Reproducing Class: Education, Neoliberalism, and the Rise of the New Middle Class in Istanbul

INTRODUCTION

It is a beautiful Saturday morning in late May. In Istanbul, spring is in the air; there is not the usual noise and scurrying around that one encounters during harried weekdays. It is the kind of morning when young parents are out and about with their children, when there is time to explore neighborhood surroundings without purpose or direction. We have been part of this scene countless times on our weekend walks around the backstreets of Beyo lu (formerly Pera) and Karak y (formerly Galata), two of the oldest areas of non-Turkish settlement that predate the establishment of Constantinople as the imperial city of the Byzantine empire. These districts housed guilds, foreign merchants, and dignitaries during the centuries of Ottoman rule that preceded the founding of the Turkish Republic in 1923. In the nineteenth century, Pera was the center of European modernist culture and continues to serve that function with its fin de siècle architecture, foreign consulates, churches, film theaters, restaurants, coffee houses, taverns, bookstores, galleries, and marketplaces. The main avenue, named Istiklal Caddesi (Independence Boulevard), is emblematic of the way in which Istanbul merges its Turkish national identity with its cosmopolitan identity influenced by European ideas about modernism. Ironically, the Turkish Republic emerged slowly after the First World War until Mustafa Kemal, later to be known as Atatürk (Father Turk), fought a successful war of independence against France, Britain, Italy, and Greece. In Taksim Square at the head of Independence Boulevard, there is an awe-inspiring and beautiful statue of Atatürk surrounded by his compatriots from every walk of life. Normally, the boulevard is a promenade for lovers, tourists, shoeshine boys, and other characters from all parts of the city who assemble to stroll and gaze at each other.

On this particular Saturday morning, the structure of feeling is different. The year is 1996, the date May 24, the time an hour away from eleven o'clock. We register these precise facts because we are walking briskly in the same direction as others, with purpose. Following a multitude of parents with their children in hand, we turn off Siraselviler, one of the main streets in the district of Cihangir, and wind down Turnaci Ba i Street to an elementary school that happens to be located next to the Greek Consulate. Others have already assembled. There is a look of nervousness on the faces of parents, an unusual quietness in children, and stillness in the air. We sense a feeling of apprehension, yet also single-minded determination. A few parents greet each other before turning their gaze toward the pavement or the sky, or just staring at an empty middle distance. The children are from different elementary schools, but as fifth-graders they share the same intention. There are a few older people milling about, no doubt surrogate parents. Expressionless children stand dutifully by the side of a parent or ward, foregoing an opportunity to glance at each other.

We share this structure of feeling because others like them have shared their hopes, dreams, and anxieties with us. We are there to observe, at one moment in one location, an annual event that occurs simultaneously in designated venues across the nation. We know that a large majority of the participants in this ritual are privileged children of a relatively small proportion of the Turkish population. Their families share a class resemblance, but retain many differences in their character and beliefs. Years of preparation have brought them together at the door of this school.

At precisely eleven o'clock, the heavy wooden door opens and a man steps out; without a word, he motions the children to enter. They move toward the door with a studied pace. At the door, he checks the name of each child against his list. A few parents venture a step through the doorway for one last hug, interrupted by a gesture that separates parent from child. After the last child enters, the man disappears behind the closing door. The sudden separation, we surmise, must be jarring, antithetic to the emotional closeness that develops between mother and child during their years of shared preparation and planning that have brought them to this school on this day. An hour and ten minutes will have passed before the door again opens. Inside, each child will have demonstrated the skills of speed and accuracy by answering one hundred multiple-choice questions. Outside, parents are thinking, one chance only.

Most of the parents are mothers, and most are equipped with cell phones. They pace up and down the street but keep the door in sight, stop, sit for a moment on old stone walls across from the consulate, nervously occupying themselves by calling close relatives, neighbors, and friends who are awaiting word—any word. The calls are repeated frequently despite the absence of any news from inside the school. Cigarettes are lit and extinguished before they are spent. Once in a while, a car shows up. The driver, no doubt a husband or close relative, confers in low tones with the mother, then drives off. This act of disappearing and reappearing seems incongruous with the emotional tone of the event. The waiting seems unbearably long as mothers glance at their watches.

