Kritik Bakış
As Kritik Bakış magazine, we conducted an in-depth interview with Mahir Damatlar, one of the prominent figures of the Ülkücü (Idealist Nationalist) movement. On the anniversary of the passing of his comrade, the late Muhsin Yazıcıoğlu, we met at the Gönüllerde Birlik Foundation—an institution founded in line with Yazıcıoğlu’s cause— and discussed a wide range of topics, from the February 28 process to the Syrian revolution, from the Kurdish issue to differing interpretations of nationalism. Having passed through the firestorm of the 1970s and subjected to severe torture and oppression in the dungeons of the September 12 coup era, Mahir Damatlar has always stayed loyal to the path of his cause through every political and ideological crossroads. Today, he continues his journey with a humble demeanor—still engaging with the youth and serving his nation as a dervish-spirited Anatolian patriot. We now present to you his perspectives, insights, and foresight regarding current affairs.
Nezir Kardoğan – Kritik Bakış
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Recently, the 28th anniversary of the February 28 process was marked. The late Chairman Muhsin Yazıcıoğlu made a statement in front of the Çankaya Presidential Mansion at the time, saying: “Türkiye will not become Iran or Algeria. However, we will not allow a regime like Syria’s to be established here.”On December 8, the torturous order of Syria’s sectarian minority dictatorship came to an end. From the beginning, you have been aiding the oppressed people of Syria, especially the Turkmens. How do you evaluate the collapse of the regime and the Syrian revolution? Was it a surprise for you as well?
The main reason behind the Syria analogy during the February 28 process was this:
Although it appeared that the top military brass were acting in unison, the true nature of February 28 was a sectarian coup attempt. Within the armed forces, there were indeed many honorable, dignified officers and generals who were deeply devoted to the great Turkish nation.
However, a particular mindset—one echoing American-style thinking, marked by sectarianism and authoritarianism—was steering the events of February 28.
As a result, many of those patriotic individuals inside the system were unintentionally swept along by this current.
The late President Muhsin Yazıcıoğlu, especially in the statement he made after leaving the Presidential Mansion—and he was known to speak at length, though we had specifically requested a short message emphasizing this one sentence—was both alerting the public and signaling to the patriotic officers within the military. In essence, he was saying: “What are we doing? There is a sectarian structure at play here.” That was the message we wanted to convey, and we believe it eventually reached its target.
We believe that this message ultimately reached its intended audience. In Syria, there was a ruling minority—the Nusayri (Alawite) sect. For years after Syria was separated from us, the French hastily cobbled together a state. They handed them a flag and declared, “This is your state now.” Later, the Assad era began: first the father, Hafez al-Assad, followed by his son, Bashar al-Assad. They attempted to govern Syria through the power of this Nusayri minority.
Now, Syria is generally referred to as the Land of Sham. When one speaks of Sham, there are even prophetic traditions suggesting that the apocalypse will begin there. In that sense, Sham is a unique and spiritually charged place. When we say Sham, it traditionally includes regions as far north as Gaziantep and Kahramanmaraş. That is its historical reality. If the pawns of the devils are in our lands, then in the Land of Sham, the generals of the devils roam in battalions. It is a different world altogether. There are vast differences there—both ethnically and in terms of religious belief. Within those divisions, it was only possible for the Nusayri minority to rule through oppression—and that’s exactly what they did.
Especially in the later years of the more than 60-year-long Assad dynasty, the persecution reached unimaginable levels. After Hosni Mubarak was overthrown in Egypt and Morsi was elected, events began unfolding in a region just south of Damascus called Daraa.
In Daraa, the civil war in Syria effectively began with an incident involving just three to five Turkmen teenagers, around 13 or 14 years old, who wrote graffiti on a wall at night saying, “Doctor, you’re next.” They were caught and subjected to prolonged torture.
The families of these children went to the head of the Mukhabarat (intelligence service) to plead for their release, saying, “Please, give us back our children.”
He dismissed them and sent them away.
Then, the leading figures of Daraa—tribal elders, community leaders from all walks of life—gathered and approached the head of the Mukhabarat again.
They begged him.
They even practiced a traditional custom (placing their keffiyehs at his feet) as a sign of deep submission.
There could be no greater plea.
But the intelligence chief harshly rejected them, saying, “Get lost. Forget those children. Just make new ones.”
And, most shockingly—pardon the expression—he added, “If you can’t, then send us your wives.” That incident was essentially the starting point of everything. Whether it happens there or here, such a thing is utterly intolerable. It may sound shocking to us now, but over there, such cruelty by the Mukhabarat was routine—this was their everyday conduct.
Some of the children were killed, and others continued to be tortured. That’s when the situation exploded. The Syrian civil war began with this very event and quickly escalated.
That same brutal mentality soon began storming the homes and villages of those labeled as opponents of the regime.
So now, while Damascus is generally thought to have been under the control of Bashar al-Assad, when you go into certain neighborhoods of the city, it looks more like Gaza. Not a single stone has been left standing.
In those areas where Sunni Muslims lived, entire neighborhoods were razed to the ground along with their buildings.
People were massacred, and only those who managed to flee survived.
Of course, I could tell you so much more about what happened there, but in the interest of time, I’ll focus on my last visit—to the infamous Sednaya Prison.
