by Aeham Ahmad
“Please show me more by Riad al-Sunbati, Teacher Aeham,” he asked me. Teacher Aeham. That’s what my students called me.
“Of course! But don’t call me ‘Teacher.’ I’m your friend.”
Within one year, he had surpassed all the other oud students, even though at his age it’s much harder to move your fingers quickly enough. Children have a much easier time at this. My father, too, had taken a liking to Mohammed Munaf.
I had an idea. “If you’re really serious, I can get you a few private students. You can quit your job and you’ll have more time to practice.”
He almost gave me a bear hug. I managed to get him three private students. This way he made as much money as before—and he had all day to practice. He quit his job as a shoe salesman.
His dream had come true. Today Mohammed Munaf is the bandleader of his own orchestra, with a dozen musicians and two dozen singers. They play traditional Syrian music and can often be seen on Syrian state television.
But Mohammed Munaf’s orchestra is also a fig leaf for the regime. The government likes to use them to show how vibrant, wholesome, and beautiful life in Syria is.
We lost touch after 2012, when the war began. Until then, we were the best of friends, and sometimes he would spend the whole day in our shop. But after that our worlds drifted apart. He appeared on television; I was left behind in Yarmouk and had no food. He stood in the spotlight, wearing a black suit, conducting his orchestra. I was burning plastic bottles to heat up a stew of clover and grass so that my family had something to eat.
Mohammed Munaf and I saw each other only one more time—and all the warmth between us had vanished. Before the war, we had never spoken about politics. No one did—it was forbidden. Only later did I realize he was on the regime’s side. He never contacted me again.
— CHAPTER NINE —
When I was seventeen, I applied to the conservatory in Damascus. At first, earlier, upon graduating from the music school, I thought that I’d left classical music behind. Good-bye, Beethoven. Aeham Ahmad would never become a concert pianist.
But now I wanted to continue. It was my own decision, not my father’s. I had finally discovered my passion for playing piano. Now I dreamed of a career as a musician. And I wanted to continue my education as well, but since my high school graduation grades had been so bad, I was inadmissible for most other majors.
I signed up for preparatory class with Vladimir Tsaritzky. After all, I already knew him. We picked up where we had left off.
On the day of the exam, the whole conservatory was buzzing with excitement. Nervous applicants paced the hallways, consumed with their little preparation rituals. The tenors warmed up their voices, the violinists fiddled, and I took my place in the long row of pianists. Everyone was waiting to practice the piano for a while, clutching their music sheets.
I nodded at the others. I knew many of them by sight, even though I hadn’t really talked to any of them. Sandybell was there, as beautiful and well dressed as always.
One woman stood out because she wore a headscarf, which was unusual. The music school in Damascus was favored mostly by children from Christian or Druze families. And even girls from Sunni families wouldn’t be caught dead with a headscarf.
When it was my turn, I entered the room and sat down at the Steinway Model D on the small stage. It was the same kind of piano my father and I had tuned years ago at the defense secretary’s house. It’s a powerful instrument, as capricious as a racehorse, and difficult to handle when you’ve only been able to practice on a small Ukraina. It took me ten minutes to get the hang of it.
I had been the last in line. And now I would be the first to perform. As always. After all, my initials were A.A. I remained seated at the piano and waited.
One of the professors came in. He was surprised. “What are you doing here?” he asked, irritated.
I told him that I was up next.
“No, go outside, we’ll call you, then you can come back in,” he said harshly.
And just like that, it all came back to me, all my former resentment toward the school, with its demands for obedience, its attitude of “we’re better than you.” It made me feel pitiful. I had been listening to Ziad Rahbani—now I was supposed to knuckle under for these professors? No way!
“Why?” I asked. “I’m up first, why can’t I stay seated?”
“Because those are the rules.”
I got up, murmuring, “Screw the rules.”
“What?” he snapped at me.
