2nd Alevi Culture Festival: A Journal

"...
Is it bravery to take a life entrusted to you?
Is it bravery to take a handful of light,
tear it from the sun with a blunt knife and sacrifice it to darkness?
Tell me, in which book is it written to burn those whose hands and arms are tied?
...
Savaş Ezgi

As soon as I step into the area, the sound of drums and zurnas greets me. Then comes the horon tune. The sound of this enthusiastic music, these instruments, which greet me first, practically penetrates my soul. So much so that one cannot stand still without shrugging their shoulders and swaying back and forth. Perhaps for this reason, the square suddenly fills with people dancing horon and halay. On the faces of the people dancing arm-in-arm, shoulder-to-shoulder, lost in the rhythm of the music, one can read the good news of togetherness, solidarity, and joy.  

A joy fills me as if I've come not to a festival, but to a wedding celebration or a holiday fair. But soon, the deyişes and folk songs that are sung add other emotions. Then, melancholy and sorrow mix with my joy; I wander the area accompanied by these feelings. These people, who have endured so much oppression from Yavuz to Karbala, witnessed massacres from the Celali rebellions to the Dersim massacre, from Çorum to Maraş, and were burned in Madımak, have suffered greatly and seen much trouble. But they have not given up, they have not bowed down. Even when in distress, they did not stray from their path and have endured to this day. These Alevi "canlar" (souls/dear ones), whose faces radiate a sincerity that inspires trust, and who never pass by without greeting or smiling when we meet, are the bright faces of our country...

Amidst the lively crowd of curious explorers, passersby, and those coming and going, I encounter Remzi Kaplan, one of Berlin's familiar faces. We greet each other and ask how we are. I bring up the topic of an interview. "Of course, let's do it," he says, and provides the necessary information. There is no trace of the arrogance often seen in businessmen in Kaplan. So much so that this person, whose sincere demeanor and naturalness do not go unnoticed, holds my hand as if we were friends of forty years.

I tour the stands, feeling the human warmth emanating from the "canlar" I touch and shake hands with. A very rich menu has been prepared for every pair of eyes eager for food and drink. Döner, considered our national dish, has not been forgotten. On the other side, the smell of sucuk bread and the sizzling of kebabs cooking on the grill are truly appetizing. Are they the only ones? Homemade dolmas, sarmas, içli köftes, böreks, çörekler, desserts, and many more mezes whose names I cannot list...

I crave many things, but I don't have "that certain object" (money) on me. It doesn't feel right to ask, "Do you take card?" I approach an elderly young man who is ordering tea and say, "Could you order a tea for me too, abi?" Without a moment's hesitation, he says, "Make one tea for my nephew too"; he points to the counter with his hand and asks, "Do you have any other wishes, just ask?" He repeats this several times and says it so sincerely that I feel ashamed and embarrassed. I thank him. "Don't mention it," he says.  

This man, who even asks for my permission when I leave, must be a "dede" (Alevi spiritual leader), an "eren" (saintly figure), I think. Just then, from the stage, mournful deyişes stretching back centuries; folk songs, heartfelt melodies, and "nefesler" (Alevi hymns) expressing sometimes love and separation, sometimes rebellion and human love, rise up. Then Pir Sultan's voice is heard:

"Go forth, Hızır Pasha,
your wheel will also break.
The sultan you trust,
He too will one day be overthrown."

I, for one, cannot hold myself back; I cry to a mournful folk song. But here, it's not just the folk songs and melodies; I cannot hold myself back, swept away by so much suffering, and alongside these pains, by the friendship and warmth of the people, by this enthusiasm and atmosphere. I try to pull myself aside and wipe my tears, when just then, from the stage, the signature campaign calling for the perpetrators of the Sivas Madımak Massacre to be tried is recalled. Yet, I think, the "2nd Alevi Culture Festival" should be celebrated in a festive atmosphere. Isn't all this pain, all this sorrow, enough?

Really, what do you want from Alevis? What have these people done to you?

Suddenly, rain appears, and colorful umbrellas open. Soon after, the rain gives way to the sun. Clouds appear and disappear. Then, fragments of light filter down from the sky. Day comes and goes. This state of the weather, the voices rising from the stage, these rose-faced people, and this atmosphere  immerse me in indescribable emotions.  

As I wander, beautiful and naive drawings appear before me. These are warm pictures bearing traces of Anatolia. At the stand right next to it, two poet friends I know, Fuat Doğan and Uğur Küçük, are busy bringing their poetry books to readers.

The festival, where different groups performed throughout the day, distinct voices sang songs and folk tunes, and visitors collected beautiful memories, is the collective work of many people who contributed their labor and support, as well as various associations including Berlin Alevi Community-Cemevi, Dersim Community, Sivaslı Canlar, and Çorum.

In my opinion, the most beautiful aspect of such events must be coming together. In an era where people are becoming increasingly isolated by burying themselves in those well-known, not-so-social media environments and especially their phones, simply coming together side-by-side and laughing and having fun together is incredibly valuable in itself. Perhaps this is why not just a festival is experienced here; people who come together and mingle remember their own core values.

However, as always, things that cast a shadow over all this beauty are not absent. Chief among these are the "journalists" (!) who set up their tripods right in the middle of the stage and stand there for hours, and those whose actions are not quite clear, wandering around with one hand in their pocket and the other on their phone, constantly entering the frame. Yet, journalism is not about recording everything you see for hours. Journalism is about seeing newsworthy things, making sense of developments, and conveying them to the reader or viewer.

To be honest, I cannot establish a connection between standing in the middle of the stage for a long time to record the program and journalism, nor can I understand its logic. For leading television channels, agencies, and newspapers around the world do nothing more than use about thirty seconds, or at most a minute, of footage and a few photographs from such events. I don't understand why hours-long recordings are made here, as in many other places. Moreover, these tripods standing in front of the stage and the people standing behind them not only obstruct the audience's view but also prevent people from connecting with the stage.

Anyway, let's put these aside. The day-long festival enthusiasm, deepening conversations, and formed friendships overcome all these unpleasant developments. In the deep red and purple hues of the approaching evening, Barış Atay and Grup Mengene take the stage. The group, performing songs, folk tunes, and deyişes, delivers a piece by Moğollar quite powerfully: "Bir Şey Yapmalı" (Something Must Be Done).

Is it possible to stand by and do nothing, looking at this terrible course of our country and the world, at so much oppression and suffering? As the song says, if one claims to be human, one must do something...

As darkness falls, the coolness also increases. However, the Turkish, Kurdish, and Arabic dance tunes rising from the stage instantly warm our hearts. What truly warms our hearts, of course, is the crowd collectively joining the dance, the halay. With the festival's final piece, "Çav  Bella," the crowd literally erupts with enthusiasm, and the night ends with this universal folk song, a symbol of resistance...

Text and Photos: Engin KABAN