When Cranes Sing:

Listening to Alevi Voices

Ezgi Benli-Garcia
(Indiana University Bloomington)

We are in a luthier shop in Istanbul, May 2019. Four of us, sitting on chairs in a circle, converse with each other. We are surrounded by bağlamas (long-necked lutes), traditional hand tools, stacked planks, and electric machines. Ozan, the music teacher at a local private school, weaves songs in and out of our conversation as he checks the playability of a newly crafted bağlama. Upon hearing a familiar melody, the master craftsman, Hasan usta, lifts his head from his work, still holding the sandpaper, and begins to accompany Ozan with his husky voice. Soon, those of us gathered around slowly join the song. We are singing one of the well-known semahs (spiritual dance tunes) called “Gitme Turnam Gitme” (Don’t go away my crane) composed by Aşık Daimi (1932-1983). The crane (turna) is a popular bird in Turkish epics and poetry but has particular aesthetic and spiritual connotations for Alevis of Turkey, a minority group with diverse ethnic origins.[1] Alevi cems (religious rituals) often give references to cranes in texts and mimic their movements in dancing practices to summon the Imam Ali and other sacred figures.

Ozan’s singing, trained in a master-apprentice relationship, brings the divine voices of the cranes to our ears, and the shop is filled with sacred feelings. One song follows another, and after forty minutes of singing and conversation Hasan usta pats Ozan’s shoulder and says with a fatherly expression: “Kulaklarımızın pası silindi!” This Turkish expression can be roughly translated as “to remove the rust from the ears.” It is used when someone is delighted because they have not heard anything good for a long time. As Hasan usta walks back to his workstation, I see that his face becomes more serious: “It’s hard to find voices like yours nowadays,” he says.

At first, I thought this was simply a compliment referring to Ozan’s vocal power and technical virtuosity. I knew, from earlier visits, that musicians frequently stop by Hasan usta’s shop to either have their instruments repaired or simply have a chat. I was almost certain that he would find himself in these spontaneous acts of music-making more than anybody else. I could not help but wonder how his ears, belonging to one of the most skilled craftsmen in the city, could become rusty in the first place? Later, when I asked Hasan usta what he meant by voices like Ozan’s, he shrugged and said, “You know, there are so many artists out there singing Alevi songs but only a few of them are true Alevi voices and can give you the feeling” (emphasis added). I asked who those artists might be, but Hasan usta provided few further details, simply continuing to praise Ozan and repeating an earlier comment: “It is not him singing, but cranes.”

It struck me, eventually, that his evaluation may not be determined by singing techniques or vocal style, but instead by other significant indicators of “Alevi-ness.” Ozan did not simply sing an Alevi song: what was specifically noteworthy about his performance was the formulaic indicators of Aleviness that accompanied the melody. His gestures, for example, such as putting his hand near his heart after uttering composer Aşık Daimi’s name, were citational indicators of modesty and respect. In other words, one needed to perform a degree of Aleviness to pass on the feeling and be a part of this ephemeral category of Alevi voices. 

These intimate and casual moments of musicking (mostly referred to as muhabbet) were a part of my everyday life as the daughter of an Alevi musician.[2] I grew up listening to Alevi music while running around corridors and backstage at performance centers and other social spaces. Alevi music is an umbrella term covering a diverse range of musics largely performed, produced, and inspired by Alevi people, whose experiences have been shaped by their position as a minority group in Turkey, where Sunni Islam is predominant.[3] Still, I found myself questioning what makes a voice Alevi and what does not? How exactly can one sound like an Alevi, learn, and circulate audible markers of Alevi identity? 

Although most scholars approach Alevi identity as a religious one, I define myself as an Alevi regardless of my apathy for religious practices and lack of piety. Along with many Alevis, I have performed Alevi liturgical tunes in rituals, concerts, and other social gatherings to claim my voice and fight against discriminatory policies that threaten my existence. Alevis have been stigmatized and labeled as heretics in the region for centuries, and their survival is increasingly challenged by the authoritarian regime in Turkey. The collective singing and listening to Alevi songs is one of the few, if not the only opportunity for Alevis to learn, practice, and negotiate their set of values. As Deborah Kapchan writes, “practices of listening become main vehicles for [minorities]” to create a form of “sound knowledge” (2009, 25). In the absence of legal means and written history, musical practices provide a means through which Alevis transfer knowledge and create solidarity. In other words, they “learn how to hear what is impossible,” which in this case is the voices of cranes (Ahmed 2004, 34, italics in original). 

