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Narrated by Elif Aydın  It doesn’t matter where it begins or ends; culture has always been in motion, circulating across time and space. Through centuries of travel, stories echo familiar tunes, layered with unique nuances that each place, each life, brings. What emerges is a tapestry of shared roots, woven anew with every telling, making it wholly distinctive.
This time, our journey takes us to the northeastern corner of Turkey, to the Black Sea region, where we greet a forgotten tradition that once marked this season with singular charm: Kalandar celebrations. The name may sound peculiar, even harsh, to Turkish ears, but it stems from the Latin word calandae, meaning “the first day of the month.” Unlike the global New Year festivities we know, the people of Trabzon and its surrounding villages celebrated their New Year’s Eve on January 13th, with January 14th marking the first day of the year, according to the local calendar. This tradition, believed to date back to the era of the Pontic Greek Kingdom, bears a striking resemblance to Halloween with its costumes, merriment, and the collection of fruits, corn, and nuts from neighbours. But Kalandar is no mere imitation—it is rooted in ancient pagan practices, a ritual of renewal. In the heart of January, as the land began to stir from winter’s deepest chill and snow began to melt, communities would gather to honour nature’s awakening. It was a celebration of survival, a farewell to darkness, and a plea for abundance, protection, and togetherness. The festivities often evoke comparisons to the Dionysian festivals of antiquity. Like the rites of the wine god, Kalandar rituals celebrate the rebirth of nature and the promise of fertility. The key element? Costumes. Everyone dressed up, transforming themselves in elaborate, playful disguises. One of the central elements of the celebration was a dramatic performance known as “Karakoncolos” or “Momoyer.” Villagers, accompanied by rhymes, songs, and chants, went door to door, beginning at the home of the eldest member of the community. Children left cloth bags filled with fruits, walnuts, and hazelnuts at the doors, and the hosts replaced them with offerings of their own. Later, the children collected their bags, now brimming with new treats, and all the gathered bounty was brought to the village square. Here, a great fire was lit, and the community feasted together. Corn, the region’s abundant crop, took centre stage, symbolising prosperity with its many kernels. Pumpkins, another local staple, were roasted and shared. Similar rituals of abundance appear across cultures: in Turkey’s Aegean coast, pomegranates are smashed; in Spain, grapes are eaten; and in parts of Italy, lentils mark the promise of the year to come. The night crescendoed in theatrical dances led by the youth. Children and young adults transformed themselves into “Karakoncolos,” a dark and fearsome creature whose name, in Romeika, means “mountain man” or “bear.” They donned animal skins, painted their faces black, tied cowbells to their waists, and unravelled their hair, embodying the mythical figure as they danced and celebrated into the night. The celebration of Kalandar, with its colorful costumes, lively rituals, and deep roots in ancient practices, shows us the beauty of how traditions evolve. Similar customs across Europe, like Momoeria in Greece or pomegranate-smashing in Turkey’s Aegean coast, highlight how different communities share the same hopes for renewal, abundance, and togetherness. Kalandar isn’t just a glimpse into the past; it’s a story of how people have always celebrated life and nature’s cycles. It reminds us that traditions are alive, constantly shaped by the people who carry them forward. Each celebration adds a new thread to the tapestry, ensuring these rituals remain a source of connection and inspiration for generations to come.
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Narrated by Ece Karakaş  Basiani Ensemble ©️ Badri Vadachkoria When I visited Tbilisi this past August, I was excited to explore Georgia’s rich cultural and artistic landscape. Unfortunately, I hadn’t realized that many government cultural centers would be closed due to the national holiday. Despite this, I still enjoyed exploring the local cuisine, museums, and historic churches, though I felt like I missed out on part of the experience I hoped for. Once I got home, I started looking into Georgian cultural heritage online, curious about what I hadn’t been able to see in person. As a cultural anthropologist, I was especially interested in learning about Georgia’s intangible culture, which is how I came across polyphonic singing.
