The article discusses Turkey's property‐led residential redevelopment model. This entails the demolition of an existing settlement, replacing it with blocks of apartments (usually constructed on the exact same site and at a higher density), some of which are then made available to displaced residents for purchase via mortgage loans with long maturities. While the authorities promote this model of urban renewal as an innovative public housing policy, I argue that, far from being an exception to market‐rate housing, the model is in fact a market‐disciplinary tool. It seeks to incorporate into the formal market not just spontaneously developed and only partially regulated spaces, but also the conduct of residents living in these informal neighborhoods. The article contributes to the immense literature on urban renewal and organized struggles around the right to housing by showing that urban renewal is not simply about dispossession and displacement. In the Turkish case, urban renewal does not necessarily seek to displace poor residents (even though it often ends up doing so), rather to incorporate them into a nascent mortgage origination market. The second half of the article introduces and elaborates on a case study in Istanbul.

The head of Turkey's Housing Development Administration hailed 2011 as the country's ‘year of urban transformation’. ‘Wherever there is an unauthorized building, wherever there is an earthquake‐vulnerable building, we are determined to transform them … We will start from cities and will go down to towns, districts and villages’ (Bayraktar, 2011a, my translation). In fact urban transformation has already been a top priority for a decade under the Islamic Justice and Development Party (AKP) administration. Istanbul is the centerpiece of this urban transformation campaign, as it is seen to be Turkey's primary ‘global city’ candidate. The Istanbul Metropolitan Municipality (IBB) — also controlled by the AKP — has frequently stated its determination to redevelop the whole of Istanbul's informal housing stock, with the mission of increasing its earthquake resistance and promoting ‘sanitary and planned’ urbanization. This has been concurrent with the emergence of large‐scale urban redevelopment schemes as part and parcel of the new development paradigm in the global South. The overarching mandate is to increase Istanbul's share of revenues from tourism, culture industries and finance, and further integrate the spaces of the city into global real estate markets (IBB, 2006: 138–41). The two main pillars of this ‘urban transformation’ are the redevelopment of squatter settlements on the outskirts of the city and the enforced gentrification of its inner‐city slums. While these renewal projects are carried out in the name of upgrading the built environment and improving the living conditions of the poor, because of the top‐down approach adopted by the authorities and their unwillingness to allow grassroots participation in project development, they have become the focus of discontent and protest. There is an immense literature on informal housing, slum clearance and organized struggles around the right to housing. A common thread running through all these debates is the ways in which urban renewal has been used as a tool of dispossession, expropriating residents and uprooting them from their social networks. This article will complement this literature by approaching urban renewal from a different angle, namely as a market‐disciplinary tool (cf. Brenner and Theodore, 2002: 352). I am here referring to particular arrangements that seek to consolidate or expand the logic of market exchange in all realms of social life by controlling and managing human conduct and disposition. Scholars of neoliberalism — particularly those who adopt a neo‐Foucaldian approach (Rose, 1996; Dean, 1999; Larner, 2000; Ong, 2006) — have argued that the neoliberal (or advanced liberal) strategies of rule over the past three decades have propagated the image of proactive independent subjects who are responsible for taking action to enhance their individual wellbeing. Each individual is seen as an expert on herself, competing with others in pursuit of her self‐interest. As Treanor (2005) argues, ‘the ultimate (unreachable) goal of neoliberalism is a universe where every action of every being is a market transaction, conducted in competition with every other being and influencing every other transaction, with transactions occurring in an infinitely short time, and repeated at an infinitely fast rate’. In the case of urban renewal in Turkey, marketization has both a spatial and a temporal aspect. Urban renewal aims to incorporate spontaneously developed and partially regulated spaces1 into the formal circuits of capital accumulation by replacing unauthorized substandard housing with fully legal and certified housing units. It does so by forcing the residents onto a government‐administered mortgage plan whereby they attain ownership of their new homes by agreeing to a payment scheme that extends over a period of 15 to 20 years. The article begins with a brief overview of the debates on entrepreneurial approaches to urban redevelopment. I then discuss the shift in the global city vision and the specificity of the current urban transformation agenda in Istanbul, introducing the main actors and institutions of urban transformation. In further unravelling the specificities of the urban transformation model in Turkey, the second half of the article introduces and elaborates on a case study in Istanbul: Başıbüyük, a squatter site earmarked for redevelopment, located on the Asian side of the city. I spent a total of 11 months in Istanbul (June–August 2007, March–August 2008, January–March 2009) collecting data on various aspects of urban renewal. I deployed a variety of qualitative research methods. In order to gain insights into the decisions regarding the declaration of an area as a site of urban renewal, the kind of actors involved in the process and in what capacity, I conducted in‐depth expert interviews with the managers of the Directorate of Urban Transformation and with the IBB authorities, as well as with officials of the district municipalities in which my two case‐study sites are located. I also obtained and analysed various plans, plan reports, surveys and ‘mission’ statements from these institutions. My major research methods for examining residents' responses were in‐depth interviews, participant observation and life histories. Most of the ethnographic data I collected in Başıbüyük were gathered through informal dialogues and observations, in coffee shops, on the streets, in public gathering spaces and in people's homes. To facilitate my fieldwork, I was associated with the Popular Urbanism Movement (IMECE), a network established in 2006 by a group of grassroots activists, students and university professors, most of whom have a background in urban planning or architecture. My affiliation with IMECE helped me establish contacts in the neighborhood.

