In Turkish, the term for ambassador has undergone a transformation as sweeping as the empire it once served. The old-fashioned word was “Sefir,” from the Arabic s‑f‑r root meaning “to bear a message,” and the highest rank was Sefir‑i Kebir—the Grand Envoy—complete with embroidered robes and horse-led fanfare. Today, the bureaucratic “Büyükelçi” literally means “great envoy,” yet, put in plain Turkish, it feels a little less illustrious.
AMBASSADORS OF OLD
In the heyday of the Sublime Porte, diplomacy was theatrical and far-reaching. The Ottoman capital was a magnet for foreign envoys, each tasked with protecting trade routes, flattering viziers, and occasionally smuggling Roman statues out in diplomatic baggage, according to Philip Mansel’s great history book, Constantinople: City of the World’s Desire. The Venetian bailo, stationed in Galata, resided in a compound that served as a court, prison, and warehouse, while dispatching meticulous reports on palace intrigues, military movements, and the sultan's temper.
This cloak-and-dagger routine also played out in European courts. The Marquis de Barillon, Louis XIV’s ambassador in London, was accused of paying off MPs and influencing parliamentary debates, which makes him a proto-lobbyist before the word even existed.
Ambassadors were crafty omnipotents: shadow ministers, intelligence gatherers, and masters of soft power. Although they wrote often, long, and hopefully eloquently, it was not one of them, but a diplomat’s wife who found her way into our Turkish textbooks. Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, wife of Britain’s ambassador (1716–18), charmed readers with her vivid descriptions of Ottoman baths, inoculation methods, and harem life. Her letters, not any Büyükelçi dispatch, found a spot in junior high syllabus.
POLITICAL AMBITION
Many diplomats like to say that they are “just” civil servants. In my experience after decades as a diplomatic correspondent, few mean it. Just as many political science professors quietly dream of becoming the next Kissinger, swapping academic abstractions for geopolitical muscle as the eminence grise of a super-president, many ambassadors entertain visions of ascending to a ministerial post, particularly that of the foreign minister. In Turkey, it has yet to be accomplished, although some have already made considerable efforts. (Did someone say Ambassador Volkan Bozkır, who wanted the Foreign Ministry but ended up with the now-defunct EU ministry?)
In today’s Turkey, the traffic flows both ways: increasingly, it’s former MPs, AKP loyalists, or even surprise appointees with limited foreign policy experience who land ambassadorial posts, while seasoned diplomats watch from the wings.
Consider Tom Barrack, the U.S. envoy in Ankara, a real estate magnate with Ottoman roots from Zahle and a long-time confidant of Donald Trump. The 78-year-old steps into the role of modern “Sefir‑i Kebir,” tweeting midday ceasefire updates like a Silicon Valley CEO launching a product, and leaning into ancestral myth to bolster credibility; all while wearing the polished confidence of a seasoned strategist. Will he be as popular as his predecessor, Jeff Flake, remembered for his strong lobbying in the Senate on Turkey’s behalf and his James Bond pose of running over the roof of the Grand Bazaar?
FLAIR AND MEMORIES
And what about Turkish ambassadors? I confess a weakness for their memoirs, though some are better written than others. I’m currently immersed in Volkan Vural’s memoirs. Vural, former EU Secretary-General and Ambassador to Moscow, offers elegance and discretion (perhaps too much) on his time as adviser to Turkey’s first (and only) female prime minister, the formidable Tansu Çiller. Still, his anecdotes, such as making wine in Iran and fleeing bodyguards in a Porsche, are proof that ambassadors never lost their flair for improvisation and, yes, drama.
Not everyone admires diplomatic flair. President Erdoğan once derided diplomats as “monşer”—a mocking reference to the French phrase “mon cher,” suggesting that overeducated elites are out of touch with national sentiment. Many diplomats saw it as a slur on Turkey’s professional foreign service and pushed back, defending their institutional legacy and international credibility. The term stuck, echoing the tension between grand tradition and populist politics.
