4.1 Musical Case 1: Sonic Exile as a Shared Journey Through Improvisation
As both a musician and a researcher, my work exists within a liminal space of interaction of improvisations and the ongoing search for belonging. Collaborations like Sonic Exile, developed with Jano Doe, demonstrate the vast potential of sonic experimentation to navigate through these quests. The question arises: What does it mean for sound to carry the weight of representation, resistance, and emotional resonance?
In Sonic Exile, the creative process evolves beyond mere sound production into an intimate act of exploration and discovery. These artistic practices aim to bridge diverse perspectives and to create shared pathways of vulnerability and artistic inquiry. How can the improvisation l approach hold the space for connection, reconciliation, and healing in topics of displacement and political struggle? Through this lens, I critically explore how shared sonic spaces challenge established boundaries and facilitate a dialogue between personal experiences and collective memory.
The collaboration began unexpectedly, yet meaningfully. Two days after Jano was invited by Michal Cáb to create a multichannel installation for the Music is Obsolete exhibition at the University of Arts in Prague, we crossed paths at a cultural and activist event in Helsinki. The working title of the exhibition is connected to this manifesto: https://ticho.multiplace.org/other.html. The evening revolved around a film depicting Palestinian stories of daily life under occupation. The room felt heavy, filled with the quiet shock of people confronting the stark realities of what it means to live under constant threat.
I was there to perform Palestinian folk songs—songs meant to honor my heritage and the pain of our people. During the performance, as I played, a moment of paralysis gripped me. Memories of my own experiences of terror, and fear flooded back—moments I thought I had buried. Watching from afar as my homeland suffers under relentless violence, I felt a wave of helplessness and despair that nearly silenced me. But in the music, I also found a way to speak.
After the performance, Jano approached me with an invitation to collaborate on the exhibition. Her proposal, though laden with uncertainty, spoke to the complexity of representing Palestine from a "remote position." I understood her hesitation, as it echoed my internal conflict as an artist: how to represent Palestine authentically, with all the inflicted complexities, without allowing its enormity to overwhelm my voice? The term "voice" reflects not just sound, but the possibility of unheard experiences being given space, often for the first time. It challenges the conventional idea of unity, offering a platform where difference is not only acknowledged but celebrated. In music, we find not only the space to speak but the space to listen—to each other, to the silence, and to the voices yet to be heard.
Our collaboration carried on as the drive of genuine quest to express what, otherwise, is difficult to express in other means, persisted. Despite our different life trajectories—Jano's raw, unique approach, and my background in music—we found common ground. This shared grounding was essential, enabling our improvisation to transcend individual narratives and create something raw and evocative. Through this collaboration, the project unfolded organically, reflecting the synergy between our approaches. We met, shared stories, and discussed the world around us—the urgent reality unfolding in Palestine and the weight of carrying these stories across distances. After our discussions, we picked up our instruments and let the music unfold. I began by singing Palestinian folk songs, letting the melodies flow from a place of deep connection to my homeland. Drawing from the Arabic maqam system, I improvised in the moment, allowing the music to evolve as it responded to the energy in the room. Jano, with her DIY modular synthesizer, layered her sonic textures, complementing and challenging the melodies I sang. Our instruments engaged in constant dialogue, neither leading nor following, but coexisting within a shared sonic landscape that was ever-shifting, responsive, and full of tension and release. The music itself became the conversation, a medium through which we could connect and express the complexities of the stories we both held.
The recordings I’m sharing in the exposition capture moments that felt crucial to the process, moments where the essence of our sessions came through. These recordings document times when poems, melodies, and electronic sounds intertwined, unfolding in real-time. It wasn’t just about reacting to each other; it was about co-creating. Each sound, each gesture, responded directly to the other, allowing the music to grow organically, shaped by our shared energy and the emotions we were both channeling. It felt like we were building something together—something that could only exist in that space, in that moment.
After one of our sessions, Jano remarked on how she felt she understood what I was singing, despite her minimal knowledge of Arabic. For me, this was a moment of revelation. There were moments when the music mirrored the thoughts and feelings we had just shared, and afterward, we both expressed how in sync we felt with each other’s emotional responses.
The qanun, with its deep roots in Arabic music, carries the memory of a culture that refuses to be erased. When paired with the unexpected frequencies of the modular synthesizer, the music became a reflection of my own experience—a struggle between the pull of tradition and the push of modernity, between the rootedness of identity and the fragmentation of exile. Our improvisations often felt like conversations between these opposing forces. The qanun’s structured melodies would meet the unpredictable oscillations of the modular, creating moments of tension that resolved into something new. All coming audio tracks are fragments that were recorded at Sibelius Academy, with my collaborator Jano Doe.
