Soundtrack to the revolution
I first heard this song stood on the roof of Benghazi’s tribunal building. Below me, hundreds of demonstrators were singing it, a cappella.
I then noticed it playing from virtually every car that passed by. Families would be humming it.
And on the front-line in Ras Lanuf, I heard it again. I asked a fighter what it meant to him. “It is a song to jihad” he told me. Quite a different sense of the song than that of the protestors in Benghazi. For them, it was simply as a song of resistance.
My driver one day had a tear in his eye when he heard it. His brother had just left to fight at the front-line, and he was worried. This song raised his morale, but also brought home the realities of their struggle.
Sowfa nabka huna. “We will remain here.”
The Preacher Man
As the evening turned to night, those assembled for the memorial we were catering filled a marquee. A preacher was shouting, aided by ladies from the local church. At times, he spoke in tongues, at times people shouted hallelujah as they rose out of their seats. The night was filled with religious fervour.
Later, some local drummers came out into our fenced off kitchen to heat their instruments on our cooking fires. “They’re just not giving the right sound in this cold air”, one told me.
Moments later, the sound of hymns—in the local dialect—filled the air. Women’s soft voices sang in harmony as tambourines and the wonderful Kenyan drumming provided the rhythm. The sound of the crickets that had previously seemed deafening was drowned out. This was the sound of “Africa” I had always imagined, and it felt rather special.
A not so Merry Christmas
I wasn’t expecting Christmas to marked this year: being far from my friends & family, and far from religious, the date held little significance. And having initially been ignorant of the significant Christian population of Damascus, I also didn’t expect to be reminded of it much in the city. Yet in certain quarters there were oases of Christmas lights in the city, reindeers adorned the sides of buildings. The kitsch-ness of it all could compete with the suburban cull-de-sacs of England.
Christmas songs even made an appearance — Fayrouz, the celebrated Lebanese singer blared from one shop, with her Arabic version of Jingle Bells.
I had been invited to a Christmas party on the 24th (we forget in England how for many countries, it is Christmas Eve when celebrations take place) and I was looking forward to it, not least because of the promise of the Turkish kebabs that Gonay would be preparing. Far from the traditional roast turkey and roasted chestnuts, admittedly.
However, on the night of the 23rd, I eventually fell victim to the Jaramana water. Having been obstinately refusing to drink bottled water since I saw the litter it produced on the beaches of Tartous and Lattakia, I had been drinking the tap-water in Bab Touma. In Jaramana, this is a definite no-no, even for making tea.
I found myself violently shivering & hallucinating during the night of the 23rd, and spent Christmas Eve & Christmas Day horizontal, or locked in the bathroom. Christmas dinner was a banana. My family phoned, but I was unable to speak. Friends offered to come round, but this was a time to be alone. I just had to sit this one out.
As a friend pointed out in an email, at least I didn’t have to deal with the hoards of Christmas shoppers of London or Paris.
Shebab, the last song!
At around 1am, the Arab poets left the stage and the occidental musicians took their place. First off was Mitchell, an extrovert from Tennessee who seemed to be a regular here, and whose covers of Bob Dylan & Bob Marley incited the crowd to a bastardised accompaniment.
The night then end with Rebecca & Sam, two faces that I had seen around the University, playing good ol’ English folk. The night ended with the Syrians present requesting Dolly Parton’s Jolene, before hijacking the lyrics in Kurdish.
Yalla, Rebecca & Sam! were the final shouts.
Eid Soirées
Two guitar players in the cobbled cobbled streets surrounding the Umayyad Mosque. This was a little impromptu affair, with ten people stood around them as they played, sipping hot shai between songs, but elsewhere in the city, small stages were erected for larger performances.
