Football fans and contentious politics: The role of Çarşı in the Gezi Park protests

Introduction

A sports fan made a rather strange request on 16 December 2014 at Çağlayan Courthouse in Istanbul. He said, “We have a match with Liverpool, so I would like to request that my travel ban be lifted.” It was not a joke, but a request from one of 35 defendants who had been tried for “attempting to disrupt or impede the functioning of the Republic of Turkey, establishing a terrorist organization, resisting public officers or damaging property” (Söylemez, 2014). The defendants, who were all acquitted in September 2015, were members of the fan club Çarşı, which supports the Beşiktaş Jimnastik Kulübü’s football team (BJK, known as Beşiktaş, one of the three major Turkish football clubs). The trial was more political than legal, as it was the response of a vengeful government to the role played by Çarşı during the Gezi Park protests of June 2013.

The fact that a football fan club played a leading role in clashes with security forces (the riot police) during one of the largest upheavals in Turkish history raises intriguing questions about social movements and the relationship between football and politics. The involvement of the Beşiktaş fan club, Çarşı, was crucial in building up organized resistance to police violence and making Taksim Square and Gezi Park a “state-free zone.” The physical resistance that Çarşı put up was one of the critical factors that made it possible for protesters to occupy Gezi Park. It resembled the occupation of Tahrir Square in Egypt’s 25 January revolution and Al Ahly’s ultra group’s defense of the frontline and their protest actions as the “optimal guards of the revolution” (Tuastad, 2014: 378). Çarşı also shares many common elements with both European and non-European ultra groups for whom violent clashes with the existing social and political order (and its police forces) are a fundamental aspect of their identity (Doidge, 2013; Hodges, 2016; Testa, 2009; Testa and Armstrong, 2008).

In locating and making sense of a fan club’s leading role in an urban rebellion, there are several theoretical and conceptual challenges that must be tackled. We contend that, as the “unusual suspects” (Woltering, 2013) of a social movement, Çarşı’s role in the Gezi Park protests can be understood with the conceptual toolbox provided by theories of contentious politics (McAdam et al., 2004; Tarrow, 2011; Tilly, 1978, 2008). Contentious politics is the

episodic, public, collective interaction among makers of claims and their objects when (a) at least one government is a claimant, an object of claims, or a party to the claims and (b) the claims would, if realized, affect the interests of at least one of the claimants (McAdam et al., 2004: 5).

Charles Tilly’s prodigious groundbreaking efforts to lay down “a general consideration of the ways that people act together in pursuit of shared interests” (Tilly, 1978: 5) aimed at rehabilitating mobs and crowds and giving back ordinary people the political importance they deserve by emphasizing their creativity and ability to get organized and defend their interests (Hunt, 1985: 246). Tilly conceived of protests as a dynamic set of “complex forms of social interactions” which are comparable to a jam session (Passy, 2009: 354).

McAdam et al. highlight the “episodic” (as opposed to regularly scheduled) and “public” (as opposed to intra-institutional political processes) character of contentious politics and make a useful distinction between “contained” and “transgressive” contention. While the former refers to cases of contention “in which all parties are previously established actors employing well established means of claim making,” the latter is characterized by the emergence of at least some newly self-identified political actors and the employment of innovative political action (McAdam et al., 2004: 7–8). Çarşı’s involvement in the Gezi Park protests was an exemplar of transgressive contention.

The Gezi Park protests opened up an episode of contention in which heterogeneous and largely unorganized masses responded to major threats of “commodification of nature and other shared spaces” (Tuğal, 2013: 158) and the increasing authoritarianism of the ruling party AKP (Adalet ve Kalkınma Partisi (Justice and Development Party)). This article will discuss the place of Çarşı, a football fan club that took part in the Gezi Park protests, and portray Çarşı’s functions in and contributions to the mobilization of the masses in one of the most important urban uprisings in Turkish history. In doing so, the article will locate Çarşı supporters in this specific episode of contention.

