by Aeham Ahmad
* * *
I got other poems from Mahmoud and Marwan, from friends of my father’s, from passersby who approved of what we were doing. I found it inspiring that so many people spoke well of my music, in Damascus and Aleppo, in Algeria and Egypt, in Italy and Belgium. I was composing all the time, as if it were all I had ever done.
For years I had soaked up techniques from European classical music, as well as from artists like Ziad Rahbani and Marcel Khalife. Now those seeds were blossoming. The tea had steeped enough. Sometimes I needed several hours to compose a song. Other times, only ten minutes.
As I walked through the streets with a new poem in my hand, I’d recite it out loud and suddenly a motif would pop into my head. I’d sit down at the piano, play it, change it, adjusting the lyrics and melody. And finally I’d compose an elaborate intro. I owed myself that much. After all, I was a pianist.
I combined European tonal scales with Arabic rhythms, and drew inspiration from some of Mozart’s harmonic progressions and accompaniments.
I wanted to create melodies that everyone could immediately grasp, and join to them the seductive power of harmonies. Some of my songs consisted—like Western folk songs—of several stanzas and a refrain. Other songs had longer motifs, interrupted by a bridge, common to the Arabic world.
I composed songs of satire and mockery, sad songs and cheerful ones. I was careful to avoid empty bombast, steering clear of heroic rhythms and victory marches, of blood spilled on the field of honor. Sometimes I blended simple, heartbreaking lyrics with cheerful music, like in a children’s song.
Initially, my songs generally had one note for each syllable of text. But then people started giving me poems with no fixed rhyme or meter, and thus harder to set to music. So I started stretching syllables out over several tones. That made the lyrics sound mournful. I wanted people to feel our despair. Our despair over the pregnant woman who died at the checkpoint. Our agony over having to stand in line half the night in hopes of getting one aid package, and then not even getting it in the end!
* * *
After only two months, the Yarmouk Boys disbanded. It began with petty jealousies. Three members of our group were wondering why I constantly wrote music for Mahmoud and Marwan but not the others, and complained that Mahmoud was arrogant. So they quit the group.
It didn’t take long for the next few men to complain, saying that they didn’t have enough time and were exhausted. Getting water in the morning, harvesting clover, looking for firewood—and then, in the afternoon, having to push the piano around, just for a few minutes of singing. It was too much.
They wondered why we weren’t getting paid for our music. Why weren’t we looking for a sponsor—in Europe, perhaps, or somewhere else? Someone who could pay us?
“The moment we do that, we’ll have to dance to their tune,” I said. “No, I want us to be independent.”
But I was overruled. The complaints grew louder. Finally, they gave me a choice: Either somebody pays us—or we quit.
“Then quit,” I said. “I won’t be tied down.”
We split up, but we remained friends.
I realized that I’d be willing to give up almost anything, but not music. My music kept me alive. I had to go on. From then on, we tried performing as a trio, Raed, Marwan, and I. The two of them were still on my side. But it just wasn’t working. It sounded out of tune.
Until that point, I had always accompanied others on the piano. I was a pianist, not a singer. Yes, I had spent years practicing solfège, I had sung in choirs. But I still didn’t trust my voice. Or maybe I was just too shy to sing by myself. Only when everyone else had left the group did I overcome my shyness. What choice did I have?
I asked Niraz Saied, the photographer, to take footage of me. Everyone in Yarmouk knew him. He had long hair tied into a ponytail, a goatee, and round metal-rimmed glasses. His pictures were sold around the world by photo agencies, and he had exhibits from Damascus to Ramallah. On April 21, 2014, he took the photo that eventually went around the world. I was sitting at the piano, wearing a green T-shirt, singing by myself for the first time, the pianist amid the rubble. It was an image everyone was able to grasp.
* * *
A man I knew named Amer Helwani had a talent for writing particularly beautiful lyrics. One day when he was in the shop with me, he begged me to give him sugar or rice.
“I’d love to. But we only eat clover and lentils all day, so that my son can have the rice. Maybe you should eat grass! That’s what we do.”
“I hate it!” he said, despairing. “It gives me diarrhea. Just looking at that stuff makes me want to throw up!”
“Don’t blame me,” I said. “We’re all hungry! You should write about it. Let the world know how awful things are in Yarmouk.”
“Come with me,” he said. “I’d like to show you something.”
“What?”
“It’s personal. Something that will make you angry.”
“I’m already angry. And exhausted. I have no strength left.”
“Please, just ten minutes.”
I gave in. We walked next to each other in silence. Amer Helwani looked terrible. His face was dark from the smoke of the plastic-bottle fires and his right hand was swollen and blue from a splinter that just wouldn’t heal. He had studied Arabic once, then he worked as a housepainter. He was a good poet. What did he want to show me?
His apartment was on the ground floor of a concrete building. One of the rooms had been hit by a grenade; the outside walls were gone. I saw a pot standing on a plastic-bottle fire. He lifted the lid. Some kind of animal was boiling in the water.
“What is it?” I asked.
“A cat.”
I flinched back in disgust. “Ugh! How could you do that? Why don’t you just eat grass?”
“The grass is killing me.”
