Whose City Is That? Culture, Design, Spectacle and Capital in Istanbul [1 ed.] 9781443862820, 9781443860437

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Whose City Is That? Culture, Design, Spectacle and Capital in Istanbul

Whose City Is That? Culture, Design, Spectacle and Capital in Istanbul

Edited by

Dilek Özhan Koçak and Orhan Kemal Koçak

Whose City Is That? Culture, Design, Spectacle and Capital in Istanbul, Edited by Dilek Özhan Koçak and Orhan Kemal Koçak This book first published 2014 Cambridge Scholars Publishing 12 Back Chapman Street, Newcastle upon Tyne, NE6 2XX, UK British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Copyright © 2014 by Dilek Özhan Koçak, Orhan Kemal Koçak and contributors All rights for this book reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner. ISBN (10): 1-4438-6043-3, ISBN (13): 978-1-4438-6043-7

TABLE OF CONTENTS

List of Figures and Tables .......................................................................... ix Introduction ................................................................................................. 1 Is There Any Other Istanbul? Dilek Özhan Koçak and Orhan Kemal Koçak Part I: The City of Media Chapter One ............................................................................................... 17 Uncanny Encounters with the City and the Self in Western Travelogues on Istanbul Hande Tekdemir Chapter Two .............................................................................................. 35 From Istanbul with Love: The New Orientalism of Hollywood Murat Akser Chapter Three ............................................................................................ 47 TV Series and the City: Istanbul as a Market for Local Dreams and Transnational Fantasies Eylem Yanarda÷o÷lu Part II: The City of Elites Chapter Four .............................................................................................. 67 Networked Gentrification: Place-Making Strategies and Social Networks of Middle Class Gentrifers in Istanbul Ebru Soytemel and Besime ùen Part III: The City of Utopias and Dystopias Chapter Five .............................................................................................. 95 The Transformation of the Urban Periphery: Once Upon a Time There Were Gecekondus in Istanbul ùükrü Aslan and Tahire Erman

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Chapter Six .............................................................................................. 115 Promises and Lies: Themed Living on the Edges of Istanbul Sibel YardÕmcÕ Chapter Seven.......................................................................................... 139 An Emergent Dystopian Place in Istanbul: The Bezirganbahçe TOKø Housing Estate Tahire Erman Part IV: The City of Guerillas Chapter Eight ........................................................................................... 159 Writing on Istanbul: Graffiti of the City Bahar Aksel and ønci Olgun Chapter Nine............................................................................................ 187 Disrupting the Amnesia: Metaphoric Artistic Interventions in Istanbul Evrim Kavcar Chapter Ten ............................................................................................. 209 One-Person Holdings: Tactics of Istanbul’s Street Vendors Erbatur Çavuúo÷lu and Julia Strutz Chapter Eleven “We are the Legionaries!”: Filipina Domestic Workers in Istanbul ...... 225 Ayúe AkalÕn Part V: The City of “Culture” and Capital Chapter Twelve ....................................................................................... 245 Fashion’s Night Out: Creating Istanbul’s New Image Nilay Ulusoy Chapter Thirteen ...................................................................................... 261 The City of the Tourist: Istanbul as an Imaginary City Dilek Özhan Koçak Chapter Fourteen ..................................................................................... 283 The Reconquest of Constantinople: Reflections on the Contemporary Landscape and the 1453 Panorama Museum in Istanbul Deniz Ünsal

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Part VI: The City of “Him” Chapter Fifteen ........................................................................................ 301 I Saw Istanbul as a University Emine Onaran øncirlio÷lu Contributors ............................................................................................. 317 Index ........................................................................................................ 325

LIST OF FIGURES AND TABLES1

Fig. 2.1. “The Turtle Trainer” (1906) Fig. 2.2. Bond brings darkness and intrigue to the city of tranquility Fig. 2.3. The Westerner wreaks havoc on the quiet and tranquil Eastern bazaar Fig. 2.4. The tranquility of the mosque conflicts with the chase scene involving Western men in Taken 2 Fig. 3.1. Numerical dispersion of Prime-Time Turkish TV Serials Fig. 4.1. Tourists on a walking tour in Fener-Balat, 2013 Fig. 4.2. Filming a TV show in Fener-Balat, 2013 Fig. 5.1. A few typical gecekondus that have survived today Fig. 5.2. “Transformed” gecekondus Fig. 5.3. The “Mayday Neighbourhood” today Fig. 5.4. The few remaining gecekondus in the “Mayday Neighbourhood” Fig. 5.5. Graffiti in the”Mayday Neighbourhood” Fig. 5.6. A deserted gecekondu in the midst of apartment buildings Fig. 5.7. Luxury buildings encroaching on gecekondus. The A÷ao÷lu Company’s housing project seen from the “Mayday Neighbourhood” Fig. 5.8. Bezirganbahçe-TOKø housing estate built for the displaced gecekondu population from Ayazma Fig. 5.9. Gülsuyu-Gülensu as an example of a resisting gecekondu neighbourhood Fig. 6.1, 6.2. Bosphorus City (A view of the canal and surrounding buildings)121 Fig. 6.3. Viaport Venezia advertisement (The heading says: “Europe’s greatest city moves into the world’s greatest city!”) 1

Chapter four: source description of table 4.1. is its own page, Fig. 4.1. and 4.2. (photographs) by author. Chapter five: photographs by authors: (5.1, 5.3, 5.4, 5.5, 5.6, 5.7, 5.8, 5.9 taken by Tahire Erman, 5.2. by ùükrü Aslan). Chapter six: image sources are from the real estate projects websites and sales catalogues. Detailed descriptions are on pages. Chapter seven: photographs by author. Chapter eight: photographs by authors, data of Table 8.1. and 8.2. from websites, source names are in their own descriptions. Chapter nine: photographs by author. Chapter ten: photographs by editors of the book. Chapter thirteen: data and graphics of tables from government tourism agents. Chapter fourteen: photograph by PÕnar Gediközer.

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List of Figures and Tables

Fig. 6.4. Viaport Venezia projection Fig. 6.5. Aegean Coastline projection (The heading says: “The love of the Aegean thrills Istanbul …”) Table 6.1. As an example, one may check the price list of Bosphorus City Fig. 6.6. Outside the walls of Bosphorus City Fig. 7.1. General view of the Bezirganbahçe-TOKø project Fig. 7.2. A woman puffing up wool in the midst of blocks Fig. 8.1. A contemporary example of political slogans. Maltepe, 2013 Fig. 8.2. Graffiti from the Karaköy underpass, 2012 Fig. 8.3. Graffiti from østiklal Street, 2013 Fig. 8.4. Examples of Kripoe’s work. Tünel Square, Beyo÷lu, 2012 Fig. 8.5. A shutter from østiklal Street, 2012 Fig. 8.6. “Turbo”, Istanbul, 2009 Fig. 8.7. østiklal Street, 2013 Fig. 8.8. Nuruziya Street, Beyo÷lu, 2013 Table 8.1. Hot Cities for Graffiti (by streetfiles.org) Fig. 8.9. Districts of Istanbul according to street art and graffiti density Table 8.2. Distribution of Data about Istanbul According to District Fig. 8.10. Graffiti project on an electric substation at Güngören Fig. 8.11. “Taksim became a piece of Modern Art” østiklal Street, Beyo÷lu, 2 June 2013 Fig. 9.1, 9.2. “Biât Et!”, Ferhat SatÕcÕ, 2013 Fig. 9.3. Apricot City A4, Dilek Winchester, 2013 Fig. 9.4. Some sketches in Apricot City A4 Fig. 10.1. A street bench selling deserts at Karaköy, 2013 Fig. 10.2. Street vendors at night in Eminönü, 2013 Fig. 10.3. A street vendor selling some of activists’ needs in front of the entrance of Gezi Park during the street protests in June 2013 Table 13.1. International Tourists Who Visited Istanbul in the First Seven Months of 2012 Table 13.2. Breakdown of Visitors from Arab Countries in the Months January through July, 2010–2012 Table 13.3. Number of International Tourists Visiting Istanbul from 2000– 2013 Fig. 14.1. Visitors inside the panorama of the conquest of Constantinople, 2013

INTRODUCTION IS THERE ANY OTHER ISTANBUL? DILEK ÖZHAN KOÇAK AND ORHAN KEMAL KOÇAK

“But why, then, does the city exist? What line separates the inside from the outside the rumble of wheels from the howl of wolves?” —Italo Calvino, Invisible Cities

A city is the result of plans and projects, new and old architecture, laws and traditions and historical knowledge woven together by coincidence. It is also the intersection of people rushing around and people who do not exist, and the living or inanimate objects of a thousand varieties. All kinds of stories, myths, probabilities and concepts come to life by means of the city and also wrap themselves in the city. These are not distinctive or meaningful without taking into account the lost image of the human. Vittorio de Sica, in his movie Bicycle Thieves (Ladri di biciclette 1948), looks at Rome where history opens in all directions after the storm of war has calmed. The city is rebuilt with reconstructed “human values” just as in Rome, Open City (Roma, città aperta 1945). But these values do not always serve “good” and “right” purposes. The city that serves as the film set has entered the process of normalization and is both a living and variable “organism”. A glance does not represent the city with its hasty make up, so the film takes a deeper look and focuses on the man who seeks to protect his hopes which flourish even in the most gloomy and sinister back streets. The domination and the reality of war has ended. People have begun to return to everyday life and the tragedies in their smaller universes. Turning into a spectacle metaphor, the city accompanies this slower and quiet transition. Kurosawa similarly emphasizes this in Stray Dog (Nora Inu 1949). This time, the “missing object” is not a bicycle, making the endless cycle of the journey possible, like in mythic narratives. In the Tokyo, holding onto life after the war, a police officer

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Introduction

tries to locate his stolen gun during the film. In both films, the heroes walk around the city and are our guides, revealing to us on every level how the “city makes the man and the man make the city.” There is, however, another type of mobility characterizing Istanbul in the 1960s, far away from the harsh effects of the war in Rome and Tokyo. Istanbul became the first stop for people looking for opportunities during the days of migration from rural to urban areas. The film Birds of Exile (Gurbet KuúlarÕ 1964) by Halit Refi÷ is an example that brings together the characteristics of many films about this era. This film represents people under the spell of the famous saying that Istanbul’s streets are “paved with gold.” They come to create better lives and the film shows us their stories using a realistic narrative approach. Istanbul is an irresistible centre of attraction and is the host of the stories, many of which clearly move towards a tragic end. On the surface the problem looks to be between the city and its cultural values. The class conflict at the core of the stories unfolds through the use of implicit language. The new residents of the city walk around the city with a hunger for knowledge of it and its opportunities, and they then, in turn, become a part of it by working and earning money.

There Is No Other Istanbul The phrase “There is no other Istanbul!” most likely gained widespread usage during these new quests in the city in the 1950s when internal migration gained speed. People who had come from the villages of Turkey in the 1950s brought their ways of life and cultures to Istanbul. The natives of Istanbul were quite disturbed by this since they were living like rural people in the city. The reason they used such a phrase was as a kind of invitation to these people to make them urban citizens much like themselves. The phrase was a type of advice in those days and these ruralurban tensions are not used or remembered anymore due to the changes within the structure of today’s city. This phrase is no longer used because it is not possible to mention or talk about a single Istanbul or a single type of Istanbul city dweller. Every person who has come from another town has made and is still making or creating another Istanbul; each person from Istanbul has one difference—they are all from their own Istanbul. Nowadays, many cultural identities, ways of living, behaviours and values, which are intentionally or forcibly hidden, live together. It has always been impossible for us to say that the city has a single dimension or a single definition that has the same meaning for everyone. We can see many signs that cities are irreversibly polyphonic, multicultural and on the

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rise. To obtain this knowledge, we need to breathe the chaotic atmosphere of the city's boundaries which are entwined with those of other cities. Michel de Certeau (1984) explains the construction of the city by using the example of walking, comparing it with the construction of language by talking. He implies that this construction is dispersed into endless space as language and can be divided into categories, and we can see by extension of this metaphor how each person who lives within the city perceives the city. Grammar books describe “perfect language” which can never exist in daily life. But the use and practice of language is much more creative and rich than can be described. Just like in language, the formal constructors of the city describe a “perfection” which does not take into account the other dynamics of the city. However, the citizens who are not taken into account construct both the cultural and political dimensions of the city. Those that defend the city and their own living spaces confront the state, which is the executive agent of financial capital. Urban dwellers are both diverse and have a desire to communicate with each other, and this fact cannot and is not explained by theories of democracy. Classical media and government entities do not offer space to these efforts of creating a society and/or a world that uses discourse to define itself and this turns all space—except that of formal entities—into areas of vital expression and presentation. Writing about Istanbul means getting in touch with different types of Istanbulites, and not just those in the centre of the city that are represented in tourist guides and mass media. This framework can be valid for every city. Each city dweller experiences the city with their own sensibility and each reconstructs the city everyday by adding the richness of their own life. This framework created the structure for the arguments in Whose City Is That? as each question the chapters endeavour to answer. The title of the book enabled different academics to ask the same question using different methodologies and subjects. The question “Whose Istanbul Is It?” and the necessity of studying Istanbul using multidisciplinary perspectives brought many researchers from different fields together, because the city is larger than one approach and the constraints of one “unique” field. Gathering researchers and academics from various disciplines enables each to think about the city alone and together, so as to create new forms of thought and discourse about the city. Cultural transformation can be directed by both regular and irregular forces and these results can be observed. Multicultural, cosmopolitan places bring both social memory into existence and reveal the narratives that are the roots of an image's character. The chapters in this book are therefore focused on the physical and economic dimensions as well as the

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Introduction

imaginary, fictional and hyper-real dimensions, expressing the concern of bringing the real and imaginary borders of the city together.

The Transformational Quality of the City Cities have always been a product of their time because of their physical and spatial expressions. While in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries cities were the engines of industrial production and the centre of world trade and finance, from the mid-1970s until today they have been the product of a global economy and a society based on multinational capitalism and the increase of financial flow. Today, the two main reasons for the (unintended) changing character of a city are globalization and migration. Ethnic, social and cultural diversity, the result of migration, have changed, and are still changing, the landscape of the modern city and they are also reshaping social divisions and conflicts. (Hall 2006, 20) After the collapse of nation states, megacities are mentioned rather than countries. The vast majority of the world’s population is now living in cities. As Ricky Burdett and Deyan Sudjic mentioned in The Endless City (2007), in half a century 75% of the world’s population will be living in cities. The change in the balance of urban and rural population is evident as time passes, and it is therefore impossible to define cities as homogeneous structures. Urban space is augmented by its dwellers and its content becomes rich in the complexity of old and new forms that are brought together by its inhabitants. If we take this view, then understanding the urban landscape is only possible with the help of different disciplines and methods. Istanbul, as the subject and centrepiece of this book, differs from other cities in Turkey because of one telling feature—its potential to become a world city by joining the global financial markets on the world stage (Göktürk, Soysal & Türeli 2011). The modernization process of Istanbul gained speed in the nineteenth century and still continues. However, just as it was in the nineteenth century, the development of Istanbul has never been a standardized process, its uneven development creating an image that brings together pre-modern, modern and postmodern aspects in its appearance. It is not possible to define Istanbul either as a completely global city as defined by Sassen (2001) or a third world city because of its peculiar position that has been defined as “between global and local” by Ça÷lar Keyder (1999). Istanbul’s globalization process began at the same time as the rest of the world’s in the 1980s. Along with internal migration and globalization, changes in Istanbul’s features became visible; even today, this process of

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change has caused a deterioration of the historical skyline, which had been the same for centuries, from the days of the emperors. As there is global competition between Istanbul and other cities, the centre of the city was rebuilt in accordance with the scope of this competition and Istanbul transformed into a “spectacle.” The “city”, in and of itself, transformed into a commodity available for consumption, with culture becoming an instrument to create political and cultural capital; in this way, even artistic activities are offered so they can be marketed and sold as commodities. Istanbul’s positioning as a city with a “threethousand year history, as the capital of two empires, the focal point of two major religions and the capital of culture and art at the crossroads of East and West” has created an image of the city that has become a brand (YardÕmcÕ 2005). However, as with other world cities, people who are able to utilize the opportunities of Istanbul’s global cultural environment are the urban elites and artists who have already fused with global society through their education, lifestyles, cultural exposure and economic abilities. New urban elites separate themselves from the rest of society by using “global cultural” opportunities. At first glance, Istanbul resembles a kind of “showcase” which can be entirely consumed through its shopping and business centres. This “showcase should be colourful, glossy, transparent, clean and safe. It must have both an attractive exoticism and comfort. It should have a security system (and behind the scenes) a way for the effects of that capital to generate safety” (Ibid). Such a showcase may only be possible if urban centres are cleaned, emptied and reregulated. The gentrification process that Istanbul experienced after the 1980s was the result of such a target. The “Others” who are distorting the aesthetics of the “showcase” are pushed beyond the designated areas that are now protected by security systems. From now on, the secure areas belong to urban consumers and tourists. Culture, which itself has turned into a spectacle, becomes one of the means of selling the city, “a brand of a branded product” (Zukin 1995). As a result of all of this, Istanbul becomes a divided city. In fact, cities have always been divided by class and wealth, race and nationality, ethnicity and religion, gender and sexuality and lifestyle and culture. The wealthy, the entrepreneurs and the middle class, the professionals and the clerks, the artisans and poor dwellers, the lower class and outcasts have always occupied different zones of the city. However, the boundaries between these spaces have never been entrenched. These various zones are never uniform in look or homogeneous in social composition. Differences edge, slide and blur into one another. They overlay one another, creating a complex, overlapping matrix. These juxtapositions and overlaps may

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themselves multiply. For Stuart Hall, these are the dimensions along which the contemporary city is said to be changing most quickly. Furthermore, many other elements come together around cities that bring different worlds and temporalities together. For this reason, cities have a long history as the centres of trade and markets, and thus as sites of cultural exchange and social complexity. These form the basis of cities’ unplanned “cosmopolitism” (Hall 2006, 24–25). Sharing similar spaces within cities, people are physically very close together, yet there are invisible walls between them. So, we can say that for each inhabitant there is another city, another Istanbul. In addition to its formal and informal elements, Istanbul has another important element that is important to define. Each person living in the city creates or lives in another city which is made of their own personal and particular experiences. When we talk about Istanbul, which one do we mean? This book doesn't search for an absolute answer to the question asked in its title. On the other hand, in attempting to describe Istanbul, it is obvious that it is impossible to understand it by a single and unchanging criterion. In addition, the city we are trying to understand and describe turns into something different moment by moment, which cannot be defined or identified because of its very nature as a mega city. However, its flow is not aimless and non-directional, and each sign is not causeless or dateless. In this context, in order make the possibilities of the city visible, we would ask one more time: “Istanbul, whose city is it?” Is it a world city that experiences the capitalization process at its own pace and integrates itself into the world economy? Or is it a city that has been turned into a field of destruction and construction by capital? Or is it a city that is used as a billboard in terms of marketing and presentation strategies? Is it a city presented as a “brand,” which tries to differ from other competitors with its culture, art, fashion, science, sports and various other forms of entertainment? Should we look at it as a historical city which tourists know from the postcards and guides; or should we go to the back streets to find its weaknesses, in the slums—in other words, search for the “guerrillas” of the conquered city? Perhaps Istanbul is not a part of reality itself, it is something that gives inspiration to artists, something created and reproduced each time by an artist, or is a kind of dark silhouette formed by a series of different fictional cities. Or is Istanbul, in and of itself, a work of art? The articles that bring this book into being will enable us to have a clearer and more understandable picture of Istanbul. The focus of this book will be more apparent in light of this quote by Deyan Sudjic: “Despite the efforts of the planners and the speculators and the politicians, the city is formed by the everyday reality of human

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experiences” (2007, 51). Istanbul is not only a city consumed by tourists and city dwellers, it is a city that is reproduced and designed by its inhabitants, as Deyan Sudjic emphasizes. Therefore, the intention of this work is to show that there is no unique image of Istanbul because of its changing structure. Istanbul doesn't provide a complete picture; it consists of parts and layers that develop strong interactions with each other, even if they do not open to each other. Our purpose is not to bring all these different parts together but to find the point where these diversities meet and show a holistic view of the city that is sensitive to the reasons for cultural production and cultural opportunities. Whose City is That? shows that this city is produced not only by strong and systematic efforts, corporate influences and/or marketing activities, but also individual contributions and coincidences. As Georg Simmel states, we cannot separate Istanbul's spiritual dimension from its everyday life practices. Istanbul appears in many forms and these forms will be analyzed with the support of such disciplines as communication studies, cultural studies, cinema/media studies, literature, the fine arts, city and regional planning, anthropology, political science, social and economic geography and architecture. Even if the city does not give us an overall picture, it consists of parts and layers that can develop strong interactions even if they do not open up to each other. This book does not aim to bring into existence a whole picture from these parts but instead aims to see and show the rich points of diversity, cultural production spaces and all their attendant possibilities from a holistic view. The book has six main parts which deal with significant issues in urban studies, but this time taking a particular look at Istanbul. The first section, “The City of Media,” deals with Istanbul as a cultural text, focusing on representations in literature, television and cinema which exhibit Istanbul as a rich and infinite product of cultural production processes. This approach deals with how Istanbul is first mediated as a “fictional city” by fictionalizing it, or re-converting it to a dream every time it is viewed so that this process repeats itself over and over again. The city which appears in different forms of cultural production is reproduced by the interlocking images and meanings of “yesterday” and “today.” This section of the book also deals with Istanbul as a place not only experienced in its material dimension, but also represented and recreated by media. Hande Tekdemir focuses on travelogues written about Istanbul and the city that is produced by them. She expresses that the mythic “East” produced in Western narrative is a search for the “Orient,” which is a part of an Eastern journey. In addition, she writes about the shock experienced by the nineteenth

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century travellers when they experienced or saw familiar things when encountering the “Orient.” Murat Akser deals with cinema’s reconstruction of Istanbul that is fed by the literary themes and familiar fictions of the last century. The movies Taken 2 and Skyfall show us how Hollywood turns Istanbul into an image of an Eastern city by editing and repeating the same places, images and stereotypes, since this image is the one audiences want to see, and is easier to sell. The last article of this section belongs to Eylem Yanardao÷lu. Her work is about TV series that feature Istanbul recently marketed to neighbouring countries (Russia, the Gulf Arab countries and Muslim communities in North Africa). The storylines of these TV series are set in the present day or the Ottoman Empire's magnificent and dynamic Istanbul, which is a “natural” actor in these series. She draws attention to their contributions, just like the Nobel Prize and Eurovision in their own ways, in making historic Istanbul a powerful alternative to the famous central areas of touristic attraction. “The City of Elites” section is about urban transformation and gentrification. This chapter is about the changes in recent years, especially to areas of cultural reproduction. Ebru Soytemel and Besime ùen explore how gentrifiers mobilize their social networks and social capital. They discuss how these networks are constructed through the process of “place making” and belonging as well as how social capital and social networks work in practice during the gentrification process. “The City of Dystopia and Utopia” section gathers two opposite words to emphasize two main dimensions of Istanbul that are far from each other but intertwined. In particular, this section focuses on many outlying city areas that have emerged as “utopian” and “dystopian” places, distant from the city centre both in terms of geography and tradition and as life is lived in these places. ùükrü Aslan and Tahire Erman journey through the history of “gecekondus,” which is not part of today's reality but an image of Istanbul’s past. The history of “cleansing” the city of gecekondus in the last twenty years, and the process of making high-rise blocks, business centres and shopping malls, is told through news and stories in daily printed media since the 1940s. In doing so, the article questions whose city Istanbul was and whose city it is becoming as the gecekondus are erased from the city’s spaces. Tahire Erman’s chapter is about the destruction of gecekondus and placing the former residents of gecekondus into buildings built by TOKø (the Mass Housing Administration). The destruction of gecekondus, described as tumours on the city, falls under the scope of cleaning out undesirable elements. This is one of the effects of globalization, whose mission is to make Istanbul a world city. Erman’s work is about the Istanbul of the people who live in the Bezirganbahçe-

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TOKø housing estate in Küçükçekmece. Finally, Sibel YardÕmcÕ analyzes themed-gated residential areas, as the utopian city has created a miniature Bosphorus, a false Venetian and Aegean atmosphere. This time the city is marketed by embedding other historicities and visual identities using unheard or untested features on its body. As Theodor Adorno describes in the concept of cultural industry, what is reproduced are not products, but people, who are just like counterfeits. The city, as the result of the reproduction cycle, reproduces its dwellers in these dystopian places as individuals with a certain sensitivity united by similar enthusiasms and joys, wonders and sadnesses and who live and consume the city with “fresh,” “new” and “renewed” promises. The city as an object of consumption can be marketable if new functions are installed into it. “The City of Guerrillas” section is about the Istanbul of street artists, contemporary artists, street vendors and migrants. There is a common feature in bringing these people together. The concept of “guerrilla” which gives the section its name is about the methods used by guerrillas, not in the political-military sense, but in the sense of survival, production and life in the city. This section is about “bottom-up tactical resistance” against the strategies of being ruled. This section also takes the perspective that power is about being visible and how the “art of the trick” is the last choice of the weak (Clausewitz 1955, 212–213). The articles in these sections reveal how the city guerrillas built their homes with their own hands, which are in the illegal or “unsafe” parts of the city. This they did in order to survive and express themselves in the urban public space. Bahar Aksel and ønci Olgun liken graffiti to a kind of guerrilla activity in terms of process and they distinguish it from other artistic expressions because it is an urban/street art. In their work, they discover how each sign has a different language and aesthetic representation. The article details individual stories which are unique, but at the same time find similarities. These become visible in many different urban public spaces even though they are made by the “invisible” actors of the city whose creative will occupies another of its dimension. Evrim Kavcar deals with the tactics of contemporary artists in urban spaces. She describes the dynamic of selective amnesia and capital that deprive Istanbul of its memory and how contemporary artists become trappers that hunt, catch and chronicle all that is fleeting in the city. She problematizes the artistic interventions, which are different from the mentality of everyday society. She writes that just like street vendors turning each situation into a chance to sell, the contemporary artist turns each urban situation into a chance to make art. In this respect, Istanbul both as a work of art and a work of the artist, is recorded in an historical sense.

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Erbatur Çavuúo÷lu and Julia Strutz focus on street vendors as the representatives of informal people. Their chapter deals with the characteristics of street vendors as urban guerrillas, addressing their tactics in an environment that is not hospitable to them in the last decade. Ayúe AkalÕn discusses Filipino women working in Istanbul using the church both as a place of worship and spiritual support. In addition, the chapter shows how the church is used by Filipinos who spend their Sundays, their one holiday a week, coming together and using the church as a space of social activity. The section “The City of Culture and Capital” deals with Istanbul as in global competition with other world cities. Because of this Istanbul uses and markets its culture just like any other global city. In addition, this section sees the city as a commodity in terms of raw materials and making money. There is no doubt that culture is one of the most powerful weapons in packaging and marketing cities. Nilay Ulusoy analyzes the fashion event, Vogue Fashion’s Night Out (VFNO), which is “fashion's biggest shopping party,” celebrated every year since 2010. It is part of Istanbul’s new identity as a capital of fashion and shopping. Ulusoy claims that being chosen as a part of the VFNO organization has affected Istanbul, allowing it to be redesigned and positioned alongside other global cities. Accordingly, VFNO emerges as an international activity which combines Istanbul's image with fashion. The aim of the VFNO event is to represent Istanbul through the lens of fashion which exists by feeding from the city of Istanbul and its lively, hybrid structure. In brief, VFNO aims to market Istanbul to the world by adding another attribute that it has not had before, which is fashion capital. Dilek Özhan Koçak focuses on the city of tourists and points out that the city the tourist comes to know is different to the reality. She shows that it is something recreated and rewritten through printed and visual media that reproduces the same images time and time again; as such, the city that tourists visit is an image of itself; indeed, an imaginary city. In addition, she also sees Istanbul as other researchers have, as using its culture as a marketing tool differentiating it from the other cities, and considers this in light of how important tourism income is to the city. Istanbul and other international metropolises all want the flow of global tourism and so cultural capital is equal to physical capital. Deniz Ünsal’s describes the representation of the Ottoman past, which has recently become a popular theme in the cultural and creative industries in Turkey, especially the exhibition that can be viewed in the Panorama 1453 History Museum. She argues that the economic and political aspirations of the ruling party in Turkey nurtures this imperial nostalgia with the aim of reconstructing a new historical imagination. The

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appearance of the Panorama 1453 History museum is the result of these interests. Ünsal also compares the “living space” in Maslak 1453, which is an example of re-conquering the city through real estate development projects using Panorama 1453 Museum as inspiration. She argues that Constantinople is re-conquered in the Panorama Museum every day, while Istanbul is transformed into a space for the new capitalist elites and the new rituals of belonging to the city. The essence of new cultural citizenship is invented both in the museum and the urban landscape. “The City of ‘Him’” section, by Emine Onaran øncirlio÷lu is about Mustafa Taúdeviren, and depicts Istanbul through the eyes of a single person. Taúdeviren, who is a Roma, came to Istanbul many years ago, and this chapter is about the things he did to survive and how they formed his consciousness. In the chapter, he talks about his journey as a young boy alone in Istanbul in his own words. øncirlio÷lu shows us what or who Istanbul was through the eyes of a person who walked every inch of it during his time here and how this journey formed his ideals and the expectations he had for himself. øncirlio÷lu shows us Mustafa Taúdeviren's own Istanbul. During the preparation for this book, one of our main goals was to remember and to remind each other that each individual living in the city has his/her own right to the city. This right cannot be transferred to anyone, whether they are strong and dominant or weak and silent. When someone says that they are talking for “us” with a loud voice we liken that to a little humming noise, or if the story to be told for us is filled with glory, colourful images and bright light, we know that there is another reality hidden behind this showy scene. As we know, the struggle launched for green space in the centre of Istanbul in June 2013 is based on “right to the city,” whose main demand is social justice itself. “Whose City Is That?” opened many new ideas for us, each different from the other, but united and each complementing the other. These ideas add valuable insights to this question and offer many different possibilities rather than one answer. In addition, these efforts gave us strong evidence and original studies that show that there is an Istanbul for everyone. Articles from these many different disciplines are not a coincidence, but were, in fact, a choice and an obligation. Richard Sennett understood that the changes in cities in the past few centuries also changed the meaning of the words used to scientifically describe the city. We know that some basic and general concepts considered in this book will change as a result of the inevitable changes in the city, because, as David Harvey expressed: “sociologist, economists, geographers, architects and city planners and so on, all appear to plough lonely furrows and to live in their

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own confined conceptual worlds” (1993, 24). The drawback of this is that each discipline uses the city as a laboratory to test propositions and theories, and much recent research deals “with problems in the city rather than of the city” (Leven 1993, 24). The city is planned with more “serious” purposes in mind. Money is being transferred, and buildings are destroyed along with the people who live in them and their dreams. All this for the sake of these financial considerations. The lives destroyed during this urban transformation are only known as a statistical value. However, despite this view, we know that the major force that shapes the city is the daily reality of human experience, because eventually the city is reconstructed everyday in the mind of a unique and inimitable “ordinary citizen.” So, we can say that the primary purpose of this book is to find the answer of to whom Istanbul does belong, which presents us with the richness of human experience and the practice of everyday life. As Henri Lefebvre points out, our experiences regarding the production of space are components of the production of space (Lefebvre 2000). Each type of interaction and communication process should be taken into account to see the city in conjunction with all its aspects. Thus, Istanbul, just like other cities, emerges as an Istanbul which is reproduced by each of its in habitants in everyday life. Our main and strongest wish throughout the process of compiling this book was to provide scientific contributions that highlight the ideal of “anyone who lives in Istanbul should have a say about the city,” instead of presenting surprising, weird and interesting life stories and trends.

Works Cited Burdett, Ricky & Sudjic Deyan, eds. 2007. The Endless City: The Urban Age Project. London: Phaidon. Calvino, Italo. 1974. Invisible Cities, trans. William Weaver. United States of America: Harcourt Brace and Company. Clausewitz, Karl von. 1955. De la Guerra. Paris, Minuit. Göktürk, Deniz, Levent Soysal & øpek Türeli, eds. 2011. østanbul Nereye? Küresel Kent, Kültür, Avrupa. østanbul: Metis Publishing. Hall, Stuart. 2006. “Cosmopolitan Promises, Multicultural Realities.” In Divided Cities, ed. Richard Scholar, 20–51. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Harvey, David. 1993. Social Justice and The City. Great Britian: Basil Blackwell.

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Keyder, Ça÷lar. 1999. Istanbul: Between the Global and the Local. Lanham: Rowman and Littlefield Publishers. Lefebvre, Henri. 2000. The Production of Space. Oxford: Blackwell Leven, C. 1993. “Towards a Theory of the City.” In Urban Development Models (National Academy of Sciences, Highway Research Board, Special Report 97, Washington D.C.), ed. G. Hemmens. Quoted in David Harvey. 1993. Social Justice and The City. Oxford: Basil Blackwell. Sassen, Saskia. 2001. The Global City: New York, London, Tokyo. Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University Press. Sudjic, Deyan. 2007. “Theory, Policy and Practice.” In The Endless City, eds. Ricky Burdett & Deyan Sudjic, 32-51. London: Phaidon. YardÕmcÕ, Sibel. 2005. Kentsel De÷iúim ve Festivalizm: Küreselleúen østanbul’da Bienal. østanbul: øletiúim, Zukin, Sharon. 1995. The Cultures of Cities. Oxford: Blackwell Publishers

PART I: THE CITY OF MEDIA

CHAPTER ONE UNCANNY ENCOUNTERS WITH THE CITY AND THE SELF IN WESTERN TRAVELOGUES ON ISTANBUL HANDE TEKDEMIR

“Here is a riddle for you unheimlicher bird. What is so strange it feels like home?” —Susan Mitchell, “Bird, a Memoir,” in Erotikon: Poems.

Focusing on a number of Western travelogues on Constantinople, this chapter discusses the main characteristics of a certain literary form that I call the “Istanbul canon,” in which the city has persistently been identified as uncanny. The traveller, who arrives in Constantinople with the expectation of finding the “Orient” as part of their Eastern journey, is shocked to see a partially familiar world that reminds them of home. Equally surprising is the glimpse into a pre-modern past, still surviving in the cityscape, particularly in the integration of the dead within neighbourhoods (i.e. the graveyards) and the nonhuman (i.e. the street dogs), and the parallels between this “strange” realm and one’s own remote, even forbidden and buried past, hidden from sight in the modernized world. While I examine various moments in which the Western traveller constantly moves between a familiar and unfamiliar world in Constantinople, I argue that such moments compel them to recognize the modern condition in which the uncanny is a constant haunting presence. On a textual level, too, the attempt to narrate this previously unknown place is juxtaposed with the strange familiarity of other travellers’ notes. “The textual uncanny” prompts the traveller to experience unexpected familiarity with this Oriental city that has been written about many times and to their own writing selfhood, which is annulled by the existing canon. As an integral part of the Istanbul canon, the frustration with canonical repetition caused by a sense of belatedness

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alienates one even from one’s own writing. Located geographically on the threshold between the East and the West, colonizer and the colonized, pre-modern and modern, the city’s ambivalent history functions as a means to understand the uncanny within the history of modernity. On the one hand, as the capital of the late Empire, Istanbul played a role in the colonization of parts of Europe, the Middle East and Africa (thus challenging the binary opposition between the colonizing West and the colonized East as posed by Edward Said in Orientalism [1978]). It was the centre of an Eastern empire, which competed for power with other European empires for more than four hundred years until the end of the nineteenth century. On the other hand, from the turn of the century until after World War I, Istanbul was a city under siege and occupation by European powers that tentatively shared the remains of the Empire, and which encountered strong native resistance to colonization. The result was that Turkey obtained independence before it became a colony. While my main argument is indebted to Edward Said’s discursive framework, as he outlines it in his pioneering work on British and French representations of the Orient, I limit my focus to travelogues written specifically about Istanbul. Within Orientalism’s spacious geography, Edward Said examines a body of European writing which helps to shape the production of the “Eastern myth” by Western narratives. The Orientalist assists in exacerbating the impact of a series of stereotypical images, with Europe (the West, the self) as the rational, developed, superior, authentic, active and masculine, and The Orient (the East, the other) as the irrational, backward, inferior, inauthentic and feminine (1978, 8). This system is designed to promote European imperialism and colonialism. Although the end of the nineteenth century, in particular, witnessed increasing pressure on the Ottoman Empire by the British and French, the relationship between Europe and the Ottomans did not really fulfil the criteria posited by Said in Orientalism. The fact that Orientalist texts produce a certain type of knowledge that is transformed into power over the Orient is only tentatively taken for granted throughout this chapter. Interrogating what the Orient actually does to the Western traveller, rather than what the West imposes on the Orient, I will examine the ways in which the traveller is unsettled and disordered, if not totally disempowered, as a result of their journey to Istanbul.

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The Textual Uncanny Lord Byron’s Constantinople letters, written during his two-month stay in 1810, project a writing self who is overtly hesitant to talk about Constantinople, even though it was the grand destination of his Oriental tour. As J. P. Donovan notes, Byron sounds impatient and unwilling to mention local details to his correspondents. His response to John Hanson is typical: “I came up in an English Frigate, but we were detained in the Hellespont ten days for a wind. Here I am at last, I refer you for the descriptions of Constantinople to the various travelers who have scribbled on the subject” (1993, 14). What Donovan calls “the antipathy to writing” in Byron’s letters is resistance to the obligation of writing. In a letter he wrote to R. C. Dallas, Byron expresses how he felt about this “unfinished business”: “I had projected an additional canto [of Childe Harolde’s Pilgrimage] when I was in Troad and Constantinople and if I saw them again it would go on; but under existing circumstances and sensations, I have neither harp, ‘heart nor voice’ to proceed” (1993, 16). Taking into consideration the multitude of travelogues written about Constantinople over the centuries, Byron’s silence is justifiable. There are various ways to recover one’s writing self: silence, so as not to repeat other accounts (as in the case of Lord Byron); negation of the referential network, so that one’s account is taken to be the most genuine and original and emphasis on the special case with one’s visit, etc. In all these cases, which will be further examined with textual examples from different travelogues below, the Western traveller nevertheless feels unsettled, if not totally obliterated. As an earlier example, Lady Montagu in Turkish Embassy Letters (1718) takes issue with her own predecessors who spend years in the European quarter Pera “without having ever seen it, and yet … pretend to describe it” (126); in the same manner Lord Byron will question her own veracity years later. Lady Montagu finds fault with a certain Mr. Hill who provides his reading public with false information about “a sweating pillar very balsamic for disordered heads” in St. Sophia. His remarks are equally wrong, Lady Montagu states, about the miserable situation of Turkish ladies, who are actually “freer than any ladies in the universe” (134). She also cannot avoid correcting a misleading remark by Gemelli, who claims that there are no remains of Calcedon [KadÕköy]—Lady Montagu writes that she personally visited the place on the Asian side of the city (140). On other occasions when Montagu displays reluctance akin to Lord Byron’s she refers the reader to certain writers such as Knolles and Sir Paul Rycaut. However, subtly implicated within her silence, her corrections,

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even her determination not to be redundant—hence listing of what she will not write—one may detect the very act of reiteration that she tries to avoid. The degree of self-consciousness in travellers whose reason for traveling is business is no less intense than those whose primary motivation is sightseeing. Charles MacFarlane’s visit to Constantinople, as he announces in the long title of his book, has a military purpose: Constantinople in 1828: A Residence of Sixteen Months in the Turkish Capital and Provinces with an Account of the Naval and Military Power, and of the Resources of the Ottoman Empire. Yet, his concern for originality is prevalent even in the preface: I was in Asia Minor at the date of the fatal conflict at Navarino—at Constantinople at the commencement of the Russian invasion; and … I flatter myself that my observations on the Turks during those trying circumstances, cannot be found wholly devoid of interest. (1829, xiii-xiv)

While MacFarlane seeks to render his account unique, his futile endeavour finds echoes in other travellers’ anxieties to authenticate their own texts and transgress the referential power of Istanbul writing. His account is likewise indebted to predecessors in situations akin to his: Dr. Walsh, in his deservedly popular work, has given an able account of Sultan Mahmood’s military reforms, which might seem to render further details unnecessary; but it was my fortune to see the development or extension of those plans, the progress made in them since the Doctor’s departure from the country, and to watch the working of the new system in the most critical moments. Thus, taking up the subject where he left it, I consider a portion of my work a humble continuation of my predecessor’s; whilst some details on the civil improvements of the Ottoman government, not noticed by Dr. Walsh, may pretend to entire novelty, which succeeding travellers [sic] will in their turn enlarge upon. (1829, xiv)

In order to be original, one has to acknowledge the accumulated canon so that the exceptional status of one’s own work becomes recognizable. James Cook quoting Miss Pardoe in 1891, [“I had brought with me for reperusal on the voyage, books that a long time ago, while I was still a lad, I had read with much interest though with some doubt as to their veracity, namely, Miss Pardoe’s ‘City of the Sultan,’ written in 1836, and N. P. Willis’s ‘Pencillings by the Way,’ written a year or two earlier” (1891, 8)], Julia Pardoe quoting Lady Montagu, and Lady Montagu referring to other authorities, generate at best a feeling of nausea and disorientation, evoked by an endless chain of repetition and deferral. The extensive scope of the canon is evident in the fact that travellers’ accounts go beyond the national

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archive. For instance, Mrs. Baillie, who visited Istanbul in 1871 on her way to Smyrna for missionary work, refers to English predecessors such as Julia Pardoe and Mrs. Grey in her introduction, while she also includes an allusion to Mark Twain’s aversion to Turkish coffee. The list is not exclusive to the past either, and substantial continuities can also be noted in contemporary texts. In Turkish Reflections (1991), American traveller M. L. Settle merges ancient texts with modern ones: … we have heard about so much to find an Istanbul I thought I already knew—my city of presuppositions—whispers and memories of pashas and harems and sultans and girls with almond eyes, the Orient Express of Agatha Christie, the spies of Eric Ambler, the civilized letters of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu. (1991, 37)

Hence, Western travellers, from different centuries and countries, describe identical moments in Istanbul that precipitate a heightened sense of self-consciousness. The travelogue’s originality and distinction is threatened because of the possibility that the text might either be too original (being too different from the canonical works) or not original enough (being too similar to the canonical works). The task of the writer writing of Istanbul, then, is to strike a balance between their personal voice and the public voice of the canon. What is uncanny about the canonical gesture of compulsory repetition of previous travelogues is the return to the beginning that seems to occur against one’s will. It should also be added that the split between the personal voice of the author and the literary canon posits a constant delay and deferral of the former, implicating the textual “uncanny” within the general framework of modern nostalgia. What is lost and cannot be recovered is the possibility of immediate presence or representation that is replaced by the act of compulsory repetition. This kind of citationality recalls Said’s examination of several Orientalist texts, in which textual authority facilitates Western domination over the Orient. By underlining that the Istanbul canon has no beginning, I therefore suggest nothing unique about its literary representations compared to other Orientalist writings that discover melancholy and belatedness in different parts of the Orient. More recent critical works on Orientalism also allude to the citational nature of the field. In Orientalist Poetics, Emily A. Haddad writes: “Because of Orientalism’s dependence upon its own past, texts often reveal their roots in preceding texts rather than in the Middle East as it might be experienced in the flesh” (2002, 5). Another well-known book in the field, Belated Travelers: Orientalism in the Age of Colonial Dissolution by Ali Behdad, discusses authors such as

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Chapter One

Nerval, Flaubert, Loti and Eberhardt, and argues that: The representations of these belated travelers thus do not close on an exotic signified, but practice an open deferment of signification; they are elliptic discourses, uncertain about their representations and melancholic about their inability to produce an alternative mode of writing about the desired Other. (1994, 15)

Although Behdad formulates his argument according to the assumption that it is always modern French writers who are belated travellers, and that “the somber discourse of nostalgia” is absent in late nineteenth-century British writing, I take issue with this claim since many Anglophone authors in this period express similar concerns about loss and disorientation as a result of their belated condition. In Constantinople: Settings and Traits, for instance, H. G. Dwight, an American traveller, apologizes for writing about Istanbul in 1907: “And to have gone deliberately to Constantinople, not in 1707, or in 1807, but in 1907 with the notion of turning out something between Loti’s Vers Ispahan and Howells’ Venetian Life, was quite inexcusable” (1926, vii). Such a frustrating experience, combined with the traveller’s selfconsciousness at being part of an extensive body of work that hinders efforts to be “authentic,” causes a continuous struggle between one’s past and present, home and elsewhere. While the next section provides a theoretical framework on the concept of the uncanny and Freud’s analysis of the term, the following section will focus on certain moments in which the Western traveller’s uncanny encounter with the city takes them back to a distant past and to the familiarity of one’s home.

Freud and Das Unheimliche As a point of reference and comparison with the new world one encounters, the genre of travelogue, by nature, evokes home or a familiar setting that does not have to refer to “home” in the strict sense of the term.1 What I would like to draw attention to in Western travelogues 1

There are constant references to home in A Sail to Smyrna, written by the missionary Mrs. Baillie. While she is climbing the Galata Tower, for instance, she compares the experience to climbing old church towers: “In mounting the stairs I was reminded of many a climb to the top of some old church-tower, or belfry, in my own country ….” (80). On taking off her shoes before they enter the house at Scutari to see the performance of Howling Dervishes, she thinks of the following: “I wondered whether, in the large heap of boots and shoes of all descriptions, we

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written about Constantinople is not the constant reference to home as merely a point of contrast, exemplified in the passages cited by Mrs. Baillie, but a more unplanned or unconscious reminiscence of home and the familiar. Hence, the traveller’s experience is not a direct comparison as in “this is reminiscent of that” or “this is different from home,” but more along the lines of “this reminds me of something, but what?” Strongly suggestive of yet different from déjà vu, the latter case can be described as recognition of the familiar that one repetitively stumbles upon accidentally when it is least expected, as in getting lost in a foreign city only to find oneself back at the same spot over and over again. Being lost, re-locating oneself, but returning to the previous location, feeling the sense of being lost again, only to recognize the surroundings as the spot that is revisited one more time, against one’s will—such an experience is related by Sigmund Freud as a personal anecdote in his 1919 essay “Das Unheimliche”: As I was walking, one hot summer afternoon, through the deserted streets of a provincial town in Italy which was unknown to me, I found myself in a quarter of whose character I could not long remain in doubt. Nothing but painted women were to be seen at the windows of the small houses, and I hastened to leave the narrow street at the next turning. But after having wandered about for a time without enquiring my way, I suddenly found myself back in the same street, where my presence was beginning to excite attention. I hurried away once more, only to arrive by another detour at the same place yet a third time. Now however, a feeling came over me which I can only describe as uncanny, and I was glad enough to find myself back at the piazza I had left a short while before, without any further voyages of discovery. (1919, 237)

The feeling of the uncanny occurs when Freud runs into a familiar site without planning it. It is noteworthy that although his trip back to the piazza is again another detour he does not identify this final trip as uncanny, wherein the accidental emerges as a crucial aspect. At its essence, what I examine in this article is as simple and ordinary as getting lost in a city and in making one’s way back, finding oneself unexpectedly at the same location, as occurs in Freud’s personal experience—that is, a persistent and inevitable return to the beginning that enables one to should ever find our own again; but, like the umbrellas at the London exhibitions, they turned up all right at the last” (1873, 93). Even when she tastes Turkish coffee, she thinks of home as she asks Dr. K, a friend who accompanies them around the town, “why it was so different from the coffee we drink in France and England” (1873, 129).

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confront the familiar within what they initially thought to be the unfamiliar domain (of a foreign city, for instance). The subsequent reaction is one of bewilderment, frustration and powerlessness. In Freud’s essay, the labyrinthine structure of the city surely exacerbates feelings of disorientation and lack of control; however, there is something in the act of repetition itself that seems to endow the whole experience with a sense of helplessness and uncanniness. The uncanny is a mysterious experience that is facilitated by the urban setting, which serves as a backdrop to the overpowering presence of that which is beyond the individual’s control. It is all the more uncontrollable, even unknowable, precisely because repetition evokes an unreal feeling of the familiar to the extent that it is transformed into the unfamiliar. Freud’s essay evokes the uncanny within the structures of urban space in such a suggestive way that it presents the act of re-tour, of going back to the same location, of the fatal involuntary repetition of the same–familiar as a modern phenomenon. In “Das Unheimliche”, Sigmund Freud argues that “the uncanny is that class of the frightening which leads back to what is known of old and long familiar,” and which challenges the equation of the term with “unfamiliar” (1919, 220). Tracing the various connotations of the term in the German language, Freud concludes that the two nonidentical, if not contradictory, dictionary meanings of Heimlich—of belonging to the house or the family, and of being concealed or kept from sight—suggest correlation with its opposite, unheimlich: “Thus heimlich is a word the meaning of which develops in the direction of ambivalence, until it finally coincides with its opposite, unheimlich. Unheimlich is in some way or other a sub-species of heimlich” (1919, 226). Such a nuanced meaning is not explicit either in the English translation, “the uncanny” or the French l’inquiétante étrangeté. As Spurr argues, both the English and German fall short of capturing “Freud’s evocation and simultaneous negation of The German heim: the home, le chez- soi” (67). Hence, the uncanny is not simply what is strange and unfamiliar. In reality, it is the thing that had been familiar in the past, but got lost and buried only to be recovered by the re-encounter with it through its opposite, the unfamiliar. In the article, the uncanny stands alternately for an emotional effect that is rooted in compulsive repetition (as in his urban experience of getting lost in the labyrinthine streets and returning to the same spot again), for the fear of losing one’s sight (as in Hoffmann’s story), for the overlap between the imaginary and the real (as in the story in which the table with carvings of crocodiles fire the residents’ imaginations), or for various other disconnected fears such as fear of castration, sorcery, death or being buried alive. Let us bear in mind

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that the uncanny is also about the persistence of the past in the present—a disjunctive experience that could paradoxically be described as modern. For the purposes of this and the following section, the connotations of the German word unheimlich are much more appropriate to bear to mind every time the English word uncanny is used. At the very moment the unheimlich collides with its opposite, the heimlich, the Western traveller confronts what has long been familiar to them. It is a moment of recognition, a retrospective awareness, in which they perceive the unheimlich within the heimlich. David Spurr defines the modern moment as “precisely the condition of that which is not-at-home and not-here, a time and space where the nature of presence itself takes on the quality of the ghostly or spectral” (2002, 67). According to Charles Baudelaire, modernity is “the ephemeral, the fugitive, the contingent, the half of art whose other half is the eternal and the immutable” (1995, 12). If the conflict between a familiar and unfamiliar world is one characteristic of modernity, what, then, would be peculiar about the experience of a Western traveller in Constantinople? In what way does travel to Istanbul differ from any other travel to a major city, or even to one’s native town, for which the conflict between the past and the present, home and elsewhere, is always at stake? The modern condition is by definition the realization of the unheimlich as part of one’s existence. In facilitating the European mind to recognize the modern moment as a constant state of notbeing-at home, what is special about Constantinople is the disjunction of the temporal and spatial order in such a way that one can see suggestions of both the present and the past, of home and elsewhere, imbedded within the structure of the cityscape/city space. The European traveller in Constantinople witnesses the juxtaposition of the two definitions of modernity quoted above, so that the experience contains a brief moment in which realization of a different temporal and spatial setting, an “unhomely” domain, clashes with a simultaneous recognition of it as one’s own past. The following section will demonstrate how Europe’s ambiguous other, not only located geographically elsewhere, but also, and perhaps more shockingly, left in the past, is brought back home—the traveller feels all the more unsettled in the end.

Journey into a Forbidden Pre-Modern Past For the Western traveller, the pre-modern characteristics of Constantinople are both radically different from the contemporary Western cities, but also uncannily reminiscent of one’s cultural past. An effective way to illustrate this juxtaposition is to follow Mrs. Baillie’s company as

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they head for the new part of the city across the Golden Horn after visiting the bazaars: “The moment we crossed the bridge we saw sedan chairs for hire, of the most old-fashioned style, such as we see in old pictures, and may remember our mothers and grandmothers used to employ to go to their evening parties” (1873, 78). Since the author starts by describing a scene from contemporary Constantinople, one can easily feel confused for a moment about the reference to “old pictures”—are they of Constantinople or of home? Hence, the Western traveller’s remote past is reflected onto the cityscape. Let us examine below the narration of Constantinople’s relation to the dead and the nonhuman as two canonical tropes that exemplify the Western traveller’s encounter with a pre-modern reality to which one is forbidden to return. There is a common trope in Western travelogues on Constantinople to mention the preponderance of cemeteries, which supposedly function as spaces of socialization and entertainment. As one American traveller notes: “Besides innumerable tombs and many small burial-grounds in the neighbourhood of the mosques within Stamboul, Pera, Stamboul itself and Scutari are all bounded on the land side by an almost continuous chain of grave-yards” (Crawford 1894, 17). It is, therefore, no surprise that the English officer MacFarlane accidentally runs into the vast Turkish cemetery during his first walk in Pera, where he observes: “… besides the ‘grand champs des morts,’ sit the groveling sons of Pera, on low stools, smoking their pipes, discussing, in their way, which is liberal and enlightened, the politics of the day, and enjoying as much pleasure as they are capable of” (MacFarlane 1829, 496). In various accounts, travellers observe that families visit their dead on Fridays and religious holidays so that they can eat, play and rest next to the deceased, which contrasts with the Western Christian civilization’s perception of death. Death is incorporated into the lives of the living in the Ottoman capital. When the Danish author and poet, Hans Christian Andersen, visits the Turkish cemetery at Scutari, he is befuddled to observe that: “[no] fence girds round this forest of the dead men’s graves” (1983, 840). H. G. Dwight, too, an American traveling to Constantinople in 1907, observes the manifest accessibility of the graveyards to the living: “Life and death seem never very far apart in Constantinople. In other cities the fact that life has an end is put out of sight as much as possible. Here it is not only acknowledged but taken advantage of for decorative purposes” (1926, 8). On the other hand, Muslim graveyards on the European side of the Bosphorus surprise Edmondo de Amicis with their frequent human traffic: “Little paths wind all about the wood; a Turk sits in the shade smoking his pipe; some children run and jump among the graves; a cow is grazing;

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hundreds of turtle doves coo among the cypresses; groups of veiled women pass by …” (1896, 40).2 These burial places, as observed by Julia Pardoe, are sometimes visited by couples, planning their future among the tombs, where they “sit hand in hand upon some lettered stone, to exchange their vows, and to lay plans for the future on the very threshold of the past!” (1839, 132). Overall, Pardoe’s portrayal of Turkish cemeteries in Beauties of the Bosphorus aptly recapitulates the predominant image they leave on the traveller: “There is certainly nothing which more impresses the mind or fills the imagination of the traveler in Turkey, than the appearance and situation of the burial places. The sunniest spots, where all is gaiety and gladness, yet find room for a grave, without being saddened by the partial occupancy of death” (1839, 130). Being more critical of Turkish manners and their “cruelty” for destroying the Byzantine past of the city, Frances Elliott describes the effect of graveyards in stronger language than any of the other travellers quoted above: “Anything more revolting in the centre of a town cannot be conceived. Without so much as a light fence to guard it from the thousands of passengers, carriages, carts, horses, mules, and porters—a rush, a noise, a hurry insulting to the dead” (31). The compartmentalization of space and the confinement of what is “disturbing” (i.e. the poor, the deranged, the dead) is the principal logic behind the modernization project, which is also an attempt to break with the past in which such “disturbing” aspects of society were considered to be interruptive of progress. In “Of Other Spaces, Utopias and Heterotopias,” Michel Foucault defines heterotopian space as “real and effective (other) spaces” which represent, and at the same time challenge

2

Later on in the text, de Amicis describes in more detail the use of graveyards as a place for relaxation: “… two Turks came up, leading a child between them, and, seating themselves upon a tomb slightly further on, opened a bundle they were carrying under their arm and began to eat. When they had finished, the elder of the two wrapped up something in a sheet of paper—it looked like a fish and a piece of bread—and with a respectful gesture, placed the little packet in a hole near the head of the grave. This done, they both lit their pipes and smoked peacefully, while the child played about among the tombs. It was explained to us afterwards that the fish and bread were left as a mark of affection for their relative, probably recently deceased; and the hole in which they placed it is to be found in every Muslim tomb, near the head, so that through it the dead may hear the lamentations of their friends, and may receive from them, through a few drops of rose water, the perfume of a flower. Having finished their smoke by the graveside, the two pious Turks took the child between them, and vanished among the cypresses” (1896, 44).

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and overturn, “real arrangements” of space (1993, 422).3 As a requirement of the modern outlook, cemeteries, as heterotopian spaces, are gradually driven out of the cities in Western societies: Up until the end of the eighteenth century, the cemetery was located in the very heart of the city, near the church … it is only from the nineteenth century on that the cemetery began to be shifted to the outskirts of the city. In parallel to this individualization of death and the bourgeois appropriation of the cemetery, an obsession with death as “sickness” has emerged. It is supposed that the dead transmit sickness to the living and that their presence and proximity to the houses and church, almost in the middle of the street, spreads death. This great concern with the spread of sickness by contagion from cemeteries began to appear with insistence toward the end of the eighteenth century, but the cemeteries only moved out to the suburbs during the course of the nineteenth. From then on, they no longer constituted the sacred and immortal wind of the city, but the “other city,” where each family possessed its gloomy dwelling. (1993, 423–424).

Hence, the cemeteries were perceived as separate cities, as can be detected in various accounts of European cemeteries in the nineteenth century. Tracing the historical development of Western attitudes towards death rituals, Philippe Ariès notes that Western civilization has gradually defamiliarized itself with death to the point of rendering its public discussion and acknowledgement marginal and “forbidden.” During the Middle Ages, “the old familiarity with death” allowed the transformation of the church courtyards which equally served as cemeteries, into public places (1974, 14). “The coexistence of the living and the dead” must have been so extreme that, as Ariès points out: In 1231 the Church Council of Rouen forbade dancing in the cemeteries or churches under pain of excommunication. Another council held in 1405 forbade dancing in cemeteries, forbade carrying on any form of gambling there, and forbade mummers and jugglers, theatrical troops, musicians, and charlatans to carry on their doubtful trades there. (1974, 24)

However, with the end of the eighteenth century and the beginning of the nineteenth century, the omnipresence of death in ordinary life 3

One of the principles of heterotopia is “the power of juxtaposing in a single real place different spaces and locations that are incompatible with each other” (Foucault 1993, 424). Foucault’s two Oriental examples, Persian gardens and Muslim hammams (1993, 424–425), are suggestive in taking into consideration whether the Orient, in its totality, can be heterotopian for the Western traveller.

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diminished together with the modern separation of the territory of the living from that of the dead. After long discussions, the first European city to abolish/ban intramural burials was Paris in 1763. According to the city council decision, the cemeteries around churches would be shut down and the graves would be transported to the cemeteries outside the city walls, which led to the opening of the then-biggest cemetery, Pere-Lachaise. With a few years of delay, similar developments took place in London between 1832–1841, with the construction of various cemeteries such as Kensal Green, West Norwood and Highgate (Laqueur 1997, 76). The developments in North America paralleled those of Europe, and Mount Auburn, built in 1831 in Boston, was the first cemetery constructed according to modern standards. This was followed by Laurel Hill in Philadelphia in 1836 and Green-Wood in New York in 1838 (Laqueur 1997, 76). European travellers’ encounters with the cemetery at the heart of the city in Constantinople can, for this reason, be interpreted as facing one’s cultural past that was buried, forgotten or concealed from sight at the expense of being modernized. What is shocking, then, is seeing the possibility of an alternative to modern methods of confining the dead and becoming aware of one’s past in which such a possibility had been realized. Turkish cemeteries, as portrayed in travelogues, create an ambiguous territory that not only bring death to the heart of the city, but also re-regulate the relationship between the dead and the living in challenging ways. With their uncustomary ways of accommodating the dead, Turkish cemeteries, on a broader scale, inaugurate a critique of modernity that questions modern methods of burial. Another shocking aspect of the Ottoman capital for the European traveller is the abundance of street dogs, whose presence writers narrate with the same style of repulsion and surprise at such “lack of control” as is seen in the account of graveyards. “Constantinople is one vast dog kennel; everyone notices it as soon as he arrives,” writes Edmondo de Amicis at the beginning of his four-page analysis of this “second population of the city” (1896, 80). Indeed, together with other depressing scenes from the “filthy” streets of Constantinople, the sight of dogs is only one of the details which cause a profound sense of disappointment immediately after being enchanted with the panoramic view of the city: On passing through Galata, and ascending the steep “infidel hill” to Pera … we hardly met a soul on our way up, but swarms of starving, mangy dogs, perambulated the silent streets, giving me an opportunity on my very first arrival, to make the acquaintance of this pest of the Ottoman capital. (MacFarlane 1829, 49)

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The reason why Turks feed dogs and allow them to roam freely in the streets and to create a subterranean world with their own set of rules, claiming their own districts, is ambiguous. In fact, the enigma surrounding the “sacredness” of dogs in Constantinople serves as yet another point to frustrate and disorient the Western traveller, confronted with what seems to be a lack of control of the nonhuman at the heart of the city, in addition to the lack of control over the non-living and the graveyards. One reason why the Western traveller is disturbed to see the streets overpopulated with dogs can be considered in purely aesthetic terms—they simply present an unattractive sight: Broken tails, torn ears, mangy fur and scarred necks, one-eyed, lame, covered with galls and devoured by flies: reduced to the worst state a living dog can be in, they are relics of war and hunger and sexual disease. Tails can be said to be an immense luxury: it is rare for a Constantinople dog to have an entire tail for more than two months of public life. Poor beasts! (de Amicis 1896, 83)

Apart from the predominant sentiment of disgust at the poor condition of the street dogs, their idleness and their self-created world that escapes the regulatory mechanism of human beings are the two major disturbing features that are persistently repeated within these accounts. As de Amicis writes: They form a great free and vagabond republic, collarless and nameless, without tasks to perform, without a home to go to, without rules to obey. They sleep almost always in the same spots. Just like the human population, the canine inhabitants of Constantinople are divided into districts. Every quarter, every street is inhabited or rather owned by a certain number of dogs, their relatives and friends, who never leave it, and never allow strangers to enter. They exercise a sort of police patrol. (1896, 81–82)

The fact that street dogs in Constantinople cannot be disciplined, that their independence infringes upon the regulation of daily life, and sighting them is interruptive of the enchanting panoramic view of the city, seems to revive a pre-modern past subdued by the project of modernity. It is noteworthy that dogs cuddled up together, in harmony with the “elementary” forces as quoted below, are reminiscent of a heap of dung, yet another “disturbance” that needs to be cleaned from the streets to maintain a more “modern” appearance.

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… no one, at least in Stamboul, ever thinks of disturbing [the dogs’] occupations or their repose. They are the masters of the public highways. In our cities, the dogs make way for the horseman or pedestrian; there it is the people, the horses, the camels, the donkeys, who make way for the dogs. (...) Laziness is the distinctive trait of the dogs of Constantinople. They lie down in the middle of the road, five, six, then in a row, or in a ring, curled up so that they look more like a heap of dung than living creatures … When it snows they stay under the snow; when it rains they lie in the mud up to their ears, so that when at length they get up they look like clay models of dogs, with no visible eyes or ears or muzzles. (de Amicis 1896, 81–82)

Moreover, their laziness cannot be accommodated by the modern world in which every animate and inanimate being is assigned a certain place and function, even if that means animals must be domesticated— confined and regulated. The sight of street dogs in Constantinople serves as a means of inaugurating discussion about what they remind the traveller of, rather than their actual condition. For Mrs. Baillie, for instance, the dogs’ idleness initiates a chain of thought that proceeds to the idleness of certain human beings: I confess I could not help thinking, as I walked along, how these Stamboul dogs resembled our idle Christians, “dumb dogs, lying down, loving to slumber,” well-to-do in this world, and apparently harmless, but useless and lethargic, only roused by an injury or grievance to turn and bite. (1873, 78)

Whether it is the fear of extreme disorder that is reminiscent of an anarchical structure or an alternative organizational system that develops outside human mechanisms, or of the disturbance of the harmony posited by the Christian worldview, what seems to be ultimately so disquieting for the Western traveller, as they stroll around the city, is bearing witness to human will being compromised, instead of being efficient and in command of the modernized world. The return to the “beginning”—to the once-heimlich that it is now forbidden to enter—is facilitated by the urban structures of Constantinople. The complications of Constantinople’s ambiguous geography—being inside and outside of Europe, being inside and outside of the modern—render the city both familiar and unfamiliar for the Western traveller. If the modern condition is maintained in and through being differential, if it can never be stabilized as a final condition, but only by negation, then Constantinople is

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at the point of experiencing that “dead end” when negation is persistently delayed.

Works Cited Andersen, Hans Christian. 1983. Hans Christian Andersen: The Complete Fairy Tales and Stories. Eds. Virginia Haviland et al. Trans. Erik Hougaard. New York: Anchor. Ariès, Philippe. 1974. Western Attitudes Toward Death: From the Middle Ages to the Present. Baltimore: John Hopkins University Press. Baillie Mrs. 1873. A Sail to Smyrna: Or, An Englishwoman’s Journal; Including Impressions Of Constantinople, A Visit To A Turkish Harem, And A Railway Journey To Ephesus. London: Longmans, Green, and Co. Baudelaire, Charles. 1995. The Painter of Modern Life and Other Essays. Trans. and ed. Jonathan Mayne. London: Phaidon Press. Behdad, Ali. 1994. Belated Travelers: Orientalism in The Age Of Colonial Dissolution. Durham: Duke University Press. Cook, James. 1891. Something about the Mediterranean and Beyond: A Trip to Constantinople and Back. Paisley: Renfrewshire Gazette. Crawford, Francis Marion. 1894. “Constantinople.” Scribner’s Magazine 15 (1) (January): 3–22. Donovan, J. P. 1993. “Don Juan in Constantinople: Waiting and Watching.” The Byron Journal 21: 14–29. De Amicis, Edmondo. 1896. Constantinople. Trans. Caroline Tilton. New York: Putnam's Sons. Dwight, H. G. 1926. Constantinople: Settings and Traits. New York and London: Harper & Brothers Publishers. Elliot, F. 1893. Diary of an Idle Woman in Constantinople. Leipzig: B. Tauchnitz. Foucault, Michel. 1993. “Of Other Spaces: Utopias and Heterotopias.” In Architecture Culture 1943–1968, ed. Joan Ockman, 420–426. New York: Rizzoli. Freud, Sigmund. 1955. “The Uncanny” (1919). In The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud, ed. James Strachey, 219–256. London: Hogarth Press. Haddad, Emily A. 2002. Orientalist Poetics. Aldershot: Ashgate. Laqueur, Hans-Peter. 1997. østanbul'da OsmanlÕ MezarlÕklarÕ ve Mezar TaúlarÕ. [Ottoman Cemeteries and Tombstones in Istanbul]. Trans. Selahattin Dilidüzgün. østanbul: Türkiye Ekonomik ve Toplumsal Tarih VakfÕ.

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MacFarlane, Charles. 1829. Constantinople in 1828: A Residence of Sixteen Months in the Turkish Capital and Provinces with an Account of the Naval and Military Power, and of the Resources of the Ottoman Empire. London: Saunders and Otley. Montagu, Mary Wortley, Lady. 1718. The Turkish Embassy Letters. London: Virago Press, 1994. Pardoe, Julia. 1839. Beauties of the Bosphorus. London: Proprietors. Said, Edward. 1978. Orientalism. New York: Vintage Books, 1994. Settle, Mary Lee. 1991. Turkish Reflections: A Biography of a Place. New York: Touchstone. Spurr, David. 2002. “Spectres of Modernity: Notes on the Uncanny in Modern Literature.” Rivista di letterature moderne e comparate 55 (1) (Jan–March): 67–81.

CHAPTER TWO FROM ISTANBUL WITH LOVE: THE NEW ORIENTALISM OF HOLLYWOOD MURAT AKSER

It has been fifty years since the James Bond film From Russia with Love chose Istanbul as its exotic location. There have now been more than 150 films that present Turkey and Turks as imagined by the West (Scognamillo 2006). More than sixty years of participating in the Western system of democracy, of having established a liberal market economy and a functioning multi-party political system, the image of Turkey within Hollywood is still “Eastern.” So, according to Hollywood, whose city is Istanbul? What is “Eastern” in this image of Istanbul? It is a globalized city, a city of spectacle reproduced endlessly in Orientalist literature. The source of discourse of Orientalism can be found in the cities of the East such as Cairo, Damascus, Baghdad and Tehran. These cities are currently involved in a completely different day-to-day reality—they are the centres of national and international political tensions, of bloody demonstrations that enact changes in power that occur in a heartbeat and of the grim reality of daily suicide bombings. Istanbul has a slower pace of life compared to other Eastern cities (at least until the Gezi Park protests of June 2013). The feeling of a flowing rhythm within a quiet, peaceful atmosphere still remains in the city of Constantine. In this sense, Istanbul becomes an ideal ground for Hollywood and other foreign action films, a natural area of contrast with other Oriental cities, where the calm and slow East is abruptly disturbed by Western interference. Classical Orientalism produced its own discourse, and everything written and drawn is recycled from previous material. The West irresistibly built an image of the East that it wanted to see. Today, people all over the world do not share a common frame of reference and a single source of information about the East. The world now operates through a globalized flow of information, capital and people and there are a multitude of sources for communication. However, when classical methods of Orientalism are repeated, is it still

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possible to create the Eastern image through traditional methods by forming the reproduction of the image of the Eastern in cinema? This chapter will deal with these questions primarily from the perspective of the last two films to take place in Istanbul: Skyfall and Taken 2. With the advent of the twentieth century, the image of the city found a new representation in cinema. The cinema had a way of shattering the existing images and bringing them back together in montage form. As Scott McQuire puts it: “filming the city in fragments creates a constructed realism achieved via montage.” He further argues that “cinema is an integral step in the formation of the media city, pointing towards an emergent condition in which an expanded matrix of media feedback loops increasingly shape the ambiance and intensities of urban space” (57). The early examples of filming the cinematic city can be found at Walther Ruttmann’s Berlin, Symphony of a Great City (1927) and Dziga Vertov’s Man with a Movie Camera (1929). Busy city streets full of people and cars in movement. Indeed, there is colour, movement, sound and speed in the filmic representation of the city. The aim of the early filmmaker was to present the symphonic city, rather than to simply show the views of the city (Ibid., 59). It is this symphonic montage of the city’s speed that has captured the imagination of Hollywood filmmakers, leading them to present Istanbul as a slow Oriental city energized by the Western hero.

Istanbul Exoticism: A Pre-History The Lumière Brothers and Pathé sent their camera operators to shoot images of the imperial Oriental city as early as 1896.1 Ahmet Gürata and Murray Pomerance state that film history’s first tracking shot was made in two untitled films shot for the Lumière Brothers by their camera operator Alexander Promio (Gürata 2011, 34; Pomerance 2013, 2). These shots show an Eastern city—one of tranquility, of covered women, street salesmen and coffeehouses. The slow Eastern life attributed to Istanbul can be best observed in a painting by Osman Hamdi Bey titled “The Turtle Trainer” (1906). Here, the Ottoman animal trainer is depicted instructing a turtle, an animal known for its slow pace and longevity. The trainer’s posture is servile, his clothing Eastern—a tunic complete with a turban. It is this image of the Ottoman, the Eastern, the Oriental, that gives the idea of the slowness of time and tranquillity to the Western imagination. 1

Screenings immediately followed film production in Istanbul as new research into the early cinema in Turkey indicates. See Dilek Kaya Mutlu 2007, Balan 2008 and Çeliktemel-Thomel 2009.

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Fig. 2.1. “The Turtle Trainer” (1906) by Osman Hamdi Bey.

There have been Turkish filmmakers who have successfully depicted the city in different decades as a dynamic place. In these films there is the clean, neat and modern city of Istanbul (østanbul SokaklarÕ 1931; ùehvet KurbanÕ 1940, d. Muhsin Ertu÷rul), with beautiful landscapes surrounding the Bosphorus (YÕlmaz Ali 1940, d. Faruk Kenç). Mehmet Muhtar in 1950 (østanbul Geceleri), Lütfi Ö. Akad in 1952 (Kanun NamÕna) and Halit

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Refi÷ in 1964 (østanbul’un KÕzlarÕ) showed Istanbul slowly transforming into a city of immigrants from the rural parts of Turkey. Between 1958 to 1962, a flood of films showcase Sirkeci, Eminönü and Ortaköy, all of which are near the sea and located in ancient and historical areas of Istanbul. Films like AltÕn Kafes (d. Osman F. Seden, 1958), Üç Arkadaú (d. Memduh Ün, 1958), YalnÕzlar RÕhtÕmÕ (d. Lütfi Akad, 1960) and ùöför Nebahat (d. Metin Erksan, 1960) allow us to travel across the city to see the diversity of locations and lifestyles. The mahalle, the small streets where people know each other and maintain a code of honour that views neighbours as family, are displayed in a variety of films. KÕrÕk Çanaklar (d. Memdun Ün, 1960), Üsküdar øskelesi (d. Suphi Kaner, 1960), Otobüs YolcularÕ (d. Ertem Göreç, 1961), Üç Tekerlekli Bisiklet, AcÕ Hayat (d. Metin Eksan, 1962) and Külhan AúkÕ (d. Osman F. Seden, 1962) are some of the pre-1963 films that show very positive and progressive images of Istanbul, and this city full of people, immigrants, tourists and ordinary citizens has been depicted time and time again.2 Yet, American films tend to portray the city as mysterious, exotic, Eastern, sensual, filled with covered women, men with moustaches, with Arabic music playing in the background and almost always with men wearing that long-forgotten and forbidden piece of headwear, the fez. The Rug Maker’s Daughter (d. Oscar Apfel, 1915) and The Virgin of Stamboul (d. Tod Browning, 1920) are the earliest narrative feature films by Westerners. These films, like others after them, use the basic plot of rescuing a Western girl from Oriental brutes by a Western superhero. The older Hollywood films did not shoot on location. Instead, they used varying techniques, from the use of stock footage to rear projection. Gürata (2011, 24) lists these films: Journey Into Fear (d. Norman Foster, 1943), Background to Danger (d. Raoul Walsh, 1943), The Mask of Dimitrios (d. Jean Negulesco, 1944), 5 Fingers (d. Joseph L. Mankiewicz, 1952), Istanbul (d. Joseph Pevney, 1957) (KÕr 2010, 22) and You Can’t Win ‘Em All (1970) (Özgüç 2011). The James Bond film franchise twice chose Istanbul as a location before Skyfall (d. Sam Mendes, 2012) with the films From Russia with 2

There are just too many films to list here, but some of the titles include Turist Ömer (d. Hulki Saner, 1964), KaranlÕkta Uyananlar (d. Ertem Göreç, 1964), Suçlular AramÕzda (d. Metin Erksan, 1964), Son Kuúlar (d. Erdo÷an TokatlÕ, 1965), Yasak Sokaklar (d. Feyzi Tuna, 1965), østanbul Tatili (d. Türker ønano÷lu, 1968), Beyo÷lu’nun Arka YakasÕ (d. ùerif Gören, 1986), 2 Süper Film Birden (d. Murat ùeker, 2005) and Beyaz Melek (d. Mahsun KÕrmÕzÕgül, 2007). The city of Istanbul is used so brilliantly that most Turkish blockbusters have made it their habit to shoot in the city (Akser 2013).

