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Trans Voices from Turkey

2018; Duke University Press; Volume: 5; Issue: 1 Linguagem: Inglês

10.1215/23289252-4291823

2328-9260

Emrah Karakuş, Emrah Karakuş, David Gramling,

Turkey's Politics and Society

Editors' note: Pelm Ulaş Dutlu is a trans activist who lives in Berlin and works as a boom operator. Since 2011, he has been involved in Turkey's first transman initiative, Voltrans, and has worked on the production of several documentaries, including Voltrans (dir. Özge Özgüner and Ulaş Dutlu, 2014) and #direnayol (dir. Rüzgâr Buşki, 2016). He occasionally writes columns for Kaosgl.org, an LGBTI news portal in Turkey. He is interested in literature and particularly poetry, the politics of resistance, and solidarity movements. This text was first published following the murder of a trans woman named Seçil on July 10, 2012.They're afraid of our laughter. . . . Did I read this somewhere? I may have. We're like each other because we experience the same pain. Our grievances, our riots, and our anger are alike. When we try to explain ourselves, we're always up against a wall, and so we may have said the same kinds of things. It's true that somebody before me might have said this.On the days when none of our friends dies—that is to say, the days when we're thinking “who'll be next?”—we do what they call “everyday politics.” It's a bit different than in other movements, in that there's less discussion around a table and more throwing shade and chatting for fun (madilik ve gullüm).Whether nighttime, morning, or afternoon, it's always “we're on our way.” To a protest or to the hospital, or to a table somewhere, or to a party, or to a march, or to a funeral, or to a funeral, or to a funeral . . .We're “on our way” to cemeteries fairly often—fulfilling our friends' last wills and testaments either by pouring some rakı on their graves or by praying. We do this even if we don't believe in it. Everyone's will and testament is prepared ahead of time, of course, since so few among our trans friends die a natural death. We know to write our wills beforehand. Putting aside some money for a death shroud means sleeping with at least two men, three men in order to give some money to the imam. Our families generally don't come; rejected children remain forever alone.We have to fight to take our friends' bodies out of the outcasts' graveyard. We fight off the men and yank their hair. Usually all of them are men, as are the men hitting us with their nightsticks. We hit back too, and some photographer kid takes one photo and puts it in the newspaper. Our hands are balled in fists, and the headline is ready-made: “Travesti Horror at the Cemetery: They Don't Even Respect the Dead!” says the journalist who comes up with the title. Our fathers see us there in the photo, snicker, and tell our mothers to “go pour some tea!”We leave there in shambles and come back home. And drink, and drink, and drink. Subconsciously we hope that, when we wake up in the morning, there won't again be more news that “we're on our way” somewhere. We hope, we hope, we hope. And that's why they're afraid of our laughter. Yes, I'm sure I read that somewhere. They fear us because, even with all this pain, we don't go insane, we're still smiling. I think, wherever I read it, this was part of the sentence too.Editors' Note: Gani Met is a trans activist and a sex worker living in Ankara whose radical trans activism has mobilized many trans women throughout Turkey. Gani Met has openly questioned some of the normative tendencies that the Turkish queer and trans communities have adopted in recent years. She works as an activist and organizer at PembeHayat (Pink Life), an LGBTI solidarity association based in Ankara, and writes columns on her own blog, Abesle iştigal (Busy with Nonsense; ganimeth.blogspot.com.tr). Gani has presented her work on trans lives, sex work, and the politics of resistance and has shared her experiences as a trans woman at various conferences organized by LGBTI associations throughout Turkey. Sibel Yükler, a journalist at Jinha News Agency, conducted this interview to explore intersections between the Kurdish movement and the trans movement in Turkey, as well as the possibilities for further solidarity between the two movements.Sibel:You have been involved with identity-based struggles for years. As for your own identity, you have experienced more than one struggle. Indeed, you display aspects that transcend identities. Still, how do you make sense of all the oppression you have experienced?Gani Met: When I talk about Kurds, I am called Kurdphobic; when I talk about women, then I'm called womenphobic. When it comes to trans people, I become transphobic. For homos, I become homophobic. Sometimes I say to myself: damn, it's never going to get better. And there are times I tell myself that Kurds and women deserve this. In fact, the issue isn't that I'm Kurdphobic, transphobic, or womenphobic, but it's that I'm one of them and this is why I use such critical language. I'm in the middle of a war. There is a war in this country, and for me this interview is going to be a very tragic one. Because I am a woman who is doing nonidentitarian politics. My politics are about disidentification (kimliksizleştirme), but the Kurdish question is a matter that has different consequences for me.Sibel:How do you evaluate the problem of identification/disidentification that is imposed on Kurds?Gani Met: The state isn't trying to impose disidentification on Kurds. The goal is to eliminate Kurdish identity and impose another. It is not a disidentification but, rather, the state's imposition of an identity that it has