If you were to ask someone passing by in Türkiye, "What is a lament (ağıt in Turkish)?" the answer you would receive would be, "the act of crying and melodically reciting sorrowful words, mourning and grieving for the deceased." Because when one thinks of lament, the first thing that comes to mind is mournful and sorrowful songs sung for the departed. It is because the word "ağıt" itself means to cry. In English, it is also directly related to the event of death, indicating a mournful situation with terms like "mourning song" or "lament" that evoke tears.

I think a lament is as follows: "To express one's own emotions and find solace by outwardly expressing their feelings in the face of experienced pain and helplessness." In short, an elegy is a spontaneous recitation of emotionally charged words or poems, often accompanied by a specific cry and lament, not only for the deceased but also for major disasters such as migration, war and natural calamities. When we look at the historical process, the tradition of lamentation is observed in all societies around the world. It also holds significant importance in the oral culture of Anatolian lands. This genre was called "sagu" before Islam, "mersiye" in classical Ottoman poetry, and "ağıt" in Anatolia.

As a part of oral culture, elegies hold an important place in recording collective memory, just as significant as written sources. They carry a community's experiences into the future because they convey and remind us of what previous generations have lived through. One of the most poignant examples is the elegies sung by the relatives of those killed in the 1938 Dersim Massacre. Elegies are as crucial as written sources in understanding the events that took place during that period. Similarly, the elegies sung during the population exchange era are invaluable resources for comprehending that period.

In the village where I was born and raised, my grandmother, known and recognized as ağıtçı Şahide Bacı (elegy singer Sister Şahide), is one of the preservers of the elegy culture in Anatolia. She is one of the few female elegy singers living in Anatolia today. Unfortunately, the elegy culture is slowly fading away. That's why it is essential to travel through Anatolia and record the elegies of elegy singers.

My grandmother was famous for singing elegies in the village. She would sing elegies in the section where women gathered during funerals. In fact, not only in our village but in almost every part of Anatolia, predominantly women would sing elegies at funerals. This is because women singing folk and regular songs was not widely accepted. Women would often sing elegies or lullabies instead.

At my grandmother's house during the mourning period, all the women would cry and wail as she sang her elegies. Her role as an elegy singer is also reflected in her daily life. My grandmother rarely smiled in her daily life. Even those who saw her in ordinary times in the village would feel sorrowful. That's because everyone who saw her would be reminded of death due to the elegies she sang at funerals. So, what was the reason for my grandmother being an elegy singer?

When I grew up and asked her this question while recording her elegies, she told me: "If I don't sing elegies, then who will, my son? At a young age, my mother and father died. I had a big and strong younger brother who was just like you. He contracted tuberculosis at the age of 17 and died. My two sisters, who were married and had children, also died of tuberculosis. Those children grew up in disgraceful conditions. And that's not all.

"You already know your grandfather's story. When thieves came to steal the pistachios during the harvest, they tried to kill your grandfather. They stabbed him in the eye with a knife. He lost his sight at a young age. They condemned my husband to darkness. Your grandfather passed away 10 years ago, and I was left alone. Is that enough? No, it's not enough! Your brother died at the age of 34. I even witnessed the death of my grandchild. So tell me, who will if I don't sing elegies? But thanks be to Allah, I am still content with what I have endured. There is a reason behind it all, my dear. It is Allah who took their souls and is eternal. Everything is from Allah; death, birth, and surely patience and kindness," she added.

While talking with my grandmother, it felt like I was transported back to my childhood as if I were in a movie scene. I was around 7 or 8 years old. Our neighbor, Medine, passed away while giving birth. Her relatives brought her body wrapped in a blanket and placed it in the courtyard of their house. This was a tradition among us. The deceased person would be kept in the courtyard of the house where they were born and raised for a while. It was a way of bidding farewell to the place they had lived.

One day, as my grandmother was preparing to attend a funeral, I held her hand and insisted on going with her. Although she didn't want to take me, I firmly held her hand and walked with her. As soon as my grandmother stepped into our neighbor's courtyard before she even started singing the elegy, the women, who had not yet begun to cry, increased their wailing and started pounding their chests with clenched fists. When my grandmother sang the elegy, aunt Ayşe, standing by her daughter's coffin, removed her headscarf and started pulling her hair and beating herself.

As for me, I was frozen in place, overwhelmed by what I saw. I was very scared. My childish mind was trying to question death. I felt like I deserved this. It was me who insisted on coming along. It was as if my grandmother, in front of Medine, was singing as if she were still alive. Her elegies brought all the women in the courtyard together in a shared emotion. She sang the elegy to bring peace to sister Medine's soul. I am sure I will never forget that day for the rest of my life.

In all the elegies my grandmother sang, she always included the event of Karbala and the death of Hussein, the third Imam of Shiite Islam after his brother. Occasionally, she would get lost in the emotion and enter a state of spiritual fervor. As her grandson, I bear witness to how strong her faith was. It was undoubtedly her faith that kept her standing. In my journey as a musician and in the melancholy that dominates my compositions, there is undoubtedly a part influenced by the elegies I heard from her since childhood.

I also experienced the same feelings when my brother passed away. My grandmother, now bedridden and 85 years old, was brought from her house in a wheelchair. She was singing her elegy on the way. It was the worst day of my life. After some time since that painful event, I went to the village with my cameraman and director friend, Ömer Çeşim. I knocked on my grandmother's door. She was holding onto her 99-beaded prayer beads, which she never let go of.

When I told her, "Grandma, we will record and shoot your elegies," she initially got very angry. She said, "I sing them for the sake of Allah and then for myself. If you're going to film it, I won't say them." With the insistence of my mother, aunt, uncle and the village's imam, Naim, we finally started recording. She sang elegies for dearest mother Fatima and Imam Hussein. She couldn't read or write but had memorized nearly 30 of her elegies. Every time she said "Hussein," she would strike her chest. While listening to her during the filming, I, like everyone else in the village, remembered death.

My grandmother sings elegies to keep the memories of those she has lost alive. She remembers them through her elegies. She sings her elegies for the sake of her own soul and for the souls of those she mourns, to bring them comfort.

Those who like to witness that moment could watch the video on YouTube by searching for: "Halfetili Şahide Bacı Ağıdı."