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Love (d. Terence Young, 1963) and The World is Not Enough (d. Michael Apted, 1999). The 1963 film, the second in the Bond series, introduced a city where Turkish people were composed of Kerim Bey and gypsy women. The featured location, the Hagia Sophia, was the ultimate Christian stronghold in the Western imagination. James Bond’s presence in the Oriental city of tranquillity disrupts the peace with the actions of Western men. This early Bond film presents the city from the viewpoint of a montage of images. A ùiúli mansion stands in for the Russian Consulate and is connected to the Grand Bazaar through the underground tunnels of the Basilica Cistern. All three locations are kilometres apart geographically, but a cinematic reality has been created for the viewers through montage. McQuire states that this spatio-temporal malleability of film conflicts at a fundamental level with the existing urban form (McQuire 2008, 62). This cinematic approach will be repeated by many Hollywood films in depicting Istanbul in the years to come. Jules Dassin’s Topkapi (1964) added more mystery and an Eastern diamond to the formula. Later to be used in the Mission Impossible series, the famed shot of the robber being lowered in from the ceiling has been carved into the minds of cinema audiences worldwide. It is a memorable scene depicting the peace of the Oriental city, as represented by the Sultan’s diamond, violated by the Western thieves. Similarly, Sidney Lumet’s Murder on the Orient Express (1974) presented Istanbul as a calm Eastern city disturbed by the actions of Western conspirators. There have been occasional European films that have created fantasies about Istanbul in a similar manner. Vampyros Lesbos (Jesús Franco, 1971) presents Istanbul as an otherworldly dark space. Years later, Turkish director Kutlu÷ Ataman returned to the Basilica Cistern to shoot another horror film Serpent’s Tale (1994). The exception to the rule would be Alain Robbe-Grillet’s L’Immortelle (1963). Shot as though viewed through the eyes of the Europeans who entertain an Orientalist fantasy of the city, Robbe-Grillet deconstructs this by turning his camera on it. The Alan Parker directed and Oliver Stone scripted Midnight Express created negative associations for Americans who would not visit the city for many years because of the fear mongering it initiated. The film’s depiction of prison scenes created outrage across the world (Kaya Mutlu 2005). Midnight Express has a chase scene in a crowded market, a favourite place where American films tend to depict the whole city. Recent international productions use Istanbul as a backdrop for international conspiracy. The Accidental Spy (d. Teddy Chan, 2001) Fay Grim (d. Hal Hartley, 2006), Mission Istaanbul (d. Apoorva Lakhia, 2008)

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and The International (d. Tom Tykwer, 2009) all have scenes shot at standard locales, such as the Basilica Cistern, the Grand Bazaar and the Blue Mosque.

Skyfall: Istanbul as a Montage City In 2012, the fiftieth anniversary of the first film adaptation of the James Bond novels was celebrated. The producers Michael Wilson and Barbara Broccoli chose Istanbul for the opening sequence of Skyfall, the twenty-third instalment of the largely successful film franchise. The first thirteen minutes of the two-hour film present all the basic Orientalist biases towards the city. The most important Orientalist approach to Istanbul is that it is a city of ancient monuments and not of people inhabiting it. When there are people they are bystanders to Western people. The images of women are those of covered women. We catch a glimpse of the exotic Oriental woman as a body to be covered, hidden, a place where secret and dark desires reside.

Fig. 2.2. Bond brings darkness and intrigue to the city of tranquillity.

The Grand Bazaar is another location of envy and desire. In the motorcycle chase scene, the villain is pursued by Bond (Daniel Craig) into

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the Grand Bazaar, where Bond and his adversary go through the roof and then plunge into the narrow corridors of the ancient bazaar. The chase takes only seconds, but gives enough of the Oriental look that has been imagined for the city. Oriental (Arabian) music plays amid the chaos as the men chase each other. The streets of Istanbul are presented to us after Bond discovers his colleagues dead. The scene is in darkness, contrasted by sepia (Oriental) tones. We, the audience, know that it is a place of trickery and deception. Another quality presented by Hollywood’s Orientalization of Istanbul is its conversion from a slow-paced, quiet place into one of noise and chaos by the Westerner. The jeep following Bond crashes into local businesses during the motorcycle chase. The whole situation is observed by unknowing “Eastern” people who look on passively. The passersby on the vibrant and colourful streets of Sirkeci and Eminönü stand still to observe the Westerners who chase through the narrow alleys and on to the rooftop of the Grand Bazaar with the Blue Mosque in the background. Turkish flags prominently displayed above the heads of the speeding Westerners are indications that this place is indeed Turkey.

Fig. 2.3. The Westerner wreaks havoc on the quiet Eastern bazaar.

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The Western imagination that converts the tranquil Oriental space into a place of action knows no limits, as it also creates false geographies. In the train scene, we see one example of how Western film productions create fake places so they can be whatever they want. Although there is a train station near the opening chase in Skyfall, no such roads and mountains exist in or near Istanbul. The train sequence is shot in Adana, a southern Mediterranean city of Turkey. The Bond production team took the train 1,000 miles away from Istanbul and yet linked the two locations in the film through its narrative. This is no surprise, as during the very same year the Academy Award winning film Argo (d. Ben Affleck, 2012) used Istanbul to stand in for 1979 revolutionary Iran. As filming was not possible in today’s anti-American Iran, Ben Affleck and company instead chose Istanbul to portray Eastern tranquillity as well as the place that would soon be in turmoil because of the appearance of disruptive Western agents.

Taken 2: Speed as an Image of the West In an American-French co-production, Istanbul is once again a city of calm that is disturbed by Western intervention. Liam Neeson’s CIA agent Bryan Mills had previously saved his daughter Kim (Maggie Grace) from trouble in Paris in the Pierre Morel directed 2008 film Taken. Written and produced by Luc Besson, Taken 2 (d. Olivier Megaton, 2012) brings a more positive approach to Istanbul as compared to Skyfall, but still reproduces Orientalist clichés found in Hollywood films. This time a Muslim Albanian human-trafficking ring decides to take revenge on Bryan’s family and kidnap him and his wife Lenore (Famke Janssen) in Istanbul, leaving their daughter Kim to find and rescue them. In Taken 2 the Turkish flag imprints itself on the city giving it a more national look. The mosques are dressed with flags, and they are seen in streets, hanging on stores and other buildings. As with Skyfall, the persistence of the Turkish flag can be interpreted as an overseas Hollywood production trying to appease local authorities (Elmer 2005; Behlil 2010). The display of the flag is supposed to stamp national pride on the location which otherwise could be interpreted as an Oriental place. The locations used similarly evoke the idea of tranquillity, an Orientalist Istanbul staple, as in previous films. The Blue Mosque is shown several times and the aerial shots of Galata Bridge are numerous. The chat between Bryan and Kim takes place on a ferry that calmly crosses the Bosphorus. Bryan drinks Turkish tea and talks of Europe and Asia, of conquests and the importance of Istanbul to world history. Such

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dialogue seems to find its way into the screenplay through international co-production agreements enforced by the Ministry of Tourism in Turkey. During the trip, we see the Blue Mosque again and in colder, calming blue tones when Westerners are shown. The common historic locations used in the film try to evoke the Oriental idea of Istanbul as a calm city where areas near Eminönü and the Grand Bazaar appear prominently. The Westerner disrupts this tranquillity with a rooftop chase when Kim is pursued by the Albanians. Here, Oriental Istanbul is depicted with streets full of people and with all the women wearing headscarves and moving slowly and quietly. In certain scenes, women are dressed in burkas, covering their eyes, severing them from the scrutiny of Western eyes. The closed body of the Eastern women with veiled faces inspires the contrast of Western interference. While Kim is waiting for her father, women in burkas scold her for not covering up, disrupting the calm of the Eastern city. Other placid women of Istanbul are shown as average and middle class, wearing no headscarves in the hotel scene, which is shown to balance the biased approach. They similarly appear with no voice except in scenes where they are in contact with Kim, warning her that she is disrupting the Eastern order of calm. Taken 2 shows Istanbul once again as a calm Eastern city where evil Western men cruise the dirty, old, secret alleys for intrigue. Albanian human traffickers are shown in sepia tones in alleyways in contrast to the cold blue tone of the city. The colour Bryan is filmed in is also warm sepia, at times close to red. He is the one most disruptive of Eastern peace and quiet in the film. During a car chase, Bryan creates havoc while driving a BMW. He crashes into vendors, and riders fall off their motorbikes. During the car chase with the police, he even shoots a police captain. The Bourne Ultimatum like chase ends at the American Embassy in Istanbul, and Bryan’s final fight ends at a hammam (steam bath). The Turkish hammam is the ultimate place of tranquillity presented in Western Orientalist imagery, and this place is disrupted by two Westerners trying to kill each other. From start to finish, Taken 2 recreates a quiet and tranquil image of Istanbul as an Eastern city by contrasting the tranquil people and spaces with action-filled scenes of Westerners fighting each other.

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Fig. 2.4. The tranquillity of the mosque conflicts with the chase scene involving Western men in Taken 2.

Conclusion Gürata states: … the clichés of how Istanbul is signified in cinema have not changed much since the early travelogues. As a cosmopolitan city, Istanbul provides a setting for a number of binary oppositions such as East-West, communist-capitalist, Asian-American, and exotic-modern. (Gürata 2011, 25)

There have been studies of cinema and the city where cultural qualities and norms are imposed by national cinemas (Brunsdon 2012; Göktürk, Soysal & Türeli 2010). The bias towards Orientalism in Hollywood persists today in the form of international co-productions that fake Istanbul as a location for other places, or in some cases try to give a national touristic view. These films reproduce the image of Eastern-Orientalist Istanbul as a place of quiet tranquillity that is disturbed by Western action men fighting each other. The calm places and people that are disturbed when Western men chase each other in the dark alleys where intrigue lies are persistent in Western filmic imagination (Burris 2008). Istanbul—a city of covered women, dark-bearded men, the Grand Bazaar, the Blue

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Mosque and Galata Bridge—is disrupted by chaos introduced by Western men. The old way of imagining Istanbul the city as a place of tranquillity is now replaced by the presence of chaos-producing Western men to disturb the peace. By doing that, by contrasting the action within this quiet space, the West can represent the city that conquers its image as a bridge between East and West.

Works Cited Akser, Murat. 2013. “Blockbusters.” In Directory of World Cinema: Turkey, ed. Eylem Atakav. London: Intellect. Balan, Canan. 2008. “Wondrous Pictures in Istanbul.” In Early Cinema and the “National,” eds. Richard Abel, Giorgio Bertellini & Rob King. New Barnet, Herts: John Libbey Publishing. Behlil, Melis. 2010. “Better Late than Never? The Role of Policy in the Turkish Cinematic Revival.” Film International 8 (6): 21–29. Brunsdon, Charlotte. 2012. “The Attractions of the Cinematic City.” Screen 53 (3): 209–227. Burris, Gregory A. 2008. “Sultans of the Silver Screen: The Turk in Reactionary Cinema.” Journal of Popular Film and Television 35 (4): 164–173. Çeliktemel-Thomen, Özde. 2009. The Curtain of Dreams: Early Cinema in Istanbul. Diss. Central European University. Elmer, Greg. 2005. Contracting out Hollywood: Runaway Productions and Foreign Locations. Lanham, Md: Rowman & Littlefield. Göktürk, Deniz, Levent Soysal & øpek Türeli, eds. 2010. Orienting Istanbul: Cultural Capital of Europe? Oxfordshire: Routledge. Gürata, Ahmet. 2012. “City of Intrigues: Istanbul as an Exotic Attraction.” In World Film Locations: Istanbul, ed. Özlem Köksal, 1-7. London: Intellect Books. McQuire, Scott. 2008. The Media City: Media, Architecture and Urban Space. London: Sage Publications Mutlu, Dilek Kaya. 2007. “The Russian Monument at Ayastefanos (San Stefano): Between Defeat and Revenge, Remembering and Forgetting.” Middle Eastern Studies 43 (1): 75–86. —. 2005. “The Midnight Express (1978) Phenomenon and the Image of Turkey.” Historical Journal of Film, Radio and Television 25 (3): 475– 496. KÕr, Semra. 2010. østanbul’un 100 Filmi. østanbul: Kültür A.ù. Köksal, Özlem, ed. 2012. World Film Locations: Istanbul. London: Intellect Books.

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Özgüç, Agah. 2011. Türk SinemasÕnda østanbul. østanbul: Dönence. Pomerance, Murray. 2013. “A World That Never Was: Old Special Effects, New Eyes.” In New Cinema, New Media: Reinventing Turkish Cinema, eds. Murat Akser & Deniz Bayrakdar, 2-26. Newcastle upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Press. Scognamillo, Giovanni. 2006. BatÕ SinemasÕnda Türkiye ve Türkler. østanbul: +1 Kitap.

CHAPTER THREE TV SERIES AND THE CITY: ISTANBUL AS A MARKET FOR LOCAL DREAMS AND TRANSNATIONAL FANTASIES EYLEM YANARDAöOöLU

When the first “city planning activities” for Istanbul began in the early 1990s, they aimed to make Istanbul “a world city” in twenty years. But this vision was already shaken by the end of 1990s when critics began to caution that “development” in Istanbul, as in all global cities, had been “exceedingly uneven” and could feed “cultural conflict, revolving around the definition of locality and identity, between the globalizers and the localizers, somewhat akin to the modern-traditional clash.” In this light, Istanbul was considered a “divided city” (Kültür BakanlÕ÷Õ & Tarih VakfÕ 1993: 273; Keyder 1999, 23–25). Indeed, when I went abroad as a student at the end of 1990s, coming from Turkey meant very little to friends and colleagues apart from hazy stereotypes about men with moustaches and girls with headscarves. Istanbul, in their minds was far from being a global city; it mainly reminded them of a scene from the infamous film Midnight Express. My friends and tutors struggled in terms of where to place me in their minds, unless they had previously visited Turkey. When we were split into groups for discussions I neither fit comfortably into the groups from Middle East, nor from Europe. At social functions, it was hard to explain to them that “No, I did not take off my headscarf before coming to London to study because I had not worn one before, and yes, I had had an alcoholic drink before.” Those were the early days of mobile phones and digital cameras. Google was the newest search engine, and “I kiss you, Mahir” was the trending internet topic which added to my embarrassment. There was no Facebook or Twitter, and I could not even dream of the ways in which the Gezi protests were mobilized via the help of social media. There were

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no cheap airlines whizzing about Turkish airspace. It was the end of the 1990s and the beginning of the 2000s. It was hard to show, to mediate, that there were many different ways of “being” from Turkey.1 Then, lady luck smiled on me. Beginning with Galatasaray’s UEFA championship in 2000, a series of events made me walk the streets of London with a certain smile on my face, relieved that my friends could now spot Turkey on the European map!2 Sertab Erener’s success in the Eurovision song contest in 2003 and Orhan Pamuk receiving the Nobel Prize in 2006 both bolstered “national pride and amplified Turkey’s and Istanbul’s image abroad.” (Göktürk, Sosyal & Türeli 2010). These events, as commentators argued, came after the conscious effort of adopting tourism as an economic development policy, and investing a lot of money in advertising campaigns for “nation branding” (Ibid.). The rise of the international appeal of Istanbul in the last few years was probably furthered by another catalyst—the domestically produced TV series. These “showcased” Istanbul's natural and architectural beauty for productions such as Aúk-Õ Memnu (Forbidden Love), Gümüú (Silver) and Yaprak Dökümü (Falling Leaves) because they chose old mansions on the Bosphorus as their location for filming. They became extremely popular in North Africa, the Balkans, the Gulf states, the Middle East and beyond (Göktürk, Soysal & Türeli 2010). Even political analysts could not ignore their positive appeal when discussing the extent of Turkey’s “soft power” because these series were helpful in “promoting Turkey in general and Istanbul in particular as a repository of dreams, wealth and modernity” (Öktem 2012). In fact, one of the most rapidly developing areas in Turkish media in the last decade was in the production of TV series. Until the beginning of the 2000s, these series were locally produced and consumed TV products. They varied from big productions of literary adaptations to small budget sit-coms, but all somehow managed to glue their viewers to the TV screens. They imagined and reinvented the cities and lives in southern towns or Kurdish villages. However, these efforts were most 1

Keyder (1999, 25) here mentions the division or differentiation between class formations, employment structure and having access to global material flows. That is why he argues that: “within this separation of spheres conflict arises where the public space cannot be privatized, where the interaction is unavoidable. All the big ideological battles of recent years have focused on the control of the public space and its symbolism of public morality: headscarves in schools, location of mosques, nudity on billboards.” 2 I use “Europe” in the simplest sense of the geographic term, being aware of all the ideological and historical tensions around its semantics and symbolism.

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profound in Istanbul, not only because its sister sectors—media and cinema—were based in the city, but also the city itself, with its layers of history and diversity, could accommodate various “re-imaginations.” Thus, the series spoke of the stories of lost community life, rekindling viewers' longing for good old neighbourhoods, for the Bosphorus and for the islands. They also spoke of the city’s rich, its underclass, its privileged and the marginalised (Mersin 2007). In the last decade these series became more professional, industrialised and transnational. So far, around seventy different Turkish TV titles are broadcast to audiences in thirty-nine countries. For instance, in the Arabic-speaking countries they comprise approximately 60% of the shares in foreign programme broadcasts. Observers also note a considerable rise in the number of tourists from the Middle East, who come to Istanbul on package tours specifically to see the venues where certain series were filmed (Milliyet, February 19, 2011). This chapter considers the factors that made these TV series such major attractions for both national and transnational viewers. It offers an appraisal of the development and transformation of TV series production in Turkey, with a special focus on Istanbul. It is believed that a closer look at the development of TV series production provides a fruitful point of entry into understanding the dynamics of mediation of Istanbul as a global city and the role it plays in Turkey's highly volatile media industry. In this account, Istanbul is seen both as a site/platform of TV production and as a site where meaning is both produced and consumed.3 The primary data is drawn from a number of in-depth face-to-face interviews that were conducted in Istanbul at the end of 2011 and 2013.4 The focus of the interviews with professionals in the TV sector was about the last phase of the production of these TV series, and on their transnationalization due to the growing success and popularity of Turkish television series in parts of Africa, the Middle East, Europe and Asia. The interviewees comprised TV scriptwriters, producers, and representatives from TV marketing and distribution companies. In this chapter, the television drama (soap operas) as a genre in general is outlined first, and an overview of the socio-political context that has shaped television drama production in Turkey is presented. The chapter 3

Istanbul is seen as a “key locale” for TV series production in the way Stokes (1999) identified it for the music industry in the city. For “visual consumption” of cities with the aid of media technologies see Xavier Costa (2009, 181). 4 I conducted one of the first studies on this topic in 1999 with scriptwriters in Istanbul as part of my post-graduate studies. My study analyzed the booming period of the 1990s domestic private television production in Turkey.

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later considers the ways in which television drama relates to the transformation of Istanbul as a global city by focusing on the parallels with cinema. Finally, some of the trends in the transnationalization of Turkish TV products are discussed. The aim of the chapter is to assess the significance of these TV series for the visibility and recognition of Istanbul as a global city in the public realm in Turkey and beyond.

Television Drama: The Soap Opera Genre Television drama is a general term used to define soap operas, either daytime or primetime TV serials and/or series. The genre appears in different social contexts, all of which create major interest among television audiences. The term “soap opera” was used for distinct programs such as South American telenovelas, British social-realist serials and U.S. daytime and primetime serials (Brundson 1995). The soap opera, generally categorized as daytime programming aimed at women, was also used derisively, the expression denoting trivial dramas. Preliminary approaches to analysing the genre were concerned with its negative impact on women because it was believed to be perpetuating dominant cultural values (Dinez & Humez 1995). The genre of soap operas was taken more seriously in the 1980s as a result of a growing interest in popular television forms and by an awareness prompted by feminism, which has argued that a form which is so popular among women cannot be ignored as a subject of study.5 Due to the emphasis culturalist perspective scholarship, feminist media studies included, has placed on women's genres, soap operas were deemed “worthy” of studying. As Geraghty (1991) maintains, the format also moved beyond the traditional definition of the term because primetime soap operas introduced new stories with a focus on gender, race and class. These tendencies within the format have thus attracted other audience groups, such as university students and males as well as women, because they convey messages about family, motherhood, marriage, children, love, pride, passion, ambition, business success, friendship, solidarity and community ties.

5

Charlotte Brundson argues that feminism has been important in producing a context in which soap opera can be taken seriously because feminists became interested in the soap opera as a “women’s genre” and the shift in the media theory from hard/current affairs programs to softer/fiction programs allowed for an emphasis on representations of everyday life. Studies challenged the distinction made between high/low cultures, serious/trivial forms (1995, 62).

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The Changing Media Structure in Turkey: 1980s to 1990s In order to fully grasp the success behind both the national and transnational success that these TV series enjoy, we need to consider television’s intricate relationship with cinema and the advertising industry specifically, and the overall changes in media ownership mechanisms within the Turkish media and the media sector in general. In the decade 1980–1990 two important events changed the media structure of Turkey: transition to a neoliberal economy after the 1980s coup, and the break-up of the state monopoly over broadcasting. The military coup of September 12, 1980 limited all forms of political and cultural expression and held print and broadcasting media under tight control. The military government stayed in power until 1983 and designated what could be printed and transmitted via the media by proscribing taboo subjects (KejanlÕo÷lu 2001; TÕlÕç 2001). In this period, financial pressures on the press also had major consequences for the media structure in Turkey. For instance, authorities increased the sale prices of paper as a tactic to weaken the financial situation of traditional owners so that investors could enter the sector by buying out failing newspapers. Indeed, business elites, with investments in finance, tourism, construction, banking, steel, or the automotive industry, began taking over media outlets to gain intellectual and political prestige and power. With the entrance of business elites into print media, journalism turned into a “commercial” venture (Topuz 2003). Due to financial pressures and the harsh restrictions on political expression, the press had to re-adjust itself to the these newly emerging conditions in the mid-1980s. As a result, it shifted its focus and style of reporting from politics towards entertainment, culture and lifestyle (U÷ur 2002). The state monopoly on broadcasting was broken at the beginning of a new decade when satellite transmissions from Germany began on the TV channel Star 1. It created a chaotic and illegal sector which was then rectified with the new broadcasting law in 1993 that allowed commercial broadcasting (ÇaplÕ 2001). In 1990, commercial television channels and radio stations mushroomed in the communication market. The private channels also owe their existence to the changing media ownership structure as a result of economic liberalization. New owners from various other business sectors considered media outlets to be lucrative

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investments to gain prestige for their business and political influence (AdaklÕ 2006).6 The private channels’ appeal emanated from introducing different formats that were mostly absent on TRT (Turkish Radio and Television) screens. The commercial channels introduced new formats and new terminology to the audience such as “ratings,” “primetime,” “talk show,” “stand-up show” and “reality show.” Formats like talk shows, reality shows, quiz shows, erotic night aerobics, Turkish movies and all “those were the good-old-days” types of TV series constitute the major forms that have appeared since the emergence of commercial television in Turkey (KejanlÕo÷lu 1998). The identities which were normally excluded from the state television such as “Islamic and Kurdish intellectuals, Alawi fathers and sect leaders” have also had the opportunity to appear in programs on commercial television. This has also resulted in “diversification in the characters presented in the serials, comedy shows as well as other programs and topics” compared to the state-run channels (Alankuú-Kural 1995) Although the television audience first encountered TV series in the TRT period, their appetite for local drama helped the growth of production companies. At the end of the 1990s there were around forty primetime serials per week on television. TV dramas became the major output of commercial television in this period, ranging from seasonal series with thirteen or twenty-six episodes to longer ones that have been on air for at least five seasons (Yanarda÷o÷lu 1999).7 Currently, the TV production market is dominated by locally produced TV series such as Muhteúem YüzyÕl and Öyle Bir Geçer Zaman ki, and these shows comprise the genres that are dominant in terms of advertising revenue.8 There are around thirty independent TV production 6

Currently, there are five major media conglomerate groups that dominate the market: Do÷an Media Group, Çukurova Group, Turkuaz Group, Do÷uú Group and Ciner Media. In 2011, Do÷an Media Group sold its newspapers Milliyet and Vatan to a joint venture between Karacan and Demirören Holdings. 97% of the households in Turkey own a TV and the advertising market is estimated to be 2.4 million USD (Figures are provided by TIMS Productions). 7 On a given weekday (for instance, December 13, 2011) there can be up to 22 TV series shown across the five biggest private channels, some of which would be repeats of previous seasons’ shows during the daytime schedule, or the new seasons’ primetime series (www.medyatava.com). 8 Interview and information provided by Timur SavcÕ (Head of TIMS Productions, November 1, 2011, Istanbul).

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companies and “cut-throat competition” for securing primetime slots. In this highly competitive market, “the money spent each year for the production of TV series in Turkey is around 1.5 billion US dollars. At the beginning of each broadcast season about 100 new series are aired on television, but only a few continue to be broadcast.”9

Fig. 3.1 Numerical dispersion of primetime Turkish TV Serials.

“Good Old Istanbul” as the Backdrop and Plot for TV Series As suggested above, the break-up of the state monopoly in broadcasting in 1990 allowed the opening of new outlets for the expression of cultural identities and further democratisation of the public sphere. Also, due to the changes in the Turkish media’s organisational structure, journalists and column writers emerged as the new “intellectual icons” who celebrated liberal economic transformation, and the new lifestyle that it promoted by creating a particular interest in minority cultures, and a nostalgia for the “good old days of Istanbul” (Bali 2002) which celebrated memories of the cohabitation of multi-faith minority communities in the multicultural past as well as their culinary practices, music and language. The acknowledgment of diversity was more acceptable for non-news or fictional products. As critics note, the revival 9

Interview with FÕrat Gülgen, the head of major TV series distribution company, Calinos Holding. Gülgen estimates the domestic advertising revenue to be around 2.5 billion US dollar per year (Interview, November 3, 2011).

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of an interest in the Ottoman past was evidenced in novels, memoirs and musical recordings (Bali 2002; Stokes 1999). This celebration has become a part of the new urban culture in big cities, especially in Istanbul. Similarly, when Martin Stokes accounts for the “spectacular growth” of Istanbul and its “dramatic entry into the national imagery,” he highlights the impact of economic liberalisation that intensified after the 1980s coup, which dramatically increased Istanbul’s population, as well as the cleft between the haves and have-nots in the city. Stokes argues that Istanbul had come to represent both the “symbol and practice of new kind of politics” which was liberal, populist and global, and “as an object of liberal fascination, the city has increasingly been presented by its managers as a cosmopolitan melting pot, a global melting pot in which the best Eastern and Western culture can flourish” (1999, 126). Stokes’s arguments are put forward to explain the ways in which Istanbul became a “key locale” for the music that grew out these changes and how it was experienced in Turkey. It is my contention that what he argues for the music scene also holds for cinema and drama productions, albeit indirectly. Indeed, Istanbul was featured “in almost every film from traditional commercial cinema to contemporary self-reflexive auteur films,” and it “has been used as a background in films by the early directors of Turkish cinema such as Muhsin Ertu÷rul, AtÕf YÕlmaz and by many foreign producers” (Dönmez-Colins 2008, 8; Scognamillo 2010, 832) . When the national audience in Turkey encountered the soap opera format in the early 1970s with the broadcast of American TV series on TRT, the institution for the first time (in 1974) commissioned famous film directors from the national Yeúilçam (Green Pine) cinema to direct TV series to cater to growing audience demand.10 The first TV series, which mainly involved literary adaptations such as Aúk-Õ Memnu by Halit Ziya UúaklÕgil, required high standards of technical quality. The television and cinema sectors in Turkey were inextricably linked to each other. Critics noted that TRT’s commissioning of TV series was part of a strategy to help the “declining” cinema industry due to the advent of television (Aksel 2011, 18). Towards the end of 1980s, attraction created by such local productions considerably increased TRT’s advertising revenues, which eventually paved the way for 10

The so-called Yeúilçam system (1960–1970s) operated on small budgets and low technology but still produced 250 to 300 films per year. It also copied popular Hollywood films and their melodramatic narratives mainly portraying themes like “revenge, unrequited love, betrayal and city versus country” (Simpson 2006, 6).

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independent production companies to emerge as the demand for local productions grew (Aksel 2011). The Yeúilçam system constituted the backbone of the production companies that produced TV series for the newly emergent private channels. Some of the titles of this boom period that still continue to resonate in the collective memory of Turkey have all used old and established neighbourhoods of Istanbul as the background for their stories. The “use of Istanbul” as a site of film production was not new, and TV production companies followed the tradition of cinema production. As Scognamillo explains, the reason Istanbul was a necessity for Turkish cinema was due to an “abundance of material and concerns about cutting down production costs, [because] if a production company is based in Istanbul, they would not make films about Antalya.” He also argued that: Cinema is a product of Istanbul, in fact a product of the Beyo÷lu district, which accommodates a number of cinema halls, production companies, studios and film labs. [Because] its centre and brain is in Istanbul, Turkish cinema also found its heroes and its stories in Istanbul. This is essentially a system of convenience. Istanbul is the apple of Turkey’s eye, it is the fairytale city which millions of people dream of, its pavements and soil are golden. But at the same time, it is a city of adventures, contrivance and surprises. (2010, 832)

The plots of local TV series in the 1980s and 1990s mainly had “nationalistic and conservative” undertones, promoted “family values” which refrained from questioning the status quo and were in line with the political climate (Aksel 2011). The series Perihan Abla [Sister Perihan 1986–1988] was, in fact, one of the first of the “community series” that focused on the lives of average citizens, rather than epic stories. It also marked the beginning of “mass interest” in TV series in Turkey (TanrÕöver 2011). It was set in the modest, historically multicultural Kuzguncuk neighbourhood (mahalle), tucked away on the Asian side of the Bosphorus, with beautiful old houses, residents of a predominantly Greek (Rum) heritage and a closely-knit community lifestyle. It was based on a love story between Perihan and ùevket, two lower-middle class characters, struggling to cater to their families’ wishes, but looking forward to establishing a family of their own. In addition to Perihan and ùevket’s daily interactions with each other, characters like local shopkeepers featured in the series as some of the main characters, adding

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to the flavour of community and belonging to a small district of an increasingly globalising Istanbul (Time Out Istanbul, June 2011). A deeper look into the ways in which Istanbul was used as a background for TV series that encourage the tendency to visually glamorise the city with its old neighbourhoods, the Bosphorus and buildings points to three interrelated factors that impinge on Istanbul as a site of production. The first, similar to Scognamillo's argument above, pertains to the rapid growth in film production and its “essentiality.” Istanbul presented to producers and directors a certain convenience because it was somewhat like a natural habitat where all the elements needed for film and TV production existed. Furthermore, the use of Istanbul as the background/site of production for these TV series can be traced back to the personal histories/backgrounds of the people who produced or scripted them. For instance, Nilgün Öneú, who wrote the script and/or created the plot for community series such as økinci Bahar and Süper Baba among others, states that within the stories she created11 were elements from her life. As her comments below reveal, these longings or wishes for certain elements in daily life were destroyed by the neoliberal transformation and or globalization of Istanbul. Another writer, Yavuz [Turgul], grew up in Valideçeúme as a proper mahalle boy. In the mahalle, human relationships are much closer and warm. One reason why the theme of neighbourhoods in Istanbul is used in the series is because they are lost now. I live in Cihangir, but it is not a mahalle any longer. My friends don't come and visit me just by knocking on my door. The culture of sharing [solidarity] and the atmosphere of the neighbourhoods changed after the 1980s coup, especially in Istanbul, because individualism has become more prominent. (Interview, April 6, 2013)

Supporting these views, critics have similarly noted that the reason series such as Süper Baba, Bizimkiler and Perihan Abla became so popular among audiences was because they “mythologized the neighbourhood solidarity that middle-class urban people had lost in their real lives” from 1980s onwards (Alankuú-Kural 1995.) In the postmodern setting, the longing that was felt for the lost elements of daily life made itself felt in a curious way. The residents of Kuzguncuk had identified with the series Perihan Abla so much that they 11 She especially mentions Yavuz Turgul, a prolific producer and writer of films, TV series and advertising.

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managed to change the name of street on which the series was shot from its original Üryanizade to Perihan Abla as a tribute to the fictitious character who resided there on television. The famous kebap shop in Samatya, another fictional place originally built as a prop in the main square for the TV series økinci Bahar, was later turned into an actual kebap restaurant by an entrepreneur who wanted to take advantage of the interest of tourists, fans of the series, had shown in visiting the neighbourhood in which the series was filmed (Time Out, June 2011). 12 The examples above reveal, on a small scale, the last issue that pertains to the use of Istanbul as the background/site of production for the production of TV series—its marketability because of the transformation the neoliberal regime began three decades ago. As Bayraktar & AkçalÕ (2010, 166) aptly argued, the increase in the number of films which told stories “in and about Istanbul” can be explained by the fact that the city “has increasingly transformed itself into a convertible commodity by opening itself up as a spectacle to both the domestic and international spectator’s tourist gaze.”13 The naming of the street and starting a business because of a TV show can be considered ways in which the social and cultural fabric of daily life in Istanbul is opened for the tourist gaze or consumption. The name Üryanizade was given to that street in Kuzguncuk as a tribute to a nineteenth century ùehy-ül-Islam, head of Islamic affairs, during the Ottoman period. The kebap shop in the square in which økinci Bahar was filmed never existed before the TV series. The simulacra of television (cf. Baudrilliard) has somehow managed either to erode historical references or create new ones. In either case, through the screen of the television, the city is packaged and/or “re-imagined” even for the local inhabitants or “consumers.”

12

Popular shows that have also chosen key historic locales (mahalle) for their film sets include Süper Baba in Çengelköy, CanÕm Ailem in Emirgan (both historical hamlets in Istanbul on either side of the Bosphorus) and økinci Bahar in Samatya, another historical and multicultural neighbourhood in the city. 13 The authors explain this phenomenon by referring to the rapid changes in Istanbul, “in terms of its spatial relations and imaginary geography” where the skyline in the city is continuously transforming due to “ever-taller and multiplying towers, housing developments, offices and residential apartments, as well as colossal luxury hotels … shopping malls, restaurants, cafes and nightclubs in everincreasing numbers” (2010, 172).

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Istanbul as a Transnational Fantasy: The TV Series as Tourist Attraction As scholars observed, by the mid-1990s the cinema sector in Turkey began to change due to the emergence of a new generation of “auteur directors” whose works facilitated a “rapid growth in Turkish domestic film production.” In this period, “Turkish cinema witnessed a major increase in film production and ticket sales, efforts to market Istanbul as a global city both to the rest of the world, and its own inhabitants intensified. This obviously meant creating attractive images of Istanbul as well as offering new experiences to enjoy these images in reality” (Bayrakdar & AkçalÕ 2010, 166–168). During this period, there was also a growing appetite for content for the private television sector, which galvanized the need for better quality and professionalism in domestic TV output. At the end of 1990s, when the sector established itself both at a national and an international level, the story lines eventually diversified.14 The growing need to meet the demands of the advertising and private television sector is considered the major driving force behind the successful transnationalization and growing professionalization in the production techniques of TV series. This situation is explained by Timur SavcÕ, the owner of TIMS Productions, the company that produces Magnificent Century,15 currently shown in more than forty countries around the world, as follows: Until the beginning of TV production there was very little qualified output. I was working in the advertising industry. We were working with foreign directors of photography, and we were following their wishes. The equivalent [technical] quality could not be found in our television series at that time. But since 2000, [professionals] who were inspired by the advertising sector, who had a vision, began to produce TV series. As the economy [TV content] grew and private television mushroomed, the competition became fiercer. Thus, it has become an imperative to pay more attention and care to the quality of [series] production. (Interview, November 1, 2011).

14

The new narratives included politics, crime, inner-city problems, rural-urban migration, integration and problems of transnational families (Yanarda÷o÷lu 1999). 15 The series that depicts the life of Sultan Suleiman the Magnificent (Lawmaker). TIMS is considered one of the most successful production companies in Turkey in recent years.

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According to the international sales specialist of Kanal D, Ezgi Ural, the exportation of Turkish TV series abroad began as a “coincidence,” not a planned marketing endeavour. As she recalls, it all began when one of the directors of Saudi-owned MBC on a visit to Turkey watched a TV series in his hotel room in Antalya and noticed the cultural similarities, which led the channel buying some of the Turkish series (Interview, November 3, 2011). The first Turkish series to be broadcast in the Arab-speaking countries was called (Gümüú) Nour, which attracted an unprecedented eighty-five million viewers, mainly women. It also attracted harsh criticism from the conservative and religious circles that formed Arab public opinion. For instance, it was criticized by the Saudi Mufti AbdulAziz Al-Sheikh, who found the drama “criminal, harmful and corrupt” and issued a fatwa that said watching the show was “evil” (Yanarda÷o÷lu & Karam 2013). Nour’s controversy notwithstanding, Turkish TV series have dominated the programming scene on Arab satellite TV, comprising approximately 60% of the share of foreign broadcasts (Milliyet, January 15, 2011).16 There are many reasons that Arab audiences, especially women, are drawn to Turkish drama series. Data garnered from one of the first empirical studies on this phenomenon demonstrates that audiences don’t seem to find Turkish series a threat to Arab cultural identity (Yanarda÷o÷lu & Karam 2013). The main reason female audiences express for finding Turkish TV series appealing focuses on the perceived “lack” of social equality between the sexes in the Arab World, or the polished, mostly rich, modern, urban lifestyle of Istanbul depicted in the series. For instance, Myada (f. 24) from Egypt says that she watches Turkish TV shows because “they are very romantic and rich in stories. All the shows are attractive and always new.” Compared to Egyptian shows, Myada said: “[when] you watch Egyptian shows, even if they are well made, you can’t compare them to Turkish shows. Egyptian series show the same story, the same sequence, the same actors, but Turkish series 16 Following Nour’s success, several Arab satellite channels aired other titles such as Genco (His name is Genco /Al Hilm Al Dae’a). The audience shares of the series Ihlamurlar AltÕnda (Under the Linden Trees/Sanawat Al Daya’a) surpassed even the shares of the Arab series. See: http://www.todayszaman.com/newsDetail_getNewsById.action?load=detay&link= 162232 (accessed 10 November 2011). Also see: http://muratyildirim.wordpress.com/page/4/ (accessed 11 May 2013)

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have innovative stories … The most amazing thing about the Turkish shows was their decoration/furnishings that we have never seen in other shows.” She also added: “the country is clean, there are nice landscapes and dressing is fashionable. I love their traditions and customs, but, of course, it is very different from us. They seem very open minded and liberal, not like us at all.” Sarah (f. 32), who lives in Maadi, Cairo, is also an avid fan of Turkish TV series and the first thing that attracted her to the shows was the elegance and lifestyle they depicted. She said she liked the way the Turkish shows such as Aúk-Õ Memnu focus on the details, and the outfits of the actresses are very elegant and feminine (Yanarda÷o÷lu & Karam 2013, 11). As the comments of fans like Myada and Sarah on Turkish TV series reveal, Istanbul is also a site of “fantasies” for Arab audiences. This trend is evident in the increase of tourists Turkey attracts from the region, which seems to be fuelled by the polished images of Istanbul depicted in the TV series. According to the latest figures, the number of tourists from the Middle East has risen 350% since the TV series began airing in the region (Pazar, February 19, 2011b, 6). What began as a trial period on the Arab satellite network MBC in 2006, expanded quickly as it had immediate and profound results. By 2013, “Turkey had become a world-class player in the global television ecosystem, and the drama series became the nation’s most important cultural export.”17 Drama, which is considered to be the most popular form of programming throughout the MENA [Middle East and North African] region, is now dominated by Turkey. Turkish drama series prices have risen from 3,000 USD an hour in 2008, to 30,000 USD an hour today.18 FÕrat Gülgen, the director of Calinos Holding which distributes about 80% of Turkish series abroad, goes as far as suggesting that “print

17 These were the words of Patrick Jucaud-Zuchowicki, Founding Manager of DISCOP, in the foreword of the conference book DISBOOK West Asia (2013) DISCOP is a forum and conference on television production and TV markets. It was launched in 1991 and currently targets the two growing regions West Asia and Africa. The first DISCOP conference in Istanbul was organized in 2011, with 32 countries participating from Central Asia, the Middle East and North Africa. This section of the forum was recently labelled West Asia, which covers more than five hundred million television viewers. For details, see www.discop.com and www.discopwestasia.com (accessed 11 May 2013) 18 DISBOOK West Asia conference material (2013, 52).

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KÕvanç’s19 photo in a paper and you can market it to the Middle East as a TV series,” because he believes that: These TV series create a certain opinion regarding Turkey. They watch the series and they wonder, then they visit Turkey personally to know real Turkish people … When these tourists go back to their homes, they become our envoy. The job we are doing has strategic importance. (Milliyet Pazar, February 19, 2012, 6)

The Yeúilçam cinema system and current production companies have been historically and strategically based in the city because Istanbul was a “necessity” for drama production. But the city now seems to have acquired a new position, as a “key locale” (Stokes 1999) both in the sense of an open-air filming venue and a site where various cultural, social and political meanings are reproduced and consumed on domestic as well as transnational levels. The transnationalization of Turkish TV series and products is contributing to the image of Istanbul as a global city, attracting thousands of tourists. It is increasingly becoming a global brand for cultural consumption. It is perhaps not enough for the city to remain a backdrop for the narratives that are told on the small screen because it increasingly appears as one of the major characters in these TV series, a site with its own persona, that the series producers feel the need to showcase in the best light.

Works Cited AdaklÕ, G. 2006. Türkiye’de Medya Endüstrisi Neoliberalizm Ça÷Õnda Mülkiyet ve Kontrol øliúkileri. Ankara: Ütopya YayÕnevi. Aksel Ya÷cÕ, Can, Sevgi. 2011. Yerli Dizi Serüveninde 37. Sezon. Beyaz CamÕn Yerlileri: DokunaklÕ Öyküler, Dokunulmaz Gerçeklikler., ed. Ya÷cÕ Aksel. Kocaeli: Umuttepe YayÕnlarÕ, 13–47. Alankuú-Kural, Sevda. 1995. “Türkiye’de Medya, Hegemonya ve Ötekinin Temsili” Toplum ve Bilim (671): 76–110. Bali, N. RÕfat. 2002. Tarz-Õ Hayat'tan Life Style'a: Yeni Seçkinler, Yeni Mekanlar, Yeni Yaúamlar. Istanbul: øletiúim. Bayrakdar, Deniz & AkçalÕ, Elif. 2010. “Istanbul convertible: A Magic Carpet Ride Through the Genres.” In Orienting Istanbul: Cultural

19 Actor KÕvanç TatlÕtu÷, a leading figure in famous TV series such as Gümüú and Aúk-Õ Memnu, is a heartthrob for female audiences.

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Capital of Europe?, eds. Deniz Göktürk, Levent Soysal & øpek Türeli, 165–177. Oxfordshire: Routledge. Brundson, Charlotte. 1995. “The Role of the Soap Opera in the Development of Feminist Television Scholarship.” In To be Continued … Soap Operas Around the World, ed. R. C. Allen. 49–65. London: Routledge. ÇaplÕ, Bülent. 2001. “Media Policies in Turkey Since 1990.” Kültür ve øletiúim [Culture & Communication] 4 (2): 45–53. Dinez, Gail & Humez, Jean, eds. 1995. Gender Race and Class in Media: A Text Reader. London: Sage. Dönmez-Colin, Gönül. 2008. Turkish Cinema: Identity, Distance and Belonging. London: Reaktion. Geraghty, Christine. 1991. Woman and the Soap Opera: A Study of PrimeTime Soaps. Cambridge: Polity Press. Göktürk, Deniz, Levent Soysal & øpek Türeli. 2010. “Introduction: Orienting Istanbul-Cultural capital of Europe.” In Orienting Istanbul: Cultural Capital of Europe?, eds. Deniz Göktürk, Levent Soysal & øpek Türeli, 1–24. Oxfordshire: Routledge. KejanlÕo÷lu, D. Beybin. 1998. “1980’lerden 90’lara Türkiye’de Radyo Televizyon YayÕncÕlÕ÷Õ.” Birikim (110): 44. —. 2001. “The Media in Turkey since 1970.” In Turkey since 1970, ed. D. Lovatt, 111–135. Basingstoke: Palgrave. Keyder, Ça÷lar. 1999. “The Setting.” In Istanbul: Between the Local and the Global, ed. Ça÷lar Keyder, 3–30. Boston: Rowmand and Littlefield. Kültür BakanlÕ÷Õ ve Tarih VakfÕ. 1993. Dünden Bugüne østanbul Ansiklopedisi, Cilt 5, Kültür BakanlÕ÷Õ ve Tarih VakfÕ Ortak YayÕnÕ. Mersin, Serhan. 2007. “Yerli TV Dizilerinde Mekan ve SÕnÕfsal Temsil.” øletiúim AraútÕrmalarÕ 6 (1): 63–98. Milliyet. 2011a. Türk Dizilerinin YurtdÕúÕ Rekoru. Milliyet [online], January 15. http://www.milliyet.com.tr/turkdizilerininyurt disirekoru/ekonomi/sondakika/15.01.2011/1339711/default.htm (accessed February 20, 2011). —. 2011b. Ortado÷u’da KÕvanç, Balkanlar’da øse Kenan Seviliyor. Milliyet, February 19, 6. Öktem, Kerem. 2012. “Projecting Power: Non-conventional Policy Actors in Turkey’s International Relations”. In Another Empire: A Decade of Turkey’s Foreign Policy Under the Justice and Development Party. eds. Kerem Öktem, Ayúe KadÕo÷lu & Mehmet KarlÕ. Istanbul Bilgi Üniversitesi YayÕnlarÕ.

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Scognamillo, Giovanni. 2010. “Sinemada Istanbul.” In Istanbul Ansiklopedisi, 832–834. Istanbul: NTV YayÕnlarÕ. Stokes, Martin. 1999. “Sounding out: The Culture Industries and the Globalization of Istanbul.” In Istanbul: Between the Local and the Global, ed. Ça÷lar Keyder, 121–142. Boston: Rowmand and Littlefield. TanrÕöver U÷ur, Hülya. 2011. Türkiye'de Film Endüstrisi'nin Konumu ve Hedefleri. Istanbul: Istanbul Ticaret OdasÕ YayÕnlarÕ. Timeout Istanbul. June 2011. Istanbul Dizi ve Filmleri. Online. http://www.timeoutistanbul.com/film/makale/2289/%C4%B0stanbulDiziFilmleri/ (accessed May 3, 2013). TÕlÕç, L Do÷an. 2001. 2000'ler Türkiye’sinde Gazetecilik ve Medyayı Anlamak. Istanbul: Su YayÕnlarÕ. Topuz, HÕfzÕ. 2003. II. Mahmut'tan Holdinglere Türk BasÕn Tarihi. Istanbul: Remzi Kitabevi. U÷ur, A. 2002. Kültür KÕtasÕ AtlasÕ: Kültür, øletiúim, Demokrasi. Istanbul: YapÕ Kredi YayÕnlarÕ. Xavier Costa. 2009. “Spaces of Consumption.” In Enhancing the City: New Perspectives for Tourism and Lesiure, eds. G. Maciocco & S. Serreli, 181–184. London and New York: Springer. Yanarda÷o÷lu, Eylem & Karam, Imad. 2013. “The Fever That Hit Arab Satellite Television: Audience Perceptions of Turkish TV Series.” Identities: Global Studies in Culture and Power. http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/1070289X.2013.823089 (accessed May 10, 2013).

PART II: THE CITY OF ELITES

CHAPTER FOUR NETWORKED GENTRIFICATION: PLACE-MAKING STRATEGIES AND SOCIAL NETWORKS OF MIDDLE CLASS GENTRIFERS IN ISTANBUL EBRU SOYTEMEL AND BESIME ùEN

Gentrification, a term that was first coined by Ruth Glass (1964) to describe the residential movement of middle-class people into workingclass neighbourhoods, has been on the agenda of urban studies for nearly three decades. Several explanations account for gentrification, and although gentrification has different features in different cities, scholars agree that it is a physical, economic, social and cultural phenomenon which “involves the invasion of working-class neighbourhoods by middleclass or higher-income groups within inner-city locations that resulted in replacement or displacement of the original occupants” (Hamnett 1984). Gentrification is not only considered a change in a neighbourhood’s appearance, but it is also evaluated as a process of spatial-social change and an economic restructuring (Zukin 1987; Smith 1987; 2002). Gentrification studies have been important in terms of discussions related to the relationship between globalisation, neoliberalism and the changing role of the state (Smith 2002; Lees et al. 2008). Furthermore, gentrification is also linked to changes in different class positions and/or power relations. The new middle class encounters the working-class in gentrified neighbourhoods, and inequalities in accessing or acquiring urban space often lead to tensions between these groups. These discussions have been among the important topics of urban research. In other words, the processes generating gentrification and gentrifiers are connected. For this reason, the analysis of gentrifiers, or how gentrifiers themselves are produced, remains highly relevant (Rose 1984, 51), showing us that the analysis of gentrifiers’ profiles is closely linked to class analysis and class formations discussions (Bridge 1994).

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This paper explores how gentrifiers in Istanbul mobilise their social networks and social capital during the gentrification process, and how their networks are constructed through processes of “place making” and belonging. In addition, this chapter aims to demonstrate how social capital and social networks work in practice during the gentrification process. Concepts of social capital, social network and belonging offer new discussions in gentrification research and enable researchers to investigate how the new middle class acquires privileged positions in power relations (Bourdieu 1986; Savage et al. 2005; Southerton 2002). Power relations among different classes are not stable, but rather dynamic and everchanging. Therefore, this chapter examines place making and claiming strategies of gentrifiers by focusing on the following questions: (a) What are the spatial strategies of the new middle class, and what is the importance of these strategies?; (b) How are class and spatial boundaries designated in gentrified neighbourhoods?; (c) What kinds of networks and relationships play a role in developing certain housing dispositions or belonging patterns? The outline of the chapter is as follows: the next sub-section describes the field research areas and the qualitative data collected in gentrified neighbourhoods. Section two reviews the literature on gentrification and class analysis by exploring the possible contributions of social capital, belonging and social network literatures to gentrification research. Additionally, this section briefly reviews the gentrification research in Turkey. Section three scrutinizes the social networks and belonging patterns of gentrifiers in the Fener-Balat-Ayvansaray and Galata neighbourhoods of Istanbul. The analysis focuses on two different personal and institutional networks and their function and impact on the gentrification processes. The chapter ends with a conclusion in section four.

Description of the Field Research Areas and Methodology This section discusses the context and methodology of the two research projects on which this chapter is based. Both research projects are doctoral dissertation projects conducted in gentrified neighbourhoods of Istanbul (ùen 2006; Soytemel 2011). ùen (2006) explored the gentrification process in the Galata neighbourhood, and analysed how capitalist urban policies and interventions contribute to the propagation of inequality among different social classes. Sen also conducted a household survey with fifty households and fifty semistructured interviews with gentrifiers and people from businesses in Galata

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in 2005. During the analysis, field research notes from one year of participant observation are also used to understand the impact of transformation on the neighbourhood and the impact of gentrification on everyday life in the neighbourhood. By 1995 gentrification had become visible in Galata, and during the time of the field work in 2005, spatial and class-related transformation in the neighbourhood was clearly manifest. During these years some properties were changing hands more than once in one year, which was a significant indicator of the rent speculation occurring in regards to the properties. Furthermore, several urban renewal projects focused on Taksim, the city centre, and this had had an important impact on the gentrification process in Galata. The close proximity of Galata to the city centre impacted the density of investments not only in the housing sector but also for cultural investments. The second researcher explored the relationship between gentrification, belonging and social class in the Golden Horn neighbourhoods of Istanbul (Soytemel 2011). This study used a mixed method approach for the analysis of belonging patterns of different social classes. During the fieldwork period, between June 2007 and August 2008, two hundred household surveys and fifty life-history interviews were conducted in the Fener, Balat, Ayvansaray and Hasköy neighbourhoods of the Golden Horn/Haliç area (GHA) in Istanbul. In the last twenty years there have been drastic urban interventions in GHA. By 2000, the Turkish central government declared the area to be “an open-air museum of the city.” The Golden Horn/Haliç area had been one of the main industrial areas in Turkey since the late nineteenth century. Up until the mid-1950s, these neighbourhoods hosted the non-Muslim populations of Istanbul (i.e. Greek Orthodox, Jewish and Armenian populations), and following their departure, migrant labourers, mainly from cities of the Black Sea region like Giresun, Samsun and ùebinkarahisar, clustered together in GHA neighbourhoods. Until the 1980s, these neighbourhoods were mainly populated by working-class families. Following deindustrialisation and the removal of factories and ateliers in the Golden Horn area, this area lost the majority of its working class population.1 By the 1990s, subsequent urban rehabilitation and restoration processes eventually led to gentrification, and had a drastic impact on the neighbourhood’s population. By the early 2000s not only middle-class gentrifiers but also low-income migrant families started to 1

In 1985 more than 4,000 buildings were expropriated by the metropolitan municipality. Additionally, 696 factories and 2,020 workplaces were demolished, mainly on the Haliç’s south side (Erden 2009).

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live in the neighbourhood along with the remaining working-class population. This process eventually altered the class composition of the neighbourhoods and contributed to greater social stratification. This chapter is based on the qualitative data collected in these two research projects. Although it uses different fieldwork materials conducted in different periods, similarities are evident in the narratives given by gentrifiers in both projects regarding their social networks and motivated the writing of this chapter. Both case studies reveal that gentrifiers in these two neighbourhoods use their existing social networks and create new networks during the gentrification process for social and economic advantage to make better investments and to claim spaces for themselves.

I. Gentrification, Belonging and Social Networks of the Middle Class i. Gentrification and Class Analysis Until the 1990s there were two competing perspectives in gentrification research. One position centred on supply side/production analyses and focused specifically on the effects of gentrification, and used economic factors to evaluate the process of gentrification (Smith & Williams 1986). Scholars preferred to examine structural and large-scale aspects of gentrification and focused on changing levels of capital investments. Smith (2002) argued that the gentrification process created a growing “rent gap” between the potential value of the land and its existing use value, and underlined the differences between capitalised and potential ground rent. Smith described this process as “revanchist,” and the “retaking” and remodelling of the city by the middle class, and the rent-gap theory, provide links between gentrification research and larger processes of capitalism. However, others scholars focused attention on the demand/consumption side of the process and tried to gather data about new middle-class families and their consumption practices and lifestyle preferences (Ley 1994; 1996). Researchers pointed to the changing gender composition and the distinguishing consumption patterns of this group. Therefore, for some scholars gentrification was related to demand from the new middle class, which connected gentrification to a more individual-based analysis (Bridge 2003; Warde 1991; Butler 1997; Butler & Robson 2001). Rose & Bondi highlighted the connections between gender and gentrification by looking at changes that included the women’s labour market (Rose 1984; Bondi 1991). Rose looked at gentrification as a housing strategy within the

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labour force and explained urban restructuring by focusing on the gender dimension of the middle class (Rose 1984). By the 1990s, gentrification research lost momentum and many researchers were searching for a synthesis between these two explanations (Lees 2000). In subsequent years, most researchers agreed that both explanations had utility and relevance for gentrification research. However, gentrification research and researchers were also criticised for what was seen as a myopic focus on gentrifiers and for neglecting nongentrifying groups, as well as the processes of displacement and relocation (Slater 2006; Watt 2008). Slater (2006) called for more academic criticism in this regard and suggested greater focus on the experiences of lessadvantaged groups; on displacement, class conflict and community upheavals. Despite the importance of class analysis in gentrification research, until recently few studies have discussed how gentrification research contributes to understandings of class (Bridge 1994; 2001; Butler & Robson 2003a; Watt 2008; 2009). Although most gentrification research is structured around class opposition, most accounts fail to discuss class relations, and instead researchers use class as an occupational or income definition (Bridge 1994, 3). One of the reasons why class analysis has been so important in gentrification research relates to the emergence of the “new middle class,” with its new consumption patterns and difference from the “traditional middle class.” The members of the new middle class are considered to be individual careerists who are more mobile than the traditional middle class or bourgeoisie (Bridge 2003; Butler 1997; Butler & Robson 2001). Being employed in service-sector firms, and with high levels of cultural and social capital, members of the new middle class—in some cases almost used synonymously with gentrifiers—are often described as part of international networks, financiers and professionals working for multinational or large companies (Hamnett 2000; 2003; Ley 1981; 1996). Unlike the “old/traditional” or “routine” middle or working classes, the new middle class prefers to live in inner city locations and seeks lifestyles different from suburbanites. The gentrification process is explained as a consequence of changes in the occupational structure of advanced capitalist cities, as well as a result of the rise of the service class and the transformation of manufacturing centres into business service centres (Hamnett 1996, 2003; Ley 1996). Bridge cites the impact of prior educational experience and the conversion of cultural capital into economic capital, which was essential for development of the gentrification aesthetic (Bridge 1995, 243). Warde is “sceptical of accounts that identify an emerging, coherent, service class culture” and claims that gentrification is

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more about changes in household composition related to “changing gender composition of the salariat,” in addition to consumption patterns of middle class groups (Warde 1991, 228). However, the gentrifier profile is much more diverse nowadays, and gentrifiers described by Warde are just a small section of this type. Until recently, the analysis of class relations in gentrification research predominantly tried to determine if gentrification is a result of a change in class structure, or if the notion of gentrification can contribute to our understanding of class structure and class formation (Bridge 1994, 9). Some consider gentrification a latent form of class structuration, and “most of the class constitutive effects of gentrification occur before the process has taken place in the case of lifestyle and taste or outside the neighbourhoods in division of labour and workplace relations” (Bridge 1994, 30). Two key occurrences are highlighted as the manifestation of class relations in the gentrification process. The first takes place when urban speculators and developers decide what inner-city land to use: “they exist on one side of the class power relation and gentrifiers and working class exist on the other side,” a process enabling “a two-class relation” (Ibid). The second critical moment is related to the struggle between the gentrifiers and the working class, which results in “a three-class model” (Bridge 1994, 42). More recently, scholars have considered the middle-class habitus as important for the analysis of class relations in gentrification (Bridge 1994, 2001; Butler 2002, 2007; Butler & Robson 2001). According to Bridge, the new-middle-class gentrifiers’ habitus is characterised by distinctions in neighbourhoods, housing, lifestyle and consumption and for that reason, the motivating force behind gentrification is “the drive to maintain distinction in the struggles over status in social space, and distinction is conferred by the ability to define and possess rare goods such as taste and discernment” (Bridge 1994, 207). However, instead of just assuming habitus as a production of some unconscious mental and bodily processes such as Bourdieu (1985; 1990) did, for Bridge it is more important to look at “how practices of people consciously fall in line with the habitus in order to relieve the cognitive stress caused by the disjuncture between individual preferences and what people can achieve” (Bridge 2001, 208). Accordingly, Bridge argues that the new middle class is a result of an emerging class fraction, and that its members are likely to be conscious of “their relationship to the working class, as well as their relationship with the other fractions of the middle class,” and that they use “spatial strategy for the expression of their class habitus” (Bridge 2001, 211–212).

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These recent analyses on class provide new tools for researchers to study class inequalities in the gentrification process. It is now considered important to examine local responses to gentrification. In some cities, gentrifiers and non-gentrifying groups become neighbours. Everyday interactions between different groups, inclusionary and exclusionary practices, as well as border-making processes, are important in analysing spatial clustering and social cohesion in gentrified neighbourhoods. In order to understand the individual and collective strategies of different groups in the gentrification process, there is still a need to address the processes that contribute to the production of the “gentrification habitus.” Why do people choose certain areas to live in and how do they develop a sense of place? What kinds of networks and relationships play a role in developing certain housing dispositions or belonging patterns? To what extent do socio-economic or symbolic borders limit interactions between different groups and lead to spatial clustering in the gentrification processes? This chapter contends that discussions on social capital, belonging and social networks can contribute to an investigation about these questions and propose some answers. The next section briefly summarises this literature and discusses its possible contributions to gentrification research.

ii. Social Capital, Belonging and Social Networks in the Gentrification Process? Research on social capital, belonging and social networks provide us a “powerful understanding of the process that both divides and unifies urban dwellers” (Blokland & Savage 2008). Blokland & Savage indicate that social network analyses can be used to inform our understanding of the exclusive and inclusive aspects of social capital, and that “social capital needs to be seen as a spatial process” (1). The concept of social capital has become popular in social sciences (Bourdieu 1985; 1986; Putnam 1993; Portes 2000). Social capital refers to “the ability of actors to secure benefits by virtue of membership in social networks or other social structures” (Portes 1998, 6). Lin refers to social capital as an “investment in social relations with expected returns in the market place” (Lin 2001). Blokland & Ejik suggest that social capital and social networks provide opportunities to access the resources of those participating in the social relations (Blokland & Eijik 2007, 3). Bourdieu’s concept of social capital is connected to his theoretical analysis of social class where he defines three dimensions of capital: economic, cultural and social. Bourdieu focuses more on power relations and connections, the “relationships of

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mutual acquaintance and recognition” which are convertible into economic capital (Bourdieu 1986). Bourdieu does not see the existence of networks of connections as a natural or social given, but considers them to be constituted by the investment strategies of individuals or collectives (Ibid.).2 Much more has been written about social capital, but a wider discussion is beyond the scope of this chapter. Most relevant is the literature relating to gentrification. Social capital and social network research provide germane points of discussion for the analysis of class relations in gentrification research. Within social network analysis, capacities of different groups and their networks to link and provide researchers new perspectives to examine inequalities and power dynamics between the gentrifying and nongentrifying groups. Furthermore, in recent years social capital, and the social network framework, have been important for urban policy makers. Community development has become a prominent policy discourse in urban policy making (Blokland 2003; Blokland & Savage 2008). Those who are socially or economically excluded, the poor or residents locked in disadvantaged positions, are considered to be empowered by social capital, social networks and the support of others (Blokland & Noordhoff, 2008). Butler & Robson examined three gentrified neighbourhoods in south London in terms of middle-class place making and tried to link the differences in the transformation of these areas to differences in social capital. They refer to social capital as “the sum of actual and potential resources that can be mobilised through membership in social networks of actors and organisations” (2001, 2146). Their research shows that high levels of education, and the concomitant access to resources, enable gentrifiers to find better solutions to problems such as better schooling for their children. Social and cultural capital combined often yields improvements and upgrades in neighbourhoods, such as improvements in urban or public services. They make a clear distinction between “gentrification by collective action” and “gentrification by capital,” and underline the importance of examining different strategies of capital deployment in transforming the locality in which the group has settled in (Ibid., 2160). Similar to social capital and social network analysis, belonging research provides new insights for understanding social inequality within gentrified neighbourhoods. Some researchers look at class culture, 2

Bourdieu (1986) says the amount of social capital depends on the number of people in the network and their connections therein. The people within this network can effectively mobilize and utilize the capital possessed in his/her own right through each of the other people to whom the individual is connected (1986).

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consumption and lifestyle practices of middle-class groups, and draw attention to the spatially mobile character of new belonging patterns (Southerton 2002; Savage et al. 2005; Savage 2010; Watt 2009). People’s sense of belonging is considered to be “not linked to any historical roots they may have in the area”; instead, the sense of belonging is seen to be developed through connecting and comparing other places (Savage et al. 2005). Instead of seeing belonging as permanent, scholars suggest that “belonging results from identifications with the stylistic properties and lifestyles” (Southerton 2002, 171). Southerton notes the impact of geographical mobility on the sense of belonging, and the role of boundaries between groups. He suggests that “symbolic boundaries presuppose inclusion and exclusion and are constructed through the social practices, attitudes or values that are affirmed and re-affirmed through interaction” (Ibid., 175). Similar to Southerton’s analysis, Savage et al. emphasized the mobile character of new belonging patterns and underlined that people’s belonging is “not linked to any historical roots they may have in the area” (Savage et al. 2005). Moreover, the authors demonstrate that people create their sense of belonging by connecting and comparing their location to other places, and they also explicate how the middle-class claims moral rights over a place. Introducing the concept of “elective belonging,” Savage et al. suggest that places are not characterised by tensions between insiders and outsiders, but people elect to belong to places that match their habitus, which is embodied in their dispositions. Following the work of Bourdieu, they examine class formation of their sample and show how habitus is territorially located and how middle-class people’s claims over places are related to their capacity to move. By looking at oppositions between mobile income earners and stable locals, neighbourhoods are presented as local units that are reproduced and redefined through people’s imagination rather than seen as passive, static products (Savage et al. 2005). Similar to Butler & Robson’s (2001; 2003a) work, Savage’s analysis shows that people’s imagination is also linked to their social networks and their different strategies of capital deployment. Furthermore, Savage elucidates how the politics of belonging is related to cultural capital and social class, and discusses the process of urban segregation by looking at the “spatialization of class” (Savage 2010). Instead of portraying advantaged or middle-class groups as people “caught up in the space of flows,” his analysis reveals how middle-class people are culturally engaged and deeply invested in their locations. Introducing a discussion on “elective belonging” and “dwelling in place,” Savage underscores that what matters for middle-class people is living where

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people like them live, and that the middle classes are not “deeply concerned” with “socially cohesive neighbourhoods” (Ibid.). This chapter claims that the “spatialization of class” is not a spontaneous process. Rather, it is linked to social networks of different groups and their positions in power relations in local milieus. For this reason, this chapter focuses on the position of gentrifiers in power relations through the analysis of their social networks and belonging patterns.

iii. Gentrification Research in Turkey Gentrification studies have gradually become popular and have proliferated as a new area of research in Turkey over the last two decades. The earlier discussion on gentrification processes initially focused on the etymological problems of translating “gentrification” into the Turkish language. Due to “the lack of a gentry class” in Turkey, and the corresponding lack of a term for such a concept, different suggestions were considered by different scholars, such as nezihleútirmek (the literal translation being decent neighbourhoods in the process of becoming more clean without problems) (Keyder 1999), or soylulaútÕrmak (“ennoblization”) (øslam 2006; ùen 2006). These earlier studies explored and tried to conceptualise the class identity and occupational positions of the gentrifiers. However, very few of these examples were based on empirical analyses. The majority of earlier gentrification research was based on the observations of researchers, or the interpretation of macro-demographic indicators without any empirical justification. The first gentrification research workshop was organised by the French Institute for Anatolian Studies in 2003 in Istanbul, and the workshop papers were subsequently published as a book. The book presents the earlier conceptual differences of researchers where one can find different perspectives and results about the profiles of the gentrifiers (Behar & Islam 2006). In some of these papers, gentrification is considered a process where actors (gentrifiers) are assessed as individuals acting individually, who do not have any networks or connections with others during the gentrification process (Uzun 2001). During these early years of gentrification research, “gentrification” was not yet a “dirty” word. The initial discussions on gentrification related to wider discussions on globalisation and neoliberal urbanism. Researchers explored examples from Western literature and Western cities, and tried to identify comparable areas or neighbourhoods in Istanbul. Bosphorus neighbourhoods like Arnavutköy, Kuzguncuk and Ortaköy, and inner-city neighbourhoods like Galata, Cihangir, Fener and Balat, became the focus

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of gentrification research in Istanbul (Uzun 2003; Ergun 2004; Islam 2005; 2006; ùen 2006). While some sociologists focused on the influence of globalisation in the development of new identities, new shopping malls, tourist areas, and wealth in Istanbul (Keyder 1992; Robins & Aksoy 1995; 1996), urban planners and architects focused on urban regeneration, strategic urban planning, urban conservation, competitive cities and sustainability (Kocabaú 2006; Erden 2006). øslam (2005) enumerated three different dynamics for waves of gentrification. According to him, the first wave related to a high level of environmental amenities (1980s). The dynamics of intense cultural and leisure activities created the second wave (1990s) and, finally, the third wave (2000 onwards) was shaped by institutional investment projects. Behar & Pérouse (2006) engage with the discourse related to social networks of gentrifiers. Their interpretation was based on observations, not on empirical analysis. They consider gentrifiers to be “foreigners” or people “who were educated abroad”, “who have different lifestyles and who are able to appraise opportunities in the housing market” and “who are influential or have some power in the society.” These people are considered as mainly active in local NGOs, engaged in left or social democratic movements, and have good connections abroad. Furthermore, Behar & Pérouse’s analysis sees gentrifiers as people who appreciate a cosmopolitan lifestyle and espouse cosmopolitan views, or who believe in the dialogue of religions instead of the clash of civilizations (Ibid.). As Behar & Pérouse indicate, gentrifiers, although among the initiators or active agents of the gentrification process, like to distance themselves from the concept of gentrification. In later years the number of empirical studies gradually increased. ønce (2003) explored a central, historical neighbourhood in Istanbul and focused on the role of artists as gentrifiers in transforming the street and producing “bohemian” nostalgia. ønce shows the importance of cultural industries and how cultural investments, which match the lifestyle of the middle class, accelerate the gentrification process in certain neighbourhoods. In other research, ùen (2006) explains how local networks and associations are important for the new middle class and their investment strategies during the gentrification process in Galata. øslam and Enlil (2006) investigate the dynamics of gentrification-led displacement in Galata. Similar to ùen’s findings, they observed that taking advantage of the rent gap, many investors bought properties to renovate and sell them on at higher prices (øslam & Enlil 2006). They point out two reasons for the escalation of property values in Galata: “the new legal arrangements that allow property ownership by foreigners [and] the new act on the

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renewal and re-use of deteriorated historic housing building stock which endows the local authorities with new powers to intervene and regenerate such areas” (øslam & Enlil 2006). In terms of displacement, øslam & Enlil reveal the importance of informal mechanisms that regulate the rental housing market, with different levels of social relations providing cheap rental stock in the area for years by protecting the residents from the rising rents. Furthermore, they identify the tactics of landlords or companies for displacing tenants and point to the importance of tenants’ awareness of their legal rights and their willingness to defend themselves against displacement. ølkuçan & SandÕkçÕ (2005) consider gentrification to be a spatial manifestation of a wider consumption ideology and analyse gentrification processes in the Cihangir neighbourhood of Istanbul. Gentrifiers are considered to be members of consumption communities who would like to distinguish themselves from the traditional middle classes. In earlier research, ølkuçan mentions university students, artists and academicians with low incomes as the pioneers of gentrification in Cihangir, who chose the neighbourhood due to the proximity of cultural outlets. He describes followers of the frontier gentrifiers as investors who are “more risk averse in their residential choices” (ølkuçan 2004, 74). ølkuçan also mentions the keen sense of identity of the “New Cihangirli” among his respondents and their emphasis on the cultural capital and diversity of dwellers in the neighbourhood. The majority of these examples mainly centre on the profile of the gentrifiers. In terms of belonging and boundary making, Mills’ research (2006) on Kuzguncuk turns attention to urban space and familiarity. Mills underlines the link between two nostalgic narratives and their impact on the gentrification process of the neighbourhood: the narrative of neighbourhood (mahalle) as the urban space of belonging and familiarity, and the narrative of multicultural tolerance regarding Kuzguncuk’s minorities. According to Mills, these two narratives reproduce a social memory of a past cosmopolitanism and help to deny the current divisions of class and origin (Mills 2006, 363). Similar to ølkuçan, Mills mentions the importance of identity of Kuzguncuklu (people living in Kuzguncuk), and reveals how neighbourhood space is defined by this identity, which refers to boundaries of being an insider or outsider, as well as a neighbour or foreigner. Both ølkuçan and Mills discuss networks among the gentrifiers and how they become active actors in neighbourhood associations. However, their analyses do not focus on the role of social capital and social networks on the place-making strategies of the gentrifiers. Mills (2006), instead, places the accent on the impact of

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belonging on gentrification. However, later her analysis mainly focuses on the social, cultural and collective memory, and how memory is fundamentally dependent on location. Although she briefly mentions conflicts and tensions between the non-gentrifying group and gentrifiers, she overlooks inequalities related to the gentrification process in Kuzguncuk. In gentrification studies in Turkey, gentrifiers are analysed with regard to their demographic characteristics. Gentrifiers mobilise their class-based capacities through their social networks, and this has a social and economic impact during the gentrification process. For this reason, analysis of power relations and class distinctions are significant in understanding different place-making strategies. This chapter analyses the belonging patterns of gentrifiers and the uses of social networks by gentrifiers as a place-making and place-claiming strategy.

II. Networked Gentrification The analyses of gentrifier groups have always been linked to social class. Although in most cases gentrifiers are considered individuals, and researchers have focused on their individual characteristics, more recently the importance of exploring the cultural and social capital of gentrifiers has become significant for the discussions on the new middle class and its distinctive middle-class identity. Social networks of gentrifiers are also significant during the gentrification and urban transformation processes in neighbourhoods. These networks can be transformed into neighbourhood associations or local groups that have an important impact on local urban policies or interventions. Belonging patterns show us not only the placemaking strategies, but also the boundary-making processes of different groups. Moreover, social networks and belonging patterns give us a picture of class capacities based on neighbourhoods. For this reason, this chapter draws on theories relating to social networks and belonging patterns of gentrifiers. We identified two different social networks among the gentrifiers in Galata and Fener-Balat-Ayvansaray: personal networks and institutional networks. The first network is associated with middle-class habitus and belonging, and the majority of this network covers social networks prior to the gentrification process, such as social networks with acquaintances, friends and family. In some cases, new friends or new neighbours can join this network. These personal networks develop through similarities or common causes, and in most cases provide reference points for developing trust. In some cases, when there is a common cause, such as an infrastructure

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problem, or a proposed demolition threat, this problem could bring property owners and old and new dwellers together. However, when there is a need for collective action, gentrifiers play a more active role in developing these networks. The second type of network is institutional. These are networks with local governments, local or central municipalities, networks with private companies, or other bureaucratic institutions such as networks with cultural and heritage conservation boards and/or key actors in these institutions. Commercial or business networks and occupational networks are also part of these institutional networks. Overall, good relations and acquaintanceship with institutional networks can be vital to attain urban services, or useful for the economic success of the investors and/or businesses in gentrified neighbourhoods. Neighbourhood-based commercial networks, such as tradesmen’s networks, are among these institutional networks. The next section of the chapter concentrates on these two networks and the belonging patterns of gentrifiers.

i. Middle-Class Belonging and Personal Networks Gentrified neighbourhoods have dynamic population structures and are spaces of urban living found through explorations and comparisons with other neighbourhoods. Most gentrifiers have a clear conception of where they want to live, and most do research to find these locales. These areas usually possess specific characteristics deemed desirable by gentrifiers and are determined by complex cultural codes, consumption patterns and taste preferences. Neighbourhood explorations and expansions into new neighbourhoods are mostly related to the social capital and social networks of the gentrifiers. The process of choosing the right neighbourhood and the right property is linked to belonging patterns of the middle class. None of the gentrifiers interviewed in Fener-Balat-Ayvansaray had any prior ties to these neighbourhoods. Despite the poverty of these neighbourhoods, and the overall problems related to the physical structure of the houses, many of the gentrifiers mentioned the positive aspects of living in these neighbourhoods by using historic preservation as constitutive of the new “elite” identity. Instead of merely forming part of the “middle-class crowd,” gentrifiers living in apartment blocks see themselves as “rescuing houses from ignorant hands” as well as witnessing the “beauty” and the nostalgia of community life among locals as positive aspects of living in these neighbourhoods. Similar to Mills’ gentrifiers, and how they employ the nostalgic narrative about the neighbourhoods’ cosmopolitan past,

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gentrifiers in Galata and Fener-Balat-Ayvansaray regard themselves as the rescuers of historical houses and historical artefacts: [shows an object] this is very important for me, I am sure it has lived many things before. We believe in the soul of objects. Therefore, even if we didn’t know each other, we came together here. The people are like me in this neighbourhood. They all like antiques, all of them want old things, not new. That is why they are coming to this neighbourhood.

