The Art of Zar

Mazaher
Tired of misrepresentation and stereotypes, the Mazaher group redefine and explain the art of Zar as they know it
By Manal el-Jesri



HASSAN AND RAAFAT sit around a small table sipping their tea. Omm Sameh, also known as Madiha, sits next to them, enjoying a quick smoke and her afternoon Nescafé; she doesn’t want to begin the interview before she finishes her smoke.




It’s been a long ride to Saad Zaghloul Street; the traffic was moving at a snail’s pace, they all agree. They feel right at home here at Makan, Dr. Ahmed El-Maghraby’s recently established space that houses the Egyptian Center for Culture and Arts.


A professor of Italian literature at Ain Shams University and former Egyptian cultural attaché in France, El-Maghraby has been actively promoting the revival of traditional Egyptian music and, in the case of Omm Sameh and her group, trying to save a form of expression from extinction.

Together with Hassan and Raafat, Omm Sameh now performs as part of Mazaher; together, they are among the last remaining Zar musicians practicing in Egypt, doing what they can to preserve their dying art form.

In its original form, Zar is a ritual where a small circle of people gather to communicate with unseen entities or spirits. It’s one of the few healing ceremonies performed mainly by women for women in an attempt to pacify the spirits and win some measure of inner harmony.

Traditional Zar music originated in Africa. Poly-rhythmic, rich and complex in melody, it is distinctively different from other Egyptian musical traditions. The underground culture was not originally intended to be a performance art and is shunned by the religious establishment, the state and the orthodox cultural elite.

The result: In recent decades, practice of the ritual has died out and ancient songs have been forgotten, helped along by the popular misconception that Zar is all about exorcisms.

For participants, it is most often a cathartic experience often leading to an altered state of consciousness, or in some cases, trance.

According to El-Maghraby, only 24 Zar performers exist today, although Madiha begs to differ: “If you count the Tamboura [musical tradition] and the sittat (women) performers, you will find there are only 14 or 15 of us. The Abul Gheit Zar is not like ours, so we don’t count them. They are more into zikr (a Sufi ‘remembrance’ tradition),” she tells me later on.

Zar music can be found all over the Arab world, in Saudi Arabia and Yemen, and also in Kuwait, where they treat it like folk art. But here when people hear Zar, they say “ya sater ya rabb” (may God protect us).
Shrouded in mystique when they perform, the four artists behind Mazaher come across as average Egyptians, although all admit to Sudanese roots, as they sit sipping their hot drinks. Madiha is wearing a tarha (headscarf) around her head, but her shiny golden hoop earrings are visible through it. Her ample body is swathed in a dark dress, and her movements are smooth and fluid enough to give away her connection to the world of rhythm and music. Hassan and Raafat are more reserved in their movements, probably owing to an inherent shyness around strange women (this writer being the culprit).

Their apparent ordinariness is in stark contrast to three sets of ancient eyes that have seen other worlds.

Having finished her cigarette, Madiha signals we can start talking.

Madiha: I began working at the age of 11. We all began very young, and we all come from families that have Zar performers. Zar is like a bug that gets into your blood, so not everyone whose parents work in the Zar would want to do it. My mother was a rayyesah (leader), and I followed her around, while my sister was never really interested.

(A number of Hassan’s family were leaders and sangaa’s (male Zar leader), Madiha points out.)

Hassan: We used to have a hadra (Zar venue) every Saturday at home, and on each Saturday I would stay home. I loved to hold the tamboura (ancient lyre instrument), so my parents made me a special one my size. You see we come from Ismailia, where the semsemiyya (another lyre instrument) is famous. The tamboura is similar, but much bigger.

ET: What is the hadra? Is it what you call the performance itself?

Madiha: No, the hadra is a set place where you have Zar, say every week, for example. The performance is called leila (night).

(Taking their work and terminology for granted, the performers are finding this journalist a little ignorant. Madiha is explaining things slowly, as she would to a child.)

Raafat: My father used to be a sangaa too, and I was attracted to his work. It just enters one’s blood, and then it is difficult to get rid of it. It is not just a job. I learned the tamboura by watching my father, and then one day he was too tired to go. I was 19, and they asked me to go instead. It was a difficult first time, but then I got more interested, and started becoming professional.

ET: Can anyone learn the tamboura?

(The answer is emphatic. I seem to have asked another ignorant question.)

Raafat: You must have the talent.

Madiha: You must be talented because the tamboura echoes the words we say. You know, like when a singer sings, her band goes along with her.

Raafat: It is like the oud.

Madiha: Exactly. When the tamboura player begins, we know what he wants us to sing and we sing along.

(None of their respective children are interested in joining them either, although Hassan points out that “[his children] like it, and enjoy listening, but do not have the dedication [it takes].”)

Madiha: It is something that either takes your fancy or doesn’t. You cannot find it in books or papers. It is material we have inherited from our ancestors. It’s not something just anyone can do or say.

ET: Why does someone go to a Zar?

Madiha: If a woman is tired, or not feeling well.

Hassan: The family decides if someone needs Zar. They believe in it because their parents or grandparents did too.

Madiha (talking over them): Or if a woman had slept right after a fight and woke up upset or sick.

ET: What about women who cannot conceive?

Madiha: No, of course not. This is all in the hands of God.

Hassan: But when doctors decide a woman suffers from no physical condition stopping her from conceiving, they may tell her to come to us.

Madiha: It is mostly people with psychological problems who come for help.

ET: What about the stuff we see in films?

Madiha: That’s all a sham.

