Being a pedestrian in the capital...

I am a native of Ankara; I have spent only 6 years of my 43-year life away from Ankara. I attended an elementary school right next to Anıtkabir, which stands before us with its simple and dignified structure, reciting our oath every morning...

It was the decision of our Great Leader, who brought Ankara back to history, that made Ankara—which has been on the stage throughout history from the Hittites to the Eastern Roman Empire, from the Seljuks to the Ahi brotherhood—into "our Ankara," and Ankara breathed and gave life as the symbol of the Republic. Living in Ankara meant carrying this honor as well.

Today, I am moving from the light that Ankara spreads across the country toward traffic lights. Those who encounter a red light around Anıtkabir know the crescent and star that appears on the traffic light...

Waiting at a red light at those intersections turns into a sign of respect for the flag and the Great Leader; I wish it wouldn't turn green, that the red would last.

Without taking my eyes off it, I salute both the flag and the intellect that allows for saluting the Republic at a red light.

I feel the city breathing every time; on the same road, with the same light, with the same pride...

While applauding this intellect and those who implemented it, which turns the red light in the Anıtkabir area into a moment of silence, I sometimes do more than just grumble when faced with any situation in the same Ankara that does not befit the capital of the Republic, and sometimes, like today, I write about it...

One November evening, in the center of Ankara, in Kızılay, I felt the city gasping for air, and I was filled with resentment and began to ask questions.

To all the residents of the city—including myself—who have not walked those sidewalks we paced during our university years for a long time and have remained quite distant from the city center and pedestrian routes...

To the tradespeople, florists, and business people located on Atatürk Boulevard, and to those who pass by there and do not ask the question I am asking...

Looking through the eyes of a visitor, as an Ankaralı, I felt ashamed on behalf of the city's residents for any foreigner coming to the city from the outside who might see an overpass in Kızılay...

The center of the capital was the place where the city's heart beat, even if I had been away from it as a pedestrian for many years. Was the picture clearer when viewed from so far away?

The underpass stretching from above Atatürk Boulevard to Güvenpark was as far from aesthetics as it was on the date it was built...

It was as neglected as any underpass, perhaps even colder than one. No nostalgia, no warmth, no sign of an identity related to the city...

While art galleries that nourished the city's soul from Karanfil to Konur were closing and Kızılay's busy streets were filling up with new-generation cafes, it seemed as if no eyes had ever looked at this passage through which the entire city passes.

While expecting to see a new sculpture on the streets of Kızılay, I felt an approach that consisted only of function and disregarded human visual memory with every step I took.

What had the years taken from Kızılay, and what had they left in its place...

While mirrored, glass-covered skyscrapers were lined up in Ankara and even in the middle of Kızılay, Kızılay seemed abandoned to a dilapidated fate with its crowds that prevented bus doors from closing.

Yet, it was a symbol of a value just like Ankara. The word "KIZILAY" brought social solidarity to mind.

Even if it is no longer written on the buses, it is still the center of the stops that connect the whole city: Kızılay.

I wonder if those who pass through that underpass every day thought the same; did they question the name, the soul, and the aesthetics of the path they walked? Or was it easier to take a mental journey to Europe, Asia, or another geography for this?

I wonder, why hasn't the underpass been able to take on a state worthy of the Republic's Ankara, Ankara's Kızılay, and the top of Atatürk Boulevard in 20 years? Who blocked it, who postponed it, who forgot it...

I don't know when I will pass through the same place as a pedestrian again, but I cannot help but ask who forgot the honor of Kızılay and those who live in Ankara.

So I ask:

Who pays the tax for being a pedestrian in Ankara, for walking in Ankara, in an economy that reaches the skies with glass plazas?

How does one cross the street on Cinnah Street, where a pedestrian crossing has been painted but no traffic light could be placed next to it?

How does a pedestrian's right get left to the speed and mercy of drivers?

If there is no room on two consecutive buses after waiting for long periods, and if you cannot breathe when you get on the third, who is traveling in this city? Who remains a pedestrian?

What does this situation, which I experienced on an evening on November 7th in Kızılay, the heart of the capital, in Turkey's capital, and could not stop myself from writing about, depict? What does it say about respect for people and respect for the city?

Excuse me, I got off at the wrong stop!

Who is in charge of the "Department of Being a Pedestrian in Ankara and Breathing in Public Transport"?

And who is looking after the aesthetics of the city...