Turkish Oud: Armenian Destiny

I am perhaps at that phase of life when one starts thinking about origin and descendence. In the past year I have published a number of essays (1,2) about my grandfather Karnig Kazandjian who survived the Armenian massacres in the early 1900 and from Konya to Damascus, then to Beirut where he started a new generation. As his first grandson, I have been greatly influenced by his history and posture to life. Last year I co-authored a book (3) where his survival is presented within the context of how the identity of a new generation is shaped consequent to massacres, exodus and the cloak of being an immigrant. Indeed, once one leaves his native land, one remains an immigrant no matter the new hospitality and acceptance.

And along with stories, photographs and writings, certain memorabilia, especially when linked to the story of becoming an immigrant, take on a special meaning.

One of these memorabilia is the Oud that belonged to my grandfather. It has a special meaning because my grandfather was a musician and he escaped the massacres of Armenians in Turkey by having admirers of his music, both Armenians and Turks. As a kid I was told that he took a few things with him, among them a watch and his Oud. When he arrived to Damascus, he received a warm welcome from people who knew him and was able to teach music to the kids of wealthy Syrians. Then he moved to Beirut where he raised his son (my father) and daughter and in the 1920’s was among the founders of the Lebanese Conservatory of Music. He remained at the conservatory till his death in 1968.

As a kid, I have seen him play the Oud and the violin. He used to place the violin on his thigh like a mini-viola and play. My father played the violin, but by placing it under his chin. It was always a funny thing for me as a kid to see them play together in such different ways.

There was one Oud, however, that I had never seen, as it was always wrapped in a quilt-like cloth. I was told it was grandpa’s special Oud, the one he brought with him from Konya. And, that the quilt-like cloth was made by my grandmother (who died before I was born) by stitching together remnants of cloth during the hard times.

… When my parents passed, I finally found that Oud. They lived their last 25 years of life in Paris and the Oud was kept, still in my grandmother’s quilt, in the garage. The rib was badly damaged, and the pegbox severed and hanging by the cords. When I first saw it coming out of the quilt I slowly unfolded, I had the impression of seeing a decapitated body. Perhaps symbolically that was correct.

But first, a few words about the Oud.

The Oud was created during the early Pharaonic era, and according to Farabi (a philosopher and music scholar of the early Islamic era) the Oud was invented by Lamech, the sixth grandson of Adam. The legend tells that when Lamech’s son died, in grieving he hung his son’s body from a tree. The first Oud is said to be inspired by the shape of his son’s bleached skeleton (4).

Wow! Quite a story.

The more recent history of the Oud is confined to the Middle East and Turkey. As such there are two types of Oud – Arabic and Turkish. The Arabic Oud is a bit longer and larger, but most importantly has a deeper tone due to the heavier wood used in its construction. The Turkish Oud is therefore shorter, and the lighter wood (historically spruce wood) gives it a more vibrato sound rather than the deeper, more romantic sound of its Arabic counterpart.

I am not an expert in Ouds but have heard enough variations during my childhood that the romantic vs the vibrato makes sense to me. However, I was delighted that there is a simple way of identifying a Turkish Oud: Where the fingerboard joins the soundboard, there is a small ornament that looks like an extension of the fingerboard that joins to a point as the picture below (5):

With all this new knowledge, I decided to learn about my grandfather’s Oud and perhaps about him.

First, the quilt. I do not know how old it is but definitely more than 60 years have passed since the remnants have been carefully sewn together.

Next, the Oud. As the picture shows, it is badly damaged. The soundboard is detached at many places from the ribs, and it is very brittle. “What can one expect from a 100 year old Oud wrapped in a quilt and transported from Turkey to Syria, then to Lebanon, then to France, to end up in the United States?” I convinced myself.

I felt confident that it is a Turkish Oud because of the ornament where the fingerboard joined the soundboard.

