The Iraqi artist community in Amman expresses the torment of exile through art.
I met Mohammed S. after visiting an art gallery during my last visit to Amman. The gallery was filled with paintings and sculptures of Iraqi artists and Mohammed’s work was one that I noticed. I requested his phone number from the curator, called him up, and asked if we could meet for a chat.
Our first meeting was at the art gallery. The sun had just set. We sat on a bench outside overlooking the city and across the hill at the old buildings in Jabal Amman, the smell of summer jasmine sweet and pungent.
Mohammed began telling me his story of how he fled and came to Jordan and the difficulties of being away from Baghdad - his source of inspiration. Amman is so cold and stale, he said. Art was just a fledgling here before the Iraqis came. Galleries are now popping up everywhere and cafés and restaurants fill their walls with Iraqi art.
Seven months later, I see Mohammed again tonight for a gathering of food and drink with friends and other Iraqi artists. Mohammed looks 10 years older; his hair has become gray and scraggly. But it seems his pain has stirred him to create a new and different art. He now makes video art inspired by the war, inspired by exile, inspired by being away from his home country.
We sit around a table on the balcony and Ali Z. pours us small glasses of arrack mixed with water that turns a cloudy white. At first, Mohammed’s friends are a bit hesitant in their welcome. They do not know what to make of David and I and our documentary project.
Qais, a former engineer, a painter, a plastic artist, and now a video artist, eventually breaks the silence. He asks us what kind of documentary we want to make. A documentary about Iraqi people must understand the true diversity of Iraq and must find a way to reach deep in its understanding. And the single question that must be asked of every single Iraqi is when was the fracturing point; when did each Iraqi decide to leave Iraq.
Qais’ openness and honesty is touching and confirms how critical it is for us to develop relationships and trust and to portray the Iraqi refugee experience in meaningful, complex and multi-dimensional ways.
Rather than talk about the kind of documentary we want to make, David asks if we can play music. Ali brings out his classical guitar for David. And Ziad, a musician and music teacher, begins strumming his guitar. Through tender notes and fragile music David and Ziad begin to communicate.
The candles burn and flicker on the table and Ali starts plucking notes on his oud. The music soon give way to traditional Iraqi songs. Qais places his hands over his face, silently remembering his home country and the days when Baghdad was beautiful and when old friends sat in the restaurants by the river joking and chatting.
Mohammed is now preparing to move to Texas with his wife and children. Ziad will be leaving soon for Arizona with his mother. Ali is thinking of going to Florida where he can continue his salsa and tango lessons. Qais is still in Jordan with his wife and three daughters, unable to find it in his heart to leave for the US, although his parents are already in California. For all, the move will be temporary, until they can have a passport and the freedom to move; a freedom they now lack intensely.
The friends meet at least once a month to eat and play music. Mohammed and Ali, meet almost every day. In a matter of months, the meetings will end. Twice exiled from their home country, alone they will stand in what they call the wrong place.
I met Mohammed S. after visiting an art gallery during my last visit to Amman. The gallery was filled with paintings and sculptures of Iraqi artists and Mohammed’s work was one that I noticed. I requested his phone number from the curator, called him up, and asked if we could meet for a chat.
Our first meeting was at the art gallery. The sun had just set. We sat on a bench outside overlooking the city and across the hill at the old buildings in Jabal Amman, the smell of summer jasmine sweet and pungent.
Mohammed began telling me his story of how he fled and came to Jordan and the difficulties of being away from Baghdad - his source of inspiration. Amman is so cold and stale, he said. Art was just a fledgling here before the Iraqis came. Galleries are now popping up everywhere and cafés and restaurants fill their walls with Iraqi art.
Seven months later, I see Mohammed again tonight for a gathering of food and drink with friends and other Iraqi artists. Mohammed looks 10 years older; his hair has become gray and scraggly. But it seems his pain has stirred him to create a new and different art. He now makes video art inspired by the war, inspired by exile, inspired by being away from his home country.
We sit around a table on the balcony and Ali Z. pours us small glasses of arrack mixed with water that turns a cloudy white. At first, Mohammed’s friends are a bit hesitant in their welcome. They do not know what to make of David and I and our documentary project.
Qais, a former engineer, a painter, a plastic artist, and now a video artist, eventually breaks the silence. He asks us what kind of documentary we want to make. A documentary about Iraqi people must understand the true diversity of Iraq and must find a way to reach deep in its understanding. And the single question that must be asked of every single Iraqi is when was the fracturing point; when did each Iraqi decide to leave Iraq.
Qais’ openness and honesty is touching and confirms how critical it is for us to develop relationships and trust and to portray the Iraqi refugee experience in meaningful, complex and multi-dimensional ways.
Rather than talk about the kind of documentary we want to make, David asks if we can play music. Ali brings out his classical guitar for David. And Ziad, a musician and music teacher, begins strumming his guitar. Through tender notes and fragile music David and Ziad begin to communicate.
The candles burn and flicker on the table and Ali starts plucking notes on his oud. The music soon give way to traditional Iraqi songs. Qais places his hands over his face, silently remembering his home country and the days when Baghdad was beautiful and when old friends sat in the restaurants by the river joking and chatting.
Mohammed is now preparing to move to Texas with his wife and children. Ziad will be leaving soon for Arizona with his mother. Ali is thinking of going to Florida where he can continue his salsa and tango lessons. Qais is still in Jordan with his wife and three daughters, unable to find it in his heart to leave for the US, although his parents are already in California. For all, the move will be temporary, until they can have a passport and the freedom to move; a freedom they now lack intensely.
The friends meet at least once a month to eat and play music. Mohammed and Ali, meet almost every day. In a matter of months, the meetings will end. Twice exiled from their home country, alone they will stand in what they call the wrong place.
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