When her overbearing mother arranges a marriage she doesn’t want, Aylin sends her best friend in her place – only for it to backfire when her future husband falls for the imposter.
Gelin is a modern adaptation of Ibrahim Şinasi’s Şair Evlenmesi, reimagined from the female characters’ perspective in present-day London.
Aylin, a young Turkish woman with a habit of telling tall tales, is blindsided when her overbearing mother, Sevim, arranges a marriage she doesn’t want. Instead of saying no, Aylin decides to send her bumbling British friend, Yaz, to meet Emre, the “perfect” groom, in her place, secretly convinced Yaz’s kookiness will scare him off. Only…Yaz and Emre actually click. But he still thinks she’s Aylin. As the lies pile up all the way to the wedding, Aylin is forced to confront why she tells so many stories to keep the peace – with her mother, her best friend and herself.
Inspired by the unheard voices in Şair Evlenmesi, Gelin explores the complexities women face across cultures, from family expectations to the fragile but powerful bonds of female friendships. Funny, charming and honest, Gelin asks whether a woman can be the ‘mükemmel gelin’ – the perfect bride – without lying about herself to make everyone happy.
Giada spoke to Duru Agirbas about the production.
Gelin is an adaptation of the Turkish classic Şair Evlenmesi by Ibrahim Şinasi, first published in 1859. Your version is not only modernised to present-day London, but also reimagined from the perspective of the female characters. Beyond making it relevant for a UK audience, what motivated this choice? What does this shift allow us to discover or reconsider in the original story? We are separated from the source text by 150 years, yet the story still feels urgent: what is the timeless core of it for you?
As a Turkish artist in London, I’m fascinated by female-led, cross-cultural narratives, informed by my own experience of living in multiple countries throughout my life. The rituals, customs and social expectations of my culture have always interested in me. In 2021, I created a satirical short film about arranged marriage, a prelude to the one-woman stage production I performed in 2024 that explored the depiction of women in popular Turkish media. Gelin is of a similar vein, with Şinasi’s Şair Evlenmesi, the first Turkish contemporary play, being a critique of arranged marriage.
When re-reading the play recently, and sharing it with the writer of Gelin, Estelle Warner, we both wondered how the story might be told if it was from the unheard female characters’ perspectives, giving them a voice. By flipping the focus and basing the narrative on them, we could shine a light on the way that generational clashes, cultural expectations and gender norms present here affect women - both back when Şinasi came up with his piece and now in today’s world. When talking about this story with my friends, I realised how many of them resonated with it, making Şair Evlenmesi suddenly felt both timeless and resonant.
The play revolves around an arranged marriage orchestrated by an overbearing mother, Sevim, for her daughter Aylin, who then sends her best friend to the meetings in her place. Many cultures, including my own, practiced arranged marriage until relatively recently, and such traditions often endure because they are rooted in centuries of social structure and expectation. How does this story open up a conversation about tradition in modern society, particularly about where responsibility lies today? On young people to resist, or on families and systems to change?
Arranged marriage is something that feels both historical and present to me. My grandparents were in an arranged marriage and it’s still a term that I hear in conversations with friends and family today. What felt interesting about adapting this story was not treating arranged marriage as something that is always inherently bad, but acknowledging that it still exists in altered forms and the pressures surrounding it haven’t disappeared.
In particular, we focus on the pressure placed on women in their mid-twenties to early thirties, where not being married is often framed as failure. Gelin challenges the idea that marriage is the only marker of a fulfilled life, instead emphasising the importance of friendship and familial relationships, particularly female ones, whilst recognising why older generations continue to hold onto outdated beliefs.
Gelin also opens up a conversation about responsibility by refusing to place it on just one side. Younger generations often want to resist tradition, but this comes with the emotional cost of feeling like you’re disappointing your family. The older generation are shaped by years of cultural expectation, where marriage has long been tied to security, success and survival. The play asks what happens when neither side truly feels heard. None of our leads are bad people, they’re all women who have been shaped by cultural pressures, inherited expectations and gender norms - and if the audience (and each other) can understand how it feels to carry this, then Gelin has succeeded.
The narrative centres on three women: Aylin, Sevim and Yaz. Beyond the evident generational conflict, how do their characters differ from one another? In what ways is their experience of womanhood shaped by their circumstances and choices? By the end of the play, do they manage to understand each other’s complexity?
