Turkish Elections 2007

[Jay]

 

[Jay]

Party Leaders​

Ayşe Çiller Cumhuriyet Halk Partisi​	Ali Babacan Demokrasi ve Atılım Partisi​	Meral Akşener İYİ Parti​
Recep Tayyip Erdoğan Refah Partisi​	İsmet Büyükataman Milliyetçi Hareket Partisi​	Ümit Özdağ Zafer Partisi​
Tuncer Bakırhan Halkların Demokratik Partisi​	Ahmet Davutoğlu Gelecek​	Rıdvan Turan Sosyal Demokrat Parti​

 

[Jay]

Presidential Candidates​

Muharrem İnce Cumhuriyet Halk Partisi​

Abdullah Gül Refah Partisi​

Selahattin Demirtaş Halkların Demokratik Partisi ​

Sabahattin Çakmakoğlu Milliyetçi Hareket Partisi ​

Kemal Okuyan Sosyal Demokrat Parti​

 

[Jay]

The wind in Ankara had changed. It wasn’t colder or stronger, just different. Posters flapped from lampposts with the red banners of Ayşe Çiller’s face smiling against her, Refah’s calligraphy-laced placards proclaiming “Adalet İçin Yeniden”—Justice Once More. Flyers slipped under doorways and car windshields like reminders of a funeral no one wanted to attend, but everyone had to. The election was all that anyone could talk about these days.

Deniz shouldered his bag and stepped out from the literature building of Ankara University, pausing at the gate where someone had scribbled on a Green Party poster: “Hayal Satıcıları”. A group of political science students were arguing nearby, voices like broken glass.

“I don’t trust any of them,” muttered one in a leather jacket, flicking ashes from his cigarette.
“CHP at least gave us the vote back,” replied a woman in a headscarf, clutching her books tightly.
“Gave it back?” the first one scoffed. “They took it in the first place.”

Deniz didn’t speak. He listened. That had always been his method, taking in the texture of the country through the spaces between words.

Across the street, a street vendor sold roasted chestnuts beside a volunteer in a DEVA jacket handing out leaflets. A short, older man yelled across the square: “They’re all the same! They’ll just change the color of our cages!”

Everywhere, the city was covered in ink and anticipation. Taxis had been draped in IYI banners, and the youth wing of the SDP had painted a mural over the crumbling university wall, a clenched fist breaking through barbed wire. It was already peeling.

What struck Deniz most, however, was not the volume of the election, but its permission to exist. For months, no one had truly believed it would happen.

People muttered in dormitories and cafés that the military would cancel the vote at the last moment. That General Kurt would find some “exceptional circumstance” requiring “intervention.” That ballots would go missing. That YSK would be a puppet. But then posters arrived. Then candidate lists were posted in every district. Then the date was set. And still the tanks remained behind their fences.

That night, Deniz took the metro back to Batıkent. At the station, a woman and her son were watching a public screen as the news blared headlines:

“Early voting has begun for Turkish citizens abroad, record turnout in Berlin and Amsterdam.”

Deniz got home, his mother asleep on the couch with a wool blanket over her feet. The television was still on, muted, with a news ticker crawling like an anxious insect. He poured himself a tea and sat.

On the screen, a reporter stood outside the YSK building behind her, protestors waved signs “Sivilleşmeye EVET!” (Yes to Civilian Rule). Another held up a placard shaped like a ballot box, cracked in two.

“With the campaign period now in full swing,” the reporter said, “polls suggest a tight race between the CHP and the Refah Party, with coalition dynamics set to determine the balance of power. Still, the true surprise has been the military’s continued silence.”

The screen flashed to images of Çiller shaking hands at a textile factory, Erdoğan touring a mosque in Konya, and a wide-eyed Green Party candidate planting a sapling somewhere near the Marmara coast.

Deniz leaned back and wondered if this was what history felt like when it wasn’t in the streets, but in the air. Subtle. Constant. Like wind. He didn’t know who he would vote for.
But for the first time in years, it felt like that question actually mattered.

