Konya – for many in Turkey, the name of this central Anatolian city stands for more than just a geographic location. It is a symbol of conservative values, religious piety, and unwavering loyalty to the ruling AKP. Konya evokes images of Mevlana Jalaluddin Rumi, the world-famous Sufi poet; of tekkes and dervish orders; of endless wheat fields and a society that prizes tradition over change. Politically, the city is a fortress: for over two decades, it has been dominated by Recep Tayyip Erdoğan’s party. In the last presidential election, 73 percent of voters backed him.
And yet, it was precisely in this seemingly unassailable stronghold that the largest opposition party, the CHP (Republican People’s Party), dared to hold a boisterous rally. The occasion: a protest against the imprisonment of their presidential candidate, Ekrem İmamoğlu – the popular mayor of Istanbul, who, after being removed from office over alleged irregularities, now also finds himself behind bars following a controversial court ruling.
“When we said we were coming to Konya, many were surprised,” CHP leader Özgür Özel shouted to the cheering crowd. “They warned us: ‘You can’t go there. No one will show up.’ But you are here – thousands of you!” On Kılıçaslan Square, nestled between mosques and shopping arcades, not only party flags waved that day, but also countless Turkish national flags and portraits of Republic founder Mustafa Kemal Atatürk. A symbolic image: the CHP laying claim to its role as guardian of the Republic – even in the heart of conservative Anatolia.
In the first days after İmamoğlu’s arrest, protests were concentrated in traditional CHP strongholds like Istanbul, Ankara, and Izmir. But the response did not remain confined to the party’s base. The repression of the popular politician – whom critics have long seen as a serious electoral threat to Erdoğan – has triggered a wave of solidarity that extends well beyond partisan lines.
A recent poll by the Metropoll research institute shows that only 30 percent of respondents believe İmamoğlu would have been arrested if he weren’t a presidential candidate. That figure reveals deep mistrust of the judiciary – even among AKP voters. In that group, 56 percent believe the arrest was politically motivated. Notably, 19 percent of former AKP voters view the protests as legitimate. The government’s strategy of smearing demonstrators as troublemakers doesn’t seem to be working.
Meanwhile, İmamoğlu’s popularity continues to rise. The former mayor, known as a bridge-builder between secular and religious segments of society, is experiencing a surge in support that recalls historic opposition figures.
Konya – “the city with a fish’s memory,” as it’s jokingly called for its habit of complaining about problems but still voting for Erdoğan on election day – could become a symbol of change. Perhaps not immediately, perhaps not comprehensively. But the fact that the opposition managed to rally thousands here shows: the AKP’s political monopoly is no longer unassailable.
It is these people the party leader hopes to reach with his speech in Konya. “Above all, those outside the barricades,” Özel calls out in his now trademark hoarse voice. “Maybe they’re not party members. Maybe they’ve never voted for us. But today, they’re listening.”
“We’re focusing especially on women,” says Ismail Özkul, collecting signatures at the rally for İmamoğlu’s release and new elections. Women, he believes, think more about their children’s future than men – and feel the pain of inflation more acutely at the market. In recent days, he’s been gathering signatures in local shops, always asking the female customers first. Only when they agree do the storeowners sign. Many people, Özkul says, take part in the rally in secret, without telling their relatives. “They’re afraid of being discriminated against.” In fact, many here speak of the fear of being filmed. “A lot of women are afraid their children might lose their civil service jobs if they come here,” one woman says. A pensioner remarks that the size of the crowd proves that “the wall of fear is breaking.”
It’s not that many in the audience openly identify as disillusioned AKP voters. But several say they know people in their families or neighborhoods who feel regret. “We know many who regret voting for Erdoğan,” says the local head of the opposition Gelecek Party, which split from the AKP in 2019. He has just added his name to the CHP’s petition. There’s a “slow awakening” in Konya, he says.
In the conservative heart of Anatolia, the CHP has traditionally struggled. In Konya – where religiosity and tradition are core social values – the social democratic opposition party has long been perceived as looking down on religious people, a legacy of the secularist elite republic that is deeply embedded in political memory. The memories of times when veiled women were banned from universities and religious communities mocked as backward still linger here. Accordingly, mistrust of the CHP runs deep – and the party has had a hard time gaining any foothold.
But on Kılıçaslan Square, party leader Özgür Özel tries to break with those images. In his speech, he meets the religious sensibilities of the audience with demonstrative respect. “We never blamed Konya,” he says. “We always blamed ourselves. We were the ones who made mistakes. We didn’t listen enough.” His words are conciliatory, almost humble. Time and again he quotes the mystic and poet Mevlana Rumi, whose mausoleum lies just a few kilometers away and whose presence is felt all over Konya. Religion, Özel declares, is not the opposite of democracy, but its soul. And then a sentence that links İmamoğlu’s arrest to the religious calendar: “On March 18, when the whole country was breaking the fast, he was stripped of his diploma.” A strike during the holiest time – the implicit message being: an act of injustice that should enrage devout Muslims as well.
Indeed, Konya is no longer the monolithic bastion it is often made out to be. While it remains a conservative stronghold, there are signs of change beneath the surface. During Ramadan, young people sit in cafés during the day, drinking coffee and eating sandwiches – not to provoke, but because a new generation is coming of age for whom personal piety and social tolerance are not contradictory. The city’s many universities have brought tens of thousands of students from across Turkey to Konya. Quietly, but steadily, they are changing the atmosphere.
At the same time, discontent is growing – and no longer only whispered in private. The economic situation is tense: prices are rising, wages stagnating, and many people struggle with poverty despite having jobs. Complaints are mounting about a government that has lost touch with reality, about a judiciary being politicized, and about a political class that appears increasingly self-satisfied.
This mix has left its mark on Konya as well. In last year’s municipal elections – in which the AKP suffered historic losses nationwide – the party lost four district administrations in Konya province to the CHP. A first. While the AKP remains strong overall here, the cracks in its foundation are becoming visible.
The CHP wants to seize the moment. In the coming weeks, the party plans to expand its protests to other Anatolian cities – from Kayseri to Yozgat, from Afyon to Aksaray. The aim is not just to keep public anger over İmamoğlu’s imprisonment alive, but to challenge the AKP’s moral supremacy in the Anatolian heartland. “We have to show that the Republic lives not only in Istanbul and Izmir, but also in Konya,” a CHP official said at the rally’s edge.
Whether they succeed remains to be seen. But one thing is already clear: the rally in Konya was more than a symbolic act. It was a cautious attempt to overcome old dividing lines – and to listen where, for a long time, only resistance was expected. Perhaps it won’t lead to a political breakthrough just yet. But it was enough to sow doubt. And that alone, in a city like Konya, is a remarkable beginning.
