The previous article established the great spine of the year. It laid open the month names, threshold days, the 13 × 28 structure, the line from Ancestors' Day to Hearth Feast, and why the Turkish temporal vocabulary needs to be raised to its feet once more. Once the yearly cycle was set, the turn came to the days of the week. For the great ring of time becomes visible through months and years, yet the ring that turns most often, repeats most frequently and cuts deepest is the one that lives in day names. A child utters month names only now and then. Day names, however, are repeated every day, every week, in every school timetable, every work schedule, every invitation to meet, every family hearth. This is why the day name leaves a far denser mark on memory. The first text had announced this direction clearly: the days of the week, Turkic feasts, Töre-bound threshold days and days of the Budun would all be rebuilt through Turkish's own sound and meaning order.
The turn has come to the days of the week.
This article is the second ring of that call. The aim here is to move beyond a superficial etymological listing of the day names at hand. The aim here is to lay open in detail which sounds were placed at the seven gates of the week, which civilisational layers those sounds carry, why the Turkic Budun must build its own day vocabulary, and according to which principles the new naming can be developed.
The first article had shown that Roman month names carry gods, emperors and numerical residues, while Turkish month names — ocak, ekim, aralık — offer a stronger meaning order that leans directly on lived experience. The same method will be applied in the domain of days. Which name came from which language, what was its original meaning, which power cycle it shouldered, which religious residue, which commerce or worship order it bore, by which route it entered Turkish, what it carries today and in what respect it falls short for the Turk — these questions will be opened one by one. This is why this article is as much a text on the sovereignty of time as it is a text on linguistic history. Moreover, it is as much a text on the memory of the Budun as it is on the sovereignty of time.
The skeleton of the first article carries directly into this new work — there is no rupture or distortion. There, the time system was not read like a chart hung on a wall. Why? Because within it, nodes of Ölçü, narrative, memory, selfhood and sovereignty were tied. In truth, this is a first, a revolution for the sleeping Turkic Budun. The operational power of the worldwide civil calendar was acknowledged; alongside it, the necessity of building a temporal vocabulary of the Budun was openly defended. Examples such as the Chinese, Jewish, Hindu and Islamic time systems showed that a Budun can live its own internal temporal vocabulary while sharing a common system with the world.
Through the analysis carried out on month names, the multi-layered circulation stretching from Janus to Augustus, from Syriac to Arabic, was made visible. Then the naming power of Turkish was brought to the fore. The task for days is the same. Yet here there is a distinction: a month name appears a few times within a month; a day name returns every week. This is why the days of the week are the main pulse of a Budun's sense of time. When Turkish establishes its voice here, the smallest ring of time, too, will breathe in Turkish.
The root of the seven-day week may not yield a single-origin line of invention. The ancient Near East, Babylon, Hellenistic astronomy, the Roman calendar, the Jewish sacred cycle, Christian interpretations, the Arabic numerical order and the Persian şenbe series have woven this field layer upon layer. Standard encyclopaedic knowledge relates that the Babylonians arranged the days around the Sun, the Moon and the five planets visible to the naked eye, and that the Romans adopted this seven-day cycle. It is also visible within the same framework that an eight-day "nundinal" cycle was used in Rome during an earlier period, that the seven-day week spread during the late Republic and Imperial age, and that it was placed within the official order in 321 by the decree of Constantine.
The study by Sacha Stern and Ilaria Bultrighini shows that the full alignment of planetary days gained force within the documentary order of Rome and its surroundings, and that Jewish and Christian lines processed this structure differently through their own sacred cycles. The fundamental conclusion that emerges is clear: day names assumed today to be "perfectly natural" are in fact constructed formations that carry the sediment of centuries of power, belief and astronomy. To regard them as natural is to ignore the sediment. And ignored it is…
In the Roman world, days were arranged around celestial bodies and gods. The line of Sun's day, Moon's day, Mars's day, Mercury's day, Jupiter's day, Venus's day and Saturn's day was established. The greater part of the Latin languages preserved this structure directly. The French line lundi, mardi, mercredi, jeudi, vendredi continued to carry the bond to Moon, Mars, Mercury, Jupiter and Venus. The Spanish line lunes, martes, miércoles, jueves, viernes bore the same load. The fact that these names are perceived today as ordinary markers does not eliminate the mythological and religious sediment within them. On the contrary, it shows that the sediment has turned into habit. People now speak without thinking of the meaning; the word still continues to shoulder its own history. This is why prevalence does not offer clarity; it offers only and only a linguistic habit numbed by long and frequent repetition.
