In semiotic literature, there is a paradoxical thesis we encounter: if a system of language is not capable of constructing a lie, it cannot construct truth either. This view emphasizes that language, beyond its ontological function of representation, also performs a function of construction. Language does not merely reflect the world; it simultaneously constructs it. In this respect, the lie ceases to be something that corrupts language; on the contrary, it becomes a sign that stabilizes its functionality. In other words, for a statement to be capable of being a lie, there must first exist a semantic structure that can sustain a claim to truth.
In this context, let us recall the classical structure of semiotics. According to Saussure, the linguistic sign consisted of two components:
Signifier: The sound-image
Signified: The conceptual content
The relationship between the signifier and the signified is arbitrary, because the sign does not unite a name with an object. Yet this arbitrariness is institutionalized, as it unites a concept with a sound image.
In political language, the lie loosens the bond of this relationship. However, the reality observed in Türkiye is not limited to this alone; rather, a more radical and strategic process is at play: the irreversible suspension of the relationship between the signifier and the signified…
In attempting to make sense of this condition, it is common to resort to Baudrillard’s theory of simulation. According to him, linguistic representation first reflects reality, then distorts it, subsequently masks it, and ultimately eliminates it altogether. It is at this stage of elimination that simulation emerges, and the sign no longer refers to a reality; instead, it establishes a new type of relationship that overturns the semantic order by referring only to other signs. Reality becomes blurred within another reality that transcends it. Political language rises from the highest platform of this very relation. In Baudrillard’s metaphor, political language absorbs reality like a tampon absorbing menstrual blood.
The meaning of this metaphor is as follows: Political language no longer represents reality; it conceals it. Thus, the function of language is reduced to the circulation of sound rather than truth. What you say is no more important than the memory that conceals it. What matters is how widely your words spread, which becomes the very guarantee of the linguistic regime.
However, the semiotic crisis in Türkiye operates in a manner too irrational to be explained solely by simulation. The issue here is not merely that simulation replaces reality. A deeper rupture is taking place: the paralysis of the relationship between the signifier and the signified.
This is how, within a political discourse, the same figure can simultaneously be positioned both as a “baby killer” and as a “founding leader.” In this case, there is something that transcends political conjuncture. Because conjuncture typically signals a shift in meaning. Yet here, meaning itself becomes so insignificant that it no longer requires change or transformation. Therefore, the problem runs much deeper than lying. Political actors are not lying; they no longer even bother to lie. Because at this point, what determines political discourse is not the discourse itself, but the arbitrariness of the speaker.
The process seems to recall Wittgenstein’s theory of language games, yet in this game there are no fixed rules to follow. Yes, in classical linguistics, words do not have meanings but uses; however, at least within certain practices, these uses remain consistent. In political language, by contrast, usage is no longer tied to any epistemic reference and becomes merely a rhetorical gesture. In other words, discourse is constructed not through the meaning of the word, but through the image of the mouth that utters it.
In this way, a continuous cycle is produced between the speaker’s appetite for rhetoric and the audience’s desire to applaud—one that objectifies both sides in an irrational manner. It is irrational because two contradictory discourses neither diminish the power of speech nor reduce the intensity of applause. At this point, the semiotic crisis simultaneously evolves into a hermeneutic crisis. In Gadamer’s terms, horizons merge and we confront the limits of understanding; yet the conditions for meaning never fully emerge. This is because there is a methodological distortion that prevents the actor and the audience from meeting within discourse. The dialogical horizon in which speech and the mind that perceives it open themselves to one another is closed. Neither side poses the questions that would reveal meaning; instead, they impose a habit consisting entirely of sound. That is to say, speaker and listener do not fuse within a horizon of meaning, but within the nature of a habit.
The source of this methodological distortion is as follows: In the hermeneutic process, discourse gives rise to interpretation, interpretation opens the door to questions, and questions call forth new interpretations. In this way, meaning comes into existence within a richness. However, political discourse does not demand interpretation but a rhetorical ritual: This is what I say—repeat it! Then you will see how powerful my discourse is!
When meaning gives way to sound, and understanding to habit, the flawless construction of political language is complete. Language is no longer a medium of communication but a stage of performance. The actor and the masses, who are separated from one another by the material conditions of practical life, come together on this enchanted stage. Even if it is impossible to sit at the same lavish tables, sleep in the same comfortable houses, or travel in the same luxury vehicles, the fantasy of meeting within this inequality remains alive—and it comes at a small cost: applause. To shatter that illusion is no farther away than a single question. A simple question that could expose the concealed interests hidden within a vocal ritual, that could dismantle seductive slogans—yet that question is always delayed within the distorted construction of language.
Whether a linguistic approach focuses on the structure of language like Saussure, centers on the processual production of meaning (semiosis) like Peirce, or analyzes the culturally and ideologically produced myths of meaning like Barthes, it must ultimately conceive of language not merely as a tool of communication but as a domain in which meaning is produced. However, within this process of production there exists a normative gap, and when it comes to politics, the possibility of abuse within this gap becomes inevitable. Wherever there is a capacity for influence open to manipulation, there is also a fitting climate in which political figures specialize. It is precisely within this climate that political actors, to the extent of their abilities, intervene and deploy the constitutive power of language to their own advantage; by coding signs in particular ways, they reproduce the masses as an electorate.
In this process—one that salutes Lacan—the individual becomes a being positioned within the discourse of the Big Other and recognizes desire through that discourse. Thus, the subject no longer follows the truth or the correctness of discourse, but the pleasure derived from it. The ultimate reality before us leads us to state this: language is no longer a dialogical ground that reveals truth, but an operative mechanism that constitutes and directs the subject. And this mechanism functions through the concealment of desire. Accordingly, what is real is always masked by its opposite—such as the cry of “hear me!” concealed behind the one who presents their silence as virtue, or the complex of mastery burning within the politician who claims to come as a servant. After all, which subject aspiring to rise in politics openly confesses: it was all for a bit of power, a bit of fame, and a great deal of money? Indeed, within the distorted order we inhabit, such honesty might even carry an almost irresistible appeal; yet when it comes to politics, this expectation is condemned to remain an eternal longing.
For this reason, political language is never constituted as the language of naked desire; rather, desire is circulated within a rhetoric of altruism, service, and sacrifice that transcends it. The subject’s discourse does not directly express its own desire, and instead of repressing it in order to conceal it, it chooses to sublimate it. Thus, political language is not the denial of desire, but its transformation into a socially acceptable form. The solution, then, may be sought in purifying language—but perhaps the priority should be to resist it. For political discourse is shaken when it encounters not an audience that listens to what is said, but one that attends to what is left unsaid; not one oriented toward pleasure, but toward contradiction.