“Male commanders, female soldiers:” the militarized habitus

The narratives of members of the left-wing organizations can be read as military memoirs. Military memoirs “as the personal narratives of individuals writing about their experiences of participation in armed conflict” seek to construct “a culturally dominant discourse of war as a heroic, male adventure” (Woodward and Jenkings Reference Woodward and Jenkings2012, 350–351). Accordingly, the narratives that the current study draws on strongly reflect a militarized habitus. This militarized habitus that is based on the juxtaposition of a set of masculine traits creates idealized role models for “revolutionary warriors.”

In line with the gendered nature of war and military issues (Enloe Reference Enloe2000; Altınay Reference Altınay2004), there is a strong emphasis on the dangers of war and struggle within the narratives of the left. These dangers facilitate the idealization of the warrior figure and the justification of war as a manly pursuit. This is the point at which masculinity and militarism are intertwined. Whereas militarist values such as hierarchy and discipline support masculine codes, in turn, masculine codes such as physical strength and courage serve the circulation of militarist values. The circulation of these values constructs certain practices and shapes the nature of the field in the Bourdieusian sense of the term. This process that accompanies the sublimation of “manly virtues” and affirmation of violence as a necessity inevitably leads to the degradation of women. In his memoir, Halil Paşa (Reference Paşa2020, 270) from People’s Liberation (Halkın Kurtuluşu; HK) notes that elements such as “physical strength” and “the ability to use firearms” render men more advantageous compared to women, and in this vein, leadership is viewed as something particular to men. It is notable that Paşa’s narrative confirms the Bourdieusian account of how masculine domination persists and “legitimates a relationship of domination by embedding it in a biological nature that is itself a naturalized social construction” (Bourdieu Reference Bourdieu2001, 23).

The typical example of this tendency also appears in the narrative of Gülay Ünüvar, one of the founding members of the THKO. Ünüvar complains about other members of the THKO such as Nahit Tören and Fevzi Bal, who claimed that “a woman cannot be a guerrilla leader” (Sümer Reference Sümer2018, 107). This skeptical perspective towards women also appears in other parts of Ünüvar’s narrative. For instance, Ünüvar describes how she went to İstanbul in 1971 to purchase guns for her organization. When she did not want to buy the Spanish-made guns, the gunrunners became angry:

In a similar vein, İlkay Demir, one of the most prominent female figures within the Turkish left, emphasizes the relationship between the rise of the armed struggle as part of the militarized habitus and the subordination of women (Er and Özer Reference Er and Özer2018, 41). According to Oya Baydar and Melek Ulagay (Reference Baydar and Ulagay2016, 110), female revolutionary activists from the 1968 generation,Footnote ¹ the militarization of revolutionary organizations led to the understanding of “revolutionary seriousness,” which ultimately imposed idealized patterns of behavior on women and resulted in the subordination of women. As an extension of this “revolutionary seriousness,” the condemnation of love and romantic affairs became part of the militarized habitus of the left-wing movements in Turkey.

“L is for the way you look at me:” the conceptualization of love

The majority of the left-wing narratives are based on reductionist insight about romantic love that is mostly considered selfishness. This form of love is viewed as something peculiar to the world of the bourgeoisie. Therefore, it is regarded as another form of individualism. In this context, these narratives represent an attempt at redefining individualistic love through a political perspective. Love is transformed into a matter of politics.Footnote ² This perspective is based on the tension between individualistic–romantic love and “love of the people” or love of the political cause. The limits of love are drawn by political responsibilities. The fulfilment of these responsibilities is a key that opens the gates of true love. Here, in contrast to romantic love, true love is a field of sacrifice. Both male and female actors are expected to postpone romantic love in the name of the greater cause, namely the socialist revolution. They are expected to devote themselves to the political struggle that is ultimately considered a form of war, and, in times of war, there is no room for romantic love.

At this point, it might be argued that the search for a new understanding of love that does not contradict social values or threaten the long-term political goals of left-wing organizations is, in reality, a search for what Bourdieu (Reference Bourdieu1990, 160) called “socially approved love,” which is defined as “the love of one’s own social destiny that brings socially predestined partners together along the apparently random paths of free choice.” In this instance, “socially approved love” can also be interpreted as “organizationally approved love,” since this idealized form of love is integral to leftist organizations’ political aspirations.