Social networks play an important role for gentrifiers. Neighbourhoods encourage certain types of relationships, specifically practical relationships involving the exchange of small services (Bridge 2002; Blokland & Savage 2008). Social networks provide common, shared boundaries and help to define the social relations among the different groups (Bridge 2002). In Fener-Balat-Ayvansaray neighbourhoods, the first residents were journalists, artists and single white-collar professionals such as lawyers, architects and academics. Many of the gentrifiers, most frequently foreign gentrifiers, were either introduced to these neighbourhoods by friends or by gentrifiers from other neighbourhoods. Friends, people they had met through either consulates, embassies or work-related environments, people from other gentrified neighbourhoods, and even tour groups and tour guides, helped and accompanied them when they searched for their properties. Ayúe, an academic who came to Istanbul with her husband (who is also an academic) from the U.S. to teach American literature, described their decision to buy a house and stay longer in Istanbul as follows: I am a faculty member at the [names university], American Literature department. In fact, my husband and I were the founders of the department; he is also a professor at [names university]. We came 9 years ago, we were planning to stay for a few years, but we liked the place. Istanbul is now a great city. First, we travelled from [names city] to Istanbul in our first years here, but now we’ll stay here more because we have this house project. We were strolling around the university and we became keen on the old houses and then it became a passion. Lots of American professors came to the university and we are guiding them within these neighbourhoods.

Later in the interview, Ayúe describes how and why they chose the neighbourhood and the house they ended up purchasing: We knew that the most interesting places were not places like Etiler, (an upper-class neighbourhood close to the Bosphorus) or areas near the

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Fig. 4.1. Tourists on a walking tour in Fener-Balat, 2013.

For foreign gentrifiers, personal networks help in overcoming language barriers and, in most cases, provide assistance through the legal and planning periods. Ann, who had been renting a room in Galata for some years, was introduced to Fenerand Balat by her artist friends she had met in Galata. As Galata was becoming more commercial, expensive and

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crowded, Ann’s friends became dissatisfied living in Galata, and they began looking for “more untouched” historical neighbourhoods: Well, I rented a room in Kuledibi in Galata, near the Galata Tower. There I met a lot of artists. They were kind of unhappy with what their neighbourhood became. They said, maybe, maybe, we are going to move to Fener. So I thought where is Fener? So I just went there and strolled around. So, it was really a wonderful thing, because you have the ferry boat here, you have the bus station here, it is so close to Taksim (city centre).

Gentrifiers sometimes rely on their personal networks within and outside of the neighbourhood to try to reduce the cost of renovation and/or conservation of important historical properties. Oftentimes this strategy is successful, and domiciles of “special historical” significance are acquired through the help of these social networks. Foreigners and their networks were mentioned in interviews with participants in both Fener-BalatAyvansaray and Galata: There is an English man. His friends buy properties. They restore and sell them. When a foreigner buys a property and restores and sells it, it costs more than the others. Look at Salti Passage, it was called French Parade. Now, it is called Italian Parade (Neighbourhood headman-muhtar, male, d.o.b. 1965).

Foreigners from other countries have a distinctive role as gentrifiers in Istanbul. These gentrifiers prefer cosmopolitan neighbourhoods in historical centres. Some restore and sell old houses through their personal networks, or even become active agents in the property markets as mediators between local property owners and potential buyers from abroad. Both in Galata and Fener-Balat-Ayvansaray it was possible to find foreign gentrifiers who had become property developers and investors. They not only have transnational connections but the majority have high human capital, adaptive employment skills or flexible occupations, which often afford them the ease of finding employment in other countries. Although Warde (1991) claims that this heterogeneity of occupations does not enable a cultural consensus between gentrifiers, it was observed that they could become active agents of local networks and associations for the common cause of “developing” or “beautifying” the neighbourhoods. Florida states that the creative class, or bourgeois bohemians, desire diversity and tolerance when they make their residential decisions (Florida 2004). Bohemian values, or the emphasis on tolerance, are related to liberalism and social pluralism of the gentrifiers’ cultural capital. Ziya, a

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gentrifier from Galata, explains the pluralist environment of the neighbourhood: There are artists, writers, and also academicians like me, and this is a place that you can find such people … a place that hosts all types of people, from homosexuals to heterosexuals, because our community has a pluralist understanding. (Ziya, male, academician)

Gentrifiers’ views and perspectives about the future of their neighbourhoods are related to and developed through their capacities, such as educational opportunities abroad, or their experiences as tourists. They not only compare living conditions abroad with more affluent places— these experiences give them practical knowledge to engage in neighbourhood networks and enable them to provide guidance or a road map for the environmental problems of the neighbourhood. For instance, some respondents mentioned that living in Galata was a privilege, and some even compared it with living in Italy. Some saw this as desirable because it lent a feeling of historical texture to the neighbourhood. However, they were also supporting commercial and touristic activities in the neighbourhood, which could be risky for historical texture. In most cases, the narratives of gentrifiers indicate that they don’t have a whole or coherent perception or understanding of the city. Rather, they have a more fragmented and atomized conception. Furthermore, this narrative of privilege justifies the displacement of the non-gentrifying groups from the neighbourhood.

ii. Institutional Networks and Local Power Dynamics Institutional networks are also important in the gentrification process. Acquaintances in public and private institutions and companies, as well as good relationships with municipalities, yield benefits for newcomers. Neighbourhood associations are also among these networks. Both ølkuçan and Mills mention the importance of neighbourhood associations during the gentrification process and indicate how gentrifiers use these associations to improve the reputation of their neighbourhoods (ølkuçan 2004; Mills 2006). Mills (2006) mentions members of the Kuzguncuk Neighbourhood Association as a group of primarily middle-class families and points out how newcomers develop new social networks within the neighbourhood with the help of the association. Neighbourhood associations often become important when there is a common cause. For example, Mills mention how gentrifiers united to save an historic market garden (bostan) of the neighbourhood, and through their participation in

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this effort became more embedded Kuzguncuklus (people of Kuzguncuk). In the Fener-Balat-Ayvansaray, neighbourhood associations enabled property owners to organise against the threat of demolition and urban transformation projects initiated by the Fatih Municipality. In Galata, apart from the neighbourhood association, there are also business associations formed by new business owners and managers. Respondents, mainly restaurant managers, mentioned the importance of these networks and relationships with the local municipality in solving neighbourhood-related problems. One respondent describes the active role of café or club owners and managers as follows: The cafés have a big role here. They want to move and open their cafés in different places, they got bored of Istiklal and came here. They find a small shop first and later develop contacts with the owner of the shop. Some of the shop managers were introduced to the neighbourhood through their friends. They came to a house party. They see the different architecture and decide to bring their business here. Some of them are buying as an investment, they foresee that the prices will eventually increase. The logic is, let’s buy it for 100 now, we will sell it for 200 later. (Restaurant manager, female, d.o.b. 1957)

Local associations can also be an important point of interface with public authorities: We thought about the possible ways to rescue this space [neighbourhood] and we established an association to organise shopkeepers. (Restaurant manager, d.o.b. 1960)

The Jazz Association and Galata Association organized joint events. During the 1970s, they were playing jazz at the Galata Tower. We are the only jazz club in the city. The Ministry of Culture should support us. (Club owner, d.o.b. 1961)

The organisation of these different groups or associations sometimes creates tensions in the neighbourhoods. Some consider the members of these organisations as having more advantages and better access to local knowledge and local plans, such as urban projects or plans of the municipality, and the historical aspects of houses, inter alia. One respondent in Galata describes how these institutions would become beneficial for its members:

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Chapter Four … the neighbourhood association was established by newcomers for their own interests. They especially liked to buy terraces, and they bought many during 1994, 1995 and 1996. They bought many places, but they have been keeping them for a while to sell them for better prices. (Worker, male, d.o.b. 1955)

By comparison, in Galata, there were other organisations dominated by working-class migrant families. These organisations provided networks and services to people with respect to their migrant identities, and the majority of them were organising events or providing social assistance to migrant populations. Membership of these associations is linked to place of origin, not to neighbourhood of residence: In the Erzincan Village Association, they organise funerals, religious gatherings and celebrations. Sometimes, they do weddings there or organize dinners for the solidarity of the members. People from other districts come to these events. (Retired, male, d.o.b. 1953)

Occupational networks of gentrifiers also provide connections that are valuable during the gentrification process. University-related networks appear to be the most common social networks among the gentrifiers in Fener-Balat-Ayvansaray. In numerous interviews, faculty members from universities or research institutes in Istanbul, as well as colleagues from universities in other countries, were the most consistent homebuyers. Having had an experience similar to that of the couple from the U.S., Susan, who had studied at the SOAS and worked at King’s College London for some years, narrates the arrival of her neighbours from London as follows: I have friends here, you know the guy who was my teacher, when I was in the SOAS in London. He is originally from EdirnekapÕ and he is back. He lives a seven-minute walk from here. He and his wife and three kids. They just had a new baby girl. They live up there, we don't see them as often as we should, but they are close. I also have friends just around this corner.

Networks with media or media employers constitute another important area of analysis. Similar to Mills’ (2006) observations in Kuzguncuk, in Fener-Balat-Ayvansaray the media connections of gentrifiers were useful for the coverage of the rehabilitation process in Fener-Balat neighbourhoods. During the early days of the rehabilitation process, interviews with the remaining members of the non-Muslim minorities in Balat were published in national newspapers alongside articles emphasising the cosmopolitan history of these neighbourhoods. Both in Galata and Fener-Balat-

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Ayvansaray, the popularity of these areas increased after the appearance of restored buildings on TV shows and design magazines. In Fener-BalatAyvansaray, more than fifty television serials and films have been produced and shot in this area since the late 1990s. In Fener, a new cafe was opened for the artists and technical staff of film companies, and in some streets some of the homeowners started new businesses by renting out their houses to TV shows. Media presentations have increased the popularity of these neighbourhoods. Like Cihangir, living in this type of neighbourhood is often presented as “a new way of life” (ølkuçan 2004). This process has accelerated the gentrification process, but did not allow for media coverage of the dislocation and relocation processes, as well as the negative impact of gentrification on non-gentrifying groups.

Fig. 4.2. Filming a TV show in Fener-Balat, 2013.

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Conclusion Istanbul has been governed by neoliberal urban policies for nearly three decades. This has had a drastic impact on the city, especially in the central areas. All together, these urban policies and gentrification processes have altered the class composition, especially in inner-city neighbourhoods. Property ownership structures, the dynamics of urban segregation and power relations in these neighbourhoods have changed. This chapter has analysed how gentrifiers mobilise their social networks and social capital during the gentrification processes. The field-research results of these two different case studies indicate that place-making strategies and belonging patterns of the middle classes are important aspects in gentrification. The position taking of different groups in gentrified neighbourhoods is linked to inequalities in power relations, as well as the spatialization of class and the processes of urban segregation (Savage 2010). In Istanbul, two decades of gentrification have led to no substantial changes in the provision of public services in these neighbourhoods. Improvement of public services is rarely of active concern for gentrifiers. Instead, improvements in physical spaces such as cleaning and the maintenance of streets, garbage collection and street lighting are among the needs most frequently mentioned by gentrifiers in these neighbourhoods. Instead of mobilising their social networks or social capital to improve public services, these two case studies show that the majority of the gentrifiers use private services such as schools, health clinics, hospitals, inter alia. Contrary to mainstream examples which focus on the importance of schooling and public schools in gentrification processes (Butler & Robson 2003b; Bridge 2003), in recent years, the majority of public schools and public hospitals in or around the gentrified neighbourhoods in the central districts of Istanbul has been put up for sale. In Istanbul, the gentrification process does not rapidly lead to class homogeneity. Most gentrified neighbourhoods have diversified housing stock (i.e. squatter housing, illegal/unregistered house extensions, and dilapidated old houses), and for this reason it is possible to find working class families or poor families also living in these neighbourhoods. Furthermore, displacement becomes a process in itself, and during this gentrifiers and non-gentrifiers become neighbours. When one looks at the student profiles in public schools in these areas, the majority of students in public schools comes from working-class families who have been living around these areas. Similarly, if one looks at the student profiles of foreign and/or private schools around these neighbourhoods, one can see that most

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of these students come from middle-class families. Students either pass an exam or, in most cases, families agree to pay very high tuition fees to secure their children a place in these schools. In gentrified neighbourhoods, tensions in relations between people in everyday life are externalised and considered as related to differences in lifestyles or cultural differences. However, the continuing presence of “the poor or low-income households” in these neighbourhoods is often considered an obstacle, inasmuch as it is assumed to stymie increases in property values. Properties owned by low- income families that cannot be renewed or restored can cause tensions with other property owners living in the same apartments or in neighbouring houses. Social capital and social networks of gentrifiers make them visible actors of urban change. However, disregarding social and economic inequalities, and class-based capabilities and inequalities, can cause significant misapprehension about urban processes. Although gentrifiers and their individual capabilities are emphasised in gentrification research, one should recognize that urban policies and other economic and social dynamics impact the gentrification process. Gentrifiers are able to use their economic, cultural and social capitals and social networks to compare, choose and invest in properties and claim ownership of certain spaces. For this reason, they can acquire or achieve advantageous positions in class relations through the claiming of space. However, this class position is not a static, structural feature, which in this respect may change within the context of the social dynamics.

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PART III: THE CITY OF UTOPIAS AND DYSTOPIAS

CHAPTER FIVE THE TRANSFORMATION OF THE URBAN PERIPHERY: ONCE UPON A TIME THERE WERE GECEKONDUS IN ISTANBUL ùÜKRÜ ASLAN AND TAHIRE ERMAN

This chapter aims to trace gecekondus, i.e. informal housing, in the recent history of Istanbul, which has become an image of the past rather than a part of today’s reality. It demonstrates that the gecekondu, which has now disappeared from the urban space, was once a major element of the city. Defying its literary meaning, i.e. “landed overnight,” which carries the assumption that the gecekondu would be a temporary settlement in the spaces of the city, gecekondu neighbourhoods developed as low-density housing areas formed of rural migrants and the urban poor (ùenyapÕlÕ 1982). As witnessed in many official documents, Istanbul was a half-gecekondu city until very recently. In academic literature, it was called a city of “distorted urbanization,” i.e. a city that had received a large influx of peasants who had failed to urbanize themselves, and yet also a city that was able to respond to the dynamics of modernization. In fact, “peasants failing to urbanize” had always been a major social dynamic within Istanbul; they were the cheap labour force for the city’s growing industry. Today, this aspect of Istanbul is rapidly disappearing or is being made to disappear. During the last twenty years, Istanbul has been experiencing the process of the “cleansing” of gecekondus. High-rise blocks, business centres and shopping malls are rapidly replacing them. Municipal and central governments, the Mass Housing Administration (Toplu Konut ødaresi—TOKø in Turkish), KøPTAù (the Istanbul Metropolitan Municipality’s Housing Construction Company) and large construction development firms have, through a collective effort, and using advanced

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technology, been working on ending the presence of gecekondus in the city. Erasing the gecekondu from the city is causing both a radical change in Istanbul’s skyline and an increase in the mobility of groups/classes in the urban space. As the number of towers rising into the sky increases, gecekondus lose ground, and their rural migrant residents, who have been settling in the city since the 1940s, either move out of the city or their old neighbourhoods to the peripheries. In their places, new people move into new buildings, acting as if gecekondus and their residents had never been there. In sum, as the gecekondus disappear in Istanbul, the social composition of the city also changes, diminishing its diversity in terms of class and culture.

Fig. 5.1. A few typical gecekondus that have survived today.

The article is primarily based on a review of the news and stories published in daily printed media since the 1940s, supported by other relevant literature. It is organized into sections by the periodization of the development of gecekondus in particular decades, starting with the 1940s and ending with the 1980s. And secondly, it is based on information obtained during field visits to several sites declared urban transformation projects (UTPs) by the TOKø-municipality partnership, some resisting the project (BaúÕbüyük and Gülsuyu in Maltepe), and some demolished, their

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residents relocated to TOKø’s housing estates (from Sulukule to Taúoluk and Ayazma to Bezirganbahçe).

The 1940s: Istanbul Encounters the Gecekondu Starting in the 1940s, through the mechanization of agriculture as a political project for integrating Turkey into the capitalist world system as a supplier of agricultural products, large numbers of peasants were displaced from their villages, and many moved to Istanbul, where industry was developing.

Fig. 5.2. “Transformed” gecekondus.

“Istanbul’s soil is gold” soon became a common saying, attracting the displaced peasant population from various parts of the country to the city. The influx of rural migrants into Istanbul created much concern in the state’s elite, which was reflected in the headlines of the dailies such as “More and more, Istanbul is looking like an Anatolian village” (Hürriyet June 4, 1948). As rural migrants built their gecekondus near factories, followed by the urban lower classes who did not have the opportunity for homeownership in the commercial housing market, gecekondus soon

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became defined by the authorities as a serious “urban problem” that facing Istanbul; the fact that Istanbul was one of the important historic cities of the world exacerbated the problem. Early gecekondus were built in the city in the 1940s (Akçay 1974). Zeytinburnu was one of the first gecekondu settlements in Istanbul, it had been vacant land until 1946. When leather and textile workshops began to open in the area, this attracted migrants who hoped to find jobs. They built their gecekondus around the workshops and factories, ready to work for low wages. Living in the gecekondu saved them transportation and rent costs, and made it possible to live on their very modest earnings. The population of Zeytinburnu reached 17,585 in 1955, and in 1957 it became the fourteenth district of Istanbul (Akçay 1974). There were several thousand gecekondus in the city at the end of the 1940s (Hürriyet August 19, 1948). Gecekondus were now defined as a “housing problem” (mesken sorunu); this definition reflected the quite naïve and innocent approach to gecekondus at the time. In order to solve the problem, a meeting was held that was attended by two government ministers where the Minister of the Interior stated that public land would be transferred to the municipality and then sold at low prices to those in need of housing, and the Minister of Finance stated that they would temporarily stop the demolition of gecekondus until cheap land could be provided (Hürriyet May 25, 1948). There were also articles in newspapers that complained about the apathy such statements created in people. Parallel to the attempts of finding a solution to the “housing problem” in Istanbul, some gecekondus were targeted for demolition. This pertained to those built on private land. A newspaper article noted that thirty gecekondus built on private land were demolished and new gecekondus would not be allowed, but those built on public land would be sold to their owners (Hürriyet August 21, 1948). The same “policy” would continue over the years, yet would never be fully implemented. We can interpret this as the state sending an implicit message to the gecekondu population that if they built their houses on public land, they had to be patient and wait until they were legalized. In this early era of gecekondus, in addition to rural migrants in need of shelter, public officers, in their desire not to pay rent, also constructed gecekondus, blurring the boundary of who would implement the rules against gecekondu construction. Moreover, a “gecekondu sector” began to develop, as mentioned in a daily newspaper (Hürriyet August 20, 1948). A new group of “gecekondu merchants” (gecekondu taciri) had emerged who would invade land to sell it or construct houses to sell. Thus,

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“gecekondu owners” and “gecekondu builders” became two different groups, only overlapping in some cases. While Istanbul was experiencing major changes to its space, the city’s social structure was also changing. Anatolian people were creating a place for themselves in the country’s most glamorous city; meanwhile, the state elites, whose political object was to create a nation from the masses, i.e. a modernized/Westernized society, were facing new social tensions and problems, challenging their position vis-à-vis the masses.

The 1950s: The Years of Struggling to Develop a Gecekondu Policy By 1951, the number of gecekondus in Istanbul had reached 8,500. There was increasing criticism against the mayor and the governor, who were actually one and the same person at that time. In 1953, for the first time, the gecekondu problem was not merely defined as a “housing problem,” and the fact that in the areas where gecekondus were located there were no public services was recognized as a problem. However, not much was done about it. The “gecekondu policy” in this period was built on the provision of cheap land for those in need of housing. Two laws were passed, one in 1953 (Law No. 6188) and the other in 1959 (Law No. 7367), enabling the transfer of public land to municipalities to be sold, on cheap credit, to individuals and housing cooperatives. But this policy far from solved the “gecekondu problem,” and gecekondus kept increasing in number. The government used two parallel ways to cope with this situation: demolish those built on private or pious foundation property, and legalize those built on public land. In 1959, there was a report in a newspaper that title deeds would be given for 67,000 gecekondus (østanbul Ekspres March 14, 1959). Moreover, for those whose gecekondus were to be demolished, the municipal government assumed the responsibility of providing them with land at low prices. For example, when the gecekondus of 117 families were torn down, they were given land in Kuútepe (østanbul Ekspres April 15, 1959). In sum, the 1950s were the years during which the local and central governments struggled to find solutions to the gecekondu problem, but could not succeed beyond a few cases.

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The 1960s: Attempts to Regulate Gecekondus with the First Gecekondu Act Coming into Effect By the early 1960s, Istanbul had become a half-gecekondu city— almost 40% of the dwellings were gecekondus, and 45% of the city population lived in gecekondus. And within this context, a military intervention took place on May 27, 1960. By holding centralized power, the military regime could control gecekondu development. Headlines in the dailies announced the decision of the leaders of the coup to stop gecekondus from being built: “The construction of gecekondus is banned”; “All the gecekondus built after the revolution (sic) will be demolished” (østanbul Ekspres June 25, 1960). Despite the determined approach of the military leaders to stop gecekondus they kept growing in number. The orders of the military had become dysfunctional in the face of rapid urban change. It did not take long for the military leaders to understand the reality and act accordingly. This shift in the military leaders’ approach to gecekondus once again demonstrated that social facts would not disappear through orders. After the military stepped down in 1962 the civil government faced the need to adopt a more serious approach, in other words by accepting gecekondus as a fact and regulating them with laws. In 1966, the Gecekondu Act was passed (Law No. 775). In the law, three interrelated goals were defined to solve the gecekondu problem: those in good shape and built in acceptable locations would be improved; those in problematic locations would be demolished; and further gecekondu development would be prevented. Following it, some gecekondu areas became municipal districts; many were provided with municipal services; and a few “gecekondu-prohibited areas” were allocated for those areas marked for demolition. The areas prohibiting gecekondu in Istanbul were Osmaniye, Küçükköy, Atatürk Çiftli÷i, Gülsuyu, Örnek Mahallesi, ùerifali Çiftli÷i and KanlÕca (Tuna 1977). However, the second and third goals of the law remained unaccomplished. The Minister of Reconstruction and Housing (ømar ve øskan BakanlÕ÷Õ), Haldun Menteúeo÷lu, in the speech made during the ceremony to initiate the construction of 1,280 houses, informed those assembled that in Istanbul there was no electricity in 85,000 gecekondus, no water in 95,000 gecekondus, no roads to 130,000 gecekondus, and none had sewage systems. He concluded by saying that the government was on a mission to solve this problem. However, the “gecekonduzation” of Istanbul could not be stopped by the Gecekondu Act, and in 1968, the number in Istanbul reached 120,000.

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“Gecekondu merchants” were free to work as the construction staff of municipalities, bringing bulldozers and construction machinery to open roads and to prepare the land for gecekondu construction. Through such actions, by the end of the 1960s the number of people living in gecekondus exceeded half a million (Ziyao÷lu 1971). As Istanbul moved towards becoming a “gecekondu city,” the perceived threats to the city’s identity became an issue: not only did gecekondus increase in number, but so did men and women in “traditional” dress, making their presence felt in the public spaces of the city. This resulted in the “established” population of the city blaming the gecekondu population for new social conflicts and tensions in the city. With their community-oriented lives and their continuing relationship with their villages, they were the “peasants in the city” and constituted a subculture (Gökçe 1976); and with their arabesk music (a hybrid music genre) (Özbek 1996), their dolmuú (use of shared taxis as cheap transportation), and their iúporta (street vendors in the informal economy) (Tekeli, Gülöksüz & Okyay 1976), they were transforming everyday life in the city, making the city their own. Yet, in the eyes of the “real” Istanbulites, they always remained the “Other.”

The 1970s: The Last Ten Years in the Rise of the Gecekondu; Political Opposition in “Liberated Areas” During this decade, gecekondus increased at a higher and faster rate. Every year about 9,000 to 10,000 gecekondus were built, inhabited by 40,000 to 50,000 persons (ArÕbaú 1973). By 1972, the number of gecekondus in Istanbul reached 195,000 (øBB, 2003). The rumour that gecekondus built before March 1, 1976 would be pardoned led to the construction of more than 10,000 in fifteen days. Earlier, gecekondus were built mainly outside of the city, but now they were making their presence felt along the Bosphorus and in various districts, most notably in Kuruçeúme. Muhtars (elected official heads of the neighbourhood) and members of municipal councils directly participated in converting empty lots into gecekondu areas. As reported in one daily newspaper, Istanbul’s municipality received numerous complaints about public officers dividing public land into plots and selling them, but the municipal government failed to respond (Hürriyet April 4, 1976). Headlines often had the theme of Istanbul municipalities turning into a farm, not able to keep its employees in line (Hürriyet April 5, 1976). The New York Times journalist Steven Roberts, upon his visit to Istanbul in the same year, during which

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he met with the mayor, described Istanbul as the sickest city in the world. He argued that as each year 200,000 persons were moving to Istanbul, it was suffocating the city. The Istanbul mayor defended himself, saying that it had become impossible to prevent the construction of unauthorized buildings when the bribing of officials had become common practice (Hürriyet April 11, 1976). The Minister of Public Works and Resettlement announced the government’s goal of building 100,000 housing units, but said that even this number would not be enough to respond to the housing need in Istanbul (Hürriyet April 9, 1976). The gecekondu phenomenon had long been a major political subject, and political parties were politicizing the gecekondu issue. Their leaders, in their election campaigns, made promises in favour of gecekondus. The opposition party, the CHP (Cumhuriyet Halk Partisi, the Republican People’s Party), organized its “Gecekondu Congress” in 1976 at the Istanbul Sports and Exhibition Center, attended by 954 members of the party from 64 gecekondu settlements, along with a large crowd. Forty gecekondu representatives made speeches about the problems they had in their neighbourhoods, and the Mayor of Istanbul, Ahmet øsvan, acknowledged the problems and complained about the government’s indifferent attitude. He also talked about his party’s project of giving title deeds to alreadyestablished gecekondus to their residents. All these developments popularized the issue. The daily newspaper Hürriyet dedicated its Istanbul issue of May 2, 1976 to gecekondu. In the issue, the main ideas were that each year a new district was being added to Istanbul, creating the need for 40,000 new houses. Istanbulites were failing to claim their city; on the one hand, gecekondus were being demolished, yet, on the other, new gecekondus were being built. In the same year, the legal arrangement for those gecekondus built before March 1, 1976 not to be demolished was finalized (Cumhuriyet May 3, 1976). While the populism of gecekondus was contested by political parties, gecekondu areas were also contested by radical political groups. The rise of the leftist movement made gecekondu neighbourhoods the sites of opposition. This was not only because of the fact that gecekondus housed the poor, but more importantly because of leftist criticism of gecekondus as a commodity in the capitalist market. Istanbul was the principal city of Turkey and hence had considerable potential in fees from renting its land, making the city’s gecekondus a commodity in the informal market. Paradoxically, while gecekondus had first emerged as a response to the housing needs of the poor, over the years they had lost their direct relationship with those who could not satisfy their housing needs in the

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commercial market, and had become a source of rented accommodation for organized illegal groups.

Fig. 5.3. The “Mayday Neighbourhood” today.

Socialist groups began to get involved in gecekondu neighbourhoods: they believed that the solution to the housing problem of the poor was to use the urban land “freely.” Under their leadership a new gecekondu neighbourhood was built within the boundaries of Ümraniye. To fit with the mission of creating a site of struggling against the system, it was called the “Mayday Neighbourhood” (Bir MayÕs Mahallesi) (Aslan 2004). The neighbourhood had a strong political character, which to some extent continues even today. Other such neighbourhoods were also established in the same year; for example, Güzeltepe (Eyüp) and Gülsuyu (Maltepe). In socialist journals, gecekondus made headlines, defined not as a problem to be solved, as was the case in mainstream newspapers, but as sites of anticapitalist struggle. Slogans such as, “we will fight against gecekondu demolition” (HalkÕn Yolu March 1978) and “we will get our rights to gecekondus by our collective force” (HalkÕn Kurtuluúu November 1976) made their appearance in the journals.

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Fig. 5.4. The few remaining gecekondus in the “Mayday Neighbourhood”.

In sum, the 1970s brought new features to the gecekondu phenomenon. First, the gecekondu became a site of political struggle, not only between the system and opposition groups but also among the political parties within the system. Secondly, “gecekonduzation” established itself as a major means of urbanization. And thirdly, space-based political struggles emerged in the context of the gecekondu; intervention in and through space was put into action by leftist groups in their vision of a new type of housing that existed outside the capitalist housing market. All this made the gecekondu more than just the “housing problem.” Accordingly, it was placed at the core of the agenda of the new regime that came to power through the military coup on September 12, 1980.

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Fig. 5.5. Graffiti in the “Mayday Neighbourhood”.

The 1980s: Gecekondus as the Means of Urban Rent in the Formal Housing Market By the early 1980s, the number of people living in gecekondus in Istanbul had reached over 50% of the total population. In the city, 549,000 buildings not constructed “according to scientific criteria” were identified, and it was calculated that 208,249 gecekondus were built between 1976 and 1983 (Milliyet January 5, 1983). The National Security Council (NSC), which ruled the country through its declarations, issued an order to conduct a survey of the gecekondus in Istanbul; the survey’s data demonstrated that there were 130,182 gecekondus and 117,263 buildings that violated building codes and regulations, but the NSC’s President, General Kenan Evren, believed that there were at least 450,000 gecekondus in Istanbul (Milliyet January 26, 1983). In the early 1980s, Istanbul, like the entire country, was governed by the military; its new mayor was a former military officer. As with the 1960 military coup, the 1980 coup also tried to stop the spread of gecekondus. The National Security Council issued Declaration No. 9 which ordered the demolition of all gecekondus built after June 2, 1981. Interestingly, a law regarding gecekondus was being drafted, which would grant amnesty for the gecekondus built before January 1, 1983. When the public found out

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about the law, the construction of unlicensed buildings increased. Yet, Istanbul’s military mayor declared that the construction of new gecekondus had ended, and if there were gecekondus built after June 2, 1981, their number would not be more than fifty, and they would definitely be torn down (Milliyet January 29, 1983). Amnesty for gecekondu residences was one of the most significant political decisions of all times in the history of gecekondus. It was a radical political-economic choice—while it closed the city’s spaces for further gecekondu construction, it aimed to transform existing gecekondus, bringing them into the commercial housing market and sharing the rent with gecekondu owners. Interestingly, it was supported by the military. A radical shift in the approach of the state to the housing problem was being formed; the state was withdrawing from its responsibility to provide housing to the poor, which was a goal it never accomplished. In the words of a state officer, the state could not set aside all its other jobs to construct housing. Despite much criticism directed against the law from various interested parties, such as the Chambers of Architects, urban planners and academics, it was passed in March 1983. The area along the Bosphorus was kept outside of the gecekondu amnesty law, and the prohibition of new construction would continue until a special law was passed. (Milliyet March 21, 1983). Under this large-scale pardon, gecekondus were to be legalized on the condition that their owners paid “land use” money. In the ten months after the law was passed only 1.8 million persons applied, much less than the anticipated number of2.5 million. This led to revisions in the law—the “land use” money would be lifted, and more importantly gecekondu owners in those areas whose master plans were not yet made would be issued “temporary title deeds” (tapu tahsis belgesi), to be replaced by real title deeds after the master plans of the area had been applied (Cumhuriyet January 23, 1984). Under these new regulations, Istanbul became a citywide construction site, and apartment buildings were built on gecekondu land. Even the forest along the Bosphorus began to be “cleared” to prepare for luxury building construction. The interest of the upper classes in the urban periphery for building their gated communities began to pose a serious threat to the survival of gecekondus. Gecekondus began to rapidly disappear from Istanbul as they were replaced by apartment blocks and by luxury building projects. Recently, gecekondu transformation projects have been implemented by partnerships between municipal governments and TOKø.

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Fig. 5.6. A deserted gecekondu in the midst of apartment buildings.

Despite the fact that gecekondus were the product of the joint efforts of politicians, state officials, muhtars, and gecekondu owners, the state ignored other parties, defining gecekondu owners as the sole party in the “gecekondu business.” This was a new era—gecekondus were out, luxury buildings were in.

Since the 1990s: The Clearance of Gecekondus from the Spaces of Istanbul The 1990s brought a radical shift in the approach of authorities to gecekondus. A new language was constructed in the discourses of central and local governments regarding the gecekondus—they were “illegal” and “ugly,” their residents were “criminals” and “terrorists,” and they were behind rent and easy money (Erman 2001). Mayors, in their political campaigns, started to promise to “clean” the city of gecekondus—they were the tumours of the city which should be removed from its spaces. This was exactly the opposite of what mayors promised in earlier decades—“to bring services to gecekondu neighbourhoods and to legalize gecekondus.”

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Fig. 5.7. Luxury buildings encroaching on gecekondus. The A÷ao÷lu Company’s housing project seen from the “Mayday Neighbourhood”.

The JDP (Justice and Development Party) (or AKP) government that has been in power since 2002, in order to solve the “gecekondu problem” aimed for their mass destruction. To this end the power of municipal authorities was increased; they were authorized to implement renewal projects in “derelict” and “obsolescent” areas (Ünsal & Kuyucu 2010), which meant the demolition of gecekondus and old housing in the city centre. Also, TOKø was restructured and endowed with new means and powers. Today, through the partnerships between TOKø and municipal governments, gecekondu neighbourhoods are being aggressively replaced through urban transformation projects. Although this process of the clearance of gecekondus from the city is presented by authorities as a positive development, it is destroying the collective memory of Istanbul. This intervention in gecekondu neighbourhoods, replacing gecekondus with “modern” buildings, is not only creating a homogenized aesthetic for the city but is also damaging its social fabric. Istanbul is no longer a city of the poor, of workers, or of rural migrants. By eradicating their gecekondu environments they are being pushed from the city to prevent them from ruining Istanbul’s image as a “global city” envisioned by the governing elites. The city population is being homogenized as gecekondus are demolished and their residents are forcibly relocated to TOKø’s “modern” apartment blocks.

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Fig. 5.8. Bezirganbahçe-TOKø housing estate built for the displaced gecekondu population from Ayazma.

This massive intervention of the state in gecekondu areas through urban transformation projects (UTPs) has not been without attempts at intervention. Local groups are organizing resistance to their displacement from their gecekondus and neighbourhoods. The main discourse against a UTP is formed around the idea of the “right to the city”—gecekondu residents have the right to live in their neighbourhoods which they established by their hard work and in which they have been living for many years. They have the right to live with their neighbours with whom

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they share memories and experiences of struggle, solidarity and mutual support. They want to remain in their neighbourhoods and to keep their gecekondus. The rapid disappearance of vast numbers of gecekondus through the UTPs and the rapid appearance of luxury building projects in their place has alarmed gecekondu residents and spurred them to do something against this development. They have become more conscious of the value of their houses in terms of both the use and exchange value. As they observe those whose gecekondus are demolished in UTPs and who are relocated to TOKø housing estates built for the displaced gecekondu population—for example Bezirganbahçe-TOKø at Küçükçekmece—they become aware of the problems that are created. Families cannot live in the small and “modern” apartments given to them in high-rise blocks and cannot afford the cost of living in apartment estates, and many fail to pay their monthly instalments in the mortgage system.1 In UTPs, as residents are relocated to TOKø’s housing estates in faraway locations, their access to job opportunities also becomes restricted. For example, when Sulukule residents, many of whom work in the entertainment business and require proximity to the city centre, were relocated to the Taúoluk-TOKø housing estate some 40 kilometres away, they lost their connections with the city and also their jobs. Many have tried to return to the city, this time renting cheap rundown houses, which will soon be targeted for demolition by the municipal government. They are, in effect, waiting for another displacement, which may make them homeless. Gecekondu residents have not only become aware of the use value of their houses, but also the exchange value of their gecekondu land. If they have to give up their houses and their ways of life in gecekondu neighbourhoods, then, they say, this should be in such a way as to bring them some material benefits. Gecekondus are their only means of improving their lives economically, and they fight for their gecekondus—if not for the houses, then for the economic gain. The project of the state to transform Istanbul from a “third-world city” of informal settlements to a “global city” of financial markets, headquarters of multinational corporations, 5-star hotels, convention halls, cultural centres, shopping malls and luxury residences, targets a radical transformation in the physical structure of the city, avoiding the larger issue of social problems, particularly social inequality and social justice. Today, the neoliberal government is supported by real-estate entrepreneurs and wealthy private developers, and is much more powerful than it was in the 1 See T. Erman, “An Emergent Dystopian Place in Istanbul: Bezirganbahçe-TOKø Housing Estate,” in this book.

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previous era of national development in acting against the poor and the disadvantaged. The question of “whose city is it?” resonates as the powerful and the wealthy insert themselves into the spaces, asserting their place into the spaces of Istanbul, while gecekondu residents keep fighting to keep their homes in the city.

Fig. 5.9. Gülsuyu-Gülensu as an example of a resisting gecekondu neighbourhood.

Conclusion Up until the 1980s the authorities’ approach to the “gecekondu problem” remained at the boundary between rejection and acceptance— they were never fully integrated into the system and never fully kept out. In the same way, gecekondu residents were both the “Other” in the city, stigmatized as “peasants in the city” (Erman 2001) and by their large numbers, and were also the ones who could reverse the situation, making modernized urbanites the city’s “Other.” In the early decades, gecekondus were seen as elements of the city that were external to it; they had appeared unexpectedly in the city spaces when the city was not ready for them, and had frightened its people. Yet, they were also “facts” that could not be ignored. They had come from outside, but now they were inside. This brought the encounter of the modernized segments of society with the

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Anatolian people, creating a social reality that transgressed the boundaries of the definition of “urban.” Istanbul became a city of many cultures and a city of contrasting realities, defying any attempt to define it. Today, only a few gecekondus are left, and no gecekondu neighbourhood in its “original” form remains in Istanbul, many being transformed into unplanned high-rise apartment settlements. Thus, while referring to them we say “old gecekondu neighbourhoods,” which remain only in our memory. The government putting its “global city” project into practice at the speed of the construction of the first gecekondus; the policies of state authorities to solve the “gecekondu problem”; the temporary prohibition of the construction of gecekondus during the military coup d’etat periods; the mayors’ promises of infrastructure and services to developing gecekondu neighbourhoods; the formation of liberated gecekondu areas by leftist groups following their ideal of creating housing outside the capitalist system; the conflict and violence that followed; and the poverty in gecekondus together with profit to be made from them are now all in our memory. This article is an attempt to follow in the steps of the gecekondu in the recent past of Istanbul. In doing so, it raises the question of whose city Istanbul is, whose it used to be, and what it is becoming as the gecekondu is erased from its spaces.

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Turkey, ed. Sibel Bozdo÷an and Reúat Kasaba, 211-32. Washington D.C.: University of Washington Press. ùenyapÕlÕ, TansÕ. 1982. “Economic Change and the Gecekondu Family.” In Sex Roles, Family and Community in Turkey, ed. Çi÷dem Ka÷ÕtçÕbaúÕ, 237-248. Bloomington: Indiana University Turkish Studies 3. Tekeli, ølhan, Gülöksüz, Yi÷it and Okyay, TarÕk. 1976. Gecekondulu, Dolmuúlu, øúportalÕ ùehir [City of the Gecekondu, the Dolmuú and the Iúporta]. Istanbul: Cem Publications. Tuna, Orhan. 1977. østanbul Gecekondu Önleme Bölgeleri AraútÕrmasÕ [A Survey of the Istanbul Gecekondu Prevention Areas]. Istanbul: østanbul University, Faculty of Economics Publication, no. 391. Ziyao÷lu, RakÕm. 1971. østanbul’un KadÕlarÕ, ùehreminleri, Belediye Reisleri ve Partiler Tarihi (1453-1971) [Istanbul’s Muslim Judges, Ottoman Mayors, Mayors, and the History of its Political Parties (1453-1971)]. Istanbul: øsmail Akgün MatbaasÕ. Ünsal, Özlem and Kuyucu, Tuna. 2010. “Challenging the Neoliberal Urban Regime: Regeneration and Resistance in BaúÕbüyük and TarlabaúÕ.” In Orienting Istanbul: Cultural Capital of Europe?, eds. Deniz Göktürk, Levent Soysal and øpek Türeli, 51-70, London and New York: Routledge.

CHAPTER SIX PROMISES AND LIES: THEMED LIVING ON THE EDGES OF ISTANBUL SIBEL YARDIMCI

Much has been said of the recent reconfiguration of Istanbul and the complementary and/or contradictory processes of urban development have been well documented in Turkish, if not sufficiently in English, ranging from the multiplication of gated enclaves, through the substitution of a cultural economy for a prior wave of industrialization, to the displacement of under- or working-class populations.1 In this chapter I aim to discuss one such development specifically; namely, the mushrooming of themedgated residential areas. One may well argue that, in fact, all gated communities are planned and built around a couple of repetitive themes which bring together comfort, security, cosiness and proximity to nature (which apparently residents can no longer find in inner-city living), in a bundle associated with exclusiveness. The point of departure for this chapter is, however, such residential compounds that draw directly upon a theme, somehow similarly to the ethnographic villages of World Exhibitions, or theme parks, the prototypical example of which was Disneyland.2 Such 1

For edited volumes bringing many aspects of this transformation to the attention of the reader see Keyder (2000), Kurtuluú (2005) and Göktürk et al. (2011). For research focusing on specific neighbourhoods or areas see Erder (1996), O÷uz & PÕnarcÕo÷lu (2001) and Aslan (2004). For gated communities see DanÕú (2001), Pérouse & DanÕú (2005) and Bartu Candan & Kolluo÷lu (2008) (all in chronological order). 2 Whereas the ethnographic villages of World Exhibitions pretended to represent the “original” native villages (or natives) of the colonies, Disneyland and its successors also drew on imaginary sources, such as tales (see for example the Cinderella Castle in Disney World in Florida and the Castle of Sleeping Beauty in Disneyland, California). For a thorough problematization of World Exhibitions’

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residential compounds can be taken as innovations aimed at fostering the precarious demand within the ever-growing but doomed-to-fail construction sector in Turkey, the most significant expansion of which can be observed in Istanbul (YalçÕntan 2012). It is easy to predict that such compounds will soon multiply, and the trend is already observable. For the moment, most are still under construction. In this chapter I will focus on the best-known three. First is Bosphorus City, “topographically the sibling of the [real] Bosphorus,” where one encounters the (pseudo) twins of Bosphorus neighbourhoods at a distance of 25 km from the city centre. Next is Viaport Venezia, promising prospective residents a “dolce vita” in Venice, a “lifelong vacation far from the streets of Istanbul,” which would be at the same time a “sound investment.” The last is the Aegean Coastline, which claims to bring calm seaside living, with its stone and wooden architecture and abundant natural resources, to Istanbul.3 These three residential compounds (with the exception of Viaport Venezia, which has an area reserved for offices) are scattered in the outer zones of the city, which have now become highly populated, lower- to middle-class areas, in parallel to the expansion of the city. The former, in turn, propose to offer a lifestyle almost always higher in class compared to their competitors, and much more homogeneous, ordered and sterile than the city itself (or what remains of it—I come back to this point below). I propose to analyse these spaces through the notion of the “camp,” which Agamben (1998) defines in Homo Sacer as a space where the state of exception becomes the rule, and which Diken & Laustsen, following his arguments, applied to a range of social phenomena, including “benevolent camps” that “repeat the logic of the exception for the winners” (2005, 9).4 claim of authenticity, see Mitchell (1988), especially the first chapter, “Egypt at the Exhibition.” For Disneyland, see Baudrillard (1994). 3 Unless otherwise stated all information about each residential compound and quotes above are taken from the official web sites of these housing enterprises. See, respectively, Bosphorus City, Viaport Venezia and Ege Boyu (all accessed February 1–15, 2013). With their colourful and almost three-dimensional iconography, the background music calling to mind the theme and detailed floor plans, visiting these multi-lingual (from English to Russian to Arabic) websites is an experience in itself, just as it is visiting each one’s sales office. The latter, with their decor and the music playing in the background, create an atmosphere which successfully plays with the stereotypes associated with each theme (such as the golden ornamentation at Bosphorus City, and Greek music at the Aegean Coastline sales offices). 4 In addition to the specific references given throughout the text, I remain indebted to Bülent Diken for bringing to my attention most of the literature I am drawing

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Themed-gated communities are such camps where the urban texture and atmosphere surrounding the closed enclaves are suspended to create an exception of the “real” city, and where this exception becomes continuous. But these are also simulations—not a copy, not a place seemingly similar to an original, not a false Venice, but a “non-place” (Augé 1995) or, as Baudrillard (1994, 6) puts it, “an uninterrupted circuit without reference” whereby the prospective resident is sent from the website to the sales office, and from the sales office to a “show flat” (if completed) or a model, itself available on the website. Although their adopted names call to mind real places (Istanbul, Venice, Aegean villages), images of the buildings promise exactly the opposite—a lifestyle freed from the tensions of real urban life. There is one final caveat here, though. As such, these residential compounds also propose that there is still an urban life which one may want to escape. In this case, the image (or the “themed” place) becomes not a reflection or distortion of a basic reality, but masks the absence of it (1994). Themed-gated communities, by pretending to be what urban life is not, also pretend that there is such an urban life. This remains questionable, however. The polis, as the root of politics, is gradually disappearing and increasingly “splintered” (Graham & Marvin 2001), as urban land and life become segmented and privatized. To introduce one final concept, one may refer to “heterotopias.” Themed-gated communities are not utopias, but heterotopias as defined by Foucault (1986). Whereas utopias (ou-topos, literally “non-place”) denote no real place, these are real, enacted but counter-sites, where all the other real sites are both represented and contested. Following the argument above, themed-gated communities can be seen not only as specific ways of grasping and organizing “life” (inseparably biological and social) in themselves, but as also offering a clue about what takes place (or no longer takes place) outside their walls in the sites they pretend to mirror but invert in many ways—that is, in the city. Themed-gated communities deserve special attention for the opportunity they provide to rethink the city, and related notions such as urban life, public space and the common good. In this chapter I aim to show how themed-gated communities reorganize space and life and discuss the implications of it in such terms. In the remaining part I first provide a brief overview of recent urban developments in Istanbul and of the three themed-gated communities I mention above. I then move on to upon here, and for inviting me to think about the “city” through the notion of “camp.” Hence, the way I came to construct my argument in this chapter follows largely his argument/line of reasoning (see also Diken 2004).

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the concepts I refer to as tools to think about these spaces. Finally, I conclude with a discussion of the implications of such urban developments.

Twentieth Century Istanbul at a Glance The powerful capital of the Ottoman Empire, Istanbul, entered the twentieth century as a cosmopolitan centre in peril and lost its official status as the capital to Ankara, together with a large number of physical and cultural assets, with the founding of the new Turkish Republic (1923). It re-flourished in the 1950s after being launched as a production centre. After this date, industry develops quickly in the supportive environment of state subsidies, complemented by the continuous migration from Anatolia which provided the labour force necessary for this expansionary impulse. A variety of capital-intensive Fordist businesses were established, simultaneously restructuring urban areas and creating squatter (gecekondu) neighbourhoods. This growth continued until the 1980s when the Structural Adjustment Program of the IMF transformed the state-based regime of import substitution to an export-oriented privatised market economy. The liberalisation of the economy gave rise to a new interest among multinational corporations. Foreign investment flows mostly to non-manufacturing sectors. This shift from manufacturing to services created the basis for the integration of the Turkish economy with the world economy, and gave rise to a new group of professionals whose lifestyle practices are equally integrated with global trends. At an increasing pace, multinational banks and companies, hotels, hypermarkets, fast food chains, boutiques, world cuisines and global cultural productions took their place in the new Istanbul, and it was during this period that deliberate strategies for repositioning Istanbul as a global city were first 5 proposed. At the same time, large portions of the population were badly affected by the speculative nature of the Turkish economy and its being dominated by financial crises. Many lost their jobs and properties. As industrialisation lost its pace, owners with substantial capital/holdings preferred to capitalise on the appreciation of urban lands, turning the city-space into a means of speculation. Low- to middle-wage earners, migrants and the unemployed were pushed to the periphery by urban transformation projects and/or increasing land prices, taking part in the precarious end of the new international division of labour. 5 For the post-1980 period see references in the first footnote, especially Keyder (2000). It is also Keyder (1992) who first made this proposition.

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In parallel to this chain of socio-economic transformations, the spatial configuration of the city also changed, settling more or less into contemporary patterns.

Transformation of Residential Structures and the Gating of the City According to Güvenç & IúÕk’s framework (2001), this spatial configuration involves three broadly defined categories of residential structures: (1) Affluent residential segments, (2) More homogeneous buffer zones, and (3) Low-wage earner settlements. The first category consists of rich and isolated segments constructed either in coastal enclaves or in new sites outside the highly built-up areas (along the uninhabited coasts of the Black Sea, and in and around the forest and lakeside areas) with very high property values (2001, 211). These are small-scale exclusive gated communities with villa-type residences, not only physically walled off but also, in most cases, hidden within the forest. A less exclusive and more common type of gated community is also formed in larger areas, where luxury flats are mixed with villas. The second category of residential structure that Güvenç & IúÕk detect in Istanbul is formed of more homogeneous segments with no predominant group. These areas are either former squatter areas, regularised through building amnesty laws, or spaces adjacent to the first thoroughfare connecting the first Bosphorus Bridge to the inner-city highways. Thus, they are located and act as buffer zones between wealthier areas and peripheral, low-income squatter and/or working areas. Finally, the third category of residential area is formed of low-wage earner settlements where tenants do not usually own the houses they inhabit. These are epitomized in earlier peripheral shantytown areas composed of squatter settlements (gecekondu) formed with the industrialization of Istanbul and the rural-to-urban migration summarized above. It was expected that these settlements would melt away with modernization and urbanization. This expectation failed, however, creating spaces of permanent marginality which have “fallen off or been pushed out of the present and future of the modern and urban” (Bartu Candan & Kolluo÷lu 2008, 7; see also Erman 2001). Such locations remain not only distance-wise but also socially imprisoned in the periphery, while the centre is increasingly secured for functions deemed to be valuable and mostly private spaces (such as luxury complexes and malls). In Istanbul, not only have existing class and ethnic divisions sharpened, but also cultural, political and religious overtones are

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added to the existing ones. These divisions intensify the sense of insecurity among citizens who lose any connection and communication with, and indeed develop a kind of hostility against, the “others” with whom they (supposedly) share the city. A combination of architecture, urban design, police apparatus and private security service providers creates a false sense of security and leads inescapably to the further destruction/erosion of public spaces (Low 2004; YardÕmcÕ 2009; YardÕmcÕ & Alemdar 2010). This results in what Bartu Candan & Kolluo÷lu (2008, 6) call the “gating of the city,” that is the reconfiguration of the urban landscape through security measures and surveillance techniques, widely used in production, consumption and leisure spaces, as well as residential areas. According to the authors, new forms of wealth, living and governance develop at this higher end of urban living, creating new forms of “social and political relations and non-relations” (Ibid., 6).

Themed Living The gating of residential areas is probably a major aspect of this trend. It started in the mid-1980s but spread only in the late-1990s, exceeding half a thousand in less than a decade (Pérouse & DanÕú 2005; Bartu Candan & Kolluo÷lu 2008). As part of this boom, Turkey’s first themed housing project started in 2005—Bosphorus City, in the district of Küçükçekmece (European side), which I will also take as my first case (it is actually the only one hitherto finished). My second case, Viaport Venezia, is in Gaziosmanpaúa (again, on the European side), and offers both residential and office spaces. According to estimates it will be completed by the end of 2014. Finally, the Aegean Coastline, another residential compound under construction, constitutes my final case. The latter is located on the Asian side of the Bosphorus (in the Sancaktepe district). All three are locations in proximity to highways (the TEM and E5 motorways), airports (Atatürk on the European side and Sabiha Gökçen on the Asian side), and prospective subway stations; they present a variety of residential spaces for those who work in rising business districts nearby, and investment opportunities in zones that are gradually attracting financial interest. In terms of themes they bring together references to nature (green areas, water canals of various sorts, organic agriculture) or the past (Ottoman Istanbul, community life)—funnily enough though, careless urbanization brings forth ecological disasters (such as the construction of a third bridge) and/or destroys the remaining traces of Istanbul’s urban past (such as the destruction of old neighbourhoods) at great pace.

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Figs. 6.1 and 6.2. Bosphorus City (A view of the canal and surrounding buildings). Sources: emlaklobisi.com and fotogaleri.hurriyet.com.tr.

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Bosphorus City, for example, is located at a site topographically similar to the Bosphorus, where a variety of residential options are gathered around a water canal of 720 m, opening onto a swimming pool at one end. The canal is supposed to represent the Bosphorus, “the natural wonder people have been passionate about for countless centuries, the pearl of the city of seven hills” (quote from the sales catalogue).

Fig. 6.3. Viaport Venezia advertisement (The heading says: “Europe’s greatest city moves into the world’s greatest city!”) Source: Via, Luxury Living Magazine, Dec.Jan.-Feb. 2012 [sic] (inside of folded front cover).

Combining “unmatched beauty” with “a privileged life,” the residential compound is composed of different parts, each named after a different

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district of Istanbul.6 These are not, however, randomly selected, taking their names from spots that are known for their heritage and gentrified nature. These are mostly former villages located along the Bosphorus which merged with the expansion of the city and thus gave rise to a continuously inhabited shoreline. As to their Bosphorus City counterparts, they are transposed on a copy-paste basis, one next to another, and in a manner completely devoid of any historical, political and social connotations. To no one’s surprise, there are also two bridges over the canal (pedestrian as opposed to the “real” bridges over the Bosphorus), green areas taking their names from old recreational woodlands (koru) such as Bebek and Emirgan, and a variety of areas of consumption with direct references to urban spots (such as the Ortaköy shopping area, the Emirgan tea garden, or the Kandilli fish restaurant, each again referring to a location along the Bosphorus). One such spot is Paúabahçe which refers to a northern neighbourhood that developed around a glass factory that opened in 1935 and closed in 2002 as part of the deindustrialisation of the city. This place lends itsname to Bosphorus City, which names a centre for glasswork courses after it. The smaller building on the left of the photo is the Kandilli fish restaurant. Just behind, on the right-hand side, one can see the seaside apartment blocks. Further in the background are situated Seven Hill Towers (left) and Saraybahçe Houses (right), which are residential options of different size. The second case I want to draw upon is Viaport Venezia, a mix of residential and office spaces. It is located at a junction nearer the city centre, but still promises to offer “a life like a vacation, far from the stress of Istanbul” (Project accessed February 14, 2013). The compound is composed of one-, two- or three-bedroom flats and offices of various sizes, a shopping centre and social facilities. There is a crescent of five tall apartment buildings with flats and a series of adjacent shorter office blocks, each forming half of the circle, which also sets the borders of the compound. It is in the middle of this circular architecture that the shopping mall and other facilities (sports areas, saunas and baths, lounges and restaurants) are placed, and most importantly the canals characteristic of Venice: “The unique Italian architecture, charisma and those bustling

6

Unless otherwise stated, all information and quotes are taken from the website of Bosphorus City. See also footnote 4. For the quotes here, see: Mimari Konsept (n. d.). For housing options, see: Yeditepe Kuleleri (n. d.).

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streets full of love … In short, everything that makes Venice, Venice and more is rising at your side” (Privileges, Viaport Venezia official website).

Fig. 6.4. Viaport Venezia projection. Source: Via, Luxury Living Magazine, Dec.Jan.-Feb. 2012 [sic].

My final case, the Aegean Coastline, consists of six “neighbourhoods” (mahalle), each taking its name after a different Aegean coastal town (Foça, AlaçatÕ, Assos, Dalyan, Bitez and Cunda). Each neighbourhood consists of a square or green surrounded by different flat options, ranging from studios to one- or several-bedroom houses. Some squares are marked by the symbol of the original town (such as a caretta caretta tortoise7 at the Dalyan Square). The compound as a whole attempts to recreate the “Aegean” atmosphere of these villages, marked by stone architecture, a cosy centre with small shops, tea or coffee houses, fish restaurants, and abundant nature with lavender trees, olive groves and vineyards.

7

These are endangered sea turtles typically nesting on the Greek, Cypriot or Turkish coastlines, and especially at Dalyan (in the province of Mu÷la) in Turkey.

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Fig. 6.5. Aegean Coastline projection (The heading says: “The love of the Aegean thrills Istanbul…”) Source: Sales catalogue, 6.

“For your Aegean journey not to end,” says the website, the space is designed to merge modern architecture with this simple but warm and peaceful atmosphere. Surrounded by the scent of mastic trees, one is able to shop at the organic market here, take a rest under nut trees, or harvest the olives with neighbours.8

Exclusivity and Exclusion As expected, this lifestyle is not cost-free. As of February 2013, prices at Bosphorus City range from approximately three hundred thousand to 8

For all information and quotes see various tabs (“EgeBoyu,” “Mimari Konsept,” “Sosyal Yaúam”) under Ege Boyu HakkÕnda (accessed February 15, 2013).

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three and a half million Turkish liras, covering a range of different housing and payment options, various floor plans, and instalment plans.9 In Viaport Venezia prices seem to be slightly lower, but this is only a reflection of smaller floor plans. They start at approximately two hundred and fifty thousand Turkish lira (for the smallest one-bedroom flat) and rise to a million (for the largest four-bedroom flat). Again, various instalment plans are available, both via banks and the company itself. Finally, at the Aegean Coastline, one has to pay quite an amount ranging from one hundred and fifty thousand Turkish liras for studios, to eight hundred thousand for four-bedroom houses. In some cases, prospective customers are also expected to pay for the internal design of their residences, which may correspond to an additional cost of seventy to one hundred and fifty thousand.10 In all three cases, municipal/urban services, such as security, parking or gardening are provided by a management company. They thus come at a price of 1.75-2 lira/m2 depending on the residential surface area at stake, and give rise to another source of monthly expenditure (of three hundred and fifty to four hundred lira/month), which would also include utilities such as gas, water and electricity. Additional fees may also be required for exclusive facilities (such as indoor swimming pools). When compared, for example, to the minimum net wage, which is approximately a thousand Turkish liras in the first half of 2013, it easy to see how expenditure levels act as sort of “natural” barrier, filtering out individuals with lower levels of economic capital. But other precautions 9

Tab. 6.1. As an example, one may check the price list of Bosphorus City, which may be considered to be generally representative (The Euro to Turkish Lira exchange rate is approximately 2.35 as of February 2013). House Type (bedrooms + living/dining rooms)

Min. m2

Max. m2

Min. Price

Max. Price

1+1

69 m²

74 m²

289,616 TL

390,888 TL

2+1

98 m²

107 m²

398,974 TL

544,718 TL

3+1

119 m²

201m²

509.094 TL

843,970 TL

4+1

197 m²

254 m²

982,075 TL

1,476,048 TL

5+2

615 m²

645 m²

3,165,924 TL

3,328,653 TL

Source: Fiyat Ödeme (accessed February 7, 2013). 10 Personal communication during visit to the sales office, 22 December 2012.

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are also taken to secure these communities for specific groups of people and a specific lifestyle. For example, the real-estate trust behind Bosphorus City first informs its former clients, to whom it grants some sort of priority in case they want to make a new investment. Institutional agreements are also made with large companies (such as Koç, Avea, Turkcell and Digiturk), whereby their top executives become entitled to similar priority.11 As a result, a common lifestyle flourishes among these groups, with very specific spatial arrangements including houses with gardens or luxury flats, outdoor and indoor swimming pools, basketball courts, tennis courts, beach volleyball courts, outdoor fitness areas, spaces for yoga and Pilates, mini-golf areas, running and cycling tracks, climbing walls, skateboarding floors, chess areas and health clubs, including traditional Turkish baths and saunas. As Bartu Candan & Kolluo÷lu (2008, 31) note: The residents of these “off worlds” not only share similar spatial arrangements, but also exhibit similar patterns in their daily practices, in their familial arrangements, and in their urban practices. These include a spatially and socially shrinking city, a bloating of the private sphere, the increasing centrality of family and children in their lives, a deepening isolation from the rest of the city and society for that matter, and the privatization of urban governance.

Even though themes vary across the gated communities in question, the lifestyle they engender remains the same—similar consumption patterns, dressing and eating habits, a taste for similar sports, meetings in similar places, children attending similar schools, and a similar sense of security make familiarity and predictability the distinctive markers of a “good life,” which is increasingly entrusted to privatized service providers, cutting off not only spatial and social, but also governmental bonds with the city. How to make sense of such development? In the remainder of this chapter I continue with this question and go through five different concepts, each of which, I believe, brings to light a different aspect of the space in question. These are respectively, utopia, non-place, heterotopia, camp and simulation. As such, I also try to broaden my analysis beyond the gates and walls of these closed worlds and extend it to urbanity in general, and to contemporary politics.

11

Personal communication during visit at the sales office, 22 December 2012.

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Utopian Spaces: From Dream to Reality In his book Spaces of Hope, David Harvey dwells on “spaces of utopia” (2000, 133–181), and in this context refers to such spaces of “secured suburban conformity” (Ibid., 138) as “bourgeois utopias,” after Robert Fishman (1982): Impelled by a complex mix of fears of the city, compounded by racism and class prejudice, the collapse of public infrastructures in many parts of the city, and attracted by the “bourgeois utopian” desire to secure isolated and protected comforts, the effect of this propertied individualism has been to create a remarkably repetitive landscape of low-density sprawl coupled with total dependence on the automobile. (Harvey 2000, 139)

In this analysis, gated suburban living is seen as an enactment of a utopian impulse—be it a Bosphorus City or a false Venice, these residential compounds pretend to be perfect worlds, perfected copies of their original. But as Harvey points out, this is also the enactment of a special kind of stationary moral order which “evokes nostalgia for a mythological past, a perfected golden age of small-town living … and a hierarchical mode of social relating that is non-conflictual and harmonious” (Ibid., 160). In this sense, these are also part of “degenerate utopias,” a concept that Marin (quoted in Harvey 2000, 164–168) develops in relation to Disneyland. Harvey extends this definition to shopping malls and all those museums, cultural heritage foundations, spectacle arenas, exhibitions and festivals that aim to create: a supposedly happy, harmonious, and non-conflictual space, aside from the “real” world “outside” in such a way as to soothe and mollify, to entertain, to invent history and to cultivate a nostalgia for some mythical past to perpetuate the fetish of commodity culture rather than critique it. (2000, 164, 167)

Both Fishman’s and Marin’s are early and important critiques, and Harvey’s attempt to bring them together and update them deserves equal attention, especially for the thoughtful discussion it includes on the possibility of a utopia to be realized. Nevertheless, all three positions are marked by a clear divide between reality and representation, with the latter being a distortion of the former. Degenerate utopias are taken here as a source of disillusionment and deception, hiding the reality of the real, and thus deluding their witnesses and perpetuating the contemporary capitalist culture based on similar patterns of consumption. I propose now to reformulate this argument in a way and to approach the spaces in question

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not as (mis-)representations of a reality, but as spatial arrangements that create a certain reality/way of life, in a special kind of (non-)relation to the life “outside.” Hence, the distinctive trait of my analysis becomes not representation but relationality.

Non-Places: Spaces of Non-Relationality Augé’s (1995) concept of “non-place” points to one aspect of this relation, marked by a negativity, designated by a “non.” In his attempt to devise an anthropological approach suitable for the epoch he creates the notion of “supermodernity,” which is a new conceptualization to address all these spaces, ranging from high-speed roads to airports, commercial centres and refugee camps. As opposed to the anthropological notion of space associated “with the idea of culture localized in time and space” (Ibid., 34), non-places lack any relation to the time-space in which they are situated; they have a generic nature (repetitive, as Harvey suggests), are easily interchangeable and transposable and do not create an organic sociality. This is, [a world] where transit points and temporary abodes are proliferating under luxurious and inhuman conditions (hotel chains and squats, holiday clubs and refugee camps, shantytowns threatened with demolition or doomed to festering longevity); where a dense network of means of transport which are also inhabited spaces is developing; where the habitué of supermarkets, slot machines and credit cards communicates wordlessly through gestures, with an abstract, unmediated commerce; a world thus surrendered to solitary individuality … (1995, 78)

This is an individuality that can only enter into contractual relations with “its” place, or the powers that govern the latter. In such circumstances, individualization is secured through identity checks, while individuals are reduced either to numbers (such as passport numbers) or bodily parts (such as in security controls), since, as Augé puts it: “the space of non-place creates neither singular identity nor relations, only solitude, and similitude” (1995, 103). Therefore: “those pursuing new socializations and localizations can see non-places only as a negation of their ideal. The non-place is the opposite of utopia: it exists, and it does not contain any organic society” (Ibid., 111–112). Deriving from ou-topos in ancient Greek, the utopia is itself “not a place,” a non-place. But themed-gated communities have a place; however, these are no longer places as we used to know them. They do not develop any kind of relation to their surrounding environment, and give

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rise, inside their walls, to a generic lifestyle marked by the consumption of familiar brands, the privatization of public land and services (which are now provided only to members), the impoverishment of the public realm, the eminence of domesticity, the swallowing of different forms of sociability by the family, and the diffusion of a panoptic neighbourhood watch (Bartu Candan & Kolluo÷lu 2008). This new urbanity is, in fact: “the reverse of anonymity, heterogeneity, invisibility, and the riches that cosmopolitan existences offer” (Ibid., 40). Two characteristics in the above description are especially important: (1) the suspension of the surrounding time-space and governmental arrangements, and (2) the decline of political life and the public, that gives rise not only to the privatization of services, but also to the primacy of the individual and their private life (and family). These two characteristics, easily traceable to Augé’s non-places, also call to mind another concept— that of the camp.

Fig. 6.6. Outside the walls of Bosphorus City.

From Exception to Rule: The Camp Agamben’s (1998, 9) conceptualization of the camp starts with the distinction between the two terms denoting “life” in ancient Greek: “zoƝ,

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which expressed the simple fact of living common to all living beings (animals, men, or gods), and bios, which indicated the form or way of living proper to an individual or a group.” Whereas the former was excluded from the polis (city), and, as reproductive, remained confined to the oikos (home), the latter, the social-political life, belonged to the sphere of politics. In a way, it was this distinction which made the polis and the politics possible, as the city originated in an act of social/spatial demarcation separating what counted as politics (issues related to bios) from what did not (issues related to zoƝ), and who counted as citizens from those who did not. It was this demarcation which determined the reach of the law (and order) of the city. The camp was the place where this law and order was suspended, and thus pointed to the topographical and socio-political boundaries of the city (polis). This idea of “suspension,” which Agamben borrowed from Schmitt’s Political Theology (1922), was key to understanding the logic of the camp. It meant that the law was valid, but not executed. In other words, the camp created a “zone of indistinction” neither completely within the city (bound by its legal order) nor completely outside of it, and where fractions of the population that did not count as citizens (refugees, political dissidents or the disabled) could have been abandoned. Stripped of their social-political qualities and/or rights, the latter could have been reduced to a “bare” living here (as if consisting only of zoƝ). Their fate was left to the sovereign’s decision. Their sterilization or execution in the name of public health or state security did not constitute a crime (did not imply a breach of law), since in the camp the law of the city, which would have protected them otherwise, had already been suspended. Agamben shows that this abandonment, which provided the operational principle of the camp, was no longer an exception, but had become the rule. Whereas the city was built on a clear divide between the inside and the outside, the camp is the paradigm of an epoch where this divide no longer holds. Diken & Laustsen’s (2005) contribution comes at this point. They argue that the abandonment characteristic of the camp is not only operational in “forced” but also in “voluntary” camps, and in gated communities as much as in refugee camps: In some camps the entry is blocked but the exit is free, in others the entry is free but the exit is blocked. Some camps keep others “out,” some “in.” There are camps for those at the bottom and those at the top. There are camps that are made of bricks and camps that exist in minds. In each case, however, camps seem to function as two extreme horizons that attract or repel the consumer-citizens/denizens who do not know if they will go “up” (e.g. gated communities) or “down” (e.g. detention centre). (Ibid., 9)

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All these spaces repeat this logic of abandonment, or unbonding, leaving those inside or outside naked before expanding and multiplying biopolitical strategies. As Diken & Laustsen show, unbonding is the main form of sociality in contemporary societies; for which the camp is a more appropriate metaphor than the polis. To reformulate Augé’s point, one can conclude that it is not only the proliferation of transitory/temporary abodes, but also their constitution into permanent spaces that defines our era. Thus, themed-gated communities are not for passing through but for spending a life. They constitute a continuous suspension of urban time/space and living, “with their technologies of pre-emptive social filtering, inward-looking architectural design, biased premium infrastructure links” and “privatized governance regimes” (Ibid., 94), where personal and family issues (once falling under zoƝ) invade and impoverish public life. The camp “makes it impossible to confront others and to take moral/political choices, because its logic defines the others before they are met” (Ibid., 1).

Heterotopias: Real but Counter-Sites If the analysis is ended here one may lose an important aspect. Suspension denotes a non-relation, but this itself may be taken as a form of relationality. Foucault’s concept of “heterotopias” allows us to do so by its “curious property of being in relation with all other sites, but in such a way as to suspect, neutralize, or invert the set of relations that they happen to designate, mirror, or reflect” (1986, 24). Themed-gated communities emerge as sites where urban living is reflected as well as neutralized and inverted by this relation, which is a non-relation. A brief comparison between utopias and heterotopias makes this proposition clearer. The former is the best-known category of space which designates sites as presenting the “society” in either a perfected form or turned upside down. Like Augé, Foucault asserts that utopias have no real place; they are therefore fundamentally “unreal,” whereas heterotopias are “effectively enacted utopias” (Ibid., 24), hence real, but counter-sites. In them, “all the other real sites that can be found within the culture, are simultaneously represented, contested, and inverted” (Ibid.). What makes themed-gated communities heterotopias, then? First, as Foucault says of the ancient gardens, they are capable of juxtaposing incompatible spatialities, and sometimes constitute both a parcel of the city/country while claiming to represent the whole (such as Venice in Istanbul, or Bosphorus City as Istanbul). They also juxtapose different temporalities, reaching both back to historical heritage, and forward into the future of

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technology. Just like heterotopias they “presuppose a system of opening and closing,” both requiring a certain permission, and hiding curious exclusions (Ibid., 26). Finally, in terms of their function, themed-gated communities act again quite like heterotopias. For Foucault, the latter have either one of the following two functions: First is to create “another real space, as perfect, as meticulous as well arranged as ours is messy, ill constructed, and jumbled” (Ibid., 27) which can easily be detected in the case at hand. Themed-gated communities are real spaces but fully organised, so as to leave the mess of the city outside. They pretend to represent it, but at the same time neutralize and invert it. But with the themes they engender, they are also spaces of illusion, which brings us to the second function—to create “a space of illusion that exposes every real space … as still more illusory” (Ibid., 27). Although Foucault argues that heterotopias range between these two poles, I would argue that themedgated communities bring these two functions together with a slight, but important twist. These are real but illusory sites, which do not expose but hide the illusoriness of the real city. As stated above, the increasing fragmentation of the city has taken much of it, making the idea of the city as “messy, ill-constructed, and jumbled” an illusion, to a great extent. The idea of a space “meticulous and well arranged” inside helps this illusion to last outside.

Simulacra: What Hides Behind? To understand this final proposition one needs to turn to another set of terms which problematize the relation between reality and representation. These are provided by Baudrillard (1994), who refers to the successive forms that an image can take in terms of its relation to reality. These successive phases are as follows: First, the phase where the image is a reflection of a profound reality, and hence belongs to the “sacramental” order of “good appearances.” In the second order (of “maleficence”) the image no longer reflects but denatures and distorts this profound reality. In these two orders, reality is believed to exist and to be represented, either accurately or erroneously. In the third order the image starts to mask the absence of a reality, playing at being an appearance; according to Baudrillard, this is the order of sorcery. Finally, in the order of simulation, the image is a pure simulacrum and has no relation whatsoever to any reality (Ibid., 6). Therefore, the decisive turning point is situated between the second and the third orders. This inaugurates the era of simulation: “It is no longer a question of imitation, nor duplication, nor even parody. It is a question

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of substituting the signs of the real for the real” (Ibid., 2). Simulation is than different from pretention, which “leaves the principle of reality intact” and points to more than an inconsistency between the latter and its representation. It is reality itself, as different from and underlying its representation, that is threatened here (Ibid., 3). No wonder Disneyland constitutes a favourite example of Baudrillard’s (Ibid., 12–14). It is certainly a “play of illusions and phantasms,” an “idealized transposition of a contradictory reality,” a utopian reconstruction of the “real” America. But it also masks something else: Disneyland exists in order to hide that it is the “real” country, all of “real” America that is Disneyland … Disneyland is presented as imaginary in order to make us believe that the rest is real, whereas all of Los Angeles and the America that surrounds it are no longer real, but belong to … the order of simulation. (Ibid., 12)

My final proposition draws upon this diagnosis. The illusion associated with themed-gated communities sustains another illusion—that of a real city. A miniature Bosphorus, a false Venice, an Aegean atmosphere, all give the message that there is still an authentic/original Istanbul, as messy, dangerous and city-like as they are not, and in which they are situated. Thus, they belong to the order of sorcery, and mask the absence of the city.

The End of the City and the Possibility of New Politics One has to analyse, then, themed-gated communities not as spaces different from/opposed to the city, but by increasingly revealing a similar logic to it. As I tried to show, this is a logic of detachment, self-exemption and non-commitment, which gives rise to fragments and inward-looking islands everywhere in the so-called city. Security, familiarity, predictability and visibility become the keywords of a new way of living, which seems to be epitomized in themed-gated communities but is emblematic of contemporary urban life in general. As Diken & Laustsen aptly ask, what commitment follows this knowledge? (2005, 169). One may comment that gated communities are themselves an answer to such a question. They promise a renewed attachment to space, to community, to identity. But as Harvey cautions, re-making and reimagining communities may be progressive only if the “rule-making” that constitutes them is set against the “rule-breaking that makes for revolutionary transformations” (2000, 240). Community life (especially as

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exemplified here) easily tends to be both exclusionary and disciplinary (heavily organized according to the norm). The answer I offer is not, then, recourse to community/identity, but an understanding of polis/politics fully freed from it. Drawing upon a Deleuzian line of thought, Diken & Laustsen (2005, 149–150) propose the notion of positive differences as the basis for such politics. As opposed to group or class affiliations that reflect negative differences between distinct (id)entities, the idea of positive differences is based on an understanding of life as a flow of difference. Becoming is then the only way of being, and identities are understood not as a source of differentiation within an undifferentiated pre-social ground zero, but as homogenizing instruments fixing and stabilizing this flow under specific identities: What we have then is, first, a pure flow of intensive, positive differences. From this “chaos,” social assemblages and territorializations are organized; distinctions, or, stratifications [negative differences], emerge. Then these distinctions dissolve in a zone of in distinction (the camp), and each camp is fetishized as a residue, a remainder vis-à-vis the city. (Ibid., 150)

It is clear by now that this fetishisation is to no avail, and that the camp, even in its benevolent form, cannot be celebrated for revitalizing a lost sociality. But instead of lamenting this loss (or taking refuge in expired distinctions) one may see it as an opening for a politics based on singularity and difference, instead of identity. Themed-gated communities, for the characteristics I describe here, point both to this loss and, for that matter, to that possibility.

