It resembles a border crossing rather than a regular control point. A large, semi-secluded zone has been erected from concrete blocks and barbed wire. Within this zone, there are tracks like those you encounter at border crossings. They have even labelled them: Track 1-Cabin, Track 2-Cabin, Track 3-Cabin, Track 4-Cabin. At the entrance to the zone, female and male police officers first carry out a body search. Then our identity cards are collected for a criminal and administrative record check through GBT, the General Information Gathering System. Fifteen minutes later, our identity cards are returned and we enter the zone, pass through the tracks and the concrete blocks, and finally exit. It is at this precise point that I notice a fabric banner hanging across the entrance to the city: ‘Şırnak is a Turkish province.’

I begin to walk uphill towards the city centre. Soon, I meet up with a friend, a local. We pass through demolished neighbourhoods. Şırnak is a city I know very well, but I cannot see a single street, park or building I recognise. A while later, there is only emptiness left around me – a flat emptiness that at its very end meets the grey sky. I am walking in emptiness. Then I ask my friend, ‘What about the marketplace? Where is the marketplace?’ ‘This vacant spot, here, this is it,’ she responds. ‘This is exactly where the marketplace was.’ I am horrified. I collapse onto a rock on the ground. The tears I have managed to hold back since the morning begin to flow. ‘Gone! Gone!’ I cry. “Şırnak is gone!’

Şırnak was only one of many Kurdish cities destroyed during the curfews and clashes of 2015 and 2016. The city has – or perhaps I should say had – twelve neighbourhoods, of which eight were completely destroyed. Şırnak, as we once knew it, was no more. The same can be said for Sur, Nusaybin, Yüksekova, Cizre and Silopi. Ancient Kurdish towns and cities, centuries, even millennia old, destroyed within the space of a few months. We were no more.

This was not only a physical destruction. After August 2015, Kurds, as a people, were erased from many fields of social life in Turkey – from local administrations and civil society to culture and arts. The Kurdish issue suddenly became ‘an issue of terrorism.’ We, writers and human rights defenders who made known the rights violations taking place in the area, were ‘supporters of terrorism.’ Kurdish politicians and activists were ‘members of a terrorist organisation.’ We had gone back 40 years. Kurds no longer existed; instead, there were people who, when they walked on snow, made the sound ‘kart-kurt.’ There was no Kurdish issue; there was a terrorism issue. A place called Kurdistan had never existed. Not only mainstream media, but many others, from publishing houses to art galleries and theatres, began to censor Kurds and work related to the Kurdish issue. Suddenly, they acted as if a people that form a quarter of Turkey’s population – 20 million people, 20 million citizens – had disappeared. As if they had been cast into a dark well. Life went on, as if the curfews didn’t exist, as if there was no destruction and violence in the Kurdish provinces, as if fires weren’t raging across Kurdish land, as if people weren’t dying every day.

Once upon a time, when the Kurds did exist

Of course, this was not our first ‘disappearance.’ According to the ups and downs of the state’s Kurdish policy over the past century, we have sometimes existed, and sometimes we haven’t.

In the late 80s and in the 90s, we did not exist. One of the first sentences we heard from our teachers at school was ‘There are no Kurds, they are all simply mountain Turks.’ And we, too, after all, wanted to be ‘Turkish and happy’ as our Oath proclaimed, mandatorily read out and repeated every single day at schools across the country before lessons started.

Thus, Kenan Evren, the general who came to power with the 12 September 1980 military coup d’état and was President throughout my childhood years, declared from our single-channel TVs: ‘There is no such thing as a Kurd. This word is in actual fact a concept that derives from the sounds of “kart, kurt” which our people in the southeast make when they walk across the snow on the ground.’ We were children then, and we listened to the sounds we made as we walked on snow, and we tried our best not to make those ‘kart, kurt’ sounds. Tansu Çiller, a Prime Minister in the 90s, confirmed our non-existence, and often said on TV ‘There are no Kurds, there are terrorists.’

In any case, all along, we ‘terrorists’ were being physically destroyed. Our homes and neighbourhoods were emptying rapidly. Young Kurds were taking to the mountains in large numbers, and every day our number was on the decline. Some of us died in murders committed by ‘unknown assailants.’

