Facing Karapete Xaco is like leaning against a mountain. Whatever it gives – strength, shelter, silence – his voice gives as well, penetrating straight into our hearts. The reed flute, carved from the wood of mulberry or walnut trees, only produces sound to the extent that it has been hollowed out. But when Xaco – an Armenian singer of traditional Kurdish dengbej music – sings, it’s as if he’s a crystal untouched by time or fatigue. His voice only becomes more beautiful the longer he sings.

As we set off from Yerevan toward the village of Soulkhuz to meet him, Siyabendê Ordi, our filmmaker friend Goran, the mirê bilirê player (virtuoso flutist) Egide Cimo, and I are filled with excitement and nervousness at the prospect of meeting him. Cimo insists that we stop in a village on the way to invite another singer along, dengbej Feyzoê Rizo. Cimo and Rizo also happen to be very close friends.

We drive into the village by car and park in front of Rizo’s house. My mind is too preoccupied with the thrill of meeting Xaco to worry about anything else. The voice of Mihemed Sexo fills the car, adding color to our conversation. Even if we don’t sing along, our hearts do:

Ay le gule gula min i 

Serina li ber dile min i 

Gule nadim bi male dine  

Ez ji ber Gule tem kustine

It’s December 12, 2001. The cold bites us. We’ve been in Yerevan for six days after arriving from Istanbul. For five of those days, I’ve robbed my friends of peace with my restlessness. Now, on the sixth day, we are finally approaching the village of the legendary singer.

I wonder: what condition is Xaco in now? Can he still sing? Can he still speak? And if he does sing, how many hours can he go on? Is he still longing for the other side of the Aras River?

While I’m deep in thought, I hear Cimo say: “Xaco never sings without a drink. Don’t forget – we need to get him a bottle of vodka.”

We bought a one-liter bottle of Russian vodka and four fresh batteries for the tape recorder. The road from Yerevan to Soulkhuz takes about an hour in winter, under harsh weather conditions. Soulkhuz is in the Etchmiadzin region, Armenia’s spiritual center and home to the Catholicos, Karekin II, the supreme head of the Armenian Apostolic Church. Etchmiadzin is also near the airport, and the sound of airplanes taking off and landing fills the air.

Like many Armenian villages, Soulkhuz shows signs of poverty, with the villagers surviving by farming and raising livestock. Around six or seven Yezidi Kurdish families also live there. Cimo came here in 1955 to bring Xaco to Yerevan Radio. Rizo hasalso  visited several times to attend Xaco’s singing ceremonies. But it’s been years since either of them last came, so we’ll need help finding his house.

Driving slowly through the village, Siyabende stops to ask for directions. The scene around us is strikingly familiar. The houses here are just like the ones in the Sarhad region in Turkey or Diyarbakir. This village is a bit larger, with maybe over a hundred families. Villagers working with shovels and pickaxes glance at us, aware we are strangers. One man around 40 years old says something to Siyabende in Armenian. Fortunately, all three of my companions speak Armenian, as well as Kurdish.

We get back into the old Soviet-made car and follow the directions, soon finding ourselves in front of a house with a large garden.

Cimo smiles at me. Clearly, we’ve arrived: “Come on!” he says. “This is it – Xaco’s house.”

My mind overflows with stories and legends tied to this house and this man – a singer, a servant, and an Armenian of the Rashkutan tribe. A dengbej from the Flitê Quto family, the melodious crane of the Kharzan plain in Southern Kurdistan (Kurdistan Region of Iraq), friend of French soldier Hesen Axayê Cizrawi, and golden voice of Yerevan Radio – the voice of my childhood.

A man steps forward to greet us in fluent and eloquent Kurdish: “Welcome! Your presence honor us.”

It is Serop, Xaco’s son. He is over 60 years old and the father of three. A few minutes later, as we linger at the door, Xaco suddenly appears, cheerful and smiling. He walks toward us and embraces Cimo warmly.

We enter through a wooden door so rough it is practically made of splinters. Before we can ask anything, Xaco begins to speak about the village.

“The Hesen and Derwes are still here. The Derwes are your uncles, aren’t they, Egid? Pasha’s son still lives here, too. Derwes’ children, Ashkan and Ahmad, left, but two of his sons stayed. Hassan’s children are still around. So are Sharif’s children.”

“Do the villagers come to visit you, Xaco?” we ask.

He replies with a single sentence, heavy with solitude: “None of my people have survived.”

Soon, a drinking table is set. Two bottles of vodka are placed in the center. In Armenia, no gathering of either Kurds or Armenians occurs without alcohol. The atmosphere quickly grows warm and intimate. Out of respect, Cimo and Rizo seat Xaco between them. Ordi sits to one side, Serop to the other. Goran, after adjusting the camera and lighting for a while, finally gives us the signal.

The conversation begins. Xaco speaks while I review my questions. But before I can even begin, a song pours from his lips:

Zal u dal bira bun 

Behra Wane kaniya wan bu

Desta Musi preza hespe wan bu

Diyarbekir korta gidiya bu

Bismil cihe deveciya bu

Bişeri cihe kef u hek u laqirdiya bu

Ridwana Bave Temo cihe gewr u rinda bu

Rexse Belek ji hespe wan bu...

Zal and Dal were brothers.
They drank from the springs of Lake Van.
The Mus Plain was the field where they galloped their horses.
Diyarbakir stood as the seat of the noblemen.
Bismil lay at the foot of the mountains.
Beshiri was a place of joy, laughter, and entertainment.
Ridwan, the village of Temo’s father, was known for its beautiful girls.
Rekhshe Belek was also their horse.

The rhythm of Xaco’s words evokes an extraordinary image. The singer’s style reveals itself right from the start; with the movement of his hands and shoulders, he makes the song exciting, and with the motion of his eyes and eyebrows, he draws us into the song’s story. It’s as if we are no longer in an Armenian village but instead somewhere in the plain of Mus. Exile and Xaco are two intertwined, inseparable.

This song flows from Xaco’s mind into ours, intertwining with the stories we knew and had heard. The melody connects his memories to ours, pulling joy from sorrow.

As the conversation unfolds, Xaco opens wide the geography of his memory. And then suddenly, like a dagger, his voice pierces the room – not with violence, but with a wound so deep it bleeds nothing, yet never closes.

He says: “Fifty million Kurds cannot take care of me”

The wound reopens, but Xaco keeps the salve beneath his tongue. He bites down on his grief and adds it to the pile of sorrows that has built up over the years. Then, he begins to tell his story:

“I’ve been singing in Kurdish for 95 years. I sing for the Kurds. In their land, my parents were murdered – killed in front of my brothers and sisters. After that, I sang at ceremonies for Kurdish tribal elders. Sheikh Said rose up for the Kurds. The Ottoman state hanged him and his companions. That deepened my sorrow. At the age of 25, one night I left and went to Western Kurdistan (northern Syria). There, I met the Kurds of Qamishlo and Hasakah. My son Serop was born there. I made friends with the Kurds and befriended the singers there.

“Now, I’ve been in Armenia for 56 years and I still sing for the Kurds, in Kurdish. I’m here, but my soul, my thoughts, my heart – they’re back there. My mother tongue is Armenian, but I cannot even speak it properly. I am Armenian, yes, but my friends and companions are Kurds.

“You know yourself how much I’ve given for the Kurds. Even if I’ve done nothing else, at least I sang in their language and recited their songs and melodies.

“Look at me: I have nothing to wear, nothing to eat. And yet I’m still alive, my friend…

Salihê Kevirbirî is a prominent Kurdish writer and journalist.