- Oct 3, 2018
- 3,339
At first, it was just a few hundred, spilling out of cafés, side-eyeing the smoke drifting up from the direction of Taksim Square. Shop shutters rattled halfway down. Waiters lingered at doors, wiping their hands on aprons, squinting toward the plaza. There was shouting, but not the kind that frightens, the one that would be customary at a football match or at familial events.
People came from every direction, Kadıköy, Beşiktaş, Fatih. Some knew exactly why they were marching, to defend democracy, to defy the government, to claim space in a country closing in around them. Others simply followed the rhythm, caught by a hand-scrawled banner reading “DO NOT SUBMIT,” or “NO TO THE RED SULTAN,” or “FREEDOM AND JUSTICE FOR ALL.” Headscarves and keffiyehs littered the streets as more and more people came out marching together.
Vendors passed through the crowd with crates of water bottles, their carts wrapped in slogans. “Water is free here!” one shouted, his voice hoarse. A woman was handing out lemon-soaked cloths while an elderly man with prayer beads clapped as kids painted flags on each other's cheeks and raced along the edges of the protestors. There was music, pots banging from balconies, whistles, and drums keeping time like a beating heart.
The narrow streets beyond Taksim became filled as more people were still coming. The narrow streets beyond Taksim were thick with bodies as people filtered through from the tram stops. By midday, it was a flood. People poured in from every direction.
At the edge of the square, a line of riot police once stood shoulder to shoulder, thinking it was a minor protest. Now, they saw the true strength of the masses. One officer looked out and saw not enemies, but his own people as he unclipped his helmet and tossed down his shield, joining the protestors. Orders crackled in their radios, as commanders tried to regain control of the situation. Several other officers did the same.
Then the unthinkable. The remaining cluster of officers turned and ran. The crowd erupted into cheers that shook the very streets they were standing on. The air in Istanbul was thick with anticipation as people converged on Taksim Square. There was no organization to the protests, as evening converged onto the protestors, many just sat together under the open sky as others slept on benches, near walls, and others brought tents with them. Restaurant owners nearby brought out food for the protestors as the vast open space was no longer visible beneath the sprawling crowd.
The images of Taksim Square were now being seen across the country. Hundreds of thousands of protesters had gathered in other major cities. Students with worn backpacks, elderly couples, mothers with their children, and groups of friends poured out onto the streets. The red Turkish flags fluttered like a sea of fire against the gray sky, punctuated by banners demanding the preservation of Atatürk’s vision. The energy was electric, a palpable current of determination that seemed to ripple through the throng.
Voices rose steadily, swelling from murmurs into powerful chants that echoed through the streets branching from the square. The cries of “Demokrasi, Demokrasi!” reverberated off the surrounding buildings, mingling with the rhythmic beat of drums and the sharp whistle of protest leaders guiding the crowd. Overhead, the sky threatened rain, but the weather seemed irrelevant against what was at stake for the Turkish people.
At the heart of the square stood the statue of the Republic, a symbol of the country’s foundational values and a silent witness to the day’s events. Protesters gathered around it as if seeking strength from the monument, its bronze surface catching the weak sunlight through the clouds. Flags waved and hands raised in solidarity formed an unbroken wave of red and white. People sang the national anthem with voices united, their harmony carrying the weight of history and the urgency of the present moment. Despite the massive crowd, there was a sense of peaceful purpose, no chaos, only a collective call for the protection of their republic.
As the day wore on, the crowd did not dissipate. Instead, more people continued to arrive, filling the surrounding streets and spilling into side avenues. The scale of the protest was breathtaking; a demonstration not just of numbers but of conviction.
The tea was bitter, dark, and slightly oversteeped, just the way he liked it. Jan Wijnbergen, correspondent for a foreign newspaper, sat at a weathered table on the corner of Sıraselviler Avenue, nursing his second glass. The café was mostly empty, save for a few old men arguing half-heartedly about football. The distant rumble of voices had begun to rise like a tide, not angry, not yet. Just present. Persistent. Alive.
He glanced at his camera bag, then in the direction of the sound. He'd seen protests before, in Athens, Cairo, even Paris during the student marches. Then he saw them.
They came around the curve of the avenue like a wave of color and conviction. Hundreds, no thousands, spilling out of side streets and alleys, swelling with every block. They carried banners, spray-painted sheets, flags of every kind. “DO NOT SUBMIT.” “FREEDOM IS OUR RIGHT.” “NO TO THE RED SULTANA.”
A woman pushing a stroller walked alongside two university students with their mouths covered by surgical masks. Daniel snapped a photo, then another. His fingers worked instinctively. The chant changed, swelling louder: “Everywhere is resistance!”
