\u00d6ZGE \u00c7. DEN\u0130ZC\u0130<\/b><\/p>\n
Last year, at a festival, Bajar\u2019s Kurdish song Serh\u0131ldan <\/em>was played, and people began dancing the halay<\/em>. A middle-aged woman entered the crowd, split the dancers, and started shouting: \u201cYou\u2019re playing separatist songs, you separatists!\u201d Still, the song played through to the end. We later learned that a complaint had been filed with the Presidential Communications Center (C\u0130MER)\u2014a platform for requesting information from public institutions and submitting non-judicial complaints specifically about the festival, because of that very song. If the organizers had had the means, they would have invited Bajar in person and danced the halay <\/em>to Serh\u0131ldan <\/em>together.<\/p>\n Just imagine: this is still happening in 2024. This is a song that is played and sung everywhere, and a band that performs across the country. But censorship won\u2019t be held back. It, too, is everywhere. In fact, it is now inside us. Whatever we can\u2019t tolerate, we complain about, whether to ourselves or to some third party. Speaking directly with those we disagree with feels almost old-fashioned now. When did we forget how to focus on solutions, to fight for what we care about? Or did someone make us forget?<\/p>\n It is as if we stopped being ourselves. \u201cIf I write this, I will get in trouble.\u201d \u201cIf I play it this way, people will react.\u201d \u201cIf I draw it like that, people will think something else…\u201d When did we stop playing, singing, writing, drawing \u2013in short, creating\u2013 for ourselves? As the lyrics of the song in question ask: \u201cWhen did we grow up, when was the last time? When did we forbid children?\u201d Indeed, when did we forbid ourselves?”<\/p>\n We carry so many basic fears \u2013 of exclusion, not being accepted, being labeled, isolated, rendered helpless, having our freedom, jobs, homes, or livelihoods taken from us, among others. Is it possible to engage in artistic production that expresses our individuality, our desires, passions, anger, and other human emotions, despite all these fears? In an environment filled with uncertainty about what might happen tous, where there is no trust or safety net, it is just as difficult to realize our goals and fulfill ourselves as it is to simply be ourselves.<\/p>\n Historical data show that in our region, bans targeting evolving musical cultures have occurred in nearly every era \u2013 long before the founding of the Republic, during its establishment, and in the years that followed. But especially over the past 20 years. We have become alienated from one another, forgetting how to live together, how to build together, how to shape life collectively.Naturally, we have also become alienated from ourselves, or so we are led to believe. Not that we resist believing it. As alienation deepened, censorship grew; and as censorship increased, so did alienation. And so it went. And so it goes.<\/p>\n Not to delve too far into ancient history, but it is worth noting that the history of bans on Turkish music is often said to date back even further, to the Europeanization process that began in the 17th century.<\/p>\n With the founding of the Republic, cultural pressure and hegemony merged with the policies introduced by each successive government, bringing us to where we are today. The climate of fear and the politics of oppression were present throughout these periods, so much so that it became almost absurd to speak of the arts without also speaking of censorship. Those in power have never hesitated to impose bans on artists and cultural workers whenever it suited them. Westernization policies sought to assert dominance over the people\u2019s music under the pretext of transitioning to polyphonic forms.<\/p>\n What belonged to the people could no longer be of the people. The tradition of composing anonymous folk pieces had to change: it had to become polyphonic, prove itself, and be accepted by the West. The pains of change attempted to erase what came before, layering so-called \u201cnew\u201d approaches over existing traditions. This wasn\u2019t limited to folk music, but extended to all traditional musical forms in the country. Instruments such as the kanun<\/em>, oud<\/em>, and ney <\/em>became subjects of debate, withtheses written, arguments raised, and discussions held on how to change or \u201cmodernize\u201d their sound. At times, even bans were imposed. The state\u2019s cultural policy was built on censorship then \u2013 as it still is today.<\/p>\n The activities of the Oriental Music Branch of the Dar\u00fclelhan Music School \u2013 established in 1917 and later renamed theMunicipal Conservatory\u2013 were limited by an order issued on 9 December 1926. Even today, this dilemma remains one of the most conspicuous reasons behind the ongoing cold war between proponents of Eastern and Western music, particularly within academic circles.