- Oct 3, 2018
- 3,457
(All of these posts are private unless a player is conducting PVP operations or is in a contextual situation to infer it)
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Administrators are in-charge of the forums overall, ensuring it remains updated, fresh and constantly growing.
Administrator: Jamie
Administrator: Hollie
Moderators support the Administration Team, assisting with a variety of tasks whilst remaining a liason, a link between Roleplayers and the Staff Team.
Moderator: Connor
Moderator: Odinson
Moderator: ManBear
Have a Question?
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Başbakanlık
- Thread starter Jay
- Start date
(All of these posts are private unless a player is conducting PVP operations or is in a contextual situation to infer it)
- Oct 3, 2018
- 3,457
Ayşe Çiller stood alone in the Prime Minister’s private office. The late morning sun spilled through the high Ankara windows, warming the deep walnut paneling and the gold-trimmed drapes. Everything was precisely arranged: two identical pens on the blotter, a leather chair too polished to sit in just yet, the national flag behind the desk. Across from it, the portrait of Atatürk stared down with his usual, impossible sternness.
She didn’t move for a moment. The silence was startling, but not oppressive. Rather, it felt like a held breath. Her fingers hovered above the edge of the desk. Her eyes drifted over to the bookshelf on the right wall, mostly legal volumes, the Constitution, thick compendiums of economic policy, and tucked among them, a few biographies of İsmet İnönü and Adnan Menderes, with a spine-worn copy of Türkiye'nin İkili Güç Dengesi that she used one too many times during debate class.
She took one cautious step forward and then another, adjusting the lapel of her cream-colored suit jacket. Aide footsteps echoed faintly from the corridor beyond the doors, but none entered.
“Başbakanım?” came a voice, muffled, from behind the door.
Ayşe turned her body to the door, clearing her throat. “Yes, come.”
The door opened more assertively this time. Can Yaman, her Chief of Staff, entered without hesitation, but not without courtesy. His tie was slightly askew, causing Ayşe’s head to tilt slightly.
“You have three minutes,” he said in a low voice. “Admiral Özbal has already been waiting in the situation room.”
Her brow lifted in confusion. “This soon?” She asked, looking down at her watch.
Can nodded. “He says it can’t wait. He brought a classified satmap. The Navy’s red-flagged something in the Bosphorus. Something left over from the coalition war.”
She straightened herself, withdrawing her hand from the desk’s edge. “How serious?”
“He wouldn’t say over the phone. Just that he needed to speak with you urgently.”
Ayşe exhaled slowly through her nose and nodded once.
“Tell the Admiral I’m on my way.”
Can had already turned, pulling out his government blackberry. “They’re waiting for you in the situation room.”
She paused at the doorframe, giving one last glance at the office, hers now, at least until the next vote of no confidence or scandal or breakdown of coalition discipline, she thought almost sarcastically.
The door shut behind her, and the heels of the Prime Minister of the Republic of Türkiye clicked down the polished hallway.
The doors opened to a cool corridor lined with a muted blue carpet and glass walls. Aides and security personnel parted instinctively as the Prime Minister emerged from her office, Can Yaman falling into step beside her with his usual strides.
Behind them, a tight cluster followed, a uniformed naval aide-de-camp in his black dress, her personal protection officers, and a junior press advisor already checking her government-issued BlackBerry. Ayşe caught the rhythm of the footsteps trailing hers—too many, too close—and cast a sideways glance at Can.
“Do I always have to walk with an entourage now?” she murmured.
He didn’t look at her. “You’ll get used to it, don’t worry.” He sent a message on his phone before looking up and pointing her to the left.
Ayşe exhaled slowly, her pace steady. The clack of her heels echoed down the corridor as they passed through the internal security checkpoint and turned into the main staircase that led to the secure wing. Guards snapped to attention as they descended.
“You’re taking this very well,” Can remarked lightly.
“Taking what?”
“Being thrown into a national security crisis before lunch.”
“I’m not new to crises,” she replied, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear.
They reached the sealed doors of the situation room, which hissed open with the sound of pressurized security locks disengaging. A circular table occupied the center of the room, with four leather chairs already filled and one seat conspicuously vacant, hers.
Admiral Özbal rose the moment she stepped in. He was tall with a ramrod posture. His uniform bore the dark blue of the Fleet Staff, with four silver stars gleaming on each shoulder. He didn’t smile, but his voice was warm.
“Madam Prime Minister.” He came to attention, offered a salute, and then extended his hand. “Welcome to the Blue House. It’s an honor.”
Ayşe shook it firmly. “Thank you, Admiral.”
“I regret that I’m the first person you have to meet this morning,” he added, his tone shifting, “and that it has to be like this.”
She nodded once. “Not at all. I understand there is a situation developing in the Bosphorus.” She said cautiously as she took her seat.
The Admiral moved to the screen. A satellite map of the northern entrance to the Bosphorus was already projected, the blue of the Black Sea interrupted by a series of red and yellow markers along a curved arc.
“As you’re aware,” Özbal began, tapping a pointer against the screen, “during the Coalition Intervention, Russian submarine forces laid mines across this approach. Bottom-laid, magnetic-acoustic influence mines, designated MDM-2. Forty-eight in total.”
“During the blockade,” Ayşe said quietly.
“Yes, ma’am. They were strategically placed not within Turkish territorial waters, but at the head of the strait, right at the maritime threshold. Russia provided the coordinates to us a few days ago, after some intense effort on our part to get them. They’ve honored their disclosure commitment, likely in anticipation of a normalization push, especially with you coming into office now.”
“And the mines are still active?”
“Yes,” Özbal said, zooming in on the display. “All forty-eight are presumed to be live. The MDM-2 is difficult to sweep. It’s built to detect ship signatures, sound, magnetic fields, and pressure displacement. And it’s patient. These are still very much capable of sinking a destroyer, but it does not discriminate and will destroy any civilian ship.”
Ayşe folded her arms. “What are we doing about Civilian traffic?”
“Suspended from that sector. Temporarily. The problem is if one of these drifts, or is disturbed by an unsuspecting fishing vessel, the consequences would be immediate. Moscow says the route they used is safe, but only they know the pattern. Even then, it’s potentially a gamble.”
“What’s our capability to deal with it?”
“We have sufficient minehunters and MH-60Rs on station. We’ll use acoustic-magnetic simulators to try to trigger them in place. If that fails, we’ll deploy combat divers and ROVs with demolition charges. One by one.”
“What is the potential casualty risk?” She asked as she looked over the briefing report, skimming the details.
“Minimal, if we control the sequence. We’ll isolate each detonation zone by at least 250 meters and schedule them at two-hour intervals.”
“It says you are going to try to attempt to recover some of them?”
Özbal hesitated. “We will attempt to recover up to three. We want to study their fuse integrity and confirm no modifications were made post-war. But if they’re unstable, we blow them.”
There was a beat of silence.
“Has this been briefed to the President?” Ayşe asked.
Can answered first. “Not yet. You’re the first civilian outside the military circle to receive it.”
She turned back to Özbal. “I’d like to loop in the Defense Minister today. I’m sure he is busy getting up to speed at the Ministry. We’ll notify the President after the clearance plan is in motion. Keep the press out of it. I don’t want to cause panic. We already have enough issues with the current economic crisis.”
“Understood, ma’am.” Özbal said, looking at his aide who had been taking minutes of the meeting.
Ayşe nodded and looked back at the map. Forty-eight red dots still glared at her. “If that is all, gentlemen, I’ll be in my office if you need anything.” She said, getting up, the three naval officers snapped to attention as she got up. Can nudged her out of the office, staying behind to thank the Admiral before joining Ayşe, who had already begun taking long strides to the office.
The corridors were quieter now. As staffers lightly conversed though the building itself had grown tired.
She entered alone this time, Can trailing a few paces behind her. Ayşe slipped out of her heels as soon as the door closed. She stepped softly onto the Turkish carpet beneath her desk and stood at the wide windows, arms folded, gazing out toward the distant hills, now only shadows against a pink-lit sky.
Can set down the red folder marked Operation CLEAREYE on her desk, then busied himself at the sideboard. He poured two glasses of cold water and placed a porcelain teapot on a lacquered tray.
“Take it in,” he said gently. “You made it through your first day.”
She looked at him with a raised brow. “Is that what that was?”
“Prime Ministers don’t get normal ones. Just variations of crisis and complication.”
She turned from the window and settled into the armchair across from her desk. “It’s surreal,” she admitted. “This morning, I was still giving interviews about coalition unity. Now I’m reading detonation protocols and naval fuse types.”
“You’re doing well,” Can said simply, handing her a teacup. “Better than half the men who’ve sat in that chair.”
She took it, both hands around the porcelain. “It’s nothing like being a lecturer at Columbia.”
He grinned and took the seat beside her. “It might’ve been easier.”
She laughed quietly. “Back then, I was arguing hypotheticals in seminar rooms. Deterring office politics and who got what in the journals.”
“Now you’re dealing with national politics.” He said as he joined her in looking out of the window.
She nodded slowly, sipping her tea. “Do you ever miss it, the outside world? Before politics?”
“I was never really in it,” Can said. “I came into this straight out of law school. If I ever knew what normal was, I forgot it a decade ago.”
They sat in companionable silence, the only sounds the soft clink of the teapot and the rustle of papers as Ayşe opened the briefing folder. She flipped through the documents, each page annotated in a naval officer’s neat hand. Maps, sonar overlays, and force composition tables. There was a section highlighted in red: Mine Recovery Attempt – Limited Scope. Proceed only with maximum isolation and fuse integrity confirmation.
She set the folder down and looked over at him. “They’re really going to blow them one by one?”
“Unless the trigger systems work. The Admiral says that’s the safer bet, but there’s no guarantee. These mines were meant to stop a fleet. They could hurt a lot of people.”
Ayşe leaned back, eyes briefly closed. “This is what it means to be a leader.” Can said softly. “Not to win arguments, or give good speeches, or make moral gestures. It’s to be the one in the room who has to decide when to pull the pin, or cut the wire.”
The silence settled again, denser this time. Then a knock came at the door.
“Come in,” Ayşe called, setting her cup down.
The door opened, and Admiral Özbal stepped in. He removed his cap and nodded to Can respectfully before addressing her.
“Madam Prime Minister.”
“Admiral.”
“I thought I’d bring you the final operation schedule in person. We’ve confirmed mine locations by sector. First detonations begin at zero-six-hundred. All systems are ready.”
She gestured to the tea set. “Would you join us?”
He gave the faintest smile. “My mother taught me that it was rood to say no to tea.”
Ayşe poured him a glass, which she handed to him. Once seated, she flipped through pages on the report. “Walk me through it. I want to understand everything.”
Can rose quietly stepped to the sideboard and began preparing another cup.
The night deepened beyond the windows, and inside the Prime Minister’s office, situation maps and satellite prints were quietly unfolded under lamplight.
It was just past 0500 when the convoy of unmarked black vehicles pulled into the military pier at Gölcük Naval Base. The eastern horizon was still heavy with the slate-grey hue of pre-dawn, and the air smelled of salt and diesel.
Prime Minister Ayşe Çiller stepped out of the lead vehicle, wrapped in a charcoal coat against the breeze, her hair pinned back tightly. At her side walked Admiral Özbal, already dressed in his cold-weather bridge uniform. He had briefed her on the operation already, but now she had asked for something else to meet the people doing the job.
Along the length of the quay, the TCG Anamur loomed quietly, lights on deck glowing low amber. Nearby, the Underwater Defense Group was in formation three squads, fully suited in drysuits and rebreather gear, with their mission packs at their feet and sidearms holstered against their hips. Slightly behind them stood a group of navy technical crew including sonar operators, drone techs, and flight support staff for the MH-60Rs moored further down the pier.
The moment Ayşe approached, the officers called the line to attention. The sound of boots and gear snapping to stillness cut through the morning silence like a signal flare.
“At ease,” she said immediately, her voice getting used to being in command.
Their posture softened. She glanced across the faces.
“Madam Prime Minister,” said Captain Tolga Üstün, the diver unit’s commanding officer, stepping forward. “We’re honored.”
She returned his salute, then looked at the divers behind him. “No. I’m honored. You’ve drawn a dangerous assignment, and I didn’t want to authorize it from a safe office chair without meeting the men who would carry it out.”
She stepped closer to the line of divers, now within arm’s reach of them.
“I’ve been told this is delicate work. That even with our best equipment, we can’t always know what these mines will do.”
She continued. “But I also know that Türkiye sleeps safer because of people like you. You volunteered for this job. You didn’t have to. You chose it. And for that, I’m grateful, not as your prime minister, but as a fellow citizen.”
She turned to one of the sonar technicians nearby. “What’s your name?”
“Petty Officer First Class Erdem Koç, ma’am.”
“How long have you been on mine duty?”
“This is my fourth year,” he said, clearly proud but humble. “First time in a live operation, though.”
“Are you ready?”
He nodded. “Yes, Prime Minister.”
She smiled. “Good. Keep the divers alive for me.”
Behind her, a diver called out, “Only if they don’t get lost again, ma’am!”
The line burst into quiet laughter. Even Captain Üstün cracked a grin. Ayşe raised an eyebrow with mock severity.