Works Cited Agamben, Giorgio. 1998. Homo Sacer. Sovereign Power and Bare Life. Palo Alto, California: Stanford University Press. Augé, Marc. 1995. Non-places: Introduction to an Anthropology of Supermodernity. London: Verso. Aslan, ùükrü. 2004. 1 MayÕs Mahallesi. 1980 Öncesi Toplumsal Mücadeleler ve Kent. østanbul: øletiúim Publishing. Baudrillard, Jean. 1994. Simulacra and Simulation. Ann Arbor, Michigan: University of Michigan Press. Bartu Candan, Ayfer & Biray Kolluo÷lu. 2008. “Emerging spaces of neoliberalism: A gated town and public housing project in Istanbul.” New Perspectives on Turkey 39: 5–46.

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DanÕú, Didem. 2001. “østanbul’da Uydu Yerleúmelerin YaygÕnlaúmasÕ: Bahçeúehir Örne÷i.” In 21. YüzyÕl KarúÕsÕnda Kent ve ønsan, ed. Firdevs Gümüúo÷lu. østanbul: Ba÷lam Publishing. DanÕú, Didem & Jean-François Pérouse. 2005. “Zenginli÷in Mekanda Yeni YansÕmalarÕ: østanbul’da Güvenlikli Siteler.” Toplum ve Bilim 104: 92–123. Diken, Bülent. 2004. “From Refugee Camps to Gated Communities: Biopolitics and End of the City.” Citizenship Studies 8 (1): 83–106. Diken, Bülent & Carsten Bagge Laustsen. 2005. The Culture of Exception. Sociology Facing the Camp. London: Routledge. Erder, Sema. 1996. østanbul’a Bir Kent Kondu: Ümraniye. østanbul: øletiúim Publishing. Erman, Tahire. 2001. “The Politics of Squatter (Gecekondu) Studies in Turkey: The Changing Representations of Rural Migrants in the Academic Discourse.” Urban Studies 38 (7): 983–1002. Fishman, Robert. 1982. Urban Utopias in the Twentieth Century Ebenezer Howard, Frank Lloyd Wright, Le Corbusier. Cambridge, Massachusetts: MIT Press. Foucault, Michel. 1986. “Of Other Spaces.” Diacritics 16 (1): 22–27. Göktürk, Deniz, Levent Soysal & øpek Türeli, eds. 2011. østanbul Nereye?Küresel Kent, Kültür, Avrupa. østanbul: Metis Publishing. Graham, Stephen & Simon Marvin. 2001. Splintering Urbanism. Networked Infrastructures, Technological Mobilities and the Urban Condition. London: Routledge. Harvey, David. 2000. Spaces of Hope. Berkeley, California: University of California Press. Keyder, Ça÷lar, 1992. “Istanbul’u NasÕl SatmalÕ?” Istanbul 3: 81–85. —. ed. 2000. østanbul: Küresel ile Yerel ArasÕnda. østanbul: Metis Publishing. Kurtuluú, Hatice, ed. 2005. østanbul’da Kentsel AyrÕúma. Mekansal Dönüúümde FarklÕ Boyutlar. østanbul: Ba÷lam Publishing. Low, Setha. 2004. Behind the Gates: Life, Security and the Pursuit of Happiness in Fortress America. London: Routledge. Marin, Louis. 1984. Utopics: Spatial Play. Atlantic Highlands, NJ: Humanities. Mitchel, Timothy. 1988. Colonising Egypt. Berkeley, California: University of California Press. O÷uz, IúÕk & Melih PÕnarcÕo÷lu. 2001. Nöbetleúe Yoksulluk: Sultanbeyli Örne÷i. østanbul: øletiúim Publishing. Schmitt, Carl. 1985 (1922). Political Theology, Four Chapters on the Concept of Sovereignty. Cambridge, Massachusetts: MIT Press.

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YalçÕntan, Murat Cemal. 2012. “Afet YasasÕnÕn Gizli Gündemi.” Bianet, April 17. http://bianet.org/bianet/siyaset/137646-afet-yasasinin-gizli-gundemi (accessed February 15, 2013). YardÕmcÕ, Sibel. 2009. “Kuúatma altÕnda gündelik hayat. Özel güvenlik, kent yaúamÕ ve yönetimsellik.” Toplum ve Bilim 115: 226–260. YardÕmcÕ, Sibel & Zeynep Alemdar. 2010. “The Privatization of Security in Turkey: Reconsidering the State, the Concept of “Governmentality” and Neoliberalism.” New Perspectives on Turkey 43: 33–62. Bosphorus City (Official Web Site). n.d. http://www.bosphoruscity.com.tr (accessed February 1–15, 2013). Ege Boyu (Official Web Site). n.d. http://www.egeboyu.com (accessed February 1–15, 2013). Ege Boyu HakkÕnda. n.d. Ege Boyu Official Web Site. http://www.egeboyu.com/#/?page=Ege-Boyu-Hakkinda (accessed February 15, 2013). Fiyat Ödeme. n.d. Bosphorus City Official Web Site. http://www.bosphoruscity.com.tr/eng/FiyatOdeme.aspx (accessed February 7, 2013). Mimari Konsept. n.d. Bosphorus City Official Web Site. http://www.bosphoruscity.com.tr/eng/MimariKonsept.aspx (accessed February 7, 2013). Privileges. n.d. Viaport Venezia Official Web Site. http://www.viaportvenezia.com/flash/index_eng.html (accessed February 14, 2013). Project. n.d. Viaport Venezia Official Web Site. http://www.viaportvenezia.com/flash/index_eng.html (accessed February 14, 2013). Viaport Venezia (Official Web Site). n.d. http://www.viaportvenezia.com (accessed February 1–15, 2013). Yeditepe Kuleleri. n.d. Bosphorus City Official Web Site. http://www.bosphoruscity.com.tr/eng/YeditepeKuleleri (accessed February 7, 2013).

CHAPTER SEVEN AN EMERGENT DYSTOPIAN PLACE IN ISTANBUL: THE BEZIRGANBAHÇE TOKø HOUSING ESTATE TAHIRE ERMAN

In Webster’s dictionary, dystopia is defined as a community or society, usually fictional, which is, in some important way, undesirable or frightening. Dystopia can describe a place, and dystopian places can be found in science fiction and real life. Baeten (2002) argues that when large-scale regeneration efforts in cities are on the agenda of the urban bourgeoisie, the representation of deprived neighbourhoods as dystopian places, as “the seedbed of crime, violence, upheaval and immortality,” dominates society; this view “justifies patronizing, repressive and discriminating policies towards those who are in fact victims of persisting urban inequalities and far-reaching prejudices” (Baeten 2002, 105). We can talk about a dystopian place in terms of its representations in society and the experiences of its inhabitants. This article argues that, while the destruction of the Tepeüstü and Ayazma gecekondu neighbourhoods was justified by their dystopian image, the housing estate created for the displaced gecekondu population is becoming the real dystopian site as experienced by its inhabitants.

Gecekondus in the Urban Scene of Istanbul Istanbul is a mega city with many faces. Different ethnicities, classes, religions and sects, natives and tourists alike, share the city’s spaces. Since the 1950s, Istanbul’s position as the main centre of industry has attracted large numbers of people from the countryside. The saying “Istanbul’s soil is gold” created the image of the city as one of opportunity for the country,

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offering newcomers the conditions to become rich. This remained a myth for the majority of people coming to Istanbul, as only a few migrants moved out of poverty into new wealth. The majority of rural migrants became the cheap labour force for the growing industries within the city, and because of the lack of affordable housing, they built their gecekondus around factories. During the regime of national development between 1950 and 1980, the state directed its resources mainly to industrialization, and did not take on the role of a welfare state, such as providing housing for the poor. Within the “populist coalition” of industrialists seeking cheap labour, politicians seeking loyalty and votes, rural migrants seeking affordable housing, and the state seeking to get rid of its responsibility of solving the housing problem of the poor (Ünsal & Kuyucu 2010), the mushrooming gecekondus were tolerated. The outcome was the establishment of gecekondu neighbourhoods with basic infrastructure and services (ùenyapÕlÕ 1982). This tacit acceptance of gecekondus by politicians and capitalists, however, did not lead to the acceptance of gecekondu residents by the established urbanites into their lives and “their city.” They were, instead, stigmatized as the “Rural Other” (Erman 2001). The image of gecekondu neighbourhoods as the residences of rural migrants, and of their residents as uneducated and humble people who lived rural lives in the city, remained until the 1980s. With the exception of the 1970s, when some of the gecekondu population mobilized politically against the capitalist system within the rising leftist movement, they did not pose a threat to the existing system; in the view of the modernized/Westernized urban elite, they were conservative familycentred people who were inferior to them. A radical change both in the approach to gecekondu residents and gecekondu neighbourhoods came with the 1980s when import-substituting industrialization was replaced by an export-oriented economy. The liberalization of the economy brought about a new approach to gecekondus. As manufacturing moved out of the city to outlying regions and to Anatolian cities where production was cheaper, the people of the gecekondu became redundant. Moreover, under the influences of globalization, as Istanbul’s political and economic leaders made it their mission to make it a world city, there emerged the need to “clean” it of its “undesirable elements.” Along the way, gecekondu neighbourhoods began to be defined as eyesores (Karaman 2008), as sites of vice and crime, and as “tumours” in the city, which should be removed by surgical operation, namely urban transformation projects (UTP) (Ünsal & Kuyucu 2010). Under the rule of the neoliberal AKP party, many municipalities came under its control from 2002. Municipal governments, in partnership with

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the state’s entrepreneurial Mass Housing Administration (TOKø in Turkish), started to demolish gecekondus on a large scale, removing them from the spaces of the city and moving their residents to faraway places where they would be out of the sight of tourists and better-off urbanites, who would be free to enjoy the city. This chapter is about a housing site of relocation of a former gecekondu population, namely the Bezirganbahçe-TOKø housing estate in Küçükçekmece, Istanbul. It houses those families whose gecekondus were demolished in the urban transformation project carried out by the municipality and TOKø partnership in the Ayazma and Tepeüstü gecekondu neighbourhoods in the Küçükçekmece district. In the following sections the field study is presented with a focus on methodology, followed by information about the urban transformation project that displaced the gecekondu population and the housing estate of the relocated population.

Field Study1: Research Techniques and Process Semi-structured in-depth interviews were conducted with residents who were dislocated by the Ayazma-Tepeüstü Urban Transformation Project in Istanbul and relocated in TOKø’s Bezirganbahçe housing project. Sixteen interviews were conducted (10 women and 6 men). In the interviews, information was obtained about their experiences in their new housing environment, including their perceptions of the housing management office. I took photographs of the building environments along with the people if they consented to document the interaction between people and place. I also talked to people informally when the opportunity arose. I interviewed the Küçükçekmece deputy mayor; during this interview, the woman in charge of the social transformation project of the UTP was present. I also talked to the employees at the TOKø management office to discover their views about the residents. We went as a team of three. Although people were suspicious of strangers, once we introduced ourselves, they were eager to invite us in. The only problem we had in the research was towards the end. While we were interviewing a man sitting on the grass, a janitor, a security guard and finally the head of the management office showed up and tried to prevent our research. I was able to continue my research through my personal contact with a high-level employee at TOKø. From then on, I

1

Part of the MiReKoç Project, September 2010 to April 2012.

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called it not site yönetimi (housing management), but sÕkÕ yönetim (ruling by martial law).

The Tepeüstü-Ayazma Urban Transformation Project: Setting the Stage for a Dystopian Place As Istanbul is remade in the attempt to “beautify” it, dystopian places are forming as the dark side of this development. In the neoliberal urban regime that dominates the restructuring of Istanbul today, gecekondu areas are intervened to turn them into profitable projects. The periphery of the city is now open to prestigious suburban projects, to the gated communities of the wealthy, and to luxurious shopping malls. In these developments in the urban periphery, gecekondu neighbourhoods become a problem to be removed. Moreover, as the gap between new wealth and new poverty widens, the upper classes attempt to move away from the poor, both physically and symbolically. They create their gated communities, isolating themselves from the “undesirable” city population; and at the same time, they create dystopian images of the “Other” as criminals, deviants and terrorists. Istanbul is moving towards becoming a divided city, a city of black and white, which means it is losing its colours. In the following section this tendency is exemplified in the Bezirganbahçe-TOKø case. Before we move to this specific example, information is provided about the Tepeüstü-Ayazma Urban Transformation Project that sets the stage for the emergence of the Bezirganbahçe-TOKø housing estate as a dystopian site. The Tepeüstü-Ayazma2 urban transformation project is the first of such projects, and as such it is particularly important and has received much attention. The Küçükçekmece mayor claimed that the poor quality of housing and inadequate infrastructure needed an intervention to create a “modern,” “sanitary” and “civilized” living environment, equipped with good quality infrastructure and social services (Baysal 2010). There was a strong reaction to the project by the Ayazma population. The objections were based on two major points: the displacement of people from their neighbourhood, opening the area for profit-oriented projects; and the relocation of people into a housing project built by TOKø, under conditions detrimental to their interests. The gecekondu owners, many of whom lacked formal titles to their land, were told by the mayor to 2

Ayazma was mainly made up of Kurdish families from Eastern Anatolia (8,775 persons), whereas those from the Black Sea and Central Anatolia lived in Tepeüstü (1,900 persons) (UzunçarúÕlÕo÷lu-Baysal 2010).

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exchange their gecekondu land in return for an apartment in the housing estate to be built by TOKø, under the condition that they would pay monthly instalments to the bank for 15 years; the instalments would be subject to an increase twice a year. But the people were poor, many without regular jobs (UzunçarúÕlÕ-Baysal 2010), and this payment regime imposed onto the people would create new problems in their already difficult lives. Moreover, there were tenants who were recent migrants from the Kurdish East (25% of Ayazma residents were tenants [UzunçarúÕlÕ-Baysal 2010]), and they were the most vulnerable group in the project. The importance of the Tepeüstü-Ayazma UTP also came from its ethnic dimension. Ayazma was the home to mostly Kurdish migrants from the East; they had moved to Istanbul following their displacement from their villages in the 1990s, the peak years of forced migration as villages in Eastern Anatolia were evacuated by the Turkish military for security reasons. Moreover, Ayazma was largely under the control of the BDP (Peace and Democracy Party), known as the political party of the Kurds, and was a “liberated territory” of Kurds. Although the Kurdish issue in the urban transformation project was unspoken of by the authorities, Ayazma residents felt that this intervention into their neighbourhood had a political motive. The stress on the “civilizing mission” of the project by the mayor was interpreted by the Kurdish residents as an insult. In addition to ethnic concerns, the rent-oriented concerns of residents were evident. Not only did they not want to lose their neighbourhood and community, they did not want to lose the chance of making a profit through their gecekondu land that had gained value through the recent developments in the area, such as the construction of the Olympic Stadium in 2002. Their land was their only chance of moving up. There were demonstrations against the project, yet they could not stop it. What these demonstrations accomplished was to make the down payment annual and create a twice-a-year increase in monthly instalments. The project started in 2004 and the families moved into their new apartments in Bezirganbahçe-TOKø in 2007.

The Bezirganbahçe-TOKø Housing Estate as an Emergent Dystopian Place Bezirganbahçe-TOKø has fifty-five blocks of twelve stories with four apartments on each floor (with 2,640 apartments in total). There is also a shopping centre in the project along with an elementary school, a health

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clinic, and some small parks with benches and children’s playgrounds among the blocks. It is very different from their gecekondu neighbourhood of single-story houses with small gardens. The apartments have a 72 m² net area and have two small bedrooms, a bathroom, a toilet and a living room which is connected to an “American kitchen” by a half wall. The design of the apartments is again very different from what they had in their gecekondus, and this is exemplified by the American kitchen. The Bo÷aziçi Company, the private company that won the bid for the management of TOKø housing estates, was brought in to take charge of the Bezirganbahçe-TOKø estate.

Fig. 7.1. General view of the Bezirganbahçe-TOKø project.

Being the first UTP and the mayor’s most ambitious project at the time, it was supported by some social projects. The mayor put into practice a project called the Social Development Program for Our Folk, which, as stated by the mayor, had the goal of creating conscious urban people who produce, govern and participate in society. This social project turned into a training program to teach gecekondu people how to live in apartments, and had a career office funded partially by the EU. But the project, with its unrealistic goals and practices (UzunçarúÕlÕ-Baysal 2010), ended with

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limited success. The Kurdish residents in particular were uneasy with the project, perceiving it as the assimilation project of the mayor. Today, various discrepancies in the estate are pushing BezirganbahçeTOKø towards becoming a dystopian place, something which can be qualified in several ways. First, it is a place where there is a big discrepancy between the everyday practices of residents and the residential environment. Second, there is a big discrepancy between the financial capabilities of the residents and the costs of living in the housing estate. Similarly, the economic conditions of families fall behind the monthly payments required for fifteen years in order to own the apartments. Third, there are residential groups in the estate that conflict with each other in terms of cultural and political orientations, ethnicity and class, making the estate a battleground, witnessing daily fighting and complaints to the authorities. And fourth, Bezirganbahçe-TOKø is a place where residents do not have control over their environment; their behaviour is controlled by housing management and the security authorities. In the section below, these points are fully elaborated.

The Discrepancy Between Residents’ Everyday Life Practices and the Physical Environment: The Rules of Conduct as an Intermediate Mechanism As Schafers (2010) suggests, “a contrasting bodily and habitual regime” is imposed on the everyday lives of the Bezirganbahçe-TOKø residents. In their gecekondus, women would bake bread in floor furnaces (tandÕr) in their backyards, puff up woollen beds outdoors, and sit in front of their houses, socializing with their neighbours. Upon their move to this estate of high-rise apartment blocks they were pushed into a way of life that is foreign to them (see Erman 1997 for a comparison of gecekondu and apartment living). Their gecekondu practices are forbidden in their new housing environment; they are defined as rural, and hence backward and inferior. The new physical environment is designed to fit with the urban middle class way of life; and when residents continue their previous gecekondu habits and activities they are blamed for failing to become modern and civilized urbanites. On the other hand, in a survey 96% of Ayazma residents preferred single-family houses with gardens (UzunçarúÕlÕBaysal 2010). The issue of ethnicity complicates the situation. The apartments are small (72 m²)—too small for Kurdish families with many children. This misfit between the sizes of the apartments and the families reproduces the stigma of Kurds as backward people who fail to practice birth control.

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This is perceived as threatening and as part of the “Kurdish problem”—by producing many children they are believed to be aiming at taking over Turkish society. A language of blame is used when problems such as noise and unattended children arise. The people, and not the external factors such as the physical environment—e.g. small apartments and lack of adequate playgrounds for the children—are seen as the causes of the problems. There are rules of conduct to regulate behaviour in the housing estate that are supposed to bridge the gap between the “appropriate” use of the housing environment and the residents’ behaviour shaped by their previous gecekondu experiences. But, in fact, they are reproducing, and even sharpening, the discrepancy between the physical environment and people’s everyday practices. When rules that are impossible for residents to observe are decided against the people’s will, the conflict between the people and the environment intensifies, and the estate turns into a place of anomalies. TOKø’s Bo÷aziçi Company has a management office in the housing estate, and is the primary agent with the authority and responsibility to implement the rules. It also has the authority to collect monthly maintenance fees and to hire janitors and security personnel to carry out these services. With the money collected, it carries out such services as garbage collection, building maintenance, landscaping and security in the estate. The housing management office can intervene when the rules are not observed. As we observed during the field research, in some cases the management office authorities choose to intervene, and in others they do not, but there is always the possibility that people will be warned by the management, causing them embarrassment. There is also the possibility that neighbours will complain to authorities about forbidden acts. All this creates a strict jacket-like environment, creating a strong feeling of longing in the residents for their freedom in their gecekondus. In the words of one woman: “There is no freedom here. A couple of times I put out wool to air, and each time the housing management people came and asked me to throw it away. There are shelters in the blocks’ basements where we could do it. But, just for spite, they do not permit it. Where will I do it? I am used to sleeping in a woollen bed … We would go out with neighbours, sitting on the grass and drinking tea. Now this is also forbidden.” In the words of another woman: “Gecekondu means freedom. Here I miss my freedom.” The tacit battle between the residents and the management personnel, including janitors, can be observed in many cases. Residents, who used to

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grow plants in their gecekondu gardens, miss this activity, and in their new environment the women especially experiment with planting vegetables and flowers in their backyards. Yet, they are easily destroyed by the janitors/gardeners. A woman expressed her feelings of sorrow when this happened: “Ah, I planted green beans around the trees in the garden, they started to grow fast. But neighbours complained to the management office, and they came and mowed them. It made me so sad.” Another woman said: “I asked the janitor if I could grow some vegetables. He said, definitely no. I planted some potatoes anyway. He came and mowed them, he left nothing behind. I cried.”

Fig. 7.2. A woman puffing up wool in the midst of blocks.

More importantly, TOKø’s management office is perceived as oppressive by the estate’s Kurdish residents. They believe that the management is there to practice housing rules that will cause their assimilation into Turkish society. They want to set up their own housing management, believing that the TOKø management should go, but TOKø is against it. As the public relations officer at the management office stated, since the residents do not yet own title deeds to their apartments they were not eligible to run the estate. However, as we observed in other such housing estates, residents can choose not to have TOKø management and elect their own block managers instead.

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In brief, the rules of conduct in the housing estate, defined by TOKø’s housing management company, can be quite oppressive for residents, applied arbitrarily and selectively by the management office. While this gives some agency to residents, it creates doubt about the management office’s motives and encourages people to bargain with the staff, in turn causing anger and suspicion when they are rejected. This arbitrary practice of rules makes Bezirganbahçe-TOKø a strange place, with contrasting scenes and conflicting views of how to use the place. While some rules that regulate behaviour can be interpreted as necessary by some and redundant by others, other rules are essential for apartment living. For example, throwing down garbage or shaking carpets from the upper floors is unacceptable. Yet, this kind of behaviour can be observed in Bezirganbahçe-TOKø, although it is less common today when compared to the first year. The sudden and direct transfer of people from a gecekondu setting to an apartment estate without sustainable support to familiarize them with their new lives has created an environment full of conflicts and problems, and the people become the ones who are blamed, as blaming the victim is the common approach. As a dystopian environment takes shape, no authority takes the blame.

Residential Groups in Conflict: “Othering” in Practice The population of Bezirganbahçe-TOKø is divided. There are those who moved from Ayazma (a Kurdish neighbourhood) and from Tepeüstü (a Turkish neighbourhood), as well as those who bought their apartments in the private market. Moreover, among those who have come from gecekondus, some want to move into a middle-class way of living, while others are determined to stay the way they are. This creates a continuous contestation over “appropriate” behaviour in the estate and the rules of everyday life: Is sitting outdoors in front of the buildings with your neighbours acceptable or not? Is growing vegetables in the backyard of your block fine? Is puffing woollen mattresses in the spaces between the blocks okay? The same behaviour gains positive or negative meanings depending on the person’s social position and class aspirations—it is regarded as normal by some and a sign of backwardness by others. Accordingly, while those residents who continue to define themselves as rural and express pride in their gecekondu background tend to carry out their gecekondu activities, the same activities are seen by those who have middle-class aspirations, including those who do not have a gecekondu background, as failure to live civilized lives. One such woman complains about her neighbours as follows: “They do not know how to live in

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apartments. They shake down tablecloths from their balconies. You can never sit on your balcony here; at any moment there can be something falling on you from upstairs. A detergent bottle fell, hitting my husband’s tea cup while he was sitting in the balcony … They throw garbage bags from their balconies down onto the grass. This is how they learned to live in the gecekondu. I say I will die without seeing these people becoming civilized. My sister also lives in an apartment estate. But there is no such behaviour there. There live people of good quality.” She believes training the gecekondu people would have been the solution, expressing it in a condescending way: “They should have been given some training. They should have been brought together in a convention hall kind of place and should have been told about the rules of living in an apartment estate.” Residents are aware of this tension among neighbours, as stated by one woman: “Here people contradict each other; they wrangle all the time.” When there is such hostility among neighbours, quarrels and complaints rule everyday life, turning the place into a site of dystopia. What keeps the housing estate from falling apart, it seems, is the intimidation of one another. More importantly, ethnicity becomes a dividing factor in the estate. Turks complain about the Kurds living in the housing estate, and the social construction of Kurds in society as uncivilized and violent is reproduced here. On the other hand, Kurds complain about their stigmatization by the neighbours, which they do not deserve. A Kurdish man says, “We are the people from the East. Some people look down on us.” The general image of Kurdish people, both in society and in this particular estate, is built upon their cultural backwardness and their posing a political threat. Kurdish people have too many children and they do not take responsibility for educating them, and they are prone to violence and do not solve their disputes in a civilized way. Moreover, they are politically threatening— they are terrorists trying to divide the country. This negative image of Kurds is exemplified in the words of a female respondent: “Those from the East, they have at least seven or eight children. They cannot give them a proper education, they are uneducated. They do not practice birth control … There are some fights among the neighbours. They are from the East. They resort to force … The municipality distributed free bread and coupons of 300 TL, but they still have APO’s picture (Kurdish movement’s leader) on their walls. They say ‘If Tayyip (first name of the prime minister) comes here, we will throw eggs at him, he took away our houses’.” The Kurdish people, by moving from their ethnically homogeneous community in Ayazma to this mixed housing estate of class and ethnicity,

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have lost their “heaven” that protected them in their everyday lives against the escalating enmity in society for Kurds, and that also gave them some power to mobilize politically. And the Turkish residents, by having no other choice but to live in the same estate with the Kurds, have fallen into a situation in which they have to face their phobia about the threatening “Other” in their everyday lives. Thus, the ethnic “Othering” and the negative stereotypes sharpened in the intense politicization of ethnicity in society, moves the housing estate towards its turning into a dystopian place of constant violence, symbolic or physical.

The Discrepancy Between the Residents’ Financial Capabilities and the Cost of Living in the Housing Estate As found in the interviews, the strongest objection to the urban transformation project was that they were put into debt. In return for their de facto gecekondu ownership, they were given apartments in the housing estate under the condition that they would pay monthly instalments to the mortgage system for fifteen years. But in their economic conditions this can easily turn into an impossibility. Many of the residents are employed in the informal job market, lacking secure employment and regular payments. An increasing number of residents are transferring their apartment ownership rights in return for small amounts of money and moving out, usually to a rental gecekondu. In the first six months, 123 families were taken to court (UzunçarúÕlÕ-Baysal 2010). Despite this tendency, the respondents in our field survey expressed their desire to keep their apartments to become owners in the future. They would do it, as a male respondent put it, by making savings from food costs, from clothing and footwear, and from their children’s school expenses. Some would borrow from their relatives and friends to pay their monthly instalments, putting their social relations at stake. The possibility of losing their apartments if they fail to pay their instalments creates a strong feeling of uneasiness in the people, as expressed in the following words: “We live as if we are sitting on a thorn”; “I will live here like a tenant until I get my title deed to the apartment. There is always the threat of eviction. We are trapped; we are on the verge of falling down a cliff.” The burden of monthly apartment payments is accompanied by new expenses in the housing estate. When they lived in gecekondus, many did not pay for electricity, which they obtained by hooking up to electric posts; they did not pay for running water, which they obtained from water tanks visiting the neighbourhood. They grew vegetables and had fruit trees

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in their gardens, and in some cases kept poultry and livestock, which provided them food for free. They would carry out daily chores, such as taking out the garbage, sweeping the front of the houses, washing staircases, and trimming plants themselves. Upon their move from this informal way of life into the formal and regulated life of the housing estate, everyday tasks turned into services to be bought; now they have to pay maintenance fees to the TOKø management office for these services, which are strictly collected by the management office. Moreover, they have to pay for their electric, piped water, gas, insurance (e.g. home insurance as well as insurance for earthquakes, which is mandatory) and property tax, etc. In order to pay the bills they may not turn on the heating system or electricity, living in the cold and dark. The people mostly employed in the informal sector are put into a formal system without any compensation. Some social assistance is provided in the form of cheap daily bread, and free food and coal distributed by the municipal and/or governor’s offices. Yet these aids are unreliable and people do not know when, and if, they will receive them. In the highly politicized environment of Bezirganbahçe-TOKø, where different political groups compete with each other for local power, aid is also politicized, used to create loyalty for the political party in power. The talk of the selective distribution of aid clouds its legitimacy and creates much gossip among neighbours, who report each other to the authorities. The maintenance fee is quite high, especially when compared to the incomes of families. This produces high expectations on the part of the residents about the services they should get from janitors and gardeners, and there are constant complaints about them. Moreover, they do not understand why they have to pay for services which they used to do themselves and of which they can do a better job.3 The increase in expenses in apartment living is one side of the coin. On the other there is a desire for consumption. Many people feel the pressure to buy brand new furniture sets and high-tech equipment upon their move from a gecekondu to an apartment, i.e. in its socially constructed form, from the low-quality housing of rural migrants to the high-quality housing of higher urban classes. Some buy them by credit, getting into more debt; others keep their old furniture and also their sense of inferiority. This conflict between what they can afford and what they are expected to possess again creates a society full of tension and competition based on consumption. 3

The maintenance fee is 40 TL; this is a large amount when compared to the income of the people; in a survey, 24% earned 301-500 TL, 41% earned 501-700 TL, and 22% earned 701-1000 TL a month (UzunçarúÕlÕ 2010).

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Criminalization and Militarization: The Emergence of a Stigmatized Site of Danger and Devalued Property In their former gecekondu neighbourhood people provided for their own security (although the gendarme was in charge, they would intervene only when there was some criminal act). They were clustered in small groups of familiar people, and they cared for each other and for their neighbourhood. It was “defensible space” as Newman (1972) called it, especially with the presence of women in the neighbourhood during the day who would act like an informal police force, guarding the environment against strangers. As was told to us with pride in the interviews, many families would not even lock their doors during the day. When they moved to their housing estate this informal security system they established in their gecekondu neighbourhood was destroyed. In Bezirganbahçe-TOKø they were provided with paid private security personnel who control the two entrances equipped with security cameras. Interestingly, as we found during our field research, there is another entrance to the estate with no security protection, through which the people in the area pass, mostly to shop in the markets inside the housing estate. During our research, many people complained about the “deficiency of security” and the security guards not doing their jobs properly. The fact that the estate is crowded and full of strangers, and hence very different from the housing environment they were familiar with, creates a feeling of danger. A feeling that something dangerous can happen and that they should be protected against it also dominates the psyche of residents. Moreover, private security, which is also in the adjacent middle-class housing estates, creates the feeling that the security of their housing estate is not up to proper standards; they explain this by the fact that they are from the gecekondu and are therefore not taken seriously by the housing management. They want more security guards, more security cameras, and stricter control at the gates. Many complain about the fights and criminal acts inside the estate, including robbery, and feel vulnerable. They talk about how safe they felt when they lived in their gecekondu communities where they were the ones in charge of creating a safe environment. As they said in the interviews, there were some youngsters who would do drugs, but they would be out of sight and away from their homes. Also, the informal control and the sense of community in the gecekondu neighbourhood would discourage children from engaging in criminal acts. Here, they have lost control over their children, and the youth are increasingly falling into drugs. Among the Kurds there is a rumour that, since the Kurdish BDP was strong in their

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Ayazma gecekondu neighbourhood, the “establishment” is trying to get rid of it in Bezirganbahçe-TOKø by creating conditions encouraging for drug use in the youths. During our field research we met a small group of young people, boys and girls, Turkish and Kurdish, who were doing drugs, one of whom was trying to stop. They talked about different youth groups in the housing estate who would fight with each other for any small reason, such as a challenging glance or a remark to one’s girlfriend. The two Kurdish boys from Ayazma said they missed Ayazma, as it was their home; here, they felt abandoned and their lives had become meaningless. On another occasion, some young men told us that when they were frustrated and would harm the design elements of the estate, such as the wooden seats or plants and trees. In the interviews, people explained how they were concerned about the increasing number of drug users in the estate, especially those who would use cheap chemical substances such as paint thinner and glue, and also about the frequent fights among the youths. In brief, the youth groups fighting and doing drugs in the spaces of the estate, usually after dark, as well as the many strangers, created for the residents the feeling of a dangerous environment to which they cannot relate and over which they have no control. The sense of place they had in their gecekondu has disappeared. Yet, this is where they live and where they have to meet their everyday needs. The youth problem in Bezirganbahçe-TOKø can be about drug use and harm given to the estate’s common property, but it can also be about engaging in violent behaviour of a political nature. This has led to the increased-security of the housing estate, which, in some ways, has a level of militarization. The blocks where the people from Ayazma were settled are known as the “Kurdish blocks,” at the entrance to which is a prefabricated police booth. Moreover, they are surrounded by blocks sold to police families on cheap credit. While Turkish families see it in positive terms—which, as they said in the interviews, reduced criminal activities in the estate—many Kurdish people complained about it and perceived it as a threat to their lives. Young Kurdish men in particular complained about the strict control exercised by the police: inside the estate, the police would ask them to show their ID cards, and if they failed to do so they would be taken to the police station. An older man talked with anger about how his son was arrested when what he was doing was only playing billiards in their village association’s building. This stigma placed on the Kurdish residents as terrorists intensifies the problems in the estate. Attacks from the adjacent neighbourhoods, some of which are controlled by the ultranationalist Turks, are not uncommon.

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Especially in the first year, young Turkish men would come into the estate in groups, mostly when they organized a farewell ceremony for their friends leaving for military service, shouting out derogatory slogans against the Kurds. The Kurdish people would respond, and violence would build up. All this creates a tense environment full of potential confrontations. The estate is frightening both to the residents and outsiders, and a dystopian place can easily emerge from this. Moreover, the image of Bezirganbahçe-TOKø as the housing estate of the gecekondu people is eroding its value in the housing market. This is well known by residents who are very concerned about it. A female respondent said: “Real estate agents discourage people from buying an apartment here. They say, ‘don’t buy there; it is where the gecekondu people are living.’ But a friend of mine went against the broker’s words and bought an apartment here. She is very happy now.” The presence of Kurdish families in the estate, concentrated in one section, also plays a role in the devaluation of apartments in Bezirganbahçe-TOKø. The stigma on Kurds as the backward and dangerous “Other” discourages people from moving into the area. A Kurdish man expresses his concerns as follows: “Since the Kurds live here, they devalue the real estate here.” Thus, as the stigma of the place goes up, the real estate prices go down, creating a double disadvantage for the residents.

Conclusion: Trapped in Poverty, Stigma and Crime— Bezirganbahçe-TOKø as a Dystopian Place? Dystopian places are the products of human behaviour; we should not reify them as something given, as something bound to stay forever, and we should not essentialize them by defining them by the cultural features of their residents. They are the products of wrong policies, an economic system built on the tendencies to intensify class differences and poverty and a political system that reproduces “Othering” practices in terms of ethnicity, religion, sexuality, gender and the like. Bezirganbahçe-TOKø is the outcome of the state’s partnership with the private sector, turning the city into a site of fast profit-making, opening it to plundering by greedy developers. This opens up the neighbourhoods of the urban poor as new invention-investment areas of the state, which had turned a blind eye to them for decades. It is also a long-term political conflict within the society, which has been dealt with by militarizing the problem. Bezirganbahçe-TOKø is largely growing into a dystopian place, and other such housing estates will easily follow it. Since dystopian places are

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produced by human action they can also be eliminated by human action. A radical reorientation in our understanding of the city and society is needed to ameliorate such urban dystopian places.

Works Cited Baysal, Cihan. 2010. “From Ayazma to Bezirganbahçe: The Aftermath of Relocation.” In Istanbul: Living in Voluntary and Involuntary Exclusion, eds. T. Korkmaz & Eda Ünlü-Yücesoy. N.p: Diwan. Baeten, Guy. 2002. “Hypochondriac Geographies of the City and the New Urban Dystopia: Coming to Terms with the ‘Other’ City.” City 6 (1): 103–115. Erman, Tahire. 1997. “Squatter Housing vs. Apartment Housing: Turkish Rural-to-Urban Migrant Residents' Perspectives.” Habitat International 28 (1): 91–105. —. 2001. “The Politics of Gecekondu (Squatter) Studies in Turkey: The Changing Representations of Rural Migrants in the Academic Discourse.” Urban Studies 38 (7): 983–1002. Karaman, Ozan. 2008. “Urban Pulse-(Re)making Space for Globalization in Istanbul.” Urban Geography 29 (6): 518–525. Newman, Oscar. 1972. Defensible Space: Crime Prevention through Urban Design. London: Mac Millan. Schafers, Eva-Marlene. 2010. “A Reformed Habitus? Everyday Life in a Public Housing Estate in Istanbul.” Master’s Thesis. Cambridge: University of Cambridge. ùenyapÕlÕ, TansÕ. 1982. “Economic Change and the Gecekondu Family.” In Sex Roles, Family and Community in Turkey, ed. Çi÷dem Ka÷ÕtçÕbaúÕ, 237–248. Bloomington: Indiana University Turkish Studies 3. UzunçarúÕlÕ-Baysal, Cihan. 2010. “østanbul’u Küresel Kent Yapma AracÕ Olarak Kentsel Dönüúüm ve ArdÕndaki Konut HakkÕ øhlalleri: Ayazma(n)’dan-Bezirganbahçe’ye Tutunamayanlar” [“Urban Transformation as a Means of Making Istanbul a Global City and the Violation of the Right to Housing Behind It: Its Victims from Ayazma(n) to Bezirganbahçe”]. Unpublished Master’s Thesis. Istanbul: Bilgi University. Ünsal, Özlem & Tuna Kuyucu. 2010. “Challenging the Neoliberal Urban Regime: Regeneration and Resistance in BaúÕbüyük and TarlabaúÕ.” In Orienting Istanbul: Cultural Capital of Europe?, eds. Deniz Göktürk, Levent Soysal & Ipek Türeli, 51–70. London and New York: Routledge.

PART IV: THE CITY OF GUERILLAS

CHAPTER EIGHT WRITING ON ISTANBUL: GRAFFITI OF THE CITY BAHAR AKSEL AND øNCI OLGUN

Starting in the 1980s Istanbul encountered serious urban development. An increase in population extended the limits of settled areas. Social and economic policies caused a migration from villages to cities, especially to big cities like Istanbul. With opportunities in employment, and services like health and education, Istanbul became the main destination for those seeking better futures. Newcomers nearly doubled the population of Istanbul each decade, but the city planning system could not move fast enough to answer the needs of the growing number of citizens. People from different regions, social/cultural backgrounds, and economic/educational levels started to live together and define the new society of Istanbul. Cultural diversity has always been a very important element for any metropolitan city, but on the other hand can also contribute to problems and conflicts. In this big amalgam, developing a connection between the individual and space became very important in defining or recreating identity— especially the feeling of belonging to a place and/or community. In such an environment, expressing oneself was a key issue and open public spaces have often been the place for that. There are many different forms of self expression that have been stylized in different forms of art, so that art has become a tool for expression and communication. With the organization of different mediums such as local governments, museums and the like, artists were invited to create art projects, and place installations on the street. However, they were mostly temporary in nature. Art pieces and cultural events that support urban vitality, on the one hand, served the purpose of promotion and branding, while on the other helped develop interaction between people and encouraged public expression. Still, it is not possible to limit artistic creation and expression only to

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scheduled events, and people who have something to say can reflect their feelings through guerrilla activities. Among other forms of artistic expression, graffiti is considered real urban/street art. The images and messages of the writers are the true reflections of their personal ideas, where the writers do not need to be “artists.” In recent decades, graffiti has been commercialized all over the world as hip hop culture promoted street art and graffiti through different media and events. However, writing on city walls has maintained its characteristics of rebelliousness and as a way of accessing the unexpected. The urban interface is like a skin that carries the marks of the emotions of citizens. This chapter aims to explore these marks on Istanbul’s streets and tell the story of the real open public spaces, of the artists/citizens of the city and their perceptions, emotions and imaginings of Istanbul. In order to understand the graffiti scene in Istanbul, interviews, observations and a survey of literature have been used in our research. Semi-structured interviews were conducted with graffiti writers, street artists and hip hop shop owners that helped us to comprehend the motives surrounding their artistic activities and their relationship with the city. Surveys and observations were made to understand how graffiti has spread through the city commercially, legally and illegally.

A Historical Review of Art on the Streets of Istanbul Leaving behind traces of your presence is a basic human instinct. From the beginning of history, man left his mark on every environment they lived in through drawings and etchings. Drawings on the walls of caves were the first examples of communication through pictures. For graffiti, the first examples date back to ancient times, such as the walls of Pompeii and Egyptian monuments. The word graffiti comes from the Italian graffiare, which means “to scratch.” The Oxford Dictionary describes “graffiti” as “writing or drawings scribbled, scratched, or sprayed illicitly on a wall or other surface in a public place.” Graffiti in the modern context began in the 1940s in Berlin with political messages written on the Berlin Wall, which was developed by gangs’ tagging to mark their territory. Today, it is more a variation of the names or mottos of the writers. Different content, techniques and images can be seen in today’s vivid street art pieces. Art in open public spaces has always been a delicate issue for Istanbul. It is possible to say that there are two main points that could explain the relationship between open public spaces and art in Istanbul. The first is the understanding of art in public space, and the second the political

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environment up to the 1980s. These two points shape society’s perception of the styles, shapes and themes that could be considered art. The development of consciousness regarding art and aesthetic taste is also affected by memories of the past. As far as art pieces in public spaces, sculptures always come in the first place. The first sculptures of the Ottoman Empire were two monuments erected because of Westernization. Since the beliefs of the society forbade figurative art, performance art (such as shadow-puppet plays known as Karagöz) were the only artistic expression and entertainment in public space. However, the Abide-i Hürriyet Monument (1911) and the Tayyare ùehitleri Memorial (1914) were accepted by the public because they were not figurative sculptures. The Abide-i Hürriyet Monument follows the tradition of an open-air namazgah (praying area), so the idea was familiar to the public. The Tayyare ùehitleri Memorial commemorated the Istanbul to Cairo airplane crash of 1914 (Ergin 2010). With the foundation of the Turkish Republic in 1923, the new government started to develop the new Republic from the ruins of war. The modern, secular Republic promoted living in a new city layout with contemporary elements such as monumental buildings, public spaces, squares, etc. Ankara became the capital city and a whole new city was constructed with a modern vision. The same vision was also true for Istanbul, even though it was no longer the capital city. Henri Prost developed a new master plan for Istanbul using Western planning methods. The contemporary city of the Republic had to have boulevards, public squares, parks, open public areas and art pieces. In public spaces, these pieces were mostly sculptures and monuments that symbolized the new life, the Republic and modernization. The first sculpture in modern Istanbul was a monument to Kemal Atatürk in 1926, in which he appeared in civilian dress for the first time; the second was the Monument of the Republic in Taksim in 1928. The new urban design of Taksim Square was also influenced by the placement of this monument. The art scene in Istanbul started to become active after the 1950s. International movements such as Minimalism (1960s) and architectural sculptures / land arts (1970s) affected the environment as well as artists in the city. The architectural competition for the øMÇ (østanbul ManifaturacÕlar ÇarúÕsÕ) was an important turning point for public space in Istanbul. For the first time in history, with this competition the municipality allowed art pieces (sculptures, ceramic panels, etc.) to be added to new public buildings. In the 1970s artists found the opportunity to reflect their own artistic styles in public spaces. In 1973, for the fiftieth anniversary of the foundation of the Turkish Republic, the Municipality of

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Istanbul commissioned twenty free-style sculptures instead of monuments. At the same time, private companies started to sponsor artwork in public spaces that highlighted their location. Even though the art scene started to become more active, with new galleries being opened, the establishment of the Biennale and the other shows that began to appear between the 1970s and 1990s, the definition of “art” in public spaces remained limited to sculptures, monuments and some ceramic decorations/panels that were placed on the facades of apartments and office buildings. Twenty new sculptures were designed for Istanbul in 1973 for the fiftieth anniversary of the foundation of the Turkish Republic, and in 1993 the Istanbul Municipality initiated the “3-Dimensional Art Work for Open Public Space” activity, bringing fifty more sculptures to the city. Unfortunately, today it is very difficult to find any trace of these monuments on the street. Sculptures that reflected common values or memories of the society survived, yet some were damaged by the public, some lost their meaning, and some were replaced by the local authorities. To summarize, the major art pieces within public space were sculptures designed as monuments that symbolized the values of modern life. As monuments, they were untouchable by the public—literally so, being placed on high bases so it was not possible to develop any relationship with the art pieces, except for the act of viewing them (Akyürek 2010). Starting from the 1950s, Istanbul and the rest of Turkey entered a more difficult political period. While the country was experiencing sociopolitical turmoil and economic problems, the government’s policies put pressure on society resulting in a military coup in 1960. The 1970s were again a time of political disquiet, with left wing/right wing conflicts marking the period. During this time, the unrest was not only limited to discussions in the Parliament; soon, it expanded to the streets and turned into political violence with armed fights between the youth organizations of political parties. Throughout these years, urban walls were surfaces for political posters and slogans. At night, partisans were writing their slogans/messages and placing the posters of their political parties on the facades of building, while also being pursued by policemen or partisans from opposing parties. The coup d’etat in 1980 finally ended this period and the country entered a new political phase. However, it was still very difficult to dispel the traces of conflicts and violence in every area of daily life. As a result, writing on walls was accepted as a political sign for a long time. Writers were interrogated for their main purpose and message. Today, Istanbul as a global city is the scene for an increasing number of art events, festivals and outdoor activities for most branches of art. As the ranking of Istanbul .

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as a “world city” increases, the number of national/international art events are growing rapidly, even with the lack of cultural policies from the government. Companies and local authorities are sponsoring the arts and artists to highlight their interest in the subject, as art is gaining more importance in popular culture. Museums and galleries of all types organize exhibitions, performances and talks on different subjects. Contemporary artists develop projects related to the city and its streets, and interventions in public space have become a way for artists to communicate with society.

Fig. 8.1. A contemporary example of political slogans, Maltepe, 2013.

Writing on Istanbul Within such an environment the streets of Istanbul started to see graffiti in the late 1980s. Parallel to the popularization of hip hop culture, graffiti and graffiti images spread around the world and attracted considerable attention. Young writers started to experiment on the streets of Istanbul with the only colours—black and white—they could find in hardware stores. Their first encounters with the police and locals were not

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pleasant because of the memory of past political periods. Then, during the 1990s, the number of writers started to increase. Even though the term “street art” covers all kinds of art pieces created on the street, there is a clear difference between street art and graffiti. Tunç “Turbo” Dindaú provided this explicit description: “Graffiti is based on writing.” Stylized letters are the main element of graffiti, which has its own set of rules. There may be some characters that appear in the composition, but they are only added to complete the piece. Spray paint is the main tool for writing on the streets. A writer’s challenge is to do their best to finalize the piece using spray paint and develop themselves both on the artistic and technical levels. Street artists can use various materials, techniques and drawing styles. Many different characters, icons, symbols and messages find their way onto urban walls and include stencils, stickers and drawings. Various key points in time drew public attention to street art and graffiti in Istanbul. The most important was Aria’s advertising campaign in 2002. The newly-founded GSM Company used graffiti, break dance and hip hop music as its main themes for communicating its message, and this was the first time these were used in Turkey. The campaign was a success, especially for raising the awareness of graffiti and hip hop.

Fig. 8.2. Graffiti from the Karaköy underpass, 2012.

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The commercial had a strong impact on public opinion as graffiti was seen as being active, colourful and vivid. It can also be seen as the first time graffiti gained economic value. Until then, graffiti in Istanbul was an undercover and mostly illegal activity. After the success of the Aria campaign, different companies who wanted to attract young people started to use graffiti images and hired writers to create graffiti for their brands (Interview with Tunç “Turbo” Dindaú, 2013). The interest in hip hop culture immediately triggered a demand for products. Mazot HipHop and Graffiti Shop was the first specialized store for graffiti and Hip Hop in 2003, supplying items such as clothing, accessories and spray paint. Mazot was not just a shop, but a meeting place for the hip hop community of Istanbul and the organizers and supporters of numerous music, dance, street-art activities, as well as the representatives of international spray paint firms in Turkey. Mazot also sponsored writers and their creations. With the help of TV, magazines and the internet, images of graffiti spread. It became usual to see tagging, at least, in most of the districts of Istanbul. As the cultural centre of the city, Beyo÷lu was host to graffiti and street art on its walls, and was followed by KadÕköy. The district of Güngören, on the other hand, was about to play an important role. In 2006, the mayor appreciated the passion of a group of teenagers, the BoyalÕ Eller Crew, and gave them permission to write on certain surfaces. Because of this decision, Güngören, a less artistic district far from city centre, housed Istanbul’s only Hall of Fame. The Municipality was the first public authority to support graffiti in Istanbul. Today, the areas of Merter and Güngören are famous destinations for graffiti lovers and artists who visit Istanbul. Many foreign writers also have painted on Güngören’s Hall of Fame. The opening of the Donut Store in 2007 also had an important impact on the quality of art. A wide range of colours, materials and different types of spray paint and markers increased the level and the style of the designs on the walls. It was also possible to find books and magazines on graffiti in the Donut Store. After 2005, graffiti and street art pieces started to take their place within contemporary art exhibitions. Galleries and the Biennials of Istanbul invited street artists and writers to create work. The Milk Gallery opened in 2009 as Istanbul’s first street-art gallery.

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Fig. 8.3. Graffiti from østiklal Street, 2013.

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Fig. 8.4. Examples of Kripoe’s work. Tünel Square, Beyo÷lu, 2012.

In 2009, Istanbul was invaded by yellow fists. The German artist, Kripoe, came to Istanbul as an Erasmus student from Berlin and covered the most unexpected places in Karaköy and Beyo÷lu with his yellow fists. Yüksek KaldÕrÕm Street suddenly turned into an open-air gallery of his work. Among 270 works of graffiti created by international artists on the axis, with 204 of them belonging to Kripoe, and in the district 25% of the total number of graffiti belonged to him (Erdo÷an 2009, 141). His drawings are not large-scale pieces, but smartly placed and repeated, thus reflecting a feeling of the spectator continuously being a part of his fantasy world. Spectators loved that feeling and were also shocked by some of the drawings because, as a talented climber, some of his work appeared on rooftops, the edges of buildings and other such places that one normally cannot reach without scaffolding. He showed these “spots” to other writers. This was the first time that an artist acted so daringly on the streets of Istanbul. Instead of drawing separate pieces, he marked the whole area. The result was very successful, and locals liked this new interface on the streets. The second thing that he worked on and highlighted was the painting of shop shutters. This was a common thing in Europe, but before Kripoe’s work in Istanbul it was not usual to draw on shutters. However, they were some of the most effective surfaces to be found in the city’s centre. On

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commercial streets, there were not many surfaces on which to draw and also there was the risk of it being removed very quickly, but at night shutters became the surfaces of the street instead of the shop windows.

Fig. 8.5. A shutter from østiklal Street, 2012.

Most of the shopkeepers liked the idea that their shops attracted attention at night through the drawings, so they began to ask artists to paint theirs too. In this way, Turkish artists discovered a new space they could work on.

From the Writer’s Viewpoint Istanbul is a multicultural city with most inhabitants having their roots in different cities, and who have different social, cultural and economic backgrounds. In the street art scene, it is possible to find reflections of this variety. It is impossible to make generalizations about the characteristics of the art. There are artists from the most conservative districts who refuse to draw figures due to their beliefs, but, in fact, are very successful in graffiti and calligraphy. Others come from very strong political backgrounds or have a university education. Some of them even come from upper- or middle-class families. Each and every one expresses their own ideas and styles through graffiti and street art. For the last five to

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seven years the public and security forces have been more tolerant of artists, so the amount of artwork and people involved in it have increased. The street art and graffiti community in Istanbul is rather small compared to other European cities. In their interviews, all the artists state that everyone knows everyone else. Writers are mostly between the ages of 25 and 35, and continue to paint as long as they have the economic means; some quit painting because of work and family life. After the Aria commercial in 2002 many people started to try their hand at graffiti. Between 2006 and 2010, everyone who could get spray paint was on the streets, but after 2010 only those who had talent and passion continued; the others who had only a brief interest quit writing and drawing (Interview with the owner of Mazot, 2013). Today, the graffiti and street art community in Istanbul is approximately four to five thousand people. About two to three hundred of them are actively painting and sometimes make a profit from their graffiti. The percentage of female writers is very small—of the total number 5% are female, 95% male. For street art, the numbers of female artists are a little higher than for graffiti (Interview with the owner of Mazot Shop and Donut Store, 2013). Tunç “Turbo” Dindaú is the best known graffiti artist in Istanbul— Forbes Magazine called him “the father of Turkish graffiti” (Hartley & Walker, 2012). His passion for graffiti started in the 1980s while he was tagging his name on walls, continuing with his two-coloured graffiti pieces. While he was working at the only youth magazine of the time, Blue Jean, he played a very important role in introducing hip hop music and graffiti culture to a larger audience. “Turbo” and friends established the first crew in Istanbul around 1995 with the name S2K (Shot to Kill), which is still very active. 2002 was a turning point for him as well as he was asked to gather a crew and prepare graffiti designs for the Aria commercial, marking the end of his undercover days as a writer as after the commercial he and his work became popular. His appearance in the contemporary art world started in 2005 when he was invited to the Istanbul Biennial as an artist. This was followed by helping to organize the first street art exhibition entitled Intervention at the Hafriyat art gallery. He also helped found the Sanatorium Art Initiative in 2009. In 2011 he had a solo exhibition entitled Monsters, Robots & Istanbul at 311 artworks (Hiphoplife 2010). He painted many walls, both legally and illegally, but today his name and style is very well known. He mentioned to me that he is not making illegal art anymore, but he also emphasizes the importance of protecting his creative space as an artist. Following his professional career in advertising and publishing he has worked to support the writers and culture to develop awareness. His

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pioneering role continues with his new project of publishing books on Turkish graffiti, while he is still actively writing in different cities, attending exhibitions and taking part in events.

Fig. 8.6. “Turbo”, Istanbul, 2009.

He is a true witness of how public perception has changed. After years of exclusion and fear, today graffiti has been greatly accepted by the public. The only thing that has not changed from the beginning, he mentioned, is when someone approaches him while he is drawing and asks if they can borrow the black paint to retouch their scratched car bumper (Interview with Tunç “Turbo” Dindaú by authors, 2013). The BoyalÕ Eller Crew was made up of two rebellious teenagers who started writing graffiti. Their passion was to realize their ideas on public walls as much as they could. There were many blank walls in their district of Güngören, but it was difficult to work without disturbance and was expensive to find materials. They therefore decided to reach out to the mayor and tell him their problems. In 2006 the Güngören Municipality accepted their request and assigned them some walls, as well as providing the materials they needed. This was a big step for these young writers as they continued on their way, and it gave them the chance to influence

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other young people in the neighbourhood who did not have many alternatives in their lives. Their work also brought along with it the only Hall of Fame in the city. They state that the real way to learn graffiti is to do it on the street. Besides drawing techniques, one has to learn how to deal with the problems on the street and to be quick. Even when writing graffiti legally people will come by, ask questions, comment on your work, or want to chat or oppose your efforts. It is very important to explain what you are doing and your goal, they say. Developing a dialogue with the locals is the key, especially in order to work more freely in the neighbourhood. They state that it is important to interact with the locals and they note that real success occurs if one of the locals comes up and asks you to draw the symbol of their favourite football team on the wall of his shop. This means that they trust and like you and what you are doing. Their motto is “Graffiti for the public benefit.” They want to spread the message to create better understanding of graffiti for the public and use it as a tool for communication and for the improvement of the city. Graffiti is nothing to be afraid of; instead, it is a good medium for self expression and an important tool for improving one’s living space. For this reason they try to create art whenever they can, working collaboratively with local governments, different NGOs and companies, as well as the locals of their neighbourhood. They attend workshops with children, art festivals and also take part in political events to be in touch with the public. A few years ago, while working on different projects, they found themselves doing business with graffiti. Today they also have projects with the Güngören Municipality, some other local authorities and companies working on indoor and outdoor design (Interview with the BoyalÕ Eller Crew by authors, 2013). Eskreyn is a writer/street artist who is also studying art education. He defines all the people of this century as mutants and has developed a conceptual approach for his creations. He says that the city is full of “perfect” images of people, houses, views and objects from advertisements. With his artistic work he wants to place his “imperfect” handmade images/art pieces in contrast to those digitally retouched “perfect” glossy visuals. He is creating a habitat for his characters by drawing/placing them on urban walls, parallel to the daily life of Istanbul. Besides his personal creations, he is the organizer of the street art event Mural-øst (Mural Istanbul). Eskreyn thinks that artists have a responsibility to the city and the public. If every artist can create projects in his/her neighbourhood, on their own streets, they can then help create a better environment. All these efforts in different spots will make Istanbul a better place to live. Also, this

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would be a good opportunity to do away with any prejudice against creating different types of art on the streets, as well as introducing graffiti and street art to locals of every age.

Fig. 8.7. Istiklal Street, 2013.

In an effort to improve a large area he decided to paint an entire neighbourhood instead of scattered walls. Eskreyn and his crew focused on Yelde÷irmeni, a neighbourhood of old houses in KadÕköy on the Asian side of the city. Yelde÷irmeni has been in decline in recent decades despite its central location and its characteristic building stock. However, in recent years it is getting more and more attention due to its potential. While some urban design projects are currently underway in the neighbourhood, the idea of painting the facades to change the atmosphere and bring in new energy has attracted the KadÕköy Municipality. They accepted a request to support the Yelde÷irmeni Street Art Festival. In 2012, Mural-øst took place in the neighbourhood. Turkish and foreign artists/writers worked on blank walls with the help of cranes to create large-scale work. Eskreyn described his experience as exciting and tiring. In the beginning, locals were not interested in the events and underestimated the effort involved. However, right after the beginning of the festival they started to become involved as they watched the development of the drawings day by day in front of their windows. The pieces brought colour to the neighbourhood and changed the atmosphere. They also attracted many visitors who came

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to see the work. Locals liked the new vivid street scenes and were also pleased to see people visiting their neighbourhood, taking pictures and admiring the area. For Eskreyn this was the goal he wanted to achieve, and at the same time he mentioned that they all learned a lot from each other in terms of creativity and technique. The KadÕköy Municipality was also satisfied with the results, and they are continuing the project in June 2013 (Interview with Eskreyn by authors, 2013).

Fig. 8.8. Nuruziya Street, Beyo÷lu, 2013.

Krys 2 Looper from the Stilbaz Crew is a writer whose works are a combination of graffiti and Turkish calligraphy. He calls his style “Street Hat.” His enthusiasm for letters first started in the late 1990s when a chapter from a high school book titled Graffiti: Art or Crime? opened up new vistas for him. He started searching for graffiti images and creating illegal work as others were doing at that time. He says that the first step was to examine the letters and to try to find his own style. During this time, Turkish calligraphy inspired him and he mentioned that it was his way of creating a kind of belonging to Turkish culture. Krys added that it was also impossible to ignore examples of Ottoman calligraphy especially if one was living in Istanbul. There are many works of Ottoman calligraphy in the city, specifically on historical buildings, which are very attractive. “Street Hat” received positive reactions, and had followers. A

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writer’s struggle to create their own typography is necessary in order to be unique. He noted that one should take a close look at the letters when viewing graffiti and pay attention to the shapes and their composition— they are the writer themselves. In recent years he has been painting mostly legally. There are two reasons for this: his style is now very complicated, so he needs time to finish his work, and he does not want to have unpleasant interactions with the police. Despite this, he says that the street is a zone of freedom where you can express yourself and develop your way of belonging. Istanbul is a very inspiring city for every branch of the arts. An active street life and all the things that go with it will attract more writers, he says. If a writer wants “fame” they should paint in popular places, on extraordinary surfaces or on active streets to be seen by other writers and the public—for example, the Karaköy, Taksim, Çapa and Güngören districts in Istanbul. It is not possible to generalize, but it is said that most street artists come from art school or, to put it another way, are studying art and want to express themselves in the public space. However, graffiti writers have various backgrounds and professional lives. For both groups, it is important to exchange ideas with each other and to work together to improve the overall style of the medium. Graffiti writer Met Styler criticized some young street artists who try to act like masters, trusting the knowledge they get from their professors. He mentioned that these people only have enthusiasm, and do not really belong on the street. He also stressed that it is a small community and, instead of having arguments, everyone should work with respect for the other and the public (Hiphoplife 2009).

The City of Graffiti In the graffiti and street art scene, Istanbul is making fast progress. Like everywhere in the world, information technology allows people to follow the work of different writers and to learn techniques. Easy access to information has helped to extend the graffiti community. On the other hand, an increasing number of street art festivals give people the opportunity to see what it really looks like to draw and finish a piece and even experience creating drawings in workshops. Foreign writers and artists visit the city for festivals and leave their pieces behind, creating inspiration for other artists. As all the writers interviewed mentioned, from the artistic point of view it is not possible to find a unique Istanbul style. But as all the artists said, it will develop as soon as artists produce more works. Istanbul has both a good foundation and culture for creating that unique style.

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Table 8.1. Hot Cities for Graffiti (by streetfiles.org) City

Number of Photos Uploaded by Members in Each City

Berlin

95,218

Hamburg

23,218

Dortmund

16,459

Moscow

15,429

Cologne

14,318

Frankfurt

13,780

Prague

10,515

…

…

østanbul

6,322

Taking an overview from global numbers, Istanbul was listed within the “Hot Cities” of the international graffiti/street-art sharing website streetfiles.org with 6,322 photos (Table 8.1). Berlin is at the top of the list with 95,242 photos. It is not surprising to see Berlin in first place because it has both a tradition and a good reputation for graffiti production, which is part of the city’s culture. Following cities on the list gives a better idea about the average numbers. Taking a closer look at the distribution, the numbers for Istanbul will show the most popular districts and their location in the city (see Fig. 8.9 below). Table 8.2 shows the number of photos tagged with a detailed description of its location in Istanbul, the distribution of graffiti/hip hop shops in the city, and the public events/festivals/exhibitions that took place in that district over the years.

Streetfiles.org is an international website where artists, writers and fans share street art/graffiti—both their own work and examples from the street. The website has 90,771 members from all over the world and has gathered 793,402 photos on the subject (streetfiles.org). Not all the pictures are tagged (since the word “tagged” can be confused with graffiti tagging—perhaps a word like categorized is better here) with the name of the city, and there are repetitions in the graffiti uploaded by different members with the same city tag. Nevertheless, it gives a general idea about the distribution of the work in various cities and even within neighbourhoods.

Figure 8.9. Districts of Istanbul according to street art and graffiti density. [The black-coloured districts have a high density of street art. The white areas show the places without graffiti. Data collected from streetfiles.org].

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Support from local governments has increased in the last five years, which helps the artists reach the younger generation. It also helps to create change in the image of the neighbourhoods, both physically and how they are perceived. This, in turn, also improves the image of the municipality, making it appear modern and open-minded, as well as supporting art that is in touch with every group in their area, even marginal ones. Table. 8.2. Distribution of Data regarding Istanbul According to District. Number of Photos Hip Hop and Name of District Tagged with Graffiti Shops District in District Name

BOL Wear Freedom Sports Mazot

Public Events in District Meeting of All Stars, Graffiti Festival, 2006; Morphosis: Street Art, Graffiti and Stencil Exhibition, 2009; Meeting of All Stars, 2. International Graffiti Festival, 2011; From the Streets of Istanbul, 2012; Streetart Festival Istanbul: “Renovation” TarlabaúÕ, 2012

• Beyo÷lu

153

• Fatih

64

Fistanbul

-

• Güngören

58

DGS Sportswear

-

• Beykoz

15

-

-

• Gaziosmanpaúa

13

-

-

• Pendik

12

-

-

• Esenler

11

-

-

• Kartal

11

• KadÕköy

10

• Maltepe

8

Narkissos HipHop&Graffiti Shop Hammer Textile, Mural Istanbul, 2012; Pislick, X4Tune From the Streets of Istanbul, 2012 -

-

• Zeytinburnu

6

-

-

• ùiúli

4

Donut Store

-

• Bayrampaúa

3

Pislick

-

Numbers gathered from streetfiles.org, hiphoplife.com.tr and streetartistanbul .com.

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• SarÕyer

3

-

Street Art Festival, 2010; From the Streets of Istanbul, 2012

• Adalar

2

-

-

• Beúiktaú

2

-

720 Skate Park, 2009; From the Streets of Istanbul, 2012

• Silivri

2

-

-

• Üsküdar

2

-

From the Streets of Istanbul, 2012

• Arnavutköy

1

-

-

• Bahçelievler

1

-

-

• BakÕrköy

1

Mangastar, Pislick, Riot Music, Time is Money

-

• Eyüp

1

-

-

• Küçükçekmece

1

-

-

• Sancaktepe

1

-

-

• Tuzla

1

-

-

• Ataúehir

0

-

-

• AvcÕlar

0

-

• Ba÷cÕlar

0

-

• Baúakúehir

0

-

Urbanist Graffiti Festival, 2011; Gathering for MISK, 2013 212 østanbul Power Outlet Graffiti Event, 2012 -

• Beylikdüzü

0

-

-

• Büyükçekmece

0

-

-

• Çatalca

0

-

-

• Çekmeköy

0

-

-

• Esenyurt

0

-

-

• Ka÷Õthane

0

-

-

• Sultanbeyli

0

-

-

• Sultangazi

0

-

-

• ùile

0

-

-

0

Freestyle HipHop Shop

-

• Ümraniye

According to the number of tagged photos, the district of Beyo÷lu takes first place for the amount of street art it hosts. It can be interpreted as part of the continuity of culture and art which is part of the district’s main

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identity. Beyo÷lu is the most visited place in Istanbul by both Turkish nationals and international visitors. Throughout history, Beyo÷lu has housed embassies, theatres, cinemas, culture and commerce. Today, cafes, restaurants and bars have been added and have made the area even more attractive. Pedestrian areas afford many opportunities to writers and artists and also to spectators. The inhabitants as well as shop owners are very tolerant of artists, and in some cases cafes prefer to have drawings as a background for their outdoor seating areas. At the same time, artists prefer their pieces in the district to be seen. Visitors share pictures of the work and that also enhances their reputations. This draws many other artists and visitors to the area, which causes continuous growth.

Fig. 8.10. Graffiti project on an electric substation at Güngören.

For Güngören, street art and graffiti are a lifestyle. Art pieces and writings have expanded to public service buildings, urban furniture and local shops. The Güngören Municipality developed a different kind of relationship with writers than those other districts have with their local writers. Graffiti is more than individual expression, it is a way of social interaction, and the local authority asks writers to decorate their new facilities and blank walls. It is not only an art project encompassing aesthetic concerns, but a social project that encourages young people to

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communicate, create, produce and implement as well as show the alternatives available in life, allowing them to belong to their space as they both touch and change it. On the Asian side of Istanbul, KadÕköy creates an environment of freedom for artists. KadÕköy is a mostly residential district as well as a cultural centre in which graffiti and street art take their place within the neighbourhood, in underpasses, on walls near the coastal promenade and along the tracks of the railroad. Besides supporting a few events, the local authority posts images of street art work, even illegal stencils, through their official Instagram account along with positive comments. In a recent move, Silivri Municipality invited “Turbo” and his crew to liven up the streets of the city. Not many photos were shared, nor was Silivri visited as much as other places, so this was mostly visible to the people who were following graffiti via social media. Compared to other cities, it is not easy to find graffiti on transportation in Istanbul. Some existing examples can be found mostly on trains, with only very few on metro cars. The Metro is very difficult to write on because the entire network is well protected by security. Railroads are also well protected, and there are not many stops where trains wait on the tracks, giving writers a chance to create. However, graffiti and street art work can be seen on the surfaces of railroad stations, bridges and underpasses. Trains always attract writers because they move around the city and display the art to larger audiences. But in Istanbul the railroad is mostly hidden, and railway cars cannot be easily seen from any part of the city. Highways offer better options for being seen in Istanbul as traffic is plentiful and there are lots of unused surfaces around the roads. However, the authorities cover the pieces immediately to prevent drivers from being distracted. Istanbul is a very trendy place for artists, and those from foreign countries draw pieces during their visit to Istanbul. They have a more professional approach to graffiti and try to make their work attractive in terms of size, style and/or location. Even public opinion about graffiti has changed in a positive way. Artists agree that the treatment of a Turkish artist and a foreign artist who gets caught red-handed differs most of the time, as the general public and security services are more tolerant of foreigners than of Turkish artists. The most common punishment for such activity is pecuniary for harming public property. For a foreigner, the worst case is being deported from the country. Once local artists are taken to the police station, besides punishment, this could also mean that families will be involved, which is an undesirable outcome for young

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writers. Indeed, this issue could explain the daring of Kripoe vis-à-vis Turkish artists’ relatively reserved behaviour. After 2000 the amount of graffiti in Istanbul grew in number, and most of the works did not remain on the street for a long time but were recorded in photos, and new graffiti continued to be added rapidly. Also, famous writers/artists from other countries visited the city and left their marks on walls. This accumulation of work over many years deserved to be published. The first book, Turkish Graffiti, Volume 1, containing examples from Turkey, was prepared by Tunç “Turbo” Dindaú in 2009. He had been taking pictures of graffiti in Istanbul for a long time, so when he decided to make the book a reality, he went carefully through his archives. His main goal was to create awareness for Turkish graffiti for people who don’t know anything about the culture (Hiphoplife 2010). The second book, Street Soul: Graffiti from Turkey, came a few months later in 2009, which also included work that appeared on trains. He gathered many different pieces from different artists, as well as his own, and all the photos came from the streets of Istanbul. His books provide an important document for the Turkish graffiti scene, with many examples of art that has already vanished. Another book titled Sokak SanatÕ (Street Art), published in 2009 by ùinasi Güneú, gathers many different examples of street art from all over Turkey. There are also many videos on the internet taken by crews during the production of various pieces. However, the first documentary film from a more professional point of view, called Urbanbugs, came out in 2010 and explored the social and cultural aspects of street art in Turkey. Forbidden Zone, which came out in 2011, gave viewers an idea about illegal Turkish graffiti. All this material helped record the development of graffiti in Turkey and recount the history of the streets.

Conclusion: What Is Next? Today, graffiti does not have the same meaning it had in the days it first appeared. It was already popular when it was introduced to the world through the first movies and magazine articles. Once an expression of a subculture, it is now a trendy style of art. As Fiske (2010) emphasizes, with the push of popular culture, art becomes a commodity. It has a different meaning today from the political drawings on the Berlin Wall, tags done by gangs to mark their territory in America, or the Brazilian “Pixação” which was written as an answer to, or opposing the political slogans of, the 1940–50s in Latin America, says Krys 2 Looper. It was and is a part of the popular culture, and even a part of guerilla action. Writers

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are artists who express themselves on the streets, which also adds a certain value. The content of the writings has changed in line with the changes in contemporary life. Writers are expressing their personal feelings/ideas that are shaped by contemporary situations. Living conditions, everyday life and the arts are strongly connected to each other. In an effort to become popular, writers focus their artistic style so as to make themselves recognizable. The transformation is not only in the content, but also in the technique. Today, graffiti interacts with other art forms. Digital production techniques and social media help peoples capture and reproduce graffiti. High rates of sharing online increase the popularity rating of artists, which in turn fosters continuous interest. In recent years, many brands have used graffiti and Hip Hop as tools for public relations. They sponsor events and artists and organize street festivals, sometimes using stencils for guerrilla marketing. Even shopping centres have organized indoor events. Municipalities arrange walls and companies invite writers to create. These attempts are frequently criticized for using graffiti in the consumer market, in effect taming it and making it a part of the system. On the other hand, writers and artists say that these kinds of events are occasions to work in front of the public, create largescale work without time pressures, and also allow them to network. This type of legal graffiti and street art remains visible for longer periods of time. They consider these events exercises and disagree with the idea of taming them. After these events, each writer goes back to their way of producing work. Krys 2 Looper also mentioned that it is a chance to make money from something he enjoys doing. If you don’t make any concessions to your style and attitude, commercial drawings are fine. Graffiti is not to be controlled. There are many writers working both legally and illegally. Except for a few artists, such as those who prefer to be undercover and work illegally like ARE, it is difficult to make an absolute distinction between writers. It is possible to discuss graffiti under three headings: popular culture, a commodity, and self expression. Following marketing trends, commercial graffiti production and legal work will increase in the near future as graffiti becomes more of a commodity. On the other hand, through the influence of popularity, illegal drawings will also be more in evidence as interest grows along with tolerance. Popular culture also supports guerrilla drawings. Even academia has taken notice of graffiti, with papers and research regarding the issue seeing an increase in the last five years. As a popular art style, we will be seeing more graffiti in the future.

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Fig. 8.11. “Taksim became a piece of Modern Art” Istiklal Street, Beyo÷lu, June 2, 2013.

Interest from local authorities will also continue, especially those that have their sights on the tourism industry. Graffiti adds and diminishes value to the streetscape with both its positive and negative sides. Cities like Berlin and Barcelona use street art as a tool for branding and promoting their cities, with the emphasis on showcasing a creative and artistic urban environment. Istanbul is not yet at the point of discussing urban character and image in terms of graffiti, as is the case in Melbourne or Berlin, and it will thus be an issue for future discussion. The subject of graffiti is mainly about the arts and planning. We can say that self expression is transformed into art via popular culture. Then, suddenly, the street protests of June 2013 entirely changed the scope of this subject in Istanbul. Protesters filled the streets with slogans and drawings. They were very simple in an artistic sense, but with very strong messages and oftentimes filled with humour and irony. It is important to

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give a message directly, and wall writings are still one of the most important ways of self/public expression. These anonymous interventions create an effect that has a more immediate impact than any other form of art. It is possible to conclude that if society has something to express, it always finds the perfect way to express it. No matter if it is a form of art, a type of commodity, or just plain writing/drawing on a wall, the street is the place that hosts them all.

