'The devil's pipe ruins the soul of prayer'
By Wisam Tahir
NASIRIYA - Jasim al-Asmer is a singer without a stage. As he serves customers
in his cafe, his dreamy manner hints at his musical calling. He moves slowly,
as if maintaining a delicate internal balance, and he speaks softly, seemingly
to spare his voice.
In a town renowned for its musicians, Asmer is one of the best. He is the
composer of countless lyrics and melodies, many of them popularized by singers
more famous than he.
The teashop where he works has become a meeting place for singers intimidated
by hardline militias that regard their art as
shamefully irreligious.
"We still have the same spirit that we started with," said Qassim Areydhah, a
well-known local musician, describing the moment when poetic inspiration
strikes.
"When one of us is working on a new lyric, he stays up all night, as if with a
new bride," he laughed. "We feel like kings then. Such moments are our life -
not this cafe."
Ahmed al-Ameer, another musician, recalls Asmer singing at ecstatic gatherings
tinged with such "madness and splendor" that it sets the palm trees swinging.
"His parties started with beautiful melodies and left us with reddened chests
the next day," he said, referring to the custom among Shi'ite men to
rhythmically beat their chests in a ceremonial lament.
Asmer is 60 years old but looks younger. Though the music has not deserted him,
his stage has shrunk.
After the fall of Saddam Hussein in 2003, Shi'ite militias advocating a stern
form of Islam grew powerful in Nasiriya. Their clerics spoke scornfully of
musicians who strayed from religious themes, and whose performances were
associated with the consumption of alcohol. Stores selling records were burnt
down and several singers were beaten.
Threats from the militiamen forced Asmer and his friends underground. The
exuberant parties where they sang are effectively outlawed now. Those bold
enough to sing do so occasionally and invariably in secret.
"Can you imagine singing on a stage where you can't tell how many of your
audience have guns, or how many are considering killing you?" asked Asmer.
Nasiriya was once an outpost of secularism in the devoutly Shi'ite south of
Iraq. A former stronghold of the communists and the now-outlawed Ba'ath party,
it had a colorful cultural scene and a relatively relaxed approach to alcohol.
Asmer describes a city steeped in song.
"No one knows how many singers we have because everyone from the young to the
elderly sings and hums," he said. "I grew up listening to the local wet nurse,
who sang day and night. It was impossible to say whether she was happy or sad."
Back then, Asmer says, a good voice was in constant demand - even housewarmings
were celebrated with songs or a recital from the Koran. "In either case, the
person had to have a beautiful voice," he said.
Politicians in the past tried to harness Nasiriya's music. Nowadays, militiamen
harass its musicians.
"The Ba'ath regime wanted us to glorify [its leader] Saddam Hussein. We do not
know what the current authorities want from us," Asmer said. "We are terrified
if we sing."
Asmer also says he is confused by edicts, issued by a variety of clerics,
against the use of certain musical instruments, "One of them bans string
instruments, another does not allow drums or wind instruments."
However, he says it is hard to gauge the severity of the ban because several
supposedly proscribed instruments are used in religious recitals, for instance
during the Shi'ite festival of Ashura. "Did the religion change?" Asmer asked.
"Why is everything forbidden or potentially forbidden?"
Interviews with Shi'ite clerics in Nasiriya uncover conflicting views of the
musicians.
Sheikh Hakim al-Salihi, an ally of the anti-American Shi'ite cleric, Muqtada
al-Sadr, says singing "is the devil's pipe and ruins the soul of prayer".
"Singing is forbidden by Sadr," he said. "We are a Muslim community and have to
take care of our religion and the rules of God. Every sinner should be punished
and every pious person rewarded."
Tahsin al-Baqaa, a Shi'ite cleric not affiliated to any of the major parties,
says singing was regarded as haram, or sinful, by most scholars but "did
not necessitate killing".
"In fact, those who harm singers are extremists that have abandoned the core
message of Islam," he said, adding that "persuasion and guidance" must be used
to convert any singers who continued to defy religious doctrine.
Ahmed al-Fartoissi, another cleric, maintains that there had not been any new
fatwas, or edicts, against singing or musical instruments.
He says "ignorant extremists" had targeted singers, as well as other public
figures, in order to make a political point. "The clerics are not responsible
for the persecution of singers and lyricists," he said.
The threat of violence has forced many musicians to keep a low profile or
altogether abandon their art. Though public performances are out of the
question, some singers occasionally perform at private homes, where their hosts
can guarantee their safety. Very occasionally, they may attend all-night
singing soirees in remote locations outside town.
Some musicians have offered their voices to commerce or faith. Asmer's friend,
Ahmed, sings at Shi'ite ceremonies lamenting the martyrdom of the revered Imam
Ali and his sons, Hassan and Hussein.
The bright lights of Arab satellite TV, with its burgeoning appetite for music
videos, have attracted talent from Nasiriya. Another former singer, Qassim,
says his best lyrics have been plagiarized by commercial artists.
"In the past, we knew the people who used our songs - they would take our
permission beforehand. Now, I see my songs stolen and broadcast on satellite
TV," he said.
Qassim says he dare not make a fuss about the plagiarism because he still fears
the militiamen. "If they find out, they will beat me and force me to compose a
poem for their chief, just like they did the last time," he said.
The musicians want Nasiriya's government to protect them so that they can
perform again in public.
The local artists' union, affiliated to the government, was disbanded several
years ago. Its former head, Ali Abd Eid, says it could not have offered
protection "from anonymous criminals who use a range of methods to threaten
isolated artists".
Khadum al-Obaidy, the head of Nasiriya's journalists' syndicate, a
government-backed body, says the singers had been the victims of broader
unrest.
"We cannot talk of protecting artists or journalists through a security
apparatus that was unable to impose the rule of law in the first place," he
said.
The musicians who once held Nasiriya in thrall now pique the curiosity of
passing strangers. A young visitor to the market, who did not give his name,
says he recently heard a man at a Nasiriya cafe with a distinctly mournful
voice, singing to himself.
"It reminded me of the songs our mothers sang in the fields."
(Asmer's real name and those of other singers quoted in this story have been
changed to protect their identities.)
Wisam Tahir is an IWPR-trained reporter in Nasiriya.
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