Ziv Yehezkel, a singer, composer, and teacher of Maqam music, discovered Arabic music at age 16. Studying at a Sephardi yeshiva in Jerusalem, which he called “a shelter for Arabic music,” he learned about the melodies hidden behind piyutim, Jewish religious poems. There, in the corridors of his dormitory, he heard the traditional oud for the first time. This changed his life path forever.
Without any formal musical education, Yehezkel mastered the art of this instrument to such a level that he is now Israel’s leading oud musician and teacher. He plays classical and original Arabic music, sings in Arabic and Hebrew, and was the first Jewish musician to perform with The Arab Orchestra of Nazareth.
Yehezkel has also worked with The Jerusalem Orchestra East and West, The Jerusalem Symphony Orchestra, and his own ensemble of his students. In 2024, he will tour with the Israeli Andalusian Orchestra of Ashdod.
Yehezkel also had solo concerts in various European cities, as well as Dubai and Cairo, and even in Ramallah. In all these places, as he told me, he never took off his kippah.
He gathers audiences of different backgrounds and looks for opportunities to build bridges between people.
In this interview for the Magazine, Yehezkel talks about his love of Arabic music and the power of singing piyutim, especially during slihot and the High Holy Days.
This summer I went to your concert in Tel Aviv, and during over two hours of show I was fascinated not just with your beautiful music and the energy of the night but also with the audience of secular and religious Jews who sang along, mostly in Arabic. How do you bring these worlds together? What do you think engages them?
I do nothing. I just sing what I feel deeply connected to. It’s an emotional connection. And I guess everyone in the audience finds their way to be connected to it, too.
Breslov Hassidim in the audience were singing piyutim in Arabic along with you. I was looking around asking myself, ‘What’s happening? All the stereotypes were falling apart.’
[Laughs] We are living in a crazy place on Earth. I have been doing it for many years; they saw me in many shows. They got used to the words in Arabic. I remember that at my first concerts when I was singing in Arabic, the audience was singing with me the same tunes, but in Hebrew. They knew the music.
What’s the first melody or song you remember from your childhood?
An Israeli song that my mom used to sing to us when I was around four or five years old: “Hurshat Ha’eucalyptus” (The Eucalyptus Grove) by Naomi Shemer. It was a very famous song when my parents were young.
What else can you tell us about your childhood?
I was raised in Kiryat Ono. Now it is a big city, but back then it was like a small village, with old roads, mostly private houses, and animals on the streets: horses, donkeys, and goats. Originally, it was a village called, in Arabic, Kfar Anna. My parents were born in Israel. My grandparents from my mother’s side made aliyah from Morocco, and my father’s side from Iraq
It is usually written about you that you are an Iraqi Jew. Is that how you identify?
I am simply Israeli. An Iraqi-Moroccan-Israeli Jew. The roots are very important culturally. Everyone came here from somewhere else, and that’s what makes us what we are actually. But it is important to remember that at the end of the day, we are all Israeli. And Israeli means [to me] you are religious and non-religious at the same time.
How important was religion at your home?
My mother came from a traditional home; her father wore a kippah, and they kept kashrut. My father’s family was completely secular. When I was about three years old my parents became religious, so I was raised in a religious home. I went to a yeshiva in Bnei Brak and in Jerusalem.
Is it true that during your yeshiva studies, you were exposed to Arabic music? How come?
It’s very simple. Arabic music has found a very safe shelter in Sephardi yeshivas. Most of the piyutim are based on music of composers from Egypt, Syria, Lebanon, and other Arab countries. This is literally Arabic music, used by paytanim [poets writing religious songs, poems – piyutim], who changed the words. They were writing in Hebrew about Shabbat, about God, using these melodies.
When I was 16, one day in my yeshiva, by chance, I heard some music. I thought what a beautiful sound. I wanted to know what was it, so I followed the sound. In one of the rooms close to mine, there was a guy sitting on his bed and playing an instrument. I asked him what was that instrument. It was an oud. He was just a beginner.
Did you ever learn to read music?
