by Alev Scott
Sabri was wonderfully open with us, probably flattered to be treated as a person rather than a sex worker, and eager to discuss the peculiarities of his trade. He told us that twenty years ago there was much less competition in the sauna industry and the service provided was much more perfunctory. Competition is now fierce, and clients demand more – they want ‘love’, some semblance of affection and conversation, so that it has become about more than the act itself. Sabri’s brother, Mustafa, had just come back from Singapore, where he had been taken by an overly attached client who now referred to him as his ‘boyfriend’, taking him on long holidays because he didn’t want him working for anyone else. Mustafa had mixed feelings about this. He was unhappy because he saw himself as a straight man working for money, but this particular job overlapped into the realms of relationship. He was adamantly straight, but appreciated the money and the lifestyle – a tricky dilemma. One comfort, at least, was that he was the active partner in this particular sexual relationship.
Crucially, there is a big difference in Turkey between a man’s possible roles in sex: the aktif (‘active’) participant is adamantly a Man – Erkek, executing his manly duty, notwithstanding who his sexual partner is. He might be rather embarrassed to be discovered with a man rather than a woman, but his (hetero)sexual identity would not be in question, as it would in the West. The pasif (‘passive’) participant is the ‘unmanly’ one, who might suffer prejudice. In Ancient Greece, a similar hierarchy existed in relation to the active and passive roles of homosexual lovers: in brief, the former were respected and the latter were not. To illustrate the current attitude in Turkey, one only has to look at Tarlabaşı Boulevard in Beyoğlu, which is liberally scattered with transvestite prostitutes at all times of day. They quite regularly pick up customers, who do not seem unduly worried about being spotted going off with a faux femme fatale. The transvestite is probably cheaper than the female prostitute in a brothel nearby. That is about as complicated as it gets, for the punter. Interestingly, the gay brothers in Aquarius charged considerably more than transvestite sex workers; the former charged 250 lira an hour, whereas transvestite workers charge around thirty (pre-bargaining). I learnt the latter by persuading a very embarrassed male friend to ask one broad-shouldered lady her price late one night in the street as we passed; I followed at a discreet distance so as not to blow his cover.
I occasionally go and drink tea with a traditional Turkish tailor called Selçuk, a small, bespectacled and very respectable elderly gentleman with a surprisingly naughty twinkle in his eye, whose office is in Tarlabaşı. We chat of this and that, and one day he related an anecdote that could only have happened in Turkey. The previous evening he had left work and was walking to the bus stop on Tarlabaşı Boulevard when one of the transvestites on the street corner opposite his office yelled out: ‘Oi, four-eyes! Let’s make a baby!’ Selçuk had seen the funny side of this, declined the offer and trotted on his way, but I found it astonishing that a man who prays five times a day did not have a more outraged reaction. When Selçuk was telling the story, he used the word yumuşak (soft) to describe the transvestite, in this case meaning effeminate or camp. Selçuk’s tone was amused rather than aggressive or disgusted, and about as far from the menace of ‘faggot’ as possible.
There is definitely homophobia in Turkey, but it usually takes the form of childish teasing of men who are openly camp and therefore deemed ‘unmanly’, as opposed to those who simply want to have sex regardless of with whom. When there is discrimination or hostility, it is reserved for those who make their homosexuality part of their public persona, and the most hardline reactions come from very conservative circles (Selçuk excluded), just like in the West. Strangely for a Westerner, men having sex with men per se is not such an issue. Here, men are defined fundamentally by their erkeklik ‘manliness’ and not (necessarily) by their sexual partners, while in the West it is often seen as an admirably modern virtue to be ‘in touch with one’s feminine side’ and yet, technically, straight.
