The Middle East’s Travelling Storyteller中东的吟游者

丽安农·J.戴维斯

They keep the story of the Kurdish1 people alive， strengthening Kurdish unity by recognising its struggle through its history and legends. 他們让库尔德人的传说流传于世，通过讲述历史和传说让人们认识到先辈的不易，增强民族凝聚力。

A low， throaty voice worked its way through the city of Diyarbakır2， reaching further than it had any right to. Even without understanding a word of Kurdish， I had no doubt about the sorrow it expressed through its mournful tones.

Regarded as the capital of Turkish Kurdistan， Diyarbakır （Amed in Kurdish） is perched on3 a bluff overlooking the turbulent Tigris River in south-eastern Turkey. I visited in summer when the heat was stifling， the surrounding countryside scorched yellow. The sun fell heavy on the city’s foreboding black basalt walls， which absorbed its warmth and radiated it back out again.

The city felt empty during the midday heat， but as evening shadows fell， a group of school kids tumbled down its winding streets kicking a flattened football. Head-scarved women shuffled home， pulling shopping carts overflowing with a rainbow of fresh market produce， the range of goods befitting Diyarbakır’s location in the Fertile Crescent4.

Following the sound I’d heard， I walked through the maze of Diyarbakır’s narrow， winding streets. I spied glimpses of life through archways that penetrated the black brick buildings and opened out onto courtyards. Fig and mulberry trees provided dappled shade. Cries of hawkers， barks of stray dogs and the beeps of car horns all bubbled up into the soundscape of the sun-baked city. Yet that lone sorrowful voice cut through it all， telling a story of love and loss， hope and despair.

Finally， I entered through an open archway into the Mala Dengbêjan5 （House of Dengbêj6）. Here， the smart， flagstone courtyard of a beautifully restored， century-old house was the stage， stalls and gallery of an open-air theatre.

The sadness in this voice that emanated7 from here is echoed in the city’s uneasy past. The area once known as Kurdistan8 was divided between Syria， Iraq， Turkey and Iran in a secret agreement between the British and French in 1916. In this stateless nation of between 25-35 million people， it is the strength of their traditions， language， culture and shared history that bind them together.

Ever since the establishment of the Republic of Turkey in 1923， Kurdish language and culture have had to fight to survive oppression and policies of assimilation as the capital Ankara tried to unify the newly formed country， while Kurds fought for their own state.

In the courtyard of the Mala Dengbêjan， mismatched chairs were available for visitors. In the back of the courtyard a dozen men sat in a loose circle. A stout man in a striped shirt and flat cap with a thick moustache was narrating his story; a half-spoken， half-sung acapella epic.

His voice filled the space， more a sung poem than a song. The distinct phrases were punctuated by pauses， with some notes held， other words repeated. He was truly a master of his voice， varying its pitch for dramatic effect. The audience listened intently， some raising their hands in appreciation or gesticulating to emphasize the points along with him.

The term dengbêj （pronounced deng-bay） is a Kurdish term that can be translated as ‘master of the voice’ made from the words deng （voice） and bêj （from the verb， ‘to say’） and refers to both to the performers and to the art itself.

The perpetuators traditionally are travelling storytellers that keep Kurdish history and legends alive.

The dengbêj tradition suffered under Turkish oppression. Expressions of Kurdish culture and language were associated with Kurdish separatism， feared by the Turkish state. Between 1983 and 1991， speaking Kurdish in public was officially banned and owning Kurdish literature or a tape of Kurdish music was a criminal offence. However， the tradition of dengbêj never died.

“I think the dengbêj art survived because the majority of Kurds used to live in rural areas，” explained Hanifi Barış， a Kurdish academic from the University of Aberdeen who has carried out research on this subject. “Gatherings at guesthouses， the house of a notable person or the house of the dengbêj was common cultural practice in the long winter nights in Kurdistan. I grew up in such a house.”

In the early years of the 21st Century， Kurdish-Turkish relations went through a period of improvement. In 2004， Ankara allowed the limited use of Kurdish language in state broadcasts; in 2009， the state television launched a Kurdish language channel; and in 2012， school were granted permission to teach Kurdish as an elective subject.

