Şahap Eraslan: The Invisible Faces of Racism — Part 2

Rastinews — The Norm Never Has to Explain Itself 

Understanding racism's invisible forms means looking at the question of the norm. In Turkey, being Sunni, Turkish and Turkish-speaking became such a powerful norm for so long that this position itself often isn't even recognized as an identity. A norm never has to name itself. What gets named is usually the deviation from it. Speaking Turkish requires no explanation; speaking Kurdish does. Being Sunni requires no explanation; being Alevi does. In some circles, "Why don't you fast?" is treated as a perfectly natural question, while "Why do you fast?" can sound strange, even hostile. Where "Why don't you pray?" passes without comment, "Why do you pray?" does not get the same pass. That is exactly what a norm is: something that never has to explain itself. Which is why the privilege of the norm rarely feels like privilege. People don't experience it as "I have an advantage." They experience it as "That's just how life is." When two people speak Kurdish on a minibus, a third passenger might say, "It bothers me." Yet their conversation isn't directed at him. He hasn't been insulted, and his space hasn't been intruded upon. But the mere presence of another language in public can trigger in him a sense of violation. When he speaks Turkish loudly, he sees it as the natural sound of public space; when he hears Kurdish, he feels the order of public space has been disrupted. This is where norm and privilege blur together: treating one's own presence as natural and the other's as excessive. 

In the 1990s, at our summer house, almost everyone hung a flag on national holidays. When we didn't, people would ask, "Why aren't you hanging a flag?" The question itself says a lot. The person who hangs the flag never has to explain why; the person who doesn't has to explain why not. Once a behavior becomes the norm, even opting out of it can arouse suspicion. 

Structural Racism and Invisible Privilege 

When someone with a Turkish surname in Germany faces discrimination while looking for housing or a job, that can be an example of structural racism. When two candidates have comparable qualifications and the one perceived as German is systematically preferred, that isn't only the rejected candidate's problem. The person who gets preferred can be thoroughly tolerant in daily life. They can march in anti-racism demonstrations. They can shout the loudest slogans. But if they never consider the advantage they've been given and simply chalk it up to their own merit, they help keep structural inequality invisible. Structural racism doesn't require everyone in the system to be a conscious racist to persist. The system usually runs on the silent, often unwitting participation of ordinary people. 

One of the most effective ways to hide racism is to keep looking at someone else's. It's easy to get angry about a racist attack on Black people in America. It's easy to call out German racism when a Turk faces discrimination in Germany. Plenty of people condemn an attack on a Muslim in Europe without a second thought. All of that opposition is warranted, of course. The problem isn't objecting to it. The problem is only ever recognizing racism as something someone else does. By opposing another's racism, a person also builds an image of themselves: "Look, I oppose racism, so I can't be racist." But the real test begins precisely where racism benefits our own group. 

Structural Victimhood and Everyday Agency Are Not the Same Thing 

A clear distinction needs to be drawn here: structural racism and the racism that surfaces in everyday relations are not the same thing. 

It's not enough to say that Alevis and Kurds in Turkey were victimized only historically. That victimization hasn't stayed in the past. Alevis and Kurds still face structural exclusion, discrimination, devaluation, insult, invisibility and inequality today. It has to be openly acknowledged that they can be victims of structural racism and discrimination not just in the past but in the present. This is a distinct and fundamental level of the problem. 

If a Kurd is excluded for being Kurdish, or an Alevi is devalued, insulted or pushed into a disadvantaged position as a citizen for being Alevi, that is structural victimization. There's no need to relitigate that fact every time. But this is exactly where a second level must not get muddled with the first. Being a victim of structural racism doesn't automatically make someone innocent in their everyday relations. A Kurd can face structural discrimination for being Kurdish, and still, in a specific interaction, become the perpetrator of everyday racism by using racist language against another ethnic group. 

