by Alev Scott
These co-existing attitudes are paradoxical, but perhaps no more surprising than the contrasting responses to a heavily made up woman who happens to be a successful pop star on television, and one who is leaning out of a brothel window – the first is impossibly glamorous, the second a slut. Transvestites have to contend with more prejudice unless they follow in the stilettoed footsteps of Zeki Müren, and sadly, that is a very remote possibility.
Despite the depressing side of Tarlabaşı, there is joy to be found in the lurid wig shops, the hustle and bustle of honest competition, speculation on breast veracity, the largely non-judgemental co-existence of kebab sellers and their fantastically clad customers. It is a scene I have not witnessed anywhere else in the world, and least of all in an Islamic country. I am consistently amazed by how open the whole thing is – it is localised, and of course similar scenes do not abound throughout Turkey by any means, but it is still remarkable. I think it must be somehow linked to the Turkish trait of being totally matter of fact about anything to do with commerce. Sex is sex, and if someone is willing to pay for it, it’s on offer. Just as Istanbul is characterised by whole streets or even districts devoted to one commodity or market – lamp shops, tailoring, musical instruments, blankets, kitchenware – so, too, there is an area devoted to sex, which is convenient for all concerned.
There is an interesting dynamic between the ‘gay for pay’ sauna workers and their transvestite/transsexual colleagues. When I interviewed the Kurdish boys at Aquarius I discovered that they lived next door to transvestites. The boys were very disparaging about their neighbours when they talked to Ami and me, but they were clearly good friends with them, spending much of their time together, chatting and sipping tea. However, the fact that some of them are transvestites and some of them are supposedly straight men creates a hierarchy, with the trans sex workers decidedly worse off. I am not sure where female prostitutes would fit into this hierarchy but my guess would be at the top, an intriguing switch from the normal ladder of a patriarchal society.
The status of the gay community in Turkey is fragile. I have many friends who are happily ‘out’ and in a same-sex relationship which is known about in their particular social circle; many of them, however, have not come out to their families, who will usually be hoping for a nice daughter- or son-in-law and the pitter-patter of tiny feet. Apart from the most artistic of professions (film makers, architects, photographers or designers of some description), it is not a subject to be mentioned at work, unless one is lucky enough to work in a liberal international company. Having said that, once you are in the circle of trust, as it were, the gay scene in Istanbul is famously good fun – clubs featuring the best DJs and performers on the clubbing circuit are hugely popular with gay and straight locals alike, and gay art and film making in particular is thriving.
An extraordinary film, Zenne (Male Dancer), came out in 2011 and swept the board at the Turkish equivalent of the Oscars. It was originally intended to be a documentary about the life of a modern zenne, a relic of the Ottoman practice of using male dancers to perform in the public quarters of the Sultan’s palace, because women were confined to the harem. At an early point in production, however, the directors’ friend Ahmet Yildiz came out as gay and was subsequently murdered by his own father, which stalled the film and gave the directors, Mehmet Binay and Caner Alper, a more serious ambition. They decided to turn the documentary into a feature film which follows a trio of gay men in Istanbul and Eastern Anatolia – the original zenne, their murdered friend Ahmet, and Ahmet’s German boyfriend Daniel, all played by actors. Sadly, the film is very true to life. I interviewed Mehmet Binay after watching the film, and it was humbling to hear him talk without bitterness about his friend’s murder, and all that he had gone through to hide his sexuality from his family.
One of the most shocking parts of the film follows the procedure that Ahmet and Can the zenne have to undergo in order to be granted exemption from compulsory military service on the grounds of homosexuality, which is technically classed by the army as a psychological disease manifesting itself as ‘unnatural intimacy’ (meaning that the military powers that be and the former Turkish Family Minister disagree on the finer points of its medical classification). Not only do gay conscripts have to provide graphic evidence of their passive participation in gay sex in the form of film or photographs, they must also be smiling to show that they are willing participants. In Zenne, there is an almost unbearably sad scene in which Ahmet and his boyfriend set up the video camera to film this contrived ‘evidence’. The film also depicted the way gay conscripts are subject to humiliating medical examinations and are pressurised to attend their review dressed in drag. In November 2012 the army made official their previously unofficial practice of expelling career soldiers (as opposed to conscripts) on the grounds of homosexuality, classing it as a disciplinary crime.