“Nothing,” I said, and went outside. I was angry. I disliked him and felt small and insignificant, just as I had with my first piano teacher. I didn’t belong here. I stood in the hallway in angry silence and avoided looking at anyone.
Then I was called in.
Six people sat in the auditorium. I went to the stage and plopped my sheets on the music rack. The man with whom I’d had the dispute looked up.
“What was that?” he asked.
“That’s who I am,” I said.
“You’d better show me who you are on the piano,” he said. I had prepared pieces by Beethoven and Rachmaninoff, a mazurka by Chopin, and three études by Czerny. I began with Czerny. I poured all my rage into the piece, playing fast and forcefully, marching through the lines, stomping ahead. . . .
And then I stopped, unable to play anymore. My rage was stronger than my willpower.
“That’s it,” I said, getting up and gathering my sheet music. I just wanted to escape from there. The other members of the jury looked at me in astonishment.
“Why?” the man asked me.
“I’m angry,” I said.
“You’re allowed to perform here. You should be happy.”
“You’re right, I should be happy,” I said. “But I’m not.”
“You can go now,” he said.
I went home in a grim mood.
* * *
Needless to say, I failed the test. But at least my prep class had led to something good: I made a new friend. I had been standing in one of the hallways of the conservatory, waiting for something or someone, when a bald man came down the stairs and smiled at me. Why was he smiling? At me? Just like that? Here, in this snobbish place? I was surprised. I looked up again, and, yes, he was actually smiling. So I smiled back. We shook hands and he introduced himself: his name was Feisal Jamal.
Two weeks later, we met again. This time, we went out for coffee. He was from Aleppo; he wore dark, horn-rimmed glasses and had green eyes. The most striking thing about him was his laughter. He laughed like a child, cheerful, carefree, boundless.
I learned that he had studied piano in Italy, that he hadn’t been teaching at the conservatory for very long, and that he was about to perform with the Syrian National Symphony Orchestra. He was one of the best pianists in Syria. He told me that he, too, couldn’t stand the smug jerks at the conservatory. Their arrogance amused him. I found myself laughing and agreeing with him. It seemed like we could be friends. So we exchanged phone numbers.
The friends I’d had until that point knew nothing about music, and I wasn’t acquainted with any musicians. With Feisal, these borders were erased. It didn’t take long before we found ourselves spending hours at his apartment, listening to CDs he had brought home from his travels, outrageously good piano concertos, fugues by Bach that were played on a harpsichord. He helped me discover the Finnish composer Jean Sibelius, whose music went right up to the edge of atonality. He explained to me the connection between modern painting and modern music. He pointed out things I had never heard before.
Sometimes he gave me piano lessons. He showed me how to improve my expressiveness, encouraging me to play with more emotion. He taught me to reveal myself through music, to do what I felt was right. Feisal helped me discover new treasures, and as a thank-you, I occasionally tuned his piano. I owe him a lot.
But he was in his thirties, and had no wife or children. This made him suspicious. There were rumors. A casual acquaintance at the conserva
tory warned me that Feisal was “into men,” and urged me to stay away from him.
Ugh! I had no patience for rumors. I didn’t care whether Feisal was gay or straight. Whether someone was Jewish or Christian or Muslim, Orthodox or agnostic, gay or not, didn’t matter to me. I knew that Feisal was a wonderful human being, and that was the only thing that mattered.
Sometimes there were three of us who went out together. The third person was Flavio, who also taught at the conservatory. He and Feisal drank beer; I drank cola. At other times, the two of them would cook pasta together, “al dente,” as Feisal said. I had never heard that term before. Occasionally, we drove to Flavio’s weekend house in the hills of Sahnaya, enjoying the view.
One day, Feisal bought a new car. Together, we took the expressway to Homs. I had a driver’s license, but I had never driven outside the grounds of the driving school. I didn’t own a car, and I had never dared ask someone to borrow one. It was different with Feisal. I stammered for a while, then I asked him—would he mind if I drove for a while?
