Musicians at the event organized by the Center for the Protection of Journalists in partnership with the Edward Said National Concert Group. Photo: Sujood Alkhour

Music has always been a cornerstone of our lives in Palestine. Here in Gaza, music used to signal celebration — a birthday, a wedding, or any other occasion marked with joy. We are deeply familiar with folk songs, and their melodies hold our collective laughter and tears.

These rhythms were meant to be shared, and many of my best memories include music in all its forms. Before the genocide I remember singing along with my family in our living room, our harmony transforming what would otherwise be a mundane evening into pure bliss. And I will never forget the time I finally let myself get lost in the comfort of lyrical sound in the midst of genocide.

From the minute war was declared on Gaza on October 7, 2023, music became an afterthought as we scrambled to survive. When song did cut through the sounds of jets and explosions, it was like a last refuge. I often asked myself: Do people under bombardment and destruction have the right to listen to music? When people are seeing blood and witnessing death every minute, is it ok for them to listen to music?

The answers were all around me. Gone were the joyous melodies of my people, and in their place anguished melancholic songs depicting the effects of human suffering and martyrdom.

At some point during the height of the attacks, I received a message sent to a group that I was part of that was dedicated to protecting Palestinian journalists. It was an invitation to a musical gathering. My friend Ohood and I met at a press center, and she was also part of the group that had gotten the message.

“How can we go to a concert and listen to music when we are in the middle of a war?” I asked her. Then I surprised myself when I added in a loud voice: “Let’s go ahead and register! Maybe it will help us forget the pain and sorrow for a moment.”

So we went. The event was organized by the Center for the Protection of Journalists in partnership with the Edward Said National Concert Group. It was the first time we had heard live music since the beginning of the war. I walked the long way to the center through the devastated streets of Gaza, amidst plumes of smoke and dust kicked up by every passing car. The weather was hot, and my temperature was rising under the scorching sun and the scarcity of transportation.

Halfway there, I decided to bail and turned around. Ohood called me wondering where I was. When I told her I was no longer coming, she wasn’t having it. She insisted that we would have a wonderful time and stood firm by the entrance to the venue until I finally turned back around and met her at the door.

We entered, and the space was packed with female journalists like ourselves. Their tired smiles reflected the pain and agony of daily reporting from the frontlines of genocide. There were some very basic supplies laid out for us: A4 paper and a few pens.

Fouad, the organizer, and his fellow band members distributed sheets of lyrics for us to sing along to. When we all had the words in front of us, the musicians picked up their instruments and began to play. We sang along, our voices quiet at first, quivering from loss and pain. But then we got louder, and yet louder again, fueled by the power of collective melody.

We were lifting each other’s spirits — doing so was something we couldn’t achieve on our own. Everyone was singing, clapping, and suggesting the next song or anthem. Fouad and the band continued singing, and the sound of the oud was right there with their voices. The atmosphere morphed into something that was almost unimaginable at that time — one of joy, cheer, and laughter.

Wanting to freeze the moment in time, we all filmed with our mobile phones, the little devices moving across the room in a continuous stream to capture such elation. We ate sweets and drank juice, the music accompanying us in the background.

The keyboard used at the musical event. Photo: Sujood Alkhour

Suddenly, the band began playing a patriotic song, one of the most beloved songs among the Palestinian people, by the Palestinian singer Mohammed Assaf.

These are the song lyrics in Arabic:

Yatir altaayir yarayih ealaa aldiyra
Bitahmik euyuni watasunak eayn allah
Wallah yamusafir shaelanih halghayra
Filastin biladi hulwat yamasha’ allah
Myl e safad hwil e tabaria
Lieakana wahifa salam eabharaha
W la tansaa alnaasirat halqaleat alearabia
Bashar bisan birajeat ahiliha

It is impossible to capture the entirety of its poetic beauty in English, but for the sake of trying, it would translate into something like this:

O bird flying towards home
My eyes will protect you, and God’s eye will watch over you
By God, traveler, this longing burns brightly
Palestine, my land, is beautiful, praise be to God
Turn towards Safed, then Tiberias
Send greetings to Acre and Haifa, by their sea
And don’t forget Nazareth, that Arab fortress
Give the good news to Beisan of the return of its people

Everyone cheered and chanted loudly, and some even danced the Palestinian dabke in the joyous atmosphere. Ohood took a picture of us, just smiling and looking at everyone with joy. We clapped, our hearts dancing with the happiness that rippled through our bodies.

We asked Fouad if we could take pictures holding the musical instrument, and he agreed. Ohood and I gently grasped it, but incorrectly, so one of the musicians patiently showed us how it was done. It was a wonderful moment in time when our fingers pressed against the strings — the very ones that so adeptly expressed our sorrow and suffering.

The meeting ended, and it was the first time we had really experienced music after two years of the indescribable torment of genocide. Everyone urged Fouad to organize another musical gathering, and he didn’t hesitate to agree. For something so seemingly simple — listening to music and singing together — had brought joy to our broken hearts and allowed a fleeting release of our pent-up pain and sadness.