People have reacted with shock at the Turkish
police's disproportionate, brutal repression of the protests, as well as
Erdogan's and other government officials' apparent contempt for and
vilification of the protestors, and their seeming indifference to their
concerns. As the protest movement continues to unfold, there has been much
analysis about the significance of the protests, the way they reflect class and
identity divisions within Turkey and their possible repercussions, such as
here, here and here.
The protests in Istanbul began with public
dissatisfaction with urban planning: they reacted against the city's ambitious
ongoing plans to remake the square and its surroundings, that proceeded last
week with the attempted uprooting of trees in Gezi Park, one of the last
remaining open spaces in bustling, sprawling Istanbul. These grand plans have
unfolded with little consultation with the public or those who live and work in
that area. Daniel Jost aptly and succinctly describes these plans as
"awful," while Gokhan Karakus likens them to "a neo-Ottoman Las
Vegas in [a] 6,000-year-old city."
The area of Taksim Square and Gezi Park have always been
politically charged for the residents of Istanbul, who are now re-asserting
their right to their city. Orhan Pamuk reminisces about the significance of
Taksim Square, tied to many social movements and demonstrations of the past
(see here). In its present form, designed in the '40s by the French urban
planner Henri Prost, the Taksim area is a vibrant section of the city and a symbol
of modern Istanbul. When I lived nearby as a Ph.D. student, Taksim and its
surroundings were endlessly fascinating and unexpected, where you encountered
the wealthiest and poorest of the city, old cosmopolitan Istanbulites as well
as immigrants from the Black Sea region, anarchist students and Islamist
conservatives.
For an architectural historian, it is no accident that
both the great plans to remake Taksim, as well as the way protestors' speeches
and actions often invoke history and architectural memory to buttress their
arguments in the present. Indeed, an interest in architectural history and the
historical resonance of place is at the heart of the ambitious urban renewal
plans as well the protests. The centerpiece of the municipality's ambitious new
plans is a rather garish re-creation of the early 19th century Ottoman imperial
military barracks (Topçu Kislasi) demolished in 1940 to make way for Prost's
modern vision. The recreated barracks were to house commercial ventures. The
interest in reviving Ottoman architecture fits with the sensibilities of what
some call the neo-Ottoman Muslim elite, even if it is completely updated to
suit contemporary needs of global capitalism and consumerism. A similar vision
of history also informs the naming of the planned third bridge over the
Bosphorus after Sultan Selim the Grim (r. 1512-1520).
In direct opposition, protestors are invoking
counter-memories and counter-histories. Protestors object to the glorification
of a sultan whom they remember for his persecution and massacres of the Alevis,
a non-Sunni Muslim group. Back in Taksim square, protestors are invoking the
Armenian cemetery expropriated to make way for that area's development in the
early decades of the Turkish republic. Their slogan is: "You took our
cemetery, you won't be able to take our park."
Once at the edge of Istanbul's urban conglomeration, the
area was home to the Saint James Armenian cemetery, established in the 16th
century (in Turkish: Surp Agop Ermeni Mezarligi), and the 19th century church
of St. Gregory the Illuminator. By the early 20th century, the area was
becoming one of the most valuable sections of real estate in the city. As
detailed here and here through a series of highly contested lawsuits, the
municipality managed to appropriate the cemetery from the Armenian community.
This process illustrates the relentless power of the state to dispossess a
minority community that had survived the genocide of the Ottoman Armenians in
1915-1922, and unfolds like a series of acts of cruelty and humiliation. As
this map shows, the cemetery once stood in the area occupied today by sections
of Gezi Park, and surrounding properties, including the TRT Istanbul Radio
building and major hotels like the Skidmore, Owings & Merrill-designed
Istanbul Hilton (built in 1954). Marble headstones from the cemetery were used
to build Gezi Park's fountains and stairs. As Kerem Öktem clarifies (see here),
further appropriations of property in this urban area, principally from
non-Muslim (Armenian, Greek and Jewish) citizens continued to unfold over the
'50s and '60s, producing the urban ensemble that stands today (for more
historical background on the area's urbanism, see here).
Some protestors are memorializing this history of
erasure, state power, and the growth of big business by renaming a street in
the park after Hrant Dink, the iconic Turkish-Armenian journalist and human
rights activist whose 2007 assassination so shook Turkish society (see here).
These are some of the many stories that are unfolding in
Taksim, as the overwhelmingly youthful protestors seem to represent many
different political viewspoints, from right-wing supporters of Kemalism to
leftists, "Muslim anti-capitalists," LGBT groups, even soccer fans.
Gezi Park has now become a spontaneous community, a "festive village"
in Michael Kimmelman's words, that includes a kitchen, clinic, and even a
museum of the protest movement.
Beyond a commentary against neoliberal urbanism, however,
the protests have another crucial dimension: that of concern for environmental
degradation and unsustainable urban policies, perhaps especially apparent in
the debates surrounding the adverse impact of the planned bridge and canal on
the ecosystem of the Marmara sea.
Where the protest movement in Turkey will go, and what it
will or will not achieve remains to be seen. So far, we have been reminded once
again, of the resonance of urban history, and the powerful role that public
spaces and spatial memories can play in political mobilization.
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