I met Burcu Özdemir in 1997 when I first came to Vancouver. I was a young teacher and student. I wandered into Burcu’s vintage clothing store drawn by the eccentric décor and the Greek/ Turkish music spilling out to Main Street. She was wearing an intentionally defiant outfit, a clash of textures and colours worn with no concern for approval. I remember she also took in my bland navy blazer and dark jeans, and she called me Armani Girl even though I couldn’t have afforded that brand at the time.
On the surface and at first glance, we belonged to different worlds, but in truth and, only years later did I realize, those facades were evidence of how we survived a tough upbringing in out home country, Türkiye. She was familiar to me even though she was different. She reminded me of my brothers and the devrimci (revolutionary) generation that was shaped and scarred by the 1980s coup. But, of course, as a woman and a queer one, her critique of the status quo carried a sharper bitterness than my brothers’. I gravitated to her, to that familiar counterculture edge, her defiant sense of style, and unwavering solidarity for silenced and marginalized people. Despite what she saw as my conservative exterior, I felt right at home every time I visited her.
I loved talking to Burcu and delighted in challenging her as I did with my brothers. She was a sister and an elder figure to many, especially embracing to the people from the 2SLGBTQIA+ community. I felt envious of her unfiltered stance, a freedom I could not easily claim as a teacher. I tried to make my way into her circle a few times with my heterosexual and Armani fashion sense.
Thankfully, her hospitality was as fierce as her politics, and she always made me feel welcome. Particularly in 2013, when I didn’t know anybody from my home country and people from Türkiye gathered in Vancouver to protest, I looked for an ally who understood the language of resistance and I found her. We protested with dance and music. Burcu is an exceptional singer with the local Canadian Turkish band Something About Reptiles, and I absolutely love her rich, husky voice.
When I lost my family in a massive tragedy, I found myself in her store after opening hours surrounded with people, food, and care. Her words could be blunt, sometimes bitter, yet her generosity always shone through. Given my firsthand experience with Burcu, I sought the opportunity to talk to Özgün Gündüz, the director, and producer of the documentary short “Burcu’s Angels”, who is also a friend from that circle.
“Burcu’s Angels” is screening at the VIFF Centre on the opening night of GEMFest on Thursday (March 5). Through a sincere and unvarnished lens, Gündüz captures Burcu in full, portraying her as an anchor within the Mount Pleasant/East Vancouver community. Burcu’s store has become a hub and a refuge for many. Rather than sentimentalizing Burcu’s hardships, the director shows how Burcu has transformed struggles of systemic marginalization into solidarity and care. The documentary challenges us to reconsider our assumptions about community, family, and the meaning of solidarity.
Nural Sümbültepe: I have reviewed two remarkable documentaries in the past few weeks. In both cases, the directors were close relatives of the subjects, which I believe contributed largely to the success of the documentaries. You are not a blood relative of Burcu, but I have seen you interact with each other as if you were very close family members. How did you gain her trust and build that level of trust? And how did that trust shape what she was willing to show and share on camera.
Özgün Gündüz: It took a long time for the film to come into being. I didn’t approach Burcu with the idea of making a documentary right away; the project emerged later and quite organically. During COVID, her store on Main Street was very close to where I lived and it was one of the few places where you could sit outside and spend time safely. I started going there often. We would sit together, drink wine, share food, and talk about everything—our lives, politics, relationships, [and] injustices in the world. It didn’t take a long time to realize we shared very similar values and ways of seeing the world, and our relationship naturally deepened.
To be honest, I’m not sure she initially trusted me as a filmmaker, but she trusted me as a person, and that mattered much more. When I eventually shared the idea for the film, I explained that I wanted to honour her legacy and the community she had built through the store. I also showed her some films that inspired me so she could understand the kind of approach I had in mind. Throughout the process I kept repeating a simple mantra to myself: ‘real, sincere, intimate’. That became the guiding principle for the film. In many ways it reflects queer and feminist values too, a way of filmmaking rooted in care and community rather than observation from a distance.
At first, I tried bringing in crew members, but I quickly realized the atmosphere changed when more people were present. Burcu is actually much more private than people might assume, and the camera made her more guarded when others were around. So, I decided to film mostly by myself. Technically, that meant the images and sound are sometimes a little rough around the edges, but it allowed us to keep the intimacy of our conversations. The trust came from simply showing up as myself and becoming part of her life, not someone extracting a story and leaving. Over time we really became a chosen family. She’s my friend, my auntie, and someone very important in my life, and I think that closeness is what people feel when they watch the film.
NS: I must continue with a very cliché but necessary question: why were you drawn to tell Burcu’s story? How did it all start?
Özgün Gündüz: The answer to that has a few layers. First of all, Burcu herself is just an incredible storyteller. She has this ability to cut straight to the heart of things, whether she’s talking about politics, relationships, or the everyday struggles people carry. She’s unapologetically herself, outspoken, sincere, and that honesty allows people to connect with her in a very real way. Through her store, she has gathered hundreds of stories over the years, and I could see how much power that space held for people, especially for outcasts, immigrants, queer folks, and newcomers trying to find their footing in the city.
