“I am not a criminal”
Sara* photographed by Stuart Bailie
I meet Sara for the first time in a city centre café on a chilly January evening. We browse the touch-screen menu of elaborate coffees and settle on something sweet and iced. She is an Iranian musician, refugee and the driving force behind a scheme bringing music to asylum seekers here. Sara is not her real name, but one she uses to protect her family back in Iran.
Sara was forced to flee her home country and has been in Belfast for over six months. As guitar teacher by profession, music has been a lifeline for her here and now something she can use to help others in similar situations through the Guitars for Newcomers initiative. Organised by Darren Ferguson, head of local arts organisation Beyond Skin, the project takes donations of old guitars from the public, has them refurbished and given to asylum seekers. Many of the recipients of the guitars are learning to play for the first time – and that’s where Sara comes in. When she first arrived, she missed her old students and was delighted when Darren suggested she start a guitar club to teach other asylum seekers.
“I’m here and someone should help me and now I can help other people,” she says. “It’s more than just a guitar club. We are friends there, we are in the same situation, we understand each other, we have fun together.” Her classes are made up of people from places like Syria, Yemen, Kuwait, Somalia and Iraq. They gather on Monday evenings to practise, the youngest student being around 10 and the oldest around 40. The club is also good English practice for everyone – messages are translated in the club WhatsApp group and learners help each other where they can.
It’s a new, interesting experience for everyone. “It doesn’t matter if you’re from here or from Syria or Yemen or different parts of the world – I didn’t notice this before I arrived here, but we have the same feelings, thoughts as people, it’s just about governments. That’s why music is a worldwide language; it’s connected us this way. We can’t speak the same languages, but when we hear an Arabic song and it’s beautiful, we can’t understand it but we can feel it.” She plays me some of her favourites on YouTube. “I sometimes feel I am the one learning in those clubs. They are learning guitar but I learn more than them – new music, how to connect with different people from around the world. It’s a really precious experience for me. I am sure that this will help me. I use music to stop thinking, it helps me relax.”
Sara’s musical education was a fundamental part of her upbringing. Music lessons at school are forbidden in Iran, but there are music institutes where you can learn what you like. Her older sister attended one to learn the santur, a traditional Persian instrument, and ten-year-old Sara tagged along. “It was really nice, [all] the sounds, like wow, what is this place? I saw people play instruments before, but it was different. After three or four years, I started to understand that I like guitar.”
Another surprising factor that inspired Sara to play was our very own Westlife. “I memorised all of their songs because I was a big fan of them and I had pictures in my room in Iran,” she laughs, “I swear! I just love them.” She remembers seeing a video of Kian Egan playing guitar to a small audience – a friend gave her the CD because she didn’t have access to YouTube. ‘Flying Without Wings’ is her favourite of theirs and she sings the opening lines when I ask her about it. She has always loved the song, but nowadays the song has more meaning for her. “These days it makes me cry. I really want to fly; to just go anywhere I want. Sometimes I think if I had the power to be invisible and to fly, I could reach anywhere, I could go back home and come here – I would be safe, invisible. I can’t fly and I use music for that.”
Public performance, especially for women, is tightly controlled in Iran. Government approval of everything from song choice down to what you can wear is convoluted and hard to come by. Even with that, women are not allowed to sing and playing rock music is out of the question. Former Supreme Leader Ayatollah Khomeini compared music with opium and said it made the mind idle and senseless. Late last year, the country banned the import of musical instruments as luxury items. Women’s voices cannot be heard on TV or radio, yet Sara’s message is clear: “I am not a criminal.”
She has been exploring her newfound musical freedom with friend and fellow musician Billy Bogan. Sara plays me a song of hers on her phone, written in her native Farsi and translated to be sung by Billy. I hear the original in the beautiful, guttural tones of Persian and it’s moving and undoubtedly mournful. She taps her foot along and insists we listen to the end. It’s not hard to guess that the song is about her husband. “I really wanted him to be here with me and I wanted to shout that. Scream, where are you? What will happen to us? And that’s why I used this poetry. It’s just what I felt, how life changes in a few days, you can’t expect anything in life.”