This tendency is also evident in the narrative of Paşa (Reference Paşa2020, 277), which summarizes the mood of the revolutionary left in Turkey during the 1970s by saying, “For them [revolutionaries], love could be postponed. But the revolution could not.” Whereas Şehriban Teyhani refers to the “secret and illegal” nature of romantic relationships (Sarıoğlu Reference Sarıoğlu2016, 242), Gaye Boralıoğlu (Reference Boralıoğlu and Bora2020, 94–95) describes her state of mind during the end of the 1970s, saying, “We suppressed our hormones and held on to words such as freedom, equality, companionship, fraternity, responsibility, which were much more important than love.” This perspective is also shared by other members of the revolutionary movement during the late 1960s and the 1970s (Alumur Reference Alumur and Mater2012, 144; Nuhoğlu Reference Nuhoğlu and Mater2012, 27; Polat Reference Polat and Mater2012, 136; Sağır Reference Sağır2015, 149).

In terms of the nature of the illegal struggle, it is emphasized that romantic love creates a set of jeopardies. This form of love is considered an obstacle that prevents the militants from fighting against the enemy. In this vein, romantic love endangers the warrior image that masculine doxic order within the left seeks to impose. For instance, İsmet Öztürk (Reference Öztürk2015, 23) writes that “the people who dedicated themselves to revolutionary struggle” can only experience “female–male relationship” as the relationship between “siblings” and “comrades.” According to Latife Fegan (Reference Fegan2020, 45), a female member of the Kıvılcımlı circle led by Hikmet Kıvılcımlı (alias “The Doctor”), “during the second part of the 1970s, as the culture of village and town reigns over the [left-wing] movement, women are transformed into ‘the sisters’ (bacılar) of their friends within the organization.”

This conservative culture is also emphasized by Ruhi Koç (Reference Koç and Mater2012, 55), secretary-general of the Federation of the Revolutionary Youth of Turkey (Türkiye Devrimci Gençlik Federasyonu; Dev-Genç):

Jülide Aral (Reference Aral and Mater2012, 115) from Dev-Genç summarizes this process, saying, “First our miniskirts began to get longer; then we gave up makeup. We gradually became militants and began to be degendered.” As Oğuzhan Müftüoğlu from Dev-Yol indicates, this conservative tendency was a by-product of the revolutionary understanding that sought not to contradict “the values of the society” (Bostancıoğlu Reference Bostancıoğlu2015, 221).

Similarly, Dev-Yol member Şükrü Yılmazer (Reference Yılmazer2018, 298) regards the feelings he had for “a female comrade” as “a frailty that a revolutionary should get rid of.” However, escaping love is much more difficult than it seems. Accordingly, Yılmazer (Reference Yılmazer2018, 294–295) describes his feelings about his “female comrade” by saying “my revolutionary responsibility was constantly warning me … But a joke she did, the smile on her face and her innocence were imprisoning me to herself again.” Another activist from Dev-Yol, Erdinç Obuz, also highlights the importance of “the revolutionary duties” in narrating his farewell to his girlfriend Nurhan: “I had understood how a loving heart beat and how love occupied a place in mind. But the revolutionary duties had priority. Wherever love wanted to take me, the duties would determine where I was going to” (Obuz Reference Obuz2019, 216–217). Memet Kara (Reference Kara2015, 259) from the Kurtuluş movement criticizes himself by confessing that he could never express his love to his wife and concludes his memoir by saying, “My wife, I love you so much.”

Accordingly, Paşa (Reference Paşa2020, 276) writes in his memoir that romantic couples holding hands were regarded skeptically by “serious revolutionaries” who also mocked these couples by calling them “Sev-Genç” (“love-youth”), a wordplay on the name of organization that could be translated as “giant-youth (Dev-Genç).” Hikmet Bozçalı from the Revolutionary Student Association (Devrimci Öğrenci Birliği; DÖB) provides another example of this moralism: “One night [during the occupation of İstanbul University in 1968] I and Deniz [Gezmiş] saw a couple kissing among the pines and kicked them out. Deniz said, ‘This is not a place of kissing but a place of protest’” (Bozçalı Reference Bozçalı and Mater2012, 106). In a similar vein, Gün Zileli (Reference Zileli2011, 117), one of the leading members of the Aydınlık (Enlightenment) movement, emphasizes that within this movement “expressions of love” such as holding hands were considered “a petty bourgeois behavior” that contradicts “the morality of our people” and “revolutionary seriousness.”

