(Self)Censorship, Media Repression, and the Trajectory of Citizen Journalism in Turkey: the Evolution of 140Journos

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(Self)Censorship, Media Repression, and the Trajectory of Citizen Journalism in Turkey: The Evolution of 140journos

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Authors Perugini, John

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(SELF)CENSORSHIP, MEDIA REPRESSION, AND THE TRAJECTORY OF CITIZEN JOURNALISM IN TURKEY: THE EVOLUTION OF 140JOURNOS

JOHN PERUGINI

A Thesis Submitted to the Faculty of the

SCHOOL OF MIDDLE EASTERN AND NORTH AFRICAN STUDIES

In Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements

For the Degree of

MASTER OF ARTS

In the Graduate College

THE UNIVERSITY OF ARIZONA

2018

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

As I look back on this thesis, I realize the extent to which I am indebted to my advisors, colleagues, friends, and family.

First, I would like to extend my sincerest gratitude to my thesis chair, Dr. Benjamin Fortna, for providing invaluable feedback, being available at a moment’s notice, putting up with my incessant emails, and, in general, being the model of what an academic advisor should be. Additionally, I would like to thank both Dr. Maha Nassar and Dr. Leila Hudson for their thought-provoking questions and feedback which transformed my fledgling thesis into something substantial. Without the three of you, this project would have never come to fruition.

I also wish to thank my friends and colleagues for their support throughout this process. Specifically, I wish to thank my lifelong friend Michael Boyd for his encouragement; my close friends Ilayda Lynch, Giovanna Saccoccio, and Jordi Saunders for encouraging me to see the light at the end of the tunnel; my friends and colleagues Lara Tarantini, Atacan Atakan, Safa Hamza, Emrah Karakuş, Brittany Power, Tatiana Rabinovich, Feras Klenk, Saffo Papantonopoulou, Zoë Kosoff among countless others, for their emotional support and advice throughout this process. A special thank you to Nazin Ciziri who, in addition to being a supportive friend, assisted me on multiple occasions when my understanding of Turkish began to deteriorate after long hours of research.

Thanks must also be extended to 140journos, the group that inspired this project, for their continued media productions. 140journos has continued to embody what I feel media should and can be throughout their now more than five-year tenure.

I owe much of my productivity to (caffeine from) Caffe Luce, and I sincerely doubt that I am the first graduate student at the University of Arizona to extend thanks to a local Tucson treasure.

My father, Don Perugini, was on the receiving end of countless phone calls detailing the progress of my thesis. At the conclusion of each were his encouraging words. I owe any accomplishments, past, present, and future, to his undying support and generosity.

Finally, I especially want to thank Meltem Odabaş for her unwavering support emotionally and academically. Without her, I do not believe I would be at the stage where I am writing these acknowledgments. To her, more than anyone, I extend my sincerest gratitude.

Without the above, this thesis would not have been possible. Still, it must be said: any shortcomings—of which there may be many—are mine and mine alone.

Table of Contents

ABSTRACT ...... 6

CHAPTER 1: INTRODUCTION ...... 7

1.1 TURKEY’S MEDIA CLIMATE: POLARIZED AND RESTRICTED ...... 12

1.2 RELATIONSHIPS AND FORMS OF CENSORSHIP ...... 15

1.3 THE INTERNET, DEMOCRACY, AND GOVERNANCE ...... 19

1.4 OUTLINE OF CHAPTERS ...... 22

1.5 LITERATURE REVIEW ...... 24

1.5.1 Repression and Mobilization- Backfire and Deterrence ...... 25

1.5.2 Networked Public Sphere(s), Citizen Journalism, and Social Media ...... 29

1.5.3 Genealogy of Censorship in Turkey ...... 32

CHAPTER 2: CENSORSHIP, BACKFIRE, AND CITIZEN JOURNALISM: THE FIRST TWO

EVOLUTIONS OF 140JOURNOS ...... 40

2.1 DIGITAL SOCIETY, DIGITAL NEWS ...... 43

2.2 ULUDERE (ROBOSKI) AND CENSORSHIP IN TURKEY ...... 47

2.3 THE FIRST ‘EVOLUTION’ OF 140JOURNOS: ‘ON THE GROUND’ CITIZEN JOURNALISM ...... 50

2.4 THE GEZI PARK PROTESTS: THE “LADY IN RED” AND THE MARCH OF THE PENGUINS ...... 55

2.4.1 Backfire and Mobilization at Gezi Park ...... 59

2.4.2 Censorship Backfire, Penguins, and Social Media ...... 62

2.5 DIGITAL SPACE MEETS PROTEST SPACE: GEZI AND 140JOURNOS ORGANIZATIONAL SHIFT ...... 65

2.6 THE AFTERMATH OF THE GEZI PROTESTS: SUSTAINING A CITIZEN JOURNALISM PROJECT ...... 70

CHAPTER 3: TURKEY’S STATE OF EMERGENCY AND THE ‘PROFESSIONAL/CREATIVE’

EVOLUTION OF 140JOURNOS ...... 78

3.1 THE ARTISTRY OF THE ‘PROFESSIONAL/CREATIVE’ 140JOURNOS ...... 82 5

3.2 BETWEEN NON-COMMENTARY AND ANTAGONISM? ...... 88

3.3 IS CITIZEN JOURNALISM SUSTAINABLE DURING A STATE OF EMERGENCY? WHAT WE CAN LEARN FROM

140JOURNOS’S TRAJECTORY...... 92

CHAPTER 4: 140JOURNOS AND THE WAY(S) FORWARD?...... 99

4.1 NETWORKS IN HIBERNATION? ONE WAY FORWARD ...... 101

4.2 SOCIAL CHANGE FROM BELOW? ONE WAY FORWARD ...... 102

4.3 THE DARKEST HOUR? ONE WAY FORWARD ...... 103

WORKS CITED ...... 105

ABSTRACT

This research traces the evolution of 140journos, a former citizen journalist group (2012-

2017) and now professional media group (2017-present) based in Istanbul, Turkey. In doing so, it connects the evolution of the group with the broader processes of censorship and media repression in Turkey. Since its establishment in 2012, I argue that 140journos can be categorized by three distinct evolutions: On the Ground, Curatorial, and

Professional/Creative, and that each evolution has been a distinct, tactical response to evolutions of media repression and censorship in Turkey. By understanding the tactical responses of 140journos during each evolution and what prompted the large-scale organizational and tactical shifts of the group, we can more critically engage with and more thoroughly understand the constantly evolving processes of media repression and censorship in Turkey. Additionally, the trajectory of the group—going from citizen journalists in the first two evolutions to a professional ‘media’ group in its third and current evolution—indicates not only the degree and form(s) of censorship in Turkey but also the strengths, weaknesses, and potentialities of citizen journalism, more broadly. 7

CHAPTER 1: INTRODUCTION

This project is a case study of a singular media group based in Istanbul, Turkey—

140journos—that was established in 2012 and has continued to publish content on a regular basis on a variety of digital platforms. Those familiar with social media might glean from the group’s name—coming from the 140-character limit on Twitter posts—the digital nature of 140journos, and the group’s digital-only model will prove to be an important site of consideration due to Turkey’s internet regulation policies, discourses surrounding internet use in Turkey, and various government restrictions placed on numerous websites.

As of 2018, 140journos has more than 200,000 followers on Twitter, tweeted more than

70,000 times, and uploaded more than 50,000 pictures and videos to their account.

However, the group is not limited to Twitter as they are active on other popular social media platforms such as Facebook, Instagram, YouTube, among others. For each platform, the group has adapted their content to the respective digital medium. Despite medium- specific peculiarities, the group’s core principle of reporting the news in its initial years remained consistent: provide real-time, on-the-spot, and non-commentary media to news consumers.

The above principles will each be addressed in further detail in subsequent chapters, but a brief description of the group’s methodologies seems appropriate. The group’s organization has shifted over the course of its five and a half year tenure, and I classify these shifts as three distinct evolutions: (1) On the ground, (2) Curatorial, and (3)

Professional/Creative. These evolutions have been tactical responses to the broader machinations of censorship in Turkey. For instance, the ‘on the ground’ evolution, i.e. the founding of the group up until the Gezi Park Protests, was a direct response to the 8

prevalent self-censorship amongst mainstream Turkish media; the ‘curatorial’ evolution was a response to the Gezi Park Protests when so many Turkish citizens became the ‘on the ground’ party documenting newsworthy events; and, finally, the ‘professional/creative’ evolution of the group came in response to the group’s informational networks becoming increasingly limited under Turkey’s state of emergency following the failed military coup of

July 2016. Such tactical shifts are emblematic of the state of censorship within Turkey, and as such, 140journos can be understood as a response, a means of circumvention, and a barometer of censorship. Each of the aforementioned evolutions and the broader societal processes that resulted in them will be discussed in the subsequent chapters. However, I believe a brief ‘primer’ of what each evolution entailed, specifically in the ‘form’ of their productions, will be useful when they are later connected to the broader socio-political issues that informed the state of censorship.

Initially and out of necessity, the co-founders of 140journos attended and produced news content about what they deemed to be newsworthy events that otherwise would not have received media coverage, ranging the political spectrum from marginal right-wing movements advocating for Sharia Law to protests by leftist activists to live-tweeting court proceedings, careful to leave their own opinions out of the coverage. The founding of the group was a direct response to overt censorship being made apparent by a Turkish journalist, Serdar Akinan. In December 2011, Akinan, despite the wishes of his editors and news agency, covered the Uludere (Roboski) Airstrike on his personal social media accounts. This served as a both an instance of overt repression backfiring (Hess and Martin,

2006) and instructional moment for 140journos’s co-founders. They, too, could produce news like Akinan by going to sites of newsworthiness equipped with their phones and 9

social media accounts. During this evolution, 140journos members would go to newsworthy events, such as court cases and rallies, and report on them using Twitter.

However, the group was limited both in its scope and reach. Still, it remains especially relevant to the subsequent ‘curatorial’ evolution as the principles of non-commentary news and the willingness to cover a broad spectrum of news stories grounded the group— allowing them to avoid labels such as leftist, pro-Kurdish, opposition media, etc.

As time progressed, the necessity to be present at newsworthy events gave way to the role of news curator, resulting in crowdsourced news. I label this evolution as

‘curatorial,’ and once again censorship backfiring played a crucial role in the tactical shifts of 140journos. Zeynep Tufekçi (2017) argues that “social media curatorial journalism tries to solve the problem of abundance: telling false or fake reports from real ones and composing a narrative from a seemingly chaotic splash-drip-splash supply of news.”1 The

Gezi Park Protests were the major turning point in the group’s organizational shift from ‘on the ground’ to ‘curatorial’ because millions of Turkish citizens assumed the ‘on the ground’ citizen journalist position in response to Turkish media failing to cover the protests or misrepresenting the protests. If 140journos were to continue as an ‘on the ground’ citizen journalist group, they would have been one voice amongst millions. Throughout the protests, they tirelessly worked to verify content, refute inaccurate stories, and provide structure and narrative to the chaotic stream of information from protesters.

We can view the above as two distinct modes of citizen journalism: the first being the initial presence of 140journos members at sites of newsworthiness, i.e. ‘on the ground’

1 Zeynep Tufekçi, Twitter and Tear Gas: The Power and Fragility of Networked Protest (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2017), 42. 10

citizen journalism, and the second fulfilling the role of an editorial board for news submitted by other citizens, i.e. ‘curatorial’ citizen journalism. Both evolutions will be discussed in-depth in Chapter 2, but the critical takeaway is that every ‘evolution’ of

140journos has been a tactical response to larger issues of censorship in Turkey.

The latest evolution of 140journos, the ‘professional/creative’ evolution, differs markedly from the ‘curatorial’ while partially resembling the ‘on the ground.’ Once again,

140journos contributors are, sometimes, the ‘on the ground’ party, but this evolution should be understood as distinct from the previous two for multiple reasons. First, I no longer classify this evolution as a ‘citizen journalism’ as 140journos’ productions have taken on an entirely different and increasingly artistic form. Secondly, the non-commentary productions that were present in both the ‘on the ground’ and ‘curatorial’ evolutions of the group have been replaced by commentary pieces, albeit not in a direct manner. Instead, the artistic form of its recent productions has allowed 140journos to provide social commentary on major issues, ranging from being a woman in Istanbul, the development of

Turkey’s first nuclear power plant, among other prominent social issues in Turkey.

Tracing the evolution of 140journos cannot be done without connecting the group to the larger context of media censorship in Turkey nor can it be done without understanding how repression operates within Turkey—both in regards to media repression and, more broadly, repression of dissent. The context, extent, and form of censorship is in an ever-evolving dialogue with Turkey’s broader political issues. For example, censorship during the Gezi Park Protests, while staggering in scale, is operationalized to a much greater degree in the aftermath of the abortive military coup.

Therefore, by understanding the struggles that 140journos has endured during each 11

‘evolution’ and the various tactics they employed to meet the challenges and shifts within a repressive media environment, we can better understand several critical issues: how censorship operates in contemporary Turkey and how it was conducive for the emergence and proliferation of citizen journalist projects during the Gezi Park Protests but how this potential has waned following the abortive military coup; what the issues of sustaining a citizen journalist project entail in a repressive media environment; how counter-publics can emerge through alternate media consumption; and what the trajectory of 140journos means for similar media projects in Turkey.

140journos has been able to operate within a tense, polarized, and restrictive media climate, both as a citizen journalist collective and later a professional/creative media agency, because of several critical factors. First, unlike many citizen journalist platforms,

140journos did not emerge in the context of a broader social movement. Rather, they were a small-scale mobilization as conceptualized by Hank Johnston (2006). Particularly,

Johnston highlights the importance of understanding how these mobilizations occur.

Whereas citizen journalism groups often form and proliferate within the context of a broader social movement, 140journos was a response to a specific trigger, i.e. Uludere

(Roboski) being publicized by Akinan. As such, the group’s staying power was not linked to a social movement unlike other, social movement spawned citizen journalist projects whose relative ‘strength’ is inextricably linked to the strength of the social movement. As the larger social movement wanes, so too do many of the citizen journalism groups that emerged with it.

Next, and this is particularly important within the context of Turkey’s polarized media environment, the first two ‘evolutions’ of 140journos covered news from all political 12

spectrums and, in conjunction with non-commentary language, this allowed 140journos to avoid the label of ‘propagandist,’ something often attributed to alternative media sources— particularly those addressing Turkey’s Kurdish issue. In both its ‘on the ground’ and

‘curatorial’ evolutions, 140journos explicitly used neutral terms in order to navigate a tense media climate that structurally repressed journalists, both mainstream and alternative.2 Finally, we cannot discount the savviness of 140journos as their continued evolution—from ‘on the ground’ to ‘curatorial’ to ‘professional/creative’—indicates a keen awareness of the limitations placed by censors.

1.1 Turkey’s Media Climate: Polarized and Restricted

Much like politics in Turkey, news consumption and production in Turkey is heavily polarized and demarcated along political lines. Observing media coverage of the 2011

Turkish national elections, Çarkoğlu, Baruh, and Yılrıdım (2014) found evidence of “press- party parallelism” among media coverage favoring the Justice and Development Party

(AKP) amongst conservative newspapers and the Republican People’s Party (CHP) amongst opposition newspapers during the 2011 elections, and the trend continues to hold true for

“traditional” media companies and their news content. Çarkoğlu, et al. define “favorability” as “the explicit tone of a newspaper toward different parties and can be influenced by

2 Despite the purported use of neutral terminology, there has been at least one incident throughout the tenure of 140journos, to the author’s knowledge, where this was directly contested—although certainly there could be other instances. In 2016, 140journos received a “Hormonlu Domates Ödülü (Hormone Injected Tomato Award),” a mock award that criticizes the ‘winner’ for its use of homophobic and/or transphobic language. Furkan Temir’s coverage of a 2016 Trans Beauty Pageant in Istanbul for 140journos received the ‘award’ for using transphobic language (https://140journos.com/bu-y%C4%B1l-ikincisi-d%C3%BCzenlenen-trans- g%C3%BCzellik-yar%C4%B1%C5%9Fmas%C4%B1-na-hepiniz-ho%C5%9Fgeldiniz-c487100b6b5).

market pressure, corporate policies, and editorial bias.”3 In contrast to this, the founders of

140journos set out to create news content that would not adhere to the massive polarization in Turkish media. The anecdote that encompassed and outlined this, as narrated by one of the co-founders, was to produce news that would be read both by another co-founder’s father, an ardent nationalist, who would not readily consume news that discusses with any nuance the political issues of Southeastern Turkey and activists familiar with the plight of those in the Southeast. In essence, the group hoped that their attempt “non-commentary” news would result in a more informed and more diverse readership.

140journos’s establishment and proliferation were indicative of both the state of journalism and news consumption in Turkey. 140journos was founded in response to the

Turkish press’s initial failure to report the Uludere (Roboski) Massacre. In December 2011, a group of smugglers was transporting goods across the Turkey-Iraq border. The Turkish military, mistaking the group for militants belonging to the outlawed Kurdistan Workers’

Party (PKK), dropped bombs from F-16 fighter jets on the smuggling party, resulting in the deaths of 34 Turkish citizens. The aftermath of the incident was emblematic of how self- censorship operates amongst the mainstream Turkish media. In an interview at Columbia

University, 140journos co-founder Engin Önder recounted hearing via Twitter that a bombing had occurred at the Iraqi border. However, according to Önder, “when we turned

3 Ali Çarkoğlu, Lemi Baruh, and Kerem Yıldırım, "Press-Party Parallelism and Polarization of News Media during an Election Campaign," The International Journal of Press/Politics 19, no. 3 (2014): 301, doi:10.1177/1940161214528994.

on [the news], there was nothing, and the day after, we purchased newspapers [and] there was nothing. But on Twitter, there was a storm of information.”4 He continues by referencing Serdar Akinan’s personal experiences of the event. Akinan, at the time of the event, was a journalist for the Turkish daily Akşam, and when he spoke with colleagues asking whether or not they had information that something had happened at the Iraqi border, Akinan learned that although his colleagues had relevant information, they would not publish it due to an “order from the top.”5

Despite the order, Akinan went to the Iraqi border and began to tweet about the event on his personal Twitter account. Although affiliated with Akşam, at this point, Önder proffers that Akinan is not acting as Akinan the journalist but as Akinan the citizen.

Although 140journos have always been reluctant to accept the label of “citizen journalists,”

Akinan, if not acting as a journalist but a citizen, was by extension of this logic practicing citizen journalism. Whether or not Akinan shared a similar mindset or whether the terminology of what the action entailed might be disputed, it served as a pivotal moment and revelation for the 140journos co-founders.6 Önder recalls speaking with his friends and wondering, “do we really need big cameras, fancy terminology, and [name brand] mics [to report the news]? No...that was the revelation that Serdar Akinan helped us understand.”7

This ‘founding moment’ will be more thoroughly analyzed in Chapter 2 as doing so will further elucidate the degree and form that censorship takes in contemporary Turkey.