The Mala Dengbêjan opened in 2007 as an attempt by the pro-Kurdish municipality to help both revive and recognise dengbêj as a specifically Kurdish tradition.

The recital songs—known as kilams9—often focus on love or war， heroes or traitors， and the divisions and relationships between different Kurdish factions. They keep the story of the Kurdish people alive， strengthening Kurdish unity by recognising its struggle through its history and legends.

“Dengbêj songs can arouse emotions in me that no other music can，” Barış said. “Maybe it is because I listened to my parents singing them with great emotion. Maybe it’s because I’ve been exposed to the emotions they trigger in people since a young age. I am not sure why they do so， but they do nevertheless.”

Baran Çetin grew up in one such village in the mountains of the east of Turkey， not far from the border with Armenia10. His uncle， a dengbêj， learned the art from his father， who learned from his father before him.

“When I listen to dengbêjs， I find myself right in the moment that they are singing about. It represents all aspects of life. You can feel hope， joy and melancholy all at once，” he explained， using the Turkish word hüzün11 for the latter emotion.

The Nobel Prize-winning Turkish author Orhan Pamuk12 has written about hüzün， describing it as something more than melancholy; a feeling of loss that also provides a poetic licence to feel that way. “It is the absence， not the presence， of hüzün that causes the sufferer distress，” Pamuk wrote in his book Istanbul： Memories and the City. “It is the failure to experience hüzün that leads him to feel it.”

I lost track of time as I sat in the Mala Dengbêjan. Each bard that took the floor led the listeners on a different journey through the chronicles of Kurdish history. Even without comprehending a word， I was swept up in the stories. For the first time， I understood what Pamuk meant by his description of hüzün. Recent years of Kurdish history may be characterised by melancholy， but at the same time， there is hope. By continuing to recount these stories， passed down orally from one master to the next， dengbêjs will keep Kurdish culture alive.

一個低沉沙哑的声音穿过迪亚巴克尔这座城市，传到了遥不可及的远方。即便不懂库尔德语，我也确信这语调中表达出了悲伤之意。

迪亚巴克尔市是土耳其库尔德的首府（在库尔德语中叫作Amed），坐落于土耳其东南部的悬崖峭壁之上，俯瞰波涛汹涌的底格里斯河。我到访的时候适逢夏季，天气炎热得令人窒息，四周的田野在烈日的炙烤下，变得一片焦黄。太阳狠狠地晒着黑色玄武岩墙壁，但墙壁吸收了它的热度，又将它辐射出去。

正午时分，天气炎热，整座城市空无一人，但随着夜幕降临，一群放学的孩子涌向弯曲的街道，争先恐后地踢着泄气的足球。迪亚巴克尔市位于肥沃月湾，物产丰富。裹着头巾的女人们拖着步子回家，推着购物车，里面塞满从市场买回来的各色新鲜产品。

循着声音，我穿过迪亚巴克尔迷宫似的蜿蜒狭窄的街道。穿过黑砖建筑的拱门，里面是一个庭院，可窥见几眼这里的生活场景。无花果和桑树洒下一片斑驳的树荫。小贩的叫卖声、流浪狗的吠叫声以及汽车喇叭的警笛声，各种喧嚣萦绕着这座被太阳炙烤的城市，然而那戚戚感伤的嗓音却刺破一切，为你讲述着爱与失、希望与绝望的故事。

最后，我穿过拱门到了马拉登北降，这是栋精心修复的百年老房子，有一个石板庭院。庭院是个露天的剧场，舞台、正厅、楼座一应俱全。

从这里传出的沙哑吟唱声带着悲伤，唱出这座城市动荡艰辛的过往。1916年，在英法两国达成的秘密协议下，叙利亚、伊拉克、土耳其和伊朗四国瓜分了当时被称为库尔德斯坦的这片土地。库尔德人的传统、语言、文化和共同的历史将这个拥有2500 万至3500 万人口的无国家民族有力地凝聚起来。