Urban renewal as spatial fix As scholars of urban neoliberalism have noted, the economic geography of the world has become highly volatile and uncertain as a result of the increasing predominance of financial markets, the proliferation of complex forms of monetary capital and their burgeoning speculative capacity (Leitner and Sheppard, 1998; Brenner and Theodore, 2002; Harvey, 2005). Under Fordism, Keynesian economic policies were able to reduce this uncertainty through regulatory regimes. However, with the dismantling of this regulatory framework and roll‐out of pro‐market policies, nation‐states' capacities ‘to regulate money, trade, and investment flows’ have been significantly ‘hollowed out’ (Brenner and Theodore, 2002: 365). Under these unpredictable circumstances, ‘competitiveness’ — long accepted as a meaningful concept in the corporate world — is now considered indispensable to the economic prospects of a city. Cities, like businesses, are seen as being in competition with each other for securing or defending their share of the global market (Begg, 1999; D'Arcy and Keogh, 1999). In this highly competitive environment, urban entrepreneurialism has been widely promoted to urban policymakers as the only viable solution. Urban entrepreneurialism denotes an array of governance mechanisms and policies aimed at nurturing local and regional economic growth by creating a business environment favorable to capital investment and accumulation (Harvey, 1989; Leitner, 1990; Hall and Hubbard, 1998; Leitner and Sheppard, 1998). A recent OECD (2006: 348–9) review of competitive cities defines an entrepreneurial city as a ‘proactive city’ that embraces a strategic approach to economic growth, ‘exploiting market forces to the maximum through such measures as encouragement of private investment, urban marketing, deregulation and new institutional mechanisms (public private partnerships, development agencies)’. The design and execution of urban projects under an entrepreneurial regime of governance are oriented towards development of particular places through often spectacular projects — the primary aim of which is the upgrading of the image of a locality — as opposed to comprehensive planning aimed at improving living or working conditions within a larger juridical context (Swyngedouw et al., 2002). Thus, much of urban entrepreneurialism is about image production, branding and place marketing. In seeking and enhancing their comparative advantages and capturing a competitive edge over other localities, cities are urged to refashion their image and market their cultural assets (Harvey, 1989). Within this vision of ‘cultural regeneration’, a city's unique identity is highlighted through revitalization projects and mega‐events. Entrepreneurial policies have been widely accepted as a panacea for post‐industrial urban decline in North American and Western European cities. However, scholars reporting on the disempowering consequences of zero‐sum competition and trickle‐down economic policies have shown that entrepreneurial policies have had limited success in generating economic growth and employment, and have in many instances exacerbated social divisions and inequalities (MacLeod, 2002; Ward, 2003). In addition, the ‘spill‐over effects’ of flagship projects have been rarely observed (Hall and Hubbard, 1998; Leitner and Sheppard, 1998). All these testify to an essential fact about urban entrepreneurialism. As it fundamentally hinges on public–private partnerships, privatization of publicly owned assets and deregulated spatial development, it is very much insulated from public accountability and is therefore effectively anti‐democratic. The traditional channels of democratic participation are supplanted by new institutional relays at a variety of scales, enabling elite business interests to have direct influence over major local development decisions (Brenner and Theodore, 2002: 369; Swyngedouw et al., 2002). In his discussion of the generalization of gentrification as a competitive urban strategy in the global market, Neil Smith (2002: 441) states that ‘turn‐of‐the century neoliberalism hints at a thread of convergence between urban experiences in the larger cities of what used to be called First and Third Worlds’. Despite a major setback in the current conditions of an extended credit crisis, there has been a dramatic influx worldwide of surplus capital into large‐scale speculative projects and real estate development (most conspicuously illustrated by the case of Dubai). It is undeniable that speculative place construction has been a vital strategy of surplus capital absorption in both the global North and the global South. Yet a major development that distinguishes experiences in the megacities of the global South is the scale at which urban redevelopment is deployed as a means of primitive accumulation, namely the incorporation of spontaneously developed spaces into the formal circuits of capital accumulation. Cities like Mumbai (Nijman, 2008), Shanghai (Zhang and Fang, 2004; He and Wu, 2009) and Seoul (Ha, 2004) have been at the forefront of urban renewals, resulting in dispossession and displacement of populations on a massive scale.

Globalizing Istanbul Ambitions to elevate Istanbul to global city status and schemes to radically remake its spaces to fit into a preconceived image of an elite city are not new. Their beginnings can be traced back to the early 1980s when economic liberalization and free trade policies were introduced; since then successive city administrations have emphasized Istanbul's potential as an emergent regional and global player. Yet, it is only in the last 10 years — with the AKP's unprecedented rise to power — that the twin discourses of ‘competitiveness’ and ‘proactive city’ have taken hold, underpinning an ambitious and determined campaign of ‘urban transformation’. The urban transformation agenda differs from a previous era of global city aspirations in its emphasis on the wholesale redevelopment of Istanbul's informal housing, rather than the construction of a few prestige projects (hotels, tourism complexes, shopping malls, etc.) on select sites. I will now proceed to explain how this shift has occurred, and how squatter settlements became the centerpiece of the new global city vision. I begin with some quick facts: Istanbul's population has increased by over 1,000% within 60 years, from 1.16 million in 1950 to 13.4 million in 2011 (OECD, 2008: 35; TUIK, 2011). This rapid growth has been in part accommodated by the constant expansion of the city's urban footprint. Istanbul's urban growth is checked by the Sea of Marmara to the south, and water catchment and nature reserve areas to the north. These geomorphological and ecological checks on sprawl, combined with incessant population growth, have resulted in a highly dense urban fabric and increasing pressure on low‐density areas within the city. Rural–urban migration has been the major force driving this steady and rapid population growth. Between the early 1950s and the late 1980s, millions of migrants from rural areas of central and eastern Turkey flocked to Istanbul in search of employment in its thriving manufacturing industries. The migrants constructed modest unauthorized dwellings on publicly and privately owned land located on what was then the urban periphery. These unauthorized and unregulated houses have come to be known as gecekondus — a term meaning ‘built overnight’ in Turkish. Burgeoning gecekondu neighborhoods have long been a major thorn in the side of Istanbul's urban planners. However, this form of ‘self‐help housing’ has not always been targeted by the authorities. Previously there was a long period of ‘conveniently looking the other way’. Gecekondus were tolerated primarily because their presence absolved the state from an obligation to provide affordable housing for the millions of migrants whose labor power was indispensable to state‐led industrialization efforts of a previous era. Thus, up until the 1990s, state authorities ignored and in many instances actively accommodated gecekondu development. Today it is quite uncommon to find a gecekondu settlement in Istanbul conforming to the original sense of the term. Under conditions of sustained growth in real estate markets, most of what used to be modestly built low‐density settlements resembling villages in appearance have rapidly evolved into high‐density urban neighborhoods with five‐ or six‐storey apartment buildings (Öncü, 1988: 47). The history of this rapid physical transformation parallels the history of the commodification of gecekondus. As Boratav (1994: 28) argues, accumulation through appropriation of rent has been the primary means of upwards social mobility for rural–urban migrants. This has been more important than returns from petty commodity production.

