Hijab in Turkey: Headscarves, Craft and Contemporary Voices
A headscarf can hold several histories at once: the work of the person who printed its cloth, the hands that made its edging, a family gift, and the wearer’s own relationship with faith and appearance. Exploring hijab in Turkey becomes much more rewarding when those histories are given room. A floral border, a sculptural lace flower and a contemporary printed shawl each invite different questions.
This guide follows those questions through recorded textiles, regional craft, women’s recollections and contemporary design. It also considers the public debates that have affected women who cover. The examples are deliberately specific: a particular object, a named maker, an individual interview or a dated study. Together, they offer a richer understanding of Turkish headscarves while leaving each woman free to explain what her own clothing means.
The words behind the cloth
Başörtüsü, eşarp and yazma belong to the vocabulary you may encounter around Turkish headscarves. Local speech adds further variety. In his 2017 account of the Eskişehir language atlas, linguist Erdoğan Boz includes a map of words used for women’s head coverings, with forms such as yazma, çember, tülbent and başörtü(sü). Even within the area studied, the terminology is more varied than a single label suggests. See the Turkish Language Association’s publication on the Eskişehir atlas.
The Turkish Language Association’s dictionary entry for yazma connects the textile meaning with cloth decorated by brush or wooden printing blocks, and with a headscarf made from that cloth. This is useful when reading a collection label: the word can tell you something about a textile tradition as well as the object’s use. A maker may have a more precise local name for her work, so asking which term she uses is a good starting point.
A historical headscarf with an unexpectedly elaborate border
The Cleveland Museum of Art’s nineteenth-century Turkish headscarf provides a tangible place to begin. Its recorded materials include a plain-woven linen ground, silk embroidery and gilt metal elements. The cloth measures approximately 92 by 92.5 centimetres. Along its edges, the museum identifies alternating mosque and tent motifs, separated by flowering plants; the corners contain further arrangements of tents and flowers.
That description makes several kinds of work visible. There is the woven ground, the embroidery placed upon it and the composition planned around the square. It also leaves questions open. The record does not supply the wearer’s biography or explain what every motif meant to her. Enjoying the detail does not require inventing a bride, a palace or a special ceremony. When studying a historical scarf, keep its documented features separate from the story you are tempted to imagine.
Printed cloth: the workshop behind the pattern
Tokat: carving, colour and repeated impressions
A 2020 account from the Middle Black Sea Development Agency on Tokat yazma describes decoration applied with brushes or with carved linden-wood blocks. It also records the use of plant, synthetic or mineral colourants. The printing tradition therefore deserves more precise language than a general claim that an old craft must always use natural dyes.
For someone interested in design, this offers a useful way to examine a patterned scarf. Look for the unit that repeats, the relationship between outline and colour, and the treatment of the corners. Then ask the maker how the pattern was produced. A photograph of a floral print cannot establish whether a particular scarf was block printed, screen printed or made by another process. The most informative description connects the finished pattern to the work that produced it.
Elazığ: a related craft with local distinctions
The Ministry of Culture and Tourism’s record of çit printing in Elazığ, updated in 2020, describes cotton cloth decorated with wooden blocks and a predominantly monochrome approach called karakalem. It identifies pear wood as a material for carving the blocks. Its account also traces uses beyond headscarves, including clothing fabrics, wrapping cloths and household textiles.
These details help explain why regional names matter. Shared methods can coexist with differences in materials, colour and use. They also show why a floral cloth alone cannot identify its original purpose. When looking at an inherited piece, a maker’s note or family recollection about how it was used may be as informative as the pattern. Preserve that information alongside the object instead of assuming that every printed square began life as a headscarf.
Bartın: a history carried through apprenticeship
The Ministry’s Bartın yazma history gives names to the transmission of printing skills. It records that Dursun Dede brought the craft to Bartın in 1890 after learning from an Armenian artisan in Trabzon. A later practitioner, Ersöz, spent three years apprenticed to David Usta, who had arrived in Bartın in 1946. The account also records Ersöz’s invitation to teach printing at an Istanbul applied arts school in 1966.
This is a history of teaching, movement and individual labour. It encourages a fuller appreciation of heritage than simply calling a pattern timeless. When a maker discusses a teacher, an inherited tool or a workshop, those details belong in the story of the finished cloth. Credit can preserve a chain of knowledge that a country name on its own leaves invisible.
Oya: understanding the work along the edge
Oya covers a range of narrow lace trimmings. The Textile Research Centre’s account of oya distinguishes needle-made, crochet, tatting and hairpin techniques, which may also be combined. It notes that makers can add beads or other elements, and that their samples may include variations in material and colour.
