“Dear Ankara”: A Soprano's Tenso CONNECT Letter by Ai Horton

Hello, reader! My name is Ai, and I am a 27-year-old Canadian-Japanese soprano. My name means "indigo blue" in Japanese, which makes me think that I should have been a country singer instead of studying classical music (I recently learned that it also means "moon" in Turkish, so maybe I should also look into indie/folk music?). I grew up on Canada's beautiful west coast, and I am now lucky enough to call The Netherlands my home. My journey as an artist has taken me to so many new places and enabled me to meet so many incredible people from all over the world, and my time as an intern with Tenso Connect was just such an opportunity.

In early February, 2025, I made my first ever trip to the middle east to work with the Devlet Çoksesli Korosu (Turkish State Choir) in Ankara, Türkiye. My time in Türkiye was filled with vibrant cultural exchanges, incredible music-making, and unforgettable moments with talented and passionate musicians. It was truly a unique experience, and I am so grateful that I had the chance to immerse myself in such a rich musical tradition and to forge connections with people from a completely different part of the world.

SOUNDSCAPES

The first thing that struck me about Ankara was just how different the city sounds. I arrived at my hotel after midnight and, despite the late hour, the air still had an electric quality to it. The energy only grew as the morning dawned and people began to start their day: the sound of simit vendors calling out to draw people to their stands wafted up to my window, punctuated by the honks of commuters on the motorways as they rushed to work and the cooing of pigeons as they navigated the heavy throngs of people that filled the sidewalk.

This effervescent quality continued as I entered Tarihi Salon – the rehearsal and performance venue of the Turkish State Choir – for my first day of rehearsal. I could hear excited chatter coming from the cafeteria and the cloakroom as colleagues greeted one another before moving on into the hall to start morning rehearsal. Everyone was immediately welcoming and friendly towards me, despite most of them speaking little to no English. I was fortunate to be seated with a sweet young soprano named Sevcan, who spoke English fluently and was able to translate the entirely Turkish rehearsals for me.

The choir itself has a beautiful, bright, and resonant sound that sits perfectly in the mask; something much more vital and vibrant than the warmer tones I am used to hearing from ensembles in the likes of The Netherlands, Belgium, and Germany. I wondered what exactly it was that set the vocal timbre of this group apart; was it the direction of their conductor, Burak Onur Erdem, or perhaps the style of training at Turkish conservatories? My final hypothesis was not formed in the rehearsal room, but rather during my free time later in the afternoon.

The mild weather and welcoming sunshine (so long absent in The Netherlands) invited me to explore the city on foot, and I spent several hours wandering through the streets of Ankara. I marveled at the pace of everyday life in Türkiye's capital: everywhere I looked, there were locals going about their daily business, scurrying across busy roads between cars, and carrying bags filled with fresh bread and produce. I made my way up the gentle slope from whence they all came, eventually reaching a covered market bazaar. The market was a true feast for the senses. All around me were huge sacks of richly colored spices, the aroma of freshly roasted nuts, and gentle splashes underfoot as my sneakers made contact with the runoff from the fish mongers' stalls (I am certain the time spent traipsing through the market and my resultant fishy sneakers was why I encountered so many cats throughout the week).

The real marvel was the remarkable noise of the marketplace. Vendors called out to one another, asking if it was time for a break and a cup of Turkish tea; spouses argued about which stall to visit next; and above it all, the green grocers and fishmongers bid shoppers to visit their stalls in boisterous tones. Even amidst the hustle and bustle, I had no problem picking out individual voices, and could also send them back into the throng with ease. The way these people spoke allowed them to be clearly heard and understood, no matter what was happening around them.

The Turkish language itself seems to inherently shape the resonant quality of the voice. Having spent most of my professional singing career in The Netherlands, I am accustomed to the adaptations Dutch ensembles make during the rehearsal process to balance the nuances of their natural speaking tendencies. The unique colors of the Dutch language stem largely from its soft-palate sounds that sit further back in the mouth and throat, which has to be actively counterbalanced in rehearsals. This characteristic was also evident when singing the one piece in German. In contrast, the Turkish language sits much higher and more forward in the mask, accounting for both the vibrancy in tone of the Turkish State Choir, and for the marketgoers' ability to be clearly heard amidst a cacophony of sound. These timbral differences also directly contributed to the way the choir approached a specific piece of music. There were challenges with pieces in Latin or German as the ensemble would sit slightly under pitch, which I attribute to the language needing to sit slightly further back and thus not in the natural supportive position for native Turkish speakers. Contrastingly, the piece written in Turkish had an easy brilliance and lift to it, despite the inclusion of traditional Turkish hüzzam and zirgüleli hicazmicrotonal makams (traditional modes of Turkish Music).

This commissioned work, "Kar" (meaning "snow"), uses text from a well-known Turkish poem that speaks to voices lost in the darkness, forgotten songs, and sorrow. This piece was incredibly intimidating to me on paper, both because of the foreign language and because of the indication of these microtonal series. My anxieties about the piece were quickly lifted after singing it through with the choir, as it was clear that those elements which were unfamiliar to me were second nature to the Turkish singers. Simply by listening to those around me, I found both the language and the intonation to make perfect sense, and the piece quickly became my favorite of the set rehearsed that week. It was also the piece that brought me the greatest understanding of the ensemble, as I felt their intention through every piano, forte, whispered soundscape, and pregnant pause.

The relationship between language and music is deeply intertwined, with each language bringing its own distinctive set of nuances that shape how we express emotion, sound, and meaning. These nuances influence everything from vocal technique to phrasing, timbre, and even rhythm, making each linguistic region's musical interpretation unique. This underscores the importance of understanding and adapting to the linguistic characteristics of a culture, as they play a pivotal role in shaping musical performances. The more we connect with the cultural and linguistic roots of both a piece of music and those performing it, the more we can bring its full emotional and artistic potential to life.

