“What is your favorite song?” is a question I have begun to despise. I can recall when I used to be able to answer the question with little to no effort. Yet, now, each time I’m asked, I do a little soul searching. I ask myself, “What is my favorite song (at the moment)?” Or rather, my second favorite? I weigh my options with what comes to mind. Maybe “Distant Dreamer” by Duffy? I suppose “Duvet” by Bôa, but that is a bit obscure. Truth be told, my favorite song has remained the same since I was seven years old. “Ya Habibti ya Masr” (O’ Egypt my beloved) by Shadia has rung through every hall in every home my family has ever lived in. It’s a symptom of my parent’s homesickness ever since they came to the United States. Naturally, I began exhibiting similar symptoms.
My relationship with the song differs from other Egyptians. I lived in Egypt from the ages of four to seven. It has been 13 long years since I last visited the country. Thus, when Shadia sings, “He has never seen the Nile, within the embrace of the trees,” I cannot help but think of myself. The song takes me back to days bygone and sorely reminds me of my home that never was.
Music, like any other art form, invokes different interpretations and feelings depending on the person. To my Egyptian friend and roommate who lived in Egypt for most of his life, it’s a love ode and a reminder of the life that has been. To both of us, the song is bittersweet.
My roommate does not listen to music any longer, believing that it is Haram (Forbidden) for us in Islam. It is not a ruling I haven’t heard before. There were times that I myself would abstain from listening to music under this jurisdiction. It may be helpful to think of Islam as a religion that places heavy emphasis on anti-hedonism and values asceticism. However, I always struggled to reconcile with the ruling on music. A ruling that has, however, been hotly debated within the Muslim community throughout history.
My last attempt at abstention lasted only a couple days. I must admit, I did feel a certain serenity towards the end. But it was broken when I happened upon the song “A Time to Cry” by Rim Banna. The song vividly describes the sorrow caused by the Israeli occupation.
“They burned (Jerusalem) … they crushed her … and occupied the people’s homes in broad daylight.”
“And the people … they were uprooted … by the force of weapons and fire … Nothing is left, except a few stones and a shrub that limps over the walls.”
It’s no wonder it’s the title song of the album, “A Time to Cry – a Lament over Jerusalem”: a collaboration effort by multiple artists. The album’s self-stated mission is to “express deep sadness about the situation in Palestine” and “to reach out to the world.” Here, music is not just a means of hedonistically passing time but a means of resistance. The sorrow expressed in the songs prove corrosive to the narratives placed upon them. It’s an honest expression of pain and loss, more powerful than any bullet point argumentative essay “proving” why Palestinians deserve to live.
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Every year, the Arab community at the University of Michigan hosts Arab Xpressions, a showcase of our cultural heritage through music, dance, singing, poetry and other talents. Arab Xpressions provides the opportunity for our community to celebrate what is deemed as “other”. This year’s theme was inspired by the Palestinian’s plight of self determination: “Hurayatna” (Our Freedom). In the beginning of each Arab Xpressions, the flags of the 22 Arab countries are raised one by one. As the Palestinian flag was walked, a fervor unseen in many years infected the crowd.
Yet, it paled in comparison to the crowd’s increasing restlessness over Adam M. Abduljabbar, who was scheduled to cover “Falasteen Biladi” by Humood but had been repeatedly delayed by technical difficulties. “We want Adam!” *clap clap clap* “We want Adam!” *clap clap clap* “We want Adam!” echoed in the Michigan Theater. There was a payoff, then, when he was brought out. Deafening applause arose, and it was quickly hushed as he grabbed the microphone. We were still tense, waiting for Adam to sing like a congregation waiting for the imam to begin our prayer.
“We won’t be silent, we won’t surrender, no!” Adam sang, tinging his voice with grief — as if he were mourning. He, delivering the eulogy; and we, attendees of the Jannazah (funeral). The crowd swayed in unison: some out of sadness, some out of hope, yet all out of underlying love.
The hope to return is not exclusive to Palestinians — it exists across all the Arab peoples. Whether it be Palestinians, Lebanese, Egyptians, Iraqis or Syrians, it has become ingrained into our identities. No song better exemplifies this than “Sa-Narj’u,” sung by The Voice of Lebanon, Fairuz. While originally inspired by the Palestinian plight, the song is broadly applicable to all Arab diasporas. My favorite line is, “and people, who are in love, their days, the tranquility of blues-singing waiting.”
It would be an understatement to call the love Arabs have for their respective countries patriotism, as it’s more akin to the love one would have for their father or mother or their sweethearts. “We used to say separation was impossible. And every tear on the checks used to drop: filled with hope that we would remain in the ocean of love, between the two seashores,” sings Dalida in “Helwa ya baladi” (How sweet my country). The song is sung in the second person, addressing Egypt as if it were her lover. She is not just a plot of land, but the mother who raised us and the grandmother who raised our parents.
