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Hello,
How Are You? Do You Do My Dance In America?
Last
spring I had the good fortune to travel to Turkey for a
fast and furious 10 days. My hosts were Laz, a distinct
minority group, whose geographical reach extend into both
Georgia, of the former Soviet Union and the eastern Black
Sea region of Turkey, known for its lush mountains, fresh
water streams and abundant growth of tea.
As
with other minority groups, the Laz culture has been subsumed
greatly into the larger nationalistic identity of modern
day Turkey. The language is distinct but slowly dying
out among the younger generations; the customs and folklore
are relegated to the old. My hosts were among the
new generation of mavericks trying to instill an awareness
to safeguard the old ways and create a revival of Laz culture
for the future.
It
was at a dinner in a private home where I found my ethnographic
training put to use. In a country where graciousness
and hospitality abound, I found myself, the non- native,
an object of curiosity. In these situations, the children
are great allies, willing to make eye contact, and expressing
with their stares whatever they may find curious. In my
case, I was a woman without a headscarf, a non-Turkish speaker
and a dance researcher sitting at their table!
Our
host appeared, after dinner, with his goatskin bagpipe or
tulum, in hand and to the great excitement of the large gathering,
began to play. When Birol Topaloglu, a highly recognized
musician, singer and folklorist puts the mouthpiece of this
instrument to his lips, filling up its skin with his breath,
the sound produced is utterly haunting, compelling and unmistakably
the sound that the Laz identify with. They began a Horon—a
vigorous and energetic circle dance. The leader called out
to the dancers and vigorous footwork began. Shoulders
moved up and down, and the circle moved clockwise in the
cramped living room apartment.
I
was motioned to join in. My mind did a quick ethnographic
inventory: Do I jump in, the eager participant?
Was modesty called for with a polite shake of the head,
no? What were my cues? Do I go in next to a man or
a woman? Whatever the deciding factors were, I was
soon dancing to the complex rhythm that was harder to sit
still to! To the delight of the crowd, catching on
to the foot pattern of horon
rather quickly, I could sense that my ability to do their
beloved dance raised my esteem in their eyes.
Later
over many smiles and cups of tea, I learned much about this
dance from my hosts’ perspective. It is a dance that
takes place for many hours in the Laz villages. Its
origins are unknown but thought to be “very old”.
It involves both men and women of the village with the musician
playing in the middle. As one person tires, the musician
or the dance master calls to the sideline, where other dancers
are waiting to join into the circle. Did I know anything
about it? The dance researcher from America could
only speculate and ask questions in return.
I
was struck by how the Horon
unifies people without regard to gender or age.
It requires the stamina that agrarian people have as a result
of physical work. The tight circle that brought the
Laz into close physical proximity differs greatly than the
way they live in their mountainous homes where they prefer
to live far apart from one another. The Laz have the reputation
of being fiercely individual, yet their dance requires collective
participation.
The
experience reconfirmed for me how dance and music became
the vehicles for our brief exchange that although was “just
a dinner”, became the highlight of my trip. It was
a window in which to understand dance as glue for cultural
continuity.
I
was struck by how the horon
unifies people without regard to gender or age.
It requires the stamina that agrarian people have as a result
of physical work. The tight circle that brought the
Laz into close physical proximity in the village, also brought
them together that night in an urban apartment.
Lily
Kharrazi writes on dance and culture monthly. Contac
t her at llkha@mindspring.com
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