MY VOICE IS MY WEAPON

Music, Nationalism, and the Poetics of Palestinian Resistance

David A. McDonald

Duke University Press
Durham and London
2013

© 2013 Duke University Press
All rights reserved

Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper
Cover by Heather Hensley. Interior by Courtney Leigh Baker
Typeset in Minion Pro by Tseng Information Systems, Inc.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
McDonald, David A., 1976–
My voice is my weapon : music, nationalism, and the poetics of Palestinian resistance / David A. McDonald.
pages cm
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 978-0-8223-5468-0 (cloth : alk. paper)
ISBN 978-0-8223-5479-6 (pbk. : alk. paper)
1. Palestinian Arabs—Music—History and criticism. 2. Music—Political aspects—Israel. 3. Music—Political aspects—Gaza Strip. 4. Music—Political aspects—West Bank. I. Title.
ML3754.5.M33 2013
780.89′9274—dc23 2013012813

ISBN-13: 978-0-8223-7828-0 (electronic)

For Seamus Patrick McDonald

CONTENTS

Illustrations

Note on Transliterations

Note on Accessing Performance Videos

Acknowledgments

INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER 1.
Nationalism, Belonging, and the Performativity of Resistance

CHAPTER 2.
Poets, Singers, and Songs
Voices in the Resistance Movement (1917–1967)

CHAPTER 3.
Al-Naksa and the Emergence of Political Song (1967–1987)

CHAPTER 4.
The First Intifada and the Generation of Stones (1987–2000)

CHAPTER 5.
Revivals and New Arrivals
The al-Aqsa Intifada (2000–2010)

CHAPTER 6.
“My Songs Can Reach the Whole Nation”
Baladna and Protest Song in Jordan

CHAPTER 7.
Imprisonment and Exile
Negotiating Power and Resistance in Palestinian Protest Song

CHAPTER 8.
New Directions and New Modalities
Palestinian Hip-Hop in Israel

CHAPTER 9.
“Carrying Words Like Weapons”
DAM Brings Hip-Hop to the West Bank

EPILOGUE

Appendix: Song Lyric Transliterations

Notes

Bibliography

Index

ILLUSTRATIONS

FIGURE 2.1.
Lake Tiberias, the Galilee, and the Israeli city Teveria as seen from Umm Qais

FIGURE 2.2.
Adnan Odeh, udist and composer for Firqat Aghani al-Ashiqin

FIGURE 3.1.
Image of the fidāiyīn

FIGURE 3.2.
Firqat Aghani al-Ashiqin's Min Sijn Akka cover art

FIGURE 4.1.
Boom box as weapon of resistance

FIGURE 4.2.
A kiss good-bye to the fighting

FIGURE 4.3.
Sabreen, Jay al-Hamam (Here come the doves)

FIGURE 5.1.
Ala Abwab al-Quds (On the doors of Jerusalem), intifada song cover art

FIGURE 5.2.
Dama al-Aqsa (Tears of al-Aqsa), intifada song cover art

FIGURE 5.3.
Mais Shalash

FIGURE 6.1.
Kamal Khalil

FIGURE 6.2.
Baladna in performance

FIGURE 6.3.
Depictions of thirst in intifada cover art, Sawt al-Hurriya (The voice of freedom)

FIGURE 7.1.
Ibrahim Nasrallah

FIGURE 8.1.
DAM Performing in Lyd

FIGURE 8.2.
Tamer Nafar

FIGURE 8.3.
DAM (Tamer Nafar, Suheil Nafar, Mahmoud Jrere)

FIGURE 9.1.
DAM (Suheil Nafar, Tamer Nafar, Mahmoud Jrere)

FIGURE 9.2.
DAM concert flyer in Ramallah

FIGURE 9.3.
Nadi al-Braykdanz (Break-Dancing Club)

EXAMPLE 2.1.
“Yama Mawil al-Hawa”

EXAMPLE 2.2.
“Min Sijn Akka” (From Akka Prison) and Palestinian “Ala Daluna” variant

EXAMPLE 2.3.
“Ala Daluna” melody variant

EXAMPLE 2.4.
“Ya arif al-ul” basic melody structure

EXAMPLE 3.1.
Melodic and rhythmic structure of “Wayn al-Malayin?” (Where are the millions?)

EXAMPLE 3.2.
“Hubbat al-Nar” (The fire swelled) in melody and rhythm

EXAMPLE 3.3.
“Ishhad Ya ῾Alam” (Witness oh world) in melody and rhythm

EXAMPLE 6.1.
“Laya wa-Laya”

EXAMPLE 7.1.
“Dawla”

NOTE ON TRANSLITERATIONS

Transliteration of Arabic words has followed the system used by the International Journal of Middle Eastern Studies, except for colloquial Palestinian names, texts, and phrases for which I have adapted the system used in the Hinds and Badawi dictionary to Palestinian dialect. At times throughout the research and writing of this book it was extremely difficult to distinguish between colloquial and formal texts. Throughout I have attempted to provide transliterations of popular song texts, poetry, dialogue, and commentary that remain legible to the reader while preserving essential aspects of dialect, accent, and inflection. However, there are several instances where song texts, slang, and other commentary required a bit of creativity in transliteration. Palestinian poets, singers, and musicians are notorious for manipulating the pronunciation of their texts to fit syllabic patterns and rhyme schemes, to shield meaning from censors and the secret police, and to play with words and their relations. Insofar as is practicable, I have tried to maintain a middle ground between what was said or sung and what was meant or intended. Consistency has been difficult to maintain as artists often shift their pronunciation from performance to performance. Song titles, poetry titles, and other titles of published works have been capitalized and transliterated without diacritical marks (except for and ). Common names have also been capitalized throughout, transliterated, and italicized without diacritical marks (except for and ). Words that appear in Webster's Collegiate Dictionary or that have an accepted English spelling and/or pronunciation, such as Cairo, Beirut, and Yasser Arafat, remain in their familiar forms without diacritics. In instances where individuals, ensembles, or other organizations have readily adopted an English transliteration (for example, El-Funoun instead of al-Fanūn), I have maintained their transliteration throughout. I adopted the same approach for the one Hebrew transliteration in this text as well.

NOTE ON ACCESSING PERFORMANCE VIDEOS

I have deposited a portion of my ethnographic field recordings with the EVIA Digital Archive Project housed at Indiana University (www.eviada.org). The EVIA project is a collaborative venture to establish an online digital archive of ethnographic field videotapes for use by scholars and instructors. Funded from 2001 to 2009 by the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation, Indiana University, and the University of Michigan, the project developed from the joint efforts of ethnographers, scholars, archivists, librarians, and information technologists to make available ethnographic field tapes for use online in teaching and research environments. However, the EVIA project is much more than simply a digital archive. The process of depositing these recordings requires rigorous annotation and peer review whereby each performance, each song, is painstakingly documented, analyzed, and fully searchable across the entire collection by various keywords and controlled vocabularies.

As a companion to this text, my EVIA project, entitled Music, Folklore, and Nationalism among Palestinian Refugees in Amman, Jordan (2003–2005), allows the reader to view video field recordings of many of the performances discussed in this monograph; easily search within the collection for titles, lyrics, or artists; and quickly toggle between performances of the same songs and dances by various performers. While making their way through this monograph, readers are invited to explore this ethnographic video collection for further explanations, performances, and demonstrations of core aspects of Palestinian music and dance.

Below is a list of pertinent audio/video examples available for viewing on the EVIA website. Each example below has been assigned a persistent uniform resource locator, or PURL, which functions as a unique marker or web address for locating the audio/video example in the EVIA project collections. Throughout the text I have also labeled each example with a parenthetical code (e.g., EVIA 14-A3387). Those who wish to access the EVIA project collections must first create a free account by clicking “enter the archive” and then clicking the login button, which opens the “create an account” page where they may register with the EVIA project. Once an account has been created, the listed examples below may be easily located. Readers of the print edition of this book may access the videos by logging into the EVIA project and typing into their web browser the full PURL address associated with a specific media example. These PURL addresses are listed below as well as in the endnotes of the chapter wherein an example is discussed. A PURL address includes a root that never changes and a six-digit, one-character, PURL identifier at the end of the address (e.g., 14-S9030) that is unique to each specific media example. Once the full PURL address has been entered, readers may view other media examples simply by replacing the unique PURL identifier at the end of the address with the PURL identifier of the media example they wish to view. Readers of the electronic version of this book may simply click on the PURL address for each example wherever it arises; once they have logged into the EVIA website, this active link will take them directly to the requested media example. Once registered with EVIA, readers may create a playlist of events and scenes for future reference. This playlist will eliminate the need to search for each example when returning to the site. The list below, organized by chapter, includes the segment title, parenthetical code, and the full PURL address for each audio/video example discussed in this book.

Audio and Video Examples

CHAPTER 2

EVIA 14-S9039 | “Yama Mawil al-Hawa” (Oh song of longing)
[http://purl.dlib.indiana.edu/iudl/eviada/14-S9039]

EVIA 14-S2070 | “Min Sijn Akka” (From Akka Prison)
[http://purl.dlib.indiana.edu/iudl/eviada/14-S2070]

EVIA 14-A0876 | Carrying the martyr in a mock funeral march
[http://purl.dlib.indiana.edu/iudl/eviada/14-A0876]

EVIA 14-A3387 | “Atābā”
[http://purl.dlib.indiana.edu/iudl/eviada/14-A3387]

EVIA 14-A1093 | “Alā Dalūnā”
[http://purl.dlib.indiana.edu/iudl/eviada/14-A1093]

EVIA 14-A6184 | Demonstration of dabke pattern, “wāid wa nūs”
[http://purl.dlib.indiana.edu/iudl/eviada/14-A6184]

EVIA 14-A5646 | “Yā arīf al-ūl”
[http://purl.dlib.indiana.edu/iudl/eviada/14-A5646]

CHAPTER 3

EVIA 14-S6760 | “Hubbat al-Nar” (The fire swelled)
[http://purl.dlib.indiana.edu/iudl/eviada/14-S6760]

EVIA 14-S0768 | “Ishhad Ya ῾Alam” (Witness oh world)
[http://purl.dlib.indiana.edu/iudl/eviada/14-S0768]

CHAPTER 5

EVIA 14-S7686 | “Sadayna al-Shawari” (We blocked the streets)
[http://purl.dlib.indiana.edu/iudl/eviada/14-S7686]

CHAPTER 6

EVIA 14-S6800 | “Aghniyat Hubb li-Shahid al-Karak” or “Ahmad Majali” (A love song for the martyr from Karak, Ahmad Majali)
[http://purl.dlib.indiana.edu/iudl/eviada/14-S6800]

EVIA 14-S0790 | “Laya wa Laya”
[http://purl.dlib.indiana.edu/iudl/eviada/14-S0790]

CHAPTER 7

EVIA 14-S4997 | “Dawla” (State/country)
[http://purl.dlib.indiana.edu/iudl/eviada/14-S4997]

EVIA 14-A4295 | Kamal Khalil is greeted by Umm Imran, an elderly woman during a groom's celebration in al-Wahdat refugee camp
[http://purl.dlib.indiana.edu/iudl/eviada/14-A4295]

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This ethnographic study, like any other, would have been impossible without the support of many different individuals and organizations. Taking place over eight years, the research and writing of this book benefited from the inspiration, guidance, encouragement, and expertise of friends and family across North America and the Middle East. To this group of individuals I offer my sincerest appreciation and thanks.

First, I wish to gratefully acknowledge the generous financial assistance of several institutions without which this project would not have been possible: the Center for Global Studies at the University of Illinois, which supported intensive language study in Amman in 2002; the Fulbright-Hays Foundation, which funded sixteen months of fieldwork in 2003–4; the American Center for Oriental Research (ACOR), which supported four months of fieldwork in the summer of 2005; the University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign (UIUC), whose graduate college funded the writing of the initial dissertation phase of this project during 2005–6; and Indiana University's Office of the Vice Provost for Research, which supported two months of postdoctoral fieldwork in 2010. To these institutions I am profoundly grateful, while none is responsible for the views expressed herein.

While I was in the field several cultural research institutions assisted me by providing contacts and interviews vital to this research. I am especially indebted to the Jordanian Ministry of Culture, the Palestinian Ministry of Culture, the National Music Conservatory of Jordan Noor al-Hussein Foundation, the Jordan Academy of Music, the Popular Arts Center of al-Bireh, the Inash al-Usra Society, Darrat al-Funun in Amman, the Abdel Hamid Shoman Foundation of Amman, the French Cultural Center of Amman, ACOR, the Center for Strategic Studies at the University of Jordan, the British Council of Amman, the Faculty of Arts at the University of Jordan, and the Edward Said National Music Conservatory of Palestine. The diplomats, administrators, teachers, students, and friends at these institutions greatly facilitated the logistics of my research with interviews, source materials, and advice on myriad topics.

Among the musicians and groups I worked with, I would especially like to recognize Adnan Odeh, Saud Shalash, Mais Shalash, Mohammad Smik, Firras Muhiddin, Ibrahim Sbeyhat, Nadar Jalal, Issa Boulos, Suheil Khoury, Reem Talhami, Mustafa al-Kurd, Samer Totah, Ahmad al-Khatib, Heather Bursheh, Mohammad Fadel, Mohammad Yacoub, Khaled Katamesh, Hussein Munther, Abu Arab, Hussein Nazak, Mahmoud Darwish, Sharif Kanaaneh, Abd al-Aziz Abu Hudba, Moslih Kanaaneh, Mohammad Sakkijha, Ibrahim Nasrallah, Daoud Abbasi, Abeer al-Zinaty, Mohammad al-Farra, Sanaa al-Moussa, and the members of Firqat Aghani al-Ashiqin, Firqat al-Quds, Firqat al-Arryaf, Baladna, DAM, PR, Firqat al-Yarmuk, Firqat al-Riif, Firqat al-Ajiil, Firqat al-Hanouneh, Firqat el-Funoun, Firqat al-Ibda, Karloma, Nawazen, and Firqat al-Zaytuna. Above all else, however, I offer my sincerest gratitude to one musician in particular, Kamal Khalil. Our many nights spent singing and talking underneath the olive tree in his front yard opened up spaces for discussion and debate about history, politics, and music essential to understanding both the musical and the personal histories of those who have dedicated their lives to Palestinian self-determination. The honesty and openness with which Kamal Khalil allowed me entrance into his life and family were truly inspiring. I am deeply indebted to him and the entire Khalil family for their endless generosity and some of the best maqlūba ever tasted.

Among those most supportive of my time in the field, I wish to recognize the Khoury and al-Qaisi families. By the end of my stay in Jordan it became second nature to be introduced as ibn al-khūrī (a son of the Khoury family). A prominent Palestinian Christian family originally from Ramallah and Bir Zeit, the transplanted Khourys of Amman welcomed me into their home for countless late-night dinners under the grape vines atop their front patio. The three talented Khoury sons adopted me as an older sibling and made sure that all of my many needs were met. Likewise the seven al-Qaisi children, especially Amani al-Qaisi, of al-Bayadar, provided many after dinner dabke lessons, friendship, and an inside look into Palestinian family life in diaspora.

My work in Amman for this project benefited considerably from the tireless efforts of my research assistant and language tutor, Nihad Khadir. Throughout the research stages of this project Nihad spent countless hours proofreading my translations, offering advice, critiquing and correcting my dialect, and sharing stories and experiences of her childhood living as a Palestinian refugee in Kuwait during the First Gulf War. Her tutelage and friendship served to benefit this project in innumerable ways, bringing to light an often-neglected story of Palestinian history and exile. In addition I gratefully acknowledge the efforts of my research assistant at Indiana University, Waed Athemneh, who offered translation and transliteration assistance. I am also grateful for the editorial efforts of Jeffrey Culang and Haya Bar-Itzhak, who painstakingly went over the many transliterations contained in the appendix of this text.

I am especially grateful to Donna A. Buchanan, Thomas Turino, Bruno Nettl, Ken Cuno, and Matti Bunzl at the University of Illinois, to whom I owe a sincere debt of gratitude for encouragement and continued support of this research. I am equally grateful to David Harnish, Jeremy Wallach, Tony Perman, Sarah Long, Eduardo Herrera, and Stefan Fiol for their insightful commentary on earlier drafts of this manuscript. At Indiana University I have had the pleasure of belonging to a lively, challenging, and stimulating cohort of folklore and ethnomusicology scholars and students. Specifically, I would like to extend my deepest thanks to Judah Cohen, Henry Glassie, Pravina Shukla, Daniel Reed, and Ruth Stone for encouraging me to freely discuss the ideas captured within these pages and looking over portions of the text. Ted Swedenburg, Julie Peteet, Virginia Danielson, Anne Rasmussen, and an anonymous reader should also be acknowledged for their careful and insightful reading of portions of this text as well as informal discussions and commentary. While this book benefited considerably from the tutelage of many, all omissions are my responsibility alone.

Finally, this book is dedicated to my wonderful son, the wee laddy Seamus Patrick McDonald, who has brought immeasurable light into my life. It is my greatest hope that one day he will find his passion as easily as I found mine. “More than the oceans, more than the trees, more than the red train, but not the green.”

Introduction

Entering the Field: Means and Methods

Immediately prior to my arrival in Amman, Jordan, in May 2002, the ongoing al-Aqsa intifada (uprising) (2000–2006) had recently intensified. Sparked by Ariel Sharon's heavily militarized encroachment on two of Islam's holiest sites, the Haram al-Sharif and the al-Aqsa Mosque, in September 2000, this new “intifada” had finally put to end the illusion of a peace process begun with the signing of the Declaration of Principles (DOP) provisioned in the Oslo Accords in 1993. I hesitate to even call this an intifada, as many of my interlocutors would often shudder in embarrassment at applying this term, for while this new uprising was superficially interpreted as an extension of the first Palestinian intifada (1987–93), in reality this new uprising lacked the core principles of popular resistance seen in 1987: nonviolent civil disobedience, protests, demonstrations, and boycotts aimed at ending the Israeli military occupation of the West Bank and Gaza Strip. In this second al-Aqsa intifada new techniques of violent warfare were developed and used against civilians and soldiers alike in the name of “popular resistance.”

That spring of 2002 the first of several Israeli invasions and Palestinian suicide attacks occurred, each in counterpoint with one another. Representatives of the Israeli Defense Force (IDF), speaking on American news programs, strategically labeled these operations a “journey of colors” and a “defensive shield,” yet each involved widespread and wanton devastation inflicted against civilians and the reoccupation of the Palestinian territories, the West Bank, and the Gaza Strip. In counterpoint Palestinian militants responded with strategic bombings and adopted new forms of social media and performance to frame acts of violence against occupation forces and civilians alike as legitimate forms of martyrdom and resistance to a foreign Israeli military occupation.

Cities were laid under siege. Strict curfews, checkpoints, and other restrictions of movement sequestered approximately four million Palestinians under house arrest for weeks at a time while soldiers moved from house to house in search of “militants.” Likewise Israelis retreated from public spaces, vulnerable to attack by indiscriminate acts of violence by various Palestinian politico-religious factions. On March 27, 2002, a bombing in Netanya killed thirty Israelis celebrating Passover in the seaside resort city, and war was declared. The following day Operation Defensive Shield (ODS) began, resulting in the outright invasion of every major Palestinian city, refugee camp, and village, causing catastrophic damage to civilian infrastructure. The Palestinian Central Bureau of Statistics, housing population, demographic, and land ownership data were strategically targeted, as were the Ministries of Education, Health, and Culture. With precision, Israeli forces systematically destroyed the institutional vestiges of Palestinian identity (archival recordings, historical and administrative documents, books, histories, and so on), dismantling the Palestinian Authority (PA) and effectively cloistering its president (Yasser Arafat) among the last remnants of his executive compound of piled concrete and rebar. Within a matter of weeks little remained of the Palestinian protostate imagined in the 1993 Declaration of Principles and ensuing Oslo Accords.

In scope and breadth the occupation affects millions. Since the catastrophic loss of the West Bank and Gaza Strip to Israeli forces in the June War of 1967, millions of Palestinians have lived under foreign occupation, without citizenship, without civil liberties, without rights to self-determination. Over time the occupation (al-itilāl) became the defining feature of Palestinian life, shaping structures of identity and habits of thought and practice. In moments of intensified and collective violence, such as what occurred under the banners of ODS in 2002, the effects of occupation extended outward from those enduring the siege to those witnessing in exile. Walking the streets of Amman, Jordan, for example, where more than 60 percent of the population identifies as Palestinian refugees or their descendants, it was clear that intifada culture had gripped the city. Inside coffee shops and other street-side businesses, shopkeepers, customers, and passersby attentively watched televisions. Angry commentators and other political analysts monopolized the airwaves with debate and vitriolic calls for justice. Consumer boycotts were formed against Israeli and American goods and businesses, including any companies with ties to the occupation. Protests and demonstrations processed through the city streets denouncing Israeli brutality and the failure of the Western powers to protect Palestinian human rights.

During my residence in suburban West Amman, the intifada engendered a new rise in student activism. University of Jordan students wore kūfīyas (black-and-white checkered scarves), flags, and bandanas to show their support for the intifada. Necklaces depicting historic pre-1948 Palestine (the combined area of Israel, the West Bank, and the Gaza Strip) or other nationalistic images were sold on street corners along with various other intifada paraphernalia. Cars all over the city sported pictures of Handhala (the cartoon characterization of political satirist Naji al-Ali) on their bumpers, while many other people chose to show their support by painting over English-language street signs and license plates. Protesting students periodically gathered outside the university's main gates, shouting anti-American and anti-Israeli slogans. Activism in its myriad forms, political, social, economic, and cultural, permeated both native Jordanian and Palestinian Jordanian communities.

I arrived at a moment of profound instability, hoping to write an ethnography of Palestinian music and musicians living in this reality. Initially Jordan was my primary field site due to its having the largest Palestinian refugee population in the world. As a result of three distinct waves of exile in 1948, 1967, and 1992, Palestinian refugees have flooded into the Hashemite Kingdom to the extent that Palestinians now dominate its population, economy, and private sector. In search of the performative meanings of contemporary exile, I approached this space wanting to understand experiences of dispossession and the various ways Palestine as a national construct is articulated in diaspora. Contemporary Jordan has over time come to constitute the heart of the Palestinian diaspora, delineating its physical and imaginative properties. Here notions of Palestine structure, past, present, and future, are imagined as an idyllic wellspring of cultural identity, a force of contemporary politics, and a site of future desire and actualization.

Ethnography seeks to understand how each of these overlapping frames structure commonsense perceptions of self and other. It amounts to a beautiful interaction, a collaboration of sorts, demanding the ability to converse intimately at the level of personal experience and meaning. In ethnomusicology this task involves conversations of a different sort, seeking out the iconicities of social structure and music performance. Initially I was naïvely inspired by notions of “resistance” as a performed social reality, believing expressive culture to be a profound modality for articulating notions of self within the Palestinian nationalist movement. In performance, specifically in musical performance, I believed I would find an essence of Palestinian identity that might fully capture widespread experiences of Israeli occupation, dispossession, and exile endemic to Palestinian life. To this end, I pursued the established, yet fluid, genre of Palestinian protest or resistance song wherever I could find it, from dusty wedding tents and mournful funeral processions to organized political rallies and demonstrations, cosmopolitan cultural festivals, and cramped twisting back-alley dance parties.

At a time of occupation and intense national sentiment, the study of Palestinian protest song seemed entirely appropriate. I actively sought out performative spaces where feelings of “Palestinian-ness” were cultivated, harnessed, and wielded in the project of self-determination. Friends often told me that they felt “most Palestinian” at weddings. Celebrating through music and dance, participants affirmed and embodied the very survival of Palestinian subjectivity in exile. To this end, I began performing bagpipes and percussion with Firqat al-Riif (The Village Ensemble), a local group of Palestinian wedding musicians. I did this hoping to uncover the poetics of Palestinian identification in Jordan. However, what I found was far more complex than anticipated. Weddings were sites of intense nation building, to be sure, but so-called resistance or nationalist music flowed freely between social spaces. Protest songs were sung at weddings as often as wedding songs were sung at protests, if such a distinction could even be made. Moreover, through analysis of the meanings inherent to this repertory of indigenous song, it was clear that weddings, and their associated roles, practices, and rituals, were closely identified within a broad-based and diffuse notion of “resistance,” defined and articulated in myriad ways, refracted through the prism of class, religion, gender, and politics. In essence the foundational repertory of Palestinian song from which I hoped to build a coherent narrative and analysis remained elusive, kaleidoscopically shifting under the duress of overlapping frames of difference.

At each turn my quest to learn the canon of influential artists, poets, singers, and songs became increasingly complicated. I attended political demonstrations and concerts held to raise money and awareness for Palestinian causes and sought out vast caches of intifada cassettes and other expressive media. My return to Jordan in the fall of 2003, for what would amount to sixteen months of research, only compounded my difficulties. Though the overt culture of resistance and activism had waned in the time between these two research trips slightly, the development of a new (and revival of an old) repertory of Palestinian protest song created an environment of profound fracture. Since my interests were in tracing the musical manifestations and interpretations of Palestinian resistance, I sought out many of the musicians active during the first intifada (1987–93). Combining the histories and life stories of these activists with those involved in the second intifada, I began to assemble a historical narrative of Palestinian nationalist activity through music and dance. But the pieces didn't seem to fit. Songs from the first intifada seemed tired, old, clichéd to the contemporary generation of young activists. New songs had yet to catch on, largely falling into two categories: propagandist calls for martyrdom and transnational pop songs with little relevance to contemporary Palestinian experiences of violence and exile. My search for the unified “voices of the masses,” struggling to resist Israeli occupation and forced exile, resulted in nothing more than an odd collection of propagandized tropes and imagery shouted across myriad political, economic, and religious divides.

Moreover, the many terms often used to describe resistance (maqawma, thawra, umud, intifada) became increasingly problematic as artists freely wielded them without a clear understanding of what they meant. What came to be labeled “resistance music” or “protest song” was defined not by active musico-political processes, but rather by static notions of thematic content, folkloric signification, and other elements of musical “style.” Delineating between a stylistic notion of “resistance” and a process-oriented one aimed at social change became increasingly difficult. What became apparent was the need to develop a means of dealing with “resistance” apart from essentialized stylistic categories, to reinscribe “resistance” as an active functional process for social change. To this end I employ the term “resistance music” or “protest song” as a genre category based not in stylistic attributes, but in terms of musico-political processes: its articulation within larger projects of social change. Palestinian resistance music may best be defined as the conscious use of any music in the service of the larger project of Palestinian self-determination. This functional-processual definition decouples style and sentiment and precludes the likelihood of essentializing “resistance” based on musical style alone. From this definition rural folk song, militarized marches, classical art music, and urban hip-hop may all be equally defined as resistance music.

Although the production of new forms of Palestinian resistance music was widespread, gaining access to the social spaces of production and consumption proved to be a great challenge. Artists, producers, recording companies, and political intermediaries were often hesitant to share their opinions and life stories with outsiders. Many had spent significant time in prison or had been subjected to myriad forms of state terror and harassment. Convincing these musicians of my intentions proved to be an ongoing and difficult process, unfortunately so, for some of the social, cultural, and political barriers proved too difficult to overcome. Yet by and large the majority of activists with whom I spoke were surprisingly supportive and welcoming of my research, inviting me into their homes to be a part of their daily lives.

After several months of working and performing in Jordan, it became apparent that I would need new data sets from musicians active in the West Bank. This 5,640-square-kilometer area of land, along with the Gaza Strip, was all that remained of historic Palestine following the war of 1948 and the establishment of the state of Israel. Claimed by Jordan following the 1948 war, the “West Bank” was so named as a strategic means of indoctrination, imagining this piece of land as an extension of the Jordanian “East Bank.” However, the project of incorporating the West Bank into the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan proved unsuccessful, as much of the land from the western banks of the Jordan River valley to the 1948 armistice lines of Israel, including East Jerusalem, emerged as the heart of Palestinian culture and society and the imagined site of a future Palestinian state. After the defeat of the Jordanian army in the June War of 1967 (or the Six-Day War), the West Bank and Gaza Strip (collectively called “Palestine” by its inhabitants) fell under a foreign military occupation by Israeli forces. Today these Occupied Palestinian Territories (OPT) are subjected to harsh military administration and control via larger projects of Israeli national security and colonialist expansion in the form of illegal (under international law) Jewish settlements.

My reasons for working in the West Bank were many. Unfortunately Jordan is notorious for state censorship and hence offers scant research facilities. Reliable libraries, sound archives, and politically sensitive documents were difficult to find in Amman, even in the “back rooms” of private libraries and research institutions. In order to gain access to invaluable literature and recordings of Palestinian music it was necessary to work in the more expansive archives and libraries in the West Bank. Ironically, even under occupation (or perhaps because of it), political debate, critical research, and important source materials are far more available in the West Bank than in Jordan. Palestinians have devoted considerable time and resources to understanding the social, political, and cultural dynamics of the occupation, generating extensive collections of research in the social sciences and humanities. This research was largely unavailable in Jordan, where such discussions often are deemed threatening or subversive to the sovereignty of the Hashemite monarchy. Likewise, in Amman musicians seemed far too willing to gloss over the many social and political fractures inherent within the nationalist movement. I was presented with a superficial rendering of Palestinian solidarity, when on the streets raged a protracted “war of position” where many politico-religious groups sought to garner the consent of the people to lead the uprising. And finally, exilic imaginings of Palestine in song and dance were powerful markers of national identity for refugees in Jordan. In traveling to the West Bank I became increasingly concerned to find out if the imaginings of “Palestine” in exile bore any resemblance to contemporary Palestinian life in the West Bank.

Fieldwork in the West Bank presented a completely new set of methodological challenges for which I was little prepared. Especially during a period of intense occupation, work in Jerusalem, Bethlehem, and Ramallah was complicated by shifting curfews, closures, checkpoints, searches, interrogations, and at times emotional and physical harassment by Israeli forces. Traversing between these two separate Palestinian communities, one in exile, the other under occupation, I found many of my previous relationships obsolete. Often I was forced to walk into highly confrontational and at times violent social spaces without the necessary cover that had been provided by my cadre of contacts, friends, and associates in Jordan. Over time, however, I settled into my Ramallah-based community and found a group of politically active musicians willing to participate in this project. Traveling back and forth between Bethlehem, Jerusalem, and Ramallah (a distance of about twenty kilometers) was at best arduous and at worst impossible. Checkpoints, closures, and isolated incidents of violence between local Palestinians and occupation forces meant that even the most innocent trip required hours of waiting, three to four different taxis, and a gauntlet of body searches, questioning, and intimidation.

Returning to Amman with cases of photocopied source materials and recordings, I began to uncover two disparate cultural narratives: one of occupation and the other of exile. Exploring these two narratives offered fascinating data on the various ways identity, nationalism, and resistance are performed and enacted in everyday life. Every few weeks, or thereabouts, I would return to the West Bank via the Allenby Bridge. I would then attend concerts, interview musicians, take lessons, or search for lost books or articles. Moving back and forth between Amman and Ramallah proved to be one of the most interesting, and challenging, aspects of this research. I transported old and new intifada cassettes across the banks of Jordan River, putting groups of musicians working for the same cause in touch with one another for the first time. Travel into the West Bank has been strictly controlled since 1967, effectively preventing Palestinian refugees and their descendants in Jordan from visiting their natal villages. Shielded by my American passport and Irish complexion, I visited the ancestral villages of several of my close friends, bringing back pictures, mementos, or bags of soil (keepsakes of Palestine) for their homes. My American citizenship and non-Arab name provided an important means of reaching out to their homeland, if only through photographs and other souvenirs.

In the fall of 2003 I began rehearsing with one of the most famous resistance ensembles of the 1970s and 1980s, Firqat Aghani al-Ashiqin (The Songs of the Lovers Ensemble). The group had recently begun a comeback tour in November 2003, enlisting the talents of a new generation of young musicians to revive the group's canon of past resistance songs made famous in the late 1970s and early 1980s. Under the direction of one of the group's founding members, Hussein Munther (Abu Ali), I was enlisted to help consult with the group and acted as the group's nai player (an Arab end-blown reed flute) in rehearsals and recording sessions. While playing with al-Ashiqin, I learned the standard repertory of intifada songs (melodies, rhythms, and texts) from the vantage point of an inside performer. Modal relationships, timbre, ornamentation, and rhythmic and melodic nuance were all explained onstage and in the course of performance. This training was invaluable to my research and proved my savior on many occasions.

My ethnographic experience working and performing with these famous intifada singers gives this study a unique coloring typically absent from previous work on Palestinian music. As a performer, I was able to not only record and collect these songs, but at times perform them at rallies, weddings, and festivals. My participation in rehearsals, concerts, jam sessions, and other musical events allowed me entrance into the compositional and performative processes that gave the music its meaning. In my analysis I explored the musicological relationships between the canonized repertory of resistance cassettes made popular in the early 1970s and their indigenous “folk” antecedents by getting directly into their instinctive and associative musical meanings. Learning the songs directly from the poets and singers opened up possibilities for exploring meaning, intent, composition, improvisation, and other creative processes not available from recordings alone.

My approach to researching the fields of music and nationalism consisted of a careful reading of the extant literature, while at the same time seeking out the opinions, histories, and practices of those currently working in the movement for Palestinian self-determination. This research was, therefore, largely ethnographic in orientation, based on extended participant-observation. In some cases I documented performances from afar, mingling among the crowds. At other times I was a full member of the ensemble, participating in rehearsals and performances onstage. Here in the living rooms and performance halls I learned the nuance of certain melodies and rhythms, why aba and huzām, for example, were particularly powerful modes for indexing experiences of mourning and lament. Throughout this fieldwork it was my hope that such an approach would provide a more meaningful middle ground between journalistic observation and source material analysis, infusing each with an ethnographic “sense of being”: a representation of the repertory as it was performed and consumed among its practitioners.

Circulating among groups of activists in Amman and Ramallah, I attended countless concerts, protests, and demonstrations; made extensive visits to Palestinian social and political institutions; and sought out folklorists and other experts in the political sphere. Participant-observation combined with formal interviews and the collection of oral histories formed the main methods of my research. Many of these interviews were informally held in late-night music sessions over a plate of hummus and coffee or tea. Others were quite formal, taking place in government offices and ministries. In either case interviews were done in a mixture of Arabic and English depending on the situation. Research in one of Jordan's many refugee camps was often entirely in Arabic, while interviews with government officials and more cosmopolitan artists in the cities would often be entirely in English. Unconsciously and unintentionally, many of these conversations freely shifted between the two languages, making for a considerably difficult time transcribing the interviews the next day. In a cultural intersection of class and social formation, language was a primary means of self-identification and self-construal, distinguishing a mathāqqaf (cultured) Palestinian from someone min al-shuwāri (from the streets).

After several months of working in Amman in the winter of 2003, I met Kamal Khalil, leader of the Jordanian-based ensemble Baladna (Our Homeland). Working with Kamal provided a fascinating counterpoint to previous narratives I had been exposed to. In our interviews Kamal was eager to share many of his life experiences. He provided a compelling history of activism in Jordan, and through our close relationship he emerged as one of the primary voices in this book. Despite our mutual enthusiasm, there were often unavoidable difficulties in our collaboration. Working fifteen-hour days as a construction laborer, Kamal was often too tired to be interviewed, too busy with family obligations, or simply not up to entertaining a non-family member in his busy house. So, too, for me, the trip to his home in Ruseifa took three buses and, depending on traffic, over an hour each way. Given that our meetings rarely began before 8:00 PM, I was often left wondering how I would make it back to my apartment in suburban Amman. After midnight, buses and shared taxis became very difficult to find, and rarely was I able to get back home without incident. At times the trek back to Amman in the middle of the night required imagination, a sense of humor, and resourcefulness. One particular night I was overjoyed upon finding a bus going directly to my Amman neighborhood, Tala Ali. Unfortunately the driver was so tired from his twenty-hour shift that the only way I could persuade him to finish his route was to drive the bus myself. So while he slept in a passenger seat, I drove the bus back to Amman, picking up passengers, collecting fares, laughing uncontrollably at the strange looks and surprised faces from the local passengers.

Over the course of twenty months of fieldwork during the second al-Aqsa intifada, the political landscape of the resistance movement changed considerably. The American invasion of Iraq, the accelerated construction of the Israeli “security/apartheid” wall, the assassinations of Sheikh Ahmad Yassin and his successor (Abdel Aziz Rantisi), the Abu Ghraib prison abuse scandal, the signing of the “Road Map,” and the death of Yasser Arafat all had significant effects on Palestinian society and were manifest in music and cultural production. Within days of each of these events, CDs, videos, and other popular media (both new and old) became available on the streets, commemorating the dead, debating political ideology, or expressing outrage. Music, it seems, was a powerful means of reaching out to the Palestinian community, of nationalizing and defining resistance, and of forging political allegiances. This musical soundscape formed a significant space in which commonsense understandings of Palestinian identity, nation, and resistance were publicly debated on stereos and street corners, in taxicabs and coffee shops.

In the summer of 2005 I returned to Palestine to embark on a new path of research. Over the previous year I had been in contact, via e-mail, with a group of Palestinian Israeli hip-hop artists currently performing throughout Israel and the West Bank. Their experiences living in the Israeli ghettos of Lyd offered an intriguing aspect of Palestinian music and resistance heretofore absent from my research. They were Palestinian citizens of Israel, or “’48s,” as they called themselves, an allusion to their residence in and identification with pre-1948 Palestine. These young artists used a transnational form of American hip-hop to express feelings of ethnic and national sentiment across both Palestinian and Israeli soundscapes. Performing in a mixture of English, Hebrew, and Arabic, these rappers offered a truly remarkable opportunity to document a new direction in Palestinian resistance song, one that was perhaps more aligned with new transnational social realities. For three months in the summer of 2005 I researched the development of Palestinian hip-hop, interviewing artists and audiences, and attending performances in Israel and the West Bank. The fluidity with which these young rappers were able to traverse and at times transcend the rigid binaries of Palestinian and Israeli, Arab and Jew, offered a truly intriguing foil to the hardcore nationalists performing in exile and under occupation. By documenting the cultural, aesthetic, and ideational tactics exhibited by these rappers as they performed before audiences of Israeli Jews and West Bank Palestinians, I began to realize the poetics, politics, and potentialities for a new imagining of Palestinian protest song.

Synopsis

This book is conceptualized in two distinct yet interrelated sections: the first ethnohistorical (chapters 2–5); the second, ethnographic (chapters 6–9). Ethnomusicologists have long employed historical and ethnographic methodologies in their work, and this book is certainly no exception. My goal has been to blend historical and ethnographic modalities, shifting from broad historical narrative to particular ethnographic experience. However, the movement between these two methodologies presents certain challenges, and they tend to overlap throughout the text. To this end historical events may reappear in subsequent chapters as they are opened up to further interrogation and more in-depth ethnographic analysis based in personal experience.

The distinctions between historical and ethnographic modalities are further complicated in terms of fieldwork techniques. For while the historical narrative presented in chapters 2–5 was written as a chronology, it was derived entirely from ethnographic methods: long-term sustained participant-observation, oral histories, interviews, and textual analysis. Many of the singers and songs depicted in this historical narrative were revealed to me in the course of contemporary performance (conversations, interviews, collective listening, and musical performance). Artists build on and dialogue with the established repertories of the past. In this way the history of Palestinian protest song is one of constant conversation, never detached or distant from the lives and experiences of contemporary actors. My attempt to present an ethnographic history of Palestinian protest song situates historical understanding of political events within the legacies and frameworks of contemporary meaning.

On a more practical level the division of this text into two sections serves a specific purpose. Given the lack of an English-language monograph on the history and development of Palestinian music, the chronology presented in chapters 2–5 is intended to lay the groundwork for later discussions of individuated experience and local meaning, to establish a working vocabulary of Palestinian musical identity that may then be employed in understanding the lives and experiences of contemporary performers. To fully understand the ideational processes through which the performance of the Palestinian line dance, al-dabke, becomes a meaningful gesture of resistance, for example, one must first understand the legacies of history, the interpretive frameworks through which the dabke becomes meaningful to its participants. For this to occur it is essential to have a working knowledge of Palestinian cultural history, to know names and dates, people and places.

With this in mind, in chapters 2–5 I provide a basic historical overview of the canon of Palestinian resistance song, focusing specifically on its relationship with the changing social and political landscape. Through careful musical and textual analysis I explore many of the dominant signs, myths, and meanings inherent to this repertory, deconstructing the indexical associations that constitute the poetics of Palestinian nationalism and resistance. In chapter 2 I investigate the pre-1948 origins of Palestinian resistance song, beginning with the repertory of the traditional shar al-murtajal (poet-singer). The life and career of the famous poet Nuh Ibrahim and his influence on the 1936 Great Revolt is explored with particular detail, emphasizing his overall impact in fostering support for the rebellion and nationalizing a rural population of indigenous fallāīn (peasantry) to rise up against the British colonial administration.

Following this, I trace the cultural repercussions of the 1948 war, al-nakba (the catastrophe), on indigenous forms of Palestinian music making. I then explore the effects of Arabism on music and cultural production in Egyptian cosmopolitan centers as well as among communities of dispersed Palestinian refugees across the region. I discuss the ideational impact of Arabism and Nasserism on the formation of Palestinian national identities in exile and document the role of music and music performance in maintaining communal relations and subjectivities in the refugee camps. With the fall of Nasserism and the defeat of Arab forces in the June War of 1967, a new repertory of political song emerged, made known by the famous satirist Sheikh Imam Issa. I begin chapter 3 with an investigation into the rise of the sheikh and further trace his lasting impact on the formation of modern Arabic political song to the present day.

In chapter 3 I continue the historical narrative, beginning with the establishment of the Palestinian Liberation Organization (PLO) and the rise of the fidāiyīn (paramilitant freedom fighters). The various styles of music emanating from the liberation movement are analyzed with regard to the formation and dissemination of prominent Palestinian identity constructs. Significant poets, singers, and songs are discussed with regard to the overall project of nationalism, liberation, and militarization. The Palestinian-Jordanian civil war (Black September) and the massacres at Sabra and Shatila are then discussed with regards to their influence on Palestinian poetics and cultural production.

In chapter 4 I explore the role of music in the first Palestinian intifada of 1987–93. Here I present an analysis of the ensuing revival of indigenous forms of political activism. The identity construct of the militarized fidāī was supplanted by imagery of stone-throwing youth, the atfāl al-ijāra (children of the stones), rebelling in the streets of Gaza. This shift had tremendous importance for defining the nation and the culturally constructed notions of resistance prescribed in its defense. I examine, in turn, the conflicting aesthetics of nationalist, Islamist, and Arabist musical formations and follow the trajectories of each through the post-Oslo period and into the beginnings of the second al-Aqsa intifada. I begin chapter 5 with a discussion of revivals and new arrivals, resistance singers and songs brought back into the public sphere nearly twenty years after their prime as well as a new crop of cultural activists composing and performing for the next generation (jīl al-thānī).

In chapters 6–7 I depart from a broad historical narrative to provide an ethnographic look into the life and career of one of the most famous intifada singers of the 1980s and 1990s, Kamal Khalil. In studying Khalil's life and career I illustrate how large-scale social and political forces were felt and experienced by musicians willing to sacrifice their careers, families, and bodies for a nationalist ideal. Situated within the Palestinian Jordanian nationscape, these two chapters provide a historical and ethnographic analysis of the compositional and performative processes by which one musician attempted to negotiate pervasive structures of violence and state terror. Drawing out personal narratives of arrest and torture, I attempt to reveal the personal manifestations of Palestinian dispossession and further illustrate what effects state actions, interests, and discourses have had on musical processes emerging from within its frames. For a population of exiles living peacefully in a host nation-state, what does resistance really mean? And how might music fashion performative moves for experiencing and participating in the intifada from afar?

In chapters 8 and 9 I shift to an examination of the origins of Palestinian hip-hop as it was spearheaded by a group of young Palestinian Israelis from the city of Lyd, a small ethnically mixed neighborhood outside of Tel Aviv, Israel. At the time of my initial research, Palestinian hip-hop constituted a new direction in resistance song that quickly took hold among cosmopolitan youth in Israel and the West Bank. This movement was especially significant in that it began among a small community of Palestinian Israelis initially rapping in a mixture of English, Arabic, and Hebrew. Their work revealed a new discursive field wherein the established modes of Palestinian nationalism were resignified, inclusive of new forms of music and media. Particularly important to this analysis are the changing ways these artists have attempted to transcend their ethnic and national ambiguity through the performance of shared cosmopolitan aesthetics and practices. In analyzing the politics and poetics of this new wave of hip-hop I interrogate contemporary discourses of terrorism, nation, and transnationalism, pursuing an approach that situates popular culture as a fundamental means of examining power and agency.

1

Nationalism, Belonging, and the Performativity of Resistance

The Activist: Performing the Nation in Exile

“Just watch. If I sing loud enough and strong enough, we can create Palestine in the music” (idhā awtī qawī, ra manamal filasīn bi-1 -mūsīqā), Kamal Khalil tells me before a performance commemorating Palestinian Land Day in the summer of 2004. Within minutes hundreds of shabāb (youth) have abandoned their chairs to join one of six different dabke lines (Palestinian indigenous line dance) circling the stage. Some of the more adventurous young women form their own dabke line, stage left, distanced from the gaze of the young men. Older refined businessmen, lawyers, and other notables, seated conspicuously in the front row's VIP section, relinquish their formal public station and openly sing along, waving their arms wildly over their heads. Young families parade their small children through the crowd atop their shoulders waving signs of victory, wearing the Palestinian flag or kūfīya (white-and-black checkered headscarf) around their necks. Noticing the crowd's reaction to his first set of resistance songs, Kamal looks over at me standing backstage, dutifully videotaping the performance, and smiles. His dark eyes suddenly soften. Wrinkles stretch across his tanned cheeks. With pride his glance reads, “See? I told you so…”

I acknowledge his gesture, shaking my head back and forth in disbelief at the incredible transformation taking place before my very eyes. The once subdued, even lethargic, audience had awoken within a matter of moments into a participatory expression of Palestinian nationalism. Where once strangers sat, politely listening to speeches given by various community leaders, in song and dance, a community of national intimates has emerged. Before long I am pulled from my ethnographer's perch to join one of several dabke lines weaving through the crowd. While dancing, several businessmen wrap their kūfīyāt around my neck in a sign of friendship and indoctrination into the performance environment. Later, I politely and diplomatically excuse myself from the dabke to nervously check my recording equipment backstage. Making sure that the sound levels, microphones, and batteries are all working properly, I notice a group of boisterous shabāb approaching. I brace myself for the usual barrage of questions and accusations customarily levied at foreigners circulating within politically charged venues such as this, but before I am able to speak, one of the teens grabs me by the shoulders and quickly bends forward to kiss the pin of a Palestinian flag on my lapel. Sharrafnā, yā abībī (honored to meet you), he screams in my ear over the raucous music and merriment.

The Archivist: “Palestine will always remain under our stamping feet”

Sitting in the office of the eighty-three-year-old librarian, scholar, and folklorist Abd al-Aziz Abu Hadba (Abu Hani) at the Inash al-Usra Society in the West Bank village of al-Bireh, I am initially asked to fill out a questionnaire describing myself and the nature of my research. As I leaf through Abu Hani's large binder of similar questionnaires filled out by streams of foreign researchers who have passed through his office over the last thirty years, I come to realize the long legacy of ethnographic research that has been carried out in the West Bank. Abu Hani sits behind his desk, carefully, silently watching my expression as I read through the various entries. The silence is unsettling. Some of the names are easily recognizable, scholars whose work has formed the foundation of my understanding of Palestinian culture and practice. Most, however, are not. Page after page flashes before me, fascinating research projects, each seeking the same answers as myself. Looking over the stacks of entries, it pains me to realize that my research is not as groundbreaking or as innovative as I once imagined. I am but one of a long list of (perhaps idealistic and naïve) researchers who has sought out Abu Hani's advice, believing their work might in some way contribute to the end of the occupation. After what seemed an eternity, Abu Hani realizes his exercise in humility has achieved its intended goal, and his distant exterior suddenly thaws. The uncomfortable silence that has gripped the room is then broken. His gleaming blue eyes sparkle against the backdrop of his thinning white hair and wrinkled cheeks. A youthful enthusiasm quickly emerges from his voice as he smiles and begins telling me the story of his birth village (depopulated and destroyed in 1948) and of his ensuing quest to preserve its memory.

Among researchers of Palestinian culture, folklore, and history, Abu Hani is a national treasure. Over the years his many books, articles, and service to the Inash al-Usra Society have provided the foundation for Palestinian cultural and folkloric studies. Waiting weeks to sit and talk with him about my research, I anxiously anticipated his thoughts and ideas. Despite his eighty-three years, Abu Hani's face lights up when I explain my interest in studying Palestinian history, nationalism, and resistance from the perspective of music. With the dexterity of a man half his age he quickly rises from his chair and begins pulling books from the surrounding shelves. After a modest stack has accumulated on the front corner of his desk, he returns to his chair and begins talking about the cultural significance of Palestinian music and dance. The discussion soon turns to stories of our favorite poets, singers, and songs. We sing bits and pieces of Palestinian folklore. It is obvious Abu Hani takes great pleasure in testing my abilities to decipher lyric, mode, and rhythm in the great canon of Palestinian indigenous music (alā dalūna, al-atābā, al-jafrā, yā arīf al-ūl, and so on).

About an hour into our discussion Abu Hani becomes quite serious. “You know, Daud [David], I have been asking every researcher who comes through this office the same question for years. And I am curious if you can tell me what the answer is.” Abu Hani then stands up behind his desk and begins to stomp his feet on the ground repeatedly. “Do you know what this means when we [Palestinians] stamp our feet in the dabke?” he asks, cautiously balancing on one foot. “Do you know what the dabke means? Why we do it? Why we love it so much?”

Initially I am caught off guard by such a question, and even more worried that I will have to catch Abu Hani if he should fall. So I quickly answer, “No, I am not sure what the dabke means.” In my research I had read widely on the dabke and had spoken with and learned from many dancers about the history, steps, and contexts of dabke performances. But I was a bit taken aback by Abu Hani's direct query, unsure of what exactly he was looking for, and unwilling to risk offering a wrong answer.

We stomp our feet in the dabke to show the world that this is our land [Baladna] [stomping loudly on the floor], that people and villages can be killed and erased [stomping again]…, but our heritage [turāthnā] is something that they can't reach because it is here [motioning to his heart]. They have stolen our land [stomp], forced us out of our homes [stomp], but our culture is something they cannot steal. When we stamp our feet we are saying that no matter how far we have been scattered, Palestine will always remain under our stamping feet [filasīn rā biāl tat aqdāmnā]. (emphasis added)

The Artist: “Tupac is a martyr for Palestine”

“You see…people don't understand that Tupac should be considered [a] shahīd [a martyr for Palestinian liberation],” Tamer Nafar explains to me backstage before a rap concert in Ramallah in the summer of 2005. “His experiences are our experiences. His struggles with the police are our struggles with the police. His ghetto is my ghetto. If you listen all he talks about is the ghetto, revolution, politics. And he died because he was willing to speak out for his beliefs…. That makes him [a] shahīd, and that makes him Palestinian.”

As Tamer carefully explains his point, crowds of exuberant teens crowd into Ramallah's Kassaba Theatre. With a low rumble the sound of the sold-out crowd reverberates through the green room walls, giving the cramped space an energy of anticipation. Backstage local media beg the group to pose for their cameras. The young rappers are only too happy to oblige, posturing with one another, pointing into the cameras with rehearsed hand gestures and facial expressions. Their oversized athletic shorts, T-shirts, and designer high-top sneakers add to the novelty. One reporter asks, alā fikrā, shū hadhā al-rāb? (by the way, what is this rap music?). Although many in the crowd were unfamiliar with hip-hop—its sounds, rhythms, dances, and practices—DAM's much-awaited performance in Ramallah spoke volumes about the potential impact of rap on Palestinian youth culture and politics. In a city overwrought with violence, besieged by occupation, and entrenched in a pervasive culture of steadfastness, hip-hop opens the door to new sounds and new ways of conceptualizing contemporary struggles. Tupac's subaltern posture of empowered resistance against racism and dispossession resonates with these young Palestinian rappers to the extent that Tupac might assume the politicized identity of a Palestinian shahīd: a martyr for the cause of self-determination. Tupac, according to such criteria, is Palestinian. His angry yet poignant counterhegemonic rhetoric indexes a common struggle of ethnic engagement and minority rights. This young cadre of Palestinian Israeli rappers, making a name for themselves as Palestine's first rap group, freely draws from the identity construct of the empowered subaltern (as manifested in the legacy of Tupac Shakur) in fashioning their own repertory of hip-hop against the occupation and the ethnic marginalization of Palestinian citizens of Israel.

• • •

EACH OF THE ABOVE vignettes narrates strikingly different conceptions of time, space, nation, and resistance articulated through performative processes of music and dance. Moreover each presents the aesthetic and ideational dispositions of three very different Palestinian communities. The intifada singer and political activist Kamal Khalil has spent a lifetime struggling for the right to return to his ancestral village in the West Bank. Growing up on the socially dispossessed periphery of the Jordanian nationscape, Kamal developed a profound sense of exilic nationalism realized in his performances of Palestinian protest songs. Such songs brought forth in the minds of his audience alternative aesthetic realities in which the Palestinian nation could be celebrated, mourned, or otherwise performed from within foreign state regimes. Through such performances participants were able to performatively sing and dance the nation into existence, to assert agency over their collective experiences, and to maintain the ideational links which constitute the nation in exile. More importantly for Kamal such songs offered opportunities to experience and articulate the Palestinian resistance from afar: to feel Palestinian. His performances opened spaces for feeling as if he were experiencing, perhaps even participating in, the struggle for self-determination, creating a vital connection, a belonging, to the nation in exile.

The elder Abu Hani, by contrast, took a slightly different approach. For him Palestine was defined and circumscribed by a shared cultural history of indigenous practices and dispositions. Manifest in the line dance, al-dabke, Palestinian lifeways constituted the ideational and performative links between the self and the nation. Throughout Abu Hani's prolific career he has sought to study and preserve the authentic Palestinian folklore against forced exile and cultural erasure. In collecting the stories, poems, proverbs, folk songs, and dances of his pre-1948 generation, Abu Hani has attempted to safeguard and revive al-waan al-aīl (the pure nation), an image of Palestine uncontaminated by time, colonialism, and foreign influence. The idyllic Palestine articulated here is encapsulated in the expressive practices (steps, gestures, poetry, food, dress, and melodies) of a lost generation of ancestors. To preserve the dabke is to preserve the nation. Indeed, to dance the dabke is to dance the nation in its purest form. In the face of Israeli encroachment and the erasure of Palestinian space, time, and presence, the preservation of indigenous practices such as the dabke forcefully resists dispossession. Folklore is resistance. Detached from its “precious soil,” Palestinian identity, history, and nation must be kept alive, carried, preserved, and performed. It must endure, made manifest in the cultural practices and dispositions of its people, “in our hearts” and in “the ground beneath our stamping feet.”

For rapper Tamer Nafar and his DAM cohorts, Palestinian identity pivots on an axis of shared experiences of racism and political dispossession. To be Palestinian, in this sense, means to be engaged in the struggle for racial and ethnic equality. The perceived iconicity between Tupac Shakur's repertory of politically charged rap and the Palestinian struggle for self-determination positions the American rapper within the national imaginary. For this reason Tupac may be considered a shahīd, memorialized as a fallen hero for Palestinian liberation. In contrast to Kamal Khalil and Abu Hani, Tamer Nafar does not conceptualize Palestine based solely on shared indigenous practices or exilic nationalism. Rather he defines Palestine by the terrain of subaltern resistance to racialized oppression and state injustice. A Palestinian is one who resists such oppression, regardless of geography, history, or culture.

To be sure, each of these three artist-activist-archivists recognized the importance of performance in the articulation of Palestinian identity. They understood that performance inscribes within the minds of participants powerful indices of national identity through shared experience and history. And while each believed music and musical performance to be powerful modes of communicating nationalist sentiment, they each, in effect, defined the nation in radically different terms. In activism Kamal Khalil defined the nation in shared experiences of forced exile and the struggle for return. In folklore Abu Hani defined the nation through the preservation of seemingly authentic Palestinian lifeways and practices. And in hip-hop Tamer Nafar explored the Palestinian condition via transnational discourses of youth culture and racial injustice.

Each of the examples further points toward three very different Palestinian communities: in exile (Jordan), under occupation (West Bank), and in ’48 (Israel). Moving fluidly between these three sociocultural and geographic frames, this book examines the dynamics of history, nationalism, and resistance as realized through music performance. Central to this endeavor is the assertion that each of the above processes is best understood through the prism of context and social action, as performances of aesthetics and ideation. In this book I explore how Palestinians, through music performance, have fashioned and disseminated markers of a distinct Palestinian identity and then trace how this identity has been historically articulated through various local, national, and transnational contexts. In so doing, my analysis engages discourses of power, hegemony, and resistance and argues for the utility of music performance in resolving central questions of individual subjectivity, agency, and collective identity formation.

BELONGING

At the very heart of these vignettes, these performances, is a profound desire for belonging. Indeed belonging remains a foundational concern to ethnomusicology given its centrality to issues of social differentiation and reproduction. In this project I am principally concerned with the various ways discourses, technologies, and other power/knowledge networks serve to produce the relationships within which people and objects interact. Further I am interested in exploring the ways power discourses produce bodies, subjectivities, and identities. But beyond Foucauldian concerns with what makes us who we are amidst conflicting and competing power relations, there remains an essential discussion to be had at the level of affect. It is a primary concern of this book to investigate both the lines of allegiance and fracture that determine the order of things as well as the affective moves individuals make to satisfy the longing for social solidarity and synchrony. The perpetual drive to be, and to belong, is a primary concern of identity politics, exilic nationalism, political resistance, and humanist advocacy. Put another way, all these performances have at their core the insatiable drive to belong, to be at peace with oneself among others, to transcend the well-documented Palestinian condition of liminality and dispossession, and to escape perpetual movement, fear, and loss.

The issue is not one of identity, merely, but one of identification. In all of the above vignettes the artists are grappling with fundamental issues of what it means to be Palestinian, and what it means to resist. They each carefully locate a sense of Palestinian identity, or belonging, within ephemeral moments of performative identification. Here the conceptual move from identity to identification seems appropriate in that it allows for the transience of belonging to emerge in more nuanced ways. One does not simply “belong” to the nation. Rather, belonging is a performative achievement accomplished through the ritualized citation of the “national” in performance. Contemporary ethnomusicological understandings of identity have long since destabilized any reified notions of the term. Yet in moving toward an understanding of belonging based in specific identification processes and performances, I seek to call attention to the very active means by which individuals participate in their own subjectivation and the contexts within which this is achieved. It is in the coordinated act of identification, illuminated most clearly in ritualized moments of social performance, that belonging as performative affect may be more critically located in time and space. By repositioning our focal awareness toward these ephemeral moments of social performance, moments of active identification, we begin to understand the performativity of belonging.

Performativity, a term arising from within linguistics yet applied so beautifully in the gender theory of Judith Butler, is of central concern to this discussion, for it problematizes conventional understandings of belonging and identity, by focusing on the very production of selves as material effects of these identification processes. Propelling a theoretical discussion first introduced by Austin, Searle, Derrida, and Foucault, Judith Butler employs performativity as a means to understand the myriad ways identities, bodies in fact, are passionately produced and performed amidst fields of social and political consequence. It is with the performativity of belonging that the above artists are most concerned. For them Palestine exists, comes to exist, and continues to exist as performative: a reiterative citation of power that produces the very phenomena it is intended to regulate.[1] Through these performances my interlocutors are marked as nationals, fashioned as Palestinians, yet in the act of marking, the performance regulates, constrains and otherwise mediates fundamental aspects of what it means to be Palestinian and what it means to “resist.”[2] All these performances, of political activism, of racial equality, and of cultural preservation, are themselves citational practices that in their repetition give materiality to the belongings they purport to describe. In a manner of speaking, they constitute “Palestine” and “Palestinians” amidst ever-shifting fields of consequence, power, and agency.

Music, Power, and Resistance

Drawing from recent work in feminist scholarship examining diffuse operations of human agency amidst fields of subordination, researchers in the humanities have long sought to better understand the ways hegemonic discourses may be subverted and redeployed for myriad interests and agendas. Ethnomusicologists and folklorists have questioned the dialectics of consolidating and subverting power structures, exploring the many possibilities for musicians to fluidly redirect and resignify dominant signs and meanings in accord with their own interests. This literature reveals the ways power articulates through virtually “every process of cultural creation and interpretation” but is divided along the nature of music and political movements more generally.[3] On the one hand, music has often been romanticized as reflecting an authentic, counterhegemonic voice of the masses struggling against foreign domination, an effectual means of empowerment and transcending structures of domination. On the other hand, the very idioms of performance artists use to enter into these fields are often based in propagandized discourses, class structures, and state regimes that serve only to secure their subordination to normative political ideology. It seems that the aesthetic tools of empowerment are created, made meaningful, by the very power structures struggled against. Simply put, submitting to cliché nationalist tropes and essentialized claims of national identity appear to be routine machinations of nationalist music and the emancipatory politics of self-determination. However, a central component of this book involves understanding the power dynamics within which such clichéd nationalist tropes are articulated and imagined as a means of locating and interrogating diffuse sites of agency. What are the questions or anxieties for which an assertion of essentialized, primordial notions of national identity are an appropriate answer? Who benefits from the circulation of these tropes? And how does this enable or inhibit larger discussions of power and agency?

Contemporary ethnomusicological accounts of power have largely stalled in their attempts to provide a theoretical framework for understanding both the social structures that create and sustain formations of domination and the potentialities for subverting those formations. The problem, as I see it, is a reluctance to step outside the faulty premise that all social action may be mapped onto an axis of domination (by the powerful) and empowerment (for the powerless). Lila Abu-Lughod, for example, has effectively criticized many of the assumptions underlying empowerment and domination-centered literatures. Reflecting on her own work among the Bedouin tribe Awlād Ali, Abu-Lughod challenges the literature for being too enamored with “explaining resistance and finding resisters,” rather than attending to the larger workings of power.[4] In this assertion, Abu-Lughod draws attention to the inability of feminist scholarship to fully theorize power outside of the binary of domination and empowerment. “There is perhaps a tendency to romanticize resistance, to read all forms of resistance as signs of the ineffectiveness of systems of power and of the resilience and creativity of the human spirit in its refusal to be dominated. By reading resistance in this way, we collapse distinctions between forms of resistance and foreclose certain questions about the workings of power.”[5]

Instead Abu-Lughod recommends that resistance be employed as “a diagnostic of power,” as a means to map social relations and better understand the “complex interworkings of historically changing structures of power.”[6] Rather than interpreting acts of resistance purely in terms of opposition to, or liberation from, dominant forms of power, they should be understood as reinscribing practices embedded within systems of meaning, values, and aesthetics from which the idea of resistance is even a possible form of action. In this sense, “attention to the forms of resistance in particular societies can help us become critical of partial and reductionist theories of power.”[7]

To conceptualize resistance as a diagnostic of historically changing structures of power moves the discussion beyond the simple binary of powerful and powerless and serves to interrogate acts of resistance within the shifting relations from which they emerge. As the artists introduced above navigate deep-seated experiences of exile and occupation, they do so by employing a poetics made meaningful from within the power relations from which they operate. If we are to fully move beyond the tendency to romanticize these expressive practices as resistance, it is essential to understand each performative act, each song, poem, dance, gesture, as a tool for understanding the dynamics of power from which it arose. In their myriad and diverse articulations of “Palestine,” each of the above artists attempts to satisfy specific needs and values born of multiple and diffuse experiences of dispossession. A central focus of this book involves operationalizing music as a means to better understand these fields of power and agency, these experiences, within which the discourse of Palestinian nationalism comes to take on meaning.

While Abu-Lughod moves the discussion of power and agency in new directions, she nevertheless stops short of problematizing the very idea of resistance as a useful category of analysis. She does not challenge the utility of the term “resistance” itself as a means to describe and understand the entire range of activity which might prove wholly indifferent and/or unresponsive to challenging hegemonic norms. For Abu-Lughod, resistance seems to be a relatively easy form of political activity to locate and identify. Rather it would seem appropriate, as Saba Mahmood suggests, to further investigate the consequences of employing a universal category of acts, deemed resistance, without further interrogating the conditions within which these acts acquired their particular meanings.[8] Perhaps the very notion of resistance itself forecloses potentially important discoveries on the dynamics of power given that it often imposes a discursive legacy of progressive and emancipatory politics difficult to see around. Couched within the emancipatory politics of the powerless, conventional understandings of resistance are perhaps ill-equipped to account for the myriad ways that acts of subversion may in fact serve to consolidate, rather than destabilize, entrenched power discourses.

In both the emancipatory and progressive politics of academia as well as the streets of Palestinian refugee camps the concept of “resistance” (maqawma) is often carelessly wielded as a blunt instrument, imposing itself on various modes of contestation regardless of context and local meaning. It is assumed rather than determined, asserted rather than demonstrated. What is more, the term brings with it a discursive legacy of Orientalist inquiry, applied by academics as a means of accommodating and naturalizing difference, and adopted by Palestinian musicians and activists in an effort to build superficial notions of solidarity. In effect, the overdetermination of resistance in both of these contexts serves to stabilize meaning in ways that problematize representation. My approach throughout this text has been to consider how locally situated poetics influence the meanings of resistance as practice and mode of being, and to further explore the political consequences brought to bear when musicians freely assert this term. Much like “identity,” “race,” or “nation,” I have approached resistance as a performative construct. As such, resistance must be carefully scrutinized as an object of analysis, rather than as a lens through which to interpret political action.

Thinking critically about this issue, it seems important to interrogate the discursive tactics that imbue acts of resistance with their particular meanings. Despite a near ubiquitous use of the term, among the many artists discussed in this book there is a large spectrum of what exactly resistance is, how it might be defined, and in what ways it articulates with dominant power structures. To resist the occupation takes on drastically different connotations as one moves through time and space between various Palestinian communities. What becomes apparent in thinking through these questions is the importance of expressive culture (music, dance, poetry, graphic design, and so on) in fashioning diverse conceptualizations of what exactly resistance means, and under what circumstances it might be pursued.

Ethnomusicology and Palestinian Nationalism

In the field of ethnomusicology performative domains such as music, art, poetry, and dance have been shown to be constitutive modalities for the construction of national identity formations.[9] Nationalist movements throughout the world have revived, invented, or preserved various cultural arts in the assertion of a strategically engineered national identity. Music, given its shared indexical associations of time and space, participatory dynamics, and group formative capacities, is a particularly powerful means of fostering national sentiment in the service of a political agenda. My goal in this book is to examine musical performance in relation to its contributions to the interpretive processes by which the Palestinian nation comes into focus across various sociocultural and historical terrains.

Nevertheless, any discussion of Palestinian nationalism and identity runs the risk of perpetuating a vast literature of essentialist and primordial approaches, studies governed by the premise of legitimating and validating Palestinian claims of history and presence against threats of cultural erasure and appropriation. Such studies use historical and cultural evidence to authenticate a distinct national identity in an effort to advance Palestinian claims for self-determination. Here essentialist renderings of Palestinian identity, rooted in timeless history, are reinforced without properly interrogating the various ways the nation is actively imagined, represented, constructed, and governed under myriad circumstances. Zachary Lockman has written persuasively on this issue in his research on the historical connections between the Yishuv (Jewish communities of Palestine prior to 1948) and the indigenous Palestinian population in the period leading up to 1948. Working through archival collections and historical documents, he identifies a “dual society” model in which scholars working within either Israeli Zionist or Arab nationalist narratives have failed to critically question many of the categories of historical and cultural analysis they deploy. In such studies both Palestinian and Jewish communities are presented as primordial, self-contained, and homogeneous entities, developing and maturing along separate historical trajectories within fields of meaning unique to each group. In each case Israeli and Palestinian national identity formations are theorized as natural, if not pre-given modes of consciousness, rather than seen as constructs derived from historical, social, and political fields of relations and reactions.

Given that each nationalist narrative is employed primarily within a discursive frame of survival against potential destruction and exile (to be driven into the sea, or to be transferred across the river), to challenge the dominant nationalist paradigm is to potentially endanger the community and provide ideological ammunition for competing claims to territory, presence, and history. However, the implications for submitting to the pressures of this type of research are perhaps even more damaging, for as Lockman writes, “The result has been a historiography which has hardly questioned the representation of the communities [Israeli and Palestinian] as self-evidently coherent entities largely or entirely uninfluenced by one another. This approach has rendered their mutually constitutive impact virtually invisible, tended to downplay both intracommunal divisions and intercommunal linkages, and focused attention on episodes of violent conflict, implicitly assumed to be the only normal, significant, or even possible form of interaction.”[10]

To confront the deficiencies of Israeli/Palestinian historiography, Lockman seeks to develop a “relational history” and historiography cognizant of moments of interdependence and interaction that call into question the Arab/Jew binary. Drawing on Perry Anderson's plea for a “‘relational’ history that studies the incidence—reciprocal or asymmetrical—of different national or territorial units and cultures on each other,” Lockman seeks to develop a “relational paradigm” that challenges the narratives and categories of the “dual society model.”[11] In this relational paradigm the histories of Arabs and Jews are understood as being shaped within a larger field of social, political, economic, and cultural interactions. In pursuing research from within the discourse of the nation-state, national formations are rarely questioned. Rather they become reified entities operating in relation only to other nations. Violent conflict and political dialogue overshadow mutually constitutive histories and intercommunal linkages between and within national communities. What is more, the dual society paradigm diverts attention away from the very processes through which these national identities are constructed and performed across various social spaces. In what ways are the boundaries between communities drawn and maintained, and how are the practices of exclusion and conflict negotiated?

This notion of relationality is an important step toward releasing the hold of the persistent primordial nation-state, as well as highlighting forms of cultural interaction that are largely ignored as aberrations in both Palestinian and Israeli scholarship. However, this construct of relationality must also be applied within each national narrative. Although only a portion of this text explicitly examines Israeli and Palestinian interaction (chapters 8 and 9), throughout this text I have attempted to employ a relational history to the variously imagined and often contradictory and competing claims to Palestinian identity. While it is extremely important to bring out the mutually constitutive interactions between Palestinians and Israelis, it is equally important to reveal fractures and discontinuities from within each national formation, or to be more specific, to reveal myriad ways competing and conflicting segments of society (refracted through class, gender, religion, and so on) struggle for influence in defining and actualizing the nation. Among Palestinians this approach presents several challenges. To imply that there are differences between Palestinians in Israel, under occupation, and the near diaspora (Jordan, Syria, Lebanon) is to tread on the unspoken nationalist myth that Palestinians are united in their struggles against Zionism and share equally in the traumas of occupation and exile. Moreover to bring out the processes by which gender, religion, and class crosscut and destabilize the rigidity of the nation is to open up a discursive space for talking about shared communities of practice and interaction beyond and across the Palestinian-Israeli divide. In revealing the many different ways dispossession has been experienced by Palestinians in exile, under occupation, and in ’48 (Israel), it is my explicit goal to interrogate the many ways Palestinian identity, nation, and resistance are constructed and reproduced, performed amidst differentially situated fields of meaning and consequence. Nations are necessarily founded on a matrix of myth and meaning filtered predominantly through the discourses of collective history and experience. For scholars to transcend the mythologized pasts and to criticize the filters through which the nation is reified as natural and timeless, they must confront many of the components of their own identities as citizens and nationals.

In seeking to explore the relational histories and identities of Palestinians in exile, under occupation, and in ’48 (Israel), a critical understanding of the processes of popular culture is especially important.[12] Although in the literature of Palestinian studies cultural practices are largely included only insomuch as they reflect “greater” political and economic forces, it is the intention of this book to reveal how popular culture (specifically musical texts, sounds, images, and practices) is in fact a constitutive modality of collective identity formation within which broader social forces emerge. Heretofore, the literature on Palestinian folklore and nationalism has by and large constructed music, poetry, and dance as epiphenomenal tools for the mobilization of oppositional politics and ideology. Scholars have shown how expressive media often reflects larger, more pertinent issues of politics.[13] So, for example, graffiti, poetry, and music are all symptoms, manifestations, or expressions of forced exile and the brutality of foreign occupation. They are texts—things to be read and interpreted within various frames of class, ethnicity, religion, and so forth. As such the appearance of expressive art forms and media are illustrative of the “voice of the masses” and are the results of various political discourses. In contrast, such expressive media should be seen as constitutive fields where the political and ideational effects of the occupation are not only expressed, but given materiality. The so-called texts of popular culture (songs, poems, paintings, dances) are not merely things in and of themselves, but rather they demarcate the boundaries of a discursive field in which ideas of self and the world may be engaged and naturalized within or against the dominant order.[14]

Specifically in the Palestinian diaspora music, dance, poetry, and literature have been instrumental in generating and maintaining national sentiment. Forms of performative action such as these have been shown not only to alleviate patterns of political dispossession and provide a counter ideology to social inequality, but also to guide participants through a network of shared meanings that foster a distinct Palestinian national consciousness in exile. In this book I explore the aesthetic and ideational components of this particular national consciousness and trace how resultant feelings of solidarity, engendered by such performances, are then put into service by various politico-nationalist groups and organizations. In the process, performative spaces, and the various arts and practices that fill them, are examined in detail as sites of subversion, resignification, and nation building amidst fields of violence, occupation, and state terror. My analysis reveals the various ways Palestinians have been able to assert counterhegemonic and/or subversive nationalist identities against often-violent countermeasures of state control, that within performative spaces Palestinians may, in essence, declare what they dare not say and do on the streets. They may dance the dabke wearing the kūfīya and raise the flag of their ancestral homeland amidst fields of potentially violent consequence.

The idea that music, nationalism, and resistance function as performative, as mutually constitutive modalities for individual subjectivity and collective identity formation, is a recurrent theme of this book. Drawing from folklore studies, sociolinguistics, and cognitive psychology, ethnomusicologists have shown that music, as social process, is best understood within its various frames of articulation. In so doing, these researchers have pursued a new direction of ethnographic inquiry, placing emphasis on the processual, the ephemeral, and the performative. In this book I propose that a similar analytic may be applied to the study of nations and nationalism. As music is made manifest in the articulation and interaction of participants within a socially constituted performance environment, so, too, are nations themselves products, or effects, of a performativity of ideation framed within discourses of power and agency. The analytic of studying nations and nationalism, as one might study music and musical performance, opens up the discursive, interactive, and performative aspects of Palestinian sociality and further reorients nations as organic sets of ephemeral relations, performative effects, rather than reified social constructs.

In the absence of political, economic, and other material means with which to articulate national sentiment, Palestinians in exile and under occupation are often left only expressive media through which to assert national belonging. Protests, demonstrations, concerts, lectures, weddings, and funerals are important sites within which such performances take place. Each involves a transaction of cultural norms, national signs, engineered to elicit powerful feelings of belonging and community.[15] In performances of the nation, participants enact prescribed roles, follow detailed scripts of engagement, and act out within defined spaces national feelings and identities. Through their citationality to dominant cultural norms, participants define and redefine the established lexicon, or poetics, of the Palestinian nation. Throughout this study I attempt to transcribe and analyze the ideational transcripts of these performances, exploring the historical, cultural, and material connections between Palestinian music, the nation, and its myriad understandings of resistance. Whether it be a call to arms in the refugee camps of Amman, the stomping feet of a folkloric dance troupe in Jerusalem, or the acrobatic twists and turns of break-dancing teenagers in Ramallah, music performance constitutes a primary process for understanding what it means to be Palestinian and what it means to fight for its self-determination.

2

Poets, Singers, and Songs

Voices in the Resistance Movement (1917–1967)

“Yama Mawil al-Hawa” (Oh song of longing)

Eighty kilometers northwest of Amman, along Jordan's northern border with Syria and Israel, lies the small village of Umm Qais. Nestled atop a small mountain at the very edge of the East Bank plateau, Umm Qais overlooks the intersection of the Jordan and Yarmouk River valleys, each framed by the biblical Sea of Galilee (also known as Lake Tiberias). From the village's surrounding olive and fig orchards, one can easily look out over the hills of the Galilee, the Golan Heights, and the West Bank. Descending down to the mountain's base one finds the intersection of three international borders (Israel, Jordan, and Syria), each reinforced by a network of barbed-wire fences, patrol roads, and watchtowers. The signposts of these borders line the summits of each hill and the edges of the two valleys. With a basic set of binoculars one can watch Jordanian, Syrian, and Israeli border guards making their rounds on patrol, sequestered behind chain-link and barbed-wire fences.

For tourists the trek to Umm Qais is rewarded by some of the choicest olives in the region and one of the kingdom's most elaborate archeological sites. The Roman Decapolis city of Gadara remains one of the most beautifully preserved ruins in the Middle East. A well-managed tourist center and excellent fine-dining restaurant have earned Umm Qais the reputation of a must-see destination for any tourist visiting the kingdom. However, upon my first visit to the area in the summer of 2002, I quickly understood the cultural importance of this village to the local population. Far more than archeology, Umm Qais offers some of the most beautiful panoramic views of historic Palestine: Galilee, Tiberias, and the Beisan valley (see figure 2.1).

When I arrived at the main gate of the ruins I found the tourist center's parking lot overrun with picnickers, people playing soccer, and children running wildly, dragging kites through the summer winds. Friday afternoons are typically when families spend time relaxing outdoors, barbequing, or otherwise enjoying their time together. On this particular Friday perhaps fifty families had decided to enjoy the summer's day by having their afternoon meal atop the mountain. Small makeshift grills roasted kabobs in the summer sun as groups of men and women sat in relaxed conversation. Walking among the crowds I realized that the weather was perhaps not the only reason so many decided to stretch out and enjoy the view. In talking with my friend and companion Daoud Abbasi, a twenty-something Palestinian from the al-Husseini refugee camp in Amman, I learned that the majority of Palestinian Jordanians who now live in Umm Qais and the surrounding areas were originally from the Palestinian villages of Tiberias, Farwana, Masil al-Jizl, Beisan, and others. Today, over sixty years later, the original refugees from these villages and their descendants gather periodically on this spot to look out over their ancestral lands, lands they are prohibited from ever visiting. On clear days, these panoramic views are all that remain for these picnickers as they try to reconnect with their ancestral villages.

