Nazlan Ertan

The word of the week is şatafat, and Ankara supplied the visual aid. At the NATO summit, Turkey received its guests with the full vocabulary of Erdoğan-era grandeur: mehter music, ceremonial guards, a turquoise carpet that seemed designed less for walking than for being recorded, and the Erdoğan couple standing before the vast Presidential Complex, its doors polished to a shine usually reserved for furniture showrooms. There was also the choreography.

Four stars descended from the EU in full dress, Kallas, Kos, Brunner, Dombrovskis, no less, Suitcases of talking points, Customs Union too, Connectivity, the new buzz-word, gathering diplomatic dew.

For a country surrounded by seas, Turkey has made remarkably turbulent use of the name Deniz. It means “sea,” of course. Calm, blue, generous, occasionally treacherous.

The word of the week is operasyon, which is hardly surprising. Ahead of the NATO summit, Turkish authorities announced an operation resulting in hundreds of detentions.

Sigara (and its unruly cousin, cigara) comes to Turkish via Italian — a linguistic clue that matches the prevailing historical account: tobacco reached the Ottoman Empire in the 17th century through Genoese trade routes, though some credit goes to the British. Origins aside, the word now points to a habit so entrenched it once traveled abroad as cliché: “smoke like a Turk.”

Bakım, or care, is one of those deceptively soft words, the sugar coating over a complex vitamin pill, a soft towel draped over the hard machinery of an economy. It suggests tenderness and love. What it rarely suggests is exhaustion, lost income, or the quiet arithmetic of inequality.

Few Turkish words arrive with less subtlety than füze. Borrowed from the French fusée, it sounds clipped, metallic and modern. It is a word that pierces a sentence rather than softly enters it, except when used in slang. In the mid-20th century, füze was slang for breasts that projected upward; the opposite of pide, or flat, breasts. It is a small linguistic reminder of how the male gaze has long blended the language of warfare with that of desire.

In Turkish, emekli / retired is supposed to be a word of closure. It comes from emek: labor, effort, the long arc of work, and implies that something has been duly completed. You have labored; therefore, you may withdraw.

In Turkish, rüzgâr begins as a simple meteorological fact: the wind that sweeps across the Bosphorus, bends Aegean olive trees and makes wildfires spread uncontrollably. Etymologically, it probably blows in from Persian, once meaning “time, fate, weather,” before narrowing into “wind.” But its real life is in metaphor: the wind that shifts fortune, tests patience, topples governments. In a language where song lyricists routinely confide in the breeze, it was only a matter of time before politicians started doing the same.

In Turkish culture, mercimek turns up everywhere: in the copper pot of the humblest esnaf lokantası cafe and the gleaming bowl of a New-Nordic fusion spot; in the taxi driver’s midnight soup as a welcome alternative to pungent tripe soup, and the dietician’s protein plan. If quinoa is aspirational and bulgur nostalgic, mercimek is foundational: a pulse that has nourished this land since it was the Fertile Crescent.