A Trans Woman Teacher Facing Intersectional Rights Violations: Zoe Lila
“We were here, we are here, and we will be here!”
Zoe Lila & Mona
Some stories remind us that the injustice one person faces is often not unique to them, but part of a shared struggle that many carry in silence. Such cases are not merely individual matters; they are societal issues. Zoe Lila’s case intersects precisely at this point. Zoe, who aimed to create a non-hierarchical, democratic, safe, and inclusive classroom, had her right to work stripped away after being targeted because of her gender identity. The discrimination she experienced is not an isolated incident; it intersects with the experiences of many LGBTI+ workers whose right to work has been violated within the cis-hetero binary system.
Today, Zoe is continuing her legal battle for her own rights while also working to ensure that this discrimination never happens to anyone else. In this interview, we sought to better understand Zoe Lila’s experiences as a trans woman and educator, as well as the legal and social struggles she has undertaken.
First of all, thank you so much for agreeing to meet with us, Zoe. For those who don’t know you, could you tell us a little about yourself?
I’m an educator, an English teacher, a vegan, a human rights advocate, and a trans woman. Beyond that, I’m someone who strives to center nonviolence. I’ve been in the education industry for ten years. In addition to teaching English, my areas of interest include gender equality and human rights advocacy. My philosophy of education seeks to incorporate animal rights, environmental, and climate activism. I’ve always tried to see an alternative side of education—for example, I’ve asked myself questions like, “What would a democratic education system look like?” Especially since reading Paulo Freire's book “The Pedagogy of the Oppressed,” my understanding of education has shifted far beyond the education I received as a child. Because the educational environment of my childhood was never an inclusive or safe space for me. I spent my childhood in a body that I felt was not mine. At school, I was a child who merely learned the lessons, never felt safe in the classroom, and was never heard by my teachers. First, I want to begin by embracing my childhood.
At first, I hadn’t dreamed of becoming a teacher. The reason I chose teaching was actually to settle in Istanbul. The first time I walked into a classroom, it was a class of ten children, all around 8 or 9 years old. That’s when I realized that, for me, education is something far beyond just teaching a language. I understood that my very presence there—being able to hear the children and provide them with a safe space—was actually my passion. Maintaining my presence there was truly important, because the things the children go through can sometimes be very heavy and intense.
Sometimes people ask, “Who are you outside of education?” but my life has always revolved around education. I’ve always tried to build my identity. I’ve lived abroad—in Colombia, Germany, and the U.S.—and I’ve done different things and travelled. But education was always at the center. There were times when I even put my trans identity and LGBTQ+ activism on the back burner; I always worked, read constantly, and constantly engaged in activities related to myself and education. Over time, my path intersected even more directly with LGBTQ+ activism, but education was always at the center. What I aspire to is building a non-hierarchical, democratic, safe, and inclusive classroom. Besides all that, I really love sports. I’m very interested in yoga and spirituality; I play tennis, and I enjoy physical activities. In general, this is who Zoe is: mostly an educator, someone who advocates for rights on one hand, and someone who tries to spend time with herself through sports on the other.
We know that after being targeted, your employment contract wasn’t renewed and you couldn’t continue in your profession. Could you share this process with us in a way that isn’t too taxing for you? How did it all begin?
It was a long-term journey—a process that had been in the works for two years. I went abroad and came back; when I returned, I didn’t believe I could make a life for myself as an educator in Turkey. I lived in the U.S., came back, and started working at Sarıyer Açı Schools. It was an interesting educational environment; it became a place that nourished me, made me happy, and inspired me.
After working there for three years, at age 28, I found the courage to begin the gender affirmation process I’d been putting off for so many years. Because financial independence had always been a priority for me, I was terrified of not being able to live on my own. I would have liked to do this when I was 18, but I always felt I had to earn money and become independent first. When I turned 28, I said to myself, “Enough is enough—I want to live in the body I feel I belong in.”
After making this decision and following my psychiatric consultations, I shared my situation with the school, my department coordinator, and my principal. They, too, said that this was a human right and that they would stand by me and support me. During this two-year process, I took hormones, and I’d been saving up for the surgery for a long time.
