Erdogan Rising

At night, the city went dark – at least, the rebel-held part did. The electricity was cut off there and most people relied on generators powered by the moonshine fuel from the roadsides. The tarry smoke caught in my nostrils as I sat inside a scruffy makeshift media centre, once a family home and still dotted with keepsakes on the cracked and dusty shelves. Outside, young rebels took over the streets at night to fire mortar rounds into government territory, just a couple of kilometres away and still fully lit and functioning. That inevitably drew return fire, and curses from everyone desperate for a full night’s sleep.

Stark daylight revealed huge piles of rubbish moulded into hillocks at the side of the Aleppo streets. Leishmaniasis, a flesh-eating disease spread by the sand flies living in the garbage, was tearing through the population, especially children. At a clinic set up by a local charity I watched distraught toddlers receive daily injections into their gaping sores. As we approached the city’s checkpoints, run by armed groups of increasingly hazy affiliation, my drivers and fixers would switch the music on their stereos to nasheed, a cappella chants about violence and loss beloved by the jihadis. On the road back to the Turkish frontier we passed through whole villages that had been recently flattened and abandoned.

The revolutionary promise of two years before had sunk beneath a malodorous tide of tragedy; front lines were crystallising across Aleppo city, and hundreds of thousands of people had fled their homes as the regime’s air force launched relentless raids on rebel territory. The death toll was in the tens of thousands, and the war’s descent into extremism had started. Syria was already well on the way to giving the world a grim litany of new cultural reference points – barrel bombing, chemical attacks, heart-eating rebels, and Isis.

Crossing back over the border into Turkey at the end of any assignment in Syria was like stepping from a sepia film into full colour. Kilis, the first Turkish town after the Syrian frontier, is only forty miles from Aleppo as the crow flies. It is the beigest of any Turkish city, its tiny Ottoman heart smothered by rings and rings of new tower blocks housing masses of rural peasants. It would not feature in any Turkish guidebook, but compared to Aleppo it was paradise. Each time I came back I ripped off the black shawl I had used to cover my clothes, and drank in the colours hitting my eyes. After the privations of Aleppo, hot water, privacy, electricity and undisturbed sleep in a Turkish fleapit felt like a night at the Savoy.

Summer 2013 Rebel-held Aleppo

The most powerful rebel faction in Aleppo city in the summer of 2013 was the Liwa al-Tawhid, an Islamist militia led by Abdulkader al-Saleh, a diminutive former spice importer. He had assumed the nom de guerre of Hajji Marea, Hajji being the title bestowed on Muslims who have completed the pilgrimage to Mecca, and Marea being the spit-and-sawdust town north of the city he came from. The urbane and wealthy population of Aleppo had been none too pleased to find Hajji Marea and his brigade of bumpkins entering the city the previous summer and quickly carving it up, with the Tawhid and other rebel brigades controlling the poor, conservative districts to the east and the regime clinging to the wealthy west. There, the residents might have known their president was a tyrant, but many of them preferred to stick with the devil they knew rather than take their chances on the unknown, ragtag rebels.

The Tawhid had built a slick PR operation, which I encountered within minutes of arriving in Aleppo on my first morning as a war reporter. We had driven directly to Ard al-Hamra, one of the chaotic neighbourhoods that made up almost all of eastern Aleppo. A Scud missile fired by Assad’s forces had hit it in the inky hours before sunrise, and the street in front of me – a little parade of honey-coloured houses – had been flattened. Children were running about on top of the rubble looking for salvageable and saleable remnants. The survivors had already been extracted, and so too had the identifiable bits of the dead. Severed body parts and smashed furnishings were all that was left under the dust. It was all so familiar from the news reports I had been watching over the past two years – crumbled houses, crying women, scowling men with guns slung over their shoulders – only now it was here in front of me in full HD. I was so transfixed that it took me a few seconds to realise that the hysterical children across the street were shouting at me, beckoning furiously and pointing at the space above my head. When I looked up, I saw that a huge chunk of stone, the corner of a dainty Juliet balcony, had cracked away from the building above me and was about to topple onto my head. I moved away and gave them a weak smile and a wave of thanks.

