The pull of A.H.H. 7ub

I see him, standing in the distance. His hand is stretched toward me, teasing me to come closer.

I stand and stare. My body is still but my brain is in chaos. I do not know where to go or who to be.

I am not here. I can not be there. I am floating in between these poles, in a buoyant atmosphere that is free from the limitations of gravity but is full of stress.

La ana 3arif arta7, w ana tayi' sawa7.

Why am I subjected to this juggling?

Ana bas'al lay, wa7tar kida lay? Bokra il ayam 7at wareenee.

I fight the air to swim back to my comfort zone, but he calls to me again. His pull grows stronger with each pulse of his larynx, and I am simultaneously softened. My stroking arms wilt. The air cradles me and holds me still.

I am turned. I face him. Nawarlee, wareenee sikit il 7abayib.

He nods, cups the sides of his mouth, and thrusts his breath at me. It paves over the particles that float between us. It overcomes me and draws me in. I feel my stubbornness melt into complacence. My stare has even weakened but I see him more clearly.

He is in black and white; he lusters and I am forced to squint. His eyes glimmer with every emotion that can be sensed; his cheeks are flushed with every aura that exists beyond me, fl ghuyoob. His outline is sharp, and timbre breaks his reflection into background and fore, low pitch and high, gloom and glee.

Ya rameenee b sa7r 3enayk il tneyn, mat 'oulee wakhidnee w rayi7 fayn? 3ala gar7 igdeed, wila al tanheed, wila 3al far7 mwadeenee?

I hope for the latter, but I can't know for sure. He provides no answers. All I hear are whistles, enticing me to a place that existed before I was a hiss.

He reaches his hand out to me again, and offers a vocal fold that lulls me closer. He knows my heart mouths what he sounds.

El 'alb, whoo 'alee.

In unison.

Il 'alb il khalee zalamoo.

His reverberations, leashes of whispered lace and tatreez, have pulled me in the final centi.

I arrive at his place in time. The universe has silenced and stilled herself for us.

And I stare at him. He looks at me.

His microphone appears. He places it on the sheath that shelters my heart, and says "Ghanee."

In sullen voice, the four chambers sound, "Ana, min zaman mishtaq a shoof 7abibi, ilee ghayib."

I press the microphone closer to my chest, and a question is heard: "Fayn kont ghayib?"

Then, I hold it up to my lips, and say, "Ma ykhas. Bayant w shoftak w smi3tak w radayt 3alayk w ghanaytlak."

He stares at me. And I look at him.

The microphone dissolves into particles that float between us, 3azab and 7ub suspended in hawa.

And there we remain, heart-to-heart in silence.

Until, I press PLAY.

Music maturation; Age fresh

One day, several hundred years ago, I was a young girl exploring the shops of Montreal's rue Sainte-Catherine with my quartet: Umee, Khaltee, joz Khaltee, and Reem (me). I strode into a bookstore/music store/cafe. My eyes almost immediately locked on a CD cover featuring a boy wearing a 7atta and prepping a slingshot to shoot. The instant connection was just as instantly followed by internal questions: was this a Palestinian-Canadian group? Was this a bootlegged copy of a George Wassuf CD with a Photoshop-ed cover? Why was it named "Zebda" ("butter" in Arabic)? Was this a mockery of the Middle East?

Two-minutes of examination produced no satisfactory answers. I decided to bite the bullet and purchase the CD. It became a souvenir, and it became my first experience with [what in my world at that time could only be described as] nontraditional Middle Eastern music.

I made the purchase with my Canadian coins, opened the plastic wrapping, and thumbed through the CD pamphlet to try to learn about the group--it was all in French; with the exception of a few key words, I didn't understand French. So, I stared at the pictures and names instead, and tried to figure out which man represented which name: Magyd Cherfi, Hakim Amokrane, Mustapha Amokrane. Those were the only Arab names; those were the names I studied.

Then, I turned my attention to the Arab name: Zebda.

I would later learn that "Zebda" was not a dedication to a silky and fattening dairy product favored by many biscuit and pancake eaters around the world; it was an ownership of a French-colloquial (and derogatory) name given to Arabs.

Zebda was a musical Franco-Arab septuplet hailing from Toulouse in southern France, according to RFI Musique. The group formed in 1985...my connection to Zebda would come some 14 years later.

And it would come at the tail-end of double-digit hours of streaming George Wassuf, Kadem Saher, AbdelHalim Hafez, Om Khalthoum, Fairouz: Kings and Queens of Middle Eastern singing and rhythm.

FLASHBACK...

