I was 12 years old when I asked my father how old I should be before I could have my first boyfriend.
We were driving home from a family friend’s wedding, a relative that we were somewhat related to.
As my father paused at a red light, he turned towards me and said, “You’re not allowed to have a boyfriend until you get married”.
It was from this moment that I had truly believed that a relationship was completely insignificant if there was never going to be a wedding in the future.
Since that evening, I had been attending weddings for as long as I could remember. I dreamed of one day walking down the aisle with that special someone by my side, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, until death would do us part.
Growing up in a Turkish-Australian household, I was fixated with an idealistic perception of what a relationship was supposed to look like.
Growing up in a Turkish-Australian household, I was fixated with an idealistic perception of what a relationship was supposed to look like. Boy meets girl. Sparks fly. A magical connection is formed.
And then you get married. Then comes the house and the children until, as they say, ‘death do us part’.
There is no variation in this pattern and if there is, it is usually met with shame and criticism amongst our elders, who would not hesitate to discuss your private affairs to others.
As a first generation Turkish-Australian, this has been excruciatingly difficult to practice.
As a young woman, it was particularly taboo for me to even introduce someone I considered a ‘boyfriend’ in public. Especially as in my culture, young ladies did not have boyfriends, they needed to prepare themselves for husbands.
A man who could look after his wife as she got older deserved a woman who did anything she could do to make him happy in return. I was always taught at a young age that this was the true definition of a long-lasting relationship. The woman was responsible for pleasing her man and the male was in charge of providing for his wife.
My parents for instance, married within two weeks of meeting each other. As soon as it became apparent that they took an interest in each other, my mother’s parents immediately arranged a ‘nikah’ (a marriage/legal agreement where there are at least two witnesses present). There were no dates and no awkward flirtation rituals between either of them. They had both agreed to spend the rest of their lives together in holy matrimony in the blink of an eye.
Even my grandmother had no other alternative but to marry my grandfather at the age of fourteen.
Even my grandmother had no other alternative but to marry my grandfather at the age of 14. She was raised in a rural village east of Turkey, and from a young age she was expected to assist with family arrangements, whether this included cooking or cleaning after her younger siblings.
It wasn’t until I found myself in my very first relationship at the age of 21, that I realised I had unrealistic expectations of what a true relationship needed to look like.
I had high hopes that this person would be the one, that I would introduce him to my family as my ‘nişanlı’ (fiancé). I anticipated the day he would stand by my side and we would hold hands while whispering our vows.
It came as a surprise to me when we decided to go our separate ways for good. This had ruined the path that had been engrained in me by my ancestors, the wedding picture fantasy I had been holding onto for so long was starting to drift away from me.
Ironically, my parents had decided to make the same decision for themselves a few months earlier. Trapped in an unhappy relationship for more than 27 years, my mother decided that it was over.
In my culture, I was taught that marriage was a rite of passage. As if it was an achievement that needed to be acquired, similar to a university degree.
In my culture, I was taught that marriage was a rite of passage. As if it was an achievement that needed to be acquired, similar to a university degree.
But my experiences of observing both the end of my parents’ marriage and my own relationship, showed me that marriage was not a necessity. It was merely a method of solidifying an already strong and healthy relationship. I realised that my cultural prejudices had provided me with a false landscape of what a relationship needed to be.
I’m very grateful that my culture takes the concept of marriage seriously when it comes to relationships. But I also don’t think it is healthy to believe that a wedding will automatically resolve any underlying problems.
Maybe one day I will be married. But I know that no matter what decision I make, it will be for the benefit of the relationship itself rather than what I envisioned the ending to look like, because as I found out through my parents, not all marriages are happy ones.