The store itself fascinated me too. Burcu isn’t just selling vintage clothes, she’s curating stories. Every garment carries traces of another life, so walking into the store feels like entering a living archive of memories. At the same time, it’s a community hub. People come not only to shop but to talk, perform, and feel seen. Drag artists, filmmakers, musicians, neighbours, people from all kinds of backgrounds pass through that space, and there’s no sense of class division. You might find a rare collector’s piece on one rack and a free bin for thrifters right next to it.
Beyond Burcu’s personality and the legacy of the store, I also felt there was a larger theme at play. Spaces like this are disappearing in cities like Vancouver as rents rise and neighbourhoods change, and that reality felt important to document. For decades Burcu has created a sanctuary for queer and marginalized communities, and I felt a responsibility to record that kind of care before it disappears. At the same time another question stayed with me while making the film: Burcu has looked after so many people over the years, but who is going to look after her as she ages? How do we care for our elders and protect the spaces that hold entire communities together?
NS: I’m part of the MENA (Middle East North African) Festival team, and we screened your film. It received an incredible response. The screening was completely sold out. I’m proud to be part of the MENA film community because we truly embrace diversity of identities. I felt that your film was quite fitting. I feel that there was a beautiful intersection of people at that screening and Q&A that helped solidify bonds between small pockets of communities in Vancouver. Did you sense that same convergence of communities during the screening at DOXA or other festivals? And how do you see your film fostering a dialogue and building bridges between diverse groups in Vancouver?
Özgün Gündüz: I feel very lucky and proud that the film has been accepted to so many festivals in Vancouver, Canada, and beyond. We’ve screened at most of the major ones in the city, and each screening has been sold out, which is honestly beyond anything I expected. The response alone tells me the story resonates with many different people. Audiences seem to find their own entry point into it, whether through migration, queer community, neighbourhood culture, vintage, or simply the idea of places where people feel they belong.
I didn’t approach the film as an impact campaign, but I was very aware that Burcu’s story sits at the intersection of many communities. Her store has always functioned as an open invitation to people who might feel out of place elsewhere. It reminds me of that Rumi quote, ‘Come, come, whoever you are.’ That spirit is very much what Burcu’s Angels represents. The store, and hopefully the film as well, invites people to reflect on the kinds of spaces where we can gather and be unapologetically ourselves.
I’m not sure if the film is building bridges between opposing worlds, because people who come to these screenings are often already open to these conversations. But what I do see happening is people feeling inspired and hopeful when they encounter a story like Burcu’s. At its core, the film is about care, generosity, and community. That’s also what drew me to the story in the first place. It was never simply about our shared culture or language with Burcu, but about the values she lives by—care, solidarity, and creating spaces where people can exist freely.
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NS: In your film you portray Burcu is a queer elder navigating aging with an uncertain income and limited support. Gentrification forced her to relocate several times and further east in the city. In the same neighbourhood, subsidized housing gave way to luxurious condos. Why was it important for you to touch on gentrification and the elderly?
Özgün Gündüz: I think the film doesn’t address gentrification or aging in a very direct way, but they’re definitely the big elephant in the room. You don’t really need to explain it explicitly, it’s just there. You can feel those larger realities: growing inequality in cities, the affordability crisis, the way neighbourhoods change, and how people who helped shape those communities are often pushed out of them. Burcu has had to move her store many times, and that alone tells a story.
On a personal level, this theme resonated with me in another way while making the film. At that time, I was, and still am, living far away from my family, and my father was dealing with cancer. When you’re far from the people you love, you carry that feeling of not being able to show up or care for them when they need you. Spending time with Burcu, and making this film with her, became a way for me to care for someone whose values reminded me a lot of my parents’. She represents a generation that has given so much to their communities yet often has very little structural support as they age.
The film doesn’t deliver that message in a didactic way, but those questions were very present for me while making it. What troubles me is that neighbourhoods often become desirable because of people like Burcu, the artists, small businesses, and community spaces that give them character and life. But then developers capitalize on that value while displacing the very people who built it. I like that the film invites us to reflect on this, and to think about how we care for the people and spaces that have held our communities together.
NS: What do you hope your audiences take away after watching Burcu on-screen?
Özgün Gündüz: I didn’t want to impose a single message on the audience, but it is definitely shaped by values that matter to me and to Burcu. I’m not trying to tell audiences what they should think or what they should take away from it. I appreciate that people come to their own interpretations and start a dialogue around it. If the film leaves people with anything, I hope it’s simply a reminder that spaces like Burcu’s Angels exist. And if someone walks away feeling a little more hopeful about community, about those third spaces where people gather, connect, and take care of each other, then that already means a lot.
The film isn’t activism in a loud or slogan-driven sense, but the place itself carries a kind of everyday activism that happens in the most organic way. We often speak about ‘another world is possible.’ but places like Burcu’s Angels remind us that people are already practising that world in everyday ways. Sometimes it’s not a distant future, it’s something that already exists, sometimes just around the corner from us.
Özgün Gündüz’s “Burcu’s Angels” and Teresa Alfeld’s “Hearse Chasing” will open the Gender Equity in Media Festival (GEMFest 2026) at 6:30 p.m. on Thursday (March 5) at the VIFF Centre. The festival runs from March 5 to March 8. For tickets and more information, visit the GEMFest 2026 website. Nural Sümbültepe is a B.C. teacher.
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