Stomping black platform boots. Burst of pink, purple, and blue lights. Smoke wraps the front stage inside a packed 3,500-person venue in Istanbul as six figures emerge, dressed in lace, fur, and chains. The singers move in formation; it’s not quite K-pop crisp, not quite riot grrrl wild, but something that’s unmistakably their own. The crowd mouths the lyrics to their debut single, “Zamansızdık,” while others shout the group’s name: Manifest.
Made up of six members in their early twenties — Sueda Uluca, Hilal Yelekçi, Lidya Pınar, Zeynep Oktay, Mina Solak, and Esin Bahat — Manifest are a Turkish girl group, fluent in choreography, femininity, and unapologetic edge, standing together in a way that hasn’t been seen in this country in more than a decade. “In girl groups, people often want to pit you against each other,” Yelekçi says. “But for us, the power comes from being together. We see it as strength, not competition.”
Since winning Big5, a televised talent show aiming to find Turkey‘s next big music group, in January, Manifest have been putting out new music and content like there is no tomorrow. The group is just as varied in background as it is unified in purpose. Most are university students or recent grads balancing degrees in fields like psychology, engineering, and design with a lifelong passion for dance and performance. Their influences range from Hepsi (the first official girl band of Turkey, popular in the early 2000s) to Lisa from Blackpink.
Their debut concert in February, at Istanbul’s Jolly Joker Arena, felt like both a soft launch and a reckoning. What does it mean to be a girl band in Turkey now? And how do you build one from scratch in a pop industry that rarely allows women to share a spotlight without unhealthy comparisons?
“It’s not just about singing or dancing well,” Oktay says. “It’s about holding each other up. From day one, we knew: If we were going to do this, it had to be built on women’s solidarity.”
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In a country where female artists have almost always been solo acts (Sezen Aksu, Sertab Erener, Ajda Pekkan), Manifest signal something different. Their name suggests an intention to declare, to shape, hope, and take up space. Formed through months of competition and mentorship from Turkish pop icons like Gülçin Ergül, formerly of Hepsi and one of the three judges of Big5, the group isn’t just performing pop. They are defining a new blueprint, with Istanbul’s texture mixed into their DNA.
That mentorship came full circle during that February concert, when Gülçin surprised fans by joining Manifest onstage to perform “Bir Tanecik Aşkım,” one of her solo songs. The moment sparked cheers from the sold-out venue’s crowd — a symbolic handoff from Turkey’s first girl group to its newest. For longtime Hepsi fans, it felt like a passing of the torch. For Manifest, it marked a moment of validation: One of the women who paved the way was cheering them on.
The numbers back them up. On Spotify, Manifest’s debut single “Zamansızdık” has already passed 12 million streams since its February release — not far behind Hepsi’s most iconic tracks, like that group’s 2005 debut single, “Olmaz Oğlan,” which has more than 16 million streams. (“Yalan,” Hepsi’s most played song, is nearing 45 million.) These are numbers that the group collected over 20 years. Manifest’s second single, “Arıyo,” reached four million views on YouTube in only four weeks. It’s a rare moment in Turkish pop where the past and future collide this clearly, and a sign of how hungry audiences are for Manifest’s energy.
Uluca credits some of that momentum to Big5. “In the program, we were all just being our natural selves, so people were able to connect with us in that moment,” she says. “And honestly, I relate to that too. When I understand the artist, I become more curious and passionate about the art as well.”
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Their arrival feels like a relief for Turkish pop fans. Not because they promise escape, but because they offer recognition; a sense that girls, especially, can take up space, move together, and be loud about it. “We want girls who see us to know they do not have to be alone,” Yelekçi says. “You can wear what you want, you can cry, and then take the stage. You can build something with your friend, and it can be powerful.”
That kind of visibility and closeness speaks to a generation that has been waiting for an act like Manifest. “Maybe Turkey wasn’t completely ready,” Oktay reflects. “But people needed this. There’s been a gap. And maybe when we arrived, they finally saw something worth holding onto.”
Manifest’s rise is also about something deeper: a hunger for collectivity, visibility, and joy that doesn’t ignore hardship. Their fans are building streaming campaigns, designing fan art, and learning choreography for unreleased songs. The group meets that energy with open arms. “We share everything with them,” Yelekçi says. “We’re the same generation as most of our fans. That helps. Even a casual selfie in the elevator becomes a moment.”
Their aesthetic balances high-concept polish with local flavor. They shoot videos in barbershops and markets. They wear miniskirts over pants and drink çay (Turkish tea) in public squares. “We’re always crossing a bridge, literally and emotionally,” Oktay says, referring to the way Istanbul is split between Europe and Asia, and the cultural dilemma of being traditional yet unique in a modern setting. “That duality is who we are.”
Yelekçi recalls a moment that felt especially grounding: a visit to Istanbul’s Eminönü Market, one of the city’s oldest and busiest districts, where vendors sell spices, tea, small home goods, and accessories.
“The real Turkey isn’t what you see on social media,” she says. “It’s our uncles, fishermen, and shopkeepers in places like this market. That’s where a huge part of our identity comes from.” She adds: “We’re not picking one or the other; we’re both, and we’re proud of that. The traditional, and the modern; side by side. ”
Their sound is just as layered. Turkish folk influences weave through hip-hop beats. Choreography references both K-pop and Istanbul’s underground dance scene. “We’re a Turkish girl group, and that’s something we’re proud of,” Solak explains. “We don’t want to sound or look like anyone else. We want to bring our own culture forward and let the world know who we are.”
Being in a group, Bahat says, makes them more resilient. “When one of us gets tired, there’s always someone else to step in or motivate. Even now, talking to you, we feel more confident because we’re together. That’s our strength.”
The momentum hasn’t let up. A short film and two more singles are set to release — one dropping today, and another May 31. Their debut album drops on June 13. “We’ve been living with these songs. We barely listen to anything else,” Pınar says, laughing. “We hope the excitement we feel comes through to everyone.”
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Manifest are also building something no other Turkish group has tried before: Manifestival, a fan-centered music and arts festival that they’ll not only headline, but organize and own. “We wanted to create a space for girls to feel free. Workshops, panels, dance. Something bigger than just a show. Something lasting.”
They’re already imagining what comes next. “We want the world to sing in Turkish. If Rosalía can make us fall in love with Spanish, why not us?” They glance at each other. “Everything we’ve hoped for has happened so far. We manifested it. And we’re not done.”
