The story that Cenk is told, and that we see via flashbacks, about his ancestors aligns closely with the historical and primary accounts of Turkish Gastarbeiter in Germany and their eventual, permanent immigration. A young Hüseyin, barely able to support his wife and young children in Turkey, sees an economic opportunity in the Gastarbeiter system. After leaving and having grown accustomed to higher wages and certain aspects of the German lifestyle, Hüseyin convinces his uncertain family to move with him to live in Germany. From here on, a slightly cliche-ridden culture-clash comedy unfolds: Fatma runs into a linguistic conundrum at a grocery store, the family finds German toilets and dress codes perplexing, and the children fear the gruesome Christian imagery of the crucifixion and glorify German Coca-Cola. We eventually see the family’s attempts at assimilation; for example, the children’s desire to celebrate Christmas. What distinguishes this string of events from films of similar nature, however, is the way in which German culture is positioned as “the other.” Şamdereli uses alienation tactics to provide a German-speaking audience a view of their own culture as foreign. Turkish is spoken as German and German is spoken as Germanic gibberish. German-speaking audiences are able to understand “Turkish,” but not “German.” In his reading of the film, Benjamin Nicki points out that “[Şamdereli] indicates that alternative language and an embrace of the unfamiliar are long overdue in German cinema (Nicki).” Although the reason for this stylistic choice is because Cenk, who is being told the story, does not understand Turkish, this choice reconsiders the notion of Germany as a monolingual country. Instead of presenting Turkish as a foreign language to native German audiences, it presents it as, metaphorically, German. Comparatively, earlier scenes in the present depict a collective family dinner while demonstrating the ease of interchanging and trading off languages one second to the next as if it were one fluent language; it is not one nor the other, but both, yet never the same. Having the film, therefore, play out mostly in German certainly aids its commercial appeal in the film’s native country. The relative, and greater, success of Almanya, twelve million at the domestic box office compared to Head-On’s five million, could possibly be attributed to this as well as its adoption of clear genre boundaries, making it more commercial. However, the choice of having Turkish spoken as German, although comedic and interesting for the German-speaking viewer, still raises the question of cinematic domestication. If the “foreign” (Turkish) is domesticated to adhere to the form of the native (German), is the “foreign” truly being accepted by the audience? Are the native German audiences provided with comfortable familiarity? These questions make one wonder who this film is actually intended for, and what it is trying to do. It is left to the viewer to decide what this choice represents.