Making my way through the crowds to the main gate of the ruins with my friend, I noticed a small group of young girls sitting together on a blanket singing with an older relative, perhaps a great-aunt or grandmother. I lingered momentarily to better hear their song and quickly pulled Daoud, a budding folklorist, over to help me with the lyrics. He immediately identified the well-known Palestinian folk song as “Yama Mawil al-Hawa.” The melody was incredibly beautiful and immediately caught my attention (EVIA 14-S9039).[1]

Oh my song of longing

It is better to be killed by daggers than ruled by the unjust.

I walked under winter's sky and it quenched my thirst,

And summer became hotter from the fires which burn inside of me.

My life will continue through sacrifice for freedom

Oh song of longing

The night cries out in dew to witness my wounds.

The army of the enemy came from every direction.

The night witnessed the destruction and learned from the martyr[2]

Oh song of longing

Weapons on the hills are higher than the highest.

They open the path of hope and the hope in my men.

Oh heroic youth, I sacrifice myself for your sake.

Oh song of longing

The elegantly slow-paced melody of “Yama Mawil al-Hawa” remained with me for several weeks. After some basic inquiries among friends I managed to find a slightly modified recording of this song, on an old cassette tape by the famous ensemble Firqat Aghani al-Ashiqin (The Songs of the Lovers Ensemble). More than a year later, on a return trip to Jordan, I began working with al-Ashiqin as they began performing once again in support of the second intifada. An udist and the conductor of the group, Adnan Odeh was not at all surprised when I told him the story of my first experience with this song (see example 2.1). He cites “Yama Mawil al-Hawa” as one of the most widely known Palestinian folk songs, and perhaps one of al-Ashiqin's most important.[3] In one of our first interviews together he sang “Yama Mawil al-Hawa” beautifully for me, and explained the meaning of the lyrics (see figure 2.2).

“Yama Mawil al-Hawa” is one of the best songs in the national movement [al-arakat al-qawmīya] simply because it is purely 100 percent Palestinian [filisīnī mīya bi-1 -mīya]. Although we [al-Ashiqin] changed the lyrics, and I think Hussein [Nazak] modified the original melody [from bayyati to ajām] and meter, it is a folk song [aghnīya min al-shab] that every Palestinian knows from the time they were children. It sings about the people and their struggles, no matter where they were scattered. When we perform it, it is one of the only times in the concert when people would stop dancing and just listen, [simply because] it had the most beautiful melody and powerful text…everyone knew the lyrics…and it was the same [whether we were playing] in Beirut, Damascus, anywhere. Everyone knew it because everyone could identify with it…the winter's walk of 1948 [mashaīt tat al-shatā], the summer heat moving [from Palestine] to the [Jordanian or Syrian] desert, the loss of our land, the sacrifice of the martyrs, these were all things that Palestinians knew and experienced everywhere [wayn makān].

For Adnan Odeh songs like “Yama Mawil al-Hawa” narrate a personal history of the Palestinian al-nakba (catastrophe) and provide powerful markers of a distinct national identity in exile. As I observed in Umm Qais, families shared this song with their children while evoking collective memories and experiences of dispossession. As they overlooked the now-empty fields where their ancestral villages once stood, “Yama Mawil al-Hawa” was sung to best communicate the feelings of the moment and to further inculcate in the lives of these young girls foundational aspects of their Palestinian identity. In a similar fashion, Firqat Aghani al-Ashiqin has been performing this song for over thirty years because of its capacity to index uniquely Palestinian experiences of dislocation, struggle, and sacrifice. On picnic blankets, in political rallies, and on the national stage, “Yama Mawil al-Hawa” has played an important role in narrating a collective national history and identity in exile.

To this end, Palestinian artists throughout the diaspora have developed vast repertories of music, poetry, drama, film, and dance in support of the Palestinian national movement and the struggle for self-determination. Such artistic projects have given voice to a subaltern nationalist ideology and have promoted powerful sentiments of national identity both within and between communities in ’48 (Israel), in the occupied West Bank and Gaza Strip (al-bilād), and in exile (al-ghūrba) (Jordan, Syria, Lebanon). Within the near Palestinian diaspora (in Jordan, Syria, Lebanon), musical performance has been especially important in the formation of cultural meanings in two distinct ways: first, by providing a forum for the expression of subaltern/nationalist ideologies from within dominant host nations, and second, by facilitating performative interaction and belonging between diaspora communities. It is this lateral awareness, the hallmark of diasporic signification and identification, that has enabled and encouraged Palestinians throughout Bilad al-Sham (Jordan, Syria, Lebanon, Israel/Palestine) to collectively experience the pains of occupation: as national pride, hope, and shame.

In this and the following chapters I seek to trace the broad history of Palestinian resistance song to better understand how and why certain singers, songs, poets, and ideas have come to define the Palestinian nation and its struggle for self-determination. What are the foundational songs that narrate the nationalist movement, and how have these songs influenced, reflected, or otherwise generated the ways Palestinians conceptualize themselves and their struggle for self-determination? In particular I am interested in revealing how this repertory has been both constituted by and constitutive of the myriad poetics and politics of dispossession and resistance. What role have music and performance played in the development of the Palestinian liberation movement? And how might a topography of the major performers and performances illuminate wider sociopolitical boundaries, cracks, and fissures within its ranks? Is there a relationship between the poetics of song and the politics of resistance? And if so, how and why might this be so? What potential does music have for expressing meaning within wider sociopolitical frames overdetermined by violence and trauma?

At their core, however, the following chapters provide a basic introduction to the field of Palestinian protest song. Throughout I trace the historical development of this repertory from its earliest known and recorded antecedents to its present-day transnational manifestations, highlighting foundational figures, groups, songs, and ideas. Through careful musical, textual, and performative analysis I explore many of the dominant signs, myths, and meanings inherent in this repertory, deconstructing the indexical associations that constitute the poetics of Palestinian resistance. In the course of drawing out this history, however, it becomes apparent that the performativity of nationalist song and of nationalist politics are coterminous. In effect they inhabit the same social spaces, play on the same lexicon of associations and ideas, and are mutually constitutive in the articulation of large-scale group identity formations. The performance of Palestinian resistance music across space and time has in essence narrated the history of the Palestinian nation, its triumphs and failures, its pride and shame. Within its melodies, rhythms, and poetics is a uniquely textured cultural performance of Palestinian history. Situated within larger fields of meaning, these songs provide a truly fascinating historical record of the Palestinian condition as it has been conceptualized and embodied over the last eighty years. To perform this music, in many ways, is to perform the nation.[4]

The story that unfolds, however, is not necessarily one of unilinear solidarity. Far from it, the story of Palestinian resistance music that emerges in the following chapters is beset with contradiction, complication, and points of contention between and among performers and audiences. This is an extraordinarily complicated story, where imaginings of the body and body politic move in counterpoint with myriad social forces, constantly affirmed and contested in performance. The presence of such contradictions, however, need not call into question the very existence of Palestinian identity, nor should they detract from the legitimacy of the Palestinian cause of self-determination. Rather the twisting and turning of Palestinian protest song, weaving its way through history, replete with points of blockage and disagreement, reveals the performativity of resistance itself and the processes through which imaginings of the nation are constructed and articulated. Focusing on the fractures and fissures in Palestinian nationalism allows for cultural meanings and experiences to be opened up, examined, and interrogated in interesting ways, revealing a more nuanced topography of resistance itself.

At issue are the various ways resistance is interpreted and performed at different points in Palestinian history. How is resistance interpreted over time and across the landscape of Palestinian experience? Who are the targets of such resistance? As the popularity and influence of resistance songs ebb and flow, coming into and out of fashion, what does this say about the nature of resistance music at times of state building when very little active and organized fighting is taking place? Following Lila Abu-Lughod, the concept of resistance must be employed specifically as a “diagnostic of power,” as a means to map social relations and to better understand the “complex inter-workings of historically changing structures of power.”[5] Here I seek to use protest song as a tool for understanding the dynamics of power within the Palestinian nationalist movement. In telling the story of Palestinian protest song it is essential to understand each performative act, song, poem, dance, or gesture as a means for understanding the field of consequence from which it arose.

Pre-1948 Indigenous Palestinian Protest Song

Archival sources on the performance of protest song prior to 1948 are found in various Palestinian, British, and Israeli sound archives and personal collections or within the literature of Palestinian folklore, poetry, and oral history. A careful reading of these sources reveals a vibrant tradition of protest song throughout the British mandate period reaching a climax during the Great Arab Revolt of 1936–39. Under stiff British military occupation, songs performed at local events provided an important forum for political discussion outside the reach of colonial censorship. Among the rural fallāīn (peasantry), folk songs were a powerful tool for mobilizing the masses in support of the labor boycotts and the armed conflict against British forces. Traveling musicians and poets, hired to perform at weddings and other life-cycle events, brought news of the revolt to the villages, debated pressing political issues, and glorified the resistance and its leadership as heroic soldiers for the nation.[6] Most importantly, these performers sowed the seeds of nationalist discourse itself, carrying the idea of Palestinian nationalism from the cosmopolitan urban centers to the rural towns and villages.

This tradition of Palestinian resistance song was operationalized through the performance repertory of the indigenous shar al-murtajal (poet-singer). Colloquially called al-shār, al-zajjālī, or al-ādī, these poets were hired to perform at celebratory gatherings, life-cycle events, calendar festivals, or diwānīn (village guesthouses) throughout the region. At these events traveling poet-singers would entertain participants by freely extemporizing stanzas of poetry based within prescribed indigenous folk-tune archetypes. Texts were improvised based on myriad contextual criteria, local politics, proverbs, folklore, and history, following precise rhythmo-poetic rhyme schemes. Once performed, variations of a particular song would spread very quickly among neighboring villages. Prominent performers became famous for their unique social and political commentary, raising many to the status of folk heroes in the nationalist movement.

Given the improvisational character of this repertory, coupled with a dearth of reliable recording technology in pre-1948 Palestine, this tradition of political performance has been difficult to document. However, Palestinian fallāī singers were periodically broadcast on local radio, and many of their performances routinely dealt with quasi-political issues and themes. The literature reveals that such broadcasts were an extremely effective means of reaching out to the people, but rarely do such sources provide more than topical discussion of well-remembered texts. In rare cases collections of well-known folk poetry were published, largely without musical analysis or commentary.[7] However, careful examination of these texts often suggests its musical rendering. Based on poetic structure and rhyme scheme it is possible to approximate the manner of its original musical rendering based on contemporary performance practice. Many of the more famous songs of this period, however, have survived through continued performance and widespread popularity (see below). These songs, first composed between 1920 and 1939, now serve as the foundation for new repertories of resistance songs over eighty years later. In most cases, the composer of the song is unknown, or it is attributed only to “folklore” (fulklūr) or “popular heritage” (turāth al-shabī). However, in rare circumstances, the identity of the poet becomes embedded within the song itself. One such poet, Nuh Ibrahim, is routinely cited as having had the largest grassroots impact on the development of Palestinian resistance music and literature. His many compositions remain a vital part of this repertory, having survived through the generations in various publications and continued performance since the time of the Great Arab Revolt (1936–39).

NUH IBRAHIM

Born in Haifa in 1913, Nuh Ibrahim developed a passion for poetry as a young boy working at a local printing press. Performing publicly at social clubs, labor syndicates, and other professional unions, Ibrahim became quite famous as a captivating young poet. His local fame later led to frequent performances for cosmopolitan elites in Cairo, Damascus, Beirut, and other Arab cultural capitals. In his many poems Ibrahim would deliver impassioned rhetoric against the British mandate, escalating Jewish colonization under the aegis of Zionism, and the unwillingness of the Arab world to come to the defense of the Arabs in Bilad al-Sham after the First World War. Returning to Palestine in the early 1930s, he joined an anticolonial resistance movement, led by the infamous imam ‘Izz al-Din al-Qassam.[8] Known by the alias talmīdh al-Qassām (Pupil of al-Qassam), Ibrahim spread the imam's message of popular resistance to British colonial administration and Zionist expansion via repertories of indigenous poetry. Though al-Qassam was killed in an ambush before the revolt formally began in 1936, a series of muraba poems (see below) composed and sung by Ibrahim in his honor were instrumental in memorializing the famed leader and drawing popular support for the cause that bore his name.[9]

While there are many interpretations of sung muraba based on stylistic and regional variation, in this example the introductory quatrain of poetry follows a prescribed rhyme scheme where the first, second, and fourth lines must rhyme, while the third is free. Then, in the subsequent quatrain the poet uses the rhyme from the third line of the first quatrain as the basis for the subsequent three lines, and then cadences the fourth line with the dominant rhyme from the first quatrain (that is, AABA, BBBA). All subsequent quatrains then maintain the dominant rhyme of the first quatrain in its cadential line (CCCA, DDDA, and so on). Between each quatrain participants sing one of several responsorial lines (lāzama), usually introduced by the poet. The retention of the initial rhyme structure throughout the muraba creates a sense of continuity between quatrains and adds to the virtuosity of the compositional technique. In this tradition, poets must freely improvise contextually appropriate quatrains while remaining within the prescribed poetic structures of each song-type. The following muraba composed and performed by Nuh Ibrahim reveals this poetic structure (see transliteration in appendix 1) and demonstrates how folk poetry was employed as a means of commemorating the memory of the Palestinian leader.

Izz al-Din oh what a loss, you became a martyr for your people

Who can deny your generosity, oh martyr for Palestine.

Izz al-Din rest in peace, your death is a lesson to all

Ah…if only you'd remained, oh leader of the freedom fighters.

You forsake your soul and your wealth, for the freedom of your land!

When you faced an enemy, you fought with great determination.

By 1937 Nuh Ibrahim had been arrested by British authorities for his involvement with the al-Qassam brigades; subsequently he spent five months in the famous Akka Prison.[10] While there Ibrahim was exposed to a general population of prisoners, made up of predominantly rural, nonliterate Palestinian fallāīn. Among the fallāīn Nuh Ibrahim found a new audience for his poetry and its underlying political message. Frustrated in his many attempts to convince cosmopolitan elites to confront the British, Ibrahim turned his sights toward the rural masses living in the Palestinian countryside.

Composing and performing in Akka Prison, Nuh Ibrahim found a far more receptive audience for his collections of protest poetry. Accordingly Ibrahim adapted his poetry to include Palestinian colloquial language, a thick rural accent, and indigenous poetic song-types and performance practices.[11] In contrast to the many classically trained writers crafting beautifully sophisticated Palestinian-inspired poetry from their urban offices in Haifa, Jerusalem, and Beirut, Ibrahim's detention in Akka Prison, his use of local dialect, and his experiences on the front lines of the struggle gave his poetry a sense of credibility and authenticity among the rural masses. Moreover—given that Ibrahim's poetry was transmitted via live performance, delivered within widely known folk-songs and indigenous poetic structures—his work was very easily learned and disseminated among the villages. Rural fallāīn, predominantly illiterate farmers and laborers, constituted approximately 70 percent of the total Palestinian population during this time.[12] These rural villagers suffered mightily from overtaxation, underdevelopment, and civil neglect. Nuh Ibrahim's emerging poetry, based in indigenous Palestinian song-types and poetic device, mobilized these disenfranchised rural masses against British authorities and Zionist expansion through collective performance.

In both poetic and musical device Ibrahim's compositions had a significant impact on the local population based on their use of indigenous poetics and performative practices. Though published collections of his work were widespread, and eventually banned by the colonial authorities, the performative nature of his words in indigenous song allowed for his message to spread quickly beyond the reach of colonial censors. Nested within the prescriptive structures of Palestinian folk song common to public celebrations, life-cycle events, and other calendar festivals, Nuh Ibrahim's poetry could be quickly learned and reiterated, told and retold, by networks of traveling poet-singers at various public occasions. Encoding his message in popular song had the effect of encouraging public engagement and future repetition among communities in the countryside as well as in urban centers.

Nuh Ibrahim's strategic use of indigenous Palestinian folk song involved two predominant musico-poetic formats: al-muraba (quatrain) and al-muāwara (discussion). It was documented that he shied away from performing in other popular dance-dominated dabke song-types such as the alā dalūnā, yā arīf al-ūl, al-ghazalī, or al-jafrā as they were too limited for his purposes and far too rhythmic for the kind of response he hoped to engender.[13] He believed that rhythmic dance styles made it far too difficult for the people to listen, understand, and interpret his political messages. If, for example, his poetry were set to a standard dabke tune, such as al-jafrā, participants would be too distracted in their dancing to fully appreciate the nuance of his political message. Rather Ibrahim preferred to compose within repertories of Palestinian folk song where emphasis is placed on the meanings of the poetic texts and the vocal capacities of the poet-singer. Published collections of his work reveal the majority of his compositions are in the form of sung murabaāt (as in the above example of commemorative poetry) in which quatrains are delivered in a quick declamatory style following a prescribed rhyme scheme and melodic phrasing.

The muāwara is a bit more complex in that it involves a performative debate between competing poet-singers within a prescribed rhythmo-poetic rhyme scheme.[14] Part of the genre of improvised sung poetry colloquially called al-idā or al-zajāl, the muāwara or uwār (discussion) is a very common occurrence in Palestinian indigenous celebrations (weddings, engagements, circumcisions, baptisms, or other family occasions) where competing singers will choose to debate (battle) each other on various topics through the rendering of poetic couplets (muzdawijāt), quatrains (murabaāt), or eight-lined stanzas (muthammanāt), accompanied by responsorial refrains, rhythmic clapping, and enthusiastic audience exclamations.[15] Performers improvise an even number of seven- to eight-syllable hemistitches within a prescribed rhyme scheme, on various contextually appropriate topics (praise, politics, love, history, or other intellectual issues). These stanzas of poetry are then rendered, following a very simple melodic pattern with responsorial accompaniment.[16]

Among the fallāīn living under the British mandate, the performance of al-muāwara served several essential societal functions. Traveling poet-singers hired to perform at celebratory festivals brought with them news of current events, typically disseminated through newspapers and other print media. In the poetics of such performances it was quite common for performers to provide spaces for public engagement, dialogue and debate of important social and political issues. As each of the competing poet-singers would take up a particular subject position, audience members would show their support for one side of the argument through applause and responsorial singing. In many ways, these poet-singers enabled performative spaces for the articulation of competing political discourses and the formation of popular consensus on a plethora of societal issues. While the performance of al-muāwara in celebratory spaces would typically explore only lighthearted topics for sheer entertainment and enjoyment (is it better to be young or old, rich or poor, blonde or brunette, single or married), in moments of crisis this repertory became a powerful tool for mobilizing public opinion and national sentiment around shared communal goals.

“MUHAWARA AL-ARABI WA-1 -SAHYUNI” (DEBATE BETWEEN THE ARAB AND THE ZIONIST)

Nuh Ibrahim's most popular muāwara, “Al-Arabi wa al-Sahyuni,” offers an interesting example of how this indigenous style of poetic debate, or dueling, might mobilize national sentiment in the service of the resistance movement. In it he positions an Arab and a Zionist against one another in a performative debate over who has the more legitimate claims to Palestine. While Ibrahim's strategic use of Ashkenazi Jewish cultural stereotypes and misinformation is clearly intended to mobilize and manipulate popular sentiment against Zionist expansion, it is interesting to note how competing discourses of religion, politics, and the nation-state are articulated within the performative structures of this folk song. Moreover it is important to also recognize the clear distinctions being made between Arabs, as natives of the land of Palestine, and Zionists, as European Jewish (Ashkenazim) settlers attempting to claim the land from its native inhabitants. The Arabs being represented here include Muslims, Christians, and Arab Jews (Mizrahim), whose presence in historic Palestine and the Arab world extends back for centuries. It is important to understand exactly who is being represented under the terms “Arab” and “Zionist,” as these two terms are used throughout the folk songs of the time. As the prominent folklorist Dr. Sharif Kanaana recounted to me, “Jews are rarely if ever mentioned in the folk songs of the British mandate” (1917–48). “Rather, the enemy is clearly identified as Zionism [al-ahyūnīya] or Zionists [al- ahāyna]…. Interestingly, when Jews are specifically mentioned in these folk songs they are typically named, illustrating the difference between native Arab Jews of the region and foreign colonialists and settlers” (personal communication 2010). Within this performative conversation Arab and Zionist perspectives are nevertheless clearly expressed and identified, allowing competing national ideologies to emerge on a range of pertinent issues: historical presence, religious jurisprudence, foreign colonialism, national dislocation, and victimization.

The formal poetic duel begins with each participant opening with an introductory stanza stating his case. Following each stanza the audience sings a prescribed responsorial refrain (lāzama). The poetic structure of this debate is identical to the above example of muraba (AABA, BBBA, CCCA, DDDA, and so on).[17]

A: I am Arab, and by my eyes, when I die, cast me away,

I'll erase the name of Zionism, in the protection of my country Palestine.

Refrain: From the deception of the colonizers.

Z: I am the well-known Zionist, my position in this world is obvious,

My wealth is from lies, and I must own Palestine.

Refrain: I must own Palestine.

A: You may own it in the tomb, where you will find only misery,

And are confronted with Munkar and Nakir, on the Day of Judgment, oh you wretched man.

Refrain: Until then you'd own Palestine.

Z: Don't forget the accumulation of wealth, betrayal and trickery,

With which I can buy the control of men, and perform the deeds of the devil.

Refrain: Because I must own Palestine!

These first initial stanzas offer each performer the opportunity to introduce himself to his audiences, establishing the position of each in the debate. The Arab seeks to protect his homeland from foreign colonization, to erase the name of Zionism and the malice of occupation. The Jewish Zionist, well known in world politics and business, promises to own Palestine through manipulation, wealth, and lies. This will happen, according to the Arab, only after the Zionist is confronted by the angels of death, Munkar and Nakir. Islamic practice in Palestine holds that upon one's death the deceased will be visited by two of God's angels, Munkar and Nakir. Precisely when the funeral party has reached seventy-two paces from the grave, the two angels will appear and test the faith of the deceased by asking three important questions. The answer to these three questions determines the amount of time the deceased must spend waiting to be resurrected into heaven. In this usage the Arab makes reference to Munkar and Nakir in an attempt to claim that the Zionist will own Palestine only after resting in his tomb. While Islamic practice and belief is asserted here as a threat against the Zionist, he counters with a threat of his own. Great wealth, betrayal, and manipulation can be used to control the actions of men to do the “deeds of the devil.”

A: Do your deeds arrogant man, in this world you are famous.

I'm the eagle, oh starling, and you are escaping the talons.

Refrain: And you want to own Palestine?

Z: I'll run away and will not fight, my daughters will fight for me.

Because of them, I will not return disappointed. I win ninety out of every hundred.

Refrain: And I must own Palestine!

The exchange of threats continues between the two adversaries. The Arab notes that the Zionist is well known in the world for using great wealth and manipulation to attain power. But it is the Arab, identified as an eagle, who will be victorious against the weak Zionist songbird. The use of an eagle to signify the resistance is important to the meaning of the stanza and is quite typical in Palestinian poetry and song. In musico-poetic performance the word eagle (nasar) becomes easily rhymed with its pseudohomonym, victory or triumph (naar). Based on shared associations of power, strength, victory, and protection, the signification of triumphant Palestine as eagle is easily accomplished in the poetics of performance. Rather than confront the Arab with an equally profound display of strength, the Zionist responds with the promise not to fight. The Zionist claims victory by manipulating others to fight on his behalf. Zionism's “daughters,” the British in this particular instance, will deliver 90 percent of the time. The diminutive portrayal of the British colonial government as Zionism's daughter/servant reflects a style of satire quite common in Nuh Ibrahim's work. Here he reverses the power differential between the colonial regime and the nascent Zionist enterprise by portraying the British as willing servants to Zionism.

A: Akh! Spit on such men [Tafū!], they blather on and on!

I've lost hope in you, stuck in mud and tar.

Refrain: You've got to leave from here!

Z: Khabībī, listen to my words, whatever you have seen before me,

A national homeland is my intention, for the sake of Zionist Palestine.

Refrain: And I will own Palestine!

A: By God, in your life you'll never see this. Instead you will remain dislocated,

The work of the lion, oh lamb, you'll see the crows of doom,

Refrain: If you stay in Palestine!

Z: The world has given up on me, and from its nations I've been refused.

And you too are chasing me, to keep me out of Palestine,

Refrain: The land of my ancestors from long ago!

The debate escalates further as the tempers of both characters flare. In a sign of disgust the Arab makes a dramatic spitting sound, “Tafū!” To be heard, the Zionist then responds with a mispronounced gesture of friendship, “khabībī” (my sweetheart). Another sign of Ibrahim's satire, the mispronounced Arabic “abībī” is but another stereotypical insult at the Zionist, playing on the common misuse of “kh” among Eastern European Jewish immigrants to Palestine, a linguistic stereotype that still holds today. In his analysis of this poem, Samih Shabeeb suggests that Ibrahim's purposeful mispronunciation here clearly indicates that the Zionist character in this performance is European, delineating a political difference between foreign Zionist immigration to Palestine and the historic presence of Arab Jews in the region.[18] In both published collections and live performances of this muāwara, the mispronounced “khabībī” is retained, eliciting great laughter and suggesting that its satirical meaning is central to the piece. Following this both characters make mention of the global dispossession experienced by Jews around the world. While the Arab insists that Zionism will remain dislocated in the world, the Zionist counters with an expression of victimization. “The world has given up on me.” He is refused by all nations, and even the Arabs are “chasing me” from “the land of my ancestors.” The Arab then reiterates the importance of Palestine to all three Abrahamic religions. This statement further suggests that Ibrahim's understanding of “Arab-ness” is determined not by religious affiliation but by a historic presence in and attachment to the land. It is the colonial expansion of non-Arabs in Palestine, under the guise of Zionism, that Ibrahim is arguing against.

A: Stop manipulating with your words, as if you're submerged in sleep.

Palestine is the cradle of Islam, the Messiah [Jesus], and the prophets [Judaica].

Refrain: Where are you going, oh wretched man?

Z: It is not possible for me to leave, and I will fulfill my goal.

Win or lose, I won't leave Palestine.

Refrain: And I will own Palestine!

A: You have to go!

Z: I won't go!

A: Still there?

Z: I am not afraid.

A: Stay and witness your end.

Z: Do as you wish.

[The Arab pulls out a pistol from underneath his cloak and shoots the Zionist character.]

A: Bam, Bam, Bam, Bam!

Z: O my misfortune, the wealth, the capital is lost, and I have taken my leave from you, Palestine.

In this final exchange the debate reaches its dramatic climax. Following threats of violence, the Arab pulls out a pistol from underneath his robe and shoots the Zionist dead. Notice that in his final utterance, the Zionist first laments the loss of his great wealth and capital, only later in the stanza mentioning the loss of Palestine. In various performances this final exchange between the two characters is often significantly modified to be less violent, most commonly with the Zionist running away in defeat.

Embodied in performance it is easy to speculate the impact this muāwara might have had on mobilizing nationalist sentiment against the British occupation and the increasing Zionist expansion during the time of the Great Arab Revolt (1936–39). Playing on widespread cultural and ethnic stereotypes, collective fear, and political rhetoric, this folk song served to confirm or reinforce a specific politico-nationalist agenda within a culturally appropriate forum for political debate, consensus, and the amelioration of societal distress. The structure of the muāwara, in which participants collectively express their approval of a political opinion through responsorial singing, engenders a discursive feedback between performers and audience members, creating the effect of political solidarity. Feelings of solidarity and community become indexically linked to the political meanings of the texts through their articulation. As each character freely expresses his point of view, the audience joins into the debate with prescribed, even compulsory, gestures in support of Palestinian self-determination and the end of Zionist colonialism. As performative, this particular style of collective singing enacts or produces the effect that it names.[19] The result is an affirmation of solidarity against Zionist colonization of Palestine.

Despite writing in support of the Great Arab Revolt against British authorities and Zionist expansion for only a short time, the complete repertory of Ibrahim's work is quite large. He composed songs eulogizing combatants, satirizing the policies of British colonial officials, and debating pressing cultural and political issues such as Jewish colonization, martyrdom, nationalism, and the roles and responsibilities of women in the resistance movement. One of his more famous works celebrates the sacrifices women must make on “the path of the nation” (fī sabīl al-waan). In this poem Ibrahim sings of a mother who sells her only possessions to buy a gun so that her son may join the fight. In giving her son to the struggle she is honored as the model for all Palestinian women.[20] In other songs Ibrahim speaks of the need for national unity against foreign occupation across politico-religious lines. Throughout his work Ibrahim strategically avoids purely Islamic references in favor of nonsectarian cultural-nationalist sign clusters. Christians and Muslims alike were called to join the struggle as Palestinian brothers, sons of the nation. Above all, however, the most significant characteristic of Nuh Ibrahim's work is an overriding sense of irony, humor, and satire leveled at his targets. Drawing on colloquial dialect, slang, and double entendre, Ibrahim ridicules his subjects to produce his desired response. He uses language idiomatic to the people and communicates his messages in an accessible form familiar to and congruent with the practices and lifeways of the rural fallāīn.

“MIN SIJN AKKA” (FROM AKKA PRISON)

With little question Nuh Ibrahim's most popular protest song is the powerful funeral dirge “Min Sijn Akka” (From Akka Prison) (also known by the title “Al-Thalatha al-Hamara” [The bloody three]).[21] Initially a vital part of Palestinian folklore, this song was revitalized by Firqat Aghani al-Ashiqin in the late 1970s. Today it has been rerecorded and performed by intifada ensembles throughout the region and is widely considered one of the all-time classics of the repertory.

“Min Sijn Akka” is a historical account of the execution of three Palestinian militants at the infamous Akka Prison on June 17, 1930. The public execution of these three men had an extraordinary effect among the people, providing an initial rallying cry for revolt against British colonial authority. Several folklorists and artists with whom I worked cited this public execution as the catalyst for the Palestinian resistance movement. Ibrahim, then a young poet and former inmate at Akka Prison, composed this song to memorialize the event (EVIA 14-S2070).[22]

The funeral procession set out from Akka Prison,

For Mohammad Jumjum and Fuad Hijazi.

Oh how they punished them, my people,

Oh how the high commissioner and his people punished them.

Mohammad Jumjum with Ata al-Zir,

And Fuad Hijazi became honorable weapons.

See the fate and destiny,

How the oppressive army pronounced death upon them.

Said Mohammad, “I want to be the first.”

“My fear, oh Ata, is to see you killed before me.”

Said Hijazi, “I want to be the first.”

“For we do not fear death.”

The introductory stanzas provide the setting for the execution of the three prisoners. Each prisoner, through his martyrdom, becomes an “honorable weapon” for the nation. Realizing their destiny as martyrs for the cause, each of the condemned volunteers to be the first executed. The confrontation with, and subsequent transcendence of, death and fear through martyrdom serves as the song's most potent underlying theme. Reaching the gallows, each of the men then says his good-byes to his mother; the mothers in their sacrifice are equally martyrs to the cause.

My beloved mother calls out,

The nation has closed around her.

They called out, “Fuad the dearest of my heart,”

“Before we separate we must bid farewell.”

She called out from behind the door,

And awaits his response.

“Ata oh Ata the greatest of youth,

Who attacks the army without fear.”

“Oh my brother, Yusef, take care of my mother,

And you, my sister, do not be sad.”

For the sake of the nation I have sacrificed my blood,

For the eyes of Palestine.

Following their execution the singer assumes the role of narrator, calling out for the martyrs to be celebrated for their sacrifices, and for their mothers to extend their generosity further.

The three died as lions,

Mother be generous in giving more.

For the sake of the nation we sacrifice our souls,

And for its freedom they kill us.

Call out, oh people, there are beatings,

For on Tuesday they will hang the youth.

The courageous ones Ata and Fuad,

For they do not fear death.

The melody for “Min Sijn Akka” is an adaptation of the indigenous Palestinian dabke song-type, alā dalūnā, played at an uncharacteristically slow tempo so as to emulate the mood and pace of a funeral procession (see example 2.2). Indeed at virtually every performance of this song I witnessed, audience members would carry each other through the crowd wrapped in the Palestinian flag or kūfīya, emulating a funeral march (EVIA 14-A0876).[23] The confluence of martyrdom, death, and sacrifice here serves to position resistance to the British authorities within the field of the noble national struggle. According to Hussein Munther (Abu Ali), lead singer and founding member of al-Ashiqin, the power of this song lies in its “remembering of Palestinian freedom fighters who died fighting foreign occupation.” Their struggle, and ultimate martyrdom, dating back over eighty years, positions the current nationalist movement within a much larger discourse of Palestinian history. “Min Sijn Akka” plays on the popular myths of the Palestinian struggle for self-determination extending far beyond the current moment, highlighting a history of foreign occupation in Palestine dating back for over one hundred years.

Ironically, however, virtually everyone I talked to, musicians and enthusiasts alike, knew very little about the actual history of this song or of its martyred heroes. For many the song carried no actual referential meaning other than to celebrate the sacrifices of the three youths and to recall a particularly cruel instrument of British subjugation, the gallows of Akka Prison. The historical details of the protagonists' execution were largely unnecessary for the song to carry its intended meaning. Unbeknownst to many of my interlocutors, the three celebrated freedom fighters at Akka were executed for their participation in a massacre of noncombatant Orthodox Jews in Hebron and Safad. Although the operation took place within a larger context of national struggle against Zionism and British occupation, according to historical records these celebrated martyrs were not soldiers against the British colonial administration at all or even against the expanding Zionist forces. They were, in fact, accomplices in a premeditated attack on two peaceful Jewish communities of Arabic-speaking Mizrahim, resulting in the death of nearly 130 people.[24] Those with whom I inquired about this song were astonished to learn the real reasons the youths were executed. Several refused to believe my explanation, and many said that they now looked at this song “in a very different light.” Others felt that the actual circumstances of the martyrs' execution were irrelevant.

Regardless of its historical context, for Palestinian communities across the region “Min Sijn Akka” remains a powerful testament to martyrdom and sacrifice in the cause of resistance to colonial authority. Across diverse political, religious, and socioeconomic fields, “Min Sijn Akka” was the most often mentioned song of Palestinian self-determination. It seemed that every interview, conversation, or rehearsal would eventually turn to an interpretation of this song. Many cited its historical context and relevance for interpreting current events. Others found meaning in its didactic and commemorative capacities. Still others cited the use of indigenous folk song, melody, and rhythm. Yet virtually everyone asked responded that “Min Sijn Akka” powerfully articulated national sentiment through sacrifice and martyrdom, forging a sense of belonging through resistance to foreign occupation. And while many other songs from this time period remain in the collective repertory, none has the relevance and stature as “Min Sijn Akka.”

Given that many of Nuh Ibrahim's rural audiences were likely unable to read or understand literary classical Arabic, this style of sung poetry in local dialect resonated with rural communities and spread from village to village very quickly. While a great tradition of classical nationalist poetry had emerged from the work of Ibrahim Touqan (1905–41), Abd al-Rahim Mahmoud (1913–48), and Abd al-Karim al-Karmi (1911–84), none achieved the kind of grassroots impact as Nuh Ibrahim.[25] Based in performative politics, Ibrahim was the poet of the rural, nonliterate villagers. He personally fought alongside farmers and laborers against colonial powers, and carried forth the legacy of Izz al-Din al-Qassam in poetry and song. On October 18, 1938, at the young age of twenty-five, Nuh Ibrahim fell to British forces in combat. Although his career as a political poet-singer lasted a mere four years (1935–38), the legacy of his work can be easily seen in his many compositions continually performed throughout northern Palestine, across the West Bank, and into cultural centers like Jaffa, Haifa, Beirut, Damascus, Amman, and Jerusalem.

Indigenous Palestinian Music: Reflections on al-Nakba

The trauma of the 1936–39 Great Arab Revolt, coupled with an upsurge in anti-British Jewish terrorism and an embarrassing campaign to prevent illegal Jewish immigration, had by 1947 convinced British authorities it was time to bring in the international community to help ameliorate the growing demographic crisis in Palestine. In an attempt to avoid further conflict, the United Nations Special Committee on Palestine (UNSCOP) recommended a formal partition of Palestine into two states (Arab and Jewish) whereby the proposed Jewish state would be allocated 55 percent of the territory; 40 percent would go to an Arab state; and Jerusalem and Bethlehem, given their multireligious significance, would remain under international jurisdiction.[26] While the Jewish leadership rushed to accept the proposal, among local Palestinian and neighboring Arab leaders it was loudly rejected, on the grounds that while Jews constituted 31 percent of the population in Palestine, they owned only 6 percent of the total land.[27] Within weeks Palestine had fallen into civil war, with the heavily equipped, highly trained, and well-organized Jewish forces (Haganah) securing large swathes of Palestinian land. When the British formally terminated the Palestine mandate on May 15, 1948, the Haganah had consolidated defensible boundaries of the Jewish state, neutralized or destroyed “internal” Palestinian enemies, depopulated major Palestinian urban centers, and entrenched itself for a possible invasion by Arab forces.

As expected the armies of Egypt, Syria, Lebanon, Jordan, and Iraq invaded in an attempt to secure the territories allocated to the Palestinians in partition, launching a regional war lasting until the final Arab defeat in December 1948. The combined invasion failed as a result, among other factors, of divisive inter-Arab politics and rivalries, mismanagement, and inferior training and weaponry. In addition the Arab forces were largely unprepared, poorly equipped, out-strategized, and outnumbered by Jewish forces.[28] By the time each of the Arab states had concluded armistice agreements with the newly proclaimed state of Israel, nearly 750,000 Palestinians had been displaced from their homes, and Palestine had been effectively partitioned into three areas (Israel, the Egyptian-administered Gaza Strip, and the Jordanian-administered West Bank).[29] Palestinian refugees expelled from the parts of Palestine that fell within the borders of Israel were scattered across the region into makeshift camps (tent cities) administered by the United Nations Relief Works Agency (UNRWA). During its first year 960,000 refugees were officially registered for relief by the United Nations.[30]

Popular memories of exile and dispossession pervade collections of indigenous music and poetry in the years immediately following al-nakba (the catastrophe) of 1948. Refugees gathered into various camps across the region expressed a great sense of loss and defeat through performance. Manifest in both formal and informal social gatherings, performance served as a catalyst for the formation of new national communities and identities in exile. Dislocated and disconnected from their ancestral villages, their families, and their communities, refugees were forced to reconceptualize and refashion their sense of self and the social relations that defined them as a national community. Indigenous social formations based on village or amūla (larger kinship group) distinctions were maintained only with great effort as families were scattered across the region. In food, dress, accent, music, and dance, refugees attempted to preserve their indigenous village practices. However, as families were separated and disparate villages were conjoined into cramped spaces of exile, new social formations of dispossession and national suffering took shape.

The profound social and cultural transformation to life in the refugee camps was documented in the many proverbs, folk songs, poems, stories, and dances emanating from this newly formed community of exiles. A study of these texts reveals pervasive feelings of shock, dispossession, bewilderment, and uncertainty, leading eventually to a new awakening of Palestinian nationalism. Situated within new frames of power and meaning, indigenous expressive practices provided intriguing depictions of cultural life apart from the state-sponsored propaganda found in radio, print, and other public media. Palestinian folklorists have since published extensive collections of these works (songs, poems, proverbs, embroidery, dances, and other popular arts) gathered from refugee communities in the years following 1948.[31] Collectively the research carefully documents the performativity of exile, the infinite ways newly formed communities of refugees struggled to make sense of their world. Through collective performance, intricate cultural forums of dialogue, debate, and social interaction and new understandings of self, community, and nation began to sediment into everyday practice.

In addition many songs of al-nakba (1948) are carefully preserved in the common practices of artists active in the Palestinian diaspora. These songs remain in common practice as a performative means of historicizing and commemorating the lasting traumas of life in exile. In this sense performance carries the promise of historical transmission and the possibility of challenge and intervention into a world overcome with despair.[32] When asked why it is important to sing the songs of al-nakba, musician Kamal Khalil replied:

We sing the songs from al-nakba to keep them alive. I want my children to know the lifeways of their grandparents [arīq al-ay al-judūd], and every grandparent who lived the cold of ’48, [in] the tents, everything taken [from them], banished from their homes. The wounds of the previous generations are our wounds [jarīhum jarīnā]. We must know their wounds to know ourselves…. Also, in singing these songs I feel I can make some change in that history. I can give hope in our return to our homes.

The mutually constitutive collections of Palestinian folk song, archived in published folklore of the past or kept alive in the repertories of the present, interconnect as researchers and artists alike attempt to preserve and perform the nation.

In the camps people from distant Palestinian villages were gathered into extremely close quarters. Maintaining cultural diversity and variations in dialect, dress, food, child rearing and other social practices became primary means for camp dwellers to both maintain local identities and to situate themselves within the developing Palestinian national imaginary. Imagined through al-nakba, camp refugees shared spaces, narratives, and experiences that were foundational for the development of national and communal interests. In these camps, native villages were the primary means of self-identification and spatialization of one's surroundings. Elements of Palestinian indigenous practice and identity were inscribed literally into the camps' walls, mapping streets and buildings with national meaning. For the people inhabiting these camps ancestral villages provided the catalyst for sociospatial organization. Streets were demarcated by ancestral village affiliations, with those from larger villages capable of dominating camp politics over their smaller-village counterparts.[33]

According to several prominent Palestinian folklorists, indigenous music and dance, as embodied in the work of the shar al-murtajal (poet-singer), thrived in the refugee camps.[34] Poet-singers were put into service of the community, announcing directives from the UNRWA administration as well as providing an important means of communicating local news and other events (births, engagements, weddings, deaths). The shar was then brought in to provide the necessary entertainment for families at these events. Networks of traveling village poet-singers proved instrumental in preserving and maintaining Palestinian communal life in exile. Their repertories of sung poetry safeguarded village practices against erasure and maintained a vital performative link to the homeland.

ATĀBĀ

Music and music performance, manifest in the art of the shar al-murtajal, opened up social spaces where issues of dispossession and exile could be negotiated among displaced refugees. These artists created a new repertory of popular folklore that expressed their experiences of exile from within indigenous performative frames. Poet-singers drew from established repertories of indigenous song and dance to maintain and preserve cultural practices and to communicate widespread feelings of loss and dispossession. The following stanzas of atābā, collected by Nabil Alqam, provide an interesting example of this phenomenon.[35]

They say that these times have left us in a precarious situation.

The victory of the Jews upon us is very strange.

In these times I have seen a marvel.

The lion, oh Arabs, is in the mouth of the rabbit.

He said, believe what I tell you.

If you complain to anyone but God you only humiliate yourself.

The stray dog has succeeded, and the lion has been humiliated.

The fledgling of the owl is the one who now hunts the eagle.

Struggling to come to grips with the defeat of the Arab armies, and the forced exile of more than 750,000 refugees, the shar here describes a very precarious situation. The world has literally been turned upside down. It is a marvel to behold “the lion…in the mouth of the rabbit.” In the second stanza the shar takes on the role of social mediator or elder, prescribing how the dispersed Palestinian community ought to deal with their loss. Quoting a widespread Palestinian proverb, the poet-singer reminds his audience that “if you complain to anyone but God you only humiliate yourself.” To maintain a sense of dignity in this troubled time, one must never complain to anyone but God. Popular proverbs such as this, transplanted into communities of exile, became powerful performatives of history and practice. Similar to the findings of Jihad Racy and Steven Caton, whose research on the role of the poet in Arab society goes into far more detail, the poets' primary stature lies in their ability to index formative structures of meaning, affirming the nation, based on a deep history of indigenous beliefs, practices, and values.[36] In their performativity, proverbs, poetry, food, song, and dance formed a vital repertory of everyday practice, which in their reiteration gave materiality to the nation in exile.

The final two lines continue with the first stanza's theme of astonishment at the situation. The stray dog has humiliated the lion, and the fledgling owl hunts the eagle. The language used here is significant in that it expresses a very specific cultural meaning. The Jewish army is depicted here as a stray dog, or wabash, while the Arabs are a lion, saba. In both Islamic and Palestinian belief and practice a wabash is defiled as unclean. The association of Jews as a stray dog signifies both a moral and religious depravity. The Zionists, like a stray dog, have wandered without an owner from Europe to Palestine, bringing with them moral injustice. Here, as in the above example of al-muāwara, the noble Arabs are portrayed as a once-triumphant lion and eagle, humiliated by the unclean and unjust. The final line speaks to a perceived reversal of power in the region. The powerful eagle, a common signifier of the Arab world in Nuh Ibrahim's poetry, is now hunted by the fledgling owl. In the lead-up to the 1948 war few Palestinians anticipated such a resounding Zionist victory against the combined armies of the Arab world. Government propaganda had assured Palestinians that the fighting would end in a matter of weeks, and they would then be able to return to their homes. In the war's aftermath, however, many refugees were shocked to find all routes of return closed, their homes and property seized by the Israeli state and given to Jewish settlers. In this example of atābā we witness a confluence of myriad cultural meanings: humiliation, shame, astonishment, and surprise.

Structurally the atābā is an improvisatory rendering of poetic quatrains within a prescribed meter and rhyme scheme. The key to this rhyme scheme is imaginative and sometimes virtuosic wordplay: double meanings, irony, satire, riddles, and metaphor. The core distinguishing feature of the atābā is the implementation of a specific rhyme scheme (jinās) based on the principle of homonym. Within each stanza there are four separate hemistitches of eleven to fifteen syllables based on the poetic pattern al-wāfar. In this pattern hemistitches are constructed in three groupings of short and long syllables (s-1 -1 -1/S-1 -1 -1/S-1 -1). Four hemistitches then join together to create one poetic stanza. In the structure of atābā the first three hemistitches must follow al-jinās whereby each ends in a homonym (a word identical in pronunciation but different in meaning). The fourth and final line must end in a word with the final syllable “āb.” This jinās produces a specific rhyming structure (AAAB) that must be present in any performance.[37] The importance of following the jinās of a given atābā is paramount. Performers are largely judged on their ability to improvise stanzas that are salient in meaning, yet imaginative and innovative in variations of the rhyme structure. The following transliteration of the previous example of atābā reveals the structure of jinās.

qāl awāl al-dahr khalatnā ajībā

antaār al-yihūd alaynā ajībā

wa hadhā al-dahr shafat al-kam ajībā

saba yā arab fī thum arnbā

qāl atābā wa mā baat lak madhlā

wa al-shakwā lighīr Allah madhlā

al-wabash illī naja wa al-saba dhlā

wa fara al-būm yaād al-aqāb

In the first stanza the shar builds his rhyme structure on the homonym a-j-b (to surprise or amaze). In its various forms ajībā takes on different meanings. From line to line it fluctuates as an adjective, a noun, and a state or condition of being. The final line ends the jinās with the word arnbā (rabbit). Given that the word arnbā does not end in the prescribed long vowel sound “āb,” it is most likely that the shar switched the final two letters in performance in order to complete the desired rhyme scheme. In performance it is quite common, if not expected, for the poet-singer to mispronounce words in order to preserve the prescribed rhythmo-poetic structure. Indigenous folk poetry such as this is valued purely in its ephemeral utterance, as a live performative or process, rather than as a finished product in its written form.

In performance, the atābā begins with a long-sustained, descending melisma on the syllable “Oūf” in maqām bayātī.[38] As a sign of great pathos, pain, and suffering, the vocalist uses this improvisatory melisma to showcase his vocal talents before an audience of attentive listeners. This line is often repeated following each verse of poetry. Among performers the atābā is widely considered to be the highest form of Palestinian sung poetry. In terms of popularity the atābā is widely heard throughout rural and urban performance contexts. Shepherds and farmers typically sing atābā during their daily work in the countryside. Hired poet-singers improvise continuous stanzas of atābā at evening celebrations. Weddings, engagements, circumcisions, baptisms, and calendar festivals all provide opportunity for participants to contribute improvised and precomposed stanzas of atābā (EVIA 14-A3387).[39]

ALĀ DAL ŪNĀ, YĀ ARĪF AL-ŪL, AND AL-SHURŪQĪ

In contrast to the unmetered improvisatory atābā, indigenous Palestinian music is equally structured around the canon of rhythmic folk songs associated with the Palestinian line dance, al-dabke. Among the immense repertory of standard Palestinian dabke tunes, two stand out as the most prominent in contemporary performance practice: alā dalūnā and yā arīf al-ūl. In the following example of alā dalūnā, collected in the years following al-nakba (1948), the poet-singer expresses a deep longing for the homeland, embodied in an imaginative conversation with a nightingale (see example 2.3).

It has been a long time since my exile and separation

I swear to you, oh nightingale, send my yearnings.

To the beloved land I miss.

And I have only just arrived.

Oh beaches of Yaffa, tell me your news.

I have opened your sands, and know your secrets.

I await your birds, and ask your visitors,

Are you still loyal to me, or have you forgotten?

We boarded the boat, we put ourselves in it.

Oh sun of my country, we are deprived of you now.

Please tell my mother to be content with me.

I pray to you, oh God.

I await your birds, and ask your visitors,

Are you still loyal to me, or have you forgotten?

The participatory dance structure of alā dalūnā, with its pounding rhythms and quick pace, is predominantly used to accompany a dabke line dance (EVIA 14-A1093).[40] Among performers it is perhaps the most common dabke song-type, found in melodic variants throughout the region. Its stanzas are structured around a simple poetic scheme whereby quatrains are broken into four distinct hemistitches. Each of the first three hemistitches rhymes while the fourth and final hemistitch ends in the long syllable “nā” (AAAB, CCCB, and so on). However the most idiomatic characteristic of the alā dalūnā is its basic rhythmic and melodic pattern (see figure 2.5). While there are slight melodic variations found throughout the region, in virtually all cases the recurring twelve-beat rhythmic pattern of the alā dalūnā remains intact. Three measures of duple (2/4) time are repeated, with strong, heavy emphasis placed on the downbeats. Melodic and rhythmic emphasis on these downbeats becomes manifest in the prescribed dabke step associated with alā dalūnā, wāid wa nūs (EVIA 14-A6184).[41]

In stark contrast to the more introspective and virtuosic poetics of the atābā, the alā dalūnā is not intended to showcase the improvisatory talents of the vocalist. Rather as a structured dance tune, the alā dalūnā is valued precisely for the participatory feelings of community it engenders in the dabke line. Its often-lighthearted rhetoric, improvised in performance, serves to inspire and sustain intense participation among the dancers. Performances of the alā dalūnā are judged not entirely on the creative wordplay of the vocalist, but rather on the level of social solidarity felt among dancing participants.

In its underlying poetics, the alā dalūnā differs from the atābā in its use of more simplistic colloquial texts and patterns. Stanzas of atābā follow the classically structured pattern, al-wāfar, and performers often embellish their lines with linguistic markers of classical Arabic. The alā dalūnā instead follows the more simplistic poetic pattern, al-basī, and typically drops markers of classical Arabic linguistics, such as al-tanwīn and al-madda. Several poets I worked with spoke of al-basīt as the “ass of poetic meters” given that “all poets can effectively mount it.”[42] It consists of two identical hemistitches each constituted by a schema of five long syllables grouped in three (adr) and two (ajaz) (1–1 -1, 1–1/1 -1 -1, 1–1). The following transliteration reveals the structural rhyming pattern of the above alā dalūnā. In each of the first three lines the poet rhymes on the syllables “āqī,” cadencing the stanza with the required long syllable “nā.”

ālat al-gharba wa-āl al-farāqī

bā Allah yā īr tabalagh ashwāqī

li-1 -ar al-abība anā mashtāqī

wa bad mā al-gharba ārat sanīnā

Normative performances of alā dalūnā involve a vocalist surrounded by a circling line of dabke dancers. Either the Palestinian indigenous flute, shabāba, or double clarinet, yarghūl, accompanies the singer, providing melodic commentary between stanzas and otherwise maintaining the melodic structure of the piece. Rhythmic accompaniment is provided by the abla (abla baladi) or darbuka and is supplemented with the unison sound of the dancers' stomping feet. As the alā dalūnā is most often performed in celebratory contexts, such as weddings and engagements, topics usually focus on love, praise, longing, and overcoming obstacles to be with beloved ones. As evidenced in the above example, however, poet-singers commonly modified their lyrics following al-nakba to reflect love and longing of the homeland, praising steadfastness, and overcoming great tragedy to one day reunite with the beloved nation.

Among the repertory of dabke songs, yā arīf al-ūl ranks just below alā dalūnā in terms of popularity and importance to indigenous performance practice. Its poetic structure conforms loosely to the classical pattern, al-ramal, in which each hemistitch is broken into three groupings of five, five, and four syllables (1–1 -1 -1 -1/1 -1 -1 -1 -1/1 -1 -1 -s). In performance, however, there can be significant modifications to this poetic structure based on regional variation and the poetic license of the performer. Very few poet-singers conceptualize these song-types in terms of formal structure. Rather it is far more common for poets to conceptualize each of these song-types in terms of its idiomatic melodic patterning. In performance then, the vocalist will simply improvise contextually appropriate lyrics that seem to “fit” within the rhythmo-poetic pattern of the melody line. This often involves lengthening or shortening words and phrases to sustain the melody line. The rhyme scheme of the yā arīf al-ūl is identical to the alā dalūnā in that the first three hemistitches follow the same rhyme while the fourth and final hemistitch must end in the long syllable “nā.” In terms of melody and rhythm, however, the two song-types are quite different (see example 2.4).

Literally translated as “oh tall and slender one,” singers will often employ the yā arīf al-ūl to praise the physical attributes of their beloved (long neck, slender waist, pretty smile, wide eyes, and so on). Lighthearted stanzas meant for common entertainment at weddings and engagements typically string together descriptions of female beauty and sexual longing. However, so as to avoid transgressing the boundaries of socially acceptable behavior and decorum, poets routinely craft elaborate metaphors and double entendre to best communicate their message. Other topics may include aspects of social life (courtship, flirtation, family disagreements) and the negotiation of appropriate engendered behavior (qualities of being a good man or woman, permissible social interaction between sexes). More politicized texts discuss the difficulties of exile, the status of the refugee, and separation and suffering of families. Much like the above alā dalūnā, the following example of yā arīf al-ūl, collected in the years following al-nakba, depicts pervasive feelings of separation and exile. The singer, returning from war, seeks his missing parents, only to realize they have fled to Syria. Themes of lost loved ones, longing, and detachment are quite common in the folk songs of the region more generally, reflecting a kind of nomadism common to life in Bilad al-Sham due to conscription into the Ottoman army, seasonal labor, and migration (EVIA 14-A5646).[43]

yā arīf al-ūl (oh tall and slender one) where are my parents now?

To Bilad al-Sham (the combined area of Syria, Lebanon, and Jordan) they packed up everything and were scattered.

I hope that the Zionist eyes burn to ashes.

For they have scattered the youth from our homeland.

yā arīf al-ūl where shall I go?

My heart is wounded, and the wounds are deep.

And for the armies of the enemy, I wish their destruction.

For they have scattered the youth from our homeland.

Anger, blame, frustration, and revenge also constitute fundamental themes in the songs of al-nakba (1948). Framed within the deliberative structures of poetic dueling and debate, poets would often censure the many leaders of the Arab world for their incompetence and the international community for their failures to recognize Palestinian suffering. In the following alā dalūnā the singer accuses the Arab League of treason for refusing to support the Palestinians. The repeated use of village names lost to Zionist forces in 1948 acts as an important marker of locality and exilic identification.

Akka, Haifa, and a long list of villages

Were unfortunately sold in a dirty act [cheaply]

Baisan calls out and al-Lyd and al-Ramla

Where did the Arabs go and abandon us?

Likewise in the following atābā feelings of loss are coupled with a profound sense of abandonment by the Arab forces.

I apologize to the playgrounds of our childhood, the owl wept to me

We left it, expelled, wailing

I wish I had died

And not have witnessed the betrayal of the Arabs

Anger and blame leveled against the combined Arab leadership resonates throughout the music and poetry of the time. Countless verses of atābā, shurūqīya, and muraba accuse the Arab armies of paralysis, incompetence, and ineptitude in their defeat to Jewish forces. The following shurūqī, originally collected in the early 1950s and later published by Nabil Alqam, remains an important song in the contemporary performance repertory of singer Adnan Odeh.[44] Although Odeh's live version of this shurūqī differs slightly from the published version in text, I have included Alqam's archival version below.

While the sacrificers [freedom fighters] and the nation were at Baruj al-Āj

You were arguing over who would lead the troops [be President]

Your weapons were bankrupted while their armies were in need

And they returned, disgraced

While the enemy was abusing our land

We were begging of them [the Arab leaders], but they said, “there were no weapons”

Palestine complained, you massacred her

Liberate my heart, where are the Arabs to protect her?

They left humiliated, the lowly and dishonorable

When the colonizers asked them to leave

They did not serve like a loyal/faithful son

The fire burns those who touch it.

The shurūqī is a very common Palestinian song-type commonly associated with the quieter, more contemplative moments of a wedding or similar life-cycle event or celebration. Among performers it is considered to be of high aesthetic and performative value because of its classical poetic structure and virtuosic manner of realization. Often likened to the classical qaīda, the shurūqī relies heavily on the poetic meter al-basī, with stanzas composed of two hemistitches following a prescribed rhyme scheme. This rhyme scheme varies in performance. Typically the shurūqī is identified by an alternating rhyme scheme between hemistitches (ABAB, ABAB, and so on). However, the above example follows a rhyme scheme whereby the first three hemistitches of each stanza rhyme, while the fourth hemistitch ends in the long vowel sound “hā” (see appendix 1). This fourth cadential rhyme recurs in each of the final hemistitches of every subsequent stanza (AAAB, CCCB, DDDB, and so on). Similar to the atābā, the shurūqī is performed as a series of unmetered melodic extemporizations of the prescribed maqām (mode). These melodic extemporizations are preceded by a long, drawn-out descending melisma on the syllable “Oūf.” However, unlike the atābā, the shurūqī is realized in maqām sīga, where primary melodic emphasis centers around the interval between the first (e half-flat) and third (g) notes of the scale. Poet-singers will typically employ the shurūqī for long narratives or running dialogue composed around a specific topic or occasion. Common topics and themes include didactic stories of chivalry, heroism, remembrance, and commemoration. These topics are found throughout the region and predate the Palestinian nationalist movement. Yet given these historical associations it is little wonder that poets would seize on this particular song-type in their assessments and remembrances of al-nakba. This particular shurūqī illustrates a fascinating moment of reflection, anger, and debate within the Palestinian refugee community in the years following al-nakba. Here the Arab armies, believed to be a liberating force for Palestine, are denounced for their incompetence, unpreparedness, and inability to put aside their quarrels and collectively fight for Palestinian self-determination.

In the above examples, the atābā, alā dalūnā, yā arīf al-ūl, and shurūqī all provide a performative means of communicating prominent issues of astonishment, loss, anger, and blame. Depending on the context of the performance, performers freely shifted between these various song-types, at times breaking off into a dabke or stopping dance movement all together for more intimate presentational singing. Freely navigating between these song types, the poet-singer attempted to forge a performative environment based on his own inspiration, the perceived collective feelings of participants, and the overall flow of the event. The poet's improvisations led participants through an aesthetic and emotional terrain of dance and contemplation, from exuberance and joy to longing and lament. Throughout such performances the interaction between participants and shar was essential to the overall success of the event. Dialogue and interaction between participants through prescribed and exclamatory responses created a sonic environment of community and nation. With their bodies and voices, participants collectively lamented a shared condition of exile and affirmed a cultural stance of patience and steadfastness in awaiting a return to their ancestral homes.

Pan-Arabism, umūd (Steadfastness), and abr (Patience): 1948–1967

In the aftermath of 1948's al-nakba the defeated leaders of the combined Arab armies scrambled to assess the damages and to secure their hegemony in the region. Though devastating, the defeat of the Arab forces served primarily as a catalyst for existing forces of social and political change. While true that within ten years every Arab head of state who fought against Jewish forces in 1948 was removed from power either through assassination, coup, or revolution, it is perhaps overly simplistic to attribute the ensuing political and social transformation to one fateful event.[45] The conventional historical narrative that such widespread transformation could be attributed only to Israeli military ascendance, Palestinian humanitarian crises, and the reordering of regional socioeconomic power dynamics often obfuscates the entire picture, foregrounding a distinct Palestinian perspective and conceding an Israeli hegemony yet to be fully formed. The Arab social and political landscape following the 1948 war was in a process of dramatic transformation wherein a new wave of progressive military officers seized power from the old guard of feudal corruption and colonially pliant monarchies. Yet the ensuing transformation was indicative of the rise of a new pan-Arabist ideological formation deemed essential to confronting new social and political challenges. While the 1948 war is often cited as the watershed moment for this transformation, evidence would suggest that it was but one of several formative phases of ideological change. Regardless, the ensuing struggle for hegemony in the region following 1948 drove Arab state policy for the next twenty years, with Jamal abd al-Nasser and his project of pan-Arab socialism emerging as the dominant sociopolitical discourse.

In Nasser many Arabs found a powerful new voice for change. His style was assertive and independent, and he was dedicated to the construction of a new Arab republic free of its imperial past and pointed toward a bright new socialist future. Through his intense energy and drive Nasser kindled a spirit of hope and belief in the strength of the Arab world to confront external colonial pressures and to redeem the great Arab nation. During his tenure as president he gave the region its first truly dynamic leader, one charismatic enough to unite the Arab world against foreign colonialism.

For many Palestinian refugees now scattered across Lebanon, Syria, and Jordan, Nasser embodied a new future, and a new hope for return. Like many of the members of his Free Officers corps, Nasser fought in the 1948 war and personally suffered the humiliating defeat to Israeli forces. The Free Officers overthrew the Egyptian monarchy of King Faruq in a spirit of progressive reform aimed at ending the British colonial presence in Egypt and eliminating the government's dependence on foreign patronage. Through a reformation of the Arab states based on the principles of freedom, Arabism, and socialism, it was widely believed that Nasser's leadership would usher in a new era of strength and autonomy in the region. Among other things, the Free Officers' project for social reform was largely seen among Palestinian refugees throughout Bilad al-Sham as an important step forward in the quest to reclaim their lost homes and livelihood.[46] Throughout the communities of displaced refugees looking for answers, Nasser presented a new hope for an end to their exile. The following al-muraba, performed by Palestinian poet-singers in the camps of Jordan, captures this spirit of hope and change.[47]

We want to tell you the news

A story of our courageous people

To inform you of what happened

To our Arabic nation

Fear drives America

They are shaking with fear

Scared of the Arab people's advance

Toward freedom

They said the high dam is not developing We said the fight is necessary

Abd al-Nasser, oh Jamal The hero of our Arab nation

You are our hope And the manifestation of our dreams

Likewise a similar al-muraba collected in Jordan in the 1950s provides an example of the kind of support Nasser received from the Palestinian refugee community.

It is written on our foreheads Abd al-Nasser is our beloved

It is written on our hearts Abd al-Nasser is our beloved

Jamal served the Arab identity

And humiliation to Nuri al-Said

Nasser asserted his leadership and ideals of Arabism through a variety of overt and subtle means. Cairo had long been the cultural and media capital of the Arab world, with its radio program Voice of the Arabs reaching homes across the region. Under Nasser's direction the number and power of Egyptian radio stations expanded to the extent that transmitters placed along the borders could reach Arab audiences in neighboring countries. Dueling propagandist radio programming broadcast from Egypt and Jordan provided a popular forum through which many of the ideologies of pan-Arab nationalism were played out. Both Nasser and newly crowned King Hussein of Jordan fought a bitter campaign for dominance over the nightly radio airwaves. Political commentary, slander campaigns, and state propaganda were employed to maintain power and secure hegemony among their respective constituencies. In this way political song became one of the more potent means for instilling the precepts of pan-Arab nationalism among the people. Among Palestinian refugees living under Hashemite rule, support for Nasser's leadership came with a heavy price. Those publicly supporting Nasser's leadership subjected themselves to government harassment and arrest. Poet-singers wishing to sing in support of Nasser were therefore compelled to incorporate subtle political messages, codes, or double meanings into their poetry. The following verse of atābā reveals one such poetic maneuver. Here the poet incorporates the letters j-m-a-1 into the third hemistitch as a means to covertly lend support to the Egyptian president.[48]

Upon us, they blame

And we yearn to be united

If it was not for J-M-A-1

Oh world, the Arabs would not rise

Legendary Arab composers and performers, many Egyptian but not all so, were also instrumental in creating music in support of the state's project of solidifying Nasser's leadership. Likewise the Egyptian movie industry produced and disseminated thinly veiled political propaganda in an attempt to destabilize neighboring regimes in Jordan and Syria.[49] In particular Jordan's King Hussein was constantly berated and slandered on the Egyptian airwaves as a British lackey and a traitor to the Palestinian cause. By less explicit methods, Nasserist ideology found voice in the many famous Egyptian singers of the era. Mohammad Abd al-Wahab, Abd al-Halim Hafez, and the legendary Umm Kulthum were all vital mouthpieces for the regime. Umm Kulthum, for example, identified greatly with Nasser and rededicated herself to singing nationalist songs upon his ascension to power. In the years 1952–60 nearly 50 percent of her repertory dealt with nationalist themes.[50]

These songs expressed through music many of the fundamental ideals of Nasserism: progressive reformation, Arabism, and the ascendance of the Arab world into “modernity.” To this end, nationalist songs were arranged for large-scale orchestras incorporating many Western instruments, harmonies, and compositional devices. These songs were typically martial compositions based on a strict duple “march-esque” meter. Large male choruses typically accompanied the lead singer, and texts exalted the united Arab nation, its shared religion, history, and cultural identity. Unquestionably the vast majority of nationalist songs produced and performed at this time were directed toward an Egyptian audience. However several did make mention of Palestinian issues, namely the liberation of “Arab lands” and the collective struggle against colonial expansion. For the great Arab singers and composers of the day to be performing songs of Palestinian liberation only reinforced and affirmed the idea that Palestinians, though scattered throughout the region, were not alone in their struggle. More importantly the doctrine of progressive reformism embodied by Nasserist Egypt provided an escape from the historically entrenched, politically closed systems of patronage prevalent during Ottoman and later British occupations of Palestine.

MOHAMMAD ABD AL-WAHAB

The preeminent composer and performer of the time, Egyptian Mohammad Abd al-Wahab, was perhaps the most effective and pronounced advocate for Nasser and the pan-Arab state. His work was instrumental in spreading and generating pan-Arab nationalist sentiment across the region. Among Palestinians struggling to survive in the camps, pan-Arab nationalist songs were influential insofar as they instilled a sense of hope for an eventual return to their homes and villages. In the tenets of pan-Arabism the liberation of Palestine was viewed as a shared Arab responsibility, and many Palestinians were comforted by the notion that the great Arab powers were actively working for their repatriation. Especially in the few songs that overtly expressed support for Palestinian liberation, Abd al-Wahab's large-scale orchestral compositions were iconic of the progressive reformism espoused by the Egyptian state.

“AL-WATAN AL-AKBAR” (THE GREAT NATION)

Abd al-Wahab's 1962 composition “Al-Watan al-Akbar” (The great nation) is perhaps the most prominent example of this style of pan-Arab nationalist song. Composed at the behest of Nasser himself in 1961, “Al-Watan al-Akbar” is a large-scale musical celebration of the pan-Arab nation. Given the recent succession of Syria from the United Arab Republic (UAR) the previous year, many have suggested that “Al-Watan al-Akbar” was intended to be a corrective of waning pan-Arabist sentiment. It was believed by many Palestinian musicians that Nasser commissioned this production in an attempt to reinvigorate, through grandiose musical spectacle, a final push for his pan-Arabist dream of a United Arab Republic. Abd al-Halim Hafez (Egypt), Sabah (Lebanon), Fayza Ahmad (Iraq/Syria), Najat al-Saghira (Syria), Shadiya (Egypt), and Warda (Algeria) all lent their voices to its production, suggesting the promise of Arab unity in song. Egyptian nationalist poet Ahmad Shafik Kamal composed the lyrics, and Abd al-Wahab himself composed the melody and arranged the orchestrations. He also served as the maestro for its broadcast and recording. To cap things off, the famed Egyptian filmmaker Izz al-Din Zulfikar was solicited to direct and choreograph the television broadcast of its premiere performance.

The televised broadcast of “Al-Watan al-Akbar” was an amazing spectacle of nationalist signs and imagery and clearly demarcated the stylistic and aesthetic differences between Abd al-Wahab's propagandist compositions and his earlier classical compositions.[51] The standard Egyptian firqa (orchestra) was expanded considerably, incorporating a line of eight Western flutes and piccolos and four snare drums (signs of military parades and martial performance). All purely Arab instruments normally included in the standard Abd al-Wahab orchestra (ūd, qanūn, naī, and tabla) were omitted from the composition. The use of instruments native to Western military drum corps (field snares, piccolos) produced the effect of a modern military march. Two large uniformed choruses (one male and the other female) supplemented the orchestra and provided an iconic sign of “the Arab masses” singing together in solidarity. With this a large regiment of uniformed men and women marched in formation across the stage carrying flags representative of each of the Arab nations. They marched in step to a quick duple meter as the chorus sang the introduction, composed in major mode. The maestro, Abd al-Wahab himself, stood center stage atop a lighted platform in a tuxedo, conducting the masses with baton and a stoic look on his face. Periodically in the production he was shown in close-up with a projected image of the various flags of the Arab world in the background over his shoulders. As with many of the aspects discussed here, the indexical, co-occurrence of national sign clusters (flags, fashion, gesture, and musical device) served to create and reinforce an asserted image of the unified pan-Arab nation inclusive of its cultural diversity. The imagery is one of an asserted possible national solidarity generated through the juxtaposition of various nationalist sign clusters. From behind the orchestra a second platform arose, bringing a singing Abd al-Halim Hafez into view:

Waanī [my nation], my love, the greatest nation,

its triumph fills its life, each day its glories expand

My nation grows and liberates

My nation, my nation

My nation, my angel, your love is in my heart

One who called out for great unity, you are great, the greatest

You realized the beauty of the revolution

From all of its being, from all of its immortality,

Oh my nation, my beloved nation

The chorus responded with the operatic refrain as Abd al-Halim was lowered beneath the stage. Moments later a finely dressed Sabah emerged on the same platform to sing the next verse. With each verse a different Arab singer would ascend from behind the stage to sing the virtues of a united Arab world, celebrating its unity and difference. In their idiomatic performance each of the Arab singers creatively indexed the cultural heritage of his or her homeland, either overtly through text or inadvertently through a noticeable accent, while at the same time glorifying the strength of the combined Arab nation.

Through each verse scenes of Arab folk life and practice were reenacted in the background behind each soloist. Men and women wearing traditional Arab dress were shown mimicking indigenous dance and labor, saluting the flags, and marching together in unison. Finally, after the last verse, Abd al-Halim ascended to the stage accompanied by all of the other soloists to reprise one final unison chorus. The concluding scene situated the combined voices of the soloists together over the maestro's right shoulder. Abd al-Wahab's profile and waving baton framed this final scene, with the orchestra and famous vocalists following his lead in locked time.

While “Al-Watan al-Akbar” played on the meanings inherent in Nasser's ideals of socialism and pan-Arabism, other Abd al-Wahab compositions were more focused toward specific nationalist issues. For example, “Filastin” (Palestine) (1949) directly responded to the 1948 war by urging the collective Arab nation to redeem the Palestinian homeland. Similar national compositions were written for Syria (“Damashq”) and Kuwait (“Kuwait”). “Anashid al-Jihad” (Song of struggle), “Anashid al-Qassam” (Song of al-Qassam), and “Batal al-Thawra” (Heroes of the revolution) all spoke to the heroic deeds of those fighting for the redemption of the Arab world against its enemies. “Sawt al-Jamahir” (Voice of the masses), “Huriyat Ardina” (Freedom of our lands), “Al-Jil al-Said” (The rising generation), and “Al-Shahid” (The martyr) all glorified the sacrifices of those who have struggled in the Arab revolution. In total Abd al-Wahab wrote nearly fifty nationalist compositions during his career, many of which had a substantial impact and following among Palestinians in diaspora.

Abd al-Wahab's nationalist compositions during the period leading up to 1967 were quite popular for several reasons. First, they espoused and affirmed the dominant sociopolitical discourse of the time, acting as a cross-modal mouthpiece for Nasser's regime. Second, through Abd al-Wahab's hybridized compositional processes, incorporating Western instrumentation, harmonies, rhythm, and performance practice, he created a very strong iconicity between the progressive reforms and innovations of the state and the progressive innovations of his music. Nasserist ideals of Arabism, socialism, and nationalism were very much born of a cosmopolitan discourse of modernist reformism whereby new cultures, politics, and practices were to “be forged as a synthesis of the ‘best’ or ‘most valuable’ aspects of local ‘traditional’ culture and ‘the best’ of foreign ‘modern’ lifeways and technologies.”[52] Abd al-Wahab's compositional process uniquely mapped onto this discourse by folding Western classical art music elements (major scales, harmony, duple-meter rhythms, timbre, dynamic contrast, instrumentation) and practices (dress, use of a conductor, rehearsed movements and formations) into indigenous Arab compositional style to synergize conceptions of the “Arab” and “modern” worlds. In such performances the Arab world, indexed through language, instrumentation, melodic device, could be performatively reconceptualized as modern through a dynamic coupling with Western aesthetics and practices.[53] Third, Nasser's virtual control of transnational media in the region meant that artists such as Abd al-Wahab and his catalogue of nationalist songs had a near total monopoly on state media: radio, television, and cinema. By sheer media presence and repetition Abd al-Wahab's nationalist songs were to have a substantial social impact across the region.

Nevertheless it should be noted that throughout this period of expanding Arabist sentiment, indigenous Palestinian song continued among displaced refugee communities. The two musical repertories coexisted, one delivered via state radio broadcast and the other through indigenous sociomusical rituals and practices (gatherings, weddings, engagements, festivals, and so on). In the refugee camps especially, indigenous music was an essential means of preserving a distinct Palestinian national identity, rooted in the local practices of its displaced communities. Life events and informal social gatherings (diwānīn) of village leaders (mukhātar) were perhaps the most common spaces in which such rituals took place. These diwānīn routinely formed at various nodes in the camps, open spaces, or in the interstices of tents and alleyways. Young children often participated in these events by watching and listening to their elders sing stories of their native villages and their varying experiences of exile.[54] The importance of the diwānīn as a primary site for the articulation of Palestinian identity in the years following al-nakba was commonly cited by the many musicians, poets, and folklorists with whom I worked. For these artists and researchers, the performative spaces of the diwānīn enabled the emergence of a national consciousness from within cramped spaces of exile and dispossession.

As opposing forces, state-sponsored propaganda and indigenous musical practices existed simultaneously. Each provided an important counterbalance of social and political commentary. At times, the two coincided in their belief in the liberation of Palestine through Arabism and the repatriation of displaced refugees. In poetics the two soundscapes were quite different and occupied vastly different social and performative spaces. Nevertheless each had a profound impact on the development of Palestinian protest song. The dueling discourses of Palestinian indigeneity and pan-Arab cosmopolitanism commingled in political song and presented contrasting notions of national resistance idiomatic to the contexts of their articulation. In the recovery years, following al-nakba resistance meant maintaining a steadfastness and patience in exile while the powers of pan-Arabism worked to repatriate refugees to their homes. Although by no means the only available option, alignment with Egypt was perhaps the most popular means of seeking this repatriation. Palestinian protest song therefore operated along two contrasting poles: one designed to preserve and maintain a distinct Palestinian indigeneity in exile, the other engineered to propel a pan-Arabist project of cultural assimilation. In a unique intermingling of cultural politics and power, music in the years following al-nakba essentialized Palestinian locality while simultaneously advocating for a regionally defined national identity formation.

3

Al-Naksa and the Emergence of Political Song (1967–1987)

The June War of 1967, Sheikh Imam, and the Emergence of Modern Arab Political Song

Despite severe infighting between the various Arab states, Nasser held to his dreams of creating a pan-Arab nation under his leadership. However, with a depleted Egyptian economy and a costly military intervention in Yemen, Nasser was never able to effectively realize that dream. So when an intelligence report stated that Israel was planning a large-scale military operation against Syria in retaliation for several Palestinian attacks that had been launched from within Syrian borders, Nasser immediately took the opportunity to bolster his regional presence by deploying his troops in the Sinai in an act of solidarity with the Syrian regime. By all accounts this was pure posturing, as Nasser did not have the means to wage a protracted war with Israel at the time. Nevertheless it was a move that proved successful in reaffirming Arabism and Nasser's role as the great Arab leader of the moment. Riding the waves of anti-Israel rallies and demonstrations, Nasser was emboldened further, requesting that all UN forces be redeployed from the Sinai. He later took up military positions at Sharm al-Sheikh and imposed a blockade of Israeli shipping lines into the port of Elat.

In retrospect historians now realize that Nasser was most likely bluffing in these actions, expecting either the United States or the Soviet Union to intervene and deflate the situation. He was in no position to enter into a second war with Israel while major segments of the army were still bogged down in a prolonged civil war in Yemen.[1] However no such intervention came, and soon Nasser found himself in a position from which he could not back down. Jordan's King Hussein, struggling himself to maintain control of the waves of anti-Israel sentiment filling the streets, felt compelled to come to Nasser's aid, signing a mutual defense pact on May 30, 1967.

Sensing the escalation in military activity and the build-up of Arab forces around Nasser's leadership, the Israeli government took the position that the blockade of the Straits of Tiran could not be tolerated. Thus on June 5, 1967, the Israeli air force launched a preemptive attack on air bases throughout Egypt. Within a matter of hours Israeli bombers had destroyed most of the Egyptian air force before a single plane had left the ground. When Syria and Jordan entered the fight, they, too, were quickly dispatched by the Israeli air force. Without an Arab presence in the skies, Israel easily defeated the Egyptian forces, seizing the Sinai to the eastern bank of the Suez Canal. Jordanian forces were also driven out of East Jerusalem and the West Bank, while Syria lost control of the Golan Heights. Within a span of a mere six days, Israel had defeated three Arab armies, and gained control of Jerusalem, the West Bank, the Gaza Strip, the Golan, and the entire Sinai Peninsula. However the greatest Israeli advance was made not in territory, but in psychology. In defeating the combined Arab armies Israel had humiliated Nasser and put a final end to the dream of Arabism and the collective liberation of Palestine.

