The Political Origins of the Mega-Metropolis: An Analysis of the Unique Urban Design of Istanbul
Istanbul’s Bosphorus Bridge, now renamed, “15th July Martyrs' Bridge'' linking the two continents. Photo courtesy of Alexxx Malev.
At the heart of Francis Ford Coppola’s newest, audience-dividing masterpiece Megalopolis is the question of what an ideal city looks like. For philosophers, urban planners, politicians, and citizens alike, the vision of the utopian “polis”—the city-state—has long been a topic of contemplation, confusion, and contention. At a time when more than half of the population lives in urban areas and faces various challenges in these environments, responding to the question of “good” city life has taken a more urgent turn. Yet, when casting their votes at local and municipal elections, most citizens bear little attention to the fact that matters such as the construction-work taking place on their street are, in fact, deeply entrenched in politics. Every urban policy choice, from the painting of a bench to the erection of a new bridge, is mired in ideology and power considerations. The problem, however, is that most citizens, by failing to recognize the political nature of urban development, do not realize their own power to influence policy decisions and design the public space in which they live. What this calls for is a reconceptualization of urban space and the participatory role of the citizen within it.
Analyzing Istanbul—oft-called the “City of a Hundred Names” in homage to its rich history— reveals that urban development cannot exist outside of the historical forces that have molded it. It is a battleground for politics, with its landmarks carrying traces of culture, collective memories, and aspirations for the future. As a city that has outlived various civilizations, it evades binary labels. Most famously known for connecting two continents and witnessing the trajectory of both the Byzantine and the Ottoman Empires, Istanbul has always been characterized by a certain sense of duality, especially one between the past and the future; of tradition and modernity. It has thus embraced the role of a “bridge” between the East and West. However, despite its attempts to reunite the many dichotomies that define it, Istanbul is a city of chaos. The Economist’s annual report on “The world’s most liveable cities” ranks Istanbul among the least. Its notorious overpopulation generates disruptions in the flow of life and magnifies the hustle and bustle of the megacity to an unparalleled level. Construction projects that cloud Istanbul’s horizon seem to never end, especially concerning now with the threat of a catastrophic earthquake looming on the horizon. Unlike Paris’s snail-shaped urban map with a discernible city center at its core, the map of Istanbul is a labyrinthine web of roads and allies that spread sporadically. After a year in Europe following my childhood in Istanbul, I therefore wondered: why does the urban architecture of other megacities in Europe appear so much more structured than that of Istanbul? Why does the constant evolution of my hometown never bring it order?
The urban challenges faced by the 16 million inhabitants of Istanbul range from ever-expanding urban sprawl, “gecekondu” squatter settlements, non-uniform building styles, overpopulation, congestion, spatial segregation, gentrification and profit-driven management. Moreover, when urban planners devise solutions to these, they frequently fail to acknowledge that the urban landscape, which cyclically exacerbates inequalities, was produced by a history of differing interests and power-seeking. In this epoch of multilayered urban problems, the way cities look, feel, and function should be comprehended as part of a long chain of cause and consequence. For Istanbul to become a place where its residents do not have to worry about taking public transport over the weekend, its urban policies must be made in concert with an appreciation of its history. For that, we must go back in time.
As visually represented in the digitized maps of the Istanbul Urban Database, the many identities of Istanbul reflect the many eras in Turkish history. From its time as the capital of the Roman Christian Empire under Emperor Constantine to its conquest by Sultan Mehmed II in 1453, its physical structures have morphed tremendously. Mimar Sinan, the great Turkish state architect, could be credited as the man who remodeled Constantinople into Istanbul, while simultaneously serving a symbolic task. Built during the golden age of the Ottoman Empire, his 370 architectural structures ostentatiously oozed the confidence of being the glorious centerpieces of the powerful Ottoman Empire. Inversely, the 1937 Prost Masterplan, named after French architect Henri Prost, had a different purpose. In the age of the new Turkish republic, Mustafa Kemal Atatürk—the creator of modern Turkey—set on a quest to replace Istanbul’s traces of Ottoman imperialism with those of secular modernity. Quite like the work of Georges-Eugène Haussmann in Paris, Atatürk aspired to restructure the city with squares and parks such as Gezi Parkı. He removed conservative remnants of the past, such as Ottoman military barracks in the process of reforming public space. Political motivations, power plays, and competing ideologies were thus pivotal in molding Istanbul’s urban landscape.
Decades later, during the post-WWII era industrialization of Istanbul, urban design took an economic turn. Istanbul became the nation’s financial powerhouse, attracting rapid migration from rural areas. The population of Istanbul rose by 47% during this period of unprecedented urbanization. Along with this came the rise in “gecekondus”––shanty towns—in areas such as Zeytinburnu. From the 1950s onwards, Istanbul became the megacity it is today, investing in infrastructure projects such as the Bosphorus and Fatih Sultan Mehmet bridges. It was around then that a centrally-imposed urban planning program was executed; under Prime Minister Adnan Menderes, buildings were demolished, coastal roads were built and the Historical Peninsula was redrawn.
