July 15, 2016, was a night of defiance, courage and extraordinary resolve. It was the night ordinary citizens confronted tanks, fighter jets and armed soldiers to stop a violent attempt to overthrow Türkiye's democratically elected government.
A decade later, the events of that summer evening remain among the defining moments in the country's modern history. For many Turks, July 15 represents more than a failed coup d'etat attempt; it stands as a national test of democratic resilience and civilian resistance.
On that night, tanks advanced across the bridges spanning the Bosporus while fighter jets carried out deadly attacks against Turkish civilians. The soldiers behind the uprising, later identified as members of the Gülenist Terror Group (FETÖ), a cult whose leader resided and died in the United States, had launched a coordinated attempt to seize power in Türkiye.
The coup attempt claimed the lives of 253 people and left more than 2,000 others injured. Yet its objective extended far beyond removing a democratically elected government from office. The plotters sought to overthrow the country's elected leadership, dismantle the constitutional order and silence the will of the Turkish people.
In an act of profound betrayal, evil members of FETÖ who had secretly held posts within the military bombed Parliament, targeted state institutions and turned the weapons of the military, an institution entrusted with protecting the nation, against the very citizens it was sworn to defend.
As tanks rolled through the streets of Istanbul and Ankara and warplanes roared overhead, millions of citizens answered President Recep Tayyip Erdogan’s call to resist. Men and women from every walk of life left their homes and gathered in public squares, determined to prevent military rule from replacing democratic governance.
Among them was Kerime Kabahaliloğlu.
Today, as Türkiye commemorates the 10th anniversary of the failed coup attempt, Kabahaliloğlu still walks with a limp. The bullet that struck her outside Istanbul's historic Saraçhane district that night continues to shape every step she takes.
For the July 15 veteran, patriotism is not an abstract concept or a political slogan. It is something she carries with her every day.
"If you ask me what my homeland is," she told me, "my homeland is the wound in my leg."
Now living in the Black Sea town of Abana in Kastamonu Province, Kabahaliloğlu returned to her hometown in 2022 after spending many years in Istanbul. While life has become quieter, the memories of that night remain vivid.
Despite suffering from an illness on the evening of July 15, she says she immediately left her home after learning that soldiers had appeared on the streets. When she reached Saraçhane, roads had already been blocked, and gunfire echoed through the city.
"I walked toward the front of the crowd," she recalls. "Without realizing it, I had reached the soldiers."
Rather than confronting them with hostility, she appealed to their conscience.
"My son," she remembers telling them, "what are you doing here? My brother is a soldier, and so is the father of my children. You should not be here."
She says one young soldier looked frightened, his eyes filling with tears. Before he could respond, however, a superior officer intervened.
The officer pushed her back and shouted, "Step back, or I'll shoot you too."
Moments later, he did.
Kabahaliloğlu remembers an unbearable sensation.
"It felt like a ball of fire had exploded inside my leg," she said. "I tried to walk, but my left foot was gone. I thought I was dying."
Even after she collapsed, the gunfire continued.
A friend helped lift her to safety while civilians rushed the wounded into private vehicles that became makeshift ambulances amid the chaos. She was taken to the hospital, where doctors fought to save her leg.
Her first question upon regaining consciousness was not about her own condition.
"Has the coup been stopped?" she had asked.
Hospital staff reassured her.
"Don't worry," they replied. "The coup has been defeated."
Survival, however, marked only the beginning of a long struggle.
Kabahaliloglu spent six months undergoing intensive treatment and has endured 12 operations over the past decade. Permanent damage to her left leg left her disabled, and she continues to walk with difficulty.
Yet she speaks not with bitterness, but with conviction.
"If it happened again today," she says, "I would go out again, even with this disabled leg. We have no other homeland."
For Kabahaliloğlu, the events of July 15 transcended politics.
"The person elected by my vote cannot be removed through a coup," she said. "It doesn't matter which political party they belong to. What was attacked that night was the will of the people, and the people defended it."
She believes those who survived unharmed and those who were wounded share the same place in history.
"Those who were shot and those who were not are equal," she said. "Everyone who stood there defended the same cause."
Today, much of her time is spent tending gardens and working the land in her village. Although physical pain remains a constant companion, she refuses to allow it to define her life.
Instead, she sees herself as part of a much longer tradition of Turkish women who have stood alongside men during moments of national crisis.
"We are Turkish women," she claimed. "When necessary, we work the fields. When necessary, we are workers. And when our homeland is threatened, we become its fiercest defenders."
She invokes the memory of two iconic figures in Turkish history, Şerife Bacı, who sacrificed her life transporting ammunition during the Turkish War of Independence, and Nene Hatun, remembered for her courage during the Ottoman-Russian War.
"We can be Şerife Bacı. We can be Nene Hatun," she says. "We showed the world that on July 15."
For Kabahaliloğlu, the anniversary is not merely a remembrance of violence but a testament to national unity.
"That night," she reflects, "I saw the spirit of Canakkale alive once again. People stood together regardless of their political views. We defended our homeland together."
Her final words combine hope with unwavering determination.
"May God never allow our country to experience such a night again," she says. "But if it happens again, we will be there out on the streets once more."
Ten years after the attempted coup, the anniversary remains deeply personal for the families of those who never returned home and for survivors whose bodies continue to bear the physical consequences of that night.
For Kerime Kabahaliloğlu, history is neither an abstraction nor a chapter confined to textbooks. It is etched into every step she takes, every scar she carries and every memory she refuses to forget. Her injured leg stands as a lasting reminder that the defense of democracy is not measured solely by institutions or political outcomes, but also by the ordinary citizens who, in extraordinary circumstances, chose to stand between their nation and the collapse of its democratic order.
Ten years on, the wounds of July 15 have not entirely healed, but neither has the memory of the resilience that defined that night. For survivors like Kerime Kabahaliloğlu, the anniversary is not simply a commemoration of a failed coup; it is a reminder of the enduring cost of defending democratic rule. Her story stands as a testament to the conviction that, when confronted with an existential threat, ordinary citizens can shape the course of a nation's history.
