Traces of a Lost Archive: Four Selected Theatre Criticisms by Fatma Onat from 2010s’ İstanbul

Fatma Onat*

Transled from Turkish to English by Bağlan Deniz**
Edited by Deniz Başar***

Abstract

The question of how to archive theatre has long posed a paradoxical challenge within the field of Performance Studies. This dilemma becomes especially urgent and political in a country like Türkiye, where archives are frequently dismantled for reasons ranging from neglect and lack of resources to overt political interference. Fatma Onat, a member of the International Association of Theatre Critics, spent a decade documenting Turkish and Kurdish theatre in Istanbul through her online reviews during the late 2000s and 2010s. Yet much of her work is now inaccessible online. In this project, Onat and Deniz Başar selected four of these reviews to be translated into English by Bağlan Deniz and provided contextual commentary for each, highlighting their connections to the immediate political realities in Türkiye at the time these plays were staged. This collection offers a fragment of Onat’s larger body of work, capturing a small part of what has been lost in Türkiye’s theatre ecosystem and in its broader cultural life, over the past decade.

Keywords: Archive, Theatre Reviews, censorship, political theatre, theatre in Türkiye, 2010s theatre

Editorial Preface

In the early 2010s, Fatma Onat wrote reviews for the arts and culture website of Halkbank, a Turkish bank. In May 2017, Halkbank rebranded its platform as a “culture and lifestyle” site, abruptly eliminating all space for art criticism. With the new restructuring, all previously published articles were also removed from the archive. Similarly, the articles and critiques she wrote for Radikal (İki), an important newspaper in Türkiye’s independent-minded publishing scene, are no longer accessible, as the paper ceased its print edition in 2014 and its digital publication in 2017. This collection aims to preserve the affective nature of Onat’s theatre criticism, which captures an embodied and emotionally charged —dark yet hopeful— period through English translation.

First Piece: “Let the streets be my home, let everyone be my guest”

Poster of Artık *Hiçbi’şii* *Eskisi Gibi Olmayacak! Sil Gözyaşlarını* (Nothing Will Ever Be the Same Again! Wipe Your Tears), Ankara 2014. Performer: Meli Yılmaz. Poster Design: Serdest Vural

Nothing Will Ever Be the Same Again! Wipe Your Tears tells the story of a time that left a lasting impact on the country (June 2013), through the lens of theatre and a micro-level perspective. The play unfolds with passion through the eyes of Apaçi Mustafa, a witness to the events in Ankara.

Avzer, that is Mustafa, but let us know him as Avzer. A young man in his early twenties. Living in Ankara. Last summer, he hosted thousands of people in his home, that is the streets, whose names he did not know. Tens of thousands of people who spoke in different voices, dressed in varied colors, and carried various flags. They all passed through his neighbourhood, his street. He never grew tired of hosting them because his space was large. Of course, eventually, the visits would end and everyone would return to their homes. But the young man’s curiosity only grew over time. He watched the crowd, waited, then joined them. He tried to understand the purpose of all those people spread across every corner of his home. He knew some as heroes, some as enemies. His home was foggy, full of tear gas, and hot. Everywhere was the street, and Avzer belonged to everywhere. He shared everything he had: his home, even the bed made of cement sacks in the unfinished construction site where he stayed. As time passed, Avzer began to hear the voice of his mind, his conscience, his love. And another voice reached his ear: “Nothing Will Ever Be the Same Again! Wipe Your Tears” somebody said. That voice began to be heard on stage as well through the pen of Şâmil Yılmaz, the direction of Cansu Yumuşak and the performance of Meli Yılmaz. A new collective stands before us, one that has parted ways with Domus Art Farm [Domus Sanat Çiftliği] and now goes by the name Mek’an. With their new play following Women, Loves, Songs, they bring someone invisible within the “big house street” right before our eyes, from a shared time, from another place: Ankara, June 2013.