4 CITP Princeton, "Engin Onder," YouTube, March 06, 2014, accessed April 21, 2018, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jsYnWmPgg4Y. 5 Ibid. 6 Ibid. 7 Ibid. 15

1.2 Relationships and Forms of Censorship

Censorship in Turkey has a long history, and its evolution since the 1980s will be discussed in-depth in both the literature review and subsequent chapter; but as censorship plays an integral role in this study, I will provide a brief definition of how I define the concept. Censorship is the attempt to either prevent, provide barriers-to-access, and/or disrupt the transfer of information. Tufekçi writes that in today’s digitally connected society, we should understand censorship not as a “dichotomy” of “something is either censored or not” but, rather, focus on “attention” which is what is sought to be denied via censorship.8

While previous studies of media in Turkey have carefully outlined various forms of censorship over the course of the republic’s history, censorship manifests itself in various manners largely dependent upon the medium. How censorship operated during the

Hamidian period of the Ottoman Empire,9 the ascendance of Mustafa Kemal Atatürk and years that followed,10 and present-day Turkey differ for a variety of reasons. Yet, the goal in

8 Tufekçi, Twitter and Tear Gas, 30. 9 Accounts of censorship during the Ottoman Period, specifically during Sultan Abdülhamit II’s reign, often come in the form of brief articles written for periodicals by European and American writers. These pieces, while certainly rife with biases towards Christian minorities and against the ‘Turkish oppressor’ of said Christians, provide insight into the institutions of censorship present in the Late Ottoman Empire. See “Press Censorship in Turkey,” The Nassau Literary Magazine (1848-1908), Dec 1895; 51, 5; American Periodicals pg. 246. 10 With regards to the early Republican Period, Spar (2010) writes that: “Freedom of expression in the media has been problematic in Turkey for almost a century. Less than two months after the 1923 inception of the Republic of Turkey, journalists who opposed the new government were arrested and brought before an Independence Tribunal. The 1931 Press Law allowed the Council of Ministers to suspend publications and shut down publishing houses that were considered oppositional to the government. The Press Law and several similar measures were designed to promote Turkish nationalism, one of the major tenets of the new official ideology of Turkey — Kemalism” (57). From Spar, Danielle, "The State of Freedom of the Press in Turkey" (2010). Turkey: bridging two worlds. Paper 7. http://preserve.lehigh.edu/perspectives-v28/7 16

each context has been to stifle the flow of certain types of information, i.e. to prevent it from gaining attention.

With this in mind, we must note that the desire to prevent the proliferation of information is neither a modern concept nor is it limited to the state. Extralegal attempts to censor journalists also have an immense effect on a journalist’s deliberation process of what and what not to publish. Still, historicizing the concept of censorship allows us to see that, while the desire to prevent the dissemination of certain information has remained static, the machinations that enable it have continuously evolved and adapted to the manner in which ‘undesirable’ information reaches its ‘desired’ recipients. Manifestations of censorship vary greatly depending upon the medium; equally important in the context of

Turkey, however, are the relationships between the state and author as well as the muddled relationships between the state and media companies. This last relationship, particularly, informs the state of journalism with regards to self-censorship. While this form of censorship might not be as visceral as a news agency or channel being shut down by the state—an all-too-common occurrence for pro-Kurdish media outlets— its effects on content production are equally apparent.

In Turkey, self-censorship functions as a means of protection from a variety of precarious outcomes— the threat of trials, imprisonment, and/or the fear of losing employment. Writing for The Guardian in 2016, Elif Şafak lamented that “there is widespread self-censorship, like a shadow that looms in the background”11 amongst

11 Elif Şafak, "Orhan Pamuk and Elif Shafak: Istanbul, City of Dreams and Nightmares," The Guardian, January 27, 2016, accessed October 12, 2017, https://www.theguardian.com/artanddesign/2016/jan/27/orhan- pamuk-museum-of-innocence-istanbul-turkey-somerset-house-london-elif-safak-interview. 17

journalists and authors, and a survey conducted amongst Turkish journalists three years prior reported that 91 percent, i.e. 53 of 58, responded yes to the question, “Do Turkish journalists apply self-censorship?” with the primary reasoning for this being “internal political pressures.”12 Journalists at major companies wrestle with internal guidelines on which stories can be published, and the “corporate-clientele” relationship amongst the owners of Turkey’s large media corporations and prominent state officials, which will be discussed in detail in Chapter 2, informs what is palatable for publication.13 The average citizen, too, experiences the effects of censorship in a multitude of ways be it at the hands of an internet lynch mob or codified legislation that might lead to legal prosecution.

The initial conception of 140journos was both a byproduct of censorship as well as a mode of challenging it. In their own words, the group cites the Uludere (Roboski) Airstrike as their “tipping point.” If we view various forms of censorship as repression, Uludere

(Roboski) operates as an instance of repression backfiring. The publicization of violent repression towards dissenters can result in “backfire,” a response to the perceived

“violation of a widely accepted social norm.”14 The same occurs with regards to censorship although “it is apparent that most censorship does not trigger outrage.”15 While Uludere

(Roboski) was 140journos’ backfire moment, the same cannot broadly be said for Turkish

12 Esra Arsan, "Killing Me Softly with His Words: Censorship and Self-Censorship from the Perspective of Turkish Journalists," Turkish Studies 14, no. 3 (September 5, 2013): , doi:10.1080/14683849.2013.833017. 13 As Çarkoğlu, Baruh, and Yıldırım (2014) outline, “First, media owners increasingly relied on clientelistic relationships with the state to gain a competitive edge in their “non-media” businesses (Christensen 2007; Finkel 2000). Second, ownership of many newspapers was transferred from family-owned companies to conglomerations, resulting in an increasing concentration of ownership in the media market (Semetko 2010).” 14 Sue Curry Jansen and Brian Martin, "Exposing and Opposing Censorship: Backfire Dynamics in Freedom-of- speech Struggles," PACIFIC JOURNALISM REVIEW 10, no. 1 (2004): 31, accessed April 21, 2018. 15 Ibid, 32. 18

news consumers. However, the Gezi Park Protests sparked this backfire in a broader sense, at least for a brief period, and 140journos’ organizational scheme, becoming a hub of information, resulted in a large increase in their readership. The self-censorship at the onset of the Gezi Protests highlighted the magnitude of corporate-clientelism in Turkish media as major networks did anything but cover the event, but it also highlighted the role that independent, digital media can assume when there is an information gap. In the chaos that ensued, 140journos became one of the most trusted sources of information as it actively and accurately relayed relevant information and dispelled misinformation that circulated quickly due to the nature of the most popular modes of digital communication.

Because of the digital turn of information acquisition, the internet, as a space, is an important site of consideration for this project. First, it is a site of contestation in multiple ways— the contestation between factual and false information remains duly relevant for any journalistic endeavor, but because the nature of the internet and social media affords a voice to anyone with an internet connection and an account, a digital-only newsgroup must work to provide credibility to both its content and the platform it publishes on. Next, access to the internet is also a site of contestation. Restrictions on internet access in Turkey have been steadily increasing, especially during times of “emergency.” The modus operandi of the current Turkish government is as follows: if there is a significant event, such as a terrorist attack, access to certain sites such as YouTube, Twitter, Facebook, etc. are restricted or slowed to the point where accessing them becomes a hindrance. The purpose of this is to prevent people from posting pictures and accounts related to the incident.

In addition, access to websites such as Wikipedia, AliExpress, webhost CloudFlare, the LGBTQI+ sections of Reddit, among numerous other websites are restricted by the 19

government for varied reasons.16 Of course, such measures never result in those sites being truly inaccessible as citizens desiring access to the internet employ tactics such as Virtual

Private Networks (VPN) to circumvent these barriers. Recently, however, restricting access to VPNs has become another strategy of the Turkish government to restrict access to content.17 In summation, any barrier that prevents a user from going to these sites in these moments, for the purported reason of security or any other stated reason, ultimately limits access to information and is, thus, a form of censorship.

1.3 The Internet, Democracy, and Governance

Initial studies of democracy and the internet predicted that it might be a tool to provide a legible path towards democratization. In his 2007 article entitled “The Internet,

Democracy, and Democratization,” Peter Ferdinand writes that “one of the most striking effects of the Internet...has been its ability to spread ideas and products across national boundaries.”18 Within the past decade, certainly, we can see the role of the internet and its effects on democratization movements through its unification of transnational audiences.

In the Arab Spring uprisings and the Gezi Park protests, Twitter and other social media platforms played a crucial role in the emergence of transnational solidarity movements. In the previously mentioned movements as well as others such as Occupy Wall Street,

16 "Incident Reports and News," Turkey Blocks, accessed April 21, 2018, https://turkeyblocks.org/reports/. 17 "Turkish Government Now Blocks Use of VPN: Report," Turkey Purge, March 24, 2018, , accessed May 26, 2018, https://turkeypurge.com/turkish-government-now-blocks-use-vpn-report. 18 Peter Ferdinand, "The Internet, Democracy and Democratization," Democratization 7, no. 1 (2000): 11, accessed April 21, 2018, doi:10.4324/9780203045336.

Indignados, and protests in Brazil, the internet facilitated mobility and made visible the protesters not only within their own geographies but transnationally.

However, while the internet can provide legitimate albeit fragmented pathways towards democratization, it also functions as a means to consolidate and strengthen authoritarian regimes. Sebastian Hellfeimer argues that “internet restrictions are part of the repressive toolkit of rational autocratic rulers and follow a cost-benefit calculus.”19 In the context of Turkey, the ruling Justice and Development Party, henceforth referred to as

AKP, and its most recognizable figure Recep Tayyip Erdoğan operate with this cost-benefit calculus in mind. This becomes evident in both the discourse and subsequent actions of the ruling party. Erdoğan can make bold proclamations such as “[t]here is now a menace called

Twitter. The best examples of lies can be found there. To me, social media is the worst menace to society” in the midst of the Gezi Park protests because the majority of those occupying the streets as well as the arena of Twitter during Gezi were not members of the

AKP’s voter constituency.20 This will be elaborated on in the subsequent chapter, but a rudimentary explanation of such a calculation is as follows: restricting access to Twitter does not affect the AKP’s voter base in the way that it affects those who vote for other parties so the incumbent government can employ the aforementioned tactics in the hopes of diminishing the movement while bolstering themselves in the eyes of their supporters.

19 Sebastian Hellmeier, "The Dictators Digital Toolkit: Explaining Variation in Internet Filtering in Authoritarian Regimes," Politics & Policy 44, no. 6 (2016): 1160, accessed April 21, 2018, doi:10.1111/polp.12189. 20 Constanze Letsch, "Social Media and Opposition to Blame for Protests, Says Turkish PM," The Guardian, June 03, 2013, accessed April 21, 2018, https://www.theguardian.com/world/2013/jun/02/turkish- protesters-control-istanbul-square.

Yet, in the wake of such statements, the party can also incorporate the ‘menace’ for political gain as made evident by the establishment of a “6000 member social media team to woo citizens and fight party critics.”21 Zeynep Tufekçi likens social media to other

“disruptive technologies,” arguing that “governments’ initial waves of ignorance and misunderstanding quickly giv[e] way to learning about the medium’s strengths and weaknesses, as well as the development of new methods to counter dissent.”22 The simultaneous demonization and employment of social media highlights several critical issues. First and foremost, social media use is within the consideration of the government; next, inflammatory discourse functions to undermine the medium but more importantly, to undermine those who use it in a manner deemed unsavory by the government; but finally, it is in the interest of the Turkish government to engage on social media platforms to counteract discourse that seeks to undermine its political endeavors.

On the whole, the Turkish internet landscape is not one that is easily navigable by the average user let alone a digital-only media startup. Between certain sites not being accessible in the country and laws hindering certain forms of expression, for example a former model and Miss Turkey received a suspended prison sentence for insulting "a public official" on Instagram, Turkish internet users traverse a heavily surveilled, often literally restricted landscape. In 2015, Freedom House rated Turkey’s internet as “partly free,” and

21Ayla Albayrak and Joe Parkinson, "Turkey's Government Forms 6,000-Member Social Media Team," The Wall Street Journal, September 16, 2013, accessed April 21, 2018, https://www.wsj.com/articles/turkeys- government-forms-6000member-social-media-team-1379351399. 22 Zeynep Tufekçi, "SOCIAL MOVEMENTS AND GOVERNMENTS IN THE DIGITAL AGE: EVALUATING A COMPLEX LANDSCAPE," Journal of International Affairs 68, no. 1 (2014): 2, accessed April 21, 2018, http://www.jstor.org/stable/24461703.

as of 2016, the internet was deemed to be “not free” due to various “obstacles to access, limits on content, and violations of user rights.”23 According to Twitter’s Transparency

Report analyzing “Removal Requests” between January 1st and June 30th, 2017, Turkey filed “2,710...requests to remove content.”24 TurkeyBlocks, “an independent, non-partisan digital transparency project,” states that “[Twitter] has a good record of pushing back against ungrounded government demands, although it ultimately has to comply with local laws in the countries where it operates.”25 However, the company ultimately acquiesced to many of the complaints lodged by the Turkish state, “with[holding] 204 accounts and 497 tweets” in a six-month time span in 2017.26 While these ratings and reports provide insight into how the digital landscape inform the manner in which 140journos can publish content, they cannot fully account for the media landscape that a digital-only media agency would experience as it navigates the restrictions placed upon both internet freedom and journalistic freedom.

1.4 Outline of Chapters

In Chapter 2, I trace how the aforementioned self-censorship prevalent in mainstream journalism came to be and, later, functioned as a backfire mechanism for

140journos, leading to its establishment in 2012; and later in 2013, how censorship of the

23 "Turkey," Turkey | Freedom House, November 14, 2016, accessed April 21, 2018, https://freedomhouse.org/report/freedom-net/2016/turkey. 24 "Removal Requests," Twitter, accessed April 21, 2018, https://transparency.twitter.com/en/removal- requests.html#removal-requests-jan-jun-2017. 25 Editorial, "Turkey Leads in Social Media Censorship: New Twitter Transparency Report," Turkey Blocks, March 22, 2017, accessed April 21, 2018, https://turkeyblocks.org/2017/03/21/turkey-leads-social-media- censorship-new-twitter-transparency-report/. 26 Removal Requests," Twitter, accessed April 21, 2018, https://transparency.twitter.com/en/removal- requests.html#removal-requests-jan-jun-2017. 23

Gezi Park protests performed the same role for the Turkish news consumer more broadly, allowing for the proliferation of new modes of news consumption—in this case, digital-only social media news such as 140journos. Backfire literature argues that a sufficient moral shock is necessary to motivate people to act against instances of repression. In the case of

140journos, this ‘censorship backfire’ resulted from the Uludere (Roboski) Massacre in

2011, reported on by Serdar Akinan against the wishes of his news agency. For Turkish media consumers, more broadly, this occurred as a response to mainstream media coverage, or the initial lack thereof, of the Gezi Park protests made evident the degree to which mainstream Turkish media self-censors.

In addition, I proffer that the ‘startup’ nature of 140journos counteracted self- censorship as the chief motivation amongst Turkish journalists— internal pressures from higher-ups who often benefit from the ‘clientelism’ of prominent officials—was absent due to the venture being self-funded and staffed by volunteers. While this may seem obvious, it is important to investigate as citizens also self-censor in Turkey, and it is critical to understand how and why so-called “citizen journalists” avoid self-censorsing. In addition, I argue that the news collective’s organizational structure, initially ‘on the ground’ but semi- anonymous and its later shift to functioning primarily as a node and curator of information, as well as its dedication to ‘non-commentary’ news, enabled it to navigate the tenuous media landscape in Turkey between 2012-2016.

In Chapter 3, I analyze the newest media productions of the group in order to ascertain whether or not there has been a discernible change in the manner in which stories have been covered by the group. I do this in an attempt to discover anything that might be indicative of self-censorship amongst the group, or if we can still attach the label 24

of “citizen journalism” to the group. In doing so, I assess whether or not the ‘on the ground’ and ‘crowdsourced’ evolutions of the group effectively resisted the prevailing censorship issues present in Turkey’s media landscape. I argue that this was the case but will demonstrate why it is not sustainable in post-coup Turkey. Doing so will call into question the efficacy of citizen journalism outside of instances of crisis. This line of inquiry will elucidate whether or not we can continue to call 140journos a “citizen journalist” platform as they have been labeled by other journalists and scholars, alike, or if they have evolved into something else. I do the following by analyzing the past year and a half of the group’s tenure and illustrate the stark differences in format and intent behind their productions.

Finally, Chapter 4 concludes with an outline of the potential ‘ways forward’ for the group. While this chapter is speculative, each ‘way forward’ is informed by experiences that the group has already navigated. As such, although this section cannot be understood as a matter-of-fact, it outlines the potentialities of the present experiences of 140journos and seeks to expound on the known and unknowns these experiences entail.

1.5 Literature Review

Several bodies of literature are duly relevant to understanding the establishment, meteoric rise, and evolution of 140journos. Literature pertaining to repression and its effects on mobilization, the 21st century’s increasingly globally connected society and its effects on citizen journalism, and the history of media repression in Turkey, specifically, all inform any scholarly investigation into the trajectory of 140journos.

1.5.1 Repression and Mobilization- Backfire and Deterrence

There has not been a unanimous conclusion to the question of when/why repression results in increased mobilization, i.e. backfire, and when/why it results in decreased mobilization, i.e. deterrence. For the purposes of this research, both outcomes are important albeit at different junctures. The founding of 140journos in 2012, the transformation of the Gezi Park Protests from a small environmental sit-in to nation-wide protests in Summer 2013, and the large-scale consumption of social media news and alternative forms of news media during the Gezi Park Protests due to overt censorship amongst mainstream media are all instances of repression backfiring.

Conversely, when looking at the prolonged repression of dissent during Turkey’s current state of emergency (July 2016 to present), we do not see repression backfiring as it did previously during the Gezi Park Protests. Rather, repression appears to be effectively deterring dissent as the affordances to the government under the state of emergency enable prosecution of dissent on a broad scale. The effects of this have been evident society wide ranging from students at Boğaziçi University being arrested for protesting against the government’s military involvement in Syria to more than 189 media outlets being shut down since the enactment of the state of emergency. Essentially, opponents of the government policy run the risk of being targeted. The most extreme example of this came in November 2016 when a large portion of Turkey’s third largest parliamentary party, the

Peoples’ Democratic Party (HDP), were imprisoned on charges “of harbouring sympathies for, and acting to further the interests of the Kurdistan Workers, party (PKK), a separatist 26

group engaged in an insurgency against the government.”27 The sense that speaking out against the government is more ‘costly’ than ever informs the final evolution of 140journos as has resulted in the group’s informational networks shrinking due to the perceived cost of dissenting acts. This can be understood as repression deterring dissidence. As such, we cannot understand the trajectory and tactical shifts of 140journos without an understanding of backfire and deterrence.

In Repression, Backfire, and the Theory of Transformative Events, Hess and Martin

(2006) analyze repressive events in order to understand which instances might backfire and lead to greater mobilization, how authorities attempt to defuse mobilization, and the role that “media and public-opinion…play in transforming repression into transformative events.”28 The authors define backfire as “a public reaction of outrage to an event that is publicized and perceived as unjust.” 29 Based upon three case studies, they outline five techniques that governments (or elites) often employ in an attempt to defuse potential mobilization: cover-up, devaluation of the target, reinterpretation, official channels, and intimidation and bribery.30 Cover-up can best be understood as censorship of the event and its participants; devaluation of the target is how governments (elites) frame those mobilizing; reinterpretation—hand in hand with devaluation of the target—is describing the larger movement using outright lies or negative framing; official channels comes in the

27 Kareem Shaheen, "Turkey Arrests Pro-Kurdish Party Leaders amid Claims of Internet Shutdown," The Guardian, November 04, 2016, https://www.theguardian.com/world/2016/nov/04/turkey-arrests-pro- kurdish-party-leaders-mps. 28 Hess and Martin, 249 29 Ibid, 249. 30 Ibid, 262.

form of statements by officials; and intimidation and bribery can be seen in various forms such as police brutality, arrests, threats of unemployment, among other immediate consequences.31

Additionally, Hess and Martin outline countermeasures taken in response to each of the aforementioned techniques of repression. For instance, the response to cover-up is

“communication to movement members and wider society; journalism (stories, photos, and videos).”32 In conjunction with the countermeasures against official channels, i.e. the “use of alternative, non-official channels,” these two counter-techniques are of particular importance to this research. The founding of 140journos came in response to an instance of

“cover-up,” specifically the Uludere (Roboski) Airstike, and Serdar Akinan’s proper journalistic response led to a mobilization and establishment of 140journos by the group’s initial members—four college-aged Turkish men wanting to “uncensor” Turkish media.

