The Mask of Certainty and the Turkish Soul

History teaches us a quiet truth: man seeks freedom but is terrified of its consequences. The desire for autonomy lives side by side with a yearning for order, identity, and belonging. This paradox shapes nations as much as individuals—and nowhere is it more vividly expressed than in the modern political condition of the Republic of Türkiye where I have met my wife many decades ago.

Since the early 2000s, Türkiye has been governed by the Justice and Development Party (AKP) under the leadership of Recep Tayyip Erdoğan. What began as a promise of democratic reform soon evolved into a project of political dominance. Yet to interpret this solely as a political shift is to miss the deeper story: the transformation of the Turkish soul.

The AKP did not rise in a vacuum. It was the response to decades of cultural rupture, economic inequality, and psychological marginalization. For nearly a century, the Republic’s secular establishment had sought to define Turkish identity from above, privileging a narrow vision of modernity, urban, Westernized, and rigidly secular. Millions of citizens, particularly from Anatolia, were allowed to exist, but not fully belong. Their dialects, traditions, and beliefs were often dismissed as provincial or regressive. Adding to this cultural alienation was the heavy hand of the military. From 1960 to the late 1990s, Türkiye experienced a cycle of coups and interventions. The military styled itself as the ultimate guardian of the Republic, often subverting democracy in the name of preserving it. Intellectuals were censored or exiled, and civilian governments were humiliated or overthrown.

This climate of authoritarianism and exclusion which was already seeded before Erdoğan left deep psychological scars. Resentment simmered. The yearning for dignity grew. Erdoğan understood this emotional terrain and what it can provide to a new leader better than any politician in Türkiye. In his early years, he promised something revolutionary: an end to military tutelage, a return of civilian honor, and the inclusion of long-silenced voices. He appealed not only to political instincts but to moral hunger. His message was not framed in technocratic language. It was filled with memory, faith, and redemption amplified by his superb oratory skills. For millions, especially those marginalized by the old secular order, Erdoğan’s rise felt like the recovery of dignity. The ballot box no longer belonged only to elites. It became a stage for emotional recognition. But liberation carries its own risks. When a movement born from marginalization gains power, it faces a choice: dismantle hierarchies or invert them. The AKP, over time, chose the latter. What began as an inclusive message became exclusive. Loyalty was prized over principle. Institutions were hollowed out. Identity politics replaced pluralism. A new elite emerged—not defined by reason or merit, but by allegiance.

This psychological transformation cannot be reduced to authoritarianism alone. Erdoğan’s leadership tapped into what psychologists call the authoritarian personality: a structure marked by both submission and dominance. It craves order, resists ambiguity, and finds security in binary oppositions—us versus them, faithful versus traitor, national versus foreign. In this schema, fear of freedom becomes more powerful than the love of liberty.

Türkiye’s institutions were reshaped in this image. The press was significantly weakened. The judiciary was politicized. Education turned into ideological indoctrination. These were not simply political acts—they were emotional strategies to relieve citizens of the burden of complexity. In exchange for loyalty, citizens were offered pride. In place of dialogue, they received certainty. Even prosperity was recast in this myth. During the AKP’s first decade, Türkiye experienced rapid economic growth. Infrastructure exploded; airports, bridges, and megaprojects transformed the landscape. For the emerging conservative middle class, this was material proof of empowerment. Yet beneath the surface, the soul of the citizen was quietly eroded. The freedom to consume was mistaken for the freedom to be. Values gave way to spectacle. People were encouraged to live visibly, not meaningfully. The human being became secondary to the political narrative.

To understand the endurance of this emotional-political model, one must look to the deeper wounds of perceived exclusion and betrayal that have shaped Türkiye’s modern psyche. The roots of Türkiye’s desire to be recognized as European run deep. In 1856, the Treaty of Paris declared the Ottoman Empire part of the “Concert of Europe,” symbolically acknowledging Türkiye as a European power, though primarily in a geopolitical, not cultural, sense. This aspiration carried into the republican era and culminated in Türkiye’s formal application to the European Economic Community on July 31, 1959. From empire to republic, the enduring aim has been clear: to be seen not as a Middle Eastern outsider, but as an integral part of the European order. The European Union’s prolonged reluctance to grant membership was not merely a diplomatic frustration—it was experienced as a denial of identity, a quiet yet enduring message that Türkiye did not truly belong. This sense of rejection was compounded by a series of American missteps, beginning with the 2003 Çuval Olayı, when U.S. forces detained and hooded Turkish soldiers in Iraq—NATO allies treated not as partners, but as subordinates or enemies. The absence of convincing apology only deepened the humiliation. What emerged was a painful realization: that even longstanding alliances can conceal hierarchies, and that dignity—once wounded through an assault on collective pride—no longer seeks accommodation, but autonomy. The West’s gaze ceased to reflect recognition; it became a source of silent injury, a wound to the soul rather than a mirror to the self.

In this emotional void and surrounded by the oppressive advisors, capable of grasping the evolving fabric of society and the shifting dynamics of the global order and regional tensions, Erdoğan offered an alternative dignity which was defined not by inclusion in the West, but by proud separation from it. The striking inadequacy of opposition leaders left him in an uncontested environment, where virtually no effective mechanisms of control remained. His model was not legalistic democracy, but paternalistic governance. He became more than a politician—he became a symbol. Like a patriarch, he promised protection in exchange for obedience. He blurred the lines between state, party, and self. But paternalism has a cost. It infantilizes the citizen. It replaces moral agency with submission. It demands not understanding, but loyalty. And in doing so, it hollows out the spiritual essence of democracy. True democracy is not only a set of procedures, it is a culture of dialogue, courage, and mutual respect. It thrives on complexity and nourishes souls capable of love, curiosity, and dissent. It cannot survive where fear reigns and conformity is rewarded. And yet, there is hope. The Turkish soul, rich with poetry, resilience, and philosophical depth, has not been extinguished. It breathes in quiet acts of resistance: in a student who questions, in a mother who teaches kindness, in a citizen who refuses silence.

We saw this spirit during the controversial judicial targeting of Istanbul’s charismatic and popular mayor, Ekrem İmamoğlu. Erdoğan sought to eliminate him politically according to many; the public responded with defiance as he got 15 million votes in an unofficial public vote organised by the main opposition party, the Republican People’s Party (CHP), endorsing him as its candidate for the 2028 presidential election. Particularly among the youth, a new civic conscience emerged. It was not nostalgic. It was not ideological. It was moral.This new generation, born into digital chaos and climate anxiety, is marked not by trauma, but by clarity. They are not beholden to the myths of empire or the scars of coups. They seek justice over identity, honesty over loyalty, and truth over spectacle. And perhaps most importantly, they are not afraid to name what is unjust as confirmed by my granddaughters. Their presence suggests a deeper truth: authoritarianism begins in the mind; but so does liberation. And the future of Turkiye’s democracy may not come from institutions; but from this new civic soul, chosen, not inherited, cultivated, not imposed.

In the end, every soul; Turkish or otherwise; yearns not just to be ruled, but to be understood; not merely to be protected, but to be respected. When that yearning is met not with dogma but with dialogue, not with fear but with fraternity, then, perhaps, democracy may find its home again in Türkiye which will have effects on every country in the region and Israel.