At first, he wasn’t sure this was such a good idea. But then he pulled over to the right and got out of the car. I slipped over into the driver’s seat. We took off. The car was an automatic; I had no difficulties weaving into traffic. I continued driving for a few miles, then I pulled over to the right, beaming.
One day, Feisal returned from a concert tour in Ukraine, where he had performed with the Syrian National Symphony Orchestra. He had bought new CDs. We listened to them in his apartment. I asked if I could borrow some of them and burn them onto my hard drive. He shook his head. These were rare recordings, irreplaceable, and he didn’t want anything to happen to them. What if they got scratched? Sorry, but no.
I couldn’t stop thinking about the music. A few weeks later I asked him again. I promised to treat the CDs with extreme care. I said I’d only burn them and bring them right back. Again, he shook his head.
All right, never mind. I let it go.
A short while later, he had to go to Aleppo for a few weeks. He called me and asked if I could check on his apartment once in a while, and water his plants.
I was surprised. Watering someone’s plants wasn’t exactly a custom in Syria. Couldn’t he find someone else to do it?
“My home is your home,” he said emphatically. “I would appreciate it if you could do it.”
So I said yes. I went to his apartment and watered the plants. Of course, I couldn’t resist the temptation: I burned the CDs and put them back where I had found them, unharmed. But as soon as I was finished, I felt ashamed. How could I go behind someone’s back like that? He’s your friend, I told myself. He trusts you, and he asked you not to do it. So why did you?
From then on, my inner voice wouldn’t shut up. Every time I saw Feisal, I thought, You have to confess. I tried several times—and never managed to finish my sentence.
I just couldn’t bring myself to tell him, yet I couldn’t remain silent either. For weeks, I struggled with this question. At last, honesty won out.
“Feisal, I need to tell you something.”
“That you burned the CDs?”
“Yes! How did you know?”
“That’s why I gave you the keys. I’m sorry I said no. I was looking for a way to get you the music.”
That’s what he was like. That’s how wonderful our friendship was.
And then the war drove us apart, catapulted us onto different planets light-years away from each other. Feisal Jamal sat in the Damascus Opera House at a grand piano, accompanying a famous soprano who had a guest appearance in Syria. I sat in Yarmouk and kept pushing my out-of-tune piano around bomb craters. His world went on as before, while mine was broken.
But he didn’t forget me. He kept calling me, asking how I was. He might have even put himself in harm’s way by doing so. After all, his phone lines might have been tapped. He had a lot to lose, but he didn’t care. Our friendship was more important to him. I will never forget that.
* * *
It might seem strange, but at eighteen, I tried to get into the conservatory again. It was a bizarre déjà vu. My reasons were the same as last time. My awful high school grades. My father and his unending dream that I should be a concert pianist. My friendship with Feisal Jamal.
I calmed my rage, swallowed my pride, and worked up some motivation. Once again, I registered for the preparatory class with Vladimir Tsaritzky. I practiced as much as I could, but our store was keeping me busy.
On the day of the exam, my father and I got up at 5 a.m. and took the minibus at 7 a.m. We arrived at the conservatory much too early, and went to one of the fancy cafés in the neighborhood, ordering croissants and Italian coffee. My father kept encouraging me, praising me. He told me how far I’d come! Just this one small step and I’d be there! I nodded.
When the time came, I went over to the conservatory, took my place in the long line outside the large hall, then went inside and warmed up at the grand piano. Then I went outside again and waited to be called.
“Aeham Ahmad!”
I entered the hall. Again, I faced a six-person committee, including the man with whom I’d had the argument the year before.
“Ah, you’re back?” he asked me.
“Yes,” I said, as politely as possible. “I’m here to take the test again.”
“You know the rules,” he said, hinting at my outburst the previous year.
“Yes,” I said. I wasn’t going to get upset again. I had promised my father.
“What are you going to play?”
