by Adam Grode '05
Baku, Azerbaijan. Beams of morning sunshine pierce through the blinds of my bedroom window as the mullah from the adjacent mosque bellows the first of five daily calls to prayer. In this fleeting moment between dreams and consciousness, the mullah's song, or azan, transports me without fail back to Istanbul, where just a few weeks ago, I first awoke to the same sounds amplified for miles in every direction from the famous Blue Mosque. There is no snooze button on this Islamic alarm clock and I have little choice but to begin the day.
A former republic of Soviet Union, Azerbaijan still retains numerous fixtures of its socialist past. After rolling out of bed, I walk through my nakhalstroi apartment, to the sushabund: an Azeri term for the balcony juxtaposing the main entrance. During Soviet times, obtaining residential building permits was next to impossible. Instead, all the able-bodied neighborhood men for a single night worked together so by daybreak their people could live. Forming a horseshoe of two-storied nakhalstrois, called a hayat evi, I step out onto my sushabund and witness in the communal yard a microcosm of Azeri culture.
At the moment, schools and universities are still on vacation. This quickly becomes apparent as Fatima and Ali, two local eight year-olds, vociferously play with soccer balls and alley cats. On the sidelines, a retired woman, still in her floral sleeping gown, is hand-cleaning two oversized Oriental carpets, rhythmically going back and forth scrubbing soap into one and wringing water out of the other. From my left, Fatima's mother, Nudar, yells at full throttle to return for breakfast- now I see where the child gets it from. Nudar then releases her glare, glances in my general direction and softly asks in Russian if I would care to join them. As a new resident to our hayat evi, I most graciously agree.
Breakfast throughout Azerbaijan is more or less uniform yet indeed a filling meal. After finding my seat on their sushabond table, Nudar fixes me a cup of black chai and adds three hearty spoonfuls of raspberry preservative which is not exactly whole berries or a runny jam, but does lend a delightful taste to the tea. She then places a Frisbee-sized loaf of light-brown bread which bears the euphemistic title of zavod choreyi, or factory bread. Using our hands, we take turns tearing off pieces from the loaf to add to our liking, slices of butter, scoops of honey and crumbly pieces of qoyun pedizi: a white and salty lamb cheese. Noticing the time, I finish my tea and thank my neighbors for another pleasant breakfast. After returning home, I scramble to collect my things and make for the door.
Whenever I leave the house, I routinely take with me the same series of items: my research journal and digital camera, a baseball hat, a pair of sunglasses, and lastly, a small bottle of hand-sanitizer. Yet when I cross this threshold from Monday to Friday, I have hanging from my shoulder by far the most important item of all — the Azeri saz: a long-necked lute featuring nine metallic strings grouped in three sympathetic sets and a hollow, pear-shaped body. Struck vigorously with a thin, wax pick, the saz is synonymous with one of the most fascinating and significant figures in Azeri society: the ashiq.
Literally meaning “a person fallen in love,” an ashiq, documented first in the 11th century, historically has embodied a myriad of cultural functions. More than a mere musician, an ashiq is a bard of epic poetry, a chronicler of national history and a teacher of virtue to the entire community. In recent times, however, the number of ashiqs in Azerbaijan face has decreased dramatically and despite efforts to unionize, their artistic development and performance-practice is bound to private lessons, wedding recitals and concert ensembles.
In Azerbaijan, my sole mission is to become an ashiq within three months, when I must leave for Kazakhstan. After getting situated in my downtown apartment, I walked over to the National Music Conservatory and spoke to the Director of International Relations about my plans in Baku. I passed the Conservatory Director's oral admission interview and almost at once, I was introduced to Ashiq Mubariz Aleyiv.
A native to Kedebek Province, Ashiq Mubariz is trained in the Western Azerbaijani saz styles. In the opening moments of first lessons, Mubariz expressively tells me that the saz is the gift of Allah to the people of Azerbaijan. Our first song, written in the 19th century, is titled Dilgami. Each of its three stanzas follows the same 11-11-11-13 syllable pattern called a goshma. The story describes a talented village boy, Dilgam, who falls in love at the age of 16 with a beautiful girl from his village. The girl's father forbids the marriage and Dilgam is crushed. That night, he dreams that Allah comes and gives him the ability to play heavenly music and celestial poetry. Dilgam awakes, and, resting beside his bed, he finds a saz. Leaving his home, Dilgam wanders the countryside singing of his heartbreak until his death 20 years later.
In the afternoons following my lesson, I head across the street toward the boulevard that lines the Bakuvian coast of the Caspian Sea. Under the shade of a birch tree, I spend the afternoon practicing the newest additions in my repertoire, transcribing the day's events in my journal and people-watching the scores of passersby. When my legs start to cramp, I know it is time to begin the customary “long walk home.” Never taking the same route twice, this seemingly minor exercise not only ameliorates my directional sense around town but reveals a character to Baku not found along the inundated pedestrian promenade.
By dusk, my stomach growls and since Azeri cuisine is as ubiquitous as it is affordable, the dinner selection quickly narrows down to either minced-lamb-meat kebab, whole-lamb-meat kebab or dark-chicken-meat kebab (lula, tika and toyuq kebabi, respectively). No matter which kebab I fancy, the standard compliments include sliced cucumbers and tomatoes with chopped parsley and radish, in addition to a basket brimming with factory bread, of course. A cup of tea is served piping hot and typically doesn't settle until the meal is halfway finished. With no spoon in sight to sweeten the tea, it is customary to place a cube of sugar either between your teeth or under your tongue. Stuffed on kebab, I pay the bill, thank my server and slowly stroll home arriving just in time to hear the evening azan.
It is hard to believe that just over a month has passed since I first began this musical odyssey. No matter where this road will take me, I would not be here today if I didn't take a chance applying for the Watson Fellowship last fall.
To the students even remotely contemplating applying for the Watson, either this year or in the years to come I offer three simple pieces of advice: read everything on the Watson website; plan your proposal down to the last hour and dollar; and, lastly, don't be afraid to go after something that isn't your major or future job. Globetrotter Bruce Northam, affirms, “Traveling isn't going where you want, it's wanting to be where you already are. If you find a path with no obstacles, it probably doesn't lead any where. Life is like photography: We use the negatives to develop.”
Union's 44th Watson Fellow, Adam Grode '05 graduated with an Organizing Theme major in Eurasian Studies, a minor in History and a recipient of the John Iwanik Prize in Russian. To contact him, email grodea@alumni.union.edu.