I had been involved in the Syrian events from the very beginning, and I used to think I had seen all the suffering there was. But after visiting Sednaya Prison, I understood—perhaps for the first time in full—why people drown in the Mediterranean, and what pushes them to such desperation. Believe me, drowning is salvation. Dying a natural death is salvation. To die of hunger, to drown in the sea, to be shot and killed—each of these is a form of deliverance. Some people might say, “Why are you running? Why don’t you stay and fight?” But how are women supposed to fight?
Because this cruel and oppressive Nusayri regime—and I emphasize the word Nusayri here deliberately. They are often referred to as Alawites, but I say this sincerely: ours are nothing like them. Our Alawites believe in Allah and the Prophet. These are something else entirely. And for these people, death is deliverance. But they go on tormenting, violating honor and decency.
At Sednaya Prison, we were touring the place only with our own team. I said, “This won’t do. Let’s bring someone from the front gate—someone from HTS—who can explain things to us.” So we brought him in. That brother had been involved in the siege, when the prison was taken. He said, “We seized it in combat. In the end, a helicopter came and took away the administrators. We managed to save 700 people alive.”
One of the rescued reportedly asked, “Did Saddam come to save us?”—even though Saddam had been dead for years. Another said, “Is Hafez al-Assad dead?” A woman who had entered the prison as a young girl now had three children, and no one knew who their father was. The scene we witnessed there… While the HTS fighter was recounting what happened, he kept repeating, “Allahu a‘lam”—“Only God knows.” Why? Because there were no witnesses. Only God is the witness to what happened in that place.
There was a saw table—the kind used to cut wood. What was it for? Allahu a‘lam, only God knows. That’s what we heard from those who had been rescued. If someone said, “My arm hurts” or “My leg hurts,” they would bring them to that table and cut off the limb. That’s what they did—cut off arms and legs.
We entered a room. The smell was overwhelming. It’s still there, even now. That’s where they hanged people. Over there, they crushed them with a press. In another place, there were acid tanks. That’s where they dissolved the bodies. Today, the fate of one and a half million people is unknown. No one knows where they went, where—or if—they were buried. It’s as if they simply vanished into thin air.
This is the extent of the brutality. You walk through the units, through the different sections of the prison…
I say this as someone who spent years in prison. Diyarbakır has a reputation, but Mamak Prison was no less harsh. It was just the same. I stayed in parts of Mamak that no one even knows about. There were wards, there were cells—and there was the dungeon. The dungeon was below the ground—literally underground. It was 4.5 hand-spans wide and 4.5 hand-spans long. I measured it with my own hands. You had to crouch to enter through a tiny door. There was no toilet, of course. No place to lie down. You sat with your legs folded beneath you.
There was a single pot—excuse the expression—for relieving oneself. We ate just enough to stay alive, but never so much that we’d be forced to use that pot.
I tell this for one reason: we are a generation that has suffered and endured immense oppression. I’ve seen Sinop Prison. I’ve seen the dungeon of Harput. I’ve seen the dungeon of İshak Pasha. But Sednaya Prison… While we may think we’ve lived through hell, that place is esfel-i sâfilīn—the lowest pit of hell.
They hanged people, pressed them to death, melted them in vats of acid—and did it all with the regularity of a day job. That’s what the cruelty there looked like. This is where words fail.
And people are, of course, reacting. Those who want to get their families out, do so. Those who choose to fight first try to get their families to a relatively safe place—either near the Türkiye border, or to the other side of it, which we consider safer. But they themselves stay behind and continue the fight.
Now, following the December 8 revolution, a new political structure is being formed. In your view, how will this new era in Syria take shape? There are Turkmens, Kurds, and other minority groups—each with their own expectations and demands. From Türkiye’s perspective, this new chapter in Syria is also marked by ongoing Israeli attacks, as well as the withdrawal of Russia and Iran. How do you see this process unfolding? What do you anticipate in the coming period?
The revolution happened faster than anyone expected, leading many to speculate about what might really be behind it. Was it pre-negotiated? Was there an agreement? But the truth is this: the regime’s main sources of income—oil fields in Deir ez-Zor, Raqqa, and Qamishli, as well as the fertile lands in that region—were no longer under Assad’s control. These lands were so untouched by chemicals that they were considered nearly pristine.
All of these income-generating assets were out of the regime’s hands. Meanwhile, HTS and other opposition forces, including the FSA groups, had relatives in Damascus—people who remained there either out of necessity or by force. These relatives were passing on information. They were saying to the FSA forces: “Just give us the signal—we’ll enter from one side and exit from the other.”
That place had completely collapsed. Assad couldn’t even pay the salaries of his civil servants. His soldiers didn’t even have spare magazines—let alone bullets. People on the ground were saying, “This is going to be easy.” We thought they were exaggerating. Apparently, the first objective was to test things out in Aleppo.
When we spoke to our contacts there, they told us that when they entered Aleppo, they met with almost no serious resistance. Later, when I visited, our guide was someone who had personally taken part in the fighting during the Aleppo siege.
He said, “They all fled at once. And as they ran, they left their tanks and artillery behind.” So the fighters said, “Since it’s going so smoothly, let’s head toward Homs as well.”
It turned out to be far easier than expected. We anticipated some success—but not to this extent. From there, they moved on to Hama, and then Homs. The general assumption was that the real resistance would take place in Damascus. But once Assad fled the city, Damascus, too, slipped from the regime’s grasp.
