I Slept Through a Military Coup

Coffee, Cigarettes, and Turkish Tanks on the Bridge

I moved to Turkey in October of 2013, shortly after the Gezi Park protest. I knew little of the land when I arrived, and if I’m being honest, I was only there because I missed my flight to China.

A week earlier, I had been in Dublin getting my visa for Beijing. I was excited yet a little apprehensive. I had no interest in China, and the money was terrible. I spent the day at the Chinese Consulate answering their questions, and soon my visa was approved. I celebrated by going out with my friends in Dublin. That was the type of person I was. ‘Hey, I got a visa. I should celebrate with a drink!’

It was a wild night, and I drank half of my travel budget.

That night in Dublin still lives long in my memory, but not for reasons I am proud of. I met a lady about my age, maybe 22 or 23, in Temple Bar and even though my flight to Beijing was in 7 hours, I went home with her.

We had a good time, and after we said our goodbyes, I walked towards the taxi rank. As I strolled through the crisp Irish air, I began to realize that I had no idea where I was. Sure, I had been to the university in Dublin, but I only knew the city center, and I was lost somewhere in suburbia. I tried calling a taxi, but as usual, on busy Saturday nights, no one picked up. Still drunk and most definitely helpless, I wandered the streets of Dublin suburbia for hours until I found a taxi. But by that time it was too late. I had missed my flight. I returned to my friend's house where I was staying and told them what had happened.

“Well, at least you got the shift.”

I had to laugh.

I was like that back in those days. I didn’t believe in consequences, but I did believe in my father's disappointment. Times were tough in the Murphy household due to our business closing in 2011 after the 2008 crash. I couldn’t roll up home a day later, telling him that I had gotten drunk and missed my flight.

I was in a predicament.

I had spent most of my money on the ticket to China and only had 400 euros to my name. I decided to think. I remembered that I had a second offer from a school in some random town in Turkey. It wasn’t my first choice for obvious reasons, and the money was worse than in China, but it was better than returning home and going on social welfare. I emailed the school back and spent the next 48 hours in my friend's apartment doing the interviews and eventually booking a flight to Turkey. It was a trip traveling to Turkey with only a backpack and 50 euros, but that’s a story for another day.

In Turkey, I took to teaching like a moth to a flame.

I grew up, got a job at a private school, and fell in love with a Turkish woman named Elif. We soon moved in together. Elif was lovely and our early days together were filled with adventure, but there was a catch. Her parents hated the fact that she was dating a foreigner.

Her parents lived in a Turkish backwater called Alesehir. It was a very conservative and nationalistic town. There are not many foreigners. Whenever I visited with Elif, her father got frustrated because I stood out so much. I can’t blame him. I was kind of handsome; my hair was long and golden; I wore a green Irish rugby jersey; and I sported a Christian cross. Every time we left the house together, he made me cover it up. I obliged every time.

I wear a small Christian cross not because I’m overtly religious but because it was a gift from my little brother and it has always grounded me on my travels.

In the summer of 2016, Elif and I visited her parents in that small Turkish backwater. They had a roofed terrace on the top floor, which overlooked the Anatolian hills. Every night we would sit under the stars and talk football while Elif and her mother fed us cakes and tea. It was ideal.

On the night of July 15th, 2016, we went to bed under the stars as the call to prayer rang out around us. The sound reverberated off the towering apartment blocks and grassy hills. Although I never really took to her parents, I always slept well on that roof during those hot summer nights.

Little did we know what was happening in Istanbul as we slept.

I awoke on the morning of July 16th, 2016 to nearly 100 WhatsApp messages and about as many missed calls. My first thought was that someone had died and I immediately rang my mother but there was no response. It was 7 am in Turkey which meant it was about 4 am in Ireland. I checked my friend group on WhatsApp and it all became clear.

“Murph! Are you OK?”

“Murphy! I hope you’re not in Istanbul!”

“Peter, there’s trouble over there. The military are staging a coup.”

“Murph, they are trying to kill Erdogan. Are you Ok?”

I immediately woke Elif and the rest of the family up. We turned on the TV and there it was.

Tanks on the Bosphorus!

We had slept through the scariest parts it seemed. On the news, we saw fighter jets firing on government buildings in Ankara, tanks attacking civilians, News anchors being taken hostage, and finally the President willing the people to fight.

And by god did the Turks fight!

We saw average Joes on the streets standing up to tanks, men and women alike braving the machinery and fighting for democracy.

Sure, Turkish democracy isn’t everyone's cup of tea, and most Europeans and North Americans turn their nose up at it, but it’s theirs! And boy, did they protect it!

The President, Mr Erdogan, would not be my first choice if I could vote but he was the man Turkey had elected.

