Turkish Football Fans Accused of Attempting to Bring Down the Government


Yesterday the Istanbul public prosecutor’s office for terrorism and organized crime investigations announced the results of a year long investigation of the Beşiktaş Ultra group Çarşı for their role in last summer’s Gezi Park protests. Previously, I had written extensively about the Çarşı group following the events one year ago during the Galatasaray-Beşiktaş derby. The results of the investigation would be humorous if they were not all too real. After all The Onion didn’t announce it, CNN Turk did. The thirty eight-page indictment calls for life sentences for thirty five members of the Çarşı group, including one of the founders, “Sari” Cem Yakışkan and “Deve” Erol Özdil, who makes the groups famous banners. The charge? Attempt to bring down the Government.

The indictment says that “at first the Gezi Park protests started in a democratic fashion before the motives of the protests changed when ‘marginal’ groups joined. These marginal groups then encouraged the protestors in Taksim against the government, aiming to bring it down through non-democratic means.” It continues, saying that Çarşı brought foreign press officers to the protests “in order to show the world media scenes that would create an image similar to that of the ‘Arab Spring’, calling for leadership change and bringing down the Turkish Republic’s legally founded government by illegal means”.

Apparently proof of this attempt to bring down the government comes from telephone conversations and Tweets. Allegedly, some such telephone conversations contained statements such as “I don’t care about the park”, “We will bring down this government” and “This could turn into a civil war,” among other things. To me, such words seem to hardly be the makings of a plan to bring down the Turkish Republic but apparently the prosecutor’s office sees things differently.


Today an MP from the opposition CHP, Umut Oran (himself an ex-footballer, according to the story) brought the issue before the Turkish Parliament in order to get a response from the new Prime Minister, Ahmet Davutoğlu. Mr. Oran asked many questions that I myself would like to hear the answers to:

–“If Çarşı encouraged a coup during the Gezi events, then why did you [your party, the AKP] allow Çarşı signs to be opened at the [pro-government] rallies in Kazlıçeşme at that time? Are there no AKP members within the ‘pro-coup’ Çarşı Group, and will anything be done to them if there are found to be any?”

–“Does the Istanbul Police department not have pictures and audio of the Çarşı group when they yelled ‘Çarşı Darbeye Karşı’ (Carsi against coups) and carried signs to the same effect?”


(Image courtesy of: http://www.sonkulis.com/gundem/carsi-bildiri-yayinladi-carsi-12-eylule-karsi-h2992.html. Author’s Note: Indeed, the proof Mr. Oran asked for does exist–this refers to Carsi’s stance against the military coup of September 12, 1980).

–Is it not our [the Turkish] government that does not designate ISIS as a terrorist group, the same group that the United Nations and the United States have designated as a terrorist group for their savage actions? Is it not contradictory that our government, that calls ISIS ‘Angry Youths’, should take such a harsh stance when it comes to the Çarşı Group?”

–Members of the AKP cabinet of ministers and party leaders said the Gezi events were ‘just the work of a few ‘çapulcus’ (looters) and that it is nothing to be blown out of proportion’. Then how is it possible that today it has come to the point of ‘attempted coup?’

–“When Mr. Davutoğlu was Minister of Foreign affairs he stated to foreign leaders that ‘we are proud that these protests in Turkey are taking place in a similar fashion to those in Europe’. How is it then possible to indict these protests as an attempted coup?’


Later Çarşı’s lawyer, Mehmet Derviş Yıldız, made a press announcement in the middle of Istanbul’s Beşiktaş district:

“We have always existed in the name of this country’s conscience. We were created in 1982 in the period following the [1980] military coup amidst martial law, and continued in periods of coalition governments and with our conscience stood in society alongside everyone who saw no preferential treatment from any group. There were times that we donated our blood to blood drives, there were times that we gave the clothes off our backs to those living in tents amidst the rubble of their destroyed homes. In the Gezi protests—that our whole society reacted to with a mix of sadness and surprise—we drew attention to the disproportional use of force and uncontrollable violence being used. We called for this violence not to escalate. And in return for this, immediately after the first arrests, some people—with hate and jealousy—had the face to label us as mercenary protestors. And now we see this label on the pages of the investigation.” He went on to explain that it was Civil servants who first called on Çarşı to de-escalate the tension, to use their influence on the neighborhood as football fans—in a way, a civil society group—in order to stop people from entering Taksim Square during the protests. But, in the end, they are the ones who are blamed in a blatant attempt to further make every segment of Turkish society political.