In fact, though the war lasted a mere six days, it had a profound impact on Palestinians throughout the region. With the retreat of the Jordanian army, close to one million West Bank Palestinians, many of whom were refugees from 1948, soon found themselves under Israeli military occupation. In addition, another 354,248 Palestinians fled the West Bank seeking refuge across the river in Jordan.[2] Several new UNRWA-administered camps were quickly constructed to house the newest wave of refugees and displaced persons. Al-naksa (the setback or the relapse), as the 1967 June War came to be known, identified a new wave of dispossessed and a new sphere of exile in Lebanon, Syria, Egypt, and Jordan.

The aftermath of al-naksa proved to be a period of great social and political transformation in the Arab world. Nasser had managed to remain in power, but his regime was shaken to its core and purged of many high-ranking officials. Within a little more than three years, however, Nasser's rule abruptly ended when he suffered a massive heart attack in September 1970. King Hussein also managed to preserve his throne, though the loss of Jerusalem and the West Bank would later pose a formidable challenge to his legitimacy among Palestinian nationalists. The Syrian regime survived for two more years but was eventually overthrown by Hafez al-Asad in November 1970. The political landscape was drastically reconfigured further with the ascendance of the Palestinian Liberation Organization (PLO). As a direct result of the June War various developing Palestinian paramilitary and political organizations began assuming a leadership position in the nationalist movement, launching small-scale attacks on Israeli targets and openly recruiting and training new combatants.

The social, cultural, and political reverberations of the June War were felt throughout Palestinian communities in exile. Heretofore Nasser had provided the dominant model for Palestinian liberation and a return to Arab hegemony in the region. Now, with the collective defeat of the Arab armies (and with them the ideals of Arabism itself), virtually the entire Arab world was sent looking for answers, reevaluating state interests, and reassessing national identities. Palestinians in exile had largely held fast to the idea of umūd (steadfastness) and abr (patience), waiting for their lands to be liberated by the combined Arab forces. Now, without such an option, a new generation of refugees took it on themselves to fight for their repatriation. The national construct of the fallā al-umūd (steadfast peasant) was being replaced by the uniformed fidāī (freedom fighter).

From a political perspective the June War had several far-reaching consequences. Most noticeably the humiliation of the defeat forced a widespread reassessment of the conflict and the power relations among the various participating Arab states. With the dream of a collective Arab front dashed, each individual Arab state would later move to create bilateral relations with Israel independent of the other Arab states. The apparent ascendance of the Israeli army into a world power further destroyed the idea of ever returning to pre-1948 borders. Instead each individual Arab nation-state would have to begin negotiating with Israel for the return of Arab lands occupied and an end to the refugee crisis. What is more, the June War accelerated the development of an independent Palestinian nationalism focused on resolving the grievances of those directly under Israeli occupation and in exile. The establishment of a military occupation in the West Bank and Gaza Strip reactivated political discourse of state borders in Israel and the Arab world, an issue that had not been publicly debated since 1949.

Culturally al-naksa put a final and crushing end to the collective pride and blind Arab nationalist rhetoric emanating from the Egyptian mediascape. Over time, as little progress was made in repatriating Palestinian refugees and solving the many socioeconomic issues facing the Egyptian underclasses, the once-supportive masses became dismayed by the long extended performances, expensive wardrobes, spectacle, and wealth of the Arab elite and instead began to see such gestures of status as a cover for avoiding real issues. The promises of reform that accompanied pan-Arabism failed to materialize.[3] With this Cairo's position of power and influence in cultural production waned considerably, allowing for the development of local music scenes across the region. The war had revealed far-reaching systemic flaws in Arab ideology, society, and culture that several new dissenting voices began to address. Perhaps the loudest and most prominent came from the legendary political singer Sheikh Imam Issa.

SHEIKH IMAM ISSA

Born Mohammad Ahmad Issa on July 2, 1918, in the Egyptian village of Abu al-Nomros, Sheikh Imam grew up in a very religious home. As an infant he lost his sight to infection. His father, a devout Sufi, pressed him to study Quranic recitation (tajwīd) formally by enrolling him in a special school for religious learning at age five. In 1929 the young boy was admitted into the Sunni Judicial Association at al-Azhar to further his religious studies. At the uncharacteristically young age of fifteen he earned the title of sheikh, and worked as a local religious figure chanting appropriate sections of the Quran at public occasions or ceremonies. After spending several years at al-Azhar he was forcibly dismissed for being caught listening to a radio broadcast of Quranic verses delivered by the famously controversial singer Sheikh Mohammad Rafat. Sheikh Imam spent the next three years of his life living on the streets of Cairo as a Sufi dervish. He made a living reciting the Quran at weddings, circumcisions, birthdays, and holy festivals. During one such performance he made the acquaintance of famed Egyptian composer Sheikh Ahmad Zachariya. Working as one of Zachariya's entourage exposed Sheikh Imam to a new tradition of Arab classical music—its forms, melodies, and theoretical structures. During these years he took up the ūd, stopped wearing the traditional clothing of a sheikh, and began performing only classical love songs. In an interview he stated, “The songs I used [to sing at the time] were light, sentimental, love songs. But I had been searching for poems to express the music I felt inside myself. Deep inside I felt I should do songs to benefit the people.”[4]

In 1962 Sheikh Imam found the poems he had been searching for in the words of a young political dissident named Ahmad Fuad Nagam. After a brief introduction the two artists quickly developed a bond and began collaborating on new songs against the government. Nagam's poetry was especially powerful in that it was written in the colloquial dialect of the streets and dealt with pressing social issues: food shortages, underemployment, and the suppression of free speech. After the defeat of 1967 the two began to write political songs harshly critical of the state and its corrupt leadership. His first few public concerts at the National Syndicate of Journalists were completely ignored by the government, but as Sheikh Imam's notoriety increased, the Egyptian authorities began to collect a dossier of his songs and lyrics.

These songs were sharp, critical satire of the regime and its hypocrisy. In 1969, amidst massive student rioting, Sheikh Imam performed at a number of public events, leading to his first arrest on a charge of marijuana possession.[5] Eventually Egyptian authorities assembled enough damaging evidence to have Sheikh Imam and Ahmad Nagam sentenced to life in prison for treason. While in prison the two were exposed to a diverse collection of dissidents, intellectuals, and other political prisoners. They continued to compose music in the courtyards and common areas of the prison and over time grew more and more popular among the rising generation of young intellectuals and political reformists. After Nasser's unexpected death both Sheikh Imam and Nagam were released from prison in conjunction with Anwar Sadat's “Corrective Revolution” of May 1971. The two then resumed performing at student demonstrations and on university campuses, periodically imprisoned without trial for popular dissent. With each month spent in prison, Sheikh Imam's fame and following grew until he was widely recognized as one of Egypt's national folk heroes despite the fact that his music was banned from Egyptian media.

Interestingly what proved to make Sheikh Imam's music so dangerous to the state was not an overt call to arms. Rather his music resonated with the people in its capacity to give new subaltern meanings to state propaganda. He spoke to the marginalized, angry masses with a great sense of irony and satiric commentary about the misdeeds of the Arab leadership, in effect transforming state media into a tool of political protest. He wrote songs that used the state's own empty rhetoric, revealing the harsh realities of everyday life and the paradoxes of state-sanctioned modernity.[6] From a local perspective Sheikh Imam celebrated the contributions of the Egyptian fallāīn (“Al-Fallahin,” “Al-Shab al-Zayn” [The beautiful people], “Bahubbak Ya Misr” [I love you Egypt]); commemorated the great sacrifices of Egyptian soldiers (“Misr Ya Bahiya” [Beautiful Egypt], “Dawla Min?” [The nation belongs to who?]); and glorified the rising generation of university students and activists (“Rajau al-Talamidha” [Return of the students]). On a national stage Sheikh Imam denounced the government for its corruption and called for the nation to dispense with empty Arabist imagery and instead focus on real pressing issues such as economic instability, food shortages, and unemployment (“Kalb al-Sitt” [The lady's dog]).[7] In speaking out to the Arab world at large the sheikh wrote songs in solidarity with the Palestinian people (“Mawwal Filastini Masri” [A Palestinian Egyptian folk song], “Shayid Qasrak” [Build your palaces], “Filastin” [Palestine]) and encouraged an indigenous Palestinian liberation movement (“Unadikum” [The nation calls out to you]). In matters of international state politics Sheikh Imam glorified a transnational guerrilla movement against Western imperialism, celebrated folk heroes of resistance to tyranny (“Givara” [Che Guevara]), and satirized the corruption of international leaders (“Marr al-Kalam” [Bitterness of words], “Sharaft ya Nixon Baba” [Welcome Daddy Nixon], “Valari Jiskard Dastayn” [Valerie Giscard D'Estaing], “Thātshr” [Thatcher]).

“SHARAFT YA NIXON BABA” (WELCOME DADDY NIXON)

As an example of Sheikh Imam's ability to satirize government officials and criticize state regimes, there are few songs more popular than his “Sharaft ya Nixon Baba” (Welcome Daddy Nixon). At a time of Egyptian national instability, U.S. president Richard Nixon's state visit was meant to give international support to President Anwar Sadat's regime. However, under the cloud of Watergate, which would later lead to his resignation in 1974, Nixon's highly publicized visit to the Arab world served as inspiration for perhaps Sheikh Imam's most recognized song.

Welcome Daddy Nixon the Man of Watergate

They have honored your arrival, the Great Sultans of beans and oil.

They rolled out the red carpet from Ras al-Tin to Mecca

And from there you could easily descend to Akka

And then they could call you, “ajī,” Ha! Ha!

The whole thing is just a Moolid, Oh family of the prophet, grant us blessings.

The use of bābā (colloquially, father or daddy) here is especially important in that it suggests a paternal relationship of corruption and political malfeasance between the U.S. president and the Egyptian regime then celebrating his arrival. He is the father of all corrupt leaders and role model for Sadat's Egyptian regime. The irony is extended further with the description of how Arab state politicians have welcomed the American leader with a red carpet stretched from his hotel in Ras al-Tin all the way to Islam's holiest city, Mecca. Over the course of his presidency, Nixon held fast to a foreign policy that reinforced the subordinate position of the Arab states in relation to Israel and the international economy. Sheikh Imam reveals the hypocrisy inherent in welcoming such a notorious leader to the Arab world. In the following line the president is taken on a pilgrimage to the Israeli city of Akka on his way to the holy city of Mecca. Given that Nixon did not visit Akka during this trip, it would seem that it was employed as a joke of metaphorical contradictions. Despite visiting Mecca, it is only after descending into the Israeli city of Akka, on his true pilgrimage, that the American president is called ajī. These lines establish a recurring irony and juxtaposition of the sacred and the profane, reinforcing the absurdity of a criminally embattled American president making a holy pilgrimage to Israel and Mecca.

The rub of religious piety and political and moral corruption is pursued further in the following verse. Here Sheikh Imam likens the pomp and circumstance of the president's visit to a moolid, a religious high holiday commemorating the birth of the Prophet or other religious figure. Although the moolid is not celebrated among many conservative sects, the vast majority of Muslims celebrate the holiday by fasting, decorating their houses, and telling stories of the Prophet's life. State officials are exposed as idolatrous worshippers of political power and prestige in their effusive hospitality of the disgraced American president. Feigning deference to the politicians worshipping Nixon's power, Sheikh Imam asks, “the family of the Prophet grant us blessings.” The sarcastic sheikh toys with the idea that those of great wealth and privilege believe themselves to be close intimates to the Prophet, if not prophets themselves. In comparing those of privilege and those of holy relation to the Prophet, the sheikh chastises those who feel that their financial status is divinely granted. These lyrics, sung by a lowly sheikh, no less, carry a profound irony among the poor and disenfranchised Egyptian masses. The second verse continues:

The day you arrived, your spies made a great ceremony

Where the whores could shake their bodies seductively

And Sheikh Shamhawrash is riding on the backs of the world

Followed by an entourage of spiders, crawling from under the walls

In this verse the lyrics turn to deep colloquial Egyptian slang. Here Nixon's spies are Sadat's secret police in charge of the American president's arrangements. The ceremony they prepared for his arrival was one for the politically and morally corrupt, “where the whores [al-mūmas] shake their bodies.” Sheikh Shamhawrash is an ironic twist of the pious and the profane, characterizing Sadat as both sheikh (holy man) and Shamhawrash (Satan). As a corrupt leader who presents himself as pious, Sadat rides on the backs of the masses followed by an entourage of spiders (his state minions). Sadat is both sheikh and Satan, holy and corrupt.

They invited you and said, “come, eat Bon Bons and harīsa” [Egyptian sweets]

And because you are naive, you believed that we were easy prey

They follow you in a zaffa [wedding procession], oh groom of ignorance and shiftiness

Turn your face and we will dishonor you, shūbash, while the owners of the house will praise you

Here Nixon is likened to a spoiled child eating only bon bons and Egyptian sweets. In his visit to the country he is sheltered from the realities of Egyptian society. In being celebrated by the state regime Nixon is paraded through the streets as if he were a “groom of ignorance.” He is oblivious to the true feelings and turmoil of the people. “While the owners of the house [elite] praise you,” “we [the lower classes] will dishonor you.” The word “shūbash” here is a powerfully gendered insult levied at Nixon. In Egyptian slang, “shūbash” is a disgusting epithet one woman might use to describe another woman before a larger, more physical altercation ensues. To call a former American president “shūbash” is an extreme form of dishonor in vulgarity and also in gender.

As a testament to the influence of Sheikh Imam among Palestinian musicians and activists, in the summer of 2002, “Sharaft ya Nixon Baba” was performed as part of the Jerusalem Festival celebrating “Songs of Freedom” from all over the world.[8] In this festival a group of young Palestinian musicians performed this Sheikh Imam classic for an audience of local Jerusalemites. However, in this particular performance the musicians deviated from the original version, adding their own final verse more appropriate to the current sociopolitical situation. Immediately upon hearing the newly composed verses the audience laughed uproariously at the play of meanings and the way this thirty-year-old classic might capture contemporary political events.

Sharaft yā Bush Bush bābā, oh my sister, may the name of Allah be upon you.

A cookie is stuck in your throat, the Arab peoples are praying against you.

A message for the big guy with the huge belly

ūz! I don't care about your occupation, Palestine will return once again.

The first line refers to the former American president in diminutive form. He is “Bush junior,” “little Bush,” or “Daddy Bush.” Sarcastically the singers wish God's blessings be upon him, while slipping in a quick insult that he is their “little sister.” The child metaphor is extended further in the line—there is “a cookie stuck in your throat”—as a spoiled child eats only cookies. Daddy little Bush, as depicted here, behaves like a self-interested child, a spoiled brat raised in privilege. The next stanza refers to the then Israeli prime minister Ariel Sharon, “the big guy with the huge belly.” The musicians wish to send him the message that regardless of what he does, “Palestine will return once again.” The slang “ūz” here is an attempt to discredit Sharon's power, as if to say “whatever…” or “we'll see about that.”

This line garnered the largest response from the local Palestinian audience. They identified with the lyrics and supported its message of resistance against the occupation (specifically) and against state politics (generally). More importantly the crowd responded significantly to the insults thrown at the American and Israeli leaders. Much the same way that “Sharaft ya Nixon Baba” was originally written to mock President Nixon, the contemporary performance fit nicely into the current sociopolitical climate. Here Bush and Sharon were both the victims of satire, causing the local audience to explode in laughter and applause at the thought of these two imperialist leaders being held responsible for their transgressions.

Over the course of his career Sheikh Imam reached an unparalleled level of fame among Egyptian and Palestinian activists, intellectuals, and the working class. His music was widely known across the region despite rarely being broadcast on public media. For many Palestinian musicians, Sheikh Imam represents the beginning of modern musical activism and political song. His legacy is one of singing against corruption and hypocrisy, and giving voice to the deprived and oppressed. By the 1970s he had risen to the level of a pan-Arab phenomenon. His model of refashioning indigenous folk song, dialect, slang, and obscenity for political satire spread quickly among Palestinians feeling betrayed by their Arab leadership. Of Sheikh Imam's legacy, Lebanese poet Paul Shaoul wrote, “Sheikh Imam's critical power, sometimes bordering on defamation, and his bitter cynicism, were neither part of the status quo nor a submission to it, or a means to anesthetize the consciousness of people, distract their attention, and afflict them with the plagues of surrender and depression; instead they were confrontation with governments using the logic of explaining away the policies of repression, deception.”[9]

With the emergence of Sheikh Imam as the prominent voice of political dissent in the years following the June War of 1967, the constitutive elements of contemporary Palestinian political song had fully taken shape. Palestinian activists seeking new media for expressing nationalist sentiment and resistance to prevailing structures of power and domination took hold of Sheikh Imam's repertory and adapted it to indigenously Palestinian musical frames. Traces of his relentless criticism and satire can be found throughout the subsequent history of Palestinian resistance music, stretching from the late 1970s to the early 2000s. It is not coincidental that throughout my field research, artists, musicians, and activists from across the political and religious spectrum each cited Sheikh Imam as a foundational figure in the Palestinian nationalist movement and a model for their own creative development.

The Rise of the Fidāiyīn and Thawrī Music in the Camps (1967–1982)

With the defeat of 1967, the end of Nasserism, and the occupation of the West Bank and Gaza Strip, a dramatic sociocultural transformation took place throughout the Palestinian diaspora. Refugee camps, hitherto sites of steadfast patience for an awaited return to Palestine (umūd and abr), were reinscribed with new forms of identity and subjectivity based on the collective mobilization of the people to fight for their repatriation. This new generation of revolutionaries (jīl al-thāwra) was born of the transformation of refugee camps from transitory holding sites made of corrugated tin to poverty-stricken urban ghettos constructed of stone and concrete. As refugee homes became more and more permanent, as the possibility of return became more and more remote, and as the first generation of refugees raised in exile came of age, camps across the region developed into sites of militancy and collective empowerment. The new generation of refugees soon began to seek out proactive means of reclaiming their ancestral lands. Through various social, political, and cultural projects this new generation successfully transformed spaces of exile into platforms of resistance.

The sociocultural phenomenon most responsible for fueling this transformation was the nascent fidāiyīn (ones who sacrifice, or freedom fighters) guerrilla movement led by Yasser Arafat. This paramilitary wing of the secular nationalist political party al-Fatah developed quickly into a powerful militia of Palestinian resistance. Through various sociopolitical campaigns, Fatah was able to successfully harness the waves of youth culture, anger, frustration, and Palestinian nationalism flowing across the region. Despite widespread popularity, however, Fatah was at a severe tactical disadvantage. Confined within and policed by its various Arab host states, spaces for active recruitment and training of paramilitary forces were quite limited. Moreover Jordanian and Lebanese authorities were largely unwilling to allow independent attacks against Israeli targets from within their borders. The threat of reprisal from the formidable Israeli air force compelled host governments to closely monitor Palestinian paramilitary activities. Spreading outward from the cramped interior spaces of the refugee camps, where host governments could do very little to control nationalist activities, Palestinian resistance activities soon overtook both public and private spaces in Amman, Beirut, the hills of Ajloun, and the Jordan valley.

The rise of the guerrilla movement inside the camps had a profound impact on the performative processes through which Palestinians conceptualized the body and body politic, home, community, and nation. In myriad identification processes the militarized, empowered refugee soon became the primary archetype of nationalist affirmation displacing the patient yet determined jīl al-umūd (generation of steadfastness). Anthropologist Julie Peteet notes that during the rise of the fidāiyīn, camp dwellers began to identify themselves not by indigenous identity formations such as family, amūla (larger kinship groups), or ancestral village but rather by political ideology and party affiliation.[10] As social boundaries were redrawn from within politico-nationalist discourses, identification processes and performances were equally redefined, influencing language, poetics, cultural practices, religious observance, public spaces, and the allocation of cultural and economic resources. Performatives of what and who defined the nation shifted, creating new ways of imagining the national community in exile. Political meetings, militancy, weaponry, activism, and other means of articulating empowerment reimagined the Palestinian nation away from indigenous social frames. The very notion of the “authentic” Palestinian experience was resignified within the discursive frames of resistance, political mobilization, and guerrilla warfare.

Julie Peteet writes, “Because they [refugee camps] housed the resistance and refugees who had previously been peasants, they were places of an authentic Palestinian identity rooted in the land, struggle, and suffering. In the Occupied Territories peasants were signifiers of an authentic, rooted past,…while in exile, those now in the camps were imagined as being somehow more ‘Palestinian,’ more authentic in their capacity to represent key components of collective identity.” The camps also evoked widespread guilt among the more affluent urban Palestinians given that camp-dwelling refugees shouldered the largest burden of the national struggle, overcoming extreme loss and the threat of constant violence. Urban middle- and upper-class Palestinians combined guilt with admiration for the camps' militancy and distaste for their once-peasant, now quasi-urban lower-class standard of living.[11]

The inscription of Palestinian militancy was seen across a wide spectrum of social practices and served to redefine the concept of active resistance against colonial occupation. Many camp dwellers refused to identify themselves as refugees (lājiīn), preferring instead militants, activists, or revolutionaries (thuwwar).[12] The image of the fidāī quickly replaced that of the fallā as the primary archetype of the nation. Whereas the fallā represented a steadfast patience in exile, an older generation of innocent victimization awaiting repatriation, the fidāī signified the end of waiting (passivity and humiliation) and the beginning of an inherently Palestinian liberation movement. With this, new conceptions of national identity based on an empowered resistance movement served to inspire the resignification of indigenous Palestinian cultural practices. The Palestinian accent, kūfīya (black-and-white checkered headscarf), food, and other folk practices (music, dance, poetry, and embroidery) articulated with the uniformed fidāī and klāshin (Russian-made Kalashnikov automatic rifle) as primary signs of national identification. An armed fidāī, klāshin slung over one shoulder, signified the new authentic Palestinian empowered to reclaim the nation against Israeli occupation independent of the larger Arab world (see figure 3.1). The following verse of mayjanā/atābā, collected in the hills of al-Bayadar outside of Amman, Jordan, beautifully summarizes both the widespread feelings of blame levied at the Arab world for failing to live up to their promises and the calls for local empowerment prevalent in the years following al-naksa (1967).[13]

Oūf…Oūf…Oh my father!

Enough wiping away tears, oh my people

And we journey difficult paths to freedom

I screamed, “O sons of the Arab nation,” and found it cold as a crocodile

Oūf…Oūf…Oh my father!

In similar fashion a very famous photograph of fidāī operations in the hills of the Jordan valley was widely circulated in local popular media in the early 1970s. The iconographic juxtaposition of various politico-national sign clusters made it an empowered image of Palestinian resistance. Moving together in formation through the fields, these three militants are dressed in army fatigues and equipped with knapsacks and rifles. Their heads wrapped in kūfīyāt, the soldiers convey a burgeoning militancy marked by the Palestinian past, yet empowered to resist through modern guerrilla techniques and tactics.

PALESTINE LIVES! SONGS FROM THE STRUGGLE OF THE PEOPLE OF PALESTINE

Countless images such as this, coupled with myriad performative media across diverse social spaces served to reflect and locate a new poetics of Palestinian resistance in the years following al-naksa (1967). However, in their repetition and redundancy, such practices (images, fashion, language, songs, poetry) generated new national subjectivities in innovative ways, forged in the performative citation of new discourses of power and politics. Over time, the reiteration of new forms of Palestinian militancy, embedded in powerful identification processes such as language, dress, graffiti, music, dance, image, and poetry, gave materiality to new national intimacies and affiliations. Reimagined in the cramped quarters of the refugee camps and embodied in the uniformed fidāī, the Palestinian nation was re-formed, re-created, through everyday performances in both formal and informal contexts. As discursive practices these performances served to forge new political identities, associations, and ideologies, imagining a new nation and national community.

The rise of the PLO in the public sphere had far-reaching effects on the dynamics of national identity formation throughout the Palestinian diaspora. With each highly publicized guerrilla attack against Israeli targets, popular support for the fidāiyīn grew to the extent that Arafat was soon able to construct a mini-state within pockets of Palestinian-dominated communities in Jordan. Given their widespread popularity, King Hussein could do little to rein in fidāī activities. Palestinian nationalism, as it was represented in the image of Arafat and the fidāiyīn movement, gripped the kingdom. By 1970 fidāiyīn soldiers were openly wearing their uniforms and carrying firearms through the streets of Amman, setting up checkpoints for the collection of “taxes” and “searching” vehicles.[14] Soldiers established independent offices and training camps throughout the kingdom and openly recruited and/or conscripted young Palestinians into their ranks. Fatah officials drove state vehicles with Palestinian license plates around Jordan and refused to pay taxes to the Jordanian government.

As part of this nationalizing campaign, Fatah instituted a widespread project of popular media (journalism, propaganda, poetry, music, and other media) to elicit public support for the fidāiyīn and legitimize its leadership in the fight for national liberation. Artists were brought in to compose poetry, music, graphic design, and other artworks in support of PLO activities, influenced by the aesthetics of transnational guerrilla movements active around the world. Several music ensembles, supported directly by the PLO, were active at this time, performing in support of PLO ideology. Foremost among these was Firqat al-Markaziya (The Central Ensemble), who during the 1970s dominated the production of propagandized political song. Alluding to the various political branches of the PLO, Firqat al-Markaziya attempted to perform the “center mainstream” of the political spectrum, bringing together secular-nationalist and socialist elements and themes. In addition to widespread airplay on local radio and a flood of cheaply produced cassettes, Paredon Records released a collection of their most influential songs in 1974 under the title Palestine Lives! Songs from the Struggle of the People of Palestine. The songs contained on this album reflect an interweaving of socialist martial hymns interspersed with indigenous Palestinian shabī (indigenous) instrumentation, poetry, and rhythms.

Specifically al-Markaziya focused its performative efforts on the grassroots conscription of youth in the refugee camps across Jordan and Lebanon. More political propaganda than serious music, this ensemble acted as informal recruiters, juxtaposing Palestinian resistance with other socialist-liberation movements in places like Algeria, Vietnam, and Cuba. In many ways this music made little attempt to maintain any sense of serious musicianship and freely drew on a tired and cliché lexicon of anticolonial/anti-imperial/anti-Western rhetorical and artistic devices. Simple slogans and cliché musical phrases constituted this shallow repertory of political song. Performers were often active members of the fidāiyīn, untrained musicians, and would typically perform wearing their olive green army fatigues. Given their formal patronage to Fatah, during the years following al-naksa (1967), al-Markaziya performed publicly more than any other Palestinian ensemble.

Their large yet uninspired repertory of songs was fashioned predominantly by repetitive martial hymns made up of large male choruses. Particularly important to this repertory were songs that glorified socialism: the klāshin (Kalashnikov), the sickle (manjal) and hammer, the thuwwar (militant), and a resignified interpretation of the fallā as the idyllic “socialist” worker transforming the land. In one of the more popular al-Markaziya songs of the time, “Dayn al-Thuwwar” (The revolutionaries' debt), the lead vocalist sings the propagandized slogan: wa amaltu rashāshī li-tamal badnā al-ajīāl manjal (and I carried the machine gun so that the next generation could carry the sickle). Imagery of the fallāīn as quasi-socialist proletariat allowed for established indexical sign clusters of Palestinian rural indigeneity to be reimagined as the foundation for a prescribed socialist transformation.

The poetics of an imagined Palestinian socialism carried further in the composition of many revolutionary songs of the fidāī. Percussion-dominated martial hymns emerged from the camps written by anonymous fidāī artists. Such songs were broadcast periodically on local radio accompanying news of strikes against Israeli targets.[15] Common themes and images of wounds, bullets, chains, fire, paths, and roads collectively signified the militarized struggle or path of the fidāiyīn. The songs' ubiquitous percussion were iconic of the sounds of gunfire and artillery, the marching of soldiers, and the collective force of the people united together under the banners of anti-imperial liberation. A unison male chorus, singing in a deeply resonant tessitura, typically provided melodic counterpoint to a solo male vocalist. The ubiquitous male chorus, singing in an uncharacteristically low chest voice, indexically signified among audiences an empowered militancy through associations of masculine power and solidarity and strategically departed from the indigenous Palestinian high-pitched nasal vocal timbre of the shar al-murtajal.

Voices joined together in tight unison, bereft of ornamentation and improvisatory device, iconically signified a musical as well as a prescribed social synchrony. These choruses represented a complete departure from the individuated poetics of the shar al-murtajal, where value was placed on the individuals' ability to compose and perform intricately layered and ornamented verses of improvised poetry. In the songs of al-Markaziya, little attention was paid to the nuance of vocal quality, melodic contour, and basic musicianship. Instead their songs served as sonic political posters, plastering political dogma into the public soundscape. Socialist patriotism represented in songs like “Al-Mad al-Mad” (The rising tide), “Tariq al-Aza” (The road to dignity), and “Masira Shabna” (The march of our people) combined associations of populist movement along the great path to victory. The iconicity of waves, roads, and marches signified collective military action, a proactive amelioration of national trauma, and an end to the jīl al-umūd (generation of steadfastness). These thawrī songs intentionally avoided dialect, ornamentation, improvisation, and idiomatic rhetorical device, so as to espouse a prescribed poetics of unity, synchrony, and redemption through collective militarized struggle. In addition the avoidance of Palestinian dialect could be interpreted as a motivated attempt to resignify Palestinian resistance (and by extension identity) into the faceless image of the fidāī.

The Fidāiyīn, “Black September,” and Intra-Arab Politics

Arafat's rise to power in the Jordanian refugee camps placed a considerable amount of stress on the Hashemite monarchy to maintain its hegemony. The Jordanian government's need to maintain domestic authority was contested by the commandos' desire to establish an autonomous base of operations from which to launch their attacks against Israeli targets. The challenges placed on King Hussein both to negotiate the rising levels of popular support for the guerrilla movement and to maintain his sovereignty proved too much. By 1970 the commandos were operating beyond the king's authority, conducting raids on Israeli targets that provoked harsh reprisals. Amidst threats of coup and an attempted assassination, King Hussein finally called in his army to restore order and to break the power of the PLO guerrillas on September 15, 1970. The ten-day confrontation resulted in the expulsion of the fidāiyīn from Jordan and the estimated death of over three thousand Palestinian soldiers and civilians.[16] “Black September,” as it came to be remembered, was nothing less than an outright civil war pitting Jordanians (of both Palestinian and Jordanian ancestry) against one another.

In the end, the smaller bands of Palestinian commandos were no match for the better-equipped and trained Jordanian army. Within less than two weeks, King Hussein had successfully driven out the fidāiyīn from Amman and within a year had closed all PLO offices and training camps in the northern hills. After the fighting had subsided the PLO quickly transferred its power base to the refugee camps of southern Lebanon. Within a matter of years, the PLO had replenished its ranks of fidāī fighters and taken administrative control of the Lebanese refugee camps.[17]

Operating independently of the much weaker Lebanese host government in Beirut, the PLO reproduced its strategy of recruiting and training paramilitary soldiers for attacks against Israeli targets. With each raid into Israeli-controlled territory, the popularity of Arafat and the PLO increased. However such operations brought with them Israeli retaliation affecting not only Palestinians in the camps but also neighboring communities of Shia villagers in south Lebanon. The ease with which Israeli forces were able to execute their reprisals created a public outcry against the Lebanese government. With Shia communities fleeing their homes to escape Israeli bombs and Palestinian militants operating independently of government control, it was only a matter of time before the Lebanese government was forced to respond. A predominant issue that divided the country, one that contributed to a prolonged and devastating civil war, was whether or not the Palestinian commandos should be given unrestricted freedom to conduct incursions against Israel, with the inevitable Israeli response, or whether the government should reign in the militants and reassert its control.

The lengthy civil war between various Christian, Muslim, and Druze militia factions took on a new dimension with the Israeli invasion of Lebanon in June 1982. Under the direction of Israeli prime minister Menachem Begin and defense minister Ariel Sharon, Israeli forces advanced into southern Lebanon with the stated purpose of destroying the PLO's autonomous presence in the area, expelling Syrian forces uncomfortably close to the Israeli border, and establishing a mutually advantageous alliance with the dominant Lebanese Christian Phalangist faction led by Bashir Gemayel. With Gemayel's leadership solidified in Lebanon, Israel would then be afforded a pliant, cooperative neighboring state willing to crack down on PLO forces. What is more, with the links between the PLO and the West Bank dissolved, Begin would be able to turn his attention toward the larger project of formally annexing the Occupied Territories.[18]

After reaching their stated objective within a matter of days, defense minister Ariel Sharon ordered the outright siege of Beirut. Throughout the summer of 1982, West Beirut, the area with the highest PLO concentration, was subjected to a massive campaign of air, land, and sea bombardment. The city was devastated by the attacks, which caused heavy civilian casualties. After nearly two months of deadly siege, an international agreement was reached allowing for the peaceful evacuation of all PLO forces out of Lebanon and the guaranteed safety of all Palestinian civilians left behind in the camps. Under U.S. supervision, the PLO and its leadership were evacuated to Tunis on September 1, 1982.

With the PLO expelled from Beirut, Bashir Gemayel elected president, and Syrian forces leaving the area, Israel had apparently achieved all of its stated goals. However, in late August, only two weeks after his election, opposition forces from the Syrian Social National Party assassinated Gemayel. Following the assassination, Israel violated its pledge to protect the civilian Palestinian communities and allowed units of Lebanese Christian Phalangist soldiers to enter the refugee camps of Sabra and Shatila. After three days of house-to-house killing, with Israeli soldiers observing from nearby watchtowers, the Phalangist forces had massacred an estimated two thousand men, women, and children left unprotected by the evacuation of the PLO.[19] During the night Israeli soldiers went so far as to fire flares into the air to provide light for the militiamen hunting down men, women, and children hiding in the dark.

The public outcry, among Palestinians and Israelis, at the atrocities of Sabra and Shatila had far-reaching effects throughout the Arab world and beyond. International media reported the massacres widely, sparking protests against Israel all over the world. Israeli public opinion, which never conclusively supported the invasion to begin with, publicly questioned the invasion and the death of so many civilians at a time when Israel's survival was not immediately at risk. In October 1982 an estimated four hundred thousand Israelis peacefully protested to demand a commission of inquiry be set up to investigate the apparent culpability of the Israeli government.[20] Investigations into Sabra and Shatila through the Kahan Commission found Israeli officials indirectly responsible. Amidst public pressure Ariel Sharon was forced to resign his position as minister of defense. Menachem Begin later left office in 1983, following the death of his wife, his political career seriously tarnished by the event.

The PLO had also suffered a tremendous loss. With Arafat and his cadre of officials exiled to Tunis, they were now farther away from Palestinian lands than they had ever been. The loss of an autonomous base from which to operate strained the organization and left many PLO officials questioning their leadership. The PLO had lost its sense of unity and cohesion, popular support for the fidāiyīn was considerably shaken, and the empowered belief in independent military action against Israel was severely diminished. With little confidence in state leadership and formal military action, the resistance movement once again underwent considerable transformation, refashioned in the image of the people and in their indigenous lifeways and folk practices.

For many refugees the massacres at Sabra and Shatila were powerful markers of Palestinian suffering, dispossession, and dislocation. Without the protection of the PLO or the international community, the dispossessed residents of these two camps were left unarmed and at the mercy of the Phalangist militia. As a metaphor for Palestinian suffering, vulnerability, and loss of agency, Sabra and Shatila became the subjects of widespread nationalist painting, poetry, song, and dance deploring the tragedy and mourning the victims. Most importantly this tragic event marked the beginning of a new poetics of Palestinian nationalism based in a new performative articulation of martyrdom, sacrifice, and suffering.

“WAYN AL-MALAYIN?” (WHERE ARE THE MILLIONS?)

Musically, reactions to the Israeli siege of Beirut followed along two aesthetic trajectories. First, artists working within the established mūsīqā al-thawrī catalogue continued performing martial hymns and marches espousing growing feelings of empowerment and militancy, as well as the failure of the Arab world to successfully fight for Palestinian liberation. Second, protest singers became increasingly influenced by a growing folk revival of indigenous Palestinian music emanating from the West Bank into the near diaspora. Within the first category “Wayn al-Malayin?” (Where are the millions?) remains perhaps one of the most recognizable Palestinian protest songs of the jīl al-thāwra (generation of revolutionaries). While the music and lyrics were composed by the Libyan composer Ali al-Kilani, the song is most associated with the Lebanese artist Julia Butrous. In it, she angrily sings out:

Where, where, where…

Where are the millions?

Where are the Arab people?

Where is the Arab anger?

Where is the Arab blood?

Where are the Eastern Arabs?

Where are the millions?

Where, where, where…?

Butrous caustically chastises the empty rhetoric espoused by Arab leaders who proclaim to be the great protectors of Jerusalem yet have done very little to stop Israeli aggression. She dispels the myth of Arab solidarity and instead glorifies the independent Palestinian resistance movement.

God is with us and is stronger and greater than the sons of Zionism,

He kills, steals, imprisons, but in spite of all this my land will not be humiliated.

Red blood and the green tastes of lemons

The fire of the revolution will increase and we will be victorious.

Stronger than the mountains,

Greater than the sands,

Fight, struggle, and sing that our martyrs are still alive,

We fight and we will not kneel,

We will not be humiliated, we will not submit!

“Wayn al-Malayin?” articulates with a stock lexicon of shared signs of Palestinian militancy and empowerment. Butrous's unfettered anger at the empty promises of Arabism is certainly characteristic of music and poetry of the time. Shielded within the protective spaces of the refugee camps, public expressions of Palestinian anger and frustration could be freely articulated without fear of retribution from government authorities. This often allowed for the open and very public criticism of political figures and state institutions through popular media. Drawing on a series of nationalist sign clusters Butrous makes several claims of Palestinian empowerment and primordial ties to the land. In particular she emphasizes specific color associations as iconic of the Palestinian nation. The introduction to the song calls for Palestinians to “fight in the day to end the night, and the coming of our freedom.” The body of the song portrays the revolution as a swelling fire, the Palestinian people as greater than the mountains, land, and sand. References to red blood (sacrifice), green orchards of citrus (Palestinian agricultural indices), and the blackness of night (the occupation) coalesce into the colors of the Palestinian flag. In the last lines Butrous makes her most powerful statements. Here Palestinians are defined not by their victimization, their humiliation, or their patience, but rather by their unwillingness to surrender. Speaking for and as the nation, Butrous declares, Palestinians “will not kneel…will not be humiliated…[and] will not submit.” The combination of these three statements frames the dominant meanings of the song and defines much of the repertory of the empowered mūsīqā al-thawrī (revolutionary music).

Musically “Wayn al-Malayin?” is a typical example of the predominant mūsīqā al-thawrī archetype prevalent in the years following al-naksa (1967). A quick martial duple meter, articulated in a string of running sixteenths, sets up the initial introduction of the unison male chorus singing a countermelody against a powerful lead singer. The use of major mode, common to both Western and Arab repertories (maqām ajām fā or F major), reflects a militaristic influence bereft of any particular “Arab” or “Palestinian” associations (see example 3.1). In addition melodic accompaniment is provided by strings and a collection of Western piccolos, frequently used to signify martial music from around the world. The rhythmic mode, ayūb, is equally ambiguous. This simple duple meter in syncopation is common to both Arab and Western nationalist musics, particularly military marches and quick-time processionals. As it is played here, the rhythm signifies neither a rural Palestine, through associations with the dabke, nor the larger tradition of classical Arab art music in general. Drawing from a widespread repertory of revolutionary songs of the masses, “Wayn al-Malayin?” avoids any particular Palestinian folk-ethos in melody, rhythm, and instrumentation in favor of disguised international, militaristic musical device. This can be explained in at least two ways. First, both the composer-lyricist and performer were not Palestinian, though they both identified with Palestinian issues. This song might then be interpreted as a means of bridging the gaps between various Arab communities. And second, this avoidance of Palestinian folk signifiers reinforces a larger aesthetic transformation taking place across the Palestinian diaspora. Resistance songs in the years following al-naksa both constituted and were constituted by a drive to create a “new” Palestinian indigeneity, a new identity formation whereby Palestinian-ness was defined not through indigenous folk practices, but rather through militaristic tactics and guerrilla warfare. In sound, the adoption of Western instruments and musical device operated similarly to the green army fatigues of the fighters themselves. They were both signs of a new direction in Palestinian nationalism, a new Palestinian, empowered to resist their prolonged exile from within, adopting the well-circulated signs of anticolonialism.

“SABRA WA SHATILA”

In contrast to the established repertory of mūsīqā al-thawrī songs such as “Wayn al-Malayin?” musical reactions to the Israeli siege of Beirut also took the form of reconfigured folk songs and dances. Of particular note in this repertory is Abu Arab's widely known funeral lament “Sabra wa Shatila.” Structured as an extended improvisation of poetic strophes based on a popular love song attributed to Sayyid Darwish, “Sabra wa Shatila” illustrates a profound shift in poetics in the mid-1980s. Abu Arab's characteristic singing style, derived from the traditions of the shar al-murtajal, utilizes folk-poetic structures, vocal timbre, and dialect. In “Sabra wa Shatila” Abu Arab sings a free-flowing improvised realization of poetic strophes, interspersed with melodic improvisations performed on the nai and ūd. In much the same way al-Ashiqin reinterpreted the alā dalunā in “Min Sijn Akka,” Abu Arab has slowed down this love song so as to emulate the cadence of a funeral procession. Rhythmic accompaniment is quite thin, provided by a single riqq (tambourine), outlining the simplified rhythmic structure al-haja al-aghīr. Extended improvisations on the nai (rendered in maqām ijāz) serve to convey the sadness of the lament and to structure the melodic rendering of the mode. Idiomatic to shabī performance practice the nai and ūd supplement the vocal rendering of poetic strophes with brief improvisatory melodic commentary. In rhythmic and melodic structure, vocal timbre, and poetic composition this musical tribute to the massacres at Sabra and Shatila represents a performative shift in poetics from empowered and militarized resistance to mournful lament of suffering and martyrdom.

Pools of blood collected on the land, and Palestine has been drawn in it.

Pieces of the explosions will be planted in the land.

anīn [yearning/blossoming] as revolutionary flowers, they will grow and bloom.

I have heard the voice of Mary wailing.

Calling out to Jesus, “Oh beloved people of Jerusalem.”

“What good was it for you to spill your blood on the cross,

When there are monsters out there committing these crimes?”

Abu Arab's powerful narrative of the massacres at Sabra and Shatila presents a graphic depiction of Palestinian exile, violence, and mourning. In the pools of martyrs' blood, dripping into the cracks and fissures of the land, the seeds of the nation are planted. Shrapnel, shards of explosions, pieces of the victims' bodies themselves, are sown into the ground as revolutionary seeds of resistance. As they bloom into flowers of revolution, so will the Palestinian nation. The double meaning of the word anīn (longing and to flower or bloom) further extends the metaphor of the martyred victims as blossoming flowers, nourished in blood, rooted in the land.

From this point, the song takes a very different turn. Here Abu Arab narrates an imagined conversation between Mary and Jesus. Wailing with grief, Mary questions Jesus's sacrifice. “What good was it for you to spill your blood on the cross when there are monsters out there committing these crimes?” The overtly Christian-Muslim reference points toward the Lebanese Christian “monsters” responsible for committing these massacres. In an interesting twist of meaning, Abu Arab seemingly turns the politico-religious underpinnings of the conflict inside out. Christian imagery is utilized as a means of engaging and counteracting aroused religious animosities between Palestinian Muslim and Lebanese Christian communities. The massacres at Sabra and Shatila were a horrific manifestation of political violence and state terror perpetrated under the guise of religious difference. In singing of Mary's mournful lament, Abu Arab renders the religious interpretation of the attack obsolete. He asserts that there was nothing inherently “Christian,” or even religious, about the attack at all. To the contrary such a horrendous loss of innocent life negates Christ's sacrifice. Throughout the Lebanese civil war religious difference became a powerful tool of mobilizing politico-nationalist formations against one another. Through powerful Christian imagery Abu Arab repositions the massacres at Sabra and Shatila away from a simplified religious conflict into a more complex political frame. Such a performative turn redefines the nation inclusive of both Muslim and Christian communities. Not unlike the folk poetry of Nuh Ibrahim before him, Abu Arab calls forth national subjectivity based on collective suffering and resistance of all Palestinians (and by extension all Arabs) regardless of religious orientation.

I will be patient in the days of oppression.

I will wager, and am not afraid of the result.

If one child cries alone in the fields,

My violated rights will be redeemed.

Sabra and Shatila, Shatila and Sabra

A tear in my eyes, and in my heart is agony.

With the traumas of the Lebanese civil war and the massacres at Sabra and Shatila, Abu Arab's repertory of protest song marked an ongoing shift in poetics away from the empowered thawrī hymns and marches of the PLO. In his memorialization of the massacres Abu Arab revived the poetics of the shabī music performed in the years immediately following al-nakba (1948). Patience, victimization, mourning, and redemption, hallmarks of indigenous folk song following 1948, reemerged as nostalgic performatives of the suffering nation.

The Palestinian Folk Revival and Shabī Nationalists (1977–1993): Firqat Aghani al-Ashiqin

The embarrassing defeat of the fidāiyīn sent a powerful shockwave across the region. No longer, it seemed, could Palestinians put their hope for an end to the occupation and a return to their ancestral homes in the state leadership of the PLO alone. What is more, in the devastating civil wars, which pitted conspiring Syrian, Israeli, and Lebanese forces against PLO guerrillas, noncombatant refugees could no longer believe that any Arab state would come to their rescue. The folklorist Dr. Sharif Kanaana sums up the prevailing feelings of the time in a well-known proverb, “We must pull the thorn out of our hand” (lāzam inqala shuknā bidīnā). Palestinian repatriation could only come through Palestinians themselves.

The sense of loss, defeat, shame, and prolonged dislocation resonated throughout the performative arts of the early 1980s, carried forth via a new wave of cheap (both affordable and of poor quality), mass-produced cassette tapes. These new recordings were less dominated by the militarized aesthetics of the fidāī and instead reemphasized the traditions and customs of al-shab (the folk). This profound shift away from the militarized marches of the fidāī can be attributed to several factors.

While indigenous Palestinian folk song and dance had continued to be performed both “inside” and “outside” the territories (West Bank and Gaza Strip), its influence faded considerably following the rise of the fidāiyīn and the establishment of a centralized resistance movement. The PLO spent considerable resources on print media, radio broadcasts, graphic design, music performance, and so on as a means to reframe Palestinian identity around a new generation of revolutionaries working collectively to reclaim the homeland from “outside,” ultimately locating Palestinian nationalism and national identity in refugee camps and cities such as Amman and Beirut. This new identity formation strategically marginalized indigenous folk practices so as to assert a Palestinian militancy in line with other so-called modern anticolonial guerrilla movements across the globe. The rural folk practices of the fallāīn, therefore, were seen as a hindrance, the outdated customs of the past, an obstacle to the militarized resistance. With the expulsion of the PLO from Lebanon and the dismantling of the centralized resistance movement “outside” the territories, the ideational project of centralized militancy abated, and nationalist energies were refocused back “inside,” where a new cadre of highly educated folklorists were working diligently to preserve and promote indigenous Palestinian folklore as a form of collective resistance to Israeli occupation. Foremost among these folklorists were Dr. Abdellatif al-Barghouti, Dr. Sharif Kanaana, Dr. Nimr Sirhan, Dr. Nabil ‘Alqam, and Dr. Abdel Aziz abu Hudba. These scholars specialized in the fields of folklore and anthropology, and beginning in the mid-1960s they each began conducting fieldwork and preservation projects throughout the West Bank and Gaza Strip. Their research reinforced the increasing importance of the West Bank and Gaza Strip in the resistance movement and further displaced an aesthetics of exile and militancy with an aesthetics of indigeneity. The increased emphasis on folklore and folk practices set into motion a widespread revival of indigenous Palestinian song and dance.

This large-scale folk revival centered around this group of scholars as well as a burgeoning network of cultural organizations dedicated to the collection and preservation of traditional Palestinian folklore (songs, stories, proverbs, material culture, and so on). Led by these Palestinian folklorists, these organizations contributed by sponsoring the publication of books and journals, museum collections, and cultural festivals all aimed at preserving indigenous cultural practices. Foremost among these was the Jamiya Anash al-Usra (Society for the Preservation of the Family), located in the West Bank city of al-Bireh. The various publications, exhibits, and events sponsored by Jamiya Anash al-Usra served to reintroduce Palestinian folklore to the larger cosmopolitan community.[21] Due in large part to the efforts of these organizations, the national folk revival of the early 1980s had a profound effect on popular conceptions of Palestinian identity: first, by preserving indigenous cultural practices against colonial erasure, and second, by stifling change and creativity.

In the field of Palestinian protest song the national folk revival spawned a resurgence of indigenous folk songs as a specifically motivated form of resistance. Though the marches and hymns of the fidāī, and the heavily orchestrated classical songs emanating from Egypt, did not disappear altogether, protest song in the early 1980s was predominantly focused on the revival of the “folk” and the preservation and dissemination of popular heritage (turāth al-shabī). Anxieties over preserving rural Palestinian folk practices against assimilation, coupled with the absence of the state institutions of the PLO, inspired many artists to concentrate their efforts on the people (al-shab), the community (al-umma), and the nation (al-waan).

In a similar fashion musical groups operating both inside and outside the territories began appropriating and developing new forms of al-zajal, the repertories of folk song performed at life-cycle events and calendric festivals common throughout Bilad al-Sham. Leading the movement to revive and preserve indigenous Palestinian music within the contexts of the resistance movement were two ensembles, born of differing refugee experiences in Lebanon and Jordan. The Syrian-based ensemble, Firqat Aghani al-Ashiqin (The Songs of the Lovers Ensemble), and the Jordan-based ensemble, Firqa Baladna (Our Nation/Our Homeland), both rose to prominence in their respective communities based on the reinscription of indigenous folk music into the nationalist movement.[22]

FIRQAT AGHANI AL-ASHIQIN (THE SONGS OF THE LOVERS ENSEMBLE)

The group credited most with reviving Palestinian indigenous music in the nationalist movement was Firqat Aghani al-Ashiqin. Its origins began with a unique collaboration between the poet Ahmad Dahbour and the composer Hussein Nazak. Working as artists for the Dāira al-Thaqafa al-Alam (Department of Culture and Media), a PLO-funded arts organization producing cultural programs for Syrian state television, the two adapted a well-known Jerusalem area folk song for public performance. The song, “Wa Allah 1-Azraak bi-1 -Dar” (I swear I will plant you in the home of Palestine), became the centerpiece of a theatrical production based on Palestinian exile. Dahbour adapted the original lyrics to reflect contemporary political issues of displacement while Nazak reset the melody and structure of the piece so that it would appeal to a larger, more cosmopolitan audience. Specifically, Nazak shifted the mode from bayatī to ijāz, eliminating the “Oriental” (sharqīya)-sounding quarter-tone in the lower tetrachord while allowing the song to be more easily played on Western instruments. In addition Nazak changed the time structure of the piece from a slow 5/4 to a quick and percussive 4/4. Once a mournful lament, this adapted version was more accessible to cosmopolitan ears, intended to mobilize audiences into action, to get them, as lead singer Hussein Munther recounted, “out of their seats and into the streets.”

Within a matter of weeks the song became a huge hit, drawing the attention of the director of the Dāira al-Thaqafa al-Alam, Abdallah Hourani. Rehearsing after work, with funding from the PLO, the group began to reset traditional Palestinian folk songs into anthems of political protest. Following their debut performance at the International Political Song Festival in Helsinki, Finland, al-Ashiqin cassettes flooded the streets in refugee camps across Jordan, Lebanon, Syria, and the West Bank. Especially active during the crisis in Beirut, al-Ashiqin performed countless concerts in support of Palestinian liberation and an end to the civil war.[23] In fact many of the original members of the ensemble were at one time officials in the PLO. Mohammad Diab, Nizar al-Issa, Hussein Nazak, Hussein Munther (Abu Ali), and Khaled Habbash were responsible for developing the group's unique repertory of shabī nationalist songs. What initially distinguished al-Ashiqin from their contemporaries was their performative juxtaposition of two dominant ideational archetypes, fluctuating seamlessly between thawrī and shabī repertories. Onstage the group promoted the images of both the militarized fidāī and the rural fallāīn in music, song-style, and dress. Male members of the group performed in military fatigues, kūfīyāt wrapped around their necks. In contrast female members wore beautifully embroidered indigenous dresses (thawb), indicating their ancestral village or region of origin. In performance and appearance the group espoused a juxtaposition of militancy (fidāī) and indigeneity (fallāī) constructs (see figure 3.2). Their repertory of songs and dances were derived from indigenous sources yet were “modernized” with Western militaristic elements. The texts were almost entirely in thick dialect, and the group often performed alongside a formally trained presentational dabke troupe. Musically al-Ashiqin based its repertory on the revival of indigenous Palestinian folk songs, poetry, and dances largely marginalized in the years since al-naksa (1967), periodically mixing in militarized marital hymns and other typical war songs of the recent past. The combined articulation of both militant and indigenous indices in song-style and dress transformed protest singing in the early 1980s and opened the door to a new folk revival across the Palestinian diaspora.

In its early years, al-Ashiqin was directed by the prominent composer and folklorist Hussein Nazak. A Jerusalemite born in 1942, Nazak served as al-Ashiqin's principal composer and artistic director up until 1985. Under his direction the group produced some of its most famous songs. The majority of this repertory consisted of slightly modified shabī nationalist song-types (atābā, dalūnā, arīf al-ūl) set with the contemporary poetry of Mahmoud Darwish, Samih al-Qassam, Ahmad Qabour, Tawfiq al-Ziyad, Abu Sadaq, and the folk poets Yusuf al-Husum and Nuh Ibrahim. The combination of well-known contemporary and past Palestinian poetry with modernized shabī folk song created a new style at once indexical of contemporary themes and issues while rooted in Palestinian history and practice. In particular the group is credited with reviving the folk poetry and folk songs of the 1936–39 Great Arab Revolt. Dahbour and Nazak's formal training in folklore and performance offered a unique opportunity for reimagining the political songs of the past. Their use of folk poetry and song from the Great Arab Revolt offered new ways of performing resistance beyond the ideational constructs of the militarized fidāiyīn.

Four al-Ashiqin songs in particular have risen to the level of national anthems of Palestinian self-determination. “Min Sijin Akka” (From Akka Prison) (detailed in chapter 2) recounts the execution of three Palestinian rebels in 1930. “Yama Mawil al-Hawa” (Oh song of longing) (also detailed in chapter 2) is a mournful lullaby depicting the traumas of al-nakba and the rise of the resistance movement. The two remaining songs differ in that they dealt with contemporary themes and issues. “Hubbat al-Nar” (The fire swelled) and “Ishhad Ya Alam” (Witness oh world) were composed following the Israeli invasion of Beirut in 1982. Moreover each is based on pronounced dabke rhythms, using forceful sonic and textual signs of indigenous Palestinian lifeways and practices. “Hubbat al-Nar” (The fire swelled) is a call to arms for young Palestinians in the camps to rise up and defend their nation through the repeated articulation of space and place (see example 3.2) (EVIA 14-S6760).[24]

The fire swelled and the rifles sang,

Call to the youth, oh nation, and give hope.

The fire swelled from Akka to al-Tira

A handful of children raised on straw mats,

And now they became youth and did not forget the homeland.

And who would forget the paradise of Palestine,

The fire swelled.

The fires of resistance swell from Akka to al-Tira, two prominent Palestinian cities associated with the revolts of 1936 and 1948, calling on the poor youth “raised on straw mats” (refugees) not to forget their homeland.[25] The swelling of the fires of resistance is iconic of the rising generation of youth assuming a leadership role in the new liberation movement. The associations of Palestine, paradise, and collective memory are essential to understanding the meanings of this text. To “forget the homeland” is to forsake the nation in exile. Songs, dances, embroidery, and other performative media are powerful means of “remembering the nation.” Nested within the rhythms of the dabke, this line is a powerful resistance performative that, in its articulation, compels a remembering of Palestinian folk practice. The discourse of “remembering as resistance” implied in these lyrics, and at the heart of the larger Palestinian folk revival, produces the very effect that it names. The dabke line itself imbues the act of “remembering” a somatic materiality, flesh and bones moving together in a collective performance of Palestinian history and practice. Further, the associations of Palestine and paradise call forth a long-established discourse of martyrdom, sacrifice, and the afterlife. Palestine, as nation and as land, awaits the sacrifices of the martyr in order to be fulfilled. Extending the discourses of folk remembering and sacrifice further, the next verse calls forth the Palestinian wedding as a crucial metaphor of resistance.

The fire swelled, dignity, dignity.

The Palestinian with all dignity,

They became fidāīya [freedom fighters] and woe onto those who are blinding themselves.

The dawn of freedom will come through drawing the henna in blood.

The fire swelled.

The fires of resistance in this verse swell with dignity (karāma). In the first two lines of this verse the word karāma is repeated three times with a very specific intent. In Palestinian folk religious practices a karama is a miraculous act of God that defines and distinguishes the actions of a true martyr.[26] The word karama here conveys powerful associations of sacrifice and martyrdom in the service of God, a miracle sacralizing the resistance. The fires of resistance swell as an act of karama, a divine marker of God's approval. In addition the Arabic word karāma is also an important historical reference to the battle of Karama, where the combined forces of the fidāiyīn and the Jordanian army successfully thwarted an Israeli invasion in 1968.[27] Nested together the line brings together these deeply poetic meanings: in their dignity (karāma), with God's graces (karama), at the battle of Karama, “they became fidāīya” (freedom fighters). Although the combined Jordanian and Palestinian forces battled to what amounted to a stalemate with the Israeli forces, the battle served to give the fidāiyīn credibility in the larger Arab world and especially among Palestinians. It was the moment when “they became fidāīya.”

This verse then shifts quickly to one of the most powerful references in Palestinian protest poetry and song. The final line foretells that “the dawn of freedom will come through drawing the henna in blood.” On the night before a rural Palestinian wedding both the bride and groom are often ritualistically bathed, their hands decorated with ornate patterns of henna, a dark red ink. In this reference the henna is drawn in the martyr's blood. In his sacrifice the martyr is celebrated as groom to the nation.[28] The spilling of his blood enables the ritualized consummation of the nation and land, iconically conjoined through the metaphorical act of marriage.

Together, references to dignity, martyrdom, weddings, and the henna position the resistance as an associative index of the home, family, and fertility. Honor and dignity derive from acts of sacrifice both for the nation and within the home.[29] The groom, whose blood is spilled in sacrifice to the nation, is reminiscent of the bride, whose blood is spilled in the consummation and reproduction of the family. Each gives honor and dignity to the family/nation in their acts of sacrifice and serves to maintain the community through acts of social and biological reproduction.

The Palestinian wedding is perhaps the most powerful social space in which conceptions of nation are defined, redefined, and transmitted. In exile Palestinian wedding songs hold particular significance in their power to encode and engender ancestral lineage, gather dispersed family members, and reaffirm the health and perseverance of the local community through the passage of two of its members into adulthood. The path to freedom, as it is envisioned in “Hubbat al-Nar,” is refracted through personal sacrifice and the perseverance of indigenous Palestinian practices such as the henna and the wedding itself. In this way, the fires of struggle and dignity are one and the same, born of a collective history of shared experiences in exile. The pounding rhythm of this song, derived from the repertories of the dabke, equally indexes a wedding celebration. Both melodic and rhythmic structures of this song have their roots in the dabke. The melodic pattern of “Hubbat al-Nar,” in maqām sīgā pitched on A, is often adapted to dabke performance with various political and nonpolitical lyrics. The focus of the melodic line pivots on the interval between the root of the mode (A half-flat) and the neutral third below (F). The second half of the folk song proceeds upward stepwise in maqām sīgā, ultimately cadencing on a neutral sixth above the root. Rhythmically, “Hubbat al-Nar” is structured on a standard twelve- or six-beat dabke pattern (īqā maqsūm), shifting briefly into īqā haja in the final four cadential measures. Although this rhythmic shift is rarely noticed among participatory dance lines, rehearsed presentational groups will often mark this transposition by shifting dabke step patterns.

The song most associated with al-Ashiqin, however, is another refashioned dabke tune, this one narrating the Israeli siege of Beirut in the summer of 1982. “Ishhad Ya ῾Alam” (Witness oh world…) calls out for the international community to bear witness to the wounds of war and the attacks on Palestinians living in the camps of Beirut (see example 3.3). Not unlike its contemporary “Wayn al-Malayin?,” “Ishhad Ya ῾Alam” seeks to chastise the international community for standing complicit in the horrors of Beirut. However, while the Julia Butrous classic obfuscates indigenous poetics in favor of large-scale militarized melodic and rhythmic device, al-Ashiqin uses the tragedies of Beirut as a rallying cry to remember and revive indigenous Palestinian lifeways and practices (EVIA 14-S0768).[30]

Witness oh world, upon us and upon Beirut, witness the people's war.

And those who couldn't see through the riddle, oh Beirut, they are as blinded as the eyes of America.

By airplanes the first invasion, oh Beirut, invasion by land and by sea.

From Burj al-Shamali and from the sea, oh Beirut, Sur al-Hurra and Rashidiya.

Qalat al-Shaqif, witnessed, oh Beirut, those who stomped on the head of the snake.

The trees and the stones fought, oh Beirut, and someone brought the patrols.

The mountain of burdens that our people are carrying, oh Beirut, Bain al-Hilwa and al-Nabatiya,

And we struck down the enemy, oh Beirut, by throwing the stones of Sayida and al-Jayya.

The continuous use of signs localized in place and space speaks to common tropes of shabī nationalist song, rooting and singing the people directly into the land. In the same way poet-singers would collectively remember their ancestral villages in the years following al-nakba, here al-Ashiqin commemorates the sacrifices of the camps and villages fighting during the Israeli siege. Moreover repeated references to Beirut (the first hemistitch of each couplet ends in the word “Beirut”) and the Palestinian presence there elicit powerful associations of exile and dispossession. Further, al-Ashiqin will often make reference to the indissoluble links between the “cedars (Lebanon) and olives (Palestine).” Although such a link was more myth than reality, the juxtaposition of the two national signs served to reinforce the metaphor that the people were natural products of the land: mountains, stones, and trees collectively repelling foreign invasion. Specific references to place locate the people by their camps and villages, further reinforcing the direct associations of nation (as people) and nation (as land). Here those suffering in the Lebanese camps and villages define the nation. The following verses speak to international politics, the West's negligent attitude toward Palestinian suffering, and the massacres at Sabra and Shatila.

The airplanes covered the sky, oh Beirut, and the sea confronted the war.

The raven of death, oh Beirut, we challenged this death.

Witness oh world, upon us and upon Beirut, upon Sabra and the hundreds and hundreds,

Shatila and Barj al-Barajna, oh Beirut, in a museum they saw the massacre.

We didn't raise the banner of surrender, oh Beirut, and we didn't let our heads fall.

The path is difficult and long, oh Beirut, on it we place our purpose.

And those who couldn't see through the riddle, oh Beirut, are as blinded as the eyes of America.

In depicting the Israeli siege on Beirut “Ishhad Ya ῾Alam” laments the devastation of war and the apparent unwillingness of the international community to come to the aid of the defenseless refugees at Sabra, Shatila, and Barj al-Barajna. The “eyes of America” are blinded by the subterfuge of Israeli politics and influence. Americans, ignorant of Israeli aggression, are unable to “see through the riddle” of international politics and deception to bear witness to Palestinian anguish. Despite this, however, the fidāiyīn “didn't raise the banner of surrender” and therefore remain steadfast in the long arduous path to liberation.

Particularly important to this song is its use of indigenous Palestinian musical devices. In this respect both “Hubbat al-Nar” and “Ishhad Ya ῾Alam” are structured in modes (maqāmāt) in which the fundamental pitch is A half-flat. Both maqām sīgā and maqām huzām are quite common in indigenous Palestinian folk song and dabke performances. Huzām, which differs from sīgā in that it has an augmented second in its upper tetrachord, possesses a very distinct sound commonly associated with Palestinian folk song (al-shurūqī, al-muraba). Huzām pitched on Lā (A), places it within the register and pitch structure of several Palestinian indigenous instruments associated with wedding performances: mijwiz, yarghūl, and shabāba. The most important sign of indigeneity lies in the grain of the lead singer's voice. Hussein Munther (Abu Ali) sings these songs in a high tessitura, maintaining a strained and nasal “head voice” iconic of the long tradition of poet-singers. He further adds dramatic improvisatory flourishes before each song as if he were singing al-shrūqī or al-atābā. These sign clusters give the music a pronounced “rural” character. To further index a Palestinian indigenous sound, al-Ashiqin often performs this song with mijwiz (Palestinian indigenous double clarinet) accompaniment. The characteristic buzzing timbre and loose tuning of the mijwiz reinforce a performative indigeneity, through idiomatic, individuated, ornamented, and improvisational folk-song performance. The sound of the mijwiz as the predominant melodic accompaniment, nested within the rhythms and melodies of the dabke, creates a very important sonic image of the Palestinian nation based in indigenous performative practice. Where it is difficult to find a mijwiz player, al-Ashiqin will typically substitute a synthesized keyboard approximation (instructing the keyboardist to continually bend the pitches so as to keep the pitch ambiguous). In every instance it is extremely important for the group to articulate the sound of the “folk,” the voice of the masses (awt al-jamahīrī), in its performances of this celebrated song.

As a raucous dabke tune, with a driving beat and well-known folk melody, “Ishhad Ya ῾Alam” is typically performed at the end of the night, as the climax of the event. In each performance intertwining dabke lines form, weaving the performers and audience together into a human tapestry of music and movement. Often the musicians will vamp on the dabke rhythm and melody for an extended period of time, prolonging the dance as if it were being performed at a wedding. The crowds of circling dancers surround the stage in step to the beat. Their stomping feet reinforce the indigenous dabke rhythms and the collective remembering and witnessing of indigenous Palestinian song and dance.

4

The First Intifada and the Generation of Stones (1987–2000)

Intifada Culture and the Jīl al-ijāra (Generation of stones): 1987–1993

On December 8, 1987, as several hundred Palestinian laborers waited patiently to cross the Erez military checkpoint at the northern entrance to the Gaza Strip, an Israeli transporter careened off of the road into the line of waiting cars, crushing to death four and seriously injuring several others. Bystanders rushed to aid the victims but were unable to save those trapped underneath the rig. Within the hour Israeli radio broadcast news of the event in passing, another regrettable yet unavoidable traffic accident endemic to life in the territories. At first the news of the accident made little impact. Traffic deaths in Gaza are, unfortunately, nearly an everyday occurrence. However, in this particular instance, gossip began to swirl that this was in fact not an accident at all, but rather a premeditated act of vengeance carried out by a relative of an Israeli who had been stabbed two days earlier.[1] The driver of the Israeli truck, it was rumored, swerved purposefully into the car, attempting to inflict harm on the unsuspecting passengers. Quickly the crash came to be seen not as an unfortunate occurrence but as a malicious attack, and by nightfall leaflets were being circulated in Gaza calling for all residents of Jabaliya refugee camp, home to three of the victims, to assemble en masse at the cemetery to protest the “malicious killings.”[2]

Funeral processions for three of the Jabaliyan victims assembled that night in front of the adjoining Israeli military base, with mourners throwing stones into the compound. The next morning demonstrators constructed barricades and set tires ablaze in Jabaliya and in several other Gazan refugee camps in defiance of the sweeping curfew orders doled out the night before. Israeli patrols were sent out to quell the disturbances and to remove the hundreds of ad hoc roadblocks set up throughout the camps. Stones and hand-held incendiary devices (Molotov cocktails) pelted the armored jeeps as they attempted to make their way through the streets. Undeterred by tear gas, the Israeli patrols fired live ammunition directly into the crowds of protestors, killing fifteen-year-old Hatem al-Sissi. Soon after, a young expectant mother went into premature labor due to tear gas inhalation, causing the death of her prematurely born daughter, Fatmah al-Qidri.[3]

With these tragic deaths began the first Palestinian intifada (uprising). All told, this spontaneous grassroots rebellion against Israeli occupation continued for nearly six years, officially ending with the signing of the Declaration of Principles provisioned in the Oslo Accords. By that time Israeli occupation forces had killed 1,124 Palestinians, including 250 children. In contrast, forty-seven Israeli civilians and forty-three Israeli soldiers were reported killed during the six-year period.[4] In hindsight it is difficult to fully capture the tremendous groundswell of popular sentiment manifest in this uprising. Within the first year alone 5,385 demonstrations, labor strikes, and various protests were documented throughout the territories, an average of 103 demonstrations per week.[5] During just the first initial months 4,148 casualties were reported, including 390 Palestinian deaths.[6] Yet beyond the shocking numbers of mass arrests, curfews, injuries, and house demolitions, this incredible outpouring of public outrage against the occupation solidified a new direction in Palestinian history, politics, and culture. As a moment of intense national sentiment and reflection, generational change, and cultural revival, the intifada had an enormous impact on the ways many Palestinians conceptualized community, self, and other. While hundreds of thousands took to the streets, under the constant threat of injury and death, long-sedimented ideas of nation, resistance, violence, and politics became fields open to redress and possibility. New national intimacies were shaped, and new cultural identities formed. In popular civil disobedience, a new Palestinian national movement emerged, if only temporarily, founded on a renewed emphasis on the people, their shared experiences of dispossession, and the pervasive desire for self-determination.

In the many Israeli and Palestinian historical accounts that have since emerged on the intifada, the role of performative media (music, dance, poetry, drama, graffiti, and so on) has largely been characterized as epiphenomenal, a mere artistic reflection of larger determinate economic, political, and social forces. In this respect many have argued, perhaps unintentionally, that the expressive media that emerged during this time, while a powerful means of giving voice to experiences of dispossession, did little more than capture in artistic expression an especially powerful historical moment of resistance to a brutal occupation.[7] Yet it is striking how many of the Palestinians who participated in the demonstrations, walked the streets, and threw the stones, cited music, poetry, song, and dance as predominant means of social and political mobilization. Such media did more than simply reflect popular sentiment, comment on prevailing power imbalances, or describe national identities and affiliations. Rather, songs, dances, poetry, leaflets, graffiti, and the like in fact generated such sentiment, shaped national and political identities and affiliations, and provided performative spaces for subverting and resignifying entrenched power structures. Performative media provided an essential integrating tool for the masses walking the streets in public demonstrations, allowing for new cultural and political identities to emerge. Collective singing and dancing opened up spaces for the integration of new communities and ideologies. Such media did more than simply give voice to the subaltern experience of dispossession but in the act of performance offered an essential means of enduring that experience. Through performance and performative gesture new ways of imagining Palestinian resistance and nationalism emerged, opening spaces for contemplating new directions and new possibilities.

As thousands of demonstrators took to the streets across the West Bank and Gaza Strip, an underground grassroots consortium calling itself the United National Leadership of the Uprising (UNLU) formed, representing each of the four major political factions. Marwan Kafarna (PFLP), Tawfiq al-Mabhuh (PCP), Ihab al-Ashqar (Fatah), and Jamal Zaqut (DFLP) established the UNLU for the purpose of orchestrating the demonstrations, scheduling labor strikes, and defining collective goals and demands. Their leadership, revealed in a series of mass-produced communiqués (bayanāt), proved instrumental in maintaining the collective spirit of the protests, facilitating the means by which the intifada was to be enacted, and determining the appropriate methods of popular resistance.[8] The ultimate success of the UNLU in directing the intifada, however, arose not so much in their tactical efforts to tie down occupation forces in thousands of protests and demonstrations, nor in their expertise at controlling the media, but in their ability to facilitate a widespread cultural transformation of Palestinian society from within. This transformation was based largely on a movement away from the divisive system of political notables and personalities (a top-down approach) toward a revival of the “shab” (folk), the masses suffering under occupation (a bottom-up approach). In its anonymously signed underground communiqués, grassroots humanitarian efforts, and persistent calls for national solidarity, the UNLU became a powerful voice for a new direction in Palestinian politics: a new direction that promised an end to the occupation not by protracted military engagement with Israeli forces, but through concerted grassroots civil disobedience. Based on this model, the path to self-determination would be forged by the masses coming together in nonlethal collective protest.

This dramatic political transformation was in part instigated by a profound crisis in Palestinian culture and identity. In his ethnographic study of Palestinian folklore during the intifada, Nimr Sirhan identifies two determinate factors in generating the uprising: the subjugation and repression of everyday life (material anxieties), and the attack on indigenous Palestinian culture and practices (cultural anxieties).[9] In addition to resisting their deplorable living conditions and social, economic, and political oppression, Palestinians were expressing widespread fears of losing their “indigenous selves,” their “Palestinian roots,” to foreign occupation and encroachment. Based on his research the intifada was as much a cultural uprising as a political one. By taking to the streets Palestinians were making both a political and a cultural statement: that the occupation must end and that “Palestine” must live.

The UNLU strategically articulated both of these anxieties in its many directives. The desired political transformation to grassroots activism was indexically linked to a revival of an imagined “authentic,” “pure” Palestine of pre-1948. In folding together the political project of ending the occupation with an ongoing cultural renaissance of Palestinian folklore and practice, the UNLU fostered the development of a new political consciousness among segments of the population that had previously been neglected in nationalist discourse.[10] Rural Palestinians, refugee and youth communities, groups typically alienated from cosmopolitan politico-nationalist debate, were, by their proximity to “authentic” Palestinian folk practices and experiences, reimagined at the center of nationalist discourse. Seeking to mobilize these communities in the service of the uprising, local leadership groups became adept at inserting references to popular folklore in their communications. Explicit political demands and instructions were layered between poetic references to Palestinian history, nationalist leadership, and the importance of solidarity in confronting the enemy. It should be noted, however, that such articulations of the pure, uncontaminated, authentic Palestine were themselves byproducts of a larger politico-nationalist project of recruitment and conscription, a form of strategic essentialism whereby political leaders sought access to larger segments of the population.

This profound transformation of Palestinian resistance pivoted on a strategic resignification of cultural signs and practices. In an effort to better articulate both the political and cultural anxieties brought forth in the occupation, political leaders, artists, and intellectuals very strategically sought to reconceptualize the resistance movement away from the once-ubiquitous image of the uniformed freedom fighter (fidāī) to the more sympathetic image of adolescents demonstrating in the streets. These afāl al-ijāra (children of the stones) quickly superseded the uniformed fidāiyīn as the primary sign of the nation and the nationalist movement. In song, imagery, and rhetorical device the klāshin and RPG were replaced by the ijāra (stone), the maqlā (sling), and the maīa (slingshot) as tools of resistance. This demonstrative transition from rifle to stone—from terrorist to activist—was a powerful means of resignifying resistance from military engagement to grassroots civil disobedience while at the same time addressing cultural anxieties and enlisting the rural, poor, and youth communities into the struggle. The stone and sling were powerful signs of indigenous Palestinian lifeways and youth culture because of their associations with rural shepherding and folklore. Moreover this resignification successfully indexed the enormous power imbalance between Palestinian demonstrators and the Israeli army before an international audience of observers.

Cultural enthusiasts, folklorists, and musicians were quick to characterize the intifada in terms of a peasant/folk rebellion against a foreign colonial force not unlike the Palestinian rebellions of 1834 and 1936.[11] In his study of folklore during the intifada, Nimr Sirhan says that the intifada brought Palestinians back to their “authentic” selves.[12] It was an expression of resistance, “founded upon the practices of the people rooted in the heritage and emotions of Palestinians everywhere.”[13] These “practices of the people…heritage and emotions” could be found in the many cultural and artistic manifestations of the resistance movement. Poets, singers, and songs narrated the events of the uprising and called for the collective struggle to endure despite overwhelming opposition. Folk artists emerged to compose new works focusing specifically on the shabī character of children in the streets. Centers for the preservation of folk heritage, founded across the West Bank following al-naksa (1967), began sponsoring festivals for the performance and exhibition of indigenous performative and material folklore. All of these myriad efforts to preserve and revive Palestinian folk practices were articulated within the discourses of popular resistance and nationalism, where the gross disparity in power between stone-throwing youth and the Israeli army solidified the resistance as a noble and just cause against imperialism.

While Sirhan's notion that the intifada brought people back to their “authentic” selves may have been quite popular, to the point of cliché, it nevertheless reveals an important strategic essentialism operative at the time. As is certainly true in earlier periods of Palestinian history popular folklore became a tool for uniting people for political ends by reducing complex subjectivities to a core set of few attributes projected as fundamental, primordial, and immutable to Palestinian identity.[14] From the post-1948 jīl al-sumūd (generation of steadfastness) to the post-1967 jīl al-thawra (generation of revolution), this new jīl al-ijāra (generation of stones) was operationalized in popular folklore as a strategically imagined Palestinian identity, a construction. The so-called return to the authentic Palestine was yet another example of the way politico-nationalist groups strategically used different facets of identity in the service of their agendas, often shifting dramatically depending on context.

Nevertheless such reimaginings of Palestinian resistance were quite powerful in shaping collective notions of self and nation. In taking up the stone and slingshot against heavily armored Israeli tanks Palestinians were developing a new resistance performative intended to articulate with political and cultural discourses. Essentially such a tactic expressed the political need for an end to the occupation and the cultural need to preserve indigenous Palestinian history, lifeways, and practice. As the technologies of modern warfare (RPGs, Kalashnikov rifles, uniforms, and so on) had proven ineffective at stopping Israeli attacks in the refugee camps of Lebanon, Palestinians interpreted the adoption of nonlethal resistance, epitomized in the stone, slingshot, and Molotov cocktail, as a return to their Palestinian roots. To lay down the klāshin, take off the green army fatigues, and instead walk the streets wearing the kūfīya around one's head and neck, chanting indigenous songs and poetry, signified a strategic return to the folk, the embodied “pure” Palestine. Moreover this strategic revival of folk practices reinforced the notion that Palestinians were justifiably defending themselves from the aggressions of the Israeli military.

