Post by Bozur on Nov 12, 2005 23:42:47 GMT -5
In the Twilight, the Gentle Strumming of a Bygone Iraq
The oud, or Arab lute, was an ancestor of the modern guitar.
BAGHDAD - Outside in the darkness of western Baghdad, gunfire and ominous thumping noises could be heard. But inside his exquisitely appointed living room, Husham al-Madfai was pouring a glass of Scotch and welcoming his guests. They had come for dinner and a private performance by Salman Shukur, Iraq's last living traditional master of the oud, or Arab lute.
"Salman!" Mr. Madfai called out, as the guest of honor, a small, white-haired man with a crinkled smile, stepped slowly across the marble floor. "Welcome, welcome."
Baghdad was once known for its custom of the majlis, or salon - private gatherings where art and politics would be discussed or music and poetry performed. Even in the din of war, some traces of the old salon life survive, though the guests are dwindling and the tone is often elegiac.
On this recent autumn evening, a dozen old friends had gathered to hear Mr. Shukur, 84, one of Iraq's greatest musicians and the standard-bearer of a dying tradition. Many musicians still play the oud, but Mr. Shukur specializes in makkams, or suites composed during the Abbasid period, from A.D. 750 to 1258. He is the last surviving student in Iraq of Sherif Moheyadeen Ali, a member of Iraq's royal family and a renowned oud master who taught during the 1920's and 30's.
Salman Shukur, Iraq's last living traditional master of the oud
One by one, the guests arrived: a retired surgeon, famous in his field; an oil executive; a philosophy professor at Baghdad University; and several others. Almost all were over 60 and members of the old cultural elite that reigned before Saddam Hussein came to power. They were dressed in the Western style of that era: the men in blazers and slacks, the women in dresses, with their hair uncovered.
Mr. Madfai, a cheerful, ruddy-faced man of 76, is himself one of Iraq's best-known architects and the scion of a famous family. His walls are covered with the work of Iraqi painters and his bookshelves hold a voluminous library of poetry and old prints. Almost all of the painters and poets who produced them have died or left the country. He is considering leaving Iraq too, at the urging of his children, who live in London.
Still, the guests seemed cheerful, exchanging gossip and news, munching on marrons glacés and bemoaning the crude religiosity that has overtaken much of Iraqi politics and culture.
"I'll tell you something," said Dr. Nuri Muristafa, the surgeon, addressing an American guest. "In 1936 my father, who was a Kurdish sheik, bought his daughter an oud and got her trained on it. And he was a most religious man. You wouldn't see that happening today."
After an hour of cocktails and conversation, Mr. Shukur carefully removed his oud from its cloth case. An ancestor of the guitar, the oud is a round-backed, 11-stringed wooden instrument that closely resembles a European lute.
Gazing at the instrument, Mr. Madfai chuckled and recited an old line of Iraqi poetry: "No violin or oud can relieve my sorrow." Several guests laughed on hearing the verse, part of a familiar rhyme.
Mr. Shukur began to play. The sound was a mesmerizing succession of quiet melodies that varied in speed, and were often hard for the unpracticed ear to follow. The guests listened in perfect silence through the 10-minute performance.
After the applause subsided, Mr. Shukur explained in a quiet, scratchy voice that what he had played was a makkam called "Husseini." It was composed, he said, around 1400 by a man who had fled from Baghdad to Karbala disguised as a dervish after he aroused the suspicion of Tamerlane, the great Mongol conquerer.
Conversation resumed, and the guests began chatting about the depredations of the Mongols. Hulagu Khan, who sacked Baghdad in the 13th century, is said to have made a pyramid of the skulls of the city's poets, scholars and religious leaders, Mr. Madfai said.
"Hulagu?" said Fatina Hamdi, a philosophy professor at Baghdad University. "Hulagu was humane compared with the Americans."
The line drew some laughter, but no one followed up. Most of the guests seemed eager to avoid the subjects of politics and violence, which dominate everyday life here. Instead, conversation turned again to the past.
"You know, after Faisal became king in the 1920's, he tried very hard to create a national culture," said Waleed al-Hashemi, a Cambridge-educated businessman. "He created a class of professional administrators who worked throughout the country. The old divisions, Sunni and Shiite and Kurd, became less important."
"Now it seems we are retrogressing," Mr. Hashemi added.
Mr. Shukur picked up his oud again and the guests went respectfully silent. He played another makkam, also from the 14th century.
By now, it was almost 10 o'clock, and several guests were looking nervously at their watches. Baghdad dinner parties once went late into the night, but the city has become so dangerous that many people no longer venture out after dark. The American military enforces an 11 o'clock curfew, and it is considered very unwise to be out after that time.
Mr. Madfai clapped his hands together and urged his guests to come into the dining room. There, they found a long dinner table bearing a magnificent array of traditional Iraqi dishes: lamb, chicken, salads of eggplant and tabbouleh, and mazgouf, Iraqi grilled fish.
The guests served themselves and wandered into an outdoor garden inside the compound, where tables had been prepared and a sculptured fountain splashed gently in the background.
Twenty minutes later, as the guests were midway through supper, the power failed, casting the house and garden into darkness. The splash of the fountain stopped.
In most well-off Baghdad homes, the lights come back on within a minute or so as the generator starts up. But tonight the darkness persisted. Mr. Madfai apologized.
"Look, you can see the stars," he said, gazing up beyond the roof of his home. There was a moment of silence, as the guests waited for the light.