Works Cited Akyürek, Fatma. 2010. “Türkiye’de Heykel SanatÕ.” Mimar.ist, Bahar, 35: 53–59, østanbul: TMMOB Mimarlar OdasÕ østanbul Büyükkent ùubesi. Bandaranaike, S. 2001. “Graffiti: A Culture of Aggression or Assertion?” The Character, Impact and Prevention of Crime in Regional Australia Conference, Australia, Townsville: The Australian Institute of Criminology, August 2–3. Barnes, A. 2004. “Graffiti: Over Ground Archeology or Environmental Crime?” Graffiti Management Strategy for the Australian Capital Territory, Canberra Urban Parks and Places (CUPP) Policy Planning Unit, Australia. Dovey, Kim, Simon Wollan & Ian Woodcock. 2012. “Placing Graffiti: Creating and Contesting Character in Inner-city Melbourne.” Journal of Urban Design, 17 (1): 21–41. Erdo÷an, Gizem. 2009. Kamusal Mekanda Sokak SanatÕ: Graffiti østanbul, Beyo÷lu, Yüksek KaldÕrÕm Sokak øncelemesi. Master’s Thesis, Trabzon: Karadeniz Technical University, Institute of Science and Technology. Ergin, Nilüfer. 2010. “Kentin Heykeli Üzerine Bir Analiz.” Mimar.ist, Bahar 35: 60–63, østanbul: TMMOB Mimarlar OdasÕ østanbul Büyükkent ùubesi. Fiske, John. 2010. Understanding Popular Culture, 2nd edition. Oxon: Routledge. Göktürk, Deniz, Levent Soysal & øpek Türeli. 2011. Istanbul Nereye? Küresel Kent, Kültür, Avrupa, østanbul: Metis. Guneú, Serkan & Gülúen YÕlmaz. 2006. “Understanding Graffiti in the Built Environment: The Case in Ankara, Türkiye.” 42nd ISoCaRP Congress, September 14–18, http://www.isocarp.net/data/case_studies/724.pdf. (accessed March 7, 2013) Hartley, Morgan & Chris Walker. 2012. “The Father of Turkish Graffiti.” Forbes, August 23,

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http://www.forbes.com/sites/morganhartley/2012/08/23/the-father-ofturkish-grafitti/ (accessed March 7, 2013) Hiphoplife. 2009. MetStyler Hiphoplife Pöportaj, http://hiphoplife.com.tr/roportaj/117-metstyler-hiphopliferoportaj.html —. 2010. Tunç ‘Turbo Abi’ Dindaú Hiphoplife Pöportaj, http://hiphoplife.com.tr/roportaj/134-tunc-turbo-abi-dindas-hiphopliferoportaj.html (accessed April 4, 2013) Macdonald, N. 2001. The Graffiti Subculture. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. McGaw, J. 2008. “Complex Relationships Between Detournement and Recuperation in Melbourne’s Street (graffiti and stencil) Art Scene.” Architectural Theory Review 13 (2): 222–239. Stanchfield, N. 2001. The Bombing of Babylon: Graffiti in Japan. Kyoto, Japan: Long Island University, Friends World Program, http://www.graffiti.org/faq/stanchfield.htm (accessed April 5, 2013)

Interviews Aksel, Bahar. 2013. Interview with Mazot Hiphop and Graffiti shop, Istanbul. 2013. Interview with Donut Store, Istanbul Aksel, Bahar and Olgun, Inci. 2013. Interview with Tunç ‘Turbo’ Dindaú Istanbul —. 2013. Interview with BoyalÕ Eller Crew, Istanbul —. 2013. Interview with Eskreyn, Istanbul —. 2013. Interview with Krys 2 Looper, Istanbul Olgun, Inci. 2013. Interview with Hammer Shop, Istanbul —. Interview with Pislick Store: KadÕköy, Istanbul

CHAPTER NINE DISRUPTING THE AMNESIA: METAPHORIC ARTISTIC INTERVENTIONS IN ISTANBUL EVRIM KAVCAR

While selective amnesia and capital have cooperated to deprive Istanbul of its memory, contemporary artists have become trappers that hunt, catch and archive all that is fleeting in the city. In addition to documenting it, the artists for whom the city is a studio follow their hunches and intuition to realize interventions in the city space. In recent years, such singular interventions have often taken the form of ephemeral gestures, mimicking Istanbul’s complex character. While tracing these interventions, this chapter aims to problematize standardized techniques of artistic intervention that are indifferent to the mentality of everyday society. Unlike cities laid out on a grid, Istanbul has evolved through the ages like a living organism, growing in all directions like an octopus. Given the persistence of the untamed nature of the city, the way to “get things done” is by informal means. The interests of political and social actors who exercise power over the city’s growth are not coordinated and leave ambiguously defined zones where there is a continuous renegotiation of authority. Characterized as it is by the uncertain and undefined, Istanbul has become a gem for foreign artists of modern, standardized European cities. When compared with cities where change is gradual, the speed of change in Istanbul makes artistic intervention a challenge. While rooted in history, the city is transforming daily, and Western theories of public space fail to meet the city’s needs. Indeed, daily practices of living and encountering are the only ways to enter into its dynamic. What artists acquire from living in Istanbul is an ability to relate to multiple points-ofview—to that of the tea maker, of the migrant, of the homeless, of fig trees and stray dogs and sewer rats.

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In an urban sphere where conflicting interests are made physically evident and stand adjacent to one another, valid artistic interventions are those that relate to distant urban realities and thus create metaphors. Such interventions, which are termed “metaphoric” for the purposes of this text, crack open fissures in fixed solutions of urban issues, initiate dialogue, and keep memory awake and fresh. Practices of art that situate themselves outside of places that are formally reserved for exhibiting art already comprise an oeuvre of their own. Critiques of formal monuments, the idea of the counter-monument and variations of these through time in public art practice and artistic intervention are all part of this body of work. As soon as artistic production steps out into the city it becomes an actor in the power relations that are established by the organization of urban space and gives shape to the practice of everyday life by the citizens of the city. Monuments, commissioned outdoor sculptures and some public art projects have long been incorporated into the visual vocabulary of the urban fabric in Western spatial practice. City planners accommodate them to enhance the image, readability and, thus, the orderliness of the city. As established aesthetic components of Western cities, such examples are an infinite source for critique. Indeed, the monument stands out because: “[t]he monument is essentially repressive. It is the seat of an institution (the church, the state, the university). Any space that is organized around the monument is colonized and oppressed. The great monuments have been raised to glorify conquerors and the powerful” (Lefebvre 2003, 21). Aware of the authoritarian voice of monuments that represent state power, artists note the absence of the voices of those who inhabit the city and look to other methods of artistic production that neither support nor ornament official versions of history. “The real issue concerns the possible forms of critical art, the different ways in which artistic practices can contribute to questioning the dominant hegemony” (Mouffe 2007). Countermonuments, community-based artistic projects and new genres in public art have been born out of this search. And while some of these practices are criticized for their implicit assumption that community is a single, unified, harmonious body, the examples that are deemed critical are those that take society’s inherent conflicts and contradictions as a point of departure. Such critical approaches are bolstered by theoretical arguments, such as those of Claire Bishop who supports a view that “community can be transformed into something democratic and political only if it is understood as a platform for continuous antagonism” (2004).

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Aware of the risk of becoming yet another layer of authority,1 artists who have adopted this contemporary approach expose and highlight the social antagonisms and multiplicity inherent in the texts that have been written across city spaces through the actions of the “other.” Here, the “other” is not an alien force, but merely “ordinary practitioners of the city” (Certeau 1984, 93). As poetically stated by Michel de Certeau in his seminal text “Walking in the City,” simply by walking, people continuously weave their ordinary lives and stories into the urban text. “The networks of these moving, intersecting writings compose a manifold story that has neither author nor spectator, shaped out of fragments of trajectories and alterations of spaces: in relation to representations, it remains daily and indefinitely other” (Certeau 1984, 93). It is this “daily-ness” that characterizes contemporary artistic approaches to city space and is therefore of interest to this treatise. In Istanbul, how do artists who chose to work outside of the places specifically reserved for art read, interpret and intervene in this multilayered urban text? In a city regarded as uncertain, undefined, spontaneous, chaotic and informal, how do contemporary artists—who are both aware of Western theories of spatial and artistic practice and yet also informed by “other” experiences of lived space—respond? How does the practice of daily life in this particular city influence their methods of artistic production? How can we read recent artistic projects in light of the question: “Whose city is this?” In dealing with these questions a difficult constraint has been placed on the investigation—the artistic projects on which this paper focuses are all self-initiated, and the respective artists live and work in Istanbul. Their impetus is neither a commission from a curator nor an application for funding from some source that sponsors projects about Istanbul. In this light, all that has been noted above needs to re-contextualized in recognition of the following—while rooted in Western spatial, social and artistic practice, the evolution of the discourse of art in urban space in Turkey in general, and in Istanbul in particular, is neither a linear nor parallel development. First of all, the urban sculptural installations that form the basis for the Western practice of art in public spaces are not found in abundance in Istanbul. Sculptural, spatial installations are not an established part of the urban vocabulary, and collaboration among urban planners and artists to design outdoor space is not the norm. Indeed, sculpture is a tradition perceived to have been introduced from without to support the broader modernization program of the Republic of Turkey. 1

At least, one hopes these artists are aware of this risk.

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Most identified with representations of Mustafa Kemal Atatürk—albeit a few sculptural developments have also attempted to represent the nation state, civilization and diversity, more broadly—and the insertion of sculpture into Turkey’s cityscapes remained an incomplete and deficient project. Quite simply, there was no tradition of political, historical or social memory being inscribed in urban space in the form of sculptural installations that question authority’s versions of history. While the buildings of Istanbul are constantly changing, authorities have rendered it ever easier to increase the commodity value of each square centimetre of the city, eradicating all other values. Ironically, and in spite of the city’s incomparable history, a lack of memory and, thus, a deficit sense of identity have systematically paved the way for just such an erasure. Among the many ruptures that have caused Istanbul’s amnesia, the most prominent include: The fact that the official history of the Turkish Republic starts in 1923, a violent break from Istanbul’s long history as the capital of a vast Ottoman Empire. Indeed, those who favour Islamic values over the secularism of the Republic try to reclaim Ottoman architectural heritage and artistic language, in the simplest sense by displaying Ottoman inscriptions and insignias. (As an aside, both sides disregard the sculptural quality of tombs, which are nonetheless relevant to the discourse on urban sculpture in Turkey.) With each of the country’s military coups came yet another layer of amnesia. In particular, the implications of the coup of 1980, with its explicit objective to depoliticize a generation of the nation’s citizens, have yet to be sorted out. Rampant, present-day urban regeneration projects aim to reconstruct and promote a city without memory, if only because collective memory creates resistance when it comes to razing and rebuilding the city to turn a profit. Systematic efforts over time to erase the city’s voices except those of so-called “white, Sunni Turks.” Given this background of habitual amnesia, only works of art that do not implicate memory and disturb the status quo are tolerated. Works of art that only temporarily disrupt the amnesia may also be permissible, but a longer, systematic, repetitive or “spread out” disturbance that keeps

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public memory alive will not. From a Western perspective, “The authorities want to corral memory into a monument; they wish to memorialize and monumentalize in some way or other. They don't want it to be alive; they want it to be dead” (Pender 2007, 21). However, in present-day Istanbul authorities think differently. Their monuments are shopping malls, real-estate projects and plans for monumental mosques. Capitalism replaces memory. For this reason, it is still interesting and worthwhile to ask what there is in Istanbul to commemorate in a permanent way. It is also valid to devise short-term actions that question the present state of existing sculptures and memorials, because: “… the meaning of our monuments depends on our active role in turning them into sites of memory and critical evaluation of history as well as places of public discourse and action” (Wodiczko 1999, 62).2 The mobility and ephemerality of contemporary art as a form of resistance fits hand-in-glove with capitalism’s project of emptying buildings of meaning and memory, enabling an efficient commodification of space that even defies the law, when necessary. Such art is doomed to be consumed by capitalism. As the location of art moves towards discursive practice, abandoning physical ties to actual places, the places are gleefully reclaimed by those who put privatization above the public interest. While nomadism has been a strategy by which art resists its own commodification, it is critical to note that “the nomadic principle also defines capital and power in our times” (Kwon 2002, 26). Given a city like Istanbul, which authorities have patently put up for sale, any art form situated outside of galleries and on the streets has a chance of being embraced if there is any hint of its raising property values. 2

Wodiczko’s perspective can be noted in the artistic intervention of the group Hafriyat (in collaboration with groups Yeni SinemacÕlar and Hazavuzu) in a planned attempt to covertly steal the “Worker” statue in Tophane Park in March 2010. The failed gesture (ultimately, the sculpture was not displaced) triggered a response by local users of the park, the police and government authorities, and resulted in a public discussion of the presence and meaning of a statue that was sculpted and erected by Muzaffer Ertoran in 1973. A monument that had long lost its ideological significance was reclaimed in the contemporary dynamic of a location in transformation. The process was filmed and the resulting video installation, entitled “Seventh Man” (after the 1982 John Berger and Jean Mohr book, A Seventh Man), was acquired for a museum collection. It was screened in Vienna, Berlin and Istanbul in 2010–2011 as part of the exhibition Tactics of Invisibility, which was co-curated by Emre Baykal and Daniela Zyman. The video makes the event partially accessible to people who did not directly experience the process.

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Though not in vogue in contemporary artistic practice, can material and permanency be worthwhile pursuits in an urban fabric devoid of memory? And what about site-specificity? Used to define the spatial character of minimalist artwork in the 1960s and 1970s, the term “site-specificity” implied that a work of art would lose its meaning if it were placed in any another environment other than the one for which it was designed. The location of these works provides an environmental context inseparable from the meaning of the work itself. From the 1960s to the present day, artists’ handling of the concept of “site” has evolved from analyzing it as a physical place (with certain coordinates, topography, lighting conditions, temperature, relation to established pedestrian routes, etc.) to approaching it as a fluid, discursive context. Mwon Kwon analyzes this evolution of site-specificity through three paradigmatic stages: the phenomenological, the social/institutional and the discursive (2002). As art moves into the discursive realm, it situates itself between lines of activism and artistic production. Encapsulated in the term “dialogical aesthetics,” this condition has been convincingly theorized by art historian Grant Kester in both “Conversation Pieces” (2012) and “The One and the Many: Contemporary Collaborative Art in a Global Context” (2004). Given a society that has never been truly at ease or at peace with the presence of sculpture (or given that sculpture in Istanbul has been an unimaginative practice that has failed to connect to its own spatial or situational context), would it be an exaggeration to say that the dematerialization of art has come in handy in Turkey … a convenient saviour? It is ironic that site-specificity and permanency in the urban fabric of Istanbul is better explained by phenomena specific to the informality of the city rather than by how art has related to its environment. Permanency is attained either by local spatial practices of the citizens in combination with the neglect of authorities or by authoritarian efforts towards a uniform mentality that can be shaped to their needs. From the point of view of Western artistic practice, some fragments of urban space in Istanbul may be interpreted as site-specific interventions in social space, but such phenomena are foremost exemplified through leftover or undefined fragments of the city.

A Visual Metaphor for Istanbul Leftover and undefined urban fragments are parts of the character of Istanbul. An undefined structure, such as a concrete block that would be demolished and removed in any other city, may have a long, independent

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life in Istanbul. The presence of a few specific masses of concrete in the Kabataú and Karaköy neighbourhoods exemplify the phenomenon. Do these leftover chunks owe their curious permanency to magic invisibility cloaks? One specific block of concrete that sits along the waterfront in Kabataú has a physical presence that is particularly difficult to ignore, and it sits like a giant facing the Bosphorus. Due to the curved line of the seawall, pedestrians approaching from one direction will notice the block only on reaching it, but for the passers by who are both walking and surveying the view of the sea and Istanbul’s historical peninsula, the cement block is a momentary distraction, entangling itself with the view behind it. From one angle, with the sea traffic and the historic peninsula stretching behind it, the form begins to mirror its background, and with two iron poles extruding up at each end, the shape is reminiscent of a ship. Eroded sections at the corners of the block give it a rounded contour, and considered together with the poles the tilted urban prop might also be said to mimic the shape of the domes and minarets that provide its backdrop. A photograph taken from this vantage point would convey these visual affinities, unravelling a visual metaphor of Istanbul as a disfigured, sunken ship with a silhouette that resembles the skyline of the historic peninsula. Serving as a seating area that provides a kind of privacy in public for its temporary occupants, the spot has become a meeting point for teenagers who skip their morning classes. From time to time it turns into a scenic spot that tourists climb to take group photos. For children, it’s a playground. And in the evening and at night, for those people who come to fish, it is a convenient place to set down their gear. This leftover structure, which could as well be mistaken for a dumping spot, has a counterpart in the water just a few metres away. This leftover piece of sofa near the wharf carries its own memory; in contrast to the tendency to privatize every square centimetre of Istanbul, these undefined places are public. Owing their survival to chance and neglect, these remnants are in effect self-made urban sculptures, which are site-specific. In a city that is constantly changing these unattended blocks of concrete have an ironic permanency that does not correspond to the ephemeralness that typifies the contemporary metropolis.

“Every Living Being Will Taste Death” Ironically, the idea of ephemerality in this geographical context is not new. With a majority Muslim population, predominant rhetoric has always concerned the transience of our physical bodies and the futility of earthly belongings (this, despite the rise of a philosophy of “all for money”). Yet,

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while searching for examples of contemporary artistic intervention in Istanbul, one of the most permanent textual interventions belongs, poignantly, to the Ministry of Religious Affairs of the Republic of Turkey. “Every living being will taste death” is written over the main gate to the Zincirlikuyu cemetery. Situated along one of the heaviest traffic arteries in Istanbul, millions of commuters pass this text daily. Representing an authoritative voice, the display and maintenance of the text is funded and supported by the government, and thus rendered monumental. It is emotionally moving, especially for believers, controversial for nonbelievers, yet visible for all passers by. By contrast, “Zenginleri ölüdürücez” is inscribed in green letters on a wall that welcomes drivers on their way down to Ayaza÷a, a district in the vicinity of Istanbul’s high-rise financial district that is currently host to huge urban renewal projects. The text translates to: “We are going to kill the rich,” but is written in a colloquial manner (with some letters omitted). Populated mostly by families who migrated from the Black Sea region of Turkey, Ayaza÷a is an urban village with a population of almost one hundred thousand, and where one can still hear the echoes of roosters. Downhill from the financial district and surrounded by greenbelts that belong to the military and the Department of Forestry, Ayaza÷a’s market value has skyrocketed and it is now home to many high-rise residential projects. As capital reshapes the area, the inhabitants themselves responded with this textual intervention. The lifespan of this writing was longer than the contemporary works of art mentioned below, and it cleverly poked fun at the permanence of authoritarian texts. Situated in practices of daily life and lacking funds, text-based artistic interventions in Istanbul are not as common or varied as the spontaneous wall writing of the city’s inhabitants themselves. One memorable example was comprised of two consecutive works by Vahit Tuna and Canan in 2000. The interventions in Mühürdar Street of KadÕköy were informally entitled “Billboard Exhibitions.” The artists made use of an advertising billboard that was situated above an Internet café belonging to one of the artists. Canan’s text read: “Finally, you are inside me.” The artist was pregnant at the time, and the sentence could be interpreted in multiple ways. Nonetheless, the neighbour that lived in the flat above the billboard complained to the municipality, claiming that she was disturbed by the stares of passers by (Sönmez 2000). The municipality threatened to shut the café down. Until the official documents reached the café, another sentence was displayed. Vahit Tuna’s text read: “Don’t forget to buy bread

Quran, 3:185, Surat: Al' Imran.

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on the way home.” For the neighbourhood, the statement served as a reminder writ large. Given the intimacy and daily-ness of the statements, these two interventions were unique in their contemporary approach to text as conceptual, artistic material. Istanbul officials found the works “harmful for the environment,” thus ending the short history (approximately one month) of this artist-initiated textual intervention in public space. Locals, on the other hand, having read the first and then the second text, began a dialogue with, and at, the Internet café, discussing the meaning of the sentences as well as art on the street. In contrast to established art audiences, the participants of the discursive space that such works generate “do not exist prior to, but emerge in the course of the debate” (Deutsche 1992, 39). The “misuse” of a commercial billboard as a point of intervention subverts expectations; instead of serving the interests of commodification, the billboard becomes a site of civil expression.

“Pay Allegiance!” A more critical approach to the use of text was adopted by a stencil project that criticized the commodification of Istanbul and questioned the power of metaphors to give boundless meaning to artistic expression. Emerging out of a will to resist the power of capital, how can artistic projects distinguish themselves from mere activism and creative protest? As Debord states, “the domination of the economy over social life brought into the definition of all human realization the obvious degradation of being into having” (2005, 17). One stencil appearing on the side streets of Beyo÷lu that differentiates itself from others is indeed intended as a deliberate artistic intervention. To explore the possibility of a singular, multilayered artistic critique, the stencil is composed of a combination of two distant symbols: the logo of BP (British Petroleum) and the Semitic letter wƗw. The work, entitled “Biât Et!!” (“Pay Allegiance!”), was a collaboration between artist Ferhat SatÕcÕ (a.k.a. Yeni AnÕt) and street artist Ahmet Yusuf Aygeç. The stencil sabotages the symbolism of BP’s logo, portraying it as a sun rising above an abstracted representation of people worshipping. The anthropomorphic abstractions, however, are themselves a subversion of yet another symbol—the letter wƗw. This letter is used in Persian, Arabic and Ottoman Turkish. On its own, it serves as the conjunction “and,” and in the Quran it is frequently used to connote an oath. The visual symbol embodies human beings and God simultaneously, and is valued as a manifestation of the unity of existence among Islamic mystics. It is widely applied in Islamic art for its aesthetics and geometry. One prominent example from calligraphic

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tradition is the design of a rowboat called “Amentü gemisi,” referring to Noah’s ark, where the oars are a series of wƗws (Özkafa 2012).

Fig. 9.1 and 9.2. “Biât Et!” Ferhat SatÕcÕ, 2013.

Ferhat SatÕcÕ is aware of the monumentality and density of meaning in religious symbols that are used to impose taboos, and in our interviews he expressed his intention to let these taboos deform one other to create new, hybrid forms and symbols. The work, “Biât Et!” is one example. As summarized on the artist’s blog, such guerrilla calligraphy reveals the vivification of global corporations within the bodies of traditionalists, marking the rise of a culture of “paying obeisance” (allegiance). As a technique, stencilling is a subcultural holdover. But the value of subcultures—as a social idea—has been co-opted by a culture eroded by imbalanced power relations and by the bombardment of visual advertising (YeniAnÕt, YeniAnÕt’s Blog, comment posted April 4, 2011). In a city that is promoted as a shopping Mecca, the worship of capital (above life itself) must be criticized by all means possible; wall writing and stencilling are one form of everyday, informal critique. Subcultures, while making their voices heard, are nonetheless condemned to conform to capitalist values. In contemporary society the relationship between material things and human beings is unfortunately dictated by

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consumerism. Yeni AnÕt exposes the contradictions inherent in this troubling situation. Through visual language he reflects on the distortions and perversions of cultural values under the capitalist system. Applied in around fifty different locations on the walls of the streets around Taksim, the “Pay Obeisance!” stencils were realized on the occasion of a May 2011 exhibition at the gallery Sanatoriumen titled “Regeneration,” which was curated by art historian FÕrat Arapo÷lu. The template of the stencil was exhibited on the wall of the gallery while the stencils themselves were spread throughout the streets, which had been designed independently of the exhibition. When seemingly distant symbols are brought together the new image they create is open for interpretation. Indeed, Yeni AnÕt is curious about exactly those aspects of the work that will be [mis]understood by the audience. This forms the backbone of a series of such symbols that he has designed as a part of his practice of art. Is it possible to appropriate traditional symbols and signs to reconsider the meaning of “today?” The artist states that we are born into these signs, regardless of whether or not they belong to us now. From today’s perspective, can we look again at the scripts of the past without them? Can they be labelled as “authentic” in a negative sense? The issue of public space and the relationship between word and image are two subjects that interest Ferhat SatÕcÕ, and consequently he pays particular attention to hybrid forms of graffiti, believing in their capacity to suggest critical views of hegemony. As a contemporary capital of consumerism, Istanbul is dressed with symbols in the form of brand identities and global commercial images. To juxtapose one such modern symbol with a script that is no longer immediately accessible to contemporary citizens is to speak in the language of metaphor, echoing the ambivalence inherent in the character of the city. “One’s metaphors determine whether one is capable of embracing the strange or merely murdering it. A metaphor is the form in which a conditional readiness is recorded … To change a metaphor is to open up a possibility for action” (Mulder et al. 2010). In contrast with the language of commercials served up for immediate consumption, artistic practice is a search for something that is not readily consumed. Is it possible to speak a language that is both relevant and yet not eminently consumable? After exploring an artistic intervention that questions consumption values by subverting the informal language of stencilling, it will be instructive to turn to some interventions that subvert the use of informal structures in Istanbul.

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Making Use of Informal Urban Structures In FÕndÕklÕ there are steep, stepped streets that connect a working district at sea level with residential areas above. From time to time, one comes across loads of construction debris sliding down these slopes via long, makeshift chutes. Elevated two or three metres above the ground on wooden scaffolds, these rubble-dumping slides are a creative solution to the problem of the disposal of debris from construction sites that have no vehicular access—the do-it-yourself version of the construction chute. Towards the end of August of last year, passers by of one of these slides would do a double-take: nailed to the wooden supports of a thirty-eightmetre-long chute was a series of small, paper flags of various countries, some familiar and some not. They formed a colourful line, reminiscent of a parade or perhaps the entrance to an international hotel. However, the only contextual reference was two large Turkish flags belonging to a neighbouring bank. Were the flags parts of an exhibition of the nearby Istanbul Modern museum? No sign or label was apparent, and therefore the installation seemed anonymous. In a week or two, these curious paper flags disappeared. In the collective memory of most people raised in Turkey, little paper flags with thin wooden poles evoke national holidays like National Sovereignty and Children's Day or Republic Day. Hand-sized Turkish flags are associated especially with children celebrating such holidays. Rich in symbolism and providing a context for socio-political commentary, flags are frequent motifs in artistic practices that question nationalism and the politics of governance. With a background in graphic design, and hence an expertise in using print material, Didem Özbek is the artist behind the aforementioned flags in the “stair” section of the city space of Istanbul. To realize the intervention she took advantage of a holiday during which workers in the area would be absent, as well as of uncertainty regarding the ownership and control of the temporary urban structure. Turning the meaning of the debris chute by usurping its wooden column as flagpoles, Özbek created a thirty-eight-metre temporary monument. Though situated in Istanbul the context of the monument extended from Turkey to Indonesia. Having realized the project for the purpose of a video-art piece to be screened at the Bandung Pavilion of the ninth Shanghai Biennial, Özbek’s point of reference was events that took place at the Bandung Conference in 1955. Titled “Alignment,” there are actually two works of art: one is the physical intervention and the other is the video documenting the act. In the video, one sees how the printed flags were prepared, measured, carefully

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cut and assembled. Afterwards, the placement, alignment and attachment of the flags on site is shown. So how does a makeshift urban structure in Istanbul relate to the Bandung Conference? The answer refers to the artist’s own research regarding the conference, in which Turkey was a participant. The Bandung Conference that took place in Indonesia in 1955 was the first international African-Asian conference to oppose colonialism, bringing together countries that were newly claiming independence. With the intent of forming a coalition to resist political alignment with either of the imperialist, cold war agendas of the U.S. and the Soviet Union, the conference proved a milestone in the formation of the Non-Aligned Movement. “Alignment,” in this case, meant to be allied with the U.S. or the Soviets. As a country having fought for independence against imperialist countries, the Turkish Republic had a certain reputation among other countries striving for independence. However, at the Bandung Conference this reputation was brought into question. Turkish Foreign Minister Fatin Rüútü Zorlu supported the idea of taking aid from the U.S. and Europe. As a consequence, there were sound disagreements between Zorlu and Jawaharlal Nehru, the Prime Minister of India, who supported non-alignment. Turkey was the only country represented that was allied with NATO, and after the Bandung Conference Foreign Minister Zorlu made visits to the U.S., following which the cooperation between the countries strengthened. Under the rule of the Democratic Party in the 1950s, Turkey was included in the Marshall Aid Program. However, in 1960 there was a military coup, and Fatin Rüútü Zorlu was executed a year later. This information informed the artist’s perception of the architecture of the structure that supported the chute, which she associated with a gallows. In designing her intervention, Özbek had yet another point of reference—the building that housed the Bandung Conference is now a museum, and the participating countries’ flags that once lined the front of the building are now contained in its collection. The flagpoles are empty and bare so the artist decided to figuratively transfer the flags to Istanbul. She aligned paper versions of all the participating countries’ flags along the construction chute she came across in FÕndÕklÕ, placing not only the 1955 versions of the flags, but also their contemporary counterparts, hinting at changes within the regimes. The scaffolding is structurally suitable for the project, and in her thinking recalls the 1961 execution of Turkey’s representative to the 1955 Bandung Conference. It is thus—through a series of associations—that a temporary urban monument comes into being. However, the recognition of this meaning by the audience is only possible by talking to the artist or reading about the

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work. For the rubble-dumping chute, the important thing is function. It is not prefabricated—it is constructed on those stairs to fit those stairs. Sitespecific by nature such chutes rarely get noticed, though they may stretch the full length of a street. They grow on the site, serve their purpose and are then dismantled. Put together in a rugged fashion and resembling a work in progress, they do not have a polished look. In this respect, in the streets of a city that is permanently under construction, they remain invisible in spite of their mass. By contrast, Didem Özbek’s temporary intervention highlights and monumentalizes the chute, and in turn the small flags are rendered even more visible than the large flags nearby. Indeed, exposure to flags is so commonplace that people living in Istanbul no longer see them. From on high, it seems the whole monumental structure was constructed merely as a support for this series of paper banners. The formality and neat graphics of the flags contrast with the “working class” wooden frame; no matter which country the flag belongs to, the support system is the same. Having brought together two distant entities, the artist opens up space for interpretation. Her choice of site is intuitive; this section of the city is part of her personal history, her childhood. Her ease with intervening at the site is linked to her perception of the neighbourhood as the living space of her childhood. It’s critical that the intervention in the city space was the initiative of the artist herself, but “[w]hat is increasingly prevalent, however, is institutional sponsorship of the invitation for artists to intrude, not just within the gallery or museum space but in the context at large” (Buskirk 2005, 199). The people who witness temporary artistic interventions in the city happen upon them at just the right moment, by chance, while the opportunity to encounter such works in a context of spaces reserved for art is much greater, of course. As they rarely leave a permanent trace at their sites, these ephemeral actions are generally thoroughly documented. After elaborate audio and video editing, the documentation turns into a contemporary artwork of its own, ready to be noticed by curators and take its place in the collection of a museum. The dematerialization of material works of art into artistic actions or dialogue-based, socially-engaged projects resists commodification only temporarily, but cannot escape as long as the meeting place with audiences is the art world. Without an archival process these works are lost forever. At the moment, this dilemma is only solved by clever utilization of the press, the internet and social media.

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Subversion of the Everyday Practice of Life as an Artistic Method of Intervention Utilized by artists to expose socioeconomic mechanisms behind art institutions, to date the artistic tactic of infiltration has rarely been encountered in Istanbul; nor have there been many artistic interventions that employ daily practices as a method. The act of scratching a surface to reveal some printed material beneath calls to mind small-scale gambling— “kazÕ kazan,” meaning “scratch and win,” is the Turkish name for these scratch cards. Reminiscent also of the cards one scratches to get the unique pin codes for cell phone credit, the technique became a tool for a unique artistic intervention realized by Public Art Laboratory during the opening of the Twelfth International Istanbul Biennial. Visitors to the biennial received a series of printed promotional materials that included a grey postcard—a neat, minimal work of graphic design. In addition to cards prepared and distributed by the Istanbul Foundation for Culture and the Arts (øKSV), some visitors were handed facsimiles of these cards with a slight difference. These immaculate replicas had a tiny instruction printed in the corner: “Please scratch.” Scratching the surface revealed an excerpt from a letter to General Kenan Evren sent on October 3, 1980, from Vehbi Koç, the founder and owner of Koç Holding. Infiltrated into the biennial was a covert reminder of Koç’s personal declaration to the general who led the military coup. This also brought to mind Hans Haacke’s “fact-based exposés through the 1970s, which spotlighted art’s inextricable ties to the ideologically suspect, if not morally corrupt, power elite” (Kwon 2002, 19), and Public Art Laboratory’s intervention adopted an informative strategy. The excerpt of the letter reads as follows: The trials of the anarchists and criminals arrested should not be prolonged, and they must be sentenced soon. Necessary laws and other means should be provided for equipping and reinforcing the police organization. The laws regulating employer-employee relations should be kept to a minimum. The extreme actions taken by trade unions to overthrow the Turkish State and destroy economic order should be taken into detailed account. Some workers have expectations about union relations following the closure of DøSK (Confederation of Revolutionary Workers' Unions). Militant trade unionists intend to provoke these workers and pursue their cause by penetrating the management of existing trade unions. The laws should be redesigned in view of this fact, and necessary measures should be taken. It is certain that the Communist Party, leftist organizations, Kurds, Armenians and some politicians will continue to pursue malicious ends. It is important to keep an eye on them and foil their attempts. I hope you and your friends succeed in your mission. Please be sure that I am

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Rightly described by artist ølke YÕlmaz as “the remnants from the Istanbul Biennial,” the effect of the circulated letter has been more enduring than that of the official spectacle of contemporary, ephemeral artwork, which was devoid of memory (2012). For Niyazi Selçuk, who collaborated with Public Art Laboratory to turn the idea into a collective, organized action, divulging ties between capital and art following the 1980 military coup is necessary to reconnect art to Turkey’s political and social reality. In conversation, Selçuk states that the collaborative actions he has planned with art collectives urgently prod the amnesia that has numbed political consciousness and pacified art audiences. Underpinning the military coup of 1980 was the fascist intent to remove all that is human from society via systematic acts of repression and torture. The recent event in Turkey’s political history remains unresolved in collective memory and is therefore still unsettling to Turkey’s citizens. A period of systematic depoliticization of younger generations followed the coup. Those who strive to resist being tamed, deprived of political awareness and reduced to consumers must keep their memory sharp and their humanity alive. Problematizing the current urban situation in the context of the social and political atmosphere and organizing to collectively respond to the forces shaping our living environment are the only recourse for those who can no longer stand by and watch the situation. In a city where the evacuation of the economically disadvantaged, the destruction of cultural and historical heritage, the degradation of human rights and the circumvention of the law all occur in the name of urban regeneration, it is natural that art must play a creative and risky role to fulfil its potential. On its website, Public Art Laboratory introduces itself as “a collective experimental field open to everybody who wants to produce ‘concrete thoughts’ on how we can make space, time, working conditions, human relations and life more humane.” Maintaining an open, flat organizational structure, the lab meets on a weekly basis. If the scratch cards had been a one-time, ephemeral act, it would have been lost among the “hit and run” strategies that typify many contemporary artistic interventions. The conceptual framework for the present International Istanbul Biennial are the public spaces of the city, but at the time of this writing it is the target of diverse and varied interventions designed cooperatively with artists and a variety of socially- and politically-aware organizations. Aware of and unsettled by the erasure of memory that replaces human value with economic profit, these groups

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have formed an alliance that aims to unmask the interests that are collaborating on the commodification of the city.

Apricot City A4: Giving Back What We Borrowed from the Streets Living in informal networks suggests informal ways of making art. Like street vendors that turn each situation into a chance to sell, the contemporary artist turns each urban situation into a chance to make art. Dissatisfaction with Istanbul’s formal art audiences provides another motive for artists to situate their work in the space of the city: Didem Özbek transforms the use of a chute for dumping debris; Ferhat SatÕcÕ adopts the language of stencilling to subvert both traditional and contemporary symbols; Public Art Laboratory and Niyazi Selçuk mimic the style of an officially sanctioned flyer to undermine its message. Instead of introducing wholly new, decontextualized objects, these artists find relevant points of attachment within the fabric of the city through intuition, research and their own individual practices of everyday life in Istanbul. Home to multiple realities, the dynamic of Istanbul’s streets influences the mindset of all who must survive there. The variety, spontaneity and randomness of encounters in the city become materials and strategies for artists whose practices grow out of daily interaction. “Going against the grain of institutional habits and desires, and continuing to resist the commodification of art in/for the marketplace, site-specific art adopts strategies that are either aggressively antivisual—informational, textual, expositional, didactic—or immaterial altogether—gestures, events, or performances bracketed by temporal boundaries” (Kwon 2002, 24). In describing the project Apricot City A4, Dilek Winchester refers to the “parasite” as hermodus operandi. Without public funding and independent of the art market, is it possible for a practice of art to survive outside of the ivory towers? This is, in fact, the trigger question behind the project initiated by Winchester, which weaves artistic practice and streetbased, informal economies. Initially announced on a blog, Apricot A4 is a fanzine or zine-like entity that is copied and sold via Istanbul’s mobile photocopy vendors. The artist invites other artists to prepare issues to be distributed in the same way. Because of the informal distribution network, one may or may not be able to gets one’s hands on these fanzines. Critic and curator Nicolas Bourriaud suggests that such works can be perceived as proposals to live in a shared world. The works of artists with this approach give rise to spontaneous social relations akin to work Bourriaud calls “relational” (1998).

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Life in Istanbul makes cunning entrepreneurs of people who are compelled to make a living. Every circumstance is reconsidered an opportunity to make money: if it rains, sell umbrellas; if there is a political protest, sell flags; and in highway traffic, the availability of commodities for sale varies according to season. Situation-specific needs determine the temporary and informal services that are provided on the streets. Situating themselves around government offices that require multiple copies of bureaucratic paper work, mobile photocopy vendors offer one such public service. At the same time, these vendors can also laminate identity cards. Their services are not technically legal and yet are overlooked by the authorities. In addition to Mardin and DiyarbakÕr, a large number of these vendors have moved to Istanbul from Malatya, a region famous for its apricots. Accordingly, they have named their carts “KayÕsÕ Kent I,” “KayÕsÕ Kent II,” etc., from which Dilek Winchester’s artistic project derives its name. One may find the Apricot City A4 zine in Karaköy, Eminönü or KadÕköy, but then again, one may not! While some of the vendors are fixtures in one neighbourhood, most travel throughout the city. On their carts, the lamination service is announced via a looped recording of a woman’s voice. The first issue of the zine, prepared by Winchester herself, includes an interview with the woman to whom the voice recording belongs. She is not visible on the streets, yet her voice and presence are manifest through a recording played over and over again. The second issue, prepared by Evrim Kavcar, traces the movements of a stray dog that prevents vehicles other than buses from parking at the bus stops around the Beúiktaú district by barking at and chasing them. Each artist who is invited to prepare an issue handles the fanzine differently, conceptualizing and sharing diverse aspects of the urban texture of Istanbul. Each issue is a surprise for Winchester. As bureaucratic work becomes increasingly digitalized, the services of mobile photocopy vendors will probably not be needed. Now running for a period of one-and-a-half years, Apricot City A4 makes use of this informal economy for as long as it is available. Distributing artist-made fanzines from the carts of mobile photocopy vendors that copy the zines upon request is a constructed situation that resonates with the energy of the situationists: The very word situation derives from Sartrian existentialism, which in the years after the war emerged as the most influential humanist philosophical movement in France and probably in Western Europe. Sartre argued that life is a series of given situations which affect the individual’s consciousness and will, and which must in turn be negotiated by that

Disrupting the Amnesia: Metaphoric Artistic Interventions in Istanbul individual. Situationism now presupposed that it was possible for people to synthesize or manage these situations as an act of self-empowerment. (Sadler 1999, 45)

Fig. 9.3. Apricot City A4, Dilek Winchester, 2013.

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Fig. 9.4. Sketches of Evrim Kavcar in Apricot City A4, 2013.

Consumption or Multiple Creative Productions? In light of the abundant material and immaterial resources in the city, contemporary art’s encounters with Istanbul have remained contrived, limited and dependent upon the art market. There are but a handful of counter examples. “The sober, the weary, the exhausted, the dried-up (e.g., scholars) can receive absolutely nothing from art, because they do not possess the primary artistic force, the pressure of abundance: whoever cannot give, also receives nothing” (Nietzsche 1968, 422). Considering Istanbul’s versatile geography and multiplicity, art is still squeezed into a limited area. In terms of technique, material and how they relate to the city, art practices mirror the lines of Western art history. Even when art leaves the ivory towers and ventures into the streets, contemporary public art is not really distinguishable from the statements produced and displayed in galleries. Artistic projects situated on the periphery, far from the city centre, are as dubious as the capital that supports them. The city feeds the artist. The artist has to contribute to the resources on which they feed—the experience of the city, along with its social and political consciousness. If not, an art that is devoid of history and memory can only weaken the city’s identity and serve its

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commodification. Another risk is that the artist loses their singularity and individuality. Versatility and multiplicity are inherent not only in the experience of the city and everyday life, but also in the subjective means by which artistic production comes together in terms of materials, ideas and methods. Works of art that are meaningful for the participant or viewer, but whose meaning is not consumed, can only follow from such subjectivities. In the context of Istanbul, where it seems that forgetting is the only condition with any continuity, it is imperative to heed ephemerality and anonymity. Before ending, it is worth mentioning that on May 1, 2013, Istanbul’s Taksim Square was closed to the public, and the celebration of International Workers’ Day was not permitted there. The official explanation was construction in and around the square, part of a dubious urban regeneration project. Attempts of citizens to reach the square ended in violent intervention by the police.3 Yet, in a few days’ time, fans of a local football team were allowed to celebrate their championship in the very same square. In a city where authorities act arbitrarily, believing that everything will be forgotten, the right to remember and commemorate troubled and officially censored fragments of history must form the basis of a creative, artistic mission. For the sake of a more liveable Istanbul, artists must reconsider their role in the consumption and creative production of the city.

Works Cited Bishop, Claire. 2004. “Antagonism and Relational Aesthetics.” October 110 (3): 51–79. Bourriaud, Nicolas. 1998. Relational Aesthetics. Trans. S. Pleasence & F. Woods. Dijon: Les presses du réel. Buskirk, Martha. 2005. The Contingent Object of Contemporary Art. Cambridge, Massachusetts, London, England: The MIT Press. Certeau, Michel de. 1984. The Practice of Everyday Life. Trans. Steven Rendall. Berkeley: University of California Press. Debord, Guy. 2005. Society of the Spectacle. Detroit: Black and Red. Deutsche, Rosalyn. 1992. “Art and Public Space: Questions of Democracy.” Social Text 33: 39.

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This text was prepared prior to the vast demonstrations in Istanbul’s Taksim Square and Gezi Park which began the last week of May 2013.

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Kester, Grant H. 2012. “The One and the Many: Contemporary Collaborative Art in a Global Context.” Durham, NC: Duke University Press. —. 2004. Conversation Pieces: Community and Communication in Modern Art. Berkeley: University of California Press. Kwon, Miwon Kwon. 2002. One Place After Another: Site Specific Art and Locational Identity. London and Cambridge, Mass.: Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Lefebvre, Henri. 2003. The Urban Revolution. Trans. Robert Bononno. University of Minnesota Press. Mouffe, Chantal. 2007. “Artistic Activism and Agonistic Spaces.” Art and Research: A Journal of Ideas, Contexts and Methods 1 (2) (summer) www.artandresearch.org.uk/v1n2/mouffe.html (accessed March 4, 2013). Mulder, Arien., Maaike Post & Laura Martz. 2010. From Image to Interaction: Meaning and agency in the arts. Rotterdam: V2_Publishing / NAi Publishers. Nietzsche, Friedrich. 1968 (1883–8). The Will to Power. ed. Elizabeth Forster- Nietzsche. Trans. Walter Kaufmann & R. J. Hollingdale. New York: Vintage. Özkafa, Fatih. 2012. “An Analytical Approach to Letter ‘WAW’ as Cultural and Aesthetic Component.” Turkish Studies—International Periodical for The Languages, Literature and History of Turkish or Turkic 7 (4): 2577–2600. Pender, Stephen. 2007. “An Interview with David Harvey.” Studies in Social Justice 1 (1): 14–22. Public Art Laboratory Blog. http://publicartlaboratory.blogspot.com Sadler, Simon. 1999. The Situationist City. Cambridge, Massachusetts, London, England: The MIT Press. Sönmez, Ayúegül. 2000. “Bu Sanat YapÕtÕ Çevreye ZararlÕ.” Milliyet Gazetesi, June 9th, Arts Section. Wodiczko, Krzysztof. 1999. Critical Vehicles: Writings, Projects, Interviews. Krzysztof Wodiczko, Cambridge Massachusetts: The MIT Press. Yeni AnÕt Blog, The. http://yenianit.blogspot.com/ (accessed April 4, 2013). YÕlmaz, ølke. 2012. “østanbul Bienalinden Geriye Kalan,” E-skop, January 2012. http://www.e-skop.com/ (accessed April 4, 2013).

CHAPTER TEN ONE-PERSON HOLDINGS: TACTICS OF ISTANBUL’S STREET VENDORS ERBATUR ÇAVUùOöLU AND JULIA STRUTZ

The global wave of liberalization and deregulation of the economy in the 1980s instigated the decline of redistributive systems for health, education and housing, as well as the deregulation of formal labour. This process, often summarized as globalization and neoliberalism, has led to an even further exclusion of the urban poor, a new marginalization and informalization of the lower and middle classes. Paradoxically, however, in cities like Istanbul informalization was accompanied by attempts to formalize the economy. Led by the wish to create a clean, “modern” city, the fight against the informal economy in the 1980s gained new vigour. All political elites have shared the common ambition to turn Istanbul into a global city, an international hub for finance, art and technology, where the characteristics of the informal sector, like low-quality products and unskilled service workers, are frowned upon. In the 2000s this wish was coupled with the increased ability of the state to enforce this dream (O÷uz 2012). While on the one hand many needed to take up a second informal job after the regular working hours to make ends meet, jobs in the informal sector, on the other, were forcefully integrated into the formal economy and controls were undertaken more rigidly. This double process, maybe even double dispossession, of formalization and informalization has redrawn the lines on the entangled and often arbitrary continuum of formal-informal-criminal economy (Altvater 2002; Castells & Portes 1989). The renegotiation process of what public authorities considered to be the formal and informal economy triggered resistance. This resistance, however, was articulated mostly in the formal aspects of the economy, with contracts, taxes and unionization, and as protests against privatization or subcontracting. The protest against formalization, however, has often gone unheard. We believe this relates to a blind spot where resistance can

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only be observed when it takes the form of political action with the outspoken, conscious aim of creating better living conditions of those that resist. It has also been pointed out that each day may contain aspects of resistance that are perhaps less institutionalized, collective, purposeful and confrontational (Scott 1985; Bayat 1997; Lefebvre 2002). Using urban space in ways not planned or foreseen by the authorities bears a subversive power—acts of walking are acts of speech, in the words of Michel de Certeau (1984, 97): “[Un]able to produce, tabulate, and impose spaces” on others, the urban poor refrain to “tactics” that “can only use, manipulate, and divert spaces” (Ibid., 30). Dwelling, moving about, speaking, reading, shopping, and cooking are activities that seem to correspond to the characteristics of tactical ruses and surprises: clever tricks of the “weak” within the order established by the “strong,” an art of putting one over on the adversary on his own turf, hunter's tricks, maneuverable, polymorph mobilities, jubilant, poetic, and warlike discoveries. (Ibid., 40)

Picking up on the idea that the urban poor articulate resistance differently, Asef Bayat proposes the concept of “quiet encroachment” that we understand as an elaboration of de Certeau’s tactics. “Quiet encroachment” describes the atomized, proactive and prolonged winning of position by “informal people” in order to survive, have better lives or gain some autonomy from regulations and state-imposed discipline. Without leadership or ideology, informal people try to advance by taking from the state, the rich, the political elite, but not from each other. In this way their activities challenge “many fundamental aspects of the state prerogatives, including the meaning of order, control of public space, of public and private goods and the relevance of modernity” (Bayat 2000, 546). Thus, they pose the question of whose city this is again and again. This chapter focuses on street vendors as representative of informal people in Istanbul. In contrast to most other forms of informal economic activity, street vending cannot retreat to the invisibility of inner, private spaces, but is staged in the urban public space. It transforms urban space by its mere existence, the image of the modern, global city desired by political elites. For this reason, street vendors have been treated like “broken windows”—when there is one, there will be many, so one has to get rid of them completely (Donovan 2008). To our knowledge, very little research has been undertaken on street vendors in Istanbul (GürpÕnar 1999; Özsoy 2003; Çarko÷lu & Eder 2006; Uzer 2008). Going beyond quantifiable data we try to add to existing knowledge by studying street vendors’ characteristics as urban guerrillas,

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their tactics of “quiet encroachment” and survival in the changing an increasingly hostile urban environment of the past ten years. To this end, twenty exploratory interviews were undertaken between October 2012 and January 2013. Although an attempt was made to talk to informants in central, sub-central and peripheral neighbourhoods, the data gathered does not yet allow for broad summations with regard to different locations in the city. In the first part of this analysis we will make an attempt to define street vendors in Istanbul and describe their living conditions in the city. Despite the lack of basic data on most aspects of their existence, we will subsequently focus on the tactics they use to quietly maintain their presence and encroach upon the streets.

Fig. 10.1. A street bench selling deserts at Karaköy, 2013.

Street Vending and the Informal Economy in Istanbul It the nature of statistics that they do not come close to displaying the totality of the informal economy. Nonetheless, and with no other reliable data at hand, a look into the labour force statistics of the Turkish Statistical Institute offers some insights and helps us pose questions. They indicate that in the period between 1989 and 2006 the percentage of informal

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work—defined as people working without social security—rose from 26% to 32%. These figures, however, stagnate or even decrease slightly in the period up to 2012. One may speculate that this stagnation is due to more pressure on the informal sector to formalize because new formal jobs have been created. This is for good reason—the president of the Chamber of Commerce in Ankara claimed in 2004 that street vending alone caused an evasion of ten trillion Turkish lira (about five million Euros) of tax money each year (Cross & Balkin 2000). Consequently, in the last few years, many sectors in the informal economy have been forced to integrate into the formal economy. Most visible, in the case of Istanbul, is the takeover of thousands of informal car parks by the municipal company øSPARK. The municipality, likewise, started to rent out uniform handcarts to sellers of simit—the Turkish version of the bagel—or warm chestnuts, and began to prosecute those without a permit more vigorously. Wishing to get the business of informal trash collection under their control, the municipality even started to equip some collectors with municipal uniforms, was this became forced work for them (Çavuúo÷lu & Strutz 2012). It is difficult to achieve a clear definition of street vending, especially in regard to a clear differentiation between it and other forms of informal or semi-formal activities on the street. As attempts to define can contribute to our understanding of street vending, the following definition tries to show the variety as well as the reality rather than being clear-cut and consistent. In the framework of this study, and conforming with Portes’ (1989) definition, street vendors are defined as selling legal goods in a mobile shop without paying for permission from the municipality. This way, we exclude those that sell illegal goods (like drugs) from the scope of our study, insist on mobility and disregard sellers attached to shops (whether owners or friends/relatives of the owners that sell slightly different goods next to the shops, a phenomenon mostly visible in Eminönü), (night) markets and sellers that always sell in the same place without being able to move quickly (as is often the case with flower sellers, for instance). When it comes to the differentiation between goods and services, a limitation on goods only would be confining, as it excludes such important phenomena as knife grinders, shoe shiners, porters or mobile repairmen. Most streets vendors sell both services and goods. Umbrellas are sold “just-in-time,” all sorts of foodstuffs are brought to your front door, and tissues don’t only help a runny nose but also the guilty conscience you may have towards the boy who tries to sell them. Not to mention the entertainment, songs, poems and jokes some of the vendors sell with their goods, such as the “one-lira makina” on the ferry boat to the Princes’

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Islands on summer days, the bras sold as “hat for the twins” or the famous poet and self-declared politician Pala on østiklal Street that was immortalized with a wax statue after his death. They are not only the entertainers of the streets; these are celebrities every Istanbulite knows. What all our informants have in common is that they have not been coopted by the state (most notably in contrast to the many sellers of simit), do not pay money for a license, a health certificate or taxes and, therefore, are always at risk of being caught by the police. Still, to conclude that all street vendors are self-employed and are only restrained in their activities by the police would be a romanticization of their business. Of course, street vendors are hierarchically structured according to age, gender, origin, their cooperation with others, the goods and the places they sell. While there are those that decided to become street vendors, earning good money and gaining a certain independence from state regulations, there are also those that have had little choice and are forced to be a part of this network of dependency. Instead of being self-employed and earning 100% of the profit, some street vendors depend on an employer for whom they only act as an employee, and who may organize (parts of) the products, the places they are sold, who bribes the police or who may even organize the accommodation for the sellers. It is hard to imagine that every single one of the 160,000 children between the ages of 6 and 17 that work on the street of Turkey (AltÕntaú 2003, 28) does so of their own free will. Street vending in Istanbul is an activity that has existed for centuries. An article published in 1968 in The Journal of American Folklore estimates there were about 50,000 peddlers in Istanbul at that time, and the writer claims that his house in Fatih is frequented by four to five hundred street sellers each day (Uysal 1968). Very likely, these numbers have not decreased since; one can suppose, however, that their location, products and distribution system within the city has changed. Street vendors share the fate of grocers that were driven out of neighbourhoods by the advent of automobiles and big department stores (Keyder 2005), and so street vendors frequent households and residential areas less often than they did in the 1970s. In one of the newspaper articles the popular journalist Ahmet Rasim regularly wrote about everyday life in the city of Istanbul in the first quarter of the twentieth century, he describes a morning at his house close to BeyazÕt Square (Rasim 2006). The egg seller is followed by the milk seller, who is followed by the sellers of bread, vegetables, yoghurt, fruit, toys and anything else a household might need in the course of a day. Many of the sellers of these ordinary products gave way to supermarkets and have disappeared today.

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The historical centre of street vending activities is supposedly the covered bazaar, BeyazÕt Square and Mahmut Pasha Street connecting the bazaar area to Tahtakale and Eminönü (Uysal 1968). Up until today, networks of people and goods seem to come together on the historical peninsula in BeyazÕt and Aksaray. In their groundbreaking study on urban informality in Turkey, Çarko÷lu & Eder (2006) claim that street vendors are the most vulnerable among urban informal workers—83.2% of street vendors live and work without insurance, 88.4% could not make ends meet longer than a month if they got ill, and 20% could not even manage a single day, while 57.5% of street vendors’ households earn less than 100 Turkish lira (50 Euros) a month. This fits well with the profile of street vendors we interviewed for this study. Among them, only one had insurance from a formal job, but was unable to pay the monthly contributions continuously. Street vending in Istanbul is a visibly male-dominated business, with both vendors and customers being men (GürpÕnar 1999); women appear only as flower sellers. This, indeed, is in stark contrast to research on South and Latin American cities, for instance Bogotá, where the majority of peddlers are female (Donovan 2008). When we use the male form in the following text, we mean it in the literal way—we can only provide information about male street vendors. To speculate on the reasons why street vending in Istanbul is dominated by men would need further research. In Turkey, unregistered trade like street vending is forbidden by law. In order to develop the local economy and trade and to further the registration of the informal economy, Belediye Kanunu (Municipal Law) prohibits street vendors that sell without permission. According to the Kabahatlar Kanunu (Law for Misdemeanor), street vending is illegal as it leads to “noise, nuisance, dirt and occupation.” The implementation of these laws is the responsibility of the municipal police. This law defines that unregistered selling on streets, in parks and on squares that don’t conform to the legislation and to hygienic standards are to be prohibited. The law specifies that the municipal police has to prevent the scrabbling about in trash cans and waste, the selling of unwashed, unpeeled or uncooked foodstuff and the vending of products protected by the law on intellectual and artistic works. It is nevertheless possible to get permission by the municipality to practice street vending. The conditions and the process of application to achieve this licence, however, are not explicit, transparent or clearly codified. Information on licensing and registration attainable via the internet is superficial and contradictory. While doing this online research, one stumbles upon clearer guides in Turkish on how to become a street

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vendor in New York, and it seems to be easier to become a registered peddler there than in Istanbul. Unclear procedures, lack of transparency and bias seem to be symptomatic of the relationship between street vendors and the authorities. On the one hand, the state has been struggling against street vendors for decades, sometimes even with military force as reported in the newspaper Milliyet on July 15, 1971. On the other hand, the informal economy and street vending secure the livelihood of many and offer affordable goods and services to low-income groups. Therefore, the government both fights against this informality, but can’t refrain from supporting it indirectly. The informal economy is widespread, and there is hardly any citizen in Turkey who neither produces, consumes nor sells informal goods. Instead of presenting further quantitative data on street vendors in Istanbul and despite its lack overall, this article focuses on the tactics of street vendors, as informal people, as they try to silently encroach upon urban space to better their lives. Quiet surprisingly and against common conviction, the majority of street vendors we talked to has been working for longer than ten years, and many of them for twenty or even forty years. Street vending in Istanbul is not a temporary occupation, but seems to have certain barriers of entrance and requires professional experience. Çarko÷lu & Eder’s study (2006) presented a similar finding, stating that the longer an individual has lived in the urban context the safer informal job he or she is able to attain. Their finding contradicts the widespread notion that the informal sector offers jobs to freshly-migrated urbanites via networks with the hometown. Ultimately, the migrant would “integrate” into urban life and would be able to do a formal job. This idea is internalized by the city’s administration, which would crack down on “bachelor’s rooms”—the supposed residence of many newcomers—in order to get rid of the informal economy. In contrast to this idea of the always-new arrival and integration into the urban society, Keyder has pointed out that we are dealing with a new type of migrant and migration since the 2000s. He warns: … that these new immigrants have now calcified into a permanent underclass, moving back and forth between unemployment, selfemployment and casual, informal work, always in need of outside assistance for survival. (Keyder 2005, 132)

Our enquiry among street vendors may hint at the fact that the situation is indeed worse—even street vending is no longer a sector with a lowentry barrier, which people could rely on the moment they lose formal

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employment. Street vending is a very structured sector, which requires tactical planning. Analysing the tactics of our informants, we realize that time is an important factor and combines with the selection of the products sold, the places they are sold and networks with other sellers (structured according to origin or not), the police and the customers.

Knowledge of the Market and the Product Street vending is the flexible offering of products and services and requires daily (or even hourly) market surveys. Most vendors we talked to specialize in a group of products and decide individually which one would sell better or worse on that specific day at that specific place. An extreme case would be those vendors that sell umbrellas the moment it rains, jerseys and köfte (meatball) before a football match, and whistles and lemons (as defence against tear gas) during demonstrations. But even a regular seller of fruit and vegetables needs to be able to calculate how much he will sell during the day, decide on the quality of fruit and the cost-performance ratio. An informant, who sells fruit and vegetables from a tractor in Ümraniye, a new centre on the periphery on the Anatolian side of the city, trusts his knowledge of fruit and vegetables. Indeed, the agriculture industry in his hometown in central Anatolia did not earn him enough money to survive, so he started to sell fruit in Istanbul from the age of twelve. He claims that his customers know him for his high quality. In addition to the product itself, its demand and supply, street vendors have to know where to buy it cheaply, to organize its transport as well as its storage.

Spatial Knowledge In addition to the market situation, street vendors need to develop spatial tactics to sell their product, on the one hand, and protect themselves from police control on the other. Depending on the product they sell and the relationships between the vendors, they first need to decide on location. Individual sellers and seller of products for daily use, like fruit sellers, sell their products within relatively regular spatial intervals. This totally changes, of course, if the sellers are related to each other and not in a competitive situation. In this instance, they may protect each other from the police or aggressive costumers, advertise the same product several times and even establish certain places specifically for the product they sell. One good example of this tactic is the sellers of stuffed mussels around Taksim, the entertainment district of Istanbul. Eating stuffed

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mussels after a couple of beers has developed into an essential part of a night out in the district. Selling together at the same spot not only creates a clustering effect, but also serves as security against the police or aggressive customers. The decision regarding location may also be taken to sell “just in time.” An impressive example is stated by the sellers of fish hooks on Galata Bridge, a place where hundreds of people come to fish everyday as a leisure-time activity and as a business. The seller not only offers equipment replacement in the moment and on site as needed, but also his knowledge on the fish and fishing conditions—in contrast to shops, he sells just the right hook for the right location, our informant explains. Indeed, each district in Istanbul seems to have its own socio-political street- seller geography. The highly-controlled main street is frequented only by those sellers who, over time, have gained the right to stay there as well as through their networks with the municipal police and other vendors. Most of the street vendors can, therefore, be found in a transitional zone between the commercial centre and purely residential quarters. These are places where there is not so much car traffic and less police control, where it is easier to escape with the mobile shop, “unfavourable” (ters), as one of our informants calls it. He adds that “here it’s like a village, here there is no control. Only if the citizens (vatandaú) complain, there is a problem.” Generally, the difference between vatandaú, the citizen, and halk, the ordinary people (Özkan 2007), is a discursive performance of the differentiation between the white, urbanized, secular, modern (vatandaú) and the black, rural/migrant, religious, traditional (halk) inhabitants of Istanbul. Accordingly, the street seller needs to be able to make this socioeconomic differentiation for themself.

Knowledge of the Customers Although street vendors are mobile, many of our informants have developed strong ties with their customers. Just like a static shop owner, many know the names of their customers, know to smile, to make small talk, and sell their goods on credit and instalments. Many of our informants tell us that they can’t just go to another neighbourhood because they don’t have a customer base there. Other vendors follow a preconfigured route every day and arrive at the same street corner at the same time. Every day after six o’clock in the evening, for instance, Ali Bey arrived on østiklâl Street to sell içliköfte (kibbeh). His basket to keep the product warm was covered by a cloth labelled SabÕrtaúÕ (Stone of Patience), and this brought him many customers and friends (Uzer 2008).

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Those without a customer base thus need to sell at highly-frequented places and do aggressive marketing. This includes distinguishing the right customer from a distance, addressing them in the right way and sometimes also in a foreign language.

Fig. 10.2. Street vendors at night in Eminönü, 2013.

Networks with the Police The relationship with the municipal police is of vital importance to street vendors. With little bribes and other proofs of friendship, street vendors may, over time, gain the legitimacy to stay in a privileged place. This is the case with a seller of vegetables in the middle of a square with few other sellers. He assures us that he has been working at exactly this spot for forty years and that he has achieved this unique selling point because he has friendly relations with the municipal police. As long as the personnel there doesn’t change, he explains, his place on the square is safe. In a similar vein, one of our informants on the busy østiklâl Street, with three million passers-by a day (and thereby, one of the top locations in the city), salutes the municipal police as they pass by. He has been at

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the spot for twemty-five years and they accept him, he claims. Politeness and submissiveness towards the municipal police, however, are important, he points out, and he doesn’t promote his goods loudly as they pass by. Apparently, the relationship between police and informal sellers on the street is not only one of antagonism and organized via bribes—the street vendor also has to learn to arouse the right dose of compassion in the police and to talk himself out of any sanctions.

Networks with Other Mobile and Static Vendors As important as their relationship with the authorities are, those with other vendors are also very important. These networks are, indeed, very complex and ambiguous relationships of solidarity and competition that need further research. When asked about their reaction to the direct competition of other vendors, many of our informants answered just “kÕsmet,” as if there was nothing they could do about it. Do they really rely on their trust in God to take care of their daily bread? The prevalent narrative about relationships in the informal economy and among street vendors, in particular, is one of networks that are structured according to their origin from a specific region within Turkey. Stuffed mussels are mostly sold by Kurds from Mardin, fruit by Turks from Konya and Nevúehir, and flowers by Roma people. The relationships we observe between vendors, however, are much more complex than this. Shop owners (formal or informal) open their “shops” for a “physical-needs break,” and store their goods or allow the mobile seller to stand in front of their store in return for an informal renting of the pavement. They may, however, also chase vendors away! To sell similar goods at similar places requires negotiation and an agreement with the other mobile vendors and may also be denied. If they come to an agreement, however, they may look after each other’s shops in to enable short breaks and may warn each other when the municipal police arrive. This mutual warning of the arrival of the common enemy is what Asef Bayat calls a “passive network.” A “passive network” enables nonorganized individuals to recognize mutually, and tacitly, their common identity and act together spontaneously. Their ability to establish a network is mediated via their visibility on the street and not via active networking and organising (Bayat 2000, 52). Uysal (1968) describes a performance of such a “passive network” in the following way: Shortly after this, a continuous low sound of sss-ssss-sssssss was heard. All the peddlers in the street were producing this sound while they started

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Although similar signs continue to exist among the street vendors of contemporary Istanbul, such collective action has become hard to observe. What has changed between the 1960s and today, from our point of view, is that this passive network has mixed with actively built-up networks of shared origin and friendship. This active network shows that the informal sector has matured, is more structured and offers more security to some vendors. As a consequence of these networks, barriers for newcomers have been established. Today, the “sss-ssss-ssssss” in Mahmut Pasha Street the moment the municipal police arrives seems to be replaced by a quick phone call to the seller’s friends. The acquisition of knowledge about products, customers, selling strategies, the construction of networks, the acquisition of social capital and the selection of the best places (and the combination of all of these factors) require time, and it is because of this that permanence plays an important role for the success of a street vendor. Indeed, the exception proves the rule—the only informants who had worked in the business for only a couple of months were Senegalese watch sellers. They stay within each other’s eyesight, avoid direct competition with the other sellers, change place constantly and select places where they can escape easily. They get their goods from someone in Aksaray and this is also where they sleep. Senegalese watch sellers are at the bottom rung of Istanbul’s street vendors’ hierarchy.

Urban Guerrillas? “Silent encroachment,” as the gradual, individual winning of better positions among street vendors in Istanbul, also implies the idea that those that have been there for a long time have an advantage over newcomers. With a certain pride, our informants assured us that they have been at the same place for thirty years. Exaggeration or not, the fact that they have

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been there for decades proves their legitimacy in regards to other sellers, their customers and the police. Every single one of our informants is well aware that “the Prime Minister doesn’t like street vendors,” that they are the unwanted “other” of the city. Some adopt this stance, explain that their job is terrible (bu iú de÷il) and don’t want their children to work in the same profession. They do this job because there was no other available and would give it up the moment they had an alternative. For some, street vending is a dead end that hasn’t allowed them to earn enough money in twenty years to rent a house or settle with their family in Istanbul. Every single vendor is able to tell often painful stories about the municipal squad that destroys their carts, nights they have been in prison and about gigantic fines they have had to pay. Street vending is a job with long working hours in the open air that includes many risks, little respite and requires courage. For most, a single day of holiday a week or an illness is simply not an option. Still, we also met some street vendors that do their job in full awareness that they are against the system, with pride and a certain guerrilla attitude. “To get rid of me, they have to get rid of the fish and all the fishermen on the Bosporus first. And that is against the interest of capitalism,” one of our informants explained to us. For him, it is part of this job that police squads come along, take his goods away and put him in prison. But, he underlines, “I’m still here,” and as long as this is the case “it’s again us who have won.” Another informant stresses that he is the first that sold this product in Turkey and that it is a handicraft. His job earns him good money and he has no employer who tells him when to work. His job as a street vendor has gained him some freedom. Whether rebellious or servile, earning well or in poverty, the complexity, maturity and structuredness of the street-vending business in Istanbul is generally underestimated. This chapter shows that street vending is an economic activity that needs (social) capital, expertise, knowledge, networks and organization. The combination of tactics listed above concerning space, customers, products and the market resemble the departments of a regular enterprise—for market research, for finding a niche within the market, for launching an innovative product with welldefined qualities, for advertising, for dealing with competitors and for creating customer-friendly relationships. It may, therefore, not be an exaggeration to call street vendors one-person holdings.

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Fig. 10.3. A street vendor selling some activists’ needs in front of the entrance of Gezi Park during the street protests in June 2013.

Works Cited AltÕntaú, Betül. 2003. Mendile, Simite, Boyaya, Çöpe ...: Ankara SokaklarÕnda ÇalÕúan Çocuklar. østanbul: øletiúimYayÕnlarÕ. Altvater, Elmar & Birgit Mahnkopf. 2002. Globalisierung der Unsicherheit. Arbeit im Schatten, schmutziges Geld und informelle Politik. Münster: Westfälisches Dampfboot. Bayat, Asef. 1997. “Un-Civil society: the Politics of the ‘Informal People.” Third World Quarterly 18 (1): 53–72.

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—. 2000. “From ‘Dangerous Classes’ to ‘Quiet Rebels’: Politics of the Urban Subaltern in the Global South.” International Sociology 15: 533–557. Castells, Manuel & Alejandro Portes. 1989. “World Underneath: The Origins, Dynamics, and Effects of the Informal Economy.” In The Informal Economy: Studies in Advanced and Less Developed Countries, ed. Alejandro Portes, Lauren Benton & Manuel Castells, 11–37. Baltimore, MD: John Hopkins University Press. Cross, John C. & Steve Balkin. 2000. “Street Vending in the Modern World.” International Journal of Sociology and Social Policy (Special Issue) 21 (3/4). Çarko÷lu, Ali & Mine Eder. 2006. “Urban Informality and Economic Vulnerability. The Case of Turkey.” http://research.sabanciuniv.edu/28/1/stvkaf01670.pdf (accessed February 10, 2013). Çavuúo÷lu, Erbatur & Julia Strutz. 2011. “Enformelli÷in SÕnÕrlarÕ De÷iúirken Kent HakkÕ.” E÷itim Bilim Toplum 9 (36): 31–55. De Certeau, Michel. 1984. The Practice of Everyday Life. Berkley: University of California Press. Donovan, Michael. 2008. “Informal Cities and the Contestation of Public Space: The Case of Bogotá’s Street Vendors, 1988–2003.”Urban Studies 45: 29–53. GürpÕnar, Melisa. 1999. “østanbul’un Sokak SatÕcÕlarÕ.” østanbul Dergisi 28: 84–96. Keyder, Ça÷lar. 2005. “Globalization and Social Exclusion in Istanbul.” International Journal of Urban and Regional Research 29 (1): 124–34. Lefebvre, Henri. 2002. Critique of Everyday Life. London: Verso. Özkan, Derya. “‘The masses flooded the beaches, the citizens could not swim.’ The Misuses of the Caddebostan Beach and the Politics of Public Culture in Istanbul.” Paper presented at the European Urban Studies Conference, Bauhaus-Universität, Weimar, January 18–19, 2007. Özsoy, Hiúyar. 2003. “ùehrin Esmerleri: TanÕdÕk Yüzler, Bilinmedik Hikayeler.” østanbul Dergisi 47: 106–109. Rasim, Ahmet. 2006. ùehir MektuplarÕ. Istanbul: Say YayÕnlarÕ. Scott, James. 1985. Weapons of the Weak: Everyday Forms of Peasant Resistance. New Haven, CT: London: Yale University Press. Topak, O÷uz. 2012. Refah Devleti ve Kapitalizm. Istanbul: øletiúim YayÕnlarÕ.

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Uzer, Evren. 2008. “Street Food Vendor.” In Becoming Istanbul. An Encyclopedia, eds. Pelin Derviú, Bülent Tanju & U÷ur Tanyeli, 295– 297. Istanbul: Garanti Gallery. Uysal, Ahmet E. 1968. “Street Cries in Turkey.” The Journal of American Folklore 81 (321): 193–215.

CHAPTER ELEVEN “WE ARE THE LEGIONARIES!”: FILIPINA DOMESTIC WORKERS IN ISTANBUL AYùE AKALIN

It’s about ten past eleven a.m. Marlene is going into the room as she gabbles to Jean about the bowling tournament next month. Acosta is already seated in her usual chair by the window, while her sister Elsa is seated next to her with her wonted countenance of sour contemplation. Saluda is checking to see if everyone has bought their tickets to the charity concert next week for the lady with cancer. Cathy barges through Julietta and Maria, who are standing by the door, to put the rice pot for the lunch afterwards on the coffee table by the cupboard. Rebecca, the president of the group, finishes her chat with the lady in the blue sweater, checks her cell phone squinting her 63-year-old eyes to see how long it has been since the Mass ended. She then rises from her seat at the head of the table, looks around to see who has stayed for the meeting that day and asks who would like to recite the Rosary. When the needed volunteers for the Five Glorious Mysteries1 are found, Rebecca nods towards those standing by the door who read the gesture immediately that it is time to start. As the women spread around the room come closer to the big table in the middle, Rebecca begins: In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. Come, O Holy Spirit, fill the hearts of your faithful and enkindle in them the fire of your love.

I In talking of Filipino transnationalism, Claudia Liebelt mentions the particularity of the fact that Filipino workers do not merely travel back and forth in shuttle mode between the Philippines and their host locations, but 1

The Glorious Mysteries of the Rosary recount the resurrection of Jesus Christ.

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rather they “move on [within] a global hierarchy of desirable destination countries” (2008, 567). Liebelt suggests that in the global hierarchy of countries, Israel holds a middle position, “above most Asian and Middle Eastern destination countries, but clearly below Western Europe and North America” (568). Liebelt’s observation is not only an apt description of the tenacity with which many overseas Filipino workers (OFWs) pursue migrancy globally, but also explains how a place like Turkey has emerged as a destination site in their journeys. A country with a total population of 92,337,852 people (The Republic of the Philippines, National Statistics Office 2012), the Philippines has 10,455,788 people (The Commission on Filipinos Overseas 2011), or over one tenth of the population, working in more than 190 countries around the world. This means that a large proportion of the society has at least one family member working overseas. While it would be a reification to suggest that migration is deeply embedded in the culture,2 it is certainly safe to suggest that it is an integral part of the Filipino mode of living. While the Philippines government treats Filipino citizens abroad as a source of remittances, and thus as a part of its labour diaspora, the actual backbone of the Philippine migration regime consists of a system of “contract labor.” The latter was inaugurated in 1974 with the passing of the Labor Code as a direct response to the financial vulnerabilities caused by the increasing oil prices, ensuing in the Oil Crisis of 1973. Since the launching of the system the government has excelled in locating emerging or expanding markets that are in need of foreign labour and in making bilateral agreements with the related governments to provide the needed labour force. In a transfer of labour power involving various sections of the Philippines Department of Labor and Employment (DOLE), as well as private recruitment and placement agencies, the workers are contracted for periods of about two years, though on a renewable basis. In other words, the main mechanism of the system is set and operated in a mode of circular migration that treats the labour inflow as flexible by having them work for renewable contracts (Rodriguez 2010) and denying them various working rights like unionization and other benefits. Regarding current circumstances, the official figures state that while there are 4,513,171 Filipinos (The Commission on Filipinos Overseas 2011) living overseas 2

My major reservation in calling the beliefs and practices weaved around migration in the Philippines a “culture,” even though they are very much embraced by the society itself, is to do with the managing position the Philippines government has held in making migration an intrinsic part of the society. For more on this, see two excellent studies by Gueverra (2010) and Rodriguez (2010).

