Ten years after Turkey accused an Italian cartoonist of terrorism, the story of one drawing reveals a broader system of digital censorship and the struggle for freedom of expression
In July 2016, the Turkish government included my name in a court order demanding the blocking of dozens of Twitter accounts, websites, and online content, accusing them of “promoting terrorism” and threatening public order. Among those contents was one of my drawings. Ten years later, that episode no longer appears as an isolated incident, but as one of the earliest examples of a system of digital censorship that has since been documented by journalists and international organizations.
On July 15, 2016, Turkey was shaken by the attempted coup d’état. In the days that followed, President Recep Tayyip Erdoğan launched an unprecedented crackdown: thousands of judges, teachers, journalists, military officers, and political opponents were arrested or dismissed. The internet quickly became one of the main battlegrounds in the government’s campaign against dissent.
Portrait of Recep Tayyip Erdoğan by Gianluca Costantini, 2016
In that climate, on July 25, 2016, a court in Ankara approved a government request to block online content allegedly “promoting terrorism,” “inciting violence,” and “threatening national security.” At the top of the list was the URL of one of my cartoons about Erdoğan, The Blood of Recep Tayyip Erdoğan, immediately followed by my Twitter account, @channeldraw, along with 37 other accounts, websites, and YouTube channels.
The accusation was as serious as it was absurd: terrorism.
Fractured Spine, Photobastei, Zurich, Vom 28. October, 2021 bis 21. November, 2021
I was not a Turkish journalist. I did not belong to any political organization. I was an Italian artist documenting human rights violations through drawing. Yet a single image was considered enough to include me in a judicial order designed to silence online expression.
My “crime” was drawing.
Fortunately, Twitter chose not to comply with the takedown order, and my account remained accessible in Turkey, preventing the government from achieving its intended result. My Channel Draw blog, however, continued to be blocked inside the country.
Three years later, in 2019, I discovered that the story was far from over. My blog was still inaccessible from Turkey, and the original 2016 court order continued to serve as the legal basis for maintaining the censorship. I decided to publish the full English translation of the court document so that anyone could read for themselves the text that transformed a political cartoon into an alleged threat to national security.
The blog Channel Draw blocked by the Turkish Government, 2016
In an interview with the Italian newspaper la Repubblica, I explained that the censorship was never only about me. It reflected a political system afraid of images, satire, and independent journalism. When a government labels a drawing as terrorism, the problem is not the drawing. The problem is the government.
Today, ten years later, we know that this court order was not an exception.
Recent investigations by Free Web Turkey and the Media and Law Studies Association (MLSA)demonstrate that online censorship has become a structural instrument of political power in Turkey. Through Law No. 5651—and particularly Article 8/A—the authorities have built a legal framework capable of blocking news websites, social media accounts, digital archives, videos, and personal profiles under vague accusations such as “national security,”“public order,” or “terrorist propaganda.”
The court documents from the Gölbaşı Criminal Judgeship of Peace (Ankara), 2016
According to the organization’s 2025 report, during the first seven months of the year alone, Turkish authorities ordered the blocking of 3,330 URLs covering 1,306 separate online contents, in addition to hundreds of social media accounts. Independent news organizations, journalists, civil society groups, and human rights defenders remain among the primary targets. These are no longer isolated incidents but the routine operation of an established censorship system.
Reporters Without Borders (RSF) has also documented how this strategy has expanded beyond Turkey‘s borders. Turkish authorities increasingly request that digital platforms restrict access to accounts and content created by journalists and activists living abroad, extending state censorship far beyond the country’s territory.
Looking back at the 2016 court order today, one detail stands out: my name appeared alongside Turkish news outlets, journalists, and activists. At the time, it seemed like an anomaly. Today, it looks like one of the first pieces of a much larger system that would eventually target thousands of people.
Over the past decade, I have continued to draw Erdoğan, Turkey, imprisoned journalists, persecuted artists, and everyone deprived of their freedom of expression. Not because I sought confrontation with power, but because I believe drawing is an act of witnessing. Every attempt at censorship paradoxically confirms how powerful that language still is.
I take no pride in having been accused of terrorism.
What I feel instead is the responsibility to remember.
Portrait of Erdogan in a Brooklyn wall, 2017
Democracies do not disappear overnight. They erode one act of censorship at a time, one court order at a time, one journalist at a time, one drawing at a time.
My story is only a small part of a much larger one, lived by thousands of Turkish journalists, artists, academics, and ordinary citizens who have paid a far higher price than I ever did. Many lost their jobs. Many lost their freedom. Many were forced into exile.
I lost access to a country.
They lost the freedom to speak in their own.
That is why, ten years later, I still believe that a drawing cannot overthrow a regime.
But it can prevent that regime from erasing memory.
