A split in the pro-independence camp?

If the Yes campaign is to be successful, the SNP cannot afford to alienate smaller parties like the

Readers in other parts of the UK may not be all that familiar with Patrick Harvie, co-convener of the Scottish Green Party (SGP). But north of the border, the Glasgow MSP has been a mainstay of the devolved political landscape for the best part of a decade, as well as one of its most consistently radical and provocative figures. So the significance of his latest intervention in the independence debate should not be underestimated.

Speaking to Holyrood magazine last week, Harvie hinted that he might be willing to abandon his traditional support for full Scottish self-government in favour of an enhanced devolutionary settlement: "(Independence) is not a point of principle for me", he said. "It's purely pragmatic...(and we) may want to refine the policy a bit - particularly if there's a third option (on the ballot paper)". This position was confirmed by an SGP spokesperson, who told the New Statesman that the Greens' constitutional stance was "not set in stone".

Despite the SGP's marginal status in Scottish politics - they have just two MSPs out of 129 - this could be an important development. The unionists' referendum strategy is to cast the SNP as a minority pressure group out of touch with mainstream, pro-devolution opinion. If effective, this will compound the suspicion that the nationalist surge is a temporary aberration at odds with Scots' fundamental desire to remain part of the United Kingdom. One way the SNP can avoid this is to form a united front with other, smaller independence-minded parties and organisations, of which the Greens are by far the most prominent. Failure to build such a coalition could just tip the balance of odds against a Yes vote in 2014.
 
But unionists shouldn't get excited quite yet. It's no secret that Harvie feels Alex Salmond is shutting non-SNP pro-independence voices out of the Yes campaign, so it's possible his comments were really a veiled bid for greater involvement. They may also be a reflection of the Greens growing antipathy towards the SNP as the party of devolved government. Over the last five years, the SGP has become more and more critical of the nationalists. Much of their hostility is a response to what they see as the SNP's tendency to side with the interests of big business over those of the environment, with the first minister's vocal support for Donald Trump's golf course development in Aberdeenshire and the construction of a second road bridge over the Firth of Forth being the main ca! ses in point.

Yet despite these policy disagreements and the general bad feeling between the two parties, it remains probable that the Greens will still campaign for outright independence over the next two and half years. One of the major prizes of full self-government would be the power to force the removal of the British nuclear deterrent from its current home on the Clyde - a longstanding ambition of the Scottish environmental lobby. This would not be possible under maximum devolution or federalism, both of which would see defence and foreign affairs remain under Westminster control.

The fact, though, that they are even threatening such a dramatic shift in position reveals just how strained the SNP's relations with other parties in Scotland are, including those with whom it should be on good terms. Given most polls show a majority of Scots continue to oppose the break-up of Britain, the nationalists simply can't afford to further alienate any of their would-be allies.

James Maxwell is a Scottish political journalist. He is based between Scotland and London.

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Erdogan’s purge was too big and too organised to be a mere reaction to the failed coup

There is a specific word for the melancholy of Istanbul. The city is suffering a mighty bout of something like hüzün at the moment. 

Even at the worst of times Istanbul is a beautiful city, and the Bosphorus is a remarkable stretch of sea. Turks get very irritated if you call it a river. They are right. The Bosphorus has a life and energy that a river could never equal. Spend five minutes watching the Bosphorus and you can understand why Orhan Pamuk, Turkey’s Nobel laureate for literature, became fixated by it as he grew up, tracking the movements of the ocean-going vessels, the warships and the freighters as they steamed between Asia and Europe.

I went to an Ottoman palace on the Asian side of the Bosphorus, waiting to interview the former prime minister Ahmet Davu­toglu. He was pushed out of office two months ago by President Recep Tayyip Erdogan when he appeared to be too wedded to the clauses in the Turkish constitution which say that the prime minister is the head of government and the president is a ceremonial head of state. Erdogan was happy with that when he was prime minister. But now he’s president, he wants to change the constitution. If Erdogan can win the vote in parliament he will, in effect, be rubber-stamping the reality he has created since he became president. In the days since the attempted coup, no one has had any doubt about who is the power in the land.

