Schema Magazine

VIFF 2010 | Checkpoint Rock: Songs from Palestine

Suhell of DAM (right) performs with Muthana

Checkpoint Rock: Songs from Palestine
Checkpoint Rock: Canciones Desde Palestina
Spain, 2009, 70 min
DIR: Javier Corcuera, Fermín Muguruza

If rap is the CNN of the street, we're the Al Jazeera of the street, says Palestinian hip-hop group, DAM. Hailing from Lod, just southeast of Tel Aviv, Israel, the band is our introduction to a burgeoning music scene in the Middle East, among a displaced and often disenfranchised population. Checkpoint Rock, a documentary by Spanish director Javier Corcuera, follows a trail through pockets of Palestinian settlements both within and outside of refugee camps, sampling the work of musicians who blend traditional and contemporary art forms, canonical poetry and the spoken word, Arab and Western instrumental styles. Their particular form(s) of fusion may vary, but the commonality in all of their music is its political bent.

Hip-Hop Group DAM

DAM rapper Suhell accompanies us on a tour of Palestine and Palestinian settlements in Israel, on a quest to meet musicians whose work expresses political interests and has unique flavours. 'The king is naked', sings Bassam Beromi of band Khalas, between breathy interludes. Khalas, meaning 'Enough', here compares itself to the little boy of the cautionary tale that called the emperor out (when no one else would tell him he wore no clothes). Its style is reminiscent of rock bands like Korn, heavy and angry, but in a special twist, its lyrics address very real suffering--the suffering of a whole people, rather than angst.

Khalas

I wondered as I watched whether the people in the outdoor arena that moshed to the music were passionate about the message in the words, the struggles of their history, or simply enjoying the music, and realized it's probably not an either/or situation. We tend to think of the Khalas fan's North American counterpart, the 'angry young man', as self-indulgent. But that line of thinking doesn't describe Palestinian youth who so ardently support DAM or Khalas. Not that everything these bands prescribe is anger... but there's a strong element of reproach and political commentary in their music. And an even stronger element of catharsis, I feel, at this moment in history, than in what the average North American band is offering its fanbase. Obviously the political situation lends itself to this kind of feel, besides the band's own talent. Also, there was a lot of joy at the concert, which one doesn't expect given the 'situation' we encounter in the news. There is someone to speak to the world for a contemporary Palestinian youth, who can connect the past to the present in their style and references, while putting the modern Palestinian's situation in a modern global context.

Amal Murkus

In Nazareth we meet Amal Murkus, but we hear her first as the camera rolls through the streets of a marketplace right out of a cinematic Arabian fantasy. There's pain in her music, and the lyrics, at least in translation, border on flowery. But if you close your eyes and just listen, her deep and undulating song prods even the hardest of hearts, while offering a sense that the present is just a blip in infinity. Perhaps this is why when we see her she seems to be a bringer of calm, a patient expression on sharp features. Yes, she is a performer, and brings the requisite drama to her tune, which I personally am usually skeptical of, but in this case it fits with the quality of her music and does not subtract from it. Her song My Lute describes 'my experience as a woman' in times of trouble and her 'homesickness'. Murkus's work is definitely ingrained with a homesick, longing quality. And she is open to acknowledge all the influences on her music, ranging from Lebanese, Mediterranean, Greek and Turkish, to Israeli music.

Murkus hosts a radio show, on which she plays other artists' work. Palestinian musicians are keen to promote one another and celebrate their solidarity as musicians, despite great differences in their styles. Much of this comes from their regional isolation. After Murkus's heartfelt vocals, we are presented with young Safaa Arapiyat's cheeky and sometimes angry rap. Her song is called Paka Paka, or 'Criticize, Criticize'. Arapiyat has a rebellious almost outrageous attitude towards those she sees as her critics: both those who disapprove of her conduct as a woman who raps (presumably including many Palestinians), and those who are discriminate against her for being Palestinian (i.e. Israelis). So her enemies approach, as she sees it, 'from both sides'. And her reaction is dogged dismissal. At least her lyrics are dismissive of them. Her attitude, on the other hand, is most satisfyingly aggressive. Possibly my favourite of the acts in Checkpoint Rock, Arapiyat's guts are a force to be reckoned with. She looks like a schoolgirl, (she was still sporting braces during the making of Checkpoint Rock), but has bite that comes with wisdom beyond her years. It helps that her rap is clever, and there is nothing apologetic about her stance or remotely 'feminine' or 'sexual' (since the two so often seem to have to go hand-in-hand in pop music) about her actual performances.

Safaa Arapiyat

Next we meet Walla'at, a band that sings about Love at the Checkpoint, transforming what has become an everyday struggle into a transformative experience. Muthana Sha'ban, another musician of an older generation, talks of the power of folk songs to spread news before there was TV. Suhell raps as Muthana sings in a more traditional wail atop a mountain, one in his baggy shorts, the other in full Arab garb. They enjoy themselves, even as they sing politically charged lyrics.

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