Turkish Awakening (10 page)

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 their 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.

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.