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temporarily, of that total figure 2.2 million are registered as OFWs, with about 95% employed officially as overseas contract workers (OCW) (The Republic of the Philippines, National Statistics Office 2012). Although initially the workers travelling overseas were mostly men, the gender composition of OFWs has changed over time. In 1975, 70% of the deployment were men (Gueverra 2010, 33), while in 1987 the service sector began replacing the construction sector as the main site of attraction, which was directly reflected in the gender composition (Fernandez 1997, 411), turning the Filipino case into one of the major examples of the feminization of migration (Castles & Miller 1998). While women constituted only 18% of the outflow in 1980, this figure rose to 36% in 1987 and to 69% in 2002 (Lan 2006, 46). Since outbound-migration is a government undertaking, the figures of Filipinos overseas are followed very closely to determine the total remittances to be sent home. In doing so, the Commission on Filipinos Overseas treats those overseas in three major categories. Besides those working with “permanent residence status” and those on a “temporary” basis, there is a third label in the official categorization of the Philippine government, the ostensible “irregulars” who are defined as those migrants who are not properly documented, who lack valid residence or work permits, or who have overstayed their visas. While treated almost as an excess category in the Philippine government’s official cartography of OFWs, the irregulars are, in fact, the focal point of the current global migration debate, with cases like the sans papier in France (Rodríguez 2004; McNevin 2006; McNevin 2009) or the three hundred hunger strikers in Greece (Mantanika & Kouki 2011), as Western nations struggle to implement austerity measures and erect their borders while their economies shrink. In a nutshell, the irregulars are those that would once be called “illegal” migrants. In today’s world, however, there are various reasons for this discursive switch; one being the increasing variety of statuses that can no longer be reduced to a singular category of mere negativity vis-à-vis the nation-state (øçduygu 2007; Cvajner & Sciortino 2010), another being a more thorough problematization of the effects of the normalizing language, as well as the policies of deeming some people “illegal” by the management of labour at large (De Genova 2002; Mezzadra 2010; Papadopoulos, Stephenson & Tsianos 2008). In any case, however, from the perspective of the Philippines administration of migration, the irregulars constitute a semi-desirable category. While on the one hand they contribute to the overall system of remittances, their

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mobility, on the other, is presented on the official front as more tolerated than endorsed3 since it occurs without the authorization of the state. As of 2011 there were 5,593 Filipinos in Turkey, 3,950 of them with irregular status (Commission on Filipinos Overseas 2011). Filipinos in Turkey predominantly belong to this category since Turkey is a country that has been neither open to the immigration of those that are not historically deemed “of Turkish descent and culture” (Parla 2006; KaúlÕ & Parla 2009), nor has the government made any labour agreements with the Philippines government that would carve a gateway for foreign labour inflow. Going back to Liebelt’s observation above, the percentage of those working with irregular status in Turkey verifies her comments regarding the migratory mode of the Filipinos “moving on.” Turkey’s eventual appearance in Filipino migration networks in the early 1990s has mainly to do with its “middle position” of being between Europe and the countries of the Middle East, as reminiscent of that of Israel. The countries of the Middle East, including Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, the UAE and Qatar, despite being major buyers of contract labour from the Philippines, are also notorious for the negative working conditions the workers find themselves in (Human Rights Watch 2013). Thus, between the abuse of rights in that region and the allure of Europe, Turkey initially emerged as a transit location for those who wished to pursue opportunities elsewhere, especially following the Gulf War. During that process, as some were waiting to move on to Europe, there were people who found work opportunities and opted to settle in Turkey instead. This, in time, turned Turkey into a plausible option for seeking employment in the larger Filipino cognitive map, even though obtaining regular residential status is known to be hard. The initial settlers then yielded a novel source of social capital for the newcomers from the Philippines. As more workers joined them, there emerged the current small and low-key Filipino community of Istanbul. *** Before the recital of Catena Legionis, Rebecca asked everyone to report what kind of problems the members encountered that week. A couple of people spoke about the issues they had with their employers. After listening to them all, Rebecca responded to the rantings and told the group, that 3

I am arriving at this conclusion partly based on my interview with the Secretary of the Department of Labor and Employment, Ms. Rosalinda Dimapilis-Baldoz, who was in Istanbul for the Fourth United Nations Conference on the Least Developed Countries (LDC-IV) in May 2011.

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although we are not perfect, we should remember that patience is valuable only when it comes from the heart. As we remember that Mary is our perfect model and that Jesus Christ is our king, we always find the path we are looking for because when we believe in God, he will hear us. Then, Acosta spoke up and said that she was a bit worried this week because her employers were going away for the week and they were leaving their two children, 5 and 3 years old, under her guardianship. Acosta is overwhelmed by the scope of this responsibility and worried she might not live up to the task. She asked that God be with her in this daunting task.

II About 85% of the Filipino community in Turkey is estimated to be women who have predominantly arrived alone to work in the domestic work sector. Filipinos enter the market as part of a globally-acclaimed labour aristocracy because of their knowledge of English and their renowned discipline and diligence (Ong 2009, 163) and try to market their labour through these assets. While some of them are indeed successful in this endeavour and can earn as much as $1,200–$1,800 per month, others, specifically the newcomers, have to start from the bottom, making as low as $400 a month. Interestingly, what Filipinas contend to bring to the market has not been appreciated in the same manner by Turkish employers, whose employment patterns reveal that they are not necessarily after the most trained domestic worker, but those who can perform the work more like the mother of the family (AkalÕn 2007). Consequently, whenever they can, Filipinos would rather not work for Turkish families but for expats, not only because the latter are reported to appreciate their work and have better their language skills, but also because they are more respectful of the boundaries regarding working hours and extra services, when compared with Turkish employers. Their relatively high wages should not, however, be misinterpreted to suggest that Filipina labour is not precarious. The common definition of exploitation imagines an abstract worker who is settled close to where they work and is surrounded by some form of relationship of affective belonging, whether to a family or to some circle of relations. To sell their labour at work, they then leave those relations on a daily basis, though only to come back to them again once the shift is over. The affective exploitation of migrant labour, especially that of women, however, does not quite work on the same terms, since the labour of the worker gets valorised not only through the unit of time, but also through a mechanism of dislocation that has disrupted the daily lives of migrants so that they are

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now fully bound by the conditions of work in the host country. In the case of the migrant woman who works as a domestic worker, the economic value of this dislocation becomes even more apparent, as the definition of the job expects the worker to project all those affects that have been disconnected from the original source of her loved ones toward those she now cares for professionally. Thus, the exploitation of the migrant domestic worker occurs not merely on the basis of working hours or low wages, but also through her affective eviction from her own personal life (AkalÕn forthcoming). This, I argue, is an essential, though neglected quality in the valorisation of migrant labour in domestic work and is an aspect that demands further deliberation in contemplating the demand for migrant labour around the world. Filipinas are a well-known example of international labour migration not only because they abound in numbers, but also because they end up working overseas, which renders them a position in the labour diaspora. Thus, their lives are critically marked by a kind of affective displacement, as mentioned. Furthermore, in a predominantly Catholic country where gendered practices like divorce and abortion are hard to attain, Filipinas come from big families4 with many children and close relatives to care for transnationally. Thus, even if Filipino wages appear relatively high, it is well worth remembering that those salaries make up the major source of income for many people in their families back home. *** After the opening prayers, Rebecca asked the group if they would like to report anything. Somyot, the only man who attends the meetings regularly and the only other person who is not Filipino but Thai, told them about the two hospital visits that he had recently made. One was to a Filipina with breast cancer, which had now also spread into the lymph nodes. She could not go back home because she did not have family there or insurance here. So she spent all her savings, which they said were about three thousand liras, on her treatment. She was in treatment at Çapa Hospital. Everyone was now upset by the news. Rebecca said she was going to go and visit her. Then Rebecca wanted to report something. She said she had free minutes from her mobile network operator and she had used them to call this one lady, who is 57 years old and working in a four-story house and is up 4

The total fertility rate was 3.1 in 2011 (The Republic of the Philippines, National Statistics Office 2012).

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working until as late as 3 a.m. in the morning because her employers do not let her go to sleep before they do. So she is up in the middle of the night doing things like ironing. As the employers are up all night, they gorge on snacks and also offer some to the Filipina lady. When the girls in the group heard this, they were a little relieved, saying there are also those Filipinas who are kept up working all night and not even given any food, either. So at least, this lady is not one of them. But Rebecca said this can be no consolation. The lady has no papers (work or residence permits), which is why she can’t quit and leave. Rebecca then exhorted the group that while they should always pray, they should also tell their bosses that such working conditions are just unacceptable. She said that although we should never give up praying, it also becomes an apostolic duty when working conditions get as severe as these, the Filipinas should tell their employers that they cannot work under such conditions.

III Filipinos are generally considered to be a pious people. About 80% of the total population follows the Catholic faith. Congruent to this, in Istanbul Catholics also constitute the majority. The religiosity of the Filipino people is a legacy of their colonization by Spain, which brought with it a countrywide conversion to Catholicism and also a cosmology saturated with narratives of suffering, sacrifice and martyrdom symbolized in the representations of Jesus Christ’s redemption (Gueverra 2010). Even when working overseas, piety follows the workers. Places like Israel and Rome, for example, are reported to attract Filipino migration as they are spiritual places (Liebert 2008; 2010; Magat 2007).5 This means that if migrancy is an unavoidable manifestation of a Filipino’s fate, being close to places deemed holy by the Church at least makes life overseas more livable. Since the majority of the Filipina community in Istanbul is composed of domestic workers, the way their professional lives are organized directly reflects on the collective life of the community as well. This specifically means the ostensible dissociation between working days and time off. To clarify, most Filipinas in Turkey, like other migrant domestics, work as live-in workers. Live-in working means a temporal reorganization of the week into a six-plus-one layout. The worker is expected to be present in the employer’s house (unless instructed otherwise) for six full days. Then, depending on the oral contract that was 5

Although it is hard to make a parallel argument for Istanbul, spiritual venues in different places of Turkey, including Hagios Giorgios Church in Büyükada and the House of the Virgin in Ephesus, have also attained special importance.

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made initially, she is either going to take a full day, or at least a day time, off. As a corollary, full-scale performance is extracted out of a live-in worker only with a specific disciplining of her labour through her confinement in the employer’s house that continues until the day off. The day off is thus a regulated process of repetition performed by the bodies of migrant domestics as they are let out of, and then back into, the employers’ houses in the six-plus-one format mentioned above. Working in such a way, migrant labour becomes “available labour” (AkalÕn 2009) as their professional performance now defies conventional working hours. What’s critical about availability is that it does not precede the bodily movement of migrant domestics, but is enacted through being physically at work. Thus, as the working days constitute the “inside” of the migrants’ domestic work, the day off becomes its “outside,” the two elements constituting a “binary distinction that stabilizes and consolidates the coherent subject” (Butler 1990, 134), who in the present case is a migrant domestic. Thus, as the worker gets out of her employer’s house for her time off she concomitantly moves out of her identity of available-at-all-times. The making of the migrant domestic into available labour rests on her discharge from the confines of her employer’s house on a regular basis so that her labour can then be re-appropriated back to work with its initial terms of docility and compliance once the time off is over. While the six-plus-one format is the general working scheme for all live-in domestics, the particularity regarding Filipinas stems from their request to specifically take Sundays off to attend Mass. Yet, because there is no standard contract in the sector, employers may or may not be willing to designate Sunday as the off day. For some Filipinas this may then be a deal breaker. Others end up giving in to the demand of taking a different day off, depending on how much they are offered. In contemplating the significance of church attendance on Sundays for Filipinos, one needs to approach the issue regarding its multi layers. In Charles Hirschman’s formulation, for migrant communities anywhere in the world, religion becomes a search for three basic things: refuge, respect and resources (2004, 1228). Regarding the last item, besides the acknowledged reasons, the church congregation also becomes a wide platform of resources for migrants who find themselves spending an indefinite period of their lives outside their countries. Thus, the literature on migration and social capital has widely reported the critical role that institutions involving worship, or even conversion to another faith, can play in accessing resources in the migration experience (Levitt 1998; Akçapar 2006; Kalir 2009). Thus, whether one is looking for contacts to

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find a job, someone to borrow money from, contact information, a fellow Filipino who is going home so one can send money along, or for friends to go to a mall and hang out with after Mass, the church is the place to go. In the words of a Filipina domestic worker, “church attendance is a spiritual and social activity.” Yet the sociological reading here should not misinterpret these words to suggest that church attendance matters only for accessing material things. The spiritual side of church attendance is, in fact, just as important, since the religious devotion of Filipinos becomes crucial in their selfempowerment as it refuels them on a regular basis to endure the hardships of working overseas. For Filipinas the Sunday Mass also functions as a therapy session. In fact, there is considerable literature examining how the piety of Filipinos plays itself out during their migrancy experiences (Liebelt 2008; Liebelt 2010; Kim 2005; Johnson & Webner 2010; Nakonz & Shik 2009; Magat 2007; Parrenas 2001), which concur on the significant place that piety plays in how “Filipinas construct their migration process as a meaningful and virtuous moral career” (Liebelt 2010, 19). Thus, Sundays yield all live-in domestic workers, on the one hand, an ephemeral experience to bracket their schedule as live-in workers and relieve them temporarily from the toil of work, and most specifically from being accountable at all times to their employers. On the other, Sundays also provide a spatial experience, as the live-in workers are let out of their professional confinement in their employers’ houses. They then are relocated within the solid space that the church provides for them and where they are given a chance to sojourn in their own skin, almost as they would back home. The walls of the church not only render a realm for participation without preconditions, they also allow the migrant workers to “reconnect” in multiple ways. The high and solid walls of Istanbul’s churches, erected to once nestle a few thousand remaining Christian worshippers out of the oppressive gaze of a predominantly Muslim nation, now render an unprecedented space for Filipinas to re-associate with all that they currently cannot, i.e. their relatives at home, their fellow workers overseas and their own faith. *** When Rebecca asked around for the people they would like to pray for that day, Marlene asked that prayers be said for her daughter who had caught smallpox and was being cared for by Marlene’s sister in the Philippines. Then Maria asked for prayers for her employer’s mother, who lives in Izmir and has terminal cancer. The doctors said she has three months to

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IV In Istanbul there are two churches that function as the main centres of the Filipino community and in which Mass in English is held. Although both places are located in the Taksim-ùiúli vicinity on the European side, the social proximity the two places hold within the urban setting that surrounds them is very different. Of these two places, one is an Italian church located on an extremely busy pedestrian street and is also a major tourist attraction. The other, however, is a cathedral located within the campus of a high school. While the cathedral where I did my research is located only a few metres off the street, it is known to very few people thanks to the high walls that surround it. While in the beginning the Italian church was the main hub of the community, later on it emerged as a major centre after the appointment of a Filipino priest in the late 1990s who would hold masses in Tagalog on Saturdays. Although he was later appointed elsewhere, some Filipinos continued to frequent this church. Organized in each church community is also a Legio Mariae Praesidium. The Legio Mariae (Legion of Mary) is an association of the Catholic laity that is very popular in the Philippines and was created for Catholic lay people to fulfil their baptismal promises, and which also supports fraternity and prayer.6 Legio Mariae services are conducted under the guardianship of the holy spirit of Virgin Mary, who herself is a figure of critical importance in the Filipino cosmology as she epitomizes women’s “vigour” and “the concepts of sin, redemption, and good deeds” (Nakonz & Wai Yan Shikb 2009, 27). The Legio meetings follow strict 6

To be an active member of Legio Mariae one must be a baptized and practicing Catholic. Since these were criteria that I lacked I was accepted as an auxiliary member, a position that exists in the protocol and which allowed me to join all the activities as an observer.

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liturgical prescriptions where prayers that include the Rosary and the Catena Legionis are recited. In the cathedral where I attended Sunday Mass, the Legio Praesidium would meet separately in a secluded room in the rear of the church, following the end of the ten o’clock English Mass. Unlike the scope of attendance at the Mass, where there would be about two hundred people (though not just Filipinos), the Legio meetings would be attended by fewer people, something that Nakonz & Wai Yan Shikb also note for Hong Kong (2009, 27), which would include about ten to fifteen regulars and a few occasional attendees every week. Among the members of the Praesidium, this topic of why more Filipinas did not stay for the Legio meetings was something that would come up occasionally. The answer, however, was more or less clear for everyone. As central as the Sunday Massis for the larger community was, so were the activities afterwards, such as going to the call shop to call home, or going to a nearby mall.7 In fact, what happens among Filipinas at the mall and at the Legio meeting are not all that different. If the Sunday gatherings indeed render a platform for live-in workers to regenerate themselves, that goal is pursued whether one stays on at the church or absconds to the mall. While all the migrants will in some ways be after the three R’s of refuge, respect and resources, the Legio meetings became an inviting home particularly for those who see the church as the address for accessing all three R’s. To explicate, the liturgical structure of the Legio meetings prescribes the following order; first, the president makes an opening speech thanking God for bringing them all together and for all his blessings. They then list all the names given for prayer intentions, that is the names of all the people who the Filipinas are either grateful to for a favour, those acquaintances and relatives that are sick, those that have upcoming birthdays, or those that have passed away recently. This opening section is then followed by the recital of the Rosary, then the opening prayers, followed by the reading of a passage from the Legio handbook. After that the meeting is opened to a general discussion where the members are asked to report any problems they have had in the last week to the group, as well as the apostolic work they have accomplished. Then, the group recites the Catena, followed by the concluding prayers of the Legio 7

Mall attendance is a whole other activity that is also “faithfully” performed (even though the cathedral is located in the hub of the city, surrounded with all kinds of café, restaurants and shops). As I have observed, the activity opens in one fast food restaurant where they serve crisp fried chicken, the sine qua non of any Filipino meal, which is then followed by a round of chatting and gossiping until it is time to go home again.

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Mariae, then the Novena to Mary. The meeting is concluded by the recital of the Prayer for the Beatification of Frank Duff.8 In the Legio liturgy there are specific sections that are opened for the members to share their personal experiences. In the opening section, the president mentions the prayer intentions and we get to hear the importance of the people that the group is asked to pray for as they relate to the members. Then, in two other places, one preceding the Catena and the other half way into the Novena, the members are given room to talk about their own problems and experiences, which renders a platform to reveal stories about the transnational lives of the members. As the field notes taken from different Legio meetings sprinkled throughout this text have aimed to illustrate, the Legio meetings in and of themselves become an arena where everything about the Filipinas’ displacement and working identities are collectively deliberated. As I would sit in on those meetings week after week, the prayer room would feel less like a room in Istanbul; yet, it would not feel like a room in the Philippines, either. As the Legio members would mention and reveal stories of who they had met and known, be they relatives in the Philippines or their employers in Istanbul or some fellow workers in Syria or Egypt, the room would become saturated with moments of faith and dislocation, ambiguity and experience, suffering and pride. The prayer room would transcend and outlive the actual participation of the Legio members by assembling its own substantiality. It would exceed the status of a product that is complete and would instead become a realm of liveliness that is in perpetual movement. It would thus open up room for constant re-significations in terms of belonging and non-belonging. As Jeremy F. Walden points out (2010, 89), the difference between a represented object and signification is reminiscent of the difference between place and “space” in the Lefebvrian sense (1991), the latter as that which is “not located in a definite geographic area” but as that which is constituted by “networked social relationships” (Fresnoza-Flot 2010, 346). Similarly, as we moved through moments of sharing that prayer room would turn from being a place in Istanbul into a Filipino transnational space. *** This week Rebecca was busy in the rear building of the church, coordinating for the Embassy officials the renewal of passports and the issuing of yellow cards. So Father Piero, the priest of the cathedral, 8

The founder of the Legio Mariae.

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presided over the meeting. We studied the passage, the Magnificent, from the Gospel of Luke. The first part of the poem is evidently about thankfulness and gratitude. Father preached about what it means to be grateful. To substantiate his teaching, he suggested that we imagine a Filipina who is looking for a job, so she prays for it everyday. Then a few days later, she is called for an interview, so she is grateful and thanks the person who offered her the job. When we receive favors or graces from God, they come through human interventions. God did not, of course, say to the employer, “give that lady a job.” But you see that the prayer has been answered via that person who offered the job. So the Filipina thanks that person. But she should also come to the church to offer thanks and show her gratitude because it was actually God who was behind that job offering. Then we went on to study the second part of the poem about Mary’s preference for the poor and hungry. Father Piero reminded us that in Catholicism they say, “blessed are the poor” and not “blessed are the rich,” because Catholics do not believe in the theology of success. He then went on to give examples from around the world, including the Philippines. And even though the poor may sometimes envy the rich and wish to enjoy what they do, Father stressed that though the rich may be enjoying life that does not mean that they are happy. He then went on to substantiate the emotional poverty the rich actually live in by highlighting the fact that they never feel the need to say “thank you,” because they feel they have paid for things, so they don’t need to feel gratitude. As he said this, one woman from the group cut in and said, “they don’t say please, either.” Then Father continued that even the children pick up such behaviour from their parents and do not say “thank you” to their nannies because they don’t feel compelled to show gratitude. Hearing these words, all the Filipinas in the room started chuckling and nodding.

V In another article, Claude Liebelt (2011) follows up on Saba Mahmood’s seminal work Politics of Piety (2005) on the Al-da’wa movement in Egypt. As Mahmood’s study contests the Western liberal framework that denies agency to pious Muslim women, she argues that there is an “ethical self-formation” (32) in acts that that may be deemed as oppressive by a teleology of progressive politics. Along these lines, Liebelt makes a similar point about the piety of Filipinas in Israel, arguing that “religious organization, ritual performance and spiritual practice, among other things, enable present-day Filipina migrants to take collective action and defy the stereotype of them as docile and subservient bodies” (2011, 76). As these feminist scholars distinguish ethics as those

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techniques “through which a subject transforms herself to achieve a particular state of being, happiness, or truth” (Mahmood 2005, 28) from the normative rules and values of morals, they endeavour to reconstitute the historically undermined woman of the non-West as a feminist subject who is well equipped to claim her own “self-conscious identity” (Mahmood 2005, 17). The praying bodies of the Filipinas, in the transnational lives that they lead in Istanbul, are no doubt in search of an ethical position reminiscent of what Liebelt talks about for the Filipinas in Israel. Yet, what I would also like to bring to mind is the “binary distinction” (Butler 1990, 134) in which this search takes place. The prayer room becomes a transnational space of migrancy only through the collective deliberation of the migrant Filipinas, which can only take place on their off days. As the insulation between a Filipina as a “praying body” and as a “labouring body” is kept so strictly by the workings of the migrant-domestic- workers’ market, the transnational space of endless significations that the prayer room becomes every week can only transpire within the bounds of the labour relations at large that constitute the outside. While the prayer room is a “space” in the Lefebvrian sense, that space emerges within a set of relations that solidify strictly as a specific “place,” that is the home of the Filipina domestic worker’s employer. As the day off elapses and yields to the incoming working days, the transnational space weaved in that room by those stories of loss and belonging gets redeemed by the actual reason why the migrant stepped onto Turkish soil in the first place—to be a labouring body as a live-in worker. Hence, as praying on the one hand empowers and asserts the individual identities of the Filipinas, it also serves to extend the period of time they get to work within the labour diaspora overseas. *** After reciting the Prayer for Frank Duff, we ended the prayer session and proceeded with the potluck lunch. The big, long, solid table that was a few minutes ago covered with a white cloth and adorned with the statue of the Virgin Mary, as well as a vase of white flowers brought fresh every week, was transformed into the new site for that of the feast. We have the funniest tablecloth ever; the floor mat of a Twister game! But even funnier, as the room becomes brightened by the many coloured dots on the mat, so do the faces of the girls, who no one in the world would have believed were praying solemnly only a few minutes ago. As the Twister mat gets laid on the table, the girls concomitantly get into their usual boisterous mode, taking maybe 50 pictures of one another, pictures in every combination of posing possible, as is done every Sunday.

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The potluck lunch took about an hour. After the lunch, we threw all the used plastic plates into the trash, put all the emptied pots (we had chicken and rice, again!) in the large, hard-paper shopping bags. All the unused plastic plates, the glasses and forks went back on their shelf in the cupboard to be used next week. When it was time to leave, the room had reacquired its original state; a small secluded room overlooking a quiet rear patio, though only a few meters away from the hubbub of the street. After we left the cathedral from the back door (as we do every week) around 1:30 p.m., Marlene and Saluda were heading to the mall in the direction of ùiúli for a new round of chat, gossip and clamouring, while Elsa, Rebecca and I walked to Taksim to go to our respective homes. Jean went directly to her employer’s in Anadolu HisarÕ.

Works Cited AkalÕn, Ayúe. 2007. “Hired as a Caregiver, Demanded as a Housewife: Becoming a Migrant Domestic Worker in Turkey.” European Journal of Women’s Studies 14: 209–225. —. 2009. “Exchanging Affect: The Migrant Domestic Workers Market in Turkey.” PhD Dissertation, City University of New York, Graduate Center, New York. —. Forthcoming. “The Migrant Domestic Worker and the Affective Autonomy of Her Mobility.” Unpublished Working Paper. Akçapar, ùebnem Koser. 2006. “Conversion as a Migration Strategy in a Transit Country: Iranian Shiites Becoming Christians in Turkey.” International Migration Review 40 (4): 817–853. Butler, Judith. 1990. Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity. New York: Routledge. Castles, Stephen & Mark J. Miller. 1998. The Age of Migration. New York: The Guilford Press. Cheng, Shu-Ju Ada. 2004. “Contextual Politics of Difference in Transnational Care: The Rhetoric of Filipina Domestics’ Employers in Taiwan.” Feminist Review 77 (1): 46–64. Choy, Catherine Ceniza. 2006. Empire of Care: Nursing and Migration in Filipino American History. Durham: Duke University Press. Commission on Filipinos Overseas. 2011. Stock Estimate of Overseas Filipinos. http://www.cfo.gov.ph/images/stories/pdf/2011_Stock_Estimate_of_Fi lipinos_Overseas.pdf (accessed June 30, 2013). Cvajner, Martina & Giuseppe Sciortino. 2010. “Theorizing Irregular Migration: The Control of Spatial Mobility in Differentiated Societies.” European Journal of Social Theory 13 (3): 389–404.

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De Genova, Nicholas. 2002. “Migrant ‘Illegality’ and Deportability in Everyday Life.” Annual Review of Anthropology 31: 419–447. Fernandez, Mary Rose. 1997. “Commodified Women.” Peace Review 9 (3): 411–417. Fresnoza-Flot, Asuncion. 2010. “The Catholic Church in the Lives of Irregular Migrant Filipinas in France: Identity Formation, Empowerment and Social Control.” The Asia Pacific Journal of Anthropology 11 (34): 345–361. Gueverra, Anna Romina. 2010. Marketing Dreams, Manufacturing Heroes: The Transnational Labor Brokering of Filipino Workers. New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press. Hirschman, Charles. 2004. “The Role of Religion in the Origins and Adaptation of Immigrant Groups in the United States.” International Migration Review 38 (3): 1206–1233. Human Rights Watch.2013. World Report: Events of 2012. Available from https://www.hrw.org/sites/default/files/wr2013_web.pdf (accessed June 30, 2013). øçduygu, Ahmet. 2007. “The Politics of Irregular Migratory Flows in the Mediterranean Basin: Economy, Mobility and ‘Illegality’.” Mediterranean Politics 12 (2): 141–61. Johnson, Mark & Pnina Werbner. 2010. “Diasporic Encounters, Sacred Journeys: Ritual, Normativity and the Religious Imagination among International Asian Migrant Women.” The Asia Pacific Journal of Anthropology 11 (3): 205–218. Kalir, Barak. 2009. “Finding Jesus in the Holy Land and Taking Him to China: Chinese Temporary Migrant Workers in Israel Converting to Evangelical Christianity.” Sociology of Religion 70 (2): 130–156. KaúlÕ, Zeynep & Ayúe Parla. 2009. “Broken Lines of Il/Legality and the Reproduction of State Sovereignty: The Impact of Visa Policies on Immigrants to Turkey from Bulgaria” Alternatives 34: 203–227. Kim, Elijah Jong Fil. 2005. “Filipino Pentecostalism in a Global Context.” American Journal of Political Science 8 (2): 235–254. Lan, Pei-Chia. 2006. Global Cinderellas: Migrant Domestics and Newly Rich Employers in Taiwan. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Levitt, Peggy. 1998. “Local-Level Global Religion: The Case of U.S.Dominican Migration.” Journal for the Scientific Study of Religion 37 (1): 74–89. Liebelt, Claudia. 2008 “On Sentimental Orientalists, Christian Zionists, and Working Class Cosmopolitans: Filipina Domestic Workers’ Journeys to Israel and Beyond.” Critical Asian Studies 40 (4): 567– 585.

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Liebelt, Claudia. 2010. “Becoming Pilgrims in the ‘Holy Land’: On Filipina Domestic Workers’ Struggles and Pilgrimages for a Cause in Israel.” The Asia Pacific Journal of Anthropology 11 (3-4): 245–272. Magat, Margaret. 2007. “Teachers and New Evangelizers for their Faith.” Paedagogica Historica 43 (4): 603–624. Mantanika, Regina & Hara Kouki. 2011. “The Spatiality of a Social Struggle in Greece at the time of the IMF.” City 15 (3/4): 482–490. McNevin, Anne. 2006. “Political Belonging in a Neoliberal Era: The Struggle of the Sans-Papiers.” Citizenship Studies 10 (2): 135–151. —. 2009. “Contesting Citizenship: Irregular Migrants and Strategic Possibilities for Political Belonging.” New Political Science 31 (2): 163–181. Mezzadra, Sandro. 2010. “The Gaze of Autonomy: Capitalism, Migration, and Social Struggles.” In The Contested Politics of Mobility: Borderzones and Irregularity, ed. Vicki Squire, 121–143. London: Routledge. Nakonz, Jonas & Angela Wai Yan Shikb. 2009. “And All Your Problems are Gone: Religious Coping Strategies among Philippine Migrant Workers in Hong Kong.” Mental Health, Religion & Culture 12 (1): 25–38. Ong, Aihwa. 2009. “A Bio-Cartography: Maids, Neoslavery, and NGOs.” In Migrations and Mobilities: Citizenship, Borders and Gender, ed. Seyla Benhabib & Judith Resnik, 157–187. New York: New York University Press. Papadopoulos, Dimitris, Niamh Stephenson & Vassilis Tsianos. 2008. Escape Routes: Control and Subversion in the 21st Century. London: Pluto Press. Parla, Ayúe. 2006. “Longing, Belonging and Locations of Homeland among Turkish Immigrants from Bulgaria.” Journal of Southeast European & Black Sea Studies 6 (4): 543–557. Parrenas, Rachel Salazar. 2001. Servants of Globalization: Women Migration and Domestic Work. Stanford California: Stanford University Press. Republic of the Philippines. National Statistics Office. 2012. The 2010 Census of Population and Housing Reveals the Philippine Population at 92.34 Million. http://www.census.gov.ph/content/2010-census-population-andhousing-reveals-philippine-population-9234-million (accessed June 30, 2013). —. 2012. 2011 Survey on Overseas Filipinos (SOF).

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http://www.census.gov.ph/content/2011-survey-overseas-filipinos-sof (accessed June 30, 2013). —. 2012. Urban Women Bear Less Children in Their Lifetime Than Rural Women (Results from the 2011 Family Health Survey. http://www.census.gov.ph/content/urban-women-bear-less-childrentheir-lifetime-rural-women-results-2011-family-health-survey (accessed June 30, 2013). Rodríguez, Encarnación Gutiérrez. 2004. “‘We Need Your Support, but the Struggle Is Primarily Ours’: On Representation, Migration and the Sans Papiers Movement, ESF Paris, November 12–15, 2003.” Feminist Review 77: 152–156. Rodriguez, Robyn Magalit. 2010. Migrants for Export: How the Philippine State Brokers Labor to the World. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Solomon, M. Scott. 2009. “State-led Migration, Democratic Legitimacy and Deterritorializaiton: The Philippines’ Labour Export Model.” European Journal of East Asian Studies 8 (2): 275–300. Walton, Jeremy F. 2010. “Practices of Neo-Ottomanism: Making Space and Place Virtuous in Istanbul.” In Orienting Istanbul: Cultural Capital of Europe?, eds. Deniz Göktürk, Levent Soysal & øpek Türeli, 88–104. New York: Routledge.

PART V: THE CITY OF “CULTURE” AND CAPITAL

CHAPTER TWELVE FASHION’S NIGHT OUT: CREATING ISTANBUL’S NEW IMAGE NILAY ULUSOY

Existence begins with appearance; social appearance begins with putting on clothes. “The spiritual need of dress” is not only a need to show one’s material well-being to others—clothes shopping above the level of necessity comes from the desire of those who wish to be evaluated on a certain level of taste and elegance. Shopping, which allows the continuous exchange of clothes or jewellery with new ones, is presented by the individual as a “show.” This inspires a person to not wear anything that has become outdated, and if conditions allow this wish turns into a need (Veblen 2007, 155–340). In the twenty-first century, expenditure on clothing is viewed as a need that expresses individual freedoms in the West, and Western nations are supporting this freedom for the first time because today, wearing fashionable clothes has a deeper meaning than just adorning oneself (McDowell 2000, 6). In fact, clothes shopping is perceived as a type of identity shopping (Campbell 2007, 159). In this respect, we may say that Vogue Fashion’s Night Out (VFNO), which is defined as “fashion’s greatest shopping party,” is a modern period show where many different individuals meet on common ground to create a certain identity for themselves. In light of this need for a common purpose, common interest and common expenditure, the people who meet in certain neighbourhoods of certain cities of the world on the same day every year share the ecstasy of being a member of a large group, in an environment where fun, extravagance and extreme behaviour and expenditure go the rounds. VFNO is an organization first started by Vogue, one of the oldest women’s magazines in America, and the Council of Fashion Designers of America1 (CFDA). It is a worldwide shopping event2 that was first 1

The CFDA is a non-profit organization that has four hundred members made up of American fashion designers. The organization aims at making fashion design

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organized in 2009 and which took place in certain cities around the globe. The event was organized to help overcome the economic crisis of 2008, to create activity around money markets, and to support the textile and fashion sector. The party in question, which is organized every year in the middle of September, has been organized under the title VFNO Worldwide in the nineteen countries where Vogue is published and began coinciding with the magazine’s publication date of September 13 from 2012.3 Since 2010, Fashion’s Night Out Istanbul has been “celebrated” at the same time in three centres associated with luxury shopping in the city—Ba÷dat Avenue, NiúantaúÕ and østinye Park. Although the film shot in 2011 to promote the Istanbul leg of the event aimed at “promoting the shopping festival to be organized in Istanbul and to encourage shopping,” it also presents us with a new representation of Istanbul. Using this new perspective, which is different from its former definition which had been a part of everyone’s consciousness when thinking about Istanbul, I will analyze the city’s new identity as a fashion and shopping capital. I will also explain how Istanbul is shaping itself as a brand with the help of this new “trendy and chic” definition, and how with such branding Istanbul aims to become a global fashion centre.

A Glance at the Turkish Fashion and Textile Sector in the 2000s Istanbul has a unique history and exists in a kind of permanent and orderly chaos. The reason for this is that Istanbul was (and is) a great and part of American art and culture and determining the ethical criteria of trade in the area of fashion, developing American fashion design, developing standards of quality and taste in terms of art in fashion design, and strengthening the American fashion industry in the global market (Mission Statement 2013). 2 Begun with the purpose of helping overcome the global economic crisis that took place in 2008, returns of 50 million USD in 6 hours occurred at the first VFNO event organized in 2009 with a 75 million USD overall return achieved worldwide in 2010 (both sums being above projected earnings) (Vogue’s Fashion’s Night Out occurred on the night of the 13th of September 2012). During the four years it was organized, the activity has been followed by upwards of 8 million people all over the world and all of the brands represented have stated that they went beyond their projected earnings, and in fact made a profit from sales and special offers realized during the event (Vogue Brand and Communication Manager BarÕú ÇakmakçÕ’s email message to author, May 8, 2013). 3 VFNO Istanbul will be held on September 12, 2013 (BarÕú ÇakmakçÕ personal communication, April 27, 2013).

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important harbour city. It is the only city built on two continents and historically has been the capital city of three empires. Due to its history, the city continues to carry a “capital city” label, which it also embraced in the twenty-first century. Due to the migration that began in the 1950s, Istanbul developed its infrastructure in a partially organic manner. It presents itself with success as a world capital by marketing lifestyles which involve variety, and it has embodied this since the 1980s. Beginning in the 1990s, Istanbul started to be defined as one of the “nerve centres” of modern life and as having global prestige, taking its place among such cities as London, New York and Tokyo and even Chicago, with a cityscape shaped with skyscrapers (Göktürk et al. 2010, 16–38). Since the 1980s, Istanbul has wanted to attain a positioning as a transnational fashion and shopping centre, which is a common aspect of the “nerve centre” cities that I have mentioned above. This positioning is a distinct possibility due to Istanbul’s4 and Turkey’s active role in the world textile market. Turkey, from the period of the Ottoman Empire to the 1980s, was the greatest cotton-yarn producer in the world, after Hong Kong. The textile and clothing industry made up 25% of the country’s total foreign trade volume with the export-oriented manufacturing policies supported by the state in the 1980s. Turkey became the preferred supplier of global retail companies and is known as a country that can both produce and process the highest quality cotton wool. Along with being a preferred supplier of a quality product for export, Turkey’s geographical closeness and cheaper work force also worked in its favour up until the 1990s. This was true when compared to the other countries to which it exported goods, especially Western Europe and USA-centred retail clothing brands. Textiles and the clothing sector were the most important economic sectors in Turkey from the 1990s (Özben et al. 2004, 4). However, at the end of that decade this dynamic changed when Asian countries invested heavily in production of basic textile products, and a 12% anti-dumping tax was imposed by the EU on yarn made in Turkey (Ata Securities 1997). With the 2000s came the economic disinflation program which created high inflation. The Turkish Lira underwent devaluation due to the economic crisis experienced in the 1990s, increasing wages for workers, and the increasing electric energy rates put Turkey in a disadvantageous position compared with Far Eastern countries and Cyprus and Malta, its rivals in the textile sector (Smid & Taúkesen 2002, 3). This sector, however, was still the second largest supplier in the world after China during the 2000s. 4

Since Istanbul is the clothing production and fashion centre of Turkey, the majority of textile and clothing-supply manufacturers are located there (Sevim 2010, 2).

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Although textile products are still among Turkey’s most important export products, Turkey is faced with losing its power in the world textile market. Apart from the reasons stated above, the interruption of its unofficial “suitcase” trade with Russia—which had originally revived Istanbul’s Laleli neighbourhood at the beginning of the 1990s—through the taxes Russia brought to bear on imported products in 2004, along with worldwide acceptance of retail fashion becoming “fast fashion,” also played roles in this change. Fast fashion created by the Spanish fashion company Zara, the American company Anthropology and the Swedish H&M, of which Turkey is the primary supplier, makes it obligatory to present new products twice a week, every week of the year. This has transformed suppliers such as Turkey from a “replenishable” to a “distinguishable” clothing market. Suppliers now have to contribute to the fashion companies in question by providing their own designers apart from the function of cloth and its tailoring, thereby doing everything foreign companies need (TokatlÕ & KÕzÕlgün 2009, 159–160). Turkey also needs to develop areas for its advancement, such as creating schools where more engineers are educated and where the designers are nurtured as well as developed in the areas of technology and machinery. Especially in the 2000s, the Turkish textile industry supported designers and produced designs for global retail-clothing brands. Istanbul became the focal point of brand-production activities, as the centre of both Turkey’s clothing production and fashion industry. Besides shopping malls, which speedily opened one after the other in the 2000s, textile and fashion fairs, and publicity and marketing activities, all put Istanbul in the spotlight. Istanbul Fashion Week,5 which began in 2009, has been supported by different organizations every year and brings together domestic fashion designers such as Galatamoda with city residents. Vogue Fashion’s Night Out (VFNO) started the same year. These, along with the support given by the municipalities of Istanbul to fashion and shopping activities, the activities of organizations such as the øTKøB (Istanbul Textiles and Apparel Exporter Unions)6 and the TGSD

5

Istanbul Fashion Week was held in March 2013 and the main sponsor was Mercedes-Benz. 6 The purpose of øTKøB is to increase Turkey’s export potential, increase its export performance and to help its members in terms of international trade activities, contributing to the development of multilateral commercial relationships. øTKøB has been organizing design competitions and fairs in Istanbul under its auspices and organizing training activities, primarily the øMA (Istanbul Fashion Academy) (øTKøB’s main activities 2005).

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(Turkish Clothing Industry Association)7 in this area, and the Istanbul Fashion Conference organized for the sixth time on May 9–10, 2013, all lend their weight to promote Istanbul as a city of fashion on an international scale.8 Although the above-mentioned activities give an additional perspective to the city’s “trade centre” identity, which existed since its establishment as the capital of the Eastern Roman Empire, it is still under discussion whether Istanbul is a fashion capital or not (Çoruh 2013). In the meantime, Istanbul continues to be the meeting point of north and south and east and west, a relationship it has always had with today’s retail fashion brands. As mentioned previously, upon the interruption of the unofficial “suitcase” trade, Turkey noted Russia, the Turkic Republics, Eastern Europe, North Africa and the Middle East markets as areas of focus for their fashion-trade activity. Turkish retail brands are aiming to gain strength and become preferred brands through their own designs in the markets in question (Yavuz 2013). Meanwhile, Istanbul has become the symbolic centre of the Turkish textile and fashion industry, as the city where the management, design and production centres of these brands are located.

Fashion’s Night Out: A Global Shopping Spree (And You're Invited)9 Clothing has always been handled as a problem of modernity related to the identity of the individual. Clothes speak on behalf of people in crowds and give information about identities and personalities. The variety of 7

TGSD, which was founded in 1976 and has four hundred members, aims at preparing the necessary environment for the development of the Turkish retail clothing industry. Its scope includes helping it lead the sector, promoting it abroad and maintaining sectoral cooperation. TGSD has been organizing various activities for the development and advancement of the retail clothing and textile industry, engaging in international lobbying efforts so the industry has placement at the top level of the global platform, developing proposals and solutions for the problems at hand, conducting activities for the transition of retail clothing production to a position where it creates brands, and making Anatolia a world production centre and Istanbul one of the most important fashion centres (TGSD Introduction). 8 Laleli tradesmen have been organizing Laleli fashion days to bring new perspectives to the “suitcase” trade which started in the 1990s, organizing sales and fashion shows to reinvigorate the economy of the people who come from the former Soviet bloc, which is one of Turkey’s target areas (Perouse 2011, 387). 9 The first slogan that promoted the VFNO event on the cover of the 2009 September Edition of Vogue America.

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clothing preferences within populations are delicate indicators of how different societies and the different positions within them are lived. Fashion, which is the common meeting ground of art, crafts and mass production, has always connoted beauty, show and urban life (Wilson 2007, 394–395). Today’s popular culture has become a symbol created by the appeal of fashion, cinema, advertising and urban iconography—that is to say, by the creative side of life. Today’s man is a personage who reflects the city he lives in as an “innovation snob” (Featherstone 2005, 166). Fashion products represent the city they belong to as aesthetic and cultural products, sensitive to time and space. In the world, New York, Paris, Milan and London are known as strategic transnational fashion centres. These global cities have transitive identities which incorporate many various languages, cultures and lifestyles along with many different ideas. Benefitting on many levels from the exchange of these different ideas, these cities are followed by the fashion media and stand out in fashion design (Jansson & Power 2010, 890). On the other hand, fashion activities are activities that can strengthen ties to other social and economic dynamics, primarily to the cities where they are organized, and the fashion industry uses the media to bring these connections about. In this respect, institutions such as civil associations, municipalities and domestic companies support fashion, understanding that this is also a representation of their city. VFNO, which is organized at the same time all over the world and is defined as the most extensive shopping party in the world, occurs with the cooperation of the United Brands Foundation, the Shopping Malls and Retail Foundation, the Registered Trademarks Foundation and the Istanbul Metropolitan Municipality, the ùiúli Municipality and the KadÕköy Municipality (F5 haber 2013). The branding of cities depends on their ability to reach a target audience through certain means. In the stage in question, a by-product or activity is needed which will connect the image of the city with other cultures (Jansson & Power, 2010, 891–893). Accordingly, VNFO, which is organized in big cities such as New York, Paris, Milan and Tokyo, can also be seen as an activity that transforms the fashion products of Istanbul from local products into those of global production. However, high fashion is still centred in the West. Therefore, Turkey aims to achieve success in the textile and fashion sector, and most of all in the retail clothing industry. We may say that Istanbul’s being chosen to be a part of the VFNO organization, which takes place globally, aids the Turkish fashion and textile sector that operates on a global scale as it tries to deal with the competitive pressure of the global market and also contributes to the promotion of Turkish retail

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clothing companies on a global platform. As Vogue Brand and Communication Manager BarÕú ÇakmakçÕ states, there are tourist businesses that create special programs for foreign consumers who wish to attend the VFNO event that takes place “in Istanbul which attracts interest due to its 24/7 dynamism and cosmopolitan structure” (ÇakmakçÕ 2013a). However, the VFNO event mainly targets local producers, and especially the people who live in Istanbul.10 As seen in the promotional film shot for the VFNO event held in 2011, Istanbul is referred to as the centre of a shopping festival, providing limitless fun that improves our view of the city.

City of Shopping and Fashion for Everyone The consumers from the countries I have named above show interest in the VFNO Istanbul event because they are the target market of Turkish retail brands. As I have also stated, the existence of travel agencies that organize tourist trips around the VFNO event by itself proves this interest. I personally think that the other reason for this interest is the popularity of Turkish television series that have been aired abroad since 2001. The Turkish TV series are broadcast and are popular in the same countries targeted by Turkish retail brands. This dynamic cooperation between the TV series and the retail industry alone makes upwards of $100 million yearly for Turkish brands (Arseven 2012, 8). In all sixty countries of the Middle East, North Africa and the Balkans, where over one hundred popular Turkish TV series are shown, the details that raised the most interest have been the fashionable clothes the actors are wearing, as much as scenes featuring beautiful and pristine vistas of Istanbul (Yanarda÷o÷lu 2013, 18–20). FÕrat Gülgen, General Secretary of Calino Holding, which is an company actively exporting Turkish TV series abroad, states that viewers abroad show interest in the clothes and accessories worn by the characters in the various series, and that this has increased the number of tourists who come to the country to shop. The Wall Street Journal has underlined that the number of foreign visitors to Turkey has increased by 26% (and reached 1,841,000 in March 2013), in comparison to the same month the previous year. In the period in question (March 2012 to March 10

BarÕú ÇakmakçÕ states that VFNO’s primary target group are the readers of Vogue magazine. Therefore, Vogue magazine has suggested that the brands applying to attend the VFNO event first target Vogue readers and then the local readers. However, as of 2012, the Vogue staff realized that there was increasing interest from neighbouring countries and the Vogue staff gave equal importance to both Turkish and foreign global brands that wish to attend the VFNO event (ÇakmakçÕ 2013b).

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2013), the number of visitors from Saudi Arabia, Qatar and Yemen to Turkey increased by 88.7%, 102% and 106% respectively (Medyatava 2013). There is a mechanism that allows particular groups of people to understand how new products come to their attention, how these products are used and how distinctions of judgment are made including if they are good and if people like them. This mechanism and these judgments gain importance in the form of knowledge and cultural capital. (Featherstone 2005, 43).

Therefore, in order to prove that economic well-being based on consumption is the symbol of a good life, fashion products are presented to the consumers by celebrities such as famous models, actors and popular sports figures, with the promise of reaching new consumers (Thompson & Haytko 1997, 17). In the twenty-first century, due to intense competition in global markets, the framework used for the sale of clothing is more important than the clothes and licensed products themselves, because consumers wish to follow celebrities, who they acknowledge as the front runners of fashion, and choose styles in line with the way they perceive these different lifestyles (Crane 2003, 30). In the promotional film for VFNO 2011, twenty-six famous people from Turkey promoted the event and showcased its tagline “Attend the shopping party. Live the excitement. Access lots of clothes on sale” to the target group.11 VFNO, which is one part of the framework used to make fashion choices more appealing, also aims at reflecting a “shopping for everyone” image as much as a “fashion for everyone” image by bringing together famous people, who can be viewed as the front runners of the fashion world to the consumers. The physical pleasures received from obtaining the products have a vital relation to their usage as signatures (Featherstone 2005, 43). Attending VFNO involves style of identity and its presentation that reaches far beyond shopping. The VFNO event promises the target group the 11

The celebrities who took part in the film and their occupations are listed alphabetically as follows: Hande Ataizi (actress), Atiye (singer), Bengü (singer), Simay Bülbül (fashion Designer), Mirgün Cabas (TV host), Selin Demiratar (actress), Seda Domaniç (vogue Turkey editor-in-chief), Niyazi Erdo÷an (fashion designer), Siren Ertan (fashion designer), Burcu Esmersoy (TV host), Burak Gacemer (model), Arzu Kaprol (fashion designer), Beril Kayar (model), Tu÷çe Kazaz (model), Özgür Masur (fashion designer), Pascal Nouma (veteran soccer player), Engin Öztürk (actor), Birkan Sokullu (actor), Melisa Sözen (actress), Ece Sükan (fashion consultant), Tülin ùahin (model), Sema ùimúek (model), Eda TaúpÕnar (TV host), Zeynep Tosun (fashion designer), Özge Ulusoy (model), Ahu Ya÷tu (model).

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experience of reaching for new clothes “together with famous people.” This promise of imaginary identity and experience is not something new that relates to a big-city lifestyle. In the nineteenth century, the world fairs organized primarily in the stores in Paris and other big cities changed the nature of trade for the first time in history. The purpose of decorating shop windows was the promise of another world, another lifestyle and another identity accessible to the consumers, rather than the selling of product they displayed (Williams 1982, 92). Today, fashion shows are “shows” that promise the consumer other identities and lifestyles, as much as those earlier window decorations. Along with globalization, fashion has become a network where clothing and the image the clothing represents are both sold at the same time. The image can even be seen as the product itself, instead of representing the product. The images presented by the media started to promise a feeling, a world just like the window shops of the nineteenth century (Evans 2003, 67–68). The double symbolic level of the products that therefore emphasize the differences in lifestyles that draw limits around social relationships (Featherstone 2005, 41) can also be seen in the VFNO event. When we assume that the event is a product, which promises people entertainment and consumption, the symbolic connotations of the promotional film gain importance. The narration states that those who attend the event but do not buy anything will be as satisfied as “those who did buy products,” and that not being famous but being with famous people will give as much pleasure “as if one were famous” when participating in the event. These ideas constitute the theme of the film. In today’s society, where fashionable products are signs of prestige, the target group is invited throughout the film to an area where one’s presence and prestige becomes equal to the VFNO event. Briefly, VFNO appeals to the principle of unity buried in our depths, which is promised by an idleness that pushes us beyond social and cultural anxiety as a continuation of the carnivalesque tradition of older periods. VFNO appears before us as a current event which subverts daily life. It involves the feeding of pleasures through uncontrollable emotions and allows the arousal and symbolic reversal of the official “civilized” culture, and is made up of carnivals, celebrations and festivals. VFNO comes to the fore as extravagance, emotional commingling and the ecstasy created as the result of these. It is one night that provides an easy way of achieving this ecstasy as well as being a symbol of the pleasures presented by fashion and shopping to its target group. This is done in numerous ways including through dancing within a crowd that consists of ordinary people and the famous, its festive party atmosphere consisting of balloons and the

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like, and by the consumption of food and drinks. In the VNFO promotional film, Istanbul is presented as a simulated world of shopping, entertainment, sales, surprises and beautiful men and women. Therefore, it is not surprising at all that Ba÷dat Avenue, NiúantaúÕ and østinye Park have been chosen as locations for the VFNO event. As BarÕú ÇakmakçÕ states, NiúantaúÕ brings people more focused on style and highstreet brands, Ba÷dat Avenue gathers the group from the Anatolian side, and østinye Park brings together a variety of groups, which are shoppingmall oriented (ÇakmakçÕ).12 Especially in big cities, some neighbourhoods have certain meanings for individuals in terms of the presentation of social status. When we take Istanbul into consideration, with Ba÷dat Avenue on the Anatolian side, NiúantaúÕ on the European side and østinye Park, a shopping centre that caters to the ego presentation related to luxury consumption, we also see that they are popular neighbourhoods for celebrities due to their characteristics of being associated with wealth and a luxurious lifestyle. There are also retail clothing shops in these three centres. In this respect, as in the message of the VFNO film, the three settings are, in fact, places where celebrities come together with consumers. In this light, the promotional film is nothing but a reminder of a lifestyle that belongs to present-day Istanbul, with which the majority of residents living in Istanbul are already familiar. In terms of the twenty-first century, electronic media has affected our usage of the public domain in contemporary society, playing an active role in the creation of meanings, combining films, commercials, popular music, and the wardrobe for TV characters as well as clothes. Thus, as the examples given in the introduction section of the Vogue promotional film, fashion magazines present social identities and agendas that are more socially oriented compared to a few decades back. However, the acknowledgment that consumers do not make their choice passively but actively, in accordance with their own identities, has also influenced this transition period of fashion magazines. Fashion magazines, which once 12 ÇakmakçÕ states that one more area may be added to the 2013 VFNO event in Istanbul. It is quite possible that this area will be Galata, which is one of the oldest neighbourhoods in Istanbul. Interest has been shown by domestic and foreign tourists due to its layered history that prominently includes the observation tower that dates back to the Genoese period and for which the area was named. Galata as a neighbourhood also includes a port that is the centre of Istanbul’s sea trade. Most importantly in terms of fashion, it is an area where designer shops such as Arzu Kaprol, Simay Bülbül, Ümit Ünal, Ayda Pekin—all brands that originated in Istanbul—are located. Galata has seen renewal and growth in terms of fashion since the 2000s.

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had the final say about fashion, began to gather ideas from the streets and local shops. Fashion editors are sources of information who narrate the developments in fashion relating what is fashionable from specific neighbourhoods and “the street style” of cities, especially those that I have mentioned as “nerve centres” (Crane 2003, 299). These “New Cultural Mediators”13 gain ideas from the celebrity culture of the country where they live and put forward the trends that belong to that country, sharing them globally. This allows readers to become familiar with global fashion trends. Vogue Magazine’s Turkey edition also tries to reflect the lifestyles particular to Istanbul, especially to those people whose lifestyles Vogue addresses. Vogue transforms certain neighbourhoods of Istanbul into a shopping party one night each year and uses the “trendiest” people in Turkish media in its promotional film. It can be said to be determining the spirit of Istanbul and contemporary Turkey, which then lines up to its own vision of itself through the VFNO event. Istanbul, where what is visual, popular, pleasure giving, and easily accessible comes to the fore, has become the centre of both cultural consumption and general consumption, where the convergence between big malls and shopping malls has become visible and is continuously renewed (Featherstone 2005, 161). Just like the VFNO event, the promotional film of VFNO 2011 tries to reflect present-day Istanbul, where consumer culture is a part of daily life and spare-time activities.

Result: Where is Istanbul as the Capital of Fashion and Shopping? A city’s image and fashion follow a similar production process. While fashion depends on the network of designer, producer, marketer, media, retailer and consumer, cities depend on the network created through the city residents, consumers, city administrators and media. As I have stated earlier, the fashion industry and designers all gain ideas through the common identity of the city they live in and also contribute to this identity. Today, retail shops reflect the common urban identity as much as fashion designers. Therefore, cities that understand the influence of fashion also allow fashion to redesign the city as a whole. As a case in point, Milan 13 The group’s duty is to provide services, and the production of symbolic products, marketing and expansion of these products deals with the media, design, fashion and advertising and are a part of “secondary intellectual occupations” (Bourdieu, quoted in Featherstone 2005, 54).

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uses designers, producers, local administrations and media channels working together to support the city’s “fashion capital” image. It entered the global fashion market with great speed, especially in the area of retail clothing. Antwerp is another good example of this dynamic and entered the market as the forerunner of avant-garde fashion in the 1990s. Milan established fashion rules, and value was placed on fashion from there. This ability to gain power and rule world fashion was made possible by the support of fashion shows which both gave value to the city and got its value from the city’s aura. Fashion shows, which have always received great attention, brought together fashion, art, trade, pleasure and advertisement and are able to unite cities with fashion (Jansson & Power 2010, 894). In this respect, the VNFO event appears as one of the international events that integrates Istanbul’s image with fashion. Another interesting example of city image being set through fashion is Antwerp, whose municipality and city non-governmental institutions have worked jointly since 1992. As part of VNFO, an attempt was made to establish a sense of Antwerp’s fashion (along with its industry) as a part of the city identity, which would support the city’s image that had previously made its name through it s rich history and diamond trade. Cooperation was established with fashion designers from Belgium, such as Ann Demeulemeester, Dries Van Noten and Martin Margiela, who had become newly famous throughout the world, and special shopping tours were added to the tours organized in the city. The fashion brands of Antwerp became a part of the city’s symbolic background and brought with them an economic revival of the city (Jansson & Power 2010, 898). Fashion has always had great representational power with its hybrid structure that brings together industry and aesthetics. Both of the cities mentioned have renewed their identities and presented them through cultural means in a bold and remarkable manner, comparing different lifestyles and points of view, supporting the cultural and artistic narration which are the results of these points of view, and have become centres with revitalized economic resources that have kept them alive. The source that allowed these cities to become fertile meeting grounds and areas of interesting ideas originated in the world of fashion (Martinez 2007, 5456– 5458). The VFNO event tries to represent Istanbul through the lens of fashion, which exists by feeding from the city with its lively, hybrid structure. However, at the centre of VFNO’s agenda there is encouragement given to shopping, rather than for fashion per se. VFNO is both a cultural and economic activity at the same time. Neighbourhoods, which can be visited every day, and shopping, which can be performed any time, are presented

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as extraordinary sources of pleasure and passion to the consumer. Although VFNO is an activity that has a cultural function, its economic purpose has more significant importance. Today, the markets’ continuous search for new areas of prominence within the great global sphere has made cities more competitive. Cities, which have transformed their image in favour of a local economy, make use of all cultural products, including fashion, which wants to attract global capital (Featherstone 2005, 176). As former New York Mayor Michael R. Bloomberg states, “Fashion’s Night Out brought great energy, optimism and enthusiasm to the city’s retailers, who make up a thriving part of our economy. We can always count on fashion industry leaders to use their creativity and savvy to benefit New York City.” VFNO is an event that contributes creative momentum to the fashion design industry. It benefits all cities that participate, such as New York, by enlivening the creative energy and enabling a stable economy in those cities (Moss 2013). Turkey’s unique design style, along with its desire of creating world-famous Turkish fashion designers, are part of its objective to attract global capital through its image, which goes hand-inhand with its role as a financial centre. In this respect, municipalities, especially the Istanbul Metropolitan Municipality and non-governmental organizations expend great effort, along with the unions in the textile and fashion sector. The ùiúli and KadÕköy Municipalities are examples of two such municipalities that support VFNO. VFNO is an event that directs its urban target group toward consumption in a conscious manner. It appears as an exemplary activity, involving exposition directed at consumption in the contemporary city and the exposition of consumption itself—consumption which is intended to be an indicator of consumption (Ibid., 171). Istanbul is still not perceived as a fashion capital in regards to consumption, which is intended to be an indicator of consumption designers, even though the Turkish fashion sector promotes Istanbul as a shopping city. It still does not have a place in the global fashion world. Therefore, Istanbul attracts attention rather as an encourager of fashion consumption. However, in terms of Istanbul’s future, it is necessary for everything that belongs to the city, including Istanbul itself, to be branded and for new descriptors to be created to support Istanbul’s position in the world (Perouse 2011, 370–379). When we take into consideration all of the fashion activities organized in Istanbul, along with VFNO, the activities in question are perceived as opportunities to strengthen Istanbul’s and Turkey’s value in the international and tourist market. In regards to this situation, BarÕú ÇakmakçÕ stated that the most important purpose of Vogue magazine organizing the VFNO event is to transform Istanbul into a global fashion

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city. Therefore, he stated that it is important that the thousand or so brands that participated in the event in the last three years showcase the fashion designers and retail brands of both Turkey and neighbouring countries. He added that the competition among the brands brings with it innovations in the area of production and production design as well (ÇakmakçÕ). The definition of the city has gravitated into new areas in the promotional materials realized for VFNO Istanbul. Along with definitions such as “city of conferences,” “contemporary art city,” “finance city” and “real-estate city,” and although it is still not clear whether it can be defined as “fashion city” as well, Istanbul wishes to become not only a centre of finance, but also a centre for production just like many other global cities. In order for the city to become a brand, I believe that it is not sufficient for it to be defined primarily as a shopping centre. If Istanbul manages to prove itself in terms of fashion design as well, it will be able to support the understanding of consumption which the city feeds in cultural terms. The presentation of Istanbul as a shopping centre has a troublesome aspect. The problem of constantly having to renew itself in the global world, in order to endlessly call for consumption, is at the very least a “costly” effort. However, in light of the innovation which dominates the nature of fashion, along with the production of a natural design culture which reflects the spirit of Istanbul, the city will transform into an endless place of attraction. In this manner, when Istanbul proves itself to be a city which produces rich meanings and permanent cultural values in fashion design, it will be able to articulate this rich and historical/cultural texture to the understanding of consumption which it both feeds from and represents.

Works Cited Arseven, Ceren. 2012. “Diziler Yeniçerileri Geçti”. Hürriyet Pazar, December 30. Ata Securities, 1997. Industry Reports, Textile in Turkey: Overview, January 2. BarÕú ÇakmakçÕ, 2013a, personal communication, April 27, 2013. —. 2013b, e mail message to author, May 8, 2013. Birlesmismarkalardernegi.org. 2009. “Birleúmiú Markalar Derne÷i Hedef Ülkeler Raporu” http://birlesmismarkalar.org.tr/images/UF/file/hedefulke-raporlari/Y%C3%B6netici%20%C3%96zeti.pdf (accessed April 5, 2013). Campbell, Colin. 2007. “When The Meaning is not a Message: A Critique of the Consumption as Communication Thesis.” In Fashion Theory Reader, ed. Malcom Barnard, 159–169. London, New York: Routledge.

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Crane, Diana. 2003. Moda ve Gündemleri: Giyimde SÕnÕf, Cinsiyet ve Kimlik, trans. Özge Çelik. Istanbul: AyrÕntÕ YayÕnlarÕ. Çoruh, Esra. 2013. “Moda HaftasÕ Yorgunlu÷u.” Habertürk Pazar. http://www.haberturk.com/yasam/haber/828303-moda-haftasiyorgunlugu (accessed March 17, 2013). Evans, Caroline. 2003. Fashion at the Edge: Spectacle, Modernity & Deathliness. New Haven & London: Yale University Press. F5 haber. 2012. “Vogue Fashion’s Night Out 13 Eylül AkúamÕ Gerçekleútiriliyor” http://www.f5haber.com/mahmure/vogue-fashion-snight-out-13-eylul-persembe-aksami-haberi-3275600/ (accessed April 4, 2013). Featherstone, Mike. 2005. Postmodernizm ve Tüketim Kültürü, 2nd Edition, Trans. Mehmet Küçük. Istanbul: AyrÕntÕ YayÕnlarÕ. Göktürk, Deniz, Levent Soysal & øpek Türeli. 2010. “Giriú: østanbul Nereye? Avrupa’nÕn Kültür Baúkenti Olmak …” Istanbul Nereye? Küresel Kent Kültür, Avrupa, eds. Deniz Göktürk, Levent Soysal & øpek Türeli, 15–61. Istanbul: Metis YayÕnlarÕ. øtkib. 2005. “øtkib’in baúlÕca faaliyetleri” http://www.itkib.org.tr/default.asp?CID=ITKIB&urlID=101&dropdow nid (accessed April 13, 2013). Jansson, Johan & Dominic Power. 2010. “Fashioning a Global City: Global City Brand Channels in the Fashion and Design Industries.” Regional Studies 44 (7): 889–904. Martinez, Javier G. 2007. “Selling Avant-garde: How Antwerp Became a Fashion Capital (1990–2002).” Urban Studies 44 (12): 2449–2464. McDowell, Colin. 2000. Fashion Today. London: Phaidon Press Limited. Moss, Hilary. 2013. “America’s Fashion’s Night Out Epidemic Finally Over” http://nymag.com/thecut/2013/02/americas-fashions-night-outepidemic-over.html (accessed April 24, 2013). Özben, O÷uzhan, Melih Bulu & I. HakkÕ Eraslan. 2004. “Turkish Textile and Clothing Industry After 2005: A Future Projection.” Paper presented at the II. International Istanbul Textile Congress, Istanbul, April 22–24. Perouse, Jean F. Istanbul’la Yüzleúme Denemeleri: Çeperler, Hareketlilik ve Kentsel Bellek. Istanbul: øletiúim YayÕnlarÕ. Sevim, Ümit. 2010. “Textile and Clothing Supplies.” øGEME—Export Promotion Center of Turkey. Smid, Siemon & Fatma Taúkesen. 2002. “Textile, apparel and leather sector in Turkey.” PWC Consulting. Türk Dizileri Wall Street Journal’e Haber Oldu, Medyatava.

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http://www.medyatava.com/haber/turk-dizileri-wall-street-journal-ehaber-oldu_88809 (accessed April 30 2013). Thompson, Craig J. & Diana L. Haytko. “Speaking of Fashion: Consumer’s Uses of Fashion Discourses and the Appropriation of Countervailing Cultural Meanings.” Journal of Consumer Research 24 (1): 35–42. TokatlÕ, Nebahat & Ömür KÕzÕlgün. 2009. “From Manufacturing Garments for Ready-to-Wear to Designing Collections for Fast Fashion: Evidence from Turkey.” Environment and Planning A 41: 146–162. Veblen, Thorsten. 2007. “Dress as an Expression of the Pecuniary Culture.” In Fashion Theory Reader, ed. Malcom Barnard, 339–346. London, New York: Routledge. Wilson, Elizabeth. 2007. “Adorned in Dreams: Introduction.” In Fashion Theory Reader, ed. Malcom Barnard, 393–397. London, New York: Routledge. Yanarda÷o÷lu, Eylem & Imad N. Karam. “The Fever that hit Arab Satellite Television: Audience Perceptions of the Turkish TV Series.” Identities: Global Studies in Culture and Power. Forthcoming. Yavuz, Özge. 2013. “YabancÕ Fonlar Türk ModacÕlarÕ Takibe AldÕ.” http://www.sabah.com.tr/Ekonomi/2013/03/17/yabanci-fonlar-turkmodacilari-takibe-aldi (accessed March 25, 2013). “Mission Satement” http://cfda.com/about/mission-statement (accessed April 4, 2013). “TGSD Introduction” http://www.tgsd.org.tr/index.php?option=com_content&view=article& id=152&Itemid=166. (accessed April 14, 2013). VFNO Worldwide, http://www.condenastinternational.com/VFNO/index.htm. (accessed March 24, 2013). http://www.academia.edu/1833309/Textile_apparel_and_leather_sector_in _Turkey (accessed April 14, 2013).

CHAPTER THIRTEEN THE CITY OF THE TOURIST: ISTANBUL AS AN IMAGINARY CITY DILEK ÖZHAN KOÇAK

Istanbul has always been a destination for travellers and tourists because of its unique historical heritage as the capital of three distinct empires: the Roman, the Byzantine and the Ottoman. It is inimitable because its vast cultural offerings are interwoven with modern conveniences that usually exist only in global cities, and for this reason contemporary Istanbul attracts tourists from all over the world. The city strengthened its position in the tourism industry vis-à-vis other global cities by becoming one of the 2010 European Capitals of Culture, as well as through promotional films made both before and after this designation. This chapter focuses on the portrayal of Istanbul as a charming city that piques the interests of western and Middle-Eastern tourists alike. What is problematic is that the city the tourist comes to know is different from reality—it is something recreated and rewritten through printed and visual media that reproduce the same images time and time again. As such, the city that tourists visit is an image of itself; indeed, an imaginary city. Because cities want to appear vibrant to attract tourism as well as longterm business, they re-fictionalize themselves (Stevenson 2003, 111–112). It is theorized that there has always been both a real city and presentation of the city in cultural texts (Ibid), but in the contemporary situation the representation is taking the place of the real (Eco 1986). Whose city is this, then? The first part of this article concerns the different aspects of the city of Istanbul that attract Western as well as Middle-Eastern tourists, while the second part focuses on the recreation of Istanbul in printed and visual media for the purpose of attracting the interest of tourists.

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Istanbul as a Melting Pot of Culture— Heritage for Westerners, Entertainment for Arabs Tourism does not merely consist of sea, sand and sun. —Alaaddin Yüksel (Mayor of Ankara)

The “journey,” which is one of the most beautiful and innocent passions (Löschburg 1998, 7), was once considered critical to one’s knowledge, experience and training. Through modern developments in transportation, it has become a leisure habit of the masses. Tourism has continued to grow as a sector since the time Thomas Cook recognized the potential of the railways and began organizing tours, and the holiday sector expanded dramatically once civil servants and workers achieved the right to paid leave (Ibid., 137). When modernity allowed the public to be conceptualized as the masses, tourism then must be conceived of as a mass practice, the individual practitioners of which “have common tastes and characteristics.” While travel was once an athletic exercise, it later became a spectator sport. This transformation is expressed as the fall of travel and the rise of tourism (Boorstin 1992, 84), or alternately, as a shift from travel writers to travel writing (Daye 2005, 14–15). Travel writing shares culpability for this transition with the tourism industry by turning travel into a commodity rather than a demanding activity or experience. Unlike the original notion of the traveller, the tourist is a mass traveller. So why does the tourist travel? What does travelling correspond to in our contemporary world? What do tourists expect from the places they visit? While the motives that drive people to travel differ in each age, the desire for travel has always existed (Löschburg 1998, 7–9). For the tourist, to go on vacation means to take themselves to another time and space. Going on holiday means to escape the routines of home and the workplace, even of one’s casual life (Löfgren 1999, 269). The tourist hopes to gain maximum benefit from the compressed period of time away from work. Cities are indispensable destinations not only because they contain a myriad of resources—from shopping to entertainment, eating to historical heritage—but also because they promise the tourist a variety of experiences in a compressed time frame. Another motivation for travelling to cities is interest in the exotic, authentic or magical, which are part and parcel of the sense of being in a different time and space. Tourists are desperate to escape the alienation engendered by their work and believe that authentic experiences can be found in other times and in other cultures. Historical and cultural tourism, in particular, is fed by just such a belief (Metro-Roland 2011, 35).

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As cities outgrow their roles as industrial centres or capitals of nationstates, they become independent global or world cities in a system where economies are increasingly established upon a globalized service sector (Sassen 1991). Tourism, which is considered to be one of the world's largest industries (Tourism Concerns), has become a primary source of income for many cities, which compete with one another to attract the interest of tourists. Culture is a leading weapon in this contest, and has a pivotal role in urban development—in terms of economic and market value, the most easily saleable aspect of a culture is urban space. Istanbul's Tourism and Culture Director, Prof. Dr. Ahmet Emre Bilgili, reports that Istanbul hosted 4,230,612 international tourists in the first part of 2012. According to him, this is an increase of 18.7% in comparison with the previous year, an increase that took place in spite of a global economic crisis. According to Bilgili, this “healthy” trend is the result of Istanbul “being one of leading capitals of culture, art, archaeology and tourism in the world, [of] strengthened awareness of Istanbul in the global sphere, [of it’s] having 8,500 years of history, [and of] making an impression in people’s minds with the attribution of the city as the capital of three world-changing civilizations … Accordingly, Istanbul exceeded expectations for the season and grew (and continues to grow) in a healthy, sustainable way following a framework of sound tourism principles” (Türkiye Turizm 2012). Table 13.1. International Tourists Who Visited Istanbul in the First Seven Months of 2012 (Source: østanbul Kültür ve Turizm) Nationality

%

Germans Russians Americans French English Iranians Italians Dutch Libyans Iraqis Ukrainians Spanish Japanese Azerbaijanis Saudi Arabians Others

11.6 5.8 5.3 4.7 4.6 4.4 4.2 3.0 2.2 2.1 2.1 2.0 2.0 1.9 1.9 42.2

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A large part of the growth in tourism can be explained by an influx of “Arab” tourists. In September 2012, the chairman of the Tourist Guides' Guild of Istanbul (IRO), Dr. Sedat BornovalÕ, reported in the newspaper Hürriyet that while Middle-Eastern tourists gravitate toward shopping and modern Istanbul, Westerners and Europeans are more interested in the city’s historical heritage and monuments (Güler 2012). Tab. 13.2. Breakdown of Visitors from Arab Countries in the Months January to July, 2010–2012 (Source: østanbul Kültür ve Turizm) Country of Origin

2010

2011

2012

% change

Iraq Algeria Egypt Morocco Libya Tunisia Jordan Syria Lebanon Saudi Arabia Kuwait United Arab Emirates Sudan Yemen Oman Bahrain Qatar Palestine

50.543 38.229 34.042 31.889 32.968 29.942 33.052 28.047 33.081 40.032 17.136 20.513 3.952 3.361 3.448 4.465 3.743 2.068 410.511

79,992 46,257 42,175 37,897 14,852 31,996 38,524 26.165 49.919 70.674 25.754 22.956 4.326 4.628 4.277 4.783 4.309 2.360 511.844

110,415 54,673 56,697 39,472 113,736 47,244 41,611 30.022 55.699 98.581 34.961 24.363 4.874 6.67 4.993 6.662 6.473 2.998 739.641

38,0 18.2 34.4 4.2 665.8 47.7 8.0 14.7 11.6 39.5 35.7 6.1 12.7 33.3 16.7 39.3 50.2 27.0 44.5

According to a newspaper article appearing in Sabah entitled “Arab Tourists in Istanbul,” dated July 20, 2012, there was a 20% increase in the number of Arab tourists visiting Istanbul during Ramadan as compared with the previous year. This was partly due to an international event organized by the Istanbul 2010 European Capital of Culture Agency called “Ramadan in Istanbul,” which brought together samples of art, culture and world cuisine and sought to overcome the recession that generally characterizes the month of Ramadan. Putting forward images of Arabs shopping in malls until midnight and emphasizing the varied entertainment Istanbul offers right up to sahur (the meal taken before dawn during Ramadan), the promotional film

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“Ramadan in Istanbul” created by Turkish Airlines attempts to make Istanbul seem charming for Arabs during this time. The number of Middle-Eastern tourists to Istanbul in the first seven months of the last three years may be seen above. From 2011–2012 an increase of about 45% is evident. The reason is explained in the article “Arab Spring” which appeared in the newspaper Radikal on July 31, 2011: Arabs are enjoying the shopping malls, restaurants, entertainment and beaches of Istanbul. One of the reasons why Arabs choose Turkey is because it is safe and provides an environment which is appropriate for Arabian family life. The other reason is the recent uprisings in the Middle East, such as in Syria, Tunisia and Egypt. It has become difficult to find vacancies in hotels catering to Arab tourists … the elimination of visa requirements, the effect of television dramas and the Arabs, who prefer to take their holidays in Turkey in order to solidify the relationship between Turks and Arabs … are spending half their days shopping. (østanbul’da Arap BaharÕ)

Both Prime Minister Recep Tayyip Erdo÷an’s visits to the Arab world and his government’s Middle East policies have been effective in making Istanbul a prime destination for Middle-Eastern tourists. Erdo÷an spoke at a Turkish-Arab Tourism summit and singled out Arab tourists: We do not see tourism as only an economic activity. We see tourists, especially those coming from Arab countries, as a tool and an opportunity for embracing, communing and having heart-to-heart talks … We see the Arab people today just as we have for the last 600 years: as our brothers, fellow travellers, neighbours and good friends in both good weather and bad. Although Turkey turned its face to the West, or at least is introduced in this way, Turkey will never turn its back on the East and the South … The Turks are your brothers. Turkey is your home … You will see your own history and follow the tracks of your own past. You will understand better that we have a magnificent civilization and history in common through the unique works of art in this land. (Tayyip Erdo÷an’dan Arap Turistlere Ça÷rÕ).

