My Harrowing Search for Home

Editor’s note: This is the first of a two-part story. The conclusion will run next week.

Part 1: Decoding a Family Secret

A dozen years ago, as I stood on the deck of a cruise ship pulling into the misty port of Lisbon, I had no idea what this city would come to mean to me. Yet right away, the terracotta rooftops tumbling down the hills, which I was seeing for the first time, reminded me of home—of Istanbul, with its own disheveled beauty.

It was a comforting parallel, but not nearly as comforting as it would have been had I known then that Lisbon would be a key stepping stone in my long, winding journey to find myself.

Living in Istanbul at the time, my family had taken an autumn Mediterranean cruise a few months before I would move to London for university studies. Lisbon was then just a beautiful, unfamiliar city that reminded me of my hometown, with its steep streets, sweeping views, and bustling waterfront. But like the layers of fog slowly lifting over the Tagus River, my identity would soon begin to reveal itself in ways I could have never imagined.

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Like most people who move between cultures, I’ve spent years trying to figure out my place in the world.

Like most people who move between cultures, I’ve spent years trying to figure out my place in the world. As a Turkish national, in Western countries I face frequent “othering” and what seem to be intentional bureaucratic hurdles. How many times, for example, have you filled out a visa application that asks “Are you a terrorist?” or “Have you committed any war crimes?”

Even when I do overcome the fears, frustrations, and sustained risk of rejection to obtain a visa, the scrutiny continues at passport control with an interrogation about my purpose and financial status. The reminders that I’m from a foreign land and not entirely welcome are nearly constant, if occasionally subtle.

But this story to not just about me, but something much deeper: the layers of identity we inherit, sometimes unknowingly, and the quest to find where we fit in a world with few easy answers. My search ultimately tied me to one of the defining issues of our age, the endless movement of hundreds of millions of people seeking security, stability, and prosperity. 

My ancestors, it turns out, had a hidden heritage, long buried in the pages of an old diary. Its re-discovery shook my family tree like an earthquake. My father’s forebears had been Sephardic Jews expelled from the Iberian Peninsula centuries ago. This knowledge profoundly reshaped my understanding of who I am. My religion, ethnicity, and residence status (from home in Turkey to in exile) all shifted in an instant, and it was absolutely bewildering. It changed almost everything I thought I knew about myself and my home.

What does it mean to “belong” somewhere when your roots cross continents, cultures, and faiths? How do we reconcile complex pieces of ourselves in societies intent on categorizing us in simple terms? In a world increasingly defined by human movement and complex, shifting identities, these questions could hardly be more urgent.

Yet just as I felt more connected to the rest of humanity than I’d ever been, I also felt less like myself. Am I part of a secret crypto-Jewish community that mainstream Turkish society views with suspicion? Who am I, after all?

A Faith Forced into Hiding

In the mid-17th century, Sabbatai Sevi, a young rabbi in Smyrna, or present-day Izmir, Turkey, declared himself the Jewish Messiah. As his local following grew, Smyrna’s rabbinical elders banished Sevi and his followers. He settled in Thessaloniki, then part of the Ottoman Empire, and built a much larger following. Fearing unrest from this devout Jewish community, Ottoman authorities forced Sevi to convert to Islam under threat of execution.

Most of Sevi’s followers also converted, publicly adopting Islam in a show of loyalty to the empire. Secretly, however, many clung to their Sabbatean beliefs. This partial transition was not orchestrated collectively; rather, adherents and their families gradually learned to navigate a new, dual religious identity. This adaptation, a delicate balance between Islamic conformity and the covert practice of Jewish traditions, offered the Sabbateans a route to survival.

These several thousand semi-converts to Islam came to be known as Dönme, meaning “convert” in Turkish, though they did not initially embrace this label. Regional Muslim and non-Dönme Jewish communities used it mainly as a pejorative, hinting that they qualified as neither Muslim nor Jew. Even so, the Dönme settled mainly in Thessaloniki and soon emerged as an economic and social force. Many took on prominent roles in trade, politics, and culture, even acting as intermediaries between Muslims and Christians.