But such attempts to make everything political can also have the side effect of waking people up, and banding them together. This became evident when fans of Besiktas’s rivals—Fenerbahce—also voiced their support. Sol Acik wrote:

 “Faşizme karşı kardeşimsin çArşı”

“You’re my brother against fascism çArşı”


Sadly, these events have not seen much coverage in English language press but they are a very real sign of regression in the Turkish justice system. That life sentences should be sought for a group of football fans is, quite truly, unbelievable. As one of those named in the indictment, founding member of Çarşı Cem Yakışkan said today:

 “Dünyada herhalde bir ilktir. Darbe ile suçlanan taraftar grubu. Gülelim mi, ağlayalım mı bilmiyorum.”

“This is probably a first in the entire world. A fan group charged with a coup attempt. I don’t know if we should laugh or cry”.

Indeed, it probably is a first. That it comes in a country that knows all too well about coups—three to be exact—only makes it more shocking.


To pull this topic out of football, I will close with a some words that come from a few members of Çarşı who sat down with journalist Erk Acarer for the Turkish paper Cumhuriyet since they are worth hearing. For me, they truly show the gravity of the situation:

“Türkiye isyan etti ihale bize kaldı. Bu kitlesel bir hareketti. çArşı vicdan sahibi bir gruptur. Biz büyük iş yapmadık aslında. Toplum ‘mute’ tuşunda olduğu zamanlarda da biz ‘titreşimdeydik’. Üşüyen çocuklara atkı gönderdiğimiz, haksıza karşı haklının yanında olduğumuz ağaçlara dokunma dediğimiz için zaten yıllarca çıban başı olarak görüldük. Söylemlerimiz sistemi rahatsız etti. Hiçbir demokratik ülkede protestocular darbe girişimiye yargılanmazlar. Kasti yapıyorlar. Esma’ya ağlayıp Berkin’e ağlamayanlardan değiliz. Çifte standarta karşıyız.”

“Turkey protested and we got stuck with the bill. This was a mass action. Çarşı is a group with a conscious. Really, we didn’t do much. When society was on “mute” we were on “vibrate”. Because we sent scarves to freezing children, because we were on the side of right in the face of wrong, because we said don’t touch the trees we have for years been seen as a delicate problem. What we said made the system uncomfortable. In no democratic country can protesters be tried for attempting a coup. They’re doing it on purpose. We are not among those who cried for Esma and not for Berkin. We’re against double standards.”

The gravity of the situation lies in a strange confluence of football fans, morality, and a very delicate time in world politics. These football fans—Ultras—are talking about standing up for the righteous, the voiceless, the oppressed, in the face of persecution and oppression. Think of anyone you’d like. Martin Luther King comes to my mind due to recent events in the United States but that is a topic for a different time.

Here the name “Esma” is invoked. It is the Turkish name for Asmaa el Beltagi, who became a symbol of the Egyptian revolution when she was shot and killed in Rabia Square by snipers. Out of her death the “Rabia” symbol was born, one that Turkey’s newly-elected president Recep Tayyip Erdoğan (and more than a few footballers) has not shied away from flashing. The other name, “Berkin”, refers to Berkin Elvan, a fifteen year old boy shot by police in Istanbul while on his way to buy bread who I wrote about previously.

In this globalized world protests are occurring in more and more spots all over the world, tying us all together—wherever we live—in a web characterized by a battle between right and wrong, the oppressed against the oppressors, the strong against the weak. Yet depending on one’s politics—as Çarşı’s members imply in the above quote—some people choose who to cry for.

We can only hope that cooler heads prevail and that these life sentences are not upheld, since life in prison—not to mention death—as a result of one’s beliefs is truly a sad fate. Football fan or not that is something I hope we can all sympathize with, whether we are Turkish, Egyptian, American or anything else.





Author’s Note: All translations are my own. Some of the lengthier ones have been paraphrased, while others are more literal. I apologize in advance for any issues in comprehension arising from my translations, and I have attached links to the original Turkish news stories in all cases. Thank you for your understanding.

