an encounter with Armenian Culture in Bari, Italy

O my friends of bygone days, o my mountains green,
now I see you again, and I recollect those happy days
and I visualise before me those well-loved faces
that are no more

Anoush“, Canto the First, chapter II, by Hovannes Tumayan
Translation and curation to Italian: Claudia Cerini, Kegham J. Boloyan
Translated into English here by Lucrezia Milillo

Artidea Cultura performing Armenian traditional dance,
photo of Lucrezia Milillo


I realised how little I knew about Armenian culture only after being invited to listen.

On 18 December 2025, the Biblioteca Ricchetti in Bari hosted an evening dedicated to Armenian culture, where literature, dance, and music came together to offer a layered and deeply thoughtful encounter with a cultural world whose forms of expression have been repeatedly threatened, displaced, and rearticulated.

The evening opened with the presentation of the Italian translation of “Anush”, a poetic work by Hovhannes Tumanyan (Հովհաննես Թումանյան), introduced by Professor K.J. Boloyan.

Boloyan is Professor of Arabic language and literature at the University of Bari Aldo Moro and the University of Salento. Of Armenian Syrian origin, he is actively involved in promoting intercultural dialogue and historical memory, particularly in relation to the Armenian Genocide, through translations and orientalist studies. He is also President of the Centro Studi di Orientalistica of Bari and Vice President of the Unione Armeni d’Italia.

Professor K.J. Boloyan, photo by Lucrezia Milillo

His introduction offered both scholarly depth and clarity, guiding the audience through the historical, literary, and cultural significance of Tumanyan’s work.

Hovhannes Tumanyan, considered the national poet of Armenia, was born in 1869 in the village of Dsegh, in what is now the Lori Province. His writing, deeply rooted in realism, draws from everyday life, folklore, and oral traditions, transforming them into poetic narratives that speak to collective memory and moral imagination. Anush, one of his most well-known works, is emblematic of this approach.

Armenian writer Hovhannes Tumanyan, Unknown author

Map showing Bari, where the event took place, and Dsegh, the Armenian village where Tumanyan was born

Tumanyan’s life intersected with some of the most turbulent moments in Armenian history. He was actively involved in peace-making during the Armenian Tatar massacres of 1905 to 1906, supported Armenian refugees during and after the genocide, and worked tirelessly to preserve Armenian cultural life through institutions such as the House of Armenian Art. These dimensions of his biography further situate Anush within a broader landscape of cultural resistance and continuity.

The literary moment was followed by a series of traditional Armenian dances performed by the association ArtiDea Cultura Bari, whose aim is to create bridges between cultures through traditional music and dance. Each dance was preceded by a thoughtful introduction curated by Donatella Maiellaro, who explored the dance’s cultural background, musical structure, traditional clothing, and historical roots. This allowed the audience to read the movements and understand Armenian dances and music as meaningful practices of Armenian social life, enriching the enjoyment of these aesthetic performances.

Donatella Maiellaro explaining some fundamentals
of Armenian dance and music to the audience,
Photo by Lucrezia Milillo

What stood out was the accessibility of this knowledge. Complex aspects of Armenian intangible heritage were conveyed with precision and clarity, making it possible for those unfamiliar with the culture to fully appreciate the dances. The body became an archive, and movement a form of storytelling. In a context marked by historical rupture and loss, these dances emerged as practices of continuity, anchoring identity in shared gestures and rhythms.

The value of this approach became even more evident when considering the impact of the Armenian Genocide, which caused not only the loss of lives but also the destruction of social cohesion, cultural transmission, and material heritage.

That this event took place in Bari is not incidental. The city has long been part of a Mediterranean geography of refuge, passage, and encounter, and it holds a specific, often overlooked connection to Armenian history. In 1924, two ships carrying Armenian refugees arrived in the port of Bari from Athens and Thessaloniki, where survivors of the genocide had sought temporary shelter after the massacres that culminated between 1915 and 1920. For many, Bari became a place of resettlement and reconstruction.
This history is further reflected in Apulia’s Armenian cultural and religious traces, from medieval churches to twentieth-century intellectual figures such as the poet Hrand Nazariantz, who lived and worked between Conversano and Casamassima. In this light, the evening at the Biblioteca Ricchetti reactivated a longer, shared Mediterranean history of displacement and cultural connection.