Marketizing the gecekondu Unspoken agreements between state authorities and gecekondu dwellers rapidly dissolved in the post‐2002 context of roll‐out neoliberalization. As major business groups and state authorities came to envision Istanbul as a global center for finance, tourism, culture and fashion, manufacturing industries had been gradually relocated from the city center to outlying and peripheral urban areas from the late 1980s onwards. This shift radically undermined the symbiotic relationship between the manufacturing industries and migrant laborers residing in the nearby gecekondu neighborhoods (Keyder, 2005). With their primary function rendered largely superfluous, gecekondus had no role in the imagined global future of the city. This shift was evident in both the state's approach to and the mainstream media's portrayal of gecekondus. In the new discourse, gecekondu dwellers came to be portrayed as petty profiteers shamelessly occupying the most valuable tracts of land and engaging in all sorts of illegal activities (Bozkulak, 2005). The generally held perception of the gecekondu neighborhood has rapidly shifted from that of a modest settlement inhabited by poor yet ambitious hardworking people to that of a breeding ground for dangerous groups. Zaman journalist Kamil Maman (2008, my translation) provides a typical account: Research conducted by the Bureau of Counterterrorism has shown that gangs engaging in mugging and drug‐dealing are each based in a certain neighborhood. Gangs and terrorist organizations choose gecekondu settlements for shelter. Members of terrorist organizations such as PKK and DHKP‐C in particular are provoking people against urban transformation projects through banners and leaflets. Recent legislative reforms also clearly convey the message that the era of informal urbanization is over. The new Turkish penal code passed in 2004 deems gecekondu construction a crime punishable by up to 5 years in prison.2 Recent legislative reforms also clearly convey the message that the era of informal urbanization is over. The new Turkish penal code passed in 2004 deemsconstruction a crime punishable by up to 5 years in prison. Another major factor that has aggravated the dispensability of gecekondus and their residents has been the emergence of the real estate sector as part and parcel of the city's productive economy. Recently, Istanbul has become one of the most attractive real estate markets in the world, with property values tripling between 2001 and 2008 (Radikal, 2008). Relative to other major cities in the region, Istanbul's commercial real estate sector has been only marginally affected by the economic downturn of 2008–09 and has shown signs of swift recovery. In a recent report jointly published by the Urban Land Institute and PwC (2011), Istanbul was ranked second (right behind Munich) among 27 major European cities in terms of ‘existing property performance’ and first both in terms of ‘new property acquisitions’ and ‘city development prospects’. The report states that Istanbul ‘is one of the few markets [in Europe] where investors remain confident in the city rather than their own ability to buck the general trend through superior real estate investment skills’ (ibid.: 34). Under these conditions of increasing prominence of real estate, and with the constant growth of the metropolitan area, previously ignored peripheral land on which gecekondu dwellers settled has become attractive real estate. It is in the context of the confluence of these two major factors — the changing employment structure of the city and the increasing pressure on low‐density urban land — that the authorities supplemented the ‘high‐profile prestige landmark project’ approach with an all‐embracing urban transformation agenda. The overarching economic motive has been to bridge the rent gap3 in Istanbul's informal housing stock and complete the transition from a populist to a neoliberal mode of governance of urban housing markets (Kuyucu and Unsal, 2010). A comprehensive renewal scheme in Istanbul is expected to increase real estate values threefold (Şenol, 2007).

