405

 SPACE PRODUCTION THROUGH GRAFFITI:
UNDERSTANDING THE 2013 APPROPRIATION OF TAKSİM IN CONTEXT

April 2023, 274 pages
This study is about graffiti, an umbrella term for spatial practices such as mural writing and
spray-painting. To evaluate their potential as sources in history of space from below, the case
of İstanbul is examined from a broad perspective. In 2013, graffiti reached a historic peak in
spread with the Gezi resistance, which started in Taksim-İstanbul. With the crackdown, they
were erased. Censorship was nothing new to the local collective memory, nor was territorial
marking via political slogans and collective signatures. Emerged in the 1960s and widespread
in the 1970s, the practice halted following the 1980 coup but re-emerged in the late 1980s.
Notwithstanding, the Gezi graffiti were mostly approached as a single case study. To
investigate dis/continuity and address the gap in the research on graffiti in Turkey, the study
first historicises the practice through an overview starting from the 1960s. Then, it
contextualises graffiti drawing attention on space politics in İstanbul in the early 2010s, years
of great visibility as global city. Lastly, it visualises how the Gezi resistance resulted in the
appropriation of Taksim and turned it into a global street, i.e., space to reclaim the right to the
city. Examined through Lefebvrian theory and concepts by Sassen, hundreds of graffiti
collected via archival and street ethnographic research suggests two main findings. First, walls
speak and echo resistance, especially when silenced. Second, graffiti mocking hegemonic
power are historically correlated to graphic satire, and this suggests the need for further,
collaborative research on transgenerational aspects of spatial resistance.
Keywords: graffiti, Lefebvre/space production, İstanbul, Gezi/Taksim resistance, global
city/global street

Nisan 2023, 274 sayfa
Bu çalışma, duvara yazma ve sprey boyama gibi mekânsal pratikler için kullanılan bir şemsiye
terim olan grafiti hakkındadır. Grafitinin mekânın aşağıdan tarihinde kaynak olarak taşıdığı
potansiyeli değerlendirmek amacıyla, İstanbul örneği geniş bir perspektiften incelenmektedir.
2013 yılında Taksim-İstanbul’da başlayan Gezi direnişiyle grafitilerin yayılmasında tarihi bir
zirveye ulaşılmış ancak uygulanan baskılarla silinmişlerdir. Aslında sansür de, siyasi sloganlar
ve toplu imzalar yoluyla yapılan bölgesel işaretleme de yerel kolektif hafıza için yeni değildir.
1960’larda ortaya çıkan ve 1970’lerde yaygınlaşan bu tür mekânsal pratikleri 1980 darbesinin
ardından durmuş; fakat 1980’lerin sonlarında tekrar ortaya çıkmaya başlamıştır. Buna karşın,
Gezi grafitisi çoğunlukla tekil bir vaka çalışması olarak ele alınmaktadır. Türkiye’de grafiti
araştırmalarındaki kesintileri/sürekliliği araştırmak ve eksikliği gidermek için, çalışma önce
1960’lardan başlayarak genel bir bakış aracılığıyla pratiği tarihselleştirmektedir. Sonrasında,
küresel kent olarak önemli bir görünürlüğe sahip olduğu 2010’ların başında İstanbul’daki
mekân siyasetine dikkat çeken grafitileri bağlamsallaştırılmaktadır. Son olarak, Gezi
direnişinin nasıl Taksim’e sahip çıkılmasıyla sonuçlandığını ve bu alanı nasıl küresel sokağa,
yani kent hakkını geri alma mekanına dönüştürdüğünü görselleştirmektedir. Lefebvre’in
kuramı ve Sassen’in kavramları üzerinden incelendiğinde, arşiv ve sokak etnografik
araştırmalarıyla toplanan yüzlerce grafiti iki temel bulguyu öne sürüyor: İlk olarak, duvarlar
konuşur ve özellikle susturulduğunda direnişi yankılar. İkinci olarak, hegemonik güçle alay
eden grafiti tarihsel açıdan grafik hicivle ilişkilidir ve bu durum, mekânsal direnişin nesiller ötesi
yönleri hakkında daha fazla ve işbirliğine dayalı araştırmaya ihtiyaç olduğunu göstermektedir.
Anahtar Kelimeler: grafiti, Lefebvre/mekân üretimi, İstanbul, Gezi/Taksim direnişi, küresel
kent/küresel sokak
vi
DEDICATION
To my parents
vii
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I first thank the EU-funded Marie Curie doctoral network Englobe (Enlightenment and Global
History). I acknowledge that the financial support received from 2010 to 2013 granted me the
temporary privilege of studying and traveling for research related purposes. Therefore, I also
acknowledge that the views expressed in this study do not necessarily reflect those by the
members of the Englobe doctoral network and the Architectural History program at the Middle
East Technical University in Ankara.
A special thanks to my supervisor Prof. Dr. T. Elvan Altan and to my co-supervisor Prof. Dr.
Helga Rittersberger Tılıç for their co-presence, kindness, and patience. Sincere gratitude goes
also to my former supervisor Prof. Dr. Namık Günay Erkal and to the jury members Prof. Dr.
Neşe Gurallar, Prof. Dr. İpek Akpınar Aksugür, Assoc. Prof. Dr. Bülent Batuman, and Asst.
Prof. Dr. Pelin Yoncacı Arslan. In addition to them, I thank Prof. Dr. Jale Erzen for her
suggestion to search for colours when hegemonic shades of grey dominate the cityscape, and
I thank also the former jury member Prof. Dr. Güven Arif Sargın for his suggestion of not losing
touch with space.
Many thanks to many others for their direct or indirect contribution: Luisa Conti, Chiara Quintili,
Damla Çimen, Andrea Mubi Brighenti, Türkiye Sosyal Tarih Araştırma Vakfı (Social History
Research Foundation of Turkey, TÜSTAV), Yılmaz Aysan, Javier Abarca, Mario Antonio
Rosales-Solano, Süha Ünsal, Nina Lex, Concha Roldán Panadero, Fazıla Mat, Piero Maestri,
Lea Nocera, Fabio Salomoni, Fabio Ruggiero, Luca Manunza, Pelin Çakir, Mattia
Giandomenici, Paul Schweizer, Çağla Aykaç, Özhan Önder, Begüm Özden Fırat, Hülya
Çimen, Mehmet Çimen, Atakan Çaylak, Marco Bocci, Carlotta De Sanctis, Giulia Ansaldo,
Valentina Marcella, Maurizio Zollo, Luigi Santalucia, Emiliano Bugatti, Giulia Barbera, Cemile
Gizem Dinçer, Çayan Ulaş Teyhani, David Dodesini, Valentina Ticino, Michele Massetani,
Mahbuba Helile, Ali Canbaz, Hare Erdir, Nihat Adluğ, Seçkin İşildak, Nurdan Çağlayankaya,
Ekin Uşşaklı, Mauro Pettinari, Max Schimke, Kozan Demircan, Eddy Nwachukwu, Angelo
Obinna, Ufuk Ahıska, Simona Dea, Alba Ercolino, Fırat Çete, Doğukan Deliman, Francesca
Praghi, Sara Tosi, Sara Marilungo, Marco Paolucci, Emel Karadeniz, Tarkan Tufan, Erkut
Doğan, Emilia Pasqualetti, Massimo Riccetti, Moira Valeri, Esmer Çakıcı, Sevim Berker, and
Günsü Durak.
Finally, I wholeheartedly thank my parents for their precious lifelong efforts.
viii
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PLAGIARISM ............................................................................................................................ iii
ABSTRACT ..............................................................................................................................iv
ÖZ ............................................................................................................................................. v
DEDICATION ...........................................................................................................................vi
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS .......................................................................................................... vii
TABLE OF CONTENTS ......................................................................................................... viii
LIST OF FIGURES ...................................................................................................................xi
LIST OF ABBREVIATIONS ................................................................................................ xxviii
AN ILLUSTRATED GLOSSARY OF TERMS AND JARGON ............................................... xxx
CHAPTERS
1. INTRODUCTION .................................................................................................................. 1
1.1. Graffiti, an umbrella term for both textual and visual practices .................................... 2
1.2. Motivation, aim, and objective of the study .................................................................. 4
1.3. Dynamic definition of the scope ................................................................................... 6
1.3.1. İstanbul in the early 2010s: a global city .............................................................. 7
1.3.2. Taksim in 2013: a global street filled with graffiti ................................................. 8
1.3.3. Graffiti filling the local collective memory since the 1960s and 1970s ............... 10
1.4. Methodology and literature review ............................................................................. 11
1.4.1. Archival research and street ethnography ......................................................... 11
1.4.2. Social production of space in the global age ..................................................... 14
1.4.3. State of the art and contribution ......................................................................... 22
1.5. Structure of the study ................................................................................................. 28
2. GRAFFITIING (IN) TURKEY .............................................................................................. 31
2.1. A spatial practice turning walls into a medium for agitprop in the 1960s ................... 31
2.1.1. Dawn of a tradition tied to graphic satire ............................................................ 32
2.1.2. Spreading (with) the 1968 movement ................................................................ 34
2.2. Giving voice to the labour movement in the 1970s .................................................... 40
2.2.1. A rising wave of strikes ...................................................................................... 40
2.2.2. May Day 1977, Taksim massacre, and censorship ........................................... 46
2.2.3. Women’s labour and ways of (not) seeing it ...................................................... 49
2.3. Extensive territorial marking in the late 1970s ........................................................... 54
2.3.1. Revolutionary socialists and popular slogans .................................................... 56
2.3.2. Educational facilities and beyond ....................................................................... 59
2.3.3. The ultranationalist movement ........................................................................... 61
ix
2.3.3.1. Ethnicized violence and perpetrator graffiti .................................................. 62
2.4. Aftermath of the 1980 coup: overpainting, prison walls, and archival damage ......... 64
2.5. From walls to books of jokes: the post-coup society in the late 1980s / early 1990s 68
2.5.1. Women’s self-irony ............................................................................................ 71
2.5.2. Laughing at militarism ........................................................................................ 72
2.6. Emergence of tagging, street art, and possibly punk graffiti in the 1990s ................. 74
2.7. Overview of the fieldwork observations made in the early 2010s (before Gezi) ....... 76
2.7.1. Ankara ................................................................................................................ 77
2.7.2. İstanbul .............................................................................................................. 80
2.7.2.1. Renewed ways of seeing women’s bodies .................................................. 81
2.7.2.2. Local and global dynamics ........................................................................... 84
2.8. Concluding remarks ................................................................................................... 89
3. SPACE PRODUCTION IN İSTANBUL, 2010-2013 ........................................................... 92
3.1. Neoliberal redevelopment into a global city ............................................................... 92
3.1.1. Local resistance to global capitalism ................................................................. 96
3.2. A European Capital of Culture in 2010 ...................................................................... 98
3.2.1. Represented as a bordered zone linking Europe to its East ........................... 101
3.3. Neo-Ottoman conquest via urban renewal .............................................................. 105
3.4. Renewal of historical real estate: the case of Taksim 360 [Tarlabaşı 360] ............. 108
3.5. Grassroots placemaking .......................................................................................... 116
3.5.1. Taksim Square ................................................................................................. 116
3.5.2. Galatasaray Square ......................................................................................... 127
3.6. Urban commons: the Emek movie theatre vs. the Demirören shopping mall ......... 131
3.7. Concluding remarks ................................................................................................. 136
4. A VISUAL CHRONICLE OF THE TEMPORARY APPROPRIATION OF TAKSIM, 2013 138
4.1. The Gezi resistance ................................................................................................. 138
4.1.1. Antecedents ..................................................................................................... 138
4.1.2. Reclaiming the park ......................................................................................... 143
4.1.3. Reclaiming Taksim .......................................................................................... 146
4.2. Gezi/Taksim, a global street .................................................................................... 156
4.2.1. Re-territorialised public space ......................................................................... 156
4.2.2. A node of a multiscalar network ....................................................................... 159
4.2.3. Common space ................................................................................................ 163
4.3. Whose space? Whose values?................................................................................ 167
4.3.1. Costantinopolis, the city of the police? ............................................................ 168
4.3.2. The right to the city-centre, space belonging to all of us ................................. 172
4.4. Absorption of differential space and attempts of resistance .................................... 176
4.5. Greyfication, exceptions, reactions, and appropriation of symbolic time ................. 182
4.6. Concluding remarks ................................................................................................. 188
x
5. CONCLUSION .................................................................................................................. 191
5.1. The historiographical potential of graffiti .................................................................. 191
5.2. The potential of this study ........................................................................................ 196
5.3. Limitations of graffiti and shortcomings of the research ........................................... 198
5.4. Further research ....................................................................................................... 200
BIBLIOGRAPHY ................................................................................................................... 204
APPENDICES ...................................................................................................................... 235
A. WALLS IN TURKEY IN THE LATE 1970s ................................................................. 235
B. WALLS IN TURKEY IN THE LATE 1980s AND Early 1990s ..................................... 240
C. WALLS IN İSTANBUL, 2010-2013 (BEFORE GEZI) ................................................. 243
D. WALLS IN TAKSIM DURING GEZI, 2013 ................................................................. 246
E. CURRICULUM VITAE ................................................................................................ 258
F. TURKISH SUMMARY / TÜRKÇE ÖZET .................................................................... 260
G. THESIS PERMISSION FORM / TEZ İZİN FORMU ................................................... 274
xi
LIST OF FIGURES
Figure 1 A conscription pride wall writing. ............................................................................. xxx
Figure 2 A collective signature by Sosyalist Feminist Kolektif (Socialist Feminist
Collective). .......................................................................................................... xxxi
Figure 3 Culture jamming. .................................................................................................... xxxi
Figure 4 Wall writing by a revolutionary organisation of the 1970s (Source: TÜSTAV) ..... xxxii
Figure 5 Wall writings, one of which signed the circle-A (symbol of anarchism). ............... xxxii
Figure 6 A wall writing: “lunatic people shouldn’t come”. .................................................... xxxii
Figure 7 Tags. ..................................................................................................................... xxxii
Figure 8 Street art. .............................................................................................................. xxxii
Figure 9 A wall writing. ........................................................................................................ xxxii
Figure 10 “Damn America”. Likely METU. In the late 1960s. (Source: TÜSTAV) .............. xxxii
Figure 11 “Damn Imperialism” signed by Halkın Kurtuluş Partisi (People’s Liberation
Party). ................................................................................................................ xxxii
Figure 12 "Down with Hitler". Munich University façade. 1943 (Source: Weiße Rose
Stiftung e.V. 2018) ............................................................................................ xxxiii
Figure 13 Swastikas overwritten with the prohibition symbol. ........................................... xxxiii
Figure 14 Acronym and symbol of Milliyetçi Hareket Partisi (Nationalist Movement Party)
.......................................................................................................................... xxxiii
Figure 15 Graffiti for everyday spatial practice: “don't throw garbage [here]”. ................... xxxiv
Figure 16 Graffiti of the 2013 Gezi resistance. .................................................................. xxxiv
Figure 17 Humorous graffiti: "the resistance has not finished"; "where are you Batman[?]".
.......................................................................................................................... xxxiv
Figure 18 Greyfication. Aftermath of the Gezi resistance. .................................................. xxxv
Figure 19 Breakdance. ........................................................................................................ xxxv
Figure 20 Skating. ............................................................................................................... xxxv
Figure 21 Acrobatic cycling. ................................................................................................ xxxv
Figure 22 A perpetrator graffiti with intimidating content: “blood touched the tooth of the
wolf, be afraid”. (Source: Mekâna Dair, 2022) .................................................. xxxvi
Figure 23 A piece (short for “masterpiece”). ...................................................................... xxxvi
Figure 24 Punk graffiti. ...................................................................................................... xxxvii
Figure 25 Street poetry. A verse of a poem by Cemal Süreya: “Life is short, the birds fly”.
Yalova, date missing. (Source: Wagner, 2014) ............................................... xxxvii
Figure 26 A stencilled street artwork. ................................................................................ xxxviii
Figure 27 Sticker by Icy and Sot, renowned street artists from Iran. ................................ xxxviii
xii
Figure 28 Street artwork by Icy and Sot. .......................................................................... xxxviii
Figure 29 A street artwork. ................................................................................................. xxxix
Figure 30 A street artwork by Cins ..................................................................................... xxxix
Figure 31 A street artwork by No More Lies. ...................................................................... xxxix
Figure 32 Street artivism vs. police brutality in the case of Abdurrahman Sözen, died
under custody in 2009 (İzmir). .......................................................................... xxxix
Figure 33 Tags. ....................................................................................................................... xl
Figure 34 A wall filled in tags. .................................................................................................. xl
Figure 35 Tag by ‘Taki183’. New York, 1970s (Source: Kennedy, 2013) ............................... xl
Figure 36 Collage showing the same signature graffiti in various places. .............................. xl
Figure 37 A throwie. İstanbul. 2012. ........................................................................................ xl
Figure 38 Wildstyle. İstanbul. 2012. ....................................................................................... xli
Figure 39 Constantinian walls and late 20th century skyscrapers. (Source: History –
İstanbul 2010 – ECoC, n.d.) .................................................................................... 7
Figure 40 Panoramic view of the Galata Bridge. (Source: Where to Stay – İstanbul 2010
– ECoC, n.d.) .......................................................................................................... 7
Figure 41 Taksim (Source: Sadri, 2017) .................................................................................. 9
Figure 42 Graffiti of the Gezi resistance. Taksim. June 2013. ............................................... 10
Figure 43 Greyfication of the Gezi graffiti. Taksim. July 2013. ............................................... 10
Figure 44 Montage of still frames of the comedy film Köşeyi Dönen Adam (The Man Who
Gets Rich) (Yılmaz, 1978). Writing at the bottom: “the oppression of the boss
and his servants over the workers will be broken”. ............................................... 11
Figure 45 Municipal areas of Beyoğlu, Fatih and Kadıköy districts. (Source: Google Maps,
edited by Valentina Ticino) .................................................................................... 12
Figure 46 Wall writings. Beyoğlu, İstanbul. August 2012. ...................................................... 12
Figure 47 A throwie. Fatih, İstanbul. July 2012. ..................................................................... 12
Figure 48 Street art. Kadıköy, İstanbul. June 2012. ............................................................... 12
Figure 49 Graffiti festival. Gezi Park, Beyoğlu, İstanbul. July 2012. ...................................... 12
Figure 50 Graffiti advertising the film The Return of Lencho (Rosales, 2010). New York.
2012. ..................................................................................................................... 13
Figure 51 Anti-Western graffiti. Caption: “from the world – they likely started learning
English”. (Source: Yön, 1965, June 4, 115, p. 10) ................................................ 32
Figure 52 Cartoon about media coverage of attempted repression of graffiti expressing
economic dissent. Wall writing: “[price] raise, raise”. Top caption: “two
students were caught writing [price] raise on the walls (Newspapers)”. Bottom
caption: “go and catch Süleyman Demirel, we don’t increase the prices, we
only write it!”. Author: Doğan, F. (Source: Ant, March 1967, 12, p. 7) .................. 34
Figure 53 “No to NATO”. (Source: Ant, 1968, June 11, 76, p. 2) ........................................... 35
xiii
Figure 54 Slogan likely written by university students: “no to imperialism”. (Source: Ant,
October 1968, 93, p. 10) ....................................................................................... 36
Figure 55 Iconic “revolution” graffiti at the METU stadium. Late 1960s. (Source: Yancı,
2019) ..................................................................................................................... 37
Figure 56 Graffiti and posters on the entrance façade of the METU Architecture Faculty
building. (Source: Ant, 1969, April 15, 120, p. 5). Caption: “Slogans at the
entrance of the university – Struggle for a democratic university”. Writing on
the left: “This building was liberated”. Writing above the glass door: “We rule”.
Poster on the left: “permanent revolution”. ........................................................... 38
Figure 57 Slogan: “There is the strike of those who entered the grave before dying –
Yeraltı Maden-İş (Underground Mining Work)”. Yeni Çeltek coal mine, Black
Sea region. 1976. (Source: Akçam, 2004) ........................................................... 41
Figure 58 Painting of DİSK logo (Source: Şafak, 2015) ........................................................ 41
Figure 59 DİSK logo (Source: DİSK, n.d.) ............................................................................. 41
Figure 60 DİSK acronym inside a flower and slogans: “long live international solidarity!”,
and “fascism shall not pass”. Place and date missing. (Source: TÜSTAV) ......... 42
Figure 61 In blue: “strike at this workplace”. In red: “[i]şciler b[irliği). Great Strike, likely
1977. (Source: DİSK)............................................................................................ 42
Figure 62 Theatre group performing in a factory during the Great Strike. (Source: Şafak,
2012, p. 87) ........................................................................................................... 43
Figure 63 Slogans and imagery of the Great Strike. Late 1970s. Writings on the left: “Our
working class will defeat MESS – Mine-work – DİSK”. Writings on the right:
“strike at Aykim”, “down with fascism”, “there is a strike in this workplace”.
(Source: TÜSTAV) ................................................................................................ 43
Figure 64 A mural and banners of the Great Strike. Late 1970s. Bottom right writing:
“There is no liberation alone, from the fist and the chain, either all together or
nobody”. Banner on the left: “we are with you in the war against MESS, we
defeated DGM, it’s MESS’ turn”. Banner in the centre: “’we defeated MC, it’s
MESS’ turn”. Banner on the right: “workers are united, MESS’ is finished”.
(Source: DİSK magazine, August 1977, Yilmaz Aysan’s personal archive) ........ 44
Figure 65 A mural cartoon during the Great Strike. Slogan: “Our working class will make
MESS give up”. (Source: Şafak, 2015)................................................................. 45
Figure 66 Cartoonists at work amid the Great Strike (Source: Şafak, 2015) ......................... 45
Figure 67 Strike visit document (Source: Şafak, 2015) ......................................................... 46
Figure 68 Slogan related to the Taksim Square massacre: “we call the oligarchs to
account for the May Day massacre”. İstanbul. 1977. (Source: Newspaper
Günaydın, 1977, month, date, and page missing) ............................................... 47
Figure 69 May Day slogan: “long live May Day” (Source: Yılmaz, 1978) .............................. 48
Figure 70 Erasure of a May Day slogan (Source: Yılmaz, 1978) .......................................... 48
xiv
Figure 71 A verse of the May Day anthem: “May 1st, celebration of workers, laborers”
(Source: Yılmaz, 1978) ......................................................................................... 48
Figure 72 Logo of May Day 1977 (Source: Eğitim Sendikası, 2019) ..................................... 49
Figure 73 Taksim Square, May Day 1977 (Source: ............................................................... 49
Figure 74 Still frame of the film Evde Kalmış Kızlar (Duru, 1975) depicting a slogan for
the bride price abolition. (Source: Politikhane, 2020) ........................................... 49
Figure 75 Slogan for wage equality during a strike: “[…] equal salary!!! […] all strikers
[…])”. Date and place missing. (Source: TÜSTAV) .............................................. 50
Figure 76 Making of a mural cartoon during a strike. Likely at the Pasabahçe glass
factory, İstanbul,1980. Slogan in bigger font in the placard: “there is a strike in
this workplace”. Slogan in smaller font: “Kristal İş - Hürcam İş” (crystal work is
free glasswork). Speech bubble: “Is now the time for a strike? The economic
situation of our country is very bad, brother, we expect sacrifice from you…”.
(Source: TÜSTAV) ................................................................................................ 51
Figure 77 Male authors of the mural cartoon. Likely İstanbul, 1980. (Source: TÜSTAV) ...... 53
Figure 78 Mural attesting to the presence of a strike and imagery of May Day (Source:
Kadınların Sesi, 1980, June-July, 59-60: 11) ........................................................ 53
Figure 79 Still frame of the film Derdim Dünyadan Büyük (Gören, 1978) depicting a
signature graffiti by Devrimci Kadınlar Dernekleri (Revolutionary Women
Associations, DKD). (Source: Politikhane, 2020) ................................................. 54
Figure 80 Collective signature: “revolutionaries”. Place and date missing (Source:
TÜSTAV) ............................................................................................................... 56
Figure 81 Slogan: “one solution – socialism”. Place and date missing (Source: TÜSTAV)
.............................................................................................................................. 56
Figure 82 Signatures by Devrimci Yol and Dev-Genç. Still frame of the film Taşı Toprağı
Altin Şehir (Aksoy, 1979). (Source: Politikhane, 2020) ......................................... 57
Figure 83 Slogan by Dev-Yol: “No to price rises, revolution is the only solution”. Fatsa.
Late 1970s (Source, Akçam, 2007) ...................................................................... 58
Figure 84 (In red) “Damn fascism”, signed by DÖB. Taksim Square. 1978. (Source: Can,
2011, p. 201) ......................................................................................................... 58
Figure 85 Antifascist slogan signed by CHP (Source: Akçam, 2004) .................................... 58
Figure 86 “We’ll break the fascist occupation in A.İ.T.İ.A. - revolutionaries”. Wall of a
carpark in Kolej / Kurtuluş, Ankara. 1977. (Source: Aysan, 2013, p. 10) ............. 59
Figure 87 Traces of clashes between students and police in İstanbul. Late 1970s.
(Source: Can, 2011, p. 114) .................................................................................. 60
Figure 88 Bomb attack signed with a graffiti. Fatih, İstanbul. Late 1970s (Source:
Newspaper Günaydın, 1977, month, date, and page missing) ............................ 60
Figure 89 MHP signature graffiti (in black, erased with red painting). Still frame of the film
Çöpçüler Kralı (Ökten, 1977). (Source: Politikhane, 2020)................................... 61
xv
Figure 90 “The ÜGD will be the grave of high school communists” (Source: Akçam, 2004)
.............................................................................................................................. 62
Figure 91 Jihadist slogan: “To war for Allah”. Maraş massacre. 1978. (Source: Akçam,
2007b) ................................................................................................................... 63
Figure 92 Acronym of the MHP. Maraş massacre. 1978. (Source: Akçam, 2007b) .............. 63
Figure 93 Acronyms of ultranationalist organisations. (Source: Akçam, 2007b) ................... 63
Figure 94 Triple crescent moon. (Source: Akçam, 2007b) .................................................... 63
Figure 95 “Çanakcı out - ÜYD”. Çorum massacre. Spring-summer 1980. (Source:
TÜSTAV) .............................................................................................................. 64
Figure 96 Military forcing residents to clean up walls. (Source: TÜSTAV) ............................ 65
Figure 97 Fictional evidence of walls erasure after the 1980 coup (Source: Gül, 2005) ....... 66
Figure 98 Army watching over people cleaning up walls (Source: Gül, 2005) ...................... 66
Figure 99 Men covering up wall writings (Source: Gül, 2005) ............................................... 66
Figure 100 Revolutionary slogan in prison. Still frame of the film Duvar (The Wall) (Güney,
1983) ..................................................................................................................... 66
Figure 101 Erasure of a revolutionary slogan in prison. Still frame of the film Duvar (The
Wall) (Güney, 1983).............................................................................................. 66
Figure 102 Cover of the LP album Poverty Can’t Be Destiny by Cem Karaca & Dervişan
(1977) (Source: Aysan, 2013, p. 441) .................................................................. 68
Figure 103 First printed collection of wall writings in Turkey (Kutal, 1988) ............................ 69
Figure 104 First printed collection of wall writings from Turkey (Metis Publications, 1989)
.............................................................................................................................. 70
Figure 105 Printed collection of wall writings by women only (Çorlu & Tütüncü, 1989) ........ 71
Figure 106 Printed collection of wall writings by Üstündağ (1990) ........................................ 72
Figure 107 Printed collection of wall writings by Özdemiroğlu (1990) ................................... 72
Figure 108 Humorous writing about conscription: “he is soldier now…tomorrow maybe
President of the Republic” (Source: Özdemiroğlu, 1990, p. 17) ........................... 73
Figure 109 “From two renegades’ chat: - Where did you do your revolutionary service? -
In Taksim Square, short term…” (Source: Özdemiroğlu, 1990, p. 71) ................. 74
Figure 110 Gig poster, Graffiti Bar, Ankara, 1992 (Source: De Sanctis, n.d.) ....................... 75
Figure 111 Punk graffiti and anarchy symbol. İstanbul. 2012. ............................................... 76
Figure 112 Slogan vs. the then President of the Islamic Republic of Iran: “Shame on
[Mahmoud] Ahmadinejad”. Tahran Avenue, Çankaya, Ankara. 2010. ................. 77
Figure 113 Street protest near the Embassy of The Islamic Republic of Iran. Tahran
Avenue, Çankaya, Ankara. 2010. ......................................................................... 77
Figure 114 May Day slogan. Ankara. May Day 2011. ........................................................... 78
Figure 115 “The murderer is the state”. Ankara. May Day 2011. .......................................... 78
Figure 116 Slogan of the 1970s: “Oligarchy is the murderer” (Source: Can, 2011, pp. 208-
209) ....................................................................................................................... 78
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Figure 117 Pro-LGBT+ stencilled graffiti. Ankara. May Day 2011. ........................................ 79
Figure 118 A conscription pride wall writing and three crescent moons. Ankara. 2011. ....... 79
Figure 119 Southeastern area of Beyoğlu district (Source: Tekin & Akgün Gültekin, 2017)
.............................................................................................................................. 80
Figure 120 Stencilled portrait of Festus Okey and a slogan: “Festus Okey rest in peace”.
Beyoğlu, İstanbul. 2012. ....................................................................................... 81
Figure 121 Veiled woman. Beyoğlu, İstanbul. 2012. .............................................................. 82
Figure 122 Feminist slogan vs. anti-abortion propaganda: “abortion is a right; Uludere is
a massacre”. Beyoğlu, İstanbul. 2012................................................................... 82
Figure 123 “Femicides are political”. Beyoğlu, İstanbul. 2013, March 8. ............................... 83
Figure 124 “Murder of transgender persons are political”. Beyoğlu, İstanbul. 2013. ............. 83
Figure 125 A feminist Cinderella waving a flag and a slogan: “after midnight the magic
does not vanish”. Beyoğlu, İstanbul. 2010. ........................................................... 83
Figure 126 Call to action for the International Workers' Day: "To Taksim on May Day".
Beyoğlu, İstanbul. 2012. ....................................................................................... 84
Figure 127 Turkish Flag. Beyoğlu, İstanbul. 2012. ................................................................. 85
Figure 128 Reaction to the tables’ removal in Beyoğlu. İstanbul. 2012. ................................ 85
Figure 129 Dissent vs. street surveillance. Beyoğlu, İstanbul. 2012. ..................................... 86
Figure 130 Dissent vs. street surveillance: "don't watch me". Beyoğlu, İstanbul. 2012. ........ 86
Figure 131 Poster of the "Meeting of Allstars" Graffiti Festival. Siraselviler Avenue. 2012.
.............................................................................................................................. 86
Figure 132 Painting boards. "Meeting of Allstars" Graffiti Festival. Gezi Park. 2012, July
15. ......................................................................................................................... 87
Figure 133 Security checks at the entrance of "Meeting of Allstars" Graffiti Festival. Gezi
Park, Beyoğlu, İstanbul. 2012, July 15.................................................................. 87
Figure 134 Yellow fists. Galip Dede Avenue, Galata, İstanbul. 2012 .................................... 87
Figure 135 Yellow fist by Kripoe and tag by 1UP. Galata, İstanbul. 2012. ............................ 87
Figure 136 Kripoe’s signature. Galata, İstanbul. 2012. ......................................................... 87
Figure 137 Yellow fists, Warschauer Strasse, Friedrichshain, Berlin, 2004. ......................... 88
Figure 138 Tag by 1UP crew. Madrid, 2012........................................................................... 88
Figure 139 Tag by 1UP crew. Athens. 2014. ......................................................................... 88
Figure 140 Street art within a demolished building in Tarlabaşı. 2012. ................................. 88
Figure 141 Street artivism supposedly aimed at anti-gentrification. Tarlabaşı. 2012. ........... 88
Figure 142 Stencilled logo of Direnİstanbul. İstanbul. 2012 [2009]. Caption: “days of
resistance against the IMF and the World Bank”. ................................................. 97
Figure 143 Direnİstanbul logo on a banner. İstiklal Avenue, İstanbul. 2009. (Source: Çakır
& Özcan, 2009) ..................................................................................................... 97
Figure 144 Culture jamming of the İstanbul 2010 – ECoC initiative. İstanbul. 2012 [2010].
............................................................................................................................ 101
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Figure 145 Logo of the European Capital of Culture Initiative (Source: Wikipedia, 2010) .. 101
Figure 146 Anti- Europeanisation slogan. Ayazma, İstanbul, 2008 (Source: Azem, 2011)
............................................................................................................................ 104
Figure 147 Subvertising of the EU flag located in a main gateway from Africa to EU.
Melilla, Morocco/Spain. Author: Blu (Source: Blue, 2012) ................................. 104
Figure 148 Neo-Ottoman conquest of İstanbul. 2012. (Photo: Emiliano Bugatti) ................ 105
Figure 149 Dissent vs. the megaproject Tarlabaşı 360 (renamed Taksim 360). İstanbul.
2013. ................................................................................................................... 109
Figure 150 Tarlabaşı’s location. (Source: Tsavdaroglou, 2020) .......................................... 109
Figure 151 Tarlabaşı renewal area. (Source: Bianet, 2017) ................................................ 109
Figure 152 Tarlabaşı Boulevard. (Source: Google Maps) ................................................... 111
Figure 153 Graffiti depicting the streetscape of Tarlabaşı. 2012. ........................................ 112
Figure 154 Streetscape of Tarlabaşı. 2013. ......................................................................... 112
Figure 155 “Nobody can affront anyone in this neighbourhood". Tarlabaşı. 2013. ............. 113
Figure 156 Dissent vs. the expulsion of the Tarlabaşı residents: “where are these
people?”. 2012. ................................................................................................... 114
Figure 157 Dissent vs. the destruction of Tarlabaşı architectonic heritage: “demolition
Street”. 2012. ...................................................................................................... 114
Figure 158 Dissent vs. property speculation in Tarlabaşı: “unearned income blind-alley”.
2012. ................................................................................................................... 114
Figure 159 Poster of VJ Fest İstanbul. Tarlabaşı, June 2012 (Source:VJ Fest İstanbul,
2012) ................................................................................................................... 115
Figure 160 Advertising material of the street art event "Renovation Tarlabaşı". September
2012 (Source: Street Art Festival İstanbul, 2012) .............................................. 115
Figure 161 Art event "Division Unfolded: Tarlabaşı Intervention". ....................................... 115
Figure 162 “Still not enough photos?”. Tarlabaşı. 2012. ..................................................... 115
Figure 163 Aerial view of Taksim Square. (Source: “The Geography of Taksim Square”,
2013) ................................................................................................................... 117
Figure 164 Maksem. 18th century. (Source: Arabaci, 2021) ............................................... 118
Figure 165 Taksim Barracks. Late 19th century. (Source: Yiğit & Çetin, 2022) .................. 118
Figure 166 Taksim Artillery Barracks in Kauffer Map, 1807 (Source: Kırbaş, 2014, p. 92) . 119
Figure 167 Taksim Garden. 1902. (Source: Librakons, 2021) ............................................. 120
Figure 168 Hagia Traida probably in the late 19th century. (Source: Toucan, 2022) .......... 120
Figure 169 One of the first ceremonies at the Taksim Republican Monument. 1928.
(Source: Yalçın, 2020) ........................................................................................ 121
Figure 170 Sketch of Taksim Square by Prost. 1945. (Source: Kiricioglue, 2012) .............. 122
Figure 171 Bloody Sunday. Taksim Square. 1969. (Source: Nisan online newspaper,
2019) ................................................................................................................... 123
Figure 172 May Day march to Taksim. (Source: Köseoğlu 2021, p. 119) ........................... 123
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Figure 173 May Day 1977. Rally in Taksim Square. (Source: Küper, 2012) ....................... 124
Figure 174 Taksim Square massacre. 1977. (Source: Küper, 2012) ................................... 124
Figure 175 Taksim Square, May Day 1978 (Source: SALT Galata, 2018b) ........................ 124
Figure 176 Panoramic view of the area between Taksim Square and the Bosphorus.
(Source: Places to Visit – İstanbul 2010 – European Capital of Culture, n.d.) ... 125
Figure 177 Taksim as May Day ground (alan in Turkish). Taksim area, İstanbul. 2012. ..... 125
Figure 178 Wallscape on the eve of May Day. Taksim. 2013. ............................................. 126
Figure 179 Graffiti connecting Taksim Square to Tahrir Square. İstanbul. 2012. ................ 126
Figure 180 A map of İstiklal Avenue and Galatasaray Square. (Source: Köseoğlu, 2021,
p. 162) ................................................................................................................. 127
Figure 181 Gate of the Galatasary High School. (Source: Yiğit & Çetin, 2022) ................... 128
Figure 182 Aerial view of the Saturday Mothers’ sit-in in front of Galatasary High School.
June 1995. (Source: Bianet, 2009b) ................................................................... 129
Figure 183 Saturday Mothers’ sit-in. 1996. (Source: Bianet, 2009b) ................................... 129
Figure 184 Call to join the Saturday Mothers sit-in in Galatasary Square. İstanbul. 2012. . 130
Figure 185 Slogan vs. the demolition of the Emek movie theatre: “let the cinema open,
let the shopping mall be demolished”. İstanbul, 2013. (Source: İMECE -
People’s Urbanism Movement) ........................................................................... 132
Figure 186 Location of the Emek movie theatre (left) and Demirören shopping mall (right).
İstiklal Avenue. (Source: Megaİstanbul, n.d.) ..................................................... 132
Figure 187 Aerial view of the Demirören shopping mall (Source: Megaİstanbul, 2015) ...... 132
Figure 188 Building of the Emek movie theatre before destruction. (Source:
Megaİstanbul, 2018) ........................................................................................... 133
Figure 189 Construction works inside the building of the Emek movie theatre. (Source:
Megaİstanbul, 2018) ........................................................................................... 133
Figure 190 Slogan: “Emek is ours, İstanbul is ours!!!’, İstiklal Avenue, Demirören façade.
2011 (Source: İMECE - People’s Urbanism Movement) .................................... 133
Figure 191 Protests slogan: "Capital, get your hands off the Emek". 2011. (Source:
İMECE - People’s Urbanism Movement) ............................................................ 133
Figure 192 Armoured water cannon used to disperse protests. April 2013. (Source:
İMECE - People’s Urbanism Movement) ............................................................ 135
Figure 193 Censorship. Erasure of graffiti of the Emek protests. İstiklal Avenue. March
2013. ................................................................................................................... 135
Figure 194 Sticker with a slogan of the Emek protests: "this is only the beginning; the
struggle goes on". April, 2013. (Source: IMECE - People’s Urbanism
Movement) .......................................................................................................... 135
Figure 195 Traffic underground system. (Source: Erkut & Shiraz, 2014, p. 123) ................ 139
Figure 196 Square pedestrianization (Source: Megaİstanbul, 2020) ................................... 139
Figure 197 Barracks. (Source: Source: Erkut & Shiraz, 2014, p. 125)................................. 139
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Figure 198 Taksim project. (Source: (Erkut & Shiraz, 2014, p. 122) ................................... 140
Figure 199 Police intervention vs. the Emek protests. 2013, April 7. (Source: İMECE -
Toplumun Şehircilik Hareketi) ............................................................................. 141
Figure 200 Poster of the first Gezi Park festival. (Source: Taksim Gezi Parkı Derneği,
2013) ................................................................................................................... 142
Figure 201 Aerial view of Gezi Park in 2013. (Source: CrimethInc. Ex-Workers Collective,
2022) ................................................................................................................... 143
Figure 202 Protest camp in the northern end of Gezi Park. 2013, May 29. ........................ 144
Figure 203 Crowd filling Gezi Park on the evening of May 29. ............................................ 144
Figure 204 (In red) “We want trees, not a shopping mall”. (In brown) “Get used to it, we
are not leaving”. Gezi Park, 2013, May 29. ........................................................ 144
Figure 205 Environmental justice slogan: “Long live our ecologist revolution”. Gezi Park,
2013, May 29 ...................................................................................................... 145
Figure 206 Slogan: “not concrete, park”. Gezi Park, 2013, May 29..................................... 145
Figure 207 Slogan signed with a circle A: “Ecologist revolt”, Gezi Park, 2013, May 29. ..... 145
Figure 208 Massive crowd of protesters in İstiklal Avenue. 2013, May 31. ......................... 147
Figure 209 Slogan to call the government to resign. Resonating in İstiklal Avenue since
May 31 but picture taken in İstiklal Avenue in early June. ................................. 147
Figure 210 A writing complete with date and time: “we did not come to Tarlabaşı to get
the stuff!”. Zambak Street, sidestreet between İstiklal Avenue and Tarlabaşı
Boulevard, very close to Taksim Square. 2013, May 31. ................................... 147
Figure 211 Black smoke from Gezi Park preceding the police's retreat from Taksim. June,
1. ......................................................................................................................... 148
Figure 212 Writing in green: “June 1 - our victory”. Taksim Avenue. Night between June
1 and 2, 2013. ..................................................................................................... 148
Figure 213 Graffiti consisting of a statement and a slogan: “Ethem Sarısülük was killed
by the AKP in Ankara - it will be called to account”. Taksim. Early June. .......... 148
Figure 214 Witty reaction to censorship: "Antartica is resisting". July 2013. ....................... 149
Figure 215 Reaction to censorship. Taksim. Early June 2013. ........................................... 149
Figure 216 Call for solidarity with other cities in Turkey: “Gezi, don’t sleep!!! Izmir, Ankara
[and] Adana are resisting – June 2 – 18:00”. Gezi Park..................................... 149
Figure 217 Slogans vs. police and state violence: “murderer police” and “murderer state”.
Side wall of the French Institute. Taksim Avenue. Early June. .......................... 150
Figure 218 self-ironic appropriation: "Chapullers are resisting". Taksim. Early June. ......... 150
Figure 219 Taksim Square turned into the courtyard of a mosque. 2021, May 28 (opening
of the mosque) (Source: Daily Sabah, 2021) ..................................................... 151
Figure 220 First banner on the AKM façade. 2013, June 2. ................................................ 152
Figure 221 First attempts at censorship via greyfication. İstiklal Avenue. June 2. .............. 153
Figure 222 First attempts at censorship via greyfication. Meşrutiyet Avenue. June 2. ....... 153
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Figure 223 Taksim Solidarity demands. (Environmental Justice Atlas, 2022) ..................... 153
Figure 224 Collective signature by football fans. İstiklal Avenue. Early June. ..................... 154
Figure 225 Collective signature by Çarşı (the fanclub of the Beşiktaş football team).
Galatasary area,Taksim. Early June. .................................................................. 154
Figure 226 The most crowded meeting in Taksim Square. June 9. ..................................... 154
Figure 227 Dissent vs. alcohol sale restrictions. Taksim. Early June. ................................. 155
Figure 228 "Taksim commune". Early June. ........................................................................ 155
Figure 229 Global Street in Taksim: occupied public space. Taksim Square. ..................... 156
Figure 230 Global Street in Taksim: resistance. İnönü Avenue. .......................................... 156
Figure 231 Protest camp in Gezi Park. Writing on the tent: "those who are tired should
sleep". ................................................................................................................. 157
Figure 232 Republican Monument filled with flags and banners. ......................................... 157
Figure 233 People sleeping in the Republican Monument area. ......................................... 158
Figure 234 Taksim-Tahrir connectedness. ........................................................................... 159
Figure 235 Gezi/15-M connectedness. ................................................................................ 159
Figure 236 Solidarity with the city of Balıkesir. ..................................................................... 160
Figure 237 Solidarity with the Dersim province. ................................................................... 160
Figure 238 (In yellow) Solidarity message from Taksim to Ankara. ..................................... 161
Figure 239 Solidarity message with Ankara and call to resistance. ..................................... 161
Figure 240 Popular slogan of the Gezi resistance signed by students: "everywhere is
Taksim, everywhere resistance". ........................................................................ 161
Figure 241 Graffiti indicating Taksim as the centre of the revolution. Scaffolding of the
Emek/Grand Pera building. İstiklal Avenue. ....................................................... 162
Figure 242 Graffiti indicating Taksim as the centre of the uprising. Tarlabaşı Boulevard. ... 162
Figure 243 Barricade in Taksim Square, Gümüşsuyu side, corner Siraselviler Avenue. /
Tak-ı Zafer Avenue. ............................................................................................ 162
Figure 244 Barricade in Inonü Avenue. ................................................................................ 162
Figure 245 Map of the area within/around the barricades (Source: CrimethInc. Ex-
Workers Collective, 2022) ................................................................................... 163
Figure 246 Urban Garden..................................................................................................... 164
Figure 247 A free grocery-alike corner. ................................................................................ 164
Figure 248 Gezi Park library. ................................................................................................ 164
Figure 249 Kids workshop. ................................................................................................... 164
Figure 250 Banners on AKM façade. ................................................................................... 165
Figure 251 Temporary monument of the Gezi resistance in Gezi Park. .............................. 165
Figure 252 Barricade in memory of Abdullah Cömert, killed by the police in Hatay on June
3. İnonü Avenue. ................................................................................................. 166
Figure 253 A street inside Gezi Park named in memory of Hrant Dink. .............................. 166
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Figure 254 (In green) Dissent vs. Neo-Ottoman toponymy: “You inaugurated the third
bridge with the imam, look there are also Christians”. Rear wall of the
Vosgeperan Armenian Catholic Church. Ana Çeşmesi Street, Taksim. ............ 167
Figure 255 A word pun: "the city of the police?". İstiklal Avenue. June 1. ........................... 168
Figure 256 Answers to the question “at what point did you decide to participate in the
protests?” (Source: KONDA, 2014, p. 20) .......................................................... 168
Figure 257 Acronym/slogan vs. police: "All cops are bastards". Barricade in İnönü
Avenue. ............................................................................................................... 169
Figure 258 Bulldozer uprooting a tree. ................................................................................. 169
Figure 259 A bulldozer painted in pink. (Photo: L. Manunza) .............................................. 170
Figure 260 Slogan vs. urban renewal: "İstanbul, don’t become [a city of] concrete!”. ......... 170
Figure 261 Slogan: “İstanbul, resist the fascist AKP” .......................................................... 170
Figure 262 Reaction to anti-alcohol agenda: “Cheers, Tayyip ☺”. ...................................... 171
Figure 263 Witty graffiti vs. the AKP's women reproduction labour policy: "do you want
three kids like me?". ........................................................................................... 172
Figure 264 Dissent vs. the reduction of women bodies to means of reproduction of labour
force: “we are women, not incubators”. .............................................................. 172
Figure 265 Taksim Solidarity slogan: "Taksim belongs to all of us". ................................... 173
Figure 266 Overwriting of police barriers: “the people”. ....................................................... 173
Figure 267 Slogan of the LGBT+ movement on the scaffolding around the AKM: “love
shall be organised”. ............................................................................................ 174
Figure 268 Old actors of Gezi Park. Slogan signed by DÖB on the wall of the Maksem in
Taksim Square: “the one of Deniz [Gezmiş] are alive; the Leninists are
fighting”. .............................................................................................................. 174
Figure 269 Feminist campaign for gender-sensitivity in the use of language: "Resist with
determination, not swearing!". ............................................................................ 174
Figure 270 Feminist campaign vs. widespread sexist swearing. ......................................... 174
Figure 271 Feminist campaign vs. harassment. .................................................................. 175
Figure 272 "Don't drink, donate blood". ............................................................................... 175
Figure 273 Clearance of Taksim Square. June 11 (Source: CrimethInc. Ex-Workers
Collective, 2022) ................................................................................................. 177
Figure 274 AKM turned into a police station after Taksim Square clearance. Mid-June. .... 177
Figure 275 Republican Monument manned by the police and greyfied graffiti. Mid-June. .. 178
Figure 276 Barricade in defence of the park on Cumhuriyet Avenue. Mid-June. ................ 178
Figure 277 Barricade in defence of the park in Mete Avenue. Mid-June. ............................ 179
Figure 278 Mothers' chain in solidarity with Gezi. Taksim Square. Mid-June. .................... 179
Figure 279 An assembly in Gezi Park. June 14. .................................................................. 180
Figure 280 LGBT+ Pride March. Taksim Square. June 30. Photo: Serra Akcan,
NarPhotos. (Source: Günal & Çelikkan, 2019) ................................................... 181
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Figure 281 İtfar dinner organised by the AKP Beyoğlu municipality in Taksim Square.
July 9. .................................................................................................................. 182
Figure 282 İftar dinner organised by the Anticapitalists Muslims and joined by many as a
form of ritualised protest. July 9. ......................................................................... 182
Figure 283 Greyfication, censorship of the Gezi graffiti. Taksim. Early July. ....................... 183
Figure 284 Ironic reaction to greyfication: "it can be read, there is no escape". August. ..... 183
Figure 285 Rainbow steps. Salı Pazarı Street. Beyoğlu. ..................................................... 184
Figure 286 Rainbow stairs in Ankara. 2013. ........................................................................ 185
Figure 287 Rainbow stairs in Burgazada, İstanbul. 2013. .................................................... 185
Figure 288 Rainbow stairs call to action. METU campus. March 2021 (Source: Bianet,
2021b) ................................................................................................................. 185
Figure 289 Representation of the year 2013 as a turning point in the history of İstanbul
and Turkey. Taksim. Early June 2013. ............................................................... 186
Figure 290 Representation of the Gezi resistance as the end of the AKP era. Taksim.
Early June 2013. ................................................................................................. 186
Figure 291 Representation of the year 2023 as the year of a second cycle of the Gezi
resistance. Taksim. Early June 2013. ................................................................. 187
Figure 292 Representation of the year 2023 as time of resistance. Taksim. Early June
2013. ................................................................................................................... 187
Figure 293 Slogan by the Türkiye Komünist Partisi (Communist Party of Turkey, TKP):
“we will destroy the boss-landowner’s state. We will establish the people's
power”. (Source: Yılmaz, 1978). ......................................................................... 235
Figure 294 Still frame of the film Neşeli Günler (Aksoy, 1978) depicting the collective
signature by İGD, İlerici Gençlik Derneği (Progressive Youth Association).
(Source: Politikhane, 2020) ................................................................................. 235
Figure 295 A funeral and a slogan signed by İGD and trade unions: “power is the
murderer” (Source: Can, 2011, pp. 192-193) ..................................................... 235
Figure 296 Still frame of the film Sultan (Tibet, 1978) depicting two writings. In red:
collective signature by Türkiye Komünist Partisi-Marksist Leninist (Communist
Party of Turkey-Marxist-Leninist, TKP/ML). Slogan in black: “bağımsız
demokratik Türkiye” (independent democratic Turkey). (Source: Politikhane,
2020) ................................................................................................................... 236
Figure 297 Still frame of the film Çöpçüler Kralı (Ökten, 1977). Part of a slogan and the
signature by Halkın Birliği (People's Union), the media outlet of the TKP/ML.
(Source: Politikhane, 2020) ................................................................................. 236
Figure 298 Various graffiti including a collective signature by Devrimci Gençlik
(Revolutionary Youth, Dev-Genç). Taksim Square, İstanbul. 1978 (Source:
Can, 2011, p. 203) .............................................................................................. 236
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Figure 299 Various graffiti including a collective signature by Dev-Genç. Ankara. Late
1970s. (Source: Aysan, 2013, p. 247) ................................................................ 237
Figure 300 Still frame of the film Köşeyi Dönen Adam (Yılmaz, 1978) depicting slogans
and the signature by Dev-Genç (Source: Politikhane, 2020) ............................. 237
Figure 301 Fist on top of a star, symbol of Devrimci Yol (Revolutionary Path, Dev-Yol).
Slogan: “let's resist the cruelty of the oppressors”. Fatsa. Late 1970s (Source:
Akçam, 2007) ...................................................................................................... 237
Figure 302 Slogan signed by Dev-Yol. Fatsa, late 1970s (Source: Akçam, 2007) .............. 237
Figure 303 Military and a slogan signed by Dev-Yol. Fatsa, late 1970s (Source: Akçam,
2007) ................................................................................................................... 237
Figure 304 Still frame of the film Neşeli Günler (Aksoy, 1978). Slogan signed by Dev-Yol:
“faşist yalanlara aldanmayalım (Let's not be deceived by fascist lies)”.
(Source: Politikhane, 2020) ................................................................................ 238
Figure 305 Still frame of the film Derdim Dünyadan Büyük (Gören, 1978). Slogan by Dev-
Yol: “oligarşi döktüğü kanda boğulacak (the oligarchy will drown in its blood)”.
(Source: Politikhane, 2020) ................................................................................ 238
Figure 306 Still frame of the film Taşı Topraği Altin Şehir (Aksoy, 1979). Slogan signed
by Dev-Yol and Dev-Genç: “sağ sol çatışması yok faşist katliamlar var” (There
is no right-left conflict, there are fascist massacres). (Source: Politikhane,
2020) ................................................................................................................... 238
Figure 307 Signature by Dev-Sol, Devrimci Sol (Revolutionary Left). Slogan: “our way is
the way of those of [Mahir] Çayan”. (Source, Can, 2011, p. 206) ...................... 239
Figure 308 Slogans by Dev-Sol: “one path, the revolution”, “war until independence”.
Taksim Square. Late 1970s. (Source: Can, 2011, p. 202) ................................. 239
Figure 309 “A wall in İstanbul”, 1977, sketch, crayon on paper. Author: Burhan Doğançay.
(Source: Burhan Doğançay Archive) .................................................................. 239
Figure 310 “Tek Yol Devrim”, 1977, sketch, crayon on paper. Author: Burhan Doğançay.
(Source: Burhan Doğançay archive) .................................................................. 239
Figure 311 Freedom of sexual orientation: “Become bisexual! you’ll multiply your
possibilities” (Source: Çorlu & Tütüncü, 1989, p. 6) ........................................... 240
Figure 312 Right to self-determination over the body: “Your tummy is yours” (Source:
Çorlu & Tütüncü, 1989, p. 2) .............................................................................. 240
Figure 313 Fear of gender violence: “People love flowers and tear them off. People love
trees and cut them off. For this reason, if someone says to me ‘I love you’, I’M
SCARED” (Source: Çorlu & Tütüncü, 1989, p. 27) ............................................ 240
Figure 314 Right to divorce: “Marriage is a pledge realized with the help of the state”
(Source: Çorlu & Tütüncü, 1989, p. 2) ................................................................ 241
Figure 315 Right to birth control methods: “Damn rubber hats, long live contraceptive pill”
(Source: Çorlu & Tütüncü, 1989, p. 61) .............................................................. 241
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Figure 316 Right to abortion: ‘If men could get pregnant, abortion would be a postulate”
(Source: Çorlu & Tütüncü, 1989, p. 8) ................................................................ 241
Figure 317 Parody of a popular revolutionary slogan of the 1970s: “the only way is
corruption” (Photo: Üstündağ, 1990, p. 11) ........................................................ 241
Figure 318 Political bans: “They were humans... they were political animals... they were
forbidden to engage in politics, they remained animals..." (Source:
Özdemiroğlu, 1990, p. 18) .................................................................................. 241
Figure 319 Fear of another coup. “If there'll be another coup, they'll say: "Do you wanna
go back to the aftermath of the 1980, mate?” (Source: Özdemiroğlu, 1990, p.
96) ....................................................................................................................... 241
Figure 320 Torture: “Human Rights Week, bottles in PET will be used during torture”
(Source: Üstündağ, 1990, p. 12) ......................................................................... 242
Figure 321 Vs. militarist nationalism: “National history / My national history / Our national
history / National historiography of our national history / Militarism” (Source:
Üstündağ, 1990, p. 74) ....................................................................................... 242
Figure 322 Slogan signed with the circle-A: “we are everywhere”. Cihangir. 2012 ............. 243
Figure 323 Slogan signed with the circle-A: “no room for powers”. Cihangir. 2012 ............. 243
Figure 324 Slogan “Revolt! Revolution! Freedom!” signed by Sosyalist Yeniden Kuruluş
Partisi (Socialist Refoundation Party). İstiklal Avenue. 2013. ............................. 243
Figure 325 Slogan by the Özgürlük Dayanışma Partisi, Freedom and Solidarity Party,
ÖDP): “no in the referendum”. Karaköy. 2012 .................................................... 243
Figure 326 Three crescent moons, symbol of the ultranationalist movement. 2013............ 243
Figure 327 X Graffiti for counterpropaganda. Erasure of MHP symbol. 2013 ..................... 243
Figure 328 Portrait of jazz musician John Coltrane and slogan: “all black people of the
world are beautiful”. Cihangir. 2013 .................................................................... 244
Figure 329 Slogan in light blue (erased): “no border, no nation, fuck deportation”. Galata,
2012 .................................................................................................................... 244
Figure 330 Adaptation of Yer Gök Aşk (a Turkish drama television series broadcasted
between 2010-2013). The term "aşk" (love) substituted with "19 Mayıs" (May
19), a Republican holiday (Commemoration of Atatürk, Youth and Sports Day,
Atatürk'ü Anma, Gençlik) .................................................................................... 244
Figure 331 Feminist symbols, Tarlabaşı. 2012. ................................................................... 245
Figure 332 Feminist symbol and slogan: “Feminist revolt”. Beyoğlu. 2013 ......................... 245
Figure 333 Feminist slogan related to the 2009 TEKEL protests signed by Emekçi
Hareket Partili Kadınlar: “Women Resisting in Tekel Open Our Way”. Cihangir.
2012 .................................................................................................................... 245
Figure 334 Slogan vs. traditional gender role: "there is life outside the family". Cihangir.
2012. ................................................................................................................... 245
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Figure 335 Street artivism vs. domestic violence: “the murderers are at home”. Cihangir.
2012. ................................................................................................................... 245
Figure 336 Slogan vs. government’s anti-abortion rhetoric. Beyoğlu. 2013. ....................... 245
Figure 337 LGBT+ presence. Cihangir. 2012. ..................................................................... 245
Figure 338 LGBT+ rights street artivism. Cihangir. 2012. ................................................... 245
Figure 339 Shutter of a store the multinational beauty products company M·A·C: “Taksim
poked Tayyip :)”; “pepper spray makes the skin beautiful"; “let Tayyip come
down to Taksim!”; "Recop Presssure Gasdoğan". ............................................. 246
Figure 340 (In orange) “Look what 3-5 tree [can] do”. Scaffolding of the Emek movie
theatre renewal works. İstiklal Avenue. .............................................................. 246
Figure 341 “If there is no bread, let them eat gas”. In reference to “let them eat cake", a
quote attributed to Marie-Antoinette (the queen of France during the French
Revolution). In Turkish, the expression "gaz yemek" (to eat gas) is commonly
used by protesters facing a police intervention with tear gas. ............................ 246
Figure 342 Quoted attributed to Marx: "Capitalism will cut down the tree if it can't sell the
shadow". French Institute façade, İstiklal Avenue. ............................................. 247
Figure 343 Slogan signed with a circle-A: “The streets are ours”. Taksim Square. ............ 247
Figure 344 Lise Anarşist Faaliyet (High School Anarchist Action, LAF). ............................. 247
Figure 345 Graffiti with textual and visual content. Among the visual, molotov cocktail
signed with the circle-A, and a police helmet represented as a skull likely to
contest police brutality. Inonü Avenue ................................................................ 247
Figure 346 Slogan by football fans signed with a circle-A: “We’ll win. No ultras, no party”.
............................................................................................................................ 248
Figure 347 Collective signature by ultras. ............................................................................ 248
Figure 348 Logo of Kaldıraç (Leverage), a revolutionary socialist publishing house. ......... 248
Figure 349 Slogan by the leftist periodical İşçilerin Sesi (Workers’ Voice): “freedom will
come with the workers”. ...................................................................................... 248
Figure 350 (Highlighted in yellow) Acronym of Cumhuriyet Halk Partisi (Republican
People’s Party, CHP). ......................................................................................... 248
Figure 351 “General strike, general resistance!”. Signed by Ezilenlerin Sosyalist Partisi
(Socialist Party of the Oppressed, ESP)............................................................. 249
Figure 352 Collective signature by the Halkın Kurtuluş Partisi (People’s Liberation Party,
HKP). Galatasaray. ............................................................................................. 249
Figure 353 Slogan signed by Sosyalist Yeniden Kuruluş Partisi (Socialist Refoundation
Party, SYKP): “this people is a wonderful friend!”. ............................................. 249
Figure 354 (Highlighted in green) Collective signature by Sosyalist Demokrasi Partisi
(Socialist Democracy Party, SDP). Inside Gezi Park. ........................................ 249
Figure 355 Slogan by Sosyalist Dayanışma Platformu (Socialist Solidarity Platform):
“SODAP is marching, the uprising is growing”. Taksim Square. ........................ 249
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Figure 356 (On the right, highlighted in white) Collective signatures by the youth
revolutionary organisations Dev-Genç and Dev-Lis. Taksim tunnel under
construction. ........................................................................................................ 249
Figure 357 Slogans and collective signatures by organisations and parties of the
revolutionary left (banned organisations included). (Left) Sickle and hammer,
and slogan by TKP/Kıvılcım: “long live our party”. (Right) Slogan by the
Bolshevik Party: “either barbarism or socialism”. Collective signatures by
Sosyalist Demokrasi Partisi (Socialist Democracy Party, SDP), Dev-Lis,
Marksist Leninist Komünist Parti (Marxist Leninist Communist Party, MLKP),
Devrimci Halk Kurtuluş Partisi-Cephesi (Revolutionary People's Liberation
Party/Front, DHKP-C). ........................................................................................ 250
Figure 358 Collective signature by MLKP/KGÖ, the Marksist Leninist Komünist Parti
(Marxist–Leninist Communist Party) and its youth wing Komünist Gençlik
Örgütü (Communist Youth Organization). İnönü Avenue barricades. ................ 250
Figure 359 (Highlighted in yellow). Collective signature by Maoist Komünist Partisi
(Maoist Communist Party, MKP). Gezi Park. ...................................................... 250
Figure 360 (Highlighted in white). Sickle and hammer and slogan: “long live the people’s
war”. Signed by TKP/ML (Türkiye Komünist Partisi/Marksist-Leninist,
Communist Party of Turkey/Marxist–Leninist) & TİKKO (Türkiye İşci ve Köylü
Kurtuluş Ordusu, Turkish Workers and Peasant’s Liberation Army). Inside
Gezi Park. ........................................................................................................... 251
Figure 361 Slogan in Kurdish: “resistance is life”. Slogan in Turkish: “PKK [Partiya
Karkerên Kurdistanê, Kurdistan Workers' Party] and KCK [Koma Civakên
Kurdistanê/Kurdistan Communities Union] are the people”. Both the party and
the organisation are banned. .............................................................................. 251
Figure 362 (In dark red). Slogan about civil society actors: “revolutionary lawyers are our
pride”. .................................................................................................................. 251
Figure 363 (Top-right, in red) Slogan: “trade unions to the strike”. ...................................... 252
Figure 364 Slogan signed with the symbol of feminism: “we do not leave the squares". .... 252
Figure 365 Feminism symbol on a barricade. ...................................................................... 252
Figure 366 Symbol of transfeminism. ................................................................................... 253
Figure 367 Slogans signed with a five-pointed star (traditional symbol of the revolutionary
left): “revolutionary homosexuals/lesbians are everywhere”. ............................. 253
Figure 368 Slogan attesting to LGBT+ resistance to discriminatory language via
appropriation: “Revolutionary fagots – Taksim[de]”. ........................................... 254
Figure 369 Slogan inside Gezi Park: “LGBT are here”. ....................................................... 254
Figure 370 Nationalist pride via symbols of the Turkish flag: crescent moon and star. ....... 254
Figure 371 Writing attesting to Republican pride signed with the acronym of Turkish
citizenship: “Here we are”. Taksim Square. ........................................................ 254
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Figure 372 (In black and red) Atatürk portrait. Exterior wall of Gezi Park. .......................... 255
Figure 373 (Highlighted in green) Antimilitarist slogan: “we are nobody’s soldier”. In
reaction to “Mustafa Kemal'in askerleriyiz” (we are the soldiers of Mustafa
Kemal), a slogan become popular during the Gezi uprising. ............................. 255
Figure 374 Antiracist slogan. “There is no race, there is geography”. (Photo: Alp Tekin
Ocak) .................................................................................................................. 255
Figure 375 Slogans showing interactive communication on the same wall. (In black)
Nationalist slogan: "God is with us". (In red) Racist slogan: “thanks to the
Turkish race”. ...................................................................................................... 255
Figure 376 Humorous appropriation of the epithet capulcu (looter): "Is s/he a chapuller,
dude?" ................................................................................................................. 255
Figure 377 Victims of police brutality. Urban Café wall. Galatasaray area. July 2013. ....... 255
Figure 378 (In black) Translation of a slogan of the Parisian 1968 used in the Emek movie
theatre protests and become popular with the Gezi resistance.: “continuons le
combat, ca c'est le debut” (this is only the beginning; the struggle goes on”. .... 256
Figure 379 One of the slogans chanted by the crowd: "by dint of resisting we’ll win". ........ 256
Figure 380 One of the slogans chanted by the crowd: "rebellion, revolution, freedom". ..... 256
Figure 381 Slogan of the Kurdish-women movement (in Kurdish): "woman, life, freedom".