While this instance did not result in a large-scale mobilization amongst Turkish citizens, it still follows the framework laid out by Hess and Martin and resulted in a small-scale mobilization, i.e. 140journos, which should be understood as repression (censorship) backfiring.

Each of the aforementioned techniques and many of the responses outlined became duly relevant during the Gezi Park Protests—which was a critical juncture for 140journos as the group shifted tactically in response to the larger mobilization of protesters in the

Gezi Park Protests. When the initial protesters in Gezi Park were violently dispersed by the

31 Ibid, 262. 32 Ibid, 262

police, this resulted in a backfire response that transformed a small environmental sit-in into nationwide protests.33 This, too, will further assessed in Chapter 2 as well as the effects of overt censorship during the Gezi Park Protests backfiring and prompting alternative forms of news consumption.

However, Hess and Martin’s assessment of repression backfiring is not the only potential outcome of repression despite it being the outcome in many instances.

Repression can also result in deterrence, and this is crucial to understanding the third evolution of 140journos that has operated under Turkey’s state of emergency since July

2016. Lichbach (1987) writes that “simple theories of ‘resource mobilization’ predict that deterrence works because repression raises the costs to individuals who participate in a conflict, which makes them less willing to strike back at regimes.”34 Additionally, in a comparison of protest policing—that is looking at overt violent dispersion versus so-called

‘softer’ arrests— Jennifer Earl (2005) determined that ultimately arrests deterred participation in protests (a workers strike) due to “diminished participation and leadership” as well as “diminished resources,” and finally “diminished legitimacy.”35

Tactics of repression can and often do achieve their desired result of weakening and/or deterring future dissent. For instance, those arrested obviously cannot participate in a social movement. However, Earl notes a “less obvious” outcome: that those charged

33 For a detailed account of this, see Meltem Odabaş and Heidi Reynolds-Stenson, "Tweeting from Gezi Park: Social Media and Repression Backfire," Social Currents, October 9, 2017, doi:10.1177/2329496517734569. 34 Mark Irving Lichbach, "Deterrence or Escalation?" Journal of Conflict Resolution 31, no. 2 (1987): 290, doi:10.1177/0022002787031002003. 35 Earl, Jennifer, "‘You Can Beat the Rap, But You Can’t Beat the Ride:’ Bringing Arrests Back into Research on Repression." Research in Social Movements, Conflicts and Change, 26 (2005): 117-8. doi:10.1016/s0163- 786x(05)26004-4.

and arrested “felt unable to participate while charges were pending against them.”36 In essence, when (potential) dissenters feel incapable of performing acts of dissent (or acts that can be framed as dissenting acts), this should be seen as repression leading to deterrence. As previously mentioned, Turkey’s current state of emergency allows for increased governmental discretion, and this has been most commonly translated to arrests and prosecution of dissent. This ‘softer’ form of repression, as opposed to overt violence, is accompanied by expenses in the sense of the ‘cost’ of dissent increasing as well as the very real economic costs of imprisonment, facing trial, and loss of employment.

1.5.2 Networked Public Sphere(s), Citizen Journalism, and Social Media

In Twitter and Tear Gas (2017), Zeynep Tufekçi conceptualizes a “networked public” that is an extension of Habermas’s public sphere, arguing that “[t]he dynamics of public spheres are intertwined with power relations, social structures, institutions, and technologies that change over times.”37 One technological advancement, the internet, has fundamentally altered the nature of how public spheres are constituted. In conjunction with increasingly ubiquitous cellphone usage, we now have “the potential to reach millions of people at once…[and] can easily connect with people who are not in the same physical space, or even people who [we] do not know at all.”38 This is particularly important for the purposes of social movements and mobilization as “most people who become activists start by being exposed to dissident ideas, and people’s social networks—which include online

36 Ibid, 118. 37 Tufekçi, Twitter and Tear Gas, 6. 38 Ibid, 6.

and offline interactions—are amongst the most effective places from which people are recruited into activism.”39 140journos’ founding members, because of this increasingly networked public sphere, were exposed to dissident ideas in the form of Serdar Akinan’s rogue reporting of the Uludere (Roboski) Airstrike on social media; and similarly, the millions of participants of the Gezi Park Protests, too, were exposed to images and videos of police brutality on social media that generated backfire and increased mobilization.

These instances illustrate the level of connectivity in the 21st century, and the fact that there has been a demonstrable shift in the manner in which information is produced, transferred, and consumed. Adrienne Russell (2016) argues that this increased connectivity vis-à-vis digital technologies has reduced the “centralized control of news media.”40 Additionally, this reduction in conjunction with those ‘bearing witness’ enables everyday citizens to assume the role of the journalist. In a New York Times interview, Tim

Pool, a citizen journalist who covered the Occupy Wall Street movement, was quoted saying: “Unbeknownst to me, I started doing journalism, just because I was bearing witness.”41 Pool later attended the Gezi Park Protests on behalf of VICE Media and employed his social media reporting tactics, such as using “Google Glass” and live streaming, to report on the protests. It is important to understand the role that social media, digital connectivity, and ubiquitous digital technologies play in shifting the balance of who can report the news.

39 Ibid, 16-17. 40 Adrienne Russell, Journalism as Activism: Recoding Media Power (Cambridge, UK: Polity Press, 2016), 31. 41 Ibid, 129. 31

However, we must not forget that these social media platforms, despite their emancipatory usage in social movements and altering who can report the news, are corporate products designed to earn money. Both Tufekçi and Russell address this in their analyses of the digital connectivity and shifting media landscapes. With regards to the corporate nature of social media platforms such as Twitter, YouTube, and Facebook,

Tufekçi outlines the inherent problems of these platforms that they are “privately owned spaces that functio[n] [as] a new kind of public space, as if street corners or cafes where people gathered were owned by a few corporations,” and this is crucial to note, especially given these ‘corporate spaces’ benefit from increased data traffic during protests such as

Occupy Wall Street and the Gezi Park Protests in numerous ways, such as data aggregation, advertising revenue, and ‘advertising’ in the sense that it promotes the notion that these platforms are ‘tools’ of democracy.42 Russell notes that “it is abundantly clear that digital networks extend state and corporate power…[as] media companies collect and sell personal information to advertisers looking to match products with consumers [and]

[g]overnments take the same data-rich information through shrouded court orders and back channels in order to spy on citizens as well as political enemies and allies.”43

Despite their corporate origin, Tufekçi argues that these platforms “are not governed only by the rules set by the companies that own the spaces; they also have cultures and norms created by the platform’s users and evolved through their actions.”44 These practices, cultures, actions, and norms shape these platforms just as much as any other

42 Tufekçi, Twitter and Tear Gas, 134. 43 Adrienne Russell, 38. 44 Tufekçi, Twitter and Tear Gas, 170. 32

characterization of them. In the context of citizen journalism, we can see how various social media practices repurpose platforms, rendering them spaces to be acted upon. While this does not mean that it inherently loses its other attributions, such as corporate product designed to earn money or an access point, the practices of users also inform how we should understand social media. For the purposes of 140journos who produces content on these social media platforms, we must understand their evolving ‘practices’ as attempts to repurpose these platforms.

1.5.3 Genealogy of Censorship in Turkey

As mentioned previously, censorship is not a modern concept and has been operationalized in various forms throughout history in various geographies. Turkey’s media landscape has felt the imprint of each incumbent government, and, while this research is situated in the latter half of the AKP government, it is critical to understand the evolution of censorship in Turkey over the course of a longer duration of time. Aslı Tunç

(2015) remarks that “every government in Turkish political history made attempts to reshape the media landscape for their own benefits.”45 For instance, “the right-wing

Democrat Party government in the 1950s was notorious for shutting down daily newspapers and arresting journalists,” in the 1980s Turgut Özal of the Welfare Party

(Refah Partisi) “bluntly expressed his dream of having ‘two-and-a-half newspapers’ in the country—two of them supporting him and an insignificant left-wing being half critical,” and

45 Aslı Tunç, "In Quest for Democracy: Internet Freedom and Politics in Turkey," in Digital Transformations in Turkey: Current Perspectives in Communications Studies (Lexington Books, 2015), 208.

the innumerable closures of media outlets and restrictions on publications throughout the

Republic’s history further illustrate this.46 The similar actions of often ideologically opposed governments—for instance the Welfare Party, a populist Islamist party, and Tansu

Çiller’s True Path Party (Doğru Yol Partisi) differed greatly in terms of politics but not in terms of media treatment— illustrate that “[t]he press has never been considered as one of the main pillars of democracy in Turkey, but rather, it has been used as a tool for political manipulation and financial benefits.”47

Under the AKP, the treatment of the media has not been discernibly different in its intent to shape a media landscape for its benefit, but because of large-scale shifts in the economic organization in the Turkish media landscape, censorship takes on a multitudinous forms—including “targeted penal and anti-terror laws, the perpetual litigation of journalists, the particularly coercive forms of commercial pressure placed on media conglomerates, and the self-censorship being imposed by the journalists on themselves.”48 The final form noted above, self-censorship, is particularly important in the context of present-day Turkey and 140journos, and this mode of censorship is informed by the relationship(s) between owners (conglomerates) of media companies and the government. This relationship did not emerge in a vacuum and has been in a state of change since the 1960s. As Turkey’s economic governing principles became increasingly neoliberal in the 1980s, shifting from an economy that was “based on import substitution,”

46 Ibid, 208. 47 Ibid, 208. 48 Bilge Yeşil, Press Censorship in Turkey, 169.

the media sector, like many others, became increasingly deregulated.49 Akdenizli remarks how the 1980s, in particular, “were especially influential” for Turkey’s media landscape as

“newspapers and magazines morph[ed] into holding companies active in other sectors besides media.”50 At this juncture, several companies held a monopoly over the media sector; however, by the 1990s, the emergence of “private commercial media stations,” themselves part of larger holding companies entering into the media sector, effectively ended the monopoly of previous holding companies.51

The 2001 economic crisis52 in Turkey led to the failure of many of these holding companies who had either expanded into the media sector or from the media sector into other sectors. Due to the crisis, media market revenues, particularly advertising, decreased

“50%, from 1 billion dollars to 500 million dollars” and left approximately four to five thousand journalists without work.53 The 2001 crisis, in essence, resulted in the shrinking of the number of players in the market as it “forced some of the holdings active both in media and the financial sector to withdraw from the media market” which left the

49 Ceren Sö zeri and Zeynep Gü ney, The Political Economy of the Media in Turkey: A Sectoral Analysis (Istanbul: TESEV Publications, 2011), 39. 50 Banu Akdenizli, "A Glimmer of Hope in a Suffocated Media Landscape? Citizen Journalism Practices in Turkey," Digital Transformation in Journalism and News Media, 2017, 170, doi:10.1007/978-3-319-27786- 8_13. 51 Ibid, 170. 52 “In 2001, Turkey faced its worst economic crisis since the Second World War. In February 2001, a mismanaged political row between Prime Minister Bülent Ecevit and President Ahmet Necdet Sezer triggered mass investor panic. Billions of dollars flew out of Turkish markets to more secure locations. Fearing the loss of the entire foreign exchange reserves, Turkish authorities abandoned the stabilization program established with the support of Bretton Woods institutions. This resulted in massive depreciation of the Turkish lira, shrinking GDP, bankruptcies, and decimated real incomes” in “Moral Economy Redux: Social Protests in Turkey After the 2001 Economic Crisis” (2013) in Mobilization: An International Journal 18 (2), 143-160, by Kurtuluş Gemici, 143. 53 Sözeri and Guney, “The Political Economy of the Media in Turkey,” 39.

remaining holding companies in a strengthened position.54 An upturn in the Turkish economy in 2002, coinciding with but not directly related to the accession of the AKP,55 led to increased investment in the media sector. The trajectory of the media sector, however, took on an increasingly partisan turn as “independent media companies have been sold to

AKP...supporters resulting in an increasingly divided media landscape” where these “media companies have become to be regarded as either opponents or proponents of the government.”56 Because these holding companies are not limited to the media sector, their actions within the media sector have effects beyond simply their media branch being targeted.

In addition to the immediate monetary threat posed by publishing critical pieces for the company, the ownership of Turkish media companies holds significant stakes, or outright own, companies in other “sectors such as construction, energy, mining, [and] banking.”57 As such, it is in the best economic interest of owners to remain in good standing with the government. Aslı Tunç, in a report detailing the increasing corporate-clientele relationship of media, writes that “these conglomerates compete [for] contracts from the

54 Akdenizli, “A Glimmer of Hope,” 170. 55 “The victor of the 2002 elections – the AKP – was formed in the second half of 2001 after the Constitutional Court dissolved its predecessor – the Islamist Virtue Party. The AKP campaigned on the basis of a pro-EU, pro-reform and pro-stability platform. Its economic policy was essentially in congruence with the existing IMF-sponsored stabilisation programme, which consisted of fiscal discipline, central bank independence, implicit inflation targeting, flexible exchange rates, and extensive structural reforms ranging from banking through corporate governance to public administration,” Mehmet Ugur, “Turkish Economic Policy Under AKP Government: An Assessment for 2002-2007,” (2008) online in Munich Personal RePEc Arhive, https://mpra.ub.uni-muenchen.de/18235/ 56 Akdenizli, “A Glimmer of Hope,” 170. 57 Aslı Tunç, "Media Ownership and Finances in Turkey. Increasing Concentration and Clientelism," European Centre for Press and Media Freedom, November 2015, 2, accessed April 22, 2018, https://www.rcmediafreedom.eu/Publications/Reports/Media-Ownership-and-Finances-in-Turkey.- Increasing-Concentration-and-Clientelism.

government. Thus, they use their media arm to promote government interests.”58 This is not unique to Turkey, and Coşkuntuncel writes that “[t]he concentrated structure of media markets, which are increasingly dominated by non-media companies, is a global trend that undermines the democratic promise of the media.”59

The advent of the internet and its increased usage over the past three decades has altered the way censorship is operationalized globally. In Turkey, it is important to note that while “in the early 1990s, internet in Turkey was in the purview of academic and research institutions…the internet became a commercial medium in the latter half of the decade.”60 As it became a commercial medium, Yeşil, Sözeri, and Khazraee (2017) demarcate four periods of internet regulation in Turkey: (1) 1993-2007: Absence of

Regulation, (2) 2007-2013: Regulation-cum-control, (3) 2013-2016: Tightening the Noose, and (4) July 2016-present: Post-coup Developments.61

As can be gleaned from the name of the first period, there was little (if any) regulation and any restrictions “focused on criminalization of certain online activities” with the earliest examples of this coming in 1997 and 2002 “when two individuals were prosecuted for their statements on online forums that allegedly criticized and offended the

Turkish police and state institutions.”62 In the following years, there were examples of

58 Ibid, 2. 59 Aras Coşkuntuncel (2018) Privatization of Governance, Delegated Censorship, and Hegemony in the Digital Era, Journalism Studies, 19:5, 690-708, 697. DOI:10.1080/1461670X.2016.1197045 60 Bilge Yesil, Efe Kerem Sözeri, and Emad Khazraee, "Turkey's Internet Policy After the Coup Attempt: The Emergence of a Distributed Network of Online Suppression and Surveillance," ScholarlyCommons, February 28, 2017, 5. 61 Ibid, 5-7. 62 Ibid, 5.

website being blocked, particularly in 2002 “when a military court ordered a website to shut down due to the publication of documents concerning alleged corruption within the

Turkish Air Force.”63 However, there were no specific codified laws that pertained to the internet until 2007.

The second period, Regulation-cum-control from 2007 to 2013, departed from isolated criminal cases with the introduction of Turkey’s first internet regulatory law in

2007, “Law No. 5651, Regulation of Publications on the Internet and Suppression of Crimes

Committed by means of Such Publications.”64 Colloquially known as the “Internet Law,” the legislation “charged the Presidency of Telecommunications and Communication…with administrative duties such as monitoring content and mandating hosting and access providers to combat categorical crimes.”65 The law outlined seven categories, “incitement to suicide, facilitation of the use of narcotics, child pornography, obscenity, prostitution, facilitation of gambling, and slandering the legacy of Atatürk,” and would allow any website deemed by the courts to be “committing one of these crimes” to be shut down.66 While some of these categories are cut-and-dry, other categories, such as obscenity and slandering the legacy of Atatürk, are subject to interpretation and, especially the latter, have been used to target dissenting voices.

The third period, from 2013 to 2016, is particularly important for the purposes of this research. Yeşil et al. write that the AKP government was faced with “two major

63 Ibid, 5. 64 Ibid, 5. 65 Ibid, 5. 66 Ibid, 5.

legitimacy crises…the nationwide anti-government Gezi protests [that took place in May and June 2013]…and then revelations about a massive corruption scandal in December

2013.”67 Because information about both crises circulated widely on social media, “the AKP began to deploy a combination of first, second, and third generation controls by introducing stricter legislation, banning YouTube and Twitter, surveilling and prosecuting users, and throttling social media platforms.”68 Yeşil et al. define first generation controls as

“internet filtering and blocking,” second generation controls as “the passing of legal restrictions, content removal requests, technical shutdowns of websites, and computer network-attacks,” and third generation controls as “warrantless surveillance, the creation of ‘national cyber-zones,’ state-sponsored information campaigns, and/or direct physical action to silence individuals or groups.”69 At this juncture, the AKP government clearly viewed (and continues to do so) social media and the internet as something to be censored in order to preserve governmental legitimacy. Through the adoption of new tactics in conjunction with previous-era tactics, the government ‘tightened the noose’ so to say on the internet, making it an increasingly precarious space to navigate.

Finally, the post-coup period, in general, is one that stifles dissent. The state of emergency enacted after the failed coup has afforded the government extraordinary governmental discretion. Yeşil et al. write that:

“Given the severity of the potential threats the coup would have caused had it succeeded, a “national consensus” emerged, uniting the AKP, opposition parties and various political actors and engendering the (false) belief that the State of Emergency would be used only to root out the coup planners. However, it soon became clear that

67 Ibid, 7. 68 Ibid, 7. 69 Ibid, 26.

Erdogan and his government would deploy the SoE to repress other perceived enemies, especially the Kurds, to consolidate their hegemony and stifle any remaining opposition— both online and offline.”70

The state of emergency has resulted in increased censorship in multiple ways: there is more direct targeting and prosecution of dissenting voices, and the increased targeting of individuals further produces a climate of increased self-censorship. This is not limited to content on the internet; however, social media and the internet are sites intervened upon.

Despite the internet becoming a focal point of censorship under the AKP government, the introduction of the internet does not mean that censorship functions in a

‘new’ manner in present-day Turkey—its purpose is still, as it always has been, to prevent the flow of and/or provide barriers of access to certain information. However, the increased connectivity provided by the internet has resulted in new deployments of censorship. As we trace the evolution of 140journos, from 2012 to present, it will become increasingly apparent the manners in which the group has consciously navigated—and continues to navigate to this day— the various forms and deployments of censorship.

70 Ibid, 12. 40

CHAPTER 2: CENSORSHIP, BACKFIRE, AND CITIZEN JOURNALISM: THE FIRST TWO EVOLUTIONS OF 140JOURNOS

In a study that looked at news consumption in 18 countries and a supplementary report that included ‘Urban Turkey,’ researchers found that a significant percentage (32%) of news consumers in “Urban Turkey”71 listed “the internet as their main source of news.”72

But even among “online users,” not the same category as mainly online consumers, more than half (51%) “stated that TV is their main source of news.”73 News consumption habits in Turkey still lean heavily towards established, legacy media outlets both in the online and offline arenas as “they have successfully leveraged their offline reputation to reach large audiences online.”74 Legacy outlets “have a high online weekly reach” among urban Turkish citizens.75 When analyzing the role and evolution of digital media, one cannot overstate the importance that legacy media outlets figure in the equation.

