In Turkish, the word hakem conjures, for the average football fan, the image of a man with a whistle — revered when he blows it in your favor, reviled when he doesn’t. Yet the word has a far deeper pedigree. Hakem comes from the Arabic ḥakam, meaning “one who judges,” sharing roots with hakim (judge or ruler) and hikmet (wisdom). The referee is, linguistically at least, meant to be a wise arbiter among impassioned players and fans — no small task given the layers of expectation and resentment attached to every call.
Why hakem now? Because the term sits at the centre of a scandal threatening to unpick the very idea of fair play in Turkey’s most-watched sport; not that anyone has ever mistaken Turkish football for fair or gentlemanly. After years of whispered allegations about betting and match-fixing, the Turkish Football Federation (TFF) announced that over a thousand players had been referred to the disciplinary board, a number large enough to suggest that the “beautiful game” has a gambling addiction.
But the real jolt came earlier, when referees themselves emerged as the first suspects, with dozens found to have “active betting accounts,” often with dizzying transaction histories that, as prosecutors now note, produced losses rather than gains. In a scandal supposedly driven by greed, many of the accused proved spectacularly bad gamblers.
REFEREES AS SCAPEGOATS?
The saga, as Turkey in Depth has been following, began with an internal audit that revealed something staggering: of 571 active referees, 371 held betting accounts and 152 had actually placed bets on matches — one of them allegedly wagering 18,227 times. As the investigation widened — pulling in club presidents, former officials, and even a journalist — referees declared they had “become scapegoats,” arguing that the betting culture extended far beyond them. And given that several referees were arrested not for illicit winnings but for eye-watering losses, their sarcasm has struck a chord.
And, of course, this is not the first time referees have been collectively sacrificed in Turkish football’s endless theater of crisis. Back in March 2022, the TFF’s Central Refereeing Committee (MHK) abruptly removed 13 referees from active duty — among them internationally-recognised names like Cüneyt Çakır and Fırat Aydınus. The decision landed like a grenade. UEFA-listed officials found themselves benched overnight, clubs erupted in protest, and the referees appealed to the TFF’s Arbitration Board, which overturned the decision within weeks. Even then, reports emerged that the MHK still planned not to assign them matches. It was an early reminder that “hakemlik” had ceased to be a technical profession and had instead become a zone of political maneuvering — a dress rehearsal, perhaps, for the present crisis.
…OR PUNCHBAGS
Referees have always been convenient punchbags. From boos echoing in provincial stadiums to coaches cursing them from the side, the official forever stands between organised sport and chaos. Every unpopular call is dissected by pundits and occasionally avenged in person; as when a furious club chairman punched referee Halil Umut Meler in full view of the cameras in 2023, leading to league-wide match suspensions. (He was momentarily arrested but when released carried on the shoulders of his fans.)
Today the targeting has shifted from the pitch to the police station: referees escorted out in handcuffs, club presidents arrested on allegations of “manipulating match results,” and journalists questioned for “misleading the public.”
THE WINTER OF OUR DISTRUST
To be clear, Turkey is not unique. Around the world, referees are routinely scapegoated, harassed, and threatened. English referee Anthony Taylor was mobbed at an airport after officiating a Europa League final; in Argentina, one in four amateur officials reports physical aggression.
But in Turkey, the crisis lands differently. It reinforces a deeper malaise: institutions weakened by nepotism and distrust, processes corroded by suspicion, and a public ready to believe that anything might be part of a plot.
So when we say hakem this week, we’re not only talking about the man in black on the pitch, we are talking about the fragile state of virtues in Turkey today. A word that once promised order now reads like the embodiment of the trust we have lost, both on the pitch and elsewhere.
