Yemen Revisited
Shiran Avraham talks about reclaiming her Yemeni heritage, and the thousands of voices that inspire her
Shiran Avraham—or simply, Shiran—is an Israeli vocalist based in Ramat HaSharon. Together with her husband, producer and keyboardist, Ron Bakal, she creates music that’s a modern, dance-centric twist on traditional Yemenite melody and song. Her music also serves a vehicle to embrace her identity, and to tell her family’s story.
Shiran is Yemeni on her mother’s side, and her self-titled debut is based on conversations she had with her maternal grandmother and other elderly members of her community. She recounts the hardships and struggles that generation experienced while emigrating to Israel in the mid-twentieth century, and does that through a prism of electronic, danceable grooves. Her second release, Glsah Sanaanea with Shiran, جلسه صنعانيه مع شيران, digs deeper, and is an acoustic retelling of traditional Yemenite songs. “I wanted to see and hear the traditional Yemenite songs from Yemen, not from Israel,” she says in our interview below. “I chose old and traditional Yemenite songs, but I did new versions. It’s not the same song, because I think my voice brings something else.”
Shiran incorporates older music with modern aesthetics, although she’s careful to make sure it doesn’t sound fake, or contrived. “It is hard, because there is a limit,” she says. “You need to bring respect to the language and to combine it, but in a way that is real, and not forced. You need to bring it from your insides, so it will be good, and there are a lot of artists in Yemen who are doing it very well.”
I spoke with Shiran from her home in Israel, where she recently finished recording her third album, the process of which she says was a respite from the COVID-19 lockdown and moratorium on touring. We discussed her journey through Yemenite music and culture, her collaboration with the late Israeli musical icon, Ahuva Ozeri, the subtle differences between Jewish and Muslim Yemeni vocal styles, and how she feels her onstage persona is backed by the silent masses of silenced, Yemenite women.
Where did you grow up?
I’ve lived most of my life in Ramat HaSharon. It is a chill city—it’s not like Tel Aviv, with the noise—and I also can’t stand the Tel Aviv scene, sometimes it’s too much. Me and my husband have a studio in Petah Tikva, which is where he’s from. He is a producer, and I met him through music. My grandfather on my father’s side is from Iraq, and my mother’s side is from Yemen.
Did you speak Arabic with your grandparents?
I have just one grandmother, which is my Yemenite grandmother, but the language wasn’t spoken much in the house I grew up in. My mother’s generation didn’t speak the language, and they don’t know very much. I know a bit of basic Arabic. I am learning the Yemeni language professionally now, which is a different dialect of Arabic. I learned the language via the music, and I have a friend who knows the language well, and who helps me translate my lyrics.
Do you write your lyrics first in Hebrew, and then your friend helps you translate them into Arabic?
Yes. I finished a third album, which we recorded that first month when the Corona lockdown started. I worked with my friend, his name is Shimon Nataf. Shimon is originally from Tunis, but he fell in love with the Yemenite language, and started to learn it himself, and now speaks it as if he were born there. He connected with people in Yemen, including someone [I am now collaborating with]. He sends me texts, which are his songs, and we’re writing the music and producing it. Shimon translates the lyrics for me. He helps me sing, and checks my accent and pronunciation. On my acoustic album, which is a collection of traditional Yemenite songs, he helped me find the songs.
And when you sing, do you sing with an Israeli accent?
A lot of Yemenite people write to me in Arabic, because they think that I speak the language. They’ll ask me if I am from Sana’a or other cities in Yemen—every city has its style of language, too, like an accent—but I say, “No.” I don’t even have Arabic letters in my computer.
What’s the nature of your collaboration with that person in Yemen?
For now, it is songs, or lyrics, that he’s composed, and I bring the music. There are some songs where I’ve kept his music, and there are others where it is something different. I am very proud of this album. It’s what I had left from this crazy world after the virus closed down everything from all sides. It gave me air and faith, and it’s music from my soul.
When did you start playing music?
I was very young, but it was when I was in high school that I started to understand that it was for me. I was in all kinds of ensembles, and then when I went to the army, I was in the army band (להקה צבאית). My job was to sing for the soldiers, and to make them happy. There were auditions, and Idan Raichel was one of the judges. I served at the time of the Second Lebanon War. We went to the soldiers, and it’s an experience that I will never forget. After that, I went to the Rimon Music School, which is also in Ramat HaSharon, although I didn’t know that [laughs]. It is the most famous music school in Israel—many of the big artists in Israel went there—and it is on my street. It is maybe 50 meters from my house. I would get dressed 10 minutes before class and walk there. It was funny. I taught myself to play the guitar and keys, but my main instrument is my voice, and I focus on that. At most of my shows, I leave the instruments and I bring it through my voice. Also at the Rimon School is where I met my husband, Ron Bakal. He studied there, too.