No. But I sang in the synagogue (hazzanut), and in a children’s choir in a school. My oldest sister is a pianist. There was a lot of music in our home. But I never had a formal musical education. I have been an autodidact all my life. I started when I fell in love with Egyptian music.
In June, you performed in Cairo at the concert celebrating 75 years of the State of Israel. Was it your dream, as that 16-year-old yeshiva student?
It was kind of a dream, a bizarre dream. But it came true over 20 years later. I play mostly Egyptian music. In January 2024, I will go on a tour with The Israeli Andalusian Orchestra of Ashdod, and we will have some pieces with very specific Moroccan grooves but based on Egyptian songs.
What is the main difference between Moroccan and Egyptian music?
In my experience, Moroccan is more based on the tempo and the rhythm; there is energy, and it is happy. In Egyptian music, there is more melancholy, and the melody and the energy inside are different.
And how would you characterize Iraqi music?
Iraqi, I don’t know so well, I don’t play it. But from what I heard, it is very sad; but its goal is to make you extremely happy, through the sadness.
Arabic music has specific melodic and rhythmic systems that are different from Western music. What style of Maqam do you teach and perform as a solo singer accompanied by an ensemble?
I play Arabic music based on Maqam and Tarab. They are more of a genre, and style in Arabic music. Tarab is the way you take the listener to some special trance. Maqam is a journey, the way you build the music. Maqam is a thinking way in music; the way to approach the traditional Arabic musical scale. Maqam is the way; Tarab is the goal.
How do you compose your own music?
I have many ways of creating music. It can start with something in my head, some lead. I take it, sing it, think about it, I am being it. And then I find a way to keep it. I mostly record it with my phone; some pieces I put on my computer, and I build around it.
How much room is there for improvisation during the concerts of Arabic music?
About 30 percent.
For many years you performed (and recorded an album) with the Arab Orchestra of Nazareth. How did it begin?
This is a nice story. They had four concerts a year at Yahalom Theatre in Ramat Gan. One day, a community head of Iraqi Jews there called me and said, ‘We need your help.’ It was around the year 2008 or 2010. I was already performing, singing in Arabic, but not anything big yet. He told me that the orchestra had lately been losing its audience and he had heard that about me, and he asked me for help in attracting the audience back. He asked me to perform in a concert with the orchestra, to see how it would work.
What was your first thought?
‘Yes, of course!’ The Arabic Orchestra of Nazareth, and me as the only Jew? ‘Oh, for sure, yes!’
How did they accept you? Do you remember your first rehearsal?
I went to Nazareth for rehearsals, and I felt like a kid in a candy store. They had all the original instruments. And I heard musicians practicing on them, checking the sound. ‘Wow, this is the thing!’ I thought. This was my world. And with time, the orchestra and I became so close. We performed a lot of concerts together in Arabic areas.
Were you wearing your kippah?
Always.
How did the Arabs in the audience react to a single Jew in a kippah on the stage?
They were shocked. I remember their eyes.
Were you a little afraid?
Yes, sure [laughs]. I was mostly afraid because I was singing in their mother tongue. I learned Arabic in order to sing in it, and now I speak well, too. But it was not like with the Israeli audience, where I could mispronounce a word. This was serious! It was actually happening, it was actually Arabic now. They knew every word. Everything. My language, my style of singing. In Arabic, there is something very precise about the way they sing. You need to bring it. There are some things you can’t find in European music – some microtones.
So you were stressed that they would judge your Arabic, but you weren’t afraid for your safety?
I have also performed in Ramallah many times. I was a little bit afraid. The first time I went there, I had security. It was not about the fear but about the opportunity to build more bridges and make more connections with people.
Did your Jewish religious community see it the same way? What were the reactions to you performing with an Arabic orchestra?
They were so proud: ‘One of us really succeeded!’
Really? You are just breaking a taboo! Do you think that through music you could change relations between Arabs and Jews on a larger scale?
I think it changed the place of Arabic music in our country. I see more and more cooperation between Jewish and Arab artists and new orchestras. I think I was the first to bring authentic Arabic music to places like Zappa, Gray, and Tzavta [mainstream clubs and theaters]. Before, it used to be just in some hotels, for the same families.