Excerpt from Sonic exile sessions:
Improvisation within Arabic music, particularly through the practice of taqsim, is rooted in tradition yet deeply personal and dynamic. My approach to improvisation is shaped by this tradition, where each moment of expression is guided by the systems of the Arabic maqam—a modal framework offering both structure and freedom. As Farraj (2019) explains, "Performing a taqsim is bound by traditions, conventions, and aesthetic norms that guide improvisation, such as the maqam’s pathways, its intonation, idiomatic phrasing, the instrument’s vocabulary, and ornamentation style." This balance between tradition and personal expression is central to my practice. The maqam provides a skeletal structure—a mode with specific emotional and narrative connotations—within which I navigate a space of spontaneity, crafting melodies that reflect both my emotional state and cultural heritage..
Excerpt from Sonic exile sessions:
During the session, various poems in fragments emerged, layered with Palestinian poetry from the Nakba of 1948 onwards. These poems, many of which came to mind spontaneously, evoke the unyielding spirit of a people longing for home. The Nakba, described by the United Nations as the "catastrophe," refers to the forced displacement of over 750,000 Palestinians and the destruction of more than 500 villages during the 1948 Arab-Israeli war, a moment that irreversibly disrupted Palestine's multi-ethnic and multi-cultural society (United Nations, n.d.).
As both creator and researcher, my role in this project is inherently reflexive. This interplay between self and other, individual and collective, lies at the heart of the research. The collaboration with Jano underscores the power of improvisation—not just as a musical technique but as a method of inquiry. Through sound, we navigate the complexities of identity, creating spaces where fragmented elements come together to form something whole. Within this archive, the mechanical hums of the modular synthesizer create an evocative texture that interacts with the qanun’s presence.
In this exploration of Sonic Exile, I immerse myself into the tradition of mawwal, an Arabic-sung poetry form celebrated for its emotional depth and improvisational nature. Mawwal began as eloquent poetry before evolving into an improvisational vocal art that reflects the complex emotional landscapes of its performers. With themes of love, loss, displacement, resilience, and longing, mawwal serves as a powerful vehicle for expression. Traditionally performed solo, it allows the singer to exhibit a broad emotional range, transforming words into melodies. Mawwal is closely tied to tarab, an emotional response and aesthetic principle in Arabic music, marked by slower tempi and repetition to evoke a profound emotional experience (Al-Ghawanmeh et al., 2021). Mawwal serves as a bridge between poetry and song, blending literary finesse with musical improvisation to capture the raw emotions of the performer.
The following section presents Ya Tutet Iddar, a Mawwal composed by Abu Arab. Through its lyrics, the Mawwal speaks to the Palestinian experience of exile and displacement, conveying a sense of hope that, despite time and hardship, return remains a possibility.
Excerpt from Sonic exile sessions:
The verses in Arabic are as follows:
"يا توتة الدار .. صبرك عالزمان إن جار
لا بد ما نعود .. مهما طول المشوار
يا توتة الدار .. حلفتك برب الكون
لا بد ما نعود .. مهما طول المشوار"
Translation:
"O fig tree of the home, be patient with time if it turns cruel
We will return, no matter how long the journey takes.
O fig tree of the home, I swear by the Lord of the universe
We will return, no matter how long the journey takes."
Abu Arab, born Ibrahim Mohammed Saleh in 1931, is widely known as "the poet of the revolution." His artistry is deeply entwined with Palestinian folk traditions, making his work both a reflection and a vessel of the collective pain and aspirations of the Palestinian people. Having been displaced during the Nakba in 1948, Abu Arab became a refugee in Syria. His lyrics and melodies extends into the spirit of storytelling and cultural resistance embedded in his work. His music becomes an unspoken dialogue within our own creative process. This dynamic interplay between the past and the present reflects the themes of continuity and resilience central to this research.
Ya Weili" (يا ويلي) is a commonly used phrase in Arabic, carrying connotations of grief, despair, and a sense of impending hardship. Derived from the Arabic word "ويل" (Weil), which signifies intense hardship and suffering, it often emerges in moments of profound emotional distress. As I sang "Ya Weili" during the Mawwal, it emerged spontaneously, inspired by the rawness of the moment and the openness of the space around me. To say "Ya Weili" is to summon grief itself, to call upon the presence of sorrow and calamity, acknowledging the depth of the tragedy faced. As Growing up, I often heard my father utter "Ya Weili" in moments of fear, particularly when we faced military aggression, with our lives and those of our loved ones in peril. In this phrase, the resonance of a larger collective voice emerges, carrying the weight of shared grief.
