“Music doesn’t lie. If there is something to be changed in this world, then it can only happen through music.” ~ Jimi Hendrix.

My parents were sixteen and nineteen years old at the outbreak of World War II, and living in Liverpool, UK, a city which was the most heavily bombed outside of London.  In a period of two years, there were 80 air raids, 50 of which occurred in the first three months of the blitz.  During one seven-day period, over 680 planes dropped 870 tonnes of high explosives and over 112,000 incendiary devices.  Overall, 38,000 people were killed, and over 70,000 people lost their homes.  My mother lost her only brother in France and there his body remains in an unmarked grave.

It is funny how you can be aware of a fact of your parents’ lives, and yet not really know much about it.  Their generation did not dwell on unpleasant memories, they did not ‘share’ their feelings, they did not go for therapy, or journal, they just got on with their lives and put it behind them.  So despite this war, this abnormal life, they managed to find each other, ‘court’, become engaged, and eventually, marry.  We must have heard stories here and there about the wedding itself, how friends and family donated their ‘rationed’ ingredients for a wedding cake; how the dress itself was made from (and I am probably making this up, so forgive me) curtain material; how they took their bicycles on the train to go on their honeymoon, since they had little money for luxuries.

I remember hearing a story of one of my aunts, who suffered from depression, possibly associated with giving birth to a stillborn baby (her first).  She shared this story with me when I was a teenager, having not told her own children.  I remember being impressed that she told me, but then advising her (I thought I was so mature at thirteen!) that she should let them know! Coincidentally it was many, many years later that we learned that our own mother had also had a stillborn baby (again, another unpleasant memory never discussed).  But back to the war story, my aunt was so depressed, basically suicidal, that when the air raid warning would go off she would head outside into the open, rather than going to the bomb shelter.

Other wartime stories I believe I only heard as an adult.  Once, one of her granddaughters interviewed my mother (for a school project) about her war experiences.  There was one story she told about her being out somewhere far from home when the bus service was discontinued because of an air raid.  She, (along with a busload of strangers) had to get home by some roundabout way, many hours after her usual time, in the dark (they would institute a ‘blackout’ during the raids), to be greeted by a hysterical family who could only have assumed the worst.

Those of us who are opposed to war in general, and the current attack on Iran in particular, do not have to spend a lot of time imagining the suffering, the terror, the bombardment (note the word ‘bomb’) that is going on in Iran and the surrounding countries.  We see images of buildings destroyed and can pretend that all such buildings are empty of people.  Buildings destroyed, rendering how many people homeless, if they survived?  In Lebanon alone, nearly one million people have been displaced.  Meanwhile in the US, gas prices have gone up over 80 cents a gallon.

I heard a music journalist say in an interview, that he was disappointed that more musicians, artists in general, have not been more outspoken about the conflict.  Musicians have often led the way in putting voice to protest, creating memorable lyrics for the masses to sing together.  In Minneapolis during the ICE invasion, a beautiful song was written to reassure those under threat that they were not alone.  Bruce Springsteen added his voice to the mix.  Pete Seegar was the most prolific and visible folk artist in the 60s and was joined by Harry Belafonte and Sidney Poitier who helped to amplify the message of Civil Rights.  In the little (but, as we say, ‘Tallawah’ or stalwart) island of Jamaica in the 70s, a song ‘Better must come’ became the theme of a political campaign which swung the island towards Democratic Socialism, and eventual upheaval thanks to the involvement of the US government and the CIA.

This week I learned of the story of Afroman, a rapper who was sued for defamation by a group of Ohio police who had raided his home on suspicion of drug trafficking and kidnapping.  After the police kicked down his door, searched his house (and found nothing), the rapper, using his surveillance camera footage, created a rap song or two making fun of the whole situation (and the cops in the process).  Look up Lemon Pound Cake if you’re interested! This, the lawsuit then claimed, was an invasion of their privacy, caused them (the police) $3.9m worth of damages, and made it harder for them to do their jobs.  A jury (all White) found for Afroman, and (Hallelujah!) for freedom of speech.  The power of music!

I first heard protest music as a child, along with many other genres that my parents loved.  Being Christians (the authentic kind), they were Pacifists, and lifelong activists on behalf of the oppressed all their lives.  One of the albums that accompanied us across the ocean when we migrated to Jamaica from the UK in 1963 was music of South African freedom fighters, including the anthem Nkosi Sikeleli iAfrika (Lord bless Africa) used first by the ANC and which then became a Pan-African liberation song. Around the time that my mother died, one of my sisters was listening to a radio program called ‘Soul Music’, where guests are invited to discuss what certain songs mean to them.  The song under discussion was Nkosi Sikeleli iAfrika.  Since the song was so meaningful to my parents (and there was a Welsh connection for my father: the tune was loosely based on the Welsh hymn Aberystwyth), we decided to play it before her funeral, as we gathered in the chapel.  After the service we exited to the classic Bob Marley anthem ‘Three little birds’, reminding us not to worry ‘about a thing’, thereby bringing the Jamaican connection into the mix.  I was reminded of this last week after attending the funeral of the 98-year-old father of a school friend.  At the end of the service, guess what they played!  And so we danced.

At the end of another week of deadly news, as it seems harder to understand what the US has gotten the world into (and why), it is good to remember that sometimes the good guys win, that music can save the day, and that we can always dance. 

Have a wonderful weekend, Family! I hope you dance!

One Love!

Namaste.