麗安農(nóng)·J.戴維斯

They keep the story of the Kurdish1 people alive， strengthening Kurdish unity by recognising its struggle through its history and legends. 他們讓庫爾德人的傳說流傳于世，通過講述歷史和傳說讓人們認(rèn)識到先輩的不易，增強(qiáng)民族凝聚力。

A low， throaty voice worked its way through the city of Diyarbak?r2， 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， Diyarbak?r （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 Diyarbak?r’s location in the Fertile Crescent4.

Following the sound I’d heard， I walked through the maze of Diyarbak?r’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 Bar??， 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，” Bar?? 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 ?etin 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.

一個低沉沙啞的聲音穿過迪亞巴克爾這座城市，傳到了遙不可及的遠(yuǎn)方。即便不懂庫爾德語，我也確信這語調(diào)中表達(dá)出了悲傷之意。

迪亞巴克爾市是土耳其庫爾德的首府（在庫爾德語中叫作Amed），坐落于土耳其東南部的懸崖峭壁之上，俯瞰波濤洶涌的底格里斯河。我到訪的時候適逢夏季，天氣炎熱得令人窒息，四周的田野在烈日的炙烤下，變得一片焦黃。太陽狠狠地曬著黑色玄武巖墻壁，但墻壁吸收了它的熱度，又將它輻射出去。

正午時分，天氣炎熱，整座城市空無一人，但隨著夜幕降臨，一群放學(xué)的孩子涌向彎曲的街道，爭先恐后地踢著泄氣的足球。迪亞巴克爾市位于肥沃月灣，物產(chǎn)豐富。裹著頭巾的女人們拖著步子回家，推著購物車，里面塞滿從市場買回來的各色新鮮產(chǎn)品。

循著聲音，我穿過迪亞巴克爾迷宮似的蜿蜒狹窄的街道。穿過黑磚建筑的拱門，里面是一個庭院，可窺見幾眼這里的生活場景。無花果和桑樹灑下一片斑駁的樹蔭。小販的叫賣聲、流浪狗的吠叫聲以及汽車?yán)鹊木崖暎鞣N喧囂縈繞著這座被太陽炙烤的城市，然而那戚戚感傷的嗓音卻刺破一切，為你講述著愛與失、希望與絕望的故事。

最后，我穿過拱門到了馬拉登北降，這是棟精心修復(fù)的百年老房子，有一個石板庭院。庭院是個露天的劇場，舞臺、正廳、樓座一應(yīng)俱全。

從這里傳出的沙啞吟唱聲帶著悲傷，唱出這座城市動蕩艱辛的過往。1916年，在英法兩國達(dá)成的秘密協(xié)議下，敘利亞、伊拉克、土耳其和伊朗四國瓜分了當(dāng)時被稱為庫爾德斯坦的這片土地。庫爾德人的傳統(tǒng)、語言、文化和共同的歷史將這個擁有2500 萬至3500 萬人口的無國家民族有力地凝聚起來。

自從1923年土耳其共和國建立以來，土政府就試圖統(tǒng)一這個新建立的國家，但庫爾德人奮力抵抗，爭取獨(dú)立，庫爾德的語言和文化不得不在同化政策和壓迫下求生。

在馬拉登北降的庭院中有一些拼湊起來的椅子供游客休息。庭院后方圍坐著十幾個男人。一個身穿條紋襯衫、頭戴鴨舌帽、胡須濃密的壯碩男人正在講故事;他時而平靜地說著，時而又唱了起來，好似一出無伴奏的史詩表演。

他的聲音縈繞著整個院子，這不是歌唱的聲音，而是詩歌的吟唱。詩句節(jié)奏分明，時而停頓，時而重復(fù)，抑揚(yáng)頓挫。他是真正的聲音大師，為了制造戲劇效果，變換不同的音調(diào)。觀眾聽得十分投入，有的舉手表達(dá)欣賞之情，有的隨他的節(jié)奏打手勢。

Dengbêj（發(fā)音是deng-bay）是一個庫爾德詞匯，由deng（意為“聲音”）和bêj（動詞，意為 “說”）組成，因此這個詞可以翻譯成“聲音大師”，既指表演者，也指代這種藝術(shù)本身。

