In Türkiye, the word “cancel” has slipped into colloquial speech in recent years. Like a new button in our phones, someone presses it and expects the person to delete from public view. But more often the opposite happens instead of disappearing, the targeted become more visible, endlessly discussed and closely scrutinized. People who say “I don’t follow them” end up quietly checking their profiles. That’s the central irony of cancellation in Türkiye: an attempt to silence often ends up amplifying attention.
The same term circulates in the United States, yet it functions differently. In the U.S., cancellation tends to carry institutional weight, job loss, public apologies, and sometimes even pathways back through visible change. In Türkiye, public outrage moves faster than any institution can respond. Context collapses quickly, fragments and out-of-context snippets take over entire narratives. The person labeled “canceled” frequently ends up at the center of attention instead. This difference prompts a simple but sharp question: where did this mechanism originate and why does it so readily turn into something like lynching rather than accountability?
What we now call lynching culture gained global prominence in the late 2010s as social media expanded. Its roots date back to call out voices of marginalized African American communities, where publicly naming harm was often the only form of resistance available. At the beginning, it was a call for accountability. Over time, though, the intent blurred; was the aim still justice or had punishment become the main satisfaction? The answer hinges on context. In the U.S., the debate revolves largely around individual responsibility and identity politics. In Türkiye, political polarization and group loyalties shape the battlefield. A single sentence, a photo or a loose association ripped from its original setting can redefine someone’s entire public identity.
The urge to erase is nothing new. Societies have long found ways to exclude those seen as dangerous or unacceptable. Ancient Greece had ostracism, banishing people from society for a decade. Rome practiced damnatio memoriae, smashing statues and scraping names from records. In the Middle Ages, excommunication cut individuals off from both society and salvation. What sets today apart is not the impulse itself but the speed and scale of digital judgment and its lasting power.
The term “cancel” entered pop culture in the 1980s and took on political weight in the 2010s through call-out culture on Black Twitter. For marginalized groups, especially, it provided a long-overdue tool to confront authority. Its global force became unmistakable during the #MeToo movement of 2017 2018, which ended careers like Harvey Weinstein’s and fundamentally shifted conversations about power and abuse.
Today in the U.S., cancel culture exists in constant tension between accountability and censorship. Institutions, universities, companies, and media play a major role in shaping outcomes, and in principle, at least the door to redemption remains open through apology, restitution and demonstrated change.
In Türkiye, cancellation is fueled more by the sheer velocity of public attention. Screenshots, short clips, decontextualized quotes and quote chains can reach millions in hours. According to DataReportal’s Digital 2026 report, Türkiye had 62.3 million social media user identities as of October 2025. In such a fast-moving environment, an incomplete statement, a misinterpreted remark or even a clumsy phrase can explode into a nationwide storm almost instantly.
Another key reason cancellation so quickly hardens into lynching in Türkiye is the weakness of repair as a concept. In a healthy accountability culture, harm is named, responsibility is owned, apologies are offered and change is tracked over time. Here, public judgment tends to offer only two poles: complete exoneration or total condemnation. When intention learning and growth are ruled out, cancellation stops being corrective and turns performative. Polarization sharpens this dynamic; the same words are forgiven when said by “our side” and deemed unforgivable when said by “the other.” In this way, cancellation builds belonging rather than justice.
The psychological toll is substantial. Those targeted don’t just lose reputation, they often withdraw from social life, struggle with anxiety and second-guess every post. Among bystanders, a canceling anxiety settles in: “Will it be me next?” Freedom House’s Freedom on the Net 2025 report gave Türkiye a score of 31 out of 100, classifying the country as “not free.” Without directly confronting this lynching culture, building a healthier public conversation will remain difficult. Making space for forgiveness and clearly defining what truly deserves public judgment would be a solid first step.
That said, it would be unfair to dismiss cancel culture outright. Discriminatory language, routine exclusions and abuses of power that once went unchallenged now face quicker pushback. Phrases long defended as “just jokes” encounter real resistance. For public figures and institutions, unquestioned free speech is no longer available. For those who have been harmed, noticing being not alone can be profoundly empowering. The trouble starts when an objection turns into permanent branding. When apologies are seen as weakness and repair efforts dismissed as PR stunts, cancellation freezes people in a single moment. Algorithms reward outrage, boost extremes and keep the cycle spinning. In Türkiye, this risks turning moral debate into a purely political weapon.
One of the clearest paradoxes appears here, cancellation doesn’t always silence. Frequently, it does the reverse. It sparks curiosity: What will this person say next? Who will stand by them? Who will walk away? Attention flows not only from allies but from opponents, too. Cancellation becomes spectacle rather than erasure.
Perhaps the most askable question is also the simplest. Do we truly want behavior to change or are we hooked on the rush of punishment? Is criticism about drawing ethical lines or just dissolving into the crowd? Societies grow not by erasing mistakes forever but by naming them clearly and leaving the path to repair open. If the real goal is to remove someone from the stage, the most effective move might be to stop feeding the attention that keeps them there.
My own stance is straightforward. I don’t ignore people who were unfairly canceled yet go on living, thinking and creating, especially those who reflect deeply and evolve. I’ve seen how solitude can sometimes sharpen someone’s focus while crowds often drown out nuance. A public culture where people aren’t reduced to one sentence and condemned for life is possible. If someone has genuinely learned and transformed, I can still read their work, watch what they make and listen. Judging them isn’t my role.
Exclusion has existed in every era. In the digital age, it has only intensified. We pass judgment on countless strangers we’ll never meet, sometimes by obsessively watching them, sometimes by turning away. Real progress lies in knowing whom to hold accountable and when to step back. Every act of public shaming keeps its target alive in collective memory even outrage serves as exposure. Change starts not with permanent erasure but with clearly naming harm and leaving room for repair. Repair over cancellation, measured criticism over lynching, empathy over spectacle, these may be exactly what both Türkiye and the U.S. need for a healthier public conversation.
