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The Renovation
A dazzlingly original new voice in literary fiction for fans of Ali Smith, Mohsin Hamid and Elif Shafak
The Renovation is a heart-breaking portrait of one family caught in the tides of history, grappling with grief, exile, politics and the painful absurdity of love
Dilara’s father is disappearing. His memories are collapsing, dementia stealing a little more of him each day. She has persuaded him to move in with her, hiring builders to adapt her apartment to his new needs, but when the renovation is complete she discovers a big problem: instead of a new en-suite bathroom, the builders have installed a Turkish prison cell.
At first she is outraged. There has surely been some mistake. Dilara’s family are exiles – they left Turkey many years ago and have never been back. The last thing she wants is a piece of her estranged homeland appearing uninvited in her new home.
But as the weeks pass, her indignation gradually gives way to curiosity. Beyond the cell door, she glimpses Turkish guards going about their work. Through the cell walls, she hears Turkish prisoners murmuring, rustling, crying out in their sleep. And in the strange, impossible air of the cell itself, she smells the sesame scent of freshly baked simit, she tastes the fine dust of the Anatolian steppe on her tongue.
Even as she struggles to care for her father, to keep the family finances afloat and stop the wheels coming off her marriage, Dilara is drawn back again and again to the mysterious prison cell, and through it to a city that once belonged to her – to the salt wind off the Marmara, the sky full of gulls and domes and minarets – drawn inexorably back to Istanbul.
The Renovation is a heart-breaking portrait of one family caught in the tides of history, grappling with grief, exile, politics and the painful absurdity of love
Dilara’s father is disappearing. His memories are collapsing, dementia stealing a little more of him each day. She has persuaded him to move in with her, hiring builders to adapt her apartment to his new needs, but when the renovation is complete she discovers a big problem: instead of a new en-suite bathroom, the builders have installed a Turkish prison cell.
At first she is outraged. There has surely been some mistake. Dilara’s family are exiles – they left Turkey many years ago and have never been back. The last thing she wants is a piece of her estranged homeland appearing uninvited in her new home.
But as the weeks pass, her indignation gradually gives way to curiosity. Beyond the cell door, she glimpses Turkish guards going about their work. Through the cell walls, she hears Turkish prisoners murmuring, rustling, crying out in their sleep. And in the strange, impossible air of the cell itself, she smells the sesame scent of freshly baked simit, she tastes the fine dust of the Anatolian steppe on her tongue.
Even as she struggles to care for her father, to keep the family finances afloat and stop the wheels coming off her marriage, Dilara is drawn back again and again to the mysterious prison cell, and through it to a city that once belonged to her – to the salt wind off the Marmara, the sky full of gulls and domes and minarets – drawn inexorably back to Istanbul.
240 pages, Hardcover
Published March 26, 2026
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 118 reviews
May 8, 2026
This unusual variation on a portal fantasy is narrated by Dilara who left Turkey with her husband and father for a small Italian village. The move was prompted by her father being cast as a political dissident, a label which also cost Dilara her job. Unable to find work in Italy, Dilara’s stuck at home facing the prospect of looking after her father who has a form of Alzheimer’s that’s rapidly progressing. Now that her father’s set to move into her apartment more space is needed. But when the required building work’s completed, instead of opening onto an extra bathroom, her bedroom’s directly connected to a prison cell in Turkey’s maximum security Siliviri Prison (now Marmara Prison). The revelation startles Dilara’s husband so much, he immediately flees but Dilara’s curiously accepting of this bizarre development. In time she even comes to embrace it, providing as it does, a route back into a motherland and a culture she desperately misses.
Although there are passages of frenetic prose, Kenan Orhan’s narrative is dense and largely matter of fact. The fantasy element is little more than a device, a means of enabling an exploration of broader issues around nostalgia, memory, confinement and repression. These are split between Dilara’s everyday isolation and exhaustion caring for a parent who no longer even recognises her, and an overview of shifts in Turkish society as Erdoğan’s grip tightened. As her father’s memory falters, Dilara’s more and more caught up in recollections of her recent past. These offer up perspectives on Turkey particularly the impact of creeping authoritarianism: from the uprisings in Gezi Park to the 2016 coup attempt.
Dilara finds herself increasingly drawn to the cell, relishing hearing her own language, as well as smells and sounds that remind her of what’s lost. It becomes an unlikely refuge and even a source of community, forged from mingling with other women in her cell block. The women’s stories also provide insights into Turkey since Dilara left: the summary imprisonment of journalists and rights activists, the long stretches of pre-trial incarceration used to subdue opposition. Dilara’s gradual adjustment to possible imprisonment indirectly comments on those who tolerate life under dictatorial regimes. Those who elect to remain silent rather than risk becoming outcasts like Dilara and her family. Taken together, Dilara’s experiences form an arresting meditation on identity, the nature of exile, and what cannot easily be left behind. They’re also a poignant reminder of what it is to be a full-time carer; a role so often, so casually assigned to women, imprisoning them in domestic spaces, rendering them close to invisible. Admittedly the symbolism - and the storytelling in general - leans towards heavy-handed but overall a moving, illuminating piece.
Thanks to Netgalley and publisher Hamish Hamilton for an ARC
Rating: 3.5
Although there are passages of frenetic prose, Kenan Orhan’s narrative is dense and largely matter of fact. The fantasy element is little more than a device, a means of enabling an exploration of broader issues around nostalgia, memory, confinement and repression. These are split between Dilara’s everyday isolation and exhaustion caring for a parent who no longer even recognises her, and an overview of shifts in Turkish society as Erdoğan’s grip tightened. As her father’s memory falters, Dilara’s more and more caught up in recollections of her recent past. These offer up perspectives on Turkey particularly the impact of creeping authoritarianism: from the uprisings in Gezi Park to the 2016 coup attempt.
Dilara finds herself increasingly drawn to the cell, relishing hearing her own language, as well as smells and sounds that remind her of what’s lost. It becomes an unlikely refuge and even a source of community, forged from mingling with other women in her cell block. The women’s stories also provide insights into Turkey since Dilara left: the summary imprisonment of journalists and rights activists, the long stretches of pre-trial incarceration used to subdue opposition. Dilara’s gradual adjustment to possible imprisonment indirectly comments on those who tolerate life under dictatorial regimes. Those who elect to remain silent rather than risk becoming outcasts like Dilara and her family. Taken together, Dilara’s experiences form an arresting meditation on identity, the nature of exile, and what cannot easily be left behind. They’re also a poignant reminder of what it is to be a full-time carer; a role so often, so casually assigned to women, imprisoning them in domestic spaces, rendering them close to invisible. Admittedly the symbolism - and the storytelling in general - leans towards heavy-handed but overall a moving, illuminating piece.
Thanks to Netgalley and publisher Hamish Hamilton for an ARC
Rating: 3.5
July 3, 2026
"Hope is a symptom of the strangeness of life. Who was I to say what is and isn't possible while I hid in a prison in my bathroom?"
"When there is something missing from you, how do you fill the space? Do you describe the boundary of the void obsessively, or simply cover its shapelessness with a veil?"
Is it too early to identify a Booker nominee for 2026?
The Renovation by Kenan Orhan is a book that requires attention.
Dilara with her husband and father are exiles. They have moved to a village near Salerno in Italy to escape the persecution of her father in Turkey- an outspoken opponent of the Erdogan administration. Leaving behind the control of a government and the rise of political prisoners. However, life changes when the request for a new bathroom is turned upside down when the builders install a Turkish prison cell. and Dilara's father life changes as the shadow of Alzheimers deepens and he closes in on himself.
Dilara finds herself bewitched by this room - she hears the voices of female prisoners, the orders of guards and the aromas of a past life. She is drawn to the cell as a place of escape.
