Adnan Yılmaz writes: Neşet Ertaş within the Abdal tradition

Respectfully commemorating the Great Master on the 14th anniversary of his passing to the eternal realm..

When we hear the voice of Neşet Ertaş, are we merely listening to an artist? Or is there, behind that voice, an Anatolian memory that has been carried from tongue to tongue for centuries?

For years, I have found it insufficient to evaluate Neşet Ertaş solely through his individual life story and beloved folk songs. This approach narrows the historical continuity of the Türkmen Abdal tradition that raised him and the world of meaning in his art. To understand Neşet Ertaş in a holistic way, one must listen to his unique voice together with the oral culture and Sufi heritage passed down from his ancestors through generations.

Because Neşet Ertaş is not just an artist who sings folk songs; he is an Abdal bard who grew up within a deep-rooted tradition and added his own life and works to that tradition.

THE WORD REACHING FROM THE KOPUZ TO THE BOZLAK

The place of the bard carrying the kopuz in Dede Korkut narratives, and the meeting of word and faith with the language of the people around Hoca Ahmed Yesevi, show the distant historical traces of Anatolian minstrelsy. These traces should not be read as an uninterrupted lineage extending to today's Kırşehir Abdals, but rather within the cultural continuity that the word, the instrument, and the world of the heart have carried through generations.

The great ruptures of Anatolia in the 13th century are also part of this history. The Babai movement, the pressures and dispersals experienced by Turkmen communities, are not merely political events. They also pose the question of how people carried their beliefs, their poems, and the solidarity they established with one another into subsequent centuries. The names of Baba İlyas, Hacı Bektaş Veli, and Ahi Evran are mentioned alongside this turbulent social foundation of Anatolia.

The Abdâlân-ı Rûm (Abdals of Rum) mentioned by Âşıkpaşazâde is also important for us to understand this vast historical world. Instead of considering today's Kırşehir Abdals as the direct, unchanged continuation of this group, we should look at the meanings that the name "Abdal" and the tradition of minstrelsy acquired in Anatolia.

The world of poetry extending from Âşık Paşa to Yunus Emre, Pir Sultan Abdal, Karacaoğlan, and Dadaloğlu did not live only in written works. These words found a place in the memory, the instruments, and the daily lives of the people. The Kırşehir Abdals were among the carriers of that great accumulation.

THE VOICE OF KARACAOĞLAN AND DADALOĞLU

In my book Anatolian Abdals with the Kırşehir Example, I specifically included the relationship of Kırşehir Abdal masters with Karacaoğlan and Dadaloğlu. To think that Muharrem Ertaş, Çekiç Ali, or Hacı Taşan learned the poems of these bards only from a book is not enough to explain how the oral tradition lives.

The language of Karacaoğlan, which tells of love, beauty, and longing; the words of Dadaloğlu, which express the migration of the Avşars, the struggle for a homeland, and rebellion, were circulating in the memory of Turkmen communities. They were being sung again at a wedding, on a journey, or at a gathering of friends. Some lines would change, some melodies would take on a new form with the style of another master.

The Avşar Bozlağı echoing in the voice of Muharrem Ertaş is a powerful example of how Dadaloğlu's words continued to live in later generations. Neşet Ertaş also grew up in such an environment of words and sounds. What he heard from his father's instrument was not just a melody; it was a life narrative that had reached his own time from the past.

The nomadic life of the Abdals was decisive in this transmission. As they went from village to village, from wedding to wedding, they brought the folk songs they knew to new people; they carried the words they heard to other places with their own art. This is why we call them the cultural carriers of centuries.

DESIRING THE FOLK SONG BUT SCORNING THE ABDAL

Alongside this great cultural labor, it is also necessary to tell of the exclusion experienced by the Abdals. As I expressed in my book, Sunni fanaticism, which arose in Anatolia for various reasons, practically relegated the instrument and the folk song to the Abdals.

The negative view of playing, singing, and music held by strict religious interpretations of Arab and Persian origin, which were influential in Anatolia, played a role in the formation of this attitude. The Kadızadeler, who opposed the music and sema (whirling) adopted by Sufi circles, are one of the historical examples of this. Here, I am not referring to an entire community of faith, but to the fanaticism that kept folk culture and the people who kept it alive under pressure.

