A Difficult Choice…

The cause or the effect?

This week, another "situation story"…

The title of my story is "The Difficult Choice." But this choice won't be difficult for the character in the story—it will be difficult for us. You'll understand when you read it

Difficult Choice

The psychologist pointed to the plate in front of him and asked, "Which one looks tastier to you?" The man approached the table. Looking carefully at the four pieces of cake on the small plate, he said, "How can I tell without tasting or smelling them?" Smiling slightly at his answer, the woman wrote it down in her notebook and pushed the plate gently toward the man: "Try one then…" Since the man's hands were cuffed, he struggled, so the psychologist called out to the police officer outside: "Officer!" Seeing the psychologist's hand gesture through the window, the officer immediately entered the office. Woman: "Would you unlock the handcuffs?" The officer, who was clearly young and inexperienced, said anxiously, "I need to call my supervisor." The woman raised her voice: "You're already waiting at the door; the man isn't going to escape from the third floor. I can't do my job like this, please unlock them immediately!" Hesitant to leave a frail woman alone with such a killer, the officer unlocked the handcuffs, saying, "It's up to you, but my superior will give me trouble if he sees this…" He muttered to himself, "The problem is whether he'll do something to you before he escapes," and went back to stand in front of the door.

After the police left, the psychologist turned back to the man and said, "Tell me a little about yourself." The man turned the couch with his mouth while looking at the woman as if he didn't understand the question. The psychologist clarified the question and repeated, "Where were you born? How did you grow up? Your mother, father, family?" The man took a deep breath and, clearly feeling relieved, began to talk: "I was born in the countryside of Adıyaman. But my childhood and youth were spent here, in Istanbul." After taking a sip of her tea, the woman asked, "What do you mean? You didn't grow up in Adıyaman?" The psychologist was clearly questioning whether the man had grown up in a feudal structure in the countryside. But his response showed that this was not the case at all: "When I was little, my father died in a construction accident at his job in the city. We couldn't stay in the village without a father any longer. My mother didn't want to remarry." It was clear that family and social pressure had pushed the woman to leave the village. "One day, on a sudden decision, my mother, my three siblings, and I moved to Istanbul. I say 'moved,' but even though I was very young, I remember the train journey very clearly. After that, the years of struggle in Istanbul began." 

The man's statement made the psychologist think that this was not a typical rural story as he had expected. On the contrary, it was a story that unfolded right in the heart of the city. While the man was wondering whether he could take a second sofa, the psychologist added, "Don't hesitate, you can eat it all." It was impossible for the man to see pastries and sofas of this quality in prison conditions. In fact, he had never eaten anything so beautiful outside either. The plate was empty within a few minutes. Feeling embarrassed for eating it all at once, he leaned back: "Thank you, I've never eaten anything so delicious before." The psychologist used this tactic to break the initial tension in their sessions. But until today, none of the people he had seen were a rich girl undergoing addiction treatment or a businessman struggling with anger management. This time, a murderer was sitting across from him. Interviewing a criminal was also a first for him. But people don't change. No one could say no to a delicious cake or a sofa. The tension of the interview was gradually easing in a positive direction.

The man continued, as if he had shed his inhibitions: "While my mother went to clean houses, my sisters worked as textile workers. I went to school with my brother." As the psychologist took careful notes, he witnessed the man opening up more and more with each passing minute. When he entered the interview room, he had been withdrawn and hadn't said a word. Now, however, he seemed to be moving toward the relief that comes from sharing his inner thoughts with someone.

When the psychologist asked, "What kind of student were you?" he sat up straight and answered confidently, "Of course I was a very good student." The woman wanted more details. How could a child from rural Adıyaman be so successful in his studies? "Was there a school in your village?" The man looked up as he recalled the distant memories and said, "We were taught in a classroom that was an old converted barn in our village. We would run there every morning. Because every day, our teacher would take us on a journey outside that converted barn classroom, as if bringing the whole world before our eyes. I spent the happiest days of my life in that classroom. Of course, our teacher played a big part in that. He always told me that I should become a teacher too. My elementary school teacher played a big part in my decision to go to boarding school without paying and to become a teacher." While the psychologist took notes on what was being said, he tried to understand how such an educator could become a murderer. There must have been something that led to this stage of events. The judge was so affected by the man's inconsistent behavior and statements during his nervous breakdown in court that he questioned his criminal responsibility. Therefore, it was decided to seek the opinion of a psychologist.

The man sitting opposite the woman was very polite, well-mannered, and expressed himself very well. When you hear the word "murderer," your blood runs cold, and you wouldn't want to be alone with someone like that. But the man sitting opposite the psychologist looked like a cultured city dweller you might sit next to on a ferry or bus.

