Azerbaijan's Secular Autocracy Is Repeating the Mistakes That Brought Down Ben Ali — and the Old Turkish Elite
The Headscarf and the Dynasty
When governments decide what women may wear to school, they usually claim they are defending the nation from something darker. History suggests they are usually defending something else entirely: themselves.
A ban, a strike, and a theologian in handcuffs
In July 2026, Azerbaijan's parliament amended the Law on General Education to declare the country's school system formally secular, and on 22 July President Ilham Aliyev signed a decree directing his cabinet to rewrite the dress code. On 21 September, the Cabinet of Ministers obliged: new school uniform rules now bar students and teachers from wearing anything that contradicts the secular principle of education — a formulation that, in practice, has meant the hijab.
The predictable followed. Girls in headscarves were turned away from Sumgait School No. 6 near Baku in late September. Students at two schools — No. 69 in Baku and the B. Shiriyev school in the village of Mollaoba — boycotted classes in solidarity with hijab-wearing classmates. A teacher at Baku's Richard Sorge Secondary School No. 90 was dismissed, footage showing students weeping and embracing her.
Then came the arrests that revealed what this is really about. Abgül Suleymanov, a prominent theologian, was hauled into detention and handed 30 days of administrative arrest after writing on Facebook: "If they dare to ban schoolgirls from studying while wearing the hijab, I will choose prison and die there. In any case, everyone in this country is living a prison life." Even Polad Aslanov — a journalist already serving a 13-year treason sentence his supporters call punishment for his reporting — launched a hunger strike from his cell over the new rules, saying his own child's right to education had been restricted.
Baku insists there is no ban, only a dress code. But a dress code enforced by police detention is a ban with better lawyers.
The family business
To understand why a government would pick this fight now, look at who governs. Ilham Aliyev did not win power; he inherited it in 2003 from his father Heydar, a former Soviet security chief who had ruled Azerbaijan since 1993. Two decades on, the state and the household have fused. Aliyev's wife Mehriban is First Vice President. His daughter Leyla runs the vast Heydar Aliyev Foundation, a quasi-state charity through which enormous public and private resources flow. The 2016 Panama Papers leak documented offshore wealth linked to the family on a scale grotesquely disproportionate to any declared income. Presidential elections have become coronations: in the February 2024 snap vote, Aliyev was announced the winner with more than 90 percent amid the usual OSCE catalog of fraud and intimidation.
The machine runs on fear. More than 300 political prisoners sit in Azerbaijani jails, among them over two dozen journalists from the corruption-investigating outlets Abzas Media, Meydan TV, and Toplum TV, election monitor Anar Mammadli, economist Gubad Ibadoghlu, and — in 2025 — the chairman of the main opposition party, Ali Karimli. Human Rights Watch documented the regime extending its reach even to activists living abroad, securing in-absentia convictions against critics in exile.
This is the classic anatomy of a kleptocracy — and kleptocracies, when cornered by their own corruption, reach for the oldest scapegoat in the repertoire: religion as a security threat.
The Ben Ali playbook
Zine El Abidine Ben Ali understood this. For 23 years, his Tunisian regime presented itself as a secular bulwark against Islamism — banning the hijab in schools and universities, harassing bearded men, smearing every dissident as an extremist. The machinery of fear worked right up until December 2010, when a street vendor named Mohamed Bouazizi set himself on fire and the entire edifice — the feared police, the ruling party, the family empires of Ben Ali's in-laws — collapsed in 28 days. It turned out that Tunisians had never been offered a real choice between secularism and Islamism. They had been offered a choice between Ben Ali's family and everyone else, and in January 2011 they chose everyone else.
Azerbaijan has run this script before. In November 2010, Baku tried to ban the hijab in schools and reversed course after street protests — which were met with mass detentions anyway. In May 2011, police broke up a demonstration outside the Education Ministry and detained 45 people; in October 2012, a "Freedom for the Hijab" rally ended with 65 arrested and some sentenced to six and a half years in prison. Suleymanov himself spent eleven years in prison on drug charges widely regarded as fabricated — the standard Azerbaijani recipe for disposing of inconvenient Muslims, who are often framed as Iranian agents.
