- Oct 3, 2018
- 3,573
The boy clutched his father’s hand as the first wave of soldiers marched past, their boots striking the pavement in rhythm. The avenue in Ankara had been swept and polished for the day, its buildings draped in red banners and white crescents, each flag snapping proudly in the wind. Overhead, the sky thundered with the sound of F-16s slicing in formation, their sleek silhouettes leaving trails of red and white that joined the morning light. The child tilted his head back, eyes wide, the roar of the jets vibrating through his chest as if the sky itself saluted the crowd.
Along the curb, an old man stood with his grandson perched on his shoulders. His hands, veined, steadied the boy as the parade carried forward. When the brass band struck up the anthem, the old man’s lips moved silently with the words.
“Do you see them?” the old man asked, his voice roughened. “Those flags are a reminder. That when this land was nearly taken, when our people were scattered, when defeat seemed certain.” The boy on his shoulders leaned forward, listening as he followed the trail of smoke from the jets before looking down at the procession of soldiers below.
“That flag rallied us,” the old man continued, “marks the moment when we stood firm. At Dumlupınar, they thought us beaten, but we rose again. Our commanders, our soldiers, our people, together they broke the chains laid upon them. And from that victory came the freedom we live in now.”
The drums rolled as a line of cadets marched past, rifles gleaming in the sun. The boy waved his small flag, echoing the larger ones draped from the balconies. His grandfather smiled, then grew solemn once more.
“You must remember,” he said, leaning close so the boy would hear above the thunder of another jet pass. “Life will test you. But this day teaches us: no setback is final if you stand with courage and unity. That is why we celebrate, why we fill the streets with music and flags, because we must never forget what it cost to be free, nor how quickly it can be lost.”
As the parade stretched on, the children waved as the soldiers marched by, the mothers clapped, and the fathers saluted. The old man meanwhile fell silent, his hand resting gently on his grandson’s knee.
The sun stood high over the plateau as a slow procession of motorcades climbed the wide ceremonial avenue leading to Anıtkabir, Atatürk’s mausoleum. The square before the monument, paved in white stone that gleamed against the cloudless sky, had been cordoned off for the state ceremony. Soldiers in dress uniforms lined the route, their rifles and uniforms polished as they glistened with the sun overhead.
From the central archway, President Abdullah Gül appeared, flanked by Prime Minister Ayşe Çiller. The two walked side by side, the red-and-white wreath between them borne by an honor guard of officers. Behind them followed the Defense Chiefs, their breastplates heavy with medals, and cabinet ministers in dark suits. The slow march of polished shoes echoed through the still air as the procession advanced across the courtyard toward the towering mausoleum.
At the steps, they halted. The wreath, circled in laurel and wrapped in the red of the national flag, was lifted from the soldiers’ hands. Together, the President and Prime Minister stepped forward. They bent slightly, laying the wreath at the base of the great marble chamber where Atatürk rests, the founder watching silently over his republic.
For a long moment, a silence prevailed. The crowd beyond the barriers, ministers and generals, even the camera crews, all stood immobile, the only sound the rustle of the flag high above the mausoleum, snapping against the wind. Ayşe’S eyes lingered on the inscription carved into the stone: “Yurtta sulh, cihanda sulh”
President Gül straightened, his hand rising in salute. Ayşe bowed her head, while around them, the Defense Chiefs gave a crisp salute.
Then the bugle call began. Piercing through the square. Some in the crowd pressed hands to their hearts; others closed their eyes. After a long moment the generals and others around the Prime Minister took their seats, leaving the Prime Minister alone next to the podium. Ayşe looked one more time at the Mausoleum before panning back to the the crowd.
“My fellow citizens, distinguished guests, and children of this beloved republic,
We stand here, in the shadow of our founder, before the resting place of Mustafa Kemal Atatürk, to honor the victory that shaped our destiny. Eighty-five years ago, on these very lands, the fate of our nation hung by a thread. Enemies marched upon us, and many believed the Turkish people would be broken, scattered, or forgotten. Indeed, our enemies relied on that belief. They relied on the idea that our will could be broken, that our faith was shattered, and our long-held identities were forgotten. They were wrong. They were wrong because of the courage of men and women who refused to surrender. It was that courage that pierced the veil of darkness and cast a new dawn upon the lands of Oghuz.
At Dumlupınar, the impossible was made possible. Together, they reclaimed our freedom. From their sacrifice, the Turkish Republic was born.
Let us remember today: our destiny is not sealed. We are not prisoners of circumstance. The Turkish people, unyielding, resilient, proud, have overcome worse storms than those we face today. When the world has doubted us, we proved them wrong. When history tested us, we rose stronger. And we will do so again. This is merely another chapter in the crusade of the Turkish people against the veil of darkness.
This victory was not the work of one man alone. Atatürk, our great commander, lit the path. Indeed, he spawned the light that rallied our proud nation. Yet it was the mothers who sent their sons to the front, the workers who gave their bread, the soldiers who marched through fire, it was all of them, all of us, who built a future worth defending.
