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‘Cogently argued and rich in illustrative detail, this important book eloquently
REGIME
CHANGE IN
model for others to follow.’
Gareth Jenkins, Senior Fellow, Silk Road Studies Program
Explores the transformation of Turkey’s political regime from 2002
Turkey has faced a series of upheavals in its political regime from the mid-
nineteenth century. This book details the most recent change, placing it in its
broader historical setting. Beginning with the Justice and Development Party’s
CONTEMPORARY
rule from late 2002, supported by a broad informal coalition that included
liberals, the book shows how the former Islamists gradually acquired full power
between 2007 and 2011. It then describes the subsequent phase, looking at
TURKEY
politics and rights under the amorphous new order.
This is the first scholarly yet accessible assessment of this historic change,
placing it in the larger context of political modernisation in the country over
Politics, Rights, Mimesis
the past 150 or so years.
Key Features
• Covers the main issues in contemporary Turkish politics: the effective
concentration of powers in the government; rule by policy rather than law;
the religious and secular divide; the state of the media; basic freedoms;
Necati Polat
minority rights; the marginalised in society; economic growth at the cost of
dire public dispossession
• Places Turkey in the broader milieu of the Arab Spring, especially in terms of
Islamist politics and Muslim piety in the public sphere, with some emphasis
on ‘Islamo-nationalism’ as a local Islamist variety
• Uses the concept of mimesis to show that continuity is a key element in
Turkish politics, despite the series of radical breaks that have occurred
Necati Polat
• Effortlessly blends history, politics, law, social theory and philosophy in
making sense of the change
Necati Polat is Professor of International Relations at the Middle East
Technical University, Ankara. He is the author of International Relations, Meaning
and Mimesis (2012).
Cover image: 7 June 2013, PM Erdogan met by supporters at airport in Istanbul on his return from North Africa during
the Gezi protests © Thanassis Stavrakis/AP/Press Association Images
Cover design: Barrie Tullett
ISBN 978-1-4744-1696-2
Necati Polat
A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library
The right of Necati Polat to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in
accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 and the Copyright and
Related Rights Regulations 2003 (SI No. 2498).
Published with the support of the University of Edinburgh Scholarly Publishing Initiatives
Fund.
Preface vii
Introduction 1
PART I CHANGE
1. What Changed? 41
2. Run-up to Change 75
3. Trials 92
4. Resistance to Change 115
Conclusion 319
Notes 341
Bibliography 408
Index 419
A historic regime change took place in Turkey between 2007 and 2011.
This book provides an account of the change and the use of power in its
immediate aftermath, offering a prismatic survey of virtually all of the major
issue areas in the domestic politics, with some emphasis on rights. As such, the
book is very much about the political rule under the Justice and Development
Party (Adalet ve Kalkınma Partisi), a self-defined ‘conservative’ force that
emerged out of the local Islamist politics to be in charge from late 2002. The
book charts the phenomenal rise of this political party, notably supported
by a group of secular intellectuals intent to use it as a vehicle for reform, the
turnaround it led by wresting power from the grip of the bureaucracy long
at the helm, and the no-nonsense majoritarianism the change would subse-
quently initiate. The discussion attempts to make sense of the shift in the
political order by placing it in the larger context of political modernisation in
the country from the second half of the nineteenth century, articulating and
rehearsing answers in so doing to one apparent conundrum that pervaded
the assessments of some of the salient aspects of authority in the wake of the
recasting of power. The drive behind the readjustment had looked, for most
of the way, a bona fide quest for political normalisation, with the masses to be
fully enfranchised via unqualified observance of basic rights for the first time,
and through in-depth integration with the wider world, principally Europe.
The unhindered mandate of the elected government, achieved by 2011, was
vii
For personal use only; not for distribution purposes
only the initial goal towards that much-promoted end, dubbed ‘advanced
democracy’. How did this pursuit of normalisation along the model of more
evolved democracies develop, shortly after an all-embracing sway had been
secured for the political rule, into what seemed to be simply a new form of
authoritarianism?
The transformation drew on a broad base, convincing along the way key
international policy circles, which would extend considerable support to the
repositioning in process, in turn inhibiting much that would otherwise have
been in the way domestically. For all the toils and resourcefulness, including
some serious guile and chicanery on the part of the government, the reorder-
ing would be accomplished first and foremost because the established scheme
could no longer be sustained, for a myriad of reasons to do with a diversify-
ing, maturing society and the way the organised polity interacted, or had to
interact, with the greater political, economic and social milieu. The modu-
lation into an unrestricted licence for the elected government would thus
appear before long to be firmly in place, rather than radically questioned in
opposition circles for having ‘enabled’ the subsequent episode that had been
little bargained for. The overall recalibration in the system certainly stood out
to be comprehensively shaped and consolidated through appropriate power
dispensation arrangements, ideally to be reflected in a rewritten constitution,
which remained pending, as the ruling party would begin faltering on the
possible contours of the switchover.
The book is in two parts. The first part describes the change, which
effectively ended the long-standing dichotomy between the ‘state’ and the
‘government’, reclaiming for elected politicians vast areas of policy formerly
controlled by the bureaucracy, both military and civilian. This is basically
what the book understands by ‘change’. The second and larger part in the
book seeks to capture the mood in the following period and the government
practice, detailing the main patterns in the exercise of authority after the
change: virtual concentration of powers in the government, including the
judiciary; a rule by policy rather than law; the euphoric and increasingly
daring discourse of some of the Islamist ideologues associated with the gov-
ernment; the attendant panic among the secular urbanites; the allegations
of massive corruption and bribery; the state of the media, basic freedoms,
minority rights; and the plights of some of the exceptionally marginalised
sectors in society, primarily women and workers. The book at once links
the change in Turkey to the much-highlighted public confrontations in the
Middle East and in North Africa with a host of settled regimes at about the
same time, registering some of the dynamics at work, such as the barely antic-
ipated strength of the local authoritarianisms and the evident encumbrances
on Islamist politics in the region in likely democratic contestation.
