The Voice of a Nation

I was more of a musician in the past, but I guess that I am still a musician. If you have the talent and passion in your heart for the 'voice of the heavens' (aka music), you can never lose that identity. As a musician and as one who studied music for a time, I realize the power and impact that it can have on a person, an industry, an idea, or even a nation. Little did I know the impact of Umm Kalthum on Egypt before this week.

It is tradition at ALI to have an end of the ‘torture’/semester party. I don’t think I realized what a big deal this party was until I arrived that afternoon and the room was packed full with students, teachers, administrators, and other college officials who came for more than just the bountiful banquet that followed the presentations. Maybe I had gotten the idea that the party wasn’t very important based on the fact that the competition for Arabic writing submissions was announced last minute, or the presentations that were being prepared all seemed spontaneous and unorganized. Of course, this shouldn’t surprise me based on the nature of the Egyptian culture where so many events seem to happen spontaneously and without distinct organization.

Students are encouraged and often times coerced into contributing to the entertainment at this party. This entertainment can be anything from a simple play in Arabic to singing songs in Arabic about Alexandria. At the party, a couple of my Norwegian friends told jokes in Arabic which they only realized were funny when the audience laughed aloud unceasingly. It was at this point that I realized that jokes can only be understood by people who can completely grasp the language used in the joke and have a good understanding of the culture and context of it. At the time I had neither, but it was fun laughing with other people even if though I didn’t know why I was laughing. My vocabulary teacher, a short, strict, passionate, loving woman who I can easily call my mother and my sister, had only to ask me to sing a song, and I said yes. When I looked back on this event, I realized that I said yes not because I wanted to sing in front of people in a language I’m still trying to learn (even though this does not intimidate me), but I said yes because I didn’t know how to say no. Besides, how could it hurt me? The worst that could happen is complete embarrassment by singing words that make no sense at all. I’ve done worse in my life.

Five days before the party, my teacher gave me the words to a song by Umm Kalthum called Al Atlal written in Arabic and told me that I was practicing with a person who’d play the ­­­­­­oud to accompany me a few days later. I looked at the words and put them in my bag to not touch them until a few days later. How in world could I practice it without a recording or without knowing the pronunciation? On top of that, I really didn’t particularly care for Arab music mainly because I don’t understand its structure and I can’t hear the sound of it. It’s just not what I’m used to. Thinking that I was singing this simple song with a simple accompaniment without a lot of onlookers/hubbub/exposure, I arrived in the practice room a few days later with several musicians and onlookers present to have the main musician explain to me (in Arabic, nonetheless) that this song was one of Egypt’s most popular, well-known, and loved songs. He briefly explained the importance of Umm Kalthum and that everyone knows this song. Perfect! Now I can’t screw up.

After a brief hour-long session where I felt like my teeth were being pulled out, I was sent home with the music, told to download a copy of the song from the internet and do nothing but listen to it for the next two days before I was supposed to perform it. I would come to find out that Umm Kalthum was a twentieth century Egyptian singer whose songs, sung in Fusha (the Standard Arabic language, not the spoken Egyptian dialect), inspired the nation to unit during times of hardship and breathed life into the language of the people. The artistry and richness of the poetry of her songs would make crowds go crazy when she sung. At listening to her voice, I could hear why the deep, rich, almost jazz-like qualities of her singing captured people. The very same day I started practicing Al Atlal, I found a series of documentaries on NPR about Umm Kalthum. I learned that her funeral was one of the most attended funerals in all of Egypt; over four million people crowded the streets at her passing and even stole her coffin to bring it to her favorite Mosque. To this day she is loved, or at the least respected, by every Egyptian I’ve mentioned her name to.

So there I was at the party put on stage with an oud, a drum, a tambourine, long earrings, a sparkly necklace, and a scarf in my hand that I was told to compulsively wave around as I sung. Part of me hoped that the song would be so popular that everyone would start singing or clap along and drown out my voice just in case I did mess up the words (which, even to this day, I don’t quite know what I was singing about – something about a lover and walking in the moonlight; if it was any other Arab song I would guess that I was singing about “habibty” [trans. my darling] and her brown eyes). This didn’t quite happen, but right away I could tell the impact of Umm Kalthum and Al Atlal. People oohhed and aahhed just at the introduction of the song and sat with anticipation and a glint in their eyes. Immediately I felt as though I had in my hand a precious Egyptian treasure that it was my responsibility to deliver with power and conviction. This feeling was quite different than what I’d felt a few days before when I was wondering why in the world I had ever agreed to sing THIS song. Nevertheless, I sang.

I ended to an up roaring applause and grins of complete satisfaction on the faces of my teacher and the musicians that accompanied me. How ever I did it I don’t know, but for a few minutes, I, a foreigner whose exposure to such a rich language has been so brief, brought to life a voice that impacted a nation. I think that I did make an impact in that room that day. A teacher lives through his or her students. A teacher teaches to impart what he or she knows into another. He or she teaches to bring forth life and ability in his or her students so that the students can soar to heights even greater than those attained by the teacher. The teachers in that audience could relate first hand to what I was singing and also had the satisfaction to know that I was a product of their hard, passionate work: an encouragement to continue reaching toward their goal. And for me…I found Umm Kalthum. Though her music may still be strange to my ear, I too have been captured and long for the day when I can feel the richness of her words as well.

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On a side note (and to make proud the Rotarians who made my scholarship possible), I took first prize in the writing competition for the Elementary Arabic level. Woohoo! I won my first book in Arabic. I can’t wait until I can actually read it.