Two recent columns in Voices offer thoughts around the value of silence as an integral part of music and music therapy (Bunt, 2007), and a reflection on the consistent background muzak that seems to accompany much of everyday public life (Edwards, 2008). My own cultural and contextual background would generally lead me to concur with the thoughts offered in both columns. I value the powerful effect that an acknowledgement of silence can have within music, music therapy and life. Similarly, I can become annoyed at the presence of music that I am forced to listen to in public spaces, due to its apparent ability to make me buy more at a shop, or relax while waiting to see the dentist. The past year, however, led me towards some very different perceptions of noise, sounds and silence.
Mitchell's Plain (where I lived in 2007) and Heideveld (where I worked as a music therapist in the same year) offer a landscape of continuous, busy, loud sounds. Both situated in the Cape Flats[1], these communities consist of small houses crowded with large families, with high levels of unemployment and poverty. Perhaps the noisiness of the community can be attributed to the close proximity of people living together. Perhaps it reflects the celebratory, passionate culture of the people.
Day and night, the more positive, celebrated sounds of the community include much music. Noisy cars with free flowing exhausts and massive sound systems speed past, proudly blasting out the latest Hip Hop or Rap songs of their choice. Over the Christmas season, one community member strapped a speaker to the roof of his car and played Christmas carols to everyone as he drove around slowly each day. Late on some evenings the local minstrel band marches along the street, a full brass band performing their traditional Kaapse Klopse music. They're either celebrating a competition won, or practicing for the next event. Community members, unashamedly dressed in night gowns, appear beside the band. With claps and shouts they dance a little way along the road with the band before returning to their homes. On some evenings the sounds of the call to prayer can be heard from the local mosque. On others, jazzy gospel music emanates from a nearby Pentecostal church. Quite often, numerous sources of music can be heard simultaneously.
This musical kaleidoscope backs, or muffles, the sounds of everyday life. Dogs bark, children play cricket in the road, taxi's hoot and call out to potential passengers. Two neighbours share the latest gossip, shouting it out to each other across the street. A lady throws a family member out of home (in the middle of the night, of course), tossing his personal belongings carelessly into the street amidst much swearing. Drunken or drugged individuals shout or laugh at nothing in particular as they make their unsteady way home. Young gang members chase a rival gang, hurling beer bottles and insults in their direction. Glass breaks, doors slam, old cars fixed in back yards break down or back fire. There are the particularly unsettling sounds of gunshots. The sounds continue – aggressive, celebratory, passionate, busy, never ceasing.
As a newcomer to these communities, someone who is familiar with a home environment that offered relative quiet, these sounds initially frustrated me. As much as the sounds spurred my curiosity, they filled me with a constant anxiety. I was accustomed to taking time away from interruptions or noise to reflect, regroup, to breathe. It seemed this community offered little space for such luxury. After some time, I became accustomed to the continuous noise. I also became weary of silence. The moments of silence I shared with my husband when we were able to take time away from the community could overwhelm us. Silence allowed space for a rush of feelings: deep sadness, a sudden realisation of the struggles of this community and a feeling of hopelessness in the midst of such difficulty. It was important to be able to reflect, but sometimes the silence held too much. It made it harder to return home as it allowed our own vulnerability and that of the community to surface.
In some ways, the celebratory loudness within these communities does reflect cultural features and is a result of people living so close to one another. Silence, however, is also a reminder of traumas faced daily, of the oppression that still haunts these communities, of fears of speaking out against the gangs and the related drug trade that has devastated so many families. The silence of our neighbours may signal unrest or danger. It is directly after a gunshot has been fired that the community seems most silent. Even the dogs cease barking. Silence in these communities is fearful and threatening (Sutton, 2005). It is a relief when the sounds resume – life goes on.
The children of Heideveld regularly brought the sounds and busyness of their community into music therapy sessions. These children were referred to the Music Therapy Community Clinic[2], the Non-Profit Organisation I worked for, to help them to cope with traumatic experiences. Most children showed an immediate preference for loud music and initially seemed unable to play softly at all. The absence of any kind of space or silence in their music was immediately apparent. Children struggled to wait before playing, to listen to one another or to my instructions. They competed for who could make the loudest sound or who could beat the most complex, busy Kaapse Klopse beats. Single, simple or slower drum rhythms would spontaneously be filled in with Klopse solos. If activities were not introduced quickly enough, children occupied themselves impulsively, rushing around the room, attempting to hurt one another or playing any instruments they could find. Sessions often left me feeling hard pressed and drained. There was no time to reflect, to pause or to think at all. Children who were quieter in sessions were often those referred for their withdrawn behaviour. Even their silence, however, was extremely tense and left me feeling I had to provide continuous music or activity so that they would feel slightly safer. Silence was not welcomed.