Suddenly, the door opens. Children come pouring out; some are wearing smiles, others subdued. None are exuberant. Parents rush to their child, embrace her or him, lift the child off her or his feet. They are delirious with joy and express enormous sighs of relief; sighs of adult exhaustion more from the mothers than the fathers. Abruptly, every child is whisked into a car or hurried up the street to attend a debriefing at home, where close friends, neighbors, and family members await to smother the child in loving security. No doubt there will be a reward. Mothers will thank their child for working with them—another incongruity, as if the child were working for his or her mother.

Relief gives way to heightened tension in the days that follow, as parents who chose to enter their child in this national test await news of the results. Within a week, the official results are published in national newspapers in the form of long lists of identification numbers of the children, together with their numerical score to the third decimal place. The list is rank ordered, highest to lowest scores. The word is out—winners take all. Not even a second chance. Elimination. For weeks, on the front pages and in feature stories of national print media, winners reveal the names behind the numbers, and appellations of superiority are attached to them in newspapers that feature stories about super students that display the photos of winners, at times with their super tutors, sometimes their parents, but rarely with mothers, or with the elementary school teacher who taught the same child for five years. The private middle schools that are in competition with each other to select the best of the winners are themselves referred to by the press as five-star schools, closing the circle of symbolic capital.

Some of the most sought after middle schools in the country happen to be in the immediate vicinity of the event we observed. The oldest and most venerable school in the country is Galatasaray Lisesi (lycée), a few steps from the Greek Consulate onto Istiklal Boulevard. By a historical particularity, Galatasaray happens to be a special public school founded in the late Ottoman period as a school for training imperial pages as part of reforms referred to as Tanzimat. The school was reorganized in 1868 as a modern lycée (grades six to eleven, including middle school grades six to eight, and high school grades nine to eleven), influenced by France. Lessons were taught in both Turkish and French. A popular history of the area published in 1972 refers to the school as the best as well as the most famous Turkish lycée. (Sumner-Boyd and Freely 1989: 104) Today it no longer is considered the best school by the state or most parents, but it continues to enjoy the reputation of being the most intellectual lycée, perhaps because of its commitment to a classical curriculum.

We stroll down Istiklal Boulevard from Galatasaray Lisesi to Alman Lisesi (German) and continue on past the museum and house of the venerable Whirling Dervishes, representative of a different genealogy and pedagogical heritage. Then down the hill past Galata Tower, the center of the medieval Genoese merchant community, to arrive at Avusturya Lisesi (Austrian, middle school). Continuing our stroll along the side of the hill in Galata, we circle back around to St. Benoit Lisesi (French). Had we continued farther along the hillside we would have arrived back at Taksim Circle, where Istiklal Boulevard begins. Nearby is Notre Dame de Sion Lisesi (French).

By international treaty, private foreign schools were protected and have survived over three generations to become the most sought-after schools in the country. Most are in Istanbul, all are private, all teach in both Turkish and foreign languages, and all have acquired a pedigree that precedes the founding of the Turkish Republic in 1923. To complete the Istanbul list, we include Saint Joseph Lisesi (French), Sankt George Avusturya Kiz Lisesi (Austrian, for girls), Sankt George Avusturya Lisesi ve Ticaret Okulu (Austrian), Saint Michel Fransiz Lisesi (French), Italyan Lisesi (Italian), Üsküdar Amerikan Lisesi (American), and Robert Lisesi (American). In all, eleven private foreign elite schools that together have an enrollment of only several thousand seats.

For some decades now, Robert Lisesi has been, by acclamation of media and popular assent, the best high school in Turkey. Founded in 1863 by an American missionary and philanthropist, in its early years it became a university that for decades was called the finest institution of higher learning in Turkey. In 1971, the original Robert College for men (the high school) moved from its hilltop site overlooking the narrows of the Bosphorus Strait and the village of Bebek to the campus of the American College for Girls. This girls' high school and the boys' high school were united and the institution became the co-ed Robert College or Robert Lisesi. The campus is sited on a hillside surrounded by ample grasslands and trees, overlooking the Bosphorus Strait and the village of Arnavutköy on the shore road, a short distance from the center of the city.

