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I began to feel other incongruities, though in view of my unusual background divergence was predictable. Even my family did not understand what made me tick. When I arrived in America the second time at the end of 1961, after spending six months in Lakewood, N.J. the first time, I was only 19. In some ways, I was a worldly adult, in other ways a giddy child, an extrovert and introvert simultaneously. I had spent my childhood in Turkey, attended an Austrian boarding school studying German, then high school in Lakewood, then gymnasium in Germany. I was at least bicultural and could speak German better than Turkish, though I was fluent in both and could stutter in English. Moreover, having spent the last fifteen months alone in Germany, I was very independent. My home was everywhere, therefore nowhere in particular: a young man without roots. I had to find a way of fitting this person back into my family and the American mold, with some skepticism.
Mother (Zekiye) with friends at the American Girls' College in Uskudar, Istanbul (1937),
with her parents Dr. Hashim and Safiye (1940); Kemal Ataturk (1938)
The skepticism
had its roots in our experiences in America the first time. When
we arrived in 1958, our loneliness and isolation began to
interfere with our assimilation. Perseverance is said to be a
good trait, perhaps because everyone must endure something,
sometimes continuously. In a two-hour movie or three-day book,
the story of endurance evokes romantic feelings, especially if it
is bundled with some sort of "happy ending." In real
life, the story lasts and drags, seemingly without the promise of
an end. It is not a romantic trip for many people for whom there
is no end. Parents also persevered, but only after we left Father
alone in America and came to Germany. Although my sisters and I
were happy in Germany, Mother and Father struggled with
"what have we done?". Mother and my sisters returned to
America two years later. By then the worst was over and our
situation began to improve.
Our achievements came after enormous costs. I could not dismiss the costs as part of a wholesome perseverance process. So already at age 16 or so I perceived an analogy between conventional aspirations and a straitjacket. People volunteered for unbelievable burdens to pursue formula definitions of fulfillment. Then they trained themselves to redefine happiness by a proxy that measured the degree of mobility they achieved in their straitjacket. I did not presume that everyone was wrong and I was right. However, I made a mental note that I would not blindly conform to this norm, though I did not know then how I could deviate from it. After I received the offer from Saudi Arabia, I knew, but this happened years later.
The mood in America in the 1960s matched mine. It was clear that something was happening to the social stitch and Puritan values in America. Young people were challenging formula definitions of success and happiness. Americans had been signing up for lifelong commitments before they were even aware of their own identities. "Mid-life crisis" was a hot topic, as also divorce, marijuana, and happiness through fads. The Playboy provided love to love-starved Puritan males. Books like "Transactional Analysis," street-corner philosophies like "I am Number 1," and psychologists and astrologers became popular prescriptions overnight. Alvin Toffler spoke about transiency. Depending on where one stood, America and American values were either awakening or degenerating. The true cost of past achievements surfaced. People began to sympathize with blacks, American Indians, and themselves; religion lost pertinence.
Then came rude awakening, the realization that there were no viable substitutes for the formulae. I did not anticipate the next phase then, though what followed was a natural extrapolation of what was happening. The exuberance of the 1960s was replaced by contemplation in the 1970s, perhaps partly due to Vietnam. A job was necessary and it defined all else. America was back to square one. With innocence gone, apathy, selfishness, and greed came with the 1980s. People began to live off the future. So did their Government, in part to recapture the eminence and coherence of former days. Four trillion dollars later, America entered the 1990s with increasing self-doubt and confusion about direction and remedies, looking forward to the 21st century burdened with an eight trillion dollar debt and perhaps some panic.
I had a traditional upbringing. The normal process leading from education to job was also my starting gate to life, not only because these steps led to a financial foundation but also because they were worthy ambitions. I reached financial independence at age 38, eight years after I graduated from the university. I had 4 degrees, two of them advanced, in mathematics, engineering, and economics, and I was an advanced programmer on computers. However, I did not insist on becoming an expert in any one of them, but not because I saw myself as "jack of all trades." I knew there was an opportunity cost even to success and recognition: success or failure in other things. In view of my technical background and proficiency with languages, I aimed prudently for a career path that would encompass the university, industry, and government sectors. I did not perceive my future as a formulaic set of goals. My aspirations would grow with me. Along the way, I would discard some dreams, replace others, and conceive new ones. I defined freedom as the liberty to do these.
Financial freedom was the first thing on my agenda and I was careful about commitments. Marriage meant family, children, and investments in children. These underlined the importance of a job. Family also meant home, mortgage, cars, insurance, health plan, and all sorts of corollary commitments which made a job even more important. People had no choice but to devote a lifetime to a job, make it a career, and become specialists, at least of endurance. I understood this is how "happy" families and the society prospered, but I did not want to define my freedom and individual rights in context to a formula that could be also the worst form of enslavement.
Things worked out somewhat differently. I was married already at age 24 and again at age 29. The first marriage put me back on the right track from which I had deviated. Both marriages were enjoyable and my wives were lovely women. However, both of them also confirmed my worst fears about premature commitments. Moreover, unlike my American peers, I had grown up in three very different environments on as many continents. Although I knew and liked most parts of the United States, I did not want to live in small towns and suburbs and considered only Washington, New York, and San Francisco as liveable places. Job prospects in Lawton, OK, Ashland, KY, or Boondocks, USA did not interest me, whatever the income. So faced with such potentials, I enrolled in other programs and continued my education.
My second wife and I arrived in Washington in the summer of 1972. I found a consulting job where I was required to write proposals for Government contracts. I could not imagine anything worse for a foreign-born person. Although several of my proposals won on technical merit, I was spending weekends and evenings in the office, writing proposals or meeting deadlines. I understood what "selling one's soul" meant. My wife and I had started like soul mates at the university. Here we were out of our element. Gayle wanted us to move to Scranton, PA, her hometown, and start a family. Supposedly this would rescue us. But I was already too cynical, and I had not come halfway around the world to be buried alive in Scranton. Marriage, family, children, mortgage, greed, and debt were tools by which the system controlled people and made them into productive citizens. The nation prospered but I wondered if people did, despite two cars and two of everything. I was at a crossroad: either I would pursue happiness according to this formula or I would become a nonconformist. On Oct. 14, 1973, I extricated myself from my wife to be free to make my opportunities. Marriage did not enter my mind again until thirteen years later.
In the spring of 1975, I watched a 45-minute show on WETA about Saudi Arabia, called the embassy, obtained a few addresses, and wrote applications. An envelope arrived at work on Jan. 16, 1976. I had an attractive contract on my hands: my income had tripled and I had many fringe benefits, including much longer paid vacation. The job was also much more meaningful, something I could look forward to as a career if I wanted. Two hours later I quit my job. The president of the firm wanted to add bonuses and more to my salary. I smiled. I would not have stayed if he had exceeded the Saudi offer and made me a vice president.
A few days before my departure, I received a call from the Federal Communications Commission. A vice president at work, Curtis Bushnell, who had retired from the FCC, had recommended me. I had an offer at GS-14 level. However, I was already dreaming of camels and sand dunes and declined. I arrived in Riyadh at 2:00 a.m. on Feb. 25, 1976. I had won the lottery. The period after my divorce had been promiscuous. Karma had also prepared me for Saudi Arabia.
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