............................................................................................................................ 256
Figure 382 (In red) Slogan of the Parisian 1968: “poetry is in the street. 2013, June 1”.
High site-dependency. French Institute Entrance. İstiklal Avenue. .................... 256
Figure 383 (In orange) Slogan of the Parisian 1968: “sous les pavés la plage” (under the
paving stones, the beach), referring to the paving stones used for the
barricades and those thrown at the police. ......................................................... 256
Figure 384 Slogan of the revolutionary left in Turkey in the 1970s: “one solution, the
revolution”. .......................................................................................................... 257
Figure 385 Transgenerational antifascist slogan (used in the 1970s in Turkey): "shoulder
to shoulder against fascism". .............................................................................. 257
Figure 386 LGBT+ movement readaptation of an antifascist slogan of the 1970s in
Turkey: "leg to shoulder against fascism". .......................................................... 257
Figure 387 Ironic writing referring to the abundance of slogans: "I could not find a
slogan!". .............................................................................................................. 257
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LIST OF ABBREVIATIONS
1UP One United Power
AKB Avrupa Kültür Başkenti (European Capital of Culture)
AKM Atatürk Kültür Merkezi (Atatürk Cultural Centre)
AKP Adalet ve Kalkınma Partisi (Justice and Development Party)
AİTİA Ankara İktisadi ve Ticari İlimler Akademisi
(Ankara Academy of Economic and Commercial Sciences)
BDP Barış ve Demokrasi Partisi (Peace and Democracy Party)
CHP Cumhuriyet Halk Partisi (Republican People’s Party)
CKMP Cumhuriyetçi Köylü Millet Partisi (Republican Villager Nation Party)
Dev-Genç Devrimci Gençlik (Revolutionary Youth)
Dev-Sol Devrimci Sol (Revolutionary Left)
Dev-Yol Devrimci Yol (Revolutionary Path)
DİSK Devrimci İşçi Sendikaları Konfederasyonu
(Confederation of Revolutionary Workers Trade Unions)
DKD Devrimci Kadınlar Dernekleri (Revolutionary Women Associations)
DÖB Devrimci Öğrenci Birliği (Revolutionary Students Union)
ECoC European Capital of Culture
ESP Ezilenlerin Sosyalist Partisi (Socialist Party of the Oppressed)
EU European Union
FKF Fikir Kulüpleri Federasyonu (Federation of Debate Clubs)
HKP Halkın Kurtuluş Partisi (People’s Liberation Party)
İGD İlerici Gençlik Derneği (Progressive Youth Association)
IMF International Monetary Fund
KGÖ Komünist Gençlik Örgütü (Communist Youth Organization)
LAF Lise Anarşist Faaliyet (High School Anarchist Action)
MESS Türkiye Metal Sanayicileri Sendikası
(Turkish Employers’ Association of Metal Industries)
METU Middle East Technical University
MHP Milliyetçi Hareket Partisi (Nationalist Movement Party)
MKP Maoist Komünist Partisi (Maoist Communist Party)
MLKP Marksist Leninist Komünist Parti
(Marxist–Leninist Communist Party)
MP Member of Parliament
NATO North Atlantic Treaty Organization
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NGO Non-Governmental Organisation
ÖDP Özgürlük ve Dayanışma Partisi (Freedom and Solidarity Party)
ODTÜ Orta Doğu Teknik Üniversitesi
SDP Sosyalist Demokrasi Partisi (Socialist Democracy Party)
SFK Sosyalist Feminist Kolektif (Socialist Feminist Collective)
SYKP Sosyalist Yeniden Kuruluş Partisi (Socialist Refoundation Party)
SODAP Sosyalist Dayanışma Platformu (Socialist Solidarity Platform)
TD Taksim Dayanışması (Taksim Solidarity)
TDK Türk Dil Kurumu (Turkish Language Association)
THKO Türkiye Halk Kurtuluş Ordusu
(The People's Liberation Army of Turkey)
TİKKO Türkiye İşci ve Köylü Kurtuluş Ordusu
(Turkish Workers and Peasant’s Liberation Army)
TİP Türkiye İşçi Partisi (Workers Party of Turkey)
TKP Türkiye Komünist Partisi (Communist Party of Turkey)
THKP/C Türkiye Halk Kurtuluş Partisi-Cephesi
(People's Liberation Party-Front of Turkey)
TKP/ML Türkiye Komünist Partisi-Marksist Leninist
(Communist Party of Turkey-Marxist-Leninist)
TMMOB Türk Mühendis ve Mimar Odaları Birliği
(Union of Chambers of Turkish Engineers and Architects)
TOKI Toplu Konut İdaresi (Mass Housing Directorate)
TÜSTAV Türkiye Sosyal Tarih Arastırma Vakfı
(Social History Research Foundation of Turkey)
UK United Kingdom
US United States
ÜGD Ülkücü Gençler Derneği / Ülkücü Gençlik Derneği
(Idealistic Youth Association)
ÜYD Ülkü Yolu Derneği (Idealist Path Association)
WWII World War II
xxx
AN ILLUSTRATED GLOSSARY OF TERMS AND JARGON
This illustrated glossary is not comprehensive but includes terms relative to the context of
Turkey and suggests also new terms for specific genres and sub-genres1. The glossary is also
annotated and contains cross-references with a twofold purpose: to introduce the subject
matter to the unacquainted, and to preliminary show that heterogeneity of terminology results
from heterogeneity of style, content, purposes, and actors involved. The listing order is
alphabetical.
Askeri gurur duvar yazıları (conscription pride wall writings). Term suggested for a subgenre
of mural writings by male citizens manifesting pride following enlistment for state service
in the armed forces (compulsory in Turkey). Recurring elements include: the soldier’s name,
the sentence “o şimdi asker” (he is now a soldier), and the tertip numarası (military service
number), the latter composed by the year of birth and the number of the service term. See
also ‘duvar yazıları’ (wall writings).
Figure 1 A conscription pride wall writing.
Bombing [a city]. Tagging as many walls and places as possible for ludic and competitive
purposes (e.g., hunting fame with the community of writers). See ‘tag’, ‘tagging’, and ‘writer’.
Collective signature graffiti. Term suggested for graffiti consisting of names, acronyms
and/or symbols of collective actors (e.g., political parties, organisations, and movements). In
1 Unless specified, the photographs were taken by the author in Istanbul in the early 2010s.
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some cases, signatures can consist only of substantivized adjectives (e.g., “revolutionaries”
or “feminists”). Often aimed at territorial marking via replication of the same content.
Figure 2 A collective signature by Sosyalist Feminist Kolektif (Socialist Feminist Collective).
Crew. Equivalent of tayfa in Turkish. A group of (hip-hop) signature graffiti writers who often
work together and usually share the same style. See also ‘hip-hop’, ‘tag’, and ‘tagging’.
Culture Jamming. An awareness raising technique known also as ‘subvertising’ (from
‘subvert’ and ‘advertising’). Usually, subversion via alteration and/or parody targets advertising
messages and logos.
Figure 3 Culture jamming.
Duvar karikatürleri (mural cartoons). Satirical cartoons painted on walls.
Duvar yazıları (wall writings). Handwritten writings devoid of complex stylistic features. The
use of visual elements is limited (e.g., to symbols). Purposes and thus contents vary: left-wing
and right-wing political slogans, play on words, jokes, poems, swearwords, football teams’
names, and so on. Called also “graffiti” since the late 1980s (e.g., see Metis Publications,
1989). For sub-genres, see ‘askeri gurur duvar yazıları’ (conscription pride wall writings),
‘collective signature graffiti’, ‘graffiti for agitprop’, ‘graffiti for counterpropaganda’, ‘graffiti for
political propaganda’, ‘perpetrator graffiti’, and ‘sokak şiiri’ (street poetry).
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Figure 4 Wall writing by a
revolutionary organisation of the
1970s (Source: TÜSTAV)
Figure 5 Wall writings, one of
which signed the circle-A
(symbol of anarchism).
Figure 6 A wall writing: “lunatic
people shouldn’t come”.
Graffiti. Term commonly but not exclusively used for text-based tags as opposed to more
visual-based street art. In this study, it is however used as an umbrella term for heterogenous
traditions (e.g., tagging, street art, wall writings). See the related entries and also the entries
of their sub-genres.
Figure 7 Tags.
Figure 8 Street art.
Figure 9 A wall writing.
Graffiti for agitprop. Term suggested for slogans and collective signatures by revolutionary
socialists (e.g., political parties’ acronyms)2. Used also for mural paintings and mural cartoons.
See the relative entries.
Figure 10 “Damn America”. Likely METU.
In the late 1960s. (Source: TÜSTAV)
Figure 11 “Damn Imperialism” signed by Halkın
Kurtuluş Partisi (People’s Liberation Party).
2 Agitprop is the abbreviated form of the Russian term agitatsiya propaganda (agitation propaganda), a
political strategy of the revolutionary socialist tradition aimed at class consciousness raising and mass
mobilization via various media, the latter including but not limited to written speech (e.g., slogans)
(Encyclopaedia Britannica, 1998; Lenin, 1902).
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Graffiti for counterpropaganda. Term suggested for graffiti opposing far-right propaganda.
Tradition initiated by the anti-Nazi resistance group White Rose in the early 1940s (Weiße
Rose Stiftung e.V. 2018) 3. Counterpropaganda can involve overwriting.
Figure 12 "Down with Hitler". Munich
University façade. 1943 (Source: Weiße Rose
Stiftung e.V. 2018)
Figure 13 Swastikas overwritten with the
prohibition symbol.
Graffiti for political propaganda. Term used for handwritten or stencilled slogans and
collective signature graffiti by ultranationalists. Suggested to differentiate them from those for
leftist agitprop although, in Turkey, the term “propaganda” is actually used for visual and
written material produced also by the radical left in the 1970s (e.g., see Aysan, 2013: 217)4.
For sub-genres, see ‘intikam duvar yazıları (revenge wall writings)’, and ‘perpetrator graffiti’.
See also ‘stencilling’.
Figure 14 Acronym and symbol of Milliyetçi Hareket Partisi (Nationalist Movement Party)
3 For Nazi propaganda, graffiti were also used (O'Shaughnessy, 2009).
4 With regard to “propaganda”, I also acknowledge that the term has lost its original neutral connotation.
Nowadays, it is no longer used to describe any material for the promotion of a political view but is
commonly understood in its pejorative connotation as synonymous of manipulation (Smith, 1999).
However, any more detailed discussion of this issue is outside the scope of this study.
xxxiv
Graffiti for spatial practices of everyday life. Graffiti to influence residents and/or passersby’s
behaviour in outdoor space for common usage. For earlier examples, see the case of the
so-called hobo graffiti (Abarca, 2018).
Figure 15 Graffiti for everyday spatial practice: “don't throw garbage [here]”.
Graffiti of the Gezi resistance. Uncountable wall writings, graffiti for agitprop and street
artivism works marking the territories under temporary occupation during the 2013 Gezi
resistance. Humorous language is a characteristic common to many of them. See also ‘graffiti
for agitprop’ and ‘street artivism’.
Figure 16 Graffiti of the 2013 Gezi
resistance.
Figure 17 Humorous graffiti: "the resistance
has not finished"; "where are you
Batman[?]".
Graffitiing. Umbrella term suggested to refer to practice of marking space for common
visibility with textual and/or visual messages whose purposes vary.
Graffiti and street art. Multidisciplinary scholarship on the subject matter (e.g., see Ross et
al., 2017; and Avramidis & Tsilimpounidi, 2016).
Greyfication. Term suggested for the censorship of the graffiti of the Gezi resistance, most of
which were covered up via grey paint.
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Figure 18 Greyfication. Aftermath of the Gezi resistance.
Hip-hop. A cultural and artistic movement born in the 1970s in the U.S. as an urban “Afro-
Latin influenced art form” of street culture, by now become “a lingua franca” challenging the
boundaries between so-called “high” and “low” art, and featuring a variety of activities: graffiti,
rap music, and acrobatic street dance, the latter known as breakdance (Chang, 2007). Besides
them, street activities tied to hip-hop (graffiti) include also acrobatic cycling, skating, and
skateboarding (the latter extensively discussed by the architectural historian Ian Borden,
2001). See photographs taken at the 2012 edition of the Graffiti festival "Meeting of AllStars"
in Gezi Park.
Figure 19 Breakdance. Figure 20 Skating. Figure 21 Acrobatic cycling.
Intikam duvar yazıları (revenge wall writings). Term suggested for slogans with nationalist
content that security forces forced political inmates to write on prisons' walls during the 1980-
1983 military regime (Bozarslan, 2006). See also ‘graffiti for political propaganda’.
King (or 'queen' for women writers). A skilled (hip-hop) writer whose reputation is higher
compared to others. See also ‘hip-hop’, ‘tagging’, and ‘writer’.
Legal wall. A large-size graffiti made upon receiving permission from owners or authorities.
Mural. A large, elaborate and often legal wall painting.
xxxvi
Wheatpasting. A street art technique: transferring to walls of paper-based works similar to
posters previously produced elsewhere (e.g., in studios). Content can be both visual and
textual.
Perpetrator graffiti. Term suggested by Protner (2018) for wall writings with violent content
made by the military in urban war zones in Kurdish-majority provinces of Turkey in the period
2015 – 2016. In this study, its use is extended to a sub-genre of graffiti for far-right political
propaganda, namely wall writings for territorial marking made by ultranationalists in urban
warfare zones in Alevis-majority towns of Turkey in the period 1978 – 1980. See also ‘duvar
yazıları (wall writings)’ and ‘graffiti for political propaganda’.
Figure 22 A perpetrator graffiti with intimidating content: “blood touched the tooth of the wolf, be afraid”.
(Source: Mekâna Dair, 2022)
Piece. Short for “masterpiece”. A large and complex (hip-hop) signature graffiti consisting of
stylistically elaborated letters and ornamental details such as arrows, symbols and shadows.
Figure 23 A piece (short for “masterpiece”).
Post-graffiti. A synonym for street art used by scholars claiming that street art is the outcome
of the stylistic development of signature graffiti (e.g., see Wacklawek, 2011). The term is object
of criticism. For instance, it wrongly suggests that signature graffiti known as tagging is
something of the past (Blanché, 2015). See also ‘signature graffiti’, ‘tag’, and ‘tagging’.
xxxvii
Punk graffiti. Handwritten graffiti related to the punk culture (e.g., slogans, bands' names,
name of the writer). Emerged in the late 1970s independently from the tagging tradition born
in the U.S. (Abarca, 2008b).
Figure 24 Punk graffiti.
Self-authorised. Term suggested by Blanché (2015) to highlight that, often lacking
authorisation, street art is free from the taste of authorities such as sponsors, homeowners, or
the state. Its use can be extended to any genre and sub-genre.
Signature graffiti. Term commonly used for (hip-hop) graffiti (e.g., see ‘tags’). In this study, it
is used also for other types of wall writings (e.g., names and acronyms of political
organisations). See also ‘collective signature graffiti’.
Sokak şiiri (street poetry). Term commonly used in Turkey for wall writings consisting of
poems and witty play on words (Bal, 2014; and Çakır, 2015). See also ‘duvar yazıları (wall
writings)’.
Figure 25 Street poetry. A verse of a poem by Cemal Süreya: “Life is short, the birds fly”. Yalova, date
missing. (Source: Wagner, 2014)
Spray-panting. Technique used to write and/or paint on mural surfaces and other surfaces of
the built environment with paint under pressure.
xxxviii
Stencilling. Street art technique facilitating repetition. Spray-painting visual and/or textual
content with the help of a stencil, i.e., a thin sheet with cut out figures, patterns or letters.
Figure 26 A stencilled street artwork.
Sticker. Adhesive designed and printed beforehand. Used to tag space without having to
write. Often, stickers recall the graphic elements of the graffiti writers and street artists.
Figure 27 Sticker by Icy and
Sot, renowned street artists
from Iran.
Figure 28 Street artwork by Icy and Sot.
Street art. A broad category commonly used for works varying in content, purposes and
involved techniques (e.g., painting, spray-painting, stencilling, pasting-up, and stickers)
(Wacklawek, 2011; Taş & Taş, 2014; Çakır, 2016; Erdem, 2018). Often but not always, the
content is visual. For some, street art is the outcome of the stylistic development of tagging
(e.g., Wacklawek, 2011). Yet, this idea is controversial. With an androcentric language
recalling the hegemonic masculinity of the graffiti scene argued by Sezer (2016), Abarca
(2008), argued that graffiti and street art are not “father and son” but “brothers, both born
during the 1960s as a response to the corporate monologue of the society of the spectacle”.
xxxix
Figure 29 A street
artwork.
Figure 30 A street artwork by Cins Figure 31 A street artwork by
No More Lies.
Street artivism. A sub-genre of media activism, i.e., campaigning for political and social
change via various means. The use of street art techniques to spread political views can cross
the political spectrum. In this study, the term is however used to indicate graffiti made by civil
society actors and activists of new social movements for social justice so as to differentiate
them from both graffiti for agitprop by revolutionary socialists5.
Figure 32 Street artivism vs. police brutality in the case of Abdurrahman Sözen, died under custody in
2009 (İzmir).
Tag. Stylized signature written with markers or spray paint. Pseudonyms and acronyms of
individual writers but also of groups (see ‘crew’). Size, degree of stylistic elaboration and thus
terminology can vary. See ‘piece’, ‘throwie’, and ‘wildstyle’. Early tags in U.S. cities in the late
1960s and 1970s were combinations of names, diminutives, and street numbers (e.g.,
TAKI183).
5 The reasons for differentiation are two. First, the terms activism and activist are commonly used by and
for civil society actors emerged in Turkey in the 2000s (e.g., NGOs). Second, civil society actors and
activists of new social movements can but do not necessarily share political views with revolutionary
socialists.
Figure 33 Tags. Figure 34 A wall filled in
tags.
Figure 35 Tag by
‘Taki183’. New York,
1970s (Source: Kennedy,
2013)
Tagging. Signing as many places as possible for ludic and competitive purposes: territorial
marking, manifestation of presence, affirmation of identity, and fame, the latter depending on
style, risk of the location, and territorial extension (Abarca, 2008b and 2012; Waclawek, 2011;
Brighenti, 2010; Halsey and Pederick, 2010; Lachmann, 1988; Nelli, 2012 [1978]; Ley and
Cybriwsky, 1974). Since the importance of urban exploration is equal or even greater than
graphic design, tagging is closer to activities such as flanerie and parkour than to mural
painting (Abarca, 2012). In Turkey like elsewhere, tagging is by now closely associated with
the hip-hop movement (Sarıyıldız, 2007; Üzüm Tan, 2010). See also ‘hip-hop’.
Figure 36 Collage showing the same signature graffiti in various places.
Throw-Up (or throwie). A tag-like writing with bubble letters and often filled with colour. See
also ‘tag’.
Figure 37 A throwie. İstanbul. 2012.
Wallscape. Term suggested to refer to a view or scene of walls.
Whole train. Self-explanatory term for trains completely covered in (hip-hop) signature graffiti.
xl
xli
Wildstyle. Highly stylised (hip-hop) signature graffiti type of lettering. Usually difficult if not
impossible to be read by the non-acquainted (e.g., non-writers and/or non-aficionados).
Figure 38 Wildstyle. İstanbul. 2012.
Writer. A (hip-hop) signature graffiti performer/artist but the use of the term can be extended
to performers of other genres because strict stylistic boundaries can be problematised for
reasons explained in the Chapter 1, the Introduction.
1
CHAPTER 1
INTRODUCTION
This cross-disciplinary study in history of architecture and urban sociology is about graffiti, an
umbrella term for heterogenous genres including but not limited to wall writings and spraypaintings.
The case of Istanbul is examined with the aim of evaluating the potential of graffiti
as sources in history of space from below. The ultimate focus in on the grassroots
appropriation of the Taksim area during the 2013 Gezi resistance, which has been the longest
and most widespread uprising occurred in Turkey to date. The perspective is however
multiscalar, namely transepochal and translocal.
In 2013, graffiti reached a historic peak in spread when a protest camp against the top-down
transformation of Taksim developed into an anti-government uprising but were then erased
with the crackdown. Censorship was nothing new to the local collective memory, nor was
territorial marking via political slogans and collective signatures. Emerged in the 1960s and
widespread in the 1970s, the practice temporarily halted following the 1980 coup. In the late
1980s, graffiti re-appeared in the streets but, unlike in the 1970s, they mostly consisted of witty
writings. Notwithstanding, the Gezi graffiti and even the humorous language characterising
many of them were mostly approached as a single case study.
To address the gap in historical research on graffiti in Turkey, investigate dis/continuity, and
thus understand the 2013 appropriation of Taksim in context, hundreds of graffiti are here
examined through Lefebvrian theory and concepts by Saskia Sassen. First, the local is
historicised through a detailed overview that retraces the spatial and political use of graffiti in
Turkey from the 1960s to the early 2010s. Then, the global is localised through the context
analysis of graffiti whose content draw attention on space production in İstanbul in the early
2010s, years of great visibility as global city. Lastly, the interaction of the global and local
dynamics is further deciphered through a visual chronicle of the Gezi resistance and its
repression so as to understand how the temporary appropriation of space turned Taksim into
a global street, i.e., space to reclaim the right to the city.
The rationale behind the chosen framework and the resulting trajectory of the narrative are
explained more in detail in this introductory chapter, which first of all clarifies the use of the
term graffiti.
2
1.1. Graffiti, an umbrella term for both textual and visual practices
In this study, the term graffiti is used to indicate heterogenous practices with distinctive
features: graffiti often properly called as such (e.g., tags), street art, duvar yazıları (wall
writings), and their sub-genres. However, their heterogeneity in form, content, purposes and
actors involved is not overlooked. If the context of the discussion requires it, I in fact use
various specific terms whose meanings and use were already explained in the Glossary. In
this section, the purpose is another: to justify the choice of using of graffiti as an umbrella term
by problematising a style-based categorisation that is widely but not unanimously accepted.
Within the so-called scholarship on graffiti and street art, the term ‘graffiti’ is often used to
distinguish the predominantly but not exclusively textual language of tagging from the
predominantly but not exclusively visual language of street art, the latter being a broad
category under which all that is not tagging is basically grouped (Blanché, 2015; Abarca, 2012;
Waclawek, 2011). Besides this, I acknowledge that practices and techniques involved in the
making can obviously vary, and that typographic elements such as texture and colour can
affect the viewer differently6. However, I also acknowledge that strict stylistic taxonomic
boundaries are being increasingly crossed (Ross et al., 2017). In support of the idea that a
clear distinction between textual and visual practices shall actually be problematised, there
are several arguments that can be made. Below, just a few.
• Overemphasis on sharp distinctions entails the risk of oversimplifying complex issues via
dichotomies: “tagging = bad/murals = good, illegal graffiti = vandalism/legal graffiti = art”
(Lökman & Iveson, 2010, p. 136).
• Definitions of graffiti, street art and wall writings depend on the multiplicity of the actors
involved (e.g., writers and street artists but also art galleries, audience, journalists, and
institutional authorities)7.
• The artistic value of various genres has been increasingly acknowledged. As a result, both
street art properly called as such and tagging have been increasingly exhibited in art
galleries8.
• Language matters but is not a sufficient criterion of distinction.
6 In this regard, see Fraenkel (2007), who argued that the reception and production processes are equally
important given that the strength and efficacy of any act of writing depends not only textual content but
also on the way it is displayed.
7 This is an argument made by Reghellin (2007) and Brighenti (2010) with specific regard to tagging but
can be extended to any genre.
8 For an emblematic example, see Street Art, an exhibition at the London Tate Modern (2008). For an
emblematic example in Istanbul, see Language of the Wall, an exhibition at the Pera Museum (2014).
3
For instance, the language of street art is considered more accessible compared to that of
graffiti, which is instead argued to be “conceptually simple” and thus “potentially accessible to
everyone” but “cryptic” (Waclawek, 2011, p. 13). However, the language of street art is more
accessible only in theory because, for many, it is just “visual noise” (Blanché, 2015, p. 36):
More importantly, the accessibility of the language of street art depends on contextual
circumstances. Like in the case of wall writings, these are not limited to the accessibility of the
site; they can also include language barriers and insufficient knowledge of the spatial and
historical context. That is why some “resident foreigners” (Di Cesare, 2020) who are
unacquainted with the context might find it easier to comprehend tags with low and medium
degree of elaboration than non-elaborated wall writings or street artworks containing
references to specific events and issues.
Lastly and most importantly, the use of the terms wall writings, graffiti and street is already
flexible since long in the context of Turkey. For instance, the intentional use of wall writings as
synonymous of the English term graffiti goes back to the late 1980s (see Metis Publications,
1989)9. In the first in-depth academic study on tagging in Turkey, Sarıyıldız (2007) clearly
thematised the close association of the term graffiti with tagging and hip-hop. Despite this, the
semantic field of the term graffiti was further expanded and it was used also for street art (e.g.,
see Satıcı, 2009). As for the term street art, see instead Taş & Taş (2014), who for instance
used it as a broad category under which they grouped also handwritten wall writings of the
Gezi resistance.
In sum, umbrella terms can be used and are already used. In light of the reasoning made so
far, I shall explain why I prefer not to use street art as such.
Unlike graffiti and wall writings, the term street art does not describe any of the practices
involved in relation to the activity performed in/on physical space (e.g., signing it); rather, it is
defined on the basis of symbolic meanings that, as such, may cause controversial debate. For
instance, even the art market is slightly taking distance from the initial enthusiasm with the
label street art since it has increasingly become a “veritable mark of urban gentrification”
(Brighenti, 2016, p. 119). In addition to this, the use of street art as an umbrella term was
discarded because this study does not postulate the artistic value of any typology nor aims to
evaluate it10.
Unlike street art, both graffiti and wall writings are instead terms that describe spatial activities.
This is self-explanatory in the case of the compound noun wall writings. As for the noun graffiti,
it is sufficient to recall its etymology. The English noun graffiti is the plural of the Italian
9 For later examples, see: Emiroğlu (2011 [2001]); Kavşut (2005).
10 At this regard, I rather limit myself to endorse the argument that the definition of an artwork simply
depends on the presence of an audience acknowledging and evaluating it as such (Margolis, 1999).
4
“graffito”, which derives from the Latin noun “graphium” (a scribble) and the Greek verb
“gràphein” (to scratch, draw, write) (Dizionario Etimologico, n.d.; Etymonline, n.d.). To explain
why both the terms graffiti and wall writings could be used as umbrella terms, I am going to
recall their common understanding, i.e., that acknowledged also by language dictionaries.
In Turkish, the English noun graffiti can be translated with “duvar yazısı” and refers to “writing
or pictures painted on walls and public places, usually illegally” (Cambridge Dictionary online,
n.d.). According also to the online Turkish-English Dictionary Tureng (n.d.), “graffiti” can be
translated as “duvar yazısı” (or, in the plural, as “duvar yazıları”). As already clarified in the
Glossary, the term literally means “wall writing”. With regard to the use of the term, the
definition accepted by the Türk Dil Kurumu (Turkish Language Association, TDK) indicates
that “duvar yazısı” can refer to any kind of writing on walls, including political slogans and
including also wall writings made with specific techniques (i.e., graffiti) (Türk Dil Kurumu |
Sözlük, n.d.).
Taken together, dictionary definitions suggest that “graffiti” and “duvar yazıları” can be used
interchangeably. In order to avoid overwriting the local with a term in a foreign language, I
could have used the term “duvar yazıları” but I discarded this option because of a specific
connotation that I remarked in its everyday usage: the term is too closely associated with
specific sub-genres, namely wall writings for both revolutionary agitprop and far-right
propaganda. Hence, I opted for graffiti.
In conclusion, the common understanding of the English term graffiti and the common
understanding of its meaning in the context of Turkey are actually sufficient to justify why it
can be used to indicate both textual and visual practices regardless if the examined evidence
is written, visual or both. The reasons for the very choice to address graffiti as sources in
historical research on urban space are instead explained below.
1.2. Motivation, aim, and objective of the study
The idea of researching graffiti by focusing on the context of Turkey developed from a series
of narrative choices and related adjustments:
• choice of a case study to historicise urban space and its relation to social change in the
age of global cities;
• choice of İstanbul as a case study during the preliminary phase of the research despite
the multiple novelties marking it (i.e., initial unacquaintance with the field of study and also
with İstanbul, its history, and the languages spoken by its inhabitants);
5
• problematisation of the limitations of the abstract and culturalist perspective from which
space and social change used to be initially enquired by taking into consideration the
instrumentalization of space in the reproduction of uneven social relations of power;
• focus restriction on public space based on assumption that outdoor space for common
visibility can provide a window into the attempts at change in power relations occurring
also elsewhere (e.g., within domestic walls);
• search for a methodological lens following the suspension of the notion of public space
and also of that of urban space in general because “powerful categories […] are invitations
not to think” (Sassen, 2014b, p. 464);
• choice of graffiti as methodological lens.
There are multiple reasons for having chosen graffiti even though I am not a graffiti writer nor
a street artist, and they are all related to a series of assumptions.
First, graffiti are relevant to the politics of space (especially when containing explicit reference
to related issues but not only). For instance, they call into question property-based definitions
of outdoor space for common visibility as public or private (especially when unauthorised but
not only). Second, graffiti turn mural surfaces and other elements of the built environment into
communicative devices. Hence, they provide unfiltered insights into ordinary people’s opinions
and ideas. In other words, they provide sources for the ethnography of the other based on selfrepresentation.
Third, graffiti potentially foster inclusive narratives by opening up room for the
voices of the marginalized (Ross et al., 2017).
Hence, the aim of study is precisely this: to evaluate the historiographical potential of graffiti in
contributing to reconstruct change in space and society from below. To achieve it, the study
fulfils a series of objectives:
• historicising graffiti in the context of Turkey to reconstruct significant changes in their
spatial use and thus in the use of walls;
• historicising space in İstanbul by critically examining selected graffiti containing written
and/or visual reference to issues related to the politics of space in İstanbul;
• to untangle the relationship of space with social change by examining graffiti related to
events of historic significance;
• providing a non-comprehensive overview of the social actors who resorted to graffiti to
turn space into a communicative device;
• making distinctions among them by examining graffiti pointing at intersectional issues and
struggles such as for instance those related to class and gender;
• addressing the reactions by institutional authorities;
6
• highlighting historical dis/continuities in the spatial use of the practice, in the social actors,
and in the institutional reactions;
• promoting intercultural dialogue by making the local context potentially accessible to the
unacquainted with its language/s (e.g., via translation of textual and symbolic contents).
The trajectory summarised so far is unfolded more in detail in the next section, which explains
why I conducted research in Turkey, why I chose İstanbul as a case study to historicise the
global, and why I ultimately focus on Taksim in 2013 but the analytical perspective is wider
and goes back to the 1960s.
1.3. Dynamic definition of the scope
The scope of the study was defined in accordance with the aim and objectives set by Englobe
(Enlightenment and Global History), an EU-funded Marie Curie Initial Training Network lasted
from 2010 to 201311. Committed to promoting intercultural dialogue as an alternative to the
“clash of cultures” narrative in the management of global conflicts, the transnational research
network Englobe set out to critically examine the historical dimensions of globalisation and
their transdisciplinary nature. Four working groups focused on as many key interdisciplinary
aspects of global history: knowledge, perception, values and evolution. The Architectural
History Program of the Middle East Technical University (METU) in Ankara was part of the
research group working on values in mixed cultural spaces and trans-European regions. After
joining the program and moving to Turkey from Europe, I chose İstanbul as a case study not
to evaluate its Europeanness but because its historical in-betweenness had taken on a
renewed importance.
In the case of İstanbul, in-betweenness results from multi-layered functionality. As it is wellknown,
the territory over which the harbour city has spread over the centuries is not only a
crossroads of commercial exchanges, migratory flows and thus cultural interactions; it is also
object, stage, tool, and product of struggle over political authority. The former capital city of
the Byzantine and Ottoman Empires is not only the most populous city in Turkey and one of
the most populous cities in the world; it is also the economic and cultural capital of the Turkish
Republic. Since the neoliberal turn in the mid-1980s, the country’s economy has been more
and more driven by the real estate sector. Driven by “the fetish of growth” (Akbulut & Adaman,
2013), the Justice and Development Party (AKP) in power since 2002 has been promoting
and facilitating İstanbul’s re-making into a limitless construction site, which increasingly
11 The website of the research network (http://www.englobe-itn.net) is no longer active but information
about the project can be found at CORDIS ǀ European Commission (2022).
7
attracting profit-driven investments and tourists in the 2000s (Keyder, 2005, 2008, 2010). In
2005, two concomitant processes started: the negotiations of Turkey’s candidacy to the EU
full membership, and the initiative İstanbul 2010 – European Capital of Culture. As briefly
discussed below, the designation to European Capital of Culture boosted İstanbul’s
competitiveness as global city, i.e., a gateway for global flows of financial and human capital
(Sassen, 2007; 2008; 2012b; 2013).
1.3.1. İstanbul in the early 2010s: a global city
In 2010, İstanbul held the 41st position in the A.T. Kearney Global Cities Index (Kearny, 2010,
p. 3)12. As defined in the report, its case is “interesting” because its cultural experience score
moved from the 43rd position in 2008 to the 31st in 2010 for reasons including but not limited
to change in tourism policy (ibid., p. 11). As stressed in the report, İstanbul appeared "to be
well-positioned to resume its historic role as a cultural and economic bridge between East and
West" because the European Union enhanced its “global visibility” by designating it as 2010
European Capital of Culture (ibid., p. 13). On the occasion, the multi-layered identity of İstanbul
and the metaphor of the bridge connecting the East and the West were both used. See the
visuals below, which are photographs published on the İstanbul 2010 – ECoC website.
Figure 39 Constantinian walls and late 20th
century skyscrapers. (Source: History – İstanbul
2010 – ECoC, n.d.)
Figure 40 Panoramic view of the Galata Bridge.
(Source: Where to Stay – İstanbul 2010 – ECoC,
n.d.)
Initiated by civil society actors and supported by state actors, the İstanbul 2010 – European
Capital of Culture consisted of a mega-event: a year-long programme of cultural events and a
years-long plan of tourism-oriented redevelopment aimed at the valorisation of the city’s
historical and cultural heritage (Bilsel & Arıcan, 2010; Doğan & Sirkeci, 2013; Rampton et al.,
12 The A.T. Kearny Global Cities Index is a study conducted every two years since 2008 to ranks cities
according to their global engagement across several dimensions (business activity, human capital,
information exchange, cultural experience, and political engagement).
8
2011; Göktürk et al., 2010). The renewal projects that were part of the İstanbul 2010 –
European Capital of Culture sparked controversies for reasons included but not limited to the
role of state actors in the destruction of architectonic heritage13.
In 2011, the then Prime Minister Recep Tayyip Erdoğan announced the controversial project
for the redevelopment of Taksim, an area with high symbolic meanings. Besides being the
showcase of Republican values, Taksim is also a traditional place for the manifestation of the
ideals of the labour movement. In addition to this, the Taksim project sparked controversies
because its full implementation would have implied the enclosure of Gezi Park within a
shopping centre. In 2012, grassroots mobilisations against the Taksim project led to the
establishment of the platform Taksim Dayanışma (Taksim Solidarity). Dissent against stateled
neoliberal urbanisation reached a historic peak in scale and intensity with the 2013 Gezi
resistance. Below I explain its importance in the definition of spatio-temporal framework of
analysis.
1.3.2. Taksim in 2013: a global street filled with graffiti
In 2013, Turkey was hit by the global wave of mass protests that had been spreading across
countries including but not limited to Egypt, Syria, Greece, Spain and the United States. In late
May, actors including but not limited to representatives from the Taksim Solidarity Platform,
urban movements and environmental activists stopped the destruction of Gezi Park by
occupying it. By early June, the crackdown on the protest camp triggered a countrywide
uprising against the increasing authoritarianism of the government.
In spatial terms, the Gezi resistance turned all the urban areas where it spread into “the global
street”, a conceptual tool that indicates space for transnational action in the struggle of the
powerless to make history by reclaiming the right to the city (Sassen, 2011 and 2013b)14. In
Istanbul, the global street included central areas such as Taksim and the neighbouring district
of Beşiktaş but also peripheral neighbourhoods (e.g., Gazi). By Taksim, I do not mean the
administrative and I rather refer to epicentre of the resistance, i.e., Gezi Park, Taksim Square,
and the surrounding area. As it can be seen from the map below, the surrounding area includes
part of Cumhuriyet Avenue, Tarlabaşı Boulevard, İstiklal Avenue, Sıraselviler Avenue, İnönü
Avenue, Mete Avenue, Asker Ocağı Avenue, and all the side streets connecting them.
13 For a more detailed discussion of the İstanbul 2010 – ECoC, see the second section of Chapter 3.
14 For a more detailed explanation of the notions of global street and right to the city, see the section of
this chapter about the theoretical framework, which is titled “Social production of space in the global age”.
9
Figure 41 Taksim (Source: Sadri, 2017)
This is also the area where a large part of the graffiti that I had already been documenting
were concentrated even before graffiti reached a historic peak in spread with the 2013 Gezi
resistance15. As the protests developed into an uprising, a myriad of graffiti literally filled the
translocal territory where the uprising spread. As it is well-known, many of them consisted of
witty writings. As the repression followed to the brutal crackdown on the Gezi resistance
started escalating, most of its graffiti were covered up with grey paint by order of authorities,
and that is why I use the term greyfication to refer to the censorship measure.
For preliminary examples of the collected material showing the remarkable change in the
wallscape, see Figure 42 and Figure 43: (1) a photograph showing a wall filled with graffiti,
one of which attests to the irony characterising many of them (“Fotoğrafçı Direniş Partisi”,
Photographer Resistance Party), (2) a grey stripe.
15 For more detailed information about graffiti in İstanbul before Gezi, see the last section of Chapter 2.
10
Figure 42 Graffiti of the Gezi resistance. Taksim.
June 2013.
Figure 43 Greyfication of the Gezi graffiti.
Taksim. July 2013.
In line with the spirit of those days, someone commented on the research I was conducting
since before Gezi with a joke: “look, all this mess only for your thesis!”. However, the research
that I had been conducting until then was actually sufficient to know that neither extensive
territorial marking via graffiti nor erasure were novelties of the early 2010s.
1.3.3. Graffiti filling the local collective memory since the 1960s and 1970s
Unstructured interviews conducted before Gezi had already revealed information of particular
relevance with regard to the streetscape of the 1960s and 1970s. Asked to share knowledge,
facts and suggestions about graffiti in Turkey, interlocutors of various ages emphasised the
following facts.
• Graffiti acquired political relevance with the student movement in the late 1960s.
• Walls across the country were filled with political slogans in the 1970s.
• The practice spanned the political spectrum but it was mostly leftists who used walls for
political purposes.
• The practice drastically halted with the 1980 military coup.
• The repression following the 1980 coup affected also the archiving of photographic
evidence of the previous decades.
In light of the information revealed by oral sources, I had initially thought to include only a few
examples of the images found via archival research so as to show that graffiti were not a
novelty of the early 2010s nor a prerogative of İstanbul. Following Gezi, I however opted for a
more in-depth examination of the archival material to tackle questions related to historical
dis/continuity. For instance, I question when laughing at hegemonic power started becoming
a form of resistance given that the archival material collected before Gezi had already called
for attention on this distinctive feature of the local context. The archives that I consulted are
listed in the next section.
11
1.4. Methodology and literature review
This section is divided in three parts. First, I explain the methods for the collection of the
primary sources. Then, I review the concepts and theories that provide the backbone of the
analytical framework. Finally, I review the literature on the subject of graffiti in Turkey and, in
light of the state of the art, I highlight how this study can contribute to address the gap in the
related research.
1.4.1. Archival research and street ethnography
The collection of primary sources relied on two main qualitative methods: (1) archival research;
(2) observational documentation via street ethnographic techniques (explorative flanerie and
photography).
Archival research was conducted by various means:
• requests to access personal archives;
• non-systematic research at the İstanbul-based Atatürk Library’s newspaper archive;
• consultation of periodicals and documentary films under the guidance of the Türkiye
Sosyal Tarih Araştırma Vakfı (TÜSTAV, Social History Research Foundation of Turkey),
whose archive was only minimally and non-systematically digitized in summer 2012;
• digital flanerie on the Internet and consultation of online printed media (e.g., newspapers);
• consultation of films (e.g., see Figure 44).
Figure 44 Montage of still frames of the comedy film Köşeyi Dönen Adam (The Man Who Gets Rich)
(Yılmaz, 1978). Writing at the bottom: “the oppression of the boss and his servants over the workers
will be broken”.
From March 2012 to September 2012, I conducted a pilot study to assess the feasibility of the
research because the topic of graffiti in İstanbul was markedly underexplored at that time16. In
spring & summer 2012, I observed and documented graffiti in three central districts of İstanbul:
• Beyoğlu on the southwestern side of the Bosphorus;
16 For more information, see the literature review section of this chapter.
12
• Fatih in the historical peninsula;
• Kadıköy on the southeastern side of the Bosphorus17.
Figure 45 Municipal areas of Beyoğlu, Fatih and Kadıköy districts. (Source: Google Maps, edited by
Valentina Ticino)
Without following any content-based or style-based criteria, I basically photographed as much
graffiti as I could, and I also attended themed events (e.g., the 2012 edition of the authorised
graffiti festival “Meeting of AllStars” in Gezi Park). See the following figures for selective
examples of the collected material.
Figure 46 Wall
writings. Beyoğlu,
İstanbul. August 2012.
Figure 47 A throwie. Fatih,
İstanbul. July 2012.
Figure 48 Street
art. Kadıköy,
İstanbul. June
2012.
Figure 49 Graffiti festival.
Gezi Park, Beyoğlu,
İstanbul. July 2012.
17 Via unstructured interviews conducted in summer 2012, I was suggested to explore Gazi and Gülsuyu,
two highly politicised peripheral neighbourhoods inhabited by low-class internal migrants and ethnic
minorities. According to the interlocutors, there I might have found graffiti for agitprop of particular
interest. While acknowledging that I did not explore them, I also acknowledge that this does not affect
the validity of the pilot study.
13
From September 2012 to December 2012, the fieldwork in İstanbu was suspended to be
extended to New York and Madrid to attend mandatory parts of the training programme of the
Englobe research project:18. There, I did not conduct archival research but I photographed
graffiti, I conducted unstructured interviews, and I observed writers and street artists at work
at themed places and events of various types. For instance, see Figure 50, a graffiti to
advertise the New York premiere of a film about state persecution against youth and street art
in Guatemala (Rosales, 2010).
Figure 50 Graffiti advertising the film The Return of Lencho (Rosales, 2010). New York. 2012.
In sum, the material collected during the pilot study was sufficient for a comparative study.
However, I preferred not to embark in such a project and I rather decided to continue to explore
the local context in search for additional material without however losing sight of how global
dynamics were affecting it.
In 2013, the fieldwork was obviously strongly affected by the impact of the Gezi event/s, a term
I use to stress the dissonance between the Gezi resistance and the repression that followed
it. During the uprising, I could have travelled across Turkey to document as much graffiti as
possible. Given the extraordinary circumstances, I however preferred not to leave İstanbul nor
Taksim (an area that I knew enough to feel safer than elsewhere).
18 These included: a three-months Visiting Scholarship at Columbia University in New York, and a onemonth
research scholarship at the Philosophy Institute of the Spanish National Research Council in
Madrid.
14
After Gezi, I continued to observe the streets of Taksim but not to photograph them with the
same continuity and regularity as before. The reasons for feeling less and less comfortable in
doing were multiple. Here, I limit myself to recall two of them because they help to understand
why scholars used the expression “potential hazards” to claim that researchers might not
always feel comfortable in taking pictures of graffiti and conducting interviews on the subject
matter (Ross et al., 2017, p. 414).
First, I started feeling less and less comfortable in taking pictures in general for fear of being
mistaken for a tourist of and thus becoming a target of criticisms by anti-touristification and
anti-gentrification resident activists. More importantly, I overcautiously reacted to the almost
paranoid yet enduring fear of being noticed, stopped and questioned about the intents of my
activity by police forces patrolling the streets more systematically than previously.
In sum, the Gezi resistance had a crucial impact on the research in various ways including but
not limited to a significant increase in primary sources to examine. To examine them, I apply
the methodological framework suggested by the expert scholar in cultural and visual studies
Ella Chmielewska (2007), who argued that graffiti should be examined in-situ given their sitedependency.
The framework is triadic:
• textual and/or visual content analysis;
• spatial and historical context analysis;
• theory linking them.
Both content and context analysis rely on literary, visual and oral secondary sources:
academic essays, local and foreign online and printed press, documentary films, information
obtained via unstructured interviews, and (auto)ethnographic memories. Content and context
analysis are linked with each other mostly but not only through Lefebvrian concepts and
theories. Below I explain them and I explain also the concepts borrowed also from other
scholars (e.g., Sassen).
1.4.2. Social production of space in the global age
To explain the concepts and theories that I use to examine the primary sources, this section
is thought as an annotated glossary but, unlike in a glossary, the listing order is not alphabetical
but thematic. First, I briefly recall what neoliberalism is so as to preliminary contextualise the
Lefebvrian understanding of space as social product. Then, I move on to review the Lefebvrian
theory of the social production of space by clarifying also the non-Lefebvrian concepts that I
use to examine hegemonic representations of space (e.g., the global cities network, and public
15
space). After that, I briefly review the notion of trialectical unity of the space production
moments so as to introduce the Lefebvrian theory of the social contradictions of space, whose
review is necessary to understand the notion of space appropriation and its centrality in the
struggle for the right to the city. Once explained how the notion of global street can help to
decipher space appropriation and how it differs from public space, I finally highlight the
paradigmatic influence of Lefebvrian theory on spatial studies in order to explain why this study
is inherently interdisciplinary.
Neoliberalism. The late 20th century capitalism, when the accumulation of capital has
increasingly relied on profit driven investments in property market and real estate financial
speculation (Harvey, 1989, 2005, and 2008). It is the ideology and class strategy of hegemonic
forces who attain consent to market-driven redevelopment by instrumentalizing the
imaginaries and values of the subaltern (Genç, 2014; Jaffee, 2018).
Urban space. A social product and a means of reproduction of uneven power social relations,
not a mirror of the society nor a passive site of accumulation of capital (Lefebvre, 1991 [1974]).
It is the contingent result and tool of consensus building strategies, negotiation processes, and
political struggle (Genç, 2014). Under neoliberalism, cities have substituted the factories as
primary sites for the production of value accumulation of profit (Hardt & Negri, 2010). The
major effect of the reduction of urban space to a commodity is the inhabitants’
disempowerment, which cannot be solved by retreating to the countryside to find space for
rest and leisure but rather reclaiming the right to the city (Lefebvre, 2009 [1968]). See also
‘right to the city’.
The social production of space. Lefebvrian theory that has “respatialized Marxism”
(Katznelson, 1993). Not a synonymous of construction but a process articulated into three
moments linked with each other through a dialectic relationship: spatial practices (material
production), representations of space (production of knowledge), and spaces of representation
(production of symbolic meanings) (Lefebvre, 1991 [1974]).
Spatial practices. The moment of material production and thus called also perceived/physical
space (Lefebvre, 1991 [1974]). The notion applies to all the everyday life activities involving
the sensory perception of physical space (Schmid, 2008; Milgrom, 2008). Examples therefore
abound and include also building the environment and graffitiing it. However, spatial practices
are not all equally relevant in the struggle for a radical change of society: some do not
challenge unequal power relations and can even reinforce them whereas others can be
addressed as practices of appropriation of space since they oppose representations of space
and symbolic meaning by hegemonic powers (Lefebvre, 2009 [1968], p. 50).
16
Representations of space. The moment of production of knowledge about space.
Conceptualisations of space resulting from the combination of scientific knowledge with
language and power, and thus called also mental or conceived space (Lefebvre, 1991 [1974]).
Whether textual or visual, representations of space allow its definition, orientation and
organisation (Schmid, 2008). In other words, representations of space do not prescribe only
its morphological configuration but also its normative use, which both depend on the symbolic
meanings that the urban form is supposed to materialise in order to satisfy the intentions of
the designers and their clients (Milgrom, 2008). Examples abound: theories, definitions,
descriptions, drawings, maps, plans and signs by philosophers, mathematicians, planners,
urbanists, designers and, in some cases, artists (Schmid, 2008). In this study, graffiti
containing explicit textual and/or visual references to space are addressed as representation
of space, by which I refer to the first of the two meanings distinguished by Spivak (2015 [1988],
pp. 70-71), i.e., “re-presentation” as in art and philosophy (darstellen in German), and thus to
be distinguished from the second sense of the term as the “speaking for” proper of proxies
(vertreten in German). To stress the difference between the two senses, I would translate it in
Turkish as temsil etmek so as to differentiate it from vekil olmak. In this study, I use the terms
hegemonic and counterhegemonic to distinguish between the representations of space by
hegemonic power and counterpower but I acknowledge that, within the Lefebvrian framework,
the notion is mostly used to refer to representations of space dominating over others. An
example of hegemonic representations of space that I examine is the global city.
Global cities. In a nutshell, global cities are cities subordinated to the market-driven logic of
competitiveness and redeveloped into gateways for global flows of financial and human capital
(Sassen, 2007, 2007b, 2008, 2012, 2012b, 2013, and 2014).
Global cities network. Global cities are not single entities existing outside the realm of the
national but space where global processes happening within the national materialise and thus
strategic nodes of transnational networks of power connected by the dynamics of economic
globalisation (Sassen, 2007 and 2012).
Global patterns of urbanisation. Recurring trends in the neoliberal redevelopment of cities,
i.e., re-development driven by market interests (Sassen, 2012b)19. Their emergence varies in
19 They include: (1) expansion of financial districts via construction of high-rise office buildings, (2)
residential high-income gentrification (e.g. via construction of gated communities) and subsequent
expulsion of residents living in marginal conditions via land dispossession and forced displacement, (3)
commercial high-income gentrification via development of districts for exclusive shopping, (4)
construction of entertainment facilities and luxurious hotels, (5) tourism-oriented valorisation of heritage
via large-scale events, (6) privatization of collective rights to common goods and resources (e.g.
municipal services), (7) large use of the credit system to allow people to purchase commodities (including
land), (8) growth of informal economy, and (9) emergence of new type of homelessness. For a more
detailed discussion, see: Sassen (2007, 2012b, and 2014); Harvey (2005), and Aksoy (2008).
17
time and modality from place to place, and the same goes for grassroots struggle in reaction
to them.
Global and local. It is not a binary relation but the dual nature of space (Lefebvre, 1991
[1974]). Also, the global must not be misunderstood for a scale bigger (or smaller) than the
national nor is it a scale beyond the national. It is a synonymous of transnational, i.e., crossing
the national but happening within the national (Sassen, 2007; 2008; 2012b).
Public space. Its emblematic representation is the square of the European tradition, which is
essentially characterised by regularity of the form (Bilsel, 2008). It is traditionally understood
as outdoor space for various forms of interaction and socialisation (e.g., representation of
power, leisure practices, consumption processes, rituals, expression of political consensus,
and civic protests) (Kostof, 1992; Çelik, 1994). Mainstream discourses on public space rely on
the legacy of classical abstract definitions of public as inherently related to common visibility
(Arendt, 1958) and universal accessibility (Habermas, 1974 [1964]). However, both the
principles of common visibility and universal accessibility depend on contextual circumstances
that actually limit the possibility of exercising the right to freedom of expression and assembly
(Hedva, 2016, Navaro-Yashin, 1998; Cancellieri, 2014). In addition to this, public space has
also become a trendy notion used to promote investments in profit-driven and tourism-oriented
regeneration projects and, moreover, publica space can be ideologically used to achieve social
consensus by disciplining the moral behaviour of citizens in accordance with the moral
demands of the dominant class (Delgado, 2011). In short, public space is a representation of
space for democracy and free expression but it is historically and culturally constructed. More
precisely, the notion is “a historical construction of the West” used to distinguish western cities
from of eastern cities (Bilsel, 2008, p. 75)20. In the case of İstanbul, it is actually “misleading”
because it prevents the understanding of urban development traditionally based on informality
(Locci & Yücel, 2011, p. 44). In Turkey, kamusal alan and kamusal mekân (public space and
public domain) are not traditionally understood as referring to the entire community of resident
citizens but are closely associated with the notions of kamu malı (state domain and property)
(Gurallar, 2009). More precisely, public is often understood as what has not been expropriated
yet (Tanju, 2008). The reason lies in its history, indeed. The notions of “public interest” and
“land resumption for public interest” were introduced in the Ottoman vocabulary in the 19th
century with the wave of legal, administrative and economic reforms known as Tanzimat
reforms (Gül, 2009, p. 34)21. To this day, public space in the context of İstanbul is perceived
20 For extensive discussion of East and West as constructed representations without ontological stability,
see the seminal work Orientalism by Said (2003 [1978]). See also İşin (2005) for the implications of
political Orientalism in matters of citizenship definition.
21 For extensive discussion of the Tanzimat reforms, see Deringil (1993, 2007, 2008 [1998], and 2012).
In spatial terms, reforms aimed at the modernisation of the late Ottoman Empire formally introduced
principles of rational planning proper of the European architectural language (Çelik, 1993; Tekeli, 1992
and 2010; Gül, 2009). In İstanbul, physical redevelopment of highly symbolic places for representation
18
by many as the outcome of top-down interventions and this most likely depends on the radical
changes in its symbolic meanings occurred in the following decades22. For instance, Taksim
in Istanbul was turned into the space of representation of Republican symbolism.
Spaces of representation. Third moment of the space production process, namely that of the
symbolic use of material space, and that is why it is called also social space or lived space
(Lefebvre, 1991 [1974]). The notion applies not only to monuments and buildings but to all
spaces resulting from the combination of norms, values and everyday use (Schmid, 2008;
Milgrom, 2008). Any space of representation can have both normative and counter-normative
symbolic meanings (e.g., state and/or divine power but also grassroots resistance). It then
follows that the same place can be reclaimed as space of representation by multiple and even
antagonist actors. In this study, graffitied space is approached as space of representation, i.e.,
space that ends up speaking for someone/something following a textual and/or visual
representation of something/someone (including the self, both individual and collective).
Trialectical unity. Spatial practices, representations of space and spaces of representation
are linked with each other through a dialectic relationship but shall not be misunderstood for
moments of a progressive model of dialectic. That is to say that physical, mental and lived
space shall not be misunderstood for a thesis, an antithesis, and a synthesis. Rather, space
is “at once” perceived, conceived and lived (Gottdiener, 1993, p. 131). As suggested by the
so-called third wave of Lefebvre's interpreters, the three moments are equally important and
the understanding of each of them requires the understanding of the others (Schmid, 2008;
Kipfer et al., 2008; De Simoni, 2016). However, the dialectic relationship linking the space
production dimensions shall not be reduced to mutual interaction since the three dimensions
can be in alliance but also in conflict with each other (Schmid, 2008). For instance, there can
be spatial practices that ascribe new symbolic meanings to space by opposing and
transgressing the normative use prescribed by dominant representations of space. In other
words, the production of space is based on the same contradictions that fuel social change
(Milgrom, 2008).
of power resulted from power struggle and not only from mere emulation of foreign aesthetic models
(Gurallar, 2003). However, since the 19th century, the aesthetics of space of representation of power
started changing via regularisation of the urban fabric (e.g., via street straightening) (Cerasi, 2005).
Meanwhile, squares, pedestrian sidewalks, parks and coffeehouses started being opened so as to foster
a new public lifestyle (Çelik, 1993; Denel, 1982).
22 In the early Republic, public spaces such as parks, promenades and squares were attributed the
pedagogic function to educate its users to modern practices of national citizenship (Kezer, 2015;
Batuman, 2015; Bozdoğan, 2001). The 1950 saw major changes in the conception and perception of
space for representation of renewed power relations (e.g., clearing space make Ottoman monuments
visible and constructing high-rise buildings recalling functioning as new monuments) (Akçan, 2015).
Since the 1990s, the tourism-oriented redevelopment of İstanbul is strongly centred on the planning of
mega-projects for the re-monumentalization of space for representation of political economic power
(Batuman, 2016 and 2017).
19
Contradictions of space. The spatial materialisation of the contradictory interests of
antagonist social actors, conceptualised through another triadic figure: (1) quality vs. quantity,
(2) appropriation vs. property (use value vs. exchange value), and (3) fragmentation and
homogenisation (or local vs. global) (Lefebvre (1991 [1974]). The contradictions of space are
of crucial counterstrategic importance insofar as they are cracks in the system and, as such,
they indicate the presence of social conflict but also the possibility of space of resistance or
resistance already in place.
Space of resistance. Space where contradictions indicate the possibility of moving to,
differential space, i.e., space freed from property and exchange value. Such a possibility
manifests itself not only in the form of resistance but also of marginalisation, and that is why
examples include: “the edges of the city, shanty towns, the space of forbidden games, of
guerrilla war, of war” (Lefebvre, 1991 [1974], p. 373).
Appropriation of space (and time). Giving new rhythms and symbolic meanings to space
(and time) via qualitative use that challenges commodification by challenging exchange value
and thus the accumulation of capitalist profit through space (and time) controlled by the state
(Lefebvre (1991 [1974] and 2009[1968]). Put it in other terms, appropriation is the contrary of
property. While property is founded on the exchange value embodied by space as commodity,
appropriation of space means reclaiming it by reclaiming its use value. If needed in order for
use value to be reinstated, appropriation can imply occupation, a spatial practice that cannot
be understood only as re-semanticisation of symbolic meanings.
Re-semanticisation of space, and limitations for appropriation. Changing the symbolic
meanings of space via practices pertaining to the discursive realm of speech. For instance,
writing on walls and/or marking them with signs and symbols. In this regard, Lefebvre (1991
[1974], p. 145) raised a question: “is it really possible to use mural surfaces to depict social
contradictions while producing something more than graffiti?”. Such a criticism is actually not
difficult to understand. The dominance of the realm of the visible over the realm of the lived
experience is such that it can lead to the erroneous idea that the production of space of speech
can be sufficient to achieve radical change in the society, which rather requires action and
thus the actual production of space for action (ibid., pp. 131-132, and 403). For this reason,
he argued the limitations of discursive practices of spatial territorialisation in “the actual”
production of social space as well as in the understanding of the actual production process
(ibid., p. 160). In this regard, I surely acknowledge that re-semanticisation matters but cannot
be not sufficient to appropriate space; however, the aim of this study is precisely to evaluate
whether graffiti can instead be used as historical sources to understand both space production
in general and space appropriation in particular.
20
Appropriated space. In this regard, Lefebvre (1991 [1974], p. 165) made several remarks
that are particularly relevant for the subject matter of this study. First, appropriated space
resembles a work of art but it should not be mistaken for an imitation of a work of art. Second,
appropriated space is often a structure (e.g., a monument, a building) but a square and a street
can also be legitimately described as such. Third, in order to evaluate whether space can be
legitimately described as appropriated, it must be evaluated “in what respect, how, by whom
and for whom they have been appropriated” but this is something that “is not always easy to
decide” (ibid., 165, p. 165). The same type of difficulty can concern also the definition of the
right to the city.
Right to the city. A twofold right legitimated not by national citizenship but by value production
in the everyday life: the right to participation in the decision-making process and the right to
appropriate space (Lefebvre, 2009 [1968]). Since the right to appropriate space is oriented
and shaped by needs (e.g., housing), claiming the right to the city shall not be reduced to a
tool to merely legitimise participatory models of urban governance; rather, it means reclaiming
the collective right to occupy and use space in ways that challenge its exchange value as
private property (Ergin and Rittersberger-Tılıç, 2014). In other words, the “urban political
agenda” developed by Lefebvre was based “on the right of access and possession of the city
as a common good and an ongoing collective production” (Shields, 1999, p. 143). By allowing
rescaling of the decision-making process and thus facilitating self-determination in the
management of the commons, the right to the city is important also to envisage forms of postnational
citizenship (Purcell, 2002)23. In Turkey, the right to the city started being discussed
and used as horizon for multiscalar convergence of urban oppositional groups in anti-capitalist
struggle since the late 2000s (Ergin and Rittersberger-Tılıç, 2014). In short, right to the city
means reclaiming the city as common (Stavrides, 2022).
Urban commons. Shared spaces and resources to be reclaimed as such (e.g., soil, water,
air) (Harvey, 2014).
Common. A twofold notion that does not refer to a new type of property but, first, to material
resources and, second, to products produced in common, i.e., based on social cooperation
(Hardt & Negri, 2010; Negri, 2016).
Space commoning. An emancipatory political project of re-territorialisation based on
commoning practices, i.e., new forms of being together and relating to space such as sharing,
collaboration, collective care (of space and its users), and collective performances of self-
23 For an example of alternative organisation of decision-making structures, see the model of municipal
libertarianism (Biehl & Bookchin, 1998), which was evaluated positively also by Harvey (2015).
21
government and resistance to top-down management of the use of space (Stavrides, 2022
and 2015).
Common space. Sites for non-hierarchical relations where organisation and regulation does
not follow the orders of a prevailing authority. It is not another type of space nor a part of public
space but can result from the appropriation of public space (Stavrides, 2022). In other words,
it is space that (1) we produce together, (2) we use together, (3) where we get together, and
(4) connected to other places where there is also struggle for the commons (Emek Bizim
İstanbul Bizim Initiative, 2016). Examples include Gezi Park in İstanbul during the 2013
resistance; the refugee accommodation and solidarity space City Plaza in Athens, selfmanaged
social centers in Italy, etc.).
Global street. It is a representation of space conceived by Sassen (2011 and 2013b) to
expand the conceptual field of understanding of the complexity of the dialectic between power
and the powerless. It is thought to differentiate spaces for transnational action in the struggle
for the right to the city from spaces for more ritualised routines such as the piazza of the
European imaginary of public space. It is not a street in the literal sense of the term; it can be
a square, a border zone, a refugee camp, and so on. It is space where the powerless can
make history24. Even though it would not be incorrect to catch a glimpse of a rough
conceptualization of the notion of global city in Lefebvre’s works (De Simoni, 2015), the global
street is a conceptual tool that helps to update Lefebvrian notion of space of resistance by
pointing at the global as a scale of counterstrategic importance in the struggle for alternatives
to neoliberal globalisation.
Absorption of space of resistance. Systemic tendency of the capitalist mode of production
to assimilate, take back or violently eliminate whatever transgress (Lefebvre (1991 [1974]).
Absorption can take place in various ways (e.g., repression and commodification).
Commodification affects not only material but also immaterial resources and products such as
for instance knowledge and languages (Negri and Harvey, 2014), and absorption therefore
affects the entire life.
Spatial turn. Well-known paradigmatic changes in social sciences and humanities following
the acknowledgment of space as both product of social processes and tool mediating politicaleconomic
interests: first, rejection of representations of space as a mere stage or container
where historical change progressively unfolds; second, acknowledgment of the
epistemological importance of space in the understanding of human activity throughout history
(Elden, 2004; Warf & Arias, 2009; Soja, 2009). As a consequence of the spatial turn, history
24 For more information about the global street, see also Theatrum Mundi / Global Street project (2018).
22
of architecture and social sciences such as sociology share terminology, conceptual
frameworks, and methodologies (Stieber, 2005; Blau, 2003).
Architecture and its history. For centuries, the notion of architecture has been associated
to that of art, and that is why the degree of beauty provided the criterion for the selection of
the buildings to be studied as examples of artworks (Fernie, 1995). Following a shift in the
understanding of architecture as involving the entire built environment, the scope of history of
architecture is no longer restricted to issues of authorship, connoisseurship, style and form of
buildings evaluated as particularly beautiful artworks according to canonical standards; history
of architecture now deals also with the use and symbolic meanings of the built environment in
everyday life (e.g., gender-related meanings) (Trachtenberg, 1988; Arnold, 2002; Stieber,
2003).