The rhetoric used by the Prime Minister, referring specifically to the heritage of the Ottoman Empire, locates Turkey as a leader in the Middle East. This rhetoric explains the growth of not only the tourism sector, but also the entertainment industry and the construction sector. Many Turkish television dramas are very popular in the Arab world, and many tourists come from these countries to see the city in which their favourite dramas are set. Putting forward a particular visual image of Istanbul in shows such as Gümüú and Aúk-Õ Memnu, set in seaside homes along the Bosphorus,

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has been effective in promoting the city. This effect is similar to the phenomenon described by Jonathan Culler—when an empty site is marked, e.g. with a sign declaring it “The Site of the Bonnie and Clyde Shootout”—“touristic attractions are produced”. Informative historical displays are followed by a little museum, then a Bonnie and Clyde amusement park with shooting galleries, then postcards, and so on (1990). Today, TopkapÕ Palace, which is the palace of Sultan Süleyman in the television drama The Magnificent Century (which is very popular in the Arab world), is now flooded with Arab tourists (Türk turizminin “yeni reklam yüzü”). It was not an empty place, of course, but as an example, an empty throne in the palace that once stood only as a spectacle is now transformed into the throne of a living sultan through the television show. This throne is now the expression of another reality. The sultan has become a “living” image, and this image is the leading reason why Middle-Eastern tourists visit TopkapÕ. Besides places where television dramas are set, the most popular destinations for Arab tourists are shopping centres. According to statements by the Customs and Trade Minister Hayati YazÕcÕ in January 2013, the number of shopping malls in Istanbul has reached 114. The number of shopping centres in Turkey overall has quadrupled in ten years, reaching a total of 332 (Hayati YazÕcÕ: AVM SayÕsÕ 10 YÕlda 4’e KatlandÕ). But in comparison with other provinces, Istanbul has a significant head start and competes with other global cities like New York, Paris and London. The whole world’s leading brands are represented (see Nilay Ulusoy’s chapter in this book). In order to compete and attract tourists’ interest, some shopping malls have begun to organize autograph days for actors and actresses from popular television dramas (Arap Turistler øçin AlÕúveriú Merkezleri Dizi YÕldÕzlarÕ Topluyor). World cities such as Paris and New York, which are the centres of culture, art, fashion, entertainment, television, broadcasting and music, are now facing stiff competition as financial power, communication and information (television broadcasting, publications and media) have become more evenly spread (Featherstone 2005, 180). The baffling, illusory world created by giant billboards, movie multiplexes, superstores and themed restaurants caters not only to Arabs, but to visitors from around the world. To be in such a city is “to stand at the crossroads of an exotic urban culture” (quoted in Karski 1990, 15–17). Istanbul, just as other world cities, in the process of deindustrialization and being converted to a shopping mecca, “… is the vortex for the concentration of things and affords the most extreme views of consumption” (Cartier 2005, 11), and has therefore become enchanting for tourists. The city of Istanbul

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has become the “Orient's London,” as Edmondo de Amicis predicted some 140 years ago (Amicis 1993, 115). Most recently, indeed during the preparation of this article, Istanbul was ranked as one of the most visited cities in the world, and it is predicted that it will overtake Paris—the third most visited city in the world—by 2016. It is expected that Istanbul’s income from tourism will increase 5.5% with respect to last year, which translates to 8.6 billion dollars (østanbul’un YÕldÕzÕ Turizmde ParlÕyor). Recent events (May/June 2013) in Taksim’s Gezi Park, which was at the centre of protests and resistance against government policies, have further brought Istanbul into the public eye on a large scale. In fact, cities have always been an attraction during each and every point of history, both for pilgrims and travellers. The reason pilgrims in Europe visited cities was so that they could see and live everything contemporaneously—cities were the melting pot of national culture, art, music, literature and of course, architecture and urban design (Karski 1990, 15–17). Urban areas offered a variety of activity, and urban tourism encompassed shopping, gastronomy, cultural collections, performance and entertainment (Ashworth 2003, 147). And because cities include everything from modern to ancient, they are a primary choice for tourists. While tourists with cultural capital seek out the cultural heritage of the place, youth take entertainment, nightlife and sports into account. For others, it is not specific attractions, but rather the experience of being in the city itself—the bright lights, the colour, movement and the atmosphere (Hayllar et al. 2008). All kinds of corresponding gazes may be noted. While the “romantic gaze [consists of] solitude, privacy and a personal, semi-spiritual relationship with the object of the gaze” (Urry 2002, 150), and includes nostalgia for heritage rescued from contemporary urbanism (Ibid., 94), the collective gaze corresponds to entertainment and amusement (Ibid., 150). The city satisfies both of these, and Istanbul has managed to satisfy them equally for tourists from the West and the East. The term “‘urban tourism’ was coined to name the contrived repackaging of declining industrial cities into centres for tourist consumption” (Rowe & Stevenson 1994). “What distinguishes urban tourism from traditional tourism is the way in which what is on offer has been packaged and marketed” (Stevenson 2003, 99). The importance of the concept of the nation state loses out to multi-national corporations in the era of postindustrial capitalism. Cities define themselves as “global cities” or “world cities” rather than as the capital of a nation-state or the centre of industry, and they represent themselves as a brand under the leadership of marketing agencies. Through culture, art, fashion, science, sport and various other forms of entertainment, they focus on becoming the object of

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the touristic gaze as well as piquing the interest of international companies (Soysal 2010, 381–82). In recent years, the trend is to consider cultural capital in urban policy decisions: Driven by the negative consequences of deindustrialization, decentralization and globalization, many cities have utilized these culturally based planning initiatives as a means to reposition themselves in a rapidly changing economic environment and/or to reaffirm their standing in an evolving metropolitan hierarchy. (Spirou 2008, 21).

Just as many other places in the world, Istanbul has been re-imagined as one of the “places to see before you die” by professional promotional campaigns. A film carrying the slogan “Istanbul: A City of Four Elements” was made on behalf of the 2010 European Capital of Culture. It represents the city as a place where everything is reduced into concentrated form and emphasizes that Istanbul is tourist destination for any season: Earth provides the theme for activities during the winter months from January 1 to March 20 when traditional and artistic activities that interpret the city’s historical heritage from various perspectives will be at the forefront. Air dominates the spring program from March 21 to June 21. Istanbul’s numerous minarets and church towers piercing the air provide the inspiration for the spring program, which will focus on the city’s centuries-old dialogue between religions and cultures. Water sets the theme for the summer program, June 22 to September 22. Straddling the Bosporus and the Golden Horn, Istanbul is divided and united by water, and water has provided the link between the city and the world for millennia. The summer program will concentrate on culture and art activities inspired by, or made possible by, water. Many of these activities will take place on the shores of the Bosporus and the Golden Horn. Fire, the powerful transformative element, turns water to steam, wood to ashes and sand to glass. In this sense, fire symbolizes the future of Istanbul. The autumn program, September 23 to December 31, will be unified under the theme of fire and the most prominent feature of this period will be contemporary art. Through these programs, the four elements will not only symbolize Istanbul’s history, but also Istanbul’s vibrant cultural life throughout the year. (Istanbul 2010, 23)

To compete with other cities, a unique characteristic of Istanbul is often cited—that it is the only city that spans two continents, like a bridge. It is demonstrated in Table 13.3 that as the result of the campaigns carried out before and during 2010, Istanbul has come to be preferred by more tourists.

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Table 13.3. Number of International Tourists Visiting Istanbul from 2000–2013

Source: Province of Istanbul Department of Culture and Tourism.

One of the promotional films of the 2010 European Capital of Culture aired with the pitch “Can 8,500 years of accumulated cultural heritage be shared in a year? It can,” and ends with the slogan “Our energy comes from Istanbul.” It is similar to other promotional films in that it shows that history, entertainment, cultural heritage, nightlife—in brief everything that exists in a global city—exists in Istanbul. In this film and others of its genre, the emphasis is always the same—Istanbul is an ideal and a charming destination for travel.1 To win over tourists these films focus on the characteristic, different and distinctive features and places of Istanbul. According to a report that aired in December 2012 on the Turkish news channel, NTV: Turkey has made a move to become a brand in cultural tourism. At the 2nd Cultural Tourism Summit and Exhibition, discussions focused on the steps to be taken for creating a cultural tourism industry with an economic return twice that of coastal tourism. The theme of this year's summit led by the Ministry of Culture and Tourism is “Cultural Routes and Religious Tourism.” The officials at the Ministry of Culture and Tourism and local administrators determined the strategy for evaluating the potential … the most important places in terms of cultural tourism were deemed to be Istanbul, Cappadocia, Hattusa, Izmir, Ephesus and the Church of the Virgin Mary.

Istanbul has positioned itself as a leading destination in terms of cultural tourism, particularly with respect to attracting the gaze of 1

See, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jwvu9b6kcbw

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European tourists. Cities that have adopted a “global city” project see culture as an economic asset (Zukin 1995) and have invested in this sector accordingly. The aim is to put themselves on the map, to attract the tourist gaze and tourism, which is said to be the largest industry in the world (Tourism Concern).2 Industrialized tourism packages fantasies and sells them (Miles & Miles 2004, 74), while tourists as “dream catchers” (Inglis 2000) chase after these fantasies. It is understandable that cities put forward culture as a unique selling point in order to be distinguished from other cities, and wrestle a larger share of this huge industry. After all, in the race to become a world city there is a risk of “global sameness,” i.e. of all cities resembling one other. Cities must therefore find a balance between their differences and sameness alike (Metro-Roland 2011, 40). Many “postmodern cities” are largely distinguished by their lack of distinctiveness (Hayllar et al. 2008, 4), and television towers, McDonald’s, shopping malls, skyscrapers, museums, galleries and theme parks characterize almost every global city (Franklin 2003, 5).3 Thus, it is essential for cities to also emphasize local over global and ubiquitous features in order to attract the tourist’s gaze. Cities must mobilize culture in order to attract capital (quoted in Featherstone 2005, 176). Particularly with a view to attracting European visitors, promotional films and tourist guides promise an authentic, local experience of Istanbul. Just as in the Blue Guide Spain, where Christianity, churches and beloved religious monuments exist as one touristic space (Barthes 1991, 74–77), mosques and churches are in the foreground in the Blue Guide Istanbul (Freely 1987). The theme of the 2012 summit, “Cultural Routes and Religious Tourism,” is consistent with this discourse. The images put forth to introduce not only Istanbul, but also other Turkish cities, play the role of postcards that spread the visual image of a modern city. While postcards proper suggested the concept of a city via a collection of fragments, today moving images continue this approach. In commercial films, as in

2

According to UNWTO, “receipts from international tourism in destinations around the world grew by 4% in 2012 reaching over 1 trillion USD (World Tourism Organization 2013). For the year 2020, tourist organizations predict that 1.6 billion of the world’s 7.8 billion people will make a trip abroad” (quoted in Löfgren 1999, 6). 3 Vialand, the first theme park in Turkey, is intended to be an entertainment centre for the Middle East and the Balkans and opened on May 26, 2013 (see www.vialand.com.tr, http://www.istanbul.com/tr/sehrinitani/vialand/turkiyenin-ilktemali-parki-vialand).

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postcards or guidebooks, the city is classified systematically and reduced to images that attract the tourist gaze (McQuire 2008, 45). A completely different Istanbul is created by the editing of fragmented images of the city. As such, what the tourist ends up pursuing is not Istanbul itself, but a re-edited picture of it. What is marketed and consumed is not the commodity of Istanbul itself, but a simulation. What is in circulation is not the “real” Istanbul, but an Istanbul re-created through advertising, movies (see Murat Akser’s chapter in this book), television dramas and the simulacra that take the place of real Istanbul (Baudrillard 1994).

Istanbul as Simulacrum: Not Selling the City, but Its Image As Marx might have said more generally, “all that is built or all that is ‘natural’ melts into image” in the contemporary global economies of signs and space. —Lash & Urry 1994, 326.

As discussed in the previous section, globalization, deindustrialization and economic restructuring have elevated the role of culture in the selling and marketing of cities. Image and amenity seem to be the “only games” (quoted in Stevenson 2003, 98) in the competition among cities. Therefore, the city becomes a commodity through marketing and campaigns to reimagine the city. Defining and selling a place is a complex transaction that requires the definition of what the city means, how it feels and what it looks like (Holcomb 1993). Through intricate marketing campaigns, attempts are made to intervene in the production and transmission of urban images and organize them around a strategy of selling the city. The aim is to make the city attractive and unique in regards to living, visiting and working in comparison to other cities (Mulgan 1989, 270). It is further necessary to create multi-dimensional and unique tourism locations in order to reverse a trend toward increasingly homogeneous and commoditized touristic cities (Kralikowski & Brown 2008, 137). Cultural tourists who go to cities search for unique local identity and atmosphere in a world where mobility has increased and culture has become globalized. A city’s cultural tourists do not want to just watch the city, but to experience, live and feel it. For this, “place-related knowledge and an understanding of the ‘language of places’ are necessary” (Frey 2009, 141).

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One of the main forms of consumption of urban places is visual consumption. Tourists make their gaze concrete via photos, films and Instagrams. Tourists follow the footsteps submitted to them and the photos they take give form to their travels. Taking photos is an obligation and a responsibility, and tourism is largely about the search for the photogenic (Urry 2002, 128)—taking a photo means “I was here” (Fish 2005, 134). What the tourist follows is not the place but the image of it, so it is correct to say that space consumption cannot be distinguished from our contemporary visual culture (Costa 2009, 181). The travellers not only live a new experience but reflect the meanings and codes of visual culture by taking photos. Televisual culture has undermined the distinction between the ordinary and extraordinary, and the representational codes of tourist destinations have reduced the aura of these sites (Rojek 1997, 70–71). While the same pictures and images of Istanbul are used again and again in promotional films, we see another and new Istanbul each time as the images are reedited and re-written, each time within a different fictional narrative. The Istanbul which is used as a backdrop for a television drama or some other fictional narrative transforms into another place. One of the promotional films of the 2010 European Capital of Culture starts with the scene of two tourists entering a foggy Istanbul by sea. A silhouette of a mosque appears out of the fog. The gorgeous mosque inspires them and they begin to daydream, suddenly finding themselves walking around its grounds. In the next scene we see them participating in modern daily life—nightlife, music, entertainment, contemporary art exhibitions, galleries and modern buildings surround them, and then the slogan, “The Most Inspiring City in the World”4 appears over the sea, again shrouded in mist. The film ends focused on their eyes, full of admiration. In another promotional film, the tourist again enters Istanbul through the fog, but this time through the metaphor of a seagull. The seagull, which is characteristic of Istanbul, introduces the well-known sites of Istanbul from the air. When it lands, it invites the viewer to specific places in the city. The difference between this film and the previous one is that Istanbul is presented as a city where all religions come together. The audience enters Istanbul via the guiding sound of the Adhan, by church bells and by the hum of religious rites. These authentic and exotic sounds take one to another time and place, an appropriate approach that meets the expectations of tourists. Community leaders modestly invite the audience 4

See http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qHh2cB_wzho

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into the temples of various religions, a motif that suggests tolerance and that all religions in Istanbul live together in harmony. Through this emphasis, the mentality of “everything and all cultural values are open to tourist gaze” is highlighted. The film ends with the slogan, “Welcome to Istanbul: 24 Hours in the Capital of Civilizations.”5 A third promotional film, which begins with the slogan, “Istanbul, Timeless City,” uses all of its historical and cultural aspects as a motif. Turkish baths, the Maiden's Tower, flying carpets, and even flying horsemen turn up from the past, instilling the city with its atmosphere evoking epics and magic.6 The film promises that the tourist who visits Istanbul will be travelling to an epic and magical place where timelessness triumphs over the rationality of modern life. In a routine, contemporary scene, a bored woman waits for the subway on the way to work when suddenly a historical horseman disembarks from the train and strews rose petals in her direction. He brings back the romance that both she—and we—have lost. Although the same images of Istanbul are used in these three promotional films, they differ because of their different discourses. Through each film, yet another Istanbul is written, emphasized and recreated to increase the value of the city as a commodity. Modern consumerism leads to a romantic and magical capitalism. This “romantic capitalism” is the world of dreams and fantasies (Campell 2005). Travelling is about getting out of daily routines and looking for magical ones. Indeed, a tourist is someone who seeks the magical within a rational world that has in reality dispensed with magic (Ritzer 2005). The fog frequently used in promotional films corresponds to this magical world and promises the entertainment, exoticism, eating/drinking and authenticity that awaits, hidden in it. “Authentic” images of Istanbul in postcards and promotional films have replaced the real city, and thereby compel reality to resemble and conform to the fiction. The images put forward through printed and visual media to motivate tourist travel are more than Istanbul—they are simulacra that have taken the place of Istanbul. The greatest proof are debates about halting the construction of skyscrapers based on the fact that they sully the silhouette of the historical city (ArtÕk bu manzaraya izin yok, Dur KararÕna Ra÷men). The image of this silhouette, which is indispensable for tourist guides, promotional films and postcards, and is so closely identified with Istanbul as to have become its “logo,” has become real enough to recursively interfere with reality.

5 6

See http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PAckvkKRdMY See http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ivMAXdf2bi4

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The mosques that characterize the historical silhouette have come to represent more than just themselves, just as Roland Barthes argues has happened with the Eiffel Tower, which has become a universal symbol. The Eiffel Tower is the representation of Paris, modernity, communication, science and the nineteenth century (Barthes 1997, 165), and the mosque is the symbol of Istanbul, the Ottoman Empire, Islam, the spiritual, the sultanate, the 1001 Arabian Nights and the magical East. The mosque is more than a mosque. When its image is applied from a different perspective each time, the meaning of the mosque and Istanbul itself is rewritten. Just as the Eiffel Tower is “something much more than the Eiffel Tower” (Barthes 1997, 166), the mosque is more than a place of worship. I predict that the skyscrapers looming behind the historical silhouette of the city will not prevail—the reality of the contemporary world is blocking not only the mosques, but their imaginary dimensions as well. And as I mentioned before, tourists ultimately chase the imaginary city, and one of the main sources of cities’ income is tourism. Dreams and hopes are at the centre of modern consumerist processes. Satisfaction is not obtained from products or their use; satisfaction originates from expectations, from the quest for imaginary pleasure. Since reality will never provide the perfect pleasures that we dream about, each purchase leads to disappointment and, in turn, to the desire for more new products. There is a dialectic of innovation and avarice at the centre of contemporary consumerism (Campbell 1987). Therefore, what gives pleasure to the tourist is not being in Istanbul, but rather the images of it that are edited for them. The innovation is not the actual pictures of Istanbul that never change, of course, but rather their re-editing within different narratives. This allows the tourist to feel a sense that they are experiencing an innovation. Just like other forms of consumption, the dream is the essential factor. Indeed, daydreaming is socially organized through media such as television, advertising, literature, cinema and photography (Urry 2002, 134). Tourists are passengers who follow the indicators, and so what they seek in Istanbul are the Oriental/authentic landscapes and images that invite them into this imaginary world (Culler 1990). Walter Benjamin writes in the Arcades Project that “world exhibitions glorify the exchange value of the commodity. They create a framework in which its usage value recedes into the background. They open a phantasmagoria which a person enters in order to be distracted” (Benjamin 1999, 7). These “phantasmagoria of capitalist culture” were splendidly exhibited in the World’s Fairs (Benjamin 1999, 8). G. Ritzer notes that this term loosely refers to the dream world of commodity capitalism: “The

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market is not only the showplace for commodities, it is also the material register of our inner fantasies and dreams.” Following this, … tourism is a concentrated instance of the phantasmagoria of capitalism. In tourism, an escape experience is packaged in an intensely commodified form. For example, we are told that paying for a trip abroad will enable us to “get away from it all.” The beach, the hotel, the casino, the ocean, the mountains and a variety of other tourist motifs are presented in the advertising materials almost as clinics of oblivion where we can check-in and then check-out from the cares of everyday life. (Rojek 1997, 57–58).

The cultural and historical elements of the city are put forward on behalf of marketing Istanbul as a commodity, and these elements are reedited each time in a different way through printed and visual media. Just as in the World’s Fair exhibitions, where the use value of goods was distorted and a phantasmagoria was created for people to spend their time, these images also create a phantasmagoria and invite tourists into it. The act of consuming is as much an act of the imagination (fictitious) as a real act (reality itself being divided into compulsions and adaptations) … there are no natural frontiers separating imaginary consumption or the consumption of make-believe (the subject of publicity) and real consumption. Consumer goods are not only glorified by signs and “goods” in so far as they are signified; consumption is primarily related to these signs and not to the goods themselves. (Lefebvre 1971, 90–91).

Now, from the second half of the twentieth century, “there is nothing—whether object, individual or social group—that is valued apart from its double, the image that advertises and sanctifies it” (Lefebvre 1971, 105). Istanbul is a value through the image of advertising. Only provocative ads can supply the reason for the person to stand up from their comfortable seat at home and travel many miles to Istanbul. The symbols of consumption and the consumption of symbols—i.e., the symbols of happiness and happiness through symbols—intensify and neutralize one other (Lefebvre 1971, 102–103). The desirous, consuming tourist is fed by images. The tourist consumes what is promised, in other words the signs, images or simulacra that comprise the representation of Istanbul in advertisements: “… disorganized capitalism involves the dominance of non-material forms of production (especially images), then in many ways this is what tourism has always involved” (Lash & Urry 1994, 259). It is the condition of hyperreality that it is impossible to separate fact from fiction (Eco 1986). Accordingly, due to the infinite simulations of reality produced in consumption-television culture, a sense of concrete reality

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disappears. The cultural consumption that appears as works of art and style is nothing more than the consumption of signs. Similar to visitors to Venice who do not absorb Venice, but rather words about Venice—the written words of guidebooks and spoken words of lectures, loudspeakers and records (Lefebvre 1971, 133)—the visitors to Istanbul primarily absorb Orientalist discourses of the city. Arabs want to see the throne of Sultan Süleyman in The Magnificent Century, in other words the simulation. The reason they go to see the real throne in TopkapÕ Palace is because of its recursive reference to the simulation: The profusion of commodity signs, adverts, images of “exotic otherness,” filmic and televisual imagery, flow across space, detaching any sense of meaning and belonging to place, flattening localities in an homogenizing process which turns all situated cultures into spectacles and simulacra. This sign culture would seem to be nowhere more prevalent than in the tourist industry, depending as it does upon the marketing of distinctive cultural features to attract tourists, often allied with strategies devised to attract inward investment, shoppers and key middle-class professionals through revamping and rebranding places. (Edensor 2005, 105-106).

The mechanical reproduction of the original inevitably impairs the sense of the authenticity of the object. The fog, which is frequently used in promotional films about Istanbul, signifies a transition to another time and dimension and serves to darken the “real city” image which is lost, inaccessible and impenetrable. Artificial fog gives the illusion of a mysterious and magical Istanbul, when in fact nothing is magical, mysterious or unknown anymore. In the hands of professionals, the collage of Orientalist images that belong to the cultural heritage of Istanbul—the Mevlevi, belly dancers, the Maiden Tower, etc.—are marketed as a commodity in postcards, tourist guides, advertising catalogues and films with the single purpose of giving Istanbul a competitive edge over other cities. These fragmented images support a seamless, continuous discourse on behalf of the city. But as they are presented in fragments—because just parts rather than the whole are shown—the reality of the subject itself is removed. The city that is presented can never be seen as a whole, and the collage of content that makes up the presentation will always be more attractive than the city itself. As long as the world is filled with copies of the original, the belief in the uniqueness of the original disappears (Benjamin 1999). However, the desire/passion for the original never dies. The motivation of the tourism

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industry and what tourists seek are really one and the same passion. Tourists do not consume Istanbul, but rather the discourse around Istanbul.

Works Cited Ashworth, Gregory. 2003. “Urban Tourism: Still an Imbalance in Attention?” In Classic Reviews in Tourism, ed. Chris Cooper, 143– 163. Clevedon, Buffalo, Toronto, Sydney: Channel View Publications. Barthes, Roland. 1997. “The Eiffel Tower.” In Rethinking Architecture (A Reader in Cultural Theory), ed. Neil Leach, 158–172. London and New York: Routledge. —. 1991. Mythologies. New York, Farrar, Straus& Giroux: The Noonday Press. Baudrillard, Jean. 1994. Simulacra and Simulation. USA: University of Michigan Press. Benjamin, Walter. 1999. The Arcades Project. Cambridge, Massachusetts and London: The Belknap Press of Harvard University. Boorstin, Daniel Joseph. 1992. The Image. New York: Vintage Books. Campbell, Colin. 2005. The Romantic Ethic and The Spirit of Modern Consumerism. Great Britain: Alcuin Academics. Cartier, C. 2005. “Introductions: touristed landscapes/seductions of place.” In Seductions of Place: Geographical Perspectives on Globalization and Touristed Landscapes, eds. C. Cartier & A. Lew, 1–20. Abingdon, Oxon: Routledge. Quoted in Darcy, Simon & Jennie Small. 2008. “Theorizing Precincts: Disciplinary Perspectives.” In City Spaces, Tourist Places, eds. Bruce Hayllar, Tony Griffin & Deborah Edwards, 63–91. UK: Elsevier. Costa, Xavier. 2009. “Spaces of Consumption.” In Enhancing the City (New Persprectives for Tourism and Leisure), eds. Giovanni Maciocco & Silvia Serreli, 181–186. Heidelberg, London, New York: Springer Dordrecht. Crosette, Barbara. “Surprises in the Global Tourism Boom.” New York Times, April 12, 1998. Quoted in Löfgren, Orvar. 1999. On Holiday, A History of Vacations. Berkeley, Los Angeles and London: University of California Press. Culler, Jonathan. 1990. Framing the Sign: Criticism and Its Institutions. USA: University of Oklahoma Press. Daye, Marcella. 2005. “An Analysis of the Caribbean Holiday Experience in the UK National Press.” In The Media and The Tourist ImaginationConverging Cultures, eds. David Crouch, Rhona Jackson & Felix Thompson, 14–26. London and New York: Routledge.

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De Amicis, Edmondo. 1993. Istanbul (1874). Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu YayÕnlarÕ. Eco, Umberto. 1986. Travel in Hyperreality. USA: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Trade and Reference Publishers. Edensor, Tim. 2005. “Mediating William Wallace: Audio-visual Technologies in tourism.” In The Media and The Tourist Imagination— Converging Cultures, eds. David Crouch, Rhona Jackson & Felix Thompson, 105–119. London and New York: Routledge. Featherstone, Mike. 2005. Postmodernizm ve Tüketim Kültürü. Istanbul: AyrÕntÕ YayÕnlarÕ. Fish, Robert. 2005. “Mobile Viewers: Media Producers and the Televisual Tourist.” In The Media and The Tourist Imagination—Converging Cultures, eds. David Crouch, Rhona Jackson & Felix Thompson, 119– 135. London and New York: Routledge. Franklin, Adrian. 2003. Tourism (An Introduction). London, Thousand Oaks, New Delhi: Sage Publications. Freely, John. 1987. Blue Guide Istanbul. London: A. & C. Black and New York: W. W. Norton. Frey, Oliver. 2009. “Creativity of Places as a Resource for Cultural Tourism.” In Enhancing the City (New Perspectives for Tourism and Leisure), eds. G. Maciocco & S. Serreli, 137–155. Heidelberg, London, New York: Springer Dordrecht. Güler, Eren. østanbul’a Turist Ya÷Õyor. [It’s Raining Tourists in Istanbul]. Hürriyet Ekonomi, September 8, 2012. http://www.hurriyet.com.tr/ekonomi/21405375.asp (accessed April 25, 2013). Hall, P. 1989. “The turbulent eighth decade.” Journal of American Planning Association 55 (Summer): 277–82. Quoted in Stevenson, Deborah. 2003. Cities and Urban Cultures. Maidenhead, Philadelphia: Open University Press. Harvey, David. 1988. “Voodoo Cities.” New Statesman and Society. Quoted in Featherstone, Mike. 2005. Postmodernizm ve Tüketim Kültürü. østanbul: AyrÕntÕ. Hayllar, B., T. Griffin & D. Edwards. 2008. “Urban Tourism Precincts: Engaging with the Field.” In City Spaces-Tourist Places: Urban Tourism Precincts, eds. Bruce Hayllar, Tony Griffin & Deborah Edwards, 3–19. UK: Elsevier. Holcomb, Briavel. 1993. “Revisioning Place: De- and Re-Constructing the Image of the Industrial City.” In Selling Places: The City as Cultural Capital, Past and Present, eds. G. Kearns & C. Philo, 133–143. Oxford: Pergamon.

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Inglis, Fred. 2000. The Delicious History of the Holiday. London and New York: Routledge. Istanbul. 2010. European Capital of Culture Agency Catalog, Istanbul. Karski, A. 1990. “Urban Tourism: A Key to Urban Regeneration?” The Planner 76 (13): 15–17. Quoted in Hayllar, Bruce & Tony Griffin. 2009. “Urban Tourist Predicts as Sites of Play.” In Enhancing the City (New Perspectives for Tourism and Leisure), eds. G. Maciocco & S. Serreli, 65–81. Heidelberg, London, New York: Springer Dordrecht. Kralikowski, Christopher & Graham Brown. 2008. “The Structure and Form of Urban Tourism Precincts: Setting the Stage for Tourist Performances.” In City Spaces—Tourist Places: Urban Tourism Precincts, eds. Bruce Hayllar, Tony Griffin and Deborah Edwards, 127–149. UK: Elsevier. Lash, Scott & John Urry. 1994. Economies of Signs & Space. London, Thousand Oaks and New Delhi: Sage Publications. Lefebvre, Henri. 1971. Everyday Life in the Modern Life. New York: Harper Torchbooks: Harper and Row Publishers. Löschburg, Winfried. 1998. Seyahatin Kültür Tarihi. Ankara: Dost. Löfgren, Orvar. 1999. On Holiday, A History of Vacations. Los Angeles and London: University of California Press. Metro-Roland, Michelle M. 2011. Tourist, Signs and the City (The Semiotics of Culture in an Urban Landscape). USA: Western Michigan University. McQuire, Scott. 2008. The Media City—Media, Architecture and Urban Space. London: Sage Publication. Miles, Steven & Malcolm Miles. 2004. Consuming Cities. New York: Palgrave MacMillan. Mulgan, G. 1989. “The Changing Shape of the City.” In New Times: The Changing Face of Politics in the 1990s, eds. Stuart Hall & Martin Jacques. London: Lawrence and Wishart. Spirou, Costas. 2008. “The Evolution of the Tourism Precinct.” In City Spaces—Tourist Places: Urban Tourism Precincts, eds. Bruce Hayllar, Tony Griffin & Deborah Edwards, 19–39. UK: Elsevier. Ritzer, George. 2005. Enchanting a Disenchanted World. Thousand Oaks, London, New Delhi: Pine Forge Press. Rojek, Chris. 1997. “Indexing, Dragging and the Social Construction of Tourist Sights.” In Touring Cultures—Transformation of Travel and Theory, eds. Chris Rojek & John Urry, 52–74. London and New York: Routledge.

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Rowe, David, & Deborah Stevenson. 1994. “‘Provincial Paradise’: urban tourism and cityimaging outside the metropolis.”Australian and New Zealand Journal of Sociology 30 (2): 178–94. Sassen, Saskia. 1991. The Global City (New York, London, Tokyo). New Jersey: Princeton University Press. Stevenson, Deborah. 2003. Cities and Urban Cultures. Maidenhead, Philadelphia: Open University Press. Soysal, Levent. 2010. “Kentin Gelece÷i/Gelecekleri: Yeni YüzyÕla Uyumlu Istanbul.” In Istanbul Nereye? Küresel Kent, Kültür, Avrupa, eds. Deniz Göktürk, Levent Soysal & øpek Türeli, 380–400. Istanbul: Metis. Urry, John. 2002. The Tourist Gaze. London, Thousand Oaks, New Delhi: Sage Publication. Zukin, Sharon. 1995. The Culture of Cities. UK: Blackwell Publishers. ArtÕk bu manzaraya izin yok. [Indeed there’s No Permission for this Landscape]. Milliyet, October 14, 2011. http://gundem.milliyet.com.tr/artik-bu-manzaraya-izin-yok/gundem/gundemdetay/14.10.2011/1450594/default.htm (accessed April 25, 2013) “Dur!” kararÕna ra÷men østanbul’un silüeti bozuluyor. [Istanbul’s Silhoutte Continues to be Ruined Despite Stop Order]. Milliyet, September 14, 2011. http://konut.milliyet.com.tr/-dur-kararina-ragmen-istanbul-unsilueti-bozuluyor-/agaoglu/haberdetay/14.09.2011/1438398/default.htm (accessed April 25, 2013). østanbul’da Arap BaharÕ. [The Arap Spring in Istanbul]. Radikal, July 31, 2011. http://www.radikal.com.tr/Radikal.aspx?aType=RadikalDetayV3&Arti cleID=1058256&CategoryID=80 (accessed April 26, 2013) Türk turizminin “yeni reklam yüzü.”[“New Directions in Advertising” for Turkish Tourism]. Sabah, July 8, 2012. http://www.sabah.com.tr/Turizm/2012/07/08/turk-turizminin-yenireklam-yuzu (accessed April 26, 2013). østanbul’un yÕldÕzÕ turizmde de parlÕyor. [Tourism, too, Flourishes in Istanbul]. Radikal, June 1, 2013. http://www.radikal.com.tr/ekonomi/istanbulun_yildizi_turizmde_de_p arliyor-1135796 (accessed June 6, 2013) Tayyip Erdo÷an’dan Arap Turistlere Ça÷rÕ. [Invitation to Arab Tourists from TayyipErdo÷an].http://emlak.kanald.com.tr/t/TurkArap_Turizm_Zirve si/Tayyip_Erdogandan_Arap_turistlere_cagri/20415.aspx

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(accessed April 26, 2013). Hayati YazÕcÕ: AVM sayÕsÕ 10 yÕlda 4’e katlandÕ. [Hayati YazÕcÕ: Number of Shopping Malls Increased Four-Fold in 10 Years]. http://emlakkulisi.com/hayati-yazici-avm-sayisi-10-yilda-4ekatlandi/148408 (accessed April 26, 2013). Arap Turistler øçin AlÕúveriú Merkezleri Dizi YÕldÕzlarÕ Topluyor. [Shopping Malls Gather Television Stars for Arab Tourists]. http://www.emlakhaberleri.com/sektorel-haberleri/arap-turistler-icinalisveris-merkezleri-dizi-yildizlarini-topluyor_38843.html (accessed April 26, 2013). http://www.istanbul.com/tr/sehrini-tani/vialand/turkiyenin-ilk-temaliparki-vialand http://vialand.com.tr/ Tourism Concern, Did You Know …? http://www.tourismconcern.org.uk/donate-today.html (accessed April 25, 2013). Türkiye Turizm. østanbul Rekora Gidiyor. [Turkish Tourism: Istanbul to Break Records]. http://www.turkiyeturizm.com/news_detail.php?id=40612&uniq_id=1 364502378#.UVAU8Bc7JMg (accessed 25 April, 2013). østanbul Kültür veTurizm øl Müdürlü÷ü. Turizm østatistikleri. [Tourism Statistics from the Province of Istanbul Department of Culture and Tourism.] http://www.istanbulkulturturizm.gov.tr/TR,71521/istanbulturizm-istatistikleri---2013.html (accessed December 26, 2013). World Tourism Organization ONWTO. International tourism receipts grew by 4% in 2012. http://media.unwto.org/en/press-release/2013-0515/international-tourism-receipts-grew-4-2012 (accessed June 6, 2013).

Online Video Resources http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jwvu9b6kcbw http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qHh2cB_wzho http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PAckvkKRdMY http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ivMAXdf2bi

CHAPTER FOURTEEN THE RECONQUEST OF CONSTANTINOPLE: REFLECTIONS ON THE CONTEMPORARY LANDSCAPE AND THE 1453 PANORAMA MUSEUM IN ISTANBUL DENIZ ÜNSAL

The representation of the Ottoman past is a popular theme in the cultural and creative industries in Turkey. From cinema to architecture, to TV shows and exhibitions, Ottoman costumes and traditions, imperial court life and spaces have visually and spatially become a part of popular culture. Furthermore, the memory of Ottoman cities and society, as well as imperial territories and people, are often reminisced about in the speeches of politicians and statesmen. This remembering, either in popular forms or in official discourse expressed in public spaces, is a reading and reciting of the past from the perspective of the present. Several instruments have been invented or mobilised in this process of remembering. Some of these are familiar institutions, inherited from earlier processes of reconstructing the past, such as museums or exhibitions that master the power of looking, and establish regimes of knowledge. The conquest of Istanbul in the Panorama 1453 History Museum in the TopkapÕ Cultural Park is the most recent example of the representation of a glorious historical moment within a museum space. While the museum creates a microcosmos within a building, urban planning and architecture perform a similar act in urban space. The city of Istanbul has followed a vigorous restoration and rehabilitation policy in regards to the heritage of the city. In his foreword to the brochure Istanbul: Rebirth in the Historical City, the mayor of Istanbul recounts the fact that “besides magnificently standing historical monuments” the city reconstructs and revives samples/examples of civilian architecture that

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have been “abandoned, ruined and destroyed” in the past (østanbul Büyükúehir Belediyesi BasÕn DanÕúmanlÕ÷Õ 2013). This “constructionist” renaissance of the heritage of the city has progressed parallel to the rise of shopping, business and residential towers and large-scale complexes on both sides of the city. Yet, what is remarkable is that some of these urban projects, such as Maslak 1453, Caprice Gold, Istanbul Palaces, Dersaadet KonaklarÕ, etc. adopt a new artistic, architectural and marketing language that reflects interpretations of what is perceived to be an Ottoman-Islamic identity. In this chapter I examine the representations of the Ottoman Empire in museum and urban spaces as both commodities and expressions of identity in the global city. If the Panorama 1453 History Museum is the embodiment of a new symbolism, then both public and private real-estate projects that claim to recreate Ottoman architecture and landscape are its materialization in urban space. I argue that the economic and political aspirations of the ruling party in Turkey nurture this imperial nostalgia with the aim of reconstructing a new historical imagination and a “founding moment,”1 as well as a territorial memory and a series of new protagonists. In the face of globalization and new economic policies that position Istanbul in a network of global cities, and Turkey as a player in the region, the memory of the conquest of Constantinople has symbolic value for the formation of a new cultural citizenship which embraces Islam and the imperial past, instead of the relatively short history of the Republic and its pre-Islamic references. Both the museum and the urban landscape become ritual spaces where the dispositions of this new citizenship are performed and endorsed. By recreating the likeness of the conquest in a panorama, or constructing the city through “Ottoman” memories, Istanbul becomes a spectacle in which audiences take part. “Understood in its totality, the spectacle,” Debord writes, “is both the outcome and the goal of the dominant mode of production” (1994). He continues: It is not something added to the real World—not a decorative element, so to speak. On the contrary, it is the very heart of society’s real unreality. In all its specific manifestations—news or propaganda, advertising or the actual consumption of entertainment—the spectacle epitomizes the prevailing model of social life … In form, as in content, the spectacle 1 Certain events and moments from history are given exceptional meanings and become key moments in the making of nations or communities. These events or moments in time mark the temporal origins of identities and are thus seen as founding moments. See Alev ÇÕnar (2001) for a discussion on the founding moments of the Islamist and Republican identities in Turkey in the 1990s.

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serves as total justification for the conditions and aims of the existing system. (1994, 14)

I will examine the current use of the spectacle of a historical image/idea in a museum and in the constructed environment that designates Istanbul as a cultural space to stage new identities as well as a space of global consumption.

The Daily Conquest of Constantinople at the TopkapÕ Cultural Park The Panorama 1453 History Museum is located in the TopkapÕ Cultural Park in the Zeytinburnu district of Istanbul. The park is the site of the old TopkapÕ intercity bus terminal, which served the city for decades. It was the first contact point for those who arrived in Istanbul from Anatolia or Thrace. The bus terminal was a bustling centre of buses, passengers and peddlers. It was excavated and the site was transformed into a green area in the 2000s. Today the park is located in the midst of connecting highways, tramways and restored city walls. It lies in a 354,000- square-metre area that houses not only the Panorama Museum but a specially designed “Neighbourhood of Culture for the Turkic World,” three historical mosques, an open-air theatre and administrative buildings of Kültür A. ù., a corporation that belongs to the Istanbul Metropolitan Municipality and is in charge of the organization of culture, art and tourism events, and also manages the park and its facilities. The website of the museum explains that the visitors will witness the conquest of the city, and live the moment of conquest as it was: “You will hear the sounds of tekbir [AllƗhu Akbar] from the thousands of soldiers of Mehmed II, and the marches of the Mehter band [the Ottoman military band] and perhaps, you will join in … This is the place where you will witness Sultan Mehmed II acquire the title ‘Conqueror’ and experience the conquest of Istanbul” (Panorama 1453 Tarih Müzesi 2013). The museum is located in TopkapÕ where the soldiers of Mehmet II are believed to have entered the city from the gates of Constantinople after a fierce siege. The first floor of the museum prepares the visitor for the moment of the conquest by briefing them on the earlier attempts to take the city, the necessity of the conquest as it was prophesied in the words of the Prophet and military plans, and the preparations of Mehmet II and the city to defend itself against his armies. This hall leads up to the panoramic view of the conquest scene. The 360-degree painting depicts 10,000 Ottoman and Byzantine soldiers across 650 square meters. The visitor finds themself

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in the middle of a battlefield ushered by an attendant dressed in a Janissary costume. The visual immersion is supplemented by battlefield sounds and cries, thus augmenting the feeling of “being there.” The visitor observes the falling of the city walls, the canons being prepared for firing and soldiers digging ditches, riding horses, climbing or running against the walls, others fighting on the walls or falling down hopelessly. On one side, under a tree, a young man on a white horse is leading the battle calmly with his men and mentors surrounding him. His hand points to the falling walls, giving the greeting sign of the Grey Wolves.2 On one of the towers the Byzantine banner featuring a two-headed eagle is torn apart and an Ottoman flag is about to be mounted in its place by UlubatlÕ Hasan. Beyond the walls lies a green city with towers. The visitor ends their visit on this floor with a searching look in the skies for the silhouette of Mehmet II, appearing as an enigma placed in the painting by the Panorama’s artist. Back on the first floor, they follow the route out while reading the texts and looking at the visuals about the conquest’s aftermath. Here they learn about Ottoman pluralism and respect for non-Muslims, the Galata Ahitnamesi [Galata Treaty] and the consequences of the Pax Ottomana for non-Muslims.3 TopkapÕ Cultural Park offers other attractions in this line to visitors such as the Türk DünyasÕ Kültür Mahallesi [Neighbourhood of Culture for the Turkic World] which is a representation of different Turkic societies from the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus, Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Azerbaijan, Bashkortostan, Uzbekistan, Tatarstan, Turkmenistan and the Balkans. In individually decorated houses, cultural and traditional products from countries and geographies that belong to the Turks are displayed. These houses are operated by the diplomatic missions and consulates of the Turkic Republics and they offer language courses, organize musical and culinary events, and exhibitions. In this neighbourhood “common celebrations in the Turkic world such as Newroz, Sabantoy and independence days are celebrated,” and artistic activities are held (TopkapÕ Türk DünyasÕ 2013). The mayor of Istanbul

2

Grey Wolves is a Turkish ultra-nationalist youth group. In 1453 after the conquest of Constantinople, Mehmed II signed an agreement with the Genoese living in Galata, and in return for their submission to the sultan he agreed that: “they may follow their own customs and rights as were in force before … and that their money, provisions, properties, storehouses, vineyards, mills, ships and boats, in short, all their possessions as well as their wives, sons, and slaves of both sexes, be left in their hands as before.” See full translation in Halil ønalcÕk (1998).

3

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invites his citizens “to meet those from their own race” (TopkapÕ Türk DünyasÕ 2013).

Fig. 14.1. Visitors inside the panorama of the conquest of Constantinople, 2013.

TopkapÕ Cultural Park with its Panorama Museum and Neighbourhood of Culture for the Turkic World serves as a site of public memory in construction. While the Neighbourhood of Culture for the Turkic World spatially claims to unite and celebrate a shared heritage (by celebrating Newroz, Sabantoy, etc.) of the Islamic Turks, the museum glorifies the military conquest of Constantinople by the Turks representing Islam. At the opening of the TopkapÕ Cultural Park facilities and the Panorama 1453 History Museum in early 2009, the Prime Minister Tayyip Erdo÷an declared that: Istanbul is the heritage of a great world empire, and it not only represents Bursa, Van, DiyarbakÕr, Trabzon, Sivas, Konya, Edirne, and Sakarya but also Saraybosna [Sarajevo], Gümülcine [Komotini], Üsküp [Skopje] and Priútine [Pristina]. It feels in its very heart the memory of øskeçe [Xanthi], Girne [Kyrenia], Gazi Ma÷osa [Famagusta], Kerkük [Kirkuk], KÕrÕm [Crimea], Hijaz, Damascus, Baghdad, Yemen and Trablus [Tripoli]. The brotherhood of Baku and the pain of Karada÷ [Karadagh] fills hearts here. (østanbul Büyükúehir Belediyesi 2009).

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Erdo÷an draws the cartography of Ottoman memory and locates Istanbul in the “heart” of the ex-Ottoman territories. By reiterating the names of the cities, he recalls them one by one to the Empire and reconstructs it in his speech. A historical spatial relationship among the cities around the Eastern Mediterranean is revived claiming their disrupted continuity.4 Speaking after the prime minister, the mayor of Istanbul underlines the importance of the Panorama 1453 History Museum and argues that humanity had experienced only a few events of similar importance: The conquest of Istanbul had been heralded by our glorious Prophet, and had been the shared dream of Muslim statesmen. This conquest placed, once again Istanbul at the heart of world history. What we need, in our period of time, is a renewed spirit of conquest for Istanbul, and for Turkey. (østanbul Büyükúehir Belediyesi 2009).

This “spirit of conquest” can now be experienced in the Panorama of the Conquest of Constantinople in the TopkapÕ Cultural Park.

After the Visit The Panorama 1453 History Museum can be identified as “rational entertainment.” While visually amazing visitors with its magnitude and immersing them in the likeness of the battlefield, it reconstructs an alternative collective memory for the founding moment of the nation. Evoking the Empire and the cosmopolitanism of Ottoman society in the public sphere after the 1980s challenged the Kemalist definition of Turkishness, which was an attempt to claim the historicity of the nation and the ownership of territory starting from a pre-Islamic past. YÕlmaz Çolak (2006) argues that in the late 1980s, in the political environment of conflicting views about the definition of Turkish culture, “the Ottoman legacy was used to invoke a collective cultural memory by constructing a Karada÷ (Montenegro) nostalgic narrative of Turkey’s shared past.”

4 In this map Baku and Karada÷ remain “brothers” as they had never been part of the Ottoman Territory as others, but were occupied for very brief periods. The media agency reports that the prime minister said Karada÷, and not Karaba÷, with which the Ottoman Empire had a longer history and where, also, events to which he refers occurred between Armenia and Azerbaijan. It is, therefore, not clear whether he said Karada÷ (Montenegro in the Balkans) or Karaba÷ (NagornoKarabakh) in the east of Turkey, the region between Armenia and Azerbaijan.

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The advent of the Welfare Party in the local government of Istanbul in 1994, and later in 2002 in the central government, was considered the reconquest of the city and the country by those whose culture, beliefs and worldview had been denied in public space. This has been further extended by AKP diplomacy in the 2000s, where the foreign policy priorities of Turkey shifted towards the ex-Ottoman territories of the Balkans and the Middle East. In foreign and domestic policy, a new understanding of nationhood was put into use which adopted OttomanIslamic culture as the essential and true identity of the nation. On the other hand, Istanbul has been a cultural symbol and reference point for different worldviews. Some praised nineteenth century Istanbul with its dynamism, and cosmopolitan areas such as Pera and KadÕköy, where different religions and languages were present in the bustling streets, cabarets and theatres. For more conservative circles this was the reason for the contamination and downfall of the city at the hands of Western imperialists.5 The holy (because it was promised by the Prophet) and imperial (because of the Ottoman conquest) city had become a victim of unsound policies and politics and had to regain its grandeur. For adherents to this view, everything Ottoman became a symbol of Islamic ideology and a source of rehabilitation for the existing malaise. The Ottoman memory, therefore, “could be utilized as a powerful political tool to challenge the Turkish secular enterprise” (Bartu 1999, 38–39).The Ottoman heritage, neglected in the founding myth of the Republic, was revived not only in language, but also in public imagery and urban artefacts.6 The prime minister, speaking at the opening of the Culture Park, underlined this ambition: In Istanbul everyone has constructed cities according to their own worldview and philosophy. Our municipal activity revives the Istanbul we read about in poems. We are reviving the Istanbul in our songs, in our folk songs. We are reviving Istanbul in our literature, in our history. The Panorama 1453 History Museum that we open today, and the TopkapÕ Cultural Park and Social Facilities are further reflections of this approach that we have developed … Our children will look to the future under the influence of the grandeur of this history, and think, “How glorious I once was,” this is what they will see here. We do not want our youth to be raised with an inferiority complex, we want the exact opposite, we want them to 5

For a discussion on the narratives of conservative ideologies on Istanbul in the 1990s, see TanÕl Bora (1999). 6 For a discussion on the popularization of history in public space (from films to museums), see the special dossier by Vangelis Kechriotis (2013) on Public History.

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The Ottoman past is perhaps the most powerful of the new perspectives that provide a glorious yet forgotten spirit to new generations. The prime minister’s words point to a criticism of the Republican politics of Westernization which “raised youth with an inferiority complex.” The 1453 History Museum and other projects with similar aims, on the other hand, are disciplinary instruments of inculcating a new historicity in the younger generations. Yet, as illustrated in the speech, the project of raising confident new generations is not limited to establishing museums. The city as a whole becomes a cultural space where new identities and citizenship rituals are invented. I will now turn to urban space and how it becomes reconstructed in the image of a new understanding of history and cultural roots. The framework of this discussion is composed of two aspects: one is the impact of the global economy on Istanbul, the second is the rise of arts and cultural initiatives and projects in Istanbul by public actors. I will then illustrate the employment of the idea and image of the conquest of 1453 as a symbol and a manifestation of cultural identity in urban luxury housing projects, as new monuments in the urban landscape.

The Impact of the Global Economy on Istanbul Following the military coup d’état of September 12, 1980 and the three-year military regime that followed, the 1980s were characterized by an economic liberalization in Turkey. In these years, the Turkish government undertook a major reform program to open the Turkish economy to international markets. In this period, a new and open development policy oriented towards exports would define the Turkish economy. “As state entrepreneurship waned, priority was given to the private sector. This transformation brought about a radical change in how Turkey established relations with the rest of the world. About ten years later, the disintegration of the Socialist Block and the end of the Cold War also provided important opportunities for Turkey to open its economy” (Tekeli 2009, 17). In the 1990s Turkey's economy suffered from a series of coalition governments with weak economic policies, leading to high-inflation boom-and-bust cycles that culminated in a severe banking and economic crisis in 2001, a deep economic downturn and an increase in unemployment. In the same decade, the rise of political Islam manifested itself first in local elections in victories of the Welfare Party and later the

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advent of the Justice and Development Party (AKP) in the national government in 2002. From 2002 until the recession of 2008, Turkey's economy grew at an average of 6.0% per year—one of the highest sustained rates of growth in the world. The rise of the new economy and the emergence of new actors took place in tandem with the rise of Istanbul as the megacity of Turkey. The transformations would give Istanbul the status of a global city. Istanbul had already attracted migration from other parts of the country starting from the 1950s. But, as finance, retail, manufacturing, construction, commerce, communication and transportation industries were tightly woven into the urban fabric, the city once more became the country’s main gate to the world. The city’s population, from 5 million in 1980, reached 12.6 million in 2008. The city produced 22% of the national GDP in 2008, and accommodated 17.8% of the country’s population in 2007 (City of Intersections 2009, 38). In the 2000s, foreign capital investment increased, and employment, particularly in the construction sector, expanded. In fact, the AKP government introduced measures that made investment in extensive commercial, tourism and residential projects easier for foreign and domestic real estate firms. Such measures extended from drafting necessary legal framework (such as the law on renewal, law on encouragement of tourism, law of coastlines, law of housing development and the law of local authorities) to setting up or refurbishing old institutions (such as TOKø—the Housing Development Administration of Turkey), changing zoning codes and transforming residential areas into commercial zones, and selling public land to private real estate development companies. Thus, globalization in Turkey, as elsewhere, proceeded in big cities like Istanbul, rapidly changing the urban, sociocultural and economic landscape. While shopping centres, high-rise residences, office space, international hotels and theme parks increased in number, the cost was paid by certain historical districts where the social and economic texture underwent a rapid change. Global networks did not only bring new investors to the real estate landscape of Istanbul in the 2000s, but also a wave of artists and cultural operators who were eager to experience and participate in the blooming arts and cultural sector of the city. Ironically named the “Istanbul Miracle” by Halil AltÕndere, this explosion in the city’s arts scene owed its emergence both to the public and the private sectors (AltÕndere & Evren 2007). The privately sponsored and managed cultural institutions became the driving force behind arts and culture in Istanbul. From art fairs, new

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museums and art galleries to mega concerts and new festivals in public spaces, art events in Istanbul transformed the city into a “hot spot.”7 On the other hand, in the 2000s local governments began a construction campaign of cultural centres at a pace never seen before. Almost 90% of these institutions were built under the motto of “serving the public” (ønce 2012). From BakÕrköy to Sultanbeyli, from Ba÷larbaúÕ to Tuzla, Ümraniye and Zeytinburnu, a series of cultural centres were opened by district governments. The monthly program for these centres, almost all of which were equipped with multi-purpose spaces, changed per region, but included activities from theatre, music and literature, panels on various topics and celebrations of special days. A particular area of interest and action for local governments in the 2000s was the cultural heritage of the city and the historic urban districts. Until the mid 2000s, any intervention in urban historic and heritage sites was controlled by the central government. However, in 2005 the Law of Local Governments granted more power to local governments to act upon the urban landscape, while the Law on Urban Renewal in the same year described the procedures that should be followed by local authorities in regard to conservation, rehabilitation and renewal of cultural assets (Dinçer 2011). Based on this latter law, renewal areas were declared mainly in the districts of Fatih and Beyo÷lu, including Sulukule, Süleymaniye, TarlabaúÕ and Fener-Balat.8 The rising real estate values of these areas in the centre, once dilapidated and abandoned, now offered a potential for tourism and investment by large financial firms. The new official perspective on heritage and the conservation of heritage transformed these areas into major sources of capital accumulation, causing new forms of inequality and injustice in the city. In the 2000s, the scope and intensity of art and cultural events were stimulating the arts world, contributing to the production, dissemination and expression of different and manifold forms and ideas. On the other hand, through their augmented powers, by the mid 2000s local governments viewed heritage as a resource for tourism and traditional or popular art forms as safe mediums to access electors and build popularity. 7

51% of the existing private museums in Istanbul were opened between 2000– 2010. See Ceyda Bakbaúa (2010) for a discussion of the infrastructure of museums. 8 Dinçer explains that “the major controversy around renewal projects was about property rights. Although the law stated that reaching a mutual agreement would constitute the basis for any attempt to remove existing tenants and demolish or expropriating existing structures, it also allowed the relevant authority to impose its own wishes if agreement could not be reached, thus, conflicting with the main idea of public welfare” (2011, 47).

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Manifold activities from festivals to museums to restoration projects were the instruments used to foster city/district branding and to mark the urban landscape. We can contextualise the institution and the message of the Panorama 1453 History Museum in Istanbul within these developments that were triggered by globalization and the political aspirations of the ruling party.

The Age of Happiness in Istanbul Perceptions of Ottoman history and symbols manifest themselves in the material culture of our times. With its objects, images and the messages it conveys, the museum serves as the space where knowledge about history, the self, the other and nature is formed. Yet, the city is also man made and as such is considered material culture. Thus, looking at the urban space from this point of view one can draw parallels between the city and the museum space, which is my intention in this section. Happiness is the leitmotif of a recent real estate project, Maslak 1453, as titled by its founder Ali A÷ao÷lu, a real estate mogul in Turkey, with a 1 billion TL turnover in 2010 (A÷ao÷lu 2013). The project’s promotional video states: “In 1453 Fatih conquered Constantinople starting a new age, today Maslak 1453 opens another new age … a new age of happiness.” The project introduction argues that the old city centre, Pera, the main street that had animated the city and given it its individual quality, deteriorated because of migration and overcrowding. Therefore, those who arrived in Istanbul with a longing for big city life were faced with one detached from the centre and were obliged to view the dynamism of the city from afar in their enclosed residential districts. The project claims to address this lack by reproducing a main along which the users will lead happy, successful, entertained lives with friends and family (Maslak 1453 2013). Maslak has grown in the last couple of decades to become the business district of the city with the arrival of domestic and foreign banking, insurance and investment companies. Maslak employs what the Ehrenreichs would call the “professional managerial classes,” who are “salaried mental workers who do not own the means of production” (Ehrenreich & Ehrenreich 1979). As actors in the top segment of the hierarchy of the service economy, the professional managerial middle classes in Istanbul may consume services and products such as concerts, luxury dining, horseback riding and fitness centre memberships, and reside in places that are linked to a high “quality of life.” As Lash & Urry underline: “the increased symbolic content of the services towards the top

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of the hierarchy … The professional middle class is centrally involved in the processing and circulation of symbols” (2002, 221). Maslak 1453 is the product of a neoliberal perception of urban planning and housing which maximizes the percentage of profit from urban land.9 The symbolic use of the theme of the conquest of Constantinople becomes a marketing strategy to sell flats to those who “long for big-city life.” The sale of new real estate projects invents and commodifies Ottoman-Islamic images and forms to attract clients. The massive building and landscape plans create a new city within the city, offering “happiness” for some to live and work in. Another luxury residence project promoted on the billboards in major junctions in Istanbul is the Caprice Gold Palace: History is being written. The year is 1452, RumelihisarÕ [the fortress on the European side of the fortress that was instrumental in the conquest of Istanbul] was built. And now, the year is 2012, and the Caprice Gold Palace is built. Caprice Gold, a seven-star palace rises in Bayrampaúa, where Sultan Mehmed II the Conqueror set up his imperial tent before the conquest … 3 magnificent towers that extend history from RumelihisarÕ to the present day with the architectural style of the Caprice Gold Palace. Representing the powerful history of the Ottoman Empire that ruled over 3 continents. Caprice Gold Istanbul! (Caprice Gold Palace 2013).

The billboards announced the last remaining rooms left for sale. Those who bought one got one free, and the company even offered a gift of pilgrimage [Umrah] to Mecca for its clients. Considered to be one of the first hotels with an Islamic code in Istanbul, the Caprice Gold Palace rises next to the highway in Bayrampaúa. The groundbreaking ceremony was performed with Quran readings, with the participation of the mediatic 9

The plot of Maslak 1453 spreads over an area of 320,000 square meters including a public forest area. It foresees a high-rise, high-density settlement with shopping, residential, recreational and business functions. The project is realised in cooperation with TOKø, the Housing Development Administration of Turkey and Emlak Konut, a state-led real estate investment company. Both organizations have played a major role in the construction industry in Turkey in the 2000s. TOKø targets “revitalizing blighted neighbourhoods, restoring and reconstructing buildings of historic importance” (TOKø 2013). TOKø has become the single most important player in urban regeneration in Turkey, especially after the changes brought by the Law on Housing Development in 2004 and the Law of Local Governments in 2005. Its augmented role in the neoliberal economy as the executor of state-led real estate development projects in big cities has drawn much criticism. For a thorough discussion on the impact of neoliberalism on Istanbul’s urban planning, see John Lovering & Hale Türkmen (2011).

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preacher Ahmet Mahmut Ünal (popularly known as Cübbeli Ahmet Hodja), Harun Osmano÷lu, a third generation grandson of Abdulhamid II, the 34th Sultan of the Ottoman Empire between 1876–1909, Tanju Çolak, a retired famous football player and FadÕl Akgündüz, the Head of the JETPA Holding Board of Directors who acts as the investor and contractor of the project.10 The Caprice Gold Palace is a curious example of integrating Ottoman Islamic symbols and references into the neoliberal economy’s urban real estate development sprawl. Its architectural language, marketing strategies and discourse to reach its target group are as complex as the networks within which it operates. Yet, as part of the construction frenzy taking place in Istanbul, it is in a genre of residence, hotel, shopping and business buildings and centres that cash in on the various versions of the Ottoman past in today’s urban projects. The Dersaadet KonaklarÕ project11 in Nurtepe, supposedly inspired by Seljuk architecture, the Elit Grand Palas project in Kurtköy and the Istanbul SaraylarÕ project (Palaces of Istanbul) in Büyükçekmece recreate the golden era and glory of the Ottoman Empire’s idealised living spaces far away from the old centre from which they are inspired. The project østanbul SaraylarÕ, for instance, stages Istanbul with small-scale replicas of its well-known Ottoman buildings or gives names of district, piers and parks originally from Istanbul to streets and squares in the project. These fictitious new living spaces become private spectacles in the urban landscape for those who can afford it, while the Panorama 1453 History Museum, as a public space of rational entertainment, accommodates the masses. The rise of Istanbul to the status of a brand image for Turkey since the end of the 1980s can be contextualised within the literature of globalization and neoliberalism.12 The city, as a physical space and a social place, has experienced and is still experiencing major public transportation, housing, commercial and gentrification projects as well as new arts, cultural and social centres built by both public and private funds. These transform the urban texture and create new spaces where new neoliberal urban identities 10

FadÕl Akgündüz, or “Jet FadÕl” as he is known in the media, was charged with fraud and sentenced to prison in the early 2000s. He then left the country and was a fugitive for several years. Akgündüz was elected as a deputy in his hometown Siirt in 2002 and was later arrested. In 2008, all charges against him were dropped due to the lapse of time. 11 Dersaadet means “Door of Happiness,” which is an old name for Istanbul. The villas get their name from this historical reference. 12 Asu Aksoy elaborates on the brand image of Istanbul in her article on the cultural and urban policies of the city (2010).

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can be imagined and performed. The reconquest of the city through real estate development projects aims at generating the proper public space for the new urban elite. In our “symbol saturated societies,” cultural places such as the Panorama 1453 History Museum and “living spaces” such as Maslak 1453, where the consumption of signs and symbols of globalization have blurred the line between reality and fantasy, new forms of belonging and cultural citizenship are redefined (Scott & Urry 2002, 222). These processes are rooted deeply in the value systems of neoliberal economy and its organization of production. The idea of the conquest of 1453, as a political and cultural symbol or as a marketing idea, becomes imperative for the remaking of urban space in the image of a glorious and magnificent past with its imagined tastes and images. These appropriations (or disappropriations) of Istanbul represent political and cultural power shifts in different episodes in the history of the country. Istanbul is a landscape upon which different ideologies are engraved, installed and instituted. The urban space is a conflict zone, resolved and made complicated through hegemonic struggles. By means of signs and symbols, sometimes violently, sometimes more quietly, the city is remade in the image of those who are financially and politically in power. Constantinople is reconquered in the Panorama Museum every day, while Istanbul is transformed into a space for the new capitalist elites. The new rituals of belonging to the city and the essence of new cultural citizenship are invented both in the museum and in the urban landscape.

Works Cited A÷ao÷lu. “2011 Hedefi 2 Milyar TL.” published January 18, 2011, http://www.agaoglu.com.tr/ haber.asp?id=162 (accessed April 5, 2013). Aksoy, Asu. 2010. “Istanbul markasÕ için yeni kültür ve kent politikalarÕ: Bir 2010 analizi.” In Küreselleúen østanbul'da Ekonomi, ed. Ça÷lar Keyder. OsmanlÕ BankasÕ Arúiv ve AraútÕrma Merkezi, østanbul. AltÕndere, Halil & Süreyya Evren, eds. 2007. User's Manual Contemporary Art in Turkey 1986–2006. Istanbul: art-ist Prodüksiyon. Altick, Richard Daniel. 1978. The Shows of London. Belknap Press of Harvard University. Bakbaúa, Ceyda. 2010. Istanbul’da Müzeler, Temel YapÕsal Özellikler, FÕrsat ve Tehditler, Politika Önerileri, Sektörel AraútÕrma Raporu, østanbul Kültür MirasÕ ve Kültür Ekonomisi Envanteri. www.istanbulkulturenvanteri.gov.tr/ (accessed March 3, 2013).

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Bartu, Ayfer. 1999. “Who owns the Old Quarters?” In Istanbul: Between the Global and the Local, ed. Ça÷lar Keyder, 31–47. Maryland: Rowman & Littlefield Publishers Inc. Bora, TanÕl. 1999. “Istanbul of the Conqueror: The ‘Alternative Global City.’ Dreams of Political Islam.” In Istanbul: Between the Global and the Local, ed. Ça÷lar Keyder, 47–58. Maryland: Rowman & Littlefield Publishers Inc. Caprice Gold Palace, promotional video, http://www.caprice.com.tr (accessed April 1, 2013). ÇÕnar, Alev. 2001. “National History as a Contested Site: The Conquest of Istanbul and Islamist Negotiations of the Nation.” Comparative Studies in Society and History 43 (2): 364–391. Çolak, YÕlmaz. 2006. “Ottomanism vs. Kemalism: Collective Memory and Cultural Pluralism in 1990s Turkey.” Middle Eastern Studies 42 (4): 587–602. Debord, Guy. 1994. The Society of the Spectacle. Translated by Donald Nicholson-Smith. New York: Zone Books. Dinçer, øclal. 2011. “Impact of Neoliberal Policies on Historic Urban Space: Areas of Urban Renewal in Istanbul.” International Planning Studies 16 (1): 43–60. Ehrenreich, Barbara & John Ehrenreich. 1979. “Professional Managerial Class.” In Between Labour and Capital, 1979. ed. Pat Walker, 5–49. Boston: South End Press. ønalcÕk, Halil. 1998. Ottoman Galata 1453–1553. In Essays in Ottoman History, ed. Edhem Eldem, 275–376, østanbul: Eren YayÕncÕlÕk. ønce, Ayça. 2012. “Kültür PolitikalarÕnda Eúbiçimlilik: KaçÕnÕlmaz mÕ, bilinçli bir tercih mi?” Toplum ve Bilim 125: 178–205. østanbul Büyükúehir Belediyesi. “Türkiye’nin ilk panoramik müzesi ‘østanbul’un Fethi’ni’ yeniden yaúatacak …” published January 31, 2009. http://www.ibb.gov.tr/trTR/Pages/Haber.aspx?NewsID=17004#.UXrV WY6DHzg (accessed March 3, 2013). østanbul Büyükúehir Belediyesi BasÕn DanÕúmanlÕ÷Õ. “østanbul Tarihi Kentte Yeniden Do÷uú”, www.ibb.gov.tr/tr-TR/Documents/tarihi_kentte_yeniden_dogus.pdf (accessed March 3, 2013). Kechriotis, Vangelis. 2013. Kamusal Tarih, Dossier editor. Toplumsal Tarih 232. Lash, Scott & John Urry. 2002. Economies of Signs and Space. London: Sage.

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Lovering, John & Hade Türkmen. 2011. “Bulldozer Neo-liberalism in Istanbul: The State-led Construction of Property Markets and the Displacement of the Urban Poor.” International Planning Studies 16 (1): 73–96. Maslak 1543. “A÷ao÷lu Maslak 1453 Istanbul.” http://www.maslak1453.com/genel-tanitim/0/1/agaoglu-maslak-1453 Istanbul.html (accessed April 5, 2013). NTV. “Erdo÷an AçÕlÕúta Konuútu.” http://video.ntvmsnbc.com/erdoganacilista-konustu.html (accessed March 25, 2013). Panorama 1453 Tarih Müzesi. “HakkÕmÕzda” at http://www.panoramikmuze.com/category.php?id=1 (accessed March 7, 2013). Tekeli, ølhan. 2009. “Cities in Modern Turkey.” In City of Intersections Newspaper published for Urban Age Istanbul Conference November. TOKø. http://www.toki.gov.tr (accessed March 15, 2013). TopkapÕ Türk DünyasÕ. “Türk DünyasÕ Birarada,” http://www.topkapiturkdunyasi.com/ana_sayfa.asp?mekan=listele&tab lo=hakkimizda&baslik= Hakk%FDm%FDzda (accessed March 27, 2013). Zerman, Ece. 2009. Murat Belge ile 1453 Panoramik Tarih Müzesi üzerine söyleúi “Tarihi Bugünün Renkleriyle Boyamak.” Toplumsal Tarih 185: 14–18.

PART VI: THE CITY OF “HIM”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN I SAW ISTANBUL AS A UNIVERSITY EMINE ONARAN øNCIRLIOöLU

Mustafa Taúçeviren prefers to call himself a Çingene (Gypsy man) instead of using the more politically correct name Romani. He was born in 1949 in the village of Çöpköyü in Uzunköprü, Edirne. At 12 he decamped to Istanbul to escape stereotyping and discrimination. He lived and worked in Istanbul until 1967 when as a young man he returned home, after reconciling with his father. Many people in the town of Lalapaúa, where he lives now, and maybe some members of Gypsy and Romani organizations elsewhere, would know Mustafa Taúçeviren, although he may not have nationwide fame. Based on in-depth interviews with him in his home in August 2003 and March 2013, in addition to telephone conversations and presentations in various conferences and workshops about the Roma, this chapter tells a brief version of the story of this “ordinary” man. He passed through Istanbul and it helped form his identity. There are many more ordinary men and women like him who both made and were made by Istanbul. Mustafa Taúçeviren’s adventures in Istanbul in the first half of the 1960s working as a saka (water carrier), a minibüs muavini (minibus driver’s helper) and an apprentice in an auto mechanic’s shop took place at a time before the globalization process of the 1980s started, although Istanbul had long been the recipient of migrants from all over Anatolia— as, for provincials, Istanbul’s rocks and soil have always been made of gold (Istanbul’un taúÕ topra÷Õ altÕn). His Istanbul experiences were fleeting but it became a permanent, integral part of him as he carried on his life in Lalapaúa. He has carried Istanbul in his baggage ever since—the Istanbul that he “saw as a university.”

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The first steps of Gypsy organization in Turkey were taken at the turn of the millennia. In 2002 and 2003, I conducted several in-depth interviews and had focus-group conversations with Gypsy activists in Turkey who had just started organizing themselves under Mustafa Aksu’s leadership in Ankara. At the time, there were already a few associations— for example one organization of porters in øzmir—but there were no Gypsy organizations per se, based on ethnicity. Mustafa Taúçeviren, the founding president of the Association for the Research, Development and Solidarity of Gypsy Culture (Çingene Kültürünü AraútÕrma, Geliútirme ve DayanÕúma Derne÷i, ÇøNDER) based in Lalapaúa, was one of those activists involved in the painful process of organizing the association. He and his friends were working towards establishing the Trachea branch of a countrywide Gypsy association. Following the blueprint prepared by Mustafa Aksu in Ankara, he was in charge of the provinces of Edirne, Tekirda÷, KÕrklareli and Çanakkale. Like Mustafa Aksu, he also wanted to go slowly and surely in establishing their association, by bringing together reliable, responsible people who had good reputations in society so that they would have a long lasting organization. It was easy to mobilize the “ignorant” Gypsy community for a quick assembly, but their intention was to institute an organization with firm roots. They were adamant that they, as Gypsies, could not afford to make mistakes. After a lengthy telephone conversation with Mustafa Taúçeviren in July 2003, on Mustafa Aksu’s referral, I went to Edirne from Ankara in August and talked with him and other Gypsy organizers in both Edirne and Lalapaúa. A friend came with me to keep me company and to assist as an observer. Erdem Güyümgüler, a Gypsy journalist among other things, met us at the Edirne bus station and took us to the guesthouse of Trachea University where we would stay. The following morning we met Mustafa Taúçeviren. He picked us up from the guesthouse and introduced us to other Gypsy/Roma organizers. We sat with them at a local tea garden and conversed, and he drove us to various places in the area for “cultural” sightseeing. First, we were led to a çalgÕcÕlar kahvesi (musicians’ coffeehouse) where musicians—mostly Gypsys—lingered with their instruments waiting for job offers. Our tour included a visit to the stadium where KÕrkpÕnar wrestling matches were held. The three statues at the gate were of the Gypsy wrestlers Kurtdereli Halil, Kel Aliço and Koca Yusuf. We went to Küçükpazar, a Gypsy neighbourhood, where we met and talked with the Muhtar (Mukhtar) his wife and a group of residents about their experiences as Gypsies. They had no interest in being organized as Gypsies, and unlike the organizers they

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called themselves “Roman,” refusing to be called Çingene which, for them, denoted a lower class. During our conversations in Küçükpazar, Mustafa Taúçeviren used the time to campaign for the association he was busy organizing. The next day, Taúçeviren took us to Lalapaúa where we spent a long day and most of the night. In his apartment, we met his wife, two daughters-in-law and one granddaughter. We had lunch prepared by his wife in their cosy kitchen. In addition to long and friendly conversations in their living room where we felt most welcome, we also conducted in-depth interviews with the Taúçevirens. Later in the evening we visited their relatives—an older aunt, a cousin, his wife and children—a group of kind, outgoing, warm-hearted people. All these conversations were very friendly and hospitable. During these encounters, in addition to obtaining information about the Gypsies’ organizational efforts that I have published elsewhere (øncirlio÷lu 2005), I also recorded Mustafa Taúçeviren’s life story using our interview and, in passing, during our conversations. Later, I ran into him at various meetings, conferences and workshops in Ankara and Istanbul involving Roma issues. When I was asked to contribute to the present volume Whose City Is That? I called Taúçeviren and asked if we could meet again to talk about his experiences in Istanbul specifically. He agreed and I made another trip to Edirne after ten years, again with a friend who wanted to visit as a tourist while I conducted my interviews in Lalapaúa. Mustafa Taúçeviren met us at the Edirne bus terminal and took us to its historic sites as his way of hosting and entertaining us. We visited the Complex of Bayezid II, the historic bridges over the rivers of Tunca and Meriç, the Lausanne Memorial built after the Treaty of Lausanne was signed in 1923, the Pazarkule Greek border in Karaa÷aç, the hunting lodge of Mehmet IV, Sarayiçi, the places where KÕrkpÕnar wrestling matches were held, and Sinan’s masterpiece Selimiye Mosque. We sat and conversed in tea gardens while having our tea and lahmacun (Turkish pizza), and caught up. He was informative about the history of the sites we visited and the many legends that made that history lively and interesting. Meanwhile, he also gave us clues about his life with his family: “Every two weeks, we— my wife, children and grandchildren—come to this park and have tea here while the children run around and play.” He now had four more grandchildren. Finally, we headed to Lalapaúa to revisit his family and friends, and to talk about his Istanbul. Their hospitality, as usual, was embarrassingly abundant. That weekend they not only fed me and provided me with information, but also sent me home with gifts.

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This chapter is based on my observations and notes over the span of the ten years that I have known Mustafa Taúçeviren. I trust that anthropological methods—establishing rapport with key informants, a pseudo-ethnography of participant observation and some formal in-depth interviews and many informal conversations in various contexts—reveal significant information. However, as memory is fallible in interesting ways and in different contexts, there were times I received inconsistent or different information, sometimes in the order of events, sometimes in dates and times, and sometimes in the details of narratives. In my opinion, these discrepancies are inconsequential. I reconstructed Mustafa Taúçeviren’s story by putting together the compatible parts, and by “negotiating for reality” (see, for example, øncirlio÷lu 1994, after Rosen 1984) through telephone conversations with him and obtaining his approval. I am confident that the essence of his story is not lost, either in reconstruction or in translation.