Such a dramatic transformation in the poetics of resistance rested on and was driven by an equally immense transformation in how Palestinian identity was articulated across various fields. In demanding self-determination, it was imperative to confront occupation forces armed with implements of Palestinian history and indigeneity, signs that reinforced and legitimized their defensive struggle against colonial encroachment. Songs, poetry, posters, graffiti, scarves, and stones were framed as powerful weapons of resistance, signs of history and presence in the land. Such implements were also important in framing the resistance as an engagement between a heavily trained and equipped colonial army and an indigenous population. Yet in the early phases of the uprising there was immense pressure to resort back to small-arms warfare and acts of terrorism.[15] Demonstrators were reluctant, perhaps fearful of taking on the enormous resources of the Israeli military with such limited weaponry. However, confronted with ubiquitous signs of national sentiment, sacrifice, and the sacredness of the stone, land, and history, across multiple fields of sociality, demonstrators became more and more convinced. Verses of folk poetry sung in the streets and painted on the city walls hammered home this ideational shift through their redundancy and affective power. The following protest chant reflects this sentiment, and it was a common theme in protest songs and graffiti at the time.[16]

There is no fear, There is no fear

For the stone has become the Kalashnikov

Oh world take a look, and people come see

Our stones are stronger than the Kalashnikov

Now is the time of defiance and not of fear

Whoever opposes us will become crazy

On the significance of the stone in intifada folklore, Nimr Sirhan goes so far as to say that among Palestinians under occupation it had become increasingly apparent that “there ultimately was no cure for the contamination of the land, but for the stone.”[17] The binary of pure/impure, sacred/profane, alluded to in Sirhan's prose is found throughout the expressive culture and media of this time. To cleanse the nation of its contamination required the resurgence of the “pure” Palestine, embodied in the sacred relationship between the people and the land.

To throw a stone, a piece of the homeland, at a foreign occupying soldier was a powerful resistance performative strategically engineered to reinforce the sacred relationship between the nation and the land. This relationship was further solidified in the act of transforming pieces of the land into implements of national resistance. The conflation of people and land is further exemplified in the act of throwing. In throwing a stone, Palestinians were performatively throwing pieces of the nation, pieces of their bodies, and pieces of the body politic at their enemies. The following muraba poem commonly sung at political demonstrations further explains the performative relationship between stone and man.[18]

Oh stones, oh stones

Do not leave our cramped quarters

You and I were raised together

Like the sea and the sailor

The slingshot (al-maqlā or al-maqlīa) was an equally powerful sign of peasant/folk resistance in its associations with the indigenous practice of shepherding. Young boys watching their family's flocks would routinely use a slingshot in defense against predators and to prevent strays from wandering off. Similar to the shepherd's flute (shabāba), the slingshot was a sign of rural folk practice, youth culture, and linkages to the “idyllic” Palestinian past. As Abu Faris, a musician and activist during the first intifada, would remind me, “many of the great heroes of Palestinian history were shepherds, al-Qassam in particular.” Interestingly it is common knowledge that al-Qassam was not a shepherd but a well-educated sheikh. The appropriation of the memory of al-Qassam as a shepherd was essential to a particular framing of the intifada as an extension of the Great Arab Revolt of 1936. As the slingshot became the preferred weapon in the streets of Gaza, protesting youth, so it was thought, reclaimed their indigenous folk heritage. Urban youth taking aim at an Israeli tank with only a stone and a sling consecrated a performative gesture of self-defense, courage, resistance, history, and a righteous and noble cause. In local dialect the words al-maqlā and al-maqlīa are both derived from the same root (q-1 -), meaning to throw or cast out, to expel, oust, or evict. As young boys took to the streets with their slingshots, they were in essence giving a performative display of expelling and evicting, casting out, occupation forces from Palestinian lands, utilizing implements of Palestinian history.

In music, the revival of indigenous folk practice and imagery (slingshot, stone, youth) was aided by the ongoing folk revival taking place in the territories since the early 1970s. In the West Bank and Gaza the thawrī songs of the PLO were never as popular as politicized shabī folk songs (atābā, alā dalūna, and arif al-ūl) performed by local musicians at political rallies, demonstrations, festivals, and other social events. Since the early 1970s popular heritage festivals in the West Bank featured folk-poets (zajjālī, ādī, shārī) as representatives of national culture and practice. Inside the territories activists recorded and produced cassettes in makeshift “underground” studios, distributing their work at rallies and demonstrations (see figure 4.1). Many of these artists assumed pseudonyms to avoid prosecution. For example, Sabaye al-Intifada (Youth of the Intifada), Ibna al-Bilad (Son of the Nation), and al-Amal al-Shabi (The People's Work) were the underground names of important artists and ensembles working inside the resistance movement. A remarkable photo, taken by Neal Cassady in 1988, captures one of the thousands of demonstrations taking place during the first few months of the intifada. A processional crowd of young men, heads wrapped in kūfīyāt, march carrying makeshift flags mounted to pieces of lumber. At the center of the procession two demonstrators assume a leadership position. One carries a boom box, the other a bullhorn. No doubt, the bullhorn leads the procession in directing call and response chants, while the boom box provides musical accompaniment (see figure 4.1).

For musicians inside the territories several obstacles prevented local protest song from fully taking shape. Without basic recording studios or a commercial infrastructure to accommodate locally produced cassettes, the development of Palestinian protest song “inside” the territories was slow and often dependent on imports from Syria, Jordan, and Lebanon. In addition, during the early intifada years singers were harshly prosecuted by the Israeli government for incitement. Concert halls were shut down, their doors chained, only hours before a performance was scheduled to begin. Likewise musicians were commonly arrested or detained the night before a scheduled concert. Activists found in possession of political media (leaflets, recordings, books, and so on) also faced steep consequences, arrest, and physical abuse.

Suhail Khoury, a young musician and activist from Nablus, became a central figure in the West Bank music scene during the early months of the intifada. As a classically trained clarinetist and composer active in the resistance movement, Khoury focused his talents on producing music in support of the intifada. His first project, Sharrar (Spark), was a collection of reconstituted folk songs designed to spread news of the intifada throughout the territories. The recording was intended to serve as an immediate response to the events of the previous days—the defeat of Israeli forces in Nablus, the numbers of dead and wounded, the scheduled boycotts and demonstrations, and so on. Speaking of this first intifada cassette-recorded and produced inside the territories, Khoury envisioned Sharrar as a type of “musical newspaper” designed to encourage support for and spread news of the uprising across disparate Palestinian communities. Through the immediacy of the music audiences from distant camps and villages could learn about what others were doing in the struggle. Khoury hoped to counteract the policy of “divide and rule” implemented by the Israeli occupation forces by giving a communicative voice to demonstrators reaching across different corners of the territories.

With the completed cassettes sitting in a box in the backseat of his car, Khoury was stopped at a military checkpoint. The finished tapes were immediately confiscated, and Khoury was taken into custody. After a highly publicized trial, Khoury was convicted of incitement based on a colonial ordinance left on the books since the early British mandate. Seeking to deter other musicians from producing and distributing similar recordings, Israeli authorities sought to make an example of Khoury, sentencing him to fifteen months in prison. Of the mandated fifteen months, Khoury served only six. However, while incarcerated he was subjected to various forms of physical and psychological abuse, torture, and mistreatment. Upon his release, Khoury rejoined the uprising as a celebrated political prisoner and activist.

Khoury's highly publicized trial generated a great deal of interest in Sharrar. Palestinians throughout the territories clamored to find a copy of the cassette that caused such a severe response from Israeli authorities. Unbeknownst to Khoury, one copy of the original cassette managed to find its way into the local community and was copied well over a hundred thousand times. Sharrar emerged as the first locally produced intifada cassette inside the territories and signaled the beginning of a new repertory of protest song recorded, produced, and performed entirely under occupation. In one of our interviews Khoury recollected:

People wanted to hear for themselves the songs that caused the Israeli government to react so severely. It was one of the first tapes directly about Israel, made here in Palestine, based on common folk songs with new political lyrics. There were other singers in Lebanon, Syria, or Jordan, but this was about the intifada from the inside. It was about events that happened only days before, and then people could listen to it and immediately hear what was going on in Nablus or Gaza or Jerusalem…. We needed the music to feel united with one another. People couldn't see the demonstrations taking place in other towns and villages, didn't know if anyone had been killed. They didn't know what was going on. With these cassettes we were trying to spread news, like a newspaper, to people, letting them know what was going on, helping people to see the big picture. So that they wouldn't feel like they were alone.

What is ironic is that the Israelis threatened to sentence me to ten years in prison. So everyone wanted to know what kind of tape would cause such a huge reaction. People were clamoring to get a copy of it, wondering what was on it that would cause such a reaction…. Soon it was everywhere. I still to this day do not know how one [of the tapes] got out.

THE RISE OF HAMAS AND ANASHĪD AL-ISLĀMĪ

As the demonstrations continued throughout 1988 several other sociopolitical organizations formed in opposition to the UNLU. The most significant of these was al-Harakat al-Maqawma al-Islāmīya (Islamic Resistance Movement), known colloquially by its Arabic acronym, Hamas. Established as a Gazan branch of the Muslim Brotherhood, Hamas was formed in 1988 by a group of highly educated Palestinian university students and activists representative of a new generation that rejected the entrenched system of family and amūla patronage and loyalty. In contrast to the PLO, Hamas framed its activities in specifically Islamic terms. This is revealed by its continued insistence on preserving the land as a sacred waqf, an inalienable gift endowed by God. As such, no part of Palestine could be relinquished to foreign (that is, non-Muslim) occupation. Although Fatah often claimed a sense of legitimacy, using religious rhetoric, Hamas distanced itself from the PLO because of its strict religious interpretation of the nationalist movement. Among poor disenfranchised refugees in Gaza and the West Bank, Hamas provided an unwavering hard-line stance against the occupation and hence emerged over time as a formidable political counterbalance to the PLO. Their social and political activities were most visible through a diverse network of local community organizations, charitable funds, educational institutions, mosques, and other religious societies.[19]

In direct contrast to the various secular nationalists and socialists of the PLO, Hamas proclaimed a certain degree of religious legitimacy to lead the resistance. What is more, given their commitment to social welfare programs and charitable organizations, Hamas gained a reputation for honesty and philanthropy in the camps and crowded urban spaces. Arafat and his political cohorts were notoriously suspected of widespread corruption, nepotism, and political maneuvering to secure their leadership. Hamas, as envisioned in the persona of its spiritual leader, Sheikh Ahmad Yassin, presented itself as honest, pious, and committed to Palestinian liberation through social enrichment and a return to Islamic jurisprudence.

Coupled with the rise of Hamas, a second stream of religiously oriented protest “song” (anashīd) emerged alongside the shabī nationalist folk songs of Fatah and the PLO.[20] Between the two repertories there were significant differences in poetics, text, instrumentation, and melodic and rhythmic device. While secular nationalists of both the shabī and thawrī catalogues drew from an established lexicon of Marxist third-world guerrilla warfare against imperialism and the preservation of a specific folk ethos, anashīd was derived largely from the language of the Qur'an. References to Qur'anic scripture and the sunna (the recorded deeds of the Prophet) formed the core vocabulary for imagining Palestinian liberation. The nation itself was envisioned as a pious community of believers, or umma. To this end, anashīd presented a reconceptualized vision of the nation framed within the discourses of religion and faith. Land provided a powerful connection to the greater Islamic world and the history of Islamic development. Palestinian liberation was promulgated not specifically for the restoration of indigenous culture and heritage, but rather for the redemption of the holy land from foreign occupation. Essentially the nation was detached from its direct associations with the land and instead reinscribed into the greater Islamic history and community. In text these songs often glorified the lives and deeds of famous Muslim heroes: the Prophet Mohammad, Saladin, Sheikh Izz al-Din al-Qassam, and others. References to famous battles between Muslim forces and the enemies of Islam were also common.[21]

In musical device the differences between shabī and anashīd repertories were at times strident. Many pious Muslims believed that the dance-inspired dabke songs of secular nationalists were at best problematic in terms of religious jurisprudence and modesty. Public dancing was not considered an appropriate activity in mixed (male/female) contexts. By and large, anashīd did not contain many of the core components of shabī nationalist song. Indigenous folk instruments such as the shabāba and yarghūl were omitted as well as classical instruments such as the nai, ūd, and qanūn. Vocalists predominantly sang solo melodic extemporizations on Islamic texts without accompaniment or, in rare cases, accompanied by a chorus of unison male voices. In song style, accent, and declamation these songs emulated Qur'anic recitation (tajwīd) and the more classically derived religious song forms. The majority of these texts were sung in an unmetered free rhythm. However, it was not uncommon for vocalists to be accompanied by modest percussion, perhaps one or two daffāt (frame drums).[22]

The absence of melodic accompaniment placed considerable emphasis on the voice itself and the meanings inherent in the politico-religious texts. Vocalists were celebrated for their ability to engage the minds of their audience and inspire a sense of religious purpose and dedication. The aesthetic of religious determination and piety carried through into the performance environment. In contrast to the participatory dabke songs of groups like al-Ashiqin, anashīd was predominantly presentational. In these performance spaces a single vocalist would perform before a seated audience with little direct interaction. The absence of physical interaction (dancing, collective gestures, singing, and so on) between performers and audience was said to preserve the purity of the texts and the sincerity, dignity, and piety of the performance.

The absence of melodic instrumentation and dance rhythms in Islamic anashīd can be further explained more practically in terms of political strategy. According to the musician and activist ‘Issa Boulos, many of the anashīd performers were not well trained and therefore couldn't include instruments in their performances. Moreover, at a time when Hamas was strategically attempting to present itself as a moral/ethical counterbalance to the PLO, it was important for Hamas to reinforce, if not campaign, its overt religiosity. In terms of music, this meant creating stark distinctions between anashīd and contemporary shabī protest song. To emphasize the idea that melodic instruments (and dancing) were forbidden then becomes a strategic means of reinforcing the idea that Hamas, whose music has no melodic instruments (or dancing), is somehow more aligned with God. The alignment of anashīd with the aesthetics of Quranic recitation carves out a performative space between Hamas and the PLO and further indexes a sense of religiosity and piety.

SABREEN AND THE “NEW PALESTINIAN SOUND”

A third stream of resistance song emerged during the intifada by way of the Palestinian ensemble Sabreen. Although Sabreen had been founded in 1980, it wasn't until four years later, on the release of their second album, Dukhan al-Barakin (Smoke of the volcanoes) (1984), that they began to influence Palestinian music in Israel and the West Bank.[23] Unlike the musicians and ensembles traveling throughout the region performing in refugee camps and political rallies, Sabreen was one of the first ensembles to have had a significant impact among middle- and upper-class, university-educated Palestinians. Formed of a mixture of Palestinian and Palestinian Israeli musicians, Sabreen developed into one of the better known and internationally recognized nationalist groups. Their fame derived in large part from their incorporation of cosmopolitan musical device, and the blending of Western and Arab musical forms, instruments, and aesthetics with the poetry of well-known writers such as Mahmoud Darwish, Samih al-Qassam, and Hussein Barghouthi.

Ironically, when the group began performing in support of the uprising they simultaneously incorporated several Arab instruments so as to reach a broader Palestinian audience. Prior to this time, Sabreen used only Western instruments in their compositions (keyboards, drums, guitar, and so on). With the rise of an indigenized Palestinian nationalism following the massacres at Sabra and Shatila, the group leader and composer Said Murad began writing music using specifically Arab instruments. In an early interview Murad states, “The Lebanese experience affected us deeply…we had been using organ and drums for a long time. We wanted to reach ‘the street’—simpler songs, more down to earth. We faced a very serious question. Should we put the western instruments aside and use the ud and the qanūn instead? Or both?…The question was how to make music that was personally convincing and how to discuss the Palestinian crisis in an appealing way.”[24]

The result was Dukhan al-Barakin (Smoke of the volcanoes) (1984), a compilation of newly composed songs set to texts by Mahmoud Darwish, Hussein Barghouthi, Abd al-Latif ‘Aql, Abd al-Aziz al-Maqalah, and Samih al-Qassam. Though many of these poems were over twenty years old by the time of release, Sabreen found their commentary of arrest, torture, and sacrifice to be extremely relevant to the sociopolitical situation facing Palestinians in the mid- to late 1980s. The initial success of Dukhan al-Barakin, however, was felt only among small pockets of cosmopolitan nationalists, students, and urban audiences in Jerusalem and Ramallah, remaining largely unknown in the greater Palestinian diaspora.[25] Nevertheless these small successes encouraged the group to continue recording in this style, but with more emphasis on reaching out to the mainstream.

Sabreen's second major project, Mawt al-Nabi (Death of the Prophet), was recorded as the uprising first began in 1987. On this album the group focused on the work of the West Bank poet Hussein Barghouthi. In both of these two major albums Sabreen distinguished itself from its nationalist contemporaries by emphasizing the blending of indigenous and cosmopolitan musical aesthetics. Similar to the programmatic works of Marcel Khalife, the political ballads of Mustapha al-Kurd, and the guitar-infused power anthems of Ahmad Qabour, Sabreen attempted to forge new ground by folding in Western pop forms, harmonies, and instruments. The influences of jazz, blues, and reggae are noticeable in the many syncopated bass lines, back-beat rhythms, and guitar accompaniment. The use of cosmopolitan musical devices, however, did not necessarily translate into mass popularity among local audiences. In fact among youth outside urban areas and university campuses, Sabreen was marginal, if not completely unknown. Their “new Palestinian sound” conflicted with the many shabī nationalist musicians performing at the time. Instead Sabreen found its audience among university students in urban centers.

The mixing of Arab and Western elements in Sabreen's music speaks to an important aesthetic discourse pervasive throughout Palestinian music. Working from within both Israeli and Palestinian musical frames, Sabreen was highly versed in Western music theory and performance practice. Their exposure to Western popular music provided a diverse experience from which to draw. Early performances in the Jerusalem music scene formed the foundation for hybridity and innovation in their work. However, on another level, the fact that Sabreen arose from within a cosmopolitan artistic community meant that they were less encumbered by exilic nationalism, folk preservation, politics, and aesthetics. In her research on patterns of adaptation, preservation, and innovation in Arab musical life, Anne Rasmussen offers an interesting theory to describe this process. Based on the notion of “marginal preservation,” Rasmussen theorizes the ways pressures to preserve “authentic” musical practices are differentially allocated between communities in the homeland and those in diaspora.[26] Whereas Palestinian artists in diaspora were often compelled to remain within the nationalist constructs of indigenous music and dance in order to preserve and promote their “authentic” Palestinian identity, Sabreen had little need to convince anyone that they were “real” Palestinians. Operating inside the territories they were less constrained to innovate, augment, and/or develop music and dance in ways that were perhaps unavailable or inconceivable to Palestinian artists in diaspora.

The Post-Oslo “Honeymoon” and Voices of Peace and Reconciliation: 1993–1998

Throughout the intifada internationally televised images of well-equipped Israeli troops firing at unarmed teenagers caused widespread criticism of the Israeli government both in the Arab world and beyond. Despite diverse attempts to crush the uprising, support for the boycotts and demonstrations strengthened. With each passing month it became clear that Israel had to reassess its policies in Gaza and the West Bank. In the face of staggering numbers of casualties, the intifada produced a poetics of resistance in the territories immune to conventional modes of state repression. As the severity of state terror increased, demonstrators and activists found greater support among the mainstream Palestinian population and effectively contributed to a widespread political move left toward the Labor Party, led by Yitzhak Rabin.

Under these circumstances, negotiations were in Prime Minister Rabin's best interests for ending the uprising. On his election Rabin promised to freeze settlement construction and stated a willingness to negotiate with the PLO.[27] In doing so he quickly restored strained diplomatic relations with a United States administration determined to see an end to the impasse. A cautious optimism emerged among some Palestinians toward the new Israeli government. And when it was revealed in the summer of 1993 that a secret agreement had been reached between Israel and the PLO, shockwaves reverberated throughout the world. The agreement provided for a mutual recognition between the two parties and further established a framework for the establishment of an autonomous Palestinian entity in the Occupied Territories. The sudden disclosure that Israeli and PLO officials had been meeting secretly outside Oslo, Norway, for several months, and that the two parties had reached a momentous agreement, ushered in a new period of hope, reconciliation, and negotiations between Israelis and Palestinians.

Following the signing of the Declaration of Principles (DOP) on September 13, 1993, a tremendous social and cultural transformation occurred throughout Palestinian communities in Israel, the Occupied Territories, and the near diaspora. Though the DOP was intentionally ambiguous and open to multiple interpretations, many believed it to be the foundation from which an Israeli-Palestinian dialogue would soon emerge.[28] Palestinian leadership inside the territories was strongly divided on the DOP along political lines. Islamist factions were quick to criticize the recognition of Israel and the renouncement of armed resistance. Socialist and other nationalist parties were equally troubled by the document's obvious ambiguity as well as its many concessions. Yet by all accounts discussion and support for the accords hinged on the assumption that final status parameters (final borders, Jerusalem, and refugee rights) would be negotiated directly between the PLO and the Israeli state.[29] Arafat, in signing the DOP, had finally received Israeli recognition and had transformed himself in diplomatic circles from a “terrorist” to a “statesman.” In so doing, Arafat was given the promise of future negotiations on final status issues, and permission to officially return to the territories from exile. Israel, for that matter, was lauded for making a historic compromise and a genuine commitment to negotiate a resolution to a nearly hundred-year colonial conflict. Both parties soon garnered international accolades from the United States and the European community for their efforts. Yitzhak Rabin, Shimon Peres, and Yasser Arafat were all awarded the Nobel Peace Prize, and photos of the “historic handshake” on the lawn of the White House circulated throughout the world as a sign of the end to the conflict.

The ramifications of this historic handshake were felt throughout the Middle East. Watching Arafat and Rabin stand together in Washington, D.C., Jordan's King Hussein was now free to pursue his own formal peace treaty with Israel.[30] In fact the day after the DOP was signed, Jordan and Israel had already agreed to a working agenda for peace negotiations. By July 1994 Jordan and Israel had issued a joint declaration ending hostilities and on October 26, 1994, signed a formal treaty at Wadi Araba. Within three years of the DOP Israel had formally established diplomatic ties with fifteen Arab states, investment and trade had suddenly become possible, and the Arab boycott was virtually lifted.

The sudden optimism and hope brought about by a year of secret negotiations between the PLO and Israel had tremendous social and cultural effects. The culture of mourning, sacrifice, and revolution had been seemingly lifted, and families were no longer deterred from openly and publicly celebrating life-cycle events such as weddings, births, and circumcisions. Concerts were held in the streets, and musicians were called on to perform music for the Palestinian nation and its new era of peace and reconciliation. The largest such celebration heralded the triumphant return of Yasser Arafat and his “Tunisian” cadre of aides and comrades to Gaza on July 1, 1994.[31] Standing in the sunroof of his limousine Arafat waved to the assembled crowds wearing his characteristic kūfīya and flashing the victory sign with both hands. Ironically, despite all the ceremony of Arafat's triumphant return, in these early months few had actually seen the agreement he had signed. The concessions Arafat had made in exchange for his return to Gaza were largely unknown to the general Palestinian public, who were under the impression that a genuine peace process was under way, and that within a few short years an independent Palestinian state would be established.[32] Celebrations emerged in the streets of Gaza, Ramallah, Amman, Beirut, and other Palestinian cities and villages. As a meaningful gesture, Palestinian men in the camps began kissing their rifles and handguns as a sign of both victory and farewell to the violence of the last five years. Working for National Geographic, journalist Alexandra Avakian photographed a Palestinian man holding his young daughter in his arms while they both kiss the barrel of his pistol, a group of elder women standing in the background singing zaghrūd in celebration of the end of violence (see figure 4.2).[33] Gestures such as these were an incredibly poignant means of interpreting the moment, as many believed they were witnessing the end of the occupation and the birth of the independent Palestinian nation-state.

For any musician who had made a career singing in support of the intifada, the DOP presented two career choices: either follow the tides of hope and peace and sing in support of the peace process, or reject the accords and continue the protests of the intifada. Soon after the historic handshake there was a quiet in the streets. Rallies, demonstrations, protests, and other politically charged social spaces were quickly replaced by political debates, peace rallies, and victory celebrations. In effect intifada singers were out of business. With the struggle seemingly over, or at least on hold for the time being, nationalist musicians were left with no audience for their work. Intifada media seemed no longer necessary in a time of negotiation and hope for a just and equitable peace.

For many intifada musicians across the near diaspora the post-Oslo period meant a return to the already saturated workforce. In Jordan, Baladna founder Kamal Khalil, unable to find audiences for his political songs, returned to working as a carpenter and brick mason. In Syria and Lebanon, several founding members of al-Ashiqin turned their efforts to establishing children's dabke troupes and other cultural heritage organizations. And in Jerusalem, Mustapha al-Kurd focused his attention on establishing an Arab music academy. Other once-famous musicians went back to day labor, driving cabs, and/or seeking odd jobs outside of the refugee camps, performing music at weddings and family celebrations wherever opportunities arose. The more fortunate were able to obtain work permits and visas in the larger Arab world, the Gulf States, America, Brazil, or Canada.

There were, however, many substantial opportunities within the developing Palestinian National Authority (PA) for those musicians and artists close to the PLO and its dominant political party, Fatah. These artists were given bureaucratic positions, working to develop a sense of national affiliation and loyalty among the people and the newly formed PA. A former intifada singer, now a high-ranking official in the Ministry of Culture, characterized the process as “using traditions and customs [taqalīd wa adāt] as a means to help ease the [PLO's] transition from an ‘outside’ political formation in exile to an ‘inside’ national government [naām barra lī naām jūwa].” The rigid social forces of wasta (nepotism, connections) created a great deal of animosity between artists left off the state payroll. Still other artists refused to join the PA for fear that they would lose creative control of their work and be turned into propagandists for the new regime. Many highly talented and well-trained artists declined participation in the government for these reasons, choosing rather to pursue their art in the private sector as freelance musicians, teachers, or administrators.

Where formal employment in the developing Palestinian public sector was either unavailable or unattractive, artists found support in the many cultural nongovernmental organizations (NGOs) developing in the West Bank and Gaza strip. With the opening of dialogue and international recognition of the peace process, foreign aid began to flood into newly established NGOs devoted to Palestinian cultural and humanitarian needs. Underground intifada singers in the West Bank were courted to establish presentational folkloric dabke groups, teach private lessons, or administer music and heritage programs in Palestinian refugee camps funded by international aid agencies. Many of these groups have over the years developed strong reputations and received critical acclaim in the international art world for their efforts to provide artistic instruction to Palestinian children.

SABREEN AND THE RISE OF RECONCILIATION

While the majority of frontline resistance singers eventually faded from public view, there were several groups legitimately inspired by the widespread feelings of hope and optimism brought about by the Oslo period. Among these, Sabreen is perhaps the best remembered. During the “post-Oslo honeymoon” Sabreen released its fourth major album, Jay al-amam (Here come the doves), in 1994 (see figure 4.3). Their signature piece, “The Doves Are Coming,” is often cited as the hallmark anthem of the period.[34]

Your food is a locust,

Dipped in a drop of honey.

Your dress, burlap and camel hair.

Your shoes are thorns,

Your path is thorns, its flowers few.

The moon on the outer edge,

A prophet exiled.

Calling in the wilderness:

Widen the roads, For the deer of love and peace.

Widen the roads, The doves are coming from the mountain,

The doves are coming.

Taken as a whole, Here Come the Doves presents a truly imaginative tapestry of textual and musical dialogue. However, while it is true that its signature piece is indeed a testament to new feelings of hope and peace, in looking carefully at the remaining tracks it becomes apparent that this album is less a political celebration of the peace process per se than a pronouncement of a new Palestinian aesthetic. The statement being made is not of political accomplishment but of cultural dialogue and catharsis. Sabreen's liner notes state that it is their desire to create a new voice, a “modern originality,” akin to that of Sayed Darwish and Umm Kulthum.[35] Their hope was to develop their own individual style born of transcending traditional musical relationships. To do this, composer Said Murad sought to balance “old and new,” “East and West,” melody and harmony in his compositions. “The world has become a small village, and music breaks down the borders and overcomes distances. It weaves diverse elements into one continuous and harmonious weaving—a contribution to the formation of the new Palestinian, the new Arab, the new Mediterranean.”[36] This new Palestinian seeks to break down political borders through musical dialogue and discussion with the “outside” non-Arab world.

Musically the collection of songs on Here Come the Doves navigates diverse terrain. The opening track, “The Gypsy,” pays homage to the reggae of Bob Marley with overemphasized strummed up-beats, reggae-esque set drumming, and syncopated bass lines. Yet the melodic contour, song-style, and mode (bayatī) are quintessentially Arab. “Ramallah 1989” is reminiscent of a slow mournful blues. “Yammay” is a stylish rendition of an indigenous Palestinian folk song given new life through virtuosic tabla, harmonic ostinati, and the use of the lesser-known Egyptian reed-flute, qawala, instead of the traditional Palestinian shabāba. “Thirty Stars” is an experimentation of sorts, mixing Latin jazz beats and harmonies with Arab melodic ornamentation, contouring, and extemporization on the ūd, violin, and nai. The most explicitly Arab piece on the album, “St. George,” also frustrates simple definition by its use of chordal ostinati and a pronounced electric bass line.

The texts of these pieces are equally enigmatic in form and content. Though each of the texts is composed by Hussein Barghouthi, there are only sparse moments of continuity between songs. Barghouthi's disjointed poetic style defies linear narrative and thus follows nicely in the tradition of Sabreen's earlier work with Mahmoud Darwish and Samih al-Qassam. In contrast to Darwish and al-Qassam, however, Barghouthi brings a fresh voice and style to an otherwise exhausted repertory of resistance poetry. As a sociology professor at Bir Zeit University, Barghouthi was more familiar with the popular slang and dialect of the younger generation of protestors and activists demonstrating in the West Bank.[37] He developed a more conversational, free-flowing poetic style, incorporating the cadence and dialect of his university students. This was more accessible to and idiomatic of West Bank youths than the canonized Darwish and al-Qassam. Of the more politically charged texts on this album, “Thirty Stars” is particularly illustrative of the hope, uncertainty, and youth culture characteristic of the time.

Thirty stars twinkling over a cypress valley,

Thirty stars twinkling,

My heart is an open cavern,

If only the pretty one

Would understand

That the moon is wounded,

But hope is power.

Thirty stars falling over a cypress valley,

Thirty stars falling.

Half of a lifetime falling over a cypress valley

Half of a lifetime of falling

And the days have changed,

And dreams exchanged,

And a cypress tree has broken.

Imagery of the night, its protective stars twinkling over a cypress valley, giving light to the darkness of war and occupation, each speaks to the stock repertory of intifada trope and metaphor. The cypress, a sign of northern Palestine/southern Lebanon, has been broken by the falling of stars and the wounding of the moon. Any source of light in darkness (stars, moon, fire) is said to represent life, hope, and resistance. Half a lifetime of falling stars signifies the sacrifice of Palestinians throughout forty years of occupation, resulting in the loss of days and the exchange of dreams. If only the youth of Palestine, or “the pretty ones,” would understand that despite the darkness of occupation there is power in hope for a better future.

Barghouthi's most powerful writing follows shortly after in the song “Ramallah 1989.” Sabreen sets this text as a slow blues, incorporating swung eighths, melodic and harmonic emphasis on a pentatonic blues scale (lowered third and seventh, dominant seventh chordal harmonies), and a pulsating backbeat brought out by acoustic guitar and creative brushwork on cymbals and snare drum.

Sometimes I walk alone

In the middle of the night,

And the night is like a river

My hands in my pockets

I whistle, or smoke

In so much bitterness.

The whole town is shattered,

No one around

But the void and the army…

I stand by the fence,

My chin in my hand.

I stand and think, how?

All that's left of a lifetime

Is a month, merely.

Yet I walk, whistle, or smoke,

In so much bitterness.

A blues aesthetic seems ironically appropriate for the setting of this text. Contemplative, mournful, and grief-stricken, “Ramallah 1989” eulogizes the loss of social and cultural vitality long associated with the city of Ramallah. The bitterness of witnessing the devastation of such a vibrant artistic community causes one to walk the night smoking, whistling, looking for answers. In song and text, however, there are no answers. The listener is left to contemplate, or to taste, the final phrase, hayk min kathar al-qahar (in so much bitterness). Al-Qahar, while figuratively translated here as bitterness, has a multilayered meaning. From the root q-h-r, al-qahar literally means to be subjugated by force, vanquished, overpowered, or defeated. The “bitterness” of “Ramallah 1989” lies not only in the loss of a lively community and city to occupation, but also in the loss of hope and agency to even resist that occupation.

In relation to the established repertories of resistance song, “Ramallah 1989” is truly transgressive. Written at the height of the intifada, it is one of the very few songs that refuses to characterize the resistance uncritically as a heroic struggle of the masses. Rather it very honestly depicts the intifada and its devastation in terms of a very personalized experience of wandering the streets at night without direction, an experience nonetheless shared among many. Moving beyond the empty rhetoric of faceless “resistance,” “Ramallah 1989” argues for a new style of Palestinian song that deals with personal experience and emotion. There are no right answers, it seems. “Victory,” “liberation,” and “resistance” as they are characterized in countless intifada songs are revealed as illusory byproducts of political discourse and do not capture the lifeways and experiences of the people grappling for meaning within its cages. Its critical imagining of the resistance in terms of personal experience, loss, and the bitterness of occupation marks “Ramallah 1989” as truly revolutionary in comparison to established repertories of nationalist song.

Immediately following “Ramallah 1989” Sabreen intentionally places the title track, “The Doves Are Coming,” to offer the listener some relief from the despair and emptiness of the previous song. Perhaps Sabreen has revealed that the ultimate solution to “Ramallah's” bitterness and subjugation is found in the plea of “Doves” to “widen the roads” for the coming of peace. Indeed the coming of peace is likened to the return of an exiled prophet, the dawning of a new moon. “Its food is locusts” (plague, violence, hatred), its “dress is burlap,” and its “path is thorns” (difficult, painful, treacherous). The coming of peace here is not the anticipated glorious victory espoused in the vitriolic nationalist songs of the intifada. Rather it is signified in the difficult, often-painful path of dialogue and reconciliation.

What distinguishes each of these songs from its contemporaries is an innovative, if not trangressive, approach to poetry, melody, lyric, and instrumentation. Inasmuch as Sabreen's hybridized approach to melody and rhythm signaled a new compositional style, so too did their lyrics enable new possibilities for depicting Palestinian trauma and experience. For a group such as Sabreen, which had made its name singing in support of the intifada, Here Come the Doves is a bold statement. Touted for its strong message of redemption through dialogue, Here Come the Doves provides a compelling benchmark of artistic and cultural production during the early post-Oslo years. Though some have labeled Sabreen's work during this period as merely reactive celebration, a close reading of the songs themselves reveals this to be a superficial interpretation.[38] True, several of the songs on this album are explicitly supportive of the peace process (“St. George,” “Thirty Stars,” “The Doves Are Coming”). Yet in large part the overall power of this album lies not in its overt message of peace, but rather in its drive to innovation and dialogue across rigid cultural, political, and aesthetic borders. Peace, in and of itself, is never the overt theme of the album. Rather Here Come the Doves is a testament to aesthetic and political dialogue between Palestinian and Israeli, Arab and Jew, East and West. Sabreen's stated desire for creating a “modern originality” entailed drawing from a diverse tapestry of musical and textual devices. In blending cosmopolitan reggae, blues, and pop styles with classical and folk Arabic songs and instruments, Sabreen attempted to push the envelope of Palestinian nationalist song, “contributing to the formation of a new Palestinian.”[39] Here Sabreen doesn't celebrate “the coming of the doves” but rather “the coming of the new Palestinian.”

This is perhaps the most extraordinary legacy of Sabreen in particular, and of the “post-Oslo honeymoon” in general. Situated on various sociocultural axes, the post-Oslo period, though short-lived, had a formative impact on processes of Palestinian identity formation. Sabreen's emphasis on musical and cultural dialogue dovetailed nicely with widespread feelings of hope for reconciliation with Israel and the non-Arab world. Amira Hass, writing of her experiences living and working in Gaza at that time, observed that during episodes of high hope children began “playing soccer again; men were leaving the mosques [the only public safe haven during the intifada years] to cheer at the soccer field.”[40] Hass goes on to mention that in 1994, as hopes again ran high, “the sale of hair-care products suddenly went up.” Women in Gaza, trapped in their homes by occupation and strict religious edicts to cover their heads, were starting to see the end of the curfews and began planning for their return to public social life.

Musicians in Ramallah recounted to me how during this period the number of wedding performances increased exponentially. With the coming of dialogue, and an opening in the occupation, families were quick to seize the opportunity to marry off their children. The time offered a small window where wedding celebrations would most likely not be interrupted by curfews, closures, or incursions. Likewise, in Gaza and the West Bank, when curfews were temporarily lifted and soldiers were redeployed, the streets came alive with cafes, theaters, restaurants, and assorted falafel carts. Families and young couples assembled each night after work to stroll through the streets, picnic in the hills, or walk the Gazan coastline.[41] Memories such as these, though incidental, are in fact significant for understanding how Palestinian sociality was so tremendously altered by the hope for an end to the occupation.

As the so-called resistance musicians of the 1970s and 1980s faded into obscurity or the state establishment, their absence created a vacuum within which Sabreen was able to constructively promote its more cosmopolitan vision of nationalist song. The intractable hold of the occupation on identity politics had, if only momentarily, released, allowing for innovation and dialogue and bringing with it a new appreciation for cosmopolitan music and aesthetics. Though many Palestinian musicians had always been interested in Western instruments, scales, beats, and harmonies, up until the post-Oslo period Palestinian music was largely governed by a discourse of resistance that discouraged innovation in favor of the militant preservation of turāth al-shabī (popular heritage) and other “national” musical devices. Musicians were charged with the task of preserving and affirming a distinct Palestinian identity besieged by occupation and forced exile. At a time when hope reigned supreme, such aesthetic obstacles momentarily lifted, allowing many musicians the opportunity to innovate, augment, or develop a “new Palestinian sound.”

For the next five years the post-Oslo honeymoon continued. Palestinian musicians seeking to develop and innovate new repertories of song and dance found fertile ground in networks of multinational nongovernmental organizations, conservatories, and potential travel to Europe and North America. Collaborations between Israeli (Jewish) and Palestinian (Christian and Muslim) artists were also commonplace. New networks of collaborating musicians and artists on both sides of the Green Line emerged, creating a new music scene born of hope and reconciliation. The intermingling of musicians from diverse Israeli and Palestinian communities coalesced with an intermingling of aesthetics, producing a unique musical and cultural hybridity.[42]

5

Revivals and New Arrivals

The al-Aqsa Intifada (2000–2010)

Al-Aqsa Intifada: Popular Culture and a Return to Conflict

On the morning of September 28, 2000, Likud Party leader Ariel Sharon, closely escorted by a thousand Israeli security officers with another three thousand Israeli police strategically stationed in surrounding neighborhoods, entered Jerusalem's Temple Mount and Haram al-Sharif, home to two of Islam's most revered mosques, al-Aqsa and the Dome of the Rock. According to Sharon, he visited the holy compound “with a message of peace.”[1] Sharon and his entourage toured the Temple Mount for less than two hours and left. As he began to leave, however, crowds of angry Palestinians attempted to rush security barricades and hurl stones down onto the security forces from atop the compound. The Israeli police promptly responded with batons, tear gas, and rubber bullets, resulting in over thirty Israeli police and twenty demonstrators injured. The fighting soon spilled out onto the streets of East Jerusalem, where cars were overturned, businesses vandalized, and tires set ablaze. Immediately afterward similar demonstrations broke out in Gaza, Ramallah, and Nablus, where Israeli police were called on to quell stone- and firebomb-throwing demonstrators with armored vehicles, Apache helicopters, and riot police. Fighting continued well into the next day with Israeli police firing live ammunition into the crowds, killing seven Palestinians.

In Gaza City, two days after Sharon entered the holy sites, several hundred protestors marched from a local university to the gates of the heavily guarded Israeli settlement of Netzarim. Amidst the demonstrators Israeli police reportedly heard gunfire and immediately retaliated by firing live ammunition down onto the protestors from the armored stone walls guarding the settlement. Caught in the crossfire were Jamal al-Durra and his twelve-year-old son, Mohammad al-Durra. While hiding behind a concrete water duct, Jamal was shot eight times trying to shield his son from the gunfire. Mohammad was shot four times and soon died in his unconscious father's arms. An ambulance rushed into the fray to save them. But as the medic approached he, too, was shot and killed by Israeli snipers. A French television crew captured the scene in its entirety and broadcast the horrific images of al-Durra's death throughout the Arab world, the United States, and Europe.

Within a week of Sharon's visit and the death of Mohammad al-Durra, Israel and the Occupied Territories had fallen into open conflict with a reported sixty Palestinians dead and over one thousand injured. Heavily armed Israeli forces were deployed throughout Israel, Gaza, and the West Bank to combat demonstrators (both Palestinian and Palestinian Israeli). In Gaza similar clashes left nearly twenty dead and more than two hundred wounded. Jewish worshippers at the Wailing Wall, the site of Sharon's visit seven days prior, were evacuated numerous times to avoid stoning while army helicopters patrolled Jerusalem's riot-stricken streets. Points of entry into Israel were closed, and borders were strictly enforced, keeping close to one hundred fifty thousand Palestinian laborers from reaching their jobs inside Israel. A study conducted by the Israeli newspaper Ma'ariv found that “in the first few days of the intifada, the Israeli Defense Forces (IDF) fired about 700,000 bullets and other projectiles in Judea and Samaria [the West Bank] and about 300,000 in Gaza. All told, about one million bullets and projectiles were used.”[2]

Demonstrations soon began to take place outside of Israel and the territories as well. Throughout the Arab world thousands of Palestinian refugees and sympathizers protested Ariel Sharon's provocation and the disproportionate reactions of the Israeli army. In Lebanon over one thousand marched through Ayn al-Hilwa, Lebanon's largest refugee camp, carrying pictures of al-Aqsa and Mohammad al-Durra. Several protestors were seen tearing up posters of Yasser Arafat and burning effigies of Sharon. The characteristic chants of the first intifada, “By spirit, by blood, I will sacrifice myself for Palestine!,” returned en masse. Similar protests took place in Jordan, where on October 24, twenty-five thousand staged a “march of return” to the Allenby Bridge connecting Jordan with the West Bank. Likewise, an estimated two hundred thousand Palestinian refugees observed a general strike and day of mourning for the victims of Israeli state terror. Al-Durra was quickly deemed a martyr for Jerusalem, and various politico-religious organizations vowed vengeance against those responsible for his murder.

These two events, Ariel Sharon visiting the Temple Mount and the televised killing of Mohammad al-Durra, were the flashpoints for the end of the Oslo peace process and the beginning of a new popular uprising against the Israeli occupation. Pictures of al-Durra huddled behind his father became emblematic of the new uprising (see figures 5.1 and 5.2). Popularly called the al-Aqsa intifada, this newest round of riots and demonstrations quickly escalated such that within a matter of weeks, more casualties, wounded, and arrests were recorded than in the entire first intifada combined. However, despite these initial flashpoints, the structural antecedents of this new uprising had been in place since the mid-1990s, with the failures of Oslo to produce any improvements in the lives of Palestinians still living under a harsh occupation and the unrivaled expansion of government support for the settler movement.[3]

With the beginning of the second al-Aqsa intifada in spring 2000, and its subsequent escalation in 2002, Palestinian society collapsed under the weight of extreme occupation. Checkpoints, curfews, raids, and targeted assassinations only provoked more open calls for violence in the territories. Support for the intifada, as represented in the many different sociopolitical organizations (Fatah, Hamas, Islamic Jihad, PFLP), reemerged, with each competing for popular support through terrorist operations against Israeli targets. Posters depicting young martyrs wallpapered the streets of Ramallah, Gaza, and Nablus (see figure 5.1). Children memorized their names and openly pledged to follow in their footsteps. With each passing month, Palestinians both “inside” and “outside” the territories sought to revive the intifada culture of the 1980s. Street-side kiosks and shops in downtown Ramallah and Amman, for example, were filled with flags, kūfīyāt, posters, music, and videos in support of the new intifada.[4] Key chains, headbands, plaques, and other Palestinian-inspired products were commonly seen on the streets and in houses of the exiled. However, under the banners of the second al-Aqsa intifada, “resistance” was framed quite differently. Gone were the peaceful mass demonstrations, withholding of taxes, and public displays of nonviolent civil disobedience, and in their place came open calls for violence and terrorist attacks on Israeli targets, both civilian and military.

At first the music of the new intifada was dominated by transnational Arab pop stars singing ballads commemorating Palestinian suffering. For example, two years earlier in the fall of 1998, following a disturbing escalation of violence surrounding increased settlement activity in Jerusalem and several retaliatory suicide operations, twenty-three pop stars from across the Arab world joined forces to record “Al-Hilm al-Arabi” (The Arab dream), the first of several mega collaborations calling for Arab unity and the end to Palestinian suffering. Directed by Ahmad al-Arian and composed by Hilmi Bakr, this star production was the first attempt to revive the pan-Arabist poetics of the 1960s through the lens of Palestinian suffering. Throughout “Al-Hilm al-Arabi” strategic musical and textual signs advocated for pan-Arab solidarity by alternating between solo verses, sung in native dialects, and ensemble choruses, where local accents blended into a unison whole. Indices of place and locality, articulated predominantly through language (accent) and vocal tessitura, fluidly shifted from the national identity of the soloist to the international pan-Arab identity of the ensemble. Excerpts from the seventeen-minute pop ballad attempted to reinforce the solidarity of the pan-Arab nation in fighting for Palestinian self-determination.

From anywhere on earth we speak with an opposing tongue

[Arabic],

With the loudest voice we have, we say unity.

Our children everywhere are the light of our nation.

Right, love, good is our message throughout time.

A song cancels national borders,

And its homeland is the heart.

As long as we live we will sing,

As long as we are able we will love.

Our dream has always been,

The unity of all nations.

All disagreements will disappear.

It is enough that you are a human being.

Although juxtaposed with poignant (and graphic) footage documenting fifty years of the Arab-Israeli conflict, stylistically “Al-Hilm al-Arabi” continues with the theme of unity through very abstract depictions of place. Thick synthesized orchestrations, heavy bass, and simple pop rhythms signify a much larger domain of transnational Arab pop rather than more common musical elements of nationalist intifada song. What is more, although “Al-Hilm al-Arabi” was explicitly recorded as a testament to the tragedies of Palestinian suffering, nowhere in it are Palestinians ever mentioned. Nor are there any actual Palestinians included in the recording. Only one reference is made, in the lines “The world is reorganized by children with rocks in their hands.” As a whole the lyrics focus on the redemption of the (unnamed) Palestinian people through love, perseverance, unity, and hope for a better tomorrow. It is the “dream of peace” that brings these artists (and their respective countries) together in solidarity to end the violence. As a unique moment of transition, “Al-Hilm al-Arabi” articulates the poetics of collaboration, peace, and reconciliation, idiomatic of the post-Oslo honeymoon, within a performative frame of escalating violence and instability.

Two years later, following the violent outbreak of the al-Aqsa intifada in September 2000, a similar type of production hit the airwaves, featuring a new collection of pop artists singing for Palestine. “Al-Quds Hatarja Lina” (Jerusalem will return to us) went into production less than two weeks after the televised martyrdom of Mohammad al-Durra and the outbreak of the al-Aqsa intifada. This pop ballad featured the combined talents of thirty-six Arab pop stars, actors, and other celebrities representing virtually every Arab country (except Palestine). Once again the contrasting themes of Arab unity and diversity were performed as each singer took turns alternating between solo verses and ensemble choruses. In contrast to “Al-Hilm al-Arabi,” however, “Al-Quds Hatarja Lina” was far more graphic in its lyrical detail. Lyrics spoke of violence and terror, and the accompanying video depicted far more explicit images of Palestinian suffering, beatings, and funeral processions marching through the streets. Presenting a message of mourning, the large collection of artists stood together on a stage set covered in barbed wire surrounding a large picture of the Dome of the Rock mosque.[5]

He was carrying his crayons, he was going to school.

Dreaming of his horse, his toys, his plane.

And when the treachery occurred, it killed his innocence.

His pure blood was spilled across his notebook.

A fearful father reached with his arms,

Protecting the life of his child.

And when the child's body twitched,

He became in God's hands.

We all say our land.

Our land, Our blood, Our nation.

And even if millions die,

Jerusalem will return to us.

In the widely played video the assembled artists and actors stand defiantly, dressed in black, singing with power and conviction about the young Mohammad al-Durra, killed while walking home from school carrying his “crayons and his notebook.” While several of the pop stars openly weep during the production, or angrily gesticulate during their solo lines, a small collection of young children is positioned at the center of the stage. The children, wearing white blouses and shirts, stand out against the pervasive black clothing of the singers and the background of the soundstage. Coupled with the white head coverings of two of the featured singers, this articulation of white and black clearly signifies both the innocence of the children as well as the purity of Islam, against the black darkness of occupation. The message of collective outrage, lost innocence, and suffering is further articulated with graphic imagery of violence set amidst the holy sites of Jerusalem.

Not unlike the pan-Arab songs emanating from Egypt in the late 1950s, these two productions of “Al-Hilm al-Arabi” and “Al-Quds Hatarja Lina” drew from the same stock repertory of signs of Arab unity and a shared cultural-religious identity. The juxtaposition of diversity and unity played out in the transcendence of cultural difference around a common Arab (and Islamic) cause. More importantly both songs grew to become widely marketable hits. The videos for these songs were broadcast on satellite television throughout the Arab world, and performers were quick to capitalize on the success via overly marketed tours throughout the region.

The marketing successes of “Al-Quds Hatarja Lina” in October 2000 inspired Arab superstars such as Kathim al-Saher, Amru Diab, Najwa Karam, Nagham, Zakra, and many others to record pop songs dedicated to the memory of the twelve-year-old martyr Mohammad al-Durra, the atrocities of the occupation, or the siege on Jerusalem's holy sites. Egyptian superstar Amru Diab's “Al-Quds di Ardina” (Jerusalem is our land) eulogizes the memory of Mohammad al-Durra as a pan-Arab martyr for liberation, “son to all Arabs.”[6] Nagham (Egypt) and Zakra's (Tunisia) pop ballad “Nahlam Ayh?” (We dream of what?) depicts Palestinian history through historical imagery of British colonialism and Jewish settlement, asking, “what are we left to dream?” Throughout the video, historical footage of Zionist expansion and the expulsion of Palestinians from their homes is shown in the background while the two pop stars sing of great loss and sadness, tears in their eyes.

While at first these pop songs, CDs, cassettes, T-shirts, bumper stickers, and other paraphernalia were popular throughout the region, it was clear that this new wave of political song did not have the same sociocultural impact as the nationalist song of the 1980s. Missing from this culture of “pop intifadiana” was a sense of authenticity that these artists were suffering and struggling alongside those they were singing about.[7] Clearly, this was music for Palestine, but not necessarily music of Palestine. The transnational Arab pop stars of the early 2000s were largely unable to capture the hearts of Palestinians simply because they could not reconcile their obvious fame and wealth with the daily suffering of those under occupation. Recording their songs in Cairo or Beirut wearing a token kūfīya around their neck, these pop stars had little actual connection with the people most affected by the violence.

As the demonstrations continued to escalate, international pop songs soon faded as empty commodities. Ballads like “Nahlam Ayh?,” “Al-Hilm al-Arabi,” and “Al-Quds di Ardina,” with their soft idealist rhetoric, catchy melodies, and empty lyrics, did not adequately capture the severity of violence taking place on the streets of Jenin, Gaza, and Nablus. In neither form nor content were they especially political, nor did they attempt to capture a particularly Palestinian poetics of resistance. Slogans of peace, understanding, and an end to the violence held little meaning for the many Palestinian communities forced to survive the occupation on a daily basis. Yet if the lyrics did not resonate with Palestinian audiences, they did elicit and reflect a widespread sympathy for Palestinian issues throughout the Arab world at large. Moreover the speed with which this new collection of songs made it into the Arab marketplace, and their constant performance on satellite television, reflected the immediacy of newly developed communication networks and technology. These new technologies, served to bring the realities of the occupation into Arabic-speaking homes throughout the world, creating a new sense of Arab solidarity. With the rise of Arab satellite television, al-Jazeera in particular, these collective notions of Arab unity became possible in dramatic ways.[8]

On a different level, the fact that these songs were all written, produced, and performed by pop stars living and working in cosmopolitan centers like Cairo, Beirut, or Paris meant that they were sung from a social, political, and aesthetic formation where peace and understanding were possible, thinkable, or tangible ideas. As testaments to peace and understanding, these songs found considerably more traction among Arab consumers within transnational music markets. For these audiences, such pop songs were a means of connecting with a humanitarian crisis played out on satellite television. Hence songs of unity, peace, and love resonated more easily among Arab communities not forced to deal with the humiliation of checkpoints, curfews, searches, and constant threats of violence.

Ultimately, however, these pop songs failed to have a lasting impact on Palestinian communities simply because audiences were unable to reconcile popular support for Palestinian issues with the overtly cosmopolitan lifestyles and aesthetics of the artists themselves. Medhat Salah's participation in the collaboration “Al-Quds Hatarja Lina” caught many by surprise, to say the least. For several years before he had been an outspoken advocate for normalization with Israel. Salah also publicly criticized Palestinian musicians like Marcel Khalife for taking a hard-line stance on Palestinian rights. To suddenly lend his voice to a song memorializing Palestinian suffering struck many as hypocritical. Similarly Kathim al-Saher's widely played duet with Sarah Brightman, “The War Is Over” (2004), served only to anger a community of Palestinians very much embroiled in a daily struggle with perceived “Western” occupation and imperialism. Although the two artists intended this song as an homage to John Lennon and Yoko Ono's 1971 release, as an intervention in the ongoing Iraq war, for Palestinians the war was far from over. Given that Kathim al-Saher is one of Iraq's most famous pop stars, and that “The War Is Over” was played ad nauseam on the American-funded radio station Radio Sawa after its release, the song took on a very different meaning. For many Palestinians “The War Is Over” became a testament to the continued American occupation of Iraq and Afghanistan. By extension it became easy to conflate the Israeli and American occupations within a larger complex of Western imperialism in the greater Arab world. This complex of American/Israeli occupation stretched beyond politics into the realms of popular culture, movies, products, fashion, and so on. Amru Diab and Najwa Karam, for example, could not be taken seriously in their empathetic songs for Palestinians while their faces were plastered on billboards all over the Arab world advertising Pepsi-Cola. Their music, image, videos, and pop lifestyle celebrated and in many ways imitated Western aesthetics deemed antithetical to the struggle against the perceived Israeli and American imperialism in the Arab world.

REVIVALS: BALADNA, AL-ASHIQIN, ABU ARAB, AND SAMIH SHAQIR

In response to these transnational Arab recordings, many Palestinians sought out the protest songs and singers of the first intifada. By the fall of 2003 the revival of intifada music and culture had strengthened to the extent that many protest singers of the 1980s had been lured back into the public soundscape. Samih Shaqir found supportive audiences for his repertory of shabī nationalist folk songs at music festivals in Syria, Lebanon, and Jordan. Kamal Khalil was literally pulled off a construction site to sing at a political demonstration in 2004. Covered in dirt, sweat, and cement from a day laying concrete blocks, Khalil borrowed an ūd from an audience member and performed a set of his famous intifada tunes from the 1980s. A sense of nostalgia for the uprising of 1987 drove the crowds into a frenzy, leading to several commitments for new concerts at weddings, political rallies, and demonstrations. Likewise Mustapha al-Kurd was brought to Amman to perform at a symposium for Palestinian arts in the summer of 2004. His twenty-year-old political ballads resurfaced in Jordan amidst rejuvenated nationalist sentiment and nostalgia for the intifada.

Led by its founding vocalist Hussein Munther (Abu Ali), al-Ashiqin began performing once again their famous catalogue of resistance songs in Lebanon, Syria, and Jordan. Over the years, however, many of the group's original members had left to form their own groups, been arrested, or simply disappeared. Teaming up with ūd player Adnan Odeh, the two envisioned a triumphant return to the forefront of Palestinian resistance song and hurriedly put together a collection of young musicians for a small regional tour. These musicians, too young to have ever heard al-Ashiqin perform live, were each given a copy of the twenty-year-old cassettes two weeks prior to the first performance. Originally the plan was for al-Ashiqin to perform five concerts in Jordan and the United Arab Emirates before returning to Damascus. After the first two concerts in Amman, however, the tour was abruptly cancelled when the production company posted a net loss of over JD$28,000 (approximately US$40,320). Difficulties publicizing the events, constant police harassment, and an overestimation of local interest resulted in the remaining performances being called off and the members of the group sent home without promised wages.

The initial failures of al-Ashiqin to make a significant impact in their “reunion tour” resulted largely from a poor marketing strategy and an overemphasis on the commercial, money-making potential of the group. Unlike Kamal Khalil, who rarely sought remuneration for his performances and preferred smaller venues, al-Ashiqin was determined to capitalize on the new waves of Palestinian nationalism by booking large ten-thousand-seat arenas for their shows. In order to streamline profits, the two leaders of the group decided to leave in place the Syrian-based ensemble for future performances but, in addition, form a second ensemble made up of local Palestinian musicians in Jordan. The plan was to create a local al-Ashiqin chapter in Syria, Jordan, and Lebanon and then bring in group leaders Abu Ali, Ali Munther, and Adnan Odeh for each set of concerts, thus minimizing travel expenditures and the hassles of crossing borders with Palestinian papers.

Members of the group were clearly promised wages from the outset of auditions, yet in the first nine months of production few received payment. Frustrated, many decided to leave, forcing Odeh to continually restock the ensemble with less experienced artists willing to perform for free. Many of these younger musicians were content to join the group just to get valuable performance experience and to be associated with the famed ensemble. The quality of the group suffered considerably as musicians came and went. Despite problems in production and rehearsals, performances for the group were well supported by the local Palestinian communities in Amman and Damascus. With little variation, a loyal contingent of activists and other young nationalists turned out to sing and dance the famous intifada songs. Several young dabke groups were brought in to perform alongside al-Ashiqin, and future concerts were planned with other famous Palestinian musicians including Samih Shaqir and Mais Shalash. Although there were always difficulties navigating the local bureaucracies prohibiting explicitly political events, al-Ashiqin nonetheless performed periodically in various outdoor venues, hotels, and social clubs between 2003 and 2010. At each of these events it would seem that the same cohort of young activists would show, with little noticeable impact among the general Palestinian community.

NEW ARRIVALS: “THE VOICE OF FREEDOM,” MAIS SHALASH

The new intifada was also not without its own coterie of younger singers. ‘Abd al-Fatah ‘Auynat, Samih Zariqat, Ayman Ramadan, and Omar al-Sayeedi recorded Islamic inspired anashīd in support of the intifada. Abu Ahmad, Khalil ‘Abid, Abu Ratib, and Abdullah Kiwan also released newly composed protest songs under the al-Fursan recording label in Amman and Damascus. Among several others Hani Shaker, Fadil Shaker, and Mustapha al-Ja'fri appeared on many bootlegged intifada CDs sold on the streets of Ramallah. Foremost among these new singers, however, was Palestinian Jordanian Mais Shalash. Colloquially known as al-ifl (the child) or awt al-urrīya (the voice of freedom), Shalash began her career at the young age of eleven, singing newly composed anashīd in refugee camps, hospitals, and universities in Jordan (see figure 5.3). As she became better known among activists in Jordan, Shalash started performing across the region at various political events and music festivals. Between 2002 and 2006, she recorded two very popular albums, Sawt al-Hurriya (The voice of freedom) and Istura al-Jenin (The legend of Jenin), and collaborated on several others. Each album made an important contribution to the established repertory of resistance song and further propelled her reputation as a young singer for Palestinian self-determination.

Mais Shalash's contribution to the field of Palestinian protest song lies in her blending of traditionally distinct repertories of music. Although anashīd and other Islamic-inspired musics have had a profound, yet often neglected, impact on the nationalist movement, Sawt al-Hurriya marked the arrival of a new style of protest song conceptualized as a hybridization of shabī rhythms, Islamic poetry, and contemporary sound drama. The combination of shabī folk song and religious poetry transgressed performative and political boundaries in new ways, combining into a unique new form of protest song illustrative of contemporary poetics, political debates, and ideology. Especially among disgruntled communities seeking a new direction in the entrenched nationalist leadership, Mais Shalash gave voice to an alternative national identity formation aligned with Islamist doctrine. She offered a performative space within which audiences could imagine a new path to self-determination beyond the stale politics of the PLO, advocating a return to local grassroots activism based in core religious values, simultaneously nationalist and Islamist.

Due to local laws governing Islamist activities in Jordan, Mais Shalash performed primarily at informal community meetings, for labor syndicates, on university campuses, and at other cultural events beyond the gaze of government censors. In contrast to al-Ashiqin, Mais preferred to perform before smaller, more intimate audiences. Nested between political speeches, religious sermons, and reports from the West Bank and Gaza Strip, Mais would take the stage armed with a binder of songs directly linked to the immediacy of the occupation. As first-hand reports of the Jenin invasion emerged, for example, she would incorporate those testimonials into her lyrics, emphasizing the voices and experiences of those currently under siege. Among her audiences this gave her music a profound sense of immediacy and authenticity to the struggle, locality in experience, and loyalty to cultural-religious jurisprudence. According to Saud Shalash, Mais's father and principal composer, her music has an aesthetic quality unlike that of any other political singer. People are more affected and inspired by her youth and innocence. “You always feel something more deeply when it comes from a child,” Saud explained to me. “The fact that her voice is so beautiful, and that she sings with such power, makes her even more popular among our people. Plus, the fact that this occupation has had its greatest impact on children makes Mais's voice even more illustrative of the nation” (personal communication 2002). In her publicity posters and CD liner notes Mais is strategically marketed as, “the child,” drawing many accusations of pandering and exploitation from several of her contemporaries.

Given that local Palestinian and Jordanian media representations of the intifada focused primarily on human suffering, often imagined through the lenses of children and dominated by images of Mohammad al-Durra, Mais's stature as a young child was an essential element to her music and public image. Her public persona effectively articulated with a discourse of humanitarian suffering and martyrdom central to the nationalist movement.[9] Yet to fully understand her impact within the field of Palestinian music it is equally important to emphasize the ways her persona creatively played on established discourses of gender and the nation. Onstage she would strategically perform the core religious principles espoused in her music. Wearing a beautifully ornamented thawb (Islamic gown) and ijāb (headscarf), standing motionless onstage, the adolescent Mais put forth the engendered image of the innocent, pure, vulnerable Palestinian nation in need of defense and collective sacrifice. In performance her body and child-like voice simultaneously called forth cultural imperatives of protection and steadfastness to core Islamic principles (modesty, justice, integrity). A similar phenomenon has been discussed regarding Qur'anic recitation practices in Egypt. Michael Frishkopf has suggested that vocal purity and a “child-like tessitura” are new Islamic emphases signifying an “unmediated directness (the straight path) and spiritual innocence.”[10] Much like the propagandized posters of child martyrs papering the streets of Jerusalem, onstage, Mais Shalash emphatically articulates an imagining of resistance and sacrifice in “defense of the defenseless.” And while such a strategically motivated stage persona caused a considerable amount of controversy among competing musicians, it proved highly effective among mainstream Palestinian audiences. Amidst a field of cosmopolitan pop stars selling their bodies and products on billboards, and a dysfunctional national leadership bending to international will, for her audiences Mais Shalash presented an alternative Palestinian identity formation rooted in an uncompromising devotion to Islamic values and ideals. She offered a counterbalance to the dominant “pop intifadiana” on satellite television, advocating a new direction in the performative politics of the nationalist movement more aligned with the growing tides of Islamism.

Interestingly Mais's stature as a young Palestinian girl living in exile was only rarely a point of criticism among her contemporaries performing in the West Bank. Many were simply unaware that she was living in Jordan. Two Ramallah-based performers, Mohammad Yaqub and Nader Jalal, while impressed with the quality of her voice and the production of her recordings, were openly critical of the fact that Mais was not “struggling” under occupation. In essence her singing about “stone-throwing youth” from the safety of Amman, where no active “resistance” was taking place, became a marker of dislocation and therefore inauthenticity in her work. Reflecting further, Nader Jalal continued, “But I guess she is trying to do her part, then, singing about the intifada from Jordan, trying to increase support over there.” When approached about this issue Mais responded to me defiantly, “If I could go to Palestine I would.” “In fact, that's the whole point of why I am singing…to one day return to Palestine.” “This is how I can join the struggle/movement (arakāt)” (personal communication 2005).

Drawing from the established repertory of religious song, her performances typically began with a series of extemporized religious chants, sparsely accompanied by single frame drum (daff), reed flute (nai), and male chorus. This initial performance of religious poetry typically led to more rhythmic sets of folk, wedding, or dabke songs reinscribed with politico-religious lyrics. In text, metaphor, and musical device she freely and strategically navigated between secular nationalist and religious frames. Traditional dabke tunes were tempered so as to deaccentuate dancing and the body. Presentational poetic genres such as atābā and shurūqī were given more strategic weight in her performances, indexing Palestinian indigenous music and practice without allowing such performances to be burdened with unbridled rhythmic dancing. During several of her performances it was clear that songs were often chosen based on the negotiation of religious and secular frames. Audience members attempting to form a raucous set of dabke lines would often find the next song fluidly shift into an unmetered extemporization of religious poetry attesting to the need for religious purity in meeting nationalist goals. The combination of her young adolescent voice and her appearance as a muajjaba (one who wears a headscarf) was performatively used to signify an innocent purity, reinforced by the Islamist poetics of her performances. “Min Rahm al-Ard” (From the womb of the earth) captures many of the most important poetic components of Shalash's repertory.

From the womb of the earth we will come out

To fight with stones.

Let the angry earth give birth to the free people.

Spawn weapons that challenge the occupying army.

No humiliation for my people, I vow!

And my people will never quit.

In this first stanza the eternal relationship between the land and the people is further signified with the imagery of the “angry earth” giving birth to the resistance, spawning weapons (stones) to “challenge the occupying army.” A common trope in the repertory of shabī nationalist protest song, the earth has given birth to the Palestinian people to fight for the nation. Significantly the weapons of resistance (stones) and the people themselves are born of the same mother, products of the same womb, siblings to the nation, intrinsically linked in the symbiotic act of resistance (throwing). Further, by employing imagery of the “womb,” the nation is depicted as the engendered mother of the Palestinian people. Palestinians are hence born from the earth's womb and in their sacrifice (death) return to their mother's embrace. In the following verses Shalash sings about the methodology of resistance itself.

Run from one alley to another,

Teach them to throw stones.

From one refugee camp to another,

The lion cubs are coming out.

Carrying in his hand a stone and a slingshot,

In the right hand a banner and

With the left assist the people of the alleyways.

Throw stones, shoot, give them fire.

Come and draw them out.

The blood of the martyr is never in vain.

From one town to another a unity of free people,

From the water to the water raise the banner!

In these verses the ideational construct of the stone-throwing youth (afāl al-ijāra) is resurrected with the common reference to “the lion cubs” (ashba). Youth trained for armed resistance during the first intifada were given this name by Fatah. Their role in popular media representations of the intifada was incredibly important, indexing a power differential between sides and sacralizing the resistance in the defense of the nation and its holy sites. With the left hand the youth offer assistance to the “people of the alleyways,” while the right hand carries the green banners of Islam, proclaiming the shahāda, “There is no God, but God.” In a conglomeration of nationalist and Islamist poetics the “blood of the martyr” unites the free people in the lands between “the water to the water” (the Jordan River to the Mediterranean Sea). While blood is an extremely common trope in secular nationalist protest song, referencing the primordial linkages to history, the land, and the people, the repeated references to raising the banners of Islam between the waters of the Jordan River and the Mediterranean Sea fulfill an Islamist poetics' reclamation of the holy land.

In another major hit, “Sadayna al-Shawari” (We blocked the streets), Shalash presents a history of the Palestinian experience of exile and further comments on the politics of al-awda (the right of return). At a time when refugee rights were the subject of intense debate “Sadayna al-Shawari” resonated forcefully among Palestinian nationalists living in exile. In the fall of 2003, as Shalash was performing this song at various political events in Amman, the debate over whether Palestinians would or should be allowed to return to their ancestral lands was boiling. The Declaration of Principles outlined in the Oslo Accords was intentionally ambiguous on final status issues, and with the swelling of violence in the al-Aqsa intifada, hope for a just resolution to refugee issues was growing increasingly remote. Singing at a political demonstration against the Geneva Accords in 2003, Mais Shalash performed “Sadayna al-Shawari” for an enthusiastic crowd of intellectuals, students, and local authorities. Given the anxieties of potentially losing all claims of repatriation to pre-1948 Palestine, the themes and issues raised in this song were particularly meaningful (EVIA 14-S7686).[11]

We blocked the streets. We never forgot our life in the tents,

No shelter, shivering in the cold.

We slept in exile away from home.

Reminding us of home, we left the tents young men.

The eyes swear we were free and people witnessed.

We blocked the streets, and came out to throw our ration cards.

We carried the guns and left, declaring, no, no to naturalization.

If you gave us the world with its treasures and millions,

It is not worth a grain of the dust of Palestine.

We blocked the streets and declared children and adults,

The right of return and the right to decide the future.

This performance of “Sadayna al-Shawari” was an excellent example of Islamist anashīd. The song began with Mais Shalash rendering the initial verses of poetry unaccompanied in an unmetered melismatic line. After each line of text a unison male chorus, singing in a deep chest voice, responded with a repetition of the cadential words (lazama). The timbre of the voice, ornamentation, and placement of the text were derived from Qur'anic recitation (tajwīd) and other religious songs and chants. To further index religious poetics, the voice was amplified using a pronounced reverb or “echo effect” commonly heard in Islamic sermons and commercial recordings of tajwīd.[12] As an aesthetic choice the addition of reverb to a recording or performance is said to index a sense of the sacred, via its associations with the acoustical reverberations heard in the vast spaces of the holy sites of Mecca and Medina (Haramayn). Following this introductory unmetered rendering of the text, a single goblet drum (darbuka) outlined the rhythmic pattern ayūb. Situated on this rhythmic structure, the song was then repeated alā wada (on the beat) in unison by a soloist and male chorus. Despite the pounding rhythm, participants in this performance (and in every performance I witnessed) largely refrained from any outward bodily movement (dancing), preserving the religious character of the event.

After thunderous applause, it was clear that “Sadayna al-Shawari” eloquently espoused a refugee position on the issue of al-awda in support of the right of return. To block the streets speaks to the common tactic of burning tires and creating makeshift roadblocks, thus preventing Israeli patrols from gaining free access into the refugee camps. Extending the camp experience further, the song testifies to early life in the tents, the cold, and the loss of home, memorializing and commemorating the catastrophe of al-nakba. As the camps became more solidified in the cityscape, young men threw away their UNRWA ration cards (indices of dependency on the international community), left the tents, and formed the Palestinian resistance. Empowered, carrying guns through the streets, the youth denounced naturalization and assimilation. For them, “the world and its treasures…were not worth a grain of the dust of Palestine.” This line comments on the various proposals of potential compensation offered in exchange for the right to return. As Shalash sang out the final line of the chorus, “The right of return and the right to decide the future,” the crowd erupted in ovations of support and agreement. For those attending this political rally against the Geneva Accords, “Sadayna al-Shawari” epitomized the very heart of the issue. Who ultimately has the right to decide the future for the millions of Palestinian refugees and their descendants? For many of the participants at this rally with whom I spoke, the loss of al-awda implied the renouncement of national identity. To give up one's right of return is to forsake the nation. Regardless of how many Palestinian refugees would actually seek repatriation if given the opportunity, it was the right to freely decide for oneself that was at issue. Indeed for these Palestinians the right of return was all that was left of their Palestinian identity. Without it they were simply “Jordanians of Palestinian ancestry.” As one member of the audience said to me, “Even if I decide not to return, shouldn't my son be able to make the same decision for himself when he is older? Is he any less Palestinian than me?”

The issue of al-awda came up on several occasions in my interviews with Mais Shalash and her father, Saud. Interestingly during our conversations the then twelve-year-old singer would often describe with amazing detail her family's ancestral estate in Jaffa and proudly boast of her many cousins still living in the West Bank. Music was her way of reaching out to them and sharing in their struggles. Distanced from a home and homeland that she has been raised to covet, and yet has never experienced, Mais Shalash assumed that she would one day marry and raise a family in Palestine. Over the course of our initial interviews I would often ask her, “What do you plan to do if and when you are ever able to return to Jaffa?” Without variation she would answer unequivocally, “I'll sing, of course!”

6

“My Songs Can Reach the Whole Nation”

Baladna and Protest Song in Jordan

“On the trunk of the olive tree…”

Sitting beneath the olive tree in his family's front courtyard, Kamal Khalil, leader of the once-famous intifada music ensemble Baladna (Our homeland), recounted to me many of his experiences performing in support of the Palestinian struggle for self-determination and an end to the Israeli occupation of the West Bank and Gaza Strip. Regardless of the topic, our late-night conversations always seemed to revolve around this olive tree. It was our escape from the summer heat and our shelter from the autumn wind. It blanketed the small courtyard of his Ruseifa home and provided us with a sense of privacy where we could talk late into the night of music, life, history, and politics.

Underneath its branches one or both of us would sit comfortably on an old discarded sofa, sharing a late-night dinner of assorted mazzāt (stewed tomatoes, lentils, hummus, falafel, yogurt, and so on). Periodically one of his six children would bring out a tray of sweets, fruits, and coffee or tea. After placing the tray of refreshments before us they would usually linger, absorbing their father's soft voice, his words, and his stories. Memories of his native Palestinian village (Taiba), his family's home, and lifeways were called forth with a surprising clarity—brought out as one might leaf through a photo album. At times some of the older college-aged children would contribute their own memories or opinions of events as they remembered them from their childhood. Meanwhile the smaller children would ask to hear descriptions of and stories about their family and neighbors still living in Taiba, the contours of the land, the smell of the rain, and the taste of the olives.

It seemed our conversations usually lasted well into the early morning. Long after the children had gone to bed Kamal and I would stretch out under the olive tree until one of us fell asleep in midsentence. The more time we spent together the more comfortable and informal our conversations became. Subjects and ideas once taboo were soon available for discussion. More than just music, memories of harassment, imprisonment, beatings, and torture eventually emerged, revealing the painfully violent consequences of political activism. In time these became permissible areas of inquiry. Soon our conversations moved beyond simple nationalist posturing of stale tropes and metaphors. National pride and righteous victimization, hallmarks of superficial national sentiment, were supplanted by a sense of heartfelt political realism, shame, desperation, and embarrassment. The very notion of Palestinian resistance became open to critical introspection and debate.

Our friendship and understanding for each other grew until there was a great trust between us. Through our nights under the olive tree I was allowed entrance into the remembering and the re-membering of a family history in exile, each episode carefully depicted in song: exile, dislocation, imprisonment, and violence (see figure 6.1). Yet it wasn't until several months after we had begun working together that I finally began to understand the significance of that olive tree.

My whole life I had been playing music for the Palestinian people, my people. And when I was [arrested,] put in jail, I knew that the problem was closing in on me. I started to feel everything more personally. All this time I had been singing for Palestinians fighting to return to their homes and land. I always thought that my sacrifices here in Jordan were nothing compared to what they were dealing with every day. But now it was me as the victim. It was me and the thirteen soldiers tying my feet together and beating me until the blood came off of my body. And the days and weeks of being locked in a solitary box, never knowing if I would ever see my wife and kids again. Unspeakable things you cannot imagine done to me…. Then, I found this poem in a book we had from Palestine. We had two books in prison. One by Samih al-Qassim and another one for Tawfiq al-Ziyad. There was a poem that Tawfiq wrote, “Ala Jida al-Zaytuna” [On the trunk of the olive tree]. And even though this poem was written maybe twenty years before, when Tawfiq was arrested and imprisoned by Israeli soldiers, I knew this poem was talking about me. This poem gave me strength and comfort when I was in prison. So I decided to write music to it.

Because I do not weave wool,

Because every day I am in danger of detention,

And my house is in danger of visits from the police

To search and to cleanse,

Because I cannot buy paper,

I shall carve the record of all my sufferings,

And my secrets, On an olive tree

In the courtyard of the house.

I will carve my story and the chapters of my tragedy, and my sighs

On my grove and on the tombs of my dead.

I will carve all the bitterness I have tasted,

Erased by one tenth of the sweetness to come.

I will carve the number of each deed

Of our usurped land,

The location of my village and its boundaries,

The demolished houses of its peoples,

My uprooted trees,

And each crushed wild blossom.

And the names of those master torturers

Who rattled my nerves and caused my misery,

The names of all the prisons,

And every type of handcuff

That closed around my wrists,

The files of my jailers,

Every curse poured upon my head….

And to remember it all,

I will continue to carve

All the chapters of my tragedy,

And all the phases of al-nakba,

From the beginning

To end,

On the olive tree in the courtyard

Of the house.[1]

Late at night I would sing this song to myself, and I knew that one day things would be made right. With each time that they would bring me into the torture room I would be humming this song. While it was happening I would be planning how one day I too would be writing all of these things on the trunk of an olive tree. I could see and even smell the olives in my mind, swaying in the summer breeze. It was my escape and my motivation. I learned the names of the prison guards, the ones who beat me. I learned the names of the prisons, the wardens, the prisoners, everything. Someday I would be home again, and I would write what they did to me….

After I composed that song I had to get it out to the people. They arrested me right as we were recording our second album, and I had to keep giving my brothers songs for the group to play while I was gone. I had the idea to get it out by my kids. Every couple weeks when my daughters were permitted to visit I would sit them on my lap and sing to them a piece of the song that I had written. I would sing it over and over until I knew that they understood and could sing it back to me. Each of the girls would learn a verse or chorus until I was convinced that they could together recite the entire song. Then, they would go back home and sing the song for my brothers, who would learn it and put it on the next cassette or concert.

Then I had the idea to tell my wife to plant this olive tree in front of the house, because the song was about an olive tree. For me this tree was a way of watching over my family while I was away…. My daughters watered, loved, and cared for this tree as if it were me, and watched as it grew, marking the years of my absence.

