The Pianist from Syria

by Aeham Ahmad

  . . . until I suddenly remembered where I was. I got up abruptly and turned to the lady. I smiled at her and said, “Oh, I am very sorry! Shukran, shukran, thank you! Thank you, thank you very much.”

  But everything was fine. She must have seen my fervor, felt my thirst. She had allowed me to drink again, and I think she liked what she heard. She returned my smile and just said, “More?”

  * * *

  A few days later, a man named Karim called me, saying he was a translator and asking if I had the time for a performance in Munich the next day. They were organizing a giant concert for the refugees and the aid workers.

  “I’d like to,” I answered, “but how am I supposed to get there? Besides, I’m not allowed to leave Olpe.”

  “No problem,” Karim said. “We’ll take care of everything, David and I. You know him, you performed with him in Munich. He’s standing right next to me.”

  Of course I remembered—a clean-shaven man with glasses and a guitar. He had played for the children who’d managed to reach Munich after their endless journey. We had sung some songs together and then exchanged numbers.

  The next morning, the two men showed up at the gym. Before I knew what was happening, we were already on our way, headed south on the autobahn. My uncle came along, as excited as a little boy. Karim and David explained that the concert had been organized by a popular German band called Sportfreunde Stiller. I was also supposed to do a duet with a pop star named Judith Holofernes. After we ate, I fell asleep. When I woke up, I saw that we were zooming past a shiny white oval building next to the autobahn. A soccer stadium. I had seen it on television.

  David drove us straight to a hotel. We went up to a room where a blond woman introduced herself. Judith Holofernes. There was a TV crew with her. The ZDF, a German public broadcaster, who wanted to do a documentary about me. Judith sang and I accompanied her, balancing the keyboard on my knees. It was a wonderful moment. I liked her voice; it sounded both light and profound. Although we didn’t have much time and the rhythms of this type of pop music were foreign to me, I felt certain that we could make it work. Karim translated, but it was hardly necessary. We understood each other without words.

  As she left, she made a quizzical gesture. Could she give me a hug? I shrugged, feeling embarrassed—and then we had a friendly embrace. Apparently, that’s how it works in Germany, but it was completely new to me. I had never hugged any woman other than Tahani. This was something else I had to get used to here.

  The stage at the Königsplatz in Munich was huge. Someone told me that twenty-five thousand people were expected to show up. The event was called “Stars sagen Danke”—“Stars Give Thanks.” Only then did it dawn on me that the musicians must be very famous.

  Karim, the translator, introduced me to Rüdiger Linhof, the bass player of Sportfreunde Stiller. He had read articles about me in Süddeutsche Zeitung, and very politely asked how I was doing. All the people in the backstage area seemed to know one another; they all hugged each other. I could tell if someone was especially famous by the way they were received. Suddenly, a blond man entered the tent and everyone, every single person, went over to say hello. People were gushing and timid, both at the same time. I thought: He must be the president of Germany.

  Then, while the man was talking to Rüdiger, they looked over at me. The blond man came to my table, shook my hand, and took a seat next to me. Karim translated, introducing him as Herbert Grönemeyer. I’ve since learned that Herbert Grönemeyer is Germany’s most famous rock star. He and I chatted for a while, then he asked me, “Hey, do they have an electric piano at your refugee shelter, something you can practice on?” I shook my head.

  The concert began. The mayor of Munich gave a speech, then he played guitar, backed up by a band. After that, Judith and I went on, smiling at each other as we walked onto the stage. First I sang “Green Mint” and “I Forgot My Name.” After that, I accompanied Judith. We ended with a duet, a song called “The Heart of the World.” She had written it especially for today. She sang in German, I in Arabic:

  When you can’t stand well-meaning words anymore

  We’ll wait here, without words

  And the birds will sing

  The answers to unspoken questions

  And the heart of the world will carry your heart

  The heart of the world will carry your heart

  The heart of the world will carry your heart

  Until help arrives

  Some people told me later that our duet was the most touching part of the evening, that it managed to express what so many had experienced in those days, so many Germans and so many refugees—that we all belong together.