The evening was further enriched by the musical performance by Jack Sorressa, who played the duduk. The duduk is a traditional Armenian woodwind instrument, typically made from apricot wood, whose warm and melancholic timbre has come to be strongly associated with Armenian musical identity. Duduk music is recognised by UNESCO as Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity, precisely because of its deep connection to the expression of Armenian culture and social life.

Jack Sorressa playing the Duduk

In a time when cultural heritage is often reduced to simplified symbols or aesthetic consumption, this evening invited listening and contextualization. It reminded us that to understand a different culture, it takes time, care, study and practice.

Left to right: Prof Carlo Coppola, Prof Kegham Jamil Boloyan, the dancers of Artidea Cultura and the duduk musician Jack Sorressa
Photo by Lucrezia Milillo

On The artificial line between tangible and intangible

Intangible Cultural Heritage

Traditions or living expressions inherited from our ancestors and passed on to our descendants, such as oral traditions, performing arts, social practices, rituals, festive events, knowledge and practices concerning nature and the universe or the knowledge and skills to produce traditional crafts.

UNESCO


La Paz, April 24, 1973

The Ministry of Foreign Affairs and Religion of the Republic of Bolivia writes a letter to the UNESCO’s director-general, lamenting commercialisation and export of traditional Bolivian cultural practices such as music and dancing, and the lack of instruments for international protection of these practices.

For the first time, the cultural heritage discussed and protected by UNESCO is described as tangible.


USA, 1970

Simon and Garfunkel release El Cóndor Pasa (If I Could).

The song was using a traditional Andean melody, El condor pasa, and English lyrics were written by Simon, who had first heard the melody in Paris, played by Los Incas, a Paris-formed Andean folk music group.

The piece was a huge success, a best-selling single and worldwide hit. Hundreds of artists from all over the world recorded and sold their own version of the piece.

The Condor, for centuries a symbol of Andean pride, highly revered by the Inkas, was now being appropriated to once again enrich the pockets of anyone but the people who gave origin to this tradition.

The Bolivian Ministry of Foreign Affairs and Religion warns UNESCO about the risks of loss of traditional cultures, if their dances, music and intangible and practised aspects of their cultures were not protected.

His main point is that folklore needs to be defined by international law as “national property”.


1933

The Peruvian musician and composer Daniel Alomía Robles registers the song El Condor Pasa as his own composition at the US Library of Congress Copyright Office.

Turns out Alomía Robles was himself a “folklorist” and collector who had travelled throughout the Andes transcribing numerous traditional melodies.

This story is probably the most recounted myth of origin for the concept and regulation of Intangible Cultural Heritage, and raises the big question:

WHO OWNS INTANGIBLE CULTURAL HERITAGE?

When getting to this point where the storytelling is gone and reflection starts, one might wonder why we should even care?


Intangible Cultural Heritage Conference, Perth

14/11/2025

I attended the Intangible Cultural Heritage of Scotland Conference organised and funded by the ICH in Scotland Partnership (including Creative Scotland, Historic Environment Scotland, Museums Galleries Scotland (MGS), and Traditional Arts & Culture Scotland.

The keynote speech by the ethnologist, piper and broadcaster Gary West set the scene for making the best out of this event with our minds wide open to what is to be celebrated about Scotland’s ICH and what is missing, as well as how to look out for it.

What happens when a tradition stops being practised?

What happens when it changes in time, or, if after a rupture, it gets revived? Does it lose its “worth”?

As an anthropologist, I am very much aware that there is no such thing as a monolithic Culture with a capital “C”. Cultures are fluid, dynamic, co-constructed by their very practitioners.