Despite high readership/viewership, trust of these outlets is very low in ‘Urban

Turkey,’ with nearly half (45%) saying that “did not think that they can ‘trust news most of

71 Nic Newman et al., "Digital News Report 2017," Reuters Institute Digital News Report, accessed April 21, 2018, http://www.digitalnewsreport.org/. The researchers qualify why they restrict their research to urban Turkey with the following: “Turkey is the exception to the pattern mentioned above. It has a lower GDP per capita than the other countries studied and lower internet access, which has obliged us to restrict the survey to an urban sample (which tends to include a wealthier, younger, and better educated sample than the population as a whole). It also has a much more polari[z]ed media environment which may affect scoring on issues of trust among other things.” 72 Damian Radcliffe, "How Turkey Has Embraced Digital Media for News: 5 Trends," Medium, November 29, 2015, accessed April 21, 2018, https://medium.com/social-media-in-the-middle-east/how-turkey-has- embraced-digital-media-for-news-5-trends-e4c9a16ab5d8. 73 Ibid. 74 Ibid. 75 Ibid.

the time’ — by far the highest figure of all 18 countries surveyed.”76 This is due, in large part, to how censorship operates amongst mainstream, legacy media outlets in Turkey, which I will outline later in this chapter. In the 21st century media environment where one can gain access to news content in seconds, what happens when the reader knows there is a story, but there is an informational void left by legacy media because of censorship? For the purposes of my investigation into Turkey and 140journos, two key occurrences of this are important—the first being the Uludere (Roboski) Airstrike of December 2011, and the second being the onset of the Gezi Park Protests of May-June 2013. In both cases, digital technologies played a critical role in circulating otherwise unreported events, and it is useful to conceptualize and understand the role that these technologies assume. Zeynep

Tufekçi unpacks the role that digital technologies have played in the increased interconnectedness, noting that "the twenty-first-century public sphere is digitally networked and includes mass media and public spaces...[an] interaction of publics, online and offline, all intertwined, multiple, connected and complex, but also transnational and global."77 Particularly through the lens of large-scale protests can we understand the shift in how humans connect and interact via digital technologies.

In the past decade, there has been a wave of large-scale protests that have taken place in the United States (Occupy Wall Street), Spain (Indignados), Egypt (Arab Spring), and Turkey (Gezi Park Protests) among others. Although each is informed by its agenda and context, anti-austerity in the case of Occupy Wall Street and Indignados as opposed to anti-regime in the case of Egypt and Turkey— even these attributions fail to capture the

76 Ibid. 77 Tufekçi, Twitter and Tear Gas, 6. 42

nuances of the individual protests, they do share some key attributes, notably the manner in which digital technologies either facilitated movement on the ground or encouraged participation in the protests.

This is not to say that these social movements were entirely enabled by digital technologies as some initially did— major protests in Tunisia, Iran, and Egypt were dubbed as “Twitter Revolutions” due to the role that the social media platform played. Evgeny

Morozov criticizes such assessments, arguing that the role of digital/social media in these movements have been overstated, overestimated, and, to some degree, harmful to the movements. Tufekçi, however, is critical of Morozov’s (and others) assessment that diminish the importance of social media, stating that “empirical research on social movements or discussions with actual activists would have quickly dissuaded an observer from [Morozov’s understanding]... [as] most people who become activists start by being exposed to dissident ideas, and people’s social networks— which include online and offline interactions— are among the most effective places from which people are recruited into activism.”78

My investigation seeks not to determine whether or not social media and/or digital technologies enable such movements to manifest. Rather, I focus on Tufekçi’s notion of being exposed to dissident ideas and assess the role that digital technologies play in consumption of information during these protests. I contend that these moments of crisis, if they ‘enable’ anything, enable alternative forms of media to come to the fore. In each of the aforementioned protests, alternative forms of media, most often digital, filled an

78 Ibid, 16-17. 43

informational void created either by misrepresentation of the movements or legacy media outright ignoring their occurrence. I frame this is as an instance of backfire, and I argue that censorship, when apparent, can backfire, leading to higher consumption of alternate forms of media. Today, these alternative forms of media are by-and-large digital and must be understood as a byproduct of an increasingly networked society. The tools that enable this, such as smartphones, social media platforms, and more accessible internet, do not operate in isolation. Instead, these tools operate in conjunction with previously established networks, i.e. the family, neighborhood, etc. Russell argues for "the reexamination of the currency of social exchange, especially related to distance – physical and social- as well as the introduction and erosion of certain rights and privileges."79

2.1 Digital Society, Digital News

Day-to-day life has become increasingly digitized, arguably to “a point where digital technologies’ ubiquity and pervasiveness are such that they have become invisible.”80 The actions that are required to function within society bring various actors, either directly or indirectly, into contact with various forms of digital technology at virtually every turn. The most apparent example, smartphones, provides users access to the internet from almost anywhere, and their use is so prevalent that it can be conceptualized as an extension of the self.81 This increasingly digital world has had an immense effect on the manner in which news is consumed. First, and perhaps most obvious, digital technologies have altered the way news reaches its intended audience. We no longer need to rely on print copies of

79 Adrienne Russell, Journalism as Activism, 145. 80 Deborah Lupton, Digital Sociology (London and New York: Routledge 2014), 2. 81 Ibid. 44

newspapers to access news. Instead, if desired, we can receive news from virtually any news outlet digitally on our phones or preferred device; and the smartphone, specifically, has made news consumption a nearly instantaneous act.

Legacy media outlets are not averse to producing content to be consumed with digital technologies, and nearly all major news companies have a sizeable online presence.

It is unsurprising that in the 21st century “news market” media companies use digital technologies to reach news consumers. However, digital technologies should be understood as more than just a shift in media consumption, but also as an inadvertent solution to a problem that journalism, as a profession, has sought to remedy— “the problem of scarcity… [or the] lack of cameras at an event.”82 Smartphones are equipped with more than satisfactory cameras and microphones, and one, of course, does not need to be a “professional” to use these technologies. Combined with internet access and social media platforms, smartphones have not only had an immense effect on how news reaches its audience, but how and by who news is produced. Put simply, emergent digital technologies can operate as tools that enable others to actively participate in journalism, both consciously and unconsciously. Twitter, for example, allows users “other than trained journalists to report on or records news events,” something previously isolated within the realm of legacy media, and “Twitter is now often the most up-to-date in terms of reporting breaking news.”83 A common occurrence on Twitter is a user posting a recording of a newsworthy event, and in the comment section are a string of responses from journalists

82 Tufekçi, Twitter and Tear Gas, 42. 83 Lupton, Digital Sociology, 4; 3. 45

listing their credentials and requesting permission to use the post, presumably in a publication on their news agency’s website.

However, there are certainly pitfalls of consuming news through platforms that require virtually no verification. While the above example of a journalist requesting permission to use information acquired from Twitter would then be followed (or perhaps preceded) by the standard editorial and fact confirmation processes native to a news agency, general users do not follow the same protocols. Whether accidental or intentional, inaccurate information can quickly spread once it gains a head of steam, so to speak.

Instead of the aura of legitimacy being derived from the source as is the case in traditional journalism, often the quantity of likes, retweets, or views provides a post with a sense of legitimacy. Because of this, intentional manipulation of information can easily occur on social media platforms. A recent example of this comes in the context of coordinated

Russian internet trolls influencing the outcome of the 2016 Presidential Elections on digital platforms such as Facebook, Twitter, and Reddit—even going as far to impersonate

Tennessee GOP on Twitter and amassing “100,000 followers” before being suspended by

Twitter.84 85 However, state-sponsored manipulation of these social media platforms did not emerge in the context of the most recent American presidential election, although it

84 Aaron Kessler, "Who Is @TEN_GOP in the Mueller Indictment?" CNN, February 17, 2018, accessed April 21, 2018, https://www.cnn.com/2018/02/16/politics/who-is-ten-gop/index.html. 85 For detailed accounts of this, see: Adam Rawnsley, "Russian Trolls Denied Syrian Gas Attack-Before It Happened," The Daily Beast, April 12, 2018, accessed April 21, 2018, https://www.thedailybeast.com/russian-trolls-denied-syrian-gas-attackbefore-it-happened?ref=home.; Kaylee Fagan, "Nearly 1,000 Russian Trolls Were Banned from Reddit - Here's What They Were Posting about," Business Insider, April 12, 2018, , accessed April 21, 2018, http://www.businessinsider.com/reddit- russian-trolls-ban-photos-examples-posts-2018-4.

certainly has increased awareness of the topic. In Turkey, allegedly government sponsored trolls (AK Trolls) have operated as an online political lynch mob that targets dissenters, dispute claims against party policy in both Turkish and other languages, and use automated bots “to counter anti-AKP discourse” since the aftermath of the Gezi Park Protests in

2013.86

In the context of Turkey and 140journos, each of these aforementioned factors— digital technologies becoming a ubiquitous part of life, the manner in which news is consumed, who can now ‘provide’ the news, and the potential for inaccurate information to spread quickly both intentionally and unintentionally — played an integral role in the establishment of the group and its rapid proliferation during the Gezi Park Protests.

However, we cannot solely attest the group’s rapid rise during the Gezi Park Protests— from around 8,000 followers to approximately 45,000 followers87— solely to the ubiquitous nature of digital technologies and their role of social media during the protests.

Rather, we must conceptualize the group’s meteoric rise to the very concept that led to the group being established— a response to censorship or overt repression backfiring. In the subsequent section, I will outline in detail the forms of censorship in Turkey that allowed for censorship backfire to occur, and how digital technologies and social media platforms are an ideal place for ‘publicizing’ censorship, enabling backfire to occur. I do this by analyzing the Uludere (Roboski) Airstrike, its relationship to (self)censorship in Turkish mainstream media, and why it became a pivotal moment in the history of 140journos.

86 Erkan Saka, "Social Media in Turkey as a Space for Political Battles: AKTrolls and Other Politically Motivated Trolling," Middle East Critique, 2018, p.10, doi:10.1080/19436149.2018.1439271. 87 ""A Sense of Exhilaration and Possibility"," Nieman Reports A Sense of Exhilaration and Possibility Comments, accessed April 21, 2018, http://niemanreports.org/articles/a-sense-of-exhilaration-and- possibility/. 47

2.2 Uludere (Roboski) and Censorship in Turkey

On December 28, 2011, a group of Turkish citizens of predominantly Kurdish origin embarked on what was a routine part of their livelihoods— smuggling goods across the

Turkey-Iraq border. The trip was regular, a “weekly round trip over the mountains to sell contraband cigarettes and gasoline in the nearby black market.”88 After receiving intelligence from an American Predator drone of “a surge in wireless communication” and believing those crossing the border to be militants belonging to the outlawed Kurdistan

Workers’ Party (PKK)— considered a terrorist group by Turkey, the United States, and the

European Union— the Turkish military bombed the group with “jets and artillery.”89 What had once been routine to the degree where the smugglers “would wave at police and soldiers on their way to their smuggling runs” became a nightmare for the families involved, the Turkish military and government, and the Turkish press.90

How the press responded is emblematic of how censorship operates in today’s

Turkey. Whereas previously in the ‘80s “the deaths might have been completely censored” and the ‘90s where “the incident might have been merely blamed on terrorists,” media companies were unsure of how to respond to the situation.91 Because of the ambiguous nature of the situation, “mass-media managers decided to simply wait for instructions from the government and sit on the news…[and] in newsrooms, the tension rose as journalists were instructed to remain quiet.”92 Such situations where journalists ‘are instructed to

88 Doga Ulas Eralp, "The Role of U.S. Drones in the Roboski Massacre," Peace Review 27, no. 4 (2015): 448, doi:10.1080/10402659.2015.1094325. 89 Ibid, 448. 90 Tufekçi, Twitter and Tear Gas, 34. 91 Ibid, 34-35. 92 Ibid, 35. 48

remain quiet’ are not uncommon for Turkish journalists. One journalist interviewed by

Tufekçi stated that there are layers to censorship in mainstream Turkish media. First, the journalist censors themselves because they know that “[they will] be in trouble if [they] write something critical of the government,” and then editors censors the journalist “if

[they] have not been mild enough.” After the editor, the owners of the company “also check, to make sure nothing too critical gets through. And if something is published anyway, especially if in defiance, someone from the government calls [the journalist’s] boss.”93 If something unsavory seeps through, either intentionally or unintentionally, the interviewed journalist remarks that “the tax inspectors are sent in, to find [a reason] to fine the newspaper.”94

While mainstream journalists were self-censoring, there was a flux of information related to Uludere (Roboski) circulating on Twitter. However, the nature of Twitter, with anyone being able to post, makes information difficult to verify, corroborate, and, in many cases, trust. One particular account of the event is particularly important for the purposes of this project. Serdar Akinan, at the time a journalist for Akşam, traveled to Uludere

(Roboski) without the consent of his news agency. He, then, “took out his iPhone, snapped a picture, and posted it on Instagram...and Twitter.”95 According to Tufekçi, Akinan’s tweet made it so “the story of the Kurdish deaths in Roboski could be censored no more [and]

[t]he agonizing images went viral online especially on Twitter, and denial became impossible.”96

93 Ibid, 33. 94 Ibid, 33. 95 Ibid, 36. 96 Ibid, 36. 49

Akinan’s account of the events was important in many ways. First and foremost, he was able to remove the veil of censorship and, in doing so, “forced” mainstream news agencies to cover the event. For the college-aged co-founders of 140journos, Akinan’s lifting of the veil did more than expose them to the tragedy of Uludere (Roboski), it made clear “the extent of the censorship of Turkish mass media.”97 Their response, conceptualizing and putting into motion a plan to “turn social media into a platform for journalism [in order to] break the censorship they knew dominated mass media,” must be understood as repression backfiring.98

Hess and Martin (2006) write that “backfire may occur around censorship, police brutality, or other kinds of repressive events that are perceived as unjust,” and the authors argue that “repression can lead to new mobilization” with the caveat that “repression may have a short-term negative effect and long-term positive effect on movement mobilization.”99 With 140journos, we can see a clear relationship between Akinan

‘publicizing’ censorship and the establishment of the group in response. Still, on the whole,

Uludere (Roboski) did not result in a significant or protracted response from Turkish citizens. Perhaps the nature of the event, being that a minority group (Kurds) were the victims of the tragedy, limited the potential for backfire on a large scale. Despite this, the example of Uludere (Roboski) illustrates the ability of social media and digital technologies to counteract the overt self-censorship in mainstream Turkish media. This fact would become even more apparent in the summer of 2013 when the Gezi Park Protests erupted.

97 Ibid, 37. 98 Ibid, 38. 99 David Hess and Brian Martin, "“Repression, Backfire, and the Theory of Transformative Events,”," Mobilization: An International Journal 11, no. 2 (2006): 250, accessed April 21, 2018. 50

2.3 The First ‘Evolution’ of 140journos: ‘On the Ground’ Citizen Journalism

In the aftermath of Uludere (Roboski), 140journos’s founding members asked themselves a poignant question: “Do we really need microphones emblazoned with the name of a TV station to let people know what’s happening?”100 Their conclusion, inspired by Serdar Akinan’s rogue reporting, led them to begin reporting on content they felt would otherwise been uncovered by the Turkish media. There are many reasons why any given story might go largely uncovered by mainstream Turkish media, but the two most influential are press-state clientelism and political polarization of media outlets.

140journos, conscious of both, inherently was unaffected by the first issue although every report published by them is informed by its broader context, or lack thereof, in mainstream media. As for the second, they actively sought to counteract the second by providing so- called “non-commentary” news. The efficacy of this attempt will be called into question, but suffice to say, the group was keenly aware that polarization dictated both news production and consumption habits amongst Turkish citizens.

Although the group’s initial readership/viewership was quite limited, this period was crucial for the group as it was the moment it was finding its journalistic identity.

Equally important for any thorough analysis of the group, this period allows one to understand the socio-political and socio-cultural machinations that more broadly inform the founding of the group. Although I do not classify 140journos as a social movement, I

100 ""A Sense of Exhilaration and Possibility"," Nieman Reports A Sense of Exhilaration and Possibility Comments, accessed April 21, 2018, http://niemanreports.org/articles/a-sense-of-exhilaration-and- possibility/. 51

believe that elements of social movement theory are duly relevant to conceptualizing citizens mobilizing to produce the news. In his analysis of “small scale” mobilizations, Hank

Johnston (2006) asserts that “because repressive states constrain freedoms, how new challengers emerge is of utmost importance,” and the author outlines the processes that allow for the emergence of these new challengers: “innovative action,” “opportunity,”

“diffusion,” and “brokerage.”101 I believe that elements of Johnston’s framework can provide insight into the formative year of 140journos and how they emerged to challenge censorship in Turkey. First, the digital-only, non-commentary format that 140journos adopted can be understood as innovative, especially in Turkey where polarization greatly affects the content of both mainstream and alternative media groups, and the purported reasoning for being non-commentary, removing the biases in journalism that stigmatize and ‘other’ various groups, encapsulates the idea of brokerage— an attempt to “bring previously segmented actors together by showing similarities in identities and interest.”102

Next, while opportunity is a more straightforward process, I believe it duly relevant to connect opportunity and diffusion in the case of 140journos. Certainly, censorship amongst mainstream media can be understood as the opportunity that prompted the group to form; however, digital technologies and the skills to use them to diffuse information should equally be understood as opportunity. As mentioned by the group, the notion that one does not need professional equipment to document and diffuse information to the public was critical to the group’s establishment. Instead, all that is required is a cellphone

101 Hank Johnston, "“LET’S GET SMALL”: THE DYNAMICS OF (SMALL) CONTENTION IN REPRESSIVE STATES," Mobilization: An International Journal, 2nd ser., 11 (2006): 197. 102 Ibid, 197. 52

with a camera and internet connection, a social media platform to post content to, and a digitally-savvy and networked society to consume said content. Joss Hands (2011) argues that because “the constraints come to be not strictly technical, but rather systematic…the apparatus of cultural production as a whole, has never been more vulnerable to change and challenge by the ‘masses.’”103 Citizen journalism, then, might be understood as a challenge stemming from the masses that might alter the so-called apparatus of cultural production.

Although initially unaware of the term citizen journalism, 140journos’s organization structure was the archetype of ‘on the ground’ citizen journalism. The members of

140journos were present at newsworthy sites, as determined by the group, and would report on what they witnessed/experienced. It was more than just being newsworthy that brought 140journos to the scene; it was the prospect that such events would not be covered otherwise. One of the co-founders, Engin Önder, recounts skipping classes with his friends “to attend trials and protests,” and that they would share “via social media photographs, audio and video recordings of what [they] witnessed.”104 Initially, not having the official press credentials afforded its members elements of mobility and access that would have elsewise been unavailable. An example of this was when 140journos members live-tweeted “a 2011 court case…[where] a student [was] on trial for membership in a terrorist organization.”105 Whereas journalists were not permitted access to the trial, the

103 Joss Hands, @ Is for Activism: Dissent, Resistance and Rebellion in a Digital Culture (London: Pluto, 2011), 52. 104 ""A Sense of Exhilaration and Possibility"," Nieman Reports A Sense of Exhilaration and Possibility Comments, accessed April 21, 2018, http://niemanreports.org/articles/a-sense-of-exhilaration-and- possibility/. 105 "'We Are All Journalists Now'," Columbia Journalism Review,accessed April 22, 2018, https://archives.cjr.org/behind_the_news/turkey_counter_media.php.

broader public was permitted to attend. Eventually, the police officer stationed at the courthouse noticed that “someone was tweeting updates from the trial.”106 After a stern warning from the officer to the attendees that did little stem the flow of tweets, the judge also demanded that the responsible party stop. However, the anonymity of the ‘everyday citizen’ allowed the 140journos member to continue posting to Twitter. In an interview with the Columbia Journalism Review, Önder remarked that for all the police officer or judge knew, “[he] could just be texting [his] dad.”107 In Turkey, where journalists such as

Akinan might face punitive action ranging from losing their job to being charged with a crime, partial anonymity initially allowed 140journos members increased capabilities as citizen journalists.