Sara speaks of music like a superpower – she says she speaks two languages here, one with her heart and one with her mouth. “People can hear me cry with my instrument. I have a power that way with music. It’s me when I play guitar. It’s my character.” She has a tendency to speak profoundly off the cuff and is endearingly candid though naturally cautious of what she can share. She scrolls through her camera roll enthusiastically, showing me photos of her previous life – her students, her cat, her wedding, an unrecognisable video of her playing with an all-male band in Iran.
We talk about the upcoming Concert for Musicians at Risk and how for the first time Sara will be able to choose what to play and have to consider what to wear and how to style her hair (“It’s so simple, but it’s big!”). She urges me not to take my freedom as a woman here for granted. Despite uncertainty about the future, she feels at home here and sees her new life as a kind of miracle. “Sometimes I feel I died in Iran and was reborn here. Maybe it’s heaven, maybe it’s another world. You have freedom, you can do whatever you want. Heaven should be like this.”
A young barista passes our table to let us know they’re closing. Before we part ways, she shares a Cheryl Strayed quote with me. “I was amazed that what I needed to survive could be carried on my back. And, most surprisingly of all, that I could carry it. That I could bear the unbearable.”
“If it’s not magic, what is it?”
The first thing Billy Bogan remembers about Sara is her big sad eyes. Now, sitting across from each other in an East Belfast studio, the picture is much more vibrant. I am nestled on a drum stool amongst a jumble of speakers, guitar pedals and cables for an intimate audience with the project unofficially called Major Bee. A metal band is practising in the next room as we sit down for the rehearsal.
Sara and Billy met through a mutual friend at a friendship club who knew Sara’s background in music and thought she might be interested in playing with a fellow guitarist. Wanting to take her mind off her situation, Sara agreed. What started as two musicians just hanging out has blossomed into a fruitful friendship, mutual healing and the bones of an album.
“It’s a strange one because it came out of nowhere for me,” Billy explains. “I didn’t have any great expectations of what it was going to be. From the first minute Sara was playing the guitar, I was immediately sold on this. We just played a little lick together on the guitar, a riff, and we were in sync immediately. That’s the power of music I guess – we’ve grown up speaking completely different languages, and yet this, the guitar…” he trails off and Sara completes his thought: “…the universal language”. He concurs: “…you don’t need a translator for it really.”
They agree that it’s a rare thing to click with another musician like this; in their words, Sara is the fuel and Billy is the factory. They play me a new song they’re trying for the very first time, built from snippets of poetry written on Billy’s phone. He shuffles some pages on the piano beside him to read Sara’s handwritten chords over his own lyrics.
During a lull in our studio mates’ rehearsal, they do a rendition of ‘The Sea’, which Sara had played me when we met before. It was the first song she wrote when she arrived here about feeling far from home. Billy hears a lot of pain in the song and tries to convey this in the translated version; he’s also added some whistling which Sara loves.
Sara describes her newfound sense of purpose as a three-year-old inside her who has come back to life; she delights in not being able to be controlled now as she was before. We chat as she searches for the key for the final song. She and Billy have a lovely dynamic and are totally at ease with one another, harbouring mutual respect and genuine care. She thanks him for his time, but it’s not a favour at all – the relationship is mutually beneficial.
“It happened suddenly, I didn’t choose to be here, I’m forced to be here because I didn’t know anyone else. But it is the best place that I could be. And I don’t know how it’s happening like this – if it’s not magic, what is it? I feel that power behind me, someone brought me here. To come here in this city and start to play something with Billy – I feel that, I don’t know why.”
