Hadi Uluengin, a journalist associated with Turkey’s left-wing ’60s movement, recently transferred from the populist and pro-status quo Hürriyet daily to the liberal Taraf daily.
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Taraf columnist Hadi Uluengin with his mother, Selma Hanım. (Photo: Sunday's Zaman) |
How does he evaluate his left-wing past? Does the legacy of Turkey’s generation of '68 have any influence today on its former members? Uluengin thinks about these questions a lot these days, and what he has to say about them holds an important lesson for everyone.
Along with many others, Uluengin has been “accused” of being a turncoat for softening his hardcore left-wing outlook to embrace more liberal values, a change that often comes to young hard-liners with age. But in the veteran journalist’s opinion there is nothing wrong with gaining new perspectives or with change. “We set out at the end of the 1960s with moral consciences and human values at heart,” says Uluengin. “I personally do believe that I have embraced most of those values. But at the same time, there are many people who still think of themselves as leftists, who assert they never departed from that axis, but who are now far removed from the human, conscientious and moral dimensions of those values, and are now in the position of actually defending the values that are completely opposite those that guided us from the beginning of the journey.”
Today Uluengin leads an introspective, solitary life; he rarely leaves his home and sees few people socially, with the exception of his mother. We decided to visit Uluengin -- who recently left his post at the Hürriyet daily for a position as a columnist at the Taraf daily -- and his mother, and grab the chance to listen to their memories.
Taraf has a tighter financial budget than Hürriyet. Was it not a financial risk on your part to leave Hürriyet?
Yes, that is definitely the case. But before making any deals with Taraf, I first made sure they would be able to meet my basic needs, and it was after ascertaining this that I left Hürriyet. I am now 61 years old, so more than any monetary comfort what I really want is a certain comfort of conscience and mentality. These are very important factors for me. As it is, I was never very concerned with money, and I cannot imagine that I will be from here onwards either. Also, I could take this risk because I now get a pension, which alongside the salary I get from Taraf now is enough for me to live on. Anyway, I’m not a man with very great expenses, and having sold my home in Brussels and bought one here I no longer have to worry about rental payments either.
You summed up your spiritual state as “endlessly happy” the day you started working for Taraf. Was it leaving Hürriyet or just starting at Taraf that made you so incredibly happy?
I don’t want to say anything bad about a place that paid my salary for a full 21 years. What made me happy about starting work at Taraf was that I was finally working with people on whose frequencies I had been for as long as I can remember. As you know, what I am referring to is the people referred to as “liberals.” No matter how annoying I find this word, the fact is that when I look at it from this angle I really am happy about transferring over to Taraf.
In your first column for Taraf you wrote about people who “because they were not able to learn lessons from defeat, and because they were unable to transcend the mediocrity in their personalities, got caught up in a terrible desire for revenge, and thus lash out in hatred of those of us who oppose any kind of oppression.” This was a piece of criticism aimed at those who have accused you of being a turncoat, was it not?
I was really talking about those who are unable to add anything to their old set of ideas, or who are unable to develop themselves. As you know, they are people who are in a terrible state these days. We set out at the end of the 1960s with moral consciences and human values at heart. I personally do believe that I have embraced most of those values. But at the same time, there are many people who still think of themselves as leftists, who assert they never departed from that axis, but who are now far removed from the human, conscientious and moral dimensions of those values, and are now in the position of actually defending the values that are completely opposite those which guided us from the beginning of the journey. For example, we used to embrace the correct stance on a series of issues, from the Kurdish problems to the deep state.
So, looking at things as they stand today, what changed?
I did not change. They are the ones who changed. The whole problem is rooted in not being able to accept defeat; they were never able to accept defeat, and thus never engaged in the necessary self-criticism or radical changes that should come post-defeat. They never called anything into account. Speaking for myself, I did these things. When the general movement I was a part of decided to support the Sept. 12, 1980 coup, I rejected those new bridges, and decided to review Marxism and what it really was for about a decade. The reason for this was that I really held myself accountable for the fact that when I was in my 30s I was very close to some totalitarian ideologies. This sense of self-reckoning, of accounting for my own actions, will continue for my whole life.