As we gasped at the images that had unfolded in our slumber, I told Elif that I needed a coffee and a cigarette so I dawned my green Ireland jersey and made my way to the market for a pack of smokes and a Nescafe. She rolled her eyes but knew what I was like in the morning. Plus, she was too busy wasting her country burn to care about my habits.

Nothing ever got in the way of my morning coffee and smoke.

As I walked down the street in the sweltering Turkish summer, I instantly regretted my decision. Alesehir, the tiny Turkish backwater, was a buzz with police, soldiers, and townspeople. It was a 300-meter walk to the shop and my need for a cigarette overwhelmed my common sense. I took a deep breath and began my short journey.

As I walked down the street, I witnessed lines of buses parked in a perfect row with Government soldiers, local officials, and police rounding people up and putting them in the buses. I stopped dead in my tracks when I saw this. The worst scenario came to mind.

‘Are they rounding up traitors?’

A local man must’ve seen my worry. I had seen him around before and he knew I was Elif's boyfriend. “They are sending Erdogan supporters to Izmir or Istanbul for a rally, don’t worry.” My Turkish wasn’t great back then but given the context and the fact that the people were enthused to be getting on the buses, I believed him. “Is the market open?” I asked. “Yes, it’s open. Why wouldn’t it be?” He said with a smirk.

As I descended the street toward my goal, the atmosphere grew more hostile. I saw a few soldiers standing on my side of the street. They looked mean and ready for action. It was at that moment I became hyper-aware of how out of place I looked. People on the news and social media in Turkey had been blaming some FETO guy in America. Others just blamed the CIA. I feared that they would think I was American and wouldn’t care that I was Irish. — Westerners are all the same in times like these. I contemplated crossing the road to avoid them but figured that would look suspicious. I thought about turning back but what innocent man turns around when he sees the law?

I decided to keep walking

The soldier was bloody tall. I’m 6 foot and this man made me look like a child. His skin was bronze, his eyes as brown as oak, and his jet-black hair framed his chiseled face into a perfect widow's peak. Oberyn Martel in the flesh. He must have been my age, yet he looked younger and older somehow.

He had just lit a cigarette as I began to walk by him. He took a sly look at me from his lighter, looked back down, and turned around to talk to an elderly man who was drinking tea next to him. I quickened my pace and walked by him with my head down.

‘Why did I feel guilty?’

I passed him. I was free. I had made it. I was foaming at the mouth now for a smoke and my hungry Irish eyes set their sights on the little Turkish market as sirens and horns sounded. The Call to Prayer began to ring only this time it wasn’t a prayer. It was a call to arms. The Iman cried out over the rooftops imploring the people to fight for their country. It had been doing this all night. As the call ended, I heard a voice that sent a shiver down my spine.

“Salam aleykum.”

The tall, gracefully imposing soldier’s voice pierced my ears. The jig was up. I was done for. I stood for a moment wondering what to do. Thoughts raced and I weighed up my choices.

‘Should I say something back? But he’ll know I’m a foreigner if I do. Should I stay quiet? If I do, he might consider it rude and odd.’

The soldier spoke again, “küçük erkek kardeş. Yardıma ihtiyacın var mı? Bugün burada kalsan muhtemelen daha iyi olur.”

‘What the hell is he saying to me? Is he arresting me?’ I was on the verge of mental collapse.

I turned to face my destiny in my little green Ireland jersey. I looked him in the eye, took a deep breath and shouted,

“Wa-Alaikum-Salaam!”

I turned and ran to the market.

When I got there, I looked back at the soldier. He was still smoking and looking at me. The old man who was drinking tea next to him was laughing. I didn’t find it funny.

I bought my coffee and smokes and made my way back to Elif’s parent’s house. I took a different route so I wouldn’t have to pass the soldier again.

Arriving back at the house, I was expecting more chaos but was greeted by a still calmness. Elif was in her room crying. She had learned that an old childhood friend had been killed in Ankara by the traitors. Before I could walk over to console her, my phone rang. It was my dad.

“Peter, get the hell out of that country now and as far away from those people as possible!”

My father is a good man. He meant nothing bad by his language but when you're in the mix and love “these people” words can take on an offensive tone.

‘Those people! that country!’

I calmly spoke my father down and explained the situation. It wasn’t until I told him that I was far away from all the big cities did he finally relented. I mean, what did he expect me to do? Say, ‘Adios!’ to my girlfriend and ‘Good luck with the coup!’ as I boarded my flight to Greece.

I’m not that guy.

Like I said, I didn’t believe in consequences.

What happened next?

Life went on normally as the country was purged of certain teachers, doctors, generals, professors, universities, hospitals, and politicians, as the economy crashed.

You know? The usual.

Elif broke up with me on my birthday.

I still love Turkey and its people.

I recently quit smoking.

The soldier was just trying to help me. He called me his little brother and just wanted me to be careful.

I have been Peter Murphy, and I have just shared a memory.