They ruled an empire larger than the Roman Empire at its peak. From China to Byzantium, their mounted archers were feared, while their merchants connected the Silk Roads between Asia and Europe. From the Altai Mountains, they established the first transcontinental steppe empire in history spanning over 7 million square kilometers, unifying all steppe peoples within six years.
Above all, they liberated the Turkic tribes from tyrannic rule – only to face their own downfall by their own kin. Their history is as extensive and epic as it is tragic and mysterious. A bit odd, even.
Yet, they never gave up. These people saw themselves as the Chosen Ones: chosen by the great Tengri above to conquer, and equipped with the Töre – their code of law – in order to to rule.
Meet the Göktürks: the Celestial Turks.
Destruction. Expulsion. Illness. Death. These are the typical consequences of war. When diplomacy fails and emotions cloud judgment, fear replaces reason, and weapons do the talking. This has always been true in human history—and likely always will be—despite what we call “progress.” Yet people do not always go to battle because rulers fight over lands or resources; sometimes it is about something less tangible but far more momentous: power.
The power to send one’s own soldiers to war is formidable and fearsome. But even greater is the power to incite enemy troops against their own sovereign, thereby deciding the fate of one’s adversary without sacrificing one’s own forces. Friends become enemies; brothers and sisters decimate each other even though they never wanted that conflict in the first place. Meanwhile, foreign players—long coveting the land—seize the opportunity to intervene. Such wars, termed “civil wars,” often end up being the most destructive of all.
It has happened everywhere in the world, sooner or later, and it also happened in a place one might never suspect: deep in the Eurasian steppe. From Manchuria, near the edge of Korea in the east, the steppe belt extends across Mongolia and Kazakhstan, then farther west to the Arabat plains on the northern coast of the Black Sea. Northward, it reaches the taiga of Siberia; southward, it abuts Iran, Afghanistan, and Tibet.
This vast steppe region is flat and dry, covered in grasses with precious few areas suitable for agriculture. Yet it is far from featureless, as its ecosystems once supported tigers and panthers, while wolves, gazelles, and wild horses remain emblematic of the terrain. Over millennia, the harsh climate and difficult geography encouraged a predominantly pastoral existence. The earliest domestication of horses likely happened here, eventually ushering in a distinctive nomadic culture famed for unparalleled skill in mounted warfare.
Among the peoples who emerged from these conditions were the Turks—or Turkic peoples—who became masters of the steppe and beyond. Later known as the Göktürks, they built a transcontinental empire centuries before the Mongols of Genghis Khan. Yet, at times, it was less external enemies than their own brothers—fellow Turks—who constituted their fiercest competition.
Anyone delving into Central Eurasian history quickly encounters certain recurring images: highland vistas of the Altai, the ferocious gray wolf as a totemic figure, and ongoing conflicts that shaped and reshaped the political order. In Turkic tradition, the Altai Mountains were revered as a sacred homeland—a crucible from which great states and warrior legacies arose. The wolf, likewise, was no mere animal but a guiding spirit, woven into origin myths that explained how the Turks survived disasters and clung to hope.
All of these images—Altai, wolf, steppe, war—are intertwined in the saga of the “Göktürks,” also called the First Göktürk Empire. Far more than a simple tale of conquests, their history illuminates an entire cultural sphere. The Göktürk story feels contradictory at times: though they chose semi-nomadic lifeways, they established one of the largest states in Eurasia. Though they practiced Tengrism and cherished freedom, they crafted a precise bureaucratic structure and managed alliances with settled empires like Byzantium and Persia. Repeatedly, they were embroiled in civil wars—perhaps their most devastating challenge—whose unraveling proved the final blow.
Their moniker, “Göktürk,” merges gök (blue/heavenly) with Türk (the ethnonym). Thus, “Göktürk” can mean “Blue Turk,” “Celestial Turk,” or even “Original Turk.” The name itself reflects faith in Tengri, the eternal blue sky, and in the empire’s divine mandate: the Göktürk Khagan was chosen by Heaven to rule.
In Chinese sources, they appear as Tujue or T’u-chüeh (speak: “Tükü-eh”), often described as a powerful but militant people. Indeed, they excelled at war, forging an army of extraordinary discipline known as an “ordu-millet,” an entire society that lived as warriors. Yet this hardened front coexisted with other striking aspects: a well-ordered social code, respect for family and nature, and openness to outside influence so long as core Turkic values were upheld.
Above all, the Göktürks’ ambition was vast. At their peak in the late 6th and early 7th centuries, they held sway from the Khingan Mountains near Manchuria to the outskirts of the Black Sea. They unified a corridor of land that, by conventional standards, should have been impossible to govern. While future conquerors such as Genghis Khan would push these boundaries even farther, the Göktürks proved it could be done first. 700 years earlier, that is.
