The Day of Höömey Singers—throat singers—has long been celebrated in Tuva as a traditional holiday. Höömey, the art of throat singing, is one of the most vital elements of Tuvan music and culture. The day’s celebrations began early in the morning with a shamanic ritual, followed by a concert that evening at the Tuva National Theatre. After attending the ritual, on my way back to the city, my musician friends called and invited me to the rehearsal for the concert at the National Theatre.

I went to the theatre hall and met with Nachyn and the other members of the Tıva Ensemble. We were to perform a piece together that night—Ezir Kara. Meaning “Black Eagle,” Ezir Kara tells the story of a horse as swift as an eagle and as dark as the night. During rehearsal, Nachyn asked me to sing a Turkish song before this piece and then connect it to Ezir Kara. The first song that came to mind was Aşık Veysel’s Uzun İnce Bir Yoldayım. Considering the long journey I had made, it seemed like the most fitting choice. I started the song in D minor, the same key as Ezir Kara, accompanying myself on the violin. As I ended on D, I turned toward the other musicians; the doşpuluur (a Tuvan string instrument) picked up the same note and set the rhythm for Ezir Kara. We rehearsed the set three times from start to finish and wrapped up. The members of the Tıva Ensemble also asked me to make a short speech during the concert, as it marked the ensemble’s 30th anniversary. To prepare the speech, we went to Tos Karak, a traditional Tuvan restaurant next to the Cultural Center. Over cups of salty, milky Tuvan tea, we wrote down in Tuvan what I would say in honor of Höömey Day and the ensemble’s anniversary.

On the way back, I kept reading the text over and over until I reached the National Theatre. Everyone was excited for the evening concert. That night, the winners of the previous day’s Höömey competition would be announced, receive their awards, and perform. The concert, opened by the Tıva Ensemble, featured many different musicians. Backstage was lively and crowded. Dressed in traditional garments, musicians hurried from one corner to another. My confidence in Tuvan had grown a little, and I found myself chatting with new people, telling them where I came from. When they heard “Turkey,” their faces lit up with a smile as they said, “Çaa, bisting dıllarıvız dömey”—“Yes, our languages are similar.”

The moments before a concert in the backstage area are always unforgettable, and this one was no exception. It was one of those rare times when I witnessed an extraordinary sense of unity and team spirit. Just before the concert began, one of the musicians called me over to join the others behind the stage. Everyone stood hand in hand, forming a large circle that filled the entire corridor. I joined the circle. Holding hands, we all congratulated one another on Höömey Day, exchanged good wishes, and wished each other success for the concert.

The Concert

The concert was about to begin. After a short speech on the meaning and importance of the day, the Tıva Ensemble took the stage. I stayed backstage to listen. They played three songs before I joined them, and then the concert host, Şuruu, kindly introduced me and invited me to the stage. I walked toward the microphone that had been set up for me. The large hall was full. I began with a short improvisation on the violin, then played Uzun İnce Bir Yoldayım. Ending in D minor, I passed the rhythm to the doşpuluur, and we began Ezir Kara.

As we played Ezir Kara, images of horses galloping across the steppe appeared on the large screens at both sides of the stage. The percussionists recreated the sound of hooves, and the string instruments echoed the horses’ neighs. It had taken me some practice to figure out how to imitate a horse’s voice on the violin. Ezir Kara tells the story of a horse—a black one that runs with great strength. Written during the years when Tuva faced oppression under Soviet rule, this song has inspired many works. What we performed that night was one of the songs written for that horse.

Here is a snippet from our performance of Ezir Kara:

The lyrics of Ezir Kara are as follows:

Çel-le, çel-le, çel-le, çel-le Ezir-Karam ooy

Çel-le, çel-le, çel-le, çel-le Ezir-Karam ooy

Baglaajınga baglap kaarga

Bajın savaar Ezir-Kara

Bayır naadım bolgan çerge

Bajınga keer Ezir-Kara

Ezir-Kara, Ezir-Kara, Ezir-Kara eki adım

Soodup soodup salıptarga

Sogunnalır Ezir-Kara

Çoruk kılıp munuptarga

Çovag bilbes Ezir-Kara

Çügenneeştiñ kastap kaarga

Çüüden çaraş Ezir-Kara

Çügürükter arazından

Çüglüg kuş deg Ezir-Kara

Ezerteeeştiñ kastap kaarga

Eldep çaraş Ezir-Kara

Eeziniñ Saldañmaanıñ

Eji bolgan Ezir-Kara

When the piece ended, I took out the sheet of paper with my speech and approached the microphone. “Ekii!” I called out. “Ekii Tıva çonum!” (“Hello, people of Tuva!”) The audience broke into applause. They were delighted to hear me speak Tuvan. I had to concentrate to pronounce the words—which sounded like tongue twisters to me—without stumbling, while the audience cheered after each sentence with encouragement. I first wished everyone a happy Höömey Day and said how honored and happy I was to share the stage with such wonderful musician friends. I congratulated the Tyva Ensemble on their 30th anniversary and thanked the Cultural Center and its president for inviting me to this special concert.

