1 Sports, Nationalism, and Globalization: An

Home , 2000 UEFA Cup Final, 2019 UEFA Super Cup, Adanaspor, Adana Demirspor, Ali Sami Yen, Ali Sami Yen Stadium

SPORTS, NATIONALISM, AND GLOBALIZATION: AN ETHNOGRAPHY OF TURKISH FOOTBALL FANDOM

JOHN KONUK BLASING

A DISSERTATION PRESENTED TO THE GRADUATE SCHOOL OF THE UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY

UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA

2020

To My Mom and Dad

3 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

First and foremost, I would like to thank my parents Randy Blasing and Mutlu Konuk

Blasing for instilling in me the value of education, and for always encouraging me to follow my own path. At the University of Florida, I am extremely grateful for my committee chair Dr.

Tamir Sorek, who always kept me focused and whose detailed and careful comments helped me shape this dissertation from beginning to end. I would also like to thank my committee members who helped me develop my thought along the way. I would like to thank Dr. Charles Gattone for all of the long conversations we had about Sociological theory when I was a teaching assistant, which allowed me to gain a deep understanding of the theoretical side of Sociology. I would like to thank Dr. Alin Ceobanu for always greeting me with a smile in the halls, encouraging me to keep at it while always being up for a conversation about football, and consistently providing thoughtful and challenging feedback in all of my defenses. I would like to thank Dr. Jack

Kugelmass acting as an outside member, as his intellectually stimulating Anthropological perspective was important in terms of bringing another element to my ethnographic work.

Outside of my committee I would like to also thank the faculty in the Department of

Sociology and Criminology & Law, without whose financial support I would have been unable to complete this dissertation. It was a great honor to receive the Graduate Fellowship in 2015, the

Jerome A. Connor Dissertation Award in 2019, and CLAS Dissertation Fellowship in 2020; these awards allowed me to focus on my research and ensured that I could produce a high quality dissertation. Particularly, I would like to thank the chair of our Department, Dr. Barbara

Zsembik, who—despite her busy schedule—was always willing to offer a supportive ear and words of encouragement when times got tough. I would also like to thank Dr. Monika Ardelt, Dr.

Marvin Krohn, and Dr. Charles Peek for teaching me about subjects I hitherto was not familiar with, and ensuring that I had all the tools necessary to produce a successful dissertation.

I would also like to thank those who helped pave the way for my path to the University of

Florida. At the University of Texas at Austin, I would like to thank Dr. Clement Henry who first allowed me to study football in Turkey academically while working on my master’s thesis in

Middle Eastern Studies. I would also like to thank Dr. William Roger Louis, whose weekly seminars provided an invaluable space for intellectual growth. Also, I would like to thank Dr.

Aaron Bar-Adon and Dr. Michael Craig Hillmann who helped me develop linguistic skills in translation and language learning that I found useful when working with data that had to be translated. At the University of Colorado at Boulder, where I received my B.A. in International

Relations, I would like to thank Dr. Michael Kanner who taught me the importance of values in

International Relations, Dr. Alireza Korangy who introduced me to Persian language, Dr. John

O’Loughlin who introduced me to geopolitics, and Dr. Jon Willis who gave me a firm background in Middle Eastern history and culture.

And like the fans I worked with, I too know that it is your friends who are always there to provide a support system: To quote the Ultra fans of Legia Warsaw “it is not who is in front of you, it is who is beside you”. And as one of my own participants said, “If you walk a path walk with those who stand with your fight, not with those who put rocks in your path”. I am thankful for all of my friends who stood by me while writing this dissertation, offering me both professional suggestions and personal support when necessary. At the University of Florida, I would like to thank the friends who helped push me along despite everything: Thank you to

Danny Acton, David Canarte, Heather Covington, Enes Tahir Gedik, David Hanson, Tolga

Tezcan, George Topalidis, and—especially—Jennifer Jarrett, who we tragically lost just days before my dissertation was defended. Her friendship will never be forgotten. In the United

States, I would also like to thank my brother Ezra Blasing, Kerri Martel, Mike, Brett, and

Yaroslav for always being there for me when I was missing home, and for their curiosity and interest in my project.

In Turkey, I would like to also thank all of the friends and families who were always there for me, whether it was being up to go to a match, getting me in contact with those who could assist in my snowball sample, or just offering a place for me to crash when necessary.

Thank you to Aydin abi, Berker, Dr. Engin Sune, Deniz abi, Egemen and Cansu, Ekin and Betul,

Ercan, Ogul abi and Meral abla, Terzi, Tunc abi, and Yasemin.

Last, and most importantly, I would like to thank all of the fans who took the time to speak with me and spend time with me; without their gracious participation none of this would have been possible, and you all know who you are: Those who are living lives dedicated to the badge; arma’ya adanmis hayatlari yasayanlar, sizleri tesekkur ediyorum!

If there is anyone I have forgotten, I sincerely apologize but know that I am grateful for everything, and keep you all in my heart.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

page

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS ...... 4

ABSTRACT ...... 10

CHAPTER

1 INTRODUCTION ...... 11

A Letter ...... 12 Guiding Questions ...... 14 Turkish Identity, Nationalism, and Sports ...... 16 Turkish Football in the Context of Globalization ...... 24

2 HYPERREALITY, HYPERMODERNITY, AND GLOBALIZATION: TURKISH FOOTBALL AND THE IMAGINED GLOBAL COMMUNITY ...... 33

A Brief History of Turkish Football ...... 34 Hypermodernity and the Global Culture Industry of Football ...... 46 The Global Culture Industry ...... 51 From Nationalism to Globalism: Football as Part of the Global Culture Industry ...... 54

3 WHO ARE THE FANS AND HOW ARE THEY STUDIED? ...... 58

Defining “Tribüncülük” ...... 60 The Ethnographic Method ...... 62 Methodological Approach ...... 63 Data Collection ...... 64 Data Analysis and Presentation ...... 71 A Methodological Note ...... 73

4 THE FANS AS THEY LIVED IT: CONNECTION TO FAMILY, HISTORY, TRADITION, AND VALUES ...... 76

Tradition: Family and History ...... 79 Some Things Money Can’t Buy—the Emphasis of the Emotional Over the Rational ...... 84

5 THE FANS BETWEEN LOCALISM, NATIONALISM, AND GLOBALISM ...... 97

Localism Among Fans ...... 99 Nationalism in the Stands ...... 105 Understanding Nationalism Among Fans ...... 109 Nationalism Beyond Ideology in the Stadium ...... 112 Shared Fan Identities In the Context of an Increasing “Politicization” of Sport ...... 118 The Social Responsibility of Fans as Actors Within Civil Society ...... 131

Summing it up: Localism, Nationalism, and Civil Society in the Age of Globalism...... 141

6 VIOLENCE IN FOOTBALL: MORALITY AND HYPERMODERNITY ...... 147

Morality Just Outside the Law ...... 151 A Search for Justice in an Unjust World: The Center/Periphery Conflict ...... 162 The View From the Lower Leagues ...... 171 Violence Does Not Solve Problems, It Creates Them ...... 174 Sources of Violence in the Hypermodern Stadium ...... 179 The Keyboard Warriors ...... 180 The Police Who Over-Police ...... 185 Final Thoughts ...... 193

7 THE PASSOLIG SYSTEM AND LAW 6222: CONTROL SOLD AS SAFETY ...... 198

The Rationalization and Commercialization of Fandom ...... 200 The Irrationality of Rationality and the Passolig System ...... 205 The Irrationality of Rationality and Law 6222 ...... 212 The Power Elite and Stadium Surveillance: The Case of Fatih Karagumruk and Atomization of Fans ...... 216 Passolig as a Reflection of Political Rhetoric:“Safety” as Justification for Control ...... 221

8 THE CONSTRUCTION OF NEW STADIUMS: ALIENATION SOLD AS MODERNIZATION ...... 226

Political Transformation Through Stadium Construction ...... 229 Social Transformation Through Stadium Construction ...... 241

9 FRACTURING FOOTBALL AND INVENTED TEAMS ...... 248

Scarves Versus Ties: The Fans Versus Administrators ...... 253 Istanbul Basaksehirspor ...... 259 Osmanlispor ...... 270 Amedspor ...... 273 Why Invented Teams Matter ...... 282

10 CONCLUSION: FULL TIME ...... 285

Emotion and Rationality ...... 286 The Tribun: A Dying Culture ...... 291 Nationalism and Globalization ...... 293 Multiple Modernities and Hypermodernity ...... 298

APPENDIX

A LIST OF FORMAL INTERVIEWEES ...... 302

B EXAMPLE INTERVIEW QUESTIONS ...... 304

C LIST OF MATCHES ATTENDED (IN TURKEY) ...... 305

D LIST OF MATCHES ATTENDED (OUTSIDE TURKEY) ...... 310

LIST OF REFERENCES ...... 311

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH ...... 329

Abstract of Dissertation Presented to the Graduate School of the University of Florida in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree of Doctor of Philosophy

SPORTS, NATIONALISM, AND GLOBALIZATION: AN ETHNOGRAPHY OF TURKISH FOOTBALL FANDOM By

John Konuk Blasing

December 2020

Chair: Tamir Sorek Major: Sociology

My work is an ethnographic study of Turkish football, focusing on the relationship between Turkish sport, nationalism, and globalization. I spent over a year in the field, attending over 70 matches throughout the top four professional divisions of Turkish football, conducting formal and informal interviews with members of fan groups, while including some coaches and players so as to enrich my participant observation. I posit that Turkish sport, particularly football, played an important role in Turkish modernity, offering another way to mark Turkish national identity in the cultural sphere. At the same time, since football has become part and parcel of the global culture industry, the inclusive aspect of Turkish sport is threatened by the trend to commodification and—ultimately—rationalization of the stadium space encouraged by globalization. Turkish football first developed as a nationalist response to European imperialism at the end of the Ottoman era, and currently represents a cultural field facing a new kind of globalist imperialism encouraged by multinational corporations. While fans see themselves as an extended family, representing their localities and nation, the commodification of the stadium slowly threatens these identities and feelings of solidarity. The story of Turkish football represents a vivid example of the struggle between nationalism and globalism.

10 CHAPTER 1 INTRODUCTION

What I Know Most Surely about Morality and Obligations, I Owe to Football— Albert Camus

Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things can not be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one’s lifetime. —The Innocents Abroad, Mark Twain

I start by thanking my parents for giving me the chance to travel abroad from a young age, as it gave me the chance to see the world not as it was presented to me by schools, the media, or the culture industry, but for how it is in reality by allowing me to live it. At the end of each summer we would return to the United States from visiting my mother’s family in Turkey, and I would look out the window of the Bonzanza bus plying the route from Boston’s Logan

Airport to Providence, Rhode Island. As a child, I would watch the Dodge Ram trucks, the

Chevrolet Lumina sedans, and the Ford Crown Victoria taxis go by, comparing them to the

Renault 12 TX sedans, Fiat 124 compacts, and Peugeot hatchbacks I had just left. It was my own childish way of making sense of two different worlds—two different nations—that lay in my heart. At the same time, I’d also be running the stories of the summer through my head, while watching the asphalt of I-95 roll by outside the bus windows…there were oceans between us, and I was now back in the United States, focusing on my education and transitioning from one distinct culture to another. Perhaps this is why I got interested in sociology; I spent my childhood comparing, contrasting, and negotiating Turkish and American cultures.

From a young age sport played a major role in my analysis of these two cultures; I recognized that it was sport which, as a cultural form, shaped my entrance into—and acceptance of—each culture. I played organized Little League baseball as a catcher in the United States; at the same time, I played pick up soccer in the parking lot behind my parent’s house in Turkey—

first as defense, before my friends understood that since someone tall and lanky like myself would do less damage up front as a striker (and might even score a few goals every now and then). I was never the best player, but it didn’t matter. One can win games and lose games; it is the friends you win that matter. Like Camus, I also learned life lessons from soccer.

A Letter

One winter, following the 1994 World Cup where I cheered on the US World Cup Team from the television in my grandmother’s house in Turkey, a letter arrived at our house in

Providence. It had been painstakingly written in alternating colors of ink—one word was yellow, the other was red. It had been sent from Turkey by an “abi” who I played soccer with in the pick- up games we organized in the parking lot. An “Abi” is literally an older brother, but it is also commonly used to refer to an older male who is respected as a friend or acquaintance in the community; it is distinct from a “Kardeş”, which refers to a younger brother or close friends of a similar age. This is a term used by many of my participants to refer to those who got them into fandom, and that is why I use it here. Like many of my participants, I too had an abi who brought me into the world of Turkish football.

After my mother helped me translate this letter, I—even at a young age—understood the importance of many things. I understood, first and foremost, how important football was in terms of helping me assimilate into Turkish society through both culture and language. After all, being the “Amerikali”1 I was an outsider by virtue of not coming from a culture where football/soccer2 is among the hegemonic sports (Markovits and Hellerman 2001). Yet I had become an insider by accepting the red and yellow—hence the ink of the letter—of the Turkish club Galatasaray, founded in Istanbul in 1905. Although our next door neighbors tried to lure me to the yellow and

1 Literally, “American” or “The American”; likely popularized by the 1993 film of the same title. 2 I use both terms interchangeably throughout.

navy of the “Yellow Canaries”—Galatasaray’s bitter rivals in Istanbul, Fenerbahçe—I didn’t go near them; my favorite color was red, after all, and I was also a Boston Red Sox fan! And

Beşiktaş—despite their success in my younger years when they won three titles in a row under

Gordon Milne—didn’t appeal to me due to their austere colors of black and white. Later, of course, I would grow to respect Beşiktaş immensely—like I did many Turkish teams—after learning all of their individual histories. This is because Turkish football has an intimate relationship with the Turkish nation itself; football is part of the nation’s cultural fabric (Yuce

2014, 2015, 2016). It is the real deal.

I decided to offer some of my own experiences as a starting point, following the advice of

American Sociologist C. Wright Mills (1959), who emphasized that noting the connection between history and biography is an essential part of the “sociological imagination”. Since my sociological imagination was formed through the prism of two nations that struggled to create democratic republics after independence wars against imperial powers3, I have seen first-hand the importance of civic conceptions of national identity based in, among other things, culture.

Mustafa Kemal Ataturk, Turkey’s founding father, has many famous dictums that can be found throughout the country in public spaces, government offices and schools, and certainly stadiums.

Perhaps the most famous dictum is, “Ne Mutlu Turk’um Diyene” (“How Happy One Is to Call

Oneself a Turk”), the meaning of which is often debated. What is it referring to? Is it an ethnic identity? Or is it linguistic? For me, personal experience tells me that the linguistic side of the coin weighs heavier. It was not “born a Turk” or “be” a Turk; immutable physical characteristics based on race or ethnicity were not emphasized and instead something acquirable—like

3 Garrett Ward Sheldon’s (2014) interesting comparison of Thomas Jefferson and Mustafa Kemal Ataturk points to the similarities across time and space.

language—was emphasized.4 This is of course a question open for debate, and I can only speak from personal experience, but when one of my participants refused to call me John and preferred the Turkish version “Can” instead, I understood that language (and culture) might weigh heavier than immutable identities like ethnicity when determining “Turkishness”. Finding an answer to this question in culture provided the starting point for my research.

Guiding Questions

The experiences I had getting to know Turkish football took place as I grew up in the transitionary years between the Cold War era and the New World Order era which ushered in a new globalized system with the demise of the bipolar world. I lived this transition, and saw the loss of much of the human element. The letter I received from my abi was real; it showed that my assimilation into Turkish society through sport—and via language—had been successful, and it ultimately taught me how to read in Turkish as well; I learned not by using tools like Google

Translate but by perusing the pages of sports dailies like Fanatik and Fotomac. Most of all, the letter I recieved taught me that communication meant actually caring, and spending the time to write in two different colors of marker showed that virtual modes of communication—like e- mail and social media—lack that emotional element; it was the kind of interpersonal connection, fostered by a bond to a national cultural community, that is disappearing in the digital world

(Twenge 2017; Whaite et al. 2018). While the world may be more interconnected as a result of digital communication, the meaning of this interconnection is becoming diluted as cultural tastes become increasingly standardized as a result of the global culture industry (Lash and Lury 2007) and the world becomes increasingly hyperreal (Belk 1996).

4 In a book with the same name, Gavin D. Brockett (2011) finds that print media—something Benedict Anderson (1991) identifies as a crucial element of nation-building—played a major role in developing a Muslim national identity in Turkey; it is language (the culture) that comes before the identity (Muslim or Turk) in this analysis.

Throughout the years, I have witnessed how these new developments resulting from globalization have had particularly profound effects on Turkish society (Tugal 2009; Balkan,

Balkan, and Oncu 2015), and particularly in the sporting realm (Emrence 2010). As Demir and

Talimciler point out, the new inequalities created by globalization and globalism are now reflected in football fans’ identities: “just like football is no longer just football, spectators are no longer just spectators” (Demir and Talimciler 2015: 45). This is why I chose to study football fans—a group closely related to a cultural formation (football) in a national context being rapidly transformed by global flows—so as to understand just how they respond to these new inequalities, and how they understand the changes they are experiencing.

I started my research from the the perspectives of both nationalism and globalization. My overarching question was always, stemming from my own experience, “Is one marker of

‘Turkishness’ supporting a football team?”, since supporting a team is what helped me personally assimilate into Turkish culture. A second question, again stemming from my own experiences, was “What is the role of football in Turkey in the age of globalization?”. These two questions bring together the aspect of shifting hegemonies in the Gramscian (1971) sense; in the past football was directly related to the nation and nation-building, it was a space where the hegemonic narrative of the nation could be developed and expressed. Recently, with the advent of globalization, the hegemonic narrative has shifted; football has become less of a national project and more of a global project increasingly intertwined with the global economy— hbecoming increasingly “hyperreal” in the Baudrillardian sense due to commodification and mediatization, marginalizing local (and in some cases national) identities. It is the fans of football clubs who experience this shift most directly since they see themselves as representing

the nation on the one hand, while being marginalized by new trends—stemming from globalization—on the other hand.

Turkish Identity, Nationalism, and Sports

Many scholars have asked the question “What makes one Turkish?”. Given that the majority of the founders of the Turkish Republic were “European” (insofar as they hailed from the Ottoman Empire’s European provinces or near the borders (Zurcher 2005), it is not surprising that this question should come to the fore often. In his book Islam, Secularism, and Nationalism in Modern Turkey: Who Is a Turk? (2006), historian Soner Cagaptay tries to find an answer.

While it has been noted that during the war of independence early Turkish nationalism reflected

“Muslim nationalism” rather than specifically “Turkish” nationalism (Zurcher 1999), Cagaptay points out that in the 1930s ethnic (and linguistic) conceptions of Turkishness began to emerge

(Cagaptay 2006: 52). Still, the religious element of Turkish national identity remained latent and, as Cagaptay observes, in the interwar era Turkey “blended jus soli and jus sanguinis”, granting citizenship to ethnic Turks and Ottoman Muslim immigrants; “nationality-through-religion emerged as the most common way of gaining citizenship” (Cagaptay 2006: 80).

Cagaptay ultimately argues that Kemalism—in the Republican period—had three overlapping and inexact categories of Turkishness (Cagaptay 2006: 159): 1) Territorial, referring to inhabitants of Turkey’s borders; 2) Religious, based on the Ottoman Millet system that saw all

Muslims as potential Turks; and 3) ethno-religious, which created a hierarchy for non-ethnic

Turks between Muslims (like Bosnians and Kurds) and non-Muslims (like Greeks). It also meant that those non ethnically Turkish Muslims were expected to assimilate into “Turkishness”, something that has proved to be an issue to this day as demonstrated by the Kurdish situation

(Saracoglu 2011). Cagaptay’s conceptions of Turkishness provide a useful starting point for a discussion, but none of these three categories on their own are completely unrelated to ethno-

religious identities. This is ambiguity is reflected by more recent work, like Jenny White’s

Muslim Nationalism and the New Turks (2014) which stresses the religious component of

Turkish national identity, or Asli Cirakman’s (2011), who argues that there has been a rise in

“ethno-nationalism” in recent years.

Because Turkey is a country that emerged from the imperial order after the First World

War with its independence as a nation made up of a diverse, multilingual, and multiethnic population (Zurcher 1993), questions pertaining to national identity have always been at the forefront—hence Ataturk’s dictum I presented earlier. In order to bring the disparate groups that make up the Turkish polity together, nationalism has always been a strong force and Bora Kanra notes that “nationalism runs through all discourses in Turkey” (Kanra 2009: 88). But to accommodate all groups, a civic conception of Turkish national identity has always been the goal

(if not always successful in practice) of the Turkish modernization process presented by Mustafa

Kemal Ataturk at the founding of the republic. Toni Alaranta (2015) sees the Kemalists as

a typical reflection of the radical imaginary of modernity essentially characterized by its inherent vision of emancipation through education and science. In these circumstances, as the revolutionary cadre totally abandoned Islam as a legitimating principle for the new state, now embarking on a vigorous process of modernization accompanied with rationalization, secularization, and differentiation, nationalism became the integrating principle…” (Alaranta 2015: 83).

Here Alaranta recognizes that Islam was abandoned, and a more secular form of nationalism was seen as the key to integrating the “modern” nation. This is why Alaranta points out that

even though it is tempting to see the Kemalists as utopian social engineers, their policies were actually a pretty practical next step in the overall modernization attempt, one that was supposed to end the dualism inherent in the previous attempts […] the bashing of Kemalist modernizers totally ignores the fact that many Kurdish intellectuals of the same period espoused similar enthusiasm towards science and impatience toward the inherited religious mentality” (Ibid.: 81).

In addition to religious conceptions, ethnic conceptions of the nation were also downplayed so that the vision of an emancipatory and modernizing nationalism based in science might appeal to the masses. But Western conceptions like science and rationalization on their own were not enough, and as Ibrahim Kaya (2004) points out the development of Turkish nationalism is distinct from many Western nationalisms because “the nation was not built because the industrial economy required it, but because collective action towards industrialization was an immediate need” (Kaya 2004: 39). This is why many modernist conceptions of nationalism, connected to industrialization (Gellner 2006[1983]), do not fit the Turkish case so neatly—the Turkish nation is not a completely modern construction.

Instead, Turkish nationalism contains elements of both “perennialist” and “modernist” conceptions of the nation (Smith 1998); it is invented insofar as it brought together the diverse groups from the Ottoman Empire under the banner of a modern republic, but it is also rooted in a culture (which some connect more directly to a mythic past than others). The thought of Ziya

Gokalp, widely regarded as one of the first Turkish nationalist intellectuals as well as the country’s first sociologist,5 has elements of perenialist and modernist perspectives in his own thought, believing that the “nation” is not based on race but on ideals, rooted in education and, ultimately, culture (Gokalp 1959:137). He saw the nation as “a community of individuals united by a shared culture, based on common education, morality, socialization, and aesthetics”

(Cagaptay 2006: 15). As Ernest Gellner points out, common education is certainly a hallmark of modern nations (Gellner 2006[1983]), but “culture” and “aesthetics” are related to more

5 Much of Gokalp’s thought comes from Durkheim. For a detailed discussion, see Spencer (1958).

perennialist perspectives; the culture Gokalp envisions is far from the “high culture” Gellner speaks of.6

Since it was Gokalp who provided the intellectual basis for Mustafa Kemal Ataturk’s conception of Turkish nationalism—Kemalism—it is crucial to understand the distinction he makes between “culture” and “civilization”. This is not to say that Gokalp’s view of nationalism is “correct” in any sense; it is important so as to understand that Turkish nationalism was not formulated as an insular form of nationalism, rather it was formulated in relation to outside constraints—such as the “Western” form of civilization—and therefore stressed an indigenous culture while accepting aspects of foreign civilization:

The culture of a nation is unique to itself. Its sources are the religious, moral, and aesthetic experiences of the nation. These experiences constitute the most intimate, the innermost feelings, of the nation. These inner feelings are intimate expressions of the nation’s personality, as its language is a mirror of its historical and social life.

The civilization of a nation, on the other hand, is not peculiar to itself alone. Civilization is composed of sciences, techniques, and methods which are transmitted from nation to nation . . . The fact that civilization is commonly shared by many nations indicates that nations do not live in isolation, that they are parts of larger groups [. . .] (Gokalp 1959: 248).

Culture and civilization are not mutually exclusive for Gokalp. Aspects of civilization are things that nations can share among themselves—like science or technology—and do not belong solely to one culture.7

6 Interestingly, Gellner’s (1997) Chapter, “The Turkish Option in Comparative Perspective”, in Rethinking Modernity and National Identity in Turkey (Bozdogan and Kasaba 1997) touches on some of these topics.

7 As an example, the automobile was developed in the context of American culture but this did not preclude Germans, French, or Iranian engineers from building automobiles. This echoes the complaint I have heard throughout Turkey regarding the recent proliferation of shopping malls; many see the imposition of a “consumption” culture on society as a negative, especially given that Turkey does not produce as much as the Western societies (such as the United States and Germany) that tend to embrace “consumption” cultures.

For Gokalp it was important that a nation preserve its culture—which he believed provides the basis of human ideals such as morality and emotion—while integrating itself into wider civilization and borrowing elements of it so as to better compete in the community of existing nations. Thus, Turkish modernity—like Turkish nationalism—cannot be neatly conceptualized into ideal type distinctions like “modernist” or “perennialist”. There is more to

Turkishness than just the “territorial”, “ethnic” and “religious” components that Cagaptay and others bring to the fore, there is also a cultural (and civic) component that brings together elements of Cagaptay’s three components.

Since sport is a reflection of modernity (Guttmann 2004) in the cultural sphere, it has always been an important element both representing and imagining the modern nation-state. This connection should not be surprising, and as Alan Bairner notes, “sport and nationalism are arguably two of the most emotive issues in the modern world [. . .] Furthermore, their fortunes are often linked” (Bairner 2001: xi). Many nations have used sport in order to present their own national modernization to the world, like Portugal (Coelho 1998) and Italy (Scalia 2009) under fascism, or to celebrate their successful integration into the community of nation states, like new nations throwing off the yoke of colonialism that joined FIFA, football’s governing body

(Goldblatt 2008). Like these other countries, sport also served as one of the main manifestations of Turkish modernity and the Turkish Republic’s modernization project under Mustafa Kemal

Ataturk following the collapse of the Ottoman Empire.

But the particular sport that took hold of the Turkish nation was not an indigenous

“ethnic” sport. Unlike in Ireland—where Irish nationalists first emphasized traditional “Irish” sports like Gaelic football (Bairner and Sugden 1993)—or Germany, where the gymnastics movement was used to develop a “national liturgy” (Hoberman 1984: 11), mainstream Turkish

nationalists did not emphasize “traditional” Turkish sports like wrestling or horseback riding.

Instead the sport that took hold of Turkish culture from the beginning was a Western sport: football (Krawietz 2014). It was an element of Western civilization that became a part of Turkish culture (to borrow Gokalp’s terms), and Turgut Ceviker’s introduction to Football in Turkish

Literature8 points out that writers and intellectuals focused on football in the 1930s as a way to not only lift the spirits of a new nation, but to also stress the new nation’s forward looking—and modern—aspects (Ceviker 2002: 11; see also Okay 2002; Yuce 2015).

Turkey’s embrace of football stems from a long close—and contentious—relationship with Europe during the Ottoman period, which makes the role of football in nation-building distinct from other countries in the region (such as Iran (Chehabi 2006). Because Turkish football developed in response to imperialism, it was first a sphere of hegemonic control that became a sphere of resistance when nationalists used the game in the context of a developing

Turkish identity. Similar processes have been seen in colonial contexts; many local populations—such as those in Mozambique—understood that although sport was used by the

Portuguese colonizers to connect the colony to the metropole9, it could also be used to build connections between locals in urban and rural areas (Domingos 2017). This is why the traditional

Marxist conception of sport as a distraction, diverting attention from the inequalities of modern capitalist society (Brohm 1978; Carrington and McDonald 2009), does not fit the Turkish context; like the Turkish nation was not developed in line with the dictates of modern industrial society, neither was Turkish sport. This is why a Gramscian approach—in the vein of Hargreaves

(1986)—is more useful, as it allows for an interpretation of sport as a field of contestation.

8 Turk Edebiyatinda Futbol (2002).

9 For instance, Benfica of Lisbon were often brought to Africa to play matches.

Indeed, Turkish football teams developed—despite the Sultan’s prohibition of football for Muslims—as a response to the presence of foreign teams; it was mainly the Armenian,

English, Greek, and Italian communities that played football in the late Ottoman period. This sentiment is embodied by the words of Ali Sami (Yen) Bey, the founder of Istanbul’s

Galatasaray, who said “Our goal is to play together like the English, to have a color and name, and beat non-Turkish teams”.10 Galatasaray was founded in 1905 at the Galatasaray High school—one of the Ottoman Empire’s most prestigious schools, providing education in French— with a simple goal. It was to play like the English…and then defeat them (and other “non-

Turkish” teams) on the field. From the very outset, Turkey’s second oldest11 sports club was rooted in nationalist sentiment, a product of the growing nationalism at the end of the Ottoman period. But this does not mean that sport became a field of contention; it did not play a role in

“sustaining conflict” between rival ethnic communities like Bairner and Sugden find in Northern

Ireland (Bairner and Sugden 1993: 125). Rather, it served as a means to facilitate the rising

Turkish national movement in the competitive sphere of sports, and football began to be seen as

“a tool to strengthen patriotism and even nationalism among the Muslim-Turkish Ottoman population by the leaders of the Constitutional regime” (Okay 2002: 7). This continued after the founding of the republic as Turkish teams travelled to neighboring countries (mainly in the

Balkans) to participate in exhibition matches (Yuce 2015). Essentially, the modernizers in

Turkey took the game of the imperialists and made it a part of indigenous culture so as to compete with Europe in the rules-based world of sport; it is similar to the rationale behind

10 “Maksadimiz Ingilizller gibi toplu halde oynamak, bir renge ve isme malik olmak, Turk olmayan takimlari yenmektir” (Yuce 2016: 58).

11 The issue of which is Turkey’s oldest sports club is highly contested. I will not get into that here, and I am merely going by the year of foundation (1905) recorded for Galatasaray. For a deep discussion of this issue, please see Mehmet Yuce’s Idmanci Ruhlar: Futbol Tarihimizin Klasik Devreleri 1923-1952 (pp. 179-182).

“Olympism” (Hargreaves 2000) and again distinct from processes in former Ottoman lands that did not have such an intimate relationship with Europe, such as Egypt (Raab 2012).

Although there have been few sociological studies of Turkish sport in English, most recognize that nationalism is a major part of the Turkish football scene. Can Kozanoglu (1993) writes extensively of the Janus-faced nature of Turkish nationalism vis-à-vis Europe in the stadium; Turkey tries to simultaneously best Europe while also trying to gain acceptance into the

European community of nations. More recent works, like John McManus’ (2018) and Patrick

Keddie’s (2018) also note the importance of nationalism in Turkish football, but tend to focus exclusively on more recent developments from a journalistic perspective. Other works have focused on individual teams and their fan groups in relation to specific trends, like Batuman

(2012) and Erhart (2011) who focused on female fans of Besiktas, or Adrien Battini (2012) who worked with the UltrAslan group to understand their internal structure and perspectives on

Turkish identity within the context of Galatasaray fandom. This means that there has been no large scale sociological work the connection between national identity and Turkish football to date, and it is telling that Sibel Bozdogan and Resat Kasaba’s edited volume Rethinking

Modernity and National Identity in Turkey (1997) did not have a single piece on Turkish sport in the context of modernity.

I posit that Turkish sport—and particularly football—has played an important role in

Turkish modernity, offering another—much simpler—way to mark “Turkishness”: Simply having an answer to the question “Hangi takımı tutuyorsun?”—“What team do you support?”— is also a marker of Turkishness in its most “civic” sense; football is a part of the culture and it provides a space for a civic conception of Turkishness independent of immutable individual

identities.12 This is the first part of my argument, the second part focuses on how globalization may be changing this fourth dimension of “Turkishness”, which goes beyond solely ethnic, religious, and territorial conceptions of national identity by bringing people together in the cultural field. Due to its emphasis on ritual (Hargreaves 1986: 12), sport can be seen as a secular religion in the Durkheimian sense, and the cultural power of sport in Turkey provides a way for citizens from many different backgrounds to express a form of national identity incorporating and elaborating on the forms of national identity encouraged by the state without exclusively preferencing any of the three. Due to globalization, whereby national sovereignty is slowly eroded by the forces of global capital, this space is becoming more and more rationalized, threatening the agency of fans to freely express their vision of national identity in the cultural sphere.

Turkish Football in the Context of Globalization

I have argued so far that Turkish football is an integral part of Turkish culture, and that it has played a role in imagining the national community since the late Ottoman period. The

“national” role of football might be changing, however, with increased globalization and the commodification of sport itself as a result of the trend towards industrial football (Numerato

2015). Due to the wholesale acceptance of neoliberal policies by the ruling Justice and

Development Party (AKP), Turkey has become highly connected to the global economy (Balkan,

Balkan, and Oncu 2015) and this new situation resulted in many sociological changes within

Turkish society (Tugal 2009) as globalization creates its own hyperreality (Belk 1996).

12 One need only look at the number of Turkish immigrant fans who flock to the away matches of Turkish teams in various European cities every year to understand just how important it is to support a club in Turkish culture. You can see the stickers of various teams on the backs of cars and trucks on highways across Turkey; the combinations of various colors—black and white for Besiktas, red and yellow for Galatasaray, yellow and dark blue for Fenerbahce—carry very real weight in Turkish culture. Indeed, politicians on the campaign trail often wear the scarves representing the teams of the cities they visit during speeches as a way to ingratiate themselves with local crowds (Blasing 2011).

These changes are the result of a long process that started in the 1980s with the implementation of neoliberal policies under then Prime Minister Turgut Ozal. As Debbie Lovatt remarks in the introduction to Turkey Since 1970, “…the social and economic changes have outstripped the political. Television arrived in the 1970s, but it was the economic liberalization of the 1980s (the 1983-1989 Ozal period) that really ushered in new trends—in particular, buying patterns and materialistic expectations” (Lovatt 2001: xxii). These trends changed football as well, and Mehmet Ali Gokacti notes that the “liberalizing period” in Turkish football which began in 1984 was characterized by the decline of the state and encouragement of privatization (Gokacti 2008: 273). Football was one sphere uniquely positioned to benefit from this “liberalization,” since it was the only social activity allowed under a military regime (after the 1980 coup) which had outlawed all other social activities; football had become the only space where people could “let off steam” (Gokacti 2008: 274).

Mehmet Yuce describes the early years of Turgut Ozal’s leadership in the mid-1980s as an era dominated by the rising values of “consumption without production” and hitherto unseen forms of showiness; it was a time where people could be “put to sleep so long as the [economy] was growing” (Yuce 2016: 507). In order to demonstrate that neoliberalism could “bring fruit”, so to speak, football was put to use in this era in a way that it had never been before. As Cem

Emrence (2010) explains:

Like the rest of the developing world, Turkey shifted its economy into an export oriented growth strategy during the 1980s. Nonetheless, the new economic framework was still closely tied to political favours from the state. Accordingly, patronage politics and market economy created three major consequences for the Turkish soccer world: first, there was rising resource inequality among the soccer clubs; second, business people got hold of managements of top clubs in the country; and finally, Turkish soccer clubs provided a short-cut strategy and a fertile ground to victory for the political elite (Emrence 2010: 244).

For the hegemonic forces the focus had now increasingly become making money, and this meant greater interference from the state and connections to the global market; the clubs—in effect— would become vessels for creating profit and gaining power, which also meant that the (mainly working class) fans became marginalized.

This mirrored trends that were visible globally; since football is the most global of sports and a “potent and increasingly significant catalyst of globalization” (Giulianotti and Robertson

2012: 217), it is a field that many academics and journalists have focused on when examining the relationship between sport and globalization (Levermore and Budd 2004; Foer 2004; Kuper and

Szymanski 2008). These new trends also represent a very real point of departure for sport: what was previously focused on the nation is now becoming global as the search for markets continues and a Baudrillardian hyperreal global—not national—culture develops.

John Hargreaves notes that this shift away from internationalism and towards globalism in sports began with the 1992 Barcelona Olympics:

Olympism as show business spectacle is modern, as opposed to traditional, cosmopolitan rather than internationalist, amoral as opposed to moral, materialistic as opposed to idealistic, and profane as opposed to sacred. Winning and individual success is everything; defeat is disaster. Rampant triumphalism is the norm. Performance is thoroughly personalized. The concept of glamour replaces that of honour and hero worship is replaced by the image of the star as the object of worship. Success is measured almost exclusively in terms of record performance and material reward. Rules are not sacrosanct: they are obstacles to be circumvented (Hargreaves 2000: 54).

This shift from “moral to amoral” is reflected in Turkish football as well, and many of my participants stressed the changes that they have witnessed in Turkish football as a result of growing commodification. Perhaps the simplest example of this is the fact that, up to the 1980s, fans tended to sit together—there was no distinction in the stadium between home and away fans. Later, in the 1990s and especially in the 2000s, divisions had to be created so as to separate

hot-headed fans. When the competition became not only sporting, but also financial, the stakes were raised higher.

The increased commodification of football has created new forms of opposition from fans, perhaps as a result of the inequalities it created (Milanovic 2005). Sam Dubal’s ethnographic study uncovers some of the issues inherent in the commercialization of global soccer. Drawing on interviews with both Brazilian fans of the Sao Paulo club Corinthians and the

English club Manchester United, Dubal finds that “many fans see initiatives such as privatization not as particularly ‘new’ but as continuations of previous unjust forms of governance” (Dubal

2010: 142). This mirrors Foucault’s assertion that the domination never changes, only its form changes, making us question the notion of universal “progress” through neoliberal globalization.

Indeed, Dubal notes that “during the course of the game’s neoliberalization, [the] tacit understanding of the public ‘ownership’ of football often collapsed” (Dubal 2010: 128). In many ways, this is similar to the wider results of neoliberalism which “developed into a mode of governance that shifts social responsibility from the state to individual, corporate, and NGO actors” (Ibid.: 123). The parallels between the effects of neoliberalism on sports clubs and national societies are important to understand; agency (and power) have become the purview of transnational institutions rather than nation-states.

Going further, Dubal explaines that “once investors saw market potential in football, the fallout predictably mirrored the condition of neoliberal intervention. Teams worldwide have been sold off to the highest bidders, reflecting the sale of Brazilian and British national industries”

(Ibid.: 128). While this is an example of how sport reflects the imperialist nature of globalization, the responses to these trends show how sport can also provide a space for resistence to globalization. Dubal continues, pointing out that “Many fans—‘citizens’ of their clubs—have

protested against selective takeovers as many citizens have organized against privatization”

(Ibid.). Indeed, since fans have emotional bonds to their teams—much like citizens have emotional bonds to their nations—we have seen a recent backlash from many European fans to the changes in their sport (Scalia 2009; Numerato 2015; Testa 2009; Benedikter and Wojtaszyn

2018); they are alienated and marginalized by these new developments.

While there has been no wide-ranging study examining the relationship between Turkish sports and globalization, there have been some recent works that point to the commodification of

Turkish sport (McManus 2013), the political role of football in Turkey under the AKP (Dorsey

2016; Dorsey and Sebastian 2013; McManus 2018; Keddie 2018), as well as the role of Turkish football fans during the 2013 Gezi Park Protests (Turan and Ozcetin 2017), where fans of

Besiktas joined protests against the attempted neoliberalization of Istanbul’s Gezi Park, which was to be turned into a shopping center. While these are all important works focusing on specific dynamics resulting from the neoliberalization of Turkey in the context of globalization, none take a wide-ranging view looking at the effects of globalization on Turkish football as a whole by looking at the experiences of fans in particular (in the vein that Testa and Armstrong (2010) do in Italy, for instance).13 Additionally, such works tend to stress the politicization of fans along ideological lines, which attributes a political dimension to fandom which I do not believe is as clear cut as these works suggest. Given the large amount of literature focusing on Turkey’s transformation under the AKP (Tugal 2009; Tugal 2016, White 2014; Alaranta 2015; Keyman and Gumuscu 2014), it is surprising that there has been no work focusing on the relationship between sport and globalization in Turkey. If football provides a space for conceptualizing and

13 Dikici (2014) comes the closest with an informational journalistic look at Turkish football fandom.

expressing Turkish national identity, then what effect has the globalization of Turkish sport had on those who are at the forefront of this transformation, specifically the fans?

Soccer itself is a field (in the Bourdeiusian sense) in which a shared sense of community and—ultimately—national identity can be conceptualized. The fans—strongly rooted in culture and tradition—are tied to their geography and nation, which brings them together in the face of changes they see in Turkish society, many of which are manifested in industrial football. The commodification of daily life is mirrored by the commodification of the stadium; the stadium is just one aspect of social life that is undergoing a rapid transformation. In the following chapters I will try to show how these various processes play out, using the voices of the fans I spoke with, by approaching my data with a Weberian perspective. It is important to understand the fans—in the vein of verstehen—in order to better understand the various processes that are shaping cultural forms around the world.

In Chapter 2, I will provide a brief historical background of Turkish soccer, along with a theoretical presentation of globalization as it manifests itself in the world currently. I will argue that, originally, Turkish football developed as part of a national modernization project which aimed to bring the country together under a shared national identity; sport was originally a reflection of modernity. Then I will provide my own observation of globalization, which I will present using the theoritcal perspective of Jean Baudrillard; this is important since—as Richard

Giulianotti notes— “sociologists of sport and leisure have made relatively limited usage of

Baudrillard’s oeuvre” (Giulianotti 2004: 226). I will argue that globalization has created a hyperreal global culture industry—of which global football is a conspicuous part—and that

Turkish sport in the current age is being detached from its national roots. This is because sport is

no longer a manifestation of national “modernity”, rather it is becoming a manifestation of global

“hypermodernity”.

In Chapter 3, I will explain my ethnographic method of study, which took place in stadiums throughout Turkey over a 13-month period. I combined participant observation with informal and formal interviews in order to understand how fans see themselves, and how they see the changing nature of Turkish football in a global age. This insider perspective helped me to interpret the changes I myself have seen in Turkish football—and Turkish society—over the years.

In Chapter 4, I will focus on the deep emotive connections that fans have with one another—seeing themselves as a family—and with their own localities. In an age characterized by increasing differentiation and individualization, football creates a space where emotion, tradition, and history—both individual and communal—can come to the fore under the umbrella of collective memory, which the fans are dedicated to developing and preserving. These emotional bonds created by sport are in stark contrast to the increasingly rationalized processes of globalization.

In Chapter 5, I focus on the nationalism of fans. The stadium provides a place where nationalism is imagined and reflected, in the face of the alienating flows of transnational capitalism. It is perhaps the most “real” manifestation of the “territorial” aspect of Cagaptay’s

“Turkishness”, and an example of how simpley supporting a team provides for a civic conception of “Turkishness”. For the fans, nationalism is a communal movement, providing an impetus for action in the context of civil society, and is not necessarily viewed as an ideological concept. Rather, the focus is on individual and communal self-preservation rather than a committed “left” or “right” perspective.

In Chapter 6, I focus on the topic of violence, something that many of my participants mentioned in interviews and which is a major topic of studies regarding football fandom more generally (Armstrong 1998). I found that most of the fans I spoke with had a moral basis for whatever violence they engaged in, and generally agreed that senseless violence is of no benefit to them, their communities, or their teams. Violence is a pivotal topic, since it reflects the emotive nature of sport and eliminating it was given as the main rationale behind many of the state’s moves against fans which I discuss in the final three chapters.

In Chapter 7 I focus on the e-ticketing scheme Passolig and Law 6222 against violence in sport; these new changes have made all tickets in the top two divisions of Turkish football electronic—they can only be purchased with a card (issued by Mastercard, no less) which also bears the individual’s personal state issued I.D. information—while also making fans liable for any “sports related” violence which, as I will show, is a crime that that is interprered very liberally. Here I argue that the state has implemented these changes in football to not only make money off of fandom, but also to panopticize the stadium space and further rationalize it. Such efforts on the part of the state deny the agency of fans by creating a structure based on state control in order to further (global) corporate interests, reflective of John Hargreaves’ observation that “in the twentieth century the state intervenes progressively in sport, concomitantly with its increasing propensity to intervene in civil society as a whole” (Hargreaves 1986: 4).

In Chapter 8, I discuss the construction of new stadiums which also enriches those close to the state while also creating new hyperreal spaces where fandom is detached from the locality that spawned it in the first place. I argue that these new stadiums aim to socially re-engineer

Turkish society towards a more corporate—and ultimately global—outlook by erasing republican history and symbols with new symbols more in line with the hypermodern global

consumerist society; the stadiums are increasingly becoming “placeless places” reflective of the neoliberal landscape.

In Chapter 9, I will discuss a new development in Turkish football that goes against the historical trends of Turkish football: invented teams. Whereas football teams in the past had been created in Turkey to represent localities—and to help develop a sense of national cohesion (as was the case in the 1960s)—a recent trend has seen new teams being formed out of state-owned teams to directly appeal to various cleavages within Turkish society. I will use the cases of

Istanbul Basaksehirspor, Osmanlispor, and Amedspor to make this argument, drawing on a combination of historical research, participant observation, and observations from social media.

Like religion, tastes, music, and language, sport is also a form of culture in Turkey and, as John Hargreaves argues, “cultural elements constitute absolutely fundamental components of power networks” (Hargreaves 1986: 8). Thus, football culture represents one sphere where there is a struggle against the imperialist nature of globalization that gradually imposes an inorganic global culture industry in a sphere hitherto dominated by national culture. The growing commodification of sport might fit the American context, where teams are franchises, but doesn’t fit the Turkish (or wider European) context where clubs are historically organic elements of local culture and national civil society. That there should be a response from fans to this hypermodern form of imperialism should not be surprising; sport is again a field of contestation against hegemonic forces just as it was over 100 years ago. It is the story of this struggle that I will do my best to tell in the coming pages.

CHAPTER 2 HYPERREALITY, HYPERMODERNITY, AND GLOBALIZATION: TURKISH FOOTBALL AND THE IMAGINED GLOBAL COMMUNITY

The leisure and entertainment industries became increasingly significant components of transnational capitalism in the late 1980s and have also, arguably, ‘helped generate popular consent for the current gospel of free trade, deregulated markets, economic competitiveness, and the privatizations of public goods and services’.

—Anouk Belanger, citing Gruneau and Whitson (1997) in “The Urban Sport Spectacle: Towards a Critical Political Economy of Sports” (2009: 51).

During the course of my research, I met a lot of figures from the world of Turkish football. Although my main focus was fan culture, I also came into contact with team administrators, coaches, and a few players, and I would ask them what they believed the role of football was in Turkish culture. When I met the journeyman footballer Coskun1 I asked him what he thought about my theory that having a football team to support made one a part of Turkish culture. In response, he told me:

Football has become a passion in Turkey. Everyone has a team. For instance your son—when a child is born they will ask ‘what team?’. You will immediately give them something…an identity […] before asking someone what your religion is, whatever [background] they are from, it is asked—what is your team? We have this a lot among our people. The fan’s world is another world—we wont understand it, the owners won’t understand it, it’s a totally different world […] I pray for my son, inşallah he will accept Göztepe. He should go to the tribün, he should live that atmosphere. These are good things. Of course this stuff—in our country they always see the negative, the fights and the unruliness. But this stuff also has its beautiful things. Like, living that tribün, connecting to that team. Those are also beautiful things.

Coskun confirmed to me that football has its beautiful sides and—as someone with a child of his own—he also lived the importance that choosing a team has in his own culture. And it showed that supporting a team—having an answer to “Hangi Takımı Tutuyorsun”—is an

1 All names used are pseudonyms to protect the identity of each participant. Where possible, I used names of legendary players from each team in question.

important marker of cultural, and indeed national, identity that comes before religion or personal background. It is something taxi drivers might ask you upon entering a cab on game day, or something a waiter might ask you if a game is playing in the background. As I know from my own friends, it is a point of contention between husbands and wives—which team will the child support?2 In fact, I have met few people who do not have an answer to this question. While some

Western observers, like John McManus, see the importance of team support in Turkey as evidence that “groupthink is strong and loyalty to the collective sacrosanct” (McManus 2018: 5),

I will not make such an Orientalist claim. Rather, I would like to remind readers of what historian Mehmet Yuce says: “certainly almost everyone has a story about how they came to support a [certain] team. Each [story] is unique to the individual, different than everyone else’s, just like the lives [we] live, the choices [we] make . . .” (Yuce 2016: 189). Far from representing

“groupthink”, football fandom is a choice made through connection to the collective, it is the connection between biography and history that C. Wright Mills emphasized (Mills 1959). In order to understand the importance of this connection—and how it might be changing—it will be useful to provide some short background on Turkish football before presenting my theoretical perspective on globalization.

A Brief History of Turkish Football

The British brought football to Ottoman Turkey, with the first soccer match being played in 1877 in the Bornova area of Izmir (Gokacti 2008: 23; Hatipoglu and Aydin 2007:13). As a cosmopolitan port city in Ottoman times, Izmir was a footballing hotbed in the late Ottoman period. However—due in part to the Sultan’s opposition to Western sports like football—the

Izmir football league was made up mainly of Greek, Armenian, English, and Italian clubs

2 A childhood friend told me that one of her husband’s stipulations regarding children was that they would be supporters of Fenerbahce (she is a staunch Besiktas supporter).

(Gokacti 2008: 57-58).3 As Gokacti points out, the status quo in sports mirrored the second-class nature of the Ottoman Empire’s Muslim citizens more generally; with business in the hands of non-Muslims, the Muslim (Turkish) citizens were left with low-level jobs in the bureaucracy or handicrafts. After the Balkan Wars of 1912, non-Muslims began to be other-ized and seen as related to the imperialist powers of the day (Ibid.: 58). The Committee of Union and Progress

(CUP) understood this general feeling of helplessness among the (Muslim) Turkish population of

Izmir and—like in Istanbul—sports clubs would quickly proliferate in Izmir to compete with the non-Muslim teams.

This is why Izmir’s oldest clubs were founded in the direct context of the nascent Turkish nationalist movement of the era. Founded in 1912, Izmir’s oldest team Karsiyaka get its colors from the red of “Turkishness” and the green of Islam (Gokacti 2008: 59; Aksoy 1993; Akin

2010; Diker 2014). Izmir’s second oldest club—and second Turkish club—Altay was founded in

1914 by reformist bureaucrats (Gokacti 2008: 59; Altay Spor Tarihi n.d.); like Karsiyaka’s colors, the club’s name is also rooted in Turkish cultural history. Gokacti explains that the club was originally founded as Hilal (meaning crescent) before being changed to Altay in reference to the Altai mountain range in Central Asia, the mythic home of Turks.4 Gokacti points out that like the Istanbul club Altinordu (meaning Golden Horde), the CUP encouraged clubs to not take foreign or Islamic-inspired names, but to take names connected to Turkish history (Gokacti

2008: 60), reflecting the cultural element of Turkish nationalism. Indeed, an Altinordu was also founded in Izmir in 1923, taking its colors from the blue of iron and the red of the blood shed by

3 Indeed, some of these clubs—like Panionios and Apollon Smyrnis—have continued to exist across the Aegean in Greece. After the population exchange following Turkish Independence, these clubs moved to Athens, with Panionios settling in the suburb now known as Nea Smyrnis (New Smyrna). In July of 2019 I visited Nea Smyrnis and saw the old paintings of Izmir hanging in the club’s offices.

4 Linguistically, Turkish is also an Altaic language.

the martyrs of the Turkish war of independence (Yuce 2015). This small sample of Izmir teams shows that nationalism is an inherent part of Turkish football history; the foundation of these teams was not independent of the political concerns of the time and many other teams also played a role in the Turkish war of independence, such as Ankaragucu (Hatipoglu and Aydin

2007).

The first years of the republic were dominated by a major nation building project. As an official from one team in western Turkey told me, that was an era “where people were coming together, working together for a common goal”. Indeed, it was a time before rational concerns— like profit seeking—became the dominant motivation. Sevecan Tunc’s well researched history of the Black Sea club Trabzonspor makes this connection between sports, modernization, and ultimately nation-building clear, pointing out that in Trabzon—as was the case throughout

Anatolia—sport was a sign of modernization (Tunc 2011: 15). Indeed, involvement with football was on par with involvement in the theater, as both were imports from the West and participants generally came from the upper classes (Ibid.: 34). In fact, most of the leaders of the Trabzon sports scene in the 1920s were involved in education; the leaders of the sports movement were mainly teachers (Ibid.: 43). Sports was much more than a physical pursuit and clubs often put on galas and balls, playing a major role in the local entertainment scene (Ibid.: 42). This national movement of the time sought to bring all walks of Turkish life together, and even women played a major role. Turkish women got the right to vote in 1934, long before many European countries, and—as Tunc points out—early Republican women’s magazines closely followed football clubs and other sports clubs (Tunc 2011: 50), and many women could be seen watching football matches in Trabzon in the 1930s (Ibid.: 83). In fact, in 1932, the “Queen’s Cup” was arranged in

Izmir in the name of Keriman Halis Ece who had just won the “Miss World” beauty pageant.

The game, played between Izmirspor and Altinordu, ended 3-1 to Izmirspor and all proceeds were donated to the Child Protection Agency (Yuce 2015: 268). Here the connection between

“modernity” and sports is clear; the celebration of a Turkish woman being named Miss World— itself a sign of Turkish modernity, in that Keriman Halis Ece was uncovered—was connected to sports. The nascent republic, less than a decade old at the time, was announcing its entrance into

“modernity”. This can be contrasted with the current state of affairs, where many female commentators (Erhart 2011; Batuman 2012) lament the masculine-dominated side of Turkish football fandom.

Alongside its social role, sport also played a pragmatic role in early Republican Turkey, making it much more than a simple leisure activity. As Tunc reminds readers, football was about raising healthy individuals (and bodies) which could serve the nascent republic (Ibid.: 53). This is why clubs were not founded around ethnic, labor, or local communities (Ibid.: 43) as was the case elsewhere in Europe (Dmowski 2013). Sport was used to inculcate citizens with “modern” values; scores were not listed in the headlines as the quality of play was seen as more important

(Ibid.: 54). Contrast this with the current situation in football, where—as a team official from a club in Western Turkey complained to me—“in Turkey there is no “sport” culture, there is a

“score” culture. One small letter, exchanging a “p” for a “k”, makes all the difference”.5 Of course, when the difference between winning and losing can be measured in thousands of

Dollars (or Euros), this is understandable; the culture of extreme capitalism has seeped into

“modern” and “industrial” football, rationalizing it far beyond the scope that Guttmann (2004) identifies in From Ritual to Record.

5 In Turkish “sports” is “spor”; the word “score” is “skor”.

Later, many international matches would also be connected to the “modern” Turkish state’s role in the world. Turkey’s first international match was played just days before the establishment of the republic, on 26 October 1923 against Romania, and later the first international match in the history of the Soviet Union was played in 16 November 1924 in

Moscow; the team the Soviets invited to celebrate was the Turkish national team (Yuce 2015:

117-118). This pattern would be repeated throughout the Republican years.6 In 1948, Turkey became one of the first countries to recognize the formation of Israel, and matches were arranged between both nations as well as club teams, with Fenerbahce traveling to Israel in 1950 and

Hapoel Tel Aviv visiting Turkey shortly thereafter (Yuce 2015: 467). Still, this modernization was centered in Istanbul. The locus of Turkish sport in these years was Istanbul, just as the locus of Turkish “modernization” was Istanbul and various provincial centers—like Trabzon—felt left out of this “modernization” project for various reasons. In the case of Trabzon, the reason was that the main port on the Black Sea had been built to the West, in Samsun, while the Istanbul railway by-passed the city to the south, going through Sivas, Erzincan, and Erzurum instead

(Tunc 2011). The case with other cities is similar; while foreign teams visited Istanbul and Izmir often, inland provincial centers (like Konya) saw foreign teams visit at a much later date; the first foreign team to visit Konya was Austria’s Sturm Graz in 1955 (Altay 2017: 64)! This would change as football spread across the country.

Turkey’s first professional match was played on 5 January 1952 between two Istanbul clubs: Galatasaray and Kasimpasa (Yuce 2016: 44). Three years later, Ankara and Izmir would both form professional leagues for the 1955-1956 season (Yuce 2016: 70), with Altay becoming the first professional side in Izmir on 9 April 1955 (Yuce 2015: 88). Just like the general

6 See pages 102-105 in Gokacti (2008) for more on this.

trajectory of national modernization, the modernization of sport diffused from Istanbul, first to

Ankara and Izmir, before spreading across the country. A national community was being formed through sport which defied developments in other spheres.

In the same year that professional sport established itself outside of Istanbul for the first time, the 6-7 September events of 1955 saw looters trash the homes and businesses of Turkey’s non-Muslims in Istanbul and Izmir. It was a dark day in Turkish history, as neighbors turned on neighbors only because of their ethnic background. Yet the Turkish professional league of the era boasted stars from Turkey’s non-Muslim community including Fenerbahce’s star striker

Lefter Kucukandonyadis (a Greek) and Galatasaray’s Rober Eryol (Jewish); both represented

Turkey at the 1954 World Cup (Yuce 2016: 82) and it makes us ask the question: How was sport the sphere that brought Turks of all backgrounds together, while on the street the situation was so different? Indeed, Orhan Sevki (2018) notes the joy that Turkey’s Armenians, Greeks, and Jews had in representing their country in international competitions. Sevki quotes the aforementioned

Rober Eryol after his debut for the Turkish national football team in March 1953: “I was waiting for this moment my whole life: After wearing Galatasaray’s shirt, wearing the national team’s shirt. I am a Jewish Turk; my father gave his life for this country in the Canakkale battle

[Gallipolli battle—JKB]. This is why wearing this sacred shirt was important to me. We won the match and I am very happy” (Sevki 2018: 45).

And Eryol is far from the only example. There is a square in Izmir’s Alsancak district sitting in the shadows of the German built Alsancak train station, between two lanes of traffic, where a bust of Vahap Ozaltay stands. Vahap was an African Turk who was also Turkey’s first professional footballer and went on to play for Racing Club de Paris in an era when few Turkish footballers played abroad; he chose the last name “Ozaltay” in honor of the club he played for—

Altay Izmir.7 The story of Hanri Benazus, a Levantine Jew who served as president of the Altay club in the mid-1980s, is a similar example of how—through sports—a space for the integration of non-Muslims and indeed non-ethnic “Turks” was achieved; it reflects the national project of

Turkish sport in the early years of the Republic.8

At the same time that work was being done to integrate the Turkish national community in the form of a professional league, a parallel process was unfolding in Europe. The European

Champions Cup (now known as the UEFA Champions League) was introduced in 1955, re- connecting a continent that had been ravaged by the destruction of the Second World War. At the time, Turkey did not have a national league and there was confusion as to who would represent

Turkey in the new European competition (Yuce 2016: 122). This incentive provided extra motivation for the foundation of the national professional league which was finally established in

1959 and made up of representatives from Istanbul, Ankara, and Izmir (Yuce 2016: 178).

From the contemporary interviews with footballers of this era presented by Mehmet Yuce in Romantik Yurekler (2016), we can see that the game was much different than it is today. One footballer, the famous Besiktas captain Recep Adanir, presented his perspective in 1953: “No matter how much money a person gets, it still can’t kill the belief and love for club inside of

7 In 2016, the Izmir Metropolitan Municipality also named a passenger ferry after Vahap Ozaltay (Hurriyet 2016).

8 In an Interview with the Hurriyet newspaper Benazus tells his story: Ataturk came to Aydin [province]’s Ortaklar district—at that point it was a small village of 40 houses—on a Saturday in October 1937 after opening Nazilli’s Cotton Press factory in order to watch the training of the Aegean military regiment. My father, who was a scribe at the village’s fig cooperative, was in the greeting party. Hanging on to my father’s pants to join the greeting that day, I didn’t know that it would be a turning point in my life. The white train approached the station. When he [Ataturk] stepped onto the platform the villagers surrounded him. It was at that point that I remember leaving my father’s hands and taking his [Ataturk’s] hand. He didn’t let go; he took me to his compartment [in the train]. He sat me down, across from him at his table. He sent for his raki [a Turkish anise flavored liquor] and leblebi [roasted chickpeas]. As he lifted his raki in honor of the villagers I at once looked at him in awe and finished the leblebi on the plate. He asked my name. I said “Hanri”. He didn’t ask me why it wasn’t “Ahmet, Mehmet, or Mustafa” and for this reason on that day I became a Turk. After that I never felt like I was a minority. This is how Hanri Benazus’s incorrigible love for Ataturk started (Oğhan 2012).

them. Today someone came from Italy and wanted to see me. One of these people I didn’t know asked ‘Would you like to come to Italy?’. Without hesitating I said not just Italy, I won’t even go from Besiktas to Uskudar [the neighborhood of Istanbul on the Asian side directly across the

Bosphorus from Besiktas—JKB]” (Yuce 2016: 128). The connection to place—both local and national—is echoed by Vefa’s Garbis Istanbulluoglu, who said in 1953: “our national feeling is much different [than that of footballers’ elsewhere]” (Yuce: 2016: 139). But Adanir and

Istanbulluoglu were from the end of an era that was ending in the mid 1950s; the nation- building—in terms of instilling values and manners—project was shifting its focus from the individual to the national.

After the professionalization of the top league of Turkish football, it became necessary to widen the breadth of the top-flight, as smaller teams began to lose their influence in the face of the greater resources which big teams (Galatasaray, Fenerbahce, and Besiktas) had access to

(Gokacti 2008: 200). Thus, the 1960s saw an explosion in the number of football clubs in

Turkey; this development was due to the liberal nature of the 1950s constitution which allowed for associational growth in civil society, as well as the development of central and easterm

Anatolia. Mehmet Yuce cites 1965 as the turning point which made the national league truly

“national” due to the merging of clubs (Yuce 2016: 263). Still, Gokacti reminds readers that “just like in every other sphere, under-modernization and half-hearted attempts at liberalization also meant that outcomes in football would be unique to Turkey” (Gokacti 2008: 217). In a sense, even the growth of football reflects the acceptance of a Western-European system on a country that was not completely “Western”. Gokacti calls this explosion of club growth during the years

of 1965-1984 the “Anatolian Fire” (Gokacti 2008: 219).9 During this period, the smaller clubs in many Anatolian cities merged to form one united “front” representing their newly-developing cities. As Sevecan Tunc (2011) notes in the context of Trabzon, this was not always a simple process. Smaller clubs were caught between the desire to preserve their cultures and histories while facing the reality that most Anatolian cities at the time could only support one major professional team. As these city teams formed throughout the 1960s, Turkish football also came to resemble Western football. The first step in this regard was the establishment of a national cup competition, and the Turkish Cup started in the 1962-63 season, bringing Turkish football in line with that of most European nations at the time (Gokacti 2008: 2019). One year later, in 1963, a national second division was formed, bringing together the smaller clubs that were relegated from the first division and those representing developing Anatolian cities like Adana, Mersin, and Bursa (Gokacti 2008: 220).

The increased localization of sport in a national context still carried elements of the nation-building era of the Republican period. Most commentators agree that the growth of city teams increased the popularity of football throughout the nation, as it became a venue for the expression of local pride (Gokacti 2008; Yuce 2016). Yet, in order to help these provincial teams compete with the wealthier clubs from urban centers, Gokacti notes that the state—through the ministry of sport and the football federation—got involved directly. The football federation’s president at the time, Orhan Serif Apak, made the regulations as simple as possible while encouraging the formation of a team in every province. After getting official permission for the foundation of a team, all that was needed was to fill out the forms and pay a 60 thousand Lira

9 Many of the city teams were founded during these years. 1965: Eskisehirspor, Samsunspor, Boluspor, Bandirmaspor; 1966: Adanaspor, Balikesirspor, Denizlispor, Aydinspor, Antalyaspor, Zonguldakspor, Cankkalespor, Malatyaspor (Gokacti 2008: 225).

fee; at the time, almost all applications were accepted (Gokacti 2008: 222). Later, in the 1967-68 season, a national third division was formed to accommodate those teams which could not find a place in the second division (Gokacti 2008: 225). Interestingly, while football was spreading across Anatolia, it meant that many local clubs in urban areas would suffer. Many of the traditional non-Muslim clubs—which played a major role in the history and development of

Turkish sports—started to disappear in Istanbul. Armenian clubs like Taksimspor and Zara,

Greek clubs like Beyoğluspor and Kurtuluşspor, and Jewish clubs like Maccabi all disappeared from the professional leagues in the 1970s (Gokacti 2008: 238-246; Şevki 2018). Unfortunately, the nationalization of sport meant the decline of traditional local clubs in Istanbul and Izmir; indeed it was not just non-Muslim clubs that declined in this period, as Fatih Karagumruk,

Beykozspor, and Vefaspor (in Istanbul) were also far from their glory years (likely because they were unable to compete with the financial support that the newly founded provincial clubs had).

But during this period, it became clear that Turkish football was falling behind Europe.

Metin Kurt, a famous leftist footballer who played for Galatasaray, was asked talk about the differences between European and Turkish football in the 1970s and said “We were playing

Bayern Munich [1972 European Champion’s Cup-JKB] … [Franz] Beckenbauer had Adidas shoes on his feet with ‘Beckenbauer’ written on them. Every player had their names written on their cleats. You can understand the difference! (Yuce 2016: 379). These frustrations, due to economic conditions, led to conflict in the streets and ushered in a new era after the 1980 military coup.

The advent of neoliberalism in the 1980s meant that more and more money was being made available for sport, and after being embarrassed by Europe in the 1970s and early 1980s, now foreign coaches like Jupp Derwall and Sepp Piontek were brought in to develop both the

national team and club teams. This influence would have an effect, and Galatasaray made it to the semi-finals of the 1988-89 European Champions Cup (Yuce 2016: 561-566). Success in

Turkey was not enough; the competition with Europe—both sporting and financial—took on new meaning.

At the beginning of this more global period, football was still closely related to Turkish national identity. Now this relationship became Janus-faced; Turkish national identity was now directly related to Europe and defined against the European “other”. Tanil Bora and Necmi

Erdogan argue that one of the most obvious “national” characteristics of Turkish football is the desire to be accepted by the West and the desire to prove itself to the West (Bora and Erdogan

2012: 231; in English see Kozanoglu 1999).10 To put it simply, in the 1990s football became an instrument for the expression of banal nationalism (Gokacti 2008: 291) and the national anthem began to be played ahead of Turkish football matches in 1992. Sport headlines in Turkish sports dailies from the era were famous for blatantly attacking Europe, with one going so far as to call the English “Sons of B…..s” after Manchester United appealed for a replay of the tie with

Galatasaray which saw them famously crash out of the 1993 Champions League.11

Demir and Talimciler note that the start of the UEFA Champions League in 1992-1993 sped up the trend to industrial football (Demir and Talimciler 2015: 23), which had repercussions for Turkish football domestically (due to the development of private TV channels that allowed consumers—distinct from fans—to watch from home). Emrence notes that globalization—which the Champions League represents—pushed Turkish football towards the market, since “by

10 This is why Bora and Erdogan note that star Turkish players of the late 1980s and early 1990s were often nick- named after European stars; Besiktas’s “Sifo” Mehmet (Ozdilek) was nick-named after the Belgian star Enzo Scifo.

11 For more about the match see Smyth (2012). Interestingly, the elimination of European giant Manchester United in this match paved the way for the modern Champions League format, whereby major teams do not play qualifying round matches, thus ensuring that the major teams appear in the competition proper, making it more attractive for advertisers.

accelerating athletic flows on a global scale, and integrating Turkish clubs fully into European soccer, the new global framework required a more commercial approach” (Emrence 2010: 245).

This new commercial approach would change Turkish football forever.

Perhaps the year 2000 marks the point of departure from a truly national-based football identity to a global football identity. I remember well the nationalist fervor which surrounded

Galatasaray’s 2000 UEFA cup triumph over Arsenal. It meant that Turkey had now “made it” in

Europe, and the climate surrounding Turkey’s ascension to the European Union was positive. It looked like Turkey would now be accepted as an “equal” of Europe, and the country became more closely integrated into global flows (Dorsey and Sebastian 2013: 626; Gokacti 2008: 294).

The jump in broadcasting revenues for Turkish football between 1998 and 2008 illustrates this:

While in 1998-99 Turkish football broadcasting revenues were 55 million dollars, the figure for the years 2004-2008 was 377.6 million dollars (Emrence 2010: 247). The increase in revenues alone shows the contrast between two distinct periods.

These changes in Turkish football, in line with the dictates of neoliberal globalization, reflect the political and social changes in society, particularly after the arrival of the Justice and

Development Party (AKP) in 2002. The changes in Turkish society were encouraged by the

Western world, because “increasing economic liberalization [and] accelerating integration of the

Turkish economy with the global markets . . . consolidated the primacy of the global over the national” (Keyman and Gumuscu 2014: 43). To the West, adherence to neoliberal policies and the provision of new markets were important. As Toni Alaranta reminds us, “the neoliberal consensus has proven to be highly flexible in normative issues, so that the state’s adherence to the free trade regime is, on the systemic level, often the dominant, if not the only, criterion for a regime acceptance by the major actors” (Alaranta 2015: 112). In order to complete this

transformation the AKP government continually made reference to the rhetoric of Western liberalism since Turkish development since the Kemalist revolution was always in a “Western” direction. As Keyman and Gumuscu explain, “Western modernity was regarded as the way of making modern Turkey and its existence as a modern nation-state in its fullest form” (Keyman and Gumuscu 2014: 151 [emphasis in original]). To observers it looked as if Turkey was merely following on its decades-long path to “Westernization”; indeed “a pro-European foreign policy is seen as the instrument of legitimization for the government party not only in the eyes of the

Turkish state elite but also in the eyes of the international system” (Duran 2008: 87). This process reflects hypermodern politics, where “national” development is done in the name of

“global” interests, often to the detriment of ordinary citizens.12

Hypermodernity and the Global Culture Industry of Football

I will use the term “hypermodernity” to refer to the globalized world system in the current age. This “hypermodernity” carries similarities to what Gilles Lipovetsky (2005) describes in Hypermodern Times, although I do not share the same optimism.13 In many ways, the hypermodernity I describe is underwritten by what Jean Baudrillard calls hyperreality, where

“the real is not only what can be reproduced, but that which is always already reproduced: that is, the hyperreal . . . which is entirely in simulation” (Baudrillard 1983). This hypermodern society reflects the hyperreality; it is “no longer master over anything, since it only knows how to condemn its predecessors to death and putrescence and their14 subsequent resuscitation by science. An irreparable violence towards all secrets, the violence of a civilisation without secrets.

12 For graphics depicting the unequal nature of globalization, see Thompson (2014) and Thomson (2016).

13 For instance, I do not agree with Lipovetsky’s assertion that hypermodernity is “liberal” in any true sense of the word, nor do I believe that it is “democratic” in any true sense of the word.

14 Here Baudrillard is directly referring to Mummies exhumed for the purposes of museum displays, but the point made is directly relevant to wider human society in the hypermodern world.

The hatred by an entire civilisation for its own foundations” (Baudrillard 1983: 21). This emphasis on the rejection of the past is what, for me, characterizes the hypermodern world and makes hypermodernity distinct from modernity. Whereas the modern world recognized a relationship with the past—perhaps a linear relationship, as Marx saw it—the postmodern mode of thought questioned this narrative and sought to question our connection with the past; most notably it was Jean Francois Lyotard who denied the “grand narrative of history” (Lyotard

1984). By contrast, the hypermodern world—the roots of which lie in the 1980s with the growth of open markets and cemented by George H. W. Bush’s declaration of the “New World Order” later assumed a hegemonic position after 2000 (aided by the development of the internet and particularly the rise of social media) aims to sever all of our ties with the past; it must be denounced forcefully and, in some cases, destroyed altogether. Nations and nationalism, of course, are one of these vestiges of the past; they belong to the modern world.

John Hargreaves points to the 1992 Barcelona Olympics—the first “Americanized” sporting event, in his estimation—as the start of “New World Order” and describes some of its characteristics; exaggerated forms of which have now come to define hypermodernity:

The ending of the superpower conflict and the reconfiguration of the interstate system into the ‘new world order’; the accelerated internationalization of financial markets, technology and certain sectors of manufacturing and services since the 1970s; the salience of the activities of multinational capitalist enterprises; the expansion of new communications and information technology; vast population movements; growing environmental problems that transcend frontiers; and the apparent emergence of a hybrid, cosmopolitan ‘global culture’ (Hargreaves 2000: 39).

After the year 2000, the development of hypermodernity accelerated through fast-paced communications via the internet, bombarding the individual with information but never knowledge or wisdom. Just enough characters of information for a Twitter post, but nothing more. That communication between individuals should so resemble advertising techniques

should come as no surprise; it is part of the construction of a hypermodern imagined global community, the development of which mirrors the development of nations: Benedict Anderson

(1991) argues that print communication underpinned the imagined communities of nations; I believe that digital communication and advertising underpins the imagined community of globalism in the current world.

And like nations and nationalism, which Ernest Gellner connects to capitalism as a result of the shift from agricultural to industrial means of production and the industrial revolution

(Gellner 2006 [1983]), globalism is also intimately related to capitalism and to a new shift in the modes of production from industrial to digital; globalism is a product of the digital revolution. If nationalism was a product of a modernity ushered in by industrialization (Gellner 2006 [1983]:

19], then globalism is a product of a hypermodernity ushered in by digitization. The ideas

(nationalism and globalism), the means of production (industrialization and digitization), and the periods (modernity and hypermodernity) follow similar and parallel paths.