However, it seems that this ultra-moralism does not imply a break from conventional male conversations, which by nature revolve around women. Zileli (Reference Zileli2011, 77) notes that during the early 1970s when they were imprisoned, “one of the most common jokes” the revolutionaries made was to ask their single friends whose girlfriends were also arrested whether they had “planted the flag” or not. Zileli (Reference Zileli2011, 77) writes, “According to our logic, women were castles to be conquered and somehow ‘the flag had to be planted’ to this castle.” This phallocentric joke testifies to the ways in which masculine domination operates: It not only shapes the relationship between men and women from a masculine perspective but also penetrates all layers of social interaction. From the understanding of politics to a joke among friends, it diffuses everywhere and sustains itself through an invisible form of power and violence that is embedded in everyday life practices. Sociocultural rituals such as marriage are also part of these practices.

“The marriage of the militants:” marriage as a political field

Marriage, as the narratives from the Turkish left indicate, is a controversial issue in which traces of masculine domination can be found. Marriage is a political field in the Bourdieusian sense of the term which is not independent of power relations, a field where sociocultural and political position-takings become visible. For instance, Zileli (Reference Zileli2011, 114) emphasizes that as an extension of the “Maoist populism,” “the marriage of the militants” was promoted as a political maneuver to “win people’s confidence” and “save the young militant girls from the pressure of their families.” In this context, marriage was considered a key to entering the field of what is normal and conventional according to society.

Marriage provides a secure position within the heteronormative order. It is predominantly regarded as the ultimate legitimate form of relationship between men and women. This internalized disposition is an extension of masculine doxa that exists within society. Remarkably, Jülide Aral (Reference Aral and Mater2012, 117) notes that when she was in custody, a police officer advised her to marry “a decent man” and “save herself.” In a similar vein, Şule Perinçek from the Aydınlık movement tells an anecdote about her prison years during the early 1970s:

Oya Baydar also emphasizes how she and her boyfriend got married under the pressure of “the party [TKP]” and refers to the revolutionary organizations’ tendency to intervene in the private lives of their members in the name of “the cause and revolution” (Baydar and Ulagay Reference Baydar and Ulagay2016, 298). Such an emphasis on organizational pressure is also apparent in the narrative of Gülseren Pusatlıoğlu from the Kurtuluş movement (Akkaya Reference Akkaya2011, 326) and some members of the İKD (Akal Reference Akal2011, 263). However, this does not mean that marriages among the members of the Turkish left are only a by-product of organizational necessities. There are many narratives that refer to “love matches” (Yazıcıoğlu Reference Yazıcıoğlu2010, 19–20, 33, 54, 87; Çeşmecioğlu Reference Çeşmecioğlu2015, 129; Baydar and Ulagay Reference Baydar and Ulagay2016, 75–76), but even in these cases, the impact of sociocultural dynamics, “political necessities,” and “revolutionary seriousness” cannot be ignored. Remarkably, some female members particularly emphasize that they did not wear a wedding dress when they got married (Yazıcıoğlu Reference Yazıcıoğlu2010, 33, 43, 62, 178, 188; Akkaya Reference Akkaya2011, 122; Çeşmecioğlu Reference Çeşmecioğlu2015, 118).

In this context, traditional rituals such as kız isteme, a ritual in which the groom’s family visits the bride’s family and asks for permission to get married, are also viewed as obsolete cultural practices. Seral Cumalı from the HK described Veli Yılmaz’s kız isteme ceremony by saying,

In some cases, marriage was also viewed as an obstacle preventing the revolutionary organization from achieving its political goals. As an extension of this political perspective on marriage, some leaders of the left-wing organizations such as İbrahim Kaypakkaya from the Liberation Army of the Workers and Peasants of Turkey (Türkiye İşçi Köylü Kurtuluş Ordusu; TİKKO) banned marriage for the members of his organization (Akkaya Reference Akkaya2011, 265). Needless to say, skepticism towards marriage is inseparable from skepticism towards romantic love. Within this framework, it is believed that both romantic love and marriage can cause difficulties that are likely to damage organizational activities, such as an unexpected baby.