The attitudes of Turkish authorities on the subject are rather Victorian. For a start, homosexuality has never been outlawed in Turkey, as it was in, say, Britain. That is mainly because it has never been legally acknowledged, much like lesbianism in Britain. There is a popular legend that Queen Victoria, when asked to sign a bill outlawing all forms of homosexuality, struck out the references to women because she thought the concept of a lesbian was ridiculous, rather like that of a unicorn. How can you outlaw something that does not exist? In fact, references to female homosexuality were never included in that law in the first place. The same has been true in Turkey of male homosexuality, a concept historically disregarded or rather, unchallenged by authority. Lesbianism, of course, was also ignored. The lack of legal recognition means that homosexual couples have no representation, and their partnerships are not accepted in law, nor their right to adopt. There is also no legislation to prohibit discrimination on the grounds of sexual orientation. Interestingly, the army prohibits passive homosexuals from signing up – or, alternatively put, lets them get out of conscription – but active homosexuals and bisexuals have no such allowances made.
As there is no conscription for women in Turkey (although there are women serving as officers in the armed forces), it is difficult to know what the equivalent rules would be for lesbian conscripts. My guess is that there would be no such rules. The asymmetry between gay men and gay women the world over is fascinating, but it is particularly striking in Turkey. A Turkish friend of mine, Merve, has not come out as a lesbian to her parents because, she says, they would simply not comprehend what she was telling them. Lesbianism is an even more uncharted and unrecognised concept than male homosexuality in most parts of Turkey. Merve comes from a traditional working-class family from Mersin, in the east, but she has many lesbian friends from Istanbul and more open cosmopolitan areas who are in exactly the same predicament.
There are several elements to this non-recognition of lesbians: on a practical level, according to Merve, being a lesbian in its most stereotypical form simply goes unnoticed because lesbians are less alarming to a traditional Turkish eye. People seem more sensitive to and less forgiving of a man appearing effeminate than a woman appearing un-made up and butch – she is less obvious and, crucially, less offensive to the average Turkish observer than a higher-status person (man) pretending to be lower-status (woman). Among those who are aware of their existence, lesbians also have the reputation of being less exclusively gay than men, in that they tend to have relationships with people of both genders more often than men do. Whether this is socially circumstantial or a natural biological preference is open to debate, but either way it makes lesbianism seem more like a lifestyle choice, and therefore less threatening to a homophobic person, than a gay man exclusively having sex with men, who might be viewed as beyond redemption.
Because women in Turkey are simply less in the public eye than men, there is less discourse about their private sexual preferences and habits. Lesbianism is not much talked about, and perhaps this is cyclical: women are less willing to drop the bombshell that they are gay because it would be so unprecedented, therefore it is not discussed, and so the veil of ignorance is preserved.
In much of the Middle East, lesbians are simply not accepted in any sense, because women are not deemed to have the right to choose their own identity. A woman cannot declare herself a lesbian because that is not within her remit as a female who is de facto ruled by a man (be that her father, another male relative or her husband). The man in question makes all her decisions, so an identity-defining choice like declaring herself a lesbian is simply unheard of. Therefore, while a man declaring himself gay is worrying and certainly not welcomed, it is at least accepted as a choice. A woman does not have that luxury.
When a Moroccan acquaintance of mine (reluctantly) decided to come out to her parents, she was very apprehensive about their reaction, even booking herself a flight the following day so she could drop the bomb and escape immediat
ely. As it turned out, they were relatively relaxed about the revelation, and her mother even teased her for being so melodramatic in announcing her sexual preference: ‘Do you think you invented this? Your aunts were up to the same kind of thing, but they grew out of it. If you don’t, that’s OK.’ This is another attitude towards lesbianism that must be both patronising and strangely liberating: the sense that sexual contact among females is simply a phase, not amounting to much, and definitely nothing to threaten the union of a man and a woman that is a Middle Eastern woman’s duty and indeed destiny. The upside of this depressing dismissal is a freedom to indulge in what is seen as innocuous behaviour. Of course, this should not be the case but, currently, it is preferable to the hostility which would be shown if lesbianism was revealed as something to be taken seriously, a real preference for women to the exclusion of men.
