Why “babadili”? The hardest language learned later in life and a confession.

When people first hear the name of my blog, they usually give a slight, perhaps slightly mockingly smile. The first thing that comes to their mind is that indisputable, sacred, and innate concept: The Mother Tongue.

And they aren’t wrong. Language is first learned from the mother. Emotions, fears, and love flow spontaneously, naturally, like “mother’s milk.” But what about fathers? Does a father not have a tongue?

Before naming this blog, I did some digging. If you look at psychoanalysts like Lacan, there is no “Father’s Tongue,” but rather the “Law of the Father” (Le Nom-du-Père). It is authority, it is the rule, it is that harsh outside world. But when I set out on this path, I didn’t want to be trapped between the cold walls of those laws. I realized that fatherhood, just like a difficult foreign language, is a “tongue” learned later—through effort, by spelling it out, and sometimes by mispronouncing it.

Babadili (Father Tongue) is a sincere confession of this learning journey, the effort to decipher this “most beautiful foreign language.”

Could Marcus Aurelius Be Wrong?

I realized how vital this search for a “language” was when I froze during a scene in the movie Gladiator, which I watched again 20 years later. The great Stoic Emperor Marcus Aurelius looks at his son and delivers this heavy sentence:

Your faults as a son are my failure as a father.

In the past, I would have said, “Wow, what fatherhood! What responsibility!” But now? Now I find this sentence dangerous and crushing.

Why? Because viewing every mistake a child makes as my own “failure” is actually to ignore the child. It means saying, “You are not an individual, you are an extension of me, you are my project.” If his mistake is my crime, then his success becomes solely my victory. This is a burden too heavy for a child’s shoulders to bear, a shackle struck upon their soul.

This does not exist in the “Babadili” I am trying to build. As I mentioned in my previous writings on Stanford University’s Carol Dweck and her magnificent “Growth Mindset” theory; we must see mistakes not as a “report card grade,” but as a learning opportunity.

The child will make mistakes, he will fall, he will be wrong… And these are not my failures, but his growing pains. My duty is not to take ownership of that mistake and play the hero; but to stand by him when he falls and ask, “So, what did we learn from this?” .

Let me tell you how I deciphered the first words of “Babadili.”

The First Lesson: “Why Am I Not Coming?”

We are at the hospital where Ali Rüzgar was born. It’s the second day. That rushed but sweet fatigue is upon us. Discharge procedures are being done, the excitement of returning home has begun. Just then, a nurse entered the room. As a routine procedure, with a very natural attitude, she said; “We are taking the mother and the baby for care training.”

His mother stood up, Ali in the wheeled newborn bassinet. They headed for the door. At that moment, a rebellion echoed somewhere inside me. It suddenly spilled from my lips:

“I wonder, why am I not coming?”

The room fell into silence for a moment. 1-2 seconds… not long. The nurse stopped, turned her head. There was the astonishment of encountering a situation she wasn’t used to on her face. Perhaps until that day, fathers were always the ones pacing in front of the door, waiting “outside.” But then she recovered, smiled: “Of course, if you want to come, please do,” she said.

That moment was a threshold. I took my camera in my hand. I recorded Ali’s home care training, how to hold that tiny body, how to clean his bottom, second by second. I wasn’t just a spectator, I was a student.

When we got home, I passed the first exam of that “lesson.” I changed Ali’s first diaper. After his umbilical cord fell off, I gave him his first bath, my hands trembling but with great pride. That was the day I understood; fatherhood was not a biological signature, but a language that developed with practice.

A Father in the Middle of “The Boys’ Talk”

We met up, mostly male colleagues, just guys being guys. You know the drill: Football is discussed (which I don’t enjoy at all), then politics, then the car market. Deep conversations are left at the coat check at the entrance.

One day we are in such an environment. Ali is just 1 year old. Classic topics are spinning around the table; who bought what, who sold what, what was the score of the derby… But my mind and my tongue are elsewhere. Without missing a beat, as if critiquing a referee’s error, I am talking about changing Ali’s diaper, how we play with water while bathing him, that silent communication between us.

There was a short silence at the table. Then Kemal, with a sentence mixed with both appreciation and a slight reproach, said:

Brother, you tell this stuff, then Yasemin reads you, follows you. Then she turns around and expects the same from me :)

We laughed… But there was a truth behind that laugh. Babadili was not just a communication I established with Ali; it was a contagious language leaking outside, to other fathers, to other homes.

That’s why I named this blog Babadili.

“Babadili” is my guide to understanding Ali Rüzgar, accepting him as he is, as an individual.

In this blog, I write about that new language, experiences, and memories that say “fathers love too, fathers care too, fathers learn too, and most importantly, fathers respect their children’s mistakes.” This is a language that defends the beauty of making mistakes , and that the process is more important than perfection.

If you are new, welcome. If you have always been here, “I’m glad you’re here.” The old “Law of the Father” does not pass here, only “Babadili” is spoken here.

For many years on social media, sometimes I lit a light, and sometimes your memories and shares became a light for me. Social media has been a beautiful journey for me. And this journey continues, spelling it out, syllable by syllable.