“Wherever I find musicians, Kharabat is there”
Tonight’s event at The Duncairn is a celebration of music from places where it is dangerous. Beyond Skin’s Concert for Musicians at Risk, in partnership with the Musicians and Artists at Risk Resettlement Scheme (MARRS), sees local artists perform in solidarity alongside those from affected regions. The sold-out showcase is livestreamed from the beautiful converted church venue to raise funds for musicians fleeing oppressive regimes, with a particular focus on Taliban rule in Afghanistan.
Since the extremist group seized power in August last year, music has once again been banned and musicians ordered to change their profession. The enforcement of this has been nothing short of barbaric - instruments destroyed, studios ransacked and folk singer Fawad Andarabi dragged from his home and killed. Musicians are seen as producing something morally corrupting and therefore all musicians and their families are threatened. Tonight’s show is dedicated to the Afghan artists who cannot be with us.
A cross-legged and concentrated Sara appears early on the bill, delivering a haunting rendition of a classic Spanish piece. With her pink jumper and hair draped over her shoulder, the scene is such a contrast to the video she showed me of her restrained performance back home. Next, we hear from the International Campaign for Afghanistan’s Musicians who help Afghan artists resettle. The Home Office is not currently accepting applications from musicians as a high risk group, yet they are now unable to earn a living, forced to burn their precious instruments and not even safe to even listen to music on a phone. Robin Korevaar from the group speaks of seeing photos of lacerations, stitches and cut thumbs from people detained off the street for this.
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| Yusuf and Ariz Mahmoud by Stuart Bailie |
He becomes emotional when talking about his wife and fellow musicians still in hiding in Kabul; he is from an area of the Afghan capital called Kharabat, home to the city’s musicians for hundreds of years. The next song, ‘Chun Djaney Kharabat’, is inspired by his neighbourhood. “That means ‘my heart becomes as Kharabat’,” he explains. “In Sufiism, Kharabat is somewhere where you can go and have some peace for your soul and some happiness for your heart. Wherever I find musicians, Kharabat is there.” The music oscillates between sorrow and joy; father and son play as one, Ariz answering his father’s wails with an unabated rumble. The vibration from the sound is hypnotic and I can’t help but feel that we’re experiencing something truly special.
Representing music from closer to home is Darragh Lynch of Dublin folk group Lankum and harpist Iona Zajac from Glasgow. Darragh’s guitar carries the message ‘End DP’ in reference to Direct Provision, the cruel asylum system which is deemed a “scourge” on this island. Host Ray Giffen reminds us that in Ireland we are no strangers to the plight of resettlement, taking our songs and music with us. Iona and Darragh’s musical interplay is mesmerising and rich in storytelling - it’s hard to believe this is their first gig together. A highlight is tonight’s final song ‘Ghosts’, a poignant ode to the second generation immigrant experience: “I’m not an incomer / My parents were ghosts / Sir I was born here / So where would I go?”
Later that night, Sara texts me that her husband was able to watch the livestream from Iran.
“This is my talent”
I follow the sounds of a jaunty, upbeat tune to Start Together Studio on the first floor of the Oh Yeah Centre. As I enter, a recording is in progress – producer Mark Smulian is sitting on top of a speaker tapping his foot to the rhythm and gesturing to the musicians through the glass. He makes some suggestions to the sound engineer and a second take of the summery number is soon underway, littered with maracas and raspy sha la las. It is a duet sung in English and a language I soon learn is called Tigrinya. Sara and some other musicians watch from the sofas behind the fairy light-adorned booth. The group discusses the meaning of a word I don’t quite catch in their respective languages – I’m already struck by how little of the communication that happens in the studio is verbal. The recording musician emerges not long after.