---

Fatma Nur tucked a loose strand of hair back under her cream-colored headscarf and stepped into the university library. It was her favorite time of day, when the late sun filtered through the Ottoman windows and the marble courtyard outside began to quiet. In the past, she had often kept her scarf wrapped more tightly, conscious of how professors or classmates might glance, however briefly.

On the noticeboard by the law faculty entrance, election flyers competed for space. The university had tried to block the posters but the students persisted and kept posting them anyways. The CHP had softened its rhetoric, placing women, some veiled, most not, on its provincial tickets. Even DEVA, in a meticulously curated poster, featured a smiling hijabi entrepreneur giving a TED-style talk on innovation.

But Fatma Nur had seen this before. Symbolism didn’t impress her anymore. What she wanted was law. Real protection. A republic where women like her didn’t have to debate their humanity or prove their rationality to be taken seriously in court, in parliament, or in the street.

Earlier that day, she overheard her classmates murmuring in the cafeteria. “If CHP wins, we’re going to be drowning in this...” The first voice was thick with disgust. “It’s like a slow erasure of everything we fought for. You know, I hate it. ”

Fatma instinctively pulled her scarf a little tighter. She could feel the weight their judgment.

The second student, a girl with dark lipstick and a look of superiority, scoffed. “Honestly, I don’t get it. How can they think wearing that... thing... is freedom? It’s just oppression with extra steps.”

A tight, uncomfortable knot formed in her stomach. She forced herself to keep chewing, but her pulse was racing now. How long would they keep talking about her like this? Like she was a symbol of something they could just erase, like she wasn’t even human?

The first student, with a more frustrated tone, leaned in, lowering his voice. “It’s not even about the hijab anymore. It’s the whole idea behind it—what it represents. It’s like the past pulling us backwards, you know?”

She could almost feel his gaze on her, even without looking up. A part of her wanted to stand up, to turn and confront them, but she stayed frozen, caught between the weight of their words and the echo of a world that didn’t see her as a person.

Women like her. As if she were a demographic problem rather than a person.

Later that evening, Fatma Nur joined her mother in the kitchen as the news played in the background. The announcer was interviewing Ayşe Çiller, who promised to protect “the individual freedoms of every Turkish citizen, regardless of headscarf or haircut.” Her mother smiled gently. “Do you believe her?” she asked, stirring lentils.

Fatma Nur paused. “I want to.”

She had already registered to vote. It was her first time. She had spent hours poring over party platforms, comparing constitutional promises with actual candidate records. She had written in her journal that morning:

"I don’t want a revolution. I want normal. I want to walk into court someday as a lawyer and not have the robe feel like a disguise."

As the sun set over the Bosphorus, prayer call drifting faintly through the window, she opened her laptop to a debate stream.

---

The sesame oil hissed anyway, he kept it running out of pride, or perhaps out of fear that if he stopped, he might not start again. A battered Turkish flag hung limply from the cart’s handle. His hands, cracked, browned, permanent with oil, looked like they had been carved from bark.

It was near the roundabout in Fatih, where people came and went like tides. The mosque stood in the distance. Behind him, a political poster flapped against a rusted fence.

"BİR HALK YİNE DOĞUYOR."
— Social Democratic Party

The sight of it made his jaw clench. Just then, a group of SDP youth, no more than twenty, marched past in their bright red vests, laughing, handing out flyers with that same slogan. Clean-shaven boys and earnest girls with notebooks.

The vendor spat to the side. Then he shouted.

“Go ahead! March around with your slogans, your pamphlets! You ever tried selling chickpeas when your lira can’t buy a potato? Eh? You think you invented hunger?”

The students slowed, uncertain, as they glanced at one another.

He growled, his voice rising. “My brother was disappeared last year for protesting their rations! Don’t walk around like this country owes you anything!”