Is he your main collaborator?
We’ve learned through the years how to work in the most healthy way. He is a producer and I am a singer, so it is a lot, but it is amazing. We always talk about music, and the songs we have, and what we’re creating now or what we’re going to do. It’s what we’re always talking about, and it is our life.
You did some work with Ahuva Ozeri. How did you meet up with her?
I met her through a friend. I wanted to host her in one of my shows. After she heard me, she asked me to be one of her singers in her band. She couldn’t sing [Ozeri had cancer of they larynx, which she had removed in 2002, and died of cancer in 2016 at age 68], and she didn’t have a voice.
Could she speak, or did she have no voice at all?
It was hard to understand, because it was mostly air. It wasn’t sounds. She had songs on one of her last albums, and she sang on it. It was very emotional hearing it. But for me, to be next to her singing her songs, she worked with me on every letter, every word, and every note. I needed to get into her—to be myself—but to bring her through my voice. It was an experience. I spent a lot of time with her, and I learned a lot about her. She’s like a mentor to me, and I think she’s one of the most amazing artists from Israel. I worked with her until her last show, and then she passed away. When she was in the hospital, two weeks before she passed away, we brought instruments and musicians, and we did a show in the hospital. I remember her looking at me—I remember her eyes, it was very difficult for me because there were a lot of patients there, too, who saw the show—but I won’t forget this memory. I remember that she was proud of me, she smiled at me. I always wanted to feel that I was doing a good job for her, that she could be proud of me. I know as an artist, as someone who writes and makes music, when someone takes a song from me, it’s like a baby, and you need to take care of it.
Do you still perform any of her music?
Yes, sometimes I [do a medley of] her songs.
When did you start exploring Yemeni music?
It was after I started performing the music that I created with Ron. It was at that time that I started to discover my Yemenite roots. I had a talk with my Yemenite grandmother. I hadn’t heard a lot of stories about her life in Yemen. She doesn’t hear so well or see so well, so it was difficult, but I started to get some stories from her. I wanted to tell those stories. I don’t think people know the real stories of what they went through when they made Aliyah. She told me about how she went to her job. She worked in a city, and lived in a village, and it took her half a day to get to her work. She didn’t have shoes, she was barefoot, and she did it all the way without shoes. I have a song now, “Neara Yehefa,” which means “barefoot girl.” Through he song I tell her story. I also met Ron’s grandfather, and he told me how he was orphaned and made Aliyah by himself when he was 14 years old. I wanted to bring the journey that they did from Yemen to Israel. I tell their stories from Yemen, their life in Yemen, the way they moved to Israel, and how they settled in Israel.
Learning these stories and making this music, was that a way to embrace your background and heritage?
Yes. I got into it very hard, and I can’t get it out from me. I am working with a guy in Yemen now, but you know, I can’t go there. Although, there is now the peace deal with Dubai. There are a lot of Yemenite people who live in Dubai. I don’t actually know where, [but around there, in the UEA]. There are a lot of Yemeni people in Europe and Turkey, too, because the situation in Yemen is very bad.
When I got married, I had the culture, but that was more the Jewish-Yemenite culture. Israel is not like Yemen. We have the Yemeni food, that is the same, the dance style is the same, but the music is very Jewish. It’s different, the Jews and the Muslims do the music differently.
Are those differences subtle? Would someone who is not familiar with the music be able to hear those differences?
Yemeni people will know from the singing, the style, if you are Jewish or not. I am researching the Arab side more now, and less the Jewish. I am researching something that I hadn’t heard in Israel. When I got married, I did the henna pre-wedding ceremony. That was a Yemenite henna all the way, the jewelry, the entire ceremony. The ceremony is for when the daughter is leaving her family to join her husband’s. It is very special, and I loved it. So I knew my culture, [the Jewish Yemenite culture], but not what it was in Yemen.
There seems to be a resurgence in Israel of Jews embracing their Middle Eastern diaspora heritage, especially artists like Dudu Tassa, Neta Elkayam, Ravid Kahalani—why do you think that’s happening?
I think that all the languages that our grandparent’s spoke are disappearing, and we need to know where we come from. You need to check out what was there, what was in your family, and it completes you. You know who you are. I am very happy that it is happening. All these people searching their roots, and it gives us a stage to shout about ourselves. It would be sad if these languages disappeared. In Israel, there are a lot of languages—Russian, Ethiopian, there are a lot of Moroccans—it’s us. It’s Israel. I think it is important to remember, to give respect, and to tell these stories. Our grandparents won’t be here to tell their stories, and I want to tell them to my children.
