Analyzing the composition of Turkish identity

Owen Zighelboim

On June 2, 2013, two protesters in Turkey’s Gezi Park riots hijacked an excavator which they used to drive back police water cannons. Photos of the spectacle were promptly uploaded to social media platforms, where members of the Çarşı football fan club transformed them into viral internet memes overnight. They named the excavator “POMA” (Police Control Vehicle), mocking the police’s riot control vehicles, the “TOMAs.”[1] The memes were an attempt by the protesters to circulate updates corresponding to their well-known satirical style. They also introduce the Çarşı fan club’s crucial role in the resistance movement underlying the Gezi protests. Though often portrayed as an outburst of political fervor, the Gezi protests were actually a result of longstanding historical and political sentiment against the AKP-led Turkish government. As a result of these trends, Çarşı’s participation in the protest came as a shock to those who had accepted the club’s self-proclaimed anti-political identity. However, this paper explores the ways in which the group successfully engaged in politics and the Gezi protests, despite its established state of political isolation. Çarşı recognized the opportunity to execute its mission within a political framework which subsequently galvanized supporters to participate in the broader resistance. Despite the diverse ethnic and religious background of its members, the practice of game-day rituals prepared the group to effectively mobilize its supporters. Its universalist organizational structure made this mobilization possible, enabling grassroots contribution on the ground and in global media networks. 

The 2013 Gezi Park protests sparked from the growing discontent with AKP’s neoliberal urban development policies. Endorsed as a key mechanism for economic growth, these policies involved the massive sale of public lands to private investors for commercial development. Gezi Park, one of Istanbul’s beloved and last-remaining green spaces, was set for demolition to make room for a new shopping mall.  Environmental activist and human rights groups assembled in the park and in the adjacent Taksim Square in protest of common adversaries: Turkey’s ruling party, the AKP, and then-prime minister, Recep Tayyip Erdoğan. Their cause targeted Erdoğan’s micromanagement of public spaces and his regulation of private habits, including invasive construction projects and attempts to curb alcohol consumption. These grievances reflect a more general tension, one emerging from the administration’s excessive use of police violence, marginalization of minority groups, and repression of free speech.[2]

As a fan group of the Beşiktaş football club, Çarşı maintains a deep connection to the community to which its supporters belong. Çarşı translates to “marketplace” or “midtown,” alluding to the bars, cafes, and restaurants where members congregate during Beşiktaş game days. It exemplifies the group’s uniquely strong commitment to and identification with the Beşiktaş neighborhood in Istanbul. One Çarşı leader famously asserted:

“You talk about being Beşiktaşli—being from Beşiktaş. I’m not from Beşiktaş; I am Beşiktaş. What’s Beşiktaş, if it isn’t me? A piece of dirt. Beşiktaş is people.”[3]

Despite the neighborhood’s mix of ethnically and religiously diverse residents, its dedicated support of the football club is globally recognized and attracts thousands of members to their ranks. Few people, however, could have predicted that this fervor would extend to Gezi Park. Estimates report that over 6,000 Çarşı members filled Taksim Square, one of the protest’s major hotspots.[4] In addition to providing on-the-ground support, they leveraged their social media presence to make the protest international, spreading awareness and rallying support for the resistance. Their indispensable role in the movement would spark a larger conversation about the sociopolitical role of football around the world. 

The stark positioning of minority rights and social justice groups who participated in the Gezi protests against the AKP government created a highly politicized arena for Çarşı to participate in. Accordingly, Çarşı’s appearance shocked many who understood the group to be removed from Turkey’s political dialogue. One founder declared, “We do not have a political stance, we are not affiliated with any political parties; our stance is being Beşiktaşlı.”[5] As the popular phrase “Çarşı her şeye karşı” denotes, the group posits itself literally “against everything,” including “itself.”[6] As another member put it, they are “allergic to the authorities,” noting the replacement of the letter “a” in Çarşı with the universally recognized symbol for anarchy.[7] Fundamental to the group is an aversion to any established regime—so much so that it facetiously rejects its own conception as an organized group. 

