Sırrı Süreyya Önder and Sheikh Galib: Exploring the Spirituality of “The Sultan of Messengers” and Middle-Class Deceptions

When I first became acquainted with the name Sırrı Süreyya Önder in 2013, I valued his significant contributions to the Kurdish-Turkish peace process as a Kurdish politician. I traced his life, and my appreciation grew when I learned that he was Turkmen and almost the most noble Anatolian, as he embraced history and sought to correct the brutal deviations in Kurdish-Turkish relations since the founding of the Republic.

Relations between the Kurdish and Turkish political institutions have not always followed a positive path. Sırrı Süreyya Önder bore the weight of this turbulent and intertwined history, contributing to its transformation. Finding no space for himself on the platform of the Republic, he chose instead the place that would give him a voice to pursue his project. That is how he reached where he is: the process of rebuilding the Republic.

He spent the last years of his life deeply engaged with the Kurdish cause and earned the trust of PKK leader Abdullah Öcalan. He read Öcalan’s messages during Nowruz celebrations in 2013 and 2015 on the stage of Amed, where the world’s largest celebration of the event takes place annually. Over the past few days, I have read many insightful accounts of his biography. When I write, I rarely use the first person unless it is a personal narrative, and I cannot separate my assessment of the late Önder from my personal perspective.

Because I will avoid repeating the important stages of his life and evaluating his contributions, I found some aspects that could serve as an extension to what has been written about the Anatolian, whom we do not want to be the last, and there is no doubt that he will not be the last Anatolian at this stage—one in which the crises of the Republic have been exposed after more than a hundred years of unilateral and unjust founding.

An important key to understanding Sırrı Süreyya Önder’s personality, political legacy, and strong social presence is not to misclassify him politically as simply right or left. In his more mature years, he was not as leftist as he appeared during his youth in the neighborhoods of Samsour (Adıyaman). Önder is a historical representative of “localism.” He is an Anatolian shaped through his reading and critique of history. He allowed himself to be shaped by this critique without succumbing to the transmitted history that causes many to see themselves as heirs of crimes and genocides merely because they are connected to their social history. Therefore, he identified himself as a local Anatolian, not a leftist one. It is likely that Öcalan saw in him this symbolic historical value, alongside his excellent work in reopening bloodstained pathways for dialogue between the Turkish Republic and Kurdistan.

I was intrigued by what his friend, the writer and novelist Tariq Tufan, wrote about him. They are close friends and have appeared together on programs, most notably Mexico Border. Through that program, the public came to know him as a person with his own perspectives on culture, literature, and arts.

When Sırrı Süreyya Önder was lying in the hospital in the middle of the night, he opened the window and lit a cigarette. Tufan, who was sitting beside him, addressed him: “You’re tired, Sırrı. Get up and let’s make a film.”

He knew where his next destination lies. He will not be behind the camera to make a film, but he responded to Tufan: “God is the judge.” The two friends had nothing more to say that night.

Previously, when he was in good health, Tufan and Sırrı Süreyya Önder went together to a funeral, and Önder was deeply affected by the atmosphere there. He addressed his friend: “Tariq, this is my will—read the prophetic praise (naat) of Sheikh Galip at my funeral.” The phrase in Turkish is: “Şeyh Galip’in Naat’ını oku.”

What connects Sırrı Süreyya Önder to Sheikh Galip? Perhaps there is no direct link, but it was an opportunity for me to explore where Sheikh Galip fits in history and what remains of his legacy in our time.

Sheikh Galip was born in Istanbul in 1757. His real name was Muhammad Mustafa Sayed. He studied language and literature under Sheikh Hussein Dada and Sheikh Neshat Effendi at the Yeni Qabi Mevlevi Tekke. He began composing poetry at an early age and mastered Arabic, Persian, and Turkish. By the age of 24, he had written enough poetry to compile a Diwan. He was appointed sheikh of the Galata Tekke and remained there until his death in 1798, when he was buried there.

In Ottoman Turkish literature, the term “naat” (نعت) refers to a reappropriation of the Arabic word, taking on a new meaning: “prophetic praise”. Under this title, many Turkish poets composed naats, with Sheikh Galip’s works being among the most notable, especially at the beginning of his famous Diwan, “Hüsn ü Aşk” (Beauty and Love):

You are the Sultan of the Messengers, the honored King, O my master,
You are Ahmad, Mahmoud, Muhammad, O my master,
From the Truth, a victorious Sultan has come to us.
One day, I went to the sea of sorrows,
I lost myself in sins,
And I feared my fate, then I heard a master calling:
You are Ahmad, Mahmoud, Muhammad, O my master,
From the Truth, a victorious Sultan has come to us, O my master.

Sheikh Galib worked briefly in the Sultan’s Diwan (the pen of the Diwan Humayun) before turning to a life of Sufism. In 1784, he left his official position despite his family’s opposition and traveled to Konya to join their Sufi retreat (çallah) under the guidance of the Sheikh of the order. However, his father intervened through the Sheikh himself to have him reinstated. He returned to Istanbul and continued his Sufi path at the Yeni Kapi Mevlevi Tekke (Yeni Kapi Mevlevi Lodge, where he completed his retreat in 1787 and was granted the title ‘al-Dada’. During this period, he studied under prominent sheikhs such as Sheikh Ali Natiqi Effendi and Sherif Ahmad al-Dada, and received the ijaza (authorization) in the Sufi order.