Seconds later a lorry with its rear shutters rolled up backed screaming around the corner, and the people who had been milling about crowded around it. Here was the humanitarian face of the Tawhid rebels, who ruled by the gun but wanted the world’s media to show a different face. In front of my camera and that of a young media activist called Farouk, they started throwing out blankets and food packages to the waiting gaggle who surged forward to scrap over the goodies. Over the following months I would watch all the other armed rebel groups do the same, in a series of increasingly odd charity stunts that their media relations officers would then try to sell to foreign journalists and our fixers as worthy international news stories. Al-Qaeda set up a subsidised bus service. Others opened bakeries with money from unnamed Saudi or Kuwaiti donors, handing out bread to the poor but refusing to allow the male volunteers to serve women. Even Isis got in on the act, in the first months after it sprouted like a poisonous weed amid the misery and before it got down to ruling through fear alone. In August 2013 it organised a children’s fun day in Aleppo, where armed men in balaclavas watched over a group of six-year-olds embroiled in an ice cream-eating competition. As the day’s finale, a group of Isis fighters competed in a tug-of-war against a team from Al-Qaeda, treating their enthralled audience to the darkly comic spectacle of overweight and bearded men in thobes and sandals sweating as they grappled with the rope. Isis won – a nice metaphor for what happened a few months later. The two extremist groups – identical sartorially and ideologically – turned their guns on each other.

The fixer I travelled into Aleppo with on that first assignment was a fat and slightly stupid guy called Mohammed who, like many others at that time, was making a wedge of cash off foreign reporters while doing little more than airing the Tawhid’s propaganda. Although Syrian by origin he had a distinct Iraqi accent, and had grown up in Baghdad. His father, a devout man from the conservative northern Syrian town of Jisr al-Shugur, was a member of the Muslim Brotherhood – a network of pious believers who preferred to live in the shadows until the onset of the Arab Spring beckoned them into the open.

The Brotherhood is feared and loathed by the Middle East’s old authoritarian regimes because it provides a vision for an alternative system of government that appeals directly to the oppressed, using the world’s most powerful religious ideology as its glue. Distrusted but tolerated in the West, the Brotherhood was public enemy number one in the Arab world’s secular regimes, like Mubarak’s Egypt and Ben Ali’s Tunisia. In Syria, it was so hated that schoolchildren had to spew vitriol against it each morning as part of their ritual oath-giving to Assad’s Ba’athist state. In 1980, membership of the organisation was made punishable by death, and the Brothers retaliated with a series of increasingly violent protests and guerrilla attacks. Finally, in February 1982, President Hafez al-Assad sent his army to the city of Hama, epicentre of the Brotherhood’s uprising, where, over twenty-seven days, it besieged and bombarded the entire population. Up to 25,000 people were killed, but with media access restricted and no way for people inside the city to communicate with the outside world, it went virtually unreported. Everyone inside Syria heard about what happened, but their fear of what the regime might still do brought down a self-imposed omertà. Back then there was no independent media operating inside Syria and no internet to help the news leak out. The insurgency was crushed, whole city centres were destroyed. The remaining Brotherhood members were imprisoned or fled, and in Syria no one spoke of it again.

In the aftermath of Hama, many of Syria’s surviving Brotherhood members fell into the arms of a willing patron, the one Middle Eastern strongman who saw that there might be a use for them – Saddam Hussein.

The Iraqi president, though also a Sunni Muslim and a sectarian ruler, did not build an alliance with the Syrian Brotherhood out of religious conviction – later he would carry out his own crackdown on the Iraqi wing of the movement. But in the 1970s and early 1980s, Saddam’s main enemy was the Shia goliath Iran, to which Assad’s Syria was allied. By cuddling up to the Syrian Brotherhood, Saddam could undermine Damascus, his neighbour to the west, and in turn also Tehran, his neighbour to the east.

Saddam had funded and trained the Syrian Brotherhood prior to 1982, and then opened his country to those who fled after the group’s revolt against Assad failed. Syrian Brotherhood families were given homes in Baghdad and lavished with generous benefits, just as the rest of Iraq was slipping into a gruelling poverty inflicted on them by their leader’s increasingly erratic behaviour. The war with Iran, which began in 1980, was to drag on for eight years. Two years after it ended, Saddam invaded Kuwait and brought international sanctions hammering down on the heads of his people. By some estimates, half a million Iraqi children died in the 1990s through the direct or indirect impacts of the sanctions, which placed an almost total trade embargo on the country.

