Ráidu (2023)
Ráidu, for yoik and chamber ensemble was premiered in April 2023 at the Hetta Music Days by Anna Näkkäläjärvi-Länsman and the Norrbotten Neo Ensemble.
Program notes:
Ráidu is a piece for a yoiker and seven instruments co-created by the Sámi musician and luohti artist Anna Näkkäläjärvi-Länsman and the Spanish-Finnish composer Jaime Belmonte. It was commissioned by Hetta Music Days and premiered in April 2023 by Anna Näkkäläjärvi-Länsman and the Norrbotten Neo Ensemble. Today's presentation with Anna Näkkäläjärvi-Länsman and the Earth Ears Ensemble is an expanded version of the original work, and it is the first doctoral concert of Jaime Belmonte.
A yoik, or luohti in Northern Sámi, is a communicative vocal music style of the Northern Sámi-speaking people. It is often described as an extension of the spoken language. The luohti tradition is a crucial part of the Northern Sámi cultural heritage, still passed down as an oral tradition in the Northern Sámi-speaking Sámi communities. A luohti is a unique form of chanting that portrays a subject, but not in a visual way. It uses only the voice of the yoiker.
Ráidu portrays the disturbing history of how human remains of the Sámi people were taken from their burial grounds in the 19th and early 20th century. These remains were stolen from different locations across Sápmi in the name of racial studies. Ever since, these forcefully taken ancestors have been stored and displayed in museums and universities far from Sápmi. Although some of the remains have been reburied, the repatriation process is still ongoing. The wound caused by this violation is still open, and it will take a long time to heal completely – if it ever does.
Initially, the plan for this project was to incorporate the luohti as a soloist in a Western chamber ensemble. However, confining the luohti to the Western classical structures would have limited its expressive potential. Instead, a new musical language emerged, respecting the luohti’s traditional nature while incorporating contemporary compositional techniques. This process has revealed prevailing colonial structures of Western classical music, and this shift contributes to the decolonisation of music creation, subverting traditional power structures and bending Western music-making norms to create an environment where the luohti can exist freely, realising its full expressive potential.
To create a luohti, the yoiker usually has a clear connection and a mental image of what they want to convey. In Ráidu, the central element of the portrait was born from an anecdote told to Anna Näkkäläjärvi-Länsman by her friend, in turn told by her friend’s father: A reindeer caravan transporting human remains stolen from Sámi graves faces a wind and snow storm, as if the spirits of the Sámi ancestors were opposed to such a horrible act. To yoik such a multifaceted issue as this story with all its branching details, our solution has been to imagine a giant canvas with the whole picture, and then focus on particular elements of the painting. During this performance, we zoom in and out of this bigger picture to capture both its entirety and more concrete details. To guide you on this journey, here are some descriptions of the elements of this portrait:
Ráidu, a caravan of reindeer and sledges, transports Sámi human remains stolen from their homelands. They have been taken from their resting places in the name of racial studies. The Ráidu carries a heavy load and is watched by the spirits of the ancestors and the Sámi gods, who do not forgive the desecration of graves that has taken place.
Vuoiŋŋat, the spirits of the Sámi ancestors, watch as the Ráidu pulls the looted ancestors from their graves southwards. The spirits watch their own corporeal remains and feel themselves falling between two realities, where they will float for centuries.
Čáihni, a woodpecker, sits on a branch and listens. He hears nothing. The surrounding environment has come to a standstill before the Ráidu's first steps southwards. The appearance of the woodpecker near the dwellings and the sound of the woodpecker's drumming is an omen of the failure of the planned journey.
Biekkastit means it is getting windy. And now the wind is starting to blow because Bieggaolmmái, the god of winds and weather, sees the Ráidu. To hinder it, Bieggaolmmái raises a strong headwind for the Ráidu.
Goaivu, a weathered shovel, emerges as a silent promise to heal the wounds of the past century. It is firm, even violent, but it sets the departed to their resting place. The ground trembles with each muffled impact on the soil, and the living are relieved as they are able to bring their ancestors back to their land.
Eanan, the Sámi motherland, gives comfort to the departed. This is where the living, the passed, and the land come together. Returning the stolen remains to the motherland is an act of restitution and a way to rebind the sacred bonds. Water, a constant companion, whispers a calming song that unites the living, the departed, and nature.
Muohttit, it snows without a breath of wind, a delicate dance of snowflakes descends like whispers from heavens. Time itself slows down, caught in the enchantment of this frozen moment, as if the entire world holds its breath. The snow blankets the earth softly, leaving a pristine canvas untouched by any chaos. It lingers and becomes a constant companion to the landscape.
Moraš, grief, a heavy fog in the heart when a loved one is gone, takes on a unique form in each person. In this context, grief intertwines with anger and feelings of injustice. The process becomes a turbulent river, where sorrow mingles with the rage against the theft of remnants. The cycle of grief seems unending because the spirits of the departed are denied the peace they deserve.
Vuoiŋŋadit, to rest, is to enter a gentle sanctuary that emerges from the shadows of sorrow, providing a comforting haven after the storm of grief. However, in this century-long tale of stolen ancestors and lingering memories, complete rest seems like an elusive dream. Closure remains out of reach, as facing grief and rest amid constant reminders of injustice denies true peace and proper grieving. Ultimately, this theme offers no tranquility or happy resolution, but rather an enduring memory that should not be forgotten.
Embarking on this journey into the world of luohti has been a profound and transformative experience for me as a composer. Initially, luohti was a distant melody, unfamiliar and mysterious. As a Finnish composer with a Spanish background, my knowledge of luohti was very limited.
However, the more I delved into the intricacies of luohti, the more it became apparent that this was not just a musical tradition; it was a living, breathing embodiment of Northern Sámi-speaking Sámi culture, a sonic portal into a world where sound becomes identity. One of the most powerful realisations that shook the axioms of my artistic practice was that a luohti is not composed; it is received. It's a form of artistic expression deeply rooted in the Sámi worldview, challenging the very foundations of how I, as a Western composer, understood the act of creation.
As I embraced an ontological turn and immersed myself in the essence of luohti’s creation, I discovered a new way of making music. The rigid structures of Western classical composition gave way to a circular, non-linear discourse, echoing the modular nature of luohti. It was a departure from my usual control over every musical nuance to an acceptance of unpredictability and spontaneity.
Beyond the compositional techniques, luohti taught me the importance of respectful dialogue in collaboration. My initial ideal of a symmetrical relationship among collaborators, akin to Martin Buber's I-Thou relationship, evolved into a recognition of the power dynamics present in a face-to-face encounter, echoing Emmanuel Levinas. I saw myself as a representative of Western culture, accountable for the care and respect owed to the vulnerable Other – in this case, the Sámi culture.
This journey into the world of luohti has been more than a musical exploration; it's been a cultural and philosophical odyssey. It challenged my preconceptions, encouraged a deep connection with collaborators, and ultimately led to the creation of a musical environment where luohti can exist authentically, escaping from colonialist constraints.
As I reflect on this transformative experience, I am reminded that true artistic growth often lies at the intersection of tradition and innovation. Luohti has become a guiding force, shaping not only my understanding of music but also influencing the way I perceive collaboration, cultural dialogue, and the very nature of creative expression. The journey continues, and I find myself forever changed by the profound resonance of luohti in my artistic practice.