Cool Press

THE SNAKE HE THOUGHT WAS A WHIP

2026-10-05T00:00:00Z

THE SNAKE HE THOUGHT WAS A WHIP

Over the years, there are certain things we learn about ourselves not from books, but from experience. One of the things I have learned is this:

“We often find it much harder to admit that we are wrong than we imagine.”

Sometimes we make a decision and someone around us says, “I think you should think about it again.” We hear them, but we do not really take it to heart. Sometimes a friend tells us a truth we would rather not face. We tell ourselves, “They just don't understand me.” Then, after some time has passed and things have taken a different turn, that person's words come back to us:

“I wish I had listened more carefully back then.”

I have experienced this at certain points in my own life. Looking back, there were times when I realized that the warning signs had actually been there all along. But once we have made up our minds especially when we believe we arrived at that decision through our own judgment it is not easy to step back.

Perhaps that is why I like the following old story. Whenever I remember it, I find myself asking the same question:

Could I, too, be holding a snake that I mistake for a whip?

Early one cold morning, two travelers set out on horseback. One of them was blind. After riding for a while, he realized that he had dropped his whip. He got off his horse and began searching for it on the ground.

Nearby, a snake lay motionless, numb from the cold. While searching for his whip, the man's hand came across the snake. Since the animal barely moved, he mistook it for a whip. In fact, he thought it was even better than his old one.

He picked it up and returned to his companion.

The moment his friend saw what he was holding, he cried out in alarm:

“Drop it! That's not a whip. It's a snake!”

The man was surprised.

“How could it be? I found it while looking for my whip. And it's even better than the old one.”

His friend warned him again and again, but the man refused to believe him. He was certain that what he held in his hand was a whip.

After a while, the sun rose higher. As the air warmed, the snake came back to life and bit the man. He died from the venom of the snake he had mistaken for a whip.

What stays with me about this story is not that the man could not see the snake. His blindness was simply part of the circumstances of the story. What matters is that he refused to accept a warning from someone who could see the truth.

Sometimes we become so attached to our own perceptions that, instead of listening to someone who is telling us the truth, we try to protect what we already believe.

We see this in everyday life.

We realize that someone is not good for us, yet we do not end the relationship. We see that a decision we made is producing the wrong results, but we keep going, telling ourselves, “Let's wait a little longer.” We realize that an idea we have defended for years no longer fits the facts, yet instead of changing our minds, we find new reasons to defend it.

Because sometimes what we really care about is not finding the truth, but protecting our sense of being right.

And when the person warning us turns out to be right, things become even harder. Because then we have to admit not only that our decision was wrong, but that we were wrong.

Yet the years have taught me something:

Being wrong does not diminish our worth. We can misunderstand people, make bad decisions, and become more attached to certain ideas than we should.

What matters is what we do when we finally recognize the truth.

Of course, we should not automatically assume that every warning we receive is correct. We should listen to others, but we must also evaluate what they say for ourselves. There is, however, a difference between listening critically and rejecting something before we have even considered it.

Sometimes we need to hear a sentence without immediately becoming defensive. We need to ask ourselves:

“What if they are actually right?”

Perhaps one of the most useful questions we can ask ourselves is this:

“Do I really know this to be true, or do I simply want to believe it is true?”

The answer may not always be comfortable.

But sometimes an uncomfortable truth can save us from a much bigger mistake.

The snake lying motionless in the cold did not appear to be a threat to the man. As far as he was concerned, he was simply holding a beautiful whip. The danger appeared only when the snake began to move.

Life can be like that, too.

The harm caused by some mistakes does not become apparent immediately. They can remain quietly in our hands for a while, while we continue carrying them because we believe they are right. Then circumstances change, and we find ourselves wondering why we held on for so long to something we should have let go of much earlier.

Perhaps, from time to time, we need to stop and ask ourselves:

“Is what I am holding really a whip, or do I simply believe it is one?”

Sometimes what changes our lives is not finding something new, but letting go, in time, of something we have finally realized is wrong.

Because maturity does not mean never being mistaken. It reveals itself in our ability to open our hand when we realize that we are.

WHAT WILL YOU REAP FROM THE SEEDS YOU SOW?

2026-10-03T00:00:00Z

WHAT WILL YOU REAP FROM THE SEEDS YOU SOW?

In recent years, some self-styled religious teachers on social media have been talking about what is supposedly found in Paradise. They speak of palaces with seventy thousand rooms, each room filled with young and beautiful concubines; rivers flowing with wine; and tables laden with all kinds of food that supposedly last for seventy years. Don’t believe them. Let me tell you what is actually in Paradise—I’ve been there and come back, after all.

Most people look at life as if it were a ledger. “What’s in it for me?” “What will I gain from this?” “What will I get in return?”

But life is not made up only of what we receive. There is also what we give. More precisely, there is what we sow, often without even realizing it.

A person does not accumulate only money and possessions. We also accumulate our actions: the kindness we show someone, the heart we break, the generosity we display, the help we withhold, the injustice we commit... Somehow, all of these become part of our lives.

My late father would sometimes quote an old saying:

“Ad-dunyā mazraʿat al-ākhirah.”

