During our research trips, we all experience moments of affinity: a basement theatre in Warsaw looks exactly like underground performance venues that we saw in Istanbul; a regenerated former brewery in Berlin is almost indistinguishable from its counterparts in Istanbul and Warsaw; and despite working within very different institutional structures, theatre artists often sound the same when they narrate the challenges of operating in mixed, transforming neighborhoods. These moments of affinity are fruitful, but they can also be misleading, hindering (at least initially) our ability to recognize the different forces at play in how the theatre and performance fields of our respective cities have been shaped. So, one of the outcomes of our joint research trips has been learning to treat familiarity and affinity with caution, even as we avoid falling back on incommensurability.

During our recent research trip to Warsaw, I allowed myself brief opportunities to suspend this learned strategy, and the result was that everything looked intensely familiar! For example, we took a guided tour through Warsaw’s Praga district, which sits across the Vistula River from the city’s commercial and cultural center. During World War II, Praga sustained less damage to its infrastructure than central Warsaw, which has meant that it is one of the few places in the city with pre-war housing stock. At the same time, Praga was left behind during Warsaw’s reconstruction, when infrastructural investments focused on the left bank. In a shift that resonates across our different case studies, Praga’s neglected yet evocative buildings have been repurposed since 1989, with early artistic experimentation soon followed by large-scale investment. As we made our way between alleys, courtyards, and streets in Nowa Praga, our guide, Maks, told us that the gentrification of the district was inevitable, since it was the only area in the city where residents could “see” or experience their history. Equally importantly, Maks was pleased that the district was no longer synonymous with derelict buildings and crime, making it possible for visitors to experience a cleaner, brighter Warsaw that could display both a pre-war and a contemporary vibe.

As students of gentrification, we are now familiar with Maks’s rhetorical moves, particularly the ways in which notions of historical authenticity become the rationale for redevelopment. But sprinkled into Maks’s commentary were other emphases: at times, Maks told the story of Warsaw’s reconstruction as a long-term process of Europeanization, sharing his pride over the city becoming a recognizable European tourist destination that could shed images of a postwar urban fabric or of communist urban planning. Listening to Maks, I was struck by how familiar these emphases were to someone from Turkey: the fraught process of Europeanization from the margins, pride in “looking like” the West, and the desire to reclaim historical episodes that now seem to point to another urbanity. Fueled by these strong attachments, the desire for gentrification seemed to reference both the immediate city, and metaphorically, the country as a whole. These sentiments are by no means foreign to Istanbulites, and were particularly heightened during the first decade of the twenty-first century. And different versions of this sentiment emerged during our time in Warsaw: the panel outside the ongoing reconstruction of the Saski Palace announced that “following the examples of other European capitals, a modern cultural center will be built”, while renowned director Krzysztof Warlikowski’s Nowy Teatr insisted on its subtitle as an “International Cultural Center”. Having allowed myself a brief interlude to revel in familiarity, I felt right at home!