What secular rite of passage is being performed here? Ask anyone at the 24 May event and she or he will say that the test is not just any test. The official name of it is the Private Selective Middle Schools Examinations (Özel Okullar Sinavi) (hereafter, SMSE). The test is created, organized, managed, monitored, scored, and recorded by a test unit within the Ministry of National Education (Milli E itim Bakanh i). Of all the ministries of the Turkish state, only the military bureaucracy has an equivalent standing. Education was viewed as the foundation of the republic and its modernizing aspirations.

Why are parents so anxious? A child can take the test only once, and that one time must be in fifth grade between the ages of eleven and twelve. Istanbul is a large, busy, and noisy metropolis. It would not be unusual to get caught in traffic, for a child to be sick that day, or for parents to have their own problems or obligations that required them to be elsewhere. If the child has an anxiety attack during the test, a need to relieve her- or himself, or any other conceivable act, there is no recourse. No second chance. To underscore this point, middle school graduates who choose to take the annual national University Entrance Examinations and fail may retake them numerous times.

What is the significance of this event to the families that participate in it? Winning this race (yan ) means more to them than anything else. When we ask why, they repeatedly offer the same comment that education in Turkey has an absolute value. But why the test, when public schools and many private schools do not require it? Winning this race, they say, means the chance to have a comfortable life. Parents, when pressed to clarify their gloss on our query, respond by saying that we want our children to have the life we have, but in Turkey today it is more difficult.

Who participates and who does not? Its scope is nationwide, but only a small fraction of eligible families choose to enter the SMSEs. Nearly a million children were eligible in 1996, but only three hundred thousand students competed for less than five hundred Anadolu middle schools in 1996. About seventeen thousand children competed for several hundred private middle schools that together had only nine thousand seats to fill. The spatial distribution of elite schools is extreme. The difference between the two types of selective schools—public Anadolu and private schools—index a class difference between the families of the core middle class and the new middle class. Private schools are beyond the economic capital of core middle-class families, and private schools are clustered in a few urban centers where the neoliberal economy is visible on the landscape. The center of elite education is Istanbul, where demand is the greatest and the competition has become fierce.

By standards of Istanbul core middle-class earning power, tuition and costs of sending a child to a private school are exorbitant to the point of eliminating middle-class families from competing in the private SMSEs. Cost of education for families increased above inflation steadily during the 1980s and 1990s, at a time when new middle-class families were joining the ranks of the established Istanbul upper middle class.

Upper middle-class families of Istanbul and elsewhere in Turkey have sent their children to elite private foreign schools since the founding of the Turkish Republic in 1923. The new private schools that appeared after 1980 are a response to the appearance of new middle-class families and their aspirations. The emerging new middle class was on its way to achieving a collective interest in intergenerational accumulation and social reproduction by means of education that would reflect not only its education aspirations but also its claim to new economy jobs, class privilege in the eyes of the neoliberal state, and an emerging postmodern consumer lifestyle that transformed the appearance and space of an Istanbul metropolitan region.

The tale told at the beginning of this Introduction gets underneath structural issues that occupy the early chapters of the book and foregrounds subjectivities and sensibilities of the agents of class reproduction viewed through the lens of the selective middle schools examinations.

Prior to 1980, the Ministry of National Education was hostile toward private education of all sorts, which it viewed as an attack on the foundational principles of the republic and the role of education in creating a national culture by inculcating the duties of citizenship. The introduction of the test in 1983 was close enough to parents' memories of their own childhoods free from the demands that the state was now imposing on their children. They watched their neighbors and friends as the test became more competitive with each passing year and the annual cost of private education began to outpace inflation. Their anger went beyond the test per se to how preparation for the test affected the education of their children, a loss of childhood, and a disruption in their daily lives. Parents perceived the test negatively, as an instrument designed to eliminate all but a few. The tension between a belief in the necessity of the test and its violent intrusion in the lives of the family shaped their narratives of parenthood and childhood. ¹

The organization of the book addresses questions about the relation of education hierarchies to class hierarchies, the role that the neoliberal state and market together play in shaping class formation through education, and the agency of families in reproducing their own class privilege and values.