In other words, “This world is the field of the Hereafter.”

Those who quote this saying often follow it with a Sufi tale:

One day, a greedy and miserly man was sitting in a coffeehouse when a madman approached him and began pestering him:

— Give me two coins. I want some yogurt.

The man tried to drive him away, but he could not get rid of him.

The madman then insisted:

— Buy me some yogurt.

The people in the coffeehouse intervened:

— Come on, let us buy you some yogurt.

But the madman refused their offer. He kept following the miser:

— Either give me two coins or buy me some yogurt!

Finally, the man reluctantly pulled two coins from his pocket and threw them on the ground.

— May God punish you. Here!

The madman picked up the money, went to the shop across the street, bought some yogurt, and returned to sit directly in front of the miser. Then he calmly ate the yogurt right there in front of him.

The man stormed out of the coffeehouse and went home.

That night, he had a strange dream.

He found himself in Paradise. Everything was green. Trees, grass, rivers, flowers... It was a beautiful place, almost impossible to describe.

But there was nothing to eat.

He was terribly hungry. He was so weak from hunger that he could hardly stand.

Then a man appeared.

— Hey, where is this place?

— Paradise.

The man was puzzled.

— What kind of Paradise is this? Where are the kebabs? Where is the wine? Where are the houris? I don’t see any of them!

The man standing before him looked around.

— Let me see... There is some yogurt over there.

He brought him some yogurt.

As the man ate it, he could not resist asking:

— Could you give me some bread too?

The answer was brief:

— Brother, you sent this yogurt yesterday. If you had sent some bread as well, you would find it here in front of you now.

Then he added:

“Ad-dunyā mazraʿat al-ākhirah.”

In other words:

“This world is the field of the Hereafter.”

I think the most striking part of the story is right here.

We often dismiss the little things we do. “What difference does it make?” we say, and move on. Yet the great consequences of life sometimes grow out of the accumulation of precisely these small actions.

Refusing to help someone is a choice.

So is discouraging a student.

So is ignoring an employee’s hard work.

So is remaining silent in the face of injustice.

So is failing to stand beside a friend in difficult times.

So is refusing to listen to an elderly person.

None of these things simply disappear from our lives.

And the seeds we sow are not always about money or material possessions. Sometimes a smile is a seed. Sometimes taking a few minutes to listen to someone is a seed. Sometimes refusing to take something that does not belong to us is a seed of goodness.

The same is true of evil.

When we belittle another person, we are also shaping our own character. When we take what belongs to someone else, we do not merely harm that person; we also dull our own conscience a little more.

We may not notice it immediately.

That, in fact, is one of our greatest illusions:

If the consequence of an action does not appear immediately, we assume that it has no consequence.

But some seeds take time to sprout.

In the field of someone who sows kindness, trust grows.

In the field of someone who sows honesty, respect takes root.

In the field of someone who sows compassion, humanity flourishes.

And in the field of someone who sows selfishness, injustice, and greed, other things grow.

Perhaps we do not see the results immediately. But life has a long memory.

That is why it is worth asking ourselves from time to time:

“What am I sowing in my own field today?”

Because one day, at a time we least expect, what we have sown may appear before us.

And when that day comes, what will matter is not how much money we have in our hands, but what kind of seeds we planted.

Perhaps a person’s true wealth is not measured by how much they accumulated at the end of their life, but by how much goodness they left behind.

Because if this world really is a field, then the most important question before us is:

“When harvest time comes, what do I want to reap?”

WHAT WE SAY ABOUT OTHERS REVEALS WHO WE ARE

2026-10-02T00:00:00Z

WHAT WE SAY ABOUT OTHERS REVEALS WHO WE ARE

If you want to get to know someone, pay a little less attention to what they say about themselves and a little more attention to what they say about other people. Because when we talk about others, we often reveal our own character without even realizing it.

A parable I read years ago illustrates this beautifully:

Two mullahs set out to preach in villages and, along the way, are invited to spend the evening at the home of a spiritual guide. After a while, one of the mullahs goes outside to perform his ablution. The host turns to the mullah who remains inside and asks:

“Mullah, what is your companion like as a scholar? Is he a good man? Are you pleased with him?”

Without hesitation, the mullah replies:

“Him? He’s a donkey! He’s completely ignorant.”

Just then, the other mullah comes back inside, and the conversation ends.

A little later, the other mullah goes outside to perform his ablution. The host asks him the same question. This mullah has no hesitation about talking behind his companion’s back either:

“Oh, for heaven’s sake! He’s an ox. He’s ignorant, quarrelsome, stubborn... What could I possibly be pleased with? Somehow I ended up traveling with him and became his companion.”

And so, the two mullahs reveal what they really think of each other.

That evening, it is time to break the fast. Three covered dishes are placed on the table. In front of one mullah there is barley; in front of the other, hay. In front of the host, there are delicious eggs fried in butter.

The mullahs look at each other in bewilderment. The host smiles and explains:

“I did nothing wrong. I asked your companion about you, and he said you were a ‘donkey.’ So I put barley in front of you. Then I asked you about him, and you said he was an ‘ox.’ So I put hay in front of him.”

Then he points to his own plate:

“And since I am a human being, the eggs are for me.”

