The Economist
November 13, 2004
U.S. Edition

Haunted by the past; Human rights in Turkey

Trouble over Turkish history

A human-rights commission embarrasses the government

“HAPPY is he who calls himself a Turk!” That breezy slogan, emblazoned
on mountainsides and offices from the Aegean to the Euphrates, was
devised by Kemal Ataturk, the founder of modern Turkey, as he set
about forging a fresh identity for his people. The idea was that former
subjects of the Ottoman empire—whose native language might be Arabic,
Albanian or Kurdish—would find a new togetherness as citizens of a
unitary republic. And in case people hesitated to embrace the joys
of Turkishness, there were harsh penalties for those who asserted
any other sort of identity.

For most of the past 80 years, these principles have been sacrosanct.
But if Turkey is to have any hope of joining the European Union,
some taboo topics of history, identity and language must be discussed
openly, without fear of prosecution. In a burst of zeal three years
ago, the government—led by former Islamists—set up a panel to take a
broad look at questions of human rights and identity, and to suggest
how things could be improved. But Turkey’s masters got more than they
expected. The board’s report, released this month, said things that
were almost unsayable, triggering a sharp backlash.

For example, the report implies that if the Lausanne treaty of
1923—the basis of the Turkish state and its foreign relations—had
been fully implemented, bloodshed between Turks and Kurds might have
been avoided. To justify this argument, which is explosive in Turkey,
however mild it might seem elsewhere, the report cites article 39
of the treaty, which allows Turkish nationals to use “any language
they wish in commerce, in public and private meetings and all types
of press and publication.”

It also says that articles which supposedly protect non-Muslim
minorities have been read too narrowly: as well as covering Jews,
Armenians and Greeks, these articles should have been applied, for
example, to Syrian Orthodox Christians. More controversially still,
it suggests replacing the term “Turk” with a more inclusive word to
cover all ethnicities and faiths, such as “Turkiyeli”—”of Turkey”.

It was more than some Turks could bear. Even as Ibrahim Kaboglu,
the jurist who heads the board, was reading the report at a press
conference, a fellow member snatched it and tore it into shreds. Both
Mr Kaboglu and Baskin Oran, a political scientist who wrote the
report, have been bombarded with threatening phone calls and mail.
“Fraternal blood will be spilled,” warned one. Another called for a
military coup. Prosecutors in Ankara are investigating claims that both
academics may have committed treason. Ilker Basbug, a top general,
has joined the fray, saying Turkey’s unity should not be tampered
with. The government, frightened by the reaction, has washed its
hands of the report and denied commissioning it.

It is possible, though unlikely, says Husnu Ondul, a human-rights
lawyer, that the two authors may be prosecuted under an article of
the new penal code approved in September, which provides for up to ten
years’ jail for those who engage in unspecified “activities” against
the “national interest”. What might such activities be? In a footnote,
the law deems “anti-national” anyone who advocates withdrawing Turkish
troops from Cyprus, or terming “genocide” the killing of hundreds of
thousands of Armenians in 1915. If the aim was to stifle discussion
of this second issue, it failed: at a conference in Venice last month,
historians from all countries involved took a broader, more cool-headed
look at the 1915 tragedy than would be possible in Turkey—now or,
it seems, any time soon. And what about the 100,000 Turkish-Cypriots
who voted (vainly) in April for a UN plan that would have removed
most Turkish troops from Cyprus: was that a crime?

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