The metaphorical comparison of living in a new country with no friends to feeling imprisoned is evident; the decline of her father as his world closes down and he withdraws into his own solitary existence( a personal cell); the continual fear of persecution and potential repercussions echo through Dilara's mind especially as she reflects upon the turmoil caused in their lives in Turkey and subsequent "escape". as well as the isolation of being away from family and a past life. Dilara finds solace in a cell.
This is a story of millions fleeing wars, political conflicts and regimes and the internal struggles and the cells that people find themselves living within longing to be free in their homelands.
Powerful, haunting, captivating - a book that will leave you unsettled but equally makes us reflect upon the harsh realities of life.
"When there is something missing from you, how do you fill the space? Do you describe the boundary of the void obsessively, or simply cover its shapelessness with a veil?"
Is it too early to identify a Booker nominee for 2026?
The Renovation by Kenan Orhan is a book that requires attention.
Dilara with her husband and father are exiles. They have moved to a village near Salerno in Italy to escape the persecution of her father in Turkey- an outspoken opponent of the Erdogan administration. Leaving behind the control of a government and the rise of political prisoners. However, life changes when the request for a new bathroom is turned upside down when the builders install a Turkish prison cell. and Dilara's father life changes as the shadow of Alzheimers deepens and he closes in on himself.
Dilara finds herself bewitched by this room - she hears the voices of female prisoners, the orders of guards and the aromas of a past life. She is drawn to the cell as a place of escape.
The metaphorical comparison of living in a new country with no friends to feeling imprisoned is evident; the decline of her father as his world closes down and he withdraws into his own solitary existence( a personal cell); the continual fear of persecution and potential repercussions echo through Dilara's mind especially as she reflects upon the turmoil caused in their lives in Turkey and subsequent "escape". as well as the isolation of being away from family and a past life. Dilara finds solace in a cell.
This is a story of millions fleeing wars, political conflicts and regimes and the internal struggles and the cells that people find themselves living within longing to be free in their homelands.
Powerful, haunting, captivating - a book that will leave you unsettled but equally makes us reflect upon the harsh realities of life.
February 14, 2026
4/4.5
Renovation is the debut novel by Kenan Orhan and gives us the story of Dilara, her husband and father. They have fled to Italy to escape Erdoğan's regime in Turkey. But Dilara cannot find work and soon finds herself beginning to become her father's carer as his memory loss descends into Alzheimer's.
In order to give her father more space Dilara and her husband remodel their apartment to give themselves a private bathroom but the builders are curiously secretive about the work until completion. As Dilara pulls back the curtain which has kept the bathroom under wraps she finds herself in a cell in a Turkish prison. She can move between the two countries with ease but how to explain this to her husband, who already fears they are being kept under surveillance.
Kenan Orhan's fascinating novel delves into the political situation in Turkey as well as dealing with Dilara's increasingly precarious personal life. It almost feels as though the erasure of Turkey's past as Erdoğan moulds the country in his own image, mirrors the loss of her father's memory and her own faulty recollections. The prison cell, which Dilara's husband fears becomes a refuge for Dilara as her father's disease progresses.
The premise of the novel is startling but doesn't go where I expected at all. Dilara could easily become a figure of pity but her natural resilience and ability to adapt make her a very sympathetic character, full of determination to survive.
I would definitely recommend this novel and am keen to read more by Orhan.
Thankyou to Netgalley and Farrar, Strauss and Giroux for the digital review copy.
Renovation is the debut novel by Kenan Orhan and gives us the story of Dilara, her husband and father. They have fled to Italy to escape Erdoğan's regime in Turkey. But Dilara cannot find work and soon finds herself beginning to become her father's carer as his memory loss descends into Alzheimer's.
In order to give her father more space Dilara and her husband remodel their apartment to give themselves a private bathroom but the builders are curiously secretive about the work until completion. As Dilara pulls back the curtain which has kept the bathroom under wraps she finds herself in a cell in a Turkish prison. She can move between the two countries with ease but how to explain this to her husband, who already fears they are being kept under surveillance.
Kenan Orhan's fascinating novel delves into the political situation in Turkey as well as dealing with Dilara's increasingly precarious personal life. It almost feels as though the erasure of Turkey's past as Erdoğan moulds the country in his own image, mirrors the loss of her father's memory and her own faulty recollections. The prison cell, which Dilara's husband fears becomes a refuge for Dilara as her father's disease progresses.
The premise of the novel is startling but doesn't go where I expected at all. Dilara could easily become a figure of pity but her natural resilience and ability to adapt make her a very sympathetic character, full of determination to survive.
I would definitely recommend this novel and am keen to read more by Orhan.
Thankyou to Netgalley and Farrar, Strauss and Giroux for the digital review copy.
August 6, 2025
4.5 stars
With its fantastical premise and candidly raw emotional core, The Renovation is a powerful literary gem. I’m glad I was drawn in by its outlandish hook—a botched renovation where a residential bathroom inexplicably transforms into a prison cell—judging on the subject matter alone, I might have passed it by as too literary for my taste. The touch of magical realism is seamlessly woven throughout, holding my attention and pulling me into a vulnerable, deeply human character study. More than once, I found myself double-checking to make sure this wasn’t a nonfiction memoir—the protagonist’s journey feels that vivid and real.
The Renovation tackles heavy themes: a parent’s dementia and Türkiye’s political turmoil over the past decade. Despite this, it never feels overwrought; instead, it’s resonant and surprisingly balanced. For someone who doesn’t regularly engage with Türkiye’s politics, it’s also insightful without being overly academic. As an immigrant myself, I found the depiction of complicated feelings toward one’s homeland strikingly accurate—on the surface, countless reasons to leave, yet underneath, an unbreakable emotional longing. Oddly enough, Crying in H Mart by Michelle Zauner kept coming to mind while I was reading this—likely because of its reflective portrayal of a parent–child relationship.
Ultimately, The Renovation was a refreshing change of pace from my usual thriller and horror reads: more introspective and serious, yet still delightfully quirky thanks to its unconventional setup and fluid, unpretentious writing style. There’s so much metaphor and symbolism to unpack that I know this story will stick with me for a long time.
**This ARC was provided by the publisher via NetGalley in exchange for an honest review. Much appreciated!**
With its fantastical premise and candidly raw emotional core, The Renovation is a powerful literary gem. I’m glad I was drawn in by its outlandish hook—a botched renovation where a residential bathroom inexplicably transforms into a prison cell—judging on the subject matter alone, I might have passed it by as too literary for my taste. The touch of magical realism is seamlessly woven throughout, holding my attention and pulling me into a vulnerable, deeply human character study. More than once, I found myself double-checking to make sure this wasn’t a nonfiction memoir—the protagonist’s journey feels that vivid and real.
The Renovation tackles heavy themes: a parent’s dementia and Türkiye’s political turmoil over the past decade. Despite this, it never feels overwrought; instead, it’s resonant and surprisingly balanced. For someone who doesn’t regularly engage with Türkiye’s politics, it’s also insightful without being overly academic. As an immigrant myself, I found the depiction of complicated feelings toward one’s homeland strikingly accurate—on the surface, countless reasons to leave, yet underneath, an unbreakable emotional longing. Oddly enough, Crying in H Mart by Michelle Zauner kept coming to mind while I was reading this—likely because of its reflective portrayal of a parent–child relationship.
Ultimately, The Renovation was a refreshing change of pace from my usual thriller and horror reads: more introspective and serious, yet still delightfully quirky thanks to its unconventional setup and fluid, unpretentious writing style. There’s so much metaphor and symbolism to unpack that I know this story will stick with me for a long time.
**This ARC was provided by the publisher via NetGalley in exchange for an honest review. Much appreciated!**
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July 31, 2025For every exile, there is a family of hostages, a host of lovers, friends, colleagues, rivals, affable greengrocers, lascivious taxi drivers - all left behind in their hostage's bindings, and the country calls out that it misses you, don't you miss it back?
