One Song
hear them overlap, as in the exhibition.
I thought I was coming to the UK for only a few years but life has its own ways. For over two decades, Kent has been my home, although my roots trace back to Lithuania. Despite the comfort of my life here, I always felt that I belonged to Lithuania and wanted to go back. As the years slipped by, homesickness became more and more constant. To feel better, I sought refuge in the cherished melodies of my birthplace. I remember this song as long as I can remember myself; it has always been a part of my family's gatherings, weaving through our celebrations. It is about parents preparing their son to go to war to fight for our freedom. Many songs were sung but this is the one that touches me most deeply.
I'm from a mixed marriage, my father was African, from Lagos/Nigeria and my mother was half English half Irish. She was from Blackburn in Lancashire. My parents met in Manchester in 1952, eloped and moved to London where they raised a family of six children. Being of mixed heritage and growing up in the 1960s was very hard. We met a lot of racial discrimination from both the white and black communities. My parents were subjected to a lot of abuse in work and socially. Even so, my father became a British Citizen and encouraged us to embrace English culture. He was a traditional African man with strong principles and strict Victorian values. Whereas, my mother was more happy-go-lucky and often referred to herself as a "cockeyed optimist”! Both being from Christian backgrounds my father would often sing hymns, however they listened to one song on the radiogram many times, especially when my mother did her housework or my dad was in a good mood, that song was Two Maidens Went Milking. My cheeky younger brother, my four sisters and I would howl with laughter because my mother could not whistle. I will always cherish that fond memory!
My song holds memories of spending time with my grandma in Zimbabwe. Her greatest joy was having us all come kumusha, out in the sticks. We just used to spend the most fun days. Even on rainy days, you would still find something amazing to do. The ladies would go to church on Wednesday (everyone would come on Sunday but Wednesday was Women's Day) and people would start making their way when the sun was such a height. You know, everybody sort of instinctively knew. And the songs were just amazing, mostly acapella, and harmonising, and the words are very much about how to get through life, relating it back to your faith. Of the Shona songs I've sung, this was the one that touched me deepest,I could almost smell the earth and feel the mood and the joy that it brought us at that time, even if it was tough times. The stirring spoon is used for cooking. It was given by my mum's friend's mum, so an adopted grandmother. It's that village mentality, that it takes more than one family to raise children, that we all do it together and we all bunch in.
This song connects me to my brother and home. When I hear this song I feel freedom and I feel strong. This song is by a socialist group called Grup Yorum who are against the government and the system. They have had no publicity in the media but have gained popular support by word of mouth. When my brother went to buy this song someone followed him and arrested him. I was in Istanbul, I was 17 years old, about 30 years ago. From the moment I heard this song I have kept it in my heart.
The song I chose is “Mediterranea” which means Mediterranean. The song came to me during the process of searching for or trying to find the place that I could call home in the last decade. I always feel connected to countries and cultures that share the Mediterranean Sea, whether it be Italy or Greece or Israel, Spain. There is this element of being called back by the sea in some way. It’s the ebb and flow of life. The song was released in 1984. I was born in 1988 and I’m not sure if it comes back from my memories as a child. Perhaps I danced it with my parents when I was younger but it truly spoke to me during the first lockdown. At that time, my beloved and I were talking about where we could go and live if a war or pandemic were to start. We shared the vision that our safe space would be the sea, because of the international waters that don’t belong to any country.
I am from Japan. The title of my song is Dragonfly and I really feel related to the lyrics. The song talks about lost days, lost childhood. He talks about his big sister getting married and moving away and not hearing from her anymore and suggests the lack of freedom women had or still have in Japan. I’ve been here nearly 20 years and l call it home now. Because of that I am about to lose my Japanese nationality because the government doesn’t allow us to have dual nationalities. So the last few years of my life I have been asking myself, what is the difference between inheritance and nationality? Talking to many different people in this country from around the world – many of them displaced from their homes without a choice – for me it was my choice so not so hard as others but it has been very difficult to accept that I might not be able to go home so I have a feeling of loss that is represented in this song. My son doesn’t speak much Japanese but during the lockdown I taught him this song and we would sing it together on the piano and I have been able to pass on some aspect of my culture to him.
