Naseer Shamma: The oud is a mirror that reflects the player's emotions

Typically, a musician will let the instrument lead until they fully master it. Then, it will become pliable, leading to a balanced relationship. There is an invisible understanding that cannot be explained or articulated. For me, this is how it happened.

The oud imposed its history and the lineage of great musicians who played it, narrating the story of civilisations. Harmony was born between me and the oud until it no longer refused anything I asked of it.

You have established the House of Oud in many Arab cities. Tell us about your experience with these institutions and their achievements.

The House of Oud began as a personal experiment and transformed into an institution. Early in my career, I met many great names and sensed their big egos, which turned me off. Many were selfish and unhelpful, changing my impression of them. I was adamant to keep my ego in check.

Selfishness is an affliction. It extends from the heart to the mind and then paralyses the hand. I did not want any student to see me as I saw some of my teachers, so I tried to do the opposite by going above and beyond to help them. 'Talented' people have a responsibility to help others and create a genuine impact, but unfortunately, many simply prioritise their own wealth and egos.

All those I helped teach—from the Houses of Oud in Riyadh, Cairo, Alexandria, Abu Dhabi, Baghdad, Mosul, and Khartoum—have become successful artists. Their success in no way diminishes mine. On the contrary, I grow with their accomplishments.

My schools have helped spread beauty by producing amazing oud, qanun, and flute players. The singing department also produced several beautiful voices, and they composed meaningful songs in an era largely devoid of meaning.

How do you describe your relationship with the oud?

The oud is pressed against the chest and vibrates with it, so when the player strikes the strings with the plectrum, the sound emerges from deep within, reflecting the player's feelings and culture. To experienced listeners, it immediately reveals the musician's level, depth, and emotional state. If the musician is tense, it reflects in the sound. If they are cultured, it shows in the first chord. The oud is like a mirror—it reflects the musician's emotions and culture. It exposes everyone who plays it.

Does music convey emotions or images to the listener, and is it as honest and direct as it appears, or is it open to interpretation like the written word?

The instrument translates the emotions of the performer and composer. It influences people by penetrating their hearts and minds. Music's longevity depends on how it is received and interpreted from generation to generation. That is the highest form of creativity. Although the audience is not the ultimate measure, over time, a collective taste forms among people that can be relied upon.

I've realised through experience that musical pieces should not be given direct titles to avoid confining the listener to a single framework or idea. It is better to leave them with an open-ended title so they can understand and name it as they wish.

How would you describe the state of Arabic music and musical critics of today?

Unfortunately, there is no true criticism today like in the times of Mozart, Chopin, Beethoven, Wagner, and others. When they performed, they eagerly awaited critics' opinions the next day. Critics' opinions were like a sword hanging over the creator's head, but their criticism stemmed from deep knowledge and understanding. The critic should be more knowledgeable than the artist. Their role is to evaluate and correct, not to be hostile.

Music criticism in the Arab world ceased in the 1980s. If any critics exist, they cannot speak freely. Many times, respectable critics' opinions are met with retaliation and insult. It vanished in part because our culture does not encourage criticism or differing views. To change this, we need to start from an early age, developing and opening our minds to criticism, dialogue, and acceptance. I wasn't always open to criticism, but I came to respect and listen to different opinions. Criticism has significantly helped me address some flaws in my playing.

Music is inherently abstract, unlike literature, which carries specific content, or architecture, which has a spatial presence. Is music purely intellectual, or is there a reason to treat it as an entity rather than an art form?

Music is an invisible entity. The listener does not see images, ideas, or emotions as they do in poetry, painting, theatre, or cinema. It is intangible and creates perceptions from its high abstraction. So, it is unlike anything else.

Oftentimes, conveying music through incomprehensible symbols creates a comprehensible image for the listener. We see something similar in Picasso's work, with simple lines or strange faces, drawing on the abstraction in music to create an image from nothing.

When music is profound, it fills the listener with tremendous energy. It invigorates their love for life, embracing strangers, smiling without reason, content in silence as if drawing closer to the heavens and renouncing the world. This is where the value of music lies. It is healing. I often wonder if heaven would be bearable without music.

Your new work, "They Stay", with lyrics by the poet Hassan Amer, encapsulates Palestinians' pain and resilience against the brutality of the occupation. What does music say to victims? Can it overthrow tyrants?

"They Stay" is a joint work involving a poet, composer, and orchestra. A Palestinian friend helped produce the video clip. It is a message of appreciation from the entire team to the Palestinian people and their just cause. This remains a constant for us. We were raised on it and will not rest until the conflict is resolved with Palestinians returning to their land and establishing a sovereign state.

It will happen eventually. The efforts and sacrifices of this mighty and resilient people, who teach us daily lessons in humanity and love for their homeland, will not be in vain.

In 1985, you gave your first concerts in Iraq, then performed on world stages alongside renowned musicians. How do you describe Iraq's current human, political, and cultural state?

I was born in a land of great significance, with its rich civilisation, strategic location, and abundant resources. This has placed it at the centre of international politics and conflict. The struggle in Mesopotamia dates back over 6,000 years, yet it gave birth to magnificent civilisations whose contributions the world continues to enjoy. This richness is embedded in Iraqi genes. It imposes an immense responsibility.

For someone born into this, you can't afford to fail. You must be proactive and refrain from using your circumstances or problems as excuses. This forges resilience. When I ventured into the world as a teenager, I understood clearly what I needed to do for a future that neither leans on history nor colludes with the present. I haven't rested since.

You grew up in a revolutionary communist environment during Saddam Hussein's era. Your suffering under the US occupation led to your exile from Iraq. Can you speak about this difficult experience?

What I grew up with shaped my identity and laid the foundation for my emotional, cultural, political, and intellectual awareness. I grew up in an environment dominated by a single political party. Other parties operated secretly and were crushed if discovered. During the Ba'ath regime, the communist movement was persecuted and hunted down.

Party members were imprisoned in the harshest conditions, like the notorious Niqrat Salman prison—a pit six hours away in the desert. Poets, creators, and national opponents were imprisoned there, including the poet Muzaffar Al-Nawab and my older brother, Saadi. I grew up in a climate where the cultured, civilised, knowledgeable, and noble were targeted and imprisoned by a cruel authoritarian military party. This made it impossible for me to side with the oppressor.

As a kid, I was lucky to live close to a large library. It not only became my refuge but my friend. I loved the books' appearance even before knowing their content. Most were Marxist works. I hid some near the wall of the governor's house because I assumed they wouldn't search a pro-regime area. At night, I carried what I could and buried it by the wall.

We managed to retrieve them in 1983. We still have them in Baghdad. Authorities' fear of writers and intellectuals and people's respect and admiration for them left a lasting impact on me. I realised that autocrats fear knowledge.  Although I never joined a political party and am against artists doing so, I was passionate about communism.

You recently turned to painting. Is this because music's expressive capacity has diminished, or are there other reasons? Tell us about the themes of your paintings and your first exhibition.

I have painted for 40 years but never made this public. During major events, when I needed to calm my nerves and centre myself, I turned to colours and paint. It helped me to pick up the oud again, compose, and play.

However, during the COVID-19 pandemic, I decided to make my painting public, naming my works The Doors. It includes over 80 pieces, 72 being exhibited in Abu Dhabi. I love painting as much as I love music. They are similar. Colours have scales, just like musical notes.