<\/p>\n At this point, I would like to fast-forward the story and share a bit of my own experience. After finishing primary school in 1993, I began studying at the Istanbul Anatolian High School of Turkish Music, which had been established that same year. However, the school was shut down in its very first year. Our class of 21 students was transferred to the non-existent middle school of what is now known as the Istanbul Avni Akyol Fine Arts High School, which led to numerous issues. Some of my classmates who specialized in Turkish musical instruments, such as the oud<\/em>, kanun<\/em>, or kemen\u00e7e<\/em>, were forced to switch to Western instruments due to the school\u2019s sudden closure. These differences in musical training sometimes sparked small conflicts between my classmates and the students studying Western music at the Fine Arts High School, and even with some teachers. Looking back, it is not hard to see that all of this was a result of shifting state policies.<\/p>\n Whether this was a political ban or a couple of sentences pronounced in a speech and then signed by officials, much like in the vein of how the Supreme Board of Radio and Television (RT\u00dcK) imposes limitations today, I will never know.<\/p>\n Speaking of RT\u00dcK, we need to go much further back than the establishment of that institution. In November 1934, a ban was imposed on Ankara Radio prohibiting the broadcast of Turkish-style music, a restriction that lasted for a year and a half. As a result, people began tuning in to broadcasts from the Turkish Radio Telephone Corporation (T\u00fcrk <\/em>Telsiz Telefon Anonim \u015eirketi<\/em>) in Istanbul, and at times, even to Egyptian radio stations. Like all bans, this one didn\u2019t only punish musicians, it impacted society as a whole. We will never know for certain whether it was because the banned music resonated more deeply with listeners, but decades later, \u2018arabesque\u2019 music was widely embraced and became immensely popular.<\/p>\n In later years, there was greater flexibility; the gap between the audience and music narrowed, giving people the right to listen to what they wanted, and musicians the freedom to play and compose as they wished. It wouldn\u2019t be inaccurate to call these years a period of \u201cmusic on probation.\u201d<\/p>\n In the 1960s, social upheavals, civil society movements, a volatile political atmosphere, and the encouragement of domestic migration called for music to be reexamined as a social phenomenon. Global changes also had an impact on Turkey. The 1968 movement influenced music, and music, in turn, influenced social movements, though only to the extent allowed by those in power. It wasn\u2019t that regulation had ended. The Turkish Radio and Television Corporation (TRT) was established in 1966 to both broadcast and regulate programming, until, on 12 September 1980, the country awoke to military marches. It wasn\u2019t just books that were confiscated and destroyed. Had it been possible, the military would have seized a melody from the air and locked it in a cell so no one could hear it. The 1980 junta destroyed everything: cassettes, vinyl records, instruments,musicians\u2019 ideas and dreams, and the tastes of listeners. Some musicians deemed \u201cprejudicial\u201d were denied not just theirmusic, but also their freedom. Those who could, fled, taking with them their instruments and their lyrics.<\/p>\n In the period that followed, cultural policy became a game of giving a little while taking back a great deal. In the mid-80s, during a time when the regime\u2019s pressure had slightly eased, protest groups and singers began to reappear. But they were only briefly visible before disappearing again, once more silenced by mercilessly enforced bans. The songs they sang and the instruments they played were considered incriminating evidence. \u201cExcessive playing of the saz\u201d was among the leading reasons for being taken into custody \u2013 just as is the case today with Grup Yorum. It wasn\u2019t only lyrics that were suspect, but sounds, notes, andmelodies themselves. Songs belonging to minorities \u2013or those perceived to\u2013 were silenced in waves of censorship. In the 1990s, as pop music surged in popularity, protest music fluctuated between moments of vitality and stagnation. The powerful either ignored it or destroyed it, just as they did in the 2000s. Then came a new phrase: \u201cdemocratic opening.\u201d It seemed to signal freedom, but turned out to be just another routine political performance ahead of an election. Still, people began talking about freedoms, and that was enticing. There was talk of recognizing Kurdish as a mother tongue, freedom for languages that had been ignored for decades, or banned for being heard too much. Was it truly freedom, or did we only hear what we wanted to hear? Before all this, we had witnessed musicians nearly lynched for singing in Kurdish. We heard of composers altering lines of poetry so that songs could pass inspection. We saw musicians forced into exile for what they played or sang, unable to return home.