The Legacy My Father Left Me

My father was a civil servant. He sent all three of his children to college—me to medical school and my two brothers to dental school. He hadn’t been able to go to college himself; poverty had prevented him from doing so. But he wouldn’t let the same obstacle stand in the way of his children.

The greatest legacy my father left me wasn't money or property. It was a way of being.

Throughout my life, I never saw him bow down to anyone. He never encroached on anyone’s rights, nor did he allow anyone’s rights to be trampled upon. He was poor, but his poverty never tainted his character. He had few resources, but he never compromised his dignity. He wasn’t the kind of person who constantly gave us advice; he didn’t feel the need to, anyway. He didn’t tell us how to live—he showed us by living that way himself. From him, I learned that there should be no discrepancy between a person’s words and actions, and that straying from truth is the greatest form of poverty.

I was a girl. But in our home, that meant neither a privilege nor a disadvantage. My father never even mentioned the possibility that I might not go to school. Whatever rights my brothers had, I had those same rights. It wasn’t until much later, during my college years, that I learned women could be considered second-class citizens.

My mother shouldered the burden of running the household. My father brought home his paycheck. We did our best to make ends meet. Most of the time, it wasn’t enough, but somehow it always worked out. Because in some families, it’s not money that flows through the home, but self-sacrifice.

I remember our one-room house with a stove. After everyone had gone to sleep, I’d go into that room and study until morning. I didn’t have a desk. I studied on the carpet, wearing out my elbows. I couldn’t go to a cram school or take private lessons. In the summers, I worked to earn my own spending money. Starting in my sophomore year of college, I worked and studied at the same time.

Years later, I came to better understand something my father once said:

“After you started college, I’d give you parts of my salary for rent and spending money, and when I laid my head on my pillow, I’d give thanks, thinking, ”We made it through another month.’”

We didn’t have much. But we learned to share what we had. We learned to produce, not to ask for things. We learned to persevere, not to complain.

During the years I worked, I would sleep on tarpaulins used as makeshift stretchers and go to school in the morning. I remember one morning seeing street children lying on top of one another on the sidewalk. That day, I made a promise to myself:

One day, I’ll work to give people a warm home.

Maybe it was just a child’s way of thinking. But some words become a person’s destiny.

The stories of the victims and the oppressed have always tugged at my heartstrings. I didn’t have to be the one on the receiving end of injustice. Just seeing it was enough. I stood up against it—with my hands if I could, or with my words if I couldn’t. That’s why one of the phrases I’ve heard most often throughout my life is this:

“What’s wrong with you?”

But that was exactly the point. It was happening to me.

Because a person’s conscience is not merely a compass given to them to protect their own life.

Then books came into my life.

People who pay a price while trying to make the world a little more just. Those who refuse to be silenced. Those who speak out. Those who are willing to stand alone.

The more I read them, the less lonely I felt.

During the years I spent abroad, I could have stayed there. I could have lived more comfortably and earned more money. But I chose to come back. Because sometimes people choose a sense of belonging over material comfort. I felt that I belonged to this country—with all its flaws, its mistakes, and its beauty.

I'm back.

I have taught students.

I treated patients.

I served in public service for twenty-eight years.

I reached out to people in need as much as I could. Perhaps it would have been possible to earn more under the bright lights of the big cities. But I chose to stay in Anatolia. Because sometimes a person’s prayer is more valuable than all career calculations put together.

Today, the two implants in my neck are silent witnesses to the wear and tear of the years. When I look at them, I don’t think of what I’ve lost, but of what I’ve worked so hard to achieve.

That’s where my perspective on politics comes from.

I have never viewed politics as a means to secure a position. Nor have I viewed it as a means to amass wealth. To me, politics is an effort to make the rules that shape people’s lives more just. It is an opportunity to fill the gaps where justice is lacking.

Maybe I've been chasing the same thing my whole life.

First, for a student to be able to read…

Then, for a patient to recover…

Now, in order for a citizen to be able to claim their rights…

Because the greatest wealth in a person’s life is being able to look back and see how many people they’ve touched.

My father is still alive today. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve come to understand him better. I now realize that what I thought of as self-sacrifice when I was a child was actually a matter of great character. Whatever I’ve accomplished today, I owe in part to the quiet determination of that man who raised three children on a civil servant’s salary.

He didn’t teach us about wealth; he taught us hard work, honesty, and how to live with our heads held high. He taught us to judge people not by their status, but by their humanity. Most importantly, he taught us never to compromise our integrity, even in difficult times.

A person’s true legacy is not the money they leave their children; it is the moral values they instill in their character.

My greatest blessing, however, is that my father—who passed this legacy on to me—is still by my side.