Look! [placing his hands on the now thriving and fully matured trunk] This has survived, given us food, shelter, and a bridge to our nation, to our land, that no prison or police could take away. This olive tree represents us, the Palestinian people…. From prison my arms could not reach my family, but I knew that my songs could reach the whole nation. (personal communication 2004, emphasis added)

And in fact they did. After the group's inception in 1977, Baladna (see figure 6.2) rose to become one of the most famous nationalist ensembles in the Palestinian diaspora. Performing at street rallies, political demonstrations, cultural festivals, weddings, and funerals, Baladna wrote and performed the soundtrack for popular protest in refugee camps across Jordan. At a time when Palestinians in Jordan were recovering from the expulsion of the PLO in Black September, Baladna developed a musical model of “resistance in exile,” preserving and commemorating Palestinian culture against assimilation and actively seeking repatriation through social and political activism. In this sense “resistance in exile” required a performative transference of the pains of occupation into new ideational frames. Although Kamal's experiences of imprisonment and torture were under different circumstances than the two inspirational poets Samih al-Qassim and Tawfiq al-Ziyad, the appropriation of their lyrics into his music was a necessary and strategic maneuver of reframing national resistance. Palestinians in Jordan, distanced from the traumas of occupation and often marginalized in the national imaginary, sought out a performative means of articulating their Palestinian-ness. This required a broadening of the very notion of “resistance” inclusive of those not living directly under occupation or actively fighting against occupation forces. Through their performances Baladna created social spaces wherein Palestinians in Jordan might feel, remember, and imagine themselves as fully experiencing dispossession and actively working toward its amelioration. Their music gave voice to the Palestinian experience in exile and in so doing opened up spaces for public discourse within the restrictive, if not impenetrable, Jordanian public sphere.

Baladna has a fascinating story typically absent from contemporary portrayals of Palestinian nationalism, history, and diaspora. From prisoners of the state in 1981, to honored guests in 1984, to prisoners once again in 1989, to exile throughout the 1990s, and a revival in 2002, Baladna and its leader, Kamal Khalil, have a history that mirrors the Palestinian struggle itself. In the following two chapters I draw out this ethnographic history in an attempt to interrogate the development of Palestinian protest song as it was experienced in exile by one of its most influential performers. Moving beyond the chronological narrative that has heretofore dominated this book, with the remaining chapters I pursue an ethnographic exploration of Palestinian protest song.

While Palestinian artists express their collective resistance to the Israeli occupation through a canon of shared myths, signs, and meanings, the articulation of such meanings is always contingent on a field of local power dynamics. The negotiation of these local power dynamics shapes the forms that resistance may take and hence defines the processes which govern the so-called subversive poetics of collective resistance.[2] In presenting a broadly defined history of Palestinian resistance music it is crucial not to lose sight of the local “on the ground” relations of those who composed, performed, and otherwise consumed this repertory of music. The dynamics of popular resistance can be fully understood only through a careful ethnographic analysis of its social, cultural, and political implications as they were (and are) experienced, felt, and negotiated by real actors in space and time.

Here I focus specifically on the dynamics of music and cultural production in an attempt to provide a more “thick description” of Palestinian national identity formation within one particular sociopolitical milieu.[3] In tracing the histories of Baladna and Kamal Khalil and his career as a cultural activist, the dynamics of Palestinian exile and the struggle for self-determination emerge in myriad ways. As a powerful voice in the uprising, Baladna contributed to the creation of a specific Palestinian cultural narrative in diaspora. Through song this narrative communicated experiences of conflict, the dislocation of social reality, and a pervasive formation of violence and sociocultural trauma. In approaching their repertory as performance space, I seek to interpret these narratives as they were acted on and within an emergent field of exilic nationalism and cultural dislocation. Building from the notion that within fields of state violence, transformative processes of self and other emerge across various domains, this chapter offers an opportunity to document the capacities of music and music performance to ameliorate the lingering effects of dislocation and social trauma.[4]

As Kay B. Warren writes, the anthropological study of violence and social trauma is particularly concerned with issues of “experience, representation, and arrays of meaning elaborated in the practice of culture by people with a multiplicity of identities and social connections.”[5] Indeed it is only through the lives of its subjects that violence becomes a knowable social fact. Warren continues, “The issue for anthropologists is to unlock meanings of conflict and change in cultures and political systems in which symbolic languages, social realities, and conflicts are not easily translatable into conventional Western categories of social analysis.”[6] In the course of performance the songs of Baladna give shape to the forms and practices of violence and the various means through which actors have appropriated, resisted, succumbed to, or transcended such forces. In this chapter my goal is to investigate Kamal Khalil's varying experiences of exile, focusing specifically on his struggle to make sense of the fields of dispossession through which he performs and operates. What does “resistance” mean for an artist living and performing in Jordan? How did Kamal Khalil fashion his music to bridge the ideational gaps between disparate Palestinian communities? And in what ways did he attempt to represent the disorienting and dominating nature of state terror while simultaneously finding performative routes to resist its pressures? Even in the most dire situations of arrest, imprisonment, and torture, musicians, poets, dancers, and other artists have attempted to reclaim agency and create meaning. Such efforts are fundamentally important for understanding the potentialities of performative action to ameliorate the effects of violence and social trauma.

Origins of Baladna and Palestinian Protest Song in Jordan

Amidst a Palestinian community still recovering from the fighting of Black September, the ousting of the PLO, and the defeat of the Palestinian fidāiyīn, many Palestinian Jordanians were left to wonder what their role would be in the Jordanian national imaginary. The royal court had consistently insisted that it provided the best opportunity for an end to the Arab-Israeli conflict. King Hussein had long argued that his sharīfian lineage (holy lineage traced to the Prophet Mohammad), his family's role in the Great Arab Revolt, and his continued protection of Jerusalem's holy sites made him the most qualified leader to negotiate with Israel. He also actively sought the allegiances of the Palestinian refugee population by offering full citizenship, passports, development aid, and public-sector jobs and opportunities. Yet, despite these efforts, Palestinian nationalist sentiment and allegiance to the tenets of Palestinian self-determination exemplified in the various political factions remained strong among refugees and the stateless lower classes. In particular the refugee camps, growth points, and industrial villages provided social and cultural spaces where indigenous Palestinian lifeways and identities were actively preserved, rearticulated, and reimagined in daily practice, a means of preservation against Jordanian assimilation and steadfastness for a desired return. In these neighborhoods, families divided themselves spatially as well as socially based on indigenous Palestinian customs, villages of origin, amūla relations (extended family relationships), and family lineages. Likewise in the refugee camps, streets and alleys were demarcated into miniature neighborhoods defined by ancestral villages.[7] Efforts to maintain these societal divisions and relationships were seen as a necessary means of preserving Palestinian identity structures and maintaining a united front for a possible return to their native homes.

Kamal Khalil: Early Life and Musical Influences

The village of Ruseifa, a small satellite of the predominantly Palestinian city of Zarqa twenty-five kilometers northwest of Amman, developed originally as a hostelling district for migrant workers at a local phosphates mine. Prior to 1948 many Palestinian laborers moved freely across the Jordan River to seek employment and better economic opportunity. Men would routinely work in the factories until they had earned enough money to marry in their native villages. With the outbreak of the war of 1948, workers who had traveled from inside the armistice lines were forced to remain in Jordan indefinitely. Those from villages in the West Bank were still free to travel back and forth across the Jordan River until 1967.

Kamal Khalil's father had originally moved to Ruseifa from his native Palestinian village of Taiba, just across the armistice lines from the Israeli city of Umm al-Fahm. He worked as a laborer in the local phosphates factory. While pregnant with Kamal, his mother decided to return to Taiba to give birth at home with her mother and close relatives at her side in July 1957. Then, after giving birth, she returned to Ruseifa to be with her husband. At the time, movement between the East and West Banks was largely unencumbered, and families could routinely move back and forth with little difficulty. Following the 1967 war, however, such movement was impossible, making those living and working in Jordan forced exiles or nāzaīn (displaced). Given that the Khalil family was living in Jordan at the time of the 1967 war, they were denied refugee status by UNRWA and hence excluded from receiving humanitarian aid, education, health care, and international recognition.[8]

Over time, many of these workers who had settled in the area built homes, neighborhoods, and social relationships based on amūla (larger kinship groups) connections and lineage. It is within this cultural environment that a young Kamal Khalil began performing music publicly. Raised in Ruseifa, Kamal grew up singing the folk songs of his grandfathers. In addition he would often listen to the great stars of the Arab world perform late at night on the radio. Each repertory had an equally formative influence on him. Singing and dancing at weddings awakened a sense of family and cultural identity, stretching beyond Ruseifa to his native Palestinian village. These folk songs spoke of the landscape, village history, family quarrels, proverbs, and other life experiences. Most importantly, through these initial music experiences Kamal first learned of his Palestinian “catastrophe,” his family's relocation to Ruseifa, and their ongoing struggle to return.

Years later, after many of the famous Egyptian stars had faded, Kamal became fascinated by the nationalist work of Marcel Khalife. In these songs Kamal found a sense of authenticity absent in the “empty” nationalist songs of Egypt. It had become apparent in the years following 1967 that the Arab nationalist songs emanating from Egypt were blatant instruments of the state. Their messages of Arab unity and collective liberation rang hollow among refugees witnessing defeat and continued dislocation. For Kamal, Marcel Khalife carried forth the ideals of Palestinian nationalism. His work was especially powerful in that it celebrated Palestinian self-determination, documented Palestinian suffering, and was never officially associated with formal Arab state politics. In Marcel Khalife, Kamal found a voice for Palestinian liberation unfettered by state ideology and true to the great repertory of poets like Mahmud Darwish, Samih al-Qassim, and Ibrahim Tuqan. In setting the work of these famous poets to music Khalife opened himself up to harsh censorship and harassment from Lebanese authorities in much the same way that Palestinian authors and artists were treated in Jordan.

For Kamal a pirated copy of a recording by the famed Sheikh Imam Issa proved pivotal in developing his political voice. Such recordings were very rare at the time, and for Kamal to find one signaled to him that there were powerful voices of political opposition working throughout the Middle East. If Marcel Khalife had celebrated Palestinian nationalism in his programmatic orchestral work, Sheikh Imam offered a very different approach. The myths and dreams of Arab nationalism and the Palestinian cause were laid bare by the sheikh's exposing government corruption, hypocrisy, and malfeasance. In the sheikh's voice Kamal found a razor-sharp political wit, a drive to speak for the people, and courage to speak out despite potentially violent consequences. Sheikh Imam's powerful criticism of Arab leadership and the humor through which he satirized the “Great Protectors of Palestine” were a powerful inspiration for Kamal to begin writing and performing political songs in Jordan. While the folk songs of his youth provided the substance of his music, and the work of Marcel Khalife provided its most artful forms and structures, Sheikh Imam gave direction to Kamal's composing. Sheikh Imam offered an important model for Palestinian political song, one that recognized the people over the state, the harsh reality of exile over nationalist myth, and thought-provoking satire over simple slogans and propaganda.

IBRAHIM NASRALLAH

While attending various political meetings the young Kamal made the acquaintance of a like-minded poet named Ibrahim Nasrallah. They forged a bond and began writing together. Ibrahim's overall impact on Kamal was immense. His poetic compositions were powerful invocations of popular memory, exile, and dispossession. Drawing from the literature of the great Palestinian poets among both the intelligentsia and the fallāīn, Ibrahim wrote in a style that was accessible in both the refugee camps and the coffee houses. He composed lyrics of great sophistication and meaning yet based in the vernacular of the streets. The imagery of his prose carried powerful associations of time and place. Steeped in the tradition of public oration, or akayāt, Ibrahim composed lyrics drawing from a popular memory of displacement and resistance to foreign occupation.

The life and career of Ibrahim Nasrallah began similarly to that of Kamal. Born in 1954 and raised in the al-Wahdat refugee camp on the southeastern edge of downtown Amman, Ibrahim studied in the UNRWA educational system, eventually earning a teaching certificate. He later taught humanities at a school for foreign workers in Saudi Arabia. His experiences working and living abroad led to the publication of his first novel, Prairies of Fever (1978). Reflecting on his experiences Ibrahim saw Prairies as his testimony to overpowering feelings of alienation and suffering while trying to survive in exile. Unable to find solace in Saudi Arabia, he returned to Amman in 1978 to begin working as a writer and columnist in the local Jordanian press. It was at this time, on his return to Amman, that he began working with Baladna as its principal lyricist.

In the early 1980s Ibrahim Nasrallah found a popular forum for the performance of his work through Baladna. Published collections of his poetry and short stories were in press, but in order to create the type of social impact he desired Ibrahim believed that “words must be carried to the people through popular song.” In speaking about these songs Ibrahim noted that “set to Kamal's melodies, my poetry seemed to take on a life of its own.” Young, idealistic, and fearless, the two would sit up nights together singing the folk songs of their youth, composing what they hoped would become the protest songs of the next generation. Their friendship blossomed as well during these nights together. Reflecting on this period Kamal joked, “Ibrahim was just so special…his words were so important and inspiring. I was just so lucky that he had such a horrible singing voice, otherwise there would have been no need for me at all.”

Indeed Kamal wasn't the only one to admire Nasrallah's work. It seemed with each performance Baladna's popularity grew in the early 1980s, taking them from small weddings and family occasions to large concerts in youth clubs, labor syndicates, and street festivals. Their rise in popularity was aided by the political climate in Jordan as well as in the territories. What originally separated Baladna from contemporaries such as al-Ashiqin, Firqat al-Markaziya, Marcel Khalife, and other famous ensembles of the day was an overpowering emphasis on local Palestinian experiences in Jordan: the dynamics of Palestinian-Jordanian relations and the dialogics of their competing claims to nation and state.

“AGHNIYAT HUBB LI-SHAHID AL-KARAK” OR “AHMAD MAJALI” (A LOVE SONG FOR THE MARTYR FROM KARAK, AHMAD MAJALI)

One particularly potent example of this is seen in Baladna's well-known song “Aghniyat Hubb li-Shahid al-Karak” (A love song for the martyr from Karak, Ahmad Majali). In a time of great social turmoil and distrust between Palestinians and Jordanians this song eulogized the memory of the first native Jordanian soldier to join the PLO and die fighting for Palestinian liberation, Ahmad Majali. For Palestinians in the greater diaspora the story of the “shahīd al-Karak” (martyr from Karak) is perhaps completely unknown. However, in Jordan the story gripped the nation and remains important in popular memory today. Over time the story of Majali has been used as political ammunition for various nationalist organizations. He is often cited not only as a martyr for Palestine but also as a model for collective military action against Israel and the recruitment of Jordanians into the fidāiyīn movement. The song's lyrics were written by Ibrahim Nasrallah, while the music was composed and later recorded by Kamal Khalil (EVIA 14-S6800).[9]

“Aghniyat Hubb li-Shahid al-Karak” begins with an improvised realization of the main melody performed on the ūd. Kamal introduces the tune and its maqām structure (sīgā lā) instrumentally before singing the first two stanzas in the form of a traditional Palestinian mawwāl. Throughout this introduction he extemporizes on the maqām in order to both present the tonal material of the melody as well as to showcase his vocal interpretation of the lyrics.

This is the nation of the people, we are its defenders.

The honor of defending this country will raise our heads.

Blood is no longer blood if it is imprisoned,

And if it is the dowry in wars.

Oh rejoicing eyes of my mother do not fear.

The most beautiful youth are fighting alongside of me.

My blood is a sudden melody of dignity, listen to it.

The land of al-Quds [Jerusalem] is the sun and your hems are a wellspring.

As Kamal cadences this initial extemporization, the song quickens, shifting into a pulsating duple meter, iqa wada mukallafa. A chorus of mixed voices then sings the refrain:

The moon sings zaghrūd for him, and the most beautiful of cities sings to him.

Ahmad triumphs over death,

What is most beautiful is your sun, oh nation.

A flower for every little one in the lands of Karak

For the sheikhs and the mothers who said,

Oh angel, this land gives and will continue to give and love and receive you.

Transitioning into the next verse, the rhythm again shifts to iqa masmūdī saghīr or balādī, a popular dabke meter. Participating dabke dancers experienced enough to feel the difference between these two meters will mark this shift in rhythm by changing their step patterns instinctively or by the instruction of an informal lawī (line leader). At this moment, the original melody returns, this time sung as a straightforward dabke tune:

Who saw the small child who said goodbye to his mother?

And he was so young and beautiful.

Who saw him return and smile, as flowers arose from his weapons?

This Palestine is yours, it is yours.

Like childhood and the bosom of your mother.

Karak is yours,

Palestine is yours,

Those who raise your banner and clean dust of the night will be yours.

Sing zaghrūd for the beautiful one.

“Aghniyat Hubb li-Shahid al-Karak” is an excellent example of indigenous shabī nationalist song. Its nonmetric, improvised introductory mawwāl, call-and-response interaction between soloist and chorus, and shifting dabke rhythms call forth the shabī music routinely heard at weddings and other social gatherings. In text, although modified slightly, this song closely follows the stock lexicon of resistance metaphor and imagery common during the late 1970s and early 1980s. Particularly important here is the exalted relationship between the soldier/fighter and his mother, the sanctity of blood and honor in defending the nation, the act of resistance as wedding celebration, and the primordial relationship between the people and the land (sun, moon, flowers, and so on).

Beyond its somewhat clichéd depictions of land and honor, the significance of this song lies in how it directly engages both Jordanian and Palestinian national imaginaries. In so doing, this song offers a fascinating look into the dialogics of Palestinian Jordanian identity formation. First, in performing a musical tribute to Ahmad Majali, a young Jordanian from a powerful Bedouin tribe, Baladna is strategically reaching out to the (non-Palestinian) Jordanian community. To engage this particularly Jordanian/Bedouin ethos Baladna sings of family honor, prestige, and loyalty inclusive of both Palestinian and Jordanian communities. Specifically this song pays tribute to the honor of the tribe and family (al-Majali) by commemorating the actions of the individual. By extension, Ahmad Majali's martyrdom fighting for Palestinian liberation in the Lebanese civil war honors his family, tribe, and native city (Karak).

The introductory stanzas establish an ongoing metaphorical relationship between the soldier and his mother, the people and the nation. Like mothers to sons, the nation gives birth to its people. To defend the nation in blood is to dignify the family and the mother of the martyr. Kamal sings for the mother “not to fear,” that fighting with him are the most beautiful youth (the sons of Jordan). Fighting alongside his Jordanian brothers, the soldier's blood is dignified (karāma). The use of the word karāma here is particularly important in that it denotes great honor yet also references the historic battle of Karama, where Jordanian and Palestinian forces collectively engaged the Israeli army in 1968 (see chapter 3). The battle at Karama holds an important place in the national histories of both the PLO and the Jordanian monarchy, each marking it as an important military victory against Israeli forces.[10] In these lyrics karāma refers to this military victory as well as the dignity and honor of the martyr's acts. Indeed to elicit the image of Karama (and karāma) in the popular memory of both Palestinians and Jordanians is to strategically index the imagined ties between the two nations, and the potential for shared victory through collaboration.

Repeated references to the city of Karak and its children are equally powerful associations of place, as in the line, “a flower for every little one in the lands of Karak.” Karak is of great national and historical significance in Jordan. It was one of the more important cultural and political capitals of the early Trans-Jordanian emirate and remains a stronghold of native Jordanian tribal influence in the royal court. The seat of power in Karak has long been held by its most powerful tribe, the Majali, whose family members have served in the highest positions of the Jordanian government. Given its southern location and conservative Bedouin reputation, few if any Palestinians settled in Karak post-1948, and today it remains predominantly, if not completely, a (native) Jordanian city. In honoring the “sheikhs and mothers” who in their generosity have given to the struggle, Baladna makes an interesting overture toward the tribal leaders of the city and its ruling families. Use of tribal imagery is extremely rare in Palestinian protest songs and should be seen here as a particularly motivated attempt to reach out to a Bedouin audience.

The song ends with a final dedication to the beautiful one, Ahmad Majali. Because of his sacrifice he may now claim Palestine as his own. “Palestine is his, Karak is his.” All those who raise the banner of collective Palestinian liberation sing “zaghrūd [ululations sung at wedding celebrations] for the beautiful one.” The metaphorical references of marriage and martyrdom are perhaps the most potent facet of this piece. In associating the martyr with the bridegroom “Aghniyat Hubb li-Shahid al-Karak” references the transition from boyhood to manhood, and from life to death. Through death the martyr becomes a man, transforming his social status from shabāb (youth) to rajāl (man).[11] In the first stanza Kamal sings, “Blood is no longer blood…if it is the dowry in wars.” Blood spilled for liberation is a dowry or gift of marriage for the union of the martyr and the nation; for giving his life the young martyr is celebrated with zaghrūd as a bridegroom to the nation. He has chosen the nation as his beloved rather than sought a traditional wife. The act of burial, interring the martyr directly into the land, thus fulfills the consummation of that marriage.

The metaphorical use of blood throughout this song affirms a gendered, primordial depiction of the nation and its people and further establishes an iconic relationship between rituals of marriage and rituals of resistance. The hems of the mother's dress, like the lands of Jerusalem, are a wellspring from which to bathe and cleanse the body. Flowers of the resistance, sown of the martyr's blood and nourished by the sun/mother, are to be given to the “little ones in the lands of Karak.” On the martyr's return to the nation, iconically depicted in the act of burial and the consummation of marriage, flowers arise from his weapons. As Ahmad Majali sacrificed himself for the nation, the moon and the most beautiful cities sang zaghrūd. The act of zaghrūd, a performative means of celebrating the joining of man and woman, husband and wife, in marriage, is depicted here as a ritual for commemorating the martyr's wedding to the nation. Blood is the dowry demanded in the conjoining of the martyr and the nation. In exchange for his blood, the nation submits and accepts the martyr into its body (burial), consummating their eternal relationship.

When it was first performed, “Aghniyat Hubb li-Shahid al-Karak” was a powerful political statement. Following years of cultural tension and distrust between native Jordanians and Palestinian Jordanians, including the outbreak of civil war in 1970 and the purging of Palestinian nationalists from the state, Baladna sought to reunite Palestinians and Jordanians under a common banner of collective resistance against Israeli occupation. The memory of Karama was employed to identify a common enemy and purpose for reconciliation. So, too, with the Israeli invasion of Lebanon and the horrific massacres of Sabra and Shatila, support for the PLO was at an all-time high. Jordanian volunteers (both Jordanian and Palestinian Jordanian alike) assembled in large numbers at the Syrian border to join the fighting, bringing with them aid packages, food, clothing, and medical supplies. Most of these volunteers were turned away by the Syrian border patrol, their aid packages confiscated. On returning to their homes many found that their passports had been revoked, preventing them from leaving the country indefinitely.[12] Ahmad Majali was one of the few who successfully made it into Lebanon, where he joined the fidāiyīn and was later killed in combat in 1983. For many Palestinians, Majali, a young man from a connected Jordanian tribe in a Bedouin stronghold, signified the collective Arab sacrifice necessary to achieve Palestinian liberation. He embodied the idea that one need not necessarily be Palestinian by blood or lineage in order to believe in and fight for its cause.

The performance of a song such as this further opened up spaces for dialogue within the larger Jordanian public sphere, encouraging and celebrating Jordanian engagement in the Palestinian resistance movement and formal collaboration with the PLO. Among performers and audiences this song was intended and interpreted to be an act of subversion against the self-proclaimed leadership of King Hussein to represent the Palestinian people. Instead “Ughniyat Hubb li-Shahid al-Karak” celebrated the sacrifices of all those willing to cross ideological lines of difference and fight for Palestinian self-determination.

Identity Politics in Performance, Identity Performance in Politics

Although more myth than reality, imagery of Palestinian and Jordanian collaboration was a popular and necessary trope in the early 1980s. Competing ideas of nation and national sentiment between the PLO and the royal court regularly resurfaced in performance as well as politics. The cultural politics involved in defining the nation became increasingly sensitive at a time when Jordanian and Palestinian Jordanian nationalists were calling for more influence in matters of the state. However, throughout the 1970s and into the early 1980s, with the PLO fully recognized as the “sole and legitimate representative of the Palestinian people,” many tribal leaders insisted that King Hussein must reassess his policies to reflect a distinctly Jordanian national character. Initially the king held fast to his rhetoric that Palestinians and Jordanians were of “one tribe and one family.” But under extreme pressure he began reducing the number of Palestinians in his administration and drastically slashing government subsidies to the West Bank in place since 1948.[13] All these moves were seen as logical steps in a new project of renewed Jordanian nationalism under the twin banners of “East Bank First” and “Jordan Is for Jordanians.”

With the 1981 reelection of Israeli Prime Minister Menachem Begin, King Hussein was confronted with yet another ideological threat to his sovereignty on both the East and West Banks of the Jordan River. Emboldened by the many public pronouncements that “Jordan was Palestine,” advocates for the “Palestinian Jordan option,” predominantly nested within the Likud, believed that Israel should have done more to help the PLO topple the Hashemite regime during Black September and that it was in Israel's best interests to facilitate a Palestinian coup against the king. According to this point of view, with a Palestinian state proclaimed in Jordan the PLO would be less opposed to Israeli settlement in the Occupied Territories, paving the way for total annexation of the West Bank and Gaza Strip.

Angered by such a position, King Hussein set in motion several efforts to combat the notion that “Jordan was Palestine.” First among these was to initiate a Trans-Jordanian cultural movement in distinct opposition to the Palestinian nationalist model espoused by the PLO. For this to happen it was imperative for the king to showcase a native Jordanian national culture set apart from and distinctive to its more widespread Palestinian counterpart. The centerpiece of this movement was Jordan's native tribal (Bedouin) identity, its leadership role in the Great Arab Revolt, its historical and archeological significance, and most importantly the persona of the king himself.[14]

In matters of public culture this shift was clearly seen in a resurgence of “Bedouin” lifeways and aesthetics in television and radio programming, music performance, and cultural policy. Jordanian nationalists sought out folkloric representations of Bedouin life prior to its “contamination” in 1948. Composers and performers like Jamil al-Aas, Taqfiq al-Nimri, and Mohammad Abdhu were given center stage on Jordanian television and radio for their performances of contemporary nationalist “Bedouin” folk songs. Within these performances Jordanian nationalists asserted a distinct cultural identity, history, and heritage in contradistinction to Palestinian folklorists working simultaneously in the West Bank.

THE FIRST ANNUAL JERASH FESTIVAL OF CULTURE AND THE ARTS (1981)

Of the many cultural programs designed to highlight or enhance a native Jordanian cultural identity, none was to have as lasting an effect and as much overall success as the annual Jerash Festival of Culture and the Arts. In October 1981, under the direct patronage of Queen Noor al-Hussein, the first Jerash Festival was inaugurated. This festival made use of a Jordanian archeological treasure, the Roman city of Jerash, with its two beautifully preserved amphitheaters, for a three-day event of music and dance performances and arts and crafts exhibitions. The colonnaded streets and plazas of the Decapolis city were adorned with banners and accommodated crafts vendors and performances so as to revitalize and restore the city's cultural identity. It was the queen's hope that such a festival would celebrate Jordan's cultural and architectural history and the people's cultural heritage, promote tourism, and revitalize the economy of one of the kingdom's struggling communities.[15]

Following the success of the first Jerash Festival the queen immediately began preparations to expand it into an annual ten-day event that would include international Arab artists and performers. In her memoirs the queen wrote, “I was hopeful that we could strike a balance between paying tribute to popular traditional Arab and Muslim art forms and introducing contemporary regional and international culture.”[16] For the queen, Jerash's beautiful “outdoor theatres and monuments would provide extraordinary settings not only for Jordanian talent but also for Arab and European orchestras, Chinese acrobat troupes, Shakespeare performed by the British actor's theatre company,…the Caracall Dance Theatre of Lebanon,…and flamenco dancing performed by Spanish Gypsies.”[17]

Throughout its planning and implementation the Jerash Festival was designed to capitalize on and enhance Jordan's image as a progressive, developing monarchy open to and celebrative of global culture, while at the same time promoting a distinctly Jordanian cultural identity. Especially at a time when Jordan's national identity was being openly contested by forces foreign and domestic, it was particularly important for the royal court to promote an image of national stability and prosperity to the outside world. Cultural festivals such as this were an astute way to promote cosmopolitan aesthetics from within the local Jordanian community while concomitantly associating Jordan's national culture with the international world. This project thereby sought to influence how Jordan, as national construct, was conceptualized by both its citizenry and the world at large. The festival provided performative spaces where political fracturing would dissolve, and the nation would appear stable, historically rooted, and uncontested by its participants. In the Jerash Festival it was possible for the monarchy to construct a stylized depiction of its national culture, dress, food, and song naturalized within its present state structure and leadership.

Queen Noor's commentary about the arts is telling of what she hoped to accomplish in the Jerash Festival.

Cultural programs extended the ripple effect of such projects. I saw the arts as a way to provide opportunity for people of varied socioeconomic backgrounds, ethnicities, religions, and political orientations to come together and contribute to a contemporary Jordanian culture that would transcend their differences. Through programs that emphasized pluralism and diversity as well as traditional Arab artistic expression, I believe culture could have great political and even national security value. The more closely people could connect through literature, drama, and art, the greater would be their sense of cohesion in a society made up of often disparate and competing elements.[18] (emphasis added)

Queen Noor's initial impetus for the event was of profound significance in combating a very real sociocultural crisis. Her vision was that this event would promote a “contemporary Jordanian culture,” transcending differences in ethnicity, religion, and politics. Yet her ambitious goal of connecting “often disparate and competing elements” was ultimately accomplished not so much by the celebratory nature of the event, the “connection through literature, drama, and the arts,” but rather through the forceful silencing of dissent. Any artists or performers not explicitly “Jordanian” enough were excluded from participating in the event. In his recollections, Kamal Khalil offers a very different perspective on the first Jerash Festival and its impact in Jordan.

When I heard that the queen was starting a national music and culture festival I knew that this was our chance to be a part of the musical revival that Jordan needed….

When we got to Jerash on the first day of the festival my brothers and I set up our instruments on the street outside the gates and played for the people as they walked into the city. We played Palestinian folk songs, mostly shabī, things that we knew everyone would know. Songs from [Palestinian] folklore,…songs we were brought up singing. Soon we gathered a large crowd of maybe 200 people who were listening to our songs. Some of the people even began to dance. Even some of the police showed up. At first, I was scared, but the police stood by and just listened.

I remember that the last song we played was “Laya wa Laya” [see example 6.1]. This is one of the most famous Palestinian songs everyone knows. Ibrahim [Nasrallah] had re-written some of the lyrics, but for the most part it was from folklore [min al-turāth shabī]. After we finished the song, the police commander immediately ordered our arrest for inciting the crowd…. The people dancing and singing along must have scared him….

We were held in the detention center at Jerash. My younger brothers were all still very young, so they let them go after three days. I was kept in prison for several weeks. Each day they would come in…tie me up and take turns hitting me with various clubs, chains, or ropes. I wasn't allowed to sleep or eat. The whole time my family was trying to get a hold of me, but they were all in Ruseifa and I was being held in Jerash. Finally, they were able to get me transferred to the Ruseifa jail so that they could come and visit me. The beatings were more than I could take. I was so young at the time [twenty-four], and I only thought that I would be creating music like I saw in Germany, and maybe make a few dollars. My family couldn't find the money to get me out of prison. And for weeks I was held….

The guards would mock me, and the head commander of the jail would come in and lead the beatings. He would hit me so hard in the head that my ears would ring for days. I was [a] dirty [Palestinian] to him…. My teeth were kicked out, and the blood would run down my throat until I choked….

Finally after I was released they were giving me back my clothes and my ūd, the guards all lined up and asked if I would play them “Laya wa Laya” one last time before I went home. They were serious. They gave me back my ūd, and told me that they really liked my voice and wanted to hear the song one more time. I couldn't believe it. The song that I was singing when they arrested me was the song that they wanted to hear as I was being released.

I was so angry I didn't know what to do. In the end, I didn't play for them…. I wasn't going to give them the satisfaction (EVIA 14-S0790).[19]

Laya, Laya oh my daughter

The prison narrows around me,

And closed the path to my nation,

From the water to the water.

The exiled one was broadened,

I want to run through the land.

And they removed the mines from my path laid by an American tank.

They widened the dungeon,

Yaffa is vigilant in my chest.

And our olives thirst,

Wanting to drink freedom.

They widened exile for me,

Wanting to breathe Haifa

And even the night is purified,

In the bullets of the fidāī.

They widened the enclosure [ūa] and sang that the wedding is a part of us,

How do we sing about it being the soul of the people?

The wound is written in letters that

Only the mother of the martyr sees,

And she sings zaghrūd, Oh God, encircle our Kaba of the coast.

Set to a haunting, well-known melody in maqām ābā, “Laya” is a powerful testimony to life in exile. Although in performance the song is usually set to iqa maqsūm or saīdī, giving it a participatory dance quality, privately Kamal prefers for the song to be played without percussion. He finds the song releases an intimate beauty when sung solo with ūd accompaniment, as one might sing to a child. On the studio recording the song begins with a long drawn-out taqsīm (instrumental improvisation) on the nai played to introduce the character of maqām ābā, its mournful sadness, and to index the sound of the indigenous Palestinian shabāba and its associations with fallāī culture and lifeways. The text follows within a poetic structure and rhyme scheme similar to muraba and muāwara (AAAB, CCCB, DDDB, and so on). The first three lines of each stanza rhyme internally. The fourth lines rhyme with each other. In performance each stanza is sung solo; the first stanza also serves as a refrain, sung by a female chorus.

The text, as written by Ibrahim Nasrallah, begins as a testimony of desperation sung by a father to his young daughter, Laya. In hearing her father's lament, Laya learns of his time spent in exile's prison, al-manfā. For the father, al-manfā is a prison that has closed his path to the nation “from the water to the water.” The father wants to run through his homeland free of the American landmines (deadly obstacles) laid in his path. Signs of indigeneity figure conspicuously throughout shabī nationalist song, especially in wistful and nostalgic longings for the “lost homeland.” The rootedness of the trees becomes indexical of the revered qualities of “patience” and “steadfastness,” refusing to be uprooted from the soil. The Palestinian city of Yaffa, today engulfed by Tel Aviv, is steadfast in the chest of the father while “the olives of our nation are thirsty to drink freedom.” The olive tree as national emblem provides the quintessential trope of Palestinian secular nationalism, articulating a sense of rootedness in the land prior to displacement and dispersion.[20] Its fruit, the olive, represents the people themselves growing and thriving in the nation's soil. “The thirst of the olives wanting to drink freedom” signifies the struggles of the people to restore the nation. Thirst, as it is articulated here, implies a complex of meanings associated with drought, stunted growth, untended fields, neglect, desire, and the harsh living conditions many refugees suffered crossing into the Jordanian desert. By extension thirst is also a common trope for life in exile, a nation/land separated from its people, loyal, waiting to be liberated, nourished, and irrigated. In resistance art thirst is typically depicted by cracked, barren, dry land and is a standard icon of life under occupation (see figure 6.3).

As the Palestinian people are metaphorically framed as the fruit of the olive trees, the tree itself represents the cultural history and indigenous lifeways of the people. Its roots dig deep into the nation's soil.[21] The collective branches of the olive tree act as the cultural links, as they are the shared repository of beliefs and practices constitutive of the nation. It is the olive tree that acts as the intermediary between the people (olives) and the land. The tree bears its fruit in much the same way as culture and cultural practices generate a sense of community and belonging.

As the trees of culture thrive as part of the national landscape, rooted in the soil bearing its fruit (the Palestinian people), they are nourished by the waters of sacrifice. This tripartite metaphor, which positions the land, the people, and their culture collectively in the image of the olive tree, is a powerful, if not overdetermined, marker of Palestinian identity. Under occupation and in exile this symbiotic relationship is disrupted, separating the people from the land. In metaphoric representations of the occupation, the land is depicted as barren, bereft of life. Its dry, cracked soil lays dormant without its necessary nourishment. To reclaim the land, and to restore the olive trees, the nation must be watered with the blood of sacrifice. Countless songs employ this trope of “watering the olives in blood.” This trope signifies the metaphorical nourishment of the land through the sacrifice of resistance and the spilling of Palestinian blood. To “water the olives in blood” is to irrigate the nation's fields and to sustain its people. As water nourishes the land, blood sustains and fuels the nation. The iconic substitution of blood for water personifies the land and the nation as primordial determinants of the people. In the spilling of blood the nation's thirst is quenched, and the olive trees may thrive.

Like Yaffa, the Palestinian city of Haifa is represented as unable to breathe through the smoke of gunfire. The darkness makes it difficult to see, but the gunfire of the fidāī purifies the night and shows us the path to redemption. To openly sing lyrics about the fidāī in such an overtly “Jordanian” cultural space was perhaps the final straw that led to Kamal Khalil's arrest. As enemies of the state, a competing national entity, and a fighting force currently engaged in a war against the Israeli army in Beirut, the fidāiyīn represented a threat to Jordanian and particularly Hashemite sovereignty. To glorify the fidāī in song may well have been interpreted by these local police commanders as treason against the king.

In the fifth stanza the singer speaks of the Palestinian wedding. In this instance, as before, we see the standard trope of marriage between martyr and nation with a slight variation. Here the wedding is proclaimed as a site for the construction of familial intimacy. The lyrics state, “They widened the enclosure [ūa] and sang that the wedding is a part of us.” Traditionally, after the formal wedding celebrations have ended and only the close family of the bridegroom remains, families create what is called the ūa, a circle or enclosure. Here brothers, sisters, close cousins, aunts, and uncles all sit together and sing wedding songs until morning. Traditionally it is one of the few moments in a formal (Muslim) Palestinian wedding where men and women openly celebrate together. In this enclosure there are no strangers or outsiders to the family's inner circle. Within such a space men and women may sing and dance together without fear of immodesty or impropriety.

The Arabic root -ū- literally means to embrace something to the point of knowing it thoroughly; to be completely familiar with something; and to guard, protect, and preserve something cherished. To be included in the ūa implies participation in one of the most private and intimate of family spaces. In these lyrics the father is calling for the ūa to widen to encapsulate the entire Palestinian nation, one family united in struggle for the preservation of community. The wedding referenced here, however, is not of two families. Rather it is the wedding of the martyr (shahīd) to the nation. As before, the young man who has martyred himself is said to have died a groom to the nation. His death and burial are metaphoric references to the act of marriage. The spilling of blood by the martyr is iconic of the bride's spilling of blood on the wedding night. Both are honored and dignified in their sacrifice for nation and the family. Where a man has martyred himself for the nation, “Laya wa Laya” calls for his death to be celebrated within a ūa encapsulating the entire nation.

The final stanza speaks of the mother of the martyr (umm al-shahīd) and her spiritual connection with her son. She, in fact, is the only one who sees the true wounds and suffering of the martyr and yet, nevertheless, sings zaghrūd for his death/wedding. Her final call is that God and the Muslim world treat the cities of Haifa and Yaffa as the “Kaba of the coast.”[22] She prays for the Muslim world to protect its Palestinian cities as they would Mecca and Medina, calling Haifa, Yaffa, and Gaza the Palestinian Kaba, holy to its inhabitants and worthy of sacrifice.

In performing “Laya wa Laya” informally on the streets of Jerash during the inauguration of the kingdom's largest cultural festival, Kamal Khalil perhaps should have expected political consequences. A lament of this sort would no doubt have caused an uproar among Jordanian nationalists and the mukhabarāt (secret police), attempting to preserve the kingdom's united national front to the outside world. What is more, given that the group had attracted such a large crowd, the lyrics and overt political commentary most assuredly were seen as potential incitement at a festival designed to celebrate a peaceful “contemporary Jordanian culture.”[23] In its references to the fidāiyīn, exile, and betrayal, “Laya wa Laya” explicitly trespassed various nationalist taboos. By articulating Palestinian identity and experience from within the Jordanian national imaginary, it asserted a Palestinian presence in Jordan potentially subversive to the state-espoused position that Jordan had succeeded in securing a safe haven for all its refugees. Any formal attempt to fight for Palestinian interests outside of Jordanian state hegemony might then be considered an offense to the king's generous hospitality.

Outward expressions of loyalty to the PLO exposed the fractures and inconsistencies inherent in the Jordanian national imaginary and reinforced a particularly tragic episode of civil war and social neglect. “Laya” presented a counterhegemonic ideology that directly challenged the king's self-proclaimed leadership in representing the Palestinian people. Performances such as this were particularly subversive in that they enabled public debate, questioned existing power structures, and proposed potential alternatives. Carried forth via well-known folk songs and dances, Baladna gave voice to Palestinian experiences of exile and betrayal and offered a performative means of interpreting dispossession outside the discursive reach of the Jordanian state. “It was obvious what they [the Jordanian government] were doing,” Kamal recounted. “They wanted everyone to see Jordan as this great modern country. But they didn't want anyone to see us suffering, waiting, and fighting for our freedom.”

In a similar fashion, Queen Noor was also attempting to overcome perceived threats and vulnerabilities to national identity politics. Queen Noor's original assessment that such cultural festivals are an opportunity for people of various ethnicities to come together and transcend their differences reflects the predominant cultural project of reaffirming a distinct Jordanian national identity amidst domestic unrest and foreign threats that “Jordan is Palestine.” In the Jerash Festival the queen could stage Jordanian national artists performing for the nation, erasing all doubt that hers was a kingdom derived from a historic cultural heritage and identity deeply seated in and legitimated by a shared Bedouin ethos. The ultimate goal was to perform the nation and hence remove all doubt that “Jordan is Jordan” and “Palestine is Palestine.”

Unfortunately this was but the first confrontation Kamal Khalil would have with the secret police. He later found out after inquiries with the prison commander that his arrest was ordered by the head of the mukhabarāt for “illegal political activities.” The young musician was given only his first taste of political activism in Jordan. Today he looks back on this experience as a watershed moment in his career, a moment when he found purpose in his music and strength in the conviction that he was singing for “his people.” Among his supporters, Kamal's arrest generated a great deal of publicity. As a political prisoner Kamal had made a name for himself and for Baladna as artists dedicated to Palestinian causes. Through this first experience at Jerash, Kamal also came to realize that despite the political overtures made by government officials (including members of the royal family), Jordan in practice did not celebrate its cultural and political diversity to the extent that he once imagined. With time the injuries suffered in prison healed, but there were lasting psychological effects: he would never walk onstage again without first considering the consequences of what he was about to do. He knew that at any time he or anyone in the group could be taken away, beaten, or even killed.

Partnership, Reconciliation, and the PLO Honeymoon (1982–1988)

In the aftermath of the Israeli invasion of Lebanon and the expulsion of the PLO from Beirut, King Hussein believed that his current relationship with the PLO was untenable and that a lasting partnership between the two needed to be forged if either were to survive. Israel, with its political shift to the right, had intensified its hard-line stance regarding the Occupied Territories and the status of Jerusalem, making the prospect of negotiations dim. The combination of these political forces seemed to make the king's position all the more necessary. A partnership between the king and the PLO was deemed crucial to reaching a political settlement with Israel and hence avoiding the potential exodus of hundreds of thousands of additional refugees across the Jordan River. Over the course of the next six years (1982–88), King Hussein made several attempts to achieve a lasting, mutually beneficial relationship with Arafat and the PLO.

Struggling to maintain his leadership while exiled to Tunis, Arafat seemed to have little choice but to seek alliances within the Arab world. With this, relations between the royal court and the PLO warmed such that on November 21, 1984, the Palestinian National Congress (PNC) formally met in Amman. At this congress King Hussein revealed his goals for reconciliation and rapprochement to an audience of politicians and delegates he had forcibly evicted from his kingdom only thirteen years earlier. “I send a salute of loyalty to the people of Palestine, and through you, the representatives of the Palestinian people, I salute every Palestinian. We welcome you in Amman, among its people, or rather, welcome you among your people, your tribe, your brethren, your family, your brothers and your brothers-in-law; we welcome you in Jordan, the lighthouse of men and the castle of steadfastness.”[24]

In the end, Arafat ultimately declined any formal federation between the two nations and instead would speak only of the “special relationship” between Jordanians and Palestinians. Frustrated by this lack of coordination, King Hussein attempted to shore up loyalties among the West Bank elite, reviving parliament on June 16, 1984 (suspended since 1974) and appointing several prominent West Bank officials to his royal court and cabinet.[25] The message was clear: there was a partnership available to Palestinians regardless of the PLO's agenda. More than a year of intensive negotiation yielded little result, forcing the king to formally announce his “inability to continue political coordination with the PLO” on February 19, 1986.[26] The king's termination of ties with the PLO once again resulted in the closing of all PLO offices in the kingdom and a renewed program of social aid and incentives to win the support of the unaffiliated notables in the West Bank. Such monies would ostensibly serve to improve the local lives of Palestinians living under occupation, create jobs (and hence curb the flow of immigrants across the border), and most importantly, strengthen a local leadership outside the PLO's influence. Ultimately, though, each of these attempts failed to secure a lasting Jordanian-Palestinian political relationship and to create the kind of sociocultural legitimacy the king needed for his claims to represent and lead the Palestinians in negotiations with Israel. In effect, the so-called honeymoon had ended.

For Palestinian Jordanians the rapprochement of the PLO and the royal court signaled a brief window of opportunity wherein Palestinian cultural practices were allowed entrance into the mainstream Jordanian public sphere. It was imperative that the king put forth the image that there was no animosity between Palestinians and Jordanians and further highlight the contributions of Palestinians to the kingdom. At no other time were Palestinian authors, poets, musicians, and other artists celebrated in Jordan as contributing members of the nation-state. During this brief window of time folkloric performers of Palestinian music and dance were given unfettered access to state resources such as venues, permits, and publicity. What is more, Palestinian musicians previously harassed and scrutinized for their politics were asked to perform publicly in high-profile national events. The goal was to frame Palestinian culture from within the Jordanian state imaginary, thus aligning the plight for Palestinian self-determination as a stated or implied Jordanian state interest.

A RETURN TO JERASH

It was within this brief opening in the spring of 1984 that Kamal Khalil was officially asked to perform on the main stage of the Jerash Festival. As might be expected, the news came to him as a great shock. He saw the gesture as a ploy to circumvent the PLO and secure loyalty to the king. It would seem that Baladna's growing popularity had become such a force that the monarchy was left with an important choice: either use it, or silence it. In this instance the monarchy chose to use Kamal Khalil as a tool of cultural integration between Palestinian Jordanian and Jordanian communities. The sight of Baladna performing on the queen's stage would be a powerful sign of Hashemite legitimacy to rule over one “united Jordanian family.” Despite his initial reservations, however, Kamal jumped at the chance to perform for such a large audience. Moreover he felt that a Baladna performance on the main stage at Jerash would provide sweet retribution for his previous experiences there in 1981. Reflecting on the experience Kamal stated, “I knew that in this festival I could sing my songs anyway I wanted, and there was nothing the police could do about it.” In fact, many of the same local policemen responsible for Kamal's arrest were working the night of Baladna's concert three years later. The concert featured his usual set list, including “Laya wa Laya,” and audience reactions were so favorable that the group was asked to return the following year (1985).

In an ironic twist, Kamal was invited to attend a reception for festival participants hosted by the king and queen at the royal palace. Standing in the receiving line waiting to be welcomed by their majesties, Kamal was overcome. “Three years earlier I was thrown in jail for weeks, beaten…all for singing my songs. And now, here I am waiting in line to be welcomed by the king and queen for singing those same songs.”

As he approached their majesties Kamal could not contain himself, “It took everything I had inside of me not to scream out, or cry, or laugh. What was I supposed to say to them? How could I look them in the eye? Afterwards, I knew more than at any other time that I was singing for the right reasons. Regardless of whether they put me in jail or invited me to meet the king, I was going to keep singing [my songs].”

Palestinians, the Intifada, and Formal Disengagement

While December 1987 marked the beginning of the intifada in Gaza and the West Bank, it marked an equally powerful moment in the lives of Palestinians living in Jordan. Public support for the uprising was very strong, evidenced by the formation of local leadership councils, committees, and fund-raising projects. Intifada culture had gripped society in Jordan much as it had in other Arab capitals throughout the region. For many Palestinian Jordanian families, the beginning of the uprising caused great stress and hardship. The violence reported on the radio exacerbated feelings of dislocation and separation. Many felt powerless to help friends and family members still living under occupation.

In the Jordanian public sphere the escalation of the uprising paradoxically had the effect of both generating national sentiment for Palestinian liberation and at the same time forcing Palestinian Jordanians to admit to their peripheral relationship to the conflict. If participation in the intifada and collective suffering under the occupation had become the primary modes for conceptualizing Palestinian identity, then for many Palestinian Jordanians the intifada pushed them outside of the national imaginary. Unlike those in the territories participating in protests and boycotts and engaging the Israeli military in the streets, Palestinians in Jordan went about their daily lives, following the intifada via television, radio, and the newspaper. Left with only performative action to engage the uprising, many chose to articulate their sense of Palestinian identity through social performance and activism, demonstrations, protests, concerts, and public speeches. In the process fundamental notions of Palestinian nationalism, identity, and resistance were subjected to resignification. “Resistance” took on a very different meaning, based in local power dynamics. To resist meant to lend support, to campaign, to raise money, or to otherwise lobby the Jordanian government for a more active engagement in Palestinian issues. For others resistance meant remembering, preserving, and commemorating Palestinian culture and practice.

PERFORMING THE INTIFADA IN EXILE

Initially the intifada was well supported in both Palestinian Jordanian and Jordanian communities. Solidarity campaigns, boycotts, demonstrations, and other modes of political activism were widespread within the refugee camps and predominantly Palestinian Jordanian cities (Zarqa, Irbid, Amman), but also in native Jordanian cities (Karak, Ramtha, Salt). Despite such widespread support, the mukhabarāt continued to rigorously police public demonstrations. Interrogation, surveillance, arrest, and harassment were all common tools for maintaining quiet on the suburban streets of Amman as well as in the twisted alleys of the Husseini, Wahdat, and al-Baqa refugee camps. In these camps, police action was most severe, and demonstrations (planned or spontaneous) were met with riot police, batons, tear gas, and mass arrest. In Amman the severity of violence against protestors depended on the organization sponsoring the event, its planned route and location, and the relationship between the protest organizers and the local authorities. Certain professional unions, such as the syndicates for lawyers and engineers, were treated differently than others depending on their abilities to conciliate local authorities. Others less fortunate, those sponsored by the refugee camps, were relentlessly harassed for even the slightest city ordinance infraction.

Baladna, over the course of its various engagements with the state and widely popular recordings, had developed a reputation as the foremost Palestinian protest ensemble in Jordan. Kamal Khalil's early experiences with the mukhabarāt afforded him a great deal of credibility among the lower-class camp dwellers. Coupled with high-profile performances on the main stages at Jerash, Baladna grew to be equally popular among the suburban/cosmopolitan middle classes of lawyers, doctors, and engineers. Patronage from both groups proved instrumental in bringing the ensemble into the mainstream. Popular support for Baladna in the camps meant continued performances at the various youth clubs and social organizations therein. Likewise support in the upwardly mobile middle classes drew opportunities from the professional unions, syndicates, and other high-powered quasi-political organizations. Baladna was one of the few groups equally suited to performing in both the camps and the suburbs.

With each performance the group would tailor its set list to accommodate the aesthetic dispositions of its specific audience. In the camps, Baladna stuck to straight shabī dabke tunes, folk songs, and reconditioned wedding songs. In these performances it was essential for the group to get the people dancing, clapping, and singing along. Therefore they created a performance environment more conducive to participatory music making reminiscent of traditional life-cycle celebrations. The songs were rhythmically driven, cyclically structured dance pieces with short responsorial refrains and simple melodies. In the suburbs and the syndicates Baladna challenged the audience through more thought-provoking political commentary, instrumental compositions, and martial hymns. Among the cosmopolitan middle class Baladna performed more presentational compositions emphasizing poetic contrast, thick metaphorical and historical references, and more complex instrumental forms and structures. In a theater performing in front of a seated audience of political leaders, the goal was not to “get them dancing,” but rather to “get them thinking,” as Kamal explained.

There were, however, a series of public laws and ordinances in place governing by what forms, and under what circumstances, support for the intifada could be expressed. So, for example, public support for the intifada was acceptable as long as the event made no mention of associated political entities: the PLO, Arafat, Jordanian state administrators, or the king himself. Signs of Palestinian nationalism and resistance were equally controlled. Flags, pictures, posters, and other paraphernalia had to conform to Jordanian state policies. It was acceptable to show support for the Palestinian people, but it had to be done from a position of loyalty to Jordan and the Hashemite crown. Any transgression of these rules could be met with serious consequences to be meted out by the police or mukhabarāt.

For Baladna the navigation of these ordinances required that their presence be explicitly explained in advance to the local authorities. The government placed a number of restrictions on the group and sent “representatives” to speak with Kamal about his activities on several occasions. Routine harassment and other obstacles limited the visibility of the group on the streets. Most effective among these were stiff bureaucracies, licensing offices, permits, and other official documents necessary to perform music in public.

They [the mukhabarāt] started bothering us, narrowing the paths in front of the political groups' performances. Putting obstacles in front of the group. It was impossible to get permits for the performances. So, the issue now has moved to being more like political operations laws and internal ruling systems, internal policies. If you want to sing here, you can sing here, in the frame of some programs for supporting the intifada. This intifada support committee had the right to do any activity, but for supporting the intifada only. So that was our window to the world. That was our way out. So we could sing for the intifada demonstrations, but if Nadi al-Wahdat or Baqa club [refugee camp youth clubs] or Sahib club or Karak club wanted to arrange a concert, it was impossible, even if the mayor wanted it. So they started fighting us from this side.

Despite these obstacles formal (permits, licenses, bureaucracy) and informal (harassment, surveillance, and intimidation), Baladna continued performing in both sanctioned and unsanctioned events throughout the kingdom.

You cannot count how many concerts we played. Sometime we used to have two concerts in two places in one day. One afternoon in seventh circle [suburban West Amman], and that night in Ramtha [a small transit community near the Syrian border]. The whole country. Mafraq, Irbid, Karak, Aqaba, Tafileh [all predominantly Trans-Jordanian cities]. Only Maan we didn't sing in.[27] But from Tafila to Ramtha, Irbid, and all in between. At that time the group was ūd, percussion, voices, and no dancers. The people in the crowds used to be the dancers. Baladna was then made up of just my family, my wife with me, and my brothers, and my cousin.

As a site for communal interaction, political activism, and the assertion of counterhegemonic ideology, music performances such as these were a powerful tool in the establishment and development of Palestinian nationalism in exile. Drawing on a collective musical folklore of songs, dances, and poetry, these performances provided social spaces where national identities could be embodied, performed, acted out. In performance participants could say onstage what could never be said publicly on the streets or in the media. Lyricist Ibrahim Nasrallah recalled that within these concerts, “we were free to be Palestinian without fear or shame.” “We could chastise political leaders [except for the king], debate issues, and proudly proclaim our Palestinian identity.” Simply performing Palestinian music and dance became an act of subversion against a Jordanian monarchy that demanded loyalty and quiet in the streets.

Kamal Khalil elaborated, “in our songs we were talking about what was happening day to day, we wanted to tell the people what was going on, and make them feel as if they were there on the streets, too, with their families.” Couched within these performances, participants could publicly express their support for the uprising, raise money for family members in the territories, and uplift the spirits of those wishing they could do more to help the cause. Widely known Palestinian folk songs reset with resistance poetry created powerful associations of time and place capable of bridging the divide between those in exile and those under occupation. In performing these folk songs participants actively engaged in collective memory making, both in response to and as a symptom of the rupture between Palestinian communities. Perhaps most importantly, these performative acts of “resistance” served to engender feelings of intense solidarity, enabling those witnessing the intifada from afar to feel as though they were struggling alongside those demonstrating in the territories.

Through politicized texts and imagery Baladna's songs described in detail the hardships of life under occupation and in exile, but they also prescribed how a new generation of Palestinian youth should interpret and act on their experiences of political dispossession. In this way, Baladna contributed to a narrative of resistance whereby Palestinians in diaspora were afforded a performative social space for engaging Israeli checkpoints, roadblocks, tanks, and bulldozers in absentia. They could communicate their experiences of conflict, express widespread feelings of disorientation at their shifting political realities, and create dialogue in the assertion and representation of the Palestinian nation. These songs opened up social spaces for dialogue, spaces where various images, texts, and ideas could be confronted and reconfigured into the myths and narratives of a new Palestinian national identity.

Baladna's performances revealed how music directly indexed a sense of locality, a sociorelational construction of community or solidarity, with the people and places most affected by the struggle. Such locality emerged not so much from the free movement of texts and ideas, but rather in response to conflicting assertions and competing claims of authority. Palestinians in Jordan faced an ideational crisis, negotiating a position of displacement and ambiguity in their lives. Singing the songs of Baladna aided in negotiating this crisis. For many, attending performances of Palestinian resistance song engendered profound feelings of solidarity. Others were motivated through song to pursue formal means of political activism (boycotts, charity drives, fund-raising). But it would seem that the true power of this music lay in its capacity to ameliorate the distances that separated Palestinian communities. Singing and dancing in support of the intifada enabled an emotional transference whereby Palestinians in Jordan might feel connected to the uprising, somehow contributing to its goals of civil disobedience. Music became a performative means of resisting in absentia, a means of connecting and identifying with those in the territories. Ultimately such acts of performative resistance allowed Palestinians in Jordan to pursue their everyday lives as Jordanian citizens feeling as though they had done something for the cause.

Essentially, performances of protest song mediated spatial, political, and cultural relationships with the uprising. On the front lines of Gaza, Ramallah, Nablus, and Jerusalem, stone-throwing youth called for mass demonstrations and sacrifice against the occupation. In Amman, the Jordanian government (and to an extent the PLO) pleaded for patience and a return to negotiations, exerting considerable resources to quiet Palestinian dissent. Local Palestinian Jordanians were then left to navigate the highly contested middle ground. The absence of any real option for Palestinian organizing under the repressive Jordanian regime made cultural preservation and performance particularly apt sites for articulating solidarity with the intifada. The following chapter seeks to better understand the performance-as-resistance dilemma faced by Palestinians in exile.

7

Imprisonment and Exile

Negotiating Power and Resistance in Palestinian Protest Song

“Dawla”

Over Baladna's history, several of its songs managed to make their way into the popular vernacular of Palestinian resistance music. In some cases, either in lyric or melodic device, songs became so popular that they took on a life of their own. “Laya wa Laya” was an example of a powerful resistance song using the common repertory of Palestinian folklore. “Ala Jida Zaytuna” revived a famous poem by Tawfiq al-Ziyad, giving it new life in popular melody. In other cases, songs touched the community through their engagement with salient sociopolitical issues of the time. “Aghniyat Hubb li-Shahid al-Karak” inscribed itself into the national imaginary through its appeal for bridging Palestinian-Jordanian political difference. It served as a message of reconciliation, cooperation, and collective struggle against colonialism and foreign domination. Of all of the songs in the Baladna catalogue, however, there is one that reached a level of fame and notoriety unlike any other. In melody, text, and sociopolitical content, this song captured the political moment in such a way that it has now taken on new meaning among activists as an anthem of social protest.

Over the years, “Dawla” (State/country) has come to define Baladna as a group and Kamal Khalil as a performer. It is the climax of any performance and routinely elicits multiple ovations and calls for repetition. The text is based on a poem by Tawfiq al-Ziyad, and the melody itself was composed by former Baladna member Ziyad Mazid.[1] In terms of its relationship with the established repertory of Palestinian resistance song, “Dawla” doesn't seem to fit the mold. Its melody and rhythms are not based on Palestinian folklore. Its text is not particularly well known in comparison to al-Ziyad's other work, nor does it engage the established discourse of nationalist imagery and metaphor. Likewise its political message is equally difficult to define; it is explicitly neither nationalist, Islamist, nor socialist, nor does it specify exactly who is its primary target. Moreover the popularity of “Dawla” has grown despite the fact that it was not included on either of Baladna's two studio recordings. Remarkably, over the course of twenty years it has remained famous primarily through popular memory and live performance. By all accounts what sets this song apart from the standard repertory of Palestinian protest song is that it takes aim at a very different target, the Arab state itself.

By definition, the word dawla has several important meanings. First and foremost, it means the state and usually represents the political entity of the state apart from its cultural or national content. Additionally, dawla is a political title often given to prime ministers, presidents, or high-ranking government officials (such as dawla raīs al-akūma [His Excellency the Prime Minister]). But as James Scott has written in his work on the subscripts of power discourses, such forms of ceremonial respect and title are easy prey for satirists, dissenters, and resistant voices.[2] In this song, the word dawla carries with it a very different accusative timbre and meaning. In Palestinian dialect the word dawl (from hadawl) is a demonstrative plural pronoun (as in the phrase “these books are heavy” [hadawl kutb thaqīl]). As Kamal repeats over and over the words “Dawla! Dawla! Dawla!” he is in effect saying two very different things. The most obvious meaning, “State! State! State!” (or “His Excellency”), is parlayed by a demonstrative subtext pointing toward state, empire, power, title, and privilege. In subterfuge Khalil points an accusative finger at the state by singing, “These officials! These states! These empires!” He salutes country and state tongue in cheek, impugning the dark side of power, corruption, hypocrisy, and deception. With each utterance, dawla both signifies the state and becomes a powerful epithet hurled at the state, its duplicity, and its privilege.

In performance “Dawla” is sung in call-and-response style by the performer and audience. Following each line the crowd repeatedly answers the accusations with the word dawla! The interaction between singer and audience creates an environment similar to a protest march or demonstration and further elicits a commanding participatory sound environment (EVIA 14-S4997).[3] Kamal begins by singing the refrain solo:

State State State…(State!)

State that sold my land…(State!)

State that ripped to shreds my dignity…(State!)

State State State…Oh My Eyes!

The second half of the refrain is a descending melodic sequence sung on the vocable “Ohh.” Throughout this section Kamal strums a block chordal (that is, homophonic) accompaniment on the beat, in quarter notes. Although this is an uncharacteristic method of ūd playing in Palestinian song, Kamal routinely uses this technique to fill out the sound, to substitute for a missing percussionist, or to reinforce rhythmic structure. The strict 2/4 meter is carried through the verse with the crowds routinely clapping on the beat (see example 7.1).

State that sold my land…(State!)

State that ripped to shreds my dignity…(State!)

State that is selling the Arab oil so that they can drink Coca-Cola

They rode in the saddle…(State!)

They put their hands in the saddlebag…(State!)

They said, “Shut Up! Do not even breathe for the sake of national security.”

And God provided for them…(State!)

And God entitles them…(State!)

The tighter the rope is stretched to imprison us, the easier it will be for that rope to fall on the heads of the State.

For Kamal there is sweet redemption in singing “Dawla” before a screaming, enthusiastic crowd. With each line he lashes out, denounces, and attacks Arab governments who have done little to better the lives of their citizens and who silence voices of popular dissent. He calls out the hypocrisy of Arab rulers who sell “Arab oil so they can drink Coca Cola.” “Dawla” gives public voice to a political problem often kept private, talked of only in hushed tones: the corruption of the state as it steals from the people. In the lines “They rode in the saddle, and put their hands in the saddle bag,” “Dawla” refers to a well-known Palestinian proverb that warns of “the man you allow to ride with you and yet still puts his hands in the saddle bag to rob you.”

The penultimate stanza of the song further traces the crimes of a corrupt Arab leadership that has sold out their people's interests for Western merchandise, stolen from the people's resources, and silenced their voices for the sake of national security. The turn of meaning on the word dawla is extended further in the lines, “They said, ‘Shut Up! Don't even breathe for the sake of national security.’” Here the lyrics could equally be translated as “Don't even breathe for the sake of His Majesty's security.” The constant rub of meaning between the state as structure and the state as individual propels the satiric irony at the root of this song.

As one who has spent his life singing songs for Palestinian self-determination, and suffered mightily for it, Kamal Khalil captures a sense of authenticity among his audience whenever he sings “Dawla.” For the sake of national security, he has lived his life in fear of the state and its apparatuses of social control. He has been tortured, beaten, and harassed for much of his adult life, and in singing “Dawla” he exacts his revenge. On that stage, at that moment, he is in control, he is in power, able to release or exorcise his demons in a public display of outrage and shame for what his government has done to him and his people.

The final stanza provides the harshest and most volatile criticism of the state. In it a warning is given to those in power: although God has granted these rulers their power, they must remember that their ultimate responsibility is to the people, for “the tighter the rope is stretched to imprison us [in a kind of tug of war], the easier it will be for that rope to fall on the heads of the State.” Statements such as these carry with them extreme consequences in the Arab world. Popular dissent and public criticism of government officials, let alone royal families, carry with them steep consequences. Singing such a powerful song in a public performance, demonstration, or other political event sends a very clear message, especially in Jordan, where the monarchy has constructed its legitimacy to lead based on its holy lineage to the Prophet and its self-proclaimed status as protector of the great holy sites in Palestine. To cite holy entitlement here carries a strong association with the Hashemite crown. What is more, when Kamal sings of the rope “falling on the heads” (raīs al-dawla) of the state, he explicitly refers to both King Hussein and Yasser Arafat, both of whom adopted the formal title al-raīs al-dawla (head of state). This ambiguity is perhaps his saving grace. Remaining unclear, Kamal can get away with singing this song because its primary target is intentionally unspecified.

The popularity of this song among the people can be explained in several ways. First, the energetic call-and-response structure of “Dawla” creates a level of participatory interaction between singer and audience highly conducive to social protest. Second, the lyrics speak to an issue that is rarely broached publicly even in the discourse of Palestinian resistance. As demonstrated in the propagandist work of al-Markaziya, al-Ashiqin, and hundreds of other groups, blind nationalist tropes often lose their meaning through continued repetition in song, poetry, and literature. “Dawla” shies away from convention and calls out a new enemy, the state itself. The underlying question posed is: What good is liberation or self-determination when Palestinians have suffered under Arab as well as Israeli domination? In this example, the state in question is unspecified, giving the song a more flexible interpretation, expanding its political reach and insulating its performance from government scrutiny. Third, the catchy melody, pounding rhythms, and acrobatic singing style of “Dawla” give it a power and resonance unlike other political songs. In performance “Dawla” lends itself to protests and demonstrations, by enabling constant and sustained participatory interaction between artists and audience.

Imprisonment and Exile

Among activists and shabāb (youth) on the streets, Baladna's second major recording was eagerly anticipated. With Ibrahim Nasrallah the group had composed over seventy different songs and struggled with the decision of what to include on their next cassette. Baladna's first studio recording had an initial printing of two thousand copies, all of which were sold in a matter of weeks. The group fully understood that once the cassette was released they had little control over its reproduction and dissemination. Kamal had hoped that the cassette would circulate freely and was more content with his music being heard than with profiting from its sale and reproduction. Given that his music circulated outside the formal marketplace, relying on bootlegs and kiosks for distribution, profits from these recordings would have been virtually impossible to collect. Though the songs on the first cassette were never heard via mainstream public media (radio, television), cheap copies of the cassette spread quickly. Passing taxis and buses could be heard blaring the cassette at its captive passengers, and street-side kiosks would play the cassette to attract customers. For Kamal, the cassette had achieved its goal of getting his message out to the people.

The second studio cassette promised to be equally popular. Through sales of the initial printing and private donations Kamal was able to raise enough funds to cover recording and production costs for the second cassette. The tape was made in the fall of 1988, at a time when the ongoing intifada had nearly reached its first anniversary. The first cassette had generated enough interest for Baladna to receive several substantial sponsorships. These local collections allowed Kamal and the rest of the group to quit their day jobs as laborers and to focus completely on composing, rehearsing, and recording their music. Within weeks word began to spread that the cassette was in preproduction, provoking the interest of the secret police.

Once final preparations for the cassette were made, Kamal was called in once again to appear before the director of the mukhabarāt for “questioning.” Having experienced such questioning before, Kamal refused to appear and instead invited the director over to his house for coffee. The following day, while Kamal was rehearsing with the rest of the group, a red sedan pulled up to the gate in front of his home. Four plainclothes agents then took Kamal into custody on charges of illegal political activity. The agents placed Kamal in handcuffs and confiscated the group's musical instruments and sound equipment. The laws against participation in nonsanctioned political organizations had been in effect since the mid-1950s. Since that time any political activity, except for the activities of the local chapter of the Muslim Brotherhood or Islamic Action Front (IAF), was illegal. Crimes of participation in any other political organization were used as a blanket charge against virtually any known activist, intellectual, journalist, or subversive daring enough to challenge government policies.

I was prepared for what was coming. I knew that eventually they would come and pick me up. When you go into this [type of work] you know that there will be problems, you know that this could happen. It will not surprise you when it does happen, and this makes it a little easier….

I did one hundred days exactly in a solitary cell in the mukhabarāt building and one year in general prison. It was very hard….

After one hundred days in solitary confinement by myself, they called me in to the interrogation room, and told me I had two choices. Either I go to jail for 4 years or go home now on one condition. All they needed was just one thing from me. [They told me,] “You don't have to come here to tell us about your friends what they say and what they do, just give us a phone call and you are free.” And they wanted from me just one call, not every week, they just wanted one call. I chose the four years.

They told me from the first day, it wasn't because I was singing, they were accusing me of participating in illegal political parties that were against the government. Parties that wanted to demolish the regime…but during the investigation they never mentioned that they wanted me to stop singing, instead they only wanted to control me….

As an example for all the people, they wanted me to work for them. They told me to “just go out and go to your activities, but give us a call…tell us what we want.”

They didn't want the information from me. They only wanted me to call them one time so they could record the call, and tell people that I was working with them. They did this with many other people. They chose me because they knew who I was, and because everybody knew about me and my music. They didn't get any information about people from me, because they knew they could get all the information they wanted from their other sources. The only thing they wanted was to demolish my reputation, to destroy me. Then no one would come to hear me sing. But after the courts, and the prison in Swaqa, there were no questions after that….

Here [in Jordan] the only way they can try and stop you is to corrupt you. They put you into a bad situation, and then use that information to control you. This is true everywhere…. They want to own you, and so they try to find out how they can get you to make mistakes, then they use that against you. It is the classic approach.

And this is what they tried to do with me when they arrested me. In the first intifada there were people in the streets after our concerts. If Baladna played a concert you were guaranteed to have hundreds, maybe thousands, of chanting people in the streets. Now how could they stop this? Even if they put me in jail they could not stop this. I told you we played in that place that had 1,800 seats, but when I sang there we had 3,000 people show up on a snowy day. When I was in jail and we sang in that same place we had 7,000 people come. So they couldn't stop the people from hearing my songs even if I was in jail. My wife, my cousin, my brother were singing and they had 7,000 people there. So they cannot stop this by putting me in jail. And they cannot stop this even by killing me. So what can they do?

They have to kill me alive. If they take my reputation, they take my power away. This is your hero.

During the first one hundred days of Kamal's imprisonment he was subjected to various forms of torture, including rigorous interrogation, sleep deprivation, beatings, starvation, and other means of both physical and psychological abuse. This was the most difficult time in Kamal's life, and in remembering he often showed visible signs of stress, anger, sadness, and rage. In spite of our friendship, there were many things Kamal refused to talk about. For the sake of his own modesty he would rarely go into specifics about the methods and means of his torture. From testimonies recorded in interviews with other musicians active in protests at this time, it is known that it was common for political prisoners to be tortured for weeks after their initial detainment by a variety of implements. Electricity, water, fire, mutilation, and blunt force trauma were commonly cited as tools of physical torture, while humiliation, fear, and sensory disorientation were the tools of psychological torture.[4] Several musicians interviewed during this study related similar experiences of mistreatment in both Jordanian and Israeli prisons. For Kamal, however, the worst form of torture he encountered was the betrayal he felt knowing that his captors, his torturers, were not Israeli or American soldiers but instead were Arab Muslims like him.

After the one hundred days I was in the general mukhabarāt prison [Swaqa] for one year.[5] There was a trial. I went to the courts, and they gave the lawyer a copy of the charges. He tried to read it, and the judge said, “there is no need; just give it to us.”

And after one month they came back and told me that I was sentenced to four years. I was ready for that, because when they took me from the house I told my wife, I will see you in four years. I knew from experience that four years was the usual sentence for this kind of thing.

After the first one hundred days, life in Swaqa began to slow down into normal routines. And with so much time spent in solitary confinement, it wasn't long before Kamal began to feel the need to compose and sing again. He needed something in his life to make the time pass easier. Music had always been his mode of expression and a way to make meaning in his life. Especially while imprisoned he sought to compose songs reflecting his experiences. For a political prisoner like Kamal, however, it was extremely difficult not only to compose but also to get his compositions out to the people.

The political prisoners were aside from the others. We had special treatment because they wanted to spy on us everyday. They didn't have to do this with the other criminals in the prison. They used to bother our visitors, my wife, our families. They used to search them. They didn't search for drugs or anything else, but for a piece of paper or information. They didn't want me to get any songs from outside, but at that time we had the right to read the newspapers. So my friend [Ibrahim Nasrallah] used to put his poetry in the newspaper. And it was very easy for me to get the lyrics. Whenever he would write anything, he used to work as a reporter, he would put it in the newspaper. And the next day I would see it. And this is what we did with many songs. I wrote more than five songs in prison. One for Tawfiq al-Ziyad, one for Mahmoud Darwish, two for Ibrahim [Nasrallah], and one for another guy who used to be with us in prison.[6] He used to write inside. So there were five songs…

Life in Swaqa brought Kamal to his physical and emotional limits. The abuse he suffered at the hands of the mukhabarāt was only one aspect of the prison experience. Living in Swaqa he constantly feared for the safety of his family, never knowing if the government might seek retribution against his children. Furthermore he began to doubt whether spending his life singing in support of Palestinian liberation was worth the consequences. Kamal worried that his efforts would never be enough and that he and his family would never be able to return to Taiba. Throughout his incarceration, however, there was one thought that provided solace.

The reward you get is the message. When you can get your message out to the people, when your message is reaching people you get a great reward. But if you want money or fame, this will make the time in jail very hard. To look for fame in jail is a very hard way to spend the time. I was looking only to get out my message, and I knew that even in prison my message was being heard; this was enough. And it made the time in jail go much easier….

So, the song must be the target. And this is a big difference. If the song is your target, then you will do anything to get it to the people, but if you have targets through the song [fame, money, acclaim], it will not reach the target. In prison it didn't take me too long to find this out.

For Kamal, knowing that Palestinians (both in Jordan and beyond) were singing his melodies on the streets meant that his suffering in prison was not in vain. To write a song carrying a message of liberation was a powerful means for Kamal to situate himself in relation to the nation and the struggle. In song he knew that he mattered and that his work would take on a life of its own, regardless of whatever befell him.

Palestinian Folklore Day 1989

As a well-known musician Kamal found support among many of his fellow inmates. Even in prison these political prisoners tried to maintain many of their usual practices and relationships with the outside world. Political affiliations, village, family, and amūla ties remained an important means for the prisoners to survive their incarceration. Palestinian food, poetry (shar), stories (akayāt), and songs (aghānīyāt) were shared and traded among the inmates as treasures. National holidays such as al-nakba, al-naksa, or Palestinian Folklore Day were commemorated inside the prison's walls. At these times Kamal was often called on to sing songs to the other prisoners to lighten their spirits or pass the time. If done quietly and beyond earshot of the prison administration, such songs were tolerated, but if the music drew enough attention there were severe consequences. In July 1989 several prisoners decided to celebrate the annual Palestinian Folklore Day by assembling as many of the inmates as possible to sing songs and to dance the dabke. The singing and dancing caused alarm among the prison staff, and the warden was called in to dispel the crowds. As Kamal was in the center of the dabke line, leading the celebration, he was the first to be taken into the director's office for questioning.

I was sitting in the office of the director [of the jail], it was July the first, Palestinian Folklore Day, we had arranged a party inside and we started singing folk songs, so they came and took me. And while I was waiting for the director to come in to question me, there was a small television sitting beside his desk. On the TV they were showing some promotional commercials for the upcoming Jerash Festival, they were showing past concerts from the last festivals, it was like an ad…. There were about two seconds that I appeared with my ūd in that ad.

And then the officer came in and said, “Who is he?”

So someone else told him, “This is the artist from the political group.”

And he was picking on me, he says, “So you are an artist?”

I said, “Yes.”

“Funny, we never see you on TV.”

At that moment I was on TV. And I said, “Oh, that's me,” pointing at the TV in the director's office.

He sent me back. I should have gone to the cell [solitary confinement] for at least two weeks, but he sent me back. It was like I spit in his face or something like that. He was picking on me, “oh so you're an artist, how come we never see you on TV?” And it was just three seconds. But I think God was the director of that TV ad to show me at that exact time. I think if somebody was trying to arrange it, he couldn't do it. To get it exactly on TV at that moment…. They threw me back into my cell without any further punishment, when I knew that I should have been put in solitary for singing those songs. It was incredible. I couldn't stop thinking about the whole situation…laughing.

Meanwhile the remaining members of Baladna continued to perform throughout Kamal's incarceration. At each performance the crowds would chant for Kamal to be released, and collections were made for his legal defense and future recordings. These events were predominantly sponsored by the local refugee camps and other cultural organizations for whom he had performed before. To this day Kamal is convinced that his time spent in prison did more to help the group than to hurt it. Former members of the ensemble noticed an upsurge in attendance at their performances after Kamal was arrested. “And the result was for them [the Jordanian authorities] the opposite. They tried to stop me from singing. They tried to stop my voice, but they only enlarged it. The people all knew that I was in prison, and they all wanted to help, so they came out to the concerts.”

Riots, Liberalization, and Parliamentary Elections

While Kamal was serving his time in Swaqa, a public debate was raging on the streets of Jordan regarding the king's recent disengagement from the West Bank, the ongoing intifada, and mass economic and political liberalization policies. Following the outbreak of the intifada in December 1987, regional power dynamics shifted, requiring King Hussein to re-evaluate his relationship with the Palestinian issue. Although Jordan had once ruled the West Bank, extending legal, administrative, and financial services to the territories, the intifada had proven that such leadership was no longer tenable. Coupled with intense domestic pressures to “Jordanize” the state, the king took a series of strategic measures to sever all links with the territories, resulting in formal disengagement. At the same time structural adjustments and a debt-rescheduling program directed by the International Monetary Fund (IMF) forced the king to remove several long-standing food and energy subsidies, creating unexpected financial hardships throughout the kingdom.[7] Riots eventually broke out in the southern city of Maan, where demonstrators burned down government offices and a local bank.[8] In response to the riots the king opted to take a new course of action. Rather than pursue the traditional model of state repression, curbing free speech, and otherwise limiting public freedoms, the king chose to placate the demonstrating masses through political liberalization and the expansion of civil liberties. It is worth noting that the statewide demonstrations denouncing the king's structural adjustment projects were predominantly among the native Jordanian community, the king's traditional power base. For the king to open up a political dialogue with these demonstrators rather than to encourage state repression is quite telling. Historically when Palestinian Jordanians took to the streets to protest state policy, they were met with harsh police brutality. When the banī al-bilād (sons of the nation) did likewise in 1989, the regime had a very different reaction.