But these accounts overlook the deep influence of political history in the development of Turkish football culture, and the circumstances surrounding the birth of Çarşı. The military coup of 1980 reinforced secular-nationalist priorities in the Turkish government, creating conditions where authoritarian institutions and neoliberal policies would flourish.[8] The new state “used soccer to fill the vacuum left by politics” when political gatherings were barred as a means to cripple dissidents.[9] This phenomenon can be described as a systematic, one-to-one parody of political consciousness—that is, civilians critique the record of soccer players instead of the record of parliament, or second-guess the coach rather than the minister of finance. In his view, sports have the power to absorb the same energies that people would otherwise spend on political debates.[10] But does this theory apply to Çarşı? And if so, in what form? 

Çarşı’s historical development reveals an intimate linkage with the shifts and ruptures of Turkish society from the 1970s onward. Çarşı founders lived through a context of radical change.  Many experienced their early childhoods and/or adolescences during the late 1970s, a period marked by street violence between opposing groups that identified ideologically with either the radical left or right. Perhaps more dramatic was the resulting 1980 military coup, leading to crackdowns on political associations. The military regime that assumed power following the coup, along with the neoliberal economic policies it implemented, starkly contradicted Beşiktaş’s historically mixed-class, progressive, heterogenous identity––it's no wonder, then, that Çarşı’s founders were so resentful of the government.[11]

When the group was founded in 1982 to reinforce solidarity among the team’s supporters, the football terrace became “arguably the only public forum where opposition could be expressed.”[12] Cem Yakışkan, one of the founders of Çarşı, reinforces this notion: “Çarşı was established in 1982 but its roots can be found in the late 1970s, during which we were a few teenagers growing up together in Beşiktaş, admiring our left-wing revolutionary brothers in the neighborhood. We were all BJK [Beşiktaş] fans. One day, we thought, why don't we go to BJK's games together, and since we spent most of our times here in Çarşı, we decided to call ourselves simply as the Çarşı.”[13] Unsurprisingly, some members still take stances on highly politicized issues to this day. For example, they have displayed banners at games which present itself as “being against terrorism,” asserting its “indivisibility of the homeland,” and “praising the uncontested figure of Mustafa Kemal.” These slogans are frequently accompanied by political symbolism such as images of Che Gueavara and the Communist Red Star, which are closely associated with the group’s leftist Kemalist background.[14]

Understanding how Çarşı can simultaneously claim a non-conformist identity and make political statements lies in the structure of Turkey’s political framework.[1] The Turkish government retains a unitarian approach towards religious, territorial, and linguistic issues—it uses a national unity discourse to define the limits of legitimate political action.[2] Thus, despite its anti-establishment and antagonistic characteristics, Çarşıfrequently assumes a mainstream political stance to “[legitimize] their existence.”[15] Tilly references this phenomenon in his discussion of “contentious performances,” which are defined by the learned and historically grounded ways of making claims on other people and on governments which “in the short run strongly limit the choices available to would-be makers of claims.”[16] The legitimacy of these claims is often granted by AKP, who exerts its influence by allowing political groups to express their opinions, while excluding its detractors as nonpolitical. Thus, Çarşı earns itself a seat at the table by exercising contentious politics while maintaining its non-political identity. 

Similarly, Battini and Kosulu suggest that Çarşı participates in the subculture of “identity bricolage” alongside many other football fan clubs—the political stances of Çarşı are not contradictions but rather gaps between the use of symbols and their actual meanings. The concept of bricolage involves the appropriation of gestures that are given purpose during, rather than before, their use. In other words, the meanings and purposes associated with these tools become more flexible as they are shaped during the redeployment process. Ultra-groups like Çarşı frequently appropriate symbols from politics, music, and pop-culture without considering their original meanings so that they can put them in a “new symbolic ensemble to convey a different message.”[17]Thus, Çarşı can avoid defining its beliefs while also participating in highly politicized spaces like Gezi. 