After a lengthy period for us in limbo, Erdoğan, who came to power in the early 2000s, acknowledged our existence and called us his ‘Kurdish brothers and sisters.’ We were surprised: out of the blue, we existed again. The official Kurdish TV channel TRT Şeş was launched with a grand ceremony, departments of Kurdish language were opened at universities, and we regained the banned village and street names that had been changed in the 90s. Turks and Kurds together, we danced the halay, accompanied by Kurdish music. Hadn’t we been brothers and sisters for centuries, after all?

That brotherhood and sisterhood didn’t last long. When the peace process abruptly ended in July 2015, the time of non-existence began for us once again. Erdoğan began by announcing that ‘There is no Kurdish issue,’ adding ‘It would be discrimination to use the phrase “Kurdish issue”.’ Eventually he, too, ended up declaring, ‘There is no Kurdish issue, there is a terrorism issue.’

The war waged by kayyıms on Kurdish language and culture

Once the state decides you do not exist, it naturally has certain implications for your life in all its aspects.

On the morning of 11 September 2016, on the eve of a religious holiday, a new word entered our vocabulary: kayyım. Kurdish mayors were sent to prison, and the appointment of the first kayyıms – essentially unelected government officials replacing elected officials, – began. On 11 September 2016, kayyıms were appointed to two provincial municipalities and 25 district municipalities, and within a matter of a few months, kayyıms were in charge of 95 of the 102 municipalities won by representatives of the Kurdish movement in local elections.

Once the kayyıms were appointed, they set about destroying all that belonged to the Kurds. They began by demolishing symbols and monuments of Kurdish culture and history. From Orhan Doğan to Ehmedê Xanî, from Roboski to Uğur Kaymaz, all the sculptures and monuments in the region associated with Kurdish culture, or which referred to massacres committed by the state, were demolished. Then it was time, once again, to change the names of our main streets and side streets. All Kurdish names, including those given to parks, were replaced with Turkish names. Women’s centres were closed, cultural centres were closed, all that we were proud of in our cities was destroyed in a few months. Theatres, multilingual nurseries, libraries, music academies – all institutions that sought to keep Kurdish culture alive – were shut down. At the local elections held on 31 March 2019, the Peoples’ Democratic Party HDP once again won 69 municipalities, including three metropolitan municipalities. A few months later, kayyıms were appointed in Kurdish provinces and the newly elected mayors were sent to prison. The votes of millions of Kurds were ignored. Those kayyıms are still in office today.

This non-existence is reflected in our language, in our land, in everything about the Kurds. A piece of land, Kurdistan as a geographical territory, was made to disappear, just like the Kurds. The word Kurdistan, used in the Grand National Assembly of Turkey (TBMM) without causing any controversy during the peace process, was banned once the process was shelved. When the word was used, it was not taken down in parliamentary minutes and instead recorded as ‘X’. Members of parliament who used the word faced disciplinary investigations. Erdoğan, who in his speeches during the peace process had acknowledged the ‘existence of Kurdistan,’ now did not hold back from regularly telling Kurds who criticised him to ‘clear off to Kurdistan.’ In March 2019, in a speech he made in Gündoğan, he addressed HDP Co-chairperson Sezai Temelli with the words, ‘There is no Kurdistan here. If you are so desperate, there’s one in the north of Iraq. Clear off there.’

The situation is no different in parliament. Right after the end of the peace process, in November 2015, Leyla Zana’s speech in parliament was X’d. Since that day, no Kurdish has been allowed into parliamentary minutes. The mother tongue of at least 20 million citizens has become a language that gets X’d in the parliament that is supposed to represent those citizens.

From the days in the 40s, when Musa Anter was beaten up for whistling in Kurdish, we have arrived at the present day, when Dicle University students are jailed and prosecuted for precisely the same offence. From the 90s, when the great singer Ahmet Kaya was physically attacked for stating at a music awards ceremony that he planned to record a song in Kurdish, we arrive at the present day, when wedding-hall singers are detained for singing in Kurdish. In the last decade, Kurdish-language schools, Kurdish-language newspapers and magazines, Kurdish-language nurseries and Kurdish-language institutes at universities have all been closed. It is the 1940s all over again.

