and from the inside in

The Melancholy Oud
By Sahar Mustafah
As I come through the garage door, I hear the melancholy strings of the oud and I guess it’s coming from the soundtrack
of an Arabian soap opera my mother’s watching on satellite. Quick, rhythmic clapping and another instrument I don’t
recognize lends its sound, and its melody seamlessly weaves into the thrumming of the oud.
“Allah, allah!” my mother croons, and I realize she’s the one clapping. “Ente a’yooni…”
She’s singing a ballad from Oum Kalthum—her favorite Egyptian artist. Every time my mother plays her CD she tells
me that the entire world was present at Oum Kalthum’s funeral in the 1970’s, that she even surpassed Gamal Abdul
Nasser—Egypt’s most beloved president—in attendance by dignitaries from all over the Arab world. I guess she was like
the Elvis of her times, or something. To me, her songs all sound the same. The one my mother’s singing now is about a
woman confessing her forbidden love. I don’t think I’ve ever heard an Arabic song that wasn’t about forbidden love,
or unrequited love, or love that finally kills you.
From the kitchen, I see the back of a man’s head I don’t recognize sitting on a loveseat in our family room. His hair is
slightly receding in the back so that the finely combed strands are visible lines like black thread against his pale scalp.
Khalo Ziyad is sitting opposite him on the big couch. His eyes are closed as he strums the oud. Seated beside him,
my mother blissfully sings with her hand resting on her brother’s shoulder. She motions me over without halting and
pats the cushion for me to sit down. She winks at me and I’m impressed that none of them has missed a beat with my
intrusion.
I feel like I’ve stumbled onto a secret clan, chanting something mystical. They look hypnotized by the music they’re
creating that lets them shut out the rest of the world. I suppose it’s like the way I feel when I listen to Black Veil Brides;
everything around me just fades into the walls and seeps into the floor and I’m just, like, floating on a raft.
The stranger has a weird-looking instrument in the shape of a trapezoid, propped across his thighs, and two metal
cases over his fingers that he uses to pluck the strings. It’s like a harp resting in his lap.
Almost five minutes pass, which feel like ten or more as I’m waiting for them to complete the ballad. After my mother
belts out the final verse, they laugh and clap. Suddenly, they remember me and the stranger pounces with excitement.
“Mashallah, mashallah! Who’s this?” the man asks me, setting his instrument on the loveseat before standing up with
hand extended. “Where did this lovely lady come from?” It’s that funny way of asking, like I’m five years old.
I extend my hand and he grips it tight while talking to my mother and uncle. “She’s a pretty one, mashallah! You better
keep your eye on her,” he says. This is worse than the condescending tone—referring to me in the third person like I
can’t hear. “She looks just like you, Amina, thirty years ago, mish ah?”
44