WHEN MONEY IS ABOVE THE LAW
I would like to begin this essay with a question:
“Which is the greater moral problem: the person who steals a few coins, or a society that continues to regard someone accused of stealing millions as a respectable person?”
Nearly 150 years ago, Ziya Pasha put the same question much more sharply:
“Milyonla çalan mesned-i izzetle ser-efrâz,
Birkaç kuruşu mürtekibin câyı kürektir.”
In contemporary Turkish:
“Those who steal millions are given places of honor, while the person who steals a few coins is sentenced to hard labor.”
When I read these lines again, I cannot help but wonder:
So much time has passed. What has really changed?
When someone steals a few coins, we are quick to call that person a “thief.” People talk about it. They condemn them. Sometimes even a minor mistake follows a person for years.
But when large sums of money, high positions, and powerful connections are involved, our language can change.
“He knows how to get things done.”
“Everybody does it.”
“He couldn’t have built that fortune for no reason.”
“He’s a successful person.”
“He may steal, but at least he works.”
More troubling still, sometimes we begin questioning the person who criticizes the alleged wrongdoing rather than the person accused of it.
“Why are you going after him?”
“Look at all the good things he has done.”
“He must have his reasons.”
I find this particularly troubling.
Because our sense of justice is revealed not only in courtrooms, but also in the standards we apply in everyday life. If we react differently to the same wrongdoing depending on whether it is committed by an ordinary person or by someone powerful, wealthy, or well-connected, perhaps we need to question not only others, but ourselves.
Throughout my academic career, I have had many opportunities to observe how people can change once they acquire authority.
A person's character is not revealed solely by their knowledge, education, or position. Sometimes, quite the opposite is true: what power does to a person tells us far more.
It is easy for someone without authority to be fair.
The real test begins when you are given the power to make decisions.
What do you do when someone close to you makes a mistake?
Can you confront someone who has supported you when they are clearly wrong?
Can you maintain the same standards when you witness wrongdoing by someone powerful enough to harm you?
These are not easy questions.
Human beings are often inclined to overlook the mistakes of people who benefit us.
That is precisely where justice begins.
It is easy to see the wrongdoing of the powerless.
It is much harder to see the wrongdoing of the powerful.
We tell our children, “Stealing is wrong.”
And it is.
But children watch what we do far more closely than they listen to what we say.
Imagine a child growing up watching one person work honestly for years, earning a living through hard work.
Alongside that person is someone whose wealth raises questions about how it was acquired, yet who is treated with great respect because of their money, position, or social connections.
Which one will have a greater influence on that child?
That is the question that concerns me most.
Because sometimes, without realizing it, we send children contradictory messages:
“Be honest, but don't be too naive.”
“Don't take what belongs to others, but don't challenge someone who is powerful.”
“Be fair, but overlook the wrongdoing of someone who can help you.”
Of course, we never say these things openly.
But children notice the contradictions in our behavior.
In Ziya Pasha's lines, what strikes me most is not only the phrase “one who steals millions,” but also “mesned-i izzet” a place of honor and prestige.
In other words, the problem is not only the person who steals.
The value we choose to give that person is also part of the problem.
If we value someone simply because they are wealthy, place their position above their character, or tolerate more of their wrongdoing because they are powerful, we make a fundamental mistake without even realizing it:
We begin measuring a person's worth by what they possess.
Yet money, position, and fame may tell us something about who a person is. They do not, by themselves, tell us what kind of person they are.
If Ziya Pasha's lines still resonate with us today, it is not simply because the poetry is powerful.
It is because some aspects of human behavior have changed very little over the centuries.
Perhaps it is time to ask the question once again:
“Why are we so quick to call someone who steals a few coins a thief, yet become much more understanding when millions are involved?”
And perhaps there is an even harder question:
“When a society begins questioning the person who exposes wrongdoing more than the person accused of doing wrong, what does it begin to lose?”
My answer is simple:
It loses not only its sense of justice, but also its own moral compass.
What do you think?
Is the real problem the scale of the theft or the respect we choose to give the person who committed it?