Dönme tended to inter-marry, which helped them keep their secrets. Yet their economic success and the prominent roles some played in trade and politics could lead to suspicion and scrutiny. Over time, Ottoman authorities became aware of the existence of Dönme, but there was little they could do to stop them, since they didn’t know who they were and couldn’t search the home of every Muslim family in Thessaloniki looking for Jewish icons.

Everybody knew of the Dönme, but only a select few outside their community knew exactly who they were. Yet once Ottoman authorities discovered a few Dönme families, all formerly Jewish converts fell under suspicion. Amid the rampant nationalism of the late Ottoman Empire and early Turkish Republic, many officials and much of Turkish society imagined a massive wave of crypto-Jews plotting a social or economic coup.

This story to not just about me, but something much deeper: the layers of identity we inherit, sometimes unknowingly, and the quest to find where we fit in a world

Historian Marc David Baer, a London School of Economics professor and author of The Dönme: Jewish Converts, Muslim Revolutionaries, and Secular Turks, highlights the immense strain the community struggled with to maintain its secret identity amid rumors and hostility. The pressure to conceal their background in an increasingly suspicious society posed serious psychological and social challenges and often led to isolation. “The Dönme did not approach those distinctly different from themselves hospitably, with a willingness to get to know them,” Baer writes in the book. “They were not socially open to others.”

Even today, the suspicions persist: Turkish Islamists regularly portray Mustafa Kemal Atatürk, the founder of modern Turkey and a Salonika native, as having Dönme heritage, despite the absence of evidence.

I wonder whether some of his neighbors and acquaintances, all those years ago, made similar accusations about my great-grandfather.

A Family Past Discovered

Driven by rumors and innate curiosity, my great uncle Bilgi Kenber embarked on a quest, more than two decades ago now, to settle our family’s history once and for all. Going through old boxes that had been collecting dust, he came upon the leather-bound diary of Mustafa Arif Efendi, my great-great-grandfather.

The binding was cracked, and the pages yellowed with age, but the writing within was preserved. Apparently the journal had shifted from one family home to another over the generations, until my grandmother Rebi Özdamar (née Kenber), thank goodness, decided to hold onto her grandfather’s diary despite not being able to read the Ottoman Turkish in Arabic script. Working with an Ottoman historian, Bilgi tore through the diary in 2008 and soon came across several major hints at Arif Efendi’s great secret.

Hoping to learn the full story, Bilgi set off for Thessaloniki, armed with little more than hope and the cryptic diary as his guide. He spent several days digging through archives and consulting with local historians. Finally, in a cluttered, book-filled office, an elderly academic and Sabbatean historian told Bilgi that our family had likely been Dönme.

What does it mean to “belong” somewhere when your roots cross continents, cultures, and faiths?

Buoyed, my great uncle intensified his search, which ultimately led to a 2018 book In the Light of a Notebook: The Story of Mustafa Arif Efendi from Thessaloniki. My great-great-grandfather’s diary, penned in an elegant Ottoman script, did much more than help us trace our genealogy—it enabled us to understand who we were beneath the veneer of our modern-day identities.

The diary became a portal into my family’s roots, and a personal revelation. Wait, what? I’m part Jewish?? My family had never been devout Muslims; we hadn’t gone to Friday prayers or fasted during Ramadan, so this bit of news might have only a limited impact on my faith habits and traditions. But being a citizen of Turkey, a Muslim-majority country known for opposing Israel, did this mean some of my social and political views should change?

I’d have to give it some thought. About my Jewishness, at least, I knew where I stood. I do have Jewish blood, but through my dad’s side, not my mum’s. Jewish tradition traces Jewish lineage through the mother, so I would never be officially a Jew. Although by blood, I am part Jewish.

