“Let’s See If the State Will Protect You”: Five Years After the Istanbul Convention, Women in Turkey Are Still Waiting

In October 2024, in the western city of Izmir, 32-year-old Irmak Tug was stabbed five times by her husband after she asked for a divorce. Despite sustaining serious wounds, the court called her injuries “surface level,” sentenced her husband to just three years in prison, and released him after one. Irmak and her lawyers appealed, but an upper court upheld the decision. 

After his release, Irmak said her husband continued to send her threats via social media. When she went to the police, officers told her they could not act because the accounts were anonymous. 

This is a system that some women describe as failing after Turkey became the only country to withdraw from the Istanbul Convention, a landmark treaty aimed at combating violence against women, five years ago. 

In a country where four in ten women experience physical violence, one in three girls is prevented from attending school by her family, and child marriage rates are among the highest in Europe, the question at the time was obvious: why would a government walk away from a treaty designed to protect half its population? 

Five years on, many women in Turkey continue to ask whether cases like Irmak’s would be treated differently had those commitments remained in force.

Fatma Can, 27, also faced years of violence after asking for a divorce. She describes alcohol abuse, drug use, infidelity, and physical violence from her husband. When she tried to leave, she says the abuse intensified. She filed more than 20 complaints involving threats, insults, assault, and stalking. For months, she says, the measures taken were minimal.

Fatma showed me text messages her ex-husband sent her with explicit death threats. In one message, he wrote: “Let’s see if the state will protect you. It couldn’t protect so many other women - why would it protect you?” 

“If protective measures like [the Istanbul Convention] had been effectively enforced, he wouldn’t have been able to speak like this,” Fatma said.

In November 2024, Fatma posted video footage to social media that showed her husband holding a knife to the throat of their four-year-old special-needs son, threatening to kill him. The video spread online. Shortly afterward, he was arrested and has remained in prison since. 

But Fatma believes it was only public pressure that forced action. In cases like Fatma’s and Irmak’s, the question is less whether laws exist and more whether they are applied consistently and fast enough. 

“In our country, laws already do not function properly,” said 28-year-old Ilayda Sahin, who owns her own business in Istanbul. “However, when the Istanbul Convention was still in force, at least there was a fear of legal consequences among perpetrators or among those planning to commit crimes. Now, in past conversations I’ve seen — usually the final messages of women who were later murdered and whose last exchanges spread on social media — statements like ‘I’ll serve 3 years and get out’ or ‘I’ll serve 5 years’ have become increasingly common.” 

The numbers point to a clear pattern. In 2025, men killed nearly 300 women in Turkey. In 2024, the country recorded the highest number of femicides in its modern history—nearly 400 women killed, plus 258 deaths deemed “suspicious.” Since the start of this year, a woman was found beheaded in central Istanbul, while other women have been reported to have “fallen from buildings” — deaths their families insist were not accidents, but acts of violence by men.

Only once in the past fifteen years has the trend reversed: in 2011, the year the Istanbul Convention was signed.

Feride Acar, one of the architects of the Convention, described its creation as both a breakthrough and a political turning point. She said it created a rare moment of hope for protecting women in Turkey, and in its wake, the government can and should do more. 

“The state has to demonstrate some kind of conviction to the society that it will not tolerate violence against women,” Ms. Acar said. “A lot more needs to be done by the state, not just in words, but in deeds. Firstly, it should ratify the Istanbul Convention again. It also needs to cooperate more closely with women’s civil society organizations. Those with first-hand experience and direct knowledge of what is happening are women’s NGOs. They should be working hand in hand with the government, and the state should create a broader space for these organizations to operate and function.” 

Ms. Acar explained that Turkey does have a domestic violence law — adopted after ratifying the Convention — which allows women to obtain protection orders and outlines state responsibilities in cases of violence. 

“The government keeps saying that since the withdrawal [from the Convention], it doesn’t matter because we still have the law. That’s true, and it’s a good thing that the law exists. But it only covers parts of the Istanbul Convention. The Convention has a much more comprehensive approach. It is based on four pillars: protection of victims, prosecution, prevention, and coordinated policy changes. The law only deals with prosecution and protection of victims. The broader, society-wide change in how crimes against women are addressed—something the Convention demands—is not reflected in the law.”

President Erdoğan, Turkey’s hardline leader, has positioned himself “at the forefront of the fight against violence targeting women.” Speaking at an event in Istanbul this past December, he said: “Türkiye is literally experiencing its golden years in terms of women’s rights during our time.” Still, after multiple national action plans, some activists and legal experts question their effectiveness and the President’s motives. 

Selime Büyükgöze, a prominent figure in Turkey’s feminist movement, has volunteered at Mor Çatı Women’s Shelter — the country’s first and only independent women’s shelter —since 2011. She says the political atmosphere today is “drastically different” from a decade ago, a period she recalls as more hopeful.

“Before, we could force institutions by referencing the Istanbul Convention. It became more than a convention; it became something about our lives,” she said. “With the withdrawal, we lost an important instrument.”

There are approximately 145 domestic violence shelters across Turkey. The vast majority are operated either by the Ministry of Family and Social Services or by municipalities. While acknowledging that state-run shelters are important — “it is still really important to have such places where women can go” — Ms. Büyükgöze highlights systemic shortcomings. The state’s approach, she said, is family-centered rather than women-centered. Violence is treated as a “family dispute” rather than as a gendered structural problem of male violence against women. 

Mor Çatı receives no state funding and has operated independently of government structures since its founding. That independence, Ms. Büyükgöze said, places it within a civil society space increasingly treated as suspect when supported by Western funding — part of a broader shift over the past decade that has narrowed civil society’s ability to push back.

“There is a shrinking civic space,” she said. “There is a lot of oppression in civil society.”

Yet even in a climate of retreat, Mor Çatı continues to operate as proof that another model is possible. The organization operates both a women’s center and a shelter, with 25 beds accommodating women and their children. In the waiting room, toys gather in a loose cluster, a foldable play mat with crayons spilling from a cup. A coloring book lies open, mid-page. Next to it, a bright plastic container of sweets, offering a semblance of comfort and normalcy for children whose mothers have come for help.

“We are doing exemplary work here,” Ms. Büyükgöze said. “We are showing how it can be done.”