Linguistically, polyphony means multiple voices singing independent melodies simultaneously, with each voice contributing to a rich, harmonious whole. This style of singing appears in various cultures around the world and in Georgia, polyphonic singing dates back to at least the 4th century, pre-dating Christianism. Over the centuries, Georgia’s regions have developed distinct styles of singing, each adding a unique voice to this enchanting musical tradition. In Svaneti, the highland region, singers practice a complex and darker style, while in Kakheti, located in Eastern Georgia, singers favor lighter and melodic tones. Western Georgia, on the other hand, often features three-part harmonies, with singers partially improvising. An additional fact, for those who don’t speak Georgian—including myself—is that each song revolves around a different theme. In Georgia, singing is a central communal activity and throughout generations, Georgians have incorporated polyphonic singing into every aspect of life—from harvesting and celebrations to battles and funerals—making it an integral part of their everyday lives. This tradition is also a prominent feature of Georgian feasts known as supras, where communal singing forms a crucial element of hospitality and dining culture. Songs like Chakrulo tell the story of men preparing for battle, embodying their determination to protect their homeland and loved ones. Chakrulo is not only celebrated within the world of polyphonic singing but has also gained a special place in the broader musical sphere. It was one of 27 tracks chosen for the Voyager Golden Records in 1977, launched into space to symbolize the “music of Earth.” Another example would be the Naduri songs, considered as Georgia's field-working songs, capturing the sounds of physical labor in their melodies. Last but not least is the joyful Alilo, a song celebrating health, happiness and prosperity. Taking place on January 7th, Alilo is a Christmas tradition in Georgia, similar to Halloween’s trick-or-treating, where carolers sing together on the streets and visit homes where the hosts offer them gifts, such as sweets and food—like eggs, which symbolize fertility. Together, these styles and themes create a musical map of Georgia, reflecting its regional diversity and oral history. Today, like many other elements of intangible cultural heritage, traditional songs face the risk of being forgotten or, at best, not being passed down to future generations due to the rapid changes in the popular music culture. As a result, Georgian polyphonic singing has become a key focus of local and national conservation programs, and in 2008, it was recognized by UNESCO as a masterpiece of the oral and intangible heritage of humanity, highlighting its cultural significance. Yet, it would be inaccurate to say that polyphonic singing is unpopular among Georgians or even beyond Georgia’s borders. Traditional choirs and ensembles like Basiani Ensemble, Shvidkatsa, The Rustavi Choir, and Gori Women’s Choir are well-respected, while contemporary Georgian singers like Iriao, the ethno-jazz group who represented Georgia at the 2018 Eurovision Contest, and the women-led Trio Mandili are blending traditional singing with modern influences. If you ever find yourself in Georgia, you can experience these performances live in various settings—from restaurants and churches to national theaters, and as mentioned above, Christmas celebrations. If you’ve been to Georgia and missed out on some cultural experiences like me due to national holidays or lack of research skills, you can still enjoy these beautifully sung songs online; starting from this curated Spotify Playlist. Narrated by Lorenzo Venezia and Irene Reyes Suero  From October 6 to 8, 2024, the European Students’ Association for Cultural Heritage (ESACH) had the honour of participating in the European Cultural Heritage Summit in Bucharest. Organised by Europa Nostra and co-funded by the Creative Europe Programme of the European Union, the summit was an inspiring journey that celebrated the values of cultural heritage for Europe and deepened our commitment to youth engagement. This year’s summit gave us so many opportunities to play a part in the evolving conversation around cultural heritage. In this sense, we are grateful to Europa Nostra for their support in making this opportunity possible. During the four days, we had the chance to participate in events that echoed the shared passion of cultural advocates from across Europe, from the prestigious European Heritage Awards Ceremony to the thought-provoking European Heritage Policy Agora. Yet, for the ESACH team, our biggest highlight was having the chance to bring our own voice to the table by organising the Youth Forum - a pre-summit event created by and for young heritage professionals. The Youth Forum was our chance to show just how powerful youth-led initiatives can be. The event featured three