Why is the whole “turncoat” epithet used so carelessly in Turkey? Can a person not face up to and perhaps change his or her approach to an ideology that he or she may have embraced in younger years? Is this something abnormal?
Yes, this whole concept of being a turncoat is really not one you see flouted so much in Western countries. But it is very normal for a person to question his or her previous actions and thoughts, and in truth, the route followed by me and others who were involved in the left movement in the 1960s is definitely quite normal, and nothing to exaggerate.
Why then is there the whole “generation of ‘68” legend?
This is actually a false legend, a false mythology, and this too is where the whole problem is rooted. We are a feudal society, and we seem to interpret self-questioning as some sort of crime. So what we really see is that now we have a faction of society that still labels itself leftist and Marxist, but they have not been able to rid themselves of their feudal preconceptions, and this is where the problem lies.
How did your adventure in the world of journalism begin?
When I first went to Brussels I was a professional militant. I did everything you could possibly imagine for work, including driving a taxi. I was ideologically proud of working. Then later I began working as a reporter for the Aydınlık newspaper. Then someone from my organization who understood my talents for this work told me I should give up on being a militant and instead represent our ideology from a bourgeoisie newspaper. Which is how my work at the Güneş, Cumhuriyet and later Hürriyet newspaper began. The truth is, I had never considered even being a journalist. My mother had always wanted me to be a diplomat.
Was it during that period that you met Doğu Perinçek?
It was during the years 1969-70 that I first met him at İstanbul Technical University, and began to see him as a leader. When he came to Brussels he would stay at my home, and when I went to Ankara I stayed with him a few times. But beyond our relationship as militants we did not really have a special friendship.
When you were writing for Hürriyet there seemed to be some fundamental incompatibility between you as a writer and the paper. Were you always seen as a different breed of writer there?
I suppose that is true. I am someone who earns his money through writing. I am responsible not for the paper that publishes these writings, but for the writing itself. In the past, I would always sign off on whatever I had written. It used to be that writer Yavuz Gökmen was also at Hürriyet as a writer, and I felt close to him. But when he died I really became isolated.
How do you interpret the recent bout of criticisms aimed at the Justice and Development Party (AK Party) that it is “now acting according to statist [state-like] impulses”?
Well, since we are going to label ourselves liberals it should be clear that our profile is different from that of the AK Party. Well, speaking for myself at least. I definitely have never written anyone a blank check. I have always preferred to take the side of being pragmatic and siding with the downtrodden. And of course, the tradition that produced the AK Party was affected by this sort of downtrodden state.
Does what happened in Uludere -- and in its wake -- have any effect on your views nowadays?
I saw the stance embraced by the prime minister two years ago as much more positive. In recent times his rhetoric has begun to approach the state’s rhetoric, and Uludere is just one reflection of this. Perhaps what happened is that the ruling party’s stance changed when it began to believe it had eliminated the deep state. I have neither any worries that I will somehow harm the government if I write something negative nor that I will somehow reap some benefit if I write something positive about someone. I try to act according to what my conscience tells me.
‘During the events of Sept. 6-7 my father stood guard for days at his Greek partner’s home’
What does Fatih, the district of İstanbul where you were born and grew up, mean to you now?
Both my mother and father are from families that have lived in Fatih Cibali for seven generations. My great uncles, who were doctors, had offices there. In our home, growing up, there was often talk of the great Fatih fires. In those times all the houses were wooden. I was actually born in Laleli, and grew up there until I was 10. It was a place where people slightly wealthier than average lived. In the summers we would go to my great aunt’s summer villa in Kızıltoprak.
If I am not mistaken, both your mother and father were people who had embraced a more Western lifestyle?
My father was a printer, and he was quite an intellectual. He was also a wonderful artist. He had a library full of unusual books. He was an autodidact. He had worked for many years in the state mint, and later opened up his own printing press. As for my mother, she was a housewife. While my family embraced some more Western ways, they were also very tied to tradition.
