Manara

Discus 215CD

(2026)

Available formats: CD/DL

Pat Thomas – electronics and piano
Khabat Abas – cello and self-built instruments
Alya Al-Sultani – voice

Manara منارة

beacon /ˈbiːk(ə)n/ noun 1. a fire or light set up in a high or prominent position as a warning, signal, or celebration.

Manara is a trio that emerged from a love of poetry, a shared interest in the musical traditions of the Middle East and poetry as political resistance.

The musicians had worked together before separately – Alya and Khabat performed together in Suleimaniyah, Iraqi Kurdistan as part of the Space 21 Festival, and Alya and Pat have improvised together in several ensembles over the past decade.

Alya had arrived at a time where she was desperate to explore the performance of more poetry in her mother tongue – she wanted to find a vehicle for free improvisation that was not orientalised and captured the complexity of the identity of exiled individuals and those who think and feel differently to their surroundings. Having always admired and loved Pat and Khabat’s work, she believed that coming together would achieve that sound.

In the tradition of classical Middle Eastern music, the compositions start with a poem placed into the hands of a singer.

In this case, a poem by Palestinian poet Dareen Tatour for which she was punished by imprisonment for 4 years;

“Resist, my people, resist them.
Resist the colonialist’s onslaught.
Pay no mind to his agents among us
Who chain us with the peaceful illusion.”

And words by Palestinian-Jordanian writer Khadija Muhaisen Dajani,

“Qahr”.“There is no English equivalent to the Arabic word qahr. The dictionary says “anger” but it’s not. It is when you take anger, place it on a low fire, add injustice, oppression, racism, dehumanization to it, and leave it to cook slowly for a century.”

The trio is honoured to have the blessing of both poets to explore their work in this album.

The trio follows the poems’ beacons in spontaneous collective composition.

The artwork (created by Al-Sultani), is handmade paper within which is embedded indigenous wild flowers and seeds. The poetry of both poets is written in a mother’s hand. The red ink acknowledges the poets’ sacrifices.

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Reviews

Manara, a beacon of light in Arabic, shines acutely on this work. Part lament part protest. A distinct and important geopolitical message carried by three musicians who’s synergy belies the fact they have not worked as a trio before. Elements of two Palestinian poems from Tatour and Muhaisen-Djani reworked by a stark collective all about the marginalised. Five spontaneous compositions with lyrics that feel like they could sit on blood stained paper never to be displaced. An album embedded in its own resistance art with no risk of disconnect from its roots.

The intro ‘Three all in with the silence’ has Alya Al-Sultani’s vocal pleas etched with the weight of what feels like years of exile. Pat Thomas’ sparse piano notes jolt you to a chill with their sharp sudden peaks of sound in and amongst the space. The undercurrent of cello from Kabat Abas slices through the piano and rides like a seesaw over the gaps as if to stop it all completely erupting from the off. This clever use of restraint and contrasting dynamics are really felt as the initial tension starts to rise.

There is a residing message drummed home from the second piece that goes from simmer to frenzied boiling point and compels the listener to confront the raw reality of the oppressed, in Arabic they call it Qahr. The feelings generated by Alya’s raw operatics and her guttural articulation ‘Qahr’ spat out on regular repeat whilst Pat Thomas weaves his distorted electronics in and around her phrases feels like a weapon against the silence. Confrontational spoken word and avant percussive sounds and strings effectively stir up and embody the reality of trauma and resistance. It all starts to feel increasingly pervasive.

Impact is felt cyclically as a wall of Arabic and English sounds emanate in an air that hangs persistently heavy. High pitched wails and protest of voice let loose, unabated, and demand your attention whilst the increase in tempo from both piano and cello screech and agonisingly moan making the pain felt reach an almost overwhelming crescendo.

Qahr might represent the oppressed with a weight so heavy it feels crushing but It’s counterpart Sabr represents some reprieve, a reflection of endurance and ability to survive. The track opens with the drone of unsettling electronics that come and go in bursts and the creaky cello almost goading the vocalisations, all very eerie.

‘When is the hour?’ the last track asks with its cries and creaks and tense instrumentation. The cello buzzes and aches, the electronics burst and pop and take the whole thing out as if the wait of warring is eternal and you can only yield to the very cause it represents.

This is an atmospheric work of undeniable truths set within a framework of improvised, radically sparse instrumentation with emotional shifts in Qahr and Sabr acting as powerful contrasts. Not an easy listen but arguably a vital and certainly a beautiful one. Main beam is shone on Alya Al-Sultani’s raw voice stripped bare with nowhere to hide so haunting in emotional intent its grief and defiance palpable. Pat Thomas on minimal piano and electronics sits in its shadows knowing when to provide just enough and to otherwise play with the silence whilst Khabat Abas on cello scrapes through in near perpetual dread whilst stalking the whole affair. You can feel the belief, Three, all in with the silence, personified. It is the space between the words that carry just as much weight as the poetry itself and like a century old war the threat never really leaves the room.

It’s a stark reminder of the relentless Palestinian plight that recognises suffering yet refuses to submit to it whilst the world carries on and takes care of its own business. – Paula Mcadam, BANDCAMP UK JAZZ AND IMPROVISED MUSIC