Built environment and its transdisciplinarity. Interdisciplinarity in historical research on the
built environment is potentially useful for multiple reasons. First, empirical case studies in
which the built environment is approached as historical evidence of social processes helps to
test the validity of abstract theories of space (Stieber, 2005). Second, combining historical and
sociological perspectives of analysis helps to understand how contemporary global processes
let emerge specific forms of social and political subjectivity (Sassen, 2008 [2006]). Third,
interdisciplinarity is potentially useful to imagine a change for the better in matter of human
rights (Soja, 2000).
Transdisciplinarity of graffiti. It is directly related to what Chmielewska (2007) argued and
is also common knowledge, namely the increase in artistic recognition of an aesthetic
phenomenon that nonetheless continues to be mostly unauthorised (Chmielewska, 2007) or,
to better say it, “self-authorised” (Blanché, 2015). In Turkey, it is also a matter of fact emerging
from the literature review provided in the next section.
1.4.3. State of the art and contribution
Since its inception in the 1960s, the so-called scholarship on contemporary graffiti and street
art has relied on the contributions of researchers from a wide range of disciplines to overcome
the biases hindering the academic legitimacy gained by now, when the subject matter is
increasingly featured in scientific press and conferences (Ross et al., 2017)25. To a certain
extent, this is valid also for the context of Turkey, where the Gezi resistance had a significant
impact on the production of knowledge about graffiti.
25 For instance, see the scientific journal SAUC - Street Art and Urban Creativity (2022). See also Urban
Creativity Conference (2023), a Lisbon-based annual thematic conference on graffiti and street art.
23
Until Gezi, academic research was not extensive nor particularly diversified with regard to the
geographical focus. Geographically focused research on places other than İstanbul was
limited in number26. Research on İstanbul was focused on Beyoğlu and, more specifically, on
spots particularly filled with graffiti27. Taken as a whole, the contributions available before the
2013 uprising were nonetheless important. For instance, they drew attention on both local
characteristics and global dynamics.
Humour is a distinctive feature of the local context. For instance, it was a distinctive feature of
the wall writings of the late 1980s and early 1990s (Özünlü, 1991). The hilarious content of
wall writings was thematised also in the 2000s. Eluard (2007) argued their thought-provoking
criticism of the status quo and remarked also the vulgarity of some, an issue concerning also
the graffiti of Gezi (see Chapter 4). In the 1990s and 2000s, the practice initiated in the 1960s
in the U.S. and known as tagging spread also in Turkey where, like elsewhere, tagging is also
closely related to hip-hop and is a forbidden game that the urban youth play to gain fame within
their communities (Sarıyıldız, 2007; Tan, 2010). However, in Turkey, the youth who used the
city as a playground in the 2000s were scared of being mistaken for political activists or even
terrorists, and that is why took clear distance from the local tradition of political wall writings
and sought legitimisation via artistic recognition (Sarıyıldız, 2007)28. Similar remarks were
made also by a street artist who wrote a thesis on his own work and pointed out the limitations
of freedom in the very selection of colour due to the association of specific colours with specific
political groups (Küçüksayraç, 2011)29.
As far as street art is concerned, academic contributions focused on its diversity from
advertising and gallery exhibitions (Karaaslan, 2008; Satıcı, 2009; Küçüksayraç, 2011). Given
that street art intervenes in public space, it was defined as public art and a tool for social
change that can establish a free, uncensored connection with the audience (Erdoğan, 2009
and 2010). Lastly, street art was defined as an urban design element with the potential to
counteract the city’s loss of city cultural identity due to globalisation (Cansız, 2012).
26 See the study on the city of Van by Kavşut (2005).
27 See: Sarıyıldız (2007), and Erdoğan (2009). In the qualitative research conducted by Sarıylıdz (2007),
analytical attention was paid to the Yesilçam Auto Park at the back of Passage Atlas in Beyoğlu (a
traditional site for hip-hop graffiti). In the quantitative analysis provided by Erdoğan (2009), the focus is
on Yüksek Kaldırım Street in Galata, filled with various types of graffiti including but not limited to hiphop
graffiti. To this day, the characteristics of both places are similar.
28 The same information emerged also from non-academic work. For instance, see the documentary film
by Ersoy (2010), which reveals also how hip-hop writers reclaimed the artistic value of their ludic activity.
29 This is what Marcella (2015, p. 92) called “politicisation of colours” when referring to “the attribution of
political connotations to details that are not political by nature, along with the use of symbols for political
purposes, are commonly used devices to touch upon issues of political sensitivity”.
24
With the graffiti of the Gezi resistance, more contributions started being published30. In addition
to this, the use of traditional style-based categories started becoming more flexible. One year
after the uprising, Aksel & Olgun (2014) acknowledged the increase in attention of the early
2010s but Taş & Taş (2014) evaluated the research done until then as little compared with
that to be still done.
Since then, the number of articles and theses has increased. Part of them is either entirely or
strongly focused on the graffiti of the Gezi uprising31. With specific regard to Gezi, the literature
gives ample space to graffiti with humorous content arguing that humour is a tool to make fun
of hegemonic power (Bernardoni, 2013b; Şengül, 2014; Emre, Çoban, & Şener, 2014; Gurel,
2015; Morva, 2016; Seloni & Sarfati, 2017; Alpaslan, 2018; Evered, 2018). With regard to the
contents, it was also argued that the graffiti of the Gezi uprising present strong commonalities
in content, language, issues and demands with the ones preceding them, since the protests
sparking it were not entirely new but rather a continuation and a peak of the dissent towards
the politics of the 2000s (Taş & Taş, 2014; Şengül, 2014; Egemen, 2015; Morva, 2016; Seloni
and Sarfati, 2017). Besides being defined a as counterhegemonic tool for the expression of
anticapitalist dissent (Egemen, 2015), street art was therefore defined also as a practice of
resistance that – by crossing the borders of art, political activism, and communication –
provides a medium to disseminate counter-narratives within local and international audience
to encourage the audience to engage in political agency (Taş & Taş, 2014; Bernardoni, 2014;
Egemen, 2015; Seloni & Serfati, 2017). However, more comparative research on the global
connections between the local and other contexts is required since it is limited to an article
connecting Gezi to Tahrir Square (Taş, 2017), and to an article connecting it to Athens (Tulke,
2019).
With regard to the political positioning of the actors involved, the literature review revealed that
graffiti is practice crossing the political spectrum: it is mostly leftists who write on walls but
ultranationalists do it as well (Şengül, 2014; Taş & Taş, 2014, Özdem, 2015; Egemen, 2015;
Seloni & Sarfati, 2017; Alpaslan, 2018; Evered, 2018; Uğur, 2019; Karakiraz, 2019; Türkoğlu,
2019).
The literature review revealed also increased sensibility and interest in understanding how
graffiti mediate intersecting forms of domination of various origin (e.g., patriarchal). For
instance, the need for women-only space of visibility in (street) art history is evident (see e.g.,
30 See Bernardoni (2013 and 2013b). For an example of non-academic publications, see the printed
photographic collection edited by Erbil (2013).
31 See: Taş & Taş (2014); Şengül (2014); Bernardoni (2014); Egemen (2015); Özdem (2015); Gurel
(2015); Morva (2016); Seloni & Sarfati (2017); Evered (2018), and Tunali (2018).
25
Melek, 2022)32. In addition to this, contributions from a feminist perspective tackled the
following issues: hegemonic masculinity in the case of Konya (Kırlıoğlu et al., 2016), and statebacked
gender and ethnicized violence in Kurdish-majority provinces of the country (Protner,
2017 and 2018; Şıkgenç, 2021). In turn, this suggests that the lack of systematic research
from critical race perspectives argued by Kırlıoğlu et al. (2016) started being filled. However,
further research on how gender- and race-related issues intersect with class-issues is
nonetheless suggested. For instance, the current validity of the argument by Sezer (2016)
about gender discrimination among hip-hop writers could be verified in-depth in light of more
than one factor: recent increase in feminist hip-hop artists and writers class belonging33. As
for this study, I tried as much as I could to stress the intersectionality of issues related to class,
gender, and also ethnicity but the material that I collected is vast and I therefore acknowledge
that it can be examined even more in-depth to shed light on how space mediate these issues.
Other contributions are focused on various aspects of both graffiti and street art: diversity of
the artistic development of the local context compared the West (Bal, 2014; Çakır, 2016); the
shift of both graffiti and street art from subculture to pop culture (Sezer, 2016); street art as a
civil disobedience and its relations to new social movements (Alpaslan, 2016); the social
responsibility of the street artists (Uğur, 2018); the perception of visual characteristics (e.g.,
colour) (Zünbüloğlu, 2018); stylistic and technical aspects (Karakiraz, 2019; Bozdağ, 2022);
educational aspects (Pashayeva, 2018; Kaya, 2022); the use of graffiti art by municipalities for
PR work (Kınay, 2021); the audience’s mnemonic, affective and emotional perception of the
context (Türkoğlu, 2019); the direct relation between street artists and the audience (Balık,
2020); communicative function of walls as media (Yiğiter, 2020); the importance of outdoor
visibility (Şakar, 2021; Kaynar, 2021); diversity of the street from gallery and freedom from the
art market (Adeka, 2022); and place-making (Gemci, 2022). In light of these topics, I would
like to stress an argument by Aksel & Olgun (2014), namely that the local understanding of
public as referring to monumental sculptures and buildings symbolising the values of modern
life influences the society’s reaction to street art.
Over time, diversification of geographical focus also increased. Contributions focused on
İstanbul are focused on one or more specific areas of the city including but not limited to
Taksim (e.g., Karaköy, Kadıköy, Eyüp, Tophane, Cihangir, Okmeydanı, Başakşehir,
32 With regard to the need for women-only space for visibility, non-academic publications revealed that
is not a novelty of the 2020s but actually an issue dating back to at least the late 1980s, when one of the
first printed collections of wall writings was dedicated entirely to writings written only by women (Çorlu &
Tütüncü, 1989).
33 With regard to class belonging of hip-hop graffiti writers, see Sarıyıldız (2007), who deduced that the
urban youth practicing hip-hop graffiti in the 2000s in Beyoğlu belonged to the middle class. In addition
to this, see also Ersoy (2010), whose documentary revealed class antagonism although the frictions
between apparently low-class hip-hop writers and cultural middle-class street artists were not openly
declared as such (Ersoy, 2010).
26
Güngören, and Zeytinburnu)34. Contributions focused on areas other than İstanbul are focused
on Ankara, Konya, south-eastern provinces of the country (e.g., Diyarbakır), Balıkesir,
Şanlıurfa, Eskişehir, and the town district of Urla in İzmir35. Taken as whole, the contributions
available after the 2013 uprising sketch possible directions for more geographically systematic
research from interdisciplinary perspectives36.
By now, the disciplinary fields crossed by the subject matter also increased. Initially, academic
interest was limited to the field of linguistics37. Then, it emerged also in other fields and
disciplines: media and cultural studies, communication sciences, anthropology, sociology,
educational sciences, space-related disciplines such as architecture and urban and regional
planning, and even public relations38. Both before and after the Gezi event/s, research was
however conducted mostly within art-related disciplines (e.g., fine arts and art history)39.
Clearly, this suggests the increasing acknowledgment of the artistic value of street
interventions that often lack authorisation. Another noteworthy trend is the emerging interest
in the field of fine arts education40. In my opinion, what this trend suggests is that, sooner or
later, graffiti might become the subject of monographic courses also in Turkey41.
In sum, the research done so far shows that a transdisciplinary discussion has begun to take
shape and has the potential of being turned into a more articulated debate in the form of a
thematic conference or a collection of essays.
34 For Taksim, Kadıköy and Karaköy, see Sezer (2016). For Karaköy, see also: Zünbüloğlu (2018), Gemci
& Erinsel Önder (2020), and Gemci (2022). For Karaköy, Eyüp, Tophane, Cihangir, and Okmeydanı, see
Türkoğlu (2019). For Basaksehir, Güngören, and Zeytinburnu, see Kınay (2021).
35 For Ankara, see: Taş & Taş, 2015; Özdem, 2015; Alpaslan, 2018. For Konya, see Kırlıoğlu, Kırlıoğlu
and Başer, 2016. For the south-east of the country, see: Kavşut, 2005; Protner, 2017 and 2018; and
Özcan, 2018. For Balikesir, Şanlıurfa, Eskişehir, see Uğur, 2018. For Eskişehir, see also Kaynar (2021).
For the town district of Urla in İzmir, see Koçak (2020).
36 For instance, continuing to extend the research to non-central neighbourhoods of İstanbul as well as
to places other than big scale cities can potentially contribute to find out qualitative connections beyond
traditional dichotomies such as centre/periphery and urban/rural, an issue pertaining various fields of
study including but not limited to the architectural and sociological.
37 See: Özünlü, 1991; Kavşut, 2005, and Eluard, 2007.
38 For studies in the media and cultural fields, see: Sarıyıldız, 2007, and Özcan, 2018. For studies in
communication sciences, see: Şengül (2014); Egemen (2015); and Sezer (2016). For an anthropological
study, see Üzüm Tan (2010). For a study in educational sciences, see Erdem (2018). For sociological
studies, see: Alpaslan (2016); Protner (2017); Türkoğlu (2019); and Sıkgenç (2021). For studies in urban
and regional planning, see: Erdoğan (2009 and 2010); Zünbüloğlu (2018); and Kolçak (2020). For studies
in other space-related disciplines such as architecture and landscape architecture, see: Gemci (2022),
Yıldırım (2013, and Cansız (2012). For a study in public relations, see Kınay (2021).
39 See: Karaaslan (2008); Satıcı (2009); İnal (2011); Küçüksayraç (2011); Bal (2014); Çakır (2016); Uğur
(2018); Karakiraz (2019); Yiğiter (2020); Şakar (2021); Adeka (2022); and Bozdağ (2022). See also Balık
(2020), and Melek (2022).
40 See: Pashayeva (2018); Kaynar (2021); and Kaya (2022).
41 For an example of a monographic course on graffiti, see Graffiti y el Arte Urbano (Graffiti and Urban
Art), taught at the Fine Arts Faculty of the Complutense University in Madrid by the expert scholar Javier
Abarca, Retrieved 2022, August 15, from https://javierabarca.es/en/university-teaching/ucm/.
27
However, the literature review revealed also the need for more historical as well as spacefocused
research. Besides the need for in-depth examination of issues such as
commodification and place-branding (Aksel & Olgun, 2014), scholars agued a lack of a
detailed historical account of the graffiti of the 1960s and 1970s, which scholars argued to be
important for the examination of the historical continuity of the political significance of graffiti
(Taş & Taş, 2014). With this study, I start filling the gap.
First, I problematise the idea that the politicisation of graffiti dates back to the 1968 movement
(Emiroğlu, 2011 [2001]), and I question whether it actually started before and how. In addition
to this, I provide a non-comprehensive yet enough detailed account covering the period mid-
1960s – early 1990s, and I also make suggestions for an increasingly comprehensive account
since I did not conduct archival research on the 1990s and 2000s. Equally important, I search
for traces of humour in the past to enquire whether the humour of the Gezi resistance was a
novelty or not.
Unlike the majority of the scholarship, this study does not focus on Gezi as a single case but
rather provides a wider perspective in the attempt to identify both continuity and novelties. In
other words, I question the dis/continuity between the Gezi resistance and past events rather
than addressing it as a single assemblage of events. In addition to this, I expand the
conceptual framework: instead of reading Gezi only through the notion of public space, I use
the notion of global street so as to stress that the local and the national are intrinsically
embedded with other places where the powerless attempt to make history.
As far as the politics of space is concerned, I acknowledge that graffiti and street art were
argued to be practices of territorialisation and reappropriation of public space (Erdoğan, 2009
and 2010; Seloni & Sarfati, 2017; Evered, 2018; Küçüksayraç, 2011; Sarıyıldız, 2007).
However, I call into question the tendency to claim such arguments by overfocusing on the
spatial practice or the visual/discursive content of graffiti rather than on the issues related to
the politics of space of which they can potentially provide historical evidence (an approach that
characterised also my research for a long time). In other words, I reject the assumption that
discursive reterritorialization is equal appropriation of space, and I preliminary argue that
applying a Lefebvrian framework of analysis in the study of graffiti might be useful to evaluate
their potential as historical evidence of space-related processes, namely production and
struggle for the right to the city (i.e., right to participation in decision-making and right to
appropriation).
So far, the scholars who applied Lefebvrian concepts and theories to analyse graffiti in the
context Turkey are only a few. In a study focused on Ankara, Alpaslan (2016) used the concept
of the right to the city and argued that, for new social movements, street art is a way of
28
reclaiming the city. Melik (2022) drew upon the theory of the social production of space and
argued that women street artists reclaim space in art history. In a study focused on İstanbul,
Sarıyıldız (2007) used the theory of space production and the notion of everyday life, and she
is one of those who argued that graffiti can appropriate space. More precisely, she argued that
writing on the city can produce another city and also resistance. While acknowledging the
great importance of the study by Sarıyıldız (2007) – a systematic research and a pioneering
work in the research on graffiti in Turkey – I however preliminary claim what was claimed by
Lefebvre himself (1991[1974]): the notion of appropriation cannot be merely reduced to resemanticisation.
In sum, this study contributes to the research on graffiti in Turkey not only because it covers a
wide historical period from an intersectional feminist perspective but also because it examines
a large number of primary sources through a Lefebvrian framework. Even the very structure
of the dissertation follows a Lefebvrian inspired framework and, given this, I preliminary
acknowledge that this might be one of its limitations. Like most of the works reviewed by
Ghulyan (2019), this study is not a systematic and comprehensive contextualization of
Lefebvre’s theories and is rather a humble application of his concepts. Below I explain how.
1.5. Structure of the study
The structuring of the dissertation relied on a twofold assumption. According to Lefebvre
(1991[1974], p. 116), history of space (1) “is to be distinguished from an inventory of things in
space […] as also from ideas and discourse about space”, and (2) “it must account for both
representational spaces and representations of space, but above all for their interrelationships
and their links with social practice”. Accordingly, the structure of the dissertation follows a
Lefebvrian-inspired triadic framework: spatial practices, representations of space, and
temporary appropriation of space for representation of counterhegemonic power. As a result,
the chapters follow a loose chronological order, which also depends on three additional
reasons: (1) the impossibility of indicating the exact date of the making of some graffiti; (2) the
possibility of still finding graffiti on their site long after they were made; (3) the choice of
grouping some of them thematically (i.e., according to their common content).
Chapter 2 is titled “Graffitiing (in) Turkey”42. It historicises the practice of graffitiing space in
Turkey through an overview covering the period from the 1960s to the early 2010s. The
overview is not comprehensive but is detailed enough to start filling the aforementioned gap
in the research, namely the lack of a historical account. The first section focuses on the use of
42 The idea of mentioning the chapters’ titles in this section is not original to this work; it is borrowed from
the doctoral dissertation by Dinçer (2022).
29
walls as medium for agitprop in the 1960s. The second section focuses on the use of walls as
medium for agitprop in the 1970s. The third section focuses on the 1970s, when both graffiti
for socialist agitprop and graffiti for ultranationalist propaganda were extensively spread to
mark territories contended by political antagonists. The fourth section first describes how the
1980 military coup affected the spatial use of graffiti and then tackles issues related to
archiving. The fifth section focuses on wall writings portraying the post-coup society in the late
1980s and early 1990s. The sixth section identifies major gaps in the research on the 1990s
and provides related suggestions. The seventh section provides an overview of the fieldwork
observations made in Ankara and İstanbul in the early 2010s (before Gezi). The eight and last
section concludes the chapter by highlighting the historic/al changes in the sociospatial use of
graffiti.
Chapter 3 is titled “Space Production in İstanbul, 2010-2013”. It examines how ordinary people
represented space via graffiti before the Gezi resistance by deciphering the space-related
content of graffiti documented in the early 2010s in İstanbul, which were concentrated in
Taksim and its surroundings. In other words, this chapter examines graffiti that can be
considered representations of space themselves because they contain textual and/or visual
reference to the production of space and specific places (e.g., via words, sentences, symbols
and/or images). For an in-depth contextualisation of the content, each section historicises the
representations of space that the graffiti either contest or simply recall. Hence, the first section
provides a preliminary overview of the neoliberal redevelopment of İstanbul from the 1980s to
the late 2000s so as to explain why, in 2009, local activists opposing global capitalism
organised a political festival whose logo was still visible in the streets of Taksim in the early
2010s and was thus also potentially capable to still catch the attention of passers-by. The
second section tackles controversial aspects of the initiative İstanbul 2010 – European Capital
of Culture to contextualise a graffiti contesting it by representing İstanbul as a bordered zone
linking Europe to its East. The third section examines a wall painting consisting of a descriptive
representation of the Neo-Ottoman conquest of İstanbul as a successful process strongly
centred on urban renewal. The fourth section discusses renewal of historical real estate by
focusing on the renewal of the Tarlabaşı neighbourhood to contextualise graffiti contesting the
project aimed at its gentrification (Tarlabaşı 360, by now renamed Taksim 360 presumably
given the proximity of the place to Taksim Square). The fifth section summarises the history
of Taksim Square and Galatasaray Square to contextualise the content of graffiti representing
them as places whose symbolic meanings largely result from grassroots political activity. The
sixth section focuses on the case of the Emek movie theatre to contextualises graffiti that attest
to the local struggle for the urban commons against the proliferation of shopping malls. The
seventh and last section provides a brief summary of the image of İstanbul as emerged from
the graffiti examined in the chapter, namely that of a highly contested city.
30
Chapter 4 is titled “A Visual Chronicle of the Temporary Appropriation of Taksim, 2013”. It is a
photo-essay about the dissonant echoes of the streets of Taksim during the 2013 Gezi event/s,
i.e., the Gezi resistance and its repression. The first section provides an illustrated and
annotated timeline of the various phases of a struggle for the right to the city that led to the
temporary appropriation of Taksim: the antecedents, the protest camp in Gezi Park, and its
development into an anti-government uprising. The second section examines spatial aspects
the global street by describing the empirics of the Taksim case during the uprising: reterritorialisation
of public space, multiscalar connectedness, and space commoning. The third
section discusses the multitudinous character of the social composition of the Gezi resistance
in Taksim by examining graffiti providing evidence of the participation of a multitude of actors
moved by a variety of values such as for instance freedom from gendered violence and
collective care. The fourth section resumes the timeline and tackles the dialectic between the
absorption of differential space and the attempted resistance to its absorption by addressing
contradictory dynamics (e.g., the clearing of the square, the subsequent resizing of the territory
under temporary appropriation, and the evacuation of the park). The fifth section tackles the
dialectic between absorption and resistance as an issue affecting also the walls of dissent,
and thus it addresses the following dynamics: greyfication of walls, ironic reaction to
greyfication, replication of rainbow stairs as symbol of resistance, and appropriation of
symbolic time for representation of resistance (e.g., the year 2013 and the decade 2013-2023).
The sixth and last section concludes the chapter by highlighting the importance of spatial
dialectics in the attempt at radically change the society.
Chapter 5 is the “Conclusion”. Besides drawing the overall conclusions from the findings
emerged from each chapter, it includes a self-critical review of the limitations of this study and
suggests a few directions for further research on the subject of graffiti in Turkey.
In the Appendices, there are additional images of graffiti. Appendix A is a selection of collective
signature graffiti of the late 1970s found via archival research. Appendix B is a selection of
humorous wall writings published in printed collections of the late 1980s and early 1990s.
Appendix C is a selection of graffiti that I documented in İstanbul in the early 2010s (before
Gezi), and it aims to show the heterogeneity of the social actors using walls. Appendix D is a
selection of the many graffiti that I documented in Taksim during the 2013 Gezi resistance and
is primarily aimed at showing the heterogeneity of the Gezi actors. Altogether, the images in
the appendices help to visualise that graffiti is a polyform and polysemantic spatial practice. In
this study, I historicise its features in the context of Turkey.
31
CHAPTER 2
GRAFFITIING (IN) TURKEY
This chapter historicises the practice of graffitiing space in the context of Turkey to start filling
the gap in the related research, namely a lack of a detailed account of the tradition of graffitiing
it for political purposes. Accordingly, I first examine fictional and non-fictional evidence of the
following processes: (1) emergence and spreading of graffiti for left-wing agitprop in the 1960s
and 1970s; (2) development of both graffiti for left-wing agitprop and graffiti for ultranationalist
propaganda into a practice for territorial marking in the late 1970s; (3) temporary
disappearance from the street following the 1980 military coup; (4) reappearance of wall
writings and humorous re-politicisation of the contents by the late 1980s. Then, I also discuss
the emergence of new types of graffiti by the 1990s and suggest possible directions for further
research aimed at an increasingly comprehensive history of graffiti in Turkey. Lastly, I provide
an overview of the observations made in the early 2010s for a manifold purpose: to highlight
the co-existence of heterogenous traditions, to trace continuities with the past, and to stress
also novelties both in terms of actors involved and contents. In short, this chapter lays the
ground for the discussion of the use of walls by a variety of social actors and, accordingly, it
provides an overview that starts from the 1960s, when graffiti started turning walls into a
medium for agitprop.
2.1. A spatial practice turning walls into a medium for agitprop in the 1960s
Agitprop is the abbreviated form of agitation propaganda, a political strategy of the
revolutionary socialist tradition aimed at class consciousness raising and mass mobilization
via media including but not limited to written speech (e.g., slogans) (Encyclopaedia Britannica,
1998). In Turkey, writing political slogans on walls is a practice entwined with the leftist political
movement since the late 1960s43. More precisely, Emiroğlu (2011 [2001]) claimed that the
content of graffiti started becoming increasingly politicised with the 1968 movement just as it
43 This is what emerged from unstructured interviews and also from literary sources (e.g., see Taş and
Taş, 2014).
32
did it elsewhere where both the movement and related graffiti spread44. In Turkey, the 1968
movement was driven by a strong opposition to Western imperialism ideals but, before
examining graffiti attesting to this, I first problematise the in/accuracy of the periodisation
emerging from the literary and oral sources.
2.1.1. Dawn of a tradition tied to graphic satire
When and how did the use of graffiti for agitprop emerged in the context of Turkey? Rather
than taken for granted, the validity of the argument that the 1968 marked the beginning of the
politicisation of mural writing is here questioned based on the fictional evidence provided by
satirical cartoons, the first of which depicts a street filled with anti-Western graffiti before the
1968. See Figure 51.
Figure 51 Anti-Western graffiti. Caption: “from the world – they likely started learning English”. (Source:
Yön, 1965, June 4, 115, p. 10)
This cartoon suggests that local opponents of foreign influence on Turkey’s politics started
graffitiing walls for agitation propaganda since at least the mid-1960s. It was published in a
44 As it is common knowledge, the 1968 marked a historic wave of mass protests but the discussion of
the antimilitarist, anticapitalist, antiracist and antipatriarchal ideals sparking mass protests across
different geographies falls outside the scope of this study.
33
1965 issue of Yön (“Direction”), a left-wing periodical indeed45. The cartoon appeared next to
an article about the role of Western petroleum companies in Turkey (e.g., the American Mobil
and British Shell) (Feyzioğlu, 1965)46. Clearly, the male figure reading the walls represents the
foreign/Western investors invited to “go home”, i.e., back to their English-speaking countries.
The element revealing the irony is the caption since communicates the opposite of what it
says: locals opposing foreign influence had not started learning English nor had intention to
do it. In other words, the message conveyed by the cartoon is that the country’s political
economic independence depended also on its cultural independence.
As for the historiographical potential of the source, only further research can reveal whether
the wallscape and streetscape of the mid-1960s represented in the cartoon was a
representation of the real-present or rather a representation of the imagined-future. In both
cases, the findings would be of crucial relevance.
In case the cartoon was a representation of the reality of the street, interviews with cartoonists
and journalists with first-hand experience of the mid-1960s could also reveal the degree of
spreading. For instance, a question that it would shed light on space-related dynamics is the
following: were graffiti first concentrated in the neighbourhoods where foreign companies were
headquartered as the high-rise building in the cartoon seems to suggest or they rather
emerged elsewhere?
Conversely, further research attesting to the fictionality of the cartoon’s streetscape
representation would raise a different but likewise relevant question about the relationship
between graphic satire and the use of walls for agitprop, namely whether representations of
space by cartoonists influenced its use and thus lived experience.
The same type of questions applies also to the content of the next cartoon, which also provides
fictional evidence of the emergence graffiti for agitprop prior to the mass protests of 1968
movement and, in addition to the previous one, the cartoon in Figure 52 suggests that even
mainstream media coverage of the criminalisation of dissent expressed via graffiti preceded
the 1968.
45 Published from 1961 to 1967, Yön was not committed to any political organisation and proposed a
rather eclectic understanding of socialism but its contributors included leftist intellectuals and even
leaders of the TİP (Labour Party of Turkey), which is probably the reason behind the popularity of the
periodical among leftist student leaders (Landau, (2017 [1974]).
46 To read the full article, see the digitalised copy of the full issue that is now available on the TÜSTAV
online publications archive https://filedn.eu/lpwTKmJuSKCLNjzDCWvh2dm/yon/Yön%20Dergisi%20-
%20C-3%20-%20Sayi%20-%20114.pdf.
34
Figure 52 Cartoon about media coverage of attempted repression of graffiti expressing economic
dissent. Wall writing: “[price] raise, raise”. Top caption: “two students were caught writing [price] raise
on the walls (Newspapers)”. Bottom caption: “go and catch Süleyman Demirel, we don’t increase the
prices, we only write it!”. Author: Doğan, F. (Source: Ant, March 1967, 12, p. 7)
The cartoon depicting security forces catching students expressing political and economic
dissent via graffiti provides evidence of the initial reactions to the practice. It was published on
a 1967 issue of Ant (‘Pledge’, 'Oath'), another left-wing periodical of the time47. Like the
previous cartoon, this also appeared next to an article against foreign influence but, in this
case, the specific target of criticism was the cooperation of national and foreign pharmaceutical
companies (Naci, 1967)48. While the bottom caption points at the discontent caused by the
policies of the then Prime Minister Süleyman Demirel’s policies, the top caption suggests that
the repression of dissent expressed by students via graffiti had started acquiring visibility on
mainstream newspapers. In other words, it suggests that it was not a one-off event but rather
a growing phenomenon. Hence, the cartoon suggests also the need for further research to
first verify the degree of media coverage in the mid-1960s and then eventually evaluate
whether mainstream media supported the criminalisation of graffiti for agitprop, an issue
emerging also from the examination of non-fictional evidence of its spreading with the 1968
movement.
2.1.2. Spreading (with) the 1968 movement
In the late 1960s, the local society was highly politicized and graffitiing space was a way to
spread the revolutionary ideals of the 1968 movement by ensuring their visibility. By
47 Published from 1967 and closed down by the military in 1971 as part of the crackdown on the radical
leftists, Ant proposed an editorial line that, compared with that of Yön, advocated socialism in more
radical way as result of the political affiliation of its contributors: members or sympathisers of the Labour
Party of Turkey sharing the idea that leftist university students engaged in urban guerrilla activities had
to play a leading role in the anti-imperialist struggle for the independence of the country (Landau, (2017
[1974]).
48 To read the full article, see the by now digitalised copy of the full issue that is now available on the
TÜSTAV online publications archive: https://www.tustav.org/yayinlar/sureli_yayinlar/anthaftalik/
Ant%20-%20Haftalik%20-%20C-1%20-%20Sayi%20-%20012.pdf
35
suggesting this, the archival evidence examined in this section corroborate the scenario
depicted by various historians and political scientists: radicalism started materialising into
widespread unrest and repression materialised instead in interventions such as the 1971
military memorandum, which was supposedly aimed at restoring order but failed in preventing
leftists often self-identifying as revolutionaries from manifesting political and economic
discontent by various means (e.g., street protests, strikes, and urban guerrilla activities)
(Zürcher, 2005 [1993]; Ahmad (1993); Bozarslan, 2006 [2004]; Nocera, 2011; Bozdoğan &
Akcan, 2012; Landau, 2017 [1974]; Benlisoy, 2018). More precisely, graffiti of the late 1960s
reveal that, in Turkey, the 1968 movement was inspired by hostility towards Western influence
on Turkey’s politics. To begin with, see the anti-NATO writing in Figure 53, which does not
depict a static wall but a communicative surface in motion: a boat.
Figure 53 “No to NATO”. (Source: Ant, 1968, June 11, 76, p. 2)
Published on a 1968 issue of Ant (issue 76, p. 2), the picture appeared next to a short yet
important commentary providing detailed information not only about the author of the writing
and the purpose of his propaganda activity but also about the authorities’ reaction: the
fisherman who wrote “no to NATO” on his own boat was taken to the police station for
interrogation, where he explained that he wrote it to give voice to labourers who needed unity
to succeed in class-struggle (Ant magazine, 1968). In short, writing on his own means of
production was an individual act of dissent but was also a call to action. In addition to this, it
was a way to express (working) class pride. As reported by Ant’s editorial team, the fisherman
had in fact made another writing on the other side of his boat, one reading “proleter”
(proletarian). Lastly, the commentary by the editorial team informs us that the proletarian
fisherman lived in a peripheral district of İstanbul (Büyükçekmece). At first glance, this detail
might not seem relevant but is actually of great importance to question if and eventually why
his boat differed from walls. Compared to a static wall of a peripheral neighbourhood, a boat
36
on the move throughout the sea space allowed the content of the fisherman’s writings much
greater visibility49.
Since the United States played a leading role in the functioning of the intergovernmental
military alliance NATO (North Atlantic Treaty Organization) during the so-called Cold-War
decades of the mid-20th century, the slogan against the NATO can be clearly interpreted as a
slogan against them. In other words, the feelings of anti-Americanism vehiculated by the
graffitied boat through the Bosphorus can be interpreted as dissent against the reduction of
Turkey to a military base amid Cold War tensions50. Further evidence of the spreading of antiimperialist
ideas as characteristic feature of the 1968 movement in Turkey is provided by the
photograph below.
Figure 54 Slogan likely written by university students: “no to imperialism”. (Source: Ant, October 1968,
93, p. 10)
The slogan “no to imperialism” appeared on a 1968 issue of Ant (93, p. 10) next to an article
about the student movement in İstanbul and its revolutionary activities (e.g., occupations and
boycotts) (Arolat, 1968). Given this, I would like to make three remarks. First, we can assume
that the authors of the graffiti were university students. Second, we can also assume that the
picture was taken in İstanbul even if no specific information about the exact location was given.
Third, İstanbul was not the only place in Turkey where the global movement of the 1968
spread. For an almost self-explanatory proof of the activities of the student movement in
49 At this regard, I consider it important to stress that the boat can be comparable to the trains signed
with a combination of nicknames and street numbers by youth living in peripheral neighbourhoods of US
cities since the late 1960s. See Nelli (2012 [1978]) for a detailed discussion of the graffiti in the same
period in the US.
50 For a detailed discussion of the hostility towards the US and, more precisely, against American
imperialism, see Bilgiç (2015), who argued that it was not a novelty of the 1960s but it was in this decade
that it became the ideological attitude of leftist groups who perceived US influence on Turkey’s domestic
and foreign policies as a threat to national identity and sovereignty.
37
Ankara, see Figure 55, which depicts the iconic graffiti “devrim” (revolution) at the METU
campus.
Figure 55 Iconic “revolution” graffiti at the METU stadium. Late 1960s. (Source: Yancı, 2019)
In the autumn of 1968, the 33-meter-high graffiti made its appearance on the steps of the
METU stadium by hand of socialist students who were also leaders of the anti-imperialist
movement: Hüseyin İnan, Taylan Özgür, Alpaslan Özdoğan, Mustafa Yalçıner, Mete Ertekin,
and a friend of them (Yancı, 2019). To this day, it is still on its site because, in the following
decades, METU students ensured the permanence of the revolutionary ideals inspiring its
authors, three of which were murdered in the following years under circumstances recalled
later in this section. To give an idea of the street violence marking the late 1960s in Turkey, it
is here sufficient to recall the events of Sunday 16 February 1969, known also as Kanlı Pazar
(Bloody Sunday) because the protests of revolutionary socialists against US imperialism
reached a peak in attendance but the counter-revolutionary responses to the protests reached
a peak in brutality: thousands of students rallied together with workers from Beyazıt Square to
Taksim Square to contest the anchoring of the American Sixth Fleet in İstanbul but Taksim
Square was turned into a proper battlefield where two protesters were killed and hundreds
were injured (Nisan online newspaper, 2019). Despite events like this, and presumably
precisely because of events like this, the student movement carried on with its activities. For
evidence of this, see Figure 56, published a month and a half after the Bloody Sunday in Ant
(1969, April 15, 120, p. 5).
38
Figure 56 Graffiti and posters on the entrance façade of the METU Architecture Faculty building.
(Source: Ant, 1969, April 15, 120, p. 5). Caption: “Slogans at the entrance of the university – Struggle
for a democratic university”. Writing on the left: “This building was liberated”. Writing above the glass
door: “We rule”. Poster on the left: “permanent revolution”.
The graffiti on the glass façade of the METU Architecture department are slogans conveying
the ideal of autonomy inspiring the students who had occupied it: “bu bina kurtarıldı” (“this
building was liberated”) and “yönetim bizimdir” (“we rule”). As for the posters, it must be noticed
that only the content on one of them is readable (the first from the left): ‘sürekli devrim’
(permanent revolution). Besides calling for critical attention on the aforementioned notion of
permanence, this slogan showing the influence of the international(ist) debate about the socalled
permanent revolution theory on the student movement activities51.
To better contextualise the content of the photograph above and thus the anti-imperialist
character of the 1968 movement in Turkey, the content of the article to which it provided visual
support must be also briefly summarised (Ant, 1969). First, it reports that revolutionary
students occupying educational facilities created participatory decision-making structures
(e.g., forums). Besides this, the article was a statement of solidarity with them since they were
struggling against cultural and economic imperialism. Ant’s political stance on the issue was
summarised in the title: “Amerikan eğitim üslerinde işgal ve CHP’nin ihaneti” (“American
51 In line with the Marxist tradition of thought and struggle for a classless society, acclaimed leaders of
the local revolutionary left of the time also contributed to the international(ist) debate about the so-called
permanent revolution theory. As I learned via unstructured interviews, Mahir Çayan was one of them.
For a brief discussion of how different organisations reclaiming his ideological leadership, see the section
“Extensive territorial marking” of this chapter. For visuals, see also Figure 308 in Appendix A. .
39
training bases under occupation and the betrayal of the CHP”). In Turkish, the term “üsler” is
usually accompanied by the term “askeri” and, combined together, the term “askeri üsler”
means “military bases”. By replacing the term “askeri” (military) with the expression “Amerikan
eğitim” (“American education”), the title of the article expresses criticism against cultural and
economic imperialism by comparing universities in Turkey where English is the language of
instruction with US military bases. For instance, this was the case of METU, established in
1956 with the support of representatives of American institutions, who played a crucial role in
its planning and, more specifically, in conception phase (Tekeli, 2006).
Besides occupying educational facilities and graffitiing their surfaces, METU students leading
the movement at the turn of the 1960s and 1970s co-founded Türkiye Halk Kurtuluş Ordusu
(People's Liberation Army of Turkey, THKO), an armed struggle organisation engaged in urban
guerrilla activities (e.g., targeted protests, armed conflict, bank robbery, and kidnapping)52. To
both put an end to street violence and crack down on the leftist movement, state armed forces
arrested, tortured and murdered leftists both before and after the so-called memorandum of
12 March 1971 (Ahmad, 1993, Zürcher 2005[1993], Benlisoy, 2018; Landau, 2017 [1974]).
Among them, there were also three of the authors of the iconic graffiti ‘revolution’ at the METU
campus stadium. Renowned for having burned the car of a US ambassador in front of METU
Rectorate building, Taylan Özgür was killed in September 1969 in İstanbul, where he had gone
to attend a student congress (Evrensel, 2018). Alpaslan Özdoğan was murdered in March
1971 amid a clash on the mountains in Adıyaman (in the southeast of the country), where he
had gone together with other militants to raid an American radar base shortly after the coup
(Birgün, 2021). Hüseyin Inan was murdered in May 1972 together with two other leading
militants of THKO – Yusuf Aslan and Deniz Gezmiş. As it is common knowledge within the
leftist movement in Turkey, the three died in May 1972 in the Ulucanlar prison in Ankara
following the sentence to death by hanging on charges of having attempted to overthrow the
constitutional order. With regard to the historic punishment, Sibel Bozdoğan and Esra Akcan
(2012) argued that it was disproportionate compared to the activities that they had engaged in
and, besides this, they stressed that it did now have the deterrent effect it was supposed to
have.
In the following years, revolutionary leftists did not lose the momentum and rather carried on
with political organisation and mobilisation. Evidence of this is provided in the next section,
which focuses on the second half of the 1970s because none of the sources I was able to
collect referred to the first half of the 1970s and only further and more systematic archival
52 See the third subsection of this section for more details about Dev-Genç (Devrimci Gençlik,
Revolutionary Youth), the organisation from which THKO and several other organisations also engaged
in urban guerrilla activities came out.
40
research can reveal whether the 1971 coup affected the propagandistic use of graffiti by for
instance silencing the walls of dissent.
2.2. Giving voice to the labour movement in the 1970s
In the second half of the 1970s, the working class took the lead of the revolutionary movement
and led the struggle against labour exploitation to a historic peak in intensity in 1977 despite
the brutality of counter-revolutionary attempts. By attesting to this, the walls examined in this
section corroborate the argument by Benlisoy (2018), who claimed that, together with the
1960s, the 1970s can be considered the “heyday of the Turkish left” because both the student
and labour movements engaged in intellectual debates and led a mass mobilisation that
indeed resulted in intense political struggle. Given the massive scale of political organising
and mobilisation, Bora (2021) also argued against the dark age narrative of official
historiography and defined the 1970s as “a period of political maturing” but, besides this, he
suggested to avoid any mythization of the golden era of the Turkish left as patriotic and heroic.
In light of these preliminary remarks, I am going to examine a series of photographs attesting
to the rising wave of strikes that marked the second half of the 1970s. The order of their
examination is not rigorously chronological because thematic arrangement helps to draw
attention on how graffiti for agitprop inevitably mediated space-, class- and gender-related
issues.
2.2.1. A rising wave of strikes
In this subsection section, the focus is on walls suggesting that the leading actors of the labour
struggle in the second half of the 1970s were male actors. For instance, see the figure below
for a call for visibility attesting to the proactive role of revolutionary unionism in the mine
industry, a sector in which women are traditionally invisible but actually not entirely absent53.
The picture 57 is a still frame of a documentary film by about a 23-days strike organised in
May 1976 at the Yeni Çeltek coal mine in the Black Sea region (Akçam, 2004) The slogan is
signed by Yer Altı Maden-İş (Underground Mining Work), the short name of Türkiye Yeraltı ve
Yerüstü Devrimci Maden İşçileri Sendikası (Turkish Underground and Surface Revolutionary
Mine Workers' Union). Founded in 1975 and forcibly closed following the 1980 coup, Yer Altı
Maden-İş coordinated various strikes in the Black Sea region. The Yeni Çeltek strike is
however considered an exemplary case of the union’s revolutionary approach, which can be
53 With regard to women's labour in the mining sector in Turkey, see Özkan (2020).
41
summarised as follows: occupation, self-organisation, self-management, solidarity networking,
and self-defence54.
Figure 57 Slogan: “There is the strike of those who entered the grave before dying – Yeraltı Maden-İş
(Underground Mining Work)”. Yeni Çeltek coal mine, Black Sea region. 1976. (Source: Akçam, 2004)
For reasons whose discussion falls outside the scope of this overview of the leading actors of
the second half of the 1970s, the revolutionary unionism approach proposed by Yer Altı
Maden-İş differed from that proposed by a union that is still active to this day: DİSK, the
acronym of Devrimci İşçi Sendikaları Konfederasyonu (Revolutionary Workers Union
Confederation)55. Below its logo.
Figure 58 Painting of DİSK logo (Source: Şafak, 2015)
Figure 59 DİSK logo (Source:
DİSK, n.d.)
The photograph showing the painting of the logo of DİSK was published on the October 1976
issue of the socialist periodical Ürün (Product/Produce) (Şafak, 2015). By then, the list of
DİSK’s activities was already long since the confederation was founded in 1967 by Maden-İş
(Mining Work) and other unions that split from Türk-İş (the Confederation of Workers Unions
54 For an overview of the activities of Yer-Altı Maden-İş, see: Bütün (2015) and Birikim (1977). See also
DİSK Etkinlikler Dizini (1964-1996) (n.d). Lastly, see Göktaş (2019) for a detailed discussion of the close
relationship between the autonomy model emerged during the occupation of the quarries at the Yeni
Çeltek coal mine in 1976 and the autonomy model implemented by Devrimci-Yol (Revolutionary Path,
an organisation to be discussed later on in this chapter).
55 For the discussion of the different understanding of revolutionary unionism proposed by Yer Altı
maden-İş and DİSK, see Şafak (2018).
42
of Turkey founded in 1952)56. The acronym DİSK reappears in the photograph below, inside
the flower.
Figure 60 DİSK acronym inside a flower and slogans: “long live international solidarity!”, and “fascism
shall not pass”. Place and date missing. (Source: TÜSTAV)
On the wall, there are also two slogans that reinforce each other. One is a call for international
solidarity of the working class; the other is an antifascist slogan. The latter echoes the
internationalist stance evoked by the former. “Faşizme geçit yok” (fascism shall not pass) is in
fact the translation of “no pasarán!”, the worldwide famous slogan of the Spanish Civil War.
The acronym of DİSK reappears in the banner in one of the two pictures below, which depict
the same wall on different occasions.
Figure 61 In blue: “strike at this workplace”. In red: “[i]şciler b[irliği). Great Strike, likely 1977. (Source:
DİSK).
56 See DİSK (n.d.) for a list of the activities from 1967 to 1996.
43
Figure 62 Theatre group performing in a factory during the Great Strike. (Source: Şafak, 2012, p. 87)
In Figure 61, there are two writings. The one in red is not entirely readable but the missing part
can be read in the picture on the right. The slogan in blue signals a strike and, even if the
picture does not contain any specific information about place and date, some information can
be inferred from Figure 62, which was published in a monographic book about the so called
Büyük Grev (Great Strike) (Şafak, 2012). Between 1975 and 1977, thousands of workers in
tens of factories went on strike against MESS (Türkiye Metal Sanayicileri Sendikası), the
Turkish Employers’ Association of Metal Industries (Şafak, 2007 and 2012). All the pictures of
the series below contain the acronym MESS and, altogether, they also attest to the proactive
role of DİSK and Maden-İş (one of DİSK’s founding organisations).
Figure 63 Slogans and imagery of the Great Strike. Late 1970s. Writings on the left: “Our working class
will defeat MESS – Mine-work – DİSK”. Writings on the right: “strike at Aykim”, “down with fascism”,
“there is a strike in this workplace”. (Source: TÜSTAV)
Besides slogans attesting to the presence of a strike and condemning fascism, the wall
contains a male figure breaking a metal chain whose symbolic meaning is self-explanatory: it
stands for the liberation from labour exploitation in the metal industry. The chain reappears in
the mural painting below.
44
Figure 64 A mural and banners of the Great Strike. Late 1970s. Bottom right writing: “There is no
liberation alone, from the fist and the chain, either all together or nobody”. Banner on the left: “we are
with you in the war against MESS, we defeated DGM, it’s MESS’ turn”. Banner in the centre: “’we
defeated MC, it’s MESS’ turn”. Banner on the right: “workers are united, MESS’ is finished”. (Source:
DİSK magazine, August 1977, Yilmaz Aysan’s personal archive)
Besides the chain, the mural above contains other elements worthy of attention. First, the
slogan at the bottom right of the mural, below the logo of DİSK, is a verse of the poem All of
Us or None by Bertolt Brecht (1945) and no wording was ever so apt to evoke class solidarity
and unity in the metallurgic sector: kurtuluş yok tek başına, yumruktan ve zincirden, ya hep
beraber ya hiç birimiz (there is no liberation alone, from the fist and the chain, either all together
or nobody) 57.
In addition to this, the snakes used to write the letters ‘s’ of the acronym MESS and the fist
crushing them must be also noticed. Since I could not find information clarifying if there is any
specific relationship between MESS’s imagery and the symbolism of the snakes (e.g., the
logo), I can merely interpret them based on meanings of traditional symbolism: the snakes
stand for the evil while the fist stands for the strength needed by unionised workers to defeat
it. Given this, further research to find out if they used to have specific symbolic meanings is
suggested all the more so as their symbolic relevance is confirmed also by the image below,
in which both the snakes and the fist reappear.
57 Field observations made in the 2010s revealed its transgenerational use. The slogan continues to be
used in street protests in its shortened version: “kurtuluş yok tek başına, ya hep beraber ya hiç birimiz”
(there is no liberation alone, either all together or nobody). However, there is no picture of graffiti in my
collection.
45
Figure 65 A mural cartoon during the Great Strike. Slogan: “Our working class will make MESS give
up”. (Source: Şafak, 2015)
This image was published in 2015 on the leftist online newspaper Sendika (Trade Union)
together with an interview with Canol Kocagöz, the 1975-1976 General Secretary of the
Karikatürcüler Derneği (Cartoonists Association) (Şafak, 2015). In the interview, Kocagöz
clarified why it was the working-class and its struggle that had a political and practical impact
on art (and not the other way round). Besides remarking that Maden-İş did not tell cartoonists
what to draw and how, he defined mural cartoons as result of the cooperation between workers
and cartoonists. In the next images (Figure 66 and Figure 67, photographs published with the
same interview), we see cartoonists at work and the written document issued by Maden-İş,
the latter granting them access to the factories under strike.
Figure 66 Cartoonists at work amid the Great Strike (Source: Şafak, 2015)
46
Figure 67 Strike visit document (Source: Şafak, 2015)
As remarked by Kocagöz, written permission to visit factories under strike was a safety
measure against the risk of fascist infiltration and police sabotaging the strikes. As specified
by Şafak (2012, pp. 86 – 87), the written permission was needed by all kind of visitors:
members of leftist associations and unions other than Maden-İş but also by workers of other
factories. To contextualise the importance of precautions against provocatory attempts, it is
sufficient to recall the historic events of May Day 1977, known as Taksim Square massacre.
2.2.2. May Day 1977, Taksim massacre, and censorship
During a highly participated rally organised on the occasion of the International Workers’ Day,
a never identified gunman fired into the huge crowd gathered in Taksim Square from the newly
built Intercontinental Hotel (later Marmara Hotel) (Bozdoğan & Akcan, 2012; Batuman, 2015;
Köseoğlu, 2021)58. The brutal intervention of the security forces made the crowd panic, more
than thirty participants were crushed to death, many more were injured, many others were
detained, and the perpetrators were never held accountable (Nocera, 2011; Mavioğlu &
Sanyer, 2007). Self-evidently, the picture below relates to the events.
58 For a brief history of the May Day celebration in Taksim, see Chapter 3.
47
Figure 68 Slogan related to the Taksim Square massacre: “we call the oligarchs to account for the May
Day massacre”. İstanbul. 1977. (Source: Newspaper Günaydın, 1977, month, date, and page missing)
The writing is a slogan calling the oligarchy to account for the responsibility of the May Day
massacre. The picture was published in 1977 on the print newspaper Günaydın together with
an article entitled “Duvarlarındaki sloganları silmeyen 85 ev ve dükkan sahibine para cezası
verildi” (85 home and shop owners who did not erase the slogans on their walls were fined).
Since I did not archive properly the source, I cannot specify month and day of the publication
nor the exact page59. That said, I can nonetheless contextualise the content of the picture
above based on the information I could retrieve from the part of the photograph of the
newspaper page that I instead did not fail to archive. As stated in the newspaper article, the
man indicating the wall writing – a doorman living in the neighbourhood of Fatih (İstanbul) –
declared: “We clean up, they write. Shall we pick up a gun and wait at the door?”. Besides
giving an idea of the violent climate of the time, the story of this picture reveals that the
repressive apparatus exerted censorship also by means of pecuniary coercion. Censorship is
the issue on which the figures below also draw attention.
59 To be more precise, I did not photograph the article in full but I am almost sure that it dated back to
1977 because I focused the non-systematic research in newspapers archive of the Atatürk library on
1977 based on the assumption that it marked a peak in spread of graffiti for agitprop, indeed. Clearly,
my lack of accuracy in taking care of the collected evidence calls for attention on archival-related issues
but a more detailed discussion is postponed to the section of this chapter about the aftermath of the 1980
coup.
48
Figure 69 May Day slogan:
“long live May Day” (Source:
Yılmaz, 1978)
Figure 70 Erasure of a May
Day slogan (Source: Yılmaz,
1978)
Figure 71 A verse of the May
Day anthem: “May 1st,
celebration of workers,
laborers” (Source: Yılmaz,
1978)
The images are still frames of the film Köşeyi Dönen Adam (The Man Who Gets Rich) directed
by Atıf Yılmaz (1978). Censorship is self-evident when reading the first two images together.
As far as the third image is concerned, a few preliminary remarks must be made. The graffiti
in the third image is a verse of the 1 Mayıs Marşı, the anthem of the International Workers’
Day in Turkey (still played and sung for the occasion)60. The anthem was used as soundtrack
of the final scene of the film but the scene was censored since the protagonist (the popular
actor Kemal Sunal) attends the May Day rally at Taksim Square (Birgün, 2017). To explain
why, it must be recalled that, after the massacre, May Day demonstrations at Taksim Square
(and elsewhere in Turkey) were banned61. Over the years, both the ban and the collective
memory of the 1977 events have contributed to strengthen the symbolic meanings of both the
square and May Day to the point that, in the early 2010s and actually to this day, leftists
continue to reproduce and circulate the iconic imagery of the 1977 such as the logo and the
main banner62.
The logo and the banner respectively depict the hands of a worker lifting up the world and the
male worker intent on breaking the chain of labour exploitation that we have already seen in
more than one picture. Given the male-dominance self-evidently emerged from the imagery
examined so far, I consider it crucial to shift the focus to graffiti calling for attention on the role
of women within the labour movement and, more precisely, on the ways of (not) seeing their
productive and reproductive labour.
60 Both lyrics and music are by the composer Sarper Özaslan, who was commissioned to prepare the
soundtracks for a theatre play in Ankara (Bertolt Brecht's "Mother", adapted from Maxim Gorky’s the
homonymous novel). For more information, see Gazete Duvar (2017).
61 To be more precise, it shall be also preliminary recalled that May Day demonstrations in Taksim Square
were banned until 2010 and were banned again in 2013, right before the Gezi uprising’s outburst.
62 For a more detailed discussion of the transgenerational legacy of May Day 1977, see Chapter 3.
49
Figure 72 Logo of May Day
1977 (Source: Eğitim
Sendikası, 2019)
Figure 73 Taksim Square, May Day 1977 (Source:
Umut Sendikası, 2019)
2.2.3. Women’s labour and ways of (not) seeing it
The walls examined in this subsection urge the viewer for critical attention on both “ways of
seeing” (Berger, 1972) and ways “how not to be seen” (Steyerl, 2013). More precisely, the
ways of (not) representing women on walls urge us to tackle gender- and class-related issues
as intersectional. To read the sources in chronological order, I am going to start from fictional
evidence of women’s struggle against traditional gender roles in the mid-1970s.See Figure 74.
Figure 74 Still frame of the film Evde Kalmış Kızlar (Duru, 1975) depicting a slogan for the bride price
abolition. (Source: Politikhane, 2020)
The picture above is a still frame of the comedy film Evde Kalmış Kızlar (Maidens) (Duru,
1975)63. The film focuses on major issues and transformations sweeping through the country
in the 1970s: migration from rural to urban areas in search for work, mobilisation against
landlordship in rural areas, and the rising struggle for the liberation from patriarchal traditions
such as the bride price (the money or goods given to the family of a bride-to-be). Given this, I
argue the historiographical potential of the graffiti even though they are mere elements of a
63 The literal translation of the film title is “Girls Remained at Home” but the idiom “evde kalmış kızlar” is
used to indicate maidens.
50
scenography set but, once again, I also suggest the need for further research to verify their
validity in attesting to the women’s struggle for economic independence. For non-fictional
evidence, see instead Figure 75
Figure 75 Slogan for wage equality during a strike: “[…] equal salary!!! […] all strikers […])”. Date and
place missing. (Source: TÜSTAV)
Place and date of the events are missing but, unless I misinterpret the content of the picture
and that of the not fully readable slogan, these women were workers on strike for wage
equality, one of the core principles of feminist struggle. Another element of remarkable
importance is the presence of a child, most likely the daughter of one of the striking workers.
Her presence raises questions about the un/equal distribution of reproductive work and also
about its in/visibility, issues emerging also from the mural cartoon in the picture below if we
look at it with a critical eye.
Likely made and documented in 1980 during a strike at the Paşabahçe glass factory in
İstanbul, this mural cartoon visualises the conflict of interests between the working-class and
the middle-class but failed to represent working-class women doing both productive and
reproductive labour. To explain why, I am going to decipher the content of the mural cartoon
in detail so as to explain also why I argue that even the spatial positioning of the various
elements composing it can be interpreted as a narrative choice aimed at visualising the
relationship between social inequality and political stance.
51
Figure 76 Making of a mural cartoon during a strike. Likely at the Pasabahçe glass factory,
İstanbul,1980. Slogan in bigger font in the placard: “there is a strike in this workplace”. Slogan in
smaller font: “Kristal İş - Hürcam İş” (crystal work is free glasswork). Speech bubble: “Is now the time
for a strike? The economic situation of our country is very bad, brother, we expect sacrifice from
you…”. (Source: TÜSTAV)
On the left, there is a male figure dressed in his patched working cloths and, clearly, he
represents the working class. Low in wage but high in rage, he stood up for his rights and went
on strike. The element attesting to this is the slogan in bigger font on the placard that the
worker holds with his left hand: “bu iş yerinde grev var” (“there is a strike in this workplace”).
Place and year of the events are missing but the placard contains a second slogan that allows
to infer them. The slogan in smaller font is a word pun that gives clear indications about the
line of business and also about the specific events: “kristal iş hürcam iş” (“crystal work is free
glasswork”). Both Kristal-İş and “Hür-Cam İş were in fact trade unions of the glass industry
established in the 1960s but, in the late 1970s, they got together and, in 1980, they cocoordinated
a 120-days-long strike at the Paşabahçe glass factory in İstanbul (Kristal-İş
Sendıkası, n.d.)64. With the right hand, the worker holds his son. The child has no shoes but a
toy car, one of the various elements in stark contrast with the ones on the opposite side of the
mural cartoon.
On the right, there are well-dressed figures sipping drinks on a luxury car to represent the
middle-class enjoying privileges granted by the working-class labour’s exploitation. The male
figure is probably the factory owner. The writing in the speech bubble explains his selfinterested
reaction to the ongoing strike and also the sardonic smile on his face. He asked the
64 For more detailed information about the 1980 strike and also about the previous strikes, see Kristal-İş
Sendikası (n.d.).
52
working-class representative whether it was the proper time for a strike and mocked him twice.
Besides demanding sacrifice for the benefit of the country’s economy amid a critical period,
he dared to address him with an expression proper of the traditional jargon of class solidarity
such as işçi kardeş (brother-worker). Compared to the graphic details used to give voice to the
working-class, the font size of the writing in the speech bubble is bigger. Whether intentional
or not, this helps to visualise the authoritarian tone of the owner of the factory, which is not the
only thing he owned.
On the right side of the factory owner, there sits a woman. Clearly, she is represented as a
luxury item he shows off just like he does with the car. Moreover, she is represented as having
blonde hair, a detail of particular importance to question whom she represents. Since
blondness in Turkey is often considered a symbol of western, modern, secular, and urban
identity, the woman in the mural painting can be interpreted as a symbol of Turkish women
who feel to belong to an enlightened elite and differentiate themselves from headscarved
women, especially those of lower class, the latter often criticised for being uneducated and
thus ignorant65.
In the light of the observations made so far, it must be lastly noticed that the picture does not
include any female figure representing working class women. Her absence may suggest that
no women were employed at the Paşabahçe glass factory in the 1960s but this was not the
case. This is for instance attested by a report published in the feminist periodical Kadınların
Sesi (1980, June-July, p. 8), which gave voice to women employed in glass factories and
striking to reclaim their rights to better working conditions and salary66. Given this, the
invisibility of the barefoot child’s mother must be not only noticed but also explained. Even in
the case that she was not working there or elsewhere (e.g., in another factory), she must have
probably been at home taking care of reproductive work (e.g., housekeeping) and, even in this
case, her body was denied space for visibility and representation.
It can be therefore concluded that the cartoon somehow turned the wall of the factory into an
extension of domestic walls. Moreover, we can also assume that this was due to a lack of
consciousness of the inequality and exploitation resulting from the traditional gender-based
division of labour in productive and reproductive. The reason behind this assumption is easily
65 These are remarks that I made based on impressions collected throughout my years-long lived
experience between cities such as Ankara and İstanbul. Similar remarks can be found in literary source.
For instance, see Altinay (2013, p. 93), who made more than one argument in this regard. First, being
able to afford to pay the labour of a professional hairdresser to get the hair dyed is a class privilege and,
second, blondness can the willingness to look differently from “Turkey’s ethnic Others”, i.e., Arabs and
Kurds. Any further discussion of issues related to the (re)ethnicization of the body and, more specifically,
to the polarisation of socio-cultural values directly related to the discriminatory differentiation between
so-called ‘white Turks’ and ‘black Turks’ is however out of the scope of this discussion.
66 For a digitalised copy of the full article, see the TÜSTAV online archive at the following link:
https://tustav.org/yayinlar/sureli_yayinlar/kadinlarin_sesi/ks_059_60.pdf.
53
explained when we look at the next picture, which shows that the authors of the mural cartoon
were men.
Figure 77 Male authors of the mural cartoon. Likely İstanbul, 1980. (Source: TÜSTAV)
In light of the remarks made so far, it is even more important to stress the visibility that
progressive women movement instead gave to the rising wave of strikes in sectors including
but not limited to the glass one. For instance, see next picture, which was published together
with “Grev Meydanlarından Yükselen Sesler” (rising voices from the strike squares), the
aforementioned report on the periodical Kadınların Sesi (1980, June-July, 59-60, pp. 8-11).
Figure 78 Mural attesting to the presence of a strike and imagery of May Day (Source: Kadınların Sesi,
1980, June-July, 59-60: 11)
Since the strikes mentioned in the report are many and no captions were provided, I am not
able to discern the specific event depicted in the photograph nor to say with certainty whether
all the women in Figure 78 were striking workers and/or members of a delegation of women
organisations visiting a strike to manifest solidarity. Given this, and given the in/visibility issues
discussed so far, I limit myself to recall two of the women organisations mentioned in the
report: TİP Kadın Seksiyonu (Women Section of Turkish Workers’ Party) and Demokratik
54
Kadınlar Birliği (Democratic Women's Union)67. For further evidence of women’s active
presence within the leftist movement of the second half of the 1970s, see the picture below,
which depicts the graffitied acronym of Devrimci Kadınlar Dernekleri (Revolutionary Women’s
Associations, DKD), an organisation founded in the late 1970s (Keşoğlu, 2007).
Figure 79 Still frame of the film Derdim Dünyadan Büyük (Gören, 1978) depicting a signature graffiti by
Devrimci Kadınlar Dernekleri (Revolutionary Women Associations, DKD). (Source: Politikhane, 2020)
The picture is a still frame of Derdim Dünyadan Büyük (My Problem is Bigger than the World)
(Gören, 1978), a film banned precisely because of the graffiti it contained (Politikhane, 2020).
For contextualisation purposes, it is important to recall that, by the late 1970s, the practice of
marking space with political organisations acronyms had acquired more and more visibility in
cinematographic representations of the highly politicised climate of the time. The next section
explains why.
2.3. Extensive territorial marking in the late 1970s
In the late 1970s, revolutionary socialists fiercely responded to the attacks by far-right militants
backed by state forces so that street violence for territorial control escalated and caused
thousands of casualties (Zürcher, 2005 [1993]; Ahmad, 1993; Bozarslan, 2006 [2004]; Nocera,
2011; Bozdoğan & Akcan, 2012; Landau, 2017 [1974]; Benlisoy, 2018; Gourisse, 2022). Within
such a highly politicised climate, major changes in the use of walls and graffiti occurred.