I was born in a rural area of Jamaica. I’m from a religious background. My family were ministers and they called themselves deacons of a church. So we had to go to church and Sunday School every Sunday. We couldn’t miss one Sunday. We’d have Sunday School and the Sunday Service and in the evening we’d have the congregation which was the original meeting place. This special song is a song that we would always sing as members of the church. When they started the service in the evening they would start with a chorus, that’s what we’d call it, a lively chorus to get everybody going, clapping and singing and so forth and this is one my family would always sing. We would go up on the choir as young children and we’d start off the service with a lively chorus. This is one I loved very much, this got me going.
I was born in Port Louis, Mauritius. My dad used to sing this song to me from when I was perhaps a few months old. At 10 years old he was still singing this song to me. It reminds me of my childhood. That’s how he set me up for life – you should go out and get a job and work for your living and the song he sang is about this, not only to put me to bed but to tell me about life and the future. It’s how I grew up. The song is in Creole, broken French. I grew up speaking Creole, French and English but in school we were only allowed to speak French and English, not Creole.
I am from Argentina and I was born in Buenos Aires. This song is a tango – it says, ‘I miss you a lot, I miss Buenos Aires, I miss the light, I miss it all’. I grew up with this song. Anytime you put on the radio, it was on. I left Argentina in 1976 and I missed it a lot. I cried because I missed my city and my street. When I listened to this song it took me back to my childhood, to my teenage years, to my youth. The song tells my experience – I didn’t return to Argentina until 2004. When I played the song I felt I was back to my place, back to the city I was born.
I was born and grew up in Addis Ababa, Ehtiopia. My song is a spiritual song and it reminds me of my grandma because she was a nun and used to take me to church when I was a little child. The song is called Niy Niy Mariam Niy Niy meaning Come Mary Come. My mum is now also a nun and is in Ethiopia and so singing this song brings close to home and close to her.
I was born and grew up in a country that was then called the Soviet Union. My childhood years were a very small and somewhat cosy world of three pokey inter-connected rooms in a 1960s block of flats with my parents and grandparents. I never had a room of my own, as two bedrooms were for the adults. But I had my personal sofa, which turned into my bed during the afternoon naps or at night. As my mum worked, my grandmother would put me to bed and tuck me in under my blanket. To help me fall asleep, especially during the day, which I was always trying to wriggle out of (who wants to sleep when there were so many interesting things to explore!), my grandmother would sing me a lullaby. After my grandmother had died, I suddenly realised that I had never asked her about that lullaby. The only thing I remembered was one musical phrase. For decades that phrase kept playing in my head, and I tried to find that tune. Then, one day, over five decades later, while watching a film, I suddenly heard a familiar sound – it was it, my lullaby, ‘Rozhinkes mit Mandlen’.
I was born in Jamaica. The reason I’m here in England is that I followed my husband here. While I was a kid living in Jamaica, at the age of 12 I think, this song was one my father used to sing. It’s a Jim Reeves song. My dad, he was very articulate, very educated and he used to fancy himself as a performer but he liked nice romantic songs and this song, I think, he used to sing to my mother to reassure her that he loves her. He sung quite a few of them and all of them are the same sort of things running through them - “I love you”. As a kid growing up with my dad, he loved me, I loved him and he taught me a lot. One thing I know is resilience, never give up, always try, move forward, don’t worry, don’t fret about things that you can’t control, find a way through it. He was a lovely guy my dad - he was only about 18 years older than me - he was a young and vibrant and uplifting fella.
I remember this song from a summer singing competition I participated in as a child. For me, the rehearsals, choosing the song and what to wear were the highlight of my summer. The song is from the movie “Massom” (Innocence) directed by Shekhar Kapur. Home was not a safe space for me. The song captures the childlike innocence of finding play and connection for kids going through emotional upheavals. I wish I didn’t have to learn how to de-escalate conflict for the adults around me. I wish the adults who intervened could choose to be non-judgemental and not assume what is best for everyone involved but listen attentively and hold space for difficult emotions. “Home” was a place of juxtapositions for me, care and terror, ridicule and acceptance, hot and cold.
