Being an Arab means knowing certain things. We know we created algebra, we know we have to get to the airport an hour earlier than everyone else, and we know Um Kalthum.
Um Kalthum was born in Egypt around 1900, and her artistic career spanned over 50 years. She traveled the world, performing for huge crowds wherever she set foot. She died in February 1975, and her funeral was the largest ever seen in the Arab World, as millions lined the streets of Cairo to bid her farewell. Walter Cronkite even reported her death on the CBS Evening News.
Her voice is instantly recognizable by almost every Arab, no matter what corner of the world he or she inhabits. Many of us grow up hating her music, mainly because our parents played it constantly. Then we mature, we have a moment of clarity, and we come to love her unconditionally. Our affection for her becomes uncompromising and permanent. Some people don’t ever come around to fully accepting Um Kalthum. Those people need counseling.
Um Kalthum was more than a singer. She was a force. After the Egyptian Revolution of 1952, someone suggested to Gamal Abdel Nasser that Um Kalthum’s weekly radio broadcasts be limited or eliminated. Nasser basically responded by saying, “No way! Do you want the people to revolt again?” Instead, he started airing his radio addresses before her concerts to ensure that people actually had their radios turned on. Once, when Egypt and Tunisia had broken up after a squabble, Um Kalthum performed her popular song “El Atlal” in Tunis. She then met with the Tunisian president, one of her biggest fans. A few days later, diplomatic relations between the two countries were restored.
During the Egyptian Revolution of 2011, her songs were blasted as citizens demanded their rights. It was their way not of necessarily re-creating a new identity for themselves, but of re-claiming an identity lost, an identity suppressed. Her statue in Cairo was adorned with an eye patch in solidarity with protestors. Um Kalthum sang for love, the protestors chanted for freedom. I don’t see a difference.
Her real genius lied in creating that thing we Arabs call “tarab.” There is no word for “tarab” in English. It can only be loosely described as a feeling of ecstasy and heightened senses. “Tarab” happens when the singer gets to that part of the song when the hair on the back of your neck stands up. Well, for white people, it’s the hair on the back of your neck. For Arabs, it’s the hair everywhere.
And “tarab” can only happen when a performer is in front of an audience. It is a bond between the performer and the listener. It is a certain kind of energy, an honest exchange of emotion, an open dialogue. My favorite parts of an Um Kalthum recording (which are usually about an hour long) are when audience members yell, scream, and clap, urging her to repeat a line, or just expressing their feeling of “tarab” at something she just did. She once said of her audience, “When I see these people, I realize I can never give them as much as they give me.”
As an artist, “tarab” is about building a relationship between yourself and your listener. It is about building trust. It is about sharing vulnerabilities, sharing secrets. I try to do that when I perform and write, but it’s only because I learned it from her.
That’s why this year Um Kalthum is my valentine, if she’ll have me.
I love Um Kalthum. Thank you. I wish I am in Dearborn on Friday.
Amer,
Excellent article about a legend called Um Kulthum. Have two comments:
Um Kolthum’s funeral was truly the largest ever in the Arab world; but it was the largest SECOND ONLY TO JAMAL ABDEL NASSER’S FUNERAL,
In addition to the quoted response of Nasser (No way! Do you want the people to revolt again?) to stopping broadcasting Um Kulthum’s songs, which is true, the story goes like: Nasser summoned the head of the radio of Cairo to his office, and inquired why he is not hearing Um Kolthum any more on that radio. The guy responded: “She represents the old era” (referring to King Faruq era). Then Nasser ordered him: “I want you to take a group of laborers and needed equipment, and go and destroy the Pyramids”. The guy was puzzled and asked: Why the Pyramids? Nasser answered: “Aren’t they from the old ear too?!”. The story also tells that the head of the official Egyptian radio station was fired immediately by an order from Nasser.
Amer, you are amazing, wallah I love reading your posts,thanks a lot man .
I’ve grown to like Um Kalthoum but I absolutely adore Fairuz.
Spanish gitanos have the same relationship with their singers. When that rare rare moment, that transcendent “thing” happens in flamenco, its called “duende” (surely a legacy of the long Arab rule of most of Spain)