On Morality

Having left a small town in Anatolia and found himself studying in Germany on a state scholarship, my father, having absorbed the German work ethic—rooted in the Protestant Work Ethic—which he witnessed there, instilled it deep into his very being and, upon returning to his homeland, He worked for many years as a ‘white-collar’ manager. He believed that selfless work, producing high-quality work and always prioritising work in one’s life constituted a simple form of self-discipline necessary for an honourable life; he instilled this ethical outlook not only in the factories where he worked but, naturally, in us as well.

He never went on holiday with us, took no interest in our private lives, and didn’t even feel like talking when he came home, but to us, my father was the very symbol of respect. He was hard-working and moral. In my childhood, ‘being moral’ in ‘my neighbourhood’ was synonymous with honesty, hard work and earning a halal living. In my world, the word ‘morality’ never once evoked associations with a woman’s body. After all, growing up in the 1970s on one of the modest streets of Ethem Efendi Street in Erenköy demanded just that of all of us. Back then, shopkeepers would always put a little extra into the bag to ensure customers weren’t short-changed on the scales.

For me and my peers, ‘right’ and ‘left’ were simply the directions we needed to know to hold a pen or a fork, whereas for our older neighbours studying at university, they clearly meant much more. Because they were ‘left-wing’, they couldn’t cross over to the other side of the market—where Ethem Efendi’s stall was set up and which was mostly dominated by ‘right-wingers’. So much so that the task of carrying the heavy bags from the weekly neighbourhood market – despite having children as tall as herself – fell to the neighbour’s aunt.

Turkey in those days certainly discussed different issues and endured different hardships, and I, with my child’s mind, could not fully grasp this. But I had come to believe that being young meant having ideals and living for a cause. I was a child of a neighbourhood where people rarely commented on one another’s bodies, relationships or way of life. For us, the greatest outsider was Zeki Müren, who was even banned from appearing on television at the time. In fact, my family rather liked him.

Then I grew up. Like most of the post-coup generation, I joined the crowds as a young person who was apolitical, trying to build a career in the private sector, feeling privileged because of my qualifications, but occasionally struggling to find my footing when it came to my talents and values. It wasn’t as if I was someone who’d simply followed the mainstream without finding my own ideals. Society was pulling everyone down to its average.

The passing years changed my behaviour, my ideas and even my values. But certain things, ingrained deep in my childhood, remained constant. For me, morality has always been synonymous with being honest, hard-working and earning a living in a lawful manner. Not stealing, not cheating, not asking for more than what is rightfully yours, and striving to fulfil the task entrusted to me – much like a shopkeeper who puts a little extra on the scales – by giving, if possible, a little more than expected, has become my guiding principle. Even when I made mistakes, my point of reference was clear. The truths instilled in me during my childhood became my touchstone. 

In adulthood, our childhood becomes our dowry. Even a small measure of sensitivity that we pass on to a child—whether at home, at school, on the street, or in social settings—where our love and care have touched them, holds the power to transform a future adult. Especially at a time when we feel the erosion of work ethics so deeply and the concept of morality is being debated through the lens of women’s bodies, I have found myself clinging even more tightly to my ‘dowry’.

Emine Ebru Arslan