Light In Babylon And The Universality Of Music
Michal Elia Kamal talks about her band’s rise from the famed İstiklal Avenue in Istanbul to concert stages around the world
You’ve probably seen the video—it has over 21 million views—featuring a scruffy-looking, yet eminently lovable, trio on a street corner somewhere in Istanbul, playing an insanely-addictive cover of Idan Raichel’s “Hinech Yafa.” It’s hard to tell—especially if you’re not in the know—but that street corner is actually the legendary İstiklal Avenue, which, at that time a decade ago, was the epicenter of something of a Turkish cultural renaissance. The trio is Light in Babylon—Michal Elia Kamal (drums and vocals), Julien Demarque (guitar), and Metehan Çifçi (santur, which is like an Iranian-style dulcimer)—and they were very aware that they were probably in the right place, at the right time.
“Playing there was a whole different experience than playing anywhere else,” Kamal says about making music on İstiklal Avenue. “We saw that potential, and we started there. It was a really good starting point. We lived nearby, and it felt like it was our playground. We had our own spot. We knew it, and it was like a community.”
To hear Kamal tell it, that İstiklal vibe was palpable and contagious, and, as evidenced by their video’s popularity, Light in Babylon were obviously onto something. Their appeal, like the group’s makeup—Kamal is Israeli, the daughter of Iranian immigrants, Demarque is French, and Çifçi is Turkish—is multicultural and international, and their following extends even to places, due to Kamal’s Israeli passport, where they have no hope of ever appearing. But, according to her, that ultimately doesn’t matter, because music is borderless.
“We’ll do concerts in Turkey, and many times, organized groups of people from Iran—who know the date of our concert—will organize trips from Iran to come see us,” she says. “We cannot go there, and they don’t need a visa—the access is very easy between Turkey and Iran—and it’s like this magical moment.”
Light in Babylon’s universal appeal is magnified by things like the internet, which grants easy access to just about everything, as well as—at least in the pre-COVID world—the ability for people to travel like never before, which means that practically anyone might be at one of their performances.
“We had a concert, maybe four years ago, in Ankara, the capital of Turkey,” Kamal says. “It was sponsored by the Israeli embassy and the ambassador and his family were there. You had the ambassador and all his bodyguards around him, and the concert was full of Muslims. The audience included girls in hijabs, students from Pakistan and Bangladesh, and the Israeli ambassador—and I sang the whole concert in Hebrew. These are things that are possible only in this generation.”
That’s the dream at least. Light in Babylon have been together for about 11 years, and have grown a sizable international following. “So many people helped us along the way,” Kamal says. “We didn’t have a corporation behind us or even a label. It was people who pushed us and we pushed ourselves. I am sure we have many years ahead of us, and I am sure we will grow more.”
I spoke with Kamal from her current base in Tel Aviv. We talked about the band’s humble beginnings, the challenges and benefits of growing up in a first generation immigrant household in Israel, the universality of music, her experiences working with various orchestras, sitting in with a singing circle on the streets of Tel Aviv, and ultimately, how music is a gateway to building meaningful, lasting relationships with strangers.
What’s the band’s story, did you get started playing on the streets?
We started playing on one specific street, called İstiklal Avenue [İstiklal Caddesi, or Independence Avenue], not everywhere.
Specifically just that one street in Istanbul?
Yes, İstiklal Avenue, it is a very special place. We started around 11 years ago in Istanbul on İstiklal Avenue, which is in the city center near Taksim Square. It’s very specific and a very special place. That was in 2009, almost 2010, and that moment was also a very good time in Turkey, culturally. Istanbul was chosen to be the cultural capital of Europe, and that period was like a golden time. It is not like that anymore, by the way, but then it was a place with a really big potential for musicians, and artists in general.
İstiklal Avenue is a huge avenue with no cars. There are more than two million people passing through there every day. It is very crowded, very touristy, and it was like an artists’ avenue. You had bands playing there—even half-organized—proper bands brought their equipment and put on concerts. You had a puppet show. It looked like a festival. It was not an organized festival, but it was like that every day. It was so intense.
Is that where you met Metehan Çifçi (Mete)?