Yes, it was surprising—but not something that left us in shock. We didn’t expect it to happen this fast, but we also didn’t think it would be so hard. Now, for instance, some strategy experts are on TV pointing to maps with sticks, saying, “Aleppo, Hama, Homs… Wait, Daraa fell too?” Then they zoom in on the map, searching for Daraa. Eventually, they see it’s beyond Damascus. And they say, “Oh, maybe they flew in with paramotors.” But that’s not what happened.
The fierce resistance and past suffering in Daraa had forced people underground. But once they sensed the regime was beginning to collapse, everyone sprang into action—right where they were. A new structure may have been established, but the danger is far from over.
There are weapons in nearly every household. Some regime soldiers took their arms with them as they fled; others left theirs behind in the streets, and the people picked them up.
In other words, the public is heavily armed. And it’s an incredibly diverse population—there are Druze, Nusayris, Kurds, Arabs, and Turkmens. It’s a society rich in ethnic, sectarian, and religious variety. In such societies, a certain degree of authoritarian governance is actually necessary to preserve order.
Now, Ahmad al-Shara—an individual once officially listed as a terrorist worldwide—has been elected head of state. He’s gradually being removed from those lists. He has changed his appearance and dress. His public statements are measured down to the very word, reflecting full awareness of the responsibility he now carries. But this isn’t about replacing Assad’s Nusayri regime with an HTS regime under Ahmad al-Shara. That’s not how he sees it. Rather, his aim is to build a lasting, internationally recognized state by integrating all these elements within a democratic framework.
What I saw in Damascus was this: while it wasn’t quite like Ankara’s Kızılay, it reminded me a bit of Ulus. In contrast, places like Afrin, Cinderes, Mare, Soran, and al-Bab had shown a very different reality—poverty, misery, and women fully covered, wrapped in hardship.
Damascus looked more stylish, more social. You could see women smoking hookah in cafés, wearing jeans—modest, not too revealing—but sitting on their own. Everyone seemed happy. I asked my friends there, “How did this happen?”
They told me that during the first three days, people were extremely anxious. No one left their homes. When HTS arrived, they thought: “Are we going to face some kind of strict Islamic rule now?” But the statements made by Ahmad al-Shara and his early actions reassured people. They came out to the streets—and embraced the new order.
How does Türkiye view the situation? And what is the status of the Turkmens?
Türkiye naturally supports a unitary structure and the territorial integrity of the region. Our Turkmens there, having endured severe oppression, now simply want to live in peace. But if the region turns into a patchwork of “Turkmen areas,” “Kurdish areas,” “Druze areas,” and so on, we could suddenly find ourselves sharing a border with Israel.
This is exactly why Türkiye insists so strongly on preserving a unitary system. When we speak of Turkmen rights, what we mean is their inclusion in the state as equal citizens. After the sectarian domination of the Nusayri regime, it is essential that a new dogmatism—such as that of HTS—not take its place. All groups must be represented in the state on the basis of merit.
For example, one of the largest FSA units in the region is the Sultan Murad Brigade. The newly established General Staff there has been given a highly important mission. Our Turkmen brother, Fehim Isa—an FSA commander—has taken on a critical role. Another FSA commander, Muhammad al-Jasim (Abu Hamsha), has become commander of the 25th Division. He is Arab by ethnicity but profoundly loyal to Türkiye—he’s the kind of man who, if he had a thousand lives, would give all thousand for Türkiye. He has also been appointed as head of the air forces.
These are all signs that certain individuals are now starting to be incorporated into the state structure. And the Republic of Türkiye sees a glimmer of hope in the unity of this region.
Is it easy? Not at all. Just recently, Israel struck a vehicle in Damascus, claiming the person inside was Palestinian. In other words, Israel is carrying out operations in the capital of this newly formed state.
Why isn’t there a response? Because at this stage, Ahmad al-Shara must first gain legitimacy. Today, Canada announced that it would send an ambassador. Türkiye has already done so. This is a process—and a painful one. These are structures that can be provoked very easily.
Even though Iran appears to have withdrawn, it has not really pulled back its influence. It is still doing everything it can to fuel unrest in the area. Israel is doing the same. And Russia—well, it has a military base there. It has no intention of giving that up.
As for the United States, it has in a way “domesticated” the PYD—what it refers to as the SDF—and managed to align them with Ahmad al-Shara in a form that Türkiye doesn’t strongly object to. However, from what I understand, Türkiye insists on seeing the actual implementation of the agreed terms.
Because these armed groups—those who have been fighting for years—are in a state of collective trauma, almost on the brink of madness. It will take time for them to return to normal. That’s why one of the current demands is the removal of foreign elements from Syria—meaning, above all, the PKK militants who came from outside.
But here’s the issue: how do you tell locals from outsiders? In the past, many Kurds in Syria didn’t even have official civil registration. So things are a bit complicated.
In this context, Türkiye will undoubtedly take on an active role. It will fully employ its control mechanisms. I firmly believe that every institution of my state—the Republic of Türkiye—is fully aware of the reality on the ground.
Over the years, I have come to see just how great my state truly is. God willing, those foreign elements will leave quietly, and Syria will become a land of peace.
And what was Syria to us before? It was a swamp—a breeding ground for PKK camps. A swamp that drained Türkiye for nearly half a century, costing it trillions of dollars.
Now that we’ve come this far, we see this as an achievement. As of last night, our air forces are still conducting operations there. We continue to receive photographs of neutralized targets.
