Louise Fatma Kiliç continues her personal journey in Turkey

IT WAS July 2010 and I had been in Turkey for a little less than 6 months. For fellow expats you will understand that at this stage the excitement of living in Turkey hasn’t faded. Every day you wake up and catch your breath that you are here and living the dream. Life was good.

My job was great, Mustafa was with me and we had many friends. Days were spent teaching and in between classes I would sit drinking glasses of Turkish tea at the tables located outside the restaurant in which Mustafa was working.

We would laugh, endlessly, talk about everything and play tavla for hours while sharing cigarettes as the burning sun beat down on our backs, the smell of delicious meats slow roasting tickling our senses.

Nights would involve the daily ritual of meeting up with the other yabanci teachers, sharing coffee and eating cheesecake; dissecting the weird and wonderful ways of the Turks around us. Everything was perfect.

After studying Islam I converted and we had made Imam Nikah immediately and I felt like I had been born again. Everything looked brighter, food tasted more delicious, I felt clean and saw everything with fresh eyes; taking pleasure and delight in the things I had never noticed before. I couldn’t have been happier than I was in that first summer of my life in Turkey.

The sunshine had done wonders for my skin, I stopped using make up. The daily fresh food and constant walking in the mountains when we had free time coupled with my decision to quit drinking alcohol meant that I was losing weight and I felt and looked healthier than I had done in years.

Our future looked promising and I greeted each new day with a positive attitude and a smile that reached the depths of my soul. I felt alive and happy.

It was during one of our many lunches in that restaurant that I told Mustafa about the stomach cramps I had been experiencing over the last couple of weeks.

There was a Turkish teacher at my school who had said she would take me to the women’s hospital the following day. We were not concerned; perhaps my body was still not used to the detoxing diet I had been following since my arrival in Manisa.

Leaving the restaurant, I made the short walk to my school where my class was due to start in little over an hour. During that walk, I happened to stroll past a chemist and almost as an afterthought entered the shop and purchased a pregnancy test.

Heading straight for the toilet I took the test, gasping as the second line appeared even before I had sat the wand down. Clutching the test to my chest I walked straight back to the restaurant with a glazed expression and a beating heart.

Mustafa immediately sensed that something was wrong as he saw me approach and became more worried as I struggled to form anything audible to say. I passed him the test.

Without hesitation he picked me up and swung me around, shouting I am going to be a father to everyone in the street. We wept with happiness.

Even today I can remember that day with vivid clarity; remember the weather, what we were wearing, what we ate, every word spoken and each look that passed between us.

It was a perfect day, full of joy and sheer happiness knowing that we had created life as a result of the love that we share between us.

It had happened much sooner than we had anticipated but there was never a second of doubt for either of us. It was a magical time, one that will always remain bittersweet and a memory that I will cherish for all time.

We told everyone. Forget waiting three months, we were over the moon, never even considered the possibility that we should be cautious and wanted to share our news with anyone that would listen. We were naïve.

The next weeks were filled will love and excitement. The weather was scorching and we had moved our bed and TV onto our balcony. We spent nights speaking in hushed excitement, planning every last detail falling into sleep under a blanket of stars so elaborate and bright it felt like you could touch them.

The early morning sun, casting her powerful rays upon our faces would wake us each morning and we would eat breakfast in contented silence with the vast mountain in all its morning glory forming the background for our prefect lives.

Spending hours we created a chart, listing the baby’s progress and sticking it to the fridge beside the scan photo of our little bean.

We had everything planned, we have given bean a name and every night Mustafa would place his head on my stomach and sing our baby songs in Kurdish.