Turkey’s Alevi community endures centuries of religious repression and seeks recognition and equality within a secular, democratic framework.

Turkey’s enigmatic Alevi community stands as both a testament to resilience and a story of centuries-long repression. One encounters a symbol of survival when driving through the gates of the Pir Sultan Abdal Cultural Center and Cemevi in Istanbul’s working-class district of Gaziosmanpaşa. Hıdır Çam, the head administrator, welcomes me warmly into the heart of this community, a gathering and worship space fundamental to Turkey’s Alevi-Bektashi community. Though Alevi organizations push for official recognition of cemevis as houses of worship, the Directorate of Religious Affairs—solely Sunni in representation—has consistently withheld this acknowledgment.

As Turkey’s urban landscape has transformed, so too have the Alevis’ traditions. Modern cemevis now serve as spiritual centers and cultural hubs, a shift reflecting the dynamic adaptation of a community long marginalized. Entering the large lounge, I am greeted with traditional Turkish tea, accompanied by pastries, beneath the watchful portraits of Mustafa Kemal Atatürk and Ali ibn Abi Talib. Alevis cherished their alignment with Atatürk and his secularist vision, standing with him during Turkey’s war of independence and the creation of a secular nation-state.

Despite their faith in the republic, Alevis have faced systematic oppression. Their practices differ from Sunni and Shiite norms, rooting their spirituality in pre-Islamic Anatolian beliefs and emphasizing an individual’s unity with the divine. This heterodoxy has left Alevis open to persecution—from accusations of heresy under the Ottoman Empire to modern-day exclusion and discrimination.

Today, Alevis represent about a quarter of Turkey’s population. Yet, as non-Sunnis, they remain unrecognized as an official religious group, perceived merely as a liberal variant of Islam. The situation is increasingly fraught as younger Alevis seek to distance themselves entirely from Islam, asserting an independent religious identity.

Through sips of Turkish tea, Hıdır Çam recounts the persecution Alevis faced under the Ottoman sultans and Sunni ulema, beginning as early as the 14th century. The most infamous massacres occurred under the reigns of Yavuz Sultan Selim, Suleyman the Magnificent, and Murad IV. Alevi groups, often labeled heretics, were stigmatized and repressed. Alleged alliances with the Safavid dynasty compounded their plight, casting Alevis as political threats as well as religious outcasts. For centuries, Alevis carried the trauma of suppression, often concealing their identities and conducting ceremonies under the cover of night.

In the high mountains and remote valleys of rural Anatolia, where many Alevi settlements still reside, this isolation persisted, cultivating a sense of second-class citizenship that even the establishment of the Republic could not fully dissipate. Alevis are frequently judged by Sunni standards and often compelled to explain why their religious observances diverge from Sunni norms. Cemevi rituals, where men and women gather without segregation, chant hymns, and even consume wine or rakı, would be unimaginable in a Sunni mosque.

Not only the Ottoman period but the nascent Turkish Republic saw its share of brutal clashes with Alevis. One of the most notable episodes was the Koçgiri rebellion of 1921, in which Kurdish Alevi and Sunni tribes faced off against Turkish forces. This event culminated in violent repression under Nureddin Pasha and Topal Osman. This pattern of violent suppression continued into the republican era, as in the notorious Dersim Massacre of 1937-38, a campaign that inflicted immense trauma on the Kurdish Zaza Alevi population. As Hıdır Çam reflects, a diplomatic path might have avoided the bloodshed, but grievances on both sides escalated the violence.

Throughout the latter half of the 20th century, Alevis remained vulnerable to religiously motivated violence, as seen in the attacks on Alevi communities in Çorum, Maraş, and the infamous Madımak Hotel massacre in 1993. As Çam gestures toward black-and-white photos of the slain intellectuals who perished in Madımak’s flames, the collective grief is palpable. “This is our deepest wound,” he says, his voice breaking. The government’s tepid response only compounds the pain. “We were left defenseless for eight hours,” he recounts, “as the police, military, and fire department stood by.”

Since then, the number of Alevi Cultural Centers and cemevis has risen, but so too have the obstacles. “Even after thirty years, we still can’t secure the title deed to this cemevi,” Çam laments. Founded in 1993, the cemevi hosts rituals provides meals and offers academic classes to Sunni and Alevi alike. Yet in 2021, the National Real Estate Department declared the cemevi an illegal occupant, demanding a prohibitive rent. After a legal battle, they won the case—but it was appealed, a saga shared by numerous cemevis across Turkey.

The Justice and Development Party (AKP) has attempted to appeal to Alevi voters, proposing reforms and benefits. Yet the promises of official recognition, salaries for Alevi leaders, and financial support remain unrealized. President Erdogan’s latest initiative, a Ministry of Culture agency to oversee Alevi religious practices, only further alienated the community, who reject their classification as a “cultural element” rather than a distinct religious group.

In the lead-up to the 2023 general elections, Kemal Kılıçdaroğlu, an Alevi leader of the opposition Republican People’s Party, made history by publicly embracing his Alevi faith in a social media post. His act challenged a deeply rooted taboo and reclaimed an identity long wielded against him by political rivals. While his coalition ultimately lost the election, Kılıçdaroğlu’s stand brought Alevi identity into the national spotlight.

Alevis’ demands resonate with the broader call for a democratic and secular Turkey. Their struggles underscore a systemic issue: Turkey’s historic reluctance to divorce state and religion. Only by reshaping this relationship can the nation address the deep-rooted problems faced by Alevis and other minorities. Turkish society must reckon with its past and embrace the full spectrum of its citizens, opening the door to the democracy and tolerance that Alevis and so many others have long sought.