<\/p>\n As with every societal incident, music was the first to be silenced, initially by the state, and then gradually through mounting community pressure. We came to understand that anti-establishment music often led to courtrooms, and that playing the music you wanted could cost you your life. As musicians, perhaps we never imagined our concerts would be cancelled simply for speaking out on social issues. Or that, as women musicians, what we wore on stage would not beup to us. We never thought we would have to compromise so much on our bodies, our voices, our lyrics, and our melodies.<\/p>\n Do you remember when universities used to hold spring festivals? These festivals began to be systematically banned starting in 2006. By 2024, they were still under restrictions or outright bans. As if banning university spring festivals weren\u2019t enough, the bans soon spread to festivals more broadly. Citing concerns over security, authorities began cancelling events. Over time, festivals became monopolized, featuring the same groups and musicians, over and over. Fearing the country might fall completely silent without even these, we told ourselves, \u201cLet\u2019s not speak out, at least these can continue.\u201d We consoled our musician friends, saying there would be other festivals to play. Then many were banned all at once. It was a move to silence music altogether. For example, the Zeytinli Rock Festival, held annually since 2005, was cancelled in 2022. Scheduled for August 17\u201321 that year, it was banned by the district governor\u2019s office after the Society for Spreading Science (\u0130lim Yayma Cemiyeti) declared it \u201cincompatible with societal values.\u201d The music festival in Bursa\u2019s Nil\u00fcfer district was also banned in both 2022 and 2023 by orders from the governorate and district governorate. But the bans didn\u2019t stop at music. The 60th edition of the Antalya Golden Orange Film Festival, scheduled for 7\u201314 October 2023, was cancelled due to controversy surrounding the documentary The Decree <\/em>(Kanun H\u00fckm\u00fc<\/em>). Similarly, the screening ban on the film Queer<\/em>, which tells a love story between two gay men, led to the cancellation of MUBI FEST, planned for November 2024. Meanwhile, RT\u00dcK issued an administrative fine and five broadcast suspensions to A\u00e7\u0131k Radyo,Istanbul\u2019s beloved community radio station, after a guest used the term \u201cArmenian genocide\u201d on the A\u00e7\u0131k Gazete <\/em>morning show on 24 April. RT\u00dcK then suspended A\u00e7\u0131k Radyo\u2019s terrestrial broadcasts and revoked its license. As these bans show, censorship extends beyond music to all forms of artistic and intellectual expression. It restricts not only artists but also their audiences. The audience\u2019s right to choose is curtailed before the work is even completed, before it is ever played or sung.<\/p>\n Today, whenever we start planning an event, the first thing we think about isn\u2019t how to organize it, but how to do it in a way that avoids getting banned or restricted. And organizing something under that kind of worry is anything but easy. In the end,we start censoring ourselves. It reminds me of an experience from a festival years ago, where I was on the organizing committee. That time, the censorship came from an entirely different place: some sectarian leftist big shots. They wanted to request the setlists of a few of the musicians performing at the festival, especially the lesser-known ones, before the event. A few of us argued that such a request amounted to censorship and was simply wrong. Would they have made the same request if a famous band or musician had been on stage? Of course not. The groups pushing for setlists had two concerns: first, that some songs might not align with the \u201cspirit\u201d of the festival; second, fear of provoking a reaction from the state. If that was the case, perhaps we shouldn\u2019t have held the festival at all.<\/p>\n As it happened, a very well-known and widely loved musician was the closing act. No one would have dared ask them for a setlist. And then, the worst fears of the pro-censorship camp came true: the famous musician ended their performance with one of the very songs said to be \u201cagainst the spirit of the festival.\u201d Even though we didn\u2019t sing along, even if we didn\u2019t particularly like the song, those of us who had opposed censorship were pleased.<\/p>\n Because it\u2019s necessary to stand up to all forms of control and censorship.