 

City of melancholy

The view from the Ottoman palace was magnificent. Beneath a luscious, pine-shaded garden an oil tanker plied its way towards the Black Sea. Small ferries dodged across the sea lanes. It was not, I hasten to add, Davutoglu’s private residence. It had just been borrowed, for the backdrop. But it reminded a Turkish friend of something she had heard once from the AKP, Erdogan’s ruling party: that they would not rest until they were living in the apartments with balconies and gardens overlooking the Bosphorus that had always been the preserve of the secular elite they wanted to replace.

Pamuk also writes about hüzün, the melancholy that afflicts the citizens of Istanbul. It comes, he says, from the city’s history and its decline, the foghorns on the Bosphorus, from tumbledown walls that have been ruins since the fall of the Byzantine empire, unemployed men in tea houses, covered women waiting for buses that never come, pelting rain and dark evenings: the city’s whole fabric and all the lives within it. “My starting point,” Pamuk wrote, “was the emotion that a child might feel while looking through a steamy window.”

Istanbul is suffering a mighty bout of something like hüzün at the moment. In Pamuk’s work the citizens of Istanbul take a perverse pride in hüzün. No one in Istanbul, or elsewhere in Turkey, can draw comfort from what is happening now. Erdogan’s opponents wonder what kind of future they can have in his Turkey. I think I sensed it, too, in the triumphalist crowds of Erdogan supporters that have been gathering day after day since the coup was defeated.

 

Down with the generals

Erdogan’s opponents are not downcast because the coup failed; a big reason why it did was that it had no public support. Turks know way too much about the authoritarian ways of military rule to want it back. The melancholy is because Erdogan is using the coup to entrench himself even more deeply in power. The purge looks too far-reaching, too organised and too big to have been a quick reaction to the attempt on his power. Instead it seems to be a plan that was waiting to be used.

Turkey is a deeply unhappy country. It is hard to imagine now, but when the Arab uprisings happened in 2011 it seemed to be a model for the Middle East. It had elections and an economy that worked and grew. When I asked Davutoglu around that time whether there would be a new Ottoman sphere of influence for the 21st century, he smiled modestly, denied any such ambition and went on to explain that the 2011 uprisings were the true succession to the Ottoman empire. A century of European, and then American, domination was ending. It had been a false start in Middle Eastern history. Now it was back on track. The people of the region were deciding their futures, and perhaps Turkey would have a role, almost like a big brother.

Turkey’s position – straddling east and west, facing Europe and Asia – is the key to its history and its future. It could be, should be, a rock of stability in a desperately un­stable part of the world. But it isn’t, and that is a problem for all of us.

 

Contagion of war

The coup did not come out of a clear sky. Turkey was in deep crisis before the attempt was made. Part of the problem has come from Erdogan’s divisive policies. He has led the AKP to successive election victories since it first won in 2002. But the policies of his governments have not been inclusive. As long as his supporters are happy, the president seems unconcerned about the resentment and opposition he is generating on the other side of politics.

Perhaps that was inevitable. His mission, as a political Islamist, was to change the country, to end the power of secular elites, including the army, which had been dominant since Mustafa Kemal Atatürk created modern Turkey after the collapse of the Ottoman empire. And there is also the influence of chaos and war in the Middle East. Turkey has borders with Iraq and Syria, and is deeply involved in their wars. The borders do not stop the contagion of violence. Hundreds of people have died in the past year in bomb attacks in Turkish cities, some carried out by the jihadists of so-called Islamic State, and some sent by Kurdish separatists working under the PKK.

It is a horrible mix. Erdogan might be able to deal with it better if he had used the attempted coup to try to unite Turkey. All the parliamentary parties condemned it. But instead, he has turned the power of the state against his opponents. More rough times lie ahead.

Jeremy Bowen is the BBC’s Middle East editor. He tweets @bowenbbc

This article first appeared in the 28 July 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Summer Double Issue