From Serfie Turkoglu…
If you are a child, immigration looks like an adventurous journey. You feel newborn, an alien among strange faces in an unknown country. You never look back and question your past, because you’re too busy adapting yourself to a new and mysterious life. When I came to Turkey from Bulgaria as a child, my past life was just a story for me. Thinking of Bulgaria is like digging up a distant memory buried within the farthest reaches of my mind.
I was born in 1987 in Blagoevgrad, Bulgaria. My parents are Pomaks, Bulgarians of Muslim faith. Before Muslims were subjected to the assimilation policy, which includes changing Turkish names to Bulgarian ones, converting people from Islam to Orthodoxy, and forbidding the traditional dress of Muslims, they lived in their lands in peace with Bulgarians side by side. They were neighbors and had – and still have now – good relations with each other. There was no difference among them except for their faiths and religion was never singled out as an issue. They had much in common with each other. They spoke the same language, lived in the same villages, worked in the same fields, attended the same schools and learned the same history.
I don’t know why the state was disturbed by Muslims and imposed the assimilation policy on them during these times. They didn’t attempt to take power or create havoc in the community. On the contrary, it was the attempts of the state to clear off Muslims that created chaos in our society. Whenever I ask my grandfather about the events happening in our village, he gloomily tells me about the destruction of the mosques. The mosque in my village was partly destroyed and shut down, so that people could no longer worship there. Moreover, circumcision was illegal and Muslim families had to have their boys circumcised secretly. Women were not allowed to wear their traditional dresses. Everything related to Islamic culture was forbidden and those who didn’t comply with the rules were harshly punished. My parents tell me that at first, they endured these events. However, Bulgaria’s attempt to change the names of Muslims and forbidding people to speak Turkish was the final straw. (Although our family lived in an area where no one spoke Turkish anyway) It was one thing after another, after another, as they Bulgarian state tried to force my parent’s generation to forget their culture, tradition and identity. Finally, my parents decided to leave.
I was a kid when these things were happening. That’s why I was not influenced by the chaotic atmosphere of my birthplace. I was interested in the fun parts of my life. My Bulgarian name was Elka and I was sorry that my sister’s name was more appealing than mine. I had many Bulgarian friends in kindergarten. I was raised in a mixed culture, which was a big pleasure for me. On the one hand, I was celebrating “bayram” with my family; on the other, I was painting Easter eggs with my friends. Neither they nor I was concerned with the faiths of others. The most important thing was friendship and we enjoyed it to the fullest. It was how things should be.
Life was fun only for children at the time. Grown ups were fighting with one another over identity and honor. My grandfather’s brother was killed in a fight between Bulgarian police officers and Muslims. There were many rebellions against the regulations placed upon Muslims and he was one of those seeking his rights. Bulgaria’s assimilation policy brought disorder, death, and horror to the people – and nothing else. The Muslims minority was soon discriminated against, since supposedly the anarchy was due to their existence. Therefore the Muslims immigrated to other countries, especially to those places where they could pursue their religion freely.
In 1992, when I was only 5, we left behind our house, our lands, our beloveds and our friends, and came to Turkey full of hope and promise. My grandfather said that we were Turks anyway and should be proud of that. When I asked him why we didn’t immigrate elsewhere, he told me that Turkey is like our hometown; our ancestors are Turks, and a result we should live under the Turkish flag. At the time, it sounded strange to me. How could I be a Turk if I didn’t even know how to speak Turkish? This question stayed with me for years.
The only thing I remember about the journey is the whistle of the train and endless railway line. My mother hid us under the blankets in order not catch attention. The first years in Turkey were great disappointment for us. Our luggage was kept in customs for six months and we had nothing to sleep on except for blankets given to us by neighbors. It was definitely a transition from wealth to poverty. In Bulgaria my family farmed their own land and lived in a big house, where all of us were happy. Now, we were penniless and my parents were unemployed. My grandfather spent all our money, so as to get back our luggage from customs. We started off with nothing.
The most difficult factor was language. We were total strangers to the Turkish people, as they were to us. We couldn’t communicate with them for months. I remember one day my mom went to the shop to buy yogurt. She didn’t know how to say it and tried to imitate milking a cow to the shop keeper. They gave her a bottle of milk, but she said “not milk” with her gestures. Only when one of our neighbors came to the shop to help her, could she buy the yogurt. Another similar moment passed between my grandmother and a neighbor. Needing some onions, my grandmother asked a neighbor and it took her half an hour to describe the shape of an onion. When I think about these events, I feel sorry for my family. Adaptation is much easier for a child, but what about a grownup? My grandfather still doesn’t know Turkish. Think about a person who lives in Turkey for 17 years without speaking the language. At first, I couldn’t understand why they gave up their entire life. What are all these struggles for? Now I see things more clearly. They left all they had behind for me; because they considered things enough to think about their children and grandchildren, and to provide us with a better life!