The following fragment, ‘Aabir al-Layl (عابر الليل), written by Mohammad Alqaisi, speaks to the unyielding determination to move forward despite the overwhelming challenges of displacement and pain. The poet’s words evoke the image of a journey, where each step is heavy with sorrow yet driven by the connection to the homeland.
Arabic Text:
إنني أحمل آلامي وأمضي
عبر آلاف الدروب الشائكه
إنّه حبّي باق في قرار الأرض يا عمواس
Poem: "عابر الليل" (The Night's Wanderer)
Translation of the Fragment:
"I carry my pains and move on
Through thousands of thorny paths
My love remains in the heart of the earth, O ‘Imwas."
Mohammad Alqaisi, a notable figure in Palestinian modernist poetry, was born in 1944 in Kafr 'Ana, near Jaffa. His work is marked by a profound connection to the Palestinian cause, deeply shaped by the 1948 Nakba. The destruction of his village and subsequent displacement defined his early experiences, which were further forged in the realities of refugee camps. Alqaisi's poetry captures the sorrow, resilience, and identity of the Palestinian people, drawing strength from his profound connection to his homeland. A short phrase came to mind from a poem I read a few days ago: "Ya Dar" (يا دار, Oh Home), taken from "جراح فلسطينية" (Palestinian Wounds) by Mohammad Alqaisi. I have chosen to share only the line "Ya Dar, Ya Dar" to connect it to a deeply personal memory, where my father, in a moment of imminent danger, cried out “Ya Dar” as our home was threatened by a tank. This simple yet powerful utterance captures the profound anguish of fearing the loss of everything that home represents—a loss that resonates deeply within the Palestinian experience. In Alqaisi’s words, I find solace and connection: "لاطليلك يا دار، بعد الشيد بالحنّا" (“I will come to you, my home, after painting it with henna”).
The following poem, written by my collaborator Faris Ishaq, carries a resonance that will be further explored in the upcoming case study. In 2014, Faris, myself, and fellow Palestinian musicians recorded Matha Ghadan during one of the wars on Gaza. A decade later, in 2024, during a session with Jano and amidst new sonic experiments, Faris’s poem resurfaced in my mind, pulling me back to the painful continuity of our reality. What is unfolding in Palestine today is not a new tragedy but the persistent echo of a truth that has resounded since the Nakba—a truth etched into our collective memory, unyielding and unresolved.
يا أرض الهجرة الحرمان… يا أرض الغضب والطوفان
اصبحتٍ وحيدة فريسة الإنسان… يأكلك ببطء ذاك الفجعان
لا يبانلي بطفلٍ إمرأة أو عجوز…ذاك عديم الوجدان
حجة ارضهم حجة ليس لها مكان… من منبع شرّ ليس له عنوان
فلن نترككٍ وحيدةً…فالوقتً حان
O Land of Migration and Deprivation,
O Land of Fury and the Flood,
You have become alone, prey to man,
Slowly devoured by that ravenous one.
He cares not for child, woman, or elder,
That one without conscience.
Their claim to the land holds no ground,
Born of a source of evil, unnamed.
But we shall not abandon you,
For the time has come.
Though unplanned at first, our subsequent musical sessions became profoundly influenced by conversations on Palestine, global systems of control, and the human condition within divided societies. These dialogues became the groundwork for our improvisational approach, fostering a space where resonating voices could surface and intertwine.
Free from a predetermined agenda or rigid framework, we embraced spontaneity in both sound and dialogue, letting the resonance of our shared emotions and ideas guide the creative process. Within this exploratory space, we wove together out diverse elements: the acoustic timbre of the qanun and the atmospheric textures of the modular synthesizer. This convergence unfolded into an ever-evolving soundscape, layered with emotional intensity and unexpected sonic dialogues.
This interplay underscores the integral role of emotions in creating resonance. As McDonnell (2017) asserts, "Emotions serve to enrich the very experience of resonance" (p. 7), emphasizing the profound connection between sound, emotion, and meaning. This insight is essential to understanding how music, identity, and resistance intersect in my artistic research.
