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  'Man School': Turkish Dads Discover Self-Help in Berlin

'Man School' Turkish Dads Discover Self-Help in Berlin

By Caroline Schmidt

Part 2: 'We Only Talk About Soccer'

As the men talk themselves into a rage, Erdogan keeps silent for a long time. With his hands resting gently on his knees, he sits -- and listens. He knows that, at some point after many opinions have been shared, there will be a pause. And that is when he lifts his voice.

When that happens, the group goes instantly silent. The men respect Erdogan. They want to learn from him. He is their "hoca," or teacher. And, like a teacher, Erdogan will boil down the discussion, or shepherd it along, or takes the men out of their comfort zone by posing a question they've never been asked, such as: "What is honor for you?"

No one in the group has voiced his support for "honor killings." But, for all of them, their honor is still somehow tied up with their wives' faithfulness and their daughters' chastity. Erdogan knows this. And, for him, it's a warning sign. At such moments, he always repeats: "Only my own behavior determines my honor."

Erdogan wants to enlighten these men; he wants to make them reflect. He wants them to realize that there are other things besides their own traditions. He formed this group in his spare time; during normal working hours, he can be found in the psychosocial services office of Neukölln. In the beginning, he spent a lot of time visiting the area's many coffeehouses looking for men who might want to join the group. It wasn't easy. After all, what man is ready to admit that he's in dire need of help?

And yet, once they've come, few leave. Some come hoping to talk about the problems they have with government agencies. Muhammet, for example, attended his first meeting because he had heard that he could get some parenting tips.

By then, Muhammet was living alone with his children. Unlike many Turkish men, he at least knew where they went to school and what size clothes they wore; but he didn't know much more than that. In most Turkish families, the women are in charge of daily life. And he couldn't exactly ask his friends such questions. "We only talk about soccer," he says.

In the fathers' group, though, the men even go so far as to talk about love and sex. For his part, Erdogan tries to act as a bridge between the sexes. He knows why many marriages fail, and he knows the grievances of many Muslim wives. His office is no stranger to the many wives who have filled tissues with tears faster than he could hand them to them.

The women say that their husbands hardly even speak to them, yet expect them to be superstars at washing, cooking, cleaning, caring for the children -- and, of course, in bed. If not, there's trouble. Many wives -- at least those with exceptional patience and endurance -- put up with it their whole lives. Others don't. They leave -- and their husbands no longer understand the world.

Learning from the Veterans of Pain

The lack of communication that grips many of these families ultimately tears them apart. Dursun G., 65, didn't realize that that was happening in his family until it was almost too late. With three children and three grandchildren, he's one of the oldest men in the fathers' group. He's a proud man. To show him respect, the others call him Grandpa Dursun.

Dursun came to Germany in 1968 and worked as a lathe operator in a number of factories until 1990, the year of Germany's reunification. He raised his children just like he was raised in a village in Anatolia -- with a firm hand. Talking and tenderness weren't part of the equation.

That was before he saw his son Cuat hanging around Berlin's Kottbusser Tor subway station 23 years ago with people who looked like junkies. Dursun screamed at his son and commanded him to immediately come home. But it didn't help. The next day, his son was back at the subway station again, smoking pot and doing other drugs.

Having reached the limits of his authority, Dursun started drinking. Then one day a friend told him: "If you keep doing what you're doing, you're going to lose your son. You have to be strong." In the end, he could think of only one solution: He put Cuat on a plane to Turkey and told him he could come back once he'd agreed to go to therapy.

Dursun G. never wants to re-experience that feeling of helplessness. He's trying to do things differently with his grandchildren. He plays with them, talks to them and listens to their stories. He wants to impart the lessons he's learned to the other men. And he does it in a calm, wise way. He does it like Erdogan, listening for a long time before eventually saying a few sentences that make an impression upon the other fathers.

Muhammet is learning a great deal from these conversations. During the day, his mother often takes care of the children. Even though he's often the only man there, he also goes regularly to parents' evenings at his children's school. He was relieved when his son starting bringing home better grades again.

"I'm mother, father and friend, all in one," he says.

He sounds like every other modern single parent.