First, writing slogans became a form of protest in itself (eylem) (Can, 2011). Second, “yazıya
çıkmak” (going out to write [on walls]) became an important step in the education process of
cadres with the beginning of the chase between police and political movements (Emiroğlu
(2011 [2001], p. 481). Third, graffitiing space was no longer a prerogative of the radical left
67 For more information about socialist women organisations of the second half of the 1970s, their legacy
on the 1980s movements, and the reasons why women would deny their legacy, see Keşoğlu (2007).
55
and rather started crossing the political spectrum. For instance, streets were filled with slogans
during and after funeral ceremonies no matter if the students killed were militants of the radical
left or militants of the far-right (Can, 2011). As a result, graffiti were widely spread across the
country and visibly marked the territory contended by antagonistic actors (Emiroğlu,
2011[2001].
Evidence of this is provided not only by the referred literary sources; unstructured interviews
with first-hand witnesses of the streetscape of those years confirmed the same scenario and
actually provided additional insights into it. One of the interlocutors defined it a form of anarchy
and, to my request for explanations, he told me that, by anarchy, he meant disorder as result
of refusal of systemic order. Someone else specified instead that walls filled with wall writings
were not limited to central areas of big cities but were spread also in peripheral areas and
small-scale towns68. To help me get an idea of the scale of the extension and thus visibility, a
third interviewee told me that the graffiti of the Gezi resistance in 2013 were nothing compared
to those of the 1970s69.
Besides slogans properly called as such, the streets were filled with collective signatures
graffiti. As clarified in the Glossary, the term is here suggested to refer to graffiti consisting of
names, acronyms and/or symbols of political parties, organisations and movements. Evidence
of this is examined in the following pages, which are divided into three parts. First, I examine
selective examples of graffiti by revolutionary socialists and slogans that were popular among
them. Then, I examine graffiti showing that the educational facilities retained their territorial
centrality but territorial conflict was extended way beyond their precincts. Lastly, I examine
graffiti for political propaganda by militants of the ultranationalist movement to show that, by
the late 1970s, the propagandistic use of space via graffiti was no longer a prerogative of the
radical left.
68 This is something that will emerge also from the evidence examined in the next section of this chapter.
69 Having documented the rapid and extensive spreading graffiti of the 2013 Gezi resistance in Taksim,
I could easily imagine that the quantity of the graffiti of the second half of the 1970s was really high as
people recall it but, not having experienced the 1970s in Turkey nor elsewhere, I can only suggest the
need for comparative research aimed at in-depth analysis of the similarities and differences with the
streetscape of New York in the same period, which Nelli (2012 [1978], p. 25) described as a “jungle of
colourful writings” because there were no trains and private cars where there were no tags consisting of
combinations of street numbers and nicknames.
56
2.3.1. Revolutionary socialists and popular slogans
Figure 80 Collective
signature: “revolutionaries”.
Place and date missing
(Source: TÜSTAV)
Figure 81 Slogan: “one solution – socialism”. Place and date
missing (Source: TÜSTAV)
The writing on the left can be considered a collective signature; it shows how the
substantivized adjective “devrimciler” (revolutionaries) was used for self-identification
purposes. The writing on the right is a slogan: “one solution – socialism”. This is how it can be
translated even if the expression “tek yol” literally means “the only path” and has clear
connection with “yoldaş” (comrade)70. For the purpose of this discussion, it is important to
stress that, although revolutionary socialism was claimed to be the one and only solution for a
classless society, the socialist-inspired organisations into which the Turkish left had split by
the late 1970s were actually (too) many71. With regard to internal division, it has been argued
that it resulted in organisational fragmentation, which is why it is considered one of the
overlapping issues hindering its development along with counterrevolutionary attacks and
institutional repression (Benlisoy, 2018, Landau, 2017[1974]). With regard to graffiti, archival
research revealed that many were the organisations resorting to them for territorial marking
purposes. See the Appendix A for a sufficiently large sample of photographs published in
printed books, still frames of comedy films and still frames of documentary films showing it,
which altogether show that there was no remarkable diversity in form and content nor in their
spatial use. Most of the graffiti were slogans signed with handwritten names, acronyms,
70 “Yoldaş” is the term used by leftists as the equivalent of the English, Spanish and Italian words
“comrade”, “companera/o” and “compagna/o”. Etymologically, all three terms refer to the practice of
sharing but they differ from each other because of the metaphorical object shared by revolutionary leftists
who do not share the same language: comrades share a room, companeras/os and compagne/i share
bread, and yoldaşlar share a path indeed. An interesting question to answer would be whether the term
yoldaş preceded the expression tek yol or whether the opposite is true but answering it is not relevant
for the examination of the picture.
71 See Family tree of the Turkish radical left. (n.d.).
57
abbreviated forms and symbols of political organisations or entirely consisting of them.
However, this does not diminish their relevance; on the contrary, it suggests that collective
signatures had had become slogans themselves. In other words, signing space had become
a form of protest in itself. For a selective example, see Figure 82, which depicts the collective
signatures of two organisations: Devrimci Genç (Revolutionary Youth) and Devrimci Yol
(Revolutionary Path).
Figure 82 Signatures by Devrimci Yol and Dev-Genç. Still frame of the film Taşı Toprağı Altin Şehir
(Aksoy, 1979). (Source: Politikhane, 2020)
Dev-Genç is the abbreviated form of Devrimci Gençlik (Revolutionary Youth), which is how the
socialist students who founded it in 1969 renamed the Marxist-Leninist organisation of which
they were previously members, Fikir Kulüpleri Federasyonu (Federation of Debate Clubs,
FKF, 1965)72. Dev-Yol is instead the abbreviated form of Devrimci Yol (Revolutionary
Path), an antifascist movement of revolutionary struggle that emerged in 197773. An informal
interview with a first-hand witness of the late 1970s revealed that one of the slogans used by
Dev-Yol was “tek yol devrim” (the only solution is the revolution). The slogan appears in
the picture below and, although it is not signed, it was likely written by members of Dev-
Yol since the picture is a still frame of a documentary film about the self-administration
experiment followed to Dev-Yol’s victory of the 1979 local election in Fatsa, a town in the
Black Sea region (Akçam, 2007)74.
72 For detailed information about Dev-Genç, see Yıldırım (2008). Here, it is sufficient to recall that,
besides fascism, Dev-Genç opposed capitalism and western imperialism, which is why it strongly
opposed economic policies hindering national independence (e.g., aid of institutions like the International
Monetary Fund to face crises) (Bozarslan, 2012; Bozdoğan S. & Akcan E., 2012).
73 For detailed information about Dev-Yol, its funding principles, organizational structure, and strategy,
see Morgul (2007).
74 For more information about the self-administration project in Fatsa, see Morgül (2017). See also Figure
310 in Appendix A, which shows that the same slogan was used also by founded Dev-Sol, the
abbreviated form of Devrimci Sol (Revolutionary Left), an organisation found in 1978 by a group splitting
from Dev-Yol due to factional infighting (Teyhani, 2020).
58
Figure 83 Slogan by Dev-Yol: “No to price rises, revolution is the only solution”. Fatsa. Late 1970s
(Source, Akçam, 2007)
A
Another informal interview revealed that another popular slogan of the 1970s was “kahrolsun
faşizm” (damn fascism). Besides attesting to this, the photographs below show also that i t
was used by different collective actors.
Figure 84 (In red) “Damn fascism”, signed by DÖB. Taksim
Square. 1978. (Source: Can, 2011, p. 201)
Figure 85 Antifascist slogan
signed by CHP (Source: Akçam,
2004)
59
In Figure 84, the popular antifascist slogan is signed by DÖB, the acronym of Devrimci
Öğrenci Birliği (Revolutionary Students Association), an organisation founded in 1968 by
militants of the student movement with the aim of sustaining and spreading revolutionary
thought and action (Yıldırım, 2008). In Figure 85, the same slogan is instead signed by CHP,
the acronym of Cumhuriyet Halk Partisi (Republican People's Party), founded under the
leadership of Mustafa Kemal Atatürk in 1923 in concomitance with the foundation of the
Turkish Republic and still active as a mass party to this day, when it continues to reclaim the
principles adopted in the 1920s and 1930s (republicanism, populism, nationalism,
secularism, statism, and revolutionism)75. For further evidence of graffiti in the form of
antifascist slogans, see the next subsection.
2.3.2. Educational facilities and beyond
In the late 1970s, the clashes of the leftists with counterrevolutionary actors became
particularly harsh (Bozdoğan & Akcan, 2012; Benlisoy, 2018). With regard to space to be
(re)appropriated, it shall be stressed that educational facilities retained a certain centrality. To
explain why, it is here sufficient to recall that young militia of far-right organisations trained to
physical culture, military aesthetic and religion regularly engaged in armed aggressions and
bombings in university campuses to intimidate leftist militants (Gourisse, 2022). For a graffiti
attesting to the reaction of leftist students self-identifying as revolutionaries, see Figure 86.
Figure 86 “We’ll break the fascist occupation in A.İ.T.İ.A. - revolutionaries”. Wall of a carpark in Kolej /
Kurtuluş, Ankara. 1977. (Source: Aysan, 2013, p. 10)
75 For images attesting to the influence of socialist ideals on the CHP in the 1970s, see Figure 311 and
Figure 312 in Appendix A, in which the party acronym is combined with the hammer and sickle, the wellknown
symbol of agricultural and industrial workers’ solidarity. See also Bertuccelli (2013) for detailed
info about the relationship between the Kemalist tradition and the revolutionary youth.
60
Most likely, the revolutionaries who signed the slogan were students because A.İ.T.İ.A. is the
acronym of Ankara İktisadi ve Ticari İlimler Akademisi (Ankara Academy of Economic and
Commercial Sciences). For further evidence of the highly conflictual atmosphere dominating
the space of educational facilities, see also the next photograph, which attests also to the
conflict between revolutionary students and state security forces and thus retains crucial
relevance even if the wall writing is not entirely readable76.
Figure 87 Traces of clashes between students and police in İstanbul. Late 1970s. (Source: Can, 2011,
p. 114)
By the late 1970s, conflict for territorial control was no longer restricted to university facilities
(e.g., campuses); the clashes had rather expanded throughout cities and towns with the aim
of achieving territorial control over entire neighbourhoods (Zürcher, 2005 [1993]; Bozdoğan &
Akcan, 2012). For evidence of this and the related escalation of street violence, see the next
picture.
Figure 88 Bomb attack signed with a graffiti. Fatih, İstanbul. Late 1970s (Source: Newspaper
Günaydın, 1977, month, date, and page missing)
76 The image was found on the book by Can (1980, p. 115), who remarked that the picture was taken at
Galatasaray High School but, since the writing surely contains the word “university”, one might wonder
whether the authors were high school or university students.
61
Since the content of the writing in Figure 88 is not readable, it is not possible to say whether it
contains the signature of a specific organisation but, most likely, the authors were members
of the revolutionary left. As reported in the newspaper where it appeared, the bomb attack
depicted in the picture occurred in fact in the neighbourhood of Fatih in İstanbul and targeted
Ülkücü Esnaflar Derneği (Idealistic Shopkeepers Association), an ultranationalist
organisation77. With regard to the term “ülkücü” (idealistic), it is important to stress that several
organisations of the ultranationalism movement used it for self-identification purposes.
Evidence of this and also of the use of walls by militants of the ultranationalist movement is
discussed more in detail below.
2.3.3. The ultranationalist movement
Militants of the ultranationalist movement also resorted to mural writing for both propaganda
and territorial marking purposes. For fictional evidence of this and also of graffitiing space for
counterpropaganda, see the writing in black overwritten with red paint.
Figure 89 MHP signature graffiti (in black, erased with red painting). Still frame of the film Çöpçüler
Kralı (Ökten, 1977). (Source: Politikhane, 2020)
The writing in black overwritten with red paint is the acronym of Milliyetçi Hareket Partisi
(Nationalist Movement Party), which is the name given in 1969 to Cumhuriyetçi Köylü Millet
Partisi (Republican Villager Nation Party, CKMP, 1964). By the end of the 1970s, the MHP led
an ultranationalist movement composed by paramilitary youth organisations and was strongly
linked to the state’s repressive apparatus (Gourisse, 2022). See the picture below for non-
77 Since I did not archive properly the source, I cannot specify month and day of the article publication
nor the exact page.
62
fictional evidence of a graffiti for political propaganda signed by the ÜGD, the acronym of two
youth organisations that succeeded one another as a result of restructuring in the late 1970s:
Ülkücü Gençler Derneği and Ülkücü Gençlik Derneği (both translatable as Association of the
Idealist Youth)78.
Figure 90 “The ÜGD will be the grave of high school communists” (Source: Akçam, 2004)
The slogan is a death threat providing clear evidence of the hate speech that far-right militants
used against radical leftist youth. The intimidating character of the message must be explained
in the light of what Gourisse (2022) remarked, namely that the far-right militias of the
ultranationalist movement felt entitled to use violence since they were indoctrinated to claim
that they were defending the state against the communist threat but their violence went beyond
ideological extremism and escalated into ethnicized violence. Below, I discuss the crucial
function that graffiti had in its perpetration.
2.3.3.1. Ethnicized violence and perpetrator graffiti
According to various sources, both militants of the radical left and militants of the far-right
regularly engaged in violent actions for territorial control but the violence that ultranationalists
perpetrated against leftists and ethnic minority groups affiliated with leftist politics was greater
both in intensity and scale (Gourisse, 2022; Bozdoğan S. and Akcan E., 2012; Benlisoy, 2018;
Bozarslan, 2006 [2004]; Ahmad, 1993; Zürcher, 2005 [1993]). For instance, in December
1978, militants of the ultranationalist movements massacred the Alevi Kurdish community of
78 For more information, see the website of Ülkü Ocakları Eğitim Ve Kültür Vakfı.
63
the southern city of Kahramanmaraş79. Until the belated arrival of tanks, armed assaulters
shouting anti-communist and jihadist slogans looted and burned down hundreds of properties,
injured more than a thousand people, and brutally slaughtered more than a hundred (children
and pregnant women included) (Akçam, 2007b). See the figure below for written evidence of
a jihadist slogan attesting to the politicisation of identarian and communitarian divisions for
propaganda rhetoric.
Figure 91 Jihadist slogan: “To war for Allah”. Maraş massacre. 1978. (Source: Akçam, 2007b)
In the case of the Maraş massacre, the function of graffiti went far beyond propaganda
purposes and that is why I address them as “perpetrator graffiti” (Protner, 2018)80. The houses
of Alevis to be murdered had been in fact marked in advance while houses and workplaces
marked with the acronyms and symbols of the Nationalist Movement Party (MHP) or the
Idealist Youth Association (ÜGD) were not destroyed (Akçam, 2007b). See the next figures.
Figure 92 Acronym of the MHP.
Maraş massacre. 1978. (Source:
Akçam, 2007b)
Figure 93 Acronyms of
ultranationalist organisations.
(Source: Akçam, 2007b)
Figure 94 Triple crescent
moon. (Source: Akçam,
2007b)
79 Affiliation of Alevis community with the left was confirmed by Fabio Salomoni, scholar expert in the
persecution of Alevis in Turkey (informal interview).
80 As mentioned in the Glossary, Beja Protner (2018) suggested the term “perpetrator graffiti” for wall
writings with violent content made by military forces in urban war zones in Kurdish-majority provinces of
Turkey in the period 2015 – 2016. Here, it is suggested that the use of the term can be extended to the
graffiti of the Maraş massacre.
64
In the aftermath of the massacre, martial law was declared both in Kahramanmaraş and other
provinces but ultranationalist militants carried on with the organisation of violent attacks
motivated by ethnic hatred. For instance, between May and July of 1980, they launched a
pogrom against the Alevi Turkish population of the northern Anatolian city of Çorum following
the spreading of rumours that the ‘infidels’ were planning to bomb Sunni mosques (Bulut,
2016). For a slogan against the Alevi population of Çanakçı (a village in the city of Çorum),
see the picture below, which shows also the signature by the ÜYD, acronym of Ülkü Yolu
Derneği (Idealist Path Association)81.
Figure 95 “Çanakcı out - ÜYD”. Çorum massacre. Spring-summer 1980. (Source: TÜSTAV)
With regard to the Alevi/Sunni conflict and, more generally, to the violence for territorial control
that caused thousands of casualties by the end of the 1970s, there is a widely held opinion,
namely that the state allowed their escalation so as to prepare the terrain for an authoritarian
regime able to resolutely crackdown on revolutionary politics (Benlisoy, 2018; Akçam, 2007b;
Bulut, 2016; Bora, 2021). For reasons explained below, the change followed to the 1980 coup
is of particular relevance in the historicization of graffiti and their spatial use.
2.4. Aftermath of the 1980 coup: overpainting, prison walls, and archival damage
Violence culminated in the coup of 12 September 1980, which put an end to the Second
Turkish Republic proclaimed after the 1960 coup with the 1961 Constitution. Besides
suspending the Parliament and extending martial law to the whole country, the military junta
that governed the country for three years took harshly repressive measures aimed at
81 Founded in 1980 and headquartered in Nevşehir, the ÜYD was not affected by the state of emergency
enacted in many cities and acted as representative for the Nationalist Movement until the 1980 military
coup (Ülkü Ocakları Eğitim Ve Kültür Vakfı, n.d.).
65
depoliticising the society and making it obedient by frightening it: all political parties and trade
unions were banned, professional organizations and associations were closed, universities
lost their autonomy, censorship became extreme, and the leftists who had given rise to the
animated political atmosphere of the previous years were purged, charged, arrested, tortured,
killed, sentenced to death or made to disappear (Benlisoy, 2018, Bozarslan, 2006 [2004] and
2012; Nocera, 2011; Bozdoğan and Akcan, 2012; Landau, 2017 [1974]; Gourisse, 2022;
Ahmad, 1993; Zürcher, 2005 [1993]).
Repression affected also graffiti in more than one way. First, it caused their disappearance
from the street. As pointed out by Emiroğlu (2011 [2001]), the first task of the coup was forcing
residents to clean up their neighbourhoods from wall writings but they could not be easily
erased, which is why residents had to cover them up. See Figure 96.
Figure 96 Military forcing residents to clean up walls. (Source: TÜSTAV)
The picture above was found through research the TÜSTAV digital archive but both location
and date are missing. Following the remarks of an expert in visual culture on the military’s
physical outlook and uniform, I searched on the Internet to double check if the picture really
dates back to the aftermath of the 1980 coup in Turkey. Since it appears also on the episode
39 of the TV-Series Çemberimde Gül Oya by Gül (2005), I assume that it was taken in Turkey
after the 12 September coup. The next pictures are still frames of the same episode and,
despite providing fictional evidence of the reality, they altogether help to further visualise both
the wallscape and the streetscape.
66
Figure 97 Fictional evidence of
walls erasure after the 1980
coup (Source: Gül, 2005)
Figure 98 Army watching over
people cleaning up walls
(Source: Gül, 2005)
Figure 99 Men covering up wall
writings (Source: Gül, 2005)
While the streets were being cleaned up, political inmates continued to write their own slogans
on the prison cell walls but were forced to clean them up from there, too. Fictional evidence of
this is provided by selective still frames of Duvar (The Wall), a film by Yılmaz Güney (1983).
Figure 100 Revolutionary slogan in prison. Still
frame of the film Duvar (The Wall) (Güney, 1983)
Figure 101 Erasure of a revolutionary slogan in
prison. Still frame of the film Duvar (The Wall)
(Güney, 1983)
At the same time, wall writings that I suggest to call “intikam duvar yazıları” (revenge wall
writings) started also appearing on the walls of the prison cells. As pointed out by Bozarslan
(2006: 76), political prisoners were in fact obliged to write slogans of the military regime that
ruled from 1980 until 1983 (e.g., “Turkey: bigger than anything else”, “Whoever touches the
prayer mat with his forehead is my brother”).
In addition to this, the consequences of the 1980 coup on graffiti supposedly included also
archival damage, an issue that requires critical examination. In reply to informal requests for
visual material relative to the graffiti for political propaganda of the 1960s and 1970s, I was
more than once told that photographs are hard to find because of the archival damage followed
to the coup. At this regard, it is obviously not my intention to question the objectivity of a
commonly emphasised fact discussed also in the literature (e.g., see Marcella, 2015).
However, I claim that lack of historical research and archival issues cannot be too quickly
dismissed as effect of the military repression. In other words, the archival damage followed to
the coup cannot be considered neither the sole nor the main reason underlying the alleged
difficulties in finding evidence of the propagandistic use of walls via graffiti in the years
67
preceding the coup. Furthermore, I argue that lack of documentation of graffiti, archiving and
related research rather depend also on a lack of sufficient recognition of their historical value
and historiographical potential, which in turn depended on a lack of artistic recognition. To
explain why, I am going to make a series of self-critical and critical remarks.
First and foremost, I acknowledge the shortcomings of the archival research I conducted for
this study, namely a lack of systematic approach that resulted in the aforementioned
inaccuracy in archiving written and visual sources (e.g., missing date and place of events
depicted in photographs found at the Atatürk newspaper archive). Moreover, I also
acknowledge that I did not enquire about the degree of diffusion of photographic cameras at
that time, which might be in turn related to reasons including but not limited to high costs.
However, even the scarce diffusion of tools for recording visual material would not be enough
to explain why the high quantity of wall writings filling the local collective memory were not well
documented. As stated by the (mural) cartoonist Canol Kocagöz, archiving was not a common
habit in those years (Şafak, 2015)82. However, published works provide evidence of better
documentation of other types of visual material (e.g., posters) (see for instance Aysan, 2008
and 2013). The disparity in care given to wall writings and other types of visual material might
be best explained by recalling a series of statements made by an expert in visual propaganda
of the period 1965-80 in reply to my request for visual material (July, 2012):
[Duvar yazıları] is the least documented part of propaganda activities during 70s […] some people
kept the posters, flyers, magazines...but they did not care to shoot photos of the walls […] I find it
very hard to call them ‘graffiti’, they were just quick wall writings without any graphic or typographic
concern.
However, during the late 1970s, not long before the coup, the perception of wall writings seems
to have started changing. For instance, the still frames of contemporary films included in the
selection of images examined so far provide evidence of increased interest of the artworld in
integrating wall writings in visual representations of the highly politicised climate of the time83.
For further evidence, see the image below, which depicts musicians posing with their back to
a wall full of writings.
82 “Açık olarak söyleyebilirim ki o yıllarda hiç birimizin arşivcilik diye bir alışkanlığı olmadığından
karikatürlerimizin peşinde olmadık” (Kocagöz interviewed by Şafak, 2015)
83 In turn, Increased interest in archiving still frames of Yeşilçam films depicting wall writings is attested
by the recent online publication of an article entirely dedicated to the topic (see Politikhane, 2020).
68
Figure 102 Cover of the LP album Poverty Can’t Be Destiny by Cem Karaca & Dervişan (1977)
(Source: Aysan, 2013, p. 441)
Following the 1980-1983 military regime, the political economic landscape of contemporary
Turkey changed paradigmatically as a result of the rise of neoliberalism and conservatism.
From a spatial point of view, one of the visible effects of the adoption of the neoliberal model
of development in the 1980s was the large spreading of commercial billboards mentioned by
more than one scholar (Taş & Taş, 2014; Keyder, 2005, p. 128)84. As for duvar yazıları with
political content, literary sources attesting to their relatively long-lasting disappearance from
the street also attest to their reappearance (Taş & Taş, 2014; Emiroğlu, 2011 [2001]). Besides
providing evidence of this, the written evidence examined in the next section helps also to
speculate on another question, namely whether walls were completely silent or not until the
late 1980s.
2.5. From walls to books of jokes: the post-coup society in the late 1980s / early 1990s
In the late 1980s, mural writing entered a new phase, one that Emiroğlu (2011 [2001], p. 480)
defined as moda (trend, fashion) because of the following reasons: printed collections
accompanied with theoretical explanations started being published, humorous writings (mostly
handwritten on walls) started acquiring media visibility on newspapers, and mostly handwritten
stickers spread and started being sold in bookstores, stationery stores, and souvenir shops.
Similar yet more detailed is the overview of the changing scenario provided by Ünsal Özünlü
(1991) in Türk gülmecesinde duvar ve kaldırım yazıları (Wall and sidewalks writings in Turkish
84 However, a still frame of the film Köşeyi Dönen Adam (The Man Who Gets Rich) (Yılmaz, 1978)
showed a large billboard of Coca-Cola, probably to draw attention of the viewer to American imperialism
and is not enough to say anything about the scale of spread of commercial billboards by then.
69
humour), which might be one of the very first academic contributions on the subject matter in
Turkey. With regard to the new phase entered by political satire, Ozünlü also stressed that
slogans, jokes, puns, thought-provoking words, and riddles written on walls, sidewalks and
other places (e.g., toilet walls) began to be increasingly collected in books.
In light of these preliminary remarks, I consider it important to briefly review some of the books
of jokes into which walls were turned. The purpose is to show that diversity in content from the
graffiti from the previous years does not diminish the historiographical potential of the
humorous wall writings of the late 1980s and early 1990s, which altogether provide a portrait
of the post-coup society. Hence, I am going to start from the very first printed collection: Biz
Duvar Yazısıyız (We are Wall Writings) (Kutal, 1988). Figure 103 is a picture of the book cover.
Figure 103 First printed collection of wall writings in Turkey (Kutal, 1988)
Published in 1988, the book is a collection of writings but includes only few photographs since
most of them were taken from other printed collections. In terms of content, the selection
varies. Topics include discontent with the economic situation, women related issues,
anti/racism, etc. Most of them were from Oslo (the city where the author was living) but the
collection includes also writings from other places (Paris, UK, New York, Moscow, St.
Petersburg, Kiev, Taşkent, and Tbilisi). Given this, the book can be considered an attempt at
looking at the space of the street from a global perspective. For instance, selecting writings
with humorous content, the author showed that laughing at the society in which one lives to
complaint about it was not a prerogative of Turkish context but rather a transnational attitude.
More importantly, the book was an attempt at drawing attention on the global connections
between different geopolitical and cultural contexts. Besides indirectly emerging from the title,
this was somehow even stated in the book since it ends with a call for contributions. Readers
were invited to record wall writings found in various places and send them to the İstanbulbased
Metis publishing house. The outcome of this editorial project is Biz De Duvar Yazısıyız:
70
Türkiye’den Graffiti (We Are Also Wall Writings: Graffiti from Turkey) (Metis Publications,
1989), the first printed collection of wall writings from Turkey. Figure 104 is the book cover.
Figure 104 First printed collection of wall writings from Turkey (Metis Publications, 1989)
The book contains letters and wall writings from all over Turkey but mostly from big cities
(İstanbul, Ankara and İzmir). The reason is best explained in a letter: “duvar yazısı bizim
toplumumuzun hiç te yabancı olmadığı bir halk edebiyatı türüdür” (“wall writing is a kind of folk
literature that is not foreign to our society”) (Metis Publications, 1989, p. 16). To a certain extent
similar, another letter claims that “graffiti son zamanlarda oldukça yaygın bir sanat” (graffiti has
recently become a pretty common art), and that “herhalde bütün halkın yarattığı, katıldığı tek
sanat dalı” (probably is the only art branch created and participated by the whole people)
(Metis Publications, 1989, p. 79)85. In terms of content, few selected writings provide evidence
of the humorous re-politicisation of the contents.
For example, one reads: “Türküm, çalışkanım, işsizim, doğruyum, solcuyum, hapisteyim” (I’m
Turkish, I’m a hard worker, I’m unemployed, I’m honest, I’m leftist, I’m in prison) (Metin
Publications, 1989, 42). Clearly, the writing is an adaptation of the first verse of the oath that
primary school students recited daily since the early Republic to 2013: Türküm, doğruyum,
çalışkanım (I am Turkish, I am honest, and I am a hard worker). The author resorted to selfirony
to point at the contradictions between the nationalist values it glorifies and the reality of
the time: industriousness vs. unemployment, and honesty vs. repression face by leftist
militants.
85 However, not all were positive. For instance, the following excerpt of a letter reveals sharp criticism
against the practice not only because of aesthetic reasons but also because of its allegedly foreign origin:
“duvara yazı yazmak hakkındaki görüşlerinize katılmıyorum. Ne olursa olsun duvara yazmak duvarı
kirlemektir. […] Kitabınızıdaki yazıların tamamı Avrupa’dan, umarım bu akım Türkiye’ye gelmez”.
Translated, it means: “I do not agree with your opinions about writing on walls. No matter what, writing
on walls is making walls dirty […] All the writings in your book are from Europe and, hopefully, this trend
will not reach Turkey”). (Metis Publications., 1989, p. 19).
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A second selected example is reads: “ODTÜ’lüler şanslıyız çünkü kafeteryamızı işgale karşı
2 jandarma koruyor” (At METU, we are lucky because there are only 2 gendarmes to protect
our cafeteria from occupation) (Metin Publications, 1989, p. 142). Besides attesting to the
humorous re-politicisation of walls, this writing bear crucial historiographical relevance since,
if its content was real, it informs us that, in the post-coup era, state security forces prevented
students from occupying the METU campus again by manning it in.
In the late 1980s, a third printed publication of humorous wall writings was also published. As
discussed below, it provides evidence of the self-irony with which women of the second wave
of the feminist movement faced gender-related issues.
2.5.1. Women’s self-irony
A third printed publication of wall writings published in the late 1980s is Women Wall Writings:
God is dead, long live the goddess (Çorlu & Tütüncü, 1989). As the title itself suggests, it is a
collection of writings by women only. See Figure 105 for a picture of the book cover.
Figure 105 Printed collection of wall writings by women only (Çorlu & Tütüncü, 1989)
It goes nearly without saying that the main target of the humour of the writings in this collection
is in fact one: patriarchy. While the publication itself attests to the safe space of visibility that
women had been carving out by the late 1980s, an analytical scanning of the content of the
humorous writings revealed growing consciousness in areas opened up by the so-called
second-wave feminism86. As it can be seen from selective examples included in Appendix B,
86 In Turkey, the second wave of feminism emerged with the campaign No to Beating (Dayağa Hayır) in
the early 1980s (Düzkan, 2021).
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topics included in fact freedom of sexual orientation, self-determination over the body, fear of
gender violence disguised as love, right to divorce, birth control methods, and right to abortion.
Although the content of the writings in the book do not contain specific reference to urban
space, their historiographical significance for the understanding of the politics of space is
crucial since they attest to the following fact: gender issues and feminist struggle had reached
everyday visibility at the street level by the late 1980.
In the early 1990s, walls continued to be turned into books of jokes and, as discussed below,
selected examples call for attention on how both militaristic nationalism and collective memory
of the revolutionary left affected the wallscape.
2.5.2. Laughing at militarism
In the wake of the growing interest for documentation and dissemination, the number of printed
collections of wall writings increased. For instance, the figures below are the covers of two of
the several printed collections that were edited by professional humourists of the time
(Ustundağ, 1990; Özdemiroğlu, 1990).
Figure 106 Printed collection of wall
writings by Üstündağ (1990)
Figure 107 Printed collection of wall
writings by Özdemiroğlu (1990)
For selected writings appearing in these printed collections, see also Appendix B. The reason
for including them in this study is to argue their historiographical potential in attesting to the
use of walls to make fun of the post-coup society. In fact, as it emerges from the sample, the
writings touch upon interrelated topics: corruption, repression, fear of another coup, torture,
and militarist nationalism. With regard to militarist nationalism, see also the writing in the figure
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below, which makes fun of the writings that I suggest to call “askeri gurur duvar yazıları
(conscription pride wall writings)”87.
Figure 108 Humorous writing about conscription: “he is soldier now…tomorrow maybe President of the
Republic” (Source: Özdemiroğlu, 1990, p. 17)
The historiographical relevance of the writing above is twofold. First, it suggests that, by the
early 1990s, conscription pride wall writings must have been widespread enough to make fun
of it. In addition to this, it suggests that the conscription pride wall writings I later documented
in the early 2010s are a tradition in itself worthy of further research, aimed for instance at
finding out whether their emergence precedes the 1980 coup or not.
In the latter case, their emergence could be added to range of consequences of the 1980 coup
on the graffiti history in Turkey and, more precisely, the hypothesis to verify is that, with the
temporary disappearance of graffiti for agitprop, the post-coup walls were not silent but rather
vehiculated militaristic nationalism. In the figure below, another writing suggesting that
conscription pride wall writings were widespread enough to attract attention and inspire jokes.
To a certain extent, this graffiti is similar to culture jamming88. To clarify why, a series of
remarks shall be made. First, the writing consists of a short conversation between two
revolutionaries or, to better say, to alleged revolutionaries given that they are referred to as
“dönek”. In argo (slang), the term is used to indicate someone changing views too often and
therefore not to be trusted (Pulur, 2008). That said, the writing is too short to infer whether
disclaiming the revolutionary experience of the pre-coup era was a widespread attitude among
revolutionary socialists. Another possible interpretation is that the author of the writing simply
87 See the Glossary for a brief explanation of their recurring content.
88 As explained in the Glossary, culture jamming is awareness raising technique known also as
‘subvertising’ and based on alteration and/or parody.
74
wanted to react to the repression climaxed under the military regime by making fun of it via
anagogical language. To clarify this, it shall be explained that the expression “devrimciliğini
nerede yaptın”? (Where did you do your revolutionary service?) is a parody of “askerliği nerede
yaptın?” (Where did you do your military service?), an expression of the jargon related to the
military service (to this day, compulsory in Turkey).
Figure 109 “From two renegades’ chat: - Where did you do your revolutionary service? - In Taksim
Square, short term…” (Source: Özdemiroğlu, 1990, p. 71)
That said, it is difficult to say whether it was about irony or rather self-irony. What is instead
uncontroversial is that the writing attests to the symbolic meanings of Taksim Square. More
precisely, it suggests that they were already rooted in the collective memory of the local left
by the early 1990s. By then, novel traditions of graffitiing space had reached Turkey.
2.6. Emergence of tagging, street art, and possibly punk graffiti in the 1990s
By the early 1990s, novel traditions of graffitiing space had reached Turkey. One of them is
the individual signature graffiti tradition initiated in the U.S. working class neighbourhoods in
the late 1960s and known in jargon as tagging, i.e., signing space (Sarıyıldız, 2007). As
mentioned already in the Glossary, early tags were a combination of textual and numeric
elements: the writers’ pseudonyms and the number of streets where they lived89. Systematic
research on tagging in Turkey started in the 2000s and revealed its close relationship with the
hip-hop movement (Sarıyıldız, 2007)90. Given this, further research on the 1990s would surely
add information of valuable importance in view of an increasingly comprehensive history of
graffitiing in Turkey. However, the hypothesis that early writers in Turkey were not affiliated
with the hip-hop movement is most likely to be excluded given the findings of the systematic
89 See Nelli (2012 [1978]) for a pioneering study on the subject matter.
90 See the glossary for a brief explanation of what the hip-hop cultural and artistic movement is.
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research on the history of tagging conducted by the expert scholar Abarca (2012), who argued
that the linkage between tagging and hip-hop dates back to the 1980s.
In the late 1980s, the punk movement also reached Turkey. The research on the collective
memory of it done so far does not provide information about the spread of graffiti within the
local scene yet it revealed an interesting detail: the first hard-core punk festival in Turkey
(1992) took place in a bar in Ankara named Graffiti (De Sanctis, 2022). See the figure below
for the poster advertising the event.
Figure 110 Gig poster, Graffiti Bar, Ankara, 1992 (Source: De Sanctis, n.d.)
For an increasingly comprehensive history of the practice of graffitiing space in Turkey, this
poster clearly provides a good starting point for further research, which could help to find out
if the emergence of punk music implied also the emergence of “punk graffiti” (Abarca, 2008b),
indeed. See the figure below for a graffiti documented in the early 2010s and suggesting that
further research starting from the 1990s could shed light on the relationship between punk
ethos and the representations of space by social actors self-defining as anarchists.
Further research on the 1990s is suggested also for what concerns the emergence in Turkey
of so-called street art. In this case, a starting point is the little yet precious information provided
by Taş & Taş (2014), namely that it started emerging and spreading in the 1990s, indeed. If
evidence of this could be found, it would be interesting to evaluate the findings in light of the
findings of the research by Abarca (2021), who argued that, in the late 1980s, street art
76
popularity faded away and, as consequence, the 1990s saw a widespread reduction in activity
except for few exceptions (e.g., street artists such as Reve and Shepard Fairey).
Figure 111 Punk graffiti and anarchy symbol. İstanbul. 2012.
In the 1990s, mural writing for political propaganda also continued although the writings were
not comparable to the ones of the previous years (Emiroğlu (2011 [2001]). Given this but given
also the aforementioned lack of adequate documentation of this genre of graffiti, I doubt that
further research on the 1990s could be fruitful. However, it might be still worthy to give it try
precisely because of the findings of the research on mural writing done in and on the 2000s,
namely that wall writings were mostly to be found not in city-centres but in peripheral
neighbourhoods (Eluard, 2007). If archival research of photographic and/or evidence of mural
writing in the 1990s and 2000s could prove fruitful, it would be important to carry out content
analysis to find out whether walls of large- and/or small-scale cities in Turkey contained
writings expressing dissent on themes of particular relevance for space-focused research on
graffiti (e.g., real-estate development). I say so because the relevance of mural writing and
other traditions to the politics of space was evident in the early 2010s. The overview of the
fieldwork observations provided in the next section is ultimately aimed to highlight this.
2.7. Overview of the fieldwork observations made in the early 2010s (before Gezi)
In the early 2010s, I documented graffiti in all the cities where I stayed or travelled within the
scope of the research project Englobe: Ankara, İstanbul, Buenos Aires, New York, Madrid,
and Belfast91. The quantity of the material collected was sufficient for a comparative study with
91 As discussed in the Introduction, Englobe (Enlightenment and Global History) was a 3-year Marie
Curie initial training network committed to the examination of the historical dimensions of globalisation.
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the graffiti documented in Turkey in the early 2010s92. However, I preferred not to embark in
such a project93. As already explained in the Introduction, I rather decided to continue to
explore the local context in search for additional material without however losing sight of how
global dynamics were affecting it. For instance, in the early 2010s, the urban vector İstanbul-
Ankara was evaluated as one among the most significant even before Gezi because it was
“rapidly becoming a major global policy nexus” (Sassen, 2012)94. In this section – the last of
this chapter – I therefore provide an overview of the observations made in Ankara and İstanbul
in the early 2010s (before Gezi)95.
2.7.1. Ankara
At the beginning of the 2010s, there were little to no graffiti in the central areas of Ankara that
I had observed via explorative flanerie out of personal interest (e.g., Kızılay, Kolej, Sıhhiye,
and Ulus). Right after my arrival, I however noticed the political use of graffiti. In Figure 112,
the very first slogan that I documented in Turkey: a writing appeared in June 2010 on a wall of
the Iranian embassy in Ankara during a street protest (the latter in Figure 113).
Figure 112 Slogan vs. the then President of the
Islamic Republic of Iran: “Shame on [Mahmoud]
Ahmadinejad”. Tahran Avenue, Çankaya,
Ankara. 2010.
Figure 113 Street protest near the Embassy of
The Islamic Republic of Iran. Tahran Avenue,
Çankaya, Ankara. 2010.
92 In addition to the material collected in the period 2010-2013, I could have also used material collected
before the beginning of the Englobe project, when I had documented graffiti out of personal interest in
various cities (e.g., Berlin, London, and London Derry).
93 Since the selection of images included is in this chapter is very large, I even discarded the idea of
including selective examples of the many photographs that I took in these cities in an additional Appendix.
94 However, to this day, Ankara is not yet ranked as a global city but is defined as “a global future city”.
See Global Future Cities Programme (n.d.).
95 Unless specified, the photographs were taken by the author. The date in the captions refers to year
when they were taken.
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In addition to this, I observed a remarkable increase in spread of graffiti for agitprop on the
occasion of the International Workers’ Day 2011. See for instance the slogan in Figure 114.
Figure 114 May Day slogan. Ankara. May Day 2011.
With regard to slogans documented during May Day 2011, a transgenerational continuity of
language must be stressed. For instance, a clear example is provided by slogans containing
the term “katil” (murderer). Below evidence of this96.
Figure 115 “The murderer is the
state”. Ankara. May Day 2011.
Figure 116 Slogan of the 1970s: “Oligarchy is the murderer”
(Source: Can, 2011, pp. 208-209)
As for novelties, see instead the stencilled graffiti below, which attests to participation to the
May Day rally by LGBT+ rights activists and to their efforts to give visibility to the
96 Slogans containing the term “katil” were also observed and documented during the Gezi uprising. As
mentioned in Chapter 4, slogans of the Gezi resistance containing the term were mostly addressed to
the police.
intersectionality of gender and class issues (e.g., trans/homophobia can hinder the possibility
of finding a job).
Figure 117 Pro-LGBT+ stencilled graffiti. Ankara. May Day 2011.
Lastly, it was in Ankara that I first noticed graffiti that I suggest to call conscription pride wall
writings (see the glossary). See the figure below for an example signed with the three crescent
moons (the symbol of the ultranationalist movement).
Figure 118 A conscription pride wall writing and three crescent moons. Ankara. 2011.
As it emerged from the examination of graffiti of the late 1980s, the tradition of turning walls
into a medium for the propaganda of militaristic nationalism is not a novelty of the early
2010s. Given this, I suggest the importance of further research on this specific sub-genre of
graffiti from both a translocal and global perspective. First, to find out where it is widespread
across the whole country. Second, to find out if it is widespread also in other contexts
(e.g., in countries where there have been military coups).
In sum, walls in Ankara were not filled with graffiti before Gezi but the observations made in
2010 and 2011 are nonetheless sufficient to argue: (1) continuity with the past in terms of
both language and events of particular political relevance for the leftist movement (e.g., May
Day); (2) heterogeneity of techniques (e.g., handwriting and stencilling); (3) heterogeneity of
actors (e.g., revolutionary leftists, nationalist youth, and LGBT+ rights activists). As it emerges
from the overview provided below, these were characteristics observed also in İstanbul.
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2.7.2. İstanbul
Compared to Ankara, there were more graffiti in the central areas of İstanbul that I had
observed via explorative flanerie: Beyoğlu, Fatih, and Kadıköy. Compared to Fatih and
Kadıköy, there were more graffiti in Beyoğlu. To be more precise, it was in the southeastern
area of the district that I observed the highest concentration in graffiti (not measured with
quantitative analytical methods but perceptible to the naked eye). Besides Taksim and its
immediate surroundings, the area in which graffiti were mostly widespread included the whole
İstiklal Avenue, Tünel Square, and the neighbourhoods of Tarlabaşı, Cihangir, and Galata.
See Figure 119.
Figure 119 Southeastern area of Beyoğlu district (Source: Tekin & Akgün Gültekin, 2017)
Within this area, I also observed a higher heterogeneity of graffiti’s form, content and stylistic
elaboration compared to Kadıköy and Fatih. Except for perpetrator graffiti, revenge wall
writings and mural cartoons, there were all the genres and sub-genres listed in the glossary:
conscription pride wall writings, collective signature graffiti, culture and politics jamming, wall
writings, tags of various size and elaboration degree (e.g., throwies and pieces), graffiti for
revolutionary agitprop, graffiti for counterpropaganda, graffiti for right-wing political
propaganda, graffiti for spatial practices of everyday life, legal walls, punk graffiti, sokak şiiri
(street poetry), street artworks, and works of street artivism.
To get an idea of the wallscape of the time, see the selection of collective signatures and
slogans in Appendix C, which is primarily meant to show the heterogeneity of the social actors
turning walls into communicative media for political propaganda and activism: anarchists,
antiracists and no border activists, left-wing political parties, ultranationalists, Ataturkists
(Atatürkçüler), feminists, and LGBT+ rights activists. Although I did not analyse the collected
material with quantitative methods, I can say that, in large part, graffiti were made by leftists
and activists of social justice movements, and – to a lesser extent – by other actors (e.g.,
ultranationalists, and Ataturkists). Given the scope of the study, I also consider it important to
80
81
stress that one of the issues on which graffiti drew attention was police brutality (an issue that,
as discussed in Chapter 4, triggered the development of the Gezi protest camp into an
uprising). For instance, see the graffiti below, a street artivism work related to the case of
Festus Okey, a refugee from Nigeria murdered by a police officer at the Beyoğlu police station
in 200797.
Figure 120 Stencilled portrait of Festus Okey and a slogan: “Festus Okey rest in peace”. Beyoğlu,
İstanbul. 2012.
Other issues on which graffiti drew attention include the right to self-determination and gendered
violence. Below a few remarks aimed to highlight the street visibility achieved by the
development of the gender equality movement in Turkey.
2.7.2.1. Renewed ways of seeing women’s bodies
In the early 2010s, before Gezi, the walls of Beyoğlu bared evidence of the rising of the socalled
third wave feminism in Turkey. Since the 1990s, the debate started being strongly
centred on identity politics and, to this day, it is animated by issues related to the right to the
difference98. For instance, Muslim women started reclaiming the right to freedom of
expression of religious identity in public space. However, I do not know whether the graffiti
below was made by a woman street artist and I actually think that, most likely, this was not
the case for two reasons: it appeared in AtlasP asajı, a meeting place for hip-hop writers
(Sarıyılıdız, 2007), and the hip-hop writers’ scene used to be characterised by gender
discrimination (Sezer, 2016)99.
97 For another example, see Figure 32 in the Glossary, a street artivism work related to the case of
Abdurrahman Sözen, died under custody in 2009.
98 For more information, see for instance Diner & Toktaş (2010).
99 As stressed in the Introduction, things might have changed recently given the increasing role of women
artists in the hip-hop cultural movement.
82
Figure 121 Veiled woman. Beyoğlu, İstanbul. 2012.
For evidence of increased awareness of the intersectionality of gender and ethnicity related
issues, see instead the slogan below, which attests to the feminist movement reaction to the
anti-abortion agenda of the then Prime Minister Tayyıp Erdoğan following his comparison of
abortion to the Uludere massacre (2012)100.
Figure 122 Feminist slogan vs. anti-abortion propaganda: “abortion is a right; Uludere is a massacre”.
Beyoğlu, İstanbul. 2012.
Lastly, for evidence of increased awareness of women’s struggle to end gendered violence as
intrinsically linked to the struggle of LGBT+ subjectivities, see the slogans below, which clearly
shows the commonality of the slogans’ language101.
100 The Uludere airstrike killed Kurdish civilians near the Iraq-Turkey border in late 2011, and is known
also as the Roboski massacre. For more information about Erdoğan’s statement and the feminist
movement reaction, see for instance Bianet (2012).
101 Like elsewhere, there is also an animated debate about TERF (trans exclusionary radical feminism)
but, in the early 2010s, I did not find graffiti explicitly pointing at the issue. For data about male violence
83
Figure 123 “Femicides are political”. Beyoğlu, İstanbul.
2013, March 8.
Figure 124 “Murder of transgender
persons are political”. Beyoğlu,
İstanbul. 2013.
For further evidence of the use of walls by feminists, see also the stencilled graffiti below, a
stylised Cinderella waiving a flag and calling women to appropriate both the streets of Beyoğlu
and its everynight life no matter how stressful issues such as moralisation and harassment
can sometimes be102.
Figure 125 A feminist Cinderella waving a flag and a slogan: “after midnight the magic does not
vanish”. Beyoğlu, İstanbul. 2010.
The historiographical relevance of the feminist Cinderella reclaiming the streets and the right
to freedom in the everynight life must be stressed for interrelated reasons. First, it calls for
attention on time of representation and its symbolic values in the struggle for the appropriation
in Turkey, see the reports by Bianet (2011). Bianet is monitoring male violence. Retrieved December 31,
2022, from https://m.bianet.org/bianet/gender/134394-bianet-is-monitoring-male-violence.
102 This is the interpretation that I suggest based on my personal experience as woman often walking
alone in the streets of Beyoğlu at night.
84
of space. Second, it attests to one of the novelties of the early 2010s, namely the presence of
graffiti with textual and/or visual reference to issues related to the politics of space in general
and public space in particular. Further examples attesting to this are very briefly examined
below because they called for attention on the multiscalar dimension of issues related to the
politics of public space.
2.7.2.2. Local and global dynamics
In Turkey, public space is often understood as state domain (Gurallar, 2009)103. Several were
the graffiti attesting to this in the early 2010s (before Gezi and not directly related to the Taksim
project). The most emblematic example is probably the case of Taksim Square, which leftists
have never stopped reclaiming as ground for the celebration of the International Workers’ Day
despite bans temporary lifted in the early 2010s. Below a preliminary example but, given the
relevance of the case to trace the transgenerational continuity of its symbolic meanings, a
more detailed discussion is postponed to Chapter 3.
Figure 126 Call to action for the International Workers' Day: "To Taksim on May Day". Beyoğlu,
İstanbul. 2012.
Other graffiti pointing at local dynamics are those vehiculating the pedagogic function that
public space is given since the early Republican period, namely contributing to strengthen
feelings of nationalistic belonging (Kezer, 2015; Batuman, 2015). Below only one selective
example of the several graffiti depicting the Turkish flag104.
103 As recalled in the Introduction, this depends on the very history of public space in the local context,
where top-down interventions in the both the planning and regulation of open space affect ordinary
people’s ways of perceiving it and reclaiming it.
104 In this regard, it must be stressed that, like tagging, the presence of graffiti reproducing the symbolism
of the Turkish flag was not a prerogative of Beyoğlu and was actually more visible in Fatih since, in
85
Figure 127 Turkish Flag. Beyoğlu, İstanbul. 2012.
For further evidence of how graffiti attested to the perception of public space as state domain,
see the one below, which provides evidence of the reaction to the order of removing outdoor
tables and chairs from sidewalks bars in the Asmali Mescit area of Beyoğlu starting from
2011105.
Figure 128 Reaction to the tables’ removal in Beyoğlu. İstanbul. 2012.
Lastly, see also the graffiti below, that provide evidence of dissent against surveillance in
public space but, it goes without saying that CCTV cameras are not a prerogative of the local
context and rather a global trend.
Beyoğlu, small-size graffiti reproducing the crescent moon and the star were less visible given the higher
quantity of graffiti. For this, reason, I selected a big-size example.
105 According to rumours, the then Prime Minister Erdoğan ordered the tables removal after someone
raised the glass to him when he once transited in the area by car. See Chapter 4 for evidence of how
the moralisation of public space via restrictions on alcohol consumption was one of the top-down
interventions against which ordinary people who participated in the Gezi uprising expressed dissent. For
the discussion of moralisation of public space by the dominant class, see instead Delgado (2011), and
see also Genç (2022) for what concerns moralisation as one of the issues characterising the politics of
public space in the local context.
86
Figure 129 Dissent vs. street surveillance.
Beyoğlu, İstanbul. 2012.
Figure 130 Dissent vs. street surveillance: "don't
watch me". Beyoğlu, İstanbul. 2012.
Like in other global cities, I observed also in İstanbul the increasing tendency of graffiti to be
absorbed in the neoliberal production of space via both normalisation and commodification.
By normalisation, I refer to the enclosure of a practice commonly lacking authorisation within
space regulated by state actors. For instance, in July 2012, I observed and extensively
documented the “Meeting of Allstars”, an authorised graffiti festival held in Gezi Park and
organised by the İstanbul Metropolitan Municipality Youth Assembly in cooperation with a local
graffiti writer and joined by both local and foreign writers106. Below three photographs: the
billboard advertising the event in Taksim and, more importantly, the boards and security
checks that turned Gezi Park into a temporary open-air gallery and securitised space.
Figure 131 Poster of the "Meeting of Allstars" Graffiti Festival. Siraselviler Avenue. 2012.
106 For more information, see the blog of the festival (“Festival Hakkında,” 2012).
87
Figure 132 Painting boards. "Meeting of
Allstars" Graffiti Festival. Gezi Park. 2012,
July 15.
Figure 133 Security checks at the entrance of
"Meeting of Allstars" Graffiti Festival. Gezi
Park, Beyoğlu, İstanbul. 2012, July 15.
The most emblematic case attesting to the tendency to tolerate street art in Taksim so as to
transform it into an open-air gallery is however another, namely that of the yellow fists filling
the Galata neighbourhood, which are to this day easy to spot especially when walking from
Tünel Square down to the Galata neighbourhood via Galip Dede Avenue. As found out later
on, via unstructured interviews, the graffiti writer Kripoe together with the Berlin-based crew
1UP (One United Power) had “bombed” Beyoğlu with personalised signature in 2009 as they
did elsewhere107. Below three selected pictures.
Figure 134 Yellow fists. Galip
Dede Avenue, Galata, İstanbul.
2012
Figure 135 Yellow fist by
Kripoe and tag by 1UP.
Galata, İstanbul. 2012.
Figure 136 Kripoe’s signature.
Galata, İstanbul. 2012.
Below, selective examples of the signature graffiti by the same crew (1UP) but documented in
cities other than İstanbul to show how the yellow fists provide a remarkable case calling for
attention a series of intersecting issues: free mobility of transnational actors marking translocal
territories by means of symbolic signatures, hierarchies of mobilities preventing others from
doing it, and tolerance of graffiti as an aesthetic component of global cities’ place branding
strategies.
107 In jargon, “bombing” means marking with the same signature graffiti as many as possible territories
(see the Glossary).
88
Figure 137 Yellow fists,
Warschauer Strasse,
Friedrichshain, Berlin,
2004.
Figure 138 Tag by 1UP crew. Madrid, 2012.
Figure 139 Tag by 1UP
crew. Athens. 2014.
In short, the yellow fists do not merely indicate the global connectedness of Beyoğlu to other
places via signature graffiti that are by now acknowledged as street art; they rather show that,
given absorption via commodification, street art may indicate ongoing gentrification. This was
also the controversial case of graffiti that were actually intentioned to express dissent against
the gentrification of the Tarlabaşı, a neighbourhood adjacent to Taksim Square. Below two
examples of the street artworks that started appearing in the area: Figure 140 is a wall painting
that most likely was made by someone educated in fine art, and Figure 141 is a writing
supposedly aimed at influencing people to mobilise against gentrification.
Figure 140 Street art within a demolished
building in Tarlabaşı. 2012.
Figure 141 Street artivism supposedly aimed at
anti-gentrification. Tarlabaşı. 2012.
Given the importance of the case for the understanding of space production in Taksim, the
discussion about Tarlabaşı is however postponed to the next chapter, where I examine graffiti
selected for their explicit reference to space via words, symbols and/or images in light of the
findings emerged in this chapter.
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2.8. Concluding remarks
In this long chapter, I have attempted to provide a historical overview covering the period mid-
1960s – early 2010s. The aim was to retrace the distinctive features of graffiti in the context of
Turkey. Besides showing an increase in heterogeneity of social actors, contents, purposes,
and reactions, the chapter has shown that writing the history of graffiti in Turkey allows to
retrace milestones in the country's history and thus provides preliminary evidence of their
historiographical potential. In spatial terms, the account provided so far has shown that, in
Turkey, using walls and graffiti as media for left-wing agitation propaganda is not a novelty of
the 2010s but a tradition dating back to the 1960s.
In the mid-1960s, graffiti for left-wing agitprop were closely tied to graphic satire and it is
therefore possible to claim that walls and leftist periodicals were extensions of each other. In
1968, the leftist movement reached a peak in activity, and graffiti were used to grant wide
visibility to the anti-imperialist ideals inspiring its leading actors (i.e., socialist students selfidentifying
as revolutionary socialists but also workers).
In the 1970s, walls were used to give voice to the intense struggle of the labour movement
and bared evidence of the proactive role of revolutionary trade unions in leading it to historic
peaks in participation despite the brutality of counter-revolutionary attempts such as the
Taksim Square Massacre on May Day 1977. With regard to women’s proactive participation
to the labour movement, it is important to distinguish between images that attest to their
struggle for economic independence and images that instead attest to the underrepresentation
of their productive and reproductive labour, the latter attesting also that the walls of some
factories on strike were the extension of domestic walls.
In the late 1970s, graffitiing space was no longer only a practice to propagandise a particular
political cause or point of view; signing it with slogans and/or acronyms of political
organisations became a practice to mark territories violently contented by antagonist actors
(e.g., revolutionary socialists and ultranationalists). In short, graffiti became an indicator of the
power struggle for territorial control. Such a change in their spatial use occurred in
concomitance with a change in the scale of the contented territories, which continued to
include educational facilities (e.g., schools and university campuses) but were no longer
limited to them and were rather extended to entire neighbourhoods and towns. Some slogans
and collective signatures attesting to this are here addressed as perpetrator graffiti because
they attest also to the escalation of ethnicized violence perpetrated by militants of the
ultranationalist movement against ethnic minorities.
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In the aftermath of the 1980 military coup, the repression affected graffiti in more than one
way. First, it caused their temporary disappearance from the street: the military forced ordinary
citizens to clean up the walls. Second, political inmates who continued to write slogans on
prison cell walls were also forced to erase them and, besides this, they were forced to write
graffiti that I suggest to call “intikam duvar yazıları” (revenge wall writings) because they
consisted of slogans of the military regime that ruled the country from 1980 until 1983. In short,
the walls of dissent were silenced. However, archival evidence suggests that walls were not
completely silenced and rather spoke the language of militaristic nationalism via for instance
graffiti that I instead suggest to call conscription pride wall writings.
In the late 1980s and in the early 1990s, mural writing entered a new phase, one that confirmed
that the connection between walls as media for political activity and the printed media giving
visibility to them as such. Besides showing this, the first printed publications of collections of
wall writings attest also to the self-irony through which the post-coup society reacted to both
repression and power in general. For instance, slogans and writings written and published by
women only provide instead evidence of how they used humour as a tool to grant street
visibility to issues tackled by the second wave of feminism (e.g., right to abortion, and freedom
of sexual orientation). In the 1990s, new genres of graffiti reached Turkey: tagging, street art
and, most likely, also punk graffiti.
As a result, the wallscape of central İstanbul in the early 2010s was high in stylistic
heterogeneity. As for contents and actors involved, observations made before the 2013 Gezi
resistance revealed both historical continuities and novelties. On the one hand, walls were
used as medium for political activity by both leftists and ultranationalists. On the other hand,
the presence of new actors and the development of social movements were both evident. For
instance, selected graffiti attest to rising of the third wave of feminism in Turkey by attesting to
the street visibility gained by issues such as LGBT+ rights and intersectionality of gender- and
ethnicity-related issues.
In the early 2010s, most of the graffiti that I documented in İstanbul were concentrated in the
southeastern area of Beyoğlu, i.e., the area spanning from Taksim Square to the Galata
neighbourhood. In this area, I observed noteworthy developments such as assimilation and
commodification. Besides the emergence of authorised graffiti festivals, I observed that graffiti
started turning the streets into open-air art galleries, a crucial component of the aesthetics of
global cities. Besides this, I observed the remarkable presence of graffiti with explicit reference
to the politics of space (e.g., graffiti expressing dissent against top-down interventions).
In sum, this chapter has shown that, in Turkey, the relevance of graffiti in the understanding
of the social production of space is high while their relevance to the actual production of space
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is ambivalent. For instance, graffiti attesting to the struggle against heteropatriarchal capitalism
indicate space of resistance. On the other hand, graffiti attesting to the absorption of difference
via either violent repression of dissent or commodification indicate the need for spatial
resistance.
In the next chapter, I elaborate further on the notion of resistance in and through space based
on the examination of selected graffiti whose content call for critical attention on the social
production of space in İstanbul before the outburst of the Gezi uprising.
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CHAPTER 3
SPACE PRODUCTION IN İSTANBUL, 2010-2013
This chapter contextualises graffiti with space-related content that appeared in the streets of
İstanbul in the early 2010s and, more precisely, in Taksim and in its surroundings108. The focus
is on decades-long processes that were not selected a priori but indicated by graffiti containing
visual and/or textual reference to space politics issues and specific places: (1) grassroots
resistance to the neoliberal redevelopment of İstanbul into a global city; (2) attempted
Europeanisation and its limitations in light of its implications for low-class migrants; (3) neo-
Ottomanisation of space and its symbolic meanings via urban renewal; (4) controversial
renewal of Tarlabaşı (a neighbourhood adjacent to Taksim Square); (5) grassroots
placemaking of Taksim Square and Galatasaray Square; (5) struggle for the urban commons
such as the Emek movie theatre vs. the proliferation of shopping malls such as the Demirören
mall in İstiklal Avenue. Each of these processes is going to be briefly retraced starting from
the re-making of İstanbul into a global city with the purpose of laying the ground for the
understanding of the 2013 appropriation of Taksim in context.
3.1. Neoliberal redevelopment into a global city
In the early 2010s, İstanbul was officially ranked as a global city109. As recalled in the
Introduction, the global city and the global cities network are hegemonic representations of
space of the neoliberal age. Aimed at attracting transnational flows of financial and human
capital, neoliberal urbanisation follows global patterns (e.g., gentrification and tourism-oriented
valorisation of historical heritage via large-scale renewal projects). The emergence and
development of these redevelopment trends varies from place to place.
In İstanbul, neoliberal urbanisation consisted of a multistage process started in the 1980s.
Both its beginning and development must be understood in light of the rapid large-scale growth
108 Unless specified, the photographs were taken by the author. The date in the captions refers to the
year when they were taken. In few cases, the year of the making is certain and is indicated in square
brackets.
109 In 2010, İstanbul held the 41st position in the A.T. Kearney Global Cities Index (Kearny, 2010, p. 3).
In 2012, it held the 37th position (Kearny, 2012, p. 3).
93
of population caused mainly by internal migration. In a nutshell, this is the information
emerging from a wide range of literary sources110. Below, I am going to provide a brief account
of salient events and implementation phases111.
In the years following the 1980-83 military regime, the political economic landscape of
contemporary Turkey was redefined by two concomitant paradigmatic changes: the neoliberal
turn and the rise of political Islam. Since then, the model of modernity proposed by neoliberal
conservatives started winning general and local elections against the secularist and Europeoriented
model of modernity proposed by the Kemalists112. Electoral success of the neoliberal
conservatives relied on the support of an emerging entrepreneurial class but also on the
support of low-income migrants from rural Anatolia. The latter had been massively flocking to
İstanbul in search for employment opportunities since the mid-20th century, when they had
also started squatting land of public property that was de facto ownerless113. The spread of
informal settlements called gecekondu (meaning constructed overnight) resulted in unplanned
and disordered urbanisation but was indeed tolerated in exchange of political consensus114.
In 1984, circumstances started changing. In the alleged attempt at facing large housing
demand, the state founded TOKİ (Toplu Konut İdaresi – The Directorate of Mass Housing).
Over time, the agency responsible for mass housing development turned out to be a key actor
of neoliberal speculation. Besides privatisation of the housing sector, other processes of
neoliberal urbanisation started in the 1980s include: (1) privatisation of municipal services
(e.g., transportation and gas); (2) gentrification and construction of gated communities,
planning and implementation of piecemeal restructuring (e.g. opening of the Tarlabaşı
Boulevard, an axis connecting Taksim Square to the Golden Horn); (3) change in the legal and
administrative framework to facilitate investments in the real-estate sector.
110 For instance, see: Aksoy (2008); Candan & Kolluoğlu (2008); Keyder (1999, 1999b, 1999c, 2005,
2008 and 2010); Zürcher (2005 [1993]); Bilsel & Arıcan (2010); Göktürk et al. (2010); Islam (2010); Ünsal
Ö. & Kuyucu T. (2010); Nocera (2011); Bozdoğan S. & Akcan (2012); Rodriguez & Azenha (2014); Akcan
(2015); Kezer (2015); Batuman (2015, 2016, and 2017); Batuman et al. (2016); Esen (2009); Bilsel
(2017); Can (2020), and Arıcan (2020).
111 Except for specific arguments or information that were made or given by specific scholars only, I am
not quoting the sources so as to avoid repetition and thus facilitate the reading of the historical overview,
which retraces the development reached by the late 2000s starting from the mid-1980s.
112 Kemalists are promoters of political, economic, and social policies inspired by the six principles that
the founder of the Turkish Republic Mustafa Kemal Atatürk advocated to build a new nation state after
the fall of the Ottoman Empire: republicanism, nationalism, populism, statism, secularism, and revolution.
For more information, see for instance Zürcher (2021), and Bozarslan, 2006 [2004]. See also the section
of this chapter about Taksim Square for a brief overview of how Kemalism affected public space.