Between Realities and Delusions

Even if the story, the character, and the created atmosphere feel very familiar, when something appears on stage that transcends that familiarity, something that has formed its own time, its own aesthetic, its own voice, the pleasure of watching is greater. That is when the power of merging the truth of life with the language of the stage truly emerges. On one hand, it feels familiar, but not something that you already know. On the other hand, it is something already known, but something you have already seen on the street. Some plays open the door to a new space that breaks this paradox. This play has such a quality. Just when you think you know and recognise Avzer or Mustafa, you suddenly realise that there is someone else you’ve never truly seen before. When you identify that both exist in one body, you then see that the one on stage is pointing to a third person. Takes you on a journey through different layers: street, mind, reality, representation, delusion…

There’s a “strange thing” inside the character. Something he cannot define, yet something that pushes him, carries him left and right. That “strange thing” becomes another character, siding with us. These two characters wrestle within the actor’s body. One is alert to the world, the other is the hero of his own reality. These are two people in one heart. This split personality is attempted to be displayed on stage through the actor’s body and performance skills. By directorial choice, the actor Meli Yılmaz sits on a chair and completes the entire performance without getting up. All the movements of the performer take place within the limited space of that chair. Even though the streets belong to him, the young man is not allowed to run, to be free or to move himself wherever he wishes. However, this direction, the choice to stage the play entirely on a chair does not possess enough power to convince the audience. It corresponds to a space that narrows the actor’s narration and compresses the viewing experience.

The Quarrel Between Play and Narrative

Before us stands a performance so strong that when he scans the entire viewing area with his eyes, the confusion of the character and his incomprehension becomes visible after waking up and seeing the world, and we understand that he has the power to take anyone under his influence with his touch. It is also clear that both the writer and the director are aware of this talent. However, this awareness on the part of the creators of the play seems to push things in a negative direction. The actor’s performance appears to overshadow and mow down the words spoken and the story being told. Meli Yılmaz, whom we also known from Kadınlar Aşklar Şarkılar (Women Loves Songs), physically spends great energy for an hour. He almost experiences a physical ecstasy between Avzer, swept away by his prophecy, and Mustafa, who is worn out by reality. The bodily transformation of a character trapped between delusions and truths begins to resemble a science fictional moment of transition. He exists before us as both a creature and a human being. One gets swept away by these movements and watches this powerful solo performance with excitement until the moment he closes his eyes on stage. That moment becomes a fresh breath of air for the audience and it becomes clear that we forgot about what is being said but have been watching what is being done only. You begin to wish the acting would become plainer, that the actor would align his words, body, and character on the same plane and stop showcasing their own stamina. You want to hear the voice of the text and watch the actor in that way. You want the layers of the play to make room for you as well. Otherwise, simply forgetting everything and enjoying Meli Yılmaz’s performance is an option. Or closing your eyes and getting swept away by the emotional flow of the narration. This team has more than enough talent to do it, or rather, to make it happen.^[1]

Meanwhile on the Streets

14 year old Berkin Elvan, who became a symbol of the Gezi protests, passed away on March 11, 2014. He was shot with a tear-gas canister by police during the Gezi Park protests and remained in a coma for 269 days and was laid to rest in Istanbul. Life didn’t just go on as if nothing had happened outside. While shopkeepers in certain neighbourhoods took down their shutters, many Alternative Theatre Stages also cancelled their performances that day. His funeral brought thousands of people together, but the police intervened in the march that followed the ceremony. The heavy-handed police response escalated tensions during simultaneous protests held in Istanbul, Ankara, Izmir, and other cities. In those days, audiences who came to see the performance had to make their way to the venue while escaping the tear gas used by the police to disperse protesters.

Note on the Translation of the Review

Meli Yılmaz is a transwoman actress who adopted this first name in early 2020s. We made a choice as the writer (Fatma Onat) and editor (Deniz Başar) to use her chosen name anachronistically in this English translation, yet kept the male pronoun he/him throughout the text, since the pronouns are referring to the male character much more so than the actor who plays that character. One last grammatical disclosure: In Turkish there are no gendered pronouns or articles, therefore keep in mind that in the original piece – thanks to the in-built structure of the language – gender is very ambiguous.