“A traumatic experience:” the practice of abortion

Abortion has always been a controversial issue in Turkey. The debate over abortion in Turkey has a long history (Erkmen Reference Erkmen2020). During the 1970s when the radicalization and fragmentation of the Turkish left had reached its peak, the practice of abortion was illegal. Accordingly, Zileli’s memoirs indicate that following the pregnancy of Zileli’s wife Feyza, the leadership of the movement asked them to have an abortion and “be more careful” (Zileli Reference Zileli2011, 185).Footnote ³ As Zileli (Reference Zileli2011, 185) underlines, since abortion was not legal in the 1970s, malpractice that threatened women’s health and lives was also quite common. For instance, a bill proposed by four members of parliament and Senator Nermin Abadan Unat in 1979 highlighted that an estimated 500,000 abortions occurred in Turkey every year, and approximately 25,000 of them resulted in the death of women (Erkmen Reference Erkmen2020, 56).

In this context, it can be argued that abortion practices have led to traumatic experiences among female members of the Turkish left. On the one hand, this experience reflects an unawareness about birth control and sexual protection methods. On the other hand, it demonstrates how the practice of abortion has become a biopolitical instrument of violence. In her memoir, Fegan (Reference Fegan2020, 59) narrates how terrified she was when she first saw the physician who would abort her baby:

Gülseren Pusatlıoğlu also emphasizes how terrified she was when she saw the doctor’s office where she had gone for an abortion (Akkaya Reference Akkaya2011, 334). These narratives also suggest that there is a relationship between abortion practices and political and organizational necessities. This is the point at which abortion turns into a form of symbolic violence for two main reasons. First, abortion is viewed as a medium for solving a “problem” that could potentially jeopardize the activities of “professional revolutionaries.” As such, abortion reflects another attempt at idealizing how true revolutionaries should behave. This dimension of abortion practice is compatible with the Bourdieusian notion of symbolic violence since “the dominant groups endeavour to impose their own life-style” through symbolic violence (Bourdieu Reference Bourdieu1984, 511). Second, abortion can be viewed as a form of pedagogic action in this context. This action reproduces internalized dispositions to raise political awareness about what needs to be done to benefit the organization. Here, one should remember that “all pedagogic action is, objectively, symbolic violence insofar as it is the imposition of a cultural arbitrary by an arbitrary power” (Bourdieu and Passeron Reference Bourdieu and Passeron1990, 5).

In this vein, Mukaddes Erdoğdu Çelik, a defendant in the TİKKO case, correlates the practices of abortion with restrictive and authoritarian attitudes towards romantic relationships between males and females: “I remember many friends who had an abortion due to the forbidden affairs. They concealed it and, for this reason, they got severely ill. Two people were having affair, but it was women who were always paying the price” (Akkaya Reference Akkaya2011, 266). Çelik’s narrative is particularly meaningful since it refers to the inequality between men and women that lies at the heart of the gendered division of labor.

“The subordination of women:” the gendered division of labor

The unequal gender division of labor is a concrete ground in which traces of masculine domination can be seen (Bourdieu Reference Bourdieu2001, 9, 30–31). In this vein, Paşa (Reference Paşa2020, 272) writes that women were free in “distributing leaflets, joining a rally, engaging in exciting political debates” or “writing slogans on the walls,” but in the final analysis, all these activities were generally “internalized as manly activities,” and men were considered more appropriate candidates for these kinds of activities. Accordingly, Paşa (Reference Paşa2020, 272) also says, “[a] secondary role was attributed to our female friends and comrades that would support men logistically. They were our sisters. That is, we would protect them from other men.”

As the narratives of members of the revolutionary movement indicate, the “logistical” contribution of women ranges from hiding men’s guns (Akkaya Reference Akkaya2011, 125; Aral Reference Aral and Mater2012, 117; Keskin Reference Keskin and Mater2012, 78; Kara Reference Kara2015, 19) to bringing them stones that they would throw at the police (Bingöllü Reference Bingöllü and Mater2012, 33). Büşra Ersanlı summarizes the nature of this subordination process by referring to the dominant expectation that women should facilitate the lives of men (Yazıcıoğlu Reference Yazıcıoğlu2010, 41). In this framework, according to Oğuzhan Müftüoğlu, that women had secondary roles in the revolutionary struggle was an extension of “the harsh struggle against fascists” or, in other words, the necessities of war (Bostancıoğlu Reference Bostancıoğlu2015, 219).