considered to be appropriate.Sibel:Previously, you went to Diyarbakir with One Thousand Women1 and met with women living there. What did you see and witness at that meeting?Gani Met: When I went to Diyarbakir and saw the women's movement there, I felt invigorated; feminist women in Ankara had tired me out so much already. And those trying to impose Kemalism through feminism had exhausted me as well. I looked around Diyarbakir and saw that there are different women, too. Forget about speaking English, there were women who didn't speak Turkish there, despite living so close by. This fact made me say, “I suppose this must be the feminist movement.”Sibel:When you say “different women,” how do they differ from the women's movement you are coming from?Gani Met: I think the feminist and LGBTI movements in the West and those in the Middle East do not envision the same ideals. Because the enemy there is different in many ways than the enemy here. You can evade the enemy in the West by responding through political discourse and legal support. Here you need to wage war. Both trans people and Kurds have to fight. I am saying this as an antimilitarist who's against war.Once when I was giving a presentation, the mother of a guerilla spoke, and what she said broke my heart. She had a kind of pride. Her daughter had died, and she was demanding the corpse. She wasn't able to find her corpse, and because of this she was suffering so much pain. But I saw a pride in that pain. She was proud. She was proud of her daughter, her child, dying for this cause. For trans people, the situation is not like this. When trans women die, their mothers cry, saying “my son” and hiding their tears. They can't even say that she is trans.Sibel:You say they both have to wage war. What is the reality that both trans people and Kurds have to fight against?Gani Met: There is a pride in Kurdishness, in the condition of being a Kurd. In the condition of being trans, there is monstrosity, and a freedom exists in that monstrosity. Once you become a monster, you get rid of all identities. Nobody is killed because they are a “Kurdish trans person” but because they are trans.2 It's not their ethnic or religious identity that is seen. Because they are at the bottom of the heap, a trans person, the one who turned, they deserve to be murdered. Those murders are conducted according to this reasoning. But being a Kurd breeds pride, and it has to. There is no other alternative for an identity that is repressed this much. There is a need for pride, to reclaim it. If it didn't exist, then the Kurdish question would end, which is what Turks are trying to impose.Sibel:There is a separation between these two movements, as you mention. What do you think this has to do with womanhood?Gani Met: Indeed, there is no ethnic identity attached to womanhood. It is the men who generate ethnic identity and sustain it with flags and arms. Women deal with issues very different from these. It is a gender that works for production-reproduction, while men work for killing. Being a Turk, owning a flag, being the state, waging war, and killing are all men's issues. In a time of gender equality and freedom, all of these will disappear.There is a guerilla woman, and in this geography, there is a women's movement, there are lesbians and Kurds. Even though I do not speak Kurdish, I understand Kurdish people's and lesbians' language. Lesbians' and women's issues are different. I am not a part of the Kurdish movement, but I am very close to it. I see Kurdish people who are working for human rights right next to me, around me. They are here, too, and they are working so hard. Because they came from a struggle based on identity politics and they have struggled for their identities, they struggle for the existence of Kurdish trans identity. I see how trans corpses and Kurdish corpses are exposed to similar cruelties. Men inflict these cruelties upon the corpses by mutilating their genitals. Same cause, different struggles, but isn't it tragic that the forms of resentment and revenge are the same?Sibel:What is the reason behind taking revenge in the same way on women whose struggles differ, do you think?Gani Met: Where, and by what, are these actions fed? Hate! Because the guerilla is the enemy. But the ravages on our corpses are always in the same place. Cutting off our breasts, dismantling our vaginas, amputating our penises. The cruelty inflicted on a Kurdish guerilla woman's corpse and on a trans woman's corpse is the same. I don't understand the hate, but I know it. I know that, because of homophobia, trans women's corpses are being mutilated on the basis of the idea that “this organ cannot be here.” But why are you taking this revenge upon a guerilla woman? She is a warrior. Every warrior wants to die proudly. If I am warring with somebody, I wouldn't want to humiliate whomever I defeated. What kind of hatred is this when, recently in Cizre, two women were killed and their tortured bodies were exhibited by soldiers? How is the Turkish Republic, Turkish fascism, seduced by this? What does this feed into? Where it is feeding into is very dangerous. Two women. The ones you killed. All right, then! This is your victory; you are the best murderer! But you are exhibiting these corpses in the middle of the street, and sharing it on social media. This is more dangerous than the killing itself.Sibel:How would you explain a trans person's war?Gani Met: Every trans is a guerilla! This is because every night they go out to war, to a war about existence. They go out to a war about existence, a war about breath, a war about identity. Believe me, we're no different from guerillas. Just like the guerillas being