We are publishing our interview with beloved Nanaxanim Babazade on November 25, the International Day for the Elimination of Violence Against Women. In this interview, we had the chance to discuss its importance from united struggle to our vulnerabilities, the mistreatment in Deportation Centers, and the significance of November 25. We bear witness to Nana’s struggle, who said, “We will fight even at the cost of our lives.” We dedicate this interview to the women and LGBT+ individuals taken from us by male violence. Just as Nana did, we want to instill hope through the complex emotions of grief, our anger, and our unwavering struggle.

I’m going to start with: We know that you are going trough with united struggle against all forms of violent and exploitation. How do you keep your motivation, desire and effort to live together? At the same time you are not giving up on struggle and instill all of us that hope. How do you relate with all these emotions?

I’m motivated thanks to you. For example, I’m looking back to my circle three years ago, I was thinking that we need to struggle but they weren’t thinking like that. They were looking from a perspective that was liberal and individualistic so I felt like I was at the wrong place, I really had no motivation. But for three years I have a life without them and I have people in my circle who thinks and struggles like me. I don’t really feel alone. Really, having a life without struggle… I don’t know, I see those people a bit ignorant. Because everything is political: from the water we drank to cloths that we wore everything is political. They say ‘I’m living my own life, I’m setting my own system’ but you can’t setting it up anyway. You base your happiness on others. That’s not happiness for me. For that reason I’m motivated by my circle, struggle and my comrades. For me struggle is a meaning and even a part of me. I’m fighting not only for myself, but also for others.

The struggles of women, LGBT+ individuals, migrants, etc. are rendered invisible at some point. At such times, we all feel very strongly the emotional aspects of solidarity that emerge. How do you experience solidarity within your own struggle; emotions such as exhaustion, anger, grief, and hope? How has this process transformed you in some way?

I think I’m not the person who is able to grieve. I don’t even remember the last time that I’ve grieved. I always had an anger inside and I’m doing things on counciousness for not to let that anger go away. For example, every morning when I wake up I’m looking for “how many woman had died today?”. Because if I look away, if I don’t see the reality, I feel like I’m complicit in that silence. Even when I was vegan, I didn’t stop watching videos of violence. I am triggered, but that being is already experiencing that pain; my choice not to look does not change the situation.

After breaking away from my family—which happened in the last two years—I felt emotionally liberated. I realized that what had been imposed on us from the beginning as “family, family, family” was not actually right for me. We were raised to believe that “if you don’t have a mother, this will happen; if you don’t have a father, that will happen.” After completely breaking away from that bond, I felt incredibly relieved. When I first came to Turkey, I had no one; I was unemployed and alone. Now, I have hundreds of people which I call my “family.” I built this bond through struggle, walking alongside people like me.

I keep my anger alive and don’t run away from anything. I don’t have a reflex to think, “I won’t read that news so my mood doesn’t get ruined.” I read, I research, I confront. Because I feel we don’t even have time to grieve. There’s no time for grieving love, friends, family… The system puts people in such a stranglehold that even grieving is a luxury. I truly felt the saying “solidarity keeps us alive” while in prison; survival itself is possible through solidarity.

Twice in Arnavutköy, police followed me. To them, I was a ready-made “target”: a woman who couldn’t return to her country, who had been abused by her family. They put my friends’ photos in front of me and tried to turn me into an informant. But at that moment, I felt the power of solidarity and my trust in my friends much more deeply. I knew they would never leave me alone. The sentences they constructed didn’t even feel like psychological violence to me; they seemed more like comedy. Because you know the face of the state. You think, “What is it even that I’m going through right now?”

Every day I spend in Turkey coincides with the anniversary of a massacre. As I read, I see how people suffered, yet how they managed to stay strong. You can’t help but wonder, “Who will carry on this struggle?” I’ve met with Kurdish movement; the Saturday Mothers, for example… They were jailed for “propaganda” because of a speech that one of them gave at her child’s grave. Recently, she had a court hearing; they told her, “If you apologize, you’ll be released.” The woman lost her child, but she still refused to apologize. She hasn’t been able to visit the grave for years, but she hasn’t given up on her identity or her words.

How could I betray people like this? How could I spy on them, stand against them? This is how I keep my motivation.

