Category: Life

Barışın İzleri

From Koşuyolu to the Four-Legged Minaret: “What we call memory moves with us today”

12 October 2026 Yekta Armanc Hatipoğlu

September 12, Koşuyolu; June 5, the Station; Dağkapı with its peace text; Sur after the ban… The “Barışın İzleri” (“Traces of Peace”) project aims to explore Diyarbakır’s memory sites through a “geography of the senses.”

Photos: Yekta Armanc Hatipoğlu/Niha+

On Saturday, October 10, I went to Koşuyolu Park to participate in the “Barışın İzleri” (“Traces of Peace”) project, supported as part of the Truth, Justice, and Memory Center’s “Square: Regaining the Freedom of Assembly and Public Space” initiative.

The walk, during which we would discuss the city’s memory sites together, began at 10:00 a.m. There were 12 of us in total, including the four-person “Barışın İzleri” team.

Koşuyolu and the Station Square: Two bombings

After our first stop at Koşuyolu Park where 10 people, including 8 children, were killed in the explosion on September 12, 2006; we spoke with relatives of the missing who were asking about the fate of their loved ones in front of the Monument to the Right to Life, and discussed what this park means to each of us individually. We then walked to our second stop, Station Square.

Station Square, which holds significant importance in Diyarbakır’s collective memory, is remembered less for the large rallies held here or the grand marches that passed through it, and more for the attack carried out by ISIS during a rally of the Peoples’ Democratic Party (HDP) on June 5, 2015—an attack that killed 5 people and injured over 400.

After talking about June 5, the rallies here, the crowds spilling over, the honking horns, and the narrow sidewalk, we rest for a bit at the Çand Amed Cultural Center and then head toward Dağkapı.

Diyarbakır saw Öcalan in Dağkapı Square after many years

We sit on the grass near the walls of the Old City, close to Dağkapı Square, and talk about the square.

Diyarbakır saw Abdullah Öcalan’s photo here for the first time in years during the February 27 call for peace; it was here that the city heard his message calling for the laying down of arms and a transition to democratic politics. Sadness, bittersweetness, joy, curiosity, excitement, and so many other emotions were felt most intensely right here.

Newroz Square and Kemal Kurkut

When discussing places of memory in Diyarbakır, one cannot fail to mention Newroz and Newroz Square. The conversation, which began with the square’s location far from the city center, continued with a discussion of the place Kemal Kurkut—who was killed by a police bullet during the 2017 Newroz celebrations—holds in the public’s political memory.

The transformation of Old Sur through photographs, Margosyan’s Street

We also looked at photographs of Old Sur here. We examined photos from the 2015–16 period—a time that, while not particularly long ago for most cities, feels very distant for Diyarbakır. We witnessed the intensity of the change. The city, politics, people—everything had changed, very quickly and destructively…

Next, we find ourselves in the streets of Sur. Amid the scent of liver and the sound of hammering iron, we make our way down from the Blacksmiths’ Bazaar (Demirciler Çarşısı). Here, we pay tribute to the writer Migirdich Margosyan and talk about him.

At its December 9, 2009, session, the Sur City Council renamed the street formerly known as Direkçi to “Mıgırdiç Margosyan.” Margosyan, however, had declined to have his name given to the street where he was born, arguing that the mindset in Turkey had not yet changed and that the steps taken today could be undone tomorrow, and his name could be removed from where it had been displayed. Despite this, his name was not removed from the street.

However, the 103-day curfews announced in December 2015, the clashes in Sur, and the subsequent destruction resulted not only in Margosyan’s name being taken down from the wall but also in the complete leveling of many streets, including the one bearing his name.

From there, we went to the Four-Legged Minaret, where we witnessed how a city’s memory space had been “sacrificed” to tourism. On our way there, after witnessing the tradition of offering Kurdish coffee—which no one in the city drinks anymore—and the ritual of spinning beneath the Four-Legged Minaret, which has “become a tradition” following the period of conflict, and after truly observing these from the outside, we went to the Rengarenk Umutlar Association.

