New Islamist Architecture and Urbanism: Negotiating Nation and Islam through Built Environment in Turkey [1 ed.] 1138953288, 9781138953284

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New Islamist Architecture and Urbanism

New Islamist Architecture and Urbanism claims that, in today’s world, a research agenda concerning the relation between Islam and space has to consider the role of Islamism rather than Islam in shaping – and in return being shaped by – the built environment. The book tackles this task through an analysis of the ongoing transformation of Turkey under the rule of pro-Islamic Justice and Development Party. In this regard, it is a topical book: a rare description of a political regime’s reshaping of urban and architectural forms whilst the process is alive. Defining Turkey’s transformation in the past two decades as a process of “new Islamist” nation-(re)building, the book investigates the role of built environment in the making of an Islamist milieu. Drawing on political economy and cultural studies, it explores the prevailing primacy of nation and nationalism for new Islamism and the spatial negotiations between nation and Islam. It discusses the role of architecture in the deployment of history in the rewriting of nationhood and that of space in the expansion of Islamist social networks and cultural practices. Looking at examples of housing compounds, mosques, public spaces, and the new presidential residence, New Islamist Architecture and Urbanism scrutinizes the spatial making of new Islamism in Turkey through comparisons with relevant cases across the globe: urban renewal projects in Beirut and Amman, nativization of Soviet modernism in Baku and Astana, the presidential palaces of Ashgabat and Putrajaya, and the neo-Ottoman mosques built in diverse locations such as Tokyo and Washington DC. Bülent Batuman is Associate Professor of Architecture in the Department of Urban Design and Landscape Architecture at Bilkent University in Ankara, Turkey. His work focuses on the politics of the built environment.

THE ARCHITEXT SERIES Edited by Thomas A. Markus and Anthony D. King Architectural discourse has traditionally represented buildings as art objects or technical objects. Yet buildings are also social objects in that they are invested with social meaning and shape social relations. Recognizing these assumptions, the Architext series aims to bring together recent debates in social and cultural theory and the study and practice of architecture and urban design. Critical, comparative, and interdisciplinary, the books in the series, by theorizing architecture, bring the space of the built environment centrally into the social sciences and humanities, as well as bringing the theoretical insights of the latter into the discourses of architecture and urban design. Particular attention is paid to issues of gender, race, sexuality, and the body, to questions of identity and place, to the cultural politics of representation and language, and to the global and postcolonial contexts in which these are addressed. Building the State Architecture, politics, and state formation in postwar Central Europe Virag Molner City Halls and Civic Materialism Towards a global history of urban public space Edited by Swati Chattopadhyay and Jeremy White Ethno-Architecture and the Politics of Migration Edited by Mirjana Lozanovska Writing the Global City Globalisation, postcolonialism and the urban Anthony D. King A Genealogy of Tropical Architecture Colonial networks, nature and technoscience Jiat-Hwee Chang New Islamist Architecture and Urbanism Negotiating Nation and Islam through Built Environment in Turkey Bülent Batuman The Optimum Imperative Czech Architecture for the Socialist Lifestyle, 1938–1968 Ana Miljacˇki

Bülent Batuman

New Islamist Architecture and Urbanism Negotiating Nation and Islam through Built Environment in Turkey

First published 2018 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 711 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2018 Bülent Batuman The right of Bülent Batuman to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilized in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Batuman, Bülent, author. Title: New Islamist architecture and urbanism : negotiating nation and Islam through built environment in Turkey / Bülent Batuman. Description: New York : Routledge, 2018. | Series: The architext series | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2017032313 | ISBN 9781138953284 (hb : alk. paper) | ISBN 9781138953291 (pb : alk. paper) | ISBN 9781315667409 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Islam and architecture—Turkey. | Islam and state—Turkey. | Urban policy—Turkey. | Turkey—Politics and government—1980– Classification: LCC NA2543.I74 B38 2018 | DDC 720.9561—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017032313 ISBN: 978-1-138-95328-4 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-138-95329-1 (pbk) ISBN: 978-1-315-66740-9 (ebk) Typeset in Frutiger by Apex CoVangate, LLC

Contents

List of figuresvii Prefacexi 1 Introduction

1

2

Politics of mosque building: negotiating Islam and nation

14

3

Housing subjects of new Islamism

61

4

From the urban revolution of new Islamism to the revolution of the urban: public space and architectures of resistance

5

108

Building (the) national: the public architecture of millet154

Epilogue

202

Glossary207 Index209

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Figures

2.1 .2 2 2.3 2.4

2.5 2.6 2.7 2.8

.9 2 2.10 2.11 .12 2 2.13

Unbuilt project for Kocatepe Mosque, designed by Vedat Dalokay and Nejat Tekeliog˘lu 22 Kocatepe Mosque dominating the skyline of Ankara 23 The plaza adjacent to Kocatepe Mosque where funerary prayers and commemorations are held 25 Ahmet Hamdi Akseki Mosque inside Diyanet compound designed by Salim Alp (2013): early stage and the actual building. 28 Note the change in the main entrance to the mosque. Unbuilt mosque project for Malatya, designed by Nevzat Sayın (2011) 29 Ahmet Vefik Alp’s mosque proposal for Taksim; note the Aya Triada Church in the background 32 Second-prize winning project for Çamlıca mosque designed by Süleyman Akkas¸ and Nihal S¸enkaya Akkas¸ 34 Çamlıca Mosque designed by Hayriye Gül Totu and Bahar Mızrak: (left) under construction with Erdog˘an’s posters surrounding the site in August 2016; (right) view from across the Bosphorus in January 2017 35 Mimar Sinan Mosque designed by Hilmi S¸enalp (2012) 37 Aerial view showing the position of Mimar Sinan Mosque within its environment37 The mosque of Diyanet Center of America, designed by Hilmi S¸enalp (2015) 39 Cover page of DCA brochure 40 Three main buildings of Diyanet Center of America: (left to right) the mosque, Fellowship Hall, Cultural Center 41

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2.14 Signs listing various buildings in close proximity within Diyanet Center of America complex 2.15 Three buildings in the making of nationalist Turkish architecture (top to bottom): Amcazade Hüseyin Pas¸a Mansion (seventeenth century), Tas¸lık Coffe House (Sedad Hakkı Eldem, 1948), Diwan Room within DCA complex (Hilmi S¸enalp, 2015) 2.16 Mosque-Cemevi complex in August 2016: the lower-height space of the soup kitchen is in between the mosque and the cemevi; the mosque has a direct entrance whereas the cemevi is accessible only through the courtyard. The upper part of the minaret was torn down after the construction was halted. 3.1 Bas¸aks¸ehir I and II at the edge of ·Ikitelli Industrial Park 3.2 Billboards with advertisements of Islamic brands and faith-based NGOs 3.3 Bas¸aks¸ehir development with later stages: 1. Bas¸aks¸ehir I (1995–1996), 2. Bas¸aks¸ehir II (1996–1998), 3. Onurkent (envisaged as Bas¸aks¸ehir III – 1998–2000s), 4. Bas¸aks¸ehir IV (1998–2002), 5. Bas¸aks¸ehir V (2005–2007), 6. Recreational valley (2008), 7. Migrant compound (1996), 8. Housing for earthquake victims (1999–2002), 9. Housing compound for military officers (1998–2008). 3.4 A single minaret after the demolition of its mosque in Çukurambar, Ankara 3.5 Replacing the minaret with a larger mosque with high-rise blocks in the background 3.6 Slum clearance in the North Ankara project site: 2004 vs. 2015 3.7 Single minarets after slum clearance in the North Ankara project site 3.8 North Ankara Külliye under construction 3.9 Karacaören compound for squatters without titles: 1. shopping mall, 2. mosque, 3. primary school, 4. “ladies center,” 5. health center, 6. high school, 7. park, 8. youth center. 3.10 North Ankara project site: (from left to right) the high-rise blocks for gecekondu owners (the külliye under construction is visible in distance), the relocated road to the airport, the recreational valley, the luxury residences under construction 3.11 The appropriation of the parking lot by post-squatters: women airing cotton and picnicking in the shade of the retaining wall 3.12 “New architectural concept” of TOKI: proposal for Iznik 4.1 The lines of opposition to the AKP and their transformation in time 4.2 The making of Taksim Square throughout the twentieth century: (a) early 1920s, (b) mid-1930s, and (c) 1950s

42

43

50 68 69

71 76 77 79 81 82

82

83 84 98 111 119

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4.3 .4 4 4.5 4.6 .7 4 4.8

.9 4 4.10 4.11 4.12 4.13 4.14 4.15 .1 5 5.2 5.3 5.4 5.5 5.6 5.7 .8 5 5.9 5.10 5.11

.12 5 5.13 5.14

The making of Kızılay Square: (a) late 1920s, (b) mid-1930s, and (c) 1990s 119 Satellite image showing the Kızılay area 121 Map of Sakarya District 123 The architecture of the tents making use of street furniture during the TEKEL Resistance 125 The interior of a tent 126 Taksim in the 1930s: The roundabout around the Independence Monument is built but the artillery barracks (used as a football stadium) and its annexes are still in place 129 The AKM building 130 Scenes from the camp in Gezi Park during the occupation 133 The façade of the AKM building during the Gezi protests 134 The use of tear gas by the police forces during the Gezi protests 138 The municipality’s fast-breaking organization and the “earth tables” along Istiklal Street 140 The façade of the AKM building during the “Democracy and 145 Martyrs Rallies” in the wake of the coup attempt in July 2016 The speakers’ podiums during the Gezi protests and the “Democracy and Martyrs Rallies” 145 First National Assembly 158 Elementary School in Bahçelievler, Ankara 160 Safranbolu and Konya courthouses 160 Adana Mufti Office and the District Governorship of Pursaklar, Ankara162 Buildings constructed by Turkish companies in Ashgabat: Ministry of Culture by Polimeks 169 AKP Headquarters: the front façade with the portal and the rear 169 façade with the speaker’s balcony facing the parking lot Ministry of Science, Industry and Technology; initial project and the final version 171 Façade renovations along Atatürk Boulevard 172 Presidential Mansion in Çankaya 175 The Presidential Compound and its relation to the representational spaces of Ankara 176 Site plan and zones of accessibility within the Presidential Compound: 1. residence, 2. administrative blocks, 3. convention center and Millet Mosque, 4. public library and cultural center under construction. 178 Presidential Compound: front elevation of the main building 182 Millet Mosque and the Convention Center within the Presidential Compound184 Anonymous poster mocking the Presidential Compound with reference to a movie poster 189

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.15 Erdog˘an inside the Presidential Compound 5 190 5.16 “Strong Will Leads the People” 191 5.17 Erdog˘an descending the stairs of the Presidential Compound among historical warriors 192 5.18 Anonymous images circulated online mocking Erdog˘an’s performance193 5.19 Supporters of Erdog˘an arriving for a rally visit the Millet Mosque 194

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Preface

I arrived in Ankara for the first time in late 1993 to begin my training as a student of architecture. Incidentally, the Islamist takeover of the capital’s local administration occurred after only a few months. Thus, I observed and experienced the gradual transformations in the city as a first-hand witness. On the one hand, I was observing the destructive interventions in the built environment of the republican capital, which I was being taught to appreciate in architecture school. On the other hand, I was experiencing the loss of locales and practices of leisure in the city center, which were vital for my existence there as a young student. I remember pondering upon my displeasure with the municipality’s policies: to what extent were these interventions an outcome of its Islamist character? After years of living in Ankara and then elsewhere, I arrived in the capital once again in 2009. The same mayor was (and still is!) in office after winning successive elections. This time I was a scholar of urban studies and a junior faculty teaching urban design. Alongside my affiliation with the university, I took office in the Chamber of Architects, with which I had been actively involved since I was a student. The Chamber has a history of opposition to mega-projects (such as the Bosphorus Bridge) and collaboration with squatter movements, which made it an influential actor in urban politics to this day. It was also the subject of my doctoral study. The fist ideas of this book began to develop in my mind during my four-year experience as a member of the Executive Board of the Chamber’s Ankara Branch. I was in constant contact on the one hand with architects whose relation to the Chamber was primarily professional. Through them, I observed the expansion of Islamist networks and their growing influence on business connections across the construction sector. On the other hand, I saw grassroots organizations and even individuals seeking help from the Chamber in their local struggles to defend their neighborhoods or urban commons threatened by the municipality’s development plans.

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During this time, what fascinated me most was the disparity between the growing grassroots mobilizations against Islamist local administrations and the persistence of the activist architects in perceiving political opposition primarily in terms of the defense of secularism. The former had almost nothing to do with Islamism and was about state-led gentrification in varying scales. The latter, surprisingly, could not dissociate itself from the prevailing middle-class contempt towards Islamists, which obscured the actual processes of urban politics they deployed. Hence, the problem for me was to grasp the relation between Islamist politics and the built environment in its complexity. I was convinced that this relation concerned both political economy (of urban space) and cultural politics (of Islam/ism); yet it could not be reduced to either. What began with articles analyzing particular cases eventually evolved into this book. Some parts of the book have been published previously. The discussion on architectural mimicry in neo-Ottoman mosques appeared in “Architectural Mimicry and Politics of Mosque Building: Negotiating Islam and Nation in Turkey” (The Journal of Architecture 21 [2016]: 321–347). Some parts of the section on North Ankara appeared in “Minarets without Mosques: Limits to the Urban Politics of Neoliberal Islamism” in Urban Studies 50 [2013]: 1095–1111. An early version of the comparison between Bas¸aks¸ehir and North Ankara developments was presented at the SAH Annual Conference in 2016 and is forthcoming in “Neoliberal Islamism and the Cultural Politics of Housing in Turkey” in Kılınç, K. and Gharipour, M. (eds.) Social Housing in the Middle East: Architecture, Urban Development and Transnational Modernity by Indiana University Press. In Chapter 4, I used sections from “The Political Encampment and the Architecture of Public Space: TEKEL Resistance in Ankara” (International Journal of Islamic Architecture 2/1 [2013]: 77–100) and “Everywhere is Taksim: The Politics of Public Space from Nation-building to Neoliberal Islamism and Beyond” (Journal of Urban History 41/5 [2015]: 881–907). Throughout the process, I have benefitted from intellectual exchanges with friends and colleagues, some of whom have read and commented on the drafts of the chapters. I am grateful to Kaan Ag˘artan, Elvan Altan, Utku Balaban, Ali Ekber Dog˘an, Feyzan Erkip, Nes¸e Gurallar, Berin Gür, Abidin Kusno, and Barıs¸ Ünlü. Güven Arif Sargın has been a supporter since my undergraduate years at METU and also contributed to this book with his valuable comments. Ays¸e Çavdar generously shared her dissertation with me and made suggestions through our exchanges; Nes¸e Gurallar and Esin Boyacıog˘lu were kind enough to share their unpublished material. I am thankful to Gülse Eraydın for her assistance in gathering material and producing some of the visuals. I thank Mehmer Özer, Çetin Gürer, Yücel Demirer, Konca S¸aher, Moira Bernardoni, Beyza Onur and Defne Batuman for sharing their photographs with me. I am also grateful to the board members and the staff of the Ankara Branch of Chamber of Architects, with some of whom I worked together during my term, for their companionship and help in my research. Among them, I shall particularly mention Tezcan Karakus¸ Candan, who was always helpful whenever I needed assistance.

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I am also grateful to the Architext series editors Tony King and Tom Markus, whose insightful early critiques – along with three anonymous reviewers – helped a lot in shaping my framework for the book. But I shall thank Tony King once more, for he has been an unofficial mentor during and after my graduate study at SUNY Binghamton. Bilkent University is a great place to teach but also has been a safe haven to write the book. Although this might sound meaningless to many readers, the peace of mind the university has provided its faculty was invaluable within Turkey’s current turmoil seriously debilitating the intellectual capacity of scholars. I have to confess that at times I felt guilty for being in an institution that has rigorously managed to sustain its quality of being a “university.” Finally, I am indebted to Dilvin, who has always been the greatest support in my life with her patience and love; and to Defne, who was a source of inspiration along the way and has proved that parenting is a “full-time joy.” Bülent Batuman Ankara September 2017

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Chapter 1: Introduction

The relationship between Islam and politics has always been controversial; yet, it has possibly never been as controversial as it is at the current moment. The twenty-first century witnessed a growing interest (and anxiety for the large part of the Western world) regarding Islam and its political influence beginning with the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001. This attentiveness was advanced with the uprisings of 2011, which shook the Middle East and North Africa. The initial optimism created by these uprisings was soon replaced by a new surge of anxiety. Civil wars triggered waves of refugees who were met with hostility in most of the Western world as witnessed by the election results showing the rise of right-wing populism in Europe as well as the US. These fears were further fueled with the rise of transnational terrorist networks and especially the emergence of ISIS claiming to be the transnational caliphate of Sunni Islam. This book aims to analyze the relationship between Islam and the built environment as an attempt to shed light on a particular facet of the link between politics and Islam. The relationship between Islam and the built environment first emerged as a research topic in the early nineteenth century, as Orientalist scholarship examined Islamic architecture and Muslim cities. The stereotypical image of the Islamic city as an unchanging (and inferior) social environment was only challenged in the late twentieth century with the rise of postcolonial critique following the seminal work of Edward Said (1979). After that, longstanding and formulaic representations that overlooked the variations presented by the cities in the Islamic world were overturned in the critical works of scholars such as Janet AbuLughod (1987), Timothy Mitchell (1988), and Nezar AlSayyad (1991). Through these works, the prevailing view based on the dichotomy between the traditional and the modern was mostly abandoned. Today, the study of the relation between Islam and the built environment presents us with a different research question in a world where the visibility – and the political influence – of Islam has considerably

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increased. Now, it is necessary to consider the role of Islamism rather than Islam in shaping – and in return being shaped by – the built environment. The gradual rise of Islamism as a political force can be traced back to the 1960s. The end of that decade witnessed the decline of secular nationalist governments in the postcolonial world and the rise of what would later be called the “Islamic revival.” The disappointment of the Arab-Israeli War in 1967, disillusionment with nationalist governments, and the suppression of left-wing movements within the Cold War context led to the rise of Islam both as an oppositional movement and an instrument for right-wing governments (Mandaville 2014: 64–120). Later, after the Cold War, Islam would emerge as a political force across the Muslim world in the face of the increasing influence of neoliberalism. With the dismantling of welfare mechanisms, Islamic networks of solidarity began to be more influential than ever and generated a gradual expansion of religion at the level of everyday life (Bayat 2007). Besides this bottom-up impetus, major cities of the Muslim world have emerged under conditions of globalization as symbols as well as developmental apparatuses for their countries. They are now identified, to varying degrees, with their plural ethnicities, modernities, and Islams. Thus, the cities of the Islamic world are increasingly becoming fragmented, with religiosity influencing spaces in diverse ways. AlSayyad (2011) has defined the product of such fragmentation as the “fundamentalist city,” one that comprises “fragmented landscapes made up of spaces of exception.” Within this context, he has proposed focusing on the relationship between “Islamic religiosity, the practice of Islamic piety, and urban social and spatial processes” (AlSayyad 2015: 23). In tune with AlSayyad’s proposal, the book focuses on a particular case, that of Turkey; a secular republic which has been ruled by a democratically elected, pro-Islamic government for more than fourteen years. Following its first electoral success in 2002, the ruling Justice and Development Party (AKP) attracted much attention and was pointed at by many as an illustration of the compatibility of Islam and liberal values such as freedom, democracy, and individual choice. Here, I shall point out that this book is not about how to define the Turkish case in political science terms. It is rather about the role of the built environment and the urban realm as major mediums in the making of an Islamist rule that sustained successive electoral victories. The main argument of the book is that the AKP has built its hegemony particularly through its success in urban politics and the new kind of Islamic urbanism it generated. The urban realm opened up new channels between the state and the urban society, which the Turkish Islamists successfully used in maintaining their political influence. It is even possible to say that the AKP itself was the product of this new urbanism initiated by the Islamists’ performance in local administrations throughout the 1990s. These new channels refute the simple explanations of the AKP’s success as either an illustration of a paradigmatic coexistence of “secular state and Islamic society” or the idea that this is merely a neoliberal conservative party instrumentalizing Islam. I argue that the reign of the AKP in Turkey was a process of

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hegemony-building in the face of constant threat from the secularist establishment, which has to be understood as a nation-(re)building project. This project, on the one hand, has defined itself as the antithesis of the secular nation-building of the early republican period (roughly corresponding to the period between the two World Wars) and sought to redefine the nation in Islamic terms. On the other hand, Islamic nation-building under the AKP appropriated much of the tropes defined by its adversary.1 The AKP’s definition of “nation” departs equally from the rejection of nation(alism) by traditional Islamists in favor of a global ummah and its secular conception by the Turkish nation-state. It presents Turkishness and Islam as qualities of the same entity, which is significantly different than the republican definition referring to a secular and ethnically homogeneous body. While the Kemalist state invented the term “ulus” in the 1930s to define the secular nation, the ideologues of the AKP use “millet,” a term of Arabic origin which was used to denote religious communities in the Ottoman Empire. The Ottoman millet system allowed for limited autonomy for the non-Muslim communities to conduct their internal affairs. The term assumed the meaning of “nation” in the nineteenth century; emergent nationalisms of ethnic groups within the Empire drew essence from their religious-communal experience in the millet system (Karpat 2002: 611). It has been used in the twentieth century, especially by conservative intellectuals, as a reaction to linguistic Turkification; yet, the reference to millet by the AKP is significantly different. The millet is now envisaged through self-Othering; a majority which had been oppressed by the elite minority throughout republican history. Defining this approach as “Muslim nationalism,” White (2014: 188) points out the global implications of this postimperial vision based on Ottoman past: “For Muslim nationalists, the emblematic founding moment for the Turkish nation is a moment of conquest [of Constantinople], and their image of the future is of regional Turkish-led economic and political unions, not an Islamic umma in which Turkey will take equal place beside other Muslim nations.” The AKP has expanded its hegemonic control through a constant struggle with the secular establishment, represented by the military and the state bureaucracy. It has strengthened its position through the zealous fulfillment of neoliberal market demands and an urban welfare system utilizing Islamic social networks and municipalities. In this way, the AKP’s new Islamism has emerged as an original synthesis, blending economic neoliberalism and political Islam. In its battle with the status quo, the AKP and its leader Recep Tayyip Erdog˘an have utilized Islam as a populist reference, reimagining the (Islamic) nation as struggling for emancipation from an oppressive power (the state elite) that had imposed secularism as a form of colonial subjugation. The key to the AKP’s success owed very much to the party’s ideological flexibility – no doubt a contingent feature resulting from the constant threat of the military in the early years – which successfully facilitated negotiations and hybridizations. The party succeeded in simultaneously representing the Islamist cause

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and getting along with the state; consolidating the conservative right-wing electoral base and expanding Kurdish freedoms (at least until 2015). What allowed the AKP to do these seemingly irreconcilable things was its success in facilitating negotiations resulting in hybrid forms around two main themes. The first of these was the promotion of a new national identity negotiating nation and Islam; and the other was a negotiation between Islam as dissent and its deployment for social control by the state. The urban realm – with its social milieu and the political economy of its physical production – provided venues for these negotiations and their hybrid forms. Within this framework, the book sets to explore the Turkish Islamists’ quest in nation-building through the spatial strategies it has deployed and the urban forms it has produced. An important aspect of this inquiry is to look at this nation-building process not as a pre-conceived scheme executed smoothly, but rather one shaped through struggles among multiple agents. This process was one of urbanization from the beginning; it witnessed not only a new phase in the urban development of Turkish cities but also the gradual urbanization of political action for both Islamists and their opponents. In this regard, new Islamist nation-building in Turkey has been a contingent process with diverse dynamics. The book discusses these dynamics in the urban realm with particular attention to class and gender. The relationship between built environment and politics is a complex one which cannot be reduced to the instrumentalization of the former for the operations of the latter. In brief terms, the book rests on two basic premises. The first of these is to conceive of the built environment as constitutive of the social. Departing from this point, it sets to uncover the spatial making of politics. The second one is the specificity of the urban. Demands, challenges, and struggles embedded within the city and defined by spatial forms and scales require careful analysis of interplays between the spatial and the social. Based on these two propositions, the book investigates different components of the politics of built environment. Of the four chapters comprising the main body, two deal with architecture, which is a particularly powerful milieu for representing – real or manufactured – history. The other two focus on the urban: its transformations and those it has triggered through the recent political processes that took place in Turkey. The general approach developed here can be deployed for the study of other cases where Islam – and religion for that matter – is not a dominant factor. Nevertheless, the relevance of the book’s general framework for the politics of built environment at large should not lead us to miss the specificities of Islam and Islamism as political dynamics. Even though architectural and urban forms of Islamist politics cannot be essentialized as distinct from other ideological formations, they are nonetheless defined by particularities resulting from the cultural power of Islam in the societies it predominates. Moreover, it would be a methodological error to essentialize Islam and Islamism as well; they have to be studied with regard to the specificities of the society under scrutiny. Hence, the place of Islam requires contextual definition.

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NEW ISLAMISM(S): SOME NOTES ON TERMINOLOGY Islamism as political power has to be understood not as the manifestation of a religious power unchanged in time but as a contemporary ideology compatible with historical circumstances. Throughout the book, I use the term “Islamism” interchangeably with “political Islam” to refer to a political ideology. In this respect, it is different from Islam as a religion and its “Islamic” cultural manifestations. Some scholars have argued that the rise of Islamic groups to power necessarily ends up in their moderation and that, in the case of Turkey, the Islamic movement ceased to be Islamist as the result of a compromise with the secularist state (Yavuz 2009: 5–13). Rather than essentializing the relation between Islamic movements and the state in the form of an inevitable moderation, I propose to consider the particular forms of interaction between Islamist politics and the historical dynamics that give way to the Islamists’ rise to power. Viewed in this way, the establishment of a government by Islamist cadres does not necessarily end up in either the existence of an (hidden or overt) agenda to transform the state structure into a theocratic one or the total abandonment of Islamist political views. The issue is rather the mutual influence between state and society mediated through social and cultural forms defined with reference to Islam. There is an ongoing debate among scholars of political science on how to define the Islamist politics of the recent decades. The debate began with the decline of groups seeking an Islamist revolution to establish a theocratic state. This process was famously defined as “the failure of political Islam” by Olivier Roy (1994). Accordingly, the Islamist cause was being incorporated into pluralistic political systems. This observation soon gave way to a new interpretation, emphasizing not failure but success of a new form of Islamism. Here, a new type of Islamist groups pursuing new political strategies came to the fore. Among various terms used for these groups abandoning revolutionary strategies and choosing to participate in existing political systems were “new Islamists” (Baker 2003), “moderate Islamists” (Hamzawy 2005), “Muslim democrats” (á la European Christian democrats) (Nasr 2005), and recently “neo-Islamists” (Wright 2012). The new condition defined by the decline of traditional (militant) Islamism was labeled “post-Islamism” within the political science literature (Schulze 2000; Kepel 2000; Roy 2004). It was Asef Bayat (1996) who for the first time used the term ­“post-Islamism” to define this trend that abandoned the idea to seize and transform the state and was rather content with Islamization of everyday life. He later expanded the definition of the term to refer to a project that was “neither anti-Islamic nor secular.” It rather represented “an endeavor to fuse religiosity and rights, faith and freedom, Islam and liberty” (Bayat 2007: 11). According to him, Turkey’s AKP was a prime example of post-Islamism as a project (2007: 189). The significance of Bayat’s work, in contrast to the rather totalizing approach of political science scholars, was his sociological empiricism scrutinizing the grassroots performances of (post-)Islamism in Egypt and post-revolutionary Iran in their relation to everyday life (Bayat 1997, 2007).

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The Arab revolts of 2011 significantly affected the debates on post-Islamism: the term itself gained wide currency.2 For Bayat (2011), for instance, the uprisings were “post-Islamist revolutions.” For those looking at the uprisings optimistically and using the term “post-Islamism” with a progressive connotation, the events supported the post-Islamism thesis and its optimism regarding the incorporation of Islam within democratic systems and plurality (Bayat 2013a). However, with the defeat of the revolutionary thrust with civil wars in Libya and Syria and especially the failure of the Ikhwan-ul Muslimin (Muslim Brotherhood – MB) in Egypt to maintain a pluralistic support in the face of Egyptian status quo, Salafist movements began to gain ground. These groups ranged from those rejecting politics altogether to those participating in elections to pursue their fundamentalist agendas and to the Jihadist ones seeking global struggle (Wiktorowicz 2006; Marks 2013). While the rise of these groups problematized the post-Islamism thesis, its proponents argued that Salafism was either irrelevant (Roy 2012) or an insignificant exception (Bayat 2013b). Nevertheless, their growth casts serious doubt regarding the optimism of the post-Islamism thesis (AlSayyad 2015: 23). Therefore, although I mostly agree with the main characteristics defined by theorists of post-Islamism, I choose to use the rather loose term “new-Islamism” to define the AKP’s political performance.3 My choice relies first on the idea that even if there are indeed new conditions defining (post-)Islamism(s), it is crucial to underline that these movements cannot be subsumed into a universal project valid in all societies. Rather, these conditions frame societies whose paths of development are contingent on political struggles (Holdo 2017). Second, I believe that the Turkish Islamists have not moved beyond (as implied with the prefix “post-”) something (Islamism), although they definitely invented a new form of it. Various authors have emphasized a characteristic feature of post- or new Islamism as the emphasis on the nation rather than the global conception of ummah. This has been a key element in the AKP’s nation-building project, which is intrinsically connected to the historical dynamics of Islamism’s relation to the general right-wing conservatism in Turkey. But what is also important are the transnational networks within which the new Islamist political performances emerge. That is, these movements are inevitably caught up within these networks, which make them international even if they do not seek global agendas of Islamic cause. Thus, although the book focuses on the particular case of Turkey, I aim to scrutinize the transnational networks of Islam which have influenced the AKP and its policies. Another problem with the post-Islamist research agenda is its interest in bottom-up dynamics, which implicitly rests on a separation of state and civil society and the idea that the movements under discussion have given up their claims for the former and only focus on the latter. I believe what is also crucial is the role of state in the production of social and cultural (and of course, spatial) forms of Islamism. It is a methodological error to reduce Islamism to an oppositional force contesting nation-states from within the civil society. Under conditions of globalization, the relation between states and Islam has become overdetermined, rendering the dichotomy of top-down versus bottom-up versions of political

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Islam irrelevant. States still tend to use Islam as a component of national identity and a tool for social harmony; yet they are also cautious of radical versions of Islamism that could become a channel for social discontent. Nonetheless, these policies generate Islamization. Similarly, while moderate Islamist movements that use legal channels are uncomfortable with the absorption of their oppositional impetus within the status quo, they are fond of noting their growing influence. A typical case in this respect is the post-Soviet republics that have undertaken nation-building since the 1990s. While some of these states are having problems in achieving political stability, those that have managed to integrate with the world market – such as Kazakhstan, Azerbaijan, and (to a lesser extent) Turkmenistan – have used Islam as an important component of their national identities. And these states, which claim to be more secular than the AKP’s Turkey, has been a source of inspiration for the latter’s Islamic nation-building.

A BRIEF HISTORY OF POLITICAL ISLAM IN TURKEY The Turkish Republic was established in 1923 in the wake of the traumatic collapse of the Ottoman Empire leaving behind dislocated ethnic populations seeking refuge within the new nation-states. Thus, the young nation-state of Turkey was to cope with both the trauma of losses and the task of modernization and nation-building. In this context, the republican ethos was built on a foundational disavowal of the Ottoman past, particularly its Islamic identity (Zürcher 2007: 166–205). The Ottoman Empire was conceived as the embodiment of backwardness representing everything that had to be overcome in order to “catch up with” Western modernity. The national identity was invented with reference to a distant Turkish history preceding the Ottomans. Yet, when it was necessary, Ottoman references were also put to use with an emphasis on Turkishness downplaying Islam (Danforth 2014). Under these conditions, Islamism did not emerge as an autonomous force until the late 1960s. Rather it negotiated its way within the larger current of rightwing conservatism (labeled nationalist-conservative), which relied on the instrumentalization of religion under conditions of the Cold War and against the rising left-wing militancy in the 1960s. This was particularly the case in the wake of the military coup in 1980, which suppressed the left-wing opposition in the country. The negotiations between Islamic incentives and the state utilizing them for social control soon broke down with the increasing depravation caused by neoliberal restructuring of the economy. With the end of the Cold War, Islam had already begun to assume a global role as a populist response to neoliberalism. In tune with this global trend, in the absence of left-wing movements, Islamism emerged for the first time as an independent political force in Turkey. The initial success of the Islamist Welfare Party (RP) was the winning of the municipalities of a number of cities including Istanbul and Ankara in 1994, which they have controlled since. The performance of the RP municipalities not only

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consolidated the party’s voting base but created new political venues and new political cadres that would establish the AKP after the banning of the RP and its successor Felicity Party (FP). Among these cadres was Erdog˘an, the popular mayor of Istanbul who was sentenced to four-months of jail time and more importantly a life-long political ban in 1998 for citing a poem.4 The ban was later lifted with a change in the law, and it became possible for him to run for Parliament. He was named prime minister in early 2003 and later elected president in 2014. The AKP’s reign, especially in the early years, was scene for a fierce struggle between the party and the secularist establishment. The conflict escalated in the 2007 presidential elections when the military intervened with a memorandum to prevent the election of an Islamist president. The government responded with early elections and won a clear victory, which was followed by the election of Abdullah Gül, formerly the minister of state and the second man of the party, to the presidency. In its struggle with the establishment, the AKP cooperated with religious groups. The most significant example of this mutual relationship was the one with the Gülen movement, the largest among Turkish Islamist groups with international network and influences. Unlike other Islamic groups, the Gülen movement saw itself an equal partner of the AKP since it provided well-educated cadres which were vital to take over the bureaucracy (Özdalga 2000; Turam 2007; Hendrick 2013). The cooperation between the two parties turned into a deadly clash after 2013 and led to a failed military coup on 15 July 2016, in which Gülenist officers played an important role. While it is hard to tell the extent of the Gülenist organization within the military and their exact role in the putsch, what is significant is the AKP’s collaboration with the religious groups, which was conditional to the control of the former over the latter. This strained relationship between the expanding power of the Islamist government and the faith-based organizations has been an important dynamic of the process of Islamic nation-building in Turkey. The final blow to the status quo was the referendum in 2010, which was also the peak of the collaboration between the AKP and the Gülen movement. The constitutional amendments reorganized the judiciary system and subjected it to government control. This, in return, resulted in the concentration of excessive power in the hands of the government, particularly Erdog˘an himself. What followed was a rapid escalation of political tension in the country that erupted around the renewal of an urban commons, the Gezi Park in Istanbul in 2013. The Gezi protests marked a turning point in the history of the AKP. The violent repression of the protests rapidly extended to the institutionalization of state oppression with new legislation toward reinforcing a police state. The use of social media was restricted; the laws related to the operations of the police and the intelligence units were revised for their utilization by the government; and the judiciary bureaucracy was reorganized to put it under government control. These measures were further tightened after the corruption allegations based on leaked tapes in December 2013. And finally the failed putsch in July 2016 provided the pretext for mass arrests and purges in bureaucracy, judiciary, and the academe.

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Here, a valid question would be the relationship between the authoritarian politics of the AKP after 2013: is this proof of the essential incompatibility of Islamism with democracy? I will return to this question in the epilogue. Various studies have addressed the political success of Turkish Islamists in terms of their grassroots mobilizations (White 2002; Dog˘an 2007; Eligür 2010; Dog˘an 2016), in terms of the political economy of Turkey under the Islamists (Tug˘al 2009; Akça et al. 2014; Bug˘ra and Savas¸kan 2014), or in relation to the question of democracy and its compatibility with political Islam (Arat 2005; Turam 2007; Yavuz 2009; Hale and Özbudun 2010; Turam 2012; White 2014). An important body of work has also addressed issues of everyday life and culture within the process of the rise of political Islam in Turkey (Saktanber 2002; White 2002; Çınar 2005; Özyürek 2006; Turam 2015; Yılmaz 2015). In addition, there has emerged a considerable literature on urban politics and especially the political economy of urban renewal and grassroots mobilizations against such projects (Uysal 2012; Balaban 2012; Çavus¸og˘lu and Strutz 2014; Karaman 2014; Lelandalis 2014; Ünsal 2015; Islam and Sakızlıog˘lu 2015; Sönmez 2015). Despite this growing body of work on urban issues, very few studies have scrutinized the relationship between Islamist politics and the built environment (Sargın 2004; Batuman 2013; Erman 2016). That is, what this growing literature has failed to adequately address is the role of urban space and its production in the AKP’s economic and cultural politics. This book argues that the production of space has created interfaces for the materialization – in architectural and urban form – of new Islamism in Turkey. Urban renewal was made operational as means for rapid capital accumulation, which was imperative in the rise of a pious bourgeoisie supporting the AKP. Meanwhile, architecture was deployed as a political instrument in the service of nation(re)building with reference to Islam and the global promotion of this new national identity.

STRUCTURE OF THE BOOK The book explores four major themes: mosque architecture, housing, public space, and public architecture. Chapter 2 focuses on mosque building. The mosque in Islamic societies represents the materialization of religion in the public sphere; moreover, the twentieth century witnessed the rise of the mosque as a national symbol, especially in the postcolonial Islamic world after 1945. It became an important instrument in representing nationhood and symbolizing the place of religion within the nation. Under the AKP, the mosque – and particularly the mimicry of classical Ottoman mosques – emerged both as a symbol with which one might identify domestically (Islam-in-nation) and as a commodity to export to the Muslim world in order to represent Turkish Islam as a globally relevant characteristic (nation-in-Islam). Moreover, the AKP has promoted mosques as social spaces, building considerable numbers of new ones and expanding their architectural programs with new social and cultural functions.

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Chapter 3 examines the topic of housing to scrutinize the Islamization of everyday life in Turkish cities and the key role of urban renewal in the production of urban space. Mass Housing Administration of Turkey (TOKI), which had merely produced 43,000 housing units between its foundation in 1984 and 2003, produced 600,000 units in the following ten years. While large-scale housing projects are common enterprises, especially in the developing world, a crucial aspect of the Turkish case has been the attempts at Islamic community building through these projects. While squatter populations were disciplined in new housing compounds, Islamic gated communities have also emerged, first as retreats for the growing pious bourgeoisie and later as manifestations of a new lifestyle. Chapter 4 analyzes the urban character of new Islamist nation-building and investigates its political limits through the conflict over public space. The chapter defines the social transformations that occurred under the AKP as an urban revolution through which politics has assumed urban forms and the very definition of “urban” has changed. Here, particular attention is given to the emergent lines of opposition to new Islamism illustrating the limits to its hegemony. The chapter argues that all of these lines of opposition were channeled into the public space – the urban form par excellence – in the case of the Gezi protests of 2013. Thus, I define Gezi as the revolution of the urban; an outcome of the urban revolution of new Islamism. Comparing the protests with the earlier TEKEL Resistance, which was a precursor with the workers’ protest camp in downtown Ankara in 2010, as well as the contemporaneous global wave of revolt, the chapter scrutinizes the spatial performances and architectures of protest that reproduced public spaces and created new venues in urban politics. It closes with the aftereffects of Gezi, especially its influence on the AKP’s mobilization of its supporters in the wake of the attempted coup in 2016. Chapter 5 focuses on public architecture under the AKP, which culminated in the controversial Presidential Compound, built in the capital city of Ankara. In an attempt to invent a neoclassical style of “Ottoman-Seljuk architecture,” the government has tried to promote this style in public buildings as a representation of new Islamist national identity. The chapter investigates the sources of inspiration for this evolving style ranging from Ottoman Revivalism of the early twentieth century to the contemporary experiments in nation-building in the Turkic republics of post-Soviet Central Asia. Thus, it is shown that the search for new Islamist architecture was simultaneously local – making use of history – and global – learning from other nation-building processes. The new Presidential Compound, which signified a synthesis for the “Ottoman-Seljuk” style, also represented a performative act to reconfigure the spatial order of state structure within the capital. And as such, it has been the stage of political performances for the growing patrimonialism surrounding President Erdog˘an. A detailed analysis of the compound ends with a discussion on an overlooked aspect of public architecture: the representational power of public buildings does not automatically generate identification and can well be contested by the people who are expected to identify with the architectural representations of the nation, which has been the case with the compound.

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NOTES 1 2 3 4

For spatial tropes of secular nation-building in early republican Turkey, see Bozdog˘an (2001) and Kezer (2015). For recent reviews on post-Islamism debates, see Gomez Garcia (2012), Chamki (2014), Mandaville (2014: 369–299), Gökarıksel and Secor (2017), and Holdo (2017). “New-Islamism” has also been used to denote the adaptation of the traditional Islamists within the political turmoil they suddenly faced in 2011 (Roy 2012). “The minarets are our bayonets, the domes our helmets/ The mosques our barracks and the faithful our army.” It was these verses that had cost Erdog˘an the ban from politics.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Abu-Lughod, J. (1987) “The Islamic City-Historical Myth, Islamic Essence and Contemporary Relevance,” International Journal of Middle Eastern Studies 19: 155–176. Akça, I., A. Bekmen and B. A. Özden. eds (2014) Turkey Reframed: Constituting Neoliberal Hegemony, London: Pluto Press. AlSayyad, N. (1991) Cities and Caliphs: On the Genesis of Arab Muslim Urbanism, New York: Greenwood Press. AlSayyad, N. (2011) “The Fundamentalist City?” in AlSayyad, N. and M. Massoumi eds. The Fundamentalist City? Religiosity and the Remaking of Urban Space, 3–26, London: Routledge. AlSayyad, N. (2015) “Medina; The ‘Islamic City,’ ‘Arab,’ ‘Middle Eastern’ City: Reflections on an Urban Concept,” in R. Saliba ed. Urban Design in the Arab World: Reconceptualizing Boundaries, 17–25, Farnham and Burlington: Ashgate. Arat, Y. (2005) Rethinking Islam and Liberal Democracy: Islamist Women in Turkish Politics, Albany, NY: State University of New York. Baker, R. (2003) Islam Without Fear: Egypt and the New Islamists, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Balaban, O. (2012) “The Negative Effects of Construction Boom on Urban Planning and Environment in Turkey: Unraveling the Role of the Public Sector,” Habitat International 36: 26–35. Batuman, B. (2013) “Minarets Without Mosques: Limits to the Urban Politics of Neoliberal Islamism,” Urban Studies 50 (6): 1095–1111. Bayat, A. (1996) “The Coming of a Post-Islamist Society,” Critique: Critical Middle Eastern Studies 5 (9): 43–52. Bayat, A. (1997) Street Politics: Poor People’s Movements in Iran, New York: Columbia University Press. Bayat, A. (2007) Making Islam Democratic: Social Movements and the Post-Islamist Turn, Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Bayat, A. (2011) “The Post-Islamist Revolutions,” Foreign Affairs, 26.04.2011, https://foreignaffairs.org/articles/ north-africa/2011–2004–2026/post-islamist-revolutions (accessed on 14.02.2017). Bayat, A. (2013a) “Post-Islamism at Large,” in A. Bayat ed. Post-Islamism: The Changing Face of Political Islam, 3–30, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Bayat, A. (2013b) “The Arab Spring and Its Surprises,” Development and Change 44: 587–601. Bozdog˘an, S. (2001) Modernism and Nation Building, Seattle and London: University of Washington Press.

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Bug˘ra, A. and O. Savas¸kan. (2014) New Capitalism in Turkey: The Relationship Between Politics, Religion and Business, Northampton: Edward Elgar Publishing. Çavus¸og˘lu, E. and J. Strutz. (2014) “Producing Force and Consent: Urban Transformation and Corporatism in Turkey,” City 18 (2): 134–148. Chamkhi, T. (2014) “Neo-Islamism in the Post-Arab Spring,” Contemporary Politics 20 (4): 453–468. Çınar, A. (2005) Modernity, Islam and Secularism in Turkey: Bodies, Places, and Time, Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Danforth, N. (2014) “Multi-Purpose Empire: Ottoman History in Republican Turkey,” Middle Eastern Studies 50: 655–678. · Dog˘an, A. E. (2007) Eg˘reti Kamusallık: Kayseri Örneg˘inde Islamcı Belediyecilik, Istanbul: · Iletis¸im. · Dog˘ an, S. (2016) Mahalledeki AKP: Parti I s¸ leyis¸ i, Taban Mobilizasyonu ve Siyasal · Yabancılas¸ma, Istanbul: I letis¸im. Eligür, B. (2010) The Mobilization of Political Islam in Turkey, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. · Erman, T. (2016) ‘Mıs¸ Gibi Site’: Ankara’da Bir TOKI-Gecekondu Dönüs¸üm Sitesi, Istanbul: · Iletis¸im. Gökarıksel, B. and A. Secor. (2017) “The Post-Islamist Problematic: Questions of Religion and Difference in Everyday Life,” Social & Cultural Geography 18 (5): 645–664. 9 Gómez García, L. (2012) “Post-Islamism, the Failure of an Idea: Regards on Islam and Nationalism From Khomeini’s Death to the Arab Revolts,” Religion Compass 6 (10): 451–466. Hale, W. and E. Özbudun. (2010) Islamism, Democracy and Liberalism in Turkey: The Case of the AKP, New York, NY: Routledge. Hamzawy, A. (2005) “The Key to Arab Reform: Moderate Islamists,” Carnegie Endowment for International Peace Policy Brief 40, http://carnegieendowment.org/files/pb40. hamzawy.FINAL.pdf (accessed on 14.02.2017). Hendrick, J. D. (2013) Gülen: The Ambiguous Politics of Market Islam in Turkey and the World, New York and London: New York University Press. Holdo, M. (2017) “Post-Islamism and Fields of Contention After the Arab Spring: Feminism, Salafism and the Revolutionary Youth,” Third World Quarterly 38 (8): 1800–1815. 2 Islam, T. and B. Sakızlıog˘lu. (2015) “The Making of, and Resistance to, State-led Gentrification in Istanbul, Turkey,” in Lees, L., H. B. Shin and E. López eds. Global Gentrifications: Uneven Development and Displacement, 245–264, Bristol: Policy Press. Karaman, O. (2014) “Resisting Urban Renewal in Istanbul,” Urban Geography 35: 290–310. Karpat, K. H. (2002) “Millets and Nationality: The Roots of the Incongruity of Nation and State in the Post-Ottoman Era,” in Studies on Ottoman Social and Political History: Selected Articles and Essays, 611–675, Leiden, Boston and Köln: Brill. Kepel, G. (2000) “Islamism Reconsidered: A Running Dialogue With Modernity,” Harvard International Review 22(2): 22–27. Kezer, Z. (2015) Building Modern Turkey: State, Space and Ideology in the Early Republic. Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press. Lelandais, G. E. (2014) “Space and Identity in Resistance Against Neoliberal Urban Planning in Turkey,” International Journal of Urban and Regional Research 38: 1785–1806. Mandaville, P. (2014) Islam and Politics, Second edition, New York: Routledge. Marks, M. (2013) “Youth Politics and Tunisian Salafism: Understanding the Jihadi Current,” Mediterranean Politics 18 (1): 107–114. Mitchell, T. (1988) Colonizing Egypt, Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press. Nasr, V. (2005) “The Rise of Muslim Democracy,” Journal of Democracy 16: 13–27. Özdalga, E. (2000) “Worldly Asceticism in Islamic Casting: Fethullah Gülen’s Inspired Piety and Activism,” Critique: Critical Middle Eastern Studies 9 (17): 83–104.

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Özyürek, E. (2006) Nostalgia for the Modern: State Secularism and Everyday Politics in Turkey, Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Roy, O. (1994) The Failure of Political Islam, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Roy, O. (2004) Globalized Islam: The Search for a New Ummah, New York, NY: Columbia University Press. Roy, O. (2012) “The New Islamists: How the Most Extreme Adherents of Radical Islam Are Getting With the Times,” Foreign Policy, 12.04.2012, http://foreignpolicy. com/2012/04/16/the-new-islamists/ (accessed on 14.02.2017). Said, E. (1979) Orientalism, New York: Vintage Books. Saktanber, A. (2002) Living Islam: Women, Religion and the Politicization of Culture in Turkey, London and New York: I. B. Tauris. Sargın, G. A. (2004) “Displaced Memories, or the Architecture of Forgetting and Remembrance,” Environment and Planning D 22: 659–680. Schulze, R. (2000) Modern History of the Islamic World, New York: New York University Press. · · Sönmez, M. (2015) AK Fas¸izmin Ins¸aat Iskelesi, Ankara: Nota Bene. Tug˘al, C. (2009) Passive Revolution: Absorbing the Islamic Challenge to Capitalism, Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Turam, B. (2007) Between Islam and the State: The Politics of Engagement, Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Turam, B. ed (2012) Secular State and Religious Society: Two Forces in Play in Turkey, New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Turam, B. (2015) Gaining Freedoms: Claiming Space in Istanbul and Berlin, Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Ünsal, B. Ö. (2015) “State-Led Urban Regeneration in Istanbul: Power Struggles Between Interest Groups and Poor Communities,” Housing Studies 30: 1299–1316. Uysal, Ü. E. (2012) “An Urban Social Movement Challenging Urban Regeneration: The Case of Sulukule, Istanbul,” Cities 29: 12–22. White, J. (2002) Islamist Mobilization in Turkey: A Study in Vernacular Politics, Seattle: University of Washington Press. White, J. (2014) Muslim Nationalism and the New Turks, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Wiktorowicz, Q. (2006) “Anatomy of the Salafi Movement,” Studies in Conflict and Terrorism 29 (3): 207–239. Wright, R. (2012) The Islamists Are Coming: Who They Really Are, Washington, DC: Woodrow Wilson Center Press. Yavuz, H. (2009) Secularism and Muslim Democracy in Turkey, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. · · Yılmaz, Z. (2015) Dis¸il Dindarlık: Islamci Kadın Hareketinin Dönüs¸ümü, Istanbul: Iletis¸im. Zürcher, E. J. (2007) Turkey: A Modern History, London and New York: I. B. Tauris.

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Chapter 2: Politics of mosque building Negotiating Islam and nation

The mosque in contemporary Islamic societies represents the materialization of religion in the public sphere. It gives material form to religious discourse through architecture, making use of meanings accumulated in particular built forms throughout centuries. But the mosque is also a social site generating as well as controlling the mobilization of collective practices. As a space of not only prayer but also socialization, the mosque serves as a means of maintaining sense of community and the spatio-practical production of identities built on shared religion. While the mosque had been the symbol of power and authority of individual rulers in earlier periods, the twentieth century witnessed its rise as a national symbol, especially in the postcolonial Islamic world in the postwar era. It became an important instrument in representing nationhood and symbolizing the place of religion within the nation’s definition. Moreover, mosque architecture has gained a transnational character in the past two decades, with meanings and identities moving along international links carried through design, technology, patronage, as well as political power represented by governments seeking international influence. This chapter focuses on the role of mosque architecture in the AKP’s Islamist nation-building project. But this discussion should be situated within the long period of crisis of representation in Turkey marked by a continuous struggle between the nation-state and Islam to absorb each other. For a good part of the twentieth century, the major strategy for architecture to ease the tension between these two forces was mimicry. Architectural mimicry of classical Ottoman mosque form prevailed throughout the century despite the hostility of the nation-state towards the Ottoman past. This particular idiom produced distinct ideological meanings within different political contexts. While it served for the absorption of Islam(ism) by the nation-state through its assimilation under a larger rubric of “nationalist-conservatism” as a local strain of anti-communism during

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the Cold War, it has recently become operational for the exact opposite. Now it serves the absorption of nationalism and the remolding of the nation-state by the AKP’s Islamism and the making of the Islamic nation – millet. While mosque architecture presents one of the architectural manifestations of millet, it presents the only architectural instrument in the outward dissemination of the new national identity utilizing the global currency of Islam beyond the conventional limits of the nation. What is at stake here is the export of a transnational Turkish Islam, which is spread through mosques funded by the Turkish government and sometimes built by Turkish companies. Following an introduction providing a brief sketch on the politics of mosque building within the global context and a discussion on architectural mimicry to provide a conceptual framework for the subsequent discussions, the chapter will comprise three parts. The first will focus on the politics of mosque building in republican Turkey and the operation of architectural mimicry with reference to the classical Ottoman mosque form. Here, the emergence of mimicry will be defined as a negotiation between the state and Islam on the shared ground of anti-communism within the Cold War context. In the second part, I will discuss the period under the AKP marking the end of the Cold War consensus and the search for a new architectural form for Islam. As I will show, after a period of exploration, the Islamists turned to the neo-Ottoman mosque form to update it with a new ideological content, signifying this time, the Islamist takeover of the state and its representational vocabulary. I will define the particular form mimicry has produced under Islamism as ideological simulacrum. Finally, in the third part, I will look at the mosque as a spatial instrument in the making of Islamic millet within the domestic political context.

MOSQUE AS NATIONAL SYMBOL: POLITICIZING HISTORY The postwar moment coincided with the high prestige of international modernism in architecture. Hence, modernist architecture was deployed as a means of nation-building across the postcolonial world. Mosque architecture was also highly influenced by this trend. Newly established nation-states in Islamic countries utilized modernist mosque architecture as a symbol of nationhood incorporating Islam as part of the national identity. Major examples of this trend were the Masjid Istiqlal in Jakarta, for which a competition was held in 1955, and Masjid Negara in Kuala Lumpur, which was designed in 1957. What we find in these examples is the representation of Islam as an identity that is subsumed as a component within the local framework of the nation. In Masjid Istiqlal, a white-washed concrete dome replaces the traditional tiered roof working simultaneously as a pan-Islamic sign and an example of modernist simplicity (Kusno 2003). In Masjid Negara, the roof is achieved with a folded plate in the form of a parasol referring to the traditional emblem of Malay royalty, while climatic requirements are fulfilled with verandahs raised on stilts combining elements of vernacular residential architecture with modernist principles (Ismail and Mohd Rasdi 2010).

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The following decade saw the continuation of the same trend with the examples in the Capitol Complex in Dhaka designed by Louis Kahn in 1962 and the King Faisal Mosque in Islamabad, which was a competition won by the Turkish architect Vedat Dalokay. In the design process of Kahn’s Capitol Complex, the architect’s proposal of a 3,000-square-meter mosque with four minarets later gave way to a smaller prayer hall illustrating the contested place of Islam in relation to national identity (Vale 2008: 295–311). Dalokay’s winning design for Islamabad, meanwhile, represents a modernist interpretation of the traditional central dome of Ottoman mosque architecture in the form of a folded plate directly situated on the ground together with four corner minarets. It is also an early example of transnational connections in the making of a national mosque with the Saudi king as its patron (Rizvi 2015: 89–93). These modernist mosques were built as symbols of optimism regarding modernist nation-building in Islamic societies; modernist interpretations of traditional mosque forms were embraced by both secular modernist states such as Egypt and Indonesia and Islamic modernist ones such as Malaysia and Pakistan in the 1950s and 1960s.1 However, the end of the 1960s witnessed the decline of secular nationalist governments and the rise of “Islamic revival” (Mandaville 2014: 64–120). It is striking to see that mosque architecture also distanced itself from modernism and turned to searching for identities in specific cultural contexts. In the Islamic postcolonial world, the mosque as a national symbol was stylized with reference to imagined pre-colonial identities. Here it is crucial to note that even such attempts to arrive at essential references for the nation was not free of colonial mediation, for colonial architecture has always been highly influential in the emergence of a nationalist imagination (Kusno 2012). Nevertheless, as seen in the examples of the King Abdullah Mosque in Amman (1982–1989), King Hassan II Mosque in Casablanca (1986–1993), and the University of Indonesia Mosque in Depak (1987), historicism as a representational strategy served for experimenting with varying combinations of nationalist essentialism and the representation of Islam within it. In this regard, in the 1980s, many of the governments in the Islamic world (Turkey being among them) undertook mosque building as an ideological state enterprise. For instance, King Hassan II refocused the Moroccan Ministry of Public Works towards religious projects, the most ambitious of which was the monumental mosque in his name, replicating several twelfth-century religious precedents to evoke Morocco’s past and legitimize monarchy (Elleh 2002; Roberson 2014). Similarly, the Saudi government initiated a “Mosques Project” targeting a “contemporary traditional mosque architecture,” while also undertaking global sponsorship of mosques to disseminate Salafism (Rizvi 2015: 23). The project was run by the Ministry of Pilgrimage and Endowments; major mosques within the project were designed by Abdel-Wahed El-Wakil, who turned to load-bearing brick construction as a local reference (El-Wakil 1989). Suharto’s New Order regime in Indonesia also initiated a program for building mosques with the hand of a new foundation (Yayasan Amal Bhakti Muslim Pancasila) established in 1982. The foundation built around 1,000 mosques (labeled “Masjid Pencasila”) until

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2009, all of which reproduced the same architectural form with the trademark three-tiered roof, inspired by the Demak Mosque in Central Java dating back to the fifteenth century (Zuhri 2013: 296–297). While the traditional form was reproduced as a blueprint, the apexes of the roofs were adorned by the Arabic epigraph for Allah situated within a pentagram representing pancasila (five principles of Indonesian state ideology). This was an incorporation of a sign of global Islam within a national form for mosque architecture (O’Neil 1993; Kusno 2003). Examples of such essentialism can also be observed in Sadat’s Egypt, Mahathir’s Malaysia, and Zia-ul-Hak’s Pakistan. In these Islamic countries, the states gradually increased the influence of Islam as a cultural means to promote the dominance of “Islam in nation.” Such strategy towards Islamic nation-building found its reflection in state-sponsored mosques assuming traditional forms and features. In cases such as Kuwait, Oman, Jordan, and Morocco, where dynastic continuity was at stake, this approach was already dominant, even if there were cases of modernist mosques sponsored by private patrons. The historicist turn in mosque architecture was also reinforced with the rising trends in postmodernism emphasizing familiarity and identity in the face of the abstract formalism of high modernism. With the end of the Cold War and the intensification of global interconnectedness, the rise of Islam as a global factor led to a qualitative change in the role of historicism in mosque architecture. The new millennium witnessed the free circulation of local architectural features and the emergence of transnational combinations. Very early examples of this trend were the Sultan Salahuddin Abdul Aziz Mosque in Shah Alam, Selangor (1988) and the Jumeriah Mosque built in Dubai in 1979. While the former appropriates the Ottoman central dome and reproduces its corner minarets, the latter has clear references to medieval Mamluk architecture. However, the transnational move is always a challenge and a process of appropriation and adaptation (Rizvi 2015). For instance, while the Shah Alam Mosque refers to Istanbul’s Blue Mosque with its blue-clad dome, the Ottoman predecessor – Sultan Ahmet Mosque – is called “Blue Mosque” only for its tiles in the interior. Nevertheless, the imaginary connection to the Middle East here contributes to the creation of a catalog of mosque architecture that is freely borrowed and appropriated in various contexts. As a result, the transnational mobility of styles and architectural features has moved beyond single references in the past two decades. For instance, the Sheikh Zayed Grand Mosque Center in Abu Dhabi freely juxtaposes eighth-century Umayyad architecture with seventeenth-century Mughal architecture, producing what Rizvi (2015: 175–183) defines as “cosmopolitan aesthetics” in mosque architecture. In a similar fashion, the Putra Mosque (1999) in Putrajaya, the new federal capital of Malaysia, displays architectural features borrowed from diverse sources such as Egypt, Turkey, Iran, Morocco, and Iraq with a claim for Malaysia to be the contemporary center of Islamic civilization (Ismail and Mohd Rasdi 2010; Moser 2012). I define the transnational circulation of traditional architectural features and their eclectic compositions in mosque architecture as re-Orientalism, which supports the idea that there is one whole entity called Islam and affirms its

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construction as the “other” in the Western gaze.2 In this regard, the so-called Islamic revivalism found its architectural expression in re-Orientalism, which totalized mosque architecture within its endless combinations of historical fragments. If we remember the definition of new Islamism I have forwarded in Chapter 1, what is crucial is the end of the Cold War, which witnessed the instrumentalization of Islam toward the repression of (particularly left-wing) social movements. Under conditions of globalization, which also for a number of reasons corresponded to the rise of Islam as a bottom-up political force in the face of impoverishment caused by neoliberalization, the relation between states and Islam in Islamic countries became overdetermined. While governments continue using Islam as a component of national identity and a tool for social harmony, they are cautious of cihadist movements that could become a channel for social discontent. Similarly, although moderate Islamists enjoy their growing impact, they are troubled by the eradication of their oppositional impetus. Cases of post-Soviet nation-building illustrate this tension, since Islam was deployed as an important component of national identities. For instance, while for Kazakhstan Islam serves as the marker of distinction differentiating Kazakhs from the Russian minority in the country, in Azerbaijan there is a delicate balance between the Sunni and Shiite populations embodying political risks due to the existence of neighboring Iran. In all the post-Soviet countries with dominantly Muslim populations, state-sponsored mosques have been built as early as the first half of the 1990s. Especially with wealth accumulated due to natural resources (oil and gas), these early mosques were overshadowed by much larger and lavishly decorated ones in the 2000s. In Astana, the new capital of Kazakhstan, the capitol mall contains two large mosques. The Nur-Astana Mosque (2008), which was the largest one in the country at the time of its inauguration, was a gift from the Emir of Qatar. It was later surpassed by Hazrat Sultan Mosque built in 2012. The earliest mosques in Baku and Ashgabat, the capitals of Azerbaijan and Turkmenistan, were built by the Turkish government in the 1990s. While both of these neo-Ottoman mosques were in the city centers, the recently built much larger ones commemorating the deceased founding fathers of both countries (Heydar Mosque [2012] in Baku and the Gypjak Mosque [2004] outside Ashgabat) are located outside the centers, illustrating the uneasy relation between the state and Islam in these countries. Here a crucial difference is worth discussion. Some Islamic states such as Saudi Arabia, Iran, UAE, and Qatar have deployed mosque architecture as a means of spreading Islam and simultaneously promoting their national identities. Moreover, some of the nation-states claiming their respective nations to be origins of Islamic representations export particular architectural forms along with institutionalized influences. Here, Turkey also enters the picture with its ambitious export of neo-Ottoman mosques in various cities from Tokyo and Johannesburg to Berlin and Washington DC. Others, however, embraced such forms to create combinations of architectural forms as global references to Islam. Parallel to the increasing role of transnational connections in architectural production and the

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tendency toward “branding” nations and cities, these trends became all the more visible (Rizvi 2015). As for architectural form, most of the states seeking incorporation of Islam with the national identity freely utilize available architectural styles from various periods and geographies. In cases such as Indonesia and Malaysia as well as the post-Soviet republics, the governments negotiate their ideological demands in mosque architecture and economic expectations in city-branding with international architectural firms. The same thing occurs in Qatar and UAE with the additional ideological concern to promote Islam globally. Saudi Arabia, for instance, deploys a flexible architectural strategy in disseminating Salafism adapting mosque design to the local setting (Rizvi 2015: 69–105). In this context of pluralistic representations of Islam rendering historical and geographical boundaries irrelevant in mosque architecture, it is curious to see that the classical Ottoman mosque form of the sixteenth century has prevailed in Turkey throughout the twentieth century and even became a global brand in the twenty-first. To analyze the prevailing stylistic preference of neo-Ottomanism in Turkey, it is necessary to begin with a discussion on how to conceptualize the reproduction of this historical form.

