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Masguda Shamsutdinova was interviewed
R.I.: Ms. Masguda, could you introduce yourself to our radio listeners? Where are you from, what kind of family were you born into, and where and from whom did you receive your initial musical education?
M.Sh.: My homeland, where I took my first breath, is the village of Kshlau-Yelga in the Askin district of Bashkortostan, a place where lightning strikes fiercely. In our region, the lightning is so powerful that I’ve only seen such storms in my village, where the skies seem to crackle with sound. My mother was a village midwife; although she only had basic medical training, people from many cities and regions came to her for help. Even though 40 years have passed since her death, she remains in the hearts of the people. I am called Shamseislam’s daughter, and I am very proud of that. Despite our village being 60 kilometers away from the nearest 10-year school, my mother walked to the Baltach district to study. She went back and forth every week. In the challenging years of the 20th century, I don’t know where she found such determination, but for her, walking 60 kilometers in a storm was nothing. During my school years, she walked those same paths with me, dragging me along that 60-kilometer journey. We must have walked for 15 hours at times. I am so grateful for those 60 kilometers; I talked endlessly with my mother. She marveled at nature, always looking at every blade of grass with wonder. Until her passing, she remained in awe of the world. She never let go of a book. When I was young, she read newspapers and Tatar books aloud, commenting on them, analyzing world events, and trying to open my eyes to the world. She sang so beautifully. I regret not recording her voice while she was alive; if I could hear her voice in my memories, my heart would break. My mother sang so beautifully. I believe her voice and her melodies guide my path as a composer.
(“Mother Is Needed.” Lyrics by Robert Minnullin, sung by Klara Khayretdinova.)
R.I.: Did you dream of becoming a composer since childhood, or did this desire arise unexpectedly?
M.Sh.: As a village child, I had no idea about complex terms like director, composer, or producer. I made my first phone call at 16, and I was thrilled. Because we grew up in a natural era—no modern gadgets. Now, children have computers and TVs with ten channels, absorbing thousands of pieces of information daily. I wonder how their minds cope. I didn’t dream of becoming a composer as a child because I didn’t understand what a composer did. In our time, composers were people like Salikh Saydashev, Mansur Muzaffarov, and Zakit Khabibullin. Now, it seems anyone who writes 16 or 32 bars on a single note line calls themselves a composer, just like not every letter-writer is called a writer. We wanted to be like Farida Kudasheva. My mother’s idol was Farida-apa.
(A song performed by Farida Kudasheva.)
R.I.: As we know, today’s program is dedicated to the issues of mastery and mentorship. How would you define mastery, and what does it mean in the context of a composer’s work?
M.Sh.: Talent is given to a person at birth; some are naturally inclined toward a particular craft. They are called masters of their work, with golden hands, performing their tasks with passion and precision. Talent is a gift from God, but mastery is about staying true to that talent, nurturing and developing it. For example, everyone knows the letters of the alphabet, but those letters form words, and those words create sentences that can uplift or even destroy a person’s spirit, as the saying goes. Just as not everyone who knows letters becomes a writer, not everyone who knows notes becomes a composer. You can’t just decide to become a composer and choose your fate. Music itself becomes the master of a person’s world. I could never master music; it drives the person. Here, concepts of loyalty and betrayal to the talent given by God come into play, and these relationships are directly tied to mastery.
R.I.: As a composer, what principles guide your creative process? How does music come to you? What challenges do you face, or does composing music come easily to you? Do you experience any preparatory moments before composing?
M.Sh.: As I said before, music exists independently of us. We live in an era of artificiality. In this era, I don’t want to produce even a single melody that isn’t born healthy. You want to nurture music like your own child, carefully and safely. You strive to perfect it based on your mastery. Before composing, I don’t experience any particular excitement. It’s as if my eyes suddenly close to block out the world’s noise, and only a heavy weight, like flying, interferes. At that moment, you feel your heart and soul are being grasped, as if your hands could seize them. The difficulty of composing lies in human inability to fit into this world, the scarcity of time, and mortality.
R.I.: You are a highly educated composer. Music lovers are well-acquainted with your work. You have composed songs, instrumental pieces, and even large-scale works. Yet, instead of pursuing further studies in composition through graduate programs, you wrote a candidate’s dissertation in philosophy and defended it at the philosophy department of Saint Petersburg University. How do you explain this?
M.Sh.: I didn’t see a mentor for myself in conservatory graduate programs. In Moscow and Saint Petersburg conservatories, financial resources for advancing education are quite limited. That’s why I enhanced my musical knowledge through a one-year internship at the Stockholm Conservatory in Sweden, which was funded by Sweden. My professional engagement with philosophy stemmed from the challenges we face in life. You know, I have a large folklore collection that hasn’t been fully processed. To work on it professionally, I sought help from the Galimkhan Ibragimov Institute of Language and Literature. The art department staff recommended that I approach the institute’s director, Mirfatykh Zakiev. When he invited me and conveyed their request for me to pursue graduate studies, I directed my steps toward the Institute of History. Of course, one year was wasted. But under the guidance of my mentor, Doctor of Political Science Rafik Mukhametshin, I completed my graduate studies and earned the title of Candidate of Philosophical Sciences. Defending my dissertation in Saint Petersburg was a great honor. I think my parents would have been very proud of me.
R.I.: We also know you as someone who thoroughly studies folk art. What inspired you to engage in this work? What is the value of your deep focus on folk art?
M.Sh.: Humans seek happiness and joy in this world. Our people’s sorrows and strengths are woven into their art, shining like scattered pearls, even reflected in their eyes. Every person has their own joy, and mine lies in basking in the treasures of our people. I swim in the magical melodies of fairy tales, finding beauty and healing. Throughout my life, the voices of the grandparents and elders I’ve met echo in my every gaze. As we age, childhood memories return to our hearts more often, and as I collect folklore, I feel as though I’m returning to our people’s historical childhood, their depths, and their nobility. That’s where its value lies.
R.I.: Ms. Masguda, you are a mother of two boys and a wife. Household and family responsibilities must create challenges for your creative work. Yet you frequently travel abroad, giving lectures on Tatar music. If possible, could you say a few words about these matters? (Where is the question?)
M.Sh.: Perhaps it’s my family’s love that drives me. If I didn’t have my husband, who considers every piece of music I write to be the most beautiful in the world, or my two sons, who are smarter than me, guide me, and teach me to see the world, what joy would this world hold for me? My family gives me the opportunity to roam the skies of inspiration. I am a true child of my nation, and concepts like lineage and heritage are very important to me. Our ancestors said, “If the tree is noble, its fruit is noble.” My tree has been noble. I try to pass this heritage to my children through Tatar words, and they, in turn, understand it through science and explain it to me.
R.I.: Ms. Masguda, please allow us to move to our final question. Our last question is about mentorship. How do you understand this concept? As a composer and folklorist, do you have a mentor, and who are they?
M.Sh.: No one teaches you with love and stands at your side like parents do. If you want to learn, there are many mentors. I wasn’t a lucky child in this world. But I met mentors along my life’s path. My first teacher was Nakiya Galieva. I studied in formal institutions for 21 years. Among my teachers, there were mentors too. My spiritual mentors, of course, are my parents. From them, I inherited awe and wonder at this world. To me, these qualities are essential for a person’s mind. My mother used to say, “If you want to learn, the world itself will teach you.” In other words, the world itself is a mentor.
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