During my journey to Tuva, an autonomous Turkic republic in Russia, to study traditional music, I had the chance to closely examine Tuva’s traditional instruments. As a violinist, naturally my attention was drawn most to Tuva’s traditional string instruments. Among these, the igil holds a special fascination with its carved horse-head figure.

The word igil in Tuvan means “two strings.” In Tuvan, instead of “string,” the word khıl (hair) is used. The two rows of strings, made from horsehair, are played with a bow also strung with horsehair. The igil’s drop-shaped body, carved from hard wood, is usually covered with goat skin, and the strings rest on a bridge placed on the skin. Its long neck has no frets, and the horse-head carving at the top is the instrument’s defining characteristic.

In other regions, similar instruments exist: among the Altai people as ikili, in Khakassia as ııklı, in Kazakhstan as kıl kopuz, and in Kyrgyzstan as kıyak. These instruments are still in use today. A shared feature of all these instruments is that they are two-stringed, bowed instruments with strings made from horsehair. Their timbre is similar, and many folk instruments in Anatolia trace their roots to these Central Asian Turkic musical traditions.

From my observations and conversations with instrument makers, the igil, like other traditional Tuvan instruments, does not follow a strict manufacturing standard. Traditionally, as a folk instrument, an igil is made by selecting a suitable tree and shaping it to fit the player. Therefore, igils vary in size and form. They are generally crafted to suit the physical characteristics of the player: a larger igil for someone with a more robust build, or a smaller, more delicate igil for someone with smaller hands or a slender frame.

The Workshop

After I spoke with the head of the Tuva Cultural Center about wanting an igil, he took me to the instrument-making workshop at the center. Every corner of the spacious workshop was filled with instruments in various stages of construction, as well as newly completed ones. The floor was dusted with wood shavings, stacks of wooden blocks sat in one corner, a few tufts of horsehair dangled elsewhere, and scattered tools covered the tables. In various corners of the workshop were skillfully carved small animal figures. On the walls hung pictures of Tuva’s steppes and mountains, alongside impressive animal skulls with grand horns.

Every instrument in the workshop was slightly different, and I couldn’t resist examining them. Their carvings, sizes, and colors gave each one a unique, almost privileged appearance. The head of the Cultural Center introduced me to Artysh Mongush, the craftsman behind most of the instruments there. Mongush, a common Tuvan surname, means “thousand-strength,” while Artysh translates to “juniper.” As they spoke, I overheard the Cultural Center director ask him to make a “female igil” specifically for me.

Artysh agreed to make a new igil for me, which delighted me. I would be able to visit daily and watch its creation step by step, seeing the instrument come to life before my eyes. He showed me the wooden block he planned to use and said he would begin working on it that very day. According to him, the igil would be “ready to play” within a week. When I visited again that evening, he had already begun carving the block. From that day onward, every time I saw him, he invited me to the workshop, and I went daily to observe the progress. Once the rough carving of the wood was complete and it was time to stretch the skin over the body of the instrument, I went again and we began to talk.

Ceren: How long have you been doing this, Artysh? How many igils have you made so far?

Artysh: I don’t know exactly how many igils I’ve made, but I got interested in this craft back in 2007 when I was a university student. At that time, I was studying drawing in fine arts and knew nothing about instrument making. Later, I learned through friends and developed an interest, and since then, I’ve been doing this.

C: How did you start learning?

A: I first learned carving on bones, stones, wood, and horns. After that, I started making instruments.

I noticed again the intricate wooden carvings in the workshop as he spoke.

C: Have you ever created instruments of your own design?

A: Yes, I have a few instruments unique to me. They are displayed at the entrance of the Cultural Center—you may have seen them. One is a bızaançı carved from horn, the other is an igil carved from a horse skull.

C: Yes, I saw them. I didn’t realize you made them. Do you have students? Do you teach this craft?

A: Yes, I have many students. Most of them come from villages, not the city. People in the city rarely make instruments; it’s easier where there’s abundant wood that can be cut. Most importantly, someone who just comes saying, “I want to make instruments” cannot become an instrument maker. This work requires great attention. So I try to work only with truly motivated students.

While talking, Artysh continued to carve and refine the igil carefully.

C: What are the most important aspects of making an igil?

A: The most important thing is the wood. For the instrument to sound good, the wood must be excellent. For example, this piece of wood I’m using was cut forty years ago. It came from a tree next to the Central Asia monument. Its wood is very light and resonates beautifully. The wood must be dry for the instrument to sound well. First, it is treated with water to remove resin, and once fully clean, it is left to dry.

For the igil’s body, I will use goat skin. To soften it, I will leave it in the sun and in water for several hours. Then I will stretch it over the carved body and fix it at the edges. The most time-consuming part is carving the horse head. I carefully bring out the lines of the head.