The parable ends there, but that is really where the important part begins.

Because all of us have tables where we sit and talk about other people.

We talk about a friend behind his back. We point out a colleague’s shortcomings. We belittle a relative. Sometimes we look at a few faults in a person and pass judgment on the whole of them.

And then we defend ourselves by saying:

“I’m just telling the truth.”

But telling the truth is one thing; humiliating someone is another.

We can criticize someone’s behavior. We can point out a mistake. We can even strongly disagree with someone. But none of that gives us the right to demean that person.

That is exactly where the two mullahs go wrong. They do not simply criticize their companions’ behavior; they reduce them to animals. And, worse, they say things behind their backs that they would not dare say to their faces.

To me, the best part of the parable is the lesson the villager teaches them.

He does not give them a long moral lecture. He does not get angry. He does not insult them.

He simply puts their own words in front of them.

“If this is what you said about your companion, then here you are. Now face the consequences of your own words.”

Sometimes that is the most effective lesson life can teach us.

When we judge other people, we often see ourselves sitting in the judge’s chair. We quickly decide who is good and who is bad. But sometimes life takes that chair away from us.

The words we say about someone today may be said about us tomorrow.

A quality we mock in someone today may become our own weakness tomorrow.

The mistake we laugh at in someone else today may be the very thing that tests us tomorrow.

That is why we need to be a little more careful when we talk about other people.

Because our words do not only describe the person we are talking about; they also reveal who we are.

One of the best ways to understand someone’s character is to listen to how they talk about people who are not present.

Friendship is tested here, too.

It is easy to treat a friend well when they are standing right in front of us. The real test is how we talk about them when they are not there.

Perhaps true morality begins exactly here:

Being able to show the same respect for a person in their absence that we show them to their face.

The barley and hay in the story of the two mullahs may seem funny.

But each of us has an invisible plate in front of us.

On that plate are all the things we have said about other people.

And when that plate is eventually placed in front of us, what we find on it will have been prepared by the words we choose to speak today.

What do you think tells us more about a person: listening to what they say about themselves, or paying attention to what they say about other people?

GIVING ADVICE IS EASY. WHO PAYS THE PRICE?

2026-10-02T00:00:00Z

GIVING ADVICE IS EASY. WHO PAYS THE PRICE?

When people give advice to others, they often don't think about where their words might lead. When it isn't their own life at stake, finding a solution seems easy. From the outside, everything looks simpler. “Do this. Say that. Be a little more courageous.” It's easy to say such things when you are not the one who will have to live with the consequences.

Perhaps that is why we struggle when carrying our own burdens, yet when we look at someone else's burden from a distance, we can easily imagine ourselves to be experts. An old story illustrates this beautifully.

A farmer had an ox and a donkey. The ox had a hard life. Every morning, he was taken out to the fields, where he spent the entire day plowing and hauling heavy loads. By evening, he would return to the barn exhausted.

The donkey, on the other hand, had a much easier life. He carried a few loads, occasionally gave his owner a ride, and then returned to the barn to rest.

One day, the ox could take it no longer and began complaining to the donkey:

“You have such a good life. You eat, you drink, and you rest. I work from morning until evening. I have a plow around my neck and a whip on my back. I am truly exhausted.”

The donkey thought for a while and then, with great confidence, offered him some advice:

“Tomorrow, pretend you're sick. Lie down. Don't eat. Make yourself look too ill to work. They won't take you to the fields.”

The ox followed the donkey's advice and pretended to be sick the next morning. The farmer did not take him to the fields.

But the work in the fields could not wait.

So they harnessed the donkey to the plow instead.

The donkey had to do the ox's work all day. By evening, he returned to the barn completely exhausted.

The ox looked at him and asked:

“What happened to you?”

The donkey replied angrily:

“Don't ever ask me for advice again!”

But the story doesn't end there.

The next day, as the ox was preparing to pretend to be sick again, the donkey gave him another piece of advice:

“Listen, yesterday they didn't make you work, but the farmer made me do your job instead. If you do the same thing today, things could get worse for you. He may decide to sell you to the butcher. He might even have you slaughtered.”

The moment the ox heard this, he suddenly recovered.

The next morning, he got up perfectly healthy and made it clear that he was ready to go to the fields.

And the donkey never had to see the plow again.

At first glance, it is a simple, slightly amusing story. But when you think about human relationships, you realize that it is not simple at all.

Throughout my more than forty years in academia, I have witnessed countless times how easily people give advice to one another.

“Do this.”

“Say that.”

“If you act this way, you'll win.”

“Forget about him.”

“You should be a little more cunning.”

We have all heard such things. Perhaps we have said them ourselves from time to time.

Because it is easy to look at someone else's life from the outside.

You don't know all their circumstances. You don't know their past, their fears, their relationships, their financial situation, or how much of the consequences of a particular decision they can actually bear.

And yet, after a conversation lasting only a few minutes, we often have our judgment ready.

This is where one of our most common mistakes begins.

We assume that a method that worked or seemed to work in our own lives can also be applied to someone else's life.

But everyone's field is different.

Everyone carries a different burden.

And not everyone can afford to pay the same price.

