Commentary

Isn’t it amazing how the paths of our lives cross each other? Motorways, for example, fascinate me. Here are all of these people, driving in the same direction I am. Where are they going – and why? Cities also freak me out from time to time. Here are these metropoli, filled with people. Sentient, free-thinking, independent-minded people. And they have all somehow decided to spend their days living and working in this particular place, their lives interwoven with each other in the fabric of modern life.

Why people choose to be where they are, and to do what they will, mesmerizes me. But whether it is through the hidden influence of ley lines, energy paths or ancient trade routes – or flashy marketing schemes and neon lights, certain places on our earth undoubtedly draw people to them. One of my favourite things about life is that it is always possible to meet the unlikeliest of people in the unlikeliest of places.

Bethlehem is one of these places.

The fact that I somehow ended up living and working there for a while a few years ago is just one testament to this claim – but over some time, I noticed how the place encouraged all sorts of wonderful and strange (and wonderfully strange) people to converge there.

One such guy I met out there was a seriously cool Californian dude named Jake.

Having previously lived in Gaza, Rafah and the West Bank, Jake had quite some experience of living in the Palestinian territories under Israeli military occupation. He served as an oracle of wisdom on many occasions, providing insight into situations that we would otherwise have missed. His compassion for all natural things inspired many of us, and he became a good friend.

Jake also revolutionised my taste in music. He introduced me to the music of David Rovics – a course of action that definitely changed my life.

He also introduced me to hip hop.

Although Jurassic 5 had become a favourite of mine, I had pretty much dismissed the genre as the plaything of fools and thugs, intent only on displaying material wealth, promoting misogyny and ripping off samples from 70’s funk records.

Jake took me back to the roots. We spent many long nights discussing the origins of hip hop in the historic (and contemporary) institutional racism within American life. To the sounds of Small Talk at 125th and Lenox by Gil Scott-Heron, I started learning from Jake about the philosophy of the Black Panther movement and the desire for social change, which sparked this genre from the slums.

It was like discovering a whole new world. Jake argued that, with the dawning of the massively corporate music industry in the mid-to-late 80’s, hip hop had split between commercially appealing, easily manufactured nonsense about bitches and hoes – handing the record execs and industry bosses massive sales from radio-friendly floor-fillers – and socially conscious hiphop, featuring the poetry and the soul of the original radical movement for change.

He pointed out that, while all the hiphop seen on TV and heard on mainstream radio may be of the guns and bling category, the original voice of hip hop had never been silenced, only forced into the underground. He played me early KRS-One, and I understood. He played me Dead Prez. They blew me away. After hearing Imortal Technique’s Revolutionary Vol. 2 album, I knew my eyes had been opened. Gang Starr, Blackalicious, Control Machete, Son of Nun and The Coup all followed. I was a happy man.

Now here’s something which might surpise you: Hiphop is massive right across the Middle East.

And something which might not surprise you: It’s not the good kind.

Jordanian taxi drivers blast out 50 Cent while tearing through Amman. Egyptian teens hang out with their pimped-out cars, blaring Puffy. When visiting a radio station in Jenin, an aspiring MC told me. “You know who is the best? Eminem. Eminem is the best rapper in the world.” I didn’t think it worth explaining the production genius of Dr Dre.

But way back then in 2005, my friend Jake told me about Jackie Reem Salloum, a Palestinian-American, visiting refugee camps across the Palestinian territories. Within these ghettos, she bore witness to the birth of conscious Arabic hip hop.

Just as US hip hop was born in the struggle for social justice in 1970’s American cities, young Palestinian artists have been rising from situations of desperate poverty and injustice, using their art and their music to inspire others to rise up, to draw attention to their plight, to tell their story to a worldwide audience.

Salloum’s documentary film, Slingshot Hiphop, screening this summer in film festivals around the globe, shows DAM, a bunch of Tupac-inspired rappers from Lod (a mainly arab town within Israel, largely isolated and cut off from municipal services), inspiring a new generation. Palestinian Rapperz from Gaza were one of the first groups to be included in the film, sharing their dreams of escaping from the open air prison of life in the Strip. Abeer is rewriting the gender roles of her community.

This is more than a film about some musicians starting out on their paths. In promoting the revolutionary voices of artists who have truly known death and despair throughout their brief lives, this film brings us back to the roots of hip hop itself. It is the poetry of a generation that demands a better life; an end to injustice and persecution. It reminds us that hip hop is about radical social change, encouraging us to reject anew the charlatans who ignore the four elements. It is a moment that documents the positive side of globalisation: the internationalisation of art and culture; it is a shout-out across the Middle East – and a wake-up call to the rest of the world.

The message is clear. From Gil Scott-Heron to DAM, and on to whatever tomorrow will bring, politically conscious hip hop continues to thrive, albeit underground. Wherever in the world there is injustice and exploitation, artists, musicians and poets will be among the first to rise up, demanding a better, more equal world.

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