Focusing on the drums
Focusing on the drums exhibits how the merging of “art” and “politics” can be especially influential in resistance demonstrations. The musical traits of the protests, with a consistent rhythm and beat, play a crucial role in bringing people together and keeping them motivated in the journey for Palestinian liberation.
After October 7, 2023, student protests spread and intensified in Montréal as part of the global movement against the genocide in Palestine.
My involvement in student activism at McGill University in Montréal gradually led me to drumming. My discovery of the drum was deeply personal and influenced me to value taking up auditory space as an expression of radical politics. During a student protest at the beginning of 2024 at McGill, I picked up a drum for the first time, stepping into the role of a protest drummer. Music, which was my personal refuge in the genocide, became my powerful tool for advocacy.
I began incorporating this cultural element and the inspiration of Arabic rhythms into my protest participation, using the drum to amplify the energy and unity of demonstrations while claiming my space as an Arab woman. The Israeli genocide against the people of Gaza and the constant bombardment of Palestine, Lebanon and Syria reignited my fire for action, as the daughter of Lebanese and Syrian immigrants. I realized, now more than ever, that my culture needed to be preserved and uplifted. My interactions and interests, as well as my engagement on campus, were entirely driven by this ignited passion.
Drumming: a powerful form of resistance and expression
The lack of documentation or analysis of the darbaka and of the drum’s role in a protest sparked my curiosity. The drum is an effective and productive action tool because its audible nature demands attention and opens the eyes by opening the ears to injustice. Drumming is a multifaceted method of resistance that raises awareness, creates art, and channels energy productively.
Despite heavy opposition and hostility from Israeli settlers and military, Palestinians used drumming as a movement builder and energizer, protesting evictions in Sheikh Jarrah, the segregating West Bank wall, hospitalized activists and wrongful imprisonment. Even in Montréal, protests may seem small at times, but their objectives of fostering unity and expressing solidarity are reinforced by filling the audible space. Drumming at pro-Palestine protests is more than rhythm; it is a powerful form of resistance and expression.
I set out to explore drumming at pro-Palestine protests in Montréal through the eyes of Mo and Yashar, who each became essential to the scene in their own unique and diasporic ways.
As a protest drummer myself, I have nurtured my personal relationships within the drumming community thanks to my connections to two fellow drummers whose contributions are much deeper than the music they play. I set out, in this piece, to explore drumming at pro-Palestine protests in Montréal through the eyes of Mo and Yashar, who each became essential to the scene in their own unique and diasporic ways.
Anchored in their migration experience, Mounes’ (Mo) and Yashar’s role in the community has been uplifting and essential in claiming the public space and in energizing audiences in different yet complementary ways. Yashar brought a passion for music mixed with a purpose, and Mo brought a passion for the expression of culture. They facilitated the music that kept resistance and solidarity alive throughout the protests. In many ways, their drumming served as the heartbeat of Montreal’s Palestine liberation movement—one that evoked a greater reconciliation with diasporic melancholia.
Yashar Behjat
Yashar Behjat is at the centre of Montréal’s protest drumming scene. Though an engineer by day, he has identified as an artist his whole life. “Ever since I was 10, I had determined that my purpose in life is to produce a body of work as an artist. I didn’t think anything else was worth doing,” he shared.
Born in Iran just before the Iran-Iraq War, Yashar’s opposition to the Palestinian genocide is deeply rooted in his own wartime experiences. His childhood was marked by “running to the bomb shelter, visiting neighbours with houses destroyed, and seeing toys scattered across the ground”—harrowing memories that instilled in him an acute understanding of war’s human cost. When he moved to Canada in 2001 to study engineering at the University of Waterloo, he encountered cultural and institutional challenges that further solidified his resolve.
Born in Iran just before the Iran-Iraq War, Yashar’s opposition to the Palestinian genocide is deeply rooted in his own wartime experiences.
He recalled a moment during his graduate studies when the engineering building displayed 20 or more posters of U.S. Air Force fighter jets. To Yashar, these were not symbols of innovation but reminders of destruction. He expressed his dissent to the supervisor, asking him, “First of all, why do we have weapons of the U.S. Air Force? That’s not Canada, that’s a foreign country. Second of all, why are we exhibiting, you know, tools of human slaughter? Third, I grew up in a war; [when] I see that airplane, I’m not reminded of playing video games. To me, that shit is real.” He left his PhD program soon after.
Yashar could not separate aspects such as his studies or music from his identity, which was shaped by his experiences back home and his reception in Canada. He emphasized two core aspects of his life: speaking out against oppression, which he sees as “such an obvious thing—you know, it’s a crime against humanity,” and creating music, which has remained a constant throughout his schooling and work. He composed music at home, mainly with a guitar, before integrating drumming into his activism.
