There is a phrase in the Jewish tradition that I have always found inspiring: “Next year in Jerusalem.” Recited at the conclusion of religious services—most famously the Passover—it expressed a deep yearning for return after centuries of exile. But its power lies in more than religious devotion. It became a symbol of identity, justice, and the enduring belief that no oppression is permanent.

Lately, a variation of that old sentiment has begun to surface in unexpected conversations—among Turks of all backgrounds living abroad. It’s rarely spoken aloud, and never in those exact words, but it resonates in the silence between words: half-joke, half-hope. You’ll find it in long Bluesky threads and quiet WhatsApp chats, somewhere between punchlines and planning logistics—Next year in Ankara?

The sentiment I refer to is a daring, almost subversive hope. It echoes through universities across Europe, think tanks in DC, and among all Turks who left their country not out of apathy, but because the country had stopped making space for its enlightened citizens. Many live now in a kind of suspended time—rooted elsewhere, yet not entirely settled, watching and waiting.

But like the Young Turks of the late Ottoman Empire, this generation did not vanish. They reorganized abroad, built new networks, and continued to engage with society from afar. Now, for the first time in years, a sense of possibility is emerging.

That sense of possibility is embodied not in a revolutionary, but in a mayor.

Ekrem İmamoğlu is not a typical politician. He does not rely on outdated leftist rhetoric, nor does he cling to rigid ideological markers. He is neither overly conservative nor militantly secular. He prays. He smiles. And crucially, he wins. More than any other political figure in recent memory, he represents the potential to reverse a long, painful decay—one that is not just political, but also economic and cultural.

Ironically, this moment was enabled by President Erdoğan himself. His consolidation of power undermined the very institutions he sought to control, prompting the departure of Turkey’s human capital. But his more profound miscalculation was in Anatolia. In an effort to cultivate loyal cadres, he vastly expanded higher education in provincial cities. Yet rather than generating political loyalists, this produced a new generation—angry, ambitious, and politically conscious. They are not passive. They are not grateful. And they are not buying what he is selling.

What we are now witnessing is the convergence of hopes and dreams of two streams: the ones abroad, and the newly awakened at home. İmamoğlu sits at the confluence of these forces. He does not present himself as a savior. He does not indulge in ideological zeal. Instead, he offers something more radical in Turkey today: competence, optimism, and change.

So yes, the phrase emerges again—sometimes in jest, sometimes with earnest hope: Next year in Ankara? 

This time, maybe.