The social contradiction was clear: People wanted instruments, folk songs, and dance at their weddings. But there were also those who considered playing an instrument a sin or a shame and looked down on the Abdal who made this his profession. The Abdal's art was needed, yet he himself could be scorned in the same society. The fact that the name "Abdal" began to be used as a derogatory adjective over time is one of the traces of this exclusion in language.

Despite all this, the Kırşehir Abdals did not abandon the instrument and the word. Within a life extending from weddings to friendly gatherings, they heroically carried the folk culture of centuries to the present day. They did not just preserve the bozlaks, deyiş (hymns), and dance tunes; they gave them new life in every performance.

The Kırşehir Abdal masters did not chase after musical trends that flared up for a period and were soon forgotten. When works in other styles, including Arabesque, were requested at weddings or concerts, they took care not to deviate from their own performance traditions. It is possible to summarize this attitude as follows: "We have words and melodies that can make people cry, dance, and think; do not take us out of our own style." The coexistence of the heavy bozlak, the deyiş, and the dance tune was the richness of the culture they kept alive.

WISDOM PASSED FROM FATHER TO SON

The line extending from Bulduk Usta to Yusuf Usta, Muharrem Ertaş to Çekiç Ali and Hacı Taşan, is not just a list of famous artists. These names represent generations that passed words, melodies, and styles to one another.

We also see the wisdom-filled (irfani) aspect of this transmission in the following deyiş sung by Muharrem Ertaş:

Do not go and dig a pit for someone,

You will fall into it, do not stray from your path.

Do not reveal your secret to just anyone,

Unless they are a true friend to your promise...

Here, the word reminds us that doing evil to another will cause a person to fall into the pit they dug themselves; it advises moderation, trust, and loyalty to one's word. This moral and wise language living in the voice of Muharrem Ertaş is part of the tradition that also nourished Neşet Ertaş's understanding of "do not hurt a soul, do not hurt." What is passed from father to son is not just the melody of the bozlak, but an accumulated wisdom regarding how humans should treat one another.

Neşet Ertaş grew up in this life. He worked in wedding squares in his childhood; in the lines where he describes his own life, he also mentioned having bells attached to his fingers and being made to dance. In the past of the bard whom the whole country now commemorates with love, there are the experiences of an Abdal child who made a living with his labor. To understand the longing and the hurt in his voice, one must also see this life.

However, Neşet Ertaş did not merely repeat those before him. He added his own love, separation, poverty, and love for humanity to the bozlak heritage he received from his father, Muharrem Ertaş. The phrase "roots in the tradition of centuries, voice in his own era" in the title of the article I published previously described this characteristic of his. While speaking from within the tradition, he established a word and voice of his own.

MORE THAN A FOLK SINGER

The reason we do not evaluate Neşet Ertaş on the same scale as a popular folk singer is not to create a race of voice or success among artists. What explains Neşet Ertaş's position is his growing up within the Türkmen Abdal oral tradition; learning that heritage by living it, enriching it with his own works, and passing it on to future generations.

When we define him only by his fame, we leave Muharrem Ertaş, the previous masters, the world of words extending from Karacaoğlan to Dadaloğlu, and the Abdal community that kept those words alive in the background. Yet, the greatness of Neşet Ertaş lies in his ability to bring this historical accumulation together with his own originality.

Today, children strap instruments to their shoulders and sing his folk songs. In the face of the mentality that once left the instrument to the Abdals and scorned them, this image is meaningful in itself. However, we must tell children not only the name of Neşet Ertaş, but also through whose hands his instrument reached the present day.

The advice "Do not hurt a soul, do not hurt" on his tombstone expresses his understanding of humanity in a few words. Truly adopting this advice requires commemorating with respect the people who carried his folk songs for centuries while enjoying them.

Neşet Ertaş's voice rose from within a community that did not abandon its instrument even though it was scorned. He was a great Abdal bard who kneaded the oral and Sufi heritage he inherited from his ancestors with his own life and reached the people of his era.