Written by Janset An
For my father, Canpolat, and my brother, Janberk
When people ask me where I am from, my instant response is “I am Turkish.” This is true: I am the daughter of Turkish immigrants, I speak the Turkish language, and my life has been cultivated with a rich Anatolian culture from a young age. However, my name is not Turkish.
In fact, my name reveals a missing part of my identity. An identity that I have struggled to come to terms with because of my inability to express it in its authentic language, customs, and history. What felt like the unintelligibility of my own ancestry gave me cause to simplify it: “I am Turkish.”
Yet every single time I introduce myself or someone calls me, that latent part of my ancestral roots once again reminds me of its existence—never relenting, never dissipating, never parting from me. After years of navigating my ethnic identity in ignorance, I have decided to surrender to the sounds of my name and hear the forgotten history it bellows.
I am a descendant of the Circassian people, the indigenous people of Circassia. A people that was subjected to systematic extermination and forceful displacement by the Russian Empire in 1864. A people that have been living scattered in diaspora since, for over 150 years.
The Russians carried out a 97-year-long military campaign against the Circassians to annex the Northwestern Caucasus where they lived. Circassian villages were pillaged and burnt down, forcing a whole people onto death marches. Cornered on the coasts of the Black Sea, the remaining souls were deported off of their lands by ship to various regions.
An unknown number of Circassians found their final resting place within the engulfing waves of the Black Sea. Some boats sank under storms, others from the weight of overboarding Circassians—the criminal choice made by profit-hungry transporters. Following this disturbing epoch, generations of exiled Circassians refused to eat seafood from the Black Sea, believing the fish had fed on the flesh of their perished brothers and sisters.
According to estimates, around 1.5 million Circassians perished in mass massacres, starvation, and epidemics. By the turn of the 20th century, less than 10% of the indigenous Circassians remained in their ancestral homelands. Today, only two governments globally recognise the Circassian genocide: Ukraine and Georgia.
Fate took mercy on my ancestors as they travelled by sea to the Ottoman Empire. They arrived in the Karadeniz region of modern Türkiye and moved to the Havza province of Samsun, the province my father was eventually born in. Had my father not named me a Circassian name, I may never have understood my patrilineal history in full. My surname explains why.
The nationalist dawn of modern Türkiye saw the widespread Turkification of many minorities like my ancestors. From banning languages, to closing down minority cultural institutions, to handing out “Turkish” surnames, the Turkish government stringently sought to mould a homogeneous nation of Turks out of a heterogeneous populace. My ancestors’ surname, before its artificial replacement with “An”, was Zefes.
Therefore, my first name and surname exist in tension with one another: the former a fledgling reminder of a lost people, the latter the remnants of an aggressive assimilation policy. With the incremental co-opting of their names, language, and culture, “existing as a Circassian” was watered down over generations. No one in my family today is able to speak the Circassian language, Adyghe. My father’s grandmother was the last ancestor in our family who could fluently speak it.
It is crucial to discuss these historical arcs to understand the origins of contemporary Circassians like me. However, we must tread carefully not to conceptualise Circassians solely as victims of genocide and assimilation. Discussing what various authorities subjected my ancestors to can distract away from a humanising conversation: who the Circassians were and how they continue to be today.
My ancestors came from the Abzakh and Kabardian tribes, two of the twelve Circassian tribal confederacies—each tribe is symbolised by a star on our flag. They were known as mountaineers and followed a form of paganism known as Khabzeism. Their spiritual practices harmoniously grounded them with nature, forging a deep emotional attachment to their land. The Circassians sustained a communal life in their villages and cultivated an eclectic culture, from mesmerising dances to demonstrations of unmatched horsemanship.
Today, three self-governed republics exist in historic Circassia under the Russian Federation. The diaspora lives in Türkiye, Syria, Jordan, and Egypt. May 21st is a day of remembrance for the Circassian genocide and every year, this diaspora collectively honours the memory of their lost ancestors. They diligently carry the responsibility of reviving a people forgotten by mainstream historical studies. For some, this takes the physical manifestation of coordinating visits to the Caucasus, or in some cases, a permanent return to the ancestral homeland.
Other Circassians embody the culture by incorporating facets of it into their everyday life. My 17-year-old brother has been teaching himself how to speak Adyghe, and my father takes great joy in frequently listening to Circassian music. Personally, writing this has left me feeling more complete in myself.
The story of the Circassians is a painful one, but above all, a testament to human resilience. I owe my existence today to a people that survived genocide and the subsequent generations that never capitulated in the face of adversity. One day, I hope to visit the land of my ancestors in historic Circassia. Once there, my first mission would be a trek up Mount Elbrus in pursuit of finding a flower … the Circassian flower I was named after, Janset.
