Atlas: Professor Türköne, there’s a hot topic on the agenda. Well, in truth, Turkey always seems to have a heated political climate, but one of the latest controversies concerns a new authority granted to the Presidency of Religious Affairs (Diyanet). As you know, Diyanet recently requested the power to review, challenge in court, and even destroy Turkish translations of the Qur’an (meals) that it finds problematic. Parliament passed legislation granting Diyanet exactly that. The institution will now assess whether these translations align with the “fundamental qualities of Islam”—and has the power to eliminate those it deems contrary. This is a critical development. Of course, it ties back to the long-standing debates—stretching back to the Ottoman era—about the relationship between religion and state. How do you view this move?
Mümtaz’er Türköne (MT): Yes, this is indeed a crucial and existential issue. What we’re really dealing with here is freedom of belief and the emergence of a monopoly over religious interpretation—specifically the monopoly on translating the Qur’an. When only translations approved by Diyanet are permitted to be printed, it creates an institutional stranglehold on religious expression.
To understand this properly, we need to recognize a fundamental truth: all revealed religions are built on esoteric texts, and the Qur’an is no exception. It contains both literal (muhkem) and allegorical (müteşabih) verses. The allegorical verses, in particular, invite diverse and often deeply layered interpretations.
Take, for example, Ibn Arabi’s commentary on a verse from Surah Al-Imran—not a translation, but a tafsir. The verse describes “those who harbor hatred toward God.” But Ibn Arabi flips the meaning on its head. He interprets it to mean people so filled with love for God that they have no capacity left for anything else—so they can only express what remains: hatred. It’s shocking. One might ask, how could someone interpret a verse that way?
But that’s the point. Words in the Qur’an carry multiple meanings—literal, figurative, and conceptual. Arabic, as a language, is incredibly rich in nuance. So it is entirely possible to translate a single verse in various valid ways.
As believers, we need to consider intent. God did not reveal the Qur’an with the expectation that there would one day be a bureaucracy like Diyanet that dictates how it must be translated. The revelation was meant for all of us—and even if we misunderstand it, even if we misinterpret or mistranslate it, what matters most is our sincerity. As the hadith says, “Actions are judged by intentions.”
This is not a religious correction—it’s a political power grab. When a state agency—formerly under the Prime Ministry, now directly tied to the Presidency—claims exclusive authority over the translation of religious text, that’s not just religious oversight; it’s a political monopoly over religion.
It’s essentially the government saying: “You may only believe, interpret, and practice Islam in the way I dictate.” This takes us back to some of the most divisive and draining debates in Islamic history.
What Diyanet is promoting today is, at its core, a Muawiyah-style religion—a version of Islam turned into a tool of monarchy, a vehicle for state power. This is not about creating a religious state—it’s about turning religion into a state religion, a subordinate tool of government. There’s a big difference.
From Theocracy to Oligarchy — The Role of the Ulema
Atlas: Doesn’t this resemble a kind of theocratic system? In theocracies, you have a clergy class monopolizing religious authority. And in this case, there’s something peculiar: the demand for this new authority came from Diyanet itself—and the government simply codified it. Now both benefit: Diyanet gains more control, and the ruling power gains religious legitimacy through Diyanet’s fatwas and interpretations. It feels like a feedback loop—each feeding the other. It creates the impression of a strange, quasi-theocratic structure. What do you make of this?
MT: Your point about theocracy is absolutely correct. The word theocracy, in its literal sense, means “the rule of God.” But in practice, all theocracies are actually ruled by a clergy class. God doesn’t descend to govern directly—rather, that role is taken up by religious elites, who present themselves as the exclusive interpreters of divine commands.
Because the clergy interpret religion in ways that serve their interests, theocracy becomes a form of oligarchy—rule by a select few. A small class holds power, claiming religious legitimacy as its foundation.
Now, your second point connects to something deeply rooted in Islamic history: the permanent alliance between state power and the religious scholarly class. In the Ottoman Empire, for instance, this was institutionalized. The official religious establishment was known as the ulema-i rüsûm—state-sanctioned scholars who were closely tied to political authority.
As you know, during the Ottoman era, key functions such as judiciary powers, religious education, and even public morality were under the control of the ulema. The kadı (Islamic judge) was not just a judge—he was also a prosecutor, a notary, and often responsible for local security matters. It was a powerful position stemming directly from the ilmiye class.
And what did the ulema-i rüsûm do in return for state support? They interpreted religion in ways that served the interests of the state. The state, in turn, backed them with full authority, shielding their views from any competing religious interpretations. It wasn’t just about state support—it was about enabling these scholars to suppress all alternative readings of Islam.
This is what makes the issue so critical.
Let me give you an example from the Qur’an—Surah Al-A’raf, verse 155. The verse recounts an event where Moses takes seventy elders of his people up the mountain at God’s command. A terrifying quake strikes; people faint in fear. Then Moses addresses God, saying, “This is Your fitnah.” The Arabic word “fitnatuka” is used.
