WHAT ANKARA DOES NOT PUT ON THE BROCHURE
A city’s cultural field does not stop at its administrative boundary. If Ankara reveals itself in layers, some of its most telling ones begin once the city has thinned into road, valley and plateau.
Analysis
Smart, independent reporting on Turkey's politics, economy and foreign affairs.
A city’s cultural field does not stop at its administrative boundary. If Ankara reveals itself in layers, some of its most telling ones begin once the city has thinned into road, valley and plateau.
Ankara is often described by those who do not know it well as a grey city. This is unfair, though not entirely mysterious. A city that must constantly perform seriousness is rarely forgiven for having charm. Yet Ankara’s charm is real. It is private, reveals itself slowly, and almost always just outside the official frame. It is a city of dry light, hard hills, old stones, republican geometry, Ottoman shadows, Roman fragments, Seljuk craft and streets that remember more than they are prepared to explain. This is why Ankara deserves a cultural diplomacy route, a way of showing visitors not only what the city proudly displays, but also what it half-remembers, neglects, misnames, hides or leaves to survive behind other buildings.
Five Alevi cultural and religious institutions have announced their departure from the Federation of Alevi Foundations (AVF), citing a departure from founding principles under the leadership of Professor İzzettin Doğan.
Turkey has risen to become one of the world’s top tourism destinations, welcoming over 56 million international visitors in 2023. Its appeal lies in a rare combination of sun-soaked beaches, rich cultural heritage, world-class cuisine, and warm hospitality—all easily accessible from Europe, Asia, the Middle East, and Africa. But as prices surge and market dynamics shift, industry insiders warn the sector may be heading toward a critical inflection point.
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.
In the rich tapestry of Turkish names, few are as paradoxical as 'Satılmış.' Literally translating to 'sold' or 'sell-out,' this name carries a weighty connotation that intertwines cultural beliefs, societal perceptions and individual destinies. In Anatolian traditions, giving newborns names like 'Satılmış' or the female version “Satı” is a protective measure. The name was traditionally bestowed upon children with the underlying belief that by symbolically 'selling' the child, parents could deceive malevolent spirits or fate, thereby safeguarding the child from harm or premature death. This practice reflects an interplay between language, belief systems, and cultural practices in Anatolian societies.
“When good bureaucrats retire, they go to Istanbul,” quipped a Turkish diplomat at his farewell dinner several years ago. He was about to join the steady flow of ex-ambassadors and senior officials who settle comfortably into Istanbul’s glamorous private sector. While these bureaucrats enjoy Istanbul’s cosmopolitan delights and lucrative board positions, politicians with unsatisfied ambitions would do well to think twice. The graceful transition from bureaucracy-laden Ankara to Istanbul’s cultural and economic limelight might be liberating—but for politicians, it often signals the end of the line. Take Abdullah Gül, who leads the parade of high-profile politicians who found themselves in Istanbul once their grip on Ankara slipped. Gül, the soft-spoken Number Two to Erdoğan at the founding of AKP, left the presidency in 2014 with considerable bitterness, feeling sidelined by Erdoğan and his team. Settling first in Tarabya’s Presidential Palace and then in a private villa in Beykoz, he became a figure whom former allies and even foes sought out for advice on new parties, and periodically as a possible challenger to Erdoğan. Yet, Gül never took the plunge, proving that the view from Istanbul is often one of wistful distance from real political clout.
“When Turkish politics become too repetitive, I turn to the country’s art scene,” a European diplomat told me three years ago. “There is certainly more variety and more originality.” This year’s tension-wrought political rentrée, where debates revolved around “did they rise or did they not, for the president,” somehow made me follow her advice: When politics go wrong, seek consolation in art and culture.