The walk ended, and we moved on to the workshop session.

Here, we had the opportunity to reflect on what we had seen, heard, and experienced throughout the day.

After the workshop ended, I spoke with project director Bervan Tan and project facilitator Dr. Sevcan Tiftik about both the project in general and how the meetings so far had gone.

“The goal is not to tell history or take a cultural tour”

Project manager Bervan Tan began by explaining that the Traces of Peace Project is supported under the Memory Center’s “Meydan” program, a program designed to reclaim social and public spaces and bring all segments of society back into the public squares.

Bervan Tan

She noted that the “Memory of Diyarbakır Square” also consists of five stops: Koşuyolu Park, Station Square, Dağkapı, the streets of Sur, and the Four-Legged Minaret. Tan said they also discussed the old Newroz celebrations in Dağkapı.

Tan explained that they approached these topics through the lens of sensory geography:

“The goal isn’t to tell a story of history, nor is this actually a cultural tour; nor am I a storyteller of history. We’re actually focusing on the impact that the events experienced here have had on me and the reflections that arise in the participants as I share this… While speaking there, by asking the participants questions, we aim to see their individual experiences—that process extending from the individual to the collective. That’s what we’re discussing,” she said.

“Our senses are part of the relationship we form with a place”

Project facilitator Sevcan Tiftik said they also discussed the impact of emotions on the collective.

Tiftik emphasized that what they do on these walks is not merely about touring Diyarbakır’s memory spaces or simply recounting what happened in the past here. “We also try to look at what we encounter, see, and hear in those spaces today, and what is no longer there. Because what we call ‘memory’ isn’t just made up of what happened in the past or what was told to us. When we walk down that street today, when we look at a square, when we hear a sound, or when we notice something that is no longer there, we’re also connecting with the past. “That’s partly why we start from the geography of the senses. I mean, the sounds, the smells, the rhythm of our bodies as we walk, sometimes stopping to look around, and sometimes wanting to get away from there as quickly as possible… All of these are actually part of the relationship we form with that place,” she said.

Sevcan Tiftik

Tiftik also touched on the subject of emotions, noting that they approach emotions in a more political way and in conjunction with touch, drawing inspiration from Sara Ahmed. Tiftik explained that they do not view emotions as purely individual, internal experiences; rather, emotions also have a social, collective, and political dimension.

Bringing together different experiences

Tiftik illustrated her points with the following example:

“For instance, whose pain is visible, whose grief can we mourn, which losses do we remember, and which ones are erased from the public sphere? These are also issues related to emotions and memory. And of course, we don’t all feel the same things in the same space. A street where one person spent their childhood and walked every day can be the setting for a loss or a story that another person is hearing about for the first time. Something that is very familiar to one of us can be completely foreign to another. I think that’s precisely what’s important here. In other words, we don’t expect everyone to remember the same thing, to be angry about the same thing, or to share the same emotions. In fact, we aren’t even trying to establish that kind of common ground. We’re thinking a bit about how we can come together despite our different experiences and memories.

That’s why, during our walks, we bring along Bervan’s testimonies, our own testimonies, and our personal experiences—including those of the participants—as well as what we’ve heard from our families and those around us, what we’ve read, what we remember, and sometimes even things we’ve never known. We ask each other questions, and sometimes we rethink things we thought we knew. For example, even a tiny detail shared by a participant can make all of us see that place in a different light. So, in a way, we’re learning together and connecting with each other’s memories. But there’s something else we prioritize here. We want this to be a space where no one feels obligated to speak, share their own experiences, or recall specific details. Because staying silent—or simply listening—is also part of this encounter.”

Tiftik responded to the likely question, “What does all this have to do with peace?” by saying that they had explored this question a bit during the walk. Noting that they cannot think of peace in narrow terms—such as the end of conflicts or the remembrance of past events—Tiftik said, “For example, who is able to gather in those squares today, and who isn’t? Whose voices are heard, and whose stories are given space? Who can walk comfortably on those streets, and who cannot? All of this, and much more is related to peace. And of course, while discussing all these losses, the destruction, and the violence, we also need to look at how life goes on. How do people continue to live amidst all of this, how do they relate to one another, what do they protect and what do they trying to reform?”