In Turkey, the practice of citizen journalism inherently counteracts the chief motivation of self-censorship amongst mainstream journalists, pressures from management — a direct result of relationships between legacy media companies and the state. This relationship informs virtually all mainstream publications within Turkey, and the machinations of censorship subsequently generates the climate that journalists are forced to work within. If we analyze the underlying reason a mainstream media outlet might censor sensitive stories, it is economical in nature. They — conglomerate companies that own the media company — are in competition for multi-million dollar projects outside of the media sector, and their actions within the media sector have potential ramifications that might adversely affect the outcomes of other business ventures. As a result, certain stories go unpublished in order to preserve the relationships that affect these other

106 Ibid 107 Ibid 54

ventures. This is not to say the clientele relationship is the only form of censorship in

Turkey, but it is one that directly corresponds to the logistical organization of the media company. In addition to self-censorship, polarization in Turkey affects the language of mainstream media. Burcu Baykurt, a member of 140journos in 2012, claims that partisanship amongst mainstream media outlets was another reason many “citizens were so fed up with mainstream media.”108

Digital technologies and being ‘present’ have facilitated citizen journalism in various geographies but generally under specific circumstances— usually the context of a broader social movement. With this in mind, it is not surprising that citizen journalism often has an

‘activist’ bent as often these citizen journalists are also participants of these social movements. In a sense, 140journos might be seen to have an ‘activist bent’ as the group was founded in response to censorship with the purpose of ‘uncensoring’ Turkish media, and certainly this can be understood as activism. However, the Uludere (Roboski) Airstrike did not result in a large-scale social movement, and as such, the ‘first rendition’ of

140journos was not a byproduct of a broader social movement. Often, such instances of citizen journalism do not extend beyond the lifespan of the movement that spawned them, and their chief concerns are to report on and shape the narrative as it pertains to its

‘parent’ social movement. Although 140journos was not founded in conjunction with a social movement, the group ‘cut their teeth’ during the Gezi Park Protests, and this period

108 "A Changing Media Landscape in Turkey: The 140journos Project - An Interview with Burcu Baykurt," JIA SIPA, August 30, 2016, accessed April 22, 2018, https://jia.sipa.columbia.edu/changing-media-landscape- turkey-140journos-project-interview-burcu-baykurt.

is critical to understanding the evolution of 140journos and its relationship to broader processes of censorship in Turkey.

As such, the subsequent section will provide a brief background leading up to the

Gezi Park Protests, which was not only an important moment in recent Turkish political history but a critical juncture for 140journos. By understanding the multitudinous reasons for the protests and, then, analyzing a specific point of convergence—backfire in response media censorship—we can understand why digital media, generally, and 140journos, specifically, became an integral component for launching and sustaining the largest protest in Turkish history.

2.4 The Gezi Park Protests: The “Lady in Red” and the March of the Penguins

The Gezi Park Protests have been analyzed extensively by academics, journalists, and laymen alike, and the most widely accepted understanding of what sparked the protests was a general discontent with the incumbent Justice and Development Party

(AKP) and a specific trigger point, an initial wave of environmental protesters being forcefully removed from Gezi Park. In an attempt to make sense of the demographic makeup of the protests, scholars have argued for and against a class analysis of the Gezi

Park Protests. Such a qualification is not wholly important for the purposes of this research although Turkey’s overall digital connectivity, access to, and capabilities with digital technologies are affected by both affluence as well as age.

This research does not dwell on whether or not the Gezi Park Protests should be classified as class struggle or elsewise. Instead, it first highlights the multitudinous reasons 56

protesters might have had grievances with the incumbent government leading up to the protests and later asserts that, despite the varied reasons one might have to be discontent with the government, responses to police violence and censorship amongst mainstream

Turkish media provided commonality amongst protesters. Cihan Tuğal argues that "unlike single-issue mobilizations, major historical revolts come about when several contradictions conjuncturally overlap," and an extremely important aspect of the movement was its

“multiclass and multi-issue character.”109 Given its multi-issue characterization, a brief outline of some of the varied grievances leading up to the Gezi Park Protests is warranted.

Discontent among Turkish citizens with the actions of the AKP government had been steadily rising in the months leading up to the Gezi Park Protests. Secular Turkish citizens, for instance, felt increasingly at odds with the direction of government policies, and these tensions came to a head on the 2012 anniversary of the Republic’s establishment at a celebration in Ankara.110 The governor of Ankara banned a “march organized by secularist opposition groups…deeply critical of Turkey’s Islamist-rooted government” that would take place concurrently with the official, state-sponsored Republic Day celebration.111 Despite the ban, the secularist groups continued with their plans and were even joined by Kemal Kılıçdaroğlu, the head of Turkey’s largest opposition party— the secular CHP. Eventually, riot police began to disperse the rally using water cannons and,

“according to activists, tear gas.112

109 Cihan Tuğ al, The Fall of the Turkish Model: How the Arab Uprisings Brought down Islamic Liberalism (London: Verso, 2016), Kindle Edition: Loc 5232, Loc 5273. 110 October 29th 111 Ivan Watson and Gul Tuysuz, "Police, Protesters Clash at Republic Day March in Turkey," CNN, October 29, 2012, accessed April 22, 2018, https://edition.cnn.com/2012/10/29/world/europe/turkey-holiday-clash/. 112 Ibid. 57

This moment further exacerbated existing tensions amongst government supporters and secularists, and later legislation imposing higher taxes upon alcohol, restrictions on its sale, and governmental discourse surrounding the legislation further strengthened polarization. The most notable example of this discourse came when then

Prime Minister Erdoğan made an ambiguous statement seemingly referencing Mustafa

Kemal Atatürk, the founder of the Turkish Republic, and İsmet İnönü, Atatürk’s ally and successor, while defending the proposed legislation on alcohol: “Given that a law made by two drunken [people] is respected, why should a law that is commanded by religion be rejected by your side?”113 While tensions between secularists and the AKP have been present from the party’s ascension in 2002, successive electoral victories and socio- political shifts emboldened the party which, in turn, further exacerbated these tensions.

Another instance of violent dispersion of gathered Turkish citizens occurred during the following May Day march towards Taksim Square (Gezi Park is located immediately next to Taksim Square). May Day rallies are generally organized by trade unions and attended by left-leaning supporters of worker’s rights, feminist collectives, among other marginalized groups. This specific May Day rally was attended by more than “ten thousand” people and, in response, “roughly half of Istanbul’s 40,000-strong police force” were called to prevent the group from entering Taksim Square.114 Prior to the rally,

113 "'Who Are the Two Drunks,' Turkish Politicians Ask after PM's Remarks," Hürriyet Daily News, http://www.hurriyetdailynews.com/who-are-the-two-drunks-turkish-politicians-ask-after-pms-remarks- 47817. 114 Murad Sezer, "Turkish Police, May Day Protesters Clash in Istanbul," Reuters, May 01, 2013, accessed April 22, 2018, https://www.reuters.com/article/us-europe-protests-turkey/turkish-police-may-day-protesters- clash-in-istanbul-idUSBRE9400AG20130501.

Istanbul’s governor declared that “all access to Taksim Square was blocked…[and] claimed

May Day celebrations could not be held there due to… pedestrianization work.”115 Citing construction as a reason for restricting access to dissenters is not an uncommon tactic. For instance in Egypt during the uprisings that resulted in the ousting of Mubarak, activists found that a supposed construction site in Tahrir Square was “nothing but empty space,” and that it had been cordoned off and “taken away from the public sphere precisely to avoid the possibility of large crowds congregating in Tahrir.” 116 While the example of May

Day in Turkey is not wholly analogous, as the purported construction project in Taksim was the very real urbanization project that would later be the site that sparked the Gezi

Park Protests, the purpose of denying space that citizens might congregate to protest against the government is the same. The violent clashes during the May Day rally further indicate growing tensions related to economic issues in the weeks before the Gezi Park

Protests. According to a BBC report, more than 28 people were injured and police arrested

72 people in relation to the march, but the scale of the march, the scale of the government’s response, and the events that unfold hinted at rising tensions not just between center-left secularists and Islamists.117

115 "Police Stage Crackdown on May Day Protesters in Istanbul," Hürriyet Daily News, , accessed April 22, 2018, http://www.hurriyetdailynews.com/police-stage-crackdown-on-may-day-protesters-in-istanbul- 45996#.UYD7eLe9ST8.twitter. 116 Derek Gregory, "Tahrir: Politics, Publics and Performances of Space," Middle East Critique 22, no. 3 (2013): 239, doi:10.1080/19436149.2013.814944. 117 "Istanbul March Clashes Mar May Day in Turkey," BBC News, May 01, 2013, accessed April 22, 2018, http://www.bbc.com/news/world-europe-22365915.

Additionally, restrictions on legal abortion and inflammatory discourse surrounding the issue,118 labeling LGBT folks as “abnormal” and refusing to hold legitimate discussions of issues of discrimination in Turkish society,119 the perception that the government was not successfully protecting its citizens from violence leaking from the conflict in Syria,120 the naming of Istanbul’s third bridge after an Ottoman Sultan who “is believed to have ordered the slaughter of tens of thousands of Alevis” when Alevis make up a sizable portion of the Turkish population,121 and the belief that the government, instead of governing in conjunction with other parties, was becoming increasingly authoritarian and acting unilaterally contributed to growing discontent amongst disparate groups of Turkish citizens. As alluded to, one of these unilateral decisions was an urbanization project that would necessitate the destruction of Gezi Park, which would become the initial site of what later became the nationwide Gezi Park Protests.

2.4.1 Backfire and Mobilization at Gezi Park

On May 27th, 2013, the ‘first’ wave of protesters that occupied Gezi Park did so in protest of the AKP’s urban development policies that would have led to the construction of

118 Constanze Letsch, "Turkish Law Will Make Legal Abortion Impossible, Say Campaigners," The Guardian, February 01, 2013, accessed April 22, 2018, https://www.theguardian.com/world/2013/feb/01/turkish- law-abortion-impossible. 119 Hurriyetdailynews.com, "Main Opposition Urges Protection of LGBT's, Ruling Party Calls Them 'immoral'," Hürriyet Daily News, May 30, 2013, , accessed April 22, 2018, http://www.hurriyetdailynews.com/main- opposition-urges-protection-of-lgbts-ruling-party-calls-them-immoral-47860. 120 Nic Robertson and Gul Tuysuz, "Turkish Protesters Clash with Police in Bomb-hit Border Town," CNN, May 19, 2013, accessed April 22, 2018, https://edition.cnn.com/2013/05/18/world/europe/turkey-protest. 121 Ishaan Tharoor, "Istanbul's New $3 Billion Bridge Has a Very Divisive Name," The Washington Post, August 27, 2016, accessed April 22, 2018, https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/worldviews/wp/2016/08/27/istanbuls-new-3-billion-bridge-has- a-very-divisive-name/?noredirect=on&utm_term=.890e94157944.

a replica Ottoman barracks/shopping mall at the site— in short, the ‘destruction’ of Gezi

Park, one of the few remaining green areas in the heart of Istanbul. The construction slated to ‘transform’ Gezi Park was not an isolated event, but one of many revitalization projects undertaken by the AKP. Lelandais (2014) argues that urban planning in Turkey is an example of “neoliberal restructuring, which “shape[s] [the city] more by the logic of the market than the needs of its inhabitants.”122

In what was increasingly becoming the modus operandi to deal with dissenters, the initial protesters were forcefully removed from the area by the police. On the morning of

May 28th, the police used tear gas, pepper spray, and even set the protesters’ tents on fire in attempt to remove the protesters from the park. Even prior to their successful removal, the trees of Gezi Park began to be uprooted. The environmental protest had been foiled in the most rudimentary sense. However, news of what had happened began to “spread via social media, especially Twitter and Facebook, as well as SMS and phone calls,” and people began filing into Gezi Park en masse over the course of the following days and what we now know as the ‘Gezi Park Protests’ began.123 One specific image of this police repression came to embody the moment and spur others into joining the movement: a young woman in a red dress being sprayed point-black with pepper spray. This image, or references to it, continuously resurfaced throughout the protests in the physical and digital spaces in various forms.

122 Gülçin Erdi Lelandais, "Space and Identity in Resistance against Neoliberal Urban Planning in Turkey," International Journal of Urban and Regional Research 38, no. 5 (2014): 1786, doi:10.1111/1468- 2427.12154. 123 "What Do #occupygezi Protesters Want? My Observations from Gezi Park," Technosociology, June 12, 2013, accessed April 22, 2018, http://technosociology.org/?p=1349. 61

We can understand this response as overt repression backfiring. A KONDA survey that analyzed the demographics of the first week of the Gezi Park Protests, specifically those in Gezi Park/Taksim Square, found that 49% of all protesters came “when [they] saw the police violence,” and of those who came “of their own accord,” i.e. were not part of a larger political group, this percentage increases to 73%.124And to emphasize the role of media censorship and how social media filled the informational void, 69% of the protesters initially learned about the Gezi Park Protests from “Social Media” whereas only 16% of the protesters learned of the protests from “News Websites” (9%) and “Television”(7%).125 It is duly important to contrast the average age of the protesters, 26 years old, and the “average age of those who got news from television,” 40 years old.126 In the initial days of the protests, social media played a crucial role in facilitating the backfire response that allowed the movement to proliferate.

The initial backfire that transformed a small environmental protest into nationwide protests against the government, however, was not the only mode of repression backfiring.

As previously outlined in the context of the Uludere (Roboski) Massacre, censorship has the potential to backfire when made public. In the case of the Gezi Park Protests, mainstream

Turkish media’s coverage, or more importantly its lack thereof, backfired and lead to alternate forms of news consumption— particularly through social media. While one of the biggest international news stories of 2013 was beginning to unfold, Turkish media was patently ignoring Gezi Park. Instead of covering the breaking story, CNN Turkey aired a

124 "GEZİ REPORT Public Perception of the ‘Gezi Protests’ Who Were the People at Gezi Park?" KONDA, June 5, 2014, accessed April 21, 2018, http://konda.com.tr/wp-content/uploads/2017/03/KONDA_Gezi_Report.pdf. 125 Ibid. 126 Ibid. 62

documentary about penguins, and later, protesters would refer to mainstream news, i.e. heavily censored media, as ‘Penguin Media.’ An image of “two television screens side by side, one tuned to the Gezi Protests on CNN International, and the other to the plight of the penguins on CNN Turkey” went viral on social media and came “to symbolize censored media.”127

2.4.2 Censorship Backfire, Penguins, and Social Media

As CNN Turkey is “owned by a Turkish corporate conglomerate eager to please the government,” they adopted the wait-and-see approach that characterized the coverage of

Uludere (Roboski).128 At the onset of the protests, journalists were warned by their editors, who “had received phone calls from AKP officials,” not to cover what was occurring in Gezi

Park.129 By the conclusion of the protests, more than seventy journalist who did not heed their editors’ warnings “were fired or forced to resign...because of their Gezi coverage.”130

Despite these later dismissals, the beginning of the protests were largely ignored by mainstream media, and this became a crucial point of contention for the protesters.

During the protests, many protesters directly addressed the censorship by mainstream media outlets in a variety of ways. In a more outlandish display, one man from

Beşiktaş, a neighborhood on the European side of Istanbul, threw his television from a

127 Tufekçi, Twitter and Tear Gas, 48. 128 Ibid, 48. 129 Bilge Yeşil, Media in New Turkey: The Origins of an Authoritarian Neoliberal State (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2016), 111. 130 Ibid, 111.

balcony in protest, claiming that the news was not showing what was actually happening.131

People gathered in front of the HaberTürk building near Taksim Square, waving money and chanting “the sold media.”132 Approximately 2000 people gathered in front of the Doğuş

Media Center in protest of the media outlet’s ‘coverage’ of the Gezi Protests.133 As seen here, there were direct responses throughout the protests.

But another manifestation of citizens addressing the censorship was the large-scale turn to social media to both acquire and perpetuate news of the event. As mentioned in the introduction, 140journos is both a byproduct and means of circumventing censorship, and we can understand the broader response of millions of Turkish citizens taking to Twitter,

Facebook, and other platforms in much the same way. Instead of a singular journalist lifting the veil of censorship as was the case with Serdar Akinan and Uludere (Roboski), Turkish citizens en masse made the event visible via social media. It is important to note the nature of these social media posts in relation to the other large scale protests that predated the

Gezi Park Protests. According to KONDA Research, 85% of those surveyed at the protest responded that “Yes, I have shared messages” on social media, and the intended audience for these messages is equally important as their prevalence:134

“Unlike some other recent uprisings, around 90% of all geolocated tweets are coming from within Turkey, and 50% from within Istanbul... In comparison, Starbird (2012) estimated that only 30% of those tweeting during the Egyptian revolution were actually in the

131 140journos, "Beşiktaş'ta Bir Vatandaş "Başlarım Böyle Medyaya, Burada Ne Oluyor Onlar Ne Gösteriyor!" Deyip TV'yi Balkondan Attı. Pic.twitter.com/UBlVtOcsYA," Twitter, June 01, 2013, accessed April 22, 2018, https://twitter.com/140journos/status/340931224535199745. 132 140journos, "140journos's Gezi Park Timeline," Prezi.com, December 13, 2013, Slide 100, accessed May 25, 2018, https://prezi.com/jbqn6skucd-0/140journoss-gezi-park-timeline/. 133 140journos, "Maslak'ta çalışan Yaklaşık 2000 Kişi Doğuş Media Center önünde @ntv'yi Protesto Ediyor. Via: @tubabalci Pic.twitter.com/nkyqG1APdn," Twitter, June 03, 2013, accessed April 22, 2018, https://twitter.com/140journos/status/341495050338967552. 134 Gezi Report, KONDA.

country. Additionally, approximately 88% of the tweets are in Turkish, which suggests the audience of the tweets is other Turkish citizens and not so much the international community.”135

The initial role of Twitter in the Gezi Protests was not necessarily to make what was happening visible transnationally but, rather, to make it visible within Turkey. This is an important distinction because by understanding who the audience is, what is being sought, and by whom it is being sought by, we can better understand the underlying processes that shaped the event. But because there were more than “2 million tweets mentioning hashtags related to the protest, such as #direngeziparkı, #occupygezi, or #geziparkı” by June 1st, it is simply not feasible for any one actor to be able to digest such a high quantity of information. In fact, data usage was so congested due to the immense amount of information being uploaded that cellular networks struggled to keep up. Despite this,

Twitter posts from the area, Taksim Square and Gezi Park, continued in part “because some local businesses had...removed security codes from their Wi-Fi networks” to facilitate communication.136

The subsequent section analyzes the role that 140journos assumed throughout the protests. Whereas previously 140journos members were present at sites of newsworthiness, this was not the case during the Gezi Park Protests, and the transition from ‘on the ground’ to ‘curatorial’ citizen journalism did not occur in isolation. The Gezi

135 "A Breakout Role for Twitter? Extensive Use of Social Media in the Absence of Traditional Media by Turks in Turkish in Taksim Square Protests," The Monkey Cage, June 01, 2013, accessed April 22, 2018, http://themonkeycage.org/2013/06/a-breakout-role-for-twitter-extensive-use-of-social-media-in-the- absence-of-traditional-media-by-turks-in-turkish-in-taksim-square-protests/. 136 Yeşil, Media in New Turkey, 109.

