New waters

The year was 1977. Cem Karaca and Dervişan resoundingly declared that the climate was changing with their Workers' March, composed from a poem by Can Yücel. It's well known that climate change triggers revolutions; the weather had turned, and for a long time, the wind had been blowing in the direction of the workers. The aftermath is well known. The 1980 coup was a blow to the climate to change the direction of the current. And then, the wind began to blow in favor of the rulers. The once mighty proletariat, once eager to change the world, gradually disintegrated into smaller fragments, and today, each of these fragments is called the precarious, and all together, the precariat.

Precarity, on the other hand, is used to describe the situation of a vast multitude of workers under neoliberal capitalism, whose employment opportunities are completely insecure. Today, only the name of the working class, which wielded its power through production and not only demanded its own rights but also attempted to create a livable world for all, remains, and its representatives who use its name.

Naming rights mean that an individual or organization has legal rights to a name. While previously individuals seeking naming rights would apply to the relevant institution, they are now appointed by the central government. Representatives appointed by the central government can speak on behalf of the group they represent without even knowing it exists. When an appointed representative representing a non-existent working class negotiates wage increases with the central government, he behaves like a powerless and precarious precarious individual. He feels a pang of Dostoyevsky's hero: "Our Lord, have mercy on us, be a father, and we will be your prayers for the rest of your life." (Memoirs from a Dead House, Communication).

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Art critic Hal Foster asks, “What do we lose if we call ourselves the precariat instead of the proletariat?” (New Bad Days, KÜY). We’ve lost our power, what more could we ask for? Having lost our power, we’ve become dependent on others for protection. The precariat, who covet the working class, naturally has the plea of ​​“I’ll be your prayers,” and supplication is part of the concept of the precarious. The English word “precarious” comes from the Latin precarius, meaning dependent on another’s favor and therefore uncertain or precarious, and its root is “precem,” meaning to pray (Oxford Dictionary).

The precariat is prevented from connecting with one another through solidarity networks, and organization is crushed wherever it appears. Consequently, most are unable to utilize the power derived from production, or are unaware of this power. The precariat feels that their work, everything they own, even their very lives, are granted by a patron under whose protection they are protected. Their representative, in turn, expresses gratitude to their exalted patron for these gifts. The representative of the working class was not like the representative of the precariat. The representative spoke on behalf of the monster known as the proletariat, whose very existence is breathing down their neck. The representative of the precariat, however, is a voiceover artist, giving voice to the powerless and precarious precarious.

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The history of social struggles is the history of the weaving of networks of solidarity, stitch by stitch. We have abandoned the networks we woven through class, sexual, and ethnic struggles against the exploitation, oppression, abuse, and exclusion of those in power. Like the inhabitants of Ersilia in Calvino's Invisible Cities, we now look back at the Ersilia we have abandoned, the chaos of the networks, and realize we are nothing. The invisible networks are still there, but as we strive for existence, we are constantly caught in the fisheries built by capitalism instead of the networks of solidarity. We are like fish out of water, alone and bewildered. No different from the fish displayed on fish stalls.

Some of us have a harpoon wound in our backs: "Sorrow in my big eyes, sadness on my sword / Sell me / Sell me / For Rakı" (Halim Şefik, The Story of the Swordfish). Some of us are fish in a rakı bottle, others a delicious fish served alongside rakı on a table. Instead of enriching each other, we consume each other; instead of joy, we generate sorrow.

The weather turned. And "The current that would carry us to new waters stopped / …I was among the herd / …It was the joy of living that made me run like this" (Halim Şefik). Our minds were bright, and our bodies were just as strong; we were racing through the streets. Oh, if only there weren't these fishponds and harpoons! The streets open to new waters. Since we still exist, it means our joy of life is hidden somewhere. Becoming the current, crossing the fishponds is a piece of cake.