Beşiktaş, Trabzonspor and the Away Stand: When Turkish Football Asks Itself Who It Is

There is a gap in the stands that no camera is willing to zoom in on. There, where the away supporters' section should be, only neat rows of plastic seats remain, silent under the floodlights. No flags, no drums, no chants in unison. Only absence — the strangest sound in a stadium packed with people. That image has become familiar in many rounds of Turkish football. But this time, it is no longer the story of a single match. It has become the center of a debate about rights: the right to attend, the right to cheer, and the right of a football nation to decide for itself who is allowed to sit in its own stands. The story begins with a proposal, and surprisingly, it has received support from one of the biggest clubs in the country — Beşiktaş. In Turkish football, there is a sound that only those who have sat in a stadium can hear: the sound of absence. Not the silence of a sparsely populated stand, but a designed emptiness — an area cordoned off, closed to entry, where away supporters should be singing for ninety minutes. I once sat in such a stadium. Not in Turkey, but in Jeonju, South Korea, during a match with no spectators between Jeonbuk Hyundai Motors and Suwon Samsung Bluewings in May 2026. Back then, I could hear the ball touching the cushion of a boot, the coach shouting instructions, the heavy breathing of players on the bench. I learned that when the noise disappears, people truly see each other. The silent applause is still a piece of music — if one knows how to listen. But there is a fundamental difference between silence caused by a pandemic and silence caused by a ban. The first is a shared tragedy; the second is a political choice. And in Turkey, that political choice is once again being placed on the scales, as a proposal about the away stand suddenly receives backing from a club few expected. To understand why a proposal about the away stand can stir an entire football nation, one must look at the specific structure of Turkish football. This is a league where the stadium atmosphere is not an accessory — it is part of the match itself. The Süper Lig is famous for stands considered among the most passionate in Europe, where supporters do not come merely to watch but to perform, to assert local identity, to turn the stand into a statement about their city. In that context, the away stand becomes an unusually sensitive issue. In many countries, supporters of the away team traveling hundreds, even thousands of kilometers to be present in their designated section is normal. But in Turkey, a history of stadium violence, tensions between organized supporter groups, and painful memories from the past have made this issue far more complex than a simple administrative rule. Beşiktaş and Trabzonspor are two of the clubs with the strongest supporter traditions. Beşiktaş, representing Istanbul, carries the story of one of Turkey's oldest clubs, with an identity tied to the working class and the independent spirit of the Beşiktaş district. Trabzonspor, from the Black Sea coast, carries a completely different identity: a port city with fierce local spirit, a club that once broke the monopoly of the Istanbul trio to win the national title — something that for decades only they managed to do. When two such clubs face each other, the stand is no longer a place to watch football. It is a place to assert existence. And when two such clubs stand on the same side of a governance issue, that too says a great deal about the nature of the issue. One thing must be stated clearly from the outset, because it is the point that most reports either overlook or describe vaguely. Initial information indicates that Beşiktaş has expressed support for a request related to Trabzonspor's away supporter travel ban. But the very phrasing creates a critical ambiguity: is this request meant to impose a ban, or to demand the lifting of an existing ban? This ambiguity is not a trivial matter of semantics. It is the heart of the entire story. For if Beşiktaş supports a ban, then we are talking about a compromise on the rights of supporters. And if Beşiktaş supports lifting a ban, then we are talking about a struggle to restore those rights. These two scenarios lead to two completely different stories, with two completely different sets of consequences. What is notable is that while the initial information focuses on the proposal and the backing, the core argument stands on the opposite side: that supporters should be able to travel to stadiums to support their teams in away stands across the country. This is a clear internal contradiction, and it forces us to look at the issue from its roots rather than accept a simple interpretation. Based on my experience following matches and football governance debates for over a decade, I find that contradictions of this kind are rarely the fault of the reporter. They often reflect a deeper reality: that even those involved have not yet agreed among themselves on what they actually want. A vague proposal is usually a sign of a vague alliance — groups with different interests temporarily standing in the same place for some short-term goal. Look at the logic of the away stand ban. In theory, its purpose is to ensure security. When supporters of two teams cannot sit near each other, the risk of physical confrontation drops. Security costs drop. Clubs do not have to worry about protecting a small, vulnerable area in the heart of the opponent's stand. This is a purely pragmatic argument, and it is not without basis. But beneath that pragmatic argument lies a dangerous assumption: that stadium violence is a problem of presence. That if we remove presence, we remove violence. This is technically true in the short term — no people, no fights. But it does not address the cause. It only moves the problem from inside the stadium to outside, from the stand to the pubs, the bus stations, the surrounding streets. Violence does not disappear; it merely changes location. And this is the point where data is hard to grasp but experience is very clear. In many countries that have applied away stand bans, football-related violence has not decreased but merely changed form. Organized supporter groups find other ways to confront each other — no longer in stands with surveillance