A year-long series looking back on the most significant moments of the past 25 years, how they changed our world, and how they will continue to shape the next 25.
Ece Temelkuran is a Turkish novelist and journalist whose books include How to Lose a Country: The 7 Steps from Democracy to Fascism and Together: A Manifesto Against the Heartless World.
Historical dramas based on true stories often begin with a man or a woman gazing at an old photograph in solitude, reminiscing à la recherche du temps perdu. In reality, however, we often need others to help remember the past. Not so much when we recall devastation, perhaps, but when remembering moments of magnificence, of transcendence, of bravery and inspiration. Especially in these dark times of ours, we need others to confirm that such events indeed occurred.
The Day the World Said No to War protests were one of those rare and magnificent stories. It may sound unreal today, but on Feb. 15 and Feb. 16, 2003, in more than 800 cities worldwide, as many as 10 million people marched against the U.S.-led invasion of Iraq.
It was the last grand carnival of humanity. To this day, even without realizing it, those who took part endure the consequences of our defeat on that weekend while still being inspired by what we tried to change.
The path that led to the largest demonstrations in human history was set after the attacks on New York and Washington, on Sept. 11, 2001. Goliath was wounded deeply, and it was a certainty, in the days after the towers fell, that he would respond with unimaginable force.
The world was immediately split into two, and in the words of President George W. Bush, no one could sit on the sidelines: “Every nation, in every region, now has a decision to make. Either you are with us, or you are with the terrorists.” On Jan. 29, 2002, Mr. Bush delivered his historic State of the Union address where he labelled three countries – Iraq, Iran and North Korea – the “axis of evil.”
The lines were firmly drawn, but the rules, it was clear, were changing – covert operations were to be carried out around the world, the grand surveillance system that is part of our lives today was to be expanded and normalized, and the War on Terror was not to be questioned. Indeed, the global community was to follow Goliath’s footsteps – to do otherwise was to be on the side of evil, and therefore a legitimate target of the American fury. Yet, the world was still not tame enough to accept such a reductive dichotomy, the simple binary of “us and them.” We, the people, still had a voice.
Things were different back then. In the first years of the 21st century, people still believed that if a political power’s decisions weren’t legitimate or its motives were blatantly suspect, they could be stopped. That is why, when the Bush administration chose the target of its vengeance, asserting that Saddam Hussein was stockpiling weapons of mass destruction, the global community expected proper proof.
The only evidence, however, presented to the United Nations Security Council on Feb. 5, 2003, were some satellite images and audio recordings, as well as a vial containing a small amount of powder that then-secretary of state Colin Powell dangled for the world to see. “Clearly, Saddam Hussein and his regime will stop at nothing until something stops him,” said Mr. Powell. It was clearly not clear. Thus, the job of the global community was to stop such a bloody charade.
It truly seemed doable, for the trust in the rule of law, international and otherwise, was more intact than it is today. Seen through today’s cynical lens, this type of optimistic thinking might seem naive, especially when we cannot stop a live-aired genocide. Yet such a state of mind had been built in the previous decade.
The 1990s had been an era that fostered grand global political actions – think of 1999’s antiglobalization protests, also known as the Battle of Seattle – while the turn of the millennium saw the launch of new movements like the World Social Forum, a gathering of global justice organizations, which was established in 2001. (Indeed, the 2003 World Social Forum, held in Porto Alegre, Brazil, is often credited with birthing the anti-war protests the following month.)
The political stance behind the protests was anti-capitalist, and therefore anti-war, and considerable effort was put into their organization by the Global Left. And so even though in the years after Feb. 15 and 16 the general perception of the protests shifted to the view that they were apolitical and spontaneous, neither assertion reflects the historical truth.
The beautiful weekend of resistance against war started in the East, following the sun. The world gradually woke up to banners and placards saying the same thing – no war – in countless languages. It was like watching the New Year’s Eve fireworks that begin in Sydney. Each spark of peace inspired others around the world to take to the streets in bigger and bigger numbers.
I remember the joyful counting of the numbers in the streets mixed with our self-motivating political analysis: “It doesn’t look big, but for Japan, it is,” or “For a Gulf Arab country, 2,000 is a massive number.” The bitterness of the defeated that implodes inward, which is today’s default among many progressives, was not known to us then. Instead, our perception of each other as demonstrators, united in a just cause, was strengthened by the oneness of humanity. The faith in people’s might was so irrefutable that one of the most memorable lines written about the protests was, “There may be two superpowers on the planet: the United States and world public opinion.”
FEBRUARY 15, 2003
Hundreds of cities joined the ‘last grand carnival of humanity’, including: New York City, Rawlpindi, Amsterdam, São Paulo, Jakarta, Berlin, Seoul, London, Seattle
File photos: Getty Images. Video footage: Reuters.