這些一邊游歷一邊講述故事的人則是傳統(tǒng)意義上的不朽者，正是因?yàn)樗麄儯瑤鞝柕碌臍v史和傳說才得以傳世不朽。

在土耳其的鎮(zhèn)壓下，吟游這一傳統(tǒng)已岌岌可危。庫爾德文化和語言的表達(dá)方式都和庫爾德的分裂緊密相關(guān)，因此土耳其政府對其頗為忌諱。1983年到1991年，政府下令嚴(yán)禁在公共場合說庫爾德語，持有庫爾德文學(xué)書籍和音樂帶都算犯法。盡管如此，吟游的傳統(tǒng)還是保留了下來。

“我認(rèn)為吟游文化存活下來的原因是大部分庫爾德人過去都住在鄉(xiāng)村地區(qū)?！眮啿〈髮W(xué)的庫爾德學(xué)者哈尼菲·巴里在這一領(lǐng)域做過研究，他這樣解釋道，“在庫爾德漫長的冬夜，大家齊聚在小農(nóng)舍、名流之家或吟游詩人的房子里都是常見的習(xí)俗。我就是在這種房子里長大的?！?/p>

21世紀(jì)初，庫爾德和土耳其的關(guān)系有所改善。2004年土政府允許在國家廣播中使用部分庫爾德語;2009年，土耳其國家電視臺開通了第一個庫爾德語頻道;2012年，學(xué)校開設(shè)了庫爾德語選修課。

2007年，支持庫爾德民族的迪亞巴克爾市政府為了復(fù)興和保留吟游文化并將它作為庫爾德的一個特別傳統(tǒng)，興建了馬拉登北降。

他們唱誦的詩歌（kilam）主題通常都是愛或戰(zhàn)爭、英雄或叛徒以及庫爾德不同派系之間的恩怨情仇。這些詩歌讓庫爾德人的傳說流傳于世，通過講述歷史和傳說讓人們認(rèn)識到先輩的不易，增強(qiáng)民族凝聚力。

“和別的音樂不同，吟游的詩歌能喚醒我內(nèi)心深處的感情?！卑屠镎f道，“也許是我曾聽過父母飽含深情地唱誦。也許是我從小便浸染在這種感情中。我不懂他們?yōu)槭裁慈绱孙柡钋榈卦伋麄兙褪侨绱?。?/p>

巴蘭·采廷就生長于土耳其東部山脈的村莊，離亞美尼亞交界處不遠(yuǎn)。他的叔叔是吟游詩人，這門手藝是從他父親那里傳下來的，父親又是從爺爺那兒學(xué)來的，祖祖輩輩，代代相傳。

他解釋道：“當(dāng)聽到吟游詩人演唱時，我感覺自己就置身于歌里的場景，它是形形色色的生活。你能同時感受到希望、快樂和悲傷?！弊詈笠粋€詞他用的是土耳其語hüzün（呼愁）。

諾貝爾獲獎?wù)?、土耳其作家奧爾罕·帕慕克曾描寫過“呼愁”，他認(rèn)為這不只是一種憂郁的情緒。悵然若失，只能用詩句抒發(fā)胸臆。“不幸的源頭并非感傷，而是感受不到悲傷，”帕慕克在他的書《伊斯坦布爾：一座城市的記憶》中寫道。“由于沒能體會到‘悲傷’，才讓他踏上了尋覓之路?！?/p>

我坐在馬拉登北降時，時間仿佛被遺忘了。每一個席地而坐的吟游詩人都帶聽眾領(lǐng)略了一番庫爾德歷史的精彩。即使不懂一語，我還是被帶入了故事的世界。我終于第一次懂得了帕慕克書中hüzün的意義。庫爾德近幾年的歷史都蒙上了一層憂郁，但同時希望也存在。只要吟游詩人日復(fù)一日、口口相傳地講述這些故事，庫爾德文化便會永遠(yuǎn)存在。

（譯者單位：江西師范大學(xué)）