UNESCO Chair on Refugee Integration through Education, Language and Arts

By Erdem Avşar

Since Here to Make a Mess, a collection of video performances I commissioned from a group of international theatre-makers, opened at UNESCO RIELA’s Spring School 24, I have been having conversations with performers, writers, translators and dramaturges about pretty much anything and everything: writing, the state of the world, migration, transnationality, languages – the list goes on. Not wanting to keep those conversations to myself, thanks to Bella Hoogeveen, they will now be published periodically here at UNESCO RIELA’s blog.

Here to Make a Mess #1: 

The Future Looks Bright: Review (****) & In Conversation with Büke Erkoç

The first conversation is with UK-based Turkish theatre-maker and performer Büke Erkoç. I have discovered Büke’s work very recently, and it has been such a delight.

Her latest one-hander The Future Looks Bright, an adaptation from the Turkish novelist and writer Şebnem İşigüzel’s stories, opened in London’s exciting stage Etcetera of new voices. It is an urgent tale and Erkoç’s direction has so much to offer to solo performance tropes.

The Future Looks Bright invites the audience into an intimate meditation on inherited trauma, identity, and the dark pull of self-destruction. Büke Erkoç plays a young woman who struggles with her mother’s spectre haunting her. It is as if there are two gravitational pulls are pulling Erkoç: one from the past, another from the future. Erkoç’s performance, coupled with the minimal set design, oscillates between bursts of movement and stasis. That dynamic between too much and too little, both done gracefully by Erkoç, is a commentary on trauma itself. She is first overwhelmed, then energised. She looks for sources of survival on a bare stage (almost), initially finding solace in narratives of personal memories, then she gets exhausted again.

There is so much emotional clarity in Erkoç’s performance that you feel the weight of generations pressing down on her. There’s a deep psychological resonance in the way Erkoç navigates this relationship - a mirror to the internalized patterns of despair and hope she has absorbed over time. What makes The Future Looks Bright stand out in the ‘solo performance boom’ trope-land is Erkoç’s reluctance to fall for the virtuosity trap: it is not about how many voices or characters that a performer can get into. It is not about how seamless those transitions can be either. Her performance is moving, complex, and subtle – Erkoç is a new voice, both in the ways in which she has adapted these stories and directed them and in her approach to solo performance.

This multicultural, intergenerational, refreshing solo performance stands out in the contemporary theatre scene - a rare combination of vulnerability, intellectual depth, and emotional truth, without succumbing to the glamour of ‘one woman does all’. A poetic physicality runs through Büke Erkoç’s veins. In our conversation, it became clear how she establishes herself as a unique and necessary voice in theatre, not only in the UK but beyond. 

For upcoming shows and projects, visit Büke's website.

**** (4 stars)

It’s always a bit tricky to give a quick snapshot of these things, but can you tell me about your personal journey from Istanbul to Toronto, from Toronto to Paris, and then from Paris to London? How has your sense of ‘home’ evolved over the years?

The concept of 'home' has shifted dramatically for me over the years. Moving from Turkey to Canada was a financially challenging transition, and my family made significant sacrifices to make it possible. Flights were expensive, the journey itself took 12 hours, and I couldn’t return to Turkey—what I still considered home—whenever I wanted. In those early years of migration, home became a place I shouldn’t and couldn’t return to.

At the time I moved to Canada, immigrants from Turkey were much fewer, and I struggled to hold onto familiar habits. Language became the easiest way to maintain my connection to home—Turkish became something I carried within me. For a while, I even began to see the Turkish language as my home. Around that time, I came across Barbara Cassin’s book Nostalgie, where she reflects on the idea that home isn’t just a place where you recognize things, but also where you are recognized by others.

The first time Canada truly felt like home was when two things happened within the same week, seven years into living there — and just one year before I left. First, I made a joke in English that had my Canadian friends laughing uncontrollably. I had always been funny in Turkish, but until then, I hadn’t been able to make anyone laugh in English with the same wit. Second, I went to my regular breakfast spot, where I always ordered the same thing, and for the first time, the waiter brought my order without asking. I remember thinking, “Finally, I’m recognized.” That was how life had always been for me in Turkey. I was an individual, yes, but also deeply connected to the people and places around me. I was the girl from the corner house, someone’s cousin, someone’s daughter. At the meyhane I frequented, I was known as the girl who drank three glasses of water for every rakı, or the young woman who parked her car flawlessly in tight spaces. I had many labels attached to me because I was recognized in a place where I belonged. That day in Canada, I felt recognized for the first time.

After gaining Canadian citizenship, home became a place I could approach again. I could return to Turkey whenever I wanted, for as long as I liked. I could get closer to it. I moved to Paris for my studies. When I moved there, I began to think of Toronto as home too, which made me question whether the places I leave behind gradually become home for me. By the end of my first year in Paris, that feeling began to fade. I realized I had been holding onto something familiar in a time of transition, labelling it "home" out of comfort.