The argument advanced on change in the book is also one of ostensi-
ble ‘continuity’ over a somewhat lasting stretch, despite a series of ‘radical’
breaks from the mid-nineteenth century. In the 1993 film Groundhog Day,
an obnoxious man gets caught in a time loop, going through one horrid
day again and again. Close observers might notice a roughly similar ‘loop’
in Turkish politics throughout the history of political modernisation in the
country, notwithstanding various splits and reshuffles spectacularly dramatic
on the surface, particularly tangible with the latest regime change, yet ulti-
mately submitting to a more profound level of recurrence and replication of
‘desire’ in a common pool of amazingly resilient local political culture. In
putting forward this contention, I draw on René Girard’s work on mimesis,
which allows me to rethink and branch out my own earlier notions in the
book International Relations, Meaning, and Mimesis (2012) on the function
of ‘iteration’ as pivotal to meaning, which I suggested relying principally on
the work of the later Wittgenstein and Derrida. Let me add that the minimal
theory ‘talk’ that there is in the book is in a simple language that is careful
to avoid jargon, often against a backdrop of colourful political sketches. As
the book at once purports to communicate a plain register of major events,
bordering on a task-conscious study of history in the actual period, the hope-
fully unobtrusive ‘thematic’ assumptions in the background should not imply
diminished use for the work for those with little or no interest in such theo-
retical flourishes.
Of the ten chapters in the book, in addition to an Introduction and a
Conclusion, Chapters 1–4 include, in places, material previously published,
though substantially reworked. The rest is seeing the light of day for the first
time, albeit that I did comment between October 2013 and June 2014 on
some of the current issues on the short-lived blog Human Rights Practice
in Turkey, taken off the web briefly afterwards, and the book treats some
of the day-to-day events roughly along the lines of those former notes. The
publications partly used in Chapters 1–4 are as follows: ‘Identity Politics and
the Domestic Context of Turkey’s European Union Accession’, Government
and Opposition (Vol. 41, No. 4, 2006), pp. 512–33; ‘The Anti-Coup Trials
in Turkey: What Exactly is Going On?’ Mediterranean Politics (Vol. 16, No.
1, 2011), pp. 211–17; ‘Regime Change in Turkey’, International Politics
(Vol. 50, No. 3, 2013), pp. 435–54; ‘Resistance to Regime Change in the
Middle East: A Liberation Theology of the Neo-Con Variety?’ Interventions:
International Journal of Postcolonial Studies (Vol. 16, No. 5, 2014),
pp. 634–54. I would like to thank the publishers Cambridge University
Press, Taylor and Francis, and Palgrave Macmillan for the material used. I
am indebted to a good number of people for conversations around the topics
in the book, particularly so to those who commented on specific parts of
the work, Costas M. Constantinou, Oliver Richmond, Dietrich Jung, Erik
Mohns, Michael Moran and Michael Cox. My heartfelt thanks go also to
my students at the Middle East Technical University in Ankara for enabling
the airing of some of the ideas set forth in the book and for the inspiring
exchanges. I am beholden for insightful comments to two anonymous read-
ers who reviewed the book for Edinburgh University Press (EUP). Nicola
Ramsey, head of editorial at EUP, and commissioning editor of the book,
was incisive, efficient and accommodating far beyond the usual compass, and
I am grateful. Others who diligently contributed to the production of the
book at various stages include Ellie Bush, Eddie Clark and Lel Gillingwater.
Last but by no means least, Serpil and Cem, people in the closest vicinity,
were good, considerate friends, especially during the spell close to a year from
July 2014, when I concentrated on the book and grew more insufferable than
ever. The book is dedicated to the memory of Necmi Polat (1957–2008),
who loved talking Turkish politics.
1
For personal use only; not for distribution purposes
ideologues, would do little towards soothing the profound insecurity felt all
along by the secular urbanites with the AKP gaining mandate from late 2002
– anxieties that were not always well grounded, thinly disguising a hankering
for the erstwhile ‘anti-majoritarian’ order that had largely disenfranchised
the pious and practising Muslims, among other dissident political groups.
Having received the support of close to half of the overall electorate by 2011
in a steady increase, the AKP was unequivocally and hugely successful. In the
subsequent period this political party would ostensibly choose strategies to
hold on to that base at the cost of further alienating the other half. Freshly out
of a brief yet triumphant drive against the long-standing bureaucratic sway
over politics, the government would proceed to interpret the majority behind
it as a blank cheque for a score of new and somewhat intimidating policy
initiatives, chiefly in education, designs that had been kept mostly in the dark
until the regime change was complete. This resurgent ‘Islamism’ was arguably
more a consequence of an increasingly distinct populist authoritarianism
though, than a cause of it.