A useful first question is therefore how a particular edge was made. The word oya alone does not specify one stitch or establish that every part was worked by hand. If you are commissioning a piece, ask to see a sample of the proposed technique and discuss the spacing of the motifs. A closely repeated border and a few separated flowers create different visual rhythms. Let the maker explain the choices and the time involved before deciding on the finished design.
A regional record adds a social dimension. The Ministry’s account of oya in Van, updated in 2020, describes lace used on headscarves, other garments and household textiles. It records scarf edging prepared for trousseaux and exchanged as gifts, with makers sometimes working together. It also distinguishes colourful beadwork on white head coverings from thread edging chosen to relate to the colours of a patterned yazma.
That relationship between centre and edge offers a particularly helpful observation exercise. Follow one colour from the printed cloth into the trim, then notice whether the edging repeats it exactly or introduces another accent. The regional account describes particular practices; an individual maker may work differently, and a woman’s skill or interest in needlework should never be treated as a condition of belonging.
Looking closely without assigning a stranger an identity
A scarf in The Zay Initiative’s collection, numbered ZI2021.500875.3d ASIA, brings printing and edging into one object. The record describes a predominantly blue field, a floral border and three-dimensional jasmine forms in ivory and red around the edge. It measures 78 centimetres square and entered the collection through an Istanbul dealer in 2021.
The record expresses uncertainty about the printing process. Keeping that uncertainty is part of describing the scarf accurately. You can still discuss the contrast between its broad printed border and its projecting flowers without deciding how it was printed or who originally wore it. A motif may invite a question about local symbolism, but it cannot establish a stranger’s marital status, beliefs or personal history. Ask for the particular maker’s or wearer’s explanation when one is available.
The scarf as a family object
In the Indiana University Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology’s community stories for Divine Adornment, Derya Dogan describes the yazmas she brought to the United States and the oya she made for her mother. She recalls a glass box framed in carved wood that a relative passed on as a wedding gift to her mother. It had been that relative’s own bridal yazma box. The scarves were folded so that their decorated edges could be seen.
The value of this account lies in its intimacy. A box, a gift and a daughter’s handwork become part of the textile’s history. It also offers a gentle prompt for anyone with family scarves: ask whose hands made the edge, who gave the cloth and what the owner remembers about it. Record the speaker’s name and the date of the conversation, with permission. Leave room for memories that differ or remain incomplete. A family story can be precious without becoming a claim about every family in Turkey.
Place can matter too. A Ministry account of Cide’s yellow yazma, updated in 2018, describes its place in local village dress and its association with the writing of Rıfat Ilgaz. The account also notes the adaptation of its colour and pattern into other objects. This is a specific local association. It is a reason to ask about Cide, literature and memory, rather than to assign a fixed meaning to every yellow scarf.
Tradition can continue through a new maker’s decisions
In an Anadolu interview published in October 2024, Veliye Martı explained how she returned an older printer’s blocks to use. The blocks had belonged to Nefise Akpınar, who lived from 1877 to 1966. After obtaining permission from Akpınar’s family, Martı cleaned and maintained them, then used them to create new yazmas. The report records 72 blocks and 22 works for an exhibition titled Tamamlanma.
Here, continuity involved practical and personal decisions: identifying the earlier maker, speaking with her descendants, preparing the tools and deciding what to print. Martı’s work gives contemporary craft a specific form. It is possible to recognise the new maker’s contribution while retaining the earlier maker’s name. That is a useful question to carry into any encounter with revived designs: whose knowledge or tools have made this new work possible, and how are they acknowledged?
Contemporary design begins with a particular woman’s brief
Designer Şüheda Aydın’s account provides another route into contemporary headscarves. In Ece Çelik’s Radikal interview, reproduced by T24, Aydın described beginning in summer 2011 because she wanted colourful, printed shawls that would remain sufficiently long when folded. She first made pieces for herself, then for friends. Photographs shared on her blog, followed by attention from other bloggers, brought orders.
The sequence is more revealing than a broad claim that social media transformed everybody’s style. There was a particular unmet preference, an initial design and a way for other women to see it. Aydın also explained her own intention to adapt fashion to her understanding of religious covering. That is her design position. Another woman may articulate her priorities differently. When following designers or reading interviews, look for the actual brief: what did the designer want to solve, and for whom?
Anthropologist Magdalena Crăciun examined these negotiations in Aesthetics, ethics and fashionable veiling: a debate in contemporary Turkey, published in 2017. Her research included work in Istanbul between April 2012 and July 2014, with attention to headscarf-wearing fashion professionals and public discussion. She explored how participants related aesthetic choices to ethical commitments.