That was exactly the donkey's mistake.

He wanted the ox to get out of work.

But when the ox stopped working, the donkey had to do the work himself.

Sometimes the advice we give others works the same way.

We want a friend to make a particular decision. We talk to encourage them. Perhaps we genuinely have their best interests at heart.

But in the end, we are not the ones who will live with the consequences.

They are.

Over the years, I have come to understand something more clearly:

Sometimes, instead of telling someone what they should do, it is more valuable to ask them the right question.

A good friend is not always the person who has all the answers.

Sometimes, a good friend is simply someone who helps another person find their own answer.

When people hand over responsibility for their own lives to someone else, they will also have someone ready to blame when things go wrong.

“You told me to do it.”

“I did what you said.”

“You never told me this could happen.”

But in the end, they are still the ones who have to carry the weight of their decision.

That is why I now believe we should think a little more carefully before giving someone advice.

Because speaking is easy.

The real question is: Who will have to live with the consequences of those words?

Giving advice to someone else is easy; the difficult part is remembering that you will not be the one paying the price for the advice you gave.

WHEN HONEST PEOPLE ARE CALLED FOOLS

2026-09-30T00:00:00Z

WHEN HONEST PEOPLE ARE CALLED FOOLS

When corruption increases in a society, it is not only money that disappears. Something quieter and more dangerous also happens:

The measure people use to distinguish right from wrong begins to break down.

At first, the person who acts unjustly feels ashamed. Someone who gets things done through connections does not openly tell everyone about it. A person who takes away someone else’s rights at least knows that what they have done is wrong. Then, little by little, people get used to it. As the number of people engaging in the same behavior increases, shame begins to seem unnecessary.

“If I don’t do it, someone else will.”

“Everyone does it.”

“That’s just how things work in this country.”

“You have to stop being a sucker.”

You may hear these sentences once and not think much about them. But when the language of a society begins to change, you realize that its values are changing as well. After a while, the honest person starts to look strange.

Someone who tries to get something done without using a personal connection is told, “Don’t be so naïve.” Someone who refuses an advantage they are not entitled to is regarded as a “sucker.” A taxi driver who returns money left behind by a passenger makes the headlines; people react with amazement. A student who refuses to cheat on an exam may even be mocked by classmates.

Someone who asks for fair treatment in an institution may be told, “You don’t understand how the world works.” This is where the real danger begins. Because the problem is no longer simply that there are people who act unjustly. The problem is that injustice has begun to be regarded as normal.

Throughout my academic career, I had the opportunity to observe closely how institutions change. I saw that when rules are not applied equally to everyone, the damage goes far beyond the injustice of that particular moment. After a while, people’s behavior begins to change as well. First, one person is favored. Then someone else tries the same route. Eventually, people begin making the following calculation among themselves:

“If I don’t look after my own interests, others will get ahead of me.”

And so, what was initially an exception gradually becomes the method. No one asks anymore, “Is this right?” Instead, they start asking, “How can I benefit from this?”

I believe this is one of the clearest signs of moral decay: people stop feeling disturbed by what is wrong. Knowing that something is wrong and having the courage to oppose it are two different things. When everyone around us behaves in the same way, it becomes remarkably easy to stop questioning our own behavior.

Honesty also has a price. A person who refuses to use connections may have to wait. Someone who refuses an unjust gain may miss certain opportunities. A person who does not reach for what belongs to someone else may fall behind in the short term. I have seen this throughout my life. But the reward for honesty does not always appear immediately. Sometimes all a person has left is their own conscience.

It may seem like a small thing at first. But being able to put your head on the pillow at night without having to fight with yourself is not a gain that should be underestimated.

There is also the way all of this affects children. We constantly tell children, “Be honest.” But they pay far more attention to what we do than to what we say. When we use personal connections to get something done in front of a child, the impact of our words“ If you work hard, you can succeed” becomes weaker. When we take advantage of something we are not entitled to, telling them to “be fair” loses some of its meaning.

When we treat rules as something that applies only to other people, we are effectively sending a child this message:

“Rules apply only if you are not powerful enough to get around them.”

I can think of few forms of education more damaging than that. Because societies are shaped not only by laws, but also by what they come to regard as normal in everyday life.

When a society begins to believe that the honest person is a fool and the cunning person is intelligent, the problem is no longer simply the immorality of a few individuals. The standard itself has changed. And when the standard changes, even wrongdoing can begin to look right to the person committing it.

That is why remaining honest is not always as easy as it may seem.

It is easy to remain honest when everyone around you behaves honestly. The real test comes when the people around you are bending the rules and you are still able to hold your ground.

To remain the same person when no one is watching...

To turn down an advantage even when you know you could take it...

To be able to say, “I could do this, but I will not.”

I believe this is where character reveals itself.

Over the years, I have learned something:

“Sometimes a person may lose something because of their honesty. But when they lose their honesty, they lose a part of themselves.”

That is why when honest people become fewer in a society, it does not simply lead to more injustice. The trust people have in one another also begins to disappear. And once trust has been eroded, rebuilding it is far more difficult.

Perhaps that is why, in a place where an honest person is considered a “sucker,” we should first question not the honest person, but the society that uses that word.