  I was grinning as I played. The crowd was so huge, I could barely take it all in. Was this just a dream? Not too long ago I had been in jail, in the trunk of a car, in a raft. And now I was here, on this huge stage.

  I waved for Karim to come forward, but he was too shy. So I picked up the microphone and called out in Arabic, “Thank you for helping the refugees! Peace for Syria! Peace for the children of Syria! Yarmouk is here!” The people in the audience didn’t understand a word of it, but they cheered nonetheless. That’s what the mood was like there.

  At the end of our performance, I hugged Judith and we walked off the stage arm in arm. At the backstage part of the tent, everyone slapped me on the shoulder. Herbert Grönemeyer came over to me and said, “Hey, Aeham, that was quite a performance! Give me your address. I’ll send you an electric piano.”

  Sorry, what? I was more confused than ever. Why would a famous man want to give me an expensive gift? Back in Syria, musicians weren’t like that. The more successful you were, the more arrogant you became. I couldn’t believe how different it was here, and thanked him effusively.

  After that, Grönemeyer took the stage and sang with his band, and then he called everyone out for the grand finale. Together, we sang “Mensch”—“Human”—his most famous song. At the end, Grönemeyer handed the microphone around. People sang “tadada-tada,” and the audience sang back. At some point, I had the microphone. Thousands of people responded to my singing. Euphorically, I pumped my fist. I had arrived!

  Later, I uploaded a video of the event onto my Facebook page. It didn’t take long for Tahani to call. She was angry, and had only one question: “Who’s that blonde?”

  A few weeks later I received a package: Herbert Grönemeyer’s gift of the electric piano. I dictated a thank-you note to Karim. Now I was able to play for the children in my new refugee center—by that time, I was living in a small town called Kirchheim, in the state of Hesse. I took the piano with me to my asylum hearing in the city of Giessen, knowing we would have to stand in line for hours, so—under the watchful eyes of the security people—I played a few songs for those who were waiting there tense and anxious.

  It was amazing how helpful the Germans were. In Syria, when people help you, they usually expect something in return. Sometimes, in the evenings, when I was on the phone with Tahani, I would tell her about someone doing something kind for me. She was always suspicious, and would warn, “Be careful. I’m sure they want something from you.” But it wasn’t like that. There were so many people who helped me, and I’ll always be grateful to them.

  In early December 2015, I met Elke Gruhn, the director of the Kunstverein Wiesbaden, the Wiesbaden Art Society. She had invited me to play at an art opening. I liked her right away: she was so cordial, and she had a warm, beautiful voice. A few weeks later, by sheer luck, I was transferred to a refugee center in the same town, in Wiesbaden. It was the last step of my odyssey through the German bureaucracy, a journey that had taken me from Munich to Stuttgart to Bochum to Olpe to Münster to Giessen to Kirchheim and now to Wiesbaden.

  On a cold day in January 2016, I stopped by the Kunstverein to test a piano that had been delivered for a performance I was supposed to give. I also simply wanted to escape the shabby refugee center, where five of us were living in a tiny room. When I told Elke how hard li
fe at the center was, she said that from now on, I could come and go at the Kunstverein as I pleased. They offered me coffee, and I was allowed to use their Wi-Fi. She understood the needs of a refugee. I wanted to be able to talk to her, to tell her how much I missed my family, so I started learning English on my own. Using a translator app, I kept listening to each word until I had mastered it. And so, the Kunstverein Wiesbaden became my true refuge in Germany.