Urban renewal In policy circles there have been three broad approaches to tackling the ‘slum problem’. The oldest approach, slum clearance, has been widely adopted in developing and developed countries alike since the middle of the twentieth century. This entails the complete eradication of an existing slum, often supplemented by a program of resettlement into public housing. Schemes targeting substandard housing in US inner cities during the 1950s are well‐known examples of this approach. Urban renewal in the US was launched as one of two main policy strategies (the other being public relief) to address urban poverty (Halpern, 1995: 64). Yet it soon became synonymous with slum clearance, as lower‐income housing (predominantly inhabited by African American communities) was demolished to make way for business districts. It is estimated that, during the period 1950–68, total housing demolition by all public programs amounted to 2.38 million units (Hartman, 1971: 745–6). Even though the Federal Housing Act of 1949 (with amendments in 1954) contained provisions regarding the relocation of displaced families in public housing, the vast majority of displaced households were not part of a state‐sponsored relocation program (Gotham, 2001). Highlighting the significant decrease in low‐income housing stock during the 1950s as a result of urban renewal, Greer (1965: 56) reports that the national program as a whole demolished four housing units for each unit built. The uprooted residents sought new housing in the immediate vicinity of the renewal area, only to be displaced by the next wave of renewal (Hartman, 1971: 746). As Hall (1971: 236) describes, ‘many of them moved from one tenement to another as they were pulled down, just a few steps ahead of the bulldozer, until some were moved six or seven times. Meanwhile, many lived in buildings unfit for rats that infested them, wrecked by vandalism, and sometimes without heat or light’. Slum clearance policies and the modernist planning principles that underpin them have been taken to task for their spatial determinism and their disregard for both a community's needs and priorities and the inherent complexity of urban life (Jacobs, 1961; Turner, 1967; 1968). Tenure legalization emerged as a second approach in the late 1970s, partially as a response to these critiques. John Turner's (1967) seminal work on housing development in squatter settlements was particularly influential in this shift (see also Mukhija, 2003: 71). This involves the provision of legal title to urban informal and illegal settlements.4 The basic assumption behind the tenure legalization strategy is that, with security of tenure, residents would be motivated to upgrade their houses without fear of demolition and displacement. Moreover, having procured legal certification of their houses, it is expected that the beneficiaries would use their property as collateral for obtaining loans, thus effectively using their property titles as assets in the formal market. Another expectation is that tenure legalization would provide an additional real estate tax revenue base for the state. Finally, economic incorporation through the provision of formal property rights is expected to enable political integration of the urban poor as owner–citizens, thereby pacifying otherwise politically ‘dangerous’ demands and potential threats to public order.5 The tenure legalization strategy has been widely criticized for emphasizing and encouraging freehold and owner occupancy as the ultimate desirable goal for any tenure reform, and further marginalizing poor tenants by turning former squatters into slum landlords (Payne, 2000; Lemanski, 2011). Since the late 1980s, ‘property‐led redevelopment’ has emerged as the dominant paradigm (Turok, 1992; He and Wu, 2007). This approach relies on real estate development as the driving force for urban regeneration. An illustrative example of this approach is the slum redevelopment program implemented in Mumbai in the late 1990s (Mukhija, 2003). The strategy deployed in Mumbai involved the demolition of an existing squatter settlement (Markandeya), rebuilding on the same site, and at a higher density, new apartment buildings exceeding the number of existing squatter houses. The additional units would be sold on the open market to cross‐subsidize the new units allocated for the slum dwellers. In effect the slum dwellers became development partners by investing their existing squatter housing as capital assets. As Mukhija (ibid.) explains, this scheme was a particularly viable path for both the state government and slum dwellers, given the extremely high land prices in Mumbai and the pre‐existing demand for new housing in the area. These factors made large cross‐subsidies available for the slum dwellers of Markandeya. Similarly in South Korea, Seoul has since the 1980s been experimenting with the hapdong model of redevelopment (Lee et al., 2003). In this approach, the designated slum area is redeveloped through a partnership between the local property owners' association and the developer firm, with minimal intervention from the government. The underlying premise of property‐led residential redevelopment is that the revenue generated by the renewal project is significantly higher than the existing rent values. Therefore this approach is only viable in areas with high rent gaps. Up until the mid‐1990s, Turkish policymakers relied on ‘tenure legalization’ as the primary strategy for addressing informal settlements. During the early 1980s, a total of five pieces of legislation (numbered 2805, 2981, 3086, 3290 and 3366) regulating gecekondus' path to legalization were passed. Among these, law 2981 — passed in 1984 — was the most significant, as it effectively issued an ‘amnesty’ for all gecekondus that were built on state‐owned land before 1984. Gecekondu ‘owners’ were issued ‘title assignation documents’ (tapu tahsis belgesi) (TTBs). The TTB is a document that recognizes the occupant's right to use the space, entitling the document holder to legal ownership after a ‘cadastral plan’ and a subsequent ‘improvement plan’ (imar islah plani) are prepared and approved by the local municipality. It certifies transitional status. At present there are still many neighborhoods — like Başıbüyük, which I will discuss shortly — where one finds residents who were granted TTBs in the 1980s, yet who have not attained fully legal status. This has left them in limbo, as the document grants the occupants the right to stay and use the space, but it does not confer full ownership rights. Although a TTB does not have an exchange value from a legal point of view (it is non‐tradable), within informal property markets it still has greater value than a gecekondu without a TTB (albeit less than a completely legal property). Tenure legalization strategy yielded limited success in terms of regulating the informal housing stock. The net result was the rapid transformation of low‐density low‐rise gecekondu settlements into densely populated neighborhoods with multi‐storey apartments. This transformation was facilitated by local small‐scale contractors who would strike individual deals with former squatter owners. There was limited oversight of the quality of housing, and the substandard nature of construction was exposed by the devastating earthquake in 1999 that claimed thousands of lives. The earthquake marked a turning point in policy circles; the tenure legalization strategy was largely abandoned as increasing the earthquake resilience of cities became the top priority. The ‘urban transformation’ model in Turkey emerged in such a climate at the turn of the millennium. It adopts a ‘property‐led redevelopment’ approach. The main actor of the model is the Turkish Housing Development Administration (TOKI), a governmental institution founded in 1984, tasked with the mission of alleviating the country's housing shortage. In terms of the built environment, TOKI projects are characterized by high‐density high‐rise housing units, arrayed with almost no regard for the creation of ‘positive’ outdoor spaces.6 TOKI's activities remained insignificant until the AKP's ascent to power in 2002. The new administration dramatically expanded TOKI's authority, transforming it into a major real estate actor and the primary supplier of market‐rate housing in Turkey. The ‘revenue sharing model’ developed by TOKI could be seen as an innovative variation on the cross‐subsidized redevelopment model. The AKP administration is so proud and confident in the efficacy of this housing scheme that it has been promoting the model as a successful remedy to ‘the slum problem’ and offering counseling to foreign officials in international forums. The model has been received with particular eagerness in Syria, Egypt and Algeria (NTVMSNBC, 2009; 2010). In this model TOKI opens up vacant state‐owned land in prime locations to private developers for high‐end housing development, and claims a share of the final revenues from the sale of housing units. The developer (or the contractor) is selected through an open tender on the basis of ‘revenue ratio’ offered. The bidder offering the highest share of the revenue that is allotted to TOKI is awarded the contract. This share is typically around 25–30% per cent.7 The cornerstone of these projects is the state‐owned land that is given under the authority of TOKI. TOKI values the land at less than its actual market price. This works as a hidden subsidy to the developer, which is able to sell the units for less than its competitors in the market. TOKI itself admits that this creates unfair competition (TOKI, 2010), but claims that this is an inevitable side‐effect of the government's affordable housing campaign. As a consequence of this unfair competition, TOKI has increased its share of the housing market from a mere 1.1% in 2003 to 18.6% in 2007 (Toruneri, 2008). TOKI uses revenues generated through the ‘revenue sharing model’ to construct housing projects for low‐ and middle‐income groups as well as gecekondu redevelopment projects. However these houses are not given to the poor for nothing, as has been the case for example in some urban redevelopment projects in Chile (Salcedo, 2010). They are sold to the urban poor at ‘affordable’ prices. Therefore there is not a direct revenue transfer from high‐end projects to housing projects for the poor. Around 10–40% of the cost of the house (depending on the income level of the prospective owner) is initially collected as a deposit.8 The residents are then asked to pay monthly installments to a bank contracted by TOKI for 15 to 20 years. These are indexed to wage increases in the public sector and are updated every six months. If residents fail to make payments on time, ownership is transferred back to TOKI. TOKI has recently taken steps to securitize these debt obligations and sell them in secondary markets (Çavdar, 2008). For the president of TOKI, the formation of secondary mortgage markets is essential in order to meet the colossal costs of TOKI (Özsümer, 2008). The president of TOKI claims that TOKI's mass housing projects are ‘public housing’ (Bayraktar, 2011b). Close association of TOKI with ‘public’ or ‘social’ housing is not restricted to government institutions — it is also widespread in policy and scholarly publications in Turkish and English alike — but this claim is quite simply false. Among many developing countries that are on a par with Turkey in terms of development indices and housing shortages (such as China, Colombia, Mexico, South Africa and Malaysia), Turkey stands out as having the least state intervention in provision of affordable housing. Crucially, Turkey has never had public housing policies. ‘Public housing’ policies, as practiced across the world in various forms, entail the public (state) ownership of property which is rented out to eligible low‐income families at affordable rates. One might arguably include housing vouchers in this definition. For all practical purposes, however, public housing and market‐rate housing are mutually exclusive concepts. In this regard it is obvious that TOKI's mass‐housing projects do not qualify as public housing, as they are homeownership programs.9 Indeed, I argue that TOKI's housing scheme is actually a market‐disciplinary tool. Over the last few years, the World Bank has been promoting the use of mortgage‐related securities to fund housing in developing countries (Buckley and Kalarickal, 2005). It is assumed that such instruments will expand and diversify the mortgage market by mobilizing a previously untapped pool of domestic savings, specifically those of the urban poor, and ‘increase the flow of funds to the housing sector and better allocate the risks inherent in housing finance’ (Chiquier et al., 2009: 295). This necessitates strong and fully fledged primary mortgage markets.10 While Turkey's first mortgage law was passed in March 2007, the primary and secondary mortgage markets remain at a nascent stage and far removed from low‐income sectors of the population (Milliyet, 2005). TOKI thus simultaneously fulfills two crucial functions. It eradicates squatter settlements through urban renewal projects, and in doing so enlists overwhelmingly involuntary participants into the mortgage origination market. The evicted residents are offered what are essentially mortgage loans with long maturities for obtaining the houses in the new development. The other major actor in urban transformation is the local administration. Between 2004 and 2007, Turkey's AKP‐dominated parliament passed a series of laws redefining the judicial status of metropolitan and district municipalities, granting them rights to execute ‘urban transformation projects’ in collaboration with TOKI. These new pieces of legislation (particularly renewal law 5366), together with amendments to existing laws,11 authorize municipalities to implement renewal projects in dilapidated historic neighborhoods, designate urban transformation zones, exproprİate private property, execute redevelopment projects, and form private firms or participate in public–private partnerships. The Istanbul metropolitan area consists of 39 sub‐provincial municipalities (boroughs), responsible for the preparation and implementation of district‐ and neighborhood‐level plans in conformity with the master plan prepared by the IBB. With the imposition by central government and the IBB of urban transformation as the new overarching agenda, the district municipalities focused their efforts on redeveloping the informal housing stock within their jurisdictions. The mandate is to incorporate undervalued unplanned spaces into the circuits of the formal economy. I now turn to one of these sites.

