Boycott stays silent, civil disobedience speaks up. One retreats, the other resists. Examples of civil disobedience engraved in Turkey’s history show how individual courage can lead to collective transformation.
The wide corridors of the Justice Palace… A crowd waiting in front of courtroom 301. Inside, a lawyer who joined a press statement shouting “Enough is enough!” is on trial. They carried no bomb, bore no weapon. All they did was voice their conscience. That, it seems, is their real crime.
Nearly two centuries have passed since Henry David Thoreau penned his 1849 essay Civil Disobedience: “We must be men first, and subjects afterward. It is not as important to respect the law as it is to respect what is right.”
These words still echo through Turkey’s court corridors, university campuses, and city squares. Because civil disobedience is nothing more than conscience speaking out when the law diverges from justice.
In our previous article, we discussed the concept of “boycott” (you can read it here), emphasizing the power of refusal, non-participation, and disengagement. Originating from the story of Charles Boycott, a land agent in Ireland, this concept represents a passive form of resistance.
Civil disobedience, however, goes a step further. It does not merely refuse—it actively resists.
Like Gandhi’s Salt March, it’s not just about boycotting the salt monopoly but defying the law by producing salt yourself. Like Rosa Parks’ action on a Montgomery bus, it’s not just about avoiding the bus—it’s about sitting in the front seat despite the law.
In Turkey, these two concepts have often intertwined.
In the 1960s, land occupations by villagers under the slogan “The land belongs to those who cultivate it, the water to those who use it”; university boycotts and occupations in the 1970s; mass resignations by public servants after the 1980 military coup… all were examples of civil disobedience.
One of the most striking civil disobedience discussions in Turkey revolves around conscientious objection. Beginning in the 1990s when Tayfun Gönül and Vedat Zencir publicly declared themselves as Turkey’s first conscientious objectors, the movement challenged the mandatory military service by asserting a moral stance.
This aligns perfectly with Thoreau’s declaration: “If an army should forcibly draft me, I would resist!” Conscientious objection was a refusal to bear arms based on the sanctity of life—a choice to side with conscience in the ancient clash between state authority and personal morality.
Objectors risked prison sentences for refusing military service, moving from passive boycott to active disobedience—just like Thoreau refusing to pay taxes and accepting imprisonment.
Gezi: A Collective Moral Stand
The 2013 protests that began against the cutting of a few trees in Gezi Park quickly evolved into a nationwide civil disobedience movement in Turkey. It embodied Thoreau’s belief that “One honest man is stronger than a thousand men in power.”
The Gezi resistance was, on one hand, a classical boycott—avoiding certain brands, TV channels, and products. But it was also active civil disobedience—gathering in squares despite bans, protecting the park, and staging passive protests like the “Standing Man.”
The adoption of the word Chapulling, originally used as an insult (“looter”), mirrored Thoreau’s defiant attitude: “If I must be called a rebel, so be it.”
A core principle of civil disobedience is nonviolence. Perhaps the purest example of this in Turkey is the silent vigil of the Saturday Mothers, who have gathered every week since 1995 in Galatasaray Square, seeking justice for their missing loved ones.
Despite bans and obstacles, the Saturday Mothers have staged a form of both boycott (withdrawal from everyday participation) and civil disobedience (defying bans on assembly) for 27 years. They embody Gandhi’s principle of Ahimsa (nonviolence) on Anatolian soil.
Their protest is the living embodiment of Thoreau’s belief: “The minority is powerless while it conforms to the majority; it is irresistible when it clogs by its whole weight.”
Yet civil disobedience gains historical importance not only through mass actions but also through personal stances.
In 2008, a group of high school students refused to take national exams administered by ÖSYM to protest educational inequalities. By declaring, “We won’t join this race,” they drew public attention to structural flaws in the system. Their stance was not simply an illegal act, but a moral “no” to an unjust system.
Environmental movements have also seen varied forms of civil disobedience.
In 2005, villagers in Bergama resisted a gold mine project, continuing their protest even after court rulings were ignored and mining operations resumed. They physically blocked access to the site and defended their environment and living spaces, demonstrating a fight for both ecological and democratic rights.
Another notable example is the “We will not be a party to this crime!” petition signed by hundreds of academics in the mid-2010s. Criticizing the state’s security policies, many signatories were dismissed from their jobs, prosecuted, and silenced. Yet this highlighted another aspect of civil disobedience: intellectual resistance. These voices from universities—centers of thought—showed that social justice is defended not just in the streets but also in minds.
In today’s Turkey, civil disobedience spans from social media to the streets, from digital spaces to real life. The protests following Ekrem İmamoğlu’s sentencing, the solidarity networks born in times of crisis, resistance against environmentally harmful mining projects…
All these are examples of boycotts and civil disobedience, proving that citizenship means more than just voting in elections. From the “Water Watch” in the Kaz Mountains to the “Conscience Watch” in İkizdere, they are manifestations of the collective conscience in rebellion.
Of course, civil disobedience comes at a cost.
Thoreau spent a night in jail. Gandhi was imprisoned many times. Martin Luther King was assassinated. In Turkey too, many have paid—and continue to pay—the price for their moral stance.
But as Thoreau said: “The blood that flows when conscience is wounded is the flow of man’s true humanity and immortality—an endless death.”
That blood still flows through the veins of our political history.
Civil disobedience refuses to postpone justice. It doesn’t say “tomorrow,” it says “today.” It doesn’t say “maybe,” it says “definitely.” It doesn’t say “others,” it says “me.”
The journey from boycott to civil disobedience is essentially the story of humanity returning to its essence when conscience clashes with law. Turkey’s brief and patchy democratic history is woven with stories of this clash and transformation.
Thoreau asks: “If every person has a conscience, why should they submit to laws?”
That question is just as relevant today as it was 175 years ago.
What began with the name of an Irish land agent continues today across the world and in every corner of Turkey, through the steps of those who hear the call of conscience. Perhaps true citizenship is listening to that call.
