"The revolution will not be televised" was a slogan too true when the Gezi Park protests erupted in Turkey during late May 2013. CNN Türk was broadcasting a documentary on penguins during the height of the conflict.
The penguin would soon become part of the movement's iconography.
CNN Türk is a property of the conglomerate Doğan Holding, which has little to gain by ruffling feathers in Prime Minister Erdoğan's government. Imagine if CNN were owned by Halliburton instead of Time Warner. Not that CNN did much better — I followed events almost nonstop the weekend of June 1 and saw only 15 seconds of coverage on CNN, the rest was mostly Oklahoma tornadoes. Al Jazeera devoted about ten minutes of their hour-long news program to Istanbul.
So the #OccupyGezi movement occurred on the streets and online, producing some powerful images. The Tumblr site is PG-13 for gore.
The best contemporary article on context and background I found was at technosociology.org.
Time passed, and things seemed to quiet down. The last time I visited, in August, Gezi Park was again a park, with families strolling and little evidence of discord, though strong sentiments were still being expressed online. Social media are big in Turkey, one of Facebook's top ten markets. On that social network, commonly called "Face," many people adopted the title çapulcu in solidarity with the protesters.
By the end of the year, Syria and Ukraine had taken over the world's attention, and I didn't expect any excitement on my trip to Istanbul last weekend. I took the airport bus to Taksim Square as usual and had some time to scout around for dinner. İstiklal Caddesi is the pedestrian Fifth Avenue, the Ramblas, of Istanbul, lined with designer boutiques, fast food, elite schools and consulates, and always busy with throngs of people, so it wasn't immediately obvious that something was up, but I heard a lot of shouting and whistling.
I bought an instant coffee from a teyze (auntie) working a cart on the street and asked her what was going on. A couple of British-sounding tourists lingering nearby told me the protesters were out again, but the streets were open. I worked my way through the crowds and got closer to the shouting and soon saw a few dozen police in riot gear mulling around. They appeared casual, chatting with passers-by, but then there would be an announcement and they would suddenly storm a short distance and then form a line. Even though they are mostly kids, appearing to be in their 20s, a phalanx of riot officers with automatic rifles, helmets, and gas masks does get your attention.
It wasn't clear what was expected, as they would form a line but allow the crowds to walk around and linger on both sides. I realized I was downwind of the likely conflict area, and maneuvered out of the square to the top of İstiklal, joining some kids in getting souvenir shots of the cops and TOMA riot truck.
Giving up on a sit-down dinner, I chowed down on some midye dolma and asked the street vendor if he expected any excitement. I didn't get a clear answer, or didn't understand it, but felt pretty safe seeing the all the usual hawkers of lotto tickets, roasted chestnuts, simit, and mussels. The crowd was about 30% female, many of them nicely dressed, and the occasional couple with kids or even a baby in stroller. But others were ready for action, with gas masks and cameras.
I walked farther down the avenue and heard more sounds of disturbance ahead. I was downwind of the noise again, and noticed that people going my way were moving with some trepidation and some chanting, while those going the other way were hustling. I remembered Robert Capa's line, "If your photographs aren't good enough, you're not close enough."
Suddenly there was a general stampede, and I was carried along into a side street. Thinking that a water cannon could ruin my night, and a police baton could ruin my trip, but getting trampled could ruin my spine, I followed someone's example and leapt onto some curbside restaurant tables, out of the main flow. A TOMA passed by, hosing the area down with pepper-laced water, causing general sneezing and sniffling among those who remained, but most of the crowd had disappeared into the back alleys. I tried to blend in with the wall as a number of police appeared around the corner.
At some signal, they stormed up the alley in pursuit of the çapulcu that had dispersed. I did not capture any images, as I was busy pretending to be on an important tourist phone call while becoming one with the wall. After a minute the cops marched back to the main avenue, followed by a couple of protesters with gas masks and video cameras. The TOMA passed by again, and I got my Instagram shot as it was kind enough to operate the water cannon while framed in the alley.
Somehow still dry, and with most respiratory function intact, I figured one close call was enough and made my way through back streets to the metro station to move out. That night I saw that the local media was giving the protest some coverage; the news said that the protest was over social media censorship. "The police sprayed water on the Internet" read the caption to a photo much better than mine.
The rest of the trip was more conventional. I visited the New Mosque for the first time, which like everything else in the city turns the concepts of old and new inside out.
Compact fluorescent bulbs illuminated the antique tile.
Nearby, I strolled through a pet market. Not just one shop, but dozens, full of the sounds of chirping birds. In Turkey, all the shops selling one category will be clustered together: a whole street of shops selling lamps, or stringed instruments. It makes comparison shopping easy, but I am not sure what's in it for the merchants.
Instead of the usual sacks of colorful spices, I saw displays of dog food
and bird seed.
That's as much as I remember through the haze of jet lag and coffee.