I wanted to learn music, and I wanted to start my own project. I traveled in India, worked a bit in Europe, and decided I was going to dedicate my life to music. I had even already looked at music schools in Israel. But I looked around, and many of my friends studied music in Israel. I saw them struggling, actually. They are really high-level musicians. They put a lot of money and effort and study into it, and I didn’t see them achieving what they deserved. That changed my mind a bit, and I thought that maybe music school was not the place for me.
I continued to travel. I passed through Turkey almost by chance. It was just before I was about to go back to Israel to figure out what I was going to do, and I just discovered Istanbul. I discovered it not only in a musical way, because it was also a place that’s attractive to me in a much more personal way, too. I arrived in Istanbul, and I started to feel my heart beat. I arrived at İstiklal Street, and I asked my friend—I was with a Turkish friend—I said, “Is this like a holiday or Independence Day or something?” And she told me, in this heavy accent, “No, this is Taksim, baby.” Something was happening there. That was normal, every day. I saw all the musicians, everybody was playing, and I realized that this was the place for me.
I had met Julien, and together we were thinking about building up a project. I knew I could find musicians in Istanbul. Julien said, “There’s İstiklal Street, let’s play there a little and see how it goes. Maximum, it doesn’t work.” We rented a small room in a neighborhood nearby. We earned a little money. Then he said, “There’s this one santur player. I saw him play solo on İstiklal Street. He’s very shy. He doesn’t speak English. But he’s really, really good. We need to find him.” Every day, we went to İstiklal Street, and finally, we found him. We approached him—I had my own songs already that I wrote—and we said, “Can we play?” He said, “Yes,” and I think that moment was when we played our first song as a band. We didn’t know Turkish. He didn’t know English. But it was like, bam. At that moment, something was created. A crowd started to form, and that was the very first moment, 11 years ago. It was like this magical moment, like the spark was there, and all the rest is history. We played one song, a second song, and 10,000 songs since then.
You had instant chemistry.
Yeah, I don’t think that’s happened to me before or after like that. I don’t know what it is in Mete. He’s Turkish, but today he’s family, after all we’ve been through.
What language do you speak with him?
At first, we spoke with our hands, plus a little English, and a little Turkish. Now he’s learned English. I taught him English, and he speaks English like an Israeli [laughs]. We’ve also learned Turkish. Nowadays, we speak English and a bit of Turkish. But in the beginning, we started from scratch. It started from music, which is the main thing. I think it’s what’s beyond language that makes the connection. Even Julien, he’s from France—today he is my husband—I am Israeli, Persian, and Jewish. But the three of us, we say we are dreamers, and that’s what we had in common. We had this culture of dreamers. We decided to go out from our comfort zones, and achieve some inner dream or inner wish, and to take that risk. Choosing music as a lifestyle is a risk. Playing in the streets is a risk. It is not conventional. That was the first thing that brought us together. It was very clear. You didn’t even need to explain it in any language. It was something that was very clear for the three of us, and that’s why it worked.
You said you’re Persian, do you speak Farsi, too?
I understand Farsi, but I don’t speak it that well because I grew up in Israel. I was born and grew up in Tel Aviv. My parents spoke Farsi at home, but I didn’t speak it. People who came to Israel from Iran had to leave something behind. They realized that they were not going back there. That was also something my parents realized. They ran away from Iran so I would have a better future and have a normal life. I am very grateful for that. I have singer friends in Iran, and it is not a place I want to be. I think my parents made a decision to sacrifice something so I would be able to integrate better in Israel—that my first language would be Hebrew and that my first identity would be Israeli.
But did you hear Iranian music around the house?
Yes. You need to sacrifice something, but there are some things you cannot take out. I grew up in a Persian home, with the huge carpets, Persian music, and only Persian food. I think that is why I found myself, eventually, in Istanbul, because it is like a bridge for me. It’s my personal bridge between Iran and Israel. When you grow up in Israel and come from an Iranian family, you grow up in a sort of conflict. My parents told me about a world that doesn’t exist anymore, because it’s the Iran from before the revolution, and today Iran is something else. I also think my parents were conflicted. They came from Iran, but at the same time they are Jewish and Israeli.