Like modern society, hypermodern society is driven by capitalism and a search for markets, however—in hypermodernity, this is a more vicious form of “extreme”, or even

“savage”, capitalism. As was the case in modern society—most tragically in the second World

War—the danger is that this means-end rationality in search of “more” could result in attempts at total social control (Marcuse 1991); as Nortbert Elias argues in The Civilizing Process the trend is towards more—and not less—social control; “the process of social change, the advance in the frontiers of shame and the threshold of repugnance” (Elias 2000: 118) continue apace. In its ever-expanding search for more—more markets, more customers, more consumers, more profits—the previous epochs of the past must be destroyed so as to provide no reference point for the new ideology and culture of hypermodernity; the hyperreality would be too readily

comprehendible—perhaps even exposable as the farce that it is—if reality remained as a reference point. Baudrillard explains the role of capital in this process: “for, finally, it was capital which was the first to feed throughout its history on the destruction of every referential, of every human goal, which shattered every ideal distinction between true and false, good and evil, in order to establish a radical law of equivalence and exchange, the iron law of its power”

(Baudrillard 1983: 43). This destruction of “every human goal” was necessary in order to foster acceptance of a hyperreality that is not—and likely never will be—a reflection of our lived reality.

As an example, I will give perhaps the most visible element of the hypermodern society, where it is most clearly antithetical to what we know as “human nature” and “reality”: this is its emphasis on globalization and an imagined, utopic, “global village” much more imagined than the “imagined communities” of nations that Benedict Anderson (1991) argues. One of the most common definitions of globalization in academics, David Harvey’s, emphasizes “time-space compression” (Levermore and Budd 2004: 9). The definition itself is hyperreal: given the limits of current technology, we simply cannot live “time-space compression”. We cannot teleport, thus we cannot truly be in multiple places at one time. Although I can speak with friends and family in Turkey while I am in the United states, I cannot sit at the table with them and share a meal, I cannot give them a hug, I cannot watch the sunset together. In short, I cannot live any true, human experience with them when physically apart. It is the the most tragic pinnacle of Marxian alienation, and also the most emotionally destructive. This is why the hypermodern globalized society, encouraged by the culture industry via social media, emphasizes the values of consumerism so much; it is the only means through which the reality—and the contradictions it

might reveal—can be masked. We might not be able to physically live in multiple places at once, but we damn well can consume in multiple places, both at once and as one world.

Leslie Sklair explains how this false consciousness was marketed as a value system by a transnationalist capitalist class (TCC) that is “domiciled in and identified with no particular country but, on the contrary, is identified with the global capitalist system” (Sklair 2001: 10).

Sklair further elaborates on the hegemonic interests of the TCC which follow the logic of global capitalism:

The prime culture-ideology task of global capitalism is to ensure that as many people as possible consume as much as possible, by inculcating beliefs about the intrinsic value of consumption as a “good thing” and the key component of “the good life” (Sklair 2001: 11).

As this culture-ideology spreads, we see that a “global” taste in consumption slowly develops, leading to a gradual homogenization of not only food and clothing, but also cultural pursuits including sports (Ibid.). That is part of the globalist ideology, taking its cues—perhaps—from

Gramscian thought, in that it is a form of “homogeneity of heterogeneity” (Gramsci 1971), as individuals are homogenized by their consumer tastes despite the heterogeneity of their various existing national cultures and indeed their own individual selves. That a Marxist like Gramsci should provide the root of this “culture-ideology” is not surprising given that some texts use

“Marxist” and “globalist” interchangeably (Levermore and Budd 2004: 7). Perhaps this is why, as Robert Goldman and Stephen Papson note in the context of Nike (the preeminent global corporation focused on global soccer), “corporations construct motifs that depict globalization with imagery of liberalism, multiculturalism, and universal humanism” (Goldman and Papson

1998: 183-184). In a sense, it is now the corporations—not the the nation states—that have power in the hypermodern era; it is just one of the contradictions of a hyperreality that has become an inversion of lived reality.

In order to sustain this inversion—and the imagined “global community”— a socialization process is necessary in order to spread its value system and “culture-ideology” in the hypermodern period, in the same way that nations once spread their own value systems and cultures during the modern period through education so as to standardize (homogenize) the population (Gellner 2003 [1983]: xxiv, 26-28). This socialization process is increasingly creating fragmented individuals, and Isabelle Fortier and Mariana Catellanos Juarez (2017) believe that

“Hypermodern individuals are in a ‘tense flux’, prisoners of ‘real time’, detached from the past and future, no longer able to distinguish what’s essential to build meaning”. The “culture- ideology” of consumerism provides one avenue for these individuals to build meaning, and that is why advertising plays such a central role. Hannah Arendt (1951) noted that the propaganda of totalitarian movements resembles business advertising and, since globalization in its hypermodern form is quasi-totalitarian—echoing the imperialism of the past by imposing a new value system (at the expense of indigenous value systems) centered around consumption in societies all over the world—the lines between advertising and propaganda are blurred just as the lines between political power and corporate power are blurred.15

The Global Culture Industry

Where the socialization process of hypermodern global society becomes its most hyperreal is in the realm of culture; since there is no true “global community” or “global culture”, the culture underlying it must be invented; just like some nations relied on “invented traditions” (Hobsbawm and Ranger (2004) in the cultural realm, the imagined global community

15 Perhaps even the lines between liberty and oppression are blurred. Anthony D. Smith also notes the imperialist tendencies of globalization in the current epoch: “the idea of a ‘global culture’ can be seen as another form of (consumer) imperialism operating through the prism of the cultural media; though it presents itself as universal, it bears the imprint of its origins and flows from a single source, the United States. Alternatively, global culture is presented as a playfully eclectic and ‘depthless’ pastiche, attuned to the ‘pastiche personality’ of the affectually attenuated, decentered ego inhabiting ‘an electronic, global world’” (Smith 1998: 214-215).

relies on an emergent global culture industry. Where the printing press “imagined” the national community, the digital world of social media and corporate media now “imagines” the global community by inculcating—through the culture industry—a value system based in consumerism that is, ultimately, hyperreal. In their book Global Culture Industry (2007), Scott Lash and Celia

Lury provide many examples, and the case of Swiss watch-maker Swatch exemplifies the contradictions of this hypermodern value system.

Swatch was originally intended to “reverse the growth in national unemployment and reinvigorate Swiss national pride in the watch-making industry” (Lash and Lury 2007: 113) and originally depended on Swiss labour; the logo of the company contains the Swiss flag and the project was initially funded through a loan from the Swiss state. It was essentially a national project at the outset, but Swatch soon became associated with “mobility and a consmpolitan lifestyle” (Ibid.), and the watches are mainly sold in placeless places like international airports, train stations, shopping malls, and boutiques in tourist areas around the world (particularly in

Europe) (Ibid.: 114). When the national company becomes global, it becomes hyperreal. The initial rationale for developing the Swatch brand was to develop an “economical watch”, but the result of this laudable project strayed: “…the economical watch of the late twentieth century was intended not so much as an affordable time-telling device for the thrifty worker but as an expendable accessory for the fashion-conscious consumer” (Ibid.: 115). It was not the working classes who benefitted from this “economical watch”; rather, it became another sign of the global culture industry, a disposable fashion statement for the “cosmopolitan” and “mobile” upper- middle classes. Even the rationale for the product is hyperreal, since the “economical watch” is not so economical when its very design makes it unrepairable, a fact “in conflict with the conventional technical standards sustained by the Swiss watch-making tradition that had

nourished the concepts of longevity and service after sale” (Ibid.: 117). As Lash and Lury note,

“each individual product’s life is subordinated to the need to keep the brand alive” (Ibid.); this reflects another contradiction of hypermodernity: for all the feel good discourse surrounding environmental concerns and “corporate responsibility”, most global corporations also subordinate the quality of their products to the need for profits (by keeping the brand alive). And

Swatch is far from the only company involved in spreading this global culture industry centered on consumption: it is also Hollywood movies, Beyonce videos, Coca-Cola, Jack Daniel’s

Whiskey, McDonald’s and Burger King. It is Lacoste polo shirts and iPhones. It is Sushi restaurants and Brazilian steakhouses, Starbuck’s and Netflix. In many cases, these are products that reflect more than just their use value, they reflect a lifestyle.

And, perhaps most effectively, it is Real Madrid and Barcelona; Cristiano Ronaldo and

Lionel Messi. In a world focused on consumption, sport is an effective tool of the culture industry in terms of reaching the masses since it does not need to be purchased directly to be consumed,16 and it is—in itself—already a lifestyle. It requires little capital to watch Ronaldo and Messi from afar (while still visually consuming the advertisements), and I have witnessed many a coffee house in Turkey fixated on El Clasico at late hours of the night in Istanbul. It is the great unifier for a homogenizing world, it is the lowest common denominator for spreading the “culture-ideology of consumption”17 while hiding the inverted nature of hypermodernity by creating a Marxian false consciousness; it provides a hyperreal lifestyle at the expense of the

16 The World Cup and European Soccer Championships are the second and third most watched sporting events in the world (Lash and Lury 2007).

17 In the stalls outside of Istanbul’s Grand Bazaar, it always amuses me to see that the most popular counterfeit goods seem not to be “Levi’s” jeans or “Gucci” belts, but soccer shirts. Of course none of them are official, but it is likely that counterfeit jerseys are one of the commonest commodities sold throughout the world; it is not uncommon to see “militants” on the news media—from conflicts all over the world—sporting a Lionel Messi while cradling an AK-47. This itself is a testament to the ubiquity of the culture industry of football globally.

existing lifestyle. One can buy the shirt of Barcelona in Istanbul, but one cannot visit and experience the Nou Camp; this kind of fandom—and the lifestyle that goes with it—is hyperreal where the support for Turkish teams within Turkey is not.

From Nationalism to Globalism: Football as Part of the Global Culture Industry18

Since it can be argued that sport is one of the first truly global cultural forms, it should not be surprising that it plays such a central role in the emergent globalist culture industry.19 In its globalized form, the lines between sport(culture) and advertising are also blurred as “the bigger European clubs have become international corporations in their own right, farming talent in the Third World and prominent in the media, entertainment, and gambling industries of countries worldwide. In this services-dominated phase of international capitalism, sport is a leading sector of activity” (Hill 2004: 2). This represents the point where culture becomes a culture industry, and the lines between culture, advertising, and sport fall away; sport has become a tool of the globalist culture industry, distanced from its local roots, as Scott Lash and

Celia Lury make clear in their discussion of the Euro ’96 European Soccer Championship (Lash and Lury 2007: 39-64). This detachment from history and national context means that new hyperreal symbols have proliferated through global sport, contributing to new hyperreal identities (Giulianotti 2004: 225-239). Just four years after the Barcelona Olympics, Euro ’96 became the first branded European football championship. In designing the competition’s logo

“the ‘don’ts’ in ‘creating an identity for Euro ‘96’ were to be ‘not British, not aggressive’, but to

18 See Scott Lash and Celia Lury’s (2007) Global Culture Industry for a description of this phenomenon.

19 Football is the most global of sports, and the sport’s governing body—FIFA—was founded long before Transnational Corporations, Multinational Organizations, and even the United Nations were dreamed up (Goldblatt 2008). That FIFA should have been so violently rocked by corruption scandals mirrors the corruption and inequity inherent in the current global system, and some have noted the neo-colonial nature of FIFA (Sugdn, Tomlinson, and Darby 1998: 27).

be ‘modern, European” (Lash and Lury 2007: 50) and one of Lash and Lury’s participants from the advertising sector openly says: “the point is to redefine national identity” (Ibid.).

Anthony King argues that the UEFA Champions League’s “Starball” design “represents an emergent transnational order in which the biggest [European] clubs are becoming increasingly dominant”, and that the “Starball” is one of the first “European symbols to emerge” to unify the

European Union culturally (King 2004: 335). In 2000, King called this the “new Europe”, a place where “competing cities and regions [are] being disembedded from their national contexts into new transnational matrices” (King 2000: 419).20 We can see a similar trend with the European currency, the Euro, essentially a visual representation of the hyperreal just like the “Starball”.

Currency is one signifier of the “nation” (Penrose 2011), and opponents of the Euro tend to be pejoritivrely categorized as “nationalist” (Müller-Peters 1998). In replacing all national symbols on the European currency with bland (and ‘non aggressive’) bridges and windows, a European identity is being invented; it is just as hyperreal as the “Starball” in its standard silver and black colors. It bears no relation to the colors of any existing European flag or the badge of any existing European club, yet there are penalties if teams cover the design in the stands during

Champions League games.21 This hyperreality is necessary, however, to cover up the rising inequalities of the “new Europe”; given UEFA’s 2016 European Club Footballing Landscape

(UEFA 2016) it is clear that European football has become much more unequal as the biggest clubs have abandoned their localities in favor of global capital.22 In this regard, the “Starball” is

20 The discourse of “new Europe” echoes the discourse of “new Turkey” (Alaranta 2015).

21 I witnessed the transformation of Galatasaray’s Turk Telekom Arena for Champions League games during my fieldwork in October 2019, as the local advertisements are covered with the “starball” design. By obscuring local advertisements, the “starball” design ensures the creation of a hyperreal space.

22 See Branko Milanovic (2005) who also found that the forces of globalization—and free movement of players worldwide—has increased inequality among clubs.

itself a manifestation of the hyperreality, inventing a sign for a “unified” Europe which is quickly becoming more and more unequal.23

Analyzing these hypermodern trends, Richard Giulianotti and Roland Robertson note that

“world cartels of satellite, cable and free-to-air broadcasters have emerged to distribute football images globally, such that the game is now an important constituent in the ‘banal cosmpolitanism’ of popular culture” (Giulianotti and Robertson 2004: 550). Importantly, the same authors find that this “banal cosmopolitanism” is unable to penetrate the network of

Scottish football fans living in Canada (Giulianotti and Robertson 2007). These fans reject the notion of hyphenated identities, seeing themselves squarely as “Scottish”, pointing to how difficult it is for the “banal cosmopolitanism” of globalism to penetrate networks of football fans who have a strong connection to their countries of origin through the clubs they support; they are similar to the “entropy resistant” groups Gellner identified as resisting the advances of nationalism (Gellner 2006[1983]: 63-64).

In this context, Turkish football fans are very similar and seem to share many characteristics with their counterparts in Europe, like Polish fans who resist globalization

(Benedikter and Wojtaszyn 2018) or Italian fans who resist the system in Italy despite coming from opposite ends of the political spectrum (Testa and Armstrong 2010). Because the fans are rooted in their local and national contexts, they are marginalized by the increasing globalization of sport which has, in turn, led to an increased politicization of sport as the sovereignty of nations is slowly eroded by the TCC (Sklair 2001). This decoupling of sport from its national roots is slowly changing the relationship that fans have with their teams, just like the changes in

23 That European “identity” could only be projected in a hyperreal sense is not surprising given Walker Connor’s observation that “a single European culture is a fiction, and a multiplicity of languages, dialects, religious denominations, and other cultural manifestations is the fact” (Connor 1994: 134).

British football—which gradually pushed out the working classes—changed British fandom

(Armstrong 1998). Specifically, in the Turkish context, football once was a signifier of

“modernity” and the nation; it is now slowly developing into a signifier of hypermodernity and the global. It will now be helpful to introduce my ethnographic method, which will also serve as an introduction to Turkish fandom.

CHAPTER 3 WHO ARE THE FANS AND HOW ARE THEY STUDIED?

You have no chance to say anything…because you’re a fan. A [team] administrator can…swear, they can, they get caught on camera. They can say what ever they want about a referee. Players can swear at referees—according to the jersey they wear, they can talk. Fans have no chance to say anything. Yet at the most delicate point of all this [football]—the most dangerous places—the biggest responsibility is ours. Why? I don’t get any money in my pockets for this, I get no personal gain, we do this because we love our team.

—Interview with Hami (Trabzonspor)

In Bursa, Turkey’s fourth largest city with close to 2 million inhabitants, I meet Okan in mid-February 2020. As a major city in the Marmara region, Bursa has a close relationship with the economic hub of Istanbul, while also maintaining its own identity. I have been invited to an office building to speak with Okan, a 32 year-old Bursaspor fan and member of the Teksas

[Texas] fan group; he is a life long fan who has dedicated his life to the team:

I’ve been inside the Bursaspor stands for nearly 20 years, since my childhood. The neighborhood we lived in, the place we lived…my elders, the abis of my neighborhood, they were the leading figures in the Bursaspor stands—always. More the Teksas stand, than Bursaspor really. Because of them we caught this passion, we can call it, this affection…this is how we lived this love. For instance in the 2000s there were daytime matches, 1999, 2000, 2001…these years where there were daytime matches we’d play hookey…the game would be at 12:30 [pm] and we’d get out of school at 12 [pm], the stadium was 20-25 minutes from our neighborhood. Despite the rain, mud, snow, the winter, we’d go to the match. This is how we met Bursaspor. Other than this…our elders showed us the way, the neighborhood we lived in—we are still in the same neighborhood, after 35, 40—maybe 50 years later…1

Okan is a small business owner and a staunch localist who sees his team, Bursaspor, as if it were a person—he met it, and he fell in love with it. As we talk, he slowly passes the beads of his

1 All formal interviews were conducted in Turkish, and all interviews were transcribed by the author. Significant passages—like this one—were translated by the author and used in the text throughout. I take all responsibility for any translation errors.

tesbih2 through the fingers of one hand, while using his free hand to take occasional sips from his glass of Chivas Regal. Like I asked many fans, I ask Okan to describe fandom/tribüncülük. He leans back, and starts:

Let me tell you something. Tribüncülük …the jargon of the stands, what is tribüncülük? Tribüncülük is something very distinct, you need to live tribüncülük and see tribüncülük, you need to get inside it and feel it. Tribüncülük for us is…priceless. Today, everything that we have given life to, our lifetime, our death, our life…what we will live…these are all tribüncülük. My today, my tomorrow, my next day…these are all tribüncülük to me. Tribüncülük is a very different concept. One who lives tribüncülük and doesn’t get into it cannot know it. One who lives tribüncülük and can’t get into it cannot see it. Tribüncülük is a very different concept. There are not enough words to explain it.

Okan repeats the phrase “tribüncülük is a very different concept” twice while stressing the difficulty for others to understand it. He says that words cannot explain it, but he does a good job of explaining it. But others are similarly lost for words.

In the southern city of Adana, Turkey’s fifth biggest city with a population of near 1.5 million, I talked to Selami. He is 26, also a small business owner, and a fan of Adana Demirspor and a member of the Mavi Simsekler [Blue Lighting] group. At a small café near the stadium, before the local derby between Adanaspor and Adana Demirspor in mid-February, I asked

Selami the same question. What is tribüncülük to you?

How can I explain this culture? Really, someone from the stands could explain this in a really logical manner; when you say tribün3 culture, they have the capacity to really understand it. How can I explain it for someone who doesn’t understand it? Let me put it this way… tribün culture is being able to get in a fight for someone you don’t even know. Why? Because you carry the same badge. This…is in the tribün. For instance, if someone carries the Adana Demirspor badge here [the café], and—for example—they fight with someone, I would get involved. Why? Because he shares my color. I can see him like a piece of my own blood. Tribün culture is solid like this, it is vigorous.

2 Muslim prayer beads, similar to the Catholic Rosary. Some call these “worry beads”.

3 “Tribün”, literally meaning the stands, is often used as a synonym for tribüncülük when referring to the culture itself.

As both Okan and Selami show, tribüncülük and fan culture are things that defy words; they are things that must be lived to truly understand, and carry real emotional power.

This theme of fandom being somehow “different”—as if it is something that cannot be put into words—was something I came across often in my field work and why it is difficult to provide a traditional discussion of methods. Fandom, particularly tribüncülük, is something that can only be lived, and if you are not a true insider you will never get the full story. This is why I took a holistic approach, attending as many matches as I could in different cities and neighborhoods, to do my best to see it for what it was despite my own insider/outsider perspective culturally.

Defining “Tribüncülük”

From my participants, I learned that tribüncülük is a general term for Turkish fandom, combining the noun “tribün”, meaning stadium stands, with the verb ending for “one who does”.

Literally, it means “One who does the stands”, and I found that it refers to a form of subcultural lifestyle, with its own mores, values, and code of ethics; it has its own Bourdieusian “habitus”

(Bourdieu 2010 [1984]). I do not believe that it fits neatly with any of Giulianotti’s “taxonomy of spectator identities” (Giulianotti 2002), which consists of four “ideal-type” categories

“underpinned by two basic binary oppositions: hot-cool and traditional-consumer. Thus, there are four quadrants into which spectators may be classified: traditional/hot [Supporter], traditional/cool [Follower], consumer/hot [Fan], and consumer/cool [Flaneur]” (Giulianotti 2002:

30-31). Elaborating, Giulianotti explains that

the traditional/consumer horizontal axis measures the basis of the individual’s investment in a specific club: Traditional spectators will have a longer, more local and popular cultural identification with the club, whereas consumer fans will have a more market-centered relationship to the club as reflected in the centrality of consuming club products … The hot-cool vertical axis reflects the different degrees to which the club is central to the individual’s project of self-formation (Giulianotti 2002: 31).

In terms of this taxonomy, we can understand tribüncüs as related to “traditional/hot” spectators, defined as supporters “of the football club. The classic supporter has a long-term personal and emotional investment in the club […] the individual has a relationship with the club that resembles those with close family and friends” (Giulianotti 2002: 33). These types of fans have grounded identities and their relationships are characterized by “thick solidarity”; in

Durhkeimian terms, Giulianotti notes that for such supporters the “[football] club might be seen as a totemic representation of the surrounding community” (Ibid.). Such a close relationship to the club (and, by extension, the locality) is something that goes against the rootless and consumerist logic of hypermodern globalist society, and this is perhaps a reason why

“traditional/hot” supporters—like European Ultras (Testa 2009, Scalia 2009)—have faced increasing marginalization in the stadium at the hands of police and—sometimes—clubs themselves.

The tribüncüs of Turkey carry elements of the traditional/hot “supporters”, although none of my participants openly identified with European notions of “hooligans” or “Ultras”, although some acknowledged the similarities that Turkish fandom has with southern European countries like Italy, Croatia, and Greece. Still, the organized “firms” of Britain or Ultra groups of southern

Europe are distinct from tribüncüs and organized fan groups in Turkey

Also, many distanced themselves from the term “hooligan”4 (likely due to the stigma attached to the word), and one Ankaragucu fan told me a story where a friend of his was approached in a bar by a fan of another team who told him “Hey, you’re the guy that beat me with a chocolate bar last year at a match between Ankaragucu and Goztepe!”. When I asked what happened next, I was told that the Ankaragucu fan invited the former victim to the table for

4 “Holigan” in Turkish.

drinks. When I asked how this could happen, I was told simply “hooligan guys like to hang out with other hooligan guys!”. Given this explanation, I believe that the term “hooligan” is used more in jest and not in reference to any identity. Still, this short discussion goes to show why a truly “global” study of fandom is difficult to achieve; fandom is a cultural phenomenon deeply rooted in national cultures—ultras are distinct from hooligans in the European context, while

“tribüncüs” are also a distinct culture coming from Turkey.5

The Ethnographic Method

I chose the ethnographic method to study Turkish fan culture because ethnography and participant observation have proven to be effective methods for the study of soccer fandom all over the world. It is a method which provides the most readable and “thick” descriptions of fans, to borrow Clifford Geertz’s terminology (Geertz 2001). Anthony King (2001) and Ramon Spaaij

(2008) used this method to study violent fans, while Millward and Poulton (2014) used it to study fans as a social movement against the commodification of soccer in Manchester. In the

Rules of Disorder, Peter Marsh, Elizabeth Rosser, and Rom Harre—who studied aggressive youth both in the classroom and in the soccer stadium—provide a useful rationale for participant observation:

. . . an involvement, albeit a rather restrained one, in the action is a basic requirement. One needs not only to observe what is happening but also to feel what it is like to be in a particular social situation. The experiential aspect does not come about by being a totally disinterested onlooker. It comes about through an attempt to share in the excitement and emotions which, for soccer fans, constitute the ‘electric’ atmosphere which is seen as being the most important aspect of Saturday afternoons [. . .] on the basis of experience one is more able adequately to make sense of what fans have to say and the ways in which they make sense of their social world (Marsh, Rosser, and Harre 1978).

5 Here, Shawki El-Zatmah’s (2012) distinction between “tersos” and “ultras” in the Egyptian context might be useful; each national culture has its own name for committed fans, and each has a different “habitus”.

Indeed, it is this extensive involvement in the lives of fans which makes Mariann Vaczi’s (2015) ethnography of Basque/Spanish fans in Bilbao so readable; it is informed by extensive ethnographic fieldwork which connects the fan to the local culture.

Given that football fans are often tied to a specific geographic area and have specific stories to tell, qualitative—and specifically ethnographic—approaches work well. As many researchers point out (Giulianotti 1995; Giulianotti 2005; Millward and Poulton 2014; Radmann

2014), a so-called “snowball sample” is the most effective way to recruit participants. Therefore, scholars of football fans should be aware of what kind of fan they are trying to study when considering methodological approaches. If one is looking to study fans generally, or for a business project, a quantitative approach can be useful (Kartakoullis, Kriemadis, and Pouloukas

2009) but—as Stacey Pope notes—there are issues “concerning the degree to which fandom can be ‘measured’” (Pope 2012). If one is looking to study fairly middle-class fans, or seek motivations for specific behaviors, then a solely interview-based qualitative approach will work well (Pope 2012; Giulianotti 2005). If, however, one is looking to study a specific type of fan group—or hard-to-access fan group—in depth, then an ethnographic approach will allow for a readable and informative study of both fan behavior and fan perspectives within their cultural context (Vaczi 2015; Marsh, Rosser, and Harre 1978).

Methodological Approach

I decided to take a methodological approach that allowed me to collect the widest amount of data possible by doing ethnographic fieldwork in both the real world and the digital world. In the real world, I did this by attending 88 total games during the fieldwork I conducted from 23

February 2019 to 12 March 2020, when the season was interrupted by the COVID-19 event; a list of these matches can be found in the Appendix. 77 of these games were in Turkey (including

6 from the amateur leagues) and were spread out across the country in 18 cities, and

encompassed matches in all of the professional leagues: Spor Toto Super League (top tier), TFF

First League (second tier), TFF Second League (third tier), and TFF Third League (fourth tier).

Eleven of these games were international (in Denmark, Germany, Italy, FYR Macedonia, Spain, and Sweden), including a one involving a Turkish team (an exhibition match between

Galatasaray and Fiorentina in Florence, Italy).6 In the digital world, I did this by following the social media accounts on Instagram of various teams and their fan groups, as well as multiple accounts focusing on both general Turkish and general European “Ultra” fan culture. This varied approach allowed me to see first-hand what was happening in the stadium, in addition to what was being discussed on social media throughout the research period so as to compare the statements of my participants with what I observed in both the real world and the digital world.

Data Collection

I divided the research into roughly two periods. During the first part (from February 2019 to June 2019) I attended as many games as I could, sometimes attending up to four games a week when the schedule permitted; some days I would watch a lower league match on the European side of Istanbul and go across the city to take in a Super League match at night on the Asian side of the city. The goal of this portion of the research was to see the fans in action and live as they did—congregating outside the stadium, eating the stadium food, engaging in banter by the tea stall, observing the sights and sounds of the stadium space including banners and chants, and withstanding the elements, which could be extreme. The stands of Bandirma’s 17 Eylul stadium in early September felt hotter than a Florida summer; the dreary cold in Istanbul’s Bagcilar municipal stadium during a February snowstorm felt like the worst of a New England winter.

6 I included international games as a way to observe—firsthand—varied international fan cultures, stadium cultures, and policing cultures so as to compare and contrast what I saw in Turkey with wider European football culture. It also proved to be a useful use of vacation time, as it was healthy for my mental health to sometimes get out of my own research “vacuum” and experience different cultures during the research period.

During this period, I also engaged in many informal conversations about Turkish football— making note of all my observations in the form of field notes—from which many common themes emerged and later shaped my semi-structured interviews. Although I had been to many matches in Turkey before this (having traveled across the country from Edirne to Hakkari while writing another project project in 2008), I wanted to be immersed in the current state of Turkish football. Indeed, in just the 12 years that passed since my last full immersion in Turkish football a lot had changed—particularly the stadiums, a topic I will discuss in Chapter 8. The point during this portion of the research was to identify and observe recurring themes while being independent in the stadium space, allowing me to have varied stadium experiences. This also allowed me to use the ethnographic method to my advantage since ethnography “uncovers discrepancies between saying and doing” (Jerolmack and Khan 2014). By first observing fans independently, it allowed me to compare that behavior to what I witnessed when I was with them, ensuring that they were not modifying their behavior just because they knew I was observing.

I watched matches from the cheapest seats behind the goal in the fourth tier at the Soma

Ataturk Stadium and from the box seat lounges owned by global corporations in both

Galatasaray’s Turk Telekom Arena and Besiktas’s Vodafone Park. I packed into the covered stand in Fatih Karagumruk’s historic Vefa Stadium in the third tier for a promotion playoff and was among the madding crowd of the Sakarya Yeni Ataturk Stadium, finding myself three rows away from where I had once been standing after the celebration of a goal, a far cry from the calm experience watching with club dignitaries in the Protokol stands. Before the matches I ate at luxury kebab restaurants in Istanbul and also grabbed beers on the sidewalk of a gritty industrial neighborhood of Izmir with fans outside of a local convenience store. This allowed me to live the

inequalities—and hierarchies—of fandom created by industrial football, and to see the resulting alienation first-hand.7 Just like the alienation of modernity that Weber alludes to in the “Iron

Cage”, industrial football is also alienating; it is something that my participants continually touched upon and reflects wider trends in Europe (Numerato 2015; Scalia 2009; Testa 2009).

This approach allowed me to understand that fan groups can be seen as a reaction to hypermodernity, its divisions, and its alienations; due to their resistance to the hegemonic discourse of neoliberal globalization, that has slowly taken hold of Turkish culture since the

1980s but particularly accelerated in the early 2000s (Tugal 2009), the fans can be viewed as a marginalized subculture whose values tend to differ from those of mainstream society.

In the second period of my research, from August 2019 to March 2020 (encompassing most of the 2019-2020 season), I mainly focused on obtaining semi-structured formal interviews with fans and other figures in the Turkish football world. I conducted a total of 31 interviews with a mix of people, including fans who were members of an organized fan group of a team in

Turkey, more casual fans, coaches, team officials, and members of the media. Of the 31 interviews, 14 were informal—such as conversations at games or offices—and another 17 were formal, semi-structured interviews which I recorded.8 These formal interviews lasted between just over thirty minutes and over two hours. After conducting most of the interviews, I ended up either attending a match with my participants or engaging in more conversation and getting to know them.

7 Sema Tugce Dikici (2014) argues that the changes brought by industrial football are reflected in the development of various football fan groups, since fans are now living in a different world not only from players, but from one another as well. In the Marxian sense, there is a real sense of alienation whereby fans are not only alienated from the game, but also from one another. Depending on one’s social class, the match day routine is different; some prepare for the match in luxury restaurants, others in parks (Dikici 2014: 171).

8 See the Appendix for a detailed list of interviewees and interview questions.

I tried to make my participants as comfortable as possible during the interview process, so rather than bombard them with question after question I chose to make it as close to a conversation between friends as possible. I would start all interviews with questions regarding three demographic characteristics (Age, hometown, and occupation), before asking a general question such as “how did you start supporting your team?”. After this question, I would ask follow up questions such as “what does fandom mean to you”, and ask the fans (who were members of groups) to explain what kinds of activities they engaged themselves with. As they talked, I encouraged them to elaborate when they touched on various pertinent topics such as violence in the stadiums, relationships with fans from other teams, their views on nationalism, political interference in sport, the role of social media, and the new laws in football. These topics always tended to come up in our interviews, so it rarely resulted in steering the conversation in a different direction. In the rare cases that a particular topic did not come up, I would later ask general a question like “What do you think about the recent changes in Turkish football, such as e-ticketing”, and that would provide them with an opportunity to explain what changes they saw—or didn’t see—in the Turkish football world. 9 I believe that this conversational approach to interviewing allowed the fans to formulate their own ideas with minimal interference from me, the researcher, and allowed for an environment where common themes could emerge. Still, I understand that my personality—and position as both an insider and outsider in Turkish culture—might have had an effect on how my participants saw me, and I tried to remain cognizant of when socially desirable answers might be given.

As one might expect, this portion of the research was not easy but my recruiting process was (thankfully) helped by various chance encounters; I even met one of my participants at

9 If not, I would mention another change they might have mentioned, such as modern stadiums or the new teams. As I said, it was very rare that one of these new developments was not mentioned before my asking for elaboration.

random at a fast food kiosk in central Istanbul! When he saw a book I was carrying on violence and Turkish football10, he told me that “the book told the story of his life”. After introducing myself, we arranged to meet. In a similar random encounter, I was approached at a match in

Izmir by a member of a fan group; after a brief conversation he introduced me to the leader of his group. Other interviews were organized through various interlocutors such as friends; often friends of friends would know people in communities who were directly connected with clubs and fan groups and it was through them that I was able to gain entrée into the fan communities of certain cities. I tried my best to arrange interviews with participants on days before matches, completing them before attending a game (or in some cases two) with them in the stadium. Since many of them were actively involved in leading chants, they would often leave me with trusted confidants for the duration of the match, allowing me to also have informal conversations with these individuals and collect more data. Other times I would arrange for interviews after the match, and a few interviews were similar to “focus groups” consisting of groups of two or more fans. Once I completed an interview with a participant, we exchanged numbers or social media information and they continued to assist me in building my “snowball” sample. I found many other contacts through the “snowball” method and would have likely ended up with far more participants had my study not been interrupted by the COVID-19 event. My “snowball” method was not random—it relies on people who know other people—and many fans who have been involved in the culture for many years have connections with fan groups throughout Turkey, with geographic proximity playing a role.

10 The book was Muge Demir and Ahmet Talimciler’s (2015) Siddet, Sike, Ve Medya Kiskacinda Futbol ve Taraftarlik [Football and Fandom in the Grip of Violence, Match-Fixing, and Media]; which has some useful quantitative perspectives on Turkish football.

I did my best to focus on teams that are generally under-represented by Western studies of Turkish football. The “Big Three” from Istanbul—consisting of Galatasaray, Besiktas, and

Fenerbahce—are Turkey’s most successful teams and tend to have the most support throughout

Turkey (Dikici 2014: 167).11 Just like their near monopoly in terms of sporting success (these three teams have won 56 of the 63 professional championships since 1959; only three other teams have won championships), they also tend to dominate Western Sociological and

Anthropological studies of Turkish football (McManus 2018; Turan and Özçetin 2017; Batuman

2012; Erhart 201; Battini 2012). I also chose to move the focus from these teams so as to go beyond a surface level analysis focusing on the financial and cultural capital of Turkey—the

“global” city of Istanbul which has attracted a lot of investment for its football clubs since the

2000s (Emrence 2010)—by presenting teams and fans from outside of the metropolitan center instead. Turkish football is full of historic teams from outside of Istanbul with fascinating fan cultures that should be highlighted. In so doing, I focused particularly on teams that are generally agreed to have vibrant fan cultures. One participant from Trabzonspor told me before a match that the Turkish police have designated five teams as “Red Alerts”12 due to the excitable nature of their fans: Adana Demirspor, Ankaragucu, Bursaspor, Goztepe [Izmir], and Trabzonspor. I

11 According to a 2013 survey, the majority of Turkey’s fans support one of the “Big Three”: 36% Galatasaray, 35% Fenerbahce, 19% Besiktas, 4% Trabzonspor, and 6% “Other Teams”. Galatasaray have the most fans in 43 of Turkey’s 81 Provinces and Fenerbahce have the most in 36 Provinces. While Besiktas did not have a fan majority in any specific province, the provinces with the highest amount of Besiktas fans were Bilecik and Tekirdag (Western and Thracian Turkey) and Van and Tunceli (Eastern Turkey), showing a wide geographic distribution and lending support to Bora and Erdogan’s assertions. (Dikici 2014: 167).

12 Although my informant did not know exactly, I believe that this “Red Alert” status is for teams in the top two professional leagues (which use the Passolig System), since lower league clubs like Kocaelispor, Sakaryaspor, and Karsiyaka also have firey fans.

was able to go to matches with the fans of all five of these teams and conduct interviews with them.13

The only other top flight (Super League) fans I visited were from Denizlispor, hailing from the inland Aegean city of Denizli. Since I relied on a mix of snowball sampling and convenience—I was based in the cities of Istanbul and Izmir, so geography played a role—I tended to find success with the fans of many lower division teams. This was important in terms of uncovering the reality of Turkish football because the lower leagues are often neglected by scholars and journalists alike (I am not aware of any full-length study of lower league football in

Turkey). Coskun, a journeyman player, explained the situation well:

Football in Turkey is really split in two. The top and the bottom. We did the unskilled labor of this profession for years. A construction worker…some are contractors, others do the unskilled labor; we did the unskilled labor of this profession. At the top there are unbelievable figures, prices, unbelievable opportunities and circles…but it isn’t like that when you go into the lower leagues. The lower leagues are kind of what lies beneath the tip of the iceberg. And everyone pretends not to see the lower leagues. But the top isn’t like that. [In] what they call the Super League, even [in] the PTT league [the second tier PTT 1. Lig-JKB] the conditions, the training quality, the quality of grounds, the quality of people, the quality of footballers is very different. But it isn’t like that in the bottom leagues; the 2. Lig, the 3. Lig, the BAL14—the amateur league—I’m not even counting that […] Right now, from the field we play on to the field we practice on, to the people we talk with, everything…there is a huge gulf between the top and the bottom. That’s what I see. The communities are very different.”.

As a sociologist, it is important to give voice to the voiceless and I thought it would be prudent to understand what goes on in the lower leagues, under the conditions Coskun outlines. While industrial football has created its own hyperreality, dominating the world’s culture industry, many everyday players are suffering in the lower leagues as money becomes more and more

13 I went to many Goztepe matches, unfortunately the interviews were interrupted by the COVID 19 event.

14 This is an abbreviation for the Bolgesel Amator Lig—the Regional Amateur League.

embedded in the higher levels of the sporting world, distancing players and fans from their own communities in the process. For every Leo Messi and Christiano Ronaldo, there are tens of thousands of Coskuns all over the world and it is important to understand what they go through in order to understand just how the hyperreality of globalization affects us all, regardless of our profession; the “trickle up” is far more than the “trickle down”.15

This is why I focused on interviewing fans of—and attending matches of—many teams in the lower levels of Turkish football. I visited neighborhood teams from Istanbul (Eyupspor,

Fatih Karagumruk, and Sariyer), major provincial teams (Trabzonspor, Adana Demirspor, and

Bursaspor), smaller provincial teams (Bandirmaspor and Sakaryaspor), major neighborhood teams from big cities (Altay, Altinordu, Bucaspor, Goztepe and Karsiyaka in Izmir), as well as smaller teams in rural areas (Osmaniyespor, Giresunspor, Turgutluspor, Somaspor, and Nigde

Belediyespor). I even visited the matches of amateur teams, including Alacatispor (in Izmir) and

Taksimspor (in Istanbul), to better understand the differences in quality and opportunities that

Coskun mentioned.

Data Analysis and Presentation

In order to analyze my data, I transcribed all of the interview transcripts (in Turkish) myself, since I find this to be both professionally and ethically correct. I believe that one can get better data by becoming intimately involved with it (which comes from transcription), and I also find it unethical—even imperialist—to have a local translate the work of a scholar coming from outside of the country (and likely profiting off of an exchange rate). I combined my transcripts with my field notes, written after each of the 88 games I attended, in order to assemble my data. I

15 As Richard Falk notes in Predatory Globalization, “Globalization-from-above is not an assured vehicle for the chievement of Western-style constitutional democracy, including the protection of individual and group rights” (Falk 1999: 147).

coded the transcripts with different colored highlighters in order to match the pertinent themes that emerged from my interviews and observations, and what was relevant to my existing knowledge of Turkish football.

When presenting the relevant quotations from my interviews here, I translated the passages from Turkish to English myself. As I explained earlier, all names used are pseudonyms.

In most cases I tried to make the pseudonyms refer to famous players or figures from the teams in question. For instance, Selami from Adana Demirspor—who you have met—takes his name from Fuze Selami [Tekkazanci] (Literally, “Missile” Selami16), who played for Adanademirspor for 25 years between 1949-1974, and was known for his strong freekicks (hence the nickname

“missile”). For the fans from Denizlispor’s Yesil Cephe group, I gave my three interviewees the names Fatih, Mehmet, and Turker. These refer to the three members of the Yesil Cephe group who have lost their lives while supporting their team, most tragically Fatih Eroglu, who lost his life when shot by members of a rival fan group.17 I thought that this would be a good way to protect the identities of my participants while also remembering figures who have played a role in their teams’ histories.

In some cases, I will not refer to the team or pseudonym of the participant in question, instead I will say “a fan said…” or “a coach said…”. This is to protect the identity of the particular participant. Since coaches of football teams are public figures, providing the particular team will identify the individual, which would be unethical since I promised them anonymity.

Similarly, fans who are leaders of their particular groups are also public figures; as one fan leader I interviewed told me, “When anything happens in [the neighborhood] I am the first

16 For a short biography of the late “Fuze” Selami see Milliyet (2014).

17 See Aydinlik (2013).

person that the police come to for information. I know everyone here and everything that happens here. If I don’t know, I can ask around”. Since these individuals are known throughout their localities—and, in the cases of more popular teams—around the country, I have protected them by not identifying them by team name when they refer to their roles as fan leaders.

A Methodological Note

Despite its strengths, the ethnographic method is not without its drawbacks; Giulianotti

(1995) notes that these include the lack of guiding literature, the researcher’s own characteristics, and interactions with law enforcement. Sometimes I met fans who were suspicious of my motives and I must say they were justified in their weariness, since much research about fandom presents them in a negative light, either as mindless hooligans or—even worse—as simple

“fascists” in the vein of Testa and Armstrong (2009). One Trabzonspor fan asked me if I was of the ilk of a few English “journalists” who aimed to portray the fans as “ultra-nationalists” supporting the 2007 murder of a Turkish journalist of Armenian descent. Since my aim was never to focus on ethnic-based social cleavages, I calmly explained that my aim is to understand fandom and its role within Turkish culture. Other times, fans were wary of sharing information in the context of sports Law 6222, which has increased surveillance in the stadium and required a new electronic ticketing system. I had fans who were afraid to speak with me with a tape recorder present; they claimed that undercover police officers pose as journalists and use their

(recorded) words against them. Whether this is true or not, it still represented one major difficulty I faced, and I respected my participants’ wishes for privacy at all times.

Outside of the effects of law enforcement and suspicion, I often found it difficult to organize my formal interviews simply because many fans were “flaky”. One fan I contacted in

Izmir promised to meet me in the stadium, even telling me what section of the stadium I should purchase my ticket from. I did, but when the gentleman did not show up by the end of the first

half I gave him a call. He told me that he had been drinking with friends before the match, but assured me that he would arrive. He never did, and—honestly—this was not an issue since everyone is free to do what they would like to do, and certainly speaking to a Sociologist might not be high on everyone’s list. I wholeheartedly respected this gentleman’s actions and wished him a good night (and he did call me the next day to apologize); I repeat it here only to provide an example of how it can be difficult to conduct formal interviews among soccer fans.

Thankfully, this did not mean that I was unable to gather rich data (despite not being able to record it all) through a variety of interactions, like one I had with a Bandirmaspor fan named

Batuhan.

As we navigate the steep hills and narrow roads of Istanbul’s Gaziposmanpasa neighborhood, silently watching the shantytown reveal itself outside the windows of Batuhan’s

Renault, the Bandirmaspor fan behind the wheel asks me (not sarcastically) “So…you come from Boston18 and end up going to a police station in Istanbul? How does it feel?”. Batuhan’s question was, of course, warranted. The John Hancock Building and Boston harbor seemed far away when looking at the haphazardly constructed shanties in front of us, packed together unevenly on a hillside. He was supposed to drop me off at my home in Istanbul after a third tier match between Bandirmaspor and Eyupspor, but an underage fan had been arrested for attempting to steal the flag of the rival team in an empty stadium. Since only his parents could release him from police custody—and they were in Bandirma, across the Sea of Marmara from

Istanbul—my contact at Bandirmaspor asked Batuhan to see if he could try to secure the release

18 When asked where I am from in the United States, I often identified “Boston” as my home city in order to simplify my life story, since both Gainesville, Florida and Providence, Rhode Island, were likely to not be recognized by most fans. Often, when referring to Gainesville and Florida, I would have to use “Miami” as my reference point when asked and—given the obvious demographic and sociological differences between the two Floridian cities—I felt that providing Boston as surrogate for Providence was more justified.

of the minor just as we were leaving the stadium.19 I decided to accompany him so as to support him when he told me that he did not have experience with releasing anyone from police custody; as we joked on the road to the police station he said “What do we do when we walk through the door of the precinct? ‘Officer, you have one of our men!’?”. It was a comical situation indeed, and we could only laugh.

Methodologically, however, it was very serious since it revealed the difficulty of ethnography. We drove around the outskirts of Istanbul for more than an hour trying to find the police station in question—Google maps, in its infinite (finite?) wisdom first sent us to a small convenience store—and we had ample time to talk about Turkish football and fandom more generally. Of course, this wasn’t a formal interview and as such it wasn’t tape recorded; it was recorded in my field notes. Yet I had many unrecorded and unstructured interactions like this one. They ranged from a two-hour conversation with the aforementioned Selami in his Adana store, to spending a Friday night watching a match on TV with Ankaragucu fans from the

Gecekondu [ShantyTown] and Bekar Evi Cocuklari [Bachelor Pad Kids] groups in their favorite

Ankara bar, to informal conversations with older fans at Fatih Karagumrukspor’s games in central Istanbul. All of these interactions provided rich data precisely because they were real; they were unstructured and came from my own immersion in the cultural field I was studying.

19 Under normal conditions anyone over 18 with a connection to the accused can secure this release. From what I gathered during my research, members of the same fan group can do this since they are seen, by the police and general public, as similar to an extended family.

CHAPTER 4 THE FANS AS THEY LIVED IT: CONNECTION TO FAMILY, HISTORY, TRADITION, AND VALUES

All Lives, They’re Dedicated to You...1

-Typical Turkish Fan Chant.

I am sitting with Sergen, a 32-year old Besiktas fan at a hookah café in Istanbul’s historic district. He is an engineer who tells me he has recntly given up fandom due to the increased commodification and resulting loss of emotion in the stadium. During the course of our conversation, I asked him what had gotten him into it in the first place. His story from when he was 5 or 6 years old shows the pull that the stadium can have, and why fandom is such a special thing for so many:

It was completely due to the tribün. We lived in Antep2 then, my father is an officer [in the military—JKB] so we lived in Antep. He first brought me to a Gaziantepspor-Besiktas match, at Kamil Ocak3, in the Gaziantepspor stands. Back then when you entered the Gaziantepspor stands, directly across were the away stands; they were fully black and white. You know how Gaziantepspor’s colors are black and red? Opposite us the black and white could be distinguished easily, the away stands looked beautiful […] Those guys, their excitement, their constant chanting, their voices constantly coming, this and that. It got me interested, with my child’s mind…I said ‘they chant so nicely, they are so happy’. I thought like that back then. After that I did some research, I began to follow Besiktas [...] it started like that.

Sergen focuses on his family connection to Besiktas; his father took him to the games to begin with. His focus on the visual cues is also telling, the sensory experience of the stadium is what gets many involved. Perhaps what is most interesting is that Sergen was pulled into the stadium

1 In Turkish “Sana Adanmis, Butun Hayatlar…”

2 Short for Gaziantep, a southeastern city north of the Syrian border.

3 Gaziantepspor’s famous stadium that was recently demolished; a new stadium has taken its place.

culture without living in the city of the team; it came to him yet he was still pulled in. That is how powerful it is, and that is why those with local ties feel this connection even more strongly.

Selami, the 26-year old small business owner from Adana Demirspor who you met earlier, also stresses the “lived” experience of the stadium while also connecting to the familial aspect of fandom. When I asked Selami how he became an Adana Demirspor fan, he said:

It was a little difficult for me to become Demirsporlu.4 How was it difficult for me to become Demirsporlu? It wasn’t something that came to me from my father. There are some lucky people, their Demirspor fandom passes from father to son. The father passes Demirspor onto the son, they become Demirsporlu. But for me—my father had nothing to do with football. To the contrary, he doesn’t like it [football]. As for me…it began when a friend brought me to the Maraton stand5 for a match. It was about 15, 14 years ago. I went into the Maraton stand…I watched the match…and the Şimşekler group really grabbed my attention. They were yelling ruthlessly. They were literally a driving force […] I told my friend ‘let’s go there. Can we go there?’, I didn’t know a lot about football but…‘No, you can’t just move from stand to stand, regardless of where you are’ he said. I said ok, ‘next week we come again and this time we go there [the stand of the Şimşekler group]. We are going there next week. We said ok, and my love for Demirspor started that day. The ambiance in that Şimşekler group. That driving force in the Şimşekler group. Like, the ties to one another in the Şimşekler group…we can say that’s what tied me to Demirspor.

Although Selami was not “lucky” enough to have the fandom passed down from generation to generation, he recognizes the value of that symbolic connection between old and new, old generations and young generations. And similar to Sergen at Besiktas, Selami was also taken by the ambiance in the stadium, and the close ties that fans have to one another. That was what

4 The “—lu” ending is literally means “with”; being “Demirsporlu” means being a Demirspor supporter, literally it means “being with Demirspor”. It reflects picking a side, essentially.

5 The “Maraton” is a term in stadium geography. Typically it is the stand opposite the covered stand (Kapalı). While the covered stand is where team dignitaries (the “suits”, so to speak) sit, the Maraton stand is typically uncovered in many stadiums. That is where more of the fans congregate (the “scarves”, so to speak) in many stadiums. This is because, typically, tickets are more expensive on the covered side and less expensive on the Maraton side. The cheapest seats are behind the goal (Kale Arkası). Until industrial football, these were the three basic divisions in terms of ticketing prices, however with new stadiums new divisions and gradations have also been created, such as the corner flag area and upper/lower deck. For certain fan groups the Maraton stand has a special meaning, and Adana Demirspor’s Mavi Simsekler is one of those groups (Yildirim and Ucar 2009).

made him—like Sergen—come back for more.6 This is the culture whose story I aim to tell; it is exciting, visually stimulating, and most of all real. It is not at all hyperreal; it is rooted in personal experience and history and real human connection, and this might be the reason that many European Ultras criticize “selfies” and discourage the use of technology in the stadium.

It is likely that these emotional and historical bonds, insofar as they are tied to individual’s histories in terms of families and relationships, are what made football the global success (and subsequent business) that it has become. Yet, as I will show, it is these very connections which are threatened by the forces of global capital and state power; the global by definition destroys—or, in a Marcusian form of repressive tolerance, reinterprets—the local. In order to understand how this process works, it is first important to look at what fandom means for those who are involved in that cultural world. From my observations, I believe that fandom in

Turkey can be characterized by 1) a respect for tradition, rooted in family and history; 2) a rejection of the values of the hypermodern world, particularly money and consumerism, with a focus on emotion and human connection instead. Both of these trends run counter to the logic of hypermodernity, since

the era of hyperconsumption and hypermodernity has sealed the decline of the great traditional structures of meaning, and their recuperation by the logic of fashion and consumption. Just like mass-produced objects and mass culture, ideological discourses have taken over by the logic of fashion, even though they have always functioned in accordance with the logic of transcendence and permanence, and paid homage to the cult of sacrifice and devotion. (Lipovetsky and Charles 2005: 14).

6 Selami’s girlfriend—who was present for part of the interview—even said “Really I’m not against football, I didn’t have any information…Until I met Selami, until I understood this bond. Some time ago I went to a match for the first time [with Selami]; the environment—the ambiance—it is an awesome thing. It really affects a person”.

Tradition provides reference points, and a form of “permanence”; it is these reference points

(family, tradition, history) that are the building blocks of the intense form of localism connected to place that the fans tend to embody.

Tradition: Family and History

One common theme I found among football fans was their deep connection to history and tradition, both in the personal and general sense. Zeynep, a 28-year old female Trabzonspor supporter who works as a customer service specialist, explained that her support comes in part from her family:

My family is all completely fanatics. My mother, my father, my uncles are fanatics in the same way. For instance, tonight there is a match, I’ll be going with my mom. She really wanted to go, so I’m going with her.

For Zeynep, support for the team allows her to live the connections she has to her family, and she keeps them alive by using the stadium as a way to have a social outing with her mother. A 32- year old male Trabzonspor supporter, Ogun, told me a similar story that also emphasized the importance of family. Although he is not even from Trabzon (he hails from the neighboring

Black Sea town of Ordu) and now lives in an Anatolian city in Western Turkey while working in the hospitality industry, he explained that his fandom also comes from the family and strengthens his connection to place. While talking over tea on a sunny winter day in early February, Ogun told me his story:

I was born and raised in Ordu, I’m from the Black Sea. That’s where my love for Trabzonspor comes from. And we also have a little you know…we can call it…nationalism. Because we are from the Black Sea…Trabzonspor is the team of our region. Of course if it was Orduspor, maybe I could have become Ordusporlu in the place of Trabzonspor. But now my father—my two older brothers—my grandfather, may Allah have mercy on him, they were all Trabzonsporlu. Of course they weren’t as fanatical as I am, that’s a different story…but because they were all Trabzonsporlu…it came to us in our childhood. The first bike my father

gave me was Trabzonsporlu. Claret and Blue.7 The first soccer ball my brother got me—a real one, not a plastic ball—my first ball was claret and blue. Because of these things, there is a love for Trabzonspor that stems from our childhood…

While Ogun might be from the city of Ordu (a little over 2 hours from Trabzon at 170 kilometers away) he did not become a supporter of Orduspor due to his family. His childhood—from his first bike to his first real soccer ball—was literally colored by the colors of one team,

Trabzonspor. It was the familial connection that, for him, made him choose his team. And because it was from the Black Sea region, it did not conflict with Ogun’s own localism and, by extension, self-professed nationalism.

And Ogun was not the only one who emphasized family in relation to his fandom; personal history matters. Ridvan, a 33-year old civil servant and fan of Sariyer in Istanbul, proudly explained the process to me:

I was born and raised in Sariyer, my mother and father are also born and raised in Sariyer […] My luck was living in the neighborhood where the stadium is. The stadium is in the neighborhood where I was born and raised. Of course by seeing our elders, coming and going to Sariyer matches, we became lovers of Sariyer. Of course you don’t understand this when you’re young, it is as you grow older that love seeps into you, and then you look at our abis in our neigjborhood—they really love Sariyer, they have given their hearts—there is something, seeing them over and over—living that made me Sariyerli. After that from 15-to 16 years old it becomes a serious—so to speak—lets call it love. And we continued with that love and passion.

For Ridvan, his family’s connection to Sariyer—for two generations—translated into a personified love for the neighborhood and the team that it represents. As opposed to hypermodern forms of fandom/consumption, based on the commercialization of support and

(indeed) love (McManus 2013), Zeynep, Ogun, and Ridvan all have organic reasons to support— and love—their teams.

7 The colors of Trabzonspor; “Bordo Mavi”. The term also serves as a synonym for being a supporter of Trabzonspor, with a popular phrase being “If I cut my arm, [you will see] bordo mavi”.

Not surprisingly, the team becomes a surrogate family in the eyes of many supporters.

Evren, a 31-year old Bandirmaspor fan from the Kronikler group who works as a veterinary technician explained this to me on an extremely hot late summer day at a small café near the waterfront in Bandirma, a small city on the Sea of Marmara. He explained that, as a group:

We are always together anyway. Our families are always together. We are together ourselves. We have meetings together as a family, our wives, our kids…there is a big emphasis on family. For instance, we organize an event, at least 30-40 people, like a family”.

When I asked him to elaborate, he said:

For instance…a birthday event, or something else…One of us is going to the military for their national duty. We have a cake and…what happens? 30, 40, 50 people we all come together. With our elders, our younger friends…we have elders 60, 65, 70 years old, we are always together with them. Because…we travel long distances together. Last week we went to Van8, 1700 Km!”.

The familial atmosphere is something that fans seek to develop, and it makes them cohesive despite being an overwhelmingly diverse community even within themselves (a topic I will visit later in depth). This cohesive familial order is another thing that makes them an effective force in

Turkish civil society.

Selami, of Adana Demirspor, also emphasized family not only when describing his own fan group, but also that of another team—Ankaragucu. He starts by telling me that it is love—for the badge and the team it represents—which creates the family atmosphere and also the moral atmosphere:

In the name of the badge…we see it, the most recent example is Ankaragucu. The nearest example. Two really young brothers of ours passed away in a bus accident on the road to an away game for instance. This is really…you know…a kind of accident similar to what happens when families go on road trips away from their hometowns. No one can say they died for nothing, for instance. Because that child goes to that away game for a reason, for…a love, a passion. Who does he go with? His own family. His own family outside of the home. We always…teach this to people in the Simsekler Group. If you enter this stand after stepping out of

8 A city in Eastern Turkey, on the border with Iran.

your home, you will show the exact same respect to one another that exists in your home. Why? Because I am your abi here. Or I am your [younger] brother. How ever you act towards your brother at home, you will also act that way [here]. So that we can get that family atmosphere. At Demirspor and in the Simsekler Group, we have this. Abis act as abis, brothers act as brothers, abis listen their brothers, [younger] brothers listen to their abis, they will not stray from their words in any way. For instance, the simplest example is [an abi in the group whose name I will withhold to ensure anonymity—JKB] abi. If two people are fighting amongst themselves, they will stop when he says ‘Stop’. But actually, there is no blood tie. There is no blood tie; are you relatives? You’re not. So? There is a family atmosphere in the Simsekler group. And in tribün culture—I’m talking about it in terms of the Simsekler Group—but you can understand it as the tribün [generally]; it is like this everywhere. In Turkey, it is like this. Tribün culture is respecting each other. In tribün culture there cannot be cussing something out, railing on an individual. For instance I will not directly curse at the leader of Adanaspor’s fan group. This goes against the tribün culture.

Selami pauses his story to take a bite out of a cookie sitting on a plate that lies between us before adding, simply and confidently, “this is an action that would not befit tribün culture”. The finality with which he says it emphasizes the sense of morals that he and other group members organize themselves around, and it makes me think as he finishes the rest of his cookie and washes it down with Turkish coffee. The personified love that the fans have for their team’s badge, the morals they associate with their fandom, and the emphasis they put on family is all very similar to nationalism: Patriots tend to love their countries—through symbols like the flag9—as if they are people, and tend to associate the nation with a sort of moral community and extended family in the Durkheimian sense.

Hami is a 44-year old small business owner who lives in Istanbul and is a staunch supporter of Trabzonspor; as he says it is being in the “gurbet”—being away from home—that makes his love for Trabzonspor even stronger than it would be if he lived in the city. This is

9 Of course, these symbols have long been derided in the literature, with Michael Billig going so far as to refer to these symbols as “Banal” nationalism. Unfortunately, Billig misses the point that flags are much more than banal symbols to many patriots and nationalists; they are far less banal than the hypermodern world’s emphasis on “banal consumerism”, whose symbols dot the landscape of many global cities (and stadiums) in the form of corporate logos and advertisements.

because Trabzonspor represents the development of Anatolia (Tunc 2011), and commands a strong regionalist/localist identity; supporting the team is likely a strong social safety net for the large number of Trabzonians who have moved to Istanbul in recent years as migrants. We meet at a small café by the Istanbul University and he tells me the story of the fan group he belongs to, the Gurbetci Gencler [Youths Abroad]. When I ask him why he supports the team despite getting no money for it10, he simply says “if the players are doing their job on the field, I do my job in the tribün. But I say I do it with the heart. They [the players] do it with money”. Here Hami draws a strict distinction between him and the players he cheers for. When I ask him why he does it from the heart, he puts it in terms of family:

Because you can’t separate from it! I can’t get away from it; this is tribün culture. It’s a different thing. Trabzonsporluluk is something very different […] But when material things get involved in this business, when there is profit to be made you can’t create a system. It becomes focused on money…This time you will need to walk the road with wealthy people, those same wealthy people will go and have a falling out on that road and one will disappear to the left and the other disappear to the right…It doesn’t matter, a wealthy man has no worries. But we all come from more…the middle class. Or sometimes there are our student brothers, we always cover for those who don’t have the financial means. It is the kind of thing where, for instance one of my brothers could call me right now and comfortably say, ‘abi I’m at a café with my girlfriend and I’m stuck here, could you send me anything, 100 Liras?’.11 Maybe he cannot ask this from his relative, from his family, but he can ask for it from me. We have this kind of bond between us. Trabzonsporluluk is a very different thing.

Hami starts laughing when talking about how different Trabzonspor fandom is. Like Okan from

Bursaspor, and the others you met in Chapter 3, Hami emphasizes just how “different” fandom is for him. Perhaps one reason so many fans emphasize this “difference” is because it goes so against the values of the hypermodern world and its culture industry. For the fans money, or the

10 In the course of my interviews, when I asked fans how they became supporters of a particular team, they would often mention that they don’t make money off of what represents a real commitment in terms of both time and emotion. Since so many brought this up of their own accord, I asked them to elaborate. This was a product of the conversational semi-structured interview style I used.

11 100 Turkish Liras is about 15 USD at the time of writing.

accumulation of wealth and material goods, is not a goal; quite to the contrary, as Hami shows, the invasion of money—as a goal—into fandom would ruin their own cohesion, what he calls their “system”.12 Instead, their system sees money as a tool which allows them to form more lasting relationships with their fellow fans and, ultimately, fellow human beings.

Some Things Money Can’t Buy—the Emphasis of the Emotional Over the Rational

Türker, a 24-year old International Relations major who recently graduated from the university, explains why financial concerns are not paramount in the context of Denizlispor and his fan group, Yeşil Cephe [Green Front]. I speak with Türker in what is a mini-focus group—his friends Fatih and Mehmet are also present—and I have asked them all the same questions as we talk over tea in their fan club’s café across from the Denizli Ataturk Stadium. On the black and green walls of the café (the colors of Denizlispor) is a large map of Turkey with the flag emblazoned on it in red, along with the black and white portraits of their “immortal” brothers, fans who lost their lives for various reasons while members of the group (I chose to give these three Denizlispor fans the pseudonyms of their friends who lost their lives). Türker’s explanation for not making money from fandom is simple:

In terms of the tribün, what do we make? Even in Denizli our own circle of friends still asks. We make friends. With my friends here…normally, I have no connections in my social life. But now when I go to Antep, I can stay in Fatih’s house. Or when I need something, I can call Fatih. I have gone with Yeşil Cephe to away games many times. When I went to Bolu13, there was a group of 10-15 people waiting for us at the stadium gates in the dead of the night for 2-3 hours, at the break of dawn around 7-8 in the morning. And it is a very simple thing, those people came from here, we as Yeşil Cephe hosted them in our café—one glass of tea, one dry simit14—when we went there they waited for us, they picked us up.

12 In many ways, Hami’s words are reminiscent of Jurgen Habermas’ idea of the system colonizing the life world. The fans resist the colonization of their lifeworld by the rational system encouraged by the wider culture industry.

13 A provincial capital in the mountains between Istanbul and Ankara.

14 A round bagel like baked good, covered with sesame seeds, which is a common on the go breakfast that is affordable and delicious with tea.

Türker’s emphasis is not on making money, it is on making friends. For him it is the simple things, like tea and a simit with friends—coffee and a bagel in the American context—that define his world. Interpersonal connections that span Turkey’s geography are more important to him than any kind of material profit off of fandom.15

As a member of Yesil Cephe, Türker’s perspective is even more important because his group experienced a tragedy due to the monetization of fandom; that is how his friends lost their lives. After Yesil Cephe established themselves as a strong presence in the Denizlispor stands, the other Denizlispor fan group felt threatened, resulting in the tragic shooting of Fatih’s friend—and the one who helped them start their group—Fatih Eroglu in 2013.16 Fatih told me that there may also have been political motivations in this killing, since the killers were closely related to the Denizli chief of police at the time, who is now behind bars after being linked to

Islamic cleric Fethullah Gulen following the attempted coup of 15 July 2016. Regardless, this murder showed just how important money had become in fandom; the large amounts of money flowing into the sport made it fertile ground for money laundering and other nefarious schemes which were, sometimes, even backed by the club. Here Fatih elaborates on the obstacles they faced when forming Yesil Cephe due to the presence of a group supported by the club:

Other fan goups…didn’t want us to be liked because they wanted to be the only power, the only group, and the system necessitated that for them, it had to be this way. Because they had turned it into a rentier system, they started to make income from this; in fact, the person in charge of them [a major group—JKB] did not have any insurance information since 2009, meaning he doesn’t work anywhere but—since 2009 until now, during this time, he has land in 2 different areas in Denizli, then there is property that was purchased later, likewise there is a car which was also purchased later; for someone who has no [legal] income to get all of this is nonsense. These were things done completely with the money that came

15 A famous dictum for many fans, which I often saw repeated in Instagram posts, says “The Stands didn’t give us bread; the stands gave us people to break bread with”.

16 I gave this fan the pseudonym Fatih at his request, since he wanted to call attention to the murder of Fatih Eroglu. For more on this story, see Aydinlik (2013).

from the tribun, from fandom. In fact, according to stories, at one point they used a train to stop the team’s bus in order to extort money, this is the kind of perception of fandom that existed in Denizli.

When I asked Fatih if others in the group—other than this top man—also profited, he explained:

[…] it was a group and those in charge of it. We can’t say it was the entirety of the group, because those who ran this were 5-10 people, the rest were like sheep. Because the rest were the kind who had not proven themselves in life, hadn’t achieved anything, who just completely went along with the group, people who acted without thinking. They are types who would do something when told to do it. When we saw these people—when we saw that these were the people who represented our city—we were saddened […] [when our group entered the stadium] it might have been the first time that a fan group entered the stands with tickets, because being a fan group meant getting tickets from the [team’s] administration, giving them to friends and family, giving them to the group, and selling the rest on the black market to individual fans. They would earn money from this.

Fatih’s explanation is lengthy, but it is useful in order to understand the degree of corruption that existed in football fandom for many years. Fatih explains the rentier system that some fans had put in place, whereby they were given free tickets by the team to distribute as they pleased. This is what allowed the individuals Fatih mentions to amass a large amount of wealth despite not having been officially employed, and that is why they resorted to violence when a rival group was formed; the new group meant that the old group’s monopoly over the masses would be threatened. Fatih also points out a worrying aspect of atomized and individualistic hypermodern society: too many were “sheep” and turned a blind eye to this corruption as long as it didn’t touch them.

Earlier, Hami explained that football changed when money got involved at the end of the

1980s and early 1990s; these were the same years that the hypermodernity of the “New World

Order” began entrenching itself. Okan, from Bursaspor, also marks this period as a major change and points to the year 2002—and a match against Trabzonspor—that led to the formation of a special “Sports Bureau” by the police (now you can see them taking videos of the stands at every

match). The entrance of large amounts of money into the stadium led to a corruption of football in general and the kind of changes Emrence (2010) outlines. As Hami from Trabzonspor says,

In football there is a certain amount of capital, and this capital is definitely in the control of certain people…it needs to be shared. And when you look beneath this, the masses…you look at the masses and they effect politics…they are so connected, you do not have the ability to separate them.

Hami points out that the increase in money led to a politiciziation17 of the masses; it was clear that fans could be used for something. Unfortunately, this also led to the corruption of some fan groups, and the position in society offered by being close to the team—and access to the masses—led to many violent affairs.

Denizlispor is far from the only team to experience this kind of violence and instability as a result of the monetization of the stadium and overall commodification of emotion in the hypermodern world. Ali, a Besiktas fan I spoke to informally over the course of two games, took me around the Istanbul neighborhood and showed me the buildings that a former president of the team had bought up during his tenure at the club. He also told me that many fans used their position close to the team to extort property and use their connections to gain influence in local politics (this is another example of “politicization” which might more accurately be termed

“crony capitalism”). Ali told me that these kinds of things led to a killing in the Besiktas stands some years ago, and he told me that—sadly—he feels like the Besiktas stands might see something similar soon due to the intra-fan rivalries created by this search for money and (of course) power through political connections.

17 When I say “politicization”, it is a direct translation from the Turkish, which is “Siyasilestirildi” (politicized). From what I gathered, most fans referred to the courting of groups by those with connections to political parties as part of the rentier state, reflecting less a believed ideology but an identity in connection to a particular political party. As Fatih’s story shows, the rival group had some connections to Fetullah Gulen; they might not have been “Gulenists” per se (indeed it would be impossible to know for sure, given that I did not speak to them personally), but they might have gained some personal benefit from being close to those who were.

Not all fans were like this, and this Nietzschian “will to power”, connected to the monetization of fandom was denounced by the fans I spoke with. For instance, Ridvan, from

Sariyer, told me that he was able to gain a position working for the municipality due to his fandom since he became close to the mayor over the years. His story represents a legal way of achieving a place in local society through fandom, and groups—like Fatih and Turker’s Yesil

Cephe—also claim to be working towards eliminating the criminal element from the stadium.

This is why—judging from my participants—I believe that a new generation of fan groups may be effective in curbing the kind of corrupt behavior that began with the entrance of large sums of money in the game during 1990s. This is why so many of the fans I spoke with had a similar aversion to money and material gain; instead they stressed social bonds.

Evren, the life long Bandirmaspor fan you met earlier, gave a very emotional recollection of the early days of his own fandom:

For instance, 13-15 years ago when we went to away games we had no money in our pockets, we got onions and bread, that taste is nowhere—maybe I cannot eat it now—but then, in that moment, that taste is really magnificent. Onion and bread for instance, Allah Allah18, how? An onion…no, I can’t eat it. Now I say ‘how did we eat it?’. But in that moment, you taste it, and you like it. You’re all together. It becomes a different taste. For instance…I don’t know…cheese, olives, and bread…all three together…every day—but when that community is there, it becomes a very different taste. Is it psychological?

The rhetorical question at the end says it all. For Evren, the taste of the meagre food, the lack of money—none of it matters because of the “moment”, because of being “together”. The importance of interpersonal relations over place, the importance of the real over the hyperreal, is made clear. This is because for Evren what mattered was who he was with, not so much what he was eating or other concerns related to the material (and rational) world. The sentiment is similar

18 Similar to the English expression “My God” when looking back on the past, as in “My God, how did we think it was a good idea to run away from home when we were kids?”.

to a post from a European Ultras Instagram page of Legia Warsaw fans from Poland who unveiled a banner reading “Its not what’s in front of you, its whose beside you”. This kind of mantra is something that runs through fan culture regardless of their national context or, indeed, their local context.

Okan, the Bursaspor fan you met earlier, said something strikingly similar to Evren’s explanation. Okan stresses not only the personal over the pecuniary, but also reiterates the importance of sharing amid local and familial ties:

There is a concept that comes from our neighborhood from years ago. There is a love, a passion, that was instilled in us by the elders of our neighborhood years ago. We took over this passion, we took over this flag, and are prepared to turn this flag over to the generation that comes after us. For us there is no advantage, no benefit, no plus, no money, no profit. For us…the only profit is abilik, brotherhood, fellowship, and friendship. It gave us this environment. Today…when you ask what the tribün gave me I can say this: It gave me abilik, it gave me brotherhood, it gave me friendship…it gave me friendship and it also gave me enemies! I can also say that. The tribün is a very different concept. Today you might go to the most luxurious place…you might get yourself a Coke, eat the most gourmet meal; but the person who comes to the tribün will get one soup, three people will take spoons from that soup. Today one cigarette will be lit on the away day bus, 5 people will inhale that smoke at the same time. If you go to an away game today, ask if any friends are hungry; 20 people will be hungry and one will say—out of shame—‘I’m hungry’. Today when they ask me what the tribün is—to me—I say the tribün is abilik, brotherhood, friendship, fellowship, motherhood, fatherhood, brotherhood [sic]. I would say tribünculuk is a family, if you will. For me the tribün is made up of this, there is nothing else. It is the reason that I am together—today—with all of my brothers, my friends, my fellows, all of them. There really isn’t much else to say. I’ve lived all of this, I’ve seen all of this.

The emotions that Okan puts forth are real, they are not hyperreal. This is not the virtue signaling emotions that have become common in Western society, where guilt is often mistaken for empathy. Perhaps this desire to share comes from the fact that fans share emotions like unrequited love, in addition to standing for a cause, that go beyond the values emphasized by means-end rationality.

Ibrahim, a 30 year old Eyüpspor fan19 who works in the service industry said that

I’m going there, in the end no one gives us money, no one gives us a medal, no one fills our stomachs so we don’t go hungry. I’ll give you the simplest example, we give from our own pockets and go to the matches on those cold winter days.

Sergen, the Beşiktaş fan, says something similar when explaining why he turned away from the stadium as it became a commodified space:

I’m saying this, you know they always say about fanatic fans, for instance ‘does Besiktas fill your stomach’, or ‘does Galatasaray fill your stomach’. Well of course it doesn’t fill my stomach, I mean I don’t get money when Besiktas wins, when Besiktas wins a game in the Champions league.

For Sergen, what was much more important than a full stomach was the sense of camaraderie he got while walking down the main road to the stadium with fellow fans, for instance. It is a sort of emotional “fullness”, rather than a physical “fullness”.

