wasteland

After spending the night feeling like someone was sitting on my chest and realising that I was developing a strange rash, I decided to try and go to the doctor. The sky was a violet grey as the rain gently fell on the ruins of the barricade which once blocked my neighbourhood from the advances of policemen in tanks, or TOMAs. The ground was littered with fresh cardboard rings from fired gas canisters and the Square was desolate— save for a few people attempting to go about their business, under the watchful eyes of policemen hidden within vehicles and relaxing on plastic lawn chairs. I naively hoped that the metro would be open, and it was not. I wrapped my scarf tightly around my bare arms and headed through Gezi Park— as the quickest path between two points is a straight line.



My heart ached between my sore lungs as I surveyed what was once a site of peace and freedom of expression. After police moved in on Taksim yesterday, Gezi was now a windswept mess of torn tents and debris. A few protesters sang and danced hand-in-hand to the tune of a guitar, while people attempted to clean up the litter that was plastered to the wet grass and pavement. I could not tell if people were still in the tents— it all looked so hollow. How much longer can this violence continue? Lawyers and Twitterers are being arrested, and I've been told that the Imam who dared to deny the claim that protesters entered his mosque with beer bottles and shoes on has now "gone on vacation". News channels who are live streaming the events are being accused of "harming the development of youth". I don't know what to say anymore.



I carry a small dust mask in my bag and now, an inhaler. My bronchioles are inflamed, and at the advice of my doctor, I will share my inhaler with anyone who needs it.



People will need it.

that burn

Minutes after I crossed Taksim Square to catch my bus, the police moved in on Taksim. While I was safe at school, the Square was gassed. Alleged protesters threw Molotov cocktails at water tanks, the TOMAs, though I find it odd that protesters, who would have been unaware of an impending police move, would be ready with Molotovs in hand. Plus, throughout the entire protest so far, even during the heat of the action on May 31st, I have never seen a Molotov cocktail being hurled by anyone. Yes, I saw stone throwing— plenty of it, and fires, but no one ever threw any firebombs. I also find it suspicious that as I was crossing the Square this morning, the protesters who had been camping out under the statue, were dismantling their tents and taking down flags from the statue. There are plenty of rumours circulating about plainclothes cops masquerading as protesters, instigating violence and destruction, and after having seen with my own eyes a police bus full of un-uniformed men mingling with cops in all their gear, I feel compelled to believe it.

As I tried to go home this afternoon, there was that terrible, familiar taste in the air. I was soon engulfed in gas which had tinted the sky a brownish orange. I moved as quickly as I could, past row after row of relaxing policemen, my scarf in a ball over my mouth and nose. By the time I got home, I was feeling dizzy and my chest hurt. Foolishly, I ran my face under cool water, which only caused my skin and eyes to burn more fiercely. Pedro gave me some lemons for my eyes, and it took a while before they could open without pain.

For more on what's happening in Istanbul, have a look at The Guardian's live updates.

i spoke too soon

http://www.aljazeera.com/news/europe/2013/06/201361144640543595.html

peaceful protest

Before I went to Lebanon for the weekend, Gezi Parkı felt like a festival. There were morning yoga classes, dance performances and live music, art workshops, food vendors, improvised libraries, and people camped out of any patch of green. I fear that this atmosphere of peace and cooperation will come to an end soon— I just really hope that it won't be violent. Please know that the protesters (with the exception of a very, very few young hooligans) are everyday citizens who are reading books, banging pots and pans, and cleaning up the mess left behind. They are merely voicing their opposition to the government, and standing up for what they believe in. They are from all walks of life, ethnic backgrounds, young and old.

the entrepreneurs

By now you have probably seen the typical image of the çapulcus in Istanbul, fighting the fight with pride, waving flags and donning both Guy Fawkes and gas masks— but perhaps you haven't seen images of these guys:



In true Turkish spirit, some people have turned a lemon into lemonade— finding opportunity in the chaos (though at the moment things are very calm). Vendors have taken over Istiklal street and the sidewalks around Beşikataş to sell swimming goggles and surgical masks to protect you from the effects of teargas, lemons and milk to help with the burning, Guy Fawkes masks, pictures and T-shirts of Atatürk, and various food items, because protesting can make you hungry. There are cherry vendors and kebab cookers, men with tea kettle carts, the ubiquitous simitçis and watermelon sellers. It is something to behold, and quite a delight. I wonder where they got all those masks and whistles from so quickly?