But in almost every Turkish translation (meal), this word is rendered as imtihan—meaning test or trial. The problem? Nowhere in any Arabic dictionary does fitna mean test. But the translators have collectively decided that a prophet cannot accuse God of causing fitna—a word which can carry meanings like turmoil, sedition, or temptation. So they chose a safer word: imtihan.
But when you translate fitna as fitna, it radically shifts the meaning. It places the relationship between God and the prophet in a different theological light—full of complexity and depth. It opens up room for profound discussions on divine justice and human perception.
But when you erase that complexity by replacing fitna with imtihan, you’re not just translating—you’re rewriting scripture to fit your assumptions. Only one translator, Elmalılı Hamdi Yazır, preserved the word fitna in his meal. All others changed it.
So if you create a monopoly over translation—if you control the language, you control truth itself. You’re no longer interpreting a verse—you’re inventing a new one. You’re effectively inserting content that isn’t there.
And that was a relatively innocent example. But there are many more. I’m not a religious scholar—but as a believer, as a Muslim, I’ve seen things that trouble me deeply.
For instance, take the Amantu—the Islamic statement of faith we’re all taught from childhood. It begins: “Amantu billahi wa malaikatihi wa kutubihi…” And then comes this phrase: “Hayrihi ve şerrihi minallahi teala”—the belief that both good and evil come from God. We’re taught that believing this is part of faith.
But this is nowhere to be found in the Qur’an. Does God do evil? Can God inflict evil on His creation? That’s a question every religion must grapple with. But to attribute evil to God, to say that evil is divinely ordained, requires serious scrutiny.
And yet, this idea—that evil is from God—has been normalized. Why? Because authoritarian regimes need a God who can be blamed for the state’s wrongdoings. When things go wrong, the regime can say: “It was God’s will.”
Take the example of Muawiyah. After executing a companion of the Prophet, he faced public outrage. His response? “I didn’t do it—God made me do it.” He projected his own decision onto divine will.
This type of theology allows rulers to evade responsibility. When they commit injustice, rule arbitrarily, or become consumed by hubris, they can always fall back on religious fatalism: “It was God’s decree.”
But this notion does not come from the Qur’an. There is no verse or hadith that states evil originates from God. And yet, we’ve all memorized it, repeated it. It’s become embedded in our theology, not through revelation, but through power-serving religious constructs.
You’re absolutely right to draw attention to this. In fact, there are numerous historical examples of this pattern. Let’s go back to the early years of Muawiyah’s reign. During that period, a major theological debate emerged over the concept of qadar—divine predestination. Two major schools of thought formed: Jabriyya and Qadariyya.
The Jabriyya held that humans had no free will—that every human action was determined solely by God’s will. Qadariyya, on the other hand, argued for human agency: that people shape their lives through free will, moral choices, and personal responsibility.
This was a purely theological debate. Yet Muawiyah responded by executing Ma‘bad al-Juhani, one of the most prominent Qadari thinkers. Why? Because even though it was a doctrinal matter, the Qadari view posed a challenge to absolute authority. If human beings possess free will, they also bear the right—and perhaps the duty—to intervene, resist, and reform. But absolute monarchies demand absolute obedience. They cannot tolerate the possibility of individual moral agency.
That’s why, throughout Islamic history, state power has consistently favored fatalistic doctrines. Rulers have aligned themselves with theological interpretations that discourage resistance and justify submission.
Atlas: Recently, we even saw members of Diyanet claiming in sermons that the soaring cost of living—Turkey’s inflation crisis—was “from God.” As if to say, pahalılık Allah’tandır—“price hikes come from God.”
MT: That incident was incredible—and frankly, quite alarming. It showed that when political interests are at stake, even the most pressing societal issues become impossible to discuss rationally. Because let’s be clear: there is no such hadith.
In fact, the relevant hadith on prices reflects what we’d recognize today as a market-based economic logic. It says that prices are determined by supply and demand, and that no one should interfere with this natural balance. The Prophet is essentially recommending free market principles—a sound economic idea.
This debate reminded me of a book by Maxime Rodinson, Islam and Capitalism, written in the 1970s. It stirred intense debate over whether Islam is inherently capitalist or socialist. Both camps presented arguments to support their case. But fast forward to today, and we have religious authorities saying, “Inflation is from God.”
Notice, they’re not even saying, “God sets prices.” That would be a theological claim worth examining. No—they say pahalılık, the burden of rising prices itself, is sent by God.
It’s the same logic Muawiyah used when he was criticized for executing a companion of the Prophet: “I didn’t do it—God made me do it.” It’s a way of offloading human responsibility onto divine will. So when citizens suffer from economic mismanagement, corruption, or inflation caused by misguided policies, a preacher can step in and say, “It’s from God.” And just like that, people are expected to accept their suffering in silence.
But this isn’t a genuine religious teaching—it’s a theological smokescreen that serves authoritarian interests. And it ties back to the issue we began with: the monopoly over Qur’anic translation.