The adverse effects of the unsettling denouement would be greatly
averted with the help of two main factors. One was an inept mainstream
political opposition still partly rooted in the old order, and the other a rela-
tive vibrancy in the economy based on massive redevelopment of state-owned
lands and on privatisation, unhindered, unlike similar efforts under previous
administrations since the 1980s, by a shaky political power and a defiant
judiciary. The second factor seemed to be particularly important. The verve
in the economy would allow lavish public revenues and, more consequential
still, soak up the domestic capital and idle labour considerably. Attributed to
an ostensibly deft administration, the largely make-belief wealth primarily
through intense use of the construction sector would in turn contribute to
the domestic political sturdiness for good measure, which would be critical
during and after the street protests of 2013, particularly in response to the
massive corruption allegations that would follow at the end of the year. In
evident desperation, despite the apparent solidity in the economy and a lack
of alternatives in politics, the AKP leader Recep Tayyip Erdoğan (prime min-
ister for over a decade from March 2003, and president from August 2014)
would prove proficient in identifying a set of domestic and international
scapegoats, rallying behind him the core supporters accordingly in warding
the government for an overhaul of the system of high courts, the sole endur-
ing fortification of the once formidable bureaucracy. Legislative enactments
in early 2011 would enable the constitutional amendments at issue to take
effect, and in June of the same year the AKP would renew its mandate for the
third time by receiving close to 50 per cent of the votes.
none other than the ‘rival’, held subliminally in esteem, while being detested
at the same time, by the desiring subject. Negating it for power, the desiring
subject at once goes as far as perversely appropriating the very identity of the
rival. The new authoritarianism in Turkey, which seemed to emerge closely
to reiterate the old one, I argue, could be understood as a play of desire in
this mould. The compulsive move by the government towards mimicking
the adversary, the old guard, came from 2011 to effectively terminate the
disparity between those who were in truth two authentic rivals. Yet, this
was a perilously disruptive course on the whole, for the differentiation at
issue, separating and marking apart the desiring subject from the model, was
ontologically crucial for the basic stability in the community. The age-old
routine, Girard explains, when some such ‘disordering’ is the case, is to seek
purification through scapegoating, a mechanism he details at great length.
Scapegoating tacitly restores the disrupted stability and meaning in the com-
munity simply by picking on random victims. Concomitant with the regime
change, the new rule would correspondingly ‘lynch’ a number of victims to
reconstruct a measure of that same stability. Normally, this arbitrary violence
should have produced a new sacred, a new order, banishing, if temporarily,
the mimetic ‘violence’ that was menacing to the community, as is the pattern
historically. Yet, as Girard insists, unlike archaic societies, this mechanism of
order through violence has long been demystified in modern societies. To
be sure, the communal disciplining nowadays does follow the same course
regardless, seeking order through arbitrary violence, even revenge. Instead
of order, however, violence tends now to beget simply more violence, for
modern societies have been dispossessed of that happy credulity that was a
key component historically.
Not surprisingly, therefore, the violence that was attendant with the
emerging political order in Turkey would go on simply to contribute new
cycles of violence. The administration arguably lynched a mass of dissidents
in a set of show trials by using, as rumoured, the Gülenists (see Chapter 5),
the ambiguous Islamic cult known to be well connected in the law enforce-
ment system and in the judiciary. Yet, this ‘victimage’ would ultimately serve
only to intensify the violence rather than halt it. At war with the government,
and purged from the judiciary and the police in no time, the Gülenists would
soon come to have a taste of their own medicine. The damning corruption
revelations made ostensibly by the cult from December 2013, betraying the
highly questionable manner in which Erdoğan allegedly financed politics
over an extended period of time, indicated that a new round of lynching
might soon make Erdoğan himself ‘the fall guy’, the archetypal victim of
the spiralling violence. That which made the victims innocent or random in
any of these cases appeared to be the mere fact that the victims were being
targeted not necessarily for the offensive or criminal deeds that might be
attributable to them, but as part of an instance of primordial violence, which
was haphazard, and which primarily sought, before justice, a reconfiguration
in the order; that is, a new sacred. Some of those put on trial from mid-2007
were hardly innocent of various underhand dealings against the political rule
in its early phase. The corruption charges levelled at the government by none
other than prosecutors did on the whole look well documented and con-
vincing. Yet, revealing those secretly amassed irregularities in a war of attri-
tion, under way for some time between the government and the Gülenists,
looked barely innocent. The ostensibly Gülenist members of the judiciary
and the police were indeed being opportunistic beyond merely performing
their duties, staging a ‘coup’ in some sense, as claimed by the government.
No party seemed to be blameless. Still, the rulers, as those singled out before,
could at once be considered as ‘innocent’ for the random and indiscriminate
nature of the response they received respectively from those who held or
shared in the power. It was victimage and lynching in each and every case
towards reconstituting the sacred.
Moreover, this may be part of a trope, as I argue below, linking simply
all of the attempts at a new sacred in the history of political modernisation in
Turkey, assumed to have been in motion from the early nineteenth century:
the new constitutional order of 1876, the bureaucratic order of 1909, the
initiation of the republican era in 1923, the liberal ascendancy to power in
1950, and finally, the most durable of all, the bureaucratic trusteeship system
established through the military coup of 1960. In all of these cases of regime
change, prior to the most recent one led by the AKP, which is the subject
matter of this book, it may be possible, I claim, to identify the main gestures
of desire, proceeding simply to replicate the rival and lead in no time to vio-
lence, scapegoating and more violence.
