Analysis
Smart, independent reporting on Turkey's politics, economy and foreign affairs.
For over a week, a single issue was on Turkey’s agenda: What happened to the money in the funds? Finance Minister Mehmet Şimşek, who had stayed silent on the crisis since it began and faced growing speculation that he would be fired, broke his silence on Sept. 24 to deny that he was leaving.
When the Ankara Chief Public Prosecutor's Office summoned the city’s former mayor, Melih Gökçek, to testify over his family members' assets and accounts in Germany, the first reaction was silence.
Marjane Satrapi's family said she died of sadness brought on by a profound sense of loss. It is difficult to think of Satrapi without the vocabulary of loss. What she drew, again and again, was loss, the loss of childhood, country, language and return. In the end, according to those closest to her, another loss, the love of her life, silenced her.
All deaths are tragic. They touch a family, a circle of friends, a silence suddenly too large for the room. But some deaths pass beyond the private wound and enter the deeper chambers of public life. They reveal the loss not only of a person, but of a habit of mind, a manner of thinking, a discipline of attention, a way of teaching a society to recognise itself. The death of Professor İlber Ortaylı feels like that kind of loss.
The parliamentary delegation’s visit to PKK leader Abdullah Öcalan on Nov. 24 — involving MPs from the AKP, MHP, and DEM — reignited tensions and revived coup speculation. The ruling parties' silence further fueled the controversy.
You may ask, “Meral Akşener? Where did that come from?” It’s been a year and a half since she bid farewell to both the İYİ Party leadership and active politics. She has remained completely silent since. Yet, in recent days, an unexpected Akşener debate has been simmering—not in the headlines, but in İYİ Party circles. The discussion did not start with her; she has kept her silence. But when Esma Bekar—Akşener’s former chief of staff and perhaps the person closest to her—posted a message, the question suddenly arose: “Is Akşener returning?”
The word of the week is—surprise, surprise—“boycott.” This word has its roots in Ireland but was readily adopted by the Ottoman Empire as “boykotaj” in the early 20th century. It all began with a stubborn man and a group of angry farmers. Charles Boycott, the eponymous land agent in 19th-century Ireland, refused to lower rents. In return, local tenants refused to acknowledge his existence—no violence, no slogans—just pure, icy silence. Labourers wouldn’t work his land, shopkeepers wouldn’t serve him, even the postman changed routes in what was the forefather of today’s cancel culture. Boycott became so isolated that his name turned into a verb.
For the past week, many Turks have been uneasily following the unfolding of the murder of an eight-year-old girl at a southeastern village and its tangle of feudal ties, political influence and an unholy conspiracy of silence that may well belong to an Almodovar film.