Cultural memory, as Santos (2011) explains, is the ability to reconstruct identities through the endurance of knowledge and principles inherent in a society’s cultural heritage. This memory, passed through generations via art, dress, poetry, and even everyday practices, ensures that traditions are maintained and that cultural identity survives. In Palestine, this cultural memory is preserved in the very fabric of everyday life—such as the intricate designs of embroidery, the songs of crop harvest, and the deeply-rooted traditions like *Al-‘Aunah* (العونة). The latter, a vital community practice, is particularly poignant in the olive harvest season, where neighbors and relatives come together to help one another complete the harvest, often without the need for formal invitations.
This collective memory connects directly to the values of community, indigeneity, and a profound connection to the land, all of which are critical to the survival of Palestinian identity. *Al-‘Aunah* extends beyond mere cooperation in agricultural labor; it is a manifestation that binds generations. This tradition, much like the enduring storytelling (*Hikaye*) and the proverbs passed down through time, serves as a cultural thread that bring the Palestinian people together in the face of displacement and struggle. "Cultural objects can validate people’s feelings, making cultural schema appear to solve the practical problems when they otherwise might not." McDonnell (2017) (Page 10)
Despite its broad appeal, the metamorphosis of resonance from a metaphor into a fully realized theory remains incomplete. While Schudson (1989) highlighted the role of cultural toolkits, institutions, and collective memory in shaping the resonance of cultural objects with audiences, and Snow (2008) called for a reimagining of resonance in interactional terms, the concept often points to the alignment of discourses with the worldviews of their audiences. This tension between theory and practice is significant in the context of my artistic research, where resonance is not merely a theoretical construct but a lived experience.
In this case study, the importance of *Al-‘Aunah* lies in its role as a living testament to the endurance of Palestinian culture. This rings true not only in the context of the olive harvest but in all aspects of Palestinian life where cultural memory keeps the community united. The traditions of *Al-‘Aunah*, along with the storytelling, the music, and the very fabric of Palestinian culture, are forms of resistance that celebrate survival and preserve identity. They stand as a collective rejection of erasure and a testament to the resilience of the Palestinian spirit.
The narrative surrounding Palestinian resilience often acts as a double-edged sword, simultaneously acknowledging their strength while diminishing the urgency to address the systemic injustices they endure. As Mahmoud Abu Adi states, "People justify their inaction by imagining Palestinians as inherently resilient, removing the urgency to address their struggles" (Atheer Podcast, Interview with Mahmoud Abu Adi). This framing perpetuates a dangerous narrative that labels Palestinians as "accustomed to suffering," thereby absolving the global community of responsibility for confronting the root causes of their oppression (Atheer Podcast, Interview with Mahmoud Abu Adi).
In our collaboration, music becomes both a literal and metaphorical space for expression. It allows us to voice our diverse experiences, retaining individuality while forming a collective whole. Yet, this unity does not erase difference—it amplifies it. Music offers a space where we can make our sounds while leaving room for others. This "space" isn’t just between beats or notes; it’s in the silences too, where new contributions and perspectives are invited.
Another excerpt from the sessions is the inclusion of the Palestinian folk song "Lyya Wlyya." This song is deeply rooted in Palestinian heritage, expressing themes of identity, connection to the land, and the richness of cultural belonging. Widely cherished among Palestinians, "Lyya Wlyya" emerged as a powerful moment during the session, highlighting the profound emotional and cultural resonance of Palestinian folk traditions within the context of our exploration.
Participation in NEXT Festival: Sonic Exile at Klarisky Church
Sonic Exile was invited to perform at the NEXT Festival in Bratislava, Slovakia, an international platform dedicated to showcasing new and experimental contemporary music. Held annually since 2000, NEXT offers a space for both established and emerging artists to engage audiences with innovative musical expressions. Our concert on November 30, 2024, at Klarisky Church, provided an extraordinary opportunity to share our creative process with a wider audience.
The Klarisky Church, with its centuries-old architecture and profound acoustics, became a living participant in the performance. The interplay of synth, voice, and qanun reverberated within its ancient walls, weaving a tapestry of sound that bridged tradition and modernity. This evocative setting allowed the music to resonate not only as an artistic experience but also as an urgent reflection on the present moment, urging both performers and the audience to confront the shifting realities of the world through the immediacy of sound.
Including photos and videos from this performance in my thesis serves to document this pivotal moment in Sonic Exile’s journey. These materials capture the experimental soundscapes we crafted and the collective atmosphere of connection and introspection, showcasing music’s profound ability to act as a space for exploration and solidarity in times of uncertainty.