POLITICS OF ARCHITECTURAL MIMICRY Mimicry was an important component of colonial architecture. The use of already existing architectural idioms within colonial encounters has been scrutinized by scholars since the late 1980s (Rabinow 1989; Wright 1991; Crinson 1996; Crinson 2003). The colonizers often visually reproduced traditional architectures of the colonized, at times to display power (particularly in the World Fairs) and at times to inflict assimilation in the colonies (Mitchell 1988). Sometimes Western architectural forms were imposed on the colonies as nationalist signifiers to maintain an imperial image in the eyes of both the colonizers and the colonized (Metcalf 1989; Fuller 2007). The need to uphold identification by colonial subjects with a colonial power led to the operation of architectural mimicry as a domain of negotiation and hybridization. Homi Bhabha (1994) has famously discussed mimicry as an ambivalent relationship between the colonizer and the colonized. Accordingly, the act of mimicking the colonizer is simultaneously a disciplinary colonial practice and one that “discloses the ambivalence of colonial discourse and disrupts its authority” (Bhabha 1994: 126). I find Bhabha’s definition of the concept useful for the case of mosque architecture in Turkey, where what is at stake is not the relationship between a subject position and the colonial Other that defines it, but one between a subject position and a constitutive referent, which itself is a representation – that of the sixteenth-century Ottoman Empire. Moreover, there are significant differences in the deployment of neo-Ottoman mimicry within two different historical periods: first, the postwar moment and the rise of the Cold War; and second, the current new Islamist moment.

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Before going into the discussion of mosque architecture in Turkey, it is crucial to emphasize that the mimicry of sixteenth century Ottoman mosques in the republican era did not involve the exact replication of particular grandiose mosques. Bianca Bosker (2013) has recently discussed architectural mimicry in contemporary China, where actual buildings of the Western world are imitated to the detail. Bosker argues that this is an attempt at symbolically conquering the West’s past and present and also relates it with Chinese culture that values “good copy.” In the context of mosque architecture, Abu Dhabi provides a similar case where famous mosques from across the Islamic world are duplicated to define the city as a new center of global Islam gathering identifiable architectural forms within a single location (El-Amrousi and Biln 2013). In the case of Ottoman mosque replicas, however, it is not particular mosques but a general idea of a classical Ottoman mosque that is imitated. It is never the exact replica of one mosque but rather an image produced with components of different examples; i.e., the plan scheme of one particular mosque and the number of minarets of another, etc. This allows for a major difference with exact replication: the product of mimicry is not perceived as imitated but authentic. However, the claim to authenticity through mimicry is a complicated issue. Although the intention is to repeat the original, mimicry continually produces “its slippage, its excess, its difference” (Bhabha 1994: 122–123). The outcome is “almost the same, but not quite”; which Bhabha defines as the ambivalence of mimicry.

THE PRIMAL ENCOUNTER: KOCATEPE MOSQUE The radical secularism of the single-party regime that lasted until the end of WWII resulted in the strict control of the religious domain by the state. One of the first measures taken by the young nation-state was the establishment of the Directorate of Religious Affairs (hereafter Diyanet) in 1924 to control all religious activity in the country, including the administration of the existing 12,500 mosques (Karaman 2008: 286). Within this context, mosque building was merely a response to communal needs. The mosques built in this period were relatively small in size and no major examples were executed. They were built by builders who followed local traditions in the provinces and taking example by the existing Ottoman mosques in the larger cities. Mosque architecture was not a part of the cultural manifestations of nation-building throughout the early republican years, which made Turkey an exceptional case among the nation-states established in countries with Islamic populations. This, in return resulted in the lack of a debate on the iconography of the mosque until the 1950s. That is, although Ottoman mosque architecture was the source of reference, this was not mimicry as conscious imitation but continuity of building traditions. The Democrat Party (DP), which came to power in 1950, aimed to reconcile with the Islamic identity of the country. Although Islamic ideas re-flourished under the Democrats, Islamism was still not allowed to emerge as an independent

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political force and instead found its way into the encompassing ideological current labeled as “nationalist-conservatism” (Bora 2009). The origins of this current were mainly a circle of intellectuals representing conservative thought against the radical modernization efforts of the early republican years (Tas¸kın 2007). With the end of the single party rule and the rise of Cold War geopolitics, the nationalist-conservative current successfully blended nationalist and Islamist streams on the common ground of anti-communism. This ideological amalgam merged opposition to radical modernism and secularism (as well as any strands of leftism) while emphasizing the necessity of a powerful state to defend national unity. Hence, it was instrumental in expanding state hegemony while presenting itself as an oppositional discourse. In this context, political Islam never positioned itself in direct confrontation with the state, but rather it negotiated its demands through the nationalist-conservative agenda. The s­ ixteenth-century Ottoman Empire at the zenith of its power was the prime referent for the ­nationalist-conservative imagination, representing the golden age of nation and Islam. Although the Democrat Party was a successor of the republicans in terms of secular modernization, they did not hesitate to utilize the mosque as a symbol of national identity. Thus, they proposed one in Yenis¸ehir, the modern district of Ankara associated with republican modernization housing the Government Quarter as its centerpiece (Batuman 2009; Cengizkan 2010). Building a mosque here was a political gesture. Located on a hilltop across from Atatürk’s Mausoleum, the mosque was realized under the patronage of the prime minister, Adnan Menderes (Milliyet 15.02.1957). The modernist design of the mosque, which was presented by the government with pride, was quite controversial for conservative circles (Figure 2.1). Achieved through an architectural competition won by Vedat Dalokay and Nejat Tekeliog˘lu, the proposed scheme followed the traditional mosque layout in its central dome, minarets, and physical organization. Yet, its innovative structure made up of a thin concrete shell defined the main prayer hall as a unified space flooded with light from all sides. The corners where the shell touched the ground were marked with four slender minarets, referring to Ottoman monumental mosques; yet their abstracted forms, resembling rockets, were perceived as quite alien.3 The modernist interpretation of Kocatepe Mosque was in tune with the international trends of the postwar years, where the newly established nationstates in Islamic countries deployed similar approaches. Curiously, whilst these modernist mosques were being built as symbols of optimism regarding modernist nation-building in Islamic societies, the Kocatepe project was criticized by ­ nationalist-conservative circles. Although these criticisms were not raised vociferously against the DP government, they gained impetus after the coup in 1960. Perceived as a state project representing the reconciliation of Islam and national identity in the 1950s, the mosque assumed a new representation after the coup. Now, it was identified with the military intervention within the ­nationalist-conservative imagination and understood as yet another symbol of radical modernism. Whilst the mosque had already become an ideological signifier,

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Figure 2.1 Unbuilt project for Kocatepe Mosque, designed by Vedat Dalokay and Nejat Tekeliog˘lu Source: Vedat Dalokay Archive.

its architecture was assuming an ideological content for the first time. Its minarets were likened to space rockets and construction was delayed (Milliyet 19.01.1965). Finally the project was abandoned and its foundations were destroyed in 1966. A new project, which was a colossal Ottoman replica, mostly imitating the S¸ehzade Mosque in Istanbul, was approved in 1967 after a speedy competition and its construction was begun. Not only the style but also the size of the mosque was dramatically changed to house ten times as many people (Figure 2.2) (As 2006). The termination of the modernist project for Kocatepe Mosque was a shock for the architectural community in Turkey (Bozdog˘an and Akcan 2012: 197–200). Moreover, it was a decisive moment, giving birth to neo-Ottomanism – the mimicry of classical Ottoman mosque architecture. This primal encounter with the modernist mosque resulted in the ideological recognition of architecture; from this point onwards the symbolism of the mosque was not only about its location in

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Figure 2.2 Kocatepe Mosque dominating the skyline of Ankara Photograph by author.

the city but also its architecture. The mimicry of Ottoman classicism emerges here as an architectural idiom of nationalist conservatism negotiated with the state. As I have discussed previously, the imperial image of the sixteenth century presented the perfect combination of nation and Islam, fitting well with the representation of the powerful state. For the nationalist-conservative imagination, this image was nostalgic: it longed for the golden age of the nation but with an awareness that the moment had long gone. Thus, nostalgia is a discursive effect of architectural mimicry; it reflects awareness regarding its failure as a representation. If we remember Bhabha’s definition of mimicry as the colonized’s attempt to imitate the colonial, the result is “almost the same but not quite”: mimicry constantly troubles the colonizer’s authority by minimizing its difference and simultaneously fails the colonized’s capacity for fully assuming the identity of the colonizer. In a similar fashion, what is at stake in the case of mimicking classical Ottoman mosque architecture is the desire of the nationalist-conservative subject to imitate the glory of the imperial image. Although replication is achieved visually, there is an essential failure here. What makes the classical Ottoman mosques historically monumental is not their size but their innovative achievements in terms of construction techniques. The reinforced concrete structures imitating the forms of stone architecture of the sixteenth century, silently confirms their inferiority in relation to the originals they are imitating. Nevertheless, the question to ask here is why mimicking the Ottoman mosque instead of inventing some other architectural idiom? To answer this question, we should remember the global scene regarding mosque architecture gradually moving toward historicism, parallel to the Islamic revival in the 1970s.

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Yet, although there is a parallel with the postcolonial examples I have mentioned earlier, the absence of a colonial past in the Turkish case creates an important divergence. The nationalist-conservative imagination in Turkey, similarly to rightwing discourses in different cultural contexts, envisages a glorious past and seeks revivalism in cultural domains. Yet, in the Turkish case, the absence of a colonial encounter led to the failure of conscious contemplation regarding architectural forms until the Kocatepe Mosque. This was the reason for the almost mechanical continuity of mosque building in terms of architecture in the republican period. The hostility triggered by the anxiety of losing the glory of the Ottoman past directed itself to the modernist mosque as soon as it emerged as an intended national symbol. Although the modernist mosque design of Kocatepe was approved and even proudly embraced by the Democrats in the 1950s, it was re-presented as an alien intervention associated with the military coup in 1960. In other words, the emergence of alternative architectural idioms was blocked by the nationalist-conservative imagination, culminating in the architectural mimicry of sixteenth-century mosque architecture.4 Architectural mimicry displayed in Kocatepe Mosque turned the classical Ottoman mosque into a discursive referent. The General Directorate of Foundations, the institution responsible for the operations of centuries-old endowments, provided blueprints in different sizes (published in 1973) to guide the local production of mosques across the country. This lowered costs (obviating architectural fees) but also significantly reduced the chance of alternative designs being executed. This new discursive referent even generated a new historiography. Diyanet published an album for the fiftieth anniversary of the republic, which claimed to represent the mosque architecture of the republican period (Directorate of Religious Affairs 1974). Whilst the album contained a selection of 314 mosques out of the 30,000 built in that fifty-year period, it excluded the small number of modernist ones.

THE HEIGHT AND THE END OF COLD WAR After the military coup in 1980, Islam was seen as a major instrument towards the suppression of growing socialist movements; and the mosque, unsurprisingly, as the utmost symbolic means. For instance, it was decided to build an Islamic center with the second largest mosque of Ankara at the Middle East Technical University, a hotbed of socialist student organizations, as early as 1981 (Milliyet 28.01.1986; Milliyet 24.03.1987). In the same year, the deadlocked construction of Kocatepe Mosque was handed over to the Turkish Foundation of Religious Affairs (Diyanet Foundation), which was established as a non-profit organization to support Diyanet in 1975 and was granted tax exemption in 1978. With the military regime prioritizing the mosque, a construction company was established by the Foundation in 1983. This model proved successful and the mosque was finished in 1987.5 The wake of the coup represents the epitome of the state’s engagement in Cold War politics freed from the need for popular support. It also seemed to be

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a moment when the state fully absorbed Islam and deployed the mimicry of the classical Ottoman mosque form. After the inauguration of Kocatepe Mosque, an ambitious project for building large-scale mosques was undertaken contemporaneously with the examples of Saudi Arabia, Morocco, and Indonesia. The Foundation supported the construction of monumental mosques in Maltepe, Istanbul (1988), Adana (1988), Konya (1988), and Mersin (1988), all of which were finished within the next decade. These mosques were intended to be the largest in their respective cities (Maltepe Mosque being the largest in the Anatolian side of Istanbul). Moreover, the Foundation prepared new blueprints for smaller mosques – also neo-Ottoman replicas – to assist local citizens in building them. I have so far discussed Kocatepe Mosque only in terms of its iconography as the prototype of neo-Ottoman mosques. However, it is also crucial to discuss this monumental mosque in terms of its use as a public space within the capital city. With its increased size and expanded program, the mosque was raised above the ground level (which made it even more dominant within the skyline) and a department store occupying three floors was planned at the base. The idea here was to provide income for the future operations of the mosque; in a sense, this was a consumerist interpretation of the traditional relation of the Ottoman mosque with the marketplace. After the coup in 1980, in addition to the existing 35,000 square-meter plot, an adjacent block of 12,000 square meters was also given to the Foundation to use. This piece of land was used efficiently to include an underground parking lot, a convention center with a wedding hall, as well as a shopping mall including rental spaces. In a way, the mosque was now generating its own marketplace within this otherwise dominantly residential quarter. But more importantly, the two plots separated by a street were connected with a plaza connecting the level of the mosque with the upper floors of the convention center. The creation of a second open space aside from the traditional courtyard was new (Figure 2.3). Although access to this plaza was free, the level difference between the plaza and the street life below resulted in its underuse as an everyday space. However, the life of the mosque coincided with the rise of unforeseen political dynamics that would mark it as a significant public space and shelter performances that would contribute to the absorption of Islam into state ceremonies.

Figure 2.3 The plaza adjacent to Kocatepe Mosque where funerary prayers and commemorations are held Photograph by author.

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The armed struggle initiated by Kurdish nationalists heavily affected the political climate in the 1990s. Although the skirmishes took place in the Eastern provinces, the most visible effect of the clash was the increasing death toll of soldiers from every corner of the country. As a result, the funerals of soldiers were major scenes for nationalist mobilizations. As the funeral prayer is an obligation in Islam and is required to be performed in congregation, the prayers for the soldiers who died in action were performed at Kocatepe Mosque in Ankara. Since those who died in combat are categorically martyrs (s¸ehit) according to Islamic belief, the fallen bodies were the medium juxtaposing religious and nationalist discourses. And the plaza of Kocatepe Mosque was the very site where this joint discourse received nationwide coverage almost daily in the evening news. The funeral prayers in Kocatepe were state ceremonies where even the high-rank military officers attended in their uniforms. Thus, the mosque was turning the religious ritual into a political performance while simultaneously Islamizing the practice of official commemoration. Moreover, with the funerals, Kocatepe became the most visible mosque in the 1990s, which resulted in its iconography gaining even further relevance. The findings of a survey conducted in 2013 showed that users of different mosques in various districts of Ankara predominantly pointed at Kocatepe as “the most beautiful” one in the city.6 Meanwhile, an unexpected development drastically changed Turkish foreign policy and significantly broadened the Diyanet Foundation’s functions in the 1990s. The collapse of the Soviet Union and the emergence of Turkic states in Central Asia were seen as an opportunity by the Turkish political establishment. Turkey was the first country to recognize these new states formally and trade relations were quickly established. Such a move towards establishing close ties with these newly-born nations rested on an optimistic idea that Turkey could become the leader of the “Turkic world,” and the Foundation became a major tool in developing cultural influence abroad. With the emergence of new territories to build mosques, the funds allocated to mosque building considerably increased after 1990 (Turkish Foundation of Religious Affairs 1995). Although the Foundation had already begun working in countries with significant populations of Turkish migrants, such as Germany and Australia, the newly independent Turkic states were quite different. Now the audience was not a diasporic community of Turkish citizens but whole nations-in-building, imagined as an extension of the Turkish nation. The constant interplay between the nationalist-conservative worldview and the state enabled the exploitation of conservative – if not Islamic – demands for the regulation of cultural life as means of advancing social control by the state. However, the equilibrium between popular demands along Islamic lines and the states’ intention to use Islam as a means of social control was soon broken down to the advantage of the former with the end of the Cold War and the increasing influence of neoliberalism. The result of this in Turkey was the emergence of Islamism for the first time as an independent political force, breaking away from the nationalist-conservative current and leading to the AKP’s rise to power in 2002.

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IN SEARCH OF A NEW FORM The end of the Cold War marked the end of the terms of negotiation between state and Islam. By the early 1990s, it seemed that neo-Ottoman mimicry provided the architectural form subsuming Islam within the Cold War state’s anti-communist agenda. Thus, the period after the 1990s, especially the first decade of 2000s, under the AKP was a scene for the search for a new architectural form to represent Islam, gradually solidifying its political influence. The most important case illustrating the tensions of this search was the new Diyanet Mosque as the earliest state mosque built during the AKP governments. While Diyanet was based in buildings accompanying Kocatepe Mosque, a new headquarters for the directorate was built by the Foundation outside the city center in the 1990s. After the AKP’s rise to power, it was claimed that Kocatepe could not fulfill the task of being the main congregational mosque in the city center in the midst of heavy traffic, and a large mosque was proposed for the Diyanet campus along the main road tying Ankara to Eskis¸ehir. It was a time of turmoil when the AKP was struggling with the pressure of the armed forces, which would block the election of an Islamist president with a memorandum in 2007. The new mosque was cynically named “VIP mosque” in secular media at the time and it was later named after Ahmet Hamdi Akseki, the first director of Diyanet. Although the AKP would respond to the military memorandum with early elections and derive another landslide victory, the iconography of the mosque displayed a negotiation within this political turmoil. The mosque resembles Dalokay’s proposal for Kocatepe although the dome is structurally not a shell but rests conventionally on four reinforced concrete arches tying four pillars. While the modernist outlook was accepted for the part of the government, the architect was required to insert a Seljuk-style portal into the design, which was absent in the earlier versions (Figure 2.4). Although it was opened in 2013 and praised as a synthesis of tradition and contemporary technology, the architecture of the building was almost always publicized through its decorations and interior design to the extent that the name of Salim Alp, the architect of the mosque, was almost never mentioned in the press coverages. The interior designers, on the other hand, were named and praised for their work (Aks¸am 24.04.2013). That is, although a non-traditional outlook was approved to realize such a large mosque, it was recognized only with its interior architecture displaying traditional decorative arts.7 The new Diyanet Mosque represented the end of an era marked by mimicry signifying the absorption of Islam by the state. This was the first attempt in search for a new form for Islamism. Although the outcome was not accepted by the Islamists, the break with the state illustrates the failure to contain the tension. This was a direct result of the end of communism, which had previously defined the terms of negotiation between the state and Islam. The freedom enjoyed by religious groups during the rule of the AKP also contributed to the emergence of the mosque as a signifier of distinction. For

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Figure 2.4 Ahmet Hamdi Akseki Mosque inside Diyanet compound designed by Salim Alp (2013): early stage and the actual building. Note the change in the main entrance to the mosque. Source: Salim Alp Mimarlık and author.

the first time, mosque architecture outside architectural mimicry began to receive popular approval. Although there were small examples before, the 2000s witnessed the rise of heterogeneity in architectural vocabulary with the emergence of devout patrons. The stylistic range of new mosques included modernist examples as well as historicist interpretations of traditional mosques and schemes imported from different cultural contexts.8 Such heterogeneity also legitimized the hitherto marginal lineage of modernist mosque design and a new generation of prominent Turkish architects identified the opportunity to put forward innovative proposals.9 Yet, the professional appreciation of such examples does not mean that modernist schemes were easily implemented, especially when the mosques were politically charged. For instance, Nevzat Sayın’s design for the Central Anatolian town of Malatya seeking a contemporary scheme was cancelled after its construction began. Sayın had departed from a contextual analysis pointing at the Seljuk history of the town and focused on thirteenth-century Seljuk mosque architecture using hypostyle systems creating infinitely expandable spaces (unlike Ottoman mosques limited with the structural constraints of the central dome) (Bilgin 2012). He designed a hypostyle prayer hall as a cubic volume with a flat roof carried by octagonal columns and timber arches (Figure 2.5). This volume was situated within an outer envelope of a concrete box defining the boundaries of the mosque. The outcome was a remarkable interpretation of Seljuk mosque architecture fulfilling contemporary technical requirements and creating a modern idiom. Nevertheless, the project was cancelled while under construction with the instructions of Prime Minister Erdog˘an, who found it “too modern” (Biçer 2014). Whilst these experiments with mosque architecture composed a small portion of the ongoing production, they triggered debates outside the architectural

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Figure 2.5 Unbuilt mosque project for Malatya, designed by Nevzat Sayın (2011) Source: Nevzat Sayın Architects.

community for the first time. Through a number of symposia, Diyanet sought alternatives to the innumerable poor imitations of classical mosques but without damaging the association with the Ottoman past and its glorious symbolization of millet. In 2005, Diyanet organized a panel on mosque architecture in collaboration with Bilkent University in Ankara. This was followed by a “Consultation Meeting on Mosque Projects” organized jointly by Diyanet and the Foundation for Religious and Social Services (FRSS) on 10–11 July 2006. An interesting confrontation took place in this meeting. The president of Diyanet, in his opening speech, praised Dalokay’s King Faisal Mosque in Islamabad as an original work (FRSS 2007: 19). As an invited speaker, Kocatepe’s designer Tayla felt the need to criticize Dalokay’s design for Kocatepe (although the president had not mentioned

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the project) stating that its termination was due to failures in the design but also admitted that it was necessary to search for new forms beyond replicating the classical ones (FRSS 2007: 22). Interestingly, another speaker, a professor from the Azerbaijan Ministry of Culture, after thanking Diyanet for building the first mosque in post-independence Baku in Ottoman style, emphasized his desire to see contemporary mosques in his country since the Ottoman mosques “although beautiful and fascinating, belonged to history.” He finished by recalling his fascination upon seeing the model of Dalokay’s Kocatepe Mosque forty years ago as a student (FRSS 2007: 58). This incidence showed that the fifty-year-old unbuilt project still haunted mosque architecture in Turkey. While half of the participants in the meeting were Diyanet representatives, the invited architects were all designers following traditional forms. One of these was Hilmi S¸enalp, owner of Hassa Mimarlık,10 who had already designed a number of neo-Ottoman mosques funded by the Turkish government in Tokyo (1993– 2000), Ashgabat (1992–1998), Yekaterinburg (2002), and Berlin (2004). He would continue to be the favored designer for state-sponsored mosques under the AKP. Therefore, S¸enalp’s views on mosque architecture that he raised at the meeting deserve discussion. Rejecting categories of “modern” and “contemporary” in mosque architecture, S¸enalp argued that one cannot speak of “modern” mosque as it is not possible to speak of “modern Islam”: “What we call modern is the continuation of someone else’s tradition” (S¸enalp 2013: 180). In his speech at Diyanet’s meeting, S¸enalp claimed that the West, looking through Orientalist lenses, has never accepted Islam as a “civilization.” Hence, particularly the Turkish-Islamic art and culture has been viewed merely as a local flavor of Arabic-Persian context. According to him, “our civilization based on the Slejuk-Ottoman lineage” (emphasis added) was particularly ignored with hostility due to its “welcoming quality embracing other religions and civilizations without creating ‘others’ and its essentially anti-colonial characteristics.” Within this context, the Turkish nation, which is “not a Hotanto or Zulu tribe” but a nation that “produced awe-inspiring cultural examples for over 1,000 years,” had a privileged position (S¸enalp 2007: 76–78). For S¸enalp, the Ottoman architectural heritage “showed whom this land belonged to” and thus contributed to the making of millet through generating “belonging” at present. Thus, the neo-Ottoman mosque is simultaneously a representation of millet excluding those who fail to identify with and a tool for the promotion of the privileged strand of Turkish Islam across the globe. While S¸enalp provided the most articulate defense of neo-Ottoman forms, another interesting figure present at the meeting was Turgut Cansever. With a professional career spanning half a decade from the early 1950s to his death in 2009, Cansever’s professional mindset was formed within a secular environment, yet he gradually moved to Islam as an intellectual and ethical source of inspiration (Tanyeli 2014b). Although Cansever was a prominent architect who had won the Aga Khan Award for Architecture three times, he was discovered by Turkish Islamists only in the 1990s and became a major reference in debates on Islamic

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architecture and urbanism. His view on mosque architecture was highly critical of neo-Ottoman forms; yet he was also dismissive of modernist experiments, which for him lacked the phenomenological dimensions of religious architecture. He had famously criticized Dalokay’s Kocatepe proposal with the dictum “not to put the dome on the ground”; that is not to put it down, stating that the dome was more than a morphological element that could freely be exploited (Cansever 1997). He has demonstrated his view on mosque architecture with his Karakas¸ Mosque (1998) in Antalya. In this project, Cansever reproduced the classical mosque with its original masonry construction. Between modernist experiments and imitations of classical Ottoman examples, this approach represented a third way, critiquing the former for its instrumental rationality lacking spiritual content and the latter for its tectonic inauthenticity (Bozdog˘an and Akcan 2012: 220–223). Although even Diyanet was seeking new architectural idioms, the government reverted to neo-Ottomanism after the experiment with the Diyanet Mosque. In order to analyze the return to mimicry and its new meanings, I will discuss two sets of mosques next. The first set includes an unbuilt proposal for Taksim and two competition entries for Çamlıca Mosque. The second set includes two realized projects, Mimar Sinan Mosque in Istanbul and the Diyanet Center in Washington DC, both of which were designed by S¸enalp and illustrate the AKP’s utilization of the mosque as a representational tool in the representation of millet.

LIMITS TO PLURALITY Building a mosque in Taksim, the central square of Istanbul, has been a major component of Islamist imaginary (Ekinci 1997). Erdog˘an was a fervent supporter of the idea during his time in office as the mayor of Istanbul and brought the issue onto the agenda once again after the 2011 general elections. In May 2012, Ahmet Vefik Alp, an architect politically affiliated with the Nationalist Action Party (MHP) put forward a mosque proposal for Taksim (Arkitera.com 16.05.2012). Claiming that he was hired by the Taksim Mosque Building Society two years earlier, Alp criticized the tradition of “fake replicas of the 500 years old grand architecture of the Master Architect Sinan [the master architect of Suleyman the Magnificent who lived in the sixteenth century]” and argued that his “avant-garde approach” would “ease the [secularists’] opposition to a new mosque in Taksim.”11 Labelling the project not as Taksim Mosque but “Mosque of the Republic & Museum of Religions,” Alp sought to represent the cosmopolitan identity of Istanbul through the juxtaposition of non-Islamic faiths and republican secularism. Containing spaces for worship by Christians and Jews, as well as a library, this project suggested creating a programmatic association of religions. Moreover, carefully arranged drawings presented the proposed mosque in communication with the historical Aya Triada Church and the Independence Monument (Figure 2.6). In this proposal, the worship space was designed as a spherical glass dome, covered by a self-supporting structure composed of an irregular mesh, rising from

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Figure 2.6 Ahmet Vefik Alp’s mosque proposal for Taksim; note the Aya Triada Church in the background. Source: Alp Architects.

behind the historical Maksem (water distribution chamber). The sphere was situated on top of a platform with Y-shaped supports resembling bodies raising their arms to the sky. Viewed from the top, the composition revealed a crescent and a star, the elements of the Turkish flag. The sphere, according to the designer, echoed the rising sun during daytime and the rising moon at night. The only minaret was finished not with a traditional cone but with a group of crescents referring to the traditional Ottoman ensign, which is also used as an emblem by the MHP. The Museum of Religions, which was located in the basement, comprised three floors in which Judaism, Christianity, and Islam are arranged on each floor, with this particular order of “ascendancy,” privileging Islam over the others. Alp’s proposal was an attempt to simultaneously overcome the political conflict around the controversy over a mosque in Taksim and professional debates around mosque design dismissing classical replicas. The design proposed to replace mimicry with a postmodern strategy substituting traditional iconography with symbolic articulations. This proposal should be seen as an effort to achieve a contemporary idiom for nationalist-conservatism, re-balancing nationalism and Islam with reference to the global heterogeneity in mosque architecture. Nevertheless, this project was rejected by Erdog˘an for being “too modern” (Arkitera. com 28.06.2012). Almost a year later, in April 2013, Alp announced that work was in progress on modified versions following suggestions of the prime minister conveyed indirectly. In September, he published the revised project in which the most visible change was the removal of the multiple crescents on the minaret. Although the new proposal had been submitted to the prime minister, there was no sign of a positive response (Radikal 22.09.2013). On 29 May 2012, the 559th anniversary of the conquest of Istanbul, Erdog˘an announced that a monumental mosque was to be built on Çamlıca hill: “among the largest in the world and would be visible from everywhere in the city” (Radikal 30.05.2012). This district is closely associated with Erdog˘an himself, since his residence is located there. In two months’ time an architectural competition was announced for the mosque and participants were given only forty days to submit their proposals. The competition brief explicitly asked the entrants to come up with

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proposals “reflecting Ottoman-Turkish architectural style, connecting tradition to the future and adding an original link to our culture’s chain of tradition” (emphases added) (Arkitera.com 23.07.2012). The competition was boycotted by the Chamber of Architects and prominent professionals, questioning both the legitimacy of such a colossal mosque and the reliability of the competition, whilst leading scholars declined to join the jury.12 The results of the competition further fueled the debates since no project was awarded first prize and two were awarded second prizes. One of the second-prize winners featured an Ottoman replica while the other was a modernist scheme: the prime minister himself decided that the former was to be executed. Here, it is necessary to discuss both of the projects, since they represent the two seemingly irreconcilable trends in Turkish mosque architecture. Two young architects Süleyman Akkas¸ and Nihal S¸enkaya Akkas¸ defined their modern proposal as a statement illustrating “why the selected project [a replica] should not be constructed and showing the right way of designing in light of the 21st century contemporary architecture” (Yazman 2012). The explanatory note accompanying the project’s visual material argued that centrality in Ottoman mosque plans was an outcome of the structural requirements to create the particular monumental silhouette and that contemporary technology made it possible to create innovative envelopes overcoming structural necessities defining the central dome. Under these circumstances, it is possible to create “a unified prayer hall uninterrupted with columns or arches” (Arkitera.com 15.11.2012). Hence, the designers proposed a vault-like shell comprising three sets of folded plates defining functional differentiations within the building (Figure 2.7). These shells enveloping each other referred to the etymology of the word “cami” (mosque) meaning “embracing” and “bringing together.” Arguing that the minaret has also ceased to serve as the high ground from which the call to prayer was performed, they interpreted it as an urban symbol and used in a singular manner. The transparent mihrab wall was to be covered with timber shaders designed in Ottoman patterns. Hence the project responded to the requirement of the brief with a claim to present “reflections of the future in urban scale and those of tradition in the human scale” (Arkitera.com 15.11.2012). It is not hard to detect the resemblance with Dalokay’s Kocatepe design here. Although it was deemed quite radical in the 1950s, Dalokay’s proposal involved a contemporary interpretation of the traditional mosque image with the central dome and even its four minarets located conventionally to accentuate the four corners of the structure. Akkas¸ and Akkas¸, on the other hand, not only proposed a technologically contemporary structural system but even questioned the traditional form and started afresh on the basis of the functional requirements of prayer and a contemporary interpretation of an urban landmark. The project actually chosen and currently under construction was also produced by a team of young architects. Designed by Hayriye Gül Totu and Bahar Mızrak, the proposal is almost a copy of Sultan Ahmet Mosque (Figure 2.8). Against criticisms of copying an existing mosque, the designers responded that this was not an issue of imitation but of style. Accordingly, style was a matter

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Figure 2.7 Second-prize winning project for Çamlıca mosque designed by Süleyman Akkas¸ and Nihal S¸enkaya Akkas¸ Source: SN Mimarlık.

of choice: “Some prefer a contemporary modern style and what we embrace is the Turkish-Islamic style . . . You cannot question the style of a poet and ask ‘why do you write epic poems?’ ” (Milliyet 16.11.2012). Defining the dome, halfdomes, minarets, and the courtyard as essential elements of Turkish-Islamic tradition, the designers argued that every mosque is inspired by another one. Thus, they claimed that their use of existing mosques as a source was “not imitation or replication but inspiration through the continuity of tradition.” Criticisms on the

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Figure 2.8 Çamlıca Mosque designed by Hayriye Gül Totu and Bahar Mızrak: (left) under construction with Erdog˘an’s posters surrounding the site in August 2016; (right) view from across the Bosphorus in January 2017 Photographs by author.

size and unimaginativeness of the mosque were also raised by Islamic intellectuals (Cündiog˘lu 2012: 3–12; Eygi 2012). Interestingly, the designers sought to include original elements to differentiate their work. In addition to the six minarets, resembling Sultan Ahmet, they proposed a seventh octagonal “time minaret” on top of the s¸adırvan (ablution fountain) at the center of the courtyard, which essentially was a clock tower. In addition, the central dome in their proposal was unusually high; almost a full hemisphere above the drum, which was a departure from the rather flat Ottoman mosque domes. Erdog˘an asked for certain modifications to the project, in consultation with a group of experts from Istanbul Technical University and Mimar Sinan University. The revisions were supervised by the Ministry of Environment and Urbanism and the outcome was proudly announced by the minister. Accordingly, the seventh minaret was removed, the central dome was flattened to resemble the Ottoman domes, the entrance to the courtyard was emphasized with a Seljuk-style portal, and the proposed canopies shaped like reverse umbrellas bordering the terrace outside the courtyard were replaced with a traditional Ottoman portico (Arkitera.com 20.02.2013). That is, the revisions made by “experts” following the suggestions of the prime minister mainly aimed at making the mosque look more like classical Ottoman examples. Once completed, the new mosque will have a 72.5-meterhigh dome with a diameter of 34 meters and will accommodate 37,500 worshippers. The whole complex will cover a site of 57,000 square meters and include 10 classrooms, a 1,000-person conference hall, a 250-person meeting hall, a library, a museum, a 3,500-square meter exhibition hall, and a 3,000-car parking garage. The museum is appropriately assigned to be a “Museum of Turkish-Islamic Art.” At this size, the mosque will be the fifth largest one in the world in terms of enclosed floor space and the largest one if its open spaces are included. As these two cases illustrate, there exists an odd situation wherein Erdog˘an’s personal involvement in mosque architecture seems to determine stylistic preferences. Although this is significant for illustrating the concentration of political

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power, what is important for our discussion is the meaning of architectural mimicry within the current context. On the one hand, the architectural scene in Turkey is as heterogeneous as never before and does not prioritize mimicry anymore. On the other hand, the global setting has witnessed the rise of Islam as a transnational political force compelling governments to negotiate their ways to establishing a consensus between Islamic opposition and international world order, which made the representation of nationhood in its relation to Islam an essential topic. On the one hand, a generalized and imagined “Middle East” and its “High Islamic” architecture is gradually coming to the fore. On the other hand, especially in cases where fundamentalist pressure threatens existing establishments, governments seek other Islamic architectural idioms for reference. Within this global context, the Turkish government consistently reproduces the neo-Ottoman mosque form, home and abroad. The question, then, is how should we interpret architectural mimicry beyond nationalist-conservative nostalgia; what does it represent under the conditions of stylistic heterogeneity? What we find here is the reversal of the balance between the state and Islam and a new negotiation produced with the same form. With the observance of the global currency of the neo-Ottoman mosque, the government chose to invest in the same form to remold its content. Now, Islam(ism) appropriates the neo-Ottoman mosque as a signifier of its overrun of the representations of the nation.

MIMICRY BEYOND NOSTALGIA: THE IDEOLOGICAL SIMULACRUM Two months after he announced the Çamlıca Mosque, Erdog˘an spoke at the inauguration of the newly-built Mimar Sinan Mosque in Atas¸ehir, a rapidly growing district in the Anatolian part of Istanbul. Designed by Hilmi S¸enalp, this new mosque was another grandiose neo-Ottoman example, with a 42-meter-high dome and four 72-meter minarets; it was large enough to welcome 12,500 people for prayer (Figure 2.9). The location and layout of the mosque reflected complications arising from the rapid urban growth around the mosque. Situated at the northwestern corner of a large park surrounded by two highways and a busy street, the mosque faces the park with its Qibla wall denying direct access. To the west of the park lies an upper-class mixed-use compound of high-rise blocks. The site plan of the compound features a broken axis ending with thirty-one-floor twin-towers connected on the twenty-sixth floors with a bridge – a modest emulation of the Petronas Towers in Kuala Lumpur. Although the mosque is situated at the end of this axis, the intersection point connecting the mosque to the axis does not provide an open space supporting this connection (Figure 2.10). This awkward positioning – no doubt as a result of the necessity of the mosque to face the Qibla direction – also makes the courtyard (which traditionally is the intermediary space between the sacred space of the mosque and the urban chaos in the street) on the northern side irrelevant, since the gate to the courtyard does not function as

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Figure 2.9 Mimar Sinan Mosque designed by Hilmi S¸enalp (2012) Photograph by Gülse Eraydın.

Figure 2.10 Aerial view showing the position of Mimar Sinan Mosque within its environment Source: Google Earth (Image © 2016 DigitalGlobe).

the main point of entry. Moreover, although it is huge in size, the mosque cannot avoid being dwarfed by the twin blocks towering above. The strict mindset to faithfully reproduce the classical Ottoman mosque results in a noticeable failure to relate with the context; observed from a distance the building looks like the large model of an Ottoman mosque. While the structure reproduces the image of an Ottoman mosque, its program follows Kocatepe’s strategic incorporation of commerce into the mosque. The mosque complex contains conference and exhibition halls, classrooms, shops, a library, and a two-floor parking garage. Strikingly, all of these facilities are

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located underground although there is no shortage of land for construction. That is, although the mosque is attached to shopping as the central function defining public space, it is considered inappropriate to contain any sign of this so as not to harm the Ottoman look of the mosque. The underground floors are designed in stark contrast to the mosque’s traditional image: they are fashioned as typical shopping mall interiors. The complex also contains a VIP lounge, which stirred debate at the time of the inauguration since the mosque, by definition, implies the equality of congregating prayers. The mosque was built in twenty-two months for an estimated cost of $20 million (Haberturk 21.07.2012). Although it was intended to be named the “Anatolian Great Mosque,” this was changed on the prime minister’s instruction to honor the sixteenth-century master. This choice is not surprising since Sinan has had a mythical cultural status for the political power of architecture: nationalistic nostalgia for a glorious past represented by classical Ottoman architecture signifies imperial power and serves as an “origin” for a national(ist) architecture.13 Curiously, the dedicatory inscription signed by the prime minister himself explained the significance of “Sinan the master” as having shown “the glorious face of a nation and civilization” with his works. Here, the curious expression of “a nation and civilization” is not a case of awkward translation; the Turkish phrase itself refers not to the Turkish nation and Islamic civilization as two separate entities but rather implies two qualities of one and the same entity. If we put this odd point aside to come back to later and turn to the mosque itself, according to Erdog˘an, it fulfilled a crucial need in the Anatolian part of the city that lacked a “selatin mosque” (CNNTurk 20.07.2012). The choice of the word “selatin” was significant and very conscious. The word is literally the plural form of “Sultan” and is used to define mosques built by royal family members in the Ottoman era. Considering that the Maltepe Mosque built between 1988 and 2001 dominated the skyline of the Anatolian side, it was clear that the prime minister was not referring to the size of the mosque, but to its political symbolism signifying Ottoman power. Finally, if we look at those who attended the inauguration ceremony, aside from the group of ministers, the prime minister was accompanied by the president of Gabon and the president of the Iraqi National Assembly. While the former represented the growing involvement of Turkey in Africa under the AKP, the latter embodied significance in terms of the ethno-religious divisions within ­Middle-Eastern politics. Increasing its nineteen embassies in Africa in 2009 to ­thirty-nine by 2016, Turkey became one of the top three emerging powers in terms of diplomatic presence in the continent (Gonzales and Zengin 2016: 274). Meanwhile, in the former Ottoman territories of the Middle-East, Turkey was already involved in sectarian conflicts. Being the Sunni representative occupying the third most powerful seat (after the Kurdish president and the Shiite p ­ rime-minister), within the delicate and at times tense power relations in Iraq, the speaker of the Parliament was a close ally of Turkey. Thus the attendance of the foreign visitors was a political gesture, which was in tune with Erdog˘an’s victory speech on

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the night of the elections in June 2011, where he hailed “all those in Baghdad, Cairo, Sarajevo, Baku, Nicosia and all other friendly and brotherly peoples who turned their eyes to Turkey” and stated that their victory was the victory of “the oppressed and the aggrieved” across the Muslim world (Hürriyet 13.06.2011). These three issues present at the inauguration of Mimar Sinan Mosque – namely the metonymic use of the (Turkish) nation and (Islamic) civilization, the reference to Ottoman rule symbolized with selatin mosques, and Prime Minister Erdog˘an’s political ambitions to be influential across the Muslim world – define the operation of mimicry in the neo-Ottoman mosques reversing the relation between state and Islam. As illustrated with Erdog˘an’s dedicatory inscription, the presentation of Turkishness and Islam as qualities of the same entity is significantly different than the republican definition referring to a secular and ethnically homogeneous body. The millet is now envisaged through self-othering; a majority which had been oppressed by the elite minority throughout republican history. Within this context, the neo-Ottoman mosque comes to represent, rather than Islam (as a part) in nation, the nation (as privileged representative) in Islam. The prime example of the use of neo-Ottoman mosque as a sign of Turkish Islam is the Turkish-American Community Center (which later assumed the name Diyanet Center of America – DCA) in Washington DC. The complex was also designed by S¸enalp’s office, Hassa Mimarlık, this time in the form of a külliye – a campus with multiple functions surrounding the mosque (Figure 2.11). The DCA was established in 1993 by Turkish-Americans to provide “religious, social and educational services to Turkish immigrants and Muslims living in the United States of America” (DCA 2015: 3). The organization has twenty-two local chapters and eleven affiliated mosques across the US. The Board of Trustees is composed of Diyanet officers; the imams and female chaplains of the affiliated mosques are

Figure 2.11 The mosque of Diyanet Center of America, designed by Hilmi S¸enalp (2015) Photograph by Çetin Gürer.

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also appointed by Diyanet. The construction process itself was a political investment for the Turkish government, and particularly Erdog˘an, who wished to use it as an opportunity to improve Turkish-US relations through one-on-one meetings with the US president.14 Hence, although construction started in September 2012, a ceremony was held in May 2013 where Erdog˘an personally laid a ceremonial stone for the mihrab. Then, although the mosque was finished and opened in the Spring of 2015, and even the whole complex was completed by the end of October the same year, an official inauguration ceremony was postponed till Erdog˘an’s visit in April 2016.15 The DCA campus is proudly presented on the organization’s website and in a printed brochure giving detailed description of the buildings and their functions (DCA 2015). The cover of the brochure shows a carefully framed photograph Figure 2.12 Cover page of DCA brochure

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including the mosque’s minaret rising into the sky with the Turkish and American flags in the foreground – the former slightly larger than the latter – and the dome of the mosque in the background (Figure 2.12). The image embodies the two signifiers of nation and Islam (the flag and the minaret) juxtaposed conveniently. After four pages of brief information on the organization, the forty-page brochure allocates half of its pages to the explanation of “the mosque”; its place in Islam and its architectural features. However, while doing this, the architectural details are described and visually illustrated through the mosque inside the campus – the centerpiece of the külliye. Hence, the neo-Ottoman mosque, here, is presented as the mosque to the readers and visitors. If we look at the description of the project on Hassa Mimarlık website, in contrast to the DCA brochure’s impersonal tone, the narrative is in first person plural where “we” represents the nation-civilization bearing Turkish Islam: “the DCA is deemed as an opportunity to represent our deep-rooted millenary civilization by handling it as a whole with its overall course and originality” (emphasis added). The mosque has a typical, square-shaped prayer hall covered by a central dome. Here, there are no half-domes (aside from the only one covering the mihrab niche); instead, the arches as well as the main pillars are visible from the outside, which pronounces the basic structural system (similar to Sinan’s Mihrimah Sultan Mosque in Edirnekapı, Istanbul, from 1548). The focus of the complex is the mosque, the entrance of which faces the Fellowship Hall (Figure 2.13). The open space in-between two buildings and the Cultural Center is arranged as a “Turkish garden.” Behind the mosque are a “Turkish Bath” and a “Guest House.” While these buildings are arranged along an orthogonal layout, along the western edge of the triangular plot are ten detached two-story “Turkish Houses,” that exhibit “three different traditional styles of Turkish domestic architecture from three Figure 2.13 Three main buildings of Diyanet Center of America: (left to right) the mosque, Fellowship Hall, Cultural Center Photograph by Çetin Gürer.

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different periods” (DCA 2015: 37). Finally, there are two fountains on the site replicating Ottoman examples. Originally such fountains had been built for providing people with drinking water and thus the free-standing ones are not located close to each other. Here, however, the two fountains are only thirty meters away from each other; rather than providing water, they exemplify different types of free-standing fountains (one covered with an over-hanging roof and the other with a dome). What we find here is primarily a Turkish-Islamic “architectural theme park,” providing a visual display of Turkish new Islamism. The houses and the fountains offer a catalogue of examples arranged for display rather than urban elements generating social interaction (Figure 2.14). Moreover, the functions in the complex are synthetically fit into Turkish-Ottoman building types. Mimicry generated by the mosque spreads to the forms of other functions. For instance, the “Turkish Bath” actually includes a pool, a fitness center, saunas, and a multi-purpose exercise room, where the actual Turkish bath provides service to a limited number of guests who are offered “the privileges of traditional bath culture” (DCA website). According to the brochure, the Cultural Center is “constructed in Seljuk architectural style which flourished in Anatolia” (DCA 2015: 25). Leaving aside the inaccuracy of confining Seljuk architecture within Anatolian peninsula, the only two Seljuk features in the building are the entrance imitating a Seljuk portal and the plan of the conference hall in the form of the Seljuk motif of overlapping octagons. Perhaps, the most significant component of the complex is the Fellowship Hall, which serves to expand the representation of millet beyond the mosque. The building resembles an Ottoman pavilion and contains two main venues: a dining hall and a “Diwan Room,” both of which are available for reservation through the website. In the “Diwan Room,” the visitors are served “cold and hot drinks,

Figure 2.14 Signs listing various buildings in close proximity within Diyanet Center of America complex Photograph by Çetin Gürer.

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including Turkish coffee and tea” (DCA 2015: 29). That is, this room refers to the traditional Turkish coffeehouse, an old symbol of Turkish culture found particularly in the representations of the nineteenth-century Orientalists. But there is more to this small interior space, for it embodies references to debates in nationalist Turkish architecture. The “Turkish House” was invented as a nationalist category as early as the 1910s (Bertram 2008; Bozdog˘an 1996; Akcan 2012: 133–144). It was particularly the work of prominent architect Sedad Hakkı Eldem that provided formulations for the formal qualities of the Turkish House. He attempted to nationalize the cubic architecture of the 1930s; the outcome was later used as a reference for (nationalist) monumental architecture in the 1940s. Eldem’s most famous design claiming to provide the form of the “Turkish House” was the Tas¸lık Coffee House (1948) in Istanbul, itself a reference to the divanhane of Amcazade Hüseyin Pas¸a Mansion, a waterfront residence dating back to the seventeenth century (Bozdog˘an and Akcan 2012: 100–101) (Figure 2.15). Eldem imitated and exaggerated the cantilever projections of the mansion overhanging the water, flooding the interior

Figure 2.15 Three buildings in the making of nationalist Turkish architecture (top to bottom): Amcazade Hüseyin Pas¸a Mansion (seventeenth century), Tas¸lık Coffe House (Sedad Hakkı Eldem, 1948), Diwan Room within DCA complex (Hilmi S¸enalp, 2015) Sources: Ministry of Tourism; SALT Research, Ali Saim Ülgen Archive; Rahmi M Koç Archive and SALT Research, Sedad Hakkı Eldem Archive.

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with light and providing a panoramic view to the Bosphorus. S¸enalp’s design for the “Diwan Room” follows these two precursors: the room extends out of the building and reveals its T-shaped layout together with the wide eaves and the two horizontal rows of the façade organization. Thus, the elevation facing the mosque clearly references these two buildings. The references continue inside with the three bays, the horizontal division of the interior surfaces, the fixed sofas located under the windows encircling the bays, and the location of a fountain at the very center of the room. Whilst Eldem had sought to show that modernist principles were already implicit in old Turkish houses and it was possible to design contemporary interpretations of the vernacular forms, S¸enalp deploys the same referent consciously encompassing contextual inconsistency. For instance, the projecting bays in the two precedents are functional elements creating larger space on the upper floor. This was also a characteristic of the traditional houses where daily life took place here. In S¸enalp’s conservative interpretation, the projections are on the ground floor and serve no purpose other than the formal references. This, in return, produces an introverted space in stark contrast with its two predecessors. Moreover, while Eldem had streamlined the interior façades to arrive at a rational quality, S¸enalp’s Diwan Hall reverts to the ornamented woodwork of Amcazade Hüseyin Pas¸a Mansion. One of the walls is designed as a display of “Turkish” domestic features such as recessed shelves and niches as well as a wall fireplace (an element S¸enalp often used in the villas he designed), clearly not meant for use. He even uses two rows of windows where the upper row is covered with stained glass windows (a traditional feature not found in the Amcazade Hüseyin Pas¸a Mansion) in contrast to Eldem’s stylized fenestrations accentuating horizontality. While Eldem’s coffee house had interpreted the guest room of the traditional house as public space, S¸enalp’s public interior pretends to be a domestic space. The simulation of domesticity is also reinforced with the curious name given to the space. Since “divan” means reception hall (incidentally bringing to mind the most famous ones in Tokapı Palace, the royal seat of the Ottoman sultans), the name also reverses the lineage of historical references cited previously: in response to Eldem’s coffee house derived from the “divan” of the historical mansion, S¸enalp labels the coffee house as “Diwan.” The “reception” hall implies the existence of a host; the owner of the house that is visited by outsiders. The space, then, is not designed for visitors to internalize as their own but for them to be “received” by an absent subject. The visitors acknowledge their host not through an exchange of gazes but the visual signs of its omnipresence. Millet, and its political representatives by extension, is represented through Orientalist display; but with the slight supplement in the name indicating that what is seen is not a passive spectacle but the signs of an active subject identifying itself with the Oriental (Ottoman) imagery. What we find here is different than the re-Orientalism I have discussed previously in relation to mosque architecture in the Islamic world. While

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re-Orientalism affirmed stylistic plurality as representing variations of Islam, here there is a persistent reference to Ottoman imagery as an authentic sign linking the nation to Islam. It is not that the architectural style of a “golden age” is reproduced to glorify the past. Rather, the simulacrum is constructed in and for the present within the multiplicity of architectural styles. What is at stake here is self-Orientalism as a conscious strategy to identify with the ahistorical orientalist image and to utilize it as an instrument of power. Self-Orientalism inevitably refers to existing stereotypes, which is crucial for the other’s gaze to recognize. Hence, the orientalized subject voluntarily assumes this identity, only to utilize it as a brand. Within this context, mimicry of the Ottoman mosque emerges as a simulacrum representing the “nation in Islam”; imagining the nation as a privileged component of global Islam. It is an instrument in rebuilding nation in the form of millet as well as in an aggressive foreign policy aimed at being influential in the Islamic world. Whilst the Ottoman replica in relation to nationalist-conservative nostalgia acknowledged its failure as representation (the longing for a lost golden age), the replica as simulacrum illustrates a self-aware disavowal of this failure. In other words, what we have is the representation of the sixteenth-century Ottoman power; yet it is not the subject of nostalgic yearning but a conscious deployment as an imperial(ist) image. This distinguishable image operates through intentional identification with the stereotype for the gaze of the other to recognize. This is a claim to authority of representation regarding Islam as well. It addresses both the West and the East, affirming the othering of the Islamic world and attributing to itself a privileged status within it. Thus there is a significant difference between the meanings produced through architectural mimicry within two different historical settings. As I have discussed, mimicry indicates a double failure: it associates the copy and the original, and simultaneously acknowledges the difference between them. This, in return, results in the failure of the copy to become the original and the original to highlight its difference as superior to the copy (and in some cases, there is an intentional play of irony embracing this failure). The nostalgic effect produced by the architectural mimicry of classical Ottoman mosques within the specific context of Cold War politics in Turkey fits this scheme. However, the current use of the mimicry of Ottoman mosque architecture operates in a significantly different way. It is used as an ideological simulacrum in Islamist politics, which in the current Turkish context serves the fusion of nation and Islam. In discursive terms, it is not possible to revert to essentialism due to the insurmountable gap between ethnic and religious identities. Hence, the mimicry of Ottoman mosque architecture serves as an ideological simulacrum disregarding the mismatch between Turkishness and Islam. Insofar as it is utilized as an effect of political power, the classical Ottoman mosque loses its authority as original. In its current circulation, the Ottoman mosque image is not the copy of the “real” (sixteenth century) examples but becomes “true” within the current global spatio-temporality.16

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ISLAMIZATION OF EVERYDAY LIFE I have so far discussed the neo-Ottoman mosque as a representational instrument in the making of millet. In this context, architectural mimicry represents “Islam in nation” domestically, and emerges as a signifier of “nation in Islam” globally. Yet, the idea of “nation in Islam” also resonates at home and calls for the redefinition of the nation. And for an analysis of this process, it is necessary to look at the mosque as social space and its transformation under the AKP, which was also pursued via Diyanet. In order to understand the effectiveness of Diyanet as an instrument of Islamization, it is crucial to recognize its dialectical function in the making of religiosity and secularity. The organization has been viewed either (by Islamists) as a secular mechanism repressing religion or (by secularists) as one appropriated by populist demands for ever-increasing compromises to Islamism. If secularism is understood not as dismissal of religion but its governance by the modern state (Asad 2003; Turner 2013), it becomes possible to see the role of Diyanet in the making of (particular forms of) religiosity since its foundation parallel to the emergence of the nation-state (Turner and Zengin Arslan 2013). Thus, the making of secularism as a state project requires not the separation of religion from the state but its governance. In this regard, with Diyanet at its disposal, the state defines the limits to religiosity but also keeps at its disposal the power to increase its influence. That is why Diyanet has been a preferable model against Saudi influence in Central Asia (Korkut 2010). It has even been referred to in European countries searching for ways to effectively manage Islam (Çitak 2010; Yurdakul and Yükleyen 2009). That is also why, to the dismay of Ikhwan leaders, Erdog˘an advised them to hold on to secularism in their new constitution in his first post-Arab Spring visit to Egypt in 2011 (Gazetevatan 14.09.2011). The institutional structure of Diyanet has expanded considerably under the AKP. Its budget grew fivefold and its staff doubled between 2002 and 2010 (Turner and Zengin Arslan 2013: 209). Moreover, it was reorganized to increase its reach and efficiency at home and abroad in 2010. This reorganization brought out the expansion of its sphere of influence outside the realm of religion as such. New means of reaching out to citizens included a TV channel, fatwa provision through phone and the internet providing religious guidance, and the establishment of Diyanet’s Family Guidance Offices targeting women as the key figure of the family. Aside from the long-distance services using communication technologies, the offices have designed programs and seminars for women and they also provide face-to-face consulting. That is, the offices extend Diyanet’s influence into private domains and everyday lives of the citizens. While these offices had an urban character requiring active involvement of those seeking assistance, it wouldn’t be effective in smaller communities, where conservatism would limit participation. Hence, a project regarding village imams was forwarded in 2011. Accordingly, the imams would visit the citizens in their houses and workplaces. This project

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was calling for the imams to move out of the mosques and encouraging them to become the imams “of neighborhoods instead of mihrabs” (Odatv 5.11.2015). The reorganization aimed at empowering Diyanet to simultaneously extend its religious services outside the mosques and bring new social functions into them. This was crucial since the mosque in Turkey has been used exclusively for prayer, which is very different from other countries in the Middle East where the mosque is a social space frequently used for socialization. Throughout the region, the social networks established and maintained for welfare provision and grassroots mobilization actively made use of mosques (Bayat 2013: 68–80). However, in the case of Turkey, they were never sites for social functions. Thus, a major component of Diyanet’s undertaking of transforming the mosques involved penetration of social life into the mosque space. For instance, Diyanet issued a circular in 2009 to encourage expanded architectural programs including tea rooms, playgrounds, sports facilities, health clinics, libraries or reading rooms, exhibition and conference rooms, bookstores, soup kitchens, etc. for new mosques (Özalog˘lu and Gürel 2011: 346). Similarly, another circular dated 2012 required the imams to keep the mosques open for at least twelve hours a day to interact with the members of their congregations outside the prayer times. Diyanet has even encouraged imams to improvise with the socialization of the mosque space, which resulted in extreme examples such as offering karate lessons inside the prayer hall (Milliyet 15.07.2012). Perhaps the most significant aspect of the transformation of mosque as social space through the interaction of practices of worship and socialization was the gradual increase in women’s involvement. This involvement did not only concern an increase in the number of women attending the mosque but their demand to have a say in the spatial organization of women’s sections in the mosques, since segregated spatial organization of the mosques have always been controlled by men. While women are welcome in the mosque, women’s sections had generally been organized poorly, in basements or behind curtains. Especially the neglect to women’s ablution spaces has discouraged them to attend the mosque. Yet, the 1990s saw the rise of activism and scholarship towards gender equality in Islam (Wadud 1992, 2006). The demand for men and women performing the prayer together and the possibility of woman-led prayers in Islam came to the fore (Eleva and Silvers 2011). Although there were parallel endeavors in Turkey in the 1990s, female-led prayer, unlike other parts of the Islamic world, has never even been discussed. Nevertheless, women’s demand for equal space inside the mosque gradually gained ground due to, on the one hand the increased social mobility of pious women, and on the other hand, the perception of women’s exclusion from the mosque space as discrimination for the first time (Yılmaz 2015: 207–220). Here, there is an interesting overlap between women’s demand to participate in the mosque as public space and Diyanet’s positive response to it. Diyanet’s attempt to attract women to the mosque was in fact an effort to increase the state’s control over Islamic practices and their politicization. The AKP wishes to reduce the channels of organization for independent religious orders within the

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private sphere (which allowed for the rise of Islamists to power in the 1990s) by repositioning religious performance within public spaces (see Chapter 3). Therefore, the demand for transformation of mosques to welcome women’s participation easily found echo from the government. In response to criticisms from female Islamic intellectuals on the inadequacy of proper spaces for women and the miserable conditions of the existing women’s sections, the Mufti Office (the branch of Diyanet) in Istanbul launched a project to assess the state of the mosques in Istanbul in terms of women-friendliness. The study was spearheaded by a female Diyanet officer, Kadriye Erdemli, the vice-mufti of Istanbul. According to the study, half of the approximately 3,000 mosques in Istanbul were not suitable for women to perform their prayers (Erdemli 2013: 127). Erdemli presented the findings of the study at the Mosque Architecture Symposium, another event organized by Diyanet to collaborate with the professional community. Interestingly, before presenting the findings, she allocated more than half of her presentation to theologically argue women’s right to equal place within the main prayer hall with visual access to the mihrab and the minber (Erdemli 2013: 126). That is, in order to be persuasive, the (political) claim to the mosque space as part of the struggle for gender equality gave way to functional necessity, which even required theological justification. Nevertheless, increasing attendance for the part of women in mosques had already begun to change the quality of the mosque as social space. In fact, it can be argued that this very demand has contributed to the reproduction of mosque as public space. With Diyanet’s attentiveness to the matter after 2011, despite the definition of the problem as one of “beautification of women’s section in mosques” as the title of the project maintains, spatial transformation of mosque space with attention to gender equality has been in order. For instance, Ramazanog˘lu Mosque (2006–2014), another neo-Ottoman mosque built in Adana, was designed by four female architects and advertised as “women-friendly,” claiming to respond to the needs of women in its design (AljazeeraTurk 9.8.2011).17

MOSQUE AS MELTING POT The AKP also utilized the mosque as a spatial means to pacify, if not assimilate differences to create the harmonious Islamic millet. The two major social groups targeted via these policies were the Alevis, a large religious minority of 10–15 million, and the Kurds with an estimated population of 12 million. I will discuss two attempts concerning these two minorities involving mosques and the spatial performance of prayer. Alevis had suffered from the centralization of the Ottoman state structure beginning form the sixteenth century. Although the republican era decreased the level of their social and political marginalization, Diyanet’s strict endorsement of Sunni Islam resulted in their ongoing exclusion. This also led to the affiliation of Alevis with left-wing politics ranging from left-of-center CHP (Republican People’s

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Party) to clandestine socialist organizations which were highly influential in Alevi neighborhoods in the 1970s.18 While the Alevis insist on their difference from Sunni Islam and demand the recognition of their rituals and practices, Diyanet persists that Alevism is a branch of Islam. According to Diyanet, the mosque is the sole space of worship in Islam; hence Alevi shrines (cemevi) cannot officially be accepted as temples. Since the Alevi demands have become vocal since the 1990s in what has been called Alevi renaissance (White and Jongerden 2003 Part IV), the AKP was attentive to such demands in the early years of its rule and a series of workshops were organized toward an “Alevi opening” in 2009–2010 (Alemdar and Çorbacıog˘lu 2012). The workshops did not achieve any result and they were dropped from the agenda after the elections in 2011. Nevertheless, a new initiative emerged in 2013, spearheaded by the Gülen movement and Cem Foundation (an Alevi organization traditionally sympathetic to right-wing governments since the 1990s), with the full support of the government. Accordingly, the Alevi’s demand for official status to the cemevi would be met with new mosque-cemevi complexes, with the claim that this would serve the association of beliefs. The first of these began construction in Tuzluçayır, a ­low-income Alevi quarter in Ankara, in September 2013. However, the project was perceived as an attempt to force the Alevis to attend the mosque and was met with opposition from some Alevi organizations, although some others endorsed it (Mutluer 2014: 155–156). Moreover, the choice of Tuzluçayır for the first of such complexes was significant since the neighborhood had a political history and leftist organizations still had visible influence in the area (Yürekli 2016). Thus, the project triggered violent resistance right from the start of construction (SOL Portal 10.09.2013). Despite objections, the government announced that five more complexes were underway in different cities. The architecture of cemevi only become a topic of scholarly investigation in the 1990s, parallel to the early attempts at promoting modern designs addressing contemporary needs. This was an urgent need on the one hand due to the Alevi renaissance of the 1990s reinforced with the increasing prominence of identity politics (not unlike the contemporaneous expansion of intellectual debates among Islamists). But on the other hand, it was also due to the urbanization of Alevism, which, for centuries maintained a rural character (Akın 1996; Aslan 2015). Within this context, cemevi assumed the function of representing Alevi identity in the urban realm encompassing educational and cultural activities attended by even non-practicing Alevis, in addition to religious rituals. If we look at the architecture of the mosque-cemevi complex proposed for Tuzluçayır, it comprises three main components: mosque, cemevi, and as¸evi (soup kitchen) organized around a courtyard (Figure 2.16). While the former two spaces are for religious performance, the as¸evi is a traditional part of Alevi culture. Yet, within the current conditions of Turkish urbanization, the emphasis put on as¸evi as a connector between mosque and cemevi, rather than an extension of the latter, dislocates it and places within the context of charity activities of the Islamist municipalities.19

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Figure 2.16 Mosque-Cemevi complex in August 2016: the lowerheight space of the soup kitchen is in between the mosque and the cemevi; the mosque has a direct entrance whereas the cemevi is accessible only through the courtyard. The upper part of the minaret was torn down after the construction was halted. Photograph by author.

