Once upon a time I worked with refugees who had fled Iran,
Iraq, Afghanistan and other troubled messes masquerading as countries. My job was to find a ‘durable solution’ for
them, which 999 times out of a 1000 meant resettling them in a third, usually
North American or European, country.
My job was to convince the immigration hard cases of the
USA, Canada, Australia, the Netherlands and Scandinavia to accept ever bigger
numbers of refugees. Their job was to
find ways to turn down my requests with slippery conceits. Like Moses on Mt Sinai they would pull heavy
books of ‘regulations’ off the shelves and piously point out why so and so did
not meet the strict (but very humanitarian, of course) criteria for entry into Norway,
Canada, USA or Australia.
I could spend years telling you stories of the dance I did
with these idiots but will not indulge myself. Or bore you.
But given tonight’s post I will allow myself one short tale.
His name was H. He
was an Iraqi Christian about my age. He came to the UN office in Islamabad to
seek protection after escaping from Iraq in the final days of its horrendously
awful and brutal war with Iran. In his
youth he had lived for a while with relatives in Detroit but had had a few
run-ins with the law and been dispatched back home by a frustrated uncle.
In Iraq the war was raging. Both sides were up to their
nostrils in chemical gas and Khomeni was sending waves of young kids into
the Iraqi guns. H’s father, in a pique, volunteered his son into Sadaam’s
army. H found himself a few weeks later
sitting in a tank in the desert with orders to lob shells into the oncoming
hordes of Persian youth. “I freaked
out,” H told me when I interviewed him.
“I refused. I put Dire Straits into my Walkman and refused to
shoot.” Needless to say, this did not go
down well his superiors. He was ordered
to report to the Military Police a few days later, but knowing this meant
imprisonment if not summary execution, he escaped in the dead of night across
the desert and enemy lines into Iran.
Several weeks later he arrived in Islamabad, desperate, broke and still
freaked out.
H loved music. Not just Dire Straits but he fancied his own
ability at strumming the guitar and writing songs. He often came to my office to check on how
his application for resettlement in the States was going (not well). He frequently came with a cheap
guitar he’d traded some cassettes for and we would talk about music for a few
minutes. I tried to get him interested
in country music but he couldn’t stand the stuff. It was Dire Straits,
Clapton and the Stones all the way.
As the months passed and the US and every other country
refused my pleas to accept him, H became
despondent. He started to smoke hash
heavily and took to sleeping in the rough in one of Islambad’s many parks. Weeks went by without him coming round to
talk about music. One day I got the good
news that a Scandinavian country had agreed to accept him as an extreme
humanitarian case. H was by now
psychologically unstable. I found him
stoned and cold in a park and told him the good news. He cried and hugged me.
“I can get a start in the music business, at last,” he said weakly.
To get him accepted I had to massage the truth about H a
fair bit. But I saw in H a reflection of
myself. Though he had no political
reason for escaping Iraq, he would surely have been killed or imprisoned for
years for refusing to fight. Sure he was
a bit of a con and fast talker but he was my age. He loved music and all he
wanted was a second chance to live in peace and pursue his dream. What,
I thought, would I want of the UN if I was had been in H’s situation? Would not
I deserve a break? I would want desperately for someone to bend the rules and
give me that break.
What happened to H in his new home will have to wait another
telling. But the point of this story is this.
The right and freedom to live your life is something we should never
take for granted. It is a very precious gift.
Even if that right is only the right to listen to Dire Straits and not
kill others.
Hamid el Shari is
the subject of tonight’s post. Like H he was a refugee from his country
(Libya). He loved music and when Qadafi’s
regime began burning western instruments in the streets as a demonstration of his
anti West credentials, Hamid fled to
Egypt.
Hamid El Shari |
Over
the years he became identified as the originator of a popular form of dance
music known as jeel. Meaning
something similar to ‘new wave’ jeel
music snubbed its nose at the classical maqam
of Arabic culture and the more ‘westernised’ genres of music like shaabi. Jeel was scorned by the critics but its sweet sounds, romantic
lyrics and melodic vocals were immediately embraced by the young set. Indeed, in the same way that Elvis created
rock n roll (arguably), Hamid has
influenced every contemporary Arabic pop start since. Not bad for a refugee eh?
This
set is wonderful. I can’t stop listening to it. The imminently danceable Hely Mely with its car horn, bouncing
bass lines and call and response between girl and boys chorus is the best known
song on the record. But other standouts are the 16 minute Shafeqa Wa Metwaly with a drum beat that surely has been lifted by
Michael Jackson (ref. They Don’t Care
About Us) and the folk song Esh Ala
Esh. The instrumentation is fantastic with accordion, trumpets and
harmonium all sharing the stage with rapid oud
picking and distinctly Arabic hand claps.
As
the Revolutions in Hamid’s
native and adopted countries teeter at the brink of failure, it is a good time
to pause and pay our respect to the spirit and freedom and creativity that
resides in that part of the world.
Track Listing:
01. Leyl Yabo El Layali
02. Hely Mely
03. Esh Ala Esh
04. Raqset El Magnouna
05. Shafeqa Wa Metwaly
2 comments:
Excellent post.
I do hope H has expanded his musical horizons! ;-)
Didn't hear it jet, but ejnoyed reading, thank you.
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