Because perhaps the problem is not that the honest person has failed to adapt to the world.

Perhaps the world has become so accustomed to wrongdoing that it has started to find honesty strange.

IS POVERTY REALLY WHAT MAKES A COUNTRY POOR?

2026-09-29T00:00:00Z

IS POVERTY REALLY WHAT MAKES A COUNTRY POOR?

The easiest way to impoverish a country is not necessarily to steal its money. A far more dangerous way is to destroy people’s belief that honest work, merit, and justice will eventually be rewarded. Money can be earned again; but when a society loses its confidence in the future, rebuilding that confidence is far more difficult.

This was the thought that stayed with me most strongly while reading Why Nations Fail, the book by Daron Acemoglu and James A. Robinson that I have repeatedly urged my doctoral students to read.

Imagine two countries.

In one, a young person graduates from university thinking, “If I work hard, I can eventually reach the position I deserve.”

In the other, the same young person learns before even starting a job:

“If you don’t know the right people, you’re in trouble.”

The first young person invests in the future. The second looks for ways to protect himself from the system.

The difference is not merely economic.

The message that institutions send to people is different.

This is where the central thesis of Acemoglu and Robinson becomes important. They argue that the wealth or poverty of nations cannot be explained solely by natural resources, geography, culture, or how hard-working their people are. One of the decisive factors is how political and economic institutions function.

Institutions that protect property rights, provide predictable laws, encourage entrepreneurship and innovation, and allow broad segments of society to participate in economic and political life are what the authors call “inclusive” institutions.

By contrast, when power and resources are concentrated in the hands of a small group, when the rules are not applied equally to everyone, and when the economic system serves the interests of particular circles, “extractive” institutions emerge.

This distinction reminds me of some simple but important realities I have witnessed throughout my years in universities.

Having the word “merit” written on the wall of an institution does not mean that merit actually exists there.

Having the same rules written in a regulation for everyone does not mean that everyone is actually treated equally.

And holding elections in a country does not, by itself, prove that the country has a strong democracy.

The real question is whether a person’s identity and connections lose their importance when confronted with the power of the rules.

Can a person advance simply because they are talented?

Can a comedian express an idea through humor without having to pay a price for doing so?

Can an entrepreneur trust that the business they spent years building will not be put at risk tomorrow by an arbitrary decision?

Can a citizen go to court and expect justice without worrying about who the person on the other side is?

The answers to these questions may tell us far more about a country’s real institutional structure than its economic growth figures.

Because when institutions deteriorate, people’s behavior changes as well.

An honest person gradually begins to feel like a fool.

A competent person withdraws.

A person who speaks out learns to remain silent.

Someone who has been treated unjustly begins to say, “Forget it,” instead of seeking justice.

And after a while, a significant part of society becomes more concerned with the question, “How do I survive in this system?” than with the question, “What is the right thing to do?”

I believe this is where the real danger begins.

Because bad institutions do not merely produce bad decisions.

They also gradually erode people’s willingness to do the right thing.

This is also why the relationship between political and economic power matters. When power becomes concentrated in a few hands, access to economic resources can become an advantage enjoyed by those same circles. As economic power increases, so does political influence; and as political influence increases, it becomes easier to preserve existing economic advantages.

A cycle is created.

Power produces more power.

But the opposite is also possible.

Power can be restrained.

Institutions can be held accountable.

The rule of law can be upheld.

A system can be built in which people are free to express their thoughts and where hard work and ability can take precedence over personal connections.

In such a society, people do not merely try to survive today.

They think about tomorrow as well.

Because investment requires more than money.

It requires trust.

A young person must believe that their efforts can eventually be rewarded if they are to invest in their future.

An entrepreneur must trust that the rules will still apply tomorrow if they are to invest in production.

A citizen must not be afraid of the power of the person standing on the other side when seeking justice.

And an academic must know that expressing an idea will not come at the cost of their professional future.

When trust disappears, a society’s energy is spent less on creating and producing and more on protecting itself.

That is why Why Nations Fail does not seem to me to be merely a book about economics. At its heart, the book raises a much more difficult question:

How does a society lose its own future?

Sometimes the answer is not war.

Sometimes it is not even a major economic crisis.

Sometimes people simply begin, little by little, to believe this:

“No matter how hard I work, no matter how honest I am, the outcome will not change anyway.”

That sentence carries an enormous cost for societies.

Because when money is lost, an economy can be rebuilt.

Roads can be rebuilt.

Factories can reopen.

But when a society loses its belief that hard work will be rewarded, that the law applies equally to everyone, and that people can shape their own future, what it loses is more than prosperity.

The greatest poverty a country can suffer is the loss of its citizens’ belief that they can still build a better future.

WHO DOES THE LAW PROTECT?

2026-09-28T00:00:00Z

WHO DOES THE LAW PROTECT?

A person does not necessarily have to be treated unfairly in a courtroom to lose faith in justice. Sometimes, all it takes is a news report.

You see an investigation that drags on for years, a case that goes nowhere, a corruption allegation that everyone is talking about, or the impression that someone powerful never seems to be held accountable. Then you hear people around you saying the same thing:

“Nothing will happen to us. They have people behind them.”

