As a young person from the neighbourhood, Gizem was a regular at the Sulukule Children Art Atelier until it closed in 2016. But the atelier attracted youth from other parts of the city, as well. Timur and his friends were often seen dancing at nearby parks, and Timur eventually found his way to the atelier as a dance teacher. Although he wasn’t from Sulukule, Timur understood the experience of marginalisation. He was born in Sweden to an immigrant family from Kosovo-Pristina that moved to Istanbul in the early 1990s. Like Gizem, Timur first saw Hip Hop dance in a video shown to him by his brother. It was the Vagabonds crew at the Battle of the Year (Europe’s biggest international breakdance competition). He immediately started following battles and trying to imitate the movements. Timur and some friends created a neighbourhood dance team called Utkpöon that practiced in the streets. Soon Timur was dancing with bigger groups, like the Istanbul Style Breakers (which appeared in Fatih Akin’s 2005 documentary, "Crossing the Bridge: The Sound of Istanbul"), and participating in competitions and shows around Turkey. Through the atelier, he was able to go to London for Breakin’ Convention in 2012 along with Gizem and other youth from Sulukule.

Unlike Gizem, Timur does not think of Hip Hop as a tool for social resistance or protest – for him it is more like a sport than a culture. “I’m not in it to protest anything,” he explains. “Hip Hop dance was a way out for me, a way to find happiness despite a negative environment.” For Timur, Hip Hop is more personal than political. “If not for dance, my life would be really different. Dance saved me.” Timur approaches dance with the sensibilities of an athlete. He works on the same moves for years to improve them and make them his own. However, Timur agrees with Gizem that Hip Hop can bring people together. He has danced with people from all over the world, from Ankara to Azerbaijan. “When we dance together, our differences don’t matter.” The only time it becomes obvious that someone is a foreigner is when they can’t get their visa renewed and they have to leave. “Things have changed a lot. When I started paying attention to Hip Hop in 2005, graffiti was considered an act of terrorism in Turkey. Now it’s considered art.” But it’s much harder to dance in the streets now than it used to be. “Street life has changed in general. Parents are afraid to let their children play in the streets.” Along with protective parents, city streets have become more regulated, Timur explains. “It’s okay to dance at concerts and in clubs, but not in the streets.” Increasing religious conservatism has also made it more difficult to dance in public spaces. “Sometimes older people criticise us for wasting our time,” Timur tells us. “But one time, this 80-year-old man came out from the mosque after prayers, and he came over and emptied his pockets and started spinning on his head!”

Over the past two years, the COVID-19 pandemic has made things even harder. There are fewer places to get together and dance now, especially inside. On top of state interventions and an increasingly conservative society, the pandemic and a failing economy mean there are less and less opportunities to dance. But Timur can take comfort in the kids he has influenced, including Emre, who was introduced to Hip Hop at age 12 when he saw Timur and some other local guys dancing at a neighbourhood park. Emre started to pursue Hip Hop at the Sulukule Children Art Atelier and, like Gizem, he contributed to the Openvizor Hip Hop theatre project. For Emre, Hip Hop dance opened the door to other forms of dance and he has had a lot of success performing with groups like Anadolu Ateşi. Now the company gives Emre breaking solos in between acts because “it brings a lot of energy and audiences love it!” But when Emre first started, it was hard to find a good place to dance. He and his friends would use the marble floors of the municipality building until they got kicked out. Like Timur, he feels that increasing conservatism and state regulation of the streets make it more difficult to dance. He has mostly had to move to indoor spaces, which have been closed lately due to the pandemic. Conservatism has also meant more censorship – even producers are more cautious these days about what artists can say or show in their videos. “Hip Hop is the art of critiquing the government, including in Turkey.” Emre says that artists find ways around censorship by using indirect and nonverbal messages, especially with images and dance.

Emre keeps up with the latest dance trends through YouTube, and he also incorporates breakdance into choreographies for Anadolu Ateşi. It has become more common in Turkey in recent years for Hip Hop to integrate local folk dance styles (see Kadir Amigo Memis’ “Zeybreak” dance). Emre teaches folk dance classes for children, but they are always asking him to teach them breaking instead. And they aren’t the only ones, “Their parents want to learn too, so I had to start offering adult classes!” Emre sees his generation as the pioneers who are making Hip Hop culture common in Turkey. “Generations after us will be interested in Hip Hop.” Like Gizem and Timur, he feels that Hip Hop can bring marginalized people together. “Hip Hop comes from the street, in poor neighbourhoods, so it connects minorities, immigrants, disadvantaged communities, children at risk, and the poor.”