My childhood was filled with abuse and constant fear. I understood nothing until I grew old enough to perceive how poorly my parents treated one another. My anger was so strong that on many occasions I imagined my father dead. The anger was the same towards my mother, most often when she hit me through her own frustration. I hated them so very much. But this was a complex anger. I loved them simultaneously.
To mom, dad and my two brothers
My dad was a fighter pilot in Iran. He grew up in the countryside in the Turkish area. His mother committed suicide when he was young, and his step-mother raised him with a hard and heavy hand. Against his will, he was sent to military school in Tehran, far from his parents, for many years. Hardship and solitude has been spread throughout his life with a thick brush. He smiles rarely – he takes himself very seriously.
My mother married my father at the age of 15 and got pregnant when she was 16. She was quickly forced to adjust to adulthood. In retrospect, one can easily see that the relationship would not be a healthy one. My dad abused my mom for many years, both physically and mentally, both with us children there and away. He cheated on her countless times, and she took it out her frustration on us.
My childhood was filled with abuse and constant fear. I understood nothing until I grew old enough to perceive how poorly my parents treated one another. My anger was so strong that on many occasions I imagined my father dead. The anger was the same towards my mother, most often when she hit me through her own frustration. I hated them so very much. But this was a complex anger. I loved them simultaneously.
When I photographed them for the first time, I wanted to photograph this hatred. For six years, I have tried to come to terms with this feeling, and recently took it to a new level. I wanted to challenge myself, my feelings and our relationship by staging their deaths, just as I had imagined when I was younger. I had wanted to kill them, and had felt that they deserved to die. At the same time, I was facing up to my fear of losing them.
Total opposite feelings. The eternal, strong hatred and the bond from all that we mean to each other. I constantly return to the ambivalence. I feel guilt because I think such thoughts about my own parents. Despite this, or perhaps because of it, I continue to photograph them.