In Turkey, where I lived at the time, I was one of the spokespersons of the No To War coalition. There was a large protest in Istanbul on Feb. 15, simultaneously with the rest of the world. The crowd was enchanted by the fact that they were part of a global movement, a rare occasion in Turkey, an inward-looking country that is always too busy with domestic issues. The anti-imperialist sentiment of the demonstration was a unifying factor for different and sometimes conflicting political factions. Everyone chanted: “We’re not going to kill. We’re not going die. We’ll be nobody’s soldier.”
The next day, checking the international press to see if Turkey was mentioned and seeing ourselves there with the other countries, what we experienced was a specific, brand new pride, as if the people of Turkey passed a moral test together with others around the world.
The momentum continued. In Turkey, the largest demonstration was saved for the day that the parliament was to decide whether to join the Iraq invasion. On March 1, hundreds of thousands thwarted the government’s ambition of permitting the Incirlik Air Base to be used for the invasion of Iraq. Until that moment, I had no idea so many people could dance and jump together in sync: “Jump! Jump!” chanted tens of thousands in the centre of Ankara, Turkey’s capital. “Jump, or you’re Erdogan!”
When we received word that we’d prevailed, the immense joy and shock of winning against the government overwhelmed the crowd. I repeatedly asked the same question, “Did it really happen? Did we truly stop the government’s decree from going through?” Each time, someone else shouted the answer with wide, teary eyes, “Yes, yes!”
That night’s particular kind of collective elation was David’s cheer after toppling Goliath – a specific kind of existential laughter that has failed to grace humanity’s lips since then. The No to War action was the last global attempt to safeguard basic moral values – justice and dignity – by forming a human shield against power-hungry decision-makers. It was the last global political action to protect human agency from profit-based politics.
In the end, both the people of Turkey and Canada managed to prevent their governments from joining the invasion of Iraq through public outcry. However, our small and temporary victory didn’t prevent the eventual defeat. After that day, on a global level, a downhill journey began for “the citizen” as a political actor. The last carnival of humanity marked the first day of the two-decades-long process of the liquidation of democracy.
After Feb. 15, when the global community was defeated by the world’s great powers, the carnival gradually lost its flair. In hindsight, the defeat of the No to War movement marked a turning point for street politics. After that day, the streets became increasingly less joyful for those wanting to use their voices and bodies to protest. The atmosphere of carnival was marred, and the nature of street politics changed irreversibly.
What followed after the defeat of the No to War coalition can be described as the liquidation of the citizens as political actors and the reduction of democracy to ballot boxes both of which were the precursors of our current global troubles. February, 2003, was a time when the global masses were disillusioned about democracy as it existed and their role in it. It was made clear that they were only expected to soldier on to the ballot boxes when asked and that, otherwise, they had no say in political decisions. After all, they had witnessed the cruelty of the times: Even when the entire world stood up, the bloody plan went through.
That loss of faith in political action eventually led to the grand loss of faith in democracy and politics, which played a big part in the global rise of authoritarianism and fascism today. Since then, the protest culture has been marred by learned helplessness. Political decision-makers, on the other hand, have enjoyed the comfort of operating in the widening gap between what is beneficial and what is moral. The gap has widened so much that today, some politicians can rationalize the killing of children in Palestine in economic terms and see Gaza as a real estate opportunity. As opposed to today, before Feb. 15, 2003, world leaders at least felt compelled to legitimize the murder of civilians. Their victory back then allows them today to frame the death of children as collateral damage. It is, alas, because world public opinion is no longer a superpower.
On the other hand, no matter how dark our times may be, the No to War movement, despite its failure to achieve its goals, can still guide and inspire us. It set the standard for what is possible regarding global political action, and reminded us of the often-invisible work behind it. We need to recall the chain reaction that led to an explosion of protest. When the dominant neoliberal narrative was being built upon “the end of history,” a handful of people began going against the grain without knowing that one day their work would evolve into the largest political action in human history.
Remembering alone is a dangerous act. One can easily fall into the bottomless pit of melancholy or, worse yet, romanticize the past. That’s why, before I finished writing this essay, I called Memet Ali Alabora. He was my partner-in-crime as the spokesperson for the No to War coalition in Turkey. Now, he is living in exile in London.
He left Turkey in 2014, for he was personally targeted by Recep Tayyip Erdogan after the Gezi Park uprising, which took place a decade after the No to War protests. He now runs a creative agency that organizes political campaigns, the most recent being for the Welsh Green Party. We laughed at the absurdity of life and the political storms that hurled us to different countries and foreign struggles. Together, we recalled the night we organized the musicians in Ankara and how shocked we were when they showed up at the demonstration. The contrast between today’s darkness and yesterday’s cheer made me melancholic enough to say, “No more carnival for us, mate.”
“You are mistaken,” he said, “The carnival is still there. Just give it some time.” Once again, he convinced me that it is better to remember together. Only then does the darkness of the present moment not allow you to forget what was possible and that it all can be possible again.