Then he asked what color I wanted and showed a few varnish options. Normally, he makes an igil in about eight days, and in urgent cases, in as little as four.

I teased him: “I’m in no hurry.”

He smiled: “I’m not making this igil carelessly. I do it sincerely and with great effort.” He was truly meticulous. “Because this igil will travel far.”

He was right—the igil would first go to Turkey, then to the United States. From Kyzyl to Boston, it would cover at least 9,500 km as the crow flies.

C: Do you play the igil yourself?

A: I don’t have much time to play. If I start playing, I won’t have time to carve. The last igil I made, I gave to a sumo wrestler from Mongolia.

He placed his carving knife on the table, held the igil in his hands, and added eagerly:

“Tonight, I’ll stretch the skin and dry it. Right now, you’re witnessing the birth of an igil. In a few days, it will begin to sound!”

The Igil and the Cultural Significance of the Horse

The igil, as indicated by the carved horse head on the instrument, is a musical representation of the horse. Horses have held tremendous importance in Turkic societies, particularly in Central Asia. Over centuries, the horse has become one of the most cherished symbols in Turkish culture and has starred in numerous legends and epics. Many sources credit the Turks with the first domestication of horses. While there are differing opinions on this, it does not diminish the horse’s historical significance to Turkic peoples.

In Greek mythology, we are familiar with the winged horse Pegasus. Did you know that Turkic mythology also has a winged horse? Its name is Tulpar.

The Tulpar appears in Turkic, Kyrgyz, and Altay myths, typically depicted as a white or black horse. With white wings, the Tulpar was said to be created by Kuday, the creator of the universe, to assist brave warriors. In Turkic mythology, Kuday is the masculine sky deity, often paired with Umay, the feminine earth goddess. Altay texts also mention “Altay Kuday” or “Seven Kudays.”

Tulpar is also mentioned in the Epic of Manas, the longest epic in the world, revered by the Kyrgyz. Legendary heroes of the epic are said to ride Tulpars, whose wings allow them to outrun the wind. According to belief, Tulpar’s wings are never visible; they only open in darkness when traversing great distances or obstacles. If anyone sees the wings, the Tulpar will vanish.

The horse motif is so central in Central Asia that it appears on the state emblems of several Turkic republics. For instance, the Tuva state emblem features a horse, as does that of Bashkortostan, a Turkic republic under Russia. Horses also appear on the emblems of Kazakhstan and Mongolia. Additionally, Turkmenistan hosts the world’s only Ministry of Horses and has celebrated the annual Horse Festival since 1992.

If you're curious about my talkativeness about horses, I think the following information explains it:

Ciren: A talking horse species featured in Turkish and Altai mythology and fairy tales. Also called Ceren or Ceyren, it's an unusual animal that can talk. (Wikipedia)

!...

The Legend

Returning to our topic, in Tuva culture, which is rich with legends and stories, the igil has its own legend. I heard this story from my musician friend, Nachyn.

“Long ago in ancient times there lived a rich but unkind Khagan, an emperor, who owned many fast horses. Among his servants was a poor orphan boy tasked with tending the herds. One day, a wolf attacked the Khagan’s horses and killed a mare that had recently given birth to a foal, thus leaving the foal vulnerable and  weak without its mother. Thinking the foal would not survive for long, the Khagan ordered the orphan boy to take it to the forest and leave there for the wild animals. Obeying the order, the boy took the foal to the forest, however feeling sorry for the foal, he could not bring himself to leave it there to die. Eventually, he decided to take the foal and care for it, assuming the Khagan would not find it out.

Years went by and the foal grew into a magnificent stallion, surpassing even the khagan’s finest horses in all the races. Enraged with jealousy, the cruel khagan ordered his men to find the horse and kill it. Tracking the horse, the Khagan’s men caught and pushed it down a cliff to its death. The orphan boy, not knowing what happened to his horse, searched and grieved for countless days and nights, until one night, when the horse appeared to him in his dream. The horse told him “Grieve no more. Go, look for me down that cliff. There you will find my body. From my head, carve an igil; from my tail, make its strings and bow. You will see, whenever you play that igil I will come and be there with you.”

Thus, the igil came to be.

The Tuning System

With its strings made from horsehair, the igil has a very distinctive timbre and is played not by pressing the strings, but by gently touching them with the fingertips. According to Tuva ethnomusicologist Valentina Suzukey, the horsehair strings allow the instrument to produce more overtones[2].

Suzukey explained, “There’s something interesting about the igil. When you cut a violin string in half, you see it as a single, continuous string. But if you cut an igil string, because it’s made from horsehair, you see the individual hairs. That’s why it produces more doğuşkan.” She even sketched a diagram to illustrate the point.