Tan continued by saying that, as of now (October 10), they had held a total of four meetings and had addressed a wide variety of topics during each of them. Tan noted that the same events can have very different effects on individuals or vary significantly from group to group, saying, “While in one group we focus more on the cultural aspect of this, in another we discuss the gender or queer aspects, and in yet another we might talk about the memory of war.”

The writings will be published on the blog and social media

Tiftik also noted that they wanted to document all of this in some way and share it with others later, which is why they concluded the walks with a writing workshop.

During the walk, they did not ask participants to constantly take notes or record anything because they valued them simply being present in the moment—paying attention to their surroundings, to one another, and to themselves—but afterward, at the end of the day, they gathered to write down what they had talked about, what they hadn’t been able to discuss, what they remembered, what they had forgotten, where they had fallen silent, what had bothered them, and what had caught their attention.

Tiftik explained that everyone would create short texts and passages based on their own experiences and feelings, and that these would be shared on blogs and social media accounts with the participants’ consent. “This way, the thoughts they shared during the walk won’t be limited to those present that day—they’ll have the chance to reach other people as well,” she said.

“As tracing the traces of other losses in Diyarbakır, we also remembered Ankara”

Referring to the October 10 Ankara Train Station Massacre, Tiftik, to illustrate what Tan had said about the uniqueness of each gathering, noted, “For example, today is October 10. It’s the anniversary of the Ankara Train Station Massacre. In Diyarbakır, while following the traces of other losses and other struggles, we also commemorated Ankara and spoke at length about it. In fact, this is one of the reasons why every march is different from the others. The day itself, what the participants bring with them, the country’s current events, and sometimes an unexpected encounter while walking between stops—all of these can change the course of the march. “In other words, what we call ‘memory’ is moving with us today,” she said.

“We’re not just talking about the participants’ memories, actually,” said Tiftik, noting that the memory walk also encompasses the relationship established with the city, and continued:

“And then, of course, there’s the city itself. Its streets, walls, trees, animals, trash, sounds, water, smells—the entire landscape… Even the things that sometimes bother us, the things we don’t want to see or smell, are part of it. We look at the city, but at the same time, we’re exposed to the gazes of others within it. There are things about the city that we find repulsive, and there are people who find us repulsive. Whose body is acceptable on that street? Who is seen as belonging there, and who isn’t? Who we are, how we look, where we stand, and how we walk also shape this encounter.

“Walking down a street doesn’t mean the same thing to everyone. That’s why we’re talking together about how we exist in this city, and how we relate to the city and to one another.”

“Do we feel safe in the public squares?”

Tan said that one of her first impressions of the march was about gender equality.

“How safe do women, queer people, or minority groups really feel here, and how much space can they find in the squares? Yes, we’re collectively together, but how safe do we feel as individuals—or do we even feel safe at all? We discussed these issues a bit with the participants. Hearing these perspectives from the participants was truly valuable to me. Because it was a topic I’d been thinking about constantly. We received comments from participants like, ‘I don’t feel comfortable either. Yes, I’m in the square, but I’m actually not at all comfortable—or I’m not really participating.’”

Tan also shared another topic that caught her attention:

“Especially young people in their early 20s don’t know much about Istasyon Square or the events that took place in the early 2000s—the events that happened in the very places they walk through or pass by every day: the Istasyon bombing, the Koşuyolu Park bombing… This is a result of young people becoming apolitical. Because young people are actually one of the most important custodians of this place’s memory, but they feel the city has largely shut them out.”

“Young people don’t know where they are in the peace process”

Tiftik said that one of the things that caught his attention during the memory walks was the young people’s accounts.