From this perspective, the agreements made there are directly tied to Türkiye’s security. We must prioritize our own security. And seeing the situation on the ground gives us reassurance.
We are a generation that has suffered and lived through great oppression. I’ve seen Sinop Prison. I’ve seen the dungeon of Harput. I’ve seen the dungeon of İshak Pasha. But Sednaya Prison… Every time we think we’ve experienced hell, that place proves to be esfel-i sâfilīn—the lowest depth of hell. They hanged people, crushed them in presses, dissolved them in acid vats, and did all of it as if it were a routine day at work. That’s the level of brutality there. This is where words fail.
With Devlet Bahçeli’s recent statement, a new phase has begun in Türkiye. Then came Abdullah Öcalan’s call to lay down arms. This is a major development—and one closely tied to Syria. How do you assess this process? Can Türkiye rid itself of the scourge of terrorism? Do you believe a path can be formed—based on unity and brotherhood—that brings together the Kurds’ democratic demands and the Turks’ sensitivities about territorial integrity?
I didn’t hear Devlet Abi’s statement live when he first made it. Some friends told me about it—but they said it rather excitedly. They were like, “What’s Devlet Abi doing? Is he saying Apo should join parliament?” I said, “Let’s hear the full context first.”
In short, what Devlet Abi was really saying was this: you know how Duran Kalkan made a statement about Devlet Bey? He said, “What’s this guy saying? He’s saying: Lay down your arms, surrender, dissolve yourselves. That’s what he’s saying.” Well, he got it right—that’s exactly what was meant.
When I first heard it that day, secondhand, I also said, “So that’s what Devlet Abi was actually saying.”
As for the whole parliament discussion, I explained it like this: once, Mümtazer Türköne said, “Let’s make Apo a pasha.” He was heavily criticized for it.
I asked him, “Mümtazer, why would you say that? People are swearing at you.” He said, “There was a tradition in the Ottoman Empire. They would take the leader of the bandits and make him a başibozuk pasha. And if he didn’t keep his word, they’d execute him.”
I said, “Then why don’t you explain it like that?” He replied, “Only a fool needs everything spelled out.”
But in the end, Mümtazer got labeled as “the man who wanted to make Apo a pasha.”
Now, I’m not a journalist—that’s your area of expertise. But this whole thing was presented like a headline meant to grab attention—like the classic “Man bites dog.” It was just like how we used to print leaflets and write at the top, “Do not read this statement.” Naturally, that made people want to read it.
Devlet Abi’s statement wasn’t about Apo entering parliament. What he was really saying was: “Lay down your arms, surrender, repent, dissolve the organization.” That’s how I understood it. And that’s not a bad thing—it opens the door to asking: Now what?
In the end, the process moved forward. What happened was this: Devlet Abi pulled the pin on the grenade and extended it—to DEM, to İmralı, to Kandil, to Syria. He basically said, “Here you go. Let’s see what you’ll do now.”
Now, if Kandil says, “We will not disarm,” then you turn to Apo and say, “Look, your men are rebelling.” If Mazlum Kobani says, “I won’t lay down my arms,” you say, “See, they won’t even listen to you.”
This was the first time something like this had been done. Of course, the punitive hand of the state will always remain over them. But alongside that, intelligence, reason, and strategy must also be part of the equation.
This was the moment when the organization was at its weakest. No one should confuse this with the so-called “peace process.” At this point, the organization no longer has the strength to carry out an attack inside Türkiye.
And what was the most problematic area? Ovacık. I was in Ovacık this year—a place where nearly every turn in the road carries the memory of martyrs. I was driving around without any security escort. Suddenly, deer appeared in front of us. Just as I was about to take a photo, a friend said, “The governor just passed by on his bicycle.”
Praise be to God—Ovacık had always been a troubled region. The Lice–Kulp line was always problematic. So were Dargeçit and other places. But now, there is road and life security everywhere.
At such a time, Devlet Ağabey (may God grant him health and well-being) makes this statement, and a new process begins.
As we all know, the PKK terrorist organization has waved many flags: the Greek flag, the Russian flag, the American flag, the Syrian flag, the Israeli flag… They have taken up every flag—except one: the Turkish flag.
They allowed themselves to be used by everyone. But there is one flag—the red flag with the white star and crescent—whose shadow is so vast, so all-encompassing, that they never stood beneath it.
Yet it is only under that flag that they will ever find peace.
When the guns are firing, it’s a state of madness. The mind cannot function rationally. But once the weapons fall silent, they will come to realize this: even our red flag with the white star and crescent extends its embrace to them as well.
Yes, he is a terrorist leader. But at the end of the day, he spoke. Now when we look at that statement—honestly, what is there to object to? Which part of it is problematic? What is he saying? He’s saying: “We lost. We were defeated. Let’s acknowledge this truth. Let’s immediately dismantle the organization, disband it, and lay down our arms. Let’s pursue our struggle for rights and justice through democratic means.” Wasn’t that exactly what was being asked for all along?
So why do we see Apo as an enemy? Because he used weapons to kill—even babies. But if they’re now saying, “We won’t do it again, we repent,” then there’s really nothing more to say. He is already serving his sentence.
You dream of a Kurdistan—but why would you give up on Istanbul? Why would you give up on Izmir? Izmir is yours. Istanbul is yours—just like Diyarbakır is mine.
This land—this heaven of a homeland—is worth a thousand lives for every inch. Say, “This is my homeland,” and you will find peace.