dynamic panels and eighteen speakers, and we reflected on the role of young people in driving digital, social, and economic transformations within the heritage sector. The Youth Forum was organised by the European Students’ Association for Cultural Heritage (ESACH) and Europa Nostra in the frame of its network project European Cultural Heritage Agora co-funded by the EU Creative Europe programme. The event received the support of the Romanian NGO “Heritage for the Future” and the National Institute of Heritage. For us, being part of this pre-event was an incredible experience. It gave us the chance to learn from and connect with other professionals who are just as passionate about heritage as we are. Getting to exchange ideas with such a like-minded crowd was really inspiring!  Furthermore, this Youth Forum marked a significant milestone for ESACH members, as it largest in-person ESACH event co-organised to date, offering a crucial platform for the young voices in the sector. As young heritage professionals from across Europe and abroad came together, we realized that we were not just attendees at this summit; we were part of a movement that bridges generations, connects regions, and envisions a sustainable future for heritage. Beyond the forum, ESACH members took part in a variety of summit sessions, each one sparking new ideas and opening dialogues with numerous stakeholders. Discussions ranged widely and every interaction became a learning experience, and every panel or workshop felt like an open invitation to engage deeply with some of the field's most pressing issues. One of the summit’s most memorable moments for our team was when ESACH member and editor, Lorenzo Venezia, shared his personal journey as a young heritage practitioner during the European Policy Agora’s third panel. With a clear voice and insightful reflections, he highlighted the excitement and challenges of entering the field and inspired many of us to think more critically about our own roles within this space. Through Lorenzo’s words, it became evident that youth engagement in cultural heritage is not just a nice-to-have; it’s essential for the sector’s sustainability and relevance in today’s world. As we look back on this year’s summit, we are not only inspired but also emboldened to take the next steps. The chance to connect with others from across Europe and beyond offered us a collaborative environment for conversation and exchange. This year, young voices didn’t just join the discussion—they drove it, and we are more committed than ever to strengthening and amplifying the role of youth within the heritage sector. We look forward to next year’s European Cultural Heritage Summit in Brussels, eager to see how these ideas will evolve and to continue building a heritage movement that resonates across generations.  A booklet is being prepared and will be shared very soon!
Narrated by Sophia Dibbs  Bowl from Naqada. Accession number: 99.685 Museum of Fine Arts, no date. Glancing through the Boston Museum of Fine Arts’ (MFA) online catalogue of its Art of Ancient Egypt, Nubia, and the Near East collection, one could easily miss object number 99.685: a rather humble and unassuming marl bowl.
As one of 65,000 objects within the collection, this everyday piece spends most of its time locked away in storage. Instead, the Egyptian galleries display intricately-painted sarcophagi, canopic jars that were once filled with organs, and gold statues of deities. Yet, it is through exploring the object biography of this plain-seeming culinary vessel from the predynastic Naqada II period, 3650–3300 B.C that we can trace the influence of European colonialism on the production of heritage and archaeology. Excavated in 1898-99 from the grave site of Abadaya (also known as Ballos), at the behest of the infamous Egyptologist Flinders Petrie and the Egyptian Exploration Fund, the bowl’s life trajectory post-excavation was guided by European colonial powers. Located in upper Egypt, sandwiched between Alexandria and Port Said, and known in the ancient past as the Land of the Reeds, Abadaya was a fertile land, generously dotted with grave sites from both the Old and New Kingdoms. Along with the bowl, it is here where many significant Egyptian artefacts were unearthed, leading to the field’s expansion of knowledge of these periods and civilisations. Undoubtedly however, when those souls were laid to rest with their possessions, they had not an inkling that they would be disturbed by archaeologists from the Northern Hemisphere some few thousand years later. Nor were they likely aware that the contents of their graves would end up scattered across North America, the United Kingdom, Australia and central Europe. While British excavation teams were largely leading the exports of Egyptian antiquities across the globe, other European colonial powers such as France and Germany were also profiting from the colonial boom