So today, as we lay this wreath, we do not merely bow to the past, we draw strength from it. We remember that freedom is not a gift, but a trust. We remember that our heroes did not sacrifice so that we might rest, but so that we might continue their work.
And now, my fellow Turks, your nation needs you again. Not for battlefields or trenches, but for the long march of progress. For schools that must be built. For jobs that must be created. For justice that must be secured. For unity that must be preserved.
Stand up for your country. Do your part, however humble, however small. Let no one say that the fire of 1922 has dimmed in the hearts of our people. Let us show, together, that the republic they left us is in safe hands, that it will not falter, that it will not fail, that it will endure.
On this Victory Day, let us remember who we are. We are the children of Atatürk. We are the heirs of Dumlupınar. We are the guardians of a nation that has defied every prediction of its demise.
And as long as we stand together, as long as we carry the memory of our heroes in our hearts, Türkiye will move forward. Always forward.
Thank you. May the memory of our martyrs be eternal. May our flag fly forever.”
Ayşe stepped away as a thunderous applause echoed across the inner halls of the mausoleum. As she walked back to her seat, she couldn’t help but be moved by the speech herself. A soft smile crept upon her lips.
The viewing stand had been raised high over the avenue, a temporary pavilion draped in red cloth and framed by flags. From there, Prime Minister Ayşe Çiller and President Abdullah Gül sat side by side, the noon sun softened by the shade of the canopy. Below them, the parade stretched for blocks.
Jets roared overhead in diamond formation, their shadows racing across the rooftops before vanishing into the bright Ankara sky. The crowd erupted in cheers, children leaping onto their fathers’ shoulders to wave small flags.
Çiller leaned slightly toward Gül. Her voice was low enough not to carry beyond the row of officials seated behind them. “It is beautiful isn’t it. The love and life born out of this moment. The pride on their faces.”
Gül nodded, his expression measured, the corners of his mouth hinting at a smile. “For the young ones, perhaps their first memory displays the nation. For the older ones, it is a reminder of what it means to carry the republic on your shoulders. It is one of the benefits of our conscription system” He paused as an armored column clattered past, treads grinding the pavement. “There’s a weight in that pride. And responsibility, too.”
The Prime Minister let her gaze linger on the marching cadets. “Victory Day teaches us that our story isn’t one of inevitability. We have stumbled, but each time we’ve risen. That’s what I see down there, the will to rise again, should the day demand it.”
A flight of helicopters thundered overhead, flags trailing from their bellies like ribbons in the wind. The applause of the crowd swelled once more. Gül leaned back, lowering his voice. “The people need reassurance that this spirit isn’t fading. Unfortunately many in our political class betray that craving. They look back and see that the bond between their sacrifices then and our leadership now is broken.”
Çiller turned toward him, her eyes narrowing. “Then it’s on us to prove it. Not only in words, but in deeds. We must ensure the victory the martyrs of Dumlupınar died for lives on.”
Behind them, the Chief of the General Staff leaned forward to whisper something to an aide, while cabinet ministers exchanged polite nods. In the square, the music swelled into the national anthem, and the crowd rose to its feet. Çiller and Gül stood with them, shoulders squared, as the soldiers presented arms.
The square slowly emptied as the last formations peeled away from the parade ground, the brass notes fading into the hot Ankara afternoon. President Gül and Prime Minister Çiller descended the marble steps together, their aides and guards trailing a discreet distance behind. The footsteps echoed lightly against the stone,
“I must say,” Gül began, glancing out across the crowds still clustered along the boulevard, “you can see it in their faces. The spirit of the people is changing. They feel the improvements, subtle perhaps, but real. There is more confidence in them than even a year ago. That spirit you spoke about. I believe it has slowly rekindled."
Çiller nodded, though her expression remained thoughtful. “I see it too. But I also see what’s missing. The families who can’t find work, the students who wonder if their education will carry them forward. We’ve made progress, yes, but more needs to be done.”
“I don’t disagree,” Gül said evenly, his tone carrying both caution and encouragement. “But Ayşe, victories matter. People need them. However small, they are a signpost that tomorrow can be better than yesterday. Don’t let the unfinished drown out what has already been built. Especially in an environment where our political class only tears things down.”
They reached the broad terrace where Anıtkabir loomed, its colonnades stark against the sky. Gül slowed, his eyes fixed on the mausoleum. His voice softened, touched with reverence. “There is a reason we remember Dumlupınar. A reason August 30th is marked above all others. We do not commemorate our defeats. We honor our victories, the moments when we overcame what was thought impossible. That is what endures. And that is what you must remember in your own time. Focus on your victories. Let them carry the people forward.”
For a moment, Çiller said nothing, her gaze following his to the towering structure of stone and memory. Then, slowly, a smile broke across her face. Not triumphant, not careless, but steady. “You’re right,” she said quietly. “I’ll work on that sir.” She with a smile getting a chuckle out of the older man.
Together they resumed their pace, the sound of their steps folding into the hum of distant applause and the whir of helicopter blades preparing for departure. Ahead, the motorcade waited, sleek cars glinting in the sun as the two returned to their homes for private receptions with friends and family.
