To ask why is forbidden: Turkish nationalism

A few weeks ago, the PKK launched a daytime raid on an isolated Turkish army garrison near the Iraq border. As usual, the attack came from inside Iraq. Seventeen soldiers were killed. This post had been attacked several times before, yet it had not been reinforced. Radio requests for backup were not answered, despite the presence of other Turkish troops nearby.

Needless to say, the Turkish media covered this story nonstop for days: footage of funerals, wailing mothers, and speeches condemning the terrorists dominated the nightly news. Although my Turkish isn't good enough to understand broadcasts, I could understand that two important questions went unasked in almost all of the media: how and why?

One paper finally dared to do a little digging, and found some damning stuff. The Taraf daily published photos that seemed to show that top commanders knew this attack was coming, but did nothing about it. It's still unknown if these photos were real or not, but regardless, the military's reaction spoke volumes about modern Turkey: The new Chief of Staff İlker Başbuğ said warned the media ''to be careful, to be on the right side.'' He denied the authenticity of the photos but provided little evidence, and generally limited himself to threatening the press.

And why? Well, no one ever asked that question. And no one ever does. I've been puzzling over the unusual nature of Turkish political society for several months now, and I've now learned that I'm not supposed to ask why. Things are as they are for a reason, and it's impolite to question. And that's just for foreigners: Turks who ask why are suspected of disloyalty. Turkish society is generally free and open, but certain institutions--most obviously the military--are off limits to criticism. Legal penalties exist, but simple social taboos limit discussion almost as effectively. Nationalism--effectively, a set of shared beliefs and assumptions--guides how Turks understand their country.

It's impossible to understand Turkey without thinking about nationalism. I've made a lot of people uncomfortable in the past two months by asking them about Turkey's unmentionable topics: the Armenians, gender relations, the Kurdish problem, etc. But nothing bothers people more than asking them about nationalism.

Turkish nationalism is a relatively new phenomenon. Its origins date to the late 19th century, at the earliest. During Ottoman times, ''Turks'' were simply the majority in a multinational empire. Islam provided the most important bond, not any ethnic, political, or social nation.

This was not true of the Empire's other nationalities. One of the results of waning Ottoman power was the emergence of national movements (some of which were supported by European states, eager to gain new colonies in Ottoman lands) among the Empire's minorities. The establishment of new (primarily Christian) national states in former Ottoman territories prompted an ideological crisis among the Empire's Turkish elite: what would the direction of the Ottoman state be?

There were three primary choices: Ottomanism, Islamism, or Turkism. Briefly, Ottomanism was about attempting to create a pan-national ''Ottoman'' identity, but it was probably to late for that. Islamism is self explanatory: it would have tied the empire together with religion, but that would have alienated the Empire's significant non-Muslim population. The final choice, Turkism, requires a little more explanation.

Turks in Turkey are part of a recognizable, multi-state nation that stretches all the way to Western China. (There are about 250 million ''Turks'' throughout central Asia.) They speak similar languages, are almost all Muslim, and trace their lineage to the same mythical root. ''Turkism,'' as it was initially concieved, advocated uniting all Turks in a state called ''Turan.'' (There are still some people who would like to see this happen.) The Russian Revolution in 1917 and the spread of Soviet power into central Asia killed this dream, but really, it was never realistic.

During the last years of the Ottoman Empire, different groups advocated each of these, but the model that emerged was a strange synthesis of all three. Ataturk and his allies created a new national identity that had to be taught to citizens of the new Turkish Republic. Zia Gokalp, one of the intellectual fathers of the Republic, put it this way: ''Nation is a group composed of men and women who have recieved the same education, who have received the same acquisitions in language, morality, religion, and aesthetics... Men want to live together, not with those who carry the same blood in their veins, but with those who share the same language and faith.''

Essentially, everyone who lived within the borders of the new Republic, spoke Turkish, and was Muslim automatically became a Turk. Of course, this definition has evolved, but it basically holds true today. (I'm going to write about the Kurdish issue in a couple weeks, and I'll address this again then. Most Kurds are Muslims, and had been united with Turks during the Ottoman era by a shared religion, but the new Turkish nationalism alienated them. For decades, Turkey insisted that the Kurds were really Turks who had forgotten their identity--a clever, if ineffective, way to expand the definition of Turkish.)

Turkish nationalism is an ideological phenomenon: it is driven by loyalty to a set of ideals, not by allegiance to any ethnic or religious group. In some ways, this is a good thing. The Turkish identity is somewhat flexible, and it is possible to ''become Turkish.'' However, it also means that one cannot question those ideals--established, of course, by Ataturk--without jeopardizing one's ''Turkishness.''

Turkey's ideological nationalism strips dissidents of their national identity and labels them traitors. As a foreigner, I am allowed some leeway, but plenty of the things I've said and written on this trip would not be tolerated if I were Turkish. (People just try to get me to understand. I rarely do.)

Some time ago, I asked a friend if he thought it was possible to love Turkey without loving Ataturk. He responded, almost angrily, ''absolutely not.'' To love Turkey to to love Ataturk: such is the official line. Even Turkey's most outspoken opposition parties (there are a few, but they're small) usually express loyalty to Ataturk, even when those professions are rhetorical at best.

Because Ataturk made no mistakes, all Turkey's problems stem from one of two sources: either the government has misinterpreted Ataturk's ideas, or foreign powers are (once again) meddling in Turkey's business. The latter point is hugely important, and expressed nicely in the common Turkish saying, ''There is no friend of the Turk except other Turks.'' (Turkey is not xenophobic: I feel very welcome here, as do most foreigners. However, many Turks believe that when the chips are down, their foreign allies will abandon them.)

It's important to note that several of Turkey's problems are unquestionably of its own making, and arguably traceable to decisions Ataturk made: Turkey's constant problems with its minorities can be traced to some of the young Republic's policies. The perennially unstable Turkish economy is partially the fault of outsiders, but much of the blame can be placed on Turkey and Ataturk's (quickly abandoned) etatism. But because a basic tenet of Turkish nationalism is that it is not Turkey's fault, foreign scapegoats are found and the real causes of these problems are ignored.