Christmas Day 1966—my first Christmas in Turkey. I was married and had a small child. We were quite poor then, and our home was a two-room, cold-water flat. The bare concrete floors were cold and unfriendly, but they were easy to keep clean. In the living room, we had one kerosene stove that was supposed to heat the entire apartment. We had no hot water, no radio, no television, no telephone, no Christmas tree, no gifts. But my husband and I loved each other very much, and we were making the best we could of our situation.
Since my husband's job required him to be at work for 24 hours nonstop that day, I was at home alone with my son, and the afternoon seemed to drag on. The ground outside was barely covered with snow, and snowflakes gently flurried in the air.
As I looked out at this winter scene, I yearned for the past Christmases with their abundance and security. After briefly indulging in some self-pity, I realized I needed to be grateful and satisfied with what I had—a loving husband, an active son, a roof over my head, and food on the table. There were many people who didn't have even that. A peaceful glow slowly grew inside me.