The people of this ‘unknown language’ have no value in public policies and public services either, of course. Today, the Ministry of Health publishes its brochures in six languages besides Turkish to provide better services. Those languages are French, Arabic, English, Russian, German and Persian. No services are provided in the language of its Kurdish citizens that form at least a quarter of the country’s population. In a similar manner, the Women’s Emergency Support App (KADES) of the General Directorate of Security provides services in six languages but not Kurdish. This is how the directorate introduces its KADES app on their official web site: ‘In six languages, only a single click away, in support of women.’ Even in an application aimed at protecting the safety of and preventing violence against women, there is no Kurdish, the mother tongue of citizens that form around a quarter of this country’s population.

We Kurds have not existed in the brochures of the Ministry of Health, in the announcements made on aeroplanes, in services provided at court houses. But it goes beyond that: we seem not to exist at all. Our language does not exist, our culture does not exist, our songs do not exist, our holidays do not exist, our elected officials do not exist. We Kurds don’t even exist in that single click offered by the app of the General Directorate of Security. And to be frank, it is painful to know all this.

Now, in the last few months, a new process has begun between the state and the PKK. The state calls it the process ‘Turkey without terror,’ while we Kurds prefer to call it the ‘peace process.’ Following the PKK’s decision to lay down arms and dissolve itself, we Kurds expect the state to take steps towards democratisation and, most significantly, the recognition of our existence, language and culture, with protection provided through constitutional guarantee. To be frank, we are tired, after a century of struggle between existence and non-existence. But we wish, at least, to leave our children a future where they won’t have to struggle to prove that they exist.

Ew Dibêjin ‘Hûn Tunene’; Em Dibêjin ‘Em Hene!’

Despite the policies of non-existence that have continued for the past 100 years, the fact is: we do not suddenly disappear when the state claims we do not exist. When our language is banned, we try other ways to keep it alive. When our political parties are closed, we open new ones, and choose new names for them, with acronyms formed of new combinations of letters. When our songs are banned, we whistle them. When our holidays are banned, we light our traditional Newroz fires within the safety of our gardens, or a secluded corner of our neighbourhoods. When our culture is prohibited, we become dengbejs, folk singers who keep alive Kurdish stories old and new, and we transmit our culture from one generation to the next through kilams, our songs that tell our stories. When our homes are burned down, when our villages are forcibly evacuated, we stubbornly and persistently – and sometimes despite knowing that our homes may be razed to the ground over and over again – return to our villages, and rebuild. When our trees and forests are burned, we feed the roots that remain, water them, strive to make them grow again. When our towns are levelled to the ground, we weave back their texture from scratch, knot by knot. It takes years, it takes decades, sometimes even a century. But we do not give up on ourselves, our language, our culture, our roots.

Although the Kurdish policy of the state has varied over the past century, in a sense, there has been continuity on the Kurdish side. In the face of all these policies of oppression and intimidation, Kurds continue to sing their songs, celebrate Newroz, dance the halay and speak their languages. Although there have been various challenges that have forced them to withdraw and regroup, the Kurdish people have never forsaken their identity, language and culture. The type of struggle may vary, but their demands do not. Those demands have been there for a century. The Kurdish people won’t step back from their demands, because without the fulfilment of those demands life will not be worth living.

It doesn’t matter within which country’s borders they live. The story of the Kurds has remained unchanged for the past century. This is a story that has been kneaded with blood, persecution, pain and struggle. A century-long denial continues. Yet neither the Kurdish issue nor the Kurds disappear simply by saying ‘they don’t exist.’

For Kurds, this is a matter of existence.

Let me end this piece with a phrase often used by Kurds:

Ew Dibêjin ‘Hûn Tunene’; Em Dibêjin ‘Em Hene!’

They say ‘you don’t exist’. We say, ‘we exist!’

This phrase is, I guess, the summary of the past century for us Kurds.

The post Kurdishness: A Matter of Existence and Non-Existence appeared first on English PEN.

