Afternoon in Esenyurt

The sun finally pierces through clouds that have besieged Istanbul for a week. The neighborhood has transformed in recent years into something that might be mistaken for a slice of Damascus or Tehran, rather than a Turkish suburb. The air vibrates with a cacophony of Arabic music and conversations, while the scent of cardamom coffee and grilling shawarma creates an olfactory map of the demographic shift.

A young mother walks along the crowded sidewalk, her daughter’s small hand clasped tightly in hers as they pass an ornate restaurant facade. The waiter at the entrance, impeccably dressed in a pressed white shirt, smiles welcomingly at passersby. The neighborhood hums with life – the melodic flow of Arabic conversations, the rhythmic clatter of kitchen workers preparing for the dinner rush, the occasional horn blast from impatient drivers navigating the narrow streets.

The peaceful scene shatters with the sudden screech of tires against asphalt. A grey sedan careens toward the sidewalk, its brakes screaming as it stops mere inches from where the mother stands. With instincts honed by years of living in an uncertain world, she snatches up her daughter and presses against the restaurant’s entrance. Her heart pounds as three men, faces obscured by hoodies and N95 masks, leap from the vehicle and surge against the flow of traffic.

In the grey vehicle, Ramo remains still as a statue, his blue sports jacket and sunglasses creating an illusion of casual normalcy despite the N95 mask covering his features. His eyes, visible in the rearview mirror, scan constantly, measuring threats and escape routes with professional precision.

Twenty meters back, a scene unfolds that will soon become neighborhood legend. Abu Sido emerges from the passenger side of a gleaming new car. He takes two steps toward a steakhouse before recognition floods his eyes. In that instant, predator becomes prey, and he bolts, Aslah see’s him and runs out from the restaurant and manages to get to his car.

The masked pursuers move with practiced efficiency – one chasing the fleeing man while two others converge on the white car. Inside, Aslah’s bearded face contorts with terror as he frantically engages the automatic locks. The dull thud of gun butts against glass punctuates the chaos.

Metal screams against metal as the white car attempts escape, only to be trapped against the sidewalk by the grey vehicle’s precise blocking maneuver. Aslah abandons his vehicle, clutching a leather bag as he dashes across the busy street, narrowly avoiding the stream of traffic.

The chase ends at a crowded gas station. One pursuer seizes Aslah by his shirt collar, the gun butt connecting with brutal efficiency. “POLICE, POLICE!” Aslah’s desperate cry echoes across the forecourt. As he stumbles, the leather bag spills its contents – hundreds of crisp $100 bills scatter in the afternoon breeze like expensive confetti. One attacker maintains a chokehold while his partner delivers a series of vicious kicks and punches, their actions speaking of kidnapping rather than murder.

Gas station attendants in forest-green uniforms scramble to collect the windswept cash, their previously bored expressions transformed by sudden opportunity. A police siren wails its approach, and uniformed officers take position at a cautious distance, their weapons drawn but held low – mindful of the crowded location and uncertain situation.

The young mother retreats into the coffee shop’s relative safety, her daughter held close against her racing heart. Through the window, she joins the growing crowd of spectators, all witnesses to this brutal street theater. Time runs short, the hooded attacker barks orders to his companion.

 As his partner retreats, he fires a single shot into the Aslah’s balls, adding a parting threat that cuts through the chaos: “It’s your lucky day – the next bullet will be in your head.” Police fire warning shots skyward, their caution a testament to the crowded surroundings.

Aslah wounded lies bleeding on the pavement, his trembling fingers fumbling with his phone. Police pursue the gunman, but their hearts aren’t fully in the chase – this is clearly something outside their usual jurisdiction. Ramo at the grey car melts into traffic with professional smoothness, driving maintaining his facade of calm despite the violence just witnessed.

Within minutes, five or six men converge on the scene – their quick arrival and coordinated movements marking them as associates of the Aslah. Nour observing every movement, disappears through the crowd hop on taxi gets away within couple of minutes.

The young mother, abandoning thoughts of coffee and shopping, hurries away with her daughter. Each step carries them further from the scene, but the memory of violence will linger far longer than the echo of gunshots.

But even this confrontation was part of a larger design. Every punch thrown, every shot fired, every moment of violence had been choreographed days in advance. It wasn’t just about the money anymore—it was about sending a message to anyone who might consider crossing certain lines in the future.

*Everything Started Three Months Earlier…*