That is where the real danger begins.

Because the law is an ordinary person's most important safeguard. You may not have money, a position of power, political influence, or well-connected friends. Yet you still believe that your rights will be protected. That is the basic promise of the rule of law.

But when citizens begin to believe that the law functions less as a shield for them and more as a shield for those who hold power, they lose more than faith in a particular case. Their trust in the system itself begins to erode.

A statement that has stayed with me captures this feeling:

“Laws were made to protect us from the corrupt. But as I see it today, the laws protect the corrupt from us.”

It is a harsh statement. But I think what matters most is not its harshness, but the question it raises:

Whose side is the law on?

Of course, law and justice are not the same thing.

The law defines what constitutes a crime and establishes the rules people are expected to follow. Justice, however, requires those rules to be applied by the same standard to everyone.

A country may have thousands of laws. It may have imposing law books, detailed regulations, and functioning courts. But if citizens believe that the rules change when they come up against someone powerful, then the real problem is not the existence of laws. It is the trust people place in them.

Throughout my academic career, I have encountered people, institutions, and different approaches to management. I have learned that people do not always expect to get the outcome they want. Sometimes even someone who believes they have been treated unfairly can accept the outcome if they believe the process itself was fair.

But something else is far more damaging:

“What difference will it make if I stand up for my rights?”

Once that thought takes root, people lose hope before they ever reach the courtroom.

Then something else begins to change.

When an honest person sees that those who ignore the rules seem to get ahead more easily, they begin to question their own behavior.

“Why don't I do the same?”

“Why should I struggle so much to defend my rights?”

“If everyone else is doing it, why shouldn't I?”

I can hardly think of a more serious sign of moral erosion in a society.

Because the damage caused by corruption is not limited to the money that disappears. There is another loss:

The desire of honest people to remain honest.

When the person who “knows how to get things done” is actually someone who knows how to circumvent the rules; when someone who stands up for their rights is seen as a troublemaker; and when someone who follows the rules is considered naïve, eventually even the meaning of words begins to change.

Things that people once felt ashamed of become things they boast about.

“That's how it is everywhere.”

“That's how the powerful operate.”

“You'd do the same if you were in their shoes.”

These statements tell us a great deal about where a society's moral standards have settled.

For me, one of the most important functions of law is not only to punish those who commit wrongdoing, but also to make it possible for honest people to remain honest.

If a person has two paths before them one based on integrity and the other on personal gain and the system consistently rewards the second, then simply telling people to “be honest” eventually means very little.

Honesty must have a payoff.

Justice must also be visible.

People need to believe that their rights can actually be protected.

Otherwise, the law becomes nothing more than a set of rules that exists in books.

In my view, the success of a good legal system should not be measured only by how many people are punished. Its real success lies in whether an ordinary citizen, when faced with a problem, can honestly say:

“If I stand up for my rights, something may actually come of it.”

That sentence may sound simple. But it is enormously important for the future of a society.

Because the first thing law should give people is trust.

And if people ever begin to fear trusting the law more than they fear lawlessness, then we are facing something far more serious than a legal problem.

What has been lost is much greater than a single case or a single file:

People's sense of justice.

DON’T COUNT YOUR CHICKENS BEFORE THEY HATCH

2026-09-28T00:00:00Z

DON’T COUNT YOUR CHICKENS BEFORE THEY HATCH

As I have occasionally emphasized in my previous essays, I am going to make a generalization fully aware that it is not particularly scientific that a significant number of people, both in our country and in some other countries around the world, prefer to live not with outcomes that have actually materialized, but with outcomes they hope will materialize.

A politician announces an appealing goal, and we immediately start talking as if those hypothetical goals have already been achieved. An economic program is announced, and we either celebrate as though inflation has already fallen or worry as though it has already risen. A project is unveiled, and before its foundation has even been laid, we begin calculating the prosperity it will supposedly create.

Yet there is a simple proverb, not widely known in Turkey but well established in international literature, that warns us against precisely this tendency:

“Chickens are counted in the fall.”

The English version is even more explicit:

“Don’t count your chickens before they hatch.”

In other words, don't count the chickens before they come out of the eggs. Or, as we might say in Turkish, “Don't roll up your trousers before you even see the river.”

A farmer plants seeds in his field in the spring. The rain comes, the soil turns green, and the farmer becomes hopeful. But the harvest is still a long way off.

There may be drought.

There may be hail.

Disease may strike.

The yield may fall short of expectations.

That is why an experienced farmer does not look at a green field and immediately fill his granary in his imagination.

He waits for the harvest.

The same principle applies to Turkey's economy.

Economic programs set targets for inflation to fall into the single digits, for growth to accelerate, and for prosperity to increase. If these goals are achieved, it will benefit all of us. But there is a long road between a target and an actual result.

For example, annual consumer inflation stood at 31.51% in August 2026. The year-end projection for 2026 is 28.4%. The point here is not to declare in advance whether that target is right or wrong.

The point is much simpler:

A target is not an achieved result.

Targeting an inflation rate of 28.4% does not mean that inflation is already 28.4%.

The chicken has not hatched yet.

