I was born on the edge of a dusty road, among the yellow grasses swaying in wave after wave of wind.

The steppe of Central Anatolia was not merely a geography; it was a state of mind. My childhood passed across those plains where the horizon stretched like a line, in that feeling of infinity where the sky met the earth. Then I grew up, merged into the crowds of cities, and lost myself among piles of concrete. But the steppe always remained within me as a silent call flowing through my blood until one day, that call turned into a cry.

I remember: summer evenings, those hours when the sun sank like a crimson fireball beyond the horizon. The fields would turn golden yellow, and the scent of thyme carried by the wind would fill my nostrils. My grandfather's hands were calloused, his face carved with the lines of the steppe. With those hands, he would sow seeds as if caressing the parched soil. "This land" he would say, "teaches a person patience. It asks nothing of you; it only knows how to wait for its time." I didn't understand it then, but now I know that the steppe is the purest embodiment of waiting, patience, and labor.

Years passed. I lived in the gray streets of Kocaeli, unaware of how time flowed by. Every day the same rush, every night the same exhaustion. But occasionally, in a breath of wind, in a bird's song, in the steam rising from a glass of tea, I would find something reminiscent of the steppe. Those moments made me feel something stirring in the depths of my heart. As if the steppe were an ancient wisdom calling out to me, and I had long turned a deaf ear to that call. Those deep folk songs about the steppe reminded me of my true self and told me to return to the place I belonged.

Last spring, I set out under the pretext of a business trip. It was just a pretext, really; inside me lay an indescribable longing. As the car moved toward the plains of Central Anatolia, the landscape began to change. I had seen every shade of green, but the steppe's own peculiar yellowish-brown filled me with a warmth that soothed my soul. I turned off the radio and rolled down the window. The wind struck my face the scent of my childhood, the smell of fields, of mud, of dry grass... My eyes welled up.That day, I walked through the fields where I used to run as a child. The bushes by the roadside were still in the same places. Beyond a distant hill stood the ruined house where we had played hide-and-seek as children, where we ran and had fun; it was still there. I touched the soil. What was that feeling like? Warm, dry, rough yet at the same time alive, something that breathed. My grandfather's words came back to me: "This land teaches a person patience." So the steppe had not abandoned me. It was I who had forgotten it.

That night, I sat in a village coffeehouse. The elderly men were playing backgammon, and tea was being brewed. Outside, the stars were brighter and closer than I could ever see in the cities. There was a deep silence but this was not the artificial silence of cities; it was the deep breath of the earth. In that moment, I realized that the steppe was not actually silence, but rather a whisper thousands of years old. That whisper was kneaded with the footprints of Hittites, Phrygians, and Seljuks; every stone, every blade of grass told a story. And I was part of that story.

Now I know: a person is the child of the soil they were born on. No matter how far they wander, the wind will one day bring them back. The steppe gave me not just a place, but a sense of belonging. My desire to return there was not an escape, but an effort to take root. My memories blossomed anew on those parched lands. Just as the steppe suddenly comes to life after spring rains flowers bloom, grasses sprout, butterflies flutter so too were the arid lands within me watered.

The steppe is silent and dignified. It does not speak; but you feel it. Its call is not an invitation, but a reminder: "Do not forget where you came from." And now, I return there at every opportunity. Because that is where my story began. No matter how much concrete is laid, no matter how much time passes, that steppe will always flourish in the depths of my soul. I am a child of the steppe, and my roots continue to sway in the wind, among those yellow grasses.

State institution culture and aesthetic understanding

Atatürk's vision was not confined to constitutions and laws; it permeated every corner of Türkiye from a village institute in a remote province to a government mansion in a district, and from factory workers' housing in a city to a rural schoolyard. As you rightly pointed out, wherever you go in Türkiye, there is a common language extending from a state institution's parking lot to the arrangement of trees in its garden, from the façade of the building to the lighting in its corridors. This was no coincidence, but the product of a conscious construction process.

Architectural and public space understanding the physical signature of the Republic

In contrast to the ornate and complex architectural style inherited from the Ottomans, Republican-era architecture was built on the principles of simplicity, functionality, and symmetry. Behind this understanding lay the idea that the state should be transparent, accessible, and orderly. Government mansions, schools, hospitals, and community centers (Halkevleri) from that period were generally two or three stories high, with flat roofs, wide eaves, and rectangular forms.

• Standardization: The architectural plans for these buildings were often prepared centrally and sent to all corners of the country. Thus, a school in Edirne shared the same architectural language as a school in Van.
• Gardens and Landscaping: Institution gardens typically featured lawns, symmetrically planted pine trees, and modest yet well-maintained walking paths. Right next to the main entrance gates, small guard huts or lodgings made of the same materials and design were placed.
• Parking Lots: Under the conditions of the time, parking lots were not the vast expanses we see today; they were neat, tree-lined areas paved with stone or interlocking pavers, accommodating just a few vehicles. This was part of the institution's overall ethos of "order."

Building belonging and the modern citizen

This spatial standardization, on one hand, conveyed the state's authority and solemnity, while on the other, it delivered a clear message to the citizen: "This state is the same everywhere, reliable, and modern." A child growing up in a remote corner of Anatolia, upon visiting the government mansion in the nearest town for the first time, would encounter a structure similar to the school in their own village, thus feeling the state's presence and continuity in a tangible way.

This was also part of the project to create a "modern citizen." The Turkish flag in front of institution buildings, the bust of Atatürk, and the inscriptions on the walls such as "Happy is the one who says I am a Turk" transformed these spaces from mere schools or hospitals into centers of culture and identity production.

The psychological effect of institutional identity balancing trust and awe

The feelings of a citizen entering a state institution in that era were mixed. On one hand, there was the state's compassionate wing (hospitals, schools, community centers); on the other, the state's deterrent power (gendarmerie stations, courthouses). Yet in both cases, the physical language of the space reflected the same seriousness and order.

Institutional Culture: The dress codes of civil servants working in these buildings (suits, ties, official caps), their style of speech, and their behavior patterns created an institutional culture that was integrated with the physical space.

Urban Landmark: These buildings were often the most impressive and well-maintained structures in their respective cities or districts. This was perceived as a physical indicator of the importance the state attached to that region.

The reflection of this vision today

Unfortunately, in the post-1980 period, rapid urbanization and privatization policies have largely disrupted this aesthetic integrity. Old institution gardens have been turned into parking lots, and symmetrically planted pine trees have given way to concrete blocks. New government buildings, for the most part, have become soulless glass and concrete structures devoid of functionality.

However, even today, when you see an old community center or a government mansion from that era in some Anatolian town, you can still feel that atmosphere. Because these buildings are not just structures; they are the petrified embodiments of the Republic's founding philosophy, its hope, and its ideal of modernization.

Atatürk's vision permeated not only factories and banks but also the pine trees in the gardens of those factories, the lighting in school corridors, and the flagpoles at the entrances of government mansions. This invisible network served as a powerful tool that bound Türkiye together as a unified "state and nation" reminding everyone of the Republic every single day. The reason we fondly recall that atmosphere today is perhaps because, in that era, stone, soil, and wood all carried an ideal.