My father was born in Turkey and my mother in Germany. Because of this we, my sister and I, are both German and Turkish. When we were around fifteen and fourteen, we had to apply for new passports. The very friendly official at whose desk we were filling out the forms asked us, with a casualness almost absurd given the weight of the question, whether we wouldn't also like to have Turkish citizenship. We were not prepared for this question. We had never thought about it, and such things are usually not offered to you just like that. Only Turkey can grant its own citizenship, and the friendly woman wasn't supposed to have anything to do with it. Our father had been naturalized during a brief window, she went on to explain, in which he and his descendants are allowed to hold both German and Turkish citizenship. Back then, dual citizenship was the absolute exception in Germany. We sat side by side in those grey chairs so typical of German administrative offices and put our heads together. At that point, I couldn't say a full sentence in Turkish and falsely assumed that our Turkish half was of no real significance. When asked about it, I would say I was German, even though my surname is clearly Turkish. Even so, we decided to do it. Actually, my sister, being the older one, made the decision, and I went along with it. But I was happy about it, I still remember that well; it was exciting. Since then, our documents have read, “Nationality: German/Turkish.”
I only noticed it ten years later when I applied for a certificate of criminal record. I read German/Turkish, and I remember feeling nervous. I think up until then, I was never entirely sure whether the friendly woman hadn't simply made it up. “Nationality:German/Turkish” reflects the facts, after all. But it felt strange to read those words. That the question of where I come from, whether I am German, whether I am Turkish, how I can be both, is a bureaucratic category, a matter of official record. That these questions come down to three words, even though they encompass my whole world.
For some time now, and increasingly often, I have been asking myself what I think about this entry, German/Turkish, and what it means for my sister and me.
For one thing, this is because I have never applied for a Turkish passport. I know that citizenships can convey a sense of belonging; I know people who spend their entire lives in Germany and refuse to exchange their Turkish citizenship for a German one, or who argue with authorities and courts to be allowed to have dual citizenship. For that sense of belonging, I would probably be grateful. It is the tragedy of migration to be seen for what is foreign rather than recognized for what is shared. In Germany I am Turkish, and in Turkey I am German, at least, that is what I am told. But I believe to know that this is not something a passport can help me achieve. They dictate where we can go and where we can stay, but they do not answer where we belong. And in this original function of a passport as a travel document, the German one is simply better. Even in Turkey, an increasingly authoritarian state, the passport would not truly be advantageous. It feels strange, almost treacherous, to admit that one citizenship is more valuable than the other. And it is absurd, fundamentally, that countries hold such different standing, live such different lives. That belonging to them can be worth more or less, can mean more or fewer privileges, that one can hierarchize passports in the first place.
This hierarchy is something you encounter in Germany, too. Turkish and German people are not always treated equally here, increasingly less so in fact. Being Turkish lies outside of what the German system is built for. As a result, it is a disadvantage. The Turkish labor migration that began in the sixties was centered around strengthening the German economy; it was never meant to integrate immigrants. The agreement signed between the two countries made clear that guestworkers were only meant to work in Germany temporarily, and then return. Now, the disadvantage lies not only in how the lives of immigrants were to be restricted in time and space, but in how their migration was framed as a political event, not a personal story. Though it is both, the word itself, migration, tends to obscure its true substance. Migration is not just politics, but one's own life story, life itself, almost. Immigrants and their identity, their very lives, were politicized by the invitation to come to Germany as working guests.
Now, their lives are increasingly framed as a political problem. Here in Germany, under the current government and its main rival–the politically strongest force according to polls, the opposition right-wing extremists– a chilling unease hangs in the air. Migration and all things non-German are at the center of domestic political debates, and are presented as the supposed solution to societal issues. The Chancellor has suggested stripping dual nationals who commit crimes of their German citizenship. The right-wing opposition submitted a parliamentary inquiry regarding the potential loss of German citizenship for around one million German-Turks. The far-right party shapes the political discourse in many areas, its ideas and rhetoric spilling over into the general discourse of society. Its politicians establish a rejection of all things and people that are deemed not German and try to define Germanness as desirable, as right. They say in interviews that Turks do not belong among us, and that German-Turks do not truly belong in this country. That dual citizenship stands in the way of a loyal German sense of belonging. The initial unequal treatment culminates in a fear of the question of what its consequences might be. Terms like “Remigration” and “Passport Germans“ buzz through the air, referring to those Germans who acquired their citizenship ‘merely’ through naturalization.
Back when the shift toward this way of politics was still new, I texted my sister:
Do you think it’s better if we have this entry, German-Turkish, removed?
Yes, she replied.
Deep down, I agreed with her. And yet, I decided against it. Our entry is unsettling because it can turn us into the objects of these solutions, these right-wing fantasies. Against the backdrop of rising right-wing populism, it suddenly seems frightening to lose the possibility to hide behind one’s Germanness if necessary. This pull towards my German half is not unfamiliar to me. I used to imagine marrying someone with a German surname that would cause me less trouble. But as I grew older, I came to realize that resistance required the exact opposite: I have to keep my surname, at least until it is no longer made into an issue.
I try to hold onto this stance. Doing the exact opposite of what my anxiety tells me to do. As long as our origin is politicized and turned into a problem, it carries a necessary stance. Necessary for the certainty that who you are is right, and that this certainty cannot be stripped away from you. It is about not internalizing the negative external view on foreignness as one’s own self-perception. It is nothing new to me that the tone and content of German politics link Turkish identity not only with external problems, but with internal ones too. When migration is turned into a problem, you have to resist turning a part of your own identity into a problem. I try not to blame the Turkish part of me for my political discomfort.
When I recently had to apply for a new passport again, the official, this time a very friendly Turkish man, asked me if he should remove the ‘Turkish’ from the nationality entry.
No. Why are you asking?
Because so many people are requesting it right now, he answered.
Later, I learned that the entry cannot even be removed at a German administrative office; one would have to go to the Turkish consulate for that. But because we never registered there, they have no record of us. And they couldn’t delete any information in the German resident registry anyway.
The entry seems to cling to us, even if we were to decide against it. And although there is currently little positive to report from Germany, I am glad about it. It is not a disadvantage, even if you have to look a little closer to see it. It is a wave from a naive past; a carefree reminder not to be intimidated, and to be proud of the places we carry within us.
Sources:
Alexander Gauland in an interview with Severin Weiland, in Der Spiegel, 31.05.2017
Drucksache 19/21968, Deutscher Bundestag
Handelsblatt, 27.07.2026, Lydia Wolter.
