The history of the Arabesk genre is the story of a search for musical identity. In the young Turkish Republic, which was culturally oriented towards the West in the first half of the 20th century, musical life was subject to multiple state regulations: certain types of Turkish music were temporarily banned, while other forms of popular Arabic-language music were restricted in order to promote a “modern” national sound aesthetic. But some musicians resisted this imposed homogeneity. Instead of jazz and European classical music, they adopted the melodic lines and emotional expressions of Arabic folk music, weaving them together with the Turkish language – and thus creating something new: the Arabesk was born.

“There are Arabesk songs that make you want to dance, even though the lyrics are actually infinitely sad,” says Burcu Bilgiç. The artist is researching the Arabesk music form with her two colleagues Derin Cankaya and İlkyaz Özköroğlu as part of their four-week residency at the Uferstudios in Berlin.

The genre itself meanders between lyrics full of longing for love, passion, and pain, and at the same time danceable, joyful melodies. The intense vocals are usually accompanied musically by violins, the rhythms of the darbuka (cup drum), or the long-necked lute saz.

For the three artists, who all come from Turkey and now live in Berlin, Arabesk music has a special meaning. “In Turkey, it was an unavoidable part of our everyday life, but not necessarily by choice or through our artistic practices,” says Burcu, “but here—far away from home—we suddenly hear this music again, and different. Maybe because it expresses something we miss.” 

Arabesk songs tell not only of love and longing, but also of loss and the struggle for dignity, of people who moved from the countryside to the city, of rise and fall – all themes that are reflected in the experience of migration and uprooting. For a long time, it was considered the music of the lower classes, once banned from television by the state, later rediscovered with the rise of private television stations, and finally growing into one of the country's most influential musical genres. A symbol of what did not fit into the image of a “modern” country at the time. “Growing up within the complexity of the country's modernization process, my grandmother called this music ‘uncivilised,’” says Burcu. “For us, new generations, it is a memory, and its meaning changes over time towards being resistance in these contemporary times.” For Burcu, the lyrics reflect an emotionality that is deeply rooted in culture: "When we love, we love completely. We are passionate about it – at least that's what many people from Turkey say about themselves."
 

In their Berlin residence, Arabesk is now becoming an artistic resonance chamber. Burcu, Derin, and İlkyaz are primarily searching for the productive aspects of the genre's contradictions. Lyrics and melody, grief and joie de vivre, crying and dancing become the starting point for their artistic research. They don't want to simply reproduce Arabesk. “We want to touch it, stretch it, break it – until a new, unique sound emerges.”

While their research they ask themselves: How do the melancholic sounds come about? How do instruments, rhythm and voice interact? And how can a cultural heritage be embraced and viewed from a distance at the same time?

During the first week of the residency, the artists watch documentaries, read texts on the subject, and discuss the social and gender dynamics in Arabesk-influenced music culture. “Men are often portrayed as kings, women more as big sisters or sufferers,” says Burcu. They want to question, break down, and queer these stereotypes. To this end, they also ask what it means when a musical style reflects social classes and gender roles over decades.

Together with well-known Kurdish drag singer Babykilla, who also comes from Turkey, the artists are working on new recordings and their own soundscape that transforms the past.

Their rehearsals give rise to a kind of “moment research” – each member approaches the music from a different angle: rhythm, voice, instrument. What begins analytically becomes physical and personal over time. “We laugh during rehearsals, dance, improvise – and suddenly there are tears in our eyes. This music carries a double truth: it celebrates life while mourning it.”

The result is a work that not only tells a story through music, but also creates a space in which body and sound, grief and joy, present and memory flow into one another – an arabesk heart beating in the middle of Berlin.

On November 8, 2025, Burcu Bilgiç, Derin Cankaya, and İlkyaz Özköroğlu presented an internal showing of their work at Uferstudios Berlin as part of their residency—an insight into a project that will continue to grow.