By Nazlan Ertan
A university diploma is more than just a piece of paper. It’s a ticket to professional success and social prestige. But in Turkey in recent years, it has also become an object of national obsession, political ammunition, and judicial entanglement.
Take, for instance, the latest storm swirling around Istanbul Mayor Ekrem İmamoğlu. In February 2025, he found himself under investigation for allegedly forging his university diploma—a charge that could have significant political consequences. The Istanbul Chief Public Prosecutor’s Office launched the probe following a report from the Council of Higher Education (YÖK) questioning the legitimacy of his academic credentials.
At the heart of the controversy is İmamoğlu’s academic trajectory. After graduating from Trabzon High School, he enrolled in the Faculty of Civil Engineering at Eastern Mediterranean University in Northern Cyprus. He later transferred to Girne American University’s Faculty of Economics, also in Northern Cyprus, before moving to Istanbul University in 1994, securing one of only five available transfer spots. The problem? At the time, YÖK did not recognize Girne American University, raising questions about the validity of his transfer and, by extension, his diploma. Imamoğlu will testify on the diploma dilemma on March 5.
Of course, for those familiar with Turkish politics, the irony is hard to miss. İmamoğlu, the opposition’s strongest potential candidate to challenge President Recep Tayyip Erdoğan in the next election, seems to be accumulating court cases at such a dizzying speed that even his closest aides struggle to keep track.
BACKGAMMON TEST
And yet, the absurdity of the situation reaches Ionescovian levels when one considers the history of the diploma accusations. Erdoğan himself has faced longstanding scrutiny over his own academic credentials, with critics arguing that he never actually obtained the university degree required to hold presidential office. Unlike İmamoğlu, whose classmates are still very much around, Erdoğan’s university years remain a mystery—there are no photographs, no classmates, and no paper trail.
İmamoğlu, never one to miss a punchline, responded with characteristic wit: “This is yet another tragicomic incident. They started by accusing me of document forgery, then claimed I had no diploma, and later came up with various other fabricated justifications. This is part of the government’s broader effort to erode democracy and the rule of law.” Then he went for the jugular: “I have many friends from university—if I gathered them, I could hold a rally, but a certain someone wouldn’t even find a backgammon partner.” The implication was clear.
GO ABROAD AT YOUR OWN RISK
Beyond the political arena, the value of a diploma—and the struggle to obtain a meaningful one—shapes everyday life. Over the past few decades, Turkey’s once-prestigious public universities have seen an exodus of top faculty to private institutions, where salaries are better and academic freedom is marginally less restricted. As public education deteriorated, parents with the means scrambled to enroll their children in private high schools and universities. Others set their sights abroad, quipping that some foreign universities were now more affordable than Turkish ones.
Yet, for those who dream of returning home with a foreign diploma in hand, the road is paved with bureaucratic nightmares. YÖK’s Department of Recognition and Equivalence Services (DRES) is responsible for determining whether international degrees meet Turkish standards. The process is notoriously labyrinthine, requiring mountains of paperwork, endless verification steps, and months—sometimes years—of waiting.
And until that coveted equivalence certificate is granted, that hard-earned degree might as well be a napkin from a kebab shop.