Defining Çarşı

The Çarşı fan club was established in 1982 by a group of young fans who were living in the neighborhood of Beşiktaş. Naming the group “Çarşı,” which means “marketplace” or “midtown,” signifies the importance of the neighborhood for the fans’ group identity. “Since we were the youth of Çarşı,” Sarı Cem says in the documentary Asi Ruh (Rebel Soul), “we named the fan group as such.” The relationship between the club and the neighborhood is one of the factors that gives Beşiktaş and Çarşı their specific characters.

Any account of fan clubs must start by emphasizing the fact that they are not homogenous and resist a clear-cut definition or description (Giulianotti, 2007; Pearson, 2016): “There are many different groups and individuals who watch football for different reasons and valorize different players and the styles of play” (Doidge, 2013: 248). This also holds true for Çarşı. Known for being a left-wing fan club, Çarşı was founded by a core group who, as revealed during our interviews, belonged to different political and social backgrounds. However, some of the mythical founding figures, such as the late Optik Başkan (the “Optical Chief,” whose real name is Mehmet Işıklar), were known for their left-wing socialist identities. Eventually, Çarşı’s logo “A” was replaced by the symbol of anarchism (an “A” inside a circle). The rebellious soul of the fan club finds its most poignant expression in one of the group’s rhyming chants: “Çarşı her şeye karşı” (“Çarşı is against everything”).

This rebellious nature partially came into being as a result of Beşiktaş fans’ left-wing tendencies in the 1970s. Kozanoğlu (1990) notes that in the 1970s Beşiktaş fans were the only left-leaning fan club among the big three football teams in İstanbul. Beşiktaş fans adapted popular left-wing songs and the “iconography and ideologies of the leftist cause” (McManus, 2013: 7) at this time. This left-wing orientation fitted well with the club’s financial woes and limited athletic achievements. For many, Beşiktaş was originally an underdog working-class team (Fişek, 1980) that has been transformed into a badge of honor and distinction. By supporting the football team not for its success or power but for its values, the Çarşı fan club has generated a considerable volume of subcultural capital (Giulianotti, 2002; Thornton, 1995) through representations of themselves as genuine, authentic lovers of the team.

Over the years, Çarşı has established a reputation for fighting for causes beyond the pitch, such as issues concerning the environment, animal rights, fascism, pedophilia, military interventions and numerous other social and political matters. The identity of Çarşı as a fan club that actively protests again injustices also found expression on the pitch and in stadiums. As opposed to Galatasaray supporters who call their manager Imparatore, Çarşı called for “full democracy.” Çarşı proudly embraced the working-class background of Beşiktaş manager Rıza Çalımbay, who has been mocked by rival fans for being the son of a concierge.

Çarşı still enjoys an autonomous position with respect to the football club’s establishment. It also enjoys being at the heart of Beşiktaş fandom. In this sense it is a central group, not a marginal one, and it is able to disseminate its discourses to other Beşiktaş fans. The fan blog, ForzaBeşiktaş (forzabesiktas.com), operates as a platform where members can debate, organize and consolidate group solidarity. The club has ties with public intellectual figures and this is a source of pride. A Çarşı member stated, “When you talk about Çarşı, you are talking about strong intellectual capital, strong people in various fields” (Helvacı et al., 2013: 49). Çarşı numbers many intellectuals among its members, including acclaimed movie directors, famous singers, and journalists. For instance, Çarşı’s anti-industrial manifesto, which emphasizes ethical values and fair play, was written by a prominent left-wing journalist called Rıdvan Akar (Salman, 2011). However, we must avoid attributing a clear and coherent political and ideological identity to Çarşı; rather, “the politics of Çarşı operates less as a specific political doctrine and more as a set of ethics; that is, it is framed around moral principles deemed fundamental to humanity” (McManus, 2013: 12).

Seeing Çarşı’s position as an ensemble of ethical codes makes it easier to understand the “unity” that emerges from heterogeneity. Our key informant, Metin, ¹ believes that there is not one Çarşı, but many:

This Çarşı … is indeed a complex entity. It’s hard to explain to outsiders, but something you come to know when you are inside. Now … there is no formal structure. Let me tell you this: there is no inner group of 40 people, 50 people, 30 people, 20 people, you name it … No established staff, no center whatsoever. No core group coming together, discussing plans. No formal structure. And for these reasons, there are many Çarşıs at the same time.