I was thinking about the notion of yenilenme, renewal, a common desire among us modern people. The word renewal strikes me as somewhat insipid, but it nonetheless conjures in my mind’s eye an image of a departing boat. This is a boat that belongs to neither person nor heritance; rather, it is a boat that the seafarer built on their own and for themselves alone. To be renewed, I realised, one must first be unmoored in one’s own metaphorical sea, wherein one can find one’s own myths. Let me do my best to explain this. I’ll show what I mean by shouldering the boat at the end.

If we think, by contrast, of the concept of yenileşme, innovation, we recognise that it lexically encompasses other people. Like invitation, or inclusion, or involvement. In this sense, innovation necessitates others to achieve the new. It might precipitate a new form of interaction with others, or innovative organising and innovative encounters might be how the new is devised. But the concept of renewal is, at least in my opinion, a more singular – even solitary – act. A person giving up on something within themselves, opting to replace it with another approach, another state, another dream or spirituality or attitude. Progressively adopting the new as a means of losing – even mourning – the old. Seeking creativity, this form of solitude surely requires something feminine: the courage to return to the waters upon whose surface the moonlight shines.

In the monotheistic religions of the world, each and every human is understood to be born from dust and returned to dust, born from earth and returned to earth. By contrast, the watery life left to us by polytheistic cultures has been consigned to the psychomythologies of our darkest subconscious. Yet every person who emerges from the amniotic waters of their mother’s womb finds themselves seeking out and returning to those waters with every daydream and reverie, with every act of fantasy and imagination.

Virtually all creation myths posit that water originates the universe – that life comes from water. In fact the very notion of individual descent depends on water. According to Thales, water is what ‘gives birth to all beings.’ In the Vedas, water is called mâtritamâh, mother of mothers. Water’s feminine quality, its description through the fundaments of the maternal, symbolises the creative potential of humankind. And yet the tempestuous waves that one surmounts in pursuit of creativity, chasing after that which is unique and incomparable, are not always so compassionate. At night, for instance, sea monsters emerge. Just as it gives life, water takes life too. It’s trustworthy when still, murderous when stormy. Though it pledges immortality, as in the water of life, it nonetheless churns round us like a deadly whirlpool. Water has the capacity to terrify – with the giant squids and monstrous fish it conjures in our nightmares – even as it beckons – in the form of water nymphs, mermaids and sirens – each of us on a quest for renewal.

In his book Images and Symbols, Mircea Eliade examines how water represents spiritual energy. When water flows peacefully and as planned through its intended channel, it can symbolise a life well-lived. Whereas waters that overflow or gush forth, as floods or tsunamis, threaten the stability of land. To dip oneself into water – presuming that one can re-emerge from it – renders the mind and the ego productive; it increases one’s life force, because contact with water brings one into relation with the source of life itself. Likewise, water is shapeless on its own, even as it wears away at what has already taken shape, and gives shape to new forms:

[The Waters] dissolve or abolish the forms of things, they ‘wash away sins,’ and as such are at once purifying and renewing. It is their lot both to precede the Creation and to reabsorb it, incapable as they are of surpassing their own modality – that is, of manifesting themselves in forms. The Waters cannot get beyond the state of the virtual, of seeds and of what is latent. Everything that has form manifests itself above the Waters, by detaching itself from them. On the other hand, as soon as it is separated from the waters and has ceased to be potential (virtual), every form comes under the laws of Time and of Life; every form therefore acquires limitations, participates in the universal becoming, is subject to history, decays away and is finally emptied of substance unless it be renewed by periodic immersions in the Waters, repetitions of the ‘deluge’ with its cosmogenic corollary.

What I mean to say with all of this is that one must set out to sea, no matter how stormy it may be, in order to be renewed. By boat or by caique, setting out to sea so that one can return, in other words, to the cosmic mother. By interesting coincidence, the word caique comes from the word kayġuk, an Old Turkic word derived from the word for ‘return.’ One must navigate uncharted waters, must risk the dissolution, abolition, or purging of all forms, so that one can return from dreams and from reverie, bringing ashore new forms. Whatever new thing we bring back to shore, even if it is simply ourselves renewed, is altogether new until it is defined through other objects and beings.

