Nestled along the Mediterranean coast, Hatay is a Turkish province that defies simple categorization. It’s a place where the call to prayer mingles with church bells, where Arabic spices perfume the air alongside Turkish coffee, and where ancient history feels palpably alive. In a world increasingly fractured by conflict and polarization, Hatay stands as a testament to the possibility—and beauty—of coexistence.
Hatay’s story begins millennia ago. Known as Antioch in antiquity, it was once a thriving hub of the Roman Empire, a center of early Christianity, and a critical stop on the Silk Road. Over the centuries, it absorbed the influences of Hittites, Persians, Greeks, Romans, Byzantines, Arabs, and Ottomans. Today, traces of these civilizations are everywhere: in the cobbled streets of Antakya (modern-day Antioch), in the mosaics of the Hatay Archaeology Museum, and in the DNA of its people.
Trade didn’t just bring goods to Hatay—it brought ideas, religions, and culinary traditions. The province’s cuisine, often hailed as Turkey’s most diverse, is a direct result of this exchange. Dishes like künefe (a cheese-filled dessert soaked in syrup) and oruk (spiced meat rolls) bear the fingerprints of Arab, Armenian, and Turkish culinary traditions. In a time when global trade is often reduced to sterile transactions, Hatay’s food culture reminds us of the human connections that trade once fostered.
In recent years, Hatay has become a haven for those fleeing Syria’s civil war. The province shares a border with Syria, and its population has swelled with refugees. This influx has strained resources but also enriched the cultural fabric. Syrian restaurants now sit alongside traditional meyhanes (Turkish taverns), and Arabic is commonly heard in the markets. Yet, this coexistence isn’t without tension. Rising nationalism in Turkey and economic hardships have tested Hatay’s famed tolerance.
While many locals have welcomed Syrians, others resent the competition for jobs and housing. Far-right rhetoric has found a foothold in some communities, mirroring trends across Europe and the U.S. But Hatay’s history offers a counter-narrative. In the wake of the 2023 earthquakes that devastated the region, stories emerged of neighbors—Turkish, Arab, Armenian—digging through rubble together to save lives, regardless of nationality or religion.
If there’s one thing Hatay does better than anywhere else, it’s using food to bridge divides. The province’s meze culture—a spread of small dishes meant for sharing—is a culinary metaphor for coexistence. A typical meal might include muhammara (a spicy walnut dip with Syrian roots), çiğ köfte (a Turkish raw meatball dish), and hummus (claimed by both Arabs and Turks). In a world where food is increasingly politicized (think of the debates over who “owns” falafel or baklava), Hatay’s tables remain stubbornly inclusive.
Walk through Antakya’s spice markets, and you’ll see sacks of sumac from Syria, Iranian saffron, and locally grown pul biber (red pepper flakes). These markets are a living rebuttal to protectionism and trade wars. They thrive precisely because borders, at least here, have always been porous.
Hatay’s music scene is as hybrid as its population. Arab oud players collaborate with Turkish saz musicians, and Armenian hymns echo in ancient churches. The annual Hatay Culture Festival showcases this fusion, drawing artists from across the Middle East. In an era where algorithms silo us into cultural bubbles, Hatay’s music insists on cross-pollination.
From the copper workshops of Samandağ to the olive wood carvers of Defne, Hatay’s artisans are keepers of endangered traditions. Their work is a quiet resistance to the homogenization of global consumer culture. When you buy a hand-woven Antakya kilim (rug), you’re not just acquiring an object—you’re preserving a lineage.
Like much of the region, Hatay is feeling the effects of climate change. Rising temperatures threaten its famed olive groves, and erratic rainfall strains water resources. The province’s farmers, many of whom still use ancient irrigation techniques, are now experimenting with drought-resistant crops. Their struggle is a microcosm of the global climate crisis—one that disproportionately impacts communities with deep agricultural roots.
Experts predict that climate-induced migration will intensify in the coming decades. Hatay, already a receiver of displaced populations, offers a preview of this future. Its experience underscores the need for policies that address both humanitarian and environmental challenges.
In a world where identity politics often lead to division, Hatay’s messy, vibrant pluralism is a radical proposition. It proves that diversity doesn’t have to mean discord. But maintaining this balance requires effort. Schools here teach both Turkish and Arabic. Interfaith initiatives, like the Antakya Intercultural Dialogue Project, work to counteract prejudice. These small, local actions are as crucial as any geopolitical treaty.
Hatay’s story isn’t just Turkey’s—it’s humanity’s. As we grapple with wars, displacement, and cultural erasure, this small province whispers an alternative: that our differences can be a source of strength, not strife. The next time you sit down to a meal of lahmacun (Turkish-Armenian pizza) or stroll past a mosque and church standing side by side, remember: Hatay isn’t perfect, but it’s proof that another world is possible.