Case study: Başıbüyük Başıbüyük was established on the lower slopes of one of the major hills on the Asian side of Istanbul. Up until the late 1960s it was a self‐contained and relatively isolated village, located far outside the urban area. From the early 1970s onwards, the neighborhood experienced an increasing influx of rural migrants from the Black Sea region and eastern Anatolia. It steadily grew from its original center at the foot of the hill up towards its peak, slowly engulfing the state‐owned forestry surrounding it. Today, the neighborhood encompasses an area of 94 hectares (232 acres) and is home to 14,000 people. Up until the late 1980s, a single narrow winding dirt road connected the neighborhood to the district's business and commercial center. Başıbüyük has long lost its perceived remoteness. It is surrounded by luxurious high‐end housing developments and has a university campus to its east, all constructed over the last couple of years as a consequence of the Maltepe district municipality's decision to open up certain tracts of vacant forest land to development. As the former mayor12 explained, ideas for this ‘vacant land’ include an amusement park, a zoo, meeting places and ‘anything that you can imagine’ in order to turn Maltepe into a major entertainment center for the entire city (Kose, 2008). Another factor distinguishing this poor hilltop neighborhood is the magnificent view of the Sea of Marmara that it commands (Figure 1). Surrounded by one of Istanbul's (now extremely rare) natural forest areas, it is also favored on account of its fresh air. Despite having received public services and gradual improvements in infrastructure over the last four decades,13 Başıbüyük as a whole remains an unauthorized settlement; none of the residents hold legal title deeds to their houses.14 Figure 1 Open in figure viewerPowerPoint Istanbul median monthly household income map (source: Istanbul Metropolitan Municipality, 2006) Başıbüyük was declared an urban renewal area in February 2006 in a joint protocol ratified by the IBB, Maltepe Municipality and TOKI. In May 2008, the document regulating the urban renewal of Başıbüyük was approved by the local assembly. At the meeting, Mayor Fikri Kose explained how they decided to implement urban renewal in Başıbüyük: There have been plans for urban renewal in many illegal settlements across Maltepe. We decided that an urban renewal project would be beneficial for Başıbüyük residents. Since we know that this is the only way they can attain legal title deeds and since the law gives us the authority to do so, we embarked on the renewal project. We conducted a survey in the neighborhood to determine the building density. Among 1,142 buildings we determined that 53% were single storey, and 22% were double‐storey buildings. In other words, around 75% of these buildings are low density, therefore are conducive to redevelopment.15 Throughout his speech the mayor did not mention any motive for urban renewal in Başıbüyük other than the ‘low‐density’ factor. Thus, the rent gap motive was conspicuous from the outset. Nor did he mention any attempt to reach out to the residents and include them in the project development process. Throughout his speech the mayor did not mention any motive for urban renewal in Başıbüyük other than the ‘low‐density’ factor. Thus, the rent gap motive was conspicuous from the outset. Nor did he mention any attempt to reach out to the residents and include them in the project development process. The Başıbüyük renewal project adopts a gradual redevelopment approach. The first phase involves construction by TOKI of six apartment towers in an uninhabited area in the middle of the neighborhood. According to residents, this area is not conducive to habitation due to underground water dynamics rendering the terrain unstable. For decades, residents have dug wells here to access a supply of fresh water. According to the plan, residents in the immediate surroundings are to be relocated to these units, thereby clearing the way for the next phase of redevelopment. During my fieldwork, Maltepe Municipality repeatedly refused to disclose any information as to the long‐term schedule of the redevelopment plan. The residents meanwhile are convinced that the municipality aims to squeeze the whole neighborhood into high‐density high‐rise housing, so that the vacated land can be sold for high‐end development. The majority of residents, however, don't want to be relocated from their low‐rise houses, with gardens and plenty of space for their children to play, into apartment towers that they call ‘coffins’ (Figure 2). The metaphor is due to the uniformity and box‐like quality of the TOKI units, and residents' conviction that these structures will eventually collapse because of the instability of the terrain. In addition, many of them simply cannot afford the monthly payments required to attain ownership of the new apartments.16 The financial commitment of participating in the project goes beyond paying the mortgage every month. Moving to registered TOKI housing means paying property taxes and service charges (e.g. elevator maintenance fee, common areas maintenance and cleaning fee, waste disposal fee, etc.). Figure 2 Open in figure viewerPowerPoint A street scene from Başıbüyük (photo by the author) During an interview with an elderly male Başıbüyük resident who has been active in the organized resistance against the renewal project, I asked how his relationship to his neighbors has changed over the course of the struggle. At one point in his response he said: Already people are making calculations about how they will pay the monthly dues. When this project is completed no one will talk to each other anymore, everyone will mind their own business. Everyone will be preoccupied with paying their dues. That's a huge financial burden. If you fail to pay for two consecutive months you are done for! You are homeless! They [the municipality] want to turn us into robots. Working day and night to pay the dues, we'll become TOKI's indentured servants.17 This narrative captures the gist of the urban renewal approach in Turkey, which is not just about spatial reconfiguration. TOKI's policies also aim to change residents' orientation to time, locking their everyday lives into the peculiar chronological span of the mortgage. It is important to pay attention to two aspects of everyday life in Başıbüyük in order to understand the full scope of the ‘robot’ metaphor. This narrative captures the gist of the urban renewal approach in Turkey, which is not just about spatial reconfiguration. TOKI's policies also aim to change residents' orientation to time, locking their everyday lives into the peculiar chronological span of the mortgage. It is important to pay attention to two aspects of everyday life in Başıbüyük in order to understand the full scope of the ‘robot’ metaphor. The first aspect is economic, relating to flexibility in terms of sustaining livelihoods.18 Work in the construction sector has historically been a major source of income for male Başıbüyük residents. Workers are hired for the duration of a project on an informal basis; jobs therefore come with minimal tenure security. Tighter regulation of the industry (particularly after the 1999 earthquake) has forced many small construction companies out of business. Today the coffeehouses of Başıbüyük are filled with young men who have given up on actively searching for a permanent job. Many seek their livelihoods in temporary employment through informal jobs. Kadri19 is one of them. He moved to Başıbüyük in the late 1970s as a child, and has lived in the neighborhood ever since. He and his wife both originate from Ağrı (a province in eastern Turkey). They have two children. His wife tailors and knits at home, as he doesn't allow her to work outside the house. He used to work in road construction but was laid off in the late 1990s. I talked to him on a weekday afternoon in a coffee shop that he frequents. Ozan Did you work today? Kadri Well I went to work but couldn't make any money really. I went to the Maltepe bazaar and wanted to sell stuff. It's enough if I make TL 5–10. Ozan You were selling vegetables and fruit? Kadri Yes, but it was really bad. Ozan Do you go to the local bazaar as well? Kadri Sometimes I do. I go wherever I feel like. Every day I need to think about what I will do that day.20 Like Kadri and his family, many of the residents ‘live on a day‐to‐day basis’, in other words they live off the money that they make the same day. In some cases people have to make do without any income for weeks or months. Living in an informal neighborhood considerably alleviates the distress of not having a regular job, as expenses requiring payment on a regular (i.e. monthly) basis are minimal. Residents do not have to bear the cost of monthly maintenance fees or rent, and a significant portion of them are able to access power and water informally. Moreover, local shops are generally accommodating of this volatile situation. They sell on credit, allowing residents to pay later when they have money. The second aspect relates to habits and ways of living, particularly those concerning the use of space. A typical house in Başıbüyük has plenty of garden space used for growing vegetables and flowers. These gardens are an indispensible part of the residents' daily routine, as they provide space for their children to play and for adults to socialize, particularly for women (tea parties, etc.). Ismail and Meltem moved to Başıbüyük with their two children in the immediate aftermath of the 1999 earthquake, to get away from the fault line that runs along the Sea of Marmara. Formerly they were tenants in Maltepe. None of the family members benefit from any form of social security. While Meltem works as a cleaner in the nearby condo development, Ismail — a construction worker — has been unemployed for the last seven months. As he explains: The TOKI units are 85 square meters, but the actual usable space is less than 70 square meters. Our house is also 70 square meters, but with the garden and the terrace, usable space is much larger, especially in the summer. We sit outside, drink tea and enjoy the view. It is spacious and breezy here. We would be stifled in those apartment towers.21 The streets in Başıbüyük, with single‐storey houses on both sides and plenty of garden space, define a slow, meandering, horizontal space, in contrast to the fast, straight, vertical space of the apartment tower. This difference poses a significant challenge for prospective residents. As Erman, a long‐term resident, puts it: There is no way that the people of Başıbüyük could live in TOKI housing. They just don't have that culture. Now, my sister‐in‐law is also my aunt's daughter. She lives upstairs. She shakes the tablecloth from the window above us. Even though she is my sister‐in‐law, she and my wife can't get along. Now, in a 16‐storey apartment building the kids will make a game out of going up and down in the elevators, they will abuse it. One day we will have to bear the cost of painting the common hallways and staircases. But everyone will say ‘it's none of my business’. If the elevator is broken, people living on the lower floors will say ‘I don't care’. If the roof needs to be fixed it's the same story. In Ankara I saw the shelter spaces in the basement of TOKI housing. People store their paraphernalia in these spaces: a chair, an armchair. But people here are not like that. They will shove everything they have into these spaces. Normally one does not leave shoes in the communal hallway. If you want we can go and check; in front of every house you will find eight or ten pairs of shoes. How will you teach these things to people in that 16‐storey apartment? Now you are going to put people from Kars, Sivas, Samsun, Erzurum, Erzincan into one building. When even two brothers living in the same building can't get along, can you imagine what chaos will emerge when people with such different cultural backgrounds are put in the same building? I mean these are really excessively tall buildings. If they were five storeys high then that would be fine.22 On 27 February 2008, the TOKI contractor's trucks (escorted by hundreds of police) approached the neighborhood in an initial attempt to establish a base at the worksite. Under the leadership of the neighborhood association, residents responded by throwing stones and setting up makeshift barricades to block the trucks' passage. The police responded with unrestrained use of tear gas and sheer brutality. Dozens of residents were arrested during this first day, and the leadership of the association was accused of inciting violence against security forces. On 19 March 2008, the contractor made a second major attempt, and the residents succumbed to even greater levels of police brutality, directed in particular against youths and women. Nine residents were seriously injured and eight were arrested. On that day, some construction equipment was successfully transported and the worksite was finally established. Since then, a police presence has become permanent in the neighborhood, tasked with guarding the worksite against possible attacks from residents. Eventually, after a series of negotiations between the neighborhood association and the municipality, construction finally began in April 2008, and was conducted in a very speedy fashion. Within less than a year,the construction of six apartment towers was complete (Figure Figure 3 Open in figure viewerPowerPoint The first phase of the project is almost complete, November 2008 (photo by Nazim Akkoyunlu, reproduced with permission) The streets in Başıbüyük, with single‐storey houses on both sides and plenty of garden space, define a slow, meandering, horizontal space, in contrast to the fast, straight, vertical space of the apartment tower. This difference poses a significant challenge for prospective residents. As Erman, a long‐term resident, puts it:On 27 February 2008, the TOKI contractor's trucks (escorted by hundreds of police) approached the neighborhood in an initial attempt to establish a base at the worksite. Under the leadership of the neighborhood association, residents responded by throwing stones and setting up makeshift barricades to block the trucks' passage. The police responded with unrestrained use of tear gas and sheer brutality. Dozens of residents were arrested during this first day, and the leadership of the association was accused of inciting violence against security forces. On 19 March 2008, the contractor made a second major attempt, and the residents succumbed to even greater levels of police brutality, directed in particular against youths and women. Nine residents were seriously injured and eight were arrested. On that day, some construction equipment was successfully transported and the worksite was finally established. Since then, a police presence has become permanent in the neighborhood, tasked with guarding the worksite against possible attacks from residents. Eventually, after a series of negotiations between the neighborhood association and the municipality, construction finally began in April 2008, and was conducted in a very speedy fashion. Within less than a year,the construction of six apartment towers was complete (Figure 3 ). These housing units are still largely vacant due to stalemated negotiations between the neighborhood association and the municipality. A fraction of the housing units have been recently allocated to police officers as public housing. Residents allege that some of the police officers that moved to these housing units had been on active duty in the neighborhood during the clashes. At present the prevailing feeling in Başıbüyük is one of anxiety and suspense.

