July 11, 2024
At the end of
December 2023, as the war in Gaza neared its third month, several Palestinian
singers in Israel faced harsh criticism online after they promoted their
upcoming Christmas and New Year’s performances on social media. This sparked a
widespread debate among their fellow Palestinian citizens.
“How can you
talk about partying while our people in Gaza are being massacred right in front
of us?” some asked. “It’s their job, let them earn money,” others replied.
“We’re tired of the news and we deserve a break.”
Around that
time, I had temporarily stopped posting on social media, focusing my energies
instead on writing op-eds. I was also wary after many of my fellow artists were
arrested for writing even the most innocuous statements online — including the
renowned singer Dalal Abu Amneh, who had simply posted “There is no victor but
God” on October 7. Meanwhile, prominent Jewish-Israeli artists were calling to
“treat most of them [Palestinians in Gaza] as complicit” in the Hamas-led
October 7 attack, and singing “May your village burn!” — but the law in Israel
never cared about what is said so much as the identity of the person saying it.
Yet seeing so
many engaged in this online debate, especially amid an unprecedented crackdown
on Palestinian social media users, I decided to share my opinion. It was one
that ultimately lost me many friends among fellow artists, even if it was
generally accepted by the broader Palestinian public.
The post,
published on Dec. 16, was entitled “Turn off the music — it’s disrespectful,”
and read as follows:
When I was 15, I acted like the world revolved
around me. One day, as a funeral procession was passing through our
neighborhood, I was sitting in my room and blaring music. Suddenly, my father
burst into the room and yelled at me “Turn off the music — it’s disrespectful!”
I lowered the volume, trying to explain to him that I was going through a
difficult time and needed music to cheer me up. “Other people are grieving a
loved one,” he replied. “Right now, it’s not about you. You can put on your
headphones and deal with your sadness without announcing it.”
And that’s my feeling now about the New Year’s Eve
shows: as an artist, I understand that this is your job and your income, but
there are 20,000 funerals — 20,000 whose loved ones cannot even attend, so it’s
not about us right now. We don’t have the ability to help them, or protect
them, or even to protest for them, so the least we can do is be sad. Please,
turn off the music, it’s disrespectful.
And by the way, I also don’t have any income right
now and I am not performing. But I have a roof above my head, food on the
table, and no one is bombing my neighborhood, so sacrificing a few shows
doesn’t seem like much. I honestly am not attacking you, but please, turn off
the music and let us be sad together.
Ultimately, all
of the celebratory holiday concerts were canceled. But in the months since
then, the number of deaths in Gaza has only continued to rise, with entire
families wiped off the map, thousands of homes destroyed, and survivors facing
mass starvation.
As a Palestinian
rapper, my creative expression has always been rooted in our collective
oppression and traumas. But the last nine months have forced me to question the
purpose and potential of my art — and, indeed, my entire existence. What is the
value of a song that costs a few thousand dollars to produce, when it is up
against the billions of dollars that Israel receives to bomb a besieged
population? What power do we as Palestinians inside Israel have, when our tax
money is being used to kill our brothers and sisters just miles away?
Ironically, that
feeling of helplessness in the face of the tragedy in Gaza led me back to the
studio to collaborate with my younger brother Djamil, a DJ and music producer.
What came out of this was a song called “Tuzz Tuzzen,” best translated as
“Whatever,” which we released in May.
The song is
about the helplessness that we Palestinian citizens of Israel feel as the state
to which we pay taxes massacres our people only a few kilometers away; we
literally see the Israeli fighter aircraft flying over our heads on their way
to bomb Gaza, and then we see the videos and images of their victims. How do we
confront that helplessness?
To pay off your loan, take a loan, even
two, whatever
We leave this world with nothing,
Earn 100 bucks and the IRS bites off 200
It bombs Gaza with 100 and the rest, you
know where they shove it
And here I am stuck in my head
Sometimes I run away, sometimes I stay
put.
Even if this hardship is more than I can
take
I’m staying here, obstinate
Sometimes I give up, sometimes I hold my
head up
Sometimes I run away, sometimes I stand
still
Even if I don’t understand politics
I’m staying obstinate, cuz whatever.
Capturing the
moment
For most of my
life, I stupidly believed that art exists to change the world. Now, I think
about art more like the black box flight recorder on an airplane: it won’t
navigate the landing; it’s here to document the crash. And as we witness this
second Nakba, there are several new songs that I believe best capture the
moment we’re living through. This is my Black Box Playlist.
The Egyptian
group Cairokee was formed in 2003, and is perhaps best known for its 2011 song
“Sout al-Horeya” (“The Voice of Freedom”) that became the soundtrack of the
Egyptian revolution. In November, Cairokee released “Telk Qadeya” (“That’s One
Cause”), a song that criticizes the rhetoric of liberal values in the West
while its governments continue to support the Israeli war on Gaza. It quickly
amassed millions of views on YouTube and social media, where it was frequently
reposted by Palestinians in Gaza.
Concerned about sea turtles
They butcher “human animals”
But this is one cause, and that’s
another
Another song
comes from BiGSaM, a Palestinian Gazan born in the Arab Gulf. In “Law Mara Bas”
(“If Only Once”), released in March, he describes the feeling of watching his
homeland being destroyed from afar.
If only once
You could rest in my weary soul
If only once
The one who slept in your land would
find peace
If only once
You would find relief from the enemies’
brutality
If only once
We would sacrifice for you our most
precious possession
But the song
that tops my Black Box Playlist is “Cast Off Your Sandals, Moses,” released in
May by the Palestinian singer Rola Azar from Nazareth.
Moses, cast off your sandals
And scale Mount Sinai
Toss the jasmine flowers
On the plains of Palestine
Even her roses resist
As do her olives and figs
Moses, cast off your sandals
Console the child prisoner
Honor shrines defiled
And coffins shamed
Even the casket resists
That very casket, that of Shireen
That last line,
of course, refers to the late Al Jazeera reporter Shireen Abu Akleh, who was
shot by an Israeli sniper while reporting in Jenin refugee camp in 2022. We
witnessed her killing, just as we witnessed Israeli police attack the
pallbearers at her funeral procession.
When I first
heard Rola’s song, it triggered my emotions — I felt as if I was seeing
Shireen’s funeral for a second time, and watching the heroism of the men
refusing to drop her casket while surrounded by dozens of baton-wielding police
officers. I guess this is also the role of art, even in times of tragedy: to
capture a moment and plant it in your soul.
“In the dark
times will there also be singing?” the German playwright and poet Bertolt
Brecht famously wrote. “Yes, there will also be singing. About the dark times.”
But what if it
will not bring light?
Then whatever —
Tuzz Tuzzen.
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