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 Two days after Jano was invited by Michal Cáb to create a multichannel installation for the Music is Obsolete exhibition at the University of Arts in Prague, we crossed paths at a cultural and activist event in Helsinki.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 their hesitation, as it echoed my inner battle as an artist: how to be, as an artist, someone carrying the identity of this place, 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 lies not only an opportunity for us to express ourselves but also for us to listen—to one another, to the silence, and to the voices that have yet to be heard.
Our collaboration carried on as the drive of the genuine quest to express what, otherwise, is difficult to express in other means, persisted. Although our life paths were so different—Jano with his raw and unique approach and me with my background in music—there was something that connected us. It was this common ground that helped us lift our improvisation beyond the individual stories of the people and to something more raw and evocative. Through this collaboration, the project unfolded organically, reflecting the synergy between our approaches. We met, shared experiences, and spoke about what's going on in the world around us—the urgent reality unfolding in Palestine and the burden of carrying these stories across distances.
Following 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. In the Arabic maqam framework, I improvised in the moment, allowing the music to evolve as it responded to the energy in the room. Jano, with their DIY modular synthesizer, layered their sonic textures, complementing and challenging the melodies I was singing. Our instruments engaged in constant dialogue, neither leading nor following, but coexisting within a shared sonic landscape that was ever-shifting, responsive, and imbued with tension and release. The music itself became the conversation, a medium by which we could connect and try to articulate the complexities of the emotions that we both carried.
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 discovery. 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 historical roots in Arabic musical heritage, carries the memory of a culture that fiercely refuses to be erased. Combined 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 dialogues between these opposing forces. The structured melodies of the qanun would meet the unpredictable oscillations of the modular, creating moments of tension that resolved into something new.
Excerpt from Sonic exile sessions:
Improvisation in Arabic music, and particularly taqsim, rests on tradition but is also immensely individualistic and fluid. My approach to improvisation is informed 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 gives a basic structure—a mode imbued with specific emotional and narrative connotations—with which I navigate a space of spontaneity, crafting melodies that reflect both my emotional state and my culture.
Excerpt from Sonic exile sessions:
During the session, a flow of 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 the analysis of Sonic Exile, I heavily drew on the tradition of mawwal, a genre of Arabic poetry characterized by strong emotional resonance and improvisational qualities. Mawwal began as eloquent poetry before evolving into an improvisational vocal art that reflects the complex emotional landscapes of its performers. Often performed as a solo, it allows the vocalist to show a wide emotional range, turning language into musical expressions. Mawwal is closely tied to the concept of tarab, an emotional response and aesthetic principle in Arabic music. This is characterized by a slow tempo and repetition to evoke a profound emotional experience (Al-Ghawanmeh et al., 2021). Mawwal serves as a bridge between poetry and song, joining literary artistry and musical improvisation to capture the raw emotions of the performer.
The next section introduces Ya Tutet Iddar, a Mawwal composed by Abu Arab. Through its lyrics, the Mawwal speaks to the Palestinian experience of exile and displacement, in hopes that no matter how much time passes or how many hardships must be endured, 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. Abu Arab fled to Syria as a refugee after being uprooted during the 1948 Nakba. The narrative and cultural resistance that is ingrained in his work is reflected in his lyrics and melodies.
When I eventually reached the end of the Mawwal, the word "Ya Weili" rang from within my being. It appeared as if the profundity of the situation caused it—a guttural and raw expression carved by the emotions and stories that surrounded me. “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 profound emotional distress. To say "Ya Weili" is to summon grief itself, to call upon the presence of sorrow and calamity, and to acknowledge the depth of the tragedy. 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 poem, 'Aabir al-Layl (عابر الليل), by Mohammad Alqaisi, speaks of the determination to move on in the face of tremendous loss regarding displacement and persecution. Its words paint a picture in the reader's mind that describes a walk in which each step is heavy with sorrow, yet it is done under the deep pull of loyalty to one's country.
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."
Excerpt from Sonic exile sessions:
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”).
Excerpt from Sonic exile sessions:
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 interaction points out the vital role emotions play in nurturing resonance. As McDonnell (2017) asserts, "Emotions serve to enrich the very experience of resonance" (p. 7), thus amplifying the profound connection between sound, emotion, and meaning. Knowledge of this is important in understanding how music, identity, and resistance come together within my artistic research.
Excerpt from Sonic exile sessions:
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, Psychologist and researcher in psychology, behavioral, and social studies, says, "People justify their inaction by imagining Palestinians as inherently resilient, removing the urgency to address their struggles" (Atheer Podcast, 2024). This framing is a dangerous framing that keeps Palestinians in the "accustomed to suffering" frame, which absolves the global community of responsibility for confronting the root causes of their oppression.
In our collaboration, music became 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. Here, music provides a site wherein we can make our sounds while leaving "space" for others. The "space" I mean here is not that which is between beats and/or notes but also in silent beats, where new additions and perspectives are invited to contribute.
Other fragmentary moments in those sessions include the inclusion of a Palestinian folk song, "Lyya Wlyya." This song is deeply rooted in Palestinian heritage, expressing themes of identity and connection to the land. Widely cherished among Palestinians, "Lyya Wlyya" burst with great power into one such moment of the session itself, highlighting the profound emotional and cultural resonance of Palestinian folk traditions within the context of our exploration.
Excerpt from Sonic exile sessions:
Participation in NEXT Festival: Sonic Exile at Klarisky Church
We were invited to perform in Bratislava, Slovakia, within the NEXT Festival, which is an international venue for presenting new and experimental contemporary music. Since 2000, NEXT has been organized annually, offering 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's centuries-old architecture and deep acoustics transformed it into a live agent of this performance, as the playing of synth, voice, and qanun resonated within its ancient walls. 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 us 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 ability to act as a space for exploration and solidarity in times of uncertainty.
Following Image: Shafeeq Alsadi + Jano Doe performing live at Koncertná sieň Klarisky during NEXT Festival 2024, organized by NEXT: Advanced Music Festival. Photo by: Šimon Lupták
Video fragments: Shafeeq Alsadi + Jano Doe performing live at Koncertná sieň Klarisky during NEXT Festival 2024, organized by NEXT: Advanced Music Festival. Photo by: Šimon Lupták
All audio tracks shared in this exposition were recorded in our regular sessions at the Sibelius Academy in October and November 2024. Using Ableton Live, these recordings feature Jano Doe on her DIY modular synth and myself on qanun and voice. With Jano Doe’s full consent, these recordings are shared as part of this thesis to illustrate the development of our musical dialogue and the creative outcomes of our sessions.