from Sorrow Songs—the Ground of Hope
(part four)

The second mood suggested in the interpretation of life as an experience of evil, of frustration, of despair, has to do with a personal reaction to the vindictiveness and cruelty of one’s fellows. The mood is set in a definite moral and ethical frame of reference which becomes a screening device for evaluating one's day-by-day human relations. It would be expected that these songs would point indirectly to be sure, but definitely, to the slave owner. But for the most part, the songs are strangely silent here. Many indeed have been the speculations as to the reason for this unnatural omission. There are those who say we are dealing with children so limited in mentality that there is no margin of selfhood remaining for striking out, directly or indirectly, in a frenzy of studied fury against the slave owner. This is arrant nonsense, as the vast number of slave insurrections all through this terrible period will certify. There are those who say that the religion was so simple, so naive, so completely otherworldly that no impression was made by the supra-immoral aspects of the environment; only a simple acceptance of one's fate. Any person who has talked with an ex-slave could hardly hold such a position.

There seems to be a more comprehensive answer than any of these. The fact was that the slave owner was regarded as one outside the pale of moral and ethical responsibility. The level of high expectation of moral excellence for the master was practically nihil. Nothing could be expected from him but gross evil; he was—in terms of morality—amoral. The truth seems to be that the slave owner as a class did not warrant a high estimate of ethical judgment. There is no more tragic result from this total experience than the fact that even at the present time such injunctions as “love your enemies” are often taken for granted to mean the enemy within the group itself. The relationship between slave and master, as far as both the slave and the master were concerned, was “out of bounds” in terms of moral responsibility. It seems clear then, that the second mood has to do with these “we group” relationships of the slave and his fellow bondsman.

Such is the meaning of:

Down on me, down on me,
Looks like everybody in the whole round world is down on me.
Talk about me as much as you please,
I'll talk about you when I get on my knees.
Looks like everybody in the whole round world is down on me.

Sometimes I'm up, sometimes I am down
Sometimes I'm almost on the ground
Looks like everybody in the whole round world is down on me .

To refer to the refrain of one other such song:

Oh, this is a sin-trying world,
This is a sin-trying world.

In the second place, life is regarded as a pilgrimage, a sojourn, while the true home of the spirit is beyond the vicissitudes of life with God! This is a familiar theme of the human spirit. We are dealing with a striking theory of time. Time is measured in terms of events, actions, therefore intentions and desires. All experience, then, is made up of a series of more or less intense meaning—units that may fall in such rapid succession that the interval between is less than any quantitative value. Within the scope of an event series all of human life is bound. Freedom can only mean, in this sense, the possibility of release from the tyranny of succeeding intervals of events. The totality of life, then, in its existential aspects, is this completely exhausted in time. Death in such a view means complete cessation of any sense of interval and therefore of any sense of events. In short, here death means either finality or complete absorption from time-space awareness. Whatever transpires beyond death while it can be thought of only in terms of time-space intervals, is of another universe of discourse, another quality of being.

It is in order now to raise a question as to the relation between before and after in terms of death and life. There seems to be no real break between before and after. Any notion of the continuity of life that transcends the fact of death is significant because of the advantage that is given to the meaning of life. Even though it be true that death is a process moving toward fulfillment of a single climactic event, as contrasted with life, death seems ever to be a solitary event; while life does not seem to be a single event but a process. Even at birth, the process of life seems to be well underway, well advanced. In the light of man's conscious experience with life, death seems to be a moment for the release of potentials of which the individual is in some sense already aware. Life then becomes illustrative of a theory of time that is latitudinal or flowing. On the other hand, death is suggestive of a theory of time that is circular or wheel-like.

Life always includes movement, process, inner activity, and some form of irritation. Something more is implicit than what is apparent in any cycle or series of cycles that sustain all manifestations. In such a view, life takes on a definite character of timelessness. There are no isolated, unrelated and, therefore, inconsequential events or moments. Every day is fraught with antecedents and consequences the logic of which is inner relatedness rather than outer seeming. Every day is a day of judgment and all life is lived under continuous and inner scrutiny.