I was born in Lebanon, a beautiful country at the East of the Mediterranean Sea, but a place of unrest. We’ve had so many invasions across history, and we’ve had civil wars. The last civil war was in 1975. Now the civil war is over but there is always the feeling of insecurity and fragility in the area whether internally or as a threat from other neighbouring countries. In Lebanon we have 18 sects in Christianity, Islam, and other religions. What has kept us all together in the darkest days, is singing the national anthem - which is the love of our country. Our flag has three colours. Two stripes of red, white in the middle and the holy Cedar of Lebanon, which is mentioned in the Bible and was used to build the Temple of Solomon, at the centre. The red represents the bloodshed that has taken place, the white represents the snow on our mountains and the goodness of the Lebanese people, who despite everything, want peace and harmony. I carry the national anthem in my heart wherever I go. It’s my identity, my roots and a symbol of national unity.
In Jamaica, my mum used to go around and sing at peoples gate and they would come out and listen to her and give her money and this money she would use it for charity work she used to give it to the poor children that can’t afford clothes and food and books and so this little song she used to sing while she was at people’s gate. The money was used to help educate the children because she thought it was the best thing for them to be educated. My relationship with my mum was very close and when she sang it made people happy, the children happy and it made me happy.
I was born in Nigeria and relocated to the UK with my father when I was 12. Consequently, I was separated from my mother. The song that I have chosen is a lullaby that my mother composed for me when I was born. I have several fond memories of both my mother and grandmother rocking me to sleep whilst placing me on their backs as often done by most African mothers and grandmothers. The song is sung in Yoruba which is a local dialect spoken by the Yoruba tribe in Western Nigeria. I chose this song because it holds a special place in my heart as one of various songs that gave me solace during moments of separation anxiety after relocating to the UK. I would sing this song in challenging times and it gave me great joy, and comfort whenever I was missing both my mother and grandmother in Nigeria. It’s a pleasure to share this song and my story and I hope others might also find comfort in my story and the joy that the song brings.
I’m born and bred British but I married my husband who was Jamaican and was in the British Army. We ended up, after 5 years in the army, in New York and then on to Jamaica. I spent many, many years in Jamaica, my children (I’ve got 4 children) grew up there. My husband became a councillor and was shot during the elections in Jamaica. I had a house in the mountains with a banana walk and the people of the opposite political party came over in a plane one day and tried to shoot me, there in the banana walk. We had to come to England very quickly where my children didn’t have a very nice time as teenagers growing up in local schools but I do thank England for having us back. The song is called ‘Yellow Bird Up High in the Banana Tree’. I sing it often at home and my children say, “shut up mother!”
I was born and grew up in Julludur City in the state of Punjab, India. I chose this song because my mum would sing it when she was doing the housework, cleaning, washing dishes, – we have a habit in India of getting up at 4am especially in the summer because it gets very hot so we want to finish the work before midday. I would try to sing along to the song as she sang and dance and my aunties would encourage me – I was about 6. Singing was in my family. My mum sang many songs not just this one – I chose this one in particular because it gives me peace. It is about my god and what he gave me and I am happy with that. I would like to pass it on to my children and grandchildren.
I was born in the USA, adopted to a family in Oklahoma and grew up there. My adopted mother and father met, he fell in love with her and he kept asking her to marry him. Finally, one day, she was working out in the fields (Oklahoma has a lot of fields and gardens and farms - it was her parents' field) and he said again “please will you marry me?”. She said, “if you marry me right now, as I am dressed, I’ll marry you” and they went immediately to the justice of the peace and married that moment. My dad was part Native American. He would help us grow gardens. I would be in the dirt, pulling weeds and my whole life I grew up hands on, with tomatoes and carrots and potatoes, grapes and great big watermelons and the hottest peppers. The song I chose is the state song but it also says a lot about the culture - it talks about the vegetables grown and the waving wheat and the wind because the wind never stops. It’s a continuous blowing, blowing, blowing.