Others in the street turned their heads. But no one intervened. The youth, perhaps used to facing abuse from both left and right, merely offered a polite nod.
“Peace be upon you, uncle,” one of the girls said. “We hope the election brings better days.”

And just like that, they moved on, past the cart, past his memories.

The man fumed quietly for a moment. He took a cloth and wiped the edge of his cart furiously, even though it didn’t need it. His hands shook more than usual. He muttered curses, bitter prayers. A minute passed, then five.

Soon, two older men approached. One sold shoe polish. The other used to drive a dolmuş.

“Still alive?” one asked, slapping the vendor on the back.

“Barely,” he replied, pouring them each a small glass of steaming chai.

They sipped, standing beside the cart like generals around a war table, surveying a country neither of them could recognize anymore. They talked about inflation, about their children leaving for Germany, about rent.

“I got a nosebleed yesterday,” the dolmuşcu said, “and the hospital made me sign four forms just to tell me I wasn’t dying.”

The vendor didn’t laugh. His eyes wandered. The SDP poster still flapped in the breeze, taunting him. His knuckles tightened. He placed the tea glass down slowly and stepped toward the fence.

He would rip it. He would rip it until it begged for forgiveness. But just then, he heard a voice, small, hesitant, ashamed.

"Amca?"

He turned.

A girl, no older than ten, stood before him. Thin scarf, oversized sandals. Her eyes didn’t meet his.

“I’m not begging,” she said quickly, “but my sister hasn’t eaten since yesterday. Could I—do you have something? Just one sandwich?”

The air dropped out of him. The fire in his chest extinguished all at once.

He looked at her, then at the poster. Then back.

“Two sandwiches,” he said, clearing his throat, already wrapping them. “One for her, one for you. Understand?”

She nodded slightly before giving him a hug.

“And if she’s hungry tomorrow,” he said, voice barely steady, “you come here again. No shame in feeding your sister.”

She took the bundle with both hands like it was treasure, murmured thanks, and disappeared into the alley behind the metro.

He stared at the space where she’d stood for a long time.

The poster kept fluttering but he did not tear it down. His heart could only take so much in this country. Instead, he turned back to his cart, turned down the oil a bit, and whispered under his breath, not a curse this time, but a prayer.

“Yarabbi, bu sefer… bize huzur ver. Yeter. My God, this time… give us peace. It’s enough.”

---

At the metro station, the evening crowd swelled like a slow tide. Jackets were zipped. Faces were still. People moved slowly.

Deniz stood by the railing, headphones in his pocket, watching the trains come and go. He’d left campus later than usual, his bag hung heavy on his shoulder, but his mind was heavier. Posters for the CHP and Refah lined the turnstiles. Someone had scribbled “Freedom is not a slogan” in black ink over both.

Just down the platform, Fatma Nur clutched a book in one hand. She tried not to show how tense her shoulders were beneath her cream-colored coat.

Near the elevator, the falafel vendor stood beside his cart, which he pushed here in the evenings when the traffic calmed. None of them knew the others by name. They were threads in the same weary fabric. Passersby. Turks in a season of watching.

An older woman seated beside a shallow tray of beaded bracelets, knitted keychains, and Nazar amulets began to hum. Her voice, when it came, floated into the station like the scent of jasmine before a summer rain.

“Memleketim…”

The word landed like a pebble in water. A few stopped. Many didn’t.

But she kept singing, softly at first. The old patriotic ballad, "Memleketim," had survived coups, collapses, coalitions, and all the betrayals in between. Her voice was broken in parts, but full of memory.

“Bazen bir çiçek, bazen bir çocuk…
Bazen nazlı bir kuş, bazen bir sokak…”

A young man with earbuds took one out. A woman waiting for the escalator hummed quietly.

Then a cleaner joined in from the far end, his broom paused. Deniz closed his eyes as he took it in. Fatma Nur mouthed the words, barely audible as someone next to her began to hum the tune slowly. More voices joined. High, low, cracked, whole.