The timing is telling. Restrictions on hijab-wearing pupils in Baku, Sumgait, and Ganja escalated in the spring of 2026, in the immediate aftermath of a March 5 drone attack on Azerbaijan's Nakhchivan exclave that Baku blamed on Tehran — a pattern rights defenders have long observed: pressure on religious citizens tends to spike whenever tension with Iran does. Fear of Iranian Islamism is being used to discipline Azerbaijani citizens — most of whom have no connection to Tehran whatsoever — in exactly the way Ben Ali used fear of Ennahda to discipline Tunisians.
The Turkish mirror — and the irony Baku refuses to see
The second parallel is the one Aliyev's closest ally finds most awkward. For decades, Turkey's secular Kemalist establishment ran precisely this system: a self-appointed guardian class that used the headscarf ban — enforced most viciously during the February 28, 1997 military campaign against political Islam — to keep religious-majority society out of universities, parliaments, and courts, all in the name of protecting the republic. It jailed politicians, shuttered parties, and treated piety itself as subversion.
It did not end well for them. In 2002, the conservative Justice and Development Party of Recep Tayyip Erdoğan swept the old elite from power and then spent two decades dismantling it — through the Ergenekon and Balyoz trials that decapitated the military-judicial establishment, through elections the secular camp kept losing, until the headscarf restrictions that had defined the old order were fully repealed between 2010 and 2017. Erdoğan built his entire political identity as the liberator of the headscarf-wearing woman — which makes Ankara's silence over Baku's ban all the more deafening. When Turkish critics like former AKP lawmaker Mustafa Yeneroğlu begged Erdoğan to speak out — "the images wounded all our consciences," he said — Baku's response was to threaten to bar Turkish critics from entering the country, accusing them of running a foreign campaign against the alliance.
That silence is strategic, and it is also temporary. Turkey's ruling movement built its legitimacy on defending exactly the women Aliyev is now expelling from classrooms. The contradiction cannot be managed forever.
What comes next
The wager of this regime is that a wealthy, victorious Azerbaijan — flush with gas money, courted by the West after the Karabakh war, allied with Israel — can afford to ignore its own society. It is the same wager Ben Ali made, and the same wager the Turkish general staff made. Both lost.
The deeper irony is that Aliyev's brand of militarized secularism has no indigenous roots at all. Azerbaijan is a predominantly Shia Muslim country, heir to the same religious sensibilities that produced the great debates of the late Ottoman and early Soviet Caucasus. Its secularism is not a social consensus; it is an elite imposition, enforced by the same police that fabricate drug cases against imams. Imposed secularism of this kind does not secularize society — it radicalizes it, pushing the religious question out of public life and into the underground, where it festers until it returns as a political identity. That is precisely what happened in Turkey, where the headscarf ban did not destroy political Islam but manufactured the electoral army that destroyed the ban's authors.
If and when Azerbaijani society reasserts itself — and the school strikes of October 2026, led not by militants but by teenage girls and their crying classmates, suggest the process has begun — Turkey's calculus will change with it. Erdoğan's Turkey will not die defending a hereditary Azerbaijani kleptocracy against a Turkic, religiously conservative movement that more closely resembles the AKP's own base than Aliyev's court ever has. When the moment comes, Ankara's friendship will prove to be what it has always been: a relationship with a regime, not with a nation.
And then a new dynamic will take hold, one Baku's Western partners rarely contemplate: a post-Aliyev Azerbaijan whose political majority is Shia and whose natural religious, cultural, and commercial gravitational pull runs south toward Iran as much as west toward Turkey. A democratic or even merely post-dynastic Azerbaijan would not be a client of anyone — it would be a new pole in the South Caucasus, forcing Armenia, Georgia, Iran, Turkey, Russia, and the West into a genuinely new geometry. The headscarf girls of Sumgait, unremarkable as they seem today, may one day be remembered the way Tunisians remember the Bouazizi generation: the moment a society decided that a family's state was not the same thing as a nation.
Ben Ali's generals assured him to the end that the streets were quiet. They were quiet right up until they weren't. The Aliyevs should read the Tunisian file carefully — before their own citizens decide, as Suleymanov warned from detention, that everyone in the country is already living a prison life, and that the only thing left to lose is the dynasty itself.
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