This emphasis on pluralism is even more significant when we remember the debates that occurred within Çarşı in the aftermath of the Gezi Park protests. Some prominent figures from the club stated that joining the Gezi Park protests was a mistake and that fandom should not be fused with politics. Together with his emphasis on the multiplicity of Çarşı, Metin added that neither Beşiktaş supporters nor the Çarşı fan club members can be described as being left-wing, dissenters or revolutionaries. In his words, “They are not, and they can’t be. But,” he added, “among Beşiktaş fans and in Çarşı, leftists are stronger.” He argued that this is why one hardly sees ultra-nationalist symbols in Beşiktaş stadium, whereas images of Che Guevara are common.

These qualities distinguish Çarşı from the ultras in many European countries. Roversi highlights sharing “common and unifying cultural models” as being the defining characteristic of ultras in Italy (cited in Giulianotti, 2007: 46). Being an ultra means “having a new attitude to life” and “everything is subordinated to football and/or the fan movement” (Pilz and Wölki-Schumacher, 2010: 6). Many accounts highlight the overtly political (right- or left-wing) and more organized, goal-oriented and relatively uniform structure of ultras in both European and non-European contexts (Kennedy, 2013; Testa, 2009; Testa and Armstrong, 2008; Tuastad, 2014). Çarşı’s heterogeneity, loose political and ideological orientation, and flexible and changeable forms of group identification thus prevent it from being labeled as an ultra.

The road to Gezi: An accumulation of contention and contentious politics

The Gezi Park protests were an urban uprising that was centered on defending urban commons and citizens’ “right to the city” (Harvey, 2013) and, eventually, it was transformed into outright rebellion against the authoritarian neoliberal politics of the ruling AKP. In this way, “a modest urban park thus turned into a bastion and symbol of resistance against the increasingly authoritarian and socially interventionist rule of the AKP and, more specifically, [then] Prime Minister (PM) Recep Tayyip Erdoğan” (Gürcan and Peker, 2015: 7).

Contentious performances are defined as learned and historically grounded ways of making claims on other people and on governments which “in the short run strongly limit the choices available to would-be makers of claims” (Tilly, 2008: 4–5). Action repertoires, then, are “known sequences for acting together” and “those established forms change as a result of collective learning and of changes in the supporting social structure” (Tilly, 1997: 11). In times of rapid structural change or intense political conflict, rapid and decisive alterations in repertoires may be observed. That is precisely what happened during the Gezi Park protests. The extraordinary scale of events and extent of mass support, as well as the rapid nationwide expansion of protests, revealed the existence of unprecedented political energy that led to the merging of previous experiences of contention and collective action with new forms of resistance.

27 May—It all started when the AKP-led Istanbul Metropolitan Municipality decided to demolish Gezi Park, a small green area adjacent to Taksim Square in Istanbul, and replace it with a shopping mall in the design of some historical Ottoman military barracks (Topçu Kışlası). On the 27 May 2013 at around 10 p.m. earthmovers entered the park, razing some walls to the ground and uprooting trees. As word spread with regard to what was happening, people started joining the few protesters who were struggling to resist the demolition team, who were guarded by security forces. The number of protesters swelled on the second day of the protests and, because of the attendance and intervention of some MPs, the earthmovers and excavators stopped working. The protesters were chanting and singing while they were sitting and trying to peacefully persuade the officers to step back and leave the park to the locals. Groups of protesters offering flowers or börek (baked, filled pastries) to riot police emphasized the peaceful nature of the protests and the protesters themselves. In response, the police tried to eject the protesters from the park by using tear gas. As a result, the protesters decided not to leave the park and set up a camp with tents of assorted colors adorned with banners about peace, the environment and love.

31 May—Unfortunately, the riot police and municipal police responded to the peaceful protest and protesters by beating them, burning the tents and enveloping the park in tear gas. On ForzaBeşiktaş (forzabesiktas.com), Çarşı’s fan blog, people immediately started discussing what was happening:

On the 28^th of May, the first entry was added to the ForzaBeşiktaş forum about the issue, which was already being discussed but there was nothing particular at the time. Afterwards, following the police’s first intervention, other blog members started discussing the issue and sharing their ideas about it. The police intervention, the protest, the suppression … Everybody lost their temper (Helvacı et al., 2013: 19).