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Arabic is a deeply romantic language. It’s reflected in how we address each other day-to-day — “My beloved,” “my eyes,” “my heart,” “my moon,” “my soul” and “my soul’s soul” to name a few examples. “She is the cure, she the disease,” writes the poet Dhu al-Rumma. Many of the nostalgic Arab love songs of the past are indeed poetry. Both in words and in the way they push your imagination through rich imagery and metaphors. The first time I had listened to Umm Kulthum’s “Enta Omry” (You are my life) in its entirety, I found myself repeatedly jumping out of my chair.
“Your eyes returned me to my bygone days. They taught me to regret the past and its wounds.”
“And my heart never saw any happiness before you. And it has never tasted anything in this world except the taste of wounds.”
“Every happiness I had longed for before you was imaginary. Only within the light of your eyes had my heart and mind found it.”
It’s difficult to mention Umm Kulthum without then mentioning Abdel Halim Hafez — nicknamed “the dark-skinned nightingale” — alongside her. You cannot find an Arab who is not familiar with his most beloved song: “Ahwak” (I love you). The song is a reflection of passion or, more accurately, infatuation.
“And I wake up in the middle of the night calling you, and I send my soul to wake you up. Get up O’one who has occupied my mind, taste the torture you have inflicted upon me”
These songs of the past and their rich imagery contribute to our conceptions of love now. Love to me is when every happiness I had felt before is incomparable. I know I’m in love when I’m unable to fall asleep in bed, kept awake by thoughts of her. The love the artist expresses gives voice to what is shackled within the rest of our hearts.
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Despite differences on the forbiddance of music in Islam, it still prevailed as a method to also express love for the Prophet Muhammad (Peace be upon him) and the religion. One of the most beautiful odes dedicated to the Prophet Muhammad is Yasmine El Khayam’s “Mohamed Rasol Allah 1” (Muhammad O’ Messenger of God). The song addresses the Prophet in the second person as if he were still alive and in the crowd, listening.
In Islam, the Prophet Muhammad (Peace be upon him) is believed to be God’s last messenger. The Quran is the word of God brought down to us through him. The Messenger’s actions while he was alive is the embodiment of the perfect Muslim. As such, Muslims past and present have a deep and sincere love for the Prophet and view him as a role model. It’s thus not uncommon to hear the actions and the sayings of the Prophet in the present tense, as we still strive to emulate his example.
Non-secular odes dedicated to Islam are called nasheeds, with an overwhelming majority of them including musical instruments. However, there are some that exclude musical instruments to adhere to a stricter religious interpretation. While unusual, such limitation fuels creativity, forcing the artist to either improve their lyricism or take up acapella. This also leads to some entertaining metaphors, such as in “Kuntu Maitan” (I was dead) by Mosa Alomairah. Where else can you find a disobeying servant of God being compared to a drifting car with worn out tires?
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Every year, we celebrate the first revelation of the Quran to the Prophet with Ramadan. The month is typically thought of as the 30 days of fasting leading up to Eid Al-Fitr. But to think of Ramadan as just a month of fasting from food (and yes, even water), is inaccurate — this perception clouds Ramadan’s true purpose and does a disservice to its sacred importance.
Once, a group of boys walked by an old man eating a loaf of bread. The sun had still not set, and so the boys inquired the man about breaking his fast with the playful-but-borderline-mocking tone characteristic of childhood innocence. The old man responded, “Yes, I’m indeed not fasting from food, for I am sick and am unable and for that I ask for forgiveness. But I give to the needy, I abstain from explicit imagery, I fill my free time with prayer and Quran recitation, and I teach to those who ask for knowledge.” The boys looked at each other and then looked down, lamenting their carelessness; saying, “No Mister, it’s you who is fasting, and it’s us who are not.”
The allegory had been drilled into my brain since I was around the age I imagined those adolescent boys to be. Ramadan is a month that heavily rewards spiritual worship and asceticism for the sake of God. Complementary to fasting, some choose to give up habits they are attached to: Social media, media consumption and smoking are regular choices. A significant minority choose music, as it’s seen as a distraction from the Quran.
On the first day of every Ramadan in Egypt, the words “Wahawee ya wahawee, ayaaha” play over the radios, welcoming the rising moon. Even if we are settled in the US, my family continues to reenact the song’s music video. We prepare at the sunset before fasting, hanging green and yellow lanterns across our windows. Before the next sunrise, my mom wakes us up for suhoor (the meal before sunrise), usually usually between 4 a.m. and 6 a.m. My annoyance is washed away right when I take a sip of her intoxicatingly sweet concoction of dried fruit and date blend: tamer hindi.
The song of course has mention of the Quran, with the music video having the Mushaf (a physical copy of the Quran) open right when the charmingly drawn ladies sing: “You have brought with you all the goodness!”
