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How Music Shields a Child’s Psyche in a Time of War
A few Palestinian children protect themselves from trauma and stress by playing the violin and other instruments.
RAMALLAH—The white van, carrying young musicians riding home from a concert in Bethlehem, suddenly came upon a military barrier erected hastily in the road. “halt!” commanded a sign in Arabic and Hebrew. Just beyond, an olive-clad soldier was checking documents.”Flying checkpoint,” said Rasha Shalalda, 14, a Palestinian flutist, to her sister Alá, 10, and other fellow musicians. They were students at a Palestinian music school, Al Kamandjati (Arabic for The Violinist).
Flying checkpoints are temporary barriers the Israeli military erects for the stated purpose of catching suspected militants, and those without proper documents, who might try to evade the fixed checkpoints. Also known as random or “surprise” checkpoints, they are among the more than 600 roadblocks, earthen barriers and other obstacles the Israeli military has erected in the West Bank, a land about half the size of Connecticut.
Encounters at checkpoints could be deadly, but mostly, for Alá and Rasha, they were humiliating—dehumanizing reminders of who had control. The “surprise” checkpoints were so ubiquitous that the sisters were never surprised to encounter them. “It’s normal,” Alá said.
The van slowed and came to a stop. The sisters gazed at the sign. Behind the soldier a military Humvee blocked the road. The soldier beckoned the van forward. He opened the sliding door.
“What’s that?” the soldier asked Alá, pointing to her soft blue instrument case.
“This is a violin,” replied Alá.
The soldier told her to step out of the van.
“Do you know how to play?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Play,” instructed the soldier.
“Don’t play for him!” Rasha yelled in Arabic.
“Play,” repeated the soldier.
Alá frowned, looking into the van uncertainly.
Muntasser Jebrini, a teenaged clarinet player, said softly, “It’s okay. Play, habibti.” Play, my dear.
Standing erect, Alá calmly removed her violin, placed it under her chin, and began to play. She chose “El Helwadi,” or “The Beautiful Girl.” A haunting melody floated from Alá’s little violin—an “Oriental” sound, as it was called in Israel and the West. Certain and strong, Alá’s notes cut through the low rumble of idling cars and floated above the flying checkpoint, into the night air.
In the melody, the sisters could recall the words, about a penniless child whose mood is serene, for she has put her life in God’s hands. With patience, change will come; all will be better.
“We saw in his eyes, he was shocked,” Alá remembered. “It was something he didn’t understand.”
Rasha, staring intently from inside the van, felt a surge of pride in her little sister, playing unfazed. “They claim that we are people with no identity, but Alá proved them wrong,” she said. Music, Rasha believed, was not only a source of pride; it was a means of assertion and protection.
The central purpose of Al Kamandjati, according to its founder, French-trained Palestinian violist Ramzi Aburedwan, is “to protect these children from these soldiers.”
To some the statement may sound like a slogan or a sound bite, or, more bluntly, absurd. Yet in studies on music and trauma from other conflict zones, including Bosnia, South Africa, and Northern Ireland, researchers found that music reduced the recurrence of traumatic memories, raised the threshold for anxiety, and, perhaps more important, created the possibility to “re-imagine” one’s own life. Playing music, the researchers found—making something new in response to the trauma—not only was a way to move beyond victimhood; it was a path to healing and, eventually, to a complete personal transformation.
Source: www.thedailybeast.com