  A refuge. That was something I desperately needed after rushing from concert to concert, from one city to the next. I didn’t get paid for my performances because if you’re applying for asylum in Germany, you aren’t allowed to earn any money. I was constantly anxious about my family, and must have complained at every performance, “I don’t need food, I don’t need a bed, I don’t need shoes. All I need is my family. My wife Tahani, my sons Ahmad and Kinan.” And there was something else that spurred me on: I wanted to keep singing for Yarmouk, to continue where I’d left off in Syria. I know that music can bring people together, and I felt that my songs could build bridges between the refugees and the Germans. I wanted to sing for peace, and for the children in Syria. I wanted to thank the Germans for their hospitality, on behalf of all the Syrians and Palestinians and Iraqis and Afghans. I wanted to let go a little bit of the guilt that gnawed at me every night.

  I was very irritable during that period, and often treated people unfairly. Many of my friendships didn’t last, and I found myself arguing over money a lot, desperate to be able to save whatever I could for Tahani, my parents, and my relatives. I had to help them survive the war.

  I crisscrossed the country like a madman, going from stage to stage, interview to interview. Along the way, I ate cheap fast food. Whenever I returned to the refugee center in Wiesbaden, the tiny room was full of noise and smoke, and I had a hard time sleeping.

  By the beginning of March 2016, I couldn’t go on anymore. I collapsed, sick and exhausted, at the end of my rope. In my distress I called Elke, who said my uncle and I could sleep at the guest apartment of the Kunstverein for a few days, so that I could get my strength back. She brought me medicine, cooked for us, and, through a friend, helped us find a small apartment.

  Not long after that, my asylum application was granted. I submitted a request for my family to join me, but from what I understood, it was nearly hopeless. I met a man from Aleppo who had tried to get his family over for months and was one day told that his wife and six children had been killed by a bomb. All seven of them. The idea that something might happen to Tahani, Ahmad, and Kinan drove me crazy.

  One morning, Elke called me and said she had an idea. Tahani was an artist: Perhaps the Kunstverein could invite her to an exhibition? They could contact the German embassy in Beirut, the bottleneck through which most Palestinians have to pass if they want to get to Germany. I was very excited. “What a wonderful idea!” I kept saying. “Wonderful! Shukran! Shukran! Thank you!”

  Tahani prepared all the necessary pictures and documents in Damascus, while Elke typed up the complex application and sent letters to the German ambassador in Beirut. One morning in July, when I was on a train headed to a concert, Elke called. “We’ve got an appointment at the embassy!” she said, cheering. “And it gets better—this isn’t just the artist’s invitation, this is a family reunification! Your family is allowed to come!”

  I burst into tears, sobbing so loudly that some of the other passengers came over to ask what was wrong. I told them nothing was wrong, that I was just so happy.

  Together, we prepared for my family’s arrival. Elke and her countless friends helped me find an apartment, get furniture, and secure everything else I needed for my new life.

  Less than a month later, on the morning of August 4, 2016, Elke and her husband picked me up and drove me to the Frankfurt airport. My fingers nervously clasped a bouquet of pink roses. Only ten more minutes, then three, then . . . the plane landed!

  From a distance, I can see Tahani. I run through the door, and an alarm goes off. But I don’t care, I keep running toward her and wrap her in my arms. I shower her with kisses and clasp my two boys tightly. Finally, I am whole again.

  Ahmad, who’s almost four years old now, still recognizes me and smiles. “Hello, Uncle,” he says. I kiss him and say, “Call me Baba! I’m your papa!” Kinan, who’s almost two, looks at me in shock. He seems to have no idea who I am. I keep hugging Tahani. She smells of jasmine. Just like the first day we met.

  On that day, I was the happiest person on earth. In August 2015, when I had said good-bye to them in Homs, I had made a promise: In less than a year, we’ll be together again. I knew that I’d often disappointed Tahani, making promises I couldn’t keep. But not this time. This time, I kept my promise.

  I finally felt as if I had truly arrived. Elke put me in touch with an artist’s agency. I recorded a CD. I was finally earning some money and was able to support my family and my relatives back home in Syria. That meant a lot to me. I was independent, not having to line up at the job center anymore. I was standing on my own two feet now and making my own decisions. For too long I’d felt like somebody else’s problem. It was exhausting. But no more.

