The Easiest Acronym We’ve Ever Memorized: AVM

According to the definition by the International Council of Shopping Centers (ICSC), a shopping mall (AVM) is “a corporate commercial property with at least 5,000 square meters of leasable space, a minimum of 15 independent units, and operated as a single facility.” There are dozens of large and small AVMs in Türkiye that meet this definition, and both their numbers and their roles in the daily life of our cities are steadily increasing. For some reason, AVMs in our country are among the most frequently honored with the ICSC International Marketing Awards—dubbed the “Marketing Oscars” of the shopping mall sector. If we were to classify countries according to the “extent to which shopping malls transform daily life,” Türkiye would undoubtedly take the top spot by a wide margin.

Anyone seeing a shopping mall (AVM) for the first time immediately realizes that these places are one of the main gateways for international investors into our country. Indeed, “mall enthusiasts” defend them by saying, “Do you know how many billions of dollars in foreign capital have entered Türkiye thanks to AVMs?” You might ask, “What’s the harm?” Of course, there is no harm if alternative paths have been explored to support the development of the country’s own resources and culture. Opposing foreign capital in this day and age is to ignore and deny economic realities. Yet this fact does not eliminate the need to consider the quality of the foreign capital flowing into the country through AVMs. Both the malls themselves and the companies investing in them are symbols of cultural transformation and alienation. This is where a large part of the AVM issue stems from. In the face of such a profound cultural concern, the sole goal of encouraging foreign investment cannot—and must not—be “to ensure that all the major global brands are here too.” But that seems to already be the case. How else can we explain the widely heard phenomenon that “famous foreign brands don’t even pay rent in AVMs because their presence lends them prestige”?

It is evident to all observers that, along with AVMs, both consumption trends and the relationship between land and rent have sharply increased in our society. You don’t have to be a developer to calculate what it means to cram numerous commercial spaces into a single area. Entrepreneurs and investors, who prioritize profit, rarely reflect on what these rushed, reckless interventions in the socio-economic life and historical fabric of a city will cost us in the long run. But intellectuals and politicians must. We cannot leave the fate of our cities and the future of our people solely to the profit-driven calculations of investors. First, we lost our neighborhood culture to skyscrapers. Now, with AVMs, our social fabric—once rooted in modesty and solidarity—is unraveling. To recognize this clearly, we must break away from the “construction-driven development model” and look around with a sense of tradition and historical awareness. Only then can we understand that what we have lost cannot be measured in money. This is what true and necessary conservatism is all about.

Experts familiar with the West and with economics see something deeply flawed in the rapid proliferation of AVMs in Türkiye and in the sector’s exaggerated expansion to the point of disrupting daily life in our cities. Some even describe this phenomenon as a “sign of underdevelopment.” Let there be no misunderstanding: it is perfectly reasonable for people living in large metropolises to have shopping centers where they can find everything in one place. If we’ve said “yes” to modernity and to big cities, we must naturally accept the necessity of AVM-like structures. But there must be a rule—and a solid one at that. They should not disrupt the city’s core fabric, its lifestyle, or its historical centers. Ideally, they should be located outside urban cores; they should be accessible via efficient public transportation, feature green areas suitable for human interaction, and include playgrounds children can use free of charge. Yet most AVMs in our country are exempt from these criteria. When things proceed in such an unregulated and haphazard manner, it becomes impossible to prevent the emergence of massive rent-driven profits, social injustices, and the erosion of the city’s unique and authentic way of life.

Having swiftly entered the ranks of the easiest acronyms we’ve ever memorized, AVM has already become an indispensable part of our daily lives. Small-scale shopkeepers who could survive on modest capital flows are being steadily pushed out by these massive, internationally backed centers. Yet the traditional bazaar was grounded in solidarity, open to individual participation, and in harmony with history; it was more compatible with urban aesthetics and democratic life. More importantly, in both form and substance, it aligned with our demand for a new civilization that responds to the crises of modernity. We must urgently seek ways to revive the traditional bazaar and preserve, at all costs, the old city plans that encompass our historical texture and original urban choreography.

Why Are We Crowding Into These AVMs?

