By Nazlan Ertan
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.
Despite the city’s reputation as a bastion of secularism, it intriguingly birthed two of Turkey’s most enigmatic religious figures. In the 17th century, Shabbatai Zevi declared himself the Jewish Messiah in the heart of Izmir’s Agora, captivating thousands before a forced conversion to Islam led to the formation of the Dönme- those who pretended to “turn to” Islam but practiced Judaism privately. Centuries later, in the 1960s, Fethullah Gülen began his preaching career in Izmir, eventually leading the global Hizmet movement. Once an ally to President Erdoğan, Gülen became a fugitive after the 2016 coup attempt and died in exile in 2024.
AMAZONS AND FICKLENESS
But Izmir’s identity isn’t solely defined by religious dissenters. Legend has it that the city was founded by the Amazons, and nearby Ephesus was home to the Temple of Artemis, one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. Fast forward to the 20th century, and Izmir produced Latife Hanım, the educated and headstrong wife of Mustafa Kemal Atatürk. After their marriage in 1923, Latife moved from cosmopolitan Izmir to the nascent capital of Ankara—a transition she reportedly found disheartening, trading the Aegean’s sophistication for Anatolia’s austerity.
Locals often jest that Izmir is known for the unreliability of its weather and its women - the latter of which I, of course, strongly deny. While meteorological forecasts may falter, the city’s political climate remains steadfast. Since 1989, Izmir has consistently elected mayors from the CHP, making it the party’s most reliable stronghold. In 2019, Tunç Soyer secured the mayoralty with over 58% of the vote, and in 2024, the transition to Cemil Tugay didn’t so much as ripple the surface of CHP’s dominance.
This loyalty was on full display on May 19 when CHP Chair Özgür Özel visited the city. A jubilant sea of red and white gathered along the seaside promenade of the Kordon, waving flags and smartphones. Party officials claim two million people showed up—an optimistic figure, to put it mildly—but even conservative estimates describe one of the largest opposition rallies in recent memory.
Yet Izmir’s devotion is not without friction. Voters increasingly gripe that the CHP takes the city for granted, parachuting in non-residents to top electoral lists. The result: Izmir deputies who neither know nor particularly care to know the city they represent. One particularly sore spot is Selen Sayek Böke, who served as Izmir deputy from 2015 to 2023 but is often criticized by local party figures for being unfamiliar with Izmir’s customs, political texture or even streets to the extent that she would not be able to go from Konak to Alsancak without a GPS. (The Ankara equivalent would be between Tunali and GOP.)
In contrast, Deniz Yücel, recently elected and widely popular, is hailed as a son of the city in every sense—educated in Izmir, a local lawyer, and a former provincial chair of the CHP who knows the alleys of Kemeraltı as well as the corridors of Parliament.
And yet, being Izmirli is not just about birthplace or political proximity—it’s about belonging.
As economist and pollster Can Selçuki, one of the finest minds from Izmir, notes, a sweeping survey by the Izmir Development Agency revealed that 81% of residents identify as Izmirli, with three-quarters of them basing that identity not on birth but on experience. “Izmir is not just a place on the map,” Selçuki wrote. “It’s a culture of coexistence, a shared sense of belonging, and a set of expectations about the future.”
Those expectations, however, come with caveats. Infrastructure, transport, zoning, and environmental issues top the list of resident concerns. And while 92% of respondents say they are happy in Izmir, the number dips notably among young people, hinting at a strategic fault line. “The feeling of belonging among 18- to 24-year-olds is significantly lower,” warns Selçuki. “For anyone shaping the city’s future, this is not a footnote—it’s the plot.”
In essence, Izmir is a city of paradoxes—where ancient myths coexist with modern politics, where people complain but stay, and where even cynicism wears a smile. It's a place that defies easy categorization, much like the weather forecasts its residents take with a grain of sea salt—and where even party loyalty comes with a sharply worded suggestion box.
