This article focuses on the role of the stage in complex modes of gender performativity in the work of three Turkish performers: Zeki Müren (1931-1996), Bülent Ersoy (b. 1952, and Seyfi Dursunoglu (b. 1932) a.k.a. Huysuz Virjin [Cranky Virgin]. These three, I suggest, are the pioneers of contemporary Turkish queer performance. Their performances -both on-and off-stage -are validated through a reiterative absence of queerness in their everyday lives and stand in the midst of various negotiations between queers and the secular Islamic nation-state in Turkey. In the works of Müren, Ersoy, and Huysuz, the stage is suggestive of a space where queerness can be managed. It is a contested space that does at least allow for the communication of queer ideas to a wider audience. I discuss the works of these three performers as three variations of queerness in Turkey in relation to different eras and different political climates that are directly related to the nation-state's desire to perform modernity. While explicating complicated modes of gender performativity, I consider the stage as the primary space for a queer body to exist. Through this discussion, I aim to activate debates both within and against the context of secular Islam, on gendered political space, and on those overlooked sexualized spaces in which the nation-state produces powerful yet unstable values to manage queer subjectivity in contemporary Turkey.
PrologueWhen I was 12, I overheard a conversation between my mother and a taxi driver about a famous transsexual singer in Turkey, Bülent Ersoy. As my mother and I sat quietly, the taxi driver looked indignantly at us through the rear view mirror: 'He did everything he could to be a woman', spat the driver, 'he even got the operation and all, but what's with the voice? It ain't gonna change, it'll stay the same'. I do not remember whether the driver was more distressed by the singer's transsexuality or by her voice. Perhaps he thought Bülent Ersoy's operation would magically take away the markers of the voice that demarcate gender. However, I do recall how I felt: uneasy, uncanny, queer. My mother, on the other hand, seemed anxious when she replied: 'I don't know'. Her tone was uninviting, attempting to quell the conversation. Why was a Turkish taxi driver speaking of sexuality and sex changes in front of her prepubescent daughter? But it is not only my mother's voice that I still remember; it is the taxi driver's insistent claim that a voice could stifle new constructions of gender and sexuality that I recall now as vibrantly as when I was 12. And now, in Ersoy's voice, I almost hear that queer feeling I experienced at that age: confused but intrigued.