The architecture of the complex embodies references to the Mevlana Shrine in Konya, the center of the Sufi order, where its patron saint Celaleddin Rumi lived in the thirteenth century. Embodying his tomb as well, the shrine enjoyed imperial patronage in the sixteenth century due to the order’s pro-establishment stance (Yürekli 2012: 47). Therefore, the shrine expanded in time and turned into a large complex with extensions built between sixteenth to nineteenth centuries. It was converted into a museum in 1926 and is currently an international tourist attraction. The choice of Mevlana for inspiration is not a coincidence since he is famously recognized as an advocate of humanism and tolerance. As he is praised internationally for representing a sympathetic Islam and utilized to promote understanding among faiths, it was used as the architectural reference for the mosque-cemevi complex to suggest the co-existence of Sunni and Alevi rituals. The Mevlana shrine, especially its sixteenth-century extension, comprises a prismatic mass with two main halls (a prayer hall and a semahane for the order’s trademark whirling ceremony), covered by identical domes with octagonal drums. There is a minaret attached to the western wall, which was confined within the building with later extensions. The mosque-cemevi complex interestingly seems to emulate this juxtaposition within a shared courtyard, if not the same building. Nevertheless, it is hard to say that the two spaces of worship are treated equally in this scheme. The architectural form of dome is allocated only to the mosque and it is taller than the polygonal hipped roof of the cemevi. While the cemevi is accessed only through the courtyard, there is a direct entrance to the mosque from the street. Thus, the Sunni worshippers do not need to use the common courtyard. As I discussed earlier, the courtyard is a characteristic feature of the

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traditional Turkish mosques and when they exist, they contain the main gate to the prayer hall. That is, the courtyard always has visual access to the interior through the gate as well as windows. Yet, here, the mosque space, although it has a lesser door to the courtyard, is cut off from this unifying open space with the walls of the staircase to the minaret. The minaret, unconventionally, yet resembling the current condition of the one in Mevlana shrine, is within the mosque massing, towering over the courtyard. While protests continued in Tuzluçayır, the government pushed the construction, which was only possible with constant police presence. Soon, a police station was built near the complex to provide continuous protection (Yürekli 2016: 284). Although the government was eager to finish the building despite protests from the locals, the clash that escalated between the AKP and the Gülen Movement suddenly rendered the project obsolete. Construction was stopped and the building was sealed. The municipality decided to demolish the complex finally responding to the locals’ legal applications calling for the cancellation of the project. The second political issue in which the mosque was utilized by the government toward the building of millet as a harmonious body was the Kurdish question. While the AKP enjoyed significant support in Kurdish provinces with its anti-military stance in the early years, the rise of the successive legal political parties of the Kurdish political movement and the progress in their electoral performance directed the government to push harder on religious politics. The ­ethno-nationalist Kurdish movement has had a leftist and secular character while the Kurdish population at large is highly religious and conservative. Hence, Islam was seen as the social cement merging Kurds within millet. To this end, the sermons for Friday prayers, which have always been scripted centrally by Diyanet began to be used to promote Islam as the major component of nationhood. However, this strategy of emphasizing the shared Islamic identity, which helped improve relations with the Turkic republics of Central Asia, did not work with the highly politicized Kurdish movement. The Kurds responded with “Civilian Friday Prayers,” an unprecedented action of civil disobedience, boycotting Friday prayers at state mosques. Thousands performed the Friday prayers outside the mosques in March 2011, in response to the government’s attempt to use the mosque as an instrument of assimilation through the sermons propagating prostate, pro-government views and Turkishness (Sarigil and Fazlioglu 2013: 556). The Friday sermons were given in Kurdish (which was refused by the AKP) and the action was pursued in various Kurdish provinces (bianet.org 08.04.2011). Incidentally, one of these sites in Diyarbakır was the public square where Sheikh Said, the head of the failed Kurdish rebellion in 1925, was executed. This collective act of civil disobedience was harshly criticized by the government and especially by Erdog˘an himself as an act of religious “schism” and political “separatism” (Çiçek 2013: 160). In response, Diyanet appointed around 1,000 mele (highly respected Kurdish religious scholars with unofficial schooling), to be assigned to the mosques in the region (Çaylı 2015).

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A tragic, yet iconic event that marked the role of mosques in relation to the ongoing Kurdish issue occurred in November 2015. With the escalation of armed skirmishes between the military and the Kurdish rebels after a period of ceasefire that had inspired hopes for a peaceful solution to the problem, armed violence spread into the urban areas in the second half of 2015. Among others, the historic old city of Diyarbakır (Sur District) suffered heavily (Amnesty International 2016). While a significant portion of the inhabitants were forced to flee, the use of heavy artillery has damaged the district, which is a UNESCO World Heritage site.20 One of the buildings was the late-fifteenth-century Sheikh Mattar Mosque and its detached minaret (which was actually a tenth-century tower converted into a minaret) standing on four stone pillars (called “Four-Legged Minaret” by the locals). The destruction of such an artefact was a sensitive issue in terms of both heritage protection and religion, both of which were perceived politically and used for propaganda. The government argued that it was the “terrorists” disrespectful to Islam, who destroyed the mosque, while the Kurdish nationalists claimed that it was the military consciously destroying the symbols of Kurdish identity. Meanwhile, the locals were desperately trying to stop the ongoing fighting. Tahir Elçi, the president of the Diyarbakir Bar Association and a prominent human rights activist, in an attempt to attract attention to the destruction, called for a press conference in front of the minaret on 28 November. Two days earlier, he had posted a tweet with a photograph showing the apparently intentional gunfire damage on the pillars of the minaret calling it “assassination of the Four-legged Minaret” (Hürriyet 28.11.2015). And on the day of the press conference, while he was making his speech, a sudden shootout caught him in the middle. Elçi was killed with a shot to the head right at the feet of the minaret. His murder, which hasn’t been solved as of September 2017, was symbolic not only in terms of the Kurdish issue and the hopes for its peaceful resolution but also the role of built environment in the making of nationalism(s).21

CONCLUSION As I have discussed throughout the chapter, the architecture of the mosque in Turkey has been politically charged despite – or perhaps due to – the secular state’s attempt at strict control over it. Moreover, it has become a significant means of new Islamist nation-building both as a representational image and a spatial instrument. With major neo-Ottoman mosques – some recently finished and some still under construction – occupying an important place in the political scene, a final episode that took place in the summer of 2016 is worth mentioning in closing this chapter. On 15 July 2016, citizens enjoying a nice summer Friday evening, especially those in Istanbul and Ankara, came across military vehicles and personnel in the streets. Soon it was understood that a military coup was being staged with airplanes flying over the two major cities. In the following hours people took to

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the streets to oppose the coup, to which the junta responded with opening fire on the civilians and conducting air raids on the Parliament. While the attempted coup was suppressed by the next day, what was striking for our discussion was the use of mosques for the mobilization of the nation against the putsch. Around midnight, President Erdog˘an managed to go on live via FaceTime connection to a TV studio and called for people to take to the streets. Soon after this, Diyanet reached out to the imams of the 85,000 mosques in the country via SMS and instructed them to broadcast salawat prayers from the minarets (which is different than the call to prayer and is originally recited to praise the prophet at varying times of day as well as announcing the death of a member of the congregation) with the message to invite the people to the streets against the putsch. The muezzins continued broadcasting the message in their own words throughout the night. This unprecedented event, which wasn’t even seen throughout the “Arab Spring,” was a perfect example of ideological interpellation: a religious means of communication was used to call millet to take action. Thus, the performance of taking to the street was an act of identification with the call from the minarets and formation of a subject position as a member of millet.22 In an interview he gave to Al-Jazeera few days after the attempted coup, Erdog˘an defined millet through this very performance: “the 52% [the vote he got in the presidential elections] that had elected their government took to the streets to defend their government. . . Millet has laid claim to its state . . . it was very important that millet stood against the tanks” (AlJazeeraTurk 21.07.2016). I will return to this performative construction of millet in relation to participation in public space in Chapter 4.

NOTES   1 It is crucial to note that the overview I present here contains the risk to overlook or generalize the specificities of politics of mosque building in different parts of the Islamic world. My intention is to provide a global sketch to situate the Turkish case in larger context.   2 The deployment of Orientalism by the Orientals has been discussed as “re-Orientalism” and “self-Orientalism” by different authors. See for instance Lau (2009), Lau and Mendes (2011), Iwabuchi (1994), and Georgiev (2012). Later, I will differentiate between “re-Orientalism” and “self-Orientalism” to define the specificity of Turkey’s AKP. ·   3 For details of the design see, Iltus¸ and Topçuog˘lu (1976), Erzen and Balamir (1996), Meeker (1997), As (2006).   4 The 1960s also saw the emergence of noteworthy modernist mosque designs albeit in very small scales. Among these are the mosque in Kınalıada (one of the Prince’s Islands) and the Etimesgut Mosque in Ankara, built in 1964 and 1965 respectively. These two mosques were valued by architectural historians as fine examples of modern mosque architecture (Erzen and Balamir 1996). It is also crucial to note that these two mosques were built in exceptional sites beyond the sphere of influence of nationalistconservatism: the former on an island historically populated by Armenians and the latter inside a military campus.

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  5 Meanwhile, it was decided in 1984 to build a mosque inside the National Assembly grounds. The job was assigned to Behruz Çinici (together with Can Çinici), the prominent Turkish architect who had recently designed the Public Relations Building of the Assembly. The architects came up with a modernist scheme interpreting the traditional dome with a stepped pyramid and the minaret with a poplar tree. Although this proposal was also met with scepticism from the right-wing press, the design was praised by the architectural community and it was awarded the Aga Khan Award for Architecture in 1995.The Parliament Mosque represents the epitome of the modernist mosque design tradition with its design quality as well as symbolic location inside the Parliament grounds which made it impossible to overlook like the earlier examples of the 1960s. For a recent analysis of the mosque, see Rizvi (2015: 43–46). For a discussion on the significance of the Parliament Mosque in Turkish architecture, see Bozdog˘an and Akcan (2012: 217–223). While Kocatepe Mosque denoted a negotiation between the state and the nationalist-conservative agenda, the modernist Parliament Mosque embodied a negotiation between the state and the secular public represented by the architectural community.   6 The survey was conducted as part of the course LAUD 474 Space, Culture and Identity that I taught in Spring 2013.   7 For a detailed discussion on the mosque, see Batuman (forthcoming).   8 A significant example of transnational historicism is Bas¸yazıcıog˘lu Mosque in Ankara built across from the AKP headqurters in 2007. This mosque imitated elements of Al-Masjid an-Nabawi in Medina, one of the holiest sites of Islamic faith. Although it was built by a private patron, it is interesting to see this mosque as another case of mimicry with a political statement.   9 A recent example recognized by architectural critics is Emre Arolat’s Sancaklar Mosque built in 2013. Defining neo-Ottoman mosques as “blank anachronism,” Arolat (2015) has argued that the main challenge for architects seeking innovative designs is to confront the classical Ottoman form. In order to create a worship space free of cultural and temporal links, Arolat proposed to dissolve the mosque within the landscape. In his scheme, the prayer hall is located underground and signaled with a vertical prism representing the minaret. The building has been praised by the professional community and has received awards (Tanyeli 2014a; Gür 2017). 10 The name refers to Hassa Mimarlar Ocag˘ı, the Ottoman imperial architectural department which was established in the fifteenth century to oversee all building activities across the empire. For its dissolution parallel to the emergence of architecture as a modern profession in the nineteenth century, see Baydar (1989). 11 “Mosque of the Republic & Museum of Religions, Istanbul, Turkey,” http://alparchi tects.com.tr/eng/proje_detay.asp?id=27(accessed on 31.08.2015). 12 The competition failed to meet a number of professional conventions. The entrants were required to give up their intellectual property rights, which meant they would have no say in the possible revisions to their projects if selected; they were proposed very low fees; and finally the client refused to guarantee that the winning project would be executed. 13 For a recent study on Sinan in English, see Necipog˘lu (2005). For the invention of Sinan as a nationalist myth, see Tanyeli (2007). 14 In early 2013, Erdog˘an was seeking support from the US administration for an intervention in the Syrian civil war which had already proved to be much more problematic than it was foreseen (Tharoor 2013). 15 According to the Wall Street Journal, this time Erdog˘an faced “a cool reception” since Obama rejected Erdog˘an’s request to join him for the inauguration (Nissenbaum and Lee 2016).

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16 In this chapter, I have deliberately left out an important mosque built within the new Presidential Compound in Ankara, which was finished in 2015 and appropriately named Millet Mosque. Keeping in mind Kusno’s (2012: 216) caution not to “read nation as a shorthand expression for nation-state,” I will analyze this mosque and its departure from neo-Ottoman form in Chapter 5 in relation to the tension between the representations of the nation and the state. 17 The body politics of women’s presence in mosque space is too complex to exhaust here. For instance, the anxiety about bodily cleanliness, a characteristic of Islamic teaching, becomes a challenge when it comes to the imprecise nature of menstruation (Mernissi 1991: 74). Hence, women voluntarily prefer to stay out of the mosque in the face of such anxiety (Yılmaz 2015: 220). Moreover, the patriarchal character of mosque space undermines individuality and reduces the women merely to their sex, which allows for disdainful treatment of women by men. For a personal narrative of an Islamic intellectual on her experience with men in her attempt to perform prayer in the main prayer hall, see Ramazanog˘lu (2011). 18 For a collection studying multiple dimensions of Alevism in Turkey, see White and Jongerden (2003). For the secular state’s approach to Alevism, see Azak (2010: 139–174). 19 See Chapter 3. 20 For an assessment report on the destruction in Sur District, see Diyarbakır Metropolitan Municipality (2016). In the wake of the military operations and the lifting of the curfew, the government announced an urban renewal project for Sur (Lepeska 2016). The project was publicly presented by the prime minister with 3D images and animation videos. These visual materials presented a new community life in Sur, with frequent use of mosque images and adhan sounds (Al 2016). 21 For a discussion on the symbolic value of Elçi’s death, see Darıcı (2016). 22 A monument dedicated to those killed during the putsch is currently under construction. Although the project is not revealed, it has been announced that the designer is S¸enalp and the monument is composed of a 9.5-meter-high dome standing on a pentagonal base. The names of the fallen will be inscribed on the interior walls and salawat will be broadcast 24/7 (T24, 19.06.2017).

BIBLIOGRAPHY Akcan, E. (2012) Architecture in Translation: Germany, Turkey, and the Modern House, Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Akın, G. (1996) “Cemevi Mimarisi Üzerine Notlar,” unpublished report produced for the Cem Cultural House Architectural Competition, www.arkitera.com/gorus/618/cemevimimarisi-uzerine-notlar (accessed on 15.08.2016). Al, M. (2016) “Mekân Her S¸eyden Önce Yok Etmeye Yarar,” Praksis 42: 583–608. Alemdar, Z. and R. B. Çorbacıog˘lu. (2012) “Alevis and the Turkish State,” Turkish Policy Quarterly 10 (4): 117–124. “Alevi örgütlerinden ortak açıklama: Cami-cemevi projesi kabul edilemez,” SOL Portal, 10.09.2013, http://haber.sol.org.tr/devlet-ve-siyaset/alevi-orgutlerinden-ortak-aciklamacami-cemevi-projesi-kabul-edilemez-haberi-79400 (accessed on 26.08.2014). “Allah bizleri Peygamberlerin makamında istihdam ediyor,” Odatv, 05.11.2015, http:// odatv.com/allah-bizleri-peygamberlerin-makaminda-istihdam-ediyor-0511151200. html (accessed on 13.08.2016). Amnesty International. (2016) “Turkey: Indefinite 24-Hour Curfew, Over 200,000 in Danger,” Urgent Action Call, 11.01.2016, www.amnesty.org/en/documents/eur44/3178/2016/ en/ (accessed on 20.08.2016).

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Cansever, T. (1997) Kubbeyi Yere Koymamak, Istanbul: Timas¸. Çaylı, E. (2015) “Diyarbakır’s ‘Witness Sites’ and Discourses on the ‘Kurdish Question’ in Turkey,” in Gambetti, Z. and J. Jongerden eds. The Kurdish Issue in Turkey: A Spatial Perspective, 63–92, London and New York: Routledge. Cengizkan, A. (2010) “The Production of a Mise en Scène for a Nation and Its Subjects: Clemens Holzmeister et al. in the Ministries Quarter for Ankara, Turkey,” The Journal of Architecture 15: 731–770. Çiçek, C. (2013) “The Pro-Islamic Challenge for the Kurdish Movement,” Dialect Anthropology 37: 159–163. Çitak, Z. (2010) “Between ‘Turkish Islam’ and ‘French Islam’: The Role of the Diyanet in the Conseil Français du Culte Musulman,” Journal of Ethnic and Migration Studies 36 (4): 619–634. Crinson, M. (1996) Empire Building: Victorian Architecture and Orientalism, London: Routledge. Crinson, M. (2003) Modern Architecture and the End of Empire, Burlington: Ashgate. “Cumhurbas¸kanı Erdog˘an: Darbeyi enis¸temden ög˘rendim,” Aljazeera Turk, 21.07.2016, www.aljazeera.com.tr/haber/cumhurbaskani-erdogan-darbeyi-enistemden-ogrendim (accessed on 16.08.2016). Cündiog˘lu, D. (2012) Mimarlık ve Felsefe, Istanbul: KapıYayınları. Darıcı, H. (2016) “Of Kurdish Youth and Ditches,” Theory & Event 19 (1) Supplement, https://muse.jhu.edu/article/610226#f01 (accessed on 16.08.2016). Directorate of Religious Affairs. (1974) 50 Yılda Dini Yapılar, Ankara: Directorate of Religious Affairs. Diyanet Center of America. (2015) Diyanet Center of America, Lanham, MD: DCA. Diyarbakır Metropolitan Municipality. (2016) “Cultural Heritage Damage Assessment Report on Sur, Diyarbakır,” 30.03.2016, http://new-compass.net/sites/new-compass.net/files/ SUR_Report_2016-04-07.pdf (accessed on 20.08.2016). Ekinci, O. (1997) Bütün Yönleriyle Taksim Camisi Belgeseli, Istanbul: Çagdas¸ Yayınları. El-Amrousi, M. and J. Biln. (2013) “Abu Dhabi Forms and Fragments: Muslim Space and the Modern City,” International Journal of Islamic Architecture 2 (2): 349–367. El-Wakil, A. W. (1989) “Community Mosques, Jeddah, Saudi Arabia,” report for The Aga Khan Award for Architecture, http://archnet.org/system/publications/contents/8577/ original/DTP101076.pdf?1389263620 (accessed on 24.07.2016). Eleva, A. and L. Silvers. (2011) “’I am One of the People’: A Survey and Analysis of Legal Arguments on Woman-Led Prayer in Islam,” Journal of Law and Religion 26 (1): 141–171. Elleh, N. (2002) Architecture and Power in Africa, Westport and London: Praeger. · Erdemli, K. A. (2013) “Cami Mimarisinde Kadınların Yeri ve I stanbul Müftülüg˘ü Camilerin Kadınlar Bölümünü Güzelles¸tirme Projesi (3T Projesi),” in Tokay, H., M. Kaptı, B. B. Cantimur and S. Cos¸kun eds. 1. Ulusal Cami Mimarisi Sempozyumu Bildiri Kitabı, 113–128, · Ankara: DIB Yayınları. “Erdog˘an: ‘Anadolu yakasında selatin cami yoktu’,” CNNTurk, 20.07.2012, www.cnnturk. com/2012/turkiye/07/20/erdogan.anadolu.yakasinda.selatin.cami.yoktu/669647.0/ index.html (accessed on 14.04.2017). “Erdog˘an’ın Çamlıca’sı,” Arkitera.com, 20.02.2013, www.arkitera.com/haber/12243/erdoganin-camlicasi (accessed on 27.08.2014). “Erdog˘an, Taksim Camisi projesini beg˘enmedi,” Arkitera.com, 28.06.2012, www.arkitera. com/haber/8934/erdogan-taksim-camisi-projesini-begenmedi. Erzen, J. N. and A. Balamir. (1996) “Contemporary Mosque Architecture in Turkey,” in Serageldin, I. and J. Steele eds. Architecture of the Contemporary Mosque, 100–117, London: Academy Editions.

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“Es¸deg˘er 2. Ödül, Istanbul Çamlıca Camii Mimari Proje Yarıs¸ması, Arkitera.com, 15.11. 2012, www.arkitera.com/proje/1390/esdeger-2-odul-istanbul-camlica-camii-mimari-projeyarismasi. Eygi, M. S¸. (2012) “Çamlıca Camii Güzel Olacak mı,” Milli Gazete, 28.11.2012, www. milligazete.com.tr/camlica_camii_guzel_olacak_mi/mehmed_sevket_eygi/kose_ yazisi/12466 (accessed on 13.08.2016). · Foundation for Religious and Social Services. (2007) Cami Projeleri Istis¸are Toplantısı, Ankara: Foundation of Religious and Social Services. Fuller, M. (2007) Moderns Abroad: Architecture, Cities, and Italian Imperialism, London: Routledge. Georgiev, P. K. (2012) Self-Orientalization in South East Europe, Wiesbaden: Springer VS. Gonzales, A. and H. Zengin. (2016) “A Decade of Opening: Turkey’s New International Role in Sub-Saharan Africa and Latin America,” Tiempo Devorado 2: 262–285. Gür, B. F. (2017) “Sancaklar Mosque: Displacing the Familiar,” International Journal of Islamic Architecture 6 (1): 165–193. “Her Üniversiteye bir Cami,” Milliyet, 28.01.1986, 2. · Iltus¸, S. and N. Topçuog˘lu. (1976) “Kocatepe Camii Muamması,” Mimarlık 135: 65–73. Ismail, A. S. and M. T. Mohd Rasdi. (2010) “Mosque Architecture and Political Agenda in Twentieth-Century Malaysia,” The Journal of Architecture 15/2: 137–152. · “Istanbul Çamlıca Camii Mimari Proje Yarıs¸ması,” Arkitera.com, 23.07.2012, www.arkitera.com/ yarisma/239/istanbul-camlica-camii-mimari-proje-yarismasi (accessed on 31.08.2015). · “Istanbul’a Dev Cami Geliyor,” Radikal, 30.05.2012, www.radikal.com.tr/politika/istanbula_ dev_cami_geliyor-1089547. · “Is¸te Taksim Camisi!,” Arkitera.com, 16.05.2012, www.arkitera.com/haber/8200 (accessed on 27.08.2014). Iwabuchi, K. (1994) “Complicit Exoticism: Japan and Its Other,” The Australian Journal of Media & Culture 8: 49–82. “Kadınlara Özel Cami,” AljazeeraTurk, 9.8.2011, www.aljazeera.com.tr/haber/kadinlaraozel-cami, (accessed on 14.8.2016). Karaman, F. (2008) “The Status and Function of the PRA in the Turkish Republic,” The Muslim World 98: 282–290. Korkut, S¸. (2010) “The Diyanet of Turkey and Its Activities in Eurasia After the Cold War,” Acta Slavica Iaponica 28: 117–139. Kusno, A. (2003) “ ‘The Reality of One-Which-Is-Two’: Mosque Battles and Other Stories,” Journal of Architectural Education 57: 57–67. Kusno, A. (2012) “Rethinking the Nation,” in Crysler, G., S. Cairns and H. Heynen eds. The SAGE Handbook of Architectural Theory, 213–230, Los Angeles and London: Sage. “Laiklik Ateizm Deg˘il, Korkmayın!” Gazetevatan, 14.09.2011, www.gazetevatan.com/laiklik-ateizm-degil – korkmayin – 399589-gundem/ (accessed on 13.08.2016). Lau, L. (2009) “Re-Orientalism: The Perpetration and Development of Orientalism by Orientals,” Modern Asian Studies 43: 571–590. Lau, L. and A. C. Mendes. (2011) Re-Orientalism and South Asian Identity Politics: The Oriental Other Within, London and New York: Routledge. Lepeska, D. (2016) “The Destruction of Sur: Is This Historic District a Target for Gentrification?” The Guardian, 09.02.2016, www.theguardian.com/cities/2016/feb/09/destru ction-sur-turkey-historic-district-gentrification-kurdish (accessed on 20.08.2016). Mandaville, P. (2014) Islam and Politics, Second edition, New York: Routledge. Meeker, M. E. (1997) “Once There Was, Once There Wasn’t: National Monuments and Interpersonal Exchange,” in Bozdog˘an, S and R. Kasaba eds. Rethinking Modernity and National Identity in Turkey, 157–191, Seattle: University of Washington Press. Mernissi, F. (1991) The Veil and the Male Elite: A Feminist Interpretation of Women’s Rights in Islam, New York: Perseus Books.

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Metcalf, T. R. (1989) An Imperial Vision: Indian Architecture and Britain’s Raj, Berkeley: University of California Press. Mitchell, T. (1988) Colonizing Egypt, Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press. Moser, S. (2012) “Circulating Visions of ‘High Islam’: The Adoption of Fantasy Middle Eastern Architecture in Constructing Malaysian National Identity,” Urban Studies 49/13: 2913–2935. Mutluer, N. (2014) “A Case for Pluralism: the Alevi’s Latest Struggle Against Discrimination,” Turkish Policy Quarterly 13/1: 149–158. Necipog˘lu, G. (2005) The Age of Sinan: Architectural Culture in the Ottoman Empire, London: Reaktion Books. Nissenbaum, D. and C. E. Lee. (2016) “Turkish President Faces a Cool Reception in U.S. Visit,” The Wall Street Journal, 27.03.2016, www.wsj.com/articles/turkish-presidentfaces-a-cool-reception-in-u-s-visit-1459114068 (accessed on 02.08.2016). O’Neil, H. (1993) “Islamic Architecture Under the New Order,” in V. M. Hooker ed. Culture and Society in New Order Indonesia, 151–165, Kuala Lumpur: Oxford University Press. “ODTÜ’den Rabıta’nın 210 Milyonuna ‘Hayır’,” Milliyet, 24.03.1987, 7. Özalog˘lu, S. and M. Ö. Gürel. (2011) “Designing Mosques for Secular Congregations: Transformations of The Mosque as a Social Space in Turkey,” Journal of Architectural and Planning Research 28/4: 336–358. Rabinow, P. (1989) French Modern: Norms and Forms of the Social Environment, Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Ramazanog˘lu, Y. (2011) “Camilerde Kadının Yeri Neresi,” Zaman, 03.05.2011. Rizvi, K. (2015) The Transnational Mosque: Architecture and Historical Memory in the Contemporary Middle East, Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. Roberson, J. (2014) “The Changing Face of Morocco Under King Hassan II,” Mediterranean Studies 22/1: 57–83. Sarigil, Z. and O. Fazlioglu. (2013) “Religion and Ethno-nationalism: Turkey’s Kurdish Issue,” Nations and Nationalism 19 (3): 551–571. · S¸enalp, H. (2007) “Hilmi S¸enalp,” in A. Uzunog˘lu ed. Cami Projeleri Istis¸are Toplantısı, · 75–88, Ankara: Diyanet Is¸leri Bas¸kanlıg˘ı. S¸enalp, H. (2013) “Muharrem Hilmi S¸enalp,” in Tokay, H., M. Kaptı, B. B. Cantimur and S. Cos¸kun · eds. 1. Ulusal Cami Mimarisi Sempozyumu Bildiri Kitabı, 172–183, Ankara: DIB Yayınları. ‘Sivil Cuma Namazı’ Kılındı,” bianet.org, 08.04.2011, www.bianet.org/bianet/siya“  set/129155-sivil-cuma-namazi-kilindi (accessed on 26.08.2014). “Sonsuzlukta kadın imzası,” Aks¸am, 24. 04.2013, www.aksam.com.tr/guncel/sonsuzlukta-kadin-imzasi/haber-198976 (accessed on 02.08.2016). “Tahir Elçi iki gün önce Dört Ayaklı Minare için ‘suikast’ demis¸ti,” Hürriyet, 28.11.2015, www.hurriyet.com.tr/tahir-elci-iki-gun-once-dort-ayakli-minare-icin-suikast-demisti-40020112 (accessed on 16.08.2016). Tanyeli, U. (2007) “Mimar Bireyin Sahte Tarihi ve Sinan,” in Mimarlıg˘ın Aktörleri: Türkiye 1900–2000, 34–39, Istanbul: Garanti Galeri. Tanyeli, U. (2014a) “Profession of Faith: Mosque in Sancaklar, Turkey by Emre Arolat Architects,” The Architectural Review, 31.07.2014, www.architectural-review.com/today/ profession-of-faith-mosque-in-sancaklar-turkey-by-emre-arolat-architects/8666472. fullarticle (accessed on 05.08.2016). Tanyeli, U. (2014b) “Cansever’in Mimarisine ve Düs¸üncesine Yeniden Bakmak: Seküler Bir Protre,” Arredamento Mimarlık 278: 60–67. Tas¸kın, Y. (2007) Anti-Komünizmden Küreselles¸me Kars¸ıtlıg˘ına Milliyetçi Muhafazakar Enteli· jansiya, Istanbul: Iletis¸im. Tharoor, I. (2013) “Turkey’s Erdogan Visits the U.S.: 4 Problems That Won’t Be Solved,” Time, 16.05.2013, http://world.time.com/2013/05/16/turkeys-erdogan-visits-the-u-sfour-problems-that-wont-be-solved/ (accessed on 02.08.2016).

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Chapter 3: Housing subjects of new Islamism

This chapter focuses on the making of millet at a micro-level, which operates through the definition of new subjectivities in and through housing areas. “In and through,” because housing is not merely the space of identity formation but also the process through which a new identity referring to Islam is formed. Nation-building processes operate via references to an imagined middle-class citizen type; and secular nation-building in Turkey was no different. The nationalist elite of the 1920s envisaged the transformation of imperial subjects into citizens who would adopt the middle-class lifestyles observed in European metropolises. In this respect, they had a clear image to identify with. The significant difference of new Islamism’s nation-building project is the lack of such a definite image of ideal national subject. It is rather a hybrid form, comprising elements of modernity, nationalism, Islam, as well as neoliberal lifestyle patterns. In this respect, the millet as envisaged by the AKP does not disavow classes; it rather refers to a vaguely defined middle class, which includes the emergent pious local elite of Anatolian towns claiming to be an authentic bourgeoisie, the post-squatter petty-bourgeoisie of the major cities, and the squatters dwelling in gecekondu areas under transformation via urban renewal projects. As I will show later, all three of these social groups have been transforming by, on the one hand, adopting a middle-class habitus combining neoliberal civility and Islamic cultural values and, on the other, participating in the process of space production either as entrepreneurs or target population of urban renewal schemes. I will begin my discussion with the Islamist mobilization in post-gecekondu neighborhoods and move on to the housing policies of the successive Islamist parties from the RP to the AKP. I will dwell on the particular case of Bas¸aks¸ehir, which was the brainchild of President Erdog˘an in his days as the mayor of Istanbul. Bas¸aks¸ehir began as an Islamist suburb and evolved into an ever-growing

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district municipality reaching a population of 350,000 by 2015. While Bas¸aks¸ehir was far from being a pre-conceived scheme, it has nevertheless been defined as an Islamist settlement and embodied all aspects of the Islamist enterprise in shaping everyday life as well as its deficiencies. What is lacking in the story of Bas¸aks¸ehir is the urban poor; although the expanding municipal territory later included squatter neighborhoods, the initial settlement did not have traditional gecekondu neighborhoods. Therefore, I will move on to another example from Ankara; the North Ankara City Entrance project, which represented the prototype for Islamist urban renewal projects in gecekondu areas. The most significant aspect of the project was the objective of transforming the existing squatter settlement and the relocation of squatters within modern high-rise blocks. This project, which is still unfinished by late-2017, presents the new Islamist utopia in which the rich and the poor will live side-by-side and class conflicts will be resolved with reference to Islam. It has also opened up a new era marked by state-led urban renewal with the involvement of the Mass Housing Administration of Turkey (TOKI). TOKI had merely produced 43,000 housing units between its foundation in 1984 and 2003; this number rose to 700,000 in the following thirteen years under the AKP (TOKI Haber 2016: 18). In addition to TOKI’s direct involvement, it is estimated that an additional 4.5 million housing units have been produced by the private sector in the same period. Both public and private investments in construction tripled between 2003 and 2013; construction comprised 80% of all public investments and 35% of private ones, reaching an annual average of $53 billion (Sönmez 2015: 74). TOKI alone has channeled $40 billion to the sector between 2003 and 2016 (TOKI Haber 2016: 18). Scholars have discussed the role of the construction sector as an engine for the economy (Wells 1986; Bon 1992; Dang and Low 2011). Turkish economy under the AKP also enjoyed a steady growth parallel to the expansion of the construction industry (Balaban 2012; Sönmez 2015), and TOKI’s share in the sector has been significant: since 2003, TOKI realized 81 large-scale projects (45 of which were finished by 2015) with a total cost of $25 billion. Between 2004 and 2014, employment in construction rose from 1 million to 2.1 million, which corresponded to 8.3% of total employment (Sönmez 2015: 30–31). Although these figures are remarkable for the size of Turkish economy, the significance of the construction sector in Turkish politics should not merely be evaluated in economic terms. What is noteworthy in AKP’s housing policy is not only the sheer quantity of housing production but also the attempts at Islamic community building through these projects. While squatter populations are disciplined in housing compounds of TOKI, Islamization of everyday life is established through the physical and social production of these settlements. Later, I will scrutinize the power relations embedded in the urban renewal process and the mutual relation between Islamism and neoliberal economic policy through the cases of Bas¸aks¸ehir and North Ankara. After that, I will discuss the predicaments of AKP’s housing policy and its quest for building Islamic settlements.

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POLITICAL ECONOMY OF HOUSING IN TURKEY The post-war period in Turkey, as in other developing regions of the world, witnessed a rapid phase of urbanization that powerfully affected the social and political environment. In most of what was called the Third World, squatters created spontaneous urban settlements in and around existing cities (especially the major ones with already large populations). Squatting in Turkey occurred mainly on public land, since state ownership was a dominant characteristic inherited from the Ottoman land regime (Keyder 1999: 144). This had further expanded in the republican era due to, on the one hand, the weakening of centuries-old religious endowments holding sizeable lands, and on the other, the emigration of non-Muslim minorities who were forced to abandon their properties. As a result, self-built gecekondu emerged as the primary form of working-class housing significantly reducing the cost of living for the squatters, hence providing cheap labor for industry (Tekeli 1996: 63). That is, the gecekondu represented a populist settlement between industrial capital and working classes, achieved through the state’s overlooking albeit at the cost of creating illegal slums with serious infrastructural problems. Meanwhile, the housing demand of the urban middle classes was met by small contractors who emerged as an important agent of urban development. In the absence of an advanced sector with large-scale capital and high construction technology, they performed low-capital intensive activities with non-unionized, low-wage labor. Taking advantage of high inflation, cheap labor, and continuous demand for housing they made high profits in the short run by organizing the capital of a number of individuals (Öncü 1988: 50–53). Towards the end of the 1970s, the country was going through political turmoil coupled by a severe economic crisis. Meanwhile, both of the channels of housing production were blocked. The supply of land in the city centers had been depleted in major cities. This was due on the one hand to the high-rise residential developments in the center and on the other the purchasing of peripheral lots by large companies. This shortage reflected itself on land prices as well as house rents, raising both. Meanwhile, the cost of construction materials escalated enormously. And finally, the high inflation that used to be beneficial for the contractors reached a level which required increased rates of cash down payments and installments (Tekeli 1982; Öncü 1988). Under these conditions, it became impossible (that is, unprofitable) for the small contractors to serve urban middle classes. The process of squatting was also experiencing a bottleneck. As squatting was characterized by the occupation of land, the lack of land around the cities made it impossible to find place to settle. The crisis in housing production was overcome through a structural shift in urbanization policies in the wake of the military intervention in 1980. The shift occurred through the implementation of three innovative steps. The first of these was the creation of a two-tiered municipal structure in 1984. While the planning powers of the central government were transferred to the metropolitan

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municipalities, second tier district municipalities also had their elected mayors and municipal councils. The metropolitan municipalities were also equipped with new sources of revenue, which made them effective instruments of urban politics. The second step was the establishment of TOKI in the same year. TOKI provided state funding for mass housing projects, which triggered suburbanization on the fringes. During the process of sprawl, upper classes deliberately left the city core for the suburbs. However, the move to the peripheries meant getting physically closer to the squatters. Hence, upper-class suburbanization quickly assumed the form of gated communities, especially in Istanbul beginning from the late 1980s (Öncü 1997; Bali 1999; Ayata 2002; Perouse and Danıs¸ 2005). The middle classes were also involved in the suburban move via housing cooperatives. The third component of this structural shift was the commodification of urban space through building amnesties concerning the squatter settlements (Is¸ık and Pınarcıog˘lu 2001: 161–165). In fact, squatter homes had become the subject of exchange as early as the 1960s, with the construction of extra rooms to be rented to fellow squatters. The following decade saw further commodification of the gecekondu through the trade of appropriated public land as well as the construction of slums built specifically to be rented.1 With the amnesties in the 1980s, early squatters were given permission to replace their single-storey gecekondus with 4–5 storey apartment buildings. This process rapidly turned them into landlords and/or developers undertaking the comprehensive redevelopment of squatter areas in the form of apartment buildings.

THE URBAN ECOLOGY OF VAROS¸ The transformation of the gecekondu quarters represented a drastic change in the urban fabric and led to the redefinition of squatter neighborhoods not only physically but also discursively. In the 1970s, within a climate marked by growing grassroots movements and high prestige of left-wing politics, the squatters were seen as the disadvantaged urban poor and their gecekondu settlements were envisaged as a potential milieu for the construction of a socialist way of life (Adam 1979; Batuman 2006). This view gradually faded in the second half of the 1980s due to the rapid thriving of early squatters through the gecekondu amnesties. By the mid-1990s, although the level of urban poverty in major cities reached levels never seen before, the squatters were stigmatized with the new spatial signifier of “varos¸” in popular perception. The rapid accumulation of wealth in the hands of the early squatters shattered the leftist view romanticizing the gecekondu and enraged the middle classes who saw uncivilized greed in the transformation of the gecekondu quarters into the varos¸. This term was rapidly reproduced with strong negative connotations through the media in the mid-1990s. Unlike the earlier depictions of gecekondu, varos¸ signified hostility toward and threat to the urban order with an imagined tendency to (criminal and/or political) violence (Erman 2001). It is crucial to note that this new image of the squatters emerged as a

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response on one hand to the rise of political Islam with its electoral successes and on the other the emergence of Kurdish identity parallel to the arrival of Kurdish immigrants fleeing armed violence in the Eastern provinces.2 The transformation of the single-storey gecekondus into multi-storey apartments led to the emergence of new class positions within the post-gecekondu neighborhoods – the varos¸. While the early squatters transformed into a new type of petty bourgeoisie, the latecomers comprised a new urban proletariat chained to the landlords with whom they shared the same habitat. Although urban population growth in Turkey between 1980 and 2000 was twice as fast as that of the period between 1960 and 1980, gecekondu construction significantly dropped in this period (Balaban 2011a: 2167). That is, the new multi-storey tenements in the varos¸ became the major working-class housing form in the post-1980 era. The transformation of the squatter settlements created the possibility of upward social mobility for the early squatters through the exploitation of the newcomers. Bug˘ra (1998) has defined this process as a particular “immoral economy” and Is¸ık and Pınarcıog˘lu (2001) labeled the process “poverty in turns.” The emergence of post-gecekondu varos¸ should be understood as the spatial context within which Islamist mobilization flourished. Asef Bayat (1997, 2013: 172–173) has discussed the inaccuracy of the mainstream representation of Islamism as a movement of the dispossessed. It is true that Islamist mobilization almost always speaks to the urban poor with emphases on moral, ethical, and religious sensibilities. Yet, as Bayat has shown, Islamism as a political movement mainly has a middle-class character rather than being a social movement of the urban poor. The latter has often supported Islamists along strategic choices for social survival.3 Islamism has been largely pursued by middle-class entrepreneurial groups who felt marginalized and impeded by the dominant establishment (Mandaville 2014: 123–126). In a similar fashion, Islamist movement in Turkey was spearheaded by provincial middle-class entrepreneurs since the 1970s; it gained an urban character after the 1980s. The (neo)liberalization of the economy and the emergence of new industrial centers led to the rise of a provincial bourgeoisie in the Anatolian towns. These towns enjoyed rapid development in connection with the global market. While old industrial centers declined, these new centers emerged as industrial zones in close contact with the local administrations in their respective localities. Smalland medium-scale firms operating in labor-intense fields built urban coalitions and grew in mutual relationship with the municipalities. The local elite in these mid-size urban centers transformed their savings into investment by forming jointstock companies to be able to compete with the monopolistic firms based in Istanbul. The rhetoric of unification of Muslims against the nationalist and secularist bourgeoisie was a vital element in the gathering of dispersed funds (Tug˘al 2002). If we turn to the big cities, within the context of neoliberal restructuring, privatizations, precarization of labor, and the chronically high level of inflation resulted in increasing impoverishment. While mainstream political parties remained impervious to urban poverty, the Islamist cadres actively worked within

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the squatter areas and established networks of aid and solidarity in the early 1990s. While this strategy allowed them to gain control of local administrations in the major cities, they utilized this power to further improve their networks as an original “welfare system.” Municipalities under the RP began to systematically distribute coal, food, bread, and clothing to households during the 1990s. Especially in the early years, the economy created by these aids was disorganized and shady. The control of aid distribution was handled together with Islamist associations. A crucial aspect here is the increasing control of the activities of the faith-based organizations by the municipality in exchange of municipal funds, which stands out as a specificity of the Turkish case. For instance, with its historical peculiarity, Lebanon presents a direct opposite case, where Hezbollah utilizes government funds towards further increasing its political influence through the redistribution of resources (Harb 2011). After the AKP’s coming to power in 2002, this welfare system was formalized and integrated within state functions (Bug˘ra and Keyder 2003; Bug˘ra and Savas¸kan 2014). Therefore, alliances similar to those tying the municipalities to local investors in provincial centers also developed in the larger cities in two major fields: the municipal welfare system itself, and the production of urban space with urban regeneration projects. Within the varos¸, it was none other than the post-squatter petty bourgeoisie that comprised these local investors. This social segment sought upward mobility and a way out of the socio-economic space of the varos¸; they became the major group finding voice in the RP’s Islamism. Yet this upward mobility exhibited a conflicting spatial character. On one hand, the economic activities of these local businessmen were deeply rooted in the varos¸; on the other, upward mobility also embodied the desire to move away from this habitat. Thus, the urban politics of Islamism in Turkey relied on a particular form of populism: not a topdown version imagining a homogeneous mass whose interests are identified with those of the state, but one that affirms (class) differences while referring to faith and morality as the common denominators (Tug˘al 2002). The varos¸ was the very space of this heterogeneity: it was the habitat of both the working classes and their employers within the precarious organizational forms of neoliberal production including sweatshops and highly organized household labor (Balaban 2013). This proximity was the context in which the success of Islamist mobilization flourished (White 2002; Dog˘an 2016). In addition to the already existing class relations within the varos¸, the Islamist welfare system also contributed to the political control of this social milieu. The supply of goods to be distributed to the urban poor from the local market integrated not only the consumers but also the petty producers, dealers, power brokers, and even in-city transportation companies to this power network at the center of which rested the municipality. However, the cost of this cycle was immense. As the urban poor received some compensation, these high prices mostly hit the white-collar urban middle classes, incidentally the most persistent opposition group against the Islamists. Moreover, since the revenues of the municipalities were not enough to pay for this economy, their chronic budget deficits

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were overlooked by the government. Especially after the AKP’s coming to power in 2002, the municipalities under the party’s control were practically allowed to disregard their debts to the Treasury (Batuman 2013a).

BUILDING AN ISLAMIC SUBURB: BAS¸AKS¸EHIR The RP won the municipalities of sixteen provincial centers and six metropolitan cities (including Ankara and Istanbul) in 1994. The takeover of Istanbul especially was a victory conceived by the Islamists as the second Muslim conquest after 1453 (Bora 1999). One of the first actions of the RP administration under mayor Erdog˘an was the reorganization of the municipal establishment KI·PTAS¸ (Residence & Development Plan Industry and Trade Inc.). The company was founded in 1987 with foreign partnership to fulfill the newly assumed responsibilities of the metropolitan municipality in urban planning (for which the Ministry of Housing and Resettlement was responsible before 1984). It was dysfunctional at the time of its reorganization in 1995. Then it was remodeled primarily as a construction company to undertake housing production. With the slogan “50,000 new houses for Istanbul,” the company launched housing projects across Istanbul, initially at the western and eastern fringes. KI·PTAS¸ soon proved to be effective not only as a tool in housing construction but also as a comprehensive mechanism of urban politics. The performance of KI·PTAS¸ made it a prototype for the future reorganization of TOKI under the AKP. The location of Bas¸aks¸ehir had been envisaged as suitable for social housing as early as the 1980s due to its proximity to ·Ikitelli Organized Industrial Zone, the largest industrial park of Turkey. Moreover, Bag˘cılar district, which is a prime example of post-gecekondu varos¸ with low-rise apartment buildings densely populated by working-class tenants, was also very close to this location (Balaban 2011b). It is hard to tell whether there was any Islamic motivation behind the initial attempt at housing production. Both the statements by municipal officials and the architectural features show that producing significant quantities of apartments was seen as the main objective and a sufficient political achievement, especially under conditions of mainstream hostility towards the RP. The fact that the initial projects displayed social housing features with low-cost/low-quality materials and smaller floor-areas does not prove that they were intended for the poor. Previous attempts in Turkey demonstrated that social housing was always beyond the reach of the squatters and ended up serving the lower-middle classes, unionized blue-collar workers at best (Tekeli 1996; Batuman 2006). So, it is plausible that by the time KI·PTAS¸ came up with the first project for Bas¸aks¸ehir there was no clear target population in mind. The most important problem was the lack of resources, since the RP municipalities were denied government funds and KI·PTAS¸’s advertisements were met with skepticism. Hence, fundraising quickly turned into an issue of Islamic solidarity that coincided with the post-squatters’ desire to move out of the varos¸.

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Therefore, although the prices of the apartments were low, it was mostly the post-squatter petty bourgeoisie who invested in the project. As a result, all of the apartments were sold before construction began in 1995 and this allowed KI·PTAS¸ to start the second phase the following year. The first phase (hereafter Bas¸aks¸ehir I) contained 3,004 units in four different apartment types (with 65, 85, 115, and 140 m2 floor areas) within 79 apartment blocks of varying height (6, 8, and 10 floors). The second phase had 2,304 units in 62 blocks with varying heights of 6, 8, 9, and 10 floors and three different sizes of 84, 123, and 143 m2. The site plan of Bas¸aks¸ehir showed that the project was not envisaged as an enclosed complex but the first step of an open-ended settlement (Figure 3.1). The project area extended along a major avenue and was divided into two unequal portions by a street cutting through. It contained small shopping facilities and mosques; a school was built inside Bas¸aks¸ehir I in 1997. The second stage development was located adjacent to Bas¸aks¸ehir I, facing the vacant landscape to the west. Figure 3.1 Bas¸aks¸ehir I and II at the edge of · Ikitelli Industrial Park Drawing by Gülse Eraydın.

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By the end of 1998, both of the housing complexes were already populated, with 15,000 residents in Bas¸aks¸ehir I and 10,500 in Bas¸aks¸ehir II. The relative homogeneity of the population created a coherent sense of community. Field researches conducted in the first two phases of Bas¸aks¸ehir development reflect that a major motivation for moving to Bas¸aks¸ehir was being together with people sharing similar moral values (Çavdar 2010; Gürgün 2014). The residents felt that they shared their lifestyle with devout neighbors and “god-fearing” (honest) shopkeepers (Figure 3.2). They believed that religion made Bas¸aks¸ehir safe: women were not afraid to go out at night (Gürgün 2014: 45). What was striking in the initial spatial organization of Bas¸aks¸ehir development was the lack of spaces for socialization and cultural activities. This would later change with the municipality’s venture in building cultural centers after the AKP’s rise to power. This initial lack should be understood in relation to the gender politics of Islamic community life, since Bas¸aks¸ehir as a primarily residential environment is used mostly by women during daytime. A typical activity in the Islamic neighborhoods is “sohbet” (conversation) juxtaposing daily chat with religious teaching. These informal religious gatherings, which have originated from the study groups (usrah) invented by the Muslim Brotherhood in the 1920s, are found in different Muslim societies with differing emphasis on religious performance (Abdul Hamid 2009: 145; Van Doorn-Harder 2006: 95–97; Bayat 2007: 149; Falconer 2010). While these informal meetings are conducted as all-men or all-women sessions, it is crucial to note the differences between the gatherings of the two sexes. The sohbet of men are generally more formal in terms of rituals and content, and the socialization accompanying religious rituals mostly involve business

Figure 3.2 Billboards with advertisements of Islamic brands and faithbased NGOs Photograph by author.

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networking (Dog˘an 2007: 250–252). The sohbet meetings are structured in accordance with the class character and specificities of the neighborhood. The women’s gatherings assume a semi-public character since these activities present them the only medium to interact with public life, albeit in a controlled way. The sohbet involves the reading and interpretation of religious texts by pious women and discussions on religious performances as well as general themes of family and community. These gendered activities allow the Islamist activists to utilize neighborhood relations to disseminate their views. The religious activity, in return, legitimizes and facilitates the development of extrafamilial sociability for the women, which opens up the possibility of subversive practices for their part (Le Renard 2014). These meetings allow for new Islamic subjectivities, new ways of reclaiming Islamic knowledge, and new ways of integrating spirituality with female gender roles as mothers and wives (Jassal 2014). The role of female activists in the success of Turkish Islamism has been analyzed by various researchers (Arat 1999, 2005; Göle 1996; Saktanber 1994, 2002). The house visits and sohbet gatherings have been an important field for the female activists and were vital to the early grassroots organization of the RP as well as the making of female activist agencies (White 2002: 199). It is crucial to note the spatial character of this activity. Coded as a feminine space, home emerges here as an important space for not only Islamist mobilization but also the making of an Islamic habitus (Saktanber 2002: 39–41; Yılmaz 2015: 220–224). While face-to-face networking contributes to Islamist mobilization, it empowers the women seeking self-help and individual achievement. Mahmood (2005), in her study on Cairo, discusses the empowerment of women through Islamist organizations. She argues that what is at stake is not emancipation in a progressive sense but empowerment through the organizational performances of the Islamist networks. Obedience to the patriarchy embedded within religious teaching also creates possibilities of active female agency, which the activist women make use of. But the sohbet gatherings also function as disciplinary mechanisms. Is¸ık (2011) shows how the performance of sohbet served producing “productive, honest, disciplined” women workers in the case of the carpet-weaving industry in Konya, another stronghold of the AKP. The sohbet serves to the making of an Islamic habitus, defining an Islamic agency, a “good Muslim.” Thus, the lack of spaces for socialization in Bas¸aks¸ehir I and II is almost a natural feature since housing estate is understood as a feminine space where the men are absent during the day. The social interactions are confined to the family and the home, where the sohbet is the essential “educational and socializing” activity (Gürgün 2014: 58). In this respect, as the initial design of the physical space did not contain any religious references, the spatial practice of sohbet was the essential feature Islamizing the housing environment. If we turn to the gradual development of Bas¸aks¸ehir settlement, although the project was moving along and the municipality was busy planning the third stage, political tension was escalating with increasing pressure from the military. In February 1997, the military published a memorandum obliging the government to take

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anti-Islamist measures. This led to the collapse of the RP-led coalition and the party was closed down in 1998 (the RP cadres transferred to the newly established Felicity Party – FP). Meanwhile Erdog˘an was sentenced to imprisonment. He would stay in office for another year until the verdict was finalized. Hence, by the time of the opening ceremony for Bas¸aks¸ehir II, Erdog˘an was still in office, yet he was already sentenced. The success of Bas¸aks¸ehir in terms of housing production as well as its recognition as an Islamist ghetto was not unnoticed by the military and the secularist establishment. The government preceding the RP-led coalition had already allocated a site facing Bas¸aks¸ehir I for émigrés from Bulgaria who arrived in Turkey after the fall of the socialist regime. Such compounds were built in various cities and the one in Bas¸aks¸ehir was begun only in 1996. The land planned to become Bas¸aks¸ehir III was compelled to be developed in the form of smaller cooperatives by independent contractors and was renamed Onurkent. In addition, following the devastating earthquake in 1999, new housing blocks were begun in the area as well (they would be finished in two phases in 2001 and 2002). Finally, the military planned a housing compound for its officers and acquired land in the district in 1997. In other words, the two-stage Bas¸aks¸ehir development was rapidly surrounded by various housing developments with an attempt to confine this Islamist niche and diversify the growing settlement (Figure 3.3). Although the future of Figure 3.3 Bas¸aks¸ehir development with later stages: 1. Bas¸aks¸ehir I (1995– 1996), 2. Bas¸aks¸ehir II (1996–1998), 3. Onurkent (envisaged as Bas¸aks¸ehir III – 1998– 2000s), 4. Bas¸aks¸ehir IV (1998–2002), 5. Bas¸aks¸ehir V (2005– 2007), 6. Recreational valley (2008), 7. Migrant compound (1996), 8. Housing for earthquake victims (1999–2002), 9. Housing compound for military officers (1998–2008) Produced by Gülse Eraydın.

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Bas¸aks¸ehir was envisaged as an integral neighborhood, with the rise of different housing estates, Bas¸aks¸ehir I and II were enclosed as separate compounds with fences and secured gates. In spite of these, Erdog˘an’s KI·PTAS¸ was already after taking the Islamist housing enterprise to a new level. The success of the two initial stages led to a new vision for housing, expanding the target population in terms of income level. Throughout the 1990s, a pious bourgeoisie had already emerged and declared its support to the RP. The growing Islamist business community organized within MÜSI·AD (Association of Independent Industrialists and Businessmen), which was established in 1990 (Önis¸ 1997; Hos¸gör 2011). Thus, by the second half of the 1990s, the Islamist housing enterprise already found an emerging demand for luxurious housing. Hence, Bas¸aks¸ehir IV was planned to contain social housing apartments of 67 and 87 m2 along with luxury villas with floor areas ranging from 130 to 255 m2. The project received an unanticipated level of demand, especially for the villas. Although it wasn’t intended as such, the project was perceived as a gated community for the emerging pious bourgeoisie since they were under threat from the military. Nevertheless, the expansion of the target population had its own limits reflecting a conservative desire for homogeneity. For instance, Erdog˘an was clear in his position regarding squatters: he was against forced evacuations and gecekondu demolitions but equally hostile to future squatters. He proposed the implementation of a visa system to control incoming migration to the big cities (Milliyet 23.05.1996: 7). For social housing in Bas¸aks¸ehir IV, it was intended to define a requirement of one-year previous residence in Istanbul (Milliyet 24.08.1998: 11). This should be understood in relation to the ethnic (Kurdish) character of migration in the 1990s. The escalating armed violence did not only trigger population transfer from Kurdish villages to Kurdish cities but also from these provincial centers to larger metropolises. Hence, there was also considerable middle-class Kurdish migration arriving in Istanbul, which was not welcome in Islamist Bas¸aks¸ehir. The location of Bas¸aks¸ehir IV reflected the political pressure on Erdog˘an’s Istanbul Metropolitan Municipality. The earlier stages of Bas¸aks¸ehir development as well as the area designated as Bas¸aks¸ehir III (now Onurkent) were within the borders of Küçükçekmece District Municipality, which was controlled by the Democratic Left Party (DSP). DSP was aligned with the military’s hardline secularism and replaced the RP-led government in 1997. Hence, the party did not hesitate to impede the RP’s housing schemes. The territory of Küçükçekmece Municipality ended with the barren valley to the east of migrant housing compounds (Figure 3.3). Beyond the valley was Esenler Municipality controlled by the RP and Bas¸aks¸ehir IV was to be built here; in a narrow strip adjacent to a vast military compound. Hence, Bas¸aks¸ehir IV was literally a marginal settlement: it was away from the earlier stages as well as major transportation routes and was located on a site bordered by the barren valley to the west and the military zone to the east. Thus, Bas¸aks¸ehir became a retreat for the wealthier segment of the Islamist base. In Bas¸aks¸ehir IV, the 2004 local elections displayed 70% support for the AKP and 13% for the SP, the traditional Islamist offshoot of the RP (Çakır 2005: 93).

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Nevertheless, the rise of Bas¸aks¸ehir IV introduced class conflict into Bas¸aks¸ehir settlement despite the presumption that shared morality was more important than class difference. At the time when the first residents of Bas¸aks¸ehir IV were settling in their new homes in 2001, the residents of Bas¸aks¸ehir I were staging a protest against KI·PTAS¸ over a 30% raise in maintenance fees (Milliyet 06.02.2001: 3).