Second Piece: Somewhere Between Being Silent and Dying

Poster of *Antabus*. Performer: Nihal Yalçın. Poster Design: Tatbikat Sahnesi

Leyla is the not-so-unique daughter of a household. Beatings come from her father, heartbreak from the one she loved, and rape from her boss. Not even as memories really. When what a person suffers at the age of seven continues for several more decades, those terrible memories can turn into an accepted life. But Leyla is aware of something and also of many things. What does that change, transform? The play clearly is not trying to give answers but rather to provoke more questions while circling around these issues.

A person’s sorrow, when she is a woman, takes on entirely different layers in the face of the world’s cruelty. It is as if women are granted the “chance” to breathe somewhere between being silent and dying. Then, when she ends up in the third-page news, her fate is left to the mercy of whoever writes the article. The writer, the reader, passes judgment by branding her as dishonorable, flirtatious, ungrateful, as if she somehow deserved it. That’s when you think: “Well then, let’s all just die together.” They say, “No, we still need you. The child must not be left motherless, the home without a woman, the hearth without soup.” But if the child is a girl, the soup under-salted, and womanhood worn out, woe to you! One cannot help but draw this crude contrast, because this is the reality. Some plays take their starting point from here and proceed with full awareness of what they are doing. Antabus doesn’t try to create an illusion but instead, it builds its play on the truth that some things can only be conveyed through representation. And so, Tatbikat Sahnesi which is known to us from Ankara makes a powerful start with its first play in Istanbul.

Naturally, human problems never end, especially not for the likes of Leyla Taşçı. Fortunately, in this country, there are not only those who say, “If I wrote my life down, it would be a novel” but also those who write the lives of people who should have novels written about their life. Seray Şahiner is one of them. Antabus is a play adapted from Şahiner’s novel of the same name. Leyla is a character with an intimate familiarity with poverty in the city, whose introduction to Istanbul begins with a ride in the back of a pickup truck. The only daughter of a home. Among her memories are the beatings from her father, the heartbreak caused by the man she loved, and rape by her boss. Perhaps these are even too embodied and present to settle down as memories yet. When suffering at the age of seven continues for decades, what once were painful memories become a normalized life. Yet Leyla is aware of these and many other things. What does that change and transform? The play as it circles these questions, clearly aims less to answer and more to ask.

Since the narrator externalizes the subject matter, it is not really possible to fully understand the “real” emotional state she is in throughout her experience. It is the subject of a life story watching her own life before her… The audience becomes a third layer of that life within the play. The most “real” thing in the representation is the position the audience occupies. That passive stance directly serves the presence of the “three monkeys” within the issue the play is tackling. From where you sit, you suddenly become part of the subject matter, one of the story’s enactors.

The issue at the heart of the play does not offer situations that can be neatly wrapped up, nor does it try to make you cry. In fact, the woman before us is not someone whose story will end either happily or sadly. So much spills over from the play into real life that trying to confine the narrative into a purely theatrical form doesn’t quite work. That is actually a strength rather than a weakness for the play itself. Despite its formal structure and its constant efforts to break illusion, the closeness the play builds with reality doesn’t easily let go of you after the play ends. Of course, representation shouldn’t and can’t compete with harsh reality in a battle of who’s more powerful. The real skill lies in being able to expose the layers and the ache of the issue in the representation. Viewed from this lens, Antabus is on the right path with its chosen form of representation. İlham Yazar’s direction makes full use of the possibilities of the space. Each corner represents a phase of the character’s life, from childhood to adulthood, while the long runway serves as the path of slow transitions between different phases and emotional states. Even if at times the distance between corners feels forced, it doesn’t change the fact that it serves the play’s style. The non-static chairs which can rotate in every direction, help easing the viewing experience. The runway also greatly contributes to one of the play’s key dramaturgical themes: being a bystander. The character, surrounded by pain on all sides, becomes indistinguishable from a mannequin suspended mid-motion as she crosses from one side to the other. Someone who has had every identity imposed upon her against her will drifts past your eyes, fortunately, she doesn’t lose her story. Nihal Yalçın continues to tell the story with all the things she brings to the character.

As the production pushes the narrative beyond a flat storytelling, it draws strength from not only the physical space but also from music and voice-over. The use of arabesque music and external voice helps steer the piece away from becoming an illusion of acting or reducing the story into a one-dimensional reenactment or a slice-of-life snapshot in the structure created by the director.