The concept of desire denotes, crudely put, some form of strong emotional
attraction to that which is its object. That desire as such is ‘covetous’ in a
significant sense is an idea usually attributed to the seminal work of Jacques
Lacan. Although Girard claims that Lacan, among the rest, ‘failed to discover’
the mimetic quality of desire,2 this hardly rings true. Pivotal to his overall
work, Lacan appears to borrow a mimetic notion of desire, long pre-dating
that of Girard, from Alexandre Kojève, whose seminal lectures on Hegel
in the 1930s Lacan is known to have attended. In interpreting Hegel on
self-consciousness as the defining trait of human person, Kojève is seen to
invoke desire as uniquely human in contradistinction to ‘need’ that is both
human and animalistic. Desire as an exclusively human attribute, he adds,
is ‘the Desire of the other’, which, besides a craving to be ‘recognised’, a
yearning for prestige, is a harbouring of wishes towards things and states of
affairs that are entirely ‘mediated’ by the other; ‘it is human to desire what
others desire, because they desire it.’3 The well-known Lacanian edict would
later communicate none other than this basic assumption on desire: ‘Man’s
desire is the desire of the Other.’4 As with Kojève, the thought supplies Lacan
with a two-fold (and interwoven) purpose for desire: it is always already
towards being desired or accepted by others and, as a corollary to this, it is
at once about other desires. ‘The object of man’s desire, and we are not the
first to say this,’ Lacan notes in a piece penned in 1951, with Kojève in mind
obviously, ‘is essentially an object desired by someone else.’5 Further, in this
specific sense intimated by both Kojève and Lacan, the object of desire does
not even ‘exist’, as far as the desiring subject is concerned. The object ‘itself’
that is outwardly welded to pure desire is a mere extension of the ultimately
arbitrary interest of the other in the object, which is the real magnet for the
desiring subject. In other words, desire is hardly pure at all; it is motivated
not by some need, immediately connecting it to a thing or a situation, as in
the case of animals, but by an ontological drive that renders the object desir-
able merely for being desirable or desired by others. As is well known, this
impulse behind desire mediated through the other is to do for Lacan with
the essential ‘void’ that defines human subjectivity. This void is nothingness,
empty space, a non-being; and yet it is at once the source of constant and
This is an encounter between the subject and the other, with a set of
fundamental antagonisms attached to it, taking place in the vastly important
domain of meaning, identity and prestige. To repeat, inviting rivalry, desire
is perpetual and irremediably conflict inducing. It is to do with the hope-
less insecurity formed by the void in the subject’s being, to be filled by the
‘otherly’ desire towards a temporary sense of completeness. Yet, when ful-
filled, the imitation threatens the disidentity that is focal to both the self and
the larger community. ‘Thus, mimesis coupled with desire’, argues Girard,
‘leads automatically to conflict.’10 The whole process appears to be immensely
destructive as well as ineluctable. A formidable instance of violence overall,
this in turn brings about an ontological crisis. The community, based on
differentiation and disidentity, will not let itself be destroyed by the mimesis
that defines desire. To this end, the community defends and saves itself by
responding to the violence fermented by desire with more violence – a ‘vio-
lent cure’.11
The cure is invariably to be found in a ‘surrogate victim’, who is singled
out as the one ‘polluted’, thus putting at risk the whole community. A ritual
‘sacrifice’ then duly immolates the random victim. Collectively sacrificed, the
victim serves to prevent the ‘contamination’ of the rest. Arbitrarily defined
and picked on, this victim is of course no more than only a ‘scapegoat’.
Girard maintains: ‘Any community that has fallen prey to violence or has
been stricken by some overwhelming catastrophe hurls itself blindly into
the search for a scapegoat.’12 The sacrifice in question is primordial: it is a
form of communal violence that is holy, ritualistic and shared. ‘At a single
blow, collective violence wipes out all memory of the past’,13 and the com-
munity becomes sort of cathartically reborn. Those who relegate the sacrificial
event habitually to a distant and now surpassed phase of human history,
Girard thus claims, ‘remain the prisoners of the theology they have not fully
analysed’.14 Accordingly, properly understood, one of the functions of this
‘theology’ is to ‘mystify’ the event at any cost. The scapegoat mechanism
transforms the random victim into a ‘monster’, to which the crisis is imputed.
This monster that imperils the very foundation of the community is at once,
and paradoxically, a ‘saviour’ in the shape of a sacrifice that lends urgent
succour to the community, leading it out of the looming mimetic confusion.
The whole process then comes to be obscured through collective, popularly
in its midst that may eventually destroy it, introduces a sacred or sanctioned
violence in order to prevent the brewing ‘profane’ violence.
Here is the crux of the matter that may put the whole question of mime-
sis under a new light. This account of communal witch-hunt notably inverts
the received wisdom on scapegoating: that which is persecuted and victimised
in the community historically is not difference but, on the contrary, possible
moves by members of the community towards jeopardising of difference.
Accordingly, weakening difference outside the systemic or allowed lines will
irretrievably undermine and destroy the specific system of differentiation.
‘Religious, ethnic or national minorities are never actually reproached for their
difference,’ Girard thus explains, ‘but for not being as different as expected,
and in the end for not differing at all’.18 Marring or reducing the semantic
value of difference may amount to a most dangerous revelation, unveiling the
constructed or arbitrary nature of distinctions and polarised identities in the
community, in turn shaking the faith in the established order of meaning.
