Tweet
MUSIC AND POLITICS COLOR GREEK PILGRIMAGE TO TREBIZOND
Thomas de Waal
Carnegie Endowment for International Peace
February 01, 2010
Soumela monasteryFor almost 90 years, the monastery of Soumela,
situated at eagle-height in a gorge in eastern Turkey, has been an
echoing ruin.
Worship ended here in 1923 when modern Greece and Turkey exchanged
their Christian and Muslim populations and the local Christian Greeks
from this region left en masse.
But in the last decade, Greek pilgrims, calling themselves tourists,
have started coming back here on the old feast-day of the Virgin Mary.
Last August I was at the monastery, officially a state museum, as a
Greek Orthodox service sounded out again outside its walls - but it
lasted just 30 seconds.
A black-cassocked monk began to sing the liturgy in deep tones before
a Turkish museum curator broke up the service. A fight threatened to
break out. The gathering broke up in recriminations and grandstanding
speeches.
Old homeland
One step forward, one step back. The story of the-service-that-wasn't
at Soumela is a suitably Byzantine tale that takes in Turks, Greeks
and Russians and plenty of different factions amongst them.
The background to it is that the government of the moderately Islamic
AK Party is challenging tenets of the modern secular Turkish state
and reviving memories of the multi-ethnic Ottoman era.
The new foreign policy of "zero problems with neighbours" is building
bridges with old enemies, including Armenians and Greeks and that
has been welcome for curious Black Sea Greeks who want to revisit
the old homeland which they call the Pontus.
Musicians have led the way. Both the Black Sea Turks and the Pontic
Greeks play an instrument they call the kemenje or lyra and in English
you might call a lyre.
It is small, light and three-stringed, made of cherry-wood, played with
a bow and held against the knee. Its visceral music sets the rhythm for
the round dances that both Greeks and Turks seem to know instinctively.
Two musicians in particular, the Greek anthropologist and lyre-player
Nikos Mikhailides and Adem Erdem, a local Turkish player, have blazed
a trail.
The album they recorded together in the Pontic Greek dialect has
become a smash hit with Pontic Greeks from Thessaloniki to Tashkent.
Although not on sale in Turkey, it has been a hit too in Trabzon in
thousands of pirate copies.
One of the secrets of this part of Turkey is that tens of thousands
of local Muslims, whose ancestors were once Christian, still speak
and understand this archaic version of the Greek language.
Festive frenzy
Trabzon is more famous to English ears as Trebizond, the city of Rose
Macaulay's novel The Towers of Trebizond.
Nowadays Macaulay's magical city is a functional Turkish Black Sea
port. But last August its past stirred into life again. The day before
the feast-day of 15 August, half the valley seemed to be talking Greek.
At a Turkish wedding feast we watched a middle-aged blonde woman with
a string of pearls round her neck step smoothly into the dance. It
turned out she was a professor of law at Athens University. We were
the strangers here, not her.
The next morning we ascended the valley to Soumela.
It was a heady Alpine summer's day. From a distance it could be a
Tibetan monastery, a yellowing beehive high above the gorge. Hundreds
of people toiled up the path.
The atmosphere was both excited and tense, with watchful Turkish
policemen at every corner. Outside the monastery gate, a Greek
lyre-player with a fine set of pointed moustaches was whipping a
crowd of dancers into a festive frenzy.
The beaming Sotiria Liliopoulos had come from Earlwood, New South
Wales - her father, now aged 98, was born in Macka and came here as
a child. In an accent veering from Greek to Australian, Sotiria said,
"This is the happiest day of my life."
But politics was humming in the background.
A wealthy member of the Russian parliament of Greek descent named
Ivan Savvidi, who is making a pitch to be the leader of the Pontic
Greek community, had chartered a ferry to ship Russian Greeks here
across the Black Sea.
The nationalist local authorities in Trabzon were nervous of his
intentions. When Savvidi's Russian party made it to the top of the
path, they were an incongruous mix - there were attractive young women
in yellow T-shirts and baseball caps with Byzantine eagles on them,
and a bearded man dressed in white shirtsleeves and shades (a priest
ordered to remove his cassock) carrying a large icon, which Greeks
stopped to venerate and kiss.
Radicals
The politician himself waved to the crowd and persuaded a Greek priest
to start a service.
The priest began to sing, but the Turkish museum curator had orders
to stop any religious ceremony on her territory. She pushed out of
her ticket booth into the crowd, shouting in Turkish, and tried to
wrest a lighted candle out of Savvidi's hands.
Greek and Turkish television cameras whirred. The divides between
the Greeks came to the surface. Some of them, the radicals, started
a provocative rendition of the Greek national anthem. Others shushed
them.
There seemed to be only two winners here, the Turkish curator and
the Russian MP, both of whom had played heroes to the cameras.
Standing on a wall, Savvidi told the Greek crowd that the Turks had
offended civilisation and he would complain in Brussels.
He said that he had informed the Russian foreign ministry of his plans,
but failed to mention if he had permission from the Turkish government.
As Savvidi spoke, other Greeks - ones who have spent years quietly
building bridges with the locals - were drifting away, angry at the
way the feast day was being taken from them.
At the bottom of the valley, my mood lifted again. The lyra-musicians
were performing and a couple were dancing in extravagant rhythms. The
crowd clapped and whooped.
Music is irrepressible and it draws people together, even when the
politicians cannot manage it.
