Sertel’s autobiography is divided into broad time periods, each covering multiple sections. To convey the breadth of her narrative, we’ve chosen representative sections from the various periods. They show her struggle, piercing insights into key moments in history and how Sertel foreshadows Turkey’s increasingly authoritarian state almost a century later.
Period 1: Introduction to Life
In this section, Sertel describes the traumatic event that radicalized her as a feminist at age eight.
Salonica (now Thessaloniki, Greece), 1903, Sabiha Nazmi at eight years old. She was heavily influenced by growing up in the cosmopolitan, multicultural, multi-ethnic city, a hub for revolution as the Ottoman Empire collapsed.
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I was eight years old, the youngest of six siblings. My father was the chief clerk at the Salonica35 customs office and supported our family on his meagre income. One day, the customs accountant insulted him, telling him he wasn’t fit to be chief clerk. Enraged, my father resigned his post. We were left with only a small pension to live on. Our family became destitute. We lived in a house called the Sunday Tekke,36 which belonged to my paternal aunt. It was a neat, beautiful house with a garden, but we only had two rooms.
My father was a true patriarch. Every morning, when he went to the outhouse, my mother would wait for him outside the door, holding a pitcher and towel to wash his hands and feet when he emerged. One day, I asked her:
‘Are you my father’s servant?’
‘All women are their husband’s servants,’ she said. ‘I won’t be my husband’s servant.’
‘Yes, you will.’
‘Then I won’t get married.’
‘Yes, you will.’
(I did get married, but I never was my husband’s servant.)
This was the first incident that prompted me to defend women’s rights. The second was the way in which my parents divorced. It was summer. My maternal aunt was
35 TN: Now Thessaloniki in Greece. 36 TN: Dervish Lodge. Sabiha’s great-grandfather was a leading figure in the local branch of the Mevlevi Dervish order.
moving to the Salonica resort known as Yalılar.37 My mother had gone along to help her sister with the move. Eventually, it grew dark, but my mother didn’t return. My father paced around the room in a rage, grumbling to himself. When she finally came through the door, he exploded. He kept yelling and yelling, not letting her explain why she was late. I was on the sofa, trembling like a bird. My father grabbed a My father grabbed a chair and stormed at my mother. I buried my head in the pillows of the sofa so I wouldn’t see what happened next. I was crying.
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I heard my father’s voice: ‘You are hereby divorced! I divorce you!’
I looked up from the sofa. The storm had passed. My mother had shrunk into a corner of the room. Meekly, she emerged and took me by the hand. We went upstairs.
‘I have to go now,’ she said.
I clung to her hem. ‘Take me with you,’ I begged. ‘Don’t leave me here.’
The next day, my maternal uncle came to pick us up. We were given a room in a
wooden house left by my grandfather. It had been divided up after his death, so each room was inhabited by a different family. The house was far from the city centre and on the verge of collapse. Our room had a dirt floor. We shared a kitchen at the end of the hallway.
My brothers Mecdi Eren and Hidayet Eren had defended my mother against my father and now took on the responsibility of providing for us. Hidayet, the oldest, was a clerk at a commercial firm. Mecdi, the youngest brother, found a job at the Singer machine company. He split his time between school and work. My middle brothers were students: Celal Deriş studied at the Faculty of Law in Istanbul and Neşet Deriş in Paris. My father had always discouraged my brothers from studying and told them to work instead, but thanks to my mother’s efforts, we had all gone to school.
My mother herself sewed to shore up the family budget. She was the one who carried the weight of our family of eight on her shoulders. Whenever I think of those days, I am filled with endless love and respect for her. The day she died, at the age of 78, I kissed her cold, lifeless hand with the very same feelings.
My parents’ divorce left a deep mark on me as a child. Seeing a mother of six beaten up and thrown out of her home left me with a deep hatred for all forms of coercion and oppression. I found myself rebelling against every injustice I witnessed. I’m sure this is the main reason I embraced women’s issues when I first entered public life and started writing for Büyük Mecmua.
I also felt miserable for being a burden to my siblings. I wanted to study, make something of myself, earn my own living. When I was younger and couldn’t go to university because women weren’t allowed, my peers and I founded a reading group called the Society for Advancement. I also furthered my education by taking lessons from three male teachers. My sole desire was to find a vocation. And so, when offered the chance to write for the journal, I chose to devote myself to women’s issues.
I looked up from the sofa. The storm had passed. My mother had shrunk into a corner of the room. Meekly, she emerged and took me by the hand. We went upstairs.
‘I have to go now,’ she said.
I clung to her hem. ‘Take me with you,’ I begged. ‘Don’t leave me here.’
The next day, my maternal uncle came to pick us up. We were given a room in a
wooden house left by my grandfather. It had been divided up after his death, so each room was inhabited by a different family. The house was far from the city centre and on the verge of collapse. Our room had a dirt floor. We shared a kitchen at the end of the hallway.
My brothers Mecdi Eren and Hidayet Eren had defended my mother against my father and now took on the responsibility of providing for us. Hidayet, the oldest, was a clerk at a commercial firm. Mecdi, the youngest brother, found a job at the Singer machine company. He split his time between school and work. My middle brothers were students: Celal Deriş studied at the Faculty of Law in Istanbul and Neşet Deriş in Paris. My father had always discouraged my brothers from studying and told them to work instead, but thanks to my mother’s efforts, we had all gone to school.
My mother herself sewed to shore up the family budget. She was the one who carried the weight of our family of eight on her shoulders. Whenever I think of those days, I am filled with endless love and respect for her. The day she died, at the age of 78, I kissed her cold, lifeless hand with the very same feelings.
My parents’ divorce left a deep mark on me as a child. Seeing a mother of six beaten up and thrown out of her home left me with a deep hatred for all forms of coercion and oppression. I found myself rebelling against every injustice I witnessed. I’m sure this is the main reason I embraced women’s issues when I first entered public life and started writing for Büyük Mecmua.
I also felt miserable for being a burden to my siblings. I wanted to study, make something of myself, earn my own living. When I was younger and couldn’t go to university because women weren’t allowed, my peers and I founded a reading group called the Society for Advancement. I also furthered my education by taking lessons from three male teachers. My sole desire was to find a vocation. And so, when offered the chance to write for the journal, I chose to devote myself to women’s issues.
37 TN: The district takes its name from yalı (pl. yalılar), a seaside mansion built out of wood.
fundraising events she staged for the Turkish resistance, and her efforts at organizing and unionizing Turkish and Kurdish factory workers in New York City and Detroit .