And then, he saw it.
A line of riot police stood at the mouth of the square. Helmets gleaming, shields locked together like teeth. But the crowd didn’t stop. They slowed, but didn’t retreat. That’s when it happened.
One of the officers, with sweat slicking his brow under the helmet, lowered his shield. His hands trembled. His lips moved, but Jan couldn’t hear the words. Then, he dropped it entirely, the heavy plastic clattering on the pavement with a sound more powerful than any speech.
For a beat, the crowd froze. And then they surged, embracing the officer and letting a cheer erupt that broke through the tension like sunlight through stormclouds. Someone placed a keffiyeh over the officer’s shoulders. Someone else hugged him.
Daniel raised his camera, snapped three shots in rapid succession. Click. Click. Click. He didn’t touch his tea again as he left money on the table and followed the protestors.
The visor fogged up again. Sweat pooled beneath his body armor, soaking the collar of his undershirt. Officer Mehmet adjusted the strap of his helmet with shaking hands, trying to keep the shield steady. His boots were rooted just behind the police line on Cumhuriyet Avenue, the din of the crowd like a living wall ahead. Chants, drums, and the high-pitched whistle of resistance, disorder made rhythm. They looked like kids, most of them. Young faces behind masks, waving flags, shouting slogans.
His stomach twisted.
He’d joined the force to protect people, not to become the fist that crushed them. But now, he was standing in front of a crowd armed with nothing but slogans, his fingers itching near the trigger of a gas launcher. His commanding officer, a Party man with thick glasses, paced the line like a predator. Comrade-Inspector Özgür, they called him. Unofficial title, but everyone knew where his loyalty lay. His father had fought in the '70s street wars; now he used that anger like a hammer.
“You’re hesitating again,” Özgür barked, pausing beside Mehmet. “You think this is a picnic? These people are agents of chaos. Counter-revolutionaries. American dogs in t-shirts. You want to see this country end up like the Congo?”
Mehmet didn’t answer. His eyes flicked to a girl near the front of the protest line, no older than twenty. She had paint on her cheeks and a rose in her hand. No Molotovs. No knives. Just hope. Something in that undid him a little.
Then the rock hit.
It cracked off a shield down the line, harmless but loud. Enough. Özgür turned, teeth bared, and slammed his baton into the shoulder of a young conscript who’d flinched. "Advance!" he shouted, voice rising like thunder. "They throw rocks, you throw fire!"
Suddenly, it was movement, heat, the rush of legs. Mehmet was pulled forward in the wave, pushed by comrades, driven by fear of punishment worse than the protestors themselves. The crowd scattered, screaming, but not all fast enough. A boy stumbled. Gas canisters exploded, trailing white smoke like tails of comets. Mehmet’s hand hovered on his sidearm. He didn’t want to shoot. He didn’t want to be this.
But then Özgür’s baton cracked against his back.
A sharp cry escaped his lips. The second hit came harder. “Fire, dammit!” Özgür howled. “This is war!”
The world snapped.
Mehmet raised his launcher, fired once, high, wild, into the air, but others did not miss. Mehmet couldn’t hear over the roaring in his ears. He stepped back, heart pounding, bile rising.
The scent of tear gas lingered in the humid air, thick with sweat, adrenaline, and defiance. Beneath the shadow of Istanbul’s skyscrapers, Gezi Park, once just a patch of green in a city of concrete, had become a battleground for something deeper than trees. Makeshift tents huddled under sycamores, painted banners fluttered in the wind, "Her Yer Taksim, Her Yer Direniş" scrawled in bold defiance across tarpaulins and cardboard. People gathered by the hundreds, then thousands.
The police came before dawn. No warning, just the mechanical hiss of tear gas canisters erupting across the square. Panic surged. Screams pierced the early morning quiet as people stumbled in the white fog, eyes burning, lungs clenched. A young woman collapsed near the fountain, coughing violently as someone dragged her to a medic tent set up with gauze and makeshift saline. Another man, face streaked with milk and blood, held up a sign with trembling hands: “Don’t Touch My Park.”
And yet, they returned. Day after day. When the riot police cleared the park, they regrouped on Istiklal Street. When the barricades were torn down, they rebuilt them with fire-scorched cobblestones and twisted fencing. At night, the skyline flickered with the glow of burning debris, punctuated by chants echoing from balconies.
There was no leader. No single voice. But there was a rhythm, a pulse that moved through the crowd. Drums beat out warnings. You knew the risks. Every step toward Taksim Square was a gamble. Arrest. Beatings. Worse. But still, you went. Because this wasn't just about politics or ideology.
Still, as night fell again over Istanbul, the chants rose once more. “Demokrasi, Demokrasi!”