The same day, Prime Minister Erdoğan stated that the decision to demolish the park was final. Meanwhile, on their fan blog, Çarşı members were protesting against the police attacks and speeches made by politicians and calling on blog members to support the protesters by going to Gezi Park.

And the police attacked! Please come, anyone who can … It is not the time to be afraid, to hide, to bow to fate or to keep quiet … Come on, what are you waiting for, come! (Helvacı et al., 2013: 21)

People came, and then more people, and then more. The police used tear gas, plastic bullets, water cannons and batons to scatter the crowds. The excessive use of force did nothing but redouble the size of the crowd. By late afternoon on 31 May Taksim Square had become the space of an urban uprising and resistance. The anger in people’s faces could easily be seen.

First, in terms of the numbers of protesters, the Gezi Park resistance was historically exceptional. The Ministry of the Interior declared that as of the 31 May, around 2.5 million people had taken part in the protests. The only other comparable event in Turkish history was the workers’ riot of June 1970. Environmentalists, manual laborers, students, women, white collar workers and the urban poor had their own reasons for joining in based on their grievances and frustrations. The environmental hazards of urbanization and the energy policies of the AKP government, as well as unsafe working conditions, falling real wages, unemployment, policies and discourses targeting women’s bodies and identities, and threats to secular lifestyles were the major grievances of the protesters and the main reasons for the magnitude of the protests. Everything culminated in a struggle to protect the last green area in Taksim and the people who were defending it. While the prime minister arrogantly called the protesters marauders and looters (çapulcu) and the security forces were brutal as they tried to break the protests up, the protesters and their demands remained reasonable and generalizable.

Second, many of the protesters had no prior experience with political mobilization or protesting. For many of them, Gezi Park was the first time they had been involved in collective action. In that sense, the Gezi Park resistance drew many “amateurs” to the streets. Third, football fan clubs, especially Çarşı, played a crucial role in the Gezi Park protests as they were very active during clashes with the police. In fact, the importance of the role played by Çarşı was related to the second factor, the inexperience of the protesters. Throughout the protests, people wearing Beşiktaş jerseys bearing the Çarşı logo were the ones protesters could always turn to. Also, Çarşı’s Twitter account was one of the few reliable news sources and means of communication throughout the protests. Almost all of the political parties and grass roots organizations were silent on social media. Moreover, Çarşı was functional in keeping up the protesters’ spirits by giving them an emotional boost during clashes with security forces.

Locating Çarşı in the Gezi Park resistance

Collective learning and accumulated experiences play a crucial role in the formation of collective action and acts of contention. Although for many, Çarşı’s involvement in the Gezi Park protests was unexpected, a closer look at Çarşı’s identity and recent encounters with the security forces will help us better understand the course of events. There were three key moments when Çarşı clashed with the police forces before the Gezi Park protests broke out.

The first encounter took place on 7 April on İstiklal Street, a pedestrianized area adjoining Taksim Square, and concerned with the demolition of Emek Sineması, a historic movie theater. Among the protesters was a group of young men wearing Beşiktaş jerseys and holding a banner that read, “Çarşı is against the demolition of Emek Theater.” The peaceful protest being carried out by artists and citizens was violently interrupted when the police intervened with tear gas and water cannons.

The second incident took place on 1 May, Labor Day, when the governor of Istanbul stated that Taksim Square would be closed to a mass demonstration. The Beşiktaş neighborhood was one of the centers where clashes erupted between protesters and the police, and the whole area was infiltrated with tear gas.

The third incident took place on 11 May when the last game was played at the legendary and historic Beşiktaş İnönü Stadium before it was demolished and replaced by a modern stadium complex (the Vodafone Arena). The violence erupted when one of two policemen on motorbikes fired his gun into the air as they passed Beşiktaş supporters. The subsequent police intervention with tear gas and water cannons turned the event into a scene of chaos. An old Beşiktaş chant echoed around the neighborhood: “Go on, spray, go on, spray. Go on, spray your tear gas. Take off your helmet, drop your baton. Let’s see who the real man is!” That chant would later become the “anthem” of many Gezi Park protesters.