By the time I moved to London, I was keenly aware that only Istanbul remained as my true home. I think the hardest part is leaving somewhere for the first time. Every move since then became easier—not easy, but easier.

After 10 years of being an immigrant, being an immigrant has become so ingrained in my identity that I sometimes struggle to define myself outside of it, and that scares me. Although home is still the place I long for, a place I wish to return to every day, I now wonder if I’ll ever allow myself to go back, even if circumstances permit in the future. I still fear losing my identity. It’s something I think about often. 

How do these personal experiences of immigration, and perhaps loss, shape your performances, or your take on performance?

I’m recording a podcast, and it’s still quite new – I’ve done eight episodes so far. In it, I mainly talk about my own immigration experience and what I’ve discovered, felt, and lived along the way. I think I mentioned this in the "long-distance friendship" episode, but to me, migration is inherently linked with loss. When you migrate, you lose your home, your language, the friends you used to see all the time, your favorite walking paths, and the familiar sights you’d grown attached to. These things never truly come back. When you return and look at them, it’s like looking at old photographs – if you’re even able to find them still there. Most of the time, you don’t.

For a migrant, home resembles a house of mourning. This play, The Future Looks Bright, in my view, deals less with mourning of a home and more with grieving the loss of loved ones, but it centers around the story of a woman who migrates. She believes that by moving, she can start everything from scratch, but it doesn’t work out that way. While my personal experiences of loss are different from what the character goes through on stage, and although I haven’t experienced losing people close to me in the same way, I perform by thinking of the country I mourn and everything within it that I’ve lost. In essence, in every version of the story, I find myself grieving something that mirrors the mourning in my own life on stage.

As an immigrant researcher-artist myself, I keep oscillating between two modes of thinking around my practice: on one hand, I welcome every single encounter that energises me in a still less familiar setting, but on the other, I also feel like theatre-making was more open to me in Turkey. Not necessarily easier, but just more open. I am curious to hear the challenges that you have faced as an immigrant artist in the UK, especially within the performance scene, but also the charms of it all? Do you feel the industry here is open to diverse narratives?

I would like to address two key things. Firstly, as an artist in Turkey, I find that I am perceived as a local, which allows me to avoid starting from scratch. In fact, I believe that the opportunities afforded to me are often more accessible, as theatre establishments in Turkey tend to place greater trust in those who have received their education in the West. I believe this is one of the significant problems in Turkey. We tend to elevate individuals coming from the West without critical examination. Although people in Turkey may not be familiar with my work or professional approach, the fact that I received my theatre education in the West and lived there grants me significantly quicker and easier recognition here.

My experiences in London starkly contrast this reality. Upon entering various spaces there, I am perceived as an outsider. At times, I find myself beginning from a position of disadvantage due to a lack of network and references. Consequently, I must invest significant effort to establish my standing within the artistic community. In one context, I start from a positive position, whereas in another, I am at a disadvantage. I believe the ideal scenario would be to find myself in an environment where I can genuinely commence my journey from a neutral position, supported by the necessary access and connections.

Moreover, aside from this initial play I have undertaken in England, I lack prior experience in creating theatrical productions in the UK. However, through my years as an audience member, I have observed that the narrative landscape in Turkey is significantly more diverse. I perceive theatre in the UK as inherently conservative, even from the perspective of an audience member. Although the arts scene in England appears open and diverse on the surface, I find it exceedingly challenging to penetrate this facade and access the opportunities necessary for engagement.

On the other hand, the appeal of the industry here lies in the robust financial support available for the arts and the deeply ingrained habit of audiences attending the theatre. Regardless of whether the venue is large or small, there is always an audience present, and this is truly captivating. The dedication of the audience contributes significantly, perhaps accounting for fifty percent of the work, and they fulfill this role remarkably well. Unfortunately, this is not the case in Turkey. Here, theatre is consumed as naturally as food, and the fact that it is so well received motivates artists to push themselves, to create better and sometimes grander works. As an artist, I feel empowered to take bold decisions and tell the stories I want to tell, knowing that, regardless of scale, theatre audiences here will give me a chance to be heard. In contrast, in Turkey, I often find myself preoccupied with thoughts like, "Will it sell? Is it engaging enough?" Whereas in the UK, I can confidently say, "It interests me, and as part of this community, living alongside this audience, I will tell this story." I am able to be more courageous, without censoring myself, and shape my narrative in the way I truly believe.

You’ve lived in four countries with vastly different cultural landscapes. How do you navigate the process of translating your experiences and feelings into performances that resonate with audiences in these diverse spaces? I am particularly interested in hearing what it feels like to you: do you feel like you are starting over and over again every time you move? Or do they accumulate in one way or another?