In response to the upheaval the king began a widespread process of democratization, including new elections, expanded press freedoms, and the encouragement of active political participation. Analyses of the “1989 Bread Riots” often state that when “the people asked for bread the regime gave them democracy.”[9] Marc Lynch has offered a different, and I believe, more convincing analysis. In taking to the streets in April 1989, Jordanians were making a profound political statement reflecting a national crisis not of economic restructuring but of identity. The restrictions on public freedoms over the previous years had served to virtually sever all ties of communication between the people and the state, creating “the absence of a national public sphere within which new identities could be secured.”[10] Formal disengagement from the West Bank and the ongoing intifada brought a great deal of anxiety and uncertainty. Jordanians desperately needed a viable public sphere from which to negotiate such drastic changes in their national goals and interests.[11] In fact a 1992 survey of popular opinion found that 78 percent of those questioned believed that the riots were a result of the absence of press freedoms, 81 percent cited the absence of a representative parliament, and 89 percent recognized an absence of dialogue between citizens and the government. Economic interests alone, it seems, could not have been solely responsible for the 1989 riots. However, the subsequent opening of the public sphere to debate and dialogue did not bring about the kind of democracy the people had originally envisioned. Although the state made considerable advances toward liberalization, it retained a tight control over all branches of government and the press. The lasting effect of the riots was felt in its effect on how Jordanians began to conceptualize democracy as an important, if not essential, state interest.

RELEASE FROM PRISON AND A RETURN TO RUSEIFA

With the ongoing project of political liberalization taking place, including the establishment and active fostering of political debate through formal political parties and organizations, the Jordanian public sphere underwent considerable change. Participation in state politics was legalized and encouraged. Parliament was revived, and elections were scheduled for the fall of 1989. Democracy gripped the kingdom, and the cities were practically wallpapered with campaign posters, flyers, and pronouncements of various slogans and ideology. Formal measures of state repression were curbed, and many political prisoners being held for activities that were no longer illegal were given early release or commuted sentences. It made little sense for the king to continue holding political prisoners on crimes of political activities when, following the elections of 1989, such activities were being actively encouraged.

On February 17, 1990, one of Jordan's daily newspapers announced such an amnesty in a news story on the front page.[12] Buried among the twenty-seven names of those released (on page 18) was one Kamal Khalil Salah Ibrahim. No information was given about the prisoners, save for one prominent Bathist leader. Their crimes were described as “those whose work in politics was clear, or whose work was linked to criminal activity.” In fact only one of Jordan's three daily newspapers, al-Dustūr (the Constitution), even bothered to run the story at all. Such a small insignificant decision by the royal court had an immeasurable effect on the life of at least one of those listed and his family forever.

For Kamal the news of his release was a welcome surprise. Although he had fully expected to serve out the remainder of his four-year sentence, to be told that he was given an early release by royal amnesty was “like a miracle.” Processing his final release papers, Kamal retrieved his original possessions: clothing, wallet, passport, and uwīya (identity card). Weeks later, after inquiring about the status of his confiscated instruments, he was told that they were available for him to collect from the mukhabarāt headquarters. Still recovering from the ordeal and understandably uneasy about returning to Swaqa, Kamal asked that his instruments be delivered to his house. Within two days a familiar-looking red sedan pulled up, driven by the same agent who had originally arrested Kamal nearly two years prior. For Kamal to see the same agent driving the same car to return his instruments proved a fitting end to his life as a political prisoner. The agent remembered Kamal and told him that his instruments had been held and displayed in the director's office as a trophy of sorts. Visiting officials or other invited guests were shown the instruments as tokens of the director's reach and authority. “These are the weapons of the artist Kamal Khalil,” he often boasted. When the agent was instructed to return the instruments to their original owner, he removed them from the office much to the dismay and frustration of the director himself.

Upon his release from Swaqa, Kamal reunited with his family, friends, community, and bandmates as a folk hero. Crowds gathered around his Ruseifa home to welcome him, and offers for performances rolled in for the now-complete Baladna to return to the stage. These first few performances drew crowds the likes of which the group had not yet seen. Venues were filled to capacity while the overflow stood outside trying to get in. Within weeks plans were made for a small tour through Europe and the United States later that fall. From September to December 1990 Baladna toured through Germany and the United States, performing in twenty different cities in eighty days.

People respected me much more when I got out of prison; they treated me very differently because they knew that I could not be bought, that I could not be corrupted. They treated me as a hero. When the election started, whoever wanted to bring people to listen to them to give them his message or program for the elections, he wanted me to sing at his party. Because if I came to his party he would get all of the people coming to see him. And if there was an ad for him, that Baladna is singing at his party, then the people knew that he was a good person or a clean person.

Baladna was in high demand to perform for various Palestinian Jordanian candidates, political parties, and professional organizations campaigning for the upcoming elections. Nightly performances were scheduled throughout the kingdom. Kamal's reputation for steadfastness and determination afforded a degree of credibility to whomever he publicly supported. For these reasons Kamal was quite particular about for whom and under what circumstances he would sing. Personally and privately he believed in the PFLP and its locally affiliated institutions. But throughout the election years he was careful not to become formally identified with any political party. He would insist that there be no banners or flags indicating party affiliation on the stage while he performed. For Kamal it was essential that his music stand independently of any one political platform, lest he be dismissed as a mere propagandist.

Oslo, Wadi Arba, and the Peace Process

The news of an agreement between the PLO and Israel in September 1993 came as a great shock to King Hussein.[13] At the time, Jordan was in preparations for its next round of elections, and both Jordanian and Palestinian Jordanian nationalists scrambled to assess the ramifications of such an agreement. For the king, however, the signing of the Declaration of Principles (DOP) removed the final roadblock preventing a peace treaty with Israel, and true to form, the following day Jordan and Israel signed a formal agenda outlining the principles and goals of a future peace treaty. On July 25, 1994, Jordan and Israel signed a declaration ending the formal state of war between the two countries on the White House lawn and on October 26, 1994, signed a formal peace treaty at Wadi Arba.

The signing of the DOP and the Wadi Arba treaties greatly affected Palestinian Jordanians. Given that neither agreement made mention of the refugee issue, many interpreted this as the end of any hope for return to their native homes and villages. Palestinian Jordanians were left to wonder what their final status in Jordan would be. Who would formally represent their interests? And what role could or should the refugees play in the newly democratizing Jordanian political sphere? The rift between Palestinian Jordanians and native Jordanians soon began to widen as Palestinian Jordanians demanded that their status be formally resolved by the state. In what capacities would Palestinian Jordanians be allowed access to state resources? Following the treaties, Adnan Abu Odeh, a long-time advisor to the king and representative of the royal court, was sent to meet with a group of refugee camp leaders to assess the situation. In their discussion of the general affairs and concerns of the refugee community, the camp leaders wanted to know specifically what their status would be under the new treaty, and in tandem with this issue the group wanted to know “when and how the refugees would be compensated in terms of the UN resolution concerning them.”[14]

This shift in ideology from return to compensation is indicative of the prevailing sentiment within the Palestinian Jordanian community at the time. Removing the refugee issue from the negotiating table drastically changed Jordan's state interests and further refashioned its national identity. The majority of Palestinian Jordanians predicated their national identity on the idea that their presence in Jordan was temporary. As home to the world's largest population of displaced persons, Jordan, for its part, had historically constructed its national identity on an active search for a solution to the Palestinian issue. By signing a formal treaty with Israel that made no mention of their status, Jordan substantially altered its state position, finally concluding its long process of disengagement from representing Palestinians in their cause for self-determination.

The time immediately following Oslo brought Baladna's performing career to an abrupt halt. The intifada had formally ended with the return of Arafat and the PLO to Gaza in 1994. For a short while Palestinians both in the Occupied Territories and in diaspora were caught up in the moment of the “historic handshake” between Arafat and Rabin. After nearly seven long years of living the intifada, many Palestinian families were looking forward to resuming their regular daily lives. Men and women openly celebrated an end to the fighting both in the territories and diaspora and began planning what their new lives would be like under the nascent Palestinian Authority (PA) (see chapter 5).[15] In Jordan especially, the end of the intifada and the opening of the public sphere signaled a new era of stability and reconciliation, but one in which Palestinian hopes for an eventual repatriation were no longer a priority. Kamal recounts how audiences once in solidarity with the intifada were suddenly concerned more with potential compensation for their lost homes than with their return to Palestine.

Imagine all of these people who were singing along with me about the need to return and to go back to their nation…were now consumed with what they might get from Israel. It was like I found myself singing in another valley for another people…talking about the ridiculous idea, for refugees and their right to go back. But the people were all deceived by Oslo. And they deceived them by telling them they would get money for this. And the people started talking about how much money that would be. Ten thousand, twenty thousand, one hundred thousand for every person, and the people just started talking about money and how much they would get for selling their right to go back to their homeland. You could see it in their eyes. It was all people cared about. We have a saying here in Palestine, “you don't get honey from the wasp.” This is exactly what they were trying to do, get honey from a wasp.

With the end of the intifada and the cessation of protest activities, musicians like Kamal were forced back into the workforce of day laborers, cab drivers, and street hawkers. With the return of over two hundred thousand Palestinians from Kuwait following the first Gulf War, employment in the sprawling urban laborscape of Zarqa and Amman was difficult if not impossible for unskilled workers. Kamal became desperate to find work. The lack of performance opportunities pushed him to return to construction labor. Unable to find lasting employment, however, Kamal sought opportunities elsewhere. Drawing from his previous experiences performing in the United States, he was convinced that he could better support his family by working abroad. Through extended family ties he was able to secure a “family reunification” visa and move to Raleigh, North Carolina, working as a carpenter and contractor in 1996.

Homecomings and the al-Aqsa Intifada

For Kamal, the time spent living in his new American exile (al-manfā al-jadīd) was one of loneliness and hardship. Although he was able to find work in North Carolina and subsequently support his family through remittances, Kamal desperately wanted to be closer to his family. He had spent too much time away from his children and missed watching them grow. Life was difficult in America, and after six years of struggling to keep working he finally decided it was time for him to return home to Ruseifa and be with his family. His attempts to secure a permanent residence in America had failed, and his work visa was soon to expire. Content to work as a laborer, Kamal had long given up on the idea of one day returning to the stage. Baladna's time was finished, its songs long left to history, along with a popular movement seemingly transformed by a new generation of Palestinian youth. “Resistance” as he envisioned it had dramatically shifted in the years following Oslo, replaced by new forms of Palestinian nationalism in exile.

Upon his return to Jordan Kamal resumed working as a day laborer in Zarqa and struggled to put food on the table. When opportunities arose Kamal would often work fifteen hours a day hauling cement blocks and shoveling concrete. Despite his efforts the family barely survived. In the summer of 2002, while Kamal was working in downtown Amman, the building manager arrived on the job site accompanied by a strange man. Covered in a pungent mixture of dirt, cement, and sweat from the summer heat Kamal introduced himself to the stranger. The man turned to him in disbelief. “Are you really Kamal Khalil?”

“Yeah, I'm Kamal,” he answered inquisitively.

“I can't believe it is really you!” the stranger said, astounded. “I can't believe I am face to face with Kamal Khalil. I went to all of your concerts. I know all of your songs. My children now listen to your old cassettes. Where have you been all these years?”

Kamal's smile broadened in both pride and embarrassment. It had been nearly nine years since his last concert. In this man's eyes he was still the great intifada singer, the famous political prisoner, and leader of Baladna. Yet looking down at himself he felt slightly embarrassed by his current situation, menial job, and obvious poverty. “I never know what to say to these people. Do I feel proud of my past or ashamed of my present? But it is interesting to see the people, you are doing the same jobs, but you find that this guy knows you and respects you but he doesn't know that you are a worker. And you find this everywhere you go. This means that you were doing right.”

Chance encounters such as this soon turned into performance opportunities for Kamal at small weddings in al-Wahdat, al-Husseini, and al-Baqa refugee camps. Word began to spread that Baladna was active again, and available for hire. Soliciting the talents of his older children, Kamal refashioned the group, performing its standard repertory of songs in small private gatherings. At first many of these performances were what might be termed “sympathy gigs” or “nostalgia gigs.” Fans of the original Baladna songs hired the group to play small weddings and other private parties simply because of their name alone. When the group would arrive at the venue to set up, the hosts would often ask each other, “Which one is Kamal?” Participants in the weddings were shocked, and perhaps a little embarrassed, to find out that the once-great Baladna was now available to perform for around JD$100 (US$140) a night. The stares and whispering were not lost on Kamal, who openly admitted to his difficulties in finding work. He found himself accepting offers for concerts that he otherwise might have declined: fund-raisers, birthday parties, and other “money gigs.”

EFFORTS TO REVIVE BALADNA AND PROTEST SONG IN JORDAN

With the growing tides of Palestinian nationalism flooding the streets of Amman and Zarqa, Kamal slowly began to imagine Baladna's return to prominence in the Palestinian music scene. From 2002 to 2006 performances for the group slowly increased, and with each event Kamal was able to enhance the group's visibility and supplement his meager income. Soon small family weddings had turned to street events and cultural festivals drawing larger audiences. Yet despite his efforts, Kamal was unable to bring Baladna to the level he had once hoped. For lack of new material Baladna has been unable to effectively sing for the new intifada and hence remains a “nostalgia group,” keeping alive a repertory of songs made famous twenty years earlier. Kamal cites a lack of new poetry as the primary reason for the group's failures; he notes that the al-Aqsa intifada requires a new lexicon, a new vocabulary, and a new poetry to narrate the struggle. “Resistance” means something very different now, he insists. “My songs were great for their time, but this is no longer their time.” Despite his search for a suitable lyricist Kamal has been unable to find anyone capable of capturing the essence of the new intifada in prose. Without a new voice to collaborate with, Kamal now fears that the group will merely repeat itself, circulating in tired metaphors, clichés, and phrases from times past.

I am trying, I haven't come back yet. But I am trying to stay alive. So I am trying to participate in anything, when I am asked I go sing. And I am singing my old songs from the 80s and some from the 90s. I haven't done any new songs because I haven't seen any new poems. I can't sing for this intifada because we need a new language now. And what we need I haven't found yet, and I am not a writer. And when I call Ibrahim [Nasrallah] he is busy writing stories now. Sometimes I see him, sometimes I will see his photograph somewhere in the newspaper or a magazine. But I haven't found him. I have been pushing him to write new songs. Last time I saw him was two months ago and we talked, and he said let's meet, but I am very busy now bringing bread to the table. I don't have the time to take off from work to go see him. I'm just trying to bring food right now.

I am still trying to find some new blood. Some young writers. They might have something. Whenever I hear about someone I go and see them and what they have, hoping that I will find something good to sing about. I know what I want to sing about, but I need the song to talk about the resistance in the same way [same quality] that I used to have in my old songs. Because I don't want to make poor quality songs, and let the movement down. I also want to make sure that I don't repeat myself. Because it is my responsibility to renew myself and my voice. Or the other approach is to just keep singing the same old songs so as to keep them alive for the new generation which wasn't around the first time.

In an interview with the Jordanian daily newspaper Al-Rai, Kamal spoke very candidly about his efforts to revive Palestinian protest songs of the first intifada.[16] In the interview Kamal calls for a renewal of political song in reaction to the Arab pop culture currently filling the radio airwaves. Labeling such music “songs of the satellites,” Kamal accused pop artists of anesthetizing the Palestinian people to their national cause. He believes that today there are few protest singers because there is little money for it, and because the rich and powerful have attempted to keep political songs off the airwaves. In spite of pressing social and political issues facing the Arab world, and the Palestinians in particular, Kamal believes there has yet to be a full revival of political songs because of a lack of public support and interest. Kamal states, “Despite all of this, political songs will remain strong even if they are covered with dust, because they have roots, and these roots are deep in our Arab heritage, and they have meaning and spirit in depicting reality and our daily life.”

Kamal Khalil's commentary on the state of Palestinian protest song is quite telling, even if it doesn't accurately reflect the political moment. Despite his many protestations to the contrary, the public mediascape was, at the time of this interview, inundated with what might be easily recognized as Palestinian protest songs, solidarity songs, or songs on Palestinian issues. However, the fact that Baladna, al-Ashiqin, Mustafa al-Kurd, and several other “revival” groups struggled to gain a foothold during the second intifada reveals how the political mediascape had so dramatically changed between the two historical moments (see chapter 5). The grassroots mobilization of the first intifada, predicated on participatory dynamics, face-to-face interactions, and nonviolent civil disobedience, was supplanted by a “spectacle-based” movement involving presentational acts of violence and bombings sponsored by various quasi-political groups. The essence of the movement, of what “resistance” meant, had changed such that small-scale participatory musics no longer cohered with what was being broadcast daily on satellite television. For Palestinians both under occupation and in exile, there was little one could do to participate in the intifada beyond assuming a militancy of martyrdom and sacrifice outside the mainstream. Suheil Khoury, director of the Edward Said National Music Conservatory of Palestine and influential musician and activist, stated it thusly: “What's going on today is not intifada, it's just killing. There are no boycotts, demonstrations, or committees. People used to help each other out on a daily basis; they were active. Today there is none of that. It's just groups running around [killing each other] trying to make a name for themselves.”

In terms of music production, it would seem that the spectacle-based “songs of the satellites,” based in presentational aesthetics, visuality, and a distinct separation between actors and audiences, were more aligned with what was taking place on the streets of Jenin, Nablus, and Ramallah. The music of the first intifada was specifically designed to mobilize people to action, to uplift spirits, and to elicit feelings of solidarity among disparate and desperate Palestinian communities. In Jordan Kamal's music offered those in exile unique opportunities to feel as if they were somehow contributing to the intifada. This was no longer possible in the early 2000s. In contrast much of the second intifada was experienced via satellite television and the Internet, among communities under strict twenty-four-hour-a-day curfews in the territories, as well as those in diaspora, watching from afar. As Kamal Khalil attempted to revive his repertory of past hits, he experienced a profound disconnect in the aesthetics of the second intifada in that his was a music that did not effectively articulate with these changes in the national mediascape.

Postscript: Ibrahim Nasrallah

In publishing an interview in one of Jordan's most widely read daily newspapers, Kamal had several goals: to get some much-needed publicity, to identify new poets with whom he could collaborate, and to bring political songs (of his generation) back into the public consciousness. But above all this interview was a desperate attempt to reach out to his former lyricist and friend, Ibrahim Nasrallah.

The experiences of the first intifada were never shared equally among the members of Baladna. When Kamal was taken into custody, several members of the group immediately quit, fearing for their own safety. Others, close friends and family members, remained committed to the group throughout Kamal's incarceration. The pressures of writing in support of the intifada became a burden too great for many to carry. Ibrahim Nasrallah fared quite differently. His poetry had become well respected in Arab literary circles, and his journalistic work was equally lauded among the local press. What is more, since political poetry only occupied a small part of his literary output, he was able to avoid being labeled an activist. Although much of his writing dealt with political and nationalist themes (exile, dislocation, and dispossession), Nasrallah maintained a professional profile and non-political reputation for his short stories, novels, and poetry across various thematic lines.

During the first intifada Ibrahim Nasrallah was an active voice for Palestinian liberation. Much like Kamal, he remembers constant harassment from the local police in the form of surveillance, interviews, detention, and other state coercion.

I wrote political poetry for the intifada, but that was not all that I wrote. Politics is only part of my work, not the whole thing. I always had problems back then, in the first intifada. I was never put in prison, but everything I did was closely watched, and whenever I made a public appearance at a reading or something there was always something that had to be done for the police. They were very strict with us, telling us what we could and could not say. I was fired and rehired from so many newspapers. It was always a fight to get heard. I was young and this is what I was consumed with. Afterwards I moved on to write about other things.

In his writings Ibrahim became adept at recognizing and abiding by “the rules” governing what could and could not be said publicly. For many authors these “rules” became a literary field in and of themselves. An imaginative poet such as Ibrahim was pushed to create new phrases, turns of meaning, metaphor, or euphemisms capable of carrying the intended political meanings without offending state censors. Reflecting on the time, Nasrallah recalled with me that he was “consumed with the movement, young, and daring in his belief in the cause.” Once the movement faded from the public sphere, however, he began to write about different things. His work took a new direction, it matured, and changed to the point that today he looks back on his nationalist poetry with a sense of nostalgia—as the creative output of a “young idealist determined to change the world.”

In the years since his work with Baladna, Ibrahim Nasrallah has published thirteen different collections of poetry, three novels, and a large catalogue of columns and articles in the international press. Over the course of his career he has been awarded several international Arab literary prizes, including the Arar Award (1991), the Jordanian Writers' Association Honorary Prize, the Tayseer Sboul Prize (1994), and the prestigious United Arab Emirates Sultan Oweiss Award (1997). His stature as a prominent figure in the Arab literary world today is unquestioned, and by the time the second intifada had begun in 2000 he had created for himself an astonishingly successful career as poet, journalist, novelist, and literary critic.

In 1995 the Lebanese filmmaker Arab Lufti completed a documentary based on Nasrallah's semi-autobiographical novel The Birds of Caution. The movie chronicles Nasrallah's early childhood in al-Wahdat, focusing on his family's expulsion from the village of al-Bruij near Jerusalem. In one very poignant moment Nasrallah speaks of the dispossession refugees often felt living in al-Wahdat: “The distance between the refugee camp and Amman was short, one that a child could walk alone. The distance between the refugee camp residents and the Palestinian dream of returning to their land needs a lifetime.”[17] As a poet and novelist Ibrahim has done much to bridge the distance.

Today he is celebrated as one of the most influential Palestinian writers of the late twentieth century (see figure 7.1). His many books and collections of poetry are widely regarded as among the greatest literary work originating from either Jordan or Palestine. By 2005 Ibrahim was serving as vice president of cultural affairs at the Khalid Shoman Foundation's Darat al-Funun (Home for the Arts). In this capacity Ibrahim coordinated and oversaw the foundation's many art exhibitions, lectures, concerts, and other activities.

Upon meeting Ibrahim Nasrallah for the first time I was at once amazed by how much his life had differed from Kamal's in the nearly twenty years since they had worked together. What a contrast it was sitting with Ibrahim in his luxurious office at Darat al-Funun talking about his experiences writing for Baladna in the 1980s. Fine works of art and tapestries adorned the office walls. Carved bookshelves filled with leather-bound collections of great Arab literature stretched upward into the reaches of the ten-foot-high ceiling. Classical music softly spilled into the room from the adjacent art gallery, where an exhibition for new progressive Arab painters was currently being held. Sipping his tea, Ibrahim settled into his office chair, completely at home in the refined surroundings. His well-manicured appearance, expensive clothing, and sophisticated demeanor made his successes in the Jordanian cultural sphere all the more apparent. As a literary figure he remains active, giving poetry readings and lectures throughout the Arab world and Europe, and he has been featured in several collections of Arab poetry.[18] With all this much-deserved success it came as no surprise to find that Ibrahim had little desire to return to writing in support of the second intifada. His experiences writing in the uprising were part of a past he did not wish to relive.

In hearing about my research on the history of Palestinian protest song in Jordan, Ibrahim was quick to downplay his involvement in the movement and to point out that political writings constituted only a small portion of his creative work. It was apparent that he wanted to distance himself from Baladna, lest I represent him in my research as a purely political lyricist.

Later he went on to describe what he saw as the main differences between the uprising of the 1980s and the current al-Aqsa intifada.

Everything has changed. It has to. Back then the whole world was interested in what was going on in Palestine. They all wanted to help, even in America. People were interested and they were dedicated. We were working together for a great cause against incredible opposition everywhere we went as Palestinians. We could not live freely no matter where we were, and we tried through music and poetry to change things—to get people working together for the cause. Today there isn't that same feeling. The people are not as interested as they once were. They can only think about what is going on in Palestine for five minutes before they switch the channel. Even here in Jordan things are much different. The mentality here has changed. There aren't the same problems that we faced back then. And there isn't the resistance movement here like there used to be.

Ibrahim and Kamal both recognized the political and aesthetic differences between the two intifadas, citing a lack of grassroots mobilization and public support in the second. Though they agreed on certain things, the two men differed markedly in their outlook on the current political situation. While Kamal struggled to revive and refashion a new repertory of protest songs for the next generation, Ibrahim had resigned himself to leaving politics in the past and pursuing other interests. He has moved on to other literary fields and feels little need to return to a movement he feels is unsupported by the people. Moreover Nasrallah's various speaking engagements throughout Europe and the Arab world provide a new forum for talking about Palestinian issues before an international audience. His fame as poet and novelist has created a new forum for political activism less enacted by the throwing of stones and more aligned with intellectual discourse. Throughout our conversations, sitting in these luxurious surroundings, it was difficult not to think of Kamal sitting underneath his olive tree talking about how difficult it was to feed his family. For Kamal performing was not only a means of spreading a message of Palestinian liberation, but also his best hope for economic survival.

Unfortunately relations between the two have been difficult over the years. Kamal's time in prison and subsequent move to America left the once-inseparable friends distant acquaintances. In my conversations with the artists, they both looked back on their time together with a heartfelt sense of nostalgia and friendship. Yet given their very different lifestyles and career goals, it seems the possibility for a future collaboration is remote. Unfortunately, without Ibrahim's poetry Kamal is reluctant to write any new compositions. Of the approximately seventy songs in the Baladna catalogue, over 60 percent were written by Ibrahim. Having worked so closely with Ibrahim all those years, Kamal feels lost without the words of his old friend and collaborator. On several occasions Kamal remarked to me his apprehension about pursuing any other lyricists. “How could I replace Ibrahim, when his words were so perfect? He was as much a part of Baladna as I was.”

WAHDAT WEDDINGS

Late in the summer of 2004 I joined Baladna in one of its many performances in al-Wahdat refugee camp. This was a wedding performance taking place in an alleyway between two apartment buildings. Colorful carpets were draped across the roofs and sides of the two buildings to create a private enclosure for the festivities. Hundreds of plastic chairs were then squeezed into the tight quarters to seat the approximately two hundred men invited to attend. This wedding celebration was not unlike any other I had experienced in Jordan/Palestine. Intertwining dabke lines of young men made their way through the crowds of seated, coffee-sipping elders. Trays of lemonade, coffee, tea, and various sweets circulated, while the more daring shabāb would slip away behind the buildings to share a bottle of something more potent. The groom, recently bathed and decorated with henna by his family, was periodically carried on the shoulders of his young friends, while Kamal led the congregation in singing zaffāt (indigenous processional wedding songs). Out of sight of the revelers, the bride's party watched the men through the windows of an adjacent building, their stomping feet heard from the street below as evidence of their own raucous celebrating.

At one moment in the performance, however, my attention was suddenly diverted to an elderly woman dressed in a worn Palestinian thawb (an ornately embroidered Palestinian gown, the patterns of which often identify a woman's native village or region) making her way up to the stage with great difficulty. Her age showed in her face and body as she labored to navigate the crowded dance floor on what appeared to be a horribly arthritic frame. For any woman to walk so boldly through the crowds of young dancing men was certainly an anomaly. As she approached the stage Kamal noticed her and signaled for the group to finish the song. He then descended from the stage and walked over to the woman as she pressed her hands to her face in a traditional gesture of respect. Kamal, for his part, kissed her hands and introduced himself (EVIA 14-A4295).[19]

“Auntie, are you ok? What is the matter?” Kamal asked.

Immediately the old woman's eyes widened, revealing a blue-grey coloring. “I knew it was you,” she responded. “I heard the music, and I heard your voice. I knew you had come back.” She continued, “I told my daughters that it was you, and they didn't believe me. But I just knew that it was you, Kamal.” As she spoke her arms repeatedly gesticulated wildly over her head in an obvious sign of excitement. Her hands then pressed against her cheeks. “I walked two blocks over here to find out if it was really you,” no small feat given her condition. “I thought that you were still in prison.”

Kamal demurred at the old woman's astonishment. Shy to the attention she was showing him, he replied, “Auntie, I never left, never.”

“Allah machum, Allah machum” (God be with you), she responded, motioning to both Kamal and his sons performing onstage.[20]

Kamal then returned to the stage to begin the next set while the elderly woman took a seat along the far wall of the tent. Scribbling as fast as I could, I wrote down the brief yet touching conversation on which I had shamelessly eavesdropped. Scrambling for my video camera, I was able to record only the final moments of their exchange.

Belief underneath the Olive Tree

For Kamal Khalil, Palestine is a home barely remembered. Exiled from Taiba as a young boy, he cannot fully recall his family's house or the smells and sounds of the rolling West Bank hills. Yet imaginings and reimaginings of home and homeland exist for him as a dominant marker of his Palestinian identity—an identity born of deep-seated feelings of dispossession and loss. It is through his intense belief in himself as Palestinian, in the Palestinian nation as a people, and in Palestine as a land that Kamal has been driven to compose music and suffer mightily for it.

Indeed it is the belief in nation, in God, in home, and in belonging to someone or something, somewhere, that underlies the struggle for Palestinian self-determination. If we begin to think of nations as the products of a distinct consciousness in which communal identities are imbued with power, trust, and faith, we come closer to understanding the felt, instinctive, and associative allegiances that nations generate. For many Palestinians, the conviction and faith drawn from living in exile have sustained, even defined, the Palestinian nation, causing some to willingly sacrifice their bodies and minds for the perpetuation of this belief. Kamal Khalil's insistent drive to fight for Palestinian self-determination through music, and to persevere despite its violent consequences, is not solely an act of desperation or of blind nationalism and opportunism, but rather one born of intense faith and belief.

In working with Kamal I attempted to uncover a history of Palestinian music not solely in terms of political ideologies and state relationships, but also in the context of one individual's struggle to make meaning of the politics and discourses of everyday life in exile. Raised in a poor, predominantly Palestinian industrial village on the outskirts of Amman, he occupied a precarious position vis-à-vis the Jordanian state. He was not a refugee by the UNRWA definition and was thus ineligible for humanitarian aid and education, and never fully indoctrinated into mainstream Jordanian society. Over the years, Kamal developed a very powerful means of both acting on and enduring his feelings of dislocation and dispossession. Music was his platform, and his voice was his weapon for fighting against the state powers responsible for his forced exile and the occupation of his homeland.

Kamal believed that his songs were capable of “reaching the whole nation.” He believed his music created performative social spaces in which Palestinians could take control of their situation, affirm their national identity, and express counterhegemonic or otherwise dissenting ideologies against the state. In his efforts to do this, Kamal was brought to his physical and emotional threshold, withstanding arrest, violence, harassment, and torture. Throughout his career Kamal has had the precarious honor of dining at the royal palace and the royal prison. He has shaken hands with the king and been beaten by the king's men. Circulating within this distinct culture of violence and state terror Kamal has had difficulty making sense of the brutality and coercion of the state. Nevertheless, despite all this he has not given up on his intense belief in one day returning to Taiba.

More than a simple biographical sketch, Kamal Khalil's varying experiences of dislocation, repression, and dissent amplify the many twists and turns of the “resistance” movement as it was imagined within the Jordanian nation-state. It seems incomplete to provide a mere political history of predominant trends and ideas without delving into how these very ideas and forces were lived and experienced. Sudden changes in state interests and policies had lasting and formative effects for those living along the border zones of the Jordanian/Palestinian national imaginary. Jordan's fluctuating state policies regarding its relationships with the Palestinians (both in Jordan and the West Bank) had a profound effect on the lives of individuals struggling to navigate between and within each national imaginary. As home to the world's largest population of displaced persons, Jordan has struggled to negotiate national policy, marginalizing Palestinians in identity politics yet depending on them for economic expansion and growth. Moreover the establishment of an autonomous Palestinian representative body has yet to effectively address the needs and rights of its refugee and displaced populations. Negotiations between Israel and the PA now begin from a discursive position wherein the rights of refugees have been all but forfeited. Kamal, for his part, has struggled to make sense of the uncertainty, the ambiguities, of this political situation, in the end finding music to be a powerful modality for articulating these anxieties.

Yet Kamal Khalil's life story is not simply about music, or resistance. Rather Kamal's life story illustrates the ambiguous position of displaced Palestinians in Jordan, more generally—the vagaries of their situation, as they are nested between and marginalized from two national imaginaries. Living on the peripheries of the nationalist movement, Palestinian Jordanians fashioned new means of “resisting” the occupation in a displaced fashion, performing resistance onstage as a means of active identification and belonging. The essence of resistance in these performances reflects a cultural liminality, a perpetual drive to connect to a homeland under siege and occupation.

Since his return to Jordan in 2002, Kamal has been confronted with new challenges. Underemployment and economic hardship now constitute a new front of struggle. More than at any other time, performance opportunities, when they materialize, are a necessary means to supplement family income. What was once “singing for the nation” has now turned into financial necessity. Regrettably, it would appear that pressures to provide for his wife and six children have become the driving force behind his pursuit to revive past intifada hits. This is the cruel reality for many artists attempting to perform in support of Palestinian causes. Squabbles over money, publicity, and prestige plague performance interactions far more than ideological or religious differences. His inability to revive the protest songs of the past reveals widespread aesthetic changes in the Palestinian soundscape. Performed within a new political moment, such songs do not resonate with the aesthetics of the current generation of Palestinian youth seeking an end to the occupation. In style, sound, and performative dynamics, the songs of the first intifada simply fail to resonate with the media-based spectacle of the new “resistance.” Left to the past, the songs of Baladna are tokens of nostalgia, overmatched by the “songs of the satellites” and the growing trends of new transnational Palestinian pop (hip-hop, punk, metal).

With each passing day of his imprisonment, Kamal was comforted by two things: his belief in nation and his belief in the power of music to overcome. For a man who has dedicated his life to an idea, he has benefited very little. Tortured, abused, bones broken, and his life and those of his loved ones interrupted, Kamal never lost faith that one day he would return to his family and that his family would one day return to Palestine. In the years since his release the dream of returning to Taiba has yet to materialize, and his six children are now reaching the age where they are looking to settle down and raise families of their own. With each passing year it becomes more apparent to Kamal that for him Palestine may exist only in song, and like the olive tree planted in his front courtyard, he, too, must firmly take root in foreign soil.

This beautiful olive tree. Planted at a time of family crisis, loss, and fear, it has now fully matured, its branches stretching out over the courtyard of the house. Olives come every other year, and with them a deliciously pure oil for dipping breads and mazzāt. When planted, Kamal intended this tree to be his hope, his savior. He knew that one day he would return home and carve into its trunk the “chapters of his tragedy.” He would document his history of loss and dispossession, recording the names of all those who had ever broken his body and spirit. They would not go free from their crimes so long as this tree survived.

Today the olive tree is more symbol than savior. His past is a tragedy shared by many Palestinians in diaspora. Often hidden from view, shielded by national pride (or is it national shame?), Kamal goes about his daily life wondering about the choices he has made and the choices that were made for him. Exiled to Jordan, to prison, and to America, Kamal eventually returned to the cramped, crowded, twisted streets of Ruseifa. For him, each was an exile and each a safe haven. It seems ironic that all this time, through all those nights spent talking and singing, Kamal Khalil had accomplished one thing he had set out to do so many years ago. Though he did not carve them with a knife, the chapters of his tragedy were nonetheless recorded, by the hand of a young, overly idealistic American researcher sitting with him underneath the olive tree.

8

New Directions and New Modalities

Palestinian Hip-Hop in Israel

Lyd

Tucked discreetly behind Ben Gurion International Airport amid rows of industrial factories and seemingly endless railway tracks lies one of Israel's forgotten towns. Home to roughly 66,110 residents, Lyd (Hebrew: Lod; Greek-Latin: Lydda) is one of the most dangerous, drug-addicted, and crime-infested cities in the Middle East.[1] Although the city boasts a mixed population of Russian and Ethiopian Jewish immigrants and Palestinian Christians and Muslims (20 percent), in its Arab quarters Lyd suffers from extreme neglect. In the Arab neighborhoods Samekh Het, Warda, Shannir, Neve Yarek, and al-Mahatta, many of the houses and streets are unnamed or unnumbered, paved roads can be rare, and basic utility services are inconsistent and unreliable. The ultimate signs of neglect are seen in the many open sewers, overflowing dumpsters, and derelict buildings that line the city streets.[2]

More pressing, however, are rampant drug abuse and violent crime.[3] Children play soccer in streets overshadowed by massive tenement buildings covered in graffiti and suffering from disregard and ill repair. Nearby, drugs are freely bought and sold through slots carved into the neighborhood's concrete walls. Lights strewn over the slots, called ATMs, mark whether or not a certain drop-off point is open for business. From these points passersby stop for a moment to push their money through the opening and retrieve an envelope or plastic bag of illicit drugs: pills, cocaine, crystal meth, or something else.

On this hot summer afternoon in June 2005, such activity doesn't deter in the slightest the twenty Palestinian Israeli children playing soccer and riding bicycles through the neighborhood. Drugs and drug-related activity are, unfortunately, part of the natural cityscape. It is 4:00 PM, and the hot summer sun has pushed the temperature to a sweltering 105 degrees. Maneuvering around potholes, barbed-wire fences, and abandoned buildings, many of these children pay no attention to the hallmarks of urban neglect that have infected this once-flourishing community. Despite the intense heat, there is much excitement in the air. Nearby in a vacant lot, a grassroots Israeli nongovernmental organization is hosting a festival promoting economic cooperation and minority empowerment. Not more than three hundred yards from the main bus station, tents and booths shelter representatives from various labor organizations and other social welfare institutions. Within these tents are hundreds of Israeli Jews selling buttons, books, pamphlets, and ideology on how to better address issues of minority rights, unemployment, and free trade between Israel's Jewish and various non-Jewish citizens.

Also among the participants are local neighborhood Lyd kids curious to see what has brought such an event to their neighborhood. The clash of communities is strident. Young Jewish girls dressed in the typical Israeli summer fashion of long, flowing hippie skirts, tank tops, and sandals become the none-too-obvious eye candy for Palestinian shabāb (youth) unaccustomed to seeing women dressed so revealingly for the heat. Likewise, Jewish festival-goers remark candidly and condescendingly about the many Palestinian women covered in their ijāb (headscarves), sweating under the hot June sun.

Nearby, in a large parking lot adjacent to the bus station, a stage setup has been brought in from Tel Aviv complete with lighting and sound system. Standing behind the stage with arms folded is Tamer Nafar, Israel's most famous and infamous Palestinian rapper. He watches as the sound check is finished, the cables are strewn, and the crowds coalesce in front of the stage. His oversized athletic shorts, tank top, and basketball high-tops signal a fashion style far removed from the relaxed hippie braids and sandals sported by his Jewish audience, and the more traditional tight blue jeans, close-fitting shirts, and leather shoes of the local Palestinian men. At this moment, however, Tamer Nafar is the only Palestinian working to set up the stage area. The stage crew, sound engineers, security guards, and other participating artists appear to be all Jews working deliberately in preparation for the highlight of the festival, a concert by the Palestinian Israeli rap group DAM.

As the workers prepare for the concert, Nafar observes each step, offering advice and conversation. At this concert he is the celebrity on hand that everyone is trying to meet. Throughout the preparations many participants casually make their way onto the stage to introduce themselves or to get a photo with the artist. From afar, Tamer seems to relish the attention. He is gracious, giving brief interviews to journalists, posing for photos with fans, and otherwise making himself accessible to various requests. But there is an inherent contradiction in this fame. While in these few fleeting moments before the concert Tamer may be the star attraction, he knows all too well that after the concert ends, while the majority of the participants are driving home to suburban Tel Aviv or Jerusalem, he will be walking the few short blocks back to his family's tenement apartment amidst the rubble, barbed wire, railroad tracks, and the overflowing piles of garbage.

By 7:00 PM the concert has begun. After a brief thirty-minute set, Jewish rappers Kotej and Kwami surrender their microphones, and the crowd comes to life as DAM (Tamer Nafar, Suheil Nafar, and Mahmoud Jrere) makes its way to center stage (see figure 8.1).

As the concert goes on a clash of communities becomes more and more apparent. Roughly five hundred people in attendance are mixed equally between visiting Jews and local neighborhood Palestinians. From talking with some of these young local Palestinian teens, it was apparent that few of them knew anything about rap music, nor the occasion for such a large concert in the middle of their neighborhood. The booming music, large crowds, and overall commotion were motivation enough to bring them out into the streets. In stark contrast, the crowds of Jewish festival-goers were singing along with the music, dancing prescribed hip-hop steps, wearing DAM T-shirts, and openly enjoying the performance.

While the concert began with two separate and distinct audiences, over the course of the performance it was fascinating to watch small pockets of interaction. Young Palestinian girls began to emulate the dance steps of the more experienced Jewish twenty-somethings, and in turn, the Jewish twenty-somethings attempted to recreate some of the raq sharqī (Eastern belly dance) moves of the young Palestinian girls. Mostly among girls and young women dance circles slowly began to open up. Likewise over time several groups of young Arab boys began including some of the Jewish men in their carousing. Curious young Palestinian mothers pushing strollers through the crowd would stop and exchange pleasantries with Jewish mothers in attendance. If at first neither audience really felt comfortable in their surroundings, it wasn't long before small moments of communal interaction began to take place.

As the concert progressed it became clear which audience members were participants and which were merely observers. In general, only the older Jewish rap fans were actively dancing and singing along to the music. Speaking between songs, DAM addressed the crowd in Hebrew slang, building a rapport with the Jewish audience. Communal interaction between performers and audience was expressed through shared body movement, call-and-response phrases, and collective singing. Even when DAM sang in Arabic, it was apparent that the lyrics were more familiar to the Jewish than the Palestinian audience. Standing backstage, looking out onto the crowd, it was fascinating to see only half the audience actively engaging the music while the other half stood silently in amazement at what they were seeing. At one point this caught the attention of Tamer Nafar, who yelled out, “Antū mash bihūn bitastannā ma baad. Fī ayūn anā bashūf Arab, bas…Yā Arab! Shab al-Arabī wayn?” (You didn't come here just to stand around together. By my eyes I am seeing Arabs here but…Yo' Arabs! Where are all the Arabs?) (see figure 8.2).

Borrowing a line from Julia Butrous's famous intifada song, “Wayn al-Malayin” (see chapter 3), Tamer Nafar very effectively attempted to draw the hundreds of Palestinian onlookers into the performance environment using an intertextual reference of profound national meaning. “Where are all the Arabs?”—calling forth as it does Julia Butrous's impassioned plea of frustration and abandonment—here becomes a powerful means of compelling Arab participation in the concert. Immediately following this Tamer Nafar asked the audience to join him in an impromptu rendition of Ahmad Qabour's famous intifada anthem, “Unadikum” (The nation calls out to you). Suddenly the Palestinians in the crowd sprang to life.

The nation calls out to you,

I beseech you to rise up.

I kiss the land, under your shoes.

I sacrifice myself for you,

I give the light of my eyes to you,

And the warmth of my heart.

Is part of your misery.

The nation calls out to you

Here the flow of the performance shifted to the young Palestinians who all knew this song and could finally participate in what was happening onstage. The shouting of the crowd became so loud that after two choruses Tamer Nafar called out, tongue in check, “Khalas yā jama! Hay aflitnā, mash aflitach!” (Hey, cut it out, this is supposed to be our concert not yours!). What is interesting about this comment was Tamer's use of rural dialect in the pronunciation of aflitach (your [plural] concert). The emphasis on the final ch sound is a common rural pronunciation of the standard second-person plural (kum) possessive suffix. In all my informal conversations with Tamer as well as my recordings of his performances, he never spoke or sang with a rural accent. Quite the contrary, Tamer was very cognizant that his language, style, and vocabulary reflected an urban, cosmopolitan vernacular. Hearing this noticeable shift to “the folk” in his accent immediately caught my attention as a powerful means to reinforce a common cultural bond with his Palestinian audience. This was a brilliant, if unrecognized, tactic that brought the Palestinians, who were noticeably feeling a bit ostracized by the foreign styles of singing and dance, back into the performance. Though the Hebrew and Arabic verses espoused an antiracism, antioccupation message inside a deeply Palestinian neighborhood, up until this point the Palestinians in attendance looked and acted as though they were the outsiders. Here, by indexing the well-known words of Julia Butrous and Ahmad Qabour, employing linguistic signs of the “folk” and “country,” Tamer Nafar reached out in a powerful way to his Palestinian audience.

After the concert I spoke with several local Lyd residents in an attempt to get their impressions of the concert both in terms of the messages relayed and the musical forms through which they were communicated. Many related to me their feelings of confusion watching Palestinians perform an African American style of music in support of Palestinian issues. “Buibb al-maana wa al-kalamāt, bas shū hadh? Li mīn bīghānū? Hay mash filasīnī.” (I love the message and the meanings of the lyrics, but what kind of music is this?…Who are they trying to sing to? This is not Palestinian.) Moreover so many Israeli Jews singing and dancing enthusiastically to the antioccupation lyrics created a spectacle that many could not reconcile. It was apparent that this concert, as well as the festival for which it was the main event, advocated the political position of the Israeli left and that those in attendance were very much a part of the Israeli youth movement seeking to distance itself from the “hawkish” practices of the Likud-led government. Yet for the local Lyd residents, the spectacle of watching hundreds of Jews singing and dancing in protest against discrimination toward Palestinians was too much to comprehend. The apparent disconnect between the artists onstage and the audience was predicated on seeing, hearing, and experiencing foreign music, dance, and social interactions that did not jibe with the standard model of Palestinian political and nationalist ideology. In calling for the crowd to sing a famous intifada song, Tamer Nafar attempted to reposition the group, their music, and the event as an outgrowth of, or new direction in, Palestinian protest song. Moreover he signaled to the skeptical Palestinian crowd that he was familiar with and educated in the long-established tradition of political poetry and music. It was essential for DAM to convince the Palestinians in attendance that they were indeed part of the same community, confronting the same issues, born from the same histories, residents of the same neglected neighborhood.

At this moment in the concert a noticeable shift occurred between the two audiences. Collectively singing “Unadikum” brought the Palestinians into the performance environment, bonding with the artists onstage. More importantly, witnessing the Palestinian audience sing this song had a noticeable effect on the Jewish audience, as well. First, it brought the flow of the concert to a halt, which to this point was largely geared toward the Jewish audience in language, song, and style. Here Arabic became the primary mode of communication drawn from a tradition of nationalist poetry with which virtually every Palestinian in this neighborhood was intimately familiar. Jewish concert-goers stood silently, looking incredulously over the crowd of singing and chanting Palestinians. Based on my observations, it was apparent that this pronounced shift in momentum signaled to the Jews in attendance that indeed they were the outsiders, that despite fame, admiration, and local recognition as rap artists, DAM was really born of the same environment as the on-looking, at times incredulous, locals. Rap was the form that brought DAM to such a high profile among young Israeli Jews, but here in this concert those same rap fans were confronted face to face with the inspiration for DAM and their lyrics. Fully taking in their surroundings—the garbage, the drugs, the effects of years of crime and neglect—these Jews seemed to be momentarily pulled into the song. DAM and its internationally known front man, Tamer Nafar, were no longer famous artists heard and seen in international media, or on the radio or Internet; rather they were Lyd kids, children brought up under Israeli neglect, living in poverty. They were the shabāb running through the crowd, roughhousing, leering, and acting out against the Jewish dancers. They were admired for their fame, style, and artistic talent, and yet simultaneously identified as “Arab street kids.”

Perhaps for many of these Jews in attendance there was a synergy taking place between the media construction of DAM as internationally recognized rappers and the contextual reality from which they emerged. Seeing both the fame and the neglect, DAM was both powerful and powerless. Staging the concert in Lyd allowed the Jewish rap fans a brief look into the lives and lifestyles of the artists from whom they had just minutes before clamored to get autographs and pictures. In presenting themselves to the audience as Lyd kids, DAM put forth an image of themselves as both stylish Israeli rappers and street kids from the slums. The conflation of these two images, the famous and the infamous, also put forth a reconceptualized index of Israeli society inclusive of its non-Jewish Palestinian residents on the fringes of the Israeli nationalist imaginary. If DAM's unique ability to speak to an Israeli Jewish audience using their own vernacular and a shared aesthetic style disabled the established Jewish/Palestinian binary, doing so in Lyd most certainly raised an acute awareness of the dire situation facing this community. Furthermore, in code switching between Jewish and Palestinian frames, DAM was able to create an environment in which the traditional model of Jewish/Palestinian cultural autonomy broke down, revealing constitutive relations between the two communities.

The various ways DAM freely navigated the poetic and ideational dispositions of two very distinct audiences at this concert in June 2005 is indicative of the many ways in which Palestinian Israelis must negotiate the discursive fields of identity and politics in their daily lives. The difficulties of being both Israeli and Palestinian, and at the same time neither Israeli nor Palestinian, are not lost on these musicians. Raised as second-class citizens, Tamer, Suheil, and Mahmoud live as a feared internal “other” in Israeli society, yet among many Palestinian nationalists early on in their careers, they were portrayed as collaborators and traitors for carrying Israeli passports, speaking Hebrew, and participating in Israeli politics and society.

What is especially fascinating about DAM's work is the way their music reveals how the established discourses of ethnonational purity (in the case of Israel) and direct linkages to the land and a particular fallaī folk ethos (in the case of Palestine) are both betrayed by social heterogeneity and new forms of transnational media and communication. In performance, DAM explicitly confounds the entrenched nationalist history of Israel based on Jewish homogeneity, throwing into relief a long history of interaction and indoctrination with and within the Arab world. Moreover, through the performance of an explicitly cosmopolitan popular music, these young rappers create spaces where traditional conceptions of Palestinian-ness are reconfigured to include media, aesthetics, and technologies from the non-Arab cosmopolitan world.

This concert was also an excellent example of how popular culture may fashion spaces through which often-conflicting modalities of class, gender, nation, race, and religion are articulated, circumscribed, or reconfigured.[4] Here popular culture becomes a site for political engagement serving to either naturalize consent for the dominant order or to embody alternative values in opposition to that order.[5] For many of the local Lydians DAM's style of dress, mannerism, and performance were a strange amalgam of musical and political identities. In content, the message of this performance was quite familiar (ending racism and discrimination against Palestinians in Israel), yet the forms through which this message was carried (hip-hop) were quite foreign. Likewise seeing DAM perform for the first time in Lyd forced many Jewish rap fans to confront a socially marginalized Palestinian neighborhood face to face. The overall popularity of the music served to draw out an insular community of listeners into a foreign, strange, or perhaps even “dangerous” social space. For those in attendance less cognizant of the cultural differences in the crowd (the young girls teaching each other to dance, or the young mothers pushing their strollers through the crowd), DAM spatially affirmed a diverse Israeli national imaginary inclusive of both Jewish and non-Jewish citizens.

The various ways that music, particularly a cosmopolitan form of hip-hop, serves to reconfigure conceptions of self and nation within the Israeli-Palestinian conflict is the subject of this chapter. In looking at these processes, this chapter addresses many of the social and political issues facing Palestinians of ’48 and their role in the Israeli/Palestinian national imaginary. How does rap music articulate the political and ideational positions of these young Palestinian citizens of Israel? What might DAM's impact be on the identity politics of Palestinians in Israel, in the Occupied Territories, and in diaspora? How do the artists position themselves within the politically diverse framework of Palestinian protest song? What potential do popular music and culture have for reconfiguring ideas of Palestinian nationalism and the struggle for self-determination?

Palestinians of ’48, Relational Identities, and New Directions in Middle Eastern Studies

But our destiny is to stay physically close to our lands,

And at the same time spiritually far away from our nation.

Who cares about us? We are dying slowly,

Controlled by a Zionist democratic government!

Ya, democratic to the Zionist soul and Zionist to the Arabic soul,

That is to say, what is forbidden to him is forbidden to me,

And what is allowed to him is forbidden to me.

And what is allowed to me is unwanted by me,

Because it is denying my existence.

Still blind to my colors, my history and my people,

Brainwashing my children so that they grow up to a present

That doesn't represent them, the blue ID card is worth nothing to us.

Let us believe that we are a part of a nation,

That does nothing but make us feel like strangers,

Me? A stranger in my own country!

The above lyrics written and performed by Mahmoud Jrere in the song “Gharib fi Biladi!” (Stranger in my own country) offer intriguing insight into many pertinent issues facing the nearly one million Palestinian citizens of Israel. As descendants of the approximately 150,000 Palestinians not expelled from their homes in the war of 1948, these Palestinians (’48s) have remained physically close to their lands yet feel spiritually distant from their national community. Living as an ethnic minority within a Jewish state, they are subjected to harsh forms of overt and covert discrimination. Citizenship, nationality, land ownership, and access to state resources are predicated on religion (Jewish versus non-Jewish) in defining the rights and obligations of the individual and the state.[6] Palestinian Israelis often find themselves victimized by an ethnic democracy that gives preferential rights and opportunities to citizens of one religion (Judaism) at the expense of another (Christianity or Islam). In this song Jrere feels controlled by a Zionist government “democratic to the Zionist soul and Zionist to the Arabic soul.” He writes of his own dispossession by a government that does not recognize his existence as a Palestinian citizen of Israel, “blind to [his] colors,…people,…[and] history.” Jrere laments that his blue identity card, an envied index of opportunity and enfranchisement among many Palestinians, means nothing without a sense of belonging to a nation. Without this belief in belonging, he remains a “stranger in his own country.”

As Palestinian citizens of Israel, nationals of Palestine, and members of a minority faith (Christianity or Islam), their condition in Israel reveals the social, cultural, and political boundaries of the national imaginary. In Israel, Palestinian Israelis are widely perceived as a threat to the state's “Jewish” character, a feared fifth column. Socially they are internal others marginalized in the poor neighborhoods of urban Tel Aviv, Ram-lah, Lod, Haifa, Jaffa/Yaffa, the Israeli triangle, and the rural villages of the Galilee and Negev. Demographically they are viewed as the single largest threat to maintaining Jewish hegemony in the state.[7] Likewise in the West Bank they are largely ignored and neglected as Palestinians who are bi-tyūid (Judaized) and therefore unwilling to participate in the nationalist project. Among Palestinians in the Occupied Territories and near diaspora they are both hated and envied, their blue identity cards and passports signifying increased rights and privileges as Israeli citizens and a presumed acceptance of the “Zionist state.”

Known colloquially as ’48s, that is Palestinians of ’48, Palestinian Israelis have throughout post–al-nakba (1948) history often been a neglected and misunderstood community.[8] Today Palestinians number approximately 20 percent of Israel's total population and represent a significant ethnic minority. Politically Palestinian Israelis predominantly accept Israel's right to exist as a state, have accepted their status as an ethnic minority within the Jewish democracy, and feel satisfied with their lives as Israeli citizens.[9] What is more telling, based on survey research conducted in the mid-1990s, 82.7 percent of Palestinian Israelis polled answered that they would prefer to be citizens of Israel than any other country and that they believed that it is possible to change the Arab condition substantially through standard democratic procedures.[10] These democratic procedures were exercised most effectively in the Labor-Meretz governments of the early 1990s. In the parliamentary elections of 1996 an estimated 77 percent of the Palestinian Israeli population voted, nearly equivalent to the national average.[11] When asked if they would prefer to live in a Jewish democratic state rather than an Arab nondemocratic state, a substantial 85.6 percent answered affirmatively. In relation to the PLO and the proposed formation of a Palestinian state, 95.8 percent reported that they would not consider moving to any future Palestinian state. And 74.3 percent reported that Palestinian communities in Israel should remain an integral part of the Israeli state in final status negotiations.[12]

The question of names is one of critical importance to issues of identity and community. Palestinian Arab citizens of Israel (both Christian and Muslim) largely refer to themselves in conversation as Palestinians or more generally as Arabs. An important study of Palestinian university students in Israel found that the preference is to define oneself as Palestinian in Israel (43.5 percent).[13] Other options were Palestinian Arab (25.7 percent), Israeli Palestinian (10.6 percent), Palestinian Arab in Israel (5.5 percent), Palestinian (4.1 percent), Israeli (2.7 percent), and Israeli Arab (1.4 percent). What is especially interesting is that the two labels most ascribed to this community by the Israeli and Palestinian governments, and most heard in American and international media, “Israeli Arab” and “Palestinian,” were among the least popular choices. The students clearly did not see themselves as either purely Israeli Arab or Palestinian. Furthermore the use of “Israeli Arab,” a very common term since 1948 in official Israeli state discourse, was felt to deny a distinct Palestinian national consciousness and presence.[14]

What distinguishes ’48 Palestinians from those in the Occupied Territories and in diaspora is a conflicted issue that has received far too little attention in the literature on Palestinian identity. Among ’48s there is a penchant for labeling oneself as “someone who remained in the homeland” or as a “Palestinian who did not run from the Jews in 1948” and who has remained “steadfast in preserving the nation.” And yet among Palestinians in the West Bank and Jordan, ’48s are colloquially derided as “traitors and collaborators to the nationalist cause.” They are Palestinians who speak fluent Hebrew, benefit from the Israeli economy, and are largely unwilling to join the intifada. In fact in instances where Palestinian villages in Israel were proposed to be ceded to the Palestinian Authority, local residents have insisted that they remain a part of Israel. In studies on the ramifications of a proposed Palestinian state, 79.2 percent of Palestinian Israelis polled stated that they would remain loyal to Israel and that they did not consider the PLO representative of their interests as Palestinians in Israel.[15]

DAM

Over the course of their short careers the three members of DAM, Tamer Nafar, Mahmoud Jrere, and Suheil Nafar, have been the subject of widespread international media coverage (see figure 8.3). Indeed their novelty as Israel's first Palestinian hip-hop crew rapping in Hebrew, Arabic, and English has drawn the attention of the BBC, CNN, online news agencies, Rolling Stone, and a host of other various arts and culture magazines. They have performed at music festivals throughout Israel and the West Bank and throughout Europe and North America. Lead rapper Tamer Nafar has been interviewed in radio and television broadcasts throughout the Middle East and Europe and was featured in several award-winning documentaries: Channels of Rage, by the Israeli filmmaker Anat Halachmi; Slingshot Hip-Hop, by Jacqueline Salloum; and Checkpoint Rock: Songs from Palestine, by Javier Corcuera and Fermin Muguruza.[16]

DAM has also built a large following of fans throughout Jewish and Palestinian communities in Israel. In the posh discothèques of Tel Aviv DAM has become a leading hip-hop performer alongside Jewish artists such as Subliminal, Shadow, and Hadag Nasach. Among the Israeli political left, DAM has built a strong following among Jewish fans by performing at antioccupation rallies and demonstrations. Likewise, DAM is also quite popular in the largely Palestinian cafés and nightclubs of the northern Galilee. Here, too, DAM has enjoyed great success performing at nationalist rallies in support of the intifada. Even in areas of the West Bank DAM has developed a loyal following of Palestinian fans. DAM's ability to move among these various local, national, regional, and international musical scenes is what has attracted such focused media attention.

EARLY RAP INFLUENCES AND EXPLORATIONS

The idea to form a rap group came to Tamer Nafar in 1999. He, his brother, and his close friend decided to create the first Palestinian rap group in the Middle East. Their goal was to develop a new sound that reflected their Arab ancestry, their Israeli upbringing, and their love for American hip-hop culture. This love first began while they were watching Spike Lee movies about the black experience in urban America. The imagery of urban neglect, racial discrimination, ethnic inequality, and minority empowerment was all too familiar to the group. Rap was a music that spoke to them in ways that no other music could. “Rap is the language of protest and challenge…it is the language of the youth that expresses their feelings and thoughts,” Mahmoud Jrere explained in an interview in Bethlehem.[17] Their own experiences living as Palestinians in an Israeli slum inspired them to create their own rhymes similar to those of their American rap heroes.

The group was named DAM with this sense of hybridity and empowerment in mind. First, DAM is derived from the Arabic root d-ū-m, to be everlasting, immortal, or eternal. In Hebrew, dam means blood. In English, DAM serves as an acronym for the phrase ‘Da Arabic Microphone Controller (MC). As Suheil Nafar explained it to me in 2005, “when put together DAM has the total meaning, even if you attack us with blood, Da Arabic Microphone is eternal.”[18]

In the beginning DAM's music was largely an imitation of their American rap heroes. Sung in English, over beats taken directly off American records, DAM tried to appropriate much of the American racial discourse into their own interpretations of their subordinate status in Israel. Tupac Shakur, Black Star, Notorious B.I.G., Common, Public Enemy, and others were their sources for inspiration and tutelage. “It was easier for us to rhyme in English, but we soon realized that our message wouldn't be heard unless we started to sing in Arabic and Hebrew.” This early period of writing and singing was one of self-exploration and experimentation. In an interview with fellow rappers on an Internet blog Tamer wrote:

Up until the age of 17 I was writing all kinds of love songs, until I met Pac's [Tupac Shakur's] music. So I created a bubble called, “Hey, I'm the negro of the Middle East.” When Pac says, “how my brothers fell victims to the streets,” I was answering him with names of my late friends…dying here from drive bys…. So I published my first LP, “stop sellin' drugz.” Then I studied crime knowledge [criminology] and noticed that there is a reason for crime, like poverty, unemployment…basically political reasons. But still I chose to ignore politics because I wanted to succeed. I was a coward until…one of my closest friends died from a drive by so I said, “fuck it, even if I am not touching it, it is touching me,” and began my lyrical war, began to be real…and what threw more gas on to my fire was that same month, when the second intifada began, Black October, that got me…back to my Palestinian roots, and I noticed that all my life (TV, books, school, environment) was created by Israel only to make me unconnected to my roots. So I started writing songs for the young Arabs to shorten their process of getting them to their roots in a way that I didn't have.[19]

The above passage was quoted at length in order to convey the written thoughts of the author but also to reveal the process by which Nafar had internalized rap music to the extent that it was the most natural and appropriate means for communicating his messages of resistance to the culture of drugs and crime that had gripped his community. However, what is especially interesting about these comments is Nafar's usage of American hip-hop style to reclaim his “Palestinian roots.” Given the long history of “roots” music and dance, the rigid structures of national identity, and the dominance of cultural nationalists in the production of Palestinian music, how could rap music possibly index Palestinian roots? With this in mind, I asked Tamer directly how an African American music could help anyone discover their Palestinian ancestry. His response was quite telling, and is also worth quoting at length.

TN: It is spiritual…it is the things they say, the things they describe, it is the things I see. When they [rappers] describe something in hip-hop I don't close my eyes and try to imagine a movie. When he [Tupac Shakur] says something about some guy who got a drive-by, I see pictures that I have seen in my life…. When he [Tupac Shakur] was saying that it is a white man's world, this is what I see here. [Quoting Tupac lyrics] “They want you to pump your fist against a stone boy. You are going to hurt yourself.” So it is the same as what I see here. And “they say it is the white man I should fear, but it is my own kind doing the killing here.” That is Lyd…. So basically this is how it started, this is the connection to hip-hop; this is the connection to Tupac. This is first, then you grow up and you see that it is bigger than that. They have this four hundred years of slavery, we have our occupation. They have the speeches of Malcolm X…who got killed, and we have Naji al-Ali, who got assassinated.[20] It is the big picture, and we just need this spot that you can see it. And get connected to this spot and then you can open your eyes and see the whole picture.

DM: But this is not Palestinian music…

TN: What are you talking about, shabī [Palestinian indigenous music]?…So for me to be Palestinian I have to sing wedding songs about olive trees or farming or goats? What does that have to do with my life here and now?

Tamer's life here and now is what especially motivated him to begin singing out against what he perceived to be gross inequalities between Jewish and non-Jewish citizens of Israel. Moreover this very honest assessment of past Palestinian protest song underscores several of the reasons artists such as Kamal Khalil were unsuccessful in bringing back the nationalist songs of the past. The tired clichés of olive trees, the land, and rural practice no longer resonated with a new generation of Palestinian youth living on the urban peripheries of the nation-state. His own neighborhood offered the inspiration, style, and aesthetics for his writing. In addition, coming to terms with the murder of a close friend animated his pursuit of social change. But above all, the single most important moment in DAM's artistic lives happened in the first week of October 2000.

OCTOBER 2000 AND THE OUTBREAK OF THE AL-AQSA INTIFADA

The events of September 28, 2000—when Likud party leader Ariel Sharon forcibly entered the Temple Mount/Haram al-Sharif, igniting the al-Aqsa intifada—have been detailed in previous chapters along with their effects on and ramifications for Palestinian music in the Occupied Territories and near diaspora. However, these events had an incredibly powerful effect on Palestinians living in Israel, as well. As violence spread through the streets of East Jerusalem, Gaza, and the West Bank, so, too, did Palestinian gatherings in Israel spread through the streets of Nazareth, Umm al-Fahm, Haifa, and several smaller villages in the Galilee, to protest the vicious incitement by Sharon as well as the violent response by the Israeli army. Watching the horrors of the fighting on television, where Israeli police confronted stone-throwing demonstrators with armored vehicles, Apache helicopters, and live ammunition, Palestinian Israelis became increasingly outraged. Palestinian deputy Mohammad Kanaan of the Israeli Knesset stated, “We are an integral part of the Palestinian Arab people and we cannot remain motionless when faced with the deaths of children and other horrors that are taking place in the Occupied Territories.”[21]

Many took to the streets in solidarity with Palestinians suffering under occupation. However, these internal demonstrations revealed a political crisis brewing since Ehud Barak's election in 1999. Barak's government made a great effort to elicit votes from the Palestinian population on a platform of ethnic and economic reform. Accordingly, Palestinians came out in large numbers to support his platform only to see little change in the policies of the government after election. Their concerns with the gross disparities in employment, living conditions, social programs, and education were largely ignored, only exacerbating feelings of political and social dispossession. Deputy Mohammad Kanaan went on to say, “Our demonstrations also express the frustration of the one million Israeli Arabs faced with the striking inequality with Jews.”[22] It seems the initial demonstrations of Israel's Palestinian communities were a product of sympathy for the intifada as well as the continued discriminatory policies of the Israeli state.

Within the first four days of the rioting thirteen Palestinian Israelis were killed and more than two hundred injured by Israeli police. The deaths of these thirteen Israelis sparked outrage throughout the country, for it marked the first time in nearly thirty years that Palestinian Israelis were killed in demonstrations against the state. Funerals held in each of the villages quickly turned to stone throwing and mass vandalism. Roads leading to and from Palestinian areas in the Galilee were blocked, and riot police were called in to quell the disturbances. What was perhaps most damaging, however, was the way several of these demonstrators were killed. Eyewitnesses at the scene in Arabeh described to the media how they watched seventeen-year-old Asil Asleh beaten by soldiers and then shot in the neck.[23] Others were shot by long-range snipers positioned on rooftops as they stood in crowds. And one victim reportedly died from stab wounds by police forces. The brutality of the police reaction, as well as widespread outrage across the political spectrum, brought to fore an ethnic conflict that had been gaining momentum for many years. Despite the formation of a special inquiry into the government response to the riots, little action was taken to assuage the fears of the Palestinian community or against the police responsible for the deaths.[24]

At the heart of the issue, however, was a crisis of identity: Palestinian Israelis who had lived for over a generation at peace with their Jewish neighbors were suddenly confronted with Israeli brutality against their Palestinian friends and family members. As the violence erupted in Jerusalem, and the Israeli military mobilized its response to the rioting, Palestinian Israelis were confronted with powerful images of national affiliation. However, in taking to the streets, the Israeli police treated the Israeli protestors of Nazareth, Arabeh, Sakhnin, and Jat as though they were those in Gaza or Ramallah. The ideational disconnect came in seeing their state apparatuses engage internal protests as if they were facing an external adversary. All of the signs of loyalty to the Israeli state put forth by Palestinian Israelis, the efforts to speak Hebrew, hold jobs, and participate in social and political life seemed irrelevant given the Israeli army's deadly response to their demonstrations.

The horrible events of Black October had a significant effect on the direction of DAM's music. If experiencing firsthand the effects of social neglect had inspired DAM to speak out against drugs and crime in their earlier work, watching Black October unfold only solidified their resolve to sing against the occupation as well. Speaking of the protestors in an interview with Reuters, Tamer Nafar explains, “I feel for them. I feel the attack against me and my people and I have something to say. I write it in rhymes and I do it in rap. Some guys burn tires, some shoot guns, this is my way” (emphasis added).[25] Later in the same interview Nafar explains the effect the protests have had on his work: “It kills me. It leads me to hate the government even more, since the protestors are fighting for us and for what belongs to us. Still I don't know exactly where I fit in. I know the Palestinians are aggressive, but they have suffered for years under Israel. And the bottom line to us and to them is the same, death to Arabs” (emphasis added).[26]

Nafar's shifting of the pronouns “us” and “them” is especially indicative of his conception of being both and yet neither Palestinian nor Israeli. “They” (the Palestinians under occupation) are his people fighting for “us” (Palestinian Israelis), and “they” (Palestinians under occupation) have suffered under Israel. Yet both (us and them) are suffering from the same political discourse of “death to Arabs.” As the violence escalated many Palestinians in Israel felt pulled in multiple directions. Tamer's difficulty in articulating his dissected loyalties speak to this ideational crisis. In each case the established national construct had failed to account for these margins.

To memorialize the event, Tamer Nafar folded the names of each of the thirteen victims into a verse of the song “Gharib fi Biladi” (Stranger in my own country). In Arabic it is common for proper names to have specific meanings or roots describing characteristics, qualities, or actions. Through an ingenious play of meaning, Nafar fashioned a coherently powerful verse of Palestinian resistance poetry using each of the thirteen names. For ease of reading, the translation of the verse is provided, marking each of the names in capital letters together with their meaning.

13 Martyrs, death is close when the stones are in the hand.

13 Martyrs the ALA [elevated status] of our land, and the EMAD [foundation].

Black October proved that EYAD [support/strength] is in our blood.

Everyone of them was WALID [born] under occupation,

But still RAMY [throwing] himself like a sharp stone,

Fighting the disease of those who think our blood is worthless.

Killing the MUSLEH [the righteous] voices with live ammunition.

And the mother shouts, I am ASSIL [falling down],

On Christ's and MOHAMMAD's cheek.

We are like a mountain that won't be shaken by any wind or any storm.

We will remain RAMEZ [the image] of the nation, and the WISSAM [the badge] of freedom.

The light of our great grandparents will never fade away.

I'm a stranger in my own country, but I AHMAD [praise] God,

That I'm still attached to my culture.

All of you can call us renegades or the inner Arabs or the Arabs of ’48.

Whatever, we'll remain the roots of Palestine until the OMAR [the end of time].[27]

In prose, metaphor, and meaning this passage reveals a close relationship with the established archetype of Palestinian protest song from the 1970s and 1980s, even if it plays on, develops, and transcends the stock lexicon of nationalist myth and metaphor. Most notable of these are references to stones, to the land, and the unwavering loyalty of a united Palestinian nation. In addition Nafar brings in powerful allusions to birth and motherhood. The plight of the mother of the martyred (umm al-shahīd) is played out within a combined reference to Christianity and Islam, not unlike the ways this same trope was employed by Abu Arab and Nuh Ibrahim (see chapters 2 and 3). The people are “like a mountain” facing a wind and storm (of Zionism). And through this engagement the people are an emblem of the nation and of freedom, proclaiming strength from generations (great grandparents) of attachment to the land.

However it is in the final two lines of this verse that Nafar breaks from the traditional rhetoric of political poetry and confronts a slightly different, internal audience. In the lines “All of you can call us renegades or the inner Arabs or the Arabs of ’48. Whatever, we'll remain the roots of Palestine until the end of time,” there is a momentary yet significant shift. “All of you” can be interpreted to mean both Israeli Jews who commonly use the term “Arabs” to deny a Palestinian national identity, as well as Arabs in general who position ’48 Palestinians outside their national struggle. Palestinians in exile or in the Occupied Territories commonly use the terms “inner Arabs” and “’48s” to refer to Palestinian Israelis. It would be very unlikely for Israelis to use the term “inner Arabs” as it reinforces a Palestinian indigeneity that runs counter to Israeli nationalist myth. This particular use of the word renegade/traitor (khāin) is significant in that it is employed in several other DAM songs to mean Palestinians in collaboration with Israel. From the Arabic root kh-ū-n (to be disloyal or faithless, to betray), khāin is a powerful epithet calling forth a betrayal of faith and treachery against the nation. To be called khāin in this context implies that someone is a traitor to his or her Palestinian ancestry and complicit in Israel's occupation of Palestinian lands. In a previous verse of “Gharib fi Biladi!” Suheil Nafar uses the term renegade similarly.

Raised in poverty, and poverty is the only thing in our minds,

But our hearts are still beating and our Arabian roots are still strong,

[But still our Arabian brothers are] calling us renegades! NOOOOO!

We never sold our country, the occupation wrote our destiny,

Which is, that the whole world until today treats us as Israeli,

and Israel until tomorrow will treat us as Palestinians.

I'm a stranger in my own country.

The word “renegade/traitor” in this song signifies a dual object. In both cases the artists are defending themselves from being labeled traitors from an outside force. The first example is ambiguous as to who makes up that force, Israeli Jews or Arabs. The line can be interpreted both ways. The second example is equally unclear. However, the original handwritten translation provided to me by Suheil Nafar included the bracketed words “But still our Arabian brothers are” calling us renegades. Given that this line is not a part of the sung lyrics or the published translation, I inquired as to its meaning. Suheil and Tamer seemed unfazed by my inquiry. Suheil explained, “We are called renegades by both sides” (Israel and Palestine). “That is why we are strangers in our own country.” His position was that they feel as though they are strangers twice over, dispossessed by both their state (Israel) and their nation (Palestine). The above translation, however, was provided to me by the artists themselves over a year before its public release. When the album finally hit the shelves, the very important bracketed phrase “But still our Arabian brothers are” was omitted from the translation, further obfuscating to whom they are referring. In my opinion the reason for this omission was to soften their criticism of the Palestinian community who would most likely refer to them as “inner Arabs.”

The deaths of thirteen demonstrators were the linchpin for drawing DAM into this struggle on two fronts. In seeking reform internally as well as an end to the occupation DAM is making an important assertion of identity toward both Israeli and Palestinian national narratives. As Nafar admits, he doesn't know exactly where he fits in all of this. The failure of the nationalist paradigm to account for hybrid, fragmented, and otherwise disconnected segments of the national imaginary is perhaps the reason.

“POSH'IM AFIM MI'PESHA” (HEBREW: INNOCENT CRIMINALS)

Within a matter of weeks after Black October, DAM had completed the recording and editing of its first mainstream Hebrew song. The title, “Innocent Criminals,” speaks to the widespread feelings of fear and frustration felt by Palestinian Israelis experiencing internal unrest at the beginning of the al-Aqsa intifada. The violent clashes between the Israeli army and the citizenry only exacerbated the perception that Palestinians in Israel were second-class citizens, widely suspected and feared as potential terrorists. For DAM, “Innocent Criminals” marked their first politicized venture into the mainstream Israeli rap scene. Up until this point, DAM had performed predominantly as a Palestinian or ethnic counterpart to the established Mizrahi Jewish rap artists Subliminal and Shadow. In these performances DAM would routinely be called up onstage alongside their Jewish counterparts. Their niche was that they represented the young, angry, hardcore Palestinian Israeli youth straight out of Lyd's ghetto. As time went on, however, DAM grew tired of rapping only in Hebrew in front of a Jewish audience largely unresponsive to their messages of Israeli state racism and inequality. The riots of 2000 only served to distance the artists further as Subliminal and Shadow began to take up a right-wing “hawkish” political stance in their music regarding the outbreak of the intifada and the strengthening of the Israeli occupation.[28]

In recording “Innocent Criminals” DAM took a new direction, going directly to the Israeli mainstream. They wrote an amazingly powerful assault on the establishment and sought to be the voice of Palestinian Israelis suffering the consequences of the intifada. During the escalation of the fighting, searches and detainment were commonplace on the Israeli streets, and calls for the outright “transfer” of Palestinians across the river to Jordan were routine in Israeli media. For DAM this was an important opportunity to state the case for Palestinian ethnic rights from within the Israeli state. Set to the music of Tupac Shakur's “Hail Mary,” DAM's “Innocent Criminals” speaks to issues of racism, equality, and reconciliation between Israel's Jewish and non-Jewish citizens.

The minority is opening its mouth,

You say the Arabs are primitive,

You say the Arabs are aggressive,

You say we are criminals and barbarians, we aren't

But just in case we are, this is what the government has done to us

Before you get me, before you feel me,

Slip into my shoes and your feet will hurt

Because we are the innocent criminals

Where is the equality when I live in a shack?

And he lives in a rich neighborhood

When I am not mentioned in the national anthem

There is a problem here, isn't there?

Where is the peace? There isn't any peace.

And where there isn't any peace, there is a checkpoint for every dream.

Perhaps the most important theme in this passage is the artists' plea for acceptance and tolerance in Israeli society. Nafar begins by trying to dispel the connotation that Arabs are inherently aggressive and primitive. He beseeches the Jewish majority to understand the very real social issues that shape both the Palestinian condition in Israel as well as the ethnic relations between Jews and Palestinians. The events of October 2000 revealed a striking discontinuity in the ways the Israeli police approached or confronted Palestinian citizens. “Jews demonstrate, the police take clubs in hand…. Arabs demonstrate, and the police take their lives.” Above all, however, “Innocent Criminals” should be read as an attempt to ameliorate the strife between Jews and Palestinians within the Israeli state. This is inherently an ethnic engagement, through which the subordinate ethnic group seeks greater access within the state social and political economy. Here Nafar is not singing for the destruction of the state and its Jewish dominant order. Nor is Nafar singing for the outright establishment of a state in the territories for the benefit of all Palestinians. Rather “Innocent Criminals” appeals for acceptance, to be heard, from within the state's dominant order. For this to occur Nafar implores the Israeli Jewish mainstream to “walk in [his] shoes.” In order for there to be understanding between the two communities, Jews must try to reconcile rigid structures of discrimination against and social neglect of the Palestinian Israeli population. Nafar notes that the non-Jewish population is not represented or included in the Israeli national anthem. The answer, from this song, is one of mutual respect and understanding between two Israeli communities, meaning that in order for there to be peace, Israel must confront its non-Jewish ethnic self. “Otherwise, we will all be innocent criminals.”

INNOCENT CRIMINALS COLLABORATION WITH AVIV GEFEN

In November 2002 Israeli pop star Aviv Gefen stumbled upon a copy of “Innocent Criminals” on the Internet and immediately saw a unique opportunity for collaboration. Gefen soon contacted Tamer Nafar with the idea of reworking “Innocent Criminals” so as to bring it to a much larger mainstream Israeli audience. Gefen believed that there was a unique opportunity for Israelis to engage a dissenting viewpoint, one that criticizes Israeli discriminatory practices against its Palestinian population as well as the discourses of violence and blind nationalism espoused by Palestinian leadership. He saw DAM as a cultural outgrowth of a new generation of Palestinian Israelis who, while struggling to secure equal footing within the Israeli political spectrum, were nonetheless coming to terms with their position as an ethnic minority. Knowing full well that without his support such a song would likely never gain access to mainstream television and radio, Gefen decided to sponsor the production personally, financing the recording and editing as well as a large-scale music video.