Mulugeta Andetsion is a songwriter and krar player from Eritrea. The krar is a traditional stringed instrument native to the region, not unlike a lyre. It is not an internationally known instrument, so Mulugeta’s skill is rare. He has played it from a young age at home with his brothers and at school. When I ask about how he learnt to play it, he says that he sees it as an artistic gift rather than something he set out to learn. He echoes Sara’s sentiment that music is like a second language to him. Mulugeta is joined by his friend Tekle (“like tequila!” he jokes), a fellow asylum seeker who has come along for moral support and to help with translation. The pair has been in Belfast since September awaiting the approval of their asylum applications. Eritrea, sometimes called the North Korea of Africa, has seen thousands flee due to lack of freedom, human rights abuses, poor economic prospects and indefinite national service.
As we chat, Mulugeta sometimes begins in English and slips into Tigrinya, an Eritrean language, which Tekle interprets. I ask about the track that was playing as I came in. They tell me it is a traditional Eritrean love song which is about 40 years old. The pair searches for the words to explain further – I gather it is about a man being alone in the desert thinking only about his lover who is far away. Mulugeta writes his own songs and music too – his main topics of inspiration are his father, his brothers and, of course, love. He shows me a YouTube clip of his original song ‘Norit’, a unique mix of woodwind-infused tradition with a modern pop sheen. He appears sharply dressed and sings in various cityscapes, narrating what looks like the drama of a love triangle.
The experience of recording in the studio and playing with Sara in guitar club have been fruitful for Mulugeta: “[It is] great, I am very happy. This is my talent,” he affirms. He hasn’t performed live in Belfast yet but when asked if he’d like to, he replies in English to Tekle’s translation of my question with a triumphant “why not?”. As a musician and a singer, he is limited to where he can travel until the Home Office processes his documents. Both hope it will be soon.
“I don’t want them to do it my way”
The man behind the mixing desk for this refugee musician project is Bristol-based Mark Smulian, a producer, guitarist and educator for over 40 years. He’s been working with Beyond Skin since 2017 and was a co-founder of WhiteFlag, the first Israeli-Palestinian band back in 1998. His work with musicians from different countries and backgrounds has made him a passionate advocate for music as a tool for peace-building, social cohesion and wellbeing. Working with asylum seekers here in Belfast has been both exciting and intriguing for him: “My work here is more about making them feel good and confident about what they do. The main gig is empowering them to give us what they bring, to let their uniqueness shine through, which is what I love the most.”
Mulugeta’s freshly recorded track plays back through the speakers during our conversation. I wonder how the production process was for Mark. “We’ve tried to maintain the integrity of the piece [and] I keep my eye on the person who brought it.” Billy spoke with Mulugeta about the meaning of the song and came up with the addition of the English refrain “You’re always on my mind” to convey the meaning for those unfamiliar with Tigrinya. The song is very catchy and Mark was keen not to overproduce. “What I’ve learnt over the years and the thing that is challenging and I love doing is finding a way for people to feel proud and strong about what they bring to the mix. I want their authenticity; I don’t want them to do it my way. I want to learn something new from them.” Mark wants to take what’s intuitive to them and bring it into what they’re doing to make something original. He’s a believer in the energy behind music making it good. “It’s a great lesson in give and take. It’s not going to be just Eritrean because we’re here in Belfast, and it’s not going to be just Belfast because they’re from Eritrea.”
Even after all this time, he’s still pleasantly surprised at the power of music to break down barriers. “The release of these chemicals in our brain [when we play music] increases in favour of mutual respect, opening our hearts to one another, that’s what music does whether we like it or not.” He hesitates to call it the “magic” of music, but says: “It softens the edges, it creates safe spaces and those safe spaces can then be utilised for all sorts of things - dialogue, it creates a sense of camaraderie, people are comfortable saying things they may not have said to one another. If they’re feeling confident about what they’re bringing, then that transfers itself onwards outside of the music. They have something they know they’re good at. I made this, I was in the studio in Belfast, I somehow managed to get from Eritrea to here through all the turmoil and tragedy, the difficult journey I imagine. They hear the outcome, a little bit of themselves shines through and that’s going to give them confidence when they walk down the street in a place which is totally alien to them.”