Without further ado, the woman asked the critical question: "As I understand it, you were a good student. And you've educated yourself quite well. Even despite limited opportunities and adversity… So how did you get to this point?" The man paused, caught off guard by this unexpected question. Signs of resentment and irritation flashed in his eyes. With some difficulty, the words began to flow from his mouth: "I love reading. I was a regular visitor to the libraries both in the classroom in my village and in the schools I attended in Istanbul. Back in the classroom in my village, there were about 45-50 books that had come from aid campaigns from western cities to rural schools. I read all of these books in one go. I even read some classics more than once. I continued this habit in Istanbul. I spent most of my time in the library. I didn't even have a desk to study at home. There, I could do my homework and read whatever book I wanted. My teachers were very happy when they saw my interest in books. Because in the hustle and bustle of city life, no one read books anymore. And there were no parents who advised their children to read books like they used to. While they came home tired from work, the children were killing time in front of the TV. Even back then, I dreamed that if I became a teacher one day, I would encourage my students to read books." Although the woman found it difficult to see the connection between what he was saying and the murders, she didn't interrupt him. He continued: "The first elementary school I was assigned to was in the countryside, like my elementary school in Adıyaman. There, too, we couldn't agree with the families on how the children should spend their time productively. They wanted them to work in the fields, while I wanted them to spend a little more time in the library. But in the end, with the children's support, we overcame this. Years later, many of my students who graduated from that school visited me, and I was proud of my work."

The woman was even more curious. It was hard to imagine what kind of murder story would emerge from this. The man sat up in his chair and began to speak, bringing us to the present day. "My love for my job took me from teaching to becoming the assistant director of national education. As an educator, my main goal has always been to be useful to my students and to open the windows of their small worlds to boundless knowledge. For this reason, we established a comprehensive library in a building affiliated with national education in our town with support from other city administrations. At first, our students didn't show much interest. But with my initiatives and the support of the teachers, we increased their interest. We held reading competitions. We distributed books and gifts. And suddenly, we rescued the children from the prison of game rooms or the phones they carried in their pockets. Many doctors, engineers, and even colleagues emerged from those libraries." As the man recounted this, his voice trembled, and a look of resentment began to form in his eyes. The woman still couldn't make sense of the situation: "Go on," she said curiously… "Then the new mayor of our town decided to turn the building that housed the library into a restaurant. Somehow, he took it away from the Ministry of Education and put it under the municipality's control. All the books were sent back to our school in boxes. Suddenly, we had lost our library. Of course, we couldn't allow that. And so my struggle began. Every door I knocked on was slammed in my face. Finally, when even the director of the institution where I worked said there was nothing to be done, I went to the mayor. The man had no interest in schools, books, or education. He wouldn't listen to anything I said and practically kicked me out of his office. I was struggling to control myself in his office, but I didn't want to do anything unbecoming. I left in anger and thought about going to the city hall, the governor's office, this time. I went home at the end of the day and waited for the next day. When I went to my office in the morning and heard that I had been temporarily removed from my position and would be transferred to another one, my blood boiled. The rest is history…"

The woman put down her pen and leaned back. She felt herself beginning to respect this man from the bottom of her heart, a man who had clawed his way to this point through so much effort and hard work. Of course, being a slave to one's ambitions and acting on a momentary impulse was inexcusable. Taking a life was utterly unacceptable. Not only had he become a murderer, but he would also spend years in prison, leaving behind a wife and three children. The man had fallen into a silence as if reliving everything he had just recounted. While he was alone with his inner reckoning in his own world, the psychologist was thinking about how to resolve the situation he found himself in. He placed a large question mark under the notes he had taken for his report.

The perpetrator was a perfectly sane individual. The psychologist's report would undoubtedly result in the killer serving a longer prison sentence. But the killer wasn't so dishonorable as to expect to be diagnosed with a mental illness. He would serve his sentence.

The woman, who was clearly getting bored outside, called out to the officer: "Officer, our meeting is over." The officer went inside and handcuffed the man again. As the man stood up, he turned to the woman and said, "Listening to me has eased my mind a little. Whatever you write in your report, I thank you. I haven't felt this good in a long time." The woman also stood up and accompanied them to the door. And she managed to say, "I'm sorry…"

.

As they walked away down the corridor, the psychologist returned to his desk, realizing why the concepts of anger and righteousness could not coexist correctly in the same sentence.

It was very difficult to make an assessment. Who was more responsible for this terrible incident? The victim? The perpetrator?

Based on a dramatic story I read in a third-page news article recently, I wrote this short story, but in reality, the ending was not like this. Our teacher, overcome with grief at being dismissed from his job, hanged himself, leaving his wife and children fatherless. In other words, it was not the person who caused the incident, but the teacher who suffered the consequences, paying with his life.

I wanted to change the ending of my story myself. Sometimes, after an event, people inevitably want to make a choice. Someone who gets behind the wheel while drunk can cause the death of an innocent pedestrian. Or a simple oversight can cost a worker their life.

I don't question divine justice, but sometimes—deep down—I think, "I wish the person who caused the death had paid the price and the innocent person had lived." Here's a tough choice for you…

I hope your choices bring you happiness and peace this weekend.