seen, most of these books tell the story of that era from the perspective of the educated elite: the officers, the intellectuals, the statesmen. What I wanted was to narrate the same history from the viewpoint of the barefoot peasant, the farmer, those at the very bottom of the social ladder. Take, for example, the character Arab Ali in the novel. He is as destitute as it gets. At one point, he says, “We don’t even have tobacco.” These are people who labor in tobacco fields, yet can’t afford tobacco themselves. That perspective mattered to me deeply—because, in many ways, this is my story, too.
Could you tell us more about your family’s history?
I’m the grandson of people like that. The character Ahmet in the novel is based on my great-grandfather. When mobilization was announced during World War I, he had already completed his military service, but he was called up again at the age of 32. He learned he’d be sent to Gallipoli. His father—my great-great-grandfather—pleaded with him: “You’re my only son. Let’s sell everything.” They were Karakeçili nomads. They had herds, a few tobacco fields. “We’ll sell the land, the animals, even take out loans. Let’s pay the exemption fee.” Because at the time, those who could pay didn’t have to serve. But my great-grandfather Ahmet refused. He said, “All my friends are going. If I stay behind, I won’t be able to show my face. Whatever comes, let it come.” And so, he went to Gallipoli. Word came back that he’d died in action. But he hadn’t. His unit was actually transferred to Palestine, where he was taken prisoner.
This story was told so many times in our home, and it amazed me each time. He eventually escaped from the POW camp and returned to Manisa’s Gördes barefoot and bald. My grandfather used to tell the story like this: “One cold winter day, there was a knock at the door. A man in rags said, ‘I am your father.’ We were stunned. My mother recognized him by his voice and fainted with joy.” But they had no wheat to make bread. They had to ask the neighbors for a handful. My great-grandfather ate that bread and said, “I’ve seen it all. I’ve been on every front. From now on, I’m going to stay in that field across the road, plant tobacco, and stay out of everything else.”
And what happened then?
That’s when Hacı Bey—our great uncle Hacı Ethem Bükü—entered the picture. He’s also in the novel. He came to my great-grandfather and said, “Brother, we’re organizing resistance. We need men who know how to use a rifle.” But my great-grandfather refused: “I swear, I’m done. I’ll just grow my tobacco.” Hacı Bey responded, “You won’t be able to grow tobacco here while the country is under occupation.”
A week later, soldiers arrived in Gördes—because the town had sent a telegram protesting the occupation. The authorities understood that something was stirring. One by one, all the houses in Gördes were burned to the ground, including my great-grandfather’s. With nothing left to lose, he took up his rifle and joined the resistance. Both Hacı Bey and my great-grandfather were awarded medals after the War of Independence. These stories must be told. This was our past a hundred years ago—a war fought barefoot, bareheaded. The first to rise up, the first to resist, were the poorest among us.
In contrast, the notables of Akhisar initially opposed the resistance. But they were also watching closely, sniffing the wind to see which way things would go. According to my great-grandfather, it wasn’t until the victory at the Battle of Sakarya that their attitudes changed. After that, everyone started scrambling to end up on the winning side. But until that point, the war truly belonged to the most impoverished people of the region.
You’ve said you spent four years working on this novel. How demanding was the process?
I worked on Kırmızı Buğday over the course of four years, but it wasn’t continuous. I had to work full-time to make a living—eight hours a day—plus household chores, raising my daughter, everything else. So I had maybe one or two hours a day, at best, to devote to the book. I used my weekends and holidays as efficiently as I could, but I couldn’t make full use of those four years. That said, I took a similar approach with Deli İbram.
Although I wrote the novel myself, I “organized” the research process quite methodically. For example, Alp Yücel Kaya—an important economic historian—became a close friend during this period. I’d ask him things like, “Alp Hoca, can you help me understand village grocers in the Aegean region during the late 19th and early 20th centuries?” He would dive into the archives and send me all the relevant sources. He also reviewed every section of the manuscript dealing with economics and corrected any historical inaccuracies.
But I didn’t only work with Alp Hoca. In one part of the novel, I describe World War I—especially the land battles at Gallipoli. I focused particularly on the first 12 hours. To portray that accurately, I spent six to seven months studying the Gallipoli front. During that time, I connected with scholars and historians who specialize in the subject. I sent them excerpts of the manuscript, and they offered feedback. If there were any errors, they helped me correct them.
Could you give an example?
For instance, in the first chapter, I described the landing of the enemy navy. I wrote that the soldiers rowed for 5 nautical miles. A retired naval officer friend of mine, after reading the manuscript, told me that this was not realistic—5 nautical miles equals about 6–7 kilometers. He even shared with me British documents from the war archive. According to them, after the soldiers boarded the rowboats, they were pulled by steam launches for 3 miles, then released at 150 meters from the shore, and only then did they start rowing. Of course, it’s possible that most readers wouldn’t have noticed this mistake. But I wanted to get it right. Many historians, economists, and academics helped me line by line with the manuscript, offering feedback to correct details like this.
Why is the book called Kırmızı Buğday (Red Wheat)?
Red Wheat is a folk song. It tells the story of Arab Ali Efe, an Afro-Turkish resistance leader. The story goes that Ali Efe was wounded and hidden on a woman’s ox cart. She covered him with sacks of wheat, but Ali was bleeding. His blood seeped into the wheat and dyed it red. No matter how much she tried to wash it afterward, the wheat stayed red. This image captured the novel’s spirit so perfectly that I wanted to borrow its name. The lyrics of the folk song also appear in the novel.
How did you research the military and historical content of the book?
I read memoirs and war diaries from that time. These texts are usually written in a technical and dry manner. But they offer tremendous insight into the psychological world of that era. For example, in one of the reports I read, the commander of a military unit that had to retreat after a major defeat during the Eskişehir–Kütahya battles wrote: “Our soldiers, unable to find food, found some onions and ate those.” Later, when they returned to that battlefield, they saw that in the bread bags buried along with their martyred comrades, onions had sprouted. They picked those onions and carried on with the battle. That kind of story can inspire an entire scene in a novel. These “dry” reports provide remarkable information if you’re willing to dig into them.
Your novel Deli İbram Divanı was also adapted into a play. What was that process like? Did you watch the play?
A young and successful director, Serhat Köroğlu, adapted it for the stage. We kept in touch during the adaptation process. But I wasn’t consulted once the staging began. I haven’t had a chance to see the play yet. Hopefully, I’ll get to see it in the new season.
A zeybek musical composition was also written for Deli İbram Divanı. What did that process feel like for you?
Writing is a lonely activity. That’s why people who write always seek some sort of cultural companionship. Seeing young artists engage with your work, interpret it, transform it—that’s one of the most joyful parts of this journey. That kind of artistic fermentation is deeply gratifying.
You’ve said that you want to tell the stories of “the bare-legged ones, the slaves.” What do you think about the current state of socially realistic literature in Turkey?
Art and politics evolve with each new generation. I believe a young and dynamic generation is coming. A generation that is curious, that seeks things out, that has strong passions. I think they will carry the torch of socially realistic literature forward with even more strength.
