RECENT political developments in Turkey have prompted an outpouring of comment to the effect that the re-election of the Justice and Development Party (AKP), commonly described as Islamist, and the success of its presidential candidate, Abdullah Gul, proves that Islam and democracy are not mutually incompatible. That may be a point worth making, although chances are that those who have hitherto been convinced otherwise – be they Muslim obscurantists, Arab potentates or inveterate Islamophobes – will remain unconvinced by the Turkish example.

 

A substantial proportion of Muslims, however, have never had any serious doubts on this score. On the other hand, far too many Muslims harbour the illusion that Islam and secularism cannot coexist. It is in this context that Turkey appears to offer a more valuable lesson.

 

Most Turks – including, apparently, many of those who vote for the AKP – are proud of their country’s secular tradition. Earlier this year, when Gul’s presidential candidacy was initially proposed by the AKP, large numbers of them were led to believe that this tradition was somehow under threat. Their suspicions were not entirely unfounded. For instance, a dozen years ago Gul had talked about wishing “to end secularism” – although, not long afterwards, he had also spoken of wanting to see the “Islamic headscarf and the miniskirt walking hand in hand”.

 

However, it wasn’t so much his utterances that his opponents picked on: they appeared to be piqued by the fact that his wife, Hayrunisa, sports such a headscarf. As do millions of other Turkish women. And, of course, there are large numbers who don’t. Anyhow, back in May there were massive anti-Gul demonstrations in Ankara and Istanbul. In Turkey the president is elected by parliament, and an opposition boycott led the Constitutional Court to annul Gul’s election, because it deemed the assembly inquorate. The decision was handed down after the military made it clear where it stood via a message posted on its website. With only a little bit of exaggeration, it has been described as the world’s first internet coup.

 

The government of Recep Tayyip Erdogan responded wisely to the provocation: it opted for early elections, and was returned to power with 47 per cent of the vote – 13 per cent more than it had won in 2002. Thereafter, Gul’s ascent to the presidency was only a matter of time, unless the army decided to intervene directly and thwart the democratic process, as it has done four times in the past half century.

 

The last time it did so was in 1997, when it forced the resignation of prime minister Necmettin Erbakan, the leader of the Welfare Party, a progenitor of the AKP. Gul was a member of Erbakan’s cabinet, while Erdogan served as the mayor of Istanbul. The Constitutional Court subsequently banned the Welfare Party and disqualified Erbakan from public life. He then formed the Virtue Party, which was outlawed in 2001 after emerging as the main opposition party in the 1999 elections.

 

The point to be made here is that the so-called Islamists (not all of them are willing to accept this descriptor) did not stray from the democratic path. It is also worth noting that the popularity of the AKP and its predecessors isn’t all that closely related to matters of faith: it stems in large part from the fact that their members, when ensconced in positions of power at any level, have demonstrated reasonably good administrative skills without succumbing to the corruption that has characterised representatives of various other Turkish parties.

 

The AKP’s handling of the economy hasn’t elicited much criticism. Its power base consists to a considerable extent of Turks who have moved en masse in recent years from villages to cities, and who are viewed with disdain by sections of the urban elite. There are, hence, elements of a class struggle in what sometimes tends to be portrayed exclusively as a tussle between backwardness and modernity.

 

In fact, it could even be argued that in some respects the AKP has proved more adept at adapting itself to changing times than many of those who swear by Kemal Ataturk. It has been insinuated that the ruling party has a hidden Islamist agenda that is subtly being implemented – at the school level, for instance – with the ultimate aim of transforming Turkey into an Islamic republic a few decades down the road. It would perhaps be premature to dismiss such claims as ridiculous, but the evidence for them so far is not overwhelming. On the other hand, it is abundantly clear that ultra-nationalism poses a serious internal threat in Turkey, and this disease isn’t necessarily related to a religious resurgence.

 

Last year, the country’s only Nobel laureate, the writer Orhan Pamuk, joined the ranks of Turkish intellectuals who have been prosecuted for “denigrating Turkishness”. Under article 301 of the nation’s penal code, it is a crime to “insult” Turkey, its national character, or its government. The fact that such an article exists, and the state has few qualms about using it, points to a lack of maturity and confidence. As in the case of Pamuk, it is most commonly used against anyone who brings up the awkward matter of massacres of Armenians as the Ottoman empire unravelled during the First World War. More than a million Armenians are believed to have perished during what is often referred to as a genocide.

 

Turkey is by no means the only country that seeks to cover up unpalatable aspects of its history, but it is among the few where those who question the official version of the past can end up dead. That’s what happened last January to the gentle, sensible and conciliatory Turkish-Armenian journalist Hrant Dink. “The bullets aimed at Hrant Dink were shot into all of us,” declared Erdogan, and the 100,000 Turks who joined Dink’s funeral procession chanted “We are all Armenian”. Yet in July’s elections, the Nationalist Action Party, descended from the semi-fascist Grey Wolves, obtained 14 per cent of the popular vote.

 

 

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