How does one escape a homeland turned dictatorship? As it turns out, one cannot — the prison follows them wherever they go. In a feat of magical realism, Kenan Orhan vividly depicts what it means to never escape one's country of origin, especially when forced to flee. Considering my own country's long but definitive path toward an outright dictatorship, I can't say I haven't been thinking about leaving recently, so this novel hit too close to home. And that's good. I needed to know that, even if I left, the prison would follow me.
How does one escape a homeland turned dictatorship? As it turns out, one cannot — the prison follows them wherever they go. In a feat of magical realism, Kenan Orhan vividly depicts what it means to never escape one's country of origin, especially when forced to flee. Considering my own country's long but definitive path toward an outright dictatorship, I can't say I haven't been thinking about leaving recently, so this novel hit too close to home. And that's good. I needed to know that, even if I left, the prison would follow me.
August 4, 2025
⭐⭐⭐⭐
In this story we follow Dilara, a Turkish school psychologist who has exiled herself to Italy. Our story starts when what was supposed to be a renovated bathroom turns out to be a cell in a well-known Turkish prison. In this tale we explore a plethora of topics such as being a caregiver of your dad, homesickness for a country you abandoned, and the ambiguity it brings. It was filled with beautiful and purple prose and a very rich inner monologue.
While the premise is quite bizarre, the book is mainly character-focused, accepting the magical realism that is present throughout it. The book could be described as melancholic, with lots of longing, whether it's for a dead parent, an absent husband, or the past that will never come back. Additionally, as we follow the past timeline where she still lived in Turkey, we get a lot of insight about the political climate and historical facts, which was reminiscent of The Island of Missing Trees by Elif Shafak. Overall, a highly recommended novel for those who are looking for an emotional novel with some touches of magical realism.
Thanks to NetGalley and Farrar, Straus and Giroux for the eARC in exchange for an honest review!
In this story we follow Dilara, a Turkish school psychologist who has exiled herself to Italy. Our story starts when what was supposed to be a renovated bathroom turns out to be a cell in a well-known Turkish prison. In this tale we explore a plethora of topics such as being a caregiver of your dad, homesickness for a country you abandoned, and the ambiguity it brings. It was filled with beautiful and purple prose and a very rich inner monologue.
While the premise is quite bizarre, the book is mainly character-focused, accepting the magical realism that is present throughout it. The book could be described as melancholic, with lots of longing, whether it's for a dead parent, an absent husband, or the past that will never come back. Additionally, as we follow the past timeline where she still lived in Turkey, we get a lot of insight about the political climate and historical facts, which was reminiscent of The Island of Missing Trees by Elif Shafak. Overall, a highly recommended novel for those who are looking for an emotional novel with some touches of magical realism.
Thanks to NetGalley and Farrar, Straus and Giroux for the eARC in exchange for an honest review!
June 15, 2026
complex and messy, just like life (in a good way)
April 16, 2026
Picked this up to read along with the NYT Book Review podcast and while this is not my usual fare, I did think it was well-written, but sad. Dilara, her husband and her father are exiles from Turkey, living in a small Italian village. Her father's writing and teaching forced them to flee and while they are physically safe, they are all unhappy about the situation. The father has Alzheimer's and is deteriorating rapidly. Dilara is his primary caretaker and her husband buckles and leaves due to the stress and the new bathroom renovation in their apartment. The new bathroom is a prison cell from their old country and once it cannot be removed, Dilara spends more and more time there. Turkish politics fuel this story and Dilara's decision making is driven by her desperate circumstances after she loses her job and income. Looking forward to hearing the discussion of this book; it is relatively short, but very moving.
March 13, 2026
This book has a very promising premise. I was expecting a story that would really make me question things like: "What's happening?" But well … sadly, it did not meet my expectations. I hoped the magical realism element would feel stronger, and the prison cell would be explored much deeper, with more mystery around it. Instead, I felt the story focused more on other things, and the prison cell became less important than I expected. I also didn't relate to the characters or feel the metaphor the author was trying to deliver. In the end, this book is just not for me. But it might be for you.
June 11, 2026
What a wild conceit! A woman and her husband are caring for her aging Father who is deep in the throes of Alzheimer's disease, they are having a bathroom renovation done and the builders will not let them see a thing until it's complete. When it's finally finished the woman proceeds to pull back the tarp and a bathroom she does not find! what is there is a real life prison cell, an actual portal into the infamous Silivri Prison in Istanbul. What!?!?
I really liked this book, it surprised me the whole way along and the ending knocked me over. This book speaks to what it feels like to miss your homeland and what it feels like to take care of someone you love. It's a book of displacement and exile, the sense of disquietude throughout is unsettling, and I enjoyed the author's thoughtful writing style very much. There is magical realism that doesn't care about your "why" and "how" questions and while there is a portal into a prison there is also so much grounded in reality, in real life Turkey, in very real people with very real problems. This was not a plot heavy book, but it was so profound, so much to think about. 5 stars all the way!
I really liked this book, it surprised me the whole way along and the ending knocked me over. This book speaks to what it feels like to miss your homeland and what it feels like to take care of someone you love. It's a book of displacement and exile, the sense of disquietude throughout is unsettling, and I enjoyed the author's thoughtful writing style very much. There is magical realism that doesn't care about your "why" and "how" questions and while there is a portal into a prison there is also so much grounded in reality, in real life Turkey, in very real people with very real problems. This was not a plot heavy book, but it was so profound, so much to think about. 5 stars all the way!
January 19, 2026
"𝘕𝘰𝘸 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘢 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘪𝘨𝘯 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘺, 𝘴𝘸𝘪𝘮𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘤𝘦𝘢𝘯 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘣𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦."
Dilara was thorough with the builders when it came to the bathroom renovation. They discussed and selected materials and products and determined cost. So, she is shocked to find that instead of a new bathroom, the builders have somehow built a portal to a Turkish prison cell. While she is upset at first, she grows to enjoy the sanctuary of the cell as a connection to her homeland and a respite from the growing pressures of her marriage, caring for her aging father, and trying to build a meaningful life in Italy, the country she now calls "home".
This was a quick read that really packs a punch. It's beautifully written and while it's themes make it heavy and emotional, it was easily readable. It tackles concepts of migration and otherness, aging and the hardships of caretaking, memory and family dynamics. The prison cell acts as a perfect metaphor for Dilara's experience, as caregiver and political refugee.
What I most took away while reading was the insight into the contemporary politics of Turkey, and how eerily similar the authoritarianism mirrors the situation in America. Arresting and brutalizing vocal citizens, changing the names of institutions and organizations to cement legacy. It happened in Turkey, it's happened many places before, it's happening here, and that's terrifying.
Thank you to NetGalley and FSG for the ARC. I requested this solely for the cover so colour me happily surprised! This is a wildly impressive debut novel, following Orhan's short story collection from a few years ago, and I think he's definitely one to watch.
Dilara was thorough with the builders when it came to the bathroom renovation. They discussed and selected materials and products and determined cost. So, she is shocked to find that instead of a new bathroom, the builders have somehow built a portal to a Turkish prison cell. While she is upset at first, she grows to enjoy the sanctuary of the cell as a connection to her homeland and a respite from the growing pressures of her marriage, caring for her aging father, and trying to build a meaningful life in Italy, the country she now calls "home".
This was a quick read that really packs a punch. It's beautifully written and while it's themes make it heavy and emotional, it was easily readable. It tackles concepts of migration and otherness, aging and the hardships of caretaking, memory and family dynamics. The prison cell acts as a perfect metaphor for Dilara's experience, as caregiver and political refugee.
What I most took away while reading was the insight into the contemporary politics of Turkey, and how eerily similar the authoritarianism mirrors the situation in America. Arresting and brutalizing vocal citizens, changing the names of institutions and organizations to cement legacy. It happened in Turkey, it's happened many places before, it's happening here, and that's terrifying.
