When Identity Feels Illegal

Growing up in Turkey as an Alevi and an atheist was not illegal—at least not on paper. But it felt like it.

I learned early on which parts of myself needed to be hidden: my faith, my doubts, my questions. In school, I stayed silent when Sunni prayers were said aloud. On social media, I deleted posts before publishing. In conversations, I filtered my words carefully, always aware of who was listening. It wasn’t prison. It was performance—a constant, exhausting performance of self-censorship, where merely existing as who I am came with invisible penalties.

Being Alevi in Turkey means navigating a deep historical trauma that is rarely acknowledged in official narratives. While the Turkish Constitution guarantees freedom of religion, the societal reality often says otherwise. The legacy of discrimination dates back centuries, from the Ottoman Empire’s persecution of heterodox communities to the systemic marginalization of Alevis in the early years of the Turkish Republic. Events such as the 1978 Maraş massacre and the 1993 Sivas massacre are not only historical wounds, but also ongoing reminders of exclusion and cultural denial.

In modern-day Turkey, state institutions implicitly prioritize Sunni Islam in public education, media, and religious representation. Alevi students are often made to feel like outsiders in their own classrooms. For someone like me, who is both Alevi and atheist, the alienation becomes twofold: religiously deviant to the devout, and culturally inconvenient to the secular elite.

When I began expressing dissent—criticizing censorship, defending human rights, and questioning political dogma—I encountered a subtle but persistent form of isolation. Friends grew distant. Family members urged me to “be careful.” Anonymous messages appeared in my inbox. The pressure was not overtly violent, but it was undeniably silencing. The intent wasn’t to arrest me—it was to erase me quietly.

In authoritarian-leaning societies, the line between legality and legitimacy becomes blurry. What is technically legal may still be punished socially or informally. When identity and belief are perceived as threats to national unity, dissent is not viewed as a right but as betrayal.

Today, writing this from outside my homeland, I realize I am doing something I never felt safe doing before: telling the truth about myself. This is not an act of rebellion—it is an act of reclamation. Because when your identity is treated like a crime, reclaiming your voice becomes your only form of justice.