Therefore the principal abomination in the community is not dissimilitude,
but precisely the emergent incongruence and incredulity towards it. ‘In all
the vocabulary of tribal or national prejudices’, comments Girard, ‘hatred is
expressed, not for difference, but for its absence.’19
To recapitulate, then, desire is structurally mimetic; it is always already
the desire of the other. Practically bracketing off the object of desire, which is
trivial, desire ultimately instigates a copying and compromising of the identity
of the other, and subsequently a subverting of the very self, by playing down
difference. This in turn induces conflict, to be overcome by a sacred violence
that consists of a round of scapegoating, victimage and sacrifice. Desire as
such is at the heart of all violence. Moreover, from the very beginning, all
manifestations of human culture are based on this violence that maintains
dissimilitude in the community in the face of mimetic desire. A theology
that is the main thrust of this culture points to likely, albeit arbitrary, culprits
poised to annihilate differentiation. This is how Girard declares violence as
constitutive of all culture: ‘I maintain that the original act of violence is the
matrix of all ritual and mythological significations.’20 Religion, for one thing,
is unequivocally some such epiphenomenon of violence patrolling the sensi-
tive zone between desire and fear, both inflicting and containing violence
along the way, although Girard himself would not agree with this radical
New Sacred
The kinship this account reveals with the instances of victimage that accom-
panied the regime change in Turkey, leading only to growing violence, is
striking. The Gülen community, an ally with a formidable presence during
the transition, understood to have mercilessly ‘lynched’ the loyalists of the
old order on behalf of the emerging regime, would soon face a similar fate.
Moreover, Erdoğan would be the victim of an almost identical lynching. The
‘innocence’ of the victims in such lynching is to do, let us recall, not with
the absolute irreproachability of those lynched, such as Erdoğan, which was
hardly the case, but with the ‘causal’ incongruity or the randomness that
defined the victimage. In bringing a number of damning corruption cases
against the government, the prosecutors appeared to be after a new sacred,
while pretending to have purely legal concerns. Care was taken to conceal
the real, foundational violence via the political trials engineered against the
leading dissidents, the Gülenist assault on Erdoğan, or the subsequent bat-
tering of the Gülenists. The formal charges levelled, such as coup-plotting,
espionage and corruption, did perhaps have validity at some level, yet we have
every reason to believe that those charges had little to do with the bashings
at issue. The actual violence was a purifying, constitutive violence, mystified
largely under the incipient sacred of the ‘anti-coup’ politics. The mimetic
quality of desire in a set of relationships of rivalry had thus already ensured a
basic continuity with the old regime.
Notably, the overall scapegoating under the new regime would issue
signs that the victimage was being conducted, as is the pattern indicated by
Girard, not for the ‘difference’ attributed to the victim, but precisely for the
lack of it. A vivid example would be the treatment of non-Muslims ‘affiliated’
with Turkey and Turkishness historically, considered to be a threat to the
communal identity simply for weakening the assumed difference. Erdoğan
was known to have used on separate occasions, once in 2011 and later in
2014, the ethnic tags ‘Greek’ and ‘Armenian’ respectively, as offensive words
denoting insult and slur, particularly so, because the said ethnicities had been
attributed to him personally by the neo-nationalist (ulusalcı) adversaries loyal
to the old regime.23 ‘They called me names’, he would complain in the presi-
dential election campaign of 2014. ‘They even called me “Armenian”, do excuse
and reward, ostensibly in order to calm down the small mining community.
God would thereby be affirmed to be as much malevolent, killing mercilessly
to teach a lesson, as he was indeed also benevolent. Girard notes: God ‘crushes
the faithful in order to bring them back to the straight path; he corrects their
weaknesses which prevent him from immediately showing his beneficence.
He who loves greatly punishes greatly.’26 Did this mystification work at all in
Soma? Apparently not. Erdoğan would receive possibly the worst nightmare
of his career when he would later visit Soma, with the locals taunting him on
the town’s high street. Unable to control his anger, Erdoğan would improvise
a tough-guy act as seen in subsequently released video captures, inviting
protesters to ‘come close’ and repeat the jeers to his face. Surrounded by
security forces, Erdoğan would then batter with his own hands the first local
he could corner in a market, screaming at the man, ‘You, Israeli spawn!’27
The reference was merely to another ethnicity, which, as with the Armenian
and the Greek, had been used before to describe Erdoğan himself, and which
was thus clearly of a kind that might threaten to muddle up the revered (yet
insecure) Turkish identity.
It was no surprise, then, that the use of power following the regime change
was being increasingly observed to ‘copy’ the old one. The long-harboured
Islamist desire appeared to have been modelled precisely after the desire of
its other, the rival, which Islamists were at once supposed to have fought
and defeated. The evidence in this regard, fast accumulating from 2011 as
the regime change became complete, would be abundant to dispel possible
doubts as to what exactly was happening under the new rule. The denouncing
of the demands towards a widening of political participation in the society as
mere conspiracy, a tool used potently against Kurds and the pious Muslims
during the old regime, would resurface and be directed at the young and
restless urbanites that memorably attracted the attention of the world public
opinion at the Gezi protests of 2013. Again, allegations of treason and plain
espionage about dissidence, only to bolster the authoritarian rule in the coun-
try, which was a permanent feature of the old regime, would come increas-
ingly to be put to work. In so doing, the new power holders would arguably
outdo the old ones in places through a somewhat brazen engagement in
identity politics at the cost of identities other than those linked to that of the
pious and practising Muslims. A Jacobin social engineering that would be
greatly reproduce the Kemalist leadership cult. True to the tradition that
had formed in the 1930s, the following by a noted literary figure would be
published in a pro-government newspaper to greet Erdoğan two days before
he would be sworn in (except for the bracketed ones, the dots in the extract
do not indicate omissions in the text but are actually part of the original,
ostensibly for the maximum ‘hymnal’ effect in the veneration):
For eyes that can see, the shimmering lights of the birth of a new Turkey
are becoming visible . . .