Remarkably, after 1980, especially during the decade of the 1990s and continuing into the present, there have been increases in private investment in schools at all levels of education, large enough that the government declared private education to be a new economic sector in national accounts. During this same period, Istanbul public education had reached a crisis of overcrowded classrooms, a shortage of teachers due in part to poor salaries, and a decline in quality (kalite) education. The public education crisis in Istanbul was partly due to population pressure after three decades of in-migration to cities from other provinces. Istanbul was the main destination of migrants from all provinces in Turkey. Other cities experienced in-migration primarily from provinces within their own region. The centripetal force of Istanbul in the context of class and education is made visible in an Istanbul population that has increased from one million in 1950 to ten million in 2000.

The global phenomenon we focus on in Istanbul is the appearance, over the past several decades, of new middle classes in globalizing cities around the world. These urban new middle classes, it is argued, are the social outcome of the policies and practices of states that have embraced a cultural ideology of neoliberalism and an economy of neoliberal markets. The result is an increase in the complexity and growth of new markets that have generated capital growth of all kinds—material, social, and symbolic-cultural. In the history of accumulation, we live at a time when the current scope, size, and rate of accumulation has restructured the relation between state and citizen, one social class and another, and raised questions about access and equity. The education of new middle classes in many countries is viewed by neoliberal states as human capital that has a price in the market and contributes to growth in the new economy. ²

This book is an exploration of the question, how does the Turkish neoliberal state shape its economy and culture to form a new middle class, and how does that class reproduce itself? By default, we indirectly address the decline of an industrial core middle class. Ours is an ethnographic case study that focuses on Istanbul, Turkey's globalizing city.³ We argue that fields of competitive relations, primarily in education and property, but also lifestyle, are among the most important fields to interrogate.

In Turkey, the neoliberal state and market are institutionalized sources of agency that realize the (neoliberal) new middle class as an emerging global middle class. The Istanbul new middle class, we argue, is the expression and result of the neoliberal state's elevation of the private market over other institutions that were deemed important during the previous era of building a nation through the instruments of a welfare state economy based on state enterprises. We refer to the middle class of this era as the industrial core middle class. The neoliberal state, we argue, through the exercise of its hegemony over social spaces, class privileges, and access to quality education, creates the conditions for and is the instrument by which access and equity are regulated and controlled in this era of the accumulation of capital on a global scale. Within this framework of neoliberal state and market, we explore the agency of the family as the main institution of new middle class reproduction.

Urban Ethnography and the Ethnographic Object

How were changes in middle-class formation during the liberalization episode affected by globalizing processes, and how were these refracted in the changing cityscape of Istanbul? This question has embedded in it another prior question about how the middle class is constituted as an object of study. Before we had determined the exact subject, namely, education practices of families and households that are central to the question of how a middle class is reproduced and transformed, we had intuitions and made self-evident observations about what constituted a middle class. These were based on our knowledge from several sources, including the literature on social class and our many conversations with people in Istanbul about the salience of our concept of class for exploring the relationship between education and social hierarchies. To these sources were added intuitions and experience from living in the city as well as more formal and recorded observations and interviews.

In one sense, fieldwork in Istanbul began for one of us in childhood. Balkan, who was born and grew up in a middle-class household in Bakirköy, now the largest and most populous district of Istanbul, went to Kadiköy Maarif Koleji, renamed Kadiköy Anadolu Lisesi when the state created the first five Anadolu middle schools in the 1950s in an attempt to meet middle-class families demand for quality education.

During the academic year of 1991–92, Rutz taught at Bo aziçi University. He taught a course in