The Turkish government occasionally gives its tuppence worth on homosexuality, and this is never encouraging. In March 2010 the Minister for Women and Family Affairs, Selma Aliye Kafav, declared that ‘homosexuality is a biological disorder which can be treated’. The mayor of Ankara, Melih Gökçek, is a notorious instigator of smear campaigns, and one of his most infamous jibes was directed at the opposition deputy of Tunceli, Hüseyin Aygün. Gökçek asked Aygün on Twitter whether he was gay, on the grounds that he took part in the Gay Pride march in Istanbul during the Gezi protests, adding sarcastically that it was his constituents who really wanted to know.
Compared to other Middle Eastern countries, however, Turkey boasts an explicit and vocal gay community: there are equal rights protests conducted by LGBT activists, a thriving gay party and arts scene in Istanbul, the Pink Life QueerFest in Ankara, a similar event in Antalya and many dynamic university LGBT groups, particularly in big cities. During the Gezi Park occupation, LGBT activists had a prominent stand at the Taksim entrance to the park and were almost always well represented in protests, presumably feeling safe in the atmosphere of inclusive and distinctly leftist solidarity that so characterised the period.
There are also plenty of unofficial gay organisations, or venues, if one knows where to look. My friend Andrew, whose alter ego, Doris, has become an Istanbul legend, can wax lyrical on the many gay cinemas and parks he has visited in his twenty-five years in Turkey, the way he can tell if a taxi driver is amenable to an engagement (‘Where to?’ ‘Wherever you want’) and the lingo he uses to sound out potentially gay acquaintances. It is quite extraordinary, discovering through him a hidden community which one would never know about without someone on the inside. It is as though a secret Soho beats a steady and ardent pulse under the veneer of run-of-the-mill establishments and ordinary-looking Turkish men serving beers or negotiating traffic.
Sometimes the secret Soho is not so secret at all. The area in which I happened to settle in Istanbul is near Tarlabaşı – a shabby, brothel-riddled pocket of Beyoğlu, known for its proliferation of prostitutes of every kind – male, transvestite, transsexual and regular. Beyoğlu is the most chaotic, minority-filled metropolitan area I have ever encountered, traditionally home to people of all ethnicity, religion, profession and sexuality. Due to this eclectic and all-embracing reputation, it attracts homosexual and transsexual men from all corners of Turkey who could not be openly gay in, say, Diyarbakır in the south-east or Kayseri in central Anatolia. Beyoğlu is also where all the LGBT organisations of Istanbul are based.
Tarlabaşı, where specifically transvestite and transsexual sex workers now operate, used to be the home of the Greek and Armenian communities in Istanbul, and still reflects this in some of the beautiful, decaying neo-classical architecture of the buildings; sadly, these minorities were driven out in the fifties after the race riots. Despite its position just above the Golden Horn, near fashionable bits of town, it has never recovered from its history and is going through a ruthless process of forced gentrification. A private construction company (whose CEO is, incidentally, the son-in-law of the prime minister) has bought up most of it and is transforming the decrepit, beautiful houses into expensive apartments and shops. While the old Tarlabaşı was unseemly, the new one will be fake, and I think it is a great shame.
Prostitution – of either sex – is technically legal in Turkey, and far more widespread than most people let on. While some of the brothels are controlled by the government (lucratively, it might be added), many more are run by a mafia of pimps and brothel empire-owners, some of whom are extremely rich individuals. One of them, the Armenian Madame Manukyan, was the number one taxpayer in the whole of Turkey for five years in the 1990s before her death, receiving an award for her contributions from the tax office. Tarlabaşı in many ways resembles Amsterdam’s red light district, without as many sex shops. Sultry voices invite passers-by to their less than sumptuous quarters from behind grilled windows, trying out all the major tourist languages until they get a response. Down the road in Galata, there is an extremely well-organised brothel that has all the hallmarks of government support – there is a security check at the entrance, complete with uniformed guard and metal detector, a sign prohibiting under-eighteens and a lengthy queue winding down the street outside, particularly on the weekends. The newsagents on the street seem to have bought up half the country’s import of condoms, displayed in wicker baskets outside the shops.
