On the Other Side of the Diaspora
Brittany White
The first time I visited Turkey, I was only 22 years old. I had just graduated from Temple University with a degree in Africana Studies and to be honest, I was a bit disillusioned. I’d come into the program with the enthusiasm characteristic of most 18 year-olds budding into adulthood, but by the end of four and a half years, I was tired — my main objective was to simply graduate.
I was no longer excited to learn the intricacies of Black social and political thought, the philosophy of the Black experience couldn’t hold my interest, and while I found classes on the wider African diaspora more enjoyable, they too seemed like another thing I had to cross off my list before walking the stage.
So, when I moved to Turkey less than one month after graduation and after spending four formative years exploring the Black experience — my experience — I wanted to be immersed in something wholly unfamiliar, and I found that, living in Istanbul.
There were new sounds like the call to prayer echoing across the city, new smells, like roasting chestnuts on a crisp, winter day, and then there was the visible layering of history, culture, and religion — something that will never cease to amaze me.
It was all so thrillingly different from anything back home.
Though I only stayed in Istanbul for four short months, over the years, I would return to Turkey through literature, documentaries, and visits when I found the money to go. And while I had seized any opportunity to learn more about Turkish culture and history, it took me years to finally find out that the country had been touched by the African slave trade.
By that time, I was 26 and serving with the United States Peace Corps in Peru. And it was there, of all places, that my interest in the African diaspora had been renewed. Over my two years of service, I learned that while significantly smaller than other South American countries, Peru was still home to a vibrant Black community, a product of transatlantic slavery. I specifically remember thinking, “Well, if there are Black folks here, then there’s gotta be Black folks everywhere.”
From that point on, whenever it occurred to me, I’d do a simple Google search:
[Random Country X] + “Black people”
Guatemala? Yup, Black folks there. Iran? Yup, Black folks there too. Uruguay? You guessed it. Black people.
Given my continued interest in Turkish culture, I would inevitably plug in Turkey as “Random Country X” in my Google formula. When I finally did, I found dozens of articles on the descendants of enslaved Africans from the Ottoman Empire — a little piece of history that had seemingly been tucked away into obscurity.
Annoyed that I hadn’t learned about all of it before, I started to play catch up on the history lesson I missed. I thought I was well versed in the story of African slavery but pouring over articles, I realized that I was missing a huge piece of the puzzle.
It turns out, that Turks of African descent have been a part of Turkey since before the country became a modern republic.
To make a long, dissertation-worthy story short, as early as the 15th century, Africans primarily from Ethiopia, Kenya and Sudan were being captured and traded within the Ottoman Empire. Many of those enslaved Africans were forced on a gruelling journey north to the Mediterranean Coast of Egypt where they were then sold in markets and shipped to Anatolia and the Balkans. During the 19th century and before the founding of the modern Turkish Republic, these enslaved Africans were freed and many of them would eventually settle into agricultural communities along the Aegean Coast of Turkey. However, what’s most interesting is how the descendants of those enslaved view their “Blackness.”
I learned that until relatively recently, there hadn’t been much discussion around Black Turkish identity and this was largely due to the way they had been incorporated into modern Turkish society. Afro-Turks were folded into the community through a deliberate “Turkification” process, fueled by strong nationalist sentiments during the founding of the republic. This state-sponsored process actively encouraged the formation of one, true Turkish identity and often suppressed any cultural expression that deviated from it. As a result, many cultural practices that were traditionally exercised by Afro-Turks have been lost over the last century — leaving what many say is “nothing but the color of their skin.”
However, over the last 20 to 30 years, there’s been a resurgence of consciousness. With the founding of the Afro-Turk Organization in 2006, a small group of dedicated members of the Afro-Turk community have been working tirelessly to research and reclaim cultural practices that were lost. In a sense, they are trying to redefine their “Blackness.”
Having learned all this, I promised myself that on my next trip I would make a point to travel to Izmir, where the organization is based, and reach out to some members.
Fast forward a few years and I kept the promise I made to myself. Months before planning a two week trip to Turkey, I reached out to Beyhan Türkkollu, an active member of the Afro-Turk Organization on Facebook. I wrote to her, expressing my desire to learn more about the organization’s work and in a matter of hours, she had responded saying she would be more than happy to meet with me in Izmir.
The night I met Beyhan for dinner, I was exhausted. I had just arrived in Izmir the night before after spending a very full week touring Northeast Turkey but despite my fatigue, I was determined to make this happen.
As I waited anxiously outside the restaurant, I put on my glasses so I could spot, at a distance, any brown person walking my way. As I loitered on the sidewalk, I caught the restaurant owner’s eye and I did my best to give a pleasant look that said, “I know I seem out of place, but I assure you, I’m just your friendly neighborhood Black girl. I come in peace.”
After about ten minutes, I saw Beyhan turning the corner and as she approached me, I took note of her. She was short and petite, had high cheekbones, her skin was the color of ground nutmeg, and she wore her hair in a rounded, fluffy afro — the excitement of seeing another Black face in a sea of white ones always puts me at ease. It reminds me that I’m not alone and not so out of place after all.