However, the actor’s verbalization of the spectator’s guilt in their interaction and the play’s persistent effort to spell out its own message eventually transforms this structure negatively. For example, certain scenes like the bench in the park or depictions of domestic life occasionally gain an expressive tone that even includes elements of humor, yet the acting risks being swept up in the “sympathy” it captures. The discourse starts to become repetitive and creates excess. Still, these are refinements that won’t need more than a few performances to solve. Because it cannot be said that there’s any rigid “coarseness” in either form or discourse that is impossible to repair.

The character transformation and the harsh bond established with the mother is a powerful example of representation. However, the fact that all the cruelty originating from men ultimately evolving into guilt within women, risks falling into the very trap that the play itself is trying to criticise. The mother’s silence in the face of everything happening, the woman gradually beginning to act like her mother, and the ominous sense that the young girl will inevitably grow into a woman just like her mother can be seen as signs of a cycle that seems unbreakable.

What we have here is a production that attempts to translate the language of literature into theatre. Yalçın seems likely to take this medium translation in new directions through the performance. For now, there remains a distance between the actor and the space. But it is not yet clear whether this is a distance the character keeps from places that have always brought her misery, or if it is the actor’s distance from the theatrical stage itself. As someone who has not read the novel, I can’t help but think that Şahiner’s textual style might be much more effective in the long arc of fiction. After all, we won’t always be adapting from books to stage, for Antabus, it might be time to go from play to book instead.^[2]

Meanwhile on the Streets

In 2015, the number of femicides and suspicious women’s deaths in Türkiye was 303. Özgecan Aslan was one of the victims of male violence that year. On February 11, she was murdered after resisting an attempted rape by the driver of the public transport she had boarded. While Aslan’s death strengthened women’s solidarity, the protests against oppressive and sexist attacks spread. Protests following her murder continued for weeks in different cities of the country. 27 women who participated in those protests were prosecuted on charges of “violating the Law on Meetings and Demonstrations.” The trial lasted five years.

Third Piece: Perhaps the Hardest Part

Poster Photo of *En Kötü İş* (The Worst Job), İstanbul 2016. Photo: Ali Güler. Photo edit: Tuğçe Ulugün Tuna

* En Kötü İş (The Worst Job) has a physicality that doesn’t turn the performer into a puppet but instead gives each of them space to breathe. The performers show no problems in controlling their bodies. They have an awareness that allows them to slow their movements when needed.

This is a piece that cannot be watched independently of the present moment, not even this very moment. A performance that cannot be separated from Zonguldak of now, from Soma two years ago, or from any mine in South Africa.^[3] The play doesn’t aim to tell us something we don’t already know. Rather, it intends to remind us of what we already know, to bring us physically and emotionally closer to a truth we are content just to know. Of course, this intention has the potential to become either a precious space or a danger that distances us from reality.

If you build a story in an atmosphere where working bodies are neglected or even denied, and become representations of those struggling to breathe in that environment, aiming to strengthen the audience’s connection to reality through representation, then you have accepted a heavy burden. The Worst Job makes that burden very palpable. Perhaps, in trying to lighten that burden, it drags the audience under it. The play skillfully shifts physical expression from something merely visual to something rich in sensory depth.

Tuğçe Tuna had already made a strong impact with Gövde Gösterisi (Body Show) for the previous theatre festival. That performance, which unfolded inside a school building, effectively laid bare the deformities of the educational system we have all passed through. For this year’s festival, The Worst Job brings a different issue to the fore with a raw, visceral performance. This time again, the physicality does not reduce the performers to puppets, each one is allowed their own breath. The performers have no trouble restraining their bodies and can slow their movements when needed. For example, they manage to balance the physical cues between usual and extraordinary situations that might occur underground in a mine. While performing, they don’t let us forget the reality the atmosphere evokes. Everyone knows where they are and what they are trying to do. The play’s choreographic structure tells its narrative effectively. However, while the onstage narrative builds itself sufficiently, trying to “forcefully” pull the audience into this space starts to work against the play’s impact. What meaning one is supposed to produce when the pleading gazes of the performers, their outstretched hands receive no response? Is our earthly numbness being documented here or is it our “nobility” in not interfering, our restraint, our respect for the performers?

