Burhan Toprak: Zilan Derman

Zilan had grown up hearing his songs on the radio, but tonight was different. Tonight, he was performing at the wedding of her eldest cousin. She smoothed her dress and followed the sound, weaving through the scent of roasted lamb and blooming jasmine.

As the final notes faded into the night air, Burhan stepped down from the platform. The elders swarmed him, but he made his way toward the edge of the square where Zilan stood catching her breath. Zilan Derman Burhan Toprak

Zilan joined the line, her pinky finger locking with her neighbor's. The pace grew faster, the steps more intricate. She found herself directly across from the stage. For a fleeting second, Burhan’s eyes met hers. He didn't stop singing, but a small, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He shifted the melody, moving from a thunderous dance beat into a soulful, haunting stran . Zilan had grown up hearing his songs on

The sun hung low over the dusty plains of Mardin as Zilan Derman sat on the stone steps of her family’s courtyard, her fingers tracing the patterns of a silk scarf. In the distance, the rhythmic thrum of a dahol began to echo through the narrow alleys. It was the sound of a celebration, and in this part of the world, a celebration meant only one thing: Burhan Toprak was in town. As the final notes faded into the night

He laughed, a warm sound that blended with the fading music. "Music and dance are the only things that keep the stories of our people alive, Zilan. Tonight, you were part of that story."