killed, everyday trans people are also killed. Trans corpses and guerilla corpses are being hated in this way. You fight for your existence and each day, each night, your fight never ends. Hate, too, never ends. I am a woman who has worked on the streets for twenty years. The police love guerillas and me in the same way. Many times, the police have thrown me into gangs of men. It's no different from the state's cruelty.Sibel:In which way has the Kurdish struggle touched you? Freedom, identity, massacre?Gani Met: We, trans people, are at the bottom of society; my struggle is from the absolute bottom of society. Nobody sees me. I just recently saw that we are included in the bylaws of the Kurdish movement.3 We have never been mentioned in any other bylaws. This shows that I must be in a place that I cannot reject. I am in a place where you cannot reject me because I am in a place which is very much interwoven with your politics. I am forty-six years old, coming from a middle-class white Sunni-Turkish family. And I have seen the slaughter of Kurds for forty-six years. They are the ones that can understand me the most because there is an identity struggle. I am doing nonidentitarian politics within an identity. It's a pressure chamber, and all of us are being drowned inside. But only the bloodsuckers win. All of our friends are being murdered.A Kurdish mother has pride, but the mother of a Kurdish trans doesn't have that pride. Yet, both of them struggle for freedom. One is in the mountains, the other in the streets. Indeed, both of them have gone to the places where they can live. This oppressed identity is making me very tired. Let's suppose that one of the two children is a guerilla and the other is trans. She cries for one with clamoring pride, but there is no crying for the other. Both of them struggle for freedom. I don't like to criticize, but I want to show how much the trans movement is oppressed. This is an immense cruelty; I'm living at the lowest of identities. Yet, I am not in a position to struggle along the lines of “I'm Kurdish, I'm Turkish, I'm Sunni, I'm Zaza” like you. I am at the bottom of society, please understand me. Recognize my right to live.I am trying to say that these struggles resemble each other very much. I can understand discrimination by a white Turk, a Sunni. He is like a god of the country, like its owner. But I can't understand when a Kurd comes to me with the same transphobia.Editors' note: Esra is a trans woman who has been kept in solitary confinement, sentenced to aggravated life imprisonment (ağırlaştırılmış müebbet hapis cezası). According to this interview and the few letters she has been able to send, Esra is exposed to violence, torture, alienation, and transphobia in the prison, while her attempts to file complaints and send letters to activists are prevented by the prison directorship. After the publication of this interview in Turkish, activists established an initiative for solidarity with Esra over social media and campaigned for others to send letters to her. In addition, they have organized a solidarity group, through which they have collected money for Esra. This interview was first published in Turkish by Meydan News, a monthly anarchist print newspaper in Turkey.Meydan News:Could you please introduce yourself?Esra: My name is Esra, and I've been living as a travesti for twenty-one years. I live for just one hope: to get my pink identity card. But I can't get it because of the procedural obstacles in prison.Meydan News:Could you talk about specific perceptions and policies, maintained by the state and various power mechanisms, regarding different identities? How do these affect you?Esra: Being homosexual in this country means living a very difficult life. Sometimes the burden of life feels very heavy. Frequently, the difficulties start from the point at which you choose this life. First your family excludes you, and then society. Your rights are revoked by the state just because you are homosexual. Even if it's not official, you are deprived of your legal rights. They don't even treat you like a human.Meydan News:Can you briefly talk about the judiciary process?Esra: In the simplest terms, you don't have a right to speak in court. Your defense does not have any power. In the eyes of prosecutors and judges, you are seen as a potential criminal, felon, or a monster. You are judged as an inferior human. They make you feel it in every move they make. If the subject at issue is a travesti, they impose a penalty based on the judge's personal inclination, although there is nothing about personal inclination in the laws. Despite the absence of any evidence, I was accused just because I was at the scene of an incident. Based on a handful of false testimonies, I was found responsible. I was sentenced to aggravated life imprisonment for a crime I did not commit. They gave me this aggravated penalty based on the personal inclinations of the judge, just because I am a travesti.Meydan News:Aggravated life imprisonment has its own particularities in terms of punishment. Can you talk about your experiences in prison?Esra: It is the same as how it is in society. We are exposed to insults, verbal harassment, degrading attitudes, and behaviors. We are groped by prison guards. If we complain about it, nothing is done about it. Let me relate one of my experiences. I was subjected to sexual assault by a guard in a Samsun prison. I complained, delivering sperm residue and other evidence with my own hands. He was imprisoned during the course of the judicial proceedings, which lasted one year. After the judicial proceedings, they acquitted the guard, stating that “it was consensual, not