There is no fixed pitch to which the igil is tuned in its traditional context, because there is no standard reference note in traditional performance. Since it is primarily played to accompany solo throat singing, known as Höömey, the player must determine the pitch themselves. (For more details on Höömey, you can check posts 4 and 5 on this blog.)

However, today, as ensembles and orchestras perform the igil in professional settings, musicians usually tune it to a certain reference note. The only fixed rule is that the strings must form a perfect fifth[3] interval. Beyond that, the reference note is left to the player’s discretion. In other words, the strings could be tuned D – A, F – C, or any other note, as long as the two strings form a perfect fifth interval. The Tuvans consider the perfect fifth to be the ideal interval found in nature. If we consider that the perfect fifth is the first interval in the harmonic series after the octave[4], it is understandable why they view it as the most natural and ideal interval.

Suzukey’s memory beautifully illustrates the difference in tuning approaches between Tuva music and Western music. As a young student, she was conducting research on Tuva’s traditional instruments, traveling through rural areas and doing fieldwork with the local people. She recounted a dialogue that unfolded with an elderly musician whose music she was recording one day.

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The Soviet Era in Tuva

Suzukey explained that Tuva culture and music had suffered significant repression during the Soviet era, and traditional musical instruments were not spared from this pressure. According to the Soviets, Tuva music was backward, primitive, and they believed Tuva musicians should play symphonies, operas, and ballets instead of their “primitive” music. Criticism also targeted the instruments themselves. They claimed the traditional instruments were simple and unsophisticated, which led to a process of “modernization” where natural materials were abandoned. For example, the bızaançı’s horsehair strings were replaced with steel, giving it a sound like a violin. The igil’s horsehair strings were also replaced with steel, producing a cello-like tone. Musicians began playing by pressing the strings with keys, rather than plucking them with their fingertips as was traditional.

At the same time, the bows were altered to resemble Western stringed instruments. In classical bowed instruments, the bow tension is adjusted by turning a screw at the end. The player’s hand never touches the hairs directly; the tension remains fixed throughout performance. In contrast, Tuva bows are free, without a tension-adjusting mechanism. While holding the bow, some fingers touch the hairs, and the player regulates the tension with their hand as they play. (Our own bowed instruments like the rebab, classical kemenche, and bowed tanbur also often work in this way.)

According to Suzukey, after the 1940s, instrument factories were established in Moscow and Tashkent. The Tuva government paid large sums to order these newly made instruments. Once they arrived, the elders were gathered, given the instruments, and asked how they found them. The polite elders responded, “Yes, the sound is fuller with the metal strings, very beautiful… but it’s not like our Tuva.” When asked why, they could not explain it theoretically. At that time, Russian specialists tried to adapt Tuva music to the European system. Tuva’s first orchestra was formed with these newly imported instruments, and they played them until the late 1990s. Eventually, they returned to their traditional instruments and system.

Suzukey also shared a story about foreign researchers who came to Tuva and interviewed musicians:

"World-renowned folklorists come and ask questions: ‘How do you make the igil or the bızaançı? What wood do you use? Where do you cut it? How long do you dry it? How do you carve it?’ Our people would answer, 'I adjust according to the Stradivarius’ waiting period, I use redwood for the body,' making it all up. But if you look into history, it’s completely different! Our ancestors didn’t select wood in such a way. They would take a suitable piece, carve it, dry it for a short while, and play it immediately. Our ancestors didn’t stay in one place for ten years! Being nomads, they would take a proper tree, carve it, and move on. Our people told the researchers fabricated stories, but it suited the researcher—he heard something familiar and understandable, and that was enough to finish the study."

Hearing this, I suddenly remembered Artış telling me that the wood for my igil had been dried for forty years. On top of that, it had been cut from a tree right next to the “Center of Asia” monument!

For a moment, I found myself thinking, “Could it be…?”

:-)

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[1] Bızaançı: A traditional Tuva instrument with four strings, played with a bow.

[2] Overtones: The frequency that gives a sound its distinguishing character belongs to the thickest, foundational tone that resonates with other tones simultaneously. The sounds that resonate above this fundamental are called overtones or harmonics. Overtones are not as strong as the fundamental tone, so they are not heard individually, but they are important because they determine the character of the sound. For example, the reason we can distinguish the sound of an oboe from a clarinet is the different strengths of the overtones produced by each instrument above the fundamental sound. The timbre of different instruments or voices is defined by these overtones.

[3] Perfect Fifth: The distance between two notes is called an interval. A perfect fifth is the interval spanning five consecutive notes. It is formed by three whole steps and one half step between the first and fifth notes. For example, C to G is a perfect fifth. C–D whole step, D–E whole step, E–F half step, F–G whole step.

[4] Harmonic Series: A series of sounds in which the frequency of each tone above the thickest fundamental is an integer multiple of the fundamental frequency.

[5] Bay Taiga: A province located in the western part of the Tuva Republic.