By Nazlan Ertan
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. It is also one of Turkish's great democratic names: male, female, modern, secular, portable. More than 158,000 people in Turkey bear the name, making it the country's 25th most common.
It travels well, too. International couples like names that survive passport control. Deniz does. It looks familiar to English and French speakers because of Dennis, Denis and Denise; Russian has Denis, too. But they are false cousins. Dennis descends from Dionysius, the Greek god of wine and ecstasy. Turkish Deniz is simply the sea. No grapes required.
DENIZ EVERYWHERE
In Turkey, however, Deniz is never simply the sea. The name carries the shadow of the gallows ever since Deniz Gezmiş, the student leader and revolutionary, was hanged on May 6, 1972, alongside Yusuf Aslan and Hüseyin İnan. He was 25. In the decades that followed, many left-wing parents named their children Deniz, not because they had enjoyed a pleasant holiday in Fethiye, but because they wanted a private monument in the birth registry, a quiet declaration of their belief in freedom.
There are gentler Denizes, of course. Deniz Gökçer became one of the grande dames of Turkish theatre. Özcan Deniz made it sing, sigh and brood on television. Deniz Türkali carried it through literature, music and the Turkish left. Deniz Baykal turned the name into a fixture of parliamentary politics, where it acquired a reputation for surviving every shipwreck and, some would argue, causing a few of its own. The name has never lacked range. It can enter a theatre, a parliament, a pop ballad or a protest march without changing shoes.
DEAD SEA, LIVE HUMOR
The latest Deniz to wash up in national controversy is Deniz Göktaş, a stand-up comedian with the rare gift of sounding both furious and amused by his own country. His routines wander cheerfully through politics, religion, everyday absurdities and power mongers.
His latest show is called Ölü Deniz—'Dead Sea'—already a joke with one foot in the morgue. The promotional image is darker still: Göktaş smiling while holding his own severed head. Gallows humor has seldom been so literal and, as you note while you remain glued to the screen for more than an hour, so clever. Some nine million viewers would agree with you. Some of the best conversations I have had this week consisted of little more than people exchanging favorite lines from the show.
Mine is about Göktaş's appearance on Fatih Altaylı's program. Afterwards viewers flooded social media to describe him as 'such a nice young man,' 'so naïve,' 'a real gentleman.'
'That,' he deadpans, 'is not exactly the reputation a stand-up comedian hopes for.'
Then comes the punchline. People were not comparing him with other comedians. They were comparing him with Altaylı's usual guests. 'The bar was extremely low,' he concludes, mentioning a celebrated academic who had recently described Anna Karenina as 'a slut.'
That is what makes Göktaş so refreshing. Nothing is off limits. Fatih Altaylı, somewhat untouchable after his jail term, becomes a man who hosts a daily program largely to remind viewers that he had predicted whatever happened. Karadeniz Technical University, the pride of the Black Sea region, is where people end up after getting half the math questions wrong in the university entrance exam. And the president? Göktaş says he has never had a good word to say about him—except that, having studied psychology, he would have loved to have him as a patient.
No wonder the show's release led to the familiar Turkish trilogy: outrage, investigation, access ban. Clips from the performance were blocked on X in Turkey, and prosecutors opened an investigation over jokes alleged to insult religious values.
The reactions were equally predictable. Admirers hailed him as the funniest comedian Turkey has produced in years. Critics accused him of trampling on sacred ground - the religion and the president. Politicians discovered, once again, that a joke becomes considerably more dangerous once people start laughing. In that sense, the comedian can create more waves than an opposition politician - but the fate might be the same: behind bars.
POETIC LICENCE
Our new feature replying to those who say there is no rhyme or reason in Turkish politics.
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.
NATO summit looming, security tight as a drum,
Accreditations rationed, then made to come,
Alliance members set to speak of defense and dread,
Of Russia, of hybrid threats, of money to be spent.
Israel struck Lebanon, struck Syria as well,
Then raised 1915 G-word, a story to sell,
Ankara called it cover for crimes still unspoken,
A genocide claim as a smokescreen, not a token.
Putin floated Minsk for the peace deal, the old stage,
Zelenskyy said Switzerland, or Turkey, turn the page,
CHP, meanwhile, is in its endless internal war,
Özel vs. Kılıçdaroğlu, who's leading anymore?
Finally, for actor Kadir İnanır, the curtain is down,
The '70s tough guy, remembered for his kiss, slap, and frown.