Although Beşiktaş and Çarşı were not the central actors in all of these incidents, they all impacted upon the neighborhood. Çarşı members, as we will see, perceived the wellbeing of the protesters to be their responsibility and whenever there were clashes with the police in or around Beşiktaş, Çarşı became involved. The Emek Theater protests, the events of 1 May and 11 May, and former experiences with the police were moments of “collective learning” for Çarşı members. To put it simply, they had every reason to hold a grudge against the police and they had accumulated experience that was desperately needed at the end of May. This collective learning process was emphasized by Ankaralı Ayhan in one of his interviews:

Let me tell you this, this is our training; we are trained for this. Ordinary people do not know what to do when they clash with the police. Thanks to the game days and the events of 1 May, we were trained. During the Gezi protests, no fan of Çarşı carried cleavers or big gyro knives. We know how far the police can go and we know the maximum effective range of tear gas; therefore, we know better than ordinary people how to protect ourselves from tear gas. That is what Çarşı has done, without going too far, by staying back (Helvacı et al., 2013: 57).

Our key informant, Metin, also emphasized the same point. In his words, fandom is based on clashes with rival fan clubs, as well as with the police and the state: “the tension and the clash is always there.” In Metin’s opinion, all fan clubs are very similar in this respect, including the fan clubs of Galatasaray, Fenerbahçe, Karşıyaka, Adana Demirspor, Göztepe and other football teams. During the Gezi Park resistance, Çarşı’s accumulated experience of clashes and contention was transferred into politically loaded collective action. Çarşı also showed us how emotions—“joy, anger and fear”—can shape political contention as primary forms of collective action (Lofland, 1993).

Çarşı and the Gezi Park protests

An original exercise we used in our research consisted of showing our interviewees visuals of tweets that were posted on Çarşı’s official account during the Gezi Park protests and asking them what thoughts the images evoked.

Figure 1 reads: “#çArşı is a soul and cannot be reduced to a body.” What Metin recalled when he saw this tweet more or less defines Çarşı: it is a position. It is a way of behaving, a way of choosing your attitude, an ethical stance. All the symbols included in the banner are part of that ethical stance. Such a stance means opposing fascism and simply siding with what is right and fair. It means not being opportunistic or self-seeking. This holds true for football games as well and includes protesting against a referee for making a wrong call, even if it would be to your own team’s advantage.

OPEN IN VIEWER

Figure 1.

Çarşı’s official Twitter account, 4 June 2013.

The above approach to establishing a group identity also answers the question, “What brought Çarşı into the Gezi Park resistance?” For instance, one of the founders of Çarşı, Ergin Demir (a.k.a. Çene), noted, “Naturally we are going to rebel against all of the unfairness we see. Where there is no justice, a democratic reaction is legitimate, and you need to suck it up, my friend” (Helvacı et al., 2013). A similar approach is observable in many entries on forzabesiktas.com, Çarşı’s fan blog.

Rebuilding a place which once functioned as military barracks to be a shopping mall is a farce. Everyone who is able to do so will stop by the park. There won’t be a single tree left in all of [Taksim] square.… This morning at 5 a.m. the police intervened and burnt the tents (Ç. S. 30 May).

The issue is no longer about the shopping mall or the trees. If this much violence is a response to the most just and peaceful demonstration on earth, tomorrow what will their response be to a protest against a politician, to a workers’ strike, or to an issue relating to football fans? The elimination of the right to demonstrate/protest is a question of democracy and regime (İ. Y. 31 May).

Friends, this struggle transcends political divides. It is a struggle about being “human” (A. A. May 31).

Really bad things are happening; the police brutally attack people with tear gas. While one group tried to escape, a wall fell on them; there are wounded people. What kind of government does that?! How can people vote for these guys?! I’ve never seen fascism of this kind (D. K. 31 May).

Esat, ² one of our interviewees, said that the participation of Çarşı in the Gezi resistance further mobilized people simply because seeing Çarşı participating convinced them of the justness of the cause. According to our key informant, Metin, the reason why the fans participated in the Gezi Park protests is related to the very essence of fandom. For Metin, fandom means, above all, reacting immediately without thinking too much, and taking sides:

You look at the situation and choose your side. It’s like a reflex. Ten people are beating one person in the street. The Gezi process was similar to that. Gezi happened. We just said: we must participate. Then we went. The following day the process continued. We said: we need to go again, and we went there again.