“Two pieces by Chopin, a Beethoven sonata, the Prelude no. 5 by Rachmaninoff, and two études by Czerny.”
“Very well,” the man said.
I began. And I gave it my all. That was perhaps my mistake. Yes, I hit all the notes, but I played too intensely. My expression was rigid and overly strained.
When I was done, I gathered up the sheet music, nodded to the jury, and left the room.
Five days later, my father and I went across the city one more time to find out the results. I looked for my name on the list. And I read out loud, “Aeham Ahmad—60 percent.” Failed.
In silence, we went back home. I was tired and downcast. My father was even more depressed. He did not say a word. In fact, he didn’t speak for days. His decades-long dream was over. His son would never be a concert pianist. I could feel his pain, and it hurt.
* * *
Thankfully, there was a plan B: In the fall of 2007, I signed up for the University of Homs. They were offering a new degree in music education. It would allow me to teach at any school in Syria. I was surprised when, during the entrance exam, I ran into someone I knew: Cosette Bakir, my former piano teacher at the music school. Now she taught piano here at the university. I still remembered how she had called me a parrot. But when she saw me, she acted as if we were old friends.
I passed the exam with ease. “I already taught Aeham at the Damascus Music School,” Cosette Bakir explained to the other jurors. “He’ll be my star pupil.” I smiled grimly. Back in the old days, she couldn’t even get through Mozart’s “Turkish March” without hitting the wrong keys. What did she think she could teach me now?
I didn’t want to move to Homs. Our shop was booming, and it needed my complete attention. I didn’t want to lose my music students, and I wanted to stay near my parents. And, to be honest, I didn’t feel like living the life of a student. Many of my classmates played in bands and thought of themselves as rising pop stars. All they were interested in was parties.
That kind of life was unfamiliar to me. I didn’t smoke hash, I certainly didn’t drink alcohol, and I’ve never even had a drag on a cigarette. What was I supposed to do in Homs? I preferred to stay in Yarmouk during the semester and commute, even though Homs was two hours away by car.
It was exhausting. My alarm rang at 5 a.m. At 6 a.m., I got on the express bus. I dug myself deep into my jacket, put some earbuds in, and began listening to music. Usually, I fell asleep. From Damascus the bus
drove up to Mount Qasioun, and from there to the Syrian highlands. The bus followed a winding road along the slopes. In the morning light, I could see pale rocks, cypresses, mountain pines, and deep valleys. Then I closed my eyes and went back to sleep.
At around 8 a.m., we reached Homs. I entered the university’s main building—and was immediately surrounded by my classmates. Whenever they saw me, they’d call out excitedly, “Aeham is here!” There was no music store in Homs, so I had to help out the others with violin bows, sheet music, and strings. If you played the oud or violin, it was important to have a regular supply of strings. Whenever a string broke, you couldn’t practice anymore. So, each morning, my classmates waited anxiously for me.
One time, the dean of the university entered the lobby ahead of me. No one paid any attention to him. But when I came in right after him, someone called, “There’s Aeham!” and all heads turned. Even the dean turned to look—that’s how much of a celebrity I was.
Classes began at 9 a.m. Music history, music therapy, pedagogics, philosophy, counterpoint, and harmonics. Everyone had to choose a second instrument, and I chose drums. But the piano lessons with Cosette Bakir were exactly as I remembered them: She had no clue what she was doing, and she was always in a bad mood. She assigned me difficult pieces that I had no time to practice, then she’d get impatient and call me a dummy.
So what? She had no more power over me. At the music school, she could have expelled me at any time. But here at the university, the only thing that mattered were your final grades. And those were still a long way off.
After the first year, I saw that there was an open position for a second piano teacher. I showed the ad to Feisal Jamal. “If you want me to, I can apply,” he said. Of course I wanted him to! And he got the job.
I went to Cosette Bakir. “I’d like to switch to the piano class with Feisal Jamal,” I told her.