Istanbul One June Later–A Short Walking Tour


Another Istanbul night slowly bleeds into morning. A night that started in Europe on the docks of Beşiktaş was lived in Asia in the bars of Kadiköy and will now end in Europe on Taksim Square. The circular feeling of it all reminds me somehow of our lives, and it makes me want to document it. It isn’t the glasses of Rakı and Istanblue vodka that have me feeling this way—they’re being erased by a delicious Kaşarlı Döner in the Bambi off Taksim Square. The muezzin’s morning call to prayer rings out over the city, providing a backdrop for the voices of the group that has just entered Bambi; they carry LGBT flags. I don’t care. I care about the food. I look around. It doesn’t seem like anyone else cares either. This is a changing Istanbul.

Having polished off our early morning snack and fortified our stomachs with a layer of grease my friends and I head off in search of a taxi and a ride home. The walk takes us across the vast barren wasteland that is the main square of the world’s 5th largest city: this is the state of Taksim Square in late spring 2014, the mark of the one year anniversary of “Gezi”. The change is half complete and the square has been pedestrianized. One would be forgiven for mistaking the place for a vacant lot.

A few kids are playing a pick-up game of football—sweaters serve for goal posts as the clock nears 5 am. Where are their families? Where are their homes? Such a thing used to be unthinkable in Turkey. Now, it is becoming common. Urban renewal can have its own collateral damage, as homes in the “Red Light District” of Tarlabaşı are rapidly being demolished to make way for new luxury lofts. Supposedly the families will be transplanted to newly-built housing projects in the outskirts—I guess that the kids just want to play in the neighborhood they were born in; that they grew up in. They don’t want to leave their home—who would?


My friend jokes that they’re making the best possible use of the vast concrete void. He’s probably right—football is healthy. But my mind is busy going back in time to an October night in 2012, when I took my nightly walk from Osmanbey to Istiklal Caddesi only to find the main street closed off in this very area—work had begun.

I go back further to a March afternoon in 2009, when I began work on a manuscript about Turkish soccer. I remarked on how amusing it was that the first thing many visitors would see upon arriving in one of the most storied cities in the world was . . . a McDonalds (the final stop for shuttles arriving from Istanbul’s Ataturk Airport used to be on a busy road in front of a row of shops lining the edge of Taksim’s Gezi Park—among them McDonald’s and the mysteriously named Jimmy’s Fried Chicken). Now they’re all long gone.

I’m too tired to think back to my first taste of Istanbul, back in the summer of 2005. My mother insisted I see the cıty and I did. I had been so taken by it all that I ended up studying at Bogazici University in the fall of 2006. No. This was not for tonight. But I knew that the next day I’d take a small walking tour of Istanbul, in order to see just what all had changed in the short time that I have known the city.

Heading up towards Harbiye and Halaskargazi Caddesi from where I used to live the graffiti is the first thing that hits you. Scars of a year ago. In more conspicuous places the municipality has white washed it, but on the back streets its still there, as clear as the day is sunny. “Yaşasin Devrim” (Long Live the Revolution) is legible beneath the posters advertising Woman’s rights, written in Cyrillic and Armenian script. The posters are for the HDP, the People’s Democratic Party, a Kurdish party claiming to support minority and feminist rights. This last development is refreshing; too many women from the former USSR are trafficked to Turkey and forced into prostitution, living out their nights in the seedy bars of Aksaray. But such new parties are just a faint hope in the changing Turkey, as faint as their posters faded by the sun.


Below the posters is written “Şamiyon Galalatasaray”[sic] and “Katil R.T.E.”—“Murderer R.T.E”, the initials of the Prime Minister Recep Tayyip Erdoğan. Misspelled football graffiti mixes with political graffiti in the new Istanbul. I trudge up the hill to the branch of a local cafeteria-style restaurant for lunch. It’s tough to find a table at which to enjoy my kuru fasülye and pilav—beans and rice, the Turkish staple—since most of the tables are occupied by Turkish riot police on their lunch break. Who knows what they’re preparing for, I’m not sure I want to know. I find a seat on the balcony behind two tables full of police but the door is too narrow for me to fit my tray through. A cleaning lady takes it from me as I sit down and watch my tray pass from her hands to one policeman and to another before reaching me. “That will be fifty Liras”, says the cop, laughing. Everyone can be human at the right moments in life.

The food is good and I lean back digesting. Below the balcony is the wreckage of a building—urban renewal, again.