According to Metin, the atmosphere on the terraces was similar to the Gezi Park protests, even before they happened. That similarity is not based on political content but rather on form. In his words,

When the police attack fans in a stadium, you don’t care who is right-wing or left-wing. Or, during a moment of celebration, you don’t hug people taking their views into consideration. Thirty thousand people share the same feeling.

According to Metin, some football fans went to Gezi Park for the adventure and excitement, and also simply because they loved the action. He added that he does not see anything negative in that.

Çarşı in Gezi Park

The Gezi Park protests had two major phases: the first concerned clashes with the police, which involved tear gas, water cannons and plastic bullets. That phase lasted from Friday 31 May to the Saturday afternoon of 1 June. The second phase started when the police withdrew from the park and it lasted until the violent police intervention on 15 June. This phase was characterized by relative calm in the park. The calm and the absence of police made it possible for the protesters to set up tents, talk to each other, organize forums and enjoy music. Moreover, several political groups set up their own stands and voiced their ideas. Castells (2012: 10–11) aptly notes that “occupied spaces have played a major role in the history of social change, as well as in contemporary practice.” First, they create community and a sense of togetherness, which are fundamental mechanisms for overcoming fear. Second, occupied spaces have symbolic and ideological meanings. Last, occupied spaces, by constructing a free community in a symbolic space, become public spaces of political deliberation.

During the occupation of Gezi Park, many people contributed to the establishment of solidarity networks and furthered gift-giving relations (Turan, 2013). The protesters imagined the park as a commune and attempted to convert it into a space without money exchanges. During our in-depth interviews with both Çarşı members and Gezi Park protesters, we found a consensus about the key role played by Çarşı during the first phase of the protests. However, ideas and observations diverge with respect to Çarşı’s role in the second phase.

In some of the in-depth interviews, the role that Çarşı played outside of clashes with the police was described as negligible. According to this view, during the two weeks of the second phase when political groups and volunteers were active in the park, the football fan club did not have much to offer. Yet, the opposite view was also expressed. Cengiz is a young Kurdish activist. He has links with the Kurdish political movement, and he had contact with various people and groups in the park. Cengiz emphasized the heterogeneity that existed in the park and the potential for clashes between hostile political groups. Therefore, avoiding and preventing clashes was the primary challenge for Gezi Park residents. According to Cengiz, Çarşı, as a neutral force, played a crucial role as a buffer between Kurdish political groups and the Youth Union of Turkey (TGB). A mutual atmosphere of tolerance was, thus, achieved. Cengiz recalled that some members of Çarşı had gone to May Day demonstrations but, for him, Çarşı was a politically neutral group and, hence, could defuse the tension in the park. Cengiz said that Çarşı was able to create joy and fun, which in his eyes is what made the group such a phenomenon. Çarşı was, indeed, successful in creating a buffer zone between the TGB and the Kurds, simply because there are Kurds and Turks in Çarşı, as well as “fascists” and also people with all kinds of other political and non-political views—and it is impossible to beat them by force.

This understanding of Çarşı’s role at Gezi Park overlaps with another catch-phrase we came across during our in-depth interviews: “Çarşı was the force maintaining order at Gezi.” The ability to maintain order that was attributed to Çarşı has two dimensions: first, during clashes they acted as a collective force able to establish a certain parity with the police. Second, for some of our interviewees, Çarşı played a role in creating order in the park. For instance, protesters made a collective decision to prevent the sale of alcohol in the park and it was members of Çarşı who implemented the decision. A member of Çarşı called (Kabataş) Hakan said:

After the police withdrew from Taksim, our guys did their best to watch over the park but only with limited success. The vendors buy a can of beer for two liras and sell it in the park for twenty. He’s trying to make a living. There’s no difference between a flag seller and a beer seller; both are there to make some cash (Helvacı et al., 2013: 63–64).

