Druze Pop Star Seeks to Bridge Palestinian and Israeli Divide

Israeli Druze singer Mike Sharif JALAA MAREY AFP
Israeli Druze singer Mike Sharif JALAA MAREY AFP
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Druze Pop Star Seeks to Bridge Palestinian and Israeli Divide

Israeli Druze singer Mike Sharif JALAA MAREY AFP
Israeli Druze singer Mike Sharif JALAA MAREY AFP

"Yalla, yalla, raise your hands!" Israeli Druze singer Mike Sharif shouts in Arabic to the Palestinian crowd swaying to a Hebrew hit at a wedding in the occupied West Bank.

The scene, all the more unusual as it took place in Yatta, a Palestinian village near Hebron and site of frequent friction with the Israeli army and Jewish settlers, created a buzz on social networks and local media.

"I had prepared three hours of performance in Arabic only. After half an hour, everyone -- the families of the bride and groom, the guests -- asked me to sing in Hebrew," Sharif, interviewed in the northern Israeli Druze town of Daliat al-Carmel, told AFP.

Nicknamed "the Druze prodigy" after winning a TV competition aged 12, Sharif -- now in his 40s -- rose to fame with his Mizrahi (Eastern) pop songs in the 1990s in Israel, but also in the West Bank, Gaza and Arab countries.

"I have always belonged to everyone," says the self-proclaimed "ambassador of peace" between Israelis and Palestinians.

From the inception of Mizrahi pop, influenced by the Jewish cultures of the Middle East and North Africa, reciprocal influences were established with the music of neighboring Arab territories.

Today, the popularity of artists like Israel's most popular singer Eyal Golan or the younger Eden Ben Zaken reaches well into Palestinian society.

At the same time, the big names in Arabic music -- Oum Kalsoum, Fairuz or Farid al-Atrash -- have long been popular among Israeli Jews.

To Sharif, this musical proximity should make it possible "to unite everyone" and contribute to ending conflicts.

"I sing in Hebrew in Hebron, in Arabic in Tel Aviv and Herzliya. I sing in both languages and everyone sings on both sides," he said.

"Music can contribute to peace. Politics does not bring people together this way."

His Yatta show, however, brought waves of criticism and even threats from both sides, with some Palestinians and Israelis calling him a "traitor" -- the former for singing in Hebrew in the West Bank, the latter for performing at a Palestinian marriage.

And after having said he wanted to be "the first Israeli singer to perform in the Gaza Strip", the territory controlled by Hamas that Israelis may not enter, he abandoned the idea "due to tensions", Sharif said.

Oded Erez, a popular music expert at Bar-Ilan university near Tel Aviv, links the notion of music as a bridge between Israelis and Palestinians to the "Oslo years" of the early 1990s following the signing of interim peace accords.

Jewish singers like Zehava Ben or Sarit Hadad performed songs by Umm Kulthum in Palestinian cities in Arabic, he recalled, but according to the musicologist, this phenomenon collapsed along with the political failure of the Oslo accords.

"This shared investment in shared music and style and sound is not a platform for political change or political reconciliation per se, you would need to politicize it explicitly, to mobilize it politically, for it to become that," he said of current cultural musical exchanges.

Today, the musical affinity between Palestinians and Israelis is reduced to the essential: "more physical and emotional than intellectual", he said.

The request of the Palestinian revellers at the Yatta wedding was "not a demand for Hebrew per se" but rather for Sharif's "hits" from the 80s and 90s, when "his music was circulating" and some songs entered the wedding "canon", Erez said.

The same goes for the title "The sound of gunpowder", written in 2018 in honor of a Palestinian armed gang leader from a refugee camp near Nablus in the West Bank that is played repeatedly at Israeli weddings, Erez said.

"When there is music, people disconnect from all the wars, from politics, from differences of opinion," Sharif said.

"They forget everything, they just focus on the music."



Blooming Hard: Taiwan's Persimmon Growers Struggle

Persimmons are popular in Taiwan but changing weather and an ageing population are posing a threat to the century-old industry. I-Hwa CHENG / AFP
Persimmons are popular in Taiwan but changing weather and an ageing population are posing a threat to the century-old industry. I-Hwa CHENG / AFP
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Blooming Hard: Taiwan's Persimmon Growers Struggle

Persimmons are popular in Taiwan but changing weather and an ageing population are posing a threat to the century-old industry. I-Hwa CHENG / AFP
Persimmons are popular in Taiwan but changing weather and an ageing population are posing a threat to the century-old industry. I-Hwa CHENG / AFP

Taiwanese persimmon farmer Lo Chih-neng stands on a ladder in his sprawling orchard using secateurs to cut the golden-yellow fruit still hanging from branches after enduring a tough season.
Persimmons are popular in Taiwan where people travel hours to buy bags and boxes of the sweet dried fruit to take home to their families or give away to friends.
But changing weather and an ageing population are posing a threat to the century-old industry, forcing some farmers to look at alternative ways to maximize returns -- or get out altogether, AFP said.
Lo's harvest was down by more than a third in 2024, Taiwan's hottest year on record, after some of his trees failed to bloom and two typhoons in October stripped many of their leaves and fruit.
"The yield has dropped by quite a lot, at least a third or more," Lo, 65, told AFP on his farm where persimmon trees carpet a valley in Dongshi district, in the central west of the island.
"The losses have been severe, and it's mostly due to the typhoons," said Lo, who expects to lose Nt$1 million ($30,000) from his takings on this year's crop.
Taiwan's Central Weather Administration said Tuesday that 2024 was the hottest year since records began 127 years ago, echoing unprecedented temperature highs felt around the world.
Climate hardship
Taiwan's annual persimmon harvest declined for the second year in a row in 2023 to around 59,000 tons.
It is expected to be more than 13 percent lower in 2024, figures from the Agriculture and Food Agency show.
The land area used for growing the fruit has shrunk to 4,700 hectares (11,600 acres) from more than 5,300 hectares a decade ago, and the number of persimmon farmers has also fallen, Su Tang-chao, director of the agency's fruit and flower division, told AFP.
"In recent years, we have observed changes in production areas and fluctuations in yield and quality due to broader environmental changes, such as climate change and global warming," Su said.
Fresh persimmons are harvested from September to December, with most of the fruit sent to Hsinchu county, south of Taipei, to be dried.
Nearly all of the fruit harvested every year is consumed in Taiwan.
Lo's harvest is put into plastic crates, loaded into the back of a truck and taken to Weiweijia persimmon orchard where Lu Li-chien's family has been growing and drying the fruit for more than a century.
Tourists flock to Lu's farm to pose for photos among outdoor circular racks of fruit that shrivel and darken as they dry in the sun and wind -- a traditional method used by Taiwan's ethnic Hakka community.
Normally, fresh persimmons arrive at the Weiweijia farm every day, but Lu said this year's harvest has been "extremely low" and deliveries have been every two days.
"Compared to previous years, we only have about 20 percent of the usual supply," Lu, 68, told AFP.
"When I ask the farmers about the cause, they said the trees are not blooming properly, the flowers aren't opening up as they should."
Lu blames "climate abnormalities", with the production problems worsened by ageing growers whose children have no interest in taking over the family orchard.
"We've never encountered such a situation," he said of the poor harvest.
To maximize earnings, Lu's workers collect persimmon peels and turn them into dye. There are also plans afoot to make skincare products.
Lo, who has a teenage daughter, said he hopes to pass his farm to his nephew in the next few years -- if he is up to the challenge.
"I told him, 'If you're afraid of hardship, you won't be able to do this'," Lo said. "It gets really hot sometimes, and other times, it's very cold."