113 For a Lefebvrian reading of squatting (in Turkey), see Rittersberger Tılıç (2015).
114 Many of the migrants moving to İstanbul were Kurds of Turkish citizenship forcedly displaced from
the war in the eastern and southeastern provinces of the country, where the Partiya Karkerên Kurdistanê
(Kurdistan Workers' Party, PKK, founded in 1978) would have otherwise benefited from their political and
logistic support (Keyder, 2008; Genç, 2014).
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In the late 1980s, İstanbul began to be rediscovered as a touristic destination by upper-income
visitors including but not limited to Middle Easterners. Profit-driven investments were primarily
aimed at meeting their needs: bank offices, office towers, shopping centers, and luxury hotels
offering not only spectacular views over the Bosphorus but also a postmodern, selforientalised
interpretation of the traditional architectural identity of the Anatolian region.
In the 1990s, the tourism-oriented redevelopment of İstanbul entered a new phase. Planning
started being more comprehensive as result of greater commitment by a multi-actor. Beside
the direct contribution by Recep Tayyip Erdoğan (elected mayor in 1994), the agency of major
international institutions regulating the global economy shall also be recalled. For instance, in
a 1995 report, the World Bank recommended Turkey to turn one or two cities into metropolises
for interrelated reasons: first, they would have attracted labour force for service industry and,
second, they would have become easy consumer markets (Yapıcı in Azem, 2011)115.
In the second half of the 1990s, two parallel processes started as result of the local political
willingness to fulfil the dictates of global financial capital. The first was the planning of megaprojects
of Neo-Ottoman re-monumentalization of space for representation of political
economic power, a topic discussed later on in this chapter. As highlighted by Bozdoğan and
Akcan (2012), one of the first proposals made by Mayor Erdoğan right after his election was
the construction of the Taksim Square Mosque right across from the Atatürk Cultural Centre –
one of the modernist icons of the Kemalist-inspired secularism of the Republic116.
The second process started in the second half of the 1990s is the larger scale implementation
of residential redevelopment. Amid the increase in gated communities’ construction,
investments were mostly directed at the eradication of the gecekondu phenomenon. Urban
renewal projects were however conceived to accommodate the demands of competitive
markets – and not to meet the needs of the internal migrants who had supported Erdoğan in
the election. In 1997, the military attempted at restraining the rise of political Islam with a
memorandum but did not succeed in stopping the process. Moreover, urban politics of
neoliberal conservatism also continued. Following the 1999 Marmara earthquakes, the
upgrading of informal areas pursued by this urban politics started being legitimised as the
natural disaster mitigation strategy117.
115 This was remarked by Mücella Yapıcı in an interview for the documentary film Ekümenopolis (Azem,
2011). As it is well known, Mücella Yapıcı is a member of the İstanbul Chamber of Architects and one of
the leader figures of the Taksim Solidarity Platform. Currently, she is under arrest following the 2022
sentence in the Gezi trial.
116 See Chapter 4 for more information about both the Taksim Square Mosque and the AKM.
117 In August 1999, a catastrophic magnitude 7.6 earthquake hit the Kocaeli Province of Turkey causing
enormous damage and thousands of deaths. The earthquake hit also İstanbul, where seismic risk
continues to real and depends on the city's location major active fault lines. However, seismic risk
mitigation provides also investment opportunities. E.g., see Ay & Demires Ozkul (2021) for an empirical
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By the end of the 1990s, the change in the urban fabric gave great visibility to new forms of
social inequality, which is why İstanbul looked like a “divided city” (Keyder, 1999c, p. 23). On
one hand, there were bankers and young professionals who segregated themselves in gated
communities and drove luxury cars to reach business towers built in latest architectural styles.
On the other hand, there were the urban poor who were unable to prove property rights and
therefore started being expelled from the central areas and displaced to high rise housing
blocks newly built by TOKİ118.
The 2000s began with a severe economic crisis and the AKP’s rise to power. Following the
victory of the 2002 general elections under Erdoğan’s leadership, the party could bring about
the change needed to speed up urban renewal. With the support of the central government
and the emergence of powerful actors including but not limited to large developers and the
IMF (International Monetary Fund), the scale of the liberalisation programme increased even
further and superseded the previous populist approach to housing provision.
On one hand, building amnesties aimed at gaining loyalty from lower-class residents in search
of affordable housing were abandoned. Moreover, in 2004, informal settlement construction
(of gecekondus) became a criminal offence punishable with five years in prison. On the other
hand, in 2005, district municipalities officially became market facilitators. Their role shifted from
managerial to entrepreneurial as a result of significant increase in their decision-making power
in matters of urban transformation (kentsel dönüşüm)119. The new Law for Protection of
Dilapidated Historical and Cultural Real Estate Through Protection by Renewal (Law No. 5366)
and the Municipality Law (Law No. 5393) authorised local municipalities to expropriate and
demolish in urban renewal areas. By then, urban renewal areas included not only informal
settlements areas but also historical and cultural heritage sites120. Like the former, the latter
were also mostly inhabited by the urban poor and, with their expulsion, TOKI’s power and profit
analysis of how centralized and non-transparent earthquake risk mitigation approach in İstanbul makes
room for speculative real estate development sponsored by international development funding. See also
the case of the case of the earthquake in Kahramanmaraş in 2023.
118 The image of İstanbul as a divided city is not a novelty but rather an effect of uneven development
and residential zoning in accordance to social stratification. E.g., see Çelik (1993) for the increase in
visibility of old forms of social inequality and the disparity in development between Beyoğlu and the
historic peninsula in the late Ottoman period. See also Cerasi (2005) for what concerns the disparity
internal to the historic peninsula in the same period.
119 Strong state-leadership in matter of urban transformation must not be misunderstood for a disruption
of the global city model for various reasons. First, to accommodate the markets’ interests, nation-states
promote neoliberal policies and reorient their agendas but they retain their role as guarantor of the proper
functioning of the market (Harvey, 2005). Second, neoliberal urbanisation is a context embedded process
(Peck et. Al., 2009). Three, adjustments in the functions of state are not limited to deregulation but can
include also the transfer of power to sub-national governmental actors (Purcell, 2002).
120 For instance, see the section of this chapter about Tarlabaşı.
96
further increased since many have been displaced to mass housing newly built by the
government-backed agency.
In 2005, two further processes of historic importance began: (1) the negotiation of Turkey’s
candidacy to the European Union full membership, and (2) the İstanbul 2010 – European
Capital of Culture. As discussed more in detail, the ECoC started as a civil society initiative
aimed at placing İstanbul within the cultural map of the European Union and was strongly
centred on the tourism-redevelopment of cultural and historical sites (Bilsel & Arıcan, 2010;
Doğan & Sirkeci, 2013)121.
By the late 2000s, the restructuring summarised so far had turned İstanbul into a mega-city
overcrowded with people and crowded with cultural venues and events aimed at pleasing the
tourists’ gaze. Renewed regional and global strategic importance is further attested by the fact
that, in October 2009, İstanbul hosted the annual meeting of the Executive Boards of the
International Monetary Fund and the World Bank, two of the major international institutions
that regulate the global economy by boosting competition, innovation, and growth. Developing
countries in need for loans to implement the structural adjustment programs recommended by
them are forced to enter a debt spiral. That is why local activists of urban social movements
contested their meeting (Özcan, 2009). Below I recall how they contested it to show that the
interaction of global and local processes can generate geographies of resistance (Sassen,
2008).
3.1.1. Local resistance to global capitalism
To contest the 2009 İstanbul meeting of the IMF and World Bank, local activists opposing
global capitalism and self-identifying as anti-authoritarian organised a Direnİstanbul
(Resistİstanbul), a weeks-long “Festival of the Resistance” (“Direnişin Şenliği”) (Direnİstanbul,
2009). As argued by Lefebvre (2009 [1968]; 1991 [1974]), the festival is the most emblematic
example of qualitative consumption of space, and use value is mostly reinstated via political
use of space. Direnİstanbul fits the case.
Besides street demonstrations, the programme of Direnİstanbul included film screenings,
interviews, and panels on interconnected issues related to neoliberal urbanisation: urban
renewal projects gentrifying residential and non-residential space, ecological destruction,
121 For a detailed discussion of the ECoC, see the second section of this chapter. Here, it is sufficient to
recall that, at that time, the climate of the debate about EU full membership was relatively positive. Major
political issues that the full membership negotiation was about and still waited for resolution included: the
military occupation of Northern Cyprus and the Armenian question.
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education, gender, urban poverty, and labour struggle. Their organisation and coordination
provided an occasion to experiment participatory democracy practices (e.g., bottom-up
decision-making mechanisms). Below the logo of the festival.
Figure 142 Stencilled logo of Direnİstanbul.
İstanbul. 2012 [2009]. Caption: “days of
resistance against the IMF and the World Bank”.
Figure 143 Direnİstanbul logo on a banner.
İstiklal Avenue, İstanbul. 2009. (Source: Çakır
& Özcan, 2009)
In 2012, the logo of Direnİstanbul was still visible in the streets of the Taksim area in the form
of a stencilled graffiti – a fact to be stressed not merely to claim that graffiti can turn the wall
into space for collective memory but to claim that they can continue to call for attention and
even action even in case they relate to specific events that belong to the past. In this specific
case, symbolism of the flag raised over Galata Tower conveys hope in the possibility of
successfully appropriating the whole city by appropriating Beyoğlu, of which the tower seems
to be a symbol122. Besides being a monument offering tourists a stunning view of İstanbul, the
Galata Tower is “the most prominent landmark on the northern side of the Golden Horn”
(Freely, 2000) and, as such, it is used as the symbol of the Beyoğlu municipality but, in this
case, Galata Tower is also a synecdoche: the part stands for the whole. To me, the idea of
resistance is somehow conveyed by the condensed font of the letters, which gives the idea of
the compactness needed to pull the emergency brake vis a vis the unsustainability of further
growth.
At the end of the 2000s, it was the urban poor who were primarily paying the human costs of
the massive increase in scale of tourism-oriented restructuring that followed the
recommendations made by the World Bank to Turkey in the mid-1990s. By then, the
implementation of regeneration projects that were part of the İstanbul 2010 – European Capital
122 Whether hope is a scientific category or not is a relevant question. For instance, Mike Davis argued
that it is not (Dean, 2022). However, any more detailed discussion of this specific question falls outside
the scope of this study. Here, it is sufficient to stress that, in the late 2000s, there must have been hope
in the possibility of defeating neoliberalism by appropriating Beyoğlu as attested by the symbolism of the
tower.
98
of Culture initiative had already caused demolitions and further marginalisation of the lowincome
internal migrants who were inhabiting historical neighbourhoods with low-quality
housing. Some of the controversial aspects of the 2010 event are discussed more in detail
below with the purpose of laying the ground for the interpretation of a graffiti criticising the
representation of İstanbul promoted with the initiative.
3.2. A European Capital of Culture in 2010
The European Capital of Culture is a mechanism for promoting Europeanness through a chain
of benefits (Bilsel & Arıcan, 2010; Rampton et al., 2011; Doğan & Sirkeci, 2013). First, cities
of member and non-member states compete for a year-long title whose designation grants
socioeconomic support to development via large-scale cultural programmes. Second, largescale
programmes for the spectacularization of culture impact city branding to boost
investments, media resonance, and international profile of the awarded cities. Third, largescale
cultural programmes help increase also the very recognition of how important it is to
compete for such a title.
For all these reasons, I interpret the European Capital of Culture as a mechanism through
which the European Union promotes itself by promoting and supporting the neoliberal
redevelopment of the cities that it designates as its cultural capitals.
The process for the initiative İstanbul 2010 – European Capital of Culture started in 2005 in
concomitance with the beginning of the European Union full membership negotiation. Initiated
by local civil society actors and supported by governmental and private actors, the mega-event
consisted of two parts: (1) a year-long programme of cultural events (e.g., concerts, theatre
performances, conferences or seminars, workshops, exhibitions, publications, literary
readings, festivals, and films); (2) a years-long tourism-oriented redevelopment plan aimed at
the valorisation of historical and cultural heritage sites and venues in decay (Doğan & Sirkeci,
2013; Bilsel & Arıcan, 2010; Rampton et al., 2011).
As it emerges from the information summarised so far, the İstanbul 2010 – European Capital
of Culture initiative served as a point of convergence between the interests of the different
actors involved: Turkey, civil society actors promoting the initiative, and the European Union.
Seen from Turkey’s perspective, it provided a profitable opportunity to benefit from the
economic support by the European Union to boost investments and tourism. With the support
of the funding by the union, the country’s largest metropolis was in fact being redeveloped into
a city as attractive as the capital cities of neighbouring Europe and, as such, into the showcase
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of renewed power relations. As already stressed in the Introduction, the designation to
European Capital of Culture contributed in fact to increase its global engagement, visibility and
thus competitiveness as a global city (Kearny, 2010).
Seen from the perspective of the civil society actors initiating it, the İstanbul 2010 European
Capital of Culture provided a historic opportunity to persuade the local public opinion of the
advantages in placing İstanbul on the cultural and political map of the European Union with
the social and economic support by the very union itself. It could be therefore interpreted as
an attempt at reorienting the country’s largest metropolis towards the European Union to curb
the rise of political Islam.
Seen instead from the perspective of the European Union, the İstanbul 2010 European Capital
of Culture provided an investment opportunity to promote itself while supporting the upgrade
of the largest metropolis of a candidate member state to European standards, compared to
which it was considered underdeveloped despite the richness of its historical and cultural
heritage123.
As highlighted in the report funding the redevelopment of İstanbul to showcase it as bridge
connecting Europe to its East did not merely aim to boost tourism (all the more so as İstanbul
was already a well-known touristic destination even before the 2010 initiative). The aim was
rather to boost the flourishing of a cultural scene, industry and policy adequate not only to the
dynamicity of the local young population but also to European standards of a city worthy to be
included within the social and cultural map of Europe.
As clarified in the evaluation report, the main problem with architectonic heritage left
throughout the centuries by ethnic and religious minorities included sites at risk of losing their
designation as UNESCO World Heritage; their decay was also caused by the improper use of
residents, i.e. internal migrants who had left their villages in rural areas of Anatolia in the
second half of the 20th century to became part of İstanbul’s urban poor (Rampton et al., 2011;
Bilsel & Arıcan, 2010)124.
The solution plan proposed by the established European Capital of Culture Agency envisioned
change not only in the form and structure of space but also in the very use of space. Besides
123 In this regard, I consider it important to stress that this is not my opinion but what is stated in the
evaluation report for the European Commission Directorate General for Education and Culture, the
European Capital of Culture (Rampton et al., 2011).
124 As listed in the evaluation report, the list of ethnic and religious minorities who have left the long and
rich historical and cultural heritage includes: Greek Orthodox Christians, Armenian Christians, Catholic
Levantines, Ashkenazi Jews and Sephardic Jews (Rampton at al., 2011, p. vi and p. 66). Other ethnic
minorities were instead excluded from the evaluation report. For instance, Muslim minorities such as the
Romani and Kurdish.
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the conservation, restoration, refurbishment or regeneration of areas in need for rehabilitation,
the agency proposed a participatory model of urban transformation; in turn, this was supposed
to foster change in the feelings of communitarian belonging of their residents (both to İstanbul
and to the sociocultural geography of the European Union) (Bilsel & Arıcan, 2010)125. That is
why urban renewal with educational purposes attracted criticism and was argued to be
comparable to civilisation projects aimed at teaching internal migrants “how to live in an
apartment-building” (Baysal, 2013: 83).
As highlighted in the evaluation report, the outcome of the solution plan did not turn out to the
one wished by the non-governmental actors proposing it since strong control of governmental
actors hindered their independency (Rampton et al., 2011).
Besides the failure of the participatory model, the controversial consequences of urban
regeneration projects led by district municipalities included the demolition of historic buildings
to be replaced with far more expensive housing, and the forced displacement of former
residents (Bilsel & Arıcan, 2010; Azem, 2011). For instance, this was the case of the Romani
community of residents of the Sulukule neighbourhood in the Fatih municipality126.
In sum, the regeneration projects that were part of the İstanbul 2010 – European Capital of
Culture resulted in human costs, which were actually being primarily paid by the urban poor,
i.e., the internal migrants who used to inhabit historical buildings before their demolition. As
discussed in detail below, the issues of internal migration brought to the fore by the 2010
initiative urged for a forward-looking action perspective on external borders, which is likely why
it was represented as a bordered zone linking Europe to its East.
125 The active participation of the residents in decision-making was in fact supposed to affect their feelings
of belonging and thus their attitude towards architectonic heritage being used in ways “incompatible” with
its universal value (including sites at risk of losing their designation as UNESCO World Heritage Sites),
reason for which the initiative has been defined a “social project of citizenship” (Bilsel & Arıcan, 2010, p.
225 and p. 216).
126 Supported by civil society organisations, industry professionals and activists, the residents of Sulukule
got organised as Sulukule Platform to resist against dispossession and expulsion, but neither protests
nor solidarity succeed in avoiding neither their forced eviction nor the destruction of historical and cultural
heritage needed by neoliberal urban development to open up space for speculative construction. For
more information, see the related entry on the blog Reclaim İstanbul (2011).
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3.2.1. Represented as a bordered zone linking Europe to its East
Figure 144 Culture jamming of the İstanbul 2010 – ECoC
initiative. İstanbul. 2012 [2010].
Figure 145 Logo of the
European Capital of Culture
Initiative (Source: Wikipedia,
2010)
The stencilled graffiti provides an example of culture jamming127. In the specific case, the target
of the ‘subvertising’ technique the logo of the initiative "İstanbul 2010 - European Capital of
Culture". In my opinion, the graffiti was not only intended to criticise the Eurocentric
assumptions underlying the representation of İstanbul promoted by the initiative; it was rather
an invitation to be wary of the very Europeanization project promoted through the European
Capital of Culture mechanism. Below, I explain why.
The wording “İstanbul 2010” and the vertical curved lines of the original logo were replaced
with the wording "İstanbul ZONE" and barbed wire. As it is well known, barbed wire is a symbol
of both border regime and border control, i.e., the system trying to control migratory flows and
the measures taken by national and supranational states to monitor and regulate the free
movement of both goods and people across borders. Given this, the graffiti is first of all a
reminder of the reality of the borders delimiting the territories under different sovereignties,
i.e., Turkey and the European Union. In other words, it draws critical attention to the
Eurocentric assumptions underlying the representation of İstanbul promoted through the
mega-event: a bridge connecting Europe to its East128.
127 As explained in the Glossary, culture jamming is an awareness raising technique known also as
‘subvertising’ (from ‘subvert’ and ‘advertising’). Used to call for attention on the problematicity of the
assumptions underlying advertising messages or logos, the technique relies on the subversion of their
content via alteration and/or parody.
128 The wording is not mine. As stated in the evaluation report for the European Commission Directorate
General for Education and Culture, “functioning as a bridge connecting Europe to its East” is precisely
how one of the objectives of İstanbul’s original application was formulated (Rampton et al., 2011, p. 79).
102
The criticism visualised by the graffiti was expressed also by various scholars, whose
arguments are analogous and complement each other. For instance, Doğan & Sirkeci (2013)
argued that the image of the bridge connecting Europe to its East made İstanbul appear almost
stateless and argued also that the branding strategy relied on the romanticisation,
spectacularization and commodification of its Orientalist and self-Orientalist representation as
encounter of opposites (East vs. West, old vs. new, traditional vs. modern, past vs.
contemporary). Similarly, Göktürk et al. (2010, p. 5) argued that the image of İstanbul “as
Turkey’s gateway to Europe” relied on “a paradoxical split imaginary”: on one hand, it was
officially acknowledged by the European Union as “as a key part of its own heritage” but, on
the other hand, it was perceived, conceived and represented as separated from the rest of
Turkey, whose Europeanness was instead object of debate.
Similar criticism can be addressed also to the separation of İstanbul from the rest of Turkey
that İstanbul contains in itself. The polarisation between a modern, Western/European urban
identity of certain areas of İstanbul and the traditional, local urban identity of other areas is not
a novelty of recent years but rather a longstanding issue affecting both urban planning and the
debate about it. However, the novelties of the second half of the 2000s were more than one.
First, self-Orientalist and Orientalist representations of in-betweenness increased the
attractiveness of İstanbul, which had started being perceived as “cool” precisely for being an
underdeveloped, dense, disordered, chaotic city on the verge of becoming a global city in all
respects (Özkan, 2010). In addition to this, upgrade to European standards was being formally
tackled for the first time as a European issue, i.e., as an issue requiring the social and
economic support of the European Union. Lastly, redevelopment was supposed to be planned
together with the end users but, as aforementioned, it resulted in further marginalisation of the
urban poor and, I argue, one of the controversial aspects that the graffiti above seems to
address is exactly this.
Hence, it is here claimed that the problematic aspect of the participatory model of urban
transformation proposed by the İstanbul 2010 Agency lies precisely in its assumption, namely
that change in decision-making would have been potentially sufficient to change both beliefs
and everyday behaviours of the urban poor. In other words, the claim I would like to make is
that understanding the limitations of culturalist approaches to urban planning is of crucial
importance, especially when the poor conditions of a place are strongly dependent on the
improvement of the living conditions of the urban poor inhabiting it.
To explain why, I would like to start by reminding something almost obvious: strong
dependence of the everyday use of space on the cultural identity of its users must not be
mistaken for determination. This is why I acknowledge the crucial importance of intercultural
placemaking models promoting the inclusion of resident communities in the design process
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through consultation procedures (Wood & Landry, 2008) – such as, for instance, the one
proposed by the İstanbul 2010 Agency. However, mere inclusion is not sufficient to improve
democracy, since social antagonism arising from space-related issues is caused by uneven
power dynamics and exclusionary practices (Amin, 2008). In other words, issues related to the
use of space are not only a matter of culture nor of aesthetics but also issues related to
ethnicity and social class.
In sum, the outcome of the redevelopment plan proposed by the İstanbul 2010 – European
Capital of Culture must be understood in the light of the political economic interests of all the
actors involved in the process of the social production of space, who are not limited to
architects, planners and resident communities but include also public and private investors
(e.g., governments, municipalities, real estate developers and real estate agents). Hence,
criticism must be not only addressed to culturalism in urban planning but also the very
Eurocentric belief in the supremacy of the European model and in imitation as the best way to
keep up with it.
Based on this reasoning, the stencilled graffiti subverting the symbolic meanings of the
İstanbul 2010 – European Capital of Culture initiative’s logo can be interpreted as an invitation
to be wary of re-peripheralization of İstanbul from the West of the Middle East to its own East
long before the 2016 refugee-deal129. In other words, the graffiti’s author(s) called passing-by
viewers to look at Europeanisation from above vehiculated via the 2010 initiative for what it
was: a project of socio-cultural hegemony. The resulting representation of İstanbul as a
bordered zone connecting Europe to its East must be then understood as a multi-layered
image.
First, it refers to İstanbul from where internal migrants were expelled by being forcedly
displaced to the peripheries as a consequence of state-led gentrification. Second, it refers to
İstanbul where Turkish citizens willing to travel or move to Europe were trapped if nonsufficiently
wealthy to be granted a travel visa. Third, it refers to İstanbul where refugees
denied of the rights granted by legal status and migrants from poor countries were also trapped
but under conditions often worsened by informality130. As a result, the content of the graffiti can
be considered a combination of the self-explanatory content of the following two graffiti.
129 Signed in 2016, the refugee deal committed Turkey to accept the refoulement of asylum seekers who
managed to cross the EU border in exchange of two promises: billions of euros for the support of the
system of temporary protection of Syrian refugees, and the not yet implemented lifting of the visa
requirements preventing Turkish citizens to freely travel to the EU and within the Schengen area.
130 Turkey does not guarantee the recognition of refugee status to any non-European citizen and hosts
the millions of people escaped from the dreadful war in Syria under a special temporary regime of
protection that treats them as “guests” (misafir) and not as asylum seekers, while asylum seekers from
countries such as Iraq, Afghanistan and Iran wait for years for the resettlement in third countries. This is
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Figure 146 Anti- Europeanisation slogan. Ayazma,
İstanbul, 2008 (Source: Azem, 2011)
Figure 147 Subvertising of the EU flag
located in a main gateway from Africa to
EU. Melilla, Morocco/Spain. Author: Blu
(Source: Blue, 2012)
The wall writing in the first picture was documented in Ayazma, an informal neighbourhood in
the Küçükçemece district (İstanbul). The Kurdish community that used to inhabit it was forcedly
expelled and displaced to make space for a regeneration project aimed at the construction of
luxury housing, which was not part of the İstanbul 2010 - European Capital of Culture, and
started earlier (Baysal, 2013). The mural in the second picture is a famous mural completed
in 2012 by the street artist Blu near the border fences separating Morocco and the Spanish
city of Melilla. Read together, they suggest that global financial capital crosses borders but the
urban poor are excluded from the possibilities opened up by the global economy.
In conclusion, the graffiti subverting dominant ways of seeing and representing İstanbul
promoted as a European capital in 2010 can actually be interpreted as a call for a longer-term
and multiscalar perspective to counteract their very strategic use. To my eyes, it was a call for
critical attention on the urgency to converge political grassroots struggle in the fields of
urbanism and migration insofar as dialectically related. It pushed the viewer to question
whether Europeanisation-from-above was the only alternative to Neo-Ottomanisation, a
likewise hegemonic project already in the making by 2010 and by now largely implemented.
Albeit uncontroversial heterogeneity, what attempted Europeanisation and Neo-
Ottomanisation of the country shared for a while is precisely the same focal point: the
(re)conquest of İstanbul.
in fact the main reason why the Turkey-based movement of solidarity with migrants and asylum seekers
advocates the modification of the geographical limitations of the 1951 Refugee Convention.
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3.3. Neo-Ottoman conquest via urban renewal
Figure 148 Neo-Ottoman conquest of İstanbul. 2012. (Photo: Emiliano Bugatti)
This wall painting does more than pointing at the cumulative effects of rapid population growth
and the subsequent rapid urbanisation; it is a descriptive representation of the Neo-Ottoman
takeover of İstanbul as a pyramid-shaped process of coming to power crowned with success.
As represented on the wall, the strategy to win power relied on the monumentalization of the
renewal of an urban sprawl into a showcase of renewed power relations. To explain why, we
need to pay attention to all the elements composing the wall painting: the white and colourful
buildings piled on top of each other, the transport means and a fist popping out from them, two
different crowns, one decorated with a crescent and a star painted in red, and the white and
green drape wrapping the whole.
The buildings piled on top of each other draw attention on residential space, and they give an
idea of the scale of the huge construction site into which İstanbul was turned to generate profit
and increase multiscalar power. The diversity of their colour is a clear invitation to make a
distinction. The larger buildings painted in white are reminiscent of TOKİ residential complexes
of the peripheral areas where the urban poor expelled from renewal areas to be gentrified via
forced eviction are usually relocated131. The thinner buildings with colourful façades are instead
reminiscent of historical housing of central areas turned into luxury aparthotels or Airbnb
131 As discussed above, TOKİ is the Housing Development Administration of Turkey. Since the early
2002, it develops mass housing projects on behalf of local municipalities that act as contractor and, in
turn, makes deals with further contractors (İzem, 2011; Genç, 2014).
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vacation rental flats. One of the central areas hosting foreign tourists is precisely Galata, where
the graffiti appeared in 2012. At that time, the gentrification of the neighbourhood was
progressing and, in time, it nearly overshadowed the traditional “street-courtyard-sofa-room”
pattern typical of residential areas, an expression that I borrow from Denel (1982, p. XIII).
From the mass of white buildings, there emerge cars and trucks. By recalling İstanbul’s traffic
congestion, they point at the unsustainability of the increase of transport issues resulting from
the inherent relation between infrastructural and urban development. In other words, cars and
trucks can be interpreted as a sort of reminder and even warning in that they visualise what
has been claimed by Mücella Yapıcı: “bir yolü götürürseniz, o yol oraya gelişmeyi çağrır” (if
you build a road, it'll attract development) (Azem, 2011).
With regard to the crowned fist popping out from the heap of colourful buildings, there is more
than one remark to be made. First, it is a quotation. It clearly recalls the yellow fists and tags
with which the graffiti writer Kripoe and the Berlin-based crew 1UP (One United Power) had
“bombed” the narrow streets of Galata at the end of the 2000s132. More precisely, the crowned
fist is a way to pay tribute to their authors by addressing them as “kings”133. Lastly, the crowned
fist is a sort of signature. It functions as a sign indicating the spatio-temporal positioning of
both the viewer and the author(s) of the wall painting. By somehow telling the passer-by “You
are now here, in Galata in the early 2010s”, it suggests that graffiti was no longer a “liminal”
practice confined to “liminal sites” of peripheral areas (Waclawek, 2011, p. 212 and p. 215)
but had rather become an essential component of the aesthetics of the gentrified space of
global cities in the making, following a shift in their perception: from ugly to cool.
On top of the buildings, there stand the Galata Tower. As in the case of the logo of
Direnİstanbul, the Galata Tower is the symbol of both Beyoğlu and the whole of İstanbul. Once
again, both İstanbul and Beyoğlu are represented as contested space for representation of
political power. But, in this case, Beyoğlu is represented as the stronghold of a struggle over
political authority that seems to have been won by hegemonic power. To explain why, it must
be first deciphered how the symbolism of the drape in the background and the crown over the
tower dialectically relate to each other.
The drape in the background is painted in white and green, which clearly recall Ottoman and
Neo-Ottoman imagery. As pointed out by the former Minister of Foreign Affairs Ahmet
Davutoğlu, Neo-Ottomanism is the popular term used both in Turkey and abroad to describe
132 As specified earlier, tag and bombing are terms used in jargon to refer to territorial marking: “tag”
means signature graffiti and “bombing” means tagging many surfaces in the same area.
133 As explained in the glossary, “king” is the term used among signature graffiti writers to address skilled
writers with reputation higher than others.
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Turkish foreign policy that, according to him, could be better described as “zero problems with
neighbours” in order not to make them fear expansionism (Palabıyık, 2010). But Neo-
Ottomanism is not only about the international nor soft power; it is about soft power and
monumentalization of space-time as dialectically related to each other at various scales: the
international, the global, the local, and the national.
As defined by Bülent Batuman (2016 and 2017), Neo-Ottomanism is a negotiation strategy
oriented both inwards and outwards. On one hand, the neoliberal conservatives adopting it
aim to strengthen nationalist feelings of belonging to a collective identity renewed in
accordance with the demands of political Islam; at the same time, they aim at strengthening
regional and global influence through the branding of İstanbul into a city easy to sell to new
gentrifiers, namely middle class and rich Muslims from both Turkey and other countries. The
implementation of both inward- and outward-oriented objectives rely on the exploitation of a
self-orientalist and nationalistic nostalgia for the grandeur of the sixteenth century Ottoman
Empire (i.e., the golden age of Nation and Islam), of which the classical Ottoman mosques’
architecture is for instance a symbol to imitate134. However, Neo-Ottomanisation is not merely
a matter of form and style; it is also a matter of size and above all spectacularization.
At this regard, the crown over the Galata Tower in the wall painting reminds us that nostalgic
spectacularization of the imperial legacy must not be misunderstood for mere commemoration.
Rather, the superimposition of the neo-Ottoman imperial imaginary over the Republican
nation-state resulted in a “highly nationalistic” mentality inherently related to the very
“popularisation of the conquest mentality” (Eldem, 2013). However, Republican structures and
imaginary were not merely rejected but rather englobed via re-semanticization of both space
and time. In other words, neoliberal conservatives grounded their legitimacy mainly on the
legacy of the imperial past but also incorporated the nationalism of the Republican period. In
fact, the crown that in the wall painting above stands for victory (although most of the Ottoman
sultans did not wear any) is decorated with the crescent and the star featured in the late
Ottoman and Turkish flags but both the crescent and the star are painted in red, which
symbolises the Turkish flag, not the Ottoman one.
In addition to this, it must be remarked that the shape of the process is represented as
pyramidical. As such, it visualises İstanbul as stratified space, i.e., an assemblage of old and
new layers of symbolic meanings in dialectic relation with each other. Besides this, it visualises
that progressive conquering by neoliberal conservatives relied on decades-long tourismoriented
re-monumentalization. Lastly, the pyramidal shape clearly represents the re-
134 In this regard, it is important to compare the radically different narrative proposed by Tekeli (2010, p.
39), who addressed the neoliberalization of İstanbul and Turkey as a period of decay since it implied
what he called the Postmodernist "erosion of modernity".
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monumentalization of the city as a whole as strongly focused on the Galata Tower, which
stands for Beyoğlu, a centre of touristic attraction and place for the representation of values of
both hegemonic and counterhegemonic power.
In the early 2010s, most of the mega-projects meant to perform a monumental function in the
area were not yet completed with the exception of a 50.000 m² shopping mall on İstiklal Avenue
named Demirören (2011),, a mega-project that will be discussed more in detail in the last
section of this chapter. That is why, I suppose, the wall painting above does not depict
minarets, bridges or any other symbol recalling any of the mega-projects completed in the
following years135. At that time, the Galata Tower still used to be the most prominent landmark
and touristic attraction of the Taksim area and also one of the most prominent ones of İstanbul
together with the Bosphorus Bridge (the latter completed in 1973 and now called 15 July
Martyrs Bridge following the 2016 attempted coup).
In sum, the wall painting examined in detail in this section visualises that the tourism-oriented
re-development of İstanbul occurred in recent decades relied on two main strategic areas of
intervention: architectural projects concerning the re-development of the urban fabric and
monumental mega-projects, the latter including also infrastructure projects (Akcan, 2015). In
the next section, the focus is on a specific mega-project aimed at the renewal of historical
real estate in the Tarlabaşı neighbourhood.
3.4. Renewal of historical real estate: the case of Taksim 360 [Tarlabaşı 360]
Several of the graffiti with space-related content documented in İstanbul in the early 2010s
contained explicit reference to Tarlabaşı 360, an urban renewal project by now renamed
Taksim 360. For instance, see Figure 149.
When the project started in 2010, the late 19th century buildings of the Tarlabaşı
neighbourhood were mainly inhabited by the urban poor. To this day, the construction of a
brand-new luxury mixed-use complex is not fully completed nor has managed to completely
fulfil the long-term aim suggested by its new toponym, namely wiping away the previous
identity of a neighbourhood whose central location is invaluable. As described on the project
135 Emblematic examples completed in the 2010s include the Third Bridge over the Bosphorus (2016),
The Grand Pera shopping and performance complex (2016) located also on İstiklal Avenue and, more
precisely, on the site of the historic movie theatre Emek (completely demolished in 2013), the Third
Airport (2018), and the Çamlıca Camii (a giant mosque completed and opened in 2019). Besides being
the largest in Turkey, the latter is visible from everywhere in İstanbul. Its construction as well as its
peculiarities were announced in 2012 by the then Prime Minister Erdoğan on the anniversary day of the
Ottoman conquest of the former Byzantine capital city. For a complete list of mega-projects, see
http://megaprojelerİstanbul.com. To this day uncompleted projects include the opening of Canal İstanbul
or Second Bosphorus, a 45 km long canal connecting the Black Sea and the Marmara Sea (started in
June 2021).
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website, “Taksim is the heart of İstanbul and the heart of Taksim is Taksim 360” (Taksim 260,
n.d.). As discussed more in detail later on, Taksim is in fact the space for representation of
power in İstanbul and, as it is well-known, it is also an area full of entertainment, cultural and
commercial facilities136. Below visuals showing the proximity of the Tarlabaşı neighbourhood
to Taksim Square and the area of the renewal project.
Figure 149 Dissent vs. the megaproject Tarlabaşı 360 (renamed Taksim 360). İstanbul. 2013.
Figure 150 Tarlabaşı’s location. (Source:
Tsavdaroglou, 2020)
Figure 151 Tarlabaşı renewal area. (Source:
Bianet, 2017)
136 See the next section.
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Due to pull and push factors of inner-city, internal and external migration, Tarlabaşı has
historically sheltered the whole world, a rhetorical hyperbole that I use to emphasize that urban
renewal targeted a neighbourhood inhabited by a multi-ethnic community of dwellers since its
formation. Tarlabaşı became a neighbourhood in the 19th century, when it became the
residential quarter of middle- and upper-income professionals of Armenian and Greek ethnicity
(Tsavdaroglou, 2020, Can, 2020; Ozil, 2015; Unsal & Kuyucu, 2010)137. In the same period,
the area started also becoming a place for job opportunities for low-class workers who were
living nearby: petty merchants, shop owners, tailors, waiters, and sex-workers (Ozil, 2015).
In the 20th century, non-Muslim minority residents of Tarlabaşı had to sell or abandon their
properties as consequence of historic events such as the introduction of the wealth tax in 1942
and the pogrom of 6-7 September 1955. The varlık vergisi (wealth tax) was one of the
nationalist policies that discriminated non-Muslim minority residents of non-Turkish ethnicity
(Mills, 2006). Defined by Erdemir (2015) as the Turkish Kristallnacht, the 1955 pogrom was a
series of attacks that nationalists perpetrated primarily against the Greek community of
İstanbul following the spreading of a fake news (Greeks had bombed Atatürk's birth house in
Thessaloniki).
Over the decades, non-Muslim minority residents were replaced by low-income newcomers
who squatted, bought or rented their former properties for cheap prices (Tsavdaroglou, 2020,
Can, 2020; Genç, 2017; Islam, 2006 and 2005; Unsal & Kuyucu, 2010). In the 1960s and
1970s, the neighbourhood was mostly inhabited by migrants from rural Anatolia who had been
attracted by the employment opportunities opened up by the industrialisation of the 1950s but,
as pointed out by Islam (2005), they were unable to afford the maintenance needed to avoid
deterioration.
Physical decay contributed to ghettoization of Tarlabaşı but, as argued by Unsal & Kuyucu
(2010), the process was triggered also by state-led long-planned change in the urban fabric.
In the 1980s, Tarlabaşı and the İstiklal Avenue area were physically split from each other
following the demolition of hundreds of multi-storey buildings to open up a boulevard
137 Referring to these social groups by using the category of non-Muslim native minorities is not
uncommon, but Amy Mills (2006) remarked that the very category of ethnic minority is actually the
product of the 20th century transformation of subjects of the Ottoman Empire into citizens of the Turkish
Republic. Hence, addressing them as Ottoman citizens is appropriate as citizenship shall be understood
not only as the formally institutionalised status of being a citizen of a nation-state but also as the sets of
practices of being political in and through urban space (İşin, 2005). The plausibility of such a conceptual
and linguistic adjustment is supported by the very history of the mahalle, an Ottoman Turkish word of
Arabic origin that is commonly translated as neighbourhood.
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connecting Taksim to the Historic Peninsula (Candan & Kolluoğlu, 2008; Unsal & Kuyucu,
2010; Gül, 2009)138.
Figure 152 Tarlabaşı Boulevard. (Source: Google Maps)
To this day, Tarlabaşı Boulevard still marks the neighbourhood’s southern boundary, a term
adequate to describe its ambivalent physical relationship with the neighbouring Taksim Square
and İstiklal Avenue area: disjunction albeit proximity. Over a few decades, proximity to Taksim
attracted many newcomers in need for both cheap housing and jobs, respectively provided by
deteriorated housing and by the pool of opportunities to access the informal economy networks
provided not only by the İstiklal area but also by the neighbourhood itself.
By the late 2000s, members of various communities joining migrants from rural Anatolia
already there since the 60-70s include: (1) internally displaced Turkish citizens of Kurdish
ethnicity escaping civil war in the south-eastern parts of the country in the 1990s, (2) members
of the Romani community, (3) members of the LGBTQI+ community, and (4) migrants and
refugees from Sub-Saharan African countries (Tsavdaroglou, 2020, Can, 2020; Genç, 2017;
Islam, 2006 and 2005; Unsal & Kuyucu, 2010)139.
With their progressive arrival, Tarlabaşı had grown in what I suggest to describe as
homogeneity-in-heterogeneity: increase in ethnic/cultural heterogeneity and increase in class
homogeneity. Based on fieldwork observations conducted in the early 2010s, I can say that,
for the most part, the mixed-used neighbourhood was mainly inhabited by low- and very lowclass
residents: (1) petty traders (e.g., grocers, plumbers, electricians, carpenters, barbers,
hairdressers, and wigs makers); (2) workers employed in the informal sector such as waist
collectors, construction workers, textile workers, street vendors (e.g., mussel, watch, and rag
138 The opening of the boulevard was one of uncompleted projects of Haussmannian nature proposed
by Henri Prost, a French urbanist commissioned to prepare a masterplan for the re-making of İstanbul in
the 1930s. More detailed information is going to be provided later on in this chapter.
139 In the early 2010s, Tarlabaşı started providing a shelter also to refugees from the neighbouring Syria
who were increasingly escaping the war sparked by the repression of the 2011 attempted revolution.
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sellers), sex-workers (trans and cisgender), musicians, and drug dealers; (3) unemployed
people. In addition to all of them, I consider it important to recall also the unwaged housewives
who hanged the laundry depicted in the many realistic yet stereotypical images circulating in
the early 2010s. Below two examples, one of which is a graffiti.
Figure 153 Graffiti depicting the streetscape of
Tarlabaşı. 2012.
Figure 154 Streetscape of Tarlabaşı. 2013.
Both the images depict the physical texture targeted by urban renewal: historical multi-storey
apartment buildings with a cumba (bay window), a distinctive feature of the local architectural
language consisting of an extension of the house towards the street. As it can be seen from
both the graffiti and the photograph, the boundaries between outside and inside were not fixed
since public and domestic space were to a certain extent overlapping. The fluidity of space
was the product of tradition but it was not the product of a traditional way of building the
environment alone; it was rather the product of the combination of traditional architectonic
features and traditional practices of the everyday life. In other words, the street was commonly
shared for domestic work, which in Turkey (but not only) is still unwaged and is traditionally
performed by women workers.
Seeing Tarlabaşı as a place where gender and class related issues intersect means also
acknowledging the heteropatriarchal authority dominating its space. Based on participant
observation, I can say that the atmosphere of some of its streets was and continues to be
polluted on a regular basis by toxic masculinity140. For instance, the graffiti below epitomises
the macho behaviour described by the slang expression that it contains: “gider yapmak”
140 Tarlabaşı is the place where I have lived most of the time that I have spent so far in İstanbul but, since
1 July 2022, the area is included in the list of neighbourhoods closed to foreign residents.
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(harassing in a domineering manner to incite a confrontation aimed in turn at defending
reputation with verbal and/or physical violence)141.
Figure 155 “Nobody can affront anyone in this neighbourhood". Tarlabaşı. 2013.
As it can be clearly seen from the picture, the graffiti appeared within the area evacuated and
demolished as part of the renewal project. Both the expulsion of the residents of Tarlabaşı and
the demolition of the architectural heritage had aroused the dissent of various actors who tried
legal ways to suspend the project but in vain (Can, 2020; Arıcan, 2020; Tsavdaroglou, 2020;
Türkün, 2011; Türkün & Şen, 2009; Islam, 2006 and 2010; Kuyucu & Ünsal, 2010)142. Dissent
against gentrification was expressed also via graffiti. See Figure 156, 157, and 158.
141 Unable to find an accurate equivalent in English slang, I suggest to translate it in English as “to affront
[someone]”, “to mess up [with someone] or “to fall afoul [of one another]”.
142 In 2008, the Chamber of Architects filed a lawsuit on the grounds that both the aforementioned Law
5366 and the renewal project collided with the public interest and the local legislation. In the same year,
owners, landlords, renters and volunteer lawyers came together and formed the Tarlabaşı Association
with the purpose of defending the rights of residents under the threat of expropriation if unwilling to sell
their properties at very low prices. In 2010, the Tarlabaşı Association joined the lawsuit filed by the
Chamber of Architects yet the first evacuations and dismantling of historical buildings began.
Figure 156 Dissent vs. the expulsion of the Tarlabaşı residents: “where are these people?”. 2012.
Figure 157 Dissent vs. the destruction of Tarlabaşı architectonic heritage: “demolition Street”. 2012.
Figure 158 Dissent vs. property speculation in Tarlabaşı: “unearned income blind-alley”.
2012.
Like the previous and many others, these graffiti also appeared within the demolition area,
whose derelict atmosphere attracted many street artists. In 2012, the demolition area
became a “kamuya açık sanat galerisi” (art gallery open to the public) (Fırat, 2012). The
events that organised within a short time were various: VJ FEST İstanbul 2012, Renovation
Tarlabaşı, and Division Unfolded: Tarlabaşı Intervention. See the visuals below.
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115
Figure 159 Poster of
VJ Fest İstanbul.
Tarlabaşı, June 2012
(Source:VJ Fest
İstanbul, 2012)
Figure 160 Advertising material
of the street art event
"Renovation Tarlabaşı".
September 2012 (Source:
Street Art Festival İstanbul,
2012)
Figure 161 Art event "Division Unfolded:
Tarlabaşı Intervention".
With regard to these events and even to the graffiti aimed at giving visibility to Tarlabaşı’s
issues, Fırat (2012) argued that, no matter if their authors were well-intentioned, their
interventions were the result of political ingenuity because, in the end, they contributed to the
aestheticization of the ruins in the demolition area. Endorsing her argument, I consider it
important to stress that, besides showcasing demolition, the graffiti turning the area into an
open-air gallery contributed also to the objectification of the remaining residents. Practically,
their poor living conditions were also being showcased and actually reduced to an attraction
to satisfy the curious gaze of an increasing number of visitors. Given this, the content of graffiti
below is self-explanatory.
Figure 162 “Still not enough photos?”. Tarlabaşı. 2012.
In sum, the case of renewal of the Tarlabaşı neighbourhood shows that the understanding of
urban issues as inherently related to issues of class, gender, and ethnicity. In addition to this,
it shows also the ambivalence of graffiti in the production of space insofar as it shows that
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interventions aimed at calling for attention on grassroots struggle against gentrification can
actually end up fuelling it. Grassroots placemaking is also the topic of the next section.
3.5. Grassroots placemaking
By grassroots placemaking, I refer to the process through which ordinary people add layers of
symbolic meanings to already meaningful places. Graffiti documented in Taksim before Gezi
call for attention on two cases that differ from each in terms of design but were both given
symbolic meanings via ritualised political use and collective mobilisation: Taksim Square and
Galatasaray Square.
By now, the term “square” is commonly used to translate “meydan” but the spaces that two
terms traditionally indicate is not exactly the same. Meydan is a Turkish word of Arabic and
Persian origins that traditionally indicates open space whose distinctive feature is inbetweenness143.
Until the introduction of rational planning and regularity as guiding principle
in the late 19th century, meydan indicated free-access space whose boundaries were not
formally designed but informally defined via practices of social interaction (Bilsel, 2008; Locci
& Yücel, 2011).
The English square derives instead from the Latin “ex” (out) and “quadrare” (make squareshaped),
and indicates an area geometrically defined by the buildings surrounding it144. In the
European tradition of building the environment, the square is the typical and most emblematic
representation of public space, i.e., space whose multiplicity of functions includes but is not
limited to representation of power (Bilsel, 2008).
In light of these preliminary remarks, I am going to first focus on the case of Taksim Square
and, depending on the historical period, I am going to use both the terms (i.e., square and
meydan). Unlike Galatasaray Square, Taksim is space turned into a square not only as result
of everyday use and ritualised spatial practices but also as result of urban planning.
3.5.1. Taksim Square
In the 2010s, before pedestrianisation, Taksim Square functioned as a major transportation
hub given the presence of both the metro and bus station but the geography of place was
143 See the etymology of meydan in the online dictionary Etimoloji Türkçe (n.d.)
144 See the origin and meaning of square in Etymonline (n.d.). See also the current meaning of square
in English language dictionaries. For instance, see the online Cambridge Dictionary (n.d.).
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much more complex than a highly transited square. The physical elements composing it
included: Gezi Park, the Atatürk Kültür Merkezi (Atatürk Cultural Centre, AKM), the Marmara
Hotel, the open space between, the Republican Monument, and the roads connecting them.
See Figure 163.
Figure 163 Aerial view of Taksim Square. (Source: “The Geography of Taksim Square”, 2013)
With regard to its symbolic meanings, it was claimed that Taksim Square became “a space of
visibility, rupture and conflict for the three prevailing climates of thought in existence in Turkey
for the past 200 years”, namely political Islam, westernism, and socialism (Günal & Çelikkan,
2019b). To explain why, I am going to provide a brief account of its development.
Since the eighteenth century, Taksim is the site of the maksem, the water distribution chamber
from which the word Taksim derives (Köseoğlu, 2021, p. 41), and the physical element marking
the boundary of Cadde-i Kebir (Grand Avenue, later Grand Rue de Pera and İstiklal Avenue)
(Yalçın, 2020). In the area, there were also several cemeteries that, like all major cemeteries
in İstanbul, were used also as recreation areas for practices such as picnics (Yalçın, 2020). In
the early 19th century, Taksim continued to be a peripheral area but was turned into a military
district with the construction of the Artillery Barracks (Batuman, 2015)145. See the figures
145 In 2011, the then Prime Minister Tayiip Erdoğan proposed the reconstruction of a replica of the
barracks. As it is well known, the controversial project sparked dissent. See Chapter 4.
118
below, which visualise the meydan, i.e., open and free-access space and middle ground (açık
alan in Turkish).
Figure 164 Maksem. 18th century. (Source: Arabaci, 2021)
Figure 165 Taksim Barracks. Late 19th century. (Source: Yiğit & Çetin, 2022)
In the courtyard of the barracks, there was a mosque (Kırbaş, 2014). See the map in Figure
166.
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Figure 166 Taksim Artillery Barracks in Kauffer Map, 1807 (Source: Kırbaş, 2014, p. 92)
In the late 19th century, the function of Taksim Meydanı changed. It started marking the
northern boundary of the new business and residential district of upper-middle class non-
Muslim subjects of the modernising Empire and thus became also the centre of the urban life
in the district (Köseoğlu 2021). Besides the meydan, the area included Galata, Pera, and
Grand Rue de Pera (the new toponym of Cadde-i Kebir). In 1869, the first public park of the
area was opened: Taksim Bahçesi (Taksim Garden). It was opened following the relocation of
Christian cemeteries and, according to Çelik (1993), its atmosphere must have been
considered immoral since the police prohibited to non-Muslim women to walk in the park, which
was used for leisure activities mostly by the non-Muslim residents of the area. See Figure 167.
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Figure 167 Taksim Garden. 1902. (Source: Librakons, 2021)
In 1880, the symbolism of the Taksim area as space of representation of non-Muslim subjects
of the Empire further increased with the construction of Hagia Triada, a church of the Greek
community that, until the completion of the construction of the Taksim Mosque in the early
2020s, was the religious building with highest visibility in the meydan area. Below a postcard
depicting it.
Figure 168 Hagia Traida probably in the late 19th century. (Source: Toucan, 2022)
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In 1909, the Taksim military barracks were bombed during the military repression of an anti-
Westernisation uprising that lasted 13 days (Günal & Çelikkan, 2019b). In the following year,
the tradition of celebrating the International Workers Day May in the Taksim area started. In
1910, hundreds of workers and socialist leaders gathered in the garden of a beer factory where
speeches were made in Armenian, Turkish, Greek and Ladino so as to emphasize the
multilingual essence of İstanbul’s working class (Benlisoy, 2017). In 1923, year of the
foundation of the Republic of Turkey, May 1st became a public holiday under the name of
Amele Bayramı (Labour Day) but, in 1924, the government banned mass celebrations (Günal
& Çelikkan, 2019b).
In the early Republican period, the erection of a highly symbolic element such as the
Independence Monument in 1928 Taksim mediated the spontaneous making of Taksim into a
traffic node and a square (Batuman, 2015). Commissioned to the Italian sculptors Pietro
Canonica and Giulio Mongeri by the Municipality of İstanbul, the sculpture is a twofold
representation: on one side, it depicts the Turkish War of Independence and, on the other side,
it depicts the founding of the Republic of Turkey146. The monument and the area surrounding
it started becoming the site of ritualised practices such as public ceremonies and recurring
commemorations that, together with the sculpture, were aimed to create a new collective
memory (Köseoğlu, 2021). Below one of the first ceremonies at the Taksim Republican
Monument in the late 1920.
Figure 169 One of the first ceremonies at the Taksim Republican Monument. 1928. (Source: Yalçın,
2020)
146 For more detailed information about the sculpture, its making, and the figures it represents, see Günal
& Çelikkan (2019b).
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With the implementation of the masterplan that the French architect and urban designer Henri
Prost was invited to prepare in 1936, Taksim turned into the Republican Square (Batuman,
2015), i.e., “a monumental public square” (Bilsel, 2010: 354). Following the destruction of the
semi-ruined military barracks and the opening of Gezi Park as one of the free, secularised
spaces to be used for recreational and cultural activities also by Muslims (both men and
women), Taksim has been turned into a symbolic battlefield for conflicting ideals of modernity
(Akpınar & Gümüş, 2012)147. Below a sketch of Taksim Square by Prost, who conceived it as
the main public square of the Republican İstanbul, a place designed to stage large-scale
military ceremonies and celebrations (Köseoğlu, 2021; Bilsel, 2007 and 2010; Akpınar, 2010).
Figure 170 Sketch of Taksim Square by Prost. 1945. (Source: Kiricioglue, 2012)
In 1946, the foundations of an opera house in the Republican square were laid but the
construction works progressed at a slow pace due to funding issues148. In the 1950s, the
nearby construction of the Hilton Hotel marked the monumentalization of high-rise buildings
as space of representation of renewed power relations (e.g., the Turkish-American alliance)
(Akpınar & Gümüş, 2012; Akpınar, 2014; Gül, 2009; Bozoğan, 2001; Bozdoğan & Akçan;
2012). In the same period, the Taksim area became a meeting place and a space for
consumption and leisure activities (Köseoğlu) but it became also the stage of nationalist rallies,
including rallies against ethnic minorities (Batuman, 2015). As aforementioned in this chapter,
ethnicized violence escalated and reached a historic peak with the pogrom of 1955. In the
1960s, nationalist rallies started being substituted by anti-imperialist rallies (Batuman, 2015;
147 For more detailed information about the Prost Plan, see Bilsel (2010); Akpınar (2014); Bozdoğan &
Akçan (2012); Batuman (2015); Sezer (2015); Akpınar & Gümüş (2012); Bilsel (2017).
148 See Chapter 4 for more information about the history of the Atatürk Kültür Merkezi (Atatürk Cultural
Center, AKM).
123
Köseoğlu, 2021)149. As mentioned in Chapter 2, anti-American rallies reached a historic peak
both in attendance and brutality with the events of Bloody Sunday in 1969, when Taksim
Square was turned into a proper battlefield where two protesters were killed and nearly two
hundred were injured (Nisan online newspaper, 2019).
Figure 171 Bloody Sunday. Taksim Square. 1969. (Source: Nisan online newspaper, 2019)
In 1976, DİSK organised the celebration of the International Workers Day in Taksim Square
and the participated rally marked the beginning of mass May Day celebrations in Turkey
(Bianet, 2001). In 1977, too thousand people joined the May Day rally in Taksim Square, which
they reached via the routes visualised in the map below.
Figure 172 May Day march to Taksim. (Source: Köseoğlu 2021, p. 119)
149 Despite historiographical mistakes, the popular Netflix series Kulüp (The Club) (Tan, 2021 and 2022)
provides fictional evidence of the use of İstiklal Avenue for this purpose.
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As I already recalled in Chapter 2, a never identified man fired into the crowd and, as result of
panic, more than 30 people were killed and hundreds were injured (Köseoğlu, 2021; Bozdoğan
and Akcan, 2012; Batuman, 2015; Nocera, 2011; Mavioğlu & Sanyer, 2007). Below, a picture
of the rally and a picture of the victims of the massacre, for whom no monument has ever been
erected neither in Taksim Square nor elsewhere in İstanbul.
Figure 173 May Day 1977. Rally in Taksim Square.
(Source: Küper, 2012)
Figure 174 Taksim Square massacre. 1977.
(Source: Küper, 2012)
In 1978, the May Day celebration in Taksim Square was highly participated (Günal & Çelikkan,
2019b). One of the slogans of the protest was “1 Mayıs’da, 1 Mayıs Alanında (On May Day,
at May Day Arena) (Köseoğlu, 2021). Below a photograph showing a banner with another
slogan, one calling the responsible of the 1977 massacre to account150.
Figure 175 Taksim Square, May Day 1978 (Source: SALT Galata, 2018b)
In 1979, May Day was celebrated in the streets, which were filled with people despite a ban
and a curfew but, in 1981, May Day was revoked the status of public holiday and, until it
officially regained it in 2009, leftists did not stop trying to reclaim Taksim as the place for the
150 For a similar slogan, see Figure 68 in Chapter 2.
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May Day rally (Günal & Çelikkan, 2019b). By then, the agency who promoted the İstanbul
2010 – European Capital of Culture also reclaimed Taksim. Below, an image appeared on the
website of the mega-event and, besides providing visual support to a list of places to visit, it
seems to be a clear political statement: it reclaims Taksim as the square of İstanbul, a
European Capital (of Culture) and the capital city of the Republic of Turkey.
Figure 176 Panoramic view of the area between Taksim Square and the Bosphorus. (Source: Places to
Visit – İstanbul 2010 – European Capital of Culture, n.d.)
In 2010, 2011 and 2012, Taksim Square became once again the stage of the rallies for the
May Day celebrations (Günal & Çelikkan, 2019b). The next figure is a selective example of
the several graffiti found in the Taksim area in 2012 and indicating Taksim as the ground for
the celebrations of the International Workers Day.
Figure 177 Taksim as May Day ground (alan in Turkish). Taksim area, İstanbul. 2012.
In support of such a representation, another picture, which shows the wallscape on the eve of
May Day 2013, when various political actors called passers-by to join the rally in Taksim
despite a ban allegedly due to the construction works for the pedestrianisation of the square,
a controversial project discussed in Chapter 4.
Figure 178 Wallscape on the eve of May Day. Taksim. 2013.
In sum, Taksim is a contested place whose multiple layers of symbolic meanings depend not
only on top-down planning but also on grassroots placemaking. As argued by Köseoğlu
(2021), the symbolic meanings given to the place by the labour movement overshadowed its
Republican symbolism. Based on street and digital ethnographic observation, I argue also a
nostalgic component oriented towards the past and the unrealised future that tends to its
fetishization as the May Day ground. However, I am not intent on reducing Taksim to a place
of collective remembrance and space of representation of a collective trauma. As far as I have
understood, Taksim is more than this. It stands not only for the ideals of the labour movement
and the memory of the martyrised victims but also for the new, differential space that
movements for social justice seeks to commonise. In other words, it is space of representation
of the right to freedom of assembly and May Day is a vakit, i.e., an opportunity to reclaim it. In
addition to this, the symbolic meanings of Taksim go beyond the local scale since before the
Gezi resistance in 2013. For evidence of this, see the graffiti below, which appeared in the
Taksim area in 2012.
The textual content of the street sign above indicates Tahrir Meydanı (a major square in Cairo
and the most symbolic of the locations of the 2011 uprising that led to the overthrow of the
then President Mubarak and was followed by several waves of protests). However, the shape,
126
Figure 179 Graffiti connecting Taksim Square to Tahrir Square. İstanbul. 2012.
size and colours clearly recall the street signs used within the İstanbul municipality to indicate
the name of the locations where they are placed. Hence, I argue that the possible
interpretations of the textual and visual content of the graffiti are at least two. First, the graffiti
was a call to reflect on the possible effects of an uprising in Turkey and, as such, it was an
anticipatory sign of what came shortly thereafter (i.e., the Gezi uprising). In other words, it
suggests that Taksim – the Republican Square and the place reclaimed by the labour
movement – had the potential of being turned into transnational space for political action aimed
to reclaim the right to freedom of assembly. As discussed below, Galatasaray Square is also
space for representation of the right to freedom of assembly.
3.5.2. Galatasaray Square
Galatasaray Square is not a square conceived and designed as such but a junction used as a
meeting point before being turned into a square following a progressive accumulation of both
use and symbolic value. Located almost halfway between Taksim Square and Tünel Square,
it is the relatively small area where İstiklal Avenue crosses Yeni Çarşı/Boğazkesen (a steep
avenue connecting the seaside to the throbbing Taksim). The reason for stressing that the
area is relatively small is because İstiklal Avenue is crossed by many side streets but this is
the main crossroad along the whole avenue.
As it can be seen from the map, there are several landmarks in the area: the Galatasaray
Lisesi (Galatasaray High School), the Monument for the 50th Anniversary of the Republic, the
Yapı Kredi Kültür Sanat (Yapı Kredi Culture and Art centre, YKSS), and the Post Office. All of
them contribute to add use value to the area but they vary in use value. Compared to the other
127
Figure 180 A map of İstiklal Avenue and Galatasaray Square. (Source: Köseoğlu, 2021, p. 162)
128
landmarks, the Galatasaray High School stands out for both its historical value and traditional
function as a meeting point.
The Galatasaray High School is one of the buildings contributing to give a European character
to İstiklal Avenue (Independence Avenue), the former Grand Rue de Pera renamed as such
after the proclamation of the Turkish Republic “with a gesture to seize the space” (Batuman,
2015, p. 4). As recalled in the collective memory project Arafta Bir Beyoğlu (Yiğit & Çetin,
2022), the Galatasaray High School is known as such since 1924 but the building is actually
a palace whose function as educational facility dates back to the 15th century: it was first used
as a training school for bureaucrats, then it was temporary used as a medical school and a
military barrack before being turned into a symbol of westernisation in the late 19th century. In
the everyday life, both residents of the area and visitors regularly meet in front of the building
of the Galatasaray High School because its big scale makes it easy to meet someone in the
middle of a highly crowded commercial throughfare such as İstiklal Avenue151. Below a picture
of the monumental gate of the school.
Figure 181 Gate of the Galatasary High School. (Source: Yiğit & Çetin, 2022)
Unstructured interviews with regular users of the area revealed that meeting in front of the
monumental gate of Galatasaray High School precedes the pedestrianisation of İstiklal
Avenue In 1990152. The area is filled not only with foreign consulates and historic arcades but
also commercial, cultural and entertainment facilities filling both historic arcades and more
recent buildings, and that is why people used to regularly meet there even before İstiklal
Avenue became the major pedestrian axis of the Beyoğlu district.
151 On average days, İstiklal Avenue is filled by 1.5 million people (Arslanlı, Dokmeci, & Kolcu, 2017).
The flow of people can however vary. In recent years, variables affecting it include not only the early
2020s lockdown during the covid-19 pandemic but also a series of bomb attacks (e.g., in 2016 and 2022).
152 The pedestrianisation of the 1.4 kilometres long axis connecting Taksim Square with Tünel Square
was one of the urban renewal projects implemented by the city municipality following the neoliberal turn
and resulting in the gentrification of the area (Islam, 2005).
129
On May 27, 1995, the area in front of the Galatasaray High School was used for the first time
as meeting point by the Cumartesi Anneleri (Saturday Mothers), an organisation comparable
to The Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo in Argentina. Composed mainly but not only by women
and mothers who were also internal migrants, the group started a sit-in to protest against the
impunity of state violence and demand justice for relatives and friends disappeared under the
custody of security forces in the 1990s, when Kurdish cities and organisations were subjected
to large-scale military operations (Cruciati, 2018). Except for a long phase of repression in the
2000s, the group has met for years on the same day of the week, at the same hour, and at the
same place. In other words, the sit-ins started in 1995 became a ritualised form of assembly.
To explain why, I am going to recall all the space and time related details highlighted by
Köseoğlu (2021).
First, the sit-ins consisted in a peaceful and silent occupation of space (e.g., the protesters
held placards with photographs and names of the desaparecidos but no slogans were
chanted). Second, silence as a form of protest in front of the Galatasaray High Schools gate
was preferred over others for various reasons (e.g., rallies in Taksim Square would have made
it difficult to keep a low profile and avoid repression; rallies in İstiklal Avenue would have
interfered with the pedestrian flow of İstiklal Avenue). Third, the decision to meet regularly on
Saturdays at 12 was however related to the peak in pedestrian flow.
Figure 182 Aerial view of the Saturday Mothers’
sit-in in front of Galatasary High School. June
1995. (Source: Bianet, 2009b)
Figure 183 Saturday Mothers’ sit-in. 1996.
(Source: Bianet, 2009b)
In the second half of the 1990s, the sit-ins gained international visibility thanks to various
transnational acts of solidarity that took place both abroad and in Galatasaray (Köseoğlu,
2021). It is therefore not surprising that, in 1999, the sit-ins were suspended after repeated
attacks by the police and resumed only in 2009 (Bianet, 2022). Since then, the Saturday
Mothers received the support of various actors including but not limited to politicians,
journalists and artists. See the graffiti below for a heart-centred call to act in solidarity
documented in the area in 2012.