自从1923年土耳其共和国建立以来，土政府就试图统一这个新建立的国家，但库尔德人奋力抵抗，争取独立，库尔德的语言和文化不得不在同化政策和压迫下求生。

在马拉登北降的庭院中有一些拼凑起来的椅子供游客休息。庭院后方围坐着十几个男人。一个身穿条纹衬衫、头戴鸭舌帽、胡须浓密的壮硕男人正在讲故事;他时而平静地说着，时而又唱了起来，好似一出无伴奏的史诗表演。

他的声音萦绕着整个院子，这不是歌唱的声音，而是诗歌的吟唱。诗句节奏分明，时而停顿，时而重复，抑扬顿挫。他是真正的声音大师，为了制造戏剧效果，变换不同的音调。观众听得十分投入，有的举手表达欣赏之情，有的随他的节奏打手势。

Dengbêj（发音是deng-bay）是一个库尔德词汇，由deng（意为“声音”）和bêj（动词，意为 “说”）组成，因此这个詞可以翻译成“声音大师”，既指表演者，也指代这种艺术本身。

这些一边游历一边讲述故事的人则是传统意义上的不朽者，正是因为他们，库尔德的历史和传说才得以传世不朽。

在土耳其的镇压下，吟游这一传统已岌岌可危。库尔德文化和语言的表达方式都和库尔德的分裂紧密相关，因此土耳其政府对其颇为忌讳。1983年到1991年，政府下令严禁在公共场合说库尔德语，持有库尔德文学书籍和音乐带都算犯法。尽管如此，吟游的传统还是保留了下来。

“我认为吟游文化存活下来的原因是大部分库尔德人过去都住在乡村地区。”亚伯丁大学的库尔德学者哈尼菲·巴里在这一领域做过研究，他这样解释道，“在库尔德漫长的冬夜，大家齐聚在小农舍、名流之家或吟游诗人的房子里都是常见的习俗。我就是在这种房子里长大的。”

21世纪初，库尔德和土耳其的关系有所改善。2004年土政府允许在国家广播中使用部分库尔德语;2009年，土耳其国家电视台开通了第一个库尔德语频道;2012年，学校开设了库尔德语选修课。

2007年，支持库尔德民族的迪亚巴克尔市政府为了复兴和保留吟游文化并将它作为库尔德的一个特别传统，兴建了马拉登北降。

他们唱诵的诗歌（kilam）主题通常都是爱或战争、英雄或叛徒以及库尔德不同派系之间的恩怨情仇。这些诗歌让库尔德人的传说流传于世，通过讲述历史和传说让人们认识到先辈的不易，增强民族凝聚力。

“和别的音乐不同，吟游的诗歌能唤醒我内心深处的感情。”巴里说道，“也许是我曾听过父母饱含深情地唱诵。也许是我从小便浸染在这种感情中。我不懂他们为什么如此饱含深情地咏唱，但他们就是如此。”

巴兰·采廷就生长于土耳其东部山脉的村庄，离亚美尼亚交界处不远。他的叔叔是吟游诗人，这门手艺是从他父亲那里传下来的，父亲又是从爷爷那儿学来的，祖祖辈辈，代代相传。

他解释道：“当听到吟游诗人演唱时，我感觉自己就置身于歌里的场景，它是形形色色的生活。你能同时感受到希望、快乐和悲伤。”最后一个词他用的是土耳其语hüzün（呼愁）。

诺贝尔获奖者、土耳其作家奥尔罕·帕慕克曾描写过“呼愁”，他认为这不只是一种忧郁的情绪。怅然若失，只能用诗句抒发胸臆。“不幸的源头并非感伤，而是感受不到悲伤，”帕慕克在他的书《伊斯坦布尔：一座城市的记忆》中写道。“由于没能体会到‘悲伤’，才让他踏上了寻觅之路。”

我坐在马拉登北降时，时间仿佛被遗忘了。每一个席地而坐的吟游诗人都带听众领略了一番库尔德历史的精彩。即使不懂一语，我还是被带入了故事的世界。我终于第一次懂得了帕慕克书中hüzün的意义。库尔德近几年的历史都蒙上了一层忧郁，但同时希望也存在。只要吟游诗人日复一日、口口相传地讲述这些故事，库尔德文化便会永远存在。

（译者单位：江西师范大学）