Gezi Park is a small rectangle of grass and trees just north of Taksim Square, in the center of European Istanbul. Separated by concrete barriers from a particularly congested traffic circle, it doesn’t have a lot going for it in the way of charm or landscaping. But it does have trees—six hundred and six of them, according to some reports—which makes it a distinct space in the heart of one of the world’s fastest-developing cities.

Last year, Prime Minister Recep Tayyip Erdoğan announced that Gezi Park would be levelled to make room for a reconstruction of the Halil Pasa Artillery barracks, which had been built there under Sultan Selim III, more than two hundred years ago; the reconstructed barracks would then be converted into a shopping mall. On May 28th, a peaceful demonstration convened in Gezi Park to protest the bulldozing of the first trees. The weather was, and continues to be, beautiful. But over the course of the week, Occupy Gezi transformed from what felt like a festival, with yoga, barbecues, and concerts, into what feels like a war, with barricades, plastic bullets, and gas attacks.

Just before dawn on Friday, police raided the demonstrators’ encampment with tear gas and compressed water. Several people—twelve, according to Istanbul’s governor Hÿseyin Avni Mutlu, though participants say the number was higher—were hospitalized with head traumas and respiratory injuries. Twitter was flooded with images of violence, including one of a protester on his or her knees using a sign that read “CHEMICAL TAYYIP” as a shield against a police hose. Ahmet Sik, an investigative reporter who spent much of last year in jail, had joined the protests only to get hit in the head with a police gas canister.

I stopped by Gezi Park early Friday afternoon. It had been completely sealed off by police, hundreds of whom were standing inside the park in small groups, adjusting their body armor, snapping pictures of each other on their cell phones. Gas masks lay in the grass, as did a few trampled plastic forks and an abandoned tepsi börek (a phyllo pastry baked in a tray). Noticing a small crowd convened beside one of the barricades, I went over to see what they were doing. They didn’t seem to be doing anything.

Thinking the demonstration was winding down, I went back home and tried to work on my novel. The demonstration wasn’t winding down. Hundreds of thousands of demonstrators were flooding the streets. I texted the photographer Carolyn Drake, a friend and colleague. We covered our mouths with scarves and set out to meet each other. I started walking up Siraselviler, the street that connects Cihangir, where I live, to Taksim Square. It was packed shoulder-to-shoulder with demonstrators chanting anti-government slogans, some of them quite inventive. (When I asked about the meaning of one popular chant, “I’m sorry Tayyip but you look like a light bulb,” I was told that it alluded both to the light-bulb logo of Erdoğan’s conservative Islamist A.K. Party, and to the shape of Erdoğan’s head.)

I got as far as the German Hospital, where the crowd became too dense to penetrate. Carolyn meanwhile was stuck at the northern edge of the park. I never did meet her, though she’s been sending me the pictures she snaps from her cell phone. During the twenty minutes I spent standing in front of the hospital, two ambulances came careening in from Taksim. The crowds climbed up on walls to let the ambulances by, almost drowning out the sirens with their chants: “To your health, Tayyip!” Later, everyone started jumping up and down, chanting “Jump! Jump! Jump or you’re a fascist!” I, too, hopped up and down a little, to signal my disapproval of fascism. I tried to strike up conversation with a demonstrator, a young woman in her twenties with a surgical mask around her neck, but I could see I was interrupting her tweeting. In fact, I realized that almost every person there was either typing on a phone or recording the scene on a tablet.

Back in my apartment, I turned on the television. CNN Turk was broadcasting a food show, featuring the “flavors of Nigde.” Other major Turkish news channels were showing a dance contest and a roundtable on study-abroad programs. It was a classic case of the revolution not being televised. The whole country seemed to be experiencing a cognitive disconnect, with Twitter saying one thing, the government saying another, and the television off on another planet. Twitter was the one everyone believed—even the people who were actually on the street. In a city as vast, diffuse, and diverse as Istanbul, with so many enclaves and populations and interests and classes, and with such imperfect freedom of the press, gauging public opinion, or even current events, can be fantastically difficult. The Twitter hashtag #OccupyGezi brought up hundreds, maybe thousands of appeals urging BBC, Reuters, CNN, and other English-language news outlets to “show the world” what was happening in Istanbul—as if only the international media could do what the news is supposed to do: provide an objective view of what was going on outside.

The feeling of unreality and disconnect is at the heart of the Gezi demonstrations. Istanbul loves to demonstrate; I can’t remember ever walking through Taksim without seeing at least one march or parade or sit-in, and on weekends there are usually several going on at the same time. Usually, they are small, peaceful, and self-contained, and the police just stand there. For some time now, the demonstrations have had a strangely existential feel. Again and again, people have protested the destruction of some historical building or the construction of some new shopping center. Again and again, the historical building has been destroyed, and the shopping center constructed.

Nearly every slogan chanted on the streets right now addresses Erdoğan by name, and Erdoğan hasn’t been talking back much. On Wednesday, he told protesters, “Even if hell breaks loose, those trees will be uprooted”; on Saturday, he issued a statement accusing the demonstrators of manipulating environmentalist concerns for their own ideological agendas. It’s hard to argue with him there; there’s little doubt that the demonstrations are less about six hundred and six trees than about a spreading perception that Erdoğan refuses to hear what people are trying to tell him. In recent weeks, he has overridden objections to the construction of a controversial third bridge across the Bosphorus, to be named after a sultan considered by some Turkish Alevis (members of a religious minority combining elements of Shi’ia Islam and Sufism) to be an “Alevi slayer.” Earlier this month, thousands of unionized Turkish Airlines workers went on strike to protest the firing of three hundred and five other unionized Turkish Airlines workers for participating in an earlier strike. The original workers were not rehired. Last week, he passed anti-alcohol laws, which outraged many secularists as well as the national beer manufacturers. On May Day, peaceful demonstrations were quashed by riot police with tear gas and hoses. Looking back, it seems inevitable that a larger uprising was to come.