By Nazlan Ertan
The word of the week is—surprise, surprise—“boycott.” This word has its roots in Ireland but was readily adopted by the Ottoman Empire as “boykotaj” in the early 20th century.
It all began with a stubborn man and a group of angry farmers. Charles Boycott, the eponymous land agent in 19th-century Ireland, refused to lower rents. In return, local tenants refused to acknowledge his existence—no violence, no slogans—just pure, icy silence. Labourers wouldn’t work his land, shopkeepers wouldn’t serve him, even the postman changed routes in what was the forefather of today’s cancel culture. Boycott became so isolated that his name turned into a verb.
Fast forward to the 21st century, and “boykot” has taken on a uniquely Turkish flavour - thanks to the CHP, whose chair Özgür Özel recently issued a sprawling list of companies and media outlets to boycott for ignoring protests over Istanbul Mayor Ekrem İmamoğlu’s detention. “Ya bizi göreceksin ya dibi” was his rallying cry. Translated loosely: see us or hit rock bottom.
Among the blacklisted are TRT, CNN Türk, D&R, Espressolab, İdefix, Star TV, and even the state-run lottery, which has long lost its glamor because Turks believe that it is rigged - just like university exams, civil servant interviews and justice.
But here’s the twist: boycotts have traditionally been the domain of the AKP and its allies. In 2009, then-Minister of Industry Nihat Ergün called for a boycott of Chinese goods over the treatment of Uyghur Turks in Xinjiang. Though his own ministry quickly backpedaled— “his personal opinion”—the incident marked a turning point. After that came repeated calls to boycott Israeli goods, French brands, American fast food, and even German cars, usually in response to perceived insults or geopolitical slights.
BOYCOTTING AUSTRIA
Yet long before hashtags, the Ottoman Empire ran its own boycott—one of the earliest examples of consumer activism in the region, according to sociologists Biray Kolluoğlu, Zafer Yenal and Evren Dinçer. In 1908, in response to Austria-Hungary’s annexation of Bosnia-Herzegovina, citizens across the empire launched a sweeping boycott of Austrian goods. The campaign, documented in detail by historian Y. Doğan Çetinkaya, wasn’t just economic—it was political theatre, grassroots organizing, and national awakening rolled into one. Port workers refused to unload Austrian ships, merchants pulled items from their shelves, and newspapers published boycott lists. Organizations like the Boykotaj Cemiyeti (Boycott Association) emerged. The boycott stretched from Istanbul to Beirut, from Trabzon to Izmir, and marked a turning point in Ottoman civic engagement.
PROTESTS AGAINST COUNTRIES
Some 90 years later, Turks imposed a consumer boycott against Italian goods for allowing PKK leader Abdullah Öcalan to take refuge in Rome. Similar “consumer boycotts” were imposed on French goods (Carrefour, Renault and cosmetics) after the French National Assembly passed laws recognizing the Armenian Genocide; against American goods following the 2016 coup attempt, when Fethullah Gülen—living in Pennsylvania—was blamed and in 2018 U.S. sanctions over Pastor Andrew Brunson, which triggered a currency crisis. In the latter, viral videos showed Erdoğan supporters (pretending to) smash iPhones and pour Coca-Cola down drains. McDonald’s and Starbucks were labelled as symbols of “American imperialism.”
The boycotts against Israeli goods kept occurring and recurring - for the 2008–2009 Gaza War and for the 2010 Mavi Marmara raid. There have been widespread and frequent calls to boycott Israeli products, such as agricultural goods and cosmetics (notably, Ahava). Some municipalities removed Coca-Cola from events due to rumors of alleged Israeli connections, despite Coke being American. Some consumers went as far as boycotting Kipa - a Turkish supermarket chain owned by Britain’s Tesco - claiming that with such a name, it was clearly Jewish.
Now that the opposition is using this tool, the government officials - from Erdoğan down - are ready to eat their past words that boycotting is a “natural right.” Suddenly, this old method has become illegal, immoral and treacherous. Trade Minister Omer Bolat, who condemned the boycotters, even went shopping in one of the forbidden market chains. The result is a bunch of photos that prove to the experienced female eye that here is a guy who hardly ever set foot in a grocer.
Still, boycotts in Turkey today often resemble summer flings—passionate, noisy, and largely forgotten come September. Remember when people smashed iPhones on camera in protest of U.S. sanctions, only to replace them quietly the next week?
Part of the problem is that boycotts are hard to maintain in a country where economic survival often trumps ideological purity. The Erdoğan government’s own love-hate relationship with Western brands is a case in point: while rallies fume against Nestlé and Nike, the Turkish presidency has been known to host state dinners with Coca-Cola on the table.
Still, symbolic or not, boycotts persist because they scratch a powerful political itch. They're a way to speak when institutions go silent. When parliaments stall, courts wobble, or media look the other way, the consumer steps in.
But does it work?
Social scientists say: maybe. Boycotts are most effective when they’re sustained, coordinated, and supported by a clear agenda. The 1908 Ottoman boycott worked because it was collective, disciplined, and organized across cities. The Gandhi-led Salt March in 1930 succeeded not because of the salt, but because of the strategy.
In contrast, today’s call-outs often evaporate into hashtags. As one Turkish columnist quipped, “The only thing shorter than a Turkish boycott is a Turkish memory.”
That’s not to say the CHP’s campaign is doomed. It reflects a deeper frustration with media capture, and its resonance lies less in economic pain and more in collective symbolism. It's not just “don’t buy coffee”—it’s “don’t let them sip your silence.”
