Count me in! Flying Carpet Festival

I remember the first time I set foot in Mardin, a town on the Syrian border. I had spent 20 years in United States immersed in the West, composing music and curating performances in polished halls and quiet galleries. But here, in this small, war-torn city, I found something I’d been missing: a sense of purpose. It started with a small circus school called Sirkhane, a place where local and refugee children gathered to learn and play. I was struck by the simplicity and honesty of it.

In Nusaybin, just across the border, I met kids who wanted nothing more than to sing for my recorder. One by one, they overcame their hesitation and began to sing. Their voices, raw and unfiltered, filled the air with something more powerful than any symphony I’d ever composed. This moment stayed with me, tugging at my heart long after I’d left. I knew I had to return. I wanted to bring more than music to these kids – I wanted to bring hope, beauty, and a sense of belonging. And so, the idea for the Flying Carpet Festival was born.

Our festival began humbly, with a handful of artists willing to travel to Mardin and share their skills. But soon, it became something far bigger, something that carried the spirit of resilience and unity. We welcomed artists from all backgrounds, focusing on skill, not race or nationality. In a world polarised by politics and power, I wanted the Flying Carpet to be a space free from these barriers, a place where art could serve as a bridge. Each year, we come together for ten intense days, rehearsing, creating, and connecting.

The performances aren’t just for show; they’re for the children. They are the stars of every performance, the heartbeat of every piece. We blend Kurdish, Persian, Greek, Arabic, Turkish, and Western music, weaving together every voice, every sound, every story. In those moments on stage, something magical happens. The children are transformed. I watch them stand taller, smile brighter. They take ownership of the stage, and in that instant, they aren’t refugees or locals – they are artists. They are seen, heard, and celebrated. As I reflect on my life in the West, I can’t help but feel a growing disconnect. Concert halls and galleries there feel empty, detached, while here in Mardin, the performances burst with life and energy. Art here doesn’t have to fight for relevance; it simply exists, vibrant and necessary.

The Flying Carpet Festival has become a part of me. It challenges me to ask hard questions about my role as an artist and curator. What do I stand for? Am I making a real impact? And I realise that perhaps, for me, this is where art finds its true purpose – not in isolation, but in connection, in resilience, in hope. I return to Mardin every year, carrying with me the memories of every child’s smile, every song, every laugh. And with each visit, I’m reminded of what truly matters: that art has the power to heal, to uplift, and to bring light to places that need it most.

By Sahba Aminikia

More info: Flying Carpet Festival