Lilith Bardakçı on the history and evolution of Lubunca, the language spoken by the LGBTQ+ community in Turkey.
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Lilith, it’s such a pleasure to meet you here in Istanbul, in the Şişli neighbourhood, to talk about Lubunca, the LGBT+ language spoken in Turkey, and its history. When and why did Lubunca come about? How far back can we trace its origins?
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
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