“Lost?”
“Ma’am,” said the diver who’d spoken. “Lieutenant Alp Serdar. Long story. But it involved a wrong trench and a whale that caught their attention.”
“Let’s not repeat that, Lieutenant.” Ayşe with a smile.
He gave her a playful salute. “We’ll try.”
Another diver leaned toward his buddy and whispered something she couldn’t quite hear, but a ripple of quiet amusement passed down the line.
She paused. “You all understand the stakes. I want to make sure you all return home safely. Please, take whatever measures necessary and make sure we are all here again by the end of this.
They nodded.
Then, from somewhere at the back, a young voice called out, half-shy but audible:
“Başbakanım, can we take a photo?” There was a flicker of hesitation. A few of the crew looked to the officers, uncertain.
Ayşe blinked, and then smiled, wide and without hesitation. “Of course.”
The atmosphere shifted instantly. Phones appeared in seconds, handed to aides and naval photographers. She stepped into the middle of the group, flanked by the divers in full kit, the sonar techs, and a few curious engineers who had quietly joined in.
“Everyone in tight,” someone said.
“Don’t block the Prime Minister,” said another.
One of the younger divers lifted his mask onto his forehead, his grin unmistakable. Ayşe looked around the group just as the flash went off. A moment later, the camera clicked again. This time, she was laughing with the sailors. She couldn’t help but admire them. For a second she forgot the weight of office on her shoulders.
She didn’t move for a moment. The silence was startling, but not oppressive. Rather, it felt like a held breath. Her fingers hovered above the edge of the desk. Her eyes drifted over to the bookshelf on the right wall, mostly legal volumes, the Constitution, thick compendiums of economic policy, and tucked among them, a few biographies of İsmet İnönü and Adnan Menderes, with a spine-worn copy of Türkiye'nin İkili Güç Dengesi that she used one too many times during debate class.
She took one cautious step forward and then another, adjusting the lapel of her cream-colored suit jacket. Aide footsteps echoed faintly from the corridor beyond the doors, but none entered.
“Başbakanım?” came a voice, muffled, from behind the door.
Ayşe turned her body to the door, clearing her throat. “Yes, come.”
The door opened more assertively this time. Can Yaman, her Chief of Staff, entered without hesitation, but not without courtesy. His tie was slightly askew, causing Ayşe’s head to tilt slightly.
“You have three minutes,” he said in a low voice. “Admiral Özbal has already been waiting in the situation room.”
Her brow lifted in confusion. “This soon?” She asked, looking down at her watch.
Can nodded. “He says it can’t wait. He brought a classified satmap. The Navy’s red-flagged something in the Bosphorus. Something left over from the coalition war.”
She straightened herself, withdrawing her hand from the desk’s edge. “How serious?”
“He wouldn’t say over the phone. Just that he needed to speak with you urgently.”
Ayşe exhaled slowly through her nose and nodded once.
“Tell the Admiral I’m on my way.”
Can had already turned, pulling out his government blackberry. “They’re waiting for you in the situation room.”
She paused at the doorframe, giving one last glance at the office, hers now, at least until the next vote of no confidence or scandal or breakdown of coalition discipline, she thought almost sarcastically.
The door shut behind her, and the heels of the Prime Minister of the Republic of Türkiye clicked down the polished hallway.
The doors opened to a cool corridor lined with a muted blue carpet and glass walls. Aides and security personnel parted instinctively as the Prime Minister emerged from her office, Can Yaman falling into step beside her with his usual strides.
Behind them, a tight cluster followed, a uniformed naval aide-de-camp in his black dress, her personal protection officers, and a junior press advisor already checking her government-issued BlackBerry. Ayşe caught the rhythm of the footsteps trailing hers—too many, too close—and cast a sideways glance at Can.
“Do I always have to walk with an entourage now?” she murmured.
He didn’t look at her. “You’ll get used to it, don’t worry.” He sent a message on his phone before looking up and pointing her to the left.
Ayşe exhaled slowly, her pace steady. The clack of her heels echoed down the corridor as they passed through the internal security checkpoint and turned into the main staircase that led to the secure wing. Guards snapped to attention as they descended.
“You’re taking this very well,” Can remarked lightly.
“Taking what?”
“Being thrown into a national security crisis before lunch.”
“I’m not new to crises,” she replied, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear.
They reached the sealed doors of the situation room, which hissed open with the sound of pressurized security locks disengaging. A circular table occupied the center of the room, with four leather chairs already filled and one seat conspicuously vacant, hers.
Admiral Özbal rose the moment she stepped in. He was tall with a ramrod posture. His uniform bore the dark blue of the Fleet Staff, with four silver stars gleaming on each shoulder. He didn’t smile, but his voice was warm.
“Madam Prime Minister.” He came to attention, offered a salute, and then extended his hand. “Welcome to the Blue House. It’s an honor.”
Ayşe shook it firmly. “Thank you, Admiral.”
“I regret that I’m the first person you have to meet this morning,” he added, his tone shifting, “and that it has to be like this.”
She nodded once. “Not at all. I understand there is a situation developing in the Bosphorus.” She said cautiously as she took her seat.
The Admiral moved to the screen. A satellite map of the northern entrance to the Bosphorus was already projected, the blue of the Black Sea interrupted by a series of red and yellow markers along a curved arc.
“As you’re aware,” Özbal began, tapping a pointer against the screen, “during the Coalition Intervention, Russian submarine forces laid mines across this approach. Bottom-laid, magnetic-acoustic influence mines, designated MDM-2. Forty-eight in total.”
“During the blockade,” Ayşe said quietly.
“Yes, ma’am. They were strategically placed not within Turkish territorial waters, but at the head of the strait, right at the maritime threshold. Russia provided the coordinates to us a few days ago, after some intense effort on our part to get them. They’ve honored their disclosure commitment, likely in anticipation of a normalization push, especially with you coming into office now.”
“And the mines are still active?”
“Yes,” Özbal said, zooming in on the display. “All forty-eight are presumed to be live. The MDM-2 is difficult to sweep. It’s built to detect ship signatures, sound, magnetic fields, and pressure displacement. And it’s patient. These are still very much capable of sinking a destroyer, but it does not discriminate and will destroy any civilian ship.”
Ayşe folded her arms. “What are we doing about Civilian traffic?”
“Suspended from that sector. Temporarily. The problem is if one of these drifts, or is disturbed by an unsuspecting fishing vessel, the consequences would be immediate. Moscow says the route they used is safe, but only they know the pattern. Even then, it’s potentially a gamble.”
“What’s our capability to deal with it?”
“We have sufficient minehunters and MH-60Rs on station. We’ll use acoustic-magnetic simulators to try to trigger them in place. If that fails, we’ll deploy combat divers and ROVs with demolition charges. One by one.”
“What is the potential casualty risk?” She asked as she looked over the briefing report, skimming the details.
“Minimal, if we control the sequence. We’ll isolate each detonation zone by at least 250 meters and schedule them at two-hour intervals.”
“It says you are going to try to attempt to recover some of them?”
Özbal hesitated. “We will attempt to recover up to three. We want to study their fuse integrity and confirm no modifications were made post-war. But if they’re unstable, we blow them.”
There was a beat of silence.
“Has this been briefed to the President?” Ayşe asked.
Can answered first. “Not yet. You’re the first civilian outside the military circle to receive it.”
She turned back to Özbal. “I’d like to loop in the Defense Minister today. I’m sure he is busy getting up to speed at the Ministry. We’ll notify the President after the clearance plan is in motion. Keep the press out of it. I don’t want to cause panic. We already have enough issues with the current economic crisis.”
“Understood, ma’am.” Özbal said, looking at his aide who had been taking minutes of the meeting.
Ayşe nodded and looked back at the map. Forty-eight red dots still glared at her. “If that is all, gentlemen, I’ll be in my office if you need anything.” She said, getting up, the three naval officers snapped to attention as she got up. Can nudged her out of the office, staying behind to thank the Admiral before joining Ayşe, who had already begun taking long strides to the office.
The corridors were quieter now. As staffers lightly conversed though the building itself had grown tired.
She entered alone this time, Can trailing a few paces behind her. Ayşe slipped out of her heels as soon as the door closed. She stepped softly onto the Turkish carpet beneath her desk and stood at the wide windows, arms folded, gazing out toward the distant hills, now only shadows against a pink-lit sky.
Can set down the red folder marked Operation CLEAREYE on her desk, then busied himself at the sideboard. He poured two glasses of cold water and placed a porcelain teapot on a lacquered tray.
“Take it in,” he said gently. “You made it through your first day.”
She looked at him with a raised brow. “Is that what that was?”
“Prime Ministers don’t get normal ones. Just variations of crisis and complication.”
She turned from the window and settled into the armchair across from her desk. “It’s surreal,” she admitted. “This morning, I was still giving interviews about coalition unity. Now I’m reading detonation protocols and naval fuse types.”
“You’re doing well,” Can said simply, handing her a teacup. “Better than half the men who’ve sat in that chair.”
She took it, both hands around the porcelain. “It’s nothing like being a lecturer at Columbia.”
He grinned and took the seat beside her. “It might’ve been easier.”
She laughed quietly. “Back then, I was arguing hypotheticals in seminar rooms. Deterring office politics and who got what in the journals.”
“Now you’re dealing with national politics.” He said as he joined her in looking out of the window.
She nodded slowly, sipping her tea. “Do you ever miss it, the outside world? Before politics?”
“I was never really in it,” Can said. “I came into this straight out of law school. If I ever knew what normal was, I forgot it a decade ago.”
They sat in companionable silence, the only sounds the soft clink of the teapot and the rustle of papers as Ayşe opened the briefing folder. She flipped through the documents, each page annotated in a naval officer’s neat hand. Maps, sonar overlays, and force composition tables. There was a section highlighted in red: Mine Recovery Attempt – Limited Scope. Proceed only with maximum isolation and fuse integrity confirmation.
She set the folder down and looked over at him. “They’re really going to blow them one by one?”
“Unless the trigger systems work. The Admiral says that’s the safer bet, but there’s no guarantee. These mines were meant to stop a fleet. They could hurt a lot of people.”
Ayşe leaned back, eyes briefly closed. “This is what it means to be a leader.” Can said softly. “Not to win arguments, or give good speeches, or make moral gestures. It’s to be the one in the room who has to decide when to pull the pin, or cut the wire.”
The silence settled again, denser this time. Then a knock came at the door.
“Come in,” Ayşe called, setting her cup down.
The door opened, and Admiral Özbal stepped in. He removed his cap and nodded to Can respectfully before addressing her.
“Madam Prime Minister.”
“Admiral.”
“I thought I’d bring you the final operation schedule in person. We’ve confirmed mine locations by sector. First detonations begin at zero-six-hundred. All systems are ready.”
She gestured to the tea set. “Would you join us?”
He gave the faintest smile. “My mother taught me that it was rood to say no to tea.”
Ayşe poured him a glass, which she handed to him. Once seated, she flipped through pages on the report. “Walk me through it. I want to understand everything.”
Can rose quietly stepped to the sideboard and began preparing another cup.
The night deepened beyond the windows, and inside the Prime Minister’s office, situation maps and satellite prints were quietly unfolded under lamplight.
It was just past 0500 when the convoy of unmarked black vehicles pulled into the military pier at Gölcük Naval Base. The eastern horizon was still heavy with the slate-grey hue of pre-dawn, and the air smelled of salt and diesel.
Prime Minister Ayşe Çiller stepped out of the lead vehicle, wrapped in a charcoal coat against the breeze, her hair pinned back tightly. At her side walked Admiral Özbal, already dressed in his cold-weather bridge uniform. He had briefed her on the operation already, but now she had asked for something else to meet the people doing the job.
Along the length of the quay, the TCG Anamur loomed quietly, lights on deck glowing low amber. Nearby, the Underwater Defense Group was in formation three squads, fully suited in drysuits and rebreather gear, with their mission packs at their feet and sidearms holstered against their hips. Slightly behind them stood a group of navy technical crew including sonar operators, drone techs, and flight support staff for the MH-60Rs moored further down the pier.
The moment Ayşe approached, the officers called the line to attention. The sound of boots and gear snapping to stillness cut through the morning silence like a signal flare.
“At ease,” she said immediately, her voice getting used to being in command.
Their posture softened. She glanced across the faces.
“Madam Prime Minister,” said Captain Tolga Üstün, the diver unit’s commanding officer, stepping forward. “We’re honored.”
She returned his salute, then looked at the divers behind him. “No. I’m honored. You’ve drawn a dangerous assignment, and I didn’t want to authorize it from a safe office chair without meeting the men who would carry it out.”
She stepped closer to the line of divers, now within arm’s reach of them.
“I’ve been told this is delicate work. That even with our best equipment, we can’t always know what these mines will do.”
She continued. “But I also know that Türkiye sleeps safer because of people like you. You volunteered for this job. You didn’t have to. You chose it. And for that, I’m grateful, not as your prime minister, but as a fellow citizen.”
She turned to one of the sonar technicians nearby. “What’s your name?”
“Petty Officer First Class Erdem Koç, ma’am.”
“How long have you been on mine duty?”
“This is my fourth year,” he said, clearly proud but humble. “First time in a live operation, though.”
