Why do many Bolsahyes have Turkish last names?
Recently, Daron Acemoglu won the Nobel Prize in economics. This achievement sparked an unusual reaction among a certain segment of Armenians who couldn’t understand or bear the fact that Daron carried a Turkish last name. Comments on social media posts about his award were most noteworthy. It was unfathomable for them that an Armenian can carry a last name that is Turkish — never mind the fact that these comments came from Demirdjians, Yazidjians or Tashjians.
But why do many Bolsahyes have Turkish last names? The simple answer is that they were forced to. In 1934, as part of Atatürk’s nation-building project, the Turkish government implemented the Surname Law (Soyadı Kanunu), which mandated the replacement of non-Turkish surnames with Turkish ones. Armenians with last names ending in “-yan” were often forced to adopt Turkified names, and these would sometimes end with the suffix of “-oğlu.” Others, like the Greeks, also experienced a similar process, replacing “-oulos” with “-oğlu,” while Slavic surnames, often ending in “-ich,” were Turkified in various ways.
Ethnic Turks and many Muslims also had to abide by the new law, as prior to the Surname Law, Turks did not have last names and went only by titles (e.g., Bey, Pasha, Effendi, Agha). It was now customary to have a last name. Even fellow Muslims from non-Turkish ethnic minorities were not spared from this policy as Arabic and Kurdish surnames were also Turkified. In fact, the policy went beyond personal names with the altering of names of villages, towns, geographic features and streets — all with the goal of erasing non-Turkish identities from the national landscape. Campaigns like Vatandaş Türkçe Konuş (Citizen Speak Turkish) even made speaking any language other than Turkish a punishable offense.
So why do Bolsahyes still carry these last names even though many of them live outside of Turkey? Well, I can’t speak on behalf of every Bolsahye, but I can speak on behalf of myself.
A November 28, 1934 issue of the Cummhuriyet newspaper. Title of the article reads: “The entire nation is busy choosing surnames… Everyone is selecting purely Turkish names for themselves. It seems almost all the members of parliament have already adopted surnames.”This is my history, or rather, my family’s history. Whether I like it or not, we are shaped by the experiences of those who came before us, and my family endured a process of oppression that should not, and cannot, be forgotten. Indeed, this painful memory of oppression and forced assimilation is a burden, but it can also be a story of resilience.
Indeed, this is not a struggle unique to Armenians. The prominent African American activist Malcolm X, who was originally Malcolm Little, changed his last name, because it was tied to slavery and his involuntary assimilation into white America. By choosing the letter “X,” he felt as though he cut ties with his oppressed past while simultaneously raising awareness about it. However, he not only believed that his past was oppressed — he believed it didn’t even exist. His history, identity and provenance were stripped away and forcefully replaced. “X” was simply the symbol of that obliteration. In contrast, for me, holding onto my last name can serve another role. It is a vessel to preserve and share our story of resilience. Whereas Malcolm X sought to raise awareness of his oppressed past by erasing his last name, I believe I can do the same by preserving it. Both these paths are valid reactions to historical wrongs. Each shows its own kind of defiance and triumph.
The pressure from the Armenian community to change my last name to include an “ian,” ironically, mirrors the same forces that sought to erase my identity in the first place. But this all-too-familiar “Bolsahye paradox” of being “too Turkish for Armenians, too Armenian for Turks” is not just my life’s burden — it’s also an opportunity. Carrying this last name often prompts questions, and that opens the door to conversations about the injustices we endured. Many become inquisitive, delve deeper into the struggle of my family and learn something that they otherwise wouldn’t have known if my last name were so predictable. Reverting my last name to its pre-1934 form would end that conversation and obscure the sinister reality of my past. It would be to whitewash a painful chapter of my family’s history — a chapter that deserves recognition and awareness, not suppression. Such a change would also erase the broader truth of our people’s suffering as a whole. By carrying this last name, I honor their survival and ensure that their experiences remain a part of our collective memory. In doing so, I expose not my failure as an Armenian, but their failures as human beings, while at the same time spreading knowledge about the truth, much like Malcolm did himself.
Even if an Armenian has fully assimilated or been ‘Turkified,’ their story is still worth listening to, because it’s a story of our people. These stories, or rather narratives, can often be contradictory, but they are part of a larger scope of our shared history. Acknowledging and respecting where we all come from is crucial in helping our people move forward. For example, embracing someone like Acemoglu into the community, rather than rejecting him because of his last name, would be a great opportunity for Armenia to build bridges and foster positive change for the country. The alternative — pushing him away and potentially encouraging him to focus on our not-so-friendly neighbor, Turkey — would be a critically missed opportunity or even detrimental. The choice is ours.
We must ask ourselves: Is simply having an “ian” at the end of your last name enough to render someone Armenian? Is that all it takes these days? Are we so easily satisfied with minimal gestures of identity? Armenians often become preoccupied with superficial markers, whether it’s wearing a cross, getting an Armenian-themed tattoo, having an Armenian partner, occasionally vacationing in Armenia, waving the flag once a year, or yes, carrying the suffix “ian.” These actions, while symbolic, require little effort. We often forget that identity is not just a label, but rather a relentless process of effort and engagement. This very endeavor, such as through learning to read and write in Armenian, has a lot more significance than any such surface-level marker.
The July 22, 1934 edition of the Official Gazette in which the Surname Law was first publishedShakespeare once wrote, “A rose by any other name would smell as sweet,” suggesting that names themselves are inconsequential, and true power lies in the essence of things. Names are merely identity markers that are handed to us. True identity is not defined by what is handed to you; rather, it’s shaped by how you use what you’ve been given and contribute to the world around you. The shallow symbols we associate with our identity often mislead us into thinking we have fully embraced who we are. By focusing on such markers, we often lose sight of what truly matters: nurturing and strengthening our identity. This can come in the form of achieving something greater, like winning a Nobel Prize, or smaller, foundational steps, like learning the Armenian alphabet.
Do I carry this last name as a badge of honor? Far from it. My surname, born of oppression, does not define my worth, but it reminds me of the injustices my ancestors faced and the ongoing resilience that comes with it. It symbolizes a constant battle — a painful memory that serves as a daily reminder of how important it is to overcome the dark forces that sought to erase not just my own family but Armenians as a whole.
Our identity is not limited to a suffix or labels alone, nor should it be neatly packaged in the confines of symbols and paraphernalia. Our identity constantly evolves, shaped by not only our collective histories, struggles and stories of survival passed down through generations, but by what we contribute to the world. To reduce it to superficial markers — be they a surname, a flag or a tattoo — is not just an oversimplification; it is an affront to the legacy of our ancestors and, more importantly, ourselves. Instead, let us embrace the complexity of our past, honor the resilience of our people and strive for a future where our identity is defined not by what was imposed upon us but by what we have endured and achieved. Only then can we truly elevate the essence of what it means to be Armenian.
