A Palestinian tale of surviving on music

Kate Dannies
5 Min Read

Swiss film week got off on the right foot Wednesday evening at Galaxy cinema with a star-studded opening that witnessed the premiere of Palestinian documentary “Telling Strings.

Palestinian singer Kamilya Jubran, who is featured in the film, was on hand for a post-screening performance that brought the house down.

“Telling Strings is a joint Swiss-Palestinian production directed by Anne-Marie Haller. The film tells the story of a musical Palestinian family living in Israel, chronicling their long road of isolation and discrimination made bearable only by the presence of music in their lives.

It all starts with the father, Elias Jubran, a Palestinian Christian native of a small village in the Galilee who remained there throughout and after the events of 1948. Elias eventually became a citizen and a member of the Palestinian minority in Israel; or, as he put it, “A seventh class citizen in my own country.

Elias was drawn to music from a young age, borrowing a neighbor’s oud and teaching himself how to play – much to his family’s chagrin. He went on to become a self-taught instrument maker and music teacher, crafting exquisite handmade ouds for customers around Israel and the occupied territories.

Not surprisingly, Elias and his wife Nuhad – a one-time aspiring singer – raised a household of musical children, three of whom are featured in the film. Kamilya is an internationally renowned singer; Khaled is a teacher, scholar of Arabic music and accomplished musician; and Rabea, the youngest, a surprise latecomer to music who shocked the family by learning to play the oud skillfully in a span of months.

Each member of the family takes a different, yet equally humble approach to music: all are highly skilled, producing moving vocal and instrumental performances at the drop of a hat throughout the film. Despite their talent, it is clear that, for them, music is more of a survival device than mere entertainment.

A case in point, Elias acknowledges that while there is “no hope for the next generation of Palestinians, at least there is music to ease the isolation he feels as a Palestinian in Israel. Defying his father’s pessimism, Khaled speaks fervently about the need for recognition of the Arabic musical tradition and the way politics – in the form of Israel’s separation wall – is impacting his ability to teach music in the community.

Rabea, a computer technician at Intel, acknowledges his isolation as a Palestinian working at a company dominated by Jewish Israelis, his face becoming calm and happy only while playing his instrument.

Even Kamilya, whose fame has steadily increased ever since she joined the well-known Palestinian group Sabreen, have employed music as a healing therapy. For her, like her brothers, the need to perform has nothing to do with money – it’s an expression of her hopes and dreams as a Palestinian. For the Jubrans, passion for life in a homeland full of hostility is only found through music.

The tiny conversations between the Jubran family members that tackle everything, from instrument making to Palestinian politics, are fascinating to watch. But what is perhaps most important about this film is the way it depicts the way politics permeates every aspect of life, even for those Palestinians living in Israel.

The Jubrans cannot speak of music without reflecting on their isolation as Arabs in Israel, their intermittent contact with fellow Palestinians in the occupied territories, and the dispossession of their people in 1948. Politics are a daily occurrence: Khaled learned the meaning of hatred while living in Jerusalem, Rabea tolerated racist remarks at work, and Kamilya was received with skepticism by Arab audiences because of her Israeli citizenship.

Despite experiences like these and despite the fact that the wall’s path has crept into their Galilee village, threatening the livelihood of Khaled’s music school and Elias’s oud making business, the Jubrans do not feel alienated, just alone. Elias summed up the family’s sentiment: “I’ve never felt that I don’t belong here. I choose humiliation at home over humiliation as a refugee.

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