Growing up in a city like Istanbul is both exhilarating and sombering. You learn very quickly how the world works, but are also constantly reminded on how it should, or, could, work. The city boasts with a life that is hard to replicate, and oftentimes I found myself missing it all once I left, and then desperately wishing to get away from it when I got back. I’ve always wondered if I considered Istanbul my home. A place that is both welcoming and exhausting, where there’s a sense of safety but also an unspoken threat. Is that what home is supposed to be? For those who have longed to embrace themselves fully, to live with the freedom of expressing each part of their identity, and instead tuck it away with shame lest others discover the truth- hasn’t that been home for years? Istanbul is a home in a sense- where I’ve taken my first steps and gotten lost in its streets. It’s a city of such deep generosity which has built my faith brick by brick, and shattered it all at once at times with a hatred you’re forced to become familiar with. 

I believe Istanbul, at its core, is a city overcome with love. Not animosity, not cruelty, not violence. I saw this in the shared plates with my neighbors during Bayram, I saw it in the stray cats curled up in makeshift boxes outside shops in the winter, I saw it in the extra glass of tea pressed into your hand before you could refuse. I want to think of it as a place so full of love, we quite don’t know what to do with it. Or maybe we simply forgot. 

I made Krizalit to remember. To remind myself that I can find a friend in every corner of this city, that despite how easy it has made it for me to grow a sort of resentment or hopelessness for its future, this city is my home. That holding onto its darkest parts only strays me away from how light its future can be. 

In the effort to remind myself, I approached this film from the eyes of two young, queer women, and their simple attempt to exist in a place they should be able to call home. The effort lies in a simple question- do they stay, or do they leave? Does leaving truly mean freedom, or trading one kind of confinement for another? In a world that consistently tells you you’re not welcome, where do you find the strength to stay? Our two characters approach this in vastly different ways, and in doing so share two different but honest realities. Succumb to the ugly, or hold on to the sparse bit of hope you can find. Ultimately, that’s why we made this film. For the hope that remains stubborn and resolute in the face of hate. To find the little bit of good under what feels like the all-encompassing bad- and make a home in it. I will always advocate and champion that which stands steadfast when confronting a world that tells you you don’t belong in it. 

This is why we are beyond grateful and excited to be partnering with It Gets Better Mexico for Krizalit. An entity that’s made its mission to support lgbtq+ youth to breathe easier in their own homes, to encourage them to remain confident in their strength, and keep faith that their right to love will build hope for the generation below them to stay and witness that it does get better. We’ve made this film by our unity in the belief that it will. To those who come across it, we too hope you stay long enough to find something worth holding onto.