Crossroads: A Turkish Case for a United Earth

I grew up in Turkey, a country at the crossroads of continents, cultures and conflicts. Living here has shown me how fragile peace can be, and how the struggles of ordinary people are so often crushed by nationalism, authoritarianism and international power struggles. None of this arrived to me as theory. It arrived as conversations around kitchen tables, as headlines that never seemed to end, as prices that changed between morning and night, as the quiet fear that tomorrow might be worse than today.

When I began to dream of a United Earth, I did not imagine a utopia. I imagined something far more practical. I imagined a system that could actually protect people, stronger than today’s United Nations, which too often watches crises unfold without the power to act. Where I live, this is not an abstract debate. Wars in neighbouring countries shape our news and our neighbourhoods. Refugee crises are not numbers but faces on the bus and voices in the market. Economic instability is not a graph but the sinking feeling that savings will not stretch to the end of the month.

Think for a moment about what democracy looks like when it is fragile. It does not fail in one dramatic gesture. It thins out. A journalist hesitates before publishing. A teacher avoids certain topics because a student might record the lesson. A citizen thinks twice before sharing an article. Freedom shrinks by inches. In a democratic world federation, rights would not depend on the mood of a minister or the patience of a court. Human rights would be enforceable. The right to speak, to participate, to seek justice, would be more than promises on paper. They would be protected by a system that stands above any one government, and that is precisely why it would matter to people who feel their voice growing smaller.

Look also at what it means to live beside war. Turkey hosts millions of refugees, especially from Syria. Many of us have welcomed new neighbours. Many of us have also felt strain in our schools and hospitals, on wages and housing. The burden has not been shared fairly. In a world federation, forced migration would be recognised for what it is, a global crisis that requires shared responsibility. No single country would be left to carry it because of geography. Refugees would be protected with dignity, and host communities would be supported, not just applauded.

Economic life tells the same story. Ordinary people have learned to brace for currency swings and to live with widening inequality. A fairer global economy would not promise miracles, yet it would end the idea that wealth should flow endlessly upwards to a few powerful nations and corporations while those who produce and care and build are told to tighten their belts. Rules would be written for the many, not the few. Stability would become a public good, not a private privilege.

There is another part of our story that deserves to be told, and not only in the language of hardship. It is the part about identity and pride. Turkish people value solidarity and hospitality. We are proud of being a bridge between East and West. In a federal world, that bridge would not be a metaphor used in speeches. It would be a working structure that connects cultures and regions, a meaningful role that turns national pride into a contribution to humanity as a whole. Federalism does not erase identity. It gives identity a secure place to stand.

If these reflections sound local, that is because they are. Yet the pattern is not unique to Turkey. From Gaza to Ukraine, we see the same truth repeated. Our current international system is too weak, too fragmented and too dependent on nation-states that put power above humanity. When bombs fall or borders harden, there is outrage, then negotiation, then stalemate, then the next crisis. Climate change, war and mass migration do not fit within borders. They spill over, and they will keep spilling over until we build a system sized to the problems we face.

World federalism is not a slogan. It is a different way of organising power. Under a real federation, international law would not be a suggestion that powerful states can ignore when it suits them. It would have teeth. Governments that silence dissent, attack their neighbours or violate human rights would face consequences they could not shrug off. Economic rules would be written to curb exploitation and to reduce dependency on great powers, so that prosperity could be shared rather than hoarded. Responsibility for refugees would be distributed by design, not improvised after a disaster. None of this is about perfection. It is about building a framework where fairness is the default rather than the exception.

This is why I wrote the United Earth Manifesto. It is not a book of dreams. It is a map. A map is useful not because it shows a perfect land, but because it helps you take the next step. The manifesto is collaborative because it has to be. No single person or organisation can design a united world. We need people who have lived through censorship to tell us how rights can be enforced. We need those who have organised shelters and schools for displaced families to tell us what real support looks like. We need economists who understand the pressure of inflation in a small shop as well as the pressure of speculation in global markets. Only by weaving these experiences together can we design a federation that works for real lives.

I want to be clear about the horizon. World federalism is not about dissolving cultures into a grey uniformity. It is about giving every culture a home within a broader legal and political community that protects what is most precious. You do not lose your language because you gain a voice in a global parliament. You do not lose your history because your rights are guaranteed by a law that stands above the reach of a single ruler. You gain the security that your identity does not have to fight for oxygen.

The counterarguments are familiar. People say that a stronger global system would be distant, unaccountable, and arrogant. They say it would be captured by the same elites we already distrust. These concerns are not trivial. They are warnings that must shape the design. A federal system must be democratic at every level, transparent in its workings and limited in its scope, where local decisions are better. It must distribute power, not centralise it blindly. It must be built from the ground up through consent. Federalism, done properly, is not a ladder of command. It is a web of responsibility that lets communities solve what they can and binds them together when problems outrun their borders.

There is also the argument that the United Nations already exists and that we should simply improve it. I would welcome any improvement. Yet history has shown that an organisation without authority cannot carry the weight we place upon it. Peacekeepers cannot enforce peace when the rules are optional. Treaties cannot protect the vulnerable when violations carry no cost. If we ask the UN to do what only a federation can do, we set it up to fail, and we set ourselves up for disappointment.

So where does that leave us, here at the crossroads? In Turkey, politics feels like a cycle of crisis and disappointment. Elsewhere, the pattern takes different forms: wars that never end, economies collapsing under inequality, governments silencing their people. And while the wealthy nations insulate themselves with comfort and borders, the rest of humanity is left to carry the weight. The promise of national politics has not matched the scale of global problems. World federalism offers a different horizon: freedoms protected beyond borders, economic stability no longer hostage to the whims of the powerful, and a future where identities are not erased but empowered within a shared humanity.

I do not claim that federalism would end suffering. I claim something more modest and, I believe, more honest. It would give us a fighting chance. It would give a journalist the confidence that a courtroom somewhere will hear their case. It would give a refugee the knowledge that the right to safety does not expire at a frontier. It would give a parent the hope that their savings will not vanish because of decisions made half a world away. It would give communities the tools to respond to fires, floods and conflicts without waiting for the next summit.

I grew up at the crossroads of continents, where crises never feel far away. That is why I am here, and why I believe that connecting our local struggles to a moral global vision is necessary. World federalism is the alternative to despair. It is the only workable path I can see to justice, freedom and survival on a planetary scale. The work will be slow. The steps will be small at first. But maps exist to be followed, and the road will not build itself.

If you have felt your voice thin out, if you have watched a neighbour pack a hurried bag, if you have seen your pay buy less each month, then you already understand the reasons. The choice is not between naïve idealism and hardened realism. The choice is between a world sized to our problems and a world that keeps breaking under its own weight. I chose the first. I invite you to choose it too.