Hassan: I have been in films before. I do my work as I usually do it, but then the director adds material to make us look bad and backward. They do this behind our backs because if we had known what the directors were up to, we would not do [the scene].

Madiha: This is our livelihood, it is the job our ancestors left us, so do you think we would purposely show it up?

Raafat (joining in the debate): Films have not always misunderstood Zar. In a very old Ali El-Kassar film El-Saa Sabaa (It’s Seven O’Clock), there was a Zar and afterwards the visitors said, “What a lovely party.”

ET: So traditionally, is it only sick people who attend the Zar?

Hassan: No. A lot of people just love to come to the Zar and listen to us. We performed in Paris [through El-Maghraby’s efforts] three times, and people loved us even though they couldn’t understand what we were saying.

Madiha: Yes. They moved in their chairs and enjoyed themselves. Even here in Cairo, when we perform at Dr. Ahmed’s place, people enjoy our work, without being sick or anything.

ET: Have you traced your work, do you know where it comes from?

Hassan: No, it was here long before we were born.

ET: What are your main instruments?

Madiha: There is the tamboura, and its special drums, there are the mazaher [large, shallow drums], which are mainly held by women, and there are the finger cymbals, the rattles, and the mangour [jingly belt worn around the waist]. Each one specializes in one instrument, but we can use them all if needs be. Traditionally women do not wear the mangour, but if there is a leila where no men are allowed, or if the mangour-wearer is sick or away, I’d wear the mangour and shake to the music of the tamboura.

ET: In films, we see women falling down during the Zar, and everybody cheers because she’s been cured. Does this really happen?

Madiha: No, not in this sense. Some may feel dizzy, just because they are sick and through no fault of the Zar. We might spray her with some rosewater, and that’s that.

ET: What are your most famous adwar (songs)? (They do not use oghnia because they believe Zar to be functional, not just a performance.)

Madiha (who is more willing to answer questions): There is “Yawra” and “Rakash”. In Yawra we say: Yawra Beh, Ya Gamil Ya Beh (O Yawra beautiful Bek). We just speak of someone we love. You know this all is historical. We are not talking about djinn (spirits) or anything. Long ago they believed in djinn. You have to know our job has nothing bad in it.

Hassan: The movies make us look bad.

Madiha: People hold Zars to show hospitality. You prepare good food, and then you provide entertainment.

Hassan: That’s true, and you also provide good incense. Zar music can be found all over the Arab world, in Saudi Arabia and Yemen, and also in Kuwait, where they treat it like folk art. But here when people hear Zar, they say “ya sater ya Rabb” (may God protect us).

ET: But now you’re a band. Did you agree to Dr. Maghraby’s proposal to form a band right away?

Hassan: We did. And he sent us to Paris.

ET: Do your performances at Makan differ from ones you give at a Zar party?

Madiha: The Zar is the same anywhere. But here it is better. It is not as crowded as in a hara (alley) or in a home. We have time to enjoy ourselves.

Hassan: We also get to remember adwar that we had not said in years.

(Omm Hassan, another Rayyesah, walks in at this point. She had been delayed by traffic. Darker-skinned than Madiha, she is also much thinner. She has an incredibly kind face, a charming huge smile and sparkling goldcaps. Tracing her roots back to Sudan and the Hijaz, Omm Hassan explains that she comes from a family of Zar artists, but is currently the only remaining performer, along with her younger niece.)

Omm Hassan: She is not that young, though. None of the young are interested in Zar anymore. They do not know how to say what we say.

ET: Are the words difficult? Tell me some more of your lyrics.

Madiha: There is “Rakash;” Rokousha hanem ya rokousha, shaila el-Arousa ya rokousha. It is like you’re cajoling a little child. Don’t you promise your children candy so they would do what you want?

ET: Is your job a difficult one?

Madiha: Here, touch my hand. Don’t be scared. (Her fingers are chapped, with thick corns from all the drumming. Omm Hassan shows her fingers too, which are swathed in band-aids.)

Hassan: People don’t understand our work. Although old people do. They either know us, or know our work, and can sometimes join our adwar.

ET: Do people still believe in the healing benefits of Zar? Can you tell me any good healing stories?

Omm Hassan: The stories are many. When my mother was still alive, a woman came to us on a stretcher. Men carried her in, and she could not move at all. As soon as we started, she started signaling that she wanted water. By the time we were finished, she was on her feet, and went home walking, using her mother as a crutch.

Madiha: I know someone too whose leg hurt; the doctors couldn’t tell what was wrong with her. After the Zar she was cured. She holds Zar every year, still walks on her two feet and frequently goes to Hajj.

ET: Is there anything special that should be prepared for the Zar, like a special food?

Madiha: No, it depends on your means. But if someone is sick, something must be slaughtered during the leila. Of course it is also a chance for all the poor to be fed.

ET: Apart from working here, do you still work as much as you once used to?

Hassan: No. Things are expensive today.

Madiha: Some people are apprehensive.

ET: Are you ever hassled?

Madiha: Not exactly. But neighbors may complain about the noise and call the police.

ET: Has working here changed things?

Madiha: We are happy that Dr. Ahmed is trying to compile our work. And we are also becoming known. People who attend our performances here like us. They move with us and enjoy themselves.

Hassan: And we’ve performed at the Opera House, the Italian and French cultural centers, and the Bibliotheca Alexandrina.

Madiha: And in turn, we enjoy ourselves too. We work from the heart. Once we start working, we forget everything else, even if we are tired or sick. We love what we do, even though when we die, Zar is going to die with us.