The anthropologist Arjun Appadurai would stretch it even to the point that “culture” should be used in its adjectival form “cultural”, to highlight the fluid and mutating aspect of it. Giving to the concept of “Culture” an absolute descriptive and denotative power makes it work too similarly to the concept of “race”, he argues.

A beautiful image Gary West referred to in his speech:

Tradition can be thought to as a stream
flowing through time.
looking at a point on the stream it’s going to be different at every second,
but you will still recognize it as the same stream.

Tradition, folklore, ICH, Culture or cultural practices: can they be purely immaterial, intangible?

What can a traditional Scottish bagpiper do without a traditional Scottish bagpipe maker?

What can traditional folksongs tell you, without the very land they refer to?


the Tangible side of intangible heritage

During the ICH conference, I had the chance to join a guided tour of the newly opened Perth Museum. Mark Hall, one of the curators behind the project, led us through the building and its collections.

Mark repeatedly returned to the idea that no tradition, no matter how “intangible,” exists without some material form. Even the most sacred or ephemeral practice is tied to tools, spaces, songs, clothing, or instruments.

A great example is the very Stone of Destiny, which served as a ceremonial coronation seat for Scottish monarchs. At first glance, it is simply a block of rock. Hard, heavy, absolutely tangible. Yet it carries centuries of legends that continue to shift and reform in the present. Today, it is impossible to separate the rock itself from the meanings people project onto it.

Other galleries showed this relationship even more clearly. A fragment of 16th-century gilded leather wallpaper, for example, reveals a whole world of craft knowledge. The museum invited a wood carver and a leather worker to reproduce the full design. Their collaboration brought the creative skills of the past into the present. The original fragment is tangible, but the knowledge needed to make it, revive it, and understand it belongs to the realm of intangible heritage.

In the gallery dedicated to World Majority, the entanglement between the tangible and intangible becomes even more complex. Perth’s nineteenth-century collectors brought home objects from North America, the Pacific, South Asia, and other regions. Perth Museum does not want to centre the story of those collectors but the cultures from which these objects were taken.

One striking case features a set of Iranian bagpipes collected by a doctor from Perth who worked in Iran in the mid-nineteenth century. He left behind a detailed account of watching a maker at work. Despite this collector followed with a colonial argument describing why Scottish bagpipes were superior, the knowledge he accounted for regarding how to carve, assemble, and tune them can help support revival work among cultural groups seeking to reconnect with older musical traditions.

The museum collaborated with Indigenous filmmakers from the Pacific Northwest to present films on canoe building and other crafts. These films make it clear that museum collections can become reminders and teaching tools for communities whose practices were restricted or discouraged during colonial rule. Here, the value of objects lies not in their physical form alone but in the ability to spark conversations, rebuild knowledge, and strengthen identity.

Perhaps the most thought-provoking moment in the tour came in the small gallery devoted to objects from Aotearoa (New Zealand). Hall described how the museum has been working directly with Māori colleagues (both in New Zeland and UK), not only to reinterpret the pieces but also to rethink what it means for these objects to be here in the first place.

The “taonga” (Māori material culture) on display is undeniably physical, yet its life does not sit in the carved surface or woven fibres alone. Their meaning depends on the knowledge of how they were made, the genealogies they belong to, and the protocols that govern their handling. Hall explained that in some cases, Māori partners advised on the correct way to display an object or the kind of narrative that should accompany it. In others, the museum facilitated opportunities for community members to reconnect with objects held far from home, helping to revitalise techniques and cultural practices that had been fragmented by colonial history. Standing in front of these pieces, it was easy to see how a museum can become a place where material culture acts as a bridge, carrying knowledge, memory and practice across time and distance.

Sources:

Making Intangible Heritage: El Condor Pasa and Other Stories from UNESCO, chapter 2

The flight of the Condor, Film

Appadurai, Arjun. Modernity at large: Cultural dimensions of globalization. Vol. 1. U of Minnesota Press, 1996.