From: Emil Lazarian | Ararat NewsPress
Thomas de Waal
Carnegie Endowment for International Peace
February 01, 2010
Soumela monasteryFor almost 90 years, the monastery of Soumela,
situated at eagle-height in a gorge in eastern Turkey, has been an
echoing ruin.
Worship ended here in 1923 when modern Greece and Turkey exchanged
their Christian and Muslim populations and the local Christian Greeks
from this region left en masse.
But in the last decade, Greek pilgrims, calling themselves tourists,
have started coming back here on the old feast-day of the Virgin Mary.
Last August I was at the monastery, officially a state museum, as a
Greek Orthodox service sounded out again outside its walls - but it
lasted just 30 seconds.
A black-cassocked monk began to sing the liturgy in deep tones before
a Turkish museum curator broke up the service. A fight threatened to
break out. The gathering broke up in recriminations and grandstanding
speeches.
Old homeland
One step forward, one step back. The story of the-service-that-wasn't
at Soumela is a suitably Byzantine tale that takes in Turks, Greeks
and Russians and plenty of different factions amongst them.
The background to it is that the government of the moderately Islamic
AK Party is challenging tenets of the modern secular Turkish state
and reviving memories of the multi-ethnic Ottoman era.
The new foreign policy of "zero problems with neighbours" is building
bridges with old enemies, including Armenians and Greeks and that
has been welcome for curious Black Sea Greeks who want to revisit
the old homeland which they call the Pontus.
Musicians have led the way. Both the Black Sea Turks and the Pontic
Greeks play an instrument they call the kemenje or lyra and in English
you might call a lyre.
It is small, light and three-stringed, made of cherry-wood, played with
a bow and held against the knee. Its visceral music sets the rhythm for
the round dances that both Greeks and Turks seem to know instinctively.
Two musicians in particular, the Greek anthropologist and lyre-player
Nikos Mikhailides and Adem Erdem, a local Turkish player, have blazed
a trail.
The album they recorded together in the Pontic Greek dialect has
become a smash hit with Pontic Greeks from Thessaloniki to Tashkent.
Although not on sale in Turkey, it has been a hit too in Trabzon in
thousands of pirate copies.
One of the secrets of this part of Turkey is that tens of thousands
of local Muslims, whose ancestors were once Christian, still speak
and understand this archaic version of the Greek language.
Festive frenzy
Trabzon is more famous to English ears as Trebizond, the city of Rose
Macaulay's novel The Towers of Trebizond.
Nowadays Macaulay's magical city is a functional Turkish Black Sea
port. But last August its past stirred into life again. The day before
the feast-day of 15 August, half the valley seemed to be talking Greek.
At a Turkish wedding feast we watched a middle-aged blonde woman with
a string of pearls round her neck step smoothly into the dance. It
turned out she was a professor of law at Athens University. We were
the strangers here, not her.
The next morning we ascended the valley to Soumela.
It was a heady Alpine summer's day. From a distance it could be a
Tibetan monastery, a yellowing beehive high above the gorge. Hundreds
of people toiled up the path.
The atmosphere was both excited and tense, with watchful Turkish
policemen at every corner. Outside the monastery gate, a Greek
lyre-player with a fine set of pointed moustaches was whipping a
crowd of dancers into a festive frenzy.
The beaming Sotiria Liliopoulos had come from Earlwood, New South
Wales - her father, now aged 98, was born in Macka and came here as
a child. In an accent veering from Greek to Australian, Sotiria said,
"This is the happiest day of my life."
But politics was humming in the background.
A wealthy member of the Russian parliament of Greek descent named
Ivan Savvidi, who is making a pitch to be the leader of the Pontic
Greek community, had chartered a ferry to ship Russian Greeks here
across the Black Sea.
The nationalist local authorities in Trabzon were nervous of his
intentions. When Savvidi's Russian party made it to the top of the
path, they were an incongruous mix - there were attractive young women
in yellow T-shirts and baseball caps with Byzantine eagles on them,
and a bearded man dressed in white shirtsleeves and shades (a priest
ordered to remove his cassock) carrying a large icon, which Greeks
stopped to venerate and kiss.
Radicals
The politician himself waved to the crowd and persuaded a Greek priest
to start a service.
The priest began to sing, but the Turkish museum curator had orders
to stop any religious ceremony on her territory. She pushed out of
her ticket booth into the crowd, shouting in Turkish, and tried to
wrest a lighted candle out of Savvidi's hands.
Greek and Turkish television cameras whirred. The divides between
the Greeks came to the surface. Some of them, the radicals, started
a provocative rendition of the Greek national anthem. Others shushed
them.
There seemed to be only two winners here, the Turkish curator and
the Russian MP, both of whom had played heroes to the cameras.
Standing on a wall, Savvidi told the Greek crowd that the Turks had
offended civilisation and he would complain in Brussels.
He said that he had informed the Russian foreign ministry of his plans,
but failed to mention if he had permission from the Turkish government.
As Savvidi spoke, other Greeks - ones who have spent years quietly
building bridges with the locals - were drifting away, angry at the
way the feast day was being taken from them.
At the bottom of the valley, my mood lifted again. The lyra-musicians
were performing and a couple were dancing in extravagant rhythms. The
crowd clapped and whooped.
Music is irrepressible and it draws people together, even when the
politicians cannot manage it.
From: Emil Lazarian | Ararat NewsPress