In a dusty Baghdad dance studio, conductor Mohammed Amin Ezzat tries to fire up the musicians of Iraq’s National Symphony Orchestra, whose enthusiasm has been dampened by eight months without pay.
An aging air conditioner fights to beat back the summer heat in the cramped space at the capital’s School of Music and Ballet as the 57-year-old maestro leads the group through a rehearsal of Modest Mussorgsky’s “Night on Bald Mountain.”
The shaggy-haired Ezzat and the 40 musicians surrounding him are gearing up to perform at Baghdad’s National Theater on Saturday, but the group’s morale is at an all-time low.
The ensemble has lost more than half its members since the start of the year, when the government issued a directive barring state employees with two jobs from receiving two salaries.
The anti-corruption measure was suggested by the World Bank and should affect only about a third of the orchestra’s musicians, but because of delays in carrying out the reform wages have been withheld from the entire group.
“The orchestra is in great danger,” Ezzat said. “Some don’t have enough money to come, and others are disappointed by the impact of politics on the orchestra.”
Officially created in 1970 after several unsuccessful attempts, Iraq’s national orchestra has survived decades of upheaval.
It has survived wars, an invasion, a 12-year international embargo and a devastating three-year battle against Daesh militants, which came to an end last year.
But this may be the last straw for the outfit, a collateral victim of Iraq’s “war on corruption.”
“Not being paid for eight months has had a terrible psychological effect on the musicians, but we’ll continue to resist peacefully with our music,” said Ezzat, who became the orchestra’s first Iraqi conductor in 1989.
“We’re on the precipice but sure that we won’t jump.”
When all its salaries are tallied up — including the maestro’s $1,200 a month, peanuts for a major conductor — the orchestra costs the state about $85,000 (€73,000) a year.
The sum is a pittance compared to the exorbitant figures siphoned off by ministers and high officials who have either fled or been arrested.
The conductor, his daughter Noor, a timpanist, and his sons Hossam and Islam, who play the cello and viola respectively, have all been without a salary since January.
But according to Raed Allawi, the head of administrative affairs at Iraq’s Culture Ministry, there is no reason to panic — the wages will soon be paid.
“The Finance Ministry has asked for a regularization of contracts. Verification measures are underway and this explains the late payment of wages,” Allawi said.
“The orchestra is one of the country’s cultural showcases (and the ministry) respects its artists and their talent.”
For the symphony’s musicians, however, these are empty words they have heard already.
Saad Al-Dujaily, a professor of medicine and a flutist, thinks the measure is regressive. “I’ve been an obstetrician and a flute player since I was very young,” he said.
Because of the directive, the 57-year-old practitioner — who teaches at Baghdad’s Al-Nahrain University and plays in the national orchestra — is now entitled to only one salary.
“In Iraq, we’re proud to have more than one job, to have more than one love, to practice two professions with the same love and passion,” said Dujaily, who plans to continue with the orchestra to help preserve its quality.
Further along into the rehearsal, the studio’s electricity cuts, a common occurrence in a country plagued by power outages.
The orchestra cannot afford the diesel to fuel the building’s generator.
But the musicians play on in the windowless room, using their cell phones to illuminate the sheet music. “There have been crises in the past, but this is the worst,” said Doaa Majid Al-Azzawi, an oboe player.
“Especially since my father and I are musicians. We don’t know what will happen, but if the orchestra has to stop, it’s culture in Iraq that will be dealt a deadly blow,” the 25-year-old said.
When the studio’s lights eventually make a flickering return, so too does the players’ enthusiasm, and the music swells.
“As long as we live, music will live. It’s our culture,” said Noor, the conductor’s daughter.
Iraq’s top musicians play on despite unpaid wages
Iraq’s top musicians play on despite unpaid wages
Viral phenomenon in Argentina has young people identifying themselves as animals
- As the movement gains traction, psychologists are stepping in to analyze the phenomenon and its place in public discourse
BUENOS AIRES: On a recent Sunday, a Buenos Aires plaza transformed into a makeshift wilderness for an unusual group of teenagers.
Sofía, wearing a lifelike beagle mask, ran across the grass on all fours. Nearby, 15-year-old Aguara leapt through the air, clearing an obstacle course while imitating the precise movements of a Belgian breed dog. Others dressed as cats and foxes perched in the branches of trees, keeping their distance from curious onlookers.
It was the latest gathering of “therians,” individuals who say they identify mentally, spiritually or psychologically with non-human animals. The trend has taken over Argentine social media over the past few months, gaining traction on platforms like TikTok, where the hashtag #therian has surpassed 2 million posts, with Argentina leading all other Latin American countries in engagement. The surge has drawn the attention of influencers and media outlets alike, sparking reactions that range from laughter and bewilderment to outright anger.
And as the movement gains traction, psychologists are stepping in to analyze the phenomenon and its place in public discourse.
Aguara, who claims to identify as a Belgian Malinois and counts her age as the equivalent of two years and two months in dog years, says she’s a lot like any other teenager.
“I wake up like a normal person and live my life like a normal person,” she said. “I simply have moments when I like being a dog.”
As the leader of what she calls her “pack,” Aguara — the name she identifies with — boasts more than 125,000 followers on TikTok and coordinates regular meetups around the Argentine capital.
Aru, a 16-year-old who wore a seal mask to the park meetup, said she considers herself part of the “otherpaw” branch of therians: individuals who wear masks and tails or move on all fours just for fun. “It’s not necessarily about identifying as an animal,” she said.
She reckons the therian trend took off in Argentina because of the country’s “fairly free” environment. For other young Argentines, the movement has provided a vital community where they can feel truly accepted.
Should parents be worried?
Débora Pedace, a psychologist and director of the Integral Therapeutic Center in Buenos Aires, acknowledged that the phenomenon generates a complex mix of confusion, laughter and even anger.
“From a psychological standpoint, this is a symbolic identification with an animal,” Pedace said. “It becomes pathological or alarming only when it turns into a deeply rooted belief and the person fully assumes the role of an animal, potentially leading to self-harm or hurting others.”