In 2020 you released a beautiful song ‘Peace among Neighbors’ with Tunisian singer Noomane Chaari. Unfortunately, as the media reported at the time, Chaari received death threats in Tunisia after performing with a Jewish Israeli artist.
Noomane Chaari went through hell because of this project. He was fired by the radio station. His band and his friends abandoned him. And he was actually getting death threats. But fortunately, the situation calmed down. I spoke to him recently, and he is okay, still in Tunisia. The lyrics of the song were too radical over there. It said in Arabic, that between religions we can live together in peace.
And that was too radical? It must have been very disheartening. You probably went into the project with a lot of hope. What were the reactions in Israel?
There was not much interest in Israel. Al Jazeera was more interested in us. Very sad.
Recently, we can also see you at the Jaffa Theatre (Arab-Hebrew stage) in a new role.
Yes, I didn’t plan it. One day, we were sitting over coffee with Eli Grunfeld (my manager) and Igal Ezraty [the director of Jaffa Theatre], and Igal said he has a play about the life of Syrian-Egyptian musician and actor Farid El Atrash, and I play on oud and sing in Arabic, so I could be Farid. I said, ‘Okay, you are talking about music, but I am not an actor.’ Igal replied, ‘It’s not a problem. We need a guy who can play on oud and sing Farid’s songs. We will guide you.’
Had you played his songs before?
A little bit. I was more focused on other Egyptian musicians, such as Abd al Halim Hafiz. I fell in love with Farid thanks to this project.
And did you fall in love with acting? Do you think you can develop more as an actor?
I don’t know. I have so much to do in music: concerts, composing, and teaching.
What do you like about teaching?
Teaching is life, it is something else. Teaching is pure giving. I had a teacher, a master, Fredi Zadok (Farid Sadeq), for 11 years. I got so much from him, so I must pass it on to others.
I teach adults at Alsheikh Music School in Tel Aviv, as well as at a musical center in Lod. There is a group that sings piyutim, only vocals, and there is an orchestra. We just had a big concert based on bakashot – traditional Jewish Syrian singing from Shabbat to Shabbat. Guys who had never held instruments in their hands before gave a big show. It was very exciting! And my new ensemble is composed mostly of my students. We are 10 people altogether.
You just said ‘guys.’ In the Jewish Orthodox world, it is forbidden to listen to a woman’s singing voice. But in the Arabic Jewish musical culture there have been well-known female singers (for example, Salima Murat). Do you ever perform with women?
Yes, I do. I performed with Nasrin Kadri.
How you combine the customs of the observant Jew and the rules of the musical world? Is it a problem for you at times?
I don’t know if we can call it a problem, but yes, sometimes they don’t go together. Which is okay.
What is the significance of singing piyutim, which play a huge role in the religious experiences of the High Holy Days?
The way I see it, in the piyutim, the biggest paytanim (like Rabbi Shlomo Ibn Gabirol or Rabbi Yehuda Halevi) wrote a summary of everything you need to know about your life, identity, these days, and what we are doing here. In life, a lot of things can be confusing, and there are a lot of explanations; but in piyutim all is very simple. It gives you an order. In a very simple way, but in very powerful language, it reminds you of the basics of who you are. We say it is not Hebrew but lashon hakodesh [the holy language]; the same letters, the same words, but another meaning. Very powerful language. Not ‘Let me tell you something,’ but ‘Let me show you something.’
Do you think that singing gives one an opportunity to show more than just by saying a prayer?
When it comes to the piyutim in a synagogue during the holidays, the experience of singing together is very powerful. In general when the congregation sings together, this is the most important experience in the world, in my opinion. Getting connected together opens the heart to the prayers. Sometimes when you are in the synagogue, your body is present but you didn’t really get there. When you start to sing, in a way you lose yourself and you notice that you have arrived. Then we can start to pray.
During the time of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, we talk about all these things that matter: the creating and the judgment. By judgment I mean that someone up there really cares about what you do.
So everything you do is important, you are important. These are the most important days, dealing with the basics. Singing piyutim helps to open your heart in prayer.