On Ethics

My father, who left a small town in Anatolia and found himself studying in Germany on a state scholarship, was deeply influenced by the German work ethic he observed there, which was rooted in Protestant work ethics. He returned to his homeland and worked for years as a "white-collar" manager. He believed that this ethic—of selfless work, quality craftsmanship, and always prioritizing work in life—was a simple form of asceticism for an honorable life. He carried this ethic not only to the factories where he worked but, naturally, to us as well.

He didn't go on vacation with us, he didn't care about our private lives, and when he came home, he didn't even feel like talking, but my father was a symbol of respect for us. He was hardworking and moral. In my childhood, "being moral in my neighborhood" was synonymous with honesty, hard work, and earning a halal income. When I think of morality, the first thing that comes to mind is that it was never associated with a woman's body in my world. After all, growing up in the modest streets of Erenköy Ethem Efendi Caddesi in the 70s required this of all of us. At that time, shopkeepers would always put a little extra in the bag when they took your money, so that you wouldn't get short-changed.

For me and my peers, left and right were simply directions we needed to know to hold a pen or a fork, but for our older sister and brother who were studying at university, they clearly meant much more. Because they were "leftists," they couldn't cross over to the market side established on the other side of Ethem Efendi, where mostly "rightists" held sway. So much so that carrying the heavy bags from the neighborhood market, which was held once a week, fell to the neighbor aunt, despite her children being as tall as she was.

Back then, Turkey talked about different things, suffered different pains, and I couldn't really understand that with my childish mind. But I believed that being young meant having ideals and living for a purpose. I was a child from a neighborhood where people didn't talk much about each other's bodies, relationships, or lifestyles. For us, the biggest outsider at the time was Zeki Müren, who was even banned from appearing on television. Our people loved him anyway.

Then I grew up. Like most children of the post-revolution era, I joined the masses as an apolitical young person striving to build a career in the private sector, feeling privileged because of my degrees but occasionally struggling with my talents and values. I wasn't one of those who followed the mainstream and couldn't find their ideals. Society was pulling everyone towards the average.

The past years have changed my behavior, my ideas, and even my values. But some things ingrained in the deepest part of my childhood have remained unchanged. For me, morality has always been synonymous with being honest, hardworking, and earning a halal income. Not stealing, not cheating, not asking for more than what is rightfully mine, and striving to give a little more than expected—like a shopkeeper who puts a little extra on the scale—has been my guiding principle. Even when I made mistakes, my reference point was clear. The touchstone was the truths that were instilled in me during childhood. 

In adulthood, our dowry becomes our childhood. Even a small gesture of sensitivity that we convey to a child who is the object of our love and attention at home, at school, on the street, or in social settings has the power to transform an adult in the future. Especially in these times when we feel the erosion of work ethics so deeply and when the concept of morality is debated through the lens of women's bodies, I have become even more attached to my dowry.

Emine Ebru Arslan