Conclusion: More than ‘dispossession’ The urban transformation agenda in Istanbul exhibits familiar elements of dispossession through urban renewal. Here urban renewal is deployed as a tool to transfer both the already accumulated and the potential land rent from gecekondu dwellers to the state and its affiliated contractors. As Başıbüyük residents aptly put it, what is being imposed on them in the name of urban transformation is fundamentally a scheme of ‘rental redistribution’. Against this scheme of ‘redistribution’, the residents assert their right to legal ownership by virtue of their status as long‐established occupants and users of the space. While this looks like an all‐too‐familiar conflict between expropriators on the one hand and residents defending their homes on the other, I suggest that there is more than dispossession to this story. TOKI not only renders informal territories visible and legible to an international real estate market, it also subdivides the temporal horizon of low‐income residents and turns them into tradable assets. It does not necessarily seek to displace poor residents (although it often ends up doing so), but to incorporate them into a nascent mortgage‐origination market. Therefore the TOKI model actively marketizes not only informal land but also the very conduct of residents. In certain exceptional cases the marketization is further reinforced through professional training programs for displaced residents (Candan and Kolluoglu, 2008: 27). In terms of addressing the issue of housing for the poor, the AKP administration has offered only one solution: ‘affordable’ market‐rate housing made available through mortgages with long maturities. Variations on public housing or rent‐control models are completely left out of the debate. Thus TOKI's housing policies align with the neoliberal ideal of a society where private ownership is extended to all spheres of social life, most fundamentally to housing, health care and social security. Former US President George W. Bush coined the term ‘ownership society’ to capture the spirit of this ideology. The ownership of homes, pension savings and health insurance are seen as vital for widening freedoms and ‘making every citizen an agent of his or her own destiny’ (Bush, 2005). The number of Başıbüyük residents holding a favorable opinion of the project has increased steadily since the early days of clashes with the police. More residents are giving up on hopes of obtaining legal title deeds for their gecekondus and acknowledge that urban renewal is the only viable path to legal homeownership, which translates into a tradable financial asset. The literature on slum redevelopment, gentrification and urban renewal remains largely focused on themes of dispossession and displacement. While these are still extremely relevant today, the Turkish experiment with property‐led redevelopment provides an interesting example of how urban renewal in the neoliberal era can also couple with market‐disciplinary technologies, where ‘exclusion’ from one's right to occupy and use space is complemented by forced ‘incorporation’ into the market.

