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."



Beauty Salon Near Ukraine Front Offers Brief Respite from War

Maryna Skromnaya didn't think twice about making the 40-minute to the salon. Genya SAVILOV / AFP
Maryna Skromnaya didn't think twice about making the 40-minute to the salon. Genya SAVILOV / AFP
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Beauty Salon Near Ukraine Front Offers Brief Respite from War

Maryna Skromnaya didn't think twice about making the 40-minute to the salon. Genya SAVILOV / AFP
Maryna Skromnaya didn't think twice about making the 40-minute to the salon. Genya SAVILOV / AFP

Maryna Skromnaya was ready to face shelling and explosions to get her hair done at a salon in Pokrovsk, the eastern Ukrainian city under intense Russian attack.

"I need to stay beautiful rather than run around looking like Baba Yaga!" she said, referring to the mythical forest witch who feasts on children.

Her blue eyes now framed by a fresh bob cut, the frail 57-year-old stood up from the hairdresser's chair and flashed a peace sign in a brightly lit mirror.

The salon's roaring trade exemplifies how thousands of Ukrainians living in partially deserted and shelled-out frontline towns are trying to cling to a sense of how things used to be, AFP reported.

Its pristine white-walled salon is a rare pocket of normal daily life in Pokrovsk, even as Moscow's forces less than 10 kilometers (six miles) away, are closing in.

The mining city was home to 60,000 people before Russia invaded.

Its population has plunged from around 48,000 to 16,000 over the last month, according to the authorities, who are urging all residents to leave.

Skromnaya was preparing to heed that advice, but wanted to savor a few final moments at home.

That included a haircut at her favorite spot, even if it meant a 40-minute walk to get there.

"Public transport? You may as well lie down on the floor waiting for it. It's gone," said Skromnaya.

'Always something exploding'

"You can always start walking, turn your music on, go feel beautiful," she said.

But venturing outside in Pokrovsk these days is perilous.

"There were bangs here, bangs there, there's always something exploding," Skromnaya said, waving her arms left and right.

Inside the salon, the buzz of hair clippers and blow dryers barely covered the thuds from the front line, some seven kilometers away.

Facing increased Russian bombardments, the authorities have ordered residents to stay inside their homes for 20 hours a day.

So would-be customers were constantly rushing in, pleading for a slot in the narrow window between 11:00 am and 3:00 pm -- outside the strict curfew.

"Look at me, I look like a bum!" one man joked, lifting his cap to reveal a slightly uneven cut.

Salon worker Natalya Gaydash shook her head apologetically. He didn't have an appointment.

The team was doing its best to squeeze in as many clients as possible.

"The war is not a reason to just lay down and die with your hair undone, your nails unclipped and dirty," said 32-year-old Gaydash.

The salon will stay open as long as the Russians are far enough away, said owner Ludmila Kovaleva, who opened the place five years ago.

"How can you stop going to work if people are waiting for you?"

'Empty soul'

"People come for a slice of positivity," Gaydash said.

"Some come to share their problems ... others share a bit of joy with us."

Feeling fresh and handsome after his trim, 54-year-old Yury Chaplygin beamed, revealing a few golden teeth.

"There's a good atmosphere, you can drink coffee as you wait for your turn," the locomotive driver said in a deep voice.

The few remaining workers from a nearby market, now mostly closed, hustled round the salon's coffee machine, sharing gossip for a few minutes.

Another beauty salon just round the corner, owned by Kovaleva's sister Iryna Martynova, recently shut its doors.

"Clients used to get served by my sister, then go see me, then go back to my sister just like on a merry-go-round," Martynova said wistfully.

But people stopped trickling in after the evacuations stepped up in August.

Martynova's salon is now empty, save for a few shelves covered in blue plastic wrap.

The door was cracked in a recent shelling attack.

"This is not normal, and with every day that passes it's getting even more abnormal. I've already made up my mind, I'm leaving," Martynova said, tearing up at the thought of having to start all over again.

She was taking some comfort that her former clients, now spread all across Ukraine, have already started calling her to see where she'll go and if they can make a booking.

"This is my life's work, my favorite job. I'm left without it. My favorite clients, I've known them all for years. Now my soul is empty."