The emphasis on the necessities of guerrilla struggle and the understanding of masculine protectionism also prevented women from acquiring non-domestic skills and therefore served the reconstruction of the unequal gender division of labor. In this regard, Çimen Keskin Turan as a member of the 1968 generation who worked in trade union organizations highlights the dynamics behind the unequal gender division of labor:

Here the emphasis should be placed on the word “habitually” since it signals how the unequal gender division of labor that ultimately serves the supremacy of men is internalized as a set of dispositions or habitus by women. From a Bourdieusian perspective, one can say that habits are not independent of socialization processes and cultural practices. At this point, one can remember how Latife Fegan (Reference Fegan2020, 43) complains about her “revolutionary” husband Fuat by emphasizing that Fuat had no objections against the traditional gender division of labor within the household. Fegan’s criticism also applies to her leader, Hikmet Kıvılcımlı. Fegan (Reference Fegan2020, 57) notes how Kıvılcımlı excluded his wife Emine from the political sphere and reduced her role to household management: “Doctor was completely excluding Mrs. Emine from politics. We used to witness that when Mrs. Emine was involved in conversation, Doctor sometimes reprimanded her.”

Necmiye Alpay, who had been a member of both the TİP and the TKP, also shares her own experience:

Describing the atmosphere of the late 1960s and the 1970s, Şule Perinçek emphasizes that “men used to write; women used to type [what men wrote]. Solely for this reason, I didn’t learn touch typing” (Yazıcıoğlu Reference Yazıcıoğlu2010, 186). In his memoir, Gençay Gürsoy (Reference Gürsoy2021, 270) from the TİP explains the assigned roles of women as “sisters who served tea during the meetings.” For Yüksel Selek (Reference Selek2017, 72–73), one of the leading members of the İKD, revolutionary men were eager to sustain the unequal gender division of labor within the household and enjoy their “privilege” that stemmed from “being revolutionary.” However, Emel Akal (Reference Akal2011, 256), another member of the İKD, notes that the İKD did not organize any campaign against the unequal gender division of labor within the household since the division of labor between men and women was also “internalized by the women in the İKD.”

Accordingly, Gülseren Pusatlıoğlu describes her feelings by saying the things she did “were not being seen” by her male comrades (Akkaya Reference Akkaya2011, 336). This perspective provides an illustrative example of the invisibilization of women’s labor. It can be argued that the invisibilization of women’s labor is not independent of the invisibilization of women. This process of invisibilization is also significant as it serves the idea of masculine invincibility. This idea of masculine invincibility is part of the logic behind masculine domination, which is based on the reconstruction of “things and activities according to the opposition between the male and the female” (Bourdieu Reference Bourdieu2001, 7).

The subordination of women at the organizational level gained impetus during the early 1970s when the radicalization process of the Turkish left accelerated. Whereas there were initially some leading female members, such as Şirin Yazıcıoğlu, Dudu Körücekli, Aysel Aytan, and Elif Gönül Tolon, in the administrative committees of the FKF and Dev-Genç, the composition of these committees changed over time (Yazıcıoğlu Reference Yazıcıoğlu2010, 109; Zileli Reference Zileli2015, 446). In this vein, Zileli (Reference Zileli2015, 446) notes that he could not remember any “female friend” who was the chair of any idea clubs. This perspective is also shared by Elif Gönül Tolon, who emphasized that men did not encourage women to become more visible (Er and Özer Reference Er and Özer2018, 106). There are also other narratives that refer to the lack of active female members within the decision-making processes of the revolutionary organizations (Yazıcıoğlu Reference Yazıcıoğlu2010, 43, 136, 167; Akal Reference Akal2011, 171; Baydar and Ulagay Reference Baydar and Ulagay2016, 393; Selek Reference Selek2017, 204; Beşpınar Reference Beşpınar and Turan2019, 480–481).

Fegan is another member of the revolutionary movement who criticizes the subordination of women. Accordingly, she notes how impressed she was when she first read The Second Sex by Simone de Beauvoir (Reference De Beauvoir1949) and then discussed the book with her female friends:

As can be understood from Fegan’s statement, during the period between the late 1960s and the 1970s, feminism was not a well-known sociopolitical movement among women within the left-wing organizations (Yazıcıoğlu Reference Yazıcıoğlu2010, 101, 150; Akal Reference Akal2011, 167–168; Akkaya Reference Akkaya2011, 169, 336). Furthermore, for some revolutionary groups, the term “feminism” had a pejorative meaning since it was considered a gimmick that veils class struggle and “splits the working class” (Zihnioğlu Reference Zihnioğlu and Gültekingil2007, 1122–1123; Akkaya Reference Akkaya2011, 173, 263, 292) or merely “a fantasy” (Gürsoy Reference Gürsoy2021, 270).