CLASS DISTINCTION IN THE ISLAMIC SUBURB The inhabitants of Bas¸aks¸ehir I and II define themselves primarily through religion and maintain their religious identity by differentiating their consumption habits from the seculars. Two major areas within which distinct Islamic consumption patterns emerge are gastronomy and dressing. The Islamic appropriateness of food – being halal – is very important for not only the devout residents of Bas¸aks¸ehir but for the majority of the Turkish people. While processing of meat is generally in tune with Islamic requirements across the country, a major issue of controversy has been alcoholic beverages. Since alcohol is banned in Islam, a typical action of RP municipalities has been attempts to restrict sales and use of alcohol. In a similar fashion, a supermarket in Bas¸aks¸ehir was forced to close down because it was selling alcoholic beverages and was replaced by a conservative business. As for dressing, the headscarf has been a major issue of controversy, which has been widely discussed (Göle 1996; Breu and Marchese 2000; Arat 2001; Çınar 2005; Saktanber 2006; Saktanber and Çorbacıog˘lu 2008). Since the 1990s, a conservative textile market targeting pious women has emerged. These brands also contributed to the emergence of an Islamic middle-class taste along with magazines and events in fashion industry (Navaro-Yashin 2002; Kılıçbay and Binark 2002; Sandıkçı and Ger 2007; Gökarıksel and Secor 2009). The entry of the emergent Muslim bourgeoisie into the secularist spheres of consumption led to confrontations reflected in urban space (Turam 2013). With the rise of a pious bourgeoisie and the emergence of class difference within the Islamic base, new forms of distinction among Islamists arose. The residents of Bas¸aks¸ehir I and II, now, differentiate themselves not only from their secular adversaries but also from the residents of Bas¸aks¸ehir IV through their lifestyle and consumption habits. They prefer Islamic brands and consider conspicuous consumption – which they view as a common trait of the secular upper-class districts of Istanbul and Bas¸aks¸ehir IV – incompatible with Islam. The class difference between the residents of Bas¸aks¸ehir I–II and IV found a visible reflection in the dress brands of women. Islamic brands established by pious investors – middle-scale industrialists – in clothing became the markers of lower-middle-class Islamism while expensive brands also introduced lines targeting pious consumers. The residents of Bas¸aks¸ehir IV, therefore, adopt the consumption habits of their secular counterparts and prefer expensive brands. They reject being limited within the boundaries of their residential environments and desire to be visible in the public spaces of Istanbul. Bag˘dat Avenue, the high-class consumption locale in

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the Anatolian part of Istanbul has become a shopping destination for the wealthy residents of Bas¸aks¸ehir (Gürgün 2014: 89–92). While the rise of a Muslim bourgeoisie occurred through distinction gained in lifestyle, fashion, consumption, musical performance, as well as an identifiable Islamic media, this also produced “new Muslim publics” (White 2014: 8–10). The direct predicament of this trend was the emergence of new public spaces. But the Muslim bourgeoisie also demanded place in the urban public life, especially in the case of Istanbul, which resulted in the emergence of upper-class spaces of Islamic consumption. Alcohol-free cafés serving narghile emerged not only in Islamic neighborhoods but along the Bosphorus, replacing some of the luxurious bars. Hotels customized to cater to pious customers adopting ­gender-segregation and non-alcohol policy emerged for the first time along with Muslim haute couture, Islamic yacht tours, and alternative shopping platforms (Sehlikog˘lu and Karakas¸ 2016). The gradual adoption of bourgeois consumption habits by the wealthy Islamists led to new intellectual debates on interpretations of capitalism, religion, consumer culture, and morality (Izberk-Bilgin 2015). New groups such as “Anti-capitalist Muslims” were products of these debates. The growing distance between the Muslim bourgeoisie and the post-squatter middle classes also found its reflection in Bas¸aks¸ehir. The residents of Bas¸aks¸ehir I–II and Bas¸aks¸ehir IV despise each other’s performance of religiosity. For the former, the latter represents the “nouveau rich” (Gürgün 2014: 94). Even religious practices are performed distantly. The zekat and the sacrifice are organized by the religious organizations which act as intermediaries between the benefactors and the receivers of aid. In Bas¸aks¸ehir IV, the sohbet meetings are also performed in an exclusive manner; it is only upper-class community members that attend these gatherings. With the AKP coming to power in 2002, Bas¸aks¸ehir IV gradually became the focal point of the district together with the fifth stage located across the valley. The two stages surrounding the 5-km-long valley were to be an integral settlement for a population of 66,000, with the valley as a unifying recreational space. This integral settlement was now envisaged as a microcosm of an imaginary Istanbul referring to its Ottoman past. Here, nostalgia concerns not only an ideological reference to Ottoman history but – more importantly – refers to the harmonious everyday life within the traditional neighborhood – a construct of the conservative imaginary emerging here as a symptom of the unresolved tensions within the district. The development of Bas¸aks¸ehir after AKP’s coming to power illustrates both new Islamism’s social vision and the tensions inherent to this vision. The most important aspect of this vision was the attempt to maintain social cohesion without any concern to closing the gap between the rich and the poor. Referring to faith and morality as the source of a harmonious social formation, the AKP consistently aimed at controlling poverty rather than reducing it. A major component of this project was the transformation of the urban poor. The new Islamist enterprise intervened in existing squatter areas via urban renewal mechanisms; a major

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dispositive to reshape Turkish cities not only physically but also socially and culturally. Although Bas¸aks¸ehir did not contain a poor population, it was the laboratory in which new regimes of control in residential areas were experimented with. These experiments would become the source for later implementations of TOKI.

OBLITERATING GECEKONDU – WITH A REMAINDER As soon as the AKP came to power, TOKI began to be reorganized based on the KI·PTAS¸ experience. In 2003, it was granted new powers in urban regeneration allowing it to establish companies, execute projects to create new funds, and use public land without charge. With a series of regulations, institutions and administrations responsible for housing and land development (such as the Undersecretariat of Housing and the Land Office) were closed down and their assets were handed over to TOKI. In 2004, the administration was granted planning authority in the areas that would be redeveloped. With the same legislation, it gained the power to determine the value of expropriation in squatter areas. In 2007, the duties of the Ministry of Public Works regarding gecekondu prevention and slum clearance were also transferred to TOKI. With these regulations, the administration became exempt from almost all of the bureaucratic mechanisms and could freely expropriate, plan, and redevelop areas. It became the major actor in housing production and the main facilitator of public private partnership. In 2007, mortgage financing was regulated and improved to support the demand for TOKI’s increasing supply in housing (Türel and Koç 2015). As a result, the number of houses built by TOKI reached unprecedented levels. In addition, the administration undertook construction activities to raise funds wherever it deemed profitable. Through revenue-sharing agreements with public and private agents, it undertook projects ranging from luxury housing to the construction of hospitals and stadiums. By June 2014, TOKI had initiated 197 urban renewal projects in gecekondu areas, half of which were in Istanbul and Ankara. In the same period, it had 92 revenue-sharing projects in luxury housing, 76 of which were in Istanbul (TOKI 2014: 167). TOKI has been involved in the renewal of gecekondu areas in collaboration with the metropolitan municipalities. Public land is developed with the collaboration of TOKI and respective municipalities, expropriation of squatter areas is pursued on terms defined by these agents, and the surplus rent is redistributed to private investors undertaking construction. Meanwhile, squatters are left with the choice to either move out or use the expropriation money as down payment and take TOKI loans to own a new apartment in the same area. Hence, the major aspect of this strategy is the immense powers vested in TOKI and the metropolitan municipalities, which results in two striking consequences: the maximization of profit and the lack of public participation in decision-making processes. This new model represented the end of the traditional pattern of urbanization in Turkey, which rested on the populist overlooking of squatting. Now market dynamics

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were extended to the peripheries and a total commodification of urban space was in order (Keyder 2010; Ünsal and Kuyucu 2010). Thus, urban areas with varying sizes were designated as renewal zones in all of the Turkish cities after 2004, which meant wide-scale demolitions in urban areas. It is within this context that a curious architectural phenomenon emerged. The Islamist administrations that proposed renewal projects razing squatter neighborhoods were reluctant to demolish minarets even if they did not hesitate to destroy the mosques together with the gecekondu. Hence, their reluctance to tear down minarets created ruinscapes in which minarets seemed to have miraculously survived destruction (Figure 3.4). Here it is worth discussing the minaret without a mosque as an ideological signifier of Islamist urban renewal. To begin with, a minaret surviving the demolition of its mosque is an expression of deference to Islam. It is the predicament of an urban renewal process led by an Islamist local administration. A particular urban area has been the object of a renewal project; the housing stock, together with the social and cultural facilities – including the mosques – is demolished. Yet, the minaret, precisely because it is seen as the bearer of religious symbolism, is immune from destruction. This, in return, creates a contradiction for the part of the authorities who desire to use urban regeneration as a tool of total transformation. In this regard, the minaret without its mosque appears as the symptom of renewal. The modernist will of the municipal administration instrumentalizes urban regeneration to exert power in the city. The limits to the immense powers invested in the municipality are not defined by exterior powers restraining it (such as laws, regulations, etc.), but by the cultural codes inherent to it: the minaret as the untouchable symbol of Islam. In other words, the urban texture resists Islamist regeneration with Islamic Figure 3.4 A single minaret after the demolition of its mosque in Çukurambar, Ankara Photograph by author.

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representations of space. These minarets could only be demolished when they are replaced with newer (and larger) mosques (and minarets) erected on the same locations. The minarets without mosques have appeared in redeveloped squatter areas; they represent the spatial practices that had existed within the scale of a neighborhood. The regeneration projects, however, propose different living patterns and user profiles for these areas. Being working-class neighborhoods, these areas are characterized by particular daily routines including public transport timetables, frequent use of communal spaces, and the primacy of walking within the neighborhood. In some cases the areas are subject to total gentrification, which minimizes interaction among neighbors, introduces private cars that are used not only for commutes between home and workplace but even for shorter distances within the neighborhood. For instance, the image we see in Figure 3.4 shows the old squatter area of Çukurambar, Ankara, which has transformed into a wealthy Islamic quarter where AKP MPs prefer to reside today. Within this transformation, the humble mosque of the squatter neighborhood was demolished to open room for the new boulevard passing through the district in 2005. The minaret of the mosque stood within the lawn of the eight-floor apartment building along the boulevard for more than three years. It was torn down only with the rising of the minarets of the much larger district mosque built in an adjacent lot in 2009 (Figure 3.5). Incidentally, the new mosque was accompanied with a housing compound including three high-rise residential blocks. The juxtaposition of the traditional architecture of the large mosque and the modernism of the high-rise blocks provides a fine illustration of the peculiar form of urban renewal under AKP’s new Islamism. Although Islamic representations of space are reproduced as ideological signifiers of power,

Figure 3.5 Replacing the minaret with a larger mosque with high-rise blocks in the background Photograph by author.

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the everyday lives in the new housing complexes predominantly populated by pro-Islamic residents reveal a level of negotiation with modern urban practices. What is crucial here is that the spaces of both everyday uses and ideological display are incorporated within the political economy of redevelopment. The power of the minaret to resist urban renewal stems from the symbolism it embodies. Yet, fitting the urban meaning(s) of the minaret into its religious symbolism means pushing urban life into a narrow domain of politico-religious representations. The minaret is loaded with meanings deriving from its role in everyday practices beyond its religious iconography. In order to explore such meanings, it is necessary to analyze the mosque as a node within the network of everyday life in the city. Everyday life, by definition, signifies the ordinary; it contains patterns born out of practices in endless repetition. This set of insignificant patterns, however, is a major component of the social structure; as Lefebvre (1991: 87) has mentioned, everyday life has “a secret life and a richness of its own.” The analysis of everyday life helps us to uncover the ideological configurations of social relations, since everyday life has a multi-layered character, which is a result of the overlapping repetitive cycles. The attempt to analyze these cycles should begin with their rhythms, since an activity that leads to the interaction of time and space inevitably produces rhythm (Lefebvre 2004: 15). If we follow Lefebvre, it is crucial to look beyond the apparent iconography of the minaret and search for the everyday rhythms that it takes part in. Only then will it be possible to uncover the representations the minaret embodies within the context of daily practices. These representations are the products of visual, physical, and acoustic rhythms that the minaret defines in urban space. Especially in residential areas, due to lower building heights, the minarets construct a visual rhythm that defines a scale within the texture of the built environment. The basic unit that defines this scale is the walking distance, which also corresponds to the size of the community sharing each mosque space. The mosque is used in different cycles by different users: while some users visit it five times a day, others go to the mosque once a week for Friday prayers, and some others do so only twice a year at the Bayram (Eid) prayers. The minaret is also the focus of an acoustic rhythm that comes out of the repetition of the call for prayer five times a day. Moreover, the call for prayer is broadcast from many minarets, yet without synchrony. This shows us that rhythm is not necessarily monotonous or even harmonious; the rhythms of everyday life display multiplicity of rhythms (polyrhythmia), their harmony (eurhythmia), or disharmony (arrhythmia) (Lefebvre 2004: 16). The minarets without mosques emerge as signs of the erased patterns and rhythms of daily practices. They display the embeddedness of religious routines in everyday life. While these minarets are remnants of the spaces of worship that were components of the gecekondu neighborhoods, the mosques replacing them in the newly produced residential areas are designed primarily as ideological signifiers. Their sizes are maximized regardless of the size of their future congregations and their locations are chosen with respect to visibility rather than accessibility.

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A FIELD OF MINARETS: NORTH ANKARA CITY ENTRANCE PROJECT Parallel to the restructuring of TOKI, a law was passed specifically for Ankara, which defined an urban regeneration project for the squatter areas along the road connecting the airport to the city center in 2004 (Figure 3.6). The “North Ankara City Entrance Project” was the prime example of urban regeneration endeavors of the new Islamists and set the guidelines for future examples. Since the road to the airport was defined as a gate to the capital city, the project was presented as a national undertaking. It was argued that the façades of this prestigious urban axis displayed “the nation” to the “foreign visitors,” hence it had to be cleared of the squatter houses. The law authorized the Ankara Metropolitan Municipality and TOKI to redevelop the area with the hand of the joint company TOBAS¸, which was the equivalent of KI·PTAS¸ in Istanbul. The site covered an area of 16 million square meters and contained 10,500 squatter homes (Gümüs¸ 2010). The main idea of the project was to juxtapose slum upgrading with luxurious housing: an Islamist utopia where rich would be rich and poor would be poor yet they would live side-by-side with limited interaction. Shared practices (and spaces) of Islamic faith were expected to serve as the ideological apparatus to build a new urban realm, an alternative to the capital city of republican modernism. Nevertheless, the new Islamist utopia had its own limits to the co-existence of the rich and the poor.

Figure 3.6 Slum clearance in the North Ankara project site: 2004 vs. 2015 Source: Google Earth (Image © 2016 DigitalGlobe).

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Within the organizational model, the inhabitants were identified in four categories according to their legal status defined by their history in the area: those who owned title deeds (or equivalent documents) due to earlier amnesties; those who built their homes before 2000 but did not own proper documents; those who settled after 2000; and the tenants. The first group of 8,152 gecekondu owners was promised apartments in the project; I will discuss their settlement as the title-holders compound later. The second group of 1,464 families was relocated in a new housing compound in Karacaören, farther to the north of the actual site. The final two groups, namely the late-squatters and tenants, were denied any right in the area and quickly evicted. The evacuation process was rather peaceful since the squatters were promised to move into their new homes in late 2007, although they had to wait until 2013 (Batuman 2013b). While they were waiting to return to the area, the squatters were either temporarily located in apartments for municipal employees or encouraged to live as tenants in different locations with a monthly rent aid of approximately $150. The delay in the construction process led to an extended state of dependence on the municipality. The project was a significant attempt to develop a model for space production compatible with the ideological choices of new Islamism. After the Bas¸aks¸ehir experience in Istanbul, the power of the central government was for the first time added to the capabilities of the Islamist municipal administrations in this project. In this regard, the project can be compared to the construction of a new district to shelter the new government buildings of the young republic and villas for the state elite in the 1920s (Batuman 2009). Yenis¸ehir, literally the new city of Ankara, was built on the expropriated land across the railroad, which until then served as the southern border of the town. This new city rising on a tabula rasa was seen as the site for the creation of the symbolic locus of the republic. Thus, it is not surprising to see the Islamists attempting to build a symbolic alternative to southern Ankara, which represented not only wealth but also the republican ideology with the Presidential Mansion located on the southern hills overlooking the city. Within this context, the aim of the project was defined as “bringing a new interpretation and a new definition to the city [of Ankara], which has grown distant to the urban image defined in 1923” (Ankara Metropolitan Municipality 2005). Although there was no reference to Islam, it was stated that the image of the city was intended to be redefined, without any clear indication what the new image would refer to. Moreover, with the words of the mayor, this site would be “a new living environment, every corner of which would be under surveillance with smart technologies” (quoted in Mutlu 2007: 105). The prospect of convergence of squatters and the new rich of new Islamism required strict control in urban space. Interestingly, the Islamic reference suppressed in the depictions of the project materialized in the minarets without mosques. After the rapid demolition of the squatter homes, the project site was a scene for a multitude of single minarets (Figure 3.7). Moreover, TOKI embraced the single minaret as the symbol of the project. A large signboard with the acronym of the organization was erected near a minaret

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Figure 3.7 Single minarets after slum clearance in the North Ankara project site Photograph by author.

on a small hill close to the road. That is, the minarets without mosques in the area were not seen as temporary defects to be corrected with replacing mosques and minarets. On the contrary, they were utilized as a component of the project’s emblem, representing the Islamist power executing it. New mosques were begun to be erected – the first one located on the hilltop facing the road at the southern end of the site – even before the residential blocks. In other words, although the textual representations of the project never referred to Islam(ism), the minarets fulfilled this task through their silent presence. As of September 2017, “Ankara’s largest külliye” is under construction here; its mosque dominates the site with its location on high ground, although this severely limits its accessibility (Figure 3.8). The Karacaören compound built for the squatters without titles was finished in 2008 (Figure 3.9). It comprises twelve- and fifteen-floor blocks having four apartments on a floor and low-rises with twin apartments in each floor. The compound contains 2,464 apartments; 1,464 were allocated to the squatters evicted from the project site and the rest were constructed to be sold. The compound includes a primary school, a high school, a shopping center, a health center, and a mosque as the main public facilities. While the residential blocks are organized in concentric lines, the open space created at the center contains the primary school (which is fenced for security reasons) and a park. The high school is located within a lot at the margins and serves students coming from other districts. The high school is named after Sabahattin Zaim, a professor and renowned conservative intellectual, who was famous for having taught some of the major figures of the AKP. The shopping center and the mosque are not located within the central open space but at the edge closer to the street tying the compound to the airport road.

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Figure 3.8 North Ankara Külliye under construction Photograph by author.

Figure 3.9 Karacaören compound for squatters without titles: 1. shopping mall, 2. mosque, 3. primary school, 4. “ladies center,” 5. health center, 6. high school, 7. park, 8. youth center Source: Google Earth (Image © 2016 DigitalGlobe).

A “ladies center” was opened by the district municipality at the central open space in 2010; it was followed by a youth center built close to the shopping center in 2011. In the final spatial organization, the site plan displays a gendered scheme: while the men are expected to use the spaces at the edge close to the entrance of the compound – the mosque and the shopping center – the open area in the middle is mostly used by women. Thus, not only the gender zones are separated in this way, but they are also spatially organized in accordance with their traditional roles in the household; the women inside and the man guarding the threshold between the inside and the outside. The families that moved here are required to pay monthly installments to be paid in fifteen years for their 90 m2 apartments. Although the monthly

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installments are relatively low in comparison to market rates, the income level of the squatters without regular jobs and employment security makes it a heavy burden. Even though the administration is not eager to foreclose the apartments in cases of failure to pay installments, squatters without regular jobs often give up and choose to sell their share to TOKI. The distance of the settlement to the airport road further isolates the compound. It is crucial to note that the extra apartments built in such projects mainly target the post-squatters living in various varos¸ quarters similar to the ones that initially populated the Bas¸aks¸ehir development. However, in the case of Karacaören, although these cheap apartments were quickly sold with extended payment plans, the deteriorating social environment led to the increase in the number of tenants. Field researches conducted inside the compound reveal the existence of crime, drug dealing, and prostitution along with high rates of youth unemployment (Erman 2016: 162–166). If we turn to the title-holders compound in the renewal area, the project site is morphologically a valley; both the slopes and the bottom are filled with gecekondus, and the road is located on the eastern side (Figure 3.6). While the existing urban fabric of low-income Keçiören surrounds the project site on the west, the empty terrain on the east is actually a linear hill overlooking a lake to the east. Hence, most of the high-rises built for the title-holders are located on the western side and the road was also relocated on this slope (which also required the construction of a tunnel and a bridge with heating against frost). In this way, the road acts as a border between the low-income housing on the western slope and the vast valley containing 700,000 m2 of recreational area (Figure 3.10). The eastern part of the site has views to the lake on the east and the valley on the west. The valley is virtually an extension of the high-income section which contains 10,000 units in luxury high-rises as well as terrace houses and detached villas. Although it was opened in 2014, its use was very limited as of 2017, since the inhabitants of the high-income compound had not settled yet. The title-holders compound was built in eighteen clusters containing 8,152 apartments within 186 blocks with ranging heights of seven to sixteen floors. Some of the blocks are so densely designed that they contain more than ninety Figure 3.10 North Ankara project site: (from left to right) the high-rise blocks for gecekondu owners (the külliye under construction is visible in distance), the relocated road to the airport, the recreational valley, the luxury residences under construction Photograph by author.

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units. Most of them are lined within a narrow strip along the new airport road and some to the north of the high-income section. The steep topography resulted in a significant amount of apartments to be located below entrance levels. The level difference on two sides of the lined blocks does not provide for open spaces except for the parking lots, which, in most of the clusters, serve as the sole open space for socialization. The women effectively use the parking lots for not only socializing but also various activities they pursue in the gardens of their gecekondu (such as drying legumes or wool) (Figure 3.11). The title-holders compound represents an attempt for social integration of squatters as part of the Islamic nation-building process, which is worth comparing with the modernization efforts of the early republican nation-building. For the republican elite, the secular nation-building project meant the transformation of the imperial subjects into modern citizens. One of the major instruments of this transformation was the modern home as a civilizing agent. Although they never became a systematic policy in mass housing for low income groups, examples searching for minimal, standardized, and industrial housing were executed in the 1930s, especially in the form of working-class collective housing (Bozdog˘an and Akcan 2012: 93–96). The important aspect of these experiments, in tune with the contemporary principles of social housing developed in the West, was the attention paid to, on the one hand, the efficient use of topography and orientation (i.e. functionalism), and on the other, the inclusion of spaces for community living integrating various types of housing units for different user profiles. The new Islamist housing enterprise, although it aims for social reorganization, strikingly fails to address both the technical and social dimensions of housing.

Figure 3.11 The appropriation of the parking lot by postsquatters: women airing cotton and picnicking in the shade of the retaining wall Photograph by author.

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The deployment of prefabrication most of the time dictates unimaginative plan solutions and frustrate the users who are accustomed to living on the ground level with courtyards and gardens used for household activities as well as socialization with neighbors. The primacy of economic efficiency also guides the site plans and disregards environmental conditions such as sunlight and open space organization. Another striking difference between the secular and Islamist nation-building projects is that while the former sought modernization and urbanization of the users inhabiting the new housing environments, the latter is after their economic integration through home ownership and cultural integration through the reproduction of their conservative value systems, consciously avoiding modernization as an objective.

CHALLENGES TO RE/DIS-LOCATION The North Ankara project took start as an ambitious attempt towards an Islamist utopia. It defined social categories to be included and excluded within the new Islamist settlement. The scale of the project required the construction of upper-class housing to fund the enterprise, which the project rapidly turned into the key component of the social prospect. The wealthy residents of the project would act similar to their counterparts in Bas¸aks¸ehir IV; they would socially mark the settlement with their economic power and Islamic identity, and physically settle across the recreational valley – conveniently distanced from the post-squatters yet sharing the public space of the valley with them. That is, the project provided both volunteer slum-upgrading and forced gentrification. The government successfully utilized this dual aspect in promoting the project. Karacaören compound was falsely presented to be built for the tenants (TOKI 2011: 87) and the North Ankara project received UN-HABITAT Best Practices Award in 2009 for not having aggrieved even the tenants in the area. The North Ankara project provided two different renewal strategies that would be taken over and developed in later projects. These two strategies targeted the upper and lower segments of the squatter population, differentiating and defining them with class identities. The upper segment was treated similar to the typical post-squatters and incorporated into the market relations as ­profit-seeking agents in return for the obligation to keep up with the Islamic cultural environment. This strategy opened room for the post-squatters to negotiate their gains with TOKI, which in the early projects resulted in unforeseen levels of building density. The prime example of this was the regeneration of Dog˘anbey district in downtown Bursa, which is a UNESCO heritage site with a rich history as an Ottoman capital. The project was initiated in 2006 and the design scheme was revised several times due to the pressure from the organized stakeholders (Batuman and Erkip 2017). The populist negotiations particularly created by the elections resulted in the worst case of renewal, since the constructed high-rises

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created a densely-populated housing compound with minimal open space and a terrible backdrop to the historical center. The disastrous outcome of twenty-three densely located twenty-three-floor blocks dominating the skyline in downtown Bursa was regarded as one of the biggest failures of TOKI even by the government officials. New legislation, especially the one in 2012 regarding the renewal of earthquake-prone areas, significantly reduced the bargaining power of the inhabitants. The lower segment of the squatter population, on the other hand, was relocated in the fringes and further dispossessed. While this group was also provided with the chance to own homes, it is almost impossible for the poor squatters without regular jobs to keep up with the mortgage payments (Lelandais 2014; Ünsal 2015). The distance of these compounds to the city centers, the lack of social facilities in the compounds, and the level of poverty result in rapid deterioration, decrease in apartment prices, and social problems such as drug use and crime. Being cut off from urban services as well as traditional informal job opportunities, the squatters return the apartments to TOKI and resettle in neighborhoods close to their earlier locations. This model has been used in cases where the squatters were either very poor or marginalized due to their ethnic identities or simply because the rent gap in the area encouraged swift gentrification. A typical example was the case of the Roma in their centuries-old home Sulukule, who could not survive in the TOKI compounds in Tas¸oluk at the western fringes of Istanbul (Uysal 2012; Islam and Sakızlıog˘lu 2015). Similarly, in Ayazma, Istanbul, poor Kurdish immigrants were swiftly evicted (Al 2015). This strategy was further refined as a tool of state-led gentrification with legislation further empowering the government in 2012. The organization of everyday life in these housing environments requires closer look since it presents the key issue in Islamic nation-building at microscale. It is necessary to discuss them in terms of the social production of space with respect to economy, governance, and culture. All three of these domains are interconnected and display mechanisms producing new subjectivities with reference to neoliberal restructuring and Islamization. What is crucial here is the neoliberal character of the AKP’s Islamism. It finds its reflection in the privatization of services and the making of a new type of governmentality, which comprises the disciplining of inhabitants, particularly the transformation of the post-squatters into middle classes. I argue that the Islamic nation – millet – is constructed through two major operations: the making of a neoliberal civility and the Islamization of public life. The municipality is the major actor in both of these operations, yet it utilizes two different sets of apparatuses for each of these operations. The biopolitics of middle classness is pursued with the hands of the companies (KI·PTAS¸ in Bas¸aks¸ehir and TOBAS¸ in North Ankara), which emerge as neoliberal dispositives par excellence. The Islamization of public life, meanwhile, is realized with the involvement of faith-based organizations under the control of the municipalities.

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Ownership The political economy of housing concerns the resident, who, within the new urban regeneration mechanism, is cut off from the traditional solidarity networks inherent in the squatter neighborhood. As the renewal schemes and the terms of expropriation are defined by TOKI and respective municipalities, this mechanism turns the title-holders into entrepreneurial subjects seeking profit maximization through urban renewal (Karaman 2014). Those without legal documents end up being victims of gentrification. The invention of different resident categories with respect to their legal status thwarts group mobilization against renewal (Kuyucu 2014).4 Here, there is a striking difference with the postwar urbanization based on the overlooking of squatting. Throughout the three decades following WWII, the cost of urban living for the Turkish squatters was compensated with the supply of free public land. In the current condition, in contrast, the squatters are integrated into the real estate market; the burden of mortgage payments is eased with the municipal aids. In both cases, the compensations are organized as offerings of the benevolent state, which establishes patronage relations between the citizens and the governments. An important distinction is that, while the occupation of land required the active agency of the squatter, the distribution of municipal aids turns them into passive receivers. Another significant comparison with the earlier mode of urbanization is the role of housing as investment for the middle classes. Especially in the 1980s, Turkish urban middle classes chose to invest in the touristic areas along the western and southern shores in the form of second homes (TOKI 1996; Manisa and Görgülü 2008). The post-squatter middle classes, in comparison, with their conservative distaste towards these cosmopolitan areas, found the redeveloping squatter areas as the perfect site for investment in housing. In this respect, it is appropriate to say that the social housing projects of the AKP in the gecekondu areas target the post-squatters not only as users but also as landlords. There is market-led property transfer at stake here, which is hard to define as gentrification. Nevertheless, the dislocated poor squatters, in the long run, end up as the tenants of post-squatters who had benefitted from earlier amnesties or religious networks for upward social mobility. The disciplinary role of indebtedness within neoliberal economy has been a topic of scrutiny in recent years (Graeber 2011; Lazzarato 2012). This effect is also valid in the domain of housing in Turkey, where mortgage market value increased from 2.4 billion TL ($1.18 billion) in 2004 to 97.5 billion TL ($48 billion) in 2014 (Erol 2016: 51). The squatter moving into her new home does not own the house and has to pay her mortgage regularly for a longer time period (Ergüder 2015). Meanwhile the ownership of the apartment remains at TOKI. These conditions produce political consent in two ways: while the indebted resident refrains from showing support to opposition parties not to face obstacles in her interactions with the municipal authority, she also feels the urge to support the AKP for the sake of economic stability (Bug˘ra and Keyder 2003; Kart 2015). For instance,

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although the residents of Karacaören frequently voiced their dissatisfaction with the compound, the election results displayed overwhelming support (89%) for the AKP (Erman 2016: 219).

Scale Another control mechanism emerging from economic organization is the division of the housing environment into smaller parts. The title-holders compound in North Ankara was built in eighteen clusters contracted to eighteen different companies. The division of the housing development serves a number of functions. It is first of all an efficient method to increase the speed of housing production. The smaller clusters make it possible to assign to smaller sub-contractors, which reduces the companies’ liabilities. This limits the need for higher skills and knowhow, which in return expands the network of clientelist relations centered around KI·PTAS¸ and TOBAS¸ horizontally and vertically; that is, to a larger number of contractors and with varying operational capacities. But the definition of “clusters” does not only serve the physical production of the district. It also plays a significant role in the social (re)production of space. The random definition of the scale of the cluster defines a unit that is not self-sufficient. In both Bas¸aks¸ehir and North Ankara, the unit is merely a cluster of apartment buildings and is dependent on the spatial configuration of the overall settlement. Since the social use of space does not produce scales (such as street or neighborhood), the managerial scales are dictated to the social life in the settlement. Thus, the spatial organization of the housing estate is strictly tied to its managerial organization, which introduces scales of control over both the political economy of construction and the regulation of everyday life. The scale of housing is defined in Turkish as site, a cluster of high-rise blocks minimizing socialization among neighbors. While this way of life was already the norm for urban middle-classes, the emergence of site as a new settlement scale is worth discussion. The Flat Ownership Act, which addressed the single apartment building with multiple flats built in one lot, was amended in 1983 recognizing the increasing number of sites containing multiple blocks in single lots. The urban regeneration projects implemented after 2005 resulted in the definition of a new scale of settlement with multiple blocks built on multiple lots and the management of these multi-cluster settlements – such as Bas¸aks¸ehir IV and V – required new legal definitions for ownership (of shared spaces) and management in these settlements. This need was fulfilled with a new amendment in 2007, requiring “management plans” for multi-block, multi-lot compounds. The intricate management services necessitated specialized organizations. Istanbul Metropolitan Municipality established Bog˘aziçi Management, the first company specialized in housing management, in 1997. This was later followed by TOKI’s Emlak Management in 2009. Today, the housing compounds produced by KI·PTAS¸ and TOKI· are run by either one of these two companies.

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Normally, the power to manage a multi-unit building belongs to the residents, who establish an executive board. In the case of North Ankara, all the titles are in the hands of TOKI; in Bas¸aks¸ehir, KI·PTAS¸ continuously postpones the necessary paperwork for the residents to own title deeds which does not prevent them from inhabiting their apartments and even selling their houses but keeps the control of the social environment in the hands of Bog˘aziçi Management. Hence, the control of the social environment is always in the hands of the management companies. This not only strips the residents off their right to their environment, but it also forces them to be disciplined through the rules, regulations, and staff of the company. The failure to pay maintenance fees results in receiving threatening notices, which are highly uncommon in regular apartment buildings in Turkey. Thus, the companies serve as alienated mechanisms of discipline.

Governance by management While both KI·PTAS¸ and TOBAS¸ are municipal establishments, they are p ­ rofit-seeking companies, distancing the municipality from the residents in their official affairs. That is, the companies as mediators de-politicize the demands of the residents. While a citizen, especially under the early Islamist rule of the RP, could visit the mayor and make requests regarding municipal services, the transfer of the control of housing to the companies makes it impossible to find an interlocutor for the mortgage payer. It is not even the company itself that collects the installments, but private banks. The relocated squatters are subject to rules and regulations rearranging the rhythms of their everyday practices. In the new housing complexes they are introduced to written rules prohibiting the “misuse” of the environment such as the expansion of indoor activities (cooking, hosting guests, growing vegetables, etc.) to the outside and the violation of the clear-cut differentiation of public and private spaces. These rules conflict with the former patterns of everyday life for the part of the squatters and result in their being frequently warned by the security staff (Erman 2008; Uzunçars¸ılı Baysal 2009). Everyday life in the new settlements is regulated by these companies; and it is not only the houses that are controlled in this way but also the open spaces of the compounds. As I discussed previously, the initial design of Bas¸aks¸ehir lacked spaces for socialization. After the AKP’s rise to power, both public spaces and Islamic signs and landmarks in these locales began to flourish. In Bas¸aks¸ehir, the valley connecting and separating Bas¸aks¸ehir IV and V was designed as a park in 2009 to serve as the main public space. Similarly, the valley in North Ankara project site lies between the title-holders compound and the upper-class residences. Interestingly, the landscape intended to work as a connector between the poor and the rich increases the prices since they are marketed as having “a view to the valley.” The valley functions as the spine connecting various clusters (site) as well as the park as the recreational space with mosques, cafes, restaurants, and sports facilities. In Bas¸aks¸ehir, in addition to these facilities, open and closed

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spaces – such as a 1,200-person amphitheater and a 1,000-person wedding hall – house activities, most of which are organized by the municipality or the NGOs. The domed building of the wedding hall is advertised as being a fine example “uniting Turkish-Islamic architecture with modern architecture” (Bas¸aks¸ehir Municipality 2014: 93). The valley in North Ankara was envisaged as an alternative hub in the capital with convention centers, municipal buildings, and upper-class hotels rather than a residential recreational area. As the construction process extended, the ambitious functions ascribed to the site waned. In the newly created public spaces, class positions reflect themselves in distinct spatial practices. Typical actions transgressing “normal” behaviors in a park (such as stepping on the grass and eating sunflower seeds) commonly seen in gecekondu renewal areas are found here as well. The residents are expected to sit on the benches and not the grass. Yet, they prefer to bring their rugs to lie on the grass with their tea mugs to picnic. Moreover, it is not only the lower stratum of the post-squatters that transgress and appropriate the public space of the valley in Bas¸aks¸ehir. The wealthier residents have invented a spatial form labeled “women’s cafeterias” (Çavus¸ 2013). These spaces are actually villas adjacent to the park, which were turned into businesses by their owners. They serve food, and even provide service for events organized in these spaces as well as homes. These are gendered spaces exclusive to women used for upper-class sohbet meetings. The retreat of the wealthy female residents of Bas¸aks¸ehir IV to the indoor space here is striking. Since Bas¸aks¸ehir prides itself in “safety” and the open spaces are left to women during the day, the emergence of women’s cafeterias can only be explained in terms of class distinction and the reluctance of the Islamic bourgeoisie to mingle with their post-squatter neighbors.

Spreading piety The Islamization of public life, on the other hand, is also directed by the municipalities and realized with the involvement of faith-based organizations. The Islamic communities (cemaat) have always been important in Islamist politics and the social life in Turkey (Mardin 1989). The cemaats are established around a charismatic leader and some of these groups are affiliated with hierarchically organized orders (tarikat). While such religious groups have always been influential, their visibility increased after 2002. The religious orders are highly functional in the new housing compounds. The sohbet meetings of different income groups are actively pursued and some of the orders rent out apartments (or acquire them free of charge) for their activities. The informal orders began to formalize their organizations with the establishment of associations, NGOs, foundations, and even companies. The links between the religious communities and the affiliated formal organizations are almost never openly acknowledged. Yet, the formalization of the organizations makes them recognizable institutions, vulnerable to state control.5 The

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government, or the municipality for that matter, creates opportunities for the activities of these religious communities towards Islamization of everyday lives of citizens, provided that the community is operating through traceable and registered organizations such as associations, foundations, or companies. They are provided with lots or buildings that belong to the municipality to be used as student housing, schools, and private tutoring centers. The venues of the municipalities, which increased in number after 2002, were allocated to these organizations for cultural and educational activities as well as charity work.6 In Bas¸aks¸ehir, all of the social and cultural facilities belong to the municipality, and they are used almost exclusively for events with Islamic content. Non-religious residents complain that there is no cultural activity not associated with Islam (Gürgün 2014: 65–67). The religious organizations, meanwhile, complain about municipal control over their activities and demand autonomy in their operations (Bas¸aks¸ehir NGO Platform 2013). Faith-based organizations have become a global phenomenon regardless of religion due to the increase in poverty, inequality, and social exclusion under conditions of neoliberalism (Beaumont and Cloke 2007; Clarke, Jennings and Shaw 2008; Hefferan, Adkins and Occhipinti 2009). Such organizations involve in charity and social service provision and have been particularly effective in the Global South. In the modern Islamic world, faith-based organizations have been an important instrument in the grassroots expansion of political Islam (Clark 2004; Ben Nefissa et al. 2005; Harb 2008). What is significant within the neoliberal era is the transformation of the faith-based organizations towards bridging religious and neoliberal subjectivities through new modes of governmentality (Watts 2003; Atia 2012). Individualism, entrepreneurship, self-improvement, and productivity are preached alongside religious rules (I·pek Can 2007; Aydog˘mus¸ 2010). The Islamic faith-based organizations advocate volunteerism, which turns into a performative component of the middle-class subjectivity they suggest. A significant case illustrating the cooperation among municipalities and faith-based organizations and the latter’s role as social mediators is the Sacrifice Feast (Eid al-Adha). The religious significance of the Feast is its promotion of solidarity and charity among Muslims. The wealthy members of a community sacrifice animals, and the meat is then shared with neighbors – especially the poor members of the community. The ritual requires face-to-face relations among neighbors and commands that no poor family is denied share from the sacrificial meal. After Bas¸aks¸ehir became a district municipality, one of the initial undertakings of the municipality was the construction of a large slaughter ground. The venue was advertised as “the most modern sacrifice area in Turkey” and became operational in 2010. Observing the 2010 Sacrifice Feast in Bas¸aks¸ehir, Çavdar (2014: 113–122) reports on the sterile conduct of the process and the replacement of social contact with a mechanic procedure of slaughter and distribution. The most striking aspect of this “modernized” process is the lack of social encounters and the undertaking of the social dimensions of the ritual by the religious organizations. The vital aspect of the ritual, sharing with the needy, is left to these organizations, which

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saves wealthy Muslims the burden of getting in touch with the poor. Moreover, the distribution of shares is realized through networks of each religious community and those outside these networks – even if they are poor – are left out. In the case of Bas¸aks¸ehir, the residents of earthquake and migrant housing compounds comprise the poorest groups in Bas¸aks¸ehir; yet, since they are non-Islamists, they are cast out of the social (charity) networks (S¸ahin-Malkoç 2014). The municipalities function in the Islamization of everyday life in the new housing environments not only indirectly through facilitating the activities of the faith-based organizations. They are also actively involved in both the implementation of neoliberal governance and Islamization of everyday life. The municipalities establish “ladies centers” and “youth centers” in the neighborhoods, which do not aim to “urbanize the squatters” but rather help them integrate through self-improvement (Erman 2016: 235–245). The “ladies centers” aim at molding women into responsible mothers and wives while providing them with opportunities to recognize their individuality and improve their skills – particularly ones that would contribute to the household income. The municipalities also directly organize mass events. The organization of collective iftar (fast-breaking) gatherings is illustrative in terms of the expansion of Islamist municipalities’ charity functions as well as the gradual increase in the urban visibility of Islamic practices. With the takeover of major metropolitan administrations by Islamist candidates, the 1990s witnessed the organization of collective fast-breaking practices for the first time. These organizations took place in public spaces, yet they were performed within temporary structures. While these structures were enlarged in time, after 2007, not only such temporary structures but the open public spaces themselves were thoroughly occupied by such activities. For instance, the large open space of the Atatürk Cultural Center in Ankara (the old Hippodrome) was a scene for collective fast-breaking in 2010, in which 70,000 people were served meals (Hürriyet 3.9.2010). Similarly, Bas¸aks¸ehir Municipality organized a collective meal for 20,000 people in the newly-opened stadium in 2014 and used the valley for a 40,000-person meal in 2015. Moreover, the valley has become the major site of Ramadan activities in Bas¸aks¸ehir with indoor and outdoor activities (Bas¸aks¸ehir Belediyesi 11.07.2015). Aside from collective meals for fast-breaking, municipalities often organize circumcision festivals and collective weddings performing these rituals in Islamic forms. An important instrument in the Islamization of urban space has been the names given to streets, parks, and venues. Not only in Bas¸aks¸ehir and North Ankara but in all the cities where Islamist mayors are in office, public spaces have been named after Ottoman sultans, historical religious figures, and modern Islamist intellectuals. Toponymic erasure is a significant instrument in the symbolic construction of the public space. The site of a fierce ideological battle over names and symbols was the capital city itself immediately after the election of the RP mayor in 1994. In addition to the names of streets, parks, and squares, the mayor changed the city emblem with the support of right-wing members of the municipal assembly. The old emblem referring to ancient Anatolian civilizations was

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replaced with a stylized mosque silhouette. Despite public protests and a court order cancelling his new emblem, the mayor refused to re-use the old emblem and introduced a third emblem, which is a replica of the earlier one with small changes in the details to elude court rulings (Demirer 2016).

TOKI in context Finally, it is worth considering similar international examples in order to evaluate TOKI’s performance with respect to the production of social space. Although every national context where construction industry has been active witnessed the rise of public and/ or private agencies, what is significant for our discussion is the attempt at building Islamic communities. In this respect, the reconstruction of Beirut provides a relevant case for comparison with TOKI. In Beirut, two different reconstruction agencies were active throughout two different reconstruction periods. The first of these concerned the city’s downtown, which was severely damaged during the civil war. It was redeveloped in the 1990s with the hand of Solidere, a private company established with a governmental decree. The company was granted tax-exemption and exclusive development rights in the city center. It expropriated the whole downtown area and then turned the parcels into shares to form the necessary capital. Although the reconstruction of downtown Beirut has been criticized heavily for gentrifying the city center, it was seen as a successful model and copied throughout Arab cities (Shwayri 2008; Sawalha 2010; Carmona 2013). The Solidere model has been shown as the prime example of neoliberal urban restructuring that has mobilized transnational funds across the Middle East (such as the Bahrain Financial Harbor in Manama and the Dreamland in Cairo). An interesting example adopting this model was Jordan’s capital Amman, where a single purpose development corporation, Abdali Investment and Development Company, modeled after Solidere, was established. What was different in the case of Amman was that this company was not the major actor but a venture of an empowered state agency, Mawared. Mawared was established in 2000 as a semi-independent, state-owned corporation to initially redevelop inner-city military areas (Daher 2008). It quickly became Jordan’s largest real estate developer and its major instrument in urban renewal. The corporation then initiated the ambitious downtown reconstruction project Abdali for Amman and established the respective company. Interestingly, the restructuring of TOKI shares certain features with Jordan’s Mawared as a public entity operating as a private corporation and directing urban regeneration and real estate development through the privileges it controls and provides for investors. However, TOKI’s involvement in housing production differentiates it from these examples. While it is also pursuing mega projects, three major aspects caused TOKI to focus on housing more than its counterparts in the Middle East. The first obvious reason is that it was originally established for mass housing production. The second reason is the resistance to the government’s

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mega projects – particularly those related to the revitalization of the city centers – pursued by various actors of urban politics. The obstruction of such projects made housing the most practical venture within the construction sector. Finally, as I have shown throughout this chapter, housing has been an important political instrument in expanding the social base of new Islamism in Turkey. In this respect, it is worth comparing TOKI with the second reconstruction model that was affective in Beirut. Following the devastating Israeli air strikes on the dominantly Shiite southern suburbs of Beirut – al-Dahiye – controlled by Hezbollah, the party undertook the rapid reconstruction of the area in 2006. Establishing a private agency, Waad (promise), to coordinate the reconstruction process, Hezbollah utilized Lebanese state funds (not allowing the state to be involved any further) and overseas support (particularly from Iran). The property owners in the area were organized and urban professionals were mobilized to develop design guidelines (Alamuddin 2010; Harb and Fawaz 2010; Carmona 2013; Fawaz 2014). Despite the success in rapid reconstruction, the types, sizes, and heights of the buildings were mostly maintained with minor alterations to improve public spaces. If one reason for this was the existing zoning regulations (dated back to 1956), another was that Hezbollah did not seek to alter the existing property relations even for the sake of economic gain. Thus, the Waad experience was praised by various scholars and professionals as a positive example of participatory planning resisting gentrification and commodification of urban space. However, there were also criticisms arguing that this was not an alternative to neoliberal planning since the approach to property was in tune with the neoliberal logic resting on the abstraction of space and its reduction to a cadastral commodity. Moreover, it was also pointed that the project served Hezbollah to reproduce its political and ideological control over the neighborhood, its identity, and future (Fawaz 2014). The case of Waad is significant for our discussion since it presents a case where Islamic community building was juxtaposed with neoliberal urban regime despite the intention to prioritize the former over the latter. In fact, Hezbollah’s control over the social production of urban space and the Islamization of everyday life in al-Dahiye goes beyond the post-2006 reconstruction (Harb 2008). Nevertheless, the combination of social Islamization and physical reconstruction has parallels as well as differences with TOKI’s renewal practice in the gecekondu areas in Turkey. Although in TOKI’s case profit-making plays a much more important role, building of Islamic communities is a shared trait. In this respect, TOKI seems to bring together the Solidere model with Waad’s concern to religious identity. Both Lebanon’s Hezbollah and Turkey’s AKP seek to achieve Islamic community life in the housing environments (albeit with sectarian differences). In both cases, the religious identity is imagined to be shared by all residents, and this necessarily ends up in the exclusion and/or segregation of those not conforming to the ideal image. In both cases, secular and liberal individuals fall into this category; but also there are those dismissed due to their ethnic or religious identities. In ­Shiite-dominated al-Dahiye, it was the Christians who gradually left the area

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throughout the 1990s with the situation of Hezbollah headquarters in the neighborhood. In Turkish renewal zones, the Alevi minorities are consistently cast out; they often choose to conceal their identities and perform Sunni rituals (Erman 2016: 283–289).

ISLAMIC SETTLEMENT AND ITS DISCONTENTS The new Islamist housing environments targeted two main social groups along with the pious bourgeoisie: post-squatters whose gecekondu neighborhoods had been upgraded to densely-built varos¸ quarters and provided them with a certain level of capital accumulation (after the 1980s), and the existing squatters whose gecekondu neighborhoods became the sites of current renewal projects. The move to the new housing compounds provided improved physical conditions as well as opportunities in real estate investment. However, whether it was the gecekondu or the varos¸, the price of this move in both cases was the loss of the neighborhood as social space. The gecekondu neighborhood is characterized by high levels of cooperation and solidarity. The varos¸ quarters did not disintegrate the existing social bonds in the neighborhoods and even created business opportunities within a distinct economic habitat comprising petty-bourgeois entrepreneurs, consumers, and unskilled labor power. As a result, even in cases where the post-squatters chose to move to new houses outside the varos¸, they continued to be attached to these areas through their business links. That is, the new Islamist housing environment has to surmount two alternate housing environments: the gecekondu neighborhood still alive in the memories of the relocated squatters and the varos¸ districts with which the post-squatters still actively interact. In both cases of Bas¸aks¸ehir and North Ankara, the users complain about the lack of social interactions in the housing compounds. Apartment life triggers the atomization of the neighborhood and undermines the paternalistic control mechanisms, which is immoral for the Islamists particularly in terms of gender relations.7 Hence, the creation of open spaces in the housing compounds becomes problematic: while the inhabitants seek spaces to interact, these very spaces contain the potentials of transgressing conservative morals. Moreover, the aspiration to build larger settlements require even larger public spaces which become the sites of confrontation for different ethnic, religious (sectarian), gender, and class identities. Therefore, it is possible to say that the new housing compounds are found unsatisfactory by both their users and the Islamists. While for the former these compounds do not provide lively social environments, they fail to establish a truly Islamic milieu for the latter. Interestingly, both of these views resort to the same concept to represent what is missing: mahalle. Mahalle is the Turkish word for neighborhood, and is also an administrative unit inherited from the Ottoman system. The Ottoman millet system found its physical expression in the mahalle, which was initially controlled by the religious leader and later (with the nineteenth century reforms) the muhtar as the head of

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the neighborhood. The Ottoman mahalle was generally occupied by a homogeneous population of similar faith. Since the shared space of worship comprised the focus of mahalle, it was also physically defined by this center – the mosque in the case of Muslim neighborhoods. Obviously, the association of the mahalle with a particular identity and its celebration as a harmonious social unit necessitates the exclusion of differences (Bartu 2002). Therefore, mahalle simultaneously refers to an existing urban social realm and an idealized cultural milieu marked by harmony, face-to-face relations, and sense of community. In this respect, it can represent both the destroyed social milieu in the gecekondu quarter and an ideal image of housing environment. Appropriately, mahalle was the first architectural image deployed for the advertisement of gated communities in Turkey (Özaslan, Akalın and Wilson 2011). It was idealized as the space of neighborliness and sense of community and was utilized as a marketing tool nostalgically referring to an urban milieu preceding the arrival of migrants (Bozdog˘an and Akcan 2012: 252–257). Mahalle as a representation is also deployed for the promotion of recent urban renewal projects, particularly in cases where Istanbul’s run-down historical quarters are gentrified. The projects produced for areas such as Sulukule, Süleymaniye, and Fener-Balat, all of which are within the historical peninsula, claim to get inspirations from the traditional Ottoman mahalle.8 Here, mahalle as an architectural signifier assumes a new – ideological – representation within the urban politics of AKP; that of the Islamic urban environment. Interestingly, the failure to generate social interaction within the new compounds triggered criticisms from not only users but also prominent Islamic figures and intellectuals. Particularly in the case of Bas¸aks¸ehir, all commentators expressed disappointment in the making of an Islamic milieu (Çavdar 2014: 156–172). Prior to the local elections in 2013, the Bas¸aks¸ehir NGO Platform (bringing together forty-five different organizations) published a report that argued that the lack of spaces for socialization brought about an “imminent danger of the youth to be addicted to harmful habits” (Bas¸aks¸ehir NGO Platform 2013). Moreover, the report expressed dissatisfaction with the valley, which provided “unsafe” environments with the undermonitored cafés. It was demanded that the valley be reorganized as a “culture valley” with cultural venues that would be allotted to the NGOs. Another emphasis of the report concerned the mosques: new worship spaces were requested inside the valley and the surroundings of the existing mosques were also demanded to be reorganized as social spaces. Since Bas¸aks¸ehir had not developed along a preconceived design, the proposal to build a center for Bas¸aks¸ehir in 2014 was celebrated as the opportunity to transform Bas¸aks¸ehir into a truly Islamic milieu. The new center was initially envisaged to replace the migrant and earthquake compounds – appropriately the misfit elements of Bas¸aks¸ehir. However, property ownership issues proved to be a serious obstacle; and the site was changed to the north of Bas¸aks¸ehir III (Onurkent) as a trigger for future development in northwest direction. With the initial news of the project, the Bas¸aks¸ehir NGO Platform established an “Urbanism

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Commission” to raise suggestions to influence the project. Arguing that the initial location amidst the early stages was more appropriate for a new center, the report described the indispensable reference in building an urban center: the Ottoman city. It was claimed that the Ottoman city developed in concentric zones with a large mosque and a külliye at the center, which was surrounded by cultural and commercial facilities in the first tier and residences in the second one. Interestingly, according to the report, the government buildings and businesses should only be settled in the third tier, minimizing their hegemonic influence. This was the national – milli – urban scheme, which was to be followed in the remaking of Bas¸aks¸ehir via its new center. The Commission saw the main problem in Bas¸aks¸ehir as alienation due to the loss of mahalle and its culture. According to the report, mahalle culture meant neighborliness: trust among inhabitants and communal performance of activities and rituals. The existing housing compounds in Bas¸aks¸ehir were found lacking the sense of mahalle and it was reported that the residents were choosing to visit their old neighborhoods (varos¸) for holidays and shopping. This was related to the “failure to build Bas¸aks¸ehir in tune with the milli principles of urbanization.” The report saw the solution to the problems of Bas¸aks¸ehir in the further Islamization of everyday life; mosques should occupy central locations and act as spaces of cultural interaction and social integration. Interestingly, the Commission gave particular consideration to the graveyard, which was seen as a landmark denoting the (religious) identity of the district. Thus, it was argued that the graveyard should be exclusive to the residents of Bas¸aks¸ehir. The comment on the role and use of the graveyard perfectly illustrates the dialectics of mahalle as a cultural representation: seeking harmony within results in hostility towards the outside. The absence of social vibrancy and the disregard to spatial quality in the new housing environments have been major issues of criticism directed to TOKI. While the secular opposition to the AKP has been vocal in the objections raised against TOKI’s urban renewal schemes, it is interesting to observe the rather mild critiques coming from conservative intellectuals. Curiously, these critiques also referred to the loss of mahalle and the failure of TOKI to produce a substitute for it (Alver 2013; Aktas¸ 2016: 65–96). It is worth noting that such criticisms also targeted the increasing number of gated communities built for the pious bourgeoisie, which are identified with gender segregation in social facilities. Studies conducted in these compounds also reflect the uneasiness felt by the residents who longed for an idealized mahalle life with the awareness of having left an actual mahalle they had lived in earlier (Alver 2007: 156–203). The evolution of the North Ankara project was also influenced by these criticisms. With the recognition of the impracticality of creating an urban hub that would attract users and investment from different parts of the city, the municipality chose to limit economic ambitions and further emphasize ideological aspirations. In tune with the Urbanism Commission report of Bas¸aks¸ehir NGO Platform desiring a city center around a külliye, a large one – arguably the largest one in Ankara – was begun construction in North Ankara in 2013. The 65,000 m2 site of

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the külliye (which is roughly equal to the size of the sixteenth century Süleymaniye Külliye in Istanbul) is situated on high ground along the airport road with no direct access. The site is above the level of the valley as well as the housing compounds except for a small group of clusters to the north. Imitating Ottoman külliyes, the complex contains cultural and commercial facilities supporting the mosque as its centerpiece. The mosque itself is also a neo-Ottoman example built in reinforced concrete and is large enough to host 10,000 worshippers (Ankara Metropolitan Municipality 2015). Considering the number of mosques amongst housing blocks, it is clear that the size of the mosque is not related to the demand but the ideological ambition to build a landmark. The second important component of the complex is a convention center displaying Ottoman and Seljuk architectural features such as domes, tower pavilions, pointed arches, and striped cladding (imitating historical masonry). A linear axis connecting the mosque and the convention center serves as the backbone of the complex tying the other functions that directly copy the program of a typical Ottoman külliye: arasta (aligned shops), library, as¸evi (soup kitchen), hamam (public bath), and bedesten (enclosed market). Although the complex is not yet functional, it is unlikely for especially the commercial facilities to be economically sustainable. Nevertheless, the municipality has previously built unfeasible commercial facilities in a similar fashion and either filled the vacant shops with its own ventures or allotted them to religious NGOs. It is yet to be seen to what extent the dictation of nostalgic architectural images and accompanying spatial forms will achieve social sustainability in North Ankara. With increasing criticisms on the deficiency of social liveliness in its housing compounds, TOKI also has turned to “tradition” and “mahalle” as key concepts in designing housing environments. The administration organized an architectural competition “to promote contemporary settlements inspired by traditional architecture” in 2014. This was followed by a second one specifically mentioning “mahalle” as its central theme in 2017. Articles referring to the Ottoman mahalle as a model also began to appear in TOKI’s publications (TOKI Haber 2016: 30–31).

Figure 3.12 “New architectural concept” of TOKI: proposal for Iznik (Source: TOKI 2015a)

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New urban renewal projects, especially the ones proposed for mid-size Anatolian towns often refer to mahalle in terms of structure and scale. The Administration’s “renewed vision” sought “to reflect the sense of a civilization along with the traditional and the vernacular (emphasis mine)” (TOKI 2015a: 1–2). The “new settlements” produced in light of “experience of previous years and the expectations of millet” would now “maintain a sense of belonging” and physically exhibit a new model of “chain of mahalles” (TOKI 2015b: 3–7). In the new schemes, low-rise blocks (defined as “horizontal architecture”) are adorned with vernacular architectural features and are organized with a noticeable attention paid to create centers marked by mosques (Figure 3.12). New public spaces with mosques as their centerpieces were also added to the existing TOKI compounds.

CONCLUSION This chapter aimed to move beyond an economic point of view on space production in contemporary Turkish cities. Housing provision especially has been a significant apparatus in juxtaposing the political economy of urban space with the attempt to build a middle-class Islamic habitus – which is the core of redefining “nation” in Islamic terms. Thus, the rebuilding of an Islamic nation – millet – has rested on the making and the strategic management of this Islamic habitus through architecture and everyday life in addition to economy. The successful merger of Islam and neoliberalism has been a key element in the enduring political hegemony of the AKP’s new Islamism. At the level of political economy, this merger corresponded to the balancing of neoliberal accumulation strategies with the peculiar welfare regime creating a proletariat dependent on the benevolent state. This welfare regime operated through local administrations and the faithbased organizations acting as intermediaries and provided channels of accumulation for the post-squatter middle classes. Yet, on the level of everyday, the housing enterprise fulfilled a multifaceted function. It not only served as an economic tool but also played role as a social process. Understanding housing as a process requires first of all taking into consideration the fact that home-ownership is acquired within a period via mortgage mechanisms, which, especially for poorer squatters forced into TOKI compounds, does not evade the risk of eviction. More importantly, housing as process refers to the housing estate as social space, which is also produced through the performance of various actors. The characterization of the new Islamist millet rests on a vague definition of middle classness comprising elements of modernity, nationalism, Islamic cultural values, and neoliberal agency. In this context, two major components of the Islamic habitus emerged as neoliberal civility and Islamization of culture. These components are pursued with the hands of local administrations, which function as major instruments of biopolitical governance aiming to impose Islamic habitus on squatters and post-squatters alike, albeit in varying ways. Biopolitical

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governance in and through housing operates via the demands and desires of the subjects. Home ownership, social mobility, access to business networks, establishing cultural capital, and (especially in the case of women) empowerment through self-help provide lines of operation and offer legitimacy to the Islamization of everyday life in the new housing environments. In this respect, the success of Turkish new Islamism in building consent cannot be attributed simply to their political vision. In fact, the negotiation between the post-squatter middle classes and the successive Islamist parties gave way to a dynamic relationship. The former demanded a place in the city distinct not only from the stigmatized varos¸ but also the frenzy of the metropolitan life that they had always been skeptical towards. In response, the latter came up with schemes of convergence bringing together various class positions expected to be harmonized via Islam. Yet, the new Islamist experiments to this end have not yet succeeded in resolving the tensions created in the housing environments.

NOTES 1

2

3

4

5

6

Commodification of the slums has been a common trait in other parts of the developing world. For instance see, Ramirez et al. (1992) on Caracas and Soliman (2004) on Cairo and Alexandria. For a positive view on squatters as developers, see Mukhija (2003). Although there was no systematic count of the displaced population, human rights organizations have estimated the number of people who were forced to migrate in the 1990s to be over 1.5 million. See, Human Rights Watch (2002). A critical issue here is the success of the middle-class activists in winning the support of the urban poor. Here, the Turkish case differs significantly from other cases in the Middle East. As Janine Clark (2004) demonstrated through a comparative analysis on the Islamist charity networks in Egypt, Jordan, and Yemen, these networks generally end up serving the middle classes. In contrast, as White (2002) has shown, Turkish Islamists successfully established patronage ties with the urban poor. For a similar process where Hezbollah’s urban renewal projects in the poor suburbs of Beirut utilized a similar strategy of varying levels of compensation to diminish opposition to renewal projects, see Bou Akar (2005) and Roy (2009). A striking example of this was the crackdown on the NGOs, educational and cultural institutions, and businesses (including banks) affiliated with the Gülen Movement after the attempted coup on July 15, 2016. In addition to the seizure of hundreds of companies, legal transactions with these entities were also accepted as evidence for arrests. Cultural industries have come to the foreground parallel to the governments’ desire to support Istanbul’s regional and global potentials. Since the 1990s, the city, and especially its historical centers along the Bosphorus, housed increasing numbers of international culture organizations (Enlil, Evren and Dinçer 2011). Istanbul’s selection as one of the three cities for “European Capitals of Culture” in 2010 further encouraged this trend (Göktürk, Soysal and Türeli 2010). The AKP also supported this strategy of promoting Istanbul’s cultural industries, which resulted in the increase of newly built cultural venues in the city. By 2012, Istanbul had eleven cultural centers that belonged to the metropolitan municipality and seventy-nine centers run by district municipalities

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7 8

(Ince 2012: 187). These cultural centers differed drastically in size and function. While the larger ones located in the center serve the promotion of Istanbul as a world city, the local ones function as community centers housing social and cultural activities of education, exhibitions, concerts, meetings, and even weddings. Hence, they are vital locales in the Islamization of public life in residential areas. For an interesting comment from an Islamic intellectual on the macho anxieties and violence triggered by the relocation of squatters, see Aktas¸ (2016: 187–190). For references to the mahalle in the cases of Sulukule, Süleymaniye, and Fener-Balat, see Istanbul Metropolitan Municipality (2006), Çavus¸og˘lu and Strutz (2014: 138–139), and Bozdog˘an and Akcan (2012: 290–291), respectively.