But first, we must build a boat. We must be the crafters of a simple boat, whether by hollowing out a tree or by tying together reeds as they did in ages past. Our books, our histories, our lives are the specifications for this abstract boat we mean to build. But building the boat: that is the responsibility of us, the seafarers. In ancient Greek they used the words tekhnao – to craft with skill, to produce – tekhnikos – skilled in art or craft – and tekhnites – artist, craftsperson. These words are at the heart of tekne, the Turkish word for boat. To build a boat with technical craftsmanship is not easy. As we build, our hands may bleed, our backs may ache, our skin may burn under the searing sun. And then it is our task to shoulder the boat and carry it to the shore, to float it in the sea. Before the creative mind can carry the seafarer, the seafarer must carry the creative mind: with patience, care and discipline, free of delusions, abiding by the laws of physics.

To tear oneself from land and from language and set out to sea in a boat is no less than to risk dying and being born again in the artistic struggle; it is, moreover, an act of existential defiance against the world.

The waters can assist us in this defiance. There are, as you know, five rivers in the underworld of Hades: Acheron, river of woe; Cocytus, river of wails; Styx; river of dread; Pyriphlegethon, river of flames; and Lethe, river of forgetfulness. But there is one additional river: Mnemosyne, which restores to memory what the Lethe forgets. Artists, astronomers, musicians, poets, tragedists, historians, dancers, scientists: these are the people who, by drinking from the waters of the Mnemosyne, are brought back to life. It is these people who shoulder their boats: poets reciting their poetry standing up, writers ached and hunching over their desks, the many named and nameless who carry the suffering of the world on their shoulders to the shores of the sea.

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The first mention of a ‘gay slang’ in Istanbul was in 1999. But it was a very brief note, because the researchers were actually working on Romani languages in Europe and Turkey. During their research, they came across a gay man who was a Lubunca speaker and noticed that he was using many Romani words. They spent an evening together, recording him speaking with friends, and made a list of all the words derived from Romani. In 2012, when linguist Nicholas Kontovas researched the etymologies of Lubunca words, he was led to Romani, Armenian, Arabic and Greek words. These languages are no longer spoken widely in Turkey; that gives us an idea of how far back Lubunca goes. Kontovas found that words derived from Turkish form only 32% of Lubunca vocabulary, and that 30% are from Romani.

A lot of Lubunca vocabulary is related to sex work and sexuality. In the Ottoman era, it was mostly ‘Gayrimüslims’ (non-Muslims) who were allowed to do sex work. 70% of Ottoman brothels – registered brothels – were owned by non-Muslims. But with the arrival of the Turkish Republic, the nationalist and nation-building regulations of the new regime barred non-Muslim minority groups from working in registered brothels and from occupying any kind of official position in society. That’s why, at the same time, we begin to see a change in society’s perceptions of queerness – until then, particularly male femininity was truly celebrated. We see examples of this in literature, we also see it in köçek dance, which was a very popular traditional dance performed in Ottoman society. Homosexual sex work and homosexuality were never banned in the Ottoman era but, gradually (following in the footsteps of countries like England and France) homosexuality and transsexuality were increasingly seen as deviant. At the end of the nineteenth century, the Ottomans banned places where homosexuality was conducted. In the same period, all minority-group sex workers and queer sex workers were banned from continuing their work in a registered, legal way. They had to work illegally, and this created solidarity between oppressed groups – non-Muslims, sex workers, trans and queer people – and resulted in a new language variety that we now call Lubunca.

Are there written records of Lubunca? Or is it only spoken? And, if there are records, whose are they?

There are some examples in literature, but they don’t give us a complete picture. The accounts are mostly by queer people living in Istanbul, in the Şişli district, where we are right now. Here is its birthplace, the language originated in Beyoğlu and Şişli. The communities we’re discussing lived predominantly in these areas, which were known for their brothels. That’s why it started here and is still spoken here. The 70s, 80s and 90s were the ‘golden era’ of Lubunca, particularly on Ülker Street in Beyoğlu, a place where mostly trans sex workers and queers – actually ‘Lubunyas’– lived. I can’t imagine a place – a street in Turkey – where more than 100 trans people live. But that’s what happened in Ülker Street in that era.