However, Bülent Ergenç, one of Çarşı’s leading figures, was stabbed in the park after he warned a street vendor not to sell beer. When we discussed these observations with our key informant, Metin, his first reaction was disagreement. He told us that shortly after the protesters entered the park, Çarşı went back to Beşiktaş. There were some small groups in the park that were planning to attack the prime minister’s office. Metin told us that thanks to Çarşı they were dissuaded and those people were sent to Gezi Park. According to Metin, Çarşı didn’t do anything else at the park. In his words,

it was like a 90-minute game. We started playing when the whistle was blown. Ninety minutes later, there was another blow of the whistle and the game was over for us. We felt we were the winner. The game was over, so we went home.

However, after hours of talking, in the last phase of the in-depth interview, Metin shared another sentiment he felt during the Gezi Park days:

One day at the park, probably on the second or third day of the commune, we started hearing about incidents, like theft, or I don’t know, you name it… Of course, I started to think, we need to do something because there were a lot of people camping there, living at the park 24 hours a day. There were some small crimes. I have been politically aligned with anarcho-syndicalism for a long time now. After a while, I realized something and I said, “Wait a minute, I am planning to establish a police force!” I was horrified. Okay, there was a situation. You had to do something about it, and I had many ideas. And I suddenly realized that my solution was to establish a police force, the park’s autonomous police force.… This was the point I had reached, but I rather disliked that point. I disliked the solution I came up with.

This state of mind, caught between the necessity of a certain order and old loyalty to challenging authority, is a telling one as regards the difficulties encountered by the protesters. It also tells us something about the role Çarşı played in the second phase of the Gezi Park resistance, perhaps a role that is more important than a mere “insignificant group.”

In order to discuss Çarşı’s contributions to the second phase of the Gezi Park resistance more fully, three instances should be noted. The first one is the POMA (nickname for excavator) (Figures 2 and 3).

OPEN IN VIEWER

Figure 2.

The excavator taken over by the protesters.

OPEN IN VIEWER

Figure 3.

Çarşı’s official Twitter account, 6 June 2013.

On 2 June, after midnight, two people commandeered an excavator found near Dolmabahçe Palace and, using it, they drove back the police water cannons. Images of this action became an Internet meme and thousands of people shared pictures of the excavator, which Çarşı renamed “POMA” (Police Control Vehicle) in response to the “TOMA” (Riot Control Vehicle), which is used by the police. For a TOMA, the public are the threat, whereas for a POMA, it is the police who are the threat. The POMA is a superb example of Çarşı’s creative humor, which contributed much to the soul of the resistance. Our key informant, Metin, looks at this event as contributing to the creation of an urban legend. He stated that the people driving the excavator were, in fact, not directly linked to Çarşı. However, he also added that Çarşı shaped the event because its members were the ones who came up with the name POMA.

The second instance was the Kandil cookies distributed by Çarşı as gifts. The night of 5 June was the Lailat al Mi’raj (Miraç Kandili), a holy night in Islamic culture (Figures 4 and 5).

OPEN IN VIEWER

Figure 4.

Çarşı’s official Twitter account, 4 June 2013.

OPEN IN VIEWER

Figure 5.

Çarşı’s official Twitter account, 5 June 2013.

When Metin saw these images, he told us that the original intention of the gifts was to thank the imam of the Dolmabahçe Mosque who opened the doors of the mosque and let in health professionals so they could help victims of police violence who needed medical assistance.

Before visiting the mosque, members of Çarşı distributed Kandil cookies in the neighborhood of Beşiktaş. In Metin’s words,

We went to the mosque on the night of Kandil; the imam came to the door and made a speech, and expressed his thanks. He gave a very nice talk, a very elegant talk. He stated that he is not a hero. He considered his act as something normal and necessary.

Çarşı’s decision to express their respect for that holy night was important in terms of countering the cultural divide between the Gezi Park protesters and the more conservative segments of society, a divide that was overemphasized by the government.

The third instance was a rally organized by Çarşı on Saturday 8 June to celebrate both Optik Başkan’s birthday and the Gezi Park resistance. It started in Beşiktaş and ended at Gezi Park in Taksim. At the end of the rally, Çarşı hung a huge banner with the word “Optik” on the occupied opera building and then lit flares (Figures 6 and 7).

OPEN IN VIEWER

Figure 6.

Taksim Square, 8 June 2013.

