From Russia to Venezuela, the strongmen who have destroyed democratic institutions won high office at the ballot box.
hen Recep Erdoğan was first elected prime minister of Turkey, in 2003, he vowed to respect the country’s democratic institutions, and to vacate office if he ever lost the public’s trust. The reality of Erdoğan’s rule has been rather more bleak. Although international newspapers and magazines initially portrayed him as a democratic reformer, he systematically expanded his powers and purged opponents from top positions in the army, the civil service, and the country’s educational institutions. When former allies tried to oust him in a coup in the summer of 2016, he used the occasion to consolidate his hold over the country. Thanks to the vast emergency powers he claimed within days of the failed putsch, he was able to dismiss tens of thousands of civil servants he considered politically unreliable, and to jail some of the country’s most prominent journalists.
But even as the dictatorial nature of Erdoğan’s regime became apparent, and the freedom to criticize him more constrained, Turkey continued to hold multi-party elections, which gave the opposition some ability to compete at the ballot box. In June 2018, Erdoğan won 53 percent of the vote in an election many observers said was tainted by violent attacks on the opposition; from then on, Erdoğan styled himself president of Turkey.
As a result, Erdoğan has, for the first time since the failed coup three years ago, faced a real trade-off: Would he allow the election results to stand, thereby acknowledging the public’s growing discontent with his rule? Or would he exploit his hold over Turkey’s institutions to have the election annulled, making it blatantly clear to anybody who cared to look that Turkey is no longer a democracy?
For much of the 20th century, the most acute threat to democracy came from the barrel of a gun. When democratic systems collapsed, it was usually because tanks commandeered by the leader of an openly antidemocratic movement rolled up in front of the country’s parliament or presidential palace. Javier Cercas vividly describes such a coup attempt in the opening pages of The Anatomy of a Moment, his account of a failed putsch against Spanish democracy in 1981:
Pistol in hand, Lieutenant Colonel of the Civil Guard Antonio Tejero calmly walks up the steps of the dais, passes behind the Secretary and stands besides the Speaker Landelino Lavilla, who looks at him incredulously. The lieutenant colonel shouts: “Nobody move!”, and a couple of spellbound seconds follow during which nothing happens and no one moves and nothing seems to be going to happen to anyone, except silence … Four nearby shouts, distinct and indisputable, then break the spell: someone shouts: “Silence!:”; someone shouts: “Nobody move!”; someone shouts, “Get down on the floor!”; someone shouts: “Everyone down on the floor!.” The chamber rushes to obey.
Because it makes for such striking theater, the kind of open attack on democracy that Cercas describes has had a long-lasting hold on the political imagination. But in the 21st century, coups have become rarer. From Russia to Venezuela, the strongmen who have destroyed democratic institutions won high office at the ballot box. Far from openly attacking democracy, they have tended to argue that they, and they alone, truly represent the people.
By contrast, the new crop of authoritarian leaders is much more invested in retaining the appearance of a genuine democratic mandate. As a result, they have to engage in a more complicated political calculus: They have to give the opposition enough of a chance to compete in the elections to look credible to a significant segment of the population. But they must also capture political institutions such as electoral commissions to a sufficient extent to ensure that the people can’t actually boot them out of office.
As the recent developments in Turkey show, however, it may not be possible to sustain this equilibrium forever. Eventually, even governments that have effectively abolished the freedom of the press risk growing so unpopular that they have to resort to more blatant ways of rigging the vote.
But by the time he held his inspiring speech, İmamoğlu knew all too well that, at least for the time being, Erdoğan already had. After using his control over most of the country’s media to spread the insane conspiracy theory that a powerless opposition had somehow been able to falsify the outcome of the election, Erdoğan went on to use his control over the country’s judiciary to cancel its result. Citing supposed irregularities, the electoral commission announced on Monday that Istanbul would hold new elections in June.
The announcement marks a fundamental turning point in Turkey’s political history: It is now impossible for any reasonable observer to keep denying reality. A country whose president has the power to annul elections when he doesn’t like their outcome has clearly become a dictatorship. From now on, anybody who still insists on calling Turkey a democracy, or treating its elections as a fair barometer of public opinion, is a liar or a fool.
While the announcement dispels any remaining doubt about the current status of Turkey’s democracy, it also raises big questions about its future. In the next days, İmamoğlu will need to decide whether to boycott the repeat election in June. If he does, he’ll hand Erdoğan the power he craves. If he doesn’t, he’ll lend legitimacy to an election he likely cannot win. If it’s heads, Erdoğan wins. If it’s tails, İmamoğlu loses.