Thank you to NetGalley and FSG for the ARC. I requested this solely for the cover so colour me happily surprised! This is a wildly impressive debut novel, following Orhan's short story collection from a few years ago, and I think he's definitely one to watch.
October 7, 2025
The premise of the novel is surreal and delivers on the magic realism: An exile from Turkey living in Italy with her ailing father discovers, in place of a renovated bathroom, an en suite prison cell. Not just any prison cell, but a specific women's prison in Turkey—effectively creating a portal or hinge between her two worlds.
Home and homeland. Home and "step father country" as the narrator Dilara once describes it, feeling as though her very identity is different in Italy due to, among other things, living in a new language. And not just because she's less proficient:
"As we learn a new language... we become a different person. As we access different linguistic structures, our personalities shift: to refelct the different concepts available to us through different words... In Italian, I have become a more buoyant peroson. I know the words for happy, nice, beautiful, joyful, kind, generous, love, warmth... I'd lost that melancholic language I had grown so reliant upon in Turkish." But the realization itself is a melancholic one, full of regret and yearning.
I found these reflections on personhood in relation to nationhood fascinating, especially because the narrator's father is in the late stages of dementia and losing his memories. In fact, he's never really left Turkey due to his mind's degeneration. Yet he's surely becoming less of the person he used to be—but is he less of a person all together?
Honestly, Dilara's yearning for a Turkey that doesn't exist anymore due to the authoritarian government and her evolving relationship with her father (the descriptions of caretaking a deteriorating parent are truly moving) are the highlights of this book.
The prison as an extended metaphor becomes clear and maybe a bit too pat by the end—I won't spoil it. But shockingly, given the premise and subject matter, the pace feels off as though there's a lack of stakes. The novel becomes a slog at times, indulging in historical exposition dumps that sit atop the story like a film rather than being absorbed into and enriching the texture of the prose.
Ultimately, I'm happy I read it for several key moments and passages but I did need to force myself to finish.
[I received an advance copy of this book through NetGalley. Thank you to the publisher! Opinions are my own.]
Home and homeland. Home and "step father country" as the narrator Dilara once describes it, feeling as though her very identity is different in Italy due to, among other things, living in a new language. And not just because she's less proficient:
"As we learn a new language... we become a different person. As we access different linguistic structures, our personalities shift: to refelct the different concepts available to us through different words... In Italian, I have become a more buoyant peroson. I know the words for happy, nice, beautiful, joyful, kind, generous, love, warmth... I'd lost that melancholic language I had grown so reliant upon in Turkish." But the realization itself is a melancholic one, full of regret and yearning.
I found these reflections on personhood in relation to nationhood fascinating, especially because the narrator's father is in the late stages of dementia and losing his memories. In fact, he's never really left Turkey due to his mind's degeneration. Yet he's surely becoming less of the person he used to be—but is he less of a person all together?
Honestly, Dilara's yearning for a Turkey that doesn't exist anymore due to the authoritarian government and her evolving relationship with her father (the descriptions of caretaking a deteriorating parent are truly moving) are the highlights of this book.
The prison as an extended metaphor becomes clear and maybe a bit too pat by the end—I won't spoil it. But shockingly, given the premise and subject matter, the pace feels off as though there's a lack of stakes. The novel becomes a slog at times, indulging in historical exposition dumps that sit atop the story like a film rather than being absorbed into and enriching the texture of the prose.
Ultimately, I'm happy I read it for several key moments and passages but I did need to force myself to finish.
[I received an advance copy of this book through NetGalley. Thank you to the publisher! Opinions are my own.]
May 25, 2026
Thanks to NetGalley and Farrar Straus and Giroux for providing me with an eARC.
This was a very unique story and I've never seen such a use for a portal. In principle this book didn't really require the whole prison instead of a bathroom part but it definitely strengthened the metaphorical interpretation of the book. It's a lot about how someone misses their homeland and would do anything to know more about what's going on there and the way one feels lonely and almost imprisoned in a place so far removed from their culture. I did learn quite a bit about the Turkish political situation which was nice. The parts about Dilara being her father's caretaker felt very raw, especially the way she was balancing it with going into the prison frequently to take breaks and to distance herself from the pain. My only issue with the book was that it was very difficult to realize where the timeline shifts were happening. Sometimes I'm deep into a section when I realize it's either a past recollection or just her dreams/thoughts. The writing was straightforward but impactful. I would recommend this to anyone interested in Turkish politics and the feeling of loneliness felt by migrants/immigrants in a different country.
This was a very unique story and I've never seen such a use for a portal. In principle this book didn't really require the whole prison instead of a bathroom part but it definitely strengthened the metaphorical interpretation of the book. It's a lot about how someone misses their homeland and would do anything to know more about what's going on there and the way one feels lonely and almost imprisoned in a place so far removed from their culture. I did learn quite a bit about the Turkish political situation which was nice. The parts about Dilara being her father's caretaker felt very raw, especially the way she was balancing it with going into the prison frequently to take breaks and to distance herself from the pain. My only issue with the book was that it was very difficult to realize where the timeline shifts were happening. Sometimes I'm deep into a section when I realize it's either a past recollection or just her dreams/thoughts. The writing was straightforward but impactful. I would recommend this to anyone interested in Turkish politics and the feeling of loneliness felt by migrants/immigrants in a different country.
March 5, 2026
Dilara, an immigrant to Italy from Turkey, hires a few dodgy builders to renovate her ensuite bathroom at her house in Baronissi, Italy. It is to accommodate her dying father. What she finds, is a complete prison cell, a replica of one at Istanbul’s huge Silivri Prison, along with guards and fellow inmates with whom she is able to converse to regularly.
As obvious a metaphor as it seems, Orhan writes Dilara’s character as deadpan, a child psychologist trying to understand the meaning of her new world.
There’s a few reasons I don’t think that the attractive premise works well; Dilara not questioning the situation she finds herself in, and also that the book soon becomes overtly political.
As obvious a metaphor as it seems, Orhan writes Dilara’s character as deadpan, a child psychologist trying to understand the meaning of her new world.
There’s a few reasons I don’t think that the attractive premise works well; Dilara not questioning the situation she finds herself in, and also that the book soon becomes overtly political.
May 18, 2026
A twisted and fascinating way to talk about care and at the same time about authoritarianism. The writer has a poetic prose. At times the sections explaining the political context in Turkey felt too polisci and too targeted to a Western (ignorant) audience but there was something captivating and raw about the book. A promising writer too for sure.
March 28, 2026
I read Kenan Orhan’s debut book in one sitting. It reflected back to me feelings I had been afraid to admit to myself. Was drawn to it, yet also worried about the premise—that it might feel too familiar, even triggering. And yet, the comforts of home Dilara found in the prison were a kind of balm to my grief. Helped embrace the idea of having many homes, even if there remains a constant longing for the homeland, for the people we once were.
September 15, 2025
The Renovation by Kenan Orhan is a haunting, surreal debut, a meditation on memory, displacement and psychological scars. When her second bathroom is renovated to resemble a notorious prison cell. Dilara, a psychologist caring for her dementia suffering father in Italy, is troubled by this invasion of a past they were attempting to escape into this, their present. Orhan keeps the reader guessing, and reality and fiction fuse as the narrative books deepen into the reader, with the lyricism of Orhan's prose carrying us through.
This was a staggering debut in its ambition - and though I feel a second read might solidify it in my mind - on first reading it is still gripping and insightful. I am certainly very keen to see what Kenan Orhan does next - I feel we might be at the beginning of a great career here.
Thank you to Netgalley and the publishers for the ARC.
This was a staggering debut in its ambition - and though I feel a second read might solidify it in my mind - on first reading it is still gripping and insightful. I am certainly very keen to see what Kenan Orhan does next - I feel we might be at the beginning of a great career here.
Thank you to Netgalley and the publishers for the ARC.
June 11, 2026
This is really interesting! A Turkish woman living in exile in Italy finds her renovated bathroom opens into a notorious Turkish prison.