The English line is even more interesting. While Sunday, Monday and Saturday preserve the trace of Sun, Moon and Saturn, in the domain of Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday, Germanic gods replaced their Roman counterparts. Tiw, Woden, Thor and Frigg were layered over the line of Mars, Mercury, Jupiter and Venus. Thus the English week came to carry a half-Roman, half-Germanic mythological residue. Every week, for four days, ancient god-names are repeated. The modern person, when using these names, most often thinks of no layer of meaning; yet the words continue to keep a dead mythology alive within the language. Funny yet true.
But let us be careful: the domain to be taken as example here cannot be the names themselves. The true direction to be taken as example is the determination of the English and Germanic world to embed its own historical material within the language of time. The lesson for the Turk lies here: to build one's own temporal and semantic voice rather than repeating another's sediment. The German example of Mittwoch also demonstrates this separately. For Wednesday, a completely different name meaning "middle of the week" was chosen. This means that if a language wills it, it can pull out the old god-name and replace it with a new day name that carries function and internal logic.
The Jewish tradition followed a different path. Days largely proceeded along a numerical line — first day, second day, third day — with the centre of gravity gathered upon "Sabbath." Here, planetary names and mythological figures were not installed in the spine of the week. The sacred cycle and the day of rest came to the fore.
Christianity, too, during its own age of expansion, used the Roman week on one hand while granting special Kut to Sunday on the other. The emphasis on "the Lord's day" came to the fore. Writers such as Augustine counselled Christians to distance themselves from planet-god names. Yet popular language continued to carry the old vocabulary. This tableau of habit is instructive. A faith cycle may wish to rebuild the language of time. The old vocabulary may resist through the force of habit. Friction may arise between state, religion and popular speech. Eventually a new synthesis forms. This is precisely how the language of time is such a living battlefield. And the largest sleeping Budun of this battlefield is we, the Turks.
Bitter yet true.
Let us continue.
The Arabic line, too, built its day names from scratch. It is known that pre-Islamic Arabs (Semites and Aramaeans) called Friday arûbe and used separate names such as awwal, ahwan, jubâr, dubâr, mu'nis and shiyâr for other days. The post-Islamic order reshaped the week along the axis of number and Friday. The line of second day, third day, fourth day, fifth day was established; Friday described the day of gathering and coming together; Saturday preserved the echo of the old Hebrew/Semitic–Aramaean root.
The example here is critically important. A great civilisational leap renewed the language of the week, set aside the old vocabulary and installed a new founding vocabulary. This means the language of time can be changed. Civilisational leaps reach down to day names. The question to be asked for the Turk is therefore harsh: the Arabs built their own day language, the Persians built their own series, the Germans replaced the Roman series with their own gods, the Germans chose the midpoint emphasis for one day — so why does the Turk still carry a broken patchwork vocabulary? Whose interest does this state of affairs serve?
The Persian şenbe series carries a clear internal logic. The line yekşenbe, duşenbe, seşenbe, çeharşenbe, pençşenbe weaves the numbers one, two, three, four, five around şenbe. This structure offers numerical coherence for the Iranian domain. Days are linked to one another through internal logic. Persian has established its own time series here with clarity. The problem begins in the Turkish domain. Turkish did not take this series whole and rework it; it took fragments, mixed them with Arabic roots, added the Turkish ertesi in places, added another focal point like pazar in others.
