Breaking Chains: A Personal Journey from Oppression to Freedom in Turkiye

Written by Nisse

From the first moments of my life, I encountered rejection simply because I was born female. When I came into the world, a nurse showed me to my father and announced, “You have a daughter.” He replied dismissively, “A real man only has a son,” as if having a daughter was beneath him. This remark, as shocking and heartbreaking as it sounds, reflects a mentality that still exists among some traditionalist men in Türkiye. To them, men hold inherent power and value over women, so sons are seen as more precious than daughters. This belief is not isolated to men alone; many women, often influenced by these same cultural and religious pressures, support these views, looking down on their own gender or viewing other women as rivals.

This rejection at birth was only the beginning. My relatives maintained these beliefs over the years, and I grew up under the authority of a radical Islamic family who believed that a strict, conservative Islam—similar to what is seen in Afghanistan—was the only true way. They taught that secularism was something to be opposed at all costs. Because of these extremist beliefs, I experienced considerable hardship. In Türkiye, systems often fail to protect basic human and women’s rights when they clash with Islamic traditions. Many people dismiss these issues as private family matters, unworthy of outside intervention, and justice is only served in high-profile cases that are too public to ignore.

One of the greatest sacrifices I was forced to make was my education, which was cut short in the name of religion. I was only allowed to attend a regular school for a few years. After that, I was made to study at home because my family feared that secular schools might expose me to other views—ideas they feared would lead me away from Islam. They believed Muslims should avoid friendships with non-Muslims, whom they called “kafir,” and as a result, I was denied not only a proper education but the chance to make friends and enjoy the experiences that come with growing up. This restriction, rooted in religious views, took away my right to education and denied me a normal life. I was left feeling isolated and depressed, with no opportunity to make my own choices. I felt like a prisoner, living under the control of others who decided everything for me. Smiling and laughing became luxuries I could no longer afford.

But even all of this was not the end of my suffering. Over the years, I was subjected to violence as well. When I finally managed to secure a place at university after years of struggle, I embraced the freedom I had fought so hard for. I removed my hijab, which had always felt like a symbol of oppression rather than a choice. My mother wasn’t pleased, but I had stopped caring. University brought a new sense of freedom, and for the first time, I began socialising with other people and exploring life outside my family’s control.

One day, I even tried beer, a small but symbolic act of rebellion. Somehow, my family discovered this, and my brother reacted with unimaginable brutality. He attacked me, delivering at least 20 blows to my head in a vicious assault. It was like living a nightmare. I thought I might die that day. When I called the police, my mother intervened, convincing them to leave without arresting him. I suspect she bribed them, as corruption is not uncommon here. I reported the assault at another police station, but they, too, were swayed by my mother and dismissed my plea for help. I was left shocked, battered, and broken, yet somehow I survived.

This experience was my breaking point.I sought refuge in a women’s shelter and filed a case against my brother. But my family lied, presenting false witnesses to discredit me, and my brother went unpunished. In Türkiye, the justice system rarely favours women fighting for their rights, especially when family honour and religious customs are involved. After that day, I left my family for good, determined to build a life that was my own, away from their control. Deep inside, there was a part of me that had always been intellectual, civilised, and modern—qualities that even the strictest interpretation of Islam couldn’t erase.

I began to live as my true self, free from the oppressive expectations of family and faith.Creating an independent life as a woman in Türkiye is no easy task, especially when a family exerts such immense control. Even beyond my home, society can be hostile to single women living alone. But after years of hardship, I broke free from both my family’s grasp and the belief system that had kept me captive. Today, I dream of a world that is freer, more civilised, and less dominated by religious constraints—a world where women like me can live safely and with dignity.