Searching for Identity in the Corridors of a Museum
Museums do not merely preserve the past. They multiply today's questions and open up new perspectives on tomorrow. When we look at Iznik tiles at the Victoria and Albert Museum in a foreign country, we are actually searching for traces of our own identity.
As soon as you step into London's Victoria and Albert Museum, your eyes are drawn to the soaring ceilings, the echoing footsteps in the silence, and the centuries-old stone walls. The corridors are like a time tunnel; a long journey stretching from the stonework of Gothic Europe to the splendour of the Renaissance, from the gold embellishments of Indian palaces to the delicate porcelain of Japan, from the elegant tiles of the Islamic world to the bold lines of modern design. Each gallery carries the heart of an era; it offers visitors a historical scene, while also providing an opportunity for people to converse with their own identity.
That day, as I walked through those galleries with my daughter and son, the real purpose of our adventure suddenly changed: ‘To find Turkey.’ A spark of curiosity flashed in my children's eyes. My daughter, confident from her schoolbooks, said, ‘Turkey will be in Europe.’ ‘But it could also be in Asia,’ she added, then insisted, ‘I think it's in Europe.’ I smiled at her self-assured manner, but I had my doubts.
I said, ‘I think it could be in the Islamic Middle East.’ This was not just a guess. It was a question that had been going round and round in my mind for years, one that I could never quite understand, because Turkey is always described as a bridge connecting Asia and Europe geographically. However, contrary to all these narratives, in the pages of history and politics, in the shadow of perceptions, Turkey is sometimes linked to the Middle East, its language is thought to be Arabic, its old alphabet is equated with Arabic script, and its cultural values are attributed to the Middle East in general. This is a perception that I, too, have been trying to understand and change for years.
My daughter, however, remained true to her own understanding at first. She visited each European gallery, carefully scanned the displays, but could not find even the slightest trace of Turkey. I saw the disappointment on her face. Then we headed together to the gallery I pointed out, the ‘Islamic Middle East’ section. And there... the colours, patterns, and letters spoke to us. Iznik's blue tiles, the elegance of our calligraphy, Turkey emerged before us from the stone, the soil, the ink. My children's eyes lit up; for a moment, it was as if Turkey was the only thing in the entire exhibition.
This happiness was immediately followed by my daughter's question, like a slap in the face, like an epiphany:
‘Why is Turkey in the Middle East? Turkey isn't in the Middle East...’
Behind that question lay a deep questioning of identity, belonging and history, beyond the innocent curiosity of a child. My daughter had seen the difference between the reality of geography and the museum's categories, and she was surprised by the contradiction this difference created. Through her eyes, I heard the question I had been carrying in my mind for years. It wasn't just maps that determined where Turkey stood and what identity it had; cultures, beliefs, politics and perceptions were also part of this positioning.
At that moment, I understood: museums do not merely preserve the past. They multiply today's questions and open up new perspectives on tomorrow. As my children looked at the Iznik tiles at the Victoria and Albert Museum, they were actually searching for traces of their own identity, and perhaps the real treasure was the question they found:
Where is Turkey?