Whenever you voice a few constructive, critical remarks about AVMs, the counter-question is ready: “But people love them—just look, they’re packed!”

It’s undeniably true that we flock to AVMs. On an annual scale, when we consider all cities in Türkiye, approximately 10 billion visits are made to AVMs. The average frequency with which an individual visits a mall in a single month is also remarkably high—close to 10 times. Weekends are more preferred than weekdays. Consumers who go to AVMs dine out there 7 to 8 times a month on average, and this number continues to rise. These rates are higher among customers in Istanbul compared to those in Anatolia. Interestingly, studies show that overall satisfaction with AVMs is higher in Anatolia.

Our rapid urbanization—or rather, the necessity that has driven people from villages to cities in pursuit of a livelihood—has unfolded in parallel with the rise of AVMs. Especially in our larger cities, people go to AVMs whenever they get a break from work—to spend time with family, shop, have fun, relax, and meet friends.

AVMs are equipped with features designed to appeal to people of all ages; engaging activities tailored to each age group are planned. These spaces are deliberately designed to give the impression that they offer not only shopping, but also entertainment, cultural and artistic events, social encounters, and opportunities to spend enjoyable time. Every effort is made to make them appear as centers that offer all needs in a single package. After all, the “all-in-one” formula holds immense allure for the modern consumer. But all of this is merely pretext—the real goal is consumption. The more consumption, the better things go. Just look at the motivation rankings of those who prefer AVMs: shopping enthusiasts top the list at 28%. They are followed by budget-conscious customers at 23%, quality seekers at 21%, needs-based shoppers at 15%, and pleasure-seeking consumers at 13%. No matter which group we examine, the reality remains the same: consumption. In other words, AVMs are cathedrals of consumption.

When it comes to AVMs, a special chapter must be opened for young people. For our youth, AVMs serve not only as spaces for consuming brands, but also as arenas for showcasing the brands and styles that form part of their identities—and more importantly, for killing time with their peers (yes, killing time). These places are rapidly becoming the only venues for such experiences.

Let’s pause briefly and note two observations, the details of which we’ll leave for later.

We often dismiss it as merely “killing time in malls,” but if we examine daily life from a power perspective, this form of the “institutionalization of leisure” reveals striking insights related to political sociology.

Our first observation is this: AVMs institutionalize free time by placing it under a kind of control. The replacement of the city’s agora by AVMs is closely linked to the decline of democracy and the disappearance of the public individual. AVMs are never spaces for gathering, encountering others, or engaging in civic-minded debate. On the contrary, they are spaces for relieving tension, distracting the mind, and becoming desensitized—through consumption. The interactions that occur there fundamentally serve this very purpose.

Our second observation is that AVMs enable and promote a new facet of consumer society: the branding of bodies. While people once displayed their identity through the brands they wore and carried in the spacious halls of AVMs, today a new phenomenon is emerging: the body itself is becoming a brand. Clothing, accessories, and one’s demeanor once functioned as expressions of identity; now the body itself plays the lead role. With the rise of gyms and tattoo culture, I observe that AVMs have also come to serve a role related to the “body” dimension of the spectacle society.

Young people, who breathe information technology, feel like citizens of a global world when they are in AVMs. The sense that their fashion, consumption habits, and cinematic tastes are no different from those of their peers elsewhere helps dissolve their sense of estrangement from the world. Add to this the fact that families often direct their children to AVMs because they consider them safe. Mall management is fully aware of this appeal to young people. Concerts are organized, and youth-specific spaces are constantly being created—all with the aim of transforming AVMs into an inseparable, singular home for the younger generation.

I don’t know if I’ve expressed this clearly enough—but the public’s attraction to AVMs arises less from conscious choice and more from the compulsions imposed by urban life in a consumer society. In cities we’ve failed to build in accordance with our own culture—especially where there are no engaging, enriching spaces for young people and children to enjoy themselves or spend time productively—we are left with no choice but to turn to places that offer entertainment, games, and shopping all at once.

They decide what we need, what we should buy, where we should buy it, and under what conditions we’ll be happy. All that remains for us is to follow these directives—and in doing so, become increasingly alienated from ourselves.