Published 19th April 2022

 

Note - this was originally written in 2005 for an esoteric study group I am fortunate to be a member of. Some names have been changed, some have not. 

 

 

GUITARS, GUNS and GOD

Part 1

 

1

 

I looked up. All I could see were thousands of stars blinking in the black stillness of the night sky. It didn’t look dark to me. It seemed almost alive with light. With my neck bent back, I turned on my heel, taking in the full canopy of night. I never tire of stargazing although this was different. I was in The Holy Land and these stars, gently flickering like shards of light reflecting off the surface of jewels, were the same stars that had cast their light on Moses, on Abraham, on Mohammed. And on Jesus. This is where it all happened, centuries before. Considering the setting and the view there was no sense of emotion, no longing or tearfulness. Just a sense of detached awareness of the enormity, and agelessness, of it all. The tears would come later, at a time and place when I expected them least. The only sounds I could hear were the occasional dog barking and the soft breeze whistling through the palm trees. The stillness of the night intensified my feeling. It was here that they, the prophets, saviours, seers and madmen, had all lived and breathed. And to top off my sense of high strangeness, a part of me was sure that I belonged in the last of those categories.

 

It was May 2005 and I was standing on the roof a building in the refugee camp of Tul Karm, in the West Bank of Palestine. I had arrived in Israel two days earlier with three companions as part of an organisation called Bridge Projects. The plan was that we would hold music workshops with young musicians in Palestine and Israel, get to know them, make links with the various groups working on peace initiatives and think about how we could go back to do more work, perhaps with both groups of young people coming together, thereby bringing about peace, love and understanding. We’d been working on the trip for over a year, meeting people, making connections to peace groups both in Israel and England, raising funds to pay for the trip and convincing friends that ok, yes we were a little crazy to voluntarily go into what is essentially a war zone, but if we waited for “a good time to go” we might wait for quite some time.

 

They say that fools go where angels fear to tread. From where I was standing, at that very point in my life, looking up at the multitudes of stars and galaxies billions of light years away in time and space, yet seemingly just an outstretched arm from my touch, I felt that the angels were actually with me then and there.

 

2

 

I had met Andy Marks, Gary Cohen and Rob Cowan, collectively known as Bridge Projects, in spring 2004. Around about that time, I had mentioned to my sister, Sophia, that somewhere, swilling around in the back of my already stuffed-to-the-brim-with-schemes head, was an idea for a band that would include musicians from different religious backgrounds. This idea was far from coming to fruition at this point not least because I was still wondering how I could get involved in an area (religion) in which I had absolutely no faith (no pun intended) . She told me that she knew some guys who were trying to do something similar although their focus was bringing together young people in the Middle East, with music as the hook to get them interested. Would I like to meet them?

 

“You remember Andy, don’t you? He’s one of my best friends from school. You’ve definitely met him.”

 

Maybe I had, but I couldn’t recall. Still, it sounded like an interesting idea, and if I was going to put this band together I needed to meet some people with connections and similar aims. Phone numbers were exchanged, telephone calls were made and I was invited to a meeting a few days later in London’s Glittering West End (or Soho at least, which is somewhat less glittering these days).

 

 

I walked into the plush offices of the marketing company that had given them use of their offices. At this stage I knew very little about Bridge Projects. I knew that two of the guys involved, Andy and Rob, were friends of my sister and that they were looking for people to help them set up some kind of music related project. It was about 7pm in the evening, so the office was very quiet. I sat waiting, watching the cleaners go about their business. A heavy-set man wiped the floor while a young girl, possibly his daughter, played with some of the toys that were lying around on shelves. The toys looked like promotional gifts, and I thought about how easily the human psyche is manipulated by images. Advertising has always been one of my pet hates, which is deeply ironic in light of the fact that for many years when I was younger I'd worked in that very same industry. Of course I’d hated every minute of it.

 

Eventually I was called to come into the meeting and the first face I saw was that of Gary Cohen, a fellow musician whom I had last seen some ten years previously.

 

“Mo? Mo Nazam...?"

 

We both laughed in that way people do when they’re surprised by something unexpected.

 

“Blimey,” I said, “fancy meeting you here after all this time…”

 

Gary had been a singer/songwriter and on a number of occasions he’d been in receipt of my dubious musical services for live work, and we’d often talked about our mutual love of the movies, desire to work in the medium in some capacity. He’d also mentioned that he had served in the Israeli army at some point, but this was something we hadn’t spoken about at any length. I’d always liked Gary, and although I hadn’t seen him in many years it was a pleasant surprise to see him sitting there. Another thought also swiftly passed though my mind: I’d met Gary, all those years ago, for a reason, and maybe that reason wasn’t what we’d thought it was at time. It’s funny how often I have that thought. Funny peculiar, and to me, funny ha ha as well. I suspect that if God and I have anything in common, it might just be our sense of humour.