Thus what emerged was a hybrid series whose internal logic was broken. This hybridity cannot be dismissed as ordinary linguistic exchange. When one day of the week runs on a market name, two days on foreign numerals, one day on a congregational prayer, two days on a successor structure and the remaining days on Persian roots, the language of time fragments. A fragmented language of time cannot provide clarity for the Budun! So do not be surprised at the clouded mind of today's Turkdom… the causes are in fact right before our eyes.
The etymological map of present-day Turkey Turkish day names is quite stark and instructive. Pazar comes from the Persian root bâzâr. Pazartesi is the form of the Turkish suffix ertesi layered onto the Persian root pazar. Salı comes from the Arabic "third day" line. Çarşamba and perşembe are the Turkish forms of the Persian fourth and fifth day patterns. Cuma carries the Arabic root of gathering. Cumartesi layers the Turkish suffix ertesi onto the Arabic root cuma. When this tableau is put into numbers, it appears even more striking. Not a single one of the seven days carries a Pure Turkish root. Two days layer a Turkish suffix onto a foreign root. Five days are entirely foreign-rooted. Seven-sevenths of a Budun's time turns outside its own root-sound. This state of affairs lays bare the severe erosion of Turkish in the temporal domain. Where is the Turkish Language Association?
Let us now open this point a little further.
The name pazar warrants separate attention. The Persian bâzâr carries the meaning of marketplace, trading ground and commercial arena. An entire day of the week was built on this root. In the traditional town, the weekly market held great significance. Producers, buyers and sellers coming from distant villages would gather at the same place on certain days. Within such a cycle, "pazar günü" (market day) carries an understandable historical root. In today's world, commerce has spread to every day, every street, every screen. For marketplaces are no longer set up on just one day of the week. The circulation of goods and the flow of money proceed every hour. In such an age, tying one-seventh of a Budun's time to a marketplace breeds a narrow understanding of time. It is absurd, yet no one objects.
The day name is squeezed into the counter and trade zone instead of deep domains like hearth, feast, labour, sky, direction, rest or Budun. For the Turk's temporal vocabulary, this narrowness weighs heavily. Moreover, historical dialect data show that forms like bazertesi, bazarötesi, sarbazarı in many places marked the actual day on which the local market was held, rather than an abstract weekday. This means the "pazar" line was born as a local and practical solution in the first place, then turned into a broad temporal marker. Such naming falls short as the main gate of the time of the Budun, and continues to be a source of shame for those who have no doubt about their Turkishness.
The name pazartesi is sometimes praised beyond its due because at first glance it carries a Turkish suffix. The presence of the Turkish suffix ertesi here is important; yet the actual root still belongs to another. The day's existence does not arise from its own internal meaning; it appears as a successor to pazar. That is, the second day of the week lives in the shadow of the first; it carries no name born of itself. Turkish here does not stand at the founding centre; it places a connective suffix between foreign roots. Of course, this too shows the processing power of Turkish. Yet it also carries a dependent construction. The line befitting the Turk is not to affix suffixes to time-gates built by another, but to open one's own time-gate with one's own root. Pazartesi may be established on the plane of habit, but on the plane of design for the Budun, it is insufficient and even invalid.
Salı comes from the Arabic "third day" line. The meaning it carries here does not bear the spirit of a day as lived; it bears only an ordinal number. When Turkish uses this name, it repeats another's number one day every week. It is not necessary to oppose number-based day names outright. Number-based series offer strong examples worldwide. In Hebrew, Arabic and Persian circles, numerical clarity exists. The problem with Turkish is that it has not built the numerical logic from its own root. Had salı been constructed along the Turkish üçün or üçüncü line, a different kind of internal clarity would have emerged. In its present form, salı lives as the sonic residue of a foreign number. The fact that the Turkic Budun does not name even one day of the week with its own numeral gradually distances the numbers of Turkish — the natural child of mathematics — from our world of meaning.
Çarşamba and perşembe are the Turkish versions of the Persian fourth and fifth day patterns. These names carry clear logic for the Iranian domain. In the Turkish domain, however, they do not live — cannot live — as parts of a whole. At best, they live as fragments of a broken series. For the week has not been constructed along the same logic from the first day onward.
