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While wandering the streets of Istanbul, every tourist has likely reached for Google Maps, not out of unfamiliarity, but because the city’s streets defy the neat grids of modern planning.
Even residents often know only their own street by name. This disordered layout is more than an aesthetic quirk; it reflects the deeper structural flaws that have long defined Türkiye’s urbanization.
The woes of the structural problems are not the product of a single failure but of a self-perpetuating cycle.
Waves of rural migration overwhelmed cities faster than authorities could build housing; zoning amnesties then rewarded illegal construction, embedding a culture of impunity.
Rent-seeking interests in the construction sector distorted planning priorities, while weak enforcement hollowed out laws meant to ensure safety.
The result has been fragmented cities marked by sharp social inequality. And when earthquakes or other disasters strike, the response often repeats old mistakes instead of breaking the cycle—ensuring that the same vulnerabilities remain in place for the next crisis.
Türkiye’s cities began absorbing waves of rural migrants in the 1950s, a demographic shift driven by mechanization in agriculture, population growth, and the promise of industrial jobs in metropolitan centers. Istanbul, Ankara, and Izmir grew at breakneck speed, but municipal services lagged.
Migrants arriving in cities often found themselves excluded from formal housing markets. Land prices, lack of credit, and bureaucratic obstacles pushed them toward building on empty plots—frequently state land or private holdings left unattended. Thus emerged the gecekondu (slums) phenomenon, a word that literally means “built overnight.”
Entire neighborhoods sprang up without sewer systems, proper roads, or earthquake-resistant foundations.
Authorities tolerated these informal settlements, partly out of necessity and partly out of pragmatism: they were seen as a social cushion for migration that the state could not otherwise absorb.
The flow of migration followed each other every decade. Before the 2000s, the country continued to expand its urban population by allowing inner mobility to be high with immigrants from Anatolia.
After the 2010s, which were followed by Arab countries, primarily Syria, and even Iranians in smaller numbers after 2020.
By the late 20th century, these settlements represented millions of votes. Successive governments, rather than dismantling them, offered zoning amnesties to legalize unauthorized structures.
This was framed as compassion for the poor but was equally a political bargain in a bipartisan manner.
Every amnesty rewarded non-compliance and broadcast a clear message: breaking rules could eventually pay off. Over time, this eroded not only urban planning but also the credibility of the state as a regulator.
Once granted, amnesties set expectations for the next round. Families built more floors or new homes in anticipation of future pardons.
The practice stretched across political divides. Both center-right and center-left governments embraced it, and later the Justice and Development Party (AK Party) expanded it further.
The 2018 zoning amnesty, just ahead of elections, legalized millions of unpermitted buildings, including in earthquake-prone zones recently.
The 1980s brought neoliberal reforms that opened the construction sector as a driver of economic growth.
Developers gained influence not just as builders but as political actors. Municipalities became dependent on construction permits as a revenue source, feeding a cycle where growth itself became a political commodity.
Urban renewal was increasingly defined by high-rise projects, luxury residences, and shopping malls. Contractors sought to maximize profit by expanding density ratios, reducing open space, and minimizing safety costs. In many municipalities, zoning revisions became tools of patronage.
This rent economy blurred the lines between politics and business. Mayors relied on construction firms for campaign financing, while firms relied on municipalities for lucrative tenders.
The result was an urban landscape shaped less by master plans and more by negotiated interests.
At a wider level, state-backed construction companies from countries like China have created a global competition.
Türkiye, if this can be an explanation, provided the necessary support to its selective construction companies to prevent this market share from being completely captured by others in its region and sphere of influence.
Türkiye sits astride major fault lines, making earthquakes an inevitability rather than a distant risk. Yet urban planning rarely accounted for this structural vulnerability.
The 1999 Golcuk earthquake killed over 17,000 people, exposing the weakness of the building stock. Public outrage led to new regulations, stricter codes, and the creation of disaster agencies.
But implementation was inconsistent and in contrast. Developers found ways around inspections, sometimes through bribery, sometimes through political connections.
The February 2023 Kahramanmaras earthquakes were even more devastating, with over 50,000 dead and entire districts reduced to rubble.
Local governments in Türkiye carry much of the responsibility for zoning and building oversight, yet their capacity varies dramatically.
Wealthy metropolitan municipalities may employ engineers, inspectors, and urban planners. Smaller municipalities, especially in the southeast and central Anatolia, often lack such resources.
Even when regulations exist on paper, enforcement depends on political will. Mayors in need of votes hesitate to crack down on violations, particularly when entire neighborhoods rely on noncompliant housing.
In the 2000s, “urban transformation” became a buzzword. Whole neighborhoods were demolished and rebuilt in the name of modernization and earthquake safety. But renewal often meant replacing affordable, older housing with expensive new towers.
This process frequently displaced lower-income residents. Compensation was minimal, forcing families to relocate to peripheral districts far from jobs and services. In Istanbul, historic neighborhoods like Sulukule and Tarlabasi became emblematic of this trend: centuries-old communities uprooted in the name of development.
Critics argue that renewal projects reinforced social segregation rather than alleviating it. They produced modern skylines for the upper classes while pushing the poor to the margins.
The geography of inequality in Türkiye’s cities became more pronounced with each phase of development. Gated communities with private security and landscaped gardens rose alongside dense, aging apartment blocks lacking even basic parking.
The cities of the nation became a mosaic of unequal zones.
This fragmentation was not merely physical. It deepened social divides, eroded public trust, and fueled resentment. Public space shrank as private developments expanded. Parks, squares, and community areas gave way to malls and luxury complexes.
Beyond safety and inequality, urbanization reshaped Türkiye’s environment. Agricultural land was consumed by sprawling suburbs.
Wetlands and forests around Istanbul gave way to highways and more construction.
Türkiye boasts respected faculties of architecture and engineering, yet expert input is often sidelined. Urban plans are frequently revised without consulting professionals or are adjusted after political lobbying, as the capital is in the hands of those constructing it.
Professional chambers, once strong voices in planning debates, got political and answered politically, leaving them dysfunctional.
Each major disaster has triggered promises of reform. After 1999, inspections were to be tightened. After Van in 2011, urban renewal was to prioritize safety.
After Elazig in 2020, local enforcement was to be strengthened. And after the Maras earthquakes in 2023, leaders spoke of “horizontal architecture” and resilient cities.
Yet the cycle persists: disaster, outrage, reform pledges, and then gradual return to business as usual.
The deeper logic of rent, politics, and migration remains untouched.
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