One of the main reasons that fans seem to brush off the fact that they get no money (or a full stomach) in exchange for the emotional and physical time spent on their teams is that they see standing for unrequited love as a kind of honor. When I asked Zeynep, the 28-year old

Trabzonspor fan why she goes to all the matches she goes to, she simply said

I love something. And I need to somehow show that I love. I go [to the matches] because it has more meaning when it’s an unrequited love.

When I ask her to elaborate, she brings in the financial aspect:

In the end there is no money in it for me. I don’t get anything in return for this. When I win it only gives me happiness, when I lose I only feel sadness. These are the only two feelings I have when I go to the matches. That excitement when I go, that joy when we win while returning is different—of course the sadness is different too—but living that moment is different.

19 Although many fans told me that “one heart cannot have two loves”, Ibrahim proved an exception to this rule. He was both a strong supporter of his neighborhood team Eyüpspor and his city team Beşiktaş. Since he was from Istanbul, I didn’t find this to be too strange but he was still an interesting example of a case that surprised me given the comments of some of my other participants.

Both male and female fans have similar feelings, reflecting the unifying aspect of the stadium in terms of human emotion. Ridvan, the 33-year old civil servant you met earlier, explains this to me in relation to his love for Sariyer when I ask him what fandom has given him.

Let’s say I think its taken a lot [from me]. It didn’t give me anything. We can say its taken…I’m married, on the weekend I can’t spend time with my family because Sariyer has a match—we will go to some random place in Turkey. Let’s say we didn’t go, there’s a home game—the game is in our own stadium. If its Sunday, the game is in the afternoon at 2, we wake up at 9 or 10 to get the stands ready. We need to pay attention to people. It taught us real love, real caring. It taught us fidelity. Other than that it hasn’t given us anything extraordinary. If you say I don’t earn money…the money comes out of our pockets […] Maybe it didn’t give us anything material but in terms of spiritually—good or bad—we can say 50/50. But, if you emphasize love, we love 100 percent. Why? If you emphasize love we really love our team. Even if it keeps taking from us, we will always continue to give.

Ridvan’s final sentence sums up the kind of unrequited love many fans feel; they might give their money but—if in the name of something emotional, like love, then that is justified. In some way, this focus on the emotional might also be a reaction to the rational. In the hypermodern globalized world money—and financial concerns—have become a major arbiter of human action. It is a concrete example of Habermas’ argument that the system is colonizing the life world (Habermas 2001). Therefore, standing for something emotional and seeking success and self-worth in that world, in the face of declining prospects in the commodified rational world put forth by the culture industry, may even be seen as a form of self-preservation. It is an opportunity to build up self respect in a degrading world.

Ismet, a 52-year old Ankaragücü fan and veteran of the culture, connects the phenomenon to the economic changes in Turkey since the advent of globalism and globalization.

Ismet explains what supporting Ankaragücü might mean for many:

I: There are also the country’s economic conditions, people’s difficulties in terms of making ends meet, this and that; this is why our hope is Ankaragücü, you know? Now a guy is working in the industrial area, 7 days—lets say 6 days—a

week, he has no social activity. I can come here, drink my raki20, talk to [name withheld to protect anonymity—JKB], meet you, and go to any bar I want. But that kid? He has been raised as an apprentice since childhood, by his boss, he has no social activities; his only activity is the kahve21, the kids in the neighborhood, and hanging out in the Genclik Park22, you understand?

J: A pauper?

I: That’s what I’m trying to say…I’m talking about poverty. But they have some hopes, they have the hope of Ankaragucu. The man for instance—lets split this in two. One man is the pauper…the other has money. Ok? The one with money is unable to be as excited as the pauper. Because that pauper has the hope of Ankaragucu, the other doesn’t have it. I call these show-offs. The man has his money, he comes to the tribün and eats sunflower seeds. But that pauper comes, tears himself apart, supports his team, and is trying to express himself. He says ‘in my life I have never been able to sit in a park—or sit with a girl in a café—but I can come here and yell’. If you ask this man what his job is, he will say I am Ankaraguculuyum. He wont say his profession. Being an Ankaragucu fan has become a job. Seriously!

In the face of declining economic prospects—especially in the context of Turkey’s economic situation—fandom might be seen as a profession by some in so far as it gives the individual meaning and standing in the social world. In some cases, it might even supersede professional concerns. Taner, a 27-year old Adana Demirspor fan and a waiter, told me

I was fired from my job twice…only because I was going to an away game and they didn’t give me time off. As I said, money can be made somehow. No problem, I have a profession [Unlike in the US, being a waiter is a profession in Europe—JKB]. For them there are many waiters for me…there are many bosses. But this badge only comes around once, it doesn’t come again.

For people like this, the team is beyond the rational concerns of getting a job and keeping it, in fact it provides a more meaningful social standing and personal worth than that of employment for an employer who may or may not value the employee on human terms. In his book Semt

20 Turkey’s national spirit, an Aniseed drink similar to Greek Ouzo but stronger at 90 proof.

21 A coffeehouse where local men will hang out, drink tea or coffee, smoke cigarettes, and play card games or board games such as backgammon. Typically, these are all-male establishments and most Turkish neighborhoods have a kahve, it is the social center for many men outside of the home.

22 A major park in Ankara that is near where the old 19 Mayis stadium—Ankaragucu’s stadium—was.

Bizim, Ev Kira23, a famous Besiktas fan and member of the Carsi group Sevsek Ali, writes that, in his youth, “unlike the others [in the neighborhood], I didn’t give my spare time to Besiktas, I worked in my spare time and gave my best time to the most beautiful thing in my life,

Besiktas…” (Ali 2018: 81). Like Taner, this fan leader contrasts work with fandom, and this represents an outright rejection of a system that aims to colonize the life world in the

Habermasian sense. We are often told that it is our work which gives us our self worth, but the perspective here is in the opposite direction.

This rejection of a world view steeped in means-end rationality in favor of a world view steeped in emotion and rooted in values and morals is something I found emphasized by many fans. It is a rejection of the hypermodern world’s mode of thought, which has become increasingly one-dimensional and often devoid of human (and emotional) values. Ridvan, the

Sariyer fan, explains what he thinks unrequited love means in terms of fandom by stressing values:

For instance I use this word [sic—I think he meant “term”—JKB] a lot, I use it very very often. ‘Tribün kids live love the best’. Maybe from the outside we look like lowlives, psychopaths, hooligan type people…some can think that way but I’m of course very against it, and we try to oppose it. If our team is good or bad, everyone who follows the team, even when the team is doing poorly—and gets behind the team even more then—because that’s the kind of fan community we have. On bad days people might say, ‘the team is doing poorly lets not go’. For us, we get more tied to the team when they do poorly, we give more support so the team can see better days.

Ridvan believes that outsiders tend to see the fans as mere hooligans, hell-bent on wanton destruction and violence, or lowlives. Unfortunately, some existing scholarship on fans— including some focusing on Turkish football particularly—also emphasize this aspect either

23 The title of the book can be translated as “We Own the Neighborhood, We Rent The House”, and it reflects the destructive nature of neoliberalism in the Besiktas neighborhood.

indirectly or directly (McManus 2018; Keddie 2018; Cleland 2014; Cleland 2015).24 To the contrary, Ridvan shows that such a view misses the emotional focus of fans. When a fan is connected to a team organically, they support them on good and bad days, they are not—as the term goes—“bandwagoners”. Indeed, a famous Ankaragucu chant says “Through good days and bad days, we are always together, because we are Ankaraguclu!”,25 and the Besiktas fans popularized the a slogan—bordering on the nihilistic—that says “We didn’t love to celebrate”.26

Such slogans mirror Liverpool’s famous “You’ll Never Walk Alone”, and differ from the ubiquitous culture industry slogans that sell love as just another commodity (the “Live, Laugh,

Love” signs sold in American home stores are an example) because the fans are not engaged in empty virtue signaling, backed by consumerism. Instead, the fan’s love is backed by values and—ultimately—a sense of morality rooted in culture and history.

Selami, from Adana Demirspor, explains the morality from the perspective of his group:

Tribun culture is…a broad thing. Those inside it know this stuff. As I said. Tribun culture is respect, love, loyalty…Our Simsekler group has 3 slogans: Love, Respect, Loyalty. First you must love, then you must be respectful, then you become loyal. You love…and respect, if you’re not going to be loyal it still won’t work. If a person isn’t devoted to something they might abandon it. They might love…but might abandon it. But devotion is a very different feeling. I’m devoted to my girlfriend for instance.

Selami laughs while hugging his girlfriend after the last sentence, and his words reflect the viewpoints shared by many fans in this chapter. The love many feel for their teams is personified; as a fan one feels the love for the team, then respects the team and its fans, and then

24 While I was interviewing Ridvan on a cold and rainy January night, his friend went out for a cigarette and found a young couple hanging out nearby trying to shelter from the rain. Ridvan interrupted the interview to invite this young couple in. When his friend protested, Ridvan told him that it was his duty—as a member of the community— to give the young kids some shelter from the winter night. After seeing this, I understood why Ridvan so vehemently distances himself from the “hooligan” and “lowlife” narrative.

25 Iyi Gunde, Kotu Gunde, Hep Beraberiz, Cunku Biz Ankaragucluyuz.

26 Sevinmek Icin Sevmedik.

becomes loyal to that team as if it were a person in their lives. This might be one reason that the consumerist logic of the hypermodern world goes so against the logic of the organized fans; love and emotion become hyperreal when commodified, devoid of any and all underlying values to support it. While industrial sport capitalizes on commodifying sport, attracting to the stadium fans who are more of the “flaneur” variety (Giulianotti 2002) (like the “show-offs” Ismet talks about), the members of organized fan groups might see themselves as more “authentic” in so far as they were not drawn to the stadium as a result of commodification or advertising.

Sebastien Charles argues that, as a result of hyperconsumption in hypermodernity,

“systems of representation have become objects of consumption, and they are just as interchangeable as a car or a flat” (Liopvetsky 2005: 14). If we view support of a football team as another “system of representation”, then we can understand that fandom—in the commercialized hypermodern era—is becoming another choice that is interchangeable; most of the global fans of major clubs like Real Madrid, Barcelona, or Manchester City might not even live in the city—let alone the country—of the team they support; as Charles says “we have reached the moment when the commercialization of lifestyles no longer encounters any structural, cultural, or ideological resistances, and when the spheres of social and individual life are reorganized as a function of the logic of consumption” (Ibid.: 15). Yet organized fans, who are intimately connected to their teams (and the localities they represent), can be seen as a response to this state of affairs; they are themselves a form of resistance.

This is because many organized fans do not follow the logic of hypermodernity, where

“individuals, deprived of any transcendent meaning, hold opinions which are less and less clear- cut and more and more fluctuating” (Ibid.). The fans do have a transcendent meaning, connected to their teams and localities, which goes against the values of the global system, and football

provides a space for these fans to express their values and make valuable connections with other fans in the process. In this sense, fandom provides a space for these individuals to connect to wider Turkish culture in places far from their individual neighborhoods. In Chapter 5, I will outline the views of the fans on localism, nationalism, and globalism. By rejecting the hyperreal logic of the globalist system and its culture industry, a logic that encourages them to move away from their homes and become interchangeable in the global economy, the fans espouse a localism based on values, which is important to understand since it is the lack of such

“transcendent meaning” which feeds the hypermodernity.

CHAPTER 5 THE FANS BETWEEN LOCALISM, NATIONALISM, AND GLOBALISM

…sport and nationalism are arguably two of the most emotive issues in the modern world [. . .] Furthermore, their fortunes are often linked.

— (Bairner 2001: xi).

I am conducting a group interview in the café run by the Yesil Cephe group of

Denizlispor, a group whose members you have met before, after returning from a cup match with

Trabzonspor. Fatih, a 28-year old schoolteacher working in southeastern Turkey, explains why he got involved with Yesil Cephe:

In our culture we have this: A person...we have a simple proverb. ‘Everyone should sweep the front of their own house’; it begins with these words…in Turkish culture. There is the culture that if everyone sweeps the front of their house there won’t be a problem; our neighborhood, our streets will be clean. We began everything [the formation of their group—JKB]—by sweeping in front of our house. I mean really what we needed to do—we didn’t do what we did out of necessity, we tried to make happen what needed to happen. If someone is going to live here, they need to like everything here [in Denizli]. They needed to give something from themselves to—and take something for themselves from—this community. We…were the people from Denizli, we were born in Denizli, we grew up in Denizli, we ate the bread of Denizli, we drank the water of Denizli. If we added something to ourselves from here, we had to give something back. Because, by adding something…this isn’t just bringing some cash or other things here, or sparking the business climate. At the same time it was, always, representing [the city of Denizli].

Fatih makes it clear that a better city begins with cleaning in front of your own home first. A

Bursaspor fan, who was present when I spoke with Okan, told me something similar off the record; he told me that being a Bursaspor fan meant being part of a step-by-step process: make your city better, make your country better, make the world better. Everything starts locally but can spread globally; it is not the other way around—as neoliberal economic orthodoxy claims— whereby it starts globally and trickles down locally.

Fatih continues his explanation by further connecting it to Turkish culture, cementing the connection between the local and the national which, for Fatih, is based in culture. He explains that instead of trying to support Denizli financially, he and his friends—through their fan group—devised a different pathway to success:

We ourselves, when we thought about our own moral accounting, for us to be the “top” [He uses the English word for “best”, interestingly—JKB]—there were things we needed to do. To make the place we are great. This is one of the things inherent in Turkish culture. And in order to make the place we are great, we started with Denizlispor. Because from our position the thing we could straighten out, the place with the most problems, was right here. First we straightened out Denizlispor, then to be helpful to the community, we created civic projects. Really what we do is not just supporting Denizlispor, we are also a social organization at the same time. We are a crowd that can help society. Denizlispor is…what keeps us together. We can label the people who come together under the roof of Denizlispor as…people who work to make their city great.

Here Fatih emphasizes not only how important culture is in providing a moral framework for action, but also how change starts at the local level. This is what makes the fans of Yesil Cephe in Denizli, like other fan groups in Turkey, integral parts of civil society. They see themselves as exercising their civic duty when supporting their team; they do not see themselves as mere rabble rousing psychopaths, as the media tend to portray them (King 1997).

In this chapter, I will argue that many fan groups represent their communities, even as they are encroached upon by the invasive forces of global corporations and politicians. Indeed, this perspective represents the ideal of civil society; it serves as a buffer between the state and business on one hand, and everyday citizens on the other hand. I will outline how the localism of the fans relates to the nationalism of the fans; both are connected due to the topophilia of football fandom in general. I will open by focusing on the localist element of fandom, which extends from the elements of fandom I discussed in Chapter 4. Fans become fans out of an affinity for tradition, history, and family; these three elements are also connected to locality and place and is why fans tend to be localist. But this localism is also connected to nationalism; since the world is

not—despite what the culture industry might say—a “global village”. For the fans, the locality is not detached from the nation-state. This is why, in the second part of this chapter, I will describe the fans’ view of nationalism which is not presented in ideological terms. Rather, it is connected to a sense of social responsibility whereby fans see themselves as actors in civil society. We could say that they see their civic duty as focused on improving their communities, and, by extension, their country.

Localism Among Fans

As I outlined in Chapter 2, many Turkish teams have historically been inherently connected to the locality since Turkish football began in the context of the nascent Republic as a reaction to Western imperialism (Akin 2010; Hatipoglu and Aydin 2007; Yuce 2014; Yuce

2015), while newer provincial teams founded in the 1960s were used to unite the country through football; the connection between localism and national identity is not new.1 This is why many fans are localists, and a familiar refrain by Anatolian fans that can be seen on social media pages says “Support Your City’s Team!”.2 Mehmet, a 25-year old student in history at the local university who was originally born in Isparta (a neighboring province), explains this localist perspective. What connected him to Denizlispor, however, was a sense of localism connected to the kind of familial connections that the fans spoke about in the Chapter 4. When I asked him why he supported Denizlispor, he explained it this way:

Why? This is our city. For instance, when I was a kid I grew up playing soccer on the streets of this city. When my father took me by the hand and took me to a match for the first time, I was in middle school. Back then you’re tied to your family, of course, so you go with your father. When I walked through the doors of this stadium for the first time [gesturing towards the Denizli Ataturk Stadium outside the window—JKB]—when I was a kid I supported Galatasaray. But the first time I walked through these doors that ended for me. I said why? Because I

1 The histories of many Turkish teams reflect this connection (Aksoy 1993; Altay 2017; Tunc 2011; Dikici 2014).

2 Şehirinın Takımını Tut!

can only watch Galatasaray on the television; when they win a championship the most I can do is go out on the street [to celebrate]. I had never even been to Istanbul! Really, I had never been to Istanbul then. I was only 14-15 years old, I hadn’t even seen Istanbul. Why should I support Istanbul’s team? I said after this I am Denizlisporlu […] Why should I become Denizlisporlu? Why shouldn’t I become Denizlisporlu? I walk the streets of this city. When I walk here I can always see a green and black flag above me when I raise my head. It’s mine. Like, I belong to it. It has that feeling of belonging. Or…when I walk the streets of the city, and go into a mall, I can see a footballer walking by me—maybe one I’m really angry with, maybe one one I like—and I can speak a few words with them.

For Mehmet, supporting the local team was more meaningful than supporting one of the “big three” from Istanbul; this is a common topic of contestation among fans and I will return to it in the Chapter 6. Outside of that, the reasons that Mehmet gives for supporting the local team are clear: his support is rooted in personal history and biography—he remembers the trips to the stadium with his father—and they are also rooted in his sense of being a resident of the city of

Denizli. Additionally, his heroes—the players—are not distant celebrities, they are real people who go about their daily lives and shop in the same places he does. These two things combine, allowing him to feel belonging to the team and, by extension, to the city; his fandom—like his localism—are not identities that can be bought and sold.

Denizlispor fans were far from the only ones to feel this intense connection to their locality. Ridvan, the Sariyer fan in Istanbul, felt the same connection to his team despite making the distinction between neighborhood (semt) teams and city (sehir) teams:

We…are neighborhood fans; for neighborhood teams I think this is really important. We don’t meet up with our friends, young and old, in the tribun only on Sundays—Saturdays and Sundays when there are matches being played. Our Sariyer continues as one of Istanbul’s neighborhoods that stayed a village; we love the elegance and are very happy with it. We are all together. For instance I look at my abis, we are together with them seven days a week and shoulder to shoulder in the tribun.

For Ridvan, there is an extra reason for being localist—he loves the unique nature of his neighborhood because it resisted the intense urbanization of Istanbul as a “world city” (Karaman

100

2008), a metropolis of over 15 million people, by staying a “village”. Personally, I did not find

Ridvan’s description of the Sariyer neighborhood to be hyperbolic. Before our interview—he was about an hour late in responding to my text—I took a seat on a bench on the shores of the

Bosphorus and watched the freighters slowly ply their way between distant ports in the Black sea northbound, and distant ports in the Mediterranean and beyond southbound. It was strangely therapeutic to watch these marvels of human engineering navigate a natural—not man made3— chokepoint the way they do, even if the January wind was less than pleasant. Sariyer itself is an eclectic mix of small businesses on the main road stretching from the Bosphorus shores up to the stadium, a testament to the small town work ethic in the middle of a global metropolis. Since

2007, when I studied abroad at Bogazici University in Istanbul, I have visited Sariyer matches often simply because the neighborhood is that different than the rest of (overly) urbanized

Istanbul.4

Okan, the Bursaspor fan from the Teksas group you met at the beginning of Chapter 3, explained his localism when describing his personal history within fandom by connecting it to his neighborhood:

It is the center [of the city]. It is close to anywhere you want to go, and geographically the exact center… It is that kind of neighborhood; it is a neighborhood made up of an Albanian quarter at the same time. But…for instance my family is from central Turkey, but I am like an Albanian kid. I know many Albanian words these days. Our neighbor across the street is Albanian, my neighbor below me is Albanian, my next door neighbor is Albanian. Our neighborhood is one made up of immigrants, but most are Albanian.

3 Some of the most famous chokepoints in the modern world are man-made, like the Panama Canal and Suez Canal.

4 A short methodological note: as a sociologist it is important to evaluate all of the data at hand to achieve Weber’s type of verstehen; given my experiences I believe Ridvan’s estimation of Sariyer was not only honest, it was completely valid.

101

Okan respects his neighborhood and specifically praises its diversity. At the same time, Okan also identifies as a staunch nationalist and openly told me that he supports Turkey’s most nationalist party, the Nationalist Action Party (MHP). This suggests that, for Okan, the ethnicity of his neighbors doesn’t matter as much as their commitment to their shared neighborhood matters.5 Okan goes on to elaborate on this, after telling me about the shared spaces that the

Teksas fan group has:

First of all, beyond acting as abis in the tribun, we need to be helpful for our brothers beside us. If we win one over today, if we can help these people today, tomorrow they will help us, and they will win us over tomorrow. We see things this way, we are trying to extend a hand to everyone.

For Okan, the “helping hand” is connected to helping those in his community with hopes that this help will, eventually, come back around to him. To me, this represents one of the ideals of nationalism; help those around you as best you can so that—in the future—when you need help, your fellow citizen will be there for you. Indeed, these ideals are slowly disappearing in the highly individualized hypermodern world, characterized by less interdependence and organic solidarity in the Durkheimian sense.

Localism bleeds into nationalism in the context of what British fans call “away days”; these are when fans pack onto busses, trains, and sometimes planes in order to support their teams all over the country.6 These are emotive times for many, and Hami from Trabzonspor’s

5 Okan’s perspective runs counter to that of Arjun Appadurai, who argues that “neighborhoods are ideally stages for their own self-reproduction, a process that is fundamentally opposed to the imaginary of the nation state, where neighborhoods are designed to be instances and exemplars of a generalizable mode of belonging to a wider territorial imaginary” (Appadurai 1996: 191). Perhaps Appadurai’s perspective might be applicable to newer, sanitized, neighborhoods in the Western context, but I do not believe it fits the Turkish context (where many neighborhoods long predate the “imagination” of the Turkish nation-state) so neatly; this perspective reflects the Western dominated—and quasi imperialist bent of—scholarship pertaining to globalization.

6 This culture exists all over the world. Germany in particular has a deep culture of away days, perhaps stemming from the high quality of transportation infrastructure by way of the Autobahn and rail networks. I experienced the away day camaraderie myself after going to the Hamburg derby between Hamburger SV and St. Pauli. After the match, sitting on the Hamburg-Leverkusen train (which traveled through the cities of Dortmund and Bremen on a

102

Gurbetci Gencler told me that his group is the first in the world to be formed explicitly for away games; in fact he doesn’t even like home games. This is because a special bond is formed on the away busses. As Selami, from Adana Demirspor told me:

The away day7 bus has a very different feel. Because…when you go with your own family somewhere, when you go to have fun, when you go on a visit, you go happy, right? We have that atmosphere at Demirspor. Because there is the hope, there is the belief…that we will win [the game]. The belief is there, and that happiness brings us to sing the songs we sing on the deplasman bus. Anyone can…do what they want, drink what they want. For instance they can drink alcohol, smokers can smoke cigarettes…we have a whole other environment […] I could go to a café and smoking is prohibited, or drinking can be prohibited. But on the deplasman bus…everything is free. On the deplasman bus everything is allowed. The deplasman is very different. Personally, I can say that I like the matches away from Adana more than the matches when we are at home. The deplasman is very different. Because those who support the grandeur of Adana Demir and endure all the hardships go to the deplasman.

Here Selami emphasizes the familial aspect of fandom, discussed in the Chapter 4. In addition, he also emphasizes the kind of freedom that comes with going to away games. Like fandom more generally, Selami keeps emphasizing the “difference” of the away day bus from regular life. Perhaps this is another sign that fandom provides those involved in it with an escape from the banality of their own lives which tend to be dominated by means-end rationality, or even from the constraints of the more conservative elements of Turkish society; it represents the

day when the teams from both cities played), many fans—identifiable through their coloroful shirts and scarves— gave me a “fist bump” or silent nod after seeing my Hamburg shirt.

7 The Turkish term for this is deplasman; it has a very real cultural meaning aside from that which pertains to football. As a kid in Turkey growing up we lived in a summer community of about 350 houses in a town with many similar summer communities. When we got older, my friends and I met girls from other such communities. When we would go to visit these girls in their own communities, we would say we are “going to the deplasman”. The term suggests that you are on your own, and even—perhaps—bravely going behind “enemy lines”. For our young selves and our girlfriends it wasn’t so dangerous, but for many soccer fans it implies a sense of danger and—to a degree— an emphasis of masculinity. Typically, passive fans do not go to the deplasman. One of my first deplasmans was in London, where I attended a Europa League match between Besiktas and Tottenham Hotspur in 2011. I was packed into the Besiktas stand, separated from the “Spurs” fans by a line of police officers. When the “Spurs” fans got riled up they threw coins at us, I soon found myself on the ground collecting the Pounds which were much more valuable than U.S. Dollars at the time. In short, when you’re the away fan you’re likely to get a lot of heat and therefore more established fans go to the deplasman.

103

“quest for excitement” (Elias and Dunning 1986). Beyond that, away games also provide fans with the opportunity to see their own country (and, in some cases, compare it to their hometowns).

When I first met Ridvan, walking to where we conducted our interview, he said that he had seen most cities in Turkey “90 minutes at a time”. It was a romantic notion, but I recognized that just by seeing one’s country—the different cities and towns, the highway signs and all—one becomes more conscious of the nation in the vein that truckers tend to be. The more of a nation one sees, the more road one travels, the more “real” it becomes. Ridvan explains this by comparing the away days to his home in Sariyer:

Well we…as Sariyer live at the entrance of the Bosphorus. Our lives…in front of us is the ocean, behind us is the forest. We live together with nature. I told you earlier that we live in the best place in Istanbul. We go to away games, sometimes we travel 20 hours, sometimes we travel 10 hours. You couldn’t pay people to do this.8 We do this for fun. Maybe money…comes out of our pocekts. We do it. But…we are happy. We are supporting our team, and…we see interesting places, we live interesting experiences. We travel all over Turkey. I mean I’ve probably—I can say this quite seriously—traveled all over Turkey 30 times. There likely isn’t a province in Turkey I haven’t been to […] Everywhere I go, I experience a new excitement though. For instance…I’ve been to Diyarbakir9 3 times. If I go for a fourth time I will likely experience the same excitement. I will do things I haven’t done. Wherever we go we taste tastes we haven’t tasted, when we go we will see the historical sites, we will see the nice places, we try to see the places with nice views. We love it, we love the tribun…

Ridvan begins his comment by describing his own neighborhood, and his connection to it by emphasizing its nature (again, going against the urbanizing logic of globalization). At the same time, Ridvan explains the joy that he finds in traveling to different cities and different areas,

8 This is an example of how many participants would emphasize the non-pecuniary aspect of their fandom without my asking specifically about it.

9 A city in Southeastern Turkey, and widely noted as Turkey’s most prominent Kurdish city.

104

eating the local foods and seeing the history of his country; for Ridvan, fandom connects the local to the nation.

Nationalism in the Stands

Many of the fans I spoke with explained to me that nationalism was a major component of fan groups all over Turkey. One fan group leader10 even told me that

in Turkey—exceptions don’t disprove the rule but—Tribuncu people cannot be traitors to their country11 in Turkey.

As Ridvan from Sariyer said, “In the end we are nationalist people, we really love our country and our flag”. Even when talking about the fans of teams that Sariyer does not have the best relationship with, Ridvan says that

we still have friends there, still see them. Because…they are also all nationalist, they love their land and their country. Tribun kids are the ones that live true love.

Ridvan connects nationalism itself to the emotive concept of love, underscoring the emotional investment of fans into things the see as real like their teams, localities, and country, perhaps because they see national identity and local identity as similar to their fan identity: none can be commodified. Michael Billig’s quote in Smith’s Nations and Nationalism sums it up nicely:

One can eat Chinese tomorrow and Turkish the day after; one can even dress in Chinese and Turkish styles. But being Chinese or Turkish are not commercially available options (Billig 1995: 139 [emphasis in original], cited in Smith 1998: 205).

Given this reality, the fans’ connection to nationalism might stem from two interconnected processes. For many fans, nationalism is presented as a sort of “baseline” quality. Following the

Weberian approach of Verstehen, I tried to understand the way in which these fans understood

10 In some cases, I have let some leaders of fan groups remain completely anonymous by not revealing their team, since they are public figures and identifying the group they lead would reveal their identity.

11 The Turkish term he uses is “Vatan haini olmaz Turkiye’de”; while it translates as “traitorous” it is one of the worst labels to have in Turkish culture.

105

their own nationalism: was it the kind encouraged by the state hegemony, closely connected to

Sunni Islam and ideological (White 2014)? Or was it more of a cultural nationalism, similar to that envisioned by Gokalp and more loosely connected to territory (Cagaptay 2006), that lies outside of the state’s hegemonic message?

There would sometimes be Turkish flags, or pictures of Ataturk, displayed by fans at matches or on their banners; Sariyer for instance always have an Ataturk banner on the sideline at their Yusuf Ziya Onis stadium and often covered one end of the stadium with a large Turkish flag. On or around national holidays like 19 May (Youth and Sports Day), 23 April (Childrens’

Day), or 18 March (the anniversary of the battle of Gallipoli), the players would take the field with flags or a commemorative banner, while Turkish flags would be distributed to fans free of charge; this also happened in response to significant current events. After a Greek politician ripped a Turkish flag in late January 202012, I attended a third division match between

Turgutluspor and Kocaelispor in Manisa’s Turgutlu district and free flags were distributed at the ticket kiosks. Similarly, after 33 Turkish soldiers were killed in Syria at the end of February

202013, I attended a Trabzonspor match in Trabzon where not only Turkish flags were distributed, but the stadium’s PA system announced the names of each fallen soldier while the fans—in unison—responded with “present” in order to replicate the roll call typical of the military. Before every game, the national anthem is played over the PA system and one can see various elements of Turkish nationalism come to the fore. Some fans might raise their hands to make the symbol of the “grey wolf”, a sign of the Nationalis Action Party (MHP), while others will stand at attention and sing along with the PA system. Sometimes, after the national anthem

12 See Szucs (2020).

13 See BBC (2020).

106

is over, fans will chant “Martyrs never die, the homeland will never be divided”.14 Other times, especially in Kemalist cities like Izmir, fans will sing the “Izmir March” or chant “We are

Mustafa Kemal’s Soldiers”.15 Essentially, even though the nationalism is interpreted in different ways by different fan groups—more militaristic, in the vein of “Martyrs never die”, or more

Kemalist, in the vein of “Mustafa Kemal’s soldiers”—it is a current that runs through most stadiums and fan groups I saw.

From these experiences, it is clear that nationalism is part and parcel of Turkish football and—given the history of Turkish football—this is not surprising. Particularly in the 1990s, after the birth of the neoliberal age, Turkish national identity became directly related to Europe and defined against the European “other” (Kozanoglu 1999). Tanil Bora and Necmi Erdogan argue that one of the most obvious “national” characteristics of Turkish football is the desire to be accepted by the West and the desire to prove itself to the West (Bora and Erdogan 2012: 231).16

To put it simply, in the 1990s football became an instrument for the expression of banal nationalism (Gokacti 2008: 291), but the reasons that the symbols of banal nationalism exist in the stadium differ from team to team; many times the images of Ataturk would also appear beside President Erdogan or local mayors who played a role in the building of new stadiums.

This is because, as Toni Alaranta notes, the “hegemonic narrative of a ‘New Turkey’” rests on an appeal to a conservative base; this is why Islam and Turkish nationalism are stressed—even though the AKP is essentially a neoliberal party (Alaranta 2015: 93-119). Here the appeal to

14 Sehitler Olmez, Vatan Bolunmez.

15 Mustafa Kemal’in Askerleriyiz.

16 This is why Bora and Erdogan note that star Turkish players of the late 1980s and early 1990s were often nick- named after European stars; Besiktas’s “Sifo” Mehmet (Ozdilek) was nick-named after the Belgian star Enzo Scifo.

107

nationalism and conservative values masks the neoliberal transformation of society (something

Tugal (2009) also notes).

I met Hami outside of Trabzonspor’s new stadium, the Senol Gunes Spor Kompleksi, for a cup match. I had interviewed him in Istanbul months ago, but now I would go to a game with him. This was the Black Sea derby, Trabzonspor was playing Caykur Rizespor from the neighboring province of Rize, and it was happening in the wake of the aforementioned disaster in

Syria. Hami arranged to meet me outside the stadium, around the entrance to the southern stand behind the goal, where the Gurbetci Gencler congregate. Hami entrusts me to his friends, three

Trabzonspor supporters from Trabzon originally who now live in Istanbul. As we head towards the turnstiles (which resemble more of a cage) one companion mentions the handing out of flags, which didn’t surprise me given Trabzonspor’s nationalist reputation vis-à-vis other teams

(Keddie 2018; McManus 2018; Tunc 2011). He told me that yes, Trabzonspor is nationalist but it is not fascist, and he made a distinction between liking his country and being a fascist. As we negotiated the turnstiles, he gave me a Turkish flag from the pile in front of our gate while also (I believe rightly) criticizing the stadium staff for allowing the flags to be on the ground where people were stepping on some of them in a rush to get into the stadium. The respect for the flag

(by fans) was clear here, but clearly not by the stadium employees. This points to the distinction

I made above—is this the reflection of an organic nationalism? Or is it a hyperreal signal, provided by the team but with no substance behind it?

At Bursaspor, one of the fans told me something similar off the record, explaining that

“everyone says we are nationalist, but we are not fascists. These are two different things; fascists are not nationalists”. He went on to tell me about one of Bursaspor’s famous fan leaders, who is himself Kurdish from Diyarbakir. These perspectives did not surprise me, since I already knew

108

most fans were nationalist. What I didn’t know—and what I would learn—is just how they conceptualize their nationalism. That is the subject of the second part of this chapter.

Understanding Nationalism Among Fans

Ismet, a 52-year old veteran of the Ankaragucu stands who you met earlier, is very clear about his views on nationalism. Interestingly, he is Kurdish—his family having migrated from the southeastern city of Diyarbakir when he was young—and admitted to experiencing violent abuse due to this connection in the past while living in the city of Ankara. Ismet provides me with his political perspective when describing Ankaragucu’s most famous fan group Gecekondu

[Shanty]:

In what we call Gecekondu, everyone loves their country. Patriotism17 is one thing; ideology is another thing…do you understand?

In the next sentence, and this is important, Ismet adds a personal opinion to his comments:

If it weren’t for the communists in this country, this country would have collapsed long ago, I always say it. Communists also love their country. But you cannot explain that to nationalist minds; their brains don’t work. You cannot explain it this way.

Here Ismet is making it clear that patriotism—and nationalism—must be kept separate from ideology in terms of his group. For Ismet, “loving” your country—and wanting what is best for it—should not be connected to a political ideology. Instead, it is based in the individual’s heart, as he says when sharing his personal opinion “communists also love their country”. Here I will note that I do not distinguish between nationalism and patriotism in this work because I believe the two concepts to be virtually indistinguishable. Patriotism and nationalism are only distinguishable (in the Turkish context) insofar as the erstwhile rival of the Turkish Communist

Party (TKP) was the Nationalist Action Party (MHP) for many years; this might explain Ismet’s

17 The Turkish word used is “vatansever”, “one who loves their fatherland/motherland”. It is best translated as “Patriotism”.

109

distinction. This is one reason that—for a left-leaning individual—the word “nationalism” might have a negative connotation. That being said, I do not think the “word” is important; I believe the

“perspective” (“loving your country”) is important. Additionally, in the context of “globalism”,

“nationalism” also makes more sense rhetorically. Regardless of the semantics, I found that many fans do not see “nationalism” as relating to a specific political ideology, rather they see it as a perspective independent of political parties and ideologies. Politically, Ismet says he is a communist—some Kurds have a leftist political history (McDowall 2007)—yet he also notes that, when it comes to the team, everyone loves their country.

Taner, a 27-year old waiter and fan of Adana Demirspor also exemplifies this perspective on nationalism that goes beyond ideological dichotomies. In the context of our interview Taner mentioned the sympathy he has for Besiktas’ Carsi group, which played a major role in the 2013 protests at Istanbul’s Gezi park (Turan and Ozcetin 2017). When I asked Taner if he thought

Carsi were “nationalist”, he told me that he saw them as Ataturkist.18 When I asked him what the difference between “Ataturkism” and “nationalism” was in his eyes, he explained as follows:

They are not different but they are different. Let me put it this way…in our day when you say nationalism people kind of…stop. But no one talks about the

18 Omer Turan and Burak Ozcetin note that “Çarşı has established a reputation for fighting for causes beyond the pitch, such as issues concerning the environment, animal rights, fascism, pedophilia, military interventions and numerous other social and political matters” (Turan and Ozcetin 2017: 4). Although they started from a left wing position (the “A” in Carsi’s logo is the symbol of anarchism), Carsi are known for their Kemalist and Republican nationalist stance as well (Dikici 2014: 182-183).18 This is just one way that Carsi challenges the idea that nationalism itself is related to “right wing” politics, and the club’s apolitical stance is presented well by John McManus:

The sentiments driving their [Carsi’s] actions—the search for the right slogan, the right organization to support, the “right thing” to do—are more ethical than ideological. The politics of Carsı operates less as a specific political doctrine and more as a set of ethics; that is, it is framed around moral principles deemed fundamental to humanity (McManus 2013: 12).

Sema Tugce Dikici connects this “ethical” and “moral” stance to Carsi’s “romantic” nature (Dikici 2014: 186). This “romanticism” is connected, again, to the disclocations of modernity, and she describes Carsi as providing “a good example of loyalty and the ability for unrequited love in our [Turkish] society where social relations are increasingly unravelling as it degenerates and moves further from moral values” (Dikici 2014: 193). Dikici argues that Carsi’s sense of social responsibility is proof that football does not necessarily make people apolitical.

110

founder of the country. For everyone it is…a nationalist is right wing. There is no world like that. Or…those who follow Mustafa Kemal’s path are leftist. There is nothing like that either. What the man did…is clear. You cannot treat him as if he didn’t exist. Right now in Turkey Mustafa Kemal is trying to be extinguished…the TC19 has been taken off of all the banks, this and that happened…nationalism doesn’t work like this. They took our oath20 from the schools, nationalism doesn’t work like this. They’ve almost gone as far as banning the national anthem.

Here Taner is open about the stigma attached to nationalism as a concept (“people kind of stop”).

At the same time, he points out that the ideological concepts of “right-wing” or “leftist” are outmoded in the context of Mustafa Kemal Ataturk, the nation’s founder. I also saw this in

Trabzon, where Hami’s friends explained to me that different fan formations in Trabzon have different views: in their estimation Gurbetci Gencler are nationalist/conservative, Trabzonlu

Gencler are more conservative, while Vera are leftist—when I looked above us in the stands, however, the Vera section were displaying an Ataturk banner. Similarly, Mehmet from

Denizlispor’s Yesil Cephe explained to me that “Our tribün is above politics…our only political thing is walking the path of Ataturk”. For Mehmet, Ataturk is seen as above politics, reinforcing

Ismet’s perspective that nationalism and ideology are not strictly aligned in any one direction.

Interestingly, Taner also talks about the globalist attacks on various Turkish national symbols. This is part of the “new Turkey” rhetoric; the symbols of “Republican” Turkey constantly come under attack while a new neoliberal (and global) vision of Turkey is imagined by appealing to Muslim sentiments (perhaps to mask the Marxian contradictions inherent in the neoliberalization of religion). During this time, as Cihan Tugal notes, Muslims became—in effect—Westernized (globalized) as “…Islamic everyday practice became more capitalistic,

19 TC stands for Turkish Republic, Turkiye Cumhuriyeti. This is a common preface to all local and provincial government buildings, as well as government owned establishments like banks.

20 An oath school children typically take before classes at the beginning of a school day, similar to the Pledge of Allegiance in the United States which also has come under attack.

111

liberal, tolerant, and individualistic” (Tugal 2009: 245) even though the Islamic position had— hitherto—generally been anti-Western and anti-capitalist (Karasipahi 2014).21 Given this reality,

I believe that the Turkish case shows that the traditional ideological concepts of “left” and

“right” need to be re-evaluated in the context of a global—and not national—social engineering process; the stadium is one space that allows for this re-evaluation since, as Testa and Armstrong

(2009) note in the Italian context, the stadium might “be interpreted as a 21st-Century social agora, where political opinions otherwise ghettoized in society are freely expressed in pursuit of a wider consensus” (Testa and Armstrong 2009: 3). In short, the stadium might offer a space where nationalism can be interpreted in a cultural, rather than ideological, sense.

Nationalism Beyond Ideology in the Stadium

As I mentioned earlier, nationalism was generally presented as a baseline quality and something intimately related to fandom. I never asked explicitly about nationalism (“are you a nationalist” was not a question I asked); instead, I allowed their perspectives to emerge naturally from the conversations we had, and in most cases it did. Another reason that I think this nationalism was a baseline quality is that—as I pointed out in Chapter 2—Turkish sport has had a long relationship with national identity. But this goes beyond any ideological divide, likely

21 Sena Karasipahi notes that

Muslim intellectuals point out the transformation of the modern state into a gigantic firm thanks to globalization . . . the Muslim intellectuals criticize the modern state for pretending to be national but eliminating and restraining simultaneously the cultural and traditional elements unique to that nation for the sake of globalization” (Ibid.: 107).

One of the Muslim thinkers she covers, Ali Bulac, goes so far as to say:

The modern despotic state achieves this [modernism] with the concept of ‘mass society’. This is a huge melting pot, in which the personal, unique, and all the divergent identities are melted. This melting process is given fictitious names such as dynamism, movement, development, homogeneous, universal state, progress, and the like. In fact, what is happening is the existence of a widespread and penetrating totalitarianism” (Ibid.: 101).

112

because—unlike in Europe, where many teams were connected to various ideological, class, or religious identities (Dmowski 2013)—most Turkish teams were formed in the context of a budding national identity both during the Republican period (Yuce 2015) and later on, when football spread throughout Anatolia in the 1960s (Gokacti 2008). That Turkish football was not shaped by various local, regional, class, ethnic, and religious foundations (Demir and Talimciler

2015: 35)—and instead served as a shared cultural marker used to unite the nation—might explain why political ideology was not stressed, and many fans were able to explain this cultural perspective well. Taner, who I quoted above, explained that there was no political divide among fans:

We respect everyone, and want everyone to respect us. Not because the other side is more right wing, this perspective or that perspective. We put our own character, personality, our identity out in the open. We have been the people’s team for years, we are the team of the state railways. We are a team founded in 1940 by the workers for the state railways. We have never been a team of the weasels, we have always been the team of the people. And we are still that way.

Here Taner shows that his team, Adana Demirspor, is leftist—in so far as it is a worker’s team— while also being nationalist; after all, the team was founded by the workers of the state railways in the name of national development. And because football was designed to unite a diverse populace in the nation, it should come as no surprise that the stadium is an equally diverse space.

Selami, another Adana Demirspor fan and member of the Mavi Simsekler group, explains that:

…the Simsekler group’s biggest thing is...it is cosmopolitan. The Simsekler group. It has a cosmopolitan tribun structure. In the tribun there are right wingers, leftists, politicians…racists, Kurdists, etc; there are people of all types and all beliefs. But they gather under one roof, driving after one goal, it is the creation of a family atmosphere…and this is what makes the Simsekler group the Simsekler group really. I can put it this way, let me give an example. There are Kurds, there are Turks, there are Arabs, there are Circassians, there are Christians, there are Armenians. There are people of all creeds in the Simsekler group. This has never…been a topic for dispute in the Simsekler group. You are Kurdish, you are Arab, you are this—there is definitely no racist angle of the Simsekler group. I

113

don’t see the Simsekler group as…only a tribun in the stadium, because our social responsibility projects are many.

For Selami, stressing people’s individual identities would threaten not only the familial atmosphere of the group, but also their ability to undertake “social responsibility” projects.

Ismet, from Ankaragucu, also stresses the diversity of the stands in a similar vein:

At Ankaragucu…abi…there are professors, there are surgeons, there are academics, there are mechanics, there are normal civil servants and there are workers. There are thieves, there are pimps, there are drug dealers, there is everything. But our essence, when our common denominator is Ankaragucu, we become a very strong force. We have something like that. Seriously. Someone needs a blood [donation], someone shares it, at least ten people come. Someone says, does any one know someone at SSK [the social security authority—JKB]? Ten people come. For us the common denominator…I say this. Maybe not in terms of political thought, but as people we have a unity with one another. This is Ankaraguculuk.

Like the cities (and indeed) nation they represent, fan groups and stadiums are diverse places (as

Battini (2012) has noted in the context of Galatasaray’s UltrAslan group). And they are “real”— as opposed to hyperreal—in that they are not completely sanitized spaces. Both Ismet and Selami give the good with the bad, there are “drug dealers” and “racists” just as there are “professors” and “surgeons”; there might be “right wingers” and “leftists” but it doesn’t keep people from coming together under the roof of their team. This is what true civic nationalism is, it is everyone—regardless of intersectional identity—working together so as to create a sense of unity and work for the same goals. And because this kind of unity makes the fans such a “very strong force” as Ismet points out, it is something that the globalist state—in league with corporate powers—has targeted.

One of the reasons that these fans feel so close to one another is that they stand up for their culture, and make real—as opposed to hyperreal—connections with fellow citizens; stressing individual identities, rather than a collective identity, will only serve to further their marginalization. I witnessed two experiences in my fieldwork which points to how this cultural

114

unity supercedes even individual fan identities. One Altay fan I spoke with explained that—when it comes to teams from Izmir—Altay fans generally feel closer to Karsiyaka than Goztepe (I attended a Karsiyaka match where a contingent of Altay fans attended in support of Karsiyaka, corroborating this perspective). He told me that he was specifically uncomfortable when Goztepe fans curse at the founder of Karsiyaka, Zuhtu Isil, because of the connection he had with Ataturk.

This particular fan saw that as an insult to the nation’s founders which goes beyond sporting identities. Similarly, at the aforementioned match between Trabzonspor and Caykur Rizespor,

Hami’s friends told me that the Rizespor fans had rejected an attempt by the Trabzonspor fans to

“bury the hatchet”, so to speak, when they decided not to sit with the Trabzonspor fans before the game. Even though the bad blood between these two rival fan groups continued, it did not preclude the Rizespor fans from joining the Trabzonspor fans in chanting “Martyrs never die, the country will not be divided” before the game (the chant moved around the four sides of the stadium, which each one chanting one of the words of the four-word slogan “Sehitler Olmez,

Vatan Bolunmez”; the visitng Rizespor fans chanted “Sehitler” (Martyrs) before the Trabzonspor fans behind the goal repeated it). In both instances, it was a shared national identity which came before conflicts stemming from club support.

As I noted earlier, the 2013 Gezi protests marked a watershed moment where fans of

Besiktas took to the streets in support of protesters resisting the state’s attempt to commodify a green city space; Istanbul’s Gezi Park (and site of the old Taksim Stadium (Yuce 2014) was to be turned into a shopping mall. For many members of Carsi, this was not an “ideological” moment, and one of Turan and Ozcetin’s (2017) participants, Metin, said “the atmosphere on the terraces was similar to the Gezi Park protests” since “when the police attack fans in a stadium, you don’t care who is right-wing or left-wing. Or, during a moment of celebration, you don’t hug

115

people taking their views into consideration. Thirty thousand people share the same feeling”

(Turan and Ozcetin 2017: 10).22 Turan and Ozcetin do a good job of showing that, for some,

Carsi’s entrance into the protests was just like fandom: it was a purely emotional response. Cihan

Tugal argues that this emotional response was mirrored by the protestors themselves, also a product of hypermodern alienation:

What really hurts this class [the professional class that took part in the Gezi protests—JKB] is not exploitation and impoverishment in absolute economic terms, but their impoverishment of social life. Free market capitalism has actually delivered (to many of) them its promises: lucrative jobs, luxurious vacations, fancy cars, (at least the prospect of) comfortable homes and many other forms of conspicuous consumption. Yet none of this has resulted in fulfilling lives.

The Gezi revolt provided a noncommodified space (the barricades, the public park, shared meals) where this class momentarily tasted the fruits of a collectivistic life [. . .] What the revolt provided was the pleasure of social ties for the sake of social ties—that is, the revolt starkly demonstrated to these sectors that a different world was possible, one in which pleasure was not based on commodities but interpersonal ties (Tugal 2016 : 260-261 [emphasis added]).

Tugal’s perspective here is an important one, as the “different world” he believes protesters experienced is very similar to that which football fans themselves experience and, indeed, are trying to keep alive. Yet, it is also the world that the globalist state fears, a world not blinded by the false consciousness of ideology; it is a world where the hypermodern hegemony of neoliberalism could be resisted beyond the narrow political ideologies of political parties that appeal to individual identities.

22 One of my participants had a similar story. The Ankaragucu fan who introduced me to Ismet—who was also a leftist—told me his own story after Ismet shared his. He is an Alevi, but he is also very left wing ideologically. He told me one day, before a Bursaspor match, some right wing fans of Bursaspor confronted him outside the stadium, asking his fellow Ankaragucu fans around him how they let a Marxist among them. He said they were a mob of maybe 10-20 people, and—although a trained martial arts instructor—knew that it would be a difficult situation. At that point, he said that two kids he knew—who were “grey wolves”, staunch nationalists involved with the MHP— who had been drinking beer behind him broke their bottles and charged at the Bursaspor fans saying “no one insults our brother here!”. For the fans, the ideology did not matter—it was supporting the team, and friendship—that won the day, and he told me that the Bursaspor fans scattered.

116

Ismet, the 52-year old Ankaragucu fan and self-proclaimed leftist, specifically denounced politics in the stadium. In describing one of his teams’ fan groups, Bekar Evi Cocuklari

[Bachelor Pad Kids], he says:

The Bekar Evi Cocuklari, they’re into everything but they are good leftists. Normally everyone knows Ankaragucu’s fans as fascists. Everyone knows me, they’ll stop me on the road and ask ‘why do you support this fascist team?’. Oh friend, you’re making a mistake. There are two things that bring people together in the world. One is politics, the other is football…or sports. But…I say there cannot be politics in sports. This is the way I look at it. And I also tell them I won’t let go of this team for anyone.

As an Ankaragucu fan, Ismet knows the dangers of politics in sports: Ankaragucu was promoted to the first division after the 1980 military coup by the decree of general Kenan Evren (Gokacti

2008: 264-272; Yuce 2016: 489); it was also the target of AKP mayor Melih Gokcek and his son more recently (Keddie 2018). The experience of Ankaragucu demonstrates the shifting nature of hegemonic discourses from the national to the global, and reflects the correspondent change in political interference in sport. In 1980 the goal of political interference in sport was national; in order to legitimate the military junta it was seen as necessary to have the capital city’s team represented at the top level of the national football league. Yet, in recent times, the goal is not so national. For instance, the destruction of Republican symbolism (like Ankaragucu) is replaced by a new invented team (Osmanlispor), which is a tabula rasa where the forces of global capital might work their magic, reflecting the hypermodern world’s attack on tradition (Lipovetsky

2005). In order to cement this social re-engineering towards an “open”, neoliberal, and global

“new Turkey”—as opposed to the national, “closed”, and “regressive” Republican Turkey— sport has been increasingly politicized along ideological (and sometimes identity-based) lines, closely connected to party politics, which sometimes hinders the ability of fans to come together.

117

Shared Fan Identities In the Context of an Increasing “Politicization”23 of Sport

Fatih, from Denizlispor, explained that one of the problems within the Denizlispor stands before Yesil Cephe was founded stemmed from what he calls its “politicization”. He found that the Denizlispor fan group was without a system at all and that its politicization was destructive; this drove Fatih to try and change something about the club’s fan culture:

…I found a fan formation that was going forward not with loyalty to the club, but with loyalty to the individual. People were more connected to names; by ‘names’ I mean it this way: these could be political names, people who developed themselves in that context, people who drag the masses along, that’s what I mean. It wasn’t Denizlispor, it was more politics, the name was coming to the fore in the Denizlispor tribun from what I saw. Then I said why not Denizlispor, why couldn’t we support it more, why couldn’t something be made, why couldn’t different things be made and produced. That’s what I began to think.

For Fatih it was unacceptable that a team’s fans should be run by politically motivated individuals, and that is what pushed him into the world of fandom; he wanted to make a difference. Later in the interview, Fatih elaborated on his position when talking about municipal support for the team:

If you are really going to serve people, if people are here, you are going to serve this place […] But if this goes too far, if clubs are approached in a partisan way, collecting under the roof of a [political] party, completely politicizing it is wrong—from our perspective. But of course there should be support…for instance here, what is it, the municipality should help in some way regarding the need for a parking lot. For instance, is there some asphalt that needs to be fixed by the stadium? The state should help us here because we, as taxpaying individuals, are supporting this area [the stadium]. We are here. Just as we are in a park, and a park is made for us, if we are there [the stadium] then they need to help us regarding the asphalt there. If we look at it in terms of mindset there is no problem. But if we look at it in a partisan manner, then there is a problem.

23 Again, the term politicization is a translation of the Turkish words “Siyasilestirildi” and “Siyasilestirilme”; it is a term used by my participants who experienced it.

118

Here Fatih presents a very simple example of why political ideology and party politics are so harmful in sports; he believes that when party politics (partisanship) comes into play, it hinders the efficacy of local government.

Hami, the 44-year old Trabzonspor fan who is a veteran of the fan circuit and more experienced than my friends at Denizlispor, cogently outlines just why politics are so dangerous for fans:

…[P]olitically…we are all equal. Because we have party members among us. I also have a political perspective. My friends do too. And they are all different…nothing is concrete. We [as a group] don’t have a political identity. For instance when you look at some of the groups in Turkey, they say ‘these guys are like this, those guys are like that’. For instance, Karsiyaka is a little more Republican, Ataturkist.24 We don’t want to bring those kinds of things to the fore. Because why? It will result in splits within us. There are people among us from every perspective, that’s why. For instance, during certain election cycles, we could get a lot of support by supporting certain political parties as a group. But if we do this, those people among us—our friends—who have different perspectives could, as a group, go to serve a party close to their perspective. I don’t have the right to…interfere with them, right? Because I would be doing the same thing, and this could even turn into something illegal. That’s why we have closed ourselves off to such things as a group. But as an individual, individually, everyone can do whatever with whatever party, politics. We don’t get involved with that.

Here Hami offers a very sober and logical perspective on individual’s political perspectives and persuasions, and the delicate balance that his group must maintain. He understands that his group has no right to prevent members from supporting any political party that they would like to; he also understands that it is unwise to sanction any such activity as a group since that would splinter the group into factions tied to political parties. This is likely why most Turkish football fans tend to stress shared identities over identities tied to political parties and perspectives, and this is something that Adrien Battini (2012) also saw in his study of Galatasaray’s UltrAslan,

24 Hami laughs here, likely because I identified myself as a Karsiyaka fan—due to familial connections—during our conversation.

119

with one of his participants saying “Except for the Turkish flag we can’t let any fraction or movement come into the UltrAslan” (Battini 2012: 714).

Ibrahim, who supports Eyupspor in the conservative Eyupsultan district of Istanbul, openly told me that many of his fellow fans consume alcohol, implying that the religious/secular divide—long emphasized by scholars of Turkey (White 2014)—is not set in stone. As Ibrahim says,

No one can force another person…I can’t force you to become a Muslim. Most simply, I can explain Islam to you, for instance there is something like that in Islam. You could be a deist, you could be an atheist, you could be someone who doesn’t understand—that’s everyone’s own thought, their own free will. I can’t say to you…Islam is this way…because I might turn you away from Islam even if you had the smallest leanings towards Islam; that’s the way I see it.

Ibrahim’s thoughts on the various ethnic groups in Turkey are similar, and he closes his statement in the language of nationalism. After he told me the work his fans did in getting donations to Kurdish cities, I told him that it was interesting given the emphasis—again made by some scholars—on a Kurdish/Turkish divide (Saracoglu 2011). He said:

For me a Kurd, Laz, Alevi, Circassian, they are not a thing for me. In the end we are all brothers, if we all live under this flag then we are all brothers. For me there is no difference at all.

Ibrahim’s view of nationalism, looking at the nation as one family under one flag, is a

Durkheimian viewpoint attributed to various forms of civic nationalism (Smith 1998). As I discussed previously, many fans see their own fan groups as a family—encompassing many different groups—so this might be one reason that they view the nation in a similar manner.

Remember that Ismet, the 52-year old veteran Ankaragucu fan you met earlier in this

Chapter, was Kurdish. But he was far from the only Kurdish fan I met among the fan groups I spoke to around Turkey; including notoriously nationalist fan groups like Bursaspor’s Teksas. I explicitly chose not to ask the ethnic identities of any of my participants, as I thought that would

120

not only be off-putting, but that it would also further the narrative of micropolitics (Jameson

1991). Still, I believe that my ability to meet so many people from different ethnic backgrounds—despite not searching for it—reflects the diversity of fandom. Okan, the 32-year old fan you met earlier, explained this in response to a question I asked him about supporting different teams. While his friends yelled “Absolutely not!” in the background, Okan said:

Up to now…most of us are the children of other places. I am from Aksaray, my brother [name omitted—JKB] is from Trabzon, my brother [name omitted—JKB] is from Ankara, my other brother is a native son of Bursa. The elders of our tribun—one is Albanian, the president of our fan club is from Diyarbakir. In our heart there is not—and cannot be—another love. It hasn’t happened yet, and it cannot happen in the future. Not for those who came before us, not for those who come after us. You know that there is something like generation to generation? For us the Bursaspor flag continues from generation to generation.

The cities Okan mentions are diverse. While Ankara is the capital and therefore seen as cosmopolitan (despite its location in central Anatolia), Aksaray—where Okan is from—is a central Anatolian city known for its strong (ethnic) Turkish identity and conservatism. Trabzon is known for being the center of the Black Sea region and Bursa is known for its location as a manufacturing the center of the Marmara region, yet both are also known as more conservative

(and nationalist) cities while Diyarbakir is known as the heartland of Turkey’s Kurdish region.

After our interview, Okan shared with me his personal political affiliation but stressed that he did not—and indeed cannot—speak for all Bursaspor fans because of their diversity, explaining that the second friend he mentions above, from Ankara, is Tatar on his mother’s side and Kurdish on his father’s side. But they are childhood friends who grew up together in the tribun. This is the important thing about fans, and indeed about the stadium. It allows for a space where people can come together and transcend the narrow boundaries that have been constructed—and emphasized—due to identity politics and political ideologies since the AKP is essentially “a coalition party composed of four major components—namely, pro-EU liberals, Kurds, Turkish

121

nationalists, and Islamists of the Milli Gorus movement” (Alaranta 2015: 107). Because the party itself succeeds by holding together a fragile coalition of groups with diverging interests (such as liberals and Islamists, Turkish nationalists and Kurds), it can only continue to thrive by holding together this heterogenous coalition. What makes the stadium so interesting is that it is one of the few places in Turkish society where these different groups come together beyond party politics.

Turker, a 24-year old Denizlispor fan, had a similar experience that underlines the assimilative nature of the stadium space and fandom more generally. He explained that, like

Selami of Adana Demirspor, his support for Denizlispor did not come from his family. Turker explains:

Like Fatih said, we didn’t become Denizlisporlu through our family. We did so later. And through Yesil Cephe25 we loved it more. I am actually from Muş.26 My mother and father are from Muş, I was born and raised here. When I was at the university I looked at Yesil Cephe from a distance, through a friend—I only got the news, talked about it. When they asked me where I was from at the university, I told them I was from Muş. I didn’t say I was from Denizli. Later, when someone wanted an explanation, I would say I’m originally from Muş but live in Denizli. But today when somebody asks me, I say I’m from Denizli. This really gave me a feeling of identity in a very different way. Now my family knows that I come here, they know I go to the away games. I have a 4-5 year-old nephew, I bring him to the celebrations. My sister, my mother—gender doesn’t matter, age doesn’t matte—everyone can comfortably come…this way more people come, and become connected […] If a person who likes football, and if they like the tribun, comes they…won’t be able to leave Yesil Cephe. We have an entrance—the exit is always open—but no one leaves.

25 A small note about the Denizlispor fan group’s name: The three fans I spoke with told me that the police departments in Ankara and Istanbul forbid the fans from hanging the “Yesil Cephe” banner at games because they attribute a political message to the name. They told me that one cop asked them “What are you? Leftists or right wing?”. This is because the term “Cephe” means “front”, a common term used for leftist groups and organizations. But the color, “Yesil” means “Green”, in reference to the Green and Black of Denizlispor. However, the police interpret it as referring to the green of Islam. Although the fans stress their depoliticized nature—and tell me that the name was chosen from other options in a poll on social media—the police choose to politicize the “Green Front” of Denizlispor. This is an example of the state actively encouraging—by choosing to interpret slogans as political where they might not be—divisions based on ideology in the stadium. It is a point I will return to, but thought that this note would be useful here in the context of the current discussion.

26 A Kurdish city in eastern Turkey.

122

Turker ends his comments with a line that echoes The Eagles’ Hotel California; “you can check out any time you want, but you can never leave” and it is fitting. The kind of fandom that is described is inclusive and—clearly—addictive. Perhaps most importantly for Turker, it helped him embrace his hometown, and gave him more of an “insider” perspective. Of course, some scholars might say that this points to Turker’s forever “outsider” nature, because he had to abandon his Kurdish identity, but I do not believe that this is the case here. Indeed, the other

“outsider” Kurdish fans at other teams point to an assimilative aspect of fandom. Unfortunately, I was unable to reach fans of Kurdish teams in Kurdish areas but the potential for assimilative— and integrative—spaces in Turkish football would be an interesting topic for further study.

Evren, the 31-year old Bandirmaspor fan you met earlier, explained to me just how important football is in bringing together—and connecting—Turkish citizens around the country; it gives them ways to connect that are real, as opposed to hyperreal. While social media can connect people across geographic space, that connection is virtual. Real connections, by contrast, take time and effort—something Evren knows well, and he recounts his trip to the Kurdish majority city of Van in far eastern Turkey, on the Iranian border:

…last week we went to Van, we have absolutely no history with Vanspor, and their fans. They found our phone number, and said we have a nice district called Edremit, there we can have breakfast—Van is famous for its breakfasts. We were really surprised, it was a really nice thing to do. Now we cannot wait for our second match [with Vanspor]. They are going to come from Van, we can feed them some fish here, because our fish is famous [in Bandirma]. We are thinking of making a barbecue for them. We have that kind of thing […] For instance yesterday [this interview took place following a Bandirmaspor-Eyupspor game in Bandirma—JKB] a kid from Eskisehir who is doing his military service here, he came and told me ‘abi I am from Eskisehir, and Eskisehirsporlu. I’m a soldier here; I bring the greetings of our tribun leader’. I said ‘thank you, please come [to our match]; do you need anything? I wish you hadn’t bought a ticket, I would have liked to make you our guest’. Good things happen. Like there was a kid from Urfa27, a brother of ours from Urfa did his military service 4-5 years ago. We hosted him here as our guest, he left and we forgot. Last year when we went to

27 A Kurdish city in southeastern Turkey.

123

Urfa the kid never left our side. He said I’ll never forget you guys as long as I live. I guess this means we did something good that we forgot; it means some good things happened. From where to where…Urfa and Bandirma, 1500 Kilometers apart. It is a very nice connection.

I agreed with Evren, and told him that it is especially good since so often the east and west are portrayed as being divided. He agreed, continuing his story:

Exactly. Look we went to the far east, the farthest east, to Van. But…we were hosted in an amazing way. We went early, thinking we’d do some sightseeing. And the day was 1 September, World Peace Day, they told us the HDP28 might start something in the center of the city29; they said go to the neighboring district, to Edremit. It was apparently more touristic. We went there, and had a good time hanging out. We went into the lake [Lake Van—JKB], we swam. Good things happen […] We had fun hanging out, the match ended, we hugged and kissed, and returned. They gave us a send off.

For Evren this was an eye-opening experience since, as he points out

everyone looks at Van with prejudice. But…we said that truly where there is water—we say the sea but it isn’t the sea—where there is water there is culture […] at an elevation of 1700 meters, 1700 kilometers away, they host us. Who would have thought of it.

Evren’s experience in Van—his own real lived experience—transcended the messages from the media (“everyone looks at Van with prejudice”) and, indeed, his own preconceptions (“it wasn’t about the sea, it was about water”). By living this enjoyable experience with fellow citizens 1700

Kilometers away (more than 1,000 miles), Evren was given a new perspective not only on Van, but—conceivably—the wider Kurdish areas (like Sanliurfa).

And that is what is so important about fandom. While groups can be otherized due to media messages—in order to further a narrative that stokes divisions—they can also be otherized by the state. Thus, the only way to get around these hyperreal representations of the “other” within one’s own country is to go out and live it. I, for one, grew up in New England and the

28 The leading Kurdish Party, the Peoples’ Democratic Party (HDP).

29 He told me that nothing ended up happening.

124

perception of the American south given to me by the media and my own education was quite negative; the whole of the American south was portrayed as being inhabited by bigoted

“rednecks”, for lack of a better term. After living in the American south for as long as I have

(four years in Texas and five years in Florida) however, I have a very different—and much more positive—view of the south than that which was presented to me by the education system and the culture industry. Evren’s experience in Van might be similar. During the course of our interview he explained to me that the first time he boarded a plane in his life was due to Bandirmaspor; he flew to an away game in Rize.30 His fandom allowed him to see his country:

My entire life…I had never been to the farthest east for instance. I went to the southeast, as far as Siirt. I did my military service in Bingol but I didn’t see anything, we were in a compound in the mountains. I went to Siirt, I went to Diyarbakir, I went to Urfa, I really wanted to go to Van and the farthest east. It worked out, and thank Allah we went and we saw. Only the northeast is left that I haven’t been to. Erzurum—we passed through—Erzurum, Erzincan, Artvin, those areas are left.

Here, soccer fandom provides an avenue through which the country’s far east—and predominantly Kurdish regions—can be experienced in a non-militarized context. Evren is not alone in this, I know many friends from Izmir, the western province I lived in when I grew up, whose only experience with eastern Turkey came by way of the military. When this is the only relationship a “westerner” has with the “east”, it can color that individual’s view of the “east”; this was part of Edward Said’s argument in Orientalism (1979). This is why civil society is so important; it provides experiences outside of those sanctioned by the state and/or business. I myself experienced this; after graduating college I traveled throughout Turkey in search of jerseys, traveling from Van, south to Hakkari, and back westward through Sirnak, Cizre,

30 He is not the only fan I interviewed who experienced a transformative moment in his life through football; Ridvan told me that he got a job in the municipality—after being a lifeguard for years—due to connections he made through his role supporting the local team.

125

Sanliurfa, and Diyarbakir. It gave me a very different perspective on eastern Turkey than that which the media and culture industry provided, and allowed me to see the country and its citizens for what they are in reality, not as they are represented as in the hyperreality.

Before ending this section, I would like to add the voice of Zeynep, the 28-year old female Trabzonspor fan you met earlier. Because football fandom is generally a male pursuit— something Zeynep herself admits—she was one of the few female voices I came across but it is important to hear her perspective, given that gender has been covered by some scholars of

Turkish football (Erhart 2011). When I met her her hand was bandaged; I asked her what happened and she explained that she broke it in the away stands celebrating a last minute goal by

Trabzonspor. This confirmed to me that she was a committed fan, and I asked her what her experience was on the “away day” busses to the deplasman, given that it is usually seen as a male pursuit—a sort of “Quest For Excitement”, as Eric Dunning and Norbert Elias might put it.

Let us hear it from Zeynep’s perspective (along with my interjections, so that we can see all of her perspective):

Z: Living it is very…I don’t know, those away busses are very different for female fans, its something that one shouldn’t go to…the bus conversations. Those…are a little different but it all depends on the bus you go to. When there are buses that you can comfortably go to…those conversations in the back five are very different of course […] The back though, it is always the back of the bus…but if a woman is on that bus even a cigarette will not be smoked […] That’s why I generally fly anyway. When the fixtures come out I look at the plane tickets, if necessary I get tickets 6 months in advance, along with the fixture—a day trip, I go in the morning, see the city, go to the match in the evening, and return at night. I generally always do it this way, when we go to [other] cities.

J: And you see the city, your country?

Z: Exactly, I see it. Traveling and seeing…it is even better that way, actually.

J: Ok…and, do they seriously not smoke cigarettes?

Z: They only stopped the bus at rest areas and allowed the whole bus to smoke. We were going to a match in Ankara. We went to the Bursa match, everyone was

126

soaking wet, no one changed their clothes, then again—did we stop, at the Opet31 abi?

Abdullah: We went to a match in Bursa…three hours before the match it started raining John. The rain continued throughout the match. The game ended and right then the rain ended. We were soaked down to our underclothes. And I think it ended in a draw.

Z: [it was] 3-3 abi.

J: But there is some initiative [referring to the cigarette comment which sparked the conversation—JKB]

Z: It changes according to who arranges the bus—and who is inside the bus. At the end of the day there is a certain crowd, you can’t tell them ‘hey don’t do this’… And they want to live that pleasure and go. And without impeding anyone, looking at the buses, if its ok we ask. If it doesn’t work out we go independently either by car, or by plane if we can go to that match by plane. Otherwise of course…it isn’t very proper for a woman…ok, the kids are having fun, and people’s—smoking, cigarettes, weed—it doesn’t concern me; one has to respect, and shouldn’t cramp anyone’s style, that’s how I think. They should go comfortably, and so should we—and, because there are no problems like this on the busses [she chooses] we can go comfortably.

It is important to recognize that Zeynep speaks only in terms of Trabzonspor, and she is just one female fan, whom I spoke with in the company of her male friends. However, Evren from

Bandirma also told me that they arrange for family busses: “when families are there, families sit in the front [of the bus], women. I told you there are family buses; everyone knows everyone”. In fact, he also recounted a story from his own past when his wife (then his girlfriend) accompanied him to an away game.32

31 A Turkish gas station chain, like a Texaco in the United States.

32 I include this story because it is not only humorous, but aso informative insofar as it explains the difficulty of a female in a male space. His experience is as follows: “Anyway we went to the match and got relegated. 45 minutes—1 hour, I cried. Shock. I was sad. Its not a good thing. Which one I asked…is the family bus? Which one has the families? They said these [busses] are available. I told the two people in the front to go to the back, and I sat with my lady, it was before the engagement then. We came to Bandirma...I now want some water dear [he laughs— JKB]…I had her in the window seat initially, while leaving the city I told her to sit in the aisle seat. She asked why? I said just sit here, on the aisle. You know, in case [our bus] gets stoned. When we left the city, I said move to the window seat again. She asked why? Forget it right now I say, so she doesn’t get scared. You know…because we are knowledgeable about this…we are about to fall asleep, she asks do you have any water. I reached down [under the seat[, it’s a bunch of bottles. I said here take this water. She put it [somewhere] and it fell. An hour later, she said I

127

While Zeynep recognizes that it might not be the most optimal place for a lone female

(and admitted to flying to most matches, because it was more convenient for her work), she also understands that when in a male space stepping on the freedoms of others will not make her more free in the short term; instead she chooses to respect the freedom of others while using her own agency to find a solution that is optimal for her and her fellow fans; she does not reject the entire enterprise of fandom wholesale and succumb to a victim culture. Far from being a victim of a “masculine” culture, Zeynep is a problem solver. When I asked her openly about her thoughts on the general perception that football is a man’s pursuit, her response was telling:

Never have I ever considered engaging in any…hooliganism like a man anyway [laughing]. And I don’t know how to explain tribunculuk…it is supporters.33 [Being a] supporter. For a woman supporter to come here and watch, certainly in this city there is no female/male separation in terms of football. This city…loves football without a gender divide anyway. Because in our stadium you can see 60- 70 year old Teyzes34 watching matches while knitting. And they make many programs [television and internet—JKB] about this by using our club as an example. They take our female fans, they watch the game together in the Protokol stand. Even today 310 of our female fans, those that came to the most matches this season, will be hosted in the protokol stand and taken to our training grounds tomorrow to watch a practice. You know in the stadium—more accurately here [the city of Trabzon]—there is no male female divide. In Istanbul did it exist, yes it did. When you entered the stadium they’d look at you, you’re a woman—what are you doing here. The away stand is especially problematic…but I don’t really pay much mind. At the end of the day what’s important to me is the team. To see the team there…to support [the team] a little with my voice, to make ourselves present there is really enough. [emphasis added—JKB].

One of the most important parts of Zeynep’s story, for me, was when she says “I don’t really pay much mind” to the men in the stands who give her looks. She is there for her team, and that is all

cant find the water. Suddenly a big water arrived. She said it was a small water earlier? I said come on, here you drink what you can find! It was always that way with us. Drink it, nothing will happen I said”.

33 The word she uses in Turkish is “taraftar”.

34 A “Teyze” is literally an aunt on the maternal side. Figuratively, in wider Turkish culture the word is used as a term of respect for an older female who is old enough to be one’s aunt/an unrelated lady the age of one’s mother; this is the sense that the term is used by Zeynep here.

128

that matters. Those less open-minded individuals in her midst do not deserve her time of day and, indeed, I am sure her strength—and open support of the team—won her respect among those same male fans; I know that the fans—like Abdullah, a 40-year old small business owner—who introduced me to Zeynep respected her immensely. Just like Evren from Bandirma, making the fan space comfortable for female fans is a priority for some male fans, because supporting the team means getting as many people behind the team as possible so as to make the support as strong as possible. Paying attention to the naysayers, in my opinion, gives them more of a platform than they deserve.