Park Protests were not limited to physical spaces, and to fully understand how the protests affected the media landscape, we must conceptualize digital space much the same as the spaces occupied by the protesters. The park and digital spaces are both sites that are intervened upon, and “government measures such as blocking social media channels and throttling the internet are similar to closing down the park.”137 Just as Gezi Park came to be occupied by thousands of protesters, over the course of the Gezi Protests, the number of

Twitter accounts in Turkey increased exponentially— from “1.8 million on May 30[th] to more than 9.5 million [by] June 10[th].”138 It is crucial, then, to conceptualize the interaction between ‘Digital Space’ and ‘Protest Space’ as these spaces constituted one another during the Gezi Park Protests.

2.5 Digital Space Meets Protest Space: Gezi and 140journos Organizational Shift

In the informational void created by the censorship dynamics of mainstream

Turkish media, protesters and those keen to understand what was unfolding in the Gezi

Protests turned to Twitter, Facebook, and other forms of social media. In their assessment of Occupy Wall Street “and other leaderless movements,” Lünenborg and Raetszch (2017) argue that such movements “become producers of information and knowledge about

137 Gurur Ertem, "Gezi Uprising: Performative Democracy and Politics of the Body in an Extended Space of Appearance," in Media Practices, Social Movements, and Performativity: Transdisciplinary Approaches (Routledge, 2018), 68. 138 Yeşil, Media in New Turkey, 109.

themselves and their issues of concerns.”139 The horizontal, leaderless organizational schema of Gezi, which consisted of “LGBTQ, numerous left-wing parties and unions, anti- capitalist Muslims, Alevis, Kurds, Kemalists, students, artists and football fans” with their own agendas, led to information being produced and consumed in the same manner.140

This production of information occurred in relation to broader dynamics, in this case censorship in mainstream Turkish media, but is not atypical of the horizontal social movements where the movement seeks to define itself and promote its agenda. This, of course, is facilitated by digital technologies, but the broader relations of censorship and coverage of the movements lead to the members of the movement ‘taking matters into their own hands.’

In the case of the Gezi Park Protests, a large portion of the alternative informational surge took place on Twitter. Within the first two days, millions of Tweets with hashtags related to Gezi Park were circulating on the internet. However, the large quantity of tweets does not necessarily equate to greater understanding of what is happening, but rather, the multitudinous voices form a kaleidoscope image of what is occurring. In many ways, consuming news through social media is the antithesis of standardized journalism. There is no editor present to fact-check a post, and whereas journalists, in theory, are required to admit and correct mistakes, the same standard is not applied to the everyday citizen making a post on social media. In a sense, the only ‘moderation’ of what can or cannot be

139 Margreth Lunenborg and Christolph Raetzsch, "From Public Sphere to Performative Publics: Developing Media Practice as an Analytic Model," in Media Practices, Social Movements, and Performativity: Transdisciplinary Approaches (Routledge, 2018), 20. 140 Ertem, “Gezi Uprising,” 66.

posted is the site’s terms of service.141 As a result, it can be difficult to truly know whether or not the information one reads is factual on social media platforms.

Yet, it is consumed en masse all the same, and in this “new...mode of information and attention flow...ordinary citizens and activists can generate ideas, document and spread news of events, and respond to mass media.”142 The information shared by everyday citizens, activists, or even journalists on social media often is accompanied by a hashtag that sorts content— which might be categorized as “chokepoints” or “centralization” of information.143 But due to the nature of how information related to any newsworthy event circulates, the previous issue of ‘camera scarcity’ is inverted. Anyone with access to the specific service, i.e. Twitter or Facebook, can upload a post with the relevant hashtag, and the result often is that there is too much information to digest.

Prior to the Gezi Park Protests, 140journos members behaved “like conventional journalists.”144 In the equation of scarcity-abundance of ‘the camera,’ the issues covered, although perhaps otherwise uncovered and made visible through digital mediums, did not break the schema of traditional journalism. They would attend rallies, court cases, etc. and live-tweet what was going on, and their positionality as citizens rather than professional journalists afforded them access when journalists were barred from attending or reporting on events. The informational onslaught that Gezi wrought led to the group’s shifting how

141 https://twitter.com/en/tos 142 Tufekçi, Twitter and Tear Gas, 29. 143 Ibid, 29. 144 "A Changing Media Landscape in Turkey: The 140journos Project,” https://jia.sipa.columbia.edu/changing-media-landscape-turkey-140journos-project-interview-burcu- baykurt

they operate. Burcu Baykurt, at the time a member of 140journos, stated that “the core team [were] never...‘on the ground’ during [the Gezi Park Protests],” and instead, the group assumed the role of curator working to verify, or refute, information circulating on social media relating to the protests.145 Tufekçi writes that “social media curatorial journalism tries to solve a problem of abundance: telling false or fake reports from real ones and composing a narrative from a seemingly chaotic-splash-drip-splash supply of news."146

The sheer volume of tweets related to the Gezi Park Protests resulted in an informationally dense but unstructured narrative. A Twitter user following the protests, for instance, would have been exposed to a constantly updating feed of information, often without other information to contextualize what they were seeing. 140journos’ chief contributions counteracted this in two ways. First, the group worked to verify information that circulated in relation to the protests. For instance, reports that riot police were using

Agent Orange, famously used during the Vietnam War to “defoliate the jungle,” began circulating on Twitter.147 140journos, assuming the role of editor, “conferred with chemical engineers and determined that the canisters in question contained nothing more than colored smoke.”148

Second, contributions of this nature rendered the event legible. Throughout the month of June— Taksim Square, the locus of the Gezi Park Protests had been effectively cleared of protesters by the 16th— 140journos tweeted more than 2,000 times. While still a sizeable amount of information, the reduction of content, from millions of tweets to a few

145 Ibid. 146 Tufekçi, Twitter and Tear Gas, 42. 147 “A Sense of Exhilaration and Possibility,” http://niemanreports.org/articles/a-sense-of-exhilaration-and- possibility/. 148 Ibid. 69

thousand, in addition to providing it structure, makes information more digestible for readers. Being able to access a singular node of information aggregation renders the inherently chaotic digital spaces, as well as the chaotic spaces of protest, more understandable.

But can we say such an action is an act of protest, and by extension, that 140journos were as much a part of the Gezi Park Protests as those risking their bodies across Turkey?

Although the immediate physical dangers were absent, the act of publicizing dissident information in Turkey, particularly when mainstream media outlets refuse to cover such events, is tantamount to making a political statement against the contributing factors of the situation. The shift to ‘curatorial’ citizen journalism during Gezi was the beginning of an approximately four-year period for the group. Instead of being ‘on the ground’ as they previously were, 140journos became an informational hub that others ‘on the ground’ could access for up-to-date and accurate information. This organizational shift is important for a multitude of reasons. First, the group was a vital source of accurate and up to date information for protesters as well as those transnational observers keen to understand what was unfolding during the Gezi Park Protests. Next, the transition from ‘on the ground’ to ‘curatorial’ resulted in the establishment of a large network of information acquisition that allowed the group to continue to function as a hub of information in the aftermath of

Gezi. By 2016, the network of content submitters had increased to more than “500 people sending [140journos] content, regularly or irregularly, from 80 districts in Turkey.”149

Instead of relying solely on themselves to be on the ground, 140journos began to rely on

149 FreedomHouseDC, "Citizen Activism in the Digital Age - Mark Palmer Forum, Session 3 (2016)," YouTube, September 09, 2016, accessed April 22, 2018, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A4U5CpJh6zg&t=1769s. 70

volunteers either submitting data directly to the group, aggregating and ‘translating’ other digital media posts to more neutral language, and as the group became increasingly adept at doing the above, they also began to receive information from journalists who knew that their stories would be censored by their news agency’s editorial board. 140journos called such journalists, “pirates,” which the group defines as “members of major news channels like NTV, CNN Turk, Haberturk, and Skyturk 360 frustrated by the self-censorship of their own stations—who feed the news they gather to [140journos].”150 These varied sources of information allowed the group to maintain the “curatorial” evolution of the group even after the Gezi Park Protests waned, and this speaks to the fact that the “digitally networked public sphere does not replace the old media environment wholesale…[but] integrates and interacts with it in complex ways.”151 This interaction is not limited to content production, however, and the subsequent section will illustrate how much of the precariousness of the

‘old media environments’ can spill over into citizen journalist environment.

2.6 The Aftermath of the Gezi Protests: Sustaining a Citizen Journalism Project

Several notable citizen/alternative media platforms played a crucial role during the

Gezi movement as a response to a perceived lack of coverage and/or wanting to shape the narrative in a more positive manner, often in direct response to the negative framing of public officials or legacy media outlets. While 140journos was one of the major alternative media platforms during Gezi, it is important to note that the group was not established in

150 “A Sense of Exhilaration and Possibility,” http://niemanreports.org/articles/a-sense-of-exhilaration-and- possibility/. 151 Zeynep Tufekçi, Twitter and Tear Gas, 39. 71

response to or in conjunction with the social movement. This, in part, differentiates it from its contemporaries. However, I believe it crucial to draw comparisons between the various citizen journalism platforms that emerged from or proliferated during and in the aftermath of the Gezi Park Protests as doing so will elucidate what factors contribute to the longevity of citizen produced media and draw attention to the multiple reasons for why a citizen journalism platform might falter. I do this by putting three alternative media groups into dialogue with one another. These three groups are as follows: Çapul Tv/Sendika.org, Vagus

Tv, and 140journos, and I have selected them for the following reasons.

First, each group functions or functioned as a direct counter to censorship amongst mainstream media, and although the form of response varied— and this will become a site of great importance— censorship in mainstream Turkish media is a linking factor for these three groups. Second, the overall outcomes of each group have been markedly different and understanding the reasons why will provide crucial insight into both why a citizen journalist platform might persist in Turkey’s tense media climate and why it might not.

Finally, the specificities of 140journos, the group being thoroughly analyzed in the context of this research, cannot be understood outside of the context of citizen journalism at large in Turkey. By highlighting the key divergences in practice and trajectory amongst these three groups, we can better understand the dangers that citizen journalist platforms, particularly 140journos, face at present.

One of the most notable examples of “Gezi spawned” alternative media was Çapul

TV/Sendika.org, whose name is a direct reference to Recep Tayyip Erdoğan calling the protesters “Çapulcu” or marauders/looters. During the protests, Çapul TV began live streaming the events from Gezi Park on June 6th, and over a period of just over ten days, 72

the broadcast was accessed by “1.5 million [unique] IPs...and eight TV channels relayed

Çapul TV’s internet broadcast on their own [channels].”152 While Bulut and Bul differentiate

Çapul TV from other alternative media that was either spawned or proliferated during

Gezi— they classify Çapul TV as “guerilla media acting as a hive for a social movement that challenged an increasingly authoritarian political environment”— their arguments that

Çapul TV’s sustainability rely upon its perceived capacity to operate as and within a network of alternative media outlets.153 A hive, in essence, is a multifaceted network with several different outlets for content production. As of writing this Çapul.tv states that the site is down for “renovations,” its YouTube channel has been inactive for more than a year, and their establishment of Hayır TV, prior to the Presidential Referendum of 2017 that altered the electoral system in Turkey, has not posted on either YouTube or Twitter for more than 11 months, and Hayır TV’s Facebook page is unavailable. Çapul TV’s Facebook account remains open but has not posted since May 31, 2017.

While these access points no longer appear active, the group also produces content under the Sendika.org banner. However, their current website, sendika62.org, hints at their website’s repeated closure at the hands of the Turkish state and its persistent reopening.

This citizen/alternative media platform appears to be more antagonistic towards the government in its productions, and one can glean the outcome of such antagonism. This group’s experiences, multiple closures at the hand of the government and continued, defiant reopening of their website, differs greatly from 140journos who, to this day, have

152 Ergin Bulut and Haluk Mert Bal, "Disrupting the Spectacle: The Case of Çapul TV During and After Turkey’s Gezi Uprising," in The Spectacle 2.0: Reading Debord in the Context of Digital Capitalism. (London: University of Westminster Press, 2017), 210. 153 Ibid, 222. 73

not had their accounts closed by the government. Perhaps here, one might contend that

140journos’ dedication to “non-commentary” news enabled them to traverse the increasingly tense media climate in the aftermath of Gezi. Yet, despite their notable differences, both platforms continue to publish content which might inspire hope for the longevity of citizen-driven media platforms. However, the subsequent group will illustrate the fragility of citizen/alternative media in Turkey.

Vagus TV was an “online news portal” created by Serdar Akinan, the journalist who inspired 140journos with his reporting on the Uludere (Roboski).154 Established in the aftermath of the Gezi Park Protests, Vagus TV became a site where journalists either jaded with or fired by mainstream media outlets could publish stories without the editorial restrictions of their previous employers. In a 2014 interview with BBC’s Istanbul correspondent James Reynold, Akinan related both his fears and the everyday realities of managing the journalistic endeavor. The journalist stated matter-of-factly that the site is

“just news” but drew attention to the fact that there were no advertisements.155 This was not a conscious choice by Akinan and Vagus TV, but because potential advertisers feared government pushback. Despite the site garnering “2 million unique visitors” per month, the risks of advertising on the website were outweighed by the perceived, and ultimately very real, threats to the site’s sustainability and, in the eyes of the government, legality.

Speaking before the site’s closure at the hands of the government, Akinan presented the economic realities that faced Vagus TV as what would ultimately be the downfall of the

154 "Vagus.tv Restricted By "Yet-to-be-Implemented" Law," Bianet - Bagimsiz Iletisim Agi, accessed April 22, 2018, http://bianet.org/english/media/153163-vagus-tv-restricted-by-yet-to-be-implemented-law. 155 "Turkey Journalist Fears Country's New Internet Use Law," BBC News, February 06, 2014, accessed April 22, 2018, http://www.bbc.com/news/av/world-europe-26060021/turkey-journalist-fears-country-s-new- internet-use-law. 74

platform. In the same interview, however, Akinan prophetically touched on regulations being introduced that would alter the way sites are shut down in Turkey. Previously, such closures were the matter of the courts who would determine the legality of a website and, if deemed to have violated Turkish law, order the website to be shut down. However, the new legislation being discussed by Akinan outlined how the matter shifted from the courts to the purview of “the bureaucrats,” i.e. “government appointed administrators,” and what this entailed for Vagus TV and similar platforms.156 The gist of Akian’s fear can be summarized in the following quote: “If you have a prime minister who has allegations against him, and if he appoints these kind of guys it’s very easy to shut [platforms similar to

Vagus Tv] down.”157 Prior to the law’s passing, Akinan’s fears of closure proved to be well- founded as access to Vagus TV was temporarily closed on January 26, 2014 with its

“reporting on the 17 December corruption investigation…suspected to be the cause.”158 The ban on the site was lifted after two weeks; however, the damage was done as “the government’s decision to block access to the site disrupted its already fragile business model and the site was eventually forced to close down.”159

The case of Vagus TV is important in reconciling the future of 140journos for two key reasons. First, as Akinan directly stated, a journalistic endeavor cannot survive without a viable economic model. Vagus TV, as described by Akinan, was a prime candidate for advertisement due to its high number of unique monthly users; however, the media climate

156 Ibid. 157 Ibid. 158 Sarah Clarke, Marian Botsford Fraser, and Ann Harrison, eds., SURVEILLANCE, SECRECY AND SELF- CENSORSHIP NEW DIGITAL FREEDOM CHALLENGES IN TURKEY (Pen International, 2014), 5. 159 Mike Friedrichsen and Yahya R. Kamalipour, Digital Transformation in Journalism and News Media: Media Management, Media Convergence and Globalization (Cham: Springer, 2017), 175. 75

dissuaded advertisers from placing advertisements on the site. Next, citizen media becomes increasingly difficult to sustain, especially if it comes within the crosshairs of the state. For 140journos, such governmental targeting never took place between 2012 and

2016. Whereas Vagus Tv shut down as a result of targeting and Sendika/Çapul Tv have been the target of government closures but have persisted, even defiantly noting the number of closures with each iteration of their website, the dynamic between these citizen/alternative media groups and the state illustrate the precariousness that alternative media groups face in Turkey.

Another element affected by this precarity is economic in nature. Whereas Vagus

TV’s economic model revolved around traditional advertisement, more importantly the lack thereof, Çapul TV has used fundraising sites in order to generate funds. Given the group’s horizontal network structure, it is unsurprising that crowd-funding became an manner for generating funds for the group. 140journos has also made use of indiegogo, the fundraising website used by Çapul TV. However, this was not in general support of the group or its projects, but in response to a break-in at the group’s headquarters in Istanbul where thousands of dollars of equipment were stolen from the premises, such as

MacBooks, cameras, and other technology.160 What was particularly interesting about the theft was that the group’s external hard drives were stolen. Outside of this instance, the group has not utilized crowdfunding sites to the author’s knowledge but have acquired funding via other means. In 2014, 140journos received an R&D Grant from the European

160 140journos, Soyulduk: 140journos Ofisinde Yaşananlar, December 05, 2017, accessed April 22, 2018, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=obpLo226KDI.

Cultural Foundation, and such grants have been integral sources of funding for citizen- media projects not only in Turkey but more generally.161 However, these grants are increasingly difficult to come by and cannot be considered as a sustainable source of income. 140journos sustained itself, in part, by such funding but also through its organizational scheme, which was reliant on a large volunteer network and through the group founders’ other creative ventures.

While these three groups were not the only citizen-media projects, their unique experiences in the aftermath of the Gezi Park Protests allow us to understand what the potential outcomes of these experiences can be. For Vagus TV, temporary closure led to permanent closure; for Sendika.org/Çapul TV, repeated closures further strengthened the

‘activist’ resolve of the group; and for 140journos, their commitment to a more neutral tone allowed them to skirt the governmental sanctions.

The post-Gezi climate was a tense one to navigate, but it was also conducive to the establishment and proliferation of such groups. However, I argue in the subsequent chapter that, in the wake of the failed military coup in 2016 and the state of emergency that followed, this ‘post-Gezi’ environment has been replaced by an even more repressive media climate, and that this climate, ultimately, has an overall negative effect on trajectory of citizen-media projects. While this might seem an obvious claim, it is not inherently so as moments of crisis or struggle are what often allow such media platforms to come to the fore.

161 "Featured People: Engin Önder," European Cultural Foundation, accessed April 22, 2018, http://www.culturalfoundation.eu/library/featured-people-engin-onder. 77

The sustained nature of the post-coup climate operates differently than a crisis such as the Gezi Park Protests in the sense that not only does suppression of dissent (or the threat of) make it more difficult for citizen-media projects to sustain themselves economically and increasingly puts pressure upon its members and group as a whole, it also restricts the forms that these groups can take as well. If the ‘on the ground’ evolution of 140journos circa 2012 were to cover news by attending protests, rallies, etc. then the increased powers given to police/state actors would increasingly place the ‘on the ground’ party at risk of imprisonment and/or police violence. This is not to say that ‘on the ground’ citizen journalism has completely eroded in the aftermath of the coup attempt, for example

Dokuz8Haber a collective of citizen media groups, continues to operate in a hybrid ‘on the ground’ and ‘curatorial’ manner. Whether or not this will remain sustainable will be important for both future research into citizen media in Turkey but, more importantly, as a representation of the media/political climate as a whole.

