In the fragrant swirl of grilled meats, hookah smoke, and north London bustle, Green Lanes looks, at first glance, like a street of cafés, corner shops and kebab joints—multicultural London in full Technicolor. But for over a decade, behind the steamed-up windows and over the tea-stained Formica tables, a far more sinister enterprise was thriving. At its centre was a wheelchair-bound gangster known simply as “Uncle”—and the Baybasin family, who at one point controlled up to 90 per cent of the UK’s heroin trade.
This is not just a story of drugs. It’s a tale of brutality, community control, informant double-dealing and the rot that creeps in when power grows unchecked. The Baybasins didn’t just run a gang—they ran a shadow economy, with their own taxes, punishments, and diplomacy. They were, quite literally, a state within a street.
The Baybasin story begins far from Harringay—in the Kurdish region of south-eastern Turkey, in a small town called Lice. There, in the 1960s, the family built early fortunes in black-market cigarettes and later in the lucrative opium trade. Said Baybasin, the patriarch, passed on both savvy and ruthlessness to his sons.
The eldest, Huseyin Baybasin—known later as “The Emperor”—was the family’s original kingpin. He moved into hashish and heroin, and by the 1980s was a major figure in the European drugs network. After a brief spell in British prison, he was mysteriously transferred to Turkey and released. The whispers of high-level corruption around his name have never quite faded.
His younger brother, Abdullah, arrived in London in 1997 seeking asylum. Paralysed from the waist down after a shooting in Amsterdam, Abdullah might not have looked like a criminal mastermind. But in Green Lanes, he quickly became a name that induced both awe and terror.
To the untrained eye, Abdullah’s terraced home on Green Lanes looked unremarkable. To police, it was a fortress. When officers eventually raided the property, they had to smash through reinforced walls, double metal gates, and triple-glazed windows. Inside, past a 4-inch-thick soundproof door, they discovered a torture chamber.
Two thick hooks hung from the ceiling, wired directly to the mains. Here, victims were suspended and beaten between electric shocks. Their crime? Refusing to pay protection money. Or simply failing to show proper respect.
Though confined to a wheelchair, Abdullah ruled with the iron-fisted theatricality of a mafia don. Known affectionately—and fearfully—as “Uncle”, he commanded a group called the Bombacilar (“the Bombers”), made up largely of young, disenfranchised Kurdish men.
Their tactics were blunt and brutal. In one instance, 20 of them stormed a Turkish café in Hackney armed with samurai swords, metal bars, pool cues, and at least one firearm. One victim had a finger chopped off. Another had his ribs smashed. Shots were fired.
The Baybasin syndicate’s operations extended far beyond casual violence. They ran extortion rackets across North London. Local businesses were visited by emissaries who made their intentions clear. If you didn’t pay the tax, you got a petrol bomb through the window—or worse.
Human traffickers had to pay £1,000 per person. Pimps and drug dealers were required to hand over a cut of profits. Even fellow criminals paid tribute. This wasn’t just criminal enterprise—it was organised taxation with a punishment department.
For years, Abdullah kept himself at arm’s length from the drugs themselves. He was careful never to be in the same room as heroin—until 2001, when detectives managed to plant a camera and microphones in the back room of a Green Lanes sports club. There, they captured everything: the beatings, the whispered commands, the ritual of underlings kissing his hand.
Police said it was like watching The Godfather on CCTV.
Huseyin Baybasin, meanwhile, was living large in the Netherlands. His property portfolio stretched across Europe and into Turkey’s sun-drenched southern coast. Hotels, car hire firms, electrical stores—the classic washing machines of narco-capitalism.
In 2001, he was convicted in Amsterdam of conspiracy to murder, kidnapping, and trafficking. He was sentenced to 20 years—later increased to life. With the Emperor removed, Abdullah stepped into the power vacuum.
Like many high-ranking criminals, Abdullah Baybasin also operated as an informant. For a time, he was protected by his relationship with HM Customs. But this protection evaporated when the now-defunct National Crime Squad began its own investigation.
By the time of his arrest, Abdullah’s grip on the UK heroin market was near total. He controlled not just the import and distribution but the enforcement, the diplomacy, the debt collection. Guns were handed out. Machetes were brandished. Petrol bombs were assembled. And everything was run from the back of a humble-looking snooker hall.
But a gangster’s empire is only as strong as the fear it inspires—and fear has a half-life. In 2002, tensions boiled over. A street battle broke out between supporters of Baybasin and a rival group outside the Dostlar Social Club, a café owned by one of Abdullah’s relatives. Over 40 men armed with bats, knives, and guns clashed in the street. Twenty were injured. A Kurdish cleaner, Alisan Dogan, was stabbed to death.
This moment marked the turning point. Surveillance was ramped up. Raids followed. And in 2006, Abdullah was finally convicted of heroin conspiracy, blackmail, and perverting the course of justice. He was jailed for 22 years. Ten of his henchmen received sentences ranging from 5 to 16 years for kidnapping and drug offences.
The Baybasin name may no longer dominate front pages, but in the alleyways and back rooms of Green Lanes, it still provokes a pause. “He has so many relatives still in London,” one local businessman told reporters. “I don’t believe we’ve heard the last of the Baybasins.”
Heroin prices remain low. Turkish organised crime remains resilient. And the legacy of the Baybasins—of iron rule dressed in soft whispers and kissed hands—continues to echo in the margins.
Theirs was an empire built on fear, reinforced by violence, and embedded within a community. It is a cautionary tale about what thrives when the powerful are unchecked, when neighbours keep their heads down, and when ‘Uncle’ is allowed to run the block.
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