On the issue of not being able to grieve… women, LGBT+ individuals, and animals also experience socially suppressed grief. Because when we are killed, even our dead are counted among those whose deaths are not recognized. Therefore, the inability to grieve is not so much an individual deficiency as it is a political consequence; it is a situation that arises from denied deaths, just like denied lives.

So, the process you experienced when you came to Turkey… Perhaps you would like to elaborate on this a bit. What kind of struggle and what kind of experience did you have when you came to Turkey?

I came to Turkey two years ago after running away from my family. At the time, I had a boyfriend; we came here by working together and with some financial support. But in March, he was arrested for political reasons. After his arrest, my childhood friends completely ghosted me. They abandoned me, saying, “You got involved in politics.” I already had no connection with my family. The place where I worked closed; there had been a raid on the office, and I was working online. So, in less than three months, I was completely alone. I had no one.

I had just started school. The day I found out he had been arrested, a woman at school asked me, “Was your boyfriend arrested for being a terrorist?” I didn’t even understand the word terrorist; I come from a place where that meaning never even crossed my mind. I ran home without saying anything. Then I said to myself, “You ran away from your family. Your father is a police officer, and you struggled with his pressure for years. Now you’re alone here, that’s true. But you can’t kill yourself. That’s exactly what the state wants from you. You won’t do that. You will fight.”

Then I left the house. I was living in Beyoğlu; I had just moved there. I went from pub to pub, café to café, asking at the doors, “Are you looking for workers?” I was working ten hours a week, and I was also in school. I was alone and my motivation was waning, but I was getting back on my feet somehow. At that time, I still had some love for my ex- boyfriend inside me. I said to myself, “We built a relationship through so much hardship, I won’t ruin it. I’ll finish school. First for myself, then for both of us.”

Then he ghosted me too. After being completely left alone, only one sentence remained: “For yourself. You left that family, you made it this far. You risked everything. You won’t ruin this.”

A year later, I thought everything would change. I motivated myself by saying, “I’ll do whatever I can; if it doesn’t work out in the end, at least I can say, ‘I did my best.’” Crying and whining doesn’t get you anywhere. You can’t find a job because the system is already set up to crush you. If you’re an immigrant, if you’re a woman, that pressure doubles. But you still have to start somewhere. I always thought, “There are other people fighting. We’re bound to meet somewhere.”

Then I first encountered the vegan movement. I started going to vegan events and talking to people. Of course, they didn’t trust me at first; I was an outsider, after all. But as we grew together in the struggle, that trust and connection developed. I met most of my friends at protests, demonstrations, and events. And I saw that there were people like me, fighting, going through the same hardships. That’s where I first realized I wasn’t alone.

I can’t get pessimistic either. I hate people who constantly complain. Yes, it’s hard, really hard. Everything I experience is a problem. But complaining doesn’t change anything; fighting does. Solidarity solves things. Not everything, yes, most things don’t get solved. But at least some things do.

That’s how I got into the struggle. The first step was with the vegan movement; then it expanded, grew. If I can feel solidarity, organization, collective power today, it’s thanks to those first steps.

Speaking of veganism… While you were in Turkey, the relevant amendment to Law No. 5199 on the Protection of Animals was made. You must be following it now; we are talking about the 11th Judicial Package. In your opinion, what kind of pro-life stance can be taken against these regulations? These two regulations have similarities. I would also like to ask how they feed off each other.

When the 11th Judicial Package was released, some pages were sharing posts saying, “Everyone’s life is in danger!” No, I don’t think everyone’s is. These regulations directly target the lives of LGBTQI+ people. I don’t like generalizations that say “everyone” because it’s very clear who these policies are aimed at. The target of the violence is clear.

While in Turkey, I went to Azerbaijan for a week. Seeing the situation there, I compared it to Turkey again. Three years ago, Azerbaijan wasn’t like this; there were activists, people were out on the streets, there was movement in society. Now, as a woman, I can’t breathe there. One day, while walking alone on the beach, I was verbally harassed by 7-8 men. You can’t see women on the streets in the evenings. When you get on the subway, everyone is male. This is a picture that shows the struggle is over. As people retreat out of fear, the system grows.