Gefen, no stranger to political controversy, could not have anticipated how the Israeli music industry would react to the release of this collaboration. Initially the single was censored. “No radio station would risk playing it,” recounts Tamer Nafar. However, posted on several websites, estimates were that the song was downloaded nearly twenty thousand times.[29] Sustained interest in the song convinced television producers to broadcast “Innocent Criminals” on prime-time Israeli television. Although DAM had performed on national television in the past, this particular performance, with its vivid political message and imagery, had a sizeable impact and resulted in a great deal of publicity for the group.

For Gefen the broadcast signaled an important step toward freedom of speech and artistic expression in Israeli society. Yet the difficulties in getting “Innocent Criminals” recorded and later broadcast were as revealing as its successes. Although Gefen was widely known as a maverick, a rebel, and “the bad boy” of Israeli pop because he had taken controversial political positions in his music and lifestyle, “Innocent Criminals” highlighted unexpected difficulties that even Gefen had yet to encounter. In “Innocent Criminals” Nafar sings, “Step into my shoes and your feet will hurt.” When asked by a journalist in 2003 if in the process of making this song he did indeed “step into his [Nafar's] shoes,” Gefen replied, “I'm trying, but after I saw that our single was simply censored in Israel—it wasn't played on any radio station—I realized how heavy and quite dirty these shoes are…. I realized how difficult it is to be an Arab Israeli.”[30]

Despite many aesthetic and political differences between these two artists, Nafar and Gefen do share a passion for their craft and a calling to sing about the pressing issues they face as Israeli citizens. At moments the collaboration succeeds in bringing together two musicians attempting to push the envelope of freedom of expression. At other times the two find themselves polar opposites in their political beliefs. In his interview commentary Nafar often makes reference to various “inner occupations” (geographic, social, economic, psychological), claiming that Palestinians of ’48, as their brethren in the West Bank, Jerusalem, and Gaza Strip, are still under Israeli occupation of a different type. Moreover, in a nationally televised interview, Nafar stated that he understood the motivations behind the current wave of suicide bombings in Israel.[31] To him there was no difference between a suicide bomber and a soldier, for they both kill indiscriminately. Seated next to the rapper, Gefen immediately retreated, resulting in an eerie silence of shock and amazement. In later interviews Gefen remarked that while he certainly did not agree with Nafar, he supported and respected his right to freely express his opinion.[32] This support extended to financing the collaboration as well as inviting DAM to perform in several concerts. In the press leading up to its release Gefen expressed a social need for dissenting voices to be heard in the Israeli music industry, saying, “As an artist and as an Arab it is his [Nafar's] duty to shout his protest…and I will help him in this.”[33]

Ultimately DAM's appeal to mainstream Israeli society through this collaboration with Aviv Gefen did not achieve its intended effect. Although DAM had found a much larger audience, accessed the Israeli mainstream, and had garnered several large-scale performance opportunities, the political climate at the time was far less responsive to dissenting viewpoints in the so-called war on terror. Because of their political statements DAM could not find opportunities to perform in front of Jewish rap audiences and instead took the initiative to begin performing specifically for Palestinian audiences in Israel and the West Bank.

Their frustrations in trying to build a rap audience among Palestinians unfamiliar with or put off by American pop culture forms were compounded, however. In several interviews at the time all three members of the group admitted difficulties in engaging Palestinian audiences unfamiliar with hip-hop style. Among these audiences the political message was easily accepted, though the form for the performance became a subject of controversy. “There were times when we performed in front of four or five people,” Tamer recounted for me in an interview in Bethlehem. “I have often thought about writing a song about the history of rap…who the main rappers are and how to dance to it. That way we can create a rap scene for Arabs outside of [Israeli] Jews, and they will better understand what it is we are trying to do.”

As the siege of the West Bank continued unabated throughout the summer of 2002, political resistance to the occupation strengthened among Palestinian Israelis. More and more ’48s began to voice their opinions through political demonstrations of Palestinian nationalism. Images of the assault on Gaza and the West Bank were broadcast daily through national and international media. The rise of Arab satellite news channels such as al-Jazeera, al-Arabiya, and al-Sharqiya became instrumental in shaping how the struggle was represented in the media and had a substantial effect on Palestinian Israeli public opinion. DAM, for its part, began to tack with the rising winds of Palestinian nationalism, writing new songs in Arabic on nationalist themes and performing at protests in Palestinian communities in the Galilee and the West Bank. If they began their careers as struggling rappers trying to make it in the Israeli Jewish hip-hop scene, by mid-2002 DAM had transformed itself into a purely Arabic-speaking rap group dedicated to growing a Palestinian rap audience. Whether this transformation was a result of purely political motivations or the need to develop new markets for their work is difficult to say.

In content and lyrical device their writing was closely aligned with the established tradition of intifada song. Most notably in politics DAM had begun to write from a position of Palestinian solidarity and calling for an end to the occupation. The ethnic relations between Jewish and Palestinian Israelis soon transitioned into a national engagement of Israel and Palestine. In an interview with an Israeli radio station in 2002 Nafar recounted how he saw no “difference between an Arab terrorist that blows himself up among twenty thirteen-year-olds and a soldier that goes in and shoots them.” He went on to say, “Just because a soldier wears a uniform doesn't make him a terrorist.” “I think they are both terrorists” (emphasis added).[34]

“Min Irhabi?” (Who's the Terrorist?) and the Discourse of Terrorism

Building on this sentiment DAM released its most famous song to date, “Min Irhabi?” (Who's the terrorist?). Coupled with a powerfully edited video by Udi Aloni, “Min Irhabi?” is a scathing critique of the dominant political discourse that reads terrorism as the manifestation of blind Arab anger against the “civilized” world. In it DAM speaks out against the violence of the occupation, the routine assault on innocent lives, and the collective punishment of nearly five million Palestinians living under foreign occupation. Further DAM sets out to reveal the gross inequality in force and consequence brought to bear on the Palestinian people. More to the point, in experiencing the horrors of the occupation both in their daily lives as well as during their intermittent travels to the West Bank, DAM were mobilized to write against the effects of the discourse of terrorism. This discourse had served to create the commonsense perception that Palestinian resistance to Israeli occupation in the territories was manifest “terror” against the “liberated,” “civilized,” “free” world. Israel, taking its cue from the American neoconservative administration, had fashioned itself a humane retaliatory force seeking only to protect itself from “waves of terror” by “extremists.” The various forms of collective punishment leveled against Palestinians in the Occupied Territories in the form of the Israeli “security/apartheid” wall, the networks of checkpoints, routine incursions into Palestinian towns, and forced curfews were legitimized as necessary tools of national security rather than as acts of terror against a civilian population. Terror, in this politicized equation, was defined as only acts of violence directed against civilians by organizations and individuals “hostile to Israel.”[35]

Seeking to interrogate this discourse DAM asks the question, “Who Is the Terrorist?” The video begins with a quotation by former United States attorney general Ramsey Clark. “We've had fifty years of assault on Palestinian rights. I think they are the most terrorized…people on earth, and have been for so many years. Practically every Palestinian lives in constant harassment, threat of violence, humiliation, [and] it's been that way for a long, long time.” Quietly underneath Clark's comments Tamer Nafar is heard opening the song, repeating over and over, “Min irhabi?” Accompanying Nafar, a solo female voice sings a traditional mawwāl immediately before the outset of the sampled beats. As the introduction rises in dynamic level, the initial beat is given and Tamer Nafar sings,

Who's the terrorist? I'm the terrorist?

How can I be the terrorist when I am living in my own homeland?

Who's the terrorist? You're the terrorist.

You've taken everything I own while I am living in my own homeland.

DAM does not appear throughout the video. Rather their disembodied voices narrate a collage of images and video footage of Israeli attacks on Palestinian civilians. Israeli soldiers are shown firing on Palestinian youths. Families, women, and children are held at gunpoint, “terrorized” by faceless Israeli soldiers. Following this the video shows the infamous image of Mohammad al-Durra, hiding behind his father in Gaza, moments before his murder in September 2000. Helicopters are shown firing missiles into Palestinian towns, and bulldozers chew up groves of olive trees and demolish houses, leaving the elderly crying on top of the rubble. Children confronting tanks with rocks in hand are glorified as heroes while other images show protestors running through the streets avoiding arrest and gunfire. One of the longest continuous scenes involves an unarmed Palestinian man being severely beaten by a circle of Israeli soldiers. They take turns with their boots, clubs, and stones, pummeling the young man. At one point a soldier holds out his victim's arm while an accomplice breaks it solidly with a large stone. The images are graphic, and at times difficult to watch. From the background Tamer Nafar angrily sings out.

You're killing us like you killed our ancestors

You want me to go to the law?

What for? You're the witness, the lawyer, and the judge

If you're my judge, I'll be sentenced to death

Your countless raping of the Arab soul has given birth to your child

Named the suicide bomber

And then you call him the terrorist

Later in the song Mahmoud Jrere raps about the Israeli military's approach to the occupation.

I am not against peace, Peace is against me

It wants to destroy me and my heritage

Whoever speaks out, he is silenced and oppressed

And who are you? Just where did you grow up?

Take a look at how many you have killed and orphaned

Our mothers are crying, Our fathers are in anguish

Our land is disappearing, and who are you?

And I'll tell you who you are

You grew up spoiled, we grew up in poverty

Who grew up in freedom? And who grew up in containment?

We fight for our freedom, But you have made that a crime

And you, the terrorist, call me the terrorist

Taken as a whole, the video forms a hodgepodge of images meant to magnify the overall theme that terrorism should be seen in light of the debilitating effects of Israeli terrorism on Palestinian daily life. And in this respect the video is a powerful documentation of Israeli state terror against Palestinian noncombatants. However, the video and the song both fall into a blind counterdiscourse without engaging the substantive issues of the discourse of “terrorism” itself. DAM asks the rhetorical question “Who is the terrorist?” in an attempt to elicit an argumentative space where mutual acts of violence between Israelis and Palestinians are revealed. The very notion of the word terror needs to be revisited so as to include all acts of violence against a civilian population, regardless of technology, tactic, or method. Nafar's earlier comments on the nature of terrorism are further explicated in this song—that to him, there is no difference between a suicide bomber and a uniformed soldier because they both kill indiscriminately. From this ideological position, resistance to Israeli terror is particularly difficult. DAM's opposition against the authority of the Israeli occupation and its methods generates only a superficial reshuffling of the same lexicon of violent acts. It is an argumentative space of content, not of form. Though the video goes far to show Israeli collective punishment of Palestinians, it offers very little space for thinking outside the discourse of “terror.” Rather, it simply attempts to turn the discourse on its head, revealing the brutality of “civilized” Israeli warfare. In avoiding the larger discourse of terror itself, the video leaves intact many of the deeper axioms of power and knowledge which are employed to justify Israeli war crimes against Palestinians under occupation and vice versa.

Aesthetic Transformations from the Local to the National and Beyond

The release of “Min Irhabi?” signaled the culmination of DAM's aesthetic and political transformation from singing about drugs and crime in their local neighborhood, to singing about issues of ethnicity, racism, and discrimination, and finally to singing about Palestinian nationalism and solidarity against the occupation. If at first their primary goals were to succeed in the Israeli mainstream hip-hop scene, sharing the stage with many of Israel's most famous Jewish rappers, by the summer of 2002 DAM had dedicated itself to rapping in front of Palestinian nationalist and transnational cosmopolitan audiences.

The aesthetic and political transformation of DAM's music reflects larger processes of identity formation commonplace among Palestinian Israeli communities. Confronted with the images of the al-Aqsa intifada DAM began to reassess their position as a subordinate minority in the Israeli state and found comfort and inspiration in their Palestinian ancestry. Moreover, through popular music, DAM found social spaces where the fragments of their Israeli and Palestinian identities could be articulated against and within various cultural frames. Ethnic engagement within a discriminatory state, racial discrimination, and daily problems of crime, drugs, and poverty were indexed by African American hip-hop. Refashioning Palestinian nationalist imagery within a contemporary transnational frame offered an alternative to the twenty-year-old intifada cassettes sold on the streets and better represented their cosmopolitan Palestinian Israeli identity. Navigating between conflicting nationalist discourses, DAM found rap to be the most natural form for expressing such feelings.

This performative negotiation across and between nationalist frames brings to the fore the inherent hybridity of Palestinian Israeli lives. In the next chapter I focus specifically on how the poetics of DAM's music intersected with the dominant Palestinian nationalist frame. While traveling with DAM on a brief tour through the West Bank in 2005, I documented the various ways DAM engaged myriad Palestinian audiences. What were the aesthetic moves necessary for DAM to perform in front of a Palestinian audience in the West Bank? How was their music received? And what effect did their Israeli citizenship have for traditional modes of conceptualizing the Palestinian nation?

9

“Carrying Words Like Weapons”

DAM Brings Hip-Hop to the West Bank

Touring the West Bank

During the summer of 2005 DAM embarked on a small tour in the West Bank with promotions at various radio stations and two large formal concerts in Ramallah and Bethlehem. The performances were a rare occurrence for DAM at this time given the potential risks involved in traveling across the Green Line into the West Bank. Israelis, especially Palestinian Israelis, were prohibited from traveling into the West Bank or Gaza without special permits. Carrying blue identity cards, DAM risked long detainment or arrest if they were stopped at any of the Israeli checkpoints. Entering the West Bank is a simple process of walking through unattended turnstiles or finding back roads without checkpoints. It is when trying to leave the West Bank that credentials must be presented, bags searched, and questions asked. The fear of being arrested convinced the group to take back roads through the Jordan valley to get from Ramallah to Bethlehem. The circuitous route extended the drive to well over two hours, whereas the actual distance between the two cities is only about twenty kilometers (about twelve miles). Even on these back roads, however, DAM risked driving into an occasional “floating” or mobile checkpoint.

I was extremely interested in documenting these concerts as they represented a compelling opportunity to observe how youth in the West Bank might receive a group of Palestinian Israelis performing an African American popular music in support of the intifada. Previous fieldwork in Ramallah and Bethlehem had shown that American popular culture was widely viewed as destructive to Palestinian society and its nationalist aspirations during the initial years of the second intifada. American popular music, while freely available on the Internet, rarely made an appearance in the mainstream public sphere. Street-side kiosks in these two cities carried little American popular music, and of these, few if any rap titles. Even in the widely cosmopolitan city of Ramallah, American media (music, books, and movies) were far less visible than in other Arab cities like Amman or Beirut.

In speaking to young people on the street it was difficult to find anyone who was familiar with rap. Those who knew something were of the general impression that it was low-class “black” music, without aesthetic value or meaning. Professional musicians in Ramallah active in the uprising had an even stronger reaction. Many of these musicians were disturbed and even angered by the idea of Palestinians singing an American popular music. “Those musicians are simply bitāmrāk (Americanized) and bityūhid (Judaized).” Some went so far as to deny the rap artists' Palestinian identity all together. A prominent folklorist and performer of indigenous wedding song stated, “These are not real Palestinians. Where is their identity? Where is their loyalty to their own people?” Another musician stated, “I understand that they want to help us, but why can't they do it in their own kind of music?”[1] A director of an established music ensemble and self-proclaimed expert in Palestinian culture, history, and folklore went so far as to deny that there were any Palestinians in Lyd at all. “All of the Palestinians from Lyd were driven out in ’48; if there are any Arabs in Lyd they are just Bedouin who moved into the empty houses. These young guys are most likely just Bedouin trying to pose as Palestinians.”

The most outlandish and incendiary comments were made by a prominent Palestinian folklorist who believed that “Lyd was only populated with collaborators from the West Bank who had asked to be given Israeli citizenship.” The overt message implied here was that these musicians were descendants of traitors to their own people. But the unstated message was one of intense anxiety that these young Palestinian musicians were performing a style of music associated with the United States. I was amazed at how strongly people reacted to my explanations of DAM's music. Even when couched in terms of resistance to the occupation and an end to Israeli racism against Palestinians, many musicians by and large were unable to see any similarities between “our music,” from the established tradition of Palestinian folklore, and “their music” blindly imitating the Western (that is, American/Israeli) world. If these initial reactions were any indication, the performances promised to be significant points of engagement between contrasting aesthetic and ideational frames.

On several occasions I confronted Tamer, Suheil, and Mahmoud about these comments and was dismissed each time. I asked, “What will you do differently in performing before a Palestinian audience that has never been exposed to rap and that additionally may not look favorably on Palestinians of ’48?” Their answers were simple. “We are all Palestinians suffering from the same enemy, but in different ways. If there are people there who have a problem with us, it is their problem, not ours” (see figure 9.1).

On another level this tour offered a significant opportunity to document the different ways DAM approached various Palestinian audiences in performance. I had ample data concerning DAM's performances for largely Jewish audiences in Israel and was especially fascinated to see what types of code switching would be employed between the two discursive fields. In language, dress, behavior, lyrics, and gesture, would DAM perform any differently for Palestinians than for Jews? More than simply a matter of performance, how would DAM navigate a different aesthetic field in Ramallah? Could they convince a Palestinian audience in the heart of the West Bank that they really were “brothers suffering from the same enemy, but in different ways?” Would the style of music impede the message? Hip-hop culture had taken root in the more cosmopolitan Israeli popular music scene in the late 1990s. And in fact, there had been a small number of Palestinian attempts at hip-hop by groups like Sabreen. However, in Ramallah, hip-hop culture, its styles of dress, dance, posture, declamation, and performative interaction, remained relatively unknown. Could the crowd see beyond the XXXL clothing and basketball high-tops to even hear the message of the music?

On the night of DAM's first performance I approached the Kasaba Theatre in Ramallah one hour prior to the concert. My heart leapt as I saw perhaps one hundred teenagers standing outside trying unsuccessfully to get tickets. The concert had been sold out (see figure 9.2), and there were crowds waiting around the block trying to get tickets any way they could. More and more people kept showing up. I paused in amazement only to realize that I had yet to buy a ticket. I never would have guessed so many people would show up. I stood outside the theater amongst the crowd planning my next move. In desperation I quickly made a phone call backstage. Tamer answered, in his customary urban American accent, “Wassup?”

“Tamer, the concert is sold out, and I can't get tickets,” I explained.

“Sold out? How many people are out there?” he asked.

“There are at least a couple hundred waiting to get in, and another hundred or so still looking for tickets.” Based on previous concerts I knew the theater's capacity to be between two and three hundred. Flyers placed on the doors of the building warned that the concert had sold out earlier in the morning but said that there would be another show the following night in Bethlehem. For these young fans, however, the following night's concert might as well have been in South Africa, given the severe hardships for Ramallah residents to travel outside the city at night.

“Don't worry, you'll be onstage with us,” Tamer said reassuringly.

Standing outside the theater I asked several bystanders what their impressions were of the group and of rap music in general. Most weren't familiar with either but had seen advertisements for the group and wanted to check them out. Others knew of the political nature of the music and were expecting an intifada concert or rally. One teenager told me that he expected to hear the group sing famous intifada songs. Others thought that it was going to be a dance concert. Concert attendees were mixed equally between young men and women, wearing the typical Palestinian fashions of kufīya, flags, and t-shirts with political or nationalist pictures and messages. Whether it was the politics or the spectacle of seeing Palestinians from Israel rap, in talking with groups of attendees it was clear that there was a general feeling of curiosity in the crowd.

True to his word, within twenty minutes Tamer had me escorted backstage, where DAM was giving an interview with a local newspaper and posing for photographs with a young twelve-year-old Palestinian American girl and her father. The mood was light, but I could tell that the group was a bit nervous to be performing in Ramallah. Once the doors were opened I found a seat in the third row and waited for the concert to begin.

As the music started most in the crowd sat silently, not quite knowing how to react. In the back of the theater a large group of shabāb (youth) began to chant the usual Palestinian political slogan ubiquitous to any political rally or concert. Birū, bidam, nafdīk yā Arafāt! (By spirit, by blood, we will sacrifice ourselves for Arafat!).[2] For any Palestinian political concert or rally this would be a perfectly acceptable and even expected form of interaction. For Tamer, Suheil, and Mahmoud, however, this style of chanting was more of an annoyance. It suggested that this was a political rally or a formal protest instead of a rap concert. Knowing DAM's overall distaste for politicians and their empty rhetoric of struggle and resistance, I was interested to see how they would react. Using the microphone as a makeshift baton, Tamer mockingly conducted the chanting until it ceased after no more than three or four repetitions. Then he took the microphone and calmly asked, Khalast? Kaffī? ayyab Yahalla! (Is that it? Are you all finished? Great, let's go!).

Tamer's response to the chanting was a perfect way of setting the stage for the performance that was to follow. It made allowances for the ubiquitous rhetoric that accompanies any formal political gathering, but also showed the audience that this was something different. The objective was not to champion or denigrate a political figure or ideology. This was a concert. More importantly this was a rap concert with its own sets of phrases, slogans, practices, and poetics. Tamer was able to take control of the concert without confronting the shabāb outright. Had he tried to sing over them, or to stop them altogether, he would have opened himself up to criticism for being against Arafat. This would have been considered distasteful in Ramallah, so closely following the leader's death. If he had encouraged the shabāb, he would have lost control of the concert and been competing with these chants for the rest of the evening. Because Tamer allowed for the chanting, but then quickly moved forward with his own program, the shabāb did not attempt another interruption the rest of the night.

DAM's first song was a recently composed track used to introduce the rappers and to invigorate the crowd through responsorial singing. In the choruses DAM introduced the type of music they were singing as well as themselves through posturing and self-praise. Then in the refrains DAM encouraged the audience to shout out “Ramallah!” between lines. This technique successfully introduced the crowd to the group and achieved a sense of communal interaction between performers and audience. It allowed the audience to powerfully shout out their pride in their city while also giving the impression that this song had been specially written for them.

I said where you at? [Response:] Ramallah!

Where we going? Ramallah!

Who you with? Ramallah!

With each question the crowd shouted back instinctively “Ramallah!” In much the same way that rock musicians reconfigure the lyrics of some of their songs to recognize the city in which they are performing, DAM brought these Ramallah teenagers, their local identity, and their sense of community into the show. The crowd loved it. The end of the first track brought with it thunderous applause. On a different level, however, “Ramallah” called to mind the well-known dabke song “Wayn? al-Ramallah” (Where are you going? To Ramallah). Palestinian wedding ensembles and folkloric dance troupes throughout the region very frequently include this particular folk song in their repertory. What is more, virtually every Palestinian wedding celebration includes this song as part of its dabke. When asked about this reference Tamer Nafar stated, “We know that song, I mean everyone knows that song, so while we weren't trying to reference it directly, we did want to do something that got everyone singing with us.” For the teens in attendance, however, hearing DAM create a rap song with a chorus similar to that of a well-known folk song was indeed striking. Musically the songs have little in common. Yet the similar beat patterns and repeated phrases caused a group of shabāb to try to form a small dabke line in the back of the theater. They were quickly rebuffed, however, by theater ushers who did not want the crowd to leave their seats.

The second track was also participatory, but with a different theme. Here DAM got the crowd involved by having them shout out the word “Rāb!” (Rap!) between each line.[3] At each chorus DAM would call out, “Arabī!” to which the crowd would reply, “Rāb!” This exchange, “Arabī…Rāb!” (Arab…Rap!) continued for several choruses. The collective singing served to conflate the two terms and the clusters of ideas that informed them. One of the main goals of this concert was to bring rap to a wider audience: to sell a new style of Arab music influenced by foreign sources. DAM's refashioning of African American rap within a Palestinian nationalist frame was largely unknown to this West Bank audience. For these teens Arabic rap was a refashioned style of Palestinian protest song in text, metaphor, and imagery, yet drawn from foreign sources. By uniting these two terms in participatory responsorial singing, DAM prompted the crowd to repeat over and over again the name for the style of music they were hearing. Through reiteration they naturalized the idea of rap as an Arab style, and Arabic as a rap style. The song served as a basic primer of terms and phrases, teaching the crowd what rap is and how it might be thought of as something Arab.

Hawīya, Hegemony, and Performative Rituals of Subordination

If the first song pulled the crowd into the performance by signifying their local Ramallah identities, and the second song was an attempt to sell a new style of Arabic rap to an uninitiated and unfamiliar crowd, the third song was DAM's attempt to sell themselves. Speaking between numbers, Tamer opened his wallet and drew out his blue Israeli identity card, holding it above his head. “Does anyone know what this is?” he questioned. In a collective sigh of disgust and acknowledgment the crowd replied loudly with screams and hollers. Some even drew out their own green Israeli identity cards in response. The card, or biāqa al-hawīya (identity card), is one of the most hated and vilified manifestations of the occupation for Palestinians in the West Bank. It is both a manifestation of the subordinate position of Palestinians to occupying soldiers, who at any moment may demand to see their “identity card,” and additionally it marks the single strongest measure of the Israeli state to divide Palestinians into different political and geographic entities.

Based on the color of their hawīya, and the information contained therein, Palestinians may or may not pass through various checkpoints or gates in the “security/apartheid” barrier. For example, at the time of this performance Jerusalemite Palestinians could pass through the Qalan-diya checkpoint freely (both ways but not into Israel), while Ramallah Palestinians could not; Nablusi Palestinians could enter Ramallah but not exit into Jerusalem; Palestinian Israelis could enter Jerusalem but not the West Bank; Palestinian refugees in the camps were rarely, if ever, permitted to leave their neighborhoods; and very few Palestinians were ever allowed into the camps unless they were registered residents. These boundaries and borders were never fixed and routinely shifted according to local politics, times of the year (or day), and the ad hoc decisions by the Israeli army administration (or guards currently on duty). Thus at each instance when the hawīya is demanded, the holder rarely knows if he or she is in accordance with or in violation of the “law.” Moreover, just as Palestinians crossing checkpoints may not know the current laws, so, too, the Israeli soldiers policing the checkpoints themselves often do not know the current restrictions and must spend long periods of time calling company commanders for instructions.

The act of pulling out one's identity card is a moment of severe distress and fear in daily Palestinian life under occupation, for there is a very real possibility of arrest, detainment, questioning, and/or routine harassment each and every time it is demanded. It marks the most fundamental engagement between Palestinians and the occupying forces (that is, the Israeli state) and is both hated for its presence, yet envied by those who seek greater freedom of movement equal to some “other” Palestinians. In all cases it marks one of the most powerful and effectual means instituted by the Israeli state to coerce Palestinians into thinking of themselves as a fractured subordinate community with differing rights and privileges.[4]

In this performance Tamer Nafar used his hawīya as a way of bridging perceived differences between Palestinians of ’48 and Palestinians in the territories. He explained it to the audience: “Does everyone see this identity card? We are Palestinians from Lyd. There are over a million ’48s [Palestinians living in Israel]. Together we suffer as one nation, one people, and one land, Palestine.” In pulling out his identity card Tamer was making a powerful statement. He was revealing himself to the audience as a Palestinian who must navigate the same restrictive structures of racism and difference as those affecting his audience. The measures of separation and forced exile were revealed to extend beyond the Green Line (West Bank) and into the heart of ’48 (Israel). Though Tamer Nafar travels with an Israeli passport, speaks fluent Hebrew, has the right to participate in national elections, and was raised attending Israeli schools, he is bound to his hawīya in the same ways as his audience. He must present his hawīya at any moment, any time, to any soldier or policeman who demands it.[5] His hawīya is at times a curse. But at this moment it was his link to the collective experiences of his audience. For those in attendance, seeing Tamer's hawīya brought forth powerful indices of their own experiences dealing with the occupation. Such experiences served to link the audience together within a shared construct of state subordination. It seems that symbolic discourse simply could not convey the necessary meanings to connect these two groups in quite the same way. The performative gesture of pulling out the identity card, as well as the signification of the identity card itself, was a powerful performative of Palestinian experiences of subordination to the Israeli state.

Immediately upon seeing the card the crowd seemed to come alive. Kānū Zaynā (They're like us) was the response I heard from the crowd of teenaged girls sitting in the row in front of me. At this point, DAM launched into their next song with the crowd cheering enthusiastically, many waving their hawīya high over their heads.

This was a powerful moment in the performance where the ice was broken between performers and audience. If there were questions as to the national loyalties of the performers and their experiences as “real” Palestinians, they were quickly answered. In terms of the many ways music and musical performance have been used to express feelings of nation and community, this gesture is worthy of further reflection, for it has been shown that in various contexts, times, and places, the struggle for Palestinian self-determination has been the principal discursive field through which the nation has been imagined and articulated. To be Palestinian, whether living in Jordan, Israel, or the Occupied Territories, of differing social formations, is to be engaged in this struggle. Collective suffering at the hands of Israeli authorities accorded DAM entrée into the West Bank national imaginary and bonded the two national constructs together.

On another level this gesture reflects many of the processes by which power may structure the subjectivities of subordinate groups. As individuals are confronted with infinite signs that substantiate or enforce the dominant order, subordinate groups become both the subjects of power as well as subjected by power. In other words, subordinates learn to self-identify by their inferior position within the dominant social order. Michel Foucault, for example, wrote very convincingly about the processes by which the subject is constituted from within power/knowledge structures. Especially in his later works detailing what he calls the “technologies of the self,” Foucault was interested in mapping out how subjects fashion themselves in relation to received structures of knowledge and power.[6] For Foucault power is analogous to a “web” of relations within which individuals circulate. Power is never localized in any one place or idea. Rather it is employed through various discourses or “regimes of knowledge.”[7] Indeed “there can be no possible exercise of power without a certain economy of discourses of truth which operate through and on the basis of this association.”[8] Each society creates for itself a specific regime of knowledge that structures the relations between dominant and subordinate as well as its myriad mechanisms for subjugation. Caught up in these webs, individuals “are always in the position of simultaneously undergoing and exercising this power.”[9] Foucault believed that the individual then becomes both constituted by these regimes of knowledge and is the primary means or vehicle for its transmission.

One of the more obvious methods for policing the Israeli social order, and the subordinate position of Palestinians within that order, is the issuing of state identity cards. Here the definition of the individual is itself a performative act of power in its most capillary form. Palestinians are defined in relation to the state based on the information recorded on their hawīya. This is but one technique of subjugation within which Palestinians circulate and in the process become constituted by these relationships and interactions. As Palestinians have come to identify themselves based on these relationships and interactions they police the dominant social order themselves in daily performances and rituals. The constant act of pulling out one's hawīya, in its performative reiteration, gives materiality to the dominant order and serves as a primary identification process through which the codes of Palestinian subordination are transmitted and reified.

The power of hawīya, both in the literal and figurative sense, was not lost on the crowds attending this particular DAM concert. In this performance environment the dominant social order, as represented by these cards, was thrown into relief against the imposed conceptions of the Palestinian nation as fragmented and disjointed. Tamer Nafar and his companions found a particularly ironic way through the dominant power structure. They took one of its most potent indexical triggers, their hawīya, and turned the order on its head by using the identity cards as a tool for inclusion rather than exclusion. For them the performative submission of identifying oneself based on hawīya became the staging point for shared experience and collective identity formation. The effect of hawīya in this moment was to bring these Palestinians together, rather than drive them apart.

This exchange between DAM and their audience also illustrates an important point concerning the nature of power and resistance. From Foucault we see that power often reveals itself to be constitutive both of social relations between groups and of subjectivity itself. “The individual [and the relations between individuals] is the prime effect of power and at the same time…the element of its articulation.”[10] But in creating subject positions antithetical to the dominant order, regimes of knowledge create their own resistance. Power structures at all times are engaged and negotiated through modes of resistance. Such resistance often takes shape in the form of subjects constituted within its web. Palestinians navigating networks of social control and occupation are at all times positioned outside the dominant social order. Their subordinate status guarantees resistance to that social order in the very act of submission.

In a famous poem by Mahmoud Darwish titled “Bitaqa Hawiya” (Identity card), also known colloquially as “Isajjal Ana Arab” (Record that I am an Arab), the author writes forcefully of this same process of being constructed and subjected as inferior through identification papers, as well as of the Palestinian resistance to this construction. The poem is especially poignant in showing how structures of domination inherently construct subordinate, resistive identities in opposition. Here, as in the concert above, the shared experiences of those who must carry the Israeli identity card offer common ground for collective identity formation.

Record! I am an Arab

And my identity card is number fifty thousand

I have eight children

And the ninth is coming after a summer

Will you be angry?

Record on the top of the first page:

I do not hate people Nor do I encroach

But if I become hungry

The usurper's flesh will be my food

Beware, beware, of my hunger and my anger![11]

In this poem Darwish writes of the engagement between himself and the occupying Israeli soldier. The poem takes place within the pensive moments of exchange between the occupier and the occupied. However in this instance Darwish takes the opportunity to supplement the inadequate information on his identity card with aspects of his life and history. His Israeli-fashioned identity insufficiently captures his personal conceptions of self and nation. He demands that the soldier record his family, his history, his children, his hunger and anger. He demands to be made known, to be understood, even to exist as more than a number ascribed by a faceless state bureaucracy.

Darwish's 1964 classic poem has been the source of several different intifada songs, most notably by Ahmad Qabour in the early 1980s. However, within the repertory of shared Palestinian resistance literature, this poem ranks as perhaps one of the best known of all time. Based on the history of this literature, as well as the continued discourse of hawīya, it is little wonder that Tamer Nafar's hawīya had such a powerful effect on his audience.

Break Dancing in Basements, Rapping in Ramallah

Later in the program a group of young boys came up to the stage and motioned over to Tamer Nafar. They spoke briefly into his ear, and a moment later Nafar took the microphone from his brother and addressed the audience. “It seems there is a break-dancing group here in the audience tonight, and they would like to come up onstage and dance for you while we sing the next song.” The crowd clapped excitedly for the teens to take the stage. Tamer looked inquisitively down at the youngsters, no more than fourteen years old, and asked, “So what is the name of your group?”

“We have never danced outside of our basement so we don't really have a name,” was the response offered by the most courageous of the three boys.

“Well, you must have a name,” Tamer commanded.

“We're the ‘Break-Dancing Club’” (Nādī al-Braykdānz). It was the only name the young boy could think of on such short notice standing in front of 250 people.

Laughing at the situation Tamer brought all three boys up onstage to thunderous applause. “Please welcome…the Break-Dancing Club!” As the music started the three boys gathered into a semi-circle and began throwing themselves into extremely difficult combinations of b-boy moves they had never before attempted in public (see figure 9.3). Their private fascination with hip-hop and its associated dance forms had yet to be seen outside of their parents' homes. And here in front of a live rap crew, these boys saw their opportunity to actualize an aspect of their own musical identities in public. This was a rare opportunity in which their love of hip-hop could be articulated as natural to their surroundings. Sharing the stage with three Palestinian rappers, in front of a supportive Palestinian crowd, their love of break dancing, baggy clothes, and spiked hair was momentarily normal, acceptable, and even supported.

To say that the crowd was enthusiastic would be an understatement. With each twisting flip or spin, drawing shouts of praise and amazement, the crowd realized that hip-hop was not as foreign an art form as they had once imagined. To the contrary, they were watching a group of young kids from their own community dancing onstage to the music in a style-appropriate way. These teens were a part of the rap scene from inside Ramallah's walls, wearing its clothes, and learning its style. The last song, “Min Irhabi?” (Who's the terrorist?), brought much of the crowd to its feet. Twenty to thirty young teens rushed up to the stage and danced alongside the three performers as DAM sang their most famous hit. By the last chorus the entire crowd was singing along:

Who's the terrorist? I'm the terrorist?

How can I be the terrorist when I am living in my own homeland?

Who's the terrorist? You're the terrorist.

You've taken everything I own while I am living in my own homeland.

After the concert had ended throngs of young teens flooded the stage to get autographs and pictures with DAM. Many were still singing the lyrics to each other as they circulated around the theater. An hour later, after the crowd had finally dissipated, DAM began to make its way out of the theater. By and large they were happy with the performance. There were the usual problems with the monitors and the mix, but on the whole they felt that the concert went as well as could be expected. However for DAM it was the “Break-Dancing Club” who stole the show. “Can you believe those guys have been listening to our music and learning to dance in their houses?” Suheil exclaimed in disbelief. “There are six hundred million Arabs, we're going to reach every one of them.” The whole situation only bolstered Tamer Nafar's long-held view that rap was the next “big thing” to happen to the Arab world and that DAM was going to be a pioneer of the movement. Listening to Suheil's optimism I was reminded of what his older brother had told me weeks earlier during an interview in Israel.

DM: You want to reach the whole Arab world, but hip-hop isn't all that big yet in Syria and Jordan. What will the future of rap be in the Arab world?

TN: After our album is released, it will happen. I am sure. I know. You can check the charts…. I can predict the revolution of hip-hop. Check out the beat. [Tamer plays a track from the newest dance CD to come out of Egypt.] It is black music. It is R and B…. It is coming, man. It is coming. We just have to give the right name for it. The kid is here [the baby is born]; we just have to name it.

Later that week after DAM had finished its last performance on this small West Bank tour, I noticed Tamer removing a large four-square-meter promotional poster from the foyer of the Peace Center in Bethlehem. The large poster pictured the three young rappers together in a prototypical posture of power idiomatic of much of hip-hop culture. Carefully placing the poster on the floor, rolling it up as a final souvenir, I asked Tamer quite pointedly if he was going to hang it next to the large poster of Tupac Shakur already hanging on his bedroom wall.

“Maybe I'll take ‘Pac down and hang this one in its place,” Tamer answered.

Given their early successes, their determination, drive, and commitment to spreading hip-hop among a new generation of Palestinian youth, who knows? Maybe they just might “take ‘Pac down” and hang in his place.

Moving Forward, Moving On

Over the last twelve years DAM has found its way into the Israeli, Palestinian, and international mediascapes via new forms of technology and informal channels of consumption and distribution. Their ability to enter into different musical markets is directly attributable to new media, Internet sites, bootleg recordings, concerts, and videos. However, their access to these various arenas has been predicated on their facility to navigate several different sociopolitical discourses. First among these is DAM's ability to express their message in Arabic, Hebrew, and English, drawing on common vernacular phrases, slang, obscenities, and references indigenous to each cultural frame. In three languages they index the interstices of at least three aesthetic communities in highly idiomatic ways. Traversing between and across these modalities DAM has attracted a diverse following of Israeli Jews, Palestinians, and transnational solidarity hip-hop fans throughout the world. Language is the primary means through which this has been accomplished and hence represents the most fundamental way DAM has sought to communicate its message.

Tamer Nafar explains, “If I look out into the audience and see one Jew, I will rap in Hebrew. I do this because Jews are not my audience; they are my target. And if I rap to them in Hebrew they have to listen. They can't dismiss me; even if they don't like what I am saying, they have to listen to my message.” It would seem that the same holds for their work in Arabic and English as well. Shifting dialect and accent, DAM repositions itself into specifically Palestinian frames, often urban but also rural. Likewise, before a transnational audience of solidarity activists and journalists, English provides a gateway for telling their story and for drawing economic opportunity and international attention to their cause. At a 2009 concert in Richmond, Indiana, DAM opened with a recently composed song, “Letters,” where the Arabic alphabet is introduced in rap to a non-native speaking audience. Opening the song Tamer explained, “I learned English through hip-hop, and now you are all going to learn some Arabic through hip-hop.” In each case, their idiomatic usage operates to more fully express their message as well as to shape its potential reception. As Nafar often says, one must “carry words like weapons.”

The message being conveyed changes considerably depending on the context of its performance. In the early years, when Israeli shows for a Jewish audience were the norm, the message was one of ethnic engagement within the Israeli state, an end to discrimination against Israel's Palestinian citizens. These performances, largely in Hebrew, featured a much more cosmopolitan aesthetic, exploiting references to urban African American ghetto life and minority empowerment. For an audience already familiar with rap and African American cultural forms and identities, DAM's approach was to align preconceptions of urban America with the Palestinian condition in Israel. In form and content, DAM identified itself as the “Gangstas of Israel”—soldiers for the same noble causes as famous African American rappers. By enacting a well-known discourse of ethnic empowerment, DAM sought to exploit the similarities between the American civil rights movement and the current struggles of Palestinians in Israel. For Nafar there was no difference between the American slums of New York and his own neighborhood in Lyd.

As the second intifada intensified, the political context changed such that performances for Jewish-only crowds became rare. As a result of changing politics as well as the need to find new markets for their work, DAM's message shifted to the larger struggle for self-determination and an end to the occupation. The Ramallah concert outlined above was illustrative of how DAM attempted to develop a new hip-hop community by drawing on the canonical signs of Palestinian nationalism. Most important of these were shared experiences of domination and forced subjectivity through the use of identity cards and other restrictions of movement. Lyrically these songs employed the formulaic repertory of intifada song made famous in the early 1970s and 1980s, couched in a transnational hip-hop aesthetic. Onstage DAM strived to link their current explorations in rap with the long-established tradition of Palestinian protest song. Samples of famous intifada poetry and folk song, along with strategic inflections of accent, served as the sonic foundation from which DAM constructed its rhymes. Nizar Qabani, Ahmad Qabour, and Mahmoud Darwish (famous intifada poets and singers) were all cited in the performance through lyric or musical quotation. DAM and its modality of performance were packaged as a new direction in Palestinian nationalist music worthy of the same respect as the folk singers of the past, albeit in fundamentally different ways. More importantly DAM hoped to sell themselves as Palestinians struggling alongside those under occupation, to sell that they were all “suffering from the same enemy, only in different ways.”

In these early performances DAM matured and developed by strategically aligning itself within the nationalist trajectories of both Israeli Jewish and Palestinian communities. Yet at the same time, in refashioning popular conceptions of Palestinian suffering and seeking dialogue with the Israeli mainstream, DAM confounded nationalistic dogma. Their use of highly stylized Hebrew slang made a play for the incorporation of Palestinians into the Israeli state imaginary. Their music, interviews, and activism revealed to Israeli Jews how their native language (Hebrew) might be appropriated and refashioned into an ideological weapon against Jewish ethnocracy. Such a move serves to betray the Jewish national discourse of homogeneity and difference from the “outside” Arab world. Rather DAM, in their early career, reiterated through performance that Palestinians are in fact an internal constitutive element of the Israeli state.

During these initial formative years, DAM presented challenges to the established Palestinian nationalist discourse as well. In language, culture, and politics, Palestinian Israelis typically run counter to the long-held view that Palestinians are united in their struggle against the “Zionist enemy.” Their appropriation of an American musical style of performance further frustrated the timeless, primordial aesthetics of Palestinian folklore. Rather their music is a product of the here and now, thrown into relief by the employment of new media in the production and distribution of their work. Strategically essentialized notions of national identity have largely dominated the history of Palestinian protest song. In style and aesthetics DAM opened up new spaces for seeing and hearing Palestinian music in concert with the transnational (that is, Western cosmopolitan) world. Along with this, DAM has proven that their fluency in Israeli society has not diminished their capacity to speak, think, and feel as part of the Palestinian nation. Perhaps the single greatest fear of Palestinian musicians working in Jordan and the West Bank is that the eventual normalization of relations with the Israeli state will precipitate the loss of their national aspirations for self-determination. DAM has shown that despite their “normalized” interactions with Israel, they are indeed still very much a part of the movement to end the occupation.

With the construction of the Israeli “apartheid/security” wall and the further restrictions of movement placed on Palestinians under occupation, the “interiorization of social life” has had tangible effects on Palestinian cultural practices.[12] Without access to indigenous community spheres, concerts, and festivals, families have been forced indoors—reliant on media for access to the outside world. In this way, the Internet, movies, popular music, and other culture have largely filled the void of indigenous social practices (weddings, markets, cafes, public performances, political gatherings, and so on). The result has been an increase in the consumption of transnational popular media. The growing popularity of hip-hop is but one example of this process. New media and new technologies have served to relieve much of the spatial incarceration Palestinians have been forced to endure. Alternative transnational communities reflected in hip-hop, break-dancing clubs, chat rooms, blogs, and the like have surfaced as a direct result of the “interiorization” of social life. These new communities of style and practice have had a profound influence on the various ways that Palestinian nationalism has been performed and articulated in the public sphere. The penetration of DAM's music into different Israeli, Palestinian, and international musical arenas speaks to the artists' capacity to navigate many of these national and transnational communities. Yet the modality through which they have gained entrance to these arenas illustrates the discursive fluidity of popular music and culture more generally. Manipulating lyrical content and musical device is not the only means by which DAM engages different cultural audiences. Their use of a transnational popular music repositions them in a different theater of meaning less constrained by conventional Israeli/Palestinian conceptions of race, religion, and nation.

In the years since these early concerts, the Palestinian hip-hop scene has developed and expanded in fascinating ways. What was once a very strange, and at times threatening, form of protest song has now become the mainstream. Through sustained international media attention, tours, and a series of successful documentaries, DAM has, for better or worse, come to define Palestinian music in the twenty-first century. Buttressed by a new wave of Palestinian hip-hop artists from across the West Bank, Gaza Strip, Israel, and the near and far diaspora, hip-hop has now become one of the dominant forms of political song among Palestinians and international audiences. If their first audiences were Israeli Jews, and later Palestinians in the West Bank and near diaspora, by 2008 the group had begun performing almost exclusively before international audiences of solidarity activists in Europe and North America. In front of these audiences DAM does little to acknowledge the relationality of their Israeli citizenship. They present themselves, and are presented by international media, simply as dispossessed Palestinians, despite the fact that their many tours throughout Europe and North America are made possible only because of their Israeli passports and the support of organizations unwilling or unable to work with artists in the West Bank. In many ways such a strategic move allows for greater economic opportunity, as requests to perform and speak on college campuses across North America steadily increase. Yet at the same time, other lesser-known hip-hop artists from Gaza, Jenin, and Ramallah have struggled mightily to be seen (and heard) outside the literal and figurative walls of the occupation.[13] In terms of logistics and funding it is far easier for international aid organizations, NGOs, and colleges and universities to work with ’48s (Israeli citizens), rather than attempt to procure the necessary permissions for artists to leave the West Bank and Gaza Strip. What is more, new guidelines stipulate that any United States government–funded or –affiliated institution must require Palestinian artists (from Gaza and the West Bank) to sign a formal declaration “denouncing Palestinian terror” in order to receive funds. Given that Israelis are not required to do the same, many Palestinian artists find it politically problematic and refuse to accept funding from the United States government.

However, inasmuch as the Israeli-Palestinian conflict has brought these young artists to the international stage and the pages of Rolling Stone, in many ways it has also overdetermined their public personae as artists. Hyped as the “soundtrack of Palestinian resistance” by international media looking for a “hook” with which to engage the conflict, DAM has struggled to break free of the expectations of “resistance.” As they move forward with their careers, DAM has stated publicly their desire “to move beyond the political hype, to be musicians known for their beats and verses, not their politics.”[14] Pushing back against these expectations, DAM has asserted the need to branch out, to be able to sing about love, to be accepted as mainstream, commercial artists. Their newest album, provisionally titled Dabke on the Moon, takes dramatic steps in this direction. Released in December of 2012, this new album is described by Tamer Nafar as adopting a “more human angle” of “telling stories” and “playing characters.” It is an attempt to move “above ground,” to position the group within the larger marketplace of Arab popular music. Only time will tell if this new venture can transcend DAM's political image, an image that they previously worked so diligently to create and manipulate on the international stage.

Epilogue

Like so many of the artists chronicled in this book, DAM offers a fascinating case study in the myriad, and at times conflicting, ways that Palestinians experience and articulate their dispossession through music. Similar to Nuh Ibrahim, Julia Butrous, Abu Arab, Sabreen, Kamal Khalil, and a host of others, DAM have developed their own performative moves through which to access the Palestinian national imaginary and to present their unique chapter of the Palestinian story. Throughout this book it has been my goal to explore several of these chapters as a means of better understanding how national identities are constructed and reproduced by social actors. But more importantly my interests lay in uncovering how belonging is fostered, structured, and articulated through performance. In each of these chapters what becomes apparent is the varying ways that concepts like nation, resistance, and identity come to take on new meanings. Each of the artists in this book employed music as a fundamental tool for fashioning Palestinian identity and validating national claims of self-determination. However, as exhibited in the songs discussed above, what it means to be Palestinian and what it means to fight for its recognition are locally defined, contingent, and born of unique structures of power, experience, and consequence.

In addition the many aesthetic fractures and cleavages between repertories of Palestinian protest song offer a unique opportunity for thinking critically about the nature of Palestinian nationalism, identity, and resistance. Here it is essential to point out how national aspirations are contested internally (among myriad Palestinian communities), and are yet to be fully recognized externally (among the international community of nation-states). The very act of identification as Palestinian, therefore, becomes a political act within a discursive space that does not fully recognize “Palestine.” Because of this, the ongoing project of legitimating Palestinian claims to self-determination becomes an overdetermining coefficient in matters of national identity. This is especially true in artistic realms where musicians are under great pressure to perform first and foremost in the service of the nation.

In all these case studies, music is a portal through which actors and institutions appropriate cultural signs into the national imaginary, actively contouring perceptions of the past in the service of the politics of the present. Palestinian national identities are performed, embodied by social actors who collectively remember the past through a lens shaped by the ruptures of dispossession and dislocation. Inherent in these performances are the interventions of social actors, navigating deep-seated structures of feeling and consequence. Interpreting the scripts of these performances, seeking to understand the local power dynamics that inform these ruptured interventions, exposes the performativity of the nation and the poetics of resistance. These performances of belonging, of identification, are not purely submissive acts of a victimized people. Nor do they constitute the essentialized “voices of the primordial masses,” collectively struggling against foreign occupation. Rather the myriad performative acts of identification and belonging discussed in the case studies underscore the varying topography of Palestinian history and experience and further reveal the potentialities for music performance to destabilize or resignify deep-seated power relations. These music performances are a means of intervention, of subversion, of agency, that enables new (or consolidates old) meanings of self and other. This intervention is not one of power, per se, but one of perception. For within each moment of performance lies the opportunity to resignify what it means to be Palestinian and what it means to fight for Palestine's recognition. As Ernesto Laclau and Lillian Zac assert in their discussion on the crafting of political identities, “Identification is not purely a submissive act on the part of the subject, who would passively incorporate all the determinations of the object.” “The act of identification, on the contrary, destabilizes the identity of the object.”[1] Through the act of identification, through its performativity, “Palestine” is subject to reimagining, change, and development.

It is in matters of resistance, power, and subjectivity that this process becomes particularly important. A central focus of this book has been to understand the “poetics of resistance,” the performative processes through which “resistance” takes on meaning in the lives of Palestinians differentially exposed to the traumas of exile. Both in its salience as well as its embodiment in the somatic landscape, resistance, through performance, begins to matter.[2] It takes shape. It structures bodies, spaces, places and the relations between them. Over time collectively understood notions of resistance become sedimented into daily practice. They become commonsensical, unquestioned, even cliché. In the hands of political operatives arguing for territorial recognition and a primordial relationship to the land, “resistance” becomes part of a larger discourse of emancipatory politics that overdetermines meanings, obfuscates the local, and presents several challenges to understanding power dynamics. This emancipatory politics can be read in the pages of scholarly books and journals as well as on the graffiti-covered walls of Jenin. In each of these contexts “resistance,” as it is casually employed, presumes an essentialized Palestinian identity, sacrificing local experience for an accommodation of difference. It becomes a discursive tool for building perceptual solidarity around a common cause by strategically essentializing a diverse field of history and experience. For the ethnographer seeking to uncover the “essence” of Palestinian identity the concept cuts both ways, stabilizing meaning while at the same time problematizing representation.

I began this book with an ethnographic introduction to three contrasting voices for Palestinian self-determination, those of an activist (Kamal Khalil), an artist (Tamer Nafar), and an archivist (Abu Hani). My goal in presenting these three perspectives was to orient the reader to diverse landscapes of Palestinian nationalism. Through their words, I hoped to reveal three very different ways of conceptualizing Palestinian music, identity, and resistance. As members of three very different Palestinian communities, in exile (Jordan), under occupation (West Bank), and in ’48 (Israel), each of these three men presented unique experiences of dispossession employing three very different fields of music making (folk song, political song, and hip-hop). Moreover these men were representative of three successive generations of exiles, coming of age in the shadows of al-naksa (1967), al-intifada (1987), and al-Aqsa (2000). Refracted through the prisms of geography, generation, aesthetics, and experience, their voices were employed to dispel any primordial notion of a singular Palestinian identity and experience, and instead reinforce the need to approach Palestinian identity as a performative construct, a voluntary act of identification and belonging informed by locally situated fields of power. They were each distinctively “Palestinian.” Or perhaps the very notion of “Palestinian” was in need of drastic reconceptualization in order to accommodate these artists' unique fields of identification. In much the same way, resistance needs to be understood as a performative construct, carefully scrutinized as an object of analysis and a means for collective identification. Resistance as it is imagined and employed by each of these men should be neither reified nor dismissed. Rather it should be understood as an index of identification and a diagnostic of experience.

Nevertheless, as I reflect on the voices and experiences of these three men, I am left with a deep sense of regret over the many artists and activists omitted from these pages. Unfortunately many significant voices for Palestinian self-determination have gone largely unheard in this text. Marcel Khalife, George Qirmiz, Mousa Hafez, Mustapha al-Kurd, el-Funoun, Thaer Barghouti, Reem Talhami, Said Murad, Kamiliya Jubran, Reem al-Banna, Samih Shaqir, Ahmed Qabour, Reem al-Kilani, Issa Boulos, Abeer al-Zinaty, Ahmed al-Khatib, Mohammad el-Farrah, and Sanaa Moussa are just a few of the musicians who have made substantial contributions to the field of Palestinian protest song but have not yet received the attention they deserve. Likewise I regret that the voices of many Palestinian women artists and activists have not been highlighted in accordance with their overall contributions to Palestinian music. In writing this book I was forced to make uncomfortable decisions on how best to represent the immense field of Palestinian protest song. To be sure, this story is far too complex to be comprehensively discussed in a monograph such as this. It is with a great sense of optimism, however, that I leave this fascinating topic to future study. With this book, I hope to lay a foundation for further ethnographic inquiry into the lives and experiences of those tremendous musicians absent from this text. Indeed as the elder Abu Hani once consoled me after I realized that I was but one of many researchers to have passed through his office, “Malaysh, yā Daoud” (please don't worry, David), “there is much work left to be done.”

APPENDIX: SONG LYRIC TRANSLITERATIONS

Chapter 2

“Yamma Mawil al-Hawa” [Oh song of longing]

MUSIC: Folklore, adaptation by Hussein Nazak

LYRICS: Folklore

yammā mawīl al-hawā yammā mawīlīyā

arb al-khanājar wa-lā ukm al-nadhal fīyā

wa-mashayt tat al-shitā wa-l-shitā rawānī

wa-l-ayf lammā atā walla min nīrānī

bayal umrī infaā nadhr li-l-urīya

yā layl ā al-nadā yashhad alā jirāī

wa-insal jaysh al-idā min kul al-nawāī

wa-al-layl shāf al-radā am yatallam biyā

yammā mawīl al-hawā

bārūdat al-jabal alā min al-ālī

miftā darb al-amal wa-l-amal bi-rijālī

yā shabnā yā baal afdīk bi-aynayyā

yammā mawīl al-hawā

“Muraba Izz al-Din al-Qassam”

MUSIC: Folklore

LYRICS: Nuh Ibrahim, collected by Nimr Sirhan

Izz al-Dīn yā khasārtak, rat fidā li-ummatak

mīn bi-yankar shahāmtak, yā shahīd filasīn

Izz al-Dīn yā marūm mawtak dars li-l-umūm

Ah…law kunt tadūm yā raīs al-mujāhidīn

aayt bi-rūak wa-mālak li-ajl istiqlāl bilādak

al-adū lammā jālak qāwamthu bi-azm matīn

“Muhawara al-Arabi wa-l-Sahyuni” [Debate of the Arab and the Zionist]

MUSIC: Folklore

LYRICS: Nuh Ibrahim, collected by David A. McDonald

anā al-arabī yā uyūnī ind al-mawt irmūnī

bamī ism al-ahyūnī li-amī bilādī filasīn

min kayd al-mustamirīn

anā al-ahyūnī al-marūf wa-amrī fī al-dunyā makshūf

rasmālī makr bi-yilūf wa-lāzim amlik filasīn

wa-lāzim amlik filasīn

bi-tamlukhā bakara mā tashūf hum taatīr

wa-taqābil Munkar wa-Nakir yawm al-qīyāma yā maskīn

atā tamlik filasīn

lā tinsā kanz al-amwāl wa-l-ghadr wa-l-itīyāl

bi-amlik fīhā riqāb rijāl wa-bafal fil al-shayāīn

wa-lāzim amlik filasīn

ifal filak yā maghrūr anta fī al-dunyā mashhūr

anā al-nāssir yā zarzūr wa-anta bi-tahrab min sakīn

wa-biddak tamlik filasīn?

yahrab anā mā baārab wa-banātī anī taārab

fīhum mā barja khāyab wa-baksab bi-l-mi'a wa-tisaīn

wa-lāzim amlik filasīn

Akh! itfū alā hayk rijāl wa-bi-iftakharuh bihā al-aqwāl

Khābat minik al-amwāl waqatak qarān wa-īn

Lāzim taral yā laīn

khabībī isma kalāmī mahmā shuft quddāmī

al-waan al-qawmī marāmī alishān ahyūn filasīn

wa-lāzim amlik filasīn

wa-Allah umrak mā bi-tshūf wa-lāzim taallak mantūf

āmil sab yā kharūf lāzim tishūf ghurāb al-bayn

idhā baqayt bi-filasīn

kul al-dunyā zahaqatnī wa-min bilādhā rafaatnī

wa-anta kamān laaqnī li-tarimnī min filasīn

bilād ajdādī min sinīn

āja takhabbith bi-l-kalām ka-annak ghāriq fī al-manām

filasīn mahd al-islām wa-l-masī wa-l-mursalīn

fayn rāyi yā maskīn?

mish mumkin aral anhā wa-lāzim ghāyatī anaffidhhā

yā baksab bakhsarhā mā baral an filasīn

wa-lāzim amlik filasīn

A: lāzam tarhāl

Z: mā baral

A: baadak wāqif?

Z: anā mish khāyif

A: wāqif shuf akhritak

Z: imal anta illī biddāk

A: bam, bam, bam, bam

Z: ah! khasārtī wa-yā muībatī ā al-māl wa-l-rasmāl wa-rāit minnak filasīn

“Min Sijn Akka” [From Akka Prison] or “Al-Thalatha al-Hamra”

[The bloody three]

MUSIC: Folklore

LYRICS: Nuh Ibrahim, collected by David A. McDonald

wa-min sijn akkā alat janāzāt

Muhammad Jamjum wa-Fuad Hijazi

jāzī alayhum yā shabī jāzī

al-mandūb al-sāmī wa-rabahu umūman

Muhammad Jamjum wa-maa Ata al-Zir

Fuad al-Hijazi izz al-dhakhīra

Unar al-muqadar wa-l-taqādīr

bi-akām al-ālim yā yadamūnā

wa-yaqūl Muhammad anā awwalkum

khawfī yā Ata ashrab asratkum

wa-yaqūl Hijāzī anā awwalkum

mā nihāb al-radā wa-lā al-manūnā

ummī al-anūna bi-l-awt tunādī

āqat alayhā kul al-bilād

nādū Fuad wa-muhja Fuad

qabl nitfarraq yā yuwaddaūnā

bi-tindahu alā Ata min warā’ al-bāb

waqaftu tistanar minhu al-jawāb

Ata yā Ata zayn al-shabāb

yahjim al-askar wa-lā yahābūnā

khayyī yā Yusuf wa-ātak ummī

iwaī yā ukhtī badī tanhamī

li-ajl ha-l-waan aayt bi-damī

kuluhu li-uyūnik yā filasīn

thalātha mātū mawt al-usūd

jūdī yā ummī bi-l-Ata jūdī

alishān ha-l-waan bi-l-rū najūd

wa-li-ajl urīyathu bi-yalaqūnā

nādā al-munādī yā nās irab

yawm al-thalātha shanaq al-shabāb

ahl al-shajāa Ata wa-Fuad

wa-mā yahābū al-radā wa-lā al-manūnā

“Ala Daluna”

MUSIC: Folklore

LYRICS: Unknown, collected by Abdellatif Barghouti

ālat al-ghurba wa-āl al-furāqī

bi-Allah yā ayr taballagh ashwāqī

li-l-ar al-abība anā mushtāqī

wa-bad mā al-ghurba ārat sanīnā

yā shāi Yafa qūlī ajbārak

bafta fī ramlak taraf asrārak

bastannā iyūrak bas'al zuwārak

badak al-ahad wa-lā nasītūnā

rakabnā fī al-markab fawqā atalīnā

yā shams bilādī aramat alaynā

qūlū li-l-wāladha taraā alaynā

rajāyā fīk yā rab al-kawnā

bastannā iyūrak bas'al zuwārak

baadak al-ahad wa-lā nasītūnā

“Ya Zarif al-Tul”

MUSIC: Folklore

LYRICS: Unknown, collected by Nimr Sirhan

yā arīf al-ūl wayn ahlī ghādū

a-bilād al-shām shālū wa-badū

wadaī al-ahyūnī uyūnhu taramdū

shattat al-shabāb min bilādnā

yā arīf al-ūl wayn rāyi turū

jarat qalbī wa-ghamaqt li-jurū

wa-jaysh al-idā yā raythu madhbū

shattat al-shabāb min bilādnā

“Ala Daluna”

MUSIC: Folklore

LYRICS: Unknown, collected by Abdellatif Barghouti

Akkā maa Hayfa wa-qurā bi-l-jumlhu

biyaat yā khasārhu biturāb al-amalhu

Baysan tunādī wa-l-Lid wa-l-Ramla

wayn al-arābhu rāū wa-khalūnā

āsif malab abānā al-būm nābī

wa-kharajnā minnhu madūrīn nabī

allū layatnī qaīt nabī

wa-lā shāhadt khadhlān al-arab

“Shuruqi”

MUSIC: Folklore

LYRICS: Unknown, collected by Nimr Sirhan

kunt al-fidā wa-qawmak fī Burūj

al-Aj yatajādalū min saya rās talkam al-afwāj

law salūk falast li-juyūshhum matāj

bal abadūk likī yataakkamū fīhā

baynamā kān al-adū li-arnā yajtā

kunā nahīb bi-hum fī qūlū mākū salā

shakat filasīn anta athkhanūhā jirā

wa-aarr qalbī ayna al-arab tamīhā

kharajū yajurrūn adhyāl al-khizī w-l-ār

li-mā daāhum li-dhalik dāī al-istamār

lam yudāfaū mithlamā dāfa walīdhā

al-nār lā tariq al-nār li-arjal waīhā

“Al-Muraba”

MUSIC: Folklore

LYRICS: Unknown, collected by Nabil Alqam

biddnā narwī likum akhbār

qiat shabanā al-maghwār

atā tarafū illī ār

fī ummitnā al-arabīya

fī amrīkā dab al-khawf

ābhum da al-rujūf

min al-shab al-arabī al-zaūf

bihumhu naū al-urīya

qālū al-sad al-ālī ār qulnā amanā al-qanāl

Abd al-Nasser yā Jamal yā miqdām arūbatnā

fīkum nabnī l-l-āmāl wa-binaqqaq widatnā

“Al-Muraba”

MUSIC: Folklore

LYRICS: Unknown, collected by Nabil Alqam

maktūb alā jabīnnā Abd al-Nasser abībnā

maktūb alā qulūbnā Abd al-Nasser mabūbnā

izz al-urūba li-Jamal

wa-l-dhul li-Nuri al-Said

“Al-Ataba Jamal Abd al-Nasser”

MUSIC: Folklore

LYRICS: Unknown, collected by Nabil Alqam

alynā kayf allī balūm wa allī lām

wa bintalahaf alā jama al-shamal wa-l-lamm

wa lawlā al-jīm wa al-mīm alīf wa al-lām

yā ālam mā artifa shān al-arab

“Al-Watan al-Akbar” [The great nation]

MUSIC: Mohammad Abd al-Wahab

LYRICS: Ahmad Shafik Kamal

waanī abībī al-waan al-akbar

wa-intiarāthu maliya ayāthu yawm warā' amjādhu bi-takbar

waanī bi-yakbar wa-bi-yataarr waanī waanī

waanī yā mālik ubbak qalbī yā illī nādayt bi-l-wida al-kubrā

anta kabīr wa-akbar kathīr waanī yā waan al-shab al-arabī

bad mā shuft jamāl al-thawra min al-wujūd kulhu min al-khulūd kulhu

yā waanī waanī abībī

Chapter 3

“Sharaft ya Nixon Baba” [Welcome Daddy Nixon]

MUSIC: Sheikh Imam Issa

LYRICS: Ahmad Fuad Nagam

sharaft yā nīksūn bābā yā bitā al-watirgayt

amalū lak qīma wa-sīma salāīn al-fūl w-l-zayt

farashū lak awsa sikka min rās al-tīn alā makka

wa-hunāk tanfadh alā akkā wa-yaqūlū alayk ajayt

mā huwa mawlid sāyir dāyir shillāh yā aāb al-bayt

jawāsīsak yawm tashrīfak amalū lak daqa wa-zār

tatqaa fīh al-mūmas wa-l-qāra wa-l-nazār

wa-l-shaykh shamhūrish rākib a-l-kūdyā wa-hāt yā mawākib

wa-bawāqī al-zaffa anākib zāfīn alā asab al-īt

azmūk fa-qālū taālā tākul banbūn wa-harīsa

qumt anta li-annak mahīf addaqt ān inā farīsa

abayt li-aqūk bi-l-zaffa yā arīs al-ghafla yā khifa

hāt wishak khudh lak taffa shūbash min āib al-bayt

“Mayjana/Ataba”

MUSIC: Folklore

LYRICS: Unknown, collected by Nimr Sirhan

oūf…oūf…yā bāy

kafā damāt yā shabī al-urr tamsa

wa-durūb al-aba li-l-tarīr tansā

qāl it yā ibn al-arab wa-laqaythu timsa

oūf…oūf…yā bāy

“Wayn al-Malayin?” [Where are the millions?]

MUSIC: Ali al-Kilani

LYRICS: Ali al-Kilani, as performed by Julia Butrous

wayn, wayn, wayn,

wayn al-malāyīn?

al-shab al-arabī wayn? al-ghaab al-arabī wayn?

al-dam al-arabī wayn? al-sharq al-arabī wayn?

wayn al-malāyīn?

wayn, wayn, wayn

Allah maanā aqwā wa-akbar min banī ahyūn

yasfik yaslib yasjin yaqtil arī mā bithūn

dam al-amar wa-l-akhar fī am al-līmūn

aqwā min al-jibāl akthar min al-rimāl

qātil nāil ghannī shahadnā ayā

naqātil mā narka mā narka mā nahīsh

“Habbat al-Nar” [The fire swelled]

MUSIC: Hussein Nazak

LYRICS: Mohammad Diab, Nizar al-Issa, Hussein Nazak and Khaled Habbash, as

performed by al-Ashiqin

habbat al-nār wa-l-bārūd ghannā

wa-alab shabāb yā waan wa-atmannā

habbat al-nār min Akka li-l-Tīra

wa-khamsa aghār rabīyu a-l-aīra

wa-hay ārū kibār wa-mā nisyūsh al-dīra

wa-mīn illī yansā filasīn al-janna

habbat al-nār

habbat al-nār karāma karāma

filasīnīya maa kul al-nashāmā

wa-āllū al-fidāīya walīhu illī bi-yatāmmā

fajr al-urrīya bi-l-dam yataanna

habbat al-nār

“Ishhad Ya 'Alam” [Witness oh world]

MUSIC: Hussein Nazak

LYRICS: Mohammad Diab, Nizar al-Issa, Hussein Nazak, and Khaled Habbash, as

performed by al-Ashiqin

ishhad yā ālam alaynā waa Beirut ishhad li-l-arb al-shabīyya

wa-illī mā shāf min al-ghirbāl yā Beirut amā bi-uyūn Amrīkiyya

wa-l-iyārāt awwal ghāra yā Beirut ghāra barrīya wa-bariya

Burj al-Shamali wa-l-baar yā Beirut ūr al-urra wa-l-Rashidiya

Qalat Shaqīf illī bi-tashhad yā Beirut āllī dāsū ra's al-ayya

al-shajar qātil wa-l-ajar yā Beirut wa-l-wāid jābhu dawriya

jamal al-maāmal shabnā yā Beirut bi-Ain al-Hilwa wa-l-Nabatiya

wa-inā raddīnā al-āliya yā Beirut bi-ijāra Sayīdā wa-l-Jaya

al-iyārāt ghaū al-samā' yā Beirut wa-l-baar jabha baariya

kānat ghirbān al-maniya yā Beirut wa-anā itiadīnā al-maniya

ishhad yā ālam alaynā wa-a Beirut ā Sabrā wa-l-miīya miīya

Shatila wa-Burj al-Barajna yā Beirut bi-l-mataf shāfū al-maniya

lā rāya bayā' rafanā yā Beirut wa-lā alanā bi-hāma maniya

al-darb aba wa-awīla yā Beirut wa-alayhā aqadnā al-niya

wa-illī mā shāf min al-ghirbāl yā Beirut amā bi-uyūn Amrīkiya

Chapter 4

Intifada poetry documented by Nimr Sirhan

mā fī khawf mā fī khawf

al-ajr ār kalāshinkūf

yā dunyā ullī wa-yā bashar shūfī

wa-ijārnā aqwā min kalāshnīkūf

waqt al-taaddī mā anā khawf

wa-illī yaādīnā yaba majnūnā

“Al-Muraba”

MUSIC: Folklore

LYRICS: Unknown, collected by Nimr Sirhan

yā ijāra yā ijāra

iwaī tarūī min al-āra

anā wayāk rabaynā mithl al-baar wa-baāra

“Jay al-Hamam” [Here come the doves]

MUSIC: Sabreen

LYRICS: Hussein Barghouti

akalak jarāda mighammasa binuqat asal

libsak khaysh wa-wabar jimāl

naalak shūk wa-darbak shūk zuhūrhu qilāl

yā qamar a udūd

yā nabī marūd

wa-awtahu bi-yandahu fī al-barārī

wassaū al-uruqāt li-l-ghazlān al-maabba wa-l-salām

jāy al-amām min al-jabal

jāy al-amām

“Thirty Stars”

MUSIC: Sabreen

LYRICS: Hussein Barghouti

thalāthīn najma tawī alā Wadi al-Saru

thalāthīn najma tawī

qalbī kahaf maftū

law tafham al-ilwa

innahu al-qamar majrū

bas al-amal quwwa

thalāthīn najma tahwī alā Wadi al-Saru

thalāthīn najma tahwī

na al-amar bihuwī alā Wadi al-Saru

nu al-umr yahwī

wa-taghayyarat al-ayām

wa-tabaddalat al-alām

wa-takassarat sarūhu

“Ramallah 1989”

MUSIC: Sabreen

LYRICS: Hussein Barghouti

marrāt bamshī li-ālī bi-nu al-layl

wa-l-layl mithl al-nahār

wa-iydī fī jaybī yā baaffar yā badakhkhan

hayk min kuthr al-qahar

kul al-madīna misakkara fishshi adā

ghayr al-faā wa-l-jaysh

bawaqaf aada al-sūr

dhaqnī a iydī

bawaqaf wa-fakkar kayf?

kul al-layl al min al-umr khalqit shahr

wa-anā māshī yā baaffar yā badakhkhan

hayk min kuthr al-qahar

Chapter 5

“Al-Hilm al-Arabi” [The Arab dream]

MUSIC: Hilmi Bakr

LYRICS: Hilmi Bakr

min ay makān fī al-ar

nāiq bi-lisān al-ād

wa-bi-alā al-awt wa-l-nab

bi-naqūl al-wida mīlād

afālnā fī kul makān

ayy uyūn al-awān

al-aq al-ub al-khayr

risālitnā fī kul zamān

wa-l-ghinwā bi-talghī udūd

wa-waanhā huwwa al-qalb

wa-mā dām āyshīn anghannī

wa-mā dām qādrīn hanhib

ilmnā wa-fī kul zamān

widat kul al-awān

kul al-khilāfāt hatzūl

wa-kifāya innak insān

“Al-Quds Hatarja Lina” [Jerusalem will return to us]

MUSIC: Riyad al-Hamshra

LYRICS: Dr. Madhath al-Adl

kān shāyil alwānhu kān rāyi madrasathu

wa-bi-yalam bi-iānhu wa-bi-labhu wa-ayyārathu

wa-lammā analaq al-ghadr wa-mawt atā barāthu

sāl al-dam al-āhir alā karāsathu

ab wa-mad bi-khawfhu iydayhu

yamī biumrhu ānhu

wa-lammā irtaash al-jasad al-ifal

wa-baqā fī iydayn Allah

kulnā bi-naqūl arinā

arinā damnā 'umrinā

wa-inn māt malāyīn mininā

al-Quds hatarja linā

“Min Rahim al-Ard” [From the womb of the earth]

MUSIC: Saud Shalash and Abdalfatah Ayunat

LYRICS: Jamal al-Khatib and Saud Shalash

min raim al-ar inha qātil bi-ajāra

khallī ha al-ar al-ghabāna tuwallid arār

tuwallid sawāid tataaddā jaysh al-mutal

lā hāma dhallat lā wa-Allah

wa-lā shabī mal

ila min āra li-āra alimhum arb al-ijāra

min mukhayyam li-mukhayyam allit al-sibā

āmil bi-iydhu nabbāa āmil miqlā

bi-l-iyd al-yummnā irfa rāya

bi-shimālak maa ahl al-āra

irab bi-ijāra ilīhum nār

ila wa-taadā bijadāra dam al-shuhadā mish khasāra

min madīna li-madīna widit arār

min al-may li-l-may irfa shaār

“Sadayna al-Shawari” [We blocked the streets]

MUSIC: Saud Shalash and Abdalfatah Ayunat

LYRICS: Jamal al-Khatib and Saud Shalash

sadaynā al-shawāri mā nasīnā ayshitnā fī al-khiyām

kīs aīn wa-sardīnā fī al-ghurba kunā nanām

fakarūnā nasīnā min al-khayma alanā zlām

wa-l-ilm nanā asiyādhu wa-bi-tashhad al-anām

sadaynā ha-l-shawāri wa-alanā narmī kart al-tamwīn

shilnā al-barūd sirnā wa-aalannā lā lā li-l-awīn

law aaaytūnā al-dunyā bi-kunūz wa-malāyīn

mā tisāwī abbat ramla min turābik filasīn

sadaynā al-shawāri wa-aalannā wa-aalannā kabīr wa-aghīr

aq al-awda bilādī maa taqrīr al-maīr

Chapter 6

“Ala Jida al-Zaytuna” [On the trunk of the olive tree]

MUSIC: Kamal Khalil

LYRICS: Tawfiq al-Ziyad

li-annī lā aīk al-awf

li-annī kul yawm ara lā wa-imar al-tawqīf

wa-baytī ara li-zīryāra al-būlīs

li-l-taftīsh wa-li-tanīf

li-annī ajaz ashtarī warqa

safar kul mā alqā

wa-afur kul asrārī

alā zaytūna fī sāat al-dār

safar qiatī wa-fuūl ma'sātī

wa-āhātī

alā biyārtī wa-qubūr amwātī

wa-afur

kul mar dhaqathu

yamūhu ashr alāwa al-atī

safur raqam kul qasīma

min arinā sulibat

wa-mawqa qariyatī wa-udūdhā

wa- buyūt ahlīhā allatī nusifat

wa-ashjārī allatī uqtuliat

wa-kul zahra bariya suiqat

wa-asmā alladhīn tafānnū

fī lawk aābī wa-ataāsī

wa-asmā al-sujūn

wa-naw' kul kalabsha

shaddat alā kaffī

wa-dūsīhāt adāsī

wa-kul shatīma abbat alā ra'sī

lakī adhakkar

sābiqan qāmā afur

jamī fuūl masātī

wa-kul marāil al-nakba

min al-abba ilā al-qubba

alā zaytūna fī sāat al-dār

“Aghniyat Hubb li-Shahid al-Karak” [Love song for the martyr of Karak] or

“Ahmad al-Majali”

MUSIC: Kamal Khalil

LYRICS: Ibrahim Nasrallah

hadhā al-waan li-l-nās wa-inā azwithu

mā yarfa al-ra's al-amjadhu wa-azzithu

wa-l-dam aysh al-dam law kān inabas

wa-mā kān mahrhu fī al-urūb wa-muhrithu

yā uyūn ummī bi-l-fara lā tadmaī

alā al-shabāb hiya illī bi-taārab maaī

damī badhar lan al-karāma itsammaī

ar al-quds shamsī wa-kaffak manbaī

hillī bizaghrūdhu wa-qamar

wa-ghanīlhu yā alā al-mudun

Amad alā al-mawt intaar

mā azhā shamsak yā waan

warda li-kul aghīr fī ar al-karak

li-l-shaykh wa-l-umm illī qālat yā malak

hadhī al-ar aat wa-rā tatī wa-ajat tistaqbilak

mīn shāf ifl aghīr wada mīmmithu

wa-kān al-qamar yaghafā a allit ghurthu

wa-l-ward āla min silāa wa-jubithu

hadhi filasīnak illak, hīya illak

mithl al-ifūla wa-adr immak

wa-l-karak hiya illak

hadhi filasīnak illak

lalī bi-yarfa rāyatak

wa-yamsa ghubār al-layl an martīnatak

hallī bizaghrūdhu wa-qamar

“Laya wa Laya”

MUSIC: Folklore

LYRICS: Adaptation by Kamal Khalil and Ibrahim Nasrallah

laya wa-laya yā binaya

āq al-sijin alayya

saddū dūrub bilādī

min al-maī li-l-maī

wasaū al-ad al-ghurbī

biddī asrī li-arī

wa-shīlū al-lagham min darbī

wa-dabāba al-amrīkiya

wasaū hā al-zinzāna

yāfā bi-adrī sahrāna

wa-zaytūnatnā al-ashāna

bidhā tishrab urrīya

wasaū lihā al-manfā

biddha tatanaffas Hayfa

wa-atā hā al-layla tafā

bi-raā al-fidāī

wasaū al-ūa wa-ghannū

hā al-urs inā minhu

kayf bi-nastaghnī anhu wa-huwwa al-rū al-shabiya

hā al-jara ilū urūfa

umm al-shahīd tashūfa

wa-tizaghrad yā allah ūfū

bi-kabatunā al-sāaliya

Chapter 7

“Dawla” [State/country]

MUSIC: Ziyad Mazid

LYRICS: Tawfiq al-Ziyad

dawla dawla dawla (dawla)

dawlat al-bāū arī (dawla)

dawlat al-hatkū arī (dawla)

dawla dawla dawla, yā uyūnī

dawlat al-bāū arī (dawla)

dawlat al-hatkū arī (dawla)

dawlat al-bāū al-naf al-arabī wa-sharabū fīhu kūkākūlā

rakabū alā al-saraj (dawla)

maddūhā al-kharaj (dawla)

qālū ikhras lā tatanaffas alashān amn al-dawla

wa-allah wa-zawadtūhā (dawla)

wa-allah wa-takhantūhā (dawla)

kathr al-shad biyakhī al-abl tawqa a-ra's al-dawla

Chapter 8

“Unadikum” [The nation calls out to you]

MUSIC: Ahmad Qabour

LYRICS: Tawfiq al-Ziyad, as performed by Ahmad Qabour

unādīkum

ashhad alā ayādīkum

abūs al-ar tat niālkum

wa-aqūl afdīkum

wa-ahdīkum ayā aynī

wa-adaffa al-qalb aīkum

famasātī allati ayā

naībī min masīkum

unādīkum

“Gharib fi Biladi!” [Stranger in my own country!]

