It is natural for everyone who sits in the number-one seat to have strengths and weaknesses. This is natural because—even if they make extra efforts to hide most of them—being human ontologically brings such traits along. If we borrow from anatomy, there are strong muscles and weak muscles. Just as these muscles differ from one person to another, they also differ from one “number-one” to the next.
In politics—especially in Turkish politics—the foremost muscle that comes to the fore is the “dirayet” (fortitude) muscle. Persistence in what one believes to be right, the resolve to fight for a goal, and the ability to appear like a sturdy branch on which those who turn to you in hard times can firmly grasp… Turkish politics is well acquainted with leaders whose fortitude muscle is strong. Movements with ideological foundations generally arise under the guidance of leaders endowed with fortitude. Over time, this fortitude is adorned by the supporting masses with quasi-spiritual, superhuman attributions such as “being chosen.” For a country like ours that, after long monarchical millennia, became a republic through the great efforts of its founders, this should hardly be surprising. For centuries, one of the official titles of our monarchs was “the shadow of God on earth.” The fortitude muscle should not be confused with the “şeyh” (sheikh) muscle that I will touch on shortly. Fortitude resembles, in a sense, the concept of kut among the ancient Turks. When everything runs smoothly, it is accepted that God’s kut—the fortune or destiny necessary to govern—resides with the ruler. When things go awry, it is believed that God withdraws the kut from that person. In such circumstances, the ruler loses legitimacy. From this perspective, the fortitude muscle also carries a distinctly pragmatic dimension.
One of the muscles unique to Turkish politics is the “şeyh” muscle. The word şeyh here carries the sense found in the saying, “A sheikh does not fly—his disciples make him fly.” A recent anecdote told on a TV program by former Directorate of Religious Affairs president Mehmet Görmez offers a vivid example of this muscle at work. Professor Görmez recalled summoning the leader of a well-known Sufi order and reminding him that, in the cleric’s presence, someone had once declared: “Our master possesses the power of two prophets—namely, the Prophet Muhammad and Jesus.” Görmez then asked, “So, do you truly possess the power of two prophets?” The sheikh replied, “God forbid!” Görmez pressed further: “Then why did you not protest when such words were uttered beside you?” The leader answered, “Hodja, I’m just an engineer. The scholars there spoke like that; I couldn’t say anything.” Anyone who thinks this is merely an “outlandish” episode confined to religious circles would be mistaken. Replace the “prophets” in this story with the most famous rulers, sultans, or heroes in Turkish history, and swap the “engineer-sheikh” for politicians shrouded in “mystery,” presumed to “know something we don’t,” or rumored to consult with “wise elders.” Look closely at the sculpted muscles that come to mind in those statues, standing motionless like Michelangelo’s David: those are the “şeyh” muscles. In truth, they do not exist—yet because their existence is believed, they exist even in their absence. Unlike the fortitude muscle, they do not depend on their owner’s effort or will. They are absent, yet ever-present, and their presence grants the bearer limitless irresponsibility. Accountability is unnecessary; today’s 2 + 2 = 4 can effortlessly become tomorrow’s 2 + 2 = 7. Under the original umbrella of “he must know something,” more palatable justifications are swiftly added as needed.
The muscle that is “given” to every party leader in Turkey simply by virtue of holding the title—yet whose ready-made nature never lessens its power or relevance—is the “kanun” (law) muscle. At its core lies the Political Parties Law, which grants chairs near-divine authority, erases the influence of the party’s outer rings, and turns the center into an all-controlling leviathan. Around it grows a lattice of supporting bylaws, unwritten conventions, and similar devices that function like a magic wand, neutralizing rank-and-file members’ free will. In this sense, the kanun muscle can be viewed as a gift bestowed on party chairs—whose organizations also receive Treasury funds as pocket money—so they may comfortably govern their own little “mini-states.” I have no principled objection to this thesis. To possess the kanun muscle, actively seek the leadership, and still fail to retain it would take nothing short of a super-human tsunami of collective discontent—precisely what happened at the CHP convention Mr. Kemal lost and Mr. Özel won. For the very essence of the kanun muscle is the absurdity of being able to choose the people who will choose you: the party chair wields effective power to hand-pick the delegates who will elect him.
Mr. Özel’s situation, however, represents a new reality—a new phenomenon—for Turkey. The CHP chair is not operating with the muscles to which Turkish voters are accustomed: neither the familiar fortitude (dirayet) muscle, nor the sheikh (şeyh) muscle, nor a kanun muscle that subdues the delegate body. If he manages to sustain the success he achieved in his first elections as party leader, one might eventually speak of a fortitude muscle all his own—but from what we have observed so far, that seems unlikely.
I had long wanted to name the “muscle” that keeps Mr. Özel politically alive and powers his success. After the heartbreaking loss of Manisa’s beloved mayor, the late Ferdi Zeyrek, the name of that muscle—at least for me—has finally become clear. The way Mr. Özel laid Mayor Ferdi to rest, and the address he delivered afterward—reserved only for those who love deeply—gave that muscle its label, however sorrowful yet natural it may be. Within Mr. Özgür there is, at the level of a party leader, a “humanity muscle” that our political tradition has long deemed a weakness. Yet, quite interestingly, in him it appears not as a vulnerability but as a genuine source of strength.
It is still too early to say whether the blend of Mr. Özel’s diligence with this genuine “humanity muscle” will, under the opposition’s extremely tough circumstances, ultimately yield a success story. Even so, I believe he now fully deserves to be examined on his own, without any reference to other political actors—whether from the opposition or the ruling bloc. From where I stand, he makes critical mistakes, much as Mr. Tayyip does. Yet, given the state machinery at his rival’s disposal, Mr. Özel will have to make not merely fewer errors than Mr. Tayyip, but far fewer, if he is to prevail in the end. Regardless of the outcome, I am convinced it is good for Turkish politics that, at the highest level, we have encountered a new “muscle”—and one that its bearer does not hesitate to display.