It is also important to recognize that Zeynep points out that there is no “no male/female separation in terms of football in this city”. While Trabzon in general, as a more conservative city, might have that divide in other forms of life, she openly states that it does not occur in football. This shows the importance of—and positive role that—football culture plays in the city.

It provides a space where collective identities can be imagined and provides a starting point for bringing people together. I personally have reason to believe her, after attending two matches in

Trabzon and attending the team’s anniversary celebrations in Istanbul. At the two matches, there was a conspicuous amount of female fans in the stands. Similarly, when I visited the annual celebrations of Trabzonspor’s anniversary on the shores of the Golden Horn in Istanbul in July

2019, I saw many women lighting flares and wearing Trabzonspor jerseys, and others picnicking with their families; for them it seemed to be a celebration not only of football, but local pride as well. And the quantitative data also supports Zeynep’s claims. Passolig’s official data reveals that, as of the 12th week of the 2019-2020 Turkish Super League season, Trabzonspor have the highest rate of female fans with 18 percent of Trabzonspor Passolig cards (almost one in five)

129

issued to women.35 This data may not be perfect—there are ways to get around the Passolig regulations, which I will discuss later—but it is still a major sign that Trabzonspor’s fandom is different. It is also notable that many journalistic approaches to Turkish football have gotten this wrong. For instance, In Welcome to Hell, John McManus writes that Trabzonspor’s fans

“conform to another stereotype of [Trabzon’s] inhabitants: a machismo that often tips over into sexism, extreme nationalism, and intolerance” McManus 2018: 260). My experiences in

Trabzon, especially after talking with fans like Hami, Zeynep, and Abdullah, tell me that

McManus’s generalization about the “macho” and “sexist” nature of Trabzonspor’s fans misses the mark.

The point is, women go to the matches too and find themselves in the tribün culture often. When following the fans groups on Instagram, I found female fan groups with significant followings at Goztepe (from Izmir), Trabzonspor, Besiktas, but also in central Anatolian cities and teams like Kayserispor and Malatyaspor. A major fan leader of Hatayspor, from southeastern

Turkey, is a female who even boasts about having divorced her husband for the team.36 This is why making vast generalizations about football fans is problematic; given that there is an increasing amount of female football fans in Turkey it might be an interesting topic for further study and there is little written about the positive effects they might have on their communities and nations. Before presenting some of those in the next section, I will offer you the words of

Ridvan from Sariyer, as his comments nicely sum up the topics from the last two sections: the fans’ perspectives on nationalism, and the aversion that most fans have to ideological or ethnic divisions:

35 See DHA (2019).

36 See IHA (2018).

130

I can say this. Whatever your political views may be. Whatever you support, you can be sure that 99 percent of Turkey love their country. And we…we love our country so much, but we are also against this. Now…I’ll give an example, you came, you are our guest and have a place in our hearts, you are American.37 We might not like Belgians. If a Belgian came, they would also be the jewel in our crown. An American, Englishmen, Germans can come, they are all jewels in our crown. We don’t have any problems with them. We…love humanity. We like it a lot, that’s why—but of course people know this. And when they know this, they oppose us. They can oppose whenever they want, we love people a lot. And we also pay a lot of attention to this, wherever you might be from. You might be a Christian, you might be a Muslim, you might be an Atheist, for instance you could be from two or three similar creeds—but whatever you may be, be a good person and you will make a place in our heart. I’m not saying this just to you, I’m saying this for humanity. I’ve kind of talked to the whole world in a way, wherever we are from I think we should try to be a good person.

Ridvan, like so many other fans whose voices you have heard, stresses that one’s individual identity should not be a criteria for judging the individual. Like Zeynep, Ridvan is stressing agency over structure. It is up to the individual to be as good as they can be. This rejection of divisions—based on ideology and identity—is what makes fans so strong as a group in civil society. Its what gives them a voice, to combat their marginalization within a changing (and neoliberalizing) society; by embracing their agency the fans try to make a difference in their communities. Yet that is also what makes them so dangerous for leaders and big business, since civil society is the space between the individual citizen and the power of the state and transnational corporations.

The Social Responsibility of Fans as Actors Within Civil Society

Hami, the 44-year old Trabzonspor fan, believes that

Society has an energy. People need to be able to release it somewhere. I mean they are going to release it. For this—bringing people together…the stands bring all these people together---and young kids are being raised. This can be done in a better way.

37 Again, my childhood nickname—Amerikali—came back.

131

What Hami is saying is that the fans have an energy that will be released; this is related to the theory of the stadium as a pressure release used in various authoritarian regimes (Tuastad 2014).

The difference here is that Hami recognizes that this energy might also be put to use (“this can be done in a better way”) rather than simply released into the aether or, as used to be the case, transformed into violence. This energy could be used within civil society, and in this section I will outline examples of fan involvement in civil society, by spotlighting various examples of their sense of social responsibility.

As I said earlier, some of my fieldwork took place virtually insofar as I followed the

Instagram feeds of many teams and their fan groups during my free time, keeping track of what social events they were paying attention to. At the end of the 2019 summer, many forest fires broke out around Izmir, the city where I was partially based. Indeed, one was so bad that it blocked the highway as I was driving, causing me to miss a flight to Istanbul and the Champions

League qualifier between Basaksehirspor and Olympiakos Pireaus which I had a ticket to. In response to these devastating fires, Izmir’s teams—and their fans—banded together. Altay,

Altinordu, Bucaspor, Goztepe, Izmirspor, and Karsiyaka fans all spread word about these fires, and came together to clean up the burned areas. Later, they collected donations via social media so as to buy new seeds, and came together again to plant them and replace the lost forest. The actions of the fans were more important than the actions of the teams, because the fans were not doing it for profit in any way; the fans are not “for profit” groups. Seeing this important project unfold on social media reinforced the importance of civil society for me; the actions taken by fans are not designed to line pockets, they are designed to improve their communities and countries.

132

When describing the positives of fandom (as opposed to the negatives stemming from violence), Okan from Bursaspor couches the actions of his group in terms of values and, clearly, in the language of civil society:

…There are always good sides [of fandom]. We help families that need help. We get the school uniforms, backpacks, and textbooks for our student brothers who need them. We engage in various forms of assistance. We try to do these in the best way possible these days. Why? We are the biggest civil society organization in Bursa. They know it, we know it, the state knows it.

Here Okan recognizes the power of his group, Teksas. They are the biggest civil society organization in the city of Bursa, and—with the power they have—they can use it for good. They stay true to their values, acting as good hosts to visitors, but they also try to help those who are less fortunate within their own community.

Hami, from Trabzonspor, also sees the Gurbetci Gencler group as a major force in civil society. His explanation is lengthier, but also worth hearing:

Now people come up and say, you all are supporting certain people under the table economically so that they are close to you…there is no reason for this…you need to form a certain base. These days when you look at it, we are one of Turkey’s most recognized and strongest civil society organizations for instance. Why? Because we are serving something here. [We are serving] Trabzonspor. We have identified this as a goal, and are following that path […] [this weekend] 700 people, we are going [to Ankara]. Right after that, you look and see that three days later a library has been made for a school. Right after that, you look and see that some social event has happened and they have written a banner and are giving a response. You look, they are at Anitkabir38, you look they are in Europe in the Netherlands…what kind of a group is this? Do they not wonder, ‘what are these people doing?’. Look, if a man takes this…and leads it in a poor way, this group could end up in front of people in a very different way. They don’t want to see this, and they penalize us anyway.

Hami recognizes that the Gurbetci Gencler are a major part of civil society in Turkey. But he also recognizes that things could go south without the right leadership (“this group could end up in front of people in a very different way”). While recognizing the power of his group vis-à-vis

38 The mausoleum of Mustafa Kemal Ataturk in Ankara.

133

the state, Hami also recognizes that there is a way to channel that power into something beneficial to society. That is one of the struggles of football fans that is often overlooked in the literature. It is true that the hypermodernity of globalism has created the grounds for a mass society on a global scale; wages are going down, the family structure has been destroyed, and a widely normless populace has been created—devoid of few morals and values beyond consumerism—susceptible to manipulation by the culture industry (most easily, through social media).

Fatih explains this process of giving a sense of power to group members in the context of his group Yesil Cephe at Denizlispor:

We didn’t have an idea of a leader. There was no autocratic system. We weren’t people that followed in the path of a leader. We said, to the people that came, you are also a piece of this, all of us are leaders, these organizations, these events, these plans don’t belong only to Fatih, or only to Turker, we will do it together; if you have a plan or project you share it with the group, and accepting—or not accepting it, if it is useful to the group, we will accept it and move forward in this manner. The people weren’t just participants. They were organizers at the same time, they were also people who planned.

I told Fatih that I noticed at the match that many different people led the chants, as opposed to other teams where it was typically one or two fan leaders who stepped in to lead the chants. Fatih then continues:

Exactly. Our goal wasn’t to follow people. Our goal was to follow an idea. That is why whoever the idea belongs to, if the idea is of benefit to the group we will follow that idea to the end. We acted not according to the name, but according to the idea. When people see themselves…in the structure of this group, when it gives them the feeling that they are not just participants, but at the center, it always makes people happy to be at the center […] Because this was the first time something like this happened, people had a voice for the first time. We can think about it like this, like a population that is going to the polls in a [democratic] election for the first time. We even have a banner ‘We Are The First Years of the Republic’, I connect that to this. Because before, people didn’t have a voice in the stands. They didn’t have a chance to do something for Denizlispor, one person— or two people—had a voice; these people would argue among themselves, make a decision, and everyone in the Denizlispor stands had to go along with it. But we broke this. We acted with the group, where everyone made a decision together,

134

following the ideas agreed upon by the group, and I think that we have reached the largest masses in Denizli in terms of social life and the stands.

Here Fatih underlines the importance of democratizing the stands and including everyone so that they are not alienated masses, rather they feel as if they have a voice and, ultimately, agency.

Interestingly, Fatih connects this process to nationalism; nationalism was originally a movement for freedom, forming democratic republics out of feudal systems where the people did not have a voice. Fatih goes on to list some of the projects that the group involves themselves in, including organizing pick-up game soccer tournaments, trips to places like Davraz or Marmaris, so that people in the group can get together outside of the context of the stadium. He then, interestingly, again connects the work of his group to Turkish culture by comparing it to the work of the Ahi, a fraternity or guild of Turkic people in Anatolia before the Ottoman Empire. I had never heard of it before, but Fatih explained it to me:

The Ahi botherhood existed before, in the Selcuk times there was a brotherhood like this, in the Ottoman times there was a brotherhood like this, their goal was this: to teach illiterate people how to read and write, to give jobs to those who couldn’t hold jobs, small business owners [esnaf] would support one another, when one went bankrupt others would help them. They were a group, like the associations and fraternities of today. Their goal wasn’t only to make money, it was to increase social cohesion. Our goal is kind of similar to this. We are not only about ‘how to be a Denizlispor fan, how to be a Yesil Cephe fan’, we are also about how to gain ground in society. How to show oneself in society. Or, how to meet your needs in society. We have done a lot in terms of self- development and regarding things like what can you do and succeed. The simplest example is myself. I was someone who didn’t know anyone in Denizli, I saw that I could succeed here [in Yesil Cephe], this raised my self confidence, and after seeing that I could succeed I helped others succeed, and this really had a positive effect on my self development. One shouldn’t look at it only as fandom. We looked at it from all angles, our goal wasn’t to create just a mass that comes and goes to matches; it was to create a mass that is helpful to society, that is helpful to themselves, who elevate the place they are.

Fatih’s goals in Yesil Cephe are laudable, and the fact that he connects it to Turkish culture shows the importance of tradition and history—things football fans value—and which Ziya

Gokalp noted was one of the cornerstones of Turkish nationalism. Without tradition and history,

135

real values are hard to come by, and can easily be replaced with hyperreal values which— recently—manifest themselves in shallow virtue signaling.

Fatih also points out that giving the masses these values keeps them from being manipulated and, indeed, even doing harm to the community. He explains that they started recruiting members in the university, among students, and that:

We started with social events. To reach the masses, it could be social assistance projects, it could be social unity projects, it could be reaching a hand out to those who are in a difficult spot [in life]. Our first goal was to reach people who didn’t have a purpose in life—or those who had a purpose but weren’t successful and retreated into their shells. And from the perspective of helping these people hold on in their lives, we were…a very open group, from their perspective. Our first goal was to reach them, and organize shared plans and projects like visiting nursing homes, painting schools, donating books to schools, and coming together with other social volunteers at the university.

Fatih provides examples of the positive events that his group organizes so as to be of help to their city while also giving meaning—and purpose—to the alienated masses within the university setting. This is an essential purpose of civil society; it gives meaning and purpose to the individual beyond individual self-interest. In a hypermodern world, where the individual has become highlighted to such a degree—hence, perhaps, the pull of ideology for many—it is important to bring those people back into the community so as to maintain the healthy balance between individual and society that is necessary for a democratic system.

This is a bulwark against the kind of totalitarian movements that Hannah Arendt defines as: “mass organizations of atomized, isolated, individuals. Compared with all other parties and movements, their most conspicuous external characteristic is their demand for total, unrestricted, unconditional, and unalterable loyalty of the individual member […] it follows from the claim of their ideologies that their organization will encompass, in due course, the entire human race

(Arendt 1951: 323)”. In many ways, this is how modern globalization works. It takes atomized individuals the world over, and of them demands “unconditional and unalterable loyalty”, to the

136

global culture-ideology of consumerism that Leslie Sklair mentioned earlier. These fans can be seen as engaging in a balancing act between global and local trends connected to political ideology and a system which threatens to colonize their life world.

Okan, the Bursaspor fan from the Teksas group, tells the story of his generation of fans and the kind of projects they engage in; he is 32, and belongs to the same generation as me, like so many others I interviewed:

These days for instance we go to nursing homes and visit, make animal shelters, get the animals food. For instance, after the game this week we have a brother— he is sick with Leukemia. May Allah help him. He’s still young, just 12 years old. But he is a fanatic Bursaspor fan. He’s in the hospital now. We learned about it, got the information. We found out what hospital he was in. They said what can we do? Because he is in the hospital now. This week we have a match, and his jersey will come—whoever he wants, whatever player. After the jersey comes all of us are going to that hospital. We will be nearly 200-300 people in the hospital courtyard. We are going to get our brother to the window, and present him with his jersey. And from below, with songs and flares, we will try to give him the best morale we can. We are like this. Today, we do our best to help all of the poor, and families that need help. For instance we have a Whatsapp group, in that group are 250 of my brothers. When one of them says abi, in my neighborhood there is someone like this, they need help, they have kids, their husband left them, they cant pay their electric or water bills, 250 of my friends say ‘abi what can we do?’. Everyone send [that person’s] IBAN number39; is it 10 or 20 or 30 or 40 or 50, whatever has been collected. Are there 5 families? We have the ability to reach 5 families as best as we can. The Teksas tribun is not as it appears. The Teksas tribun is a different concept.

Okan is upset that the the Teksas group is seen from the outside as different from what it is; much of this may stem from media bias. I have no reason to believe that Okan is exaggerating anything here, or that what he says constitutes any form of social desirability bias. Indeed, among the fan groups I followed on social media, I often saw them call for blood donations for those in need, and advertise about events they would be going to in order to help people in need;

39 A number used to identify bank accounts for the purposes of wiring money.

137

often a bank account number would also be given when financial support was in order or a meeting place or contact number would be provided when moral support was in order.

Selami, from Adana Demirspor—a big rival of Bursaspor’s, in fact—also said similar things about his group, the Mavi Simsekler:

In every kind of social event, we do a lot that is helpful to the community. This is one of our foundations anyway. And it is one of the best things about us, because that’s how we see it. Because we—we are not just a tribun—we represent a city. When people look at us from the outside, this is football. They say ‘what do you do, you just go and yell and scream’. [he laughs—JKB]. They say that. But, the tribun has its own unique qualities. It has a culture, it…has a foundation. It is not just the tribun. To say ‘tribun’ carries only the meaning of some team’s fans. But me, I see in the Mavi Simsekler something beyond just a tribun. There are many examples, I can’t fit them in. But what comes most readily to mind…we had a sister, Ozgecan Aslan.40 In Mersin. She was murdered by a bus driver. We did the most to raise awareness for this event in Adana by arranging for a huge banner that completely covered the covered stand saying ‘Ozgecan Aslan’. There are pictures on the internet. You’ve probably seen it [I had—JKB]. In social events…those we can oppose—things that hurt people—we have the strength to raise awareness and make our voices heard. And we have the strength to stand up against them. Another simple example is again one of Adana’s foundational resources, workers, [and] the TEMSA factory.41 The TEMSA factory is to be closed. They announced bankruptcy, and asked for a helping hand. We did some work about this, and went to the factory. We organized protests, encouraging people [unclear who he is referring to—JKB42] to get involved in saving the factory. Because work stopped, we supported the workers, we stood by the workers. We wanted them to feel that we were with them. Because TEMSA…TEMSA is really our property. That’s how we see it. It is property of…Adana. It belongs to Adana. Why? Because TEMSA has been very helpful to Demirspor. They became the chest sponsor and rear sponsor [on jerseys], the bus sponsor; they sponsored the Demirspor Buses. TEMSA is a bus manufacturer. In things like this, we know how to stand beside the workers. Directly the workers—

40 Ozgecan Aslan was a 20 year-old college student who was murdered by a bus driver—after he attempted to rape her—in the southern Turkish town of Mersin in 2015. This event raised a lot of anger towards men in Turkey, and raised awareness regarding the problem of violence against women in the country. For more, see Agence France- Presse in Istanbul (2015).

41 TEMSA is a Turkish bus company based in Adana sold to the Swiss, see MET Staff (2019). Regarding the protests, see Evrensel.net (2020).

42 Later in the interview I asked him why the TEMSA factory closed and he clarified, saying “TEMSA changed hands. It was the debts that surfaced after changing hands. The owner at the time, because of the debts it had to be sold. And the guy that bought it couldn’t deal with it. Now we want the state to help, really. That’s what has to happen. Because we think this will be good for Adana. And because we represent Adana, we want to support this”. From this, it seems that Selami is saying that the consensus was that the state should help this struggling company.

138

for many companies—we stand with those who are oppressed. Because we are the people’s team, we are for the people. We certainly never look down on others, and are always with the people. Because we are the people. What makes Demirspor is the people. We are a team founded in 1940 by the railway workers.

First of all, Selami frames the social activities of the Mavi Simsekler group around localism (“we represent a city”). Second of all, Selami makes it clear that his team stand up for those who are oppressed, they see it as their duty. The case of the TEMSA factory closing is also very interesting, as the fans are resisting the global economy; they do not want to see a local Turkish company move overseas (and lose a valuable source of employment in the local economy).

Again, the nationalist and localist element of fandom comes to the fore, but it is not connected specifically to any particular political party.

Ibrahim, the Eyupspor supporter you met earlier, noted that the social projects the

Eyupspor fans involved themselves in were both local and national. Locally, like many team’s fans, they organized iftar, collective meals breaking the fast, during the Islamic holy month of

Ramadan. Hami at Trabzonspor and Evren at Bandirmaspor told me that their groups also engaged in similar projects; it serves to both bring the community together as well as provide free meals for those who are less fortunate. Ibrahim also told me about the national projects of his group:

A friend of ours works at a hospital in Sirnak43—a state hospital—he asked us, and of course we couldn’t say no. We told him we would do our best. We filled an 18-wheeler full of supplies […]. We sent various things, whatever you can think of, to our brothers in Sirnak; shoes, notebooks and school supplies, anything to try and heal their pain as best we could, we did this in order to help in the name of Eyupspor fans”.

Here it is important to point out that Ibrahim makes no distinction between Turkey’s southeast and regions closer to home. He, and friends in his fan group, are looking to help their country

43 A predominantly Kurdish city in southeast Turkey.

139

and communities as best as they can, and this is why they engage themselves in this kind of material help. This type of material help was most famously done by the Carsi group at Besiktas when they stripped off their clothes in the middle of winter and threw them on the field, in order to donate them to the victims of an earthquake in the city of Van in 2011.44 But material help to local and national groups is not the only kind of assistance that fans engage in.

As Fatih of Denizlispor said earlier, it is important to help people become functioning members of society. Hami, of Trabzonspor, says something similar, and that is why his group— the Gurbetci Gencler—focus so much on students. Hami explains that the Gurbetci Gencler have branches in 70 universities across Turkey, and that is a way that they attract fans. From what

Hami told me, it sounded like the Gurbetci Gencler “table” among other student groups in conspicuous places on campus, like students do at Turlington Plaza at the University of Florida or outside of the Texas Union at the University of Texas in Austin, and try to attract students. He said that many times these branches of the fan group based in universities start social projects in various Anatolian cities, and he gives me an example of one:

For instance I went to Isparta45 3-4 months ago. I went and we…painted a school completely claret and blue [the colors of Trabzonspor—JKB]. We [gave] scarves to the students, it was a missionary activity [laughing]. What can I do? We live in Istanbul, we need to spread it [love for Trabzonspor]. Now look today, if we say from where we are sitting ‘why is this happening, why isn’t this happening’?; that’s not it, who is doing it that way? Some people are doing something, and we need to do something too. Like right now, Isparta is like a city outside of football [They have no team in the top four professional leagues—JKB]. Half [of the city] is for Fenerbahce and the other half for Galatasaray; this means some people did something there at some point and—of course the media has a big effect, they always keep them [the big teams] at the forefront. So what do we do? On our own, I go and give 100 of those students scarves. If 30 of them end up holding— like you know how we plant seeds—if one takes root, that’s enough for me. Now,

44 See OdaTV.com (2011). Interestingly, the Turkish Football Federation fined Besiktas for “objects thrown onto the field of play”. Clearly, no good deed goes unpunished; it is a good example of the draconian rules that football fans must abide by.

45 An inland Aegean province in Western Turkey.

140

we are going to found a university club in Batman46—they call these clubs—the University supports us. [emphasis added—JKB].

Hami focuses on restoring the agency of himself and his group (“we need to do something too”).

He believes that the media sends one narrative about Turkish football, encouraging the support of the major Istanbul teams, and he tries to push back by encouraging the support of his own local team. It is important to note that he is not after total control, if just one of 100 students changes their support it is enough for him because he also recognizes the value of the mosaic that is Turkish football; he does not want to further the homogenization of global sport.

Summing it up: Localism, Nationalism, and Civil Society in the Age of Globalism

In this chapter I presented the localist and nationalist perspectives of the fans I spoke with, and gave a few examples of the kind of community-oriented projects that they involve themselves in when not in the stadium. I particularly underscored their shared commitments to nationalism and national values, and their rejection of divisions based on ethnic, religious, or ideological identities. Before ending this chapter, I will share the perspectives of two fan leaders who I spoke with. I spoke to many, and—as leaders of tens of thousands of people, groups that have more members than many counties in the United States—they have a very unique perspective. Not many people can do this; they are similar to politicians in many ways and they organize and guide thousands of people through social media and, on match days, in the stadiums. I witnessed the tact and diplomacy with which they calm down unruly fans, negotiate with security forces, and grew to respect them immensely for their leadership ability. I will keep them completely anonymous in this section since they are public figures (any mention of team or city will be omitted); which team they are from does not matter—it is their words and

46 A predominantly Kurdish city in eastern Turkey.

141

perspectives that do. It is my hope that this section will sum up why they base their actions in national identity and culture.

One leader talked about the sense of responsibility he has in terms of heading such a large group with such immense power in civil society; with power comes responsibility:

Now in Turkey, in terms of football, we are a top class tribun. I know this very well. From my perspective, we are number one. Because I am a city’s team. A neighborhood’s team...I don’t compare myself to the other teams. We are the only team for [X] million people. When I raise my hand, 15 thousand people behind the goal raise their hand at the same time. The governor, the mayor, the police chief, the bureaucrats, the prime minister, the president…we have the potential to cuss them all out. That’s the kind of tribun strength we have. Today…I’ll say this…we are the biggest civil society organization in [X City]. All the bureaucrats know it. Why? Whenever we want we can go onto the streets as ten thousand, we can march as ten thousand people. We can cuss everything out at the same time as 10 thousand people, there…is no alternative. We can do this, we have the strength. And they know it too. Praise be to Allah, we say nothing to any of them. Whatever we want, they do it. Whenever we are in need, they help.

This fan leader understands the great power that they have, and that is why they need to have the right values (such as not openly insulting—through profanity—public figures); such a powerful force, if wielded inappropriately, could be dangerous for society. He understands the responsibility he has not only to the fans he leads, but also to his country and its elected officials.

This, of course, is also what makes the fans so dangerous in the eyes of the politicians and big business. This is why divisions are encouraged, and why the cultural sphere has been so politicized—although it is presented as depoliticization—around the world. The culture industry serves to actively divide the population through culture47 to make sure that people cannot come together as one voice, because this would threaten those who hold power in corporate circles connected to the state; that is the basis of the fans’ opposition to industrial football. As Norbert

Elias says in The Civilizing Process, “The single ruler, the king, is always an individual

47 The building of new stadia, with different ticket tiers appealing to different income brackets, is just one example of this.

142

incomparably weaker than the whole society whose ruler or first servant he is. If this whole society, or even a considerable part of it, stood together against him, he would be powerless as every individual is powerless in face of pressure from a whole network of interdependent people” (Elias 2000 [1939]: 321-322). As this fan leader says, the state knows it and—it seems— multinational corporations do as well.

And given the exploitation of social cleavages, often by political figures—appealing to the hypermodern world’s emphasis on the individual and consumerism—it should come as no surprise that the fans, as independent entities struggling with the culture industry (they are not monetized, as I discussed in the Chapter 4) should look to maintain their independence by not succumbing to divisions based on individual identities or political party ideologies within their own groups since this would dilute their message. Another fan leader explained his reasoning by talking in regards to the university branches of his group:

I tell all of the leaders of [the other teams], there should be no fighting in the schools. Why? For years Turkey has become a nest for organizations. They took normal students and pulled them close, they always ran after some political ideology. In Turkey the left/right struggle happened for instance, people died.48 But these were actually people from this society. What do we do in our group? We do not allow for this kind of division. But the schools…maybe some in the government looked the other way. The kids would go to the schools, become either right wing or a leftist and then would shoot one another a year later. Now illegal organizations, even terrorist organizations have started to form groups in the schools. I think this way, at the university [our fan group] is an active group. [All of the team’s fan groups] are masses. And there is this also, in Turkey— exceptions don’t disprove a rule but—tribuncu people cannot be traitors to their country in Turkey. I’m going to give an example of this a little later on. They, when they come together occasionally…I believe that in the universities when fans come together during times that our national values are being threatened, those kinds of organizations will not easily form in those schools. I say this with my own perspective to the kids. This is not some politician’s or other person’s swaying [them]. Why? Schools are places for education. Here your ideology— you finish your education, and in your normal life—if its politics its politics, go wherever you want. But, you [the schools] go and take one of our young brothers from Anatolia, whose brain is not yet fully developed, and pull them this way and

48 Referring to the street violence of the 1970s where many died.

143

that way. His mother is a leftist you make him right wing. His mother is right wing you make him a leftist. The kid comes from [his city], from a different family background, he comes back to [his city] and says ‘I wont pay my country taxes, I wont do this for my country’. We are shocked. One of my relatives, we lost the kid. He’s gone. He…went after one of those organizations, he destroyed his life. Now he stays at home, doesn’t know what he’s doing and speaks with no one. There are many stories like this one. He got mixed up with some group, some tarikat49 or something. This is why the schools are places of education. What lies beneath not allowing these kinds of things is of course nationalism. And when I say nationalism I’m not saying it in terms of the Nationalist Action Party [MHP]. It is love for a country, the homeland; for us it is the flag, nation, state. This is it. This is the real topic. There [the team], the group all that…it doesn’t matter. When the issue is the nation, there no one can tell us anything. That is another topic. Outside of that, everyone’s area is clear. But when necessary, we will learn to stand shoulder to shoulder. And I always try to explain that to our university groups. [emphasis added].

This fan leader says a lot here, but I believe it was worth quoting at length. For him, the issue of nationalism is not a choice between left wing or right wing; it is where the conversation stops (or starts, depending on one’s perspective). For him, education should be education, politics should be politics, and the nation should be of the utmost importance, far beyond narrow ideological perspectives. This is why he believes ideological politics are dangerous whether in the university or in the stadium, and why he believes that his fan group—which he sees as inclusive—is a better alternative to religious “tarikats”, which are by definition exclusive to those who subscribe to that Islamic identity. The important thing for this fan leader is giving the members of his group a common ground—based on shared values like supporting a certain team—from which they can grow.

This disavowal of an explicit “left” or “right” position was observed in Turkey by Adrien

Battini (2012), and can also be seen among some sections of European fandom; Roland

Benedikter and Dariusz Wojtaszyn focus on Central and Eastern European fan groups to note that:

49 A religious group.

144

many of the local fan groups, although belonging to very different ideological and social stripes, conceive their actions more often than hooligans in other European nations as openly political—i.e. mainly as a form of resistance. “Resistance against the system”—including the national, the European and global “systems”—is their unifying bond (Benedikter and Wojtaszyn 2018: 79).

This description sounds very similar to the position of the Italian ultras studied by Testa and

Armstrong, who concluded that “even if many of the members are neo-fascist sympathisers, they consider themselves autonomous from any political party” (Testa and Armstrong, 2009: 76).

Indeed, one of their informants (from the left, an AS Roma fan), said:

I do not like politics and do not follow it! I am an extra-parliamentary; I follow the Third Position—the ‘revolutionary position’. The Italian system is putrid; if the tree is sick to the root, it cannot give fruits […] The extreme left and right converge on some issues … (Testa and Armstrong, 2009: 78).

Just like the Italian Ultras—who developed in response to the Italian political environment of the

1970s and 1980s—Eastern and Central European fans developed their ideology in the context of communism, and “the overall main spirit of such communist-born football culture became

‘resistance’ against a system—the communist one—which was increasingly perceived as anti- creative, repressive and inhuman (Ibid.: 86). Indeed, the authoritarian context which spawned

“communist-born” football culture is very similar to the authoritarian culture of hypermodern globalism, which is equally “anti-creative” and inhuman, with its attempts to rationalize and control human emotional behavior.

Still, the explicit political positions of Eastern European fan groups and Italian fan groups are distinct from the Turkish case since both of the former fan formations came of age in response to a situation that was already politicized. As I have pointed out earlier, Turkish fan groups were not founded in relation to any political movement, which might be one reason that they do not see themselves as explicitly political. Instead, the Turkish fans I spoke with espouse a collectivist identity—rooted in nationalism—and resist the individualist identities mobilized by

145

party politics. When viewed beyond political ideology, these fans could be espousing what Alan

Bairner recognizes; nationalism can act “as a potentially progressive, counter-hegemonic force in specific contexts” (Bairner 2009: 206). The ever increasing encroachment on local and national sport by global cultural and economic forces might be one such context.

146

CHAPTER 6 VIOLENCE IN FOOTBALL: MORALITY AND HYPERMODERNITY

At a point—the tribun atmosphere is kind of like a street operation—a place where a little bit of blunt force [is necessary], where the strong survive. But there is also this. While everyone is fighting, there needs to be someone who can create balance, someone who is more constructive and conciliatory. It is this way in marches for instance, in some social projects, and in other group projects within the tribun. In these organizations for instance…I took a little more of a proactive role, [in] our struggles, our work, [and] that crowd. It isn’t an easy job to design the 20,000 people marching on the street, [so that they can] voice their protest in a civilized manner without causing trouble.

—Interview with the leader of a fan group.

Sitting in a café outside of Istanbul University, Hami is telling me the story of how he became a Trabzonspor fan. His family had moved away from Trabzon when he was young, so he became used to supporting his team from afar. Due to his age, his story is distinct from modern fandom. Back then, in the 1980s and into the early 1990s, tickets were not sold in advance. Fans would camp out over night in order to get the tickets in the morning when the ticket offices opened. Of course, this camping out—and concentration of groups of fans—increased the chances for violent interactions. Yet, one such violent interaction is just what made Hami the

Trabzonspor fan he is today. Let’s hear it as he lived it:

…I went [to the stadium], of course people are talking [in the city], last year they stabbed a Trabzonspor fan here, etc. I don’t know anything about this, I’m a kid, and I had been in Trabzon. Because we didn’t see a lot of opposing fans, because they couldn’t come to Trabzon comfortably in those days, they couldn’t come and hang their banners, we were a little more strict back then. And here [in the city] they are talking about fights, someone was stabbed, this and that, I…was kind of unsure. You know, Trabzon—We are Trabzonlu there, we are Trabzonsporlu. We went over to the stadium at night, we’re waiting by the stadium; the game is at three in the afternoon and we’re waiting over night. The ticket office will open and we will get tickets. I’m with friends. We all have scarves and jerseys on. People like us came to get tickets overnight from Istanbul and they saw us there. We became about 20-30 people. Then they [the fans of the opposing team] came as a group, to chase us out [with] bottles, rocks. They go away, then they come back again…they come a second time, after an exchange. Then they leave, this time they’ll come back with reinforcements. That’s when—lets call them the

147

elders—of our group, they arrive from Istanbul, in their hands are weapons, sharp weapons, and they attack these guys like you wouldn’t believe. That’s when something forms inside me. I say to myself ‘Ok. I’ve found it!’. Of course, this is where I should be. Because as Trabzonspor, our strength is away [from home]. That’s where my connection to the group starts… [emphasis added].

Hami is talking about Turkey in the early 1990s, right on the cusp of the neoliberal transformation. Even though I didn’t live it like Hami, I also know that my own experiences with stadium violence also hooked me on football. It is the adrenaline rush, it is the moments that make you truly think about your life and the life of those who you care about, your friends and your family. The hyperreality of hypermodernity lulls us into a false sense of security. In reality, everything we have, that we have built, can slip away in a fraction of the time it took us to build it all up; it is true on a personal level just as it is on a societal level and one need only look at

Theda Skocpol’s States and Social Revolutions for confirmation. And perhaps it is facing this very reality that makes the violence that existed in fandom for so many years so appealing to so many.

But this violence was not random at all, it did not come out of a vacuum. And that is what is important to recognize, before going into the details. Hami offers another important observation that must be kept in mind. As a veteran of the fan circuit—who has experienced the changes—Hami is uniquely positioned to tell us this story. He explains:

The footballer is going to win the match on the field and we need to win outside. We needed to not create a sense of defeat. When there is a confrontation [with other fans], there needs to be a fight. And when did this start in Turkey? When money came into football…the beginning of the 1990s, 1989. When money came into football, when bonuses began to be paid, when new stadiums started to be built, when grass fields started to be made…the amateur spirit of football in this country was destroyed. Now…for instance…what did Ataturk say? I like sportsmen who are smart, agile, and with morals.1 Now…is it right to search for morals in a footballer who…tries to get their opponent to be sent off [with a red card]? Provoking thousands of people there…there are many examples like this. The private lives of footballers…their way of life. It all goes into the tabloids. I

1 “Ben Sporcunun Zeki, Cevik, ve Ahlaklisini Severim”.

148

mean we have seen such repugnant things…that’s why…football is completely different before the 1990s…1990 and 2000-2005; lets say 2007. [Emphasis added].

Hami points out that the honor and morality that footballers had slowly left the game. They were not highly paid celebrities; they were normal people from the neighborhood—or perhaps the city—who had extraordinary athletic ability (Yuce 2016). In short, sports represented just another profession; it was no different than, say, being a sociologist. When large amounts of money came into the picture, this began to change (Emrence 2010: 244). A Fatih Karagumruk fan I casually spoke with at one match who was in his 50s and worked selling organic produce at a weekly farmer’s market in Istanbul told me during our conversation that he had played for

Karagumruk and a few other teams before being forced into early retirement after suffering a severe broken leg. As we watched the match, a hard foul occurred and he said something along the lines of what Hami said; in his day footballers worked together, they were part of the same profession, but now they look at one another as rivals—on and off the field—and some try to injure one another so as to get a bigger part of the financial pie. Whether or not this is true, of course, cannot be empirically proven. However, it is indisputable that money has changed the dynamic of football on and off the field. It has made the stakes higher, and with higher stakes comes the potential for more violence.

Just as that potential exists among players, it also exists among fans. This is because being in a fan group—certainly being the leader of one—offers an avenue to money by way of connections to the team and wider community, as I discussed earlier. Additionally, as some literature regarding hooliganism in the British context has discussed, the shift to neoliberalism— and subsequent changes in British society—also led to an uptick of violence (aggro) surrounding football, leading to exclusionary practices directed at the working class that aimed to replace that demographic with more middle class—and higher paying—customers so as to reduce violence

149

(Dunning, Murphy, and Williams 1986; King 1997; King 1997b; Marsh, Rosser and Harre

1980). In the Turkish context too, this general frustration with the inequities of daily life in the hypermodern world sometimes comes to the fore. One club president I spoke with at length explained it to me very well, putting the fans directly in the context of global developments:

The Turkish state wants to grow football in Turkey. Because football is the most popular sport, and…appeals most to the poorer groups and lower classes, football is in vogue. It is in vogue in the world too, as you know. In the past, the poor would play and the rich would watch, now the rich play and the poor watch. For instance, the players are all very rich but the viewers are all poor, people who are worried about making ends meet and who come from below average income groups and families […] People like this need to…in some way release the passion, energy, grudges, and anger they have collected […] In the end this society needs to release their stress in some way. Just as how in an earthquake, there is stress and that stress gets released. Energy collects there, and then that energy explodes, and when it explodes...that moves the masses […] What did people say during the elections?2 Polls…these polling companies said the biggest factor behind Imamoglu’s victory was the kitchen. The kitchen is on fire. You know people first need to eat. They cannot stay hungry. They can delay clothing but cannot remain hungry. And food comes from the kitchen. When the prices of tomatoes, cheese, bread, beans, meat, and fish suddenly rise—they take notice when it comes from their pocket. They say last month we ate the same things but this month we are out of money. They look, there was a payment plan, there are credit card bills, they cannot pay them. Their wage is the same. The wage doesn’t grow. The wage goes down. In the world there is extraordinary impoverishment. This isn’t just about Turkey; it is all over the world. After 2008 this really got out of control […] Now no one can buy a house, at most they can pay off existing debts. If they get a watermelon they can get a quarter watermelon at most, not a full watermelon. In my childhood, in my youth, just 15 years—even 10 years even 5 years ago—watermelons were not sold precut in Turkey. Now watermelons are being sold precut…[Emphasis added].

This club president, despite being a wealthy man himself, did a great job of summing up what is not just a Turkish problem, but a global problem. Globalization has not increased equality all over the world, but exacerbated inequality. Perhaps economist E.F. Schumacher (1973) was right when he said “Small Is Beautiful”; too much interconnectedness increases the risk of contagion.

2 The municipal elections in 2018 which brought the current Istanbul Mayor Ekrem Imamoglu into office.

150

And the stresses that result from this inequity must be released; like Hami says it is money that comes to the fore when talking about violence in stadiums. Unfortunately, most academic studies on the topic tend to reduce the phenomenon to simple explanations that sound more like soundbites, such as “hard masculinity” (Spaaij 2008). This is why it is important to take a wider view of the issue, rather than succumb to the over-simplified—and misleading—explanations focused solely on quasi-determinist notions of gender identity (even if it is one element in certain contexts).

This is what I will attempt to do in this chapter, given that violence is often portrayed as characterizing Turkish football (Mcmanus 2018, Keddie 2018). Personally, in the 77 matches I attended, I only witnessed minor outright fan violence in four matches, and in only one did I feel in any possible danger (a visit to Eyupspor as an away fan with Bandirmaspor). Even then, the fans took me aside and assured me that the rocks being thrown couldn’t reach us (they were right). The first part of this chapter will discuss the general ethos of the fans which lie just outside the law, and that is why they do justify violence in terms of certain moral cases connected to their vision of justice. In the second part, I will discuss the relationship between hypermodern society and violence, pointing out other factors that increase the potential for violence in the stadium—unrelated to any moral foundation but related to the ongoing rationalization of an emotional sphere—such as social and regular media and over-policing.

Morality Just Outside the Law

It is a warm early November day and I am in the Izmir Ataturk Stadium, watching

Karsiyaka face a provincial team in the lowest level of Turkish professional football—the fourth tier TFF 3. League. Despite the low level of football, many Karsiyaka fans have gathered and their passion is evident. Sadly, because the stadium is so large, even the 10,000 in attendance— usually unheard of in fourth tier football—are dwarfed by the size of the 80,000 capacity

151

stadium. Karsiyaka fans are boisterous, however, and their chant rings out in the mostly empty stadium:

Lalalalalaylay, lalalalaylay; lalalalalaylay, lalalalaylay Wind in the stadiums; the match on my mind In the middle of the night; the old fans They’re smoking hashish; quietly and silently The Kaf Kaf3 I miss; is now on the field Crazy words; Doped up eyes The 2000s; wait for Kaf Kaf…

This Karsiyaka chant is one of the most famous in Turkish football (I also find it to be unusually catchy), and many teams have appropriated it. I use it here to stress that fans are just outside the law; they emphasize smoking hashish in this chant and I the use of such substances among fans is part of their folklore. Similarly, alcohol use is a part of the culture too. One fan I spoke with (I will not identify the team, since it is a sensitive subject) explained to me that in his own bus there is a sense of right and wrong even if they are just outside of the law:

Ok, on our bus we drink alcohol anyway, because we like alcohol—around here alcohol is liked, and consumed. And, at one point, there were a lot of drugs in the stands. We are the opposite. We are against drugs all around. Unacceptable, especially chemicals. Because these have developed recently…for instance we are violent against those who use them [chemicals]. We chase them away. We beat them. They are gone. We push them away. There is absolutely no place for them. Buuut, if they clean themselves up and come back, we take them back in. Chemicals, they are different—we are definitely against them.

For this fan, it was important to draw the line between alcohol and “grass” as opposed to chemical drugs, which he noted had become more common place in recent years. Certainly, in

3 A common moniker for Karsiyaka; “Kaf Kaf” refers to the Perso-Arabic letter “qaf”, and the original badge of Karsiyaka—formed in 1912 before the republic—used Arabic script. The K.S.K. on the club’s badge—standing for “Karsiyaka Spor Kulubu’ [Karsiyaka Sports Club]—represented by the Perso-Arabic letters “Qaf”, “Sin”, and “Qaf” provided the team with its modern day nickname and famous chant: “Kaf Kaf” and “Kaf Kaf Kaf, Sin Sin Sin, KafSin KafSin Kaf!”.

152

my childhood the use of illicit drugs was very rare in Turkish society, but usage has gradually increased among the younger generations (similar trends can be observed in the United States).

I heard stories from fans about teams with an aura of violence as well, and one taxi driver—humorously—wished me well when dropping me off at Fatih Karagumruk’s Vefa

Stadium, saying “I’ve seen it all at this stadium, from beer and vodka bottles being thrown onto the field to even a man who took out a gun and fired shots at the players!”. Obviously, I have no way to verify this information but the Vefa Stadium has a folkloric history for being

“dangerous”. One of Istanbul’s oldest stadiums, it is located below the main road of Fatih and consists of a covered stand, two open stands behind the goal, and—in lieu of a stand opposite the covered stand—are the remnants of a Roman aqueduct and apartment blocks above it, lining that side of the stadium. Fans watch from their balconies and join in the chanting; this is because

Fatih Karagumruk is very much a neighborhood team, representing the locals since their founding in 1926 in what might be one of the world’s most interesting stadiums.4 Still, I witnessed no incidences at any Fatih Karagumruk match I went to despite their passionate support.

That being said, the Fatih Karagumruk fans maintain an identity that reminded me of that which the London team Millwall have cultivated, best summarized by Garry Robson (2000).

The favorite chant of Karagumruk fans is “Doner, doner, doner5/cleaver, cleaver, cleaver/The king of this world/Are those from Karagumruk”.6 Karagumruk fans use this chant to embrace

4 Asaf Ayçıl (1982). 1926-1982 Dünden Bugüne Karagümrük Gençlik Kulübü. Istanbul: Cağaloğlu.

5 Here “Doner” refers to the knife used to cut doner meat of the spit, similar to Gyros in Greece and Shwarma in the wider Middle East.

6 Doner, doner, doner; Satir satir satir; Bu alem’de kral; Karagumrukluler!

153

their “hard” image like the Millwall fans Garry Robson (2000) studied. Similar to Millwall— whose hardness is a reaction to the more refined areas of London as a “global city”—

Karagumruk might see their representation of the neighborhood of Fatih as a reaction to the

(historically) European side of Istanbul, Pera, that lies across the Golden Horn and was the basis of Istanbul’s “global city” for decades until the formation of a modern business district in

Levent. At one match I even heard the Fatih Karagumruk fans chant “Football is violence/football is hooliganism/football is stabbing people”.7

The point here is that some fans do see violence as a way of life in the stadium. Perhaps it is a holdover from the days that Hami spoke about, when it was “hardmen” who ruled the stands

(see Armstrong (1998) for more on this culture). Taner, the 27-year old Adana Demirspor fan, was one of the few fans I spoke with who shared the views espoused by the aforementioned chants. As I said, the Karagumruk fans did not—in the five matches I visited at the Vefa stadium—engage in any form of physical violence; their chant was designed to intimidate the visiting players (and likely) fans. Still, my conversation with Taner is worth repeating at length to understand the justification that some fans have for any violence that might ensue as a result of football fandom. I started by asking Taner what his favorite memory from an away game was:

T: For years they talk about the enmity between Mersin and Adana Demirspor. Mersin Idmanyurdu…as I said, there is this enmity between Mersin Idmanyurdu and Adana Demirspor. My best deplasman happened in Mersin in 2008. We went as 1,000 people…as 1,000 we chased 10,000 in Mersin. We got beaten up by the cops, this and that happened, that was my favorite deplasman.

J: But it involved violence.

T: Yes, there was violence but it was a nice kind of violence [he laughs—JKB]. Think about it this way. First of all, you do not like Mersin. Second of all, you do

7 This chant is itself derived from a 1990s pop song by the duo Uf & Er called “Futbol”; ironically, this song was designed to highlight the less violent side of football fandom. Still, the Karagumruk fans use this reinterpretation of the cultural form of a pop song in order to create a more intimidating atmosphere for rival fans; it can be seen as a response to the encroachment of the culture industry on a hitherto un-commodified space.

154

not like the fan group of Mersin. You cannot handle their colors, you know how you show a bull red? It attacks. And if you show us red and blue8, orange and white9, green and white10, we will get an urge to attack. And if you show them blue and navy11 they will also have an urge to attack. Let me put it this way. We love everyone who supports their own city’s team. Even if they are our enemy […] For instance, they are also very connected to their own city. Another good example, as much as we might fight or do this or that, we will send our wishes at a funeral or something like that. We will go pay our respects at their homes.

J: That’s nice.

T: Of course. But…when we come face to face in the stadium. Swear words, metal, sticks, armor, its all flying.

J: Why?

T: It’s what needs to happen!

J: But why?

T: Because you are a fan group. We…aren’t the group that eats sunflower seeds. You go there, they say I have some abi, from who knows where, who is Adana Demirsporlu. You like them. When you catch them you go at them, its both entertaining and enjoyable. You beat and get beaten…I don’t know, and when there isn’t a match you say hi when you see them on the street. And this is the best part. Yes you fight, you insult, you beat them up, I don’t know you hurt one another and stuff but…after the match and you see them on the street you hug for instance, for instance you sit at the same café and smoke a hookah; you talk about the match.

J: So you smoke hookah together with the Mersin fans?

T: Of course! For instance, I went to Mersin last summer for vacation, I had a Demirspor jersey on. About 30 people chased me. Even this was a great feeling for me. Maybe if they had caught me they would have lynched me, maybe they would have beaten me up, maybe something else could have happened. But even their chasing you is a really good thing, can you imagine? These guys don’t want you in their city. Can there be a fan group like this? I don’t know, the guys stand up for their own city, for their own team.

8 The colors of Mersin Idmanyurdu.

9 The colors of Adanaspor.

10 The colors of Bursaspor.

11 The colors of Adanademirspor.

155

J: And…in some way I suppose they were respecting you as well.

T: Of course! I don’t know, had they caught me maybe they would have torn me to pieces or something else would have happened. For instance, when we see them here were will chase them and beat them, they will beat us up…these are very good things; the beauty of football is here. As long as it isn’t life or death, this is the beauty of football.

J: ‘It isn’t life or death, but violence is a part of it?’.

T: Of course, violence is a part of football.

J: How so?

T: How so? First of all, your love for the team. Your love for the badge. Let me put it this way, I see this badge as my honor. For instance you go out…someone is burning your jersey. Man, you are losing your honor! They could lower the Turkish flag, or they could burn my jersey—for me it is the same thing. So what do you do? You attack. Allah either gives you or them the upper hand. Wham bam! Then what happens? You’re both in the hospital together and laughing at one another. Man, what are we doing, look what’s happened to us. You can’t help it!

There are many elements of my conversation with Taner here that must be pointed out. First of all, there is the element of extreme localism; he sees himself as representing his city and therefore respects those who also represent their city. This is a kind of mutual respect that is formed between fans, paradoxically, through violent exchanges like this one, and this kind of relationship has been seen in the British context (Armstrong 1998).

Much of this resembles the kind of thought presented in the movie Fight Club. The movie is essentially a critique of capitalist society; with the breakdown of norms and values, people became morally lax—so to speak—and longed for some kind of feeling to shake them out of the banality of their lives, the most important element of which was going to and from work. Taner might be responding to the same kind of banality, as he goes as far as to find the violence

“enjoyable”.12 And, like in other hooligan cultures in Europe, they see themselves as on the same

12 I also hung out with Besiktas fans before a match where they recounted stories of their old escpades, with a member of the Carsi Berlin (Besiktas’ branch of the Carsi group Germany) referring to my participant who

156

page so—as long as there is no death—they can laugh about it in the end. Indeed, many fan cultures in Europe organize these brawls before matches (Kossakowski 2017: 708). Some fans I spoke with in Stockholm, from the team of Hammarby, assured me that these were not low lives; there were also doctors and lawyers among them. For them, it might have been a stress release from the banality of Swedish society; Aage Radmann (2014) explains that many in Sweden participate in their fan groups out of a sense of dissatisfaction stemming from their own lives in the hyper-rationalized (and progressive) Swedish society, and several of his interviewees “assert that they have great regard for what they call traditional family values, and express concern over what they perceive as the normlessness of society” (Radmann 2014: 558). This might be what

Hami was alluding to, when he said that the violence in Turkish stadiums came with the arrival of money in the football world; with the advent of globalism and globalization, the hypermodernity—with all of its normlessness, sanitized lifestyle, and inequalities—entered

Turkish society. And that, as I have argued throughout, is something that many fans may be responding to.

Most of the fans I spoke with did not “sugar coat” or paint over instances of violence, rather they tried to explain their rationale. This is important, because fans are concerned with self preservation; they are not interested in random violence (indeed that is often sanctioned, as it brings a bad name to the group and—in some cases—even penalties from the state). It is also important to understand that this section is not designed to condone violence, rather—like Max

Weber—it is an attempt at Verstehen. This is essential, because—contrary to popular belief— hypermodern society is inherently violent; it is reminiscent of Foucault’s point in Discipline and

Punish regarding modern society, whereby the punishment is no longer inflicted directly on the

introduced us: “Could you imagine him chasing a Kayserispor fan with a meat cleaver? He is so clean cut!”. My participant laughed, saying “my looks have saved me a lot from the cops in the past!”.

157

body, it is inflicted on the soul itself. In the hypermodern world this trend has been accelerated; it is rare that we see physical violence in, say, a classroom. Yet it is all too common to see the terms “Racist!” or “Sexist!” directed at students with reckless abandon, as potential enemies are slandered morally; this too is violence—it is a hypermodern form of violence connected to

Foucault’s observation and Bourdieu’s “Symbolic Violence”.

Okan, the Bursaspor fan you met earlier, explains that, “it [the tribun] gave me friendship…it gave me friendship and it also gave me enemies!”. He is aware of the double edged sword of fandom, and further explains that:

Teksas is not as it seems from the outside, when you get into it there is a lot of evil. The good parts are many. Are there not bad parts? There are. And the biggest factor in those bad parts is us. And we face it. But where it needs to be faced.

Here Okan is drawing a thin line. There is evil, and they know it. But they are also the ones that deal with it…when it is necessary. Evren, the Bandirmaspor fan you met earlier, said something similar when discussing the familial aspect of fandom:

We are trying to bring the emphasis on family to the fore. Because…in our youth there was a alot of…hooliganism. I too did a lot of things, back then there weren’t as many penalties. I did it, and I won’t deny it. But I also won’t see it as wrong.

Here Evren is acknowledging the things he did, but he recognizes that they were done for a reason and he doesn’t see any reason to deny or regret them. When recounting an old story of violence in the stadium, he gives me a similar response even when criticizing the days of hooliganism:

You would go, watch the match and come back. The windows [on the buses] would break, I don’t know. We always experienced it, broken windows. Coming back from Eyup for instance, they threw rocks at the windows, broke our windows. Even the team bus—years ago, 5-6 years ago—and also the fan bus. You wonder, was it necessary? If our guys did it, I’d still criticize it. Some years past individual groups threw rocks, it’s wrong. Even if our guys do it it’s still wrong. But, if there is a real problem, that’s a different story.

158

While rejecting the senseless violence, Evren still recognizes that there is a place for violence when “there is a real problem”. The fact that there is even a concept of a time and place for violence suggests that these fans are responding to certain things. Selami, from Adana

Demirspor, explained to me that they beat up a kid a few years ago for throwing a rock through the window of their bus. When I asked him to explain, he said that there had to be some punishment because he and his friends faced an 18-hour bus ride in the middle of the winter with a shattered window; if they were to suffer the perpetrator had to be taught a lesson as well.

Sergen, the 32-year old ex-Besiktas fan I introduced earlier, provides a useful perspective on events like this:

The events these days, I don’t like to use this term but…there is no valor13 in them. How do things happen? When the away fans approach the stadium what happens? They get a few rocks thrown at them when they cross the city limits. It is an ambush, there is no all out brawl, there is nothing that really shows who is the strongest. It is just something that no one saw or heard other than the 30-40 people on that bus and the 10-15 people who threw rocks…there is nothing concrete but the brouhaha will go on for weeks on social media. This is one effect of social media […] In the past it wasn’t like this, it was known from the beginning that there would be a fight, that fight would happen—they would fight with sticks or fists or whatever—those who were beaten would retreat and the others would enter the tribun.

Here Sergen touches on the effects of social media, which I will discuss later in this chapter.

Outside of that, he also describes the changing aspects of fandom. There used to be—as he terms it—“valor”, a kind of honor in standing up for your team and making the visitors unwelcome.

Now, it has deteriorated into something similar to wanton violence. After all, the bus company chartered by the fans does not deserve to have the windows of their bus shattered; if there are issues among fans Sergen thinks that they should face one another without causing collateral damage to their community.

13 The Turkish word used is “Yigitlik”, which can also mean—among other things—“bravery”, “courage”, and “chivalry”.

159

Selami, from Adana Demirspor, also believes that fans should face one another face to face if they feel as if they have been disrespected. Earlier, Selami explained his fandom by saying that he would be willing to get in a fight for someone he didn’t know, simply because they carried the same badge that he holds dear. He said that he “sees them as a part of his blood”.

He expands on this concept by giving an example from a match:

This is true for everyone who carries the badge. When we were in the lower leagues, we had a match with Tarsus Idmanyurdu. There a fan, in Tarsus, in the lower leagues—threw a punch at one of our players who carries our badge. And we were in the deplasman stand of course. We do not condone any harm that comes to any individual carrying the badge. We went onto the field. The players ran away. The fans…they got roughed up a bit, honestly. For the other side— Tarsus Idmanyurdu—it wasn’t a good time, of course.

Selami makes it clear that the violence that resulted in his opponents having a less than optimum experience was not wanton, it was a result of a direct disrespect of his team and the players that carried the badge he stands for; it was a response to an act of aggression by the other side.

Ibrahim, the Eyupspor fan I spoke with, pointed out that alcohol sometimes plays a role in amplifying the insults that get hurled from opposing fans; this is because insults—and particularly swear words—are taken seriously in Turkish culture. As Ibrahim explains:

You might be able to drink alcohol responsibly, but if you cross that line…you might fight with your own brother at home. Now, someone who drinks; for example we as Eyupspor went to Karagumruk. We lost 1-0, and they started swearing at us for instance. When just one person swears the stands get sparked. Then what happens? Then they respond and there becomes a problem [between fan groups].

While Ibrahim attributes this kind of conflict partially to alcohol, and he might be correct since I met many fans who told me that they specifically do not drink before matches so as to be—quite literally—sober minded. The seriousness of profanity in the stadium is also an important element, and Sergen from Besiktas notes that the breaking point in his fandom came specifically because of a failure of the fans to respond to verbal abuse coming from the other side. Here he

160

tells the story of the match he went to, a cup tie between Besiktas and Fenerbahce, which reflects the loss of moral values caused by industrial football:

S: For the last 10 minutes of that match the Fenerbahce fans were cussing everyone out, from mothers to wives to Suleyman Seba [a highly respected former club president—JKB] to Senol Gunes [the former Besiktas coach—JKB]. Their cussing isn’t the issue, it happens and Besiktas fans do it too, but while they swore in the stadium for 10 minutes there was no response from anyone. I mean…they are swearing at Suleyman Seba, at your coach who is on the field, and at Besiktas; they are swearing at everyone.

J: They were swearing at you.

S: Exactly they were swearing at us, and no one said anything. All people cared about in a 2-2 match was can we score one more goal, etc. Maybe it sounds weird but it made my blood boil. I mean…at that moment…as those people swore I said ‘man if this was the old Inonu [Stadium] they would have taken those words and stuck them up their you know what’, you know what I mean? That stuff wouldn’t have been able to last even 10 seconds, but it lasted 10 minutes. One minute passed, two minutes passed, it was the 80th minute then the 90th minute but they’re still swearing and there is no response from anyone.

[…]

J: Why was there no response?

M: Because by now…there really are none of those people who come to live the excitement of the stadium. The majority who come say ‘I gave my money Besiktas should win this match’…of course there are some who are of the type I mentioned earlier but they are now very few unfortunately. That is why for people…the excitement of the tribun, the jargon of the tribun banter, it doesn’t matter. They don’t care. The most important thing is Besiktas winning that match. Their victory. Other than that nothing is important for people because why? Now people pay at the minimum 100-150 Liras [Around 20-25 USD—JKB] to go to these matches.

Sergen’s story here is telling, and it is also heartbreaking. This was the breaking point for him, and it caused him to lose the team that he had started supporting way back when his father had first taken him to the stadium. In a way, it was the end of a personal era for Sergen. He supported

Besiktas because he respected what they stood for. But, in the age of industrial football, those who stood for something had been pushed out. And what was left was a shell of the former

161

stadium; as the existing fans allowed for the disrespect in the stadium to go on since their only motivation was personal and individual: I paid, so my team must win. It is also important to note that Sergen was not a fan who had a history of violence nor did he ever advocate for it, he was not a fan leader or part of any organized group. He was just a regular, and as such knew many of those connected to Besiktas’s various fan groups. But even for him, the unchecked disrespect was a bridge too far (“It made my blood boil”). This is an example of how most stadium violence stems from issues connected to morality: disrespect and, ultimately, standing for something are what can push some people to violence.

A Search for Justice in an Unjust World: The Center/Periphery Conflict

Most of the literature on Turkey revolves around social cleavages stemming from either religion (Islam/secular) or ethnicity (Kurdish/Turkish). In football, these divides were not emphasized by any of the fans I spoke with or observed (even though I was unable to speak with the fans of teams from southeast Turkey). The one divide I did notice manifested itself in a form of urban/rural divide between Istanbul and Anatolia. Istanbul, being a “global” city in the globalist parlance, gets the lion’s share of attention from the world’s culture industry, as well as from transnational corporations and enjoys a hegemonic position in Turkish cultural life.

Anatolia, on the other hand, is often neglected despite being the heart of Turkey’s national character (and not to mention 97 percent of the country’s land mass); in this sense it is very similar to the “heartland” in America vis-à-vis the coastal urban centers (Los Angeles, San

Francisco, New York, and Washington, D.C.). This reflects an inter-elite struggle within Turkey, between the rising conservative bourgeoisie and traditional (Kemalist) bourgeoisie, a struggle that “cannot be explained solely in cultural or ideological terms. The division is principally about

162

economic interests and political preferences” (Tanyilmaz 2015: 101).14 For fans of smaller teams, this reflected a perceived bias by the state in supporting rivals from more politically and financially “connected” locales.

Hami opened his interview with me by openly describing the localist element of

Trabzonspor fandom, while connecting it to violence in the context of the big Istanbul teams. He explains that, for his group, the “quest for excitement”—to borrow from Elias and Dunning

(1986)—is what draws them to the stadium:

…our group, we don’t enjoy the matches in our own stadium in Trabzon as much. For us…it needs to be Ankara, Adana, Kayseri, Malatya…or even better, the cities that have an antipathy towards Trabzonspor…going to these cities brings out our true spirit. During good times, when things are comfortable, our group— the main guys—they will be a little quiet. But if someone says there is a difficult situation in such and such city, they are waiting for us, they will say ‘ok, we are going there’. There is this kind of logic in our group. And what does this come from? You know how there are some nations? There are warrior nations like this. It comes from our grandfathers and forefathers. Our group was formed in Istanbul in the 1980s, but here was Fenerbahce, Galatasaray, Besiktas—lets think about 4 teams with the same goal, [and] Trabzonspor. The majority of these teams’ fan groups are in Istanbul, so being among them, in order to survive, we learned how to struggle with them, our older abis in the 1990s…before these e-tickets, before the laws got stricter, it was kind of anything goes.

Hami brings in national identity (“warrior nations”) while stressing that the excitement for his group comes from proving themselves against other fan groups away from home. And the most important place where they can prove themselves is the football center of Turkey, Istanbul. Hami

14 Also see Yigit Akin’s explanation, referring to the 1960s:

Beyond its local leisure function, football appeared as a symbol of the rise of the provincial bourgeoisie. This rise was marked by the tension between the Istanbul bourgeoisie and the provincial bourgeoisie. Although the provincial bourgeoisie benefited from the growth of post-war wealth, deep fissures opened between them and representatives of the Istanbul elite, who were assumed to have absorbed the greatest part of the economic surplus (Akin 2005: 98).

163

goes on to elaborate on what he calls Istanbul’s “hegemony” and what it means for the relationships between clubs and their fans more generally:

Trabzonspor...in terms of Anatolian teams—for instance Karsiyaka and Goztepe, we are good friends with both. Ankaragucu…we are close to them. Kayserispor, etc. We, in Anatolia, as Trabzonspor [are against] Istanbul’s hegemony— Turkey’s capital is Ankara but Istanbul is the center. Here, through football, under the complete control of certain people, I mean everyone in that system, some people can get certain positions in UEFA, in international matches. A system has been created, there is power, we call this the Istanbul hegemony. Trabzonspor was the team that rose up against this system. Trabzonspor represents a resistance in our eyes. But now what’s happened? For years another team didn’t come out of Anatolia. And what did they do? They said the 4 giants, they molded it as the 4 giants. They said we took one in, lets not allow a second. But now Bursaspor also won a championship. So say the 5 giants? Anyway, it is unnecessary to divide based on ‘big’ and ‘small’, even this expression is wrong. The 4 giants, they say oh no don’t let them increase. For instance, this is why, for us, all the fans in Anatolia who defend their cities and their districts are our friends. The fans who we have problems with, who we have issues with, are those cities where the scarves and flags of the Istanbul teams [are]; it is the fans who…provoke us—and those in positions of leadership serve them [the Istanbul teams]—the groups who serve as Istanbul’s backyard…we don’t get along well with such groups.

Here Hami touches on many pertinent issues. The first of which is the globalism inherent in connections to the “center”; being involved with football in Istanbul provides connections not only in Turkey, but also in wider European circles such as UEFA. Secondly, Hami is arguing that the Istanbul hegemony is unjust in that it gives those three teams an immense amount of power in the cultural sphere; that is what provides the impetus for his localist perspective whereby he believes that Trabzonspor stands with all Anatolian teams fighting the monopoly of

Istanbul teams in Turkish football (“all the fans in Anatolia who defend their cities and their districts are our friends”). As a long time observer of Turkish football, I can say that Hami has a point here.

I learned to read Turkish in part by reading the sports daily Fanatik in my childhood during the 1990s. Even then, I marveled at the fact that the big three usually had 6 pages to themselves—2 each for Besiktas, Fenerbahce, and Galatasaray. Trabzonspor, by contrast, tended

164

to have one page devoted to their news. The few pages left in the daily focused on general 1st division and 2nd division news, in addition to general Turkish sporting news. In short, there was no equal treatment given to the teams in Turkish football in the print media. Even now, this hasn’t changed much and the television media similarly over-analyzes the matches of the

Istanbul teams while all but ignoring—save for a few highlights—the matches between

Anatolian teams. Only recently—in the last fifteen years—have the games of all top flight teams become televised, before it was only the matches of the “big four” that were televised nationally.

After our interview, I told Hami that the over-emphasis of the Istanbul teams is in keeping with the logic of global capitalism; the teams with the most support—and more importantly which benefit from the larger market—will always outshine the smaller-market teams; indeed the

American sports leagues are similar. This is why a “Subway Series” or “East coast-West coast rivalry” is generally hyped as the best possible outcome for a final series in American sports.

Hami did not disagree.

And Hami was not the only one that identified this “Istanbul Hegemony”. Okan, from

Bursaspor, said similar things to Hami while also connecting the issue of violence to specific instances. Okan says:

We are fans, we have the fan identity, and we act with our fan identity. Let us do what fits us. If its an incident its an incident…it depends on the situation. If its good things its good things depending on the situation. Where there is love, where there is love…good things depend on the situation. Everything has its place. And that’s what we support.

I asked Okan to elaborate on what he meant by “it depends”, and his response is as follows:

I for instance, for as long as I live, do not want to be on good terms with the Besiktas tribun. Look my entire life can pass—I can have kids and a family—and I will say the same thing to them. I don’t want to be on good terms with the Besiktas tribun. But with all of the tribuns of Anatolia, I want to be hand in hand, arm in arm, all the time—shoulder to shoulder. Anatolia, with all of Anatolia’s tribuns. We have a banner “Despite All the Byzantine Schemes We Will End the

165

Hegemony of Istanbul”.15 The year we became champions, in Istanbul, we revealed it during the Basaksehir match—in the [Ataturk] Olympic Stadium. From end to end, 150 Meters. ‘Despite All the Byzantine Schemes We Will End the Hegemony of Istanbul’. It says one versus all [of you]. We are Anatolia. They are Byzantium. That’s…the way I look at this subject. That’s why…with the good and the bad, I don’t want to sit with any of Istanbul’s teams, I don’t want to come side by side. Are there people I love [among those teams]? There are! Do I have great abis [at those teams]? I do!

Okan’s perspective on Istanbul’s hegemony was stronger than Hami’s, but it gets to the same root point. Anatolia is together, arm in arm and hand in hand, against the metropolitan center.

Okan even adds the “Byzantine” label to Istanbul, framing this issue in—again—a nationalist context; he sees the Istanbul teams as representing a pre-Ottoman past. Again, the nation proves the reference point.

Hami and Okan recognize that true justice—true equality—can only come from all cities within the nation having an equal opportunity, as opposed to a situation where the “global” city is somehow elevated above all others; I am sure many in the United States would agree. Despite the misgivings that fans have with the perceived “second tier” nature of the Anatolian periphery in relation to the metropolitan center, Trabzonspor is known to have close connections with the state (and there was even talk from many circles in the 2019-2020 season that Trabzonspor was being helped along).16 This likely reflects the fact that the AKP has long courted Anatolia rhetorically insofar as it was the seat of the rising conservative bourgeoisie built through

“Anatolian holding companies” that grew throughout the 1960s and 1970s (Ozturk 2015: 120); many of these companies (like Kombassan [Konyaspor], Yimpas [Yozgatspor], and [Siirt] Jet-

Pa) enthusiastically entered football and sponsored major teams in the early 2000s.

15“Her Turlu Bizans Oyunlarina Ragmen Istanbul Hegemonyasina Son Verecegiz”.

16 The fact that Trabzonspor did not win the championship—Istanbul Basaksehirspor did—does cast some doubt on these rumors.

166

With the advent of globalist neoliberalism, this began to change and these teams withered away; Ozgur Ozturk argues that “Anatolian holding companies can be regarded as passing forms of finance capital that cannot survive under ‘globalized’ accumulation” (Ozturk 2015: 131). This also reflected a shift in ideology among the members of this bourgeoisie class, “as Islamist currents became much more ‘globalist’ and business-friendly in their outlook, a synthesis between Islam and neoliberal capitalism embodied in the pragmatist approach of the AKP emerged” (Ibid.: 132). The search for new markets meant that these “conservative” Anatolian businesses started moving into neighboring countries in the Balkans, Central Asia, and the

Middle East, abandoning their Anatolian roots. Thus the AKP’s support for Anatolia is largely rhetorical in nature, and it is likely that fans are able to sense that the “global” is being favored over the “local” even in footballing terms; economic marginalization adds to their cultural marginalization.

Yet Okan does note that his displeasure with the Istanbul teams does not preclude his loving—and respecting—friends that support them; this divide does not manifest itself in interpersonal relations. This is because, likely, those friends are from Istanbul. It is ok to support the team of your city, this is the point of localism. It is when one does not support the local team that some fans take issue. Selami, from Adana Demirspor, says something very similar when discussing both local fans, and those who choose to support other teams. Like I asked many fans,

I asked him if he supported other teams. His answer, like so many others, was also clear:

One color. I believe one person…can only support one team. These days you eat Adana’s bread; in Adana those who support the 4 ‘giants’—the ones they have claimed to be 4 ‘giants’ in name only, like Galatasaray, Fenerbahce, and Besiktas—I really…don’t respect them. Because you…you are raised in Adana, you grew up in Adana, you earn money in Adana, you eat the bread of Adana. But you support a team from Istanbul. This is very wrong. And you support that team. Why? Because it was imposed. It was imposed on people. How can I explain this? The ones they have identified as ‘giants’, our current media has identified them as

167

‘giants’, because in my eyes Adana Demirspor is bigger than them all. In my eyes Demirspor…is bigger than Galatasaray or Fenerbahce or Besiktas or Trabzonspor. You know…we ask, a typical example, ‘I support Besiktas’. Brother, why though? Don’t you live in Adana? Don’t you drink the water of Adana? Don’t you eat your meals in Adana? What use are you to Adana? Why…would you support a different team? I am really against this, let me say that.

Since I met Selami through my snowball sample, I reminded him that his friend at Besiktas (Ali, who was from the eponymous Istanbul neighborhood) acted as our liason, and he continued:

Look, that is possible. I look at it this way. If you are in Izmir you can support Goztepe. Look, I won’t criticize someone for supporting Adanaspor. I don’t like [Adanaspor]. [But] someone from Adana…even though I am Demirsporlu, I respect them if they support Adanaspor. They are also from Adana. But if they go and support Galatasaray, Fenerbahce, Besiktas, Trabzon[spor], whatever, if they support another city’s team, an Istanbul team, I wont respect that person. I will have no respect for that person. Because that person has no respect for themselves.

Like Hami and Okan, Selami also has a strong rebuke for those that support an Istanbul team.

And like Hami, Selami sees the root of this support in the media (a topic I will return to in following chapters). Selami—like Taner, Hami, and Okan—also has respect for local fans who support the local team, even if they might not agree with their choice of team. For them, localism is the highest form of honor—otherwise, that fan—as Selami say, “has no respect for themselves”. This type of strong-local support on the surface might be seen as a re-birth of the kind of support that grew from the Anatolianization of football in the 1960s, but it is distinct in its focus on moral status rather than economic status.

Yigit Akin points out that in the 1960s “Football helped to create a certain level of social integration in these newly developed [Anatolian] cities as people who migrated to these areas adopted new urban identities. Football brought about a sense of belonging to the city that had previously been unimaginable” (Akin 2005: 99). Yet, since football is an emotional sphere, these identities—and sense of belonging—could become something different. One of the unforeseen consequences of this period of club growth was the competition between localities which it

168

encouraged. The growing petty bourgeoisie of Anatolia found an identity in their local team but it was an identity which went beyond the pure sporting sense; the team represented the hopes of

Anatolia’s residents: the desire to progress, get richer, to hold on in the national context and “be someone” was connected to support for the local provincial club (Gokacti 2008: 234).

Unfortunately, this meant that passions could sometimes overflow; local “nationalism” began to transform into chauvinist localism as the other team began to be seen as “the enemy” (Gokacti

2008: 235).

The darkest day of this period came on 17 September 1967, when Kayserispor faced

Sivasspor in Kayseri. 42 fans lost their lives in the violence that ensued, and over 300 were injured in what is still one of Turkey’s biggest stadium disasters (Akin 2005; Basaran 2017). The root of this violent episode stemmed not from sport itself, but from the competition underlining the relationship between these two neighboring central Anatolian cities. Since the early years of the republic, both Sivas and Kayseri “competed to be the social and economic centre of Central

Anatolia. Kayseri was more developed and wealthier than Sivas. Moreover, merchants of

Kayseri origin dominated the economy of Sivas. Therefore, while football matches represented for Sivas the idea of challenging the traditional hegemony of Kayseri, for Kayseri it meant resistance to this challenge” (Akin 2005: 99). The social tensions underlining the relationship between the two cities meant that 21,000 fans—including 5,000 visiting from Sivas—attended the match, which was (and still is) a very large figure for a second division match. When the

Kayseri fans started throwing rocks at the Sivas fans, the Sivasspor fans were crushed against the gates as they tried to escape the hail of stones.