cameras, but in places where no one is filming. The surface safety of the stadium sometimes merely conceals a deeper insecurity in the surrounding community. I once wrote about a match where the silence of the stand was not a solution to violence, but a sign of a greater pain. Kazan taught me that glory is sometimes tasted with the flavor of tears. But Kazan also taught me that an empty stand is never a safe stand — it is merely a stand with no one to protect. So what is really happening behind this proposal? To answer, we must look at the dynamics of interest. When a club supports a proposal about the away stand, the first question is not "what do they believe in," but "what do they gain." There are three main possibilities. First, a calculation of on-field advantage. A team plays better when there are no opposing supporters applying pressure. If a club believes it is stronger at home without the away team's chants, it has an incentive to support limiting the away stand — regardless of what it says about sportsmanship. Second, an economic calculation. The away stand occupies seats that could be sold to home supporters. In a football economy where ticket revenue still plays an important role, converting those seats into home seats is a significant gain. This is the least discussed motive but may be the most powerful. Third, a calculation of power relations between clubs. In a league where big clubs have a dominant voice, supporting or opposing a proposal can be a way to build alliances, to score political points, to trade for support on other issues. Nothing in football is isolated; every decision is part of a longer chain of transactions. But if we stop at interest analysis, we miss the most important thing. For behind all those calculations lies a question that Turkish football is facing, and perhaps global football too: whose stand is it? This is not a rhetorical question. It is a question with a practical answer, and that answer shapes the nature of this sport. If the stand belongs to the club, then the club has the right to decide who enters. If the stand belongs to the community, then the community has the right to demand its own presence. If the stand belongs to the league, then the league has the right to set common rules. And if the stand belongs to those sitting in it, then every ban is a deprivation of rights. The pitch does not lie — only the writer's heart lies to itself. And the hearts of those running Turkish football are being torn between two equally true things: the desire for safety and the desire for freedom. There is an interesting paradox here, and it is the point I consider the core of the whole issue. The away stand ban, though justified by security, is often pushed by those who do not want to reduce violence at all — they want to reduce the presence of the opponent. Meanwhile, those who oppose the ban, though labeled irresponsible, are often the ones who understand best that football cannot exist without the presence of both sides. A match with supporters on only one side is a match stripped of half its soul. That is not a romantic view; it is a structural fact. Football is a dialogue, and a dialogue needs at least two voices. When you remove one voice, you do not get quiet; you get a monologue. I once witnessed this in a match where the away stand was completely banned. An away player scored, and they ran toward the corner where their supporters should have been. There was no one there. They stood before an emptiness, their emotional antenna broadcasting a signal that no one received. It was one of the loneliest moments I have ever seen on a pitch — lonelier than a defeat. A transfer has never been a number — it is partings that never had the chance to be spoken. And the away stand ban, in a similar way, has never been merely a regulation — it is a parting made legal. So how do we escape this deadlock? The answer does not lie in choosing a side — ban or no ban — but in redefining the problem. Turkish football, and more broadly global football, needs to shift from the question "how do we prevent supporters from attending" to the question "how do we help supporters attend safely." This is a shift in mindset, and it requires more than administrative measures. It requires investment in infrastructure, in crowd routing, in community education programs, in building relationships between supporter groups. It is a longer path, a more expensive one, and a less popular one than a simple ban. But it is the only path that truly solves the problem. And this is where the role of clubs becomes more important than ever. A club can choose the easy path — support a ban, gain additional seats, and avoid security troubles. Or it can choose the hard path — invest in building a safe stand culture, accept short-term risk in exchange for a more sustainable future. This choice is not only about security. It is about identity. A club that defines itself by excluding the opponent is a club shrinking itself. A club that defines itself by dialoguing with the opponent is a club expanding itself. And in a football economy where big clubs have enormous influence, their choices shape not only themselves but the entire ecosystem. When Beşiktaş expressed a position on this proposal, it was not merely giving an opinion on an administrative matter. It was sending a signal about what it wants Turkish football to become. And that signal, whether clear or vague, will be read and interpreted by other clubs. In a system where decisions are often made through implicit consensus among major powers, such a signal can shift the balance. We watch sports not to escape life, but to understand it better. And the debate over the away stand in Turkey is a lesson in how people organize their coexistence — how we treat strangers, how we define community, how we balance safety and freedom. There is one thing I always feel when following debates of this kind: that participants talk about football, but they are really talking about politics, about culture, about identity. The stand is a miniature space of society. What happens there is a reflection of what happens outside. And when a society struggles over who is allowed to be present, the stand is where that struggle unfolds earliest and most clearly. This makes the story of Beşiktaş and Trabzonspor bigger than an administrative proposal. It