Following the standard, kiss-on-the-cheek greeting, we sat down over an impressive spread of meze and began to acquaint ourselves with one another in between sips of rakı. She patiently answered my enthusiastic questions, told me about her life in Izmir, and all of her work with the Afro-Turk Organization. Our conversation was never marred by the clumsiness that hangs over first-time meetings because Beyhan was warm and easy to talk to. And before I knew it, two hours had passed, and she had invited me to meet her family and other members of the Afro-Turk Organization during the rest of my time in Izmir.
The next day, as I was walking up the street towards Beyhan’s house, one of her neighbors spotted me. She must have been used to random Black folks showing up in search of her neighbor because she gave me a knowing smile and said “Beyhan, değil mi?”
“Evet, Beyhan’ı ziyaret ediyorum,” I replied, proud that I was able to put together one whole sentence in Turkish.
She then directed me to a powder blue house just a few doors down before settling back into her neighborhood watch.
When I arrived at the door, I was greeted by Beyhan’s two older sisters who weren’t twins but were nearly mirror images of each other. Both also had the same nutmeg colored skin and high cheekbones of their little sister. I was greeted warmly and told that Beyhan was at the store and would be right back.
Being familiar with Turkish norms around punctuality, I knew that “be right back” could be ten minutes or two hours. So, I sat in their living room and settled into the awkwardness that occurs when you and another person don’t speak the same language — smiling and nodding at things you didn’t really understand, the dead air, the retreat into your own thoughts. Luckily, this was something I learned to be comfortable with while living in Peru, so sitting with the awkwardness felt more like catching up with an old and familiar friend. I mostly studied the family photos hanging on the wall before Beyhan showed up about 30 minutes later.
For the next 48 hours, I imagined myself to be Zora Neale Hurston, engaging in a self-guided exercise in ethnography. I wanted to listen to family histories, observe communication styles, and search for cross-cultural similarities. And, I can’t say that I was disappointed.
I would learn that Beyhan’s mother, a woman of Albanian descent had married her father, an Afro-Turkish man, whose family had been enslaved on the island of Crete during Ottoman times. Though Beyhan knew little about her paternal family history, she knew that her ancestors most likely came from Kenya. After emancipation, they had migrated to the Aegean Coast, through the 1923 population exchange between Greece and Turkey in which 400,000 Muslims living in Greece were exchanged for 1.2 million ethnic Greeks living in the newly established Turkish Republic — another forced migration, to put it plainly.
This story of double displacement was one echoed by Ahmet Doğu, another active member of the Afro-Turk Organization, and whose booming laugh, talent for storytelling, and room-filling personality delightfully reminded me of all the “OG” Black uncles I’d ever met. Through Beyhan, graciously acting as a translator, Ahmet told me that his family had been enslaved in what’s now northern Greece, and was again displaced by the same population exchange that affected Beyhan’s family. But instead of migrating directly to the Aegean Coast, Ahmet’s family first settled in Samsun, a city in Northeast Turkey, before relocation to Izmir years later.
As Beyhan recounted his words in English, I could see Ahmet studying my face for signs of comprehension, knowing how important it was to tell these stories to anyone willing to listen. And as a Black American, I knew all too well that his family’s oral history was a rare, personal treasure — one of the few things that survived the devastating and deliberate process of cultural memory loss. In choosing to share these stories, you’re ensuring that your history and culture survive erasure and I was thankful he chose to pass his on to me.
At some point though, Ahmet stopped being a griot and began to pull out old family photos and we spent the rest of the afternoon laughing and looking at pictures of his children, sisters, cousins and play cousins. All of them Black like me, like him, like Beyhan — like us.
I was sad, leaving Ahmet’s house that evening. I had an early flight to Istanbul the following morning and didn’t know when I’d ever be able to return. I made the connections I wanted and asked the questions I had planned, but I knew I was leaving with a desire to learn more.
Were there Afro-Turk communities living in other regions in Turkey? What untapped cultural knowledge lives in the minds of the older generation of Afro-Turks? And how is this burgeoning consciousness going to affect the identity of future generations?
I guess I would find out whenever I found the money and vacation days to return again.
On my last day in Turkey, I treated myself to a morning at the Kılıç Ali Paşa Hamam. If you’ve ever been inside, you’d know that it’s centuries-old and elegantly constructed. In the waiting room, there are high arches of time-worn red bricks, making the atmosphere warm and calming. Floor cushions line the walls, awaiting those who have already finished their hamam ritual — the perfect place for quiet self-reflection, a cup of hot pear tea, or both. The main bathing room is made almost completely of majestic white marble, and when you look up, you can see stars carved into the ceiling dome, creating the illusion that you’re gazing at the night sky. It’s breathtaking, really.
As I lay there, embraced by the heated marble, I stared up at the celestial ceiling and I thought about the African diaspora. Such a cruel and perverse displacement and yet, what a profoundly resilient group of people. People whose culture shaped new languages, musical forms, religions, and culinary traditions — they shaped whole new societies, even in places like Anatolia.
What a joy it is to be a part of that global legacy, I thought, just before the bath attendant called me over from the göbektaşı to begin my massage.
And what a privilege it was to be there, on the other side of the world, and to have met with others who felt the same way.
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Brittany White holds her BA in Africana Studies from Temple University. She enjoys writing about identity, culture, and belonging in African Diasporic communities.