As is generally the case not only in Turkey but the world over, when extremes of society rub against each other, tolerance is stretched and ultimately snaps. I have already mentioned Galata as an area which has suffered a rapid gentrification in recent years, leaving traditional locals out of sync with the growing influx of modernity and its free and easy ways. There is an empty house just off Galata Square that was used until a few years ago for the monthly meetings of the LGBT Mothers’ Support Group of Beyoğlu. In much the same spirit as Alcoholics Anonymous, the mothers of lesbian, bisexual, gay and transgender people met secretly to help each other through the stress of their children’s chosen path in life. Not for long – the crazed xenophobe who so ruthlessly persecuted Andrew Boord’s tenants was soon on the scene with a bevy of homophobic followers, hurling abuse and missiles at the house until the poor mothers called the police. When the police arrived, they made no move to arrest this violent gang but instead demanded to see the rent agreement for the flat and requested the mothers to leave.
While disgusting, this incident was, at least, relatively isolated. Much more worrying are situations like the one in Avcılar, a far-flung suburb of Istanbul filled with what in Turkish are known as gecekondu houses (literally ‘built in the night’) – ramshackle but, by now, well-established slums. Because Avcılar is so far out and hitherto unpopular as a neighbourhood, it gradually became home to a large number of transvestite prostitutes – the area was cheap and no one bothered them. This all changed in recent years with the city-wide rise in property prices, the general seeping of Istanbul’s resident population further and further from the centre, and the dawning realisation among Avcılar landlords that they could charge a lot more for their properties if they got rid of the unsavoury transvestite population. In the autumn of 2012 this spurred a landlord-led anti-transvestite movement, joined by homophobic locals, but vociferously opposed by the transvestites themselves, LGBT activists and, impressively, a good number of fair-minded Istanbullus with no particular concern about the area but a conviction that the evictions were not just.
It is depressing that the root cause of this movement appears to be money – everyone got on reasonably well before prospective rent prices changed – but not nearly as depressing as it would be if the movement had been solely driven by prejudice from the start. As is evident in Tarlabaşı, there is a certain amount of tolerance for the homosexual and transgender community in Turkey, but it would be too much to hope for blanket acceptance; there will always be a few bigots everywhere, in Western countries as well as in Middle Eastern. To match the Avcılar scenarios of this world, there are cheering cases like that of the support for Halil İbrahim Dinçdağ, a gay football referee who has been consistently cheered on by fans during his legal battle against the Turkish Football Federation for dropping him on the grounds of his sexual orientation (a charge they deny).
Beyoğlu is, as I mentioned, a hunting ground for prostitutes of all variations of gender and sexual appearance. However, there is another interesting scene in a neighbouring area called Aksaray, which is full of a very idiosyncratic kind of establishment called a pavy
on. Unlike brothels, you can find pavyons all over Turkey, but they have changed almost unrecognisably from their original incarnation. Traditionally – in fact, until about twenty years ago – a pavyon was a kind of wholesome nightclub, where Turkish girls would sing classic love ballads and where lonely or misunderstood men came to listen to them sing and later talk to them over a drink. The original Pavyon (French pavillon) was the first such place, in Taksim, Istanbul. They later spread all over the country and were, in fact, more popular in isolated Anatolian towns than in the hub of Istanbul, because of the relative lack of any other excitement. Old-fashioned pavyon girls were not allowed to leave the premises with customers; they were good singers and conversationalists, but they were not prostitutes. They were also all Turkish. Now, the idea of a pavyon has drastically changed – it is still tame compared to the strip clubs of Europe, but it is much more about ogling and, in some cases, taking the girls home: an optimist’s hunting ground. There might be a token Turkish singer, but the girls are mainly Russian or Ukrainian, no older than twenty-four, dancing en masse and speaking just enough Turkish for basic transactions. Conversationalists they are not.