forced.” They disregarded my reports of battery. The judge decided to find him not guilty, stating that the guard “shall be reinstated to his duty, and his detention time shall be retracted and compensated.” Where is the justice? How do they come to the decision to reinstate a molester guard? I don't understand it. They hand down this decision casually because, in their eyes, we homosexuals are potential criminals. I've been in prison for eleven years, and for nine of those years I have been held in solitary confinement, on my own. Since my penalty is aggravated life imprisonment, there are legal restrictions, but because I am homosexual, I am deprived of the rights generally granted to those serving aggravated life imprisonment as well. I don't have access to any social activities. I am not allowed to use indoor or outdoor sports halls. Because I am in solitary confinement, they've said to me, “What would you want with a sport center, anyway?” They allow me to use open areas for one to two hours per day. I walk up the concrete floor in front of the room and go in by myself. Twenty-two to twenty-three hours of my day are spent in a ten-square-meter room. My range of motion is restricted. My only connection with the outside world is television. There is no one I can share my distress and troubles with. Only by letters am I able to share my troubles, and I am only allowed to send them to very few of my friends. Whatever I write is censored, and the topics that can be written about are restricted. It is a prison. There is no family, no visitors, no money.Meydan News:In order to survive in prison, you need to make money, right?Esra: According to the penalty given to me, I will be staying here until the end of my life. How long can a person bear these conditions? I don't know how to answer this question. In prison, if you are in solitary with no money, you are nothing. Nobody should assume that “in prison, one lives a life of ease; what would you do with money anyway?” It's not so. Electricity costs money. If you don't pay, they cut it off. Tea, coffee, sugar, soap, detergent, shampoo, whatever you can think of, costs money. Don't misunderstand me: I'm talking about basic needs. Things sold in the canteen are extremely restricted and are twice as expensive as the ones outside. No one in the prison helps. I make handicrafts in order to meet my needs. If anyone buys my beadwork—though they often go unsold—I will earn only 6 liras if I work all day until the evening. For me, 6 liras are worth a fortune. I wish my beadwork sold consistently, so that I could earn 6 liras daily, then I would earn 180 liras per month. I can't buy my personal needs because I don't have money. I want people to hear my plea.Meydan News:Would you like to talk about the problems you recently experienced at the hands of the institution's administration, which led us to do this interview? What kind of abuses are you experiencing?Esra: On top of all the problems I have, I'm also struggling to defend my rights, but I can't do it on my own. If I want to meet with a psychologist or the director in this hospital I'm staying in, I can't. If I feel unwell, I can't go to the infirmary. The obstacles I experience are completely arbitrary. I've already forgotten how to socialize. I send a letter, and it is delayed at least four to five days, and sometimes it takes ten days. The solitary room I stay in does not get any sun, and it does not get warm in winter because the administration only turns on the radiator for certain hours. I complain about these problems to the Ministry of Justice, but the prison administration lies to them. Since they will not believe a travesti, the prosecutor and the ministry believe the director of the prison. Under these conditions, it's impossible for me to stay in this prison. I wrote for a transfer, and I got a rejection. I wrote for a transfer, citing these problems, but I wasn't allowed to leave because the prison director wrote that there is no problem. I staged a hunger strike, I still couldn't leave. The prison director threatened me by saying, “I will not let you out of here until you die!” He is doing all of these things because he is friends with the guard who sexually assaulted me. He told me this openly. If I go and meet the deputy director, he degrades me, insults me, throws me out of his room, cursing. Even though I have the right to send a letter to an official institution in a closed envelope, he seized the letter I sent to the Office of the Chief Public Prosecutor (Cumhuriyet Başsavcılığı). Just two weeks ago, we went through the same issues. He didn't send my letter, again. I became so desperate that I attempted suicide. I took a bottle of pills, and I was taken to the hospital. My stomach was pumped, and I stayed in the intensive care unit. With the help of the hospital's psychologist, I reported to the police and complained about the deputy director to the prison prosecutor. But to whom am I to complain about those who are the ones I am complaining to? I am on my own, a travesti who doesn't have anybody! I don't have anybody who would claim my body if I die, I'm not able to do anything. In this prison, when I proved that one of the officers lied on documents, and I told him, “You are lying. Here is the proof, you are a liar,” my statement was considered an insult, and they gave me a disciplinary punishment: two months! Now, the deputy director insults me.Meydan News:Is there anything else you would like to mention, in closing?Esra: I seek justice! I'm asking you: will you stay silent about the cruelty inflicted on me and on homosexuals in other prisons by directors and guards? Or will you say “no” to this cruelty?