Imagine a group of devout men celebrating the Armistice in Egypt in 1918. Excited if not euphoric, they believed that Egypt would become independent of Britain after the end of World War I.

Egypt had been promised independence, if it helped the Allied war effort. US President Woodrow Wilson’s wartime rhetoric about the principles of self–determination had given Egyptians the impression that the post–war international order would herald their independence. Alas, it did not do so, and this led to the 1919 Revolution, which was triggered by the British authorities’ ban on nationalist leader Sa’d Zaghloul (1859–1927) from attending the Versailles Peace Conference.

Both Sayyid Darwish and Badi’ Khayri had a religious education in their youth, and this is apparent in this song, down to the pronunciation of what is otherwise Egyptian dialect. Khayri skilfully devises lyrics in dialect,
yet with a heavier guttural diction typical of classical Arabic spoken by Islamic scholars and jurists. For native speakers of Arabic, the result is both hilarious and arresting.

As well as being a brilliant playwright and satirist, Badi’ Khayri spoke French and English, and this is reflected in the multilingual references in the song. Khayri’s daring and erudite lyrics also speak of rationing during the war, after a religious fatwa had been issued, allowing the consumption of horsemeat during times of food shortage.

To demonstrate the dichotomy with which the subjects of the song express their feelings, Darwish uses two different melodic modes (maqaam–s) to illustrate the struggle between West (major scale or ‘ajam’) and East (the seemingly ominous ‘sabaa’). The latter mode is paradoxical in its temperament; not only is it employed to relay sadness and melancholy, but it is also used in other contexts to express determination, as in the early anthems of the Palestinian liberation movement.

My arrangement aims to translate this struggle by choosing a ‘Western’ musical style reminiscent of infantry Jazz bands during WWI, juxtaposed with frenzied Egyptian percussion for the Arabic or ‘Eastern’ element of
the song.

I end with an allusion to British music hall classic ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’. Popular with British Army units during WWI, the song was introduced to Egypt by the soldiers. It soon became well–known in Egyptian society, including amongst schoolchildren, so much so that the English lyrics were replaced by Arabic ones, turning the song into a dialogue between two lovers.