Yashar found a way to combine these two central pillars when he began drumming at protests in 2019 outside the Chilean consulate and continued during the 2020 Woman-Life-Freedom protests for women’s rights in Iran. These experiences cemented his belief in drumming as a vital tool for visibility and solidarity.
The theme of linking music and a political message is key here, and illustrates why he continues to drum, day after day: “The sound does affect the mind… Symbolically, it’s important that we’re loud, we’re unapologetic, and we’re not staying silent.” For Yashar, the drum creates a protest, transforming a group of people screaming into a movement, amplifying its purpose and energy. As he explains, “as soon as there’s a scream and a drum, it’s understood what the purpose is.”
I asked if he has faced police interference or negative public opinion. Surprisingly, the harshest criticism, in his experience, has been from people of his own cultural background: “This is not a wedding, don’t play 6/8.” He ignores such remarks, following his chosen rhythm. The 6/8 rhythm—typical of Persian music—is “very dance-y,” blending cultural traditions with political action.
He adapts his drumming based on the demonstration, playing a 3/4 rhythm at Palestinian protests, consciously bridging communities through rhythm. This intentional effort fosters representation and heightens morale, making chants more powerful. He enjoys the improvisational aspect, switching between rhythms to match the energy of the crowd.
“It’s about knowing when to push the beat forward and when to let the people’s voices carry the moment.” –Yashar
Yashar and I agreed that drumming energizes protests, keeping people together and amplifying their message. His large, loud drum claims audible space, ensuring that the movement’s message is heard by the public, as “the drum cuts through. Even if you can’t hear the chanting from five blocks away, you hear the drumming and you’re like, ‘Oh, what is that?’”
Aside from energizing the movement, a strong community is built through the collaboration of the drums. Yashar and I reflected on the time at the encampment on McGill’s lower field, which evolved from a simple college protest into a vibrant gathering space for the entire Montréal community.
The movement’s strength is community building: “we have a meal, we play some music, [and] we listen to a speech. That’s how people realize they’re not powerless. Community building is a way to materialize our power, to manifest our power.” Sharing music, especially through the exchange of drums, plays a significant role in building community and in the diasporic experience of creating music for identity.
Yashar has been collecting, repairing, painting and giving out drums to community members who want to start drumming. He explains, “I’ve probably given out maybe 100, 200 drums… It’s a high-risk investment, but if one person really brings it, it’s worth it.”
Mounes Abdoh
Mounes (Mo) Abdoh’s journey with drumming began more recently, but their impact has been equally profound. A year and a half ago, Mo picked up the darbaka, a hand drum, as a hobby, drumming along to their favourite songs. Learning by watching videos and replicating Levantine techniques, Mo gravitated toward drumming because it “plays an essential role in the music in the region… the one language everyone speaks.”
Mo is half Palestinian and half Jordanian. They grew up surrounded by this regional music, “whether you were happy, sad, at weddings or funerals,” and music was all around. Growing up parallel to the Arab Spring forced them to take a closer look into their identity as a Palestinian outside of Palestine, and the more they questioned, the more compelled they felt to mobilize. Moving to Montréal for university, they believed in the promise of freedom of speech and political will, but quickly faced the realities of institutional repression.
Mo recalled one of their first Montréal protests—before 2023—which opposed the McGill administration’s threat to sever ties with the student union over an anti-apartheid policy.
Having left the Arab world to escape militarization, they found it “eerie to witness the growing militarization and empowerment of police over citizens” in Canada.
Despite taking extreme precautions due to their student visa status, Mo acknowledged that being visibly Palestinian offered no protection from “retaliation, repression and violence from the police.” Having left the Arab world to escape militarization, they found it “eerie to witness the growing militarization and empowerment of police over citizens” in Canada.
With the intensification of protests, authorities’ fear of a growing resistance movement has led to repression and censorship of space and sound. The darbaka embodies that resistance as a sound that is unmistakably tied to the Middle East region. Mo explains that it makes a powerful declarative statement, just as “yelling out a slogan would.” Bringing the darbaka to protests for Palestine was an obvious choice. As Mo puts it, “The whole point of it is: We’re here. We’re being loud. We’re forcing you to acknowledge the fact that we exist.”
Aside from drumming creating the ambiance of resistance, the darbaka itself holds great significance in Palestinian culture. Being a familiar sound when so far away from home is comforting for diasporic members of the community. Drumming acts as a heritage symbol, while also serving the practical purpose of keeping the timing and rhythm of the chanting. “It helps people unify under one beat, and that has cool symbolism.”
When asked about how the community influences their drumming, Mo explains they “try to learn all the rhythms from all the cultures that we represent, because I’d love to hold on to that idea of, we are all so different but we are all one at the same time. Like, we face a common enemy. We have common goals.”
They take into account the rhythm they are playing for the different chants, some “more sombre, more contemplative that force you to focus more on the words that are being said” and others that “fill you with energy and make you want to dance and express yourself in an unrepentant way.” While they work on technique, they don’t pre-plan rhythms for protests: “The rhythms feel like they’re already encoded in me somehow.”
