At some point during my studies in Arab music it occurred to me that I, as an artist, could no longer fail to address the dire political state of the region from which this vast, enchanting musical tradition has developed. In light of the ongoing Syrian Civil War and the resultant global migrant crisis, I felt a moral imperative to add my voice to the issue in my own way. The music and culture of the Middle East are under constant threat, and many incredible Syrian artists are finding ways to illustrate their country’s plight through a number of media. Therefore, I wish that this work uplifts the voices of two particular Syrian artists who have left a deep impression on me and my work: Nizar Qabbani and Omar Souleyman.

Qabbani was considered by many to be the poet laureate of the Arab world during the latter half of the 20th Century. His radical political views, particularly on the emancipation of women from restrictive gender norms, resonated with people through his direct, yet elegant language. Omar Souleyman has achieved fame in recent years in the west due to his distinctive image, which has made him a living meme of sorts, as well as his infectious dance music. Souleyman specializes in singing dabke music: this is a genre of wedding dance which is ubiquitous across the Arab world. His particular brand of it is characterized by machine-gun drum hits from a tiny goblet drum, called a khishba, long, aggressively melismatic synth lines, and a percussive, declamatory vocal style.

I decided to synthesize the work of these two men by writing my best imitation of a Souleyman song on a text of Qabbani’s. I chose a brief, sensual love poem—one which had a simple enough text that would lend itself well to the musical deconstruction that occurs during this work. As the text implores a nameless lover to undress, the piece itself is undressed: over the course of each movement, the introductory music becomes distorted and corrupted until it is almost unrecognizable. In movement II, the original song becomes a series of wild loops and tumultuous, crushing chords. During the action, a sonorous viola solo resounds while the ensemble repeats the word akhris, meaning ‘speechless’—the primary message of the work, the corruption and silencing of speech, comes into full view here. The third movement is a retrospective piece, containing themes from all the Arab-inspired music I have written to date. I wrote it as a process of self-inquiry: what is this music to me, as an outsider? What is my right to it? And what future role will it play in my work? In writing this movement, I concluded that though I have no cultural claim to Arab music, my studies in it have made it a part of me, and I want to continue bringing this rich musical vernacular to a Western audience. The final movement begins with a mawwal—a vocal improvisation, a couple of false starts, and then an insane, amped up rendition of the opening music. The tenor walks off stage, incoherently muttering the text of the poem, as much changed by the musical journey as the musical material itself.

The brutality of the work should be a reminder of the violence which threatens the music of Syria and the Middle East daily, violence perpetrated by those who would erase the region’s past. When I had nearly finished the piece, a close friend informed me that just as I have corrupted a wedding dance in this piece, actual Arab weddings have been corrupted by drone strikes. The horror I felt upon learning this confirmed the need for this piece to exist. I hope that the listener may come to the same conclusion.