Twickenham Fest 2012 is proud to present the world premiere of
Speaking for the Afghan Woman
a song cycle for Soprano and Piano by American Composer William Harvey.
Written by American Composer William Harvey, Speaking for the Afghan Woman will premiere on opening night of the festival, Friday, August 24th. Mr. Harvey will be in attendance at this year's Twickenham Fest. Continue reading for Program Notes and translations.
Click here for the composer's Biography.
William Harvey, Composer
Speaking for the Afghan Woman
a song cycle for soprano and piano
dedicated to Rada
approximately 15 minutes in duration
commissioned by Susanna Phillips
completed 4 June 2012, Kabul, Afghanistan
Songs
Prelude: Love is Not Sin
Lundaye I—The Veil
Lundaye II—Green Footsteps Captive Bird
Lundaye III—I Will Never Return
(translations below)
Program Notes
Speaking for the Afghan Woman explores the question: who can claim to speak for the Afghan woman? Philosophically, I am influenced by Edward Said's book “Orientalism” and its indictment of “Western” attempts to speak on behalf of so-called “Eastern” people. The nature of the song cycle addresses the fact that I am an American man claiming to write from the perspective of Afghan women.
The text of the prelude does not come from a poem. Fifteen-year-old Marina studied violin with me when I first arrived in Kabul in 2010 to teach violin at Afghanistan National Institute of Music. She disappeared one day, and I heard that she had been removed from school to be engaged. Months later, her little cousin gave me a piece of paper on which Marina had written the words “Love is Not a Sin” (in Dari, “Ishq Gonah Neest”). Given her plight, Marina’s enigmatic words struck me powerfully.
For the main body of the song cycle, each poem written in Dari by a famous Afghan female poet will be paired with a “lundaye,” a genre of folk poetry in Pashto. These folk couplets were almost certainly by men, but many are about women or purport to be from the perspective of a woman. The first lundaye seems to be told from the point of view of a man bewitched by a woman’s beauty. This precedes a poem by Bahar Saeed in which she blasts men who feel “led astray” by a woman’s beauty. This song uses a slow mughuli rhythm (7/8 time), which is often called the national rhythm of Afghanistan.
The second lundaye seductively asks a woman to make a sherbet of her lips. This precedes a “rain song” in which the imagery of rain contrasts with the thirst and pain of Afghan women. The poem is by Nadia Anjuman, a poet whose husband killed her when she was 25; according to BBC Persian, her family was upset that she was gaining fame as a poet. The third song sets a two-part poem by Parween Pazhwak in which the voice of the poet fears the effect that her difficult life may have. The fourth poem follows the most bleak lundaye, yet ends the cycle on a valedictory note. In this poem, Meena Keshwar Kamal courageously asserts her independence. Kamal was a prominent Afghan feminist who was assassinated in 1987: it is still not known if her killers were working for the communist Afghan government or for the mujahideen.
The song cycle contains no actual Afghan music, but I was influenced by various aspects of Afghan music, as well as numerous great musicians in the Western and Afghan traditions, such as Bach, Messaien, Brahms, Dutilleux, Ives, Homayoun Sakhi (the world’s finest rubab player), Ahmad Zahir (often called the Afghan Elvis), and Salim Sarmast (the father of my employer and the man who introduced conducting, composing, and orchestras to Afghanistan).
I am deeply indebted to the Iranian-American academic, Aria Fani, for selecting the poems and advising me on them; Dr. Ahmad Sarmast, Founder & Director of Afghanistan National Institute of Music, for his support and advice; Abdullah Hameedi, for helping me in areas where my Dari was deficient; Mansoor Ahmadzay, for help with Pashto; and Masoud Wahidi, for reading the poems for me. I have also been inspired by many Afghan women who I am pleased to call friends.
Click here for William Harvey's Biography
Translations
Lundaye I
Face like a rose, eyes like candles
I don’t know whether I should become a butterfly or a moth
The Veil
by Bahar Saeed (1953- )
Grisly veil dare not censure me from sight
Nor, my bare face, my nakedness expose;
Sun-like I transcend the darkness and shine.
No blackness, however dense,
Can forge the mask of confinement.
Isn’t your flawed morality, Believer,
To banish me thus behind the veil.
You devout Visitor from the cities of pious way,
A speck of doubt ought lead you thus astray?
Let no warped preacher, advocate,
Bend my proud head, so low,
To where your footsteps mislead.
I see no fairness in such wisdom:
For others’ moral frailty,
I must reside in hell.
Conjuror of morality!
Why conjure up such devious device;
To conceal from sight my unblemished face,
Design instead, an opaque veil to hide
from innocent views your impure gaze.
– Translated from Persian by Leila Enayat-Seraj
Lundaye II
Make a sherbet of your lips, and give it to me
So that on my separate journey, I shall not become thirsty
Poetry
by Nadia Anjuman (1980 - 2005)
The sound of green footsteps is the rain
They are coming in from the road, now
Thirsty souls and dusty skirts brought from the desert
Their breath burning, mirage-mingled
Mouths dry and caked with dust
They are coming in from the road, now
Tormented-bodied, girls brought up on pain
Joy departed from their faces
Hearts old and lined with cracks
No smile appears on the bleak oceans of their lips
Not a tear springs from the dry riverbeds of their eyes
O God!
Might I not know if their voiceless cries reach the clouds,
the vaulted heavens?
The sound of green footsteps is the rain.
– Translated from Persian by Zuzanna Olszewska and Belgheis Alavi
Untitled
by Parween Pazhwak (born 1966)
in my dreams
I fly and look at myself
in disbelief – like a bird
flying over a lake
do captive birds
dream such dreams?
***
the flower that turned
into stone
was me
once more delicate
than the flower
I fear becoming
harder than
the stone
–Translated from Persian by Aria Fani
Lundaye III
I cry and you do not deign to offer a reply
There will come a time when you search for me, and I am no more
I Will Never Return (excerpt)
by Meena Keshwar Kamal (1956-1987)
I’m a woman
awaken now
arisen from the ashes of my children’s burnt
bodies, become a storm
arisen from streams of my brothers’ blood
empowered by my people’s wrath
every burnt village of my homeland
fills me with resentment for the enemy
now my compatriot
no longer think of me as a powerless victim
I’m a woman
awaken now
I’ve found my path
I will not return
–Translated from Persian by Aria Fani
