We Will Not Be Silenced
In this place, death does not knock
politely on the door and wait patiently before sneaking in to steal one’s last
breath. On this bright and cloudless Sunday (22nd April 2018), death
assaults our world with shrapnel and fire and the blood red of people walking
or cycling on the streets, buying and selling at road-side shops, ordinarily clambering
on and off the local bus or taxi. This insidious enemy comes to steal, kill and
destroy. Young men, old men, girls and boys, mothers, cousins, brothers,
fathers, sisters, strangers, all of them sons and daughters. The real enemy is
not ISIS or the Taliban or the corrupt so-and-so domineering at the top of the
chain. They are all just pawns in the
game. Oh yes, there are the schemers, the deceivers, the oppressors; then there
are the ones who are trapped by fear, coerced into an ideology, threatened into
submission. But are any of them the enemies? Should we hate them? How do we
really stand against the tide of darkness? Last night, I wrote this on a piece
of paper and stuck in on my wall: “Know the real enemy”. It became very clear
for me that the true enemy is the destroyer and accuser of our souls, not the
humans who can merely tear apart our bodies.
The suicide bombing that occurred on Sunday
ripped apart a voter registration center located in a neighborhood of mainly Hazaras,
a minority ethnic group who have faced systematic killings by their countrymen
(what you would call genocide) over many decades just because of their
ethnicity (the way they look), and also because they belong to the Shite sect
of Islam rather than the majority Sunni. Someone I know was at the site to
collect information for radio reporting and they saw the bloodied (and missing)
arms and legs of children.
Children.
I won’t go into the details of what happened;
there are complicated nuances to the socio-cultural-political turmoil that is
going on as elections are coming up and the notorious Taliban ‘spring offensive’ season is on. But there’s an Afghan journalist I follow named Mujib
Mashal who writes for the New York Times and he covered a unique angle of the
bombing through the tragic story of a local man who was known as a wrestler and
a brave fellow who often arrived at bombing scenes to rescue the dead, dying
and injured. Sadly, at this incident, he was himself a victim. You can read
about it here.
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| Afghan residents inspect the site of the suicide bombing outside a voter registration centre in Kabul on Sunday. [Source: Shah Marai/AFP/Getty Image] |
For those of us who were not close enough
to witness the scene of destruction, the news traveled to us as the minutes of
the day ticked by from the event of the blast in the morning hours. The
terrible thing is that such bad tidings have become almost commonplace
considering the city we are in. Yet, it is still disconcerting enough to
trouble even the most war-weary soul. On the way to work last morning, as we
passed some buildings under construction, our driver commented with a sigh in
his language, “See these new buildings being built? What is the use if we have
no peace in this city?” The wrinkles on his forehead revealed unspeakable
sorrow from years of unabated violence and loss.
No peace in this
city.
This is not an ordinary war. I’ve read countless books about this long-standing
conflict, dragged on over the last few decades by various power struggles and
bloody battles exacerbated by different groups of both locals and outsiders representing
a myriad of nations, political parties, factions, rebel groups, extremist
networks, power-hungry thugs, brainwashed youngsters, and… you name it all. As
the old Persian saying goes, “When the elephants fight, the grass gets
trampled.”
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| Afghanistan war painting. [Source: Pinterest] |
Through my work, I get to listen,
understand, and weep along with the stories and faces I encounter daily who
represent the metaphorical ‘grass’ that gets ‘trampled’. They are girls and
boys who have never known any other childhood but one that is fraught with
uncertainty and lack of opportunity for any proper education or creative
expression. They are women laden with layers of burden heaped upon their weary
shoulders, covered in a shroud of oppression. They are men who fight to
survive, to provide, and yet despair daily that no amount of hard work (or
fighting) has changed anything for their families and society. They are
teachers, doctors, taxi drivers, shopkeepers, and soldiers who hope daily to
escape death one more time as they go about their work. They are the young and
old alike who stagger along with a missing limb or two as they were unfortunate
victims of land-mines.
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| Local women and school girls crammed into a tuk-tuk. This photo was captured while on the way to visit a local area (close to where the recent bombing happened). The small vehicle is not allowed in the city or green zone areas, but only in the further neighbourhood areas of Kabul. |
Then there are the ones I call the living
dead. A few days ago I passed by an infamous strip of land dividing two main
roads, notoriously known for its heroin addicts. The living dead. They have found no other relief than to waste away
their bones by the roadside, without family, without friends, rejected by the
world, seemingly forgotten by God. The lowest of the low, the scum of the
earth. Yet my heart bleeds for these ones as I return to my hiding place to
sing and write, pray and cry.
It is a critical time right now. In the
physical and the unseen. There are many threats and fears for the people.
