The Sacred Valley of Dersim, where cultural resistance and ecological reverence coexist

Hidden among the rugged peaks and ancient gorges of eastern Anatolia, in Turkey, lies Dersim – officially known as Tunceli – a land where memory clings like mist to the mountains and where resistance and reverence flow together like the waters of the Munzur River. It is a place where faith is not housed in structures, but is etched in stone, sung through generations, and whispered to the trees. For centuries, the Zaza Alevi communities of Dersim have existed in sacred communion with their environment. Their belief system – Alevism – is not confined by minarets or scriptures. It lives in the murmur of rivers, in the smoke of ritual fires, and in the whisper among the pines. Here, the divine is found in the experience of nature. It is tangible: found in the grain of wood, in the shimmer of a mountain spring, and in the careful steps of goats on the cliffs.

Alevism in Dersim is a spiritual mosaic, interwoven with shamanistic rituals, Zoroastrian reverence for nature, and the mysticism of Sufi Islam. It is an oral faith, transmitted through poetry, music, and memory rather than books or dogmas. At the heart of each community is the dede, the spiritual elder, whose presence anchors the rituals and the people.

One of the most sacred places is Munzur Baba, a sacred spring at the headwaters of the Munzur River, fed by over 300 icy springs. In winter, the valley rests under a blanket of snow, quiet and white at 3,000 meters altitude. Upon arriving, I find Ulas Del, an Alevi musician, kneeling on the frost. He places a handmade candle under a stone, whispers a prayer he invented himself, and kisses the cold rock. In Dersim, any stone can be sacred. Other people gather nearby, walking gently by the river, resting their hands on the bark of trees or silently promising hopes of health and love. Here, nature is not symbolic. It is sacred. Even wild goats are revered; their freedom is emblematic of the spiritual independence the people value.

This deep ecological reverence is the reason why recent state-driven tourism projects have caused outrage. Wooden walkways, refreshment kiosks, and other infrastructure have recently been built around Munzur Baba. “The Turkish government does whatever it wants,” Ulas tells me, reflecting the perception of the Alevis, who see this not as development but as desecration. “They say they want to protect the paths from human erosion, as people come here to picnic. All sorts of people from Anatolia come here, with tourist buses. Muslim people come to a place that is completely different. We are not religious, we are connected to our soul.”

Local inhabitants and spiritual leaders are aware that commercialization would erode the sanctity of the valley. Among them was dede Zeynel Batar, 68, who observes sadly: “Munzur Baba must remain intact.” “It is a place of healing, not for tourism. The state should not alter a single stone,” he says. Then, as tradition dictates, he raises his eleven-stringed saz and sings, his voice rising like smoke over the snowy slopes.

Under public pressure, the tourism project was scaled back for a time. Plans to build playgrounds, swimming pools, and an amphitheater were frozen. But the tension continues. “At some point they will come to build a mosque here, but this place is already a temple in itself. We don't need any of that here,” says Ulas nervously. In Dersim, where memory runs deep, any vertical intervention evokes painful stories of state violence and cultural erasure.

A history of resistance

The Dersim rebellion is not new. During the Ottoman period, the region's abrupt isolation made it almost ungovernable. When the Turkish Republic was formed, in the 1920s, Dersim became the last bastion against forced assimilation. This resistance came at a terrible cost.

In the years 1937-38, Turkish forces launched a brutal military campaign to crush the resistance. The operation was on a genocidal scale. Entire villages were bombed from the air. Forests were set on fire. Civilians were shot, gassed, or thrown off cliffs. The government registered 13,160 deaths, but survivors believe the figure was much higher.

Today, these wounds remain open. Musician Ulas Deli returned to Dersim from Istanbul feeling the call of his roots. “I wanted to be here, where I feel most alone, most connected to my soul. What happened in '38 lives in our blood,” he tells me as he guides me to the '38 cliff, where, according to oral testimonies, 300 women and children were forced to die. Deeper into the valley, the caves where civilians were burned or gassed remain marked on the land – ghostly testimonies etched in stone.

A new generation of artists, academics, and activists is now reclaiming this buried past. Their work is as much about cultural survival as it is about political resistance. State-driven dam projects have already submerged sacred rocks and displaced wildlife. For these activists, protecting nature is inseparable from preserving identity.

This movement found an ally in former mayor Fatih Mehmet Maçoglu, Turkey's first and only openly communist mayor. A committed environmentalist, Maçoglu advocates for cooperative agriculture, free public transport, and environmental protections. “Capitalism destroys nature,” he tells me in his office during his term. “Nature is balance. If you alter one part, everything collapses.” Under his leadership, Tunceli became an unusual experiment in grassroots democracy.

But the struggle continues. In the 2024 municipal elections, Cevdet Konak, from the Peoples' Democratic Party (HDP), won the mayoralty. Weeks later, he was dismissed from office and sentenced to six years in prison on terrorism charges – alleged links to the banned Kurdistan Workers' Party (PKK), a common accusation used to silence Kurdish political figures. In his place, Ankara appointed governor Bülent Tekbiyikoglu as interim mayor.

The Kurdish conflict

The pattern is familiar. Across the southeast, dozens of elected Kurdish mayors have been dismissed on similar pretexts. Critics say it is more about justice than political control. In Dersim, this dismissal triggered protests: indignation grew not only over the imprisonment of a leader but also over the continued erosion of local self-governance.

“Dersim is punished because it votes differently”, says veteran journalist Ferit Demir. “They call it democracy, but what kind of democracy dismisses elected officials for political convenience?” For Ulas Deli, however, this move was perceived with a certain indifference by the Zaza Alevis. “During the first week, people took to the streets in protest. But we have become accustomed to these oppressive political moves; at this point, I'm not even sure it matters that much to us”.

These political wounds add to older traumas. In 1978, in Maras, far-right mobs massacred over 100 Alevis. In 1993, 37 Alevi intellectuals were burned alive in a hotel in Sivas by religious extremists. These attacks fueled an Alevi cultural and political revival, especially among diaspora communities in Europe.

For many young Alevis, identity has become an open question: Is Alevism a religion? A culture? Is it Islamic? Is it Kurdish? Turkish? Both? Or neither?

Meral Polat, a Dutch musician of Dersim ancestry, grew up torn between these questions, drinking from sacred springs, praying and singing traditional songs. "As a child, I didn't realize how special it was," she says. Her grandmother had once climbed Mount Düzgün Baba barefoot, seeking dreams. Her father had been beaten at school for speaking Kurdish. "Outside of Dersim, my grandparents couldn't be themselves," she explains. "There were soldiers and checkpoints everywhere. I had to learn very early what oppression meant." After his death in 2020, she discovered notebooks with his poetry – centuries of pain coded in metaphors. One verse struck her deeply: "I am the poison and the cure."

Now sing these words, carrying the story of their land, the memory of that pain, asking nature for permission each time these letters are uttered. It mixes Kurdish scales with Western chords, still searching for the answer to the question: Ez kîme? Who am I?

In Dersim, the answer is not found in books or state archives. It is written in the water, whispered by the wind, and sung through the valleys. It is carried in memory, shaped by trauma, and sustained by resistance. Here, to resist is to remember. To protect the land is to preserve the soul of a people. And, despite government intervention, the people are deeply proud to defend their culture, whatever the cost.