An inanimate object with multiple meanings
Several weeks before we meet, Leif Bodnarchuk and I were emailing back and forth about the progress of the guitars for asylum seekers project. Leif was born in Canada and moved to Downpatrick as a teenager where a natural interest in taking things apart, a bit of self-teaching and being thrown in at the deep end landed him the role of guitar technician for Ash. Over the years, he’s bestowed his skills to Bloc Party, The Libertines and Leonard Cohen before setting up shop in the Oh Yeah Music Centre in Belfast. With his roadie days behind him, he now fixes up guitars for the general public and, since September, asylum seekers through his work with Beyond Skin.
At the end of 2020, he wrote me: “The main thing for me is that guitars are nothing precious because there are so many out there. All the same, they are tools of expression, and when you have nothing but the shirt on your back, a cheap guitar, all cleaned up like new, is a luxury, especially when you’re voiceless and live in the shadows, not knowing your fate. So for me and anyone with a few spare instruments gathering dust, guitars are practically worthless, but to others they’re a lifeline, a sort of lighthouse. An inanimate object with multiple meanings.”
A catalyst for Leif wanting to use his skills to help others happened during lockdown. He had an unexpected visit from a woman asking for a left-handed guitar. He noticed she had missing fingers and a strong accent and the story he imagined for her got him thinking. “If she can come thousands of miles to start again, then the very least I can do is try to find her a guitar. That makes the most sense to me because I’m an immigrant myself and I wouldn’t have had the hurdles she had. I was relatively welcomed here, but I’m white and speak the language so imagine if you weren’t, it would be very difficult to start again and on top of that, imagine there are people murmuring that immigrants are sponging and all that… if you caught wind of that, imagine how you’d feel.” He never saw or heard from her again, but she made a big impact and started a journey for him.
Another reason he wanted to give back in a more tangible way is Twitter. “I feel like I’m actually doing something because you can spend your life on social media trying to blab this about politics or you can get involved with something that’s really happening. There’s only so much criticising you can do before you have to do something yourself.” Using his guitar repair skills seemed like a logical way to do this, so he put out the feelers to see who could benefit from refurbished guitar donations and that’s when Darren got in touch.
When we first emailed, Leif told me that his part in the project was that of “a guy in a workshop fixing up guitars”. I ask him if that’s still the case. “I would like to be part of a process that changes people’s perceptions of what refugees and asylum seekers are.” Leif has met Sara and would like to meet more of the recipients of the guitars and amplify their stories. “They’re probably in survival mode. If someone hands you a bit of luxury, you’re like, ‘I forgot what it’s like to feel!’ Even if they can’t play, hopefully it helps them get their mind off whatever they’ve been through.”
“They are my babies”
“They are my babies” reads the caption to a photo Sara sends me before I attend one of her guitar club lessons. In it, she stands with two rows of children from around the world, sporting mischievous smiles; a few are only slightly taller than the guitars they are clasping. She adds an angel and heart emojis.
Arriving at my first class, I hear these children before I see them. A cacophony of laughter and shouting in Arabic erupts as the kids play with the oversized guitars and chase each other around the room before the lesson starts. Having developed in one of the hotels where the asylum seekers are staying, guitar club now takes place in Ta-Dah Community Pop-Up on Wellington Street, a community space to celebrate the music, art and food that migrants bring to the city. It has been set up by Beyond Skin and Yallaa, an organisation which aims to promote Arab culture in the Northern Ireland. The former Made in Belfast unit has been converted with colourful wall art, flowers, a scattering of chairs and a huge world map which hangs at the back of the room.
Once everyone has arrived, Sara’s pupils gather round her with their instruments as I watch with the parents from a few rows back. We begin by going over the names for the different parts of the guitar and repeat the letters of the musical alphabet; Sara high fives those who have done their homework. Some of the children are dwarfed by their guitars and it is heart-warming and slightly comedic watching them reach along the fretboard to practise the finger positions they’ve been taught.