My fixer Mohammed recalled that time quite differently. ‘Baghdad was amazing, so many parties,’ he said dreamily. The good times for the Brotherhood families only came to an end in 2003, when the US-led ‘Coalition of the Willing’ invaded Iraq and toppled Saddam. Ten years on, Mohammed still sneered in disgust when he thought about the capture, trial and execution of a man who, whatever the errors of the West in toppling him, was one of the most brutal dictators in modern history.

Whenever Mohammed spoke of Saddam, it was with a finality that implied there was no other reasonable point of view. ‘Saddam was a very great man,’ he would say – and there was no way of persuading him how ironic it was that he was now embroiled in an uprising that was, purportedly, all about freedom from another dictator. Quite how or why he and his brother had come back to Syria from Iraq in 2011 would always remain a fuzzy enigma. Looking back, I’m sure that those old family ties were the reason why Mohammed was in Aleppo, a city with which he had few links, and why he was so keen to take me straight to the headquarters of the Tawhid Brigade, the Brotherhood’s armed proxy in the city. Three decades had passed since Assad the father had crushed and banished the Syrian Brothers. Now, in the Syrian revolution, they saw their chance to take revenge on the son.

The Tawhid was described by its apologists as a moderate Islamist group, which, in comparison to Al-Qaeda and Isis, it was. But moderate is a relative term. The more time I spent around the Tawhid, the more irritated I became at the strict code of Islamic behaviour they forced on me, a foreign atheist journalist who had come to tell their story. On the streets of Aleppo, a multi-faith city in a multi-faith country, they commanded that I wear the headscarf. They said it was to ‘show respect for the people’. It wasn’t; instead, it was all about respect for the Tawhid. Usually, when I entered ordinary people’s homes in Aleppo, the first thing they did was tell me I could remove the headscarf if I wanted to.

One day in May, as I was waiting inside the Tawhid’s base in a baking hot car with an agonising migraine for an interview that never materialised, and growing gradually more furious at being ordered to wear an uncomfortable symbol of someone else’s faith, I ripped the headscarf from my head. ‘Fuck this,’ I muttered to myself.

I will never forget the looks I got from the surly fighters hanging around the base. Several times I heard them whisper between themselves ‘sahafiya’ – ‘journalist’. To their credit, no one approached me and told me to put the headscarf back on, but I could feel the intense hostility.

Even more troubling was Hajji Marea’s willingness to accept the presence of Jabhat al-Nusra, Al-Qaeda’s Syrian franchise, in Aleppo and to fight alongside them on the front lines against Assad. Nusra’s base was next door to the Tawhid’s, and they had kept their hostages – including foreign journalists and aid workers – in the basement of a building the two shared. James Foley, the American reporter later passed on to Isis and murdered on camera, is believed to have been held in that basement while he was in Nusra’s hands – and while Hajji Marea was receiving the rest of us for interviews in a room just metres away. We never did find out if Hajji Marea knew the extent of what Nusra was doing – he was killed in a regime airstrike in November 2013. Most of the Syrians I knew changed their Facebook profile to a picture of him on news of his death.

In August 2013 I visited the Tawhid’s base for the last time, and found the road outside had been freshly tarmacked and a promenade of elegant white flagpoles erected, leading up to the heavily guarded entrance.

‘We call it the UN,’ laughed Mahmoud, the suave, funny and far more intelligent fixer I had found after firing Mohammed. Mahmoud was no fan of the Tawhid.

I was disgusted at the arrogance too – this tacky show, this waste of desperately needed funds, just metres from water mains burst by artillery and schools and homes obliterated in the fighting.

But in Syria I also saw what happens to the trimmings of a personality cult when it crumbles. Across the rebel-held north in 2013 I came across the same banners depicting Bashar al-Assad that I had seen in that Damascus souk two years earlier, only now with his eyes scratched out and obscenities scrawled across his face. I found what was left of a bust of his father, Hafez, the architect of this terrifying regime, in the lobby of a hydroelectric dam that had been taken over by Jabhat al-Nusra. Somehow, they had managed to almost completely incinerate it. Another statue of Hafez in a nearby town had a leather sandal rammed into its mouth – the ultimate Arab insult.