Pazar is the marketplace. Pazartesi is its aftermath. Salı is an Arabic numeral. Çarşamba and perşembe are Persian numerals. Cuma is Arabic for gathering. Cumartesi is its aftermath. Within such a series, çarşamba and perşembe lose their own logic. The days do not give a sense of sequence or direction; they merely line up fragments piled upon one another through history. Turkish has been unable to name even the middle of the week and the intense working days approaching the end with its own words of Ölçü, balance and result. This, too, shows that the language walks on patch upon patch in the temporal domain.
The name cuma carries the Arabic root of cem and gathering. For the Islamic world, this holds powerful meaning. Congregation, sermon, Friday prayer and shared orientation are all gathered within this name. Over the last millennium of Turkic history, this name has naturally found strong resonance. Yet it is not imperative that the Turkic Budun's temporal vocabulary rest entirely on this root. The Tengrist line wishes to keep alive the domains of sky, ancestors, hearth, feast, labour, child, family, Budun and assembly all at once. The name cuma carries only one portion of this domain. Moreover, the impact of this name expands only as far as the inner intensity of religious life; when the religious centre weakens, the day name turns into an abstract mould of diminished carrying power. Therefore, the ground is open for the order of the Turkic Budun to build a day name of broader meaning, deeper roots and more Turkish character.
Cumartesi, on the other hand, is a name that was not born of itself; it lives as Friday's successor. (In the religious sense) the seventh and closing day of the week is referred to as the aftermath of another day rather than carrying its own root. This structure openly displays the carelessness of the temporal vocabulary. A Budun wishes to name the closing of the week and the resting cycle with its own word, its own internal rhythm. In the name cumartesi, this spirit is not visible. There is only succession. The stillness of closing, the hearth cycle, the family's breathing space, inner gathering, preparation for the week ahead — none of these domains appear within the word. Thus the last gate of the week, too, cannot carry its own body.
(Parenthetical note: In Turkey's prevailing work and school schedule, the week begins on Monday and ends on Sunday. In this view, the last day is Sunday. In religious-historical and certain older timetable logics, the week opens with Sunday. In that view, Saturday is the week's closing day. Since we are presently addressing the historical dimension, we are voicing the weekend as Saturday.)
At this point, the critique can extend to a wider domain. Not only the language but also the state intellect that turned a blind eye to this language must be questioned. Those who call themselves nationalists, who define themselves along a national line, who call themselves Turkists — these "great" voices spoke for years about marches, flags, war, ceremonies and historical narrative; when it came to the days of the week and other such matters, deep sleep continued…
In truth, the absence of a Turkish root in the Turk's seven days is an indicator of a severe intellectual laziness and lack of direction. This state of affairs arose in some places from a lack of knowledge; in some places, the order of priority could not be established; in still others, the matter was consciously kept on the margins. The result remained the same: the Turk continued to live with another's body even in the most frequently repeated vocabulary of his own time. Tengrist Communalism, which possesses a sharper intelligence than all known systems, regards the test in the smallest slice of time as a priority. For on the paper of that examination, an enormous blank space has been visible for a long time.
When one turns to the historical usages of the Turks, the tableau takes on a different shape. The old Turkic temporal fabric was strong; its main axis did not carry a seven-day weekly cycle in every age. The twelve-animal Turkic calendar, the yearly cycle, season names and intra-month day sequences offered a far more deeply rooted skeleton. A study published on Dergipark notes that in the Göktürk era and surrounding circles, days were referred to by their ordinal numbers within the month — the fifth day, the seventeenth day, the twenty-first day and so on.
This information is critically important. For perspectives that deem the Turk's sense of time deficient because "there were no week names" miss the true spine. The Turk was constructing time through other centres. Year, season, migration, feast, hunt, sowing, harvest and the twelve-animal cycle provided a far broader internal order. The seven-day weekly centre of gravity became more visible in post-Islamic ages.