Young children looked on and some even tried joining on. They were singing for the old things that still lived beneath the noise, the ache of belonging, the weight of memory, and the stubborn belief that maybe, just maybe, this time, things could be different. They were all Turks in the end. Sons and daughters of this beautiful homeland.

Havasına, suyuna, taşına, toprağına
Bin can feda bir tek dostuma
Her köşesi cennetim, ezilir, yanar içim
Bi' başkadır benim memleketim
Anadolu bir yanda, yiğit yaşar koynunda
Âşıklar destan yazar dağlarda
Kuzusuna, kurduna, Yunus'una, Emrah'a
Bütün âlem kurban benim yurduma
Mecnun'a, Leyla'sına, erişilmez sırrına
Sen dost ararsan koş Mevlana'ya
"Yeniden doğdum" dersin, derya olur gidersin
Bi' başkadır benim memleketim
Gözü pek, yanık bağrı, türkü söyler çobanı
Zengin, fakir, hepsi de sevdalı
Ben gönlümü eğlerim, gerisi Allah kerim
Bi' başkadır benim memleketim

 

[Jay]

Ankara, on this cool February night, exuded an unmistakable energy that danced through the city's eclectic streets. The city's skyline, illuminated by the soft glow of streetlights, painted a vivid backdrop for the major elections underway. As the sun dipped below the horizon, the city continued to bustle as votes were counted across polling stations in the country.

The pulse of Ankara, a city at the crossroads of history and contemporary dynamism, quickened with the anticipation of an election that may prove to be the most consequential in Türkiye's history. The memories of division, foreign occupation, and a destroyed Türkiye rang across the city. Perhaps no more contrasted than in Ankara. The city had seen near-continuous anti-government protests over the past year, which began to wane. In the political scene, the polling didn’t seem to give one party a majority. Instead, many of the smaller parties now jockeyed to be in a position to play kingmaker.

The first elections since the army took power were going to be a challenge for the communists. They faced high levels of legal repression with the Turkish and Kurdish Workers’ Parties outlawed and their top leadership in jail, on the run, and scattered across the country. They used all legal tools available to them, but the communists faced not just institutional repression but societal-level condemnation.

After four years of rule, the Workers’ Parties had done much damage to their image that their canvassers were harassed and attacked. Posters adorned with the faces of candidates plastered on lamp posts and billboards adorned the streets, which were defaced with graffiti or straight-up ripped off.

As the clock continued to chime, and the lines thinned around elections, signaling that the time for voting was closing soon. Yet in the suburbs of Ankara, the hum of activity intensified around polling stations as citizens tried their hardest to vote.

It was in this suburb, a stronghold for the Workers' Parties, that votes were being made by workers just finishing their late shifts. Many of the polls across the country had already withered quietly and been laid to rest. Amidst the conducting of votes in the polling station, the rumors were quickly spreading across Türkiye that the Turkish Social Democratic Party had lost...and lost badly. Most of the rumors were spread by online bots on social media sites, which began spreading news that the military was rigging the election to favor the CHP.

The warmth of the city skyline could not fool anyone that a cold storm was brewing around Türkiye. In the quiet solitude of her official residence, lit dimly by the warm yellow lights casting on the burgundy walls, the weight of the election results bore down on Ayşe Çiller, who had stopped watching the results and instead stared aimlessly at the ceiling in the false comfort of her bed.

As her electoral staff were actively watching the elections in the CHP headquarters, Ayşe left knowing the reality of the situation she faced. She had done all she could, running an honest and legitimate campaign. She felt it then, as she circled around the offices of the CHP. The white ceiling seemly coming closer and closer as the clack from the clock ticked and ticked.

She couldn’t bear it anymore. She got up quietly, leaving her husband to sleep as she put on a robe. She slipped out of her room and returned to the rocking chair that overlooked the window and gave her a view of the TV. In the distance, she could gaze out into Ankara. Ayşe took another look outside, wondering if she had given it her all.

