Given the influence of Sunni Turkish nationalist and Islamist ideologies that have prevailed since the founding of the republic, a large part of the majority population remains unaware of the historical presence of Armenian, Greek, Assyrian, and Jewish communities in these lands. Consequently, members of these communities are often asked, "Which country are you from?", as though they were foreigners who had only recently arrived. Even those with some historical knowledge may confuse Armenians, Greeks, Jews, and Assyrians. At best, these communities are viewed as outsiders; at worst, their members are treated as people whose loyalty is constantly questioned and who remain persistently vulnerable to accusations of treason.
Derogatory expressions deeply rooted in collective social memory, such as "Armenian offspring," "Greek seed," "cowardly Jew," and the term "infidel" (gavur), reflect this discrimination in everyday language. Moreover, the problem is not confined to those in power. Even many opponents of the current government accuse politicians they dislike of mismanagement, betraying the homeland, or serving foreign interests, often claiming that these politicians come from non-Muslim backgrounds. Thus, non-Muslim identity becomes a tool for denigration and delegitimization, even amid political debate.
Even when governments change, the legacy of nationalist prejudices and official historical narratives persists. The fundamental issue is not the extent to which non-Muslims belong to this land, but rather the refusal of both the state and society to acknowledge the historical plurality of this region.
When we examine the century-long history of the Turkish Republic from the perspective of its non-Muslim population, a troubling question emerges: What has the republic given to the ancient non-Muslim peoples of these lands, and what has it taken away from them?
These communities were not outsiders in Anatolia; they were its indigenous inhabitants. With their languages, churches, synagogues, schools, commercial activities, and distinct cultures, they formed fundamental pillars of the region's historical fabric. Although the republic promised equal citizenship, these promises collided in practice with nationalism, security concerns, and discrimination based on religious identity. Therefore, the task is not merely to recount the injustices of the past, but also to critically examine the political and social continuities that extend from the founding of modern Turkey to the present day.
First the Property, Then the Memory
The deportation of Armenians and the massacres of Christians during World War I did not merely claim human lives, they also transformed Anatolia's economic and social structure. Homes, fields, shops, and other assets left behind by their owners were confiscated or transferred to new owners through various mechanisms of seizure and liquidation. This ultimately contributed to the emergence of a Turkish Muslim bourgeoisie. Much of this property system remained in place well into the republican era.
The issue, therefore, is not simply a catastrophe that occurred in the past. It concerns those who lost their property, those who accumulated wealth, and why these injustices were never subjected to comprehensive accountability. Telling the story of the republic's founding solely through its institutions, factories, and development trajectories means overlooking this economic legacy. Confronting the past does not mean holding people today guilty of crimes committed in the past; rather, it means examining the present-day consequences of inherited injustices and taking demands for justice seriously.
In 1924, for example, tens of thousands of Assyrians were expelled from the Hakkari region, where many perished under catastrophic conditions. Later, during the anti-Jewish violence in Thrace in 1934, Jewish communities in Edirne, Kirklareli, Tekirdag, Çanakkale, and the surrounding areas faced nationalist incitement, threats, and attacks. After witnessing the looting of their homes and businesses, many Jews were forced to flee the region.
These events, which took place in the republic's early years, exposed just how vulnerable the security of non-Muslim citizens was in the face of nationalist mobilization.
In 1941, the conscription policy known as the "Twenty Classes" (20 Kura) was implemented, under which non-Muslim men were conscripted and forced to perform hard labor in special labor battalions. This was followed in 1942 by the Wealth Tax (Varlik Vergisi), which inflicted severe economic devastation, particularly on Greek, Armenian, and Jewish citizens. Those unable to pay the tax were forced to liquidate their assets, while some were sent to labor camps in Askale.
The state's discriminatory treatment of its citizens on the basis of religious identity clearly demonstrated that the system was not secular in practice, despite its claims to the contrary. As economic power shifted from one group to another, the principle of equal citizenship remained merely a promise on paper.
During the events of 6--7 September 1955, the homes, shops, churches, and cemeteries of Istanbul's Greek community, along with the property of other non-Muslim groups, were looted. A nationalist mobilization fueled by the Cyprus issue turned into a collective assault on Greeks living in Turkey.