In the final analysis, the subordination of women through the gendered division of labor is rooted in the doxic sociocultural framework. This doxic framework has a moralistic nature in the sense that it assigns women a set of moral duties that seek to restrict the social existence of women to a limited sphere. Furthermore, it reduces their multidimensional potential to a set of domestic roles. Symbolic power and symbolic violence expand the logic behind these domestic roles to other fields of social activity. In other words, there is no sharp line between hiding men’s guns and cooking for them. In both roles, women are expected to comfort men. This expectation is based on a pragmatic perspective that aims to further the interests of the organization. What transforms this moralistic and pragmatic expectation into masculine doxa is that women internalize the values, practices, and dispositions within certain fields that produce these kinds of cultural expectations. This is the point at which they also open themselves to a process of masculinization.

“Thickening their voices:” the masculinization of the female

The juxtaposition of moralism and pragmatism is a factor that facilitated the continuation of masculine domination within left-wing organizations. Furthermore, it fostered the cognitive ground in which the given gender hierarchies are reproduced and internalized. For instance, Paşa (Reference Paşa2020, 273) explains, “Unfortunately, in our lives, we sustained the hierarchy of gender that we wanted to change with revolution.” As an extension of this hierarchy, women are expected to adopt and internalize a set of rules such as “girls do not laugh” and “no giggling in the bus” (Yazıcıoğlu Reference Yazıcıoğlu2010, 41). In this context, Oya Baydar describes how her presence as a “lonely widow” and a “militant” bothered the wives of the academics and activists attending the meetings at her house (Baydar and Ulagay Reference Baydar and Ulagay2016, 136). Practices that denote this moralist–interventionist perspective also appear in the narratives of the İKD members. One İKD member, Saadet Arıkan Özkal, mentions how the TKP warned her about women who went to trade union meetings “wearing earrings” and “caring about their hair too much” (Akal Reference Akal2011, 258).

In this regard, one can argue that masculine habitus and practices that circulate within the left-wing organizations result in the masculinization of female members. This masculinization is twofold. At the level of consciousness, female members begin to naturalize and internalize masculine dispositions. This process serves the construction of masculine doxic order. As a result, these members accept masculine traits and ideals without questioning. At the level of practice, they develop a set of masculine attitudes. One can find traces of these twofold dynamics in Zileli’s memoirs. In speaking of the Elazığ branch of the Worker-Peasant Party of Turkey (Türkiye İşçi Köylü Partisi; TİKP), he writes, “Many young girls were coming to the Elazığ branch. It was pleasing. But the attitudes of the girls and the way they talk were annoyingly masculine. […] They were speaking by thickening their voices. […]” (Zileli Reference Zileli2011, 378).

This gloomy disposition of female members is based on a strategy of survival used to cope with masculine domination. “By thickening their voices,” these young women sought to conceal their femininity. This strategy is an extension of how masculine domination operates. In this vein, Pusatlıoğlu explains how women emulated men and how she attempted to look “neutral” and “ungendered” by not allowing “the shape of her body” to be seen (Akkaya Reference Akkaya2011, 323, 338). In this context, it is possible to say that masculine domination reconstructs the image of women. This reconstruction is heavily based on the fear of vulnerability, which is actually the fear of men within leftist groups. Their masculine gaze tends to transform women into objects of honor or, in a Bourdieusian sense, “the embodiments of the vulnerability of honour” (Bourdieu Reference Bourdieu2001, 51). However, it is women who legitimize and internalize this understanding of honor as a manifestation of the archaic masculine fear of being weak and powerless.

The dynamics of masculine domination force the female subjects to develop their own strategies and instruments of resistance, but these strategies and instruments ultimately serve the consolidation of masculine domination. The female subject begins to see her femininity through the eyes of the masculine subject. This is the point at which masculine doxa, habitus, and practice are intertwined with one another. As Bourdieu notes with reference to Lucien Bianco, “the weapons of the weak are always weak weapons;” therefore, “the symbolic strategies that women use against men remain dominated” simply because the strategies and instruments they use “are rooted in the androcentric view in the name of which they are dominated” (Bourdieu Reference Bourdieu2001, 32).