Overlooking the city, which was adorned with lights, the glow that radiated off the city was no sign of consolation. The election was not guaranteed. No matter what the polls said, she could feel that her message didn’t reach the entire population as she had envisioned. The once jubilant victory speeches were replaced by a deafening silence that enveloped the room.

She even began to think about what to do about the communists. The Social Democrats were simply a rebranded party for the remnants of the Workers' Parties. She campaigned on amnesty, a chance to turn the page, and to move forward as a country. Even though her advisors told her such a campaign would be drowned out by nationalists like the MHP. But the truth was, Ayşe couldn’t stomach it. The needless and endless cycle of violence. She owed it to the Turkish people to defend their liberty, both civil and political, to think and believe freely.

Still, she couldn’t stomach the idea that the same communists who oppressed the Turkish people and sold out the motherland would be let out free. Like leeches, they ate it from within as it withered away. How could justice prevail if she did not hold those who committed crimes against the Turkish people responsible?

The weight of responsibility settled on her shoulders, realizing her political future was just beginning...she could manage being an opposition leader...hell...she could even manage being a minister. But the thought of being the one responsible for the lives of 80 million Turks began to take a toll on her. She had to lead the Turkish people, but was consumed with the fear that she would fail.

In this private moment of reflection, Ayşe stood alone, her silhouette flickering behind her, in the dimly lit living room of her house. Amidst the silence, broken only by the distant hum as Ayşe hummed the tunes of her favorite song. Ayşe reached to flip the channel to different channels which predicted a CHP victory, growing as exit polls were being taken.

She watched in astonishment as lines continued to grow across the country as Turks voted again. Such faith and conviction, she thought, that the people must have, trusting a system that had only failed them. She folded her hands and could only think that she had a lot of work to do. She could not fail these people…

Recep Tayyip Erdoğan stood with his hands clasped behind his back, staring silently at the glowing skyline of Ankara. Abdullah Gül walked up beside him, offering a small cup of dark, steaming çay.
"Here. You need this more than I do," Abdullah said, cracking the briefest of smiles.
Recep took it with a nod. "Teşekkürler."
Behind them, some of their close men who had been together since the early days, through prison, exile, and power, filed in slowly from the small mescit inside the compound, quietly gathering around a set of wooden benches placed around a brazier.

The mood wasn’t somber, but it wasn’t celebratory either. Abdullah glanced toward the television, where a commentator was cautiously announcing projections. "Looks like the CHP’s leading in the western provinces. Ayşe Çiller ran a strong campaign. Honest. Stubborn as ever." Abdullah said, taking a sip from his tea.
Erdoğan let out a low chuckle, barely audible over the wind. "She fought for more than votes. She fought for the rules. She could’ve cut a deal with the generals... hell, they probably offered her the palace gift-wrapped."
"But she didn’t," Gül said almost admiringly. "She kept her word. Even if it costs her power."
Erdoğan gave a slow nod, sipping his tea. "The real test, though, begins when she gets it. Opposition is easy. It's when you hold the pen that you see who you really are."

A silence passed. Only the rustling of the wind in the trees and the quiet murmur of a passing car interrupted the stillness.
One of the younger Refah leaders, a former mayor from Gaziantep, broke the quiet.

"The Social Democrats took a large bite out of our base, especially among the youth. That red rebranding worked. I think that there is still a lot to be done to shore up our social welfare credentials.
Another nodded. "I think we were hurt by our support to businesses and focus on the private sector. We didn’t adapt fast enough."
Erdoğan looked away, jaw tight. "They used the trauma. Twisted it into hope. The communists may have bled the country dry, but these so-called social democrats offered amnesia with a smile. The military coup had everyone scared. After the clash over the Presidency, it only solidified their fears that the military was here to stay."