OPEN IN VIEWER

Figure 7.

Çarşı’s official Twitter account, 8 June 2013.

According to Metin, the aim of the rally was to commemorate Optik and bring the Gezi Park episode to a close for Çarşı.

I have never seen such a crowd. It was huge. It was comparable to Hrant Dink’s funeral. Our friends set up a camera to make an estimate about the number of people there. It is said that 170,000 people showed up … Still, I am not sure if this is true.

Esat, who does not have a particular political affiliation, attributed a great deal of meaning to the rally on 8 June. For him, it resembled an ordinary birthday party to which you invite mere acquaintances as well as good friends.

All the people at Gezi were our new friends. Some of them had never been to a stadium, and even they were trying to chat with us about football.… As you can see, the crowd is huge. I repeat: everybody was there and there was no disorder. And there were many Fenerbahçe and Galatasaray fans.

We argue that a comprehensive interpretation of the role played by Çarşı during the Gezi Park protests needs to reconsider Çarşı’s activism using the terminology of the “dynamics of contention” approach developed by McAdam, Tarrow and Tilly. In this approach, social change is a starting point in the chain of social movement agendas and contentious politics. For McAdam et al., social change affects opportunity analyses of potential actors, mobilizing structures and framing processes (Snow, 2004: 385). Mobilizing structures strengthen communication, coordination and commitment among potential actors (McAdam et al., 2004: 16). Moreover, they have an impact on determining the repertoire of contention. In this approach, in addition to mobilizing structures, framing processes also determine the repertoire of contention. The framing process is first and foremost a process of collective interpretation (McAdam et al., 2004: 41). By mediating between opportunity and action, it facilitates the claims that are made. Framing processes affecting a contentious process are the last item in the chain of interaction. Fan culture and activism within an urban uprising—as in the case of Çarşı in the Gezi Park protests examined in this article—correspond to the model suggested by McAdam and his colleagues. Fandom offers several opportunities for framing processes. Collective interpretations of fans are not examples of classical political mobilization. However, they include interpreting the course of events and determining who is right and who is wrong. Fandom culture encourages dissemination of such interpretations through a series of symbols, banners and chants. The framing processes embedded in the fan culture affect fans’ repertoire, which is mostly shaped by former experiences of clashes. Hence, the Çarşı case leads us to conclude that fandom needs to be taken as a less common yet still important factor in episodes of contention, and urban uprisings.

Conclusion

We noted above that Çarşı’s role in the Gezi Park protests can be understood through the conceptual frameworks of social movement literature and, in particular, by referring to theories of contentious politics. In order to reveal the links between Çarşı as a fan club, a social movement and an episode of contention, two points should be made. First, accumulated former experiences in relation to disputes gave the fan club a privileged position during episodes of contention. As in other cases in Turkey, fandom involves potential or real clashes with official authorities, most notably the police. Moreover, in the case of Çarşı, the locality of the neighborhood of Beşiktaş needs to be taken into account because it was one of the focal points of police violence during the Gezi Park protests. This indicates that Çarşı as a group was not part of an episode of contention mainly as a result of ideological commitments, but they were active as a result of former experiences and a culture of clashing with the police. Fan clubs’ habitus include the aesthetics of fighting, clashing, taking a firm stand and not surrendering. This often includes glorification of manhood and reference to bravery-triggering myths of acting like a savior. Members of fan clubs like to see themselves as the saviors of the club and of what happens on the terraces, and they are used to seeing themselves as the supporters of any other group that is involved in a clash. It is ethical concerns rather than political ones that guide the decisions of the club. In this framework, belonging to a club and intergroup solidarity are more important than political orientation.

The case of Çarşı in the Gezi Park protests confirms once more that the football habitus has implications for a larger sociopolitical context. Fan culture links football to other social contexts by providing a milieu for framing processes. Çarşı members, who were already accustomed to making ethical judgments on a variety of issues both political and non-political, should be taken as a prominent example of how supporters on terraces, and fan clubs facilitate the framing processes described by the social movement literature. Çarşı members were at the Gezi Park uprising with their songs, chants, social media network and, above all, their repertoire of resistance. Moreover, they left their imprint on this episode of urban protest.