"Perhaps we are better off without all these things," he added.
The New York Times
The oud, or Arab lute, was an ancestor of the modern guitar.
BAGHDAD - Outside in the darkness of western Baghdad, gunfire and ominous thumping noises could be heard. But inside his exquisitely appointed living room, Husham al-Madfai was pouring a glass of Scotch and welcoming his guests. They had come for dinner and a private performance by Salman Shukur, Iraq's last living traditional master of the oud, or Arab lute.
"Salman!" Mr. Madfai called out, as the guest of honor, a small, white-haired man with a crinkled smile, stepped slowly across the marble floor. "Welcome, welcome."
Baghdad was once known for its custom of the majlis, or salon - private gatherings where art and politics would be discussed or music and poetry performed. Even in the din of war, some traces of the old salon life survive, though the guests are dwindling and the tone is often elegiac.
On this recent autumn evening, a dozen old friends had gathered to hear Mr. Shukur, 84, one of Iraq's greatest musicians and the standard-bearer of a dying tradition. Many musicians still play the oud, but Mr. Shukur specializes in makkams, or suites composed during the Abbasid period, from A.D. 750 to 1258. He is the last surviving student in Iraq of Sherif Moheyadeen Ali, a member of Iraq's royal family and a renowned oud master who taught during the 1920's and 30's.
Salman Shukur, Iraq's last living traditional master of the oud
One by one, the guests arrived: a retired surgeon, famous in his field; an oil executive; a philosophy professor at Baghdad University; and several others. Almost all were over 60 and members of the old cultural elite that reigned before Saddam Hussein came to power. They were dressed in the Western style of that era: the men in blazers and slacks, the women in dresses, with their hair uncovered.
Mr. Madfai, a cheerful, ruddy-faced man of 76, is himself one of Iraq's best-known architects and the scion of a famous family. His walls are covered with the work of Iraqi painters and his bookshelves hold a voluminous library of poetry and old prints. Almost all of the painters and poets who produced them have died or left the country. He is considering leaving Iraq too, at the urging of his children, who live in London.
Still, the guests seemed cheerful, exchanging gossip and news, munching on marrons glacés and bemoaning the crude religiosity that has overtaken much of Iraqi politics and culture.
"I'll tell you something," said Dr. Nuri Muristafa, the surgeon, addressing an American guest. "In 1936 my father, who was a Kurdish sheik, bought his daughter an oud and got her trained on it. And he was a most religious man. You wouldn't see that happening today."
After an hour of cocktails and conversation, Mr. Shukur carefully removed his oud from its cloth case. An ancestor of the guitar, the oud is a round-backed, 11-stringed wooden instrument that closely resembles a European lute.
Gazing at the instrument, Mr. Madfai chuckled and recited an old line of Iraqi poetry: "No violin or oud can relieve my sorrow." Several guests laughed on hearing the verse, part of a familiar rhyme.
Mr. Shukur began to play. The sound was a mesmerizing succession of quiet melodies that varied in speed, and were often hard for the unpracticed ear to follow. The guests listened in perfect silence through the 10-minute performance.
After the applause subsided, Mr. Shukur explained in a quiet, scratchy voice that what he had played was a makkam called "Husseini." It was composed, he said, around 1400 by a man who had fled from Baghdad to Karbala disguised as a dervish after he aroused the suspicion of Tamerlane, the great Mongol conquerer.
Conversation resumed, and the guests began chatting about the depredations of the Mongols. Hulagu Khan, who sacked Baghdad in the 13th century, is said to have made a pyramid of the skulls of the city's poets, scholars and religious leaders, Mr. Madfai said.
"Hulagu?" said Fatina Hamdi, a philosophy professor at Baghdad University. "Hulagu was humane compared with the Americans."
The line drew some laughter, but no one followed up. Most of the guests seemed eager to avoid the subjects of politics and violence, which dominate everyday life here. Instead, conversation turned again to the past.
"You know, after Faisal became king in the 1920's, he tried very hard to create a national culture," said Waleed al-Hashemi, a Cambridge-educated businessman. "He created a class of professional administrators who worked throughout the country. The old divisions, Sunni and Shiite and Kurd, became less important."
"Now it seems we are retrogressing," Mr. Hashemi added.
Mr. Shukur picked up his oud again and the guests went respectfully silent. He played another makkam, also from the 14th century.
By now, it was almost 10 o'clock, and several guests were looking nervously at their watches. Baghdad dinner parties once went late into the night, but the city has become so dangerous that many people no longer venture out after dark. The American military enforces an 11 o'clock curfew, and it is considered very unwise to be out after that time.
Mr. Madfai clapped his hands together and urged his guests to come into the dining room. There, they found a long dinner table bearing a magnificent array of traditional Iraqi dishes: lamb, chicken, salads of eggplant and tabbouleh, and mazgouf, Iraqi grilled fish.
The guests served themselves and wandered into an outdoor garden inside the compound, where tables had been prepared and a sculptured fountain splashed gently in the background.
Twenty minutes later, as the guests were midway through supper, the power failed, casting the house and garden into darkness. The splash of the fountain stopped.
In most well-off Baghdad homes, the lights come back on within a minute or so as the generator starts up. But tonight the darkness persisted. Mr. Madfai apologized.
"Look, you can see the stars," he said, gazing up beyond the roof of his home. There was a moment of silence, as the guests waited for the light.
"Perhaps we are better off without all these things," he added.
The New York Times