Kaşgarlı Mahmud, too, opens this gate clearly. In the Dīwānu Lughāt al-Turk, he relates that the Turks had no names for the seven days, and that the week was known through Islam. This information must be read in two directions. The first direction is historical honesty: it is not a sound method to retrospectively attribute fabricated seven-day names to the Göktürk or early Turkic period.
The second direction is to understand that the Turkic temporal fabric was constructed along a different axis. The Turk's year and seasons were strong. The week came to the fore in a later layer. This is why the task today is not to invent a fabricated old list but to see the historical material at hand clearly, to accept gaps honestly, and to develop the new founding names according to the needs of the age. This point is especially important; for if textual discipline weakens while speaking about day names, the credibility of the entire design is wounded.
In post-Islamic Turkic literary languages, Persian and Arabic day names appear distinctly. The examples related by the researcher Sertkaya show usages along the çarşamba, perşembe, âzîne and şenbe line in Khwarezmian Turkish, the Codex Cumanicus and other textual circles. A recent study on Kyrgyz Turkish also reveals the prevalence of Persian-rooted day names in contemporary dialects, alongside the tendency to build Pure Turkish forms through ordinal number + kün.
This is where a productive gate opens. Turkic languages have not only carried foreign names; they have also kept alive the tendency to build native days through their own numerical roots. This tendency offers historical support for a future Pure Turkish day series.
Dialect data further show that the people have produced practical and local solutions in the face of time. Forms like bazertesi, bazarötesi, sarbazarı, ayna günü, ayna ertesi were used in certain regions. These names mark, in some places, the day on which the market was held; in others, the Friday–Saturday line; in yet others, the local trading schedule.
This diversity tells two things simultaneously. First, popular language is always creative; it opens new paths with whatever material is at hand. Second, when the common temporal vocabulary of the Budun is not established through state, literary language and education, local dispersion becomes dominant. The Turk's new day series therefore cannot remain merely a word proposal; it must find its counterpart in schools, in software, in the state calendar and in daily use.
The fundamental principle that emerges is clear: names used in history hold archival value; they do not carry a taboo that binds the future. The Persian şenbe series is meaningful for Iran. The Arabic cuma is a powerful centre for the Islamic world. The pazar line was useful in the old urban and rural order. When the Turkic Budun today builds its own temporal vocabulary, it knows, preserves and explains this historical material; then it builds the new voice according to its own domains of Töre, sky, Budun, hearth, feast, child, labour and balance. History here becomes the founding quarry. Each old word offers a layer, a clue, a warning and a Measure. The final decision, however, is made by the living Budun.
When this bitter tableau is surveyed, it is clear which principles should guide new Turkish day names. The first principle is that the root must be Pure Turkish. Half-native solutions constructed by layering a Turkish suffix onto a foreign root offer a temporary bridge; they do not provide a founding centre.
The second principle is sonic clarity. A day name must be short, clear, learnable by a child and comfortably pronounceable in every dialect.
The third principle is that it must carry the internal rhythm of the week. A day name must not stand merely as an empty marker; it should carry domains of spirit such as opening, labour, calibration, balance, Budun, feast and rest.
The fourth principle is harmony with the distinctiveness of Turkic life. Domains like hearth, Budun, feast, realm, hand, labour, reckoning, calibration, stillness and vitality can form the core of a Turkish day vocabulary.
The fifth principle is harmony with the Tengrist line. Sky, Ölçü, cycle, balance and the domain of ancestors serve as the guiding direction here. The sixth principle is to begin with flexible proposals and remain open to Budun deliberation. In the previous article, this path was also proposed for month names. Day names, too, should mature through the same assembly method.
In line with these principles, a core proposal series can be constructed. The names here are not presented as a final decision. Each is a proposition that can be debated, tested and multiplied. Moreover, more than one additional proposal will be given for each day. Thus, instead of a single-voiced closure, a broad field opened to the collective mind of the Budun is provided. Up to this point, the religious, historical and cultural layers of the days have been addressed. From here on, the field, school, work schedule, official timetable and present-day Turkey practice will be taken as the basis. On this plane, the first day of the week is Monday. The new naming will also be constructed according to this established and living order. Thus daily usage and the new Turkish vocabulary merge within the same flow.
