Political unrest in the Sahara is
usually associated with Mali,
a country still in the grip of conflict
where, for a time,
Islamist rebels banned music in the towns they captured. Ngoni master Bassekou Kouyate, last year’s Sahara Soul concert headliner, described the situation as “ripping the heart out of Mali.” This year, the Barbican Centre’s celebration of Saharan music was expanded to include non-Malian groups, putting a spotlight on some less documented issues. Take the plight of the Saharawi people, represented at London's Sahara Soul by singer and tabal drummer Aziza Brahim. Born in an Algerian refugee camp, Brahim learned about her homeland − the disputed territory of Western Sahara, currently occupied by Morocco − through word of mouth. “I feel like I’m missing my place in the world,” she says after her closing set. “I was fortunate to grow up in a family that always talked about it, which gave me a great sense of Western Sahara’s beauty and how much it has to offer.” Her passion was at its most raw in her encore, the final voice of Sahara Soul. Brahim stood alone, calling out her urgent message and whacking her big tabal drum with a merciless slap that echoed around the theatre. The contrast between this and her regular set was huge. Backed by three Barcelonan guitarists and an Argentine drummer, each previous track had contained an exotic lushness that mixed flamenco with Malian-style desert blues. But ‘Aradana’, her sparse encore, was reflective of her childhood landscape. “The extremity of the Algerian desert climate makes us entirely dependent on international help. There’s a lot of hardship, and that’s on top of the politics," she says. "At present our focus is trying to live with dignity.”
usually associated with Mali,
a country still in the grip of conflict
where, for a time,
Islamist rebels banned music in the towns they captured. Ngoni master Bassekou Kouyate, last year’s Sahara Soul concert headliner, described the situation as “ripping the heart out of Mali.” This year, the Barbican Centre’s celebration of Saharan music was expanded to include non-Malian groups, putting a spotlight on some less documented issues. Take the plight of the Saharawi people, represented at London's Sahara Soul by singer and tabal drummer Aziza Brahim. Born in an Algerian refugee camp, Brahim learned about her homeland − the disputed territory of Western Sahara, currently occupied by Morocco − through word of mouth. “I feel like I’m missing my place in the world,” she says after her closing set. “I was fortunate to grow up in a family that always talked about it, which gave me a great sense of Western Sahara’s beauty and how much it has to offer.” Her passion was at its most raw in her encore, the final voice of Sahara Soul. Brahim stood alone, calling out her urgent message and whacking her big tabal drum with a merciless slap that echoed around the theatre. The contrast between this and her regular set was huge. Backed by three Barcelonan guitarists and an Argentine drummer, each previous track had contained an exotic lushness that mixed flamenco with Malian-style desert blues. But ‘Aradana’, her sparse encore, was reflective of her childhood landscape. “The extremity of the Algerian desert climate makes us entirely dependent on international help. There’s a lot of hardship, and that’s on top of the politics," she says. "At present our focus is trying to live with dignity.”
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