Aylin, Yaz and Sevim experience womanhood in very different ways, shaped by their relationship to family, tradition, culture and choice. Sevim, Aylin’s mother, has never rebelled against her family, instead accepting their words as correct and remaining deeply connected to her customs and community. Yet deep down, she’s terrified of what others will think of her if she even slightly breaks away from expectations. The fear she has manifests itself as control, and, combined with the love she has for Aylin, leads her to push marriage as the only path to security and success. Aylin, particularly as she has been raised in a world of online dating and “situationships”. She’s repelled by the way Sevim has spent her whole life placing such value on romance, and instead now wants to put more focus on her career - but she’s still scared of disappointing her mother. This is the reason she lies so much, not due to malice but avoidance. Yaz, Aylin’s best friend, who was born and raised in London, experiences womanhood through self-doubt rather than tradition. Her dating life has been shaped by her internalisation that she’s either too much or not enough, leading her to take on the identity of Aylin to be chosen.
By the end of the play, whilst they don’t all suddenly agree with each other, they do learn to listen. Aylin understands that her mother’s actions are rooted in fear rather than cruelty, whilst Sevim recognises that her daughter’s tall-tales come from years of pressure to be someone she isn’t. Their reconciliation is about listening and accepting that love does not have to look the same across generations. Yaz learns to stop performing versions of herself for others and is finally seen for who she is. In their communication and honesty, the women reach an understanding of each other’s complexity.
Emre is presented as the “perfect groom.” Where does he stand between accepting the rules of the arranged-marriage system and becoming a victim of Aylin’s scheme? What is the biggest difference between this version of Emre and his counterpart in the original text?
Beyond decentring the male perspective, how do gender norms and cultural expectations weigh on him as well? Emre does experience pressure to settle down, but, unlike Aylin, it’s framed as expectation rather than threat. He enters the arranged marriage process willingly, feeling that modern dating has failed for him and he trusts his mother’s judgement. In this sense, he believes he’s choosing a path that offers stability. But this sense of certainty is shattered at the wedding, where he realises, just like the protagonist in Şair Evlenmesi, that he’s been deceived and his bride isn’t who she thought he was.
In contrast to the original text, Gelin deliberately places Emre in a more secondary role. The shift allows the focus to move away from male fulfilment and toward the emotional cost on the women around him. That said, Emre’s not immune to cultural gender norms - he’s expected to be polite, successful, emotionally contained and marriage-ready, embodying the idea of the “perfect groom” without ever being asked what he truly wants. By decentring Emre instead of erasing him, Gelin acknowledges that while men may carry expectations, the consequences of failing them are much less pressing. Emre is encouraged to succeed within the system, but Aylin is punished for resisting it.
You describe Aylin as “honesty-phobic.” Her lies seem less about deception and more about self-protection, about keeping herself, and others, safe. But as the wedding approaches, those lies accumulate and eventually explode. The play blurs the line between lying and storytelling; what interests you about that tension, and what does truth ultimately demand once it can no longer be avoided?
Aylin is asserting her independence and finding her own ways to navigate social pressures. For her this means starting her own business and finding love on her own terms. However, initially, this is through her stories - which turn into huge lies - buying herself time, which, although isn’t morally “correct”, is a woman that many people will recognise and relate to. She’s someone who, underneath her bad habit, wants to please others, fears being honest and performs the version of herself that she thinks the world wants. As Gelin progresses, what started as avoidance spirals into something that harms the people Aylin loves. Therefore, when the truth can no longer be avoided, she takes accountability, to stop performing and accept what it means for people to see her as who she is.
As an international company bringing a diasporic story to the UK, one that bridges Turkish culture with contemporary life in Britain, why is it important to build crosscultural narratives today? What challenges did you face in doing so, and what have been the rewards?
Something I’ve noticed in London is that I rarely see plays that are English with Turkish culture embedded in them. I wanted Gelin to bridge the gap between these two communities in theatre, working closely with Estelle, who is British, to inform the authenticity of our play whilst giving her freedom to let her own cultural voice sit alongside mine. The script includes code-switching, with both Turkish and English dialogue throughout. Combined with cultural objects and designs chosen to create a minimal version of a Turkish house by Minghci Yan, we invite non-Turkish viewers to experience our culture, while offering Turkish viewers a sense of familiarity. Our diverse creative team, with artists from Turkey, England, China, Brazil and Portugal reflects what I love about London and what Gelin embodies – our different cultures live together, overlap and influence each other in harmony.
The central challenges we faced were balance and navigating representation responsibly. We were constantly asking how much context was needed and when to trust the audience without over-explaining. We wanted to ensure that cultural specificity felt inviting rather than alienating, resonating with Turkish audiences and not excluding or confusing those who cannot speak the language or are unfamiliar with it. It was also important to us that the play did not flatten Turkish culture into stereotypes, instead being drawn from our own lived experiences.
Gelin runs at the Canal Cafe Theatre in London on Saturday 31st January and Sunday 1st February 2026. Tickets are available from https://canalcafetheatre.com/our-shows/gelin/
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