From the table in front of me I hear the police talking. They’re like children, the jokes they make and the tone of their voice. It’s because that’s what they are. Most of the riot police (“Çevik Kuvvet”— literally “agile strength”) are high school graduates sent in to be the government’s muscle—kids fighting someone else’s war. There are examples of it all over the world, just rarely is the war being fought against fellow citizens. One of the youngest looking of the cops is hunched over a bowl of chicken soup, dipping his bread into it between spoon-fulls. The soup costs 3 Liras. 1.50 USD. It reminds me of an article written during the Gezi protests and, for a moment, I feel sorry for him. Fighting your own citizens with only a stomach full of chicken soup? It’s hard for even me to stomach. This is a changing Turkey.

On Taksim Square it is another sunny late spring day as crowds meander through the no man’s land. On the newly-planted grass berm leading up to the infamous park “Istanbul” is written in flowers—two conspicuously foreign girls are sunbathing next to it. Meanwhile, paths have been formed where the grass has been worn-down by people taking short cuts into the park—normally, cops guard the entrance at the top of the steps. The fine sand that has appeared rips the façade of normalcy from the newly planted grass, exposing the area for what it is. A quick-fix beautification project meant to cover up the scars of a year ago. A few tourists take a picture of an Istanbul Municipality Tourist Support vehicle—a Smart Car. Another quick fix meant to paint over reality, a tactic used often in today’s Turkey. How many Municipalities in Turkey have Tourist Support Vehicles—that are Smart Cars, no less? I don’t spend too much time on it and the tourists took the picture so . . . I guess it worked.

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I turn my attention to the streets. They look the same as they did when I lived here in 2012, 2009, 2006. The asphalt has the same familiar broken white lines marking the lanes, the sidewalks remain—even the traffic islands. All that has changed is that a curb has been installed, blocking access to the still existent asphalt. Megalomania, and the desire to leave a stamp on a country and a city, does not mean that it is easy to erase the history of a city square—think of Times Square, Piccadilly Circus, Tahrir Square, Red Square . . . I could go on. But I won’t, its enough that the roads have endured—for now. But it is still a change that cannot be reversed.

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Walking down Istiklal I see a sight that worries me. A sight I’ve recently seen in other places; Levent, Beşiktaş, the central areas of Istanbul. Not to mention in every corner of the United States: A fast food chain. But this is not just any fast food chain, it’s a Turkish fast food chain. Their clean lines and minimalist design are so eerily similar to Chipotle that it gives me the chills.


Kasap Döner has invaded Istanbul with the backing of a very large investment. They’re seemingly unbeatable. But how is the food? Sure, it’s döner in the sense of the term but it can’t be anywhere near Bambi, the company that invented the term “National Fast Food” in Turkey, right? I decide I have to try it and choose the wrap—“Lavaş” as written on their admittedly clever menu (Its better in Turkish) and a water. The water is designer—in a glass bottle—while the döner itself comes poorly wrapped, and with just tomatoes and French fries in it. I’m disappointed as I’m personally of the belief that any “dönerci” worth its salt should offer onions but Kasap Döner has no such option. I guess the patrons don’t want to smell.

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Before I leave I check out their upstairs—it is as sleek as the downstairs, complete with iPads at each table to expedite the ordering process. On the wall facing the stairs is a poster with the words “Chicken Wings, Onion Rings, Double Cheeseburger, Chicken Nuggets, Steak Wrap” written one on top of another with a clean slash through it and a döner knife below it. Above is the caption “Hamburger Çocuklarına Yedirmeye Geldik”—“We’re Coming to Feed the Hamburger Children”. The fact that “Hamburger Çocukları” is eerily close to the Turkish term for “Sons of Whores” (substitute “Hamburger” for a Turkish word your mother wouldn’t be happy to hear) should not come as a surprise to anyone. The Prime Minister’s often confrontational style of leadership comes from the fact that, sadly, such crudeness is often accepted in Turkey as a sign of strength.

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This is change—A Turkish fast food chain taking on foreign fast food by collaterally pushing out existing local culture—the smaller dönercis that will not be able to compete. It’s a symptomatic of a new Turkey, where money is all that matters—big business rules. I feel like it’s the 1960s in America, at the advent of McDonald’s and Burger King, and I vow to not play a part in it in Turkey. I’ll never eat a Kasap Döner again.