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In the book, ‘Riyadh Al-Salihhen’ (The Garden of the Righteous), there was an analogy I had greatly enjoyed. The author compared the disobeying believer to a patient being advised by a doctor: “Do not drink that liquid, for it is a poison that will harm you.” The patient in foolish rebellion drinks it regardless. In this instance, the patient knew the poison was dangerous, but it is said he drank it unbelievingly. An honest physician does not request you to avoid a poison for his own sake but, rather, for yours.
Despite the beauty found within music, my heart still quivers in guilt, fearing that I’m potentially drinking said poison in defiance of the physician’s advice. I take my guilt as a good sign, as it implies I still care for religious adherence. I do not believe music is exclusively hedonistic, leading me to doubt whether the prescription came from the doctor himself or if it is no more than a townsfolk rumor. Even then, rumors can sometimes be true. If it is the former, then I’m but a patient in foolish rebellion, too stubborn to cease drinking.
And yet, there are some who are completely unwilling to uncap that same bottle. The slightest sip is unacceptable. There are many of these poisons around us, each with their own different scents and tastes. Some induce slight coughs, some induce rashes and some can leave you gasping for breath. All are harmful, but some more so than others.
The poisons in my drawer are the ones that induce rashes, relatively innocent. The ones that would have left me croaking I am forever thankful I gave up. My heart visibly wears scars. But then I would wonder how others seemed to mind to not drink gallons of the most deadly poisons, especially when raised in a culture similar to mine that hid those bottles from the bottom kitchen cabinet. It was not until I met my Egyptian friend and roommate who would not tolerate, nevermind a sip, a whiff from my rash-inducing uncapped bottles that I began to self reflect.
I used to pride myself in not having succumbed to some of the most common deadly poisons. But the vices had never enticed me in the first place. So how could I parade a victory against an enemy I had never been tasked with fighting? We have all heard the tired joke about Adam (peace be upon him): “Ugh! If only he did not eat that apple, we would be lounging in the heavens by now!” None of us can truly blame him, as that was not a struggle written for us.
The word “struggle” directly translates to “Jihad” in Arabic, and the greater struggle in Islam is “Jihad Al-nafs”: struggle against the self. A romantic story is told when an individual momentarily overcomes his assigned vice: in that moment, he has decided to sacrifice what he lusts for for the sake of what he earnestly loves. The romantic struggle and the wave of euphoria that comes with triumphing over the vice justify the struggle’s existence.
For one reason or another, we each have our attachments to struggle against — the severity of each poison mattering less than what we do to combat them. One should be grateful if his assigned vices are more innocent than others’. It should not lead to judging others who were assigned more difficult and damaging vices. A complete and utter victory over a vice should not give reason to begin admonishing others for being on the losing end of the fight. Rather, it should lead to empathy and not judgment. Pride is in itself a vice and must be weeded out, culled through private worship.
***
My roommate does not see himself as the most religiously adherent, compared to his close friends. Thus religious adherence becomes a matter of relativity. People are both imperfect in the way they follow their values and in their interpretation of said values. Out from the crumpled paper our vulnerabilities unfold. From them, the most moving songs, poems, books, paintings and films were created. It would be a fool’s errand, then, to rid the world of its imperfections.
In John Lennon’s “Imagine,” he dreams of no religion and no countries, believing it will end conflicts and let the world “live as one.” The utopia John Lennon dreams of would eliminate uncertainty, melting all cultures into one uniform heap. And then humanity would be robbed of the most mundane yet tear-evoking moments.
No person would then look under his heap of memories, and find himself playing tag in the mosque before the athan (the call to prayer). Or gossiping before choir or observing the morning dew before Sabbath prayer. These moments are the bedrock of literature: “The Spider” by Mustufa Mahmoud, “The Idiot” by Fyodor Dostoevesky or “The Promised Land” by Mary Antin. It is the torment of uncertainty but the catalyst, for all literature and all other forms of art.
To believe in the inferiority of one culture or religion is to say you believe your own is superior and more utopian. An arrogance can then easily emerge, allowing you to dismiss the wisdom of tens to hundreds of other cultures and religions. The only remedy is a dose of humility. The trope appears in popular fiction, where the stubborn protagonist only stands to benefit when he lowers his guard to learn from another culture. Ironic how these moments are what make certain shows so beloved, but we scarcely implement the lessons.
The hesitance to learn the wisdom of others stems from the fear of acknowledging that the other is, after all, human.
Music places me in a conundrum, and I know I am not alone. I know well if I make the sacrifice, I could very well stand to benefit. But due to my uncertainty over the religious rulings, I’ve become too sheepish to follow through. To give up music is to reject the teardrops behind my favorite songs. Perhaps this is my assigned trial. I’m unsure if I will ever overcome it. For now, at the very least, I’ll commit to suffocating it in worship and pleas for forgiveness.
MiC Columnist Ahmed Elkhatib can be reached at aelkhati@umich.edu.
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