You mentioned that it was labelled ‘gay slang’. What is the difference between gay and Lubunya?

‘Lubunya’ is not just a gay person, or a lesbian, or trans person. Lubunya is a person who lives outside the social reality and norms of Turkish society. A Lubunya is a queer person who lives a non-normative lifestyle.

Why was Ülker Street the meeting point for Lubunyas? Was the community self-formed?

It was all about what kinds of jobs you could do. In the 1970s, if you were a trans person you could work in nightlife, you could sing in a club (if you had a good voice), you could do sex work, or you could be a bar hostess. These jobs were all available in Beyoğlu. The place was full of clubs and bars, which is why the queer community across Turkey came and started to get together in Ülker Street. They created a community in which they did not have to do sex work. Yes, they could do sex work, but they didn’t have to. They changed the reality of the society they inhabited into a place where everyone had different responsibilities and lived together without caring about how they looked; they were out of society’s reality. We now call this phenomenon ‘Ülker Street Culture’ – a solidarity culture that creates a reality where trans people live in solidarity without caring about social norms.

If we think of Lubunca as a language of many languages, I also wonder about the many groups who lived on Ülker Street who were not Lubunya. When I see activism across LGBT+ communities in Turkey, I notice the solidarity between different oppressed groups. So was this a physical space where those different groups lived, literally, side by side?

Yes, totally. In the Ottoman era these areas were where Greek, Armenian, Romani, Jewish people lived. Later, the Republic’s nationalist regulations forced most of them out of the country. Beyoğlu and Şişli are still highly populated by minority groups, who were part of the network of Lubunyas and contributors to Lubunca. When we speak Lubunca, we are continuing this tradition; we are carrying the legacy of those people, even if we are not Greek or Armenian.

Could you give me examples of the types of things that you would say in Lubunca? Are some people not meant to understand it? Is it a secretive language?

It’s secretive to a certain extent. The syntax and morphology are mostly Turkish, but it’s a relexicalised language variety – by which I mean that words either change their normative meaning or incorporate roots derived from other languages. Lubunca has tended to be called ‘slang’ – there’s very limited research on Lubunca, and one of the three significant publications about it calls it ‘gay slang,’ which I think excludes women – but I don’t think it’s slang.

What would you call it?

I call it an anti-language, because what differentiates Lubunca from standard Turkish is that it shows us how the Lubunyas’ reality differs from hegemonic reality. Lubunya society is a kind of anti-society, an alternative reality. So today I would call my friend up and say ‘Abla, what are you doing?’ ‘Abla’ means ‘sis’, as in sister. People on the street would probably not call my friend ‘abla’ because they wouldn’t define them as ‘woman,’ but by saying ‘abla’ I’m affirming my friend’s gender, and expressing that in my reality that type of closeness is like being a part of my family.

‘Abla’ is gender-affirming if I’m referring to a woman, but it’s also used for non-binary people like me. In my research on Lubunca, I asked one of my friends, ‘Why do you say “abla” to this non-binary person?’ and they said they use ‘abla’ for anyone around them who questions the privilege of masculinity and the social position of masculinity in our society. This also reflects the fact that the social hierarchy of Lubunyas is a matriarchal one, not a patriarchy. It’s the opposite of saying ‘what’s up, bro’ to anyone, of any gender. It’s ‘what’s up, sis’.

I understand that Lubunca is also about creating labels to describe types of people or roles in society, which can be used as code for safety reasons – for sex workers, for example. In doing so, does Lubunca establish its own hierarchy and its own class system?