Each time I move to a new country, it feels like starting over—especially when navigating the theatre space, where new networks, cultural codes, and expectations can be quite overwhelming. But over the years, I’ve realized that maybe I’m not truly starting from scratch. Migration itself, or constantly being on the move, has become part of my identity. It’s as though being a traveller, a wanderer, or an immigrant shapes who I am, creating an identity that isn’t fixed to any single place. While migration has led me to lose certain aspects of my initial self-definitions, it has also allowed me to gather new pieces.

The most difficult part, I think, is leaving home for the very first time. But the longer you stay abroad, the more you realize you’re heading toward a point of no return—and that’s what’s challenging to process. Every new country brings a new discovery about myself, revealing parts of me that I was previously unaware of. Moving to Canada taught me that I can go long periods without needing face to face communication with my most immediate loved ones. France showed me my ability to resist, and in London, I’ve learned that I’m more patient than I ever thought possible.

So, while it may feel like I’m starting over and over again, in reality, my experiences are accumulating. I’ve come to understand that this state of migration, this journeying, is also an identity. Being a traveller or an immigrant is itself a form of belonging—one not fixed to a particular place. Yes, I’ve lost parts of my identity through migration, but I’ve gained new ones, too. In the end, I am the sum of all that I’ve gained, lost, and what remains—a collection of all the identities I’ve discovered in each country I’ve lived in.

The Future Looks Bright, your latest performance, is a solo work that you have co-adapted from Turkish novelist-writer Şebnem İşigüzel’s stories. I know it opened in London to a great response from the audience. And it is a gorgeous piece of work – so important and definitely coming from a place of urgency. Please tell me more about those first performances. How did it feel? How did it all go?

Since graduating, I’ve been focused on directing, which I envisioned as the primary path for my career. When I read the stories of Şebnem İşigüzel, I felt a surge of excitement to share this narrative. However, after conducting some research, I quickly realized I had no budget to pay for a performer. At that time, I was unaware of the concept of a "fringe theatre contract," as I had no one to guide me through the nuances of the UK theatre scene. With no network or friends to approach for collaboration—no one to say, “Hey, do you want to join me in this show? I can’t pay upfront, but we can split the box office”—I had to think creatively.

So, I decided to take on the most immigrant approach to making theatre: I would perform in my own production. I had studied both acting and directing at university, but I hadn't practised acting in a while. The necessity to direct and act in The Future Looks Bright arose from my eagerness to create something after feeling artistically starved for the past year and a half, compounded by the challenge of knowing no one in London.

I was worried that I wouldn’t be able to convey the story I wanted to tell. As a Turkish person, the political context is woven into our lives, and words or phrases like "cop" or "journalist getting killed" carry deep connotations and references that resonate within our community. The moment we hear the term "assassinated journalists," figures such as Abdi İpekçi,Uğur Mumcu or Hrant Dink immediately come to mind, and these cultural references evoke a deep array of emotions. My greatest fear was that the British audience might struggle to grasp the essence of the narrative because they might lack familiarity with these cultural references. While I was concerned about their reactions, what truly frightened me was the possibility that they might not grasp the story at all, due to the absence of relevant context in Turkish politics, which ultimately drives the immigrant character on stage to move to London.

Fortunately, the audience seemed to connect with the narrative, even if they didn’t fully grasp all the underlying references.  One of them told me, "I felt like I was watching the story of a neighbour in my street." Although the majority of the play is in English, there are several multilingual sections, and I believe these were among the elements the British audience enjoyed the most. My concerns proved to be unfounded, as they were able to follow and understand the story seamlessly, with no gaps in comprehension.

I also performed the same show in English in Turkey for expatriates (with Turkish surtitles for local audiences), highlighting my belief that one cannot truly understand a country without engaging with its stories. I believe that immigrants or expats cannot fully share their experiences unless their stories are told. Stories enable us to connect, fostering understanding and coexistence between people and cultures. It was crucial for me to tell a story from my homeland in a new country, especially as someone who had just landed in London. I suppose it was a way of saying, "Please recognize me."

We often talk about multiculturalism in the arts as something that is shoehorned into existing systems rather than something that shapes the arts. What do you think of multiculturalism in practice? How are you finding your own voice in London as an artist?

As I near the completion of my first two years in the country, I have recently begun to feel that the connections I am making are starting to lead to new opportunities. Just last month, I was offered a directing position, and it gave me a sense of, "Finally, things are starting to fall into place." While the process has been slow, I feel that each day is becoming easier than the one before.