in excavations around the turn-of-the-century. The next stage in the bowl’s biography was its marking: the moment in which it transitioned from its original context to become an object considered historically worthy of recognition by the excavation team. Using Petrie’s groundbreaking method for cataloguing artefacts, his wife Hilda and fellow team member Beatrice Orme labelled the bowl in white paint with the marking ‘R112’ to indicate tomb number and location. The baking heat of the Egyptian sun quickly dried the markings before the objects were packed up. The bowl then embarked on a long journey from northern Egypt up to the East Coast of the United States. Once arrived on American soil, the object was sent to Egyptologist Arthur C. Mace who acted as a facilitator for it to be accessioned into the MFA’s collection in October 1899 in exchange for the Museum funding some of the expedition. The Egyptomania that had swept across Europe from the time of Napoleon had begun to take hold in America during the latter part of the nineteenth century, fuelling museums such as the MFA to seek out Egyptian objects. In travelling with the bowl from its place of origin in the Lands of Reeds, through the process of its excavation and marking, to its long journey across the North Atlantic Ocean and up towards the Boston harbour, we have seen how colonial contexts of archaeology and the European assumption of rights to Middle Eastern and North African heritage led to the great diaspora of Egyptian material cultural heritage. But will the FMA be the bowl’s last stop? For an object that has already existed for thousands of years, it seems likely that its story is not yet finished… Narrated by Elif Aydın  Sümela Monastery © The Ministry of Culture of the Republic of Türkiye The Sümela Monastery, nestled in the Maçka district of Trabzon (Trapezunta), is celebrated for its breathtaking location, carved into steep cliffs at the end of a winding, zigzagging path. While this building technique is seen in various parts of Anatolia, Sümela's dramatic perch on a mountainside sets it apart. Though its origins are shrouded in mystery, certain stories have emerged over time. According to the most popular legend, the monastery was founded by two Athenian monks, Barnabas and Sophronios, who were guided by a vision of the Virgin Mary. In their dream, she revealed the location of St. Luke, hidden deep within a cave in the remote mountains of Pontus. The monks eventually discovered the icon in Karadağ (Black Mountain) in Maçka, and there, they built the monastery as a mission school to train future monks. The name "Sümela" is believed to have derived from the word "Melas," in reference to the Black Mountain, as 'stou mela' or 'at Mela,' which is pronounced as 'sou Mela' known in the Pontic dialect "Romeika." Over the centuries, Sümela grew to become one of the oldest and most significant monasteries in the Orthodox Christian world, often compared in importance to Hagia Sophia. In Turkish, the monastery is called "Meryem Ana," meaning Mother/Virgin Mary, underscoring its deep spiritual significance. The name Panagia Sümela, or "Sou Mela," translates to "Mother of God at the Black Mountain." Every August 15th, the monastery becomes the heart of celebration in the Black Sea region for the feast of the Dormition of Mother Mary. Yet, what makes the rituals at Sümela truly unique is the presence of the kemençe, a traditional stringed instrument that is central to Black Sea culture. Despite the solemn nature of religious services, the inclusion of this vibrant music is both unusual and profound. The kemençe holds a cherished place in the region's cultural identity, channelling the joy, sorrow, and spirit of the Black Sea people through its melodies. It is an instrument that unites communities and is played at weddings, festivals, and village gatherings, where it brings people together to dance, sing, and celebrate life. Thus, it seems only fitting that the Dormition of Mother Mary in the Black Sea begins with the sound of the kemençe, and that religious leaders are greeted by its music as they ascend the zigzagging path to the monastery. The monastery, with its striking landscape, also offers a unique soundscape during these important events, where sacred hymns mingle with the haunting notes of the kemençe.  Kemençe © Municipality of Trabzon Today, the monastery does not remain open year-round. Following the population exchange between Greece and Turkey in the 1920s, the monks left the region, and Sümela now opens its doors mostly to tourists. Yet, the monastery’s significance to the Orthodox community endures, evidenced by the establishment of a new Sümela Church in Veria, Greece, in 1951, continuing the legacy in the Macedonian mountains. Additionally, many Pontians who migrated to Australia built a Soumela Church for their community in Victoria, where thousands of Greeks of Pontic descent now reside.