Have you never thought about this? Do you really believe they’ll let you build a Kurdistan here?
They might promise you that. But know this: before that, there is a much bigger dream—the dream of Greater Israel.
Do they base this on their sacred texts—on Arz-ı Mevud, the so-called Promised Land? Yes, they do.
Tell me—does America care about you? Is America gazing into your eyes, yearning for your presence? Why would America love the Kurds?
Mahir has a thousand reasons to love the Kurds. But America? America doesn’t have even one.
There are only two reasons they are here in this region: one, the security of Israel; two, underground resources.
Look—the General Director of TPAO recently announced that oil production in Gabar has reached 78,000 barrels per day. This year’s target is 100,000. Before Gabar, Türkiye’s total oil production was just 50,000 barrels a day. Now, from Gabar alone, we’re aiming for 100,000.
If terrorism ends, I genuinely believe this land—where even the soil is as precious as gold—holds enough love, peace, and prosperity for everyone. But that can only be seen in times of peace. It can only be lived once the war is over.
Little by little, I can feel a softening of tensions. And with each passing day, it becomes clearer that what Devlet Ağabey said wasn’t just a casual remark. Some have condemned it harshly, shouting things like, “Let Apo into parliament?!” But to some of them, I want to say this:
It would be better if certain figures in the opposition could debate these matters without reaching a point where they can no longer look each other in the eye.
At the same time, let them oppose it as strongly as they wish—because if there’s ever a sign of vulnerability, there must also be a stance that says, “We’re here, too.”
I don’t have a problem with them either. I’m not saying, “Don’t you see? Don’t you understand?” These are matters as fine as a strand of hair, as sharp as a blade.
But I truly believe the intention here is sincere. Devlet Bey’s political acumen may be debated—some may see it as right, others as wrong.
But no one—absolutely no one—can accuse Devlet Bey of betrayal. That simply doesn’t exist. I say this with full confidence.
I shared the same prison ward with him for years. He’s older than us—our elder. And though I’m not involved in politics at all—I’m far removed from it—if I have to speak the truth, I can say this without hesitation: betrayal doesn’t come from those we know.
Yes, he’s a terrorist leader. But in the end, he spoke. And now, when we look at that statement—honestly, who could take issue with it? What part of it is actually objectionable?
What is he saying? He’s saying:
“We lost. We were defeated. Let’s acknowledge this reality. Let’s immediately dismantle the organization, dissolve it, and lay down our arms. Let’s continue our struggle for rights and justice through democratic means.”
Isn’t that exactly what was being asked for? So why do we consider Apo an enemy? Because he used weapons—even against babies. But if they’re now saying, “We won’t do it again, we repent,” then there’s nothing more to say. He’s already serving his sentence. Meanwhile, military operations are still ongoing—both in the Pençe-Kilit region and in Ayn al-Arab.
So, there’s no alternative stance the state has taken in this matter. Let me continue in the context of your question: After the withdrawal of the terrorist organization, how can unity among Turks, Kurds, and other regional communities be built?
Thank God, I haven’t seen any serious problem in that regard. There has never been a fundamental conflict between Turks and Kurds. That said, over the years, the repeated use of the term “Kurdistan” has planted seeds of discord in some minds.
And reversing that perception is not easy.
However, from this point forward, the efforts the state undertakes—especially through civil society organizations—will be critical. Rather than ideological messaging, social, cultural, and athletic initiatives should focus on cultivating a genuine love and attachment to the Republic of Türkiye and its flag, particularly among children aged 13–14 and younger.
If civil society organizations lead this effort with a clear sense of one nation, one flag, it will be far more effective—and it is absolutely possible.
Let me give you an example:
In Syria’s Soran district—which now has a population of around 45,000—we opened an elementary school: Şehit Eren Bülbül Elementary School. The school serves 850 students.
Before the school opened, we organized a week-long football tournament with all the local elementary schools. We provided jerseys and shoes for every team—each in a different color—but each one had the Turkish flag on the chest.
They played their matches, and even those who lost received medals—huge ones. On one side was the Turkish flag, the crescent and star. On the other side, the inscription read: “Brotherhood Knows No Borders,” along with both the FSA and Turkish flags.
For a week, our young brothers—9, 10, 11, 12 years old—played. The first, second, and third-place teams received trophies, again marked with the Turkish and FSA flags.
And we didn’t stop there. Every child who came to watch the matches received a gift. Most of them had the Turkish flag on them. We gave out chocolates, balloons—balloons shaped like the Turkish flag.
So, what did we achieve? We reached every single home in Soran. And yet, we never once said anything directly about Türkiye.
You know how psychologists always say, “Go back to their childhood.”
Well, for those children, the most meaningful gift they’ve ever received in their lives… was that medal. And who gave it to them? It came from Türkiye. Someone from Türkiye brought it to them.
And I believe with all my heart that in that moment, we planted the love of Türkiye deep inside them.Why am I telling you this? Because we didn’t need conferences. We didn’t need seminars. We didn’t need to stand before them and say, “Children, Assad and his oppressors taught you to hate Türkiye for years, but now we’re here to tell you the truth…” No.
A simple football tournament did something far greater. Now imagine this on a larger scale—mutual exchange visits, school trips from there to here, and from here to there. Imagine taking elementary school children to visit Çanakkale, Istanbul, Ankara… and bringing children from here to visit them there.