In Turkey, at least there is a struggle. There is solidarity, even if it is small. That’s why I feel a little safer here. I know very well that we must not give up the struggle; if we do, it will be like in Azerbaijan. Even in prison, I continued my struggle with my body. That’s what I feared most: “What if I give up?” I went hungry, surviving on sugar water for two weeks. My lawyer said, “Let’s write a petition, say you’re sick.” “Never,” I said. This isn’t an illness; it’s my political stance.

Some people said, “Eat cheese, give up your habits, what’s the big deal?” I say, “Then I’d be an agent.” Because to me, it’s the same thing. If they asked me to give up both veganism and the queer movement, the political meaning would be the same for me.

Why are these struggles connected? Because the source of violence is the same. For example, in the past in the US, certain hormones were tested on trans people; today, the same experiments are done on rabbits, dogs, monkeys. It’s the same mindset.

We protest saying, “My body, my life,” but we can eat animal meat at the table or use experimental products. That’s also a body, that’s also life. The same contradiction exists in the feminist movement: We talk about the exploitation of women, but we consume milk and cheese. Milk production is, in itself, the exploitation of female animals. In my eyes, these are all different faces of the same violence.

Of course, you can’t go to a woman living in a village and say, “You should be vegan.” That woman’s living conditions need to change first. But this is also not true: “Let there be a revolution, then we’ll become vegan.” No. If we’re talking about a socialist revolution, we can’t leave veganism out of it. If you’re a revolutionary, you’ll start with yourself first. Then you’ll slowly explain it to people.

For me, the struggle only makes sense when it is whole. Like the links in a chain: women, LGBTQI+ people, migrants, animal rights activists… They are all parts of the same structure. Our pain may be different, our methods may be different, but our enemy is the same. That is why we must stand against all forms of violence without distinguishing between them.

We are also approaching November 25th. A day when we speak out against all forms of violence. I actually wanted to talk about migrants within this discourse. The rights violations and mistreatment experienced by migrants. Especially the treatment in deportation centers. Do you have anything you would like to share on this topic?

I want to tell you about it. Because in interviews, it’s always me who gets talked about, but the system itself is never discussed. Yet I already knew what a pit this system was. I saw it much more directly at the deportation center. If you’re a woman, an immigrant, and queer, it becomes an extra hell.

Let me share two experiences. The first was about a young queer friend from Kazakhstan. She had a very masculine appearance, and they had banned her from using a phone just because she was queer. Because of the phone ban, she couldn’t talk to anyone, couldn’t even hire a lawyer. They had scared her so much that she was trembling as she spoke. “I have no one,” she said. I went and talked to her; “You can’t have a ban like this. You will use the phone, I’m with you,” I said.

I took her to the officer’s file. “You can’t impose this ban; how is this person going to call their lawyer?” I said. The officer looked and said, “I’m going to ask you something… Are you a man?” The child’s eyes filled with tears. “I’m not a man, I’m a woman,” she said. I said, “Did I bring you here to ask you that question? What nonsense are you talking about?” But they deported the child that Sunday, in a hurry. To a place like Kazakhstan. We don’t know what condition she’s in now. If there had been solidarity, solidarity would have saved her, just as it saved me.

The second experience was also with a queer friend. They were imposing a phone ban on that friend too, intimidating them. If queers aren’t united in solidarity at the deportation center, they end up in a much worse situation. It’s the same for women. Once, three male gendarmes beat a woman. We immediately organized inside, called the police; a report was filed. Even there, solidarity saved lives.

We also experienced a lot with African women. Having faced racism their whole lives, they naturally didn’t trust white people. But when a Kenyan woman was beaten, they first hid us—because we were white. I spoke to them: “Three gendarmes beat your friend. Did you call the police?” — “No.”

“Did you tell the officer?” — “No.”

“So what are you doing? Is this solidarity?” I said.

I am Azerbaijani, they view white people as ‘enemies,’ but we live under the same conditions. “Have you seen racism from me?” — “No.”

“Alright, then you’re being racist to me right now,” I said. Then I said, “I’m going to call the police as soon as I leave.” I left and called the police in front of them in the ventilation area.

They were shocked. “ She really called,” they said. “Look, I used my five-minute phone privilege for this; you should call too,” I said.