The Turkish man’s fascination with exotic women is well known – and by ‘exotic’ I mean Russians, Eastern Europeans and, bluntly, blondes of all descriptions. Some Turkish men make pilgrimages to the seaside resorts of Antalya especially to pursue Russian women looking for a holiday romance. Academics insist that this stems from Ottoman times, when the celebrated concubines in the Sultan’s harem were all from distant, northern reaches of the Empire, notably Circassia (modern Ossetia). Alternatively, it can be more simply explained as an example of the universal trait of desiring what is unusual. Belatedly, this particular racial preference is being granted full outlet in the modern revamping of the pavyon. In keeping with the old Ottoman tradition, contemporary Russian prostitutes initially come to the Black Sea region in the north of Turkey, mainly through the border with Georgia, before travelling further south. In the town of Hopa, near the Georgian border, there is a very high concentration of brothels where ‘Natashas’ (Russian prostitutes) work, knowing there will be high demand for them just inside the border of Turkey. The sudden proliferation of prostitutes in Hopa reminds me of the towns in Holland full of sex shops, just across the Belgian border. One woman from Hopa gave an interview in which she spoke of the problems these brothels posed for Turkish families, how they were destroying family life. She had even formed an association for the maligned wives of Hopa, but to very little avail – it was no match for the sheer scale of the brothel business in this strategic town.
My knowledge of the pavyon scene comes from first-hand experience. Normally women are not allowed into a pavyon as spectators, but I went with a persuasive man of the world who is a valued customer in Ankara – currently the most celebrated city for pavyons in Turkey. I was immediately disappointed by how shabby and kitsch the place was – swirling disco lights, cheap velveteen booths and the most unbelievably overpriced, bog-standard rakı (this is, of course, how all these establishments make their money). The veneer of glamour was even thinner than I had expected. The whole performance was farcical to the appraising and sober eye of a female researcher: a small stage cluttered with young girls dancing to average club tracks with the minimum show of enthusiasm. It was, frankly, embarrassing in its lack of any pretensions to sensuality. Nevertheless, I persuaded my chaperon to invite one of the girls over, which requires more overpriced drinks, of which the girl drinks a thimbleful. Angelica was Ukrainian, twenty years old. She told us in fairly fluent English that she and her friends had all been imported en masse by their agency in Ukraine. Unsurprisingly she was very bored in Ankara, speaking very little Turkish and with nothing to do during the day. She said the money was good but she dreamed of going to central Europe. Later, she thanked us graciously and went back on stage to dance under a bucket of water in what turned out to be an attempt at the famous performance scene from Flashdance.
The atmosphere and agenda of the current scene are totally antithetical to the original idea of a pavyon and show a marked cultural shift in Turkish society. Thirty years ago, it was hard even to find a girl who would talk to you outside the family home (hence pavyon chats) – now, as society frees up, it is more about sex. Girls used not to leave the pavyon with a customer; now in many cases they do.
Like everywhere in the world, Turkish society is getting more explicitly and commercially sexualised. Because sex is more visible and purchasable than it used to be, the growing conservative contingent of society has more to object to. This exponential tension leads to conflicts like the Avcilar transvestite–landlord stand-off and the imminent eviction of transvestites from Tarlabaşı as it becomes gentrified. It is safer for gay people or bisexuals in Turkey to go under the radar, joining the considerable number who are quietly conducting their affairs uninterrupted. I’m not saying this is a morally correct system, and in a liberal society everyone should have the right to express themselves just as they like. But Turkey is in many ways a religiously conservative Middle Eastern country, and it is clear that in the struggle to achieve equal rights for openly gay people, there is a long way to go and the path is not only difficult but violent. It is not easy to change the deep-seated prejudices of a nation, indeed a region, and while it might be right and worthy to attempt it, I can’t help being struck by the relative normality of casual, hidden romances and the low-key nature of homosexuality as an accepted mode of behaviour in this country.