The violence was so unprecedented that the central government in Ankara were stunned, even as it left the “field” of sport. On their return to Sivas, fans in the Sivas convoy began

169

burning cars on the highway with license plates from Kayseri province and the military had to step in and block the Sivas-Kayseri highway so as to keep citizens from seeking revenge with their own hands. In the center of Sivas, meanwhile, the shops owned by Kayseri businessmen

(which were many, due to the city’s strong economy) were looted and burned as rioters took the streets to seek revenge (Akin 2005: 101-102). That the teams themselves provide a collective identity for residents of these Anatolian cities is undeniable; in fact, this collective identity was so strong that—it seems—the entire city of Sivas was ready to identify anyone from Kayseri as a murderer and seek revenge. That the violence happened in the stadium—and was perpetrated by a small group in attendance—seemingly did not matter.

Understandably, this made the central government nervous: the goal had been to develop a sense of national unity through the creation of a truly national league. Instead, the project had resulted in disunity. As the General Director of Physical Education at the time, Ulvi Yenal, said,

“the Second Division had not been established with the aim of increasing hostility between the beautiful cities of Anatolia: ‘On the contrary, the Second and Third Divisions were established with the aim of improving the friendship between the cities, resuscitating domestic tourism and maintaining the development of Turkish football as a whole’” (Akin 2005: 104). Due to perspectives similar to Mr. Yenal’s, the dissolution of the national second division league was avoided. Yet, it was still clear that—throughout the 1970s—local tensions could sometimes be exacerbated by sport. Thus the hegemonic policy that looked to encourage the localization of sport was soon replaced by a new hegemonic policy that looked to centralize sport, connecting it more and more with the central political bureaucracy of the state in response to the intense localism that developed. That might be the root of the hegemonic position of Istanbul’s “big three”.

170

The difference now, however, is that fans are voicing their displeasure with a new hegemony that is less national and more global. For many fans, sport is not a commercial enterprise, it is something more emotional. The narrow local nationalisms of the past—of the

“modern era”—have been replaced with a desire to represent one’s local city in the face of the hegemonic narrative of global capitalism (which many Istanbul teams benefit from) in the hypermodern era.

The View From the Lower Leagues

This aspect of character—and a search for justice—also extends to other fan rivalries that stem from a sense of injustice and inequity. Just like many fans are irked by the over- representation of Istanbul teams in football generally, fans in the lower leagues are bothered by what they see as political manipulations which favor certain teams over others; for them this is a result of the politicization of the sporting sphere that brings party politics into sport. I spoke with

Evren after Bandirmaspor faced Eyupspor at Bandirma’s 17 Eylul stadium (built in 1995 by the

Ministry of Youth and Sport and named after Bandirma’s liberation day from Greek occupation).17 During the match, the visiting fans acted up and riot police had to enter the no man’s land separating them from the home fans. Still, despite the commotion, Evren noted that he thought the Bandirmaspor fans did well by staying (relatively) calm and not responding to the provocations from the other side. As an observer I could confirm that the Bandirmaspor fans did not throw anything towards the Eyupspor fans, even though—as I pointed out—the Eyupspor fans did throw a few objects in our direction. Evren agreed, and then explained:

Now normally whoever throws an object should easily be identified, and a citation should immediately be written. But here, one of Turkey’s biggest problems is politics in football. Now they [Eyupspor] have some political connections, and the video does not get reviewed for any legal procedure. For us

17 Bandirma is a provincial team from a district of Balikesir Province, located on the shores of the Sea of Marmara in Western Anatolia. Eyupspor is from a conservative district in the center of “old Istanbul”.

171

it is the opposite. We are a district team—well, so are they—but its politics. We are an opposition municipality [the CHP—Republican People’s Party—is an opposition party to the AKP—Justice and Development Party—run government—JKB], they are from a municipality in power; their mayors and club leadership are closer to the government. They [fans] jump onto the field and don’t get penalized.

In this fan’s estimation, the state is protecting the fans of a team close to them. Having gone to an Eyupspor match in their stadium, the banners advertising for the AKP Mayor of the district were clearly hung throughout the stadium, suggesting that the team does enjoy support from the state, as Evren claims. Here it is important to note that the politicization does not stem from the fans themselves, rather it is imposed on the team by state interference; Ibrahim, the Eyupspor fan you met earlier, is a good example of this. He has his own political opinions, but he does not support the team as a result of his political perspective. This is a topic I will return to in subsequent chapters, but it is important to understand that—as I pointed out in Chapter 5—fans seek to distance themselves from politics, the politics is imposed from the outside and it is not the other way around. Put another way, fans do not become a fan of a team because of a political identity, in the way that one might be drawn St. Pauli because of a leftist political identity

(Daniel and Kassimeris 2013). Rather, the team takes its politicized identity—in the eyes of opposing fans—as a result of its relationship with party politics.18

Evren gives another example of the politicization of the stadium and—again—presents many issues with other fans in the language of justice while pointing to the importance of moral standards for fans. When I asked him what groups they have problems with, he said:

18 The comparison could also extend to teams that have ethno-national or religious identities. Many fans might be drawn to Athletic Bilbao because of a Basque identity (Vaczi 2015), or to Glasgow Rangers or Glasgow Celtic because of either a Protestant or Catholic identity (Giulianotti and Gerrard 2001). In both cases, the ethno-national or religious identities of the supporter come before their support; since Turkish teams in the modern period (post 1923) were not formed in this context, but were formed to appeal to localities, such teams do not exist but the comparison is still useful in order to distinguish between politicization “from the outside” and “politicization from the outset”, for lack of a better term.

172

Eyup[spor], Sakarya[spor], Balikesir[spor], with these [we have problems], for instance. With Balikesir we have a thing between cities [Balikesir is the provincial center while Bandirma is a district of the same province; again it is center vs. periphery at the heart of the matter—JKB]. But with Sakarya…this goes back years, they did some vulgar19 things here. After that, there was 2011 when our rights were stolen from us. When we were going to win the championship, at that time Feto’s20—political actors in football—supported Sakaryaspor and we lost 5-1 in the final; the final match was in Antalya and we were eliminated there. We were the favorites. It was a game we should have won comfortably […] It is better [that Sakaryaspor were not promoted in the 2018- 2019 season]. Because I don’t think they deserve it, they have been unjust to many. Ok you are a big community, you have seen the Super League, you are a province of one million people, you’re a province, you have many districts and other things. But on the other hand, you have played with the fates of many teams, many cities. You have been unjust to many […] Sakarya had a 40-50 trillion Lira debt and it ends in an instance, no one knows how it ended. Every year there is a debt; every year it disappears. At the last second they say someone paid but no one knows who that is.

Evren’s frustration with Sakaryaspor stems from the favoritism he believes they get from the state, and—on the flip side—the neglect he feels his own team suffers from. He couches the language in terms of “justice” and “injustice”, pointing out that the financial (and other) favors going to some teams are not equally distributed. Most of the fans discussed in this section show that their violence, and conflict with other teams, does not come out of a vacuum. They believe that one should stand for their local team, and that the state should be impartial when dealing with teams. In the next section, I will expand on this perspective. The fans, like most people, are interested in self-preservation and therefore unanimously condemn senseless acts of violence.

19 The Turkish word is “terbiyesizlik”, which is virtually un-translatable into English. Turkish speakers will understand that it is a kind of moral transgression looked upon unfavorably by the general populace, and I felt that “vulgar” was the best translation.

20 “Feto” refers to Fethullah Gulen, a globalist Islamic cleric who for years infiltrated the Turkish political and cultural system and who Turkish President Recep Tayyip Erdogan blames for the attempted coup of 15 July 2016. His involvement in football is notable, most prominently coming in the form of his Islamic finance bank Bank Asya’s sponsorship of the Turkish 2nd tier—now the PTT 1. Lig—for years. For more on the movement see Hendrick (2015).

173

Violence Does Not Solve Problems, It Creates Them

When I asked Ibrahim from Eyupspor to describe how he became a fan of his team, he ended up discussing how important it is for fans to maintain a level headed perspective, even if the players sometimes ignite passions. Ibrahim explains:

For instance when the opposing team’s fans come. However we arrived, or however we got there, however we were met; I like send them [the opposing fans] away in the same manner. Or even if they did something untoward to us, when they come here I don’t want to give them the same kind of treatment, I would like to teach them manners with my own civility. Why is this? Because everyone is their mother’s son, their father’s son. At the end of the day when I get out of here—or after I have argued with that person, or thrown rocks at them, or fought with them—the only one who loses is the fan. After the match is over the team’s administration will go out, the players will be out, they’ll be dining. They are part of a game. But the fans are always one.

Here Ibrahim emphasizes the familial aspect of fandom—the fans come from similar families, and are always one. But the administrators and the players—who, in stark contrast to the fans, actually profit off of everything—are detached from the reality that fans live. They are not affected by violence, fighting, or flying projectiles, even if—sometimes—they stoke it. It is the fans that live that reality, so they see little profit in encouraging those kinds of actions. This divide is what gave rise to the famous fan phrase “The ones with ties will go, the ones with scarves will stay”21; this reflects the alienation fans (scarves) feel from club owners (ties).

Ibrahim goes on to elaborate later in our interview:

As an Eyupspor fan I want to say this: I don’t want fighting, for me fighting and brawling is secondary, first of all comes brotherhood for me. I want everyone to come and watch their match, and I don’t want anything like this. The Eyupspor fans come, there is a match with Karagumruk, but Karagumruk fans can’t enter Eyup. Why shouldn’t they enter? Isn’t that their right? To support their team there? Or why can’t we go to Karagumruk, we are fans…why can’t we watch our game there, why cant we support [our team]? I think these need to end, the future generations shouldn’t see this stuff. I don’t want this. When I say what I think, people say ‘oh, are you afraid?’. I’m not afraid, but if there will be brotherhood

21 “Kravatlilar Gidecek, Atkililar Kalacak”

174

then let me be afraid in order for there to be brotherhood. This is how I think, sometimes I am marginalized sometimes I am supported…that’s the way it goes.

Ibrahim’s thought process here is focused on freedom and he believes that everyone should be free to support their own team. While he acknowledges that some in his group do not fully agree with him—perhaps due to the “masculine” nature of fandom itself (Spaaij 2008; King 1997b)— the fans I spoke with generally agreed with Ibrahim’s position while also noting that violence was, in some cases, inevitable.

Some of the fan leaders I spoke to also made this clear. As I did in Chapter 5, I will leave them anonymous here so as to not divulge their identities. Their perspective, however, is important as they are the ones in charge of large amounts of people; they show just how important agency is in terms of controlling their fellow fans. While the stricter penalties for stadium violence have certainly served to curtail it, there are also simpler solutions, like allowing a space for agency. Here one fan leader explains how he became the leader of his group:

They say you are the leader of the group. They say don’t make a mistake […] Abis are one thing, but it is you. It is you. In other words…young, old, the fact that everyone accepts me shows the respect they have for the position. It is an unofficial entity [the fan group—JKB], but it has its system. For instance, a 55- year old person might not want want to say to someone younger ‘you are our leader’. But…there is no pride. They say you…you can handle it. I believe this. You will be our leader from now on. This is not about who is older, who is younger—the group is not forced to act according to your whims—and if you take an organization down the wrong road then a reaction from within will send you right back from where you came from. Therefore it is not like I can say ‘march, go here, do this, sit here’, its not like this. The group has its own identity, its own internal structure. What is ours? For instance, first of all [it is] for the benefit of [the team—JKB]. Today for instance, if one of the team’s administrators is battered somewhere, after a match or something, then no one can stop us in that moment. We would need to respond. If someone, or the other team, does something to harm our community, or our administration…but we always are close to those who approach us in a friendly manner. Football isn’t always hostility. But sometimes…this exists all over the world. It…exists. Maybe that is something about this, something that needs to happen. Its not like the NBA games in the United States, where everything is always entertainment, it doesn’t always happen like a big show.

175

This fan leader clearly explains that his actions are curtailed by the group itself (“if you take an organization down the wrong road …”); he cannot advocate for wanton violence or anything like that. However, he also notes that if anything should befall the team then “we would need to respond”. Again, the idea that there is a time and place for violence is openly presented by this leader. The comparison to the NBA is also apt; the NBA—and indeed most sporting events in the USA—are hyperreal, and tend to be detached from their communities. John Hargreaves points out that sport in its global form, “Olympism”—like the NBA—is a “show business spectacle [that] is modern, as opposed to traditional …” (Hargreaves 2000: 54). Indeed, in the globalized world, the stadium space has lost its traditional role, becoming more of a spectacle

(Debord 1983 [1967]) where the very experience of going to the stadium has become an event to be consumed (and commodified). Again, John Hargreaves explains this in terms of the difference between festival and show business. For Hargreaves, “festival is organic, embedded in tradition, in place and time. Show business is rootless and parasitic on tradition” (Hargreaves 2000: 55). In effect, this fan leader is showing that violence is going to be an unfortunate side effect of any real sporting event; in the sanitized environment of hypermodernity sport is likely to be even less festival and even more show business, to use Hargreaves’ terms, than it was in the modern period where there was less of an emphasis on consumerism.

It is precisely because the fans recognize that hypermodernity will erase them—and other members of the working classes—from the stadium that they are doing their best to avoid violence and police themselves through agency. During my fieldwork I often saw fan leaders use their influence to calm their fans down. At one match, I saw one fan leader use a megaphone to address the masses who were entering the stadium. He told them that he had arranged free tickets for them, but that by entering they agreed to not engage in any “vulgar” behavior. I attended the

176

match, and did not witness any violence on the part of the fans. As we exited the stadium, however, the police seized upon one youth and attempted to take him in (I do not know for what reason) but the fan leader in question intervened and was able to act as a peacemaker between the fan and law enforcement. In another match, which I attended independently, I watched as the fans of a team in Izmir (I will not identify the team) taunted the visiting fans with profanity before the match. It was a lower division match, and the stadium was sparsely populated, and I thought that the tension was unnecessary. About 10 minutes before kick off, the team’s fan leader entered and immediately started yelling at the youths who had been producing the profanity, telling them “Don’t we have our own songs? Sing those and leave them [the other team] alone!”. Immediately, the kids abandoned the profanity. This goes to show that fan leaders, who know their group, are often much more efficient when it comes to stopping unwanted behavior than law enforcement are; this is a topic I will return to later.

As I noted earlier, profanity is a rhetorical form of violence and it is not surprising that fan leaders want to eradicate it. Selami from Adana Demirspor notes,

Honestly, anyone who says they support their team will not cuss…at their own players. Now I see examples every day. When someone misses a goal they begin with their mothers. Why? Does [the player] not carry your badge? Do we not travel all these distances for that badge? Why are you cussing your own player out? It is mindless really.

Selami unequivocally condemns the practice of using profanity in the stadium. It is something I myself witnessed in most of the matches I went to, and it is certainly a problem that needs addressing. Personally, I believe that it stems from the strict form of social control in Turkish culture whereby profanity is strongly frowned upon. For many, the only place they can release their frustrations—even those stemming from their lives and financial situations, as the club president pointed out at the beginning of this chapter—is the stadium, and that might be why profanity is so prevalent; the fan is not cursing the players so much as he is cursing his lot in life.

177

Selami is not the only fan who is committed to eliminating negative behavior from the stadium. Evren from Bandirmaspor also supports this, and he recognizes that:

It can be in Turkey, [but] it is actually like this in the world. There is always a prejudice against fan groups, you know hooliganism—ok, everyone has the hooligan spirit but the important thing is not allowing that to develop in our city. We are…looking to wipe out that negative perception. For instance, currently everyone…we have our missteps, even when we try to do right we can be wrong. And we are slowly trying to melt those away, slowly. For example, when we do our flare show, [Bandirmaspor fans light flares on their waterfront to celebrate their club on every 10th of May; it is a form of civic pride—JKB] we don’t like Balikesir in Bandirma. And there when we sing our chants, people end up swearing at Balikesir, but at that moment they don’t realize that they are upsetting families. These are slowly melting away. Good things don’t happen…at once. They happen through work.

Here Evren stresses that his group is working at changing the perception of fans, and he—like

Selami and some of the fan leaders I spoke with—recognizes the sensitive nature of profanity to many in the community. Still, Evren also stresses the agency of fans; good things “happen through work”. There is no magic wand in the world that will eliminate all that people find negative, especially in emotionally charged fields like football. That is why the only thing that can be stressed is human agency, as opposed to structural changes which aim to eliminate human agency through the implementation of more oppressive systems of control and surveillence.

Evren gives another example from the away days, explaining how they used to loot stores along the routes of their cross country journeys:

In the deplasman busses there used to be a thing. There was this idea. “blowing up” markets, they’d call it that. Everyone would enter as a group, everyone would take something. They would steal, essentially. From markets, convenience stores. For years we have focused on this so much, we now go to a store, and stop. We have two people at the door. We let people in, 3 in 3 out. This allows the store owner to feel safe…

Evren openly admits that actions in the past were problematic and, as a group, he and his friends are working to ameliorate the situation without the need for regulations or draconian involvement by the state. As Ridvan from Sariyer says,

178

the fights, the brawls, those violent activities of the past don’t happen so much any more. Now there are smarter, more level headed, benign people.

The fans themselves are marginalized by the hypermodern world, and are doing their best to maintain their survival. After all, a hyper-sanitized world will see them—along with, it often seems, anyone with any values outside of consumerism—stamped out.

And that is precisely why violence is so often cited as a reason to eliminate fans from the stadium space. It is often couched in the language of “safety”, but behind it lies the logic of consumerism. Less working class fans—who are demonized as “violent”—means the opportunity to sell more expensive tickets. This is why, in the next section, I will outline the ways violence gets amplified in the hypermodern stadium. More often than not, this violence has nothing to do with the truly committed fans since, as I pointed out, they have nothing to gain but everything to lose from wanton violence. Instead, violence is often stoked by those who have nothing to lose and everything to gain.

Sources of Violence in the Hypermodern Stadium

Sergen, the Besiktas fan you met earlier, has a particular antipathy to the types he attributes stadium violence to. He identifies these people as

those who spend 5 days of the week aimlessly—by aimlessly I mean those who are of no use to life in general—they are people who have succeeded at nothing in their social lives, in my eyes.

From this description, we can see these people as part of the kind of “mass” society C. Wright

Mills warned against, easy to manipulate and—ultimately—control. Unfortunately, since they have no way of making a name for themselves legally, many of these people saw the stadium as a way make a name for themselves just outside the law (like those fans who took money I discussed earlier), and the keyboard warriors (who are after making a name for themselves) are dangerous catalysts for stadium violence. Another group responsible for violence in the stadium

179

is, interestingly, the police themselves. I witnessed a lot of over policing in the course of my fieldwork, which is not surprising given hypermodern society’s shift towards a surveillance state.

Foucault and Marcuse both noted that control—and panopticism—were hallmarks of modern society, and hypermodern society just represents a development (and intensification) of these postmodern trends focused on total social control in the hypermodern world.

The Keyboard Warriors

The advent of social media is generally heralded as a novel invention which brings people “closer together”. This is a perfect example of the hyperreality; and it can be argued that social media does more to drive people apart than it does to bring them together. Just scroll through the comments section of any news story on the internet and there will be strangers arguing with one another in the most uncouth of ways; they say many things that they likely wouldn’t say to another person in the flesh. Unfortunately, in the context of football this has the potention for creating dangerous situations that might lead to serious violence in certain cases.

Sergen, the former Besiktas fan I introducted earlier, explains that while those at the top levels of fandoms—like group leaders—are against violence, those at the bottom—who often have no relationship with those at the top—use social media to try and make a name for themselves and, in the process, increase the tensions in the run up to match days. Sergen explains a particular incident he saw unfolding on social media before a Goztepe-Besiktas game22:

S: Yes, from their keyboards they [the Besiktas fans] said we are going to do this and that to the girls of Izmir. Blondes…blonde girls…now…what does this have to do with anything? People’s wives and daughters…if you are from Izmir you might take it personally. Like if I was from Izmir I would take this personally. Because when you say ‘the girls of Izmir’, my sister comes into this, my mother

22 I actually attended this game and saw a few small scuffles break out, and the police had to enter the stands (much to the surprise of those around me; it seemed like a show of force more than anything proactive). Therefore, I can confirm that violence did occur at this match, although I cannot confirm—though I do think it is highly likely—that social media played a role in this violence. Again, although I saw some violence at this match, at no time did I feel like I was in any real danger.

180

comes into this, etc. Why cuss these people out of nowhere? What happens then? One says something on Twitter, then 50-100 people say what are you doing, it’s a keyboard who cares let it go. Then again 50-100 people say yes we’ll do this and that, and then those from Izmir, Goztepe or Karsiyaka fans see this, what do they do? They give it right back and it starts.

J: In the comments and stuff?

S: Yes of course the comments, ‘come here and show us what you’ve got’ and what not. And then what happens? The deplasman busses then come into the picture, oh someone throw rocks, and then the deplasman busses are full of weapons anyway, they gather at the city limits then throw rocks and if the cops weren’t there they would brawl, things like this happen. As far as I can see this is really why [violent] things happen. Otherwise, if it was up to those at the top [of the fan groups] nothing—very rarely, outside of certain teams—would happen; there would be no violent events.

Sergen clearly distances fan group leaders from this kind of violence, but does single out those on their keyboards for riling up their opponents. Indeed, in the course of our conversation Sergen noted that these kinds of online exchanges can go on for days as fans look to gain the upper hand rhetorically. I have little reason to believe that fan leaders engage in such exchanges—as their position in the hierarchy is secure—but they condemn such exchanges because it is they who, ultimately, must deal with the consequences. One fan leader I spoke to even told me that all social media posts in his group are first approved by him.

Another fan group leader explained the situation to me quite well and his comments mirrored Sergen’s:

Really on social media this…younger population of fans…we always call them keyboard warriors.23 Doing keyboard warlording. We have this saying. Because the ones who live it are us […] I’ll give you an example. We are the ones who go to the deplasman, they are the ones who engage in cussing. For instance, a recent match. They swore, they swore, they swore. Come on, what happens if you swear from your keyboard? Now…3-4 years ago. A bunch of [mentions a rival team— JKB] fans wrote and wrote and wrote—who cares if you write, who cares if you don’t write. What [should be] the mentality? To make your [the group’s and the team’s] name known, in a good way.

23 The Turkish term was “Kilavye Delikanlilari”.

181

This fan leader openly condemns the keyboard warriors because they make his job, as a fan leader, more difficult. By constantly adding fuel to the proverbial fire, and arguing with other fans on social media, this fan leader will face more hostility when he goes to the deplasman, something the keyboard warriors likely will not do. In other words they will talk the talk, but may not walk the walk. This fan leader wasn’t the only one to express displeasure with this state of affairs.

Another leader said very similar things, while recognizing the dual role of social media:

Now lately social media has become very powerful. In social media—and this is valid [for our team] as well, and it is very valid for all of the young fans in Turkish tribuns. Social media has its positives, and its negatives. In the week before a match people are swearing at one another, using violent words with one another. As that match nears with each day, the violence escalates a little bit more. You cannot stop this, because you appeal to the community, and the psychology of the crowd necessitates this—I think—I mean here no individual is bad. I could say that is one of the negatives of social media. But if we go to the positive side, this duality—someone who knows themselves well, and who was raised well—I mean someone who knows how to carry themselves, at least praise Allah we [do well] with them, we learned a bit from our elders. And first and foremost we are against violence. But of course, the other side’s response is also very important. If they approach us well we approach them well to, if they approach us poorly we approach them poorly…

Here this fan leader tells us that social media is specifically for young fans; just as Sergen said social media allows the less established fans to work towards making a name for themselves. At the end of the day, however, this fan leader explains that it comes down to who you are—if youre a good person, and were raised “right” in the tribun, you will not instigate meaningless violence since—as he sees it—there is little difference between two fans who just happen to support different teams. Remember, Taner of Adana Demirspor said something similar when he talked about ending up in the hospital with rivals from Mersin Idmanyurdu. This is the solidarity of the fans exemplified; since they share the same Bourdieusian habitus there is little that truly separates them from one another, but there is much that separates the scarves from the ties—and

182

team administrators—who are more involved with the business side of the teams. Still, social media has added a new dimension to fandom and while following the Instagram pages of various fan groups, I saw a lot of arguments between fans that were unnecessary; they were likely— although I cannot prove it—frustrated adolescents letting out their angst on Instagram. This reflects the changing dynamics of fandom from a more “underground” culture to a more

“popular” form of culture, bringing it out into the open, where more and more individuals can participate independent of their groups.

Before ending this section, I think it will also be useful to offer a perspective that speaks to the usefulness of social media so long as it is regulated by some human agency. While I heard a lot about the negative aspects of social media from fans, others—like Ogun from

Trabzonspor—also told me that it was a useful tool insofar as it allowed them to widen the reach of their particular groups and spread their message (similar trends have been observed in Europe

(Numerato 2016; Millward and Poulton 2014). Another fan leader offered some good insight onto how social media could be used in a positive manner, also related to adapting to the hypermodern world:

Right now social media, there is a match once a week but social media is active 6- 7 days. In this current system we will fade away…with the old mindset. So what do we have to do now? We must be strong on social media. On social media we must look good in the eyes of a normal individual, a typical fan, and make them accept us and become a customer. The community needs to accept them. Because these days you look, a small incident—a very small incident—can cause a lot of harm to institutions, to individuals. This is why we must act more responsibly now…club officials, they recognize us as the club’s fan group. The club cannot defend you if you go and fight with everyone, spill blood, and hurt people wherever you go. What will an official say? This is a harmful group. But what did we say? Now we have to be a group that befits our community in today’s context.

The perspective presented here emphasizes the anti-violence stance of fans in general; they are concerned with self-preservation first and foremost and wanton violence does not further their objectives in any way. But beyond that, they also understand that the—for lack of a better term—

183

lynch mob culture of the modern world is dangerous (“a small incident...can cause a lot of harm”). And in order to avoid such an ignominious fate, this fan leader understands the importance of making the normal everyday fan “become a customer”. This is a perfect example of Jurgen Habermas’ system colonizing the lifeworld. The fans are very much in the life world— they represent it—but the system is slowly colonizing them and, ultimately, threatens to homogenize them as well.

While social media might have some negative effects, at the same time it allows a space for fan groups to maintain their voice so as to be an effective actor—and perhaps even form of social movement (Testa 2009)—in civil society. And this same leader points out that fans can use their social media presence to “create the agenda, and direct the agenda”. This is another example of the important role that fans play in civil society; when the media is not free—and it is not, insofar as it is controlled by either multinational corporations or the state (Yesil 2016)— there is a space for civil society. Here the fans face an uphill battle, of course, but they have good reason to fight back against the media as best as they can since—for years—the media (along with academics) have tended to present fans in a negative light, perhaps capitalizing on what king calls their “liminal” nature (King 1997). By way of the culture industry, films like Green

Street Hooligans (a film that many of my participants liked, by the way) have entrenched a view of the fan as inherently violent; the “hooligan” has become the dominant representation of the fan in the public eye (and, perhaps, in the eyes of fans themselves) (Giulianotti and Armstrong

2002). A more detailed study on social media and fandom would be necessary to empirically prove the net effect of social media on violence, but it is clear that social media represents a new

“hypermodern” element of stadium culture that can have both positive and negative effects on the fan community.

184

The Police Who Over-Police

Since violence in the stadium sells headlines, the media seizes upon any incidents that might occur (Dunning, Murphy, and Williams 1986: 238-240). Unfortunately, the police are often at the forefront of creating these incidents as it—paradoxically—provides the state with a rationale for the draconian policies they implement.24 Throughout my fieldwork, I often noticed an over-the-top the police presence for most matches. For what would normally be a very low- tension affair, say a third level match between two mid-level teams from opposite sides of the country and who have little support (like Osmaniyespor and HEASK for instance), there would be many police dressed in full riot gear (helmets, shields, and batons). At an Osmanlispor-

Eskisehir match I attended at the beginning of March, I literally counted more police than fans in the home (Osmanlispor) section! I compared this to what I saw in other countries at the international matches I attended during the period of of my fieldwork; a similar contingent of riot police was visible only for two very high tension matches. One was the Hamburg derby between city rivals Hamburg and FC St. Pauli in the Germany 2nd Bundesliga, the other was a rivalry match in Macedonia between Vardar Skopje and Shkendija (the former is a club that represents ethnic Macedonians and the latter a club that represents ethnic Albanians). In these instances, the militarization of the stadium is understandable since violence can happen at events that are emotionally charged. At less “intense” matches, for instance a Bundesliga game between

Leverkusen and Augsburg or a Swedish second tier match between IK Frej Taby and Halmstads, there were barely any police visible and certainly none in full-on riot gear. For me, the sight of such police served to raise the tensions in the stadium, especially because they were always taking videos of the fans (in keeping with the draconian Law 6222, which I will cover in Chapter

24 The subtitle of Bilge Yesil’s 2016 book, Media in New Turkey: The Origins of an Authoritarian Neoliberal State is telling, and reflects the trend towards control.

185

7). After having these experiences, I had to ask some of the fans what they thought about this police presence and they shared their perspectives with me.

Hami, from Trabzonspor, told me a story from a match against Umraniyespor where he experienced this kind of over-policing:

There was a match with Umraniyespor, the referee made a bad call. There the fans are shaking the door [in the fence that offers access to the field—JKB], and I’m trying to remove the kids from the fence so they don’t try to break it down. There [a policeman] is recording me on video! I got angry. I said “don’t record me, record the referee! That’s the problem here”, I said. Record that! They always [treat] the fans like potential criminals. Its like I am a wanted man, I always have to act carefully and secretively.

Evren, from Bandirmaspor, recounts similar experiences:

The police…they antagonize our people. Two damn police will come out [of nowhere] and mess everything up […] One officer, maybe near retirement, hates matches, and who is there because he has to be, will take out that [frustration] on the fans…he satisfies his ego that way.

The point here about “frustration” may indeed be real, and it is hard to blame the individual police officer for that frustration. After a Basaksehir match I had an informal conversation with some of the cops on duty, and they explained to me that they do not get extra pay for serving at the games; there is no overtime. Apparently, it is seen as their patriotic duty and is not compensated in any special way. This really surprised me, and might explain some of the animosity that police feel towards fans in some cases.

Outside of these stories that were recounted, I can add that I myself had a few personal interactions with police at the games I went to that were negative. Part of it might come from this frustration, but I think that another issue is that the police are part of a chain of command, making it difficult for individual police to make an on the spot decision since it might result in censure from a superior. In Izmir a team administrator told me to meet him outside of the VIP section; since it was raining I asked the policeman guarding the entrance if he would let me stand

186

under the cover of the VIP section’s entrance. He refused, and did not care when I told him who

I was meeting. After making me wait for five minutes in the rain, the policeman sheepishly let me through after he saw who came to greet me.

Another time, on a warm early October day, I attended a match in the first provincial amateur league of Izmir, a local derby between two teams from a seaside resort town:

Alacatispor and Cesme Belediyespor. The atmosphere at this rivalry game was surprisingly heated, with the mainly high school aged kids letting off sound bombs and flares at the beginning of the match. Of course, as the flares started to rain down on the pitch, the police got involved.

While the actions of the Alacatispor fans were not those of an informed fan group, the police response was over the top. A group of six riot policemen lined up in front of the fans, clutching their batons and shields, with one even keeping his finger on the trigger of his tear gas launcher.

When the fans didn’t calm down, the police rushed the stands. As a neutral observer, I rushed to get out of the way and, in the process, suffered a minor injury. Had the police not rushed the stands, I have no reason to believe that there would have been any violence in the stadium that day (and I certainly wouldn’t have suffered the minor injury I did). Unfortunately, heavy-handed police responses like this one affect fans in a very negative way; some of the kids around me even complained that they were being treated like “terrorists” and later chanted “We are not terrorists, we are Alacati!”. This is exactly what Hami meant when he felt as if he was a “wanted man”. And that is the issue: the draconian treatment of fans, which treats them as guilty until proven innocent, has a negative effect on the psychology of fans. If fans know that they will be mistreated regardless of their actions, they are liable to engage in the very actions that the law aims to prevent!

187

Another experience exemplifying how over-policing can exacerbate problems came at the end of an Eyupspor-Bandirmaspor match which I watched from the away section, with the

Bandirmaspor fans I had gotten to know; this was also one of the few matches where I witnessed real violence so the story is worth telling. This is how I ended up at a police station, trying to free the fan who had been taken in. Bandirmaspor were creaming Eyupspor at what was supposed to be the grand re-opening of Eyup’s stadium following major renovations, and were up by three goals—it was 4-1. The Eyupspor fans directed their ire towards us in the form of profanity, and some Bandirmaspor fans give it right back to them. The team’s fan leader told them to calm down, explaining that it is not worth increasing the tension—and risk getting penalized—when the team is winning. Some kids gave it up, while others argued. The Eyupspor fans soon took it up a notch, throwing rocks into our end. We were far enough that they could not reach us, but my my participant took me aside as a precaution, “stand here in case they can throw well,” he said with a smile, before telling the police to take care of the guys throwing the rocks. Again, police are necessary in the stadium at certain times. As if on cue Bandirmaspor give their response on the field, adding another goal to make the victory even more emphatic—5-1.

Right before the final whistle, the participant who had invited me asked me if I had anything to do after the match. When I told him I did not, he told me to stick around for a bit more, thinking they would let us out in 20-30 minutes. It was a warm sunny day, rare in January for Istanbul, so I agreed knowing that the home fans are let out first, giving them time to disperse, before the away fans are put on their busses and sent out of the city with a police escort.

As the Eyupspor fans were funneled out by the police, I got a chance to watch the post- match rituals unfold and some of the younger kids were allowed onto the corner of the field to untie the banners visiting fans carry with them; they are signs of collective honor and cannot be

188

allowed to end up in the hands of opposing fans.25 I took a few pictures and chatted with my participant, and a cop even came up to the group to ask for a Bandirmaspor scarf (he must have had a collection) and someone gave him one; it is a good example of the fact that while some cops might not enjoy the stadium assignment, there are also good cops who genuinely like the stadium. My participant negotiated with the cops at that point to see if they could let me out early, since we had been there for about 40 minutes. After explaining that I was an American and an academic and not at all a member of the group or a troublemaker, the cops would not budge and my participant was infuriated. Exasperated, he told me “this is the way cops are. There can be 50 of them, 49 can be angels but if one is a son of a bitch they all become sons of bitches”.

Just then we get information from the police that one of the Bandirmaspor fans has been arrested and taken to a police station—which is where I ended up too.

The Bandirmaspor fan and myself entered the police station to see two young kids sitting side by side, quietly, their team scarves draped across their laps. They look scared and nervous, as the officer stares them down from behind his desk directly opposite their chairs. My friend is the first to speak, “We have come for [name withheld], the Bandirmaspor kid. We were told he was here”.

The officer nods, “he is right in front of you”.

“And the one next to him…the Eyupspor fan?”

“Exactly”.

Then he turns back to the policeman behind the imposing desk, littered with papers.

25 When banners get stolen by fans, they will often take a picture of themselves—all faces censored out of course— with the stolen banner hanging upside down. There is an honor behind this, however, and it is deemed to be against the code if a banner is stolen from an empty stadium. It is only deemed legitimate if the banner is stolen from those who have it; if it was the result of a physical confrontation, in other words. Otherwise, it is seen as a kind of cheap shot. Once a banner is stolen the team who had it stolen will not use the same banner again and instead will create a new one; this is important since banners are seen as labors of love and are hand made over the course of days.

189

“Well…can we take him home now?”

“Unfortunately, he and his friends will be our guests tonight. He has given us his statement, but according to the new law [Law 6222], he must also give his statement to the

Public Prosecutor; since this is a weekend, that cannot happen until tomorrow because the Public

Prosecutor does not work today. He will give his testimony and be released after that sometime tomorrow”.

The policeman then adds, with particular relish, “And our friend will not be able to attend any Bandirmaspor matches for the next year”. It felt like the final nail in the coffin, and we both looked at the kids and felt sorry for them. What did they know, after all?

But they were grateful; I cannot tell you how many times the Bandirmaspor fan said

“thank you abi” to both of us. In the ethos of fans, no one can be left behind, but when the state gets involved there is little room for negotiation.

On the way back my friend laughed at the absurdity of it all, “look at those kids. What happened to their toughness? Their manhood? Was it worth fighting? Now they’re in the same place, at the mercy of the justice system”. I nodded as we drove along the highway, and it made me think about just how draconian the new law is and how harmful this kind of over policing in the stadium can be. The two kids were arrested due to fighting, apparently. Yet it was clearly a minor scuffle, and neither was physically harmed. In terms of property, the kid from

Bandirmaspor only tried to steal an Eyupspor flag out of an empty stadium; it was an advanced form of capture the flag and did not disrupt the game in any way. So should these kids really deserve to be involved in the criminal justice system just for acting stupidly (as young kids sometimes do?). This kind of over policing can back fire, as the kid will spend a night in jail in

Istanbul and—likely—go back to school in his hometown the next day and see himself as a kind

190

of hardman. This could result in him going down a bad path in life, and is completely unnecessary given that—as my friend said—the police probably already taught him a lesson and his parents would have added to that when he got home. There is absolutely no need for a public prosecutor to get involved with what is—essentially—a victimless crime. It might have been stupid, but—as long as no harm is done—stupidity could be dealt with in a more constructive manner.

Unfortunately, this manner of over policing is rampant in the stadiums and—as Fatih explains at Denizlispor—can even be used by teams to “weed out” the fans they don’t want.

While the law ostensibly focuses on violence, as we saw in the case of Bandirma, the law can be used even if violence isn’t an overt issue. As Fatih explains in the context of Denizlispor, over policing was used as a political weapon. During the time that Yesil Cephe was having issues with the other group, Fatih tells me that:

The first time IDs were checked at the stadium happened with us. This was before Passolig [which itself essentially serves as an ID card, it has the same data— JKB]; those who didn’t have IDs on them weren’t allowed in the stadium. Every match there was a TOMA [An armored riot control vehicle used by police—JKB] at the gate we entered. We would be searched at 10 different points, at the smallest thing there would be pepper spray and batons. In a way we experienced the oppression of the police forces and also of the old [fan] group. At the deplasmans, they would even physically attack us. Many fights started over this issue.

Fatih connects this over-policing to the connection that the old group had with the police, and he told me that the chief of Denizli’s police called the leader of that group “son”. Regardless of how true the story is—since I only heard it from one side—I can say that my fieldwork confirms a lot of what Fatih said.

The week before I met Yesil Cephe, I attended the Galatasaray-Denizlispor match in

Istanbul at Galatasaray’s Turk Telekom arena. From where I was, the away stand was to my left and I could see the Denizlispor fans seated separately in their own stand; there were rows of

191

seats separating two clear groups. It was odd to me, since normally away fans come together so as to give the appearance of having more numbers than they do in the manner that animals might puff their feathers up when threatened. After learning about the issues within Denizlispor fandom, this made more sense to me. But when I went to a cup tie against Trabzonspor with

Yesil Cephe at Denizli’s Ataturk Stadium, it was clear that there was still was animosity between the cops and this particular group (they told me that it was because the club’s president didn’t like them). First, when we tried to conduct the interview before the game the police did not let us through the barricades to reach their fan club’s café which was just 30 meters away. When my participant tried to reason with the policeman, and explain that we were going to conduct an interview in the fan club, he doubled down and said “your father could be the chief of police in this city and I still wouldn’t let you in”. Then when we entered the stadium there were three different pat downs by police (normally there is one and—for particularly high tension matches—sometimes two; this was not high tension and indeed the Yesil Cephe members presented their Trabzonspor counterparts with flowers before the game in a show of goodwill).

After the pat-downs was a metal detector, and this is honestly the first time in my life that I have experienced a metal detector at a soccer stadium.

My participants told me that it was all due to a falling out they had with the club’s president, but it also provides a different level of stress for the fans when they are treated as if they are potential terrorists. This kind of stress can even put people in a different kind of mindset. As Ibrahim from Eyupspor points out:

I: I look at the [away sections] behind the goals in European matches, there are no fences. We have fences, as if we have gone to prison. These are really bad things.

J: It makes the atmosphere tense.

192

I: Of course it makes it tense, that’s the goal. If it [the fencing] wasn’t there, people wouldn’t be so tense. They get into this ‘they are oppressing us’ mindset, That’s the way I see it anyway.

Being in the away section is always a different experience, it is tense just due to the fact that you are clear minority in a physical sense. But when the fencing come into play, it adds another dimension. As Ali from Besiktas told me during a conversation, “look up the away stand at

Antalyaspor”. When I asked him why, he said “just look it up”. I did, and concluded that the architect of the new Antalyaspor stadium must have a sadistic streak because the away section is two levels that is almost completely covered with plastic; instead of bars and fencing there are sheets of hard plastic. As Ali said, its truly like a prison—the cops can come in, beat you up, and no one will even hear you scream (because of the plastic), nor will they see it (because of the glare of the plastic). Such measures created by the stadium’s structure itself, beyond just the direct actions of police, can also lead to increases in violence; it can become a self-fulfilling prophecy where the fan feels “oppressed” just by being where they are, as Ibrahim pointed out.

Final Thoughts

Throughout the last three chapters I have aimed to highlight how fans maintain their respect for tradition, and use football as a means to develop collective memory and imagine their role in the nation; in this respect football is a means through which a sense of shared Turkish national identity is developed. At the same time, I have shown how recent changes in the game, stemming from its increased monetization due to connections with global flows, have led to changes in the ways that fans present themselves. Up to now I have stressed the agency of fans, despite the oppressive structures they face in terms of the state and big business. I will end this chapter with the voice of two fans, so that we can better understand why their independence is so important for their agency.

193

Mehmet from Denizlispor explains that Yesil Cephe was founded in order to end the days where fans were paid off by teams with access to free tickets:

Fatih Eroglu, rest his soul, said something before he died, just as the group was being founded: ‘This club has a debt of nearly 30 million Turkish Liras, we are founding Yesil Cephe not to be a burden on the club, but to relieve the club of a burden’. We later made this into a banner, and took it to various stadiums around the country. [This] is a group that is completely…opposite…the system that looks to feed off the club.

Mehmet explains that his friends and other fans in his group are following in the footsteps of their abi, looking to change something within the culture of their team by using their own agency. They are an example of one way that fan groups can be helpful, as one coach I spoke with mentioned. And there are many of them developing around Turkey, looking to increase the quality of not only sport but also their own localities. One of the fan leaders I spoke with said something similar, and it will be worth keeping his words in mind when discussing the state’s response to fans, which I will cover in the next three chapters. This fan leader said, talking about policing:

When they feel as if [something] will happen, they call and take us. They do this. In the past they would beat us, let’s go and talk they’d say then throw us into the back of the [squad] car. This stuff happened in the past. But now there is this, they do start a dialogue, this happens. As long as there is so much investment in sports, if they are doing all of this then…isn’t it time that fan groups…at least in some form—they might not be made official of course—but they need to also take us into account. They need to create some opportunities for us […] For instance now, lets say our team has a match against X team. 2400 people, at least 2000 people meet up in [location withheld for anonymity purposes—JKB]. The provincial security council decides, this is our meeting place, we meet there. Now if I…don’t go there that day. I just don’t go! I decide to stay at home, I have four kids, I am playing with one of them and I don’t leave the house. Then what will happen? Everyone will say our leader isn’t here. Who will you [the police] stop? God forbid. They don’t want to see our role here—if this many regulations are done through law, then you need to also take us into account.

I believe that this particular fan leader is speaking for most of the fans I spoke with when he points to their ongoing marginalization at the hands of the state. They can’t be ignored when—in

194

reality—they have far more power than the police in many respects. Through their agency they have the ability to police themselves when they are in organized groups, something I witnessed many times during my fieldwork. I do not believe that this fan is exaggerating when he says that the police would be unable to deal with 2,000 people with only tear gas and batons; it simply would not work. This is why it is important to recognize fan groups for the hard work they put in so that their groups—and cities—can be the best that they can be, something they strive for despite not receiving any payment in return. The state, however, seems loath to give the fans any formal power—or to even recognize the informal power they currently have—since that would run counter to the interests of the real power holders: the state and the multinational corporations they work with to commodify the stadium space.

Earlier I introduced Ismet, a veteran Ankaragucu fan. He told me a story that points to a paradigm shift within Turkish football that is part of the transformation from a modern/postmodern model to a hypermodern model focused on consumerism and commodification on a global level. This story, from 2006, was triggered by the kind of over- policing I outlined:

We were playing Besiktas, we lost. That day we lost. We were in the maraton stand, when we left were going to the Genclik Park past [where the group] Gecekondu [was]. In front of us a man was walking with his son, a small child—I swear this happened. When they say social eruption, this is it; I saw it. As the man is going with his kid the police suddenly formed a line…I mean on an empty road 10 police lined up and people started passing through a space for two people. Out of nowhere the guy [the policeman]…he hit the man with his stick. I swear to you. He hit the man with his stick. He hit the father. The child got scared. We said what is going on with you and then…wham bam…we got into it with the police, some things happened, the cops sprayed tear gas…the tear gas fell in front of me, I’ll never forget it. Right in front of me. But I don’t understand [what happened], smoke is coming out…I tried kicking it [the canister] once, twice, three times, and I don’t remember after that. I opened my eyes after some time, there are 5 cops standing over me […] There was a three-hour battle, its that simple. And then Erman Toroglu [a popular sports pundit—JKB] said something really good. At that point these guys [the AKP] had taken control in the country […] At that time,

195

the problems were many, and after Genclik Park [the incident he describes—JKB] a lot of things started to change…we are talking about 2006, they had come in 2003, things started to change. Erman Toroglu had said this—Ill never forget it— he said this was not a fight, this was a social eruption. He said it; I can’t forget it. […] I think a fine line of politics got in there; I think the people who readied the foundations for today tried to do something. Because back then…let me put it this way. After the [19]80 coup, the politics of football started; do you know this? [emphasis added].

Ismet shares his own perspective here—influenced by a famous pundit as it may be—but his observations are sound. Sport is a big business, and controlling it is a sure way to make money.

Incidents like this—and indeed the 2000s were an era that saw a lot of violence in stadiums in

Turkey—gave the state an excuse for changing the stadium space. Although they are, on the surface, focused on curbing violence in the stadium, it seems that they are more focused on ensuring that the stadium space becomes sanitized, homogenized, and—ultimately—comes to resemble the commodified sporting arenas of the United States. This is optimal from the perspective of team owners and sponsors, but it also serves to push out working class fans—the majority of whom have nothing to do with violence of any kind. Ismet’s last sentence is telling, when he ties the politicization of sport to the 1980 coup, which sought total control of both the political and cultural fields nationally (Gokacti 2008). The advent of neoliberal policies is similar, in that they also seek total control of global society through control of the cultural system where leisure, capital, and politics are fused.

The incident Ismet mentions sums up the discussions of this chapter well. It was sparked by over-zealous police, and the response to this perceived injustice stemmed from the fans’ sense of moral duty; they did not like seeing an innocent father attacked by the police at random in front of his own son. And in Ismet’s eyes, it might have been the dawn of a new era for Turkish football, bringing the entire culture more in line with the global trend towards industrial football where consumerism—and not fandom—is at the fore, privileging means end rationality over

196

emotion. In the next three chapters, I will focus on the state’s attempts to implement the hegemonic narrative of neoliberal consumer culture in the stadiums while further marginalizing fan populations.

197

CHAPTER 7 THE PASSOLIG SYSTEM AND LAW 6222: CONTROL SOLD AS SAFETY

There shouldn’t be any visual displays, this or that, people should go to the match, get their coffee and sit down, there shouldn’t be any swearing or any problems, they should watch the game and go home. That is definitely what they want, and they’ve done it so far…in 3-5 years they’ll do even more […] For instance, why am I using Aktif Bank? I become a customer of a bank that has nothing to do with me. What is the reason abi? Why? How can you impose this? I get a bank card, I pay a yearly fee, I give who knows what else yearly.

—Interview with Sergen (Besiktas)

In the wake of the 2013 Gezi Park protests, football stadiums became a space for political protest as fans of many teams chanted “Everywhere is Taksim, Everywhere is Resistance” at the

34th minute of matches.1 Meanwhile, in some stadiums fans responded to these chants with pro- government chants of their own (Keddie 2018), while the fans of one team—Genclerbirligi— sarcastically chanted “Political Slogan” at one match (Dorsey 2016: 148). In some cases the chants were so loud that the pro-government channels televising the matches were instructed to mute the sounds so that those watching at home could not hear (Dorsey 2016: 148). In short, the state was losing control of the stadium, a space once seen as a “pressure valve” useful for the release of tensions in society (Tuastad 2014). In part to crack down on these spontaneous political displays, the state unveiled the Passolig system and implemented it as part of Law 6222 on the Prevention of Violence and Disorder in Sports2 for the top two leagues of professional football in April of 2014. It would no longer be possible to buy a paper ticket from turnstiles and gain entry to the stadium; all tickets would become electronic, connected to a card that requires fans to provide their citizenship number—or passport number in the case of foreigners—along

1 This is because the license plate code of Istanbul province is 34.

2 See Turkiye Buyuk Millet Meclisi (2019).

198

with a picture, both of which appear on the card. When one enters the stadium with their cards their picture is taken and a screen above the turnstiles shows both pictures side by side so that security can be assured that the person entering is indeed the owner of the card in question.3

There is absolutely no way to enter the stadium without a Passolig card; whether you are sitting in the cheapest seats or have been invited by a dignitary into one of the VIP lounges, you need the card.

The reasoning for the new system, as given by the federation, is innocuous enough. As

Keddie explains, “the football federation claims the system allows it to identify and ban perpetrators of violence and those who use violent and offensive language, prevent gate-crashers, crack down on black market ticket sales, and encourage more women and children to attend matches” (Keddie 2018: 139; Passolig 2019a). On the surface, most would agree that the stated aim of the project is positive, and most fans agreed with that. In practice, however, it is much different.

In this chapter, I will focus on the Passolig system and the Law 6222 which spawned it, offering my own interpretations as well as comments from the fans I spoke with. I will argue that these developments represent the perversions of modernity and rationalization aimed at controlling fan behavior and—at a larger level—controlling the culture so as to implement a hegemonic vision in the Gramscian sense. State control is further entrenched through a surveillance system in the stadium, which goes hand in hand with a social re-engineering of all walks of life, including the sporting world. While the stated goal is safety—and mirrors trends

3 This leads to some odd interactions. At one match I attended in the Black Sea town of Giresun, a policeman actually told me that I “looked a lot different than my picture”. Had I been in a different mood, I might have given him a reply he wouldn’t have forgotten given that we all age—its life. Despite this, I know of many people who have used the cards of friends and relatives to enter, since enforcement of the photo policy tends to be lax. This allows some fans to circumvent bans, suggesting that where there is a will there is a way.

199

visible elsewhere in Europe (Giulianotti and Armstrong 2002)—I argue that other goals are connected to commercialization and, ultimately, a rationalization of the stadium space. The

Passolig system—like the building of new stadiums and inventing of new teams (the topics of the next two chapters)—reflect the inverted nature of hypermodernity, where control is presented as safety and consumerism is presented as “modernization”.4

The Rationalization and Commercialization of Fandom

The Passolig system changed fandom insofar as it turned it into a more rationalized endeavor. Emotions that could previously be expressed (Elias and Dunning 1986) now had to be curtailed, while an individualizing consumerist element entered what had previously been a more collectivist activity. Zeynep, the 28-year old Trabzonspor fan you met earlier, points out that implementation of the system not only distanced fans from one another, but that it also created new inequalities:

6222 is heavy-handed. And strict. I think the penalties are too heavy. The system is…something that could be useful, but something that most people will not accept. For instance, paper tickets were…very different. I keep them all, I save them all and I still have them now. It was more fun. I don’t know, the ticket lines and stuff. That excitement was different. Now we go online, and try to get [tickets]. If we can get them. If we can’t, we can’t. And many people—ok, social media developed quickly, we do a lot online but there are many people who—in our city for instance I can show you many fans who are over 40, fanatics, and I don’t think that all of them have access to the internet. And that is one way that it can be bad. Someone has to get [a ticket for them]. They need to wait in line in some way, for Passolig…they sell out […]. Its bad.

As a female fan who herself stated earlier that she has no interest in hooliganism whatsoever,

Zeynep understands that the system “could be useful”, but that the way it has been implemented means that the negatives outweigh the positives. She points out that the end of paper tickets meant the end of memory for her, since ticket stubs could no longer be saved (I empathized with

4 The state tends to describe the new stadiums as “modern stadiums”.

200

her, since I too save all paper ticket stubs as mementos). She understands that the digitization— itself a form of social engineering—also ends a tradition many fans I spoke with enjoyed: waiting in the ticket line. Indeed, one Altay fan I spoke with made it a point to not buy his tickets through the app and preferred to wait in line outside the stadium and enjoy the banter; the collectivist sentiment was something he did not want to lose. I too chose to use this method when possible, mainly because it meant one less fee that Passolig could extort. The third thing Zeynep points to is the discriminatory nature of Passolig insofar as it pushes older fans out. Again, I do not see this as a coincidence, since the older fans—who know what the stadium space was like in the pre-commodification era—tend to have more of an emotional connection to their teams.

The new system means that the spontaneity of fandom is removed, further rationalizing fandom. If one does not have a card, they cannot—on a whim—decide to go to a game; Passolig cards are not sold on game days! This also keeps fans apart from one another, and Ibrahim from

Eyupspor told me a good story in the context of the other team he supports5, Besiktas:

It would be better to not even talk about Passolig…I am someone who is against Passolig. I see it this way; you create the Passolig system…you’re trying to prevent the black market, get money to clubs, I agree with all of these. But, if I have a guest—for instance someone came from Izmir, my uncle wanted to go to a Besiktas match, I couldn’t get him in. When I can’t get my guest into a match than what use is there for Passolig? Why? There needs to be a Besiktas logo on the card, that’s how they can get in. It is things like this that cause people to sour on their love for football. Another example, lets say there is a Goztepe-Karsiyaka match. Maybe I like the Karsiyaka fans more—it is an example, I am trying to empathize. I want to watch alongside those fans, but I can’t go—I don’t have a Karsiyaka passolig. This is a reason to distance myself from football. That’s why I don’t like it. I’ve haven’t liked Passolig from the beginning. You need to load money onto it, it has its yearly fees. Ok, they can have fees but if it [the money] goes to the clubs it can be renewed, but if it [the money] doesn’t go to the club it doesn’t mean anything to me.

5 He was the only fan I spoke to who openly supported two teams. I understood his support, given that he was a native of Istanbul, but I don’t think most of the fans I spoke with would have understood it.

201

Like Zeynep, Ibrahim also understands that the system itself was made with (stated) good intentions like giving money to clubs and ending the black market. But he also understands that the reality of it “sours people on football”; it even divides fans and keeps them apart since they are forced to pick a side (the logo on their card). As I will explain later, I was denied entry to a match because I did not have the requisite team’s card; the idea of a neutral observer (or fans of rival teams who might be friends) cannot be comprehended by the rational minds of the Passolig system and that—as Ibrahim says—is something that starts to make people sour on the entire enterprise.

The Foucauldian panopticism of the system is also a major turn off; as Christopher

Gaffney explains “the smooth functioning of stadiums requires a militarized control of space and the uninterrupted functioning of state power” (Gaffney 2008: 29).6 From the time that fans enter the stadium, they are subject to surveillance by the state through cameras.7 Since seat numbers are loaded onto the card, the police can—theoretically—trace the individual fan and punish them for any disturbances they cause. Of course, “disturbance” is a liberally used term—it could range from throwing objects on to the field, joining in political chanting, or even yelling profanity. All of these are grounds for dismissal from the stadium and, ultimately, punishment under the jurisdiction of Law 6222. At the same time, the state now knows where its citizens are on any given day if they have entered a stadium; the state can essentially track one’s movement on game days. I have found that one of the most stressful parts of being in the stadium is this constant

6 Garry Crawford similarly explains that “only certain behavior is tolerated within the contemporary sport venue, and through watching the spectacles and performances of others, supporters will often learn what is acceptable. When this interlocks with the powerful mechanisms of the constant surveillance individuals are under from other supporters, venue staff, and at certain sites, CCTV, the police and even the army, supporters are placed as both the subject and object of the interlocking and controlling influences of surveillance within the venue, which act as powerful means of regulating behavior” (Crawford 2004: 86).

7 This is another reason that the new stadiums are being built. It is easier to build a stadium with surveillance in mind than it is to panopticize older stadiums.

202

surveillance. Even when you are doing nothing but watching the match, plainclothes police are constantly recording the stands with handheld video cameras. It is uncomfortable, especially when you do not know how—and when—this video “evidence” might be used against you.

However, as one fan leader I interviewed said, this serves its purpose well because the fans change their behavior so as to not get caught. True to the logic of the Panopticon, the fans have started to self regulate their behavior—becoming docile bodies.

What is even more absurd about the Passolig system is that fans must pay for the privilege to be surveilled in these panopticized stadiums. According to Passolig’s official site, the cost for a card ranges from 27 Turkish Liras to 48.50 Turkish Liras (approximately 4 to 7 US

Dollars) which is non-refundable. This fee must then be paid annually to renew the E-Ticket for each season.8 This is because the card itself also doubles as a Mastercard—the neoliberal undertones here are not hard to miss. On the Passolig website, they have a page called “My First

Card Passolig” which advertises the cards to customers who have not had an ATM or credit card before.9 There are different types of Passolig cards, including prepaid ones (which I use) to full on credit cards. In fact, as a customer service agent I spoke with told me, one can even open their

Passolig card up to use in business transactions at point-of-sale (POS) machines, which is highly unnecessary if one already has another credit or debit card from their bank. Essentially, the state is forcing citizens to join the global credit economy if they want to attend a sporting event.

And in order to do so, the state forces fans to become customers of a certain bank in order to join the global credit economy; Aktif Bank issues all Passolig cards. As Patrick Keddie explains, “Aktif Bank is a subsidiary of Calik Holding, which was formerly headed by

8 See Passolig (2019a).

9 See Passolig (2019b).

203

[President] Erdogan’s son-in-law Berat Albayrak, and whose chairman Ahmet Calik is known to be close to Erdogan” (Keddie 2018: 139). Indeed, Passolig proved to be fruitful for Berat

Albayrak as he later became the Minister of Treasury and Finance; the road to political power— in this case—ran through the Passolig system.

This is another thing many fans were critical of, and they said similar things to what

Ibrahim from Eyupspor said: If the money from the Passolig fees actually went to the clubs in question, it might not be so bad. Ibrahim points out that

If these [funds] went to the club, at least it would be an investment in the club. How many millions of fans…use a Besiktas Passolig for instance? It could be 3 million, it could be 5 million, it should all go to the club. When you say 5 million that is enough for at least the transfer of one player, that’s how I see it.

And the amount of money is not small, when one considers the fee for a new card, a yearly renewal fee, and the small commission for each ticket bought through the application.

Unfortunately, most of this money does not go to the clubs, rather it goes to a bank directly connected to the state. Selami, from Adana Demirspor, also criticizes this policy and opened our discussion about Passolig by saying:

I believe that Passolig is a system created for the sake of getting income.10 If you are going to create a stadium ID, then it should belong to the Turkish Football Federation and not a bank […] Aktif Bank […] There are many problems [with it]. Money goes to Aktif Bank. What goes to the club is what percent? Very small amounts of money go to the club. Why? Why did this person go to a match? To support his own team. In terms of the tribun, in terms of money—by buying a ticket—he goes to support [his team]. Then why doesn’t all of this money—or 3/4ths of it—go to Demirspor, his own team? Isnt that right? If you’re going to give a person an ID card, why does that person go to the match? To support his team. But you [the state] give a number like 10% to the club, and take the rest of it. I am against something like this; why [should it happen]?

10 The Turkish word he uses is “rant”; it is a form of unearned income and similar to what drives the “Rentier States” discussed in International Relations literature.

204

Like Ibrahim, Selami points out that the lion’s share of Passolig’s revenue goes to the bank—and the pockets of individuals close to the state—rather than to the clubs themselves; it actually cheats the fan out of their own support! While they think they are supporting their club in buying a ticket, they are instead supporting a bank connected to the rentier state and, of course, a multinational like Mastercard. Selami points out that Passolig is essentially an identity card issued not by the state, but by a bank. It is interesting, given that it might represent the future of globalization in the hypermodern world; the nation state is eroded and the transnational corporations step in and seize power. Sadly, this is not as absurd as it may sound. While the

Passolig system might be a rational idea in the eyes of rentier states and multinationals—and certainly rationalizes the stadium space by fusing fandom and consumerism—the system itself is a perfect example of Herbert Marcuse’s “irrationality of rationality” (Marcuse 1991).

The Irrationality of Rationality and the Passolig System

Over the course of my fieldwork I experienced many instances of the irrationality of

Passolig’s rationality, while also finding that Passolig does little to stop the issues it aimed to stop, like violence or the selling of tickets on the black market.11 Indeed, it is almost as if the system has been implemented with the sole intention of making life harder for fans while also enriching a bank close to the state.

All Passolig cards are sold with the logos of teams, and most teams encourage their fans to acquire Passolig cards with their logos so that they might make some money in the process.

Yet this means that logo-less cards have been discontinued (even though mine, issued in 2014, is of the logo-less variety and was grand-fathered in). In theory, this should mean that holders of

11 If anything, it has made it easier to sell tickets on the black market. Ahead of a Galatasaray-Basaksehir match in May 2019, I saw scalpers outside the stadium selling tickets simply by transferring the tickets to customers via the Passolig application on their phones after getting their money. Ironically, it has made the black market more trustworthy.

205

logo-less cards can enter the home section of any match they would like. The reality, however, is that for some matches teams decide that only holders of the home team’s cards may enter— making it necessary to acquire another card with the home team’s logo to enter. Depending on who is working at the Passolig counter, this process ranges from simple to absurdly difficult. In

Adana, for instance, I was not allowed to take out an Adanaspor card without cancelling my existing logoless card (which would have meant losing the money loaded on my existing prepaid card and forfeiting my grand-fathered logoless card). Yet, in Istanbul, I was able to take out a

Galatasaray card almost effortlessly—as long as I paid the fee, of course—while keeping my original card.

But what happens if you would like to go to an away match of a team? In that case, tickets will only be sold to holders of cards with the away team’s logo. This means that, with a

Galatasaray logo card, one can only enter Galatasaray’s home games and Galatasaray’s away games in the away fan section. If you would like to, say, attend a Trabzonspor away match against any team you cannot do that in the away section with a Galatasaray card. In fact, with a

Galatasaray card, one would not be able to enter a Trabzonspor-Galatasaray game in Trabzon’s home section either. It doesn’t matter if you are a casual fan, the Passolig system will treat you as a violent fan insofar as the system will not sell tickets to the home section of a game if you hold the Passolig card of the visiting team. Since my research necessitated visiting many stadiums, I decided to call the Passolig customer service number to ask a few questions. Luckily, the representative was patient and took the time to answer all of my questions.

From my twenty-minute conversation I learned that there is no limit to the number of

Passolig cards that one may hold; in theory, this means that one could hold a Passolig card for each team in the top 2 leagues—which would mean 36 cards, each with a separate fee. However,

206

in a Kafkaesque twist, having all the cards would mean that you could enter none of the games.

Strange, right? This is because the cards would cancel one another out. The system—irrational in its rationality—would see you as holding both Team A’s (home) and Team B’s (visiting) cards and prevent you from buying a ticket in the home section (because you also have Team B’s card). If you tried to get a ticket to the visiting section, the system would then see you holding

Team A’s card and block you from getting a ticket in the visiting (Team B’s) section.12 This reflects one of the major issues with the Passolig card—it treats all fans as violent trouble makers; the concept of a casual fan who would like to ground-hop is beyond the comprehension of Passolig’s rationality.13 In effect, you are guilty until proven innocent.

This issue is also relevant when fans are punished for bad behavior. In theory, the cards are all tied to the individual, so it should not be hard for the authorities to single out the trouble makers and block their cards from entrance into subsequent games. After all, that was one of the reasons given for implementing Passolig in the first place! In the past, whole stadiums were closed down when fans misbehaved14, which meant that teams lost valuable revenue. Now, the hope was that guilty fans would be singled out and banned accordingly. Unfortunately, that is not how it has worked out. Instead, with the Passolig system, if the authorities identify something that falls under the purview of Law 6222—like chanting that involves profanity—they decide to

12 See Tetik (n.d.).

13 Recall Sergen’s story of becoming a Besiktas fan when living in Gaziantep. His father was able to take him to the home section, even though they were Besiktas fans. As a father and son, they were casual fans. Under this new system, that kind of thing would be impossible; if Sergen and his father had Besiktas cards they would be forced to enter the away section, they would not be allowed into the home section as casual fans.

14 A twist on this came in the 2011-2012 season when the federation looked to avoid having teams playing to empty stadiums and instead chose to allow only women and children into “closed” stadiums free of charge. While this boosted female interest in football and was generally well received, it also played to the commonly held stereotypical belief that women are more docile—and calmer—than men. In practice, this wasn’t always the case and the federation comically learned that women also enjoyed profanity as much as men, for more see Özer (2012). For a discussion of what profanity in the stadium means in relation to traditional gender roles, see T24 (2012).

207

close down the entire section for the next match. This means that if you happen to be seated in a section of the stadium and those around you engage in shouting profanity collectively, you face the risk of being banned for upcoming games through no fault of your own.15 This means that the tension in matches is increased; sometimes fans try to whistle down other fans to avoid getting penalized, which—given the surveillance capabilities—should not be necessary. Notably, none of the fans I spoke with understood why collective punishments are still being meted out; I happen to believe that the authorities are simply to lazy to do the hard work necessary to identify individual fans. This means that the stands (again) are divided, while providing a new spark for arguments which—in some cases—could turn violent…even though they are the very same dynamics that Passolig was supposed to curtail. This is why the idea that the Passolig system cuts down on violence—and bad behavior at stadiums—does not really stand up to scrutiny and many of the fans I spoke with complained about this.

Zeynep, who you heard from earlier, says this:

I think the Passolig system is…being used in a way outside of what it was made for. For instance, they said there wouldn’t be black marketers, or that only you will get penalized for misbehaving, but the whole stand is getting penalized. I’m in that stand, I’m not swearing, but I can get a penalty for swearing. And the black market is still going on, when there are ticket transfers, they can do it the same way for different prices. The laws are…too harsh.

I witnessed exactly what Zeynep says regarding the ease with which the black market persists, and she was far from the only fan to criticize the continued “group punishment” policy. Selami, from Adana Demirspor, explains this well:

…For instance, we are watching together in the A Block with 50 people. And I come out of them, those 50 people, and swear. I curse their mothers and their

15 Again, there are ways around this as well. A Besiktas fan I spoke with told me that he got his season tickets for the section behind the goal (where the most passionate support congregate) from the sector closest to the “numbered stand” (where the most expensive tickets are sold). Since those on the edges of the behind the goal section are likely to engage in less transgressive behavior, this means he doesn’t risk being banned, while still being able to watch the games from wherever he would like since there is free movement between the sectors of the section behind the goal.

208

wives. Now when it [Passolig] first came out, what did they say? The person, the individual will be penalized. They will take the person who swore. They were going to. But it didn’t happen. This time, because Selami swore, all of A Block is now penalized. Why? Can you believe this? A mute man got penalized for swearing. He is handicapped, he cannot speak. But because there was swearing from his block, that block is penalized and so is he. And the man cannot explain himself, he cannot speak! How can you give this man a penalty, banning him from the next match? How can we like this system, how can we want it? It has no benefit to me, it does a lot of harm to me.16 It’s that simple. I’d like it to be done well…swearing hurts our club too.

Selami’s explanation points to the duplicity of the Passolig system; it did not deliver what it promised to. And beyond that, he also points out the irrationality of rationality—as a mute man gets a penalty for a crime that he cannot physically commit due to his disability—and on top of that has no recourse because he cannot speak in order to explain himself! It is actually an abuse of a citizen’s rights, something I will discuss in the next section. Selami points out that he is not for swearing—it hurts his team too—but he believes that the system (despite its good intentions) is flawed.

Okan, from Bursaspor, took issue with the Passolig system just like Selami, but he was much more vocal about it. While slamming Passolig, Okan also pointed out the excesses of control created by the hypermodern surveillance state within the stadium:

Really, Passolig is a law that goes against Turkish football law. Let me say that to start. There can be no system like Passolig. This system was created so that some people could line their pockets. We live this today in tribuns across Turkey, and the next day in other tribuns. Some people…to line their pockets…are using the fans to make a premium. They say today there is a Passolig app, and it can do this and that. They say nice things. And? They say that they can find the person that throws a rock onto the field. How are you going to find them bro? You cannot find them! You can identify 5 people out of 5,000, huh? Why don’t you block their Passolig? Why isn’t this a law? Why isn’t this a proviso? Why do you penalize the entire tribun? There are 5 separate Blocks. Maybe 7…Out of 7 Blocks 3 people throw something onto the field, but you close down all 7 Blocks. Then what are you doing with Passolig? Passolig has people’s Identity Number, they have their picture, they have their family…they have everything when you go into the system. Do you not know who threw something onto the field? Why are you

16 The Turkish is much more succinct…“Bana yarari yok, bana zarari cok”.

209

giving a penalty to the entire Block? Today—there are 440 cameras in the Bursa stands. 440 cameras! In the Bursa Ataturk—Buyuksehir Stadium. 440 cameras. The camera filming you from the other side…it has a 50x zoom. Today, if you cannot find someone who throws something onto the field then there is no reason for this policy. Or, with this policy, if you find this person and give the entire Block a penalty then fuck that penalty. This needs to be said. Passolig…it regresses not only Bursa’s tribun, but all of the tribuns in Turkey. There is no reason to throw some people under the bus so that other people can line their pockets.

Okan makes it clear that Passolig has not been effective in doing what it promised to do (“they say nice things”), and that makes him even more enraged because it makes it clear that the entire system is essentially an elaborate—and effective—money-laundering scheme. The state makes money through the bank by requiring the cards, while also making money off of penalties that are assessed. At the same time, they hit the fans—by denying the right to watch the game—while not depriving the teams of ticket income, since season ticket holders will have already paid up front. And it is not just the fans who have uncovered the scam of Passolig.

In my own fieldwork, I witnessed first hand the way that Passolig cannot stop all that it promises to. In Spring 2019 I traveled to southeastern Turkey’s Adana province for the Adana derby between Adanaspor and Adana Demirspor. Outside of the 5 Ocak Stadium a bunch of

Adana Demirspor fans were congregating trying to get tickets to what was a nominal home game for their rivals, Adanaspor (the two teams share the same stadium). In the past the Adana derby was played in front of both sets of fans, with the stadium split down the middle into orange and white (Adanaspor) and blue and navy (Adana Demirspor). In recent years the fear of violence has grown so much that the match is treated like a normal game—and not an intra-city rivalry— with the away team allotted an amount of seats that does not exceed 5 percent of the stadium’s total capacity. For this particular match, the Adana Demirspor fans bought up the 1600 ticket

210

visitor allotment in a shocking 16 seconds.17 Because Adna Demirspor are known as a worker’s team, they tend to get their support from a wider swathe of Adana’s public than Adanaspor, who are considered a more elite-based club. Because the Adana Demirspor fans knew that they have more fans and that Adanaspor would not be able to fill the stadium, the Adana Demirspor fans were trying to find a way into the match as Adanaspor fans. The official announcement from the clubs was that Adana Demirspor Passolig holders can only get tickets in the visitor’s section, with only Adanaspor Passolig holders allowed to purchase tickets in the home sections. While this meant that I—with my neutral card—could not attend, it did not deter the Adana Demirspor fans around me.

The exasperated Passolig employees kept explaining the ticket policy to the fans, who eventually devised a solution: cancel their existing Adana Demirspor cards and take out

Adanaspor cards for this match. It was a loophole, and something that most Passolig employees likely wouldn’t have done. As one fan told me, “we are going to make a Trojan horse in the stadium!”. The analogy is certainly apt, and it goes to show that Passolig cannot keep rival fans out of the stadium—if anything, it makes it more dangerous to have a group of fans enter in this manner.18 One Adana Demirspor fan showed me his new card, with his picture next to the orange

Adanaspor logo. With a disappointed look he explained “It doesn’t look good but…it’ll work and I will cancel it after the game”. Here we see that the fans have found a way to get around the

Passolig system. While it might be a little devious—and technically illegal—it still serves the purposes of the state supported Aktif bank and the clubs themselves insofar as each side makes money off of each new Passolig card issued—and in this fan’s case there will be two new cards

17 See Erdem (2019).

18 In my fieldwork I also heard of certain fan groups who, in protest of Passolig, travel to non-Passolig matches in the lower leagues or other sports and engage in various forms of troublemaking.

211

issued. Effectively, Aktif Bank makes money twice in an instance like this, and this might be the reason that the Passolig employee in question turned a blind eye. What is irrational for fans is quite rational for big business, just like the law that spawned Passolig—6222.