Returning to 140journos and the major issues raised in this section, the economic viability of a citizen project and any potential politico-legal ramifications, will become increasingly important for the group in the post-coup climate. In part, such considerations have led to another evolution of the group, which I dub the ‘professional/creative’ evolution. The subsequent chapter will delve further into why this evolution has come about, and it will also touch upon why it has increased the potential for 140journos to come into the government’s crosshairs.

CHAPTER 3: TURKEY’S STATE OF EMERGENCY AND THE ‘PROFESSIONAL/CREATIVE’ EVOLUTION OF 140JOURNOS

As outlined previously in Chapter 2, 140journos underwent an evolution that fundamentally altered the nature of their reporting during the Gezi Park Protests. In its first year of operation, the group was ‘on the ground’ at sites of newsworthiness, and their positionality as ‘citizens’ privileged them with forms of mobility and anonymity unavailable to mainstream journalists. This organizational schema assisted in their coverage of elsewise unreportable stories where having a press pass prevented access, but it also limited their productions to rallies, protests, court cases, and other small-scale events where they could be present. During the Gezi Park Protests, the group underwent an organizational shift out of necessity, transforming from ‘on the ground’ seekers of content to ‘curators’ of content either provided to the group directly or uploaded to various digital media platforms. If 140journos had continued its ‘on the ground’ approach that informed their earlier publications during the protests, they would have been a single voice at a moment where millions of voices were coming to the fore in both physical and digital spaces and likely lost in the surge of information.

‘Curatorial’ citizen journalism allowed the group not only to stay relevant but to proliferate as they provided a crucial civil service during a time of need: legibility to an otherwise illegible and constant stream of voices, opinions, and information during the Gezi

Park Protests. The perception of 140journos as a vital tool for understanding ‘what is actually happening’ illustrates why ‘curatorial’ citizen journalism can be useful during 79

moments of crisis such as the Gezi Park Protests of 2013 and the abortive military coup of

July 2016. When information is either overabundant, as was the case with the Gezi Park

Protests, or inherently unclear due to the rapid unfolding of a crisis, as was the case with the abortive coup, a singular node of information often becomes the most convenient and effective means of acquiring information. For example, on the night of the abortive coup attempt, 140journos’s Twitter traffic was the highest in the group’s history— “110 million” unique visitors followed the group’s coverage of the crisis.162 Engin Önder , in an interview with OpenDemocracy.net, remarked that because “[140journos] already had a large network of contributors…[they] became the most reliable source of information in the country.”163

In addition to having established networks, 140journos became a vital source because the wait-and-see attitude of mainstream Turkish media forced people to acquire information via other avenues. In the same interview, Önder addresses this, stating that during the coup “the media didn’t dare to report critically; they were self-censoring.

President Erdoğan and Vice President Yıldırım later praised this behavior, [stating] that the media had done good work, and not spread panic.”164 In Turkey, there is a discernible pattern of censorship of ‘uncensorable’ crises which enables citizen journalists to fill the void. However, as I will argue in this section, this pattern is also endemic of the inherent limitations of citizen journalism—its reliance on instances of crisis, and how this weakness has been exacerbated by the present political tensions in Turkey.

162 "140journos: After the Coup Attempt," OpenDemocracy, February 08, 2017, accessed April 22, 2018, https://www.opendemocracy.net/till-gentzsch-valentin-ih-en/140journos-after-coup-attempt. 163 Ibid. 164 Ibid. 80

Whereas the Gezi Park Protests functioned as an instance of repression backfiring, the post-coup political climate and the resulting crackdowns on large swaths of Turkish society has made both the real and perceived cost of dissent remarkably high. If we recall

Lichbach’s analysis of why repression leads to deterrence, the fact that “repression raises the costs to individuals who participate in a conflict, which makes them less willing to strike back at regimes,” we can understand how a sustained period of repression, or the threat of repression, can result in deterrence rather than prompting backfire.165 The degree of the crackdown in the aftermath of the coup is hard to fathom—hundreds of thousands have either lost their jobs, been arrested, had passports cancelled, or have been detained.

All of this is justified as a response to terrorism, i.e. the Gülenist coup attempt, and this discourse, in addition to legal affordances, allows the government to unilaterally target dissent.

The instance that best represents the extent to which the Turkish government can repress dissent is the imprisonment of the co-chairs of the ‘pro-Kurdish’ Peoples’

Democratic Party (HDP), Selahattin Demirtaş and Figen Yüksekdağ, along with several other HDP parliament members in November 2016. Although HDP is the third largest party behind AKP and CHP as well as a member of the Turkish parliament, the AKP government possessed both the legal capacity and the political capital to, essentially, cripple a rival political party. Although pro-Kurdish parties or newspapers being targetted by the government is not a new phenomenon, the potentiality for the anti-terrorist discourse

165 Lichbach, Deterrence or Escalation, 290. 81

often directed at Kurdish citizens of Turkey to be directed at any dissenting voice generates a climate where the ‘cost’ of dissent cannot be overstated.

Due to the present political situation and its effects on dissent and activism, broadly, the political climate generated by the state of emergency affects the health and sustainability of citizen journalism in Turkey. However, despite the grim outlook of citizen journalism, which will be expounded upon in this chapter, I proffer that, once again,

140journos has undergone an evolution. This evolution, however, brings to the fore the following question: does the attribution of ‘citizen journalism,’ one the group never readily accepted, still apply to the present evolution of the group? I argue, in line with the members of 140journos, that they should no longer be considered a citizen journalism media group.

I do so, however, with a caveat. While this chapter will illustrate the group’s shift from a citizen journalism agency to a professional/creative media group through an analysis of the marked shift in the group’s media productions, the framework of

‘curatorial’ citizen journalism that defined the post-Gezi organization of the group has not wholly vanished but, instead, remains dormant in anticipation of a major crisis. This will be elaborated upon in Chapter 4, but the strength of citizen journalism, that anyone can fulfill the role of the journalist, paradoxically highlights the greatest weakness of citizen journalism: as a methodology, citizen journalism is often reliant on instances of crisis as it is precisely these moments that prompt citizens to shift from consumers of news to producers and agenda setters of news. This weakness is further compounded by Turkey’s current state of emergency, which was enacted on July 20th, 2016, five days after the coup, and has been extended multiple times and continues to the present-day. This chapter outlines the precarities of citizen journalism in Turkey, and how events in the years 82

following Gezi have created an environment where citizen journalism can no longer thrive; how this environment has led 140journos to change tactically and what other factors prompted this shift; and, finally, how this tactical shift of the group might make them more susceptible to government/police intervention.

3.1 The Artistry of the ‘Professional/Creative’ 140journos

Since 2017, 140journos, while still active on the digital platforms that helped grow their audience, began to produce content that prioritizes artistic form and story-telling over simply ‘reporting the facts,’ which one might rudimentarily classify as news.166 While one can problematize this description of the news, and certainly there is nuance to the production of news media, the basic purpose of the news is to inform the audience of the actors, basic facts, and ramifications of a particular event in a very brief timeframe. Both the ‘on the ground’ and ‘curatorial’ evolutions of 140journos followed this schema by adhering to very basic principles: acquire information—initially from the site of newsworthiness and later through crowd sourcing networks, deliver it in real-time via digital platforms, and use non-commentary language to provide legitimacy to the group’s productions in the hope of garnering a more diverse audience as well as avoid being censored. Certainly, the various limitations of the digital platforms informed the format of the news content, but the fact remains that the publications were always in response to an event with the purpose of making it understandable in a brief period of time.

166 Engin Önder, Cem Ayadoğdu, "140journos'un Haber Formatları – 140journos," 140journos, March 20, 2017, accessed May 25, 2018, https://140journos.com/yeni-yuzu-yeni-konumlamasi-ve-yeni-icerikleriyle- 140journos-60ebde6a17c5.

This no longer is the case as the group undergone yet another tactical shift in response to its once vast informational networks shrinking in the aftermath of the abortive coup. No longer can the group produce content ‘in response’ to news submitted by contributors as their networks have retracted in the wake of the coup. Reflecting on the political climate under the state of emergency, 140journos’ Engin Önder remarked that

“because many people are scared…[140journos] needs to find new sources.”167 But if those new sources are unable to be found due to the post-coup climate deterring the everyday citizen from becoming the producer of news, i.e. a citizen journalist, the curatorial evolution of 140journos could not persist. In response, 140journos now generate content in forms that are anything but brief. Rather than only publishing an article, video, or tweet detailing a moment of newsworthiness, 140journos now produces series of stories rather than exclusively relaying instances of newsworthiness.

However, shrinking networks are not the only reason for this tactical shift. One stated reason for the shift in format is because since 140journos began producing news content, Turkish media, broadly, is still plagued by the same issues.168 Ostensibly, we can understand the stated reason and the lack of change as shortcomings, perhaps even the failing, of the previous evolutions of the group despite 140journos being lauded in Western media and amongst academics. Certainly, 140journos did not fail to report the news accurately, fairly, and in a prompt manner in its formative years nor during and after the

167 “140journos After the Coup,” https://www.opendemocracy.net/till-gentzsch-valentin-ih-en/140journos- after-coup. 168 “5 yıl geçti ve medya, başladığımız günden daha iyi değil” (5 years have passed and the media has not gotten better since the day we started)” from Engin Önder, Cem Ayadoğdu, "140journos'un Haber Formatları – 140journos," 140journos, March 20, 2017, accessed May 25, 2018, https://140journos.com/yeni-yuzu-yeni- konumlamasi-ve-yeni-icerikleriyle-140journos-60ebde6a17c5. 84

Gezi Park Protests. However, one critical aspect often forgotten in lieu of the group’s digital savviness and adaptability has been their desire to enact social change. One of the original desires that the co-founders of 140journos shared was to make various, polarized audiences more empathetic to the plights of those who might not occupy the same political/ideological space, particularly to the experiences of marginalized groups—the chief example being the Kurdish experience in Turkey. The stated methodology to accomplish this was to present the facts and let them speak for themselves, i.e. the ‘non- commentary’ approach. I contend that the while the same desire is present, it is being sought after in a more direct albeit affective manner.

One affective ‘series’ recently produced by the group, “I am afraid of Istanbul

(Istanbul’dan Korkuyorum)" tells a myriad of stories of experiences in Istanbul. On

140journos’s website, the series is described as a “long winded photograph story (uzun soluklu bir fotoğraf hikayesidir)” and this format can easily be differentiated from the production of news in response to an event. Whereas ‘on the ground’ productions would detail the perspectives and actions of a person/group in relation to an event and

‘curatorial’ productions would compile, aggregate, and relay a mediated rendition of what was unfolding, the current productions of 140journos, such as “I’m afraid of Istanbul

(Istanbul’dan Korkuyorum),” generate a story that previously existed in a real but ephemeral sense. These experiences, while made manifest in the everyday life of an

Istanbulite, are not what is often considered newsworthy as such a term inherently implies some form of departure from the normal, everyday occurrence.

In the seventh chapter of “I am afraid of Istanbul (Istanbul’dan Korkuyorum)” entitled “Woman (Kadın),” the audience is exposed to the everyday fears women in 85

Istanbul might face while traversing the city—walking home alone at night, poorly illuminated streets, street harassment or worse, among many other very real fears.

Through the narration of a woman living in Istanbul juxtaposed against ominous sites, music, and sounds, the four-minute film is not only intended to inform the audience of the issue but to make the audience experience the same fear of Istanbul that a woman faces.169

Of course there are inherent limits to this concept, but the concept, itself, runs counter to the group’s previous notion of being ‘non-commentary’ which should be understood as not wanting to provide the audience anything aside from the facts. In the ‘non-commentary’ formulation, whatever conclusions are drawn from the presentation of the information are left to the individual reader/viewer.

Unsurprisingly, living in a large urban center (Istanbul has over 15 million inhabitants) often puts women into unwanted contact, physical and verbal, with strangers.

One could easily learn, to a degree, what these fears are and what a woman in Istanbul might experience through a news article detailing accounts of instances where those fears unfolded, or did not but easily could have. The piece could be bolstered by statistical data that would inform the audience of the prevalence of the issue. But is a news production capable of rendering an audience afraid? Certainly, a news consumer can be shocked or frightened by what they read, but one’s positionality informs this fear and it is in relation to

169 Perhaps it should be noted that in the “Istanbul’dan Korkuyorum” series that the seventh chapter is presented in a different format than the previous six chapters. Whereas the seventh chapter is a several minute long video, the previous six chapters are articles accompanied by a brief (approximately ten to twenty second) video clip that introduces the story, and photographs that tell the ‘true’ story. The intended effect, however, appears to be very much the same—to create an uneasy feeling in the viewer/reader. The introductory clips are jarring—for instance in the sixth chapter, “To live in an imaginary hotel (Hayali bir otelde yaşamak),” is introduced by an upward facing shot of a large building, presumably a (future) hotel, with a rumbling, synthetic bass that is pierced by the intermittent and harsh ringing of a hotel call bell. 86

perceived and/or real consequences. I contend that the ‘fear’ intended to be inspired by this series is not one of self-preservation but empathetic fear.

The above video, and the series in general, is a massive departure from 140journos’s initial productions. This tactical and affective shift in the group’s productions calls into question whether or not they might still be categorized as a citizen journalist group. As mentioned in relation to the “Istanbul’dan Korkuyorum (I am afraid of Istanbul)” series, the subject matter is of the everyday variety rather than instances of newsworthiness. In addition to the different genre of production, prompting the question of whether or not we can consider such productions ‘news’ and certainly whether or not the content is produced by the ‘citizen,’ the manner in which it is produced also differs drastically from the group’s previous productions.

Once again, members of the group are on the ground, particularly members of

140journos SO; however, this does not mean that the content produced are citizen journalism productions. 170 Rather, they are professional quality, affective productions by professional photographers using expensive cameras and a now-seasoned group of video editors. In essence, 140journos’ recent evolution is from citizen journalist group to professional/creative media group, and this is further evidenced by the economic model of the group. Previously, 140journos was primarily funded by other projects of the co- founders’ Institute of Creative of Minds (Yaratacı Fikirler Enstitüsü) and the occasional

R&D grant. With their professional turn, the group now produces documentaries for sale,

170 140journos SO Collective (State of Emergency Collective) 87

shoot videos for many brands, and operate as a creative agency whose members earn income by selling their content to publishers.

The highlighting of the previous series is not to say that all of the productions by the

‘Professional/Creative’ evolution of 140journos avoid newsworthy topics in light of the so- called ‘everyday,’ especially since it can be difficult to divorce the everyday with the newsworthy.171 An August 2017 video entitled Nuclear Hazard: Nuclear Energy in Turkey

(nükleer tehlike: türkiye'de nükleer enerji) is clearly a production with newsworthy subject matter—it is beyond the realm of the everyday, involves transnational governmental cooperation, and affects (or has the potential to) millions of Turkish citizens. As of April 3,

2018, the Turkish and Russian governments “marked the official start of work to build

Turkey’s first nuclear power station…launching the construction of the $20 billion Akkuyu plant in the southern province of Mersin.”172 However, the coverage of a newsworthy event does not inherently make it a production of citizen journalism, especially given the format and message of the video: a compilation of politicians, reporters, and videos of past sites of nuclear meltdowns set to music suited for the climax of a horror film. The ‘on the ground’ citizen setting the agenda is wholly absent in this configuration, and while there is a certain curatorial aspect in the assemblage of media clips, they are all from mainstream news media and not citizen produced content. In essence, the ‘Professional/Creative’ 140journos are a professional media agency that operates primarily on new media platforms, and their

171 A brief disclaimer: I do not in any way assert that the value of a production is tied to its newsworthiness nor do I assert that the everyday, non-newsworthy issues are more or less important than productions pertaining to newsworthy issues. 172 Tulay Karadeniz, "Erdogan, Putin Mark Start of Work on Turkey's First Nuclear Power...," Reuters, April 04, 2018, accessed May 25, 2018, https://www.reuters.com/article/us-turkey-russia- nuclearpower/erdogan-putin-mark-start-of-work-on-turkeys-first-nuclear-power-plant-idUSKCN1HA2GI.

productions are an affective attempt to generate the social change the group always labored to enact.

However, the group, while still active on social media, have taken their productions offline as well. This is not a wholly new development as 140journos has sought to “combine online visibility and power with [the] offline” for a while now and have sponsored initiatives prior to their professional turn—for example they held a public debate at

Istanbul’s Galata Tower on “the necessity of nuclear energy” in 2012.173 However, this offline component has become increasingly important with the recent shift to more aesthetic/artistic content. With the current creative turn of the group, many of the documentaries that the group creates are shown in ‘offline’ settings;174 and other contributing members have published the photo series that they have contributed to

140journos, with the most notable being Çağdaş Erdoğan’s Control, which will be thoroughly analyzed in the context of why the notion of ‘non-commentary’ no longer informs the group’s platform and places them at increased risk of governmental targeting.175

3.2 Between Non-Commentary and Antagonism?

Revisiting the idea of non-commentary news, the group continues to operate similarly in the sense that they still do not provide overt commentary in most of their

173 FreedomHouseDC, "Citizen Activism in the Digital Age - Mark Palmer Forum, Session 3 (2016)," YouTube, September 09, 2016, accessed April 22, 2018, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A4U5CpJh6zg&t=1769s. 174 "Facebook," 140journos'tan "radyo Eksen" Belgeseli | ön Gösterim, accessed April 22, 2018, https://www.facebook.com/events/200692790490124/. 175 "CONTROL," AKINA, accessed April 22, 2018, http://akinabooks.com/product/control/.

productions. However, with the turn towards generating stories/narratives, we see a partial unraveling of the non-commentary methodology. One example of this is the group’s

“Recep ‘Trump’ Erdoğan’ video which notes the similarities of the two political leaders. The video opens with a picture of the Turkish President with President Trump’s hair superimposed onto his head. Opening the video with this, in and of itself, is a political comment: the two leaders produce discourses similar enough to the degree where they can be considered one and the same. The video continues by highlighting the specific discourses that the two leaders espouse, noting their striking similarities. While at no point does the video explicitly state ‘Erdoğan and Trump are one and the same,’ the intended message is clear, and one can easily surmise how the video is intended to be interpreted.

Perhaps the facts might ‘speak for themselves,’ but the presentation of these facts, in conjunction with the title, are certainly meant to engender a certain understanding of what is being presented.

This more direct approach, albeit not as direct as labeling the government fascist or calling them authoritarian as many alternative/counter media groups do, runs the risk of putting 140journos in the crosshairs of a government with increased jurisdictional discretion in the wake of the abortive coup and a track record of repeated crackdown upon dissent. Although the group, itself, has not been the target of closures, as has been the case with Sendika.org, contributing members of 140journos have experienced the effects of the increasingly stifling post-coup environment. Çağdaş Erdoğan, a freelance photographer and 90

member of 140journos’s SO (State of Emergency) Collective,176 was arrested in September

2017 in Istanbul. Erdoğan, who was taking pictures of the city skyline, was “accused by a police officer of deliberately shooting the nearby MİT (Milli Istihbarat Teskilati)177

Building.”178 The photographer was “arrested on terrorism charges,” and within hours, “his website was taken offline and his social media feeds disabled.”179 Erdoğan’s photo series for

140journos, Control, is emblematic of the ideological shift that has accompanied the shift from citizen journalist platform to professional/creative media agency, and its subject matter falls under what the government desires to repress. Control delves into the dark and often illegal nightlife of Istanbul’s Gazi neighborhood, “known for its entrenched Kurdish community,” where the photographer captured “subcultures that have found a way to rebel against the oppressive conservatism of contemporary Turkey.”180 The series depicts armed, masked protesters in the streets, gun violence, illegal dogfighting, and a secretive sex parties in the neighborhood which is predominantly made up of Kurdish and Alevi minorities.

