Aida Garifullina: ‘Opera is life, but a hundred times brighter’

The celebrated diva opens her heart and shares her belief that great artists are those who never stop listening to their inner voice. One of the most sought-after sopranos of our time, Aida Garifullina has sung on the world’s greatest stages and achieved international fame and acclaim. In 2018, she performed live before an audience of billions at the FIFA World Cup, appearing alongside Robbie Williams at the opening ceremony and also performing at the ceremony ahead of the final. Her incomparable voice is one of those seemingly made to transcend time, moving with rare clarity and expressive depth between virtuosity and sensitivity, appearing to float delicately while simultaneously filling the space. For the first time, that voice will resonate in Cyprus, at the idyllic ancient theatre of Kourion, overlooking the Mediterranean beneath the starry Cypriot sky . On this wonderful occasion, Aida Garifullina speaks about the stage as a place of connection, opera as the raw, unfiltered truth of human emotion and, above all, an art form that seeks not perfection and success, but truth and humanity. What still makes you eagerly await every new performance? Music is like a river—it never flows the same way twice. Each time I step onto the stage, I feel like I’m entering a conversation with an unseen companion: my own soul, the audience, even time itself. Sometimes it’s a whisper, sometimes a cry, sometimes a prayer… but it’s always something alive, something born in that very moment. It’s this unpredictability, this trembling before the unknown, that quickens my heartbeat in the minutes before the first note. When you first meet a conductor and orchestra, as you will in Cyprus, what do you focus on first? I look into their eyes. Not at the conductor’s hands, not at the sheet music—but into the eyes of the musicians. I need to feel if there’s fire in them, if there’s passion, if they’re willing to take risks. If I see that they’re not just playing notes but living the music, then we become one. Because opera isn’t a solo recital—it’s a sacred ritual where every voice matters. You’ll be singing in an ancient open-air theatre. How does such a place shape your approach to a concert? You stand amid stones that are two thousand years old, and suddenly you realise: you’re not just a singer—you’re a link in a chain. Your voice can’t be amplified by microphones or hidden behind scenery. It must reach the last row, pierce the wind, cut through centuries… I become part of this place—its breath, its memory. And then, music stops being just a song. It becomes a prayer, lifted to the sky. You’ve worked with the greatest conductors and directors. What qualities make creative collaboration truly fruitful? When people aren’t afraid to challenge you. When a director says, ‘What if we tried it this way?’ and you don’t dismiss it but take the risk together. When a conductor listens to you as if you’re their only audience. Creativity is like a dance: if one partner leads too forcefully, the other loses themselves. True magic happens when both know how to yield and how to take. You’ve performed music from many national traditions. Do you feel each language reveals a new facet of your voice? Yes… like doors opening into the same house. Italian is sunlight—it flows easily, as if life itself is singing. Russian is a deep well where every word carries history. French is silk slipping through fingers. And Tatar… it holds so much raw pain and joy that singing it feels like touching the memory of ancestors. Language changes the timbre of my voice, its colour, even my breath. It’s like playing different instruments, where each note is a new life. What element of your Tatar heritage always stays with you onstage? The sense of qyzıq … not just a word, but a state of the soul. Tatar music carries an honesty, almost childlike vulnerability—like singing not for an audience, but for a single listener by the hearth. And the rhythm. Our folk dance Kyzlar bäyräme taught me that music must breathe like a person: sometimes still, sometimes exploding in unrestrained passion. I carry that with me in every role—even when it’s Verdi or Puccini. In 2018, billions heard you sing at the FIFA World Cup final. How does an artist handle that level of exposure? Did that experience change how you view your public presence? I realised art isn’t about fame—it’s about connection. Billions weren’t listening to me as an opera singer; they were listening to someone singing for them. Suddenly, I understood: my job isn’t to be perfect, but to be real. To let my voice sound as if I’m singing directly to each person in the crowd. Since then, I’ve stopped fearing being myself—even when the world watches through millions of screens. Even on the world’s grandest stages, everything is recorded and immediately shared on social media. Do you think this has changed the way a live performance is experienced? Live music used to feel like a fleeting secret—something that died the same night it was born. Now, it can live forever… but sometimes, that eternity suffocates the spark of the moment. I remember singing an aria, and within an hour, social media was flooded with critiques: ‘She was off-key here!’ I thought: Did people come to the theatre to dissect mistakes—or to feel something that moved them? Yet I’ve learned to resist that pressure. A live performance isn’t about a flawless recording. It’s about the trembling that can’t be saved in any file. If you could change one enduring misconception about opera, what would it be? That it’s boring. Or that it’s only for the elite. Opera is raw, unfiltered truth about human emotion—passion, despair, ecstatic joy—amplified a hundredfold. It’s life, but a hundred times brighter. I dream of the day when theatres aren’t just filled with regulars in evening gowns, but with teenagers in sneakers who came simply because they wanted to feel something. Because opera isn’t a museum. It’s a concert hall where millions of hearts beat in unison. In your opinion, what’s the most underrated quality needed for a great opera career? The ability to listen—not just to the music, but to yourself. In opera, it’s so easy to get lost in ambition, in the rush of performances, in the noise of the industry… But great artists are those who never stop hearing their inner voice. Who remember why they started singing. Who aren’t afraid to be alone with their thoughts after intermission. Because in the end, the audience doesn’t come for virtuosity—they come for what makes them feel. What would you say to a young person today dreaming of following in your footsteps in a world so different from the one you grew up in? Don’t chase success—chase truth. In a world where social media dictates the fashion of talent, don’t be afraid to be yourself. If you sing from the heart, people will hear you. But if you try to please everyone, you’ll lose the most important thing: your unique voice. Study every day, but never stop playing. Find teachers who don’t just teach technique, but who inspire… because in the end, that inspiration is what makes an artist immortal. In a great career, what ultimately makes the difference beyond obvious talent and natural gift? Patience. And the ability to rise after falls. I’ve seen the most talented singers break under pressure halfway through their journey—while those who endured became legends not because of their voice, but because they refused to quit. An opera career is a marathon, not a sprint. And sometimes, victory comes when you least expect it. Beyond technique and timbre, what makes a voice truly beautiful? When it carries a person. When it trembles with emotion, when it aches with pain, when it laughs with you… Technique is the tool, but the soul is everything. I’ve heard voices of perfect purity that left me cold. But once, I heard an old woman’s soprano, trembling with tears… and I understood: that is beauty. Because art isn’t about perfection. It’s about life. Is there a flaw in your voice or performance that you have consciously chosen not to correct because it has become part of your artistic identity? Yes… a slight crack in my upper register. Not a flaw—more like a scar from time. I could ‘fix’ it, but then the voice would lose part of its story. That crack is like a wrinkle on a face: a reminder that I’m not perfect, that I’ve lived through pain and joy. And sometimes, it’s what makes a note piercing—as if a human tear is hidden within it. Is flawless execution not what you strive for? Flawlessness is like a porcelain figurine: beautiful, but cold. I want music that burns. Sometimes I sing with a mistake—but I sing it honestly. And the audience erupts not for technique, but for feeling what I truly meant. A slight tremble in the voice, an unexpected pause, even a slight deviation in pitch—these can become the very magnet that pulls the listener to the stage. Because opera isn’t mathematics. It’s humanity. INFO: Aida Garifullina joins the Cyprus Symphony Orchestra for two concerts on 9 and 10 October at the Ancient Theatre of Kourion, at 8pm (doors open at 7pm). Tickets: SoldOut Tickets.