Istanbul Pride, Part II: Taksim Square

Daniel Metz
Aug 28, 2017 · 7 min read

Gay rights occupy a strange gray zone in Turkish society. On the one hand, there are no laws that make homosexuality illegal, unlike some of its neighbors in the region. On the other hand, however, no laws protecting LGBT individuals from workplace or housing discrimination, victims of hate crimes almost never conclude with justice and expressions of equality or pro-LGBT demonstrations are unceremoniously suppressed by the government and the police. A friend once described the attitudes towards homosexuality in Turkey as “don’t ask, don’t tell. People won’t care who you are or what you do as long as they don’t have to know about it.”

Gay pride week in Istanbul started last Sunday, June 18th, and the events, performances, parties and exhibitions were scheduled to culminate with the annual Pride Parade this Sunday, June 25th. The parade originally started in 2003 in Istanbul’s Taksim Square with only a handful of participants, and until last year has been the biggest demonstration of support towards the gay rights movement in Turkey. Unfortunately, the Istanbul governorate issued a ban on the parade last year, citing public safety and the safety of participants, calling on the Istanbul police force to shut down any indication of such event. Just yesterday, the Istanbul governorate issued a similar ban on this year’s Pride Parade, referring to the same safety concerns as the previous year and emphasizes the requirement to get prior authorization from the government for a demonstration like this. A couple of hours before the parade was initially scheduled to begin, I went to Taksim Square to see if anything was going to happen.

When I interviewed Yeşim earlier this week, she handed me a pamphlet describing the events of Pride Week, with the final event being the Pride Parade today, scheduled to start at 5:00 p.m. By 2:30, I had ordered myself a coffee and nestled into the same chair I had sat in the last time I came to Taksim Square a couple of weeks ago to talk with Nick. From my vantage point, I could see the entire square. The statue of Turkey’s founder Ataturk erected in the center of the square was under construction, and there were fences set up all around the monument. On the far side of the square a large group of tents hosting various craftsmen and shopkeepers in a bazaar-style market lined the road with a banner introducing them as part of the Ramadan celebration. The city had strung up red and white flags in between light poles throughout the square. Both the sun and the temperature rose mercilessly as I sat and waited.

A few years ago, I had written a research paper on LGBT rights in Turkey, my first introduction into the legal and social status of LGBT individuals in the country. Several paradoxes arose from what I learned. Only one political party with any influence in the government include gay rights in their party platform, and for its ties to Kurdish militants in the southeast, the ruling powers have essentially ripped the party limb from limb. At the same time, however, there is no active push by the ultra-conservative factions within the government to pass legislation further limiting the rights of LGBT individuals. Gay couples cannot legally adopt children, but gay individuals can seek to adopt as “single parents,” even if they are in a same-sex relationship. Trans individuals can receive gender reassignment surgery, but they are required to submit to intense psychological scrutiny, forced divorce if they are married and forced castration.

Istanbul represents the beacon of hope for many LGBT individuals growing up in rural Turkey. It has the largest LGBT population, a handful of LGBT rights organizations and what once was a thriving community of gay rights activists. A few gay clubs sprinkle the tangled mess of streets and alleyways near Taksim Square.

An even more perplexing situation arises in the social attitudes of the country, with several famous LGBT performers having had important roles in the development of modern Turkish music. For example, there’s the notoriously flamboyant Zeki Müren, a man who stole the hearts and minds of Turks throughout the ’80s and ’90s, or Bülent Ersoy, a trans woman who is one of today’s greatest singers of Ottoman classical music. Then there’s every teenage Turkish girl’s heartthrob: the bi-curious pop singer Tarkan, who bears a semblance to America’s Justin Timberlake in his style and production. Like my friend described, as long as people don’t have to think about Tarkan being sexually ambiguous, Zeki being gay or Bülent being a trans woman, they’re comfortable enjoying their music.

