I consider myself a very open person. I process things by talking about them and there is little that is off-limits or that I am reluctant to share. But there is one topic, I couldn’t bring myself to talk about for several years. My son.
If you have read my book, The Other Side of Fear, you will know the situation with my son. If not, then let me explain.
My ex-husband, Serkan and I had two children. A girl, Elif, and a boy, Cem. When my daughter was seven and my son, five, I left my increasingly abusive marriage and filed for divorce, setting into motion a domino effect of stranger-than-fiction events that ultimately led to me fleeing Turkey and driving across Europe without my son.
So what happened?
Well, let me start at the beginning.
From the moment he was born, my husband idolised Cem. I don’t know if it was a cultural thing or just the way he was, but his attitude towards our son was immediately different to that of our daughter. Cem got away with pretty much everything, whereas Elif was chastised for the slightest misdemeanour.
Cem was celebrated, in all his naked glory, when running as naked as the day he was born around the garden in 40-degree heat, whereas Elif was met with cries of “ayıp!” (shame) and told to “cover herself up.” My husband openly favoured our son and would frequently taunt my daughter by buying Cem gifts and treats while excluding her.
Cem was to put it euphemistically, “a handful.” A bundle of energy, he never stopped and was on a relentless mission to be naughty, the complete opposite of his dutiful sister. But he was also sweet, thoughtful, wildly funny, and extremely affectionate. Unlike independent Elif, Cem would climb into bed with me well into his toddler years, wrapping my hair around his fingers so tightly, that it would take a while to disentangle them in the morning.
It was the seemingly innocuous event of Elif breaking her toe that led, inadvertently, to the breakdown of my relationship with Cem and ultimately to me sleepwalking into giving up custody of my son.
With Elif out of action on crutches and unable to go to the childminder, Serkan immediately stepped in and offered to look after Cem while I was at work during the day. Despite the slow squirm of discomfort in my gut, I had to admit it made sense. Serkan and I’s relationship was “amicable.” Financially I was struggling to pay for childcare and, most importantly, Cem wanted to stay with his dad.
Ignoring my instincts, I agreed.
Over the next few weeks, the change in Cem was dramatic. My happy, affectionate, cheeky little boy became quiet, withdrawn, and monosyllabic. He stared down at the floor, refusing to look at me or engage in conversation, swivelling his gaze towards his father for approval before trotting out a robotic response.
“On the broken bench in the shade of the fig tree, Cem stared down at the wasps buzzing drunkenly over the rotten fruit on the ground. Serkan, astride his motorbike, watched through the open visor of his helmet as I tried to reason with my son.
“Come on sweetie,” I said. “You’ll see Baba again tomorrow.”
“I don’t wanna stay wiz you.” Cem refused to meet my gaze. “I wanna stay wiz Baba.”
I turned to Serkan, silently demanding an answer.
“I haven’t said anything!” he exclaimed, eyes widening in mock indignation. He inserted his key into the ignition and revved the engine.
“Come on, mate,” he said half-heartedly to Cem. “Stay with your mum tonight and I’ll pick you up tomorrow.”
“Let's go,” I smiled reaching for his hand.
"No!" cried Cem, pulling away from me, clinging to the trunk of the fig tree as he started to cry.”
Excerpt from The Other Side of Fear
A few weeks later came the bombshell. Serkan informed me that he had registered Cem in a new school, that Cem wanted to live with him and that he wanted full custody (there is no shared custody in Turkey).
“Oh, and there’s something else,” he added, looking me straight in the eye. Before the words were out of his mouth, I knew what he was going to say.
“I want custody of Cem,” he said. “He wants to live with me.”
“But he has school…” I said feebly, thinking of the freshly washed and ironed uniform hanging on Cem’s wardrobe door.
Serkan folded his arms across his chest. “I’ve registered him at a new school,” he said.
The smell of roasting meat, heavy and sweet in the late afternoon air, wafted towards me, bringing with it a violent wave of nausea that grabbed and twisted my stomach. I ran to the bathroom and leaned over the toilet bowl, dry retching until the nausea finally passed. Easing myself into a sitting position on the cold tiles, I hugged my knees, remembering the last time I had sat like this. The bathroom floor of the villa. His fists pounding against the door. The night I ran to Azra’s. The night Cem refused to come. A chilling glimpse of the future.
It was happening. Exactly as he said it would.
Serkan was sitting on the sofa in the living room. The look of quiet satisfaction in his eyes told me all I needed to know. He had planned this. And I had sleepwalked straight into the trap.”
Excerpt from The Other Side of Fear
What happened to me and Cem is a surprisingly common phenomenon. It even has a name; parental alienation, a term I had never heard before.
According to Psychology Today, “Parental alienation occurs when a child refuses to have a relationship with a parent due to manipulation, such as the conveying of exaggerated or false information, by the other parent.”
Parental Alienation Awareness describes the phenomenon as, “A form of domestic abuse involving the psychological manipulation of a child into showing unwarranted fear, disrespect or hostility towards the targeted parent and/or their other family members.”
One of my main reasons for writing The Other Side of Fear was to raise awareness and educate people about the lesser-known forms of abuse, parental alienation included. If I had known then what I know now, I may have been less naïve, less trusting, more aware of what was happening. And I may have been able to stop it.
After two decades of marriage, I thought I knew my husband well. I knew he had a temper and could be overly critical, controlling, and at times cruel. But never in my wildest dreams did I believe he would stoop so low as to deliberately turn my son against me.
It was a long time before I was able to talk about what happened between Cem and me.
In the beginning, I could barely think about it as the pain was so great. For years I didn’t talk about him, though I thought about him constantly.
Who was picking him up when he fell?
Had he eaten lunch today?
Who tucked him in and read him his favourite story when he went to bed at night?
Whose hair, if anyone’s, did his fingers curl around while he slept?
After years of being denied contact with Cem, Serkan finally agreed to let me see my son and a few years ago, Cem and I were reunited in the neutral ground of the UK.
To my amazement, he did not blame me for leaving and seemed to have a good understanding of what happened, though I took care not to speak badly about his dad with whom he still lives. Now, we are in regular contact, and the older he gets, I hope the easier it will be to see him without the permission or control of his father.
It is a better outcome than I once hoped for, but still no replacement for the years apart. The missed birthdays, Christmases, and holidays. All the firsts I never got to see. First day at secondary school. First girlfriend. First job. A boy growing up without a mother. A brother and sister living separate lives in separate countries. The years we can never get back.
If there is one thing I want people to take away from my book, it’s this. No matter what you as a couple are going through, how much your partner has hurt you, or how strong your desire for revenge, NEVER involve your children in your relationship’s demise. As the most innocent of parties, the children in any failing relationship already have enough to deal with without being manipulated into taking sides. The consequences for them are deep and far-reaching. Their relationship with a parent may be damaged beyond repair.
I’ve heard it said that there are two reasons why someone doesn’t talk about something; because it means nothing, or because it means everything.
I consider myself a strong person, but what happened between my son and me remains my Achilles heel. A wound so deep it is now part of me.
The deepest cut.
Comments