“Why are you showing me this?”
“I want you to taste it.”
So that was why he had asked me to come here! He didn’t want to suffer this disgrace alone. I remembered the sheikh of the Palestine mosque issuing a fatwa once, stating that you were allowed to eat dog or cat meat if it prevented you from starving to death. There used to be many strays in the streets of Yarmouk. But no more. They’d probably all been eaten. But I’d never seen a person so desperate that they would eat a pet. I stood there, uncertain. I was disgusted. But then it was as if a switch in my head flipped. An odd craving came over me. I hadn’t eaten meat in over a year.
“Just one bite,” I said.
Amer Helwani cut off a small piece of meat for me. I put it in my mouth. Almost immediately, I began rummaging around in my pocket: I found a piece of paper and spit into it. It was disgusting! It tasted horrible and bitter. I remember thinking that human meat probably tasted similar.
“How can you eat this?” I said.
“What else can I eat?” he burst out. “I tried everything, I went everywhere. I couldn’t get any rice, not from anyone. And believe me, grass gives me the shits.”
I stood there, embarrassed and silent.
“And here you are, telling me I’m supposed to write a poem! Great, thank you! Yes, I’m hungry! I want to eat! Screw you and your poems!”
“But it’s the only way we can bring about any change,” I said sheepishly.
He didn’t want to hear it.
But later, he showed me a poem.
Two Little Braids
Two little braids
Are talking on the street
Telling the bitter tale, again and again.
If you can’t find a shoulder to lean on
Be it your brother or a helping hand
Don’t shed your tear, but keep it alive.
Our hearts are hardened
Harder than steel.
So stretch out your scrawny legs
And stand still, stand still, stand still.
And sigh: Oh, oh, and oh again.
When I asked Amer Helwani what he had been thinking about when
he wrote this poem, he burst into tears. Then he explained that the lyrics were about a girl, maybe eight years old, who had gone with her mother to get a UNRWA aid package. They had both lined up in clean clothes, but hours later, they returned, crestfallen, covered in dust from top to bottom.
I sat down at the piano and began composing a melody that was meant to imply a vicious cycle. I imagined that in the first two stanzas, the gods were speaking. I pictured fifteen gods looking into the crystal ball that held the world, focusing on Syria, and then on Yarmouk, and finally, on this small, dust-covered girl. Between each line I played a “basso continuo,” which used to be called the “voice of the devil” in the music of the Baroque era. In the last two stanzas, the girl spoke. I called my piece the “Yarmouk Operetta.”
— CHAPTER TWENTY —
When our first son, Ahmad, was born, Tahani and I had decided that at age two, he would have a little brother or sister. But then the revolution came. The siege began. Everything was dysfunctional. And I wasn’t thinking about children anymore.
But one night, Tahani broached the subject again: Wouldn’t it be nice if we had a second child? I looked at her in astonishment. “What do you mean?” I asked.
“Just like we planned.”
“But that was during peacetime. Now there’s not even enough food for the three of us.”
“Life will go on,” she said. “The siege can’t last forever.”
She was right. At the time, we didn’t really believe that anything could ever change. Did it really matter if there were three or four, living and dying together? We were all doomed to die, no matter what.
Our first son was brought into this world via C-section, and the doctors told us that our second child would have to be delivered the same way. But there hadn’t been a functioning hospital in Yarmouk for a long time. “How is this supposed to work?” I asked Tahani. “We can’t risk your life.”
“God is on our side,” she said. “We’ve always found a way.”
“I said it’s your decision, and I’m serious. You decide.” I added, “It’s not going to be easy.”
“We’ll never get out of here,” Tahani said. “I want a child.”
We left it at that. But she kept bringing it up. Finally, I suggested asking my parents for advice. After all, our decision would affect them as well. So, one evening, we asked them what they thought of it.
At first, they were very happy. But then they started thinking of all the problems this would cause. Finally, my father said, “We’re happy with Ahmad. We’d be just as happy with a second grandchild. It’s your decision.”
We decided that, yes, we wanted another child. To spite the war.
One day, Tahani had to sit down suddenly. She was feeling dizzy. She told me she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was pregnant. She went to see a midwife, who confirmed it. Tahani was overjoyed. And I was, too. But my doubts grew.
The midwife had given us a lecture about healthy diets. An important topic, no doubt. But it had been an eternity since we’d had fresh vegetables, fruit, or meat. The midwife suggested that Tahani take vitamin pills, calcium tablets, and iron supplements. Those kinds of things could still be had. It was springtime: the UNRWA started delivering their first food packages. Which meant that at least Tahani could have a glass of powdered milk once in a while. And of course, day in and day out, rice and lentils and boiled clover.
* * *
Meanwhile, I had always loved making music with children, and continued to do so even during the siege, since there were still a handful of schools. In my time with the Yarmouk Boys, I had appeared in four different schools, one after the other, to sing with the kids. One member of our group had arranged it. But then the Yarmouk Boys split up, and our music lessons were over.