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Chapter 4: From the urban revolution of new Islamism to the revolution of the urban Public space and architectures of resistance

Henri Lefebvre’s concept of “urban revolution,” coined in 1970 with his famous The Urban Revolution, revolutionized our way of thinking about the urban. While until then, urbanization was conceived as a process of accumulation (of population, capital, resources, services, relations, etc.), Lefebvre pointed out that the increasing pace of accumulation in the city was coupled by the expansion of its reach across the globe. He defined this process as “the complete urbanization of society” with an emphasis on the dialectics of “implosion/ explosion.” Accordingly, “the tremendous concentration . . . of urban reality” went hand in hand with “the immense explosion, the projection of numerous, disjunct fragments . . . into space” (Lefebvre 2003: 14). The concept of urban revolution provides a fitting framework for my discussion in this chapter. I want to scrutinize the increasing dominance of the urban and especially what I will define as “the complete urbanization of politics” under the AKP. While this is very much related to the global primacy of the urban, I would like to argue that there is more to the complete urbanization of politics in Turkey. In the previous chapter, I have shown how the Turkish Islamists successfully built hegemony through urban politics. What is important here is that this process comprised hybrid mechanisms developed through the experiences of grassroots mobilizations in the larger cities and the entrepreneurial networks in mid-size towns of Anatolia. The transfer and hybridization of mechanisms among varying sizes of urban settlements points to an important aspect of “complete urbanization”: the simultaneous processes of implosion/explosion cannot be understood in binary opposition where the former is a quantitative accumulation and the latter a qualitative extension of the urban condition. On the contrary, this is a multilateral process – not even a bilateral one where the city and the country interact – with a multitude of dynamics becoming urbanized and in turn reshaping what is urban (in a hybrid

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form). In line with this idea, what I would like to propose is that the new Islamist reign in Turkey represents an urban revolution translating all of the political forces into urban forms. This meant on the one hand the transferring of political forms (of organization, action, as well as imagination) from outside the urban realm into the city and on the other the remolding of various lines of political opposition to the AKP within urban politics. This multidimensional process finally led to a political explosion of the urban, culminating in the urban form par excellence: the public space. Thus, the main focus of this chapter will be the spectacular Gezi protests of 2013, which represents the revolution of the urban, a predicament of the urban revolution of new Islamism in Turkey. The reign of the AKP has from the beginning been marked by constant – and at times fierce – opposition. This was not surprising since the political establishment was ferociously against an Islamist government and tried every means to topple the government including threats of military intervention and lawsuits to close down the party. In the face of this threat, the new Islamists, who had learned from their experience in the earlier decade, chose to develop alliances and build up a large coalition. Promising democratization, the AKP aimed towards fulfilling EU membership requirements and sought solution to all the chronic political problems: the Kurdish problem on top of the list, followed by problems faced by other oppressed minorities including Alevis as well as non-Muslims. This domestic policy was coupled with initiatives to end ongoing conflicts with Greece and Armenia. The AKP also promised to overcome the Turkish state’s historical distrust towards the Arab Middle East and rapidly began expanding cultural and economic relations with the region. Despite the endeavors of the AKP to ease opposition, a hardcore secularist urban middle class persistently contested an Islamist government. Combined with the hostility of the political establishment, the resistance of this social base possessing a certain level of intellectual hegemony directed the major portion of opposition to the AKP to the channels of the defense of republican values and modern lifestyle. This opposition rested on a constant skepticism towards the government’s alleged hidden agenda to Islamize the country á la Iran. As a result, politics was trapped within the fruitless conflict between secularism and Islamism that dominated the political sphere in Turkey for a decade following the mid-1990s. What is important for my discussion here is that the urban revolution of new Islamism was not only about top-down policies but also included the urbanization of opposition to it. Processes of commodification, Islamization, and the increasingly brutal domination of the urban led to a condensation of forms of political action and imagination. Therefore, I will begin by mapping the anti-AKP complement of the AKP’s urban revolution; the lines of opposition pursued by various actors. These are important, for all of them were subsumed within the Gezi protests. The crucial question to ask is how the Gezi protests succeeded in incorporating such a vast array of struggles under quite unfavorable conditions – such as a stable economy and a high support for the government. I will try to answer this question through a discussion on public space in Turkey and relating the Gezi

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protests to the earlier case of the TEKEL Resistance in Ankara in 2010. The two cases shared the particular architectural form of dissent: the protest encampment. Finally, I will discuss the aftereffects of the protests, which found a striking reflection in the AKP’s mobilization of its supporters against the attempted coup in the summer of 2016. As I will show, the spatial symbols and performances of this campaign embodied echoes from the Gezi protests.

MAPPING OPPOSITION TO NEW ISLAMISM Between the mid-1990s and the mid-2010s, the socio-political dynamics shaped under the dominant influence of Turkish Islamists (first in local administrations and then nationwide) followed a steady urbanization process. I will not revisit the discussion of urban politics of Islamist municipalities here. Instead, I will point out that the AKP determinedly worked to further urbanize the country through policies in economy and public administration. Under the AKP, agricultural subsidies were severely reduced and the sector was opened to foreign competition (Günaydın 2009). Moreover, administrative units were reorganized to further diminish the rural territories. In 2002, urban population in Turkey was 65%; more than half of this lived in areas controlled by the sixteen metropolitan municipalities. One of the earliest legislation proposals of the AKP was to enlarge the metropolitan areas in 2004. Through successive reforms, 55% of the national territory inhabited by 76% of the population was defined as metropolitan areas by 2012 (Arıkbog˘a 2013; Zengin 2014). This transformation was not merely quantitative; two significant dimensions directly affected urban politics. One of these was the disparity of political representation where the newly included areas were highly represented in municipal assemblies in comparison to the share of their populations. This was clearly to the advantage of the AKP since smaller settlements such as provincial towns and semi-urban peripheries of large cities have traditionally been voting conservative in Turkey despite the economic deprivation in agriculture. For instance, in the 2014 local elections, although the mayor of Ankara won his seat with a narrow margin having 45% of the votes, the AKP gained 72% of the seats in the metropolitan municipal assembly. The second was related to the micro scale organization of the urban society: 16,500 rural units (villages) were transformed into metropolitan neighborhoods (mahalle). If we remember the role of mahalle as a political unit in the making of millet, it becomes clear how this transformation is significant. It is crucial to note that this was not merely the expansion of municipal administration to the peripheries; the definition of the urban was changing with increasing influence of the periphery in urban politics. Thus, a trend of urbanization was already in progress throughout the two decades marked by policies led by Islamist (local and central) administrations. Next, I will define the transformation of different lines of opposition to these policies mapped in Figure 4.1, which, significantly, either faded away or found new channels within urban politics via the Gezi protests.

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Figure 4.1 The lines of opposition to the AKP and their transformation in time

Nationalist opposition One of the favorite accusations directed to the AKP after it came to power was to be an agent of Western imperialism working against national interests. The government’s attempts to improve relations with Greece and Armenia were disputed on these grounds. Moreover, the incentives towards easing the tension in Kurdish provinces (if not an attempt at halting armed conflict) were also criticized by the establishment and the mainstream parties of both left and right on the grounds that the government was serving separatist interests. Ironically, the more the establishment restricted the government’s attempts at making progress in the Kurdish question, the more the party gained support from the Kurds. In a few years’ time, all parties except for the AKP and the successive parties of the Kurdish political movement (which has from the start had a leftist, secular strand) vanished in the region. The AKP increased its efforts towards reaching a solution to the problem after 2009. The fragile process led to a ceasefire in 2013, which significantly raised hopes for a permanent resolution. However, the AKP from the start refused to allow parliamentary monitoring in order to be in control of the process (Göksel 2015). Although this led to the collapse of the whole process in 2015, the optimistic climate of 2013 was an essential determinant of the Gezi protests. The division of Kurdish voters between these two camps was very advantageous to the AKP in the beginning due to the election system imposing an electoral threshold of 10%. Since the Kurdish political movement was far from achieving this level of vote, their representatives had to run as independent candidates, which significantly reduced their representation in comparison to the votes they received. This situation gradually changed precisely because of the urban revolution experienced after the mid-1990s, since a major component of it was the

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constant Kurdish migration into the largest metropoles. As a result, the Kurdish question itself began to assume a metropolitan character. In the 2007 and 2011 elections, the Kurdish party (first DTP, then BDP) aligning with the socialist parties succeeded to win twenty-two and thirty-six seats respectively. The number of MPs elected from Istanbul was two in 2007 and three in 2011. With the expanding vote base in the metropolitan areas (especially Istanbul), the party (now HDP) decided to run in the 2015 elections and won 13% of the votes along with eighty seats (eleven from Istanbul) in the Parliament. Although their success led to the failure of the AKP to secure majority and renewal of the elections, it also proved that Istanbul now provided the largest voter base for the Kurdish political movement. Unfortunately, the urbanization of the Kurdish question along with other dynamics also found its expression in the reescalation of armed conflict and the spread of the skirmishes, which for decades was confined in the countryside, into the Kurdish cities. In other words, the armed conflict was also urbanized now, with urban warfare that began in late 2015 resulting in the severe destruction of Kurdish cities causing a new wave of migration.

Secularist opposition As the first half of the 1990s witnessed the rise of the Islamists (then RP), the political establishment, the mainstream parties as well as the media univocally argued that there was an imminent threat of an Islamic revolution á la Iran that would impose Sharia law. The attempts of some of the RP municipalities towards imposing an alcohol ban and their degrading remarks on the early republican period (which for them represented the repression of Islam) were used as proof of their hidden agenda towards this end. Finally, such cases were used as evidence in the lawsuits resulting in the closing of the RP and its successor FP. This line of opposition had a solid social base; the educated urban middle classes – ironically the ideal type of republican nation-building – fiercely opposed the Islamists due to on the one hand their republican ethos despising religiosity and on the other an actual fear of intervention in their lifestyles. The secularist/modernist opposition with its intrinsic elitism obscured the urban politics of the Islamists for a long time and confined the opposition to it within the narrow framework defined by the defense of modernist lifestyle and republican symbolism. The urban implementations of the Islamist municipalities (especially in Ankara) were mostly perceived as attempts to erase the symbols of early republican era and the welfare system recruiting the urban poor was scornfully seen as an illustration of the irresponsibility of the poor. This line of opposition considered merely the threat to the middle-class lifestyle and was impervious to the Islamization of everyday lives through the mechanisms I discussed in the previous chapter. In this respect, it included a large amount of groundless fear. Nevertheless, especially after 2011, the AKP became bolder in

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pronouncing Islamist measures and testing public reaction. The gravest of topics in this respect was women’s rights. Despite the optimism of the early years and the establishment of a Ministry of Women’s Rights to adapt EU regulations, combined dynamics of neoliberalism and conservatism mutilated the notion of gender equality and contributed to the prevailing dominance of patriarchy (Acar and Altunok 2013). Moreover, Erdog˘an occasionally condemned birth control, voiced his contempt for “adultery,” and attempted to ban abortion (I·lkkaracan 2008). The Ministry of Women’s Rights was transformed into the Ministry of Family and Social Policy after 2011 elections, which was now responsible for the two primary aspects of Islamization: promotion of conservative values and the central organization of the welfare system (Yıldırım 2013). To the dismay of women’s organizations, the violence faced by women and especially the number of honor killings have significantly increased under the AKP (Dural 2016). Another hot topic in terms of the Islamization of social life has been primary education, where Erdog˘an often declared his desire to raise a pious youth (Radikal 06.02.2012). The inclusion of Islamic teachings in primary education often came to the fore during the AKP rule, which was opposed by urban middle classes and blocked by the activism of teachers’ unions for some time (Göktürk, Güvercin and Seçkin 2012). After 2011, the educational system was reorganized to this end and allowed for the imam-hatip schools to become more effective. Imam-hatip schools, which were established to provide religious and general education, have always been controversial in Turkey (Cos¸kun and S¸entürk 2012). While the Islamists saw in them the opportunity to expand the role of religious teaching as part of the general education system, the establishment defined them as vocational schools training religious staff and worked to limit their number in accordance with the need for professionals. In 2011–2014, around 1,500 general high schools were converted into imam-hatip schools, a process in which the students and their families did not have any say. Between 2002 and 2014, while the total number of high-school students doubled, the number of students enrolled in imam-hatip schools rose from 63,000 to over 1 million (Ackerman and Calisir 2015). In short, although the fear of the educated urban middle classes regarding the establishment of a theocratic state was mostly unfounded, the AKP period has been scene for the gradual Islamization of the social environment with visible predicaments in the fields of education and women’s rights. Although there have been activism and opposition in these contested areas, they were not effective especially against the post-2011 policies of the AKP.

Environmentalist opposition Environmentalist activism had considerable influence in the 1990s, especially with the villagers’ resistance to gold mining in Bergama, ·Izmir (Arsel 2005). The villagers’ struggle that spanned a whole decade between the mid-1990s and the mid-2000s attracted attention and received media coverage (I·nce 2014). Although

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Islamist intellectuals and politicians had vocalized environmentalist arguments in the 1990s, the AKP rapidly proved to be a zealous follower of neoliberalization of nature as well (Ignatov 2008). One of the earliest and much contested proposals was the opening of forest areas to private development in 2003. This was followed by the acceleration of efforts for a nuclear power plant in Akkuyu at the Mediterranean coast. The later years saw local protests against coal plants and gold mines as well as hydro power plants (HPP). The anti-HPP protests even succeeded in organizing local initiatives within a nationwide network around 2010 (Turan 2011). Although environmentalism has arguably produced the most effective critique of neoliberal developmentalism in Turkey, in the wake of 2011 elections even it had waned, failing to stop most of the HPP projects.

Opposition to urban megaprojects Urban megaprojects have become a global phenomenon with examples found in various parts of the world; they are a direct outcome of the transformation of urban governance from managerialism to entrepreneurialism (Harvey 1989). Such large-scale projects often comprising an iconic design element aim at contributing to the respective city’s image and serve as a catalyst of growth within the global market (del Cerro Santamaría 2013). Projects such as large cultural venues, ­commercial-residential complexes, and waterfront redevelopments are generally pursued via public-private partnerships which rest on complex power relations (Diaz Orueta and Fainstein 2008). What is also important is the role of transnational character of capital (as well as professional services) in these processes, where the resources from the Gulf States have been important in such projects implemented in the Middle East and North Africa. Istanbul has been the stage for such projects to promote it as a world city since the late 1980s (Keyder 1999). In the early years of the AKP government and especially after the 2004 local elections, urban megaprojects were forwarded one after another for Istanbul. While projects for gated communities, shopping malls, and business complexes were relatively easily executed (with the help of legislation empowering TOKI and the metropolitan municipalities), larger projects were impeded for a long time through the persistent opposition mainly pursued by professional chambers. The professional chambers in Turkey have a long history of leaning left (Göle 1998). Although they operate through mandatory membership – that is the professionals are required to register to pursue practice – they had been successful in mobilizing their members in rallies and strikes and maintained ties with grassroots movements in the 1970s. Particularly, the Chamber of Architects was very influential in its opposition to the urban policies of the right-wing governments (Batuman 2008). After the 1980s, however, parallel to the diminishing of social movements, the chambers turned to lawsuits as channels of opposition. The Chamber of Architects successfully cancelled a number of projects in Istanbul and Ankara in the late 1980s and early 1990s in this manner (Batuman 2011).

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The urban megaprojects of the AKP typically lacked transparency and participation in decision-making processes. Nevertheless, the eagerness of the government to open Istanbul to foreign direct investments in real estate generated international interest. In 2005, Istanbul hosted the 22nd World Architecture Congress, organized by the International Union of Architects (UIA) with the motivated title “Grand Bazaar of Architectures.” In the same year, Istanbul Metropolitan Municipality invited Zaha Hadid and Ken Young for two different urban regeneration projects. The municipality also revealed plans to build a multi-use tower complex named “Dubai Towers” to be pursued in collaboration with Dubai International Properties, which would contain a five-star hotel, luxury residences, shopping venues, and office space in Maslak, the new central business district. Another controversial project was “Galataport,” aiming to revitalize the historic Karaköy port area opening it to international cruise ship tourism (Karaman 2008). Finally, the historical Haydarpas¸a train station on the Anatolian shore of Bosphorus, the final destination of inbound lines arriving from the east, was planned to be revitalized, opening its site to commercial and touristic activity. Most of these projects were impeded by lawsuits pursued by the chambers; their endeavors were also supported by various actors with different motivations. While some opposed the privatization of public land, others simply rejected Gulf investors. Most importantly, the political establishment represented by the judiciary was also sympathetic to the efforts in blocking the AKP. Parallel to the increasing power of the government and especially after the 2010 referendum severely damaging judicial independence, the courts as a means of opposition was seriously limited. During his campaign for the 2011 general elections, Erdog˘an came up with new megaprojects including a third airport in Istanbul (to be the largest in Europe), a third bridge across the Bosphorus (which he had previously objected as mayor raising environmentalist concerns), and an artificial waterway to cut across the European part of the city as an alternative route to the Bosphorus. As of September 2017, the bridge is operational, the airport under construction and the strait still on drawing boards. Nevertheless, these projects represent two things that are important for our discussion on the urbanization of politics. The first is that, in the wake of 2011 elections, the government had finally reached the level of authority to freely implement these kinds of megaprojects. The second concerns the merging of the urban and the rural. Until now, issues of environmentalist contestation were situated outside urban areas. These projects, however, although ecological in nature, were within the metropolitan territory of Istanbul. Thus, they represented the absorption of ecological struggles within urban politics and the perception of the urban as containing an ecological component.

Labor movement A major aspect of the neoliberal program implemented in the 1980s was the privatization of state enterprises across various sectors. These enterprises produced

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a major portion of the gross national product in the fields of energy and mining (Mütevelliog˘lu 2010: 152). The privatization of these enterprises proliferated in the following decades and required powerful governments since they met with working-class resistance. The pace of privatization gradually increased and reached its peak under the AKP (Türkmen 2012). Similar to other cases of neoliberal restructuring, the wave of privatization was coupled with a significant decrease in the levels of wages and unionization and an increase in working hours due to flexible employment mechanisms (Çerkezog˘lu and Göztepe 2010). Neoliberal labor policies and privatizations met strong working-class activism in the 1990s. However, the labor movement gradually diminished under conditions of decreasing levels of unionization. The most illustrious case of this process was the TEKEL Resistance, which incidentally has provided significant contribution to the urbanization of political struggle. TEKEL (meaning “monopoly” in Turkish) was the privatized former state enterprise that held a monopoly on the production of tobacco and alcoholic beverages since 1925. It was a major enterprise which went through the previously-mentioned processes of privatization (Türkmen 2012: 32–39). A large portion of the workers were laid off and the remaining workers were transferred to a temporary employment status, which led to the TEKEL Resistance in Ankara. Although mass rallies in major cities (especially Istanbul and Ankara) – drawing also on participation from other cities – have been common in Turkey, the peculiarity of the TEKEL Resistance was the establishment of a protest camp in downtown Ankara, which introduced a new form of public space that would be reproduced in the Gezi protests. The protest encampment established by TEKEL workers stood for two-and-half months despite the harsh winter conditions of 2010. The resistance tents of the workers quickly became a symbol of class politics and formed an alternative to the fruitless conflict between secularism and Islamism that has dominated the political sphere in Turkey since the late 1990s. However, although the TEKEL camp raised hopes especially for left-wing politics, it was ultimately unsuccessful in obtaining its goals in the face of the uncompromising attitude of the government. Despite the significant political impetus they created, the defeat of the TEKEL workers illustrated the weakness of classical class-based politics against the Islamic neoliberalism of the AKP especially under the conditions of a stable economy. Nevertheless, the architectural form of the protest encampment was an important discovery, to which I will return later.

Opposition to urban renewal While the lines of opposition I have listed previously are themes that would later be subsumed into urban politics, the struggle against urban renewal was already an essential component of it. The powers vested in TOKI and metropolitan municipalities have transformed scales of urban development in Turkish cities. Urban renewal projects implemented by these two parties were characterized

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by maximization of profit at the expense of spatial quality in new housing areas and the lack of participation in decision-making processes. Thus, beginning from 2005, renewal projects concerning old squatter areas met with resistance, especially in Ankara and Istanbul (Aykan 2011; Batuman 2013; Ünsal and Kuyucu 2010; Karaman 2014; Islam and Sakızog˘lu 2015; Lelandais 2014). While in some examples the squatters succeeded in negotiating more advantageous terms, in some cases they managed to cancel the projects through court decisions. The legislations empowering TOKI and metropolitan municipalities in slum clearance were coupled with regulations targeting the rehabilitation of “degraded historic sites” in 2005, which would effectively pave the way for the gentrification of historical centers. The projects proposed for such areas in Istanbul and Ankara that were under protection due to their heritage status directed the attention of professional organizations and urban activists to urban renewal projects for the first time. The threat of destruction of public spaces was confronted via lawsuits filed on grounds of heritage protection. While the middle-class response to these projects created a narrow social base and led to the emergence of new NGOs dealing with urban activism, the key role played by professional organizations (particularly the chambers of architects and city planners) and their historical experience in collaborating with grassroots movements from the 1970s opened room for urban alliances that would play central role in the making of Gezi protests. Nevertheless, although the most enduring struggles against the AKP were those organized against gentrification, they were inconsequential especially in Istanbul, where the neoliberal attack on urban space was much more aggressive. Since these urban social movements created neither a strong opposition nor affected the election results in 2011, the government disdainfully introduced new legislation that would facilitate gentrification on the grounds of earthquake-proneness in 2012. Thus, the gentrification of squatter areas and the public spaces in historical centers emerged as two major sites of contestation triggering oppositional mobilizations. Moreover, these two struggles began to interact through the pivotal role of the chambers, which provided technical support to the squatters in their legal battles. Later on, these ties grew further and squatters’ organizations began to participate in rallies in defense of public spaces. However, there was a third dynamic that was an invisible undercurrent until the Gezi event and which has been overlooked in studies of urban protest. The institutional environment that emerged with the legislations empowering the municipalities allowed them to engage in projects of various scales disregarding existing urban development plans and citizen participation. Roads, tunnels, bridges indifferent to transportation masterplans and damaging life in residential areas, building permits defying existing regulations, destruction of urban commons (such as public gardens and parks) in neighborhoods, etc. were too small discontents to become issues of urban political struggles. Complaints over such issues, most of which did not turn into protests, were found in numerous locales in various cities, yet they remained invisible until the Gezi event (Batuman, Baykan and Deniz 2016).

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These lines of opposition came together within the Gezi protests of 2013, which began as a small environmentalist protest in response to the government’s plans to regenerate Istanbul’s central Taksim district as a sterilized tourist attraction by replacing the Gezi Park with a shopping mall. The crucial point is that, although a retrospective look tends to normalize the Gezi protests, no one would believe such a massive uprising was possible in the days prior to the event. This was not only because of the obvious power of the AKP which had strengthened its support in every election but also due to the easy defeat of the earlier struggles over various issues. Within this context, the government did not expect a serious resistance to its comprehensive project towards gentrifying Taksim. After all, although there were small-scale resistances on a number of issues, none of them were strong enough to disturb the hegemony of the AKP. Neither class-based, nor environmentalist, not even urban movements were successful against the government. Moreover, while all these seemingly insignificant struggles were pursued by their immediate subjects, that is by those directly affected by the disputed policies, the public space belonged to no one in particular; there was no specific agent that would take on the task to defend it, except for a few activists. What happened next proved not only that the political calculations of the AKP were wrong but also that public space is a place of encounter for both diverse subjects and their struggles. But before going any further, I shall discuss the politics of public space in Turkey through the examples of Taksim and Kızılay Squares.

UNFOLDING REPUBLICAN PUBLIC SPACE At the turn of the century, Taksim was already an urban joint tying the newly developing areas in the north to the old city via Grand Rue de Pera, which was the “modern axis” serving as the backbone of Pera/Beyog˘lu on the northern side of the Golden Horn (Baruh 2009) (Figure 4.2). The district developed under the influence of non-Muslim bourgeoisie as well as foreign residents (Cezar 1991; Çelik 1993; Akın 2002). It was “nationalized” by the young nation-state through spatial interventions introducing new symbolic elements and erasing the old ones (Batuman 2015). Kızılay, on the other hand, was created on a tabula rasa as the center of Yenis¸ehir in Ankara, juxtaposing modern everyday practices of its inhabitants and the representational Government Quarter (Batuman 2009) (Figure 4.3). Discernably, these were typical situations where nation-states undertake projects towards modernization and nation-building (Vale 2008). By the 1930s, both squares served as traffic nodes connecting the developing areas of their respective cities to the old centers. An Independence Monument was erected in Taksim in 1928 and traffic was arranged around a roundabout surrounding the monument (Gülersoy 1986; Kuruyazıcı 1998; Öztas¸ 2010). Similarly, Kızılay Square was organized to allow for smooth traffic flow along Atatürk Boulevard. Neither was the major political space in its city; in Istanbul Beyazıt Square and in Ankara Ulus fulfilled this function. Regardless, both were seen as “new”

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Figure 4.2 The making of Taksim Square throughout the twentieth century: (a) early 1920s, (b) mid1930s, and (c) 1950s

Figure 4.3 The making of Kızılay Square: (a) late 1920s, (b) mid-1930s, and (c) 1990s

public spaces that would break with the old traditions, house modern lifestyles, and accommodate enlightened citizens. The planned development of these urban spaces would take place under the guidance of urban master plans, produced by Hermann Jansen in Ankara and Henri Prost in Istanbul.1 The republican elite had already a clear idea regarding the modern lifestyle expected to flourish in public space. This ideal lifestyle composed of certain degrees of socialization, entertainment, and recreation blended with high culture and politics. If we look at Taksim and Kızılay, the two republican squares of the 1940s, we see that they share certain elements despite differences of scale. An emerging bourgeois lifestyle was promoted to the degree that it fit the political limits dictated by the state. Photographs accompanying newspaper articles showed men and women in modern clothing strolling in both of these spaces. Both of the squares were defined by parks including new monuments representing state power, and in both cases state-oriented politics was also reproduced via state sponsored ceremonies. While Kızılay Square comprised Güven and Kızılay parks, Taksim was made of three components: the roundabout at the end of ·Istiklal Street marked with the monument at its center, the parade ground to its east defined with a planned Theater House (which would be converted to an Opera House at design stage), and finally Gezi Park (literally “esplanade”) extending to the north of the square. In the wake of WWII, the end of the single-party rule and the accelerating rural-to-urban migration drastically transformed the use of public space in both

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cases of Kızılay and Taksim. The increasing heterogeneity of public spaces was coupled by the rise of civil political actions. By the end of the 1950s, both of these squares became the major sites of political action performed particularly by the student youth (Batuman 2003, 2015). Especially Taksim Square from then on would become the most important political space of the country with its role in historic events such as the “Bloody Sunday” in 1969 where two leftist students were stabbed to death by anti-communist counterprotestors, the momentous workers’ strike on June 1970, and finally the infamous May Day in 1977 in which thirty-four people died in the chaos following the gunshots fired on the crowd. The May Day was once again celebrated in Taksim in 1978, which was the last officially permitted rally until 2010. In 1979, martial law was declared and demonstrations were banned in Istanbul. After that Taksim was closed to political rallies. The ban on Taksim Square would only be challenged in the 2000s. With this brief discussion on their history, I shall move on to the two significant protests performed in these sites, the TEKEL Resistance in Ankara and the Gezi protests in Istanbul, both of which challenged the AKP’s Islamist politics and reproduced public space in different ways.

KIZILAY SQUARE AND THE TEKEL ENCAMPMENT The military intervention in 1980 suppressed public spaces along with political activities, which led Kızılay Square to gradually turn into a traffic junction. Due to increasing traffic and the widening of the vehicular lane, the parks and the promenade along the Boulevard were gradually squeezed out. Meanwhile, frequent commercial and leisure activities that formerly took place in the square had already expanded into the secondary streets around the square. With the expansion of the city center, a secondary belt developed along ·Izmir, Kumrular, Yüksel, and Sakarya Streets, and parts of these streets were pedestrianized in time (Figure 4.4). Although these sub-spaces around the square were connected via pedestrian overpasses, the increasing vehicular traffic and the expulsion of the pedestrians from the square resulted in the separation and functional specialization of these districts. The decline of Kızılay Square as an open space also led to the deterioration of the historical role of the square as the public space of the city. Political demonstrations were banned in the square with the claim that such events created security threats due to the square’s proximity to the National Assembly; yet, it was frequently used for non-political gatherings such as concerts and celebrations of sports events. Nevertheless, the square was occupied for mass meetings at times especially during the 1990s, when the governments were weak and the hegemony of the political establishment was under pressure from the Kurdish and Islamist oppositions. In the 2000s, however, the gradual institution of the AKP’s hegemonic power was mirrored in the strict exercise of the ban on demonstrations in Kızılay Square, which was enforced in absolute terms after 2011. Moreover, the

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Figure 4.4 Satellite image showing the Kızılay area Source: Google Earth (Image © 2012 GeoEye).

Islamist municipality worked to diminish the republican symbolism of the square as early as the 1990s. While vehicular traffic was encouraged, projects to demolish Güvenpark to use it as a transportation hub were occasionally raised. This was a clear attempt to eradicate the political connotations of the square in collective memory and an illustration of a new conception of urban public space that excluded politics. As political action was pushed out of the square, the municipality often organized popular cultural events and treated the space as an amusement park with occasional erection of giant models of gorillas, dinosaurs, and robots. Meanwhile, visibility of Islam was established through performances. Güvenpark was the first locale where an iftar (fast-breaking) tent was erected for the first time as early as 1997 and continued regularly in the following

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years. Thus, public space for the AKP was a space of gathering controlled by state authority, where political symbols were deteriorated and political performances were allowed selectively. Nevertheless, urban life is surprisingly capable of creating its own spaces of resistance. It would be Sakarya, the bar district of the city, that would be the site of the TEKEL Resistance in an unanticipated form – that of the protest encampment. Protest encampments have been constructed in different parts of the world since the second half of the twentieth century.2 They have functioned as events to expand the influence of rallies and demonstrations by stretching their existence in space and time. Since the mass rally interrupts the everyday life that normally takes place in its location, its power stems from the temporary shock it creates. The encampment, in contrast, builds on its ambiguous character fluctuating between temporariness and permanence: it can last for a very long time, yet it is always ready to be dismantled. Moreover, its ambiguity is also inscribed in its spatial form: the camp site simultaneously contains an exterior and an interior. While the camp by definition implies an open space activity, it also defines an interior with the clear boundaries it creates with the exterior world. It emerges in contrast to an existing social order it wishes to abandon, at least within its own territory (Frenzel 2011). Therefore, the political encampment is an architectural phenomenon combining the event and the site (Hailey 2009: 3). Its erection is a political event on its own; yet, it also serves as a site, which embodies the real possibility to create an alternative social order. There have been singular cases of protest camp dwellings linked to particular issues (Frenzel 2011). Recently, the protests that spread worldwide following the uprisings in North Africa were characterized by the protest encampments built in major city squares, the most striking (and inspiring) one being that in Cairo’s Tahrir Square. The protest camp has gradually become a significant form of peaceful political action and a major part of the contemporary repertoire of contention (McCurdy, Feigenbaum and Frenzel 2016). In this regard, it is not possible to miss its global character. Being global here not only refers to the existence of such camps in different parts of the world simultaneously; the protest camp, as a particular spatial form, emerges where the issue at stake itself has a global character. When there are people moving across borders to protest, the question of accommodation emerges as an obvious practical concern. However, there is more to the global character of the protest camp. Significantly, an agenda effective beyond a particular locality transforms even the local protestors into outsiders; it distances them from their localities even if they physically remain in customary surroundings. They become part of a global network and detach themselves from their everyday lives. Hence, they turn into nomads, similar to their foreign compatriots arriving from different countries. The experience of the camp then is inherently nomadic; it presents a condition of “collective homelessness” which requires a certain level of detachment from home (Mangold 2011: 178). In this respect, the protest camps of the ­twenty-first century clearly share the common ground of being nomadic sites within the

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integrated globe of neoliberalism. This integration links all issues of p ­ rotest to each other, either through shared consequences (climate change), shared threats (control of migration), or simply a shared enemy (transnational capital). If we turn to the case of the TEKEL encampment, its location in Sakarya District was a spontaneous consequence of the events following the arrival of the TEKEL workers in Ankara mostly as a result of the location of the Türk-I·s¸ headquarters in Sakarya (Figure 4.5).3 Following the union’s announcement calling for continuous action, the workers began to group with respect to their union branches, which organized locally in terms of provinces. Therefore, the tents were the actual spaces representing the branches of the union; in a sense, the national organization of the union was reconstituted in physical form within the actual boundaries of the district, with the union headquarters as a focal point. Yet, the actual distances between provinces were now collapsed within the compressed space of the encampment. The implosion of distance has crucial outcomes since it forces the geographical differences inscribed in provincial identities to confront each other within the same space. The most significant of these differences were the ethnic identities, which are encoded within the names of the provinces. While some regions are automatically assumed to be conservative embodying high nationalist sentiments, the Kurdish provinces are implicitly associated with separatism. Since the Kurdish question is one of the most critical items in the nation’s political agenda, all of the

Figure 4.5 Map of Sakarya District Source: Al et al. (2012).

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workers faced their “challengers” in the encampment. In this regard, although the encampment brought together people with shared interests, it also served as the site of contestation for conflicting (ethnic) identities. The shared experience eroded the workers’ local identities and forced them to assume a cosmopolitan identity; they became nomads unlinked to particular social contexts. The same shift in perception was also valid for gender identities. The men and women sometimes had to literally share the collective beds inside the tents in the encampment. This was a huge transformation for both of the sexes; most of the workers, both male and female, were coming from conservative backgrounds with strictly defined gender roles and limited socialization with the opposite sex. Yet, although they took on the gender roles expected of them (women mostly doing the cooking and the cleaning) in the beginning, soon they began to collaborate in the daily tasks and to interact with each other (Türkmen 2012: 152–153). The social experience inside the political encampment is determined by two major elements: the internal governance of the camp and the learning process that takes place within it (Rioufol 2004; Frenzel 2011). Although the internal organization in the TEKEL encampment rested on the actual organization of the union, the tents became “open spaces” where the workers discussed issues, made decisions, and co-educated themselves (Keraghel and Sen 2004). The encampment as a particular social environment supports horizontal decision-making processes. Moreover, the daily life in the camp is collectively organized and in a sense inherently “socialist” (Cohen 2009: 10). If we look at the TEKEL encampment with respect to its relation with public space, two dimensions should be addressed regarding the Sakarya District. The first is the architectural vocabulary of the area as a pedestrian zone that is compatible with the spatial character of the encampment (Figure 4.6). As opposed to the square as an open space, the pedestrian zone is a series of open and semiopen spaces. The street furniture (benches, steps, low walls, sculpture pedestals, portable umbrellas, canopies and sunshades) in the area allows for the occupation of space for eating and sitting through the afternoon and until late in the evening. In the case of the encampment, these features facilitate the appropriation of the site through the nomadic architecture of the camp. The second is the relation of the area with Kızılay Square, the open space that is perceived to be the actual political heart of the city. This examination can also provide a comparison with the protest encampments of 2011. The occupation of major city squares for longer time periods require a weakened hegemony and a strong popular support legitimizing the protests as in the cases of Tahrir and Puerte del Sol. In places where these conditions do not exist, even if the camps are built, protesters have to negotiate their existence with the authorities and abide by the daily routines such as traffic flow (as in the cases of Zuccotti Park in New York and Rothschild Boulevard in Tel Aviv). In this respect, the political situation in Turkey definitely did not provide suitable conditions for such an encampment to be built in Kızılay Square and the encampment materialized in the streets of the secondary belt surrounding the square.

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Figure 4.6 The architecture of the tents making use of street furniture during the TEKEL Resistance Photograph by Mehmet Özer.

The tents inside the TEKEL encampment differed in quality; while the earliest ones were built of cardboard, plastic, and canvas and used lamp posts and umbrellas as support, ready-made tents were also erected by supporting organizations later on. The interiors of the tents were furnished flexibly for the mixed-use requirements of day and night (Figure 4.7). While they were used as gathering spaces for collective debates, they were treated by (especially female) workers as living rooms of their homes that had to be kept tidy for visitors. At nights, the floors were fully used for sleeping. On the other hand, there were also semi-open tents, which were closed on one side and provided a roofed extension to the street. Fireplaces were located frequently inside and outside,

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Figure 4.7 The interior of a tent Photograph by Mehmet Özer.

which served as foci around which people gathered in the cold weather. The varying size and shape of camp spaces allowed for distinct uses emerging in different locations. The workers used some spaces (especially the entrance of the Türk-I·s¸ building) for small protests that took place when some news arrived regarding negotiations. The encampment was dismantled on March 2, 2010, with an explicit warning from the workers that they would return if their conditions were not improved. However, when they attempted to return to Sakarya in response to the government’s adamant stance, they met with blockades at the city gates and more significantly around the entire Sakarya District. The architectural image of the TEKEL encampment would haunt the AKP in the following period. The government made sure that a similar camp was not built again in Ankara. A year later, it was the environmentalist groups protesting the HPPs who attempted to meet in Ankara. As they were not allowed to enter the city, their attempt to build an encampment at the city gates was also obstructed. Finally, the most striking illustration of the haunting image of the protest encampment came out during the corruption scandal that erupted in late 2013 (Balaban 2015). In a leaked tape recording of a phone conversation allegedly between the Minister of Interior and a pro-government contractor on the Gezi protests in the initial stage of the events, the person assumed to be the minister is heard saying: “What the Prime Minister has in mind is the TEKEL workers; remember, they came to Ankara and did not leave . . . He is worried that the same would happen here [in Gezi Park] as well . . .” (T24 14.03.2014). The haunting image would indeed return, precisely due to the brutal destruction of the initial protest camp in the park.

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TAKSIM SQUARE, NEW ISLAMISM, AND BANAL POLITICIZATION Dozers appeared in Gezi Park on the night of May 27, 2013. The government had previously announced a number of projects towards the renewal of the square, which included the pedestrianization of the square (requiring the expansion of streets to be reorganized underground) and the reconstruction of the eighteenth-century artillery barracks, which had been demolished in the 1930s for the construction of Gezi Park. While the street work would cost a few trees along the side of the street, the reconstruction of the barracks would mean the total destruction of the park. Hence, with the news of the bulldozers in the park, a small number of activists arrived at the site, obstructed the construction work, and camped inside the park. The next few days witnessed police raids on the encampment and finally the evacuation of the park by the police. However, the protests turned into a small-scale riot in and around Taksim, spreading into the streets. After May 31, the riots extended to other cities and drew attention from international media. The square was occupied by the protestors during the first two weeks of June (together with the central squares of other major cities), until its evacuation by the police. During this time, Taksim Square became the heart of the nationwide protests (Weaver and Quinn 2013; Arango, Arsu and Yeginsu 2013). The centrality of Taksim was probably best expressed with the slogan “Everywhere is Taksim, resistance everywhere.” To understand the emergence of the protests, it is necessary to discuss the AKP’s vision towards Taksim Square, which reflects complementary – yet at times conflicting – components of neoliberal accumulation strategies and Islamist ideological inclinations. In fact, both of these components have been rooted in the previous decade. While Istanbul was seen as a globally marketable asset by the governments, Taksim was envisaged accordingly. The rundown residential districts adjacent to the area were torn down and gentrified in 1986. Similarly, Taksim was designated as a touristic center by the government in 1989. From Habitat II in 1996 to the NATO Summit in 2004, Istanbul gradually assumed significance in terms of housing international events. In 2005, Istanbul ranked thirteenth among cities that hosted the largest number of international congresses in the world (Yalçıntas¸ 2008: 208). Prost’s historical green belt linking Gezi Park to the Bosphours was reorganized as a Congress Valley, and a new Congress Center was built in 2009. That is, the commodification of Taksim had already begun in the early 1990s under the pressure of globalization. The square as the prime public space of Istanbul was also momentous for the Islamists, for whom the utmost symbol of “appearance” was the mosque. The building of a mosque in Taksim was a major spatial element of the Islamist imaginary in Turkey since the 1950s. Moreover, the Islamist takeover of Istanbul ­Metropolitan Municipality was envisaged as the second conquest of Istanbul, and the memories of 1453 were reproduced in performances for the anniversaries of the conquest. For instance, in 1996, mock ships pulled by men in Janissary

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costumes were moved across Taksim for the celebrations (Çınar 2001). In response to the Islamist ceremonies, the seventy-fifth anniversary of the republic was organized as a performative display of secularism with exhibitions in ·Istiklal Street and popular concerts in Taksim Square (Akyürek 2006: 125–150). The display of political identities continues to occur in public space in private ways. A major signifier of the clash between Islamism and secularism in public space was the appearance of the turban (headscarf) as an Islamic symbol. Taksim was a stage for rallies protesting or supporting the turban ban in public institutions (Hürriyet 05.02.2008). Moreover, it was the stage for the embodied use of turban by women as well as its visual promotion in advertisements on billboards (Selen 2007). The AKP’s vision towards Istanbul (and Taksim) was not one of intolerant conquest, but an original blend of market requirements and ideological desires. This vision has crystallized in four projects: the pedestrianization of the square with the reorganization of vehicular traffic underground, the reconstruction of the Artillery Barracks, the demolition of Atatürk Cultural Center (AKM), and the building of a mosque. I will briefly discuss each of these components and then analyze the overall vision. During the election campaign in 2011, Erdog˘an declared one of his projects as the pedestrianization of Taksim Square. Following the elections, the Istanbul Metropolitan Municipality accepted a plan reorganizing all vehicular traffic in the square underground. The project was approved rapidly, neglecting objections and protests raised by various organizations. It proposed seven different underground tunnels with 10 meter height and at least 100 meter length, which cut through the main arteries arriving into the square. As a result, sidewalks would significantly narrow, trees would be destroyed, and pedestrian access to the square would considerably diminish. Chambers and NGOs protested the lack of participation in the decision-making processes, called for the cancellation of the project and took the matter to the court. Nevertheless, construction began by the end of October 2012. The slowness of the legal procedure resulted in the formation of the Taksim Solidarity Platform in which the chambers played primary role. The components of the platform were influential in the initial response impeding the bulldozers and the platform would later become the de facto organizational body in the Gezi protests and represented the protestors in talks with the government. The idea to reconstruct the historical barracks was also a decision within the previously-mentioned plan approved by the municipality. The original building was a 146- by 176-meter structure with a large courtyard (Figure 4.8). It had gone through renovations throughout the nineteenth century, and the final version displayed a combination of Arabic and Indian architectural motifs with horseshoe-shaped arches and onion domes. The Orientalist architecture of the building was an exceptional example in Ottoman architectural history. Since there is no official document detailing the original structure aside from limited number of photographs, a professional reconstruction of the building is virtually impossible. Nevertheless, the municipality began to publicize 3D images of the future Taksim Square containing both the barracks and the tunnels, which displayed an

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Figure 4.8 Taksim in the 1930s: The roundabout around the Independence Monument is built, but the artillery barracks (used as a football stadium) and its annexes are still in place Source: Salih Alkan Archive.

enormous empty surface. It was soon announced that the blueprints of the new artillery barracks were already prepared. Accordingly, the project contained 22 300-square-meter floor area and underground parking. In his plans for Taksim, Prost had proposed a theater house that would mark the eastern edge of the newly-constructed processional ground. The municipality decided that this building should be an opera house and its construction began in 1946. As the technical details of the project slowed the construction process and proved that the municipality would not be able to finish the job, it was handed over to the Ministry of Public Works in 1953. The program was then further expanded and it was opened as Istanbul Cultural Center in 1969. The building was a fine example of the modernist architecture of its time, with an iconic curtain wall façade of sunshades. It was destroyed by fire in 1970 and took another eight years to renovate. Reopened in 1978, it was renamed Atatürk Cultural Center (AKM) (Kuruyazıcı 1998: 95–96) (Figure 4.9). The building was a hostile symbol in Islamic imaginary, to some extent due to the perception of Western classical art as an instrument of republican authoritarianism. But in an interesting way, this hostility was expressed through distaste towards its modernist architecture, which was seen equally alien. As a result, the Islamists vocalized the idea to demolish it from time to time. The most serious attempt to knock down the building was made by the Minister of Culture in 2005, during the first Erdog˘an government. This attempt was blocked by a decision of the Conservation Board registering the building as cultural heritage. After that, a refurbishment project was started in 2008. Interestingly, with the beginning of the riots in Taksim, the construction work was suspended and Erdog˘an announced that the building would be demolished since it was earthquake-prone.

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Figure 4.9 The AKM building Source: SALT Research, Hayati Tabanlıog˘lu Archive.

He also stated that it would be replaced with another cultural center, designed in “Baroque architecture.” The final component of the AKP’s vision for Taksim, the proposal to build the Taksim mosque (which was discussed in Chapter 2) was also brought to the public agenda by Erdog˘an himself after the 2011 general elections. All four of these projects were spelled together for the first time by Erdog˘an in a statement putting fuel to the growing protests: “We are continuing with the pedestrianization project. That is going to finish. Second . . . we will reconstruct the historical barracks. . . . The AKM will be torn down ins¸allah [God willing]. . . . And yes, we will build a mosque too” (Hürriyet 02.06.2013). They should be understood as components of a larger scheme related to the AKP’s world-city vision for Istanbul. These projects envision the city center as a space of consumption, where spatial practices are strictly controlled. Architecture, here, is an important means to transform Islamic identity into a brand to sell the space globally. In this regard, it is possible to argue that a different type of politicization is at stake here. I propose to define this as banal politicization, which rests on the banalization of urban space and the hyper-politicization of architecture. It was Guy Debord, writing about the effect of tourism on space, who claimed that the capitalist mode of production produces a unified and homogenized space, the unification of which is “an extensive and intensive process of banalization” (Debord 1994: thesis 165). The socio-spatial diversity contained within Taksim, where pedestrians and vehicles exist together creating a dynamic environment, is destroyed and flattened in a vast surface out of proportion. This image can be seen as a fine illustration of what Lefebvre (1991: 49) defines as abstract space erasing differences. Here, politics as spatial practice is excluded with both the impossibility of mass movement into the square and the changing of user demographics. The transformation of the park into the courtyard of the artillery barracks serves similarly for the disciplining of the practices in the park.4

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Surrendering the square to tourism and consumption, this vision transforms every activity in public space into a spectacle. Here, it is worth remembering that Kızılay Square was also experiencing a similar process of banalization through the deterioration of republican symbols and the performance of crude entertainments. Politics as representation is also an important component of this vision. Architecture becomes hyper-politicized; it turns into an instrument to reproduce ideology through the architectural distortion of history. It is not that the architectural style of a “golden age” is reproduced to glorify the past. On the contrary, architectural styles of previous eras are reproduced together – an Orientalist military structure, a Baroque cultural center, and (presumably) a neo-Ottoman mosque. The familiarity of this imagery for an observer is crucial for building an architectural image in the present. As discussed in Chapter 2, what is at stake here is self-Orientalization as a conscious strategy to create an image referring to existing stereotypes which is crucial for the other’s gaze to recognize. The Orientalized subject voluntarily assumes this identity, only to utilize it as a brand. This is all the more true when the issue is to sell a world city.

OCCUPATION AS PRODUCTION OF (PUBLIC) SPACE While the government was carrying out its grand vision towards Taksim Square, the small environmentalist protest in Gezi Park spread rapidly. The two-week period, during which the square was occupied by protestors, witnessed a communal encampment inside the park. The encampment was similar in spirit to the recent protest camps. Yet there were important differences as well. While the organization methods, the role of the unorganized youth and especially the role of social media were common traits, the economic situation in Turkey was not as severe as the other places where economy was also a reason for the revolts. The major cause of the widespread riots was the Islamic interventions in everyday lives rather than economic hardships (Moudouros 2014). Such interventions were a direct reflection of the growing oppressive character of the government and its intolerance regarding freedom of speech as witnessed by dubious legal cases against journalists, university students, and even lawyers (I·nsel 2013). Moreover, a significant difference of the Turkish case was the strength of the government’s political hegemony, as witnessed with the recent election results as well as the polls that still showed a considerable support (around 50%) at the time of the events for the government. So, the question we should ask is this: how was such a massive upheaval possible?

Public space as a void for encounters As Lefebvre (2003: 118–119) has pointed out, the urban is a place of encounter allowing for unforeseen events triggered by trivial and at times seemingly

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irrelevant social contacts. In this regard, public space is the place of encounter par excellence; it is where diverse practices of various actors juxtapose and interact. Moreover, the political event as a moment of rupture in the mundanity of urban life gives a radical form to public space and opens it to new possibilities. This aspect of the protest camp has extensively been written on, and the Gezi encampment was also similarly discussed, illustrating how the protests brought together people from different walks of life (Göle 2013: 14). During the protests, Taksim Square functioned as a place of encounter for different actors with varying agendas, whose political activity in public space produced a communal life without state, albeit for a very short period of time (Özdemir 2015). This was a political event generating intra-subjective and inter-subjective transformations. But at the same time, Taksim Square acted as a void; an empty space of possibility. As discussed earlier, there were several issues of contestation that were raised by various political actors. Yet these struggles appeared (and disappeared) within spatial and temporal limits, and they were pursued by relatively homogeneous groups of activists of limited numbers. And when a small number of protestors arrived at Gezi Park to prevent the destruction of the trees, this seemed like a similar case of small-scale environmentalist protest doomed to defeat. However, with the brutal evacuation of the park, what remained was a hollowed public space filled with police violence. The displacement of politics out of public space in return made Taksim Square into a voided space of politics; the action triggered by police brutality vibrated in all of these past and present struggles confined within their own spaces, temporalities, and subjectivities. Public space, thus, acted as a positive void in the case of Gezi protests; a constitutive void that belonged to the political project of no particular subject and an urban commons that belonged to all of them. Public space as political void designates a place to take: a subject position to be occupied in order for the event of encounter to take place. A double encounter was at stake then: the encounter of already existing struggles and projects (or their memory) in the voided place of public space, which yields to the intra-subjective and inter-subjective encounters, resulting in the emergence of something extraordinary in the absence of the conditions of its existence. The lesson to derive from this is the irreducibility of public space; that it is more than a locus and a focus for political action. As the Gezi protests illustrated, public space can also become a central void articulating a multitude of political projects in contingent ways (Karasulu 2014; Lelandais 2016). In June 2013, actors diverse as socialist revolutionaries, Kemalist nationalists, Kurdish militants, LGBT activists, environmentalists, feminists, and even Anti-capitalist Muslims encountered in Taksim Square. The claim to public space was at once the simple cause and the empty signifier bringing all of them together and allowing each and every one of them to raise their own issues side by side. And the encounter left its trace in public space as well. In the wake of the rebellion, everybody felt the same; that something had snapped.

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Biopolitics of the political encampment Within the two weeks it prevailed, the Gezi encampment was a beacon of hope for the rest of the country, but it was also a real space that transformed those who participated in it (Karakayalı and Yaka 2014). With the lack of a central organization, the young activists developed their own practices in accordance with what they were protesting for (Figure 4.10). While some distributed leaflets of revolutionary organizations, some vocalized environmentalist concerns and even created a small garden. Solidarity tables were organized to provide food and basic needs for the campers and a communal library was set up. Thousands of books were donated and subsequently distributed to the passersby free of charge (Akınhay 2013: 11). In fact, the abundance of goods and supplies due to the continuous donations from citizens literally abolished money within the park (Örs and Turan 2015). A makeshift infirmary was built where voluntary doctors tended to the injured. A container that had been used by the construction workers was occupied and transformed into a “revolution museum,” in which photographs of the moments of fighting with the police as well as trophies (such as helmets and pieces of armors that belonged to the police) were exhibited. There were workshops for different activities including one for children. For accommodation, in addition to the tents, bunkbeds were “borrowed” from the construction site and located within the park. The future of the camp was discussed in forums organized inside the park. Soccer fan organizations protested police violence side-by-side with the clandestine revolutionary groups and the LGBT associations protested homophobia together with Anti-capitalist Muslims protesting the neoliberal economic policies. Thus, Taksim was appropriated by diverse groups protesting distinct issues.

Figure 4.10 Scenes from the camp in Gezi Park during the occupation Source: Nar Photos.

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If we look at the demographics of the initial protests, the major actors were, similar to the recent mobilizations across the globe, young activists skillfully making use of social media to organize (Reimer 2012; Farro and Demirhisar 2014; Varnalı and Görgülü 2015). These were mostly young, white-collar professionals with college degrees and university students destined to occupy similar positions; a social stratum defined by some scholars as the “new middle classes” (Keyder 2013). There have also been studies arguing for the role of wage-earning class fractions and proletarianization under neoliberalism (Boratav 2013; Gürcan and Peker 2015). Although the demographics of the protests rapidly became heterogeneous, the influence of the young activists was felt throughout the events with their dynamism, skillful use of technology, and the sense of humor that produced a particular language of protest with slogans and graffiti (Sözalan 2013; Yalçıntas¸ 2015; Dag˘tas¸ 2016). The protests often embodied artistic creativity and involved spatial interventions to resist consumer culture (Veliog˘lu 2013; Çolak 2014). An architectural reflection of the occupation was the decoration of the façade of the AKM building with banners and posters right after Erdog˘an’s announcement that the building was to be demolished (Figure 4.11). Although the range of issues of discontent and protest was wide, it is clear that the protest itself was an urban phenomenon. Regardless of their individual concerns, diverse actors shared and reproduced public space through their existence in it.5 David Harvey (2012: 161) has recently defined this as the manifestation of the Lefebvrian right to the city: “Spreading from city to city, the tactics of Occupy Wall Street are to take a central public space, a park or a square, . . . and, by putting human bodies in that place, to convert public space into a political commons – a place for open discussion and debate.”6 The Gezi protests claimed the city by (and for) urban dwellers and it was a material illustration of the right to the city (Kuymulu 2013). In this respect, Figure 4.11 The façade of the AKM building during the Gezi protests Source: Nar Photos.

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the protests demanded the democratization of urban renewal, which requires a radically different approach than that of the Islamist government based on speed and renunciation of participation; one that opens up a new space that allows for encounters among a multitude of agents. This politicizes urban renewal and urban dwellers, who transform into political subjects with “the right to claim rights” (Is¸ın 2009: 371). It is crucial here to return to the point I have raised in the beginning of the chapter regarding the urbanization of politics and the transformation of the existing lines of opposition to the AKP. Interestingly, the issues of opposition least related to urban politics, namely nationalism and secularism encountered their adversaries in the protests. An iconic photograph showed a young man with a BDP (the Kurdish party effective at the time) banner helping a fellow protestor holding a Turkish flag decorated with an image of Atatürk (a typical Kemalist symbol) under fire from a water cannon, while a third one protested the attacking police with symbolic hand gesture of the nationalist Grey wolves. Moreover, the participation of the Anti-capitalist Muslims in the protests was far from a shy partaking; they performed their prayers while socialist militants stood guard protecting them (Figure 4.10) (Dursun 2015). Thus, urban public space has become the stage in which such adverse political positions encountered, not merely through communication and deliberation but through bodily performances requiring solidarity and mutual assistance. What has been common in all protest encampments is the biopolitics of lasting occupation of public space, which is a performative process and one that transforms both the space and its occupiers. Judith Butler has defined this as a certain sociability resting on a division of labor that breaks down gender difference (Butler 2015: 89). This was also observed in the TEKEL encampment that accommodated conservative workers. During the Gezi protests, feminists vocally criticized macho and homophobic jokes and slogans, which was initially a shock for men, but later became a consensus within the culture of co-habitation. The powerful existence of the feminist movement also empowered the LGBT activists in their protest against homophobia (Baytok 2013). But more importantly, machismo of the soccer fan groups (as well as socialist militants) was interrupted with their observation of the LGBT activists fighting the police with their rainbow flags (Yazıcı 2013). Butler’s comment is also relevant beyond the breakdown of gender difference, since the egalitarian social form of the resistance was very much related to the caring for the space as much as the actions of exercising political rhetoric. In a similar way, Petti, Hilal, and Weizman (2013: 33–34) have argued that in Egypt, where “public” is associated with the state and not the people, it was the performance of cleaning up Tahrir Square that appropriated the space (of the regime) and turned it into a political common. That is, in the case of the Gezi protests, public space not only allowed for the encounter of activists with different issues of protest, but it also opened up space for their bodily performances that allowed for the realization of their utopias albeit in a limited frame of space and time.

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Scholarly analyses of the Gezi protests almost univocally focused on the young protestors with little political engagement as the major actor. While this might be true, without the complementary role of the experienced protestors politically affiliated with various revolutionary groups it would have been impossible to hold Gezi Park and Taksim Square for such an extended period of time. The latter group was quick to construct barricades on the streets and continually on duty to maintain them. The architectural know-how of barricades was as important as the use of social media in defending the commons. This know-how was coupled by the geographical knowledge of rallying to Taksim, which contained practical information of meeting points, routes, and topographic edges and gates that define the entire district. All of this was supplemented with the experience of the brutally dispersed May Day rally of a few weeks earlier in the same territory (exchange with anonymous participant, 12.07.2013).

Architecture of resistance Here it is crucial to move on to the architecture of resistance through comparisons with the earlier TEKEL encampment. In the case of a conventional protest encampment, the campers settle in an open space and create an interior. The distinction between the interior and the exterior is established through internal regulations and shared practices rather than by means of physical borders, which was also the case in the Gezi protests. The encampment, here, emerges as a means to sustain protestors’ appearance in the public sphere: an architectural object rising in the larger open space. In this respect, the TEKEL encampment operated in a strikingly different way. Since the Sakarya district was a component of the secondary belt surrounding the square, the visibility of the encampment as a political event was significantly less in comparison to the Gezi encampment. In a sense, the political activity retreated into a secluded niche at the edge of the center. Therefore, the TEKEL encampment did not stand as an architectural object representing its political statement through occupying the space of appearance as did the Gezi camp (where the camp inside the park soon transformed the whole park into a camp). Instead it was located in a place where it was less visible (publicly) and therefore transformed the existing urban texture by becoming part of the daily fabric. The TEKEL encampment was a permeable structure with blurred boundaries since the practices inside the camp frequently expanded outside and spread into the whole district. The involvement of the ordinary citizens was also encouraged by the spatial permeability of the encampment. A significant number of people visited the encampment and brought food, drinks, and daily supplies to the protestors. Even people who were not related to the protest walked across the camp and along the streets that had been transformed into spaces of encampment. This meant there was a constant interaction between everyday life in the Sakarya district and the political protest that emerged within it. Hence, in architectural terms,

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it is more appropriate to say that the encampment was not built in a detached form but rather that the streets were themselves transformed into an encampment. The political encampment served as the material reconstruction of public space through the nomadic architecture of the workers. The Gezi encampment, in contrast, was a clearly defined space of otherness; an antagonism to the existing order transforming the daily routines of its inhabitants.7 A striking difference then is that, while the architecture of the TEKEL encampment allowed for interaction between workers and passersby, it did so maintaining their subject positions, i.e. fixing them as workers and visitors. The Gezi encampment, on the other hand, was much more fluid in terms of subject positions it effected in spite of its clearer borders: the visitors turned into campers as soon as they entered the park. While the protestors experimented with new methods of occupying and reproducing public space, the government also retaliated in spatial terms; and one of the major tools of this was tear gas. Here it is worth briefly discussing the spatiality of tear gas which has replaced batons as the major instrument of dispersing unwanted crowds in the recent years and became a symbolic object in recent protests along with the tent (Feigenbaum 2014). While the baton was the symbol of clashing bodies, the tear gas affects bodies in a different way. It is a cloud simultaneously surrounding and invading the body. The body inhaling the gas temporarily loses control of its actions as well as its involuntary responses – choking, burning, eye watering. Thus it operates through the reduction of willpower from within the body, which is followed with the degradation of the mind through psychological terror. Tear gas became an object imbued with meanings throughout the recent wave of protests. Although characteristically ephemeral – or perhaps precisely because it is so – the cloud of tear gas has become a favorite image for photojournalism of protests (Figure 4.12). Especially its use in pepper spray form on peaceful demonstrators became a sign of police brutality – as in the iconic case of “the woman in red dress” sprayed by the police in the early days of the Gezi protests. Finally, the discharged tear gas canister also turned into a media artefact as well as “a miniature archive of trauma, of survival or perseverance, a personal treasure” (Feigenbaum 2014: 21). Turkey was the scene for one of the most excessive uses of tear gas together with Bahrain and Egypt in the recent protests (Howard 2013). As a result, the use of tear gas, its medical, legal, and political aspects became topics of discussion in Turkey after 2013 (Aydın 2015). What is significant in terms of its spatiality is that the tear gas does not differentiate between protestors and ordinary citizens. That is, when used excessively, as was the case in Gezi protests, it fills the public space and affects not only the protestors but everyone occupying the space. Moreover, its atmospheric spread reaches out to the residents in close proximity to the sites of confrontation. The cloud of tear gas, in this way, defines public space: the smell of enduring gas alerts the ordinary citizen that s/he is entering the zone of politics. In return, the reach of the gas even inside the houses, in a strange way, extends the public space into the private domain with its violation of comfort, where disturbance politicizes

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Figure 4.12 The use of tear gas by the police forces during the Gezi protests Source: Nar Photos.

the residents. The smell of tear gas, for the part of the non-protestor is a sharp and intense invasion of privacy, which is already political. Detecting the coexistence of unorganized (and mostly apolitical) protestors and the militants of organized revolutionary groups, the security forces differentiated and separated these two groups. While the unorganized activists were mostly settled inside the encampment in the park, the organized groups were in the square rather than the park and had already built and fortified barricades for the police assault that would eventually come.8 When police action began on the morning of June 10, the governor of Istanbul announced that the police would only clean the monument and the façade of the AKM building; the groups in the park and the square were not to be harmed. However, a few hours later, the police raided the square while the government officials were claiming that the peaceful demonstrators in Gezi Park was not a target but the “marginal groups” in the square resisting police forces were to be dispersed. The differentiation of the square and the park as the spaces of two different groups served as an effective strategy to destroy the diversity of the public space. *** In the following days, Erdog˘an met with some of the representatives of the resistance, including the members of the Taksim Solidarity Platform. The representatives declared their demands as the cancellation of all projects regarding Gezi Park as well as the AKM building, the lifting of all bans on the use of public spaces including Taksim Square in Istanbul and Kızılay Square in Ankara, the resignation and prosecution of those responsible for the police brutality witnessed in Istanbul as well as other cities, and finally the release of those who were detained during the demonstrations.

