Fear Chokes Nasiriya's Song

Jasim al-Asmer * is a singer without a stage. As he serves customers in his café, 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 popularised 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 café.”



Ahmed al-Ameer, another musician, recalls Asmer singing at ecstatic gatherings tinged with such “madness and splendour” 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 Shia 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, Shia 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 Shia south of Iraq. A former stronghold of the communists and the now-outlawed Baath party, it had a colourful 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 Baath 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 Shia festival of Ashura. “Did the religion change?” Asmer asked. “Why is everything forbidden or potentially forbidden?”



Interviews with Shia clerics in Nasiriya uncover conflicting views of the musicians.



Sheikh Hakim al-Salihi, an ally of the anti-American Shia 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 Shia 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 Shia 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 plagiarised 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 in order to protect their identities.



Wisam Tahir is an IWPR-trained reporter in Nasiriya.