MÜCADELE

The night street seems to be drawn with a sharp pencil: the rhythm beats like footsteps on wet asphalt, and the words are short, like queues, with more shouting than meaning. Here, faith and family stand alongside cold chrome 9mm, euros on the table and a race from Trabzon to Istanbul - a mixture of street realism and routine pathos that is both funny and frightening at the same time. All this harsh poetry is based on a simple code: honour, revenge, caution - and that same chaotic humour that survives amid the fighting.

Behind the rough grin lies a warm affection for his own: his mother, his brothers, his old habits. It's as if a neighbour in the courtyard is whispering in your ear: ‘Hold your ground, but don't forget about people,’ and doing so with a barely noticeable smile. To listen is to take a ride through a city where every line smells of tobacco, currency and bloody determination, and irony saves you from drawing overly serious conclusions.