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Erdog˘an’s response was a proposal to take the matter of the Artillery Barracks to a plebiscite if the court ruled in favor of the project. Since accepting a delegation was the greatest compromise for his part, he asked the camp in the park to be dismantled immediately. The platform responded by saying that this was a decision to be made by the protestors and the issue was debated at seven different spots inside the park the next day. This was a striking confrontation over democracy; while the prime minister defined democratic participation with the ballot box, the protestors responded with a deliberation process forging direct democracy. Nevertheless, Erdog˘an was determined to evacuate the park within the weekend in which he organized two spectacular rallies in Ankara and Istanbul. In his speech in Ankara, he signaled that the police raid was in order (Radikal 15.06.2013). The police stormed the park with utmost aggression a few hours after Erdog˘an’s speech on that Saturday afternoon, although the protestors had already made a decision to dismantle the camp and leave only one symbolic tent. Together with the park, the hotel across the street, which was also used as an infirmary, was also raided with excessive use of tear gas. Doctors tending to the injured protestors were arrested together with their patients. The violence exercised on the encampment once again escalated tension across the country. There were protests in almost all cities. Taksim Square was a no man’s land throughout the next day since neither vehicles nor pedestrians were allowed into the square.

BEYOND OCCUPATION In the weeks that followed, the protests gradually faded; this was due in part to police brutality that resulted in eleven dead and more than 18,000 injured. It was also due to the suppression of the protests via subsequent arrests and legal cases. According to the General Directorate of Police Forces, there had been 5,532 protests in eighty of eighty-one provinces across the country, and the number of people that attended these protests was 3.6 million. The number of detainees as of the first week of September was 5,513, and 189 of these were arrested (S¸ardan 2013; Amnesty International 2013). Nevertheless, the evacuation of the square led to the emergence of different means of pursuing the protests. While frequent attempts to organize demonstrations in the square were dispersed by the police, the most significant thing was the emergence of local forums for discussing how to continue with the protests and to turn it into a long lasting political mechanism. The sites for the forums were generally smaller parks that were convenient to use on the warm summer nights. Especially in Istanbul and Ankara, neighborhood forums organized among themselves as well as with each other through a network in social media. The website serving to communicate the forums with national and international supporters was appropriately named everywheretak sim.net. Castells notes how the New Yorkers occupying Zuccotti Park and the occupiers of Catalunya Square in Barcelona both named their first encampments

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“Tahrir Square.” According to him, this was the result of the feeling of empowerment transmitted and shared through networks; “through togetherness built in the networks of cyberspace and in the communities of urban space” (Castells 2012: 21). In a similar way, the name Taksim continued to inspire the forums all around the country and the production of new public spaces. The repetitive use of the parks for political action turned them into public spaces of appearance transforming their users into political subjects demanding democracy and their right to participation. Moreover, this situation was the materialization of the slogan “Everywhere is Taksim”; the spirit of occupation in Taksim was reanimated despite the government’s attempt to crush it. In this respect, the protests found a way to retreat without being defeated. Significantly, the continuity of the forums was not possible through a prolonged deliberation on the future of the protests; continuity was only achieved in cases where local issues of urban contestation were incorporated into the forums’ agendas (Batuman, Baykan and Deniz 2016). Moreover, Taksim was also still the focal point for both the protestors and the government in the wake of the events. Numerous attempts at demonstrations were quickly put up by the police; and the government attempted to use the month of Ramadan (10 July–8 August 2013) to introduce spatial practices to reproduce the square in Islamic terms. It was used as the location of free iftar meals in the evenings. While the square was filled with tables and 1,500 people were served dinner every evening, Anti-capitalist Muslims responded with “earth tables” they established on the ground along ·Istiklal Street. The two versions of breaking fast were in stark contrast (Figure 4.13). The former reflected state authority both in terms of the organization of dinners (in the form of charity provided by the powerful and received by the powerless) as well as the strict control of the space by police forces. The latter, in contrast, was a potluck expressing humility and solidarity. The disruptive character of the “earth tables” shared by hundreds of people sitting shoulder to shoulder on the ground in ·Istiklal Street was illustrated with the police barricades blocking their access to the square. While the state tried to dominate the public space by controlling the spatial practices occurring in it, as proved by the “earth tables” and the network of ongoing forums, the appropriation of public space did not even require its physical occupation. The public space functioned as a central lacuna serving to create new public spaces by using it as a signifier.

Figure 4.13 The municipality’s fast-breaking organization and the “earth tables” along Istiklal Street Sources: Moira Bernardoni and Nar Photos.

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After-effects of Gezi As I have defined the Gezi protests as the revolution of the urban, I shall point out examples of the event’s enduring effects in terms of the urbanization of politics. After the Gezi events, urban issues were perceived by both the government and the opposition in the light of summer 2013. The government responded to peaceful protests either with police measures arguing that conspirators were at work or resorted to dialogue to prevent a new Gezi; and sometimes both of the methods were deployed. An interesting case was the regeneration project proposed for Saraçog˘lu neighborhood in Kızılay, the first republican mass housing project under heritage protection. When the Chamber of Architects brought the project to public attention, President Gül intervened in an unprecedented fashion to facilitate dialogue and collaboration between the Chamber and the Ministry of Environment and Urbanization for a healthy process of rehabilitation (Batuman 2014). Another example in stark contrast was a road construction that would destroy some parts of the forests of the Middle East Technical University campus – another site under protection. The construction was forcefully executed by the municipality despite protests by the students and the residents, who, according to the mayor, were agitators seeking a new Gezi uprising (Köse and Yurttas¸ 2014). Here, it is worth looking at the post-Gezi transformation of the lines of opposition I have mapped in the beginning of the chapter. The nationalist opposition pursued by the mainstream parties against the AKP mainly targeted the government’s initiatives regarding the Kurdish question. The ceasefire effective between 2012 and 2015 eased this opposition and was influential in the emergence of the Gezi protests for it contributed to the legitimacy of “taking to the streets” which was now distanced from “terrorism” in popular perception. The protests, in return, allowed for an alliance between the Kurdish political movement and various strands of the center-left, which promoted the popular acceptability of the legal parties of the Kurdish movement leading to their electoral success in 2015. After that, nationalism as a political stance was hijacked by the AKP and lost its effect as an oppositional discourse; it even undercut the ultra-nationalist MHP’s hardliner position exposing the party to the danger of falling under the 10% threshold to enter the parliament. Secularist opposition has also transformed after the Gezi protests. Rather than an ambiguous threat of Islamist revolution to impose Sharia law, the opposition turned to interventions in everyday lives as an effect of authoritarianism, which became evident with the government’s suppression of the protests, restrictions on social media, surveillance in telecommunications, and the increasing powers vested in the police and intelligence units. After the Gezi protests, the perception of politics and its relation to the urban realm changed as well. The lines of opposition against neoliberal commodification of urban space and the environment began to merge. In the wake of the Gezi protests, what we find is an integrated view of commodification of space as well as the political economy of the AKP and its network of favored

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businesses. A collective study compiling and mapping data “on the relations of capital and power in Turkey” labeled “networks of dispossession” was produced and published for the first time in September 2013 (mulksuzlestirme.org). The integrated mapping of actors, connections, and projects now covered the whole national territory and revealed the power relations embedded within them, which was imagined only after the Gezi events. This integrated perspective juxtaposed oppositions against environmental destruction and urban megaprojects within a general framework of urban politics centered on struggles against gentrification. The urban struggles also began to assume new forms. An interesting phenomenon that was not seen in Turkey before the Gezi protests was squatting in the form of occupying vacant inner city buildings. Although squatting as a practice of the rural-to-urban immigrants has been a characteristic feature of postwar urbanization in Turkey, the occupation of derelict buildings was never seen before. This mode of appropriation of urban space, which is common in especially European cities as an act of civil disobedience, was a direct product of the post-Gezi moment. Squats were established in Istanbul and Ankara in the months following the Gezi protests, where the activists clearly defined their intention to pursue the occupation experience in Gezi Park involving self-management and mutual collaboration (Rittersberger-Tılıç 2016: 91). Thus, the Gezi protests were a product of the urban revolution generated by the new Islamist government, which led to the “complete urbanization of politics.” It was a revolution of the urban further intensifying this process with the invention of new forms of urban struggle as well as new ways of imagining politics as centered around the urban. In other words, the Gezi event represented the integration and urbanization of previous lines of opposition.

Mobilizing millet in the wake of Gezi Before finishing this chapter, I shall discuss the Gezi protests in relation to the AKP’s nation-building project. The AKP’s definition of millet rested on an essential antagonism toward an imagined elite minority that has oppressed the ­Islamic-conservative majority throughout republican history. This definition implied that an overwhelming majority of the people belonged to this definition. The rest were understood as “minorities,” which were not denied existence but rather “tolerated.” The Gezi protests represented a significant crisis of representation in this respect, terminating the very foundations of this definition (Saraçog˘lu and Özkol 2015). It illustrated that the so-called minorities were quantitatively larger than imagined; furthermore, their heterogeneity proved impossible to assimilate. Most importantly, their active agency to raise demands troubled the vision of millet as a coherent mass complying with the will of its leader. In the wake of the events, Erdog˘an repeatedly condemned the “looters” of Gezi revolt leaving aside the old antagonism with the elites (Koyuncu 2014: 324–325). The political performativity of the Gezi activists would continue to haunt the AKP and significantly influence

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the party’s mobilization of its supporters against the coup attempt in July 2016. But before going into the discussion of this mobilization making substantial use of public space, we should also consider the larger context with regard to the role of political Islam in the tide of protests across the Middle East and North Africa. Although they participated widely and came to the foreground rapidly, it was not the Islamists who triggered the uprisings in the region. In fact, it has been argued that the Islamists have “hijacked” the Arab Spring (Bradley 2012). Their organizational dominance was not very surprising given their decades-long grassroots mobilization in the region. Nevertheless, what is important for our discussion is that the revolts and their aftermath was a scene for discussions about the extent to which the Islamists would adapt to democracy and secularism; whether or not they would seek Islamic revolutions (Gerges 2013; Bayat 2013). While the Islamist party an-Nahda in Tunisia provided an optimistic case, the Ikhwan administration in Egypt failed to convince non-Islamist opposition regarding its political agenda and paved the way for the return of the status-quo in the form of a military coup in 2013. Especially in the Arab countries, the revolts, among other things, represented a struggle between the Islamists and the secular nationalists over the Arab identity (Gerges 2015: 6). In this regard, these countries faced the tension over the definition of nation, which Turkey had been struggling for two decades. Interestingly, the Arab Islamists’ relation with Turkey’s AKP influenced the trajectory of the revolts. The former saw in the Turkish example a success story for Islamism from which they would learn selectively (Tug˘al 2013: 155). The AKP, in return, saw the possibility of expanding its influence, in terms of both the general success of new Islamism in the Arab world and the influence of the Turkish government on these new administrations. Ironically, while the Western world was pointing at the AKP as a positive example for the Islamic countries (in tune with the global market and NATO), the AKP was getting increasingly authoritarian after 2011. The rise of these movements led the AKP to act more confidently and their subsequent defeat produced a new frame through which the government viewed the Gezi protests. The Gezi protests, in this regard, can be interpreted as the unconnected epilogue of the revolts across the region particularly in relation to the role of political Islam. There is a strange parallel between the one-year Ikhwan administration in Egypt and that of the AKP spanning more than a decade. The very short interval between 30 June and 3 July witnessed large-scale demonstrations calling for the removal of Ikhwan administration; a call for the removal of a president acting as if he had “a tremendous mandate not only to do what he wants, but also to engage in tremendous corruption that also was meant to change the entire face of the country” (Bou Akar 2013). The Gezi protests shared a similar trait opposing the government’s increasingly authoritarian attitude materialized in the personal figure of Erdog˘an. While the massive protests in Egypt were soon appropriated by the military to restore the status quo in the country, a similar intervention attempting to remove Erdog˘an and the AKP from power in Turkey came after three years. The putsch in July 2016 was also very similar to the one in Egypt in that the

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putschists counted on the wide-spread discontent with Erdog˘an’s rule. However, there were two important differences that led to its failure. The first of these was that, unlike Egypt, no civilian group supported the military intervention and even the army did not act solidly. The second was the existence of a considerable base of supporters built throughout the fourteen years of the AKP rule, which was rapidly mobilized against the coup with a call to millet. Perhaps, the most significant episode showing how the Gezi protests affected the government’s perception of the millet as a performing body was the coup attempt on 15 July 2016. Although the junta expected support from opponents of the AKP similar to the toppling of Muhammad Morsi in Egypt, they found none. While the citizens with different political affiliations almost unanimously opposed the coup, Erdog˘an was adamant in his own way of representing the events. According to him, it was only his supporters who took to the streets (AlJazeera Turk 21.07.2016). Moreover, the government mobilized its supporters and organized “Democracy and Martyrs” rallies that would take place every night for almost a month. The masses in the streets gradually narrowed to the supporters of the AKP, while their representation in the government’s statements as well as the mainstream media expanded to correspond to millet. As expected, one of the main sites for the rallies was Taksim Square. The logistics of the rallies were professionally organized; portable toilets, free food, and water were provided by the municipalities. The frequent use of anthems (including those of the Ottoman military band – mehter) created a militaristic atmosphere in an otherwise convivial environment resembling Ramadan carnivals with the participation of women and children (Türkmen and Küçük 2016). The military anthems were significant for they contributed to the production of a narrative depicting an invasion attempt by and a victory over (an imaginary foreign) enemy. This military narrative was centered on Erdog˘an, who was now identified as the commander-in-chief. Complemented with frequently chanted takbir (which historically is also a battle cry), millet was interpellated as the Islamic military-nation under its leader, subsuming the bases of AKP and ultra-nationalist MHP. The rallies legitimized conservative women’s presence in public space at night, although interviews revealed that these women (an overwhelming majority of whom wore headscarves) attended the protests only in the company of men (Türkmen and Küçük 2016). The bodily performances in the rallies were limited to waving flags, singing along the broadcast anthems, and making symbolic hand gestures. The squares in various cities were spatially organized in front of portable stage platforms that were used for speeches. With directions from professional hosts leading the crowds, the demonstrators were treated as passive bodies of cheerers. The rallies were a scene for performances significantly mimicking the Gezi protests. For instance, tents were established in Gezi Park; they were not intended to generate a camp environment but merely served the symbolic c­ ounter-occupation of the park. The façade of the AKM building was fully covered with the Turkish flag appended with the slogan “Sovereignty belongs to millet,” which was in

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stark contrast with the heterogeneous composition of banners covering the same façade during the Gezi protests (Figure 4.14). A speaker’s corner (labeled “Taksim Democracy Podium”) was set up with a technologically advanced podium and its view was projected on large screens. This was also an imitation of the speaker’s corners of the Gezi protests, where technology signified superiority over its predecessor’s makeshift quality (Figure 4.15). All these were responses to the previous performances of the Gezi protestors; the use of limitless resources and technology was used to suppress and/or appropriate the signs, symbols, and practices of the Gezi event. Even the slogans obsessively referred to those of Gezi: “Gezici deg˘il kalıcı gençlik” (Not wandering but stationary youth) contained wordplay where “Gezici” simultaneously meant “of Gezi” and “wandering/mobile.” Another favorite slogan was “Her yer Tayyip, her yer Erdog˘an,” (Everywhere Tayyip, everywhere Erdog˘an) imitating the acoustic rhythm of the slogan “Everywhere Taksim, resistance everywhere,” filling its content with the very name that was the main Figure 4.14 The façade of the AKM building during the “Democracy and Martyrs Rallies” in the wake of the coup attempt in July 2016 Photograph by Konca S¸aher.

Figure 4.15 The speakers’ podiums during the Gezi protests and the “Democracy and Martyrs Rallies” Sources: Nar Photos and Konca S¸aher.

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object of antagonism in most of the Gezi slogans. Erdog˘an’s speeches were broadcast live on large screens in the major public spaces of the cities across the country every night. This was also a response to the bottom-up network connecting the public spaces of the country during the Gezi protests. Now, a similar network was established; with the substantial difference of the constant and unidirectional communication of the message and the image of Erdog˘an himself.

CONCLUSION An understated aspect of the new Islamist reign in Turkey has been the comprehensive urbanization process, which was an outcome of intentional policies and unintentional consequences of commodification of space in cities and the countryside. The Islamists had constructed solid bases in the larger cities and smaller towns through diverse urban coalitions. Moreover, the structural changes in the administrative system reorganizing metropolitan areas hybridized the definition of “urban.” That is, the urbanization process under the AKP, which I defined as the urban revolution of new Islamism, not only expanded the primacy of the urban but also redefined it in a hybrid form. This hybrid form was not only about the urban-rural dichotomy but more importantly represented the social integration of various-sized communities. This new organization proved particularly effective in maintaining Islamist political power in the elections. Nevertheless, social and political integration under new metropolitan units also led to the urbanization of opposition to the Islamist administration, where various lines of opposition assumed urban forms. The increasing discontent with the AKP’s policies in different domains culminated in the Gezi protests, which I defined as the revolution of the urban. In other words, the Gezi protests were a predicament of the complete urbanization process under the new Islamists. It wasn’t an inevitable explosion; the social unrest was a result of particular policies gradually assuming an imperious attitude ignoring objections in individual cases. Nevertheless, the protests showed that the urban revolution of new Islamism was not merely a top-down process mastered by the government but also comprised the urbanization of opposition to it. Another understudied aspect of the Gezi protests was its role in this process of urbanization. Commodification, neoliberal deregulation, precarization of labor, Islamization of everyday life, and the increasingly brutal treatment of protests resulted in the condensation of forms of political action and imagination in specifically urban forms. The lines of political opposition assumed urban forms and channeled into the public space; the urban form par excellence. Moreover, they produced new urban forms in the wake of the protests. The spatial and performative forms of action emerged during the protests were so influential that even the AKP attempted to appropriate these forms in its mass mobilization efforts following the failed putsch in the summer of 2016. How the mobilization of conservative masses will affect politics is yet to be seen.

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NOTES 1 2

3

4

5

6

7

8

For detailed analyses on the planning processes of the two cities, see Tankut (1994) and Cengizkan (2004) on Ankara; Akpınar (2003) and Pinon and Bilsel (2010) on Istanbul. Although I am only interested in protest camps here, there is a growing literature on camps in general, focusing on various forms ranging from touristic camps to military camps, concentration camps and refugee camps. See, Hailey (2008, 2009), Cohen (2009) and Frenzel (2011). TEKEL resistance was extensively documented at the time due to the attention it · aroused. See Türk-Is¸ (2010), Kolektif (2010), Bulut (2010), Yıkılmaz and Kumlu (2011), Tosun (2011), Kumlu (2012). Supporters of the project claimed that the park was used for deviant practices (such as alcohol consumption) and by “marginal groups.” Internet forums contain interesting com· ments regarding the project. For an example, see “Topçu Kıs¸lası Yeniden I ns¸a Ediliyor,” http://wowturkey.com/forum/viewtopic.php?t=668&start=270 (accessed on 13.01.2014). Although there had been particular conditions that had triggered the revolts staged in the major public spaces of cities throughout 2011 and 2012, it is possible to observe a common trait of responding to predicaments of neoliberal global urbanism (Sheppard et al. 2015). Put in this way, it is possible to observe that the wave of protests initially began in the West in 2009 (in places like Greece and Iceland – and the TEKEL Resistance in Ankara can be seen as part of this episode) and spread to the Middle East and North Africa, only to return to the West with the central sites of Spain, Greece, and the US (Tug˘al 2013: 157). Here it is also worth mentioning a somewhat opposing view that also departs from the work of Lefebvre. According to Andy Merrifield (2013: 33), the recent protests should be understood with the concept of the encounter, albeit in a different way: “the recent tumult in Tunisia, Egypt, Greece and Spain, as well as that of the Occupy movement, expresses itself as a dramatic politics of the encounter”; and although these encounters occur in the city streets, “the stake itself isn’t about the city per se; rather it’s about democracy, . . . about something simpler and vaster than city politics as we once knew it.” Frenzel (2011) discusses the protest camp in relation to Agamben’s notion of “exception” claiming that the protest camps should aim to create “an antagonism that does not become an exception.” There have been analyses on the spatial forms of protest camps and their specificities influencing the performance of protests. For instance, see Mohamed, van Nes and Salheen (2015) for a comparative analysis of Tahrir and al-Adawiya squares in Cairo using space syntax; De la Llata (2016) for space-making in the Indignados encampment in Plaza Catalunya, Barcelona; Franck and Huang (2012) for a comparative study of the spatial features of the four public spaces: Tahrir Square, Pearl Square in Manama, Plaza Catalunya, and Zuccotti Park; and finally Weizman (2015) for a typological analysis citing various “roundabout revolutions.”

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“Erdog˘ an ‘Dindar Nesil’i Savundu,” Radikal, 06.02.2012, www.radikal.com.tr/politika/ erdogan-dindar-nesili-savundu-1077899/ (accessed on 11.09.2016). “Erdog˘ an: Güvenlik Güçlerimiz Parkı Bos¸altmasını Bilir,” Radikal, 15.06.2013, www. radikal.com.tr/turkiye/erdogan_guvenlik_guclerimiz_parki_bosaltmasini_bilir-1137753 (accessed on 18.07.2013). Farro, A. L. and D. G. Demirhisar. (2014) “The Gezi Park Movement: A Turkish Experience of the Twenty-First Century Collective Movements,” International Review of Sociology 24 (1): 176–189. Feigenbaum, A. (2014) “Resistant Matters: Tents, Tear Gas and the ‘Other Media’ of Occupy,” Communication and Critical/Cultural Studies 11 (1): 15–24. Franck, K. A. and T. S. Huang. (2012) “Occupying Public Space, 2011: From Tahrir Square to Zuccotti Park,” in Shiffman, R., R. Bell, L. J. Brown and L. Elizabeth eds. Beyond Zuccotti Park: Freedom of Assembly and the Occupation of Public Space, 3–20, Oakland: New Village Press. Frenzel, F. (2011) “Exit the System: Crafting the Place of Protest Camps Between Antagonism and Exception,” working paper, University of the West of England. Gerges, F. A. (2013) “The Islamist Movement: Form Islamic State to Civil Islam?” Political Science Quarterly 128 (3): 389–426. Gerges, F. A. (2015) “Introduction: Contextualizing the Arab Spring Uprisings: Different Regimes, Different Revolutions, and Different Trajectories,” in F. A. Gerges ed. Contentious Politics in the Middle East: Popular Resistance and Marginalized Activism Beyond the Arab Uprisings, 1–21, New York and Hampshire: Palgrave Macmillan. Göksel, O. (2015) “From Progress to Order: The ‘Kurdish Openings’ and the Limits to Contentious Politics in Turkey,” in F. A. Gerges ed. Contentious Politics in the Middle East: Popular Resistance and Marginalized Activism Beyond the Arab Uprisings, 281–303, New York and Hampshire: Palgrave Macmillan. Göktürk, D., G. Güvercin and O. Seçkin. (2012) “The New Stream of Trade Unionism: The · Case of Eg˘itim-Bir-Sen in Turkey,” in Inal, K. and G. Akkaymak eds. Neoliberal Transformation of Education in Turkey: Political and Ideological Analysis of Educational Reforms in the Age of the AKP, 109–121, New York: Palgrave Macmillan. · Göle, N. (1998) Mühendisler ve Ideoloji: Öncü Devrimcilerden Yenilikçi Seçkinlere, Istanbul: Metis. Göle, N. (2013) “Gezi – Anatomy of a Public Square Movement,” Insight Turkey 15 (3): 7–14. · Gülersoy, Ç. (1986) Taksim: Bir Meydanın Hikayesi, Istanbul: Istanbul Kitaplıg˘ı. Günaydın, G. (2009) “Türkiye Tarım Politikalarında ‘Yapısal Uyum’: 2000’li Yıllar,” Mülkiye 33 (1): 175–222. Gürcan, E. C. and E. Peker. (2015) “A Class Analytic Approach to the Gezi Park Events: Challenging the ‘Middle Class’ Myth,” Capital & Class 39 (2): 321–343. Hailey, C. (2008) Campsite: Architectures of Duration and Place, Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press. Hailey, C. (2009) Camps: A Guide to 21st-century Space, Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Harvey, D. (1989) “From Managerialism to Entrepreneurialism: The Transformation in Urban Governance in Late Capitalism,” Geografiska Annaler B 71 (1): 3–17. Harvey, D. (2012) Rebel Cities: From the Right to the City to the Urban Revolution, London: Verso. Howard, B. C. (2013) “The Surprising History and Science of Tear Gas,” National Geographic, 12.06.2013, http://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/2013/06/130612-tear-gas-historyscience-turkey-protests/ (accessed on 16.09.2016). Ignatov, G. (2008) “Globalizations and the Transformation of Environmental Activism: Turkey Since the 1980s,” Globalizations 5 (3): 433–447. · Ilkkaracan, P. (2008) “How Adultery Almost Derailed Turkey’s Aspiration to Join the Euro· pean Union,” in P. Ilkaracan ed. Deconstructing Sexuality in the Middle East: Challenges and Discourses, 41–64, Hampshire: Ashgate.

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The urban revolution of new Islamism  j · Ince, E. (2014) “Bergama Altın Madeni Direnis¸i: Toprag˘ın Bekçileri,” Bianet, 13.12.2014, http://bianet.org/bianet/siyaset/160766-bergama-altin-madeni-direnisi-topraginbekcileri (accessed on 11.09.2016). · Insel, A. (2013) “Haysiyet Ayaklanması,” Radikal, 04.06.2013, www.radikal.com.tr/yazarlar/ ahmet-insel/haysiyet-ayaklanmasi-1136174/ (accessed on 21.09.2016). Is¸ın, E. F. (2009) “Citizenship in Flux: The Figure of the Activist Citizen,” Subjectivity 29 (1): 367–388. · Islam, T. and B. Sakızlıog˘lu. (2015) “The Making of, and Resistance to, State-Led Gentrification in Istanbul, Turkey,” in Bang Shin, L. H. and E. Lopez-Morales eds. Global Gentrifications: Uneven Development and Displacement, 245–264, Bristol and Chicago: Policy Press. Karakayalı, S. and Ö. Yaka. (2014) “The Spirit of Gezi: The Recomposition of Political Subjectivities in Turkey,” New Formations: A Journal of Culture/ Theory/ Politics 83: 117–138. Karaman, O. (2008) “Urban Pulse – (RE)Making Space for Globalization in Istanbul,” Urban Geography 29 (6): 518–525. Karaman, O. (2014) “Resisting Urban Renewal in Istanbul,” Urban Geography 35 (2): 290–310. Karasulu, A. (2014) “ ‘If a Leaf Falls, They Blame the Tree’: Scattered Notes on Gezi Resistances, Contention, and Space,” International Review of Sociology 24 (1): 164–175. Keraghel, C. and J. Sen. (2004) “Explorations in Open Space: The World Social Forum and Cultures of Politics,” International Social Science Journal 56 (182): 483–493. Keyder, Ç. ed (1999) Istanbul: Between the Global and the Local, Lanham, MD and Oxford: Rowman and Littlefield. Keyder, Ç. (2013) “Yeni Orta Sınıf,” The Science Academy, 34–179/148, http://bilimakademisi.org/yeni-orta-sinif-caglar-keyder/ (accessed on 23.09.2016). Kolektif. (2010) TEKEL Direnis¸i Dersleri 2010: Sendikalarımızı Geri Alacag˘ız!, Istanbul: Kaldıraç. Köse, E. B. and D. Yurttas¸. (2014) “Investigating Effects of Neoliberal Policies of Urban Transportation on Cities Through the Case of METU Road in Ankara, Turkey,” unpublished master’s thesis, Milano: Politecnico di Milano. · Koyuncu, B. (2014) “Benim Milletim. . .”: AK Parti Iktidarı, Din ve Ulusal Kimlik, Istanbul: · Iletis¸im. · Kumlu, S. (2012) “Neoliberal Çag˘da Is¸çi Sınıfının Konumu ve Sınıf Hareketi: 4/C ve TEKEL Direnis¸i Örneg˘i,” unpublished master’s thesis, Ankara: Ankara University. Kuruyazıcı, H. (1998) “Cumhuriyetin Istanbul’daki Simgesi: Taksim Cumhuriyet Meydanı,” in O. Baydar ed. Bilanço ’98: 75 Yılda Degis¸en Kent ve Mimarlık, 889–898, Istanbul: Tarih Vakfı. Kuymulu, M. B. (2013) “Reclaiming the Right to the City: Reflections on the Urban Uprisings in Turkey,” City 17 (3): 274–278. Lefebvre, H. (1991) The Production of Space, transl. by D. Nicholson-Smith, Oxford and Cambridge: Blackwell. Lefebvre, H. (2003) The Urban Revolution, Minneapolis and London: University of Minnesota Press. Lelandais, G. E. (2014) “Space and Identity in Resistance Against Neoliberal Urban Planning in Turkey,” International Journal of Urban and Regional Research 38 (5): 1785–1806. Lelandais, G. E. (2016) “Gezi Protests and Beyond: Urban Resistance Under Neoliberal Urbanism in Turkey,” in Mayer, M., C. Thörn and H. Thörn eds. Urban Uprisings: Challenging Neoliberal Urbanism in Europe, 283–308, London: Palgrave Macmillan. Mangold, W. (2011) “Review: Camps: A Guide to 21st Century Space; Campsite: Architectures of Duration and Place; and A Manufactured Wilderness: Summer Camps and the Shaping of American Youth, 1890–1960,” Journal of Architectural Education 64 (2): 176–178.

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McCurdy, P., A. Feigenbaum and F. Frenzel. (2016) “Protest Camps and Repertoires of Contention,” Social Movement Studies 15 (1): 97–104. Merrifield, A. (2013) The Politics of the Encounter: Urban Theory and Protest Under Planetary Urbanization, Athens, GA: University of Georgia Press. Mohamed, A. A., A. van Nes and M. A. Salheen. (2015) “Space and Protest: A Tale of Two Egyptian Squares,” paper presented at the 10th Space Syntax Symposium, www.sss10. bartlett.ucl.ac.uk/wp-content/uploads/2015/07/SSS10_Proceedings_110.pdf (accessed on 26.09.2016). Moudouros, N. (2014) “Rethinking Islamic Hegemony in Turkey Through Gezi Park,” Journal of Balkan and Near Eastern Studies 16 (2): 181–195. “Muammer Güler: Bas¸bakan’a Gezi için yalvardım yakardım, Nuh dedi peygamber demedi,” T24, 14.03.2014, http://t24.com.tr/haber/muammer-guler-basbakana-gezi-icin-yalvar dim-yakardim-nuh-dedi-peygamber-demedi,253419 (accessed on 15.09.2016). Mütevelliog˘lu, N. (2010) “Özelles¸tirmelerin Krizine Kars¸ı Toplumsal Olanı Savunmak,” in G. · Bulut ed. TEKEL Direnis¸inin Is¸ıg˘ında Gelenekselden Yeniye Is¸çi Sınıfı Hareketi, 149–171, Ankara: Nota Bene. · Örs, I. R. and Ö. Turan. (2015) “The Manner of Contention: Pluralism at Gezi,” Philosophy & Social Criticism 41 (4–5): 453–463. Özdemir, S. S. (2015) “The Gezi Park Protests as a Pluralistic ‘Anti-Violent’ Movement,” The Pluralist 10 (3): 247–260. Öztas¸, M. (2010) Taksim: Bir S¸ enlig˘i Yas¸amak, Istanbul: Heyamola. Petti, A., S. Hilal and E. Weizman. (2013) Architecture After Revolution, Berlin: Sternberg Press. Pinon, P. and C. Bilsel. eds (2010) From the Imperial Capital to the Republican Modern City: Henri Prost’s Planning of Istanbul (1936–1951), Istanbul: Istanbul Aras¸tırmaları Enstitüsü. Reimer, M. (2012) “ ‘It’s the Kids Who Made This Happen’: The Occupy Movement as Youth Movement,” Jeunesse: Young People, Texts, Cultures 4 (1): 1–14. Rioufol, V. (2004) “Approaches to Social Change in Social Forums: Snapshots of Recompositions in Progress,” International Social Science Journal 56 (182): 551–563. Rittersberger-Tılıç, H. (2016) “Squatting (in Turkey): A Practice of Transforming Public Spaces into Commons?” in N. Konak and R. Ö. Dönmez eds. Waves of Social Movement Mobilizations in the Twenty-First Century: Challenges to the Neo-Liberal World Order and Democracy, 83–99, Lanham, MD, Boulder, New York and London: Lexington Books. Saraçog˘lu, C. and Ö. Demirkol. (2015) “Nationalism and Foreign Policy Discourse in Turkey Under the AKP Rule: Geography, History and National Identity,” British Journal of Middle Eastern Studies 42 (3): 301–319. S¸ardan, T. (2013) “Gezi’den Kalanlar ve Farklı bir Analiz,” Milliyet, 25.11.2013, http://gundem.milliyet.com.tr/gezi-den-kalanlar-ve-farkli-bir/gundem/ydetay/1797280/default. htm (accessed 14.01.2014). Selen, E. (2007) “The Work of Sacrifice: Framing Gender Politics, Racialization and the Significance of Islam in the Lives of Ajda Pekkan and Konca Kuris,” Women & Performance: A Journal of Feminist Theory 17 (3): 347–368. Sheppard, E., V. Gidwani, M. Goldman, H. Leitner, A. Roy and A. Maringanti. (2015) “Introduction: Urban Revolutions in the Age of Global Urbanism,” Urban Studies 52 (11): 1947–1961. Sözalan, Ö. (2013) “A Few Remarks on the Lessons of Gezi Uprising,” Badiou Studies 2 (1): 146–151. “Taksim’de Türban Eylemi,” [Turban Rally in Taksim] Hüriyet, 05.02.2008, www.hurriyet. com.tr/gundem/8171749.asp (accessed on 11.01.2014). · Tankut, G. (1994) Bir Bas¸kentin Imarı – Ankara: 1923–1939, Istanbul: Altın Kitaplar.

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Tosun, M. (2011) “Flexible Labor Policy and the Crisis of Trade Unionism: The Case of TEKEL Workers’ Resistance in Ankara,” unpublished master’s thesis, Ankara: Middle East Technical University. Tug˘al, C. (2013) “ ‘Resistance Everywhere’: The Gezi Revolt in Global Perspective,” New Perspectives on Turkey 49: 157–172. Turan, F. (2011) “Environmental Citizenship and Struggle for Nature,” in Dönmez, R. Ö. and P. Enneli eds. Societal Peace and Ideal Citizenship for Turkey, 281–298, Lanham, MD and Plymouth: Lexington Books. · · Türk-Is¸. (2010) Mücadeleyle Geçen 78 Gün: TEKEL Eylem Günlüg˘ü, Ankara: Türk-Is¸. Türkmen, B. and B. Küçük. (2016) “Gezi’den Demokrasi Nöbetlerine Deg˘is¸en Meydan Siyaseti,” T24, 12.08.2016, http://t24.com.tr/haber/geziden-demokrasi-nobetlerine-degisenmeydan-siyaseti,354646 (accessed on 29.09.2016). · Türkmen, N. (2012) Eylemden Ög˘renmek: TEKEL Direnis¸i ve Sınıf Bilinci, Istanbul: Iletis¸im. Ünsal, Ö. and T. Kuyucu. (2010) “Challenging the Neoliberal Urban Regime: Regeneration and Resistance in Bas¸ıbüyük and Tarlabas¸ı,” in Göktürk, D., L. Soysal and I. Tureli eds. Orienting Istanbul: Cultural Capital of Europe? 51–70, London and New York: Routledge. Vale, L. J. (2008) Architecture, Power, and National Identity, Second edition, London and New York: Routledge. Varnalı, K. and V. Görgülü. (2015) “A Social Influence Perspective on Expressive Political Participation in Twitter: The Case of #OccupyGezi,” Information, Communication & Society 18 (1): 1–16. Veliog˘lu, H. (2013) “ ‘Ghosts’ of a Situationist Protest, Deadly Edges of Kemalism,” Hot Spots, Cultural Anthropology Online, 31.10.2013, http://production.culanth.org/fieldsights/419-ghosts-of-a-situationist-protest-deadly-edges-of-kemalism (accessed on 12.03.2016). Weaver, M. and B. Quinn. (2013) “Turkey Violence Intensifies as Police Try to Clear Taksim Square – As It Happened,” The Guardian, 11.06.2013, www.theguardian.com/ world/2013/jun/11/turkey-police-move-into-taksim-square?guni=Network (accessed on 12.03.2016); Weizman, E. (2015) The Roundabout Revolutions, Berlin: Sternberg Press. Yalçıntas¸, A. ed (2015) Creativity and Humour in Occupy Movements: Intellectual Disobedience in Turkey and Beyond, Hampshire: Palgrave Macmillan. Yalçıntas¸, H. A. (2008) “Evaluating the Impact of Urban Competitive Advantages on Economic Revitalization of Deprived Inner Cities Through a Case Study Held in Istanbul,” · Ph.D. dissertation, Izmir: Izmir Institute of Technology. · Yazıcı, G. (2013) “LGBT Blok: Gökkus¸ag˘ının Çocukları – Velev ki Ibneyiz, Alıs¸ın Her Yerdeyiz,” Express 136: 60–61. Yıkılmaz, G. and S. Kumlu. ed (2011) TEKEL Eylemine Kenar Notları, Ankara: Phoenix. · · Yıldırım, P. (2013) “AB Ilerleme Sürecinin Türkiye’de Kadın Sorununa Etkisi: AKP Iktidarı Üze· rine Bir Inceleme,” in Gültekin, L., G. Günes¸, C. Ertung and A. S¸ims¸ek eds. Toplumsal · CInsiyet ve Yansımaları, 66–78, Ankara: Atılım University. Zengin, O. (2014) “Büyüks¸ehir Belediyesi Sisteminin Dönüs¸ümü: Son On Yılın Deg˘erlendirmesi,” Ankara Barosu Dergisi 72 (2): 91–116.

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Chapter 5: Building (the) national The public architecture of millet

Nation-building processes often involve state-led undertakings in shaping the built environment to achieve nationalist representations (Kusno 2012). The most visible sites of such representations aiming to (re)configure the imagination of people are the public buildings designed to symbolize the nation, such as capitol complexes (Vale 2008). Such buildings not only serve the representation of the nation but also maintain and legitimize the link between people as nation and the nationstate. In this respect, nation-building has often been coupled by regime-building; buildings representing sovereignty of the nation also serve to legitimize the political faction in power. Nevertheless, it would be wrong to assume that there is an automatic mechanism of identification with the architecture of public buildings and the particular representation of the nation they present; the architectural representation itself is always open to contestation. This aspect of public architecture has not been adequately investigated because it is not common to see the open rejection of the architectural representations of nationalism. In this respect, the case of Islamic nation-rebuilding in Turkey provides an interesting case, with a spectacular example of public architecture – the new Presidential Compound. The compound served not only the representation of the nation as Islamic millet but also the rewriting of the political topology of the capital towards the configuration of the political system centered around a powerful president. Yet, the new compound replacing the old presidential mansion has also been hotly debated as soon as it was publicly announced. In this chapter, I will discuss the making of a new national architecture under the AKP, which culminated in the Presidential Compound. Since its rise to power in 2002, the party has sought to develop an architectural style that was labeled “Ottoman-Seljuk” and went through several phases under different influences. The earliest examples of this style were seen in school buildings and courthouses.

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These two fields were appropriately fit for the task of redefining national identity: while the schools intended to serve the indoctrination of a new form of nationalism to the youth, the courthouses linked this national identity to the state. That is, these two sites of representation allow for the micro-level operation of public architecture as opposed to the Presidential Compound emerging as the symbol of a new nation (millet) and its new regime. (Nationalist) public architecture assumes that it generates ideological meanings defining nationhood and that these messages are correctly understood and accepted by the people who then identify with this particular form of the nation. However, there are two possible divergences in this process. The first is that these intended messages might not be received by the users of the space; and second, they might very well be disputed even if they are understood correctly. While the schools and courthouses provide examples used by citizens, the Presidential Compound is a site of power that operates through different mechanisms of identification. Hence, the opposition to it is also worth analyzing in terms of the contested meanings of public architecture. In their quest for a new architectural style, the AKP officials began with what was available to them; they turned to imitate the Ottoman Revivalism of the early twentieth century. Then, however, the growing network of space production provided Turkish Islamists with new architectural idioms to deploy. They made use of not only historical references but also the contemporary network of transnational agents of space production, namely the Turkish construction companies, which were effectively creating monumental structures of nation-building in the post-Soviet geography. These examples were significant sources of inspiration, for they tended to erase existing signs and symbols of a modernist (Soviet) past and were inevitably built on a foundational distance to architectural modernism. That is, in an interesting way, the AKP’s architectural search was simultaneously local – reaching back to the late Ottoman imagery – and global in its parallels with the post-modernist nation-building processes of post-Cold War era. Finally, the Presidential Compound arrived at a new synthesis merging Turkish Islam with Western classicism, which comprises a major object of discussion in this chapter.

VARIATIONS ON REVIVALISM: RE-INVENTING NATIONAL ARCHITECTURE Primary education has always been a major field of ideological contestation throughout republican history in Turkey. The radical secularism of the early republican ethos found its reflection in the uniform education system. If one characteristic of the new education system was its attempt to monopolize and secularize elementary curriculum, another was its nationalist sentiment based on ethnic Turkification (Sakaog˘lu 2003; Çayır and Gürkaynak 2007). It is crucial to note here that the young nation-state did not repress but redefine Islam in order to control it (Türkmen 2009). Traditional religious schools for higher education (madrasa) were closed down in 1924 and a Faculty of Theology was established. Parallel

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to this, the imam-hatip schools were opened for the first time to train religious functionaries as civil servants. While these schools were later closed down due to lack of interest, they were revived first as courses (1948) and then (under the Democrats) as middle schools in 1951 (Pak 2004; Çakır, Bozan and Talu 2004). After this, as discussed in Chapter 3, the imam-hatip schools became a major medium for the populist negotiations between Islamists and right-wing governments. The secularist establishment struggled to confine these schools within the framework of vocational schools while the Islamists pushed for their recognition as regular schools including religious teachings. The schools were a site of fierce conflict especially in the 1990s and seen as a threat by the secularist establishment viewing them as the backyard of Islamist parties. As a result, they were forced to close down their middle schools within the scope of eight-year mandatory education in 1997. This was a huge blow to the imam-hatip schools together with restrictions limiting their graduates’ entrance into universities in fields other than theology. The establishment’s attempt to reorganize education towards resecularization contained a major architectural component. The eight-year mandatory education model was designed as an uninterrupted process in order to force the closing of middle sections of the imam-hatip schools. Thus, it required the reorganization of schools and the construction of new ones. Therefore, the Ministry of National Education appointed major universities to produce architectural projects to be used as typical blueprints for the construction of new schools (Gidizog˘lu 2003). One of the first items on the AKP’s agenda was to reinstate the middle sections of imam-hatip schools by introducing flexibility to the eight-year mandatory education. Moreover, with the ongoing undertaking in school building, the schools also proved to be an important site for the production of a new architectural expression. The need for rapid production of school buildings and modernization requirements were quickly translated into a comprehensive project towards developing a new architecture incorporating contemporary building technologies with a conservative identity. The director of the Department of Investments and Facilities under the Ministry of National Education announced in mid-2004 that a new “Smart Schools Project” was underway (Sabah 07.08.2004). The new schools would fulfill EU standards in terms of user safety and accommodate requirements of different age groups that would inhabit the schools together. Significantly, it was also declared that the new schools would henceforth reflect a change in architectural image, which would be “based on Ottoman and Seljuk architectures” (Hürriyet 07.08.2004). Before going into a detailed discussion of this new architectural image, I shall point out the other track in public building construction, namely the courthouses, that was initiated with non-architectural reasons in the early years of the AKP government. The constant threat from the military forced the AKP government to eagerly pursue EU membership and undertake reforms to adapt to the union’s legal framework.1 While this required significant changes in legislation, the most important changes were required in the justice system. In 2003, the Ministry

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of Justice undertook the modernization of courthouses (together with prisons) within the scope of EU-funded project in “Modernization of Justice System” (Delegation of the EU to Turkey 2007). The Ministry built or renovated around 270 courthouses in ten years and increased the total floor area of courthouses from 500,000 to 3 million square meters by 2014 (Ministry of Justice 2007: 4; Ministry of Justice 2015: 6). Thus, the new courthouses, together with the school buildings, provided a significant milieu for the AKP government in the making of a new national architectural representation. It was stated from the start that the courthouses would be “reconstructed or renovated in accordance with Turkish history and regional architecture” (Radikal 27.11.2004). The Minister of Justice proudly announced that they were building majestic palaces of justice in tune with “genuine Turkish architecture” (S¸ahin 2007). In another speech he emphasized that the new palaces of justice should make citizens feel that they “have such a powerful state” (Radikal 04.08.2008). In tune with this, the website of Istanbul Çag˘layan Courthouse defined the architecture of the building as a “combination of modern architecture and Turkish architecture” (www.imid.adalet.gov.tr). In both school buildings and courthouses, the AKP’s search for a new architectural idiom was based on a vague reference to “Turkishness,” which was visualized with references to Ottoman and Seljuk buildings. Yet, this sort of revivalism was not an invention of the Islamists of the twenty-first century. Mostly dismissed as anti-modernist by the twentieth century historiography of Turkish architecture, Ottoman Revivalism of the early twentieth century provided inspiration for the new Islamist government. Moreover, as this particular style marked the first decade of republican nation-building, it represented an important source of legitimacy for the government under constant threat from the establishment. Ottoman revivalist architecture represents an ideologically charged transitory phase in the early years of the twentieth century. The same architectural idiom served as a cultural means of identity formation for both a struggling empire and its successor nation-state. As pointed out by Bozdog˘an (2001: 34), the architectural elements associated with Ottoman Revivalism embodied religious symbolisms by the end the nineteenth century, similar to the relationship between Gothic revivalism and Christianity. Domes proportioned in tune with classical Ottoman examples, pointed arches, wide eaves, and tile decorations extensively used in public buildings sought to represent an ethnically (and religiously) heterogeneous “Ottoman nation.” However, this final attempt to hold the empire together via “Ottomanism” collapsed under pressure from successive wars (the Balkan Wars and WWI) disintegrating the empire. Within a very short period of time, architectural forms associated with Ottomanism were “Turkified” and were recharged with new meanings, this time associated with ethnic nationalism. Thus, the Ottoman Revivalism of the final years of the empire assumed a new content with the contemporary title “National Architecture Renaissance” in the early years of the republic.

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This style was incorporated into the historiography of republican architecture as “First National Style,” though with an implicit dismissal due to a retrospective notion of incompatibility between revivalist architectural forms and the radical secularism of the republic (Bozdog˘an 2001; Basa 2015).2 Nevertheless, it was precisely the ambiguity of this style that made it particularly appropriate as the architecture of revolution. In Bozdog˘an’s words (2001: 42), thanks to the “simultaneity and interchangeability of the Turkish and Islamic connotations of Ottoman forms,” revivalist architecture represented the glory of the Ottoman past and the will of the young nation simultaneously, driving legitimacy from the former for the latter. Ottoman Revivalism would only be abandoned parallel to the consolidation of the single-party regime by the end of the 1920s. If we turn to the AKP’s quest for an architectural idiom, while introducing the government’s Smart Schools Project, the director of Department of Investments and Facilities pointed at the old National Assembly building from the early twentieth century as “one of the best examples of an architecture with identity” (Sabah 07.08.2004). The building was built as the headquarters of the Union and Progress Party that was in power in the final years of the Ottoman Empire and was refurbished as the assembly building in 1920 (Figure 5.1). Here, the reference to Ottoman Revivalism is not surprising; the eclectic combinations of Ottoman architectural forms fit well with the Islamists’ desire to produce cultural signifiers of Turkish Islamism. Moreover, it was possible to utilize the very ambiguity of this style in reverse. As the new republican regime sought legitimacy through architectural references to Ottomanism, the association with the early republican era was now to serve the legitimacy of the Islamist government. But the choice of this particular building (in contrast to a late Ottoman building from Istanbul such as the paradigmatic Central Post Office, for instance) was also important. The reference was not to any public building but the epicenter of the War of Independence, currently used as a museum; a memorial to the establishment of the republic. Figure 5.1 First National Assembly Source: VEKAM Archives.

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The old National Assembly building was also pointed at by the Minister of National Education Hüseyin Çelik in his opening speech at the “School Architecture from Tradition to the Future” Exhibition. The exhibition displayed the government’s first attempt at a new official architectural style with twenty-one school projects designed by individual offices appointed by the ministry. According to Çelik, “in the early years of the republic a new style, one that could be labeled “national architecture” (ulus mimarisi) was developed with the combination of our traditional values and elements of modern architecture” (internethaber.com, 05.02.2005). It is significant that Çelik used “ulus” instead of “milli” to define “national.” The choice in using the term (“ulus”) invented by the republicans to dissociate the definition of the nation from religious implications (“millet”) is striking. It is a reflection of the attempt to legitimize Ottoman revivalist architecture with reference to early republican history. It is also an illustration of the government’s wariness while defining a new architectural style: “We are here today to present you an exhibition. We don’t have big claims; we are open to criticisms and suggestions.” A couple months later, we find Çelik speaking in a more confident tone. In a press conference announcing that the ministry was set to go with the new architectural style (which was now illustrated with forty-one typical projects), he cited various public buildings from the early republican period and argued that it was the government’s duty to construct public buildings displaying “modern architecture bearing national (milli) signs” (Hürriyet 14.08.2005). Accordingly, the new schools would meet EU standards and perform in terms of economy, security, and aesthetics. They were to embody technical standards with minimum floor areas and maximum occupancy for classrooms, ramps, elevators, and toilets for the disabled, and activity spaces for socialization. These new schools with “dynamic, aesthetical Ottoman and Seljuk elements on their façades,” were planned to be constructed via “stone masonry to endure centuries in contrast to today’s heaps of concrete” (Hürriyet 14.08.2005). The ambition to build public buildings to stand for centuries would inevitably give way to the constraints of economy and the schools would continue to be built with reinforced concrete systems. Since regular school buildings were produced with budget constraints, they followed a rather straightforward formula (Figure 5.2). The buildings had symmetrical (generally U-shaped) plans and symmetrical façade organizations with double height porticos. The use of pointed arches was almost mandatory, which were formally imitated with architraves or simply with stucco reliefs. The porticos similarly displayed reinforced concrete columns and false arches. The parapets of side-wings were made higher to accommodate the crescent and star of the Turkish flag. The emergency stairwells were also exaggerated as vertical elements imitating fortress towers. In contrast to the rather simple imitations of Ottoman Revivalism in school buildings, the courthouses displayed variety. Since monumentality was considered a crucial feature, entrances were generally fashioned as two-dimensional

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Figure 5.2 Elementary school in Bahçelievler, Ankara Photograph by author.

Figure 5.3 Safranbolu and Konya courthouses. Photographs by Beyza Onur and author

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imitations of Seljuk portals famous for their three-dimensionality. While some of these new courthouses imitated the Ottoman revivalist public buildings with symmetrical massing and wide eaves supported with brackets, some of them sought to achieve modern compositions using historical references in abstracted forms (Figure 5.3). For instance, the Safranbolu Courthouse (2006–2009) closely imitated early twentieth-century Ottoman Revivalism. Kahramanmaras¸ Courthouse (2007–2011), in contrast, deployed an intentional eclecticism bringing together a four-story high portal (a Seljuk reference) together with symmetrical towers referring to the “Justice Tower” (Adalet Kasrı) in Edirne, the last standing component of the old Ottoman palace. Konya Courthouse (2006–2008) stood out as a different example with its solid geometry, plain massing organized around a large courtyard and white-clad walls and blue glass surfaces.

RECEPTION OF “OTTOMAN-SELJUK” STYLE What requires attention in the schools and courthouses displaying new Islamist public architecture is the free eclecticism of this new architectural representation. Pointed arches, overhanging roofs, bay windows, ornate tile decorations with Ottoman or Seljuk patterns, and monumental entrances imitating Seljuk portals were used without any particular order. Regardless of the particular combination displayed in a building, this style is labeled “Ottoman-Seljuk” by the public authorities and the press. That is, even the schools which had no Seljuk references or courthouses without any Ottoman features were categorized with the same label. Although architects were generally cautious in using this fabricated classification, it prevailed in popular use. Clearly, it is at best anachronistic to speak of an “Ottoman-Seljuk” style in terms of architectural history. The Ottoman architectural legacy corresponds to a variety of building types and design methods spread through a 700-year imperial history, which makes it impossible to even speak of one particular Ottoman style. Meanwhile, Seljuk architecture of the eleventh and twelfth centuries represented innovative achievements of Medieval Islam with building types such as caravanserais, madrassas, octagonal tombs, and famous interlaced geometric patterns widely used for decoration (Hoag 1991; Hillenbrand 2000). Although the Turkish right, with its state-oriented character, imagines historical continuity among the Great Seljuk sultanate based in Iran, Iraq, and Central Asia (c. 1040–1194); the Seljuk sultanate in Anatolia (c. 1081–1308); and the Ottoman Empire, there are significant incompatibilities between these three social formations in terms of culture, economy, and state structure (Peacock and Yildiz 2013). Nevertheless, in the twenty-first century Turkey, the Ottoman and Seljuk references ideologically make sense, both domestically and globally. Through the selective constitution of Anatolian and Turkish histories, Turks become the only residents of Anatolia and Islam becomes the only history of the Turks. In other words, this way of framing history and geography serves the definition of millet.

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Moreover, Turkish national identity is tightly interwoven with Turkish Islam, which in return is presented not only as an imperial (Ottoman) ideology that was imposed in the Middle East but something that stretched into the Central Asian steppes through the Seljuk reference. This was not merely a discursive reference for ideological legitimization but a contemporary operational network with transnational character. As I have discussed the significance of this outward tendency of Turkish new Islamism within the framework of mosque architecture in Chapter 2, I will show later how this transnational connection contributed to the development of AKP’s “Ottoman-Seljuk” idiom. The joint use of “Ottoman” and “Seljuk” creates a significant diversion from both nineteenth century revivalisms taking their messages seriously and seeking formal consistency as well as the playfulness of postmodern historicism of the late twentieth century freely borrowing from various styles. The new Islamist revivalism is neither playful nor pursues consistency, since its reference is already inconsistent with an extended and heterogeneous historical period. Thus, what we have is a particular form of eclecticism deriving discursive power from its synthetic nature. In fact, this is very much in tune with the AKP’s ideological ambiguity pragmatically swinging between Islamism and nationalism. In a typical fashion, parallel to the increasing confidence of the government, the initial references to the early republican moment were quickly left aside and the category of “Ottoman-Seljuk” replaced the defining terms of “Turkish” and “national.” The new public architecture, which quickly assumed the title “OttomanSeljuk,” met with positive reaction from the public. Various surveys conducted among users of newly-constructed public buildings showed that the users easily identified with the iconography of this new style and approved such buildings as “beautiful” particularly in comparison to those deploying abstract façade organizations (Sag˘lam 2013; Akalın 2013).3 While public buildings ranging from schools and courthouses to governorships, municipalities, and even police stations displayed this eclectic style, private buildings such as company buildings and hotels also began to imitate these forms (Figure 5.4). That is, the ambiguous style of “Ottoman-Seljuk” architecture gradually became a trend swinging between ideology and fashion (Ayaz Calap 2014). Although it enjoyed popular approval, these architectural forms, often bordering on kitsch, were feverishly criticized by the professional community. Figure 5.4 Adana Mufti office and the District Governorship of Pursaklar, Ankara Photographs by author and Defne Batuman.

