Analysis
Smart, independent reporting on Turkey's politics, economy and foreign affairs.
The great poet Nâzım Hikmet begins his epic poem The Epic of the War of Independence with the line, “We have seen fire and betrayal.” Ahmet Türk has stood at the very heart of politics for fifty years—right in the midst of what could only be called a political firestorm. What he has witnessed is a story of Turkey and the painful fortune of these lands.
In Turkish, “turp gibi” means “healthy as a horse'—literally, as fit as a turp/turnip. But this week, the humble vegetable shed its healthful connotations and marched into politics with muddy boots. At a raucous rally in Yozgat—where over a thousand farmers formed a tractor convoy in defiance of mounting government pressure—a farmer stood before the crowd and bellowed: “The country cannot be ruled with turnips and radishes. It is governed by justice and law” or rather, with the local accent, “A country cannae be ruled wi’ neeps an’ deeshes.”
Bülent Arınç. Most recently, he stirred controversy with his criticism of the cancellation of Ekrem İmamoğlu’s diploma and his detention. “Neighborhood” has become a widely used concept that reflects the deep polarization in Turkish politics. There’s an “AKP neighborhood,” we say, and there’s an “opposition neighborhood.” But with his remarks, which carried a tone of self-criticism, Arınç managed to draw a backlash from both his own neighborhood and its direct opposite. For those who know him, Arınç’s remarks came as no surprise. Throughout the AKP’s 23 years in power, he has been one of the few — perhaps the only — figures to voice such open dissent from within. Why? He puts it this way: “I have a certain weight of my own. I’m not like the others.”
In Turkish politics, few words are as loaded—or as likely to provoke presidential rage—as “cunta.” From its etymological roots in the Spanish resistance to Napoleonic rule (junta, meaning a council), cunta has acquired a sinister sheen along the way. Today, it conjures images not of patriotic committees, but of tanks on boulevards, generals behind microphones, and constitutions suspended by decree (Bet you’ve heard that last one before). So when CHP Chair Özgür Özel recently accused the ruling bloc of staging a “civilian coup”—sivil darbe—and likened the government's tightening grip to a junta mentality, it landed like a Molotov cocktail in Turkey’s ever-combustible political arena.
We are living in bizarre times. Not just strange or odd, but truly bizarre. Politics is being tested like in a diploma exam. The diploma of Istanbul Mayor and the CHP’s almost certain presidential candidate, Ekrem İmamoğlu, has become nearly the only topic of discussion these days. The diploma debate is not new in Turkish politics either. This is a country where, perhaps since his election, there has been an ongoing debate over whether President Tayyip Erdoğan has a diploma or not. However, this time, the roles have reversed: those who once said, "Erdoğan does not have a diploma; his presidency is invalid," are now facing off against those who argue, "İmamoğlu’s diploma is null and void; he cannot run for the presidency." The debate is revolving around the question of "who actually has a diploma."
“When Turkish politics become too repetitive, I turn to the country’s art scene,” a European diplomat told me three years ago. “There is certainly more variety and more originality.” This year’s tension-wrought political rentrée, where debates revolved around “did they rise or did they not, for the president,” somehow made me follow her advice: When politics go wrong, seek consolation in art and culture.