The Irrationality of Rationality and Law 6222

Patrick Keddie explains the issues with this law, passed in 2011 after many years of discussion. Basar Yarimoglu, the founder of the supporter’s rights group Taraf-Der founded in

2013, points out that “[6222] punishes fans from the beginning, cuts off all communication lines, and is based on punishment only.” Further, “Yarimoglu argues that the authority invested in individual police officers on match days, to scrutinise banners or flags, for example, means there is no system in place and cuts communication between clubs and fans (Keddie 2018: 144). As I discussed at the end of Chapter 6, the authority instilled in police officers—in the name of this law—affects fans at all levels of Turkish football.

Before a Europa League match between Besiktas and Portugal’s Sporting Braga, I was touring the parks where Besiktas supporters congregate with a fan connected to the Carsi group,

Ali. Ali explained to me that the Besiktas fans who go to the away games tend to hang out in the

Macka Park, and that others hang out in the Sairler (Poets) Park. As we walked through the

Sairler Park we became engulfed in the smoke of flares; we were basically yelling at one another to make ourselves heard over the chants of fans in the park. As we talked, I noticed two Zabita officers—members of a kind of municipal police force—enter the park and start taking pictures and recording videos of those in the park, including us. When I asked what they were doing, Ali said “its good you’re here to see this too”. He explained that a recent revision of the 6222 Law means that it is illegal to light flares—or do other things that are forbidden in the stadium—in any “place where fans come together”. Of course, the interpretation of the term “place where fans come together” is very liberal; as Ali explains that “place” could be inside the stadium or

212

fifty miles from the stadium! Since this park was deemed a “place where fans come together”, the officers took pictures and videos of those lighting flares which will later be taken to the police station, analyzed, and the guilty parties could be identified and penalized. As Ali explained the situation, we watched a father light a flare for his young son: “I don’t think he knows that he can be arrested for this,” Ali told me laughing.

Like some of the others I spoke with, Ali did admit that the new laws have been effective to a degree. He says they have stopped him from engaging in questionable behavior, since he is one more penalty away from real legal consequences. He said that as one gets older, they have more to lose. “I have a stable job, and a girlfriend. I don’t want any trouble with the law” he told me. But if the law is to be effective, it must focus on the real troublemakers—not those who either have nothing to lose or those who have done nothing. Indeed, as we were watching the

Zabita officers take pictures a fight broke out behind where we stood. Ali took my arm and moved me aside, while a group of fans struggled to hold back a friend (who seemed to have had too much to drink) from attacking a passerby. I asked Ali why the Zabita were not stopping this clear act of random violence. He told me simply “that would be too dangerous for them. It is easier—and safer—for them to take pictures”. This small instance shows that the goal of 6222 may not be to provide safety for fans. Rather, it also looks to stifle the emotional celebrations of fans—and keep them from coming together—while the real perpetrators are let off. After all, without low-levels of violence there would no longer be an excuse for the law.

And the law even affects casual fans. An acquaintance’s husband told me a story over dinner epitomizing the kind of irrationality of rationality that 6222 represents. He is a casual

Galatasaray fan, and not part of an official fan group. Yet even he was drawn into the irrationality of rationality. One match he had had a little too much to drink and ended up bringing

213

a can of beer into the Turk Telekom Stadium; he told me that he hadn’t meant to do it—he didn’t even clearly recall entering the stadium—but he reasoned that the private security at the entrance to the stadium had either missed it or purposefully ignored it (confronting a drunk would be above their pay grade). In any case, once he was in the stadium the police saw the beer and immediately took him into custody—after all, alcohol is forbidden in stadiums under Law 6222.

He told me that he was then brought down to a holding cell beneath the stands; apparently the stadium has its own jail—just another amenity of modern stadia.

Here he told me that he immediately sobered up—he was now around hardened hooligan types! As I said, he is a casual fan who works a white collar job, and he told me that he wasn’t comfortable in a holding cell which—he claims—included some very interesting types. After speaking to one of the police in charge he was able to get himself moved to another cell, but that is not where the ordeal ended. In order to be released, he was made to sign a paper confessing that he had broken Law 6222—that his crime was minor compared to, say, inciting violence in the stadium—did not matter. It was still a violation of the law in question.

After being released, he was given a form of probation. For the duration of one year following this infraction, he was banned from entering any Galatasaray match. Additionally, he had to go to the nearest police station and sign in at the kick off and half time of every

Galatasaray match, home and away, for the duration of this one-year period. Given that matches happen at least once a week—sometimes twice a week, when European and cup fixtures are involved—this meant a considerable amount of time spent in police stations signing in, despite it being wholly irrational. Bizarrely, he told me the story of when Galatasaray had a Champions

League match with Lokomotiv Moscow—in Moscow. He told me that he signed in at the beginning of the match, and they still wanted him to come back to sign in at the start of the

214

second half—even though it was physically impossible for him to fly to Moscow from Istanbul in 45 minutes. Indeed, adherence to Law 6222 is above even the laws of physics; fans must sign in regardless of how irrational it might seem.19 Yet this fan’s story is not the only such story.

After a fan ran onto the pitch during the 2019 UEFA Super Cup final between Liverpool and

Chelsea held in Istanbul, he was punished under Law 6222. After the police named his team as

“Liverpool”, he was ordered to sign in at the nearest police station in the same manner for every

Liverpool game, even though Liverpool plays almost 50 games a season…all very far from

Istanbul.20

While the law seems to be applied to the letter in the context of the stadium—even if it borderlines on the absurd—it is actually not applied in the same way outside of the stadium.

Hami, from Trabzonspor, raises a great point while highlighting the powerlessness of the fans— most of whom are only trying to support their teams—in the face of the power wielded by both the state and the media:

What really upsets us now is this extreme control, don’t do this, don’t do that. Ok, of course. I mean for us there shouldn’t be any violence, nothing should happen but….6222…sports law…it’s not a fan law. That’s why the referees on the field, the players, they should be covered by 6222 just as I am when I put my Trabzonspor scarf around my neck and get on a bus. Now they say you are going to the match, and got in a fight. Then you need to give the same penalties to those charlatans on the sports programs, who fill people [with hate]. Let’s see them close that television channel down. You shut down our tribuns, shut down their channels.

When I tell him I agree, and explain that I don’t watch the sports programs because they are so contrived, he continues:

And what do they do? For instance, their lawyers, they follow the accounts of sports presenters on social media. This is a way for them to make money. When people insult them or slander them—they do it on purpose, they provoke people—

19 For another example of this signing in process, see Keddie (2018: 142).

20 See Akşan (2019).

215

their lawyers give them to the courts, and they make money off of this. They do things like this behind the scenes. But no one asks them, why are you provoking these fans? There is no mention of this. If we got together here and walked hand in hand with Galatasaray fans to a match the police wouldn’t allow it, no you will fight. But when we fight—they wont show the peaceful things on television. But when we brawl…

Here Hami makes a very important point. If there is to be a law, then it must be administered equally to everyone in society. If fans lighting flares miles from a stadium is deemed to be a crime, then does it not stand to reason that media pundits gaslighting fans miles from a stadium should also constitute a criminal offense in the eyes of the law? Unfortunately, the media make their money off dividing fans by harping on referreeing decisions long after the matches are finished; in fact most of these programs don’t even have access to the official highlights of matches in question but still argue about calls that were made!

I have aimed to show that Law 6222 is draconian, and a perfect example of the irrationality of rationality. Although many fans resisted (and are still resisting) the law—and the

Passolig system that came with it—it has not been repealed. This is because the interests of the power holders—a “power elite” consisting of the state, teams, and big business—are well-served by this system. This is a process I will elaborate on in the next section.

The Power Elite and Stadium Surveillance: The Case of Fatih Karagumruk and Atomization of Fans

I attended a Fatih Karagumruk match in the Spring of 2019 at their iconic Vefa Stadium in the center of Istanbul’s conservative Fatih district and, as I discussed in Chapter 6, their fans have an almost mythic reputation for violence. With such a reputation, Karagumruk’s stadium was bound to be “modernized” eventually. At the games I went to, I squeezed into the covered stand. It is one of those places where you really feel the meaning of the saying “no way out”, which Galatasaray fans popularized in the 1990s when facing European opposition. It is overcrowded, and there is only one entrance and exit, which spits you right onto the main street

216

in the center of the neighborhood. The “Protocol” stand in the center, where the dignitaries sit, separates the two “blocks” of the covered stand, and there is free movement between the two.

Generally, the Karagumruk faithful congregate in the side of the covered stand closest to the goal their team is attacking. At halftime, they switch sides to the other end of the stand. As one fan I overheard said, “we must be the only fan group in the world which changes sides at halftime.”

He was likely right. But that is now in the past.

After gaining promotion to the TFF 1. Lig, the second tier, Karagumruk was included in the Passolig system. This meant that their first two home games of the 2019-2020 season had to be played elsewhere while their stadium was brought up to date, and this included the installation of Passolig compliant entry gates.21 This meant, however, that the two sides of the covered stand—broken into “A Block” and “B Block”—had to be separated, and a separate entrance was created for the “B Block”. I attended the first match at the Vefa Stadium using the Passolig system in September 2019 against Akhisar Belediyespor, and it was chaos. Everyone was entering the old way—the only way they knew how to enter the stadium—but those who held tickets for the “B Block” had to be turned back at the gates. The entire culture of the fans had been changed.

This is how the Passolig system serves to further commodify and rationalize the stadium space; when clubs from the lower leagues are promoted into the top two divisions, they must renovate their stadiums in order to become Passolig compliant. These means becoming more and more connected to the dictates of industrial football, with different ticket categories and different prices. When in the lower leagues, the ticket policy of Fatih Karagumruk was completely

21 There were even rumors during the summer that the Football Federation would not allow Fatih Karagumruk to play at the Vefa Stadium in the 2019-2020 season, but pressure from the fans ensured the team that they would play in their neighborhood stadium.

217

egalitarian; 10 Turkish Liras for all games and for all areas of the stadium. Now, there are separate prices for the covered stand and the seats behind the goal. Additionally, ticket prices now change for each game. The changes at Fatih Karagumruk’s Vefa Stadium reflect

Christopher Gaffney’s observation that “stadiums changed to reflect the increasing organization and sanitization of urban life. While stadiums have always conditioned human movement through architecture, the trend has been from less to more control, from a larger to a more limited public space, and from less to more economic and architectural rationality” (Gaffney

2008: 14). The Karagumruk fans are now no longer free to move about their stadium due to its architecture while the different sections have been blocked off and are being sold at different price points, making the public space within the stadium even more limited and divided (now along class lines).

It is this kind of transformation that the state, big business, and teams are looking for. But it has not come without protest. In resistence to the Passolig system, 40 Fan groups made a statement in 2014 explaining that “the e-ticket system does not only demote the concept of supporters to a customer, but it also files all our private data. The system aims to prevent supporters from organizing and is designed to demolish stadium culture and supporter identity”

(Dorsey 2016: 140). In fact, the collecting of private data was such a concern that it prompted

Yildiz holding—a major confectionary business close to the AKP government—to end its major sponsorship of football which, over the past decade, invested 215 million dollars in Turkish football (Dorsey 2016: 141). The chairman of Yildiz Holding, Murat Ulker, told the Turkish FA that “no one wants their information to be collected, even by the state; this is disturbing. Many fan groups have boycotted the practice . . . We should not block the joy from the fans” (Dorsey

2016: 141). Unfortunately, the fans were not able to come together coherently enough to end this

218

system, and my participants Hami and Selami both lamented the failure of fans to resist its implementation.

In 2017, Turkish sports scholar Tanil Bora wrote about the dire state of attendances in the

Turkish top flight and connected it to the Passolig system.22 He explains that during the 2016-

2017 season, Turkey had the the 6th most valuable league in Europe. Despite that figure, attendances were some of the lowest at an average of 9,694. He explains that the highest attendances were in the leagues more valuable than Turkey’s: Germany’s Bundesliga (41,514),

England’s Premier League (35,822), Spain’s La Liga (27,700), Italy’s Serie A (22,164), and

France’s Ligue 1 (21,029). Yet the average attendances of six leagues less valuable than

Turkey’s had higher attendances: the Dutch Eredivisie (19,090), the Scottish Premier League

(13,998), Belgium (11,157), Portugal (11,873), Russia (11, 357), and Switzerland (9,939). As

Bora notes, even Sweden—where football is less popular—had an average attendance figure in the Allsvenskan close to the Turkish Super League at 9,471 in 2016.

Bora compares the figure of 9,694 with those before and after the implementation of

Passolig: 2012-2013 (before Passolig): 14,719; 2013-2014 (before Passolig): 14,499; 2014-2015

(after Passolig): 8,084; 2015-2016 (after Passolig): 8,686. Bora shows that the implementation of this system resulted in a decrease of almost 50% in match attendances for the the Turkish top flight23, and he concludes that this means the that the Turkish footballing economy is inflated.

After all, how can the teams survive with such low attendance figures?

22 See Bora (2017).

23 For pictures of the empty stadiums immediately following the boycott, see Ultras-Tifo.com (2014).

219

As Sergen told me, in Italy they attempted this system and it failed; it would in Turkey too if fans simply refused to go to the games.24 While many did refuse—Besiktas’s Goodfellows group is a good example—others did not. I believe that this is because some fans simply do not care about the e-ticketing scheme; they will go regardless, which is in itself a testament to the loyalty of Turkish fandom. I also believe that this reluctance to effectively boycott this system stems from the fact that the government has been so vocal in its support for the system that many fans do not see a way that it can be overturned.

Tanil Bora notes that few can seriously argue that Passolig has truly eliminated violence from stadiums; rather—as his example of an elderly fan who, due to a misunderstanding, now has to sign in for every game and is therefore paying for a loan he took out for season tickets he can no longer use shows25—innocent fans are being punished. Despite this, the government still cites preventing violence as the rationale. Bora quotes Yildirim Demiroren, the former Football

Association president close to Erdogan, as saying in December 2014 “actually, if you take out the fans we don’t want, there really is no decrease [in attendances]. The fans we don’t want are the ones not coming any way.” Demiroren would later repeat these comments in a televised interview in 2017, claiming (wrongly) that “before Passolig the average attendance was 10,980

[Bora notes that this figure is incorrect]. Now it is 8,908…this means a loss of two thousand.

This two thousand are the fan groupings we don’t want in the stadium anyway” (Bora 2017). As

Bora notes, the state is openly creating a divide between “good” fans and “bad” fans.

And this is exactly why the Passolig system has been so successful: it mirrors the attempts of the state to transform—so as to control—wider society through the implementation

24 The truth of this is debatable, and I have not been able to find a reliable source which conclusively explains what happened in Italy.

25 See Gokce (2015).

220

of its hegemonic vision in the cultural sphere and beyond. Patrick Keddie points out that

“Passolig operates at the intersection of authoritarian surveillance politics and the commercialization of football, which some argue encapsulates the nature of the AKP government quite well. Some see Passolig as an attempt to fundamentally alter the character of

Turkish football fandom, a symbolic struggle of huge political and social significance, and a breaking point” (Keddie 2018: 140). Passolig is indeed a microcosm of the hegemonic vision of a “New Turkey” within Turkey, part of global hypermodernity: it is a system that spurs neoliberal globalization by encouraging a fundamental alteration of national cultures—Turkey’s included—through surveillance and an ongoing homogenization of tastes through consumerism.

That the fan groups found it difficult to resist this is not surprising; the system itself serves the interests of the “power elite”—to borrow C. Wright Mills’s term—involved: the state, teams, and big business all benefit from this system. The state is able to remove political messages from the stadium—and any corresponding challenges to its hegemony—by invoking

Law 6222 and Passolig in the name of “safety”. In turn, this serves the interests of the teams themselves—as well as the businesses which sponsor them—by providing a “safer”, more sanitized, stadium space.

Passolig as a Reflection of Political Rhetoric: “Safety” as Justification for Control

Many fans recognize that the system has some benefits. Turker, from Denizlispor, admits that Passolig is helpful but believes that it was implemented in an incorrect manner:

Yes, Passolig has its beneifts. We don’t wait in line for tickets, we get them. We might do some frenzied things, but its not long term, at least there are no murders, stabbings, things of that nature, as there were in the past; it can prevent this. But when you look at in terms of money, it is the toy of…politics, it is something that moves in accordance with their wishes, and…when they brought Passolig they said individual penalties, that group penalties would not be assessed […].

221

For Turker, the stated goals of Passolig are, of course, laudable. As the fans perspectives in

Chapter 6 showed, the consensus is against violence. The issue is in the implementation of the system, which some fans see as too closely connected to political and corporate interests. This is because corporate interests and most of the teams themselves prefer fans to sit for ninety minutes, consume their product (the game itself) and a few snacks in the stadium, buy some gear, and go home. They do not want much singing or chanting—or visuals like banners (which could cover up advertisements while sending unapproved messages)—since these emotional expressions threaten the rationalization project.

The rhetoric surrounding Passolig is benign, as all supporters would like to watch their teams without fearing violence. In may ways, this rhetoric mirrors the rhetoric that brought the ruling AKP to power. During its rise, the party continually stressed its commitment to liberal democratic discourse; and Toni Alaranta reminds readers that

the academic research as well as more policy-oriented analyses confirming, for nearly a decade, that the AKP government has thoroughly transformed Turkey, and that this has been a democratization process, have played a significant role in the AKP regime’s ability to utilize the positively resonating discourse of building a “New Turkey” in its successful operation of implementing an Islamic- conservative ideology at the heart of the state institutions (Alaranta 2015: 94).

At the same time, this Islamic-conservative ideology allowed the AKP to model itself on the

(democratic) U.S. conservative model (Tugal 2009: 53), which served to disguise a harsh reality: the AKP “…opted to condition liberal principles with authoritarian statism. It portrayed itself as a carrier of democratic change, yet it consolidated the antidemocratic attributes of the very state it had initially promised to reform” (Yesil 2016: 87). In many ways, the “democratic” rhetoric that the AKP used while consolidating its hegemonic position resembles the rhetoric of “safety” surrounding the Passolig system, perpetuating the same rentier system (of control) in the stadium. The reform of the state—just like of the stadium—was confined to rhetoric alone.

222

Like the other fans I interviewed, I asked Fatih from Denizlispor what changes he saw in

Tukish football recently, and his response points to the “more of the same” nature of some

“reforms”:

I don’t really think that they [the state] really support the development of sport. I don’t think they think football, and the masses [of fans] should increase. Because in politics, masses mean strength. For the groups to come together, outside of their surveillance, means this to them: uncontrolled strength. They don’t want uncontrolled strength. And the never want it in the center of the city. [This] is a big group in the center of the city, all of them together, and a group that has the potential to act together. Something like this is something they must be worried about facing. Really something like football which is supposed to serve society, an activity like football, is being pulled further away from society. Because this way it is easier to pick it apart. Then let’s get to the Passolig conversation, Passolig is the same thing. Before it wasn’t clear who entered, who left [the stadium], and if something should happen [the state’s] ability to act is constrained. But after Passolig, [the state] has control over everything, everything is on their terms, their eyes are there, and for them…it is one way to control the strength [of the people]. And through Aktif Bank they helped themselves a little, and—as I said when you make the stadium outside [the city center]—I honestly see it as putting the groups through the strainer [filtering people out—JKB]. I think that [these] are all measures taken against uncontrolled strength.

Like some of the fans you met earlier who recognized their strength in civil society, Fatih also understands the immense amount of power that the fans hold. At the same time, Fatih understands that the state also understands this, and that is why football “it is being pulled away from society”; in order for it to be controlled sport must be closer to the state than to the people, and the only way to ensure this is to make this control seem desirable by stressing things like

“safety” (again reflecting the hyperreal and inverted nature of hypermodernity).

Many fans I spoke with recognize this, and they are not happy. Hami, from Trabzonspor, sees it as an attack on the very culture he represents:

This E-Ticket thing…It takes the club into the system, gives power to the club, and the club says…I’ll load the tickets [on to the card]. Whoever does what I say, who stands close to me…well the club stands close to some people, and those people stand close to other people, it’s a strange kind of vicious cycle. That is why you have to be very good, you cannot raise your voice at everything. This E- Ticketing thing has turned fans completely into consumers…and it is continuing

223

in this manner […] Fandom, that thing we call tribun culture—you know what we have in the Mediterranean, Greece, Italy, etc.—it is going in a different direction in Turkey. Tribun culture is heading towards annihilation. [emphasis added].

Hami’s emphasis on the transformation of “fandom completely into consumers” is telling, and it speaks to the social engineering that underlies the Passolig system. Hami notices it, and understands that the goal is not so much safety as it is the annihilation of an entire culture. What is more insidious is that this can be seen as part of a global movement designed to bring the

Turkish market further in line with Western markets. Evren, from Bandirmaspor, does a good job of pointing this aspect out:

I am very against the Passolig system. It is really absurd. Now…while saying that we should make Europe our example—or the West as our example—we take the good things from the West and use them poorly. This is in all aspects. In terms of football this is so, or I don’t know, they say in Europe cigarette packages26 are this way, its health—and what do we do? We take that positive thing and make it negative. We did it with alcohol too […] Its absurd. Here we can get it [alcohol] until the morning light.27 And we do. It’s a small place, you know everyone. But it is absurd. It is fanaticism, while taking the West as an example they are trying to bring Arab culture. There is something really absurd going on.

Again, Evren notes that the stated aim is positive (“we take good things from the West and use them poorly”). The emphasis on the global aspect of the regulations coming into Turkey is also telling, and Evren sees Passolig as just one of those absurd regulations. He recognizes that something odd is going on; these regulations are designed to socially re-engineer Turkish society

26 In order to adhere to European regulations, Turkey removed the brands from cigarette packages and replaced them with images that reflect the harmful effects of smoking, including images of dead fetuses and hospital patients on life support. Again, it is a form of visual violence in hypermodern society.

27 The AKP made a law decreeing that alcohol could not be sold in Turkey between the hours of 10PM and 6AM throughout the country. This law directly benefitted western corporate supermarkets, like Migros or the French Carrefour, since they closed at 10PM anyway. Privately owned local markets with a license to sell alcohol which also sell typical household goods and basic food products were hit hard by this regulation. They had to make a difficult choice between closing early (and losing business) and staying open and risking the confrontations from customers ranging from neighborhood residents who might want a beer at 10:30 PM on a summer night and local drunks looking to keep the party going at 3:00AM. In short, it was not a regulation that made the local market safe, but it did help the global corporate store consolidate its hold on local economies.

224

into either a quasi-European model on the one hand, or an Arab model on the other hand28, reflecting the homogenizing trends implemented by the global culture industry through consumerism. One of Lash and Lury’s participants recognizes that “what these brands do is try really to impose a cultural standard that is valid or that is accepted everywhere. The ads they run in English sometimes: sometimes without subtitles!” (Lash and Lury 2007: 130). Although talking about Nike’s control over the Brazilian Football Association, this informant points to an alarming homogenization trend around the world—rooted in big business—that threatens individual cultures.

It is this alliance between the state, corporations, and teams which the fans are up against.

Since it has proven difficult to co-opt the fans of the more rooted teams, the state (and sponsors) have pursued another path, parallel to the commercialization of the stadium space. In order to divide and marginalize the fans further (“pick them apart”, as Fatih said), the state has aggressively pursued a policy building new stadiums that can better implement the kind of surveillance tactics outlined in this chapter while also cementing a culture of consumption in the stadium through proximity to shopping malls and by providing upscale amenities to customers.

28 Related to the “Turkish Model” that was to be a model for Arab countries (Tugal 2016).

225

CHAPTER 8 THE CONSTRUCTION OF NEW STADIUMS: ALIENATION SOLD AS MODERNIZATION

As long as they play with the matches…Turkish football will be something artificial, devoid of substance, with no soul—the stadiums are just trading houses. The people will come, 50 thousand people; they’ll get their tickets, like they do in Barcelona.

—Interview with Hami, Trabzonspor fan.

Evren, from Bandirmaspor, is a fun person to be around and during our interview he often added humorous anecdotes which made for an enjoyable conversation. One story, about his experience in Mersin, is a useful introduction to the topic of this chapter:

You make a new stadium, it has nothing to do with the city. Have you been to Mersin’s new stadium? Abi…Mersin’s stadium…we went to Mersin and among us there is an 8-10-person group who have a thing about food. Wherever we go we eat something [local]. We went to Mersin and said ok, Tantuni.1 Now the Tantuni here [in Bandirma] is not the same as the Tantuni there. We said let’s eat Tantuni. And I said ok, I’m going to eat some too, I’ll join you this time and we became about 15 people. We got to the stadium, there are no buildings around the stadium! We told the police…take us to the city. They said call a taxi. [It wouldn’t] come. We found a Tantuni place in Mersin and called them. We said bring us 12-15 Tantuni. He says ok, sure. Where? The Stadium. Old or new? New. We won’t go there. We said look charge us 20-30 Liras more, include a surcharge for the distance, bring the food here. Just so we don’t say we didn’t eat it. The stadium bears no relation to the city, you cannot see the “C” of the city center, you cannot see a building or a neighborhood.

The story here is comical, but it is a humorous anecdote revealing the hyperreal nature of the new stadiums—which paradoxically represent a city without being part of a city—that have been constructed throughout Turkey in the last ten years (Keddie 2018).2 Part of the joy Evren and his friends derive from their fandom is sampling the variety of culinary delights across Turkey; I

1 Tantuni is a local specialty in Mersin, but has become more popular throughout the country in recent years. It is usually served in a rolled up pita bread, like doner, and consists of finely chopped bits of steak, tomatoes, onions, and parsley stir fried in something similar to a wok. It is one of the more delicious street foods in Turkey.

2 In 2013 TOKI announced that it would be building “20 stadiums, 1,000 Sports halls, and 431 sports facilities for education institutions” (Dorsey 2015: 142).

226

myself enjoyed sampling local food during my travels around Turkey. The new stadiums—due to their locations—separate the sporting experience from the cultural experience, centering the entire stadium experience on banal consumerism and nothing more. These new stadiums, located so far from cultural and historical centers, resemble the travel hubs of the hypermodern world; airports—bland and sanitized—have replaced the railway stations and ports that were located near the city centers. Like airports, these new stadiums are forms of “placeless places”, devoid of any history or cultural charm.

This is why Evren, when asked about the new stadiums more generally, adds that:

I think here, the state is trying to…finish off the community. The goal here is ending the community. In the past Carsi [Besiktas’s major fan group—JKB], in their worst season, would have 12-13 thousand people in the kapali stand. Everyone was together. What happens? If something happens immediately a social message [would be sent]. Fenerbahce—behind the goal. It would be filled. One season they protested and didn’t go. [They protested club president] Aziz Yildirim, the next year Ali Koc [the new club president] came—or before Ali Koc came they put pressure on Aziz Yildirim…pressure, pressure pressure…the thing here is the community, it is preventing social pressure. [emphasis added].

Here he points out that the sense of community that comes with fandom is part and parcel of the stadium experience; the more sanitized the stadium becomes the more that sense of community is destroyed. At the same time, the old stadiums were places of protest either against the club administration or venues for airing “social messages”; with the advent of new stadiums this kind of Habermasian “communicative action” is stifled. The stadium becomes merely a place for commerce, like Hami from Trabzonspor notes. His comparison to Barcelona, which opens the chapter, is apt. During my fieldwork I attended the Catalan derby between Espanyol and

Barcelona in the Nou Camp and it honestly felt as if at least 40% of the people there were attending their first soccer match. There was little of the passionate fandom that I have experienced elsewhere in Europe, rather it seemed as if many people were just checking off

227

another box on their tourist itinerary; the Nou Camp is just another stop after La Sagrada Familia and Park Guell. But at least the Nou Camp is in the center of the city!

The irony is that it is this very sense of community that draws so many fans into the stadium. Sergen, the former Besiktas fan you met earlier who had gotten involved with Besiktas when living in Gaziantep, told me that seeing the fans on television was enough to tell him he wanted to be a part of them:

When I got to middle school and I watched the games from afar […] I would sit in front of the television, I had this chair then, and I would pull it directly in front of the television and together with my father. I wouldn’t watch the match…I would think ‘what new chant did the kapali tribun find for this week?’. I mean I would watch them…because the camera angle was directly across from the kapali tribun, so when you were watching the match you’d really be watching the kapali tribun. It was completely what will they do, what chants will they chant, what kind of protest will they make, etc.; I would be watching that.

Sergen grew up far from Istanbul, but the pageantry of the fans drew him in even through the television; the game was less important than the visual display and the “protests” that might be made. This was what the stadiums were like in the 1990s and early 2000s, before the full-on arrival of hypermodernity. The fans were free to send their messages, to chant their songs then.

Now, with the advent of the new laws and Passolig system—and new stadiums—a new reality is being constructed, further marginalizing fans in the process.

Two of Turkey’s most famous stadiums until the late 2000s were Besiktas’s Inonu

Stadium and Galatasaray’s Ali Sami Yen stadium. It would not be an exaggeration to say that these stadiums held a special place in the hearts and minds of Turkish football fans3; as is the case all over the world “at the local level, stadiums are monuments, places for community interaction, repositories of collective memory, loci of strong identities, sites for ritualized conflict, political battlefields, and nodes in global systems of sport” (Gaffney 2008: 4). Now,

3 See Herbert (2009) and Rich (2012) for journalistic descriptions of these stadiums.

228

neither of these stadiums exist. Galatasaray’s Ali Sami Yen was demolished in 2011 and replaced with the Turk Telekom Stadium in the same year, while Besiktas’ Inonu Stadium was replaced by the Vodafone Park on the same site in 2016 (without the famous Bosphorus view).

In both cases, the names of famous republican-era figures—Ali Sami Yen, the founder of

Galatasaray, and Ismet Inonu, the second leader of Turkey—were replaced by corporate sponsors

Turk Telekom and Vodafone (both corporations that thrive on hypermodern forms of communication in the digital world, incidentally).

One conspicuous part of the AKP’s “modernization” project in Turkey focused on sports stadiums, as the AKP knew the important place that soccer holds in Turkish culture. In

Gramscian terms, the AKP understood that implementing their hegemonic vision of modernity meant “controlling the culture”. The reason that the AKP has involved itself so much in stadium construction is twofold: the first reason is aimed at political transformation, the second is aimed at social transformation. Both goals are related in that they aim to implement a certain hegemonic vision in the realm of culture.

Political Transformation Through Stadium Construction

Many of the fans and officials I spoke to lamented the poor management of football clubs in Turkey, and many saw them as political tools. Thus, it should not be surprising that the government should see football stadiums in the same way since, as Gaffney notes, “within the larger spectacle of the urban landscape, the stadium is an iconographic feature that provides insight into the political economy, culture, and history of cities” (Gaffney 2008: 23). This not only why the stadium must be changed—to reflect the new culture of the neoliberal city—but also why the old stadiums are so valuable: they are centrally located. Just as Mehmet Yuce

(2014) notes that the old Taksim Stadium was located in the center of Istanbul, in what is now

Gezi park, the Inonu Stadium had a Bosphorus view (something at a premium) and Galatasaray’s

229

Ali Sami Yen Stadium was located in the center of the city’s Mecidiyekoy neighborhood, close to many businesses. In Adana, the 5 Ocak Stadium (slated to be demolished after the new stadium is constructed) is located in the center of the city while Izmir’s Alsancak Stadium— which narrowly avoided destruction4—is also centrally located, across from the central train station. As Patrick Keddie points out, “the sites of the old stadiums in prime locations are often given over to shopping malls” (Keddie 2018: 114). When it is not malls, luxury apartments are constructed, as was the case with the land that Ali Sami Yen once stood on.

In order to support the AKP’s construction boom, the state housing administration—

TOKI—has gotten itself involved in stadium construction. Patrick Keddie explains the process:

In many of the new stadiums, the local municipality (or more rarely the national government) takes credit from the state to build a stadium. Often they work in partnership with the Ministry of Youth and Sports and with TOKI, who coordinate and control the construction supposedly to maximize efficiency and to acquire the government’s desired outcomes.

Typically, the municipalities own the stadiums and rent them to the clubs— usually for a nominal fee, perhaps 1 TL per season. The clubs gain the revenue from the stadium such as sponsorship and ticket sales. The municipality typically makes money from development of the old stadium’s land. TOKI gets a cut of this income and, theoretically, capital flushes back into the state’s coffers (Keddie 2018: 116).

As urbanization—fueled by the neoliberal boom—continues, centrally located land in city centers has become more valuable. This has meant that old stadiums are demolished while new ones are constructed in the outskirts and different money making projects are pursued in the locations of the old stadiums.5 In my fieldwork, I saw the absurdity of this first hand when I visited Sakarya for the second division playoff final. Sakaryaspor play in the third tier, yet have a

4 See Blasing (2015).

5 It is also interesting that the land from some of the demolished stadiums is being transformed into “national gardens,” perhaps as a result of the negative publicity surrounding the transformation of other stadium spaces. In both Bursa and Trabzon, the land where the old stadiums once stood was occupied by construction sites advertising new “national gardens” at the time of my fieldwork.

230

state of the art stadium on the outskirts of town; the old stadium had been located in the center of the city adjacent to the train station. Kocaelispor, from the neighboring province, also have a new stadium outside the center that is visible from the Istanbul-Ankara highway despite playing in the fourth tier.

The three Denizlispor fans I spoke with outlined just how intertwined local real estate concerns, politics, and stadium construction are. Mehmet explains the deep-seated corruption inherent in these kinds of construction projects:

When they said earlier that a new stadium was to be made in Denizli, in the upper part of the city—the Ucler neighborhood they said—a rumor like that circulated. The former minister of the economy—Mr. Nihat Zeybekci—didn’t leave anything around Ucler, Gumusler, Goveclik, he didn’t any plots [of land]. They gobbled it up parcel by parcel. Later, they changed their mind, and Eskihisar—they said it would be made along the Pamukkale road in the Eskihisar neighborhood—that was next, and the mates of political power gobbled that area up parcel by parcel, and now because they found an [ancient] tomb there, that got delayed and now we will see…

While the planned construction has been delayed, it is clear that those close to the state aim to capitalize on this construction by buying up the land so that they can sell it back to developers at a premium. It is a blatant form of insider trading, reflecting the “savage capitalism” of hypermodernity.

Patrick Keddie argues that these stadiums represent the kind of “modernity” that the AKP claims to be bringing to Turkey; just like the construction business supports the growth of a new

“conservative” bourgeoisie distinct from the old Kemalist bourgeoisie (Keddie 2018), these new stadiums represent the new modernity—distinct from Kemalist modernity—that the AKP encourages. Since football has been connected to Turkish “modernity” since the beginning of the republic, most of the old stadiums were constructed in the middle of the last century—coinciding with the growth of football in Anatolia—as part of the nation building project. The new stadiums being constructed represent a neoliberal modernity that privileges the global over the local in the

231

“new Turkey” (Alaranta 2015), and through these new stadiums Turkey has tried (so far unsuccessfully) to attract a major global sporting event. Indeed, at the opening of Besiktas’

Vodafone Park, President Erdogan said that the new stadiums opening across the country meant that Turkey’s hosting of the Olympics was a “formality” (Keddie 2018: 127). Mr. Erdogan’s words here reflect Gaffney’s observation that “stadiums are sites and symbols of power, identity, and meaning” (Gaffney 2008: 24); these new stadiums are a symbol of the AKP’s power and the modernity of a new “conservative” bourgeois and a more global Turkey.

Indeed, many of the fans I spoke with noted just how important these projects are for

Turkey’s global standing; they are much more important to the global sports industry than they are to local footballing culture. Ibrahim, the Eyupspor fan who also supports Besiktas, explains:

Ok, the new stadiums are nice. You are representing your country very well, through these stadiums, when there is an organization. A UEFA match [the Champions League final—JKB] was played, if it was Inonu maybe it wouldn’t have happened.

Ridvan from Sariyer says something very similar:

In the past five years maybe the most modern stadiums of the world have been made in Turkey. The state, the government, the ministry of sport all came together, and we became candidates for a European championship [Euro 2024— JKB], a world championship [2020 Summer Olympics—JKB]. Maybe…the world didn’t really want this, they always resisted us, and they never came back with a positive response.

Both Ibrahim and Ridvan note the importance of these stadiums in the context of Turkey’s international stature, and see the stadiums as examples of Turkey’s ascension to a certain

“global” level. Unfortunately, the construction of the modern stadiums failed to attract a global sporting event (as Ridvan notes) and has had negative effects on local fandom. In his next sentence after the above quote, Ibrahim explains:

But what I am trying to say is this. When you make these stadiums at least think about the fan groups or the fans, to a degree. For instance, I was going to buy a season ticket for Besiktas, I had 3300 Liras, and I couldn’t get the season ticket

232

because I was 50 Liras short. I couldn’t get a season ticket because of 50 Liras. Why? If it was the old stadium, the bottom level covered stand, I could have gotten it very comfortably for 2500 Liras and the rest would have stayed in my pocket. What I’m trying to say is this. Ok, nice things are happening, events, nice stadiums, [nice] players but…what makes a club a club are the fans. That’s what I always say. [emphasis added].

Here Ibrahim gets to the root of the problem, the new stadiums—and indeed the new sporting infrastructure being built—does not take the everyday, working class fan into account. In privileging the global audience over the local audience it is the most vulnerable in society—the middle classes and lower classes, mainly wage earners who are not connected to the global economy—that are affected to the greatest degree. It is the result of globalist policies in politics, and—unfortunately—it is the result of globalist policies in culture. Turker, from Denizlispor, shares a similar opinion:

About the new stadium I think about it this way, they certainly need to be renewed. But when renewing them…who asks for the new stadium, who goes to the matches? I do. They need to ask my opinion. I want this stadium here [in the city center]. It should be renewed here. They…80 percent of the new stadiums maybe 100 percent are taken to the dead areas of the city, the project is completed within 2 years, certain rentier doors open, and they make the stadium there. Those close to the party in power get their income from it. It’s like that with Passolig too.

Turker points out that new stadiums are not only a result of privileging the global over the local, they are also the result of corrupt local politicians who look to line their pockets through under the table real estate deals on cheap land that was hitherto undesirable due to its distance from the city center.

Perhaps in order to distract voters from this reality, these stadiums—and other sports- related construction projects—are also used to generate local pride and, ultimately, win votes in provincial areas. The AKP—like Gaffney (2008: 21-23)—recognize that stadiums are monuments. Keddie (2018) quotes Onsel Gurel Bayrali, an economist, who points out that

“People in Malatya, for example, say ‘oh yeah, [the AKP] are working.’ How can they

233

understand that? They constructed a soccer stadium. It’s a kind of monumental project.” Many of the new stadiums were built in southeastern Anatolia, where the AKP has struggled to attract

Kurdish votes, in a bid to attract young voters (Blasing 2015). Even in AKP strongholds, like the conservative central Anatolian city of Konya, the stadium is seen in monumental terms. Patrick

Keddie notes that “Mevlana [the tomb of the Sufi poet Rumi] and the arena put Konya ‘on the map’” (Keddie 2018: 121) and the 42,000 capacity stadium has hosted many international matches of the Turkish national team. On my visit to the Konya Buyuksehir Belediye stadium in the spring of 2019, it was clear to me that the state-of-the art stadium also created a space for up- market restaurants and cafes in its vicinity despite being far from the city center (again, the old

Konya Ataturk stadium was located in the center of the city). The new stadium spawned its own hyperreal surroundings, in effect. I saw a similar effect in Bursa, where the new Buyuksehir

Belediye stadium is surrounded by up market bars, restaurants, and hotels, but bears no relationship—either socially or culturally—with the center of Bursa.

Even in smaller cities, like the district of Akhisar in western Turkey’s Manisa province, the local football team is seen as the city’s most important “brand”; the team have been finalists in two of the last three Turkish cup finals. As Patrick Keddie notes, “the AKP municipality plans to build a new stadium in Akhisar to stimulate economic development, hoping that commerce and retail develop as a result, and selling the land of the old stadium to build a shopping centre, and pay off the municipality’s considerable debts” (Keddie 2018: 121). In the provinces the story is the same as in the metropolitan center of Istanbul: the new stadiums are used to create a

“brand”, stimulating local pride which—the state hopes—will come back in the form of votes and economic development fueling the construction boom.

234

On a trip to the western city of Soma in September 2019 I heard first-hand from fans how intimately political fortunes were linked to both sport and construction. Like many places in provincial Turkey, Soma is a small town (a district of Manisa province) without many leisure or entertainment options. When one fan told me that “people love football in Soma” I asked him why. With a wry smile he responded, “Because there is nothing else to do!”. The AKP were also cognizant of the importance of sport in this small city known more for its mining industry than anything else, and the fans explained just how cynically this was exploited. In May of 2014 310

Miners died in Soma after a mine collapsed, trapping them underground. The government’s response to the tragedy reflected the extreme nature of neoliberalism in Turkey, as (then) Prime

Minister Erdogan explained away the death of the miners by effectively labelling the tragedy as collateral damage on the road to “modernity” (Blasing 2014). It was a textbook example of how the belief in progress—above all else—provides an opportunity to rationalize and explain away the excesses of modernity. Going beyond the kind of psychological alienation that Marx identified among workers in capitalist societies, this tragedy exposed just how expendable workers had become in neoliberal Turkey6, and many fan groups criticized the government’s response on social media.

Yet after the dust settled, the AKP got to work in Soma. Another of the fans I spoke with told me that, in addition to renovating the Soma Ataturk Stadium, the Turkish Football

Association also built a sports complex on the outskirts of the city with multiple grass fields.

When I asked why the government invested so much in such a small provincial city, the fan said simply that they “wanted people to forget [the mine disaster] and have them think about

6 Patrick Keddie finds that “for all the AKP’s talk about ordinary people and representing the underdog, it has also removed many labour rights and protections. Turkey is now second only to China in terms of fatalities at work” (Keddie 2018: 119).

235

something else”. Essentially, investment in sports in Soma was used by the government to paint over a disaster which itself occurred because of the state’s disregard for worker’s safety; the state likely hoped that by constructing the new sports complex—and by renovating the existing stadium—they could both distract residents and recoup some of the votes that they knew they would lose in the district. In this respect, sports and construction come together not only to consolidate AKP hegemony where their support is strong, they also come together in the form of a “carrot” in order to gain votes from the opposition. Still, sports provides a space for resistance to this hegemony, as the biggest fan group of Somaspor uses the number 301, remembering the lost miners. Even if the state tries to paint over the disaster by providing for the team, it is the fans who—as a part of civil society—keep collective memory alive by reminding others of a collective national trauma.

Sariyer, a seaside district of northern Istanbul that has proven hard to win for the AKP is run by the opposition Republican People’s Party (CHP), provides a nother example. Sariyer’s fans have a generally nationalist outlook, like Ridvan, and in my fieldwork I noticed the Ataturk banner and Turkish flags they hang at home matches. Cognizant of the fans’ strong commitment to their team, the AKP mayoral candidate from Sariyer Salih Bayraktar recognized the importance of appealing to them. Bayraktar announced in Janaury 2019 that he had a plan to build a new stadium on the grounds of the decaying Yusuf Ziya Onis Stadium, complete with all the amenities of industrial football (a shop, box suites, and car park).7 While Mr. Bayraktar was later not elected in the municipal elections, it is telling that one of his major campaign promises revolved around the district’s football team.

7 See Sabah (2019).

236

Outside of tangible concerns like economic and political gains, the construction of new stadiums also has an ideological component to it which Patrick Keddie calls “turn[ing] ideology into matter” (Keddie 2018: 117). One of the most concrete ways in which ideology has been turned into matter in the context of the new stadiums is their names themselves. While older stadiums tended to be named after Kemalist and other republican political figures or important historical dates like the liberation of the city (reflcting local and national history) the names of newer stadiums “often reflect the shifts in corporate or political power” (Keddie 2018: 117).

While some of the new stadiums (like Bursa’s and Besiktas’s) became “Arenas”—reflecting

Americanized corporatism (Ibid.)—the major change was the elimination of the republican symbolism and imagery from the names of these stadiums.

As Patrick Keddie notes, “Afyon, Antakya [Hatay], Antalya, Bursa, Diyarbakir, Elazig,

Eskisehir, Giresun, Kayseri, Konya, Rize, and Sakarya all have or had stadiums named after

Ataturk that have been or will be renamed” (Keddie 2018: 118). Additionally, other stadiums carried republican symbolism which was erased: Besiktas’ old Inonu Stadium and Kocaeli’s old

Ismet Pasa stadium were named after Turkey’s second leader Ismet Inonu while Trabzon’s old

Avni Aker stadium was named after a local republican-era figure who became Trabzon’s first physical education teacher after the republic was formed (Tunc 2011).

Some of the fans I spoke with took issue with the re-naming of these new stadiums.

Okan, from Bursaspor, said this when I asked him his thoughts regarding the change in Bursa:

The Buyuksehir Belediye Stadium…in order to change something don’t change its name. They should have kept the same name. They should have made it Mustafa Kemal Stadium, it doesn’t have to be Ataturk, Ok. They could have made it Mustafa Kemal Stadium, at least they could have honored it. Or they could have made it Kemal Ataturk Stadium. Or Ata Stadium. Why Buyuksehir Belediye Stadium? What does it have to do with anything? What is the connection with Timsah Arena?

237

Okan believes that the stadium could have at least retained the old name in some form, and he is unsure as to why the stadium was renamed into something that is—as tends to be par for the course in hypermodernity—predictibly bland. The “Municipal” stadium or “Timsah” [Alligator]

Arena don’t have any historical significance whatsoever, and his objection seems to stem from the ahistoric nature of the new stadium’s name, disconnected from any local or national history.

Okan’s comments also point to the revered position of Ataturk in Turkish society, as his memory is seen—in this case—as coming before ideological concerns.

When the stadium names are not changed to reflect the implementation of hegemony in the ideological sphere, they are used to boost the profile of local politicians. On the 29th of

October 2019—which marks the founding of the Turkish republic—I went to Tire to watch a

Turkish cup match between Izmir club Altinordu and the Kurdish club Amedspor.8 Tire is a small rural district located inland in Izmir province with a population of 85,000. Despite the district’s small size—and despite the fact that it does not have a team in the professional leagues—it is home to a 13,500 capacity modern stadium. It was completed in 2018, with 75 percent of the funding coming from Izmir’s municipality and 25 percent of the funding coming from Tire’s municipality. While neither of these municipalities were run by the AKP at the time, the stadium was still named after a mayor, in this case Tire’s Tayfur Cicek.9 In Spring of 2019, the new Mayor of Tire changed the name of the stadium with a vote to Gazi Mustafa Kemal

Stadium.10 While the name of the new stadium became a point of contention, the superfluous nature of these new stadiums is still evident; the Gazi Mustafa Kemal Stadium only plays host to

8 It is important to note that despite this match occurring on a day with significant meaning for Turkish nationalists, I saw no hostility between the (few) Altinordu fans in attendance and the sizable contingent of visiting Amedspor supporters.

9 See Kızılboğa (2018).

10 See Soylu (2019).

238

professional matches when Altinordu—the team with arguably Izmir’s smallest fan base—plays their home cup matches there (so far two games in the 2019-2020 season).

In the new stadiums, there is also a visual representation of the ideological transformation being encouraged; it is most prominent in the lower leagues. On a cold late February day in 2019

I visited a third division match in Bagcilar, one of the peripheral neighborhoods of Istanbul’s

European side where life is tough—I even heard one kid protest the 1.5 TL price of tea (about 25 cents). The team, Anadolu Bagcilarspor, is newly created and that is why the stadium was a good example of a hastily constructed placeless place, one stand separated from the Mall of Istanbul

(itself a neoliberal monstrosity on the outskirts of Istanbul) by a busy highway. On the chain link fence opposite the stadium’s one stand, there were four banners from left to right: one of the nation’s founder Mustafa Kemal Ataturk, a Turkish flag, one of President Recep Tayyip

Erdogan, and one of the local Bagcilar mayor Lokman Cagirici. Mayor Cagirci’s good luck message to both teams was also written on the stadium’s scoreboard. Here the new hegemony is being connected to the old hegemony through nationalism by way of the Turkish flag and

Ataturk banner.

I saw something similar in a 2nd tier match between Istanbulspor and Kardemircelik

Karabukspor in April 2019 at the Esenyurt Necmi Kadioglu Stadium. The stadium itself—as the

Istanbulspor fans I attended the match with noted—is a hastily constructed stadium in the peripheral district of Istanbul. Even the taxi driver who took me to the stadium explained that the district used to be a beet farm. Yet, behind one of the goals, are again four banners: A banner reading “Once Vatan” [Country First] in the team colors of black and yellow, a Turkish flag, a portrait of Ataturk, as well as a portrait of President Erdogan. Just like in Bagcilar, all the bases of Turkish nationalism are covered (Banal, Kemalist, and AKP), while the name of the

239

stadium—Necmi Kadioglu—is a nod to the AKP mayor who constructed it, as the fans I was with noted.11 In fact, as we left the stadium, we noticed that the Erdogan banner in question looks one in the eye both inside and outside the stadium. As one of the fans I watched with said, “he’s always looking at you”. The humor of this big brother-esque panopticism aside, however, it is clear that these new stadiums serve a purpose in terms of attempting to establish an ideological hegemony in the collective memory of football fans in urban areas. The message is that “we gave you your stadium so that you can support your team, so remember us as well”, and I saw many heated discussions on the Instagram pages of various teams in Izmir, for instance, regarding new stadium projects. It seemed that fans of Karsiyaka, for instance, were divided as to whether or not they would be happy with an AKP built stadium in the only major city the AKP has been unable to win.

This is why the banners in the stadium are so significant, and can be interpreted from a variety of perspectives. To some, Erdogan might be seen as putting himself on the same level as the nation’s founder, Ataturk, as a “modernizer”. To others, Erdogan might be seen as respecting the history of the country, while to still others he might be seen as legitimizing himself with the nod to Ataturk. Regardless of which perspective one might take, it represents the delicate balancing act that the AKP is engaged in, as they seek to implement their hegemonic vision.

Again, the stadium is being used as a means to attract voters, and this is how the political

11 Interestingly, the Esenyurt Necmi Kadioglu stadium was once named after famous Galatasaray striker Hakan Sukur and its name was changed after President Erdogan’s falling out with the Islamic cleric Fetullah Gulen who the AKP government believe was behind the coup attempt of 15 July 2016: see Cihan (2014). Indeed, the importance of stadium names is evident from this incident. Because of Hakan Sukur’s close association with the Islamic cleric (Dorsey 2016: 144), the stadium in Sancaktepe—another peripheral stadium in Istanbul and home to fourth tier Sancaktepe Belediyespor—removed Hakan Sukur’s name from the stadium in 2014; see Hurriyet Daily News (2014). It was later renamed Sancaktepe Sehir Stadium; see Sancaktepe Haber Ajansi (2014) and is now known as 15 July Martyr’s Stadium following the coup attempt. Here we see that the name of the stadium itself is political, changing as hegemonic discourses shift.

240

transformation encouraged by the new stadiums bleeds into a social transformation, which I will elaborate on in the next section.

Social Transformation Through Stadium Construction

As Cihan Tugal notes in Passive Revolution, the AKP’s rapid urbanization projects in the suburbs of Istanbul are based on the premise that if you change the city you change the person

(Tugal 2009). The idea with stadiums is the same—if you change the stadium, you change the fan. Here the goal is to sell fans not only a footballing experience, but also a lifestyle. Chris

Gaffney explains that “instead of responding to population shifts, stadiums are frequently built speculatively in the hope of providing an urban ‘amenity’ that will attract internal migrants and businesses to a city” (Gaffney 2008: 16). The transformation of the stadium from a public space into an “amenity” is connected to the increasing commodification of sport. While replacing old stadiums means that there are benefits in terms of safety for both fans and consumers, Crawford also notes that most fans have a “topophilic (love of place) relationship with a particular sport venue, which is both a part of their support but at the same time transcends this and constitutes a specific relationship between the fan and the venue” (Crawford 2004: 67). This is why moving stadiums can be difficult for fans, and probably why many Turkish fans are nostalgic for the old stadiums even though the facilities are far superior in the newer ones. Again, Gaffney notes that the construction of new stadiums in Britain led to an increase in ticket prices and corresponding

“pricing-out” of lower income and working-class fans (Gaffney 2008: 16); this emphasis on safety—and changing demographics—means that new behaviors are expected, as fans come to self regulate their behavior. It is an inorganic form of the “civilizing process” (Elias 2000[1939]).

Just as Crawford notes that older North American sports venues—located in urban areas—were “slowly abandoned in favour of new out-of-town venues planned as sites of leisure, comfort, and entertainment” (Crawford 2004: 72), the same has happened in Turkey. Like Evren

241

from Bandirmaspor, the Istanbulspor fans I spoke with lamented the distance of the Esenyurt

Necmi Kadioglu stadium from the city center (it takes about one and a half hours on the metrobus line, followed by a fifteen-minute taxi ride to access the stadium) and underlined the importance of seeing the same people every other weekend and eating the kofte (meatball) sandwiches at the stadium—even if, as all the fans agreed—they aren’t that good. This is because the amenities are not as important as the real social connection provided by the stadium.

Mehmet, one of the Denizlispor fans I spoke with, laments the lack of emotion in the new stadiums:

[…] the politics in football, I think…Passolig, the 6222 law on violence in sports, the new stadiums, everything we have talked about…these are all completely sanctioned by the political hegemony. Yes stadiums need to be made, and it’s a good project. Right now…new stadiums have been made in most of Turkey’s provinces. The Super League’s only Ataturk Stadium belongs to us, we are proud of this, it is a source of pride. What could come in its place—like the Timsah Arena coming in place of the Bursa Ataturk Stadium—Vodafone Arena, Turk Telekom Arena. You know Ali Sami Yen, Inonu, these were stadiums that had soul. These were places where people felt as if they were in their homes. The new stadiums that have come, of course they give some sense of identity even if not as much as the old [stadiums] but for those people it is still a difference. Think about it like this, ill…say it from my perspective. This is Denizli Ataturk Stadium. This is my home. But for instance when I go to a stadium named “Arena” or “Park”, I feel a little different. For me, there is no soul in such places. Those places all feel completely as something that is part of the economy…[emphasis added].

Mehmet understands the political game behind both the new stadiums and the Passolig system, while also recognizing that no one is against these developments per se. New stadiums are much more comfortable than old stadiums, just like Passolig has also cut down on levels of violence in stadiums. No one disputes this. But what Mehmet’s comments point to is a sense of alienation; the new stadiums “have no soul” because they feel like they are part of the “economy”. This reflects the emphasis of means-end rationality—at the expense of emotion—that comes with commodification of all walks of life. This is one example of how the new stadiums have a way of changing the fan, transforming them into customers.

242

Sergen, the former Besiktas fan I spoke with, underlines the fact that it was the new stadium that influenced his decision to stop attending matches: the atmosphere is just not the same, and neither is the sense of community. The rationalized spaces of the new stadiums do not allow for the same freedom of expression that the old stadiums did, and the higher prices in these new stadiums have also meant a transformation in the type of fan that attends games. Indeed, looking at the VIP seats in the new Vodafone Park stadium is a great example of a Baudrillardian hyperreality: there are television screens on the backs of seats—similar to an airplane—where fans can watch the match on television while in the stadium. Of course, this begs the question as to why one would pay more than one hundred dollars to watch a game on a television screen.

This is how the construction of new stadiums has brought class into a hitherto largely classless space, dividing the fans against one another. Christopher Gaffney describes this process in relation to the transformation of Latin American stadiums he studies:

The generalized effect has been an atomization of the crowd, whereby social value is ascribed to an individual’s capacity to consume. The traditional public, one that could afford to go to stadiums on a regular basis, has changed to a more limited and affluent crowd. What once were inclusive public spaces are, much like city parks, squares, and other spaces of shared interaction, predicated on the notion that one must consume (and heavily) to be part of the event. (Gaffney 2008: 16).

Ali, another Besiktas fan I spoke with, saw 2002 as the turning point which transformed the

Besiktas stands from a classless place to a space defined by class, undermining the shared unity that fans had in the stadium. This was the year that Serdar Bilgili, then president of Besiktas, made the decision to destroy the “Kapali” (covered) stand at the Inonu Stadium and construct 28

VIP lounges. Many observers at the time, like Asena Ozkan, noted the destruction of culture inherent in this move—since the “Kapali” stand was traditionally where the Carsi fan group congregated—by asking a rhetorical question: “is Besiktas the people’s team or the sugar daddy’s team? The people will not stand for people sipping whiskey on the rocks in lounges!”

243

(Ozkan 2003). Of course, the excuse given by the Besiktas leadership was that they were making the stadium come in line with UEFA regulations. Again, modernity—and adherence to the interests of a transnational globalist organization—was given as an excuse to sell alienation and, ultimately, the social transformation of fans. For Ali, the entrance of class dynamics into the stadium ended the shared sense of purpose in the Besiktas stands.

The Denizlispor fans I spoke with were keen to not allow a new stadium in Denizli outside of the city center because they knew it would—again—separate the richer fans from the poorer fans. Turker explains it in simple terms:

We have a love, we have a hobby, there is something we love; I can come here [the current Denizli Ataturk Stadium] with one dolmus12 from anywhere in Denizli, with one bus everyone can come. Outside of the [rural] districts, everyone can come here. But when you take the stadium outside of the city, there is no place for people to pass the time. Now our stadium is in the city center, we can go eat a meal, we can drink tea [indeed, I drank tea with my participants in a teahouse close to the stadium—JKB], then we can walk to the stadium; they deprive people of this pleasure. What happened? More inconvenience, it is more inconvenience for the local authorities, and for the club. Look at Gaziantep, we went to the stadium, Gazisehir’s stadium. It is outside of the city13 […] this way people are blocking the rise of Anatolia’s clubs, and they are slowly killing the love inside of people.14 Because people get off of work, today [the match] was at 5, right at quitting time. Many people left their jobs and came straight [to the stadium]. In half an hour people can come here, but when it is outside of the city, it is impossible for people to come. Especially at 5-6PM, Denizli has a lot of traffic and then it would be impossible…

Turker emphasizes that the match day experience is so much more than just the game, it is also gathering with friends, getting a meal, and having some tea. Social experiences are also

12 A shared taxi, usually in the form of a van, similar to Marshrutkas in eastern Europe.

13 Fatih, who currently lives in Gaziantep, jumps in and points out that the stadium is 1 hour and 15 minutes from where he lives in Gaziantep.

14 As one fan in Sakarya told me, most teams with new stadiums end up getting relegated to lower leagues— Kocaelispor find themselves in the fourth tier, Sakaryaspor in the third tier, Bucaspor has been relegated to the amateur leagues, and Mersin Idmanyyurdu have closed altogether (despite being a historic team formed in 1925). This is another element that is “killing the love inside of people”.

244

important, and hypermodern stadiums deprive fans of these experiences; remember Evren’s complaints regarding Mersin, where he couldn’t get something as simple as the local staple—it would be like going to a New York Yankees game and being unable to get a slice of New York style Pizza or attending a Cincinnati Reds game without being able to get a cup of chili.

This transformation of stadiums in the name of consumerism results in a hyperreality. As

Garry Crawford argues, “what supporters are presented with is a re-creation and simulation of the historic sport venue, and hence, history (or at least a sense of history) itself has become commodified and sold to supporters as part of the ‘authentic’ experience of the ‘live’ stadium”

(Crawford 2004: 75). Turkish football reflects this trend, and fans have been alienated from the teams—and stadiums—they cherished. As Patrick Keddie notes, “many of the stadium interiors have a similar feel. Inside most new stadiums you find yourself in a mostly indistinguishable, albeit fairly impressive, big round bowl” (Keddie 2018: 126). This has resulted in a lack of atmosphere for fans, and I myself can attest to the alienating nature of Galatasaray’s new stadium

(especially when I compare it to what I experienced at the old Ali Sami Yen Stadium). Similarly,

Ali notes that the set up of the new Vodafone Park has changed the way Besiktas fans chant; in the old Inonu stadium they would chant between the upper and lower levels. Now the upper level cannot even see the lower level, and the chants from the lower level end up muffled when heard from the upper level; Ali thinks it sounds like people yelling from behind a closed door.

This ahistorical transformation of tradition into spectacle has meant that many fans—like

Sergen—choose not to attend matches. While the stadium might be there, it is devoid of tradition because the fans no longer have a connection to it, making it easier to reduce the space to one designed for the banal “conspicuous consumption” of experience. Indeed, the selfies and social media posts send the message “I was there!”, commodifying the social experience and providing

245

a means to turn economic capital (the ticket) into social capital (the experience). But what makes a stadium is not the amenities, it is the memories of big matches and players who have played there which are intimately tied to personal memory as Vaczi underlines in her discussion of

Athletic Bilbao’s San Mames (Vaczi 2015). Memory is one of the things that makes us human, and it should come as no surprise that the onset of hyperreal hypermodernity has slowly erased these vestiges of the past. Many of the fans I spoke with lamented these changes. Okan, from

Bursaspor, explained his feelings to me:

How do we see the new stadium? The new stadium is a stadium where our dreams were stolen from us. It is a stadium where our dreams were played with. It is a stadium that plays with our dreams, our honor, and our pride. The old stadium….it was our past, it was where we were relegated and where we experienced a championship; it was our honor our pride, our virtue, our glory. It was the place we lived everything. But in the new stadium there is nothing like this. The new stadium is a bleeding wound in our hearts. Along with the new stadium the Bursaspor tribun, the Bursaspor community, took a step backwards. [emphasis added].

Okan’s emphasis on the regressive nature of this supposedly “modern” stadium says a lot; the construction of a new stadium alienated him—and his fellow fans—from the memories they had of what they actually lived in reality. They were all replaced with a hyperreality; it is a hyperreality that—as he points out—still hasn’t been finished! When I attended a match at the new Bursa stadium in February 2020, I marveled at the fact that the interior staircases (which take one from the lower levels to the top levels of the stands) are still drab grey concrete. They have no color. Couldn’t they have at least painted the walls green and white, in the color of

Bursaspor, for instance? And Okan is not the only one who feels this way.

When I asked Zeynep the same question, about what she felt about the switch from Avni

Aker to the Medical Park Stadium in Trabzon, she said:

Our new stadium is nice. But of course Avni Aker…is very different. Years of history lie there. The [new] stadium is nice though.

246

At that point her friend, Abdullah who you met earlier, gives his perspective:

That was my childhood…we grew up there. There is nothing else for us, no other entertainment. We devoted our lives to it, let me put it that way. We celebrate with it, we mourn with it.

Just as the old Bursa Ataturk Stadium was deeply connected to Okan’s personal history, the Avni

Aker stadium is also deeply connected to the personal histories of both Zeynep and Abdullah. It is not something that can easily be replaced for these individuals, and that is why the new stadiums represent a crude form of social engineering. They look to completely erase the feelings of topophilia—and connection to place—in the newer generation of fans who will know nothing else (from their stadium) outside of bland, sanitized, banal consumerism.

It is important to understand that, just as was the case with Passolig, the fans do not reject the new stadiums for what they are; most of them appreciate the higher quality of the new grounds. What they reject is the way that the stadiums have been created. If these changes had been done with the people—in this case the fans—in mind, it is likely that there would not be such displeasure. The fans are displeased because they understand that financial concerns, and not human concerns, were given priority. This, again, reflects politicization from above and not from below. The fans recognize that the new stadiums, just like the Passolig system, are connected to political interests and the furthering of other goals, rather than responding to the desires of fans themselves. In the next chapter, I will discuss a topic where the economic and political concerns intersect with the hyperreality in the most vulgar of ways: The invention of new teams represents the most contrived way that politics has become embroiled with sports, representing the pinnacle of the ongoing politicization of culture.

247

CHAPTER 9 FRACTURING FOOTBALL AND INVENTED TEAMS

They turned Gaziantep [Buyuksehir] Belediyespor into Gazisehir[spor]. And Istanbul Basaksehir[spor] is the same. Politically backed teams. As I said, you look, they have no fan group but...As I said Gazisehir has few fans. But they are in the Super League, what can you do? Political. When politics gets involved everything ends.

—Interview with Taner (Adana Demirspor)

This is absurd, it is just absurd. And this is…a project, these government supported teams. For instance you ended Gaziantep[spor] and created Gazisehir[spor]. I don’t know you ended Manisaspor, Manisa Football Club—it was Manisa Buyuksehir Belediye[spor], it became Manisa FK and was just founded in 2019.

—Interview with Evren (Bandirmaspor)

[Basaksehir] has a nice stadium but, its not a neighborhood team. That’s why it seems small, […] Eyupspor has a 2,000-3,000 group, just like that. For instance Besiktas, or Adanademirspor, these are the same thing, they come from the joy of football, the spirit of football.

—Interview with Ibrahim (Eyupspor)

It is hard to imagine a more uniform landscape. It seems as if every apartment block dotting the horizon looks exactly the same: shapeless concrete blocks for as far as the eye can see. Where the taxi drops me off the lights of the Basaksehir Fatih Terim Stadium are visible on a small hill just beyond the only American-style strip mall I have ever seen in Turkey. I slowly walk up the incline, past a Burger King and a few other American-style casual dining restaurants

(in the manner of Chili’s) towards the stadium. On this early November evening I have traveled to the Istanbul neighborhood of Basaksehir to see them take on Ankaragucu in the Turkish Super

League.

The stadium itself was constructed recently and contains all of the modern amenities including copious amounts of cameras; this is a perfectly panopticized space. Even on the walls

248

inside the stadium the rules of Law 6222 are posted as a reminder. Inside it feels less than a stadium and more like a cafeteria. There is a big hall of tables and chairs, along with a children’s play room. Even the stadium noise has been eliminated from this area, and the stands are separated by thick doors—likely for crowd control. When I make it to the stands, the atmosphere is just as bland. More than half of the stadium is empty, and the banal nationalism of Turkish flags cover the seats behind each goal in an attempt to make the stadium feel less lonely.

The Basaksehirspor fan group, 1453 Basaksehirliler [1453 Basaksehirians], are about 50 people; I have seen bigger fan groups in the Izmir amateur league. By contrast, the visitors from

Ankaragucu are packed into the away section and drown out the home fans. In fact, they are the only sign of life in this uber-sanitized atmosphere. Yet it was exactly what I expected. This is because Ankaragucu are an old and established team, whose first players contributed to the war effort during Turkey’s war of independence (Hatipoglu and Aydin 2007), and boast a dedicated group of supporters. By contrast, Basaksehirspor are an invented team representing the invented urban area of Basaksehir that has recently been created.

The story of Basaksehirspor is the topic of this chapter, where I will discuss the third element of the hegemonic project to take control of Turkish sport and the cultural field more generally. In addition to building new stadiums and neoliberalizing the general stadium atmosphere, new teams have also been created as a sort of tabula rasa upon which the hegemonic narrative can be furthered in sport. As the fall out from the June 2011 match fixing scandal showed, the AKP government (at that time connected to the globalist cleric Fethullah

Gulen) tried to entrench itself in the club structure of Fenerbahce since, as James Dorsey points out, “both [Erdogan and Gulen] want to dictate people’s lives. Erdogan focuses on lifestyle,

Gulen on control of institutions” (Dorsey 2016: 119). Controlling the stadium, therefore, is both

249

controlling lifestyle (in the form of leisure time) and institutions (in so far as Turkey’s biggest football clubs are entrenched institutions within civil society). Although James Dorsey notes that there is little concrete evidence1 linking Gulen and Erdogan to the match-fixing scandal which threatened to bring down Fenerbahce, most fans believe something was afoot (Dorsey 2016: 144-

146). I will not go in to this issue in depth since John McManus details the process (McManus

2018: 85-96); instead, I will try to put it into the context of my wider argument.

Before going into the discussion, I would like to add a short methodological note. Due to the COVID-19 event, I was unfortunately unable to complete interviews with the fans of these invented teams. Still, I attended their matches and asked my participants from other teams for their perspectives on these new teams. In lieu of interviews, I relied on a combination of academic works, news stories and social media posts in order to put together—and interpret—the short histories of these teams. I think that this information is useful, even without interviews, because these teams represent rare instances where sports teams have been founded explicitly appealing to existing social cleavages within Turkish society; this is a very new development.

Additionally, the fact that all were created out of previously state-owned teams suggests some level of state involvement. Most interestingly, Istanbul Basaksehirspor won their first championship during the season I did the second part of my fieldwork, 2019-2020. Thus, I believe it is important to view this chapter as an attempt at interpreting what these teams might represent in the context of the changes globalization has brought to Turkish sporting culture.

1 Since it is a complex situation, it is not surprising that concrete evidence should be hard to come by. Still, following the coup attempt in July 2016, “the Turkish Football Federation became subject to a purge; at least 94 people were sacked, including some referees and at least one Super League assistant referee, for suspected Gulenist links” (Keddie 2018: 57). Given the often intimate relationship between politics and sport in Turkey, this isn’t very surprising.

250

As I explained in Chapter 2, most Turkish football clubs are historically not explicitly tied to specific ethnic, religious, or class roots; instead, most clubs were founded to represent individual provinces or districts. This is why football in Turkey has become such a popular aspect of culture, and the 2013 Gezi Park protests revealed that this unifying nature of sport made it a potential threat to the power system as well. James Dorsey argues that these protests also revealed the unsatisfactory nature of (then Prime Minister) Erdogan’s new definition of

Turkishness: It was seen as “increasingly exclusive rather than inclusive and failed to take into account the diversity and pluralism of Turkish society” (Dorsey 2016: 119); this is related to the interpretation of “Turkishness” not as a national concept (ulus) but as connected to Sunni Islam

(millet), that the AKP encouraged (see Chapter 3 in Alaranta (2015) for a good discussion). In order to address these interconnected issues—the failure to take over major institutions like

Besiktas, Galatasaray, and Fenerbahce and the need prove its commitment to “inclusivity”— many new teams were created.

Often, these new teams reflected specific cleavages within Turkish society on the field.

As I pointed out earlier, the AKP is essentially a coalition party (Alaranta 2015); the differentiation—according to identity—is important, and “if there would not be this ideological factor and project of constructing a collective identity by demonizing the secularist constituency, the AKP would be nothing more than a neoliberal center-right party representing big business”

(Alaranta 2015: 113). For many observers, one key cleavage distinguishes religious Muslim

Turks from secular Turks. Cihan Tugal’s case study of Istanbul’s Sultanbeyli district points out that this division creates a “false consciousness” in Marxian terms:

The civil-political changes in the district [Sultanbeyli] were unfolding in the overall context of national-global economic changes or, more specifically, the AKP government’s further opening up of Turkey to international competition. A number of the few existing factories in the district closed down and moved to

251

China, leaving hundreds of workers unemployed. Textile workshops were also leaving the district or going bankrupt. Deindustrialization was at its peak. Yet, it did not become a political issue [. . .] The thorough marketization, neoliberalization, and individualization I witnessed in 2006 received no organized, critical response from society. Why was there no pro-social justice reorganization in civil society as a response to marketization in Sultanbeyli?” (Tugal 2009: 192).

For Tugal, the answer to this rhetorical question is that Islamic (and neoliberal) civil society was able to pacify resistance to neoliberalization and globalization not only in Sultanbeyli, but also wider Turkish society, by distorting reality and distracting from the real inequalities created by neoliberal globalization. As long as the ruling party adhered to political Islam (even if only superficially), it did not matter that jobs were being lost overseas. Cihan Tugal notes that this strategy was part of the AKP’s view of hegemony, which he defines as:

(1) the organization of consent for domination and inequality (2) through a specific articulation of everyday life, space, and the economy with specific patterns of authority (3) under a certain leadership, (4) which forges unity out of disparity (Tugal 2009: 24).

The fourth part, “forging unity out of disparity”, is particularly important, and this might be why

Basaksehir (and other invented teams) were explicitly created to appeal to various cleavages. In the case of Basaksehir, it represents the rising conservative bourgeoisie.

The formation of clubs based on social cleavages explicitly politicizes the stadium space and divides fan culture from within; while autonomous fan groups send their own messages both in the stadium and on social media, those from invented teams are more closely connected to— and sometimes even dependent on—the state. This is why they are useful; they provide a controlled form of politicization within the stadium reflective of Baudrillard’s hyperreality. The fan groups and teams might look organic to a passing observer, but a closer investigation shows that they are invented. To understand how this process unfolded, it will first be useful to look at

252

the management side of Turkish football, something that many fans I spoke with took issue with, before looking at the perspectives of fans from more established teams.

Scarves Versus Ties: The Fans Versus Administrators

Coskun, the 35-year old journeyman player you met earlier, has lived through the changes in Turkish football which he—like many of the fans I spoke with—believes came after the arrival of the AKP in 2002. Throughout his long career he has seen the invention of teams, and the rise and fall of other teams, and his first person experiences provide a useful perspective:

For instance I played for Kizilcahamam [Belediyespor], before me Kizilcahamam [Belediyespor] was Pursaklarspor. Pursaklar[spor] became Kizilcahamam[Belediyespor]. Then I left, Kizilcahamam [Belediyespor]…what did it become…it became Golbasi[spor]. Golbasi [spor’s name] left, it became Cubukspor. Now it says Cubukspor on my CV.

He laughs at this final iteration of the club’s name, because a “cubuk” means a small stick, or a ramrod (the connotations are clear). But it is telling that a small team from the environs of

Ankara should change names so many times; it is (likely) the story of successive failures on the part of club administrators. When I ask Coskun to elaborate on the declining fortunes of many former powers in Turkish football, like Sariyer, Coskun says:

Sariyer…and others, Karagumruk, Kocaeli[spor], Sakarya[spor], these all play in the lower leagues. These are communities with roots. But now this is the deal. Those communities have been gutted. Those communities were taken advantage of for their name. Some filled their pockets, others really gave their hearts to this job, they spent money from their own pockets, but most of the time those communities were gutted. Only the name remains. Karsiyaka…but let’s go to that Karsiyaka today. It is an empty club. Everything has been finished. Like Sakarya[spor], for years it has been able to sustain itself with help from the state […] The community’s name is big, they themselves are not. Only the name is big.