In an era particularly hostile to the forces of communism, Turkey was caught up in an endeavor to modernize its agricultural production, which necessitated a modernized transportation system within the country. The frenzy to build better roads and highways in Istanbul, financed partially by aid from a virulently anti-communist United States, can be explained by this capitalist partnership. Menderes’s project turned the city from one built for pedestrians to one built for vehicles, forever making it impossible to walk from one end of the city to the other. Menderes’s urban reforms are regarded in hindsight as a “tool of political propaganda,” diverting attention away from the stagnating economy of the 1950s and keeping the masses in check, all the while reaffirming the undeniable importance of controlling urban spaces for political gain. Against the backdrop of the Cold War, diplomatic alignments and the ambitions of Turkey’s leaders were not confined solely to written documents—they left visible marks on the city’s horizon.
The strive to expand and develop continued at full speed into the 1980s and later the 2000s under Erdoğan’s Justice and Development Party (AKP). Compounded by its desire to stay in power, it took on the aim of restoring Istanbul’s status as a globally renowned city. The AKP, to fulfill its promise of acceding to the EU, funneled investment to the construction industry, deregulated markets, and attracted capital flows during the transition to neoliberalism. Even urban planning, which had for decades been primarily concentrated in the Public Housing Administration (TOKI), was privatized in 2002. Social polarization was a byproduct of this new era of gated communities, heightened urban rent, marginalized minorities, and suburban sprawl. Reflecting on the many architectural chapters of Istanbul, it can thereby be seen that its metamorphosis was almost always an amplification of the cultural, social, and political developments taking place simultaneously.
The 2013 Gezi protests offer an interesting example of just how passionately Istanbul’s urban history can manifest on its streets. Spurred by the AKP’s attempted plan to unilaterally reconstruct Ottoman military barracks in the place of the centrally-located Gezi Parkı, they were the culmination of the frustrations of a population that wished to retrieve control over public space. Erdoğan has frequently used populist rhetoric and public gestures toward Turkey’s history of imperial greatness—like the restoration of Ottoman barracks––to rally conservative voters. Converting the Hagia Sophia to a mosque from a museum in 2020, reversing Ataturk’s 1934 decree, is only one other example of many. By changing the status of public monuments that hold a vital place in the country’s collective consciousness, Erdoğan has hoped to assert his power and advance the ideological transformation he envisions for the country. More than just a protest to protect the trees near Taksim Square, the country-wide Gezi movement was thus a symbol of resistance against the repressive AKP regime and a reminder that urban public space is a synecdoche of the politics of the nation at large.
Erdoğan’s obsession with megaprojects is also worth investigating. Most notably, there is the Canal Project, which is entangled in controversy for its disastrous implications for the environment; the humongous airport in the north of the city; and the third bridge crossing the Bosphorus. These projects have signified the absence of the people’s voice in urban governance, costing billions of dollars and financed by taxpayers’ money. This means that urban policies can be sculpted for populist and authoritarian ambitions. The very fact that Erdoğan’s ascent into Turkish politics began with his time as the mayor of Istanbul, combined with the political turbulence that followed the opposition’s victory in this year’s mayoral elections, evince the salience of controlling the city for national political agendas. Istanbul is indisputably at the heart of Turkish politics, just as politics is at the heart of cities. Without an interdisciplinary understanding of such conflicting motivations, urban development can never ascertain order. Jane Jacobs, author of The Death and Life of Great American Cities, has made a similar point; she argued that cities are “laboratories” where experimentation sometimes succeeds and where the interactions of ordinary people establish a self-regulating order. They are dynamic ecosystems, and within this dynamism lies political motives as well. Recognizing this is the first step towards urban development that does not exclude popular participation.
As Megalopolis’s time-stopping Cesar Catilina shows, to look to the future, we must first reconcile with the past. Top-down urban development projects that attempt to build over history with little regard for what is underneath—overlapping layers of incongruous interests—are bound to crumble in the long term. For order and efficiency, there must be compatibility between the urban landscape previously in place and the new projects implemented. In addition, there must also be an endeavor to identify the root problem of challenges such as traffic congestion to devise policies that are best suited to address them. History’s capacity to expose the real motivations behind urban development, which tend to be driven by ideology and the pursuit of political gain, is what makes it the true Megalon in city-building.
In a polarized political scene that resembles the conflict of a gladiator match, we, as both spectators and participants, must expand the scope of our scrutiny to the policies of megacities. They are where inequalities reproduce, where crime permeates, where innovation blossoms, where philosophers ponder, and where politicians quarrel. This should be sufficient reason alone to demand better governance in our very own neighborhoods, streets, and districts. To achieve that, we have to be more cognizant of who historically had, and continues to have, stakes there. This ascertains accountability and entails active citizen involvement—two indispensable ingredients for sustainable development. Returning to the words of Aristotle, the character of the polis is decided by the character of its people. Concretely, this can take the shape of vocalizing the needs of urban communities in town hall meetings, coffee shop gatherings with neighbors or interviews with administrators from municipalities. Residents should realize their capacity to leverage social ties to convert discourse into public action. Thus, whether it be demanding more parks, more biking lanes, or more decision-making authority, we must remember that it is our responsibility to reclaim public space. To build cities that are sustainable, harmonious, and egalitarian, we must reconnect with their political past.
Lara Harmankaya (GS ’27) is a staff writer at CPR from Istanbul, Turkey in the Dual Degree with Sciences Po Paris’s Menton campus. She looks forward to a future of research, especially relating to foreign policy, climate justice, and the political economy. You can reach her at clh2212@columbia.edu.