* * *

Five thousand miles away from home, sitting at my crowded desk in Indiana, I watch a performance by Sebahat Akkiraz. In this short YouTube video, Akkiraz sings a contemporary Alevi song called “Eylen Yolcum Eylen” (Türkülü Yürekler 2016). The lyrics express disappointment and despair, talking about crossing deserts without water and getting shot by arrows, which both historically and metaphorically refer to the past violence, massacres, and current violations of rights against Alevis. During her performance, Akkiraz imitates the glissando and ornaments of bağlama and pronounces each word with an appropriate vocal interpretation. For example, she delivers the second ascending verse (“I also fell apart from my beloved ones / I got shot by arrows”) with a weeping sound as if those imagined arrows were shot at her own heart. Despite her grief-stricken voice, she holds an easy-going attitude. She is more like a messenger than a performer, carrying the divine message of the song to her audience. She sings with ease, even in higher registers, which downplays the technical aspects of her vocal delivery in appearance and directs the attention to emotional and historical connotations of the song: it makes her performance primarily inner, rather than outer. 

The concepts of inner and outer reflect Sufi understandings of religion: “batini” (esoteric) and “zahiri” (exoteric). This religious worldview holds that the esoteric approach to Qur’an is a higher form of knowledge than outward aspects; the “Truth” (God) is located within the interior and one needs to follow esoteric knowledge to find the Truth.[4] I understand Akkiraz’s modesty and serene stance as an element of Alevi voices through which other feelings (primarily the feelings of grief) emerge. As I scroll down to read the comments, I see that other spectators also offer similar compliments about Akkiraz. “Rukiye karaman” writes, “[Her performance] got under my skin.” This follows similar responses from other users, who talk about their emerging feelings of sadness. Another comment, written by “Serdar Berat Yalçın,” says that “she is the only artist who could sing laments with a smile, but nothing is preventing her [from carrying out] the feeling” (emphasis added). I cannot help but remember Hasan usta. Is this the same feeling that emerged upon hearing Ozan’s voice?

I have learned Alevi knowledge and practices primarily from listening to Alevis’ voices. As I sit down to write about the ubiquitous concept of “minority voices,” my mind immediately goes back to stages, luthier shops, and living rooms where I imagine hearing them. Silence is not always the absence of sound, but the absence of ears or the abundance of deaf ears that hear only what they already know (Cixous, Cohen, and Cohen 1976). Through listening, dialogue, and collaboration, we produce rich ethnographic detail and empower voices that are systemically left out. Perhaps, these are the necessary tools to imagine cranes and hear Alevi voices. Such works that center listening have much to offer minorities, particularly at this moment when authoritative regimes are gaining increasing power. It is my hope that a listening stance toward minorities will allow us to fight against mischaracterizations and seek politics that can accept the fluidity and porousness of all identities.

Notes:

References:

Ahmed, Sara. 2004. The Cultural Politics of Emotion. New York: Routledge.

Birge, John Kingsley. 1994. The Bektashi Order of Dervishes. London: Luzac Oriental.

Cixous, Helene, Keith Cohen, and Paula Cohen. 1976. “The Laugh of the Medusa.” Signs 1 (4): 875–93.

Dressler, Markus. 2013. Writing Religion: The Making of Turkish Alevi İslam. Reflection and Theory in the Study of Religion. New York: Oxford University Press.

Gill, Denise. 2018. “Listening, Muhabbet, and the Practice of Masculinity.” Ethnomusicology 62 (2): 171–205.

Kapchan, Deborah. 2009. “Learning to Listen: The Sound of Sufism in France.” The World of Music 51 (2): 65–89.

Karakaya-Stump, Ayfer. 2015. Vefalik, Bektașilik, Kızılbașlık: Alevi Kaynaklarını, Tarihini ve Tarihyazımını Yeniden Düșünmek. İstanbul Bilgi Üniversitesi Yayınları, İstanbul: İstanbul Bilgi Üniversitesi.

———. 2020. The Kizilbash-Alevis in Ottoman Anatolia: Sufism, Politics and Community. Edinburgh Studies on the Ottoman Empire. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press.

Sugarman, Jane C. 1988. “Making Muabet: The Social Basis of Singing Among Prespa Albanian Men.” Selected Reports in Ethnomusicology 7: 1–42.

Türkülü Yürekler. 2016. “SABAHAT AKKİRAZ: EYLEN YOLCUM.” YouTube video, 4:41. December 24, 2016. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1wFjMm7ArfM.