“Especially when we think in terms of ‘Traces of Peace,’ our goal is, in part, to make peace a social reality; for young people to become active agents of peace, part of the process, and both the bearers and direct recipients of memory… But I’ve observed that they don’t know how to channel this memory into the construction of peace, or where they themselves fit into this process. Especially when discussing Amed’s memory from the 1990s to the present, we see that young people’s relationship with this memory is largely built not through direct witnessing, but through what has been passed down to them. “If you’re politically engaged, part of a movement, or focusing on and researching a specific news story, event, or incident, you can access this information. But from what I gather from the young people’s accounts, peace often presents itself to them not as an experience whose memory they’ve inherited, but rather as an issue they don’t really understand—one they’ve come to know primarily through war and conflict.”

Tiftik explained that on this journey they’ve embarked on as “Barışın İzleri” they’ve sought to examine the memories of these public squares through a participatory sensory geography approach. He noted that the common issue he encountered in all four walks was this:

“We don’t really know how to trace the path to peace, where we stand in relation to peace, or even what peace itself is. Because we’ve always faced war, conflict, and loss. The participants also said they didn’t know what they could do for peace, how to talk about peace, or how to establish a connection between memory and peace.”

Noting that the participants came from a wide range of ages, genders, and educational backgrounds, “We learned a great deal from one another as each person brought their own experiences, intersecting identities, and diverse perspectives to this space. It was a process in which we reimagined Amed’s memory through each other’s memories, opened up to one another, and worked to create a safe space. We hope that this kind of work will continue,” she concluded.

“Being Alevi means starting life one step behind”

31 July 2026 Doğa Tekneci

The village of Kemaliye, located in the Ortaca district of Muğla, is an Alevi village with a significant Tahtacı community. Zeynel Altın, the village headman of Kemaliye, and Nail, a retired post office worker from the village, discussed the village’s Tahtacı-Alevi identity, cemevi practices, and economic structure.

The Ortaca district of Muğla is known as a settlement area with a dense Alevi population. It is located between Marmaris and Fethiye. The region has made headlines at times not only for its history dating back to antiquity but also for its recent history. Having been home to many civilizations throughout history, Ortaca is characterized by its cultural, ethnic, and religious diversity; its recent settlers are the Tahtacı (Turkmen) Alevis.

According to historical accounts, during World War II, plans were made to establish a “minority camp” in Dalaman, Muğla, to force minorities who had not paid their taxes to work, and construction began. This area was under the control of the Tahtacı (Turkmen Alevi) community, who were already settled there. The government relocated the Tahtacis to another nearby Tahtacı village, Fevziye. From there, they were resettled to the former Oritenya area. This place, which was a swamp at the time, was drained and developed by the Tahtacı Alevis.

During a visit I made to Ortaca in Muğla, I had the opportunity to chat with Zeynel Altın, the village head of Kemaliye—a village with a predominantly Alevi population—and a retired postal worker who introduced himself as Nail.

On the road leading to the village, as I passed through the center of Ortaca, there was a statue representing the citrus farming industry in Ortaca. Created in 2011, the statue features two women and two men dressed in traditional Anatolian attire. One of the women is holding a tomato vine in her hand, while the other is carrying a basket full of pomegranates on her shoulder, the basket held by one of the men is full of oranges.

Before entering the village, the Pir Sultan Abdal Cultural Association and Cemevi, located on a side street, catch the eye. As you head toward the village, an area with abundant greenery—compared to the center of Ortaca—welcomes visitors. If you look closely at the gardens of the village homes, you’ll frequently see greenhouse covers and citrus trees. The houses in the village are arranged in an orderly manner, lined up in rows along the streets and alleys.

Over a thousand people live in Kemaliye Village. The villagers, most of whom are retired, generally make their living through greenhouse farming, citrus farming, and tourism—the latter due to the village’s proximity to the sea. A significant portion of the Alevi population here consists of the “Tahtacılar,” an Alevi community named after the carpentry trade and typically found in the Aegean and Mediterranean regions.