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However, the discursive grounds on which to object this new trend defined a highly charged political question. It is possible to detect three different critical tendencies that arose within the field of architecture in 2007, which was a hard year for the AKP. The party was being prosecuted with the threat of closing down, while the secularist organizations (backed by the establishment) were organizing Republican rallies protesting the AKP’s alleged “hidden agenda” to implement Sharia law. Hence, it is impossible to think the rise of various architectural critiques independent from this harsh political climate. In January 2007, the Turkish Freelance Architects’ Association (TSMD) organized an exhibition with the provocative title “Is There Reactionary (in) Architecture?” The exhibition was opened inside a shopping mall in Kavaklıdere, the well-off district of Ankara identified with its secularist demography. The exhibit included photographs of randomly selected buildings “illustrating the degeneration of architecture under political pressure in Ankara and other cities” (tsmd. org.tr). Most of the examples were from Keçiören, where the use of traditional patterns had already created a peculiar cacophony with the façades of public buildings and private apartments alike. Traditional carpet motifs, geometric (supposedly Seljuk) patterns, and organic Ottoman ornamentations were applied using various cladding materials ranging from stucco finishes to blue tiles. Such façade treatments had been encouraged (and even unofficially enforced) by the Keçiören Municipality since the 1990s. Keçiören was the antithetical site of Islamist iconography against the republican urban development in southern Ankara. Keçiören Municipality had built one of the paradigmatic examples of historicist architectural simulations in 2005. This was a cultural center named after Fort Estergon (Esztergom on the Danube), the farthest Ottoman stronghold controlled until late seventeenth century. The original fort was not an Ottoman structure and did not have any architectural significance. The cultural center, in contrast, displayed a fabricated image to fit the historical significance of the fort within the right-wing imagination. The two-tiered structure comprised an octagonal base copying the Red Keep in Alanya, a Seljuk fort from the thirteenth century, on top of which a kümbet (octagonal Seljuk tomb covered with a pyramidal dome) was freely situated. The website of the center proudly detailed the sources of architectural fragments such as the marble-clad portal imitating the thirteenth-century Karatay Madrassa and the s¸adırvan replicating the central fountain of the Tulip Garden in Topkapı Palace (Öz 2014). The TSMD exhibition represented an elitist reaction reflecting the secularist distaste towards the Islamists. Here, banal taste in architecture was conceived as an inevitable outcome of Islamism, which was understood as a reactionary force. It was not a coincidence that the title contained the strident term “reactionary” (irtica) which had been used as a degrading phrase connoting Islamism throughout republican history. Incidentally, the exhibition created uproar for the part of Islamist politicians and it was closed down by the management of the shopping mall under pressure from the mayor of Keçiören. Here, it is significant that the shopping mall was preferred as a private venue in contrast to the cultural centers

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affiliated with public institutions. As a representative of practice owners, TSMD expected a private establishment to be independent from political pressure; however, to their dismay, the exhibition could only last for two days. Murat Artu, the president of TSMD, later declared both his disappointment in “capitalists’ adulation before the political elite,” and rejected the association of religiosity with the term irtica (Artu 2007). He argued that they simply wanted to point at the anachronism of imitating historical forms. Accordingly, irtica was a mindset beyond religiosity that was primarily about falling backward and missing the spirit of the age. Following the TSMD exhibition and its forced cancellation, the Ankara Branch of the Chamber of Architects launched a panel series on “Architecture and Ideology.” The Chamber’s press release defined its position regarding the problem: “We observe that the political authority identifies itself with pre-republican periods imitating the architectures of Ottoman and Seljuk ages, introduces representational inventions with a claim to the Turkification of architecture, and thus imprisons Turkish architecture within a bogus and degenerate framework” (Chamber of Architects Ankara Branch 2007). The text argued that “conservative politics” had waged “an organized assault on modern society and contemporary architecture,” which was beyond “a simple case of historicist imitation.” That is, according to the Chamber, the Islamist government and local administrations targeted republican modernism; architecture was one of the (cultural) facets of this struggle. This was “a rebellion against the Republic’s modern architecture, its forms and representational conventions.” Accordingly, the forced implementation of the new architectural forms was simultaneously an attempt at “disciplining the architects’ free will and creativity with the hands of technocrats” and an anti-democratic architectural practice imposing ideological representations. The striking position here is the pejorative use of the term “ideology” and the attribution of neutrality to modernism: “we call out to our colleagues pursuing contemporary architectural production and fighting ideological obsessions.” The panels organized by the Chamber represent a more careful and theoretically informed discussion in comparison to the impulsive exhibition of TSMD. While the exhibition equated architectural kitsch with reactionism, the Chamber was cautious to put the problem in terms of ideology rather than taste, in order to avoid an elitist overlooking of popular penchant. Yet, this framing left out the private initiatives reproducing fashionable uses of Ottoman and Seljuk motifs on ordinary building façades and focused on public architecture and the forcing of architects to comply with new guidelines of “Ottoman-Seljuk” architecture. That is, architects associating secularism with modernist architecture in the face of ideological “reactionism” were not sure how to defend the prominence of modernism, where the real challenge was popular indifference rather than governmental enforcement. Moreover, an overlooked fact was that it was not only the Islamist municipalities that were fashioning buildings with historicist articulations. A third approach found its reflection in another exhibition organized by Istanbul Freelance Architects’ Association (ISMD) in December 2007. Curated by the prominent architectural historian Ug˘ur Tanyeli, the exhibition was entitled

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“When Buildings Speak, Architecture Becomes Mute.” Professionally-taken photographs of buildings across Turkey were categorized by the curator to show that the two problematic trends, namely the persistence to “educate people through public architecture” and the pragmatic utilization of historical forms were not exclusive to Islamists (Tanyeli 2007). A broader scope made it possible to bring into discussion similar historicist architectural images produced by the CHP municipalities as well as local cases of vernacular replicas built with touristic concerns. Moreover, this view also allowed for questioning the republican history and its adoption of modernist architecture as an instrument of modernization. The venue for the exhibition was also not chosen randomly; it was opened in Atatürk Cultural Center, a modernist icon detested (and attempted to be demolished) by the Islamists (see previous chapter). As these three events illustrate, 2007 was a moment in which the political turmoil found reflection in the field of architecture. Three different professional organizations raised objections to the government’s new “Ottoman-Seljuk” style despite its growing popularity. Each of the events had a conceptual focus: the TSMD exhibition raised “reactionism” as its central theme; for the Chamber, the key concept was (a pejoratively conceived) “ideology”; and it was “historicity” in the ISMD exhibition. Interestingly, all three events used the term “contemporaneity” rather than “modernity” as the legitimate ground of objection to the AKP’s ideological historicism. Nevertheless, 2007 was also a moment of rupture for the new Islamist architectural quest. The new headquarters building of the AKP, finished in the same year, was to become the new paradigm for the definition of “Ottoman-Seljuk” architecture and public architecture across country.

POST-NATIONAL NEOCLASSICISM In Chapter 2, I discussed the Turkish state’s interest in the post-Soviet Turkic republics. The AKP also pursued close relations with these nations; Erdog˘an’s first trip abroad as the majority party leader (while he was not yet prime minister) was to post-Soviet republics of Azerbaijan, Kazakhstan, and Turkmenistan in January 2003. He continued to visit the capital cities of these countries as prime minister and later as president. But, Turkish Islamists’ interest in the Turkic republics began well before the rise of AKP to power. Right after winning the municipalities of Istanbul and Ankara, they initiated close relations with the major cities of the region. For instance, Ankara became the sister city of Ashgabat in 1994, Astana in 2001, Dushanbe in 2003, and Tashkent in 2004. What was remarkable for the Turkish Islamists was the rebuilding of the Central Asian cities as part of nation-building processes, particularly the role of Islam and its reflections in urban space. In the cases of post-Soviet nation-building, the use of Islam as a component of national identity was cautious, as the authoritarian regimes in these countries faced the potential threat of Islamic opposition (Karagiannis 2010; Yemelianova 2010). In this respect, they provide cases where

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the negotiation between nation and Islam has assumed built forms. Monumental mosques have been primary components of this endeavor in countries such as Kazakhstan, Turkmenistan, and Azerbaijan, where the wealth produced through natural resources concentrated in the hands of the ruling elite. In the reorganization of these capitals, mosques played an important role, yet did not occupy central place. Public architecture, on the other hand, was the most important instrument in creating lavish cityscapes as global showcases of national development. The urban development of the Central Asian capitals provided an early link with Turkey. While (re)building their capitals, the elites of these nations looked to the example of Turkish nation-building in the wake of WWI, imitating imagery and rituals as well as the reconstruction of Ankara (Denison 2009). Perhaps the most ambitious of these nation-states was Kazakhstan, aiming to simultaneously unite sub-ethnic nomadic units and cope with the Russian population outnumbering the Kazakhs. Hence the nation-building enterprise in Kazakhstan rested on the strategic use of “Eurasianism” (Olcott 1997). This strategy was reflected in the moving of the capital from Almaty to Aqmola, an insignificant industrial city, which was renamed Astana with the relocation in 1997. The making of Astana into the new capital was very much modeled after Ankara (Koch 2013). The desert greening efforts in Astana reflecting the modernist desire to control and discipline nature also echo the foundation of the Atatürk Forestry Farm in Ankara a century earlier.4 Kazakh leader Nazarbayev ordered a statue of Ataturk to be erected in Astana in 2007 and inaugurated it in 2009. Ankara responded to this with the erection of Nazarbeyev’s statue in Ankara in 2010. While the post-Soviet Turkic states looked up to the Turkish example in the utilization of capital city development for nation-building, the Islamists saw in them something beyond the Turkish establishment’s interest in expanding its sphere of influence. The spatial character of the nation-building processes in the new Turkic republics was based on two key components: the eradication of Soviet symbols and the invention of new ones to represent respective nations. Each of these components was vital especially for the reshaping of Ankara under the Islamist administration. In cases where the capitals of the Soviet republics continued to fulfil this function, the ideological instrumentalization of toponymy played an important role. Place names were changed not only in the Central Asian republics but all across the post-socialist geography (Isaacs and Polese 2016). In a similar fashion, one of the first undertakings of the Islamist municipal administration was the changing of street names in Ankara. More than 100 street names were changed in less than two years’ time (Özkan and Yolog˘lu 2005: 59). While this strategy would escalate and expand to all cities after AKP’s rise to power, Ankara was the initial site of this struggle over collective memory. The earliest of the new street names referred to the post-Soviet Turkic world with names such as Ashgabat, Bishkek, Tashkent, Azerbaijan, and Kazakhstan.5 The most effective method of eradicating socialist iconography in the post-Soviet republics was the refurbishing of building façades. This became a common strategy of changing architectural display, especially in larger-scale operations

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where total rebuilding was either economically or politically unfeasible. The paradigmatic example illustrating this strategy of rewriting urban space in a postcolonial mode was Ashgabat. The building façades have been re-clad to match the new buildings consistently coated with white marble. Thus, post-Soviet Ashgabat eliminated traces of the Soviet past and refurbished street façades with decorations containing ethnic patterns (Mills 2007).6 This strategy was later closely followed by the Ankara Metropolitan Municipality, which announced a façade-renovation project for the buildings along Atatürk Boulevard, the symbolic axis of the capital, in 2011. The implementation of a uniform façade design required a blueprint, which would also be imported from the Central Asian capitals. In replacing the iconography of the old regime, the post-Soviet republics of Central Asia deployed a symbolic repertoire comprising elements representing Turkishness and Islam, albeit in differing forms borrowed from distinct parts of history and geography. In other words, each of these nations had to invent different representations merging Turkishness and Islam. This was precisely what the Turkish Islamists were after; developing architectural forms that would represent a particular Turkish Islam as the defining essence of millet. The post-Soviet nations already had historical experience in blending architectural symbolisms. The famous formulation of socialist realism as “socialist in content and national in form” was available to these nation-states, allowing for a particular form of eclecticism combining central Soviet dictum with local features on building façades. In this respect, the capital cities of Central Asia and the Trans-Caucasus were already a scene for nativization of modern forms (Cˇepaitiene˙ 2015). After independence, the central Soviet schemes were replaced with global signifiers of modernity and monumentality. These were imported with the hands of transnational architectural firms especially as a result of the economic boom in Kazakhstan, Turkmenistan, and Azerbaijan. While these firms contributed to the making of a white-washed marble-clad public architectural image, especially in Astana and Ashgabat, Kazakh and Azeri governments were also interested in deploying star architects (such as Norman Foster in Astana and Zaha Hadid in Baku) for city branding. One of the most widely used symbols in Central Asian cities was the octagram (eight-pointed star) composed of two squares. The octagram has been historically used as a symbol in different cultures including Islam (Rub el Hizb) and Hinduism (Star of Lakshmi). Its contemporary use as part of global Islamic vocabulary is also widespread; it was used by Cesar Pelli in his design for the Petronas Towers in Kuala Lumpur as part of the government’s endeavors to define a position to Malaysia within global Islam (King 2004: 17). In Central Asia, however, it is mostly used as a symbol of (Muslim) Turkish identity. The octagram made of two squares has been used by Turkmenistan and Uzbekistan in their coats of arms and was previously used in the unofficial flag of Kazakhstan in the 1990s. The representation of authoritarian regimes in these countries freely merged components of Western classicism with local symbols of nationhood in the hands of foreign firms. Moreover, these grandiose public buildings were also constructed by foreign firms, a significant portion of which were Turkish companies. Therefore,

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the making of the post-Soviet capitals of Central Asia was not a process observed from a distance but rather one that was organically linked to the new Islamist government in Turkey. The construction companies, which were enjoying rapid growth under the new Islamist urban renewal regime were already prospering in Central Asia (as well as Russia) and were influential in improving relations between governments.7 If we look at the new architecture that emerged in Central Asia, what we find is the incorporation of Western-looking façades with symbolic elements representing national identity, particularly in Astana and Ashgabat. In this respect, Vale’s (2008: 154) comment characterizing Astana’s architecture as comprising “a variety of abstractly historicized postmodern façade treatments (in a manner reminiscent of the 1980s work of Michael Graves)” is also true for Ashgabat, which was included in the Guinness World Records for “having more white marble on its buildings than any other city in the world” (The Guardian 26.05.2013). “Whiteness” was also important in Astana, where the presidential office is named Ak-Orda, which literally means “white horde” and according to the Kazakh Presidential Office emphasizes the significance of “whiteness” as a signifier of cleanliness, purity, and sacredness in Turkic culture (www.akorda.kz). The implications of “whiteness” have also been a major ideological component in the AKP’s self-identification. The party has been insistent that its acronym is used as “AK” (white) Party rather than AKP. Thus, the AKP literally found in the Central Asian capitals a white-clad monumental architecture indigenizing Western classicism with symbols of Turkishness, which was most appropriate to connect Islam, nation, and the party itself.8 The Turkish construction firms operating in Central Asia provided the link through which this new architectural image was imported to Turkey. These companies had already built a significant number of these white-clad public buildings and soon they would be invited to build similar ones in Turkey (Figure 5.5). Despite the drastic disparity with the Ottoman revivalist imitations, these new buildings were also labeled “Ottoman-Seljuk.” The first of these was the AKP headquarters, which strikingly resembled the light-colored, marble-clad architectures of Astana and Ashgabat and would become a prototype for the new public architecture in Turkey. The initial concept design for the AKP headquarters was commissioned to a construction company based in Istanbul, which was operating in Central Asia. In tune with the customs in the region, the company produced the massing and façade composition of the building before solving its functional organization (Boyacıog˘lu and Gurallar 2008; Gurallar and Boyacıog˘lu 2011). The preliminary design displayed a vertical monolithic block, symmetrically organized with respect to a vertical axis. The axis defined two entrances on both sides of the building, the front one to be used exclusively by the party leader. This central section stressing the façade’s symmetry would be covered with a vault on top and include a projection on top floors to function as a speaker’s balcony. This preliminary work was later passed to Ankara-based architect Can Gökog˘uz, who had

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Figure 5.5 Buildings constructed by Turkish companies in Ashgabat: Ministry of Culture by Polimeks Courtesy of Polimeks Group.

Figure 5.6 AKP Headquarters: the front façade with the portal and the rear façade with the speaker’s balcony facing the parking lot Photographs by author.

previously designed the interior of the building that the AKP was using.9 Deliberations between the architect and the party officials soon revealed that the existing design had serious flaws and required comprehensive revisions. As a result, the project was commissioned to Gökog˘uz who was expected to preserve the overall image provided by the earlier work.10 In the final version, the building ascended nine floors, where the top floor was organized as a penthouse set back on two sides to create terraces (Figure 5.6). The top three floors, which had a separate elevator, were allocated to the party leader still using the exclusive entrance on the front façade. The main entrance for general use was located at the back facing a parking area, which was not a part of the building lot, but de facto used by the party. This area would be a crucial component of the political organization of the building, since Gökog˘uz convinced his clients that a balcony on the eighth

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floor would not be appropriate to address a crowd and relocated it on the rear façade facing the parking lot. The new balcony was located on the first floor with a proper distance to the parking lot-cum-rally ground thanks to the higher ground floor, which was also differentiated on the outside with darker cladding and emphasized with eaves. On the front façade, the central portion was emphasized with a large glass surface, which was modeled as a six-floor high portal reminiscent of Seljuk precedents. Both the portal and the terrace parapets were adorned with eaves that looked like accentuated projecting cornices. Moreover, these eaves were also highlighted with polystyrene dentils. The façade was clad with cement-based artificial stone, while the penthouse was covered with a two-tiered copper-clad pyramidal roof accentuated with a spire. While the interior design was plain throughout the building, the eighth floor planned as the party leader’s office was designed by a different designer who purposefully used pretentious materials, gleaming fixtures, adorned furnishings, and fermans as artwork on the walls; all of which were supposed to create an Ottoman ambiance. The most visible symbol used in the interior as well as the glass surface of the front façade was the octagram, which was proposed in the preliminary proposal and approved by the party officials. When it was inaugurated in 2007, two elements of the building received harsh criticism from the secularist press. One of these was the extravagance of the office floor (used as an illustration of the banal taste of Islamists in the eyes of the secularists) and the other was the gilded octagrams on the front façade. Oppositional press circulated rumors that this symbol was actually the Star of David; an obvious sign of the AKP’s hidden links with Zionism. Such conspiracy theories misrepresenting the symbol as a Zionist emblem troubled the AKP, since the inauguration of the building corresponded to the problematic conjuncture of 2007. The party defended the symbol with reference to Seljuk heritage and tried to convince the public that this was indeed an Islamic symbol. According to the party officials, the symbol was “used on the building façade on Erdog˘an’s command, who had seen it in his visit to the Seljuk monuments in Buhara, Uzbekistan” (Haberturk 09.05.2007). The party website provided detailed information on the symbol explaining that the symbol represented Heaven in Islamic faith with its eight points symbolizing the eight gates of Jannah. Nevertheless, these explanations were not seen sufficient and the Islamists had to appeal to the most dependable of ideological signifiers: the octagrams on the building façade were covered with a large flag, which stayed there until after the early general elections in July 2007. Despite the controversy over the octagram, the AKP headquarters served as an archetype for the public architecture of the upcoming years. From then on, a significant number of buildings have been designed in a similar fashion: white-clad structures without projections, featuring legible window rows, projecting cornices, and geometric (Seljuk) patterns as trademark. These details were utilized almost as a formula to make an otherwise modern building into an “Ottoman-Seljuk” one.11 The architectural projects were even altered during construction to add these

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features (Figure 5.7). The specifications in public procurement processes for the public buildings required the architects to waive their rights on intellectual copyrights. Even public buildings that did not comply with mono-block classicism were required to contain historicist decoration on their façades to connect them to the “Ottoman-Seljuk” imagery, some of which were added to the design during construction. This supplementary formula classicizing and Islamizing the buildings was eagerly embraced by the Ankara Metropolitan Municipality. As I have mentioned previously, similar to Ashgabat’s façade renovations overwriting the Soviet structures, the municipality announced its plans to re-clad the modernist façades of the buildings along Atatürk Boulevard in 2011 (Büyüks¸ehir Ankara 28.05.2011). The project was introduced with architectural 3D animations showing the buildings with their uniform white-clad future façades. Mayor Gökçek announced that the façades of the 120 buildings along the boulevard would be renovated free of charge (Hürriyet 09.06.2011). When the expected demand from the landowners did not emerge, the municipality took two steps to implement the project. The first of these was to start with the public buildings that did not require consent of private owners. However, the intellectual copyrights of the designers were a problem since the architects, some of who were prominent professionals, did not consent to the project. Thus, the second step of the municipality was to convince the government to pass an act to override intellectual copyrights. Although it has proven highly costly, around a dozen of the buildings had been renovated by the end of 2016. Especially the ones illustrating postwar modernism having glass curtainwalls or brutalist façade treatments resulted in the poorest renovations (Figure 5.8). The emergence of this new form of neoclassicism incorporating Western monumentality and (Eastern) national symbols was an outcome of transnational connections between Turkey and the Central Asian republics. The Turkish construction

Figure 5.7 Ministry of Science, Industry, and Technology; initial project and the final version Photograph by author.

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Figure 5.8 Façade renovations along Atatürk Boulevard Source: Chamber of Architects Ankara Section Photography Archive.

companies did not only transfer technology and know-how to these countries but also provided quasi-professional work environments that complied with forms of clientelism dominant in the region. While similar forms of procurement would gradually dominate the construction sector in Turkey, these companies helped transferring processes of space production that were centered around powerful governments. These processes utilized construction projects simultaneously as means of maintaining clientelistic relations and instruments of displaying political power. Within this framework, architectural forms were also transmitted through these connections since the new public architectures in Ankara, Astana, and Ashgabat utilize the same set of symbols appropriately ambiguous in their meanings to provide combined representations of Turkishness and Islam. The use of Western classicism is also vital here, since all three governments sought to develop a national representation that would also work as a brand within the global network of contemporary capitalism. In the case of Turkey, this white-washed monumentalism fits much better to signify state power in comparison to the rediscovered variations of Ottoman Revivalism. Hence, there is a certain degree of mutual influence, a reciprocal classicism, especially between Astana, Ashgabat, and Ankara. This is similar to the interaction among cities of the Islamic world, imitating each other to brand their cities as high-tech and contemporary (Bunnell and Das 2010). While the AKP found an architectural idiom that fit with the desired image for public buildings, the concentration of power in the hands of the party and especially Erdog˘an himself reached a level where the existing framework of separation of powers became a constraint. And at this instance, architecture presented itself as the means to overcome these constraints. An ambitious project juxtaposing the desire to overwrite the capital with the instrumentalization of architecture in building power would be the new compound for Erdog˘an, which was begun as the prime-ministerial complex and later reformulated as the Presidential Office with his rise to presidency.

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THE HOUSE OF MILLET Being a pet project of Erdog˘an, the new Presidential Compound in Ankara has been the most controversial construction in the country in decades. As soon as the public was informed of its construction, the compound became the topic of a fierce struggle. The most visible objection to the building was its excessive grandeur that found place in international media (Arango 2014; Dombey 2014; Withnall 2014). The cost of the complex was announced as $600 million by the Minister of Finance. However, the Chamber of Architects, the determined critic of the government, claimed that the cost was not less than three times this amount. They filed an official request to TOKI overseeing the construction, asking the actual cost. The administration refused to give a definite answer on the grounds that “such information would conflict with the country’s economic interests” (Radikal 2.12.2014).12 However, the cost was far from being the only issue of controversy regarding the Presidential Compound with a floor area of 300,000 square meters and sitting on a plot twice this size.13 Its location in Atatürk Forest Farm (AOÇ), a large green space created as part of the modernization efforts of the early republican years, also created outrage in two respects. The secularists saw its location inside the AOÇ area as an attempt to suppress Atatürk’s legacy by conquering a site that bore his name and was his personal donation to the nation. Moreover, as the site was a registered conservation area, the courts ordered the construction to be terminated, to which Erdog˘an responded with defiance: “No one can prevent the completion of this building. If they are powerful enough, let them come and demolish it” (Milliyet 05.03.2014). Finally, in addition to its lavishness and illicit construction, the compound has become the architectural symbol of an authoritarian presidential system associated with Erdog˘an himself (Batuman 2014; Orhan 2016). The Turkish political system comprises a strong prime minister and a symbolic president as the head-ofstate. In this context, the site was initially defined as a prime ministerial compound and reorganized with Erdog˘an’s ascent to presidency. Its architectural program brought together a large bureaucracy within the vast compound and its transformation into the president’s office went hand-in-hand with the gradual concentration of power in Erdog˘an’s hands after 2011. Erdog˘an was not shy to announce that he was seeking a new system centered around a powerful president as head of the executive dominating the legislature and was exempt from judiciary control.14 The compound became an important instrument towards this end. Next, I will discuss the compound in detail. While doing so, I will begin with its relation to the republican representational spaces in the capital and compare it with the Çankaya Mansion it replaced as the presidential residence. I will analyze urban design characteristics and architectural features of the compound around four themes: spatial reconfiguration of power relations via the overwriting of the capital; redefinition of public space with an attempt to create a civic hub defined by political power; representation of the nation (millet) through a new content for

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“Ottoman-Seljuk” architecture; and finally the political struggle over the representation of the compound – its utilization by Erdog˘an as a site of legitimacy and as a target by the opposition.

Overwriting the political topography of republican Ankara After 1923, Ankara was conceived as the modernist capital of a modern society, a city similar to its European counterparts. The “new city” (Yenis¸ehir) that would rise on the southern plains would house government buildings and residences for state employees. The triangular site of the Government Quarter at the new city center contained the ministries; its apex was Kızılay Square and its base was the seat of the Grand National Assembly with its higher ground (Batuman 2009; Cengizkan 2010) (Figures 4.3 and 4.4). The symmetry axis of the Government Quarter roughly coincided with Atatürk Boulevard, which would serve as both a symbolic axis and the main spine of the city spreading to the south. This axis connected the old and the new centers and pointed to the old citadel on the north. The southern end of the axis was Çankaya, the highest district of the city to become the most prestigious neighborhood with the residence of Atatürk himself. While he first settled in an existing manor, the construction of a presidential residence here became a symbolic act in terms of the architectural representations of the new regime. Since the new buildings in and around the old center followed Ottoman Revivalism throughout the 1920s, the stylistic choice for the new presidential residence became a test for the future of this style. There were three different proposals following distinct styles for Atatürk’s new residence overlooking the city (Akcan 2012: 54–64). Among these, the one proposed by the German company Lenz & Co. followed Western classical symbolism with a colossal building featuring a symmetrical plan. The second was an Ottoman revivalist proposal by Guilio Mongeri, who had already designed several public buildings in Ankara. He proposed a grandiose mansion with stone walls, steep roofs, and entrances with arches and colonnades. The third proposal, which was selected by Atatürk, was designed by Clemens Holzmeister, who was also responsible for the design of the Government Quarter (Figure 5.9). Rejection of Mongeri’s proposal marked the end of Ottoman Revivalism. Holzmeister’s proposal was a modernist design, presenting the modern house as a symbol of modern lifestyle. But more important to our discussion, the cubic architecture of the residence was consistent with that of the Government Quarter making it a displaced component of this complex. While the two sites stylistically complemented each other and presented a clear statement that the new architecture of the capital should follow modernist ideals, they also presented a political composition. Accordingly, the Government Quarter was at the center of the new city and the presidential residence was a complementary extension, overlooking the city yet dislocated from the center. That is, the Atatürk Boulevard tying

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Figure 5.9 Presidential Mansion in Çankaya Source: General Directorate of Press (1936).

the old city to Çankaya via Yenis¸ehir was not only the spine of the city directing its growth but also a political axis of representation. As the boulevard undertook this dual function, it became the site of competing political forces seeking imprints in urban space in the following years. Atatürk’s mausoleum was built (1944–1953) on a hilltop (an ancient tumulus) with axes facing the citadel and the Grand National Assembly. Kocatepe Mosque was later situated on another hilltop facing Atatürk’s mausoleum along the symmetry axis of the Government Quarter. Adding to these symbolic buildings, when the military seized power in the country in 1980, the generals built the Atatürk Cultural Center (AKM); a monumental truncated pyramid dedicated to “the glorious history of the Turkish nation.” The processional walkway of the pyramid was also carefully oriented towards Kızılay Square, the pinnacle of the triangular site of the executive power (Figure 5.10). A major enterprise that would play significant role in Ankara’s urban development was Atatürk Forest Farm (AOÇ). It was established as Atatürk’s private estate on a swamp land of 20,000 hectares at the western periphery in 1925. It was later expanded to 52,000 hectares with new purchases and its title was transferred to the state in 1937. The farm had served a dual purpose: it was at once a model for the modernization of agriculture and a recreational open space with swimming pools and picnic areas (Kaçar 2010). That is, it was to serve both rural development and (urban) social transformation. However, the farm area was located to the west of the urban core, which was the growth direction of the city after the 1950s. Under pressure of urban growth, the recreation functions in the area gradually declined. Parts of the AOÇ were allocated to industrial investments and state institutions, which resulted in the contraction of the farmland.

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Moreover, after the military coup in 1980, the military administration built a state cemetery here, simultaneously with the AKM. Following the Islamist takeover of Ankara Metropolitan Municipality in 1994, the farm became a site of ideological struggle. In tune with the municipality’s endeavors in eradicating traces of republican modernism, it was proposed to build Disneyland-style attractions with plan changes (necessary to bypass conservation regulations) to which civil organizations and particularly the Chamber of Architects responded with vocal opposition and took the matter to court (Chamber of Architects Ankara Branch 2014). With the rise of the AKP to power in 2002, the municipality increased its efforts to open the farm area to development. After 2010, the road cutting through the farm area in east–west direction was widened, the historical recreation zone of the farm was destroyed with traffic organization, the northern part was allocated to a large amusement park, and the eastern end was left to the new Presidential Compound (Figure 5.10). Within this context, the choice of the Farm area for the new executive center was relevant physically as well as ideologically for the Islamists. On the one hand, this was a vacant area at the physical center of the city. Hence, the new center was physically a central location with a higher topography allowing the compound to be seen from distance. On the other hand, as an Islamist enterprise, the complex represented the appropriation of this symbolic location named after the founder of the secular republic. Moreover, it was distant from the spatial network of the capital and its political locales arranged along the Atatürk Boulevard. In this respect, the move abandoning Çankaya was a constitutive action repositioning the political focus at the physical center of the city. Within the set of axes defining the representational spaces of the capital, the new compound was situated with respect to two alignments. The first of these was the east–west axis that began with the AKM built by the military administration and composed the symmetry axis of the administrative cluster. The second ran along south–north, beginning with Çukurambar neighborhood, the Figure 5.10 The Presidential Compound and its relation to the representational spaces of Ankara Source: Google Earth (Image © 2015 DigitalGlobe).

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old squatter area regenerated into a residential zone occupied mainly by the AKP elites. High-class alcohol-free restaurants, cafés, and a large mosque are aligned along the main street of the district. Right after Çukurambar along the axis is Sög˘ütözü, where the AKP headquarters triggered development after 2007. The road constituting the axis leads to the Presidential Compound, defining its western end and reaching the historical core of the AOÇ. Thus, the new compound is the gravity center of a new coordinate system. One of its axes corresponds to the Çukurambar-Sög˘ütözü line, representing the merger of state and party aligning the complex with the AKP headquarters and residences of the party elite. The other axis ties the new complex to the statist symbols built by the military regime and links it to the authoritarian state tradition of the Turkish establishment. Thus the new compound is not built on a tabula rasa; it is a palimpsest. The AOÇ is not conceived as a neutral void within the urban text but a central lacuna; its occupation is expected to change the whole narrative. The blueprints for the compound were produced secretly and it was only after the start of the unidentified construction that the public learned about it. As the Chamber of Architects was closely monitoring the municipality’s actions within the AOÇ, they were the first to detect an ongoing construction here by the summer of 2012. The site was surrounded with barriers and did not have the required signboards identifying the construction. The Chamber demanded to inspect the construction site and was denied entry. In response, they purchased satellite images of the site and went to the public to reveal the immense size of the excavation within the AOÇ. Moreover, they uncovered that the area was transferred to TOKI with a protocol. After this exposure, the government announced that the construction belonged to the new prime ministerial compound. Opposition groups protested claiming that Erdog˘an was building a presidential palace for himself; the government responded by saying that the presidential office was in Çankaya. Nevertheless, with Erdog˘an’s rise to presidency, the complex was reassigned as the seat of presidency. The interesting thing here is the political implications of the vagueness regarding the function of the unfinished building throughout this period. Between May 2012 (when excavation began in the site) and June 2014 when Erdog˘an was elected president, the building under construction became a symbol of power, although it wasn’t occupied yet. The architectural program of the compound was one of a not-yet-implemented executive presidency from the beginning. While it brought together executive bureaucracy, it also contained a residential building that is typically not part of a prime ministerial compound. If this was envisaged as the new presidential seat, the immense office spaces were not a part of presidency in the Turkish system. Hence, even before it emerged as an architectural edifice, the compound entered the field of political signifiers as one corresponding to none of the existing offices in Turkey. Yet, it did point to a particular person, Erdog˘an himself, which made it all the more problematic in terms of political representation. Here was a powerful figure extending his domain beyond the legal limitations through the representational power of architecture. The compound

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under construction was a signifier of a position transcending the order of Turkish political system and also a referent of Erdog˘an himself regardless of his official position. This was in tune with his attempt to present himself as a direct representative of millet; the materialization of “national will.”15

The site plan: redefining public space The core of the complex is a U-shaped administrative cluster composed of a main building facing the entrance and two longer wings extending 200 meters in the opposite direction (Figure 5.11). While the courtyard at the center of this group is an open space unifying the administrative units, it is not the major open space in the compound. There is a large plaza in front of the main office block, which defines the entrance to the site. It is currently used only for state ceremonies although it was also intended as a rally ground, which is evident in the balcony of the president’s office overlooking it; a refined version of the spatial organization in the AKP headquarters. To the north of the plaza is the presidential residence, which is withdrawn behind a green belt and sitting on top of the steep topography.16 On the other side of the plaza are two buildings sharing an intermediary entrance: a convention center and a mosque. The convention center contains ten multi-purpose halls of varying sizes, the largest one having 2,000 seats and appropriate infrastructure for artistic performances. The mosque, which is appropriately named “Millet Mosque,” has a 5,000 square meter floor area and accommodates 3,000 worshippers. Finally, a cultural center open to the use of the general public and a public library to contain 5 million volumes are under construction at the southern end of the site. Thus, the overall program of the compound extends well beyond that of the Office of Presidency. The site plan proposes a new public center to the city Figure 5.11 Site plan and zones of accessibility within the Presidential Compound: 1. residence, 2. administrative blocks, 3. convention center and Millet Mosque, 4. public library and cultural center under construction Source: Google Earth (Image © 2016 DigitalGlobe).

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bringing together several functions. The building groups inside the compound define zones of accessibility, where some of them act as pivots joining others. The main building containing the president’s office is clearly the focus of the compound; it presents the image of the new presidency, which is the focal site of power in Erdog˘an’s vision. The administrative units are located behind the main building and compose the backstage of the mechanism of power. The main building is linked to the residence, the convention center, and the mosque through the ceremonial plaza in between them. The plaza was designed to house crowds with the speaker’s balcony facing it. Yet this configuration arranges not only the plaza but all of these spaces – together with the cityscape lying to the East – under the gaze of the president. If we remember that Çankaya Mansion was also overlooking the city housing the paternal gaze of Atatürk, here, the separation of the office and the residence creates a curious situation where even the residence becomes the object of the gaze of power. At the southern end of the compound, the future buildings accessible to the general public are situated. Here, the plaza, the convention center, and the mosque play a pivotal role between the administrative units and the future venues for public use. These are public spaces where people are encouraged to attend different forms of activities; state-sanctioned rallies, cultural performances and regular rituals of worship. Nevertheless, these are also spaces of state ceremonies. The plaza is also the ceremonial parade ground, while the mosque is the site of nationwide observed religious celebrations, serving the incorporation of Islamic rituals into state ceremonies. Appropriately, the Quran verses adorning the interior of the mosque emphasize the importance of state, justice, and honesty.17 Most importantly, the convention center serves as a grey zone: it is simultaneously a venue for non-political activities and the locale where the president can address the largest possible audience. This aspect of the convention center has served to supplement Erdog˘an’s ambiguous position as he simultaneously claimed to be the head of state beyond political affiliations (as defined by the current constitution) and a political figure (since he was elected through popular vote). Thus, he has used the convention center and the mosque as sites of performances led by him, where other branches of state power were compelled to attend. The inauguration ceremony of the mosque was illustrative in this respect. While Erdog˘an was making his speech, behind him were the prime minister, the speaker of the Grand National Assembly and the president of Diyanet. After the convention center became operational, Erdog˘an hosted two significant ceremonies here, which had been organized independently until then. The ceremonial opening of the legal year had traditionally been hosted by the judiciary as a symbol of the separation of powers. In 2016, it was organized here under the auspices of the president, where the justices did not hesitate to applaud Erdog˘an in his entrance to the hall, an unprecedented gesture criticized by the bar association as shadowing the independence of the judiciary. Similarly, the opening of the academic year, which had been organized by each university individually, was also organized here with the attendance of all university rectors. At this occasion,

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Erdog˘an announced the abolition of rectorial elections and that the rectors would henceforth be appointed by him.18 Thus, the mosque and the convention center as an intermediary public domain served two political purposes. First, they enabled the expansion of the president’s domination over hitherto autonomous domains. Second, they redefined public space by linking different zones of accessibility. While in their absence, the site could have operated as two neighboring compounds of the presidency and the cultural hub (including the future buildings of the cultural center and the library), the convention center and the mosque link these two domains by reinforcing the role of state in public space. It is crucial to note that this public hub is away from the urban chaos of the city; in this regard, it excludes urban life, which is striking for a new political site seeking legitimacy. For instance, if we look at Astana’s new capitol, what we find is the creation of a new urban center promoting social heterogeneity. Astana’s linear “Left Bank” (of Ishim River – although it was later extended across the river) resembling the National Mall in Washington DC, invites shopping and entertainment facilities into the new administrative center (Vale 2008: 154). Although the strip contains major state buildings with the presidential palace (Ak-Orda) as its focal element, it also shelters spectacular structures with various functions. In a more ambitious example where a new capitol has defined a new capital, Putrajaya was designed as the new federal administrative capital of Malaysia (Bunnell 2004; King 2007; Moser 2010). This ambitious plan was also envisaged by a powerful patriarch, Mahathir Mohamad, who was the prime minister of Malaysia between 1981 and 2003 (Welsh 2004). Putrajaya was designed along an axis – Putrajaya Boulevard – extending across an artificial lake with an organic form. The northern end of the axis is occupied by the prime minister’s office, Perdana Putra, which became synonymous with the executive branch of the Malaysian federal government soon after its completion in 1999. The second monumental building defining the circular square in front of the prime minister’s office is Masjid Putra, the principal mosque in the city. As an opposite case, in Ashgabat, the capital as well as its political center has sustained their primacy. The political center of the city was the Karl Marx Square (later the Presidential Square) where the Turkmenbashy Palace as well as the Rukhiyyet Palace that would house the sessions of the People’s Council (the highest representative body) was built. This spatial organization was dismantled after Niyazov’s death and succession by Gurbanguly Berdimuhamedov, who undertook curbing the extensive personality cult surrounding his predecessor (Kunysz 2012). The new president built a new and much larger presidential office (Oguzhan Palace) effectively turning the vast area behind the Turkmenbashy Palace (now simply “Presidential Palace”) into a massive presidential complex (which connects the two palaces with the old Turkmenistan Communist Party Central Committee building). He even abolished the People’s Council and emptied the Rukhiyyet Palace (Gurbanow 2014). Berdimuhamedov’s attempt to re-write the capitol complex has striking architectural implications and similarities with the political strategies pursued

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by Erdog˘an. The relocation of presidential office to a larger one was not only a gesture to create a new and greater locus; the intention was to bring together the administrative functions within one space. That is, this new urban strategy rejected the earlier one depending on display to maintain the cult of personality. In this sense, there is a strong resemblance between the re-writing of the locus of power in Ashgabat and the creation of a new one in Ankara. In a sense, while Niyazov’s Ashgabat center organized his absolute power around the main open space relying on visibility and display, Berdimuhamedov is following Erdog˘an in bringing together executive branches within a single compound dissociated from other components of state power. What these comparisons show us is that, while these seats of power serve as national symbols representing respective nations, they are also sites of power, reconfiguring the material performances of politics. The urban crowd is treated in different ways in each of these examples: in Ashgabat, the presidential compound at the city center turns inward augmenting its bureaucratic capacity, whereas in Astana the public buildings are used as generators of a recreational public space serving as a showcase of the nation. In Putrajaya, the making of spaces of political representation clearly indicates the dominance of the executive together with the symbolic role of the mosque marking the ceremonial public space. In this sense, the Presidential Compound in Ankara also shares Mahathir’s desire to free executive power from its counterparts. The major difference between these two administrative centers is the lack of urban life in Ankara’s new locus of political power. One reason for this is the tradition of political protest in Ankara’s city center. Hence, the move of the seat of power to a site that is treated as a no man’s land and further secured with high-tech surveillance measures is significant in terms of fear of the political potentials of urban crowds. Although the future development of the compound’s sections open to public use is important, it is clear that this area will never function as an urban hub attracting heterogeneity. Erdog˘an would fill this lack with new performances that would maintain his ties with millet. But before analyzing these new performances, I shall discuss the architecture of the compound and its relation to the “Ottoman-Seljuk” style.

The architecture of the compound: a new synthesis for “Ottoman-Seljuk” style Erdog˘an was fond of explaining the architecture of the compound as well as his involvement in the design process: We had to give the message that Ankara is a Seljuk capital; we paid attention to this [in the design process]. In the interiors, we included Ottoman motifs. We also reflected aspects of the modern world; we built this as a smart building. The open space [the ceremonial plaza] can hold 2–3 thousand

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people, which can rise up to 5 thousand in fine weather. These are requirements of being a great state (Gazetevatan 05.09.2014) (emphases mine).

Here, the claim that Ankara was a Seljuk capital is historically inaccurate. Nevertheless, “Ottoman-Seljuk” as an ideological construct tolerates inaccuracy. Erdog˘an sometimes spoke as the demanding client and sometimes a collaborator in the architectural design process. He constantly emphasized three components which have come to define what the AKP officials meant by “Ottoman-Seljuk style”: architectural features referring to Ottoman and Seljuk architectures and contemporary technologies defined with the phrase “smart building.” Although these three components have been indicated in the design of major courthouses as well as the AKP headquarters, we find a new synthesis for the “Ottoman-Seljuk” style at the Presidential Compound. Its architecture, for Erdog˘an, reflected the fusion of national and Islamic content within what he called “our culture”: “Hamdolsun (Thank God), after a long struggle, we succeeded in reviving the ancient architectural style of our history and our culture in a new synthesis, a new interpretation” (tccb.gov.tr 03.07.2015). The main building presents the architectural paradigm of the compound in a coherent image (Figure 5.12). What we find here is first of all a horizontal mass with a dynamic façade featuring columns and projections. The horizontality of the mass is accentuated with material differentiation as well as horizontal stripes on the ground floor. The exterior displays two main levels, where the second level is treated as piano nobile, sheltering the major spaces of the building. These spaces allow for plastic articulations with three-dimensional projections on the façade, which create a series of open, semi-open, and closed spaces on the terrace. The symmetrical elevation of the building with central and corner projections provides a sense of classical weight. Nevertheless, the significance of the façade design lies in its hybridization of Western classicism with the nationalist architectures of the twentieth century (Artun 2014; Batuman 2014). The hipped

Figure 5.12 Presidential Compound: front elevation of the main building Source: Chamber of Architects Ankara Section Photography Archive.

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roofs and wide eaves are unmistakable references of “Turkishness,” linking the building particularly to the Second National Architectural Style with its monumental treatment of the “Turkish House.” Although this connection has been indicated by various commentators, what have been missed by the Turkish audience are the not-so-subtle references to the Western classical architectural tradition, the most significant one being the column pairs on the piano nobile. The colonnade is detached from the surface to create a narrow balcony for the offices. At the central block, the peristyle is extended outward and upward to open room for the balcony of the president’s office and rise to the top to hold the main roof. The building also reverses the classical façade organization at the central block. While the vertical unification of floors at the center traditionally emphasizes a grand entrance, here the emphasis is on the president’s office, which unifies with the ball room on the terrace floor behind the colonnade. The ground floor is purposefully terminated with the horizontal lines of the portico and the balcony. The central projection is not a grand entrance then, but an indicator of authority at the level of the piano nobile. It is crucial to note that despite its size, the building consciously avoids the solidity of neoclassical design we find in the AKP headquarters and its white-clad monumentality. Strategic use of horizontality, fragmentation of the building mass with multiple roofs, and the intentional lack of walls create a light classicism. Even the side projections rising up to the terrace are made lighter by emptying the volumes and turning them into pavilions beneath roofs carried by slender columns rising from the piano nobile. Along these Western references, the building is also clearly referring to the Turkish nationalist tradition through the “Turkish House.” I briefly discussed the Turkish House in Chapter 2, which was used as a reference in the Diwan Room of the Fellowship Hall at the Diyanet Center of America. As a nationalist invention dating back to the 1910s, the Turkish House was used as a formal reference to nationalize the cubic architecture of the 1930s in the following decade and this attempt composed the essence of what was later called Second National Architecture Style. Cantilever projections and overhanging eaves were the key elements of this image and they were also used in the monumental examples of the 1940s. The re-use of this architectural reference in the new presidential office resurrects it as a nationalist signifier. Moreover, there is an irony here. Atatürk’s residence in Çankaya was literally designed as a house for the “father of the nation”; yet, architecturally it did not embody the image of a house. Erdog˘an’s office, in contrast, although the complex contains a separate residence, presents itself with the image of the house. Erdog˘an is also aware of this historical reference and defines the presidential complex as a house: “We have built a state building worthy of the power and glory of Turkey . . . This building is not mine; today it is me, tomorrow another person will take office. This is the house of the millet” (Hürriyet 25.06.2015). Here, the architecture of the mosque is also important with its departure from classical Ottoman idiom (Figure 5.13). Although the central dome supported by four half-domes (similar to Kocatepe and S¸ehzade before that) and the four minarets on the corners present a familiar image, the most striking elements are the hanging

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Figure 5.13 Millet Mosque and the convention center within the Presidential Compound Photographs by author.

eaves (of the Turkish House) attached to every edge of the structure including those uniting the domes and their drums, resulting in domes with flashing edges. Another outstanding element was the enormous portal (a Seljuk reference) detached from the building surface. That is, unlike other examples I have discussed earlier, Millet Mosque features compromises to become a component of the Presidential Compound: the typical Ottoman mosque form is deformed with vocabulary from Seljuk architecture as well as Ottoman Revivalism. Thus, the compound is in an interesting negotiation with the mosque where the mosque is subject to the overall architectural idiom. This is particularly significant if we remember Erdog˘an’s fascination with classical Ottoman replicas. In return, the compromise subjecting the mosque to the architecture of the compound makes it an unmistakable component and not simply a public facility attached to it. The light classicism of the compound reflects an ambivalent monumentality appropriating both the Western tradition and the Ottoman mosque. The landscape design of the compound also reflects this strategy of hybridization. It follows Western geometric organizations rather than organic Ottoman gardens, yet includes a small pavilion at the western end of the inner courtyard overlooking the landscape of the AOÇ area with a view towards the sunset (Figure 5.11). This small pavilion is reminiscent of Ottoman garden kiosks, particularly the I·ftariye Pavilion of the Topkapı Palace overlooking the Golden Horn. Perhaps one of the most significant signifiers of the search for hybridizing Western and Turkish architectures was the identity of the architect. The new compound’s designer, S¸efik Birkiye, was born in Ankara and trained in Brussels, where his office is still operating.19 Birkiye’s architectural approach puts emphasis on history and “local heritage,” claiming to “preserve memory” through the “interpretation of tradition” (Vizzion Architects n.d.). He was famous in Turkey for designing Klassis Hotel (finished in 1989), which was a forerunner of postmodern classicism in Turkey. Although his later works display a certain degree of purification regarding ornamentation, his classicist attitude prevails. It is interesting to note that the office buildings he produced for various companies and institutions in Europe have heavier effects in comparison to the architecture of the Presidential Compound in Ankara.

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Therefore, the architect’s identity supports the desire to reach into Europe through the strategic use of hybridity: a Turkish architect trained and based in Europe, known for his (postmodern) work emphasizing local identity.20 The light classicism of the Presidential Compound incorporates Western and Turkish-Islamic components avoiding “Oriental” vocabulary. Moreover, its inclusion of a mosque creates the perfect hybridization of secular-yet-Islamic representation of Turkey. Seeking globally relevant yet locally effective images has also been a common trait in Astana’s Ak-Orda, Ashgabat’s Turkmenbashy Palace, and Putrajaya’s Perdana Putra. Ak-Orda and Turkmenbashy Palace are Western-looking office buildings (the former particularly resembling the White House in Washington DC with its semi-circular projection) except for their domes. Here, Ak-Orda’s Stalinist-looking spire on its dome is also worth mentioning, which can be linked to the essential challenge of Kazakh nation-building resulting from the country’s demography with a large Russion population. Although it also has a striking dome, Perdana Putra, in contrast, constructs its architectural image with reference to historical imagery of actual palaces. While the onion-shaped dome of Perdana Putra links it to Mughal palaces, the domes of Astana and Ashgabat are rather abstract signs of “Easternness” attached to Western classicism. The dome implies singularity and centrality of the power it represents (Markus 1999). Whether they are located on top of Western-looking office buildings or buildings reproducing historical palace imagery, the domes serve the glorification of (cosmic) power, marking their sites as unique locations within the urban fabric. In the Turkish context, where the dome was strictly banished from public architecture with the end of Ottoman Revivalism, the equivalent of the dome as a sign of (ethnic) authenticity is the hipped roof with hanging eaves, referring to the “Turkish House.”

The plans: spatial practices of power-building The spatial forms of political performances also provide an important aspect of the main building of the Presidential Compound. When we look at the functional organization of the main building, it is surprising to see that a large amount of space is allocated to the display of the president himself. The rectangular building has three basements and five floors above ground. Yet, the floors are intertwined since some spaces required double-height, which is also reflected on the façade. Thus, the building looks like it has two main levels in addition to the terrace floor. The center of the building is occupied by a grand staircase connecting the ground floor with the piano nobile. This level comprises four double-height spaces organized on four sides of the staircase. The president’s office faces the front (eastern) façade and the plaza. Across from the office is a reception hall with a view towards the inner courtyard. On the other two sides there are meeting rooms that do not get natural light since their foyers face the exteriors. While one of these rooms was designed to house meetings among delegations, the other was initially allocated for cabinet meetings as part of the prime ministerial organization. When the complex was reorganized as the

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presidential office, the room was assigned to the National Security Council headed by the president. Significantly, in the current situation, Erdog˘an occasionally leads the cabinet meetings, which he conducts in this same room. The rest of the level is organized in double floors containing offices around four service cores. If we look at the interiors, the Seljuk patterns featuring stars, octagons, and octagrams are extensively used on the walls and floors. The artwork adorning the walls also reflects juxtaposition of Western and Islamic traditions. While the lounges and multi-purpose halls have classical and contemporary paintings, the office corridors and Erdog˘an’s study adjacent to his office are filled with Islamic art including works of calligraphy, such as hilya and tughra. There are four porticos defining entrances to the building on the ground level. The perimeter of the floor comprises a series of well-lit halls, all of which are used for various performances of display. This continuous sequence of galleries includes lobbies, multi-purpose exhibition spaces, waiting lounges, a dining hall, and a winter garden. The winter garden extends along the western façade facing the inner courtyard and houses two rows of trees. While these halls are connected to each other, this continuity is interrupted at the front entrance which is organized as a processional way directed towards the center; that is, the staircase. The doors opening to the side halls are concealed here to emphasize orientation towards the stairs. The ground level, then, is mostly designed as a flexible space of display, a locus for the spatial making of a powerful presidency through particular performances. The common diplomatic ceremonies also use the top floor of the building organized for large receptions: two square-shaped ball rooms are connected with a very large central foyer, which allows for hosting guests of varying sizes by connecting the halls. As these central spaces aligned across the building are double-height, they also allow for the larger central roofs. The four corners of the terrace have pavilions with overhanging roofs and rows of trees beneath them. Thus, the building is crowned with a series of square-shaped hipped roofs. Aside from the regular diplomatic events, the building is the site of new performances serving the making of a powerful presidency with patrimonial ties to the state bureaucracy and populist ones with the citizens. Two major methods of display have been operational – sometimes in conjunction – in these performances. The first of these involves Erdog˘an giving speeches from a podium and the other consists of lunches or dinners given to groups of guests. There is a 400seat conference hall at the basement, which serves as the main space of the first type and had been frequently used until the opening of the convention center. Even when he is hosting dinners at the winter garden or the inner courtyard, a temporary speaker’s podium is set up for Erdog˘an to address his guests – together with the whole nation watching him on TV. Aside from various meetings with different audiences, Erdog˘an has organized regular meetings with three groups of public officers: ambassadors, district governors, and most significantly, muhtars. The first two of these are elements of bureaucracy, the terminal points of the state structure at home and abroad. The meetings with the muhtars are different in this respect, since they are the

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elected heads of neighborhoods (or villages). I have discussed the significance of the neighborhood – mahalle – for the Islamists as the basic unit to maintain sense of community. With these regular meetings, Erdog˘an reaches out to these basic units of society that would make up the millet. Thus, these meetings work in a bilateral way: through these performances, Erdog˘an symbolically connects to each and every corner of the country, while each and every corner of the country identifies with the compound they symbolically visit via their elected representatives. Here it is crucial to remember Erdog˘an’s insistence that the compound is actually “the house of millet”; the regular visits of the muhtars serve as an indication of this statement. This populist performance was expected to increase the legitimacy of the building where a representative from each and every neighborhood of the country is visiting. Erdog˘an attended thirty-two meetings in two years which roughly hosted 12,000 muhtars. For these meetings, the muhtars were welcomed into the main building through the southern entrance, taken to the meeting hall at the basement where they would listen to Erdog˘an, and return to the ground floor for the vital component of this performance: the lunch. Having lunch together is a gesture of personal contact; a paternalistic bond between Erdog˘an and his people. But the lunches/dinners have further significance. Here, there is a not-sosubtle reference to the practices of Atatürk, who famously held dinners which he used as a platform to conduct state affairs. The dinners in Çankaya Mansion were also famous for the serving of alcohol, a characteristic (infamous) feature of Atatürk in Islamic imaginary. Photographs showing Atatürk at the head of the long dinner table instructing his guests while they take down notes instead of eating have been popularized as illustrations of his authority. Thus, Erdog˘an has appropriated the dinner format as a performative tool, which he uses not as a platform to discuss state affairs but rather to maintain his legitimacy through the guests he welcomes. Needless to say, his dinners are alcohol free. As a significant point, in contrast to Atatürk’s linear dinner table, Erdog˘an’s tables are always circular; a gesture of equality among the participants. Unsurprisingly, the most significant of these dinner organizations were those held in the month of Ramadan. Erdog˘an was so attentive to these organizations that he was furious when the Chamber of Architects announced the predicted cost of the fast-breaking dinner he had with the Director of Religious Affairs. He sued the Chamber’s president on the grounds of false accusations and defamation (Cumhuriyet 26.06.2015).

Struggle through public architecture: ritual vs. resistance I began this chapter with the social meanings of public architecture. Authorities tend to assume that the iconographies presented through architectures of sites of power transparently communicate with the citizens who are viewed as passive receivers of the messages of power. Yet, these sites of power are open to contestation; their representation can be challenged with alternative (sometimes subversive) meanings. This

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was very much the case with the new complex. As indicated earlier, the compound became the topic of a fierce struggle as soon as the public was informed about it. The opposition to the compound was based on the AOÇ for two reasons. The first was an instantaneous response – almost a secularist reflex – to emphasize the eradication of Atatürk’s name and legacy. The second reason was the ongoing battle spearheaded by the chambers against the municipality’s development plans for the site. The construction period coincided with the Gezi protests, although the compound was not an important site of contestation at that time. Yet, in the wake of the revolt, it came to the fore. There is a reason for the new compound and the AOÇ becoming a site of contestation right after the Gezi: the site provided the most appropriate political issue under the conditions of the post-Gezi moment (Batuman 2015). This moment was defined by the fading of protests and the subsequent wave of oppression, where means of protesting were severely limited. Particularly the “occupy-style” protest based on physical occupation of public spaces, which was the characteristic of the Gezi event, was now impossible. Hence, the AOÇ, which was already the subject of a struggle not based on physical occupation, presented a new medium of struggle against the AKP. As Merrifield (2013: 66) has pointed out, public spaces such as Tahrir Square and Zucotti Park owed this character not only to their physical uses but also their identity as intersection nodes allowing for contacts between physical and virtual domains. In a similar way, the possibility of being an interface between the physical and virtual public spheres made AOÇ a true public space for this first time. Thus, the farm became the forefront of political protest in the post-Gezi moment in two senses. First, the new compound became the focus of opposition to regime change. Second, it was the site for the emergence of a new – “non-occupy” – strategy of protest in an era where the existing repertoire of protest performances had become impractical. If we remember that the new compound entered public agenda via the satellite images of the site depicting the excavation as a scar within the green texture, the new political struggle would be pursued through representations. For this, the AOÇ served as the public space facilitating contacts between physical and virtual domains. Moreover, as a component of the virtual public sphere, it popularized and democratized the politics of representation through texts and images produced and disseminated by ordinary citizens. If we begin with textual representations of the compound, the earliest issue of contestation was its name. Although I have preferred the neutral rubric “Presidential Compound” here, the name of the compound was a major issue of dispute; a sign of one’s position regarding the political conflict surrounding the building. Throughout the controversial construction process, the opposition labeled the new compound “Ak-Saray” (White Palace) implying that Erdog˘an was building himself a palace, playing on AKP’s insistence that the party’s acronym be pronounced “AK Party” as well as a negative allusion to the White House which is known in Turkey as “Beyaz Saray” (White Palace). Moreover, since the old presidential residence in Çankaya was a mansion, defining the new one as a palace was a clear signifier of lavishness. However, Erdog˘an’s successor, Prime Minister

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Davutog˘lu, willingly used “Ak-Saray” in a speech right after assuming position (Sözcü 05.09.2014). After this, the opposition began to use the term “Kaç-ak Saray” with similar phonetics, where kaçak meant illegal, referring to the legal status of the ongoing construction defying court orders. Although he welcomed the term in the beginning, the public perception of “palace” as a signifier of pompousness later troubled Erdog˘an. The more the government presented the complex as one that represented the nation and that its lavishness was a necessity, the more the campaign underlined its extravagance. The government tried to legitimize the cost by pointing at the restoration costs of the Buckingham Palace (Hürriyet 07.12.2014). Erdog˘an even showed the Cuban presidential palace as an example, implying that such grandeur was found even in a socialist country, even though the building belonged to the pre-revolution era. Finally, Erdog˘an decided that naming it a palace was politically detrimental and began calling the complex a külliye; referring to the Ottoman past and also highlighting the mosque in the complex, hoping to divert the debates from ostentation to secularism. After that, this name has been in use especially in pro-AKP media and külliye has begun to be used as an equivalent of “campus” even in complexes without a mosque. In addition to the dispute over its name, the compound was the subject of a struggle over its visual representation. With its emergence as a symbol, the building became subject of humorous artwork circulating over the internet (Figure 5.14). Yet, visual propaganda was not a field foreign to the AKP in its battle with the status quo, illustrated with the party’s successful election campaigns making use of popular motifs. Right after Erdog˘an’s election as president and the reorganization of the complex as the presidential office, interior photographs of the building were circulated by the president’s office to national and international media to supplement the news of inauguration (Figure 5.15). These photographs Figure 5.14 Anonymous poster mocking the Presidential Compound with reference to a movie poster

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showed Erdog˘an standing at the foot of the majestic stairs and were carefully designed to identify the building with him. Here, Erdog˘an was presented as an undisputable authority with architectural grandeur as a source of his power. Another interesting case of the political instrumentalization of the Presidential Compound was a poster published during the Supreme Court hearings regarding the corruption allegations in early 2015. Erdog˘an had already defined these allegations as a conspiracy against him and responded with a campaign defining him as “the strong will” (of the nation). Pro-AKP NGOs had funded this campaign filling the billboards of all cities across the country in 2014. The campaign was revitalized in order to create pressure on the Supreme Court justices

Figure 5.15 Erdog˘an inside the Presidential Compound Source: Adem Altan/ AFP/ Getty Images.

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the following year. Since Erdog˘an was now president, the visuals of the campaign relied on the Presidential Compound as a signifier of Erdog˘an. The most striking poster was titled “The Strong Will Leads the People” where the euphemism gesturing toward Erdog˘an was materialized with the image of the main building with a rallying crowd in front of it (Figure 5.16). A closer look revealed that this was actually a realistic montage where the image of the crowd came from an AKP rally, which is detectable from the colors of banners although there is no visible sign of the party. The depth of the picture plane is significant here. The crowd is not located within the ceremonial open space inside the compound but rather on

Figure 5.16 “Strong Will Leads the People” Source: Sivil Dayanıs¸ma Platformu.

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the street outside. The photograph is taken from across the street in order to fully contain the building as an object rather than a façade for the rally. Meanwhile, the distance between the street and the building (the depth of the actual plaza) is flattened. In this way, the inconsistence of the scales of the two components served to highlight the building as an object of veneration. The image showed not a crowd in front of the building but a crowd directed towards it. Therefore the visual representation of the new complex was put to work to build power together with its architecture. Perhaps, the most significant example of this visual political campaign was the first welcoming ceremony for a visiting head of state, which was an attempt to “invent tradition” where even the guest was carefully selected. On 12 January 2015, Palestinian leader Mahmoud Abbas visited Erdog˘an and the diplomatic ceremony was performed indoors. But the performance began before the arrival of the guest. When the press was invited into the building to broadcast the ceremony, they were surprised to see that the grand staircase was occupied by sixteen warriors dressed in historical armors, carrying spears, shields, and swords. Each of these warriors stood for one of the historic Turkish states represented by a star in the presidential seal. They were arranged in historical order dating back to the Hunnic Empire of Central Asia (c. 200 BC) with the older ones on top and the more recent ones closer to the ground. The focus of the performance was Erdog˘an’s appearance on top of the stairs. Within this setting, as he descended the stairs, Erdog˘an figuratively descended from this constructed lineage of nationalist heritage and as such he was the bearer of the hallmark of leading the Turks (Figure 5.17). In this way, not only a selective historiography was utilized as an ideological construct, but Erdog˘an himself was blessed as a father figure associated with “ancestors.” Moreover, where

Figure 5.17 Erdog˘an descending the stairs of the Presidential Compound among historical warriors Source: Adem Altan/ Reuters.

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he landed, he posed together with Abbas, with a clear gesture as the benefactor of Palestine and the Islamist cause. Significantly, this power display and its narrative structure triggered political satire. Erdog˘an’s performance was caricaturized through the subversive use of digital tools dislocating meanings produced with the carefully designed imagery. Various versions making fun of the historical costumes of the presidential guards were produced and circulated online (Figure 5.18). There were also visuals merely adding subversive caps to the original photograph showing Erdog˘an among the historical warriors. This rapid response was very much a new episode of the humorous resistance practice that emerged during the Gezi protests. Such humorous works dislocating the assumptions of dominant ideological constructs generated playful methods of participation and maintained a sense of solidarity by juxtaposing artistic creativity with political practice. In the case of the Presidential Compound, humor established a new medium linking space, language, and politics. The image of the building that was supposed to serve as the spatial representation of power was eradicated through its reproduction with minimal subversive interventions playing into the inconsistencies of representations. The power of humor stemmed from its appropriation rather than rejection of the object it criticized. This strategy affirming the complex by deforming it turned it into a space open to occupation. Within the virtual public space, that is, the world of representations, the building could be occupied visually. Thus, the majestic staircases could become the space of superheroes and cartoon characters, which revealed that the warriors of ancient Turkish empires were as fictitious as these characters. The struggle over the Presidential Compound had political outcomes. Opposition party representatives refused to attend events at the compound for a considerable time. This boycott would be lifted only after the putsch in 2016. The Chamber of Architects even initiated a campaign sending letters to foreign governments urging them not to visit the compound. It was also an important item on the political agenda during the June 2015 elections, which resulted in the AKP losing 20% of its votes together with its majority in the parliament, although the renewed elections in November reinstated the party in power. Various surveys

Figure 5.18 Anonymous images circulated online mocking Erdog˘an’s performance

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Figure 5.19 Supporters of Erdog˘an arriving for a rally visit the Millet Mosque Photographs by author.

conducted on the election results pointed out the role of the lavishness of the “palace” for the lost votes. Nevertheless, the compound has also proven successful as an ideological object of identification. Erdog˘an’s supporters rally to the compound at moments of political tension as well as occasions for celebration. Crowds gathered here at the night of the failed coup despite the air raids on the demonstrators. Since then, the street in front of the compound has become a rally point. The location requires the transportation of the crowds here, which the municipality undertakes free of charge. The supporters visit the Millet Mosque, which is the only building that has public access. They go through significant security measures to enter the compound as a gesture of political allegiance and proudly take pictures (Figure 5.19).