I head down to the Galata Bridge and towards old Stamboul. On the hill leading away from Pera I see the traditional dönercis plying their trade in the shadows of the centuries old Galata Tower. Their shop is traditional but they might not be so—one takes a picture of the other with an iPhone. Another change.


At the bottom of the hill I take a stroll across the Galata Bridge. I’m almost blinded by the azure waters of the Golden Horn and imagine myself in another era. I’m five, fifty, two hundred and fifty years in the past. At least this will never change. Perhaps. On the steps leading to the lower level of the bridge the Dynamo Kiev graffiti I had photographed a few years ago has been painted over, replaced by “Çare Drogba”—“Drogba is the Solution”, red paint peaking out from beneath the grey paint the municipality hastily slapped on. It refers to a cheeky refrain born out of the Gezi Protests of a year ago, a nod to Galatasaray’s Ivorian striker Didier Drogba.

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Later on, past the throngs of tourists outside the spice bazaar and Turkish shoppers clogging the narrow alleyways of Eminönü, I near Beyazit Square behind the Grand Bazaar. Here is, perhaps, one of Istanbul’s best dönercis. It is not really a restaurant, per se. In fact, one would be forgiven for missing the place entirely if not for the long line that seems to be present every time I walk by. The place is literally a hole in the wall with four employees: one dönerci, two men inside assembling the döners, and one man taking the money outside. In stark contrast to Kasap Döner’s menu with its modern graphics, here the menu is printed in black and white on plain printer paper.

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The concept is simple—A quarter loaf, a half loaf, or a full loaf of bread filled with your choice of a single portion, 1.5 portion, or double portion of meat. Along with the meat comes tomatoes and a pepper—no onions here, either, but at least there are no French fries. The idea of carbs in carbs—fries in döner sandwiches—is an Istanbul thing. It isn’t hard to understand why—so many people struggle to get by in the metropolis that the fries provide a cheap and filling addition to sandwiches. Emphasis on the cheap. I choose a quarter loaf with a 1.5 portion of meat, and have them add some crushed red pepper. I’m not hungry at all but I need to erase the taste of Kasap Döner. I need something that hasn’t changed, and the local dönerci is just that. I’d be surprised if this place has changed at all since 1960s Istanbul.

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Walking off the food I find myself in the tourist quarter of Istanbul. Syrian children swarm around me and I bat them away like flies. They roam in packs, surrounding you, trying to reach their small hands into your pockets. You have to be alert, tell them no, they only need one stern “No” and they’re off to the next—there are a lot of easier targets on Sultanahmet square. But, most importantly, you can’t be mad at them. It’s not their fault that they are living on the streets of a city far from home. In an alley in Sirkeci, near the train station, I walk by a man and a woman. They speak Arabic, wrapped in a blanket huddling against a wall. It seems that all they own is with them at this point, strewn across the sidewalk. Their children—if they have any—are probably being swatted away in other corners of the city. Or maybe they’re making a living. And it’s not their fault either. They are just victims of larger polices, many of which are flawed. This is a changing Istanbul.


My heart feels heavy as I walk by the docks. More packs of Syrian children, boys and girls—some groups of up to fifteen strong. I dodge them as I walk, heading back towards the Galata bridge. I stand among the fishermen, and look to the green hills of Topkapi Palace, and on to the Bosphorus. “Yes”, I think. “This is a view that will never change”.


And then I slap myself. “Of course it will change. Everything changes.” It only becomes truer when making money—and not respecting humanity—is the only goal. I’m not the first person to write about it but living it—feeling it—is much different than reading about it, so I share my walking tour with you.

The Spectacle of Turkish Sports and Politics


The “ultras”—hardcore football fans—of Cairene club Al Ahly did indeed play a role in spearheading protests in Tahrir Square, both against former president Hosni Mubarak but also against current leader Mohamed Morsi. The “Çarşı” fan group of Beşiktaş JK, a football club from Istanbul, have also been supporting protesters in Istanbul’s Taksim Square in their opposition to Prime Minister Recep Tayyıp Erdoğan. And that is, precisely, where similarities between the “Arab Spring” and the so-called “Turkish Spring” end, apart from the banal fact that both Turkey and Egypt are Muslim countries.