That conflict for me is not only between being Israeli and Iranian, but it is also a conflict between east and west. I grew up in Ramat Aviv, which is a very good neighborhood in Tel Aviv and very Ashkenazi. I was the only Mizrahi in my class in my school. I was always very different, and I grew up in a very Mizrahi and Iranian home. On one hand, I enjoyed the privilege of growing up in modern society, in Israel, where women are more empowered, for example. It gave me confidence as a women in this world, and all the benefits you get that come from the west, including the education. But on the other hand, I still have the rich culture from home—the colors and the smells and the music and the warmth and all this stuff they brought from Iran.
I think that is also a conflict you find in Istanbul—between east and west—and sometimes, it’s not always a conflict. It isn’t always a negative thing. It’s a positive thing. It’s a mix. It’s something that is always there, the question of identity, and it is something I speak about a lot in my music.
However, after 10 years of meeting people from all over the world and making music and having fans from many religions and cultures and countries—including countries I can not even enter—I am learning more and more about the common things we do have. Maybe it sounds like a cliché, but east, west, Jewish, Muslim, Christian—we all have a choice. Every individual chooses, and takes responsibility for his own choices. It doesn’t matter what his background is. In every language, we feel love, or anger, it is something we all have, and we have a choice, to either choose the positive side or to chose the negative side. That is something that I found in many people, and I find it again and again at every concert.
About the question about identity, that is getting blurrier with time. Not blurry—it is always inside me—but it is becoming less important. For me, Mete is not a Turkish guy from a Muslim country, to me, he’s family. His religion or his background isn’t relevant, because you have a different kind of connection with the person. He’s a human being. But why is that connection possible? Because he made a choice similar to my choice. And then you spread that to a big amount of people and fans.
Music is an international language. I don’t need to speak your language to speak to you through music.
You can see with many languages that people don’t understand, like Hebrew—nobody understands Hebrew—yet you can speak to so many people. The first question people usually ask me in interviews is, “Why do you sing in Hebrew? Isn’t it difficult? People cannot understand you.” I say, “Why wouldn’t I sing in Hebrew?” I speak Hebrew. I write in Hebrew. Would you ask an American singer, “Why do you sing in English?” It’s my language. I express myself. I am comfortable with it. I tell them it doesn’t matter. First of all, the language has its own perspective. There is a lot of power in language and in the way it sounds. But it is not only the language, it is also the meaning behind it. People recognize that, and it doesn’t matter. People understand the meaning of the songs, even before they check the translation of the lyrics, because we have a common language, emotions and music, which is something we all understand.
You mentioned that you have singer friends in Iran. Have you collaborated with Iranian artists?
I did, two years ago at a drumming festival in Germany. It was a special edition of the festival called Tel Aviv-Isfahan. They brought musicians from Tel Aviv: me, the guitarist, Itamar Erez—he lives in Canada now—a drummer, and then musicians from Isfahan. It was amazing and I had this immediate connection. My mom is from Isfahan, and I spoke a little Farsi with the Iranian musicians. It was like a big scene, and most of them were women, too. It’s funny, the Israeli musicians were two men, and the Iranians were women, so I was attracted to that side [laughs]. We sang some songs in Farsi together, as well as some songs in Hebrew. That was very emotional and touching collaboration. It was very special.
Is it available online?
No, because I think the Iranians were a little afraid. It was sponsored by the Israeli embassy—they brought me in and paid for the flight and everything—and they were very cooperative about that. The Iranian people don’t have normal lives, and they need to be very careful with what goes online, because the situation is very delicate. It’s enough to be online and someone realizes that they were playing music at an event in Germany with me singing in Hebrew. They can get in trouble. It’s happened before with some friends. They got in trouble. They were investigated, and accused of cooperating with America and Israel.
Do you still keep in touch with them?
Yes of course. We are all in touch. We are good friends. They come to Istanbul or sometimes we meet in Europe at festivals. There are other projects where our paths cross. Many of them eventually left Iran. If you are a woman and you want to do music, you need to choose: it’s either a music career or Iran. Some of them leave if they have the opportunity and the help.
Did you do a project with an orchestra as well?
That was a really nice project called “Music for the One God.” It is a huge show with Christian, Sufi Muslim, and Jewish music. I was on that project and responsible for the Jewish music part. I sang a few songs with the philharmonic in Munich, and the Pera Ensemble from Istanbul. You have the Turkish and the German orchestras, and then all kinds of music. It was a lot of fun to sing with a big orchestra, and to sing more traditional Jewish stuff like the Piyutim [Jewish liturgical melodies]. I think for my parents, with all of my career, this is the highlight. It gives them nachas and peace of mind. It was very important for me. I come from a traditional background, not really religious, but also not a secular family. My parents live just in front of the synagogue—you go onto the balcony and the synagogue is right there—and hearing all those songs was a part of my childhood. To sing those songs with the orchestra, with full power, and to know that my parents were watching, it was a dream come true for me.