"Indeed, there will be a lot of reflections, but that is for later," Gül said softly.
More tea was poured as the group chatted lightly amongst themselves.
Erdoğan turned to them, more animated now. "We were meant to speak for the people. That part doesn’t end with a ballot. We need to expand our brand and use this opportunity to show we can truly govern. What this country needs more than ever is someone who can inspire hope."

Gül stood slowly, adjusting his coat as a gust picked up. " This... is just halftime. We haven’t lost either. We are going to be leaders of the opposition. Let us remember we are on the same team however, to fight for a just and prosperous Turkiye.”

Erdoğan looked out into the darkness again. Somewhere, fireworks could be heard in the distance, faint and scattered.
"Let us celebrate tonight," he said calmly. "We retook our country today,” he paused. “Tomorrow, we get back to work."

As the city embraced the cool embrace of the night, the well-lit ambiance of the outside of the poll station began to shudder. The door swung open with a creak, allowing a group of men to step inside. Their entrance sent a subtle shiver through the air, as the atmosphere within the establishment suddenly shifted. Their black clothes, bald heads...and goatee only spelled trouble.

Dark, brooding eyes surveyed the room, calculating and vigilant. Each step resonated with a quiet confidence, echoing in the hushed murmurs of as the poll staff helped voters get their votes in. The staff looked at these new arrivals and felt a short shudder. As one lady spoke in Turkish to a man, helping to explain the process to him one of the men shouted profusely. "Speak Turkish! This is Türkiye not Shitistan." The sudden and thunderous shouting pierced the hall, shattering the peace of the electoral process casted a hush in the room as all eyes turned towards the source of the eruption.

"The voting should end soon...why are you letting these people vote. Where are there IDs!" The men shouted. One of them moving rapidly to the voter and grabbing him. "Are you even Turkish you Mutt?!" He said, causing one of the electoral staffers to rush and push him away. "That is not your right. Out of here now! This is illegal what you are doing. Go. Now!" He shouted as he separated the two men. "What we are doing? No. It is you that is conducting a sham election here. You are the traitors."

Outside, clad in nationalist insignias and waving party flags, protests came and voiced their grievances with increasing intensity as the poll station remained open close to 6 pm. As the atmosphere thickened the men who had just caused the ruckus looked at the others. "Hear that." One of them said. "That is the sound of the people." Quickly some of those who had come to vote would try to leave. But as they left outside they were beat by the crowd, accused of being illegal migrants and voting for the SDP. Others inside defiantly voted, not wishing to allow this extremism to ever grab hold of Türkiye ever again. Inside, one woman would quickly call the police and notify them. Things were quickly getting out of hand.

[Police Operator]: "This is 110, what is your emergency?"
[Meral Killiç]: "This is Polling Station 78 we have an active situation. Send help, please." Chanting heard in the background.
[Police Operator]: "Polling Station 78, what is the situation? Please advise."
[Meral Killiç]: "Please just com..." In the background. "Turn off that phone you whore!" The line went silent.

 

[Jay]

[Police Command]: "PÖH Unit Alert. Be advised. Active situation, Polling Station 78 on Mural Street, 14055. Reporting violence and disturbance outside polling station. Alert Alert. Red Red."

Across Amlaa police stations, various PÖH Commandos would begin assembling ad hoc teams as they prepared to intervene in the active situation. Men and women in clad black clothes continued to beat outside the polling station, trapping those inside, while inside, the three men continued to intimidate the pollers and the voters.

Outside, the crowds shouted "You can't hide! We have found you vermin!" They chanted as they banged on the doors. As they continued to shout, the blaring sound of sirens wailed as the police rushed to the scene. A block away, the regular police began to assemble in riot gear and waited to build up mass. The PÖH, however, waited for no such mass. Stopping at a parallel block, they donned their gear.

In the confined space of their armored police truck, the PÖH Operators under the soft glow of overhead lights illuminated their lockers. They put on their tactical gear, in clad in dark uniforms, they donned Kevlar vests, tactical gloves, and masks.

