For my latest GQ Magazine story, I told the story of my attempts to find George Qurmoz, a missing member of my father’s rock n roll band: the pioneering Palestinian group, Al-Bara’em (in English, The Blooms.)
Told through a series of dreamlike vignettes, I travel thousands of miles, examining the similarities and differences of musicians who have disappeared or met their untimely demise. I theorize the reasons why these musicians (George, Blind Willie Johnson, Robert Johnson, and Jim Sullivan) wound up the way they did.
I won’t give too much away, but I will leave a preview of the story (which has garnered thousands of “likes” online) below and a link to the full article here.
Story excerpt:
“I wonder,” my father says, the last of his white cloud curls gently clinging to the crown of his bald head, the wind of an impending thunderstorm threatening to blow them away entirely. Mama’s arms are wrapped around his waist. My father looks up and speaks to the sky, “Where is George?”
George is George Qurmoz. He was once a guitarist and singer in Al-Bara’em, the rock n roll band my father sang in. The band formed in Jerusalem in 1966 and was active until 1976. They were the first band in Palestine to write and perform original Arabic language rock n roll songs.
Al-Bara’em inspired many young Palestinians to pick up their own instruments; and a great many more young people who attended their concerts, who once sang along to their songs of freedom, grew into the adults who rose up during the First Intifada.
That alone would be a remarkable legacy, but then George came to the United States.
And then George disappeared.
George, now the most famous ghost of the first wave of rock n roll in Palestine.
My father, mother and I are standing at The Crossroads in Clarksdale, Mississippi. The place where it is said that nearly one hundred years ago, the supremely influential bluesman Robert Johnson sold his soul to the devil in exchange for his otherworldly guitar playing ability; the place where he sealed his fate, doomed to feel the hot breath of the hounds of hell forever on the scent of his trail. If not for that fateful moment in this fateful place, rock n roll itself may not exist. No Robert Johnson, no Al-Bara’em, no me.
We figured here was as good a place as any to send up a godless prayer, here was as good a place as any to look for a sign from George, who answers neither our prayer nor our phone calls.
“You shouldn’t do this,” says my uncle Philip the following year when I ask him if he will join me in my quest to locate George and reunite the band. “He doesn’t want to be bothered. It’s sad, but it’s his decision.”I couldn’t accept that. I had to find George. Well, I had to find him again.
Again, you’ll find the link to read the full story here. I hope you’ll enjoy and share your thoughts. My deep gratitude to editor Amina Kaabi for believing in this story.
PS the incredible artwork for this story was done by the talented Gabriel “Liorzh” Picard under the direction of Rashid Babiker.