By 2:30 p.m., two large tank-like vehicles that Turkish police use for crowd control had parked near the head of Istiklal Street on the one side of Taksim Square. On the far side, about 15 to 20 minibuses from the Istanbul Police Force had congregated, ready to transport officers at a minute’s notice. This was the first day of the holiday at the end of the month of Ramadan, yet I was surprised to see boisterous crowds walking around the square and down Istiklal Street. The rooftop café was empty enough, and with the parade not schedule to begin for another two and a half hours, I started working on my computer on a different project. Every couple of minutes I would look up from my computer to see another group of peculiarly dressed, colorful Turks settling down at the tables around me. It turns out I wasn’t the only one who had the idea to observe the scene from above.

As 3:30 p.m. rolled around, I was buried deep in an article about Somalian immigrants in Minnesota when I felt a tap on my leg. Looking up, I saw Yeşim standing in front of me with a big smile on her face. It turns out that she and several of her friends from SPoD had also met at the rooftop café instead of the square below. March organizers from Istanbul’s LGBT community had called for the parade to continue despite the Istanbul governorate having revoked its authorization. But it looked like SPoD was playing it safe.

“Last year we couldn’t join because it was banned,” said a girl named Müge sitting near the SPoD crew. “No one walked in the parade. They just protested elsewhere in the city.” Müge had only been able to walk in the past couple of parades in Istanbul, but she reminisced about the events even just a couple of years ago. “In 2014, somewhere between 80,000–100,000 people joined the parade.”

A wooden ledge ran along a plated glass barrier overlooking the street, and by 4:30 everyone started to press up against the glass. “It’s not sturdy! Please do not lean against the glass!” shouted a barista running out from inside the café. Everyone was clumped against the edge of the café, craning their necks to see if any protesters were going to pop up. Below us, at the head of Istiklal Street, crews from local TV stations started getting ready for any anticipated conflict, pulling out their camera equipment and microphones to do live reporting. “Our lawyer is down there,” Yeşim said gesturing towards a woman with a bright pink skirt standing in the blazing sun in front of a man waving his arms around, aggressively trying to explain something. “It looks like she’s trying to bargain with them.”

Right before 5:00 p.m., another couple of rows of police officers marched out from behind their barricade holding riot shields. The music at the café seemed to switch to a heavier, techno beat, almost like a nod of support for the anxious LGBT supporters clustered on the rooftop. I kept one eye on my phone’s clock and one eye on the street below, only glancing occasionally at the notes I was frantically jotting down in my lap. But 5:00 came and went, and nothing happened. The police had formed a line at the point where Istiklal Street and Taksim Square converge, filtering out anyone they thought could be there to march and turning them away. I watched the street for almost an hour before concluding that no march would take place that day.

“Even if there wasn’t a ban, the number of people joining would drop,” Yeşim said when I turned to her. “People are scared. The police won’t protect us. They’re scared of any conflict.” She mentioned a spike in parade attendance around a series of huge, pro-democracy protests in 2013, but the number of participants has only decreased since then.

At 6:00 p.m., I gathered my things up and walked downstairs and out onto Istiklal Street. The hordes of police were suspiciously eyeing anyone wearing bright colors, and with my blue jeans and black t-shirt, I walked past the officials and headed down Istiklal Street, away from Taksim Square. Every side street along the historic avenue was blocked off by police vehicles and hardened police officers, scowling at the crowds. The Turkish newspaper Hürriyet reported that 44 people were detained that day, mostly from groups of LGBT supporters trying to start the march in the back alleyways of Taksim. An announcement from an Ankara-based LGBT rights organization KAOS-GL followed, saying that every detainee was freed. No rainbow flags unfurled, no happy marchers chanted their support, no bright colors decorated the streets. Keeping an eye peeled for anything colorful, something caught my attention at the very end of Istiklal Street. Hanging behind the gate of the Dutch Consulate was a small, defiant rainbow flag. It seemed metaphoric that day to see the only rainbow flag trapped behind bars.

Story originally published 06/26/2017 on my personal blog: https://danielsmetz.wordpress.com/2017/06/26/pride-in-istanbul-taksim-square/

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Daniel Metz

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Mostly just eating kebab. Occasionally writing. Always in Istanbul | English, Türkçe

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