1 Although it initially emerged as self‐help housing, squatter housing gradually became a tradable asset in the informal market. However, due to the risks inherent in investing in an ‘illegal’ housing unit, squatter home prices are significantly lower than house prices in the formal sector.

Although it initially emerged as self‐help housing, squatter housing gradually became a tradable asset in the informal market. However, due to the risks inherent in investing in an ‘illegal’ housing unit, squatter home prices are significantly lower than house prices in the formal sector. 2 This falls within the overarching offence of causing ‘built environment pollution’ ( imar kirliliği ) (GNA, 2004

This falls within the overarching offence of causing ‘built environment pollution’ ( ) (GNA, 3 Here I am using the term ‘rent gap’ in the sense defined by Neil Smith ( 1996

Here I am using the term ‘rent gap’ in the sense defined by Neil Smith ( 4 One of the World Bank's ( 1993 Housing: Enabling the Markets to Work , stressed the importance of land‐tenure regularization in informal settlements as part of a large‐scale urban property rights development strategy. These ideas were well received within policy networks and are still influential. In the mid‐1990s, UN‐HABITAT published a series of papers advocating tenure legalization, and more recently it launched the ‘Global Campaign for Secure Tenure’ (UN‐Habitat, 2003 2000 The Mystery of Capital . In this book, de Soto makes the appealing argument that the poor living in informal settlements and eking out a living through informal channels are actually wealthy. Yet, their affluence is invisible simply because they are incapable of using their wealth to generate capital. The obvious solution, he argues, is the formalization of informal property rights, thereby incorporating undocumented wealth into the circuits of the formal economy.

One of the World Bank's ( , stressed the importance of land‐tenure regularization in informal settlements as part of a large‐scale urban property rights development strategy. These ideas were well received within policy networks and are still influential. In the mid‐1990s, UN‐HABITAT published a series of papers advocating tenure legalization, and more recently it launched the ‘Global Campaign for Secure Tenure’ (UN‐Habitat, . In this book, de Soto makes the appealing argument that the poor living in informal settlements and eking out a living through informal channels are actually wealthy. Yet, their affluence is invisible simply because they are incapable of using their wealth to generate capital. The obvious solution, he argues, is the formalization of informal property rights, thereby incorporating undocumented wealth into the circuits of the formal economy. 5 Indeed, self‐help housing policies have been a major tool for de‐politicization of otherwise potentially militant unrest. Turning a blind eye to land invasions, gradual provision of services and infrastructure as a means of fostering patron–client relationships and political support have all been major tools with which governments have contained urban unrest. Thus, contrary to Manuel Castells' ( 1984 1991 gecekondu amnesties of the 1980s followed the most violent military coup in the country's recent history, which was a direct response to the increasing militancy of the popular left that found safe havens in gecekondu neighborhoods in big cities. Arguably these amnesties were successful in instilling an ethics of homeownership and turning erstwhile disgruntled informal residents with potentially ‘dangerous’ political inclinations into profit‐seeking owner–citizens.

Indeed, self‐help housing policies have been a major tool for de‐politicization of otherwise potentially militant unrest. Turning a blind eye to land invasions, gradual provision of services and infrastructure as a means of fostering patron–client relationships and political support have all been major tools with which governments have contained urban unrest. Thus, contrary to Manuel Castells' ( amnesties of the 1980s followed the most violent military coup in the country's recent history, which was a direct response to the increasing militancy of the popular left that found safe havens in neighborhoods in big cities. Arguably these amnesties were successful in instilling an ethics of homeownership and turning erstwhile disgruntled informal residents with potentially ‘dangerous’ political inclinations into profit‐seeking owner–citizens. 6 Here I am following Alexander et al .'s ( 1977 et al . ( ibid. : 521) argue that positive outdoor spaces provide a sense of shelter, as opposed to negative outdoor spaces which provide minimal sense of belonging and comfort.

