Turks have some everyday mannerisms that can be easy for visitors to miss. Certain social rituals are so embedded in daily life that unless you notice them or ask questions, they may go unseen.
One such ritual is the frequent use of terms of endearment. Turks use these expressions regularly, choosing the form depending on the relationship, the age of the person addressed, or social status.
Sometimes, translation causes confusion
For example, two close male friends in Turkey often call each other “Kardeşim,” which literally means “my brother.” When I first dated a Turkish man in 2001, I remember thinking he was joking when he spoke of having more than 30 brothers. I was on the verge of suggesting he see a psychologist until someone explained that “brother” does not require a blood tie in this context—it’s a familiar, brotherly way to address a close male friend.
Other common labels include “Teyze,” literally “mother’s sister,” but widely used as a respectful way to address an older woman who is not related, and “Abla,” meaning “elder sister,” which likewise expresses respect rather than a literal family connection.
I never had a problem with these social labels. They can be handy—especially in social situations where names are forgotten or difficult to pronounce. When people are drinking, for instance, everyone can quickly become an “Arkadaşım” (friend).
The Meaning and Translation of Yenge
One term that began to grate on me was “Yenge.” Used by men when referring to or addressing the wife of a close male friend or relative, the closest English equivalent is “sister-in-law.”
I was first called “Yenge” when I became engaged to my Turkish ex-husband. At the time it felt flattering: it meant he accepted me and wanted me in his family. But after about a week into the marriage it started to annoy me; a year later it genuinely irritated me.
It’s important for foreigners to know that the term is traditionally a mark of respect.
However, combined with the feeling that my husband knew everything about me—even the smallest things—the label “Yenge” began to feel limiting. I felt like I had lost a bit of my identity and independence.
For seven years I kept quiet, forcing a smile when people used the title and brightening visibly when someone used my given name. But staying silent about personal concerns eventually became unhealthy. When the marriage ended, I naively assumed the title would disappear along with the marriage. After my divorce, I imagined I could return to being called by my name.
Apparently I assumed too much.
It surprised me that none of my ex-husband’s friends mentioned the divorce; I accepted their silence as a form of dignity. Yet nearly a year later they were still calling me YENGE.
My reaction has improved with time, but I still get frustrated. On one occasion at a restaurant someone greeted me with “hello yenge,” and my friend thought I was about to react badly. Three weeks later, the same man used the term again.
Just last week I was called Yenge by another of my ex’s friends. You might wonder why it bothers me so much, but consider the social implications of the label.
A few weeks ago I was chatting with an acquaintance in the street about a mutual friend—someone I found attractive and hoped to learn more about. Then one of my ex-husband’s friends walked by and called me YENGE. The conversation ended immediately.
This has happened more than once: potential suitors often vanish when they hear the label, as if that single word defines my availability or identity.
Do you see my point?
I am not expecting a soulmate to appear instantly, but I wouldn’t mind being approached and dated occasionally.
I’ve shouted, screamed, and politely asked several people to stop using the label, but with little lasting success.
So what are my options?
- Leave town, which I don’t want to do.
- Resort to violence, which risks arrest and is obviously not a good solution.
- When called “yenge,” stick my palm in their face and demand they stop—dramatic, but probably ineffective long-term.
- Build an inner boundary and let the label have no power over my sense of self. This is Turkey, and while cultural habits matter, I can choose not to let them define me.
- Wait many years for people to move on and forget—possible, but impractically slow.
- Plot petty revenge with voodoo dolls—clearly tongue-in-cheek and not recommended.
If any reader with deeper cultural insight has sensible advice, I’m open to suggestions.
One important lesson I’ve learned is that cultural traditions, even when rooted in respect, can sometimes create awkward or limiting consequences. Someone once told me that traditions can cause as many problems as they solve. After living this experience, I now fully understand that viewpoint.