Mustafa Taúçeviren Was About Eight Years Old When He Learned That He Was a “Gypsy” Mustafa Taúçeviren was born in a village of Uzunköprü called Çöpköyü in September 1949 and attended the village elementary school. It was not until he was about eight years old that he learned he was a Gypsy. While walking one day in a park he overheard five people talking. He understood from the conversations that the Mayor had died and one of the city councilors had been appointed. He also understood that one of the men had a son or a daughter who was about to be married. “So, is that Gypsy going to perform our children’s wedding ceremony?” the man asked his friends in a displeased way. Mustafa’s father, Mehmet Taúçeviren, was a member of the City Council in the township of Çöpköy, but Mustafa did not make anything out of what he heard because, and although he had heard of the word Gypsy before, when people talked about nomads, he did not know that theirs was a Gypsy family and that “that Gypsy” who would perform the wedding was his father. In the evening, when he went home and when he learned that his father had been appointed Mayor, he put together the two bits of information and asked his father. Yes, they were indeed Gypsies. His teacher was instrumental in shaping Mustafa’s life in a destructive way along with other Gypsy children’s lives, including Mustafa’s wife Nurten HanÕm. There was no secondary school in the village. Further education for the village children meant going to the nearby town Uzunköprü and renting a place there unless they had relatives with whom

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they could stay. If the teachers supported the children and advised the parents to make the effort to send their children to school the parents could be persuaded. That is not, however, what Mustafa Taúçeviren’s teacher Nail Tutak did. “He cannot manage” the teacher declared, and thus ended young Mustafa’s schooling. He aspired to further his education, though, if for nothing else for the hooped caps (kasnaklÕ úapka) secondary school boys used to wear as part of their uniform. Although Mustafa’s father himself was a high school graduate and he had also attended courses in mining, he accepted the teacher’s recommendation and decided against sending Mustafa to secondary school. Mustafa felt defeated and this event led to resentment and his fleeing from home to Istanbul. This decision triggered a series of changes in Mustafa’s life. Why Istanbul? Those who came from Istanbul dressed elegantly and talked in a refined style. One of the village men who worked at the airport would say: “We are Istanbul gentlemen, son. Everyone dresses and talks like this in Istanbul.” Mustafa had the Trachea village dialect, which he wanted to change: “With this aspiration I wanted to go to Istanbul—to develop my mind and to master a vocation.” He did not want to be a farmer, and he remembers another scene that made him decide to be either a tradesman or a craftsmen: After I completed primary school, I used to go to the field—we had land, you know—to take jugs of water for the laborers. One day, as I was walking by the foot of the wooded hill, I saw a girl and a boy swinging on swings that were put up on a walnut tree. The father was standing by the barbecue and the mother was making a salad or something. There was a gramophone on the picnic table. I could hear Safiye Ayla singing. I remember vividly stopping and looking at this scene, heaving a sigh, and saying to myself: “Mustafa, since you do not have a chance to read, you have to be a tradesman or a craftsmen. Your wife must be able to have a picnic, your children must be able to swing on swings.”

In October 1962, at age 12, Mustafa with his cousin Akif jumped on the back of a truck that transported lambs to a slaughterhouse in Istanbul. The two boys “flew the coop” (firar ettik).

Istanbul Mustafa and Akif got off the truck when it stopped at a slaughterhouse in the Silahtar district of Istanbul. It was about midnight. Their clothes were dirty after the long drive with the lambs, and they had no money. Bewildered, they started walking. They sat down on a bench in a meadow

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near an electric factory. It was autumn. By a bridge between Eyüp and Silahtar they saw a fountain with troughs. They took off their trousers and shirts, washed and wrung them out, and put them back on. They were hungry. While walking by the Silahtar bakery, it occurred to them to ask for a loaf of bread in return for work. The baker did not need any workers and Akif was too proud to ask for bread, so Akif and Mustafa argued. “Hunger is really a terrible thing. We kept on drinking water to keep our stomachs full, but that was no use.” The baker gave them some bread though, and although they hadn’t slept by morning and were still in wet clothes, their shivering diminished. They understood by then that the two of them could not manage together and that they had to go their own ways. Akif left in search of some relatives whom he knew lived somewhere in Istanbul. From then on Mustafa was on his own. In the small hours, the first person he saw was a water carrier (saka) who came to the fountain with his three mules. He had a total of twelve tin cans, each mule carrying four. Mustafa told him that he was hungry and that he could help him in return for some food. After asking where Mustafa was from, the man accepted. They filled the tin cans with water and the saka asked him to carry two of them, 20 litres each, up the stairs in an apartment building. Each apartment had its own storage tank. The mule was trained to climb the stairs in front of him, sometimes three, sometimes five storeys, and he would try to balance the cans so that they would not hit the walls and the storage tanks. It was hard labour for his age and physique. He said to himself: “This is Istanbul. Here, even the beasts are smarter than people!” The first time he filled a water tank, the lady of the house came out of the apartment and gave him 2 liras. He gave the money to the saka who was waiting downstairs; he said “very well then,” and they were in business. At about 10 o’clock in the morning—still hungry—they took a break on their way to the fountain to refill the cans, and his boss bought kokoreç (grilled seasoned mutton intestines), sold by street vendors. “Meanwhile, I never felt hopeless. I like that aspect of my temperament,” Taúçeviren says. The saka, Hayrettin, turned out to be an acquaintance nicknamed Kokoroz Hayrettin from Lalapaúa. Mustafa had not met him before. He was the husband of a distant relative from the village, Aunt Fehime. They were also Gypsies who had moved to Istanbul from Lalapaúa: “As you start conversing—nerelisin, kimlerdensin (your identities are revealed).” They offered him a bed in their house. He would also do their shopping. This work continued for about three months. He was making 250 kuruú per week, working mainly for his board. And Aunt Fehime provided for his needs. He knew by then that he could not go back to school. Before

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long, in February or March 1963, he also realized that he could not become a craftsman through sakacÕlÕk. He made a firm decision that he definitely had to learn a skill, a vocation, and he started looking for a job in the Silahtar-Eyüp area. He had heard all kinds of horror stories about what they might do to children in Istanbul. They would throw children into spiny barrels (i÷neli fÕçÕlar). They would scratch their eyes out and make them beg in the streets. He was so frightened that he would not go outside of the neighbourhoods that were familiar to him. Meanwhile, Mustafa took offence after an argument with Hayrettin’s son, and for a period he lived with another couple that he met in the same neighbourhood, Gülseven and Recep Dirican. They were also relatives, as well as Gypsies. Mustafa did not have a job. One day, when he found out that Recep had a shoeshine chest in the house, he decided to work as a shoeshine boy. Other shoeshine boys were sitting in a row at the Silahtar Square. He took his place in the row and sat by them. Three of them hit Mustafa until his lips burned, and he found another spot for himself in desperation. His first and only customer was a woman. Having no experience whatsoever, he polished her stockings along with the shoes. Furious, the woman hit him on the head with her handbag. When Mustafa left the chest and ran away, she ran after him. Later that day, he returned to pick up the chest and thought that it was the end of his career as a shoeshine boy. He sat under a plane tree and said to himself: “Mustafa, you wanted to come to Istanbul and you did. Now, either Istanbul will swallow you or you will swallow Istanbul.” He thought about how the donkeys could climb the stairs in an apartment. “If people push hard enough, if they think, and use their minds, they can also do what they want to do. In a metropolis like Istanbul, I reviewed my goals under that tree.” With renewed energy, he went to an older shoeshine boy and learned the rules and tricks of the trade. He learned that he had to practice and learn through trial and error, that he had to use good quality polish, and that he had to use a velvet cloth to rub the shoes and brush with a special technique. Mustafa Taúçeviren polished shoes for about three months. But his main interest was in driving cars and mastering engines. He figured that if he worked as a minibüs muavini (minibus driver’s helper), he could in time become a driver. If he worked as an apprentice in a mechanic shop, he could in time become a master mechanic. So, every other day he would stop by the Silahtar coffeehouse that drivers frequented. There were 50 to 60 minibuses running on the Silahtar-ùiúhane line and he was hoping to get a job with one of them, but he had no experience and nobody needed an inexperienced helper. Meanwhile he made friends with a few minibus

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drivers’ helpers and got tips (püf noktalarÕ) from them about the job. He made a list of the bus stops and fares and memorized them. He practiced calling for passengers. Then, after 7 p.m. in the evenings, he began informally helping a driver. For fifteen days, he “toured” and called out from the empty car “Does anyone want to get off at this stop? Bay mahalli … AsmalÕ Kahve? KasÕmpaúa? Deniz KomutanlÕ÷Õ? ….” Finally, through the reference of that friend, he started working on a minibus. His boss was Chauffeur Bahattin. In addition to routine assistance, Mustafa would pull the car in front of the fountain and wash it while they were waiting for their turn in the queue. He took pride in borrowing the keys from Bahattin who was resting at the drivers’ coffeehouse, and driving back and forth between the minibus stop and the fountain. When it was their turn, they would pick up their passengers and drive off. He continued staying with Hayrettin and his family while working as a minibus helper, first for 1.5 liras, later for a daily wage of 2.5 liras. At the end of the day, he would take home a loaf of bread, fish or fruit, depending on the season. The day he started working as a driver’s helper one of the passengers said that he wanted to get off in ùiúhane. He said “Alright” but he had no idea where that was. At the terminal station in Silahtar the man asked, “Are we in ùiúhane, son?” and he received two slaps on the face from his boss, Chauffeur Bahattin. After this incident, Mustafa Taúçeviren, along with other driver’s helpers, made a map of the city and a list of the districts on the route of the minibus. One and a half years after he started working as minibüs muavini, he remembers a rainy, cold winter day when the car had a flat tire. He lay down in the puddle and changed the tire. He felt chilled, but he did not mind because he saw this as his school. After all, he was being trained. In the meantime, he understood “sociologically, what Istanbul was about: The density of tall apartment buildings, the traffic, and people.” When people accidentally bumped into one another, they would say “pardon.” They used words like “lütfen” (please). The passengers in the back seat would say “Would you please pass the money to the driver?” Mustafa started to talk like them. “I started to understand the social and economic structure of the society. That was Istanbul. That was what I sought.” He was “attuned” to Istanbul. He was careful to find faults with himself and to correct himself so that he didn’t repeat the same mistakes. “I saw Istanbul as my place of education; as a university. Here, Mustafa, this is your opportunity!” Strolling in Taksim, passing by the store windows in Beyo÷lu to study what was sold in which store, learning brand names, about high society, highbrow culture, Mustafa thought, “It is

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success in itself just to be walking here.” Like the man he remembered from his village who said that he grew up in Beyo÷lu streets, he learned how to protect himself from thieves and swindlers. “This all was a science for me.” While reasoning and trying to make sense of his experiences at this young age, he also decided that being a chauffeur was not something to aspire to, especially because he did not respect his boss Bahattin any longer. “He became smaller in my eyes.” He was a womanizer, having secret affairs, and Mustafa could not see this pathetic man as his role model. Lying to his boss that he would go back to his village, he left the minibus job. He had saved some money. Mustafa Taúçeviren’s inclination and keenness to become a motor mechanic continued to grow. He wanted a good vocation, a good income, a good career and to learn about new technology. Finally he found a shop in Sirkeci, and his master HakkÕ Usta (master), through a friend who worked as an auto shackle mechanic on the same street. In addition to HakkÕ Usta and his brother, the two masters who owned the place, there was one journeyman, Necmi Kalfa (headworker) and three apprentices. Work was intense: “It is not easy to train an apprentice.” The buses they fixed in the garage would drive long distances to take pilgrims to Mecca and Medina, so the apprentices had to be reliable. HakkÕ Usta interviewed him at great length—asked about his parents, his village, and why he left for Istanbul. Finally, he agreed to employ him for 5 liras per week. Mustafa’s first task was to learn the sizes of wrenches, screw sets and other sets of tools. He had to be quick to hand the master the right tool when needed, and put them back in their places on the board when it was time to close the shop at the end of the day. If he made a mistake, he got a beating. HakkÕ Usta would test him by asking what a crank was, what a piston was and what a piston rod would be used for, and when he knew he would say “well done.” The master would reassemble the engine like a surgeon in the operating room. Mustafa could not wait for the day he would be able to do that. There were separate mechanics in Sultanahmet where the engine, the transmission and the differential would be repaired, and it was the apprentices’ job to carry the parts between the shops. On his way back from Sultanahmet to Sirkeci, Mustafa would slide downhill on a simple skateboard. Mustafa and two other friends lived in the spacious loft of the garage. It was like a dormitory and was better than staying in a house because he could save money. At the end of the week the apprentices would share tips accumulated during the week. They were either not allowed to eat in restaurants because they were dirty, or made to sit on newspapers. “You feel lowly but this is the payoff for learning the trade.” On Sundays,

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however, he could go out and discover Istanbul. He learned about the economic and the sexual aspects of the city. Necmi Kalfa would take him out to introduce the “underworld.” One day he offered to take Mustafa out. “I could see that we were not going to a decent place.” They dressed up and left the shop in the morning to go from Eminönü to Karaköy on the Galata Bridge, to Yüksek KaldÕrÕm, the brothel street in Karaköy. “I had not seen a naked woman until then.” Necmi was 23 and Mustafa was 15. Afterwards, they went to the city walls on the way to Tahtakale, where they met ten to twelve people who gathered to make a thick cigarette, passed it to one another, and smoked the joint (esrar). They collected money to buy a joint from one person who was apparently a dealer. When Mustafa did not want to join the group they made fun of him because he could not appreciate the drug. He learned slang from them. And when he watched Necmi Kalfa inhale deeply, he told himself, “Mustafa, don’t ever come back to this place.” Later, Necmi thought that he had snitched on him by telling about these adventures to their master, but Mustafa had not. One day, HakkÕ Usta asked Mustafa to change the crank bearings. When he adjusted the pressure and set the wrench to 40, his master said “well done” (aferin) and began to trust him. And after he reassembled three engines, excluding the parts that needed precision, he became a journeyman and his weekly wages were increased to 20 liras. That was good money. A serving of rice and beans cost 25 kuruú then. HakkÕ Usta was a disciplined man. “He liked whom he liked but he always imposed strict discipline—morality, not stealing, any discipline that a father gives to his son. He could read body language very well. I could never lie to him.” HakkÕ Usta was, literally, a master for Mustafa Taúçeviren; a teacher, a father, a mentor, a role model—not just a boss. Mustafa remembers the lessons he learned from his master. He used to say: “Son, you are a human being. Humans are the most intelligent and powerful of all living beings. You have to push your intelligence. Intelligence is like a lemon, the more you squeeze it, the more you will get out of it.” Mustafa started to think for the first time in his life about performance, success, productivity and efficiency. The master would sometimes take Mustafa home for dinner. Later, they would sit on the balcony, while HakkÕ Usta had his whiskey and two pieces of chocolate, and gave Mustafa advice and counselled him about a range of subjects including character, morality, humanity, artistic value, economics and quality of life. HakkÕ Usta was Alawi. He had experienced harassment and frustrations. “Listening to my master, I became a more attentive person. I began to do my job with more care, to develop my skills in human relations, to increase the quality of my work, and to think about the price

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of my services, stability and customer satisfaction.” Mustafa received a few job offers as he gained experience and a reputation, but because of his respect and loyalty to his master he turned them down. Up until June 1966 Taúçeviren worked for HakkÕ Usta at the garage. He let his hair grow and changed. Still, when he met his father and uncle one day at the Sirkeci bus terminal, they recognized him immediately. He tried to run away from them but they caught him. That was the end of his adventures in Istanbul although he had no intention of leaving: “It did not even occur to me to return home, to go back to the village.” After spending some time in the village, he came back to Istanbul to complete the things he had left half done, to settle his accounts, and to say his goodbyes before he left for the village for good in 1967. The six years Mustafa Taúçeviren spent in Istanbul, he said, constituted an important part of his life, which he considered to be his “university education.” “Here was Istanbul; here was my school, my university! And a multifaceted, well-rounded university—not just one major or even double major. Meanwhile, I developed both physically and mentally. As I cultivated my knowledge in various areas, I also earned respect and a good reputation.”

After Istanbul: Strategies of a Gypsy and Activism Sarmento and her colleagues state that, “modern universities and evolving polytechnics have promoted cultural relationships and dynamics otherwise unimaginable” (2012, x). This holds true in Taúçeviren’s case, too. By leaving the Gypsy neighbourhood in his village and spending six years in Istanbul in his formative years, he gained an intercultural perspective, as he would have in a university, that he could never have gained in his local environment. With the changing “relations of power that shape stereotypical academic life,” Sarmento and her friends wrote, “young researchers … tend to adapt their practices and creative capabilities to professional and economic pressures” (Ibid.). So did Taúçeviren. He opened a store in Lalapaúa and became a merchant, using the interpersonal and intercultural skills that he had obtained during his “university education” in Istanbul. He was, however, by no means a passive recipient of what Istanbul had to offer. Again, as Sarmento and her colleagues said: … many of those young researchers often respond to such pressures with their own strategies, innovations and subversions, and seldom do they remain passive within the process of incorporation in large scale political and academic systems. Networks and echoes emanating from the international academic community spread rapidly throughout the globe and

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Taúçeviren has strategies in his trade: “In my 35 years of business life, I have not bounced a single cheque. I will never let anyone say, ‘I have an account receivable from the Gypsy’ or ‘the Gypsy has not paid his debt’.” On the contrary, Taúçeviren makes sure that people he conducts business with owe him a small sum of money: “The debt should show up in their computer, they should mention it to kith and kin, and constantly keep it in mind. These are my business secrets.” Another strategy he uses is to equip himself with religious knowledge. He knows sixteen prayers by heart. Mustafa Taúçeviren has become an activist in organizing Gypsies since his Istanbul years. His active participation in Gypsy/Roma organizations at both national and international levels is related, to a great extent, to his intercultural experiences during his “university education” in Istanbul. His activism, what he wanted to do with his life and the way it unfolded in front of him have a lot to do with his way of “manipulating and subverting power,” in Sarmento and her colleagues’ words. In a way, Istanbul provided a “third space” for him that initiated “new signs of identity, and innovative sites of collaboration and contestation” (Bhabha 1994, 1). According to the bylaws of ÇøNDER, the association he was the president of from its inception in 2001, it was not intended to be political. However, as Taúçeviren firmly stated during our interview in 2003, as Gypsies they wanted “to have a say in the administration.” He found the strength in himself, as he thought most Gypsies did, because they were “selfempowered standing alone after being despised over and over again.” Taúçeviren is frequently sought by journalists who write on Gypsy/Roma issues, and has released many public statements as the President of ÇøNDER. He speaks not only about local Gypsy issues but also about matters regarding Turkish society and culture in general, and international problems confronted by Gypsy/Roma populations outside of Turkey. One issue he has repeatedly raised is about the name Çingene. He believes, as does Mustafa Aksu (2006), that this is the proper term for the ethnic population he belongs to. He prefers it to using circumlocutions like esmer vatandaú (dark citizen), local terms like Poúa or KarapaçalÕlar, and the “politically correct” evasion of Romanie (Roman). In struggling for their rights, people who belong to the Gypsy subculture have long been discriminated against and have been excluded from mainstream society. Taúçeviren maintains they should first begin with accepting their own name (ÇøNDER BaúkanÕ Taúçeviren).

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Taúçeviren attends conferences and meetings of all sorts, including workshops that combine academic interests with activism, along with other Roma/Gypsy organizers, academics and politicians. One such meeting was “The Roma Workshop” organized in KuúadasÕ in January 2011 with the support of the KuúadasÕ Municipality. At this meeting he called attention to the problem of Gypsy unemployment while maintaining that they should keep clear of involvement with specific political parties. “All of our problems can be solved naturally if we are employed. Employment could solve Roma problems about many different topics like housing or culture” (The Roma Workshop). Another point Taúçeviren makes deals with integrating the ethnic Gypsy identity as a “subculture” within the Turkish national identity: We must get rid of the discrimination and the othering that some people have deemed suitable for us, and we must bring our country to the level of modern civilizations as our Atatürk stated, with a more contemporary, more civilized, more rational awareness of citizenship and patriotic feelings. We are as Turkish as the next person. (ÇøNDER BaúkanÕ Taúçeviren).

In France, under President Nicolas Sarkozy’s administration, many Gypsy camps were dismantled in 2010 with the justification that they were “illegal.” When about eight thousand Roma were deported to Romania and Bulgaria, the Platform of Trachea Romani Associations Union (Trakya Roman Dernekleri Birli÷i Platformu) organized a protest movement in Istanbul in September 2010. They left a black wreath in front of the French General Consulate. Mustafa Taúçeviren, who was the head of the platform, made a speech about the event that was quoted in the national daily Sabah: Legal arrangements about the rights and freedoms of the 12 million Roma citizens who live in Europe, and the practices in countries like France and Italy are obviously inadequate. We were pleased that first and foremost, Prime Minister Recep Tayyip Erdo÷an, and then Mevlüt Çavuúo÷lu, MP from Antalya, who is also the President of Council of Europe Parliamentary Assembly, both showed an interest in the subject, and have addressed the European Roma as ‘our Roma brothers’.” (“Mustafa Taúçeviren, Türkiyeli Romanlar AB’ye Örnek Olsun”)

Mustafa Taúçeviren has stated that the government in Turkey needs to be appreciated for its work on behalf of the Roma of Turkey who constitute an essential element of the country. He believes that Turkey has to set an example for European countries that consider themselves

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progressive in human rights. He also added that Gypsies expect the European Union to take a step towards creating a solution to the problems the Roma face in France (Taúçeviren). The same Istanbul that provided Taúçeviren’s university education has thus provided him with resources and visibility beyond what many universities provide for their graduates. Considering most students’ university experiences in contemporary Turkey, Mustafa’s was by far richer and more successful. His experiences in Istanbul, and especially his teacher and mentor HakkÕ Usta, have been instrumental in his activism: “I learned all about human rights, cultural rights, social conventions and claiming one’s rights, from my Usta, in Istanbul.” *** “Intercultural,” as Sarmento, Brusaca & Sousa see it, is “a movement, a journey … a dynamic between cultures” (2012, ix), rather than a oneway migration that ends in the recipient space. Istanbul is just such a place of permanent transit and constant flux. Mustafa Taúçeviren lived in Istanbul temporarily. He just passed through Istanbul. Nevertheless, Istanbul made him who he is by helping to form his identity. And he made Istanbul, as have many ordinary men and women like him, in permanent transit.

Works Cited Aksu, Mustafa. 2006. Türkiye’de Çingene Olmak [Being a Gypsy in Turkey]. Second edition. First edition, 2003. Istanbul: Kesit YayÕnlarÕ. Bhabha, Homi K. 1994. The Location of Culture. London: Routledge. øncirlio÷lu, Emine Onaran. 1994. “Negotiating Ethnographic Reality: Team Fieldwork in Turkey.” In When History Accelerates: essays on rapid social change, complexity and creativity, ed. Chris Hann, 255– 275. London: Athlone Press. —. 2005. “Türkiye Çingenelerinin Örgütlenme SorunlarÕ: Kültürel Kimli÷i YadsÕmak” [“Organizational Problems of Gypsies in Turkey: Rejecting Cultural Identity”]. In Türk(iye) Kültürleri [Turkey’s Cultures], eds. Gönül Pultar & Tahire Erman, 167–188. Istanbul: Tetragon and Türkiye Kültür AraútÕrmalarÕ Grubu. Rosen, Lawrence. 1984. Bargaining for Reality: The Construction of Social Relations in a Muslim Community. Chicago and London: The University of Chicago Press.

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Sarmento, Clara, Sara Brusaca & Silvia Sousa. 2012. “Introduction.” In In Permanent Transit: Discourses and Maps of the Intercultural Experience, eds. Clara Sarmento, Sara Brusaca & Silvia Sousa, ix– xxvi. Newcastle upon Tyne, UK: Cambridge Scholars Publishing. Söylemez, Haúim & Tuba Özden. 2005. “Abe bi kimlik veresin” [C’mon, gimme an ID]. Aksiyon, 23 May 2005. (http://www.aksiyon.com.tr/aksiyon/haber-14067-34-abe-bi-kimlikveresin.html) (accessed January 31, 2013). “ÇøNDER BaúkanÕ Taúçeviren: Bizler Türk milleti olarak yürüyecek çok yolumuz var.” [“We the Turks as a Nation have a long way to go”]. n.d. Interview with Taúçeviren. (http://www.trakyanethaber.com/yeni/haber2.asp?id=34795). (accessed January 31, 2013). “The Roma Workshop” http://www.cingeneyiz.org/romawork.html) (accessed January 31, 2013). “Türkiyeli Romanlar AB'ye örnek olsun” [“Let the Roma from Turkey set an example for Europe”]. Sabah, September 21, 2010. (http://www.sabah.com.tr/Yasam/2010/09/21/turkiyeli_romanlar_abye _ornek_olsun) (accessed January 31, 2013).

CONTRIBUTORS

Ayúe AkalÕn is an Assistant Professor of Sociology at Istanbul Technical University. She received her BA in Sociology and in International Relations & Political Science at Bogazici University and her PhD at the City University of New York, Graduate Center. Her fields of interest include domestic work, precarious labour, feminization of migration and governance of irregular migration. Bahar Aksel graduated as a city planner from Istanbul Technical University (ITU) in 1997. After working in the NGO sector for two years, she continued her academic career in Mimar Sinan Fine Arts University (MSGSU), Department of City and Regional Planning. She specialised in urban design and finished her PhD in 2008 with a thesis on the relation of city branding and urban design. Since 2002 she has been giving lectures and leading workshops on urban design and city planning at MSGSU, Department of City and Regional Planning. Her work focuses on the subjects of city & art, urban identity/image, city branding, creativity, the city & communication, and places of trade. She has organised and participated in numerous international workshops, seminars and conferences, as well as winning awards in several competitions. Murat Akser is an Associate Professor of Cinema and Media Studies, the Chair of the New Media Department and the founding Director of the Cinema and Television MA program at Kadir Has University in Istanbul, Turkey. He received his MA in Film and PhD in Communication and Culture from York University, Canada. He has worked extensively on the political economy of film festivals and film genres and has recently

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published a book-length study of Turkish cinema, Green Pine Resurrected: Film Genre, Parody, and Intertextuality in Turkish Cinema, and edited a volume from Cambridge Scholars on Cinema and New Media. ùükrü Aslan is an Associate Professor at Mimar Sinan University. His degree is from the Department of Sociology. His MA focused on the topic of Urban Informal Sectors and his PhD on Social Struggles and the City, and he received both degrees from Mimar Sinan University. His research fields are cities, migration and social movements. He has published books entitled 1 MayÕs Mahallesi (The Quarter of the 1st of May), 1980'den Önce Toplumsal Mücadelerler ve Kent (Social Struggles Before 1980 and the City) 2004, Kent Üzerine Sosyolojik Düúünceler (Sociological Thoughts About the City) 2007, Herkesin Bildi÷i SÕr: Dersim (The Secret Everybody Knows: Dersim) 2010, Dersim 38'i HatÕrlamak (with Bülent Bilmez and Gülay Kayacan) (Remembering Dersim 38) 2011. He also worked on a book with Mustafa Poyraz and Loic Gandais published in Paris entitled Les Quartiers Populaires Et La Ville, 2010. He has published numerous articles about migration, ethnicity and settling sociology. Erbatur Çavuúo÷lu is Assistant Professor of Urban and Regional Planning at Mimar Sinan Fine Arts University in Istanbul, where he completed his undergraduate, graduate and postgraduate studies. His dissertation (2004), entitled “Turkey’s Urbanization as a Hegemonic Process,” takes a Gramscian perspective and combines it with the history of urbanization of Turkey. He teaches the Planning Studio, the Urbanization Process of Turkey, the Planning Procedure of Istanbul and Research Methods for Urban Scholars. His research focuses on urban politics and urban activism in Turkey and the city of Istanbul. He is a member of the Bir Umut Association, an urban research and activism organisation. [email protected]. Tahire Erman is Associate Professor in the Department of Political Science and Public Administration, Bilkent University, Turkey. She received her PhD from the City University of New York, Environmental Psychology Program. She has published numerous book chapters and articles in such journals as Urban Studies, International Journal of Urban and Regional Research, Gender & Society, Environment and Planning, Environment and Behaviour, Habitat International, Cities, Urban Anthropology, Women’s Studies International Forum, European Journal of Turkish Studies, International Journal of Middle East Studies and

Whose City Is That? Culture, Design, Spectacle and Capital in Istanbul 319

Middle Eastern Studies. Her recent academic interests include neoliberal urban developments, the local and global in the city, urban movements and resistance, place formation, place attachment, the Other in the city, urban/gecekondu transformation projects in Turkey and displacement and relocation of the urban poor. She received the Donald Robertson Memorial Prize for the best paper published in Urban Studies in 2001. She was a Fulbright scholar at Harvard University’s Social Anthropology Department in the 2005–2006 academic year. Emine Onaran øncirlio÷lu, after receiving her first degree in Architecture at the Middle East Technical University, Ankara, completed her graduate work in Anthropology at the University of Florida in Gainesville. She taught at various universities in the US, UK and Turkey, in both Social Science and Design Departments. One of the founding members of the Cultural Studies Association of Turkey, øncirlio÷lu’s research, teaching and interest areas include cultural studies, ethnographic fieldwork, the ethnographic novel, gender studies, Gypsy/Romani studies, and themes under the rubric of space-culture-identity. She has been working as a professor in the Department of Sociology of Maltepe University, Istanbul, since February 2012. Evrim Kavcar graduated from the Sculpture Department at Mimar Sinan Fine Arts University in 2000, received her MFA from the San Francisco Art Institute (2003) on a Fulbright scholarship and her PhD from Mimar Sinan Fine Arts University (2011). Presently, she is the chair of the Department of Sculpture at Mardin Artuklu University, Faculty of Fine Arts. Working mainly with sculpture, video animation and drawing, Evrim Kavcar is a visual artist interested in studying the socially transformative, evocative and fantastic potential inherent in daily chance encounters between humans and the animate & inanimate objects that come across their paths in various forms.

320

Contributors

Dilek Özhan Koçak is an Associate Professor of Communication Sciences and the Chair of the Journalism Department at Giresun University Communication Faculty. She received her BA in journalism from Marmara University. She was granted her MA (2003) and PhD (2008) in Communication Sciences at Marmara University in Turkey. She was a guest researcher at Berlin’s Humboldt University, Georg-Simmel-Center for Metropolitan Studies for almost one year (2007). Her recent publications include essays on cinema, memory and culture and communication. She has written a book entitled OsmanlÕ Tiyatrosu: 19. YüzyÕl østanbul’unda Kültürel Dönüúümün Sahnesi (Ottoman Theater: The Scene of Cultural Transformation in Nineteenth Century Istanbul). She currently teaches courses such as introduction to communication, research methods, communication theory (MA), social communication and culture (PhD). [email protected]. Orhan Kemal Koçak is an Assistant Professor in the Department of Radio, TV and Cinema within the Communication Faculty of Giresun University. He received his MA and PhD in Communication Sciences from Marmara University, Turkey. His recent publications include essays on cinema and memory. He teaches courses in cinema, narrative techniques and theories of mass communication. [email protected].

Whose City Is That? Culture, Design, Spectacle and Capital in Istanbul 321

ønci Olgun is an Instructor (PhD) at the Mimar Sinan Fine Arts University. After her undergraduate work in architecture, she began researching between the scales and the project studies through the Urban Design Master program at Mimar Sinan Fine Arts University. She completed her doctoral thesis on urban memory and site readings. She began her career as a freelance architect working on project implementation and design studies as she carried on her studies at Mimar Sinan Fine Arts University, Department of Urban and Regional Planning. She has worked as an executive at the University’s planning and urban design studios since 2001. She worked on research and projects about natural and artificial systems supporting the built environment and on urban design strategies. She also worked on publications, workshops, expositions and studies for books and was involved in a number of international organizations. Some of these studies include the “Mardin History City Centre Field Determination Studies and Fabric Analyses,” “Urban Dreams Workshops” and the Green Age Organization. She received national and international awards for her architectural and urban design. She is continuing her studies on urban ecology and urban scenarios on a multidisciplinary platform. She is focused on sustainability, ecological planning and design, urban design guides, public culture and spatial configurations. Ebru Soytemel is a Research Fellow for the Oxford Programme for the Future of Cities. She was trained as a sociologist (BA and MA) at Mimar Sinan University and finished her second MA in History at Bogazici University, Istanbul. In 2011, she received her PhD in Sociology from the University of Manchester. Her PhD research focused on the ways in which urban policies, gentrification and socio-economic policies impact class composition, housing and the patterns of belonging for different social classes in Istanbul. She examined the tactics and strategies employed by people of different classes regarding housing as well as low-income groups’ strategies of “making ends meet.” Her research interests centre on subjects such as social inequality, cultural class analysis, urban theory, social-spatial exclusion and dislocation as well as using mixed methods of research (ethnographic research, multiple correspondence analysis and social network analysis). She has published articles on poverty, neighbourhood networks and gentrification in Istanbul. http://ebrusoytemel.wordpress.com.

322

Contributors

Julia Strutz is a PhD candidate (and FWO-aspirant) in Social and Economic Geography at Leuven University in Belgium after having studied Political Science and Sociology at Humboldt University in Berlin, Ottoman History at Bilgi University in Istanbul and Urban Studies (EUrbs). She has published on the topic of memory production in urban space (using the Süleymaniye neighbourhood as an example) and taught classes on the urban history of Istanbul and urban studies theory in Berlin. She is interested in urban public space, urban sociology and the urban history of Ottoman and Republican Istanbul. She is a member of the Bir Umut Association, an urban research and activism organisation. [email protected]. Besime ùen is currently an Associate Professor at Mimar Sinan Fine Arts University, Department of City and Regional Planning. She received her BA and MA degrees in Economics from Istanbul University and completed her PhD degree in City and Regional Planning from MSGSU in 2006. Her main fields of research are gentrification, socio-economic development of gecekondu neighbourhoods in Istanbul, urban movements and housing. She has worked on research projects in the field of urban regeneration in Istanbul, the social history of Kagithane, and on Kurdish and Turkish immigrants in the UK. Her publications cover gentrification, urban movements, urban regeneration and gecekondu settlements. She teaches Introduction to Economics, Urban Economics, Gender, Labour and Economics of Istanbul (MA level), and the History of Local Governments in Turkey (PhD level). She served as scientific committee member for several conferences and she has helped organize conferences for the Class Research Center of Turkey (TÜSAM). She has been a member of the editorial board for the Journal of Praksis since 2005. Hande Tekdemir is an Assistant Professor of English in the Western Languages and Literatures Department of Bogazici University. Her research interests are modernism, postcolonial theory, detective fiction and urban literature. She is currently working on representations of Irish hunger in Victorian fiction. Nilay Ulusoy is an Associate Professor at Bahçeúehir University. She graduated from Marmara University’s Communication Faculty in 1997. She finished Marmara University’s Communication Sciences Masters Program in 2000 and her doctoral studies in 2006. In the same year she went to Sorbonne University in Paris with a scholarship from the French Institute of Istanbul. She teaches courses on the history of cinema, film

Whose City Is That? Culture, Design, Spectacle and Capital in Istanbul 323

theory, art, culture and society, cinema and fashion, history of narrative film (MA level) and Turkish cinema (PhD level). Her fields of interest include language of fashion and Turkish cinema in the 2000s. Deniz Ünsal graduated in Political Science and Public Administration from Middle East Technical University in 1994 and received her MA from Katholieke Universiteit Leuven (1995, 1996) and her PhD from Columbia University in Cultural Anthropology (2004). She worked in different positions at the American Museum of Natural History in New York, KIT Tropen museum in Amsterdam and the Istanbul Modern before embarking on an academic career at Istanbul Bilgi University. She teaches courses on museums, heritage and cultural policy at Bachelor’s, Master’s and Doctoral levels. She conducts research on cultural heritage, trains museum professionals and leads exhibition projects in museums. She is active in organizations dealing with museums and heritage issues. Eylem Yanarda÷o÷lu is a Lecturer in the Communication Faculty at Kadir Has University in Istanbul, Turkey, where she teaches courses on media history, communication theory and research methods. She received her PhD from the Sociology Department of City University in London where she examined the relationship between minority media and citizenship in Turkey. She is currently focusing on research on news culture and media production at an international level. Sibel YardÕmcÕ is an Associate Professor of Sociology at Mimar Sinan University of Fine Arts, Istanbul. She completed her PhD in 2004 from the Department of Sociology at Lancaster University, UK, with a dissertation titled “Meeting in Istanbul: Cultural Globalisation and Art Festivals.” In her dissertation she worked on the aestheticization of everyday life, urban transformation and governance, and cultural and symbolic capital. Her current research focuses on the city, (urban) citizenship, nationality/nationalism, biopolitics, queer studies and disability studies. Her various publications include a book in Turkish drawing on her PhD thesis and articles reflecting various aspects of her recent research interests. She is the co-editor of a book on neoliberalism and of two readers, respectively on Disability Studies and Queer Studies, both in Turkish.

INDEX

1940s, 8, 96-98, 160 1950s, 2, 69, 99, 118, 139, 161, 162, 199, 247, 291 1960s, 2, 100, 101, 161, 191, 220, 301 1970s, 4, 54, 85, 101, 104, 140, 161, 162, 192, 201, 213 1980s, 4, 5, 50, 51, 55, 56, 69, 77, 96, 105, 111, 112, 118, 120, 140, 159, 161, 163, 169, 209, 247, 288, 290, 295, 301 1990s, 47, 48, 51, 52, 55, 58, 69, 70, 71, 77, 87, 107, 120, 143, 162, 164, 173, 228, 234, 247, 248, 256, 290 2000s, 48, 69, 209, 215, 246-248, 285, 289, 291, 292 2010 European Capitals of Culture, 261 Abdulhamid II, 295 academia, 182 accommodation, 103, 213

activist, 222, 302, 312 Adhan, 272 Adorno, Theodor W. 9 advertising, 52, 54, 58, 164, 169, 194, 196, 221, 250, 271, 274-276, 284 advertising campaign, 48, 164 advertising industry, 51, 58 Aegean, VIII, 9, 116, 117, 120, 124-126, 134 aesthetic(s), 5, 9, 30, 71, 108, 156, 161, 179, 188, 192, 195, 250, 256 airplane crash, 161 airport, 120, 129, 305 AKP, 108, 140, 289, 291 Aksaray, 214, 220 Alawi, 310 Alawi fathers, 52 alienation, 262 America/American, 21, 22, 26, 29, 38, 39, 42-44, 50, 54, 81, 134, 181, 213, 214, 226, 245, 248, 263 American Embassy, 43

American kitchen, 144 amnesia, 9, 187, 190, 202 Anadolu HisarÕ, 239 Anatolia, 118, 143, 216, 285, 301 Anatolian, 97, 99, 112, 140 Anatolian Side, 216, 254 Anatolian Studies, 76 ancient Greek, 129, 131 ancient times, 160 Andersen, Hans Christian, 26 Ankara, 118, 161, 212, 262, 302, 303 anonymity, 130, 207 antagonism, 188, 189, 219 Antwerp, 256 Arab, IX, 8, 38, 41, 59, 60, 262, 264266, 274, 276 Arab World, 59, 265, 266 arabesk music, 101 Arabian Nights, 274 Arabic, 38, 44, 49, 116, 195 architectural competition, 161 architectural heritage, 189

326 architecture, 1, 7, 85, 116, 120, 123125, 199, 267, 283, 284, 295 Armenian, 69, 200 Arnavutköy, 76, 178 art, IX, 5, 6, 9, 25, 82, 159-165, 168, 169, 171-184, 188-207, 209, 210, 250, 256, 258, 263-268, 272, 276, 285, 291, 292 fine arts, 7 street art, 9, 160, 164, 165, 168, 169, 171, 174, 177-183, 195 work of art, 6, 9, 191 artist(s), 5, 6, 9, 77, 78, 81-84, 87, 159-165, 167169, 171, 172, 174, 177, 179182, 187-190, 192, 195-207, 286, 291 art galleries, 292 artistic expression, 9, 160, 161, 195 artistic interventions, 9, 187-189, 193195, 197, 199201, 202 Asia (Minor), 20 Asian side, 19, 55, 120, 172, 180 assimilation, 145, 147 authoritarian voice, 188 Ayaza÷a, 194 Ayazma, VIII, 97, 109, 139, 141-

Index 143, 145, 148, 149, 153 Ayvansaray, 68, 69, 79-81, 83, 85-87 Baghdad, 35, 287 Ba÷dat Avenue, 246, 254 Balat, VIII, 68, 69, 76, 79-87, 292 Bandung Conference, 198, 199 Barthes, Roland, 274 Basilica Cistern, 39, 40 Baudelaire, Charles, 25 Baudrillard, Jean, 117, 133, 134 BDP, 143, 152 Bebek, 123 belly dancers, 276 belonging, 8, 11, 24, 56, 68-70, 73-80, 88, 159, 167, 173, 174, 194, 198, 229, 236, 238, 276, 296 Benjamin, Walter, 274, 276 Berlin, 36, 160, 167, 175, 181, 183 Berlin Wall, 160 Beúiktaú, 178, 204 BeyazÕt, 214 BeyazÕt Square, 213, 214 Beyo÷lu, IX, 55, 165, 167, 173, 177, 178, 179, 183, 195, 292, 308, 309 Bezirganbahçe, VIII, 8, 97, 109, 110, 139, 141-155 Bicycle Thieves, 1

Bir MayÕs Mahallesi, 103 Birds of Exile, 2 Black Sea, 69, 119, 194 Blue Mosque, 40-44 Bond, James Bond 35, 38, 39, 40 Bosphorus, VIII, 9, 26, 27, 37, 42, 48, 49, 55, 56, 76, 81, 82, 101, 106, 116, 119, 120, 121, 123, 134 Bosphorus City, 120-130, 133 Bosporus, 221, 268 Bourdieu, Pierre, 68, 72-75 BoyalÕ Eller Crew, 165, 170, 171 brand, 5, 6, 48, 61, 130, 151, 165, 182, 197, 246, 247-251, 254258, 266, 267, 269, 308 break dance, 164 British Petroleum, 195 buffer zones, 119 building amnesty laws, 119 Byzantine, 27, 261, 285, 286 Cairo, 35, 60, 161 calligraphy, 168, 173, 196 capital (city), 5-10, 18, 26, 29, 118, 161, 247, 249, 255, 257, 261, 263, 267 Catholic, 230, 231, 234, Catholicism, 237,

Whose City Is That? Culture, Design, Spectacle and Capital in Istanbul 327 Central Anatolia, 216 Chambers of Architects, 106 character of Istanbul, 192 chauffeur, 308, 309 cheap labour force, 95, 140 Christian worldview, 31 Christian(s), 26, 31, 39, 233, 270 church, 10, 28, 29, 188, 231-237, 269, 270 CIA, 42 cinema, 35, 43, 4850, 53, 54, 57, 60, 179, 250, 274, 283 cinematic city, 35 citizen(s), 2, 3, 12, 38, 55, 120, 131, 132, 159, 160, 188, 190, 192, 197, 202, 207, 215, 217, 226, 284, 287 dark citizen, 312 citizenship cultural citizenship, 11, 290, 296, 313 citizenship rituals, 290 city dweller, 2, 3, 7 city of seven hills, 122 city of three empires, 247 city planners, 11, 188 city planning, 48, 159

city space, 29, 111, 187, 189, 198, 200 city walls, 29, 160, 285, 286, 310 civil government, 100 civilization, 26, 28, 77, 190, 263, 265, 273, 313 class, 5, 24, 43, 50, 55, 56, 67-84, 86, 88, 89, 96, 115, 116, 119, 128, 135, 145, 148, 149, 152, 154, 168, 200, 276, 294, 303, 321 class conflict, 2, 71 classical media, 3 clothes shopping, 245 clothing market, 248 coalition governments, 290 coffeehouse, 36, 302, 307, 308 collective force, 103 collective memory, 55, 79, 108, 189, 197, 201, 288 colonialism, 18, 199 colonization, 18, 231 commercial, 51, 52, 54, 80, 82, 84, 97, 103, 106, 129, 165, 168, 169, 182, 195, 197, 217, 270, 291, 295 commercial cinema, 54 communication, 35, 51, 120, 159, 160, 171, 251, 266, 274, 291

communication process, 12 communication studies, 7 Communist Party, 201, community development, 74 community life, 49, 55, 80, 120, 135, Confederation of Revolutionary Workers' Unions (DøSK), 201 conflict, 20, 25, 47, 71, 112, 145, 146, 148, 151, 154, 296 conquest, 284-290, 294, 296 reconquest, 283, 289, 296 conquest of Constantinople, 283, 284 Constantinople, IX, 11, 17, 19, 20, 22, 23, 25, 26, 29-31, 283, 285, 287, 288, 293, 294, 296 construction industry, 294 construction sector, 116, 227, 265, 291 consumer culture, 255 consumer market, 182 consumption ideology, 78 contemporary art, 165, 169, 189, 191, 192, 194,

328 200, 202, 206, 258, 268, 272 contemporary artists, 9, 163, 187, 189, 203 contemporary symbols, 202 cosmopolitan, 3, 44, 54, 77, 78, 80, 83, 86, 118, 130, 240, 251, 289 cosmopolitanism, 78, 288 cost of living, 110, 150 coup d’état, 112, 162, 290 craftsman, 307 creative industries, 10, 283 crime, 131, 139, 140, 154, 173 critical art, 188 cultural anxiety, 253 cultural capital, 5, 10, 71, 74, 75, 78, 83, 252, 267, 268 cultural codes, 80 cultural consumption, 61, 255, 276 cultural differences, 89 cultural diversity, 4, 159 cultural economy, 115 cultural heritage, 128, 267, 269, 276, 292 cultural identities cultural identitity, 2, 53, 59, 290 cultural industry, 9, 77 cultural outlets, 78

Index cultural production, 7, 118 cultural reproduction, 8 cultural products, 250, 257 cultural text, 7, 261 cultural tourism, 262, 269 cultural transformation, 3 Cumhuriyet Halk Partisi (CHP), 102 Cübbeli Ahmet Hodja, 295 Çingene, 301, 302, 303, 312 dark citizen, 312 death, 24-29, 193, 194, 213 deindustrialization, 69, 123, 266, 268, 271 dematerialization, 192, 200 demonstrations, 35, 143, 216 deserts, IX, 211 De Sica, Vittorio, 1 discrimination, 301, 313 discursive context, 192 Disneyland, 115, 116, 128, 134 distorted urbanization, 95 DiyarbakÕr, 204, 287 dogs, 17, 29-31, 187 drawings, 160, 164, 167, 168, 172, 174, 179, 181, 182, 183 dress, 101, 161, 245 dystopia, 8, 139, 149

dystopian, 8, 9, 139, 142, 143, 145, 148, 150, 154, 155 dystopian place, VI, 9, 139, 142, 143, 145, 150, 154 E-5 motorways, 120 East, 5, 7, 8, 18, 21, 35, 44, 45, 143, 149, 226, 228, 265, 267, 274 Eastern myth, 18 Eastern, 35, 36, 38, 39, 41-44, 54, 143, 226, 247, 249, 288 Eastern Anatolia, 143 Eastern city, 8, 35, 36, 39, 43 Eastern journey, 7, 17 Eastern life, 36 Eastern women, 43 economic crisis, 246, 247, 263, 290 economic structure, 308 economy, 4, 7, 51, 58, 101, 118, 140, 204, 205, 209, 211, 212, 214, 215, 219, 257, 290, 291, 293, 295, 296 Edmondo de Amicis, 26, 27, 29, 30, 267 education, 5, 71, 74, 84, 149, 159, 168, 171, 209, 304, 305, 308, 311, 312, 314 Egypt, 59, 234, 236, 237, 264, 265

Whose City Is That? Culture, Design, Spectacle and Capital in Istanbul 329 Egyptian, 59, 160 elective belonging, 75 electricity, 100, 126, 150, 151 Eminönü, IX, 38, 41, 43, 204, 212, 214, 218, 310 Emirgan, 57, 123 employer, 202, 213, 221, 231, 232, 233, 234, 237, 238, 239 employment, 48, 83, 150, 159, 215, 216, 226, 228, 229, 290, 291, 313 entertainment, 6, 26, 51, 110, 161, 212, 216, 253, 254, 262, 264, 265, 266, 267, 269, 272, 273, 284, 288, 295 ephemeral, 25, 187, 200, 202, 233 ephemerality, 191, 193, 207 Erasmus student, 167 esmer vatandaú, 310 ethnic concerns, 143 ethnicity, 5, 145, 149, 154, 302 ethnography, 304 EU, 143, 247 Europe, VIII, 18, 25, 29, 31, 42, 47, 49, 122, 167, 199, 204, 226, 228, 247, 249, 267, 313 European, 18, 19, 25, 26, 28, 29, 39, 48, 169, 187, 270

European Capital of Culture, 261, 264, 268, 269, 272 European side, 120, 234, 254, 294, 313 Eurovision, 8, 48 everyday life, 1, 7, 12, 69, 89, 101, 145, 148, 149, 182, 188, 203, 207, 213, 275 evil, 43, 59 exhibition, 10, 102, 128, 163, 165, 169, 170, 175, 177, 194, 197, 198, 269, 272, 275, 283, 286 exotic, 22, 35, 38, 40, 44, 262, 266, 272, 276 exoticism, 5, 36, 273 Eyüp, 103, 178, 306, 307 Facebook, 47 false sense of security, 120 family, 24, 28, 38, 42, 50, 55, 79, 127, 130, 132, 140, 145, 169, 221, 226, 229, 230, 265, 293, 303, 305 fanzine, 203, 204 fashion, 6, 10, 199, 245, 246, 247, 248, 249, 250, 251, 252, 253, 254, 255, 256, 257, 258, 266, 267 fashion capital, 10, 256, 257

fashion design, 245, 248, 250, 255, 256, 257, 258 fashion industry, 248, 249, 250, 257 fashion magazines, 250, 254 Fashion’s Night Out Istanbul, 245, 248, 249, 257 fashionable clothes, 245, 251 fast fashion, 248 Fatih, 85, 177, 213, 292, 293 Fatin Rüútü Zorlu, 193 female artists, 169 feminization of migration, 227 Fener, VIII, 68, 69, 76, 79, 80, 81, 82, 83, 85, 86, 87, 292 festivals, 128, 162, 171, 174, 175, 182, 253, 292, 293 fetishisation, 135 Filipina community, 225-239 Filipino, 10, 225-239 film shot, 246, 251 financial capital, 3 finance city, 258 financial crises, 118 flower sellers, 212, 214 Folk, 144, 289 football, 171, 207, 216, 295 Fordist businesses, 118 foreign labour, 226, 228

330 foreign trade, 247 foreigner(s), 77, 78, 83, 180 forest, 26, 106, 119 Foucault, Michel, 27, 28, 117, 132, 133 French Institute for Anatolian Studies, 76 Freud, Sigmund, 22, 23, 24 Galata, 22, 29, 42, 45, 68, 69, 76, 77, 79, 81, 82, 83, 84, 85, 86, 217, 254, 286, 310 Galatamoda, 248 Galleries and the Biennials, 165 gated communities, 106, 115, 117, 119, 127, 131, 132, 133, 134, 142 gated enclaves, 115 Gaziosmanpaúa, 120, 177 gecekondus, VIII, 8, 95-112, 139-141, 144-146, 148, 150 gecekondu residents, 109-111, 140 gecekondu sector, 98 gender, 5, 50, 70, 71, 72, 127, 154, 213, 227 gentrification, V, 8, 67-89 gentrification habitus, 73 gentrification process, 5, 8, 6871, 76-79, 84-89

Index gentrification research, 68, 71, 74, 76, 89 gentrified nature, 122 Germany, 51 Gezi Park, IX, 35, 207, 222, 267 Gezi protests, 47 Giresun, 69 glass factory, 123 global, 4, 5, 10, 54, 60, 175, 192, 196, 197, 209, 226, 227, 246, 247, 248, 249, 252, 255, 256, 257, 258, 263, 270, 271, 285, 290, 291 global city, 4, 10, 47, 49, 50, 58, 61, 108, 110, 112, 118, 162, 209, 210, 250, 251, 257, 258, 261, 266, 267, 269, 270, 284, 291 global cultural productions, 118 globalization, 4, 5, 9, 56, 140, 209, 253, 268, 271, 284, 291, 293, 295, 296, 301 God, 131, 195, 219, 229, 235, 237 Golden Horn, 26, 69, 268 good life, 127, 252 Google, 46 Gospel of Luke, 237 government policies, 267 governmental bonds, 127

Gökçen, Sabiha, 120 graffiti, IX, 9, 105, 159-183 graffiti culture, 169 Grand Bazaar, 39, 40, 41, 43, 44 Greek, 55, 116, 124, 129, 131 Greek Orthodox, 69 green areas, 120, 123 guerilla, guerrilla(s), VI, 6, 9, 10, 157, 160, 181, 182, 196, 210, 220, 221 guidebooks, 271, 276 Gulf War, 228 Gülsuyu, VIII, 96, 100, 103, 111 Güngören, IX, 165, 170, 171, 174, 177, 179 Gypsy, 39, 301-314 habitat, 56, 171 Hafriyat art gallery, 169, 191 halk, 217 HalkÕn Kurtuluúu, 103 Hall of Fame, 165, 171 handicraft, 221 Harvey, David, 11, 128 Hasköy, 69 headscarf, 43, 47, 48 hegemony, 188, 197 heimlich, 17, 24, 25, 31 heterotopia(s), 27, 28, 117, 127, 132, 133 highways, 31, 119, 120, 180, 285

Whose City Is That? Culture, Design, Spectacle and Capital in Istanbul 331 hip hop, 160, 163, 164, 165, 169, 175, 177, 182 hiphoplife, 169, 174, 177, 181 historical heritage, 133, 201, 261, 262, 264, 268 historical imagination, 11, 284 historical peninsula, 193, 214 historical silhouette, 274 historicities, 9 history, 1, 5, 6, 8, 11, 18, 36, 42, 49, 69, 82, 86, 95, 106, 128, 160, 161, 179, 181, 187, 188, 190,191, 195, 200, 202, 206, 207, 208, 220, 246, 247, 253, 256, 263, 265, 267, 268, 269, 284, 288, 289, 290, 293, 294, 295, 296, 303 holistic view, 7 Hollywood, 8, 35, 36, 38, 39, 41, 42, 44, 54 homeless, 110, 187 Homo Sacer, 116 Hong Kong, 235, 247 housing cooperatives, 99 housing estate, TOKø Housing Estate, VI, VIII, 9, 97, 109, 110,

139-154, see also "TOKø" housing need, 102 housing problem, 98, 99, 103, 104, 106, 140 human experience, 6, 12 human rights, Human Rights Watch, 202, 228, 314 human traffickers, 43 Hürriyet (newspaper), 97, 98, 101, 102, 264 hybrid, 10, 101, 196, 197, 256 IMF, 118 Instagram, 180, 272 International Workers’ Day, 207 Islamic ideology, 289 Islamic images, 294 Islamic mystics, 195 Israel, 226, 228, 231, 237, 238 Istanbul (movies), 37-40 Istanbul Biennial, 169, 201, 202 østanbul Ekspres (newspaper), 99, 100 Istanbul Fashion Week, 248 Istanbul Foundation for Culture and the Arts, 201 Istanbul Metropolitan Municipality, 95, 250, 257, 285,

Istanbul Miracle, 291 Istanbulite, 3, 101, 102, 203 øsvan, Ahmet 102 içliköfte, 217 identity, 10, 47, 59, 76, 78, 79, 80, 101, 129, 134, 135, 159, 179, 190, 207, 219, 232, 238, 245, 246, 249, 252, 253, 255, 256, 271, 284, 289, 290, 301, 312314 illegal, 9, 51, 88, 103, 107, 160, 165, 169, 173, 180-182, 212, 214, 227, 313 imaginary, 4, 10, 24, 57, 115, 134, 253, 261, 274, 275 imaginary borders, 4 imperial nostalgia, 10, 284 individual, 7, 9, 11, 24, 28, 56, 70-74, 76, 79, 89, 99, 126, 129-131, 159, 179, 203205, 207, 215, 216, 219, 220, 238, 245, 249, 254, 262, 275, 286, 293 industrialization, 115, 119, 140 informal people, 10, 210, 215, 222 informal sector, 151, 209, 212, 215, 220 informalization, 209

332 infrastructure, 79, 112, 128, 132, 136, 140, 142, 247, 292 inhabitant, 4, 6, 7, 30, 57, 58, 139, 168, 179, 194, 217 intellectual icons, 53 intellectual, 51, 52, 53, 214, 255 intercultural, 311, 312, 314 internal migration, 2, 4 østiklal Street, IX, 166, 168, 172, 183, 213, 217, 218 østinye Park, 246, 254 Jesus Christ, 225, 229, 231 jewellery, 245 Jewish, 69 journalism, 51 journalist, 53, 81, 101, 213, 302, 312 Justice and Development Party (AKP), 62, 108, 291 Kabataú, 193 KadÕköy, 19, 165, 172, 173, 177, 180, 185, 194, 204, 250, 257, 289 Kandilli, 123 Karaköy, VIII, IX, 164, 167, 174, 193, 204, 211, 310 KasÕmpaúa, 308 Kemalist, 288

Index Kenan Evren, 105, 201 kokoreç, 306 Konya, 219, 287 köfte, 216, 217 Kripoe, IX, 167, 181 Kurdish, 48, 52, 142, 143, 145, 146149, 152, 153, 154 Kurdish problem, 146 Kurds, 143, 145, 149, 150, 152, 154, 201, 219 Kuútepe, 99 Kuwait, 228, 264 Kuzguncuk, 55, 56, 57, 76, 78, 79, 84, 85, 86 Küçükçekmece, 9, 110, 120, 141, 142, 178 Labor Code, 226 labour, 69, 70, 71, 72, 95, 118, 140, 209, 211, 226, 227-230, 232, 238 Lady Montagu, 19, 20 lahmacun, 303 Laleli, 248, 249 large companies, 71, 127 largest industry, 263, 270 Latin America, 181, 214 Law for Misdemeanor, 214 Lefebvre, 12 Lefebvrian sense, 236, 238

leftist groups, 104, 112 legal graffiti, 182 Legio meetings, 234-236 Legion of Mary, 234 leitmotif, 293 liberal, 26, 35, 53, 54, 60, 91, 237 liberalisation, liberalization, 51, 54, 118, 140, 209, 290 liberalism, 83 Liberated Areas, 101 lifestyle, lifestyles, 5, 38, 51, 53, 55, 59, 60-72, 75, 77, 89, 116-118, 125, 127, 130, 179, 247, 250, 252256 literature, 7, 33, 35, 68, 73, 74, 76, 81, 95, 96, 116, 160, 232, 233, 267, 274, 289, 292, 295 local authorities, 42, 78, 162, 163, 171, 179, 180, 183, 291 local government, 80, 107, 159, 171, 177, 289, 292, 294 London, 23, 29, 47, 48, 74, 86, 247, 250, 266, 267 Loti, Pierre, 22 Lumière Brothers, 36 luxury buildings, VIII, 106, 107, 108, 110

Whose City Is That? Culture, Design, Spectacle and Capital in Istanbul 333 luxury flats, 119, 127 MacFarlane, 20, 26, 33 magical East, 274 mahalle, 38, 55-57, 78, 100, 108, 112, 124, 135, 286 Mahmut Pasha, 214, 220 Maiden Tower, 276 manufacturing policies, 247 Mardin, 204, 219 marketing, 6, 7, 10, 49, 59, 182, 218, 247, 248, 255, 267, 271, 275, 276, 284, 294, 295, 296 (night) markets, 212 Marshall Aid Program, 199 martial law, 142 Marx, Karl, 271 Maslak, 293 Maslak 1453, 11, 284, 293, 294, 296, 298 Mayday Neighbourhood, VIII, 103-105, 108, 112 Mecca, 196, 166, 294, 309 media, 3, 7, 8, 10, 15, 36, 47, 48, 49, 50, 51, 52, 53, 86, 87, 96, 160, 180, 182, 200, 250, 253, 254, 255, 256, 261, 273, 274, 275, 288, 295 Media Structure, 51 media theory, 50

Mediterranean, 42, 288 mega city, 6, 139 mega concerts, 292 Mehmet II, 285, 286 Mehter band, 285 Melbourne, 183 memory, 3, 9, 55, 78, 79, 108, 112, 164, 187, 188, 190-193, 198, 202, 207, 283, 284, 287-289, 306 metaphor, 1, 3, 132, 187, 188, 192, 193, 195, 197, 272 metaphoric, 187, 188 metropolis, 10, 193, 280, 307 metropolitan hierarchy, 268 Mevlevi, 276 Michel de Certeau, 3, 189, 210 Middle Ages, 28 middle class, 5, 43, 55, 56, 67, 68, 69, 70-80, 84, 88, 89, 90, 91, 92, 116, 145, 148, 152, 168, 209, 276, 293, 294 Middle East, 18, 21, 47, 49, 60, 61, 228, 234, 249, 265, 270, 289 Middle-Eastern, 226, 261, 264, 265 Midnight Express, 39, 45, 47 migrant identities, 86 migrant labour, 69, 229, 230, 232

migration, 2, 4, 58, 118, 119, 143, 159, 215, 226228, 230-233, 239, 242, 291, 293, 314 militarization, 152, 153 military, 9, 20, 33, 100, 105, 106, 143, 154, 194, 215, 285, 287, 290 military coup, 51, 104, 105, 112, 162, 199, 201, 202, 290 military government, 51 military leaders, 100 military mayor, 106 Milk Gallery, 165 Milliyet Newspaper, 49, 52, 59, 61, 62, 105, 106, 208 minibus, 301, 307, 308, 309 Ministry of Tourism, 42 minority communities, 53 Miss Pardoe, 20 mobile repairmen, 212 modern, 4, 17, 18, 21, 22, 24, 25, 28, 29-33, 37, 47, 59, 108, 110, 112, 119, 125, 142, 145, 160, 161, 162, 177, 183, 187, 197, 198, 209, 210, 217, 223, 245, 247, 261, 262, 264, 267, 270, 272,

334 273, 274, 277, 279, 298, 311, 313 Modern Art, IX, 183 Modern consumerism, 273 modernity, 18, 25, 29, 30, 48, 112, 210, 249, 262, 274 modernization, 4, 27, 95, 119, 161, 189 money, 2, 10, 12, 48, 53, 106, 107, 146, 150, 178, 182, 193, 204, 212, 213, 216, 221, 233, 246, 286, 305, 306, 308310, 312 monument, 40, 45, 160-162, 188, 191, 198, 199, 264, 270, 283, 290 mosque, VIII, 26, 42, 44, 45, 48, 191, 270, 272, 274, 285, 303 moustache, 38, 47 movie multiplexes, 266 movies, 8, 52, 181, 271 Muhtar, 37, 83, 101, 107, 302 Muhteúem YüzyÕl, 52 multicultural, 2, 3, 12, 53, 55, 57, 78, 168 multinational banks, 118

Index multinational corporations, 110, 118 municipal company, 212 law, 214 uniforms, 212 municipality, 69, 85, 95, 96, 98, 101, 112, 141, 149, 161, 162, 165, 170, 171, 172, 173, 177, 179, 180, 194, 212, 214, 250, 256, 257, 285, 313 Municipality of Istanbul, see: Istanbul Metropolitan Municipality museum, VII, 10, 11, 69, 128, 159, 163, 191, 198, 199, 200, 266, 270, 283, 284, 285, 287, 288, 289, 290, 292, 293, 295, 296 MuslimAlbanian, 42 communities, 8 hammams, 28 nation, 233 population, 69, 193 tomb, 27 women, 237 Mustafa Kemal Atatürk, 190 myth, 1, 18, 140, 289 mythic, 1, 7, 128 mythic narratives, 1 namazgah, 161

narrative, 2, 3, 7, 18, 38, 42, 54, 58, 61, 70, 78, 80, 84, 219, 231, 272, 274, 288, 289, 304 nation state, 4, 190, 227, 263, 267 National Security Council, 105 NATO, 199 Nehru, Jawaharlal, 199 neighbourhood, VIII, 8, 17, 26, 38, 49, 55-57, 6769, 70, 72, 73-81, 83-90, 95, 96, 101-105, 107112, 115, 116, 118, 123, 124, 125, 130, 139, 140-154, 171, 172, 173, 175, 177, 180, 193, 194, 195, 198, 200, 204, 211, 213, 217, 245, 254, 255, 256, 285, 286, 287, 294, 302, 307, 311 neoliberal, 51, 56, 57, 67, 88, 140, 142, 155, 294297 neoliberal government, 110 neoliberal urbanism, 76 neoliberalism, 67, 136, 137, 209, 294, 295 Nevúehir, 219 New Cultural Mediators, 255

Whose City Is That? Culture, Design, Spectacle and Capital in Istanbul 335 new generations, 58, 290 new identity, 10, 77, 246, 285, 290 new middle class, 67, 68, 70, 71, 72, 77, 79, 91 New Politics, 134 new urbanity, 130 New York, 29, 101, 215, 239, 247, 250, 257, 266 NGOs, 77, 171, 241 nightlife, 267, 269, 272 NiúantaúÕ, 246, 254 Noah’s ark, 196 Nobel Prize, 8, 48 nostalgia, 10, 21, 22, 53, 77, 80, 128, 267, 284 Olympic Stadium, 143 organic agriculture, 120 Orhan Pamuk, 48 Orient, 7, 8, 17, 18, 28, Oriental city, 17, 36, 39 Orient Express, 21, 39 Oriental space, 41 Orientalism, V, 18, 21, 35, 44 Classical Orientalism, 35 Orientalism (Book), 18 Orientalist, 18, 21, 35, 39, 40, 42-44, 276 Ortaköy, 38, 76, 123 Osman Hamdi Bey, 36, 37

Othering, 148, 150, 154, 313 Ottoman, 10, 18, 20, 26, 29, 36, 54, 57, 113, 120, 190, 195, 261, 283, 284-286, 288290, 293, 294, 295 Ottoman calligraphy, 173 Ottoman costumes, 283 Ottoman Empire, 8, 18, 20, 118, 161, 190, 247, 265, 274, 284, 288, 294, 295 Ottoman pluralism, 286 Panorama 1453 History Museum, 10, 11, 283-285, 287-289, 293, 295, 296 Paris, 29, 42, 253, 266, 267, 274 Paúabahçe, 123 Pathé, 36 Pax Ottomana, 286 Peace and Democracy Party, 143 peasants in the city, 101, 111 Pera, 19, 26, 29, 293 peripheral neighbourhoods, 211 peripheral shantytown areas, 119 periphery, 95, 118, 119, 142, 206, 216 Persian, 195

Persian gardens, 28 phantasmagoria, 274, 275 pilgrims, 267, 309 police, 1, 30, 43, 120, 152, 153, 162, 163, 174, 180, 191, 201, 207, 213, 214, 216-221 political conflict, 154 elites, 209, 210 Islam, 290 life, 130 posters, 162 protest, 204 slogans, IX, 163, 181 politics of governance, 198 polymorph, 210 polytechnics, 311 popular culture, 163, 181-184, 250, 283 population, VIII, 4, 29, 30, 54, 69, 70, 80, 86, 97, 98, 100, 101, 105, 108-110, 115, 118, 131, 139, 140-142, 148, 159, 193, 194, 226, 231, 250, 291, 312 populism, 102 postcards, 6, 266, 270, 271, 273, 276 pre-Islamic past, 288 presentation strategies, 6 Prime Minister, 149, 199, 221, 265, 287-290, 313

336 private life, 130 private sector, 154, 290, 291 private spaces, 119, 210 private sphere, 127 promotional films, 251-255, 261, 264, 269, 270, 272, 273, 276 property owners, 80, 83, 85, 89 Public Art Laboratory, 201203 public health, 131 public imagery, 289 public place, 28, 160 public schools, 88 public space, 9, 48, 101, 117, 120, 159, 160-163, 174, 187, 189, 195, 197, 202, 210, 283, 289, 292, 295, 296 Qatar, 228, 252, 264 Quran, 194, 195, 294 radical, 96, 102, 106, 107, 110, 140, 155, 290 Radikal Newspaper, 265 Railroads, 180 railway, 30, 180, 262 Ramadan, 264, 265 real-estate entrepreneurs, 110 Refi÷, Halit, 2 Religious Tourism, 269, 270 rental stock, 78 reproduction cycle, 9

Index resistance, 9, 18, 19, 109, 190, 191, 209, 210, 267 Roma (People), 11, 219, 301-303, 312-315 Romani, 301, 313 Rome, Open City, 1 RumelihisarÕ, 249, 294 rural migrants, 95, 97, 98, 108, 140, 151 Sabantoy, 286, 287 Said, Edward, 18, 21 Samsun, 69 Sanatorium Art Initiative, 169, 197 Sartrian existentialism, 204 Saudi, 59, 228, 252, 263, 264 schools, 48, 88, 89, 127, 248 sculptures, 161, 162, 188-192 Scutari, 22, 26 seagull, 272 secular, 161, 190, 217, 289 security, 5, 105, 115, 120, 126, 127, 129, 131, 134, 141, 143, 145, 146, 152, 153, 169, 180, 212, 217, 220 Sennett, Richard, 11 Shanghai Biennial, 198 shoeshine, 307 shopping, 5, 8, 10, 57, 77, 95, 110, 123, 128, 142,

143, 182, 191, 196, 210, 239, 245-258, 262, 264-267, 281, 284, 291, 294, 295, 306 shopping party, 10, 245, 250, 252, 255 shops, 124, 168, 175, 177, 179, 212, 217, 219, 235, 253-255, 309 simit, 212, 213 simulacra, 57, 133, 271, 273, 275, 276 Simulacrum, 133, 271 simulation, 117, 127, 133, 134, 271, 275, 276 Sirkeci, 38, 41, 309, 311 situationists, 204 skyscrapers, 247, 270, 273, 274 slums, 6 soap operas, 49, 50, 54 social capital, 8, 68, 71, 73, 74, 78, 79, 80, 88, 89, 220, 221, 228, 232 Social Development Program, 144 social identities, 254 social media, 47, 180, 182, 200 social networks, 8, 67-89 social projects, 144, 179 Socialist Block, 290

Whose City Is That? Culture, Design, Spectacle and Capital in Istanbul 337 socially imprisoned, 119 soft power, 48 solidarity, 50, 56, 86, 110, 219, 302 Soviet Union, 199 spatialization of class, 75, 76, 88 spectator, 57, 167, 179, 189, 262 spray paint, 164, 165, 169 Stamboul, 26, 31, 38 state authorities, 112 state elites, 97, 99 state security, 131 statistical, 12, 211 stencil, 164, 177, 180, 182, 185, 195-197, 203 stepped streets, 198 stigmatize, 111, 140, 152 Stigmatized Site, 152 Stray Dog, 1, 187, 204 stray dogs, 187, 204 street bench, IX, 211 street protests, IX, 183, 222 street vending, 210, 211-216, 221 street vendors, IX, 9, 10, 101, 203, 209-221 street-art gallery, 165 subculture(s), 101, 181, 196, 312, 313 "suitcase" trade, 248, 249 Sultan Mahmood, 20

Sultan Mehmed II the Conqueror, 285, 294 Sultanahmet, 307 Sulukule, 97, 110, 292 Sunni, 27, 190 surveillance techniques, 120 survey, 68, 69, 105, 113, 145, 150, 151, 160, 193, 216 symbolism, 48, 195, 198, 284 ùebinkarahisar, 69 ùiúhane, 305-306 ùiúli, 39, 177, 234, 239, 250, 257 Taksim, IX, 69, 83, 161, 174, 183, 197, 207, 216, 234, 239, 267, 308 teenagers, 165, 170, 193 Tehran, 35 television drama, 49, 50, 265, 266, 271, 272 territorializations, 135 terrorists, 107, 142, 149, 153 textile, 98, 246, 247, 248, 249, 250, 257 the East and the West, 18 The Magnificent Century, 266, 276 The Turtle Trainer, VIII, 36, 37 The Wall Street Journal, 251

theme parks, 115, 270, 291 Themed-gated communities, 117, 129, 132, 133, 134, 135 themed-gated residential areas, 9, 115 Thrace, 285 TOKø, VI, VIII, 8, 9, 95, 96, 97, 106, 108-110, 139, 141-148, 151154, 291, 294, see also "housing estate" Tokyo, 1, 2, 247, 250 Tophane Park, 191 TopkapÕ Cultural Park, 283, 285, 286-289 TopkapÕ Palace, 266, 276 tourism, IX, 10, 42, 48, 51, 183, 261267, 269-272, 274-276, 285, 291, 292 tourism industry, 183, 261, 262, 269 tourist, VI, VIII, IX, 3-10, 38, 44, 49, 57, 58, 60, 61, 77, 82, 84, 139, 141, 193, 234, 251, 254, 257, 261277, 303 touristic, 8, 44, 84, 266, 268, 270, 271 tourist gaze, 57, 270, 271, 273

338 tourist guide, 3, 82, 264, 270, 273, 276 Trachea, 302, 305, 313 train scene, 42 Trains, 42, 309 transformation, VI, 3, 8, 12, 28, 49, 50, 53, 56, 57, 69, 71, 74, 95, 96, 107, 109-111, 113, 115, 119, 155, 182, 191, 262, 290, 291 transformation projects, 85, 96, 106, 108, 109, 118, 140-143 transitive identities, 250 transnationalization, 49, 50, 58, 61, 225 travel, 7, 17, 25, 38, 204, 225, 251, 262, 269, 273, 275 traveller, 8, 17-23, 25-32, 261, 262, 265, 267, 272 Tunç “Turbo” Dindaú, 164, 165, 169, 170, 181 Turkic World, 285287 Turkish cemetery, 26, 27, 29 Turkish culture, 173, 288 Turkish economy, 118, 290 Turkish families, 153, 229 Turkish flag, 41, 42, 198

Index Turkish hammam, 43 Turkish media, 48, 51, 53, 255 Turkish Republic, 118, 161, 162, 190, 199, 286 Turkish Statistical Institute, 211 Turkish textile industry, 248 Turkishness, 288 TV, V, VIII, 8, 4763, 87, 165, 251, 252, 254 Serials, 53 Twain, Mark, 21 Twitter, 47 typography, 174 UEFA championship, 48 ultranationalist Turks, 153 underworld, 310 unemployment, 215, 290, 313 university, VII, 50, 78, 81, 82, 86, 168, 188, 301, 302, 308, 311, 314 unreal, 24, 132, 144 unreality, 284 urban governance, 127 urban guerrillas, 10, 210, 220 urban iconography, 250 urban land, 103, 117, 118, 294 urban landscape, 4, 11, 91, 120, 279, 284, 290, 292, 293, 295, 296

Urban periphery, V, 95, 106, 142 urban planners, 77, 106, 189 urban planning, 77, 283, 294 urban renewal, 69, 194, 292, 297 urban space, 4, 9, 24, 26, 67, 78, 95, 96, 189, 190, 192, 210, 215, 263, 283, 284, 290, 293, 296 urban structures, 31, 198, 199 urban transformation, 8, 12, 79, 85, 96, 108, 109, 118, 140-143, 150 urbanization, 95, 104, 119, 120 Usta, 307-309, 312 utopia, 8, 9, 93, 117, 127, 128, 129, 132, 134 utopian, 8, 9, 128, 134 Ümraniye, 103, 178, 216, 292 Vehbi Koç, 201 Venetian, 9, 22 Venice, 116, 117, 123, 124, 128, 133, 134, 276 Vertov, Dziga, 36 VFNO, 10, 245-258 Viaport Venezia, 116, 120, 122124, 126 video, 181, 191, 198, 200, 293 villa-type residences, 119

Whose City Is That? Culture, Design, Spectacle and Capital in Istanbul 339 Virgin Mary, 234, 238, 269 visual identities, 9 Visual Metaphor, 192, 193 Vogue Fashion’s Night Out, 10, 245, 248, 259 Western civilization, 28 Western culture, 54 Western imperialists, 239 Western narrative, 7, 18 Western nations, 227, 245

Western perspective, 191 Western traveller, 17, 18, 19, 21, 22, 25, 26, 28, 30, 31 Westernization, 161, 290 Westernized society, 99 woodlands, 123 working-class, 67, 69, 70, 86, 88, 115 world city, 4, 6, 8, 47, 110, 140, 163, 270

world economy, 6, 118 World Exhibitions, 115, 274 World’s Fairs, 274, 275 Yelde÷irmeni Street Art Festival, 172 Yeúilçam, 54, 55, 61 youth organizations, 162 Yüksek KaldÕrÕm, 167, 310 Zincirlikuyu, 194 zone of freedom, 174