One can think that we are all complicit in the same sin. Still, the fact that a performance that manages to merge life and art so powerfully might just mean that the team deserves a better share from our “collective conscience”. But then, does that leave one with a “heartless” portrait of the audience, just sitting there in the frame? If only we could experience what kind of unity the performance would have created if the physicality of the performers had found a real response from the audience: if hands had reached out and gently tucked away the hair from their foreheads.

The attempt to materially bring life and art closer does not change the fact that this is still just a play on stage. But the play raises a question: knowing that complete realism is not possible on stage, why the frantic effort to come physically this close to it? Could this not remain simply an intention, a thematic approach? The performance seems to narrow down to just the performers who try to remind the audience who are increasingly lost in watching the events inside the mine that they will always remain passive creatures incapable of going beyond being spectators. It is as if the audience is performing the act while those on stage become reality itself. Instead of a shared emotional experience, a separation within the performance occurs. These shifts hold the viewer in a rather demanding form of spectating. Rather than deepening the connection with the performance, the audience is drawn into a space that distances them from both the performance and the reality. As the performers break character and turn their attention to themselves and to life, they leave the audience hanging on the theatrical ground.

The “true” play which forms around the emotional isolation of the audience lets us hear the tension of being underground, its hierarchies, the gap between light and darkness, the sound of an utterly breathless space. The emotional flow of the performers can reach a confusing point at times. At first, what seems like anxiety may appear as a kind of trance on the side of performers. One might struggle to distinguish whether what’s being seen is excess or uncontrolled acting. Still, overall, it is difficult to say that the embodiment of the play’s emotional and sensory material on the body presents any major problems. This is a crew that knows what it is doing and understands the ground on which they are performing. Above all, the play gives you the chance to surrender to a physical narrative. It gives a body to everything, a form to every feeling and it is not a restricting one. This is a kind of physicality that attempts to make us perceive and connect with truth. This is a work that takes the side of truth.^[4]

Meanwhile on the Streets

On May 13, 2014, one of the worst mining disasters in Türkiye’s history took place. In the Soma district of Manisa, 301 miners lost their lives. Behind this disaster, there was a great deal of negligence, including the lack of adequate occupational health and safety measures. However, it was a time when discussing the negligence behind the tragedy, or even questioning its causes, was treated as a criminal act due to the heavy political atmosphere of censorship. Despite all the pressure, the families of the victims, labourers, and civil society organisations continued to protest. The performance in question was staged around the second anniversary of the disaster. Meanwhile, commemorative programs, various events, and street protests in memory of the victims were also continuing in different parts of the country.

Fourth Piece: Troas: A Play of Mourning in Madness

*Troas*. Kadıköy Theatron. Istanbul 2016 . Performer: Salih Usta. Photo: Karol Jarek

War has many “bloody tricks.” It takes a living, breathing body and obliterates it on the spot. As for the soul, who knows where it goes? Sometimes, the soul leaves and the body remains: like a lifeless hanger. This is a hanger that walks, talks, eats. An empty shell drifting about. In war, people may believe they are alive, that they exist, that they can die, but never that they are nothing. They think they exist, but they do not. They believe they are breathing but find no witness to their breath. The pain one turns into for finding a refuge becomes a grand domain of existence. To escape the death they cannot cope with, humans sanctify pain and seek solace in it. This is the scent that Troas emits. It is as if those on stage are caught in a madness born of “excessive pleasure” from pain.

Let me say right away: the play has a very peculiar effect, one delivered while fully honoring the codes of theatrical aesthetics. Especially for those tired of stage performances that never move beyond the aesthetics of the TV screen, this can feel like a breath of fresh air. You leave the theatre with a bitter ache from the weight of the story, and a deep joy from having witnessed such a powerful performance.