There is one street in particular in Tarlabaşı, affectionately known among my expat friends as Tranny Alley, where sturdy-calved ladies with suspiciously narrow hips and enviable manes of hair loiter throughout the day. Early one afternoon, I counted five, all arrayed side by side in true sisterly fashion. There is clearly a hierarchy, those lucky enough to be fairly petite pulling off stiletto heels to lend elegance to an ensemble relying heavily on leopard print, miniskirts and zipped faux leather. Taller models make the most of a commanding presence and yet shorter skirts. Many is the time I have watched a man walk past one of these exotic ladies, walk slowly back, have a brief discussion that can only be about money, and either walk off for good or follow her to some nearby brothel. The meagre thirty lira (about £10) quoted to my friend is sadly indicative of the cut-price market for one of the lowest sectors of society, self-employed in the most unmonitored of service industries.
Retired prostitutes-turned-pimps hang around in the same area, and are identifiable by their advanced age and air of undisguised dejection. Most of them have ceased to make any effort, and the one I generally notice, who seems to be something equivalent to the Godmother of Sin, sports a grubby tracksuit and hangs out in the shell of a gutted house. Pimps are more essential for transvestite and transsexual prostitutes than for most, because these workers are usually excluded from brothels – not by law, but by other, more conventional prostitutes. This means that they hang out on the street, where they are more visible, more instantly available – but also more at risk. Transsexual sex workers are often treated like freaks and are the subject of vicious attacks, which is why they are actually more likely than other sex workers to want to be part of a union. These compounding disadvantages might be the reason why transsexuals are actually more likely to want to be part of a union than other sex workers. They have everything to gain and nothing to lose, unlike the women who want to keep their heads down and who fear only the social repercussions of being employed in the sex trade. Transsexuals have their whole identity to fight for.
So, it seems the sisterhood is not as tolerant and all-embracing as one would hope. The exclusion of transsexuals by biologically female sex workers is worrying but not that surprising given the broad social prejudices already existing towards transsexual people. Furthermore, female prostitutes in such a well-known, saturated area probably resent any kind of competition and seize the chance to exclude openly gay and decidedly unmanly transvestites who have fallen into the way of prostitution. When I say ‘fallen in’, it is not actually a coincidence that male transvestites end up as prostitutes in Turkey. There is often not much else that these men can do if they want to be openly homosexual and moreover express th
eir desire to dress like a woman. It makes sense, financially, to exploit what would be a crippling disadvantage in any other walk of life. And, crucially, there seems to be plentiful, public demand for their services – something that is not, I think (I cannot be sure), so widespread or at least blatant anywhere else in the world, with the exception of Bangkok.
Because transvestites are not regarded as men, and are not women either, in the eyes of most Turks (and, it must be said, many people the world over), they have practically no status at all, and are often prey to attacks by the police. It is legal to be gay, to wear women’s clothes and to work as a prostitute, so police stop transvestites on grounds of blocking traffic or violating the law of ‘exhibitionism’, march them to the nearest police station and fine them about seventy lira (£25) a time – about their day’s earnings. They often beat them up, with no fear of repercussions at all. Who would come to the aid of a prostitute of dubious gender, or seek justice on their behalf? This is the uglier side of the colourful gay scene in Istanbul.
Confusingly, and unfairly, there is bountiful affection for famous transvestites and even transsexuals all over Turkey – even, bizarrely, among conservative Muslims. There are several ostentatious transvestite pop stars, for example, adored by conservative and secular Turks alike. The trendsetter and original grande dame of popular music was Zeki Müren, who bore more than a passing resemblance to Julian Clary and was hugely popular from the 1960s onwards in Turkey, Iran, Greece and further afield. He pioneered heavy make-up and impressive bling and was obviously gay without making any statement about it. In an Islamic country, it is astonishing that he had what amounted to a state funeral on his death in 1996, and hundreds of thousands of visitors a year travel to his posthumous museum in Bodrum on the Aegean coast. Bülent Ersoy is a transsexual singer with similar kudos, who has been a more vocal advocate of gay and transgender rights since the 1980s.