Nazlan Ertan

In the great Turkish game of semantics, few words do more political heavy lifting than süreç. Literally “process,” süreç is the bureaucrat’s fig leaf, the politician’s magic wand, and the journalist’s catch-all term when no one knows quite what to call a thing. It conjures movement without a very clear or declared direction, change without rupture, action without accountability. You don’t fail a süreç—you just manage it, drag it, or rebrand it.

The word of the week is Grok — not a Turkish word by birth, but one that, thanks to recent events, has become a household name from Izmir to Iğdır.

Now that the summer season is on, Turkey loves to market itself with the usual package: sun, sea, sand and the occasional sex. But for over a decade now, the country’s most reliable tourism magnet has been a silent fifth S: saç/hair. Or more precisely, saç ektirme/hair transplant.

In Turkey, tatil (holiday) is a prism through which one can observe culture, class, and politics. It conjures images of mosque courtyards and family dinners or bustling resort towns thrumming with booked-out hotels and overpriced beaches.

In Turkey, a köprü (bridge) is never just a bridge. This week, the Bosphorus Bridge—officially renamed the “15 July Martyrs Bridge” after the 2016 coup attempt—became a stage for protest. A group of CHP deputies climbed onto the structure and unfurled a massive banner reading: “Free İmamoğlu” right before the CHP leader and his guests from the Socialist International would cross it. The message was direct: release Istanbul’s elected mayor, jailed on charges widely condemned as political. Only a few hours before that, the members of the Socialist International had raised a similar banner in their meeting.

In Turkey’s grand narrative, Izmir is the perennial contrarian. While Ankara governs and Istanbul dazzles, Izmir lounges by the Aegean, sipping its coffee with a secular smirk. Affectionately dubbed “Güzel İzmir” (Beautiful Izmir) by admirers and “Gavur İzmir” (Infidel Izmir) by detractors, the city has long been a cultural outlier—a place where minarets share the skyline with bell towers, and where the sea breeze carries whispers of both rebellion and repose.

Say it with the right nasal twang — Lozann — and you’ll have unlocked the secret handshake of the Turkish political subconscious. Treaty of 1923. Not a historical detail but a question of national identity, psychological posture, and dinner-party risk assessment.

In Turkish, the word yumruk means “fist” and yumruk atmak is to “punch.” But like many Turkish words with physical origins, it punches well above its weight in metaphor.

In Turkish, çocuk simply means “child” — a small, willful person who believes the world should bend to their will. But in political life, çocuk is more than a noun: it is a litmus test. Unlike evlat, the solemn, Arabic-rooted term for “offspring,” çocuk suggests an individual, complete in themselves, not just a branch on a family tree. No surprise, then, that the AKP prefers evlat — a word that keeps people firmly tethered to family, lineage, and duty.

In Turkish, “turp gibi” means “healthy as a horse'—literally, as fit as a turp/turnip. But this week, the humble vegetable shed its healthful connotations and marched into politics with muddy boots. At a raucous rally in Yozgat—where over a thousand farmers formed a tractor convoy in defiance of mounting government pressure—a farmer stood before the crowd and bellowed: “The country cannot be ruled with turnips and radishes. It is governed by justice and law” or rather, with the local accent, “A country cannae be ruled wi’ neeps an’ deeshes.”