After we left the stage, it was time for the winners of the Höömey competition, held the previous day, to be announced. In past years, the competition was open to all styles, but due to the large number of applicants this year, it was limited to the sıgıt style. In Tuvan, sıgıt means “whistle.” In this style, the singer produces two sounds at once—a deep base tone and, above it, a high, whistle-like overtone created through harmonics. Almost all the members of the Tıva Ensemble had won awards in this competition. This night was special for another reason too: for the first time, the People’s Höömey Singer award was being given to a woman—Choduraa Tumat. She is a founding member of Tıva Kızı, a women’s traditional Tuvan music group, and a musician who performs around the world.

When the award ceremony and performances ended, all the musicians gathered on stage for a final song together. It was a true celebration to watch them. After the concert, as we congratulated one another backstage, the president of the Tuva Cultural Center approached me, shook my hand, and said, “Congratulations. Ezir Kara was wonderful—you were just like a horse!” I took it as a compliment and thanked him. It seemed I had indeed learned how to bring a horse to life on the violin.

Music of Tuva

Speaking of music, I’d like to touch on how nature and natural life influence Tuvan music. The nomadic lifestyle of the Tuvan people and their close connection with nature play a major role in shaping their unique musical tradition. For the Tuvans, nature itself is their conservatory—the place where they learn their craft and find inspiration. But their sensitivity to the sounds of nature is not only for musical reasons; it is also vital for survival. Located in Siberia, Tuva is one of the places where living conditions can be harsh and extreme. Nomadic communities rely on natural sounds to decide where to move their herds, when to begin the first hunt of the season, when to migrate to new lands, or when a warm or cold front is approaching. Nature signals all these changes through sounds.

As a result of their advanced listening skills, the Tuvans have developed extremely fine hearing and a wide sound repertoire. Their music is built on the idea of imitating and reflecting the sounds of nature—a concept they call boidus çurumalı, which means “drawing nature with sounds.” Their traditional instruments represent various animals, and the throat singing styles known as höömey depict different natural phenomena and events. The höömey style carries distinct regional characteristics; in fact, Tuvans can often tell where a singer is from just by listening to their höömey.

Most importantly, Tuvan music is not only inspired by nature but also created for nature. Tuvans believe that spirits known as çer eezi—the “masters” or “owners” of places—dwell in nature. They believe that forests, rivers, springs, and mountain passes each have their own guardian spirits. To please these spirits, Tuvans make offerings, and among the most valued of these offerings is music. For example, when hunters go into the forest, they first offer food to the forest’s spirit and then play music for it, sometimes continuing all night. They believe that if they please the spirits, they will be granted good fortune and a successful hunt in return. The Tuvan oral tradition is full of stories and legends about these place spirits.

According to Tuvan musicologist Valentina Suzukey, the reflection of nature through sound exists across all Turkic cultures and has very ancient roots. She notes that the Tuvans’ extremely refined sense of hearing comes from their nomadic way of life, explaining that as the seasons slowly shift, nomads must hear and perceive the changes in order to survive. Here’s an excerpt from my conversation with Suzukey:

"

I grew up in the city, but while researching the nomadic lifestyle, I realized that every sound in nature has its own timing. For example, in the kışlak (the place where nomads spend the winter), the turpan—a type of waterfowl—arrives as the first migratory bird at the end of winter. When it appears, it means winter is over—so those -45°C freezes won’t come again. Of course, people can’t notice every change in nature. When the snow melts, many think winter has ended, but even if the snow is gone, the ground is still frozen. When the turpan calls, nomads know that the ground has begun to thaw. Slowly, grasses and green shoots start to appear. That’s when they migrate to the spring pastures. The move from winter to spring pastures is done quickly because the animals have eaten the old grass, and the newly growing green grass needs to be ready by the time the herd moves from spring to summer pastures, then to autumn pastures, and finally back to the winter pastures—so the animals don’t eat it before it’s fully grown.

While in the spring dwelling, when the hüthüt (a type of wagtail) sings, the Tuvans scatter wheat on the ground and prepare for the migration. Farming is done only on a small scale, just enough for the family. When the guguk (cuckoo) sings, they leave the spring pastures and migrate to the summer pastures. Once there, they water the wheat fields they planted.

By the time they reach the summer pastures, the lambs have been born. They feed on the fresh grass and grow strong before winter. The animals’ milk increases, and around this time, the Tuvan drink kımız (fermented mare’s milk) is prepared. When the gögeezin—a type of pigeon—sings in summer, the male of the family gathers the children and waters the wheat, because this bird’s call signals that the warm season is approaching.

When the crane calls, it signals that it’s time to migrate to the autumn pastures. While in the autumn pastures, the first snow’s scent makes the deer vocalize, marking the first hunting season, and hunters head into the taiga. Meanwhile, the women at home start preparing clothes for winter.

Of course, there are many more sounds in nature than what I’ve mentioned: the calls of birds, wild animals in the taiga, and domestic animals all vary with the seasons. The nomadic people not only need to recognize these sounds but also be able to produce them themselves. This is especially important during seasonal changes, because they live according to nature’s sounds. I call this the "nomad’s sound calendar.”

"

--------------------------------------