Serr

I can't get that voice out of my head. And each time it repeats, it gets louder and uglier, as does my hate for it.

But no one can know about how much I hate right now--it's a secret; serr.

And so I'll remain calm on the surface, and keep my collapse inside--hidden underneath my superficial self. There it will remain mine and it will not affect anyone else.

But the voice is excruciating: her Arabic stands out against theirs and the cackling and chain smoke I hear and imagine in the background. It's very rare that I invest enough energy to hate anything--so I must keep this serr.

"Go away, and get away," I wish.

I try to drown it out with a steady stream of amplified sound through my ear buds. The voice keeps "coming around again. When it comes, it comes unannounced and it feels like a matador is taunting me with his reddest red cloth--and I am the bull," Brandon tells me (it seems he's experienced these feelings too).

His song and those that follow simultaneously supplement the cheap voice, feeding it and emphasizing it; and are challenged by it. That hideous female voice delivers a white-noise slap on the next song's noted cheek. A duel is decreed and ensues.

The gang of songs drown out the wretched pitch of her Arabic--a language I love, but hate right now. And just as it seems the melodies would be the victor in this melee, she reveals her secret weapon, her serr: his voice.

Had his voice not been there, hers would've never been heard; had he not been there, she would not be hated. Had I not heard them together, there would be no serr to write of.

His words are more lethal than hers: They lunge at the soothing songs, and twist and turn the sharp tip of their knives through the music shield, passed the core, and into my heart.

The songs surrender, and assimilate with the challengers' posse: her voice; his voice, now amplified by songs of anguish and love and heartbreak.

It's too much. I pause my iPod, and take out my ear buds, and anxiously listen for silence. I deny the tear that just as anxiously wants to stream down my cheek--I have to; I must erase any evidence of this morning battle, and keep it serr.

Lazim a tanish. It's time for coffee with mom. I sit down on the couch in the living room, give her a saba7 il khair smile, and turn on VH1.

Trance

Out of my periphery I see my hands, resting on the keyboard cushion, fingers extended and grazing the keys of the board but not pressing anything. The edges of my hands and the letters on the keys become fuzzy and melt into each other--my eyes stare at this image, which becomes the gateway into my trance.

I am moved into another realm, where shapes are ever-transforming and objects are only defined by the boundaries of their colors and the pitches of their sounds. But as they dance, anything definitive about them is redefined.

I'm happily lost and choose not to use the bouncing beats to navigate my way. These are my stars and they make my universe-scape. And here I can forget and meditate and still think actively. I hear bass. I hear drums. I hear natural sounds.

And I hear his voice. Snippets of our conversation are woven into my musical muse. The shapeless beat bodies part, creating a path lit by visual memories of our discussion--I am in the Tooree living room, placed on the seat by the window. I am curled up and hugging my knees with one hand; the other hand gestures toward him as is necessary in Arabic conversation. "Shu3la" I repeat to him several times..."3al 2aleel, shu3la."

"N7abasna u sawayna u 7akayna u t3ibna"--I hear his echo. The recollection of this conversation is jarring against the liquid, soothing sounds of my trance. This debate cuts the notes like a machete to feathers. But both are organic, and both flow for hours (our discussion just a tick mark in the Palestinian conversation continuum). We, he and I, took the talk from the middle of the night to fajr. And right before the largest star in our universe emerged to tell us to stop and stare and mediate, I went to pray for solutions.

I only found more fixation.

I'm sucked out of that memory and back into the shapeless and sound-filled abyss that is my trance. My hands, still positioned on the keys of the keyboard, are coming back into focus.

I'm reawakening and realizing that I need to go back and continue the conversation.

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.--

Responding to a response

You are quite right, my writer friend--these are not simple "clings" and "clangs" and "beeps" and "bops". These are the sounds and the souls, the vibrations and the vibes, the harmonies and the hearts borne from and giving birth to Hip Hop music.

It's sacrilege to over simplify it or dismiss it as noises that can be produced with a fork and a "tunjara." But Hip Hop is simple; that is why it is widely appreciated. Hip Hop is the spoken word of the poet, recited in rhythm--in time with a heart beat, monitored by the pounding of a fist against a chest; a fist that takes its breath clenching erect in the air, joined by a head nod of respect--touch the chin to the chest and relate the instrument to its power source.

All very simple; that is why it is understood. That is why it has spread. That is why it has fans and loyalists.

Hip Hop music; Hip Hop movement--it is the pulse that monitors the flow of life. That monitor is now watching and timing and mixing the Middle East.

It remains the same there--it goes back to its roots there. When it was fresh in Brooklyn, it was about real life; it was about daily life. An MC told a tale with no fantastic ending--he echoed the tragedy and the poverty and the illiteracy and the illegitimacy and the corruption and the power and the trust and the intelligence that was all around him. And he did it in beat, and he did it in rhyme, with the DJ by his side. And that was it--and it was everything.

It is everything to young Palestinians and Lebanese and Algerians and Egyptians and Syrians and Moroccans. The Middle Eastern rap poet is the descendant of the orators and story-tellers that carried forth the instructions of the prophets and the teachings of the professors and the investigations of the reporters. This art is ingrained in Middle Eastern culture and history. A good memory and an articulate speaker made a man who became responsible for maintaining tradition. We know our tradition because of him. He is that tradition. Hip Hop artists are Middle Eastern tradition realized in today's environment.

Today's Hip Hop artist is the people's representative--he and she are the honorable politicians. Through their lyrics and their music, the masses are activated into "muzahirat," they are charged to call out injustices and to insist on change. Hip Hop is the battle cry of the rock-ready and the 7atah wearing shabab, resisting occupation and protecting their people. Hip Hop is a commentary that spreads in decibels and over airwaves and reaches beyond the boundaries of the "mukhayamat" and the check points. I7dood Lubnan stand no chance against the giants of the Palestinian flow; nor can they block out the spray of "Lubnan ardee, Lubnan baladee, Lubnan watonee" that shoot at them from inside. The voices are one; the collective power is immense. Rhymes passing through the "ma7soom" between Gaza and Egypt proceed without hesitation or long lines or rejection. The Syrian is expressing in tandem with the girl from 3akka, and the mesmerizing flute carries her message to the narcicist in Iraq. And the song lands in the iPhone of the Palestinian sitting in Virginia, longing for her "baranda" back home.

You are right, Mr. Writer, Hip Hop is not just a "beep" and "clang." Hip Hop is simply everything.