Once my surgery date was finalized, I came out to all the teachers on June 11; I’m talking about a group of 50–60 teachers at the middle school. Everyone responded with great joy and support. The process of coming out to the students was also planned for Monday; that evening, an informational email was sent to parents, and an online meeting was scheduled. On June 15, I came out to my 6th-grade students, whom I’ve known for two years. It was a very interesting experience for me: both challenging and empowering.
June 16, 17, and 18 went as usual—the kids’ adjustment period and so on. The parents also found out on June 15; a meeting was held with them as well. Everyone except one parent was supportive; they said I was still the same person, that nothing had changed, that I was still the same teacher, and that they were happy to have me there. Of course, I had more or less anticipated that there might be one or two parents who were dissatisfied or opposed. But I didn’t expect it to be on this scale.
A photo of me that I shared in my class group—accessible only to students—was taken, cropped, and leaked to pro-government media by a parent. My personal information—everything about me—was being shared, and the pro-government media’s hate speech began on Friday, June 19. On Friday, I was in class, working on a writing exercise with the students. In the middle of the lesson, two guidance counsellors walked into the classroom; I thought to myself, “Something must have happened—either I’m about to be arrested or something else is going to happen.” I left the classroom, and we went to the guidance office. They showed me the news article and asked, “Did you see this?” It’s a horrific article filled with hate speech: my photo, my dead name, my new name—everything about me has been published.
I cried uncontrollably that day. I put on my glasses, grabbed my bag, and left the classroom. Afterwards, I met with my lawyer and granted power of attorney to have the news articles removed; a request was filed. All of this took place on Friday, June 19, around 1:30–2:00 p.m.
That day, the school administration told me they were standing by me, that the parents were supportive, and that I needed to keep my spirits up. But here’s the interesting part: they fired me that very same day and didn’t tell me. The school administration, which said, “We’re here for you,” ended up firing me that same day, while I was completely unaware of anything. The weekend arrived. I started receiving death threats. I moved out of my home. During that time, the school was still calling me: “Keep your spirits up,” “Don’t come to school if you don’t feel safe,” “We’re here for you,” they say, because I have surgery on the 25th.
These events took place on June 19, 20, and 21. I didn’t go to school on the 22nd and 23rd. They were still saying they supported me; parents were telling me that the school had spoken with the Ministry of National Education (MEB). On Wednesday, June 24, they called me to come to school. I replied, “I can’t come to school—I don’t feel safe. Let’s meet online.” We met online. They told me: “We’ve done everything we can, but we can’t renew your contract.” Whenever I describe what I felt in that moment, I always use this metaphor: I felt like I’d been taken to the 100th floor and thrown off to the ground.
The next day, June 25, was supposed to be the day I’d be reborn: the day of my surgery. I went into surgery in a terrible physical condition. On that very day, the Ministry of National Education came to the school. They spoke with my students, asking who had entered the classroom and what had been discussed, and launched an investigation. Then they spoke with the teachers, me, and the principal. The investigation is still ongoing; we’re waiting for the outcome. This is an investigation into the school, but naturally, I’m at the center of it because the process involves me.
Beyond any of this, what actually wore me down the most was the disappointment I felt toward the school. When this process began two years ago, they could have told me, “We can’t do it.” I didn’t pressure anyone; I didn’t even ask for anything—I didn’t even say, “Will you stand by me?” But they themselves said, “We’re with you.”
At the time, I had been accepted to a master’s program in Germany; I didn’t go because this place had given me hope. But now I see this as a form of wrongdoing. There was absolutely no need for them to lift me up to the hundredth floor only to throw me off—it was extremely violent and dangerous. Moreover, this was a school that claimed to be founded on the principles of inclusivity, gender equality committees, and an ethics committee. We’re not talking about just any school; we’re talking about an institution that claims to prioritise human rights and children’s rights.
What kept you going in the face of this systematic violation of your rights? Who stood by you, and how? I’m actually curious about the empowering role of solidarity in your experience.
My students’ reactions really moved me. Yes, some struggled with it; some were trying to get used to my name, but aside from that, I saw joy on their faces. Some were very upset and worried about me. Some sent messages saying, “I’m with you no matter what.” When a ten-year-old child can do that, I tried to focus on the children’s reaction rather than on the violence I received from adults.
Because I always find adults to be hypocritical, I don’t find them sincere. Children, at least, are honest—if they’re sad, they’re sad; if they’re afraid, they’re afraid; if they’re happy, they’re happy.