While getting my MA I wrote about the relationship between politics and soccer in Turkey. In my thesis I showed how closely related football and politics have been in Turkey. I also showed how the fortunes of football clubs in Central Anatolia—a stronghold of support for the ruling Justice and Development Party (AKP)—rose during the rule of the AKP, at the expense of clubs located in the Western parts of the country, home to provinces that mainly supported the Ataturkist Republican Peoples Party (CHP).  This was a sign of Turkey’s democratic deepening in that the hitherto marginalized Anatolian hinterland was being brought back into the mainstream, both politically through the AKP and culturally, by way of their team’s appearances in the top flight of Turkish soccer, the Turkish Super League.

And now we see the backlash. Football fans in Istanbul, and throughout Turkey, have come together to back protests against the government. Beşiktaş’s Çarşı, a formidable and vocal supporter’s group since their formation in 1982, have been at the barricades, a startling reminder to all of the role that football clubs—and their fan groups—can play in civil society. The fact that the Prime Minister’s Deputy Bülent Arınç claimed that the Çarşı Group was pulling out of the protests—a claim which Çarşı later refuted, saying that “since 1982 we have, and will continue to, support humanity against injustice and wrongdoing”—only serves to underline the uneasiness with which the government views Çarşı’s involvement.

The government’s wariness is well-founded. Çarşı, like so many other groups of football fans in Turkey, have faced tear gas and sound bombs from security forces week in and week out during tense confrontations in stadiums across Turkey for years. The stadium was used as a sort of pressure valve, to release societal pressures within the confines of the stadium, where punishment was swiftly and harshly meted out without it spilling into the streets. Just as the physical violence was confined to the stadiums, the political thoughts were too—just slogans scribbled on banners, hung onto the fences surrounding the pitch.  For the most part, you could only see them if you were in the stadium, since police lowered them as soon as they came up.

But that isn’t the end of the story. Just as Turkish football fans have experience battling the heavy handed tactics of the police, the riot police are also well-trained and battle hardened. For years they have swung at fans with batons as blindly as they have launched tear gas at those gathered outside stadiums. On June 11th  2013 we saw the same tactics. But this wasn’t just Beşiktaş’s Inönü Stadium or the Fenerbahçe Şükrü Saraçoğlu Stadium.  It was in modern Turkey’s heart, on Taksim square. The irony hasn’t been lost on Turkish football fans. In reference to the Gezi protests Fenerbahçe fans have said that they will be where the gas is, a reference to riots last May that resulted in fighting between fans and security forces, after Fenerbahçe lost the title to Galatasaray. Many said to me in personal conversation that there had been anti-Erdoğan sentiment then, a response by Fenerbahçe fans to the violent actions of the riot police.

So that is where Erdoğan’s democratic deepening has fallen short. He may have deepened his support in his own strongholds, but he seems to have forgotten the rest of the country en route to his vision of a democratic Turkey. And spreading democracy to some regions, at the expense of others, is not how a country will develop, regardless of the robust economic statistics that news anchors read out in praise of Turkish development.

In CNN coverage of June 11’s protests, one of the reporters kept noting the seemingly random blasts of tear gas that the police directed at protestors. He noted that it seemed as if they “had no plan”. Perhaps that is the problem—that they indeed have no plan; much of their training in crowd control has come at soccer matches, where they had a mandate to monopolize the use of force. They had been playing their part in a game, the game of putting the lid back on the societal pressure release that the stadium had been cultivated as for so long. But when the violence is used to suppress the voices of democracy is when a response is necessitated from the spectators of the game.

In a bid to break down what has been happening in Turkey over the last few weeks, a tenuous analogy to the Arab Spring has been tossed around. This is not the Arab Spring. This is not a Turkish Spring. This is the citizens of a democratic country demanding the democratic principles they have been promised, including a free press and an accountable police force amongst others.  Merely bundling it together with protests in other Muslim countries is only sweeping it under the rug, making the protesters out to be something they are not—but what Prime Minister Erdoğan wants them to be: destructive hooligans that are both anti-democratic and anti-American. In short, Çapulcus—looters, vagabonds, and what Erdoğan himself branded them in the early days of the protests. Politics may well be a game, just as football is, but I urge those who follow the ongoing events in Turkey not to lose themselves in the game of labels.




A Çarşı Flag raised in Taksim’s Gezi Park