Here I am following Alexander .'s ( . ( : 521) argue that positive outdoor spaces provide a sense of shelter, as opposed to negative outdoor spaces which provide minimal sense of belonging and comfort. 7 Just to give an example, from the Halkalı revenue sharing project, TOKI claimed 29.5% of the US $270 million revenue realized by the developer.

Just to give an example, from the Halkalı revenue sharing project, TOKI claimed 29.5% of the US $270 million revenue realized by the developer. 8 In some urban renewal projects the deposit requirement may be waived, depending on the particular circumstances and the bargaining power of the community.

In some urban renewal projects the deposit requirement may be waived, depending on the particular circumstances and the bargaining power of the community. 9 The only state‐subsidized rental model in Turkey that is remotely similar to public housing in its commonly accepted sense is the lojman (from the French logement ). Even though very common in Turkish cities, these units are only for members of the military, the judiciary, law enforcement officers and civil servants, and therefore are far from being part of a social housing policy for the poor.

The only state‐subsidized rental model in Turkey that is remotely similar to public housing in its commonly accepted sense is the (from the French ). Even though very common in Turkish cities, these units are only for members of the military, the judiciary, law enforcement officers and civil servants, and therefore are far from being part of a social housing policy for the poor. 10 For example in Mexico, the Federal Mortgage Society ( Sociedad Hipotecaria Federal ) is a government institution acting as an intermediary between the housing sector and lending institutions. To support the demand side, it provides partial mortgage guarantees for low‐income debtors. The overarching motive is to support the mortgage‐origination market and in doing so enable the growth of a secondary mortgage market (see http://www.shf.gob.mx/English/AboutSHF/History/Paginas/default.aspx).

For example in Mexico, the Federal Mortgage Society ( ) is a government institution acting as an intermediary between the housing sector and lending institutions. To support the demand side, it provides partial mortgage guarantees for low‐income debtors. The overarching motive is to support the mortgage‐origination market and in doing so enable the growth of a secondary mortgage market (see http://www.shf.gob.mx/English/AboutSHF/History/Paginas/default.aspx). 11 These are the law on metropolitan municipalities (5216), the law on municipalities (5393), the law on special provincial administrations (5302), the law on associations/unions of municipalities (5355) and the law on regional development agencies (5449). The latest relevant addition to the statute book is the law regarding the transformation of areas at risk of disaster (6306), passed in May 2012.

These are the law on metropolitan municipalities (5216), the law on municipalities (5393), the law on special provincial administrations (5302), the law on associations/unions of municipalities (5355) and the law on regional development agencies (5449). The latest relevant addition to the statute book is the law regarding the transformation of areas at risk of disaster (6306), passed in May 2012. 12 Mayor Fikri Kose of the AKP lost his seat to the main opposition party's candidate, Mustafa Zengin of the Republican People's Party (RPP) in the March 2009 municipal elections.

Mayor Fikri Kose of the AKP lost his seat to the main opposition party's candidate, Mustafa Zengin of the Republican People's Party (RPP) in the March 2009 municipal elections. 13 The informal bus line that connected the neighborhood to the city center was introduced in 1966. The neighborhood received electricity in 1968, and phone lines in 1992. Finally in 2005 it received natural gas. The first elementary school was established in 1989, and a second one opened in 1994 ( Birgun , 2008

The informal bus line that connected the neighborhood to the city center was introduced in 1966. The neighborhood received electricity in 1968, and phone lines in 1992. Finally in 2005 it received natural gas. The first elementary school was established in 1989, and a second one opened in 1994 ( , 14 Most of the residents who settled in the neighborhood before 1984 hold TTBs, while others have absolutely no formal claim to their properties. There are, therefore, significant variations in real and perceived tenure security among residents.

Most of the residents who settled in the neighborhood before 1984 hold TTBs, while others have absolutely no formal claim to their properties. There are, therefore, significant variations in real and perceived tenure security among residents. 15 Fieldnotes, 9 May 2008, Maltepe Municipal Assembly meeting (my translation).

Fieldnotes, 9 May 2008, Maltepe Municipal Assembly meeting (my translation). 16 An apartment in the TOKI's project is sold at TL 55,000 (1 TL= US $0.57 as of February 2012). A valuation company commissioned by the municipality assigns a market value to each existing home in the neighborhood. But this value is determined solely on the basis of the construction materials that went into the building of the gecekondu . The land value is not included in the calculation simply because residents are regarded as illegal occupants. A typical single‐storey gecekondu is valued approximately at TL 15,000. The gecekondu ‘owner’ would then be obliged to pay the TL 40,000 difference in installments over a period of 15 years (circa TL 220 a month), which is beyond the means of most residents, many of whom are either unemployed or underemployed.

An apartment in the TOKI's project is sold at TL 55,000 (1 TL= US $0.57 as of February 2012). A valuation company commissioned by the municipality assigns a market value to each existing home in the neighborhood. But this value is determined solely on the basis of the construction materials that went into the building of the . The land value is not included in the calculation simply because residents are regarded as illegal occupants. A typical single‐storey is valued approximately at TL 15,000. The ‘owner’ would then be obliged to pay the TL 40,000 difference in installments over a period of 15 years (circa TL 220 a month), which is beyond the means of most residents, many of whom are either unemployed or underemployed. 17 Fieldnotes, 29 June 2008, Başıbüyük.

Fieldnotes, 29 June 2008, Başıbüyük. 18 See Candan and Kolluoglu ( 2008 gecekondu neighborhood. Interestingly the term ‘robot’ also came up in their interviews. A resident is quoted as saying: ‘When you have low income, you become more like a robot. You have limited income, your expenses are predetermined. What you can do is also predetermined’ ( ibid .: 24).

See Candan and Kolluoglu ( neighborhood. Interestingly the term ‘robot’ also came up in their interviews. A resident is quoted as saying: ‘When you have low income, you become more like a robot. You have limited income, your expenses are predetermined. What you can do is also predetermined’ ( .: 24). 19 All names are pseudonyms.

All names are pseudonyms. 20 Fieldnotes, 12 March 2009, Başıbüyük.

Fieldnotes, 12 March 2009, Başıbüyük. 21 Fieldnotes, 1 March 2009, Başıbüyük.

Fieldnotes, 1 March 2009, Başıbüyük. 22 Fieldnotes, 4 March 2009, Başıbüyük.