Coskun’s story is sad, but it points to an ongoing problem in Turkish football. The “rooted communities” he talks about have, slowly, been “gutted”; little remains of their storied pasts.

Sariyer, for instance, is to this date a rare example of a Turkish team that has won a European competition—the now defunct Balkan cup in 1992. Karsiyaka is a club that was founded in 1912

253

and whose administrators and players played a major role in the war of independence; the star and crescent on their badge was given to the club by Mustafa Kemal Ataturk himself (Akin

2010).

These teams, along with many others, have been destroyed by poor leadership. Given the role of politics in Turkish football, it should come as no surprise that—as James Dorsey and

Leonard Sebastian (2013) note—when wealthy businessmen took over major clubs the “second and third tier clubs became more dependent on municipal funding. This turned them into tools of support bases for politicians who controlled the municipality. Mayors often became part of a club’s management” (Dorsey and Sebastian 2013: 626). A mayor of a municipality in Western

Turkey whom I spoke with agreed, explaining that—as a mayor—it is impossible to ignore the local team. When I asked him what good the team did for the municipality, he candidly said “it does absolutely no good whatsoever.” Yet he followed this honest statement by explaining that if the team does poorly, the fans mobilize on social media and that can have repercussions at election time. Even though this mayor did acknowledge that the team provides a nice form of entertainment for local residents, the costs of maintaining it are often more than his municipality—or indeed most municipalities—can afford.

And this mayor wasn’t even referring to a team run by the municipality! In the lower leagues of Turkish football, there are a number of what are called “Belediyespor”; literally professional municipal sports clubs, whose funding comes from the municipality itself. That municipalities should be spending the tax dollars of residents to maintain professional football clubs reflects just how important sports clubs are for the political prospects of many mayors— and just how little some unscrupulous mayors seem to care about their fellow citizens. In fact, in

254

the late 2000s, the municipalities of Turkey’s two biggest cities—Ankara and Istanbul—both had municipality teams in the top flight of Turkish football!

These existing belediyespors would provide the sporting foundation upon which invented teams could be built; they often had infrastructure, access to stadiums, as well as existing connections to the state. Where competition existed (in the form of rooted teams), most of these

“traditional” teams—with fan bases—would fall on hard times, due either to mismanagement or lack of investment. Of course, it is hard to believe that it is pure coincidence that caused these

“traditional” teams to falter at the same time that the invented teams began rising to prominence, and it points to Coskun’s theory that many unscrupulous individuals took advantage of clubs in order to use their names.

Evren, from Bandirmaspor, identifies poor club leadership—and state interference—as one of the main issues in Turkish football. He explains:

Football isn’t run by those who come from football. I think that’s the biggest problem in Turkish football. A contractor comes along [and runs a club]. Someone with a business comes along—the guy has a rent-a-car firm—he comes, and becomes an administrator. Of course these are also necessary. To make 11 former players administrators, that wont work either. Of course people from outside need to run things—for instance, fans can come in. They will know how fans will react in 2 weeks, in 10 weeks, but let’s bring a contractor or a business owner here, they wont know. They wont understand. You need a division of labor like this. […] The guy…has found a channel through the government, he has gotten 2 or 3 places through a tender. He sold one, boom he’s rich. He gets a suit, an iPhone in his hand—the best phone—a nice tesbih, a huge ring, boom. A nice car underneath him, BMW or Mercedes…a guy who doesn’t understand football becomes the [club] president, he hasn’t gotten anywhere [in life] […] now there is a very different group of administrators. In the past administrators would spend out of their own pockets, now they spend from the club.

Evren connects this new “group” of administrators, again, to the arrival of the AKP in 2002.

When I asked Coskun a similar question, he told me that these contractors who take control of clubs often do so because they understand that there is some kind of rentier benefit available; they might befriend a local mayor and explain to them that there is land that can be developed—

255

they use their position as club president to gain influence and power in the city through construction projects (recall that fans from Denizlispor described a similar process) and this rentier system trickles down.

Evren explained to me that he is currently involved in a legal dispute with the groundskeeper for the team’s stadium because “they [the state] gives jobs to people who don’t understand their jobs”. He says that his club’s stadium—like many provincial stadiums in lower leagues—is run by the provincial sports directorate. They are responsible for maintaining the stadium—but they know little about anything pertaining to, for instance, agriculture or horticulture. Evren tells me that his argument with the groundskeeper stemmed from his insistence on watering the grass at 4 in the afternoon—when the sun is still up. He said this would burn the grass, and that it should be watered in the late afternoon and early mornings, but the groundskeeper was more interested in leaving work by 5pm than taking care of the field. This kind of incompetence has repercussions for players, and the journeyman Coskun explained that he has suffered from it:

Our coaches say cut the grass. Long grass makes one tired, and God forbid it could even cause injury. We have to practice on our fields…but no. They don’t cut it. They think of themselves. If I cut it, it will hurt the grass. So they don’t cut it. But that’s our field. We need to preform on that field…they are public servants, stationed here and then there. Then [they say] the fields in Turkey are bad, this and that. You wouldn’t believe the kinds of fields I’ve played on…it’s the same everywhere [in Turkey].

Coskun’s unfortunate story likely reflects those of many footballers in the lower divisions of

Turkish football. The poor leadership—and exclusive focus on money—ravages sport and teams are seen as either cash cows by unscrupulous figures or tools to be used for political ends.

And it was not just fans who told me this story. A coach of one team in Western Turkey whom I spoke with said very similar things:

256

For instance, one man, an administrator, I think it needs to be this way. Administrators need to truly come from inside sports, or football. Nowadays you look at the administrators, they have nothing to do with football [and] they have become Presidents or administrators…they try to string it along, try to create dialogue with the fans and with the media and are unable to truly create that dialogue with the players; whoever gives the money is in a powerful position…we need to move past this. Administrators who are seriously knowledgeable, who can bring the club’s vision forward, [and] who can carry the team forward are necessary. But for us what is administration? Of course for the fans they think however many players you get, however many transfers you make, that is how successful we can be but there is nothing like that, there is nothing directing the economic [side]. You have to cut the cloth according to the coat. If 3 comes in you spend 15. Because no one asks you questions. The debt…you go and the debt stays with the club. Now look, many clubs in Turkey are swamped in debt.

This coach, a former player, understands that the system is bent on lining the pockets of a few at the expense of the fans and the players who experience the reality of the game itself. The overspending is rampant, and many teams wallow in debt or, as Selami said, they are being

“roasted in their own oil”.

This unfortunate state of affairs led to a major transformation of the Turkish football landscape. Tuncay Yavuz’s short analysis for the sports website Macolik.com shows the deep transformation of Turkey’s professional leagues in the last decade (2010-2020).2 Yavuz explains that in 2010 there were 134 teams in Turkey’s professional leagues; today, 64 of those teams are no longer playing in the professional leagues. Instead, of the (now) 125 teams that comprise

Turkey’s professional leagues in 2019, 55 of those teams did not appear in the professional leagues in 2010. To make matters even worse, 31 of the 134 teams that made up the professional leagues in 2010 are—just a decade later—no longer in existence. To put it quantitatively, twenty- three percent—almost a quarter—of the teams from just ten years ago have disappeared from the top four leagues of the Turkish football pyramid.

2 See Yavuz (2020).

257

As Yavuz remarks, “twenty-five percent is a scary figure. On top of this, among the teams [that have disappeared] are important provincial teams that have reached the pinnacle of

Turkish football such as Orduspor, Kayseri Erciyesspor, Mersin Idman Yurdu, Erzurumspor,

Yozgatspor, Siirtspor, [and] Gaziantepspor”. While Yavuz notes that many of these teams were forced to close due to financial mismanagement, he also adds that there are new clubs with very similar names to the old clubs but with none of the history; due to political and financial support these new clubs—such as BTC Turk Yeni Malatyaspor and Gaziantep FK—were supported by the municipalities in order to replace the old clubs which were erased, along with their histories.

Others, like Sekerspor (connected to the state owned sugar company and founded in 1947) became Turanspor in 2015.3 The name “Turan” is a nod to the mythic homeland of Turks in central Asia and has pan-Turkist connotations. Although it has since disappeared as well, the disappearance of a state-owned company’s team reflects the hit that Turkish industry has taken in the age of globalization. History and tradition slowly disappear, replaced by new clubs based not on emotional support and connection to the public, but instead based on modern notions of consumerism4; they are hyperreal.

Most of the teams I will discuss follow this pattern: Istanbul Buyuksehir Belediyespor5 became Istanbul Basaksehirspor, Ankara Buyuksehir Belediyespor became Osmanlispor6,

Diyarbakir Buyuksehir Belediyespor became Amedspor, and Gaziantep Buyuksehir

3 See Blasing (2015a).

4 The process has happened elsewhere in Europe. Germany’s Red Bull Leipzig is also an invented team, even more closely related to consumerism. See Smith (2020).

5 “Buyuksehir Belediyespor” translates as “Metropolitan Municipality Sports[club]. Larger urban areas are granted the status of “Metropolitan Municipality” while smaller urban areas are simply called “Municipality”.

6 It was also called “Ankaraspor” for a brief period.

258

Belediyespor became Gazisehir Gaziantepspor (and later Gaziantep FK in 2019).7 At the same time, competing teams from these cities—most previous stalwarts of the Turkish Super

League—slowly disappeared from the top flight. One of Istanbul’s oldest “traditional” teams is

Istanbulspor, founded in 1926 by students from the Istanbul Boy’s high school, and it was relegated from the Super League in 2005 and fell as far as the fourth tier in 2010.8 They are now in the second tier. Ankara’s Ankaragucu, founded in 1910, was relegated from the top flight in

2012 and fell as far as the third tier in 2014. The club returned to the Super League after a six- year absence in the 2018-2019 season. Gaziantepspor, another stalwart of the Turkish top flight and historically the most consistent team from eastern Turkey—having played an impressive thirty-one seasons in the top league9—was relegated from the Super League at the end of the

2016-2017 season and withdrew from the professional leagues after relegation from the second tier in 2018; the club now continues its existence deep in the regional amateur league of

Gaziantep province.

Istanbul Basaksehirspor

Istanbul Başakşehirspor was created out of the existing Istanbul Büyükşehir Belediyespor

(the team of the Istanbul Metropolitan Municipality10). In transforming from a team run by the state (in this case the municipality) into a private sports club based in a district of Istanbul,

Başakşehir (that was itself created in 2009 (Başakşehir Belediyesi Tarihçesi 2017)—Istanbul

7 See Blasing (2017).

8 For a detailed history of Istanbulspor’s league positions throughout the years, see Istanbulspor Taraftarlar Dernegi (n.d.).

9 This figure means that Gaziantepspor played the 9th most seasons on Turkey’s top flight. Considering that the only five teams to have won the Turkish League—Besiktas, Bursaspor, Fenerbahce, Galatasaray and Trabzonspor—are all among the few teams to have played more seasons than Gaziantepspor, one can understand how impressive this consistency is.

10 For more on this team’s history please see the entry in Istanbul’un 100 Spor Kulubu [Istanbul’s 100 Sports Clubs] (Hasdemir 2010: 186-187).

259

Başakşehirspor was founded in 2014. The team can be seen as an attempt to challenge the existing hegemonic “traditions” of Istanbul’s “Big Three” sports clubs while also providing a sense of identity—in the field of culture—to residents of Istanbul’s newer neighborhoods that developed in the outskirts of the city due to the expansion of the urban area in the context of economic development in the neoliberal model (Keyder 2005; Ozus, Turk, & Dokmeci 2011;

Tasan-Kok 2015).

Some of the fans I spoke with saw, in Basaksehir, an even more insidious motive clearly connected to the global economy. Okan, from Bursaspor, explains it openly:

Let me put it this way, Basaksehir[spor] and Osmanlispor are project teams. They are teams formed as part of a project. Basaksehir[spor]…is a team founded in Istanbul as a project. It was created by the Istanbul Metropolitan Municipality, and supported—it got the best support. It has been brought into Turkish football, but it has been brought in as a project. It is a team that we can now sell to Qatar… [emphasis added].

I ask Okan to elaborate on the Qatari angle that he mentioned:

This is a project team, it is a project to be sold to foreign countries, to be marketed. Today you can sell Basaksehir to Qatar, to a Qatari businessman. You could bring in the finance world, there is a lot of money. They brought someone like Arda Turan to Basaksehir! This kid was playing for Barcelona, our [native] son! But…he came from Barcelona to Basaksehir, for millions of dollars. This is evidence that it is a project.

I heard the term “project” used to describe many of these invented teams by other participants I spoke with. As the quotes I provided at the beginning of this chapter show, many people are aware that these invented teams have little to do with Turkish footballing culture and much more to do with furthering a certain hegemonic narrative couched in neoliberal globalization. This might be the clearest evidence of this project. Given that industrial football has spawned a new type of club leadership connected to the global economy—the number of Arab and Russian billionaires owning teams around the world has grown recently—it should not be surprising that

Turkey would be a target for would be investors (even though such a thing would have been

260

unthinkable just thirty years ago). The best way to do this is with an invented team, because there can be no backlash or protests from fans if they do not exist in the first place since—given the localism of fans I outlined earlier—it is unikely that fans of more rooted teams would be ok with their team being sold off to foreign investors.

Başakşehir is a 104.33 square kilometer landlocked district on the European side of

Istanbul bordered by the districts of Arnavutköy, Eyüp, Sultangazi, Esenler, Bağcılar,

Küçükçekmece, Avcılar, and Esenyurt (Coğrafi Konum 2017) created in 2009 out of a merger of neighborhoods from the Küçükçekmece, Esenler, and Büyükçekmece districts (Başakşehir

Belediyesi Tarihçesi 2017). In 2014 the district’s population was 342,422, up from 226,387 in

2009 (Nüfüs Yapısı 2017). Başakşehirspor the football team’s first incarnation was formed in

1990 as Istanbul Büyükşehir Belediyespor (IBB), belonging to the city’s Metropolitan

Municipality (Hasdemir 2010: 186-187). This may have been a result of “the increasing power of municipalities and the establishment of the metropolitan administrative system, [in] which mayors [became] powerful actors endowed with extensive rights” (Tasan-Kok 2015: 2196). This was a time, in the mid 1980s during the mayorship of Bedrettin Dalan, that “a huge amount of funding flowed into the metropolitan municipalities when they were granted a share of the tax revenues from the metropolitan areas. In addition, municipalities were able to obtain foreign loans; the first to do so were Istanbul and Ankara” (Ibid.: 2197). It is likely that this influx of money had something to do with the formation of IBB. In 2014, IBB officially became

Basakşehirspor and retained IBB’s place in the top division of Turkish football (Huzurlarınızda

Başakşehirspor 2014) with the mayor of Başakşehir municipality Mevlüt Uysal implying continuity by announcing that “this name change should be understood in this way: ‘one municipality’s name is gone [Istanbul Metropolitan Municipality] and another municipality’s

261

name has arrived in its place’ [Başakşehir Municipality]” (İBB Spor, İstanbul Başakşehir Futbol

Kulübü oldu 2017). The implication of continued support from a municipality is reflective of the fact that many political figures in Turkey view involvement in sports as a way of furthering their political careers (Dorsey 2016).

In two columns for a liberal Turkish daily, journalist Soner Yalçın outlines the political connections of Istanbul Başakşehirspor. Yalçın’s first column (Yalçın 2017a) insinuates referee support while also questioning how a team with an average attendance of 2500 fans—and an income of just 2.5 million Turkish Liras from gate receipts and sponsorship in addition to 46.2 million Turkish Liras from the general Turkish Football Federation “pool”11—can have an expenditure of 191 million Turkish Liras (while buying stars like Arsenal’s Emmanuel Adebayor in the process). In his second column, Yalçın notes that the club president Göksel Gümüşdağ is married to the Turkish First Lady’s niece (Yalçın 2017b). Since he is effectively a son-in-law of the president Recep Tayyip Erdoğan, Yalçın insinuated that Gümüşdağ was being groomed to become the next mayor of the Istanbul Metropolitan Municipality. Yalçın also points out that

Ahmet Ketenci, a board member, is the brother President Erdogan’s wife’s son, before going on to point out that many other board members have connections with the Istanbul Metropolitan

Municipality and wider Turkish ruling class.

What made a simple football team such a prize in the world of Turkish politics? It seems that much of the process is rooted in the rapid development and urbanization of Istanbul in the context of neoliberal economic policies and globalization. The literature points to many consequences of Istanbul’s rapid economic development, including environmental degradation

(Özügül & Cengiz 2011), the loss of forests and grasslands (Kowe et al. 2015), the loss of

11 A pool where revenues are distributed among the teams of Turkey’s top professional league.

262

agricultural land (Maktav & Erbek 2005), increased inequality (Eraydin 2011), and spacial segregation (Eraydin 2008). Many of the consequences of urbanization in Istanbul stem from its transformation from a monocentric to polycentric city in the age of globalization due to the influx of foreign investment (Yılmaz 2010; Berköz 2001). Vedia Dokmeci & Lale Berkoz (1994) describe this transformation whereby the population of “peripheral districts” has increased while the population of “core districts” has decreased (Dokmeci & Berkoz 1994) and Tasan-Kok

(2015) outlines the government’s role in encouraging the creation of new urban areas. This transformation has had both physical and cultural consequences. As Fatih Terzi and Fulin Bölen note, this rapid development “created an uncontrolled development pattern and tended to produce urban sprawl rather than a compact pattern” (Terzi & Bölen 2011: 1233). The transformation to a “polycentric city” also meant that

the periphery of Istanbul grew significantly with respect to population and job location, and the old CBD [Central Business District] of Istanbul is no longer a dominant employment center […] While the ratio of population and jobs were decreased in the core area and in the first ring, they increased in the periphery which contributed to the decline of old CBD and to the development of new centres and large housing projects in the periphery (Ozus, Turk & Dokmeci 2011: 353).

Many of these large housing projects were built by the state’s Housing Development

Administration (TOKI), which has built 295,000 housing units between 2003 and 2008 (Özdemir

2011: 1106), as the Turkish central government “became involved in housing as a direct provider” (Ibid.: 1100). Başakşehir is an example of one of these new peripheral neighborhoods and the municipality boasts on its website that more than half of the district’s inhabitants live in

TOKI housing (Nüfüs Yapısı 2017); these are the bland apartment blocks I saw.12

12 The connection between the team and state-built housing is so deep that the then coach of Istanbul Başakşehirspor, Abdullah Avcı, featured in advertisements for apartments in the neighborhood (The Brand Age 2016).

263

The reason the state took such an active role in building housing in peripheral neighborhoods is because it fostered a sense of belonging in these new communities (Karaman

2008). As Caglar Keyder (2005) notes, “rootedness in place, which could only be afforded to families who owned their own housing, and were therefore not temporary, was an essential component of belonging. Thus, housing and residence, and belonging in a neighborhood were also certificates of mutuality and cooperation” (Keyder 2005: 127). This is important because, as

Hülya Turgut points out, the social exclusion created by Istanbul’s new urban housing settlements “can lead to extinction of common elements that forms the urban identity and in effect gradually it can lead to a loss of identity” (Turgut 2010: 82). In order to combat alienation, the state’s involvement (through TOKI) is an example of how “the negative externalities of the economic system have been compensated through the creation of certain institutions and supplementary mechanisms (Eraydin 2011: 832). It could be argued that Istanbul Başakşehirspor represents one such “institution” that was created; the localist convictions of many fans suggest that teams create a real sense of identity for residents.

Sociologist Irfan Ozet’s illuminating study comparing Basaksehir with Fatih—the old conservative neighborhood located near the Golden Horn where Karagumrukspor hail from— underlines these developments, and he identifies Basaksehir as a sphere of urban exclusion (Ozet

2019). This is because the newly-minted conservative bourgeoisie have gradually moved away from the city center and neighborhoods like Fatih, preferring instead neighborhoods like

Basaksehir with their luxury-themed apartment complexes such as “Newista Life”, “Nova

Residance”, “Evila”, and “Mavera Konaklari” (Ozet 2019: 220-221). True to hypermodernity’s hyperreality, it is the “lifestyle” of Basaksehir which attracts this new bourgeoisie.

264

Unlike traditional neighborhoods like Fatih—where local ties were fostered through connections to residents’ roots in Anatolia (Ozet 2019: 50)—Basaksehir has no such basis for fostering connections. In fact, it seems that the only thing that binds this new community is their emphasis on consumption patterns mirroring those in the West; perhaps this is why the American style strip mall I observed on the way to the match stuck out like a sore thumb: it was an image of the consumerism of the West! One of Ozet’s informants, a boutique owner named Meryem, summarizes the situation:

There is a lot of consumption. Their [Basaksehir residents] shopping isn’t based on need. There are those that come every week. “New outfits should come. They shouldn’t be worn by anyone else. They should be different . . .” These are the types of requests. They have just discovered their standards, but don’t yet know how to live. They look…see that people living at this level live this way, dress this way, drive this or that model/brand car…And they immediately go for it. As I said, there are many who just recently got into money. (Ozet 2019: 283

Not surprisingly, alienation has come to Basaksehir along with this consumerist lifestyle. One of

Ozet’s informants blames the fact that people live in different apartment blocks for the lack of communication between people (Ozet 2019: 249; 310-311). Basaksehir itself can be interpreted as a manifestation of Western urban culture in Turkey, dominated by the values of consumption and alienating individuality in an increasingly anonymized urban space.

Basaksehir is also a very sterile environment; when I went to the game I could not even find a taxi to take me back to the city center.13 It was as if I wasn’t in the city at all—it was as if I was in the suburbs of the United States. Ozet describes this lifestyle as “sterile”, pointing out that the lifestyles of this “conservative” [quotes in original—JKB] high class develop around sterilization and closing-off (Ozet 2019: 289). Most of Ozet’s informants favorably compare

Basaksehir to the “chaos” of wider Istanbul; for Basaksehir’s residents the architectural diversity

13 Taxis tend to be ubiquitous in most neighborhoods of Istanbul, so to not be able to find one—especially after a match—was surprising.

265

of greater Istanbul is chaotic while the “order” and “similarity” [quotes in original—JKB] of

Basaksehir’s architectural uniformity represent the importance of a search for stability among the district’s residents (Ozet 2019: 300). This emphasis on order means that even stray dogs and cats are not to be found on the streets of Basaksehir (Ozet 2019: 255)—even though they are a common sight elsewhere in Turkey, loved by many. This sterility represents a hyperreality in the

Turkish context and—like the sterile and anonymous suburban areas of the West—Basaksehir is afflicted by similar issues including rising instances of drug use among youth (Ozet 2019: 242).

This crippling sterility of Basaksehir might be one reason a football club was created.

Since football teams have historically provided an identity for neighborhoods (and residents), it makes sense that this new hypermodern neighborhood should also have a team. Given the team’s connection to the state, it represents a wider trend that Ozet’s informants point to—the increasing monetization of civil society groups. Some of his informants were uncomfortable that civil society groups like the red crescent14 had become avenues for people to gain social and economic capital (in the Bourdieusian sense); these criticisms pointed out that “civil society is increasingly turning into an ‘investment’ space” (Ozet 2019: 239). Basaksehirspor is no different, and in 2019 an opposition MP from the Republican People’s Party (CHP) called for Basaksehirspor to be investigated on account of suspicions that the team was to be made champion and then sold to

Qatari investors…just like Okan said earlier.15 If we are to see football clubs as civil society groups, then this represents one of the best examples of the spaces for corruption that have emerged in globalizing Turkey.

14 Similar to the Red Cross, but in Muslim countries.

15 See Euronews (2019).

266

Beyond its global implications Basaksehirspor has importance locally as well, since the creation of the club also represents a challenge to the traditional cultural and political hegemony

Turkish sports and society. Ozus, Turk, and Dokmeci (2011) note the changing characteristics of

Istanbul’s urban identity:

Istanbul has been the subject of a quick and spontaneous urbanization that totally ignores its natural and geographic aspects. Highway projects damage the historical heritage and the architectural texture of the city. The city is spreading in all directions, distancing itself from its water-based identity, gradually becoming a vanilla terra firma city. The residents are now unable to relate to the sea as intensely as they used to do. Maritime lines are no longer the backbone of transportation, and the sea is not as accessible as it used to be (Ozus, Turk, & Dokmeci 2011: 339).

By encouraging settlement in landlocked suburban districts of Istanbul, such as Başakşehir, the state (through TOKI) is engaging in a re-interpretation of the city’s identity. Because Istanbul’s southern coastal areas have been favored by white-collar workers (Eraydin, 2008: 1678), it has been the blue-collar areas of northern and western Istanbul (such as Başakşehir) that have seen new migration. By the same token, it is the southern coastal areas (the districts of Beşiktaş,

Beyoğlu, and Kadıköy, home to the traditional “Big Three”, respectively) that are being challenged in the cultural field of sports by the creation of Istanbul Başakşehirspor. This process is similar to the one uncovered by Chiara De Cesari (2016) who notes that through the urban renewal in central Istanbul “history is remade anew” (De Cesari 2016: 350). This may be why a completely new team was invented in a landlocked district of Western Istanbul while the neighborhood teams of the coastal areas of Istanbul languish in the lower divisions.16 A similar

16 The coastal neighborhoods of Istanbul boast a plethora of teams founded at the beginning of the 20th century that all play in the lower divisions such as (year of foundation in parentheses): Beykozspor (1908), Üsküdar Anadoluspor (1908), Beylerbeyispor (1911), Eyüpspor (1917), Maltepespor (1923), Fatih Karagumruk (1926), Pendikspor (1927), and Sarıyer (1940). One notable exception is Kasımpaşaspor (1923), which plays in the first division and is known as the team that current President Recep Tayyip Erdoğan once played for. The fact that these older teams—and neighborhoods—are not being developed may be a result of government policies. As Dilek Özdemir (2011) notes: “rather than enhancing the physical, social and economic conditions in existing neighborhoods, it is evident that the

267

fate befell Uskudar Anadoluspor, founded in 1908 in ancient Scutari. It was the fourth oldest team in Turkish football, but has now disappeared17 after merging with Bagcilarspor for the

2017-2018 season.18 The erasure of this historic club is telling, as it was moved from its home on the shores of the Bosphorus to an anonymous neighborhood deep in the urban sprawl of Istanbul; like Istanbul Basaksehirspor it reflects the gradual Anatolia-ization of Istanbul whereby the city center is being moved away from the water, representing a hyperreality that severs all connections to the past (Baudrillard 1983).

To create this new identity—and ultimately new reality—however, the existing teams had to be destroyed. As is the case of the other invented teams, the invention of Istanbul

Basaksehirspor meant a corresponding downfall for some of Istanbul’s other teams. Since the

“Big Three” are all but untouchable, it was mainly the smaller teams that were affected.

Istanbulspor, which I mentioned earlier, was one of the founding members of the Turkish professional league. They are also one of 28 clubs allowed to wear the Turkish flag on their badge, after an entire class of schoolboys from the high school were killed fighting for their country at the battle of Galipolli during World War I.19 Like many of Turkey’s famous clubs,

Istanbulspor’s history is also the history of a nation. And, like many of Turkey’s famous clubs,

Istanbulspor fell on hard times in the last twenty years, relegated from the Super League at the end of the 2004-2005 season, falling to the third tier after the 2007-2008 season, and languishing

major trend in housing provision in contemporary Turkey involves the creation of housing sites on the outer edges of cities” (Özdemir 2011: 1113-1114).

17 See Kalbinur (2017).

18 See Demir (2017).

19 See Istanbulspor Taraftarlar Dernegi (n.d.).

268

in the fourth tier from 2010 to 2015. Still, the club maintained itself and is now in the second tier.

But it almost didn’t happen like that.

A member of the Istanbulspor Fan Association, Aykut, told me that the Istanbul

Metropolitan Municipality contacted Istanbulspor in 2009 (when the club were still in the second tier) with an offer to merge Basaksehirspor’s predecessor, Istanbul Buyuksehir Belediyespor, with Istanbulspor.20 Aykut told me that this would have meant Istanbulspor’s losing their badge, their colors (which themselves are meaningful: black for the students killed in World War I, and yellow which was the color used for hospitals at the time), and their history. Because of the club’s close connection to the high school and Turkish history, they rejected this proposal. It came with a price, and days later—48 hours later to be exact, according to the news story—the

Istanbul Metropolitan Municipality bulldozed the Istanbulspor grounds in the city’s Atakoy district, which were being rented. With no grounds left, the club’s downward spiral to the bottom of Turkish professional football—the fourth tier—began. The attempt had been made to give

Basaksehirspor a semblance of a history by merging it with Istanbulspor. When this proposal was rejected, the municipality destroyed the club’s grounds. It shows just how, in the age of extreme capitalism—something one of Ozet’s informants calls “savage capitalism” (Ozet 2019:

300)—anything goes.

The case of Istanbul Basaksehirspor (and Istanbulspor) is not unique. There are other invented teams in Turkey which have proliferated since 2002, and each of them follows the same blueprint. These teams reflect a specific social cleavage, each leaves a historic team wallowing in its wake, and each divides the fan community in Turkey in so far as they elicit strong opinions from fans of more established teams.

20 See Öğünç (2017).

269

Osmanlispor

The Basaksehirspor fan group 1453 Basaksehirliler—referencing the year of the Ottoman conquest of Istanbul—is not the only neo-Ottomanism in Turkish football. The 2013 Gezi Park protests were sparked by opposition to the transformation of the centrally located Gezi Park into a shopping mall in reconstructed Ottoman-era barracks, part of a wider nostalgia for the Ottoman period. As James Dorsey explains, “interest in Ottomania revived under Erdogan and as a corollary to Turkey’s emergence as a superpower in lands once ruled by the Ottomans. Ottoman- era dramas and soap operas dominate Turkish television programming” (Dorsey 2016: 118-119).

This nostalgia for the Ottoman period came hand in hand with Turkey’s integration into the neoliberal world order and acceptance of globalism; the “Turkish” model was to be a model for the Muslim parts of the former Ottoman lands (Tugal 2016). Jenny White (2014) explains this process according to the logic of Western liberalism, arguing that the nationalism of the AKP is

“modeled on a more flexible and inclusive Ottoman past” (White 2014: 50). Given that nostalgia for the Ottoman empire’s “multiculturalism” dominates Western scholarship, its presence in the stadium is not surprising.

Like Istanbul Basaksehirspor, Osmanlispor was also created out of a municipality’s team,

Ankara Buyuksehir Belediyespor, founded in 1978. Later, this club became Ankaraspor, and was run by the outspoken AKP mayor of Ankara Melih Gokcek. However, as was the case in Istanbul with Basaksehirspor, Gokcek’s real target was Ankaragucu—where Gokcek’s son, Ahmet

Gokcek—was elected president in 2009 (McManus 2018: 126-130). This is because, like

Istanbulspor, Ankaragucu are a historic team with deep links to the war of independence and wider Turkish nationalism (Hatipoglu and Aydin 2007). While Mayor Gokcek claimed that his aim was to make Ankaragucu a title challenger (likely as a way to ingratiate himself with local voters), the reality was far different. The football federation deemed the mayor’s relationship

270

with Ankaragucu, through his son, as a violation of the rule stipulating that one person may not own 2 teams in the same division and demoted Ankaraspor to the second tier. At the end of the

2010 season his son was forced out of Ankaragucu, but not before he quadrupled the club’s debt

(McManus 2018: 127). This meant that, at the end of the 2011-2012 season, Ankaragucu sank to the third tier while Mayor Gokcek turned his attention back to Ankaraspor.

For the 2014 season the team was renamed Osmanlispor (literally Ottoman sports club).

The name itself is a blatant nod to the neo-Ottomanism of the AKP, the realization of a “pet project of the AKP mayor of Ankara” (McManus 2018: 125). Mcmanus says that visiting their stadium “is a bit like visiting an Ottoman theme park” (McManus 2018: 125-126), and I saw the huge statues he mentions on my visit to an Osmanlispor match in March 2020. Like the new stadiums I discussed in Chapter 8, this one is far from the city center; it took me an hour and a half—and three different dolmus—to find my way to the stadium, with the final dolmus having to go outside of the normal route to get me to the stadium. The location is so much in the literal

“middle of nowhere” that it is not even on a public transportation route! When in the stadium, I counted more police than fans21; by contrast the visiting fans from Eskisehirspor filled the visitor’s section. On the rafters above the empty stands the flags of various Turkic groups were flown, connecting the team to some ethnic concept of Turkishness, perhaps an attempt at connecting the team to Turkish nationalism (instead of neo-Ottomanism). Like Basaksehirspor, the team covered up the empty seats with large Turkish flags and this appeal to banal nationalism might be interpreted as the last recourse for teams that are failing, distracting from the hyperreal nature of the teams themselves.

21 Although the administrative manager of Osmanlispor told Patrick Keddie that the team does not pay fans to attend, he did admit to giving “free or cheap tickets to fans as it [the club] attempts to build a fan base” while the municipality provides free transportation for fans to the team’s stadium (Keddie 2018: 72). At the time of my research, Osmanlispor was struggling so that might explain the dearth of fans in attendance.

271

Okan, from Bursaspor, also had choice words to say about Osmanlispor and he understands the division it has created. For Okan, Osmanlispor serves to alienate fans not only from republican history, but also Ottoman history, resulting in a psychological division:

…Osmanlispor is today a team in Ankara…founded during the Melih Gokcek era. But you cannot spurn the 110-120-year history of Ankaragucu and create an Osmanlispor. Ankaragucu is a team founded in Istanbul by Makina Kimya […] It is a team founded by Mustafa Kemal! [Not directly, as far as I know—JKB] MKE…Makina Kimya…and they are the main sponsor. Ankaragucu was founded in Istanbul—it is normally Istanbul’s team—but because Ankara became the capital it was sent [to Ankara]. It’s first founding, Imalat-I Harbiye! They have a huge banner like that. At that point…when these people have a 110-120-year history, if you go and create Osmanlispor, all of Ankara will cuss you out, and they will leave you sitting on your asses; they will give their votes to Mansur Yavas [An opposition candidate from the CHP who won the most recent mayoral election in Ankara—JKB]. And even beyond that! Ok Osmanlispor…Ottoman. It’s name, it’s glory, it’s reputation—they are our pride and honor. Ottoman is ours, it is our flag and our banner. And they created the team just to spread the name of the Ottomans. And they spread the Ottoman name, the team went to Europe!22 But…where are they now? They’re getting relegated from the PTT [league].23 Protect Ankaragucu. You’re talking about Imalat-i Harbiye. We know the year they were founded. This is the team of people who went to war, who helped on the front, it is the leading team of Makina Kimya! If you don’t protect this [history] how can you protect Osmanlispor? Is there a distinction between Republican and Ottoman, is that how we should take it? What is this? There is no distinction between Republican and Ottoman, they are both the same. We say homeland, nation, Sakarya. Nothing changes.

Here Okan makes many points. Osmanlispor’s rivals in Ankara were directly connected to

Mustafa Kemal Ataturk and the Republican war of independence (see Hatipoglu and Aydin 2007 for a sociological history of the team); an attack on Ankaragucu is seen as a direct attack on

Turkish history. At the same time, Okan recognizes that Ottoman history is connected to

22 Osmanlispor had a fairly successful run in the UEFA Europa League in the 2016-17 season, becoming the first Turkish team to have not won a championship to top a group in the Europa League before being eliminated by Olympiakos Piraeus (Greece) in the round of 32. Domestically, they finished 2 points above the relegation zone this season and were relegated the next season in 2017-2018.

23 Turkey’s second tier.

272

Republican history, there can be no divide in history for him. He interprets this new team as an attack on history that creates a historical divide he doesn’t agree with.

This is why Osmanlispor, like Basaksehirspor, may reflect the politicization of the sporting sphere in order to strengthen a certain cultural hegemony. After Mansur Yavas from the opposition CHP was elected Mayor of Ankara in the spring of 2019 (something the Ankaragucu fans I spoke with took some responsibility for24), one of his first acts was to cut the municipality’s support for Osmanlispor; Yavas claimed that this meant that more resources would be made available for the municipality.25 Later, in November of 2019, Mayor Yavas cancelled the contract which gave the previously named Yenikent Stadium (now Osmanli

Stadium) to Osmanlispor free of charge for 25 years, returning it to the Ankara municipality.26

As the political winds change, so do the fortunes of Ankara’s newest team. Without strong support from the municipality, it is unlikely that Osmanlispor will be able to survive, and just as

I wrote this section I learned that Osmanlispor was renamed Ankaraspor for the 2020-2021 season (complete with a new badge that reflects Turkish—and not Ottoman—nationalism).

Amedspor

While Basaksehirspor and Osmanlispor appeal to the rising conservative bourgeoisie and those nostalgic for the Ottoman past, another invented team also appeals to another segment of

AKP support, the Kurdish population. Amedspor, from the Kurdish city of Diyarbakir in eastern

Turkey, was founded at the beginning in October of 2014 and had its new name finalized almost

24 The Ankaragucu fans claim to have played a major role in this, and one Ankaragucu fan I spoke with said that “When our guys [from Ankaragucu] chose Mansur Yavas because Melih Gokcek relegated [Ankaragucu], the state decided to interfere with the team”.

25 See Cumhuriyet.com.tr (2019a).

26 See Cumhuriyet.com.tr (2019b).

273

one year later, at the beginning of the 2015-2016 season.27 Amedspor have their roots in ethnic identity, ostensibly to fulfill the AKP’s much vaunted “Kurdish opening” which aimed to recognize Kurdish rights in Turkey. Unfortunately, I was unable to interview fans of Amedspor but I will provide a historical analysis of the team which suggests that it is a very different formation than Diyarbakir’s former stalwart, Diyarbakirspor.

Faruk Arhan’s illuminating study of Diyarbakirspor, Dugunde Kalabalik, Taziyede Yalniz

(2012), outlines the process of politicization of sport in Turkey’s biggest Kurdish city. At the time of its formation in 1968, Diyarbakirspor was like the other local teams founded during what

I called the “national stage” of Turkish football; it was founded as the representative of a province by the merging of two smaller teams—Dicle Genclik and Yildiz Genclik—at a time that football was spreading throughout the country (Arhan 2012: 31). In the 1980s the politicization of football in Diyarbakir began as the city began to take on migrants from rural areas surrounding the city; Arhan notes that the fans began to awaken politically and the stadium became a forum for the airing of grievances and a place of expression for these often disadvantaged migrants (Arhan 2012: 75). In the 1990s, this politicization took on a new form in the context of the growing conflict between the Turkish army and guerillas from the PKK—the

Kurdistan Worker’s Party—which began in 1984. As the violence began to mount, Arhan notes that Diyarbakirspor began to be conflated with the PKK and fans from opposing teams would often yell “damn the PKK”, “murderers out”, and nationalist slogans like “martyrs will never die, the nation will never be divided” (Arhan 2012: 85).

It was at this point that Diyarbakirspor began to take on a new importance in the eyes of the state. Particularly after the capture of PKK leader Abdullah Ocalan in 1999, the club became

27 See Arhan (2016).

274

a project of controlled integration and, as Arhan notes, was propelled to the top tier of Turkish football by government support and other manipulations of sport itself.28 Mehmet Ipek, president of Diyarbakirspor from 1993-1999, lamented these developments saying that “Diyarbakirspor should remain a sports club. It should not fall under the influence of any political ideas” (Arhan

2012: 95). Ipek was not able to resist the forces of the state, which saw Diyarbakirspor as a bulwark against the PKK (Arhan 2012: 99). After being pushed into the first division, the club survived from 2001 to 2006.

Diyarbakirspor was pushed to the top of Turkish football by the state before the AKP era, and Arhan notes that the club was virtually ignored during the early AKP years—in which the

PKK ended their ceasefire in 2004 (Arhan 2012: 140)—perhaps contributing to their relegation from the top flight at the end of the 2005-2006 season. However, with the beginning of the

AKP’s “Kurdish Opening” in 2009, Diyarbakirspor again became a target for the politicians and returned to the top of Turkish football for the 2009-2010 season (Arhan 2012: 151). It was in the context of “democracy and human rights”—the catchwords of Western liberalism—that the AKP started this attempt at rapprochement, believing that “cultural pluralism and social diversity would act as a connective ingredient in Turkey and bring further richness to the society” (Pusane

2014: 85). In this climate, Diyarbakirspor got a lot of sympathy, with a newscaster even presenting the evening news wearing a Diyarbakirspor jersey (Arhan 2012: 162). But this season would prove to be the beginning of Diyarbakirspor’s downfall; like Istanbulspor and

28 The worst of these manipulations came in a promotion playoff match against Altay Izmir at the end of the 2000- 2001 season. Altay’s players were beaten, while harmful gasses were released into their changing room. Faruk Arhan does not mince words when writing about this match: “On that day murder was committed in Diyarbakir. The murderer was the state that organized this murder in the name of Diyarbakir; the innocent victim was Altay” (Arhan 2012: 116).

275

Ankaragucu, Diyarbakirspor too would fall on hard times after a violent match in 2009 with

Bursaspor (Arhan 2012: 160-168), giving rise to Amedspor.

In 2015, in keeping with the logic of the “Kurdish opening” which permitted radio and television broadcasts in the Kurdish language, another municipal team—Diyarbakir Buyuksehir

Belediyespor—became “Amedspor”. Team spokesman Soran Haldi Mizrak claimed that the reason for this name change was to distance the new team from Diyarbakirspor which, in the eyes of the local population, had too close a connection to the state. In order to become not a state team but the “people’s team” Mizrak said the club wanted to emphasize not just politics but also history, saying that the name Amed comes from Amida, the ancient name for the city of

Diyarbakir.29 Still, some commentators noted that Amed is also known as the Kurdish-language name for Diyarbakir, and saw the federation’s decision to allow Amedspor to change their name as furthering divisions within the country.30 Regardless, the name—as well as the adoption of the

Kurdish colors (red, yellow, and green)—suggests a much closer connection to Kurdish nationalism than Diyarbakirspor originally had (their colors were red and green, and their badge had a watermelon on it, a staple crop of Diyarbakir).

Additionally, Amedspor’s fan group Barikat were founded independently as an explicitly left-wing group as part of the global ANTIFA movement. Their Instagram page defines the group as “against industrial football [and] a country-loving anti-fascist fan group engaged in a struggle against racist and sexist fans”.31 The fact that the fan group is left-wing is not surprising in itself, given that the Kurdish nationalist movement has some connections to left-wing politics

29 See Ulagay (2015).

30 See Yener (2016).

31 Taken from the Instagram account @amedsporbarikat.

276

(McDowall 2007). What is surprising is that this represents a major shift from Diyarbakirspor’s fan groups, since Arhan observed that it was strange that Diyarbakirspor should not have had an explicitly left-wing fan group like other teams (their fan group, Azrailler, was never explicitly connected to any political identity).32 Arhan connects this to security concerns, arguing that to be not just Kurdish but a “political Kurd” means risking being labeled as a member of a terrorist organization (Arhan 2012: 200). The fact that the politicization of the fans themselves should have been viewed as an issue in the past—yet isn’t now—is puzzling.

Many of the Tweets from Barikat’s official account and Instagram page are written in

Kurdish language, often with Turkish translations. The linguistic aspect of these Tweets is interesting since the Amedspor fans who I observed during my fieldwork, both in Izmir and in

Istanbul, supported their team with the same Turkish chants used by the other teams in Turkey.

Arhan quotes a Kurdish journalist, Delil Karakocan, who says that “Diyarbakirspor was really a colony’s team. It represented the downtrodden, but Kurds, democratic Kurdish institutions, and

Kurdish political actors didn’t get behind Diyarbakirspor to the same degree; they didn’t see

[Diyarbakirspor] the same way Catalans see Barcelona” (Arhan 2012: 174). This is likely because many Kurds support one of Istanbul’s “big three”; the leader of the PKK Abdullah

Ocalan is known to be a diehard Galatasaray fan, and even requested that a television set be brought to his prison cell in order to watch the 2000 UEFA cup final (Duran 2012). Yet in this instance, Amedspor is again different with the same Faruk Arhan writing—this time for BBC

Turkish in 2016—that Amedspor is “A little Bilbao, a little Barcelona” (Arhan 2016).33 Here

32 Here Arhan lists the explicitly left-wing fan groups of other teams, including Altay YSKA (Altay Izmir), Belestepe (Besiktas), Buca Istasyon (Bucaspor), Sol Acik FenerbahCHE (Fenerbahce), Ya Basta! Viva Goztepe (Goztepe), and Tekyumruk (Galatasaray) (Arhan 2012: 200). Many of these groups have ceased to exist in the years following the publication of Arhan’s book.

33 See Arhan (2016).

277

even the “expert” on the subject changes his perspective and ethnicizes Amedspor in a way

Diyarbakirspor was not ethnicized (in fact, one could argue that it was de-ethnicized).

As Arhan writes, Diyarbakirspor’s fans “never join in the national anthem. Only the protocol stand will join the loudspeakers during the national anthem. But along with this,

Diyarbakirspor fans do not reject that they are citizens of the Turkish Republic” (Arhan 2012:

205) and a former fan leader of Diyarbakirspor is quoted by Arhan as saying that “Sports is not connected to politicians. And it shouldn’t be. If someone is using sports for politics, we will not like them. This is because Diyarbakirspor is the people’s team” (Arhan 2012: 202). Amedspor’s fans are different in this respect as well, and while going through their Tweets I came across an interesting one posted by the team’s unofficial account @AmedsporSK (which had more followers than its official account) ahead of an Ankaragucu-Amedspor match in 2015 reading

“THE MATCH BETWEEN TWO CAPITALS BEGINS SOON”. Here, the direct implication is that Amedspor represents a capital of a country other than Turkey. Similarly, the Barikat group posted a picture on 11 September 2016 of a Turkish flag covering the façade of Diyarbakir’s municipality building. The caption reads “Do you know what Fascism and Barbarianism are? It is conquering a municipality you don’t own with tanks and bombs and hanging a flag!”. Again, this Tweet can be interpreted as a rejection of the Turkish Republic’s claim to Diyarbakir. Other posts by Amedspor’s unofficial account and the Barikat group also include references to

“Kurdistan”, as well as to Kurdish fighters in northern Syria. The fact that these Tweets have not been deleted is interesting, given that they represent the kinds of open expression of Kurdish nationalism within the football sphere that was rare in the context of Diyarbakirspor.

The danger of this rhetoric lies in the false equivalency it creates, connecting ethnicity

(Kurdishness) with violence (terrorism). This rhetoric leads Patrick Keddie, a journalist writing

278

about Turkish football, to fall into this very trap. In his section on Amedspor in The Passion, he interviews not only football fans but also a militant member of what he calls “an urban youth wing of the PKK” (Keddie 2018: 170)! Essentially, the football team—Amedspor—is directly connected to the terrorists of the PKK in this writer’s presentation (which was likely encouraged by his informants). Since I was not focused on the question of Amedspor specifically—and did not ask for the ethnic identities of my participants—I can only give the perspective of one fan I spoke with, the Sariyer fan Ridvan, where the topic of Amedspor came up during the course of our interview.

When I asked him what his favorite deplasman was in Turkey, out of curiosity, he included Diyarbakir. When I told him that that was interesting, given the rhetoric of “otherizing” that surrounds Diyarbakir in Western studies of Turkey, he elaborated. I will provide the exchange here, since it provides a good perspective on Amedspor by someone who admitted to being a staunch Turkish nationalist:

J: …What is your favorite deplasman?

R: When I went to Eskisehir a lot, I liked Eskisehir a lot. Diyarbakir, when I went to Diyarbakir I saw a lot more than I expected, I saw a much nicer place. After that…we always go to Ankara. For instance we’ve been to Bursa a lot, Inegol a lot, we have good friends there. Really, from Edirne to Kars, I’m proud to have been to most of the ground of the Turkish Republic, because this is our country.

J: And you liked Diyarbakir, that’s a nice thing.

R: Everyone who loves their homeland and their nation is our friend, our ally, our brother. All those who dislike their homeland are our enemies.

Here Ridvan makes it clear that he distinguishes between those who love their countries, and those who don’t. He likes Diyarbakir, just like Evren from Bandirmaspor had good experiences with the new friends he made in Van. But Ridvan makes a major distinction between

Diyarbakirspor and Amedspor:

279

R: In the 3rd league [sic, it is the 2nd league—JKB] there is a team called Amed[spor], for the last few years they have been in our group. The Europeans— maybe its going to be a little political but—when you look at it…whatever terrorists there are…they try to support them under the table. For instance we went to Amed, Amed…is a traitorous team in this country. It is a team that supports the PKK. We went there and proudly supported our Sariyer, we opened our Turkish flag, and people were uncomfortable. But we proudly hung our flag, and if it happened again we would go with pride again and open our Turkish flag again. Even if we die for it. We would go and do it with love. Now you will ask, why?

J: Why were they uncomfortable, I’m surprised at that…

R: Why were they uncomfortable? Because…it’s the ignorant fringe. I’m not mixing people from Diyarbakir into this. People from Diyarbakir love their country, we have many friends and brothers here from Diyarbakir […] [but] these are PKK. They are people trying to divide the country, traitors, we can call them. That’s why…if you ask me the team I hate most in Turkey I can say Amed[spor].

Here Ridvan draws a clear line in the sand when it comes to Amedspor, connecting them to the

PKK, while keeping those from Diyarbakir generally out of it. While this might resemble messages from the state—and could represent a socially desirable answer—it still reflects the perception that Amedspor is somehow different. When I ask him about Diyarbakirspor, he says:

When Diyarbakir[spor] came here 6-7 years ago, I met the Diyarbakir[spor] players and team captain with flowers here. Because Diyarbakir is one of Turkey’s best [places], the Paris of the east. We met them. But it is impossible for us to meet Amedspor in the same manner because…anyone who whistles down the national anthem is a traitor in our eyes. That’s why we don’t like them.

Here Ridvan draws an even clearer distinction between Diyarbakirspor and Amedspor; in his eyes one is a team that respected the country and its national symbols, while the other isn’t. It would be interesting to find what the general perception of Amedspor is among Turkish fans, and how Amedspor fans see themselves vis-a-vis Diyarbakirspor, given the fact that the two teams seem to represent different trends.

During my fieldwork, I attended three matches involving teams from the Kurdish region, all in Western Turkey (Amedspor’s matches against Pendikspor (Istanbul) and Altinordu (Izmir),

280

and Diyarbekirspor’s match against Darica Genclerbirligi (Gebze, Kocaeli)). Unfortunately, my plans to visit Diyarbakir were disrupted by the Covid-19 event. Still, it is important to note that I witnessed no outright hostility in any of the aforementioned three matches—there was no whistling of the national anthem that I heard—but security was tight.34 In Istanbul, the police cordoned off the area surrounding the Pendik stadium and I mistakenly approached the stadium from the side assigned to the Amedspor fans. The police initially tried to block me, but after I explained my case they seemed to determine that I was no hooligan and let me pass through the no man’s land and enter the Pendikspor stands. Inside the stadium, the Pendikspor fans clapped for the Amedspor players, and each set of fans saluted one another before and during the game by responding to one another’s cheers. During the Amedspor-Altinordu match I attended in

Izmir’s Tire province that I mentioned earlier, there was little interaction between the groups other than a few a mocking chant of “Bursa! Bursa!” from the Altinordu fans, in response to

Amedspor chants, but the fans seemed amicable and bantered as they cheered one another; the security presence was no more than normal. In the Diyarbekirspor match I attended in Kocaeli’s

Gebze district, security was tight and I was asked for my ID by police blocking the road. After checking it out, they allowed me to pass and approach the stadium; I suspect this was to prevent people with any relationship to Diyarbakir35 to enter the home stands; again, this reflects the over policing I mentioned in Chapter 6.

Taken together the evidence from my participants, my experience, social media feeds, and the literature suggests that Amedspor represents a shift from Diyarbakirspor in terms of

34 Given that some Amedspor matches have seen violence (Kamer 2018; BBC Turkce 2019; Sputniknews.com.tr 2019), this is understandable.

35 Turkish ID cards provide a place of issue, in addition to birthplace, so local connections would be clear to authorities.

281

representing Kurdish symbols in the stadium. Other than the explicit ethnic identity of

Amedspor, their fans also tend to use the hashtag “#againstmodern football” in their posts, suggesting that there is some common ground when it comes to the ongoing commercialization of football. Obviously, since Amedspor was not the topic of my study specifically, we cannot know for sure, but this is an interesting topic of further study; just how integrative is football in

Turkey when it comes to explicitly ethnicized teams, and what might shared opposition to the commodification of football mean for this integration?

Why Invented Teams Matter

I have argued that Istanbul Başakşehirspor, Osmanlispor, Amedspor appeal specifically to various social cleavages within the Turkish social landscape, challenging the cultural hegemony of Istanbul’s (and Turkish football’s) traditional powers. These developments reflect a change in the cultural sphere of civil society, as upheaval in the field of culture is essential for the transformation of civil society and the consolidation of a new hegemony. Toni Alaranta argues that the AKP is “a coalition party composed of four major components—namely, pro-EU liberals, Kurds, Turkish nationalists, and Islamists of the Milli Gorus movement” (Alaranta

2015: 107). It is notable that the invented teams I presented in this chapter appeal to different strands of this fragile coalition of groups with diverging interests (such as liberals and Islamists,

Turkish nationalists and Kurds).

As Perry Anderson (2017) notes, the root of hegemony can be found in civil society since

“the State is the site of the armed domination or coercion of the bourgeoisie over the exploited classes, while civil society is the arena of its cultural direction or consensual hegemony over them” (Anderson 2017: 26). While Gramsci believes that the state is “dictatorship + hegemony”

(Gramsci 1971: 239), it is important to note that this dictatorship is not forceful: “since hegemony pertains to civil society, and civil society prevails over the State, it is the cultural

282

ascendency of the ruling class that essentially ensures the stability of the capitalist order […] hegemony means the ideological subordination of the working class by the bourgeoisie, which enables it to rule by consent” (Anderson 2017: 26). Taken in this context, the rise of Istanbul

Başakşehirspor (a football team and a part of civil society as well as a cultural force) is an attempt at “cultural ascendency” by a new elite with an ideological view that differs from the traditional (Kemalist) elite. That this crisis is happening within the field of culture and civil society is not surprising: “Between the economic structure and the State with its legislation and its coercion stands civil society, and the latter must be radically transformed, in a concrete sense

…” (Ibid.: 208). One way that civil society can be transformed is by accepting what Gramsci calls “subaltern classes”, and Istanbul Başakşehir, Osmanlispor, and Amedspor are teams that appeal to those “subaltern classes” marginalized by the old hegemony. By creating football teams to represent these marginalized groups, these diverse subaltern classes can be brought together in the coalition of the AKP.

Fredric Jameson connects this process to the development of capitalism, pointing out that these “small groups” arise in a void created by the disappearance of social classes, and that these

small groups are, in fact, the substitute for a disappearing working class, [making] the new micropolitics available for the more obscene celebrations of contemporary capitalist pluralism and democracy: the system congratulating itself for producing ever greater quantities of structurally unemployable subjects [. . .] Pluralism is thus the ideology of groups, a set of phantasmic representations that triangulate three fundamental pseudoconcepts: democracy, the media, and the market (Jameson 1991: 319-320, emphasis in original).

Continuing, Jameson asks a few rhetorical questions:

Is not the very logic of capitalism itself ultimately as dependent on the equal right of consumption as it once was to the wage system or a uniform set of juridical categories applicable to everyone? Or, on the other hand, if individualism is really dead after all, is not late capitalism so hungry and thirsty for Luhmannian differentiation and the endless production and proliferation of new groups and neoethnicities of all kinds as to qualify it as the only truly “democratic” and certainly the only “pluralistic” mode of production? (Jameson 1991: 325).

283

There is indeed something to Jameson’s analysis, and Leslie Sklair says much of the same, pointing out that globalizing corporations support an “emergent global nationalism” because “the inclusiveness of global capitalism (in theory and rhetoric if not entirely in practice) is in stark contrast with previous epochs” (Sklair 2001: 137). What is at issue here is the pure hyperreality of this “inclusiveness” and pluralism; this rhetoric does not really reflect reality as so much as it serves to disguise the neocolonialism of globalization and globalism.

Through these new teams, Kemalist modernity (and the foundations of Turkish football) faces a challenge in the cultural sphere. Like the implementation of the Passolig system and Law

6222 and the building of new stadiums—which serve the interests of the state and business interests—the creation of new teams might also be interpreted as an attempt to implement a rationalized form of fandom in a hitherto emotional space. The fans of established teams who I spoke with mentioned that the aim is to transform “fans” into “consumers”; this transformation might be made easier when the team has no history and where the emotional bond between fans and team is less prevalent, ensuring that the means-end rationality of consumerism—which defines industrial football—faces less resistence. And when teams are created with explicit appeals to social cleavages, the unifying aspects of sport as a cultural formation no longer apply; the shared national community that can be imagined through sport is threatened due to these new developments which certainly warrant more investigation.

284

CHAPTER 10 CONCLUSION: FULL TIME

As for the predictions of a global culture, they fail to take into account the rootedness of cultures in time and place, and the ways in which identity depends on memory. A truly non-imperial ‘global culture,’ timeless, placeless, technical and affectively neutral, must be memory-less and hence identity-less; or fall into a postmodern pastiche of existing national cultures and so disintegrate into its component parts. To date, we cannot discern a serious rival to the nation for the affections and loyalties of most human beings.

— (Smith 1998: 195).

As the civilizing process outlined by Norbert Elias progressed (2000[1939]), people were gradually distanced from real emotion, and the “Quest for Excitement” first manifested itself in sport (Elias and Dunning 1986). Yet the rationalizing aspects of the civilizing process have started to threaten the “Quest for Excitement” itself. Since the beginnings of global neoliberalism in the 1980s, through the late modern period of the 1990s, and beginning with the advent of hypermodernity throughout the first two decades of the twenty-first century, all walks of life have increasingly been commodified, modified, and—ultimately—homogenized by the logic of means end rationality. Compared to the modern era, the disenchantment of the Weberian Iron

Cage has become far more pervasive through the development of new technologies and surveillance systems that have been put in place. As a simple example, going to a match in

Turkey might have been a “pressure release” in the past; now—with the Passolig system in place—the state knows where you are when you choose to attend a match in the top two divisions of Turkish football. Even without Passolig, police film the stands with cameras in the lower divisions, ensuring that no one is free from this surveillance. These developments threaten to erase vestiges of the emotional past in all walks of life, and sport—being a big business—is not immune to this process; in many ways it is an engine for it. In this discussion, I will connect

285

these trends to my original research questions, emphasizing how these changes might be changing Turkish football.

Emotion and Rationality

Watching Goztepe defeat Ankaragucu with a goal five minutes from time on the final day of the season in May 2019, I saw the fans run the gamut of emotions. For eighty-five minutes,

Goztepe seemed destined for relegation. With each passing minute, one could feel the hope slipping away. After a penalty was given five minutes from time, the fans fell silent—one could literally hear a pin drop. Then, after the goal which lifted Goztepe out of the relegation zone, the stadium fell into a frenzy of emotion. For ten minutes the fans waited apprehensively for the final whistle. When it came, it was a true Durkheimian collective effervescence. Fans all around me were crying tears of joy, unable to contain their emotions. The team then joined with the fans to sing the Isyan Marsi, a chant unique to the Goztepe fans.

In November 2019, I felt the same deep emotional experience at a Karsiyaka match against Elazig Belediyespor, even though the level of football was at the opposite end of the spectrum. Karsiyaka play in the fourth tier, but their fans feel the same connection to their club as the fans of Goztepe do in the top tier. While matches in the top tier are played under the lights on Saturday nights to packed stadiums of over 40,000 people, Karsiyaka often play on Sunday afternoons like other fourth tier sides. It is a different kind of passion, when you are one of the

8,000 fans in the sprawling Izmir Ataturk Stadium (with a capacity of 80,000). Even though the attendance is extremely high for the level of football, it feels different when more than three quarters of the stadium is empty. It certainly isn’t glamorous, but that is what makes it a different kind of passion. And when Karsiyaka scored with a free kick in stoppage time to win the match,

I found myself hugging strangers. One old man came up to me with a wide smile, taking my hand in his and shaking it vigorously—“We did it!”. The players ran into the stands to celebrate,

286

and even the police recognized that it was futile to hold the fans back. At that moment all 8,000 chanted in unison, the sounds of “Kaf Kaf Kaf, Sin Sin Sin, Kaf Sin Kaf Sin Kaf!” echoed across the empty stands.

Both experiences—the celebrations of escaping relegation and scoring a victory in the bottom tier of Turkish professional football—represent what Nietzsche meant by “the tragic myth”, which “has to convince us that even the ugly and disharmonic are part of an artistic game that the will in the eternal amplitude of its pleasure plays with itself […] The Dionysian, with its primordial joy experienced even in pain, is the common source of music and tragic myth”

(Nietzsche 2000: 141). Football fandom provides a space where emotions can be expressed, even the joy “experienced in pain”; escaping relegation—a near death experience—means more than just a joyful victory or goal during the season.

Taner, from Adana Demirspor, explains the emotional pull that football has while connecting it to the kind of changes that hypermodern society has brought on:

Before match-fixing got involved in football, football was very beautiful. It was fun, happy, sad. You can live every feeling. For instance…you can live 4 seasons in 90 minutes. At the beginning of a match you concede a goal, what happens? It is winter. Then your team starts playing well, what happens? It becomes spring. Your team makes it 1-1, spring. Then at 90+2 you add another goal…then you are living life, and that excitement is summer. This is nowhere, nowhere else […] Was football better before? Yes, football was better before. For me…did football develop a lot? Yes it developed. It developed in many ways […] Football developed a lot but…I don’t know if it gives the same enjoyment. Not as much as before. It doesn’t give me the same enjoyment it gave before. Before…the players played for their badge, for their honor.

Here Taner provides a romantic comparison between the gamut of emotions felt during a football match to the seasons of the year. And more importantly, he points to the regression he sees in football, despite all of the “development” and “progress” that is constantly highlighted. One of the changes he points to is match-fixing, and in the course of our conversation he tied it to the increasing prevalence of sports betting (an industry which also provides a lot of income for many

287

lower-league teams). While match-fixing is nothing new, some believe that is has increased due to sports betting; for low wage footballers in lower divisions “throwing” a match can sometimes bring in more money through betting than can be earned playing. For casual fans, this has the effect of rationalizing supporter culture as well, as they watch games less for pleasure and more for (hoping to) make some extra money.

Selami, also from Adana Demirspor, says something similar. He believes that the players who are brought in to the team from outside do not have the same passion for the team (and city) as those in the past did:

I don’t see a lot of changes in Turkish football. What do I mean? For instance, from its roots, there is an addiction to advertisement. What kind of addiction is this? I’ll give an example…Now if 11 players take to the field, I would like them to have been raised through Adana Demirspor’s youth system…and I would want footballers who will fight tooth and nail. My own native sons, I would want Adana’s native sons to go onto the field and fight. And they will fight more than the ones you buy. The simplest example, from the past, is Fuze Selami. Do you know what the man said? Either play well this match, or else you all can go out to your homes but I won’t be able to look Adana in the eye.

Fuze Selami is certainly a true legend, and that’s why I chose his name as a pseudonym for this fan. He was from a previous era, where emotional connection to the team—and not rational concerns like a high paying contract—drove players. This is one example of how the monetization of the game has served to make it more hyperreal, distinct from reality itself.

Recall Sergen, the former Besiktas fan. He was once a diehard Besiktas fan, and would save up money he earned waiting tables to fly to Besiktas games when he went to the university in the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus. He was so devoted to his team that he would take weekend trips just to see them play. Now, he insists the old passion is long gone:

…Everything changed, the stadiums changed, I don’t know…the requirements changed, the teams started opening up to Europe more, these investments started to be made, in return for these investments some income was necessary, how are you going to get that income? It’s through match day incomes; you will get them through ticket incomes etc. What happened? The prices were raised, prices went

288

up, and it got to a point where everyone couldn’t afford it. I remember the kapali stand in the old Inonu [stadium], that old…legendary kapali…there was a place we called the closed book, on the top level of the kapali, it was those who really pulled the weight of the kapali stand, there were always high school kids and the oldest were university students. Those people could go there, their [economic] strength was enough, and that was really the best place in the stadium. Think about it, the entire weight of the kapali—the true center of the stadium—a normal match in Besiktas [at the center] is now 300 Lira. Is that normal? For a league match there it is now 250-300 Lira. This…is something a normal person can give twice a month; that a high school student or university student cannot is obvious…they cannot do it [emphasis added].

The rising prices have priced out the more passionate fans, and the emotional tradition has been transformed into show-business; in Habermasian terms, the hypermodern world of sport is one where the (rational) system begins colonizing the (emotional) life world.

During my fieldwork I saw firsthand just how much of a hyperreality the Champions

League and Turkish football had become. On a fall night in 2019, Galatasaray hosted Paris St.

Germain in the Champions League group stage. On the divider between the upper and lower levels of the stand behind me, the fans hung a banner: “Our aim is to play collective football like

English players, to have a color and a name, and to beat non Turkish teams”. It was the dictum of the club’s founder Ali Sami (Yen) Bey that I mentioned earlier. Yet on the pitch, Galatasaray fielded a starting eleven made up entirely of non-Turkish players!1 I wondered if the players on the field could even understand the chants of encouragement given by the fans. They likely couldn’t, and they went down 1-0.

After the loss, the fans exuberantly cheered the players on for their effort. While it was a good show of sportsmanship, it also reflected major changes in global football. Twenty years ago, the expectation would have been to defeat Paris St. Germain; beating the non-Turkish team

1 Galatasaray had done the same in their first group stage match, against Club Brugge, and repeated it for two subsequent matches against Real Madrid. After losing 6-0 in Madrid, however, the fans began to voice their displeasure at the team’s form and only then—for the fifth group stage match at home against Club Brugge—were Turkish players included in Galatasaray’s starting line up.

289

would have been the goal, and only meeting that goal would have resulted in cheers from the fans. Yet, in the current context of global football, a respectable loss amounts to a victory in the eyes of the fans. The defeatism inherent in their response left me depressed, and I hustled out of the stadium. I understood the fans—Galatasaray did play fairly well—but the bottom line was that their star striker, Falcao, hardly touched the ball. There was too much of a quality gap in midfield to get the ball up front. But such is life in the hyperreality of the Champions League; the rich clubs get richer while the second tier clubs struggle to hang on. The situation is in stark contrast to that of twenty or thirty years ago, when major upsets—like those Galatasaray themselves managed against powerhouses like Arsenal (2000) and Manchester United (1992)— did occur. In fact, Galatasaray’s 1992 defeat of Manchester United influenced change in the entire structure of the Champions League! As I walked away from the stadium, I was left wondering where the magic of sport had gone. If it is all about money, then the outcome itself has been rationalized; the clubs with the most money will win. This is the transition the fans have lived, and the state’s encouragement of new laws, new stadiums, and new teams threatens to further commodify the sporting realm, pushing out these remnants of the past.

While some remnants of the past—like the violence I covered in Chapter 6—are negative, other remnants of the past, like connections between fans, provide positive bases for social interactions. Because of the passionate support football elicits in Turkey, it provides a space where a civic conception of Turkish national identity can be performed as fans from around the country gather and travel in support of their teams every weekend during the season.

However, as more and more fans get priced out, and the stadium culture gets rationalized, football culture moves further and further from the aspects that made it such a unifying force in society.

290

The Tribun: A Dying Culture

In Chapter 4 I explained how the fans saw themselves as a family, they have a deep emotional connection to one another and rational concerns—like monetary reward—are of little importance to them. In the hypermodern era—defined by individualism and consumerism, these qualities represent vestiges of the past. Fredric Jameson defines the postmodern in this way:

…the postmodern must be characterized as a situation in which the survival, the residue, the holdover, the archaic, has finally been swept away without a trace. In the postmodern, then, the past itself has disappeared (along with the well-known “sense of the past” or historicity and collective memory) (Jameson 1991: 309).

Since I define the postmodern not as a temporal period, but as an intellectual period, I believe that this description fits the hypermodern well. It is not surprising that the destruction of the past—and along with it “historicity” and “collective memory” should be encouraged—since those are the things which inhibit the construction of new hegemonic ideas (in the Gramscian sense) such as the pre-eminence of the individual, consumerist ideologies, and rational thought, all designed (as proponents of these ideas claim) to further a narrative that global society is moving “forward”.

This is why many of the fans I spoke with recognize that fan culture in Turkey—if not in the world—is in danger of disappearing as cultures become gradually homogenized as a result of the global culture industry. At the same time, norms and values—which themselves are derived from culture—are also slowly being eroded. You already heard from Hami from Trabzonspor, who said that “tribun culture is heading towards annihilation”. Okan, from Bursaspor, says something similar:

Let me put it this way, there is no generation coming from below. Among the generation coming from below—this isn’t to say there wont be anyone but—there are no people with leadership qualities. They are very young, very ignorant. They don’t know anything great, they don’t know about morals, about love. This wasn’t the case with us. We knew our abis quite well. When we said abi we would stand before them. We respected our elders. When it came to our leader, we would have

291

died for him. But now that kind of respect, that kind of reverence doesn’t exist. Today, when 10 of our young brothers, the younger generation, come together they all think they are abis. That’s the kind of society we live in, the kind of character we are dealing with, you know?

Okan finds the younger generation to be lacking in many things—knowledge, morals, and ability to love among them—which, in turn, makes them unqualified to be “leaders”. Unfortunately, this is a trend that seems to be evident around the world. Okan explicitly points to society (“this is the kind of society we live in”) as an issue.

Other fans also see the future as bleak, and Evren from Bandirmaspor told me this when I asked him how the future of Turkish football looks:

Its going in a bad direction. Why? Why is it going bad, I was saying it earlier but we got interrupted. Teams like Basaksehir[spor] and Osmanlispor were created. You are the minister, I am your man, take this money, take a card out, buy these people meals, give these people something. What happened? It atrophied. The love inside people…ends. It dries up. It doesn’t work in the country. Where are the Osmanlispor fans now? They filled their stadium every game? Melih Gokcek left and they left too.

For Evren, this emphasis on money (and power), the rationalization of not only the stadiums but the teams themselves, meant that “love inside people ends”. And like Okan, Evren also ties this to society (“it doesn’t work in the country”). When the teams are invented, as Evren points out, the fans just “leave”; when fandom is monetized it doesn’t work. And this means less long term connections like those that Hami openly told me about:

When I went to the tribun I was always inside the group […] Of course then I was more like an outsider, on the edges quietly, coming and going coming and going, slowly meeting people, you meet one person they introduce you to their friend, then they accept you, they say you are now one of us. You are now one of us. Over the years that tie of friendship is at a very different point. Now, I have 25 year friendships from the tribun. We are different. It’s a very different tie. And that is what brings us together, that friendship. It is a friendship that comes from the past.

Hami values the long standing friendships the tribun has given him, and recognizes that the value of this kind of companionship is that it is rooted in the past. The value put on interpersonal

292

relationships might be one reason that the fans feel such a connection to nationalism, they live within a society that they deem to be slowly eroding (a notion that they share with many

European fans, as I explained earlier).

Organized fan groups provide an opportunity to bring residents of cities and neighborhoods together, but they also provide an opportunity to bring them together with residents of other cities across the country (such as Evren’s experience traveling to Van, or

Ridvan’s experiences in Diyarbakir). Many of the fans I spoke with mentioned that they had friends in other fan groups, and that was something that made my snowball sample effective.

One Bursaspor fan who was present when I spoke with Okan told me that when he left Bursa to study at the university, he had a ready group of friends in the city because they belonged to a fan group friendly with Bursaspor’s Tekasas group; this is similar to the fan formations in the university I discussed, which make it easy for students to meet people with similar interests stemming from locality and football team. Here supporting a football team certainly provides a way to make interpersonal connections throughout the nation’s geography, but this is something that some of the fans I spoke with recognize is becoming harder and harder to sustain due to the new developments they are experiencing.

Nationalism and Globalization

Many accounts of Turkey’s recent struggles put the blame on either Kemalism’s overbearing nature, or—like Jenny White (2014)—put the blame on President Recep Tayyip

Erdogan’s “authoritarianism”. In fact, none of these alone can explain the current crisis in

Turkey. As Tugal rightly points out, “the neoliberal-liberal democratic model (rather than

Erdogan the villain—or, for that matter, ‘Turkish culture’) was the cause of Turkey’s crisis. That model was in reality what allowed Erdogan’s authoritarianism to pass as democratic during the last ten years” (Tugal 2016: 19). Tugal’s words are a strong indictment of global (neo)liberalism,

293

which tends to use Western “democratic” values of “openness” and “individualism”, to further the global culture-ideology of consumption and its negative repurcussions; it results in the inverted reality I spoke of in Chapters 1 and 2.

Tugal correctly ties the crisis of the Turkish model to the global crisis of capitalism, noting that “capitalism has not found a way to socially and politically satisfy the new middle classes. The Turkish model has failed not simply because of the frictions between Islamic positions and democracy, but also because capitalism has generated hopes, joys and fears the management of which is beyond its capacities” (Tugal 2016: 28). Tugal’s observation points to an issue which manifests itself not only in Turkey, but also in the West, where a “fear of missing out” on that which capitalism creates has become pervasive, raising Veblen’s conspicuous consumption to a new level. In the digital world we are now aware of what others have and what we may not have (or vice versa), thus generating new joys or new fears out of this highly visible inequality.