is a moment when Turkish football is given the chance to look at itself again. And like every moment of self-reflection, it is both frightening and necessary. From a student newspaper to Kazan, I learned that the pen also needs feet. Those feet are experience, presence, the act of constantly stepping out of the office to reach where things actually happen. And when speaking of the stand, where things actually happen is the stand — not in meetings, not in statements, but in the songs of those standing there, whether crowded or empty. There is a question I always carry with me when writing about football governance issues: if I strip away all the numbers and arguments, what remains? And the answer is usually: people. The fans who saved for a year to attend a match. Those who drove hundreds of kilometers to be present in the away section. Those for whom an entire week of work exists only to give meaning to ninety minutes in the stand. To them, a ban is not an administrative rule. It is a deprivation. And this is the key point I want to emphasize: those defending the ban and those opposing it often share the same goal — a better football. They differ only in how they see the path leading there. This difference is legitimate, and acknowledging it is the first step toward a real dialogue instead of an endless argument. During the transfer window, when all attention pours onto numbers, contracts, and million-dollar deals, it is easy to overlook stories like this. They are not glamorous. They have no beautiful plays. They produce no goals. But they shape the conditions in which beautiful plays and goals exist. And in a sense, they matter more. For without stands, there is no football. This is a truth so obvious that we often forget it. But imagine a stadium permanently empty — no home supporters, no away supporters, no one at all. That would not be football. That would be a training session being broadcast. The presence of spectators is not an accessory feature of this sport; it is part of its definition. Esports and football are both dreams compressed into every frame. And that dream, to survive, must be nourished by both players and viewers. When one side is removed, the dream fades. Returning to the specific story. What I consider most important, and also what reports often overlook, is the ambiguity within the initial information itself. That we are not sure whether Beşiktaş supports imposing or lifting a ban is not a failure of journalism — it is a feature of the issue itself. It tells us that those involved are speaking a deliberately vague language, leaving themselves room to reinterpret depending on circumstances. This is a familiar tactic in football governance. Clubs often avoid making clear statements on controversial issues, because a clear statement can cost them the support of some group. Ambiguity is a shield. But it is also a sign — a sign that there is no truly solid position, only temporary calculations. And when ambiguity becomes the norm, viewers lose the ability to grasp the truth. They do not know who is truly on their side. They do not know why decisions affecting them are made. The result is a distancing between fans and those who manage the sport they love. And that distancing, over time, is a greater threat than any ban. So what should we expect? If I had to make a prediction based on experience following similar debates, I would say the final solution will most likely be a compromise. The parties will not reach a clear decision in principle, but will reach an agreement on specific cases — some matches allowed to have away stands, others not, based on negotiated criteria. This is how controversial issues are usually resolved in football: not by decisive decisions, but by vague compromises. But even a vague compromise has its value. It keeps the dialogue going. It gives supporters a chance to be present, even if only in some matches. And in a world where absolute bans are becoming more common, every chance to be present is a small victory. An empty stadium, a heart not empty — but an empty stand, in a very practical sense, is a stand that has lost a battle. The question is whether those running Turkish football have the courage to admit that. The match ends, but the memory's report never runs out of time. What happens in this debate will not be recorded in the record books. No one will remember the statements, the proposals, the meetings. But there will be people who remember whether they were allowed to enter. There will be people who remember whether they were allowed to stand with like-minded people in a small section of a distant city. And their memory, not the decisions of committees, will be what shapes their love for this sport — or their distancing from it. What I hope, and also what I believe is right in principle, is that Turkish football will find a way for both truths to coexist: that safety matters, and that presence is sacred. This is not an irreconcilable opposition. It is a difficult problem, but one with a solution — if there is enough will to seek it. And if that solution is not found, the price will not be merely a few empty stands. The price will be the soul of a football nation. For a football built on exclusion is a football eroding itself from within. When I think about the future of debates like this, I think of children sitting in front of screens, watching a match with an empty away stand. They do not know that this is abnormal. They do not know that there was once a time when both sides were present, that football was once a dialogue between two cities rather than a performance by one. And if we are not careful, they will grow up never knowing an important aspect of this sport. That is why the story of Beşiktaş and Trabzonspor, though small in the big picture of global football, carries no small importance. It is a chance to do the right thing. It is a chance to remind ourselves that football is not a product to be sold, but a space to live together. And in such a space, who is allowed to be present is not an administrative detail — it is the whole story. Let the away stands live. Let the songs of those who come from afar ring out. Let football continue to be what it has always been: an encounter between people, cities, stories. For if we lose that, we will lose the reason we loved this sport in the first place.