CONCLUSION Public architecture has been an important ideological medium for the Turkish Islamists. Their quest for achieving an architectural representation of millet incorporating nationalism and Islam began with experimental imitations of Ottoman Revivalism. Defined with the fictitious label “Ottoman-Seljuk,” different variations combining Ottoman and Seljuk architectural features with contemporary building technologies (emphasized with the key term “smart building”) were used in venues for different functions. Parallel to the consolidation of the AKP’s power, the new national identity-in-the-making assumed transnational character, particularly through the interactions with the post-Soviet Turkic states. The reciprocal interaction between Turkey’s new Islamist government and the authoritarian administrations of Central Asia seeking nation-building was influential on Turkish Islamism in two ways regarding architecture. With the transnational utilization of the Ottoman mosque form, the AKP was after defining a new national identity occupying a privileged position in the Islamic world (nation-in-Islam). Thus, the export of the particular brand of Turkish Islamism was a major undertaking. Second, this link

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allowed for the importation of an eclectic classicism developed in Central Asia. This eclectic classicism involved the nativization of Western idioms through local symbols and was developed in the region through the involvement of international architectural firms. The transfer of this form presented an interesting parallel with the twentieth-century architectural history of Turkey, where the initial phase of Ottoman Revivalism was followed by an era marked by a new international style brought to the country especially by German-speaking architects in the 1930s. Eighty years later, analogous to this modernist transfer targeting the creation of a modern society, a new architectural image – this time in the form of transnational postmodernism – became effective, serving the eradication of that modernist urbanity. The representation of the Islamic national identity has always aimed at recognition by a number of audiences. On the one hand, this representation was a means for the making of millet as Islamic nation and thus spoke to the citizens. On the other hand, the new Islamists’ ambition to be acknowledged as a representative of the Islamic world required their recognition by both the Islamic world and the imaginary gaze of the West. In this respect, the Presidential Compound as the new symbol of power in Ankara could not follow the white-clad neoclassicism imported from Central Asia for two reasons. The first and simple reason was that it was imported; this nativized neoclassical image was not original and furthermore it was globally associated with the authoritarian regimes of Central Asia. The second reason was related to the changing political equilibrium inside the country where the increasing dominance of Erdog˘an as a power figure resulted in the eradication of the power of not only other state institutions but the AKP as a political organization as well. Thus, the new compound was to present a new synthesis – albeit with the same designation of “Ottoman-Seljuk” – that would reflect a direct combination of Western classicism and Islamic features with Turkish brand departing even from the architecture of the AKP headquarters. Curiously, similar to the Turkish architects’ attempt at nationalizing the modernist architecture of the 1930s with references to the Turkish House in the 1940s, the Presidential Compound provided a new synthesis for the “Ottoman-Seljuk” style. This time a new amalgam of Western classicism and Turkish Islam was produced with the hands of a Turkish-born, Europe-based designer. The compound represented a bold move in reconfiguring the spatial order of state structure with the relocation of the presidency. Moreover, it represented a powerful president non-existent within the Turkish political system. That is, the building of the compound was a performative act of regime change. New performances were invented to consolidate the legitimacy of the site and foster the influence of the president. The compound’s becoming a subject of political performances was not limited to the reinforcement of the new presidential system. It has also triggered popular opposition focusing particularly on its lavishness and recognition as an “illicit palace.” What was significant in the opposition to the compound as an architectural object was the reference to public space in the making of resistance to the growing patrimonialism surrounding Erdog˘an. The AOÇ allowed for a new

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form of appropriation of virtual public space and a new episode of the political performances of the Gezi protests in a new era defined by the lack of conditions for occupy-style action.

NOTES   1 Turkey applied for membership to EU (then EC) in 1987 and it was accepted as a candidate for membership in 1999. Especially with the legal reforms introduced by the AKP after 2002, negotiations were started as part of the accession process in 2005.  2 For examples of mainstream historiography of Turkish republican architecture and the role of Ottoman Revivalism within it, see Aslanog˘lu (1980), Yavuz (1981), Sözen (1984), Yavuz and Özkan (1984).  3 Similar surveys conducted by the author at Bilkent University in 2011 and 2012 on school buildings also confirmed users’ approval of the nationalist-Islamist iconography associated with “Ottoman-Seljuk” legacy.   4 For a recent discussion on the desert greening efforts in Astana and Ashgabat, see Koch (2015).   5 Another controversy triggered by Melih Gökçek, the Islamist mayor of Ankara targeting the eradication of symbols of republican modernism was his assault on public art, particularly modern sculptures adorning the public spaces of the capital. He often made denigrating remarks on modern art and even removed some statues on grounds of obscenity. The mayor’s alternative to modern art was waterworks; plazas, parks, and even median strips along main thoroughfares were filled with fountains sometimes fashioned with artificial waterfalls. The use of water in “beautifying” the capital has been a major tool in Ashgabat as well.   6 A similar strategy was also deployed in Baku, albeit with slightly different intentions. In Baku, the older buildings in the city center were re-clad in limestone to imitate the baroque façades of the city’s late nineteenth century, for touristic purposes rather than triggering national imagination (Grant 2014).   7 For instance, Ahmet Çalık, the founder of Çalık Holding, served as an adviser to the Turkmen president in the 1990s. His holding has since been awarded around $11 billion in contracts in Turkmenistan (Rodeheffer 2014). Çalık has been one of the favorite businessmen of Erdog˘an himself and expanded his investments in the fields of construction, energy, and media. Erdog˘an’s son-in-law Berat Albayrak also served as the CEO of the holding before his appointment as Minister of Energy.   8 The AKP’s interest in Central Asia was not limited to contemporary architecture. The government also initiated archaeological and art historical projects on Seljuk heritage, which would contribute to the new Islamist enterprise in promoting Turkish Islam in the region as well as the national narrative of Turkish-Islamic origins. To this end, TIKA (Turkish Cooperation and Coordination Agency), responsible for relations with the Turkic World, started an ambitious project to document “Great Seljuk Heritage” under the patronage of President Gül in 2009 (Eravs¸ar et al. 2014).  9 At the time, Gökog˘uz was a young and relatively inexperienced architect who had done interior renovations of a number of government buildings. The AKP’s choice in working with him depended on their assumption that the external image of the building was already produced, and Gökog˘uz, whose work in their current headquarters building was found commendable, would provide an interior design for this project. It is striking to see that the party did not choose to work with a well-known name for the building that was envisaged as an ideological icon. The choice of a relatively unknown

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10

11

12

13 14

15

16

17

18

designer was not related to the lack of ambition for the part of the party but rather the desire to work with an architect that would comply with the client’s demands. As it will become evident in the following section, the architects involved in the major buildings of the AKP government have been quite reluctant to give interviews especially after the Presidential Compound’s turning into a hot political issue. Therefore, although he had given interviews before, Gökog˘uz did not agree to give one despite my several attempts in late 2016. Here, in addition to the sources I have cited, I used the unpublished interview transcripts conducted by Esin Boyacıog˘lu and Nes¸e Gurallar in 2008. I thank them for sharing this material with me. Here it is worth remembering the Ahmet Hamdi Akseki Mosque I have discussed in Chapter 2. The mosque was also begun construction at the same time with the AKP headquarters and a grand Seljuk-looking portal, which is quite alien to its modernist image, was attached to the structure in the process. The Presidential Compound provides an interesting case to discuss architectural politics. However, the highly politicized building also became a difficult object of scholarly scrutiny since all documents including decrees on its conception, permits legalizing its construction, details of its budget, as well as its architectural blueprints are treated as classified documents. Remarkably, even the architects involved in the design process deny talking about the building, pointing at TOKI as the supervising entity. TOKI, in return claims that the president’s office is the sole authority to disclose information of any sort. What is more intriguing is the availability of information on the complex despite the intended secrecy for the part of the authorities. For instance, while photographing the building was forbidden during construction, workers were already taking pictures and sharing them on internet forums. Despite TOKI’s discretion, subcontractors proudly published the work they had done in the compound. Therefore, while the conventional sources of information regarding the compound were inaccessible at the time of my research, there was significant amount of data available through open sources. As I will discuss next, the Chamber of Architects managed to gather a surprising amount of information on the details of the compound using these open sources as well as its own network of members for public exposure. For the story of the Chamber’s struggle against the compound, see Karakus¸ Candan, Hakkan and Bolat (2015). To give an idea, the floor area of the complex is four times the size of the Buckingham Palace. An executive presidency largely freed from parliamentary and judiciary monitoring would eventually be implemented with a constitutional amendment following a controversial referendum on April 16, 2017. This was a phrase Erdog˘an frequently used to refer to his indisputable authority stemming from the ballot. Especially after his election as president, his supporters began to use the phrase as an epithet in the media. The residence was positioned above Ataturk’s farmhouse facing the same direction. The farmhouse was built in 1928 and was one of the earliest buildings of AOÇ. The new residence was much larger and located on a higher ground dwarfing the old farmhouse. Although it was a registered architectural heritage, the farmhouse was demolished in 2016 on grounds of earthquake-proneness. The verse used at the entrance (Ar-Ra’d, verse 24) reads “Peace be upon you for you patiently endured.” While the verse refers to afterlife, it can also be interpreted here as the arrival of the (Islamic) political victory materialized with the mosque inside the new presidential compound. Previously, the universities held elections and sent the list of the top six contenders to the Higher Education Council. The council then reduced the list to three and forwarded to the president, who made the final decision regardless of the votes.

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19 Birkiye’s office collaborated with Gökog˘uz, who was responsible for producing the construction blueprints. We do not have much information regarding the interactions between these two offices or their exchanges with the client since neither of the architects gives interviews. In an early interview he gave to a governmental magazine, Birkiye revealed that he had seen two other proposals for the compound (Kayhan 2014: 30). Perhaps, if the secrecy surrounding the compound fades away, we will learn about these two proposals and comment on the reasons behind Erdog˘an’s choice. 20 It is worth noting here that the hybrid identity of Birkiye works both ways in bridging (Turkish) Islam and Europe. He has recently designed Selimiye Mosque in Brussels (2012–2015), owned by the Belgium Union of Islamic Cultural Centers founded by Turkish immigrants.

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Bunnell, T. and D. Das. (2010) “Urban Pulse – A Geography of Serial Seduction: Urban Policy Transfer From Kuala Lumpur to Hyderabad,” Urban Geography 31 (3): 277–284. · Çakır, R., I. Bozan and B. Talu. (2004) Imam-Hatip Liseleri: Efsaneler ve Gerçekler, Istanbul: TESEV. · Çayır, K. and I. Gürkaynak. (2007) “The State of Citizenship Education in Turkey: Past and Present,” Journal of Social Science Education 6 (2): 50–58. · “Çekici, Kis¸ilig˘i Olan, Biblo Gibi Okul Yapmak Için 41 Ayrı Model Hazırladılar,” Hürriyet, 14.08.2005, www.hurriyet.com.tr/cekici-kisiligi-olan-biblo-gibi-okul-yapmak-icin-41ayri-model-hazirladilar-342079 (accessed on 18.12.2016). Cengizkan, A. (2010) “The Production of a Mise en Scene for a Nation and Its Subjects, Clemenz Holzmeister et al. in the Ministries Quarter for Ankara, Turkey,” The Journal of Architecture 15 (6): 731–770. Cˇepaitiene˙, R. (2015) “In the Shadow of Moscow: The Stalinist Reconstruction of the Capitals of the Soviet Republics,” Journal of Architecture and Urbanism 39 (1): 3–16. · Chamber of Architects Ankara Branch. (2007) Mimarlık ve Ideoloji Paneli I, Ankara: Chamber of Architects Ankara Branch. Chamber of Architects Ankara Branch. (2014) Atatürk Orman Çiftlig˘i’nde Hukuksuzlug˘u Mes¸rulas¸tırma! Ankara: Chamber of Architects. · “Cumhurbas¸kanı Recep Tayyip Erdog˘an’dan Iftar Sofrası Açıklaması,” Hürriyet, 25.06.2015, www.hurriyet.com.tr/gundem/29372616.asp (accessed on 26.06.2015). Delegation of the EU to Turkey. (2007) “Yargının Modernizasyonu ve Ceza Hukuku Reformu Programı, 2003–2007,” www.avrupa.info.tr/tr/ab-mali-destegi/ab-mali-deste kli-programlar/program-ve-projeler/project-single-view/article/yarginin-modern izasyonu-ve-ceza-hukuku-reformu-programi.html (accessed on 17.12.2016). Denison, M. (2009) “The Art of the Impossible: Political Symbolism, and the Creation of National Identity and Collective Memory in Post-Soviet Turkmenistan,” Europe-Asia Studies 61: 1167–1187. Dombey, D. (2014) “Price Tag of Erdogan’s New Palace Revealed: $600m,” Financial Times, November 4. · Eravs¸ar, O., H. Karpuz, I. Dıvarcı, A. Kus¸ and F. S¸ims¸ek. (2014) Heritage of the Great Seljuks: Architecture, Konya: Konya Selçuklu Municipality. · “Erdog˘an’dan Iftar Sofrası Davası,” Cumhuriyet, 26.06.2015, www.cumhuriyet.com.tr/haber/ turkiye/307775/Erdogan_dan_iftar_sofrasi_davasi.html (accessed on 22.01.2017). “Erdog˘an’ın sarayının adını açıkladı,” [He Announced the Name of Erdog˘an’s Palace] Sözcü, 05.09.2014, www.sozcu.com.tr/2014/gundem/erdoganin-sarayinin-adini-acikladi-5942 18/ (accessed on 21.06.2015). “Gelenekten Geleceg˘e Sergisi Açıldı,” Internethaber.com, 05.02.2005, www.internethaber. com/gelenekten-gelecege-sergisi-acildi-1107503h.htm (accessed on 18.12.2016). General Directorate of Press. (1936) Fotog˘rafla Türkiye, Ankara: General Directorate of Press. · Gidizog˘lu, L. (2003) “Örnek Ilkög˘retim Okulu Projeleri: TC Milli Eg˘itim Bakanlıg˘ı Öncülüg˘ünde · · Üniversitelerle I s¸ birlig˘ i I çerisinde Gerçekles¸ tirilen Örnek Projeler (1998–2000),” Mimarlık, 314. Grant, B. (2014) “The Edifice Complex: Architecture and the Political Life of Surplus in New Baku,” Public Culture 26 (3): 501–528. “Güçleri Yetiyorsa Yıksınlar,” Milliyet, 05.03.2014. Gurallar, N. and E. Boyacıog˘lu. (2011) “Üç Parti – Üç Bina: Farklı Siyasal Kimliklerin Bas¸kent Ankara’da Temsili,” Dosya 25: 48–59. Gurbanow, M. (2014) “Ruhsuz galan ‘Ruhyýet’,” Azatlyk Radiosy, 26.05.2014, www.aza thabar.org/content/article/25398833.html (accessed on 10.06.2015). Hillenbrand, R. (2000) Islamic Architecture: Form, Function and Meaning, Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Hoag, J. D. (1991) Islamic Architecture, New York: Electa/ Rizzoli.

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Isaacs, R. and A. Polese. (2016) “Introduction: Nation-Building and Identity in the Post-Soviet Space, Old, New and Changing Tools,” in Isaacs, R. and A. Polese eds. Nation-Building and Identity in the Post-Soviet Space: New Tools and Approaches, 1–23, London and New York: Routledge. Kaçar, A. D. (2010) “Cultivating the Nation: Atatürk’s Experimental Farm as an Agent of Social and Cultural Transformation,” unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, Ankara: Middle East Technical University. Karagiannis, E. (2010) Political Islam in Central Asia: The Challenge of Hizb ut-Tahrir, London: Routledge. · Karakus¸ Candan, T., A. Hakkan and G. Bolat. (2015) Kaçak Saray: Kibir, Israf, Hukuksuzluk, Istanbul: Kırmızı Kedi. Kayhan, B. (2014) “S¸efik Birkiye: Bas¸arılı Türk Mimar,” Artı90 9: 28–31. King, A. D. (2004) Spaces of Global Cultures: Architecture, Urbanism, Identity, London and New York: Routledge. King, R. (2007) “Re-writing the City: Putrajaya as Representation,” Journal of Urban Design 12 (1): 117–138. “Kızılay Projesinin Detaylarını Açıkladı,” Hürriyet, 09.06.2011, www.hurriyet.com.tr/ kizilay-projesinin-detaylarini-acikladi-17987039 (accessed on 07.01.2017). “Kızılay Yepyeni, Is¸ıl Olacak,” Büyüks¸ehir Ankara, 28.05.2011, 10–11. Koch, N. (2013) “Why Not a World City? Astana, Ankara, and Geopolitical Scripts in Urban Networks,” Urban Geography 34: 109–130. Koch, N. (2015) “The Violence of Spectacle: Statist Schemes to Green the Desert and Constructing Astana and Ashgabat as Urban Oases,” Social & Cultural Geography 16 (6): 675–697. Kunysz, N. (2012) “From Sultanism to Neopatrimonialism? Regionalism Within Turkmenistan,” Central Asian Survey 31 (1): 1–16. Kusno, A. (2012) “Rethinking the Nation,” in Crysler, G., S. Cairns and H. Heynen eds. The SAGE Handbook of Architectural Theory, 213–230, Los Angeles and London: Sage. “Mahkeme Duvarları Vatandas¸a Gülümseyecek,” Radikal, 27.11.2004. Markus, T. A. (1999) “What Do Domes Mean?” Critical Quarterly 41 (4): 3–11. Merrifield, A. (2013) The Politics of the Encounter: Urban Theory and Protest Under Planetary Urbanization, Athens, GA: University of Georgia Press. “Millet Camii Açılıs¸ Töreninde Yaptıkları Konus¸ma,” tccb.gov.tr, 03.07.2015, www.tccb. gov.tr/konusmalar/353/35401/millet-camii-acilis-toreninde-yaptiklari-konusma.html (accessed on 15.01.2017). Mills, C. A. (2007) “Turkmenbashy: The Propagation of Personal Rule in Contemporary Turkmenistan,” unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, University of St. Andrews. Ministry of Justice. (2007) 2006 Yılı Bakanlık Faaliyet Raporu, Ankara: Ministry of Justice. Ministry of Justice. (2015) “Yargı Reformu Stratejisi,” www.sgb.adalet.gov.tr/yargi_reformu_ stratejisi.pdf (accessed on 10.12.2016). Moser, S. (2010) “Putrajaya: Malaysia’s New Federal Administrative Capital,” Cities 27: 285–297. “Okul Mimarisinde Osmanlı’ya Dönüs¸,” Hürriyet, 07.08.2004, www.hurriyet.com.tr/ okul-mimarisinde-osmanli-ya-donus-247326 (accessed on 18.12.2016). Olcott, M. B. (1997) “Kazakhstan: Pushing For Eurasia,” in Bremmer, I. and R. Taras eds. New States, New Politics: Building The Post-Soviet Nations, 547–570. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Orhan, E. (2016) “Reflection of Political Restructuring on Urban Symbols: The Case of Presidential Palace in Ankara, Turkey,” Journal of Architecture and Urbanism 40 (3): 206–219. · Öz, I. (2014) “Spatial Representations of Ideology and Politics in Urban Space: Keçiören Example,” Journal of Ankara Studies 2 (2): 131–158.

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Building (the) national  j · Özkan, M. and A. C. Yolog˘lu. (2005) “Bir Bellek Projesi Olarak Sokak I simlendirmesi: Ankara Örneg˘i,” Planlama 34: 54–60. Pak, S. (2004) “Cultural Politics and Vocational Religious Education: the Case of Turkey,” Comparative Education 40 (3): 321–341. Peacock, A. C. S. and S. N. Yildiz. (2013) “Introduction,” in Peacock, A. C. S. and S. N. Yildiz eds. The Seljuks of Anatolia: Court and Society in the Medieval Middle East, 1–22, London: I. B. Tauris. Rodeheffer, L. (2014) “Business Boom for Turkish Contractors in Turkmenistan,” Global Risks Insight, 18.01.2014, http://globalriskinsights.com/2014/01/business-boom-for-turkishcontractors-in-turkmenistan/ (accessed on 02.01.2017). Sag˘lam, H. (2013) “Günümüz Adalet Sarayları Üzerine Bir Sorgulama,” Mimarlık, 370. S¸ahin, M. A. (2007) “Speech at the Planning and Budget Commission,” 08.11.2007, www. tbmm.gov.tr/butce/2008/pbk08112007.htm (accessed on 17.12.2016). Sakaog˘lu, N. (2003) Osmanlı’dan Günümüze Eg˘itim Tarihi, Istanbul: Istanbul Bilgi University. · “Saray Tartıs¸ması Ingiltere’de de Yas¸anmıs¸tı,” Hürriyet, 07.12.2014, www.hurriyet.com.tr/ saray-tartismasi-ingilterede-de-yasanmisti-27721127 (accessed on 15.01.2017). · Sözen, M. (1984) Cumhuriyet Dönemi Türk Mimarlıg˘ı 1923–1983, Istanbul: Is¸ Bankası. Tanyeli, U. (2007) Binalar Konus¸unca Mimarlık Susar, Istanbul: ISMD. “Temizlik Harekatı,” Gazetevatan, 05.09.2014, www.gazetevatan.com/murat-celik-675099yazar-yazisi – temizlik-harekati-/ (accessed on 15.01.2017). · “TOKI’den AK Saray’ın maliyeti yanıtı: Açıklarsak Türkiye ekonomisi zarar görür,” Radikal, 02.12.2014, www.radikal.com.tr/turkiye/tokiden_ak_sarayin_maliyeti_yaniti_turkiye_ ekonomisi_zarar_gore-1243838 (accessed on 21.06.2015). Türkmen, B. (2009) “A Transformed Kemalist Islam or a New Islamic Civic Morality? A Study of ‘Religious Culture and Morality’ Textbooks in the Turkish High School Curricula,” Comparative Studies of South Asia, Africa and the Middle East 29 (3): 381–397. “Turkmenistan Enters Record Books for Having the Most White Marble Buildings,” The Guardian, 26.05.2013, www.theguardian.com/world/2013/may/26/turkmenistan-world-recordwhite-marble-buildings (accessed on 02.01.2017). Vale, L. J. (2008) Architecture, Power, and National Identity, Second edition, London: Routledge. Vizzion Architects. (n.d.) “Architectural Approach,” www.vizzion-architects.com/en/approach. php (accessed on 12.04.2014). Welsh, B. ed (2004) Reflections: The Mahathir Years, Washington, DC: Southeast Asia Studies Program, Johns Hopkins University. Withnall, A. (2014) “Recep Tayyip Erdogan: The ‘New Sultan’ Now Has a New Palace – and It Has Cost Turkish Taxpayers £400m,” The Independent, 05.11.2014, www. independent.co.uk/news/world/europe/recep-tayyip-erdogan-the-new-sultan-nowhas-a-new-palace—and-it-has-cost-turkish-taxpayers-400m-9841319.html (accessed on 26.02.2015). Yavuz, Y. (1981) Mimar Kemalettin ve Birinci Ulusal Mimarlık Dönemi, Ankara: METU. Yavuz, Y. and S. Özkan (1984) “Finding a National Idiom: The First National Style,” in R. Holod and A. Evin eds. Modern Turkish Architecture, 51–68, Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Yemelianova, G. ed (2010) Radical Islam in the Former Soviet Union, London: Routledge.

201  h

Epilogue

As I have expressed occasionally, the weakest links of the great transformation our country has gone through in the past fourteen years – unfortunately – have been the fields of education and culture (AlJazeera Turk 09.02.2017).

There is a certain difficulty in closing a book on the new Islamist reign in Turkey. An obvious reason for this is the escalation of political turmoil in the country. The writing of the book took place in the midst of traumatic events shaking the government and leading it to an increasingly authoritarian standpoint. Beginning with the crackdown following the Gezi protests and the suppression of corruption allegations against the AKP government in late 2013, tension escalated particularly with the return to militaristic measures in relation to the Kurdish question in the wake of the elections of June 2015. The elections witnessed the defeat of the AKP for the first time and the Islamists lost majority in the parliament. While the AKP succeeded in blocking the establishment of a government excluding itself and regained its majority in the re-elections in November, this did not bring stability. On the contrary, increasing terrorist activity in major cities by diverse groups such as the Kurdish PKK and the jihadist ISIS further deepened social unrest. These were followed by the bloody coup attempt on 15 July 2016, which was attributed to the supporters of Gülen within the military. Although the involvement of the movement remains unclear even after more than a year, the putsch has provided conditions for an extended state of emergency and the dismissal of people from state jobs through government decrees. The crackdown on alleged Gülen sympathizers have quickly extended to all oppositional groups and the number of people removed from civil service exceeded 100,000–47,000 of which were put in jail on charges of terrorism – by May 2017 (Amnesty International 2017).

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These conditions make it hard to arrive at conclusions for two reasons. The first is the lack of a temporal distance that would allow us to delimit and interpret the particular period of analysis and its characteristics. A book on new Islamism in Turkey could have comfortably been concluded if written a couple of years earlier. This doesn’t necessarily mean that an earlier study, like so many I have mentioned throughout the book, would arrive at optimistic conclusions regarding the AKP and its particular version of Islamism. As I have also cited in numerous examples, there have been studies critically approaching the recent episode of Turkey, particularly in terms of urban politics. Nevertheless, the problem here is the difficulty to confine the analysis within a time frame. The second difficulty is the fact that even the author is caught up within the current turmoil, which presents the risk to cloud critical distance. Clearly, no study in social science, above all one on such a controversial topic, can claim to be objective in a positivistic sense. But, at the current moment, the government’s policies simultaneously provide relevant material to analyze and also (negatively) affect the conditions of analysis. On the one hand, the number of imprisoned journalists and expelled academics (the former more than 150 and the latter above 5 700 by September 2017) illustrate the tightening of freedom of expression, which is a precondition of scientific work. On the other hand, the unavoidable involvement of the author within the political turbulence intertwines statements of scholarship and protest. Nevertheless, the valid question, which I offered in the Introduction to return here, remains to be addressed in a prudent way: is this growing authoritarianism related to Islam; is it an intrinsic feature of Islamism? And, is the discussion of authoritarianism related to the main framework of the book, that is, the built environment? Despite the current turmoil in Turkey, I believe it would be an error to attribute the AKP’s apparent authoritarianism to Islamism in general. Rather than being an essential characteristic, this trend is very much related to the historical specificities of the Turkish case. The modern state structure of the secular republic (which I discussed in Chapter 2) was particularly attentive to be in control of religion (if not all facets of the public sphere) and devised mechanisms to this end. The passive revolution of new Islamism incorporating the AKP into the system also led the party to find these mechanisms of control at its disposal. Under conditions of a steady economy and weak parliamentary opposition, the party easily took control of these mechanisms and even created new ones that it utilized for Islamization. An important aspect of these mechanisms was the clientelistic ties subjugating particularly the Islamic civil organizations to the AKP. The shady relations that had immensely contributed to the Islamization of the social realm and the state bureaucracy through top-down and bottom-up dynamics inevitably generated corruption. Thus, while the Gezi protests tested the limits of the AKP’s nation-building enterprise shattering its inclusive dynamics and forcing it to the consolidation of a 50% supporter base thereafter, the corruption scandals – which were leaked by Gülen’s supporters within the bureaucracy – compelled the AKP to

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stay in power at any cost. Paradoxically, the dependence on power required the termination of democratic processes, which also eradicated the AKP as a political organization. The predicament of this progression was the rise of Erdog˘an as the sole authority as discussed in Chapter 5. Although it would be wrong to characterize the AKP’s new Islamism as inherently authoritarian, it is also impossible to miss the reluctance of critiques from within. The paucity of Islamists’ criticisms on the anti-democratic policies of the AKP in recent years is striking. Whilst the reasons behind this are beyond the scope of this book, it is possible to relate this tendency with the political culture not of Turkish Islamists as such, but the larger right-wing current they never fundamentally broke away. Nationalist or Islamist, movements within this current have always been patrimonial in character and avoided confrontation with the state even when they were persecuted. If we turn to the question of the extent of new Islamism’s success and its relation to the built environment, it is ironic that Erdog˘an’s referendum campaign for a powerful presidency rested on megaprojects, which for him demonstrated a “powerful Turkey.” But at the same time, as illustrated by his quotation I cited earlier, there is a clear failure in terms of creating an ideal Islamic milieu. Despite the expanded networks of Islamic organizations orchestrated by municipalities, as I have discussed in Chapter 3, the AKP has failed to create the new Islamist urban realm. Moreover, despite the increasing number of imam-hatip schools and the Islamization of education, it was the youth who took to the streets against the AKP during the Gezi protests. Here, I don’t mean to argue that the new Islamist project of the AKP has been a failure. In one sense, an important portion of the tens of thousands of state employees being expelled from bureaucracy were Islamist cadres regardless of their allegiance to the Gülen movement or some other Islamic order. In this respect, although it had to destroy them with its own hands, the AKP has produced a generation of Islamist cadres, and more importantly a bureaucracy reproducing itself through Islamic networks. The same thing is also valid in the political economy of housing and urban renewal. Although an Islamic milieu has not been achieved, the mechanisms tying local bureaucrats, businesses, and the inhabitants of new compounds are defined by the same Islamic networks. In a sense, what was Islamist in the fifteen-year reign of the AKP were the mechanisms of Islamization rather than their outcome. And, the most important aspect of the transformations brought by the AKP’s new Islamism has been their urban character. From the quantity of housing production to megaprojects drastically changing the cityscapes, Turkey has experienced a thorough urban transformation. As I defined it as the urban revolution of new Islamism in Chapter 4, this transformation radically altered social and political dynamics reshaping even the oppositional forces to the Islamist reign. It has – antagonistically – triggered new tropes of democratic politics through urban movements defending urban commons. It is still to be seen whether these political dynamics will be successful in reversing the authoritarian trend of the recent years.

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BIBLIOGRAPHY Amnesty International. (2017) Gazetecilik Suç Deg˘ildir: Türkiye’de Medya Özgürlüg˘ü Üzerindeki Baskılar, London: Amnesty International. “Erdog˘an’dan Eg˘itim ve Kültür Özeles¸tirisi,” AlJazeera Turk, 09.02.2017, www.aljazeera. com.tr/haber/erdogandan-egitim-ve-kultur-ozelestirisi (accessed on 15.02.2017).

205  h

Glossary

AKM

AKP Alevi AOÇ BDP cemaat cemevi CHP DCA divan/Diwan Diyanet DSP DTP ferman FP gecekondu HDP hilya iftar imam

(Atatürk Kültür Merkezi) Atatürk Cultural Center. There are two buildings with the same name: one in Istanbul and the other in Ankara. (Adalet ve Kalkınma Partisi) Justice and Development Party A large minority of 10–15 million with heterodox belief system linked to various sources including Shiism (Atatürk Orman Çiftlig˘i) Atatürk Forest Farm (Barıs¸ ve Demokrasi Partisi) Peace and Democracy Party Islamic community organized around a charismatic leader Alevi shrine (Cumhuriyet Halk Partisi) Republican People’s Party Diyanet Center of America Reception hall (Diyanet I·s¸leri Bas¸kanlıg˘ı) Directorate of Religious Affairs (Demokratik Sol Parti) Democratic Left Party (Demokratik Toplum Partisi) Democratic Society Party Royal (Ottoman) decree (Fazilet Partisi) Felicity Party (literally “landed in one night” in Turkish) Informal squatter housing (Halkların Demokratik Partisi) Peoples’ Democratic Party (literally “ornament” in Arabic) Ottoman artwork presenting textual representations of Prophet Muhammad Fast-breaking meal during the month of Ramadan Preacher (in Turkey a civil servant) leading the congregation in the mosque

207  h

Glossary  j

(I·stanbul Serbest Mimarlar Derneg˘i) Istanbul Freelance Architects Association külliye Ottoman mosque complex kümbet Octagonal Seljuk tomb covered with a pyramidal dome mahalle Neighborhood MB (Ikhwan-ul Muslimin) Muslim Brotherhood mehter Ottoman military band MHP (Milliyetçi Hareket Partisi) Nationalist Action Party mihrab (element of mosque architecture) Small niche at the Qibla Wall pointing the direction of Mecca Term used to denote religious sects within the Ottoman socimillet ety. It was used to denote “nation” in the nineteenth century. After the invention of “ulus” to emphasize secularism, the term gained a conservative connotation. minber (element of mosque architecture) Pulpit used by the imam to deliver sermons muhtar Elected head of neighborhood (mahalle) (Refah Partisi) Welfare Party RP (element of mosque architecture) Ablution fountain s¸adırvan s¸ehit Martyr site Cluster of high-rise housing blocks sohbet (literally “chat/conversation” in Turkish) Informal house meeting juxtaposing daily chat with religious teaching The Arabic phrase “Allahu akbar” (“God is great[est]”); also takbir used as a battle cry tarikat Hierarchically organized Islamic order TEKEL (literally “monopoly” in Turkish) The privatized former state enterprise that held a monopoly on the production of tobacco and alcoholic beverages TOBAS¸ Municipal housing company in Ankara TOKI (Toplu Konut I·daresi) Mass Housing Administration TSMD (Türk Serbest Mimarlar Derneg˘i) Turkish Freelance Architects Association tughra Calligraphic monogram used by Ottoman sultans as signature ulus A term invented by the republicans in the early republican period to identify the secular nation varos¸ Post-squatter neighborhood produced through the replacement of gecekondu with densely built apartments zekat Islamic form of alms-giving, which is a religious obligation ISMD

208  h

Index

agency 70, 87, 99, 142; female 70 Ahmet Hamdi Akseki Mosque 27 – 8, 197n11 AKM see Atatürk Cultural Center AKP: headquarters building 54n8, 168 – 70, 177, 178, 182, 183, 195; and new Islamism 5 – 7; political success of 2 – 4; in Turkish politics 8 – 9 Alevi 48 – 50, 55n18, 95, 109 Alp, A. V. 31 – 2 Alp, S. 27 – 8 Amman 16, 93 Ankara 7, 10, 21, 23, 24, 26, 27, 29, 49, 52, 53n4, 54n8, 55n16, 62, 67, 75, 76, 77, 79, 80, 81, 92, 97, 110, 112, 114, 116, 117, 118, 119, 120, 123, 126, 138, 139, 142, 147n1, 147n5, 160, 162, 163, 164, 165, 166, 168, 172, 173, 174, 175, 176, 181, 182, 184, 195; and Astana 166; mayor of 80, 92 – 3, 110, 141, 171, 196n5; political topography of 118 – 19, 120 – 1, 174 – 7; toponymic erasure in 92 – 3, 166; see also North Ankara Ankara Metropolitan Municipality 79, 167, 171, 176 Anti-capitalist Muslims 74, 132, 133, 135, 140 AOÇ see Atatürk Forest Farm Arab Spring 46, 53, 143 architecture 4, 9, 14, 15, 23, 24, 27, 30, 31, 33, 38, 41, 43, 49, 50, 54n10, 77,

99, 124, 129, 130, 131, 157, 158, 159, 163, 164, 165, 172, 174 – 5, 177, 181 – 4, 192, 194, 195, 196n2, 196n8; of AKP headquarters 168 – 70, 195; courthouse 154, 155, 156 – 61, 182; hyper-politicization of 130, 131; Islamic 1, 31, 36, 90; mosque 14 – 19, 20 – 4, 27 – 41, 47, 49, 52, 53n4, 54n5, 162, 183 – 4; national 43, 155 – 61, 182, 183; Ottoman 16, 17, 20, 38, 54n10, 156, 157 – 8, 161, 164, 182; public 9, 10, 154 – 68, 170 – 2, 185, 187, 194; of resistance 10, 108, 115, 125, 136 – 7; school 154, 155 – 60; Seljuk 35, 42, 98, 156, 159, 161, 170, 182, 184, 186, 194, 197n11; see also modern; mosque; Presidential Compound Artillery Barracks 127, 128 – 9, 130, 139 Ashgabat 18, 30, 165, 166, 167, 168, 169, 171, 172, 180 – 1, 185, 196n4, 196n5 Astana 18, 165, 166, 167, 168, 172, 180, 181, 185, 196n4 Atatürk Boulevard (Ankara) 118, 167, 171 – 2, 174, 176 Atatürk Cultural Center (Ankara) 92, 175, 176 Atatürk Cultural Center (Istanbul) 128, 129, 130, 134, 138, 144, 145, 165 Atatürk Forest Farm 173, 175, 177, 184, 188, 195, 197n16 Azerbaijan 7, 18, 30, 165, 166, 167

209  h

Index  j

Baku 18, 30, 39, 167, 196n6 Bas¸aks¸ehir 61, 62, 67 – 75, 80, 83, 85, 86, 88, 89, 90, 91 – 2, 95 – 7; NGO Platform 96 – 7 Beirut 93 – 4, 100n4 biopolitics 86, 99, 133, 135; of middleclassness 86; of political encampment 133 – 6 Birkiye, S¸. 184, 198n19, 198n20 bourgeoisie 9, 10, 61, 65, 118; pious 9, 10, 72, 73, 74, 90, 95, 117; see also petty-bourgeoisie Cairo 39, 70, 93, 100n1, 122, 147n8 Çamlıca Mosque 31, 32 – 5, 36 camp 10, 110, 116, 120, 122, 127, 138, 139, 144, 147n2, 147n7, 147n8; in Gezi Park 131 – 2, 133 – 7; TEKEL 120 – 6, 136 – 7 Çankaya Mansion 80, 154, 173, 174 – 5, 177, 179, 183, 187, 188 Cansever, T. 30 – 1 cemevi 49 – 50 Central Asia 10, 26, 46, 51, 161, 162, 165 – 8, 171, 192, 194, 195, 196n8 Chamber of Architects 33, 114, 115, 117, 128, 141, 164, 165, 173, 176, 177, 187, 188, 193, 197n12 civility see neoliberal classicism 23, 165, 167, 171, 172, 183, 184, 195; in Central Asia 165 – 9, 195; light 183 – 5; reciprocal 172; Western 155, 167, 168, 172, 182, 185, 195; see also neoclassical clientelism 88, 172, 203 cluster see housing Cold War 2, 7, 15, 17, 18, 19, 21, 24, 26, 27, 45, 155 colonial 3, 16, 19, 23, 24, 30 commodification 64, 76, 94, 100n1, 109, 127, 141, 146 community-building 10, 62, 94 conservative 2, 3, 4, 21, 44, 51, 72, 73, 74, 81, 85, 87, 95, 97, 110, 113, 123, 124, 135, 142, 144, 146, 156, 164; see also nationalist-conservative consumption 73 – 4, 130, 131, 147n4 coup: in 1960 21, 24; in 1980 7, 24, 25, 176; attempt in 2016 8, 10, 52 – 3, 100n5, 110, 143 – 6, 194, 202 courthouses see architecture Çukurambar 76 – 7, 176, 177

Dalokay, V. 16, 21 – 2, 27, 29 – 30, 31, 33 Diyanet 20, 24, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 39, 40, 46 – 8, 49, 51, 53; Foundation 24, 26; Mosque (see Ahmet Hamdi Akseki Mosque) Diyanet Center of America 31, 39 – 45, 183 Diyarbakır 51, 52, 55n20 Dog˘ anbey (Bursa) 85 dome 11n4, 15, 16, 17, 21, 27, 28, 31, 33, 34, 35, 36, 41, 42, 50, 54n5, 55n22, 90, 98, 128, 157, 163, 183, 184, 185 Egypt 5, 6, 16, 17, 46, 100n3, 135, 137, 143 – 4, 147n6 Eldem, S. H. 43 – 4 elites 3, 39, 61, 65, 80, 84, 119, 142, 164, 166, 177 encampment see camp encounter 19, 20, 22, 24, 91, 118, 131, 132, 135, 147n6 Erdog˘ an, R. T. 3, 8, 10, 11n4, 28, 31, 32, 35, 36, 38, 39, 40, 46, 51, 53, 54n14, 54n15, 61, 67, 71, 72, 113, 115, 128, 129, 130, 134, 138, 139, 142, 143, 144, 145, 146, 165, 170, 172, 173 – 4, 177 – 8, 179 – 87, 189 – 95, 196n7, 197n15, 198n19, 204 essentialism 16, 17, 45 Europe 1, 5, 46, 61, 100n6, 115, 142, 174, 184, 185, 195, 198n20; EU 109, 113, 156, 157, 159, 196n1 everyday life 2, 5, 9, 10, 46 – 7, 62, 74, 78, 86, 88, 89, 90 – 3, 94, 97, 99, 100, 112, 118, 122, 131, 136, 141, 146; see also Islam, ization faith-based NGOs see NGOs faith-based organizations see organizations First National Architecture Style see Ottoman Revivalism FP 8, 71, 112 gated communities 10, 64, 72, 96, 97, 114 gaze 18, 44, 45, 131, 179, 195 gecekondu 61, 62, 63, 64, 65, 72, 75, 76, 78, 80, 83, 84, 87, 90, 94, 95, 96; amnesties 64, 80, 87; post- 61, 65, 67; see also varos¸ gender 4, 47 – 8, 69 – 70, 74, 82, 90, 95, 97, 113, 124, 125, 135; see also women gentrification 77, 85, 86, 87, 93, 94, 96, 117, 118, 127, 142

210  h

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Gezi (Park) 8, 118, 119, 126, 127, 131, 132, 136, 138, 141, 142, 144; aftereffects 10, 141 – 6; encampment 132, 133, 136, 137; protests 8, 10, 109 – 10, 111, 116, 117, 118, 120, 126, 127 – 39, 141, 142, 188, 193, 196, 202, 203, 204; see also Taksim Gökog˘ uz, C. 168 – 9, 196n9, 197n10, 198n19 governance/governmentality 46, 86, 89 – 93, 99, 100, 124 Government Quarter 21, 118, 174, 175; see also Kızılay Square habitus: Islamic 70, 99; middle-class 61, 99; see also sohbet hegemony 2, 3, 10, 21, 99, 108, 109, 118, 120, 124, 131 heritage 30, 52, 85, 117, 129, 141, 170, 184, 192, 196n8, 197n16 Hezbollah 66, 94 – 5, 100n4 high-rise 36, 62, 63, 77, 83, 85, 88 historicism 16, 17, 23, 54n8, 162, 165 history 3, 4, 7, 8, 10, 15, 28, 30, 39, 49, 74, 85, 120, 128, 131, 142, 155, 157, 159, 161, 163, 165, 167, 175, 182, 184, 195 house 46, 63, 67, 70, 75, 79, 83, 87, 89, 95, 137, 174, 183, 187, 197n16; as feminine space 70; “of millet” (see Presidential Compound); Turkish 41, 42 – 5, 183, 184, 185, 195 housing 9, 10, 61 – 100, 117; cluster 83, 84, 88, 89, 98; as investment 87; luxurious 72, 75, 79, 85; mass 64, 67, 84, 93, 141; political economy of 63 – 4, 87, 88, 204; production 63, 67, 71, 75, 88, 93, 99, 204; scales of 88 – 9; social 67, 72, 84, 87; see also gecekondu; TOKI; varos¸ humor 134, 189, 193 identity 14, 15, 16, 23, 31, 45, 49, 52, 61, 65, 85, 94 – 5, 96, 97, 123 – 4, 128, 131, 143, 156, 157, 167, 184, 185, 188, 198n20; in architecture 17, 158; ethnic 52, 65, 86, 123 – 4; gender 124; Islamic 7, 15, 20, 51, 85, 130, 195; national 4, 7, 9, 10, 15, 16, 18 – 19, 21, 155, 162, 165, 167, 168, 194, 195; religious 45, 73, 94 – 5, 97

imitation 20, 29, 31, 33 – 5, 145, 159, 161, 164, 168, 194 Independence Monument (Taksim) 31, 118 – 19, 129, 138 Indonesia 16, 17, 19, 25 interpellation 53, 144 Iran 5, 17, 18, 94, 109, 112, 161 ISIS 1, 202 Islam 1 – 7, 9, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 23, 24, 25, 27, 30, 32, 36, 39, 41, 45, 46, 47, 48, 49, 50, 51, 52, 61, 62, 73, 76, 80, 81, 91, 100, 112, 121, 155, 161, 165, 166, 167, 168, 172, 194, 195, 203; as civilization 17, 30, 38, 39, 41; -ization 5, 7, 10, 26, 46 – 7, 62, 70, 86, 90, 91, 92, 94, 97, 99 – 100, 101n6, 109, 112 – 13, 146, 171, 203, 204; -in-nation 9, 17, 46; nation-in- 9, 45, 46, 194; political 3, 5, 6, 9, 21, 65, 91, 143; Turkish 9, 15, 30, 39, 41, 42, 155, 162, 167, 195, 196n8, 198n20 Islamic 2, 3, 5, 7, 8, 9, 10, 14, 15, 16, 17, 20, 24, 30, 31, 34, 35, 36, 38, 39, 44, 45, 47, 48, 51, 53n1, 54n8, 55n17, 61, 62, 67, 69, 70, 73, 74, 76 – 8, 84, 85, 86, 89, 90, 91, 92, 93, 94, 99, 112, 113, 116, 128, 129, 130, 131, 140, 142, 143, 144, 154, 158, 165, 170, 172, 179, 182, 185, 186, 187, 194, 195, 196n8, 197n17, 198n20, 203; architecture 1, 36, 90; imaginary 129, 187; intellectuals 35, 48, 55n17, 101n7, 114; milieu 67 – 75, 95 – 7, 204; networks 2, 3, 70, 204; revival 16, 18, 23; world 1, 2, 9, 14, 16, 20, 44, 45, 47, 53n1, 91, 172, 194, 195 Islamism/ist: mobilization 61, 65, 66, 70; new 3, 4, 5 – 7, 9, 10, 11n3, 18, 19, 42, 52, 61, 62, 74, 77, 79, 80, 84, 85, 94, 95, 99, 100, 108, 109, 110 – 18, 127, 142, 143, 146, 157, 161, 162, 165, 168, 194, 195, 196n8, 202 – 4; post- 5 – 6, 11n2; Turkish 2, 4, 6, 8, 9, 30, 100n3, 108, 110, 155, 158, 165, 167, 194, 204; utopia 62, 79, 85 Istanbul 7, 8, 17, 22, 25, 31, 32, 36, 41, 43, 48, 52, 61, 64, 65, 67, 72, 73, 74, 75, 79, 80, 86, 96, 98, 100n6, 101n8, 112, 114, 115, 116, 117, 118, 119,

211  h

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120, 127, 128, 129, 130, 138, 139, 142, 147n1, 157, 158, 164, 165, 168 Istanbul Metropolitan Municipality 72, 88, 115, 128 Jordan 17, 93, 100n3 Karacaören 80, 81 – 3, 85, 88 Kazakhstan 7, 18, 165, 166, 167 KI˙PTAS¸ 67, 68, 72, 73, 75, 79, 86, 88, 89 Kızılay Square 118 – 22, 124, 131, 138, 174, 175 Kocatepe Mosque 20 – 4, 25, 26, 27, 29, 30, 31, 33, 37, 54n5, 175, 183 Kuala Lumpur 15, 36, 167 külliye 39, 41, 81, 82, 83, 97 – 8, 189 Kurds 4, 26, 38, 48, 51, 65, 72, 86, 111, 112, 120, 123, 132, 135, 202; Kurdish question 51, 52, 109, 111, 112, 123, 141, 202; political movement 51, 111, 112, 141 landscape 2, 54n9, 68, 89, 184 Lebanon 66, 94 Lefebvre, H. 78, 108, 130, 131, 134, 147n6 lifestyle 10, 69, 73, 74, 109, 112, 119, 174; middle-class 61, 112 local administrations 2, 65 – 6, 76, 99, 110, 164; see also municipalities mahalle 95 – 9, 101n8, 110, 187 Malaysia 15, 16, 17, 19, 167, 180 MHP 31, 32, 141, 144 middle-class 61, 64, 65, 72, 73, 74, 86, 87, 91, 99, 100, 112, 117; lower 67, 73; new 134; urban 63, 66, 87, 88, 109, 112, 113; see also petty-bourgeoisie Middle East 1, 17, 36, 38, 47, 93, 100n3, 109, 114, 143, 147n5, 162 migration 72, 112, 119, 123 millet 3, 15, 29 – 31, 39, 42, 44 – 5, 46, 48, 51, 53, 61, 86, 95, 99, 110, 142 – 6, 154 – 5, 159, 161, 167, 173, 178, 181, 183, 187, 194 – 5 Millet Mosque 55n16, 178, 184, 194 Mimar Sinan Mosque 31, 36 – 9 mimicry 9, 14 – 15, 19 – 20, 22 – 4, 25, 27 – 8, 31, 32, 36, 39, 42, 45, 46, 54n8, 144 minaret 11n4, 16, 17, 20, 21, 22, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 41, 50, 51, 52, 53, 54n5, 54n9, 78, 79, 183; without mosques 76 – 8, 80 – 1

modern 1, 21, 28, 30, 32, 33, 34, 46, 49, 53n4, 54n10, 62, 78, 84, 90, 91, 92, 109, 118 – 19, 157, 159, 161, 164, 167, 170, 174, 181, 195, 196n5, 203; -ism/ist 15 – 17, 21, 22, 24, 27, 28, 31, 33, 44, 53n4, 54n5, 76, 77, 79, 112, 129, 155, 164, 165, 166, 171, 174, 176, 195, 196n5, 197n11; -ity 2, 7, 61, 99; -ization 7, 21, 84, 85, 118, 156, 157, 165, 173, 175 monumentality 16, 21, 23, 25, 32, 33, 43, 155, 159 – 61, 166 – 8, 172, 175, 180, 183 – 4 mortgage 75, 86, 87, 89, 99 mosque 9, 11n4, 14 – 55, 68, 76 – 8, 80, 81, 82, 89, 93, 96 – 9, 127, 128, 130, 131, 162, 166, 175, 177, 178 – 81, 183 – 5, 189, 194, 197n11, 197n17, 198n20; -cemevi complex 49 – 50 municipalities 3, 7, 49, 51, 62, 63 – 4, 65 – 7, 69, 70, 72 – 3, 75 – 6, 79 – 82, 85 – 93, 97 – 8, 100n6, 110, 112, 114 – 17, 121, 127 – 9, 140, 141, 144, 162 – 5, 166 – 7, 171, 176 – 7, 188, 194, 204 Muslim 1 – 3, 5, 6, 9, 16, 18, 39, 63, 65, 67, 69, 70, 73 – 4, 91 – 2, 96, 109, 118, 132, 133, 135, 140, 167 Muslim Brotherhood (Ikhwan-ul Muslimin) 6, 69, 46, 143 nation 3, 4, 6, 9, 10, 14 – 19, 21, 23, 26, 30, 36, 38 – 9, 41, 45, 46, 51, 53, 55n16, 79, 86, 99, 123, 143, 144, 154 – 5, 157, 158 – 9, 165, 168, 173, 175, 181, 183, 186, 189, 190, 195; -state 6, 7, 14, 15, 18, 20, 46, 55n16, 118, 155, 157, 166 – 7; see also identity; millet nationalism/ist 2, 3, 15, 16, 19, 21, 26, 38, 43, 51 – 2, 54n13, 61, 65, 99, 111 – 12, 123, 132, 135, 141, 143, 144, 154 – 5, 157, 162, 182 – 3, 192, 194, 196n3, 204 nationalist-conservative 7, 14, 21 – 4, 26, 32, 36, 45, 53n4, 54n5 nation-building 3, 4, 6, 7, 8, 10, 11n1, 14, 15 – 19, 20 – 1, 26, 52, 61, 84, 85, 86, 112, 118, 142, 154 – 5, 157, 165 – 8, 185, 194, 203 neighborhood 47, 49, 61 – 2, 64 – 7, 69 – 70, 72, 74, 76 – 8, 86, 87, 88, 92, 94 – 7,

212  h

Index  j

110, 117, 139, 141, 174, 176, 187; see also mahalle neoclassical 10, 165, 172, 183, 195; see also Ottoman-Seljuk style neoliberal 2, 3, 7, 18, 26, 61, 62, 65, 66, 86, 87, 91, 92, 93, 94, 99, 113 – 18, 123, 127, 133, 134, 141, 146, 147n5; civility 61, 86, 99 neo-Ottoman 15, 18 – 19, 22 – 4, 25, 27, 30 – 1, 36, 39, 41, 46, 48, 52, 54n9, 55n16, 98, 131 NGOs 90, 91, 96, 97, 100n5, 117, 128, 190; faith-based 69, 98 North Ankara (City Entrance project) 62, 79 – 85, 86, 88, 89, 90, 92, 95, 97 – 8 nostalgia 23, 36, 38, 45, 74 occupation: of land 63, 87; political 120, 124, 127, 131 – 40, 142, 144, 147n6, 188, 193, 196; see also squatters octagram 167, 170, 186 opposition: Islamic 2, 6 – 7, 18, 21, 36, 120, 165; to new Islamism 10, 31, 49, 66, 87, 97, 100n4, 108 – 18, 135, 141 – 2, 143, 146, 155, 170, 174, 176, 177, 187 – 9, 193, 195, 202 – 4 organizations 24, 39 – 41, 46, 49, 80, 88, 96, 100n2, 100n6, 113, 117, 125, 128, 133, 163 – 5, 176; faith-based 8, 66, 70, 74, 86, 90 – 2, 99, 203 – 4 Orientalism 1, 30, 44, 53n2, 128, 131, 185; re- 17 – 18, 44 – 5, 53n2; self- 45, 53n2, 131 Ottoman Empire 3, 7, 14, 19, 21, 24, 29, 30, 32–3, 38, 39, 44 – 5, 48, 63, 74, 85, 92, 95 – 8, 144, 157 – 8, 161 – 2, 163, 164, 189; see also architecture Ottoman Revivalism 10, 155, 157 – 8, 159, 161, 168, 172, 174, 184, 185, 194, 195, 196n2 Ottoman-Seljuk style 10, 154 – 65, 168, 170–1, 174, 181 – 4, 194 – 6 ownership 85, 87 – 8, 99 – 100 Parliament Mosque 54n5 patronage 14, 21, 50, 87, 100n3, 196n8 petty-bourgeoisie 61, 65, 66, 68, 95; see also middle-class piety 2, 90 – 3 politicization 15, 47, 89, 131, 135, 137; banal 127, 130 postcolonial 1, 2, 9, 14, 15, 16, 24, 167

postmodernism 17, 32, 162, 168, 184 – 5, 195 Presidential Compound 10, 154, 155, 173 – 94, 195, 197n10, 197n12, 197n17 Presidential Mansion see Çankaya Mansion Prost, H. 119, 127, 129 public 5, 55n20, 62, 70, 74, 75, 77, 81, 93, 98, 110, 113, 114, 128, 130, 135, 141, 154 – 61, 163, 164, 170, 173, 177, 178, 179, 180, 181, 184, 186, 188; land 63, 64, 75, 87, 115; life 70, 74, 86, 90, 101n6; space 9, 10, 25, 38, 44, 47 – 8, 51, 53, 73, 74, 85, 89, 90, 92, 94, 95, 99, 108, 109, 116, 117, 118 – 47, 173, 178 – 81, 193, 195 – 6; sphere 9, 14, 136, 188, 189, 194, 203; see also architecture Putrajaya 17, 180, 181, 185 real estate 87, 93, 95, 115 replica 16, 20, 22 – 5, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 42, 45, 93, 163, 165, 184 representation 1, 10, 14 – 19, 21, 23, 30, 31, 36, 42 – 5, 46, 52, 55n16, 65, 77, 78, 81, 96, 97, 118, 131, 142, 144, 154 – 5, 157, 161, 164, 167, 172, 173 – 8, 181, 185, 187 – 96 rights 5, 48, 52, 54n12, 80, 93, 100n2, 113, 135, 140, 171; to the city 89, 134 – 5 RP 7, 8, 61, 66, 67, 70, 71, 72, 73, 89, 92, 112 Salafism 6, 16, 19 Saudi Arabia 16, 18, 19, 25, 46 schools 68, 81, 82, 91, 154, 155 – 61, 162; imam-hatip 113, 156, 204 Second National Architecture Style 183 secular 2, 3, 5, 7, 11n1, 16, 21, 27, 30, 39, 46, 51, 52, 54n5, 55n18, 61, 73, 84, 85, 94, 111, 143, 176, 185, 203; -ism/ist 3, 5, 8, 20, 21, 31, 46, 65, 71, 72, 73, 109, 116, 128, 135, 143, 155, 156, 158, 163, 164, 170, 173, 188, 189; -ist opposition 31, 97, 109, 112 – 13, 141 Seljuk 28, 157, 161 – 2, 163, 164, 170, 196n8; see also architecture S¸enalp, H. 30 – 1, 36 – 7, 39 – 45, 55n22 Shiite 18, 38, 94 simulacrum 15, 36, 45

213  h

Index  j

Sinan 31, 38, 41, 54n13 slum 63, 64, 79, 85, 100n1; clearance 75, 79, 81, 117 social space 9, 46 – 8, 93, 95 – 9 sohbet 69 – 70, 74, 90 Soviet 26, 155, 166, 167, 171; post- 7, 10, 18, 19, 155, 165 – 8, 194 spatial practice 70, 77, 90, 130, 140, 185 – 7 squatters 10, 61 – 7, 72, 74, 75 – 7, 79 – 90, 92, 95, 99, 100n1, 101n7, 117; areas 64, 66, 74, 75, 77, 79, 87, 117, 177; inner city 142; post- 61, 66, 67 – 8, 74, 83, 85 – 7, 90, 95, 99 – 100 subjectivity 61, 70, 86, 91, 132 suburb 61, 67, 73, 94, 100n4; -anization 64 Sulukule 86, 96, 101n8 Sunni 1, 18, 38, 48 – 50, 95 Tahrir Square 122, 124, 135, 140, 147n8, 188 Taksim Solidarity Platform 128, 138 Taksim Square 31 – 2, 118 – 20, 127 – 36, 138 – 40, 144 – 5 tear gas 137 – 8, 139 TEKEL: encampment 120, 123 – 6, 135, 136 – 7; Resistance 10, 110, 116, 120, 122, 147n3, 147n5 tenant 67, 80, 83, 85, 87 title-holders compound (North Ankara) 80, 83 – 5, 88 – 9 TOBAS¸ 79, 86, 88, 89 TOKI 10, 62, 64, 67, 75, 79, 80, 83, 85, 86, 87, 88, 89, 93 – 5, 97 – 9, 114, 116 – 17, 173, 177, 197n12; reorganization of 75 – 6 toponymy 92, 166 tourism 50, 87, 115, 118, 127, 130 – 1, 147n2, 165, 196n6 tradition 1, 3, 5, 11n3, 15 – 17, 19, 20, 21, 25, 27, 28, 30, 31, 32 – 5, 38, 41, 43,

44, 51, 54n5, 62, 74, 77, 82, 96 – 9, 159, 163, 183 – 4, 186, 192 transnational 1, 6, 14, 15, 16 – 19, 36, 54n8, 93, 114, 123, 155, 162, 167, 171, 194 – 5 Turkishness 3, 7, 39, 45, 51, 157, 167 – 8, 172, 183 Turkmenistan 7, 18, 165, 166, 167, 180, 185, 196n7 ulus 3, 159 urban: “complete –ization” 108, 142, 146; -ization 4, 49, 63, 75, 85, 87, 97, 108 – 12, 115 – 16, 135, 141 – 2, 146; mega projects 93 – 4, 114 – 15, 142, 204; middle class 63, 66, 87, 88, 109, 112, 113; politics 2, 9 – 10, 64, 66, 67, 94, 96, 108 – 9, 110, 112, 115 – 17, 135, 142, 203; poor 62, 64 – 6, 74, 100n3, 112; poverty 64 – 5; regeneration 66, 75 – 9, 85, 87 – 8, 93, 115, 118, 141, 177; renewal 8, 9, 10, 55n20, 61 – 2, 74, 76 – 8, 83, 85, 86, 87, 90, 93 – 100, 116 – 17, 127, 135, 168, 204; revolution 10, 108 – 9, 111, 142, 146, 204; revolution of the 10, 109, 141 – 2, 146 utopia 62, 79, 85, 135 varos¸ 64 – 7, 83, 95, 97, 100 welfare 2 – 3, 47, 66, 99, 112, 113 Western 1, 7, 18, 19, 20, 111, 129, 143, 155, 167 – 8, 172, 174, 182 – 6, 195 women 46 – 8, 55n17, 69 – 70, 73, 82, 84, 90, 92, 100, 113, 119, 124, 128, 144; see also gender working class 63 – 7, 77, 84, 116; unions 3, 63, 67, 113, 115 – 16, 123 – 4; see also TEKEL Yenis¸ehir 21, 80, 118, 174 – 5

214  h