One of the parents sitting beside me, who asked to be referred to as W, points out her daughter at the front. They are from Sudan and have been in Belfast for three months. She says this is all new for them, but she is happy that her daughter is having fun learning about music and being with other children. She is met with a kiss after the class.
The second half of the evening is dedicated to adult learners. A couple of newcomers haven’t been allocated a guitar yet; Leif’s handiwork is lined up along the length of the world map at the back to be given out. The students strum with curiosity, some their first time holding the instrument and others having been able to practise. Members of the class play certain chords at Sara’s request and are given some to learn for next week.
One of the most active students in the class is Mariam from Iran; she is a bubbly presence in the front row, helping others to tune their guitars and a Syrian classmate in understanding the Farsi. She tells me she has played a bit of guitar before and has been attending Sara’s classes for three weeks. She sums up guitar club in three words: “relaxed, no stress”. The father and son of the family next to me receive an instrument each to practise on for next time. The young boy is excited to play: “This is my first guitar,” he says. He points to a smaller model across the room. “That’s the stupidest one,” he asserts with childish authority. Clearly there’s a rockstar in our midst already.
A simple concept, but a powerful one
Darren Ferguson is en route to pick up materials for Taste the World festival in County Down when he takes my call. It’s been a hectic few months at the helm of Beyond Skin, between the day-to-day logistics of the organisation, the ongoing Afghan refugee crisis and the recent arrival of asylum seekers from Ukraine.
“We’re trying to make sure that we don’t exclude other people seeking refuge and we don’t choose one race over the other or the colour of their skin,” he explains. Whilst Ukrainian visas are being fast-tracked, some Afghans have been stuck in hotels rooms or unable to leave Afghanistan at all whilst their visas have been sitting on the Home Office’s desk for the past 8 months. “A lot [are] master musicians who carry the music culture in their DNA, it’s passed down through generations through their bloodline. They’re at extreme risk because the Taliban know if they kill off those guys, they kill the culture.” Beyond Skin are helping a lot of Ukrainian artists as well, but Darren wants to point out and hold the Home Office to account over what should be a fair process. “You can’t have one rule for people to be welcome and to stay here and another rule for sending people to Rwanda. The fault lies squarely with the government and the Home Office. It’s the system that’s completely biased, not the generosity of the people.”
His phone went nuts when the news about Rwanda broke, ringing with terrified messages. The UK government’s cruel plan to send asylum seekers thousands of miles away has added additional stress to people already in dire situations. “It’s an appalling idea. It doesn’t make sense. It won’t fix anything. It’s the uncertainty of it – is today the day they send me elsewhere or send me home? Again we’re just treating people like data and not valuing them. The penny hasn’t dropped even with our NI Executive – if you have hotels full of people who have come seeking sanctuary who are extremely skilled musicians and filmmakers and artists, we should be doing everything to keep them here. They’re just seen as refugees and uneducated, when it’s the complete opposite.”
Darren founded Beyond Skin in 2004, being a musician himself and having worked in the humanitarian field. He leads a small team who often rely on partnerships and volunteers. Fostering the musical talent that comes to our shores is what drives him, but he’s also never far from the tragedy that goes along with it. “Coming across great talent and artistic people is my fuel, but everything else has been exhausting. You run out of things to say to people – ‘can you help me?’, ‘when can I get out?’. It’s a constant bombardment of people needing things. But it’s not a handout, it’s giving them the tools and skills they need to do something, for their own mental health and also to benefit society. It’s frustrating because so little money could do so much.”
The Guitars for Newcomers scheme has been a step in making people feel valued and providing a welcoming space. “There’s something really beautiful about members of the public giving away a personal possession and handing over the next chapter of the story to somebody else. It’s a great example of how humanity can be at its best with a mix of music running through the narrative. Just get people in a space, use music and arts as the conversation piece and just let them be, with no agenda. It’s a simple concept really, but a very powerful one.”
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| Behnam shot by Stuart Bailie |
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