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Figure 184 Call to join the Saturday Mothers sit-in in Galatasary Square. İstanbul. 2012.
As defined by the author(s), the stencilled graffiti is an act of “yaratıcı direniş” (creative
resistance). This is what the last line of the graphic composition reads. The rest of the text
reads: “Cumartesi Anneleri hesap soruyor; cumartesi saat 12’de Galatasaray Lisesi önünde”
(the Saturday Mothers call [the responsible] to account; on Saturday at 12:00 in front of
Galatasaray High School). A detail worthy of attention is that the graffiti does not call people
to meet in Galatasaray Square but in front of Galatasaray High School indeed. As explained
by Köseoğlu (2021), the media that covered the Saturday Mothers’ action also used to refer
to the site of the sit-ins by using similar expressions but, at the turn of the 2000s, media
covering not only their sit-ins but also other events started calling the Galatasaray corner as
meydan suggesting that the it was their ritualised protests that turned into a contested public
space for collective remembrance and thus into a square. In a similar manner, Günal &
Çelikkan (2019) also argued that the square of the Galatasaray High School it owes its place
in the social memory to the Saturday Mothers and that is why it is also called Saturday Square.
To further clarify the importance of the assemblies initiated by the Saturday Mothers in
attaching symbolic space to the Galatasaray corner, it must be also stressed what has already
been mentioned, namely that their sit-ins were not the first nor the only ritualised protest
occurring in İstiklal Avenue. Examples of other protests are several and are not limited to the
131
aforementioned nationalist rallies of the 1950s. In the early 2010s, Galatasaray Square was
used for non-silent protests also by various rights organizations, initiatives and political groups
(e.g., press statements in support of refugees’ rights). Moreover, the square was also crossed
by rallies taking place along the whole İstiklal Avenue (e.g., the LGBT Pride March in June
and the Feminist Night march on March, 8).
Based on ethnographic memories, I can however say that, in 2013, the area started being
increasingly militarised following the increase in demonstration bans that preceded that
outburst of the Gezi uprising in late May. Since before the uprising, Galatasaray Square is
basically used as a police station (e.g., armoured water cannons started being regularly parked
there and armed forces patrolled the corner). However, I can no longer remember the exact
year since when the Republican Monument was also enclosed within police barricades (nor I
could manage to retrieve this information on the Internet). Since 2018, the square is banned
also to the Saturday Mothers and all the people demanding justice together with them (Bianet,
2022). The reason is best explained by recalling what the Saturday Mothers managed to do:
giving visibility to an issue affecting the periphery of the country by reclaiming the city centre
of its cultural and economic capital.
In sum, use value and symbolic value turned a junction of a major pedestrian axis into a
square. In the case of Galatasaray, square is then a term referring to multifunctional space.
Traditionally used as a meeting point, it became the meeting point of ritualised protests that
turned it also into counterhegemonic space for collective remembrance and resistance. To a
certain extent, this applies also to the case of the Emek movie theatre.
3.6. Urban commons: the Emek movie theatre vs. the Demirören shopping mall
The contradiction between the Emek Movie Theatre and the nearby Demirören shopping mall
is the last of the series of issues on which graffiti with space-related content documented in
İstanbul before Gezi draw attention153. In Figure 185 and Figure 186, a slogan and a map
attesting that their interconnectedness is intrinsically related to their close distance on İstiklal
Avenue.
153 For an extensive discussion of the shopping mall as hegemonic representation of space during the
AKP era, see Batuman (2017).
132
Figure 185 Slogan vs. the demolition of the
Emek movie theatre: “let the cinema open, let
the shopping mall be demolished”. İstanbul,
2013. (Source: İMECE - People’s Urbanism
Movement)
Figure 186 Location of the Emek movie theatre
(left) and Demirören shopping mall (right). İstiklal
Avenue. (Source: Megaİstanbul, n.d.)
To contextualise the slogan, it must be recalled that the Demirören large-scale building was
supposed to be demolished and reconstructed according to the zoning regulations that its size
violated (it was not compatible with the historical building next it) (Megaİstanbul, 2015). To get
an idea of its scale, see Figure 187.
Figure 187 Aerial view of the Demirören shopping mall (Source: Megaİstanbul, 2015)
However, the Demirören was never demolished and is instead open since 2011. Conversely,
the large architectural complex that, over time, contained various facilities including but not
limited to the Emek movie theatre was destroyed in May 2013 despite three years of protests
against its disassembling and conversion into the Grand Pera, another shopping mall 154.
154 The ceiling and walls decorations were moved to the top floors of Grand Pera, the shopping mall that
is by now in the place of the old Emek despite criticism about the controversial restoration practice.
133
Figure 188 Building of the Emek movie theatre before
destruction. (Source: Megaİstanbul, 2018)
Figure 189 Construction works inside the
building of the Emek movie theatre.
(Source: Megaİstanbul, 2018)
The Emek was the oldest and largest movie theatre of the Republican period but its cultural
and historical value was not only related to this. As it emerges from a film documentary by the
Emek Bizim İstanbul Bizim Iniative (2016), the reasons behind the protest for its conservation
included nostalgic memories but were not limited to them (e.g., the Emek was the place where
some used to go but it was also the place where the May Day celebration was held after the
1980 coup). Besides this, the film documentary reveals that, for some, the so-called struggle
for the Emek was part of the local urban movements’ struggle against the neoliberal enclosure
of public space in the sense of space to be reclaimed because belonging to all. See the
slogans below.
Figure 190 Slogan: “Emek is ours, İstanbul is
ours!!!’, İstiklal Avenue, Demirören façade. 2011
(Source: İMECE - People’s Urbanism Movement)
Figure 191 Protests slogan: "Capital, get your
hands off the Emek". 2011. (Source: İMECE -
People’s Urbanism Movement)
Given the twofold narrative – one centred on the individualisation of the heritage via personal
nostalgic memories of the use of the place and the other centred instead on its significance in
the collective memory – Genç (2022) argued that the Emek struggle contributed to the
redefinition of the very notion of public. In other words, the aim of the protesters who drew
upon the historical and cultural memory of the Emek was to reclaim the right to the city by
opening up space for commoning practices, i.e., non-market-oriented practices of spatial
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collective care (e.g., see Fırat, 2022)155. However, as Fırat (2022) also recalled, the Emek
struggle differed from others because it was not focused on a space of vital importance for the
urban poor. Unlike struggles against the demolition of historical buildings in low-class
neighbourhoods such as Tarlabaşı, the Emek struggle was rather aimed to arrest the
neoliberal absorption of entertainment facilities used mostly by the urban cultural middle class.
That said, its value in the struggle for the right to the city is not deniable for at least two reasons.
First, the Emek protests attempted to counteract the proliferation of shopping malls, whose
access in Turkey is usually granted only upon previous security controls156. In Lefebvrian
terms, the proliferation of shopping malls is an example of neoliberal absorption of leisure and
consumptions practices commonly performed also in outdoor spaces for mixed access (street
markets included)157.
The second reason why the value of the Emek struggle in the struggle for the right to the city
cannot be denied is also related to neoliberal absorption. The importance of the protests is in
fact attested by the very fact that state actors ensured their repression to guarantee the smooth
functioning of the market. For evidence of this, see the pictures below. The one on the left
(Figure 193) attests to violence that absorption can imply; the one on the right (Figure 194)
shows once again that, as far graffiti are concerned, absorption materialises as erasure of the
right to visibility that traces of dissent are supposed to be granted in space that is supposed to
be public.
On the armoured vehicle in Figure 192, there is a sticker with one of the slogans of the Emek
protests: “this is only the beginning, the struggle goes on”. For a better visualisation, see
Figure 194.
155 As stressed in the Introduction, reclaiming the right to the city does not merely mean reclaiming the
right to participate in decision-making about space but it means also reclaiming the collective right to
appropriate it so as to challenge its exchange value as private property (Lefebvre, 2009 [1968]; Ergin
and Rittersberger-Tılıç, 2014). In the Introduction, it was also stressed that space commoning does not
refer to the production of a third type of property but to an emancipatory political project of reterritorialisation
based on cooperative use of space (Stavrides, 2022 and 2015).
156 Although I acknowledge that, in Turkey, the shopping mall is a representation of space rooted in the
tradition of covered markets (Tokman, 2011), I do not endorse the argument that shopping malls
represent space for democratization simply because Muslim women can freely stroll and shop (Erkip,
2003), and I do not endorse it even though I can empathise with the resentment towards Kemalist
representations of public space as space where the visibility of the identity of Muslim women used to be
unwelcome.
157 As clarified in the Introduction, absorption is a notion suggested by Lefebvre (1991[1974]) to
conceptualise the systemic tendency of the capitalist mode of production to assimilate, take back or
violently eliminate whatever transgress.
135
Figure 192 Armoured water cannon used to
disperse protests. April 2013. (Source: İMECE -
People’s Urbanism Movement)
Figure 193 Censorship. Erasure of graffiti of the
Emek protests. İstiklal Avenue. March 2013.
Figure 194 Sticker with a slogan of the Emek protests: "this is only the beginning; the struggle goes
on". April, 2013. (Source: IMECE - People’s Urbanism Movement)
As clarified in the film documentary about the Emek struggle (Emek Bizim İstanbul Bizim
Inisiyatifi, 2016), the slogan is the translation of a slogan of the Parisian 1968 (“continuons le
combat, ca c'est le debut”). Besides this, it shall be also recalled that “this is not the end but
only the beginning of the struggle” is actually a sentence of the speech given by Eleanor Marx
– Karl's daughter – on the occasion of the celebration of the 1890 May Day rally in Hyde Park
(London) (Socialist Worker, 2021). Like other slogans of the Emek protests, this also was
massively used during the 2013 Gezi resistance and actually became the slogan of the Gezi
resistance158. However, questioning to what extent the Emek protests and the Gezi resistance
overlapped is a task that falls outside of this study. Here, my intention is to simply underline a
158 Another slogan of the Emek protests repertoire that were used in the Gezi resistance included “Taksim
bizim, İstanbul bizim” (“Taksim is ours, İstanbul is ours”). Variations shall also be recalled. For instance,
“Gezi bizim, İstanbul bizim” (“Gezi is ours, İstanbul is ours”).
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continuity in the language that the streets of Taksim resounded to claim that the Gezi
resistance did not come out of the blue but from accumulated dissent against the decadeslong
processes examined in this chapter, namely neoliberal urbanisation and the subsequent
reduction of İstanbul to a showcase of renewed power relations.
3.7. Concluding remarks
In this chapter, I have examined the social production of space in İstanbul by focusing on the
dialectics between hegemonic and counterhegemonic representations of space. The findings
show that in the early 2010s, the image of İstanbul portrayed on the walls of the Taksim area
was that of a highly contested city. Graffiti documented in Taksim and its surroundings before
Gezi provide in fact evidence of the centrality of urban space in the power struggle over political
authority.
In the first section, I have provided a summary of the decades-long tourism-oriented
redevelopment of İstanbul into a global city for a twofold purpose: to show that neoliberal
urbanisation is a contextually embedded process (Peck, Theodore and Brenner, 2009), and to
ultimately show that the interaction of global and local dynamics can give rise to geographies
of resistance (Sassen, 2008[2006]). For instance, the walls of the Taksim area in the early
2010s still carried the traces of the resistance that local activists had organised before Gezi to
context the uneven development that global capitalism implies: the logo of the political festival
Direnİstanbul (2009). As represented in the logo, Istanbul was a city urged to resist and
capable of resisting.
In the second section, I have first highlighted controversial aspects of the initiative İstanbul
2010 - European Capital of Culture (e.g., the demolition of historical buildings in
neighbourhoods inhabited by very low-income internal migrants). Then, I have deciphered the
content of a graffiti subverting the initiative logo and representing İstanbul as a bordered zone
linking Europe to its East. As I have interpreted it, the subverted logo was a call to approach
urban and migration issues as intersectional fields of struggle. Moreover, I have argued that
the subverted logo invited the viewer to be wary of the possible development of the relations
between the European Union and Turkey with regard to migration policies long before the
2016 refugee deal.
In the third section, I have examined a wall painting that did not call to action against the
transformation of İstanbul into a Neo-Ottoman city nor contested it but simply depicted it as a
successful process centred on urban renewal and the monumentalization of the very renewal.
My aim was to show that the re-making of İstanbul into a global city did not take place outside
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the national nor it implied a decrease in nationalist feelings but rather renewal in the
interpretation of national heritage. In other words, what I wanted to highlight is that neoliberal
urbanisation must be understood in the light of multiscalar patterns of urbanisation (i.e., global,
national, and local).
In the fourth section, I have tackled the issue of the renewal of historical heritage by examining
the case of Tarlabaşı, a neighbourhood adjacent to Taksim Square and historically inhabited
by ethnic minorities. From upper-middle class neighbourhood, Tarlabaşı turned into a shelter
for both internal and external migrants who searched for job opportunities in the nearby area
but were unable to face the costs of housing maintenance. Against this backdrop, the
implementation of the state-led gentrification aimed not only to expel the urban poor from the
city-centre but also to change the collective memory of the place via erasure of its
representation as the shelter of the urban poor.
In the fifth section, I have focused on the cases of Taksim Square and Galatasaray Square to
show that the symbolic meanings of the city centre are not only those superimposed by topdown
interventions but also those resulting from grassroots placemaking. First, I have retraced
the development of Taksim into a square functioning as space of representation of both power
and counterpower to explain that the symbolism of the area as place for the celebration of the
International Workers Day precedes its symbolism as place for the celebration of Republican
values. Then, I have retraced the development of Galatasaray into a square and space of
representation of the right to freedom of assembly as result of ritualised assemblies.
In the sixth and last section, I have focused on the contradiction between the use value and
exchange value of space by examining the contradiction between the Emek movie theatre and
the nearby Demirören shopping mall. The Emek case shows that multiple narratives can
overlap in the struggle against the commodification of both historical heritage and collective
memory. The struggle against the enclosure of the symbolic meanings of the Emek movie
theatre within the space represented by a shopping mall showed in fact that nostalgic
memories and future-oriented memories can both contribute to turn public space into the
object of political struggle for the urban commons.
In sum, in this chapter, I have shown the historiographical potential of graffiti drawing attention
on space politics in Istanbul in the early 2010s. Approached as historical sources, selected
graffiti suggest in fact that the counterhegemonic resistance that reached an unpredictable
peak in scale and intensity with the Gezi uprising did not come out of the blue but rather
developed from accumulated dissent towards decades-long processes. In the next chapter, I
retrace the development of a struggle against the top-down transformation of Taksim into the
longest and most widespread uprising occurred in Turkey to date.
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CHAPTER 4
A VISUAL CHRONICLE OF THE TEMPORARY APPROPRIATION OF TAKSIM, 2013
This chapter is a photo-essay of the dissonant echoes of the streets of Taksim during the 2013
Gezi event/s, i.e., the Gezi resistance and its repression. The visuals include some maps and
a few posters but mostly consist of photographs, and most of them depict graffiti159. The first
section of the chapter chronicles the development of an uprising out of a struggle for the right
to the city. Then, the second section visualises how the resistance turned Taksim into a global
street, i.e., space for the exercise of the right to the city. After that, the third section emphasises
the heterogeneity of the ordinary people who appropriated space with the purpose of
reclaiming the right to decision-making both about space and personal freedoms. Finally, the
fourth section examines the dialectic between absorption of differential space and attempts of
resistance to its absorption while the fifth section examines graffiti mediating it.
4.1. The Gezi resistance
In late May 2013, the brutal crackdown on a protest camp against a controversial urban
renewal project sparked an anti-government uprising. In early June, the uprising led to the
temporary appropriation of the urban areas where it rapidly spread. To refer to this assemblage
of spatial practices, I use the term Gezi resistance (direniş in Turkish). To reconstruct them,
this section consists of an illustrated and annotated timeline160. Divided into three parts, the
timeline first recalls the antecedents; then, it focuses on the protest camp; lastly, it reconstructs
the outburst of the uprising sparked by the eviction of the protest camp.
4.1.1. Antecedents
June 2011 – The then Prime Minister Tayyip Erdoğan announced the Taksim project during
the general elections campaign. In a nutshell, the controversial project involved: (1) the
reorganization of vehicular traffic via an underground tunnel system; (2) the pedestrianization
159 Unless specified, the photographs were taken by the author.
160 For the most part, the timeline is based on ethnographic memories and the timeline edited by Mat
(2013), which is part of a collaborative publishing project that I also joined.
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of the square; (3) the construction of a replica of the nineteenth-century Ottoman military
artillery barracks in Gezi Park to make room for yet another shopping mall161. See the figures
below.
Figure 195 Traffic underground system.
(Source: Erkut & Shiraz, 2014, p. 123)
Figure 196 Square pedestrianization
(Source: Megaİstanbul, 2020)
Figure 197 Barracks. (Source: Source: Erkut & Shiraz, 2014, p. 125)
The project sparked controversies because of the symbolic value of Taksim. Since the
destruction of the military barracks and the opening of Gezi Park in the early Republican
period, Taksim is a symbolic battlefield for conflicting ideals of modernity (Akpınar & Gümüş,
2012). As officially defined by the Cultural and Natural Heritage Preservation Board in 1999,
161 For technical details about the Taksim Project, see İstanbul’un Mega Projeleri (n.d.), Retrieved
January 15, 2023, from http://megaprojelerİstanbul.com/. For information about the history of Taksim and
also about the Taksim project, see also Akçan (2015), Akpınar (2014); Bilsel (2017); Erkut, G., & Shiraz,
M. (2014); Batuman (2015); Bozdoğan & Akçan (2012); Gül (2009); Gül, Dee and Cünük (2014); and
Akpınar & Gümüş (2012). For a study entirely focused on the military barracks, see instead Kırbaş
(2014).
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Gezi Park is not only one of the most important green areas of the city but cultural heritage to
be preserved for its symbolic value as monument of the Taksim Republican area (Altan &
Omay Polat, 2018). As discussed later on in this section, the same is valid also for the Atatürk
Kültür Merkezi (Atatürk Cultural Centre, AKM). For this reason, the restoration of the AKM was
also considered part of the Taksim renewal project. See the map below.
Figure 198 Taksim project. (Source: (Erkut & Shiraz, 2014, p. 122)
February 2012 – A call to an assembly was launched by the Union of Chambers of Türk
Mühendis ve Mimar Odaları Birliği (Turkish Engineers and Architects, TMMOB). The assembly
formalised the establishment of the platform Taksim Dayanışma (Taksim Solidarity). The
collective actor was formed with the coming together of autonomous and independent
organisations that were mobilised against neoliberal urbanisation even before getting
organised as platform to react to the municipality's approval of the Taksim Project162. The
reasons why the Taksim Solidarity contested it were multiple: (1) partial destruction and
enclosure of a public park within a private structure; (2) lack of participation in the decisionmaking
process as result of the top-down attitude of the Prime Minister to bypass legal
processes so as to transform Taksim into space for representation of his party’s power. As
162 Among the initial components, there were: trade unions (e.g., DİSK and KESK), İstanbul Tabip Odası
(İstanbul Medical Chamber), parties (e.g., TKP, ÖDP, BDP), and community centres known as Halkevleri
(People's Houses) (Sol, 2012). For a full list of the organisations composing the platform, see Taksim
Dayanışması (2013). For a more detailed information about the background of the Taksim Solidarity, see
also Salomoni (2013).
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clearly stated in a joint declaration, the Taksim Solidarity (2013b) reclaimed Taksim because
of its overlapping symbolic meanings as space of representation of both Republican values
and revolutionary ideals of the labour movement163.
Since February 2012 – The Taksim Solidarity organised a series of initiatives (e.g., a petition
and a stand for collecting the signatures in the square).
November 2012 – The works for the new Taksim Square project started.
April 7, 2013 – The police intervened against protesters gathered on İstiklal Avenue to
demand the demolition of the historic movie-theatre Emek to be stopped.
Figure 199 Police intervention vs. the Emek protests. 2013, April 7. (Source: İMECE - Toplumun
Şehircilik Hareketi)
April 13 – Gezi Park hosted a music festival organised to protest the planned re-development
of the area. The festival was organised by the Taksim Gezi Parkı Koruma ve Güzelleştirme
Derneği (Taksim Gezi Park Conservation and Beautification Association). On the occasion,
few hundred people gathered together under the slogan “ayağa kalk” (stand up). Among them,
there were also artists and representatives of oppositional political parties164. No violent
intervention of the police occurred. In Figure 200, the poster.
163 See an excerpt from a joint declaration by the Taksim Dayanışma (2013b): “Taksim Meydanı,
Cumhuriyet dönemi kent düzenlemelerinin ilki ve belki de en önemlisidir. Taksim, tüm bayramlarımızı,
şenliklerimizi, sevinçlerimizi, tepkilerimizi ve hak taleplerimizi dillendirdiğimiz emek ve demokrasi
meydanımızdır. Taksim Meydanına hep birlikte sahip çıkıyoruz. Çünkü Taksim hepimizin!”. Translation:
“Taksim Square is the first and perhaps the most important of the Republican period urban arrangements.
Taksim is our labour and democracy square where we express all our holidays, festivities, joys, reactions
and demands for rights. Together, we protect Taksim Square. Because Taksim is ours!” (Taksım
Dayanışması, 2013b)
164 For instance, the CHP and the BDP.
142
Figure 200 Poster of the first Gezi Park festival. (Source: Taksim Gezi Parkı Derneği, 2013)
May 1 – The police heavily intervened against protesters who gathered for the May Day
celebrations not in Taksim but in the Beşiktaş district given a ban preventing them from
marching on Taksim Square allegedly due to the ongoing construction work for its
pedestrianization.. To hinder the protesters and prevent the rally, the whole area going from
Taksim to Beşiktaş was highly militarised (e.g., via checkpoints, long fences, cuts in
transportation routes).
May 25 – The police intervened against a group protesting against the decision to ban
demonstrations from the Taksim area and prevented them from marching from İstiklal Avenue
to Taksim Square.
In hindsight, some of the antecedents can be interpreted as warning signs of the forthcoming
escalation in repression of the right to freedom of expression of dissent and freedom of
assembly in public space. However, it is a widely held opinion that no one could have foreseen
the outburst of a countrywide uprising out of the eviction of a protest camp aimed to reclaim
the park.
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4.1.2. Reclaiming the park
Figure 201 Aerial view of Gezi Park in 2013. (Source: CrimethInc. Ex-Workers Collective, 2022)
May, 27 – Late in the evening, the works for the construction of the replica of the Ottoman
military barracks in Gezi Park started: a bulldozer demolished part of the wall at its northern
end and started uprooting trees. A small group of protesters gathered in the park, began a sitin,
and spent the night there. Among them, there were representatives from the Taksim
Solidarity Platform, urban movements, and environmental activists.
May 28 – Police forces escorted the bulldozer in the park and intervened to disperse the
protest camp that activists had organised at the north end of Gezi Park. The activists did not
leave and managed to halt the works also with the help of the intervention of Sırrı Süreyya
Önder, deputy of the Barış ve Demokrasi Partisi (Peace and Democracy Party, BDP). After
that, a growing number of protestors started flocking to the park (MPs, representatives of civil
society organisations, famous artists, and ordinary people).
May 29 – The then Prime Minister Erdoğan declared that, regardless of what those in Gezi
Park were doing, the Taksim Project will have been implemented. In the evening, the park was
much more crowded than during the day. See Figure 202 and Figure 203.
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Figure 202 Protest camp in the northern end of
Gezi Park. 2013, May 29.
Figure 203 Crowd filling Gezi Park on the
evening of May 29.
Clearly, the placard in the picture on the left attests to the immediate emergence of self-irony
in reaction to the statements by Erdoğan. As it is well-known, he often referred to the Taksim
project opponents who first reclaimed the park as marginals, a definition that actually precedes
the onset of the Gezi protest camp165. Whether the implicit demands of some of the activists
involved in the protests camp included or not Erdoğan’s removal from power is a question that
falls outside the scope of this timeline. Here, I limit myself to stress that none of the graffiti that
I could document in late May contains anything against Erdoğan nor the government. On the
contrary, graffiti of the late May protest camp suggest that, for some, the Gezi resistance was
a struggle for the urban commons. In other words, they suggest that their authors reclaimed
the park because of its use value as such, which strongly contradicted the exchange value of
space to be converted into a shopping mall. See for instance the example in the next
photograph.
Figure 204 (In red) “We want trees, not a shopping mall”. (In brown) “Get used to it, we are not
leaving”. Gezi Park, 2013, May 29.
165 For instance, see Saymadi (2013).
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For further evidence of the correlation between the initial protest camp and the environmental
justice struggle against speculative urbanism, see also the graffiti below.
Figure 205 Environmental justice slogan: “Long live our ecologist revolution”. Gezi Park,
2013, May 29
Figure 206 Slogan: “not concrete, park”. Gezi Park, 2013, May 29
Figure 207 Slogan signed with a circle A: “Ecologist revolt”, Gezi Park, 2013, May 29.
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Obviously, not all the protesters made use of graffiti. For this reason, I claim that the relatively
little number of graffiti that I could document in late May are not sufficient sources for a
comprehensive reconstruction of the initial phase of the Gezi resistance and its social
composition, which must therefore rely on other sources166. However, the graffiti of late May
provide invaluable evidence of both the use of space and initial demands by some of those
who first defended the park by physically occupying it167.
May 30 – Very early in the morning, the police intervened to disperse the protest camp.
Footage of the police setting fire to the activists’ tents and belongings started circulating mainly
via social media. As a result, thousands of people showed up in the evening, when the
atmosphere resembled that of a festival. Activities contributing to create it included but were
not limited to speeches and film screenings.
May 31 (daytime) – The police intervened once again at dawn and took control of the park by
forcing those who had remained overnight to leave. Police interventions continued in both
Taksim Square and the surrounding streets, where protesters continued instead to gather.
Meanwhile, the Sixth Administrative Court of İstanbul issued a sentence in favour of the
interruption of the construction works of the barracks. Instead of ordering the withdrawal of the
police, Erdoğan reacted to sentence by mentioning the possibility of using the barracks as a
museum rather than transforming it into a shopping mall. Throughout the day, an increasing
number of people started gathering in Taksim following calls to action by various actors (e.g.,
the Çarşı, the supporter group of the football team Beşiktaş). As a result, the protests
developed into an uprising by late evening.
4.1.3. Reclaiming Taksim
May 31, 2013 (evening) – The protests reached a massive scale in Taksim while they started
spreading to Ankara, Izmir, and several other cities. To listen to the echo of that night in
Taksim, I suggest to look at two pictures: one taken on that evening and showing the crowd
166 For a taxonomy of the social actors of the Gezi resistance, see for instance Salomoni (2013).
167 The term occupation (işgal in Turkish) can evoke dreadful meanings (e.g., the land occupation my
military forces). Aware of this, I consider it important to preliminary clarify that, by occupation, I refer to
the act of reclaiming a public park to free it from the state actors tasked with destroying it to open up
room for a shopping mall. In other words, I refer to a collective act aimed at reclaiming space with the
purpose of giving it back to the wide community of people to whom it belongs (Emek Bizim İstanbul Bizim
Initiative, 2016).
147
that literally filled İstiklal Avenue; the other depicting one of the slogans chanted by the crowd
filling it: “hükümet istifa” (government resignment)168.
Figure 208 Massive crowd of protesters in İstiklal
Avenue. 2013, May 31.
Figure 209 Slogan to call the government to
resign. Resonating in İstiklal Avenue since May
31 but picture taken in İstiklal Avenue in early
June.
On the same evening, the part of İstiklal Avenue that flows into Taksim Square became the
site of heavy clashes, which continued also in the surroundings of Taksim Square (e.g., on
Tarlabaşı Boulevard). For evidence, see a writing complete with date and time.
Figure 210 A writing complete with date and time: “we did not come to Tarlabaşı to get the stuff!”.
Zambak Street, sidestreet between İstiklal Avenue and Tarlabaşı Boulevard, very close to Taksim
Square. 2013, May 31.
The writing reads: “we did not come to Tarlabaşı to get the stuff” (i.e., drugs)169. Half-jokingly,
it attests not only to the inflow of people to Taksim from other areas of the city but also to the
spatial and psychogeographic relationship of proximity binding Taksim and Tarlabaşı170.
168 While the first picture was taken on the evening of May 31, the second one was taken in the following
days but, based on ethnographic participant observation, I can say that the crowd started chanting the
slogan calling the government to resign on the evening of May 31.
169 “Mal çözmek” is an idiom but I was not able to find the exact meaning via online dictionaries and I
therefore translated it as “to get stuff” assuming that the author referred to the drug dealing activities for
which Tarlabaşı was mostly renown.
170 For questions such as why and when people decided to flock to Taksim, see the third section of this
chapter.
148
June 1 – Clashes across the country intensified as the protests further spread and escalated
while the development of the events in İstanbul reached turning points. Thousands of
protesters from the Asian side reached the central areas of the European side crossing on foot
the Bosphorus Bridge (normally closed to pedestrians). In the Taksim area, thousands of
people were continuously tear gassed until mid-afternoon, when the police retreated. The
police’s withdrawal from the Taksim area was preceded by a sign visible to the protesters
gathered in the side-streets of the square: black smoke coming from the barricades at the
southern entrance of the park. The crowd re-occupied the park and, as a result, June 1 turned
into time for representation of victory. See the pictures below.
Figure 211 Black smoke from Gezi Park preceding the police's
retreat from Taksim. June, 1.
Figure 212 Writing in green: “June
1 - our victory”. Taksim Avenue.
Night between June 1 and 2, 2013.
June 1 […continues] – Police interventions and clashes in areas of İstanbul other than
Taksim did not stop (e.g., in Beşiktaş). The same occurred also in Ankara, where Ethem
Sarısülük was shot in the head with live ammunition in Kızılay Square and died two weeks
later (on June 14, on the day that 14-year-old Berken Elvan was hit on the head by a tear gas
canister). In Figure 213, a graffiti calling the AKP to account for his murder171.
Figure 213 Graffiti consisting of a statement and a slogan: “Ethem Sarısülük was killed by the AKP in
Ankara - it will be called to account”. Taksim. Early June.
171 I apologise for the poor quality of my photograph.
149
June 1 […continues] – The local CNN aired a documentary on penguins rather than giving
visibility to the uprising. Since then, penguins became a symbol of resistance against
censorship. Below two selective examples of graffiti showing how ordinary people reacted to
censorship: Figure 214 attests to the self-ironic self-identification with penguins while Figure
215 attests to the rageful reaction against non-independent media’s embedded journalism172.
Figure 214 Witty reaction to censorship:
"Antartica is resisting". July 2013.
Figure 215 Reaction to censorship. Taksim. Early
June 2013.
June 2 – While Gezi Park started becoming an experiment in self-management and the
atmosphere resembled once again that of a festival, clashes continued both in Beşiktaş and
other cities. For instance, in Eskişehir, police officers and a group of civilians brutally beat Ali
İsmail Korkmaz (who died on July 10 after weeks in coma). This explains the call for solidarity
expressed with the graffiti below, which is completed with date and time.
Figure 216 Call for solidarity with other cities in Turkey: “Gezi, don’t sleep!!! Izmir, Ankara [and] Adana
are resisting – June 2 – 18:00”. Gezi Park.
172 The notion of “embedded journalism” is commonly used to refer to the practice of attaching journalists,
reporters and photographers under the control of one military side during armed conflict in war zones
(Löffelholz, 2014).
150
June 2 […continues] – The then Prime Minister Erdoğan participated in a TV program and
made a series of statements. He defined social media “baş belası” (the scourge of society)173.
In addition to this, he called the protesters “çapulcular” (looters), a neologism anglicized as
“chapullers” due to the international resonance of the self-ironic appropriation of the term by
the Gezi protestors174. Figure 218 is a selective example of the many graffiti attesting to the
self-ironic appropriation of the term “çapulcu” but, to listen to the dissonant echoes of those
days, I suggest to read it together with the graffiti in Figure 217, which instead attests to the
rage against police brutality and attests also to the continuity of language between the early
2010s and the 1970s175.
Figure 217 Slogans vs. police and state violence:
“murderer police” and “murderer state”. Side wall of
the French Institute. Taksim Avenue. Early June.
Figure 218 self-ironic appropriation:
"Chapullers are resisting". Taksim. Early
June.
June 2 […continues] – Via mainstream media, Erdoğan also announced two projects: (1) the
construction of the Taksim Square Mosque; (2) the demolition of the Atatürk Cultural Centre
and the construction of a new opera house on its site176. As already mentioned in Chapter 3,
Erdoğan had actually announced the construction of the Taksim Square Mosque right after his
victory of the 1994 local elections. With regard to the debate that controversial project sparked,
two remarks. First, the debate about the project is highly significative of the debate about the
173 With regard to communication and organisation through social media as common practices of global
protests, different claims were made. For instance, Sassen (2006) argued that new forms of
communicative interaction involving global connectedness (1) redefine public space and (2) destabilize
the nation–state's order proper of the modernity, which is why she argued also that their popularity
indicate a countertrend to the debated decrease of participation in public life (Sassen, 2006). In a similar
manner, Castells (2007 and 2008) praised the “from-many-to-many” structure of social media for
enabling the formation and articulation of the opinion of the global civil society debating affairs of common
interests in the cyberspace. On the other hand, Dhawan (2015) warned about the romanticisation of the
effectiveness of protests that are allegedly as horizontal as the structure of social media is supposed to
be, and she therefore suggested to look at the reproduction of uneven relations of power that affects also
popular uprisings.
174 For instance, see Agence France-Presse (2013).
175 Among the graffiti that I documented, many were the ones denouncing police brutality and state
violence. As already shown by Figure 116 and 117 in Chapter 2, slogans vs. hegemonic power including
the term katil (murderer) are not a novelty of Gezi and rather date back to the 1970s. For the effects of
globalisation on the linguistic repertoire of the protests, see instead Figure 259, which attests to the use
of the acronym “a.c.a.b.” (all cops are bastards) as a slogan.
176 For the full version of the video, see Habertürk. (2015 [2013]).
151
interpretation of Turkishness in a society strongly polarised along the divide between
secularists and Islamists (Bozdoğan & Akçan, 2012)177. Second, the debate concerned not
only the symbolic value of the square but also physical aspects including the changing function
of the square following the construction of the mosque (started in 2017 and completed in
2021). For instance, it was claimed that protesting in Taksim Square turned into a mosque
courtyard would not have been as protesting in a public square (Acar, 2017). For evidence of
the relevance of both the dimensions of the debate, see the image below, which attests to the
conversion of Taksim Square into the courtyard of the mosque after the opening in 2021 and
attests also to the contradictory spatial symbolism of both the mosque and the Republican
monument.
Figure 219 Taksim Square turned into the courtyard of a mosque. 2021, May 28 (opening of the
mosque) (Source: Daily Sabah, 2021)
In this regard, I consider it important to point out that none of the graffiti of the Gezi resistance
that I have documented contains anything related to the Taksim Square Mosque project178.
Different was instead the protesters’ reaction to Erdoğan’s announcement that the AKM would
have been demolished and a new opera house building would have been constructed in its
place without getting permission from the looters in Taksim. The protesters climbed up the roof
of the AKM and hang the first of many banners that were to be hung on the AKM façade shortly
thereafter: “Boyun Eğme” (don’t give up). See Figure 220.
177 For “A brief history of the insistence on a mosque in Taksim Square”, see also Bianet News Desk
(2021).
178 Actually, none of the graffiti that I have documented since 2010 to this day contains anything against
mosques in general, something that I interpret as respect of the right to the freedom of religious
expression in public space without this meaning that the project did not raise dissent among Erdoğan’s
opponents.
152
Figure 220 First banner on the AKM façade. 2013, June 2.
Like Gezi Park, and actually together with Gezi Park, the Atatürk Cultural Centre was also
officially defined by the Cultural and Natural Heritage Preservation Board as cultural heritage
to be preserved since both are monuments that are inseparable from each other as elements
and symbol of the Taksim Republican area (Altan & Omay Polat, 2018)179. The controversial
plan for the restoration of the AKM had been object of debate for years. Salient events of a
multistage process can be summarised as follows: (1) the Culture and Tourism Minister’s first
announcement of its demolition and replacement with a convention centre, hotel and a car
park in 2005; (2) grassroots reaction since 2007 and subsequent removal of the demolition
provision from the "İstanbul 2010 European Capital of Culture Law" (of which it used to be
part); (3) closure to visitors in 2008; (4) block of projects from 2008 – 2012 due to a series of
lawsuits; (5) beginning of the restoration works in 2012 (Altan & Omay Polat, 2018;
Megaİstanbul, 2019; Köseoğlu, 2021; Akm İstanbul, 2021)180.
179 Following Prost’s proposal for the construction of an opera house in Taksim Square, the AKM was
designed by August Perret as an opera house, updated by Feridun Kip and Rükneddin Güney, and
inaugurated in October 1977 following more than thirty years after that its foundations were laid in 1946
(Altan & Omay Polat, 2018). Besides contributing to the promotion of “the Republican corporeality”, the
monumental structure “was to provide context for the sociospatial practices of the new lifestyle with its
grand hall, spacious entrance foyer, concert hall, theatre, and a small cinema” (Köseoğlu, 2021, p. 46).
180 For the timeline provided on the official website, see AKM İstanbul (2021). As mentioned in the fourth
section of this chapter, after the crackdown on the Gezi uprising, the AKM was first used as police station
and then was basically left to rot. In 2017, Erdoğan announced the rebuilding and this caused another
wave of reaction (e.g., by TMMOB). In 2018, the demolition works started and, in 2021, the new AKM
was inaugurated with monumental ceremony on October 29 (Megaİstanbul, 2019). Since October 29 is
the Republic Day, it is important to stress Erdoğan’s move to re-signify symbolic time for representation
of power. See the last section of this chapter for a more detailed discussion of time of representation.
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June 2 […continues] – First unsuccessful attempts at erasing or covering up the many graffiti
that were filling the streets by then. In the following days, graffiti reached a historic peak in
spread.
Figure 221 First attempts at censorship via
greyfication. İstiklal Avenue. June 2.
Figure 222 First attempts at censorship via
greyfication. Meşrutiyet Avenue. June 2.
June 5 – The Taksim Solidarity platform communicated its demands to the then Deputy
Minister Bülent Arınç. The demands included: (1) the conservation of Gezi Park and the
cancellation of the redevelopment project of the Taksim area; (2) the end of the brutal
repression; (3) the dismissal of the authorities responsible for it and of the ones who
implemented it; (4) the release of the detainees and the safeguard of their impunity; (5) the
lifting of all the bans that were limiting the exercise of the right to freedom of assembly in public
space181. Below the infographic.
Figure 223 Taksim Solidarity demands. (Environmental Justice Atlas, 2022)
June 6 – An open forum was organised in Gezi Park. Many occupiers joined it and
intervened182.
181 For the full press statement, see Taksim Dayanışması (2013c).
182 With regard to forums, I consider important to recall these decision-making structures were not a
novelty of Gezi. As emerged in Chapter 2, in Turkey, they date back at least to the 1968 student
movement.
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June 8 – It was one of the busiest days in the square. Suspending the traditional rivalry, fans
of İstanbul's three major football clubs of Beşiktaş, Fenerbahçe and Galatasaray gathered in
Taksim. As known, football fans played a major role in the resistance against the police
interventions, especially the Çarşı (the fun club of Beşiktaş). Below selected examples of the
several graffiti attesting to their presence and use of walls.
Figure 224 Collective signature by
football fans. İstiklal Avenue. Early
June.
Figure 225 Collective signature by Çarşı (the fanclub of the
Beşiktaş football team). Galatasary area,Taksim. Early June.
June 9 – The Taksim Solidarity platform organized a meeting where it declared its demands
and commemorated the protestors who had been murdered during the uprising. It is claimed
that hundreds of thousands participated in the meeting and that it was the “the largest crowd
the square has ever seen” (CrimethInc. Ex-Workers Collective, 2022). See the photograph
below, which shows the crowd and also the façade of the AKM full with banners of various
political organisations. Clearly, the square recalled May Day 1977 and, most likely, many of
the participants must have also thought of the possibility that counterinsurgent events like the
1977 massacre could have also occurred.
Figure 226 The most crowded meeting in Taksim Square. June 9.
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June 10 – The then President of the Republic Abdullah Gül approved the law restricting
alcohol sale and consumption that had been announced a few weeks earlier. The new
regulations prohibited sales between 10pm and 6am, and banned the opening of bars within
100m of schools and mosques. For an example of the several graffiti attesting to the reaction
of ordinary people to this kind of interventions affecting everyday lifestyles, see the writing in
red in Figure 227183.
Figure 227 Dissent vs. alcohol sale restrictions. Taksim. Early June.
In sum, the Gezi resistance began before various actors including but not limited to
environmental activists blocked the work for the conversion of a public park with high symbolic
and use value into a shopping mall with high symbolic and exchange value. In early June, the
resistance spread across the country marking the widest and long-lasting uprising in the
history of social movements in Turkey. In addition to this, the resistance turned Gezi Park,
Taksim Square and the surrounding area into a temporary self-managed zone, which some of
those who contributed to its self-organisation called a commune. For evidence of this, see
Figure 228.
Figure 228 "Taksim commune". Early June.
In this study, I suggest to call it global street. In the next section, I explain why the notion can
help to decipher the complexity of its spatial features, and thus to evaluate the historiographical
potential of graffiti in contributing to reconstruct change in space and society from below.
183 In this regard, see also the next section for the political use of graffiti to promote conscientious use of
alcohol in the common space.
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4.2. Gezi/Taksim, a global street
The global street is not a street in the literal sense of the term. As clarified in the Introduction,
it is a conceptual tool to differentiate public space for ritualised practices from space for direct
and transnational action in the struggle to the right to the city (Sassen, 2011). As also clarified
earlier, the right to the city is here understood in the twofold meaning suggested first by
Lefebvre (2009 [1968]): the right to participate in decision-making about space, and the right
to appropriate it if needed. In light of these preliminary remarks and with the help of visuals,
this section deciphers what kind of space was the global street in the case of Gezi/Taksim,
i.e., Gezi Park, Taksim Square, and the surrounding area184. Accordingly, I first explain why it
was not merely public space but re-territorialised public space.
4.2.1. Re-territorialised public space
Since late May and throughout early June, Gezi Park first and then the whole Taksim turned
into a global street as result of an assemblage of spatial practices: re-territorialisation of public
space with high symbolic value via appropriation and resistance to repression. Read together,
the graffiti in Figure 229 and Figure 230 help to visualise the empirics of the specific case.
Figure 229 Global Street in Taksim: occupied public
space. Taksim Square.
Figure 230 Global Street in Taksim:
resistance. İnönü Avenue.
As for the practices of appropriation of public space, it must be recalled that the protest camp
started in the park late May 2013 was a relatively novel form of protest in the context of Turkey
(e.g., see the case of the 2009 Tekel resistance in Ankara)185. However, novelties must also
be stressed. For instance, the young age of many of the participants who contributed to keep
184 All the photographs included in this section were taken in Gezi/Taksim in early June 2013.
185 Tekel is a privatized former state factory of tobacco. For information about the Tekel resistance, see
Kuryel & Fırat (2013).
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Gezi Park alive and lively186. Below a photograph that visualises a few of them and also the
atmosphere of a quiet moment.
Figure 231 Protest camp in Gezi Park. Writing on the tent: "those who are tired should sleep".
The tents were mainly located in the park but the extraordinary use of space was not limited
to the park. For evidence of this, see first Figure 232, which depicts the Republican Monument
filled with political banners and flags.
Figure 232 Republican Monument filled with flags and banners.
For further evidence of the extraordinary use of public space, see also Figure 233, which
depicts people sleeping on the area around the Republican Monument, normally prohibited.
186 According to the field survey conducted by KONDA (2014), the average age of the people who were
in Gezi Park was 28.
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Figure 233 People sleeping in the Republican Monument area.
Given the observations made so far, I consider it important to stress that this study does not
aim to evaluate whether experiences in self-management resulting from large-scale
occupation of public space such as in the case of Taksim are effective or not to reclaim the
right to the city and thus to achieve radical change for the better. In this regard, I rather limit
myself to recall the warning by Bookchin (1995), who advised not to exchange projects for
radical change in society with temporary experiments "in which disorganization is conceived
as an art form and graffiti supplants programs". That said, the remarkable function of graffiti in
visually marking re-territorialised space cannot be overlooked and must be rather explained.
The reason behind the undeniable significance of graffiti in marking re-territorialised space are
multiple. First, a large quantity of graffiti was not only a distinctive feature of the global street
in Taksim but in all the rest of the global street into which the uprising in Turkey turned space
(e.g., the neighbouring district of Beşiktaş, all the urban areas where the uprising rapidly
spread). In addition to this, increase in graffiti is not a prerogative of the local context but
indeed a distinctive feature of the global street187. Lastly, graffiti do not merely increase; their
afterlife via for instance social media rather contributes to increase the global visibility of the
global street188.
187 For instance, for graffiti of the Tunisian uprising, see Lacquaniti (2015). For graffiti of the attempted
revolution in Egypt, see instead Gröndahl (2013). As for graffiti of the attempted revolution in Syria, see
the invaluable archive Idlib Walls – Creative Memory (2023).
188 In this regard, emblematic is the case of the Black Lives Matter movement in the US in 2020 because
re-semanticisation of space also via graffiti led to the tearing down of statues of colonizers.
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In sum, I do not claim that the global street is something good nor bad; I simply claim that
graffiti are by now part of its aesthetics as media for political activism and territorial markers.
Precisely because of this, I also argue their historiographical potential in contributing to the
deciphering of the spatial characteristics of the global street. In this case-study, graffiti clearly
suggest that the re-territorialisation of public space in Taksim into a global street was a
multiscalar process.
4.2.2. A node of a multiscalar network
The global street is space that must be understood from a systemic perspective. It is not a
single entity nor it exists outside the realm of the national. It is rather an assemblage of places
turned into strategic nodes of networks of counterpower connected to each other on multiple
scales. One of them is indeed the global one, which is a synonymous for transnational. To
clarify how the space reclaimed with Gezi resistance was transnationally connected to others,
it would be sufficient to recall how images from İstanbul propitiated the mobilisation and its
forms in Brazil, which was also crossed by an uprising by early June 2013. For instance,
extinguishing tear gas in large plastic bottles full of water in the middle of the street turned into
a common practice that the youth in Brazil learned by looking at the images of the protesters
in İstanbul (Cocco & Cava, 2013). Here, I however prefer to decipher the global by looking at
its traces in the local and, in this regard, some of the graffiti that I could document proved
helpful. For instance, see the selective examples below whose content is nearly selfexplanatory:
one is a writing claiming that Taksim would have become like Tahrir, and the
other is instead a solidarity message connecting the Gezi resistance to the 15-M (the antiausterity
movement leading the uprising that crossed space Spain in 2011189.
Figure 234 Taksim-Tahrir
connectedness.
Figure 235 Gezi/15-M connectedness.
189 A graffiti comparing Taksim to Tahrir was already examined in Chapter 3. See Figure 179.
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Obviously, the contextual circumstances of the global street in Taksim differed from those in
places such as Tahrir or Puerta del Sol in Madrid190. Precisely because of contextual diversity,
reading the graffiti above together helps to understand an argument by Sassen (2011: 574),
namely that the global street is a conceptual tool that goes “beyond the empirics of each case”.
As for the transnational solidarity that can be expressed via graffiti, it must be instead stressed
that, in this specific case, it is discursive only to a certain extent since the author of the graffiti
referring to the 15-M was physically present in Taksim Square. The same is valid also for the
graffiti below, which show that the solidarity connecting İstanbul and other places composing
the global street in Turkey was also translocal.
Figure 236 Solidarity with the city of Balıkesir.
Figure 237 Solidarity with the Dersim province.
As it can be seen from the examples above, the concepts that help to decipher space for the
struggle for the right to the city is not only that of “rebel cities” (Harvey, 2012) but also that of
resistant cities. By resistant cities, I here refer to cities bound by a solidarity relationship that
goes beyond the empirics of each case and rather depends on contingent circumstances: the
outcome of the resistance in one of the various nodes of the network influences its outcome
in others. Seen from a systemic perspective, the resistance among various nodes of
multiscalar networks can be then understood as a sort of mutual aid. Given this, solidarity
messages expressed via various means including but not limited to graffiti cannot be merely
reduced to a form of discursive support. As I interpret them, they are rather calls to withstand
repression and their historiographical importance is high precisely because they help to grasp
why resistance is a crucial concept to decipher what kind of space the global street is. For
further evidence of the importance of urban vectors of resistance, see selective examples of
solidarity messages calling Ankara to continue with direct action.
190 For instance, Tayyip Erdoğan was an elected prime minister while Hosni Mubarak was a former
military who was first appointed as vice-president and then assumed the presidency. In addition to this,
the Gezi uprising was not triggered by austerity policies as in the case of Spain.
161
Figure 238 (In yellow) Solidarity message from Taksim to Ankara.
Figure 239 Solidarity message with Ankara and call to resistance.
It is then possible to claim that, to a large extent, the global street is the space epitomised by
one of the popular slogans of the 2013 resistance: “her yer Taksim, her yer direniş”
(everywhere is Taksim, resistance everywhere”). For written evidence of its use, see the
selective example below.
Figure 240 Popular slogan of the Gezi resistance signed by students: "everywhere is Taksim,
everywhere resistance".
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With the slogan above, Taksim is represented as a node of a to-be-decentralised geography
of resistance. However, representations of space of resistance orienting its use according to
centralised geographies must be also taken into account and actually require further
research191. Here, I nonetheless limit myself to draw attention on how Taksim was represented
via graffiti orienting its use as space of resistance, namely as centre of the revolution and the
uprising. See selected examples.
Figure 241 Graffiti indicating Taksim as the
centre of the revolution. Scaffolding of the
Emek/Grand Pera building. İstiklal Avenue.
Figure 242 Graffiti indicating Taksim
as the centre of the uprising.
Tarlabaşı Boulevard.
In İstanbul, one of the distinctive physical features of the epicentre of the uprising was
fortification via ephemeral structures for self-defence. The barricades were erected by making
use of various material including but not limited to the debris from the Taksim project
construction site. See Figure 243 and Figure 244 for selected examples showing it.
Figure 243 Barricade in Taksim Square,
Gümüşsuyu side, corner Siraselviler Avenue. / Takı
Zafer Avenue.
Figure 244 Barricade in Inonü Avenue.
191 For instance, it would be interesting to evaluate how the Gezi resistance increased not only the global
visibility of İstanbul but also of the urban vector İstanbul-Ankara. In addition to this, it would be important
to examinate also inner-city vectors of resistance such as for instance the vector Taksim-Gazi, a
peripheral and highly politicised neighbourhood of İstanbul where the uprising also spread but that did
not attract the same transnational and translocal solidarity that Taksim instead attracted. In other words,
it would be interesting to find out whether it is possible to speak of an unbalanced solidarity relationship
binding resistant places with different symbolic meanings and functions.
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See Figure 245 for a map visualising the series of barricades marking the boundaries of the
area under temporary appropriation.
Figure 245 Map of the area within/around the barricades (Source: CrimethInc. Ex-Workers Collective,
2022)
As a result of fortification, the global street was also space temporarily not accessed by police
vehicles nor patrolled by uniformed police. Besides this, it was common space.
4.2.3. Common space
Common is not another way to name public space nor a new type of property. As clarified in
the Introduction, common space is here understood as the way in which new space is
produced, namely based on social cooperation (Hardt & Negri, 2010; Negri, 2016). In other
words, common space is the space resulting from commoning practices (e.g., sharing and
collective care) (Stavrides, 2022).
Within the park, examples of commoning practices included but were not limited to everyday
practices for collective maintenance (e.g., garbage collection). Other practices that contributed
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to commonise Gezi Park were for instance collective healthcare, food sharing, collective
childcare, knowledge sharing, and so on. As a result of both material and immaterial
production of new space, the park turned into a mixed-use area with new temporary facilities,
which included but were not limited to branch offices of political organisations in the form of
umbrella tents and info points. For instance, other temporary facilities included: an urban
garden, the Gezi library, a free grocery-alike corner, media production corners such as that of
Gezi Radio, a child workshop area, an open-air university class room, soli-kitchens, free
tearooms, space for film screenings, a stage for concerts, and an infirmary (the latter being
the most important in terms of response to collective needs shaped by the emergency
circumstances). Below pictures attesting to the physical change in the use of the park’s space.
Figure 246 Urban Garden.
Figure 247 A free grocery-alike corner.
Figure 248 Gezi Park library.
Figure 249 Kids workshop.
In addition to change in use, change in immaterial meanings must also be recalled. For
instance, collective commemoration became one of the important practices that contributed to
commonise space. To refer to ephemeral spaces for both collective commemoration and
collective self-identification, I am going to use the oxymoron temporary monuments and I am
going to provide several examples showing their importance in changing both function and
symbolic meanings of space.
The most striking example is probably the aforementioned re-semanticisation of the AKM
façade filled with banners of leftist parties and organisations for two reasons: first, it was an
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evident quotation of the 1977 May Day and, second, there is “not yet” an official monument in
Taksim in memory of the victims of the square massacre.
Figure 250 Banners on AKM façade.
Another interesting example of temporary re-monumentalization of space of resistance is the
installation with the candles lit every evening in the middle of the park to remind passers-by
that “Taksim halkındır” (Taksim belongs to the people).
Figure 251 Temporary monument of the Gezi resistance in Gezi Park.
A third example is the barricade in memory of Abdullah Cömert (one of the protesters killed by
the police)192.
192 Cömert was killed in Hatay. Wounded in the head by a tear gas canister, died in the Antakya State
Hospital.
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Figure 252 Barricade in memory of Abdullah Cömert, killed by the police in Hatay on June 3. İnonü
Avenue.
To a certain extent similar is the case of renaming of a street inside the park in memory of
Hrant Dink, the editor-in-chief of Agos (a weekly newspaper published in Turkish and
Armenian), and a proactive advocate of peaceful dialogue who was assassinated in İstanbul
in 2007.
Figure 253 A street inside Gezi Park named in memory of Hrant Dink.
As argued earlier, discursive re-semanticisation of space is obviously not sufficient for a radical
change in both space and society. However, the issue emerges in all its relevance if we think
of toponyms as “symbolic monuments” (Grounds, 2011, p. 289). As such, toponyms have the
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potential to shape collective memory. This is evident in striking cases of re-semanticisation of
space for representation of power.
One of them is the case of the Third Bridge over the Bosphorus, named after the Ottoman
Sultan Yavuz Selim. Known also as Selim I, the Sultan was responsible for the persecution of
Alevis during his military campaigns in the 16th century (Vardar, 2013). Besides the
deforestation of the area, Neo-Ottoman toponomy was one of the reasons behind the
controversy that the Third Bridge project also sparked. Written evidence of this is provided by
the graffiti in Figure 254, appeared on the rear wall of an Armenian Church in Taksim a few
days after Erdoğan inaugurated the construction works on May 29. In other words, the
historiographical importance of the graffiti below in attesting to the struggle for the right of
ethnic minorities to reclaim space in Turkey is particularly high because of its site-dependency.
Figure 254 (In green) Dissent vs. Neo-Ottoman toponymy: “You inaugurated the third bridge with the
imam, look there are also Christians”. Rear wall of the Vosgeperan Armenian Catholic Church. Ana
Çeşmesi Street, Taksim.
In sum, the case of Gezi / Taksim suggests that the global street can become common space
not merely because large open public spaces can be shared by many people. In the specific
case, public spaces with high symbolic meanings turned into common space because a
plurality of social actors changed its symbolic meanings by enriching its functions. Below a
brief overview aimed at highlighting the complexity of the social composition of the global
street.
4.3. Whose space? Whose values?
Tackling these questions means tackling a cluster of interrelated questions: what sparked the
development of the occupation of the park into an uprising, who were the social actors that
reclaimed Gezi/Taksim and why, and what kind of social and spatial practices contributed to
temporary commonise the park. As discussed below, police brutality played a crucial role in
triggering the development of the protest camp into an anti-government uprising193.
193 All the photographs in this section were taken in Gezi/Taksim in early June 2013.
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4.3.1. Costantinopolis, the city of the police?
Figure 255 A word pun: "the city of the police?". İstiklal Avenue. June 1.
‘Constantino-polis?’ is a word pun questioning whether İstanbul – the former Constantinople
– turned into ‘the city of the police’. A field survey conducted by the research and consultancy
company KONDA (2014, p. 20) revealed that the reasons moving thousands of protesters
interviewed in Gezi Park were various; however, it revealed also that the majority them decided
to participate in the protests after seeing police brutality, which was therefore defined “a turning
point for half of the protesters”. See Figure 256.
Figure 256 Answers to the question “at what point did you decide to participate in the protests?”
(Source: KONDA, 2014, p. 20)
As emerged earlier, graffiti were used to contest police brutality even before Gezi (e.g., see
Figure 120 in Chapter 2, and see also Figure 32 in the Glossary). During the uprising, many
were the graffiti attesting to the rage of ordinary people against police brutality. Like the graffiti
in Figure 217, the one in Figure 257 is another selective example.
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Figure 257 Acronym/slogan vs. police: "All cops are bastards". Barricade in İnönü Avenue.
Moreover, selected graffiti provide also evidence of the other reasons that moved ordinary
citizens to flock to Taksim. As it can be seen from the following series of images, these
included: the destruction of a public park, the reduction of İstanbul to a construction site for
urban speculation, and the increasing authoritarianism of the government.
Figure 258 Bulldozer uprooting a tree.
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Figure 259 A bulldozer painted in pink. (Photo: L. Manunza)
Figure 260 Slogan vs. urban renewal: "İstanbul, don’t become [a city of] concrete!”.
Figure 261 Slogan: “İstanbul, resist the fascist AKP”
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As attested by the graffiti highlighted in Figure 261, the walls of Taksim during the uprising
bared evidence of dissent against the AKP government. In this regard, it is often claimed that
the protests against the Taksim Project developed into an uprising as result of accumulated
dissent against the growing interventions of the government in the domain of personal
freedoms (e.g., life style and its expression in public space)194. This is for instance the case of
limitations on alcohol consumption. As attested by the graffiti in Figure 128, reaction to this
precedes Gezi but, during the uprising, the number of graffiti related to the issue
comprehensibly increased given the aforementioned approval of the new regulation restricting
the sale of alcohol at night and in the proximity of schools and mosques (see Figure 227). For
another example of graffiti providing written evidence of dissent against the prohibitionist
agenda of the government, see also Figure 262.
Figure 262 Reaction to anti-alcohol agenda: “Cheers, Tayyip ☺”.
Among the triggering factors, the government’s anti-abortion agenda must also be stressed.
A well-known topic of the pronatalist agenda is the “at least three kids” propaganda rhetoric
(“en az üç çocuk” in Turkish)195. As argued by Dildar (2022), Turkish capitalism under the AKP
leadership is making a choice in terms of the way it seizes women's labour: it prefers to keep
women in the free, invisible space of reproduction. For written evidence of self-ironic and
serious reactions by feminists against the reduction of women bodies to means of reproduction
194 For instance, see Parla and Özgül (2016), Sezer (2015), and Batuman (2015).
195 For the 2008 declaration by Erdoğan, see for instance Çetin et al. (2008).
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of labour force see the graffiti below, which are only two selective examples of the several
documented during Gezi.
Figure 263 Witty graffiti vs. the AKP's women
reproduction labour policy: "do you want three
kids like me?".
Figure 264 Dissent vs. the reduction of women
bodies to means of reproduction of labour force:
“we are women, not incubators”.
However, this was not a novelty of Gezi either. As already emerged in Chapter 2, reactions of
the feminist movement against the government’s attempts to limit the right to selfdetermination
preceded the outburst of the 2013 uprising (see the graffiti in Figure 122 in
Chapter 2, and see also Figure 336 in Appendix C for an additional example).
In sum, the graffiti examined in this section clearly shows that the manifestation of dissent
climaxed with Gezi did not come out of the blue. In other words, they provide evidence of
historical continuity with the previous years. In addition to this, they also provided preliminary
evidence of the complexity of the social composition of the global street in the case of
Gezi/Taksim, a distinctive feature discussed more in detail below.
4.3.2. The right to the city-centre, space belonging to all of us
As conceptualised by Lefebvre (2009 [1968]), the right to the city-centre is of crucial
significance in the struggle for a radically different society. However, it should not be
misunderstood with the right to visit the city-centre nor with the right to return to a traditional
use of the city since the Lefebvrian notion is rather a call to counteract the discriminatory and
exclusionary use of space of central importance (Ergin and Rittersberger-Tılıç, 2014). In this
regard, I then endorse the argument by Tsavdaroglou (2020) that the right to the city-centre is
for instance central in anti-gentrification struggle, especially when it is the urban poor who are
denied the right to live in Taksim as already discussed in Chapter 3. On the other hand, I also
acknowledge that rethinking the city from a non-centric perspective could actually help to
commonise space (Hilal & Petti, 2021). However, this was not the case of the Gezi resistance.
The written and visual evidence examined so far is in fact sufficient to claim that Taksim was
reclaimed precisely because of its symbolic meanings as the city-centre of İstanbul. This
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explains also the slogan by the Taksim Solidarity Platform, which stands out for the inclusivity
of the language: “Taksim hepimizin” (Taksim belongs to all of us). For a graffiti showing its use
during the uprising, see Figure 265.
Figure 265 Taksim Solidarity slogan: "Taksim belongs to all of us".
To explain who the collective self who reclaimed Taksim was, the notion of halk (the people)
was widely used during the uprising. See Figure 266, an emblematic example attesting to this.
Figure 266 Overwriting of police barriers: “the people”.
To explain graffiti providing evidence of the use of the Turkish word/notion halk during Gezi,
Egemen (2015) argued that it is more frequent than the use of its English equivalent “the
people” and, more importantly, he argued that it attests to the unity of the protesters in reacting
against conspiracies claiming that they were marginal, chapullers or foreign backed. However,
I argue that the notion of the people is not adequate to best decipher the complexity of the
social composition of the global street in the case of Gezi/Taksim. Thus, I argue that the
collective meta-subject often self-identifying as “we, the people” can be better described as
“multitude”, a notion suggested by Hardt & Negri (2010) to refer to the effect of the merging of
different sociocultural groups with no distinction based on social status and that, as such, is
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therefore mixed, open, inclusive, heterogeneous, plural and quite different from the people as
identitarian subject shaped by the sovereign power of (supra)nation-states. For evidence of
the heterogeneity in question and thus of how a struggle for the right to the city functioned as
catalyst for the alliance of oppositional groups, see the selection of collective signatures in
Appendix D. Here, I limit myself to stress once again the historical dis/continuity in terms of
social actors by drawing attention on the diversity of language between the slogans by LGBT+
movement and slogans by revolutionary socialists appealing to the transgenerational memory
of the 1960s and 1970s. Below two examples.
Figure 267 Slogan of the LGBT+ movement on the
scaffolding around the AKM: “love shall be organised”.
Figure 268 Old actors of Gezi Park.
Slogan signed by DÖB on the wall of
the Maksem in Taksim Square: “the
ones of Deniz [Gezmiş] are alive; the
Leninists are fighting”.
Further evidence of the importance given to issues of language is provided also by graffiti that
were used for a feminist campaign aimed at promoting gender sensitivity given that a
significant portion of the graffiti of the Gezi resistance in Taksim consisted of insults (e.g., to
Erdoğan and the police). See Figure 269 and Figure 270, the latter showing the overwriting of
a swear-word.
Figure 269 Feminist campaign for gendersensitivity
in the use of language: "Resist
with determination, not swearing!".
Figure 270 Feminist campaign vs. widespread sexist
swearing.
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In this case, the novelty was not the foul language nor the machismo characterising some of
them196. The novelty of Gezi was another. Streets interventions of queers and feminists proved
successful against the manifestation of patriarchy via slogans and chants with sexist and
homophobic contents: the aforementioned Çarşı football fan club visited the office of an LGBT
organisation and apologised (CrimethInc. Ex-Workers Collective, 2022). Below another
example of the political use of graffiti in the feminist struggle for freedom from gendered
violence and collective care.
Figure 271 Feminist campaign vs. harassment.