The primary proposal for the first day (Monday) is Öngün.
This name turns the face of the week forward, opens direction and initiates the march. The root ön carries the sense of moving ahead, the forward, the opening path and the first leap. The current name pazartesi lives through a successor pattern tied to a foreign root; in the new series, that shadow is withdrawn and the direct opening of the first direction takes its place. The name Öngün lifts the week's first gate out of a dependent feeling of leftover; it ties it to the current of progress and beginning. In Turkey, both schools and work schedules and official calendar flows largely open with Monday. This is why the first day's name should announce the opening and taking of direction without hesitation. Öngün does this job directly. When Öngün is spoken, the gate opens, the path becomes visible and the spine of the week takes its first step forward.
Other proposals for the first day:
Başgün — carries the head of the opening, the setting of direction and the weight of beginning.
İlkgün — gives the sense of sequence clearly; easy to learn.
Açargün — carries the opening of the gate and the launching of the new cycle.
Kurugün — describes the starting gate where the week is founded, tied and ordered.
The primary proposal for the second day (Tuesday) is Üretgün.
The direction opened on the first day turns to concrete yield on the second. This name makes visible the domain of producing, processing, multiplying and yielding. The current name salı carries Arabic numeral residue; by contrast, in Turkish naming, the second day does not remain a mere ordinal marker. In the internal rhythm of life, the second day of the week is most often the phase when work accelerates, takes body and what is produced becomes visible. In Turkic life, production does not merely fill the domain of livelihood; it establishes vitality, feeds the home, sustains the hearth, keeps the Budun standing. This is why naming the second day of the week with production gives a strong internal meaning. The direction opened with Öngün meets matter, labour and result with Üretgün. When Üretgün is spoken, work is summoned; the power of putting something forth, filling the void and generating yield also comes to mind.
Other proposals for the second day:
Emekgün — foregrounds perspiration, the weight of work and founding effort.
İşgün — carries the work order plainly and directly.
Tergün — carries the sound of bodily labour and the sweat of the brow.
Yoğungün — describes the phase of the week when work deepens.
The primary proposal for the third day (Wednesday) is Ayargün.
This name lifts the pace of the week out of a blind flow, ties it to Measure, and sets the line in its proper place. The work started and produced in the first two days is reviewed here, calibrated, deviations are corrected, rhythm is gathered. Because the current name çarşamba carries the residue of the Persian fourth day, there is also a disconnection between Turkey's living weekly order and the root meaning. In the new series, the third day meets its own rank and function with the inner voice of Turkish. Because the root ayar carries the power of regulation, setting in place, weighing and harmonising, it fits the third day of the week very well. The scattered load of the first two days is gathered here, calculated and set on its way. When Ayargün is spoken, the flow of the week is inspected without pause, corrected and gains strength. This is why Ayargün is one of the most native and functional counterparts for the third day.
Other proposals for the third day:
Sanagün — carries the domain of counting, sequence and mental sorting.
Saygün — conveys the week's order held by number.
Ölçümgün — carries Measure, weighing and balance directly into the week.
Sınaggün — opens the domain of testing, weighing and trial.
The primary proposal for the fourth day (Thursday) is Denggün.
This name offers a body that carries equivalence, balance and the central axis. The waist of the week is established here. The load of the first half and the direction of the second half are bound to one another here. The current name perşembe carries the residue of the Persian fifth day; within Turkey's Monday-starting lived weekly order, however, today is in fact the fourth day. In the new series, this fracture is withdrawn; in its place, the balance-gate of the week is installed. The root deng strongly carries the sense of equilibrium, harmony, equal weight and the feeling of having found one's place. When Denggün is spoken, the axis of the week becomes visible; the preceding three days and the following three days hold on to each other here. This is why Denggün does not merely show the midpoint; it keeps the spine of the week in balance, distributes its weight equally and clarifies its direction.
Other proposals for the fourth day:
Tengün — carries the feeling of equivalence and weighing with a more ancient and sharp sound.
Ortagün — clearly shows the middle of the week.
