Farah Zahra, MDiv ’17

“Coming to HDS is my story of leaving the war place. Part of my motivation to come here was about me wanting to find beauty in the midst of ugliness.”

Farah is from Lebanon and currently lives in Egypt where she studies Arabic music with a focus on Oud (lute) performance.

Note: We conducted Farah’s interview on April 14, 2017, about an hour after the U.S. reported dropping “The Mother of All Bombs” on Afghanistan. Farah referred to this event in her interview, during which she shared tea and cookies from Syria with us, and also showed us her instrument—an oud from Turkey.

Leaving the War Place

I just heard news about the U.S. military dropping the biggest non-nuclear bomb in history over a province in Afghanistan where ISIS military supposedly resides. In Arabic, we have a saying we use when something very dramatic happens: “This will make you forget the milk of your mother.” It means that this is an event that makes you forget your past, and at the same time, you’re unable to move on. Now as you’re here interviewing me, I’m thinking about this.

It reminds me where I’m from. I’m from Lebanon, Greater Syria. The war there is such a big part of my choice to leave. I wanted to leave Lebanon because I wanted to continue my education, and given the state of security in the country, I thought it was better to leave. I came to the U.S. three years ago. The day I left my hometown, there was an armed combat taking place because of what’s happening in Syria. I thought to myself, “I’m fleeing the country. I’m not leaving; I’m fleeing, because I’m leaving war behind.”

Coming to HDS is my story of leaving the war place. Part of my motivation to come here was about me wanting to find beauty in the midst of ugliness. For instance, these cookies you’re eating are from Syria—they are so sweet, right? There must be something sweet in the midst of ugliness. I feel I’m on a mission to explore it and get in touch with it. It’s a big part of what I do in my research, and a big part of how I like to live and share my life with others.

Beauty Activist

When I finish my degree, I will go to Egypt, not back to Lebanon. I’m going to join a music program in oud performance. The music school is located in the heart of old Cairo. Reading the Humans of HDS blog, I saw that a lot of people who were interviewed identify as activists. When we speak of activism, it’s usually in the realm of politics or social activism. But I’m not that. I’m just not. I think I’m a beauty activist. I think about organizing sounds of the world. The aim of music is to beautify, to reconstruct or to rearrange the sound of the world in a beautiful way, and I hope to do that with music.

So here at HDS, I focused on “the musics” or sonic arts in Muslim cultures, particularly in the Arabic-speaking world. I always knew that I wanted to study music, but I don’t come from a family of musicians, and my parents have always opposed my decision. It’s looked down upon in our culture. Being a musician in this way is not a prestigious role in society, except if you are a very talented diva. This is why my parents opposed my path, but I opposed them.

There’s so much hate—what just happened, the dropping of another bomb, is proof—and so much hate needs an equal amount of beauty and love to counter it. I always tell my parents, “If we don’t work on all fronts of social activism and beauty activism to counter this, we will not reach the desired state of being in the world, a state of living together.”

My Instrument

It’s ancient. I took a class at HDS called “Sacred Music in History and Current Practice” taught by our dear music director, Harry Huff, may his soul rest in peace. He referred to the oud as “the primitive guitar,” and I was like, “Ummm…” [laughs].

This is my oud. He is from Turkey. He was named “Mehran” by my Persian teacher here at Harvard. I feel so strong about him. In Arabic everything is gendered, so there’s no it; there is either he or she.

The very structure of language tells us much about ontological beliefs. For instance, if the tree is a she and not an it, then it must be an animate being and not an inanimate object. Because of that, it must be carrying some energy that has the power to affect us. This also says a lot about inspiration and art. When you look at a tree—the “she” tree—and feel inspired, you say something like, “Oh, now I know what I’m going to write about.” You’re acting because you were acted upon, and vice versa. It’s a circle of intersubjective experiences.

On Scripture and Sacredness

The word scripture bothers me, partly because when people say scripture, it seems to me that they refer to a text recorded on paper. Coming from an oral culture, I don’t believe this speaks to the tradition and place I come from. I like to approach scripture as a piece that I listen to, that I hear. For instance, the Qu’ran is widely memorized, recited, and listened to.

Between scripture and poetry—and I’m speaking here of Arabic and Persian poetry—there’s a blurred line between the level of sacredness of these different books and canons. So much of the sacredness of the thing, of the text, rests in the way we approach it and how we want it to guide our life. Poetry moves me, shakes me to the core. Anything that deeply moves us has a quality of the sacred.

This poem by Hafiz is my favorite. Hafiz lived in the fourteenth century and is one of the most celebrated Persian poets. I’ll share my three favorite verses here, translated by Robert Bly and Leonard Lewisohn:

One rosy face from the world’s garden for us is enough,
And the shade of that one cypress in the field
Strolling along gracefully for us is enough.

The dearest companion of all is here. What
Else is there to look for? The Delight of a few words
With the soul friend for us is enough. 

Don’t send me away from your door, oh, God, 
Even to Paradise. Your alleyway, compared 
To all space and time, for us is enough.

Each line of the poem ends with the phrase “for us is enough.” Throughout the poem, Hafiz speaks of small qualities in the world that are enough for us, that suffice us. It’s profound, beautiful, and moving. It makes you look around and think about the mundane and wonder, “Why  haven’t I noticed this before?”

I think this is the role of scripture and poetry, and of anything that claims sacredness: it defamiliarizes the familiar and makes us perceive the value of what we usually regard as insignificant. These lines call us to pay attention, to heighten our awareness of things and people around us. That is where the utmost sacredness lies.

Photos: Laura Krueger