 

Once the hellos and “funny meeting you here” conversations were over, I was briefed on the plan behind the meeting. The idea was to hold music workshops in Israel, bringing together young people from both side of the divide and hopefully get them to engage not only I music but also dialogue of some sort. My sister had suggested to the group that my experience of working with young people and facilitating music making might be of some use to them. I was fully aware of the power that music could exert in changing lives, or at least in sowing the seeds of change, so I was interested in how my professional experience might help to bring together groups of people who were literally at war with each other. Although I wasn’t quite sure about where this was all leading, I agreed to get involved and offer my services. I was also curious to discover the significance, if any, of my reconnecting with Gary.

 

Over the course of the next weeks and months we learned more about the situation in the region itself, and how hard what we had decided to do actually was. We made efforts to get to know groups already working on dialogue, and sought the advice of people both here and in Israel. We contacted Palestinian organisations here in the UK, and took every opportunity to meet and learn from people already involved in peace initiatives. Gradually, the idea changed a little but eventually we arrived at a plan. It was clear to us early on that the practicalities of bringing Israeli and Palestinian youths together to make music in one place were hugely challenging and possibly not appropriate for us to do without undertaking a bit of research first. We needed to meet people out there, and get a sense of the mood, or even the desire, of both groups for such a meeting and (in a positive sense) collaboration. Language is such a tricky thing. In England, would so many misgivings arise about using the word “collaboration”?

 

With all that in mind, we decided to conduct a series of “pilot” workshops both in Israel and in Palestinian refugee camps. This would give us a chance to work with both groups separately and having gauged the mood, move onto the bigger task of scoping out a face-to-face meet at some point in the future. We spent time making contacts with peace groups based in Israel, and very quickly Windows for Peace emerged as a suitable partner. There would be the four of us, plus a mutual friend, Adam Lawrence, a professional photographer (for what could be, if I were a little more shallow than I actually am, my favourite magazine: FHM!), who would document the trip.

 

The main problem at this stage facing us was how to pay for the trip. We decided to arrange a fund raising party so we needed a venue to hold it, and someone to publicise it, and someone else to provide the food. Between us we arranged meetings with venues, PR people caterers and hordes of other people who, although initially eager to help, upon realising how much work was involved and that their contribution would all be on a voluntary basis, quickly backed off.

 

 

I very quickly realised that the road to Israel was paved with people parading good intentions, but there’s always something holding them back from following that road.

 

3

 

The cab driver laughed maniacally as he lit a cigarette. We were hurtling along the motorway towards Tel Aviv airport at about 80mph, and a complete madman was driving me there. A Palestinian madman. Confounding the image we have in the West of Palestinians, this one was armed only with a complete absence of propriety and a sense of humour that could best be described as unhinged. Or at least that’s how it seemed to me. And by the way, I wasn’t even actually being driven by him at this point, mainly because seconds before actually lighting the cigarette he’d decided he wanted a cigarette but couldn’t actually take one out of the pack and light it with one hand. The only way he could successfully carry out the procedure was if the passenger in the front seat, me, took the wheel.

 

So, with a laugh bordering on crazy he urged me to grab the wheel and keep the car on the road.

 

“You drive car, I light cigarette, I smoke, you drive.” he cackled. He seemed to find almost everything amusing. The ability to laugh under pressure is a quality I usually warm to. Except at times when my life might be at stake.

 

I thought he was joking until I watched him take his hands off the wheel, wriggle a little, and go to pull out a packet of smokes and a lighter from his trousers! As I lunged over, grabbing hold of the steering wheel, I thought I heard someone in the distance scream like a little girl. The driver just kept laughing. In my head, through the panic, I pondered just how funny peculiar life could be. Just a few hours before I’d had one of the most profound and moving experiences of my life and yet here I was, watching a madman cackle and smoke and taking great pleasure in my obvious panic. It was like a scene from a movie.

 

I was on my way to Tel Aviv after having spent the early part of the morning in Jerusalem, walking around the old town early in the morning with Adam. Most of our trip had been spent in Herlzliya, Ramallah, Tul Karm and Tel Aviv, where we had held informal music sessions. On the last day of our stay I was determined to get to see some of Jerusalem, so Adam and I had set out early that day, arriving in the old city at about 8am. Adam had been to Jerusalem many times but he volunteered to accompany me as no one else in the group felt like making the trip. I felt that I should keep my overwhelming compulsion to go to myself. I had made a vow that, no matter what, I would visit Jerusalem on this trip. In my life there have been a few places that I felt drawn to, as if they held some deep secret or truth about me and who I am, and my whole life I’d known that I would one day go there, and perhaps receive a gift. Egypt had been one such place, and the gift I had received when I visited it in 2001 was something that I will treasure for the rest of my life (maybe I’ll tell you about it one day) and Jerusalem was certainly another. Don’t get me wrong; this wasn’t some sort of obsession with these places. I didn’t dream day and night of them, and collect pictures and arcana associated with them. It was just a quiet knowing that these were places that I would visit, and they would help me to put some pieces of the jigsaw of my life in place. Plus, who knew when I would next be in Israel? One must keep one’s eyes open for opportunities.