How did the Göktürks achieve all of this and – above all – why? What motivated them to leave their ancestral land and journey so far into the west, into Europe? The answer is a bit complicated.
Introduction to Göktürk History
Why, then, do we know so little about them, especially compared to the Mongols or Huns? Part of the explanation lies in the source material—or lack thereof. For centuries, mainstream records in Europe and East Asia paid limited attention to Turkic narratives, often preserving only fragmentary snapshots. Where mention was made, it came mostly from outside observers—Chinese dynastic historians or Persian chroniclers.
This situation is worsened by the fact that the Göktürks themselves, though literate in their own runic script, left few surviving texts. What did survive—the Orkhon inscriptions—concern mostly the second Göktürk empire of the early 8th century. Yet many of the names, stories, and cultural codes inscribed on those stones trace back to the first empire founded in the mid-6th century.
Reconstructing Göktürk history, then, demands we read Chinese, Persian, and later Turkic sources in tandem. It likewise requires a close study of archaeology, anthropology, and even climatology. From strategic vantage points and burial remains in Mongolia, to coins found near the Aral Sea, to genetic analyses that link ancient steppe peoples with modern populations, every clue helps reassemble their lost legacy.
However, the process also reveals tensions, gaps in knowledge, and outright controversies. Many an academic debate has raged over whether the Göktürks derived from “purely” Turkic or partly Indo-Iranic ancestry, or whether they had older ties to the Xiongnu, or if they initially lived under other states. Such discussions highlight a deeper reality: that steppe history is woven from myriad, fluid identities, an interplay of many influences over centuries.
Nomadic societies placed great value on martial skill and personal honor. Because warriors were trained from childhood in archery and horsemanship, even a minor local conflict could escalate with lethal speed. The line between disciplined armed forces and a loose band of raiders was often razor-thin.
When such an armed populace turned its energies inward, entire states fell apart. Think of the Xiongnu splitting into Northern and Southern polities, or the Huns in Europe dissolving soon after Attila’s death. Göktürk history was not spared this fate. After reaching astonishing heights, they succumbed to precisely the kind of internal rifts they once inflicted on rivals.
The same destructive patterns arose again and again. A single crisis—like succession disputes or alliances with rival powers—could shatter unity. Outside forces, especially neighboring settled empires, exploited these divisions with devastating effect. China’s Sui and Tang dynasties, for instance, repeatedly played one Göktürk faction against another, ensuring they would never stand wholly united for long.
Yet if these internal strifes expose the weakness in “nomadic unity,” they also underline the political sophistication that such empires had achieved. People with robust martial traditions and fluid clan structures needed extraordinary leadership—rulers both charismatic and canny—to remain cohesive. When that leadership was absent or contested, the entire system risked collapse.
Just as the Xiongnu cast long shadows over the steppe in earlier centuries, so did the Rouran in the 4th and 5th centuries. Rulers like Shelün subdued large swathes of Mongolia, adopting the lofty title Khagan. But the Rouran could not avoid constant wars with northern Chinese dynasties like the Wei nor prevent splinter groups from breaking away. One such splinter group—small but destined for greatness—was the Ashina.
By the mid-5th century, the Ashina moved from Gansu to the Altai under the Rouran’s domain. They had once been battered into submission by stronger powers. Now, in the Altai, they rebuilt. Over the coming decades, the Ashina rose from anonymity to found the Göktürk state. Their resilience was striking: a clan that had faced near-destruction grew into conquerors of half the steppe.
Such a transformation raises questions. Did the Ashina learn about cohesive state-building from the Rouran? Did they adopt bureaucratic methods and titles from them? Almost certainly so. The subsequent success of the Göktürks reflects an ability to merge older “nomadic” structures—such as tribal federations and clan loyalty—with more formal administrative strategies borrowed from erstwhile overlords.This contrast—between a mobile herding society and a structured imperial bureaucracy—often puzzles modern readers. In common perception, nomadic means “unorganized” or “simple.” The Göktürks challenge that stereotype. While highly mobile themselves, they maintained a sophisticated administrative framework. They collected tribute along the Silk Road, levied duties on caravans, and concluded treaties with powers far beyond the steppe.
Yet the life of ordinary Göktürks remained intertwined with nature: family-based herding, seasonal migrations, and communal responsibility for collective defense. Above all, the sense that Tengri watched from above, bestowing or withdrawing divine favor, guided the moral code. People lived by töre (traditional law), which demanded absolute loyalty to the clan, protection of the weak, respect for the environment, and readiness for battle.