When the state controls religious interpretation, it also controls how people are allowed to understand, question, and respond to the world around them. Let’s recall something most people don’t know: throughout Islamic history, the Qur’an was never translated into Turkish—not until the Republican era.
Until then, people could read the Arabic, but few understood its meaning. There were tafsirs (exegeses), but the majority were in Arabic. It wasn’t until Atatürk commissioned Hamdi Yazır—with a government salary—that a Turkish meal was produced. That translation, “Hak Dini Kur’an Dili”, remains historically significant.
Later, in the 1930s and 40s, the push for Turkification of religious practice gained momentum. Turkish-language recitations of the adhan (call to prayer) and the Qur’an were introduced. Initially, from 1932 onward, these were encouraged but not mandatory. It wasn’t until 1942 that Turkish-language adhan became obligatory.
But here’s what many overlook: around the same time, Friday sermons also began to be delivered in Turkish. Until then, khutbahs were in Arabic. And even though Turkish-language Qur’an recitation and adhan were reversed after the Democrat Party came to power, Turkish sermons remained. That’s how deeply the reform took root.
Throughout all of this, the stance of the religious establishment has been revealing. Historically, religious scholars have resisted the translation of the Qur’an into the vernacular. Why? Because a translation monopoly preserves their authority. If no layperson can understand the text without the mediation of a scholar, then scholars retain exclusive interpretive power.
Even someone who knows Arabic—unless they are certified by the religious class—cannot interpret the Qur’an publicly. This creates a gatekeeping system where religious meaning is mediated and monopolized by clerics.
Atlas: So in a way, it’s reminiscent of what happened with the Bible in medieval Europe. Ordinary people didn’t know what the Bible said—it had to be interpreted for them by clergy.
MT: Yes, that’s a very apt comparison. Just as the Reformation in Europe began with the translation of the Bible—first into German, then into English through the St. James translation—religious reform movements are born through acts of translation.
Diyanet as the Pillar of the State
Atlas: If I recall correctly, in one of your past articles, you argued that two institutions serve as the guardians of Turkey’s political regime: the Turkish Armed Forces and the Directorate of Religious Affairs (Diyanet). You described them as the two foundational pillars of the regime. Do you still hold that view?
MT: I’d say we’ve gone even further since then. In fact, Diyanet holds a more central role than even the military when it comes to shaping the ideological backbone of the country. We shouldn’t be distracted by myths or exaggerated fears surrounding Diyanet. Fundamentally, it is the institutional successor to the Şeyhülislamlık—the Ottoman office of the chief religious authority.
The jurisdiction and authority once held by the Şeyhülislam has effectively been transferred to Diyanet. For instance, the High Council of Religious Affairs functions as the body that issues fatwas and religious interpretations today. It is not strictly a bureaucratic unit—it is an academic board. When a religious issue arises, they interpret and rule on it. In that sense, Diyanet’s role in the Republic is even more expansive than it was in the Ottoman Empire.
Back then, mosques operated independently, with imams and muezzins paid through endowments (waqfs) attached to the mosque. Building a mosque in the Ottoman context meant also creating a revenue stream—farmland, shops, properties—to fund its maintenance, salaries, and repairs. Many such waqf properties are still on the books today.
The Republican era changed that entirely. All religious personnel were brought under direct state employment. Previously, mosque workers were not civil servants. Now, Diyanet has a massive workforce—around 250,000 personnel, by some estimates.
Its duties are broad: leading prayers, calling the adhan, officiating funerals, offering sermons, and managing Qur’an courses. But beyond those roles, Diyanet has become a bureaucratic giant.
This transformation is rooted in the law establishing Diyanet, passed on March 3, 1924. One key clause stands out:
“The principles of Islam concerning civil transactions fall under the jurisdiction of the Grand National Assembly. Matters of worship, morality, and religious institutions are assigned to the Presidency of Religious Affairs established in Ankara.”
This distinction between muamalat and ibadat is crucial. Muamelat refers to Islamic jurisprudence in areas like contracts, commerce, marriage, inheritance, and civil law. Ukubat—criminal law—was always kept in the state’s domain and never handed to the religious establishment.
By assigning muamalat to the Grand National Assembly, the Republic signaled that secular law governs all civil matters. The Assembly is even described as an ijma authority—one of the traditional four sources of Islamic law: Qur’an, hadith, consensus (ijma), and analogy (qiyas). Thus, Turkish law itself is framed as the embodiment of muamalat in Islamic jurisprudence.
But for matters of worship and morality—how to perform ablution, how to pray, how to fast—the state creates a monopoly and hands it to Diyanet.
This is not a religious state—it’s a state religion. The difference is profound.
What we’re looking at is a model where religious interpretation becomes a function of state power. And in every era, ruling powers use this monopoly to sustain their authority and silence opposition. Religion, in turn, becomes mired in endless political conflict. It loses its authenticity, sincerity, credibility, and warmth.
Atlas: That’s a deeply insightful point, Professor Türköne. In this system, it’s not secularism that suffers—it’s religion. On behalf of Atlas Think Club, we sincerely thank you for sharing your time and your thoughts with us.
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