This androcentric view is also visible through the prevailing masculine practices within society. As can be seen from the memoirs of members of the 1968 generation, these practices include sexual harassment of women (Kuglin Reference Kuglin2020, 34–35), the naturalization of heteronormative order that marginalizes homosexuality (Değertekin Reference Değertekin2021, 44–45), and the suppression of femininity (Fegan Reference Fegan2020, 73). This triple mechanism is also based on the demonization of femininity. Accordingly, Şirin Cemgil’s memoir provides an interesting example. Following the death of her husband Sinan Cemgil, who was a member of the THKO, Cemgil complains about rumors that how she “pacified” her husband (Cemgil Reference Cemgil2016, 66). Cemgil’s narrative provides insight into how masculinity is constructed through women. Another significance of this narrative is that it confirms the Bourdieusian perspective that describes masculinity as a “relational notion, constructed in front of and for other men and against femininity, in a kind of fear of the female” (Bourdieu Reference Bourdieu2001, 53).

Unsurprisingly, revolutionary women are not only demonized within their own political circles but also by their political enemies, namely the radical right-wing organizations on which they wage war. For instance, Melek Ulagay highlights the tense political atmosphere of the 1970s by describing how she received phone calls from a mysterious and “horrible” voice saying, “Are you home, communist bitch? Wait, I’m coming” (Baydar and Ulagay Reference Baydar and Ulagay2016, 302). Security forces of the state are also part of this demonization of women. Pusatlıoğlu narrates that at the end of the 1970s when she and her friends were in custody, policemen used to call them “bitches,” and therefore, “being a revolutionary woman” is equated with being “unchaste” (Akkaya Reference Akkaya2011, 327). Another example of this understanding appears in the narrative of Ferai Tınç, a member of the Aydınlık movement:

Ultimately, this androcentric view seeks to impose its own creed about how women talk, walk, think, act, or dress. As Paşa notes, during the 1970s, the acceptable image for “a revolutionary female” was based on the internalization of a set of male practices, and therefore “a revolutionary female” was seen as more acceptable when she “dressed like a man” and “acted tough like a man” (Paşa Reference Paşa2020, 276). Another example of this perspective can be found in the memoir of Fegan (Reference Fegan2020, 43). She writes, “I was feeling that I had to think and act like men to be accepted by men.” Fegan’s feelings reflect the true nature of masculine domination. As Bourdieu (Reference Bourdieu2001, 119) pointed out, “to speak of domination or symbolic violence is to say that … the dominated tend to adopt the dominant point of view on themselves.”

In his memoir, Paşa (Reference Paşa2020, 276) notes that revolutionary organizations tended to interfere with how women dressed and rebuked young women for wearing revealing dresses. Another revolutionary member of the 1968 generation, Şermin Çetiner, refers to how the idea that “women should dress plainly and modestly” became a prevailing tendency within the organizational habitus of the left-wing movements (Yazıcıoğlu Reference Yazıcıoğlu2010, 177). In a similar vein, Oya Baydar, who was sent to Moscow by the TKP in 1981, describes how one of her male comrades named Suphi criticized her about her dress (Baydar and Ulagay Reference Baydar and Ulagay2016, 392; Çapa Reference Çapa2018, 160–161). Kadriye Deniz Özen is another figure from the revolutionary circles who refers to this tendency:

The narrative of Mukaddes Erdoğdu Çelik verifies Özen’s observation:

Based on these examples, one can argue that women mostly internalized the practices of the masculine doxic order. This masculine order is also based on the demonization of gender identities that are at odds with the heteronormative sociocultural order. An eternalized division between what is “normal” and what is not is behind this demonization. This division also reveals how oppression functions “in the form of invisibilization” (Bourdieu Reference Bourdieu2001, 119). In his memoir that illuminates the male-dominated atmosphere of the late 1960s, Tuğrul Eryılmaz (Reference Eryılmaz2018, 53, 61) mentions a boy whom they mocked because he used to knit with girls in the canteen of the university and emphasizes that this “boy from İstanbul” dropped out of the school “most likely because of this.” Similarly, Zileli (Reference Zileli2011, 253–254) mentions the negative attitude towards homosexuality within the revolutionary movements in Turkey during the 1970s. This negative attitude continued in the 1980s and was based on the assumption that the members of the working class would not approve of homosexuality and therefore could withdraw their support from the revolutionary movement (Zileli Reference Zileli2013, 138–139). Such an assumption that described homosexuality as a “complete taboo” (Yazıcıoğlu Reference Yazıcıoğlu2010, 65) is also a by-product of the masculine militarized habitus within the left-wing organizations.