Three years ago, I went to Bulgaria for the second time. Seeing how my relatives live there, I thanked my family for immigrating to Turkey. The poor conditions of farmers in Bulgaria make people miserable. I never saw them in clean clothes; because they work from five in the morning to seven at night. Even more tragic, they’re never paid what they deserve. When they learn how comfortably we live in Turkey, they’re shocked. These people can’t imagine how one could spend more money on pleasures or pastime activities, than on food and shelter.
We now have a better life and it is thanks to sacrifices of my parents. A few months after we came to Turkey, my dad and mom began to work. In order to save money, they worked day and night. Sometimes I felt as if I didn’t have a mother, because I almost never saw her for a while. My sister and I got used to spending time with my grandmother. She was taking care of us and we weren’t allowed to go out. In the beginning, we were strangers in this country, so we felt as though we should be careful.
While my family was adapting to a new life, I was preparing to go to school and enrolled in kindergarten. At last I was to see my new world. My first day was a disaster. I was shocked to see that all these kids didn’t know a single word of my language. I still find it funny when I think of how I never thought that it was actually me who couldn’t speak their language. After school, I rushed to my grandmother and told her that none of the students could speak. She laughed at me and told me that I had to learn their language if I wanted to be a successful student. From then on, I began to speak Turkish at school. I was a successful student. Thanks to my teacher, I learned reading and writing in kindergarten.
Unfortunately, my success at kindergarten was not enough for Turkish elementary schools. I had to have an identity card, so as to be accepted into a primary school. That’s why I couldn’t attend the school immediately after I finished the kindergarten. I was in my blue school uniform, a notebook and pencil in my hand, when the director told me they couldn’t accept me as a student. I cried all day. I cried because I didn’t have this identity thing, something I had no idea about at the time.
The following year I was accepted to school thanks to my residence card. Now I was like the rest of the students – at least that’s what I thought. In my first year, when the teacher held a meeting about the class, he talked about my high grades in the classroom. I was the best student in the class and my dad was proud of me. However, the other children’s parents were disturbed by this. How can a foreigner know more than a Turkish student? This was the only question they asked during the meeting. My teacher was strictly against such discrimination and defended me, stating that my performance had nothing to do with nationality. I was successful because I studied hard. When I think about my school days, I suffered a bit at the hands of my friends’ discriminatory thinking. Whenever they got angry with me, they told me me I was just a “Bulgarian!” At first I was upset by such words, but I soon learned not to be.
The most humiliating moment came when I was in the 4th grade. A kid was harassing my sister and in order to protect her, I hit him. The boy reported my actions to his teacher. I was called to their classroom. and the teacher began to shout at me. Who did I think I was? How dare I do such a thing? He pulled my ear and asked me for my school number. Preparing myself to say my permanent residence number, as I didn’t have a national ID card, he told me “You’re not even from here; you are just a visitor!”
This was the most humiliating moment of my life. Whatever a kid does in elementary school, no teacher has the right to treat a student like that. But I was a little child and couldn’t even tell my parents. I will never forgive the immaturity of this man.
Years passed. My parents got better jobs with salaries I was a successful student and took care of my sister, who was now in elelementary school. Five years after we came to Turkey, we were about to become Turkish citizens. I’d soon have all the rights of a real Turk, which made me very happy. Now that I had a national ID card, I could attend to scholarship exams. At the time, life meant only school for me. I never once went out of town in the five years we were there. Manisa was the only place I knew. So I studied hard to become a good student and make my family proud of me. Wasn’t this why they came to Turkey?
Mother, Father . . . Thank you for coming to Turkey! I know you lost all your family and friends in order to provide us with a better life. I am doing my best to honor you.
There are many people who’ve experienced similar things like me around the world. Nowadays, almost nobody lives in their mother country anymore. People give importance to cultural diversity, so it is less difficult to be a stranger in a new country now. I often think of how all the difficulties we underwent all those years ago have so much meaning know. I am in one of the best universities of Turkey, writing this very article . . . and I owe this to my family. I have never thought of myself a stranger, because it’s not your birthplace, but your identity that makes you an individual. Thanks to my parents, I know who I am and for that I am grateful.
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