The Faithful Son
After the war, another battle began. The story of a son's struggle to preserve his family's legacy reveals a silent wound in the heart of the diaspora.
The Caregiver’s Vow
The story of Nabi Mehmet Bafiti Birdenç’s war did not end with his passing. It passed to his son, Erkan. While “The Photograph from Tulkarm” chronicled the father’s public sacrifice, this is the story of the son’s private war - a war of devotion fought not on battlefields, but in hospitals, nursing homes, and the silent, aching space of a son’s duty.
After his father sadly passed in 2010, Erkan’s mission became the care of his mother, Münüse. He supported her through multiple hospital stays, each lasting six or seven weeks. When doctors suggested a nursing home, he agreed, but his devotion never wavered. He would work two hours each morning, then spend the rest of his day by her side, ensuring she was moved to an armchair, a small daily victory for dignity. He was the faithful son, the keeper of the flame, honouring the parents who had been displaced by history, ensuring they would not be alone at the end.
The Cruelest Separation
Then, the world locked down. The COVID-19 pandemic, a global tragedy, became a personal cataclysm. For five, six agonizing weeks, Erkan was barred from visiting his mother. The daily rituals of care were replaced by the terror of distance. Then came the call: she had been infected.
He fought to have her hospitalized, battling a faceless system whose orders were to leave the elderly “comfortable in their beds.” She was admitted, and for a moment, there was hope. “No sign of death,” he was told. But then she was moved to a COVID ward. Three days later, a different call: “Your mother has 24 hours to live.”
Erkan entered the ward and held his mother’s hand for a final day. She passed on 20 April 2020. The trauma of that separation, the helplessness, and the circumstances of her death left a wound that would not close. “I was in lock down for almost 3 years looking at a wall crying. It was horrible,” he recalls. “Now you know I had to leave the UK.”
The Hollowed Legacy
In the depths of his grief, a second battle began - one familiar to many in the Turkish Cypriot diaspora. Erkan refers to his elder brother and sister as “hayırsız” - a uniquely potent Turkish word meaning “without blessing,” signifying a deep, spiritual, yet tragic ingratitude.
He alleges that after he had shouldered the burden of care for their ailing parents in London, his sister “robbed her assets. Every penny.” He claims she orchestrated the deletion of their mother’s will and bribed lawyers to block him from his inheritance. The house in Gönyeli he now lives in - which he renovated from near-collapse with his own hands - was his mother’s, and it stands as the sole, contested remnant of that legacy.
“I did my role for my parents,” he says, with a resignation that speaks volumes. “I’m happy.” His happiness is not in the outcome, but in the purity of his own conduct. He kept the vow; the betrayal was theirs.
A Wound in the Community
Erkan’s story is not an isolated one. The “hayırsızlık,” the “guduzluk” (rapacity), the bitter legal fights over property - these are the silent, private wars that rage in the aftermath of public displacement. The great tragedies of 1963 and 1974 scattered the Turkish Cypriot people, fragmenting families across continents. The struggle to reassemble a life in exile often came at a cost, leaving scars that resurface a generation later in brutal fights over what little remains.
The trauma of being uprooted can manifest as a desperate, sometimes ruthless, scramble for security, turning siblings into adversaries. The faithful son or daughter who cared for the parents becomes, in the end, the one who must also fight to protect their memory from being erased by their own family.
The Return Home
It was this confluence of tragedies - the loss of his mother, the betrayal of his siblings, the institutional indifference, and the years of crying at a wall - that propelled Erkan’s final return. He was not just retiring; he was retreating to the only ground that still made sense. He sold his home in the UK and came back to Gönyeli, to his father’s grave and his mother’s house.
His return is an act of reclamation. He is the faithful son, the keeper of the flame in a story where so many others, in his view, have walked away. He lives now in the country he once only visited, a permanent guardian of the memory of a soldier and the mother who saved her children. The circle is not perfect, the wounds are not fully healed, but he is here. And in his presence, the silent burdens of a generation are given a home.
Unutmayacağız.
We will not forget.
My name is Mustafa Niyazi, and I connect the disconnected.
Please do me a solid and like and share, and leave a comment. It helps out big time in the algorithm. Click here or on the button below to subscribe as well for notifications when new articles drop. If you want to show your support but can’t with a subscription, you also can buy me a tea instead. No pressure, just some honest gratitude, and a little nourishment my way. This way, you can enjoy my content, and I can keep making them.
And read the article below right now. You know you want to.
So sad yet so true, I hear this all the time. The sayings goes “ öküz öldü ortaklık bozuldu”.