Analysis
Smart, independent reporting on Turkey's politics, economy and foreign affairs.
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.
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.
The Kurdish political movement is a powerful women's movement as well. Within the movement, the female force is often described as “women’s revolution.” That’s why the “two Ks” in the title stand for Kurdish and Kadın (Woman). Pervin Buldan is one of the most prominent figures representing this female presence within the Kurdish political movement.
A woman working at the Turkish Parliament has been killed by her husband while awaiting a divorce.
The Eastern Mediterranean has always been shaped by the interplay of northern and southern powers. From the time of the Hittites and Ancient Egyptians to the Ottomans and Mamluks, and through to the present day, control or influence over this region—from Mesopotamia to North Africa—has often rested with one or the other. When Turkey and Egypt were aligned, a degree of order and stability was possible. When they clashed, chaos ensued. History shows us that these two centers of power matter—and they still do today.
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.
In Turkey, the word “yangın” (fire) has been a literal and metaphorical agent of change, leaving lasting marks on cities, culture, and society. Fires frequently serve as dramatic turning points in Turkish popular culture, from the 1960 film “Fire,” an Ottoman-era period piece in which the daughter of a pasha falls for a tulumbacı (Ottoman firefighter), to the modern TV series “Cranberry Sorbet,” which united estranged lovers after a tragic blaze. Adopting the usual satirical tone for the Word of the Week is impossible as the nation mourns after the Grand Kartal Hotel fire at the Kartalkaya ski resort in Bolu. The blaze, which began in the restaurant section and quickly engulfed the 12-story building, claimed at least 78 lives, including children on winter break, and injured 51 others.
Aile (family, noun of Arabic root “awila,” meaning “to support or lean upon,”) may evoke images of warmth, reliance, and shared responsibilities. Historically, the concept of family in Turkey was as expansive as the stone konaks that housed them. The family in the Ottoman era—be it the great dynasties in towns or villages of Anatolia—was a multigenerational affair, spanning grandparents, uncles, cousins, and even distant relatives, all living under one roof.
Silkelemek, or its shorthand version silkmek (shake-up, verb), carries energy, vigor, and occasionally a political punch. From its Ottoman roots to its modern interpretations, silkelemek has evolved into a word that shakes not only rugs and wrestlers but also bureaucracies, political rivals, and even dreams. At its core, silkelemek is a practical term. It conjures up vivid images of traditional housewives shaking rugs over balconies to rid them of dust. In Turkish dream interpretations, shaking a rug suggests a tranquil and orderly life, free of disruptions. It can also signify divine favor or answered prayers. Shake a rug off a balcony, and it symbolizes the achievement of long-pursued goals. Shake a dusty rug? Bid farewell to financial troubles. And if someone else shakes it for you? Expect wise decisions and peace of mind.
Halep (Aleppo, proper name) touches Turkish hearts, minds, imagination, language and, of course, the political rhetoric in a way few cities of the Ottoman Empire do. The southern jewel of the empire, the city has been a touchstone of trade, culture, and storytelling. But, as far as your cheeky columnist is concerned, its true linguistic value lies in being the punchline in one of Turkey’s wittiest sayings: “Halep oradaysa arşın burada”—“If Aleppo is there, the yardstick is here.” This phrase is more than a geographic observation; it’s a challenge. Based on the oral tale of a man who claimed that back in his great days in Aleppo, he could leap just as high as one could imagine, it’s what you say to someone boasting about their impressive feats in far-off places. “Sure, we can no longer ask around in Aleppo,” it implies, “but let’s see how you measure up here, in the present, with evidence.” In other words, put up or shut up and do not expect us to be persuaded by tall tales.
Maarif (Education, noun) is derived from the basal root Arf in Arabic, meaning knowledge. In the Ottoman Empire and early years of the Turkish Republic, the Education Ministry was called “Maarif Vekaleti.” In 1946, Maarif Vekaleti was rebaptized as “Milli Eğitim Bakanlığı,” using the modern Turkish word for both education and ministry and adding the term “national.”