Moreover, the economy does not consist solely of decisions made by governments. Oil prices, exchange rates, wars, foreign trade, agricultural production, and global developments can all change the calculations.

An economic forecast made yesterday may have to be revised today.

That is why the most reliable way to evaluate an economy is not merely to ask, “What was promised?” but also to ask, “What actually happened?”

The same standard should apply to politics.

Before an election, anyone can make promises about the future. Politicians can say they will fix the economy, reform education, strengthen justice, or increase prosperity.

We should listen to these promises.

But then we should wait.

Because an election has not been won until the ballots have been counted.

Announcing a reform does not mean the reform has actually taken place.

Laying the foundation of a factory does not mean production has begun.

Announcing an economic program does not mean people's lives have already changed.

Intention is not a result. A target is not an achievement. A promise is not fulfillment.

Nor is it right to apply this standard only to politicians we dislike.

It is easy to believe the words of a politician we support while doubting everything said by a politician we oppose.

The real challenge is to use the same measure for everyone.

Over the years, I have learned something simple:

It is more important to look at what a person's words become over time than simply to listen to what they say.

The same is true in economics.

It is true in politics.

It is true in academia.

And it is true in everyday life.

A person can say, “I will do this.”

What matters is whether, in the end, they actually do it.

A country can be presented with beautiful visions of the future. Yet the realities that touch people's daily lives are often much quieter.

The price tag at the grocery store is quiet.

The rent agreement is quiet.

The balance in the bank account at the end of the month is quiet.

The young person who finds a job is quiet.

So is the young person who cannot find one.

The retired police officer who, claiming that he can no longer make ends meet, puts a gun to his temple is not quiet...

But all of these realities tell a much more powerful story than political promises ever can.

We can look to the future with hope.

But without confusing hope with reality.

We can value targets.

But we should test them against actual results.

We can listen to politicians.

But we should compare what they said in the past with what they actually did.

Because eventually, we all face the same reality:

“In spring, everyone can predict how many chickens will hatch. But when autumn comes, only life can tell us how many chickens are actually in the coop.”

ARE YOU INVESTING, OR BUYING A STORY?

2026-09-26T00:00:00Z

ARE YOU INVESTING, OR BUYING A STORY?

One day, a stranger comes to a village. He tells the villagers that he will pay them 100 lira for every monkey they bring him from the forest. There are plenty of monkeys in the area. The villagers rush into the forest. They catch the monkeys and bring them to the man. It is easy work: catch a monkey, collect the money.

A few days later, the man raises the price to 200 lira. Then 300. Then 500.

The villagers now take the business seriously. They head into the forest early in the morning and spend the entire day chasing monkeys. Everyone is calculating how to earn more. Then the man says:

“I have to go to the city. I’ll be back in a week. When I return, I’ll pay 1,000 lira for every monkey.”

He leaves, but he leaves his assistant behind in the village. A few days later, the assistant gathers the villagers.

“All the monkeys my boss has collected are in cages,” he says. “If you want, I’ll sell them to you for 700 lira each. When my boss returns, you can sell them to him for 1,000 lira. You’ll make 300 lira on every monkey.”

The calculation is simple: Buy at 700. Sell at 1,000. Make 300 lira.

For the villagers, this is no longer simply a transaction. It is an opportunity that must not be missed. Some sell their cows. Some mortgage their fields. Others put up the money they have saved for years.

Eventually, every monkey in the cages is bought for 700 lira.

The next day, neither the man nor his assistant is anywhere to be found. The village is left with a large number of monkeys and a large number of people who have lost their money. There is no one left to buy the monkeys for 1,000 lira.

The villagers did not actually buy monkeys.

They bought a dream of money they expected to make in the future.

This simple story makes me think of the high-return promises and Ponzi schemes that occasionally emerge in Turkey. In recent years, the public has closely followed the Seçil Erzan case, in which money was reportedly collected from people through what was presented as a high-return private fund, while it was alleged that no such fund actually existed. The story of the monkeys inevitably brings that case to mind.

But there is another point here that deserves some thought.

People did not trust the promise of high returns alone. They trusted the people who recommended the funds and whom they believed had connections to the state.

They trusted these people's professions, backgrounds, social circles, political connections, and the things they said.

“This opportunity isn't available to everyone.”

“This is a very special fund.”

“Big names are investing too.”

“If you get in, you can make serious money in a short time.”

Sometimes, what makes an investment opportunity attractive is not the number itself.

It is the trust we place in the person quoting that number.

And that is where the danger begins. Because once we trust a person, we sometimes forget to ask how the money is actually going to be made.

The villagers in the monkey story really do make money at first. They sell monkeys for 100 lira. Then 200. Then 300. There is genuine profit at the beginning. That is why they believe the story.

The first profit creates confidence in the second. The second convinces them that even greater profits are possible. After a while, something very dangerous happens in the human mind.

The question,

“Is this really making money?”

is replaced by:

“How much more can I make?”

This is precisely where we need to be careful. Wanting to make money is not inherently wrong. We all want to live better, provide better opportunities for our children, and secure our future.

The problem is that the promise of easy and quick money can eliminate our need to question it.

If someone believes they can double money they have saved over many years within a few months, excitement is a natural response. But as excitement grows, the desire to ask questions may diminish.