Short and powerful, this novel questions different kinds of exile and imprisonment; the protagonist also cares for her aging father who has dementia.
This is well suited for a book club discussion and the New York Times has a great podcast episode about it.
Read if you like Murakami.
Short and powerful, this novel questions different kinds of exile and imprisonment; the protagonist also cares for her aging father who has dementia.
This is well suited for a book club discussion and the New York Times has a great podcast episode about it.
Read if you like Murakami.
May 24, 2026
I read this book because it was selected for the nyt book review podcast for discussion. While the podcasters seemed charmed by the conceit (of a renovation introducing a prison cell, or a portal of some kind to a prison, into an apartment - opening line: "I DON’T KNOW BY what accident the builders had managed it, but instead of a remodeled bathroom attached to my bedroom, they had installed a prison cell."), this was the least interesting (and almost off-putting) part of the book for me. Luckily, I felt like this was not the main focus of the book, which actually (to me) focused on grief, memory, migration/immigration, Turkey, parents & children ("My father told me a lot that he was sorry for everything his life had done to my life. “It is meaningless for me to say this, though. It is the apology owed all children by their parents.”") (and I mean the dedication is to caregivers, which is a focus I'm fascinated by). I mean I guess it was an allegory for many situations, but it didn't focus on some magical realist part of the whole thing.
I found the presentation and discussion of Turkey to perhaps be my favorite part of the book. ("
My father was the sort of secular Turk who considered the headscarf ban central to modern Turkish identity. ... admit I hated it too, hated how easy it was to fall into a misogynistic dichotomy of headscarf or anti-headscarf, how easy it was to politicize hair regardless of what you believed and how absolutely impossible it was to be a woman and exist without its politics, but I hated most of all how many women were never given a true choice in this country." "Turkey’s names were changed and changing—a state-sanctioned act of collective memory to further entrench the regime in the foundations of the country so that Erdoğan’s legacy would be subsuming the state entirely into his person.") I also liked the discussion of parts of the Turkish diaspora ("“We don’t know what sorts of Turks they have here in Italy,” he said. “Maybe nice, yes. Maybe like us, yes. Maybe, though, they are those lunatic Gülenists, or maybe, like in Germany, they all vote for Erdoğan so long as they don’t live under his roof.”")
Also, I just really liked the writing in this book. Take the simple line: "“You need to take care of yourself,” I told him. “Stop, stop,” he said. When I took his hands, they jumped like frogs out of my palms." There's nothing extraordinary about that, and yet I don't think I've read anything quite like it. How evocative, how interesting, how quickly it conveys its message. There are also parts of this book that are funny ("One evening, very rationally, in the same tone he would use for one of his well-rehearsed lectures, my father said: “I’m scheming.” “What?” “I’m scheming,” he said in an unexpectedly intentional tone.") but sometimes tragically so in the context of Alzheimer's.
This book will bring to mind Kafka. And maybe Exit West. The podcast also called out We Do Not Part, which I think is a good one.
Normally, when I'm reading a book I'm going to give a 5 star review, I am in love with it while reading it. I didn't feel that way about this book. But in reflecting back on it and how good it is, I'm bumping it up. I think this would be a good book club book, and I think it's one of the better books I've read by a male author with such a clear focus on a female main character.
So, I said the whole prison cell part was my least favorite part, but I will say it sure does pack a wallop at the end! ("Then I fetched the huge bucket I had bought from the hardware shop and started to mix the mortar. I chucked my things into the cell and started stacking the bricks, spreading mortar carefully between them. From inside the prison, I built a wall sealing me off from my bedroom, sealing me in the cell ... My body was in a cell in Silivri Prison, and it would now never leave it.")
I found the presentation and discussion of Turkey to perhaps be my favorite part of the book. ("
My father was the sort of secular Turk who considered the headscarf ban central to modern Turkish identity. ... admit I hated it too, hated how easy it was to fall into a misogynistic dichotomy of headscarf or anti-headscarf, how easy it was to politicize hair regardless of what you believed and how absolutely impossible it was to be a woman and exist without its politics, but I hated most of all how many women were never given a true choice in this country." "Turkey’s names were changed and changing—a state-sanctioned act of collective memory to further entrench the regime in the foundations of the country so that Erdoğan’s legacy would be subsuming the state entirely into his person.") I also liked the discussion of parts of the Turkish diaspora ("“We don’t know what sorts of Turks they have here in Italy,” he said. “Maybe nice, yes. Maybe like us, yes. Maybe, though, they are those lunatic Gülenists, or maybe, like in Germany, they all vote for Erdoğan so long as they don’t live under his roof.”")
Also, I just really liked the writing in this book. Take the simple line: "“You need to take care of yourself,” I told him. “Stop, stop,” he said. When I took his hands, they jumped like frogs out of my palms." There's nothing extraordinary about that, and yet I don't think I've read anything quite like it. How evocative, how interesting, how quickly it conveys its message. There are also parts of this book that are funny ("One evening, very rationally, in the same tone he would use for one of his well-rehearsed lectures, my father said: “I’m scheming.” “What?” “I’m scheming,” he said in an unexpectedly intentional tone.") but sometimes tragically so in the context of Alzheimer's.
This book will bring to mind Kafka. And maybe Exit West. The podcast also called out We Do Not Part, which I think is a good one.
Normally, when I'm reading a book I'm going to give a 5 star review, I am in love with it while reading it. I didn't feel that way about this book. But in reflecting back on it and how good it is, I'm bumping it up. I think this would be a good book club book, and I think it's one of the better books I've read by a male author with such a clear focus on a female main character.
So, I said the whole prison cell part was my least favorite part, but I will say it sure does pack a wallop at the end! ("Then I fetched the huge bucket I had bought from the hardware shop and started to mix the mortar. I chucked my things into the cell and started stacking the bricks, spreading mortar carefully between them. From inside the prison, I built a wall sealing me off from my bedroom, sealing me in the cell ... My body was in a cell in Silivri Prison, and it would now never leave it.")
April 10, 2026
NetGalley review:
This is a book that is meant to be read slowly and I thoroughly enjoyed it.
The concept intrigued me and most definitely delivered.
Many brilliant quotes throughout the book that I have a feeling I will return to.
I'm fortunate enough to never have experienced fleeing a country or feeling the pain that is losing a loved one to dementia but I felt the contradicting feelings of Dilara.
Reading this I realized how little I know of Turkish politics and the regime that has ruled for a decade. This is, contrary to what I've heard of before, a very open critique of the governmental rule, and one that will probably follow me for a while.
Thank you to NetGalley for the ARC copy of this book.
This is a book that is meant to be read slowly and I thoroughly enjoyed it.
The concept intrigued me and most definitely delivered.
Many brilliant quotes throughout the book that I have a feeling I will return to.
I'm fortunate enough to never have experienced fleeing a country or feeling the pain that is losing a loved one to dementia but I felt the contradicting feelings of Dilara.
Reading this I realized how little I know of Turkish politics and the regime that has ruled for a decade. This is, contrary to what I've heard of before, a very open critique of the governmental rule, and one that will probably follow me for a while.
Thank you to NetGalley for the ARC copy of this book.
October 17, 2025
The very first page of The Renovation is a dedication, to all caregivers. The story itself opens with the main premise, that a botched bathroom renovation job has replaced Dilara and her husband’s apartment bathroom in Italy with a prison cell in Türkiye. From there we learn a bit about Dilara’s family history, and that she is a Turkish immigrant to Italy and taking care of her aged father who has been suffering from dementia. At this point I wasn’t too impressed. Imprisonment as a metaphor for caregiving, it’s a bit on the nose. But the novel has more to say and the metaphor becomes more layered. It goes on to explore the political conditions in Türkiye that caused Dilara and her husband and father to leave for an unfamiliar country, and what exactly she left behind. It explores the hidden costs of a state’s slide into an authoritarian regime. The prison becomes a metaphor for both the personal and the political, and the way those aspects of one’s life are vitally enmeshed. Ultimately it had me fully engrossed. Feels like whatever the opposite of an escapist read would be, reading from 2025 Chicago, but because of that it felt necessary.