So did they see themselves as contradictory? Probably not. They accepted that an ever-armed population was essential on the steppe but also that structured leadership was vital to unite so many different tribes. Their internal civil wars revealed what happened if either element tipped out of balance—if discipline crumbled, or if the rulers turned on each other for personal gain.
The tale of the Göktürk Empire, with all its paradoxes, might seem straightforward once recounted. But it has taken historians ages to patch together from scattered documents, inscriptions, and archaeological hints. Even now, puzzles remain: genealogies that fade into myth, contradictory records about alliances, and unresolved guesses about how precisely the Ashina took power.
At some point, many generations later, only fragments of their story survived—stories of wonder, feats of arms, agonizing civil wars, and bold expansions. These fragments passed orally from one generation to another, often mixing with legends of the Xiongnu, the Rouran, and other steppe empires. Over time, some pieces were lost. But not the essential core of the Turkic identity. That spirit endured even when shattered by war or overshadowed by imperial intrigues.
Who are the Turkic Peoples?
For centuries, the Turkic peoples have inhabited a vast domain in Central Eurasia and beyond, bridging lands from the Altai Mountains and the Siberian taiga to modern Türkiye, the Caucasus, and the steppes west of the Caspian Sea. Yet their beginnings remain cloaked in obscurity. Where precisely did the earliest speakers of Turkic languages come from? How did they take shape as a distinct group in the larger landscape of nomadic empires?
This enigma is made more challenging by scant written records from the distant past. Ancient Turkic societies prized oral tradition, passing down legends and genealogies by word of mouth. As a result, scholars investigate clues from linguistics, archaeology, and even population genetics to piece together the story of the Turks’ “mysterious origins.”
The term “Turkic peoples” refers to an array of groups sharing kinship in language and, historically, overlapping cultural norms. These populations include not just the people of the Republic of Türkiye—commonly called “Turks”—but also Azeris, Kazakhs, Kyrgyz, Turkmens, Uzbeks, Tatars, and many others. Altogether, Turkic languages form a distinctive branch stretching back millennia.
Yet precisely how these languages and ethnic identities initially coalesced is debated. Linguists agree on the existence of an “Old Turkic” or “Proto-Turkic” language that must have emerged sometime between 4000 and 3000 BCE. Over the centuries, this language diversified into multiple branches, the speakers of which gradually spread across Inner Asia.
By late antiquity, one major dialectal division ran between Oghuric in the west and Orkhon Turkic in the east. The best-known Oghuric tongues would eventually be spoken by groups such as the Bulgars and Chuvash, while Orkhon Turkic encompassed linguistic ancestors of most other Turkic peoples. In the centuries before the Göktürks formed their empire, these scattered tribes or clans were only loosely linked by shared language, customs, and religion.
In the late 19th and early 20th century, the so-called “Altaic theory” proposed that Turkic, Mongolic, Tungusic, Korean, and sometimes Japanese might all descend from a single ancestral family. While popular among some scholars, it came under intense scrutiny, leading others to reject any close common origin.
A more recent perspective, sometimes labeled the “Transeurasian theory,” considers similar linguistic and cultural traces across these same populations while remaining cautious about lumping them under one single “Altaic” prototype. It focuses, for instance, on shared agricultural terms, echoing older connections in eastern Inner Asia. If this holds true, then the ancestors of modern Turkic speakers may have formed part of a broader wave of peoples spreading from the Liao or Amur River region before moving west.
Even if the ultimate homeland was in Northeast Asia, the Turkic peoples in the centuries before recorded history underwent repeated migrations. Climate shifts, political conflicts, and opportunities for pasture or plunder all motivated movement. Over time, various tribes entered what is now Kazakhstan, then pressed onward to regions near the Caspian and beyond, while others stayed closer to Mongolia.
Among these restless wanderers were the Oghuric Huns, who pushed deep into Europe during the 4th and 5th centuries, and other groups that carved out states in Transoxiana or the Tarim Basin. Such movements accelerated after the collapse of older steppe confederations—like the Xiongnu—leaving behind a heritage of scattered Turkic enclaves.
A recurring question is whether the early Turks were linked to the Xiongnu (Hsiung-nu). Multiple Chinese sources suggest the Ashina, forebears of the Göktürks, were once subject to the Xiongnu or held positions in their confederation. The legendary founder of the Xiongnu, known in Chinese as “Modu Chanyu” and in some later retellings as “Bagatur,” spoke a language with many “Turkic-sounding” titles.
If correct, this means the Turkic peoples stood among major factions within the Xiongnu realm. Such an affiliation would be consistent with reported genealogical ties: The Ashina clan emerging from a corner of the Xiongnu world, battered during its collapse yet carrying forward the seeds of a new empire.