I talk about Tunceli, Diyarbakır, and Urfa all the time. I say they are the most beautiful places in the world—and I truly believe it. If Tunceli isn’t the most beautiful place on Earth, then what is? Its natural beauty is breathtaking. God has blessed us with an incredibly beautiful country. Urfa is beautiful. Diyarbakır is beautiful. Tunceli is beautiful.This land of ours—truly—is a paradise.
But you see, there was this ingrained belief, almost a conditioned fear: that beyond the Kömürhan Bridge, past Elazığ, things got “troubled.” People had mentally divided their own country.
That’s why I talk about places like Ovacık.
Ovacık is amazing. It’s a paradise on Earth. If there is heaven in this world, it’s there—at least, that’s how I see it. I share photos and videos from there. I show the beauty of that paradise. I post them with a caption: “This is heaven.” Because I want people to understand—Tunceli is not a dark, ominous place. Tunceli is bright, clear, and beautiful. Its people are warm and respectful.
As long as terror and chaos don’t poison it—and as long as the state reaches out with compassion, while also drawing a clear line by saying, “If you cause trouble, you will be held accountable”—then we can become a peaceful nation.
We are a great state. And there is no conflict between Kurds and Turks. We’ve never had such a fight. The fight was with the PKK. And in that fight, we took a side. That’s all. We’ve married Kurdish women. They’ve married Turkish men. Many of us have Kurdish relatives. And they have Turkish relatives. There is no problem. For centuries, we’ve shared the same fate. We’ve suffered together. We’ve celebrated together.
If you remove the Kurds from our culture, something vital would be missing.
And the same goes for them. Istanbul, Izmir, and Adana belong to them just as much as they belong to us. And Diyarbakır, Tunceli—those belong to us just as much as they belong to them.
Recently, a ministerial-level meeting took place among regional countries—Türkiye, Syria, and Iraq. Do you believe it’s possible for Türkiye, Syria, Iraq, and Lebanon to establish a joint peace order—one that could evolve into a broader model of peace and serve as an example for the Balkans, the Caucasus, Africa, and even the Mediterranean? In the face of imperialist agendas, what core principles and values should Türkiye uphold to make peace a reality?
First, let’s not forget: these nations were once part of a single state—just 110 to 120 years ago. We shared a common history, a common culture, and even a common faith. Then came the fragmentation. And over time, tensions emerged among us.
But today, one thing is clear: Türkiye has shown remarkable performance in recent years. Domestically, political criticism may exist—and it should—but internationally, Türkiye has gained significant prestige.
For instance, when I visited Lebanon, I personally witnessed something remarkable: even women were out on the streets, cheering for Türkiye’s president—as if it were an election rally.
There was a hospital opening during my visit. I attended the event, and seeing the joy it brought to the people genuinely moved me.
It doesn’t matter whether the President of Türkiye is Ahmet Necdet Sezer or Recep Tayyip Erdoğan. The key point is that he is the President of Türkiye.
I don’t say this because it’s Tayyip Bey in particular—if it were someone else, it would be the same. What matters is that they are showing support for the leader of my homeland. This is what I’m trying to say:
When Turgut Özal visited the Balkans, the entire region came alive. When Ecevit went, it was the same. When Muhsin Yazıcıoğlu visited, the reaction was just as powerful. Eyes in those regions are fixed on Anatolia. They are watching, waiting—hoping that a flag will rise from here. Everyone is looking to Türkiye to raise that flag. After the collapse of the Soviet Union, the newly independent Turkic republics found themselves caught between two powers: the United States and Russia. Some leaned toward America—this strained their relations with Russia. Others moved closer to Russia—which sparked tensions with the U.S.
But after the Karabakh victory, something changed: they saw that when the Organization of Turkic States stands united, great things can be accomplished.
The Karabakh Operation reshaped the mission and identity of the Organization of Turkic States. Because when you mention Karabakh, Türkiye is the first country that comes to mind—both for its air and ground support.
And eventually, Qatar’s natural gas will pass through Türkiye. Iraq, Qatar, the UAE… Remember, the UAE once had serious tensions with Qatar. Saudi Arabia, too. At one point, they were close to seizing control of Qatar. But Türkiye stepped in and established a military base there. We stood with Qatar. They imposed a blockade. Even the United States was part of the pressure campaign against Qatar. But historically, Qatar has always stood with Türkiye—and Türkiye stood with Qatar. When that storm passed, Qatar, the UAE, and Iraq came together to initiate the Development Road Project. Nations once thought irreconcilable are now cooperating. And this proves something: if we use wisdom and prioritize the interests of our state, unity is possible.
This region is the heart of global energy. The West is desperately in need of energy. And Türkiye, geographically, is the natural route through which energy flows. There is enough energy in the Eastern Mediterranean to supply Europe for 50 years. And the most economical, secure, and direct path runs through Türkiye. If we now move forward and solidify our maritime jurisdiction areas…
So far, no such agreement has been made with Syria—to avoid obstructing broader support for Syria. As you know, Southern Cyprus and Greece would likely issue a veto. But once that agreement is signed, Türkiye’s role in the Middle East—as a gateway for countries rich in underground resources—will become even more critical. Türkiye will transport that energy to the West—and will do so securely. I believe these developments are of great importance. Not just economically, but for our future. This is the awakening of a sleeping giant. And hopefully, it will all be achieved—without breaking anything in the porcelain shop.