The metallic click of rifles being chambered reverberated through the armored truck as they checked their weapons. Captain Alep opened the door and the squad began to move towards the Polling Station from a rear entrance. The PÖH Commandos knew they couldn't take on the hundred-plus mob. They would enter through the back of the school building.

Entering, Operator Kohl brought out his camera lens, which he stuck under the door. Kohl scanned the room. He identified five men harassing voters. He signaled with his hands to the Captain that there were five hostiles with twenty-eight civilians.

Captain Hulusi came forward, as Kohl explained their immediate surrounding. Hulusi signaled Selcuk and Bayrak to come forward. He whispered softly to Bayrak to open the door and Selcuk to move in to secure the second door that opened into the voting hall.

Hulusi waited as Kohl maneuvered backwards next to Saka and Ozbilgin, then, nodded to Bayrak. Bayrak slowly opened the door, trying to minimize the sound as to allow Selcuk to move to the second door and close it. Once secured, the rest of the squad moved in. Bayrak then secured the door behind them.

At the second door, Kohl would wiggle up as he mirrored the door. To their direct left there was a huddled group of civilians who had sought refuge. A handful of others were scattered across the room, while at the fron,t the poll staff were confronting the instigators.

Hulusi would move to the front. He decided it would be best to get the group of twelve civilians closest to them out. He would have Ozbilgin guide them and keep them secure. He pecked the door, whispering to those closest to him to be quiet and move towards him. He pushed the door, allowing it to swing as he, Bayrak, Kohl, Saka, and Selcuk moved behind the counter.

The twelve civilians crouched and waddled to the back door as Ozbilgin secured them and made sure they were all unarmed and safe. The commotion in the back caused the neo-nazis to push through the pollers, slapping one in the fac,e causing her to fall, and move to the back. "Who are you! Huh. What are you all doing there?! Bringing in extra fake votes. Come here you Muts!" One of them shouted.

As they got closer, judging based on the sounds, Hulusi waited until they would be a little distance between them. Once the voices got to that point, Hulusi used his fingers to signal to his team. They quickly stood up, raising their weapons at the men and began screaming to get on the ground. As Bayrak and Saka maneuvered to arrest the men. As they arrested them, the pounding stopped outside.

Outside it had been around fifteen minutes. The Ankara Police had acquired mass. Their commanding officer, Officer Karaman would assemble his eighty-five officers into a standard formation. Twenty-five officers made up the front echelon while six stood behind them. Three were armed with pepper spray, and three with rifles armed with rubber bullets. Karaman commanded from behind this second line. Alongside him would be the arrest officers, while behind him would be the rear echelon.

As the chanting and pounding continued, Karaman signaled his men to move forward. Like a blob, the officers trekked slowly towards the crowd assembled next to the polling station. As they got closer, a few from the crowd would break and run away. As they fled their comrades jeered and booed at them. Those rallying the crowd would pivot the attention of the group from the polling station and towards the police line.

One got up and began screaming to the crowd, "Here comes their fascist dogs. Show them we won't let them pass!" With that, the crowd moved towards the officers. Some threw stones while others threw whatever they could get their hands on. As Karaman's men began to get pelted, he ordered them to pick up the pace towards the rioters.

As they got closer, he whistled and had them slow down allowing them to march in sync and close the gaps in their lines. As the rioters began to continue to move towards them, Karaman's whistled a last time to get his men to stand firm. Once the line was stable, checking the lines himself, he was handed a microphone by his subordinate officer.

"In accordance with the laws of the Republic, these gatherings are illegal. They must be disbursed. I repeat. You must disburse immediately." As the crowd drew closer, he repeated again. "In accordance with the laws of the Republic, I repeat. You are in violation of the code for assembly. You are in violation by threats to voters to the National Electoral Law. Disburse immediately or face arrest." To no avail. Karamans watched as the group got closer.

