Yusuf KANLI
The Republic was proclaimed in a day, but it was not made in a day. The transition from empire ran through constitutional experiments, war and political upheaval, the opening of a parliament in Ankara and the abolition of the sultanate. Its democratic path was uneven, too: two early opposition experiments failed before İsmet İnönü led the country into multiparty politics and accepted defeat at the ballot box in 1950.
By Yusuf Kanlı
Every anniversary, the same scene returns. Mustafa Kemal turns to his companions at dinner and says, “Gentlemen, we are establishing the Republic tomorrow.” The next day, the familiar account continues, a country steps out of a 700-year-old empire and into a republic.
It makes a fine historical vignette. It also makes a complicated transition sound like a matter of choosing the right words over dinner.
Atatürk’s account in Nutuk is more restrained: During the meal, he said, “Tomorrow we will declare a Republic.” His guests agreed. He and İsmet İnönü prepared a constitutional amendment, which the Grand National Assembly approved the following evening. The dinner mattered. It was where the final step was discussed with a small group of colleagues. But the political rupture behind it had been building for years. Some colleagues who were not there objected to being left out of the decision. Even in the founding account, unanimity has its limits.
The chronology begins well before that dinner. The Ottoman Empire had spent decades grappling with constitutional government, reform and the pressures of a changing world. The First Constitutional Era began in 1876; parliament was restored in 1908. These experiments did not lead in a straight line to the Republic. War, defeat and territorial loss interrupted them. But they left political experience and a persistent question: who had the right to govern?
After the First World War, the national movement organised resistance to occupation around the claim that the people of the country would decide their own future. On 23 April 1920, the Grand National Assembly opened in Ankara. Before the opening, deputies and citizens gathered for Friday prayers at Hacı Bayram Veli Mosque, a short walk from the First Parliament building. The scene complicates a simple account of a clean break between religious tradition and modern political life: a new assembly claiming authority in the nation’s name began its work near one of Ankara’s oldest religious sites.
The sultanate was abolished in November 1922. The Treaty of Lausanne recognised the new state internationally in July 1923, and Ankara became the capital that October. Then came a government crisis and the constitutional amendment. On Monday, 29 October, the Assembly met and proclaimed the Republic. The vote formalised a transformation already underway; it did not compress it into one day.
Modernisation and its contradictions
Former President Süleyman Demirel called the Republic “the most important modernisation project of the Turkish nation.” Atatürk described it as his greatest achievement. The Republic was meant to do more than replace dynastic government. It sought to build a modern state and a shared civic identity in a country exhausted by war, loss and displacement.
The changes reached into law, education, public administration and family life. They altered the relationship between government and religion, and the place of citizens in public affairs. Modernisation was not just new language for the state. It affected what children learned, who could enter public institutions, what legal rights people held and how the country represented itself to the world.
But the process was neither smooth nor wholly democratic. Reform was often directed from the centre, while political competition remained restricted under one-party rule. The Republic widened some opportunities and narrowed others. This tension is part of its history, not an inconvenient detail to remove from anniversary speeches.
The tension was visible in the attempts to establish opposition parties during Atatürk’s presidency. The Progressive Republican Party, founded in 1924, was closed in 1925. The Free Republican Party, founded in 1930, dissolved itself that same year amid political tensions and unrest. Neither became a lasting route to competitive multiparty government. These experiments show that opposition was attempted, but also how quickly the political space for it could close. A republic could be proclaimed before a stable democratic contest for power had taken root.
Women’s political rights show both the reach of the early reforms and the limits of legal change. Women gained the right to vote and stand in municipal elections in 1930, and the right to vote and be elected to parliament in 1934. In the 1935 elections, women took seats in the Grand National Assembly. These measures were significant internationally. They recognised women as political citizens with a role in public life.
Yet a historic right does not by itself produce equal influence, opportunity or safety. Nor did women’s entry into parliament mean citizens could choose between competing national governments. A reform can be both historic and incomplete. The Republic opened doors; it did not guarantee that everyone could pass through them on equal terms.
The transition that mattered
The move to multiparty politics after the Second World War was another consequential turn. İsmet İnönü, Atatürk’s successor as president and leader of the ruling party during the one-party era, played a central role in that transition. It took place amid domestic pressure and a changed international climate in which democratic competition carried growing weight. The shift was neither immediate nor free of tension: the 1946 election was held under conditions that drew criticism.
The 1950 election was different. The Democratic Party won, and İnönü’s Republican People’s Party left office. İnönü accepted the result and transferred power to its elected opponents. The party that had governed since the Republic’s founding became the opposition. That peaceful handover was a major democratic achievement, and it deserves a place in the Republic’s story alongside the proclamation itself.
This does not make the earlier one-party period democratic in retrospect, nor does it make the transition inevitable. It shows that political choices matter. İnönü could have treated defeat as a threat to the state or his party’s historic role. Instead, power changed hands through the electoral process. That precedent remains valuable precisely because it is not guaranteed.
The country as it is
At 103, Türkiye faces pressures familiar in many countries and specific to its own political history. Political polarisation has made disagreement harder to treat as ordinary. Executive power has become more concentrated. Concerns about judicial independence and the treatment of the opposition persist. Journalists and critics work under pressure; peaceful protest can be restricted. These conditions affect whether citizens trust institutions to hear them fairly.
The economy makes these questions immediate. High living costs shape choices about housing, work and family. Young people weigh whether a stable life is achievable at home. For some, leaving is a practical decision about employment and security, not a declaration of political allegiance. The loss of skilled and ambitious people is part of the question of what future Türkiye can offer.
A democracy is not measured only by whether elections take place. Citizens must also be able to organise, report, criticise, seek justice and compete for office under rules applied impartially. When criticism is treated as disloyalty, public debate grows thinner. There is a certain irony in official declarations of national unity delivered in an atmosphere where people are expected not to disagree too loudly. Unity enforced through silence is fragile. A durable kind depends on citizens believing they can argue, lose, try again and still belong.
Young citizens, not future citizens
Young people are often described as “the future,” a flattering way to postpone listening to them. They are citizens now, facing insecure work, rising costs and limits on public participation. Their concerns about rights sit alongside immediate questions about earning a living and whether they can plan a life in Türkiye. There is no contradiction between wanting democratic freedoms and wanting a reliable job.
They are not one political bloc. But many insist on fairness, merit, freedom and a meaningful say in decisions that will shape their lives. Their determination to protect and advance the Republic’s founding principles matters. When they question institutions or challenge injustice, they are taking part in the Republic’s argument, not stepping outside it.
Determination alone cannot make courts independent or reduce living costs. It needs to be met by political parties with credible programmes, media free to investigate, and public institutions that apply the law consistently and value competence. Young people need more than praise for their courage. They need a country in which participation can matter and effort can lead somewhere.
At 103, the Republic remains an achievement and a responsibility. Its founding was neither a dinner-table miracle nor a finished democratic settlement. Its history includes bold reforms, failed opposition experiments and, eventually, a peaceful transfer of power after an election. That is a more complicated story, but a more useful one. It reminds us that democratic progress can be reversed, delayed or advanced by political choices.
The principles at stake are practical: Popular sovereignty requires accountable government; secularism protects freedom of conscience; equality must be felt in daily life; education should support inquiry; and the law must apply regardless of political influence. Turkish youth determined to defend these principles are not simply inheriting the Republic. They are helping decide whether its democratic promise will keep moving forward.