March 12, 2026
Instead of a new bathroom, Dilara finds the builders have installed a Turkish prison cell in her flat. She starts spending more time there talking to the prisoners and remembering Turkey to avoid her father dying of dementia in her (real) flat. Surreal and sad and very well-written without being pretentious.
“Exile is an abusive relationship, and even when you leave…your homeland reaches out a cruel hand and injures you again, even here, even in your haven, because what people don’t mention about exile is the hostages it creates.”
“Exile is an abusive relationship, and even when you leave…your homeland reaches out a cruel hand and injures you again, even here, even in your haven, because what people don’t mention about exile is the hostages it creates.”
February 10, 2026
3.75⭐️
Magical realism meets recent turkish history lesson (in an angsty manner)
In turkish we say, you can remove a person from Turkey, but you can't remove Turkey from a person. As an immigrant myself, I felt this to my core while reading this. political struggles, taking care of sick parents, different approaches to the current events even within our families, trying to find a job that aligns with our education and skills in a foreign country.
Thank you to the publisher and netgalley for the arc, this is my honest opinion.
Magical realism meets recent turkish history lesson (in an angsty manner)
In turkish we say, you can remove a person from Turkey, but you can't remove Turkey from a person. As an immigrant myself, I felt this to my core while reading this. political struggles, taking care of sick parents, different approaches to the current events even within our families, trying to find a job that aligns with our education and skills in a foreign country.
Thank you to the publisher and netgalley for the arc, this is my honest opinion.
March 22, 2026
I don’t always love magical realism, but the strangeness of the concept — a renovated bathroom that turned out to be a jail cell in Silivri Prison — grabbed me straight away. The complex relationship between the protagonist and her father was another highlight.
April 7, 2026
This is a book of magic realism- not my favorite genre. The protagonist is a woman who has emigrated to Italy from Turkey with her father, an academic who has been black-listed by the Turkish government, and her husband who is very paranoid and anxious. She renovates a room into a bathroom in her apartment only to find when the contractors leave that it is prison cell in a notorious Turkish prison. As her father, who suffers from Alzheimer's, gets worse, and her husband abandons her, the woman begins to spend more and more time in the prison cell, which assuages her homesickness for Turkey. The parallels between the eroding of democracy by a strongman in Turkey are pretty uncomfortable in 2026 America and I emphasized with the woman's homesickness and the strain of caring for a loved one who is slipping away but I just couldn't buy the prison conceit.
April 20, 2026
Despite its magical realism, this novel captures a very realistic and relatable human experience. I connected with aspects of Dilara's immigrant experience--feeling displaced, caught between two countries, and not fully at home in either. The tension of caring for a parent who has become dependent was well-written, capturing that conflicted sense of obligation, "owing them everything and owing them nothing."
At times, the main character is frustrating, making questionable decisions--but I guess that makes her feel human. The pacing could have been tighter; the narrative occasionally drags, and some passages feel more indulgent than purposeful.
At times, the main character is frustrating, making questionable decisions--but I guess that makes her feel human. The pacing could have been tighter; the narrative occasionally drags, and some passages feel more indulgent than purposeful.
Review of advance copy received from Netgalley
When we emigrated, something about my dad’s condition, something about how he conflated the present with the past, kept me feeling safe—like we were bringing a little of the old Istanbul with us. It wasn’t so bad to leave the apartment I had grown up in, it wasn’t so bad to become an exile, it wasn’t so bad that our homeland was in ruins, because we had with us a little old man carrying its halcyon days in a kerchief on a stick. His voice came from before all the loss. The way he talked was a bridge to our lives left behind. Maybe that is what we do—the children, I mean: we make our parents into portals.
The debut novel from a Turkish-American author previously known for his short stories (and prize listed short story collection “I Am Country”) – and this novel too is an expanded version of a short story of the same name published in “The Atlantic” in 2023 and proceeding from the same premise.
A Turkish family (widowed political activist and University lecturer Father, school psychologist daughter and her accountant husband) fled Istanbul in 2017 after the threats of imminent repressive action from the Erdoğan regime became too clear to ignore and emigrate to a small commune in the Italian countryside (in Campania), the father by now suffering more and more clearly from dementia, the daughter/wife Dilara (our first party narrator) is unable to get a job and her husband can only get work as a mechanic.
At the story/novel’s opening – builders carrying out a renovation to expand the small en-suite in their bedroom (so as to let the Father – who now stays with them full time) instead inexplicably install a prison cell (straight from Silviri Prison – incidentally now Mamara Prison, the renaming of things by Erdoğan’s regime is a side-subject of the novel): a cell which turns out not just to resemble an Istanbul prison cell but to actually be one as prison guards walk outside the cells.
The guard, who really could have been my contractor in disguise, seemed genuinely shocked to see me. “What, what is this?” he exclaimed in Turkish. He paused with a stupefied look on his face, and I asked him in Italian to explain himself. Confused, he asked me in Turkish what I wanted. “Where am I?” I responded in Turkish. “Are you sick? Silivri Prison.” I was growing impatient. “That’s not right. This is supposed to be a waterfall shower with two heads and massaging jets and a marble bench.” “Massaging jets, haha! No, this is the prison.” “But what’s it doing in my bathroom?” I asked.
For her fearful husband this is too much and he moves away, for her Father increasingly lost in his own world it is of little consequence but for Dilara this leads to a complex set of emotions.
Initially it more brings back her memories of the deteriorating political regime in Turkey which lead to the families exile – we trace the history forwards from the Gezi Park protests, through to the July 2015 Gülen coup and beyond alongside the increasing erosion of political and human rights and of the economy, and the erosion of the secular Turkish republic.
And aside this she reflects on the experience of politically imposed exile – and though the prison cell and its sights and sounds (and the stories of the fellow prisoners who start to fill up neighbouring cells and who she starts to join in exercise periods) she starts to find same nostalgic even if laced in tragedy escape that she had originally found in her Father’s memories frozen in the past (he for example increasingly thinks she is her mother/his wife) – as tries to hold on to her own memories and sensory impressions of Istanbul.
And this leads to a series of moving passages and thoughtful reflections and a powerful and appropriate ending.
In an Atlantic interview accompanying the short story the author described articulately his choice of an absurdist premise to capture both political exile and neurological illness for a reader who has never experienced either, as well as the way in which both threads (exile and dementia) conflate ideas of memory, longing and loss – and I will quote this at length as it captures the novel’s ideas so well:
I have been obsessed with memory and loss lately. The idea of an ailing father, and a family in exile, fell out of the sky because I’ve been thinking about such things, reading about them too. Soon a dichotomy revealed itself, and I think dichotomies are a good base for short stories. There is natural tension and irony in the relationship: One person wishes only to remember, and one person can’t do it at all.
We pull a lot of our identities out from the soils of where we have lived, especially where we grew up. I think for anyone who has left behind some limb of themselves in another, unrevisited place, our natural inclination is to reexperience the things we miss through pictures. Often I find myself instead talking with relatives about memories of Istanbul, usually completely unspurred by external factors. Maybe we’re at a restaurant, and I might say I miss the marzipan of our favorite confectioners in Bebek. Then we take turns remembering the bakery and peripheral moments and then other places, almost like driving up the street of time, and they are nostalgic discussions—melancholic and brooding—but communal, sometimes even competitive (who can remember more precisely?). It’s a less harsh way of realigning our memories than relying on photographs. Photographs are unforgiving with their starkness. Relatives can allow for a freedom of reality. And that is what the narrator is doing, I think. She is using her father’s memories almost as a plane to travel back home. She wants to use his stunted memory to hold on to a past now obliterated. She is maintaining a pathway back to the city, back to her happiness and homeland, but as this starts to fade, she finds a similar tonic—a similar pathway—in the magic of the prison cell.