The Ashina themselves are at the heart of many myths about Turkic origins. Some strands link them to a small “wolf-clan” that fled peril in Gansu and reappeared in the Altai Mountains. Others see in them a lineage once associated with Indo-Iranic or “Aryan” peoples, hinted at by non-Turkic personal names found in early documents.
Conflicting Chinese records add to the murkiness: one places the Ashina’s roots in a “western sea,” possibly meaning the Caspian. Another text situates them near Gaochang (Kara-Khoja) in the northeast Tarim region, claiming they belonged to the Xiongnu. Even genetic research on ancient remains is inconclusive, though some recent findings show strong ties to Northeast Asia.
Despite the ambiguities, the Ashina definitely appear as a Turkic-speaking clan who experienced migrations or displacements, likely as vassals first under the Xiongnu, then under subsequent powers in Mongolia. Eventually, they rose to become overlords themselves, forging the Göktürk Khaganate in the 6th century.
While overshadowed by empire-building achievements, Turkic culture predates those expansions. For millennia, steppe societies shaped a complex blend of horse-breeding, hunting, cyclical migrations, and ancestor reverence. These customs were shared in broad outlines by the Xiongnu, Rouran, and other steppe confederations too—but the Turkic twist involved certain linguistic traits, clan symbols like the wolf, and a cosmology around Tengri, the sky deity.
Even in the absence of a formal state, proto-Turkic communities maintained cohesive identities through everyday practices. Clan elders regulated marriage and law under customary codes, and shamans performed rituals to ensure harmony with the spirit world. Such intangible bonds guided them as they traversed deserts, mountains, and conflict zones.
By the early 6th century, disparate hints of “Turkicness” begin crystallizing. From the edges of Manchuria to the Caspian steppe, there existed a wide diaspora of people who spoke Turkic dialects, shared certain totemic beliefs, and recognized the wolf as a mythical guardian. The Ashina clan, though small, was about to place itself boldly at the forefront, rallying many of these factions to challenge the incumbent Rouran masters.
Thus, on the eve of the Göktürks’ astonishing rise, the larger panorama of Central and Northeast Asia was already teeming with newly fluid alliances. Nomads from older Xiongnu networks, Oghuric refugees who once roamed westward, plus enclaves in Gansu and beyond, all contributed threads to the mosaic. The Ashina’s ascendancy would connect these small pieces of the puzzle into a single, unified state—one that ultimately redefined what it meant to be “Turkic.”
Tengrism and Töre
Even in the harshest steppes of Inner Asia, the Turkic peoples and their ancestors cultivated a distinctive worldview that held sky and earth as sacred partners. Their belief system, later known as Tengrism, suffused virtually all aspects of daily life. Alongside it, the nomadic or semi-nomadic lifestyle they embraced shaped social structures, gender roles, and the practice of power.
Far from being simple or primitive, this synergy of religion and everyday living produced well-ordered societies capable of mobilizing vast armies, ruling transcontinental domains, and maintaining advanced legal codes. At the core stood Tengri, the Eternal Blue Sky—a deity so fundamental that Turkic armies rode out convinced of their divine mandate, while clans in humble pastures undertook daily tasks in reverence of nature’s cyclical balance.
Tengrism might be called a “religion,” but it operated less like a set of dogmas and more like a unifying cosmology. Followers recognized an all-pervading sky ruler, Tengri, who granted victory or withheld it, dictated the rhythms of the seasons, and watched over the moral order. Many of the ancient Turks believed they owed their imperial success to Tengri’s favor.
At the same time, Tengrism was syncretic. Turkic tribes tolerated outside beliefs, occasionally blending new ideas into their own. Thus, a Göktürk might revere Tengri while borrowing specific customs from neighboring faiths, so long as the core worldview—that humanity must respect nature, the spirits, and fate—remained intact.
Close behind Tengri was Umay, guardian of fertility, unborn children, and the wellbeing of families. Nomads who depended on livestock and frequent childbearing for survival naturally saw Umay’s protection as vital. She was sometimes depicted as a motherly presence in daily life, invoked in private rites for health and sustenance.
Within this cosmology, rulers and generals were believed to possess a form of spiritual energy called Kut—divinely bestowed charisma and life-power. Kut was not merely an abstract concept: it underpinned why certain people attained leadership. A Khagan claimed legitimacy by pointing to Tengri’s will, but if he lost too many battles or oppressed the populace, it was said his Kut had waned and Tengri would withdraw favor.
Although Tengrism had no sacred text, it offered a clear ethical framework. Actions that harmed communal wellbeing—wanton violence, wasteful slaughters, disrespect for elders—were an affront to nature itself. The Göktürk moral code or Töre (ancient Turkic law) drew from this worldview, penalizing crimes like robbery or sexual assault with severe punishments, aiming to maintain cosmic harmony.