Sümela Monastery, with its breathtaking landscape, also offers a soundscape like no other. Here, music weaves through the rituals, turning the ordinary into the extraordinary. As an integral part of the region's culture, it transforms sacred ceremonies into powerful expressions of identity and unity, resonating far beyond the monastery's walls. No matter where in the world it is heard, this music becomes a catalyst for bringing communities together, echoing the deep connections between tradition, faith, and belonging. Narrated by Konstantina Vlasakidou  © Municipality of Sifnos Located in the Cyclades, the island of Sifnos boasts one of the most notable pottery traditions in modern Greek history. For over three centuries, Sifnos residents have been continuously engaged in ceramic production. Today, pottery remains an essential activity on the island, with more than 15 active workshops. Sifnian ceramics are deeply connected with the island's cultural heritage, artistic expression, and economy. The development of pottery on Sifnos is largely due to the abundance of refractory clay and the rich natural resources the landscape offers, coupled with the exceptional skill and craftsmanship of Sifnian potters, passed down through generations. Eventually, the term "Sifnian" became synonymous with a person practicing pottery, known locally as "tsikalas" (potter), "aggeioplastis" (pot-maker), and "kanatas" (pitcher maker). Historically, the primary land uses on Sifnos have included wood-cutting, agriculture, tourism, and mining. In ancient times, the island was renowned for its gold and silver mines, which remained productive until around 400 B.C. From the 16th century until the early 20th century, iron and lead mines were also active on the island. During periods of piracy in the Cyclades, workshops were situated inland to meet local needs. As the threat of piracy diminished, especially after the establishment of the modern Greek state, potters relocated their workshops to coastal areas, where conditions were more practical, and there were better opportunities for export trade. But how was this production carried out? At the height of the pottery industry, specialized roles were created: the "kladas" gathered wood for the kiln, the "homatas" collected the clay, the "moularas" transported the clay by mule, the "kopanistis" prepared the clay for throwing, and the master potter, assisted by the "basperetis," shaped the final products. Sifnian potters also migrated to other islands and various regions of mainland Greece, particularly Attica, including areas like Maroussi, Halandri, and Agia Paraskevi. Some even ventured abroad, spreading their craft and establishing the reputation of Sifnian pottery internationally.  © Municipality of Sifnos Today, the pottery workshops on Sifnos produce a variety of household items for cooking and storage, such as the "mastelo" (a large baking dish), the "tsikali" (pot), the "kouroupou" (small jar), and the distinctive "flaros" (chimney pot). Alongside these traditional items, Sifnian potters continuously experiment with new forms and colors, staying true to their heritage. They embrace contemporary trends and aesthetics, developing new designs alongside traditional ones, with each workshop maintaining its unique character. They modernize their equipment and refine their craft, ensuring that pottery remains a viable livelihood, especially for those without income from other activities such as livestock farming or tourism.
There is a spirit of healthy competition and collaboration among local workshops, many of which have their own shops within the island’s settlements. Thanks to this practice, the production and sale of ceramics significantly boost the local economy. An essential mark of this vibrant tradition is that all pottery workshops on Sifnos are open to the public, allowing visitors to watch local potters at work. Furthermore, the Museum of Ceramics in Sifnos hosts cultural, educational, and recreational activities, promoting the island’s cultural identity internationally while creating a cultural legacy for future generations. It offers ceramics courses to inspire new ideas, seminars to advance the art, and periodic exhibitions featuring both local and international ceramists. Last but not least, the pottery tradition of Sifnos is actively promoted as a core aspect of the island’s cultural identity. The Potters' Association, in collaboration with the Municipality and community members, organizes exhibitions and activities to promote and preserve this art, aiming to safeguard the cultural heritage and memory of the island. For the Sifnian potters' community in Maroussi, preserving and promoting Sifnos' pottery tradition is equally important, seeking to bring greater recognition to their craft. Narrated by Irene Reyes Suero  San Isidro's Meadow has long been a source of inspiration for Goya, and it's easy to see why. Every year on May 15th, Madrilenians—affectionately known as "cats"—put on their finest traditional attire and flock to the Hermitage of San Isidro, located in the meadow of the same name. This day, the Day of San Isidro Labrador, is marked by joyous music, dance, and food.