In fact, these reactions were what kept me going at first: those who came to hug me, those who told me they were by my side, those who sent messages—including my former students. The messages from parents… I still keep them; they were very emotional and empowering. At that time, a solidarity platform hadn’t been established yet. The school’s statement that “We’re with you” didn’t feel very genuine to me either. But there was something very valuable about those messages from students and parents.
After these events, my close circle—my close friends, along with LGBTQ+ organisations, unions, human rights advocates, the IHD (Human Rights Association) and feminist organisations—suddenly formed a large network and began to surround me. This was incredibly valuable to me. I had just undergone major surgery, and on the second day after the operation, I was already up on my feet, sitting at my computer and drafting a petition. My lawyer was also very supportive throughout this process.
The strongest aspect of this solidarity was that human rights advocates didn’t just say “We’re here for you,” but actually tried to meet all my needs. This empowered me and kept me going—and kept me awake—during the times when I was physically at my most vulnerable.
We’ve established a platform, but it’s not just any platform. Because I know I’m not the first, and I won’t be the last. This is Zoe Lila’s case, but we want it to set a precedent. We meet regularly on this platform; we’re developing a campaign, and we’ll also engage in international advocacy. The support here is overwhelming; these are the things that kept me going and supported me.
As a trans educator, what did the relationship you built with your students mean to you during this process? Why do you think being an out trans teacher in education is so important—and why is it so difficult?
Two students wrote to me. Two people who had graduated from high school and weren’t my students. Both said they were trans and explained how important a teacher like me could have been in their lives during their middle school years. I think that’s what struck me the most—these were people who said they’d come to know me through their younger siblings.
Being a trans educator—being an out, visible trans educator—is incredibly valuable. Because we talk about “human rights” and “gender equality,” but most of the time there’s no concrete person to represent these ideas. The ones who are always visible are people within the cis-hetero binary; even when trans rights are discussed, they don’t get concrete through a specific person.
Being present there as a person shows children that this advocacy for rights isn’t just something confined to paper or notebooks—it’s possible in real life, too. This is a concrete demonstration of imagining a world where a person can live freely with their own body and through their own free choices.
Of course, there are challenges to being a visible trans educator—first and foremost, societal pressure. Society is very hypocritical; I’ve received so many comments like, “A trans person can’t be an educator.” And I say: aside from being trans, I am an educator. Yes, I have a trans identity, but I am a person who wants to be present in education—someone who questions, thinks, and strives to create a compassionate classroom. It wasn’t my trans identity that made me present there; there was Zoe, and someone who simply wanted to be an educator as a human being. The connections people—children and parents alike—formed with me also showed this: “Yes, this person is here; they want to be part of education.”
I remember the children I listened to for hours and worked with for years: children who said, “I don’t trust anyone at this school—you’re the only one.” What they were really saying was that they wanted to be heard. As an educator, I heard those children, and that was incredibly valuable to me, because listening is a very difficult act.
But in general, as a trans educator, you’re constantly facing the danger of being the target of overt violence and human rights violations. You have no room for error—you have to be perfect. While others put in one unit of effort, you have to put in five just to survive in this system. I suppose these are the challenges.
As a trans woman, what does a “safe life” mean to you?
For me, a safe life means physical safety first and foremost. That’s my top priority right now, because I’m going through a period where situations that threaten my physical integrity are on the rise. Of course, I also consider psychological safety to be very important. I think the hardest things are: receiving death threats, feeling like you’re being watched, being followed, and not feeling safe while walking down the street. These are experiences we all go through, but as a trans person, the violence you’re subjected to becomes even more intense.
For me, psychological safety means equal conditions and equal rights. For example, the Ministry of National Education states on paper that my being trans isn’t a problem, but what’s on paper isn’t the same as what actually happens in reality. Being referred to with the derogatory terms used in the smear campaigns targeting me—being called a “pervert teacher,” for instance—is psychologically very destructive. As a trans person, while I’m already trying to protect my own existence and self-compassion, violence from the outside both undermines that self-compassion and makes it harder to maintain psychological resilience.
The creation of environments where people can freely engage in hate speech—and the fact that they can do so in public—is a violation of the law; this prevents me from feeling safe, both psychologically and physically. When I leave the house, at home, or while walking down the street—the fact that there’s such a wide range of places where people could inflict violence on me—that is the real security vulnerability for me.