 

Had I known that there would be an opportunity to meet a roguish, talkative yet quite likeable madman who happened to drive a cab and enjoyed freaking out his passengers with reckless acts of derring do, I’m not altogether sure that I would have been that keen on taking it, but here I was, careering at high speed down the motorway, steering wheel in hand, courage out of the window.

 

We’d already had a long and somewhat surreal conversation about our respective lives, his as an “Israeli Arab” (an Israeli citizen of Palestinian/Arab descent) and mine as a Muslim living in a free country, which Israel is for some people but not, it would seem, for others. Amongst all the Arabs whom I spoke to for any length of time, two topics cropped up again and again. That they just wanted to live in peace with everyone else, and that they, and their relatives in the Occupied Territories, were being treated unfairly.

 

Injustice. It’s a biggie.

 

But for my cabbie, the thing he was most interested turned out to be my sex life.

 

“ I like to furk…you like to furk?” he asked me, out of nowhere and with no warning. He was looking at me with a smile. I was beginning to wish I hadn’t sat in the front seat. Never. Sit. In. The front seat. Again.

 

It took me a little while to figure out just what “furking” was and once I twigged I was mildly amused at his candour. Here I was, a stranger from The Decadent West, we hardly knew each other but I guess bloke talk is bloke talk, anywhere in the world. So with that the subject turned to sex. He explained that he was married but he also visited a neighbouring town where he had a lover. I kept my side of the conversation very tactfully gallant but even so his incessant questioning managed to prise some information out of me. He was intrigued that my girlfriend was English, that we lived together and that we weren’t married. He was also a little surprised to learn that I didn’t have a lover on the side. It seems that the idea of concubines has a long and glorious history in this part of the world. It’s obviously a pastime not limited to Biblical prophets. Truth be told I wasn’t really enjoying our conversation about his liking for furking, so when he decided that he fancied a smoke, and forced me into taking the wheel my terror at steering from the passenger side was tempered by my relief that we were no longer on intimate territory.

 

Eventually my cabbie tired of laughing at me and took the wheel from my sweaty hands. Eyes wide, I stared at him and let out a sigh of relief.

 

“Please don’t do that again,” I whimpered.

 

Another big laugh.

 

“ Do not you worry my British friend,” he said. “ I take care of you good.”

 

I hate it when people say that. Something inside me suspects that events will turn out to be just the opposite.

 

 

4

 

I’d been playing a gig on Monday nights in this little basement club cum bar cum restaurant called The Gate, next door to the Coronet cinema in Notting Hill Gate. It was small and kinda smoky but the gig always drew a crowd and the band I was playing with didn’t mind that I turned my guitar up loud and laced them with brutal volleys of blues and rock licks. Plus, I liked the owner, Kushan, a good looking Persian guy in his early 30’s, who was always willing to chat, had an easy smile and a strong, steady handshake.

 

Bridge had been looking for venues in which to hold our fund-raiser for months now, with little luck. We’d almost gone for a place in London’s Glittering West End but that had fallen through due to various cost related factors. I got a good feeling from Kushan, so at one of our weekly meetings I mentioned to Rob, Andy and Gary that maybe The Gate might be a good place to hold our event. It wasn’t too big, it was near a Central London tube station, it was in a trendy part of town and it served food and drink. We were looking for donations to fund our trip to Israel and people are more liable to feel generous if they have full bellies and sated thirsts. Kushan not only agreed that we could have his club for free, he also offered to donate ten percent of the bar takings to the cause. The fundraiser was a go-er.

 

Eventually we raised enough money to pay for our airfare to and from Israel. We would pay our own food expenses and Andy’s uncle had a boat at Herzliya that we could stay in. I figured that I wasn’t going to develop a sudden liking for caviar and foie gras so finances, food wise, would be fine. My swimming skills are essentially zero, so the prospect of staying on a boat for 10 days without wearing a life jacket permanently attached to my yellow hide was a bit daunting, but I decided that if I wore especially non slippery shoes and watched where I stepped really carefully whilst on the boat or within 25 feet of the water, I’d be ok. Travelling into a war zone to make music was fine, but slipping on a wet surface, banging your noggin on a deftly tied knot made of heavy rope and landing in the drink without water wings was definitely not an exciting prospect to a landlubber such as I.

 

Rob, Andy, Gary, Adam Lawrence (their mutual friend and superb photographer) and I landed at Tel Aviv on the morning of May 21st, 2005. As I stepped off the plane, I took a long look around, and a long long look at the ground beneath my feet, the 'Holy" ground. 

So this was it. This was what all the fuss was about.