Andrew says that he loves being gay in Turkey, because it is his own business. In England he would have to be ‘out’, and this would immediately give him a dictated identity in the eyes of a Western audience. In Turkey, he is a delightful charmer, or flirt, however you choose to look at it, queen of his castle. He has had several long-term, fondly remembered relationships with Turkish men, and now, as a more senior ‘Alpha Female’, as he puts it, has the exciting prospect of a new encounter round the corner in the fruitful hunting grounds of Istanbul or Bodrum (or wherever he happens to find himself). His gay circle of friends are the best company in Istanbul, and Andrew loves discovering hidden kindred spirits – ‘I think he’s a bit of a whoopsie, Alevia darling, don’t you?’ (This question is entirely rhetorical – Andrew always knows his man.)
Andrew would be quite wasted in England.
6
Digiturk
Betrayal, jealousy and family conflict: these are the ingredients of all successful Turkish soap operas, or diziler. Sex and money are the inner sinews running through their cores and holding viewers captive. Fittingly, the worlds of TV production and commercial acting warrant scripts of their own – dark tales of strategic censorship, politics, the druglike pull of celebrity and, above all, money. Digiturk, while sounding like a subversive metaphor, is in fact the reigning satellite provider, holding the monopoly of almost all national and international channels broadcast in Turkey bar Sky and the state channel, TRT (Turkish Radio and Television). It is available worldwide, and is arguably Turkey’s most powerful PR agent.
In the past six years, televised melodrama from Turkey has taken over countries in the Middle East and North Africa, central Asia, the Balkans and Eastern Europe in dubbed or subtitled format, and is wildly popular in unlikely countries like Iran and the Ukraine, sometimes even more so than in Turkey itself. Enthusiastic teletourists, mainly Arab, have flocked to Istanbul to visit familiar locations from their favourite shows, whole families trooping over on a giddy pilgrimage of pop culture. This TV tourism is so profitable that in October 2012 the Turkish Ministry for Culture and Tourism decided to stop charging certain countries for the broadcasting rights to soap operas, specifying a desire to shower audiences as remote as Kyrgyzstan with freely available blockbuster shows like Aşk-ı Memnu (Forbidden Love), Ezel (Eternity) and Muhteşem Yüzyıl (Magnificent Century). Considering that the annual income from foreign broadcasting sales had reached nearly a hundred million Turkish lira from a total of 150 series sold t
o seventy-three countries, this was a striking testament to the more valuable potential of dizi-turizm and the anticipated boost to trade.
Of course, money is a big motivator but there would have been more important strategic and long-term financial motives behind this decision. Until the AKP came to power, the Middle East was largely suspicious of Turkey, seeing it as an extension of the West with its secular ways. Now, under the Islamic auspices of the AKP, these countries can view Turkey more as part of the fold, and over the past decade the country has become what the Turkish Foreign Ministry carefully calls ‘an inspiration’ rather than ‘a model’.
The proliferation of Turkish soap operas in the Middle East pushes an image of Turkey as a modern, socially inspirational example without alienating the viewers in these countries. In central Asia and Eastern Europe, Turkish soap operas far outshine their nearest competitors on Russian television channels and the sheer volume of Turkish TV spread over international airspace speaks of progress and prosperity. The shows have a regular, captive audience and media hype constantly fed by a growing online audience obsessing over the attractive Turkish stars of the series. The sphere of influence stretches from Oman to Uzbekistan to Bulgaria; it is a digital renaissance of the Ottoman Empire.
The popularity of Turkey in Middle Eastern countries is such that during the Gezi protests of 2013, many Arabs could not understand why Turks would be protesting. People in the Middle East, and North Africa in particular, are big fans of Erdoğan. Often they cannot fully articulate why, but he seems to be a feel-good regional leader with strong Muslim credentials. If pressed, these Erdoğan fans talk admiringly of his protective stance on Palestine and fearless criticism of Israel. This is a hugely emotive subject and the kudos of a strong position on Palestine cannot be underestimated in the Middle East. Erdoğan has hit that exactly right, and strengthened his position with a tour of ‘liberated’ Middle Eastern countries post-Arab Spring in September 2011, in which he encouraged optimistic Arabs to copy Turkey’s example of a moderate Islamic democracy. Arabs are simply perplexed by the attitudes of Turks who might have concerns about his leadership.