I heard their music during the entire drive from VA to Montreal. At first, I just accepted it; after all, I was the minority in the car: 19 to 20 year-old, and born in America. I always appreciated that I was Arab, but did not think that should sentence me to hours of drawn-out mawaweel [moaning to my ears], and "whoa-is-me-and-my-broken-qalb" tunes for the centuries-long trip-on-wheels. It was just so...so.......OLD. I didn't understand the lyrics, the music, and "the beauty," according to the others in the car, but I, even then a tolerant and ZEN-like kid, decided to deal and not fuss about it.

Hour five: I stopped hearing, and started listening. My ears adjusted, like eyes do in a dark room. I stopped wincing. My auditory sense began to translate the words from "bla bla bla..wa wa wa" to "sayad al toyoor" and "gan il hawa, ga-a-a-a-naa"--the muffled became crisp and clear, and turned my 95.5 WPGC/Z104 world on to my parents' music. As my mind started to move to the music, so too did my head. As my eyes looked through the window at the passing pavement and rocks, I started to sing...internally.

Hour 10+: I was in love with Middle Eastern instruments and the Arabic language spoken by the singers recorded on the tapes and CDs. I fell in love with aged Arabic music.

Little did I know that the next CD I'd connect with would be Zebda's.

FLASHFORWARD...

I was excited about finding a young group that would echo the sounds of the Middle East, and perhaps bring a fresh flow to the qanun and 3od and nay sounds and the esswat I had heard during the drive. I was excited about making a discovery that I could claim, and then share with whomever I chose (first would likely be the other 3/4 of my quartet).

But after a full listen, the excitement abated, and turned to disappointment. Zebda was too different; it was too...NEW, and I didn't like it. Zebda did not sound anything like precious AbdelHalim and rugged "sultan al 6arab," George Wassuf. To my ears, Zebda was like a live SKA band that was too French and that attempted to note Arab heritage through slight "oriental" allusions. There was an "Asalama 3alykom" and a hard "h" or two thrown in for good measure, but that was all I recognized of Arabic language. Of course, I assumed there were Middle Eastern themes in the lyrics--maybe in "Taslima" or "Arabadub" or "Minot des Minorites"--but even if so, they were dressed in French, and did not conjure an Arab aura. In my opinion, this was not music a 7atta-wearing slingshooter would be listening to.

After all of the metamorphisizing and maturing Om Kalthoum and Fairouz inspired, Zebda was trying to revert me to "western" style--unteaching me the lessons I learned from my car-ride Arabic-music teachers. The confusion was a lot for a vacationing teenager to handle. And it was not welcome.

I made an effort nonetheless, but after a couple rounds of practice-listening to Zebda while in Canada and back in VA, I retired the CD to my "it's aight" collection. I then turned on some Kadem Saher, and forgot about the buttery boys who were Arab but didn't wax Arabic musical poetry...

...Until about 10+ years later. Allahu 3alam what made me think of Zebda this week; that same invisible force had me thumbing through my CD collection to find the boy with the 7atta prepping a slingshot to shoot. I found it.

And I listened to the CD...once, twice, and, on listen seven, my mind started to move to the music, as did my head, and as I was driving, I started to sing...out loud.

I realize now that the hasty criticism I gave Zebda 10+ years ago was not fair; my assumptions about the group were not true. I did not understand Zebda back then. It turns out, Zebda, which disbanded in 2003, was quite a popular, important, and effective band in its hayday. Its foundation was in political activism and social commentary. The group had even started an independent political party in France. [Zebda was probably just the type of band a 7atta-wearing slingshooter who speaks French would be listening to.]

Zebda is not AbdelHalim. No one but AbdelHalim is AbdelHalim. Yet, Zebda is a slice of Middle Eastern music, which is realized in many different ways and with many different sounds and voices. The songs on that CD still sounds liveband-ish, and lean to ska or rock. And I still don't understand French, but I do recognize "intifada" and "Palestine" in "Baïonnettes." And I hear the RAI in the reggae, and note the tabla in the drums.

I get it. I like it.

Musical tastes, like many other things, mature over time. The notes stay the same but age makes them sound differently. Those differences document the life changes in the listener, who, later in life carries more sights and more sounds; more history; and more experiences in his or her backpack. What was once soothing, is now noise. What was once unintelligible, is now perfectly understandable.

Age fresh: Revisit one of those forgotten CDs. You'll hear it as a repackaged person, and may be surprised to find what those sounds will tell you about where you are in your life journey.

--spéciale dédicace 3ala 3eed il milad: May every day you age numerically be a day you are reborn into good energy, khair, and harmony, and refreshed by another celebration of you.

Kol yom wa inta salim.--