Was printing actually a family business?
The men on my father’s side of the family were all naval officers. My father and his Greek partner, my “Uncle Kochi,” started up the business together. My Uncle Kochi was like a member of the family. During the events of Sept. 6-7 [1955] my father stood guard for days on end at the Yeşilköy home of my Uncle Kochi. He did not want anything bad to happen to him. I was only 5, and don’t remember anything clearly from those unfortunate days. Even when my Uncle Kochi moved to Greece his ties with my father were not severed. My father went to visit him. Around the time when my father had a brain aneurysm my Uncle Kochi died. My mother actually hid the news for years, so my father would not be too deeply saddened. My father could only speak very little after his illness, and when he could, he would say, “Please call Athens and find out for me how Kochi is doing.”
You had difficult times at Saint Joseph High School, and had to leave it in the end.
I actually never wanted to go to Saint Joseph, but my father sent me there because of its famous level of discipline. Because it was so disciplined and conservative I wound up having to leave it. I was a rebellious sort of student, and the last in the class. I had really different areas of interest at the time.
What were those then?
I was more interested in leftism and things of that nature. I read a lot, but didn’t study my lesson books. I had a youth that tended towards marginalism. Salim Rıza Kırkpınar lived right next door to us at the time. He would lend me books, and see to my cultural development. When my father was buried, my Uncle Salim read in that deep voice of his the poem “Rindlerin Ölümü” by Yahya Kemal.
With no high school diploma, I couldn’t get an education in cinema
In your second year of high school your father sent you to a summer camp in Brussels, but the moment you left İstanbul you tore up your return ticket and wound up living in Belgium for years. Is that story an urban legend or is it true?
It is definitely true. The moment I got on the train I ripped up my return ticket.
What was it that triggered such a dramatic move on your part?
I was very rash, and after I went to Brussels I could not have returned even if I had wanted to, since the March 12 memorandum [1971 coup] had taken place. They were forcing their way into homes and carrying out searches. I actually wanted to be a movie director. I knew there was a very good school for this in Poland at the time, and my goal was to be able to study there. My father had bought me a film camera when I was 11 years old. I was shooting little films at that age. When Poland did not work out, I tried Brussels. I passed the tests, but I was not able to attend cinema school because I did not have a high school diploma.
I know your character is one that gets bored or tired quickly. I have heard you would politely kick out guests after some time who had come to visit your home in Brussels.
Yes, that is one side of my disposition. I live a very inward turned life. I am not someone with lots of outward social relations. I rarely go out. I am very shy and introspective. My father was like that, too. I am someone with habits, like a classic definition of a bourgeoisie. I am someone connected to the objects in my home, who goes crazy when books are moved from their places. I am also very neat and orderly. This is something that may have come to me from my years at Saint Joseph.
You were the first one to define the whole Hizmet (service/Gülen) movement as a camia (fellowship). Why did you feel the need to define it that way?
When you say cemaat (a word used to refer to the Gülen movement), what comes to mind is a more closed-off, marginal, strict structure. When you say “fellowship,” though, it comes across as a more all-encompassing society of people with shared interests. When you start talking about the fellowship of Fethullah Gülen, one understands you are talking about a group of people who find his teachings right and who are also able to cast their webs into a wide spectrum of areas. I believe this is what I was trying to get at with that definition of the movement, and I think I was right on the mark.
In Turkey the bill for everything negative that happens, especially after the Ergenekon trial, seems to be placed at the feet of the Gülen movement. We saw this with the journalists who were arrested, as well as the match-fixing investigation. What could be the aim with this?
There are those who wish to see any sort of propaganda and fear spread so that the movement of fellowship we are talking about is interpreted as badly as possible by a large number of people. At the same time, it could be that the apparent hesitation on the part of those in the fellowship when it comes to acting more transparently -- combined with their more conservative behavior -- raises question marks in some minds.
Published on Sunday's Zaman, 17 June 2012, Sunday
