Holding voices beyond our own

I’m half way through my residency at Deveron Projects and in the past weeks we’ve engaged in many exchanges and nurtured many connections, both in Huntly, and beyond.

I’ve always been one to find myself fragmented in many thoughts, curiosities and skills, owing much of it to my neurodivergence. It is my gift, and equally my limitation. It’s been a constant practice of mine to depend on others to fulfil imaginations into realities. But sometimes I forget this and feel the unnerving burden of trying to function as an individual plant rather than a humble meadow that needs it’s natural companions to thrive. Gently nudged by my body and friends, I am reminded that I exist within ecosystems of mutual dependencies. It is what makes us all thrive. As Robin Wall Kimmerer says, "all flourishing is mutual”.

All of the activities, workshops and connections that we have been building during my time in Huntly are leading me to pronounce the importance of interdependencies in my practice, and simply, our collective responsibilities to depend on one another. To hold voices beyond our own, echo them when needed and quieten them when required for another’s to be heard, become a hum or a roar for every solidarity that needs it.

We had our first Singing Badly, Singing Radically workshop with a beautiful gathering of voices. This was advertised as a gathering for bad singers, but it’s actually really, really hard to sound terrible when singing collectively, at least in my opinion. My intrigue to gather 'bad singers' to sing radical sounds came from a few different places. The bothy ballads of the North-East being one of them, screeching seagulls in Huntly, and my own longtime relationship with stage fright. I began performing through terrible degrees of stage anxiety, making for many quivering performances of unstoppable shaking and plentiful embarrassment to revisit before bedtime. But unbeknownst to me that was my most radical act back then. To continue to try, and sing despite, sing badly, if you will.

Bothy ballads like the far famed turra coo and the scranky black farmer, urged me to think about some questions that I would love to explore in future singing gatherings. how do we we write contemporary songs of defiance in our communities? how do we archive our dissent of broken systems in song, withstanding time and erasure? and how do we do it with persistent joy? songs to be sung at solstices and Hairsts*, to be hummed at work, to be sung to put your young ones to bed, and to remember what we can do to protect and safeguard ourselves from hurt?

The thing about folk songs that moves me most is their timelessness. Their melodies transport you to a very specific place in time where you revisit the described struggle, you reimagine the landscape and you find yourself inexplicably connected to those who came before you. I’ve been writing my own version of the ballad, Far Famed Turra Coo. Owing to its history of dissent, mine is titled the far famed holy coo. An attempt to engage any attentive and eager ears to the vile hypocrisies of nationalist and religious violence in India where the gentle coo has become a weapon of violence, a tool to subjugate and humiliate minorities, often being lynched publicly with little to no outcry.

the far famed holy coo goes something like;

mine is a land too
where a coo can cause a riot
with hills of many mights
and songs for everyone sigh
words for everyone tongue
battles fought, lost and won

and farmers who fight
toil still for their rights
but our Paterson’s are met
with seditions and arrests
and their voices stifled
over corporate affairs

Ch: tooralay tooraloo
what ken a coo
of it stirring up a riot

this kind and gentle coo
in it’s name yet violence ensues
but unlike ye turra coo
we have divine holy bovines
for whom vigilantes are set
their cloven hooves on poorest necks
and made are they weapons
for hate and despair

and the coo cults patrol
mob justice is its call
in fear and terror it’s
poor victims are all

yet funny a sight is
that the coo a pretty price is
for the makers of money from its export and mair

Ch: tooralay tooraloo
what ken a coo
of it stirring up a riot

from the labour that was looted
when our lands were uprooted
and the monarchs left with
all but a mess
of a people divided
and a soul that is at strife with
what is mine and what is his,

yet the only benefactors
are the sum of plenty actors
of privilege and
political warfare

Ch: tooralay tooraloo
what ken a coo
of it stirring up a riot

I attended one of Huntly’s acoustic folk sessions at Harry’s bar and built up the courage to sing this familiar tune to fellow singers there. Since everyone took turns to share a song, a tune, or poem, it made reciprocating quite natural. This small yet mighty town’s earnest companionship in all their different community gatherings makes me braver than I usually am.

I’ve also begun knitting again, something i’ve frequently abandoned in the past. Every Friday of the week in a room tucked out of immediate sight at the Brander Library is an audibly sweet natter that’ll lead you to a group of knitters and crocheters. I first heard of them from Luci, who is an incredible crocheter themself. By my second visit to the group I was being taught to knit by Margaret who is an 83 year old knitter with knitting speed and skill so fine that it’ll put a machine to shame. She showed me a reference blanket that she knits to donate to a shelter in Aberdeen, easily finishing up to one blanket a week. It is no short of a privilege, learning from her and such an inspiring group of makers.

Together with Deveron Projects and Frank from Westfield Croft we also facilitated a willow basket weaving workshop for some of the careworkers from Huntly’s wide network of carers. The idea first arose when Trang, an avid forager suggested we learn how to make willow baskets to use while foraging. It a was a whole day’s work with meticulous preparations from Frank’s side. I was so eager to learn this skill but found myself falling behind, struggling to complete each step in time and at pace with the rest of the group. Something really hopeful and revealing to me in the care extended by Trang and everyone in square deal that day was that care is not only work, but habit. She stepped in and helped me finish my basket, checked in on everyone else and caught up others who came in a bit later because of their previous night’s shifts.

Once our basket bases were all secure, we split the group and sat on separate tables for more space. Jenny sat in front of me for the second half of the weaving, and it was a delight to see how her hands aligned each willow with rhythmic precision, making for an almost identical basket like Frank’s. I learned then that she is and was, a weaver before joining Deveron Projects. There is a poem etched in how muscle memory activates no matter the material being used. Jenny rightfully said, "You get to learn so much about someone when crafting”. I certainly was confronted by my own need for perfection that made me lag behind quite a bit.

Trang was the first to learn and retain every new instruction that Frank presented. Her weaving was efficient, prompt, and almost urgent. She shared with us that her father was an all round crafter, farmer, and tailor. She learned much of her appreciation for nature and skills of making from him. He made bamboo baskets for fishing, vegetables, and even wove bamboo furniture for their home on their childhood farm. It doesn’t surprise me that her hands reflected this familiarity to material and movements that she grew up seeing in her father’s practice.

It is indeed true that one learns greatly about the self and other while crafting.

Working in Huntly is a collective effort. When Ron Brander learned of my intrigue of the Turra Coo, he promptly sent resources my way. And what a precious excerpt he shared!

"But the cow – there is a thing of beauty. She is simple, sensuous and impassioned, like a poem, and she has the Christian virtues as well… She asks but to give and give and give again… the eyes of a cow shine with a soft enraptured light, like moons in a misty sky… the cow has an infinite capacity for silence… the cow lives in a deep philosophic calm; she has long thoughts and keeps them to herself. To sum up: the cow is a contented beast and spreads her contentment about her. She is kind and gentle; in short she is a perfect female friend."

I carry these generous gifts- in resources and skills with much care and appreciation, for how often does one encounter kindness with such ferocity and frequency. Perhaps often, in the case of this town.

Artist Rah Naqvi is on residency at Deveron Projects until September 2026. Find out more about their work here.