My perception of and relationship with dance and performance have evolved significantly since graduating from a related bachelor’s program in Istanbul. Initially rooted in set movements and result-oriented dance performances, my practice expanded towards interdisciplinary improvisations, site-specific explorations in urban spaces, nature, and the profound ancient landscapes of the Aegean coastline. This journey became a process of unlearning and reflecting on a desire to broaden the scope of my performativity—once deeply intertwined with indigenous cultures—beyond the confines of the “black box” into alternative and traditional performance settings.

This exploration continued until the onset of the pandemic, which forced us into restricted movement and led to diverse bodily research within the domestic space. During this time, I revisited televised stage performances and encountered works by emerging choreographers with innovative stage designs. This rekindled my admiration for the stage, compelling me to reconnect with the stage while integrating my past experiences and future aspirations.

The seed of my idea was to create a participatory performance—one that dissolves the boundary between audience and performer, fostering a communicative space through movement, contact, expression, and collective creativity. My conceptual map was drawn from the displacement and misplacement story of my grandfather. Through performance, I sought to empathise with his emotions and efforts on making a new, unknown place home. Using my body and chalk, I traced lines of searching for belonging, while audience contributions transformed the space into a shared act of homing. This process of embodiment, collective memory, and reimagining mirrored a kind of daylighting—the act of bringing hidden narratives and histories back to visibility, much like reviving lost rivers.

Cartographic Echoes became my first officially produced piece in England. Alongside my audience, I engaged with non-human bodies—bark, flax, dried leaves, and mosses on the stage. Moving with and through these elements, sensing their textures, scents, and forms, allowed my body to transform, deepening my ecosomatic awareness and expanding my sense of presence beyond natural environments. These organic materials reminded me of both the fragility and resilience in life, exposing the fluidity of time concept and our capacity to move beyond imposed linearity of it. They echoed the long-standing companionship between humans and plants, reinforcing a profound connection to the natural world. Through this performance, I was able to write and rewrite my grandfather’s story—alongside countless other shared narratives of displacement—stories that remain timeless and universal.

Last but not least, I want to express my deep gratitude to the collaborative environment provided by Schumacher College, Dartington Arts, and Plymouth University. The convergence of academic insight merged with artistry, holistic philosophy, and ecological awareness created fertile ground for my research and for the realization of this daylighting experience. Under the guidance of Dr. Rachel Sweeney, I was encouraged to access and trust the authentic layers of my creative self—particularly those tied to my cultural memory and mother tongue. Sensing the inclusive atmosphere through her mentorship not only created a safe and rigorous space for exploration, but also helped me understand how my voice could emerge with greater clarity and confidence, free from external expectations or the need to translate myself into other frameworks.

Finally, this performance, and the process of developing it, became a pivotal point in my journey as an artist. It expanded my perception of the stage as a living site for dialogue, remembering, and transformation. This experience didn’t just add to my artistic toolkit—it also empowered me to move forward with deeper integrity, resilience, and rootedness in body, story and ability to go beyond the stories by multiplied ways of applied research and performance.

*This writing has been published online with the invitation of Funmi Adewole, De Montfort University https://www.fepdn.net/2025/05/09/449/

On a May day, while enjoying the sense of emptiness after a long period of intense academic research and thesis writing, a tickle of curiosity led me to type some of the keywords I had explored in my thesis—such as Armenian, dance, alphabet, and embodied learning—into a search engine, eager to discover academic researchers with similar interests and their work.

Among the results, the name Nilüfer Gros immediately caught my attention. First, I read her article Carrying the Nest: Rewriting History through Embodied Research. Then I watched her performance Enterrer La Robe – Burying the Dress, which she created for her doctoral research at the Paris State Conservatory, broadcast live from Paris. The performance is still available to watch on YouTube.

In the dry and silent atmosphere of the independent dance scene in Turkey—already in decline since 2010—I had long stopped watching local works that are rarely staged, often apolitical, distanced from any quest for a new movement language, or part of over-sponsored art festival programs that mimic Western canon with exorbitant ticket prices. While elitist art often privileges those approved by the authorities of the field at a given time and context, contemporary dance in Turkey still lacks an accessible, sustainable, diverse, and inclusive policy, preventing it from reaching the general public. This is the outcome of a homogenizing, discriminatory, and denialist practice perpetuated by those in power, producing its own monologue across all levels of the cultural mainstream.

Within this long-normalized environment, which has been unable to produce its own critique, watching Burying the Dress felt like a true breath of air. The work tells stories of violence endured by women of different identities and ages—especially those from the eastern regions of the country—from 1915 to the present, in a multilayered manner that also reveals recurring patterns in this chain of violence. The text, co-written by Nilüfer Gros and Nejbir Erkol, is performed in Turkish with French supertitles.