The architect of this new Turkey is Recep Tayyip Erdoğan . . .
Under his leadership . . . Under his guidance . . .
With contours that are increasingly more distinct, the profile of this
true leader is coming into view on the horizon . . . (. . .)
The people of Turkey are about to entrust their future to the acumen
and sagacity of this leader . . . Or, rather, they did that already . . .
They reckon that the leader whom they put to the test several times is
once again going to make proud his people and country . . .
They stand by him even on those occasions when he gets stood up . . .
The new Turkey is taking shape under his leadership . . . As for the
leader, he defines himself as a common trooper among his people, and this
is precisely why he is being loved . . .29
Replacing Erdoğan’s name with that of Atatürk would give us a sample of the
typical acclamations of the latter historically, to say nothing of the alarming
notions of national leadership and guidance, with the ‘nation’ understood as
an organic being, for a political movement that previously had strong demo-
cratic aspirations. Actually, exaltations of leaders in this unusual cast had
barely been the case locally since World War II. Often associated with the
interwar leaders of the country, principally Atatürk, the original cult and the
attendant hero-worship were synchronic to some extent with the treatment
of some of the European leaders at the time. This said, it also needs to be
remembered that venerations of the type towards rulers by established liter-
ary personalities had a firm rooting in old Turkish literary practice, in which
praising the qualities of statesmen formed a poetic genre in itself – a tradition
which, coupled with the European leadership cult of the time, would be ele-
vated to new heights in the 1930s. Just as with the earlier Atatürk cult, those
efforts that blended the traditional sources of the law with new European
legal initiatives. An Imperial Reform Edict in 1856, communicating a politi-
cal will to end the discrimination against non-Muslim subjects conclusively,
would be appended within weeks to the Paris Treaty of 1856, which would
make Ottoman Turkey the first ever power outside the European core to
be admitted to European public law (that is, the future international law)
as an equal participant. The era also witnessed the advent of an Ottoman
public sphere through print media, comparable to that in Europe at the time,
beyond the traditional venues of political exchange such as the coffee houses
and the public baths.
A new variety of intellectuals who were, again, the product of the era
would form a broad reformist coalition as the Young Ottomans, increasingly
advocating a concept of limited government (meşrûtiyet) based on arguments
that hastily and precariously mixed European ideas of human rights and
constitutionalism with the local concepts and principles, such as meşveret
(consultation), the Islamic notion that urges dialogue and deliberation in
worldly affairs.33 Set up in 1865, the Young Ottomans are known to have
been ‘the first political opposition in the modern sense’34 in Ottoman history.
The fact that the designation would in time reach beyond Turkey, especially
after the organisation’s move to Europe in 1867, evolving into a generic term
as ‘Young Turks’ that signified a new and radical opposition of the young
more or less in all contexts, should testify to the impact and stamina of the
movement.
Series of Breaks
The first critical break in the history of political modernisation in the country
would be initiated with the deposition of Sultan Abdülaziz in 1876 through
a bureaucratic coup. Held answerable for standing in the way of urgently
needed reforms, the sultan was probably murdered after the dethroning,
although the official version would be that he committed suicide. Skipping
the brief (about three months) period when Murad V took to the throne,
only to be deposed through allegations of mental instability brought about by
alcoholism, Abdülhamid II would be invited to the post as the new sultan. This
would follow a rather rigorous interview by the reformist bureaucrats, when
the future sultan would promise to cooperate with the bureaucracy, chiefly
both a diabolic concern for security and, at the same time, in a ghastly experi-
ment towards forging a somewhat homogenous nation, ostensibly with the
Muslim Ottomans tragically cleansed from the freshly lost Balkan territories
in mind. Defining resistance to the heavy oppression under Abdülhamid II
as its whole raison d’être, the CUP is generally thought to have incomparably
aggravated the already miserable state of basic rights and freedoms as soon as
it was in full control from January 1913, so much so that many intellectuals
formerly critical of Abdülhamid II for his oppressive policies would appear
before long to fondly recall the time of oppression under Abdülhamid II, as
with the poet Süleyman Nazif, stating in a poem: ‘Pining now for the days
of the former oppression’ (Hasret olduk eski istibdâda biz). The CUP leaders
would flee the country in a state of panic following the armistice towards the
end of 1918. Tantamount to a total surrender, this deal would bring the war
to a close for Ottoman Turkey.
A growing national resistance in the form of separate civilian initiatives
by locals throughout inner Asia Minor would then be successfully organised
from mid-1919 by a defiant Ottoman pasha, Mustafa Kemal, who would
later come to be known as Atatürk, the founder of modern Turkey. Engaging
mainly the Greek occupation forces in the west of the country, this popu-
lar movement would sideline the administration in Istanbul by procuring
a hard-fought peace deal with the victors of World War I (Britain, France,
Italy and Greece) in July 1923, the Lausanne Peace Treaty. The National
Assembly created by the resistance movement three years earlier in Ankara
as an alternative to the one in Istanbul would soon vote and declare Turkey
a ‘republic’. The republican Turkey would have the charismatic leader of the
national resistance, Mustafa Kemal, as its first president. Within months,
early in the following year, the National Assembly would abolish the institu-
tion of caliphate as leadership of Muslims worldwide, a status nominally held
since the sixteenth century, and send into exile the members of the imperial
Ottoman dynasty.