In such situations, I believe the first question should not be:

“How much will I make?”

The real question is:

“Where will this money come from?”

If an investment promises a 30 percent return, where does that 30 percent come from?

Who is paying it?

What economic activity generates it?

What is the risk?

Where is the money actually held?

Where are the official documents?

Can the claims be independently verified?

And most importantly:

“Will I really be able to get my money back when I want it?”

If these questions cannot be answered clearly and openly, the size of the promised return should make us less excited, not more. Because in the financial world, high returns often come with high risk.

The combination of “risk-free, high, and guaranteed returns” should be an especially strong warning sign.

What the assistant in the monkey story does is actually a clever psychological trick. He is not merely selling monkeys to the villagers.

He is selling them a future worth 1,000 lira.

Instead of looking at the 700 lira they have in their hands today, the villagers focus on the 300 lira they believe they will earn tomorrow.

The human mind can sometimes work this way. We let go of real money in our hands and chase profits that have not yet materialized.

“Don’t miss this opportunity.”

“If so many people are doing it, they must know something.”

“If I don’t get in now, it will be too late.”

“Why wait when I can make this much in a month?”

Each of these sentences may sound harmless.

But sometimes they encourage us to act quickly rather than think carefully.

And haste is a poor adviser when it comes to financial decisions.

At the end of stories like these, it is not only money that is lost.

Sometimes people lose money they have saved for years.

Sometimes their homes.

Sometimes their businesses.

Sometimes the trust of their families.

But the heaviest loss may be the question people ask themselves:

“How did I not see this coming?”

It is easy to see when someone else has been deceived.

Accepting that we ourselves have been deceived is much harder.

Perhaps that is why the most painful part of financial fraud begins after the money is gone.

People replay past conversations in their minds.

“I should have asked a question at that point.”

“I should have asked for documentation.”

“I should have stopped and asked how such a high return was possible.”

But by then, it is too late.

That is why, to me, the real lesson of the monkey story is slightly different from a simple warning against greed.

Sometimes people lose money not because they want to make too much, but because they fail to ask enough questions.

No matter how attractive an investment opportunity may seem, it is worth stopping for a moment and asking:

“Am I really making an investment, or am I paying money for a story someone has told me?”

Because sometimes the way to make money is not to seize an opportunity, but to walk away from the wrong opportunity in time.

And perhaps the most expensive mistake in financial life is not making the wrong calculation.

It is stopping the calculation altogether.

THEY CREATE THE FEAR, THEN OFFER PROTECTION

2026-09-25T00:00:00Z

THEY CREATE THE FEAR, THEN OFFER PROTECTION

One of the oldest ways of controlling people is to give them an enemy to fear. A frightened person thinks about security before freedom. When people feel threatened, they are more likely to grasp the hand extended to them than to question it. That is precisely when someone steps forward and says:

“Don’t worry. We will protect you.”

First, the fear is magnified. Then the savior appears.

This idea, attributed to Noam Chomsky, points to a very old mechanism of politics:

“Unite society around a threat, then present yourself as its protector against that threat.”

The enemy does not always have to be real.

A real threat can be exaggerated. A distant danger can be kept constantly in the public eye. People who think differently can be labeled as “the other.” Eventually, society becomes more concerned with choosing sides than with discussing the truth:

“Are you with us or with them?”

Once this question becomes the center of politics, the actual performance of those in power can easily be pushed into the background. The state of the economy, problems in education, the functioning of justice, merit, the use of public resources, and individual freedoms can all be overshadowed by the message:

“First, we must defend our country.”

Because frightened people find it harder to demand accountability.

Yet the fundamental duty of a government in a democracy is not to constantly point to an enemy, but to solve problems. The performance of a government should not be measured by how bad its opponents are, but by what it has changed in the lives of people during its time in power.

That is why, when those in power constantly frighten citizens by asking, “What will happen if I am gone?”, there is a much simpler question citizens should ask:

“But what happened while you were in power?”

That is not a trivial question.

Because the politics of fear can keep people preoccupied with possible disasters in the future while making the realities of the present invisible.

And the enemy being created is not always somewhere outside.

Sometimes it is your neighbor.

Sometimes it is a citizen who votes for another political party.

Sometimes it is an academic who thinks differently.

Sometimes it is a journalist.

Sometimes it is an immigrant.

Sometimes it is simply someone who does not think like you.

Someone who walked beside you yesterday can be portrayed as a “threat” overnight when political circumstances change.

That is why the most important defense of a free citizen is not fear, but questions.

Is there really a threat?

If so, how serious is it?

What evidence supports it?

Is the measure being taken truly necessary?

And perhaps the most important question of all:

Who benefits from this fear?

Because fear does not merely control people; it also controls their attention.

When you keep people constantly preoccupied with an enemy, you make it harder for them to hold those in power accountable.

The duty of a free citizen is neither to applaud nor to be afraid.

It is to observe, think, question, and object when necessary.

Sometimes the real threat is not outside.

It is the fear placed inside people's minds.

Those who create fear can present themselves as saviors.

But a free person first asks:

“Who are you saving me from, and how can I be sure that this fear is as real as you tell me it is?”