A moment ago, you mentioned that our state is very powerful. I’d like to ask something in that context. After the September 12 coup, one of the prominent figures of the Ülkücü Movement once said: “Neither does this state love the Ülkücüs, nor do the Ülkücüs love this state.” Ülkücüs went through extreme hardship—both before and after September 12. So what does the state mean to an Ülkücü?
Everyone has something to say. But let me tell you what I believe. Before September 12, we used to say, “The state is sacred. Let us die for it. If we had a thousand lives, we’d give them all.”
And not just because of what we experienced then, but because over time we came to understand this: The state must exist to sustain its people. The state is our state. We are ready to sacrifice for it—but it must also uphold and protect us in return. Naturally, there is an expectation of reciprocity. Some people may never fully grasp what we lived through. But I can tell you this—what happened to us was not the state oppressing us. It was not the state that tortured us.
Because the state does not commit oppression. The state does not strip a 13-year-old girl naked and electrocute her. The state does not do the same to a 70-year-old grandmother. I say this as someone who witnessed these things with my own eyes. The state does not betray its people. So, who did? We just lived through July 15, as if it happened yesterday. On July 15, the FETÖ network tried and failed to carry out a coup. Had they succeeded—would we have called them the state? Kenan Evren and his associates staged a coup. They attempted to take over the state. But the state is my state. In the end, they all faded into obscurity. Their names are barely remembered. Their funerals were held in secrecy. A man who once sat in the presidential seat—his body was hastily buried while people chanted, “We do not forgive you!” And yet, those they wanted to execute—may God have mercy on them—look at their graves:
Başbuğ Alparslan Türkeş—his grave is like a place of pilgrimage. Muhsin Yazıcıoğlu—his grave is a shrine. Necmettin Erbakan—also a victim of that era—his grave is revered. Yes, certain people infiltrated the state. But it wasn’t the state itself that oppressed us. Because if we start to believe that, then what difference remains between us and the PKK? What do they say happened to them in Diyarbakır Prison? They say, “The state tortured us because we are Kurds.” But that’s not what happened. We were not persecuted for being Turks. We were interrogated for violating criminal laws. But those interrogations—let me be clear—went far beyond the limits of legitimacy. Those who hijacked the state inflicted torture not in the name of justice, but to preserve their own power.
They weren’t the state. They were a force that had seized control of it. And one by one, they disappeared. What we endured was not oppression at the hands of the state itself.
Because if we believed that, we would lose our love for the state.
But that never happened. Those responsible were American puppets—embedded within the state. Our state is one that embraces its people, that protects them with compassion. That is the kind of state we believe in.The state does not torture.The state does not oppress. The state does not betray its people. Those who did—were American puppets.
In recent times, we’ve witnessed a shift in nationalist discourse. What we’re seeing now is a form of nationalism that blends elements of Shamanism, Tengricism, and anti-Arab sentiment. Narratives like “Turkishness without Islam,” “Kemalist Turkism,” and a “nationalism hostile toward Kurds” are very different from the Ülkücülük of the 1970s. And this rhetoric is gaining traction among some of today’s youth. How do I see this?
Well, when the string of a prayer bead breaks, the beads scatter. And this is exactly what we’re seeing now.
Back in our youth, we had thinkers and teachers like Erol Güngör, Necip Fazıl, Osman Yüksel Serdengeçti, and Ahmet Arvasi. May God have mercy on them all. We should include Nihal Atsız as well. These were the minds we learned from. We were part of an organized movement—a disciplined structure.
Under the guidance of wise, principled thinkers, this movement was able to distill the essence of all these different intellectual traditions—like collecting nectar from many flowers—and produce something like honey.
Young writers and thinkers within the Ülkücü Movement synthesized these diverse currents and turned them into a unified, meaningful vision.
And we, as Ülkücüs, could say with confidence: “Yes, this is our main road. This has always been our path.” In that sense, our main road remains unchanged. We still believe in the cause of Nizam-ı Âlem. We still believe in İ’lây-ı Kelimetullah. We still hold fast to the mission of building a new Turkish-Islamic civilization.
But here’s the truth: when a vibrant and energetic youth is left unguided, others—external forces or even internal confusion—will try to steer them in different directions.
And this doesn’t always require a conspiracy theory. Sometimes, it just happens naturally. Add youthful passion to that, and people can easily be misled. Today’s youth are extremely politicized. In our time, we weren’t this deeply entangled in party politics. The MHP wasn’t everything to us. In fact, we used to say, “I wish the elections would be over so we can return to our real work.” That’s how we saw it. For us, the cause was never limited to the party.
But now, many interpret everything strictly through the lens of political parties and push things to extremes. The government’s tone also plays a role in this. Perhaps its discourse is pushing people toward opposite extremes. And those who reject it are being pushed to the very edges. And yes, there are groups that exploit this polarization.
But I believe this: when a true wave of national spirit rises, there is something deeper—something rooted in the heart of this nation. In that moment, many of these artificial divisions will vanish. And what will remain is the main road—the Turkish-Islamic identity. And when we say “Turk,” we mean: Mehmet Akif. Saladin Ayyubi. Ziya Gökalp. All of them fall within our understanding of Turkishness. A Turkish identity that unites—not one that divides.And when such a movement rises—firmly rooted in faith and national consciousness—these ideological deviations can be overcome. Right now, unfortunately, there’s a lack of order. People are being pulled in different directions. And we’re not pleased about it.
