By Barbara Hardinghaus
Muharrem E., says Turan, respected the law -- he never even ran a red light. He wanted to make sure, says Turan, that he would never make a mistake.
Turan, now 30, returned to Turkey, to Istanbul, 10 years ago when she married. When she read the text message her brother had sent her after the abduction, she immediately flew to Munich.
A few days after the hearing, Turan pays a visit to the Turkish Islamic Association, where she talks to the staff and walks through the rooms where her father often helped out, where the organization offers German language courses and where it holds open houses for German neighbors, hoping to break down their prejudices. She sits down in the office and pushes her sunglasses into her long hair, which she wears in a ponytail. She says that the family didn't tell her about her sister's German boyfriend for a long time.
Sascha and Fatma met in front of the bulletin board at their vocational school, when they were both signing up for classes on the first day of the program. The first thing he noticed about Fatma was her dark locks.
They went out for ice cream a few times. Then they began writing letters to each other. Fatma left one of Sascha's love letters on her desk one day, in the room she shared with her brother. Mehmet saw the letter, read it and wanted to know what it meant. That was three years ago.
Mehmet decided to meet Sascha. When the two met at a streetcar station, he asked Sascha whether he was serious about Fatma. Sascha nodded, which was enough for Mehmet. Later, when Fatma's mother asked Mehmet what was wrong with her daughter, who had begun wearing makeup, Mehmet told her that she was in love with Sascha, a German boy.
The brother and the mother called Turan in Turkey and told her the story.
Father Muharrem kept on reading his Koran, as he did every evening, and pulling out his prayer rug from a closet in the bedroom, laying it out on the floor and praying until sundown. Then he would watch the news on television, as he did every evening. But he knew nothing about Fatma and Sascha.
Whenever Muharrem E. visited the Turkish Islamic Association, he would laugh, tell jokes and serve tea and Coca-Cola.
Sascha and Fatma saw each other every morning, during school breaks and in the school's workshop, where she sewed and he upholstered furniture, and on the S4 streetcar in the afternoon.
Muharrem E. was kept in the dark about the romance for two years.
But when the two began skipping class to see each other and their grades suffered, and when Fatma failed her exams, her father became concerned. Suddenly Muharrem E., who knew that his youngest daughter had had a high fever as a baby and had been a slow learner, and who wanted her to complete her training, asked her brother and mother what was wrong with Fatma.
They told him.
One morning in the spring of 2006, Mehmet confronted Sascha on the school grounds and asked him why he was in love with Fatma. Sascha responded: "I just happen to love her."
"You can't be together with her," Mehmet said.
From then on Fatma was told to be home on time, and if she wasn't, perhaps because her train was late, her brother would hit her. He did it because his father had told him to.
The family went to Turkey on vacation in the summer. Fatma missed Sascha, and when they returned to Munich she went to Sascha's apartment and spent the night with him, for the first time.
The family reported the incident to the police, but they were told that Fatma was of age and living in Germany.
From then on, when he visited the community center Muharrem E. was no longer as jovial as he had once been, but no one knew why.
He sent his wife to the school, where she managed to talk to Fatma. They talked for 15 minutes, embraced and drove home together. One day, she had left her engagement ring on the living room table as she took a shower and it disappeared. After a week, she left the family's apartment a second time.
When Muharrem E. spent time in the hospital for a knee operation and asked to see his daughter, Fatma didn't visit. After that, when he would go to the community center, his friends asked him why he had suddenly become so angry and aggressive. Muharrem E. said nothing and started going to work at the factory even earlier than usual. Around this time, Mehmet starting thinking about moving out.
There were too many problems in his family. Mehmet wanted to be part of a world in which he was German, but he also wanted to remain his father's son. On a Sunday Muharrem, Mehmet and Fatma's mother sat down at the kitchen table and talked about what they should do. They put together a plan.
It was three days later, on Dec. 13, a Wednesday, when they left the apartment early in the morning, at 6 a.m., when it was still dark out.
That was when everything fell apart. The man who had managed to become a perfect German was suddenly a foreigner who had failed to integrate.
According to Turan, the eldest daughter, the people at the community center said: "The daughter of Mr. E. ran away." No one said: "Fatma ran away."
"Do you understand?" she asks.
The family's honor and reputation were at stake. People in the Turkish community had already started talking about Muharrem. Turan says that in many Turkish families things can only go well as long as German values and Turkish values don't collide. It's a common problem in the community, she says.
According to Turan, her father only realized that he had done something wrong when he was sitting in the courtroom, listening to what people had to say, when the prosecutor argued that he should be sentenced to seven years in prison without the possibility of parole, and when the judge rendered his verdict.
"In the criminal matter against Muharrem E., case number 114 Js 12862/06, the defendant is guilty of extortion and kidnapping, coinciding with aggravated assault," the May 24 conviction read. "The court imposes a prison sentence of three years and nine months, without parole." In explaining his decision, the judge said that the case bordered on the next step, an honor killing. The sentence, he said, was meant to send a message.
Mehmet was sentenced to three years and three months, without parole, and mother Nivet to one year and six months, also without parole.
The brother and the mother seemed frozen in place, as did Muharrem E., until the officers took them away.
They didn't even know what they would have done to Sascha -- whether they would have let him go, once they had reached Fatma on the phone.
Turan is looking for a home for the family's pet, a gray parrot, and she is thinking of selling the apartment. She plans to fly home to Turkey in a few days.
Mehmet was recently transferred to Stadelheim Prison, where his father is being held. The two will run into each other in the prison yard. They will see each other, but they will no longer speak.
Mehmet has decided to be part of a world in which he is German.
On the Saturday after the trial, Sascha and Fatma are sitting at his sister's kitchen table. The sun shines through the window while the sister's cats play on the floor.
Sascha is wearing a light-blue football jersey -- 1860 Munich, his favorite team. He has tickets for the evening match, but first he and Fatma, who are getting married this summer, will go to a carnival. As they sit at the table, talking, they flip through a magazine for young parents they picked up at the pharmacy. Fatma is pregnant.
Sascha says that he is doing well now. Fatma also feels good about herself and, despite everything, she says that she still loves her father very much.
Muharrem E. shares his cell with four other prisoners. He sleeps on the upper level of a bunk bed. His knee gives him trouble. He has a few articles of clothing and two pairs of reading glasses.
When he leaves the prison in three years, Muharrem E. will find himself standing where he was when he first came to Germany -- at the beginning.
Translated from the German by Christopher Sultan
Post to other social networks:
Stay informed with our free news services:
| All news from SPIEGEL International | Twitter | RSS |
| All news from Germany section | RSS |
© SPIEGEL ONLINE 2007
All Rights Reserved
Reproduction only allowed with the permission of SPIEGELnet GmbH