The staging itself makes a statement: rather than using a flat wall or center stage, the performance takes place in a corner of the space, with the performer situated at the intersection. This choice inevitably invites the audience to focus on the urgency of the narrative, drawing them into a narrowing corridor of stories long kept in the dark.

On stage is a silent woman, very pure; behind her lies a pile of soil. As she intermittently connects with this soil at various moments, I wonder: is she digging her own grave? Searching for someone? Unearthing a victim of exile, an accident, or a woman who died during an attack in her village? Gros began hearing these stories while working at a state university in Mardin. Over the years, as she traced the stories of these women, they began to turn into ghosts in her life—appearing beyond time and geography, even after she moved to another country. In its emotional intensity, the work becomes a ritual of mourning, confrontation, and ultimately, healing—for women who long to be free of their bodies, for those whose existence or disappearance most of us are unaware of. Is the soil applied to the face a gesture of purification? Or does it signify the traces left by violence on a woman’s soul and body, passed on through generations? I’m not sure which is more clearly reflected, but watching it feels good—it compels me to return to this web of meaning time and again. Every woman in this story feels familiar. As the stories unfold—through words, voice, and sometimes silent bodily movements—it’s as if they take wing. Despite their weight, they bring a sense of relief.

While watching, I drift into my own bodily-kinesthetic memory… I remembered the soil brought from Malatya—Hrant Dink’s hometown—during his funeral. Soil is our homeland, our belonging, the space where we feel safe, rooted, nourished, and nurtured. But, as shown in this piece, it can also have other meanings. Like when my grandfather, five years old in Erbaa, Tokat, in 1915, was dressed as a girl by the elders of his family and had his face nearly covered with soil to prevent him from being taken away.

Nilüfer presents a transparent body on stage—one not crushed under the weight of all these stories. With deep awareness, she mediates the displacement stories of Armenian, Kurdish, Assyrian, Yazidi, Turkish, and Jewish women, making them visible and heard. The first time we hear her real voice is when she sings a lament composed by Virginia Kerovpyan’s grandmother, Arshaluys, during her exile.

It’s hard to even applaud when the performance ends. I’m overwhelmed by both the pleasure of witnessing a sincere, well-crafted piece and the conflicting shock of having these painful stories strike my flesh. While my heart celebrates this encounter with the words, “What a wonderful, wonderful performance!” I also wish that the pain held in every family could find its own voice, its own words, its own expression—without seeking approval or understanding. And I remember James Baldwin’s words:
“Not everything that is faced can be changed, but nothing can be changed until it is faced.”

This article published on Agos Newspaper, in Turkish https://www.agos.com.tr/tr/yazi/26464/ermeni-alfabesi-ile-dans

This article published on Agos Newspaper in Turkish https://www.agos.com.tr/tr/yazi/29092/toprakla-bulusan-hayalet-bedenler

On a cold, rainy, and gloomy morning in Berlin four years ago, I was walking through the streets of the city. The only thing I had to do here was to create as an artist. Berlin welcomed me for this very reason: to survive by producing. But the question that mattered most to me was what I would create, what unique contribution I could offer to this city.

I often think of my family, my roots. At times, connecting with my roots hurts, so I tend to avoid getting too entangled in them. Yet, precisely for that reason, I long to build a positive relationship with my roots. I want to share that positive connection with others through my art. I kept thinking about the Armenian alphabet, which has always inspired me with its lines and forms. I realized I wanted to dance with these letters. I wanted to remind Western societies of the journey these letters have taken since the 5th century CE, and gently widen the cultural-historical focus. That’s how the work began. I took each letter and explored different ways of drawing them with my body, developing partner-based dance exercises using the letters as a foundation.

Growing Confidence Through Movement

The idea of dancing with alphabets has been explored before, especially in alternative pedagogies like Waldorf education. In those contexts, tracing a letter with the body and sounding it aloud is used as a sensory-focused, experiential learning method. But in the approach I developed, the focus is not just on mimicking the letters with the body — the emphasis is on creativity. And that’s what bridges this work from a pedagogical context into artistic creation.

This workshop, while supporting physical development, coordination, balance, attention, memory, and cultural understanding, also activates each participant’s innate creative potential. In Turkey, a dominant mindset and deeply flawed pedagogical tradition have ingrained beliefs like “I can’t dance,” “I’m not talented,” or “It’s not for me.” However, when individuals experience movement in a judgment-free space, these beliefs begin to dissolve. As they see themselves dancing and succeeding, their self-confidence grows.

In Germany, on the other hand, there’s a long-standing tradition of inclusive, socially aware pedagogical policy. Across the country, there’s a vast infrastructure that allows people of all ages to engage with any art form to whatever degree they wish. This infrastructure doesn’t make art or artists elite — rather, it prioritizes art under a large umbrella and keeps it accessible for all.