(For the Inward Journey: the writings of Howard Thurman.
Selected by Anne Spencer Thurman. pages 210-212
Originally published in The Negro Spiritual Speaks of Life and Death)

I made a kind of pilgrimage yesterday on my day off. I visited with a Palestinian community leader who recommended having tea at the Barzakh Cafe and meeting El Atigh Abba.

Of course, the chai was delicious (as well as the baklava), but what was most appealing was the hospitality that El Atigh brings to his tea house. He asked so many welcoming questions about who I am, what my interests are, where I am from. (To which he invariably said, “Incredible! Wonderful! Brilliant!”) My friend Abdullah encouraged me to ask about his story (of immigration from Mauritania), and El Atigh asked me, “Which story? I have a thousand and one stories. I am a storyteller!”

The special invitation extended, when he learned that I am a person of faith, was to attend a qawwali, an evening of devotional music from the Sufi tradition. His cafe is known as a gathering place for spiritually minded people, and each Friday evening there is an inter-religious shabbat-iftar commemoration filled with music, poetry, and devotion to the Divine. I couldn’t help but imagine that, at any moment, Howard Thurman might walk through the door.

Yesterday was a day of heart-break, too. Abdullah is a person deeply connected with the struggle of the Palestinian people, a people who not only live under war in Gaza and occupation in the West Bank, but, in the millions, in refugee camps in Lebanon, Syria and Jordan. How these communities retain a sense of identity as a people is at the center of Abdullah’s heart. How they are recognized as a nation is at the center of his work with Palestinian media and political activism.

It was heart-breaking to hear of the number of reporters in Gaza that have been killed during the current war. It reminded me of my solidarity with civic leaders in Colombia during the period when student leaders, union leaders and journalists were targeted by right-wing forces, and where groups in the United States like ¡Colombia Vive! were organizing in the Boston area and occasionally meeting at the Community Church of Boston. These struggles are evidence, to me, that the Divine is found in communities of care where the human conscience compels actions toward justice.

Barzakh Café may be a place where that impetus toward community and care also has a song (and sweet tea). I am looking at my calendar to see where I might spend a Friday evening with El Atigh.

Here is the Artist Statement of the Barzakh Cafe:

At Barzakh Café, we aim to create a sacred space where borders dissolve, and diverse cultural expressions come together to form a harmonious whole. Drawing inspiration from the Arabic term Barzakh—a realm where the spiritual and the earthly intersect—we envision our café as a bridge between worlds: past and present, East and West, tradition and innovation.

Our mission is to cultivate a vibrant community that celebrates creativity, dialogue, and connection. Through our curated events, ranging from live music and poetry to film screenings and art workshops, we seek to amplify voices that transcend boundaries and honor the rich tapestry of global traditions. Each performance, each gathering is a moment of exchange—a chance for our guests to encounter something both familiar and revelatory.

Barzakh Café is more than a venue; it is a living canvas. Its walls echo with the sounds of oud strings, flamenco heels, and Qawwali chants. Its tables hold the stories of strangers-turned-friends, sharing meals that fuse Middle Eastern soul with Brooklyn innovation. It is a place where art meets activism, where embroidery stitches a narrative of resistance, and where a single song can carry the weight of history and hope.

Our space thrives on the energy of its community—artists, musicians, thinkers, and dreamers—each contributing to the collective spirit of Barzakh. We invite you to join us, to linger in the in-between, and to discover the beauty that arises when we come together with open hearts and curious minds.

Here at Barzakh Café, art is not confined to the canvas or the stage; it is a way of life. It is the rhythm of connection, the melody of belonging, and the quiet stillness in the spaces we create together. Welcome to the in-between. Welcome to Barzakh.

The fuller story of El Atigh Abba and the Barzakh Café is told here