Belgün — describes the waist, spine and centre of gravity of the week.
Aragün — conveys the feeling of a threshold between two halves.
The primary proposal for the fifth day is İlgün.
The word il in Turkish carries the sense of homeland, order, domain of governance, the broad communal circle of the Budun and the public face. On the fifth day of the week, internal work opens to the external cycle; meetings, forming connections, expansion, governance, collective order and external relations become visible. The current name cuma carries the Arabic root of gathering. The religious and historical meaning of Cuma is powerful within its own civilisational domain. Alongside this, this phase lived as the fifth working day of the week in Turkey also carries a broader face of the realm and order of the Budun. The name İlgün enlarges this domain. When İlgün is spoken, not just a moment of gathering is summoned; the order of the homeland, the shared space, the political and the face of the Budun also appear. This is why the fifth day is not pulled into a narrow religious cycle; it is named through the external face of broader Turkic life.
Other proposals for the fifth day (Friday):
Elgün — carries the domain where the Budun reaches out to one another and the external cycle opens.
Budungün — carries the shared space and communal life.
Alımgün — foregrounds the direction of receiving and acquisition.
Satımgün — marks the presentation of production to the external world.
(Note: Here, two proposals along the buying-selling axis have been deliberately left in. The narrowness of the name pazar was criticised; yet on one day of the week, the domain of exchange and external cycle is not entirely erased. The true aim is to surpass the narrow view that surrenders an entire day's name to the counter. Within the İlgün line, this domain becomes part of a broader communal cycle of the Budun. Thus commerce ceases to be the narrow centre that swallows the day's entire body; it becomes a part of a larger societal flow.)
The primary proposal for the sixth day (Saturday) is Toygün.
Toy is one of the deepest words in Turkic history. It carries at once the domains of feast, assembly, consultation, celebration, great gathering and communal coming-together of the Budun. The current name cumartesi lives within the successor pattern of the Arabic root cuma. Yet in Turkey's living weekly order, the sixth day is Saturday, and in terms of social rhythm, it carries the domain of assembly, family, excursion, gathering, ceremony, leisure and communal encounter of the Budun. Toygün is therefore a very powerful counterpart. When Toygün is spoken, the hearth of the Budun, the call, consultation, festivity and shared vitality meet within the same body. The day does not live in the shadow of another day; it carries its own Töre-bound name.
Other proposals for the sixth day:
Kutgün — foregrounds the domain of Kut and abundance.
Ota(ğ)gün — evokes the pavilion and the field of coming together.
Kurulgün — enlarges the direction of assembly and consultation.
Ulugün — carries the domain of elevation, expansion and communal attainment of the Budun.
The primary proposal for the seventh day (Sunday) is Özgün.
This name unites the week's closing with the self, with turning inward, with the family hearth and with arriving at oneself. The root öz here carries the sense of a person turning inward, withdrawing to the hearth, gathering the week's accumulation within oneself and preparing from within for the new cycle. According to the living weekly understanding in Turkey, the last day is Sunday. In the new series, the seventh day also carries this domain of closing and gathering. Thus the marketplace shadow of the current name pazar is withdrawn; in its place comes a deeper name befitting the week's final threshold. Özgün builds the closing's own body. When Özgün is spoken, as much as ending, there is also gathering; as much as resting, there is also cleansing; as much as turning inward, there is also meeting one's self. Today marks the withdrawal from the noise of the external cycle and the return to one's own centre.
Other proposals for the seventh day:
Tingün — carries the domain of inner breath, tranquil gathering and quiet composure.
Esgün — conveys through the line of es and inspiration a sense of lightening and coolness.
Solukgün — openly carries the domain of breathing and relaxation.
Dirimgün — foregrounds revival and inner quickening for the new week.
The reading of this core series together establishes the following internal flow: Öngün – Üretgün – Ayargün – Denggün – İlgün – Toygün – Özgün. As can be seen, this series does not line up the week like a blind numerical ruler. It establishes the cycle of opening, production, calibration, balance, realm, feast and self. Each day moves beyond being an empty marker; it becomes a lived domain of spirit. In this respect, the new series harmonises with both the Tengrist line and the distinctiveness of Turkic life.