This contrasts sharply with my time in Canada, where I had the advantage of a supportive academic environment. I was able to build a network through my studies; but in London, I came without such connections, forcing me to navigate this landscape alone. What I can distil from my experiences is that immigration must be accompanied by mentorship, but this mentorship should not be motivated by politics of assimilation. Genuine mentorship allows individuals to retain their cultural identities while actively participating in their new communities.

Arriving in the UK on a High Potential Individual visa, which recognizes graduates from the world’s top universities, I was initially hopeful that my qualifications would open doors for me. However, I have found that potential alone does not guarantee access to opportunities. The visa signifies that I possess high potential, but without the right connections and avenues to express that potential, I often feel as if I am not fully able to showcase my abilities.

When discussing multiculturalism in the arts, I often feel that it is treated as a decorative concept within the dominant art scene. Imagine placing a vase from another land in a museum building—the concrete, floor, and walls reflect the dominant culture, while the vase symbolises multiculturalism. Is it truly multicultural if it merely decorates an existing structure? This raises the question of whether my own artistic expressions, shaped by the dominant discourses of Western culture, risk becoming mere decorations rather than authentic representations of my heritage.

Since starting my journey to the heartlands of the West at age 16, I have noticed that my storytelling often aligns more with Western forms than with the narratives of my homeland. I find myself grappling with the fear that I am conforming to an expected mould rather than expressing myself. This realization is unsettling; I often question, “Am I being multicultural, or am I telling a story from my culture using codes that don't genuinely belong to me?”

This struggle to find my own voice is compounded by the weight of colonial histories that shape the cultural discourses I engage with. It feels as if I am climbing a ladder, trying to reach the heights of acceptance and recognition, but each rung feels dictated by norms and standards that do not resonate with my own experience. This fear of becoming a mere ornament in the art world, one that reinforces existing narratives instead of challenging or expanding them, is deeply troubling.

Ultimately, for me, true multiculturalism should provide a platform for genuine interaction and representation, where diverse voices can authentically contribute to the artistic landscape. I seek a space where my stories can be told in ways that reflect my cultural identity, free from the constraints of dominant forms that threaten to dilute my voice.

As a young artist born in Istanbul and raised in the West, I strive to carve out a path in London by bringing elements of my home and personal experience to the forefront. My aim is to tell these stories through the right discourse, without allowing them to be overshadowed or assimilated by dominant narratives. Of course, I'm not sure how well I'm able to achieve that.

The Future Looks Bright is about death and grief, but also about hope. Tell me about your hopes - what do you hope for? What’s next for you and The Future Looks Bright?

My hopes are deeply personal and intertwined with a sense of longing for a place I once called home. I hope to one day feel truly at home again, though this is a complex aspiration given the current state of the country I grew up in. I am grieving for that country—a place that feels lost, almost unrecognizable compared to the one I knew. This grief is not just for the geographical space but for everything it represents: the culture, the history, the shared memories, and the sense of belonging that once felt so certain.

The Future Looks Bright delves into themes of death and grief, but at its core, it is also about hope—the kind of hope that emerges from endings. In the play, there is a notion that death brings a form of release, a chance to stop a relentless cycle from repeating itself. This resonates with my own feelings about the current state of my homeland; there is a desire for a transformative end to the spirals of hardship and loss, and a hope that something new, perhaps something better, can emerge.

As an immigrant, my sense of loss is compounded by a history of displacement within my family. For generations, my family members—including my grandparents and great-grandparents—have not died in the countries where they were born. This pattern of perpetual movement and the inability to return to one’s roots feels like a legacy of displacement that I am determined to break. My greatest hope is to return to the country of my birth, to reconnect with a sense of place that has been fragmented through the immigrant experience, and to ultimately break the cycle of displacement that has marked my family’s history.

Through The Future Looks Bright, I am not only exploring these themes artistically but also navigating my own hopes and dreams for the future. It is an ongoing journey of confronting grief, seeking hope, and envisioning a future where the spiral of loss can finally be broken. My hope is not just for myself but for all those who share in the immigrant experience—a hope that one day, we might all find a way back to a place that feels like home. Perhaps for those of us whose migration stories are deeply ingrained in our very being, the state of being on the move is what "home" truly is.

Production photos by Derin Küpeli

About the author

Erdem Avşar is a playwright, poet, researcher, and translator. He is an affiliate artist at UNESCO RIELA. He is also a PhD researcher at the University of Glasgow researching queer politics of theatremaking in Turkey. His plays have been shown in Scotland and Italy. He was the 2019 recipient of the Kevin Elyot Award (University of Bristol Theatre Collection). He was also one of the four winners of the 2017 EU Collective Plays! International Playwriting Competition. His work has recently appeared in clavmag, Lune Journal, in the anthology The Book of Bad Betties (Bad Betty Press), and in Collaborative Playwriting (Routledge).

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First published: 31 October 2024