"You are hereby in violation of the laws. Your continued presence is illegal." As the far-right hooligans clashed with the police, the second line would occasionally pick out the most aggressive of the bunch to hit with pepper spray. As they were incapacitated, the front echelon would open a small gap and allow the arresting line to seize them.

This tactic would be repeatedly employed over the course of two hours as the neo-nazis continued to clash with police. By this point, the PÖH Commandos had evacuated from behind the school and successfully detained all five men inside.

As the situation continued to escalate outside, with police already arresting over fifty rioters, it was clear they could not contain it. Captain Hulusi would inform Officer Karaman that the polling station was clear over the radio. Karaman peered over the wall of shields in front of him. The crowd was getting bigger, and the night was closing. As the situation developed, Karaman's finally began to radio the main station.

[Officer Karaman] "Command, be advised this is Alpha-01. Commandos have secured the site. I repeat. Commandos have secured the site. 35 civilians rescued. Repeat: 35 civilians rescued. Polling material extracted. Be advised. Situation outside deteriorating, requesting permission to disengage and move backwards. Additional assets requested to allow for full withdrawal."

[Police Command]: "Be advised, Alpha-01. Additional units are on their way. I repeat. Are on their way. Hold your position.

[Officer Karaman]: "Negative command, be advised. Situation untenable. I repeat situationis untenable."

[Police Command]: "Affirmed. Situation untenable. Hold. I repeat Hold."

Karaman huffed as he turned off the radio. God Damn it, he thought. He surveys the streets in front of him. He knew if he stayed where he was, he would be overwhelmed. He looked at the front echelon, getting tired by the minute as they were being shoved back and forth by the crowd. He called in the rear echelon to relieve the front echelon. The rear echelon formed a new line where the front echelon could walk backwards. Once there was a good meter between them, the rear echelon would open a hole in the center where they could run through.

With his front line stabilized, Karamans looked behind him. He noticed the road would get narrower. In front of him he noticed more thugs joining the crowd. Before he could proceed, what was happening a Molotov cocktail would explain right next to him. Two officers were alit as the flames blazed around him. Several officers in the rear line stepped forward to put out the flames.

Karamans looked up and knew he couldn't hold this position. He ordered the armored truck forward. As it slowly trekked forward. He placed officers with rubber bullets atop the truck and gave them permission to fire on anyone holding a Molotov cocktail.

The officers would be hesitant to shoot, worrying the cocktails would explode next to other civilians. They quickly noticed a cart carrying unlit cocktails in the rear of the group. Once they had a clear shot, both offices would fire, causing a small fireball to erupt. The fireball sent tens of the rioters fleeing.

Karamans organized a withdrawal backwards to funnel the rioters into a more manageable position. As night began to settle, the rioters withdrew backwards to regroup. They prepared their stockpiles of rocks and other flammable materials. Karamans, for his par,t had his men shoot into the crowd and fire tear gas to disperse them.

Night would settle in Ankara. Its scenic and quiet nights would be interrupted by bursts of flames, shining of lasers, and rocks pelting the ground. Violence erupted across the city as far-right rioters and protestors clashed with police.

The situation would eventually be contained as it overwhelmed the city's police services who didn’t expect this level of civil disobedience. Off-duty officers were called in, and whatever additional manpower that could be secured would rush to join officers battling well-organized groups. The police were hesitant to call in the military over fear it would cede the little power they had just regained.

A polling stations had been burnt down while twenty-six officers were injured. Police officers continued to battle the far-right gangs while PÖH Commandos launched calculated stings to apprehend rioters moving in-between streets or vehicles transporting rocks, Molotov cocktails, and other weapons.

As the PÖH and Police officers battled through the night, there would be a break in the fighting as officers pulled back to recover. They had arrested over 195 rioters already and found it difficult to keep detaining them and sending them on squad cars when available. Ultimately, the localized violence made it easier for the Police to concentrate their resources and to stop the violence from spreading.