Are songs in Arabic and Amharic starting to get played on Israeli radio? Are your songs getting played on Israel radio?
No [laughs], because they are not hits.
Are they considered more hipster, or underground?
More underground. There is a crowd here for that, but the radio stations—that’s one of the problems here—the radio stations play what people who are driving want to hear. I had two songs that got onto Galgalatz [IDF radio, which is an Israeli cultural institution], but it’s very hard. There are a lot of amazing artists here who are not playing themselves, because the culture here is not open to a lot of genres. It’s not like in Europe or the US. For me to go to Europe and say that I am from Israel and that my grandparents are from Iraq and Yemen, that is very new to them. It’s interesting. But here, it is commonplace. It’s like, “What are you? Half Yemeni and half Iraqi, very nice.” “What are you? Moroccan? Great.” That is missing here.
It is also a very small scene.
It is small, and people need to hear the familiar and what everybody hears. It is very Israeli. But I am an Israeli. I can’t imagine myself living my life anywhere else.
Does Yemeni music use maqamat or other devices similar to other Arabic musics? Is it similar to say Turkish or Moroccan music?
It is different. For example, there is an instrument, the oud, which is played a lot on my acoustic album, Glsah Sanaanea with Shiran. There is a Yemeni oud, a Turkish oud, and the sounds and what you can produce from the instruments are different. When you hear a Turkish scale—if you understand scales—you can be sure that it is Turkish. If you know Arabic music, or Yemeni or Turkish music, you know the maqam, and from where it came.
I’ve noticed that you sing the microtones as well. Did you have to learn how to hear them?
Yes, because you can’t play them on a keyboard. You are not sure if you sang it properly or not, unless you are born into that. I wasn’t born into that. I was, somewhat, because every Friday in my father’s house he played Umm Kulthūm and a lot of the greatest Arabic artists. I grew up with that, but it’s not what my friends or my classmates were listening to. It wasn’t my era. I ran from it to ‘90s pop music. What they played on MTV. I was a little bit shy, because my father was listening to Arabic music, and in Ramat HaSharon you can see the difference between the Mizrahi and Ashkenazi. I felt a little bit of the race, and I was very shy, but I had the notes. I heard them, but I didn’t sing them from my [experiences]. When you are from the Arab world, when you sing it, you sing it tak, straight. You can’t miss it, because it is always in your ear. But if you practice it, you can totally do that. I am working on that to do it fixed, and very straight. It is also much easier when you have the instruments that play those notes as well, like oud or flute or something.
How do the rhythms work? Are they in different feels like three or five?
Seven: dat-da-da, dat-da, dat-da. Their dancing is based on the groove or the steps. I don’t know if they know that they are doing something complicated. They feel it through the dance and through the lyrics. They are not counting whether it’s in seven or four. There’s an 11, too.
Your first album was electronic and your second was acoustic, why the change?
From the research that I am doing and what I’ve experienced from the Yemeni music, I wanted to go back further. I told the stories on my first album—the Jewish journey, what my grandmother and grandfather did—and I wanted to go back even further on the acoustic album. I wanted to see and hear the traditional Yemenite songs from Yemen, not from Israel. I chose old and traditional Yemenite songs. I did new versions. It’s not the same song, because I think my voice brings something else. We used a drummer who played African set drums, African sounds, and also flute, qanun, and oud. We wanted to get something that was very live.
Traditionally, there aren’t many female singers of Yemenite music. Has that been an issue? Has it been accepted?
In Yemen, I can say not. I did an interview with a journalist in Yemen, and she asked me, “Is that your job, that you are a singer?” I told her, “Yes.” She asked, “Do you sing what you want? Can you say whatever you want?” I told her, “Yes, of course, because I am a free person.” There, they don’t have that. The female Yemeni singers don’t live in Yemen. They have their careers in other countries because they are not allowed to do it as a woman in Yemen. They have to survive not only the war, but their struggles of being female in Yemen. It is very sad. I took it upon myself, and I want them to be proud of it. I want to show them that they can do whatever they want. They can sing and they can dance. I see it as my job to sing what they can’t. I feel that I represent them in some way.
And because of that, I think I explode on stage. There is a very big difference between the regular me and me as an artist, because when I go on stage I bring all my crazy out. You can hear it in my voice and in my presence. I feel like I am singing with thousands of voices. There is a wall of women behind me, and I need to say what they have to say. Not just Yemen, but as a woman by myself, as a shy girl. I was very shy. When someone from high school sees me, they never realize that I am what I am now, because it is very different from me in my past.
Photos: top by Hanan Bar Asulin; with yellow glasses, Eran Levi
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