There are three soundholes, not ornate, but covered with etched wood. Overall the Oud seems very simple, with none of the mother-of-pearl inlays or exotic woods I have seen during my Internet search.  But amazingly, the pick my grandfather used to play the Oud is somehow stuck in the cords. The symbolism of that pick, as a virtual extension of my grandfather’s hand, made me wonder: am I the player now, telling the story of this instrument which, broken and cached away, vibrates a different vibe?

Then I peeped inside the larger soundhole. I could see a sticker with letters. My heart missed a beat, as I realized that this humble instrument may have a story kept in its tortured entrails for a century.
So, I decided to shine light into the soundhole. This is when the story unfolded!

The first thing I saw was a small Black & White picture, in the left corner. Then Arabic alphabet next to it. This Oud had a history to tell. So I got the light closer and here is what this tortured instrument revealed to me:

It was time to take a picture. With my 1970’s Micro-Nikkor 55mm lens I got closer to the soundhole.

There it was, a man from the past looking at me with one eye covered by the passage of time. Still, as a photographer my first thought was “How can a century old picture, hidden in the ribs of this Oud look so good?” Practically no yellowing, no cracks on that picture. What kind of paper did they use to withstand the passage and most inhospitable conditions in which this Oud had traveled from across three continents?

I looked closer. The writing is in Arabic alphabet as I would have expected from that era when Turkish was written with Arabic alphabet. There is damage to this part of the sticker, but still I could read “Oudi” as the first word. That can mean “Oud player” or “Oud maker”. I expected this as it is customary (minus the picture) to have the maker’s name specified inside old instruments.  What made me hold my breath was the name of the maker: NISHAN PROUDIAN! An Armenian.

At this point I was transported to a sphere of thought and feelings that perhaps a field anthropologist experiences. I was peeping through a hole of history.

Looking through my camera, I skipped a line and stopped on the Arabic numerals specifying a date. It read “1240” which is the Hijri calendar. I know enough about this calendar to realize that the history of this Oud may be different from what I thought. A quick Internet conversion of the Hijri to Gregorian calendar confirmed my initial thought:

The date on the sticker is 1824!

1824. Now all I thought I knew about the history of this Oud was changed. This Oud was made at least 50 years before my grandfather was born.
How did it end in his hands?

One more piece of the puzzle: my grandmother’s maiden name was PROUDIAN. But neither she nor my grandfather were born when this Oud seems to have been made. Was this a family heirloom of my grandmother? Is it just a coincidence? Were the Proudians famous Oud makers in Konya?

… April 24, 2015 is the 100th Commemoration and remembrance date of the Armenian Genocide. I hold in my hands a musical instrument made 90 years before the massacres that uprooted my grandfather from his birthplace. Yet it was this instrument (as I was told) that helped him survive the exodus and get enrooted in the Middle East.
And through the small soundhole of the Oud, a handsome man, Nishan Proudian is now looking at me. I do not know who he was, but I know he still has a story to tell me.

…And I recall a passage from Ezekiel 17:9 where uprooting a vine and enrooting it is described as:

Will this vine grow and prosper? No! I will pull it up, roots and all! I will cut off its fruit and let its leaves wither and die. I will pull it up easily without a strong arm or a large army”

And yet, the parable states that the vine was planted in good soil beside abundant waters, so that it might yield branches and bear fruit and become a splendid vine.

… My grandfather, and his Oud, was enrooted next to the abundant waters of the Mediterranean Sea, almost a century ago. And his grandson, now holding that Oud, continues to cherish that splendid vine.

©Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2015
March 21, 2015




   1. http://vahezen.blogspot.com/2014/07/ottoman-times-armenian-timemakers.html
   2. http://vahezen.blogspot.com/2015/01/the-spice-road-from-lebanon-to-mongolia.html
   3. http://vahezen.blogspot.com/2014/04/this-posting-will-be-different-from-my.html
   4. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oud
   5.  http://www.oudforguitarists.com/types-of-ouds-ultimate-oud-buyers-guide-1/

A Stone to Turn the Page

This morning I am thinking about headstones. The past two days’ full moon was spectacular upon the mountain where I am now.  Late at night I sat outside with my dog next to me looking at the moon and the stony mountain. At some point, while listening to the coyotes howling at the moon, its silvery light did cast a shadow below the countless rocks and boulders in the open field facing me. 

Perhaps it was the late night, but I thought of the mountain as a vast cemetery full of randomly dispersed headstones.

The sun is out now although I can still see the moon. Faded, still round, it shines no light upon my morning. It is its own headstone, for a few hours. And then, it will be back, reborn and dominant.

Between two sips of strong coffee, I realized that I did not know the origin of headstones. Like so many things, I have taken it for granted that humans always put a headstone upon the tomb of the dead. I have also used the symbolism of the headstone to define the end of an experience, of a feeling, or of an attempt. Like “turning the page”. 

But is that the case?  Can one also put a headstone upon the living? Upon an ongoing feeling? And, does “turning the page” always result in a better chapter of life?

… It seems that the origin of the headstone dates back to Judea, where it was customary to bury the dead and ask every mourner to place a stone upon the head of the grave. Over centuries that tradition became more socially institutionalized and the headstone turned into a marker of the tomb with information about the deceased. In other words, it became an immortalizer. A marker for the future more than of the past.

Interestingly, that tradition from Judea may not be peculiar to humans. It is said that when an elephant dies, members of the herd mourn and each brings a branch, even a small tree and place them upon the lifeless body. And today, many throw a flower upon the casket or the tomb. 

A universal gesture perhaps.

But to remember one often goes to grandiose efforts. After all if we want to remember it is because there was love, admiration, and that there were good times. Hence the ornate edifices upon certain tombs, called Stelae. These are more than headstones; they are veritable funerary art forms. 

Do we symbolically place a stele over memories as well to remember and let other generations learn about the good times we had? 

… A couple of decades ago I took pictures of stelae in the only Armenian cemetery in Singapore. In the middle of the city, the cemetery is next to a small chapel kept as a historical heritage. I do not think there are Armenians left in Singapore, but the graves of the passed generation are still there reminding us of times past and heritages respected. More, the stelae are carved in limestone, and the tropical weather of Singapore has joined the passage of time itself to erode and irreversibly blunt the sharp edges of passion, love and remembrance.

One stele attracted me because of the intense emotions the statue showed. Rain, wind, sun and time had further smoothened the stone and darkened its color. I stayed next to that headstone for a long while. The expression of the statue was so tender, so sad, so accepting.  

And then, as it is the case with the observation of what seems ordinary, I discovered an extraordinary detail: there was a toothbrush left near the hands of the statue! Now the expression of the statue seemed even more mysterious: why would anyone leave a toothbrush on that headstone?

… Many years have passed since I took that picture, but the symbolism of that toothbrush has stayed with me. Can one clean and efface the marks of time upon a headstone? Of the name of a person? Of memorable times under moonlight? Could a toothbrush symbolize our inability to keep up with the pace of the passage and our helplessness in reversing its ravages? 

I have chosen, placed and visited a number of headstones for the dear ones I lost. And, life has taken me around, from place to place, from people to new people and I have left these headstones lonesome. They somehow mark a time of my own passage rather than a place where a loved one was given back to the earth.

I have come to accept that a headstone is for the living not for the dead.

… This morning I am thinking about headstones. Not the ones I saw under the full moon atop a high mountain. But the headstones we put upon memories and feelings. 

And I am sure that when it is full moon again, I will sit outside with my dog next to me and look at the rocks and boulders casting a silvery shadow in moonlight. And I will then think what I think today: that one never really “turns a page” or buries the memory of good times. 

Instead, we celebrate, each in our own way, the kindness of that passage.

March 7, 2015

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2015