What are you doing right now? How is the process going, including the lawsuit for compensation?
Let me start with the legal aspect. When these incidents occurred, we filed two complaints with the BTK to have the news articles that singled me out removed. We know that some kind of investigation was launched there, but the news articles containing hate and lynch campaign content against me still haven’t been removed.
Apart from that, we also filed a complaint with the Turkish Human Rights and Equality Agency. They haven’t taken any action yet either, but this is a complaint—whether it’s officially recorded or not—it constitutes discrimination based on gender identity. We also filed a labour lawsuit, specifically a compensation claim. The mediation process we pursued on the grounds of discrimination based on gender identity has concluded but did not yield a positive outcome; we will now take this to court. Our goal is to have the incident legally recognized as discrimination based on gender identity.
An information note has been prepared: an 11-page document evaluating the rights violation I experienced within the framework of national and international legal texts to which Turkey is a party. With this document, we aim to secure the support of international labour unions.
We are also in contact with GoFor; together with them, we aim to bring the issue to the European Council's agenda in the context of international advocacy. Similarly, the issue has been raised in Parliament, but there are members of Parliament we will reach out to in order to amplify this agenda further.
In addition to these efforts, I generally focus on advocacy work and platform-related activities. This platform includes numerous educators, advocates, queer individuals, and feminists. Our goal is for this case to set a precedent so that LGBTI+ workers do not face similar discrimination in the future; we are in the midst of a struggle for the right to work and human rights.
I’ve seen that on many platforms, people are trying to make your story visible and support your struggle. What concrete changes do you hope this solidarity will bring about? What can people do to support you, your struggle, and—more broadly—the trans struggle?
As a platform, our main goals are as follows: First, to secure legal rulings that demonstrate this is discrimination based on gender identity and that it constitutes numerous violations of national and international law. Our most concrete goal is my reinstatement; for this to be recognized as a rights violation by institutions like TİHEK and for it to be enforced. The reinstatement of a trans teacher would serve as a clear signal that the rights of no LGBTI+ employee in any other educational institution can be violated so easily. In other words, I believe my reinstatement would effectively set a precedent—a clear indication that this cannot happen again.
The most important thing others can do is keep the campaign in the public eye. Whether they’re artists or engineers, I hope everyone will continue to remind people that this is a human rights violation, that education must be shaped on the basis of human rights, and that we live in a democratic state governed by the rule of law—and that they’ll keep this solidarity platform in the public eye and support it.
The most concrete action anyone can take is to follow the process and speak out. We’ve launched a GoFundMe page, which is still open for those who wish to provide financial support. Additionally, graduates of Açı High School have started a Change.org petition. In fact, this is the easiest way to show support. All you have to do is sign the petition. There’s also a separate section on our website titled “How Can I Help?”; anyone interested can check it out: solidarityforzoe.com.
This is a human rights violation; we’re asking for your support so that no one else has to go through this again.
What do you think the significance of what you’ve been through is for other trans people in Turkey?
I know there are trans people and trans educators whose cases are still ongoing. I want to be a source of hope for those who message me saying, “My case didn’t receive this kind of visibility.” I want this to serve as a sign that leaving the country isn’t the only option for future generations, and that young trans people can have a future right here. Overall, I hope this serves as a concrete example—not just in education, but in any field—that it shouldn’t be this easy for anyone to face discrimination based on their gender identity or sexual orientation.
What would you like to say to trans people who are currently going through similar experiences—whose right to work is being denied, or who are being rendered invisible in Turkey—based on your own experiences?
We are not alone, and we have not done—nor are we doing—anything illegal. We are not forced to remain trapped within these four walls imposed on us, nor should we be compelled to turn to sex work only. We exist; we are not just a few people; we stand together. There are many people who support this community. What I’ve experienced is a concrete summary of systematic discrimination and precariousness, but it’s also a sign that we must not back down.
Sometimes I think: what I’m doing is like Rosa Parks sitting down in the front on that bus in the past. Maybe it’s not quite as big, but that person sat in that seat and started something. We will not back down. Yes, life isn’t easy; the struggle is tough, but we are not alone.
We envision a future where no one’s future is left to social isolation or social death. And there are so many people fighting for this. I want to conclude by saying that we will shout our rights loud and clear, day after day, time and time again, and we will not give up.
We were here, we are here, and we will be here!