An Alevi can be structurally excluded for being Alevi, and still become the perpetrator in a specific context by using essentialist or racist language that demeans another Alevi, a Sunni, a Kurd, a Turk or some other group. There's no contradiction here. The same person can occupy different positions within different social relations. Someone who is structurally victimized by the state, by institutions or by majority norms can hold power in another relationship — and use that power to exclude. Structural victimhood and everyday agency are not mutually exclusive categories. The real trouble starts when structural victimhood is turned into a safe harbor, a mask, or a shield of innocence. When someone says, "I belong to a community that has been victimized throughout history, so what I say can't be racism," structural victimhood starts being used to render their own everyday conduct invisible. But historical and structural victimhood is not a moral license to demean someone else. It's a problem when a person says "I'm Alevi, so I can't be racist" or "I'm Kurdish, I'm already a victim of racism, so what I say doesn't count as racism" — and yes, I'm aware I'm setting aside what Frantz Fanon wrote on this. Because what determines racism isn't simply which identity the perpetrator belongs to. What matters is what they say and do in that concrete relationship, how they define the other person, and which hierarchy they reproduce. So we need to be able to say two things at once. Alevis can be, and still are, victims of structural racism and discrimination. The same people can also, in other contexts, be the perpetrators of everyday racism. The first statement doesn't cancel out the second, and the second doesn't deny the first. On the contrary, understanding the issue correctly requires keeping these two levels separate. Otherwise we either belittle structural racism or turn structural victimhood into a lifelong certificate of innocence. Structural victimhood must be recognized — but it cannot become a mask to hide racist, exclusionary or authoritarian behavior in everyday life. Being a victim doesn't exempt anyone from the possibility of also being a perpetrator. So the real question isn't "Is this person, in general, a victim or a perpetrator?" It's what they did in that particular relationship. Making this distinction lets us do two things at once: not deny the reality of structural racism, and still expose the everyday conduct that hides behind historical and structural victimhood. 

Personal Hardship and Structural Disadvantage Are Not the Same Thing 

Another defense mechanism is neutralizing structural inequality with personal stories of hardship. You say "Alevis face discrimination," and someone answers, "I've faced plenty of discrimination in my life too." You point to a group's structural disadvantage, and immediately someone counters with the personal suffering of a member of the majority. That suffering can certainly be real. A Sunni Turk can also be poor, humiliated, unemployed, subjected to police violence, or wronged in serious ways. Structural privilege doesn't mean living a life free of pain. This is exactly where the confusion sets in: personal hardship and structural disadvantage are not the same thing. A person can have suffered a thousand injustices in their life and still hold certain structural advantages because of a particular identity. Neither cancels out the other. But acknowledging privilege is hard, because people want to believe their achievements come solely from their own talent and effort. Saying "I got here because I worked hard" feels psychologically easier than saying "I worked hard, but some doors opened more easily for me than for others." 

Collective Innocence and Denial 

This is also where the construct of collective innocence comes in. In narratives of Turkishness, the Turk is strong, brave, merciful, comes to the aid of the oppressed, and does no wrong. Once that self-image is built, acknowledging a past or present injustice isn't just acknowledging a single event — it threatens the person's idealized construct of their own collective identity. That's why denial sometimes stems not from ignorance but from an effort to protect oneself against the narcissistic injury that knowledge would cause. A person can know that something happened and still act as if they don't. It isn't easy to have never heard, at all, that torture exists in Turkey, that Alevis have been excluded in various forms throughout history and still are today, or that Kurds have been repressed for their language and identity. But knowing something is one thing; accepting the consequences of what you know is another. 
Acceptance can require giving up some of the comforting stories people tell about themselves and the group they belong to. 

Collectivizing the Individual Crime 

Another core mechanism of racism is collectivizing the individual. When a Jewish person steals, and the crime becomes not the thief's but "the Jews'," racist thinking has already taken hold. When a man of Turkish origin commits a serious crime in Germany, there is of course a concrete perpetrator who should be held responsible. But the moment the crime is recast as "that's just how Turkish men are," an individual offense has been ethnicized. When a member of the majority commits a crime, he's an individual; when a member of a minority commits a crime and it turns him into a representative of his entire group, that's exactly where racism lives. This mechanism shows up not only in overtly racist speech but in ordinary-looking news language. 

Take a hypothetical example. Say a stabbing happens in Konya. If the perpetrator is from the majority society, the headline might read: "Man stabbed in Konya." If the perpetrator is Syrian, the headline changes at once: "Syrian stabs man in Konya." In the first report, the perpetrator is an individual. In the second, being Syrian is placed ahead of the crime, as if it were essential information for understanding what happened. The problem isn't necessarily false reporting — the perpetrator really can be Syrian and really can have committed the crime. The problem is the systematic pattern of which true facts get included and which don't. This is one of racism's subtler forms: changing how reality is perceived without ever lying. If you consistently foreground the word "Syrian" when a Syrian commits a crime, while systematically leaving out the identity of majority members who commit the same crime, the overall picture that emerges can be misleading even though every individual report is accurate. Over time, readers form a mental link between "foreigner," "crime" and "danger." That's why racism sometimes shows up not in an insult but in an adjective — not in what is said, but in whose information gets mentioned and whose doesn't. And this may be precisely where it works best: when racism can operate without looking like racism at all. 