This apparently dramatic break with the Ottoman order would, however,
barely hide the more profound continuity between the old and the new. The
connection would soon be bitterly grasped by some of the intelligentsia and
dignitaries who, having quickly turned dissenters, would be promptly sup-
pressed, despite most of them having been on the forefront of the national
resistance movement with Mustafa Kemal Pasha only recently. The dissidents
were of the opinion, as succinctly articulated by Erik Zürcher, ‘that calling
the state a republic did not in itself bring freedom and that the real differ-
ence was between despotism and democracy, whether under a republican
or a monarchic system’.43 The increasingly tightened political control, justi-
fied through the new sacred of ‘modernisation’ at any cost, would come to
pale, to a certain extent, the despotisms and persecutions under either of the
previous regimes, the CUP rule or the sultanate of Abdülhamid II before
it. The confederation of local organisations that had formed the resistance
during the war of national liberation, the Defence of Rights (Müdafaa-i
Hukûk) movement, had already merged in 1922 with the ruling Republican
People’s Party (Cumhuriyet Halk Fırkası, CHP).44 The party would in turn be
melded with the state apparatus, initiating the so-called ‘single-party regime’
that would last until 1950. The regime would thwart a notion of demo-
cratic competition practically at all levels, notably replacing elections with
appointments for the deputies in the legislative organ. Besides rival political
parties, particularly a liberal initiative by the once close friends of Mustafa
Kemal, the Progressive Republican Party (Terakkiperver Cumhuriyet Fırkası),
long-standing non-governmental organisations that were not controlled
directly by the regime would also be dissolved, such as the nationalist Turkish
Hearths (Türk Ocakları) and a dedicated women’s organisation, the Turkish
Women’s Union (Türk Kadınlar Birliği). A close watch of the academic
world would complement the total print media control under the regime,
with the nonconformists fired in the early 1930s from the only academic
institution of the time, Istanbul University (Darülfünûn). Finally, dress codes
for the general public would be introduced, imposing assumed modern out-
fits on all, to be backed by callous criminal regulations. Most of this would be
facilitated by an emergency rule (Takrîr-i Sükûn) established in the country
on the pretext of the Kurdish insurrection in eastern provinces in 1925.
Speaking of the Kurds, the new regime would continue the CUP experi-
ment in fashioning a homogenous nation and render invisible minorities
such as the Kurds, Assyrians, Jews and Greeks. To be greatly expelled through
a population exchange with Greece, most of the latter group was in effect
formed by the survivors of the little-known slaughter of tens of thousands
during the Turkish War of Independence, especially in the Pontus region
along the Black Sea coast. A merciless wealth tax (varlık vergisi) imposed on
the leftover non-Muslim minorities in the years 1942 and 1943 would effec-
tively contrive towards the ultimate dispossession and literal pauperisation of
the non-Muslims.
The Independence Tribunals (İstiklâl Mahkemeleri), with their originally
wartime jurisdiction extended, and active between 1920 and 1927, would
issue thousands of death sentences, mostly on the basis of flimsy charges,
and crush all opposition worthy of the name. A researcher who would later
desperately seek to defend these notorious judicial bodies set up in vari-
ous regions would nevertheless be forced to note that the tribunals at issue
‘did not operate in accordance with legal rules but by revolutionary princi-
ples’.45 In addition to this simply astonishing toll in finishing off opposition,
many intellectuals, some of whom having once been rather close to Mustafa
Kemal, would be either officially deported or choose to be self-exiled, such
as Mehmed Âkif, a moderate Islamist and the author of the words of the
new national hymn, and Hâlide Edib, a famed liberal and early feminist who
was cosmopolitan enough to write some of her books directly in English –
presumably considered as ‘too European’ for the new regime. Beyond the
innocence or randomness as revealed in the causal incongruity in the punish-
ments accorded, which is how I have defined victimhood for the purpose of
the argument here, the victims sacrificed by the regime would also and glar-
ingly reveal the monster–saviour paradox in the rituals of communal violence
staged: somehow polluted, the victims would at once serve to purify the now
vigorously reshaped society through the immolations that they would enable.
In short, setting in motion a territorially smaller and radically reformed
Turkey, the modern republic instituted in 1923 would perversely reproduce,
if not intensify, the authoritarian frame of mind that it would ironically and
passionately historicise with the rise of the new regime. This same paradox
would come to be roughly applicable also to the ‘liberal’ reformers who would
seize power in 1950 with a switchover to the multi-party system – ostensibly
as part of an effort, coupled with a perceived Soviet menace at the onset of
the Cold War,46 to integrate the country to the newly victorious ‘democratic
world’, as World War II would end the bulk of authoritarianisms. The liber-
als organised through the Democrat Party (Demokrat Parti, DP), a breakaway
from the CHP, would show next to no interest as they came into power,
victims in the new period would be members of the Greek community, who
had been exempted from the forcible population exchange with Greece in
early republican Turkey and who had survived the pogroms of 1955. They
would be either officially deported or intimidated and driven away from 1964
during the renewed political tension over Cyprus, reducing the number of
the Greeks in the country to only a few thousand.50 The forced Islamisation
of the remaining Armenians would gain a new momentum.51 Forms of vio-
lence in the absence of the elementary rule of law and fair trial would enable,
and in turn become mystified through, an awakening of the earlier (and yet
‘incomplete’) sacred of the republican modernisation at any cost. The move
would be reflected in the fresh variety of tutelary democracy introduced in
the newly drafted Constitution of 1961, with novel measures to foil possible
relapses inimical to modernisation. This basic law, often described as libertar-
ian for the rights and freedoms it invoked and protected in the immediate
aftermath of the ruthless oppression under the DP rule, would withhold
spheres of politics from the elected power, bringing about an almost formal
distinction between the ‘state’ and the ‘government’. The new measures initi-
ated would instigate the order that would later come to be called an order
of trusteeship or tutelage (vesayet) under the bureaucratic authority, namely
a virtually autonomous army to be represented in the executive organ in a
newly set up National Security Council, and a fortified system of high courts
to keep electoral majorities in check.52 A fine-tuning in 1980 via a singularly
brutal military takeover would add to this order a centralised higher educa-
tion system beyond the reach of elected governments.