Moreover, it carries alphabetic simplicity in terms of software and global usage. The sonic treasury of Turkish becomes visible here in its full, undiminished form. Thus the new vocabulary both preserves the honour of the living language and carries the openness to generate counterparts on multilingual interfaces in the future. The most important correction is visible here: the series no longer sits upon the off-field construction that counted Sunday as the first day (a fact the Turkic Budun never even noticed). Whatever the living weekly consciousness in Turkey is, the new Turkish series sits upon that. Thus the proposal increases its strength from both a cultural and a practical standpoint.
This naming exercise should not be read as a narrow vocabulary game. When day names change, school timetables change, the language of official correspondence changes, software interfaces change, smart device notifications change, feast and celebration calls proceed with the new vocabulary. Today, every child installs foreign roots into memory — pazartesi, salı, çarşamba — at the very age of learning to read and write.
Tomorrow, when the line of Öngün, Üretgün, Ayargün, Denggün, İlgün, Toygün, Özgün is established, the child will learn the inner flow of time through the roots of its own language. This transformation transforms the mode of thinking. When Öngün is spoken, a sense of opening and direction; when Üretgün is spoken, a feeling of yield and putting forth; when Ayargün is spoken, a domain of ordering and setting right; when Denggün is spoken, balance; when İlgün is spoken, the realm and the external cycle of the Budun; when Toygün is spoken, communal gathering; when Özgün is spoken, return to self and inner gathering — all come to mind at once.
In the current series, by contrast, the successor pattern of pazartesi, the foreign numeral residues of salı and çarşamba, the broken ordinal structure of perşembe, the external roots of cuma and cumartesi and the marketplace shadow of pazar come to the fore. For the education system, this difference is enormous. For the language of the state, too, it is enormous. When a state teaches day names to its own Budun, it is in fact teaching the spirit with which time will be lived. For many years, this domain has been left empty. The path now opening is the path that will make Turkish visible once more as a founding language in every layer of time.
In conclusion, an open duty stands before the Turk. To sustain the current series — in which all seven days carry a foreign root — as mere habit means to live with another's voice in the smallest slice of time. All layers of the past will be preserved as archive; Arabic, Persian, Latin and Germanic examples will be kept as knowledge; the record of Kaşgarlı, the accumulation of the twelve-animal calendar, the local day names in popular dialects and the ordinal + kün tendencies in contemporary Turkic languages will be read together.
Then the living Budun will build the new day vocabulary with its own Töre-Measure, its own software language, its own school system, its own calendar interfaces. This construction no longer sits upon an off-field week-start concept. Whatever the practical order lived in Turkey is, the new Turkish vocabulary leans on that flow. The week's first day opens as Öngün, its last day closes as Özgün. Time here is not merely counted; it is felt, taught, lived, and on every Öngün (Monday) it opens in Turkish.
Stay well.
References
[1] Uploaded file: The Turk Reclaims Time: Tengrist System (Calendar).
[2] Encyclopaedia Britannica, "Week."
[3] Ilaria Bultrighini – Sacha Stern, The Seven-Day Week in the Roman Empire: Origins, Standardization, and Diffusion.
[4] Osman Fikri Sertkaya, On the Day Names and Their Etymologies of the Week.
[5] TDV İslâm Ansiklopedisi, Cuma.
[6] TDV İslâm Ansiklopedisi, Arûbe / Sebt related entries.
[7] Negizbek Shabdanaliev, The Week Day Names in Kyrgyz Turkish in Comparative Perspective.
[8] TDV İslâm Ansiklopedisi, Pazar.
[9] Study on The 12-Animal Turkic Calendar as a Cultural Heritage of the Turks.
[10] References on Dīwānu Lughāt al-Turk and Kaşgarlı Mahmud's week knowledge.
[11] Day Names Used in the Dialect Dictionary.
[12] Time Names Found in the Historical Survey Dictionary.