Singing in the Rubble
FELICITY LAURENCE
As a music educator, I have been honoured to help a little from afar in the current work of the Edward Said National Conservatory of Music (ESNCM), which has campuses around the West Bank and in Gaza. Their building in Gaza is now rubble, and most of the instruments smashed. But the children still have their voices, and the yearning to sing together is so strong that choirs are now springing up in the ruins, the tents, the rubble.
One of the musical leaders has been displaced more than fifteen times. Every time he is forced to move yet again, the families of the children move with him so that their children can keep on singing. Gaza’s pied piper.
At the core of this music-making is the resistance to the dehumanisation which accompanies the attempted erasure of a people and their entire culture; music enables the children instead to proclaim their essential humanity in a process of re-humanisation, and to say: “This is who we are.”
Fouad, ESNCM teacher in Gaza, recently wrote:
The very fact that we insist on singing, playing, and teaching our children means that we are affirming our existence and preserving our humanity – the very things they are trying to erase. Every note played under bombing is an assertion of human existence. When children sing together in danger, they create a sonic community that resists the silence imposed by violence.
There is nothing more powerful than a child singing under bombardment.
A few days ago I asked whether any of the music leaders in Gaza might like to send a short message for me to share with my parliamentary representative. The very next day, I received three eloquent expressions of grief, of hope, of an urgent desire to reach out and to be heard. One came from Al Mawasi, the place formally linked in friendship with Hastings.
Here they are, from Shireen, Ismail and Ashraf:
Peace be upon you…
I am Shireen, the one who holds onto the strings of melodies so that the sky does not fall upon the heads of her little ones.
Here in Gaza, which has become an open wound on the face of time, we wake up every morning to a heavy question: Will we live to see tomorrow? Or will the bombardment be our appointment with the unknown?
We groan and suffer under the weight of an unending genocide and the burden of displacement that has uprooted us from our roots. Our homes are no longer made of stone; they are memories buried beneath the rubble, and our families have lost leaves that will never return. Yet, despite everything, we refuse to remain silent. We continue our mission, slipping through the cracks of war, running after our students in tents and destroyed schools, searching for their innocent faces so that we may offer them a moment of sincerity.
For us, music is not merely notes played in concert halls. It is a breathing soul; it is a space of light in a dark tunnel; it is a warm embrace for children exhausted by bombs. When we see a child forget, even for a moment, the sound of warplanes while improvising a melody on a broken oud, we feel that life still insists on surviving. In that moment, we believe that hope is not a slogan; hope is a choice. We chose to continue the journey…
But hearts alone are not enough. Our instruments are shattered like our homes, our safe places have turned into rubble, and our students move between fear and exhaustion, while our teachers try to teach musical notes with fingers trembling from fear and pain.
The battle is twofold: the battle for survival and the battle to preserve this last refuge.
Our message to you is the cry of a voiceless soul: carry our heartbeat to the world. Defend the right of Gaza’s children to dream, to knock on the walls of the world’s silence with their melodies. Our music programs are not merely lessons; they are the testament of childhood and proof that we have not died yet, and that Gaza is still singing.
And in the end –
Hope is not a melody we hear; hope is to keep playing upon the wound, even if the instruments are broken and our breaths run out, because there is still a melody alive here… the melody of life.
Ismail, academic director of ESNCM in Gaza:
We teach the children music to restore the sense of joy that they have lost. We strive to create moments of happiness and hope for them – things they have been deprived of throughout this devastating war.
Our conditions are harsh: living in tents, losing safety and security, hope, access to clean water, education; we endure continuous displacement; we are not safe in our homes, in the streets, anywhere.
We hope that the voices of our children will reach the world with one message: we love peace, we long for freedom, and we wish to live like all other peoples of the world – in safety, security, and stability. From the bottom of our hearts, we thank you for your compassion, solidarity, and support in helping us reclaim the beautiful lives we have lost.”
Ashraf, Violin Teacher and ESNCM Activities Coordinator in Al-Mawasi:
I teach in different places across Gaza. Travelling anywhere is extremely difficult. The weather is intensely hot, and there is always the threat of ongoing attacks. But this constant has not prevented us from continuing to spread hope in the hearts of children. We have not abandoned our responsibility.
The children love their lessons, and they eagerly await their classes; music is their safe haven.
We give children feelings of joy, even though we ourselves are exhausted. We sing and play for hope, but we ourselves are so tired of waiting and searching for those who will embrace and support us amid this deadly silence that comes from the world. These children have the right for the world to listen to their music and to understand what they feel; and to an environment filled with peace, tranquillity, and stability.
We still dream of seeing music in every home, every tent, and every street in Gaza and Palestine, and we hope that we may all live in safety and peace.
Finally, a voice from the children. A little while ago I was sent this from Aya (14). She wrote:
When I sing or listen to music with my friends, I feel as if we are escaping together from the noise and chaos of the world into a small space we shape with our voices and dreams. Music becomes a warm embrace we turn to – we sing and laugh, we sing and cry – and every melody seems to heal something broken within us. These are indescribable moments; we sing not to perfect our voices, but to feel alive – together, stronger than any pain.”
Felicity Laurence is a member of Hastings Jews For Justice.
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