This is because the crisis of globalization—and hypermodern society—is not the result of any one particular individual or political party, rather it is the result of processes that unfolded as

“a neoliberal consensus among political elites in the world, powerfully disseminated by business- oriented and consumerist global media…” (Falk 1999: 140) emerged. As Falk notes, this kind of globalization has created a world where “bonds of solidarity among the citizenry, never too strong in the face of antagonistic interests and against the grain of individualism, have been fraying badly as of late” (Ibid.: 159). Falk was writing over twenty years ago, and both trends he describes have been accelerated in the hypermodern period (especially in the last decade).

This might be the reason that the fans espouse a form of nationalism independent of political party and ideology, as I outlined in Chapter 5. As members of their local communities

294

they can be interpreted as resisting the encroachment of an increasingly invasive and anonymous form of imperialism rooted in global capital (sometimes encouraged by the rentier state). For these fans, their nationalism can be viewed as a struggle to reclaim the freedom of their teams from partisan political interference. Selami, from the worker’s team Adana Demirspor, explains that a former club president was a nationalist who hung himself after taking on the club’s debts:

He assumed all of Demirspor’s debts, saved the team from closure, and committed suicide. And he was such a man, he was a nationalist man, and because we were a leftist team, he arranged for an exhibition match with Livorno. We played Livorno in an exhibition match then. It was a really nice exhibition match, there was a beautiful tribun. It was really nice, really really really nice.2

When I asked him how someone with such an ideology encouraged the leftist orientation of the team, Selami said:

And that is exactly what makes Demirspor Demirspor. There are all kinds of people. But the important thing is they see Demirspor as the roof of a family; our fan group. The Simsekler group teaches this to people. To new fans, to those who have just joined. The roof of this house is Adana Demirspor, and under this roof—in the family of the Simsekler group—there can be all kinds of people. There is no way, under any circumstances, that you will fall victim to anything. No one; the moment they get into the tribun they are one voice: Adana Demirspor. Nothing else.

This mirror’s Marx’s criticism of ideology, since it creates a false consciousness and masks the inequalities inherent in capitalism. The fans I spoke with seem to recognize this, even though they come from a variety of political perspectives. Although some might be right wing and others might be leftist on their own, as a group they seem to generally view the changes that are happening in Turkish football (and wider societ)—as integration with the global economy continues—with skepticism. This resistance to monetization and commodification would

2 This was a very famous match, and was a boon for Adana Demirspor to attract such a high profile team for an exhibition match. Livorno was chosen because the city is the birthplace of Italian communism. For more on Livorno, see Doidge (2013).

295

normally be seen as a leftist position, but I do not believe that the fans see it as any sort of ideological position as much as they see it as representing their localities. Like in Israel (Ben

Porat 2012), as sports becomes commodified the economy slowly gains the upper hand on politics, and the response by fans might be an unintended consequence of this over commodification; thus the nationalism of fans might be seen as a cultural expression of nationalism focused on returning sport to its more local roots.

This is why most of the fans I spoke with stressed the importance of developing their own independence from the team itself (by creating their own gear—scarves and hoodies—and patenting the names of their groups). Similarly, they noted the importance of developing home grown players in lieu of importing foreign players. In Taner’s words:

For instance, think about it like Turkey…you need to plant your own wheat, your own everything so that…you can eat everything organic. You take the wheat you have grown and give it to foreign countries, and you buy tomatoes from foreign countries for double the price.

Here Taner compares the state of teams to the state of Turkey within the global economy, without making anything there can be only dependence. And Coskun, the journeyman player you met earlier, told me that “the pool [of players] in the 2. Lig [3rd tier] is small”, and that bringing foreign players in makes that pool even smaller:

you look at the foreign players; Turkish players are better. And they are low risk, they are Turkish players. They know the foods, they know the culture. In terms of talent there isn’t much of a difference. Of course there are talented foreigners and untalented foreigners…

The frustrations of Taner and Coskun are not directly related to any ideological position here, rather they are directed towards the system they are in. It is not necessarily political insofar as, again, they are feeling the effects of a process; globalization. While some observers may see this as a political struggle, I think that is just one interpretation and can be seen as similar to what

Ramon Spaaij and Carles Vinas (2013) find in Spain and what Testa and Armstrong (2009)

296

found in Italy, where the positions of the extreme right and extreme left converge in the context of fandom.

I observed how fan groups, particularly on Instagram, sustain this kind of nationalism by promoting the collective memory of the nation. Accounts of fan groups and teams routinely remember major state holidays in the Turkish national calendar, like 30 August (Victory Day),

29 October (Republic Day), 23 April (Children’s Day), and 19 May (National Sovereignty and

Youth and Sports Day). They also remember certain historical dates representing national traumas, such as the 1999 Adapazari Earthquake (17 August) or the 2014 Soma mining disaster

(13 May). Social media is not the only place that fans keep these memories alive, and I witnessed the fans of Sakaryaspor singing their “Deprem Beste”—a chant they sing before every match remembering the lives their city lost in the 1999 earthquake—at a match in May 2019. Beyond remembering national holidays and important dates, fans tend to also remember the deaths of famous Turkish cultural figures like the poet Nazim Hikmet, the novelist Yasar Kemal, the actor

Kemal Sunal, or the singer Muslum Gurses (nicknamed Muslum Baba). It is important to point out that these figures are not just remembered on social media, they are also often remembered in the stadium; Besiktas’ Carsi group once opened a famous banner remembering Muslum Gurses, while many fan chants—such as Besiktas’ “Believe guys, believe/We will see good days, [we will see] sunny days”3—is based on a Nazim Hikmet poem4 and has become a famous chant borrowed by many teams. These are examples of how the nationalism espoused by the fans does not necessarily subscribe to any specific identity (religious, ethnic, or political), rather it is rooted in culture and preserving the collective memory of the nation by promoting Turkish—as opposed

3 “Cocuklar inanin, inanin cocuklar/Guzel gunler gorecegiz, gunesli gunler”.

4 The Economist (2019).

297

to global—history and culture. Again, due to the implementation of Passolig and the Law 6222, fan banners are often prohibited, while those who participate in chanting are increasingly priced out, meaning that fans will face an uphill battle to preserve their own culture in the face of the ongoing commodification of the stadium. In short, football provides a communal and emotional space for a cultural interpretation of Turkish national identity that is threatened by the rationalizing developments stemming from globalization.

Multiple Modernities and Hypermodernity

Throughout I have argued that hypermodernity is characterized by the increasing prevalence of consumerism and individualism, underlaid by the rational “global culture-ideology of consumption” and encouraged through the global culture industry, of which soccer is a part. In

Turkey this new “global culture-ideology” has resulted in social dislocation, particularly in poorer urban areas (Tugal 2009), and increasing levels of state control (something very visible in the stadium), since suppressing the emotional (Dyonisian) means that the rational (Apollonian) can come to the fore. One could argue that, in this hypermodernity, there are few avenues for free expression and true freedom; even the “quest for excitement” is stifled as the stadiums come under stricter control in the name of commodification. Yet Jean Baudrillard warns us that, despite all the good words (like “safety” in the stadium), capital cares little about freedom:

…this dissimulation masking a strengthening of morality, a moral panic as we approach the primal (mise en) scene of capital: its instantaneous cruelty, its incomprehensible ferocity, its fundamental immorality—this is what is scandalous, unaccountable for in that system of moral and economic equivalence which remains the axiom of leftist thought, from Enlightenment theory to communism. Capital doesn’t give a damn about the contract that is imputed to it—it is a monstrous, unprincipled undertaking, nothing more” (Baudrillard 1983: 29, [emphasis added]).

At this stage of globalization—now even beyond the “late capitalism” Jameson (1991) writes about—corporate power continually challenges the sovereignty and even efficacy of the state,

298

gradually eroding its sovereignty as elected officials become, in many cases, surrogates for transnational corporations, burdened by no social contract. Given this new state of affairs, it should not be a surprise that nationalism has again come to the fore.

In the introduction to Nationalism and Modernism, Anthony D. Smith explains that nationalism was originally an emancipatory force:

at the outset, nationalism was an inclusive and liberating force. It broke down the various localisms of region, dialect, custom and clan, and helped to create large and powerful nation-states, with centralized markets and systems of administration, taxation and education. Its appeal was popular and democratic. It attacked feudal practices and oppressive imperial tyrannies and proclaimed the sovereignty of the people and the right of all peoples to determine their own destinies, in states of their own, if that was what they desired (Smith 1998: 1).

This description fits the Turkish case, where nationalism played a major role in creating a new republic after the Ottoman Empire while also resisting the imperialist designs of European powers. Sport played a major role in resistance in the modern era, and it should not be surprising that it is again a space for resistance against a new kind of imperialism, represented by globalization and globalism, in the hypermodern era.

Over time, the excesses of nationalism—particularly in the West—laid the groundwork for the kind of imperialist globalization that defines the hypermodern period, and scholars like

Ernest Gellner began to connect nations and nationalism to industrial development. Yet, as

Ibrahim Kaya notes, Turkish nationalism was distinct from Western nationalism insofar as the nation was not created to serve the interests of industrial elites. Instead, as Toni Alaranta explains, the Kemalists were “a typical reflection of the radical imaginary of modernity essentially characterized by its inherent vision of emancipation through education and science

[…] nationalism became the integrating principle, also soon functioning as a reenchantment tool in the process that was otherwise stamped by increasing disenchantment” (Alaranta 2015: 83).

Indeed, like many nationalist movements, the Turkish national project paid a great deal of

299

attention to education in the early years of the republic, and sports teams played an important role in maintaining the physical health of citizens as they developed their intellectual health

(Tunc 2011 gives a good description of this in the context of Trabzon). I believe that many of the fans I observed and whom I spoke with see the tribun, and its connections to community (both local and national), as a space for “reenchantment”, despite the fact that industrial football is increasingly providing disenchantment both in terms of competition and stadiums.

It is my hope that some of the perspectives I have offered can provide a start for re- assessing some the prominent ideas about globalization, globalism, nationalism, and the role of the nation in the context of multiple modernities. Ibrahim Kaya argues that

…it is held that modernity, as an actor between civilizations, has a strong capability to reduce oppositions between societies and between civilizations. However, the concept of globalization is rejected, precisely because it is understood as the diffusion of Western civilization. In fact, for the achievement of a ‘universal’ world, the recognition of ‘different’ modernities is an unavoidable condition. Globalization will not be achieved on the basis of specific world- interpretation […] By this I mean that a global world would need a mentality that would recognize all societies as equal but not as unified on the basis of a specific civilization, namely the Western desire to unify the world around its own values (Kaya 2004: 9).

The imposition of the kind of “Western” civilization Kaya refers to is what the hypermodernity has become. During my childhood, young kids would be listening to Turkish music and eating

Turkish foods, now on my daily walks I can see more and more of them eating Western fast food and listening to Western (American) popular music. While this is not in itself negative, it does point to a worrying homogenization of tastes and desires that have been encouraged—if not imposed—by the global culture industry.

Although football may seem, on the surface, to be just another of these “tastes”, it is clear that the emotional bond it creates between people, cities, and nations is strong. Like national identity, being a fan of a team is not something that can easily be bought and sold. As Fatih from

300

Denizlispor told me, “we began to succeed in somethings in the tribun by telling people that there is no road we cannot go down as long as we give people something to believe in”. That is the emotive power of collective identities, in both the sporting context and national context. It is this emotive power that might explain why so many around the world are beginning to reject this global iteration of sport, one where the emotional “quest for excitement” is being replaced by a rational “search for profit”.

301

APPENDIX A LIST OF FORMAL INTERVIEWEES

Name Team Age Occupation City Fan Group Coskun Lower Division 35 Footballer Istanbul N/A Player Evren Bandirmaspor 31 Veterinary Bandirma Kronikler Technician [The Chronics] Fatih Denizlispor 28 Teacher Denizli Yesil Cephe [Green Front]

Hami Trabzonspor 44 Small Istanbul Gurbetci Business Gencler Owner [Youth Abroad] Ibrahim Besiktas/Eyupspor 30 Service Istanbul ---- Industry Worker

Ismet Ankaragucu 52 Retired Small Ankara Gecekondu Business Owner Mehmet Denizlispor 25 Student Denizli Yesil Cephe [Green Front] Ogun Trabzonspor 32 Hospitality Denizli Gurbetci Industry Gencler Worker [Youth Abroad]

Okan Bursaspor 32 Small Bursa Teksas Business [Texas] Owner

Ridvan Sariyer 33 Civil Servant Istanbul ----

302

Selami Adana Demirspor 26 Small Adana Mavi Business Simsekler Owner [Blue Lightning] Sergen Besiktas 32 Engineer Istanbul ---- Taner Adana Demirspor 27 Waiter Adana Mavi Simsekler [Blue Lightning] Turker Denizlispor 24 Unemployed Denizli Yesil College Cephe Graduate [Green Front] Zeynep Trabzonspor 28 Call Center Trabzon ---- Operator Coach1 Team in Western ---- Coach Western N/A Turkey Turkey Team Team in Western ---- Administrator Western N/A Official2 Turkey Turkey

1 Name and Team omitted to protect anonymity.

2 Name and Team omitted to protect anonymity.

303

APPENDIX B EXAMPLE INTERVIEW QUESTIONS

Please tell me a little about yourself: Where are you from? What is your occupation? What is your age?

How did you come to support your team?

What does supporting your team mean to you?

Why do you do it without money? [In response to comments about not making money of fandom].

How many matches do you go to in a typical year?

How would you describe “Tribunculuk”?

Do you support any other teams?

What does your group do outside of matches, beyond football?

Can you tell me a little about the bad sides of fandoml? [In response to comment about good sides of fandom].

What are your relationships like with the fan groups of other teams? Do you have fan groups you like? Fan groups you don’t like?

There have been many changes in Turkish football) since the early 2000s. What do you think about these changes?

What do you think about the Passolig System?

What do you think about teams without fan cultures like Basaksehir and Osmanlispor?

What do you think about your new stadium? [when applicable]

Otherwise:

What do you think about the new stadiums?

304

APPENDIX C LIST OF MATCHES ATTENDED (IN TURKEY) Date Stadium (City) League Home Team Visiting Team (Province) 2018-2019 Season 2.23.2019 Yusuf Ziya Onis (Istanbul) TFF 2. Lig Sariyer Eyupspor

2.25.2019 Bagcilar Stadi (Istanbul) TFF 3. Lig Anadolu Bagcilarspor Serik Belediyespor (Antalya) 2.28.2019 Recep Tayyip Erdogan Ziraat Turkish Kasimpasaspor Akhisar (Istanbul) Cup Quarter Belediyespor Final 3.3.2019 Konya Buyuksehir Super Lig Konyaspor Goztepe (Izmir) Belediye (Konya) 3.6.2019 Yusuf Ziya Onis TFF 2. Lig Sariyer Inegolspor (Bursa)

3.10.2019 Bornova Aziz Kocaoglu Super Lig Goztepe Kasimpasaspor (Izmir) 3.16.2019 Umraniye Belediye TFF 1. Lig Umraniyespor Gazisehir (Istanbul) Gaziantepspor 3.16.2019 Vodafone Park (Istanbul) Super Lig Besiktas Goztepe (Izmir)

3.17.2019 Yusuf Ziya Onis TFF 2. Lig Sariyer Bodrumspor

4.3.2019 Vefa Stadi TFF 2. Lig Fatih Karagumruk Bandirmaspor (Istanbul) 4.3.2019 Recep Tayyip Erdogan Ziraat Turkish Umraniyespor* Akhisar (Istanbul) Cup Semi Final Belediyespor 4.7.2019 Bornova Aziz Kocaoglu Super Lig Goztepe Akhisar Belediyespor 4.21.2019 Nigde 5 Subat TFF 2. Lig Nigde Anadolu FK Sariyer (Nigde) 4.28.2019 Izmir Ataturk TFF 3. Lig Karsiyaka Sultanbeyli Belediyespor (Istanbul) 5.4.2019 Esenyurt Necmi Kadioglu TFF 1. Lig Istanbulspor Kardemircelik (Istanbul) Karabukspor 5.5.2019 Turk Telekom Arena Super Lig Galatasaray Besiktas (Istanbul) 5.9.2019 Yusuf Ziya Onis TFF 2. Lig Sariyer Kastamonuspor Playoff QF 1966 5.17.2019 Yeni Sakarya Ataturk TFF 2. Lig Sakaryaspor Sariyer Playoff SF 5.19.2019 Turk Telekom Arena Super Lig Galatasaray Istanbul Basaksehirspor 5.21.2019 Vefa Stadi TFF 2. Lig Fatih Karagumruk Manisa Buyuksehir Playoff SF Belediyespor 5.27.2019 Bornova Aziz Kocaoglu Super Lig Goztepe Ankaragucu

305

Date Stadium (City) League Home Team Visiting Team (Province) 2018-2019 Season 2.23.2019 Yusuf Ziya Onis (Istanbul) TFF 2. Lig Sariyer Eyupspor

3.17.2019 Yusuf Ziya Onis TFF 2. Lig Sariyer Bodrumspor

4.3.2019 Vefa Stadi TFF 2. Lig Fatih Karagumruk Bandirmaspor (Istanbul) 4.3.2019 Recep Tayyip Erdogan Ziraat Turkish Umraniyespor* Akhisar (Istanbul) Cup Semi Final Belediyespor 4.7.2019 Bornova Aziz Kocaoglu Super Lig Goztepe Akhisar Belediyespor 4.21.2019 Nigde 5 Subat TFF 2. Lig Nigde Anadolu FK Sariyer (Nigde) 4.28.2019 Izmir Ataturk TFF 3. Lig Karsiyaka Sultanbeyli Belediyespor (Istanbul) 5.4.2019 Esenyurt Necmi Kadioglu TFF 1. Lig Istanbulspor Kardemircelik (Istanbul) Karabukspor 5.5.2019 Turk Telekom Arena Super Lig Galatasaray Besiktas (Istanbul) 5.9.2019 Yusuf Ziya Onis TFF 2. Lig Sariyer Kastamonuspor Playoff QF 1966 5.17.2019 Yeni Sakarya Ataturk TFF 2. Lig Sakaryaspor Sariyer Playoff SF 5.19.2019 Turk Telekom Arena Super Lig Galatasaray Istanbul Basaksehirspor 5.21.2019 Vefa Stadi TFF 2. Lig Fatih Karagumruk Manisa Playoff SF Buyuksehir Belediyespor 5.27.2019 Bornova Aziz Kocaoglu Super Lig Goztepe Ankaragucu

306

2019-2020 Season 8.18.2019 Bornova Aziz Kocaoglu Super Lig Goztepe Antalyaspor

8.31.2019 Izmir Ataturk TFF 1. Lig Altay (Izmir) Balikesirspor

9.7.2019 Soma Ataturk TFF 3. Lig Somaspor Yesilyurt Belediyespor (Malatya) 9.8.2019 Bandirma 17 Eylul TFF 2. Lig Bandirmaspor Eyupspor 9.15.2019 Adana 5 Ocak** TFF 1. Lig Adanaspor* Adanademirspor 9.28.2019 Turk Telekom Arena Super Lig Galatasaray Fenerbahce 9.29.2019 Vefa Stadi TFF 1. Lig Fatih Karagumruk Akhisar Belediyespor 9.29.2019 Recep Tayyip Erdogan TFF 2. Lig Eyupspor* Bodrumspor 10.1.2019 Turk Telekom Arena UEFA Galatasaray Paris Saint Germain Champions (France) League 10.13.2019 Alacati 17 Eylul (Cesme, Izmir Amateur Alacatispor Cesme Izmir) League (6th Tier) Belediyespor 10.22.2019 Turk Telekom Arena UEFA Galatasaray Real Madrid Champions (Spain) League 10.24.2019 Vodafone Park UEFA Europa Besiktas Sporting Braga League (Portugal) 10.26.2019 Pendik Stadi (Istanbul) TFF 2. Lig Pendikspor Amedspor (Diyarbakir) 10.29.2019 Gazi Mustafa Kemal Turkish Cup 4th Altinordu (Izmir)* Amedspor Ataturk (Tire, Izmir) Round (Diyarbakir) 10.29.2019 Menemen Ilce Stadi Turkish Cup 4th Altay (Izmir)* Gorelispor (Menemen, Izmir) Round (Giresun) 11.2.2019 Izmir Ataturk TFF 3. Lig Karsiyaka (Izmir) Elazig Belediyespor 11.10.2019 Yusuf Ziya Onis TFF 2. Lig Sariyer Hekimoglu Trabzon 11.10.2019 Basaksehir Fatih Terim Super Lig Istanbul Ankaragucu (Istanbul) Basaksehirspor 11.16.2019 Bayrampasa Cetin Emec TFF 3. Lig Bayrampasaspor Osmaniye FK (Istanbul) (Istanbul) 11.17.2019 Darica 15 Temmuz Sehir TFF 3. Lig Darica Genclerbirligi Diyarbekirspor Stadi (Darica, Kocaeli) (Darica, Kocaeli) 11.23.2019 Yusuf Ziya Onis TFF 2. Lig Sariyer Yeni Corumspor 11.24.2019 Kagithane Hasbahce Stadi Istanbul 2nd Taksimspor (Istanbul) Hamidiyespor (Istanbul) Amateur League (Istanbul) (8th Tier) 11.24.2019 Recep Tayyip Erdogan Super Lig Kasimpasaspor Genclerbirligi (Ankara) 11.26.2019 Turk Telekom Arena UEFA Galatasaray Club Brugge Champions (Belgium) League

307

11.28.2019 Vodafone Park UEFA Europa Besiktas Slovan Bratislava League (Slovakia) 12.1.2019 Balcova Ataturk (Izmir) Regional Izmirspor Kucukyalispor Amateur League (Istanbul) (BAL) (5th Tier) 12.2.2019 Izmir Ataturk TFF 3. Lig Karsiyaka Turgutluspor 12.3.2019 Vefa Stadi Turkish Cup 5th Fatih Karagumruk Goztepe Round 12.4.2019 Recep Tayyip Erdogan Turkish Cup 5th Kasimpasaspor Vanspor Round 12.7.2019 Vefa Stadi TFF 1. Lig Fatih Karagumruk Balikesirspor 12.8.2019 Recep Tayyip Erdogan Super Lig Kasimpasaspor Besiktas 1.14.2020 Basaksehir Fatih Terim Turkish Cup Istanbul Kirklarelispor Round of 16 Basaksehirspor 1.18.2020 Eyup Stadi (Istanbul) TFF 2. Lig Eypspor Bandirmaspor 1.18.2020 Basaksehir Fatih Terim Super Lig Istanbul Yeni Malatyaspor Basaksehirspor 1.19.2020 Turk Telekom Arena Super Lig Galatasaray Denizlispor 1.22.2020 Bornova Aziz Kocaoglu Turkish Cup Goztepe Antalyaspor Round of 16 1.23.2020 Denizli Ataturk Turkish Cup Denizlispor Trabzonspor Round of 16 1.25.2020 Bornova Yusuf Tirpanci Izmir 1st Amateur Ozcamdibispor Cesme Futbol Sahasi (Izmir) League (6th Tier) Belediyespor 1.25.2020 Bornova Aziz Kocaoglu TFF 1. Lig Altay Istanbulspor 2.1.2020 Turgutlu 7 Eylul TFF 3. Lig Turgutluspor Kocaelispor 2.2.2020 Cesme Sehir Stadi Izmir 1st Amateur Cesme Belediyespor Torbali Caybasispor League (6th Tier) 2.8.2020 Adana 5 Ocak TFF 1. Lig Adana Demirspor* Adanaspor 2.9.2020 Osmaniye 7 Ocak TFF 3. Lig` Osmaniye FK Halide Edip Adivar SK (HEASK) (Ankara) 2.14.2020 Izmir Ataturk TFF 3. Lig Buca FK (Izmir)* Vestel Manisaspor 2.14.2020 Bornova Aziz Kocaoglu TFF 1. Lig Altinordu Osmanlispor (Ankara) 2.15.2020 Izmir Ataturk TFF 3. Lig Karsiyaka Fatsa Belediyespor (Samsun) 2.16.2020 Bursa Buyuksehir Belediye TFF 1. Lig Bursaspor Adana Demirspor (Timsah Arena) 2.29.2020 Medical Park Stadi Super LIg Trabzonspor Caykur Rizespor (Trabzon) 3.1.2020 Vakfikebir Ilce (Trabzon) TFF 2. Lig Hekimoglu Hacettepespor Trabzonspor (Ankara) 3.2.2020 Giresun Ataturk TFF 1. Lig Giresunspor Boluspor 3.3.2020 Medical Park Stadi Turkish Cup SF Trabzonspor Fenerbahce 3.8.2020 Izmir Ataturk TFF 3. Lig Karsiyaka Agrispor 1970 3.10.2020 Bornova Aziz Kocaoglu TFF 1. Lig Altay Hatayspor 3.12.2020 Osmanli Stadi (Ankara) TFF 1. Lig Osmanlispor Eskisehirspor 3.13.2020 Eryaman Stadi Super Lig Ankaragucu Caykur RIzespor (Ankara)*** *Denotes nominal “Home Team” when played at a neutral field or both teams share the same stadium **I was denied entry to this match despite having a ticket, but because I interacted with fans and spoke to them outside the stadium I have included it in this list

308

***I had tickets to this match but restrictions due to the COVID 19 event meant that from 3.13.2020 fans were no longer allowed in stadiums. Still, I include this match in this list because I was able to watch it on TV with fans of Ankaragucu at their favorite hangout in central Ankara

309

APPENDIX D LIST OF MATCHES ATTENDED (OUTSIDE TURKEY)

Date Stadium (City) League (Tier) Home Team Visiting Team

3.30.2019 Nou Camp La Liga Barcelona Espanyol st (Barcelona, ESP) (1 Tier) 3.31.2019 Sabadell, ESP Segunda Division Sabadell Valencia II B (3rd Tier)

4.14.2019 Skopje, MK Macedonian First Vardar Skopje Shkendija st Division (1 Tier) 5.6.2019 Taby Kyrkby, SWE Superettan IK Frej Taby Trelleborgs (2nd Tier)

8.12.2019 Stadio Artemio Franchi Preseason Fiorentina Galatasaray (Florence, IT) Exhibition

10.19.2019 Solid Park Arena Superettan Vasteras Mjallby (Vasteras, SWE) (2nd Tier)

10.20.2019 TELE2 Arena (Stockholm, Allsvenskan Hammarby IF Malmo FF SWE) (1st Tier)

2.19.2020 Right to Dream Park Denmark Super FC Nordsjaelland AC Horsens (Farum, DEN) League (1st Tier) 2.20.2020 Parken Stadium UEFA Europa FC Copenhagen FC Celtic (Copenhagen, DEN) League (Scotland) 2.22.2020 Volksparkstadion Bundesliga 2 Hamburger SV FC St. Pauli (Hamburg, DE) 2.23.2020 BayArena (Leverkusen, Bundesliga Bayer Leverkusen Augsburg DE)

310

LIST OF REFERENCES

Books and Journals:

Akın, Y. (2005). “Not Just a Game: The Kayseri vs. Sivas Football Disaster”. In P. Darby, M. Johnes, & G. Mellor (Eds.), Soccer and Disaster: International Perspectives (pp. 95-108). New York: Routledge.

Akin, Y. (Ed.). (2010). KafSinKaf. İstanbul: İletişim.

Aksoy, Y. (1993). “Gavur İzmir’de Gol Sesleri”. In R. Horak, W. Reiter, & T. Bora (Eds.), Futbol ve Kültürü: Takımlar, Taraftarlar, Endüstri, Efsaneler (pp. 323-350). İstanbul: İletişim.

Alaranta, T. (2015). National and State Identity in Turkey: The Transformation of the Republic’s Status in the International System. Maryland: Rowman & Littlefield.

Ali, Ş. (2018). Semt Bizim Ev Kira. Istanbul: Ayzıt Yayınları.

Altay, O. (2017). Konyaspor Tarihi. Konya: Nokta OFSET.

Altay Spor Tarihi (n.d.). Izmir: Acargil Matbaasi.

Anderson, B. R. (1991). Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism. London: Verso.

Anderson, P. (2017). The Antinomies of Antonio Gramsci. London, Brooklyn, NY: Verso.

Arendt, H. (1951). The Origins of Totalitarianism. New York: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt.

Arhan, F. (2012). Diyarbakirspor: Düğünde Kalabalık, Taziyede Yalnız. Istanbul: Iletisim.

Armstrong, G. (1998). Football Hooligans: Knowing The Score. Oxford: Berg.

Ayçıl, A. (1982). 1926-1982 Dünden Bugüne Karagümrük Gençlik Kulübü. Istanbul: Cağaloğlu.

Bairner, A. (2001). Sport, Nationalism, and Globalization: European and North American perspectives. Albany: State University of New York Press.

Bairner, A., & Sugden, J. (1993). Sport, Sectarianism, and Society in a Divided Ireland. London: Leicester University Press.

Balkan, N., Balkan, E. M., & Öncü Ahmet F. (Eds.). (2015). The Neoliberal Landscape and the Rise of Islamist Capital in Turkey. New York: Berghahn Books.

Basaran, K. (2017). Sivas-Kayseri: Türkiye’nin En Büyük Futbol Faciası. İstanbul: İletişim.

311

Battini, A. (2012). Reshaping the national bounds through fandom: The UltrAslan of Galatasaray. Soccer & Society, 13(5-6), 701-719.

Batuman, E. (2012). The view from the stands: Life among Istanbul's soccer fanatics. Soccer & Society, 13(5-6), 687-700.

Baudrillard, J. (1983). Simulations. New York: Semiotext(e).

Belanger, A. (2009). The urban sport spectacle: Towards a critical political economy of sports. In B. Carrington & I. McDonald (Eds.), Marxism, cultural studies and sport (pp. 51-67). London: Routledge.

Belk, R. W. (1996). Hyperreality and Globalization: Culture in the age of Ronald McDonald. Journal of International Consumer Marketing, 8(3/4), 23-37.

Ben Porat, A. (2012). From Community to Commodity: the commodification of football in Israel. Soccer & Society, 13(3), 443-457.

Benedikter, R., & Wojtaszyn, D. (2018). Football Politics in Central Eastern Europe: A Symptom of Growing Anti-Europeanism and Anti-Globalization? Geopolitics, History, and International Relations, 10(1), 79-93.

Berköz, L. (2001). The Interregional Location of Foreign Investors in Turkey. European Planning Studies, 9(8), 979-994.

Billig, M. (1995). Banal Nationalism. London: Sage.

Bora, T. (2003). Nationalist Discourses in Turkey. The South Atlantic Quarterly, 102 (2/3), 433- 451.

Bora, T. & Erdoğan, N. (1993). “Dur Tarih, Vur Türkiye”. In Futbol ve Kültürü: Takımlar, Taraftarlar, Endüstri, Efsaneler (pp. 221-240). İstanbul: İletişim.

Bourdieu, P. (2010[1984]). Distinction. Oxford: Routledge.

Bourdieu, P. (2012). The Field of Cultural Production, or: The Economic World Reversed. In C. Calhoun, J. Gerteis, J. Moody, S. Pfaff, & I. Virk (Eds.), Contemporary Sociological Theory (3rd ed., pp. 359-374). Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell.

Bozdogan, S., & Kasaba, R. (Eds.). (1997). Rethinking Modernity and National Identity in Turkey. Seattle: University of Washington Press.

Brockett, G.D. (2011). How Happy to Call Oneself a Turk. Austin: University of Texas Press.

Brohm, J. (1978). Sport—A Prison of Measured Time. London: Ink Links.

Carrington, B., & McDonald, I. (Eds.). (2009). Marxism, Cultural Studies and Sport. Abingdon: Routledge.

312

Chehabi, H. (2006). The Politics of Football in Iran. Soccer & Society, 7(2-3), 233-261.

Cizre, U. (2008). Secular and Islamic Politics in Turkey: The Making of the Justice and Development Party. London: Routledge.

Cleland, J. (2014). Racism, Football Fans, and Online Message Boards: How Social Media Has Added a New Dimension to Racist Discourse in English Football. Journal of Sport and Social Issues, 38(5), 415-431.

Cleland, J. (2015). Discussing homosexuality on association football fan message boards: A changing cultural context. International Review for the Sociology of Sport, 50(2), 125- 140.

Coelho, J. N. (1998). 'On the border': Some notes on football and national identity in Portugal. In A. Brown (Ed.), Fanatics! Power, Identity and Fandom in Football (pp. 158-172). London: Routledge.

Connor, W. (1994). Ethnonationalism: The Quest for Understanding. Princeton: Princeton University Press.

Crawford, G. (2004). Consuming Sport: Fans, Sport and Culture. London: Routledge.

Cuff, E., Sharrock, W., & Francis, D. (1990). Perspectives in Sociology (3rd ed.). London: Unwin Hyman.

Çağaptay, S. (2006). Islam, Secularism, and Nationalism in Modern Turkey: Who is a Turk? London: Routledge.

Çeviker, T. (2002). Türk Edebiyatında Futbol. İstanbul: Yapı Kredi Yayınları.

Çınar, A. (2005). Modernity, Islam, and Secularism in Turkey. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.

Çırakman, A. (2011). Flags and traitors: The advance of ethno-nationalism in the Turkish self- image. Ethnic and Racial Studies, 34(11), 1894-1912.

Coakley, J., & Dunning, E. (Eds.) (2002). Handbook of Sport Studies. London: Sage.

Daniel, P., & Kassimeris, C. (2013). The Politics and Culture of FC St. Pauli: from leftism, through anti-establishment, to commercialization. Soccer & Society, 14(2), 167-182.

Debord, G. (1983 [1967]). Society of the Spectacle. Detroit: Black & Red.

De Cesari, C. (2016). Ottonostalgias and Urban Apartheid. International Journal of Islamic Architecture, 5(2), 339-357.

Demir, M., & Talimciler, A. (2015). Siddet, Sike, Ve Medya Kiskacinda Futbol ve Taraftarlik. Konya: Literaturk Academia.

313

Diker, A. (2014). Direnişten Dirilişe Kafsinkaf Destanını Yazanlar. Izmir: Duvar Yayınları.

Doidge, M. (2013). 'The birthplace of Italian communism': Political identity and action among Livorno fans. Soccer & Society, 14(2), 246-261.

Domingos, N. (2017). Football and Colonialism: Body and Popular Culture in Urban Mozambique. Athens, OH: Ohio University Press.

Dorsey, J. M. (2016). The Turbulent World of Middle East Soccer. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

Dorsey, J., & Sebastian, L. (2013). The Politics of Indonesian and Turkish Soccer: A Comparative Analysis. Soccer & Society, 14(5), 615-634.

Dokmeci, V., & Berkoz, L. (1994). Transformation of Istanbul from a monocentric to a polycentric city. European Planning Studies, 2(2).

Dikici, S. (2014). Yakarız Bu Gezegeni!: Futbol, Siyaset ve Tribünlere Dair (1st ed.). Istanbul: Tortuga.

Dmowski, S. (2013). Geographical Typology of European Football Rivalries. Soccer & Society, 14(3), 331-343.

Dubal, S. (2010). The neoliberalization of football: Rethinking neoliberalism through the commercialization of the beautiful game. International Review for the Sociology of Sport, 45(2), 123–146. doi: 10.1177/1012690210362426

Dunning, E., Murphy, P., & Williams, J. (1986). Spectator Violence at Football Matches: Towards a Sociological Explanation. The British Journal of Sociology, 37(2), 221-244.

Duran, R. (2012). Futbolukurdi. In R. Horak, W. Reiter, & T. Bora (Eds.), Futbol ve Kulturu: Takimlar, Taraftarlar, Endustri, Efsaneler (pp. 251–260). İstanbul: İletişim Yayınları.

Elias, N. (2000 [1939]). The Civilizing Process: Sociogenetic and Psychogenetic Investigations (E. Dunning, Ed.). Malden, Mass: Blackwell Publishing.

Elias, N., & Dunning, E. (1986). Quest for Excitement: Sport and Leisure in the Civilizing Process. Oxford: Basil Blackwell.

Eligür, B. (2013). The Mobilization of Political Islam in Turkey. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

El-Zatmah, S. (2012). From Terso into Ultras: The 2011 Egyptian revolution and the radicalization of soccer's Ultra-fans. Soccer & Society, 13(5-6), 801-813.

Emrence, C. (2010). From Elite Circles to Power Networks: Turkish Soccer Clubs in a Global Age, 1903-2005. Soccer & Society, 11(3), 242-252.

314

Eraydin, A. (2008). The Impact of Globalisation on Different Social Groups: Competitiveness, Social Cohesion and Spatial Segregation in Istanbul. Urban Studies, 45(8), 1663-1691.

Eraydin, A. (2011). Changing Istanbul City Region Dynamics: Re-regulations to Challenge the Consequences of Uneven Development and Inequality. European Planning Studies, 19(5), 813-837.

Erhart, I. (2011). Ladies of Besiktas: A dismantling of male hegemony at Inonu Stadium. International Review for the Sociology of Sport, 48(1), 83-98.

Falk, R. (1999). Predatory Globalization: A Critique. Cambridge: Polity Press.

Foer, F. (2004). How Soccer Explains the World: An Unlikely Theory of Globalization. New York: HarperCollins.

Foucault, M. (2010). The Foucault Reader (P. Rabinow, Ed.). New York, NY: Vintage Books.

Fortier, I., & Juarez, M.C. (2017). How Hypermodern and Accelerated Society is Challenging the Cultural Sector. THe Journal of Arts Management, Law, and Society, 47(4), 209-217.

Gaffney, C. T. (2008). Temples of the Earthbound Gods: Stadiums in the Cultural Landscapes of Rio de Janeiro and Buenos Aires. Austin: University of Texas Press.

Geertz, C. (2001). Thick Description: Toward an Interpretive Theory of Culture. In R. M. Emerson (Ed.), Contemporary Field Research: Perspectives and Formulations (pp. 55- 75). Long Grove, IL: Waveland Press.

Gellner, E. (2006[1983]). Nations and Nationalism. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press.

Giulianotti, R. (1995). Participant Observation and Research into Football Hooliganism: Reflections on the Problems of Entrée and Everyday Risks. Sociology of Sport Journal, 12, 1-20.

Giulianotti, R. (2002). Supporters, Followers, Fans, and Flaneurs: A Taxonomy of Spectator Identities in Football. Journal of Sport and Social Issues, 26(1), 25-46.

Giulianotti, R. (2004). The Fate of Hyperreality: Jean Baudrillard and the Sociology of Sport. In R. Giullianotti (Ed.), Sport and Modern Social Theorists (pp. 225-239). New York: Palgrave Macmillan.

Giulianotti, R. (2005). Sport Spectators and the Social Consequences of Commodification: Critical Perspectives from Scottish Football. Journal of Sport & Social Issues, 29(4), 386- 410.

Giullianotti, R. (Ed.). (2004). Sport and Modern Social Theorists. New York: Palgrave Macmillan.

315

Giulianotti, R., & Armtrong, G. (2002). Avenues of Contestation. Football Hooligans Running and Ruling Urban Spaces. Social Anthropology, 10(2), 211-238.

Giulianotti, R., & Gerrard, M. (2001). Cruel Britannia? Glasgow Rangers, Scotland and 'Hot' Football Rivalries. In G. Armstrong & R. Giulianotti (Eds.), Fear and Loathing in World Football (pp. 23-42). Oxford: Berg.

Giulianotti, R., & Robertson, R. (2004). The globalization of football: a study in the glocalization of the ‘serious life.’ The British Journal of Sociology, 55(4), 545–568. doi: 10.1111/j.1468-4446.2004.00037.x

Giulianotti, R., & Robertson, R. (2007). Forms of Glocalization: Globalization and the Migration Strategies of Scottish Football Fans in North America. Sociology, 41(1), 133–152. doi: 10.1177/0038038507073044

Giulianotti, R., & Robertson, R. (2012). Mapping the global football field: a sociological model of transnational forces within the world game. The British Journal of Sociology, 63(2), 217-240.

Goldblatt, D. (2008). The Ball is Round: A Global History of Soccer (US ed.). New York, NY: Riverhead Books.

Goldman, R., & Papson, S. (1998). Nike Culture. London: Sage Publications.

Gökaçtı, M.A. (2008). "Bizim İçin Oyna: Türkiyede Futbol ve Siyaset. Istanbul: İletişim Yayınları.

Gökalp, Z. (1959). Turkish Nationalism and Western Civilization (N. Berkes, Trans.). New York, NY: Columbia University Press.

Gramsci, A. (1971). Selections from the Prison Notebooks of Antonio Gramsci (Q. Hoare & G. Nowell-Smith, Eds.). NY, NY: International.

Guttmann, A. (2004). From Ritual to Record: The Nature of Modern Sports. New York: Columbia University Press.

Habermas, J. (2001). The Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere: An Inquiry Into a Category of Bourgeois Society (T. Burger & F. Lawrence, Trans.). Cambridge (Mass.): MIT.

Hargreaves, J. (2000). Freedom for Catalonia? Catalan Nationalism, Spanish Identity and the Barcelona Olympic Games. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Hargreaves, J. (1986). Sport, Power and Culture. New York: St. Martin’s Press.

Hargreaves, J., & McDonald, I. (2002). Cultural Studies and the Sociology of Sport. In J. Coakley & E. Dunning (Eds.), Handbook of Sports Studies (pp. 48-60). London: Sage.

316

Hasdemir, Hacı. (2010). İstanbul'un 100 Spor Kulübü. İstanbul: İstanbul Büyükşehir Belediyesi Kültür A.Ş. Yayınları.

Hatipoglu, D., & Aydin, M. B. (2007). Bastir Ankaragucu: Kent, Kimlik, Endustriyel Futbol ve Taraftarlik. Ankara: Epos Yayinlari.

Hendrick, J. D. (2015). Globalization, Islamic Activism, and Passive Revolution in Turkey: The Case of Fethullah Gulen. In N. Balkan, E. Balkan, & A. Oncu (Eds.), The Neoliberal Landscape and the Rise of Islamist Capital in Turkey (pp. 235–271). New York: Berghahn Books.

Hill, C. (2004). Prologue. In R. Levermore & A. Budd (Eds.), Sport and International Relations: An Emerging Relationship (pp. 1-5). New York: Routledge.

Hoberman, J.M. (1984). Sport and Political Ideology. Austin: University of Texas Press.

Hobsbawm, E. J., & Ranger, T. (Eds.). (2004). The Invention of Tradition. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Jameson, F. (1991). Postmodernism Or, The Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism. Durham: Duke University Press.

Jerolmack, C. & Khan, S. (2014). Talk is Cheap: Ethnography and the Attitudinal Fallacy. Sociological Methods and Research, 43(2), 178-209.

Kanra, B. (2009). Islam, Democracy, and Dialogue in Turkey: Deliberating in Divided Societies. London: Routledge.

Karaman, O. (2008). Urban Pulse—(RE)Making Space for Globalization in Istanbul. Urban Geography, 29(6), 518-525.

Karasipahi, S. (2014). Muslims in Modern Turkey: Kemalism, Modernism and the Revolt of the Islamic Intellectuals. London: I.B. Tauris.

Kasaba, R. (1997). Kemalist Certainties and Modern Ambiguities. In S. Bozdogan & R. Kasaba (Eds.), Rethinking Modernity and National Identity in Turkey (pp. 15–36). Seattle, WA: University of Washington Press.

Kartakoullis, N. L., Kriemadis, T., & Pouloukas, S. (2009). Cyprus: A Football Crazy Nation? Soccer & Society, 10(2), 226-244.

Kaya, I. (2004). Social Theory and Later Modernities: The Turkish Experience (Studies in social and political thought; 9). Liverpool: Liverpool University Press.

Keddie, P. (2018). The Passion: Football and the History of Modern Turkey. London: I.B. Tauris.

317

Keyder, C. (2005). Globalization and Social Exclusion in Istanbul. International Journal of Urban and Regional Research, 29(1), 124-134.

Keyman, E. F., & Gumuscu, S. (2014). Democracy, Identity and Foreign Policy in Turkey: Hegemony Through Transformation. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan.

King, A. (1997). The Postmodernity of Football Hooliganism. The British Journal of Sociology, 48(4), 576-593.

King, A. (1997b). The Lads: Masculinity and the New Consumption of Football. Sociology, 31(2), 329-346.

King, A. (2000). Football fandom and post-national identity in the new Europe. The British Journal of Sociology, 51(3), 419-442).

King, A. (2001). Violent Pasts: Collective memory and football hooliganism. The Sociological Review, 49(4), 568-585.

King, A. (2004). The New Symbols of European Football. International Review for the Sociology of Sport, 39(3), 323-336.

Kossakowski, R. (2017). Where are the Hooligans? Dimensions of Football Fandom in Poland. International Review for the Sociology of Sport, 52(6), 693-711.

Kowe, P., Pedzisai, E., Gumindoga, W., & Rwasoka, D. (2015). An analysis of changes in the urban landscape composition and configuration in the Sancaktepe District of Istanbul Metropolitan City, Turkey using landscape metrics and satellite data. Geocarto International, 30(5), 506-519.

Kozanoglu, C. (1999). Beyond Edirne: Football and the National Identity Crisis in Turkey. In G. J. Armstrong & R. Giulianotti (Eds.), Football Cultures and Identities (pp. 117-125). London: Macmillan.

Krawietz, B. (2014). Sport and Nationalism in the Republic of Turkey. International Journal of the History of Sport, 31(3), 336-346.

Kuper, S., & Szymanski, S. (2018). Soccernomics: Why England Loses ; Why Germany, Spain, and France Win ; and Why One Day Japan, Iraq, and the United States Will Become Kings of the Worlds Most Popular Sport. New York, NY: Nation Books.

Lash, S., & Lury, C. (2007). Global Culture Industry. Cambridge, UK: Polity.

Levermore, R., & Budd, A. (Eds.). (2004). Sport and International Relations: An Emerging Relationship. New York: Routledge.

Lovatt, D. (Ed.). (2001). Turkey Since 1970: Politics, Economics and Society. London: Palgrave.

318

Lyotard, J.-F. (1984). The Postmodern Condition: A Report on Knowledge. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.

Maktav, D., & Erbek, F. (2005). Analysis of urban growth using multi-temporal satellite data in Istanbul, Turkey. International Journal of Remote Sensing, 26(4), 797-810.

Marcuse, H. (1991). One-Dimensional Man: Studies in the Ideology of Advanced Industrial Society. Boston: Beacon Press.

Markovits, A., & Hellerman, S. (2001). Offside: Soccer and American Exceptionalism. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press.

Marsh, P., Rosser, E. & Harre, R. (1980). The Rules of Disorder. London: Routledge.

McDowall, D. (2007). A Modern History of the Kurds. London: I.B. Tauris.

McManus, J. (2013). Been There, Done That, Bought the T-Shirt: Beşiktaş fans and the Commodification of Football in Turkey. Int. Journal of Middle Eastern Studies, 45(2013), 3-24.

McManus, J. (2018). Welcome to Hell? In Search of the Real Turkish Football. London: Weidenfeld & Nicholson.

Milanovic, B. (2005). Globalization and Goals: Does Soccer Show the Way? Review of International Political Economy, 12(5), 829–850.

Mills, C. W. (1959). The Sociological Imagination. New York: Oxford University Press.

Millward, P., & Poulton, G. (2014). Football Fandom, Mobilization and Herbert Blumer: A Social Movement Analysis of F.C. United of Manchester. Sociology of Sport Journal, 31, 1-22.

Müller-Peters, A. (1998). The significance of national pride and national identity to the attitude toward the single European currency: A Europe-wide comparison. Journal of Economic Psychology, 19, 701–719.

Nietzsche, F. (2000). Basic Writings of Nietzsche (W. Kaufman, Trans.). NY: Modern Library.

Numerato, D. (2015). Who Says “No to Modern Football?” Italian Supporters, Reflexivity, and Neo-Liberalism. Journal of Sport and Social Issues, 39(2), 120-138.

Numerato, D. (2016). Behind the digital curtain: Ethnography, football fan activism and social change. Qualitative Research. 16(5), 575-591.

Numerato, D., & Giulianotti, R. (2018). Citizen, consumer, citimer: The interplay of market and political identities within contemporary football cultures. Journal of Consumer Culture, 18(2), 336-355.

319

Okay, C. (2002). ‘The Introduction, Early Development, and Historiography of Soccer in Turkey. Soccer & Society, 3(3), 1-10.

Onay, G. (2009). Adanaspor'un Zirve Yillari ve "Icerinden" Bir Izlenim. In Y. Yildirim & M. Ucar (Eds.), Sicagiyla, Acisiyla Adana Futbolu (pp. 81–88). Istanbul: Iletisim.

Özdemir, D. (2011). The Role of the Public Sector in the Provision of Housing Supply in Turkey, 1950-2009. International Journal of Urban and Regional Research, 35(6), 1099- 1117.

Özet İrfan. (2019). Fatih Başakşehir: Muhafazakâr Mahallede İktidar ve Dönüşen Habitus. İstanbul: İletişim Yayınları.

Özturk, Ö. (2015). The Islamist Big Bourgeoisie in Turkey. In N. Balkan, E. Balkan, & A. Oncu (Eds.), The Neoliberal Landscape and the Rise of Islamist Capital in Turkey (pp. 117- 141). New York: Berghahn Books.

Özügül, M. D., & Cengiz, H. (2011). Planning and Sustainability Trajectories in a Rapidly Growing Metropolis: Istanbul. Open House International, 36(2).

Ozus, E., Turk, S. S., & Dokmeci, V. (2011). Urban Restructuring of Istanbul. European Planning Studies, 19(2), 331-356.

Penrose, J. (2011). Designing the nation. Banknotes, banal nationalism and alternative conceptions of the state. Political Geography, 30, 429–440. doi: 10.1016/j.polgeo.2011.09.007

Pınarcıoğlu, M., & Işık, O. (2008). Not Only Helpless but also Hopeless: Changing Dynamics of Urban Poverty in Turkey, the Case of Sultanbeyli, Istanbul. European Planning Studies, 16(10), 1353-1370.

Pope, S. (2012). "The Love of My Life": The Meaning and Importance of Sport for Female Fans. Journal of Sport and Social Issues, 37(2), 176-195.

Pusane, Ö. K. (2014). Turkey’s Kurdish Opening: Long Awaited Achievements and Failed Expectations. Turkish Studies, 15(1), 81-99.

Raab, A. (2012). Soccer in the Middle East: an introduction. Soccer & Society, 13(5-6), 619-638.

Radmann, A. (2014). Hooligans: nice guys or the last alpha males? A study of football supporters' self-image. Soccer & Society, 15(4), 548-563

Robson, G. (2000). No One Likes Us, We Dont Care: The Myth and Reality of Millwall Fandom. Oxford: Berg.

Said, E. W. (1979). Orientalism. New York: Vintage Books.

320

Saracoglu, C. (2011). Kurds of Modern Turkey: Migration, Neoliberalism and Exclusion in Turkish Society. Tauris Academic Studies.

Scalia, V. (2009). Just a Few Rogues? Football Ultras, Clubs and Politics in Contemporary Italy. International Review for the Sociology of Sport,44(1), 41-53.

Schumacher, E.F. (1973). Small is Beautiful: Economics as if People Mattered. New York: Perennial.

Sheldon, G.W. (2014). Jefferson and Ataturk. New York: Peter Lang.

Sklair, L. (2001). The Transnational Capitalist Class. Oxford: Blackwell Publishers.

Smith, A. D. (1998). Nationalism and Modernism: A critical survey of recent theories of nations and nationalism. London: Routledge.

Sorek, T. (2007). Arab Soccer in a Jewish State: The Integrative Enclave. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Spaaij, R. (2008). Men Like Us, Boys Like Them: Violence, Masculinity, and Collective Identity in Football Hooliganism. Journal of Sport and Social Issues, 32(4), 369-392.

Spencer, R. F. (1958). Culture Process and Intellectual Current: Durkheim and Ataturk. American Anthropologist, 60(4), 640-657.

Sugden, J., Tomlinson, A., & Darby, P. (1998). FIFA versus UEFA in the struggle for the control of world football. In A. Brown (Ed.), Fanatics! Power, Identity, and Fandom in Football (pp. 11-31). London: Routledge.

Şevki, O. (2018). Osmanli'dan Cumhuriyet'e Azinlik Spor Kulupleri ve Sporcular. Istanbul: Turkiye Is Bankasi Kultur Yayinlari.

Tanyilmaz, K. (2015). The Deep Fracture in the Big Bourgeoisie in Turkey. In N. Balkan, E. Balkan, & A. Oncu (Eds.), The Neoliberal Landscape and the Rise of Islamist Capital in Turkey (pp. 89-116). New York: Berghahn Books.

Tasan-Kok, T. (2015). Analyzing Path Dependence to Understand Divergence: Investigating Hybrid Neo-liberal Urban Transformation Processes in Turkey. European Planning Studies, 23(11), 2184-2209.

Terzi, F., & Bölen, F. (2012). The Potential Effects of Spatial Strategies on Urban Sprawl in Istanbul. Urban Studies, 49(6), 1229-1250.

Testa, A. (2009). The UltraS: An Emerging Social Movement? Review of European Studies, 1(2), 54-63.

Testa, A., & Armstrong, G. (2010). Football Fascism and Fandom: The UltraS of Italian Football. London: A & C Black.

321

Tuastad, D. (2014). From Football Riot to Revolution. The Political Role of Football in the Arab World. Soccer & Society, 15(3), 376-388.

Tuğal, C. (2009). Passive Revolution: Absorbing the Islamic Challenge to Capitalism. Stanford, CA: Stanford Univ. Press.

Tuğal, C. (2016). The Fall of the Turkish Model: How the Arab Uprisings Brought Down Islamic Liberalism. London: Verso.

Tunc, S. (2011). Trabzon'da Futbolun Toplumsal Tarihi: Mektepliler, Munevverler, Meraklilar. İstanbul: İletişim.

Turan, Ö, & Özçetin, B. (2017). Football fans and contentious politics: The role of Çarşı in the Gezi Park protests. International Review for the Sociology of Sport, 1-19.

Turgut, H. (2010). Urban Dynamics and Transformations and Their Impact on Urban Housing: The Case of Istanbul. Open House International, 35(4), 76-84.

Vaczi, M. (2015). Soccer, Culture and Society in Spain: An Ethnography of Basque Fandom. London: Routledge.

Whaite, E. O., Shensa, A., Sidani, J. E., Colditz, J. B., & Primack, B. A. (2018). Social media use, personality characteristics, and social isolation among young adults in the United States. Personality and Individual Differences, 124, 45-50.

White, J. (2014). Muslim Nationalism and the New Turks. Princeton: Princeton University Press.

Wuthnow, R., Hunter, J. D., Bergesen, A., & Kurzweil, E. (1984). Cultural Analysis: The Work of Peter L. Berger, Mary Douglas, Michel Foucault, and Jürgen Habermas. London: Routledge.

Yesil, B. (2016). Media in New Turkey: The Origins of an Authoritarian Neoliberal State. Urbana, IL: University of Illinois Press.

Yildirim, Y., & Ucar, M. (Eds.). (2009). Sicagiyla, Acisiyla Adana Futbolu. Istanbul: Iletisim.

Yılmaz, G. (2010). Küresel Kent Istanbul'da Yabancı Sermayenın Mekansal Organizasyonu. Gazi Üniv. Müh. Mim. Fak. Der., 25(3), 593-600.

Yuce, M. (2014). Osmanlı Melekleri Futbol Tarihimizin Kadim Devreleri. İstanbul: İletişim.

Yüce, M. (2015). Idmancı Ruhlar: Futbol Tarihimizin Klasik Devreleri: 1923-1952. Istanbul: İletişim Yayınları.

Yuce, M. (2016). Romantik Yurekler Futbol Tarihimizin Yeni Devreleri: 1952-1992. İstanbul: İletişim.

Zurcher, E.J. (1993). Turkey: A Modern History. London: IB Tauris.

322

Zurcher, E.J.. (1999) “The Vocabulary of Muslim Nationalism.” International J. Soc. Lang., vol. 137, pp. 81–92.

Zurcher, E.J. (2005) “How Europeans Adopted Anatolia and Created Turkey.” European Review, vol. 13, no. 3, pp. 379–394.

Newspapers and Magazines:

Agence France-Presse in Istanbul. (2015, December 3). Three men get life sentence for murder and attempted rape of student in Turkey. The Guardian. Retrieved 9 July, 2020, from https://www.theguardian.com/world/2015/dec/04/three-men-life-sentence-murder- student-turkey-ozgecan-aslan

Akşan, S. (2019, August 16). Fıkra gibi olay: Türk seyirci Liverpool maçlarında karakola gidip imza atacak. Yeni Şafak. Retrieved 12 November, 2019, from https://www.yenisafak.com/spor/liverpool-maclarinda-karakola-gidip-imza-atacak- 3502297

Arhan, F. (2016, February 9). Bir kulüpten fazlası: Amedspor ya da 'onların takımı'. BBC Turkce. Retrieved 1 December, 2019, from https://www.bbc.com/turkce/spor/2016/02/160208_amedspor

BBC. (2020, February 28). Syria war: Alarm after 33 Turkish soldiers killed in attack in Idlib. BBC. Retrieved 9 July, 2020, from https://www.bbc.com/news/world-middle-east- 51667717

BBC Turkce. (2019, March 4). Amedspor-Sakaryaspor maçı sonrası karşılıklı suçlamalar. BBC Turkce. Retrieved 1 December, 2019, from https://www.bbc.com/turkce/haberler-dunya- 47436757

Bora. T. (2017, June 7). Fakat Ne Yazık kı Stat Boştu. Birikim Dergisi. Retrieved 18 November, 2019, from https://www.birikimdergisi.com/haftalik/8351/fakat-ne-yazik-ki-stat-bostu

Cihan (2014, April 14). Bir stattan daha ismi silindi. Hurriyet. Retrieved 20 November, 2019, from https://www.hurriyet.com.tr/gundem/bir-stattan-daha-ismi-silindi-26215754

Cumhuriyet.com.tr (2019a, April 18). Mansur Yavaş'tan Osmanlıspor'a kırmızı kart. Cumhuriyet. Retrieved 9 July, 2020, from https://www.cumhuriyet.com.tr/haber/mansur-yavastan- osmanlispora-kirmizi-kart-1351774

Cumhuriyet.com.tr (2019b, November 4). Gökçek'e stad şoku. Cumhuriyet. Retrieved 9 July, 2020, from https://www.cumhuriyet.com.tr/haber/gokceke-stad-soku-1700125

DHA. (2019, November 26). Tribünde en çok kadın taraftar Trabzonspor’da. Hurriyet. Retrieved 7 July, 2020, from https://www.hurriyet.com.tr/sporarena/tribunde-en-cok-kadin-taraftar- trabzonsporda-41382905

323

The Economist. (2019, February 2). Believe, boys, believe: In Turkey, football is an outlet for dissent. The Economist. Retrieved 16 September, 2020, from https://www.economist.com/books-and-arts/2019/02/02/in-turkey-football-is-an-outlet- for-dissent

Erdem, B. (2019, April 19). 16 saniyede tükendi [Gone in 16 Seconds]. Hurriyet. Retrieved 20 October, 2019, from https://www.sabah.com.tr/guney/2019/04/19/16-saniyede-tukendi

Euronews (2019, January 25). Başakşehir şampiyon yapılıp Katar'a mı satılacak? CHP TBMM'de önerge Verdi. Euronews. Retrieved 15 August, 2020, from https://tr.euronews.com/2019/01/25/basaksehir-sampiyon-yapilip-katar-a-mi-satilacak- chp-tbmm-de-onerge-verdi

Gokce, A. (2015, January 7). 'Çileli' bir Passolig öyküsü. Milliyet. Retrieved 20 November, 2019, from https://www.milliyet.com.tr/skorer/attila-gokce/cileli-bir-passolig-oykusu- 1995172

Herbert, I. (2009, December 21). He shoots, he scores – and if he’s very lucky, he files on time. The Independent. Retrieved 9 July, 2020, from https://www.independent.co.uk/news/media/press/he-shoots-he-scores-ndash-and-if- hersquos-very-lucky-he-files-on-time-1846202.html

Hurriyet (2016, June 9). Körfez'in ilk 11'i sahada. Hurriyet. Retrieved 3 September, 2020, from https://www.hurriyet.com.tr/ege/korfezin-ilk-11i-sahada-40115381

Hurriyet Daily News (2014, April 9). Footballer-turned-politician Hakan Şükür’s name removed from stadium. Hurriyet Daily News. Retrieved 20 November, 2019, from https://www.hurriyetdailynews.com/footballer-turned-politician-hakan-sukurs-name- removed-from-stadium-64781

Huzurlarınızda Başakşehirspor. (2014, June 5). Fanatik. Retrieved March 25, 2017, from http://www.fanatik.com.tr/2014/06/05/huzurlarinizda-basaksehirspor-372488

Kalbinur, N. (2017, August 19). Yok Edilen Bir Tarih; Üsküdar Anadolu. Milliyet Blog. Retrieved July 9, 2020, from http://blog.milliyet.com.tr/yok-edilen-bir-tarih--uskudar- anadolu/Blog/?BlogNo=567499

Kamer, H. (2018, October 8). Sakaryaspor-Amedspor maçında neler yaşandı? BBC Turkce. Retrieved December 1, 2019, from https://www.bbc.com/turkce/45857048

Kızılboğa, K. (2018, May 3). Yeni stadyumun ismi; “TAYFUR ÇİÇEK” oldu. Büyük Tire. Retrieved 20 November, 2019, from http://www.buyuktire.com/haber-yeni-stadyumun- ismi-tayfur-cicek-oldu-9862.html

Milliyet. (2014, April 7). ADANA DEMİRSPOR'UN ACI GÜNÜ-SELAMİ TEKKAZANCI KİMDİR? Milliyet. Retrieved 15 June, 2020, from https://www.milliyet.com.tr/yerel- haberler/adana/adana-demirsporun-aci-gunu-selami-tekkazanci-kimdir-10133355

324

Mitchell, A. (2020, January 1). The morality of football and the philosophy of Albert Camus. Scottish Sport History: devoted to our sporting heritage [Blog]. Retrieved 1 June, 2020, from http://www.scottishsporthistory.com/sports-history-news-and-blog/archives/01- 2020

Oğhan, Ş. (2012, November 3). Adım Hanri işte o gün Türk oldum. Hurriyet. Retrieved September 3, 2020, from https://www.hurriyet.com.tr/gundem/adim-hanri-iste-o-gun- turk-oldum-21841199

Ozkan, A. (2013, July 11). 'Kapalı' bir kültürdü. Radikal. Retrieved November 5, 2020, from http://www.radikal.com.tr/yazarlar/asena-ozkan/kapali-bir-kulturdu-675707/

Özer, N. (2012, May 5). Kadınlar da bunu yaparsa. Hurriyet. Retrieved July 9, 2020, from https://www.hurriyet.com.tr/kadinlar-da-bunu-yaparsa-20486064

Rich, T. (2012, November 20). Galatasaray, 1993: The night when all hell broke loose on Manchester United. The Independent. Retrieved 9 July, 2020, from https://www.independent.co.uk/sport/football/news-and-comment/galatasaray-1993-the- night-when-all-hell-broke-loose-on-manchester-united-8329630.html

Sabah. (2019, January 27). Sarıyer'e yeni stadyum müjdesi. Sabah. Retrieved 20 November, 2019, from https://www.sabah.com.tr/spor/futbol/2019/01/27/sariyere-yeni-stadyum- mujdesi

Smith, R. (2020, August 18). RB Leipzig Ultras: German Soccer’s Great Contradiction. New York Times. Retrieved 18 August, 2020, from https://www.nytimes.com/2020/08/18/sports/soccer/champions-league-leipzig-psg.html

Soylu, Y. (2019, April 11). Tire'deki stadın adı 'Gazi Mustafa Kemal Atatürk' olarak değiştirildi. CNNTurk.com. Retrieved 20 November, 2019, from https://www.cnnturk.com/yerel- haberler/izmir/tire/tiredeki-stadin-adi-gazi-mustafa-kemal-ataturk-olarak-degistirildi- 975125

Szucs, A. (2020, January 30). Greek lawmaker rips apart Turkish flag in EU Parliament. Anadolu Ajans. Retrieved 9 July, 2020, from https://www.aa.com.tr/en/europe/greek- lawmaker-rips-apart-turkish-flag-in-eu-parliament/1719184

Thomson, S. (2016, July 11). People are angry about globalization. This chart explains why. Retrieved January 30, 2018, from https://www.weforum.org/agenda/2016/07/people-are- angry-about-globalization-this-chart-explains-why/

Thompson, D. (2014, January 24). The Story of Globalization in 1 Graph. The Atlantic. Retrieved January 30, 2018, from https://www.theatlantic.com/business/archive/2014/01/the-story-of-globalization-in-1- graph/283342/

325

Twenge, J. M. (2017, September). Have Smartphones Destroyed a Generation? The Atlantic. Retrieved December 17, 2017, from https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2017/09/has-the-smartphone-destroyed-a- generation/534198/

Ulagay, A. (2015, August 23). Artık resmen Amedspor. Cumhuriyet. Retrieved 1 December, 2019, from https://www.cumhuriyet.com.tr/haber/artik-resmen-amedspor-350835

Yalçın, S. (2017a, February 7). Damat-kayınço takımı. Sözcü. Retrieved March 26, 2017, from http://www.sozcu.com.tr/2017/yazarlar/soner-yalcin/damat-kayinco-takimi-1663980/

Yalçın, S. (2017b, February 8). AKP’nin futbol düzeni. Sözcü. Retrieved March 26, 2017, from http://www.sozcu.com.tr/2017/yazarlar/soner-yalcin/akpnin-futbol-duzeni-1666125/

Yener, C. (2016, February 14). Adı neden Amedspor? Aydinlik. Retrieved December 1, 2019, from https://www.aydinlik.com.tr/adi-neden-amedspor

Government Sources:

Başakşehir Belediyesi Tarihçesi. (2017). Retrieved March 25, 2017, from http://www.basaksehir.bel.tr/icerik/177/basaksehir-belediyesi-tarihcesi?open=6

Coğrafi Konum. (2017). Retrieved March 25, 2017, from http://www.basaksehir.bel.tr/icerik/112/cografi-konum?open=6

İBB Spor, İstanbul Başakşehir Futbol Kulübü oldu. (2017). Retrieved March 25, 2017, from http://www.basaksehir.bel.tr/manset/1844/ibb-spor-istanbul-basaksehir-futbol-kulubu- oldu?open=0

Turkiye Buyuk Millet Meclisi (2019). Law 6222 Changes. Retrieved July 9, 2020, from https://www2.tbmm.gov.tr/d27/2/2-1974.pdf

Blogs and Other Online Material:

Aydinlik (2013, December 12). Tribün çetesi AKP'yle kol kola. Ulusalkanal.com.tr. Retrieved 9 July, 2020, from https://www.ulusal.com.tr/gundem/tribun-cetesi-akpyle-kol-kola- h19247.html

Blasing, J. K. (2011). The games behind the game: the process of democratic deepening and identity formation in Turkey as seen through football clubs, M.A. Thesis University of Texas at Austin. Retrieved from https://repositories.lib.utexas.edu/handle/2152/ETD-UT- 2011-05-3490

326

Blasing, J. K. (2015a, July 14). From Industrial Football to Political Football: The Slow Death of Ankara’s Sekerspor [Web log post]. Retrieved November 20, 2019, from https://thisisfootballislife.com/2015/07/14/from-football-to-industrial-football-to- political-football-the-slow-death-of-ankaras-sekerspor/

Blasing, J. K. (2015b, August 9). Goodbye Izmir Alsancak Stadium: The Past and Present of a Country s seen Through the Eyes of a Football Stadium [Web log post]. Retrieved November, 20, 2019, from https://thisisfootballislife.com/2015/08/09/goodbye-izmir- alsancak-stadium-the-past-and-present-of-a-country-as-seen-through-the-eyes-of-a- football-stadium/

Blasing, J. K. (2017, August 12). The Turkish Football League Welcomes Yet Another Invented Team for the 2017-2018 Season Gazisehir Gaziantep Futbol Kulubu [Web log post]. Retrieved November 20, 2019, https://thisisfootballislife.com/2017/08/12/the-turkish- football-league-welcomes-yet-another-invented-team-for-the-2017-2018-season- gazisehir-gaziantep-futbol-kulubu/

Demir, A.K. (2017, June 2). Bağcılarspor’un hayali gerçekleşti. Amatorlig.net. Retrieved 9 July, 2020, from http://www.amatorlig.net/bagcilarsporun-hayali-gerceklesti.html

Evrensel.net. (2020, January 15). Temsa işçileri eylem yaptı: Sorumlular sorunu bir an önce çözmeli. Retrieved 9 July, 2020, from https://www.evrensel.net/haber/395407/temsa- iscileri-eylem-yapti-sorumlular-sorunu-bir-an-once-cozmeli

IHA. (2018, September 17). Kadın amigo Hatayspor için eşinden boşandı. Retrieved 31 July, 2020, from https://www.cnnturk.com/yasam/kadin-amigo-hatayspor-icin-esinden-bosandi

Istanbulspor Taraftarlar Dernegi (n.d.). “Tarihçe”. Retrieved 9 July, 2020, from http://www.istanbulsportd.org/istanbulspor/tarihce/

MET Staff. (2019, June 5). Temsa sold by Turkish-based parent company. Metro-Magazine.com. Retrieved 9 July, 2020, from https://www.metro-magazine.com/10031355/temsa-sold-by- turkish-based-parent-company

Mitchell, A. (2020, January 4). The morality of football and the philosophy of Albert Camus [Web log post]. Retrieved June 1, 2020, from http://www.scottishsporthistory.com/sports-history-news-and-blog/archives/01-2020

OdaTV.com. (2011, November 3). BEŞİKTAŞ TRİBÜNLERİNDEN VAN İÇİN GÖNDERİLEN ATKILARA CEZA. Retrieved July 9, 2020, from https://odatv4.com/saka-degil-gercek-0311111200.html

Öğünç, M.Ş. (2017, December 4). Unutmayacağız!. Istanbulspor Taraftarlar Dernegi. Retrieved 9 July, 2020, from http://www.istanbulsportd.org/unutmayacagiz/

Passolig. (2019a). Sıkça Sorulan Sorular [Frequently Asked Questions]. Retrieved 5 November, 2019, from https://www.passolig.com.tr/sikca-sorulan-sorular

327

Passolig. (2019b). İlk kartım Passolig... [My First Card Passolig…]. Retrieved 5 November, 2019, from https://www.passolig.com.tr/ilk-kartim-passolig

Sancaktepe Haber Ajansi (2014, April 18). Hakan Şükür Stadyumu Sancaktepe Şehir Stadyumu. Sancaktepehaber.pro. Retrieved 20 November, 2019, from https://www.sancaktepehaber.pro/2014/04/hakan-sukur-stadyumunun-yeni-ismi- sancaktepe-sehir-stadyumu-oldu.sancaktepe.html

Sputniknews.com.tr (2019, March 2). Amedspor-Sakaryaspor maçında gerginlik: TOMA ile müdahale edildi. Sputniknews.com.tr. Retrieved 1 December, 2019, from https://tr.sputniknews.com/spor/201903021037967384-amedspor-sakaryaspor-gerginlik- toma-mudahale-edildi/

Tetik, S. (n.d.). Passolig'in deplasman uygulaması nasıl? Goal.com. Retrieved 5 November, 2019, from https://www.goal.com/tr/news/232/süper- lig/2016/08/11/26411692/passoligin-deplasman-uygulaması-nasıl

T24. (2012, February 5). Kadınlar statlarda küfür edemez mi? T24.com. Retrieved 9 July, 2020, from https://t24.com.tr/haber/kadinlar-statlarda-kufur-edemez-mi,195917

Ultras-Tifo.com. (2014, December 15). TURKISH FANS BOYCOTT MATCHES DUE TO NEW TICKET SYSTEM. Retrieved 20 November, 2019, from https://www.ultras- tifo.net/news/3073-turkish-fans-boycott-matches-due-to-new-ticket-system.html Yavuz, T. (2020, January 4). YORUM: Peri masallarından bozuk asansörlere Türk futbolu. Mackolik.com. Retrieved 9 July, 2020, from https://www.mackolik.com/futbol/haber/yorum--peri-masallarindan-bozuk-asansoerlere- tuerk-futbolu/9rq4lz5hu07313y1fk96y5mh1

Films:

Alexander, L. (Director). (2005). Green Street Hooligans [Motion Picture]. United Kingdom: Baker Street, MWM Studios, & Yank Film Finance.

Fincher, D. (Director). (1999). Fight Club [Motion Picture]. United States: Fox 2000 Pictures & Regency Enterprises.

Schöpkewitz, T. & Waldhauer, O. (Producers) & Eslam, F., & Waldhauer, O. (Directors). (2014). Istanbul United [Motion Picture]. Turkey: Nippes Yard Productions & Mind Riot Media.

328

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH

John Konuk Blasing was born in Providence, Rhode Island, to a Turkish mother and an

American father. John grew up bi-culturally, splitting time between the United States and Izmir,

Turkey, where he became bilingual in both English and Turkish. John received his B.A. in

International Affairs in 2008 from the University of Colorado at Boulder, and received his M.A. in Middle Eastern Studies from the University of Texas at Austin in 2011, before coming to

Gainesville where he received his PhD in Sociology from the University of Florida. In addition to English and Turkish, John speaks Persian (Farsi), Tajik, and French.

329