Nazlan Ertan

In Turkish, zehirlenme or poisoning is one of those words that lands with a sting. Its genealogy stretches back through Ottoman Turkish to Persian zahr (poison), but the word has given birth to colorful idioms: zehir saçmak (to scatter venom), zehir zemberek sözler (barbed words that blister on impact), ağzı zehir gibi (a tongue sharp enough to wound).

In Turkish, the word hakem conjures, for the average football fan, the image of a man with a whistle — revered when he blows it in your favor, reviled when he doesn’t. Yet the word has a far deeper pedigree. Hakem comes from the Arabic ḥakam, meaning “one who judges,” sharing roots with hakim (judge or ruler) and hikmet (wisdom). The referee is, linguistically at least, meant to be a wise arbiter among impassioned players and fans — no small task given the layers of expectation and resentment attached to every call.

In Turkey, çubuklu pijama, or striped pajamas, means much more than bedtime. It’s the uniform of the “baba”: the modest patriarch who comes home, trades his jacket for cotton stripes, and settles in front of the evening news. A garment of thrift and decency, it once stood for the steady comfort of the lower middle class.

In Turkish, casus is the spy who slips through keyholes and whispers down telephone lines. In Ottoman Turkish, the word appears as câsûs, borrowed from Arabic, and, under Sultan Abdülhamid II’s watchful reign, it had a cousin, hafiyye, the “secret investigator” who made surveillance an imperial art.

So our word of the week is soygun, robbery - as in art heist. On a quiet Sunday morning in Paris, the world’s most visited museum turned into a crime scene. In under eight minutes, thieves hit the Louvre’s Galerie d’Apollon (the home of France’s Crown Jewels) and fled with royal pieces tied to Empresses Marie-Louise and Eugénie, and Queens Marie-Amélie and Hortense. Investigators say the crew used a lift to breach an upper window. Ministers Rachida Dati and Laurent Nuñez confirmed that the alarm tripped and police arrived within minutes. The symbolism stings more than the price tag. (Think eight figures.)

The word of the week is kedi, or cat, the agile, intuitive feline who is supposed to have nine lives. The Turkish word kedi ultimately goes back to Late Latin cattus (“cat”), with an intermediate form in Byzantine Greek gati (γ α τί, “kitten”) from which it passed into Ottoman Turkish as kedi. So why is it the word of the week? Because of the Istanbul Biennial, the must-see flagship event of the Istanbul Foundation for Culture and Arts (IKSV) that continues until the end of November.

Here at the tail end of the tourist season, the word of the week writes itself: konukseverlik, hospitality, or, in its Ottoman-tinted oldspeak, misafirperverlik. Every guidebook swears Turks are preternaturally welcoming; the national branding machine isn’t shy about it either. Yet while “hospitality” is the country’s trusty calling card, the numbers are more than brochure copy. Turkey received 23.6 million foreign visitors in the first half of 2025, marking an increase of 15.9% year-on-year, as tourism revenues hit a record $24.6 billion. By July, official arrivals had topped 31.2 million, the second-highest January–July tally on record.

In Turkish, teşhirci (exhibitionist) is a word with two lives. In everyday use, it is an insult, hurled at women whose clothes are judged too revealing or at men who flaunt their cars and watches. In the Criminal Code, however, teşhircilik has a very precise meaning: exhibitionism. Article 225 punishes those who “publicly exhibit their sexual organs” with up to six months in prison. A word meant to describe a trench-coat flasher in a public park has, over time, swollen into a moral cudgel: used less to prosecute streakers and more to police women’s bodies.

Altın varak, the Turkish expression for gold leaf, is what happens when human vanity finds its most delicate expression. The Ottomans used it with flair: laid onto Qur’an illuminations, painted into miniatures, burnished across mosque panels and palace ceilings. It was a craft in which theology, politics, and decoration were rolled into one, performed with fine brushes.

In Turkish, the term for ambassador has undergone a transformation as sweeping as the empire it once served. The old-fashioned word was “Sefir,” from the Arabic s‑f‑r root meaning “to bear a message,” and the highest rank was Sefir‑i Kebir—the Grand Envoy—complete with embroidered robes and horse-led fanfare. Today, the bureaucratic “Büyükelçi” literally means “great envoy,” yet, put in plain Turkish, it feels a little less illustrious.