And when I returned to Aleppo in the spring of 2014, after a bleak winter in which Isis overran the rebels in the east of the city and Assad’s forces started dropping barrels filled with explosives from helicopters, I found the Tawhid had been bombed out of their base. The old eye hospital, already tattered when they occupied it, was now just ruined columns jutting out of rubble. Those flagpoles were a row of twisted stalks, and with Hajji Marea dead his undisciplined mob had forgotten their once-eternal fealty to their leader and had been absorbed by rival factions. It’s what happens to them all, in the end.

Turkey’s cults

Maybe it was because I wasn’t looking for them, but I didn’t pick up on the first hints of Turkey’s personality cults until I had been there for several months. Although I was living in Antakya I was barely connected to Turkey at first. I worked inside Syria, hung out with Syrian refugees in Turkey during my downtime, and devoted most of my attention to the war over the border. Turkey was the place I came back to at the end of assignments in the war zone, to drink beers and wear sleeveless tops and enjoy the unlimited electricity and hot water on tap. I sat in shisha cafés in the Turkish border towns as I wrote my articles about what was happening on the other side of the frontier and whatever was going on politically in Turkey was just background noise – unless it overlapped with what was happening in Syria.

I knew of Atatürk, of course. Every Turkish guidebook mentions him, and warns tourists not to speak ill of him in public. I also remembered a passage in a book I had read as a teenager, written in the 1930s by a Turkish woman who had been so proud when her leader travelled to Europe wearing a suit and trilby hat like every other modern leader. Apart from anything else there is no way to avoid Atatürk in Antakya; a crude rendering of his face is cast in lights on the dramatic mountains that loom behind the town, visible from every street and rooftop terrace. The first time I saw the stylised line drawing of his face that is rendered in paint or metal signage in every public office in Turkey, I was struck by how much he bears a likeness to the British pop star Sting.

Erdoğan and the AKP I knew of mainly because they rose to power when I was in my first year of university in Manchester. One of my classes focused on contemporary European politics – a hopeful, expansive subject at that time. The theme de jour was the endless possibilities for EU enlargement, and the imminent accession of the central European states that had once been Soviet satellites. In my seminar that day we had discussed the Turkish elections and their implications for Europe. Amid all the doom of that year – the slow cranking up to the war in Iraq, the worsening quagmire in Afghanistan – it seemed to be a glint of hope. The Turkish secularists who were howling at the rise of these seemingly benign Islamists were the ones who looked like fundamentalists.

The Gezi Park protests, which started when I had been living in Turkey for three months, were the first major news story I took note of. They made small waves down in Antakya, where the local population of Turkish Alawites – members of the same sect of Shia Islam as Bashar al-Assad – held thinly attended protests in the main square. Maybe my views on Gezi at that time were coloured by the Syrians surrounding me: they mostly viewed Erdoğan as their champion – no other world leader was opposing Assad and welcoming refugees so consistently – and they distrusted the Turkish Alawites for their kinship with Assad’s hated regime in Syria. The tear gas used by the Turkish police to put down the demonstrations in Taksim seemed minor compared to the live rounds fired by Syrian security forces on protesters there.

But, after Gezi, I started noticing how Erdoğan was becoming much more than a prime minister. When new football stadiums opened, he would play in the inaugural matches – and always, without fail, score a goal. He appeared on an evening chat show and sang a lilting Turkish song in a tuneless voice, to enthusiastic applause. Barely a day went by when a television channel did not broadcast one of his speeches or visits. After he gave up the job of prime minister and won the presidential elections in 2014, his picture started appearing everywhere. And when the AKP won in parliamentary elections a year later, my Syrian boyfriend’s father phoned from Saudi Arabia, where he was living. He had never even visited Turkey.

‘Erdoğan! Erdoğan! Erdoğan!’ he sang in delight.

That was where my fascination with Erdoğan and the people who idolise him started – the moment when I became obsessed with untangling the appeal of the Turkish president.

