In the heart of Eskişehir, a city that has seen its population swell from 500,000 in the 1990s to nearly one million today, a small but resilient group of artisans continues to fight for the survival of a centuries-old craft. Among them is 69-year-old Ayhan Oskaylar, who has been at the helm of his family’s clockmaking business since 1955—a trade passed down from his father. But as the world spins faster into the digital age, Oskaylar’s workshop, filled with ticking and tocking reminders of a bygone era, faces an uncertain future.
According to reports from multiple Turkish news outlets, Oskaylar’s story is emblematic of a broader trend: the slow disappearance of traditional clockmakers in Turkey. Where once clocks were a household necessity, today they are more often purchased as tokens of affection for special occasions—engagements, weddings, Mother’s Day, and Father’s Day—than for their utilitarian purpose. Oskaylar himself puts it plainly: “In the past, clocks were more of a necessity, but now they have turned into more of a pleasure. They are bought as gifts for special days,” he told reporters. It’s a shift that speaks volumes about changing consumer habits and the march of technology.
But the transformation is not just about why people buy clocks; it’s also about who is left to keep them running. When Oskaylar became president of the local chamber of clockmakers in 1996, Eskişehir boasted 38 skilled artisans in his field. Today, despite the city’s nearly doubled population, only 13 to 15 remain. “This shows that the profession is on the verge of extinction,” Oskaylar lamented. The numbers are stark and telling: as the need for traditional timepieces wanes, so too does the number of people who know how to repair them.
One of the greatest challenges facing the trade is the struggle to recruit and train new apprentices. Oskaylar explained that it takes at least five years to properly train an apprentice. But the process is fraught with obstacles from the very beginning. “If we take on an apprentice, we need to train them for at least five years. But they start by asking, ‘How much will you pay me?’ With insurance, taxes, and salaries, you spend five years training them, and then they go and open their own shop,” he said. The economics simply don’t add up for many would-be masters, and as a result, the pipeline of new clockmakers has all but dried up.
Yet perhaps the most formidable adversary to the traditional clockmaker is not a lack of apprentices, but the relentless advance of technology. The proliferation of smartwatches has fundamentally altered the landscape. As Oskaylar noted, “New generation smartwatches, when broken, are not repaired—they are replaced. Even if the batteries inside are changed, they do not perform as well as before. People are only now beginning to realize this, but usage habits have changed very quickly.” According to his observations, the repair of these devices is not only more challenging but also less economically viable. Most consumers, accustomed to rapid technological turnover, simply opt for a new device rather than seek out a repair.
This shift in consumer behavior has hit the traditional clockmaking industry hard. Where once a broken clock would be lovingly restored, now it is more likely to be discarded. The result? Fewer customers for artisans like Oskaylar, and even less incentive for young people to enter the trade. “Technology has dealt a major blow to the profession,” he said, summing up the sentiment of many of his peers.
But the challenges do not end with changing tastes and technological disruption. The very foundation of the clock industry in Turkey has eroded. Oskaylar pointed out that clock production within the country is now virtually nonexistent, primarily due to high production costs. “Currently, the market is dominated by China, Japan, Malaysia, and Singapore. Swiss watches are at a higher level. In Turkey, the clock industry is almost non-existent, costs are very high. That’s why production is not done,” he explained. The market, once vibrant with local craftsmanship, is now saturated with imported pieces, making it even harder for Turkish artisans to compete.
This confluence of factors—shrinking demand, technological change, and global competition—has created a perfect storm for the traditional clockmaker. For Oskaylar and the handful of colleagues who remain, the future is uncertain. The profession that once provided a stable livelihood and a sense of pride is now at risk of fading into history.
Despite these challenges, Oskaylar continues to show up at his workshop, keeping alive the skills and traditions passed down through generations. His story is both a testament to resilience and a cautionary tale about the costs of progress. In a world obsessed with the new and the now, the slow, meticulous art of clockmaking is struggling to find its place.
Yet, there is a certain romance in the persistence of these artisans. They are, in many ways, keepers of time—not just in the literal sense, but as guardians of a craft that connects the present to the past. As Oskaylar’s experience shows, the value of their work goes beyond the mere mechanics of gears and springs. It is about memory, tradition, and the quiet satisfaction of fixing something that others might throw away.
Whether the profession will survive another generation remains to be seen. But for now, in the back streets of Eskişehir, the clocks still tick, and masters like Ayhan Oskaylar continue to resist the relentless march of time—one repair at a time.