Being Black and Queer in Turkey

I was rushing to board a ferry from Istanbul’s European side at the Beşiktaş pier, and grabbed a taxi off the street near my apartment. I went against my judgement and waved down a car, with barely 15 minutes to make it on time.

“Nereye gidiyorsunuz?” he asks.

“Beşiktaş İskele gidiyorum,” I tell him flatly. He nods and speeds off before I can even buckle my belt, navigating in an erratic style familiar to taxis drivers here.

“Africa? Where you from,” He asks this, seeing my face and obviously detecting my less-than-perfect Turkish. 

“New York City.”

“Ne?”

“New YORK,” I declare, pulling my mask away from my face.

“Ah, New York good” he answers.

After living in İstanbul for several months, I’ve learned right away that Turks are a very curious people. I’ve come to expect immediate questions from complete strangers about my background, what I do for a living and how much I’m paying for my apartment. As a Black, queer traveler from the United States, there’s so much I want to tell about my own identity and lived experience and usually welcome the inquiries. But sometimes I find that I spend more time listening and compartmentalizing the Black and queer sides, which has made me re-examine the importance of naming my existence.

To that end, let’s start with being Black in Turkey.

There aren’t a ton of Black people in the country, to be frank. There’s a small percentage of immigrants from mostly West African countries here as students or workers and even a tiny minority of Afro-Turk descendants from those who arrived during the Ottoman era (most live in İzmir and you can read even more about it from my friend Brittany White), but it’s not common for me to see another Black face on the street. 

In spite of that, some friends have told me that people of African descent are revered by Turks. And I can believe it. Sports stars, especially footballers, are heralded -- take for example Nazım Sangaré for the notable Fenerbahçe soccer club. Younger Turks seem to love Black culture in particular and can recite the words to any Cardi B song. Systemic racism, whiteness and the very idea of race isn’t really engrained here as in the U.S., and to be honest, it’s been a relief to be away from that. (See a helpful resource I created with my friend Saf of Grab That Passport that explains white supremacy to Turkish people.) For the stares or attention I receive, it’s usually friendly curiosity and nothing more.

But friendly curiosity isn’t always without faults. I often find myself explaining that I’m “not from x place in Africa” but that I’m American and that my family has been in the country for centuries. There are many Turks who will say Black Lives Matter, but don’t grasp the history of police violence against Black people in the United States or why it’s troublesome to say the N word. Turks are quick to say they are colorblind -- generally said in earnest -- but it’s simply because many assume that Blackness is a good thing, but a monolith. A more nuanced understanding about the Black diaspora isn’t really taught in schools or reflected in the media.

But what about being queer?

Turks don’t really talk about it. It’s still pretty taboo to be openly LGBTQ. I know very few friends who have boldly come out to their loved ones, and in general it’s not embraced. Although there are a few outspoken celebrities who support queer rights, there are no publicly out celebrities you can spot on Turkish TV channels. Queer Turks lack basic legal protections and transgender people in Turkey face the highest murder rate in Europe. The once blooming community in the early 2000s has become notably silenced, with the banning of İstanbul Pride since 2015 being a sharp example. Queer advocates such as Levent Pişkin (who happens to be my friend) have had their homes raided by the police and their professional livelihoods destroyed. Recently Cihan Erdal, a Carelton University PhD student, LGBTQ person and activist is currently detained, with his family and supporters demanding his release.

Being in queer İstanbul though provides a little bit of reprieve. İstanbul is as cosmopolitan as New York, London or Buenos Aires in its demeanor. Folks go on dates here, and unless you are actively drawing attention to yourself (such as kissing or holding hands), most people don’t seem to care. There are gay clubs such as Tek Yon, Şahika and the newer Uçanev, and a lot of gay men meet at Espresso Lab on İstiklal Street, a known cruising spot. Small queer enclaves exist in the bohemian neighborhoods of Cihangir, Şişli and Kadıköy on the Anatolian side. Grindr is blocked, but queer men use a VPN or resort to the popular Hornet or Tinder mobile apps. I’ve met so many people who are in loving same-gender relationships, but it’s never publicly admitted or acknowledged, especially to work colleagues or family members.

When the Black and queer parts are no longer compartmentalized and it comes to engaging with the community here, it makes living in İstanbul even more of an anomaly. Not to mention that hypermasculinity is a problem -- although Turkish men are stereotypically known for being extra concerned about their looks and affectionate publicly, seemingly feminine qualities anywhere else, hypermasculinity makes it okay for married straight men to have affairs with men and to repudiate any notion of queerness, juxtaposing it with shame and disgust. In the worst ways, I can count the number of times I’ve experienced rampant fetishization with my hands, ranging from being called “My Black baby” or even being filmed during sex. As extreme and upsetting as these experiences have been, they haven’t been the norm thankfully and I’ve been forced to exercise patience, given that LGBTQ visibility still remains invisible.

This isn’t to purely vilify Turkey. Being here has been one of the most life-affirming experiences of my life and I’ve gained a universe of beautiful friends and connections, many of them queer. I’ve been able to examine my own corrosive, problematic patterns of fetishization and take a cold, unpleasant look at my colonized ideas of queerness and problems I’ve dismissed with American counterparts, especially with dating. We in the west can never fully envision what it’s like to navigate being queer when its outlawed culturally and legally, a privilege we take for granted. The graciousness, hospitality and humility offered to me almost unanimously by any Turkish person has nearly convinced me to never date another American again. As important as it is to set a place as a Black, queer traveler and share my experiences (there aren’t a lot of us), I’ve been asking more questions, learning how to communicate in Turkish and just listening to what queer people here are telling me and sharing their stories. Seeding cross-cultural exchange is critical in affirming our communities and identities -- but it has to work both ways. I have gained so much more by moving back from my assumptions and being … curious.

I think Turkish people would be proud.