As Turkey steps up its belated demonization of the Gezi protests and Kavala/Soros in particular, I’m reminded of why so many friends and I joined those few days of seemingly endless possibility.
It certainly wasn’t because anyone organized us.
It certainly wasn’t because anyone organized us.
I had a few friends who were in Gezi Park from 28 May onwards but I, like the majority of others, only joined on 31 May. As that fateful day progressed, social media was filled with increasingly disturbing images of police brutality. It was an affront to common decency.
I remember my blood boiling at the unfairness of what was happening. Without really coordinating, half of the office waited for the day to end and then literally walked to Taksim. That was my first experience of being gassed. It was deeply scary. Within a week, I’d be immune.
But after that, it became about more than just the violence or the park. Gezi was a phenomenal outpouring of emotion and sound and thought and anger by people who felt like they had been forgotten. It was the first time that many had felt part of something.
To demonize Gezi now is pure electoral politics but it is also about ensuring that people don’t return to the streets (more likely as the economy tanks). Trying to blame that outpouring of sudden emotion on individuals strikes me as another moment of deep unfairness.
In short, none of us went to Gezi because someone told us to. No-one bussed or paid us. In fact we waded through endless clouds of gas and lines of policemen itching for a fight. We didn’t have leaders because we had something more important: a desire for something better.