This graffiti provides evidence of the feminist movement campaign against harassment
(physical but also visual and verbal). To contextualise the great importance of such a
campaign, it is sufficient to recall the case of Tahrir Square, where gendered violence in the
form of sexual assaults was an issue that had been drawing the attention of international
mainstream media197. For further evidence of the political use of graffiti to raise awareness of
the need for collective care during the extraordinary circumstances of the uprising, see also
Figure 272.
Figure 272 "Don't drink, donate blood".
196 As emerged through an unstructured interview, the graffiti for agitprop emerged in the 1960s were in
fact preceded by “tosun edebiatı” (bullshit literature), i.e., toilet walls and doors writings with sexist
content.
197 For instance, see an article on the Guardian (Associated Press, 2012).
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To briefly contextualise the campaign against alcohol abuse and the need for blood donation
during the uprising, it is sufficient to recall the data about police brutality provided by the
Turkish Medical Association: thousands were injured and dozens of them severely (Amnesty
International, 2013; İnsan Hakları Derneği, 2013)198. The right to life of eight people was
violated as direct consequence of police brutality or of the worsening of the severe injuries it
caused (Yaman, PEN International, 2014).
For these reasons, Amnesty International (2013) evaluated the authorities’ response and the
use of force by police officers as disproportionate, arbitrary, excessive and abusive due to the
regular, indiscriminate and large-scale use of various means such as: tear gas, pepper spray,
water cannons, plastic bullets, live ammunitions, beating, sexual assault, and detention. In
short, the absorption of differential space occurred by all means, including coercion and killing.
Below I briefly discuss the dialectic between hegemonic absorption and counterhegemonic
resistance by focusing on space mediated it.
4.4. Absorption of differential space and attempts of resistance
Absorption is a notion that I use to refer to the repression of the Gezi resistance. “Sooner or
later” – wrote Lefebvre (1991 [1974], p. 373) – the existing centre and the forces of
homogenization must seek to absorb all such differences”. If self-defence does not turn into a
counterattack, “centrality and normality will be tested as to the limits of their power to integrate,
to recuperate, or to destroy whatever has transgressed” (ibid.). To provide evidence of this, I
am going to resume the timeline from where I suspended it in the first section of the chapter,
and I therefore start from the clearance of Taksim Square199.
June 11 – Police interventions restarted in Taksim contrary to one of the demands that the
Taksim Solidarity platform had officially communicated both to the then Deputy Minister Bülent
Arınç on June 5 and to the Gezi crowd during a massive meeting on June 9, namely the end
of the police brutality. Besides dismantling the barricades, the police cleared Taksim Square
by attacking the crowd with a huge amount of teargas. The scene depicted in Figure 273 is
fixed in the local collective memory of many but, unlike in 1977, none of the participants was
crushed to death.
198 These are not data specific to the Gezi/Taksim area but overall data relating to the whole country.
199 Like for the previous part, this part of the timeline is also non-comprehensive and is largely based on
both the timeline edited by Mat (2013) and ethnographic memories.
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Figure 273 Clearance of Taksim Square. June 11 (Source: CrimethInc. Ex-Workers Collective, 2022)
June 12 – Both the AKM and the Republic Monument were manned by the police. The
symbolism of the square was radically different from the previous days. There were no longer
banners of leftist organisations on the AKM façade but two giant Turkish flags and a flag with
a portrait of Atatürk. Flags, banners and also graffiti had been removed also from the Republic
Monument.
Figure 274 AKM turned into a police station after Taksim Square clearance. Mid-June.
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Figure 275 Republican Monument manned by the police and greyfied graffiti. Mid-June.
With the police’s occupation of the square, change concerned not only the symbolism of the
Square but its function. With the restart of the clashes, it turned into a battlefield. To call for an
end of police brutality, nonviolent direct actions were also organised (e.g., a human chain). As
consequence of re-territorialisation, there occurred also a re-scaling of the structures aimed at
self-defence and also at defence of the park. As can be seen in the images below, two
barricades were erected on either side of the park.
Figure 276 Barricade in defence of the park on Cumhuriyet Avenue. Mid-June.
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Figure 277 Barricade in defence of the park in Mete Avenue. Mid-June.
June 12 – A spokesman of the Adalet ve Kalkınma Partisi (Justice and Development Party,
AKP) announced the possibility of holding a referendum to decide about the future of the park.
June 13 – The European Parliament approved a resolution condemning the disproportionate
and excessive use of force by the Turkish police and the repression of freedom of expression
and assembly200. Meanwhile, the İstanbul province governor Avni Mutlu called on mothers to
withdraw their children from Gezi because they could not guarantee their safety. Below a
picture of the nonviolent direct action by the mothers who reacted to the statement by
physically being present in the square and forming a chain201.
Figure 278 Mothers' chain in solidarity with Gezi. Taksim Square. Mid-June.
200 For the full text, see “European Parliament Resolution of 13 June 2013 on the Situation in Turkey”
(2013).
201 The first chain was performed on June 13 but I took a picture on June 14.
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June 14 – Representatives of the Taksim Solidarity platform met with the Prime Minister
Erdoğan. The government announced compliance with the court order to suspend the works
and also the possibility of a referendum on the park redevelopment plan. Gezi Park hosted
several forums organised to decide on how to proceed. In the figure below one of the forums.
Figure 279 An assembly in Gezi Park. June 14.
June 15 – The Taksim Solidarity Platform communicated the decision to remain in the park
with a small sit-in and without party flags but this proved impossible. Early in the evening, the
park was evacuated and closed to the public following an unexpected and brutal intervention
of the police. The whole Taksim area exploded once again.
June 16 – Both protests and repression continued both in Taksim and in other areas of
İstanbul. still continue across the city. Revolutionary trade unions had called a strike but the
participation was low most likely due to tiredness and fear (the police had started detaining
people in the streets).
June 17 – In the evening, an artist initiated the duran adam (standing man), a non-violent,
silent form of protest. Very rapidly, many others joined him but several of them were detained.
June 18-22 – Open assemblies like the ones organised in Gezi Park started being organised
in the parks of various neighbourhoods both in İstanbul and other cities. In other words,
decision-making structures for participatory democracy initiated in Gezi Park were brought to
the neighbourhoods.
June 24 – Erdoğan defied criticism shifting the blame on protesters. On the occasion of a
graduation ceremony at the Police Academy, he congratulated the police for their self-sacrifice
and patriotism, evaluated their interventions as "kahramanca” (heroic), and described the use
of teargas and other means as “en doğal hakkı” (the most natural right) (Hürriyet Daily News,
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2013; Bianet News Desk, 2013). By mid-July, the death toll was actually higher than five and,
in the following months, increased even further.
June 30 – The LGBTQI+ Pride March on İstiklal Avenue registered a historic peak in
attendance.
Figure 280 LGBT+ Pride March. Taksim Square. June 30. Photo: Serra Akcan, NarPhotos. (Source:
Günal & Çelikkan, 2019)
July 2 - The sixth administrative court of İstanbul rejected the appeal of the Ministry of Culture
and Tourism against the suspension of the works planned for the Gezi Park.
July 8 – Gezi Park was reopened to the public and hundreds of people quickly filled it. The
police intervened to disperse them and close the park once again. Clashes in the Taksim area
continued until the dawn of the following day.
July 9 – Taksim Square hosted the iftar dinner organised by the then AKP-led municipality of
Beyoğlu on the occasion of the beginning of Ramadan202. İstiklal Avenue hosted instead the
iftar dinner organised by the Anticapitalist Muslims (an organization that actively participated
in the resistance). Joined by variegated social and political actors, the iftar in İstiklal Avenue
turned into a peaceful ritual and a form of protest (it was repeated throughout the month in
202 Iftar is the term used to refer to the breaking of the fast after sunset during Ramadan.
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various places across the city and in various cities across the country). For the diversity in the
streetscape between to events at very close distance, see the pictures below.
Figure 281 İtfar dinner organised by the AKP Beyoğlu municipality
in Taksim Square. July 9.
Figure 282 İftar dinner
organised by the
Anticapitalists Muslims and
joined by many as a form of
ritualised protest. July 9.
July 26 – The Ankara Prosecutor's Office delivers the first indictment on the Gezi
demonstrations.
By then, absorption had been affecting also the walls of dissent. Below I briefly discuss how
and also how people reacted to it.
4.5. Greyfication, exceptions, reactions, and appropriation of symbolic time
Greyfication is the term I use to refer to the censorship of the graffiti of the Gezi resistance.
Most of them were covered up via grey paint except for portraits of Mustafa Kemal Atatürk203.
Below two examples.
203 For the non-acquainted with the local context, it must be briefly explained that Mustafa Kemal Atatürk
is national hero whose figure must be respected according for instance to the Article 301 of the Turkish
Penal Code. Hence, the fact that portraits were not greyfied is not something of particular relevance with
regard to the history of graffiti in Turkey. Seen instead from a Lefebvrian perspective, the fact that
Atatürk's portraits were not absorbed via censorship can be simply interpreted as a sign that his legacy
constitutes no danger for the capitalist mode of production and, more specifically, for neoliberal
urbanisation. What is instead interesting to remark is that, in Taksim, several of Atatürk’s portraits were
identical to each other. Via digital ethnography, it was easy to find pictures of the author who “bombed”
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Figure 283 Greyfication, censorship of the Gezi
graffiti. Taksim. Early July.
Figure 284 Exception to absorption. Atatürk
portrait. İstiklal Avenue. Early July.
Unlike in the aftermath of the 1980s coup, the walls of dissent were not overpainted by ordinary
citizens forced by the military but by municipality workers. Another difference worthy of being
remarked is also the humorous language of the initial reactions to censorship. See for instance
the example below.
Figure 284 Ironic reaction to greyfication: "it can be read, there is no escape". August.
On one hand, ironic reactions to censorship attest to the historical continuity of language with
the post-coup society portrayed by the wall writings of the late 1980 examined in Chapter 2.
For emblematic example related to the symbolic value of Taksim, see Figure 109. On the other
hand, greyfication caused the loss of historical evidence of the manifestation of dissent and
thus affected the very possibility of archiving it. However, unlike the plenty of graffiti fixed in
the local collective memory of first-hand witnesses of the wallscape preceding the 1980 coup,
many of the graffiti of the Gezi resistance were immediately photographed and widely
circulated both via printed publications and the Internet. Wide media visibility concerns also
the area if we want to borrow a term from the graffiti jargon. For instance, see the Pinterest post by Miller
(2013).
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the famous rainbow stairs linking the Fındıklı and Cihangir neighbourhoods in İstanbul, one of
the symbols of the Gezi resistance (even though absorption has by now reduced the place to
a touristic attraction)204.
Figure 285 Rainbow steps. Salı Pazarı Street. Beyoğlu.
The rainbow stairs were first painted in late August 2013 by an ordinary citizen like most of the
Gezi protesters (Ateş, 2013). His act was not driven by any particular political purpose other
than cheering up the everyday life of other residents and passers-by. However, like most of
the countless wall writings popped up during and right after the uprising, the rainbow stairs
were also covered up with grey paint by municipal workers. Shortly thereafter, the municipality
had them repainted in colour because of widespread reaction to the homogenising grey via
rapid replication of the rainbow stairs in other places (e.g., Ankara, Batman, Tunceli,
Diyarbakır, and Bursa). Below two examples, one documented in Ankara, and the other in
Burgaz (one of the islands of İstanbul).
204 Nowadays, the rainbow stairs in Cihangir actually add value to one of the most touristic areas of
İstanbul (i.e., that of the Galata Port).
185
Figure 286 Rainbow stairs in Ankara. 2013.
Figure 287 Rainbow stairs in Burgazada,
İstanbul. 2013.
Besides synchronous replication, asynchronous replication must be also recalled. Emblematic
is the case of the rainbow stairs and the campus of the Middle East Technical University in
Ankara. In spring 2021, students refreshed the paint of 2013 to manifest solidarity with the
resistance against the presidential appointment of pro-government rectors at the Boğaziçi in
İstanbul (Bianet, 2021b). In addition to this, the rainbow stairs were also an explicit
manifestation of solidarity among/with the LGBTI+ subjectivities targeted by institutional hate
speech during the so-called Boğaziçi resistance. Also in this case, the stairs at METU were
repeatedly repainted by administrative order and, given this, my contribution is a humble way
to respond to the students’ call to action: “keep the rainbow alive despite the grey!”. Below the
call to action.
Figure 288 Rainbow stairs call to action. METU campus. March 2021 (Source: Bianet, 2021b)
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In sum, despite absorption via touristification in the case of Cihangir, the rainbow stairs can be
considered a symbol of anti-authoritarian dissent and counterhegemonic resistance. Tracing
spatiotemporal continuity, they echo the solidarity rhythm of a slogan become popular with
Gezi and actually symbolising it: “this is just the beginning; the struggle goes on!”. By doing
so, they call for attention on the appropriation of symbolic time for representation of
counterhegemonic power, an issue whose importance emerges also from transgenerational
slogans such as the ones included in the selection in Appendix D (see the Figures 384, 385,
386, 387, and 388).
To conclude the chapter, I then consider it important to briefly draw attention on selected graffiti
with visual and/or textual reference to time to suggest that, despite the repression followed to
the Gezi resistance, one of its outcomes is precisely the appropriation of symbolic time of
representation. This is for instance evident in the case of graffiti representing Gezi as the
beginning of a new political era. The examination of the many graffiti that I collected during the
uprising revealed that the ways of representing the Gezi resistance as such varied but can be
grouped into two types of representation of time: (1) the year 2013 represented a turning point
in the history of İstanbul and Turkey, one comparable to the years 1453 and 1923 (the Ottoman
conquest of Constantinople and the proclamation of the Turkish Republic); (2) the ruling party’s
symbol (a lightbulb) represented as blown out. The latter was however more common.
Figure 289
Representation of the
year 2013 as a turning
point in the history of
İstanbul and Turkey.
Taksim. Early June
2013.
Figure 290 Representation of the Gezi resistance as the end of the AKP
era. Taksim. Early June 2013.
In addition to this, several graffiti represented the year 2023 as a longer-term objective and
time of resistance. For instance, see the examples below.
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Figure 291 Representation of the year 2023 as
the year of a second cycle of the Gezi
resistance. Taksim. Early June 2013.
Figure 292 Representation of the year 2023 as
time of resistance. Taksim. Early June 2013.
As it is well-known, the 2023 marks the hundredth anniversary of the Turkish Republic, and
“2023 Vision” was also the name of the national political agenda released by Erdoğan in the
early 2010s, i.e., a set of goals strongly centred on the implementation of mega-projects for
urban renewal, a strategy discussed in detail in Chapter 3. Its ineffectiveness in granting the
sustainability of the economic progress of the country is however proved by the ongoing
economic and financial crisis but making any kind of predictions about the 2023 general
elections is obviously a task falling outside the scope of this study.
Hence, I conclude by simply highlighting that, with the Gezi resistance, the 2013 became a
global momentum, a notion I use to combine the notion of “global street” (Sassen, 2011) with
that of “time of the revolt” (Di Cesare, 2021). In other words, the year 2013 marked what
scholars called in various ways: “kairos of the multitude” (Hardt & Negri, 2009) and “moments
of rupture” (Brantz et al., 2012, p. 14) that, when seized by political subjects, intervene in
historical continuity “by imprinting a rhythm on an era” (Lefebvre & Elden, 2004[1992], p. 14).
As a matter of fact, the Gezi event/s did not result in a “transformation in the experience of
space and place” that was “matched by revolutions in the time dimension” (Harvey, 1989, p.
106). In other words, appropriation of symbolic time is important but the right to the city requires
the invention of new rhythms in the everyday life via practices for commoning time. However,
social change is not about heroic individualism/leadership but collective consciousness of
ordinary people who become aware of themselves “as potential agents of social change”
(Davis, 2008). Thus, I evaluate the graffiti of Gezi as historical evidence of such an invaluable
change in the terrain of the struggle for freedom despite all the events that followed the 2013
resistance, including but certainly not limited to the 2022 verdict of the Gezi trial205. To this day,
Gezi still provides the most emblematic case of resistance in public space and appropriation
of public space in Turkey because of all the reasons discussed so far and summarised below.
205 In April 2022, Osman Kavala (prominent figure of the civil society) was sentenced to life imprisonment
without parole after being convicted of ‘attempting to overthrow the government’. Accused of aiding him,
other people were sentenced to 18 years in prison: the architect Mücella Yapıcı, the city planner Tayfun
Kahraman, lawyer Can Atalay, the documentary filmmaker Mine Özerden, the film producer Çiğdem
Mater, the higher education director Hakan Altınay, and the university founder Yiğit Ekmekçi. For more
detailed information about the verdict, see for instance the statement by Amnesty International (2022).
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4.6. Concluding remarks
In this chapter, I have narrated the Gezi resistance as I witnessed and documented it in
Taksim206. For narrative purposes, I used a large number of images, most of which are
photographs that I took. The images selected for the first section were used as visual support
to an annotated timeline of the development of a struggle for the right to the city into an antigovernment
uprising. In 2011, then Prime Minister Tayyip Erdoğan announced the Taksim
project. Controversial aspects of the projects were multiple: the revitalisation of the Ottoman
military artillery barracks in Gezi Park, their conversion into a shopping mall, and thus the
enclosure of a public park within privatised space for consumption. In 2012, the Taksim
Solidarity platform started contesting it for multiple reasons (e.g., lack of participation in the
decision-making process). In late May 2013, representatives from the Taksim Solidarity
Platform, urban movements and environmental activists organised a protest camp and
managed to stop the works for the construction of the barracks. With regard to the reasons
why they reclaimed the park, graffiti documented in Gezi Park in this phase of the resistance
do not explicitly express dissent against the government nor Erdoğan and have rather
suggested that, for some, Gezi started as an environmental justice struggle for the urban
commons. By the evening of May 31, the protests turned into an anti-government uprising as
attested by ethnographic memories of the slogans chanted by the massive crowd filling İstiklal
Avenue. As represented via graffiti, June 1 marked a victory day and thus counterhegemonic
time of representation for two reasons: the police retreated from the Taksim area following
long and brutal attempts at cracking down on the crowd, and the uprising had quickly reached
a countrywide scale. Since then, the Taksim area was literally filled with countless graffiti
visibly marking the territory under temporary appropriation. Despite initial attempts at erasing
them (e.g., in İstiklal Avenue), walls, pavements and other elements of the built environment
started reverberating dissonant echoes. For instance, graffiti vehiculated the rage against
police brutality but, at the same time, they also vehiculated the self-irony used to react to
issues including but not limited to police brutality and mainstream media censorship. In the
first ten days of June, Gezi Park, Taksim Square and the surrounding area turned into a selfmanaged
zone. As attested by graffiti, some called it commune. In this study, I have suggested
that the notion of global street can help to decipher its complexity in spatial terms.
In the second section of the chapter, I have examined spatial features of the global street in
the case of Gezi/Taksim. To provide visual evidence of how appropriation and resistance to
repression resulted in the re-territorialisation of public space with high symbolic value, I have
206 For reasons already explained in the Introduction, I restricted myself to Taksim and did not document
the resistance and its graffiti neither in the neighbouring district of Beşiktaş nor in other places.
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used photographs attesting to its extraordinary use (e.g., sleeping in the Republican
Monument area). To clarify that the global street is not a single entity but an assemblage of
places turned into strategic nodes of multiscalar solidarity networks of counterpower, I have
used graffiti suggesting that the connectedness of Taksim with other places was both
transnational and translocal. For instance, graffiti expressing solidarity. By elaborating on their
content, I have argued the importance of importance of understanding resistance from a
systemic perspective. Then, I have stressed that, in the case of Gezi / Taksim, the global street
consisted of space fortified for self-defence via a series of barricades that marked also its
boundaries. Compared to the everyday life space, this space was extraordinary for more than
one reason. First, police vehicles and uniformed police were temporarily absent. Second, it
turned into shared space for commoning practices of collective care. As a result of both
material and immaterial production of new space, Gezi / Taksim turned into a mixed-use area
with new temporary facilities (e.g., soli-kitchens and temporary monuments for collective
remembrance).
In the third section, I have tackled agency-related question to further show the complexity of
the Gezi resistance also in terms of social composition. To avoid reducing it via for instance
polarisation, I have first used selective examples of graffiti to show that ordinary people joined
the protests in Gezi Park for various reasons: to contest police brutality, defend the park,
contest the government, contest the Taksim project, and for other specific reasons. To trace
continuity with the dissent expressed by graffiti documented before Gezi, I have drawn
attention on graffiti attesting to the accumulated dissent against the growing prohibitionist
attitude of the government in matters of personal freedoms (e.g., right to abortion, and alcohol
consumption). To further trace historical continuity, I have also shown that, among the actors
of the Gezi resistance, there were both old and new actors (e.g., revolutionary socialists and
LGBT+ rights activists). Lastly, I have briefly examined emblematic examples attesting to the
political use of graffiti, namely graffiti that were part of two feminist campaigns: one against
the sexist and foul language that characterised many of the Gezi graffiti targeting the police
and the government, and the other against harassment. As an additional example of graffiti
attesting to collective care as one of the ethical and political values contributing to make the
difference in the temporary appropriated space, I also included a slogan inviting to a conscious
consumption of alcohol given the need for blood donation by the many injured.
In the fourth section, I have resumed the timeline. To stress that the right to the city implies
both the right to space appropriation and right to decision making, I have included visuals that
help to grasp the dialectic between absorption of differential space via repression and attempts
of resistance to its absorption. Within a short yet intense period of time (June 11 – July 9),
spatial dynamics of state absorption of differential space included but were not limited to the
following ones: (1) barricades dismantling; (2) Taksim Square clearing; (3) removal of graffiti,
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banners and flags from the Republican monument; (4) removal of banners from the Atatürk
Cultural Centre façade and substitution with Turkish flags and a portrait of Atatürk; (5) park
evacuation and closure. Within the same period of time, practices of spatial resistance to
absorption included but were not limited the following ones: (1) downsizing of the barricades
in defence of the park following Taksim Square clearance; (2) organisation of assemblies for
collective decision making within the park; (3) transfer of decision-making structures for
participatory democracy from Gezi Park to the neighbourhoods; (4) temporary re-appropriation
of Taksim Square and İstiklal Avenue with the massive LGBT+ pride march; (5) organisation
of the iftar dinner in İstiklal Avenue as a form of peaceful ritualised protest.
In the fifth section, I have tackled absorption as an issue affecting also the walls of dissent. To
refer to the censorship of the graffiti of the Gezi resistance, I have suggested the term
greyfication, since most of them were covered up via grey paint except for portraits of Atatürk.
Reactions to greyfication varied. First, some grey stripes were overwritten and, in this regard,
selective examples provide evidence of humorous language. In addition to this, rainbow stairs
became a symbol of resistance whose replication acquired a multiscalar spatiotemporal
dimension, namely translocal, synchronous, and asynchronous. In 2013, they were first
replicated in various places but, in 2021, students of the METU university in Ankara have
repainted the rainbow stairs in the campus as an act of solidarity with the resistance for
academic freedom and against police brutality at the Boğaziçi in İstanbul. In light of the
importance of the temporal dimension attested by the case of the rainbow stairs, I have briefly
examined graffiti representing the years 2013 and 2023 as time of resistance and I have
concluded the chapter arguing that appropriation of symbolic time of representation is one of
the major outcomes of the Gezi resistance despite the increasing wave of repression of
freedom of expression and assembly that followed it. The social production of time is a topic
that I will briefly address also in the next chapter, which draws the overall conclusions from
the findings emerged so far, and suggests few directions for further research on the subject of
graffiti in Turkey.
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CHAPTER 5
CONCLUSION
To conclude the study, this chapter first summarises the key findings emerged so far in relation
to the aims and objectives of the research. Then, I discuss why the findings are valuable and
how they contribute to the field. After that, I will also review the limitations of graffiti as historical
sources and also the shortcomings of this study. Lastly, I indicate more than one direction for
further, possibly collaborative research.
5.1. The historiographical potential of graffiti
This study aimed to evaluate the historiographical potential of graffiti in contributing to
reconstruct change in space and society from below. To find out what graffiti reveal about the
social production of space, the discussion chapters fulfilled multiple objectives. In Chapter 2, I
retraced significant changes in the sociospatial use of graffiti in Turkey based on a historical
account covering a decades-long period: mid-1960s – early 2010s (before Gezi). In Chapter
3, I historicised the social production of space in İstanbul for in-depth contextualisation of the
space-related content of graffiti documented in the Taksim area in the early 2010s (before
Gezi). In Chapter 4, I tackled the dialectic relationship of space with historic attempts at
changing the society via a photo-essay that visually chronicles the 2013 Gezi resistance, i.e.,
the resistance leading to the temporary appropriation of Taksim and the attempts of resistance
to its absorption. Throughout all three chapters, I also paid attention to questions of agency
and power relations. Besides highlighting historical dis/continuities in the spatial use of graffiti,
I stressed both novelty and continuity in the social actors involved, and I gave particular
visibility to issues of class, gender, and ethnicity as intersectional. In addition to this, I also
addressed the reactions to graffiti, especially by institutional authorities. Lastly, I translated the
textual and symbolic content of an ample selection of graffiti in order to make the local context
accessible to potential readers unacquainted with the Turkish language and the slang spoken
in the streets.
The findings suggest that the value of graffiti as historical sources shall not be underestimated
because of the very attention sought by the ordinary people who turned walls into
communicative devices. By turning walls into layers of a continuous conversation, a polyphony
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of actors left invaluable traces that provide written and/or visual evidence of how they strove
to change the society (for the better or for the worse). Further findings suggest that graffiti can
provide useful information also for what concerns the history of urban space in general and in
the use of walls in particular.
Defined via graffiti, the notion of walls indicates not only structures that function as boundaries
between different property types (e.g., public and private). While endorsing the argument that
“architecture is certainly not just another symbolic tool” (Altan, 1999, p. 37), this study suggests
also that the notion of walls can actually be used to indicate the surfaces of any composing
element of the built environment that heterogenous types of graffiti turn into speaking surfaces
and thus spaces of representation of symbolic value (e.g., stairs, bridges, monuments,
sidewalks and pavements). Moreover, I argue that graffiti turn also non-static and mobile
elements into speaking walls (e.g., transport means). The emblematic cases suggesting the
possibility to extend the semantic field of the term walls are two graffiti dating back to the late
1960s: (1) the iconic writing “revolution” on the stairs of the stadium in the METU campus in
Ankara (Figure 55); (2) the anti-NATO writing on the boat of the fisherman transiting the
Bosphorus in İstanbul (Figure 53). Both cases were examined in Chapter 2, where I provided
a detailed overview of the significant changes in the spatial use of graffiti in Turkey starting
from the 1960s.
Besides providing evidence of the highly politicised atmosphere of the streets, archival images
attesting to the use of graffiti in the 1960s and 1970s suggest also that the relationship between
walls and leftist printed periodicals was similar to that between walls and social media
nowadays: they were the extensions of each other. In the 1960s, graffiti started being used as
media for the expression of political dissent, economic discontent, and agitprop207. In the late
1960s, graffiti for agitprop were likely concentrated within university campuses and in their
surroundings. In the 1970s, graffiti continued to be used for agitprop in places such as
occupied factories; however, the heterogeneity of the wallscape started increasing with the
emergence and spreading of graffiti for both ultranationalist propaganda and
counterpropaganda208. To this day, the late 1970s likely marked the highest peak in spread of
graffiti as result of remarkable changes in their spatial use and in the use of space in general:
(1) signing space with slogans and acronyms of political organisations became a practice for
cross-territorial marking, i.e., a practice to visibly mark the territories contended by antagonistic
political actors; (2) the contended territory to be taken under control and thus also to be marked
207 As explained in the annotated and illustrated Glossary provided at the beginning of the dissertation,
agitprop is the abbreviated form of agitation propaganda, a political strategy of the revolutionary socialist
tradition aimed at class consciousness raising and mass mobilization via various media, the latter
including but not limited to written speech (e.g., slogans).
208 As also explained in the Glossary, graffiti for counterpropaganda is a term that I suggest to indicate
graffiti made to counteract far-right propaganda via for instance overwriting of pre-existing graffiti.
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with graffiti became limitless and came to include entire neighbourhoods and towns. At this
regard, graffiti of particular historiographical relevance are those related to the case of the
pogrom against the Alevi community of Kahramanmaraş in 1978. Used to mark the houses of
the people to be murdered, the graffiti of the Kahramanmaraş case attest not only to the
intensification of ethnicized violence but also to the premeditated nature of the hatred crimes
perpetrated by militants of the ultranationalist movement. For this reason, I suggested to call
them “perpetrator graffiti”, a term I borrow from Protner (2018)209.
Via archival research on the aftermath of the 1980 military coup, I found enough evidence to
claim that repression succeeded in silencing the walls of dissent but only temporarily. Graffiti
reappeared in the streets in the late 1980s. Besides providing evidence of this, the first printed
collections of wall writings provide also evidence of the humorous re-politicisation of their
content. In other words, wall writings of the late 1980s provide written evidence of the repoliticisation
of the post-coup society in public space.
In the 1990s, tagging, street art and likely also punk graffiti started emerging but, as highlighted
later on, I suggest the need for further research so as to for instance find out what influenced
their emergence.
Graffiti documented in the early 2010s provide evidence of both continuities and novelties in
the use of walls. For instance, graffiti for agitprop documented both in Ankara and İstanbul
provide evidence of the transgenerational observance of the International Workers’ Day. As
discussed in Chapter 3, May Day in İstanbul is not only an occasion to demand justice for the
victims of the 1977 massacre in Taksim Square; it is also an occasion to reclaim Taksim as
the square of the labour movement, a symbolism that historically precedes the Republican
symbolism. This is of particular relevance in the examination of historical (dis)continuity and
deciphering of “the global street” (Sassen, 2011 and 2013b) in that it calls for critical attention
on aspects of the global that are actually continuations of past functions. Another emblematic
case of grassroots placemaking is that of Galatasaray, a junction turned into a square and
space of representation of the right to freedom of assembly as result of ritualised assemblies.
However, a graffiti calling to action in solidarity with the Saturday Mothers that I documented
in 2012 confirms the psychogeographic representation of Galatasaray as the meeting place in
front of the monumental gate of the homonymous high school and not as a square. Other
graffiti containing written and/or visual reference to issues related to the politics of space in
İstanbul showed that its image on the walls of the Taksim area was that of a highly contested
city. Evidence of conflicting representations of space suggested that neoliberal redevelopment
209 As clarified in the Glossary, Protner (2018) suggested the term “perpetrator graffiti” to indicate wall
writings with violent content made by military forces in urban war zones in Kurdish-majority provinces of
Turkey in the period 2015-2016.
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into a global city caused the emergence of geographies of resistance. This was for instance
the case of Direnİstanbul, a political festival organised in 2009 by local activists opposing
global capitalism. Reaction via graffiti to the designation of İstanbul to a European Capital of
Culture in 2010 also attests to conflict in the representation of İstanbul, depicted as a bordered
zone to likely call for attention on the intersectionality of urban and migration issues. Another
case attesting to the dialectics between hegemonic and counterhegemonic representations of
space is that of the contradiction between the by now demolished Emek movie theatre in
İstiklal Avenue and the nearby shopping mall Demirören, one of the megaprojects for the
renewal of İstanbul into a Neo-Ottoman city. Renewal has been examined also through the
case of the Tarlabaşı neighbourhood so as to highlight the effects of Neo-Ottomanisation on
space (and time), namely its monumentalization (and the monumentalization of the very
process of urban renewal of historical heritage).
With the 2013 resistance, Gezi/Taksim turned into a global street, i.e., transnational space for
the exercise of the right to the city, which is here understood in the twofold articulation
suggested first by Lefebvre (2009 [1968]), i.e., as right to participation in decision-making and
right to appropriation of space. The temporary appropriation of Gezi/Taksim via reterritorialisation
of public space with high symbolic value contributed to the production of
differential space. Besides being connected to other cities via multiscalar solidarity,
Gezi/Taksim was transformed into space fortified for self-defence and a mixed-use area
commonised via practices of collective care. Following the brutal clearing on June 11, Taksim
Square turned into a battlefield and new structures in defence of the park were also erected
but did not suffice to resist to the brutal evacuation of the park on June 15. In the immediate
aftermath of the crackdown on the uprising, ordinary people continued to try to further produce
space of resistance to absorption in the sense suggested by Lefebvre (1991[1974]). As
discussed in Chapter 4, attempts of resistance to absorption included also the transfer of
assemblies for participatory decision making to the neighbourhoods, a process attesting to the
traditional importance of the communitarian scale of the space of the everyday life in the
mobilisation for radical change in the society.
In sum, state-led, market-driven, top-down renewal of space in general and public space with
high symbolic meanings in particular affects negatively social and cultural interaction: it does
not promote social cohesion but rather fuels social polarisation and thus conflict. In a nutshell,
this is what the graffiti of the Gezi resistance suggest when read together with graffiti with
space-related content preceding the 2013 events
Even with regard to social actors, the findings revealed both continuity and novelty. First, they
confirmed what is somehow common knowledge in Turkey: (1) the leading actors of the 1968
movement were revolutionary students inspired by anti-imperialist ideals but workers were
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also politically active; (2) revolutionary unions took the lead of the leftist movement and led the
struggle against labour exploitation to a massive scale of participation in the second half of the
1970s; (3) militants of the ultranationalist movement also used walls for political propaganda
in the late 1970s. In addition to this, the findings revealed that members of the CHP also made
graffiti in the 1970s. With regard to women, graffiti of the 1970s suggest their increasing
visibility and proactive role within the labour movement but suggest also that their productive
and reproductive labour was not always given the visibility that it deserved. By the late 1980s,
the second wave feminist movement granted street visibility to issues including but not limited
to right to abortion and freedom of sexual orientation. By the early 1990s, also the pride in
joining the army gained street visibility and, at this regard, the findings show that the
conscription pride wall writings are not a novelty of the 2010s but rather a decades-long
practice that, as such, is worthy of academic interest. In the early 2010s (before Gezi), the
streets of Taksim bared the traces of a wide range of actors, both old and new: enlisted soldiers
indeed, antiimperialists, activists opposing global capitalism, ultranationalists, feminists,
LGBT+ right activists, refugee right activists, street artists, hip-hop youth, anarchists, and, to
a limited extent, also Ataturkists. With regard to the movement for gender equality, graffiti of
the early 2010s provide clear evidence of the rising of the third wave feminism and call also
for serious attention on dissent against the government’s anti-abortion propaganda rhetoric
before it turned into a series of witty writings during Gezi. Graffiti of the Gezi resistance attest
to the participation of a multitude of actors included but not limited to social movements (e.g.,
urban, ecologist, feminist, LGBT+), anarchists, football supporters, political parties and
organisations (e.g., of the radical left and outlawed), Ataturkists, and plenty of ordinary people
not affiliated with any particular political organisation.
With regard to the reactions to graffiti, the findings suggest that the criminalisation of the
practice dates back to the mid-1960s and that, by then, the repression of dissent expressed
via graffiti had already acquired visibility in mainstream newspapers. Following the Taksim
Square massacre on May Day 1977, the repressive apparatus exerted censorship also by
means of pecuniary coercion. In the early 1980s, graffiti for agitprop were cleaned from the
streets and also the prison cells walls where political inmates tried to continue to write them
(and where they were instead forced to write nationalist slogans of the military regime). In the
early 2010s, graffiti turning the streets of the Taksim area into open-air art galleries started
being increasingly absorbed via assimilation into the neoliberal production of space while
graffiti expressing dissent were erased even before Gezi (e.g., the ones related to the Emek
movie theatre struggle). With the crackdown on Gezi, the walls of dissent were greyfied but,
unlike in the aftermath of the 1980s coup, they were not overpainted by ordinary citizens forced
by the military but by municipality workers. Despite such a remarkable diversity in the degree
of the repression, the effects of greyfication in 2013 should in no way be belittled via
comparison with the 1980s since it caused the loss of historical evidence of the manifestation
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of dissent and thus affected the very possibility of archiving it. However, unlike the plenty of
graffiti fixed in the local collective memory of first-hand witnesses of the wallscape preceding
the 1980 coup, many of the graffiti of the Gezi resistance were immediately photographed and
widely circulated both via printed publications and the Internet.
One of the remarkable findings of this study is that laughing at hegemonic power is not a
novelty of Gezi but a transgenerational form of resistance closely tied to graphic satire since
the mid-1960s (see the cartoons in Figure 51 and Figure 52). In the late 1970s, cartoonists
worked together with workers to create mural cartoons in the factories under strike (e.g., see
the Figure 65, 66, 76, and 77). In the same period, the wallscape filled of graffiti was
increasingly integrated in Turkish comedy films d (e.g., see the Figure 74, 79, 82, and 89). In
the wake of the growing interest for documentation and dissemination emerged in the late
1980s, professional humourists edited printed collections of humorous wall writings in the early
1990s. Despite diversity of contextual circumstances and thus contents, the laughter of the
Gezi graffiti was also somehow as bitter as that of the post-coup society given the dominance
of ambivalent political affects (e.g., joy, rage, and pride). Humorous was also language of the
initial reactions to censorship via greyfication. In short, humour should be understood not only
in relation to the expression of dissent but also in relation to reaction to its repression. Below,
I explain why this specific key finding and all the ones summarised so far are valuable.
5.2. The potential of this study
To highlight how the findings contribute to the production of knowledge, I am going to first
recall the gap and then I am going to highlight how this study addressed it.
With the 2013 Gezi resistance, graffiti for territorial marking reached a historic peak in spread.
In the local collective memory, extensive territorial marking via graffiti dates back to the 1970s.
The need for detailed historical account of the graffiti of the 1960s and 1970s is a gap that
scholars argue since the aftermath of Gezi (Taş & Taş, 2014). However, the literature review
provided in the Introduction revealed that contributions focused on the graffiti of the Gezi
resistance addressed it as a single case study instead of historicising the political significance
of the practice or distinctive features (e.g., humorous language).
Conversely, this study provided a historical overview of the period 1960s-2013 that is not
comprehensive yet is detailed enough to start addressing the gap. With regard to humorous
language, I examined sufficient evidence to claim that it was not a novelty of the Gezi
resistance but rather a form of resistance that call for attention on the kinship relationship
between graffiti for the expression of political dissent and graphic satire. In addition to this, I
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also problematised the commonly accepted idea that the politicisation of contents dates back
to the 1968 movement, and I suggested that it rather precedes it. Lastly, I also problematised
another commonly emphasised fact, namely that the difficulty in finding archival images of the
graffiti filling the streets of Turkey in the 1970s is primarily due to the archival damage followed
to the 1980 coup, and I suggested that lack of documentation may rather depend on the lack
of artistic recognition.
As for the conceptual framework, this study contributes to the production of knowledge in more
than one way. First, I expanded it by reading the temporary appropriation of Taksim through
the notion of global street rather than using only the notion of public space. As for the notion
of appropriation in relation to graffiti, the literature review revealed that graffiti are defined as
a practice of territorialisation and reappropriation of public space by several scholars (Erdoğan,
2009 and 2010; Seloni & Sarfati, 2017; Evered, 2018; Küçüksayraç, 2011; Sarıyıldız, 2007).
After having dwelled for long time on questions related to this assumption, I stopped trying to
verify whether the practice can be defined in such terms or not, and I rather focused on space
that graffiti mark rather than on discursive reterritorialization of space. Precisely because of
this reason, this study differs also from contributions that have already applied Lefebvrian
concepts and theories to the analysis of graffiti in the context Turkey (e.g., see Sarıyıldız,
2007).
With regard to Lefebvrian notion of right to the city, the findings of this study confirm its
potential in both political struggle against the profit-driven reduction of space to a commodity
and in its understanding. The historical overview provided in this study confirm in fact that Gezi
started as a struggle for the right to the city and was preceded by previous attempts a
struggling for the urban commons. More precisely, the findings suggest that the right to the
city functioned as a catalyst for oppositional forces. With regard to the right to the city centre,
the findings revealed ambivalent dynamics. The Gezi resistance reached a massive scale
likely due to the overlapping symbolic meanings of Taksim while anti-gentrification struggle in
the case of the Tarlabaşı neighbourhood shows that the disenfranchised did not succeed in
reclaiming the right to the city centre. By showing the centrality of urban space in anticapitalist
struggle, the findings confirm also the validity of the argument that, with neoliberalism, the
primary site of production of value shifted from the factory to the metropolis (Harvey & Negri,
2010).
As for the criticism towards graffiti expressed by Lefebvre (1991 [1974], p. 145), this study
acknowledges that changing the symbolic meanings of space is not enough for the actual
production of space. However, the findings suggest that graffiti can actually be useful in the
understanding of space production in that they provide historical evidence of global patterns
of neoliberal urbanisation and reactions to it. For instance, in İstanbul, by the early 2010s,
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graffiti became not only an essential component of the aesthetics of the global street but also
an essential component of the aesthetics of the gentrified space of the global city. In Lefebvrian
terms, we can therefore speak of absorption, which differs depending on contextual
circumstances. As shown by the emblematic case of the yellow fists in Galata absorption
becomes commodification if graffiti can contribute to the increase in coolness of a certain area
and thus to place-branding. As shown instead by the case of the graffiti of the Gezi resistance,
absorption becomes erasure via overwriting (a repressive measure dating back to the 1960s).
More precisely, the greyfication of the graffiti of the Gezi resistance was also erasure of
historical evidence. Given this, this study is valuable. It is a humble way to contribute to the
resistance against systematic repression of the right to freedom of expression of dissent,
assembly, and action. In practical terms, the study provides also an archive for anyone willing
to select from the hundreds of photographs that it contains and engage in more in-depth
analysis. Given this possibility, I would like to stress also the value of the Glossary provided at
the beginning of the dissertation. As I borrowed the term "perpetrator graffiti" from Protner
(2018), someone else can borrow one of the various terms that I have suggested and carry on
with the research in light of the shortcomings reviewed below.
5.3. Limitations of graffiti and shortcomings of the research
In this section, I am going to first review the limitations of graffiti as historical sources in spacefocused
research and then the shortcomings of this study – not to undermine its validity but to
actually lay the ground for further research.
What limits the historiographical potential of graffiti is not so much ephemerality in itself but
the fact that, in many cases, it is difficulty if not impossible to find out the exact date of the
making. For instance, except for graffiti documented during the making, most of the dates
provided in this study refer to the date of the documentation. As a result, historical research
based on graffiti cannot follow a rigorous but only a loose chronological order. For this reason,
graffiti are not sufficient for chronological taxonomies of the social actors who participated in
specific movements and/or events. For instance, this is the case of the Gezi resistance.
Another reason why graffiti are not adequate sources for a comprehensive reconstruction of
its social composition is that not all participants made use of graffiti. For instance, collective
actors such as the Antikapitalist Müslümanlar (Anti-Capitalist Muslims) made banners but, in
my archive, I have no graffiti signed by them as collective actors (neither slogans nor collective
signatures). However, the large amount of collective signatures that I was able to document is
more than enough to claim that graffiti can nonetheless provide evidence of the presence of
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many collective actors (e.g., political parties and organisations of the radical left but also
movements for social justice).
For similar reasons, graffiti providing insights into the opinions and ideas by ordinary people
who represented space on walls via graffiti cannot be generalised. For instance, graffiti
representing Taksim Square as space of resistance reclaimed by the labour movement are
surely valuable and attest to real representations of space by ordinary people. However, it
must be also taken into account that not all people who reclaimed Taksim during the Gezi
resistance did it for the same symbolic meanings.
As for the shortcomings of the research conducted for this study, I first and foremost
acknowledge the extreme length of the sources selection and writing processes. Without
entering into an overly detailed explanation, I limit myself to stress that it depended on multiple
reasons, the first of which is the initial unacquaintance with the local context, whose relevance
is self-explanatory since it hinders the in-depth deciphering of what walls say. Second, I was
intent on including as much as possible images rather than focusing on selection criteria. Third,
I dwelled for too long on questions that made me lose the focus on space (e.g., questions
related to the actors, indeed). Fourth, I overthought questions related to the positionality of
myself as participant observer while reflecting on the blurry boundaries between participant
observation in street ethnography and autoethnography as a process of subjectivation as well
as a methodological approach. Lastly, I did not conduct the research in a sufficiently
systematic manner, something that was also related to the lack of experience in archival
research and space-focused historical research.
As a result, the study provides a detailed yet non-comprehensive account. (1) The size of the
sample of sources based on which I suggest that the politicisation of contents precedes the
1968 is limited in number and is limited to fictional evidence (two cartoons, see Figure 51 and
Figure 52). (2) None of the sources that I was able to collect referred to the first half of the
1970s but I did not conduct archival research aimed to find out information about the wallscape
of the period. (3) The collected material relating to the second half of the 1970s includes graffiti
for ultranationalist propaganda but I did not conduct archival research aimed to find out if they
were actually spread also before the late 1970s. (4) I suggested that the 1977 likely marked
the highest peak in spread of graffiti in Turkey but evidence of this is limited to the information
revealed by a few oral sources. (5) I highlighted that graffiti for agitprop continued to be written
on prison cell walls during the military regime of 1980-1983 but I did not conduct further
research to validate the generalisability of fictional evidence suggesting this (i.e., still frames
of the film Duvar by Güney, 1983). (6) Written evidence of the wallscape of the early 1990s
suggest that conscription pride wall writings were widespread enough to attract attention and
inspire jokes (see Figure 108 and Figure 109); however, I did not conduct further research to
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find out whether they started spreading also as consequence of the 1980 military coup. (7) I
extensively discussed the global dimension of local processes but I did not engage in
comparative analysis of graffiti documented in İstanbul with those documented in other cities.
(8) I clearly highlighted that the historiographical potential of graffiti lies in the contribution to
rhythmic attempts at changing the society but I did not apply systematically the rhythm analysis
framework suggested by Lefebvre & Elden (2004 [1992]). (9) Several graffiti pointed at time
as an object and field of struggle – both in the everyday life and under extraordinary
circumstances – but I did not elaborate on the notion of time as social product. In light of all
these shortcomings, I am going to make a series of suggestions for further research.
5.4. Further research
Further and more systematic archival research is needed for an increasingly comprehensive
history of graffiti in Turkey, and thus also for an increasingly comprehensive history of the use
of walls by ordinary people.
(1) Archival research on the mid-1960s is needed to verify the generalizability of the real-world
insights suggested by fictional evidence of the emergence of graffiti for agitprop before the
1968. In other words, I suggest archival research aimed at verifying the hypothesis that the
wallscape depicted in Figure 51 and Figure 52 was a representation of the real-present and
not a representation of the near-future as imagined by the authors of the cartoons. In both
cases, the findings would be of crucial relevance. On one hand, archival research attesting to
the reality of the wallscape as represented in the cartoons could help to shed light on the
spatial extension of graffiti for agitprop in the mid-1960s. For instance, the examination of
archival evidence could aim to clarify in which specific areas they emerged so as to also
validate or invalidate another twofold hypothesis, namely that they first emerged in
neighbourhoods where foreign companies were headquartered and then in working-class
neighbourhoods. On the other hand, archival research attesting to the fictionality of the
wallscape represented in the cartoons would suggest the effectiveness of graphic satire in
mobilising ordinary people to become agents of agitprop themselves by for instance using
walls as a medium. In other words, systematic research could help to define the kinship
relationship of graffiti with graphic satire and thus provide useful insights to retrace the
genealogy of the humorous language characterising sociospatial resistance to hegemonic
power in the local context.
(2) Archival research on the mid-1960s is needed also to verify the degree of media coverage.
Systematic research in newspapers archives would help to evaluate whether mainstream
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media supported the criminalisation of the practice since its emergence or it is rather an effect
itself of state repression on any type of media.
(3) Archival research on the first half of the 1970s is needed to find out whether the 1971 coup
affected the propagandistic use of walls by for instance silencing those of dissent.
(4) Archival research on both the 1960s and 1970s could also reveal if graffiti for
ultranationalist propaganda were to be found before the late 1970s or if they were rather the
result of emulation of the propaganda methods employed by the revolutionary left in those
years both in the local and non-local context based on the recognition of the communicative
potential.
(5) Further research on the second half of the 1970s via for instance interviews with cartoonists
could help to better decipher the specific symbolism of recurring elements of the Great Strike
imagery (e.g., the snakes used to write the letters ‘s’ of the acronym MESS and the fist
crushing them depicted in Figure 64 and Figure 65). In addition to this, it would be interesting
to conduct interviews with first-hand witnesses of the late 1970s to find out whether the quantity
of graffiti perceptible to the naked eye was higher compared to that of the Gezi resistance and
thus to verify the idea that the 1977 likely marked the highest peak in spread of graffiti
registered so far in Turkey.
(6) Further research on the early 1980s via for instance interviews is needed to verify the
generalizability of the fictional evidence of graffiti for agitprop on prison cell walls (see Figure
100 and Figure 101). In addition to this, the research could possibly reveal also information
about the wall writings that I suggested to call intikam duvar yazıları (revenge wall writings),
i.e., slogans of the military regime that political inmates were forced to write on the walls of the
prison cells as pointed out by Bozarslan (2006). A pilot study to assess the feasibility of the
research could start from the Ulucanlar Prison Museum in Ankara. In case of positive results,
it would be interesting to conduct comparative research on political geographies affected by
military coups.
(7) Interviews with first-hand witnesses of the late 1980s and early 1990s could validate the
hypothesis that I made with regard to graffiti that I suggested to call askeri gurur duvar yazıları
(conscription pride wall writings), namely that they started spreading in the aftermath of the
1980 coup and possibly as one of its consequences. In other words, further research is needed
to verify whether the post-coup walls were completely silenced or if they rather vehiculated
militaristic nationalism.
(8) A wall writing found in a collection published in the 1990s raises an interesting question,
namely whether disclaiming the revolutionary experience of the pre-coup era was a
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widespread attitude among revolutionary socialists following the 1980 coup (see Figure 109).
In theory, verifying via interviews should not be difficult.
(9) Archival research on the 1990s is needed in general. As I have already pointed out in the
sixth section of Chapter 2, it would be useful to write the history of tagging, street art and
possibly also punk graffiti in Turkey. For a good starting point for the research on punk graffiti,
see Figure 110, a poster advertising the first hard-core punk festival in Turkey. As find out by
De Sanctis (n.d.), the event took place in 1992 in a bar in Ankara named Graffiti, indeed.
(10) Comparative research on the graffiti of the Gezi resistance and graffiti of the Egyptian
revolution is limited (Taş, 2017) and further research could focus on the search for evidence
of the connectedness between Taksim Square and Tahrir Square emerged in Figure 179 and
Figure 234.
(11) Comparative research on the graffiti of the Gezi resistance in the context of İstanbul could
focus on both similarities and differences between the wallscape in Taksim and that of Gazi,
a peripheral and highly politicised neighbourhood where the uprising also spread.
(12) Comparative research on the context of İstanbul could also focus on both similarities and
differences between the wallscape in Taksim in the early 2010s and the current wallscape in
the district of Kadıköy.
(13) Further research could be specifically focused on perpetrator graffiti, i.e., graffiti attesting
to the violence perpetrated by militants of the ultranationalist movement against ethnic
minorities. To collect historical evidence of the practice of marking the houses of members of
Alevi communities, it could be good to retrace the spatial use of graffiti from the case of the
Kahramanmaraş pogrom in 1978 to recent years, when the practice has been for instance
reported on online newspapers.
In addition to all this, new questions could also be tackled to further investigate the
historiographical potential of graffiti in the context of Turkey from a Lefebvrian perspective. For
instance, what kind of alignments would a rhythms analysis of the graffiti of the Gezi resistance
reveal when compared with the previous decades? In this regard, the graffiti examined in this
study have suggested that listening to the rhythms of the streets via transgenerational and
transnational slogans could be a good starting point. Moreover, I suggest that, like rhythms of
the resistance echoed by walls, rhythms of silencing can also be a good indicator of power
struggle. In other words, further research could focus on fluctuation, i.e., the movement of
rising and falling voices of dissent.
Lastly, I would like to suggest the need for further elaboration on the notion of time, by which
I do not refer to history but to a social product and thus a tool of reproduction of uneven social
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relations. As attested by the several graffiti, time is in fact a field of struggle. For instance, the
stylised Cinderella in Figure 125 shows that, like everyday life space, the everynight is a field
of feminist struggle and thus time to reclaim and occupy when needed. In addition to this, she
shows that theory begins from our lived experience, not necessarily from the normative. Some
graffiti of the Gezi resistance also point at the importance of the appropriation of symbolic time
but draw attention on the extraordinary rather than on the ordinary. Like space, time is a
powerful category, though, and, as such, it is not an invitation to think. That is why I suggest
to search for a methodological lens to investigate the co-originarity of space and time, and to
thus further elaborate the right to the city as a threefold right: the right to participate in decision
making, the right to appropriate space, and the right to appropriate time.
In conclusion, the study has suggested that, in the context of Turkey, graffiti can be granted
academic legitimacy as historical sources in space-focused research because they can
contribute to reconstruct rhythmic attempts at changing space and society from below, i.e.,
from the perspective of ordinary people. Examined through Lefebvrian theory and concepts
by Sassen, a large selection of graffiti collected via archival and street ethnographic research
suggests two remarkable findings. First, walls speak and echo resistance, especially when
silenced. Second, graffiti mocking hegemonic power are historically correlated to graphic
satire, and this suggests the need for further, collaborative research on transgenerational
aspects of spatial resistance.
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APPENDICES
A. WALLS IN TURKEY IN THE LATE 1970S
Selection of collective signatures graffiti and slogans attesting to the widespread use of
graffiti as territorial markers and the internal fragmentation of the left.
Figure 293 Slogan by the Türkiye Komünist Partisi (Communist Party of Turkey, TKP): “we will destroy
the boss-landowner’s state. We will establish the people's power”. (Source: Yılmaz, 1978).
Figure 294 Still frame of the film Neşeli Günler
(Aksoy, 1978) depicting the collective signature
by İGD, İlerici Gençlik Derneği (Progressive
Youth Association). (Source: Politikhane, 2020)
Figure 295 A funeral and a slogan signed by
İGD and trade unions: “power is the murderer”
(Source: Can, 2011, pp. 192-193)
236
Figure 296 Still frame of the film Sultan (Tibet,
1978) depicting two writings. In red: collective
signature by Türkiye Komünist Partisi-Marksist
Leninist (Communist Party of Turkey-Marxist-
Leninist, TKP/ML). Slogan in black: “bağımsız
demokratik Türkiye” (independent democratic
Turkey). (Source: Politikhane, 2020)
Figure 297 Still frame of the film Çöpçüler Kralı
(Ökten, 1977). Part of a slogan and the
signature by Halkın Birliği (People's Union), the
media outlet of the TKP/ML. (Source:
Politikhane, 2020)
Figure 298 Various graffiti including a collective signature by Devrimci Gençlik (Revolutionary Youth,
Dev-Genç). Taksim Square, İstanbul. 1978 (Source: Can, 2011, p. 203)
237
Figure 299 Various graffiti including a
collective signature by Dev-Genç.
Ankara. Late 1970s. (Source: Aysan,
2013, p. 247)
Figure 300 Still frame of the film Köşeyi Dönen Adam
(Yılmaz, 1978) depicting slogans and the signature by Dev-
Genç (Source: Politikhane, 2020)
Figure 301 Fist on top of a star, symbol of Devrimci Yol (Revolutionary Path, Dev-Yol). Slogan: “let's
resist the cruelty of the oppressors”. Fatsa. Late 1970s (Source: Akçam, 2007)
Figure 302 Slogan signed by Dev-Yol.
Fatsa, late 1970s (Source: Akçam, 2007)
Figure 303 Military and a slogan signed by Dev-Yol.
Fatsa, late 1970s (Source: Akçam, 2007)
238
Figure 304 Still frame of the film Neşeli Günler (Aksoy, 1978). Slogan signed by Dev-Yol: “faşist
yalanlara aldanmayalım (Let's not be deceived by fascist lies)”. (Source: Politikhane, 2020)
Figure 305 Still frame of the film Derdim Dünyadan Büyük (Gören, 1978). Slogan by Dev-Yol: “oligarşi
döktüğü kanda boğulacak (the oligarchy will drown in its blood)”. (Source: Politikhane, 2020)
Figure 306 Still frame of the film Taşı Topraği Altin Şehir (Aksoy, 1979). Slogan signed by Dev-Yol and
Dev-Genç: “sağ sol çatışması yok faşist katliamlar var” (There is no right-left conflict, there are fascist
massacres). (Source: Politikhane, 2020)
239
Figure 307 Signature by Dev-Sol, Devrimci Sol
(Revolutionary Left). Slogan: “our way is the way of
those of [Mahir] Çayan”. (Source, Can, 2011, p.
206)
Figure 308 Slogans by Dev-Sol: “one path,
the revolution”, “war until independence”.
Taksim Square. Late 1970s. (Source: Can,
2011, p. 202)
Figure 309 “A wall in İstanbul”, 1977, sketch, crayon
on paper. Author: Burhan Doğançay. (Source:
Burhan Doğançay Archive)
Figure 310 “Tek Yol Devrim”, 1977, sketch, crayon
on paper. Author: Burhan Doğançay. (Source:
Burhan Doğançay archive)
240
B. WALLS IN TURKEY IN THE LATE 1980S AND EARLY 1990S
Selection of humorous writings published in printed collections
Figure 311 Freedom of
sexual orientation:
“Become bisexual! you’ll
multiply your
possibilities” (Source:
Çorlu & Tütüncü, 1989,
p. 6)
Figure 312 Right to self-determination
over the body: “Your tummy is yours”
(Source: Çorlu & Tütüncü, 1989, p. 2)
Figure 313 Fear of gender violence: “People love flowers and tear them off. People love trees and cut
them off. For this reason, if someone says to me ‘I love you’, I’M SCARED” (Source: Çorlu & Tütüncü,
1989, p. 27)
241
Figure 314 Right to divorce: “Marriage is a pledge realized with the help of the state” (Source: Çorlu &
Tütüncü, 1989, p. 2)
Figure 315 Right to birth
control methods: “Damn
rubber hats, long live
contraceptive pill”
(Source: Çorlu &
Tütüncü, 1989, p. 61)
Figure 316 Right to abortion: ‘If men could get pregnant, abortion
would be a postulate” (Source: Çorlu & Tütüncü, 1989, p. 8)
Figure 317 Parody of a popular revolutionary slogan of the 1970s: “the only way is corruption” (Photo:
Üstündağ, 1990, p. 11)
Figure 318 Political bans: “They were
humans... they were political
animals... they were forbidden to
engage in politics, they remained
animals..." (Source: Özdemiroğlu,
1990, p. 18)
Figure 319 Fear of another coup. “If there'll be
another coup, they'll say: "Do you wanna go
back to the aftermath of the 1980, mate?”
(Source: Özdemiroğlu, 1990, p. 96)
242
Figure 320 Torture: “Human Rights Week, bottles in PET will be used during torture” (Source:
Üstündağ, 1990, p. 12)
Figure 321 Vs. militarist nationalism: “National history / My national history / Our national history /
National historiography of our national history / Militarism” (Source: Üstündağ, 1990, p. 74)
243
C. WALLS IN İSTANBUL, 2010-2013 (BEFORE GEZI)
Selection of graffiti attesting to the heterogeneity of the social actors using walls as medium
for political activity. All the photographs were taken by the author in Beyoğlu.
Figure 322 Slogan signed with the circle-A: “we
are everywhere”. Cihangir. 2012
Figure 323 Slogan signed with the circle-A: “no
room for powers”. Cihangir. 2012
Figure 324 Slogan “Revolt! Revolution! Freedom!”
signed by Sosyalist Yeniden Kuruluş Partisi (Socialist
Refoundation Party). İstiklal Avenue. 2013.
Figure 325 Slogan by the Özgürlük
Dayanışma Partisi, Freedom and
Solidarity Party, ÖDP): “no in the
referendum”. Karaköy. 2012
Figure 326 Three crescent moons, symbol of the
ultranationalist movement. 2013
Figure 327 X Graffiti for counterpropaganda.
Erasure of MHP symbol. 2013
244
Figure 328 Portrait of jazz musician John
Coltrane and slogan: “all black people of
the world are beautiful”. Cihangir. 2013
Figure 329 Slogan in light blue (erased): “no
border, no nation, fuck deportation”. Galata,
2012
Figure 330 Adaptation of Yer Gök Aşk (a Turkish drama television series broadcasted between 2010-
2013). The term "aşk" (love) substituted with "19 Mayıs" (May 19), a Republican holiday
(Commemoration of Atatürk, Youth and Sports Day, Atatürk'ü Anma, Gençlik)
245
Figure 331 Feminist symbols, Tarlabaşı. 2012.
Figure 332 Feminist
symbol and slogan:
“Feminist revolt”.
Beyoğlu. 2013
Figure 333 Feminist
slogan related to the
2009 TEKEL protests
signed by Emekçi
Hareket Partili Kadınlar:
“Women Resisting in
Tekel Open Our Way”.
Cihangir. 2012
Figure 334 Slogan vs.
traditional gender role: "there
is life outside the family".
Cihangir. 2012.
Figure 335 Street artivism vs.
domestic violence: “the
murderers are at home”.
Cihangir. 2012.
Figure 336 Slogan vs.
government’s anti-abortion
rhetoric. Beyoğlu. 2013.
Figure 337 LGBT+ presence. Cihangir. 2012.
Figure 338 LGBT+ rights street artivism.
Cihangir. 2012.
246
D. WALLS IN TAKSIM DURING GEZI, 2013
Photos by the author. Except for Figure 379, they were taken in Taksim in early June 2013.
D.1. Laughing at hegemonic power
Figure 339 Shutter of a store the multinational beauty products company M·A·C: “Taksim poked Tayyip
:)”; “pepper spray makes the skin beautiful"; “let Tayyip come down to Taksim!”; "Recop Presssure
Gasdoğan".
Figure 340 (In orange) “Look what 3-5 tree [can]
do”. Scaffolding of the Emek movie theatre
renewal works. İstiklal Avenue.
Figure 341 “If there is no bread, let them eat
gas”. In reference to “let them eat cake", a quote
attributed to Marie-Antoinette (the queen of
France during the French Revolution). In
Turkish, the expression "gaz yemek" (to eat gas)
is commonly used by protesters facing a police
intervention with tear gas.
D.2. A multitude of social actors: a sample of slogans and collective signatures
247
Figure 342 Quoted attributed to Marx: "Capitalism will cut down the tree if it can't sell the shadow".
French Institute façade, İstiklal Avenue.
Figure 343 Slogan signed with a circle-A: “The streets are ours”. Taksim Square.
Figure 344 Lise Anarşist Faaliyet (High
School Anarchist Action, LAF).
Figure 345 Graffiti with textual and visual content.
Among the visual, molotov cocktail signed with the
circle-A, and a police helmet represented as a skull
likely to contest police brutality. Inonü Avenue
248
Figure 346 Slogan by football
fans signed with a circle-A: “We’ll
win. No ultras, no party”.
Figure 347 Collective signature by ultras.
Figure 348 Logo of Kaldıraç (Leverage), a
revolutionary socialist publishing house.
Figure 349 Slogan by the leftist periodical İşçilerin
Sesi (Workers’ Voice): “freedom will come with the
workers”.
Figure 350 (Highlighted in yellow) Acronym of Cumhuriyet Halk Partisi (Republican People’s Party,
CHP).
249
Figure 351 “General strike,
general resistance!”.
Signed by Ezilenlerin
Sosyalist Partisi (Socialist
Party of the Oppressed,
ESP)
Figure 352 Collective
signature by the Halkın
Kurtuluş Partisi
(People’s Liberation
Party, HKP).
Galatasaray.
Figure 353 Slogan signed by Sosyalist
Yeniden Kuruluş Partisi (Socialist
Refoundation Party, SYKP): “this people is a
wonderful friend!”.
Figure 354 (Highlighted in green) Collective signature
by Sosyalist Demokrasi Partisi (Socialist Democracy
Party, SDP). Inside Gezi Park.
Figure 355 Slogan by Sosyalist
Dayanışma Platformu (Socialist Solidarity
Platform): “SODAP is marching, the
uprising is growing”. Taksim Square.
Figure 356 (On the right, highlighted in white) Collective signatures by the youth revolutionary
organisations Dev-Genç and Dev-Lis. Taksim tunnel under construction.