It was important to acknowledge the noisiness children brought to sessions as part of their identity and as something with positive aspects – a loudness that defied being silenced by what had happened to them. Yet, children also seemed to long for alternatives. Often, they would comment on their frustration that no-one in the group had listened to each other or would say the music was too loud. As much as their music was competitive and individual, they seemed to long for togetherness. Though they struggled to listen to or follow instructions, they longed to be held and contained within structured sessions.
At the Music Therapy Community Clinic, we often discussed what we could offer children from Heideveld, who we could only see for a maximum of about 14 sessions and who often returned to ongoing traumatic situations. It was not always helpful to expect children to become completely vulnerable, releasing and exploring deep traumatic experiences if they were not ready for this. Our hopes were rather to offer children alternatives, new possibilities and choices that they could draw on in future. Sutton (2005) notes that "in work with traumatic conditions, a slowing of overall pace can allow the potential space for something else to become, and rather than repetition of the old, there is a possibility of something new." (p383-
384). Was it viable to challenge these children to experience moments of silence or space in their music-making? Could we offer silence in a way that was not fearful or threatening for them? As sessions progressed, we gradually introduced moments of quieter or slower music, with longer pauses or spaces. Initially, our brief silences may have gone unnoticed or were ignored. Later, children often became more able to wait for a few moments and learnt to take turns to play or to listen to others in the group, forming a stronger sense of community. With one group of boys, I introduced a quieter verse in a song we had sung about different daily experiences. This led the boys to share traumatic personal experiences with the group. For some, this was the first time they had told these stories to anyone. Children often expressed sadness in quieter moments and could for the first time distinguish between this and louder, more aggressive feelings such as anger. Children also explored new traits such as gentleness or calmness. It was valuable to have music to hold these silences. The music enabled group members to explore new ideas without the fear that they may suddenly be left in these moments of the unknown, of quiet. They understood that the music activity would continue. As groups became more able to manage waiting, or quieter moments in music, so their loud music also started to sound more unified. This showed the capacity of group members to acknowledge one another and to exercise thoughtfulness and control over their own musical and perhaps also personal expressions.
For some groups, moments of silence or quiet were not achieved. What was perhaps most important for these groups was my own silence. As a resident of Mitchell's Plain and therapist in Heideveld, I had to learn to cultivate an inner silence that I could hold despite the noise and chaos surrounding me. In Heideveld, while a group may have remained loud and busy, perhaps my silence and related capacity for waiting, patience and receptivity to what each child offered was the alternative I could offer them (Aigen, 2005). In a community where the constant noise might prevent an individual from being heard or allowed space to express themselves, this receptivity could offer a powerful new experience.
In Heideveld and Mitchell's Plain, sometimes the noise was too loud, yet sometimes silence was too much. It could be hard to find a balance between these. Gradually, I learnt to treasure moments of silence held in music or within myself that allowed space for new explorations, expressions and ideas. I also learnt to celebrate and enjoy sounds reflecting the passion of a community that was, despite struggles, very much alive.
[1] The Cape Flats is a large stretch of flat land situated approximately 20 km outside of Cape Town's city centre. Non-white people were forcibly moved to this area under the South African apartheid government.
[2] For more information on the Music Therapy Community Clinic, refer to http://www.music-therapy.co.za
Aigen, K. (2005). Music-Centred Music Therapy. Gilsum: Barcelona.
Bunt, L. (2007). Making Space for Silence. Voices: A World Forum for Music Therapy. Retrieved March 12, 2008, from http://www.voices.no/columnist/colbunt130807.php
Edwards, J. (2008). "Do You Want Muzak With That?" The Ubiquitous Presence of Background Music in Everyday Life. Voices: A World Forum for Music Therapy. Retrieved March 12, 2008, from http://www.voices.no/columnist/coledwards110208.php
Sutton, J. (2005). Hidden Music - An Exploration of Silences in Music and in Music Therapy. Music Therapy Today (online). VI(3), 375-395. Retrieved March 12, 2008, from http://www.musictherapyworld.net/modules/mmmagazine/index.html
Oosthuizen, Helen (2008). When Silence is not Welcome. Voices Resources. Retrieved January 14, 2015, from http://testvoices.uib.no/community/?q=coloosthuizen240308