Whatever is left from the unity or struggle of those born to fight and those who become warriors: that remainder is what we call life. Life is made by “male.” The land is male, the sky is male, breath is male. The struggle of the maaaan is full of belief and heroism. The maaaan is bathed in blood if necessary, his bravery adding life to life. The man is strong; his endless struggle makes him immortal. His soul slips away unnoticed because he is a man. His brain shuts down, yet he remains unaware because his struggle is noble. He is proud because he fights. He is a fighter because he is a man. Sometimes one must be born, other times, just be so…

As these words are spilled forth, Troas, under the direction of Alexandra Kazazou, delivers a masterful counter-performance that shows how it isn’t like this at all. With powerful physicality, Salih Usta, Cem Üzümoğlu, and Kerem Karaboğa deconstruct all those grand heroic narratives in which the uttered and believed words are exactly what destroys lives. On a bare stage, they fill the space with destruction, dead souls, living bodies, war cries and blood. Their voices echo from Hades’ “land of the dead.” They glorify war and their masculinity until it leads them to be perished. The pain they point to doesn’t get lost in the play’s aesthetic. On the contrary, the play’s physicality including the use of lighting strengthens the emotion far beyond words.

It’s rare for a symbolic element on stage to leave a mesmerizing impact. And by mesmerizing, I don’t mean dazzling brightness. This is a symbol read from a painful place. The physicality of the jacket that emerges from the boat on stage adds a whole new layer to the play. Every movement of the performers, every moment on stage is a kind of oscillation. Each actor showcases their skill. Especially Karaboğa’s direct engagement with the audience walks a razor’s edge. He never allows the performance to slip into smirking caricature. The soulless oscillations of the characters on stage come together to form a living, heart-pulsing, powerful whole. On one side, the heroism and masculinity shouted out by the essentially dead and emptied beings gain heavy, complex meanings through those hollow gestures. You find yourself caught in the tension between the desire to fight and the wish not to die. Despite all that’s lost, the voice of the soulless, breathing body still struggling to move is loud and clear. It is as if the souls have departed, and only the bodies are left speaking. But people often believe the opposite. And over time, everyone seems to start wearing each other’s souls. We all witness “the tragedy of the human condemned to endless suffering.”

None of the actors on stage aim to disengage or just get through their parts. What we are watching is not “just any” physical performance. They act in connection with one another and even when they drift apart, they stay within the world of the play enacted. Each one is aware that they are saying the same thing from different places. After all, the cries of warmongers sound the same everywhere in the world. The intentions and sentences of all the world’s dictators are alike. And what remains for the victims is to live a mourning in “madness.” But don’t think the play consists of pure despair. There is a “Last Hope” in the play.

Ayça Güler is a child who passes through that destructive atmosphere with full maturity and builds her own game and play. Her scene would be a great loss if it weren’t there. Because one wants to see the light of a different kind of “struggle,” one separated from war. And her emergence points exactly there. If there are still people on earth who can breathe clean air, then surely, there are things still worth fighting for.^[5]

Meanwhile on the Streets

After the 2015 general elections in Türkiye, the country entered a period of intense conflict and violence. Suruç and Ankara massacres that took place in that year pushed the tension in the country to a terrifying level. These attacks, in which dozens of people were brutally murdered, left an irreparable wound in the conscience of every compassionate person. Those who believed that pain could be endured—at least partially—through solidarity and togetherness, began attending the funerals of the victims, even though they had never met them before. The entire country turned into a house of mourning. Also at that time, we were witnessing thousands of refugees trying to cross the Mediterranean sea before our very eyes in search of “a life,” and, in the process, hundreds of people, including children, losing their lives. The following year, the chaos in the country deepened further with the coup attempt in July 2016. While all of this was happening, a theatre company was in rehearsal for a performance that told the story of how war is “a devastating masculine game.” When the play was finally staged in the final weeks of 2016, during the time of the State of Emergency following the attempted military coup in July of that same year, the atmosphere of mourning in the country had still not lifted.

NOTE 1: This review is the only one that is still accessible online, yet the website was renewed in early 2025 so the date of the original review appears wrong, and images are corrupted. See here.

NOTE 2: TEATR ANDRA was founded in August 2016 to establish an artistic and creative dialogue in the field of Performance Arts among Turkish, Greek, and Polish artists. Throughout the TROAS project, the artists resided in Istanbul and the project was realised with the support of Kadıköy Theatron.