Indeed, Çarşı iconography often has several interpretations. In an interview, one member claimed that, while many teams revere Kemal, Beşiktaş loves him for his “most human” traits, such as the leader’s weakness for alcohol illustrated in the popular chant “In our father’s footsteps, we’ll die of cirrhosis.”[18] The chant suggests that Çarşı endorses not only secular Kemalist politics but also accept the leader’s rough edges. Considering Çarşı as deeply sensitive to the human experience illuminates its involvement and profound impact in the Gezi protests. One of Çarşı’s co-founders, Yakistan, describes this sensitivity: “We don't care whether you are an atheist or a devout person, but you will just have to fight against injustice… It is a kind of reflex for us; we react if we see unfairness, if we witness injustice.”[19] Targeting police violence and government suppression of civil liberties, Çarşı saw a chance to act against perceived evil and unjust. The association of “good” and “bad” with differing political coalitions reinforced the opposition between the protesters and the government, forcing Çarşı into a more complex ideological battle. “We never actually intended to take sides,” explained a Çarşı member, “but we had to, when the police started using pepper sprays and water cannons.”[20]

Crucial to its involvement in the protests, Çarşı’s commitment to humanity is more than simple motivation—it is “ensemble of ethical codes” towards which its members gravitate, regardless of religion or ethnicity.[21] A long poem titled “What is Çarşı?” describes this solidarity that trumps differences:

It’s the people in the stands: a doctor, a worker, a businessman, an illiterate street child, a professor. It’s the leftist, rightist, atheist, the pilgrim, the Muslim, the Armenian, the Jew, the Christian, who jump up and down, shoulder to shoulder, with tears in their eyes, shouting at the top of their lungs, “My Beşiktaş, my one and only darling!”[22]

From a cosmopolitan lens, this solidarity may be attributed to the Çarşı fan’s ability to “switch codes,” overcoming mutually isolated existences in order to boost the team’s competitive advantage.[23] This produces milieus of social promiscuity, spaces where individuals are liberated from communal belonging and cultural boundaries (Zubaida).[24] It defies Turkish national identity, which includes and excludes people based on their ethnic background, by uniting them in spite of their pluralist composition.                                                                                    

This cosmopolitan solidarity largely extends from the neighborhood’s urban sociability. Game days highlight Çarşı’s role in constructing this sociability. Game days in Beşiktaş are almost carnival-like, where moments of everyday life and work in the Lefebvrian sense are intensified and excitable. Though these “festivals” have a certain rhythm that runs against the usual flow of everyday life, each cycle renews and strengthens the community’s collective spirit.[25] The Vodafone Arena—where the team plays its home matches—is walking distance from the part of town where fan club members socialize before and after games. On game days, Çarşı members are seen walking by the hundreds to and from the stadium.[26] Integrating members from all walks of life, the group also socializes on game days at numerous local bars and cafes, such as the Elma and United pubs and cafés. Over the decades, this routine has created what Collins describes as an “interaction ritual,” where the physical space of the neighborhood and stadium becomes a catalyst for shared mood and focus.[27] Out of this culture emerged a striking solidarity arising in the forms of symbols and emotional energy. Likewise, these rituals made a habit of building bridges, generating collective joy and action, and suspending social and emotional restraints[28]—a spirit later instrumental in Çarşı’s role in the Gezi resistance. 

Çarşı’s urban sociability enabled its members to communicate their shared experiences, which overlapped with grievances articulated by the resistance movement. Leading up to the Gezi protests, Beşiktaşwas subject to the same intense commercialization and urban development pressures faced by many other Istanbul’s neighborhoods, or mahalles, in which urban spaces of belonging and familiarity develop and are subject to continual and deliberate reproduction.[29] The reproduction of the Beşiktaş mahalle was affected by a wave of small business closures, the result of lingering debt issues and real estate buyouts by chain retailers.[30] Real-estate developers and municipal agents conceptualized the neighborhood as a commercial hub. This idea starkly contrasts with that of long-time residents—who hold Mom-and-Pop shops, old cafes, and niche markets as essential to residential experience. Given the importance of game days and urban space in the neighborhood’s sociability, it is not difficult to imagine the community-wide criticism of commercialization.

