We children of immigrants always diligently answer such questions. Pleasing Germans is important. Immigrant parents teach their children this lesson at an early age. My grandfather arrived in Hamburg to clean the shipyards as a "guest worker" in the early 1960s, so German integration questions have a long tradition in my family. At the office parties thrown by the savings and loan bank where my father worked, he was always praised because his Turkish wife was allowed to dance, wear short skirts and drink whiskey. My parents received the highest praise bestowed by the Germans: "You're different from other Turks, aren't you?"

Different Turks. I had "different Turks" phrases that I repeated again and again. They went something like this: "My parents made out even before they got married. Yes, they were even together for seven years before they wed. They were not promised to each other; their marriage was not arranged. They wrote each other love letters and held hands, on the Bosporus, without a marriage certificate. Yes, they were allowed to go to the movies." These were stories to prove that we were "different Turks." Modern Turks. Nice Turks. Almost Germans. But becoming a German wasn't that easy.

When I arrived in the fifth grade, I never raised my hand -- I simply blurted things out, and I did it often. I was disruptive. It was a clear case, at least in the opinion of my homeroom teacher, Frau K., who invited my father to drop by for a talk.

Frau K. had prepared for this. She now knew everything about women in Islam (my mother), and about male domination (my father). She knew about oppression, honor killings, and the distribution of tasks and rights between men and women in Turkish families -- in other words, my family. Now she explained it to my father: "Herr Gezer, I know your origins and understand your culture, but when you oppress the girl at home like