<\/p>\n There is, of course, much more to say on this subject… Sometimes I imagine a day without music. That we stripped music from advertisements, public spaces, films, births, deaths, weddings\u2014from life itself. I can\u2019t help but wonder what kind of world that would be. Perhaps what we need is to experience the absence of music. Such deprivation might better reveal its value, and we would come to see that music is intrinsic to life, and that it is sustained by an entire ecosystem and the people who labor within it. Unfortunately, no artist in any discipline can truly be said to be practicing their art if they have built their own walls of censorship, shaped by the constant pressures I described at the beginning. The more we fail to recognize this, the more we punish not only ourselves, but also our audiences. We are living through a time \u2013a critical juncture\u2013 when state censorship is no longer even necessary. Community pressure is more than enough. We are surrounded, but we have not surrendered, and we must not surrender. Perhaps the answer is to keepour focus on creation itself, and only look around after the work is complete. First and foremost, we should create for ourselves. Every day brings new proof that wondering \u201cWhat will others think?\u201d offers no real protection against censorship, or more accurately, against the urge to self-censor.<\/p>\n I am beginning the solution with myself, breaking the bones of my tongue and hands: I have long limited and censored myself as a music writer. In Turkey, we can\u2019t really speak of music criticism, because the community is so small. Any critique is often taken personally or seen as a low blow, even when that\u2019s not the intention. There is no real concept here of criticizing the work itself. In a sector that barely survives, the moment you start critiquing music, people make you regret it, and you are the one accused of jeopardizing someone\u2019s livelihood. There\u2019s also the issue of personal ties: if your income depends on managing artists, booking shows, or running a venue, you can\u2019t afford to fall out with musicians, managers, promoters, or venue owners. That\u2019s why you won\u2019t find any music writers in Turkey who don\u2019t self-censor, and why it is rare to come across a solid piece of music criticism. These are the main reasons I haven\u2019t written in this field for years. I have chosen not to write about it, I have chosen to look the other way, and in doing so, I have censored myself.<\/p>\n I would like to conclude with a quote from a manifesto by End Censorship in Arts, which I was involved with years ago. This manifesto was opened for signatures prior to the 3rd International Freemuse Conference in Istanbul:<\/p>\n \u201cWe, the undersigned, who work across various fields of culture and the arts, believe that censorship, retribution, and self-censorship form a \u2018triangle of evil\u2019, each reinforcing the other, and we reject all of them.\u201d<\/p>\n * Contraataques muy rabiosos, deberemos resistir! I cherry-picked the title of this article from the song \u201cAy Carmela!\u201d. We have been subjected to so much censorship and have internalized it so deeply that our counterattacks now target ourselves. Each of us carries our very own lovely little self-censorship.<\/em><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n References<\/strong><\/p>\n “As musicians, perhaps we never imagined our concerts would be cancelled simply for speaking out on social issues. Or that, as women musicians, what we wore on stage would not be up to us. We never thought we would have to compromise so much on our bodies, our voices, our lyrics, and our melodies”<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":1532,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[2754],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-1531","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-articles-interviews"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/susma24.com\/en\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1531","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/susma24.com\/en\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/susma24.com\/en\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/susma24.com\/en\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/susma24.com\/en\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1531"}],"version-history":[{"count":7,"href":"https:\/\/susma24.com\/en\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1531\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1567,"href":"https:\/\/susma24.com\/en\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1531\/revisions\/1567"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/susma24.com\/en\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/1532"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/susma24.com\/en\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1531"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/susma24.com\/en\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=1531"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/susma24.com\/en\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=1531"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}\n