As mentioned previously, Erdoğan was arrested in September 2017 and held in prison for six months until his trial on February 2018.181 Although arrested and charged with ‘terrorism’ for purportedly taking picture of the (unmarked) MİT Building, Erdoğan’s

176 https://140journos.com/so/home 177 Turkey’s Intelligence Agency. 178 Tom Seymour, "Dog Fights and Sex Parties: The Man Who Photographs Istanbul after Dark," The Guardian, April 03, 2018, , accessed April 22, 2018, https://www.theguardian.com/artanddesign/2018/apr/03/cagdas- erdogan-photographer-turkey-paris-circulations-control. 179 Ibid. 180 Ibid. 181 "Çağdaş Erdoğan Speaks out." British Journal of Photography. March 22, 2018. Accessed April 22, 2018. http://www.bjp-online.com/2018/03/cagdas-erdogan-speaks-out/.

broader career as a photojournalist was used against him in trial. During his trial, the fact that he embedded, as a photojournalist, with “affiliates of the PKK” in Nusaybin182 was used as evidence to show his membership in a terrorist organization.183 However, what is interesting is that being embedded with ‘PKK affiliates’ was not the only evidence used to demonstrate ‘his membership’ in a terrorist organization. Erdoğan also states that “Control was also presented as criminal evidence” and that the government “indicated that some pictures that refer to the political conflict [were] propaganda.”184 Control, while part- journalistic, is first and foremost an artistic work that is emblematic of the broader shift of

140journos. It is interesting that artistic productions are used to prosecute an artist/journalist, but not wholly unsurprising for two reasons. First, the subject matter of

Control deals with subcultures forced underground by what Erdoğan describes as “the most conservative government Turkey has ever had” as well as illegal activities such as dog fighting and armed protest.185 Next, the state of emergency has allowed the government to more broadly target dissent. Even without the extended jurisdictional powers afforded to the government under the state of emergency, there has been a history of targeting artists and their artistic productions dealing with taboo subjects in Turkey.

In 2006, novelist Elif Şafak was put on trial for statements of her characters from her novel The Bastard of Istanbul.186 However, Erdoğan’s context differs from Şafak’s. First, while the AKP government crafted the law that was used to prosecute Şafak, Article 301 of

182 A City in Southeastern Turkey 183 Ibid. 184 Ibid. 185 Ibid. 186 Susanne Fowler, "Turkey, a Touchy Critic, Plans to Put a Novel on Trial," The New York Times, September 15, 2006, accessed April 22, 2018, https://www.nytimes.com/2006/09/15/world/europe/15turkey.html.

the Penal Code, it was not the government but ultranationalist actors that targeted and persecuted the author. In Erdoğan’s case, he was being targeted by the government directly. Next, the charges levied against each differed although the vagueness of each law allow(ed) for it to be operationalized broadly. Whereas Şafak was on trial for ‘denigrating

Turkishness,’ Erdoğan was charged with being a member of a terrorist organization and producing propaganda for said organization. In the post-coup media climate, this is the most commonly cited reason for closures of small-scale news operations, and the charge of being a terrorist, as made apparent with the case of the Boğaziçi students protesting

Turkish involvement in Syria, is operationalized with increasing frequency to shut down dissenting voices.

3.3 Is Citizen Journalism Sustainable during a State of Emergency? What We Can Learn from 140journos’s Trajectory

In the conclusory section of the Chapter 2, I outlined and put into conversation multiple citizen media platforms with the curatorial evolution of 140journos. Each group put into ‘conversation’ with 140journos faced different challenges— legal, financial, or organizational which placed each group on a unique trajectory. Despite the disparity among the outcomes for the groups, the same climate informed each of these outcomes:

The post-Gezi climate was ripe for citizen and/or alternative media platforms to emerge while paradoxically setting the stage for their failure. The ‘Gezi Spirit’ emboldened citizens to labor to fill a perceived informational void; however, because this emboldenment was tied to the social movement, it waned as time progressed when the aspirations of the movement did not come to fruition. At the beginning of this chapter, I contended that

140journos can no longer be described as a citizen journalism group based on the present 93

political climate, but this evolution is more than the byproduct of the political climate: it is a part tactical, part ideological evolution of the group and is reflected in a shift in its type of media productions. I will return to this later point later in this chapter, but first, I will outline the reasons why citizen journalism, in and of itself, is difficult to sustain in general and in Turkey specifically.

The fundamental idea of citizen journalism is that citizens set the agenda, create, and publicize the news. In its initial evolution, 140journos were the citizens setting the agenda and producing the news. This ‘on the ground’ citizen journalism can be distinguished from the ‘curatorial’ organization that the group assumed during the Gezi

Park Protests. However, the idea of ‘curatorial’ citizen journalism is entirely predicated on someone being the ‘on the ground’ party to document what is newsworthy. As one might assume, not everything that occurs is considered newsworthy and interrogating what might be deemed newsworthy elucidates the limitations of the concept of citizen journalism. Newsworthy events often emerge from or are, themselves, moments of crisis.

To give a few examples: the video documentation of the murder of Eric Garner at the hands of the New York Police Department officers in the United States, Syrian citizens being gunned down by the government security forces, or protesters being violently removed from Gezi Park are all exceptional events that, if witnessed, are exceptional to the degree that they cannot be ignored.

Such events fall under the purview of citizen journalism, although not exclusively, but can citizen journalism persist if it is entirely reliant on the exceptional to occur?

Certainly, the exceptional does occur and, by some accounts, occurs too frequently. Yet, the second and third examples of Syria and Turkey raise even more questions regarding the 94

sustainability of citizen journalism: can citizen journalism persist in increasingly authoritarian states where being present to document such events puts the citizen at great risk? The answer appears to be yes but not without great sacrifice and consequence.

Turning briefly to Syria, a citizen journalism group Raqqa is Being Slaughtered Silently

(RBSS) updates what life under Daesh (ISIS or ISIL) in Raqqa is like. The core of the group has escaped from Raqqa and utilize their remaining connections within the city to

“transmit news about public executions, poverty, and other dire living conditions that would otherwise go unnoticed by the outside world.”187 Yet, despite escaping from Raqqa, this does not remove them from the inherent risks of the project. One member has been assassinated while in Turkey, another’s father was assassinated by the terrorist group, and those who provide information to the group from inside Raqqa are in a constant state of peril.188 When partaking in citizen journalism is dangerous to such a degree, it begs the question whether or not it can be sustained. As of now RBSS continues to produce invaluable content, but only time will show whether or not such an endeavor can continue.

While not as dire, 140journos and other citizen journalist platforms in Turkey face a multitude of issues from the Turkish government’s increasingly authoritarian turn. Turkey has been under a state of emergency since July 20, 2016. Since then, the initial three month state of emergency period has been extended six times with no end in sight.189 The state of

187 Kelly Flemming, "'City of Ghosts': Citizen Journalism in Da'ishi-held Raqqa," Washington Report on Middle East Affairs, October 2017, , http://link.galegroup.com/apps/doc/A506950344/ITOF?u=uarizona_main&sid=ITOF&xid=9e6c1f4f. 188 Ibid. 189 As of April 5, 2018, Hurriyet Daily News says that the state of emergency will be extended again: http://www.hurriyetdailynews.com/turkeys-state-of-emergency-to-be-extended-govt-spokesperson-129820

emergency has had an immense effect on many sectors in Turkey—151,000 have been dismissed from their jobs, 133,000 have been detained, more than 64,000 have been arrested, 3,000 schools, dormitories, and universities have been shut down, approximately

6,000 academics have lost their jobs, 4,400 judges and prosecutors have been dismissed,

189 media outlets have been shut down, and 319 journalists have been arrested.190 191 The scale of the actions taken in light of the state of emergency, while staggering, do not tell the full story. The atmosphere generated has stifled the capacity for dissenting voices to not only be heard but to manifest.

When these dissenting voices do occasionally come to the foreground, they are quickly squelched by the increased jurisdictional discretion afforded to state entities by the state of emergency. A recent example, on April 2, 2018, nine Boğaziçi University students were arrested for protesting the government’s military campaign in Afrin, Syria—a city which until its recent occupation by the Turkish military and the Turkish-backed Syrian

National Army had been under the control of Kurdish forces for approximately five years.192

193 In the aftermath, President Erdoğan stated that “we won’t give these terrorist youth the right to study at these universities.”194 A discourse that labels all forms of dissent as

190 Turkey Purge, accessed April 22, 2018, https://turkeypurge.com/. 191 For a good summary of the coup attempt, see Dexter Filkin’s “Thirty Year Coup” in The New Yorker 192 "Boğaziçi öğrencilerinden 9'u Tutuklandı |," Dokuz8HABER, April 04, 2018, accessed April 22, 2018, http://www.dokuz8haber.net/gundem/bogazici-ogrencileri-savciliga-cikariliyor/. 193 Molly Crabapple, "How Turkey's Campaign in Afrin Is Stoking Syrian Hatreds," The New York Review of Books, accessed April 22, 2018, http://www.nybooks.com/daily/2018/04/11/how-turkeys-campaign-in- afrin-is-stoking-syrian-hatreds/. 194 "Erdoğan Calls Boğaziçi University Students Involved in Afrin Protests 'terrorists'." Hürriyet Daily News. Accessed April 22, 2018. http://www.hurriyetdailynews.com/erdogan-calls-bosporus-university-students- involved-in-afrin-protests-terrorists-129241. 96

“terroristic” makes the ‘price’ to pay for activists and other ‘on the ground’ actors even steeper.

However, the effects of such a climate on citizen journalism are unclear. For instance, videos showing the students at Boğaziçi being detained circulated on Twitter and were reported on by Dokuz8Haber, another prominent citizen journalist collective in

Turkey. But at the same time, being the ‘on the ground’ party has become increasingly difficult in Turkey. Without this initial link in the chain of information sharing, citizen journalism cannot sustain itself. Reflecting on the political climate under the state of emergency, 140journos’s Engin Önder remarked that “we need to change our structures, we can no longer depend on people sending us information.”195 Based upon the assessment of a seasoned citizen journalist group, citizen journalism in Turkey will slowly peter out because of Turkey’s state of emergency. However, one group’s assessment, regardless of its years of experience as a citizen journalist platform in Turkey, should not be understood as a matter-of-fact. Rather, it should be understood as one perspective in an ongoing situation.

Instead of continuing to operate in the same capacity—curatorial citizen journalism,

140journos opted to change structurally in response to the present political tensions. The structural shift has led the group to ‘behave’ more like a traditional media outlet in some ways although not entirely. They produce content rather than aggregate and distribute it, and how they use digital mediums, too, now more closely resembles mainstream media outlets. For instance, mainstream media outlets are self-referential—their Twitter posts lead to news articles, videos, etc. on their website. Currently, 140journos uses Twitter in

195 “140journos After the Coup,” https://www.opendemocracy.net/till-gentzsch-valentin-ih-en/140journos- after-coup. 97

much the same way—to promote their content on other platforms. This is a stark departure from how the group previously used Twitter, a means of providing a steady but legible stream of information. Now, a typical 140journos tweet links to either their website,

140journos.com, or to their videos on YouTube, which has become the most utilized new media platform for the group since undergoing structural changes. However, the changes to

140journos, I argue, have been more than structural—they are also an ideologically- informed tactical shift.

In this chapter, I have argued that the post-coup political climate has limited the efficacy of citizen journalism due to widescale repression deterring dissent. However, in turn, the decreased efficacy of ‘curatorial’ citizen journalism resulted in a new evolution of

140journos. The resulting straddling of the boundary between non-commentary and antagonism that characterizes the group’s current affective productions, the perceived need to once again be the ‘on the ground’ party, and the fact 140journos members appear to be at increased risk of state targeting, with the Çağdaş Erdoğan case functioning as the first instance of this, indicate a marked shift in the group’s structure. This shift has been tactical but is, at least in part, informed by an ideological desire to inspire social change.

This can be seen in the ‘stated’ reason for the shift, i.e. that five years have passed and the media has not gotten any better, as well as the group’s founding motivations—to produce an empathetic and diverse news base.

Although 140journos does not exclusively produce content that might put them at risk of government intervention, many of the group’s most popular productions are those that do put the content producer at risk. The ‘professional/creative’ evolution of

140journos, in many ways, resembles the initial ‘on the ground’ evolution of the group 98

where members would determine and produce content on what they believed

‘newsworthy’ and/or would not be covered by mainstream media. However, the form of the productions and their increased, albeit still not entirely direct, commentary differentiate the two periods. Coupled with the increased pressure in the aftermath of the coup, it remains to be seen whether or not the present evolution of 140journos can be maintained despite it being more economically viable than its previous iterations.

CHAPTER 4: 140JOURNOS AND THE WAY(S) FORWARD?

This research has traced the brief but important history of one of the most well- known citizen journalist platforms in Turkey, 140journos. By tracing its various evolutions and connecting it to the larger issues of censorship in Turkey, this history should not only be read in a descriptive manner but, rather, as a forecast of things yet to come for alternative media.

Beginning in early 2012 in response to Uludere (Roboski), 140journos assumed a crucial role in the production of content in a media environment that actively stifled coverage of events due widespread self-censorship in mainstream Turkish media. This widespread censorship later resulted in a broader response by Turkish citizens during the

Gezi Park Protests. The Gezi Park Protests, too, were a crucial moment for 140journos as they began to operate as curators of information. Millions of protesters utilized social/digital media platforms to share information, stories, and experiences; and

140journos established a large network of contributors in the years that followed the protests.

This large network of contributors allowed 140journos to accurately cover the 2016 military coup attempt, another instance where citizens took to the streets, armed with not only their resolve to thwart the would-be putschists but with their smartphones able to publicize what was happening. The aftermath of the coup, however, highlighted the risks of being the ‘on the ground’ link of information sharing, and 140journos recognized that their present organizational model could not be sustained in a stifled environment. Even prior to 100

the coup, 140journos members could see the limitations of this model. One of 140journos’s contributors from Southeastern Turkey (Mardin), in a conversation with one of the editors at 140journos, reported “I can’t go outside. There’s a conflict on the street between Turkish soldiers and PKK militants. I could have gone upstairs on the terrace but a helicopter is flying above my town and it makes me an open target if I go live on Periscope,” a video streaming service.196

The group’s response to these limitations has been a shift from citizen journalism to a professional/creative media group. Despite this shift, and it is marked, similarities between previous iterations of the group and the present iteration do exist. In many of their productions, members of the group are once again the ‘on the ground’ party. As mentioned, the post-coup political climate makes this increasingly precarious. However, there are numerous dissimilarities as well. It is highly inaccurate to state that many of the group’s productions continue to be ‘non-commentary.’ This can be seen as both a tactical and ideological shift where the group no longer leaves the audience to arrive at a conclusion about the content, previously facts about a newsworthy event and currently about social and political issues. Instead, the group seemingly seeks to engineer, through artistic representation, certain feelings and understandings of the content. As mentioned, there are inherent limitations to the concept; however, it remains a stark departure from both the ‘on the ground’ and ‘curatorial’ evolutions of the group.

But what of the way forward for the group? Only time will tell if the

‘professional/creative’ evolution of the group can persist, especially in the wake of the first

196 "5 Questions for Engin Onder." Nieman Reports 5 Questions for Engin Onder Comments. Accessed April 22, 2018. http://niemanreports.org/articles/5-questions-for-engin-onder/. 101

instance of a contributor being targeted by the government. However, I wish to conclude by proffering some of the ‘ways forward’ for the group. These are speculative; however, the nature of forecasting entails informed conjecture and speculation.

4.1 Networks in Hibernation? One Way Forward

Although 140journos no longer function or behave as citizen journalists, can we wholly divorce the present rendition of the group from its past iterations? I argue that many of the stated goals of the group when they were a citizen journalism group remain present in the current ‘professional/creative’ iteration of the group. In an interview conducted in 2014, when we can classify the group as ‘curatorial’ citizen journalists,

140journos co-founder Engin Önder stated that, when verifying and publishing information, “we ask if it goes toward our ultimate purpose of creating empathy between societies, between people, between communities in Turkey, between minorities and majorities.”197

As previously noted during the Gezi Park Protests and the failed coup attempt,

140journos functioned as an important source of information due to its ability to establish a large network of information acquisition. In the previous chapter, I discussed why this network has dwindled/became ineffectual due to the sustained nature of Turkey’s state of emergency. However, as mentioned, the strength of citizen journalism is inextricably linked to moments of crisis. If a crisis moment on the scale of the Gezi Park Protests or the abortive military coup were to occur, the framework and network of the ‘curatorial’

197 "Q&A: Engin Önder and Zeynep Tufekçi on 140journos and the State of Journalism in Turkey," Nieman Lab, accessed April 22, 2018, http://www.niemanlab.org/2014/03/qa-engin-onder-and-zeynep-tufekci-on- 140journos-and-the-state-of-journalism-in-turkey/. 102

evolution of the group, while currently limited, has the potential to resurface. In such an instance, 140journos has the potential to, once again, assume a curatorial role and function as a hub of information.

4.2 Social Change from Below? One Way Forward

The desire to produce empathy among disparate groups has been a driving force for

140journos since its inception. As a ‘professional/creative’ media group, there has not been a clear departure from this mode of thinking. Reflecting on the “Woman” chapter of “I am afraid of Istanbul,” the purpose of the piece is more than to relate the fears of a woman in

Istanbul, it is to make the audience understand and empathize with these fears. In that series specifically, fear is the driving emotion to engender empathy, and this making disparate parties empathetic to one another, be they men and women or Turks and Kurds, remains an integral motivation for the group.

As a ‘professional/creative’ media group, the group’s format, steering away from mere presentation of facts in lieu of artistic form, has the potential to tell the stories of disparate groups and viewpoints. The shift from ‘news’ to ‘media’ is an important distinction to make. As noted at several junctures in this research, polarization amongst news consumers remains prevalent; however, 140journos’s organizational, tactical, and ideological evolution over the past year and a half has resulted in the cessation of news and the advent of storytelling. While this does not inherently counteract the polarization of media consumption, at large, short films and photo series designed to inspire empathy have the potential to bypass suspicions levied against alternative news agencies—chief of which is that alternative news outlets are explicitly trying to inform the ideology of the 103

reader. Art, while trying to do much the same, does not do so as explicitly. Stories require interpretation, even if the audience is being steered towards certain interpretational outcomes.

4.3 The Darkest Hour? One Way Forward

As mentioned in detail in the previous chapter, the affordances to the government during a state of emergency have limited the potential of citizen journalism in Turkey.

140journos responded by shifting organizationally, tactically, and, in part, ideologically.

However, as made apparent with the arrest of Çağdaş Erdoğan, the ‘professional/creative’ evolution of 140journos might be at increased risk of governmental targeting—something that did not occur during their ‘on the ground’ and ‘curatorial’ evolutions. Such targeting does not inherently sound the death knell for 140journos, and the perseverance of

Sendika.org, reopened more than sixty times, illustrates this. But as noted, 140journos’ increased activist bent, in the sense that they are trying to enact social change through their media productions, in conjunction with the repression of dissent under the state of emergency in Turkey, makes them increasingly vulnerable to government repression.

While I do not believe the darkest hour, i.e. the group’s closure, is upon us, the media climate in Turkey is not showing signs of improvement. With Turkey’s most recent elections198 resulting in an electoral victory for the AKP/Recep Tayyip Erdoğan, certain questions surface: Will this further consolidation of power result in a more repressed media environment where dissident expression is further targeted? Will the state of

198 June 24th, 2018 104

emergency remain in place? Even if it is discontinued, will this necessarily mean that the media sector will be under less pressure? Once again, the nature of media environment in

Turkey remains in constant flux, and how 140journos fits into it will remain of great importance for not only understanding the trajectory of the group, but for media production, more broadly, in Turkey.

105

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