Turkey may be passing through one of the most critical political crossroads of the past forty years. In the process the government calls a “Terror-Free Turkey,” essentially aimed at disarming the PKK, the ball is now in Parliament’s court. The framework legislation prepared by the AK Party was opened for signatures two days ago. Yet there is a curious situation: the government wants all political parties to support the text, even though no one has seen the draft. This is precisely why criticism is mounting that İmralı knows more about the details of the process than the public does.
For that very reason, the first question we should be asking today is not, “Do we want peace?” Only someone irrational could answer “No.”
The very purpose of politics is to ensure that law replaces violence. Carl von Clausewitz’s famous dictum can be read in reverse: if war is the continuation of politics by other means, then successful politics is the ability to create conditions in which weapons are no longer necessary.
The possibility that the PKK may lay down its arms is, in itself, a historic development that deserves support. But the real problem begins afterward.
What kind of peace will be built?
Because history shows that what causes peace processes to fail is often not the bad faith of the parties, but the way the process itself is managed.
Peace Is More Than the End of Conflict
Norwegian sociologist Johan Galtung is still regarded as one of the most influential figures in the field of peace studies. His simple yet striking distinction offers a powerful framework for understanding the debate in Turkey.
According to Galtung, there are two kinds of peace.
The first is “negative peace”: the guns fall silent, the fighting ends, the explosions stop.
The second is “positive peace”: the conditions that continually reproduce conflict are eliminated.
The rule of law. A sense of justice. Political representation. Trust in institutions. Social reconciliation.
This is where Galtung’s central warning lies. The guns may fall silent in a country. But if people do not trust one another, if they have no confidence in state institutions, if they are not convinced that justice is being administered impartially, then genuine peace has not been established.
The conflict has merely been put on hold.
And this is precisely where the critical question for Turkey emerges. Public attention today is focused on one question: “Will the PKK lay down its arms?”
Yet there is a more important question:
What happens after it does?
Peace Is Built, Not Merely Signed
One of the most important concepts introduced into the literature by American peace scholar John Paul Lederach is “peacebuilding.”
The term itself tells us a great deal. Just as a building cannot be constructed in a single day, peace cannot be established with a single signature.
First the foundations are laid. Then the columns rise, the roof is completed, and the building is finished. And afterward, it must be continuously protected and maintained. Just as a neglected building eventually collapses, neglected peace collapses as well.
This is why Lederach argues that peace cannot consist solely of agreements signed between political leaders. Every segment of society, including community leaders, must be involved in the process: teachers, journalists, religious leaders, local officials, victims, the opposition and civil society must all become active participants.
Because no peace that society itself does not embrace can endure.
Secrecy Is Normal; Uncertainty Is Not
A certain degree of secrecy is inevitable in peace negotiations. Criticizing this would be unrealistic.
The British government maintained secret contacts with the IRA for years. The Colombian government conducted closed-door negotiations with the FARC in Havana. Spain held talks with ETA away from public scrutiny at various times. In apartheid-era South Africa, the first contacts between Nelson Mandela and the regime were also kept secret for a long time.
So there is nothing extraordinary about negotiations taking place behind closed doors.
But successful examples share another characteristic:
Negotiations may be secret. The rules of peace cannot be.
The full text of the Good Friday Agreement in Northern Ireland was made public. The method for verifying disarmament was clear. The timetable was clear. Independent monitoring mechanisms were clear. Society knew what obligations each side had undertaken.
In Turkey today, by contrast, the public is being asked to provide trust without being given the information necessary to sustain that trust.
Yet in politics, an information vacuum never remains empty.
Rumors fill it.
Peace Must Rest on Institutions, Not Individuals
In Turkey, the process appears to revolve largely around a handful of actors: President Erdoğan, PKK leader Abdullah Öcalan and the National Intelligence Organization (MİT). Statements made from time to time by Devlet Bahçeli have also become part of this framework.
Beyond these figures, however, the institutional architecture of the process remains unclear.
Yet lasting peace rests on institutions, not leaders.
Leaders change. Governments change. Political balances shift. If institutions endure, peace can endure with them.
Northern Ireland offers one of the most successful examples. More than three thousand people were killed during nearly thirty years of conflict. Negotiations failed repeatedly. In the end, success did not come because of a single leader.
The opposition was at the table. The Republic of Ireland was involved. The United States acted as a facilitator. Independent commissions monitored disarmament. The agreement was put to a referendum.
The legitimacy of peace was produced not only by the state, but by society itself.
Spain’s experience with ETA offers another lesson. The government in Madrid did not simply settle for an announcement that “the organization has laid down its arms.” An International Verification Commission was established. Weapons caches were inspected by independent experts.
Because disarmament that cannot be independently verified is destined to become tomorrow’s controversy.
In Colombia, meanwhile, the agreement with the FARC was rejected in the first referendum. But the process did not end there. The government returned to the negotiating table, took the criticism into account and revised the text.
Democratic legitimacy was rebuilt.
All these examples point to the same conclusion:
Peace lasts to the extent that society is convinced of it.
What Turkey Needs Is to Build Trust
Society is not merely wondering whether the PKK will lay down its arms.
Is a new constitution part of this process? Is an amnesty on the table? Will there be new arrangements concerning local governments? What will Abdullah Öcalan’s legal status be? What role will the Turkish Parliament play? Which principles will the state refuse to compromise?
Asking these questions does not mean opposing peace.
On the contrary, these are precisely the questions that anyone who genuinely wants lasting peace should be asking.
Because democracy builds trust through information, not uncertainty.
Turkey deserves to become a country where guns no longer speak. And today, there is a historic opportunity to make that possible.
But opportunities alone do not produce peace.
Peace is built through the rule of law, transparency, strong institutions and broad social participation.
The question we should be asking today is not:
“Do we want peace?”
The real question is:
Are we building a peace strong enough to survive even when governments change tomorrow, or are we constructing a fragile compromise designed merely to serve today’s political needs?
History has taught us the same lesson time and again.
Lasting peace is not built through ceremonies where weapons are laid down. It is built upon the rule of law, transparency, strong institutions and the shared trust of society.
And we should never forget:
The greatest enemy of peace is not war. It is distrust.