“Are you ready?”
He nodded. “Yes, Prime Minister.”
She smiled. “Good. Keep the divers alive for me.”
Behind her, a diver called out, “Only if they don’t get lost again, ma’am!”
The line burst into quiet laughter. Even Captain Üstün cracked a grin. Ayşe raised an eyebrow with mock severity.
“Lost?”
“Ma’am,” said the diver who’d spoken. “Lieutenant Alp Serdar. Long story. But it involved a wrong trench and a whale that caught their attention.”
“Let’s not repeat that, Lieutenant.” Ayşe with a smile.
He gave her a playful salute. “We’ll try.”
Another diver leaned toward his buddy and whispered something she couldn’t quite hear, but a ripple of quiet amusement passed down the line.
She paused. “You all understand the stakes. I want to make sure you all return home safely. Please, take whatever measures necessary and make sure we are all here again by the end of this.
They nodded.
Then, from somewhere at the back, a young voice called out, half-shy but audible:
“Başbakanım, can we take a photo?” There was a flicker of hesitation. A few of the crew looked to the officers, uncertain.
Ayşe blinked, and then smiled, wide and without hesitation. “Of course.”
The atmosphere shifted instantly. Phones appeared in seconds, handed to aides and naval photographers. She stepped into the middle of the group, flanked by the divers in full kit, the sonar techs, and a few curious engineers who had quietly joined in.
“Everyone in tight,” someone said.
“Don’t block the Prime Minister,” said another.
One of the younger divers lifted his mask onto his forehead, his grin unmistakable. Ayşe looked around the group just as the flash went off. A moment later, the camera clicked again. This time, she was laughing with the sailors. She couldn’t help but admire them. For a second she forgot the weight of office on her shoulders.
- Oct 3, 2018
- 3,457
Lights in the Prime Minister's private study cast long shadows over the economic dashboards splayed across her desk. Ayşe Çiller sat stiffly in her leather-backed chair, her reading glasses perched low on her nose as she scanned the latest data. The inflation rate rose by 32.7%, labor force participation declined by another half-point, and youth unemployment hovered at a disquieting 56%. The pages shifted as she turned them.
Footsteps echoed outside before a knock, then the door creaked open. Can stepped in, coffee in one hand, a folder in the other.
"I hope that's not more bad news," Ayşe murmured, eyes still on the inflation trajectory.
"Depends on how you define bad," he replied. "But before we get into it, any appetite for good news first?"
She looked up, tired but attentive.
"Finance Ministry just raised $6.7 billion," Can said, sliding the folder onto her desk. "That brings the budget deficit down to 73.3 billion. Since you took office, we’ve trimmed it from ninety-two."
Ayşe allowed herself a thin smile before it fell again. "And to return to baseline? I still need to shave off another sixty-three."
"Yes, but one problem at a time," Can offered. "Let’s not beat ourselves up, you don’t cure cancer after one session."
She leaned back, removed her glasses, and set them down gently. "Can you arrange a private meeting with Hafize? Quietly. I want it off-calendar."
He raised an eyebrow. "The Central Bank Governor?"
"Yes."
"Discreetly, I assume." Can asked. Ayşe gave a weak nod as she rubbed her eyes. Can nodded, jotting it down. "You want to loop Azmi in?"
"Not yet," Ayşe replied. She then stood and moved toward the windows overlooking the city, smoggy at the edges, hopeful at the horizon.
"I'm thinking of creating an investment stabilization fund at the Central Bank. Something we can use to inject liquidity into real-sector projects if the bond markets tighten again."
Can folded his arms. "And the Ministry of Finance?"
"That is really just the official reason. I want to know what Hafize is really seeing. Not her press briefings. Her gut. I want to understand whether we are making any progress at all."
Can nodded. "I’ll reach out through her senior aide. We’ll keep it low-profile."
“Good,” Ayşe said, taking her seat again, putting her glasses back on.
He nodded again. Then, he switched the conversation, "We need to coordinate the Poland trip with the Foreign Minister. Sümeyye says the Poles have reached out to confirm a meeting slot, but it may conflict with the plans to send her to Russia instead."
Ayşe looked up, pushing the folders aside. "Let’s prioritize Warsaw. I think we need a big win, and we’ll get it there. A trade agreement would help us get access to Eastern European and, importantly, the Poles are sitting on a lot of capital right now.
“Yes, ma’am.” Can said, placing the coffee cup on her desk.”
"And talk to Sümeyye. We need to finalize the trip to Poland. I want her to have the full confidence of making sure we get an agreement there." Ayşe said, pulling the binder back in front of her.
"Already halfway through planning it," he replied. "She’ll be glad to hear you’re on board."
Ayşe’s fingers were tracing the column where inflation had climbed month over month. “Thank you, Can. Let me know when Hafize confirms."
"Of course," Can said, already on his way out.
“Can,” Ayşe said, getting Can’s attention again. “Please, don’t stay too late.”
Can smiled and gave her a light nod as he headed out. She returned to her charts, but this time with a plan beginning to form in the space between the numbers. As the door clicked shut behind him, Ayşe pulled a fresh notepad from the drawer and began to write.
The clatter of cutlery and murmured conversations filled the arched chamber of the Çıkrıkçılar Yokuşu tavern. Its Ottoman tiles and worn cedar furniture masked a certain nostalgia.
Ayşe Çiller was already seated when Hafize Gaye Erkan entered. The waiter brought two glasses of still water, and then, wisely, disappeared.
"You're early, madame Prime Minister," Hafize remarked, easing into her seat with a faint smile.
"I couldn't sleep last night," Ayşe admitted, stirring her tea absentmindedly. "Too many zeros. None of them adds up."
There was a pause before Ayşe leaned in.“In all honesty, I wanted to meet and speak plainly with you, Governor. I know that your $24 billion push ultimately yielded us only $12 billion, which was no easy task, and that you’ve cut reserve ratios for banks and triggered a self-imposed short squeeze on the lira. It’s bold. I’d like to say brilliant, but unfortunately, in these times, we are less and less likely to see any miracles. ”
Hafize folded her hands. Her voice was even. “Brilliance was never the goal, Prime Minister. Survival is.”
“I’ve read the briefings. I've spoken with Azmi, and I’ve looked at the fiscal outlook,” she said. “With the defense cuts we’ve prepared, it looks like we will have a 1.5 billion lira surplus in tax revenue. That should stop your initial fear of insolvency after two months. Our debt-to-credit ratio is negative, and we are running out of options to raise credit domestically.
Hafize said nothing. But the way she tilted her head invited Ayşe to go on.
“The people who got us into this mess believed they could outspend political reality,” Ayşe continued. “They replaced economic competence with ideological loyalty and threw out every lesson we learned from the 1994 crash. We saw Thai-style redistribution rhetoric, token currency trials, and the neutering of institutional oversight. The private sector was gasping. The Anatolian Tigers are quietly moving assets abroad. Now that we’ve taken back control, I need to know, Hafize, whether you're still fighting for economic recovery, or simply managing decline.”
Now it was Hafize who leaned forward.
“You inherited a collapsing scaffolding, Prime Minister. The spending binge started under the last three administrations has severely awakened us. We advised restraint. We tried to keep them on the path of fiscal responsibility, but their ideology consumed them.
Ayşe nodded. “Yes. But the lira has lost thirty percent of its value in four months. Capital flight is accelerating. And the Anatolian industrialists are laying off workers. If we don’t arrest the panic soon, we’ll have social unrest layered atop the economic breakdown.”
“I agree,” Hafize said, reaching for her glass. “That’s why we took the reserve action. It was not without risk, but letting the lira spiral without intervention would have been far worse. We targeted the FX-forward market, extinguished short-term lira obligations, and tried to disincentivize speculative pressure.”
“And in doing so,” Ayşe cut in, “you’ve halved your external buffer. We’ve used most of our usable reserves. That’s a shield that now has cracks. I had the Finance Ministry deposit 2 billion dollars into our treasury account.”
“I know,” Hafize replied coolly. “But the shield was never meant to be on display and paraded. It’s meant to be used in battle. And we are in one. For the survival of this country.”
“You’ll need another move, and soon,” Ayşe said, “The markets need a sign that we have our ducks in order. Something that signals structural reform. The markets don’t just need to see numbers, they need to believe in the system again.”
“I assume you have something in mind,” Hafize responded.
“I am planning to invite major foreign companies to take over infrastructure projects we are unable to finance. We’d structure them as loans and repay them on a deferred payment basis.”
“That will trigger resistance from the left and the right,” Hafize noted. “Especially with your party coalition.”
Ayşe nodded. “It already has. But unlike my predecessors, I did not enter office to be liked.”
“And you think the Central Bank should endorse this roadmap?” Hafize asked.
“I think you already agree with it, but saying so publicly would be... inconvenient.”
Hafize studied her for a long moment. “I think the idea has some merit. The main risk is political in my view. If you spend your political capital on encouraging foreign investment and essentially outsourcing our current debt crisis onto future generations…it would be…”
‘would…fall on me,” Ayşe said, voice steady. “That’s what leadership is.”
Another pause. Then Hafize nodded. “Well, Prime Minister, I can say that the Central Bank’s focus is on bringing inflation down, and we intend to raise interest rates to do so. I recognize you have a far more expansionist view, but I don’t think the lira will survive if we pump more money into the economy.”
Ayşe nodded. “I agree that it will cause some issues in the short-term. The economy needs a shock to get it going. My main concern, as you alluded to, is that the lira is unstable. We will likely need to use dollars to oversee this program, and that risks the dollarization of the economy.”
“It does,” Hafize said. “But if we fail now, Türkiye will not likely recover for over a decade.”
Ayşe nodded. “You are right.”
Hafize nodded. “I think the main issue here is how do we achieve growth while stemming inflation, and that is difficult. I do not think you’ll risk dollarization because you’ll create demand for lira in the long-run if we hike rates. It’ll make lira-bonds more valuable if people have dollars they want to store.”
“Or it’ll make lira bonds unappetizing and the market will shift to U.S. treasuries,” Ayse responded.
Hafize set her water glass down. “If rates rise by four hundred basis points over the next quarter, we’ll choke off inflation expectations, but risk tipping whatever small businesses remain into insolvency.”
Ayşe nodded, eyes narrowing as she leaned forward. “True. But if we don’t, we’re courting hyperinflation. In normal times, I’d be comfortable see a handful of closures than the entire manufacturing sector collapse. But with how the economy looks now, those remaining businesses are our entire manufacturing sector.”
“I’ve run stress tests on your idea to use treasury funds as a line of credit guarantee,” Hafize replied. “They’ll add another ten billion lira in contingent liabilities. Our capital adequacy ratio dips dangerously close to insolvency.”
Silence settled for a beat, heavy as the scent of roasting lamb that drifted from the kitchen alcove. The waiter reappeared, balancing a large copper tray.
“Afiyet olsun,” he intoned, placing before them a platter of succulent lamb şiş, charred peppers, bulgur pilaf dotted with pomegranate seeds, and a bowl of fresh cacık. Steam curled upward, mingling with the tavern’s spicy aromas.
Ayşe’s stern expression softened as she reached for a skewer. “They’ve outdone themselves tonight.” She took a bite, closed her eyes. “Governor the solutions we have are very limited domestically.”
Hafize picked a piece of lamb. “Have you considered getting foreign banks to deposit money in the central bank and securing a sovereign bailout?” She said as she cut a piece of lamb.
“We’ve discussed it,” Ayşe said waiting for Hafize to finishing chewing before she continued. “We’re in the process of securing a bailout but are awaiting to ask before we bring the public deficit down to at least sixty billion.”
Hafize chewed thoughtfully. “Sixty billion is a long way to go…and I don’t know if we have that kind of time.”
Ayşe drizzled olive oil over her pilaf. “As things stand, we’d need to convince Sweden, the United Kingdom, the United States, Poland, Germany, and Korea to come together to pool ten billion each to get us out of this crisis. I do not think there is enough political capital for all these countries to come together to raise the largest sovereign bailout. The Global Assembly barely raised 7.8 billion in ‘98 for the Russians.
Hafize paused mid-forkful. “Why not take a smaller loan, it would set a positive sign and improve investor confidence.”
“The economic engine is badly damaged Hafize. If we brought down the deficit with half-measures, we wouldn’t be in a position to repay those loans within a year. It’d prolong the crisis and only mean that we’re now liable to foreign and domestic creditors.”
They ate in silence for a moment, the clatter of cutlery and soft conversation before Hafize set down her fork and leaned back. “We need catalysts that do more than shore up banks. We need engines of growth, projects that hire thousands, attract foreign dollars, and pay back our investment over a generation.”
Ayşe nodded. “Yes, I hope that we can get at least a forty billion dollar deposit in the central bank by four main creditors which in turn will restore public and foreign confidence. These funds will guarantee projects for foreign and domestic producers to participate in.”
Hafize tapped her glass of water as she picked it up. “That seems far more doable than the seventy billion.”
Ayşe paused mid-bite. “It does. In the long run these projects are meant to get Turks back to work and create high-skill and paying jobs.
Hafize took a spoonful of bulgur before swallowing a piece of lamb. “I think that is an idealistic goal given the state of our economy and our leverage. However, I know from my time in the United States that there are many who see this economic crisis as an opportunity to buy low and sell high. I a sure that they will be willing to invest if we give them the right protections.
Ayşe shook her head, “I know what those private equity companies do, Governor. I have no intention of letting them strip our business for parts and sell what is left. Our plan is to deliver quality jobs and invest in this country.”
Hafize set her glass down thoughtfully. “I don’t disagree. However, we need a framework that gets those investors to come to build these projects. Yes, your idea sounds good. It is projects in energy, infrastructure, e-governance, and public development. Each backed by foreign direct investment, each is designed to generate jobs and GDP growth. But I don’t see us getting the capital. We plan to announce the reserve hike, and I think it’d make loans for these initiatives attractive, but I doubt you’d raise more than 10 billion, which is only a fourth of the funding you were seeking.”
“Governor, I believe that we need a bold plan that puts Turkish workers at the forefront of its policies, not as ripple effects. I intend to get that money and to put it to good use. I am happy that you are in this fight to help get this country back onto a path of recovery. Even if we don’t agree, I respect that you want to get us out of this mess and are more capable than just managing our crisis.”
“I guess that means I get to keep my job then,” Hafize said with a chuckle.
Ayşe couldn’t help but chuckle with her as she took a sip from her glass. “Yes, you could say that.” She continued to chickle as the two enjoyed the rest of their meal.
Footsteps echoed outside before a knock, then the door creaked open. Can stepped in, coffee in one hand, a folder in the other.
"I hope that's not more bad news," Ayşe murmured, eyes still on the inflation trajectory.
"Depends on how you define bad," he replied. "But before we get into it, any appetite for good news first?"
She looked up, tired but attentive.
"Finance Ministry just raised $6.7 billion," Can said, sliding the folder onto her desk. "That brings the budget deficit down to 73.3 billion. Since you took office, we’ve trimmed it from ninety-two."
Ayşe allowed herself a thin smile before it fell again. "And to return to baseline? I still need to shave off another sixty-three."
"Yes, but one problem at a time," Can offered. "Let’s not beat ourselves up, you don’t cure cancer after one session."
She leaned back, removed her glasses, and set them down gently. "Can you arrange a private meeting with Hafize? Quietly. I want it off-calendar."
He raised an eyebrow. "The Central Bank Governor?"
"Yes."
"Discreetly, I assume." Can asked. Ayşe gave a weak nod as she rubbed her eyes. Can nodded, jotting it down. "You want to loop Azmi in?"
"Not yet," Ayşe replied. She then stood and moved toward the windows overlooking the city, smoggy at the edges, hopeful at the horizon.
"I'm thinking of creating an investment stabilization fund at the Central Bank. Something we can use to inject liquidity into real-sector projects if the bond markets tighten again."
Can folded his arms. "And the Ministry of Finance?"
"That is really just the official reason. I want to know what Hafize is really seeing. Not her press briefings. Her gut. I want to understand whether we are making any progress at all."
Can nodded. "I’ll reach out through her senior aide. We’ll keep it low-profile."
“Good,” Ayşe said, taking her seat again, putting her glasses back on.
He nodded again. Then, he switched the conversation, "We need to coordinate the Poland trip with the Foreign Minister. Sümeyye says the Poles have reached out to confirm a meeting slot, but it may conflict with the plans to send her to Russia instead."
Ayşe looked up, pushing the folders aside. "Let’s prioritize Warsaw. I think we need a big win, and we’ll get it there. A trade agreement would help us get access to Eastern European and, importantly, the Poles are sitting on a lot of capital right now.
“Yes, ma’am.” Can said, placing the coffee cup on her desk.”
"And talk to Sümeyye. We need to finalize the trip to Poland. I want her to have the full confidence of making sure we get an agreement there." Ayşe said, pulling the binder back in front of her.
"Already halfway through planning it," he replied. "She’ll be glad to hear you’re on board."
Ayşe’s fingers were tracing the column where inflation had climbed month over month. “Thank you, Can. Let me know when Hafize confirms."
"Of course," Can said, already on his way out.
“Can,” Ayşe said, getting Can’s attention again. “Please, don’t stay too late.”
Can smiled and gave her a light nod as he headed out. She returned to her charts, but this time with a plan beginning to form in the space between the numbers. As the door clicked shut behind him, Ayşe pulled a fresh notepad from the drawer and began to write.
The clatter of cutlery and murmured conversations filled the arched chamber of the Çıkrıkçılar Yokuşu tavern. Its Ottoman tiles and worn cedar furniture masked a certain nostalgia.
Ayşe Çiller was already seated when Hafize Gaye Erkan entered. The waiter brought two glasses of still water, and then, wisely, disappeared.
"You're early, madame Prime Minister," Hafize remarked, easing into her seat with a faint smile.
"I couldn't sleep last night," Ayşe admitted, stirring her tea absentmindedly. "Too many zeros. None of them adds up."
There was a pause before Ayşe leaned in.“In all honesty, I wanted to meet and speak plainly with you, Governor. I know that your $24 billion push ultimately yielded us only $12 billion, which was no easy task, and that you’ve cut reserve ratios for banks and triggered a self-imposed short squeeze on the lira. It’s bold. I’d like to say brilliant, but unfortunately, in these times, we are less and less likely to see any miracles. ”
Hafize folded her hands. Her voice was even. “Brilliance was never the goal, Prime Minister. Survival is.”
“I’ve read the briefings. I've spoken with Azmi, and I’ve looked at the fiscal outlook,” she said. “With the defense cuts we’ve prepared, it looks like we will have a 1.5 billion lira surplus in tax revenue. That should stop your initial fear of insolvency after two months. Our debt-to-credit ratio is negative, and we are running out of options to raise credit domestically.
Hafize said nothing. But the way she tilted her head invited Ayşe to go on.
“The people who got us into this mess believed they could outspend political reality,” Ayşe continued. “They replaced economic competence with ideological loyalty and threw out every lesson we learned from the 1994 crash. We saw Thai-style redistribution rhetoric, token currency trials, and the neutering of institutional oversight. The private sector was gasping. The Anatolian Tigers are quietly moving assets abroad. Now that we’ve taken back control, I need to know, Hafize, whether you're still fighting for economic recovery, or simply managing decline.”
Now it was Hafize who leaned forward.
“You inherited a collapsing scaffolding, Prime Minister. The spending binge started under the last three administrations has severely awakened us. We advised restraint. We tried to keep them on the path of fiscal responsibility, but their ideology consumed them.
Ayşe nodded. “Yes. But the lira has lost thirty percent of its value in four months. Capital flight is accelerating. And the Anatolian industrialists are laying off workers. If we don’t arrest the panic soon, we’ll have social unrest layered atop the economic breakdown.”
“I agree,” Hafize said, reaching for her glass. “That’s why we took the reserve action. It was not without risk, but letting the lira spiral without intervention would have been far worse. We targeted the FX-forward market, extinguished short-term lira obligations, and tried to disincentivize speculative pressure.”
“And in doing so,” Ayşe cut in, “you’ve halved your external buffer. We’ve used most of our usable reserves. That’s a shield that now has cracks. I had the Finance Ministry deposit 2 billion dollars into our treasury account.”
“I know,” Hafize replied coolly. “But the shield was never meant to be on display and paraded. It’s meant to be used in battle. And we are in one. For the survival of this country.”
“You’ll need another move, and soon,” Ayşe said, “The markets need a sign that we have our ducks in order. Something that signals structural reform. The markets don’t just need to see numbers, they need to believe in the system again.”
“I assume you have something in mind,” Hafize responded.
“I am planning to invite major foreign companies to take over infrastructure projects we are unable to finance. We’d structure them as loans and repay them on a deferred payment basis.”
“That will trigger resistance from the left and the right,” Hafize noted. “Especially with your party coalition.”
Ayşe nodded. “It already has. But unlike my predecessors, I did not enter office to be liked.”
“And you think the Central Bank should endorse this roadmap?” Hafize asked.
“I think you already agree with it, but saying so publicly would be... inconvenient.”
Hafize studied her for a long moment. “I think the idea has some merit. The main risk is political in my view. If you spend your political capital on encouraging foreign investment and essentially outsourcing our current debt crisis onto future generations…it would be…”
‘would…fall on me,” Ayşe said, voice steady. “That’s what leadership is.”
Another pause. Then Hafize nodded. “Well, Prime Minister, I can say that the Central Bank’s focus is on bringing inflation down, and we intend to raise interest rates to do so. I recognize you have a far more expansionist view, but I don’t think the lira will survive if we pump more money into the economy.”
Ayşe nodded. “I agree that it will cause some issues in the short-term. The economy needs a shock to get it going. My main concern, as you alluded to, is that the lira is unstable. We will likely need to use dollars to oversee this program, and that risks the dollarization of the economy.”
“It does,” Hafize said. “But if we fail now, Türkiye will not likely recover for over a decade.”
Ayşe nodded. “You are right.”
Hafize nodded. “I think the main issue here is how do we achieve growth while stemming inflation, and that is difficult. I do not think you’ll risk dollarization because you’ll create demand for lira in the long-run if we hike rates. It’ll make lira-bonds more valuable if people have dollars they want to store.”
“Or it’ll make lira bonds unappetizing and the market will shift to U.S. treasuries,” Ayse responded.
Hafize set her water glass down. “If rates rise by four hundred basis points over the next quarter, we’ll choke off inflation expectations, but risk tipping whatever small businesses remain into insolvency.”
Ayşe nodded, eyes narrowing as she leaned forward. “True. But if we don’t, we’re courting hyperinflation. In normal times, I’d be comfortable see a handful of closures than the entire manufacturing sector collapse. But with how the economy looks now, those remaining businesses are our entire manufacturing sector.”
“I’ve run stress tests on your idea to use treasury funds as a line of credit guarantee,” Hafize replied. “They’ll add another ten billion lira in contingent liabilities. Our capital adequacy ratio dips dangerously close to insolvency.”
Silence settled for a beat, heavy as the scent of roasting lamb that drifted from the kitchen alcove. The waiter reappeared, balancing a large copper tray.
“Afiyet olsun,” he intoned, placing before them a platter of succulent lamb şiş, charred peppers, bulgur pilaf dotted with pomegranate seeds, and a bowl of fresh cacık. Steam curled upward, mingling with the tavern’s spicy aromas.
Ayşe’s stern expression softened as she reached for a skewer. “They’ve outdone themselves tonight.” She took a bite, closed her eyes. “Governor the solutions we have are very limited domestically.”
Hafize picked a piece of lamb. “Have you considered getting foreign banks to deposit money in the central bank and securing a sovereign bailout?” She said as she cut a piece of lamb.
“We’ve discussed it,” Ayşe said waiting for Hafize to finishing chewing before she continued. “We’re in the process of securing a bailout but are awaiting to ask before we bring the public deficit down to at least sixty billion.”
Hafize chewed thoughtfully. “Sixty billion is a long way to go…and I don’t know if we have that kind of time.”
Ayşe drizzled olive oil over her pilaf. “As things stand, we’d need to convince Sweden, the United Kingdom, the United States, Poland, Germany, and Korea to come together to pool ten billion each to get us out of this crisis. I do not think there is enough political capital for all these countries to come together to raise the largest sovereign bailout. The Global Assembly barely raised 7.8 billion in ‘98 for the Russians.
Hafize paused mid-forkful. “Why not take a smaller loan, it would set a positive sign and improve investor confidence.”
“The economic engine is badly damaged Hafize. If we brought down the deficit with half-measures, we wouldn’t be in a position to repay those loans within a year. It’d prolong the crisis and only mean that we’re now liable to foreign and domestic creditors.”
They ate in silence for a moment, the clatter of cutlery and soft conversation before Hafize set down her fork and leaned back. “We need catalysts that do more than shore up banks. We need engines of growth, projects that hire thousands, attract foreign dollars, and pay back our investment over a generation.”
Ayşe nodded. “Yes, I hope that we can get at least a forty billion dollar deposit in the central bank by four main creditors which in turn will restore public and foreign confidence. These funds will guarantee projects for foreign and domestic producers to participate in.”
Hafize tapped her glass of water as she picked it up. “That seems far more doable than the seventy billion.”
Ayşe paused mid-bite. “It does. In the long run these projects are meant to get Turks back to work and create high-skill and paying jobs.
Hafize took a spoonful of bulgur before swallowing a piece of lamb. “I think that is an idealistic goal given the state of our economy and our leverage. However, I know from my time in the United States that there are many who see this economic crisis as an opportunity to buy low and sell high. I a sure that they will be willing to invest if we give them the right protections.
Ayşe shook her head, “I know what those private equity companies do, Governor. I have no intention of letting them strip our business for parts and sell what is left. Our plan is to deliver quality jobs and invest in this country.”
Hafize set her glass down thoughtfully. “I don’t disagree. However, we need a framework that gets those investors to come to build these projects. Yes, your idea sounds good. It is projects in energy, infrastructure, e-governance, and public development. Each backed by foreign direct investment, each is designed to generate jobs and GDP growth. But I don’t see us getting the capital. We plan to announce the reserve hike, and I think it’d make loans for these initiatives attractive, but I doubt you’d raise more than 10 billion, which is only a fourth of the funding you were seeking.”
“Governor, I believe that we need a bold plan that puts Turkish workers at the forefront of its policies, not as ripple effects. I intend to get that money and to put it to good use. I am happy that you are in this fight to help get this country back onto a path of recovery. Even if we don’t agree, I respect that you want to get us out of this mess and are more capable than just managing our crisis.”
“I guess that means I get to keep my job then,” Hafize said with a chuckle.
Ayşe couldn’t help but chuckle with her as she took a sip from her glass. “Yes, you could say that.” She continued to chickle as the two enjoyed the rest of their meal.
- Oct 3, 2018
- 3,457
The council room was lined with polished mahogany, its long oval table crowded by binders, laptops, and a half-drunk pot of dark Turkish tea. Prime Minister Ayşe Çiller sat at the head, a tablet in hand, her reading glasses resting low on the bridge of her nose. Around her were the core members of her economic advisory council: Finance Minister Azmi Ekinci, Energy Minister Alparslan Bayraktar, Technology Minister Abdulkadir Emin Önen, Infrastructure Minister Ali Taylan Öztaylan, and Trade Minister Evrim Rizvanoglu
Azmi opened the session with his usual clipped precision. "Madam Prime Minister, we’ve prepared an updated framework for the bilateral trade initiatives you requested. There are five primary axes under review today: Spain, Poland, Iran, Russia, and the United States."
Ayşe gave a nod, placing the tablet down. "Let’s begin."
Evrim Rizvanoglul, leaned forward. "Spain is the most straightforward entry point into the current largest trade union between the United Kingdom, Portugal, and Spain. It’d be an important victory and one I think I will be able to manage. The main question is how much are we willing to concede at a time when our industries are most weak.
Azmi added, "For me, I think the benefit is that this could give our SMEs access to stable European currencies, which would reduce their exposure to dollar-denominated risk."
Ayşe tapped her fingers gently against the table. "And Poland?"
Alparslan Bayraktar interjected. "Poland is geopolitically attractive. We share energy concerns and both favor east-west connectivity. Their construction sector is booming. Turkish contractors are already in high demand in Krakow and Lublin. If we can negotiate visa flexibility and mutual procurement access, our firms can scale abroad."
Evrim nodded but her voice gave a different picture. "We must consider the zloty's recent volatility. They have been on a spending spree after accruing a large surplus over the past few years.”
Ayşe nodded. "The Poles have been extremely helpful in helping us to put money down to lower our public deficit. Their spending push is working to our favor and I think we need to push ahead to get a trade agreement with them to help us get a stable foothold in Eastern Europe.”
"Iran," Evrim said, flipping to the next tab in her binder. "It looks as though the Persians and Americans are on the path to reconciliation, and the Iranians have indicated they are eager to trade, particularly in industrial equipment and services. If we can negotiate a lira-rial clearing arrangement, I think it would be good for our regional economy.."
Azmi, his brow furrowed, gave a warning. "If the Americans talk with the Iranians fall through that’d open us up to exposure, especially as we are trying to get them to give us a major bailout.”
"And the benefits?" Ayşe asked.
"Access to natural gas on favorable terms, rail corridor through Tabriz for the Silk Road trade, and immediate export routes for southeastern Turkish products that currently have no port access," Evrim answered.
Azmi added, “It’d also give us a privileged position in light of the growing push for international trade agreements. If we secure a foothold in the Iranian market now, it’d be difficult for foreign competitors to beat us.”
"And the United States?" Ayşe asked finally.
Azmi offered a more reserved assessment. "The current administration has picked a highly protectionist stance. The rumor on Capitol Hill is that the era of free trade is over and that the Sinclair administration is in favor of limited trade agreements. I think if we opened up talks, they’d be concerned over the exchange rate and potential dumping by Turkish firms on the U.S. market.”
"Let's make the deal more attractive then," Ayşe replied. "Priority for foreign investment within the country, offer a quota-tariff rate mechanism if they are worried about dumping. We need to get a market for our steel and textile producers. Look,” Ayşe said, looking around the room.
“Fair trade, that leaves Turkish workers and foreign workers better is sustainable. If we need to make certain concessions, I can stomach that. Irrespective of the domestic political cost. We are in a fragile state, and the way we put this country back on the path of economic recovery will ultimately be through trade.
Ayşe pushed her glasses up as she read the Myanmar proposal for a Silk Road conomic initiative involving Turkiye, Iran, China, and parts of Central Asia. “It’s early, but they want us to send a trade delegation to discuss it.” She said as she looked back up.
"That’s an opportunity. If it takes shape, it integrates us into a global market."
Evrim asked, "Shall we respond?"
"Yes," Ayşe said. "Evrim, I need you to go to Madrid to focus on this trade agreement. I agree with you, if we can get our goods into Spain there is a high likelihood they’ll enter the stream of commerce for Portugal and the United Kingdom. Azmi, I want you to take some trade staffers and go to Myanmar to make sure this Silk Road initiative takes off. I know these leaders and they’ll eventually sign some document by the time our grandkids are born. That'll be all. Thank you.”
Azmi opened the session with his usual clipped precision. "Madam Prime Minister, we’ve prepared an updated framework for the bilateral trade initiatives you requested. There are five primary axes under review today: Spain, Poland, Iran, Russia, and the United States."
Ayşe gave a nod, placing the tablet down. "Let’s begin."
Evrim Rizvanoglul, leaned forward. "Spain is the most straightforward entry point into the current largest trade union between the United Kingdom, Portugal, and Spain. It’d be an important victory and one I think I will be able to manage. The main question is how much are we willing to concede at a time when our industries are most weak.
Azmi added, "For me, I think the benefit is that this could give our SMEs access to stable European currencies, which would reduce their exposure to dollar-denominated risk."
Ayşe tapped her fingers gently against the table. "And Poland?"
Alparslan Bayraktar interjected. "Poland is geopolitically attractive. We share energy concerns and both favor east-west connectivity. Their construction sector is booming. Turkish contractors are already in high demand in Krakow and Lublin. If we can negotiate visa flexibility and mutual procurement access, our firms can scale abroad."
Evrim nodded but her voice gave a different picture. "We must consider the zloty's recent volatility. They have been on a spending spree after accruing a large surplus over the past few years.”
Ayşe nodded. "The Poles have been extremely helpful in helping us to put money down to lower our public deficit. Their spending push is working to our favor and I think we need to push ahead to get a trade agreement with them to help us get a stable foothold in Eastern Europe.”
"Iran," Evrim said, flipping to the next tab in her binder. "It looks as though the Persians and Americans are on the path to reconciliation, and the Iranians have indicated they are eager to trade, particularly in industrial equipment and services. If we can negotiate a lira-rial clearing arrangement, I think it would be good for our regional economy.."
Azmi, his brow furrowed, gave a warning. "If the Americans talk with the Iranians fall through that’d open us up to exposure, especially as we are trying to get them to give us a major bailout.”
"And the benefits?" Ayşe asked.
"Access to natural gas on favorable terms, rail corridor through Tabriz for the Silk Road trade, and immediate export routes for southeastern Turkish products that currently have no port access," Evrim answered.
Azmi added, “It’d also give us a privileged position in light of the growing push for international trade agreements. If we secure a foothold in the Iranian market now, it’d be difficult for foreign competitors to beat us.”
"And the United States?" Ayşe asked finally.
Azmi offered a more reserved assessment. "The current administration has picked a highly protectionist stance. The rumor on Capitol Hill is that the era of free trade is over and that the Sinclair administration is in favor of limited trade agreements. I think if we opened up talks, they’d be concerned over the exchange rate and potential dumping by Turkish firms on the U.S. market.”
"Let's make the deal more attractive then," Ayşe replied. "Priority for foreign investment within the country, offer a quota-tariff rate mechanism if they are worried about dumping. We need to get a market for our steel and textile producers. Look,” Ayşe said, looking around the room.
“Fair trade, that leaves Turkish workers and foreign workers better is sustainable. If we need to make certain concessions, I can stomach that. Irrespective of the domestic political cost. We are in a fragile state, and the way we put this country back on the path of economic recovery will ultimately be through trade.
Ayşe pushed her glasses up as she read the Myanmar proposal for a Silk Road conomic initiative involving Turkiye, Iran, China, and parts of Central Asia. “It’s early, but they want us to send a trade delegation to discuss it.” She said as she looked back up.
"That’s an opportunity. If it takes shape, it integrates us into a global market."
Evrim asked, "Shall we respond?"
"Yes," Ayşe said. "Evrim, I need you to go to Madrid to focus on this trade agreement. I agree with you, if we can get our goods into Spain there is a high likelihood they’ll enter the stream of commerce for Portugal and the United Kingdom. Azmi, I want you to take some trade staffers and go to Myanmar to make sure this Silk Road initiative takes off. I know these leaders and they’ll eventually sign some document by the time our grandkids are born. That'll be all. Thank you.”
- Oct 3, 2018
- 3,457
The Ankara morning was still young, the sun filtering through the lace curtains that framed the long breakfast table. The scent of simmering black tea and toasted simit wafted gently over the room. Prime Minister Ayşe Çiller sat at the head of the table, reading the last lines of that morning’s Cumhuriyet. A blue folder, neatly bound with the Prime Minister’s seal, lay untouched at her side.
Engin Altay, Minister of Interior, had just arrived, dressed neatly in a dark suit, his eyes alert, his face calm.
“Engin,” Ayşe said, folding her paper, gesturing to the seat across from her. “Come. Sit. Have something warm.”
Altay chuckled politely and eased into the chair. “Thank you, Başbakanım. I won’t say no to tea.”
As a staffer quietly poured two glasses, Ayşe offered him a basket of sliced olives, white cheese, and fresh tomatoes. “How are the children? You have twins, don’t you?”
He smiled. “Yes. Six now. One wants to be a firefighter. The other wants to be a pilot.”
“Both respectable and noble careers,” Ayşe said with a grin. “It beats my ‘discover themselves’ phase from the kids.”
Altay laughed. “Not if their mother has anything to say about it, she wants doctors and lawyers.”
Ayşe chuckled with Engin as they lingered in that moment, letting the formality drop. It was one of the rare spaces where Ayşe could afford sincerity in what felt like a house of cards. After a few bites, she set down her fork and gestured to the folder.
“All right, tell me what’s inside.”
Altay straightened his spine. “I’d like to send a delegation from the Interior Ministry to Sweden. A week, maximum ten days. The purpose is twofold. First, to study how the Swedish Home Affairs Ministry handles internal organization, visit scheduling, civil service workflows, and inter-agency coordination.”
Ayşe raised an eyebrow. “And the second?”
“To negotiate the beginnings of a training agreement,” Altay said. “For elite policing units, especially the Special Operations Department and elements of the Cumhurbaşkanlığı Koruma Daire Başkanlığı.”
Ayşe paused, folding her arms. “I’m not opposed to learning from partners. But Sweden, Engin? That’s not the most obvious choice. And you know the press will ask why we’re sending our police to Stockholm while we’re freezing employees’ salaries.”
He nodded. “Yes, Prime Minister. I understand. But hear me out.”
He leaned forward slightly. “The Swedes, from my view, have a serious mastery of internal order. Their systems of civil protection, rapid deployment, logistical coordination, especially in urban security environments, are some of the best on the continent. And they manage to do it with transparency, public accountability, and minimal violence. That’s the model we need. Especially now, when the public’s trust in our domestic institutions is…” He trailed off, letting the silence speak.
Ayşe sipped her tea, looking at him as she tried to figure out if he’d continue. But, she didn’t have the time and she simply asked, “and the cost?”
“Kept to a minimum,” he said. “Seven officials. Economy class. We’ve identified hotels that offer good rates. The former embassy building can host the delegation during major meetings. We won’t even need a new budget item, just a realignment within our ministry’s training allocation.”
Ayşe raised her eyebrows. “You know what the media calls a ‘realignment?’”
Engin nodded his head. “I promise. No scandals. Just a quiet, effective exchange.”
She sighed and looked past him, through the window, where a gardenia tree swayed gently in the breeze. “Engin, I like that you think strategically. But we are under a lot of economic pressure. We are in the middle of difficult budget negotiations, and every lira is a fight. You’re asking me to send senior officers to Sweden at a time when the public feels like the state is cutting funds that directly help them.”
“Let me show them the trip is worth the cost,” Engin said, firmly but respectfully. "It's about building the next generation of domestic order, disciplined, transparent, and capable. If we can learn from the Swedes how to structure our command without corruption or political interference, then we bring something far more valuable than just training manuals.”
Ayşe weighed the words.
“Fine,” she said finally. “You’ll draft the mission objectives and submit them to Can. And if one journalist finds out about this before we make it public…”
“They won’t,” Engin interrupted.
Ayşe smiled faintly. “Then good luck.”
Engin stood, relieved. “Thank you, Prime Minister. You won’t regret it.”
As he turned to leave, Ayşe lingered a moment longer at the table, looking down at her untouched menemen. She had a hundred problems waiting on her desk. Her chief aide walked in to remind her that she was needed in the office now.
Letting out a sigh, Ayşe got up and dusted her skirt, and adjusted her blouse as she followed the aide out of the terrace and down into the office building.