I asked Altın and Nail about the Alevi population in the village and how the Alevis of Kemaliye spend their days.

A Tahtacı village: Kemaliye

Noting that there is no clear data on the Alevi population distribution in the village of Kemaliye, Altın said that, according to his own estimate, approximately 70 percent of the village’s population is Alevi. Altın stated that the village has received migrants and that the population has become more mixed over time, adding that neighboring neighborhoods with a high concentration of Alevis—such as Fevziye and Cumhuriyet—have a more cosmopolitan structure.

Altın, noting that he himself is a Tahtacı, explained the origins of the Tahtacı identity as follows:

“Our grandfather came from the Mersin-Mut area. We are part of the Tahtacı community under the Alevi umbrella. After the persecution of the Alevis following Yavuz Sultan Selim, the Alevis retreated to the mountains. To make a living, they worked as lumberjacks and woodworkers in the forest. The name ‘Tahtacı’ comes from that.”

Altın emphasized that Alevism is not a monolithic faith practice, saying, “There are 14 or 15 tribes within Alevism—from the Kipchaks to the Çepnis, they’re all there. They all have minor nuances and differences, which is actually a source of richness.”

Altın mentioned that, as Tahtacılar, they built a small cemevi in the village of Kemaliye. He noted that there is also a Pir Sultan Abdal Cultural Association Cemevi at the entrance to the village, but they generally conduct their worship in the one they built themselves.

Altın also noted that there are differences in the cem rituals across Alevi communities, citing as an example that in their own community, one does not enter the cem wearing socks. “For example, a Sunni person cannot enter our cemevi,” said Altın, explaining that in order to participate in the cem, one must first make an “ikrar” (oath) declaring that they are Alevi, and that following this oath, the person is accepted into the community. He added that attitudes toward Sunni-Alevi marriages have softened over time, but have not yet completely disappeared.

Nail also noted that the Alevis in the village are affiliated with their own cemevis, explaining that Alevism is divided into many branches and that he himself belongs to the “Yolyatır Ocağı” within the Tahtacı community.

Nail explained that one may not enter the cemevi without performing ablution; upon entry, a sash is tied around the waist, the head is covered with a headscarf, and if one goes to the restroom, the ablution is considered invalid and must be performed again. He added that the meal served during the cem can only be distributed after “destur” is given.

“We mourn on May 6”

Explaining that Hıdırellez is observed differently in the village, Nail said that no celebrations take place on May 6 instead, on the evening of May 5, a fire is lit in the town square and people jump over it. According to Nail, May 6 is a day of mourning: “That day marks the anniversary of the deaths of Hüseyin İnan and Deniz Gezmiş. We don’t hold festivities that day, we observe a period of mourning.”

Nail also provided detailed information about the month of Muharrem, noting that during this period—which begins approximately 19–20 days after Eid al-Adha—the villagers observe “mourning” rather than fasting. “We don’t drink water, we don’t eat meat, we don’t shave, we don’t cut our nails… We only eat yogurt, we do not eat any other animal products,” he said. Nail explained that on the morning of the 12th day of mourning, a rooster is slaughtered in each home, after which the villagers gather to hold a ceremony and end their fast/mourning by eating a meal together.

“Being Alevi means starting life one step behind”

Altın also touched on the labor struggles of Alevis in the region. He recounted how village youths formed a theater troupe in 1975–76 and how agricultural workers went on strike in 1979 to demand better working conditions.

Altın said, “Being Alevi means starting life one goal down. If you can’t express yourself well or educate yourself properly, you’ll fall behind.”

“This is a village of retirees”

Altın noted that the literacy rate in the village is high and that the majority of villagers worked in the public sector or in jobs with social security coverage before retiring:

“Ninety percent of our village is full of retirees. Alevis aren’t afraid of hard work, they’re all hardworking. They work as laborers or civil servants.”

Altın claimed that the villagers organized a strike in the farm fields in 1979 and that this was one of the first labor protests in Ortaca.