CONNECTION

The concerts during my time with the Turkish State Choir were particularly touching and important to both the choir members and the public. Entitled "Hatırla" (meaning "remember"), the concerts served as a tribute to those affected by the devastating earthquake that struck Türkiye in February 2023. Though I couldn't understand exactly what the conductor was saying when addressing the other singers about the concert, it was evident from the reactions of the choir members just how deeply meaningful the event was to them. There was a palpable sense of unity and purpose within the choir, and it was clear that this was a tragedy that had wracked the nation and left its mark on each and every person. Their faces, filled with emotion, conveyed the weight of the moment, one of remembrance, grief, and solidarity.

These concerts also included the children's choir, and it was clear to me during our first joint rehearsal that Turkish children are universally treasured, and that there is a strong sense of responsibility within the adult population to protect and show empathy and affection towards them during times of hardship. The children themselves were not as shy as I would have expected them to be, interacting happily with the adult choir members as they were paired off for the final piece of the concert: Arvo Pärt's "Vater Unser", which would be sung in unison by both choirs. I was paired with a young girl who spoke very little English, but whose smile and gentle grasping of my hand showed both her open curiosity and immediate acceptance of me, despite my foreignness. Indeed, she turned around during the concert to check that I was watching as she mounted the stage for the children's choir's first number, and subsequently glanced over her shoulder at me between pieces, waiting for my reassuring smile and wink before turning back to face her conductor.

During one of the final pieces of the children's choir at the concert, the stage lights slowly dimmed, and small flashlights were lit, making the entire concert hall appear as though it was a star-studded night sky. As the children's choir began to sing a gentle and haunting lullaby which conjured up images of sleep and rest, I could sense a deep ripple of grief wash over the adult choir, who was seated directly behind the singing children. My neighbor, with whom I had not been able to speak due to our language barrier, was wracked with quiet sobs, and it was clear that she was grappling with a deep sadness as she remembered those who were lost in the earthquake. Unable to offer her words of comfort, I placed my hand on her shoulder in the darkness, hoping to offer some support. She grasped my hand with both of hers, holding on tightly as the music continued, and I could feel and hear her begin to calm down. After the concert, she came to find me and gave me a hug. We never spoke a word, yet I knew we shared a profound connection and understanding that went beyond language.

Connection with people is one of the most profound ways we can grow as individuals. When we open ourselves to others, regardless of cultural or language differences, we create an environment where communication transcends the usual barriers. It's not always about the words we speak; sometimes it's in the way we listen, the way we share space, and the unspoken understanding we build. What makes us feel comfortable and communicative is often the shared sense of vulnerability, empathy, and trust that we establish with others.

During the week, I was fortunate to spend a great deal of time with the incredible Neris Özen, who is a key member of the Turkish State Choir's small administrative team. Neris was my cultural guide throughout my time in Ankara, helping me to organize outings and offering suggestions on things to do during my short time there. Of all the connections I made over the week, Neris was perhaps the most inspiring, and I am so grateful to have met her and to now call her my friend. I watched her work tirelessly to bring children from the regions most affected by the earthquake to Ankara for the concert. Her dedication to ensuring that these children could be part of the memorial was a beautiful display of compassion and community, and despite the logistical challenges, Neris succeeded in bringing them to the final concert, where I witnessed the excitement radiating from their seats in the hall. Her relentless efforts highlighted the importance of healing and offering a sense of hope and support through both art and human connection. It was truly humbling to witness how music can not only serve as a form of artistic expression but also as a bridge to help people cope with tragedy and find connection in the midst of great loss.

During lunch with Neris one day, I explained to her why I felt that becoming a singer has allowed me to connect more easily with other people. I consider myself to be quite an introverted person and previously found it difficult to interact with new people. In singing, we must be completely vulnerable, removing every protective instinct within ourselves in order to fully express what might otherwise be hard to articulate. This physical vulnerability creates space where we can connect, not just with the audience, but with our fellow musicians. It's a shared experience that fosters a sense of community, mutual understanding, and emotional exchange. Over time, this practice has helped me grow not just as a singer, but as a human being, teaching me the importance of being open, listening, and embracing the complexity of human connection. Making music isn't just about performing notes; it's about sharing something real and transformative that brings people together, opening us up to the fullness of our shared humanity.

This idea of connection was especially evident during my time in Ankara, where even in a very short time I made meaningful new friendships that had an enormous impact. From Sevcan, the soprano with the most beautiful voice who helped translate our daily rehearsals (and who I sincerely hope will come visit me in The Netherlands one day); to Buğra, a fellow Tenso intern who immediately made me feel at home in the rehearsal hall and took time out of his day to show me around Ankara, explaining the history of Türkiye; to his wife Kayleigh, who was an absolute pleasure to spend time with and is truly inspiring in her mission to empower others and foster understanding between her western and middle eastern audiences; to Maestro Burak Onur Erdem, whose impeccable manners and personability command respect in the highest form; to Neris, who was there to help whomever she could in every single moment.

Despite the cultural differences, I was quickly welcomed into their respective worlds through shared meals and conversations. Each new interaction and friendship brought with it a deeper understanding of the importance of connection and community that helped me to feel at home in Ankara. I am so grateful to have this experience through Tenso Connect, and I truly believe that if you have the opportunity to take a chance and travel somewhere wholly new, you absolutely should, and you might come to find that we as humankind aren't all that different after all. For now, all I can say is: "Until we meet again, Ankara, inshallah…" ♥