Reconciling my Turkish Identity

Graphic by Alexa Marie

The question “Where are you from?” has always been a loaded one for me, not only because my answer is not straightforward, but also because I’ve had a tumultuous relationship with it. I grew up in Istanbul with a Turkish father and an Albanian mother, lived there until I was 12, then moved to the Netherlands where I still live after almost eight years. You would think I struggled with culture shock when I moved here, but I experienced the reverse: I went back to Istanbul for the first time in 2019 after not having been there for years and was faced with emotions that I could only retroactively identify as culture shock. I was confused, intimidated, and felt out-of-place, which is not what you usually feel in your home country. 

At first, I was daunted by the sheer size and population of the city. I thought I was used to living in big cities like Amsterdam, but Istanbul’s 15.5 million people compared to Amsterdam’s 800,000 quickly made me realize I was in a true megalopolis. You can bike from one corner of Amsterdam to the other in about an hour, but driving from one neighbourhood to another in Istanbul will take you much longer, never mind crossing the Bosphorus and visiting the other side of the city. Just being out and about in the bustling streets was overwhelming at first, and I missed the quiet comfort of my hotel room after just half an hour. I went in mid-July, which meant temperatures were around 30°C and I brought my summer clothes with me. However, I wasn’t sure about how conservative I should dress since I wasn’t familiar with the culture anymore; different people told me different things, so I ended up feeling perplexed and restricted. In time I discerned that I could pretty much wear anything I would wear in Amsterdam, which was relieving, but my initial hesitance was still frustrating. I had to get reacquainted with certain cultural norms, like how to greet shopkeepers and address adults. I was less-than-fluent in Turkish, so just trying to speak my native language was laborious and taxing on my brain. After about two days of this, I had one thought in my head: “I want to go home.” Back to the Netherlands, back to Amsterdam. I was confused: wasn’t Istanbul supposed to be “home”? 

Upon some introspection, I found that the reason behind my feeling alienated by the city I grew up in was multifold; firstly, I was 12 when I moved and 19 when I went back to visit, which is quite a difference in terms of psychological development. In-between those ages I went to an international school, which meant I adopted a more Western European and American culture. By the time I went back to Istanbul, I was pretty disconnected from Turkish culture, partly because I simply hadn’t been there in so long, and partly because I wanted to be disconnected from it. However, I didn’t realize the gravity of this until I tried to give directions to a cab driver in Istanbul, and I must have had a pretty heavy accent because he asked me if I was a foreigner. The question hit me like a punch. Me, a foreigner? In the city that I grew up in? I admit I was quite offended at first, but it was just what I needed to start to evaluate the past few years and reconsider my relationship with my home country.

In my quest to fit in once I moved to the Netherlands and started going to an international school I rejected my Turkish background. I didn’t want people to judge me based on where I was from, so I only brought it up if I had to. Some of the questions I got on my first week from well-meaning but ill-informed peers reaffirmed my stance: I was asked why I didn’t wear a hijab if I’m Turkish, and why I didn’t speak Arabic. Even though they came from a good place and just wanted to learn, they ended up encouraging me even more to renounce my heritage. This also meant rejecting my language. I accepted English as my dominant language and switched from thinking in Turkish to thinking in English; it’s been so long that I even dream in English now. I stopped reading Turkish literature, stopped consuming content in Turkish. The only time I spoke it was to my parents, and that quickly morphed into a half-Turkish half-English mix. Doing this has granted me access to a flawless American accent, yes, but at what cost? I’m only just realizing the tragedy of not being able to read a book in my mother tongue any more, and I can only hope that it’s not too late to start remedying that now.

Once I graduated high school and started going to university in Amsterdam, I wanted to separate myself from my Turkish background even more. Other than a few annoying questions, my high school was quite conscious of cultural backgrounds and there was an understanding amongst everyone not to profile others or make assumptions based on where they were from, but despite that, I still felt the need to renounce my culture, and now that I was about to start going to a university with mostly Dutch students I was even warier.

Most Dutch people like to pretend that racism is not a thing here, but the treatment of minority groups like Turks, Moroccans and the Surinamese begs to differ. I started saying I was Turkish-Albanian instead of just saying I was Turkish to distance myself from stereotypes held by the Dutch. I would also emphasize my international school background, to prove that I was “just like them”. You know, educated, liberal, and multilingual. Despite all this, I couldn’t escape the occasional microaggression and realized that while there was nothing I could do about other people’s perception of me, I could change how I viewed my own “Turkishness”. I had internalized the prejudice I expected from many of the Dutch people I encountered, and I was only contributing to the problem. I became conscious of how I never should have had to justify the fact that I was Turkish! 

Since this realization, I’ve been working on coming to terms with my cultural and ethnic identity. When I first moved to the Netherlands I was surprised to hear my friends tell me that I wasn’t white, because I had never really thought of it before. Turkey is ethnically very diverse and there isn’t a singular Turkish look; I can’t speak for other Turkish people in Turkey and colourism within the country, but in my personal experience, as a kid, I was never faced with the issue of where to place myself in terms of my ethnicity. It wasn’t until I came to the Netherlands that I was seen as an ethnic minority and non-European, and I was confused as to why. I had olive skin much like many other Greek, Spanish or Italian people, so why did I need to be distinguished from other Greeks, Spaniards or Italians? Upon some research, I found that the issue of whether Turks are white has been around for decades: a 1909 article in The New York Times asks “Is the Turk a White Man?”, and fails to reach a conclusive answer. Because of Turkey and the Ottoman Empire’s history as a highly ethnically heterogeneous place, many people have a hard time categorizing Turks. I am still unclear on this, and I’ve decided to just go with identifying as Turkish. Not white, not anything else, just Turkish. 

I went back to Istanbul again this summer with this new outlook and had a much more pleasant experience than last time. I kept my mind open, and found beauty in what I had only seen before as different and intimidating. The constant cacophony of city sounds started to become comforting and conversing with people felt easier because I didn’t have such a rigid mental block against speaking Turkish. I rediscovered Turkish food that I loved, like mantı (a type of dumpling), or tavuk göğsü (a type of dessert). I look forward to finally reading books in Turkish again. I reconnected with my Turkish heritage and came back to Amsterdam more at peace with my identity. I would still say I’m culturally more Western European than Turkish, having spent my teenage years here in the Netherlands, but I am no longer rejecting my identity. I am no longer hesitant to tell people where I’m from. I’m Turkish and proud. 

By Eda S.

Edited by Paola Duran (IG: @wintrytokyo)

Graphics by Alexa Marie (IG: @aleexamarie)