Oh Traveler

There is a song by bad boy musician and rebel activist Algerian born singer Rachid Taha, called "Ya Rayah" that I have been fascinated by ever since I first heard it. My French girlfriend in Paris sent me a cassette of "Carte Blanche" in the late 1990's and "Ya Rayah" became the most popular song on that album. I felt strongly drawn to the song, and only very recently learned that the song is about the emigrant, the traveler, the man or woman without or between countries. As a Flemish immigrant who came to the USA in 1976, I am all too familiar with the melancholy of losing slowly one 's identity of one's country of origin only to struggle with taking on the identity of the adopted country. Unlike Rachid Taha who was born in Algeria in 1958, and moved with his family to a suburb of Lyon in 1968 where his father toiled long hours at a miserable pay in a textile factory, I came here as a student of comfort. However, my status took a good beating, and I lost both my sisters , both my parents and my brother under tragic circumstances from any point of view. The song resonated deeply with me emotionally, before I knew what it was about, which speaks of the considerable talent of Rachid Taha who is famous now for his musical ingenuity and diversity. Now that I know what the song is about, it means so much more and astounds me with the deep resonance it provokes in my heart and soul. As someone who is quite isolated from my country of birth, and who has not been back to Belgium since 1987, I know first hand the longing and illusion of going home again. I became a citizen of the USA in 1994, and enjoy a good relationship with my American husband of 27 years and our 21 year old son, but there are definitely times I wish they understood, both emotionally, culturally and intellectually, what it is like to lose sight of a shore, to try to embrace the land on another far away shore. Rachid Taha captures the at times maddening pain and melancholy beautifully, with power, compassion and great lyricism. Arabic as a language has always had this ability to reach me emotionally, even though I do not speak Arabic. I remember seeing signs in restaurant windows in Brussels in the late 1960's, reading "Interdit aux Nord Africains", and as a 12 year old Flemish girl whose language and identity were not welcome at the time in the Walloon dominated politics of the capital, these signs were shocking and revolting. To me the people and the music of North Africa were beautiful, even though that was not a popular opinion for a girl to have in my economic and social circle, and I never cared if my passions and convictions offended the adults in my world. I love Rachid Taha's music, its range, complexity, anger, dare and lyrical talent, because it speaks to the part of my soul and heart that was lost forever, and that also knows suspicion, rejection, anonymity and the fierce longing for dignity and belonging.