You are someone who bore the cost of the first Ülkücü struggle—someone who has reflected deeply, and who, with humility, continues to guide young people today at a foundation located right beside the grave of the late Muhsin Yazıcıoğlu. With that same faith-driven sensitivity, you carry on. In the face of diverging nationalist discourses, where does Mahir Damatlar stand? What is the vision you see for the future?
When it comes to “paying the price,” here’s how I see it: Whatever Allah destined for us—we lived it. And because of those experiences, people now regard us as someone worth listening to. As long as we don’t tarnish what we’ve been through, Allah continues to bless us. I spoke earlier about being held in a dungeon—no larger than four and a half hand spans. A cell beneath the ground, beneath even the soil itself—like a grave. And now, when I look at where I stand today…
A life with four children, nine grandchildren, and thousands of young brothers and sisters around me… I ask myself, “My Lord, what did I ever do to deserve all these blessings poured upon me?” We are not the ones who paid the ultimate price. Those who truly paid it—are now beneath the earth. Whatever Allah ordained for us, we lived through it. So we have no complaints. No bitterness. Whatever happened to us—for this homeland, for this nation, for the values we hold dear—we accepted it with open hearts. The state? May the state be forever strong. I have never thought in terms of debts owed or sacrifices made. Such thoughts never even crossed my mind. As long as this soul remains in this body, I will hold firm to the same beliefs—and pass them on to the younger generation. My ideological stance, as I mentioned earlier, is a reasonable, principled understanding of Turkishness. After all, none of us chose our mother or father. We see Turkishness as a Husseini stance—a position that stands against tyranny, that resists injustice, and that sides with the oppressed. You can define it using the words of İsmet Özel or Ziya Gökalp—it doesn’t matter. In any case, our nationalism is not based on race.
It extends only as far as our faith allows—as far as the compass point remains grounded in our core beliefs. Of course, we respect those who think differently. Gather ten people who call themselves Turkish nationalists in one room, and you’ll hear ten different views. No need to obsess over that.
Ziya Gökalp is of me, and I am of him. And the man who conquered Jerusalem—is he not one of us? Of course he is. He is Turkish. And the man who wrote the Independence March—is he not Turkish? That’s how I see it. And I feel no discomfort in saying so. Others may think differently, and that’s perfectly fine. I don’t believe in the idea that “All nationalists must unite.”
Let them remain scattered.
If forced unity will only lead to more division, then it’s better not to force it. But at the very least, let us preserve a language of respect and dignity. Let us not lose the ability to look each other in the eye. Even when criticizing someone, we should think:
“One day, I’ll see this person at a funeral, or a wedding. I’ll embrace him—not for his sake, but for the sake of my own honor. I won’t lose my self-respect. I won’t become a hypocrite.”
That’s the principle I live by. We are people who were cast out of that political structure. We were expelled from the MHP. Yet even so, we don’t speak ill of our friends there. Nor do we speak ill of the MHP itself. We don’t speak ill of the Büyük Birlik movement, either. Nor of anyone else. Those who act against this homeland—against this nation—are another matter. But even then, we do not curse or insult. Because that would mean violating someone’s kul hakkı—the sacred rights of another. Think about it. Today, I call Apo a murderer—because he is one. But if I go beyond that—if I say more—he might stand before me one day and say, “You owe me an answer.”
What sense would that make? Say what you must—but stay within the bounds of reason. That’s the line we try to walk. This place is our shelter. And we never engage in anything that would disrupt the structure of others. Let me share something personal: A friend of ours—a government bureaucrat working on major national projects—came to visit. Inshallah, soon Türkiye will take its place in space. This young man is part of that effort.
He asked, “Abi, what do you do these days?” I told him: “When someone walks through this door, I don’t ask, ‘Are you Ülkücü? Are you an Akıncı? Are you from the National Turkish Student Union? Genç Birlik? Alperen?” Instead, I tell them: ‘Our core values are Allah, the Prophet, the homeland, the nation, the state, and the flag. That is our main road.’ Then a young man in the room smiled and said: “Abi, all those groups you mentioned? They’re all here right now.” He said, “There are Ülkücüs here, Alperens, Genç Birlik members, and National Turkish Student Union folks.” And that—that is beautiful. We’re not building walls between them. What matters to us is not the label—not which group someone comes from. What matters is the essence. Not the container—but the content. If we’re united in the essence, then no power can bring us down.
Thank you.
And may you always walk in peace.
* Mahir Damatlar was born in 1954 in Yozgat, Türkiye. He completed his primary education in Yozgat and pursued his secondary, high school, and higher education in Ankara. In 1970, he joined the Genç Ülkücüler Teşkilatı (Young Ülkücüs Organization) and became actively involved in the Ülkücü Movement. After moving to Ankara, he played a key role in organizing Ülkücü institutions in Yenimahalle, where he resided, taking on leadership and executive responsibilities. During the September 12 coup, he endured severe torture and was imprisoned for six years. Following his release, he entered politics alongside Muhsin Yazıcıoğlu as part of the Büyük Birlik Partisi (BBP). Today, he serves as the president of Gönüllerde Birlik Vakfı, a foundation based in Hamamönü, Ankara.
For Mahir Damatlar’s interviews on the September 12 coup, his prison experiences, and his views on Muhsin Yazıcıoğlu, see:
