The Crescent and the Arrow

[Jay]

The old Ottoman mansion that once belonged to a shipping magnate overlooked the Bosphorus with quiet dignity. Its ochre façade was partially shrouded by wisteria vines, and the sounds of the city and the dull hum of ferry horns, the murmur of distant prayer, seemed to recede the moment one stepped past the iron gate. It had become a private residence for former dignitaries, and tonight, it was silent but not empty.

Ayşe Çiller arrived without a security detail. A lone Range Rover pulled up along the cobblestone driveway and left without lingering. She wore a cream-colored trench coat and a navy headscarf loosely draped. In her hand, she carried nothing but a small handbag as she looked around to make sure no government agents followed her back here.

A discreet aide opened the door. Inside, the grand salon was softly lit, its tall windows open to the sea air. A fire crackled in the marble hearth despite the mildness of the spring night. There, seated by the fire with a book open on his lap, was Abdullah Gül. He wore a simple wool cardigan over a white shirt.

He rose to greet her. “Hoş geldiniz, Ayşe Hanım,” he said. “It’s been too long.”

“Too long, indeed,” she replied, allowing him to take her coat. “Thank you for meeting with me. I know we need to be careful now more than ever.”

He gestured to the armchairs near the fire. “It is always a pleasure to see you.” He said, walking her to the armchairs. Yes, the risks are great, but that is the life of statesmen.”

They sat down as a tray with two glasses of steaming çay placed before them. Ayşe sat on the edge of the weathered armchair, a glass of tea cradled in her hands.

"You know what the numbers are, better than I do," he said quietly, not looking at her. "The lira is in freefall. The shelves are empty in Mersin, and the Ministry blames the bourgeoisie instead of admitting we’ve got a structural collapse on our hands."

Ayşe said nothing for a moment. Her eyes were fixed on the chipped rim of her glass as she responded, "The regime has no answers, just slogans and scapegoats. That was always going to be the case."

Abdullah turned to face her. “It’s not just that they’re incompetent. It’s that they’re ideological to the point of cruelty. They’d rather watch the economy burn than admit their model failed.”

Ayşe looked up, her lips perched. “You’re not wrong.”

Abdullah leaned back in his chair as he continued, “And yet, somehow, the civil service and central bank governors have begun to finally push back. These are bureaucrats who’ve been silent for years. But they’re stirring now. And don’t think for a moment that it happened in a vacuum.”

She frowned slightly, but he went on, his tone softening. “Ayşe, you’ve given the pro-democracy camp a pulse again. Without that, the Kızılay would still be hiding behind protocol, pretending neutrality. You made resistance seem not just moral, but possible.”

Her gaze dropped as she set the glass down and leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “You give me too much credit.”

“No,” he replied flatly. “I don’t give you enough.”

She offered a weary smile. “If the movement is breathing, it’s because of what we have all built together. You and Recep held it through the worst years, when everyone else either defected or fled. Don’t pretend you were some bystander in all this.”

He looked at her for a long moment, something unresolved flickering in his eyes. With a nod, he conceded, “Yes,” he said. “We fought when all others became either complicit or complacent, but we could never mobilize such a social resistance. Ayşe, you managed to light it again.

Ayşe looked at him for a long moment before speaking. “I want your advice, Beyefendi. And more than that, I want your help.”

Abdullah did not react, not at first. He merely waited.

“I was approached several weeks ago by the military. To be transparent with you, Beyefendi, there is a plan taking shape, a coup d’état, against the communist regime.”

At that, Abdullah’s brow furrowed slightly, but he said nothing.

“They assure me they do not wish to rule. They promise to transfer power to a technocratic and civilian government, followed by general elections. I believe them. Or…I want to believe them.”

Abdullah inhaled slowly. “You know my history with the military. They once told us we were a threat to the Republic. That Islam in politics was a virus.”

“I know,” Ayşe said quietly. “But this is different. The communists have dismantled the judiciary, imprisoned thousands, including honorable men like Erdoğan. They’ve targeted imams and generals, and now poets and teachers. No society can breathe under that.”

“I am not defending them,” Abdullah replied, his voice measured. “But neither am I quick to endorse the return of tanks to the streets. Once they come, they rarely leave without taking something.”

He turned, slowly. “Tell me how placing our future in the hands of a fragmented officer corps, driven by ideology, ambition, and old grudges, is fair to the people who march for democracy in Konya,, who’ve buried their dead in Sivas, who still send their children to banned islamic schools hoping they’ll grow up free.”


Ayşe looked at Abdullah and could only give a weak nod. “And if we don’t accept the military’s role, what alternative do you propose? The communists still control the state security forces. The GMK is purging what’s left of the civil service that’s loyal to the Republic. The army and their faction people, whatever else they are, understand that we don’t have the luxury of waiting for ideal conditions.”

“It looks like you have already decided,” Abdullah said almost in defeat.

“No.” Ayşe said, “I’ve come to ask your advice Beyefendi.”

He was quiet for a moment. “I have never seen a military willingly give back power. I do not think that the military can solve all of our problems, and I fear they will open new ones for this country.”

“I won’t lie to you. Some of them have not changed.” Ayşe sai,d acknowledging Abdullah’s points. “But they are guided by a love for this country and they recognize that this current regime is poisoing our beloved nation.”

Abdullah’s eyes darkened slightly. “You know what they say, that Türkiye is a military with a state, not a state with a military. The temptation never really dies for the military to make the state subservient to them. I do not condone this regime, but the one successful thing they did is make the military subservient to the state.”

“I’m not asking you to trust them.” Ayşe said looking at Abdullah, “I’m asking you to help us create a country where they no longer hold the temptation. A republic that embraces the love we are taught from our faith, that embellishes its rich national history, and is guided by reason and the philosophy that Turks are destined for greatness.”

He looked at her, the firelight catching in his eyes. “Do you think it can be done without tanks? Without violence? The communists won with mass protest, with worker strikes, with martyrs. Why can’t we do the same?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But I know that if the people are given something to believe in, then we can shake the core of this regime. Yet, history shows that authoritarian regimes, when facing the threat of revolution, have never willingly left power.”

A moment passed. Then another.

“The reason why I have come, Abdullah Bey. If this revolution is to end, if we are to move beyond what we’ve suffered, we must do it differently. We must not use their collapse to dominate the government. We need true compassion. Not revenge. Not hegemony.”

Abdullah looked at her. “And what is it you’re asking of me?”

“I want you to consider running for President. A national unity figure. Someone who has a vision for a just and fair Türkiye. Someone who advocates for a democratic Türkiye. Someone who can bring people together.”

“You give me too much credit.” Abdullah said with a chuckle.

“No,” Ayşe said definitely. “You were a voice of reason when others clamored for purity. Your early work in the Refah Party on reform, democratization, and outreach was an inspiration. You believed that Islam and democracy could coexist, not because you were forced to say it, but because you believed it. That voice is missing today.”

Abdullah exhaled. “Ayşe Hanım, I have watched from the sidelines while you have transformed the CHP, against every expectation, became the conscience of this broken land. You stood for principles when others sought only power. Believe me, your courage did not go unnoticed.”

There was a long silence. Only the fire cracked, and the distant call to prayer floated across the water.

“Beyefendi, I am asking you because I truly believe that this country needs is not someone guided by power but by love and conviction.” She said plainly. “Türkiye needs a man whom it can rely on, and I can think of no better person.”

Abdullah shook his head. “I can not take a position which the people have not elected me for… especially if it is being handed to me by the military.”

Ayşe realized that her words may have been misinterpreted and immediately corrected herself. “Beyefendi, please, I would never insulate that.” She said, placing her tea down on the tray. “I am asking you to run after we transition into free and fair elections.” She said, looking at him. “I believe that whatever happens will be the litmus test for whether we succeed or fail as a country.”

“I need to ask,” Abdullah continued. “If I run, what does this mean for the Refah Party? I appreciate you coming to me, but I doubt the CHP will accept you giving us the ability to run uncontested. I also hope you aren’t asking us to end our ambitions for parliament?

“No,” Ayşe replied. “You would run independently. If the CHP wins the parliamentary election,s it is not my intention to dominate all levels and services of government. When we have the chance, we will propose a constitutional convention and invite all the parties to participate before placing it for a referendum.”

Abdullah nodded thoughtfully. “A Second Republic, of sorts.”

“Yes.” Ayşe said, thinking about it.”

“If the Refah Party wins,” Abdullah began with, “Please know that irrespective of this conversation, we would’ve extended the same courtesy to you. If there is one thing I’ve learned, it is that domination only breeds extremism and resentment. Our political history is smeared with men who believe the path to salvation is absolutism.” He placed down his teacup. “However, the political fabric of this country should be a reminder that it can not be stretched to contain absolutism.”

“I appreciate your willingness to speak Abdullah Bey.” Ayşe said with a smile.

“Not at all Ayşe begum,” Abdullah responded with a smile. “I wish not all our conversations required a reason.” He let out a chuckle.

“I pray that soon enough we will have that freedom,” Ayşe said, checking her watch realizing it was late into the evening. “Forgive me for taking you away from your evening prayers and for taking all of your time.”

“Not at all my dear,” Abdullah said standing up to lead her out.”

Ayşe stood. “Thank you, Beyefendi. We should speak again soon.” She said waiting by the door.”

“Of course.” Abdullah said. “I’ll be speaking in Konya later this week, I think it’d be a good opportunity for us to do a joint rally.”

“I appreciate that…let’s get something in the works for sure.” Ayşe said with a smile before giving a wave as she left through the doors of Abdullah’s house. She got into her Range Rover and drove away into the Ankara streets at night.

 

[Jay]

The city below was dark. Electricity had returned only in scattered pockets across Ankara. The military had declared a curfew save for emergencies. TRT had been taken over by the Armed Forces, and all channels were now broadcasting statements from the military run National Security Council.

But up here, on the terrace of an old Ottoman-style guesthouse tucked into Çankaya’s hillside, Ayşe Çiller wore a long charcoal coat and a black scarf tightly wound around her head as she ventured out in violation of the Curfew order. She stood with her arms crossed, facing the balcony’s edge, watching two distant armored vehicles idle along Atatürk Boulevard.

Behind her, Abdullah Gül sat at a wrought-iron table, a blanket draped over his shoulders, a small oil lamp flickering between them. His face looked worn, but alert. He spoke softly, though his voice carried the weight of deep alarm.

“They won’t leave,” Abdullah said.

Ayşe turned slightly. “I know.”

He raised a hand. “No, I don’t think you do. I mean, they say it’s temporary. This is a necessary reset. A bridge to stability. But they’ve already replaced the government with the Security Council. They’ve suspended the constitution. They’re arresting people in the tens of thousands.”

“They’ve promised elections,” Ayşe replied.

Abdullah leaned forward. “With military oversight? With the Chief of the General Staff as acting head of state? That’s not a republic, Ayşe. That’s stagecraft.”

A tense silence followed. Finally, she spoke. “I’m not defending them.”

“You’re explaining them,” he said sharply. “And that’s almost as dangerous.”

She walked back toward him, her voice quiet but unyielding. “You think I wanted this? That I supported this?” She gestured down to the city. “I fought to avoid it. But without the army, we would still be under Eda’s rule, her tribunals, her secret police, her one-party state. The communists weren’t going to step aside with dialogue. And we both know the people were too exhausted, too surveilled, to rise. You saw what they did in Gezi Park.”

Abdullah’s eyes met hers, dark, steady. “And what now? We cheer for the tanks, like they did in 1980? We pretend they’re the guardians of democracy, and not its uninvited scythe?”

“I’m not cheering,” she said. “But I can speak to them. People like Cemal, even Bozkurt, men who still believe in a republic, not a junta.”

“That’s my point,” Abdullah said, his voice rising slightly. “You can’t have it both ways. If you want to lead the people, you can’t also walk hand-in-hand with men who seized power at gunpoint.”

She paused, her anger tempered by honesty. “And what would you have me do? Shut them out entirely? Let the Council harden into another permanent regime while we issue statements from exile?”

Abdullah inhaled deeply, his tone softening. “No. I want you, us, to demand elections. Immediately. Without military oversight. And a technocratic transitional government to replace this so-called Security Council. The CHP, Refah, any party left standing we come out united, uncompromising.”

She considered it. “Let me speak to Cemal first. I know we can find a way out of this without causing a crisis.”

Abdullah shook his head. “Ayşe…”

She raised her hand. “Let me finish. We demand elections, yes. We mobilize the country if we have to. But if I can get the military to agree to stand down, not under threat, but as a condition of stability, then we can transition without a second rupture. Abdullah, we’ve seen what happened before. We can’t fall for the same mistake again.”

He looked unconvinced.

“You saw what happened in Gezi,” she added. “The crowd chanted for democracy. Not for the CHP. Not the army. Not for some abstract idea. They demanded Democracy. There is still something left in this country worth saving.”

He sighed. “The last two times power was seized in this country, first by the nationalists, then by the communists, they were civilians, yes. But don’t tell me the military wasn’t complicit. They turned their gaze away, and then claimed innocence when the experiment failed.”

“You’re not being fair,” she replied.

“Maybe not,” he conceded. “But I’ve lived long enough to know the military doesn’t relinquish power. They just change the uniform.”

She sat beside him now, her voice low but fervent. “We need to give people something to believe in again. If that means making uneasy compromises, I’ll make them. But the end goal must be the same an elected civilian government, a restored Constitution, and an army confined to its barracks.”

“Promise me something,” he said quietly.

She turned to him.

“When the generals call again, and they will, you remember that legitimacy doesn’t come from epaulettes. It comes from ballots.”

She looked at him, worried what he thought of her with that comment, but relented. “I promise.”

 

[Jay]

Ayşe arrived just past midnight, escorted only by one trusted aide. She wore no scarf this time. The rooftop of the small party office in Kızılay was a discreet enough venue, and the air was cold and still.

Abdullah stood at the edge, watching the skyline, a thermos in his hand. He turned as she approached.

“You met with him,” he said. It was not a question.

“I did,” Ayşe replied, brushing a strand of wind-swept hair from her face.

Abdullah raised a brow. “And?”

She didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she walked past him and leaned her hands on the concrete railing, looking out across the skeletal city. Then, calmly, she began.

“The military intends to transition power. Cemal was clear on that. They’ve begun internal arrangements to disband the Council and to allow a technocratic supreme electoral commission to oversee the election.” She paused. “But they want one of the current NSC chairmen to become interim president.”

Abdullah stiffened.

“There it is,” he said, tone clipped. “The velvet glove over the iron hand. They want to guide the transition, shape the outcome, control the democracy they claim to be restoring.”

“You didn’t let me finish,” Ayşe replied, turning to face him.

Abdullah blinked, and gestured slightly with his hand. “Go on.”

“I flatly rejected it. Told Cemal to his face that if they tried to install a soldier in the presidency, I would lead a march through Istanbul myself, curfew or no curfew. I told him we did not depose one ideological regime to accept another in uniform.”

Abdullah stared at her. The tension in his posture eased, though his expression remained skeptical. “And what was his response?”

“He backed down,” Ayşe said, voice even. “Eventually, at least. He said they would not impose a military figure as president. That they’ll respect this line in the sand.”

Abdullah exhaled slowly and lowered himself onto a bench beside a small coffee table. “That’s not nothing.”

“There’s more.”

She sat beside him and handed him a small handwritten note. “The political bans imposed under the TIP will be lifted. The MHP, Refah, everyone. They can contest the elections freely. And the Welfare parliamentarians who were still being held, Recep among them, are being released this morning.”

Abdullah’s eyes scanned the note, but he said nothing for a long time. Then he looked at her.

“You did this.”

“No,” Ayşe said softly. “I did what needed to be done. No thanks needed.”

He offered a small smile, full of unspoken things. “You’re braver than most would be willing.”

“I had the privilege of someone whose ear was already to the ground,” she said. “The streets are restless. They all want elections. They want them now. Cemal knows this. Moreover, the generals want to get out of this situation as soon as possible, with the economic situation deteriorating.”

Abdullah leaned back, thoughtful. “And the timetable?”

“They propose parliamentary elections within ninety days. But they want to delay the presidential election until a later stage, after the new parliament convenes and confirms an interim cabinet.”

“That’s a mistake,” Abdullah said immediately.

“I told them the same,” Ayşe replied. “The two votes must happen simultaneously. You can’t expect legitimacy from a staggered process, it smells of manipulation. They didn’t like it, but I insisted. If the people are voting for a new beginning, let them vote for the head of state and the legislature at once.”

Abdullah nodded slowly. “That and it allows them to hold the National Security Council under their thumb without a President. And the Constitution?”

“They want a return to the 1982 Constitution,” Ayşe said.

Abdullah’s jaw clenched. “Of course they do.”

“I told them that as a starting point, we can accept a return to constitutional legality. But we must reform it. That this isn’t 1983. The people will not accept a democracy with guards at every exit. We will restore the rule of law, yes, but we must have a national dialogue on constitutional reform.”

“Are they onboard for constitutional change?” Abdullah asked.

“They weren’t pleased,” Ayşe said. “But they didn’t walk out. I like to believe that these younger Generals are idealists at heart. For Gods sake they called themselves the Young Turks.”

There was a moment of silence between them. The wind picked up slightly, rustling some discarded leaflets in a corner. Then Abdullah looked over.

“You bought us time.”

She met his gaze. “We’re going to need every minute of it.”

He nodded. “So we draft the joint declaration. CHP, Refah, MHP, whoever’s still standing.”

“Yes, we endorse this roadmap, while not endorsing the coup,” she said. “And we make it clear that we support elections. We support stability. But the era of guided democracy is over. Civilian rule, or nothing at all.”

“And after that?” he asked, almost gently.

Ayşe looked out again at the city, her voice steadied by the view.

“After that, we rebuild. Not just ministries and courts. We rebuild the public trust. The very idea that the Turkish people can govern themselves without being rescued by generals or ideologues. We need to restore hope in the system, Abdullah.”

Abdullah stood, the thermos still in hand. “What are you thinking?”

“I’ve been reviewing your earlier proposals,” Ayşe said. “Especially the ones on presidential powers.”

Abdullah leaned forward, attentive.

She continued, “Popular election of the president. Re-election permitted. Parliamentary terms are synchronized at five years. And a lowered quorum for legislative votes… You haven’t changed your mind on any of these?”

“I haven’t,” he replied calmly. “In fact, I believe them to be more important than ever. How can those who see the direct election of the president as a danger to the regime ask for votes from the same people to govern? It’s a contradiction.”

Ayşe paused. “But there’s a risk. You and I both know that. Giving a president a direct popular mandate could turn a symbolic head of state into a political actor. If both the president and prime minister claim legitimacy from the people… it could tear the state apart. We’ve seen it in other countries.”

“I understand the concern,” Abdullah replied, measured. “But the presidency in Türkiye has never been merely symbolic. It is a political post, even when elected by parliament. We cannot hide behind abstractions. Better to bring its power into the open, legitimize it democratically, and define it clearly.”

“And what of balance?” she asked. “What if the same party controls both Çankaya and the Grand National Assembly? How do we protect institutions from becoming extensions of the ruling faction?”

“We institutionalize neutrality,” he replied. “The presidency should be entrusted with oversight responsibilities above political rivalry. That means creating a framework all parties agree to, where the president does not dictate policy, but acts as guardian of the constitutional order.”

Ayşe nodded, though she still appeared hesitant.

“It’s very important,” she said at last, “to create and protect that neutral center. We must ensure the presidency is not captured by any single party or movement. That requires a broad consensus in the parliament. Not just votes, but moral consent.”

“I agree,” Abdullah said. “But don’t forget: even under the old system, parliamentary elections could produce partisan presidents. The only difference now is that it will be the people choosing, not party bosses.”

She considered this. “What if we stagger the elections? President every seven years, Parliament every five or four years?”

Abdullah smiled faintly. “That could provide some insulation. Enough to dilute partisan momentum, but not enough to break the link between executive and legislative legitimacy. It's an idea worth exploring.”

She leaned back. “I see your points.”

He looked out into the city. “Now… what about the articles related to the military?”

Ayşe’s expression darkened, but she nodded. “Some in the party want Provisional Article 15, which provided an immunity clause for the 1980 coup leaders, to be abolished. It provides a blanket protection for the generals during a declaration of a state of emergency.”

“That’s essential,” Abdullah said firmly. “No reconciliation without accountability. Not this time.”

“I am worried it will upset the military at a time when we want to avoid further fractionalization.”

“Ayşe,” Abdullah began with. “We already have a fractionalized country. How can we expect people to move forward when their leaders commit crimes?”

“I hear you Abdullah,” Ayşe began with. “But I also recognize that the military has just come out of a period of extensive purges and over-politicization. I don’t know if I support picking a fight with them on this issue.”

“They invited that politiczation on themselves,” Abdullah said defiantly. “They can’t declare themselves guardians of a political order and not expect the politicization.”

Ayşe nodded. “I think we could find a compromise by having crimes by military officers against the state, like plotting coups, to be tried in civilian courts. Dismissed personnel will gain the right of judicial appeal, and disciplinary actions will be subject to legal review. That is a fair compromise, I think.”

Abdullah’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “That’s no small thing. It ends the self-policing doctrine.”

“It does,” Ayşe replied. “But it also protects them from political retribution.”

She turned a page. “I also think there needs to be expanded personal privacy protections especially concerning national ID data, photos, names, and records. Importantly, abuse can be prosecuted.”

“Good,” Abdullah said. “The state should no longer treat citizens as security threats by default.”

“We’ve been thinking how to placate the left of the country, which will likely be in a state of agitation.” Ayşe started off by continuing. “Economic and social rights, specifically striking restrictions lifted, union liabilities reduced. Public employees, even retirees, will be granted collective bargaining. Punitive warnings can be appealed.”

“Even the Economic and Social Council will be protected under the Constitution,” she added. “Its role in national policy formation will be enshrined. No more treating unions and associations as nuisances.”

Abdullah nodded, impressed. “You’ve laid the groundwork for a new and genuine social contract.”

She kept going. “The ombudsman system will be made constitutional. And petitions to the Constitutional Court will be opened to all, not just officials.”

His voice dropped slightly. “And party closures?”

“The Constitutional Court keeps that authority,” she said. “But investigations into parties will now be led by the AKGB. Parties can’t be shut down so easily anymore. And crucially—if a party is closed, its members keep their seats unless they are personally implicated.”

“That alone could’ve spared us a decade of instability,” Abdullah murmured.

She concluded, “Dismissed judges can now appeal. The HSYK’s decisions, like those of YAŞ, will be open to review. The judiciary can no longer operate as a star chamber.”

Abdullah sat back, visibly moved.

“I can’t speak for the rest of the party or our members. But. I do believe we can pass a major bipartisan piece of constitutional reform,” he said.

Ayşe shook her head. “We’re not there yet. But these reforms, we must put them to the people. Not as a decree, but as a referendum. A new constitution, a new social contract, but in consensus.”

“And after that?”

“We continue our work to rebuild our Republic,” she said. “From the ashes of ideology and overreach. One that trusts its citizens again.”

Abdullah rose, took a slow sip of his tea, and then offered her his hand.

“I sincerely do look forward to working together, Ayşe. Our homeland deserves that from us.

She took it. “I hope so too.”