5:30 on a Wednesday in late November. Our Ramallah master class at The National Conservatory of Music (Palestine) has just ended and ten-year-old Taher, a young flute-player, is practically jumping up and down, his face glowing with hope: “Oh! please let me play, too!” Will’s and my jazz-improvisation demonstrations–I on piano, he on alto-sax, flute, clarinet and bass clarinet–drew inspired playing from Tariq, the little 14-year-old frame-drum-player with the punk hair-cut, also from a stocky 12-year-old flautist.
We invited both of them to play a piece with us at our Friday concert. Now Taher is mad to join us. “But Taher,” I say, “you need to rehearse with us! Can you do it now?” “I’ll go ask my father!” He bolts down the Conservatory’s narrow stone stairs. Dad peers out of the car, looking puzzled and irritated–it’s Ramadan, nerves fray at the end of the day. “He’s been fasting all day, he needs to go home to eat!” “I don’t NEED to eat!” Dad’s resistance crumbles; he trudges up the stairs, and we proceed to rehearse. Finally we light on something Taher plays well–a simple piece he wrote himself. “OK,” I say, “You’ll play with us,” and the little boy throws his arms around my neck.