The military, the high courts and the higher education system, compris-
ing the ruling bureaucracy together, would be long in place and tried out,
invariably with success, in keeping a tight rein on politics when the AKP
government from November 2002 pitched in a set of confrontational policies
(chiefly on Cyprus and the European integration) in 2004. The subsequent
change in the whole order, rapidly taking shape from 2007, would be com-
plete by 2011. The discernible signs of a new authoritarianism under the
AKP rule would become apparent crudely from early 2012, as detailed in
this book.
be left behind, and some of the highest-ranking officials in the public author-
ity, chiefly the then president Turgut Özal, would concede the long-denied
Kurdish identity. The same authority would be observed from 2012 to hold
direct talks with the leadership of the armed wing of the Kurdish political
movement towards a permanent settlement of the issue. Again, the ban on
the hijab in education and in public employment, particularly tightened
through a neo-republican adjustment in February 1997, would come to be
significantly loosened under the subsequent regime. Arguably more impor-
tant in this regard would be the recasting of centre-periphery relations as a
long-standing paradigm of political cosmology in the country, which I dis-
cuss in the next chapter. The liberal intellectuals who passionately supported
the AKP government for being the sole available agent of change would be
surprised to find out from 2011 that, although the paradigm seemed to have
greatly disappeared under the present regime, this huge variation from the
old order had little impact on the deeper current of authoritarianism, which
was still intact.
Here, then, is the rule that governs change under unrelenting and grim
recurrence induced by rivalry based on mimetic desire: there will be myriad
forms of renewal and restyling under the incoming regime, no doubt; yet
the new regime will be ‘offbeat’ only to the extent to which the departures
and differences thus introduced will somehow allow us to recognise the old
in the new. The ‘old’ in this sense refers to no transcendental signified, no
fixed essence, which would be an undeviating and common thread run-
ning through the otherwise conflicting uses of political power. It is rather
a dynamic and non-essentialising continuity that is perhaps best commu-
nicated in Wittgenstein’s useful concept of family resemblance.55 As in a
family formed by blood connections, not a single trait in all, but various
characteristics that notably differ between the family members will serve as
sites of possible triangulation, linking distinct instances to each other, such
as the CUP proto-nationalism, with lethal use of the myths ‘the nation’ and
‘the patria’, and the Islamo-nationalism of the AKP from 2011, within which
those notions remained resilient. The family resemblance at issue takes on
board the fact that the later regime hardly repeated or slavishly reproduced
the CUP oligarchy, known to have ruthlessly ‘purified’ the emerging nation
in the blood of hundreds of thousands of victims. On the contrary, the AKP
continuity in one specific location: all is the same, yet each at once remaining
unique and different. Still, this explanation may not be sufficient to account
for dramatic differentiations out there and seal the issue conclusively. We do
know, however, that the pattern is open to revisionist inputs through epis-
temic dissimilitude, enabling radical changes. It may be the case that some
of the striking divergences or fluctuations in the pattern that we observe out
there may point in the direction of novel factors arising in different settings,
which need to be carefully researched and elaborated on.
The book is divided into two parts. Part I provides a description of the process
leading to the regime change from late 2002, with the sudden ascendancy of
the AKP in domestic politics. Chapter 1 details the ‘institutional’ change that
took place between 2007 and 2011, signalling a historic shift in the use of
power in the country, long controlled by a staunch and virtually autonomous
bureaucracy, both military and civilian, in the face of fragile democratic
politics. The discussion focuses on the discourse of Europeanisation, though
not in the strict sense used in the context of the European Union, as a unique
leverage used by the AKP in bringing about the change. Originally part and
parcel of the identity politics of the bureaucracy from the nineteenth century,
this long-standing discourse also known as ‘Westernisation’ (Batılılaşma) was
deftly appropriated by forces defiant of the bureaucratic rule to reconfigure
access to power. Following this basic account of the change, Chapter 2 pulls
back the timeline slightly and recounts the fascinating realignment in domes-
tic politics with the rise of the AKP into power. The discussion underlines an
ostensible transformation in the largely essentialising forms of identity poli-
tics that until then defined much of the political cosmology in the country.
The usual cast of identity politics that relied on a rather cynical exploitation
of identity demands seemed significantly to recede in the spell between 2002
and 2007 in favour of a set of civic, non-divisive political gestures around
the reintroduced identity goal of Europeanisation. This remodelling would
expand the electoral compass of the ruling AKP beyond the former iden-
tity alignments, ensuring widening reach, and, equally important, prompt
ambivalence in the bureaucracy, considerably breaking the resistance in the
way of change. Chapter 3 focuses on the extensive legal probes and subse-
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