The room smelled faintly of old leather and lemon oil. The sun’s rays pierced through the slits in the window, casting the late morning sun that poured through. The rays catch the edges of the framed photographs lining the bookshelves, shaking hands, ribbon cuttings, and the sort.
Prime Minister Ayşe Çiller sat behind her desk, reviewing a briefing packet from the Interior Ministry. The television on the corner credenza played muted live footage from TRT Haber, a panel of analysts discussing growing tensions in Diyarbakır. Headlines crawled across the bottom of the screen:
Can Yaman entered without knocking, holding a thick morning press briefing folder. He looked tired, more than usual. His tie was loose, one button undone. Without waiting for an invitation, he dropped the file onto Ayşe’s desk and gestured to the open window.
“You’re letting in Ankara’s finest smog,” he said dryly.
Ayşe didn’t look up. “It’s the only thing we’re exporting consistently.”
Can gave a wan smile and settled into the armchair across from her, tossing his glasses onto the side table. “So, I hear Engin got to you over breakfast.”
She tapped the corner of the blue folder. “He did. He made his case well.”
“I’m not saying it’s wrong, Ayşe,” Can said carefully. “I’m just not sure it’s the right signal. Sweden? While we’ve got mayors in the East asking for food aid from NGOs?”
Ayşe folded her hands atop the folder. “You’ve read the numbers. Half the riot units are undertrained. The Special Forces Directorate still hasn’t recovered from the last round of purges. If there’s another coordinated attack that we have seen building up in the southeast, God forbid, do you trust the current command structure to respond professionally? With restraint?”
Can didn’t answer immediately. He looked past her to the TV. One of the protesters’ clips, young boys hurling rocks at armored gendarmerie trucks, was looping behind the talking heads. The anchor's voice, even muted, was sharp and urgent.
Ayşe noticed his gaze.
“They’re angry,” she said. “And they should be. I’m not blind to it.”
“They’re more than angry,” Can replied. “The southeast is a kettle with a broken valve. Joblessness is through the roof. There are six-hour lines for bread in some districts. The municipal governments are caught between resentment toward Ankara and fear of looking like they're collaborating. And now Hurriyet’s about to run another piece on the Ministry’s heavy-handed tactics during last month’s crackdown.”
He stood, pacing to the window.
“I’m not saying the Swedish trip is wrong. But we’re sending a delegation to Scandinavia to learn discipline and civilian oversight while the public sees black masks dragging students off buses.”
Ayşe exhaled slowly. “So what? We cancel the trip? Let the rot continue because we’re afraid of the optics?”
“No,” Can said, turning to face her. “I’m saying optics matter because policy doesn’t live in a vacuum. Yes, the police need training. But what they need more is what the country needs more. It needs coherence. Discipline is nothing without legitimacy. And legitimacy comes from public faith, not from cold dusty Scandinavian manuals.”
Ayşe leaned back in her chair. “You’re worried about the East.”
“I’m worried about the Republic,” Can said, quieter now. “Because something’s changing out there. I feel it. And I think you do too.”
There was a silence between them.
Ayşe reached for the press folder, flipping to the page marked news media requests scanning the paragraph, then closed it.
“I’ll approve the trip,” she said. “Because we need better institutions, and training is part of that. We can’t expect these officers to be able to conduct themselves in the way we would like without investing in them.”
Can nodded slowly.
“I’ll call Zeynep,” he said. “She’s been working with the Human Development Commission. They’ve got data, and she’s been pushing for a provincial social recovery plan for months.”
Ayşe looked back toward the television. The headlines kept scrolling.
“Call her,” she said. “And let’s start figuring out what the hell we’re going to do. If we don’t offer them an alternative Can, the PKK will, and then it’ll be too late to change their minds.”
Can nodded as he picked up his glasses and left the room to make his call.
Engin Altay, Minister of Interior, had just arrived, dressed neatly in a dark suit, his eyes alert, his face calm.
“Engin,” Ayşe said, folding her paper, gesturing to the seat across from her. “Come. Sit. Have something warm.”
Altay chuckled politely and eased into the chair. “Thank you, Başbakanım. I won’t say no to tea.”
As a staffer quietly poured two glasses, Ayşe offered him a basket of sliced olives, white cheese, and fresh tomatoes. “How are the children? You have twins, don’t you?”
He smiled. “Yes. Six now. One wants to be a firefighter. The other wants to be a pilot.”
“Both respectable and noble careers,” Ayşe said with a grin. “It beats my ‘discover themselves’ phase from the kids.”
Altay laughed. “Not if their mother has anything to say about it, she wants doctors and lawyers.”
Ayşe chuckled with Engin as they lingered in that moment, letting the formality drop. It was one of the rare spaces where Ayşe could afford sincerity in what felt like a house of cards. After a few bites, she set down her fork and gestured to the folder.
“All right, tell me what’s inside.”
Altay straightened his spine. “I’d like to send a delegation from the Interior Ministry to Sweden. A week, maximum ten days. The purpose is twofold. First, to study how the Swedish Home Affairs Ministry handles internal organization, visit scheduling, civil service workflows, and inter-agency coordination.”
Ayşe raised an eyebrow. “And the second?”
“To negotiate the beginnings of a training agreement,” Altay said. “For elite policing units, especially the Special Operations Department and elements of the Cumhurbaşkanlığı Koruma Daire Başkanlığı.”
Ayşe paused, folding her arms. “I’m not opposed to learning from partners. But Sweden, Engin? That’s not the most obvious choice. And you know the press will ask why we’re sending our police to Stockholm while we’re freezing employees’ salaries.”
He nodded. “Yes, Prime Minister. I understand. But hear me out.”
He leaned forward slightly. “The Swedes, from my view, have a serious mastery of internal order. Their systems of civil protection, rapid deployment, logistical coordination, especially in urban security environments, are some of the best on the continent. And they manage to do it with transparency, public accountability, and minimal violence. That’s the model we need. Especially now, when the public’s trust in our domestic institutions is…” He trailed off, letting the silence speak.
Ayşe sipped her tea, looking at him as she tried to figure out if he’d continue. But, she didn’t have the time and she simply asked, “and the cost?”
“Kept to a minimum,” he said. “Seven officials. Economy class. We’ve identified hotels that offer good rates. The former embassy building can host the delegation during major meetings. We won’t even need a new budget item, just a realignment within our ministry’s training allocation.”
Ayşe raised her eyebrows. “You know what the media calls a ‘realignment?’”
Engin nodded his head. “I promise. No scandals. Just a quiet, effective exchange.”
She sighed and looked past him, through the window, where a gardenia tree swayed gently in the breeze. “Engin, I like that you think strategically. But we are under a lot of economic pressure. We are in the middle of difficult budget negotiations, and every lira is a fight. You’re asking me to send senior officers to Sweden at a time when the public feels like the state is cutting funds that directly help them.”
“Let me show them the trip is worth the cost,” Engin said, firmly but respectfully. "It's about building the next generation of domestic order, disciplined, transparent, and capable. If we can learn from the Swedes how to structure our command without corruption or political interference, then we bring something far more valuable than just training manuals.”
Ayşe weighed the words.
“Fine,” she said finally. “You’ll draft the mission objectives and submit them to Can. And if one journalist finds out about this before we make it public…”
“They won’t,” Engin interrupted.
Ayşe smiled faintly. “Then good luck.”
Engin stood, relieved. “Thank you, Prime Minister. You won’t regret it.”
As he turned to leave, Ayşe lingered a moment longer at the table, looking down at her untouched menemen. She had a hundred problems waiting on her desk. Her chief aide walked in to remind her that she was needed in the office now.
Letting out a sigh, Ayşe got up and dusted her skirt, and adjusted her blouse as she followed the aide out of the terrace and down into the office building.
The room smelled faintly of old leather and lemon oil. The sun’s rays pierced through the slits in the window, casting the late morning sun that poured through. The rays catch the edges of the framed photographs lining the bookshelves, shaking hands, ribbon cuttings, and the sort.
Prime Minister Ayşe Çiller sat behind her desk, reviewing a briefing packet from the Interior Ministry. The television on the corner credenza played muted live footage from TRT Haber, a panel of analysts discussing growing tensions in Diyarbakır. Headlines crawled across the bottom of the screen:
Can Yaman entered without knocking, holding a thick morning press briefing folder. He looked tired, more than usual. His tie was loose, one button undone. Without waiting for an invitation, he dropped the file onto Ayşe’s desk and gestured to the open window.
“You’re letting in Ankara’s finest smog,” he said dryly.
Ayşe didn’t look up. “It’s the only thing we’re exporting consistently.”
Can gave a wan smile and settled into the armchair across from her, tossing his glasses onto the side table. “So, I hear Engin got to you over breakfast.”
She tapped the corner of the blue folder. “He did. He made his case well.”
“I’m not saying it’s wrong, Ayşe,” Can said carefully. “I’m just not sure it’s the right signal. Sweden? While we’ve got mayors in the East asking for food aid from NGOs?”
Ayşe folded her hands atop the folder. “You’ve read the numbers. Half the riot units are undertrained. The Special Forces Directorate still hasn’t recovered from the last round of purges. If there’s another coordinated attack that we have seen building up in the southeast, God forbid, do you trust the current command structure to respond professionally? With restraint?”
Can didn’t answer immediately. He looked past her to the TV. One of the protesters’ clips, young boys hurling rocks at armored gendarmerie trucks, was looping behind the talking heads. The anchor's voice, even muted, was sharp and urgent.
Ayşe noticed his gaze.
“They’re angry,” she said. “And they should be. I’m not blind to it.”
“They’re more than angry,” Can replied. “The southeast is a kettle with a broken valve. Joblessness is through the roof. There are six-hour lines for bread in some districts. The municipal governments are caught between resentment toward Ankara and fear of looking like they're collaborating. And now Hurriyet’s about to run another piece on the Ministry’s heavy-handed tactics during last month’s crackdown.”
He stood, pacing to the window.
“I’m not saying the Swedish trip is wrong. But we’re sending a delegation to Scandinavia to learn discipline and civilian oversight while the public sees black masks dragging students off buses.”
Ayşe exhaled slowly. “So what? We cancel the trip? Let the rot continue because we’re afraid of the optics?”
“No,” Can said, turning to face her. “I’m saying optics matter because policy doesn’t live in a vacuum. Yes, the police need training. But what they need more is what the country needs more. It needs coherence. Discipline is nothing without legitimacy. And legitimacy comes from public faith, not from cold dusty Scandinavian manuals.”
Ayşe leaned back in her chair. “You’re worried about the East.”
“I’m worried about the Republic,” Can said, quieter now. “Because something’s changing out there. I feel it. And I think you do too.”
There was a silence between them.
Ayşe reached for the press folder, flipping to the page marked news media requests scanning the paragraph, then closed it.
“I’ll approve the trip,” she said. “Because we need better institutions, and training is part of that. We can’t expect these officers to be able to conduct themselves in the way we would like without investing in them.”
Can nodded slowly.
“I’ll call Zeynep,” he said. “She’s been working with the Human Development Commission. They’ve got data, and she’s been pushing for a provincial social recovery plan for months.”
Ayşe looked back toward the television. The headlines kept scrolling.
“Call her,” she said. “And let’s start figuring out what the hell we’re going to do. If we don’t offer them an alternative Can, the PKK will, and then it’ll be too late to change their minds.”
Can nodded as he picked up his glasses and left the room to make his call.
- Oct 3, 2018
- 3,457
Inside the Prime Minister’s office, Ayşe Çiller stood near the window, her arms folded, her eyes looking out into the trimmed garden nearby. She turned her attention back to the people in the room. “The cuts are necessary,” she said firmly. “We have a budget deficit we cannot afford to ignore, and a generation that’s drowning under the weight of conscription and rusted priorities.”
Can Yaman, her Chief of Staff, sat on the edge of the long oval table, elbows resting on his knees, fingers intertwined. “General Akar came by this morning,” he said cautiously, his tone somewhere between advisory and concerned. “He’s not panicking, but he’s clear. They’re finding it difficult. These aren’t just trim, we’re talking about the demobilization of ten full divisions. That's going to alter our footprint in the Caucasus, and along the Aegean line near Greece.”
Ayşe turned from the window, arms dropping to her sides. “We’ve been focusing on physical strength at a time when the globe is shifting to higher quality assets. By focusing on the periphery for fifty years. We have nothing left for the center. I can’t cut education again. I won’t touch hospitals. Not when food prices are this high. Not when child poverty is ticking upward.”
She walked past the coffee table where a pile of papers from the national defense plan 2016 was sitting.“We have to move toward a new vision. A professional military. A modern one. A force that’s lean, tech-integrated, expeditionary if necessary, but not a behemoth of conscripts and crumbling logistics.”
She smoothed the hem of her navy blazer. “We need to stop treating defense spending as untouchable. The numbers aren’t ideological, they’re arithmetic. If we make targeted cuts, sell redundant or legacy equipment, we can bring in billions. That’s a surplus we can use to stabilize the economy and rebuild trust.”
Ekrem’s brow furrowed. “You’re talking about billions, yes, but you’re also talking about making enemies in every corner of the defense establishment. Cuts like that don’t just move tax liras from one part of the government to the next. They hurt employers and employees, make our military less effective, and damage morale. And if you want this through Parliament, you’ll need HDP, SDP, and the Greens. They are the only ones who would support this. That’s a coalition of necessity, not choice. You spend that political capital now, you won’t have it later.”
