Istanbul, late 1980s. The sound of metal clanks through a small car workshop. Özdemir Bayraktar wipes sweat from his forehead, his hands covered in grease. His young sons, Haluk and Selçuk, run between workbenches, fascinated by the machines around them.
His wife, Canan, steps in, holding a financial ledger tightly. “We’re barely making a profit this month,” she whispers to her husband.
He doesn’t know it yet, but this simple family business will one day reshape global warfare and change the fate of the Middle East and beyond.
This is the story of Baykartar—a family’s fight against the odds to create something revolutionary.
Özdemir Bayraktar is more than just a mechanic. A brilliant engineering graduate from Istanbul Technical University, he is inspired by Necmettin Erbakan, an engineer-turned-politician who believes Türkiye must stop relying on foreign weapons.
“We can’t keep begging foreigners for scraps,” Erbakan declares in his speeches. “Tanks. Planes. Drones. We must build them ourselves.”
These words fuel Özdemir’s ambition to make Türkiye self-sufficient in defense technology.
In 1986, Baykar Makina is born—a small shop making car parts. But Özdemir dreams bigger. Foreign companies dominate aviation, and Türkiye is dependent on expensive imports.
His son Selçuk grows up in the workshop, surrounded by oil and ambition. After excelling at Robert College and Istanbul Technical University, But Turkey’s technological landscape is too limited for his ambitions.
The United States calls. Selçuk lands at the University of Pennsylvania, immersing himself in unmanned aerial vehicle research with single-minded intensity.
Later, at MIT, pursuing his PhD, he sits across from his professor late one night, determination etched on his face.
“I’ll make UAVs fly in formation,” he states, voice steady, eyes locked with his mentor’s. “First in the world.”
The professor raises his eyebrows, skeptical but intrigued. Selçuk doesn’t flinch. He carries his father’s fire across oceans, a dreamer with precise blueprints.
Eastern Turkey, 2000. The mountains rise like jagged teeth against the horizon, hiding PKK fighters in their crevices. These insurgents are ghosts—slipping through caves, striking without warning.
In Şırnak, Lieutenant Colonel Melih Gülova watches Özdemir Bayraktar unload equipment from a truck. Exhausted, he approaches him.
“They’re killing us out there,” Gülova says, voice raw with emotion. “PKK hides in those peaks—our soldiers can’t see them. We need eyes in the sky—our own eyes. I’ve got no funding, no support. The country’s too broke or too stubborn to care.”
Özdemir sees his sons, Selçuk and Haluk, carrying equipment through the mud.
“I’ll fund it myself,” Özdemir says. “We start now.”
Ankara, 2004. Prime Minister Recep Tayyip Erdoğan sits across from top officials at the Ministry of Defense. The room is tense—Türkiye is at a crossroads. Stacks of reports detail the nation’s reliance on foreign military technology.
Erdoğan leans forward, his voice firm. “Eleven billion dollars—for what? American drones that spy on us?” His advisors flinch at his anger. “No deal. We build our own.”
This is Baykar’s chance. But there’s no government funding, no grants. The family works alone, building drones in the mountains.
On test day, they launch the first prototype. It lifts off—then crashes into the rocks.
Özdemir doesn’t flinch. They try again.
May 2007. Snow blankets the Şırnak mountains. Lieutenant Colonel Melih Gülova lies dead, blood soaking his torn uniform from a landmine blast. A soldier hands Özdemir a stained note from Gülova’s pocket: “These drones are my will. Don’t stop.”
Özdemir holds the note tightly. They continue.
Couple of days later, they test the new drone. That night, Selçuk grabs the Mini İHA, steps into the wind, and hurls it skyward. It wobbles, then steadies, camera flickering as it scans the peaks. Haluk tracks it from the tent, radio crackling confirmation. It flies.
It’s not a weapon yet, just a small set of eyes in the sky—but it works.
At the defense ministry, a gray-haired official sits across from the Bayraktar brothers, his voice dripping with condescension. “Listen, my son, you’re all wonderful, well-educated kids—bravo. But accept reality: foreign producers are superior. This drone nonsense? A fairy tale.”
Banks pull loans. Flight permits disappear. NATO blocks approvals.
That evening, Özdemir paces his living room, the weight of failure threatening to crush him. Photos of his sons grin from picture frames while they sleep upstairs, unaware of the crisis. He stops, facing Canan, who holds financial ledgers in trembling hands.
“Sell it,” he says simply. He signs the deed to their house—their family home, now sacrificed for the company. Every lira pours into Baykar.
The constant stress finally takes its toll. Özdemir suffers a heart rupture and is hospitalized.
Harsh lights buzz overhead. Özdemir lies still, tubes snaking from his arms, machines beeping a fragile rhythm. After weeks of recovery, Recep Tayyip Erdoğan himself strides in,
In intensive care, Erdoğan visits. Özdemir, weak but determined, grips his hand. “The kids… let them show you the UAV-UAS. Listen to them.”
Erdoğan nods decisively. Days later, he meets with Selçuk and Haluk in a stark government office. Tension crackles in the air as the brothers spread their designs across a wooden table. A laptop glows between them.
Selçuk taps the screen, pulling up schematics for a combat drone—sleek lines, built to kill. “Our drones can win this war, sir,” he says, voice trembling but fierce.
Haluk points at the image, steady as a rock. “No more foreign technology—this is ours.”
Erdoğan leans forward, sleeves rolled up, eyes narrowing as he studies the designs. The room falls silent except for the hum of air conditioning.
“No more begging,” he finally says, voice like steel. “Make it happen.”
Istanbul, 2014. In a Baykar hangar, the TB-2 combat drone is ready. Selçuk and Haluk complete the design.
Later that year, Selçuk marries Sümeyye Erdoğan, the president’s daughter. The bond with the Erdoğan family tightens.The whispers grow—of power, vision, a new Turkey rising from technological independence.
By 2017, the stakes escalate dramatically. In Idlib, Syria, Assad’s forces attack Turkish soldiers. Smoke chokes the border region as refugees flood toward Turkey.
Turkey has already taken in millions of Syrian refugees and cannot bear another wave. Allowing further threats on its border is not an option.
The TB-2 launches—silent, deadly—its shadow slicing through the dusk. Missiles streak downward, tanks erupt in flames. It’s not just a drone—it’s Turkey’s declaration of power, a turning point in regional politics.
Turkey’s defense industry stands tall, its eyes now watching across the Middle East.
The Middle East has a new technological leader, shifting power dynamics across regions long dominated by Western and Russian systems.
Selçuk and Haluk carry their father’s torch forward. New creations rise from their drawing boards: the Akıncı, a long-range drone with AI capabilities, prowling high above the clouds; the Kızılelma, a stealth fighter drone, its radar signature barely a whisper.
What began in a cramped automobile factory with a grease-stained engineer and his curious sons has transformed into a force that reshapes global warfare and elevates a nation’s standing.