A Dance Language that Crosses Borders

My workshop Dancing with the Armenian Alphabet attracted interest from participants from different countries and cultural backgrounds. Over the course of a month-long series, participants learned the letters and embodied them through spatial movement. Later, I invited them to explore the flow and structure offered by each letter — whether harmoniously or disruptively — through deconstructive movement research. I left the choice to them because I believe that each body’s unique creative potential is expressed when the individual listens to their own curiosity and needs, transforming movement into dance.

From Berlin to Istanbul

After hosting the workshop at Tatwerk Performative Forschung in Berlin, I later organized a session during one of my visits to Istanbul, at Çatı Contemporary Dance Association. With every new iteration, I found myself excited by the evolving possibilities within the method — even as an instructor. This curiosity led me to explore other alphabets: Japanese, Runic, Sumerian, Nazcan, and even further back to pictograms — the earliest forms of visual writing.

Over time, I began offering these alphabet-based dance workshops in universities, community organizations, and online during the pandemic. I came to deeply understand that alphabets are, in fact, bodies that carry the past into the present. These visual languages — shaped across different regions and eras — have transmitted knowledge, perception, time, and experience, just like our bodies do.

Our body is our home — the space we inhabit throughout life. Days, weeks, and months passed, but I still couldn’t feel at home in Germany. Many people around me shared that same feeling. Alongside all this, there was another fire burning inside me. Deep in my heart, I knew that the workshops and performances I was doing were most needed in Turkey. The work Dancing with the Armenian Alphabet, as well as the broader creative dance practices that form its foundation, could play a vital role in Turkey. By recognizing creative dance — alongside folk dance and ballet — as a legitimate, contemporary form of expression, we could foster healthier body awareness, support gender equality, and improve the quality of life for everyone. For these reasons, I returned to Istanbul without much hesitation.

As soon as I came back, colleagues around me started asking, “Why did you return?” I told them about my goals and intentions.

When the Word “Armenian” Was Removed

In his book Writing: The Memory of Humanity, French poet, writer, linguist, and educator Georges Jean explains that whenever people have felt the need to record and preserve fleeting moments in the flow of history, writing became a necessity — almost a law. He also notes that the royal scribe who knew how to write always had a say in power structures.

I began to hear that in academia, even words like democracy and creativity were increasingly discouraged. Some friends told me that during the final review of their theses, advisors asked them to remove such terms. It seemed censorship had reached academia too, especially as the relationship between media and political power solidified.

In 2018–2019, I conducted field research for a second thesis focused on creative dance pedagogy. The phrase Dancing with the Armenian Alphabet was politely modified by my advisor, who was also the head of the dance department, saying, “Let’s just call it ‘Dancing with Alphabets.’” The word Armenian was removed. Creative dance — a practice with a theoretical foundation dating back to the 1920s and one of the roots of dance therapy — was also dismissed, with arguments like, “Is there such a thing as non-creative dance?”

Up until that point, I had never felt the need to define myself ethnically within the profession I had chosen — art, which encompasses all languages, religions, races, and cultures. But faced with these censorships and this approach, I was shocked. Inside, a voice echoed: “This would never happen in Berlin. Where have I come back to?” Although I accepted these exclusions at the time, perhaps out of confusion, they were clear warnings of the challenges I would continue to face.

Gandhi’s words still resonate: “Be the change you wish to see in the world.” As our need for honest, inclusive, peace-centered expression and action grows, art is waiting to connect with us — to serve as a tool for healing the wounds shaped by both family and educational systems.

Maybe today is your first moment of contact. Perhaps you’ll put down this article, pick a letter from any alphabet that comes to mind, and draw it in the air at your own rhythm. Maybe you’ll even stand up and use both arms to dance with another letter. After all, dance is one of the strongest signs that we are still alive.

My workshop, which began with the Armenian alphabet and expanded to include all alphabets from past and present, continues to bring together curious participants through various centers and institutions. It draws attention in international academic and artistic circles, but it also awaits local teachers — right here — who are interested in using it as a teaching method for language and literacy in schools.

From the steppes of Ankara to the north; I’m traveling by bus, leaving behind the  steppes of Ankara. As I enter the city of Sinop—a place I know only from my grandfather’s stories, yet know so little about—I’m greeted by statues of the Amazon Queen Sinope and Diogenes, one of the first philosophers of antiquity. Entering the city accompanied by a woman and a thinker warms my heart, almost inevitably. I had been hurriedly trying to memorize my lines from the play during the journey, but this city quickly slows me down and calms me. I take a deep breath, I see the sea, I feel the wind. After a while, I meet the people who have come to welcome me. I’m in my new, temporary home now.