Ayşe looked back at the group. “We need to reorganize how we are operating. It isn’t just cuts it is about ending conscription entirely, shifting to a voluntary system or national service, civilian or military. It’s a way to refocus the labor market, pull young talent into sectors that need it, and start dismantling the martialism that’s defined this country for decades. We can be secure without chaining our social fabric to the barracks. We need to realize we are not in the same world we were before, and if anything, the coalition war should show us the limitations of that thought.”
Can shook his head slightly. “Conscription isn’t just a budget line, Ayşe. It’s baked into how our society functions. It shapes politics, social relations, and even parts of the economy. You pull it out, you don’t just change defense policy, you change the identity of this nation.”
“And if that happens, what is wrong?” she said looking at Can.
Şebnem cut in. “The opposition is already laying the groundwork to paint this as dangerous and reckless. Polling shows support for reform is narrow, and the loudest voices against it are the ones most likely to dominate the conversation. If we don’t control the narrative, they’ll have already won before you walk it into Parliament. We need to build a story that sticks.”
“Then find a way to spin this Şebnem,” Ayşe said as she walked back behind her desk. “Tell the story of modernization, of personal and economic freedom. Remind everyone that we need to build a country for everyone, and that includes our youth. The children who will inherit this country. We need to invest in a military that can actually defend us and not simply put on parades. We show people that selling excess matériel isn’t a weakness, it’s a strength. That a voluntary system isn’t abandonment, it’s a choice, a choice for every son and daughter of this Republic to make.
Ekrem leaned forward, his hands clasped. “And if the vote fails? If we lose on this, we lose on everything that follows. You’ll walk back into this room with a smaller mandate and a louder opposition. More importantly it’ll open you up to a leadership contestation”
Ayşe picked up her tea, considered it, set it down untouched. “If the vote fails, we try again. But if we don’t try, we’re just managing decline. That’s not why I’m here. Ekrem. We fought to be here. We fought to lead. By God’s will, I will fucking lead.”
Can leaned back, nodding slightly, not out of agreement. “I don’t disagree, Prime Minister. But the voters do.” He opened a folder and slid a document across the table, an internal polling brief. “Negative movement on the security reform package. A ten-point swing in three days. The majority thinks you're gutting our national defense. And the MHP has already called it treason.”
Ayşe paused, lips pressed tight, then looked again at Can. “I understand. But we’re not going back. We’ve done enough negotiating with the past. I need a military that fits this century. I need one that can defend this country. Not a military that plays politics and spends its time trying to define this nation.”
Şebnem saw this as the time to intercede again “Yeniçağ ran a front-page editorial titled ‘A Nation Without a Sword.’ Sabah isn’t better. They ran with ‘Ayşe’s Army of Dreams’ in that sarcastic tone of theirs.
Ayşe exhaled deeply, brushing her hair behind her ear. “They want to keep playing 1980 politics with 1930 toys.”
Şebnem glanced up. “If I may, we need a clearer message. The numbers are punishing, and even if you say don’t base policy on polls, the polls reflect how people feel. And I do feel that you gave us a message earlier. Choice. We need people to make a choice to defend this country.
She stood again, her voice quieter. “We are not an army with a nation. We are a nation with an army. And that’s how it’s going to stay. Ekrem, we will get these reforms passed. And if any of those ulusalists disagree send them here and I’ll remind them who helped them get elected.”
There was a long silence. Can looked at her, and beneath his seasoned skepticism, there was something else, a grudging respect, edged with worry. “We have to meet Akar now,” he said finally, reaching for his phone.
The other two appreciated the save from Can as Ayşe let out a sigh. “Ekrem and Şebnem, I want you two to work together on this. We need to figure out our messaging not just for the public but also parliament.”
The two of them nodded as Can led Ayşe out of the room and to a conference room. The corridor from the Prime Minister’s office to the conference room was faint with the hum of people working around the office. Ayşe walked briskly, a folder tucked under her arm, her thoughts already half in the meeting ahead. Can Yaman matched her stride, was scanning the security brief in his hand, muttering under his breath about divisions, brigades, and budget lines. He didn’t like how much effort Ayşe was putting into this, and more worried it’d open her up to a challenge.
Halfway down, a door swung open ahead of them. Ali Bozer stepped out, closing his BlackBerry phone. He spotted them, pivoted into their path.
“It’s Ömer Cihad Vardan,” Ali said, wasting no time on pleasantries. “CEO of TAI.”
Can didn’t even look up from the brief. “What about?”
Ali’s voice lowered a notch, “he wants tacit approval to sell twenty percent of TAI to a foreign buyer.”
That broke Can’s focus. He glanced at Ayşe, eyebrows raised in a question that didn’t need words.
“It’d be a good start for your foreign direct investment push,” Can said, as he closed the vanilla folder.
Ali frowned. “It could also be a great start to getting roasted in PMQs for selling out the country’s aerospace industry.”
Ayşe slowed slightly, forcing the group into a cluster rather than a single-file march. “What’s the proposed deal?”
Ali held up a palm. “I don’t know yet. He came to ask permission to explore it, which is not nothing, but it’s also not a proposal.”
The three of them kept moving. Can tapped the folder against his thigh. “Domestically, it’s tricky. But the money would help. A lot. Especially for TAI. They can’t produce anything and we’ve already been handing out licenses for foreign producers to simply build it at home.”
Ayşe’s tone was careful, “I’m not opposed. But in principle, I’m wary of selling off state assets without knowing where it leads.”
Ali added, “The outline, what little I’ve got, includes opening TAI facilities in-country for joint production.”
“That’s something,” Can murmured.
Ayşe’s heels clicked against the tile, measured and deliberate. “The Prime Minister’s office will have the final say. He can go forward, but I want serious mitigation considerations on my desk before anything gets within striking distance of a term sheet.”
Ali nodded, already mentally composing the call back to Ömer. The secure conference room door loomed ahead. The subject would be military cuts, not aerospace sales, but Ayşe could already feel how one would bleed into the other.
She reached for the handle. Before looking back at Ali. “I don’t want this TAI discussion blowing up my defense cut spending. So, if it is between my cuts and TAI’s sale, I want Ömer to know I am picking my cuts.
General Hulusi Akar and his staff were waiting inside when the Prime Minister entered. They all stood up and waited till she sat.
“Prime Minister,” he said with a nod. An aide closing the door behind them as Ayşe, Can, and three staffers sat down.
“General,” Ayşe replied. “Thank you for coming on short notice.”
There was a thick dossier on the table with the cover stamped with the emblem of the Turkish General Staff. “I’ve reviewed the plan in detail,” he began. “The decommissioning of these units will be the largest reorganization the army has seen in decades.”
Ayşe inclined her head. “We need change, Hulusi. The coalition war exposed our vulnerabilities. Tank-centric warfare, heavy divisions, they’re relics. We must focus on rapid deployment, mechanized mobility, and airmobile forces. Specialized commandos. This is how we fight the wars of tomorrow.”
The General sighed, his fingers drumming lightly on the dossier. “The 18th Mechanized, the 23rd Motorized Infantry... turning some motorized divisions into mechanized ones, converting the 18th Mechanized into light infantry… It’s a profound shift. But it will be painful. Decommissioning the 55th and 39th divisions, losing those capabilities, even if outdated, reduces our footprint in key strategic regions.”
Ayşe stepped closer, voice firm but calm. “Our strategic reality is changing. The threats are asymmetric. The PKK operates in mountainous terrain. Our new units must be agile, intelligent, and flexible, not lumbering tanks and mass infantry.”
Akar nodded slowly. “I acknowledge the defeat in the coalition war was a sobering reminder. Our old methods failed in that conflict. The army is battle-hardened, yes, but underused and overstretched in some areas. These cuts will save resources but also require retraining and restructuring. That will not be easy.”
“Which is why we must begin now,” Ayşe said. “The budget is strained, and if we are going to defeat the biggest national security risk we’re facing today, our depressed economy, we must make cuts. This is not disarmament; it is modernization.”
The General’s eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of concern crossing his face. “There is another dimension. Public perception. Ten divisions demobilized will not sit well with nationalist factions or some political circles. We risk giving the impression of weakness.”
Ayşe nodded faintly. “I’m already hearing the headlines.But leadership means making hard choices, even when they are unpopular. We must lead the country toward a future, not cling to the past. General. The politics is for me to handle. I need to know you can do this,”
He folded his hands behind his back. “Operationally, this means reallocating focus to rapid reaction forces. The main issue we face now is that we have a low threat from Greece, Cyprus, and Iraq. We have significant uncertainity with regards to Russia and Syria. That operational enviornment isn’t constant and we could easily have a crisis develop in the Aegean with Greece or in the Qandil mountains with Iraq.”
“I understand the stressful environment we are operating in,” Ayşe replied. “As we make cuts into our military, we will also invest in intelligence, surveillance drones, cyber capabilities, and air mobility. The future battlefield is digital and dynamic. The coalition war showed poor leadership, a lack of integration, and an overbloated military only produces failure. We need strong leadership, an integrated military, and a lean force trained to defend this nation.”
Akar’s voice softened. “Prime Minister, while I support the vision, I must emphasize the risks. Transitioning thousands of soldiers from conscription-heavy infantry to elite mechanized and special forces is a massive cultural and structural challenge. Training programs will need to be overhauled. Morale may suffer.”
Ayşe folded her hands on the desk, locking eyes with the General. “I don’t expect it to be easy. But the country can’t afford a military stuck in the 20th century. We will ensure retraining is a priority. We will protect the welfare of soldiers through this.”
“Prime Minister,” Akar began, voice measured but firm, “I understand the imperative for reform. The world changes, and so must our military. But I must be candid, there is deep concern among the Chiefs of Staff. The cuts proposed... they risk gutting our readiness capabilities.”
He paused, eyes steady on hers. “The new government in Iran is making serious acquisition requests, advanced missile systems, air defense technology. Their ambitions are growing, and we must assume they will seek to assert their influence regionally. The Russians, though their leadership remains unpredictable, continue to project power with a resolve that cannot be underestimated. How long that regime endures is uncertain, but the threat they pose is constant.”
Akar’s hands tightened slightly on the armrests. “The world is not becoming safer, Prime Minister. The challenges before us are multifaceted. We will still need boots on the ground, men and women ready to fight for Türkiye’s sovereignty. Demobilizing a hundred thousand soldiers is not simply a budgetary adjustment—it is a seismic shift in our national security posture.”
“General,” she said carefully, “I do not underestimate these concerns. The decision is difficult precisely because the stakes are so high. But we must move toward a leaner, more modern force, one that can respond swiftly, not just overwhelm with numbers. This is not about weakening Türkiye; it is about strengthening it for the century ahead.”
The General exhaled, a long breath that seemed to release a fraction of the tension. “You have my commitment to make this work, Prime Minister. The army will adapt, but we must be prepared for challenges ahead.”
Ayşe nodded, satisfied but unyielding. “Good. I want you to keep in contact with my office about any concerns. I’d like there to be no surprises.”
Akar gave a respectful bow of his head. “Yes, Madame Prime Minister.”
As the military staff prepared their things and left, Can leaned in to whisper into Ayşe’s ear. “There has been a situation. Amine Macar is in Paris and the French have responded to our repatriation request.”
Ayşe leaned back and whispered, “Amine?”
“Arslan’s foreign minister. She was in Paris when the coup happened, and the military suspended her passport and asked that she be repatriated to face justice.” Can said, waiving the staffers off.
“What crimes?” Ayşe asked as she turned to face him now, as the staffers were leaving.
“I don’t know, but it will create a headache for us if she fights the repatriation and it becomes an extradition request…and it’ll cause some demand for her to be brought back. People are angry with the communists for what they did in power, Ayşe.”
“We are a nation with the rule of law Can. I will not arrest this woman just because she represented the regime.”
Can nodded. “Anyways. We need her back here, whatever will happen next.”
Ayşe nodded. “Have our Ambassador handle this issue with the Ministry of Interior. If she fights it, we’ll have to send lawyers to Paris to get her extradited…”
Ayse thought for a moment, trying to figure this all out, but her mind was still focused on the cuts. “Can, I want the Ministry of Justice to be looped in and have Gülcan have a memo drafted on the legality of all this while we’re in the process?”
Can nodded and began typing away at his BlackBerry.
Can Yaman, her Chief of Staff, sat on the edge of the long oval table, elbows resting on his knees, fingers intertwined. “General Akar came by this morning,” he said cautiously, his tone somewhere between advisory and concerned. “He’s not panicking, but he’s clear. They’re finding it difficult. These aren’t just trim, we’re talking about the demobilization of ten full divisions. That's going to alter our footprint in the Caucasus, and along the Aegean line near Greece.”
Ayşe turned from the window, arms dropping to her sides. “We’ve been focusing on physical strength at a time when the globe is shifting to higher quality assets. By focusing on the periphery for fifty years. We have nothing left for the center. I can’t cut education again. I won’t touch hospitals. Not when food prices are this high. Not when child poverty is ticking upward.”