This sentiment inspired grassroots action through the unique structure of Çarşı’s authoritative hierarchy. The Resource Mobilization Theory and Weber’s organization modeling demonstrate how Çarşı incorporated a progressive display of inclusion. The club has rallied unprecedented support for the protest by achieving a balance between two contending fields of thought: elitism—preserving the charismatic grace of a core group of chosen ones—and universalism, maintaining that those of a lower status be valuable parts of the organization.[31]

At its inception, Çarşı’s organizational structure was elitist: “Çarşı was a small group of men who lived nearby, knew the founders personally, and were willing to attend all games, sing passionately, and throw a few punches if challenged by rival fans.”[32] Though they never expressed universalist pretensions, decades of organizational progression over shifted Çarşı to a more universalist position. Their traditionally left-leaning ideology formed strong preferences for democracy and inclusivity among all levels of the organization, which explains the relative absence of a fixed leadership and hierarchy.[33] This distinction makes it difficult to tell how big Çarşı is, “how one becomes a member, or how the leaders, who aren't called leaders, acquired their power.”[34] Despite the risk of institutionalizing elitism through a “tyranny of the structurelessness” complex, Çarşı’s leaders successfully managed to diffuse the responsibility of strategy-making throughout the organization, empowering members to make decisions that align with the club’s values.[35] This approach of inclusive decision-making was developed in part through design but also through commodification. The availability of Çarşı merchandise through online distribution allowed individuals from around the world to identify with the group. Additionally, it loosely manages the rights to its iconography and symbols which are used on platforms like social media and blogs to expand its influence.[36] By leveraging its global network through the widespread presence of screens and media, Çarşı performed what Carney would call “participatory politics,” enabling its supporters to express and act on their political views in Gezi.[37] This inclusive, universalist form was crucial for its participation in Gezi, enabling Çarşı to have an impact without sacrificing its core philosophy. 

Recognizing Çarşı as just another group that contributed to the resistance movement would overlook the unique historical and organizational qualities that explains its participation. Using identity bricolage to reconcile its paradoxical identity, Çarşı legitimized its participation in the protest without compromising its mission. It applied its game day rhythms to inspire collective action through urban sociability and ritual practice. Lastly, its structure mobilized its supporters though its inclusion and empowerment of lower-tier members. Çarşı provides an excellent example of an organization that managed to overcome its traditional limitations in response to a definitive societal moment. Its participation in the Gezi protests indicates the potential for groups to interact across different social spaces, empathize with a shared experience of its members, and effectively advocate for them when it matters most.

Bibliography

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Collins, Randall. Interaction Ritual Chains. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2004.

Cosar, Simten and Metin Yeğenoğlu. “The Neo-Liberal Restructuring of Turkey’s Social Security System,” Monthly Review 60, no. 11 (2009): 38.

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Tilly, Charles. Contentious Performances. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013. Turan, Ömer, and Burak Özçetin. “Football Fans and Contentious Politics: The Role of Çarşı in the Gezi Park Protests.” International Review for the Sociology of Sport 54, no. 2 (March 2019): 199–217. doi:10.1177/1012690217702944.

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[1]Turan, Ömer, and Burak Özçetin. “Football Fans and Contentious Politics: The Role of Çarşı in the Gezi Park Protests.” International Review for the Sociology of Sport 54, no. 2 (March 2019): 199–217. doi:10.1177/1012690217702944.

[2]Susan C. Pearce. “Perfoming Pride in a Summer of Dissent: Istanbul’s LGBT Parades.” In Istanbul: Living with Difference in a Global City. New Brunswick (N.J.): Rutgers University Press., 2018.

[3]Elif Batuman. “The View from the Stands.” The New Yorker. The New Yorker, June 19, 2017. https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2011/03/07/the-view-from-the-stands.

[4]Mine Eder and Özlem Öz. “Spatialities of Contentious Politics: The Case of Istanbul's Beşiktaş Neighborhood, ÇArşı Footfall Fandom and Gezi.” Political Geography. Pergamon, June 30, 2017.

[5]Battini, Adrien, and Deniz Koşulu. “When Ultras Defend Trees: Framing Politics through Subcultural Fandom-Comparing UltrAslan and Çarşı before and during Occupy Gezi.” Soccer & Society19, no. 3 (July 2017): 418–39. https://doi.org/10.1080/14660970.2017.1333673.

[6]Turan. “Football Fans and Contentious Politics: The Role of Çarşı in the Gezi Park Protests.” 

[7]Ibid.

