BAGHDAD, 7 December 2003 — Afternoon rehearsal for the Iraqi National Symphony Orchestra had begun, but many members of the string section were stuck outside the convention center, shuffling past the sandbags, trying not to snag their soft instrument cases on the razor wire.
US soldiers cradling automatic rifles motioned the musicians forward one by one and ordered them to open their cases. Slowly, the guards scrutinized the contents: A violin, another violin, and a cello.
“You know how much C-4 explosive you can hide in one of these things?” quipped one soldier.
These are no ordinary times for the Iraqi Symphony. But, then again, not much has been ordinary in the life of this orchestra, which claims to be the oldest in the Arab world.
Impoverished, isolated and in some cases exiled by former President Saddam Hussein, these musicians have more endured than enjoyed their long history. They were starved for strings and scores during a decade of UN sanctions on Iraq and robbed of their home when looters gutted the concert hall this year.
But having practiced over the pounding of falling bombs during the US invasion, orchestra musicians now face an unnerving new challenge. In its first foreign performance in 11 years, the Iraqi Symphony is scheduled to appear Tuesday at the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts in a joint concert with the National Symphony Orchestra.
“This is a very hard thing for me because they’re such an important, famous orchestra,’’ said Mohammed Amin Ezzat, the Iraqi Symphony’s longtime conductor, who returned from exile in October to reclaim his baton. “We didn’t have a chance to see any other orchestra for so many years. I don’t even know if I’m conducting right anymore.”
Opportunities to perform have been few. The orchestra no longer keeps to its prewar schedule of monthly recitals because, with security tenuous in Baghdad, concertgoers are wary of braving criminals and insurgents for a seat in the audience.
In the days immediately after Baghdad’s fall to US forces, looters burned much of the Al-Rashid Theater, the orchestra’s home. The musicians retreated to a modest hall in northern Baghdad, where three guards sharing a single rifle have kept looters at bay. But that center, designed primarily for Community Theater, offers only 300 well-worn seats and poor acoustics.
Now, ahead of the Washington trip, US occupation authorities welcomed the symphony onto the once exclusive stage of the Baghdad Convention Center, long reserved for Saddam’s presidential functions and Baath Party solidarity conferences. The cavernous hall, which seats more than 2,000 people, was part of a presidential complex off-limits to the public. This summer, the orchestra performed there for Iraq’s newly appointed Governing Council, which has moved into the heavily guarded complex.
Scanning the distant balcony during a rehearsal recently, Ezzat laughed with amazement at the change in fortune that brought his orchestra to this stage.
“Despite the tough life conditions we went through, we have a chance to show the world that Iraqis are able to enjoy music and perform music, both Iraqi and classical music,” said Ezzat, 42, flashing a rare smile.
As practice proceeded, however, his mood darkened. He repeatedly interrupted the errant strains of his players, tapping the music stand with his baton impatiently. Then, raising his baton again, he counted off the tempo in English and Arabic and launched them on another try.
Little time remained before the orchestra was scheduled to leave for neighboring Jordan en route to the US, and the orchestra was still trying to remove the kinks from Beethoven’s “Egmont Overture.” Also featured on the Kennedy Center program, which is part of a State Department-sponsored cultural exchange, are pieces by Georges Bizet and Gabriel Faure, as well as three Iraqi compositions, including one by Ezzat.
“It’s not only conducting. I’m here not only to make music but teach music,” he said wearily. “I have very different levels of experience in this orchestra.’’
The symphony still boasts a few veterans, notably silver-haired Munther Jamil Hafidh, 72, who has been playing viola with the group since its founding in 1959 and still teaches music and ballet. But many players are less than half his age, including a Kurdish cellist who signed on barely three months ago after seeing the orchestra give its sole public performance of the year in the northern city of Sulaymaniyah.
In the golden era of the 1970s, the orchestra played to packed houses and toured the country, performing in provincial movie theaters when proper concert halls were unavailable, according to Berj Kerakossian, the symphony’s general manager at the time.
“After 1979, when Saddam Hussein took power, we went through a catastrophe. All aspects of culture were neglected,” Ezzat said.
The government decided it had a better use for Kerakossian’s talents, especially his fluency in German, acquired while studying music in East Germany. He was ordered to travel to Europe under cover and help monitor secret military business deals on behalf of Hussein Kamal, Saddam’s son-in-law, according to Kerakossian. He balked. In 1986 Kerakossian was jailed, and released only last year as part of a general amnesty declared by Saddam as war approached.
The orchestra’s musicians were allowed to continue playing but were paid barely $7 a month. Some of the most experienced musicians fled the country, leaving the symphony short of players and even shorter of experience.
Ezzat said he sold off his car in the 1990s so he could remain with the orchestra, then his house and some farmland. The UN sanctions imposed on Iraq after its 1990 invasion of Kuwait made Ezzat’s travails even tougher and brought tragedy into his home four years ago, he recounted. Forced to use kerosene because electricity was short, his wife was killed when the heater set fire to the premises.
Ezzat said he could stand no more. Last fall, with war brewing and the Baghdad government squeezing him to compose a musical score on Saddam’s behalf, Ezzat fled to Sweden.
Others, like French horn player Andanya Joseph Benjamin, remained. Benjamin, 56, had performed in the Iraqi Army band before joining the symphony in 1991. The pay could not feed his family.
“We love our music. We would have played music even for free. But we have to survive,” said Benjamin, a white-haired, soft-spoken man. A fellow French horn player had taken to peddling coal to make extra money. Benjamin got behind the wheel of a taxi. “Driving a car made me nervous and made me tired. Of course it affected my music because there was no way I had time to practice four hours a day like I should.”
During the economic embargo, visitors from outside Iraq slipped sheet music into the country, where the scores were copied by hand, according to the musicians. They nursed their aging instruments, aware that spare parts were prohibitively expensive if they could be found at all.
Then came the March invasion. The musicians hunkered down at home.
“I’d go on the roof, watch the airplanes and the rockets, and then go downstairs and practice,” Benjamin said. Alone, he filled the blackout with the mournful call of the French horn.
Nine months later, symphony members said they relish being back in the spotlight.
“Now we’re getting recognition and attention,’’ said violinist Nobar Adnan, 30. ``Before, we were playing in the dark.”