Azerbaijani New Year - Spring Equinox
Happy Spring Equinox, perhaps the most special time of the year for me. Time for new beginnings and re-awakening - Azerbaijani New Year, called Novruz.
I wanted to share with you an extract from my memoir where I describe the way we celebrated this festival at the time when the Soviet Union started to disintegrate back in 1990.
I hope you enjoy it and if you’d like read the book, here’s the link with more details.
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As the spring equinox approached, people’s defiance of the Soviet regime and continued anger at the events of Black January were expressed in a lavish and public celebration of the dearly loved spring festival, Novruz. We had marked it every year of my life, but always behind closed doors, since the Soviet authorities had not approved of the festival’s historic links to ancient Azerbaijani traditions such as fire worshipping.
Although I loved the festival, it meant hard work. Nana involved me in washing everything in the house: bedding, windows, walls, the expensive porcelain tea set trimmed with gold in the display cabinets in the drawing room, the cut glass candelabras and every single floor. I also had to scrub all the rugs and carpets with a wet cloth. I spent hours on my knees, until I ached all over, making sure they were spotless. While Nana mended all our clothes and some of our neighbours’ too, Uncle Salman planted new trees and tidied up the back garden. As tradition required, we visited Baba’s and Uncle Javan’s graves to pay them our respects, before celebrations began in early March, four Tuesdays before Novruz itself.
Each Tuesday, called Charshanba, had a theme as we celebrated the awakening of water, fire, wind and earth. During the first Charshanba we honoured the purifying nature of water. Although the celebration on that day was modest, I still felt excited because it marked the ending of winter. The second Charshanba marked the awakening of fire with large bonfires in the street. Nana lit candles in the house to burn off any negative energy of the past year. By the time we marked the awakening of wind and air during the third Charshanba, the preparations for Novruz were in full swing and Nana bought chestnuts, walnuts, hazelnuts and even some pomegranates for the celebrations. The last Charshanba, which represented earth, was as big as Novruz itself. Tradition required that we had seven varieties of food on the table, and all of their names had to start with letter ‘s’ in Azerbaijani, such as sumakh, sour spice used with meat, and samani, wheatgrass Nana grew on plates as a symbol of fertility.
This Novruz was special, and everyone I knew made an extra effort to mark the day itself as it merited. Although Nana constantly complained about the shortage of money and the empty shops, she splurged on expensive produce to make baklavas in large tins – enough for our household, Mama’s and Uncle Telman’s. I watched as she alternated layers of thin pastry and crushed walnuts and hazelnuts mixed with sugar. Next, she poured honey and saffron syrup over the thick top layer and made cuts in the pastry to create diamond shapes. I decorated each diamond with a walnut and hazelnut halves. Of course, I did not leave the kitchen until I had eaten the first baklava of the season.
On the eve of Novruz, neighbours and relatives gathered around our oval table in the living room to make shakarburas. We filled sweet pastry with crushed walnuts and hazelnuts, sealed them on one side and, using tweezers, decorated the top with elaborate patterns. The comforting smell of shakarburas spreading through the house distracted me from the women’s conversations about their relationships, the latest gossip and the current Soviet occupation.
On the 21st March, people’s defiance of the regime drove them out into the streets to gather around bonfires, sing traditional folk songs and feel proud to be Azerbaijani. We were no longer individual families; that day we were a community. Even women were allowed to attend the gatherings. After a family dinner at home, I joined girls from the neighbouring houses who were flocking together around the fires. Someone on the other side of the flames started singing a folk song, his longing palpable, his voice sad. We all joined in with the refrain, pleading, ‘please, look at me’.
‘There is a stone flying through your window,
Please, look at me, please look at me.
There are tears in my eyes,
Please, look at me, please look at me.
If your family agrees to give you away to me,
Please, look at me, please look at me.
That would please everyone,
Please, look at me, please look at me’.
When the bonfires burned down to a manageable size, young boys, and even some girls, jumped over them. I waited tentatively before following them over the tame flames. The fire was supposed to burn all the negative energy trailing behind you, leaving you cleansed ready for the coming year.
I thought the scale of the celebration, a demonstration of our unity as a people, was awe inspiring. That night we all felt change was really coming. Novruz was bringing new beginnings for us and our country.