To the tourists passing through on their way to the coast, it sounded like a repetitive folk chant. But to the villagers, those syllables were a . The Rhythm of the Fields

It began with , whose fingers were as gnarled as the olive roots he tended. He sat every evening on a rickety stool outside the tea house, his bağlama (long-necked lute) resting against his knee. He didn't play complex concertos. He played the rhythm of the earth.

The story goes that three hundred years ago, a Great Drought turned the valley into a bowl of dust. The village elders say the people forgot how to speak because their throats were too dry for words. One night, a young girl named stood in the center of the dry square and began to hum.