Sheikh Galib married during this time and had a daughter, Zubaida, and two sons, Ahmad and Muhammad. After completing his spiritual training, Galib turned to scholarly writings on Sufism. In 1789, He wrote a commentary in Arabic titled “Al-Suhbah Al-Saffiyah” (The Pure Companionship) on a treatise on the manners of Mawlid (celebration of the Prophet’s birthday) by his predecessor Ahmad Dede. He also moved to reside near the shrine of the Mevlevi poet Yusuf Sinegak in the Sutluce region, and in 1790, began writing a commentary on the Mathnawi — a prose Turkish explanation of selected verses from Rumi’s Mathnawi (366 lines chosen by Yusuf Sinegak), aimed at facilitating understanding for beginners. Through this work, Sheikh Galib demonstrated his profound mastery of Mevlevi mysticism and his stylistic skill in prose.

Galib rose rapidly within the ranks of the Mevlevi order. After the death of the previous Sheikh of the Galata Mevlevi Tekke in 1791, the Sheikh of the order (Çalbi) in Konya issued a decree appointing Galib as Sheikh of the Galata Tekke in Istanbul. This support gained him the favor of Ottoman Sultan Selim III, and a close friendship developed between them. As a poet and patron of the arts himself, Sultan Selim responded to Galib’s request for the restoration and maintenance of the Galata Tekke by issuing orders for its repair. Galib commemorated these efforts in poems inscribed on the doors of the Tekke.

The Sultan also appointed him as the reciter of Mawlana Jalal al-Din Rumi’s Mathnawi in his private council, and he regularly attended the dhikr sessions held by Sheikh Galib at the Tekke.

In the later years of his life, Sheikh Galib was afflicted by sorrows and hardships. His mother, Amina Khatun, passed away in 1794, and in 1796 he lost one of his most prominent disciples, the poet Asrar Dada, whom he mourned in a heartfelt poem. The poet fell seriously ill in 1798 and died on January 4, 1799, at the height of his creativity, at the age of 42.

A notable feature of Galib’s Divan is the abundance of historical poems that document contemporary events—particularly the reforms of Sultan Selim III aimed at modernizing the military system, reforms which ultimately led to the Sultan’s assassination.

One of Sheikh Galib’s most famous works is the Mathnawi Husn u Aşk (Beauty and Love), regarded as a jewel of 18th-century Ottoman Sufi literature. This poetic narrative is an allegorical story with a Sufi theme, depicting a spiritual journey undertaken by a disciple until he attains union and enlightenment. The story employs fictional characters and settings; the protagonist, Aşk (Love), overcomes obstacles and trials in pursuit of his beloved, Husn (Beauty). Every stage of his journey and every reference within the poem symbolize mystical concepts related to self-purification and the knowledge of divine truth. Critics view this work as a milestone and one of the masterpieces of Ottoman literature from that period. It remains widely read today as a classic of Sufi poetry.

According to his own account, Sırrı Süreyya Önder was born in 1962 in Adiyaman, to one of the few leftist families in that predominantly Kurdish region. He lost his father at the age of eight; his father was one of the founders of the Adiyaman branch of the Turkish Workers’ Party (TIP), which provided an early political background for Seri.

His uncle was a disciple of the Kurdish Islamic thinker Said Nursi, the founder of the Nurcu movement. Coming from a Turkmen family, Önder grew up in a social environment where the everyday language was Kurdish, which gave him a dual sense of cultural and political identity. This duality was later reflected in his intellectual pursuits and efforts toward rapprochement among different ethnic groups. Adiyaman, as a city on the right bank of the Euphrates, is perhaps most notable for being a predominantly Kurdish city within Anatolia rather than within Kurdistan.

At a reception in Çankaya in 2014, when Amina Erdogan, wife of President Recep Tayyip Erdoğan, asked Sırrı Süreyya Önder, “Where are you from?”, he jokingly replied: “From Adiyaman, very sorry—I am Turkish and undergoing treatment.” Stories like this—about his jokes that made the Erdoğan laugh—were frequently reported in the media.

I find myself aligned with what his other friend, Suleyman Sefi Oguz, wrote: that the barriers faced by Sırrı Süreyya Önder were rooted in Turkey’s emerging middle class. Oğuz wrote an article about the late Sırrı Süreyya Önder but was not bold enough to fully express what he truly thought. For him, Önder embodied the idea of “localism,” something that he naturally and effortlessly mastered. Being local also means being outside the culture of the middle class, which is often characterized by equivocation and a tendency to hide behind “patriotism.” In this sense—and this is something Oğuz did not explicitly say—the dominant patriotism of the middle-class culture is at odds with localism, its ties, and its emotional bonds. It is this localism that connects Kurdistan with Anatolia. I am confident that the current peace process between the Kurds and The Republic will succeed as long as it is built on local cultures that, together, form a national synthesis—something that has been politically missing until now.

Something similar connects Sırrı Süreyya Önder with Sheikh Galib of Anatolia.