However, I find myself daily wondering how in the world did I end up in a place
where I can both laugh and weep and sing in the same day?
One of the most powerful moments this week
occurred when I shared a poem by my sister Janna titled “Bleeding Voices” with
two of my students who I knew would appreciate it. Janna wrote the poem for me
before I left, and she said it was for the ones I would teach here. After
reading the poem to my two thoughtful students on different days, I encouraged
each one to discover the power of songwriting if they’d never done it before.
The next day, one of them brought a notebook
along saying that this morning while practicing the piano he was struck with
inspiration and he wrote a song. It was beautiful to see the words scribbled on
paper. He said he’d never written a song before, much less one in English! But
here he was with his first song ever, written in English and poignantly titled
“Oh, Afghanistan”. He wanted me to sing the lyrics as he played.
I couldn’t believe how this is all
happening so fast – every single day in this place brings fresh insight and
inspiration. For me, progress is not about skill, technology or money, but it
is about the way one’s heart is yielded to the new, the spiritual, and the
revolutionary, and thus it naturally pumps with renewed vigour to revolt
against the ordinary, the old, and the oppressive. The song was full of sadness
and pain, but also determination and courage. We agreed to work on it and record
the piano and vocals with the new RODE microphone I brought with me. Ah. My
poor heart. ‘Excitement’ is an inadequate word to describe my elation at this creative
breakthrough happening in my teaching, in Afghanistan, of all places. My life
will never be satisfied with normal again – ever.
After he shared his song, I told him about
a song called “I Will Not Be Silenced” that I wrote a few days ago with my
ukulele amidst all the terrible things happening. I sat at the piano and sang
it simply:
I will not be silenced
I will not be silenced
I declare your love to the nations
I will not be silenced
I am not afraid
I am not afraid anymore
When I sing in your presence
I am brave in your presence
You make me brave
You make me brave
Needless to say, this marks a new beginning
in the way I bring and share and teach music in the nations. Fear will find no
foothold in us.
Wednesday was a momentous day for me and my
students as well because I never thought I would be able to implement so
quickly (in my 3rd week here) an idea that brewed urgently in my
mind even before I came. One of my first goals was initiate something that had
never been done with the piano faculty before: a weekly concert class for all
my students to perform for each other on the grand piano, give feedback, and
provide a space for creativity to flow in an indigenous way, so that those who are
discovering improvisation and songwriting can get a chance to share their music
in whatever style they liked, not necessarily just classical. My dream is to
see them develop their own pianistic and compositional style as an Afghan
generation.
We had our first concert class today, and
it was a success. I can’t believe that it’s only been three weeks since the
school year has started for these kids. To my delight, about 8 students signed
up to perform. One of them got to play the piece he wrote for me, and he
invited two friends who play flute and clarinet to improvise together with him.
I asked him to share with the others how he gets his inspiration, so he could kindle
the flame for creativity in the younger ones. It was so much fun. I could feel
their nervousness before they performed and see the light in their eyes by the
end of it.
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| Two of my young piano students performing an Afghan piano duet by memory in our first ever piano concert class! |
Later that afternoon, I had an especially
memorable lesson with one of my little students, a very bright 12-year old who performed
a Minuet by Bohm from memory at the concert class. To my utmost amazement, at
the end of our lesson, he tries to tell me (in broken English) that he has
composed something. He plays it... and my jaw drops. It is brilliant. I had no
idea that he could compose, because he just started playing piano a year ago! I
quickly called a senior student (the one who wrote his first song that very
morning) to come and verify (in the local language, Dari) that what the little
guy just played me was actually his own composition. My senior student confirmed
it was and had a listen to it. He too was impressed. Barely containing my joy,
I encouraged him to look out for this little guy and help him do what he's been
discovering in songwriting and improvisation. (Fun fact: I found out yesterday
that there’s no word for ‘improvisation’ in the local language.)
The thing that makes me so, so ridiculously
happy is that I am doing what I always believed is crucial to see the next
generation come alive: to mentor my older students to mentor the younger ones
in creative freedom. It cannot and will not stop with me. When I leave, I
should have many after me who can do exactly what I’ve been doing, and do it
better, their way. When I die, whether sooner or later, I shall rejoice because
the life in me is not over and I know that beyond music, the seeds of healing
have been planted. When that time comes, the world will know bright and clear
why I came to this land and why these very ones were my students. The real
enemy we face has no power over us. We will not be silenced.
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| Joyous moments daily as we practice, learn, and make new music together. This was taken after a small surprise performance a few young students planned for all the music faculty and academic teachers. It was so sweet. |
[Cover Photo Source: Reuters]
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