Then they realized it too. A bond formed between us. Because they saw that the guards didn’t care about anyone’s color or identity; there was no mercy for anyone. If we don’t look out for each other, no one will protect us.

I acted as an translator there. The African women spoke English but not Turkish. The guards not knowing English created an unbelievable mess. The women couldn’t express themselves. For example, one wanted medicine but couldn’t explain; I went and fought to get her medicine. One day I got sick; this time those women argued with the officials, shouting, “Take Nana to the hospital!” At that moment, I saw how solidarity comes back around. You do it once, and it comes back.

No one left anyone alone in our Block A. “It’s better there, they help each other,” they said. It really was like that. When someone new arrived, we didn’t open the door and say, “Go find yourself a room”; pregnant women came, people with children came, and we gave them whatever we could. When women left, they left all their clothes for the newcomers; they gave me clothes the same way on my first day.

One day we saw a security guard; he was cursing and hitting the women. Then he raised his hand to a woman right in front of us. We all started shouting, the officers couldn’t hold us back. We chanted slogans and marched towards her. The psychologist, psychiatrist, and director came; no one could silence us. That security guard was fired that day. That was the power of solidarity. We were truly keeping each other alive there.

Without solidarity, the deportation center turns into a torture chamber. With solidarity, at least a breathing space can be created.

As we approach the end… How do you view November 25 with this solidarity and collective memory? Would you like to leave a message for the feminists who are fighting today?

Vallahi… If there are still people who haven’t taken to the streets by November 25, I really question their sanity. Because women are being murdered every day. It’s not stopping, and it probably won’t stop. The family unity package is coming, new laws are coming, the Istanbul Convention has been withdrawn… so there’s no other way but to be on the streets.

For example, I was at the march as an immigrant. I joined the protest by entering through side streets. When the police attacked, women who didn’t even know me protected me… that was so powerful. At a moment when I felt powerless, other women surrounded me, held me, protected me. It’s the same today. Solidarity really keeps us alive.

If you’re not going out on this November 25th, when will you go out? That’s really the only question. When? Are we going to show solidarity by sitting at home and watching the news every day? Because this violence can happen to any of us. They told me, “The Turkish police are protecting you.” I said, “If I go out right now, as a woman, there’s a 90% chance I’ll be killed. Who is protecting me? No one.” The state isn’t protecting us, the police aren’t protecting us.

Since we don’t have the power, when will we take to the streets? Every hour, a woman is killed. Every hour, a child is killed. While I was in prison, every piece of news I received from outside was about death. It never ended. And there is countless violence we don’t even hear about.

I come from a difficult family. Even now, I receive threats from my father. But I still fight. I can’t wait. There is no waiting. If I need to be on the street, I will go out. I am not afraid. Because I have people who stand with me, I have comrades, I have friends. This struggle is valuable; it keeps me and others standing.

I will resist with whatever I have, and I will go out again. The streets, visibility, and persistence protect our lives. Nothing happens when we sit at home. Nothing happens when we chant slogans and go home. But when we take to the streets and stand up to the state, the state sees: the number of women is growing, fear is receding.

Azerbaijan is the biggest example of this for me. Every year, the numbers at the March 8 marches decreased, and eventually, they stopped altogether. Now, when I walk in the city center at 4 p.m., I get verbally harassed by 7–8 men. This happens because we sit inside and leave the streets empty. I’ve experienced it, I’ve seen it.

On November 25, on November 26, on whatever day is necessary, we will go out. Because this struggle is our life; each other’s life.

Thank you very much for the interview. If there’s anything else you’d like to add, I’d be happy to take it.

We must not give up the fight. No matter what happens, even if it costs us our lives… we must not give up. I’ve always said this, but I experienced it firsthand for two months at the deportation center: I saw very clearly there how this system fears people who fight back.

There was only one reason why they tried to send me away in a hurry, why so many people gathered and said, “Let’s send her away immediately,” why even the director came and got involved in the process: fear. The feeling of “Let’s not let her stay here, let’s send her away.” Because they are afraid of those who fight.

That’s why I say: We will fight, even at the cost of our lives. Because everything is political. From the water we drink, the air we breathe, to the clothes we wear… everything. That’s why we must stand together, hear each other’s voices, and amplify our own. There’s no other way to survive.