It’s true that Lubunca has many labels for people, and that those groups are not equal. It has its own social hierarchy, and is used for maintaining that hierarchy. The difference between Lubunca and standard Turkish is the social hierarchy itself; the one who has the least power in Turkish society becomes the most powerful in Lubunca. So, the trans woman sex worker is at the top in Lubunya communities. Being a trans woman and being a sex worker are respected and honoured in Lubunca. Can you imagine a customer walking into this café, and you turning around and say ‘hoş geldin, orospu’ – ‘welcome, whore’ – and how they would react? In Lubunca these words, which are derived from Turkish, have a completely different connotation and denotation. It’s something you say to someone you love, you might say ‘seni özledim, kevaşe’ (‘I’ve missed you, slut’). The meaning of the word changes. When I say ‘sex worker’ to someone I am saying ‘my love’, ‘honey’, ‘baby’ with respect, and with love. This is how the reality is created and maintained in Lubunca. It really shows that sex work is normalised, even appreciated.

Thinking about using ‘sis’ and ‘sex worker’ in that way reminds me of how slang used in queer communities of colour – for example the Ball Scene – has now become mainstream with shows like RuPaul’s Drag Race. Do you think that Lubunca could ever become widespread and mainstream in Turkey? Could it be co-opted, and does that pose a risk?

Kontovas claims that the popularisation of Lubunca would precipitate the end of Lubunca – like Polari disappeared at the end of the twentieth century. But I don’t agree, because I think this only focuses on the secrecy function of Lubunca. The other two studies on Lubunca, by Biondo and Acar, reveal it’s performative aspect. This is important in the aftermath of Ülker Street, where trans people got brutally kicked out by gentrification, the police and the mafia. It was awful, but something did come out of it: Lubunca began to spread across Istanbul and Turkey. Residents of Ülker Street moved to Ankara and beyond, carrying with them both the spirit of solidarity and the use of Lubunca. According to my research, variations of Lubunca have emerged, with Ankara Lubunca slightly different from Istanbul Lubunca. In a sense, the Lubunca that you speak now reflects where you are from; that’s the development of Lubunca, not the end of it. That’s the success of Lubunca’s visibility. It’s spreading online, too, being spoken on social media and YouTube. It’s secrecy function continues to exist, because in these YouTube videos we don’t see anything about drugs or about sex work, and instead we see a way to discuss identity, particularly gender identity. I see a lot of feminist cis women who use Lubunca because they understand the need for trans women to be in a higher position –positive discrimination, which is needed for equality.

If there is ever a situation in Turkey where there is queer acceptance in society and LGBT and sex worker rights are recognised by the state – which seem like an impossibility – do you think that Lubunca would disappear? Is it a political language?

Turkey will speak Lubunca. Turkish language has evolved in this cis heteronormative reality, but if Lubunyas are accepted then Lubunca will be standard Turkish.

And a final question. When I was a teenager growing up in Istanbul, discovering my own queerness and transness, I didn’t know anything about Lubunca. I had never heard it. When and how did you find out about Lubunca?

A language is the mother language of a member of a society, but an anti-language is the mother language of no one, because you should be a member of an anti-society first, and your reality will change with the reality of the society you live in. With this change, you will acquire an anti-language. That’s why I wasn’t a speaker of Lubunca when I was in high school. When I first came to Istanbul, I studied at Boğaziçi University, and there I acquired Lubunca through activism. Activism and Lubunca are deeply connected to each other because Lubunca is used for gender performance and reflecting queer, Lubunya identity: what I desire and what I require. Lubunca is the language of activism and that’s why many Lubunca speakers encounter it through activism, just like me.

After graduating high school in Antakya, a small town in Turkey, Lilith Bardakçı had the opportunity to study at Bogazici University’s Foreign Language Education Department. Bogazici University, renowned for its egalitarian culture, fostered their academic growth and played a pivotal role in their self-discovery. As a trans non-binary individual, they actively engaged with the LGBTI+ Studies Club at the university, assuming leadership roles as vice president and president. Recently, Lilith Bardakçı, an M.A. student at Boğaziçi University’s Linguistics Department, examines language’s connection to gender, sexuality and identities. As an LGBTI+ activist, Lilith explores Lubunca, a language phenomenon shedding light on identity, societal and cultural constructions. As Lilith continues expanding the boundaries of linguistic inquiry, they remain committed to promoting diversity, inclusivity and equity within academic discourse.

Interview by Sim Eldem

Photo credit: Cansu Yıldıran

The post Lubunca Is the Language of Activism: A Conversation with Lilith Bardakçı appeared first on English PEN.