This post is dedicated to all mothers, even to those who don’t like Arabic music or culture (*cough cough alt-right mother*).
Youssef Hagège left his mother in 1946, at the age of 27, to play the ‘oud for the Tunisian star Louisa Tounsia at the Parisian Cabaret La Casbah . “Je suis venu pour six mois à Paris. Mes parents m’ont dit: “Tu vas, mais tu reviens!” Six mois! De six mois jusqu’à maintement!” (quotes from this sweet little documentary about his life).
In 1950, after four years in Paris, Hagège, who had always lived with his Tunisian Jewish family before leaving for a life in show-business, wrote a poem in French. “Le soir avant de m’endormir, quand je regarde ta photo, maman/ mon coeur s’étreint de souvenirs, et te dit encore à bientôt, maman.” From the poem he created the song “Ya Oumi” for another one of these Oriental Cabarets: the Tam-Tam (Tunisie-Algérie-Maroc), owned by the parents of a certain Ouarda Ftouki. Ouerda, just 12 years old, performed the song at the Cabaret, and two years later recorded it with Pathé. She became the great star “Ouerda al Djazaïria” (one might even say the new Louisa Tounsia).
To generate the lyrics for this song, which can’t even be found in Arabic online, I went to the original sheet music which is available in Youssef Hagège’s collection at Odysseo-Génériques. From his transliteration, which is sometimes incorrect by academic standards (he writes “k” where the Arabic is ق), I pieced together these lyrics and translation the best I could. Certain parts are different from his transliteration: by listening (and re-listening, and re-listening…) to Ouerda and Line Monty’s versions, I could tell that they were singing “telbek ya rabbi”, and not “telkeb ya rabbi” as Hagège had typed up. Telbek, طلبك, means “calling for, wishing for you”, where as telkeb would mean تلقب “she gives the title”, which makes little sense.
So here, in its first-ever attempt at translation, Ya Oummi:
يا اُمّي، يا اُمّي، يا اُمّي
Oh mother, oh mother, oh mother
اِسمِك دايماً في فُمي
You name is always on my lips
يا اُمّي، يا اُمّي، يا اُمّي
اِسمِك دايماً في فُمي
من يوم اِلي عينيا شافُ الدونيا
From the day my eyes saw the world
شافُك يا اُمّي
Saw you, oh mother
لعزيزة عليا
So precious to me
ضحكُ معك
With your smile
ضحكُ معك
ضحكُ معك
و بقاُ ياصيرُ شويا
And I stayed and I grew up a bit
مو حال ننسى
I won’t forget you
مو حال ننسى
سُندك إلي ضمني
Your support which protected me
يا اُمّي
يا اُمّي
يا اُمّي
يا اُمّي
يا اُمّي، يا اُمّي، يا اُمّي
اِسمِك دايماً في فُمي
يا اُمّي، يا اُمّي، يا اُمّي
اِسمِك دايماً في فُمي
من يوم اِلي نطق فُمي قلُ وتكلم
From the day I opened my mouth and spoke
عمري يا اُمّي
My life, oh my mother
انا فيك من سالِم
I am safe with you
نُفرح معك
I rejoice with you
نُفرح معك
نُفرح معك
نُفرح معك
و معك نُسهُر نتعلم
And I stayed up studying with you
نُشْكُر حليبك
I thank your milk
نُشْكُر حليبِك
اللي يجري في دمّي
Which flows in my blood
يا اُمّي
يا اُمّي
يا اُمّي
يا اُمّي
يا اُمّي، يا اُمّي، يا اُمّي
اِسمِك دايماً في فُمي
يا اُمّي، يا اُمّي، يا اُمّي
اِسمِك دايماً في فُمي
من يوم بعدت عنّك طال عليا وحشي
[I’ve been] wild from the day I left you, you continued to look over me
بغُرْبتي يا اُمّي اِمرر احنيا
While I was abroad, oh mother, I stopped craving for you
ابداً
Never
ابداً
ابداً
خيالِك يخطى عينيا
Your image is traced [in] my eyes
و في وِدنيا
And in my ears
و في ودنيا
صوتك دايم في اِغانّي
Your voice is always in my songs
يا اُمّي
يا اُمّي
يا اُمّي
يا اُمّي
يا اُمّي، يا اُمّي، يا اُمّي
اِسمِك دايماً في فُمي
يا اُمّي، يا اُمّي، يا اُمّي
اِسمِك دايماً في فُمي
من يوم اللي بعدت عنكُم يا اُمّي و ناست
From the day I left you all and I forgot
سحراً انخمم و اروح اِناسي
I feared that magically I would go and forget
نتفكر
[but] I think (about you)
نتفكر
نتفكر
نتفكر
معكم نزها ونقسي
Together we thrive and struggle
طلبك يا ربّي
I implore you, oh Lord
تلقب يا ربّي
نموت كان بَن ناسي اُمّي
I’d die before forgetting my mother
يا اُمّي
يا اُمّي
يا اُمّي
يا اُمّي
يا اُمّي، يا اُمّي، يا اُمّي
اِسمِك دايماً في فُمي
يا اُمّي، يا اُمّي، يا اُمّي
اِسمِك دايماً في فُمي
Notes:
مو حال: “There is no circumstance”, Maghrebi way of saying “no way”, equivalent to Levantine مُستَحِل
لعزيز : What would be in formal Arabic العزيز, with the Maghrebi “lunar lam” (lam without aleph).
The verbs نفرح, نشكر, نتعلم are all in 1st person singular. 1st person singular and plural (present and future tenses) are the same in Maghrebi Arabic.
اِمرر احنيا: verbمرّ )to pass by) with a spoken form of حنان\حنة\حنين, compassion, yearning, nostalgia
ودن: ear. Maghrebi form of اذن
دايم: Here the construction uses the active participle of the verbدام rather than the usual derived adjective دايماً, always.
انخمم: From verb خم ، which means “to do”. The form shows up in many Maghrebi songs. Nass el Ghiwane: مـــــــــا نخمم ف ضيق الحال: Do not think of misfortunes
Also in a song about mothers: :” Goulou Imama”: انا هنا ديما نخمم فيك : “I am here, I always fear for you”
and in “Wala Lela” by Balti: نخمم بالحركة في بالي “I think about migration”
نزها : from زها, to blossom, to thrive. Here the n is for 1st person plural.
نقسي: You can tell a verb is Maghrebi when it’s not in dictionaries but pops up in songs from the region. In Mazalni Maak by Dahmane El Harrachi: “معاك نقاسي”. Dictionary definition of قاس is to measure, but here seems to do with commiseration.
Note on musical preferences: though some consider Line Monty’s version to be the finest, I’m not such a fan of her operatic/Edith Piaf-imitation voice all the time. It simply does not match the song’s lyrics. Ouerda’s 12-year-old voice encapsulates the 12-year-old inside the poet who wrote these lyrics longing for his mother– and touches the child inside the listener. One of the greatest accomplishments of Arabic music is how the voice of children is elevated –I much prefer Ouerda and George Wassouf’s voice in their teenage incarnation. Whereas kids in Europe and the US either sing in choirs or bubblegum pop, the vocal art of children is taken seriously in Arabic music. The fleetingness of the kind of pitch they can achieve only adds to its beauty.
almanzali 