Coming full circle, Light In Babylon started on İstiklal Street in Istanbul, and although you don’t do that anymore, you did recently do a street performance in Tel Aviv. What was that about?
Some good friends of mine—who are also big fans of my music—started these singing circles in public areas in Tel Aviv. People gather together and sing together in a circle. It’s very organized: they have permission from the city, they bring all the equipment, they have a sound man, and they choose the musicians. They put together a whole program and give little books to everyone with the songs. The songs have to be songs that everyone can sing together, because the purpose of it is for people to come together, sing, open their minds and hearts, and bring in some good vibes. Especially in such a tense place—tense times in the Middle East and in Israel in general—so this is a contrast to it. They also do them in Germany and in many other countries.
I was invited. I was in Israel at that time, and they asked if I could come and play one or two songs. I was happy to do it. They are good friends. I know they are good people, and they do stuff with good intentions. I went—Julien was with me as well—we played, and it was magic. Just like that. I even brought my parents to that circle. You really feel high. It is a very powerful experience. It is not like a regular concert. There is another vibe there. It was a lot of talented musicians from Israel. It was nice to meet them. I was not often in Israel—I was always in between—and it was an opportunity for me to meet some musician friends.
There is that project and the philharmonic project, for me it doesn’t matter, as long as you do something with pure intentions. Honesty is something so important in my journey and in my music. Whether you play on İstiklal Street or with the philharmonic in Munich, when you do something honest, it will give you the same effect. Every year we get bigger and bigger—from playing for 50 people on the street to 1,000 people in Russia or wherever—it is something that Julien, Mete, and I say to each other. This is not a reality show. It didn’t happen in one day. Puff! It is something that we worked hard for year by year by year. But what we have in common is that we remember why we started this: we are dreamers. We are doing something that is not only music or entertainment, we are doing something that we believe will stay even after us, maybe, or something that will have its own life. People listen to our music, and they have their own interpretations.
The connection I get with people is massive. I get messages every day, and at least now I have time to read them. When we’re doing concerts, I don’t always have time. Some people—and I don’t think they are overreacting—say that our music saved their lives. There are so many people with depression and in distress, or in a really dangerous situation. It is more than we know. It is more than we realize. And they find something that’s holding them, telling them, “Wait, don’t give up yet.” Sometimes it’s also our music, and they send me messages that it’s helped them in very difficult times. Especially now in these past months, people are in difficult times and they watch our videos. We’re playing in the streets, dancing in Istanbul, and it reminds them that there is life waiting for us. This is not the end. Don’t go down in your depression yet, not just yet. There is something shinning outside waiting to blossom, don’t give up just yet.
You see it at our concerts, too. People are crying. People are dancing. They come with their parents sometimes. After every concert, we take time to meet with people one-by-one. They buy a CD, or say hi, or give a hug, or we take photos. Sometimes it takes longer than the concert. We did a concert in Izmir, it was a two hour concert, and afterwards, for two and half hours people stood in line waiting. We meet with them one-by-one, because that is not less important than the music is for me. You see the people and you see the spark in their eyes. I remember, one guy came with his grandmother. She was so old she was walking with a stick, and he said, “She is your fan.” It was at that open-air concert in Izmir. Imagine a grandchild taking a grandmother to our concert. And both of them are our fans. That has such a huge value for me.
We meet people everywhere, and everywhere, in every country, they always say the same thing, “Even though we don’t know the language, we feel your music.” I hear that in every country. We’re all connected. That blows your mind beyond music, and you feel so blessed that you’re able to connect people, and to be part of this process. You also realize that this process is not about me. It’s beyond me. It doesn’t happen because of me or my face or my personality or my music. It’s something that happened with the music, but it’s really with the people. It’s like a circle—audience-musician-audience-musician—we give something, and they give back, we give somewhere else, and they give back. That is the process of real music, and if you can achieve that, then you’re making real music. That’s the reason for it.
Photos courtesy Light in Babylon
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