Noting that there has been a significant decline in income from citrus production—the village’s main source of livelihood—in recent years, Altın stated that the primary cause was export issues, saying, “Most of the citrus is intended for export. If you can’t trade with neighboring countries, you can’t sell what you produce.” Nail also confirmed this situation.

Nail, meanwhile, listed the village’s sources of income as greenhouse farming, citrus cultivation, and tourism, noting that a large portion of tourism revenue comes from boat and hotel operations in Dalyan and Sarıgerme. Reiterating that “90 percent” of the village’s population is retired, Nail also touched on the fluctuations in citrus prices, adding that while citrus brought in good profits last year, in previous years it had to be left to rot in the fields: “Lemons and other citrus fruits didn’t make any money 4–5 years ago. People suffered as a result.”

What is the government’s approach toward Alevis?

According to Altın, the government’s approach toward the Alevi community has changed in recent years. He mentioned the Alevi-Bektaşi Culture and Cemevi Directorate established within the Ministry of Culture and Tourism, as well as the large cemevi complex opened in the Hacıbektaş district of Nevşehir.

“The president went to Hacıbektaş and had a cemevi built there. These are politicians chasing votes. There are some who genuinely respect the community, but politics was used for this.”

Altın stated that while he personally has not faced discrimination in accessing public services, he has been forced to keep his demands constantly on the agenda:

“If you don’t renew your demand frequently, it gets forgotten. I tell them, ‘If you don’t do my job, I’ll expose you.’ It’s a half-threat—it doesn’t work any other way. This is a human right, people must know their rights. You have to say, ‘I’m here.’”

The events known as the “Ortaca Incidents” or the “Ortaca Massacre” encompass the violence, oppression, and looting directed against the Tahtacı Alevis in Ortaca—a town in the Köyceğiz district of Muğla (at the time, Ortaca was part of Köyceğiz)—between June 5 and 16, 1966. However, there are certain discrepancies between the testimonies of the Alevi community in the region and what was reported in the press.

I asked Altın and Nail what they had heard from their elders and what they knew about the Ortaca Massacre.

“It wasn’t a massacre, it was a land dispute”

Altın drew attention to the claims of an “Alevi massacre” that are occasionally reposted on social media, arguing that the vast majority of such posts are baseless:

“They spread rumors about Alevis attacking a mosque and made up stories. Nothing like that happened. Respected Alevi figures at the time stepped forward and said, ‘There’s nothing to it, everyone should stay where they are.’ There was tension, but it wasn’t a massacre. Only one person died, and that was due to a land dispute.”

“Neighbors harmed an animal that had wandered into each other’s fields, that’s how the conversation started, and the verbal altercation turned into a fight,” said Nail, adding, “There was no mass massacre. It wasn’t like what happened in Sivas, Madımak, Maraş, Çorum, or Erzincan.”

*The incident that took place in the village of Fevziye, in the Ortaca district of Muğla—known as the “Ortaca Massacre”—stemmed from a land dispute. The Tahtacı Alevis in the region had, over time, reclaimed a marshy area and made it habitable; however, in 1960, the government transferred a nearby plot to the village headman of Kızılyurt, a village inhabited by Nurcu Sunnis. This is how the tension began.

Sources differ on what sparked the events that erupted in June 1966. According to interviews PİRHA conducted with witnesses in 2019, the incident was a dispute over a field, during the clash, a 15-year-old Sunni youth, Halil Sarı, was killed by a bullet fired from the gun of a sergeant major on extended duty, and according to witnesses, there were no other fatalities. (Zeynel Altın and Nail from the village of Kemaliye also support this account.) These witnesses state that the real breaking point that fueled the unrest following the teenager’s death was a sexual assault against an Alevi woman, and they emphasize that the situation was deliberately escalated into a sectarian conflict due to the delayed intervention of the media and security forces. Other sources also report that the incident was triggered by a sexual assault against an Alevi woman, that the clashes lasted 12 days, and that the exact death toll remains unknown.

Source: PİRHA, bianet, Evrensel