  * * *

  We now live in Wiesbaden, in a very nice one-bedroom apartment. There’s a concert almost every day. Today Dortmund, tomorrow Carrara, in Italy, then Novi Ligure, then back to Germany, in Arnsberg, then Meschede, then Iserlohn, then Bad Homburg, then Melsungen, then Palma, then Munich, then Kassel. Sometimes I think: Aeham, take a break, slow down, breathe, spend some time with your sons, take care of Tahani. She waited a whole year for you. But then I’m sitting at home—and I can’t stand it. The silence terrifies me.

  As soon as my schedule calms down, my head starts to spin. It all comes back to me: my fear of starvation, my fear of never being able to play the piano again. The sheer terror of being thrown into prison. The fear of my children getting hurt. I think of my brother, Alaa. Where is he? What happened to him? Why did they arrest him? Why him? Why Syria? Why Zeinab? There is no answer. My despair becomes overwhelming. At times, I feel like I can’t go on living anymore. So I get up, I leave, I do something, anything. I give a concert, an interview, I keep running and running and running, always running. And when exhaustion and hunger take over, when my strength goes out at two in the morning, that’s a blessing. Then the guilty whispers quiet down a little.

  * * *

  There are bad days, when I hate myself for sitting up on a stage. I feel like a fraud, worthless. What right do I have to be there? How is it that I’m alive when so many have died? Why should I, of all people, suddenly be famous? Am I just feeding on the suffering of others? Do I really belong here? Or do I belong with the dead? The stage I’m on seems like a pile of corpses.

  For who gave him the poems? Who helped him push the piano? Who sat sweating on the electric moped? Who has always encouraged him? Who endured torture for him?

  On those days, when I’m alone on the train back home, my soul sinks into darkness. I feel so guilty that I can hardly breathe. I think of Zeinab, who was gunned down next to me. I think of my father, who is now tapping through the bombed-out streets without me. I think of Marwan, who has to push the water tank all by himself now. I think of the two girls singing “Yarmouk Misses You, Brother” with me. What about them? What have I done for these children?

  * * *

  It was vital for me to have all the conversations that led up to this book, the endless conversations with my “ghostwriters” Sandra and Ariel. I needed to speak, to have the darkness inside me begin to lift. I needed to empty my lungs, so that I could breathe in again.

  Back in Yarmouk, when my life was shrouded in horror, my heart was full of music. Someone would hand me a poem; I would read it out loud, then hum it, and a melody was born, tender and strong, floating through the air. Where did this music come from? Was it a gift from God? Nowadays, I’m sitting at my expensive piano, in my beautiful apartment, and I try to compose . . . but nothing happens. No one is handing me an
y poems. What do I have left to fight for? So I plunk around on the keys, playing some minor chords, harmonious and elegant. But there is no melody, no clarity. The pieces won’t come together and I struggle endlessly. Then I close my eyes and . . .

  . . . I can smell the jasmine tree in front of my window. I can hear the soccer ball plopping against our wall. I can taste the salty yogurt ice cream, bought at the kiosk “Honesty” downstairs. I remember endless summers, wonderful lazy days. The power goes out, and we’re sitting on the cool steps of our music store, singing together. Life feels easy, gentle. Then it’s winter: we’re sitting in our store, throwing another log into the stove, roasting chestnuts in the embers. Again, we’re singing together; everyone sings one stanza. People outside are looking at us. They come in and start singing along with us. We’re dancing with our hands . . .

  . . . and then I open my eyes. I’m back in Germany. I miss my home so much. Why can I only compose soundtracks now? Where did my own songs go?

  There are days when I’m lonely, days when I’m angry. But, little by little, the light is starting to shine through. I wonder if I can truly build a happier life here in Europe. There are days when I feel redeemed, when my burden is eased, my guilt erased. That’s what it feels like after a successful concert. In those moments, it seems as if I’ve accomplished something, perhaps made the world a little bit better.

  There’s hope. There’s always hope.