“La Valsugana” was buried in my childhood memory. My grandma Elvira used to sing it to me when I was little. It’s a bitter-sweet memory: I remember trying to sing along with her and have a sense that at some point she told me I could not sing. Those words have always affected my confidence. Until this day, I had never sung in front of anyone. However I also have another, sweeter memory connected to this song. During nonna Elvira’s last few days of life “La Valsugana” came to me in my dreams. I wanted one more chance to sing it to her before she passed. Tentatively I sang it to her the next morning, and to my surprise her finger started to move beating the rhythm in time with my voice. The morning after she passed, peacefully. That moment was our goodbye, and that connection is the last memory I have of her.
I am from Yugoslavia. The country doesn’t exist anymore so I’m now from Serbia. The song I chose is the first song that came to mind when I was asked the question. It is by a singer who was very famous across the country and is called ‘Count on Us’. It was made during Tito’s time, during the socialist times. They were good times, despite what people may think. The song is about saying count on us – the generation born after the wars who were now into music, rock and modernity. The song is saying we haven’t forgotten the past but please count on us because we are the future generation to keep the peace. The song was played at celebrations of Tito’s birthday and national events. It was everywhere. It resonates for me, I feel very attached to it, very close to it.
I do not remember the first time I heard this song. It is sung at a henna night before girls are married and going to her new home. At my henna night lots of different songs were sung and I was supposed to cry because that is the tradition. When they sang this song I cried a lot, behind my red veil. I remembered my family and that I was alone. I married in London and my family couldn’t come to the wedding. They were far away, not with me, here.
I first heard my song on the radio in northern Cyprus in 1977. I had been taken there by my dad (his homeland) some years earlier, taken away from my home and my mum and the only life I had known in England. I didn’t speak a word of Turkish when I arrived. By 1977 I had begun to understand and speak it and this song is the first one I remember comprehending the lyrics to. It’s message of longing to be remembered was deeply resonant for me at the time. I didn’t see or speak to my mum for 5 years and wouldn’t return home until 1981.
My song is a lullaby. It’s sung in the language of Shona which is one of the languages spoken in Zimbabwe and is sung when a baby is crying. It could be the mother carrying the baby or a baby minder or a sibling. In Africa we carry the babies on our back and we rock as we are singing and this is sung to make baby go to sleep. Shona lullabies are not necessarily to be directly interpreted because some of them don’t really mean anything - they’re just nonsense. This song includes sounds that don’t mean anything and can’t be translated but the other part means “please stop crying my baby”. Sometimes the baby goes to sleep, sometimes they don’t! When I was a little kiddie (I am the 3rd youngest of 7 siblings) my elder sister carried me on her back and sang or sometimes my mummy would sing this song. The rhythm of some of our traditional African songs sound like a rap song. Maybe that is where rappers got the idea to sing their songs like how some traditional songs were sung in the olden days in Africa?
I am from Pakistan. I speak many languages but Urdu is my mother tongue. This song I heard in maybe 1975. My dad used to sing this song when he was in the bathroom, outside – it is a sad love song and it used to play on the radio. I was a student about 15/16 in Lahore and he would sing it at night time, in the moonlight. I don’t know, maybe he was in love?
I have dual nationality, I’m Jamaican and I have a British passport as well. When I went back to Jamaica after many years, because I couldn’t afford it, I got a Jamaican passport too and I thought, what a privilege. And when I went back I took photos but there wasn’t much left from my childhood apart from my school that had stayed still as if time had changed nothing at all. I thought it’s amazing how some things are obliterated and others are as if time has stood still. Everything you did in my school was based on colonialism. The school was opposite the government house in Jamaica. I remember sitting in the sun waving Union Jacks because that’s what you did. My recollections and my experiences at that school were mainly of pleasurable experiences like going to the Majestic Theatre which was a privilege and allowed me to meet children from other schools. There I saw a Jamaican comedian, remained steadfast to her Jamaican patois and she was a critic – I didn’t see it at the time – but I liked her, she was a satirist and she would comment on the common occurrences and shared experiences, upset and distress of the time.