250
Figure 357 Slogans and collective signatures by organisations and parties of the revolutionary left
(banned organisations included). (Left) Sickle and hammer, and slogan by TKP/Kıvılcım: “long live our
party”. (Right) Slogan by the Bolshevik Party: “either barbarism or socialism”. Collective signatures by
Sosyalist Demokrasi Partisi (Socialist Democracy Party, SDP), Dev-Lis, Marksist Leninist Komünist
Parti (Marxist Leninist Communist Party, MLKP), Devrimci Halk Kurtuluş Partisi-Cephesi (Revolutionary
People's Liberation Party/Front, DHKP-C).
Figure 358 Collective signature by MLKP/KGÖ, the Marksist Leninist Komünist Parti (Marxist–Leninist
Communist Party) and its youth wing Komünist Gençlik Örgütü (Communist Youth Organization). İnönü
Avenue barricades.
Figure 359 (Highlighted in yellow). Collective signature by Maoist Komünist Partisi (Maoist Communist
Party, MKP). Gezi Park.
251
Figure 360 (Highlighted in white). Sickle and hammer and slogan: “long live the people’s war”. Signed
by TKP/ML (Türkiye Komünist Partisi/Marksist-Leninist, Communist Party of Turkey/Marxist–Leninist) &
TİKKO (Türkiye İşci ve Köylü Kurtuluş Ordusu, Turkish Workers and Peasant’s Liberation Army). Inside
Gezi Park.
Figure 361 Slogan in Kurdish: “resistance is life”. Slogan in Turkish: “PKK [Partiya Karkerên
Kurdistanê, Kurdistan Workers' Party] and KCK [Koma Civakên Kurdistanê/Kurdistan Communities
Union] are the people”. Both the party and the organisation are banned.
Figure 362 (In dark red). Slogan about civil society actors: “revolutionary lawyers are our pride”.
252
Figure 363 (Top-right, in red) Slogan: “trade unions to the strike”.
Figure 364 Slogan signed with the symbol of feminism: “we do not leave the squares".
Figure 365 Feminism symbol on a barricade.
253
Feminist symbol and slogans: “feminist rebellion”, “no
to sexism, homophobia, and speciesism”; “Tayyip
[Erdoğan], run, run, run, the women are coming”.
Figure 366 Symbol of transfeminism.
Figure 367 Slogans signed with a five-pointed star (traditional symbol of the revolutionary left):
“revolutionary homosexuals/lesbians are everywhere”.
254
Figure 368 Slogan attesting to LGBT+ resistance to discriminatory language via appropriation:
“Revolutionary fagots – Taksim[de]”.
Figure 369 Slogan inside Gezi Park: “LGBT are here”.
Figure 370 Nationalist pride via symbols of the
Turkish flag: crescent moon and star.
Figure 371 Writing attesting to Republican pride
signed with the acronym of Turkish citizenship:
“Here we are”. Taksim Square.
255
Figure 372 (In black and red) Atatürk portrait.
Exterior wall of Gezi Park.
Figure 373 (Highlighted in green) Antimilitarist
slogan: “we are nobody’s soldier”. In reaction to
“Mustafa Kemal'in askerleriyiz” (we are the
soldiers of Mustafa Kemal), a slogan become
popular during the Gezi uprising.
Figure 374 Antiracist slogan. “There is no race,
there is geography”. (Photo: Alp Tekin Ocak)
Figure 375 Slogans showing interactive
communication on the same wall. (In black)
Nationalist slogan: "God is with us". (In red) Racist
slogan: “thanks to the Turkish race”.
Figure 376 Humorous appropriation of
the epithet capulcu (looter): "Is s/he a
chapuller, dude?"
Figure 377 Victims of police brutality. Urban Café wall.
Galatasaray area. July 2013.
D.3. Slogans
256
Figure 378 (In black) Translation of a slogan of the Parisian 1968 used in the Emek movie theatre
protests and become popular with the Gezi resistance.: “continuons le combat, ca c'est le debut” (this
is only the beginning; the struggle goes on”.
Figure 379 One of the slogans
chanted by the crowd: "by dint
of resisting we’ll win".
Figure 380 One of the
slogans chanted by the
crowd: "rebellion,
revolution, freedom".
Figure 381 Slogan of the Kurdishwomen
movement (in Kurdish):
"woman, life, freedom".
Figure 382 (In red) Slogan of the Parisian 1968:
“poetry is in the street. 2013, June 1”. High sitedependency.
French Institute Entrance. İstiklal
Avenue.
Figure 383 (In orange) Slogan of the Parisian
1968: “sous les pavés la plage” (under the
paving stones, the beach), referring to the paving
stones used for the barricades and those thrown
at the police.
257
Figure 384 Slogan of the revolutionary left in Turkey in the 1970s: “one solution, the revolution”.
Figure 385 Transgenerational antifascist slogan (used in
the 1970s in Turkey): "shoulder to shoulder against
fascism".
Figure 386 LGBT+ movement
readaptation of an antifascist slogan of
the 1970s in Turkey: "leg to shoulder
against fascism".
Figure 387 Ironic writing referring to the abundance of slogans: "I could not find a slogan!".
258
E. CURRICULUM VITAE
PERSONAL INFORMATION
Surname, Name: Bernardoni, Moira
Nationality: Italian (IT)
Date and Place of Birth: 27 October 1980, San Severino Marche
EDUCATION
2012 Visiting Scholarship, Columbia University, Sociology Department, New York, US
2010 Certified Course in History of Modern Turkey, Boğaziçi University, İstanbul, TR
2006 Post-graduate course in Cultural Management, University of Macerata, IT
2005 BS/MS (old system) in Philosophy, University of Macerata, IT
Master Thesis in History of Philosophy: “Spinoza in Nietzsche”
2002 Erasmus programme, Freie Universität, Philosophy Department, Berlin, DE
1999 High School, Liceo Scientifico L. da Vinci, Tolentino, IT
WORK EXPERIENCE
2021-2022 İstanbul Aydın University, TR Italian language instructor
2010-2013 METU Architecture Department, TR Marie Curie Early-Stage Researcher
2013 Goethe-Institute İstanbul, TR Intern
2008-2010 Gustafson-Porter Landscape Arch., UK Marketing Coordinator
2008 Study Group, UK International Admissions Assistant
2008 AIG Travel Insurance, UK Inbound Call Center Agent
2007 “Leonardo da Vinci” Programme, UK Intern
2006-2007 Amagi Public Relations, DE Freelance Assistant
2006 The Sound music store, IT Sales and Filing Clerk
2005-2006 On behalf of various companies, IT Market Research Interviewer
LANGUAGES
Italian, English, Turkish, German, Spanish, and French
259
PAPERS AND PUBLICATIONS
Bernardoni, M. (2014). Graffiti and re-appropriation of political space in İstanbul. In Cellamare,
C. & Cognetti, F. (Eds.). Practices of Reappropriation – Planum/Journal of Urbanism,
Roma-Milano, 60-67.
Bernardoni, M. (2013). Graffiti: Spatial misuse and social production of urban space. In
Borriello, L. & Ruggiero, C. (Eds.). Inopinatum: the unexpected impertinence of urban
creativity (pp. 29-44). Roma: Arti Grafiche Boccia.
Bernardoni, M. (2013). I graffiti della resistenza di Gezi: riappropriazione, comunicazione e
ironia. In Bernardoni, M. et al. (Eds.) #GeziPark. Coordinate di una rivolta (pp. 105-133).
Roma: Edizioni Alegre.
Bernardoni (2013). The social production of public space in İstanbul: urban stories of spatial
resistance. METU Graduate Program in Architectural History Ph.D. Student Seminar:
Architectural History Between Cultures: Theories and Methodologies, January 10-11,
Ankara, Turkey.
Bernardoni, M. (2013). Walls and graffiti: the strategic value of urban space [Conference
paper]. RC21 Conference: “Resourceful Cities”, 29-31 August, Humboldt University, Berlin,
Germany.
Bernardoni, M. (2012). Graffiti in İstanbul: spatial misuse and right to visibility’, Uluslararası
sempozyum: “İstanbul. City Portrait”, Università Iuav, Doctoral Research School, Venice,
Italy.
Bernardoni, M. (2012). Historicizing graffiti and detecting the global in İstanbul: the strategic
value of space. Paper for the Jornada Theoria cum Praxi: “Enlightenment, Philosophy of
History and Values”, Instituto de Filosofia, CSIC (Spanish National Research Council),
Madrid, Spain.
Bernardoni M. (2012). Social production of public space and intercultural education. In: Brauer,
D., D’Aprile, I., Lottes, G., Roldan, C. (Eds.). New Perspectives in Global History (pp. 291-
308). Hannover: Wehrhahn Verlag.
Bernardoni, M. (2011). Social production of public space: urban stories of spatial resistance in
İstanbul. Marie Curie Researchers Symposium: “Science – Passion, Mission,
Responsibilities”, Warsaw, Poland.
Bernardoni, M. (2011). Social production of public space in the Ottoman capital. METU
Graduate Program in Architectural History Ph.D. Student Seminar: Spaces / Times /
Peoples: City and Architectural History”, Ankara.
Bernardoni, M. (2011). Urban space and social practices in İstanbul. Lo Squaderno, issue 21:
“Dwelling: Perspectives on the Many Ways of Inhabiting Cities”, 45-48.
Bernardoni, M. (2010). Kentte yapılı çevrenin rengi ve manzara. Dosya 23, TMMOB Mimarlar
Odası Ankara Şubesi, (Aralık), 59.
260
F. TURKISH SUMMARY / TÜRKÇE ÖZET
Mimarlık tarihi ve kent sosyolojisi alanındaki bu disiplinler arası çalışma, mekânın üretimi
hakkındadır210. Çalışmanın özgünlüğü, tarih yazımı yaklaşımında yatmaktadır. Mekânın
toplumsal üretimi, duvara yazma ve sprey boyama gibi mekânsal pratikler için kullanılan bir
çatı terim olan grafiti aracılığıyla araştırılmaktadır. Grafitinin mekânın aşağıdan yazılan
tarihinde kaynak olarak taşıdığı potansiyeli değerlendirmek amacıyla, İstanbul örneği geniş bir
perspektiften incelenmektedir. Nihai odak noktası, 2013’te yaşanan Gezi direnişi esnasında
Taksim’in tabandan sahiplenilişidir; ancak Taksim’in sahiplenilişini bağlamı içinde anlamak için
analitik bakış açısı çok ölçeklidir: hem çağ-ötesi hem de yer-ötesidir.
2013'te, Taksim'in tepeden dönüşümüne karşı kurulan protesto kampının hükümet karşıtı bir
isyana dönüşmesiyle grafitinin yayılması Türkiye’de tarihi bir zirveye ulaşmış ancak grafitiler
uygulanan baskılarla silinmişlerdi. Aslında sansür de, siyasi sloganlar ve toplu imzalar yoluyla
yapılan bölgesel işaretlemeler de yerel kolektif hafıza için yeni değildi. 1960’larda ortaya çıkan
ve 1970’lerde yaygınlaşan grafiti uygulamaları 1980 darbesinin ardından durmuş fakat
1980’lerin sonlarında tekrar ortaya çıkmaya başlamıştı. Buna rağmen, Gezi grafitisi çoğunlukla
tekil bir vaka çalışması olarak ele alınmaktadır.
Türkiye’de grafiti araştırmalarındaki kesintileri/sürekliliği araştırmak ve eksikliği gidermek için,
arşiv ve sokak etnografik araştırmalarıyla toplanan yüzlerce grafiti Lefebvre’in kuramı ve
Sassen’in kavramları üzerinden seçilmiş, düzenlenmiş ve analiz edilmiştir. Öncelikle, grafitinin
Türkiye’deki mekansal ve politik görünümü 1960’lardan başlayarak tarihselleştirilmektedir.
Sonrasında, küresel kent olarak önemli bir görünürlüğe sahip olduğu 2010’ların başında
İstanbul’daki mekân siyasetine dikkat çeken grafitiler bağlamsallaştırılmaktadır. Son olarak,
Gezi direnişinin nasıl Taksim’e sahip çıkılmasıyla sonuçlandığı ve bu alanı nasıl küresel
sokağa, yani kent hakkını geri alma mekanına dönüştürdüğü görselleştirilmekte ve
yorumlanmaktadır.
Seçilen tarihyazımsal ve kuramsal çerçevenin arkasındaki mantık grafiti teriminin
kullanımından başlayarak ayrıntılı olarak açıklanmaktadır. Grafiti bu çalışmada hem görsel
hem de metne dayalı genel olarak grafiti olarak adlandırılan tags/etiketler, sokak sanatı, duvar
yazıları ve bunların tüm alt türleri vb pratikler için bir çatı terim olarak kullanılmaktadır.
210 Özet'in ilk taslağının İngilizce'den Türkçe'ye çevrilmesindeki değerli emeği ve hızlı yardımı için Tarkan
Tufan'a teşekkür ederim.
261
Çalışmanın başında yer alan resimli ve açıklamalı kavramlar sözlüğünde terminolojinin
heterojenliğinin tarzın, içeriğin, amaçların ve ilgili aktörlerin heterojenliğine bağlı olduğu
gösterilerek grafitinin belirgin özellikleri ön incelemeden geçirilmektedir. Bu göz önünde
bulundurulduğunda, çeşitli tipolojiler arasında açık biçimde ayrım yapmak mümkündür ve
tartışma bağlamının gerektirdiği durumlarda belirli terimleri kullanmak gerçekten de önemlidir
(örn. sokak artivizmi, solcu ajit-prop grafitileri, aşırı milliyetçi propaganda grafitileri, karşı
propaganda grafitileri, askeri gurur duvar yazıları, intikam duvar yazıları ve mütecaviz duvar
yazıları)211. Bununla birlikte, çatı terimleri kullanmak da mümkündür ve aslında yaygın olarak
kabul edilen ama herkes tarafından kabul görmeyen tarza dayalı bir kategorizasyonu
sorunsallaştırmak önemlidir.
Grafiti ve sokak sanatı üzerine çalışma alanında, grafiti terimi genelde, ağırlıklı olarak metinsel
ancak özellikle metinsel olmayan tagging/etiketlemenin dilini sokak sanatının ağırlıklı olarak
görsel ancak özellikle görsel olan dilinden ayırmak amacıyla kullanılır ve sonuçta sokak sanatı,
etiketleme olmayan her şeyin temel anlamda gruplandırıldığı geniş bir kategori olarak kullanılır
(Blanché, 2015; Abarca, 2012). Sokak sanatının dili, grafitiye kıyasla bazıları tarafından daha
kolay anlaşılır kabul edilir (örn., bkz. Wacklawek, 2011). Bununla birlikte, dil, ayrım kriteri
olarak yeterli değildir; çünkü içeriğin anlaşılırlığı bağlamsal koşullara da bağlıdır (örn., metinsel
ve / veya görsel içeriğin atıfta bulunduğu olayların bilgisi). Dahası, gelişim seviyesinin
durumunu değerlendiren araştırmacılar, tarza dayalı taksonomi sınırlarının gittikçe daha fazla
aşıldığını öne sürerler (Ross et al., 2017).
Türkiye’deki grafitiyi konu alan literatürün taranması sonucunda terimlerin kullanımının
Türkiye’de de esnek olduğu ve Türkçe’de yaygın biçimde kullanılan terimlerin ‘grafiti’, ‘sokak
sanatı’ ve ‘duvar yazıları’ şeklinde üç terimden oluştuğu görülür. Örneğin, İngilizce ‘grafiti’
terimi ve Türkçe ‘duvar yazıları’ terimi 1980’lerin sonlarından beridir birbirinin yerine
kullanılmaktadır (bkz. Metis Yayınları, 1989). Bunların bu şekilde kullanılması olasılığı, dil
sözlüklerinde bulunan tanımlarla da onaylanmıştır212. Bununla birlikte, duvar yazıları, hem
sosyalist devrimci ajit-prop hem de aşırı sağ propaganda içeren duvar yazıları olmak üzere
belirli alt türlerle yakından ilişkilidir. Bundan dolayı, incelenen kanıtların yazılı, görsel veya her
ikisi birden olmasına bakılmaksızın, hem metinsel hem de görsel pratikler için İngilizce ‘grafiti’
terimi şemsiye terim olarak tercih edilmiştir. Bu terimi sokak sanatına tercih etmemin temel
nedeni, bu çalışmanın herhangi bir tipolojinin sanatsal değerini varsayamaması ve
değerlendirmeyi amaçlamamasıdır.
211 Kavramlar sözlüğünde [Glossary] kullanılan özel terimlerden bazıları yazar tarafından Örneğin,
Protner'ın (2018) etnik azınlıklara yönelik şiddet içeren duvar yazıları için önerdiği "mütecaviz duvar
yazıları" terimi.
212 Örneğin, bkz. çevrimiçi Cambridge İngilizce-Türkçe Sözlüğü (t.y.) ve Türk Dil Kurumu (TDK)
tarafından kabul edilen ‘duvar yazısı’ tanımı (Türk Dil Kurumu | Sözlük, t.y.).
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Bu çalışma, bundan ziyade, herhangi bir grafiti türünün mekânla ilgili araştırmalarda
metodolojik mercek ve tarihsel kaynak olarak potansiyelini değerlendirmeyi amaçlamaktadır.
Dayandığı iki varsayım mevcuttur. İlk olarak, metodolojik mercekler, potansiyel olarak mekânı
ve kullanımını çözümlemeye yardımcı olur. Buna ek olarak, grafiti, duvarları çeşitli amaçlar
doğrultusunda iletişim araçları olarak kullanan sıradan insanlar açısından (varlığın tezahürü
ve / veya medya aktivizm dahil ama bunlarla sınırlı olmamak kaydıyla) mekân siyaseti
konusunda potansiyel olarak bir kavrayış sağlar.
Bu çalışmada temel odak noktası, 2010’ların başında küresel bir kent olarak tanımlanan
İstanbul’da mekânın toplumsal üretimidir. Özetle, küresel kentler, piyasa güdümlü neoliberal
rekabet mantığına tabi olan ve böylece küresel finansal ve beşeri sermaye akışları için ağ
geçitleri haline getirilen kentlerdir (Sassen, 2007; 2008; 2012b; 2013). A.T. Kearney Küresel
Kentler Endeksi’nde (2010) belirtildiği üzere, İstanbul’un küresel şehir bazında rekabet gücü,
2010 Avrupa Kültür Başkenti seçilmesinden de faydalanmıştır213. 2005 yılında Türkiye’nin
AB’ye tam üyelik adaylığı müzakerelerinin başlamasıyla birlikte başlatılan 2010 İstanbul –
Avrupa Kültür Başkenti projesi (AKB), kentin tarihi ve kültürel mirasına değer katmayı
amaçlayan bir yıllık kültürel faaliyetleri içeren bir programdı ve turizm odaklı bir yeniden
geliştirme planıydı (Bilsel & Arıcan, 2010; Doğan & Sirkeci, 2013). İstanbul 2010 – AKB projesi,
öncelikle düşük yaşam kalitesi sunan konutlar barındıran tarihi mahallelerin yenilenmesi
sürecinde katılımcı bir kalkınma modeli öneren sivil toplum aktörlerinin taleplerine uygun
biçimde uygulanmaması sebebiyle tartışmalara neden oldu; devlet aktörlerinin güçlü liderliği,
daha ziyade tarihi binaların yıkılmasına ve buralarda yaşayan düşük gelirli iç göçmen
kesimlerin zorla yerinden edilmesine neden oldu. 2011 yılında dönemin Başbakanı Recep
Tayyip Erdoğan, daha büyük bir muhalefete neden olan Taksim yeniden imar projesini
açıkladı. Projenin tartışmalı yönleri birden fazla ve birbiriyle bağlantılıydı: Gezi Parkı’nda
geçmişte bulunan Osmanlı askeri topçu kışlasının alışveriş merkezi olarak yeniden inşa
edilmesi ve dolayısıyla kamusal bir parkın, tüketimin hizmetine sunulan alanla çevrelenmesi.
Taksim Dayanışması platformu, 2012 yılında sembolik değerleri yüksek olan mekânın
dönüşümüne dair karar alma sürecinin katılımcı olmaması nedeniyle projeye karşı çıkmaya
başladı. Taksim, küresel bir şehrin gözbebeği olmasının yanı sıra, hem Cumhuriyet’in hem de
işçi hareketinin sembolik değerlerinin temsil mekanıdır. 2013 yılında Taksim Dayanışması,
çevreciler ve toplumun şehircilik hareketinin aktivistleri bir protesto kampı düzenleyerek kışla
inşaatı çalışmalarını durdurmayı başardılar ve böylece parktaki ağaçların kesilmesi de
durdurulabildi. Protesto kampının şiddetli biçimde dağıtılması, Gezi direnişinin Türkiye’de
bugüne kadar yaşanan en uzun ve en yaygın ayaklanma haline gelmesini ve hükümet karşıtı
213 A.T. Kearny Küresel Şehirler Endeksi, şehirleri (ticari faaliyet, sosyal sermaye, bilgi alışverişi, kültürel
deneyim ve siyasi katılım gibi) çeşitli boyutlardaki küresel katılımlarına göre sıralamak amacıyla 2008
yılından beri her iki yılda bir gerçekleştirilen bir çalışmadır.
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bir ayaklanmaya dönüşmesini tetikledi. Buna ek olarak, muhaliflerin ifade ve toplanma
özgürlüğü hakkının acımasızca bastırılması da ülkenin Avrupa Birliği’nden uzaklaşmasına
neden oldu. Bununla birlikte, uluslararası ilişkiler alanındaki değişim, İstanbul’un Avrupalılığını
değerlendirmekten ziyade, grafitinin, mekân ve tarihi/tarihsel değişim arasındaki ilişkiyi
çözmeye katkı sağlamasına dair toplumdaki tarihyazımsal potansiyeli değerlendirmeyi
amaçlayan bu çalışmanın kapsamıyla ilgili değildir.
İstanbul’da binlerce sıradan insanın direnişi, Gezi/Taksim’in geçici biçimde sahiplenilmesiyle
neticelendi214. Ayaklanmanın hızla yayıldığı diğer tüm kentsel alanlar gibi Gezi/Taksim de bir
küresel sokağa dönüştü. Kamusal alandan farklı olarak, ‘küresel sokak’, ritüelleştirilmiş
protestoların alanlarını değil, kent hakkı mücadelesinde ulus-ötesi eylemlerin alanlarını işaret
etmek için kullanılan bir kavramdır (Sassen, 2011 ve 2013b). Lefebvre (2009 [1968])
tarafından tanımlandığı gibi, kent hakkı, karar verme sürecine katılma ve mekânın sahiplenilişi
olarak iki yönlü bir haktır.
2013 Gezi direnişi örneğinde, büyük kısmı esprili yazılardan oluşan sayısız grafiti, küresel
sokağın alanını gözle görülür bir şekilde işaret ediyordu. Uygulanan baskılarla birlikte, çoğu,
yetkililerin emriyle gri boyayla kapatıldı ve bundan dolayı, sansür eylemine atıfta bulunmak için
‘grileştirme’ terimi önerildi. Yukarıda bahsedildiği gibi, ne sansür ne de siyasi sloganlar ve toplu
imzalar aracılığıyla bölgesel işaretleme yerel kolektif hafızada yeni bir şey değildi. 1960’larda
ortaya çıkan ve 1970’lerde yaygınlaşan bu pratikler 1980 darbesinin ardından durmuş; fakat
1980’lerin sonlarında mizahi yazılar şeklinde yeniden ortaya çıkmaya başlamıştı. Bu duruma
ve Taş ve Taş (2014) gibi araştırmacıların bahsettiği tarihsel araştırma eksikliğine rağmen,
Gezi grafitisi, büyük kısmını karakterize eden mizah da dahil olmak üzere, çoğunlukla tek bir
vaka çalışması olarak ele alındı. Buna karşılık, bu çalışma, arşiv ve sokak etnografik
araştırmaları yoluyla toplanan çok sayıda duvar yazısını inceleyerek tarihsel
kesintileri/sürekliliği incelemektedir.
1960’lı ve 1970’li yıllarda duvarların ve grafitilerin kullanımına ilişkin arşiv araştırması çeşitli
yollarla yürütülmüştür: (1) ulaşılabilen kişisel arşivlerin incelenmesi; (2) İstanbul Atatürk
Kütüphanesi gazete arşivinde sistematik olmayan ve kısa bir araştırma; (3) Türkiye Sosyal
Tarih Araştırma Vakfı’nın (TÜSTAV) rehberliğinde, süreli yayınların ve belgesel filmler
taraması; (4) dijital ve çevrimiçi medyanın incelenmesi (örn. gazeteler); (5) ilgili tarihsel dönem
filmlerinin incelenmesi. Sistematik bir şekilde yürütülmemesine karşın, arşiv araştırması birçok
fotoğraf, birkaç belgesel ve komedi filmi karesi, çizgi film ve çizim gibi düzinelerce görüntünün
elde edilmesini sağladı. Bu araştırma sonuçları, yapılandırılmış olmayan görüşmeler sırasında
214 ‘Gezi/Taksim’ derken Gezi Parkı, Taksim Meydanı ve çevresini kastediyorum: Cumhuriyet Caddesi,
Tarlabaşı Bulvarı, İstiklal Caddesi, Sıraselviler Caddesi, İnönü Caddesi, Mete Caddesi, Asker Ocağı
Caddesi ve onları birbirine bağlayan yan sokaklar.
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ortaya çıkan ve yaygın biçimde vurgulanan bir gerçeğin aksine, yerel kolektif hafızada bir yer
kaplayan grafitiyle ilgili arşiv görüntülerini bulmanın mümkün olduğunu kanıtlamaktadır. Bu
durum, 1960’ların ve 1970’lerin grafitisi hakkındaki tarihsel araştırma eksikliğinin, öncelikle
1980 darbesinin ardından yaşanan arşiv kaybından değil, konuya karşı ilgisizlikten
kaynaklandığını ve bunun da sanatsal tanınma eksikliğinden kaynaklanabileceğini
göstermektedir. Arşiv araştırması yoluyla, 1980’lerle ilgili yazılı ve görsel kaynaklar da
bulundu. 1990'lar ve 2000'lerle ilgili kaynakları detaylı araştırmadıysam da elde ettiğim
kaynaklar daha fazla araştırmanın mümkün olduğunu ve hatta gerekli olduğunu
düşündürmektedir (örn. punk grafiti ile ilgili bir poster).
2010’lu yıllarda İstanbul’daki grafitiler hakkında yapılan araştırmaların ana arşiv verisi ise
sokaktan sağlandı. Keşif amaçlı flanerie, gözlem ve fotoğrafçılık gibi tekniklere dayanan
etnografik sokak araştırmaları, yüzlerce fotoğrafın toplanmasına imkân tanıdı (bu çalışmaya
dahil olan fotoğraflar, arşivin yalnızca bir kısmıdır). Bunların büyük kısmı, bu çalışma için
yapılan araştırmanın başlangıcından üç yıl sonra gerçekleşen 2013 Gezi ayaklanması
esnasında Taksim’de çekilen fotoğraflardan oluşmaktadır ama Gezi'den önce de İstanbul’un
Beyoğlu, Fatih ve Kadıköy gibi merkez ilçelerindeki grafitiler belgelendiler215. Ne Gezi
öncesinde ne de Gezi sırasında, grafitilerin içeriğine veya tarzına dayalı bir seçim kriteri
gözetilmemiştir. Başka bir deyişle, mümkün olduğunca çok grafiti fotoğrafladım. Ayrıca temalı
etkinlikler de belgelendi (örn. Gezi Parkı’nda düzenlenen bir yasal grafiti festivali olan AllStars
Meeting’in 2012 baskısı). Benzer şekilde, 2010’ların başında (Gezi’den önce) Ankara, Buenos
Aires, New York, Madrid ve Belfast gibi araştırma amacıyla kaldığım ya da seyahat ettiğim
diğer tüm şehirlerde de grafitileri ve temalı etkinlikleri belgeledim216. Ne var ki, Gezi’nin yerel
bağlamı incelemek için birincil kaynaklarda büyük bir artışa neden olması sebebiyle,
İstanbul’daki duvar manzarası ile diğer şehirler arasındaki benzerlik ve farklılıkların
karşılaştırmalı bir analizini yapma fikrinden vazgeçtim.
Bu çalışma, birincil kaynakların incelenmesi söz konusu olduğunda, mekânsal-bağımlılıklar
göz önüne alınarak, grafitinin yerinde incelenmesi gerektiğini iddia eden Chmielewska’nın
(2007) önerdiği üçlü metodolojik çerçeveyi uygulamaktadır: (1) içerik analizi; (2) bağlam
analizi; (3) bunları birbirine bağlayan teori. Hem içerik hem de bağlam analizi, yazılı, görsel ve
sözlü ikincil kaynaklara dayanmaktadır (akademik denemeler, yerli ve yabancı çevrimiçi ve
215 2012 yazında yapılan yapılandırılmış olmayan görüşmeler sırasında ortaya çıkan önerilere karşın, alt
sınıfa dahil iç göçmenlerin ve etnik azınlıkların yaşadığı politikleşmiş iki kenar mahalle olan Gazi ve
Gülsuyu’nda araştırma gerçekleştirilememiştir. Çalışmanın sonuçlanmasını etkilemeyen bu durum, bu
konuda daha fazla araştırmanın mümkün olduğunu göstermektedir.
216 Bunlar, küreselleşmenin tarihsel boyutlarının incelenmesine adanmış üç yıllık Marie Curie başlangıç
eğitim ağı olan ‘Englobe’ (Aydınlanma ve Küresel Tarih) kapsamında seyahat ettiğim şehirlerdi. Ağın
web sitesi (http://www.englobe-itn.net) artık faal durumda olmasa da projeyle ilgili bilgilere ulaşılabilir
(bkz. CORDIS ǀ European Commission, 2022).
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basılı basın, belgesel filmler, yapılandırılmış olmayan görüşmelerle elde edilen bilgiler ve
etnografik anılara). Toplamda, ikincil kaynaklar, grafitiyi kesişimsel bir bakış açısından, yani
grafitinin tahakkümün yapısal biçimlerine nasıl aracılık ettiğini vurgulamayı amaçlayan ve
birden fazla sosyal kategoriyle (örn. cinsiyet, sınıf ve etnik köken) bağlantılı konulara dikkat
çekmeyi amaçlayan bir bakış açısından incelemeye yardımcı olur. Farklı biçimde söylersek,
grafiti, sosyal çatışma ve değişimin mekânda ve mekân üzerinden nasıl gerçekleştiğini
vurgulamayı amaçlayan bir bakış açısıyla incelenmektedir. Bu nedenle, içerik ve bağlam,
Lefebvre'nin (1991[1974]) mekânın toplumsal üretimi kuramı üzerinden incelenmektedir.
Türkiye’de grafiti hakkında Lefebvre’in teorisi üzerinden gerçekleştirilen araştırmalar, diğer
çalışma alanlarındakiler kadar kapsamlı değildir ve birkaç katkıyla sınırlıdır217. Sarıyıldız’ın
(2007) öncü çalışması, İstanbul odaklı tek katkıdır. Bu yüksek lisans tezinden farklı biçimde,
bu çalışma hip-hop imza grafiti üzerine odaklanmıyor ve şehir üzerine yazmanın, terimin
Lefebvre’in ima ettiği anlamda bir mekânsal direniş ve sahipleniliş pratiği olarak kabul
edilebileceğini iddia etmiyor. Bu çalışma, daha ziyade, Lefebvriyan mekânın sahiplenilişi
kavramının, yeniden anlamsallaştırma yoluyla, yani yalnızca mekâna atfedilen sembolik
değerlerin değiştirilmesi yoluyla söylemsel yeniden bölgeselleştirmeye indirgenebileceği fikrini
sorgulamaktadır. Nedenini açıklamak için Altan’ın (1999) bir argümanını hatırlatmak yeterlidir:
“Mimarlık kesinlikle, yalnızca başka bir sembolik araç değildir”. Lefebvre’nin terimleriyle
söylersek, mekânın somut üretimi, sembolik değerlerin üretimine indirgenemez (1991[1974]).
Bununla birlikte, mekânın toplumsal üretimi, fiziksel mekânın maddi olarak inşasına
indirgenemez. Meşhur bir üçlü figür aracılığıyla Lefebvre (1991 [1974]) tarafından
kavramsallaştırıldığı üzere, mekânın sosyal üretimi üç momentumda ifade edilen bir süreçtir:
mekânsal pratikler, mekânın temsilleri ve temsil mekânları. Üçüncü dalga Lefebvre
yorumcularına göre, mekân üretiminin üç momentumu, diyalektik bir ilişki yoluyla birbirine bağlı
oldukları için eşit derecede önemlidir (Schmid, 2008; Kipfer et al., 2008; De Simoni, 2016).
Mekânla ilgili tarihsel araştırmalar için bu argüman çok önemlidir ve disiplinler arası
araştırmanın neden sadece mümkün değil, aynı zamanda yararlı olduğunu da açıklar; çünkü
mekânın maddi üretimi, mekân hakkında bilgi üretimi ve sembolik değerlerin üretimi, mekânın
toplumsal çelişkilere ve değişime nasıl aracılık ettiğini anlamak bağlamında önem arz eder.
Lefebvre’in iddia ettiği gibi, mekân tarihi “Ne mekân içindeki nesnelerin envanteriyle […]
örtüşür, ne de mekân üzerine temsil ve söylemlerle”; mekân tarihi “hem temsil mekânlarını
hem de mekân temsillerini açıklamalıdır; fakat özellikle bunlar arasındaki ve toplumsal pratikle
olan bağları açıklamalıdır” (2014, s., 139)218. Tam bu nedenle, bu çalışma yalnızca grafitiyi ve
217 Türkiye bağlamında, Lefebvre’in Mekânın Üretimi’yle ilgili kapsamlı bir literatür taraması için bkz.
Ghulyan (2019). Grafitiye ilişkin katkılar için bkz. Melik (2022), Alpaslan (2016) ve Sarıyıldız (2007).
218 İngilizce alıntı için bkz. Lefebvre (1991[1974], s. 116).
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grafitinin sosyo-mekânsal kullanımını değil, aynı zamanda işaret ve aracılık ettiği sosyomekânsal
çelişkileri de tarihselleştirmektedir. Başka bir deyişle, mekânın hegemonik temsilleri
ile sembolik değerlerin temsilinin mekânın sahiplenilmesine yönelik karşı-hegemonik
mekânsal pratikler arasındaki diyalektiği tarihselleştirmektedir. Tez buna göre
yapılandırılmıştır.
Birincil kaynakların içerik ve bağlam analizi üçlü bir çerçeveye göre yapılandırılmıştır:
Mekânsal pratikler, mekânın temsilleri ve karşı-hegemonik gücün temsili için mekânın
sahiplenilişi. 2. Bölüm’de sunulan tarihsel genel bakış, 1960'ların ortaları ile 2010'ların başları
arasındaki dönemi kapsamakta ve Türkiye’de grafitinin sosyo-mekânsal kullanımındaki büyük
değişimleri ele almaktadır. 3. Bölüm’de, mekânın hegemonik ve karşı-hegemonik temsilleri
arasındaki diyalektiği incelemek için, küresel kent olarak önemli bir görünürlüğe sahip olduğu
2010’ların başında İstanbul’daki mekân siyasetine dikkat çeken grafitiler
bağlamsallaştırılmaktadır. 4. Bölüm, Gezi direnişine ve Taksim’in 2013’teki sahiplenilişine
odaklanmakta ve görseller aracığıyla baskıya karşı direniş mekânını incelemektedir. Aşağıda,
temel bulgulara dair ayrıntılı bir genel bakış yer almaktadır.
1960’lar ve 1970’lerdeki duvar ve grafiti kullanımını gösteren arşiv görüntüleri, toplum ve
sokağın son derece siyasallaşmış atmosferine ilişkin kanıtlar sunuyor. 1960’ların ortalarında
grafiti, siyasi muhalefetin, ekonomik hoşnutsuzluğun ve ajit-prop faaliyetin ifade edildiği bir
medya alanı gibi kullanılmaya başlandı219. Grafitinin kriminalize edilmesi de aynı dönemde
başladı ve ana akım gazetelerde görünürlük kazandı. Bunun kurgusal kanıtlarını sunan
görüntüler, sol tandanslı süreli yayınlarda yayınlanan hiciv karikatürleridir ve bu durum,
duvarlar ile basılı süreli yayınlar arasındaki ilişkinin günümüzde duvarlar ve sosyal medya
arasındaki ilişkiye benzediğini ve bunların birbirlerinin uzantısı olduğunu da göstermektedir.
1968’de sol hareketin faaliyetleri yüksek bir zirveye ulaşmış ve grafiti devrimci sosyalistlerin
anti-emperyalist ideallerine geniş bir görünürlük sağlamak amacıyla kullanılmıştır. 1960’ların
sonlarında, ajit-prop amacını taşıyan grafitiler büyük oranda üniversite kampüslerinde ve
çevrelerinde yoğunlaşmış; 1970’lerde, solcu ajit-prop grafitileri, kullanımı diğer bağlamlara
genişletmiştir (örn. grevler ve işgal edilen fabrikalar gibi). İşçi hareketinin yoğun mücadelesine
ses vermeyi amaçlayan grafitiler yalnızca sloganlardan değil duvar karikatürlerinden de
oluşmakta ve bu durum da solcu ajit-prop açısından grafiti ile grafik hiciv arasındaki ilişkinin
önemini de göstermektedir. İşçi hareketinin önde gelen aktörlerine dair arşiv görselleri, Mayıs
1977’deki Taksim Meydanı Katliamı gibi karşı-devrimci girişimlerin acımasızlığına rağmen,
devrimci sendikaların emek sömürüsüne karşı mücadelenin katılım açısından tarihi zirvelere
219 ‘Ajit-prop’, ‘ajitasyon propagandası’ teriminin kısaltılmış biçimidir. Devrimci sosyalist geleneğin, yazılı
sözler (örn. sloganlar) dahil ancak bunlarla sınırlı olmamak üzere, çeşitli medya araçları vasıtasıyla sınıf
bilincini ve kitlesel seferberliği büyütmeyi amaçlayan siyasal stratejisidir (Encyclopaedia Britannica, 1998;
Lenin, 1902).
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çıkmasındaki proaktif rolünün kanıtı niteliğindedir. Grafiti, kadınların işçi hareketine proaktif
katılımına ilişkin olarak da, ekonomik bağımsızlık mücadelerini kanıtlıyor; ancak aynı zamanda
erkeklerin kadınların üretken emeğini yeterince temsil etmediklerini de kanıtlıyor. Bu yüzden,
grevdeki bazı fabrikaların duvarlarının, (aile) iç(i) duvarların uzantısını oluşturduğunu da
gösteriyor. 1970’lerin sonlarında ise, hem aşırı milliyetçi propaganda hem de karşı propaganda
grafitisi ortaya çıkmış ve bunların yayılmasıyla, duvarların manzarasının heterojenliği artmaya
başlamıştı220.
Bugüne dek, mekânsal kullanımlarına ve genel bağlamda mekân kullanımına ilişkin yaşanan
dikkat çekici değişimlerin bir sonucu olarak, 1970’lerin sonları, muhtemelen grafitinin en çok
yayıldığı dönemdi. Siyasi örgütlerin sloganları ve kısa isimleriyle mekânı imzalamaları artık
yalnızca belirli bir siyasi davayı ya da bakış açısının propagandasını amaçlayan bir mekânsal
pratik değildi, daha çok, çekişmeli bölgeleri işaretlemek amacıyla uygulanan bir pratik haline
gelmişti. Yani düşman siyasi aktörlerin (örn. devrimci sosyalistler ile aşırı milliyetçi harekete
mensup militanlar) şiddetli biçimde karşı karşıya geldikleri bölgeleri gözle görülür bir şekilde
işaretledikleri bir pratik haline gelmişti. Kısacası grafiti, bölgesel kontrol amaçlı güç
mücadelesinin bir göstergesine dönüşmüştü. Mekânsal kullanımlarında yaşanan böylesi bir
değişim, sınırsız hale gelen çekişmeli bölgelerin ölçeğindeki bir değişimle birlikte
gerçekleşmişti. Liseler ve üniversiteler gibi eğitim tesislerinin bulunduğu bölgelerdeki
çatışmalar devam etmiş, ancak artık bunlarla sınırlı kalmamış ve tüm mahalle ve kasabalara
yayılmaya başlamıştı. Bu bağlamda, 1978'de Kahramanmaraş'ta Alevilere yönelik pogrom
vakasına ilişkin duvar yazıları, tarih yazımı açısından özel bir öneme sahiptir. Kahramanmaraş
vakasında öldürülecek insanların evlerini işaretlemek amacıyla kullanılan grafiti, sadece etnik
kökenli şiddetin yoğunlaşmasını değil, aynı zamanda aşırı milliyetçi harekete dahil militanların
işlediği nefret suçlarının kasıtlı niteliğini de ortaya koyuyordu. Bu nedenle bunlara Protner
tarafından önerilen (2018) bir terim olan ‘mütecaviz duvar yazıları’ demeyi öneriyorum221.
1980 askeri darbesinin ardından uygulanan baskı, grafitiyi birden fazla şekilde
etkilemiş;öncelikle, geçici bir süreyle sokaktan kaybolmalarına yol açmıştı. Sınırlı sayıda
olmasına rağmen görsel kaynaklar ilk elden tanıkların yerel kolektif hafızasında yer alan
senaryoyu doğruluyor: Ordu sıradan yurttaşları duvarları temizlemeye zorlamış; Yılmaz
Güney’in ikonik filmi Duvar’da (1983) görüldüğü gibi, hapishanelerde hücre duvarlarına slogan
yazmayı sürdüren siyasi mahkumlar da bunları silmeye zorlanmıştı. Bununla birlikte, siyasi
mahkumlar, 1980’den 1983’e dek ülkeyi yöneten askeri rejimin sloganlarını da yazmaya
220 ‘Karşı propaganda grafitisi’, örneğin önceden var olan grafitilerin üzerine yazılar yazarak aşırı sağ
propagandaya karşı çıkmak amacıyla yapılan grafitiyi belirtmek için önerilen bir terimdir.
221 Protner (2018) tarafından kullanıldığı biçimiyle “mütecaviz duvar yazıları” terimi, 2015-2016
döneminde, Türkiye’nin Kürtlerin çoğunlukta olduğu illerdeki şehir savaşı alanlarında askeri güçler
tarafından yazılan şiddet içerikli duvar yazılarını işaret etmektedir. Bununla beraber, bu çalışma,
kullanımının farklı coğrafi bağlamlara ve tarihsel dönemlere genişletilebileceğini önermektedir.
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zorlanmışlardı (Bozarslan, 2006). Bu dönemin duvar yazılarını ‘intikam duvar yazıları’ olarak
tanımlamayı öneriyorum; baskı muhalif duvarları susturmayı başarmıştı ama sadece kısa
süreliğine.
1980’lerin sonları ve 1990’ların başlarında, grafiti temelde esprili yazılar biçiminde sokaklara
geri döndü ve basılı koleksiyonlarda belgelenmeye başlandı222. Tarih yazımı açısından bu
döneme ait duvar yazılarının önemi birçok nedenden dolayı yüksektir. İlk olarak, darbe sonrası
toplumun kamusal alanda ve mekânda mizahi bir şekilde yeniden siyasallaşmasına ilişkin
yazılı kanıtlar barındırırlar ve bu yolla hem baskıcı iktidara hem de genel olarak hegemonik
güçlere tepki göstermenin bir aracı olarak kendi kendine ironik tepki vermeye dair kanıt
sağlarlar. Örneğin kadınlar tarafından yazılan ve yayınlanan ironik duvar yazıları, daha çok
kürtaj hakkı ve cinsel yönelim özgürlüğü gibi ikinci dalga feminizmin ele aldığı konulara sokakta
görünürlük kazandırmak amacıyla mizahı nasıl bir araç olarak kullandıklarına dair kanıtlar
içerir. Bu durum göz önünde bulundurulduğunda, 1980’lerden itibaren yayınlanan basılı
koleksiyonlar, sadece siyasi faaliyet amaçlı medya olarak duvarlar ile onlara görünürlük
sağlayan basılı medya arasındaki doğrudan ilişkiyi teyit etmekle kalmaz, grafiti ve grafik hiciv
arasındaki yakın ilişkiyi de doğrular. Son olarak, mizahi yazılardan seçilen örnekler, ‘askeri
gurur duvar yazıları’ diye adlandırmayı önerdiğim grafiti aracılığıyla, duvarların militarist
milliyetçiliğin dilini de konuştuğunu göstermektedir223. 1990’lardaysa tagging (etiketleme),
sokak sanatı ve büyük oranda punk grafiti gibi yeni grafiti türleri de Türkiye’ye ulaşmıştır.
2010’ların başında İstanbul’da belgelediğim grafitilerin büyük kısmı Beyoğlu’nun
güneybatısında, yani Taksim ve çevresinde (İstiklal Caddesi, Tünel Meydanı ve Tarlabaşı,
Cihangir ve Galata mahalleleri) yer almaktaydı. Bu bölgede, grafitinin biçim, içerik ve üslup
detaylandırmasında Kadıköy ve Fatih’e kıyasla daha yüksek düzeyde bir heterojenlik
gözlemledim224. Taksim ve çevresinde mütecaviz duvar yazıları, intikam duvar yazıları ve
duvar karikatürleri dışında, Sözlük’te (Glossary) listelenen türlerin tamamı ve şu alt türler
mevcuttu: askeri gurur duvar yazıları, toplu imza grafitileri, culture jamming, duvar yazıları,
çeşitli boyut ve detay derecelerine sahip hip-hop graffiti, devrimci ajit-prop amaçlı grafiti, karşı
propaganda amaçlı grafiti, sağcı siyasi propaganda amaçlı grafiti, gündelik hayattaki mekânsal
pratiklerle ilgili grafiti, yasal duvarları, punk grafiti, sokak şiiri, sokak sanatı ve sokak sanat
aktivizmi eserleri.
222 Bkz. Metis Yayınları (1989); Çorlu & Tütüncü (1989); Üstündağ (1990); ve Özdemiroğlu (1990).
223 Sözlük’te [Glossary] açıklandığı üzere, militarist gururu yansıtan duvar yazıları, tekrarlanan
unsurlardan oluşur: Askerin adı, “o şimdi asker” cümlesi ve tertip numarası. Tertip numarası doğum yılı
ve hizmet dönemini gösteren rakamlarla oluşturulur.
224 Bügünlerde senaryo artık bu değil; ancak Taksim'in bugünkü duvar manzarası ile Kadıköy gibi yerler
arasında herhangi bir karşılaştırma bu çalışmanın kapsamı dışındadır.
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Gezi’den önce Taksim ve çevresindeki duvarlar, grafitinin siyasi kullanımında hem sürekliliği
hem de yenilikleri gösteriyor, hem solcular hem de aşırı milliyetçiler tarafından siyasi faaliyet
amacıyla bir araç olarak kullanılıyordu. Öte yandan, hem yeni aktörlerin varlığı hem de
toplumsal hareketlerin gelişimi barizdi. Örnek olarak, LGBT+ haklarına ve toplumsal cinsiyet
ve etnik kökene dayalı ayrımcılığın kesişimine dikkat çeken grafitiler, Türkiye’de üçüncü dalga
feminizmin yükselişine tanıklık etmektedir. Yenilikler alanında, yalnızca normalleşmeyi değil,
aynı zamanda metalaşmayı da içeren kayda değer gelişmeler gözlemledim. Yasal grafiti
festivallerinin ortaya çıkmasının yanı sıra, grafitinin sokakları küresel kentlerin sahip olduğu
estetiğin mühim bir bileşeni olan açık hava sanat galerilerine dönüştürmeye başladığını
gözlemledim. Son olarak, Taksim ve çevresinde, mekân siyasetine dikkat çeken grafitiler de
vardı. Sınırlı sayıya rağmen, mekânın üretimine yazılı ve / veya görsel bir şekilde dikkat çeken
grafitilerin tarihyazımsal önemi yüksektir çünkü sıradan insanların mekânı nasıl temsil ettiğine
ve daha doğrusu mekânın hegemonik temsillerine karşı çıkıp çıkmadıklarına ilişkin kanıt
sunarlar.
İstanbul'daki mekân üretimine işaret eden grafitiler, 2010'ların başında Taksim'in duvarlarında
çizilen ve / veya yazılan şehrin ne kadar çelişkili bir yer olduğunu gösteren bir portresiydi.
Grafiti, mekânın çelişkili temsilleriyle ilgili kanıtlar sunarak, küresel ve yerel dinamikler
arasında gerçekleşen etkileşimin, direniş coğrafyalarının oluşmasına katkı sağlama
potansiyeli olduğunu düşündürüyor.
2010’ların başlarında, Taksim'deki duvarlar, küresel kapitalizme karşı çıkan yerel aktivistlerin
eylemlerinin izlerini taşımaktaydı. Bana göre, Taksim'in 2013’teki sahiplenilişini bağlamı içinde
anlayabilmek için, Direinistanbul'dan başlamak önemlidir. Direnistanbul, neoliberal
kentleşmenin dayattığı ve Dünya Bankası ve Uluslararası Para Fonu (IMF) gibi uluslararası
aktörler tarafından desteklenen eşitsiz gelişmeyi bağlamlaştırmak amacıyla 2009’da
düzenlenmiş siyasi bir şenlikti. Logosu, duvarların çok katmanlı zamansallığına dikkat
çekmenin yanı sıra, küresel ve yerel dinamikler arasındaki etkileşimin, direniş coğrafyalarının
doğmasına katkıda bulunma potansiyelinin altını çizmekteydi.
İstanbul’un küreselleşmesine kaktı sunan uluslararası aktörlerin hegemonik mekânı temsiline
karşı direniş, başka bir grafitiden, İstanbul 2010 – Avrupa Kültür Başkenti projesinin logosunun
bir yeraltı reklamında (subverstising / culture jamming) da ortaya çıkıyor. Bu grafitide, İstanbul,
Avrupa’yı Doğu’suna bağlayan bir sınır bölgesi olarak temsil edilmişti. Böyle bir sembolizm
birden fazla biçimde yorumlanabilir. Birincisi, İstanbul’un bu projeyle tanıtılan Avrupa-merkezli
ve öz-Oryantalist temsili, yani karşıtların karşılaşma yeri (örn. Batı/Doğu, eski/yeni,
geleneksel/modern, geçmiş/çağdaş) olarak sunulması eleştirilmekteydi. İkincisi, gelen
geçenleri yukarıda bahsedilen olayın tartışmalı yanlarına karşı dikkatli olmaları konusunda
uyarma potansiyeline sahipti (örn., iç göçmenlerin zorla yerinden edilmesi). Üçüncüsü, 2010
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inisiyatifince ön plana çıkarılan iç göç sorunlarının, 2016 yılındaki Türkiye ile AB arasındaki
mülteci anlaşmasından çok daha önce sınır kontrolünün dışsallaştırılması konusunda
geleceğe dönük bir eylem perspektifi çağrısında bulunduğunu düşündürüyor225. Özetle,
İstanbul 2010 - Avrupa Kültür Başkenti’nin logosunu yeraltı reklamı yapan graffiti, kentsel
kürelleşme ve göç alanlarında antikapitalist mücadelenin ortaklaşmasının aciliyetine dikkat
çekmekteydi.
Mekân üretiminin çok katmanlı ölçeğine kanıt sağlayan bir diğer örnek ise, İstanbul’un neo-
Osmanlı fethini, kentsel dönüşümün ve yenilenen gücün temsil mekânı üretimine odaklanmış
ve başarılı bir süreç olarak temsil eden bir duvar resmidir. Ulusal mirasın yorumlanmasındaki
yenilenmeye dikkat çeken bu grafiti, İstanbul’un küresel bir şehre dönüştürülmesinin ulusal
alanın dışında gerçekleşmediğini ve ulusal vurgunun azalması anlamına gelmediğini
hatırlatıyor. Farklı şekilde söylersek, küresel neoliberal kentleşme kalıplarının, bunların
uygulanmasını garanti eden ulus devletlerin gündemlerine iliştirilmiş gibi görülmesini öneriyor.
Tarihi mirasın yenilenmesi, tarihsel olarak etnik azınlıkların yaşadığı Taksim Meydanı’na bitişik
bir mahalle olan Tarlabaşı’nın devlet öncülüğünde soylulaştırılmasına değinen grafiti örneği
üzerinden de incelenmektedir. Tarlabaşı, 19. yüzyılın sonlarının üst-orta sınıf mahallesinden,
20. yüzyıl sonlarında Taksim’de iş arayan ama konut bakım masraflarıyla baş edemeyen hem
iç hem de dış göçmenler için bir sığınma yeri haline gelmişti. Bu çerçevede, tarihi mirasın
yenilenmesi, yalnızca kent yoksullarının küresel kentin gözbebeğinden kovulmasını değil, aynı
zamanda sığınma biçimlerinin silinmesiyle, kolektif hafızanın değiştirilmesini de amaçlıyordu.
Kolektif hafızanın temsil mekânının toplumsal üretiminde taşıdığı önem, Taksim Meydanı ve
Galatasaray Meydanı vakalarıyla ilgili grafitilerin incelenmesinden de ortaya çıkan bir konudur.
Her ikisi de şehir merkezinin sembolik değerlerinin, yalnızca tavandan tabana planlama
aracığıyla üst üste bindirilenleri değil, aynı zamanda tabandan mekân oluşturmasının
kaynaklarını da içerdiğini gösteriyor. Taksim Meydanı örneğinde, Gezi’den önce belgelenen
grafitiler, Cumhuriyet sembolizmi değil, 1 Mayıs alanı olarak taşıdığı siyasi sembolizmi de
işaret ediyor. Taksim’in Uluslararası İşçi Bayramı’nın kutlandığı bir alan olarak taşıdığı
sembolik değer, kolektif hafızayla ilişkilidir. Bununla birlikte Taksim, sadece yerel işçi
hareketinin 1977 katliamından bu yana talep etmeye devam ettiği adaletin temsili açısından
tartışmalı bir alan değildir; dahası, 20. yüzyılın başından beri 1 Mayıs kutlama alanıdır. Yani,
işçi hareketinin temsil mekânı olarak Taksim'in taşıdığı sembolizm, Cumhuriyet’in değerlerinin
kutlanması için kullanılan anıtsal bir meydan haline dönüştürülmesinden önce gelir.
225 2016 yılında imzalanan mülteci anlaşmasında, Türkiye, iki söz karşılığında AB sınırını geçmeyi
başaran sığınmacıların geri gönderilmesini kabul etmeyi taahhüt etti: Suriyeli mülteciler için geçici
koruma sisteminin desteklenmesi amacıyla milyarlarca avro verilmesi ve Türk vatandaşlarının AB ve
Schengen bölgesinde serbestçe seyahat etmesini engelleyen vize gerekliliklerinin kaldırılması - ki bu
madde hâlâ uygulanmış değildir.
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Galatasaray Meydanı örneğine gelince, bu yeri Cumartesi Anneleri’yle dayanışmanın
gösterileceği bir buluşma yeri olarak temsil eden bir grafiti, bir kavşağın, toplanma
özgürlüğünün ve uygulanan baskıya karşı sürdürülen direnişin temsil mekanına tabandan
dönüşmesine kanıt teşkil ediyor.
Gezi ayaklanmasının patlak vermesinden önce, İstanbul’un merkezindeki direniş mekânının
tabandan üretildiğine işaret eden son grafiti örneği, İstiklal Caddesi’ndeki tarihi bir binada yer
alan Emek Sineması’na dair olandır. Salonun yıkılarak bir alışveriş merkezine
dönüştürülmesine karşı çıkan bu grafiti, hem tarihi mirasın hem de kolektif hafızanın
metalaştırılmasına karşı verilen mücadelenin, kentsel müşterekler için yürütülen mücadeleye
potansiyel olarak nasıl katkı sağlayabileceğinin kanıtını sunuyor.
2013 yılında, mekânın hegemonik ve karşı-hegemonik temsilleri arasındaki diyalektiği, Gezi
direnişiyle zirveye çıktı. Bu çalışmada, Taksim’de çekilen çok sayıda fotoğraf yardımıyla, kent
hakkı mücadelesinin hükümet karşıtı bir isyana dönüştüğü süreç izlenmektedir. Gezi Parkı’nda
Mayıs ayı sonlarındaki protesto kampında belgelediğim grafiti, hükümet ya da dönemin
Başbakanı Recep Tayyip Erdoğan karşıtı açık bir muhalefet ifadesi taşımıyor ve kimi aktivistler
açısından Gezi’nin kentsel müşterekler için verilen bir çevresel adalet mücadelesi olarak
başladığını ortaya koyuyor. 1 Haziran’da polis Gezi/Taksim’den çekildi ve alan, uygulanan
baskının acımasızlığına ve medya sansürüne hem öfkeyle hem de kendi kendine ironik tepki
gösteren binlerce sıradan insan tarafından sahiplenildi. 11 Haziran’da Taksim Meydanı’nın
şiddetle boşaltılmasına dek, Gezi Parkı, Taksim Meydanı ve çevresi geçici olarak otonom bir
bölgeye dönüştü (yani Taksim Komünü).
Bu çalışma, Taksim'in geçici sahiplenilişinin mekânsal niteliklerini incelemek için, ‘küresel
sokak’ kavramının kullanılmasını önermektedir. Daha önce de belirtildiği üzere, küresel sokak,
kent hakkı mücadelesinde eylem mekânının bir temsilidir (Sassen 2011 ve 2013b).
Gezi/Taksim örneğinde, sembolik değeri yüksek olan kamusal alan, birden fazla dinamiğin
sonucu olarak, küresel bir sokağa dönüştü: (1) olağanüstü kullanım, yani normalde yasak olan
bir kullanım (örn. Gezi Parkı’nda ya da Taksim Meydanı’ndaki Cumhuriyet Anıtı’nı çevreleyen
alanda kamp yapmak) yoluyla yeniden bölgeselleştirme; (2) öz-savunma amaçlı tahkimat; (3)
dayanışma yoluyla, Türkiye’deki diğer direnişteki şehirlerle yerel ötesi bağlılık; (4) kamusal
alanın geçici olarak ele geçirildiği diğer tarihi vakalara ulus-ötesi bağlılık (örn. Tahrir Meydanı);
(5) kolektif bakım ve toplu anma gibi pratikler aracılığıyla mekânın müşterekleştirilmesi. Maddi
anlamda Gezi/Taksim, bir revir, bir sebze bahçesi, dayanışma mutfakları ve aynı zamanda
karşı anıtlar gibi yeni ve geçici tesisler içeren birçok farklı işlevle kullanılan bir mekâna dönüştü.
Küresel sokak olarak Gezi/Taksim, kent hakkının mücadelesi için gereken mekânsal direnişin
sistemli bir bakış açısından anlaşılması gerektiğini açık biçimde göstermekteydi. Farklı bir
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deyişle, 2013 direnişi, Gezi/Taksim’i, karşı gücün çok ölçekli dayanışma ağının stratejik bir
düğümü haline getirdi.
Gezi direnişinin toplumsal bileşimine gelince, grafiti, küresel sokakta çokluğun var olduğunu
gösteriyor. Toplu imzalar ve sloganlar hem eski hem de yeni toplumsal aktörlerin proaktif
rolünü kanıtlıyorlar (örn. devrimci sosyalistler ve LGBT+ hareketin aktivistleri). Bunun yanı sıra,
grafiti, Gezi Parkı'nı savunan ve direnişine katılan sıradan insanların, polis vahşetine, Taksim
projesine ve hükümetin bireysel özgürlükler alanında artan müdahalesine karşı çıkmak gibi
çeşitli ve birbiriyle bağlantılı nedenlerle direnişi gerçekleştirdiğini gösteriyor. Gezi direnişinin
grafitileri, alkol tüketimine getirilen kısıtlamalara verilen tepkiyi ortaya koymasının yanı sıra,
hükümetin yürüttüğü kürtaj karşıtı propagandaya karşı kadınların verdiği tepkiyi de gözler
önüne sermektedir. Hetero-patriarkiye karşı mücadelede grafitinin siyasi kullanımıyla ilgili
olarak, Gezi vakası bir örnek teşkil etmektedir. Feministler, grafitiyi iki kampanya bağlamında
kullandılar: Bunlardan birincisi polisi ve hükümeti hedef alan yazıların büyük kısmını
karakterize eden cinsiyetçi ve küfürlü dile, diğeriyse tacize karşıydı.
Mekân müşterekleştirmesi için gerçekleştirilen kolektif korumaya ve bakmaya ilişkin bu tarihi
deney, şiddetli biçimde bastırıldı. Lefebvre’in terimleriyle söylemek gerekirse, “absorbe” edildi
(2014, s. 374). Mekânsal anlamda direniş mekânının “absorbe” edilmesi, barikatların
kaldırılması ve 11 Haziran günü Taksim Meydanı’nın şiddetli biçimde boşaltılmasıyla başladı
ve bunu Atatürk Kültür Merkezi ve Cumhuriyet Anıtı gibi son derece sembolik yerlerdeki grafiti,
pankart ve bayrakların kaldırılması izledi. Neticede, Taksim Meydanı bir çatışma alanına
dönüştü ve parkı savunmak amacıyla yeni barikatlar kuruldu; fakat 15 Haziran’da park şiddet
kullanılarak yeniden boşaltıldı ve geçici süreyle kamuya kapatıldı. Buna karşın, “absorbe”
edilmeye karşı mekânsal direniş pratikleri sürdü. Örneğin, ilk kez Gezi Parkı’nda düzenlenen
kolektif karar alma meclisleri mahallelerin parklarına taşındı ve bu, toplumdaki radikal değişim
yönlü seferberlikte gündelik yaşam alanının toplulukçu ölçeğinin geleneksel önemini gösteren
bir süreçti.
Uygulanan baskı, duvarları de etkiledi. Mustafa Kemal Atatürk portreleri hariç, Gezi Direnişi’nin
grafitileri griye boyandı. Sansüre verilen çeşitli tepkiler, sistematik olarak “absorbe” edilmesine
karşı direniş çabalarını da ortaya koymaktadır. İlk olarak, bazıları gri çizgilerin üzerine yazılmış
olan seçili örnekler, Gezi’nin dilini karakterize eden mizaha dair daha fazla kanıt sunmaktadır.
Buna ek olarak, gökkuşağı merdivenleri, artan otoriterliğe karşı direnişin bir sembolü haline
geldi; çoğalarak yerel-ötesi, eşzamanlı ve eşzamansız olmak üzere çok ölçekli bir boyuta
ulaştı. 2013 yılında ilk olarak çeşitli yerlerde (hem İstanbul’da hem de diğer şehirlerde)
çoğaldılar. 2021 yılında Ankara’daki ODTÜ öğrencileri, İstanbul Boğaziçi Üniversitesi’ndeki
akademik özgürlük direnişi ve polis baskısına karşı bir dayanışma eylemi olarak, kampüsteki
merdivenleri boyamışlardı. Gökkuşağı merdivenleri örneğinde gösterildiği üzere, direnişin
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sembolik temsil mekânının sahiplenilişi, sembolik temsil zamanının da sahiplenilmesini
gerektirir. Bu bağlamda, Gezi Direnişi’nin grafitileri, sembolik temsil zamanının sahiplenilişinin,
onu takip eden ifade ve toplanma özgürlüğüne yönelik artan baskı dalgasına karşın, Gezi
direnişinin en mühim sonuçlarından biri olduğunu göstermektedir.
Özetle, bu çalışma, grafitinin mekân odaklı araştırmalarda tarihsel kaynak olarak
kullanılabileceğini öne sürmektedir. Arşiv ve sokak etnografik araştırmalarıyla toplanan birincil
kaynaklardan geniş bir örneğin gösterdiği üzere, grafiti, toplumsal değişimi amaçlayan
mekânın toplumsal üretimini ve özellikle sıradan insanlar tarafından Taksim'in sahiplenilişine
yönelik girişimlerini aşağıdan tarihselleştirmeye katkıda sağlama potansiyeline sahiptir.
Lefebvre’in kuramı ve Sassen’in kavramları üzerinden incelendiğinde, grafiti iki temel bulguyu
daha öne sürüyor: İlk olarak, duvarlar konuşur ve özellikle susturulduğunda direnişi yankılar.
İkinci olarak, hegemonik güçle alay eden grafiti tarihsel açıdan grafik hicivle ilişkilidir ve bu
durum, örneğin grafiti ve grafik hiciv arasındaki yakınlık ilişkisinden başlayarak, mekânsal
direnişin nesiller ötesi yönleri hakkında daha fazla ve işbirliğine dayalı araştırmanın mümkün
ve hatta ihtiyaç olduğunu göstermektedir.
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