3

BUILDING BRAND ERDOĞAN

The president likes to wear sunglasses. It is part of a look that, over the years, he has honed to a crossover between Islamist and mafia don.

There is the clipped moustache that has been there from the start – an essential element of any pious man’s image. Back in the 1990s it was a glossy chestnut brown, set off by his bouffant hair. Over the years, as both have got shorter and greyer on their original wearer, the moustache has spread through Erdoğan’s inner circle like a catwalk trend. As the 2017 referendum approached, a Daily Mail journalist totted up that twenty-seven of the thirty cabinet members were sporting the badem biyik – or ‘almond moustache’. Of the three with no moustache, one was a woman.

There are the oversized suit jackets, cross-hatched and most often in a dark powder blue. They originally made an appearance around the time of the presidential elections in August 2014 – when Erdoğan first won the post – and have since become so iconic that when a friend decided to dress up as the president for a raucous post-referendum dinner party all he had to do was don one of these suits and grow a week’s worth of moustache. In 2015, as the fashion spread in Erdoğan’s circle, one of Turkey’s leading designers bestowed it with a name: the ‘prestogal’ jacket.

‘President Erdoğan is the man who brought the checkered fashion to Turkey. Nobody influences our president; he does not follow the world, but rather he creates his own fashion,’ Levon Kordonciyan, the designer, told the state news agency, Anadolu.

And then there are those shades, aviator-style with thin gold rims. Erdoğan dons them at rallies and walkabouts, the lenses so dark that his eyes are inscrutable. When he walks en masse with his entourage, all of them dressed in black and wearing shades to match him, you get the sense that the mob boss has arrived. It’s the same with the screaming convoys the high-level politicians move about in – first police on motorcycles, then the swarm of blacked-out cars travelling in packs half a kilometre long down the highways. They have grown more common everywhere since Erdoğan became president – and his own entourage is by far the biggest – but you see them most often in Ankara. Whole intersections must be slickly closed and reopened to allow the government motorcades to pass through, jamming another stick in the spokes of the capital’s dreadful traffic.

It is impossible to guess to what level such privileges go down. Erdoğan travels like that, for sure, as do the high-ranking members of his cabinet. In August 2016, a month after the coup attempt, prime minister Binali Yıldırım’s press team called me and a couple of dozen other foreign journalists to an Ottoman palace on the Asian bank of the Bosphorus. A jolly Yıldırım ordered us to tuck into the opulent Turkish breakfast, served in the gardens – young cheeses with succulent figs, delicate tea and hot, crunchy pastries – while burly men in black T-shirts, olive-grey combat trousers, shades and earpieces scanned the scene in every direction with assault rifles ready. After a two-hour discussion and a sincere vow from the diminutive, grandfatherly Yıldırım that we should do this more often, we watched as he was whisked away in a helicopter in a flourish of political showmanship.

Other ministers travel in more low-key style. But in September 2016, down in Diyarbakır, de facto capital of the Kurdish south-east, I happened to be in the city’s premier breakfast spot as the city governor, newly appointed from Ankara, came in. The Hasanpaşa Han is an Ottoman-era caravanserai, a two-level eating and shopping centre around an open central courtyard that was built in the sixteenth century. Back then the traders traversing the Silk Route would spend the night inside its black basalt walls, resting their horses in the straw-strewn central space and dining and sleeping in the warren of surrounding rooms.

Today, there are stalls at ground level selling trinkets, colourful silk scarves and rugs printed with images of Kurdish heroes. For a time you might have found PKK leader Abdullah Öcalan’s face among them. Now the rug sellers stick to uncontroversial figures, mostly Kurdish singers and poets; none go so far as to sell any bearing pictures of Erdoğan, as I have seen in other parts of the country. Through tiny arched doorways steep stone steps lead up through the blackness of the han’s thick outer walls like secret warrens in a medieval castle, before they spill out to the mezzanine of the second level. Here, breakfast is served – Diyarbakır style. Endless small plates of cheeses, olive oil, jams, spicy pastes, sliced tomatoes and cucumber, honey, kaymak (a kind of Turkish clotted cream), tahini, fried eggs, spicy sausage sizzling in butter are heaped onto tables along with endless bread and tea, refilled as soon as it is finished.