In the days leading up to May 15th, the Pradera transforms into a vibrant sea of "chulapos" and "chulapas," the names given to those dressed in traditional costumes. This celebration honors San Isidro Labrador, the patron saint of Madrid, whose miracles were closely tied to water. A cherished tradition during the festivities is drinking "agua del santo" (the saint's water) from the spring at San Isidro's Hermitage, believed to bring good luck for the coming year. Though rooted in religious tradition, the celebration has evolved into a broader festival of Madrid's culture, heritage, and community. Locals from all generations gather to savor traditional delights like Madrid-style donuts and lemonade, and to dance the "chotis." Unique to this dance is the role reversal where the woman leads the man; it is said that a well-executed chotis makes the man glide as gracefully as a toy dancer in a music box. While the festivity is a tribute to Madrid and its people, the "cats" are known for their hospitality, making everyone feel welcome in their celebration of life and tradition. Narrated by Elif AYDIN  ©Yaara Eshet - Flickr Across the Balkans, communities come together in celebration, honouring the deep-rooted traditions that enrich their cultures. May 6th marks a special occasion across the region, known as Đurđevdan in Serbia, Hıdırellez in Turkey, Gergyovden in Bulgaria, Gjurgovdjen in Macedonia, and Ederlezi for Roma communities. It signifies the transition from the cold of winter to the blossoming of spring.
These festivities represent more than just a seasonal shift; they embody a shared embrace of hope, vitality, and cultural legacy. Throughout the day, a variety of activities occur, each reflecting the unique customs of their respective areas. Yet, despite this diversity, a common theme unites them all: the celebration of life's eternal cycle and the resilience of the mortal spirit. Central to these rituals is the act of cleansing and renewal. Houses are meticulously cleaned, symbolising the casting away of the old and the welcoming of the new. Flowers and blooming twigs adorn doorways and windows, infusing spaces with the fragrance of optimism and growth. Bathing in spring flowers and blossoms not only refreshes the body but rejuvenates the soul, affirming the inherent connection between humanity and the natural world. As families and communities gather, they share in the age-old tradition of making wishes for the year ahead. These wishes whispered into the ether, carry with them the collective aspirations of a people bound by shared dreams and aspirations. It is believed that in these moments, as the old year fades and the new one dawns, possibilities abound, and fortunes are shaped by the power of intention and belief. Beyond the surface-level revelry, these celebrations serve a profound purpose: they reinforce social bonds, nurture a sense of belonging, and affirm our shared cultural identity. In participating in these age-old rituals, individuals contribute to a collective memory that transcends borders and bridges divides. They affirm that our cultural heritage is not confined by the boundaries of nations but rather serves as a timeless testament to the enduring spirit of humanity. In essence, disregarding how we label it, these feast day celebrations are more than just annual events; they are living expressions of our shared humanity, reminding us of the power of tradition, the beauty of diversity, and the unbreakable bonds that unite us all. Narrated by Elif AYDIN  Centuries ago, in the heart of Istanbul, amidst the bustling streets and markets, Tatavla emerged as a vibrant neighbourhood. Originally established in the 12th century by Genoese traders seeking shelter for their horses, this enclave, later known as Kurtuluş, blossomed into a cultural melting pot, earning the affectionate moniker "Little Athens."
At the heart of Tatavla's charm lay the Tatavla Carnival, a cherished tradition also dubbed as Baklahorani or Apokria. This spirited festivity, cherished by the Greek Orthodox community until its prohibition circa 1940s, spanned 40 days of revelry leading up to Lent. Commencing with lively processions through the streets, the carnival culminated in the vibrant square outside the Aya Dimitri Church, where laughter and music filled the air. During the carnival, participants adorned themselves in intricate costumes, masks, and theatrical makeup, paying homage to the ancient cultures of Greece and Rome. What began as a celebration of merriment evolved into a profound expression of religious and cultural identity for Istanbul's Christian populace. Yet, the carnival's allure transcended religious boundaries, attracting curious onlookers and participants from all walks of life, including Muslims from nearby areas. In the spirit of carnival, distinctions between performer and spectator dissolved as each individual became an integral part of the colourful tapestry of revelry. The spatial dynamics of the Tatavla Carnival were equally significant, predominantly unfolding within non-Muslim enclaves such as Kurtuluş, Galata, and Pera. Iconic thoroughfares like Istiklal Avenue served as vital arteries for the festivities, welcoming a kaleidoscope of beliefs and backgrounds. From its humble origins as stables for Genoese merchants' steeds to its evolution into a celebration of cultural diversity and expression, the Tatavla Carnival embodied the resilience and ingenuity of Istanbul's communities. Though its official festivities may have ceased, its legacy continues to echo through the cobbled streets and colourful memories of those who revelled in its splendour. |