Endnotes

^[1] Nothing Will Ever Be the Same Again! Artık Hiçbi’şii Eskisi Gibi Olmayacak!. Mek’an Sahne. Date watched: March 2014 – Şermola Performance Stage, Istanbul. Publication Date and Platform of the Review: April 13, 2014 – Radikal İKİ. Written by: Şâmil Yılmaz. Directed by: Cansu Yumuşak. Assistant Director: Berk Kaya. Performed by: Meli Yılmaz. Light Design: Umut Eser

^[2] Antabus. Written by: Seray Şahiner. Directed by: İlham Yaza. Performed by: Nihal Yalçın. Venue: Tatbikat Sahnesi / Istanbul. Date Watched: April 2015. Publication Date and Platform of the Review: April 29, 2015 – Halkbank Culture and Arts Website.

^[3] In the platform where this review was first published, this particular sentence was censored due to its politically charged reference to tragic mining accidents that have occurred in Türkiye in 2014.

^[4] En Kötü İş (The Worst Job). Concept, Director, Choreographer and Text: Tuğçe Tuna. Performance Artists: Erdinç Anaz, Pınar Akyüz, Demet Aksular, Özgün Akaçça, Begüm Balcıoğlu, Taner Güngör, Erdem Kaynarca, Ahu Özgür Kınoğlu, Meriç Rakalar, Tuğçe Tuna. Publication Date and Platform of the Review: June 1, 2016 – Halkbank Culture & Arts. Venue and Date of the Performance Watched: MSGSÜ Bomonti, Istanbul, as part of the Istanbul Theatre Festival, May 20, 2016.

^[5] Troas. Written by: Dimitris Dimitriadis. Directed by: Alexandra Kazazou. Cast: Kerem Karaboğa, Salih Usta, Cem Üzümoğlu, Ayça Güler. Stage and Lighting Design: Karol Jarek. Music: Petros Malamas, Nefeli Stamatogiannopoulou. Sound Design: Stelios Koupetoris. Assistant Directors: İpek Seyalıoğlu, Mertcan Semerci. Technical Team: Didem Kırış, İpek Seyalıoğlu. Publication Date and Platform of the Review: December 6, 2016 – Tiyatro Dergisi.Venue and Date of the Performance Watched: Kadıköy Theatron, Istanbul – November 2016.

*Fatma Onat graduated from the Theatre Criticism and Dramaturgy Department at Istanbul University’s Faculty of Letters. She completed her postgraduate studies at Auckland University of Technology in New Zealand, within the Faculty of Te Ara Poutama. A national award-winning playwright from Türkiye, she works primarily as a dramaturg, playwright, and theatre critic.

**Bağlan Deniz studied Political Science and International Relations at Boğaziçi University in Istanbul. While his focus has been on political theory, sociology and philosophy, he has also been translating different texts on Anatolian history, theatre and history of politics.

***Deniz Başar is a theatre researcher, puppet maker, translator and playwright from Türkiye. In 2014, she received one of the most acclaimed playwriting awards in Türkiye for her play The Itch. In 2019, her play In the Destructible Flow of a Vast, Monolithic Moment was stage-read in Revolution They Wrote feminist theatre festival in Montreal. She received her PhD from Concordia University’s Humanities Department in 2021, and she was an FRQSC post-doctoral fellow in Boğaziçi University between 2021-2023. Her play Wine and Halva, was staged in Montreal in 2024 in partnership between Postmarginal Theatre and Toronto Laboratory Theatre, and in association with Sort of Productions. Wine and Halva was nominated for Outstanding Independent Production at the Montreal English Language Awards (META) in 2024. Her latest collaborative play co-written with Fatma Onat and Ayşe Bayramoğlu, Autumn in New Stockholm, was published in 2023 as a trilingual edition (Turkish, Kurdish, and English) and distributed across the Canadian library system. Autumn in New Stockholm will be staged in Escape La Risée (Montreal) soon, in its French translation, as a co-production of Sort of Productions and NOKNOK!. Currently, Deniz is working in the Foundations Development Program of Sabancı University.