resist

chapulling

A new word in the English language has been born of this revolution: chapulling. The word comes from the Turkish çapulcu, meaning 'marauder'— a term that the Prime Minister used to refer to the protesters. The term was embraced and reappropriated by the public, and as people proudly called themselves çapulcu, the meaning of the word shifted to being "someone who stands up for their rights." The label was soon anglicized into chapuller, from which came chapulling: "to act towards taking the democracy of a nation to the next step by reminding governments of their reason for existence in a peaceful and humorous manner." Indeed, there has been plenty of chapulling around in Istanbul— one visit to Gezi Parkı and you'll see the witty slogans and comical street art, the make-shift library tents and free yoga. People standing up for what they believe in, working together, reminding their government that they should only exist to serve the people.

calm in the wake

Today there was no sign of police. Taksim and Gezi Park were places of jubilation, chanting, singing, and picnicking. People had set up improvised snack shops, distributing water, crackers and other treats for free. Barricades were still up, the burnt carcasses of police vehicles and buses blocked roads, and protesters and their children patrolled the area with trash bags, cleaning up their city. Street vendors took the opportunity to sell everything from barbecued corn, to pilaf, to köfte sandwiches and beer. Later this evening, two large bonfires were built on the site of the new tunnel construction, where people tossed in the wooden walls that were used to block people from entering the area.  It has been an exhausting three days, and I am relieved things have calmed down in Taksim, but I wonder what lies ahead. Will anything change? I hope.

I still have hundreds of photos on my camera to share, but they will have to wait until tomorrow and the days that follow— I really need a good night's rest. Stay tuned!

sketches of istanbul protesters

Commentary to come soon, heading out to Gezi...

footage from yesterday afternoon

This was the scene in Taksim Square yesterday afternoon. It was during the second gassing, that we tasted something funny in the air. People were falling down, animals were running— it is reported that in addition to many people being hospitalised throughout the duration of the protests, quite a number of Istanbul's street animals have died.

around beyoğlu yesterday

scenes from taksim square

People waved flags, chanted and sang. The police, who were lined up on the steps to Gezi Parkı, put on their masks and helmets. There were streams of white smoke snaking through the blue sky, and landing with a cloud. Protesters began to run while someone shouted above the chaos to slow down and to take care not to knock others down. At some point, we were hit with a gas that burned more than the others— it tasted funny, a bit like oranges. Seven hours and a good shower later, my skin still burns. People collapsed on the ground unable to see, and coughing hard, yet in seconds, their eyes and face were soothed by an antacid mixture being sprayed by a compassionate stranger.



Behind the monument is Gezi Parkı, the place where this all began. People didn't want to see this patch of green razed to the ground, so they peacefully voiced their opposition to the plan for a new shopping mall, and police responded with brutality. This is no longer a fight against bulldozers razing a park to the ground. This is a fight against the government.

tear gas and lemons

I tell you, it's madness outside. These are photos I took in Talimhane, next to Taksim Square. A few hundred of us were squeezed into the little hotel-lined streets, which were littered with broken glass, teargas canisters, and pieces of plywood. Fires were set, barricades erected, and the police, silhouetted figures in the orange smoky air, shot gas every other minute at us. A smoking canister bounced off the pavement and hit my left knee, while my right foot received a direct hit. The pain was intense, but then I felt the burning.



It was in my eyes first— for a moment I couldn't see, then the stinging set in. I reached for Pedro, grabbed his arm, and we ran. People were chanting and dancing. More gas was fired, then the water cannon, then a canister flew by Pedro's eye, knocking his glasses off. We ran to another side street, where a guy offered us lemon slices for our eyes, wishing us a speedy recovery. Through blurry eyes, I could see someone being dragged into a clinic, others were doubled over, rubbing the lemon slices onto their eyelids. It's painful at first, but the lemons really do work— with the frequency of gassing that is occuring in Istanbul this year, I might resort to carrying lemons and a pocket knife in my bag.

Police were firing from every possible way out, making it impossible for us to get home, so we decided to find a place to sit down and have a çay. It seems silly, but what else were we going to do? The Eylül Cafe was serving diligently to protestors, trapped and frightened tourists, and curious residents. Seeing our raspberry-coloured swollen eyes, a young man ran up to us with a squirt bottle and kindly asked if we needed some relief. We showed him our lemons and thanked him, he gave us a quick smile, then dashed off to soothe others in need.



We eventually made it home safely, though many did not— people are seriously injured, and the Turkish media, who initially ignored the protests, is just now starting to cover the story. I was told by one protestor as he watched me sketch the scene, "Tell the world— you must tell the world what is happening here."