Following Turkey's 1974 military operation in Cyprus, pressure on Greek citizens intensified, along with their sense of insecurity. Once again, citizens of Turkey were made to pay the price for a conflict unfolding in another country.
This history, stretching from Thrace to Istanbul, demonstrates that although different communities were targeted at different times, non-Muslims could easily be branded "suspect citizens" or "undesirable" during periods of crisis.
Assyrians and Armenians: Under the Shadow of Security Policies
Beginning in the 1980s, a combination of factors -- including conflicts in Kurdish-majority areas, violence between the state and the Kurdistan Workers' Party (PKK), state security policies, forced village evacuations, and economic hardship -- contributed to the displacement of Assyrians from their ancestral lands. Although the emigration of the Assyrian community cannot be attributed to a single cause, the result was the depopulation of longstanding villages and a decline in cultural continuity.
Amid the authoritarian climate that followed the 12 September 1980, military coup, Armenian citizens also faced pressure and a persistent sense of insecurity. The deadly attacks carried out by the Armenian Secret Army for the Liberation of Armenia (ASALA) against Turkish diplomats were exploited to fuel suspicion toward Armenians living in Turkey. Yet an entire community sharing the same ethnic roots cannot be held responsible for crimes committed by a single organization. These acts were used as a pretext to question the loyalty of Armenian citizens.
The assassination of Hrant Dink, founder of the Agos newspaper, on 19 January 2007, stands as one of the most painful symbols of this climate. Before his murder, Dink had been subjected to nationalist campaigns, threats, and judicial pressure. He was the victim of an assassination plot involving senior state officials. In 2010, the European Court of Human Rights ruled that Turkey had failed to protect Dink's life.
Beyond the killing of a single journalist, Dink's assassination became a symbol of the dangers faced by those seeking to express their Armenian identity -- a long-marginalized identity -- in the public sphere.
Governments Change, but the Official Historical Narrative Remains the Same
The 1915 genocide is an event recognized by numerous countries and parliaments and extensively studied in international historiography. Nevertheless, Turkey continues to pursue an official policy of denial. Demands concerning Armenian and Assyrian history are often portrayed as the product of foreign interference or a threat to national security, preventing a historical reassessment. Rather than engaging in discussions about the past, those who raise these issues are branded as enemies, creating further obstacles to the pursuit of truth.
As a result, fundamental questions remain absent from political debate: What actually happened? Who suffered? How was ownership of property transferred? What steps can be taken today?
The problem is not confined to the government. Broad segments of the main Kemalist-oriented opposition remain unable to break free from the official historical narrative, particularly regarding the founding myths of the nation-state, national unity, and security. Opposing present-day authoritarianism does not necessarily mean confronting the dispossession that took place during the republic's founding era or the continued discrimination against non-Muslims.
Of course, this assessment cannot be generalized to all opposition forces. In recent years, liberal, left-wing, socialist, and Kurdish currents have emerged in Turkey calling for a genuine reckoning with the past and defending the rights of non-Muslims.
When the rights of non-Muslim citizens are raised, the fundamental question of who genuinely upholds the principle of equality, and who retreats into nationalist tendencies thereby adopting a stance at odds with democracy and human rights, emerges.
Democracy is not merely a change of government. It is a transformation of the very standards by which injustice is defined.
So, What Did the Republic Offer to Non-Muslims?
The republic promised equal citizenship. Yet, throughout its history, that promise has remained intertwined with dispossession, discrimination, massacres, forced displacement, and denial. Through its educational and cultural policies, the republic effectively encouraged the majority population to view non-Muslims through a lens of prejudice.
A century after the republic's founding, if belonging to the Armenian, Greek, Assyrian, or Jewish communities is still used as a measure of disloyalty, the issue is not whether these individuals belong to the country, but whether the country is capable of accepting its citizens as equals, regardless of their ethnic or religious identity.
Can any country truly become democratic without confronting the policies that caused its citizens to lose their homes, wealth, security, and, in some cases, their lives?
The story of non-Muslim citizens invites us not only to examine Turkey's past, but also to reflect on the kind of state Turkey aspires to become today. The decisive criteria are neither nationalist fervor, official ceremonies, nor political slogans, but justice, equality, and truth.
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