[8]Simten Cosar and Metin Yeğenoğlu, "The Neo-Liberal Restructuring of Turkey's Social Security System," Monthly Review 60, no. 11 (2009): 38.

[9]Batuman. “The View from the Stands.” 

[10]Ibid. 

[11]John McManus. “Been There, Done That, Bought The T-Shirt: Beşiktaş Fans And The Commodification Of Football In Turkey.” International Journal of Middle East Studies45, no. 1 (2013): 3–24. https://doi.org/10.1017/s0020743812001237.

[12]Ibid.

[13]Eder. “Spatialities of Contentious Politics: The Case of Istanbul's Beşiktaş Neighborhood, ÇArşı Footfall Fandom and Gezi.” 

[14]Battini. “When Ultras Defend Trees: Framing Politics through Subcultural Fandom-Comparing UltrAslan and Çarşı before and during Occupy Gezi.” 

[15]Battini. “When Ultras Defend Trees: Framing Politics through Subcultural Fandom-Comparing UltrAslan and Çarşı before and during Occupy Gezi.” 

[16]Tilly, Charles. Contentious Performances. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013.

[17]Battini. “When Ultras Defend Trees: Framing Politics through Subcultural Fandom-Comparing UltrAslan and Çarşı before and during Occupy Gezi.” 

[18]Batuman. “The View from the Stands.”

[19]Eder. “Spatialities of Contentious Politics: The Case of Istanbul's Beşiktaş Neighborhood, ÇArşı Footfall Fandom and Gezi.”

[20]Ibid.

[21]Turan“Football Fans and Contentious Politics: The Role of Çarşı in the Gezi Park Protests.”

[22]Batuman. “The View from the Stands.”

[23]Caglar Keyder. “Imperial, National, and Global Istanbul: Three Istanbul “Moments” from the Nineteenth to Twenty-First Centuries.” In Istanbul: Living with Difference in a Global City. New Brunswick (N.J.): Rutgers University Press., 2018.

[24]Sami Zubaida. “Promiscuous Places: Cosmopolitan Milieus Between Empire and Nation.” In Istanbul: Living with Difference in a Global City. New Brunswick (N.J.): Rutgers University Press., 2018.

[25]Mine Eder. “Spatialities of Contentious Politics: The Case of Istanbul's Beşiktaş Neighborhood, ÇArşı Footfall Fandom and Gezi.”

[26]Turan. “Football Fans and Contentious Politics: The Role of Çarşı in the Gezi Park Protests.”

[27]Randall Collins. Interaction Ritual Chains. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2004.

[28]Eder. “Spatialities of Contentious Politics: The Case of Istanbul's Beşiktaş Neighborhood, ÇArşı Footfall Fandom and Gezi.”

[29]Amy Mills. “Boundaries of the Nation in the Space of the Urban: Landscape and Social Memory in Istanbul.” Cultural Geographies 13, no. 3 (July 2006): 367–94. doi:10.1191/1474474006eu364oa.

[30]Eder. “Spatialities of Contentious Politics: The Case of Istanbul's Beşiktaş Neighborhood, ÇArşı Footfall Fandom and Gezi.”

[31]Battini. “When Ultras Defend Trees: Framing Politics through Subcultural Fandom-Comparing UltrAslan and Çarşı before and during Occupy Gezi.” 

[32]McManus. “Been There, Done That, Bought The T-Shirt: Beşiktaş Fans And The Commodification Of Football In Turkey.” 

[33]Battini. “When Ultras Defend Trees: Framing Politics through Subcultural Fandom-Comparing UltrAslan and Çarşı before and during Occupy Gezi.” 

[34]Batuman. “The View from the Stands.”

[35]Eder. “Spatialities of Contentious Politics: The Case of Istanbul's Beşiktaş Neighborhood, ÇArşı Footfall Fandom and Gezi.”

[36]McManus. “Been There, Done That, Bought The T-Shirt: Beşiktaş Fans And The Commodification Of Football In Turkey.” 

[37]Josh Carney. “Projecting ‘New Turkey’ Deflecting the Coup: Squares, Screens, and Publics at Turkey’s ‘Democracy Watches.’” Media, Culture & Society41, no. 1 (September 2018): 138–48. https://doi.org/10.1177/0163443718803254.