Alzheimer’s or any sort of neurological disease or mental illness is difficult to capture with realism, at least in any way that is interested in the experience of the illness. I don’t view reality as stably as I might, and I often find realism too impersonal for my taste. Political exile, on the other hand, is such an absurd and strange notion on its own that perhaps, like very good comedies and slapsticks, the more seriously you take it, the better it will be. But now I’ve now conflated seriousness with realism. I think a weakness of realism is that sometimes its scenes only speak deeply to those already affected by or familiar with the conditions described. That is why I favor a bit of surrealism/fabulism. The surreal can bridge the gaps of experience by weirding life down to a more universal ether. Someone who has never missed a homeland can better understand the longing when memories become magical. Loss and grief then become starker in the absence of this golden magic.
I include this at length as I think it captures so well why for me this was an outstanding novel – a melancholic but still powerful one which uses a unique device to cleverly conflates and capture two experiences (an elderly loved on suffering both a physical and mental reversion away from normality; and living under an oppressive regime which not just rides over accepted political norms but tries to redefine and relabel normality) which feel like increasingly are becoming the inevitable if terrible destiny of all our lives and all our countries.
As an aside I would say that the novel (as I commented) has universal applicability – but did have particular resonance for me – Istanbul was one of my favourite Cities in the world for its unparalleled history, fabulous cuisine (especially when served in Bosphorous-side restaurants some of which – just as for the narrator with a key memory – are perhaps idealised in my mind) and fantastical continent spanning location; and I spent various working trips there in the early 2010s working with various Turkish insurers and prospective investors in what was then seen as a country on an inevitable political and economic trajectory towards the West …….. so (to a very small extent) I share the narrator’s regret-tinged nostalgia for what has been lost.
A novel I would love to see gain prize recognition – not least on the Booker Prize (although I think the Orwell Prize and National Book Award are also strong possibilities).
My thanks to Penguin General and Farrar Strauss and Giroux for an ARC via NetGalley.
May 7, 2026
Strange, Beautiful Novel
The prose in this little novella is magnetic and the metaphor manages to carry you through despite having no real story. Briefly, a Turkish political exile living in Italy discovers a prison cell off her bedroom. It turns out that the cell is in a Turkish prison, and so may represent her feelings about her homeland changing without her while she both loves what it was and loathes what it is becoming.
At the same time, her father is suffering Alzheimer’s and deteriorating inexorably. It’s sad and beautiful and fanciful and I don’t really know what it means. I was expecting more magical realism based on the premise but other than the one wormhole it takes no real liberties.
More internal than external, it feels to be exploring the narrator’s internal experience more than taking her anywhere. Usually I’m not high on that kind of book but this one I loved.
The prose in this little novella is magnetic and the metaphor manages to carry you through despite having no real story. Briefly, a Turkish political exile living in Italy discovers a prison cell off her bedroom. It turns out that the cell is in a Turkish prison, and so may represent her feelings about her homeland changing without her while she both loves what it was and loathes what it is becoming.
At the same time, her father is suffering Alzheimer’s and deteriorating inexorably. It’s sad and beautiful and fanciful and I don’t really know what it means. I was expecting more magical realism based on the premise but other than the one wormhole it takes no real liberties.
More internal than external, it feels to be exploring the narrator’s internal experience more than taking her anywhere. Usually I’m not high on that kind of book but this one I loved.
Read
June 3, 2026The opening sentence of Kenan Orhan’s The Renovation is so self-contained, so intriguing, so deadpan funny, that it would be criminal if I didn’t quote it:
“I don’t know by what accident the builders had managed it, but instead of a remodeled bathroom attached to my bedroom, they had installed a prison cell.”
It’s all well and good to start with a cracking first sentence, but, I hear you ask, does the rest of The Renovation deliver on that opener? The answer to that question is… not straightforward. While the first section of The Renovation is surreal and funny, as Dilara tries to get to the bottom of how and why the builders turned her bathroom into a cell,* past the first thirty pages the story grows ever darker in tone. In short, if you’re expecting a wry satire about house renovations, this is not the novel for you.
To be fair, the hints (more than hints, really) are present from the outset. Dilara, along with her husband and father, is a Turkish exile living in Salerno, Italy. The prison cell is no ordinary cell, but one of the 11,000 and counting that make up Turkey’s notorious Silivri Prison (AKA Marmara Penitentiaries).** Dilara is so incensed with the renovation gone wrong that, when she encounters a guard on the other side of her cell, she barely registers the name of the prison.
Dilara doesn’t tell her husband, once an accountant, now an academic, or her father, once a renowned academic, now suffering from dementia, about the bathroom-cum-prison cell. But there’s only so long you can hide an en-suite, and when her husband finds out, he does a runner, leaving Dilara, who hasn’t yet found work, with few resources and an ailing father.
“Other days still there was nothing exceptional about [my father’s] physical health, but sitting in his chair he would stare for extended periods without moving or blinking, and I could see something begin to churn beneath his face. I could see a man who had lost a word. Then another and another and another. Even before we left Istanbul, my father spoke fewer than half the sentences he used to, couldn’t remember such easy words as onion, house key, bedsheet.”
Like you, I’m aware that Erdoğan’s authoritarian regime is one of the most oppressive in the world, right up alongside Russia and North Korea. What I’d forgotten (or never knew) was that Erdoğan really cracked down after surviving a military coup in 2016.*** But even if you’re cognisant of the coup and Erdoğan’s subsequent crackdown on secular institutions and academics like Dilara’s father, who were labelled terrorists, insurgents, enemies of the state, the facts read differently when reduced to the personal, and that’s what Orhan achieves so effectively.
The question I tussled with was: do we need the prison? Do we need a metaphor for Dilara’s pain, given what she has experienced and is still experiencing—escaping Turkey, her father slowly, horribly fading away, her inability to find work, and her absent husband? Isn’t all that already awful enough?**** But, of course, the prison isn’t symbolic of Dilara’s struggles. If anything, it’s an escape. The quiet space she can enter to get away from her dying father and an emptying bank account. She even furnishes the cell with knick-knacks and books. I’d say a home away from home, but in a very real sense this cell is Dilara’s home. It’s a reminder of everything she loved about Turkey, but also everything she has lost—a place she can never escape, no matter how far she runs. So, yes, The Renovation wouldn’t be the novel it is, wouldn’t be as powerful and sobering, without the surrealism of that cracking opening line and everything it entails.
*As it happens, my bathroom was being remodelled with a waterfall shower when I read The Renovation (due to subsidence, if you must know). So this bit resonated:
“That’s not right. This is supposed to be a waterfall shower with two heads and massaging jets and a marble bench.”
**I knew of it, but not the extent of the horrific conditions.
***Look, a lot of shit happened in 2016.
****Though he frequently rings Dilara, hoping she’ll get as far away from the cell as possible. Because, to be clear, he loves his wife; he just can’t face what their bathroom has become.
“I don’t know by what accident the builders had managed it, but instead of a remodeled bathroom attached to my bedroom, they had installed a prison cell.”
It’s all well and good to start with a cracking first sentence, but, I hear you ask, does the rest of The Renovation deliver on that opener? The answer to that question is… not straightforward. While the first section of The Renovation is surreal and funny, as Dilara tries to get to the bottom of how and why the builders turned her bathroom into a cell,* past the first thirty pages the story grows ever darker in tone. In short, if you’re expecting a wry satire about house renovations, this is not the novel for you.
To be fair, the hints (more than hints, really) are present from the outset. Dilara, along with her husband and father, is a Turkish exile living in Salerno, Italy. The prison cell is no ordinary cell, but one of the 11,000 and counting that make up Turkey’s notorious Silivri Prison (AKA Marmara Penitentiaries).** Dilara is so incensed with the renovation gone wrong that, when she encounters a guard on the other side of her cell, she barely registers the name of the prison.