She walked past the coffee table where a pile of papers from the national defense plan 2016 was sitting.“We have to move toward a new vision. A professional military. A modern one. A force that’s lean, tech-integrated, expeditionary if necessary, but not a behemoth of conscripts and crumbling logistics.”
She smoothed the hem of her navy blazer. “We need to stop treating defense spending as untouchable. The numbers aren’t ideological, they’re arithmetic. If we make targeted cuts, sell redundant or legacy equipment, we can bring in billions. That’s a surplus we can use to stabilize the economy and rebuild trust.”
Ekrem’s brow furrowed. “You’re talking about billions, yes, but you’re also talking about making enemies in every corner of the defense establishment. Cuts like that don’t just move tax liras from one part of the government to the next. They hurt employers and employees, make our military less effective, and damage morale. And if you want this through Parliament, you’ll need HDP, SDP, and the Greens. They are the only ones who would support this. That’s a coalition of necessity, not choice. You spend that political capital now, you won’t have it later.”
Ayşe looked back at the group. “We need to reorganize how we are operating. It isn’t just cuts it is about ending conscription entirely, shifting to a voluntary system or national service, civilian or military. It’s a way to refocus the labor market, pull young talent into sectors that need it, and start dismantling the martialism that’s defined this country for decades. We can be secure without chaining our social fabric to the barracks. We need to realize we are not in the same world we were before, and if anything, the coalition war should show us the limitations of that thought.”
Can shook his head slightly. “Conscription isn’t just a budget line, Ayşe. It’s baked into how our society functions. It shapes politics, social relations, and even parts of the economy. You pull it out, you don’t just change defense policy, you change the identity of this nation.”
“And if that happens, what is wrong?” she said looking at Can.
Şebnem cut in. “The opposition is already laying the groundwork to paint this as dangerous and reckless. Polling shows support for reform is narrow, and the loudest voices against it are the ones most likely to dominate the conversation. If we don’t control the narrative, they’ll have already won before you walk it into Parliament. We need to build a story that sticks.”
“Then find a way to spin this Şebnem,” Ayşe said as she walked back behind her desk. “Tell the story of modernization, of personal and economic freedom. Remind everyone that we need to build a country for everyone, and that includes our youth. The children who will inherit this country. We need to invest in a military that can actually defend us and not simply put on parades. We show people that selling excess matériel isn’t a weakness, it’s a strength. That a voluntary system isn’t abandonment, it’s a choice, a choice for every son and daughter of this Republic to make.
Ekrem leaned forward, his hands clasped. “And if the vote fails? If we lose on this, we lose on everything that follows. You’ll walk back into this room with a smaller mandate and a louder opposition. More importantly it’ll open you up to a leadership contestation”
Ayşe picked up her tea, considered it, set it down untouched. “If the vote fails, we try again. But if we don’t try, we’re just managing decline. That’s not why I’m here. Ekrem. We fought to be here. We fought to lead. By God’s will, I will fucking lead.”
Can leaned back, nodding slightly, not out of agreement. “I don’t disagree, Prime Minister. But the voters do.” He opened a folder and slid a document across the table, an internal polling brief. “Negative movement on the security reform package. A ten-point swing in three days. The majority thinks you're gutting our national defense. And the MHP has already called it treason.”
Ayşe paused, lips pressed tight, then looked again at Can. “I understand. But we’re not going back. We’ve done enough negotiating with the past. I need a military that fits this century. I need one that can defend this country. Not a military that plays politics and spends its time trying to define this nation.”
Şebnem saw this as the time to intercede again “Yeniçağ ran a front-page editorial titled ‘A Nation Without a Sword.’ Sabah isn’t better. They ran with ‘Ayşe’s Army of Dreams’ in that sarcastic tone of theirs.
Ayşe exhaled deeply, brushing her hair behind her ear. “They want to keep playing 1980 politics with 1930 toys.”
Şebnem glanced up. “If I may, we need a clearer message. The numbers are punishing, and even if you say don’t base policy on polls, the polls reflect how people feel. And I do feel that you gave us a message earlier. Choice. We need people to make a choice to defend this country.
She stood again, her voice quieter. “We are not an army with a nation. We are a nation with an army. And that’s how it’s going to stay. Ekrem, we will get these reforms passed. And if any of those ulusalists disagree send them here and I’ll remind them who helped them get elected.”
There was a long silence. Can looked at her, and beneath his seasoned skepticism, there was something else, a grudging respect, edged with worry. “We have to meet Akar now,” he said finally, reaching for his phone.
The other two appreciated the save from Can as Ayşe let out a sigh. “Ekrem and Şebnem, I want you two to work together on this. We need to figure out our messaging not just for the public but also parliament.”
The two of them nodded as Can led Ayşe out of the room and to a conference room. The corridor from the Prime Minister’s office to the conference room was faint with the hum of people working around the office. Ayşe walked briskly, a folder tucked under her arm, her thoughts already half in the meeting ahead. Can Yaman matched her stride, was scanning the security brief in his hand, muttering under his breath about divisions, brigades, and budget lines. He didn’t like how much effort Ayşe was putting into this, and more worried it’d open her up to a challenge.
Halfway down, a door swung open ahead of them. Ali Bozer stepped out, closing his BlackBerry phone. He spotted them, pivoted into their path.
“It’s Ömer Cihad Vardan,” Ali said, wasting no time on pleasantries. “CEO of TAI.”
Can didn’t even look up from the brief. “What about?”
Ali’s voice lowered a notch, “he wants tacit approval to sell twenty percent of TAI to a foreign buyer.”
That broke Can’s focus. He glanced at Ayşe, eyebrows raised in a question that didn’t need words.
“It’d be a good start for your foreign direct investment push,” Can said, as he closed the vanilla folder.
Ali frowned. “It could also be a great start to getting roasted in PMQs for selling out the country’s aerospace industry.”
Ayşe slowed slightly, forcing the group into a cluster rather than a single-file march. “What’s the proposed deal?”
Ali held up a palm. “I don’t know yet. He came to ask permission to explore it, which is not nothing, but it’s also not a proposal.”
The three of them kept moving. Can tapped the folder against his thigh. “Domestically, it’s tricky. But the money would help. A lot. Especially for TAI. They can’t produce anything and we’ve already been handing out licenses for foreign producers to simply build it at home.”
Ayşe’s tone was careful, “I’m not opposed. But in principle, I’m wary of selling off state assets without knowing where it leads.”
Ali added, “The outline, what little I’ve got, includes opening TAI facilities in-country for joint production.”
“That’s something,” Can murmured.
Ayşe’s heels clicked against the tile, measured and deliberate. “The Prime Minister’s office will have the final say. He can go forward, but I want serious mitigation considerations on my desk before anything gets within striking distance of a term sheet.”
Ali nodded, already mentally composing the call back to Ömer. The secure conference room door loomed ahead. The subject would be military cuts, not aerospace sales, but Ayşe could already feel how one would bleed into the other.
She reached for the handle. Before looking back at Ali. “I don’t want this TAI discussion blowing up my defense cut spending. So, if it is between my cuts and TAI’s sale, I want Ömer to know I am picking my cuts.
General Hulusi Akar and his staff were waiting inside when the Prime Minister entered. They all stood up and waited till she sat.
“Prime Minister,” he said with a nod. An aide closing the door behind them as Ayşe, Can, and three staffers sat down.
“General,” Ayşe replied. “Thank you for coming on short notice.”
There was a thick dossier on the table with the cover stamped with the emblem of the Turkish General Staff. “I’ve reviewed the plan in detail,” he began. “The decommissioning of these units will be the largest reorganization the army has seen in decades.”
Ayşe inclined her head. “We need change, Hulusi. The coalition war exposed our vulnerabilities. Tank-centric warfare, heavy divisions, they’re relics. We must focus on rapid deployment, mechanized mobility, and airmobile forces. Specialized commandos. This is how we fight the wars of tomorrow.”
The General sighed, his fingers drumming lightly on the dossier. “The 18th Mechanized, the 23rd Motorized Infantry... turning some motorized divisions into mechanized ones, converting the 18th Mechanized into light infantry… It’s a profound shift. But it will be painful. Decommissioning the 55th and 39th divisions, losing those capabilities, even if outdated, reduces our footprint in key strategic regions.”
Ayşe stepped closer, voice firm but calm. “Our strategic reality is changing. The threats are asymmetric. The PKK operates in mountainous terrain. Our new units must be agile, intelligent, and flexible, not lumbering tanks and mass infantry.”
Akar nodded slowly. “I acknowledge the defeat in the coalition war was a sobering reminder. Our old methods failed in that conflict. The army is battle-hardened, yes, but underused and overstretched in some areas. These cuts will save resources but also require retraining and restructuring. That will not be easy.”
“Which is why we must begin now,” Ayşe said. “The budget is strained, and if we are going to defeat the biggest national security risk we’re facing today, our depressed economy, we must make cuts. This is not disarmament; it is modernization.”
The General’s eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of concern crossing his face. “There is another dimension. Public perception. Ten divisions demobilized will not sit well with nationalist factions or some political circles. We risk giving the impression of weakness.”
Ayşe nodded faintly. “I’m already hearing the headlines.But leadership means making hard choices, even when they are unpopular. We must lead the country toward a future, not cling to the past. General. The politics is for me to handle. I need to know you can do this,”
He folded his hands behind his back. “Operationally, this means reallocating focus to rapid reaction forces. The main issue we face now is that we have a low threat from Greece, Cyprus, and Iraq. We have significant uncertainity with regards to Russia and Syria. That operational enviornment isn’t constant and we could easily have a crisis develop in the Aegean with Greece or in the Qandil mountains with Iraq.”
“I understand the stressful environment we are operating in,” Ayşe replied. “As we make cuts into our military, we will also invest in intelligence, surveillance drones, cyber capabilities, and air mobility. The future battlefield is digital and dynamic. The coalition war showed poor leadership, a lack of integration, and an overbloated military only produces failure. We need strong leadership, an integrated military, and a lean force trained to defend this nation.”
Akar’s voice softened. “Prime Minister, while I support the vision, I must emphasize the risks. Transitioning thousands of soldiers from conscription-heavy infantry to elite mechanized and special forces is a massive cultural and structural challenge. Training programs will need to be overhauled. Morale may suffer.”
Ayşe folded her hands on the desk, locking eyes with the General. “I don’t expect it to be easy. But the country can’t afford a military stuck in the 20th century. We will ensure retraining is a priority. We will protect the welfare of soldiers through this.”
“Prime Minister,” Akar began, voice measured but firm, “I understand the imperative for reform. The world changes, and so must our military. But I must be candid, there is deep concern among the Chiefs of Staff. The cuts proposed... they risk gutting our readiness capabilities.”
He paused, eyes steady on hers. “The new government in Iran is making serious acquisition requests, advanced missile systems, air defense technology. Their ambitions are growing, and we must assume they will seek to assert their influence regionally. The Russians, though their leadership remains unpredictable, continue to project power with a resolve that cannot be underestimated. How long that regime endures is uncertain, but the threat they pose is constant.”
Akar’s hands tightened slightly on the armrests. “The world is not becoming safer, Prime Minister. The challenges before us are multifaceted. We will still need boots on the ground, men and women ready to fight for Türkiye’s sovereignty. Demobilizing a hundred thousand soldiers is not simply a budgetary adjustment—it is a seismic shift in our national security posture.”
“General,” she said carefully, “I do not underestimate these concerns. The decision is difficult precisely because the stakes are so high. But we must move toward a leaner, more modern force, one that can respond swiftly, not just overwhelm with numbers. This is not about weakening Türkiye; it is about strengthening it for the century ahead.”
The General exhaled, a long breath that seemed to release a fraction of the tension. “You have my commitment to make this work, Prime Minister. The army will adapt, but we must be prepared for challenges ahead.”
Ayşe nodded, satisfied but unyielding. “Good. I want you to keep in contact with my office about any concerns. I’d like there to be no surprises.”
Akar gave a respectful bow of his head. “Yes, Madame Prime Minister.”
As the military staff prepared their things and left, Can leaned in to whisper into Ayşe’s ear. “There has been a situation. Amine Macar is in Paris and the French have responded to our repatriation request.”
Ayşe leaned back and whispered, “Amine?”
“Arslan’s foreign minister. She was in Paris when the coup happened, and the military suspended her passport and asked that she be repatriated to face justice.” Can said, waiving the staffers off.
“What crimes?” Ayşe asked as she turned to face him now, as the staffers were leaving.
“I don’t know, but it will create a headache for us if she fights the repatriation and it becomes an extradition request…and it’ll cause some demand for her to be brought back. People are angry with the communists for what they did in power, Ayşe.”
“We are a nation with the rule of law Can. I will not arrest this woman just because she represented the regime.”
Can nodded. “Anyways. We need her back here, whatever will happen next.”
Ayşe nodded. “Have our Ambassador handle this issue with the Ministry of Interior. If she fights it, we’ll have to send lawyers to Paris to get her extradited…”
Ayse thought for a moment, trying to figure this all out, but her mind was still focused on the cuts. “Can, I want the Ministry of Justice to be looped in and have Gülcan have a memo drafted on the legality of all this while we’re in the process?”
Can nodded and began typing away at his BlackBerry.