This dated, qualitative research helps open a question rather than close it: how does a woman understand the relationship between beauty, religious practice and her public appearance? Listening to her answer gives more insight than deciding that an elaborate scarf signals vanity or that a plain one proves greater devotion. The study is an account of particular people and debates, not a measure of what all Turkish women think.
Public visibility has also involved access and exclusion
The social history of headscarves includes the institutions women could enter while wearing them. In Leyla Şahin v. Turkey, decided by the European Court of Human Rights’ Grand Chamber in 2005, a medical student challenged restrictions on wearing a headscarf at Istanbul University. The Court found no violation of the rights at issue, including freedom of religion and the right to education. The case concerns a particular historical legal dispute; it is not a statement of the rules applicable to a student today.
Policy also changed over time. Anadolu’s report of 8 October 2013 described the removal of headscarf restrictions for many civil servants, while identifying exceptions that remained at that date. Such changes are part of the background to women’s public lives. A stylish image by itself cannot explain their educational opportunities, workplace treatment or experience of acceptance.
For a more personal view, Nisa Efendioğlu’s December 2023 interview report on visibly Muslim women in Türkiye drew on 20 women who reported employment discrimination connected with their headscarves. One dietitian described being permitted to wear a white headscarf during a private-hospital internship while being kept away from patient-facing work. These are reported experiences, with identities protected in many cases.
The sample was selected around experiences of discrimination, so it cannot tell us how common those experiences were across the country. It can, however, make a particular difficulty visible: permission to dress in a certain way does not by itself guarantee equal treatment in everyday work. Understanding hijab through women’s accounts means allowing space for difficulty alongside creativity, family attachment and pleasure in clothing. None of those experiences should be presumed from appearance alone.
A small design study to make the details memorable
If you would like to take these observations further, make a simple study on paper to explore the composition of a decorated textile. Draw three squares. In the first, leave most of the centre empty and add a broad printed border. In the second, bring a repeated motif across the entire surface. In the third, keep the cloth plain and concentrate the detail along the edge. These are suggested exercises in composition, not reconstructions of historical scarves.
Choose two colours and use the same pair in each drawing. This allows you to see how placement changes the result without colour becoming a distraction. Fold each paper square diagonally, then open it again. Which features remain apparent in the folded view? Which only become visible when the whole square is spread out? You are investigating the relationship between an object’s complete design and the portions a wearer might choose to show.
Next, write a separate note about the work each design would involve. A printed pattern, an embroidered surface and a constructed lace edge call for different questions about making. Keep that note apart from your aesthetic preference. You might prefer the plainest drawing while finding the most elaborate technique fascinating. Appreciating skill does not oblige you to wear the most decorated option.
If you later speak with an artisan, take the drawing as a conversation starter and credit any specific work that inspired it. Ask which aspects she would interpret differently. An exchange about placement, colour and making can lead to a personal piece while keeping the maker’s knowledge visible.
How to explore the tradition with care and curiosity
You do not need to become a textile historian to develop a more thoughtful relationship with a scarf. Begin with the part that interests you most. If it is the print, ask about the design and printing process. If it is the edge, ask who made it and which technique they used. If the appeal is a family connection, ask the owner what she would like remembered. These questions make room for the person behind the object.
For a commissioned scarf, write a short brief in your own words before choosing the decoration. You might want a generous area of unpatterned cloth, a narrow border visible near the face and a small number of flowers at the corners. Discuss those preferences with the maker and ask which are practical in her technique. This is a personal design proposal, not a formula for an authentic Turkish appearance. The collaboration should allow both your wishes and her judgement to shape the result.
For an inherited scarf, resist filling gaps in its history with confident guesses. A useful note might read: “My aunt remembers receiving this from her mother; the person who made the lace is unknown.” Add any reliable names, places or dates separately. If a family member wishes to keep a story private, that boundary is part of caring for the history too. You can appreciate the object without publishing every detail about its owner.
When sharing an image, a clear caption can do much of this work. Name the maker if known and agreed, identify the place as precisely as the evidence allows, and describe the visible technique without overstating it. “A scarf with hand-worked edging by…” is more informative than an unsupported claim about an entire national tradition. If the method is uncertain, say so. Precision gives other people something meaningful to learn.
Finally, leave the wearer at the centre of the conversation. She may want to discuss faith, family, design, work or none of these. A headscarf offers a point of connection, not permission to question someone’s private beliefs. The richest understanding of hijab in Turkey grows from close attention to cloth and equal attention to people: their skills, their accounts of the past and the choices they describe in their own words.