Right or Privilege? 

One of the starkest examples of this double standard shows up in the immigrant experience. Turks in Germany rightly want their children to learn Turkish. They demand Turkish classes in schools. They want their children to keep their ties to their mother tongue, to practice their religion, to have their culture recognized. They defend these as democratic rights, cultural rights, human rights — and there's nothing wrong with that. On the contrary, those demands are legitimate. But if the same person views Kurds' demand for education in their own language, or public visibility, in Turkey as "dividing the country," there's a serious contradiction at work. If a Turkish child learning Turkish in Germany doesn't divide Germany, why would a Kurdish child learning Kurdish divide Turkey? When someone won't extend to another the same right they claim for themselves, the problem lies with the very concept of the right. A right defended only when it's "my right" stops being a right and becomes a privilege. 

"We're Modern" Isn't Enough 

That's why labels like "secular," "modern," "democratic," "progressive," "leftist" or "socialist" don't convince me on their own. What matters isn't what someone calls themselves but what they do when they actually confront another person's right. Claiming a positive concept doesn't mean practicing what it requires. Calling yourself a "democrat" doesn't automatically make you one. Saying you're a "socialist" doesn't make you egalitarian by default. The moral worth of these concepts shows up in practice, not in the label. The same holds for Alevis. Saying "we're free, we're modern, we're contemporary" doesn't, on its own, protect anyone from authoritarian, racist or fascistic thinking. If someone who declares themselves modern tells another Alevi "you're not a real Alevi," tells a Kurd "you're not a real Kurd," or tells someone else "you have no right to define yourself that way," there's a serious contradiction between the modern vocabulary they use and the way they actually think. A person can give themselves modern labels and still cling to a very old logic of single, absolute truth. Being modern doesn't mean everyone resembling everyone else. On the contrary, one of the key measures of modernity is the capacity to live alongside difference. 

Alevisms, Islams, Identities 

Perhaps what really needs saying today is this: there is no single Alevism, there are Alevisms. There is no single Islam, there are Islams. There is no single identity, there are identities. And none of these identities is pure. None of them is purely a victim or purely a perpetrator. My Alevism is one Alevism among many, not Alevism itself. My definition of my own identity doesn't give me the right to cancel someone else's. My structural victimhood doesn't grant me immunity for my everyday conduct in other relationships. Something that is a right for me cannot become a threat the moment someone else claims it too. In a plural world, the democratic position isn't to erase one of these differences or elevate it above the others — it's to create a space where they can all recognize each other's existence. Fascistic thinking usually begins at the opposite point: rejecting plurality, purifying identities, absolutizing a single truth, and claiming the right to decide, on someone else's behalf, who they are. 

"I'm Not Racist, But…" 

Racism rarely announces itself as "I am racist." It shows up as "I'm not racist, but…" "I'm not against Kurds, but…" "I'm not against Alevis, but…" "I respect everyone's language, but they should speak Turkish here…" 

More often than not, it's right after that "but" that the gap becomes visible — between the idealized picture someone has of themselves and the space they actually allow the other person. That's why fighting racism isn't just about exposing the obviously racist "bad people." It demands something much harder: questioning our own sense of normal. Which right do I consider natural for myself but see as a threat when someone else claims it? Which of my advantages do I mistake for my own achievement alone? Which language's sound do I find natural, and which do I find grating? Who has to explain themselves, and who doesn't? Whose crime stays individual, and whose gets attributed to an entire people? Do I believe I have the right to decide, on someone else's behalf, who they are? Am I using my own historical and structural victimhood to avoid seeing my conduct in everyday relationships? And most importantly: can I recognize racism only in others, or can I also recognize it where it benefits me and my own group? Because racism's most comfortable hiding place isn't always hatred. Sometimes it's a longing for purity, essence, authenticity. Sometimes it's the belief that we hold the one and only truth. Sometimes it's a sense of normalcy. Sometimes it's the feeling of innocence that historical and structural victimhood provides. Sometimes it's the comfort of "we're already modern." And sometimes it's simply begrudging someone else a right we claim for ourselves. Fighting racism, then, doesn't start only with exposing someone else's wrongdoing — it starts with being able to doubt our own innocence.