My Grandfather Turan Karakaş

There are some people who do not make grand statements throughout their lives, yet they leave a great void behind them. They are understood by their departure, not by their presence. For me, that person was my grandfather, Turan Karakaş.

When I first remember him, he is not actually a man entering the house with files in his hands. He is more like someone who organizes the silence within the home. He would establish a balance even without speaking. His voice would not rise, but what he said always found its place. With my child's mind, I thought this was a professional discipline. Later, I understood that this was a stance toward life.

He would come, pull my ear, and ask, “Did you give my donkey water?” He would pull hard, too; not because he didn't want to hurt his grandson. My grandfather was a lawyer, but he was not one of those who lived just to “practice law.” For him, law was more of an area of responsibility than a profession. He did not leave the idea of justice only to the courtrooms; he carried it into the home, to the dinner table, and into daily life. When something wrong was done, it was not important to him who did it, but why it was wrong.

He never learned to side with the powerful. And no one taught him to side with the righteous; it was as if he always knew.

When I was a child, he had habits I couldn't make sense of. For example, when he returned from a case, he wouldn't rejoice even if he won. And when he lost, he wouldn't be sad. “If you have touched a person's destiny, neither the joy nor the sorrow is yours,” he would say. At the time, these sentences sounded heavy to my ears. Today, I understand better what a great professional ethic he carried.

He would not rush when looking at files. He would first try to understand the person. I remember him saying, “The law is written for everyone, but justice does not touch everyone in the same way.” Perhaps that is why he didn't like easy cases. He preferred to stand by people who had been wronged but whose voices were not heard. These were cases with little financial reward but heavy moral burdens. Yet, he never held back. Because in his eyes, the law should not be the armor of the powerful, but the support of the weak.

He didn't talk much about his profession at home. He didn't bring the courtrooms, the arguments, or the conflicts home. But he did bring his values: Honesty, keeping one's word, not bending or breaking... These were not things taught to us; they were things lived. My grandfather didn't explain “how to be an example,” he just was one.

I loved cars; he was a person against speed. “Mert, go slow. I won't get in your car again,” he would say. The last car I bought was a two-door, and he got mad at me: “You damn rascal, what are you going to do with that!” he said. Then he added: “Grandson, I have no problem with you,” and gave his approval to my decision.

We went on so many long journeys that they are too numerous to count. One day I am driving, and he is buried in his phone again. Our speed is 250. He stretched his head toward the speedometer:

“Pull the car to the right, Mert, can one go this fast!” he scolded.

Later, when he went on long trips without me, he would get angry at the drivers: “Man, when I went with Mert, we were in Urla in three hours; with you, it took six,” he would say.

We did many of our affairs in Ankara together; both legal and commercial. He was always honest. I think I was 12–13 years old then. I had carried 800 bricks in one day at the farm in Urla. We would do whatever was needed, wherever it was needed. My grandfather had such an influence that people would see the goodness in him.

I disagreed with him once or twice; that was related to work. And then there were the opportunists, of course, they are a different story...

Most of all, I remember his patience against injustice. He had no tolerance for injustice, but he was patient with people. He wouldn't shout, he wouldn't belittle, he wouldn't crush. The only place he was firm was the point where his principles began. He would not take a step back from there. Not for position, not for money, and not for fear.

By the way, let them also know this: The so-called displays of affection and the attitudes exhibited because I am Turan Karakaş's grandson are not forgotten. Many people gained status and position through my grandfather. Some were grateful, some cursed at me. He approached them all in a friendly manner. I do not forget.

As the years passed, I realized this: My grandfather's greatness was not in the cases he won, but in the cases he was willing to lose. “Not every case can be won,” he would say, “but every case is conducted with honor.” This sentence still rings in my ears.

After losing him, I looked at what he left behind. There were no great fortunes. No long lists of titles, no flashy memories... But there was a place in people's memories. There were those who said, “He was honest.” There were those who said, “He treated us like human beings.” I don't know if there can be a greater legacy for a lawyer than this.

Today, whenever I hear the word “justice,” it is not an abstract concept for me. It has a face, a voice, a stance... My grandfather may not have taught me the law, but he left me the sense of justice as an inheritance.

And some inheritances are not written in the land registry, but in a person's backbone.

I am trying not to bend that backbone.

As his grandson, I am most proud of this.