Dilara doesn’t tell her husband, once an accountant, now an academic, or her father, once a renowned academic, now suffering from dementia, about the bathroom-cum-prison cell. But there’s only so long you can hide an en-suite, and when her husband finds out, he does a runner, leaving Dilara, who hasn’t yet found work, with few resources and an ailing father.
“Other days still there was nothing exceptional about [my father’s] physical health, but sitting in his chair he would stare for extended periods without moving or blinking, and I could see something begin to churn beneath his face. I could see a man who had lost a word. Then another and another and another. Even before we left Istanbul, my father spoke fewer than half the sentences he used to, couldn’t remember such easy words as onion, house key, bedsheet.”
Like you, I’m aware that Erdoğan’s authoritarian regime is one of the most oppressive in the world, right up alongside Russia and North Korea. What I’d forgotten (or never knew) was that Erdoğan really cracked down after surviving a military coup in 2016.*** But even if you’re cognisant of the coup and Erdoğan’s subsequent crackdown on secular institutions and academics like Dilara’s father, who were labelled terrorists, insurgents, enemies of the state, the facts read differently when reduced to the personal, and that’s what Orhan achieves so effectively.
The question I tussled with was: do we need the prison? Do we need a metaphor for Dilara’s pain, given what she has experienced and is still experiencing—escaping Turkey, her father slowly, horribly fading away, her inability to find work, and her absent husband? Isn’t all that already awful enough?**** But, of course, the prison isn’t symbolic of Dilara’s struggles. If anything, it’s an escape. The quiet space she can enter to get away from her dying father and an emptying bank account. She even furnishes the cell with knick-knacks and books. I’d say a home away from home, but in a very real sense this cell is Dilara’s home. It’s a reminder of everything she loved about Turkey, but also everything she has lost—a place she can never escape, no matter how far she runs. So, yes, The Renovation wouldn’t be the novel it is, wouldn’t be as powerful and sobering, without the surrealism of that cracking opening line and everything it entails.
*As it happens, my bathroom was being remodelled with a waterfall shower when I read The Renovation (due to subsidence, if you must know). So this bit resonated:
“That’s not right. This is supposed to be a waterfall shower with two heads and massaging jets and a marble bench.”
**I knew of it, but not the extent of the horrific conditions.
***Look, a lot of shit happened in 2016.
****Though he frequently rings Dilara, hoping she’ll get as far away from the cell as possible. Because, to be clear, he loves his wife; he just can’t face what their bathroom has become.
May 29, 2026
There is home and there is a homeland, and they aren’t always the same. —Part V, 236
After hearing MJ Franklin of NYT Book Review rave about The Renovation, I knew I had to read it. The conceit seeds intrigue: Dilara, a Turkish immigrant to Italy and caregiver to her father, a persona non grata of the Erdoğan regime and Alzheimer’s victim, discovers her bathroom has been renovated to be an actual Turkish prison cell, complete with scowling prison guard. With dark humor and prose full of surprises, Orhan takes the reader through the challenges Dilara faces daily, alleviated by her growing dependency on the prison cell.
Orhan’s writing creates, in his word combinations, what I can only inadequately describe as a 4-D literary experience. Let me just cite a couple of examples. To start, when Dilara tries to talk with the first inmate in her prison wing, she describes the new woman’s voice as “familiar...crawling up out of the shadows of my memory.” The voice becomes ambulatory over Dilara’s skin, which isn’t unheard of, but this voice comes not from the outside but within Dilara, a dark part of her own memory. Dilara perseverates on the feeling of this voice, still in motion: “her voice paced nervously back and forth in the air, weaving like a grist of bees about their hive.” Again, the voice "paced" in the air, moving like flying insects, not as a swarm, which would be the appropriate combination, but as grist, a dense and granular grouping of bees. The word “grist” comes from the Germanic grind, what millers back in the day called the grain crushed into flour or mash for making beer. The word continued to gain meaning with the additional nuances of substantive research to support an argument and of practical knowledge that improves a situation. Here, Orhan’s image piles together this idea of argument and bee stings swirling into interlacing threads around the beehive, which we could call home or the homeland. The question we should ask is, what are the bees doing exactly? Are they protecting the hive? Or, are they moving to attack? Orhan may suggest here that the struggle Dilara experiences comes from her inability to detach herself from, or at least come to terms with, her homeland.
As I read, Yesteryear kept entering my thoughts unbidden because it also plays with a dual storyline, but with a significant difference. Each novel presents an intriguing conceit with dual storylines. Yesteryear has the wholesome tradwife influencer moving back and forth in time and The Renovation the magical portal connecting a real Turkish prison cell and a tiny Italian apartment. What the tradwife arc lacks is the clarity about why her move in time happens. The immigrant caregiver arc delivers here. We sense Dilara’s mental health teeter on the edge of a blade forged from ambiguous loss and cultural enmeshment.
I also thought of Marcel Proust, a writer I love. Before the moans and groans, let me explain. Proust wrote of the power of memory, how thoughts arise from simple circumstances. He also wrote with dark humor at times and at other times with poetry. Orhan does the same in fewer pages with a fresh perspective on caregivers, immigration, politics, family relationships, and a homeland.
An extraordinary read.
After hearing MJ Franklin of NYT Book Review rave about The Renovation, I knew I had to read it. The conceit seeds intrigue: Dilara, a Turkish immigrant to Italy and caregiver to her father, a persona non grata of the Erdoğan regime and Alzheimer’s victim, discovers her bathroom has been renovated to be an actual Turkish prison cell, complete with scowling prison guard. With dark humor and prose full of surprises, Orhan takes the reader through the challenges Dilara faces daily, alleviated by her growing dependency on the prison cell.
Orhan’s writing creates, in his word combinations, what I can only inadequately describe as a 4-D literary experience. Let me just cite a couple of examples. To start, when Dilara tries to talk with the first inmate in her prison wing, she describes the new woman’s voice as “familiar...crawling up out of the shadows of my memory.” The voice becomes ambulatory over Dilara’s skin, which isn’t unheard of, but this voice comes not from the outside but within Dilara, a dark part of her own memory. Dilara perseverates on the feeling of this voice, still in motion: “her voice paced nervously back and forth in the air, weaving like a grist of bees about their hive.” Again, the voice "paced" in the air, moving like flying insects, not as a swarm, which would be the appropriate combination, but as grist, a dense and granular grouping of bees. The word “grist” comes from the Germanic grind, what millers back in the day called the grain crushed into flour or mash for making beer. The word continued to gain meaning with the additional nuances of substantive research to support an argument and of practical knowledge that improves a situation. Here, Orhan’s image piles together this idea of argument and bee stings swirling into interlacing threads around the beehive, which we could call home or the homeland. The question we should ask is, what are the bees doing exactly? Are they protecting the hive? Or, are they moving to attack? Orhan may suggest here that the struggle Dilara experiences comes from her inability to detach herself from, or at least come to terms with, her homeland.
As I read, Yesteryear kept entering my thoughts unbidden because it also plays with a dual storyline, but with a significant difference. Each novel presents an intriguing conceit with dual storylines. Yesteryear has the wholesome tradwife influencer moving back and forth in time and The Renovation the magical portal connecting a real Turkish prison cell and a tiny Italian apartment. What the tradwife arc lacks is the clarity about why her move in time happens. The immigrant caregiver arc delivers here. We sense Dilara’s mental health teeter on the edge of a blade forged from ambiguous loss and cultural enmeshment.
I also thought of Marcel Proust, a writer I love. Before the moans and groans, let me explain. Proust wrote of the power of memory, how thoughts arise from simple circumstances. He also wrote with dark humor at times and at other times with poetry. Orhan does the same in fewer pages with a fresh perspective on caregivers, immigration, politics, family relationships, and a homeland.
An extraordinary read.
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