Piecing Together My History

Growing up, I remember hearing that my dad’s side of the family was “multicultural.” I was probably 9 or 10 when I learned that my grandmother’s mum’s name had been Anna. We were at my grandparents’ apartment, and I asked my babaanne, or paternal grandma, “Was your mom’s name really Anna?”

“Yes, dear,” she answered in her distinctive yelp. This momentarily seemed like very big news, since Anna is certainly not a Muslim name. But I was just a kid at the time, and the moment passed. I pushed all that aside for nearly two decades, until Bilgi’s digging uncovered our heritage iceberg.

Until the age of 70, he had been unaware of his own father’s faith and ethnicity. I cannot imagine what that must have been like. To go through your whole life wondering about some dark family secret your parents and other older relatives had always denied and kept hidden, only to discover, towards the end, that you’d been right all along.

Soon after the publication of Bilgi’s book in June 2018, more than 50 members of my family gathered at an Istanbul hotel to examine and learn about our new shared history. Many of them I’d never met, but I said my hellos to my uncle, cousins, and grandmother. Then I saw an old classmate of mine, who, thanks to Bilgi’s research, had turned out to be my distant cousin.

As dessert was served, Bilgi stood up to speak and the restless crowd fell silent. He walked us through how he had learned that our family most likely belonged to this Sabbatean sect of Thessaloniki. He shared a few anecdotes about our ancestors and their connections to historical figures such as Atatürk. As he narrated, my mind painted vivid images of their daily lives, conversations, and robust characters.

Impressive Historical Legacy

One of Arif Efendi’s sons, my great-uncle Enver Arif, had been a chemical engineer with a prominent job at a major European cosmetics firm. Bilgi explained that in a scene from the Emmy-winning Netflix series The Crown, the Duke of Windsor, who had briefly been King Edward VIII, holds a bar of soap and tells reporters, “I have a special soap made for myself.”

Our Uncle Enver Arif made that soap and personally presented it to the Duke in Paris. Bilgi’s book includes black-and-white photos capturing this moment, adding a rather public and historical layer to our shared heritage and family pride.

We learned that Mustafa Arif Efendi had been the bar association president in Thessaloniki and, after Greek independence, a member of Greek parliament. He attended the opening of the Eiffel Tower in 1889 and visited London later that year, where he met the Ottoman Ambassador.

“The day after our arrival, we paid a visit to His Excellency Rüstem Pasha,” he writes in his diary. “The Pasha, born of an Italian family and having risen to prominence within the Ottoman administration, honored us with great compliments, and received us with great warmth and hospitality. We shared a meal.”

My uncle Lütfi Arif Kenber, another son of Mustafa Arif, had been a prominent journalist who was involved in some of the dialogues leading up to the Lausanne Treaty, establishing the borders of modern Greece and Turkey. Turkish history courses highlight the exploits of our collective ancestors, but the reality is that most people know next to nothing about their forebears beyond their grandparents.

I was bowled over by these stories, filled with historical connections and personal triumphs. My family’s heritage legacy was so much richer, deeper, and more expansive than I’d ever imagined. My great great grandfather’s entries about London’s bustling streets and tranquility along the Thames – he saw “’great bridges and busy docks, a testament to the city’s grandeur” – helped me see my own time in the British capital, and elsewhere, as not just travel, but a continuation of a family tradition of seeking one’s place in the world.

Filled with immense pride, I started to feel connected to the broader tapestry of world history, along with a novel sense of “unbelonging” in Turkey. I had always felt at home there, but this shifted my perspective. My people, my family, had suffered through a decades-long struggle to hold onto their culture, their faith and heritage, in an environment of hostility.

What did it mean to me, personally, all these years later, that my homeland had marginalized and persecuted my people? Figuring that out would take a lot of untangling, and I’d just begun.

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Istanbul-born Mergim Ozdamar is a London-based marketing consultant and freelance writer with a passion for food, culture, and travel. She is the editor of The Mediterranean Magazine. Follow her on X.