MUSIC AND LYRICS: Ran “Magic” Harush, Ori Shohat, Tamer Nafar, Mahmoud Jrere, Suhell Nafar, Abir al-Zinati

maktūb līnā naalnā qurāb alā arnā

baād min waannā

mīn yahimmhu humnā? mawt baī yajrī bi-damnā

ākamnā hakam ahyūnī dīmūqrāī!

dīmūqrāī li-l-nafs al-ahyūniya wa-ahyūnī li-l-nafs al-arabiya

yanī al-mamnū ilhu mamnū ilī

al-masmū ilhu mamnū ilī

wa-l-masmū makrūh ilī

li-annhu yankur kiyānī maā

wa-mādhāl yamī al-wānī, tārīkh nāsī ajdādī

yaghsil dimāgh wa-li-ādī illī ūā

alā ār mā yamthalhā, al-jansīya al-zarqa nablahā

wa-tashrab mayithā taqalnā inā min al-shab

wa-l-shab yasasnā innhu inā gharīb

anā? gharīb fī bilādī!

thalāth ashara shahīd al-qadar qarīb

lemmā al-ajar bi-l-ayīd thalāth ashara shahīd

Alā waannā Aymād waannā

aktūbir al-aswad athbat innhu al-Ayād bi-damnā

idhā al-kul fīhum Walīd tat al-itilāl

kayf mish Rāmī al-māī bil rāmī ālhu ka-l-sayf al-māī

yaārak salā al-asab damnā mī

yaqtil al-awt al-mala bi-raāa al-ay

wa-damaat al-umm taī anā asīl akhad arab

Maammad wa-l-masī yā jabal mā ya hizzanā rī

niāl Ramz al-qawmīya Wisām al-urrīya

shulat ajdādnā minawwara al-rū al-shabābiya

anā gharīb bi-bilādī

lakin Amad rabī annī mutamassik bi-turāthī

nādūnī khāyin arab al-dākhil al-thamānīya wa-arbaīn

wa-iydak arāsak inā jidhūr filasīn li-ūl al-Umar

narabā bi-faqar wa-faqar yirabbī uqūlnā

lakin taīyā qulūbnā illī taīya jidhūrnā

illī yinādūnā khawanā? lā lā lā lā!

anā mā hunta fī waanī masī' shabī katabat lī qadarī

innahu al-ālam al-yawm yiāmilnā isrāīlīyīn

wa-isrāīl li-bukra taāmilnā filasīniyīn

gharīb fī bilādī

“Posh'im afim Mi'pesha” [Hebrew: Innocent criminals]

MUSIC AND LYRICS: Tamer Nafar, Suhell Nafar, and Mahmoud Jrere

ha'miut pote'a pe yo TN, Joker

ha'raperim haaravim harishonim

atem omrim she'haaravim primitivim

omrim she'haaravim agresivim

omrim she'ananu posh'im ve'barbarim

ananu lo

aval be'mikre she'ananu ken, ze ma she'ha'memshala asta meitanu, yo

lifnei she'ata kolet oti

lifnei she'ata shofet oti

lifnei she'ata margish oti

lifnei she'ata ma'anish oti

kanes li ba'na'alaim ve'iav le'a ba'raglaim

ki ananu posh'im–posh'im afim mi'pesha

eifo ha'shivion she'ani gar be'paon ve'hu be'savion

kshe'lo mazkirim oti ba'himnon

erets le'nefesh yehudia, ve'ha'aravi keilu lo haya ve'lo nivra eifo ha'shalom

ein shalom u'kshein shalom, yesh masom le'kol alom

“Min Irhabi?” [Who's the terrorist?]

MUSIC AND LYRICS: Tamer Nafar, Suhell Nafar, Mahmoud Jrere

mīn irhābī? anā irhābī?

kayf irhābī wa-anā āyish fī bilādī?

mīn irhābī? anta irhābī?

mā kalmī wa-anā āyish fī bilādī

qātilnī zay mā qatalt ajdādī

atijih li-l-qānūn? a-l-qāī mā anta yā adū

bi-tal'ab dawr al-shāhid al-muāmī wa-l-qāī

alā qāī bi-nihāyatī bādī

min kuthr mā ightaabtū al-nafs al-arabiya

abalat waladat walad ismhu amalīya infijāriya

wa-hayn nādaytūnā irhābīya

anā mish id al-salām, al-salām idī

alā baddū yaqī, turāthī baddū yamī

wa-illī bi-yakī kalima bi-shad warā' hamma bakūn zalama

bi-tamilū minhu rimma

wa-mīn antū? lissā mtā kabartū?

italaū qadaysh qataltū wa-qadaysh yatamtū

ummiyātnā bi-yabakū abiyātnā bi-yashkū

arāīnā bakhtafū anā ba'alkum mīn antū

anta kabarta bi-dala inā kabarnā bi-faqr

mīn kabara fī wasa? wa-mīn kabara fi jur?

ār fidāī, amaltū minhu ijrāmī

wa-anta yā irhābī bi-tinādīnī irhābī

yanī arbatnī wa-bakayt sabaqatnī wa-iashtakīt

lammā dhakratak annak badīt naīt wa-akīt

mānatū bi-tikhlū awlād aghār yarmū ajār

malhumash ahl yaabūhum fī al-dār?

kanū nasīt abū salāhak ab al-ahl tat al-ajār?

wa-halā lammā wajaī thār bi-tnādīnī irhābī?

mīn irhābī? anā irhābī?

kayf irhābī wa-anā āyish fī bilādī?

mīn irhābī? anta irhābī?

mā kalmī wa-anā āyish fī bilādī

Chapter 9

“Ramallah”

MUSIC AND LYRICS: Tamer Nafar, Suhell Nafar, Mahmoud Jrere

bakī waynaku? Ramallah!

wa-wayn manrū? Ramallah!

wa-mīn maaku? Ramallah!

“Sajjil Ana Arabi” [Record I am Arab]

POETRY: Mahmoud Darwish

sajjil anā arabī

wa-raqam biāqatī khamsūn alf

wa-afālī thamānīya

wa-tāsaahum saya'tī bad ayf

fa-hal taghab?

sajjil anā arabī

wa-amal maa rifāq al-kada fī majar

wa-afālī thamānīya

as'al lahum raghīf al-khubz wa-l-athwāb wa-l-daftar min al-akhr

wa-lā atwassal al-adqāt min bābak

wa-lā aghar amām balā atābak

fa-hal taghab?

sajjil anā arabī

salabt karūm ajdādī wa-aran kuntu aflahā

anā wa-jamī awlādī

fa-lam tatruk lanā wa-li-kul afādī

siwā hadhī al-ikhūr

fa-hal satākhudhhā ukūmatkum kamā qīlan

sajjil bi-ra's al-afa al-ūlā

anā lā akrah al-nās wa-anā lā asū alā aad

wa-lakinnī idhā mā jut akul lam mughtaabī

adhār adhār min jūī wa-min ghaabī

NOTES

Chapter 1

1. Butler, Bodies That Matter, 2.

2. McDonald, “Geographies of the Body.”

3. Averill, A Day for the Hunter, a Day for the Prey, 3.

4. Abu-Lughod, “The Romance of Resistance,” 43.

5. Ibid., 42.

6. Ibid., 53.

7. Ibid.

8. Mahmood, The Politics of Piety, 9.

9. The ethnomusicological literature on nationalism is substantial. However, several key sources have been influential in my approach. Among these are Turino, “The State and Andean Musical Production in Peru,” Moving Away from Silence, and Nationalists, Cosmopolitans, and Popular Music in Zimbabwe; Stokes, Ethnicity; Danforth, The Macedonian Conflict; Moore, Nationalizing Blackness; Sugarman, “Imagining the Homeland”; and Buchanan, Performing Democracy.

10. Lockman, Comrades and Enemies, 7.

11. In a roundtable discussion with various historians Perry Anderson publicly called for a “relational history” (“Agendas for Radical History”). Other scholars have sought to uncover the historical relationships between the Jewish and Arab worlds. See especially Beinin, Was the Red Flag Flying There? and The Dispersion of Egyptian Jewry. For a musicological study of the relationalities between Jewish and Arab communities, see Kaschl, Dance and Authenticity in Israel and Palestine.

12. Stein and Swedenburg, “Popular Culture, Relational History, and the Question of Power in Palestine and Israel.”

13. Parmenter, Giving Voice to Stones; Swedenburg, “The Palestinian Peasant as National Signifier” and Memories of Revolt; R. Davis, Palestinian Village Histories; Slyomovics, The Object of Memory; Peteet, “The Writing on the Walls”; Oliver and Steinberg, “Popular Music of the Intifada.”

14. Armbrust, Mass Culture and Modernism in Egypt.

15. The parallel concepts of “communitas” and “locality” were developed by Victor Turner (The Forest of Symbols, 93–111); and Arjun Appadurai (Modernity at Large, 178–99), to underscore the processes governing ephemeral moments of intense community and belonging among social actors.

Chapter 2

1. [http://purl.dlib.indiana.edu/iudl/eviada/14-S9039]

2. The reference made here is to the heroic deeds of the martyr. The sacrifice of the Palestinian martyr is so admirable that the martyr is in effect teaching death how to die.

3. Over the course of my research I saw “Yama Mawil al-Hawa” performed by a variety of Palestinian ensembles throughout the region. Wedding bands invari-ably included it in their set lists. Folkloric dance troupes commonly used the song as the basis for their more contemplative routines, a Palestinian classical art music ensemble used it as the foundation for a larger composition and improvisation, and a student ensemble at the Edward Said National Conservatory of Music (ESNMC) adapted it into their program of Arabesque jazz.

4. See Sugarman, Engendering Song: Singing and Subjectivity at Prespa Albanian Weddings; Askew, Performing the Nation: Swahili Music and Cultural Politics in Tanzania; and Buchanan, Performing Democracy: Bulgarian Music and Musicians in Transition.

5. Abu-Lughod, “The Romance of Resistance,” 53.

6. Regarding further sources on the repertory of the indigenous poet-singers and the resistance movement see Sirhan, “Al-Aghniya al-Shabiya al-Filastiniya,” 114–36, 125–49; Musua al-Fulklur al-Filastiniya; al-Zawati, Al-Wajh al-Nidali li-1 -Aghniya al-Shabiya al-Filastiniya fī al-Kuwait; Sbait, “The Improvised-Sung Folk Poetry of the Palestinians”; Barghouti, “Dawr al-Aghani al-Arabiya al-Shabiya fi al-Intifada al-Filastiniya”; Bar-Yosef, “Traditional Rural Style under a Process of Change”; and Shabeeb, “Poetry of Rebellion.”

7. The significance, structures, and meanings of sung poetry in Palestine have been studied extensively in the fields of folklore and ethnomusicology. See Caspi, Weavers of the Songs; Elmessiri, The Palestinian Wedding; Jayyusi, Modern Arabic Poetry; Sbait, “The Improvised-Sung Folk Poetry of the Palestinians”; Sbeyhat, “The Zajal of Northern Palestine”; Yaqub, Pens, Swords, and the Springs of Art. For early sources on pre-1948 Palestinian poetry and poet-singers, see Dalman, Palastinischer Diwan; Sirhan, Musua al-Fulklur al-Filastiniya; Saarisalo, “Songs of the Druzes”; al-Sawafiri, Al-Shar al-'Arabi al-Hadith fi Masat Filastin min sanat 1917 ila sanat 1955; Barghouti, Al-Adab al-Shabi al-Filastini; Hijab, Al-Aghniya al-Shabiya fi Shmal Filastin; Malham, Al-Aghniya al-Shabiya fi Shmal Filastin Qabl 'Aam 1948; as well as the many articles published by the Journal of the Palestine Oriental Society.

8. Two different histories of the Great Arab Revolt are worthy of citation here: Porath, The Palestinian Arab National Movement; and Swedenburg, Memories of Revolt. Each of these texts provides an interesting counterbalance of political history and popular memory. Especially important for the purposes of this study is the lasting legacy of Sheikh Izz al-din al-Qassam as a catalyst and folk hero for the resistance movement.

9. Aud, Nuh Ibrahim Shar Thawra 1936–1939, 62–65; Barghouti, “Dawr al-Aghani al-Shabiya al-Filastiniya fi al-Nadal al-Watani,” 54; Shabeeb, “Poetry of Rebellion,” 66.

10. Today Akka Prison is a landmark of the British presence in Israel as it was the site of the holding and execution of both Jewish and Palestinian prisoners. For Palestinians Akka Prison holds great significance as the symbolic birthplace of the resistance movement against British colonialism, and by extension, the Jewish presence in Palestine.

11. Sirhan, Musua al-Fulklur al-Filastiniya, 520.

12. Morris, The Birth of the Palestinian Refugee Problem Revisited, 18; Shabeeb, “Poetry of Rebellion,” 68.

13. Sirhan, Musua al-Fulklur al-Filastiniya, 520; Shabeeb, “Poetry of Rebellion,” 69.

14. Sbait, “Debate in the Improvised-Sung Poetry of the Palestinians.”

15. Ibid., 100.

16. Steve Caton's “Peaks of Yemen I Summon” (1990) offers a unique analysis of the forms of competitive poetic recitation very similar to the forms of poetic discussions common in Israel/Palestine. Likewise Dwight Reynolds's Heroic Poets, Poetic Heroes (1995) offers rich insight into the performative aspects of poetry in the Arab world.

17. Performances of this particular song were common among contemporary Palestinian protest singers. In each of these performances slight nuances or changes in the lyrics were common so as to reflect current issues. In particular, performers would routinely modify some of the stanzas to reflect the agendas of various political organizations. However, despite these subtle performative changes, the overall structure and progression of the story remained intact. The lyrics presented here were published in a collection of Nuh Ibrahim's poetry in the 1930s and reprinted by folkorist Nimr Sirhan in his encyclopedia of Palestinian folklore (1978), 520–21.

18. Shabeeb, “Poetry of Rebellion.”

19. Butler, Bodies That Matter, 12–16.

20. Sirhan, Musua al-Fulklur al-Filastiniya, vol. 3; and Shabeeb, “Poetry of Rebellion.”

21. This is not to be confused with the Ibrahim Touqan qaīda of the same title. Touqan's commemorative qasida emerged at roughly the same time, yet it never had the same impact among the people. Among Palestinian artists and activists very few knew of this song and none that I talked to could recall any of the lyrics. Nuh Ibrahim's tribute to these three martyrs, in contrast, was well known by virtually every performer I worked with. Verses of the song were easily recalled and sung in our interviews and conversations. This is most likely due to the efforts of al-‘Ashiqin maintaining its prominence in their live performances and recordings.

22. [http://purl.dlib.indiana.edu/iudl/eviada/14-S2070]

23. [http://purl.dlib.indiana.edu/iudl/eviada/14-A0876]

24. For initial research into the origins of this song I must acknowledge Ted Swedenburg and Rochelle Davis for pointing me toward several Arabic sources, most important of which was Awda, Min Ruwwad al-Nidal fi Filastin 1929–1948, 87–90.

25. Jayyusi, Anthology of Modern Palestinian Literature, 9–11.

26. Morris, The Birth of the Palestinian Refugee Problem Revisited, 13.

27. McCarthy, The Population of Palestine, 36; Morris, “Revisiting the Palestinian Exodus of 1948,” 40–55.

28. Morris, “Revisiting the Palestinian Exodus of 1948,” 40–55.

29. Estimates vary considerably on both the number of refugees and the manner of their displacement. Upon studying Israeli, British, Arab, and international demographic sources, Benny Morris (2004) puts the number at approximately 760,000 Palestinian refugees. His data is the most often cited in the literature. However there is considerable disagreement over the manner of displacement, ranging between premeditated ethnic cleansing and voluntary mass exodus. Illan Pappe presents a fascinating analysis of Jewish demographic strategies during the 1948 war in The Ethnic Cleansing of Palestine (2006).

30. Cleveland, A History of the Modern Middle East, 347.

31. Alqam, “Al-Adab al-Shabi al-Filastini min al-Nakba ila al-Intifada”; Barghouti, “Arab Folk Songs from Jordan.”

32. Taylor, The Archive and the Repertoire, 15.

33 Peteet, Landscape of Hope and Despair, 111–16.

34. Personal communication with Sharif Kanaaneh and Abd Al-Aziz Abu Hudba (2004).

35. Alqam, “Al-Adab al-Shabi al-Filastini min al-Nakba ila al-Intifada,” 32–33.

36. See Racy, “Heroes, Lovers, and Poet-Singers”; and Caton, “Peaks of Yemen I Summon.”

37. However rare, it is possible for the jinās to be identical in all four hemistitches, producing the rhyme scheme (AAAA). In these cases each of the four hemistitches usually ends in the long syllable “āb,” maintaining the prescribed cadential rhyme scheme.

38. Arab music theory, based in a complex system of melodic (maqām) and rhythmic (īqā) modes, has been extensively studied in the field of ethnomusicology. For an authoritative yet accessible introduction to this literature, see Marcus, Music in Egypt (2007).

39. [http://purl.dlib.indiana.edu/iudl/eviada/14-A3387]

40. [http://purl.dlib.indiana.edu/iudl/eviada/14-A1093]

41. [http://purl.dlib.indiana.edu/iudl/eviada/14-A6184]

42. Barghouti, “Arab Folk Songs from Jordan,” 67.

43. [http://purl.dlib.indiana.edu/iudl/eviada/14-A5646]

44. Alqam, “Al-Adab al-Shabi al-Filastini min al-Nakba ila al-Intifada,” 39.

45. In March 1949 Syrian colonel Husni Zaim ousted President Shukri al-Qawatli in a violent coup. Jordan's King Abdullah was the next to fall by an assassin's bullet, outside the al-Aqsa mosque in 1951. Two years later the Free Officers overthrew Egyptian king Faruq. And finally in July 1958 the Hashemite regime of king Faisel II was overthrown in a violent coup by Iraqi brigadier Abd al-Karim Qasim. While only one of these events, the assassination of Jordan's King Abdullah, could be directly linked to Palestinian militants, the widespread change in political topography speaks to the widespread political transformation taking place throughout the region.

46. Such sentiments of hope in Nasser's leadership were far less prevalent among Palestinian refugees displaced into Egypt and the Egyptian-administered Gaza Strip. For these young nationalists, including Yasser Arafat, Salah Khalaf, Khalil Al-Wazir, and others, Nasser's regime symbolized tyranny and opposition to Palestinian nationalist ideals. Rashid Khalidi (1989) writes of the dynamics of Nasser's relationship with Palestinian political dissidents at the time of the Suez crisis and further sheds light on the Palestinian nationalist movement in Gaza in the years following 1948.

47. Alqam, “Al-Adab al-Shabi al-Filastini min al-Nakba ila al-Intifada,” 41.

48. Ibid., 42.

49. Armbrust, Mass Culture and Modernism in Egypt.

50. Danielson, The Voice of Egypt, 164.

51. The original Egyptian state broadcast performance of “Al-Watan al-Akbar” became popular among Palestinians protesting the outbreak of the al-Aqsa intifada in 2002. Digitally enhanced copies of the performance were packaged with other nationalist videos on cheaply produced VCDs sold in street-side kiosks in Jordan and the West Bank. It was also common to see rebroadcasts of this piece on Palestinian state television and the litany of music-oriented satellite channels.

52. Turino, Nationalists, Cosmopolitans, and Popular Music in Zimbabwe, 16.

53. Armbrust, Mass Culture and Modernism in Egypt, 89.

54. Stories of the diwānīn were common among my interviews with first-generation refugees in Jordan, especially the older generation of zajjālīn working to preserve indigenous Palestinian folklore.

Chapter 3

1. Cleveland, A History of the Modern Middle East.

2. Abu-Odeh, Jordanians, Palestinians and the Hashemite Kingdom in the Middle East Peace Process, 138.

3. Armbrust, Mass Culture and Modernism in Egypt, 40.

4. Petric, “Speak Out Freely, Speak Out!,” 16–19.

5. The student riots were in response to the infamous “Rules of Aviation” investigation in which many Egyptian politicians and military officers were ultimately cleared of any responsibility in the 1967 war.

6. Armbrust, Mass Culture and Modernism in Egypt, 40.

7. “Kalb al-Sitt” was originally composed as a satirical response to the great Egyptian singer Umm Kulthum's pet poodle. Rumor has it that one of Umm Kulthum's neighbors complained to the police about the poodle's constant barking. The police then responded by sending out a dispatch of officers to convince the neighbor that it was he who needed to keep silent. The “lady's dog” appeared to have more rights and freedoms than the disgruntled neighbor. Similar to the Egyptian proverb that speaks of the kalb al-wazīr (the governor's dog), Sheikh Imam used this story as the basis for composing a powerful song protesting social privilege and Egyptian aristocracy. See Burkhardt, Arabic Proverbs for a translation and analysis of the famous Egyptian fable.

8. McDonald, “Performing Palestine.”

9. Paul Shaoul, “The Legacy of the Late Sheikh Imam, Creator of Modern Arabic Political Song,” Al-Jadid 1.1 (1995).

10. Peteet, Landscape of Hope and Despair, 141–47.

11. Ibid., 144.

12. Ibid., 146.

13. Sirhan, Arshif al-Fulklur al-Filastin, vol. 6, 40.

14. Bailey, Jordan's Palestinian Challenge, 35–42. Many times these checkpoints were mere fronts for the confiscation of vehicles, extortion of taxes, and intimidation of local Jordanian residents. See also Cooley, Green March, Black September, 87–111; Schiff and Rothstein, Fedayeen.

15. From Kamal Boulatta's liner notes in Palestine Lives: Songs from the Struggle of the Palestinian People, Paredon Palestine–1022, 1974.

16. Each of the following political histories provides interesting commentary on the underpinnings of the Jordanian-Palestinian confrontation. Regarding the nature of this conflict as an outright civil war, Abu-Odeh, Jordanians, Palestinians offers a fascinating portrayal of the various militants participating in the conflict. Native Jordanians fought on the side of the PLO, and many Palestinian Jordanians allied themselves with the king. For further reading see Cooley, Green March, Black September; Bailey, Jordan's Palestinian Challenge; and Abu-Odeh, Jordanians, Palestinians.

17. The transfer of control of the camps to the PLO was solidified a year before Black September in a 1969 agreement between the PLO and the Lebanese government. In the agreement the Lebanese government officially relinquished control over the administration of the refugee camps in return for the PLO's pledge to seek government consent for any future armed incursions into Israeli-controlled territory. For more commentary on the rise of the PLO and its relations with the Arab governments, see Cobban, The Palestinian Liberation Organisation.

18. Cleveland, A History of the Modern Middle East, 376–79.

19. Official numbers of killed and wounded vary considerably. The Israeli army reported three hundred dead while Lebanese and Palestinian aid workers counted over two thousand. The International Red Cross documented eight hundred confirmed bodies found in mass graves inside the camps.

20. Working as a correspondent for the New York Times, journalist David K. Shipler skillfully documented both the Israeli and Palestinian reactions to the Sabra and Shatilla massacres in his Arab and Jew: Wounded Spirits in a Promised Land.

21. Taraki, “The Development of Political Consciousness among Palestinians in the Occupied Territories,” 64–65.

22. Firqa Baladna and the life of its famed lead singer, Kamal Khalil, are the subjects of chapters 6 and 7.

23. Abu Shaira, Dalil li-1 -Aghaniya al-Wataniya al-Filastiniya, 242.

24. [http://purl.dlib.indiana.edu/iudl/eviada/14-S6760]

25. The use of the two Palestinian villages here, Akka and al-Tira, is significant. Akka is a prominent symbol of Palestinian resistance going back to the poetry of Nuh Ibrahim and the Great Revolt of 1936. Al-Tira is also significant because of the many different villages carrying this name. To cite al-Tira casts a very wide net. Members of the ensemble recounted to me that since there are so many al-Tira villages it is much easier to make an impression on the audience, as the chances are good that many in the audience are familiar with at least one of them.

26. Kanaana, “Karamat Stories among Palestinians.”

27. The battle of Karama and its significance to both Palestinian and Jordanian national constructs is discussed further in chapter 5.

28. McDonald, “Poetics and the Performance of Violence in Israel/Palestine” and “Geographies of the Body.”

29. McDonald, “Geographies of the Body.”

30. [http://purl.dlib.indiana.edu/iudl/eviada/14-S0768]

Chapter 4

1. This rumor was attributed to a local Fatah leader, Abu Husa, who concocted the idea of linking the accident with the previous stabbing as a way of instigating demonstrations against the occupation. The tactic succeeded; by the next day the murder conspiracy was the lead story in the Palestinian newspaper Al-Fajr. For a truly fascinating ethnographic look at the formation of the intifada, see Hass, Drinking the Sea, 48–50.

2. Hass, Drinking the Sea at Gaza, 48.

3. Abed-Rabbo and Safie, The Palestinian Uprising, vii.

4. B'tselem, “Statistics: Fatalities in the First Intifada,” http://btselem.org/english/Statistics/First_Intifada_Tables.asp. Accessed August 10, 2010.

5. Nassar and Heacock, Intifada, 322.

6. Lockman and Beinin, Intifada, 317–26. The editors document the name, age, residence, and date of every Palestinian fatality during the first year of the intifada categorized by cause of death (shooting, beating, burning, electrocution, stoning, teargas, and other suspicious circumstances).

7. Abed-Rabbo and Safie, The Palestinian Uprising; Bennis, From Stones to Statehood; Hass, Drinking the Sea; Hiltermann, Behind the Intifada; Lockman and Beinin, Intifada; Nassar and Heacock, Intifada; Oliver and Steinberg, “Popular Music of the Intifada”; Peteet, “The Writing on the Walls”; Steinberg and Oliver, The Graffiti of the Intifada.

8. Hiltermann, Behind the Intifada, 211.

9. Sirhan, Arshif al-Fulklur al-Filastin, 10–14.

10. Taraki, “The Development of Political Consciousness,” 60–62.

11. The most important historical references to Palestinian resistance at this time were the 1834 rebellion against the Ottoman/Egyptian occupation of Ibrahim Pasha and the Great Revolt of 1936 against the British colonial administration. For more on these revolts and their influence on the development of an indigenous Palestinian nationalism, see Kimmerling and Migdal, Palestinians.

12. Sirhan, Arshif al-Fulklur al-Filastin, 6.

13. Ibid., 7.

14. Turino, Music as Social Life, 104.

15. Hiltermann, Behind the Intifada.

16. Barghouti, “Adat al-Zuwaj al-Rif al-Filastini,” 19–21; Sirhan, Arshif al-Fulklur al-Filastin, 11–15.

17. Sirhan, Arshif al-Fulklur al-Filastin, 12.

18. Ibid.

19. Tamimi, Hamas: A History from Within.

20. The use of the word “song” to describe this repertory is perhaps inappropriate given that for many of its performers anashīd is conceptualized as an extension of the divine revelation. Terms such as “music” and “song” are not used to describe Quranic recitation (tajwīd), anashīd, or other religious-themed recitation.

21. Oliver and Steinberg, “Popular Music of the Intifada.”

22. The literature on music and Islamic jurisprudence is quite extensive. For further reading, see al-Faruqi, “The Status of Music in Muslim Nations” and “Music, Musicians, and Muslim Law”; Nelson, The Art of Reciting the Qur'an; Qureshi, “Sounding the Word: Music in the Life of Islam”; Shiloah, Music in the World of Islam: A Socio-Cultural Study and “Music and Religion in Islam.”

23. Several studies are worthy of mention here in their discussion of Sabreen and its influence on the development of Palestinian political songs: Boullata and Hiltermann, “Improvisation and Continuity”; al-Taee, “Voices of Peace”; and Massad, “Liberating Songs.”

24. Boullata and Hiltermann, “Improvisation and Continuity,” 33–34.

25. Personal communications with Suhail Khoury and Issa Bulous, 2004 and 2010.

26. See Rasmussen, “Theory and Practice at the 'Arabic org.'”

27. It should be noted that both of these concessions were inspired by a promised, and much-needed, ten-billion-dollar loan guarantee by the Bush administration in 1992. Additionally Rabin's promise to freeze settlement activity applied only to settlements not yet under construction. All other settlements already under construction were completed as planned.

28. Rubenberg, The Palestinians, 60–61.

29. Hass, Drinking the Sea, 64–65, 325, 332.

30. The basis for this treaty was actually formalized seven years earlier when Shimon Peres and King Hussein initialed a draft of a potential peace treaty. Then Prime Minister Yitzhak Shamir later refused to endorse the negotiations and the draft was deserted. For further insightful discussion of the Jordanian-Israeli peace process, including its social and political effects on the Jordanian public sphere, see Lynch, State Interests and Public Spheres, 166–97. On the motivations and limitations of King Hussein to pursue a formal peace treaty, see Lynch, State Interests and Public Spheres; and Abu-Odeh, Jordanians, Palestinians.

31. The return of the PLO to Gaza marked the first time a Palestinian political party was allowed to operate inside the Occupied Territories and the first time many of its officials were allowed to return to their ancestral homeland. Among Palestinians in the territories, PLO officials were colloquially called “the Tunisians,” signifying the estrangement and perceived cultural distance between the wandering politicians and the people. For more information on the return of the PLO, see Hass, Drinking the Sea.

32. Sentiments such as these were common in my many interviews with refugees and political officials in the territories. Published accounts of reactions to the Oslo accords can be found in Hass, Drinking the Sea; and Rubenberg, The Palestinians.

33. Avakian, “Gaza,” 53.

34. Translation provided in Sabreen, Here Come the Doves, booklet and CD liner notes. Sabreen SAB 004, 1994.

35. Sabreen, Here Come the Doves.

36. Ibid.

37. Personal communication with Issa Boulos and Nader Jalal, 2010.

38. Al-Taee, “Voices of Peace”; Massad, “Liberating Songs.”

39. Sabreen, Here Come the Doves.

40. Hass, Drinking the Sea, 103.

41. Ibid., 102–4.

42. Al-Taee, “Voices of Peace”; Brinner, Playing across a Divide.

Chapter 5

1. Ariel Sharon's comments to the media following his visit to the holy sites in total are as follows. “I can tell you that what I was really more affected than anything was by the hatred, and that of course creates a very hard feeling about what's going to be in the future if Barak, the prime minister, will manage to divide the city of Jerusalem. Because if you saw all those forces today, not to forget to thank them all, because they are working very hard, just imagine what will be the sizes of the forces that will be needed if Jerusalem will be divided as the prime minister wants. Therefore, we will make every effort to replace his government as early as possible, and I believe that's going to happen. It should happen very early, because many, many problems will be caused here. Again, I came here not as a provocation, but I came here in order really to bring a message of peace.” Transcript of this interview published by the British Broadcasting Corporation (London and Jerusalem), September 30, 2000.

2. Ben Kaspit, “Jewish New Year 2002—The Second Anniversary of the Intifada,” Ma'ariv (Jerusalem, Israeli daily newspaper), September 6, 2002.

3. Rubenberg, The Palestinians: In Search of a Just Peace, 116–21.

4. Hassan Mekki, “Palestinian Scarf Sales Soar in Jordan,” Jordan Times (Amman), September 28, 2002.

5. Lyrics were written by Dr. Madhath al-Adl; the song was composed by Riyad Al-Hamshra. Participants were Nadia Latfa, Samiha Abwab, Anar al-Hakim, Asad Bubis, Hanan Nark, Muna Zaka, Munaliza, Mahmoud Yassin, Faruq al-Fashawi, Samer al-Adl, Mohammad Hanidi, Ahmad al-Safa, Khalid al-Nabwa, Sharif Munir, Hani Ramzi, Hani Salama, Karim abd al-Aziz, ida Sultan, Madhath Salah, ida Amar, Riyad al-Hamshari, Yasra, Hisham Abbas, Muna abd al-Ghani, Mohammad Hamafi, Lina, Talat Zain, Sabreen, Abhab Tawfiq, Shima Said, Mohammad Mahbi, Miriam Nuh, Tariq Fuad, Dalia, Khalid Ajaj, Maha al-Badri, Hakim, Anoushka, and Ala abd al-Khalaq.

6. “Jerusalem Is Our Land” featured a large-scale music video filmed in the Occupied Territories in 2001. The video was directed by the Egyptian Sherif Sabri and won Best Video at the Arabic Video Clip Festival. That same year Diab began a regional tour through Syria, Lebanon, and Jordan sponsored by Pepsi Cola. Afterward Diab purchased a multimillion-dollar mansion in Beirut and spent the rest of the year on holiday in Europe with his family.

7. I borrow this term from Elliot Colla, who has written an engaging article on the development of pop intifada material culture in Egypt; see Colla, “Sentimentality and Redemption.”

8. Lynch, Voices of the New Arab Public: Iraq, al-Jazeera, and Middle East Politics Today.

9. Allen, “Martyr Bodies in the Media: Human Rights, Aesthetics, and the Politics of Immediation in the Palestinian Intifada,” 170.

10. Frishkopf, “Mediated Qur'anic Recitation and the Contestation of Islam in Contemporary Egypt,” 107.

11. [http://purl.dlib.indiana.edu/iudl/eviada/14-S7686]

12. Hirschkind, The Ethical Soundscape: Cassette Sermons and Islamic Counter-publics, 144; Frishkopf, “Mediated Qur'anic Recitation and the Contestation of Islam in Contemporary Egypt,” 107.

Chapter 6

1. This translation comes from Elmessiri, The Palestinian Wedding, 55.

2. Comaroff and Comaroff, Of Revelation and Revolution.

3. Geertz, The Interpretation of Cultures, 3–30.

4. Warren, The Violence Within, 1–23.

5. Ibid., 8.

6. Ibid.

7. Farah, “Popular Memory and Reconstructions of Palestinian Identity.”

8. The official UNRWA definition of a Palestinian refugee is someone whose normal place of residence was Palestine during the period June 1, 1946, to May 15, 1948, and who lost both their home and means of livelihood as a result of the 1948 conflict. This definition is applied only to those Palestinians who took refuge in one of the countries where UNRWA services were available.

9. [http://purl.dlib.indiana.edu/iudl/eviada/14-S6800]

10. For further details relating to the battle of Karama and its aftermath, see Bailey, Jordan's Palestinian Challenge, 37; and Abu-Odeh, Jordanians, Palestinians, and the Hashemite Kingdom, 170–71.

11. McDonald, “Geographies of the Body.”

12. The confiscation of passports or travel documents was a typical tactic of the state to punish activists and other dissenting voices. In taking away one's passport the state took away the ability to leave the country, virtually imprisoning thousands of Palestinian activists in Jordan. In this particular instance the state wanted desperately to prevent able-bodied Jordanians from fighting for the PLO.

13. Massad, Colonial Effects, 249; Brand, Palestinians in the Arab World, 173.

14. Brand, Palestinians and Jordanians; and Layne, “The Dialogics of Tribal Self-Representation in Jordan.”

15. Queen Noor, Leap of Faith, 210.

16. Ibid.

17. Ibid.

18. Ibid., 254.

19. [http://purl.dlib.indiana.edu/iudl/eviada/14-S0790]

20. Bardenstein, “Trees, Forests, and the Shaping of Palestinian and Israeli Collective Memory.”

21. Several important studies on the importance of the olive tree in Palestinian folklore and cultural memory are worthy of mentioning here. See Braverman, “Uprooting Identities”; Bardenstein, “Trees, Forests, and the Shaping of Palestinian and Israeli Collective Memory”; and “Threads of Memory and Discourses of Rootedness: Of Trees, Oranges, and the Prickly-Pear Cactus in Israel/Palestine.”

22. The kaba (sacred house), located in the city of Mecca, is the holiest site in Islam. It represents the qibla (the direction Muslims must face in prayer) and is the highest object of worship in the Muslim faith.

23. Queen Noor, Leap of Faith, 210.

24. A copy of this speech was provided to me by the Jordanian historian and professor Ali Muhafaza. See also Massad, Colonial Effects, 259.

25. The 1985–89 cabinet included ten Palestinian ministers out of a total of twenty-three. The resumption of parliamentary activities brought back into service the binational confederated parliament, consisting of two separate legislative houses, one Jordanian and the other Palestinian.

26. Abu-Odeh, Jordanians, Palestinians, and the Hashemite Kingdom in the Peace Process, 222.

27. Maan has the reputation as being the most conservative city in Jordan. It is widely known that Maan is the center of strict Islamic fundamentalism in the kingdom, where music concerts of any political orientation are often considered morally suspect.

Chapter 7

1. Ziyad Mazid joined Baladna in 1985 and wrote “Dawla” in 1988. Upon Kamal's arrest in 1988 Mazid left the group to avoid police harassment and intimidation.

2. Scott, Domination and the Arts of Resistance.

3. [http://purl.dlib.indiana.edu/iudl/eviada/14-S4997]

4. In 2008 Human Rights Watch released a ninety-five-page report documenting the widespread problem of torture in Jordanian prisons. The report finds that credible allegations of ill treatment amounting to torture were found in sixty-six out of 110 Jordanian prisons in 2007 and 2008. Researchers personally found evidence of torture in seven of ten prisons visited. There evidence suggested that five prison directors personally participated in the torture of detainees. For further study, see Chirstopher Wilke, Torture and Impunity in Jordan's Prisons: Reforms Fail to Tackle Widespread Abuse.

5. Swaqa prison is infamous for housing some of Jordan's most high-profile political prisoners, including Abu Musab al-Zarqawi and Mohammad al-Maqdisi. For many Palestinian activists and political prisoners, Swaqa is known as the bayt al-anf (house of violence) for its torture and other mistreatment of political prisoners.

6. One of these two songs by Ibrahim Nasrallah was the wildly popular “Ala Jida Zaytuna.” This song became the title track for Baladna's second studio recording.

7. Among other things, the price of gas rose 50 percent overnight, causing ripples throughout the Jordanian economy affecting the cost and availability of foodstuffs, transportation, and other necessary commodities.

8. It should be noted that the Maan riots were a direct reaction to and political comment on the financial stresses placed on the local community and were not at all directed toward the king himself. In fact before the bank was torched by the angry mob, all of the hanging pictures of the king and royal family were removed from the building so that they would escape the blaze.

9. Brand, “Economic and Political Liberalization in a Rentier Economy”; Satloff, “Jordan's Great Gamble”; Brynen, “Economic Crisis and Post-Rentier Democratization in the Arab World.”

10. Lynch, State Interests and Public Spheres, 105–10.

11 Ibid.

12. Royal amnesties such as this are a common practice in Jordan. Usually they are used as a political tactic to gain public support, commemorate public or religious holidays, or otherwise present an image of benevolence and clemency to the people.

13. Queen Noor's autobiography describes the king's initial reaction as one of anger and frustration that he was not included in the negotiations; see Queen Noor, Leap of Faith, 361. Likewise a former advisor to King Hussein, Adnan Abu-Odeh, documents the king's initial surprise and frustration upon learning of the negotiations; see Jordanians, Palestinians and the Hashemite Kingdom in the Middle East Peace Process, 234.

14. Ibid., 235.

15 Hass, Drinking the Sea.

16. Al-Rai (Amman), May 5, 2004.

17. Jordan Times (Amman), February 7–8, 2003.

18. Two of the most prominent collections of Palestinian poetry to have published Ibrahim Nasrallah's work are Jayyusi, Modern Arabic Poetry; and Elmessiri, “The Palestinian Wedding.”

19. [http://purl.dlib.indiana.edu/iudl/eviada/14-A4295]

20. It is worth noting that the salutation Allah machūm was spoken in a noticeably distinct Palestinian dialect emphasizing the ch sound instead of the classically pronounced Allah makūm. Her use of a distinctly rural Palestinian dialect is significant in that it caused Kamal to instinctively respond to her in the same style accent. In its linguistic code switching, their brief yet heartfelt exchange was itself a performance of Palestinian nationalism.

Chapter 8

1. Central Bureau of Statistics, Statistical Abstract of Israel (Jerusalem: Central Bureau of Statistics, 2001).

2. For an interesting social history of Lyd and the relationship between its inhabitants and the Israeli state, see Yacobi, “From Urban Panopticism to Spatial Protest.”

3. Official crime statistics from Lyd at this time are difficult to obtain; however, several articles in Israeli newspapers have documented the problems of drug addiction and drug-related crime in Lyd. For this, see Ori Nir and Lily Galili, “The Jews Can Leave but the Arabs Have Nowhere to Go,” Ha'aretz (Jerusalem), December 3, 2000.

4. Stein and Swedenburg, “Popular Culture, Relational History, and the Question of Power in Palestine and Israel.”

5. Bennett et al., Popular Culture and Social Relations.

6. The literature on Palestinians in Israel is extensive. Regarding issues of religion and citizenship in the Israeli legal system, see Kretzmer, The Legal Status of the Arabs in Israel, 77–98; and U. Davis, Israel: An Apartheid State, 13–74. In addition there are important contributions to the literature on Palestinians in Israel by Rouhana, Palestinian Citizens in an Ethnic Jewish State; and Rouhana and Ghanem, “The Crisis of Minorities in Ethnic States,” 321–46. A fascinating edited collection of essays on Palestinian politics in Israel in the post-October 2000 context was published under the editorship of Alexander Bligh in The Israeli Palestinians. Most recently these issues were the subject of investigation in an volume edited by Daniel Monterescu and Dan Rabinowitz, Mixed Towns, Trapped Communities.

7. Kanaaneh, Birthing the Nation, 9–22. In her analysis Kanaaneh speaks of the “demographic demon” presented by higher birth rates among Palestinians than Jews in Israel.

8. The terms Palestinians of '48 or Israeli Arabs have their own histories as well as political underpinnings. While it is beyond the scope of this book to engage in the debate as to which is the more appropriate appellation, who benefits from such a name, and who has the power to decide, I have chosen to use Palestinians of '48 or Palestinian Israelis simply because these are the most popular way the subjects of this chapter represented themselves to me, and have asked to be represented.

9. Smooha, “The Advances and Limits of the Israelization of Israel's Palestinian Citizens,” 16; The Orientation and Politicization of the Arab Minority in Israel; and “Ethnic Democracy.” It should be mentioned that these data were collected in the period directly following the peace process, or during the post-Oslo honeymoon, as it is often called. Thus these data represent a particular historical moment in Palestinian society characterized by optimism and the hope for peace. No such data are available on the general beliefs and attitudes of the Palestinian Israeli population since the beginning of the al-Aqsa intifada. Nevertheless it is safe to assume that political and cultural engagement as a result of the intifada would greatly affect data collected in the present day.

10. Smooha, “The Advances and Limits of the Israelization of Israel's Palestinian Citizens,” 17.

11. Ibid., 16.

12. Ibid., 20.

13. Rouhana, Palestinian Citizens in an Ethnic Jewish State.

14. For many, the term Israeli Arab refers to origins in and attachments to the “out-side” Arab world. Such a play in meanings serves to deny the uninterrupted link these people have with their homes in Israel and at the same time refashions their native origins in Israel as rooted in the “outside” Arab world. In state discourse this is a deft way of turning an indigenous native population into a “foreign outside other.”

15. Smooha, “The Advances and Limits of the Israelization of Israel's Palestinian Citizens,” 20.

16. Channels of Rage, produced and directed by Anat Halachmi, 96 min., 2004, DVD; Slingshot Hip-Hop, produced and directed by Jacqueline Salloum, 2005, DVD; Checkpoint Rock: Songs from Palestine, produced and directed by Javier Corcuera and Fermin Muguruza, 2009, DVD.

17. Walid Batrawi, “Arab Israeli Band Performs to Tell a People's Story,” Inter Press Service, May 25, 2004.

18. In different online news articles written about dam, there are conflicting accounts as to the meaning of the group's name. In some instances dam means only blood, or only immortality, or only “Da Arabic MCs.” There are also articles that state that there is no meaning to the word at all. This particular account, which includes the juxtaposition of all three meanings, was given to me by Suheil Nafar in an interview in summer 2005.

19. Blag Magazine, “Creative Environments” (joint interview of Dave Watts by Tamer Nafar, 2004). This quotation was originally written by Tamer Nafar in a thick urban dialect. For ease of reading I have changed many of his spellings.

20. Naji al-Ali is the famed political cartoonist noted for his criticism of Israel in his works. He drew well over four hundred thousand cartoons, many of which were harshly critical of Israeli, Palestinian, and Arab political leaders.

21. Marius Schattner, “Violence with Israel Further Isolates Arab Minority,” Agence France Presse (Paris), October 2, 2000.

22. Ibid.

23. Ha'aretz (Jerusalem), November 12, 2000; BBC (London), October 11, 2000; Guardian (London), October 6, 2000.

24. On September 15, 2005, the police investigations department concluded its inquiry into the deaths of the twelve Israeli and one Palestinian victims of Black October. Its conclusion was that the killings were not a crime and that no charges would be brought against police responsible for the deaths. Throughout the investigation the commission was highly criticized for its handling of the situation. See, for example, Yoav Stern, “Arab Victim Families: Review of Oct. Probe 'Stinking Maneuver,'” Ha'aretz (Jerusalem), September 29, 2005.

25. Deborah Camiel, “TN Don't Stand for Tennessee No Mo': It Stands for Tamer Nafar,” Reuters, November 20, 2000.

26. Ibid.

27. This translation was the result of collaboration between the author and dam. I have made every effort to provide a clear translation that maintains and preserves the artists' preferences for certain words and phrases. In this example I would not have translated khāin as renegade. I felt that their intent was more “traitor.” However dam were clear in their wish that this word be translated as renegade. They felt that renegade had more of an urban hip-hop connotation and better matched their original inspiration.

28. Here it is worth noting the phenomenal documentary by Anat Halachmi, Channels of Rage (2004). This powerful movie chronicles the lives and careers of both Subliminal and Tamer Nafar, beginning with their early friendship as fellow rap artists and their eventual split as each grew more and more politicized.

29. Tamer Nafar stated this to me in one of our first interviews. Aviv Gefen stated in an interview with the Jerusalem Report, dated May 5, 2003, that twelve thousand people had downloaded the song from his YNET website.

30. Avidan, “Peaceful Rage,” Jerusalem Report (Jerusalem), May 5, 2003, 43.

31. These comments were a part of a nationally televised interview on the Israeli program Entertainment Tonight shortly after the video for “Innocent Criminals” was broadcast.

32. Avidan, “Peaceful Rage,” Jerusalem Report (Jerusalem), May 5, 2003, 43.

33. Ibid.

34. A copy of this interview was given to me by the artists and was also included in Anat Halachmi's Channels of Rage (2004).

35. A fascinating example of how the discourse of terrorism has been played out in Israeli society is how in September 2005 an off-duty Israeli soldier murdered four Palestinians on a bus in Shfaram. Although Prime Minister Ariel Sharon described the murders as “a despicable act by a blood thirsty terrorist,” the victims' families were denied state assistance because the state ministry recognizes terrorism only as committed by “organizations hostile to Israel.” See, for example, Chris McGeal, “Jewish Gunman Was No Terrorist, Israel Rules,” Guardian Unlimited (London), September 1, 2005.

Chapter 9

1. Notice the use of “us” for Palestinians under occupation, as opposed to the “them” for Palestinians living as Israeli citizens. One group has rights within the nation-state; the other is under occupation from a foreign government. Many in Ramallah were quick to label Palestinians of '48 as non-Palestinian based on their enfranchisement in Israeli society, a position that many Palestinians Israelis would disagree with.

2. This slogan is found in varying forms throughout the Palestinian world. Usually the last word of the phrase, the “thing” for which people will sacrifice themselves, is variable. The use of Arafat as the subject of their loyalty is common but not as widespread as the more general “Palestine.”

3. Given that there is no “p” sound in Arabic, words with the letter p such as pizza and Pepsi become bīzza and Babsī. Here rap music becomes rāb in dialect.

4. McDonald, “Poetics and the Performance of Violence in Israel/Palestine,” 72–78.

5. In certain public situations a Palestinian in Israel is almost guaranteed to be asked to present his or her identity card. Boarding buses; entering bus stations, restaurants, and shopping malls; and walking through public squares and plazas are all instances where Palestinians are requested to stand aside and be searched or questioned. In one particularly telling moment a Palestinian friend was commanded to sit on the curb and show his identity card because we were speaking Arabic in a Jewish neighborhood. After a very tense twenty minutes of waiting and arguing with the Israeli soldier we were allowed to continue on. As we walked away from the scene, my friend turned to me and said that if I wanted to continue working with him I should learn to speak better Hebrew.

6. Knauft, Genealogies for the Present in Cultural Anthropology, 166.

7. Foucault, Power/Knowledge, 133.

8. Ibid., 93.

9. Ibid., 98.

10. Ibid.

11. Mahmoud Darwish, “Identity Card” (1964), unpublished poem.

12. Stein and Swedenburg, “Popular Culture, Relational History, and the Question of Power in Palestine and Israel”; Taraki, Living Palestine: Family Survival, Resistance, and Mobility under Occupation.

13. Greenberg, “The King of the Streets: Hip-Hop and the Reclaiming of Masculinity in Jerusalem's Shuafat Refugee Camp.”

14. Collard, “dam of Lod,” Rolling Stone, January 2012.

Epilogue

1. See Laclau and Zac, “Minding the Gap.”

2. I gratefully borrow this concept and its imagery from Judith Butler, Bodies That Matter.

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INDEX

Aas, Jamil al-, 180

‘Abbasi, Daoud, 35

‘Abd al-Wahab, Mohammad, 72–76; compositions, 73–76; orchestras, 73–74

Abdhu, Mohammad, 180

Abdullah, King of Jordan, 308–9n45

‘Abid, Khalil, 155

Abu Ghraib prison, 11

Abu-Lughod, Lila, 26–27, 41

activism. See resistance

“Aghniyat Hubb li-Shahid al-Karak” (song), 174–79, 199

Ahmad, Abu, 155

Ahmad, Fayza, 73

‘Akka Prison, 44, 54–55, 307n10. See also “Min Sijin ‘Akka” (song)

‘‘Ala Abwab al-Quds” (song), 146

‘alā dal‘ūnā, 62–64

“Ala Jida‘ al-Zaytuna” (poem/song), 165–67

Ali, Abu. See Munther, Hussein

‘Ali, Naji al-, 3, 246, 318n20

Aloni, Udi, 257

‘Alqam, Nabil, 59, 66–67, 104

‘Amal al-Sha‘bi, al-, 124–25

Amman, 92, 158, 194–95, 198

“Anashid al-Jihad” (‘Abd al-Wahab song), 75

“Anashid al-Qassam” (‘Abd al-Wahab song), 75

anashīd songs, 128–29, 155, 161, 312n20

Anderson, Perry, 29

‘Aql, Abd al-Latif, 130

Aqsa Intifada, al- (2002–2006): characteristics of, 1–2; compared to 1980s uprisings, 224; curfews and access to music, 220; end of, 215–16; exilic performativity for, 193–98; folklore in, 119–23; hip-hop music and, 249; popular music and, 148–53; revival of protest songs, 153, 218–20; start of, 144–45, 247–52; student resistance in, 3; support for, 147, 192–93; young singers‘ music and, 155–62

Aqsa Mosque, al-, 1

Arab, Abu, 101–3

Arab, use of term, 47

Arab classical music, 81

“‘Arabi wa al-Sahyuni, Al-” (Ibrahim poetic debate), 46–52

Arafat, Yasser, 11, 92, 94, 97, 133–34, 190

Arian, Ahmad, al-, 148

‘Ashqar, Ihab al-, 118

assimilation, 77, 105, 167, 170–71

‘atābā, 60–62

‘Auynat, ‘Abd al-Fatah, 155

Avakian, Alexandra, 134

‘awda, al-, 160–62

Awlād ‘Ali tribe, 26

‘Ayn al-Hilwa refugee camp, 145

“Bahubbak Ya Misr” (Sheikh Imam song), 83

Bakr, Hilmi, 148

Baladna (musical group). See Firqa Baladna (musical group)

Barak, Ehud, 248

Barghouti, Abdellatif al-, 104

Barghouti, Hussein, 130, 131, 138–40

“Batal al-Thawa” (‘Abd al-Wahab song), 75

Bedouin identity, 176, 177, 180, 189

Begin, Menachem, 95–96, 180

Beirut, siege of, 96, 97

belonging: in diaspora community, 32–33, 39, 227, 241; olive tree metaphor, 186; performativity and, 23–25, 39, 283–86; protest songs and, 21, 241; through resistance, 55, 227, 228–29

Bilad al-Sham, 39, 43, 65–66, 71, 105

“Bitaqa Hawiya” (Darwish), 273–74

Black October. See Aqsa Intifada, al- (2002–2006)

Black September civil war (1970–1971), 94–97, 178, 180

blood, as trope, 102, 110–11, 160, 176, 178, 187–88

Boulos, ‘Issa, 129

Bread Riots (1989), 211–12

Break-Dancing Club, 274–76, 275

Brightman, Sarah, 152

Butrous, Julia, 98–99, 112, 235–37

Cassady, Neal, 124, 125

Caton, Steven, 60

censorship, state, 6–7, 156, 222

Channels of Rage (Halachmi documentary), 243

Checkpoint Rock (Corcuera/Muguruza documentary), 243

Cocuera, Javier, 243

collective identity formation, 31, 32, 89, 118, 272–73

cultural festivals, 181–82

dabke line dancing, 17–22; rhythms, 108–9, 115; song types, 45, 54

Dabke on the Moon (DAM album), 281

Dahbour, Ahmad, 105–8

DAM (rap group), 19, 22, 244, 265; acronym derivation, 245; aesthetic transformation of, 260–61, 277–81, 283; collaboration with Gefen, 254–57; early influences, 244–47; fan base, 243–44, 256; influence of intifada on, 249–50, 252; performance in Lyd, 233–40, 234–35; themes in songs, 256–60; use of Tupac music, 253; video, 257–60; West Bank tour, 262–74. See also specific songs

“Dama‘ al-Aqsa” (song), 146

“Damashq” (‘Abd al-Wahab song), 75

Darwish, Mahmoud, 107, 130, 138, 172, 273–74, 278

Darwish, Sayyid, 101

dawla, 200

“Dawla” (song), 199–203, 201

“Dawla Min?” (Sheikh Imam song), 83

“Dayn al-Thuwwar” (song), 93

Declaration of Principles (DOP), 1, 2, 117, 132–33, 135, 160, 214–16

Diab, ‘Amru, 150, 152–53

Diab, Mohammad, 106

dispossession, Palestinian: dabke and, 22; experience of, 3–4, 14, 26–27, 30–31, 38–39, 117, 168, 285; performativity and, 31–32, 57, 59, 76, 117–18, 189, 227–28, 283; resistance and, 39, 170; Tupac and, 20–21

diwānīn, 41–42, 76, 309n54

DOP. See Declaration of Principles

“Doves are Coming, The” (Sabreen song), 136, 140–41

Dukhan al-Barakin (Sabreen recording), 129–30

Durra, Jamal al-, 145

Durra, Mohammad al-, 145–46, 145–50, 157, 258

Dustūr, al- (newspaper), 212

ethnography, defined, 3–4

ethnomusicology: defined, 4; Palestine nationalism and, 28–33

“Fallahin, Al-” (Sheikh Imam song), 83

Faris, Abu, 123

Faruq I, King of Egypt, 70

Fatah, al-, 88, 92–93, 118, 127, 135, 160

feminist scholarship, 25–26

fidāīyīn guerrilla movement, 88–91, 90, 92, 94–97, 187

“Filastin” (‘Abd al-Wahab song), 75

“Filastin” (Sheikh Imam song), 83

Firqa Baladna (musical group), 10, 105, 163, 168; on collective resistance, 178; dawla and, 199–203; on forms of violence, 168–69; Khalil imprisonment and, 210, 221; origins of, 170–71; Palestinian exilic music of, 167–68, 189; on performance as resistance, 196–98; performance choices, 194–96; popularity of, 174, 192, 194; post-intifada, 217–18; reunited with Khalil, 213–14; revival of, 218–20; second recording, 204–5. See also Khalil, Kamal; specific songs

Firqat Aghani al-‘Ashiqin (musical group), 7–8, 36–39, 107; national anthems by, 108–15, 109, 112; origins of, 105–6; repertory, 106–7; revival of, 153–54

Firqat al-Markaziya (musical group), 92–94

Firqat al-Riif (musical group), 4

folklore: aesthetics of, 279; identity and, 121; preservation of, 21–22, 59, 104–5; as resistance, 22, 104, 107–8, 119–23, 199, 263–64; scholarship on, 31, 41–42; in song, 19, 52, 58, 183, 196

folk poetry, 42, 43–44, 61–62, 102, 107–8, 122

folk songs, Jordanian, 180

folk songs, Palestinian: collections of, 58; indigenous, use of, 44–45, 55, 62, 87, 101, 103–9, 124–26, 138, 194–96; instruments, 114–15, 128–29, 138; as mobilization tool, 41; religious, 128; revival of, 103–5; structures of, 46–47; themes in, 65, 103. See also specific songs

‘48s. See Palestinians of ‘48

Foucault, Michel, 271–72

Free Officers corps, 70

Frishkopf, Michael, 157

Fursan, al- (recording company), 155

Gadara ruins, 34

Galilee, 35

Gaza Strip: al-Aqsa Intifada in, 144–45; NGOs and, 136; occupation of, 2, 6; resistance movement and, 104

Gefen, Aviv, 254–57

Gemayel, Bashir, 95–96

“Gharib fi Biladi!” (Jrere song), 240–41

“Givara” (Sheikh Imam song), 83

Great Arab Revolt (1936–1939), 41, 56–57, 107, 180

“Gypsy, The” (Sabreen song), 137–38

Habbash, Khaled, 106

Hadag Nasach (hip-hop group), 243

Hadba, ‘Abd al-Aziz Abu. See Hani, Abu

Hafez, ‘Abd al-Halim, 73, 74–75

“Hail Mary” (Tupac song), 253

Halachmi, Anat, 243

Hamas, 127–29

Hani, Abu, 18–20, 21–23, 104, 285, 286

Haram al-Sharif, 1, 247

Hass, Amira, 142

hawīya. See identity card, Israeli

Here Come the Doves. See Jay al-ammam (Sabreen recording)

“Hilm al-‘Arabi, Al-” (song), 148–49, 151

hip-hop music. See rap/hip-hop music

“Hubbat al-Nar” (song), 108–11, 109, 114

Hudba, Abdel Aziz, 104

humanitarian aid, 125–26, 178–79, 227

“Huriyat ‘Ardina” (‘Abd al-Wahab song), 75

Husa, Abu, 311n1

Hussein, King of Jordan, 71, 79, 92, 94, 133, 170, 179–80, 190–91, 210

Hussein, Noor al-, Queen consort, 181, 182, 189

Husum, Yusuf al-, 107

ūa, 187–88

Ibna al-Bilad, 124–25

Ibrahim, Nuh, 43–46, 107; poetic debate by, 46–52; protest song by, 52–56

identification, Palestinian, 4, 11, 24, 66, 90, 229, 284, 285–86. See also belonging

identity, Jordanian, 162, 176, 181, 188–89, 193, 215, 228

identity, Palestinian: cultural organizations and, 104–5; denial of, 251; destruction of, 2; folklore and, 121; hope, effect on, 141–43; Islamist, 155–58; music, role of, 11, 13–14, 142–43, 197, 228–29, 279, 284; national, formation of, 28–33, 77, 91–92, 103–4, 169, 283; national, in exile, 7, 38–39, 131, 162, 215, 227, 243; nationalist tropes, 25; olive tree metaphor, 186; performance and, 4, 22–24, 40, 76, 193, 196, 285–86; of rap artists, 263; in refugee camps, 89, 104, 171; resistance and, 89, 122, 196, 228, 285; self-determination and, 25, 28–29, 117, 170, 203, 271, 279, 283–84. See also collective identity formation; identity, Jordanian

identity, pan-Arab, 148

identity card, Israeli, 269–74

IDF. See Israeli Defense Force

IMF. See International Monetary Fund

“Innocent Criminals” (DAM song), 252–54

International Monetary Fund (IMF), 211

Intifada (1987–1993), 1, 116–27; demonstrations, 118–19, 122–25, 124; jīl al-ijāra and, 120–21; performative media in, 117–18, 124–27, 129–31, 135, 220; start of, 116–17;

Intifada (1987–1993) (continued) UNLU during, 118–19. See also Aqsa Intifada, al- (2002–2006)

“Ishhad Ya ‘Alam” (song), 108, 111–15, 112

Israeli Arab, use of term, 242–43, 317–18n8, 318n14

Israeli Defense Force (IDF), 1, 145

‘Issa, Nizar al-, 106

‘Issa, Sheikh Imam: background, 81–83; influence of, 172–73; songs, 83–87

Istura al-Jenin (Shalash recording), 155

Ja’fri, Mustapha al-, 155

Jalal, Nader, 158

Jam‘iya An‘ash al-Usra, 104–5

Jay al-ammam (Sabreen recording), 136–41, 137

Jazeera, al- (television station), 151–52

Jerash Festival of Culture and the Arts, 181–90

jīl al-ijāra, 120–21

“Jil al-Sa‘id, Al-” (‘Abd al-Wahab song), 75

Jordan: Bedouin identity in, 180; Black September civil war, 94–97, 178, 180; cultural identity, 181–82; growing nationalism in, 179–80; Palestinian diaspora in, 3, 23, 92, 170–71, 228–29, 243; protests in, 145–46; riots in, 210–12; state censorship in, 6–7

Jrere, Mahmoud, 233, 234–35, 240–41, 243, 245, 259. See also DAM (rap group)

June War/Al-Naksa (1967), 78–81, 91, 93, 100, 106–7, 121, 209, 285

Kafarna, Marwan, 118

Kahan Commission, 96–97

“Kalb al-Sitt” (Sheikh Imam song), 83

Kamal, Ahmad Shafik, 73

Kanaan, Mohammad, 247–48

Kanaana, Sharif, 103, 104

Karam, Najwa, 152–53

karāma, use of term, 110

Karmi, Abd al-Karim al-, 55

Khalife, Marcel, 152, 172, 173

Khalil, Kamal, 10, 17–18, 135, 165, 168, 174–75; background, 171–72; dawla and, 199–202; experiences of exile, 21, 22, 170, 227–30; friendship with Nasrallah, 224–25; imprisonment, 164–65, 183–84, 187, 189–90, 204–8, 221; influences, 172–73; intifada song revival and, 153, 218–20; on Jerash Festival, 182–85, 188–89, 191–92; on Al-Nakba songs, 58; on olive tree, 162–67, 227–30, 247; on performing as resistance, 196–97; release from prison, 212–14; return to Jordan, 216–18; on self-determination, 202, 227, 285; al-Wahdat wedding performance, 225–26. See also Firqa Baladna; specific songs

Khoury, Suhail, 125–27, 220

Kilani, Ali al-, 97–98

Kiwan, Abdullah, 155

Kotej, 233

Kulthum, Umm, 72

Kurd, Mustapha al-, 135, 153

“Kuwait” (‘Abd al-Wahab song), 75

Kwami, 233

Labor Party, 132

Laclau, Ernesto, 284

Lake Tiberias, 35

“Laya wa Laya” (song), 183, 183–85, 188, 192, 199

Lockman, Zachary, 29–30

Lufti, Arab, 222

Lyd: DAM performance in, 233–40, 234–35; drug culture in, 231–32

Lynch, Marc, 211

Ma‘an riots, 211

Ma’ariv (newspaper), 145

Mabhuh, Tawfiq al-, 118

“Mad al-Mad, Al-” (song), 94

Mahmood, Saba, 27

Mahmoud, Abd al-Rahim, 55

Majali, Ahmad, 174–79

Maqalah, Abd al-Aziz al-, 130

maqawma. See resistance

“Marr al-Kalam” (Sheikh Imam song), 83

martyrdom: in al-Aqba intifada, 145–46; shahīd, 20–21, 22, 188; social media and, 2

“Masira Sha‘bna” (song), 94

Mawt al-Nabi (Sabreen recording), 130–31

“Mawwal Filastini Masri” (Sheikh Imam song), 83

“Min Irhabi?” (DAM song), 257–60, 275

“Min Rahm al-Ard” (song), 159–60

“Min Sijin ‘Akka” (song), 52–56, 108

“Misr Ya Bahiya” (Sheikh Imam song), 83

Mohammad (Prophet), 128

Muguruza, Fermin, 243

muāwara, 45–46. See also “‘Arabi wa al-Sahyuni, Al-” (Ibrahim poetic debate)

Munther, Ali, 154

Munther, Hussein, 54, 106, 114, 153–54

muraba‘ poems, 43–44, 70

Murad, Said, 130

musical instruments: in ‘Abd al-Wahab orchestras, 73; in resistance songs, 93, 114–15

Nafar, Suheil, 233, 234–35, 243. See also DAM (rap group)

Nafar, Tamer, 20, 22–23, 243, 281; on break-dancing, 274–76; collaboration with Gefen, 254–57; on DAM influences, 245–46; in DAM video, 257–59; identity card, use of, 269–74; performance in Lyd, 233–40, 234–35; on self-determination, 285; West Bank tour, 262–74. See also DAM (rap group)

Nagam, Ahmad Fuad, 82

Nagham, 150–51

“Nahlam Ayh?” (song), 150–51

Nakba, Al- (1948): diwānīn following, 76; music/poetry following, 38, 57–59, 62, 64, 65–66, 68, 69, 103, 108, 113, 240–43; Palestinians of ‘48, 11, 241–43, 251, 256, 270, 281; pan-Arabism following, 77–78; resistance following, 161–62

Naksa, Al- (1967). See June War/Al-Naksa (1967)

Nasrallah, Ibrahim, 173–75, 185, 204, 221–25, 223. See also Firqa Baladna (musical group)

Nasser, Jamal ‘abd al-: death, 82; June War, 78–79; musical commission by, 73, 75–76; on pan-Arabism, 69–72, 75, 78, 80

nationalism: dual society model, 29–30; ethnomusicology and, 25–28; exilic, 21, 29; preservation of nation, 22; relationality in, 30. See also under identity, Palestinian

nationalist songs. See patriotic songs

Nazak, Hussein, 105–8

Netzarim, 144–45

new Palestinian sound, 129–31

Nimri, Taqfiq al-, 180

Nixon, Richard, song about, 83–87

non-governmental organizations (NGOs), 136

Noor, Queen. See Hussein, Noor al-, Queen consort

Odeh, Adnan Abu, 36–38, 38, 66–67, 153–54, 214–15

olive tree metaphor, 164, 185–87, 227–30

Operation Defensive Shield (ODS), 2

Oslo Accords (1993), 1, 117. See also Declaration of Principles

PA. See Palestinian Authority

Palestine Liberation Organization (PLO), 91–93, 96, 127, 132, 178–80, 188–91, 214

Palestine Lives! (song collection), 92

Palestinian Authority (PA), 2, 135, 215

Palestinian Folklore Day, 209–10

Palestinian National Congress (PNC), 190

Palestinians of ’48, 11, 241–43, 251, 256, 270, 281, 317–18n8. See also Nakba, Al- (1948)

pan-Arabism, 69–72; cosmopolitanism in, 76; cultural assimilation in, 77; end of, 79, 80–81, 87, 98; identity, 148; in intifada songs, 148, 150; nationalist songs, 71–72; UAR and, 73

Paredon Records, 92

patriotic songs: in al-Aqsa intifada, 148–53, 155–62; blood as trope in, 102, 110–11, 160, 176, 178, 187–88; in first intifada, 117–18, 124–27, 129–31, 135; in pan-Arabism, 70–72

Peres, Shimon, 133

performativity: belonging and, 23–25, 39, 283–86; collective identity formation and, 32; dispossession and, 31–32, 57, 59, 76, 117–18, 189, 227–28, 283; identity and, 4, 22–24, 40, 76, 193, 196, 285–86; in resistance, 28, 40–41, 168–69, 178, 193–98; rules surrounding, 195; self-determination in, 4, 33, 39, 51, 54, 179, 191, 227, 240, 278, 285–86; wedding, 4, 109–11, 178, 187–88, 225–26

Peteet, Julie, 88–89

PFLP. See Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine

Phalangist militia, 95–97

PLO. See Palestine Liberation Organization

PNC. See Palestinian National Congress

poetic debate. See muhawara

poet-singers: resistance music by, 41–42; role of, 59–62. See also specific song forms

Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine (PFLP), 214

power dynamics in resistance, 25–28

Prairies of Fever (Nasrallah), 173

propaganda, state-sponsored, 57, 60, 71, 76, 82, 92–93

protest songs. See resistance music

pure Palestine, 119, 122–23, 157

Qabani, Nizar, 278

Qa‘bour, Ahmad, 107, 236–37, 274, 278

Qassam, al- (shepherd/hero), 123

Qassam, Izz al-Din al- (Sheikh), 55, 128

Qassam, Samih al-, 107, 130, 138, 167–68, 172

“Quds Hatarja‘ Lina, Al-” (song), 149–50, 151

Rabin, Yitzhak, 132, 133

Racy, Jihad, 60

radio programming, 71

Radio Sawa, 152

Raf‘at, Mohammad (Sheikh), 81

Rai, Al (newspaper), 219

“Raja‘u al-Talamidha” (Sheikh Imam song), 83

Ramadan, Ayman, 155

“Ramallah 1989” (Sabreen song), 138, 139–40

Rantisi, Abdel Aziz, 11

rap/hip-hop music, 11; influence of intifada on, 249–50, 252; Jewish, 236–37, 240; Palestinian, 20–21, 236–40, 280. See also specific performers

Rasmussen, Anne, 131

Ratib, Abu, 155

refugee camps: collective mobilization in, 87–88; conscription of youth in, 92–93; fidāīyīn guerrilla movement in, 88–91, 90; identity formation in, 89, 103–4, 171; music in, 90–91; oppression in, 193–94; wedding performance, 225–26

repatriation, 72, 76–77, 80–81, 87–88, 103, 160, 162, 167, 215

resistance: belonging through, 55; collective, 104, 168–69, 178; concept of, 27–28; dispossession and, 39, 170; folklore as, 22, 104, 107–8, 119–23, 199, 263–64; hybrid style, 155–56; identity and, 89, 122, 196, 228, 285; performativity of, 28, 40–41, 168–69, 178; poetics of, 285; power dynamics in, 25–28; to racialized oppression, 22; reimagined, 121–22; social media and, 2; student activism, 3, 82–83, 127, 309n5; terms used, 5; weddings and, 4, 109–11

resistance music: history of, 39–40; identity formation and, 11, 13–14, 40, 142–43, 197, 228–29, 279, 284; indigeneity in, 100; instrumentation/style in, 93–94, 99–100, 101, 128–29, 130; PLO and, 92–94; pop intifada, 148–53; pre-1948 indigenous, 41–46; self-determination and, 5–6; use of term, 5–6; weddings and, 4. See also anashīd songs; sha‘bī folk songs; thawrī songs; specific musical groups; specific songs

rhythmic patterns, 9, 99, 101, 114–15, 161

right of return. See ‘awda, al-

rituals, 4, 76, 110, 178, 272

Road Map for Peace, 11

Rolling Stone (magazine), 281

Sabah, 73, 74

Sabaye al-Intifada, 124–25

Sabra, massacres at, 96–97, 101, 113–14, 178–79

“Sabra wa Shatila” (Darwish song), 101–3

Sabreen (hip-hop group), 129–31, 136–43, 265. See also specific recordings

Sadaq, Abu, 107

Sadat, Anwar, 82, 83, 85

“Sadayna al-Shawari‘ (song), 160–62

Saghira, Najat al-, 73

Saher, Kathim al-, 150, 152

Saladin, 128

Salah, Medhat, 152

Salloum, Jacqueline, 243

Sawt al-Hurriya (Shalash recording), 155, 186

“Sawt al-Jamahir” (‘Abd al-Wahab song), 75

Sayeedi, Oman al-, 155

Scott, James, 200

Sea of Galilee. See Lake Tiberias

second intifada. See Aqsa Intifada, al- (2002–2006)

self-determination, Palestinian: Arab armies and, 68; belonging and, 227; as cause, 40, 278, 284; collective protest and, 119; in “Dawla,” 202; Khalife on, 172; Khalil on, 163, 169; martyrdom and, 20–21; national identity and, 25, 28–29, 117, 170, 203, 271, 279, 283–84; pan-Arabism and, 148; performance and, 4, 33, 39, 51, 54, 179, 191, 227, 240, 278, 285–86; resistance music and, 5–6, 122; Shalash on, 55, 108, 155–56; voices of, 285

“Sha‘b al-Zayn, Al-” (Sheikh Imam song), 83

Shabeeb, Samih, 49–50

sha‘bī folk songs, 92; compared to anashīd, 128–29; instrumentation/style, 101, 155, 176; vs. new Palestinian sound, 131; as popular, 124, 194; repertory of, 106–7, 153, 194; revival of style, 103–5; tropes of, 113, 159, 185

Shadiya, 73

Shadow (rap group), 243, 252

shahīd. See under martyrdom

“Shahid, Al-” (‘Abd al-Wahab song), 75

Shaker, Fadil, 155

Shaker, Hani, 155

Shakur, Tupac, 20–21, 20–23, 22, 245–46, 253, 276

Shalash, Mais, 154–62, 156, 186; on al-‘awda, 160–62; hybrid style, 155–56, 158–59; marketing of, 157–58

Shalash, Saud, 156–57, 162

Shaoul, Paul, 87

Shaqir, Samih, 153, 154

“Sharaft ya Nixon Baba” (Sheikh Imam song), 83–87

sha‘r al-murtajal. See poet-singers

Sharon, Ariel, 86; al-Aqsa Intifada and, 1, 144–45; on Black September, 95–96; Temple Mount visit, 144, 146, 247

Sharrar (Khoury project), 125–27

Shatila, massacres at, 96–97, 101, 113–14, 178–79

“Shayid Qasrak” (Sheikh Imam song), 83

Sheikh Imam. See ‘Issa, Sheikh Imam

shurūqī, 66–68

Sirhan, Nimr, 104, 119–23

slingshot, as symbol, 123–24

Slingshot Hip-Hop (Salloum documentary), 243

socialism, 69–70, 92–94

social spaces, interiorization of, 279–80

“St. George” (Sabreen song), 141

student activism, 3, 82–83, 127, 309n5

Subliminal (rap group), 243, 252

suicide attacks, 1, 148, 255–56, 260

Swaqa prison, 206–8, 210, 213, 316n5

“Tariq al-‘Aza” (song), 94

Temple Mount, 144, 146, 247

Teveria, 35

“Thātshr” (Sheikh Imam song), 83

thawrī songs, 92–94, 97–99, 124, 128. See also specific songs

thirst as metaphor, 185–86, 186

“Thirty Stars” (Sabreen song), 138–39, 141

Touqan, Ibrahim, 55

Tupac. See Shakur, Tupac

Tuqan, Ibrahim, 172

UAR. See United Arab Republic

Umm Qais, 34–36, 35

“Unadikum” (Sheikh Imam song), 83, 236–38

United Arab Republic (UAR), 73

United National Leadership of the Uprising (UNLU), 118–19

United National Relief Works Agency (UNRWA), 57, 59, 173, 314–15n8

United Nations Special Committee on Palestine (UNSCOP), 56

UNLU. See United National Leadership of the Uprising

UNRWA. See United National Relief Works Agency

UNSCOP. See United Nations Special Committee on Palestine

“Valari Jiskard Dastayn” (Sheikh Imam song), 83

Voice of the Arabs (radio program), 71

“Wa Allah l-Azra‘ak bi-l -Dar” (song), 105–6

Wadi ‘Arba treaty, 214

Wahdat, al- (refugee camp), 222, 225–26

Warda, 73

“War Is Over, The” (song), 152

Warren, Kay B., 169

“Watan al-Akbar, Al-” (Wahab song), 73–77

“Wayn al-Malayin?” (song), 97–100, 100, 235

“Wayn al-Ramallah?” (song), 268

weddings: resistance and, 4, 109–11, 178, 187–88; at al-Wahdat, 225–26

West Bank: DAM tour of, 262–74; NGOs and, 136; occupation of, 2, 6, 79; Palestinians, treatment of, 241, 243; resistance movement and, 104

Western imperialism, 83, 152–53

“Yama Mawil al-Hawa” (song), 36–39, 108

“Yammay” (Sabreen song), 138

Yaqub, Mohammad, 158

Yassin, Ahmad (Sheikh), 11, 127–28

yā arīf al-ūl, 62, 64–66

Yishuv, 29

Zac, Lillian, 284

Zachariya, Ahmad (Sheikh), 81

Zakra, 150–51

Zaqut, Jamal, 118

Zariqat, Samih, 155

Zionism: debate with Arab, 46–52; expansion under, 43–44; Palestinian nationalism and, 30–31; use of term, 47

Ziyad, Tawfiq al-, 107, 165–68, 199–200, 208

Zulfikar, ‘Izz al-Din, 73