Then Marwan had an idea: we could take the kids out onto the streets to make music with them. So that’s what we ended up doing. We started a new group, the “Yarmouk Kids,” our own little children’s choir. Marwan loved children and had a good way of working with them. He was the one who would wheedle the kids during rehearsals. After all, a group of children can be as jumpy as a sack of fleas. I insisted that the parents sign a piece of paper releasing us from any responsibility in case we were hit by a grenade. Always a possibility.
We sang with the Yarmouk Kids two or three times per week. Sometimes only five kids showed up, sometimes twenty. Sometimes we sang in front of the rubble of my old middle school, other times at a crowded intersection. Whenever we did, passersby stopped and smiled at us. Children singing on the street! This was even better than our all-male choir.
But one day, a group of soldiers came by. As of late, they had grown out their beards. By that time, the secular activists in Yarmouk had been pushed aside, and the revolution had turned into a struggle for “true Islam.” One of the soldiers said, “You’re singing with girls, brother? Don’t you know that’s haram?” Verboten. Un-Islamic. But they let us continue. For now.
One hyperactive boy simply couldn’t stand still and was constantly interrupting—until I asked him to stand next to me and conduct the music with his hands. He did so, and everyone loved it. People smiled at the sight of the little conductor, oblivious to everything else, like a sign-language interpreter.
One day a girl approached us with her handicapped brother, who kept twisting his head and slurring his words, with his tongue at the edge of his mouth and saliva around his lips. The sounds he made were disturbing. But the moment he heard music, he turned into an angel. He became peaceful and, in his own way, tried to sing along as best as he could.
One day, as we were singing, a remarkably pretty woman came around the corner with her daughter. When she saw us, she called out, “Here they are, the famous singers!” Both the woman and her daughter were well dressed; their faces were spotlessly clean. By contrast, we all looked pretty shabby.
I stopped. “What do you mean?”
“Well, aren’t you the Yarmouk Kids?”
“Yes. You’ve heard of us?”
“All of Damascus is talking about you.”
I saw how proud the kids suddenly were. Such a nice compliment from such an elegant lady!
“What you’re doing is very important,” she said intently. “We came from Damascus to see you; we had to apply for a special permit. Do you think my daughter could sing with you?” The girl was about eleven years old.
“Of course, it would be my pleasure!” I said. “Join us, take your place!” Then we continued.
When we pushed the piano back after our rehearsal, Marwan said, “Did you hear what she said? What we’re doing is important!” He, too, was beaming.
I don’t know where the lady and her daughter had spent the night, but when they sang with us a second time, both were wearing headscarves. They must have run into the men from the al-Nusra Front, a Syrian affiliate of al-Qaeda. The third time I saw them, they were almost as gray and dusty as the rest of us. And then they were gone.
One time I saw an old man observing us—and I recognized him as my former Arabic teacher from high school. He followed us as we pushed the piano back to the store. I approached him. He seemed quite frail, so I asked him inside and offered him a glass of water. When he sat down, he had tears in his eyes.
“Aeham, what you’re doing is wonderful.”
I thanked him, feeling slightly embarrassed. And I took the opportunity to apologize for the many lessons I had skipped. “I hope you didn’t take it personally,” I said. “It really had nothing to do with you. I just had different things on my mind at the time.”
“Oh, don’t mention it, that was a long time ago,” he said. “I’m very proud of you.” He left. Later, he wrote five songs for me.
The kids’ favorite piece was the “water song.” Marwan had written the lyrics, which told of their everyday life. Many of them had to help their parents carry heavy canisters of water each day.
The Water’s Always Out
The water’s always out
&nbs
p; It doesn’t flow like it’s supposed to
We’re sick of carrying buckets
But we don’t have enough water
Ask Abu Mohammad
He’s always worried about it
He’s always carrying buckets
And complaining about it
Oh, it’ll be fine.
Oh, it’ll be fine.
The power’s out as well
In case we forgot to mention it!
Then Marwan filmed us, and Raed uploaded the video to our Facebook page. The video got ten thousand likes, five hundred shares, and hundreds of comments. Some of our videos on YouTube had been viewed fifty thousand times.
No wonder that we were constantly approached by journalists. They kept asking more or less the same questions. Can you tell us about your situation? What prompted you to do this? I explained as best as I could. My answers can be found online to this day.
I said things like: “In Yarmouk, we don’t have much choice—either we join one of the armed groups or we wait to die. I think it’s better to sing while you’re waiting for death.”
And: “The piano is a symbol of high culture. To play piano out in the streets is a symbol of grandeur, but also of hardship.”
Or: “The songs we sing touch everyone in Yarmouk, because they tell about our daily sufferings, about diseases, about our lack of medicine and food, even about how people are eating grass here.”
And this: “I didn’t know how else to help, so I took my piano out into the streets and began playing songs, to give people courage.”
And: “I’m speaking for the starving people here. I’m trying to paint an image of our everyday suffering. We’ll keep singing and singing.”
In truth, the past six months had been insane. It was a happy and terrible time. We struggled and had our sorrows, but our music made everything a little brighter. Everything seemed to be happening in a blur. In the mornings, I struggled to fetch water. In the afternoons, I sang with the kids in the streets. In the evenings, I created music for a poem someone had given me. Then I went to bed with an empty stomach.