I was invited to the Sinop Biennial to perform the Turkish version of choreographer Evie Demetriou’s piece The Usual Suspect. The Biennial, initiated by its founder Melih Görgün and curated by a team from five different countries, takes place every two years in July and August in Sinop, bringing together local and international artists. University students from various departments work as assistants at the biennial, creating a productive space for learning, experimenting, working together, and sharing.

After presenting my prepared performance, I choose to stay in Sinop a bit longer and experience it at a slower pace. I also intend to visit the village from which my maternal grandfather’s family migrated in the mid-1950s. But before diving into the past, I surrender myself to the present.

Calm, Respectful, and Smiling

During the summer months, Sinop draws visitors from nearby towns like Kastamonu, Boyabat, and Taşköprü, thanks to its clean sea and beautiful beaches. Its nostalgic innocence, its sunsets that embrace the soul, almost detach you from your present time and geography. In 2013, Sinop was named “The Happiest City” in Turkey, and it’s easy to see why—almost everyone is calm, respectful, and smiling. You can walk alone at any hour of the night without worry. However, the increasing population due to migration in recent years suggests that new social initiatives may be needed to help newcomers understand and integrate with this culture of respect and ease.

Master Agop

Sinop is home to modest and respectful coexistence among Turks, Greeks, Armenians, and since the 1850s, Circassians, Abkhazians, and Georgians who were exiled from Russia. Although most Greeks left after the population exchange, until the mid-1950s, Armenian and Greek populations continued to live in villages such as Sarıyer, Lala, Ahmetyeri, Kabalı, Abalı, and Altınoğlu. Ayancık was predominantly Greek, while Gerze was a mix of Greek, Armenian, and Turkish residents. Later, Armenians migrated to Istanbul or the U.S., and Greeks to Athens or Istanbul. However, some families maintained contact with their neighbors and returned to visit in the 1980s. The children and grandchildren of those who grew up away from these lands now come to see the villages where their elders were born.

Sinop’s Last Armenian Family

Before migrating, Sinop’s Armenians typically worked in broom making, basket weaving, and fishing. Today, only one Armenian family still lives in Sinop. Agop and Nazar Usta (Master Nazar) share the recent history of Armenian presence in Sinop through their own family stories.

Fifty years ago, many Armenians lived with their Turkish neighbors in the Çamlık neighborhood. During Easter, pots were tinned, meals were cooked and shared with all neighbors, and everyone would dance horon together. Later, the state expropriated the land, forcing everyone to move. Most residents migrated to Istanbul, and those traditions faded. “It’s hard to live without kin around,” says Master Nazar, but he praises his friends in Sinop, noting that true friendships still endure there.

Master Nazar

Master Nazar is one of the most respected craftsmen in the Sinop Industrial District. Everyone loves and respects him. He is a master in engine repair—so much so that people say, “If Nazar Usta can’t fix it, no one can.” Even though he and his brother Agop occasionally visit relatives in Istanbul during Christmas or Easter, they continue to live in Sinop. If you ever find yourself in Sinop, you might want to visit them—they’re always happy to see guests.

My Grandfather’s Village

Before leaving Sinop, I head 20 kilometers out of town with friends from the biennial to visit my grandfather’s village, Ahmetyeri. We drive through small hills, trying to locate the village center. My plan is to find the oldest resident and ask about where my grandfather’s family once lived. Eventually, we meet Mehmet Amca (Uncle Mehmet). When I mention “my grandfather, Sarkis, Armenian” in a sentence, he says, “Alright, come with me,” and starts listing names he remembers: “Sultan (my grandfather’s mother), Surpig (his sister), Artin…” and the list continues. We give Mehmet Amca a ride in our car and drive in the direction he guides us.

I focus on the small, modest wooden houses he shows me. I want to feel my grandfather’s undocumented (photoless) childhood deeply. Maybe, I think, maybe he ran down that slope; maybe he climbed up here; maybe he played in the fields with friends; maybe that’s the school he helped build and attended until third grade… Maybe. Maybe… The truth I may never fully know. But seeing my grandfather’s childhood with my heart fills me with a kind of warmth I cannot explain.

Mehmet Amca’s son tells us about some Armenian neighbors who died outside Sinop in the 1980s but wanted to be buried in the village. He points us toward the cemetery. It’s now almost overgrown into a forest. We cut a path with a sickle and walk through thorny bushes to approach the graves. May they rest in peace…

A moment comes when there’s nothing more to see or say… We thank the villagers and Uncle Mehmet and leave. On the way back, I feel satisfied with this journey. To my surprise, everyone in the car is deeply moved. We drive on in silence. As always, the road continues—toward the new and the unknown.

This article published on Agos Newspaper in Turkish https://www.agos.com.tr/tr/yazi/10259/sinop-un-ruzgari

Creative Dance/Embodied Pedagogy
https://www.agos.com.tr/en/article/29492/creative-dance-embodied-pedagogy by Meri Tek Demir