For Mo, drumming is an intersection of art and activism: “Sometimes it’s an act of joy, and other times it feels like a duty.” On difficult days, when their hands hurt, it feels like a responsibility; other times, like at McGill over the summer, it was about sharing culture and creating community.
For Mo, drumming is an intersection of art and activism: “Sometimes it’s an act of joy, and other times it feels like a duty.”
For us, McGill’s encampment became a revolutionary place where conversations and cultural exchange took place, and everyone was being introduced to the rhythms of different cultures.
“It came at the right time,” Mo said as we reflected on our time at the encampment. “A world away from my family, a world away from anybody I know from my culture,” the space provided them with a new-found sense of belonging. It was “a place I’ve never experienced before—where you were truly free to advocate for yourself, your cause, and learn more about yourself, and your own and others’ cultures because of having a space that wasn’t afforded to you before.”
Drumming at the encampment “felt like a powerful symbol and action of protest.” Mo recalled a moment when “the university sent a goon with a[n injunction] paper to disrupt people literally just painting pictures and art and reading and writing poetry.” They were “upset by us doing culture and art,” so Mo responded by playing their drum to drown out the injunction.
“It felt very defiant,” they recalled, in the face of the university “trying to use the same securitarian colonial tactics to shut down our exercise of our culture as they always have throughout the last century. Nothing felt more apt to me in that moment than to respond back, drowning out their colonial proclamations with traditional Palestinian sounds.” During particularly difficult times, the drum became a rallying point, redirecting energy into music and unity instead of identity politics.
When I asked if it was a form of communication, Mo replied, “If it wasn’t, it wouldn’t get the reaction it did”—from both people who hate it and people who “find a piece of themselves in it.” Drumming at protests draws negative police attention for “disrupting peace,” but Mo pointed out the hypocrisy of such concerns: “If they cared about peace, they wouldn’t be firing tear gas at crowds randomly.”
Yet, the love the drumming receives makes it worthwhile—when people’s “faces light up when they hear someone playing the sounds they grew up on.”
Making ourselves heard so that we can be seen
It is also a communication tool to convey Arab culture to those who might be unfamiliar yet are able to “see a piece of their own history reflected in the rhythms I drum.” They explain that “it’s a tool that communicates to people essentially, hey, I’m here. If you wanna talk, let’s talk. If you don’t wanna talk, I’m gonna keep talking.”
The darbaka communicates this culture and this message through its essence, and the use of this drum is a huge reason why Mo’s role is so important. The big drums are important in holding the rhythm and communicating with the march; they are “solid and strong.” The darbaka is “delicate, more nuanced, and more directed.” Mo describes their role as “not only filling in the blanks” but “adding the details and the ornament that is so deeply missing from life in general and especially life in the West.”
Like Yashar, Mo has faced criticism for drumming during a melancholic time.
Like Yashar, Mo has faced criticism for drumming during a melancholic time. They acknowledge the challenge of balancing respect for grief with standing firm in their perspective. In moments of mourning, music can also provide healing. Even in sorrow, drumming allows for joy, connection and cultural celebration. Mo emphasized that taking up auditory and physical space is an act of resistance in itself: “Dancing in the face of your oppressor is resistance because they’d like nothing more than to see you wallowing in your misery.”
In a nutshell, drumming at Palestinian protests in Montréal has been more than rhythm; it is a declaration of presence, unity, and resistance. Yashar’s and Mo’s complementary styles—Yashar’s bold, structural rhythms and Mo’s intricate cultural expressions—create a soundscape that keeps the movement alive. Together, they embody the heartbeat of the Montréal intifada, proving that resistance can be both powerful and transformative through rhythm and community. Drumming is an act of defiance in itself, making ourselves heard so that we can be seen.
Drumming as a vital community practice
Drummers demonstrate resistance through the auditory space by disrupting sensible meanings and using cultural music, rhythms and words to reduce the feelings of alienation that is typical of the diasporic experience. Mo and Yashar focused on community building to help heal this melancholia, and used rhythm to provide a sense of togetherness. Drumming, an auditory element of protests, is not only melancholic for the drummers themselves but also for the protestors present whose voices they are amplifying. In a sense, drumming at the pro-Palestine protests has become a tool of unity, cultural pride, and defiance against oppression.
The protests in Montréal since October 2023 have laid the foundation for drumming as a vital community practice. Drumming transformed from an infrequent act of energizing the crowd into a consistent and defining element of the protests. This auditory tradition became a pillar of the McGill encampment life, sustaining joy and momentum through daily drum circles and hours of chanting with music.
Outside the Roddick Gates, this energy persisted nightly for months, even during moments of quiet reflection or disengagement from the movement. The sound of protestors drumming and playing Arabic music has become a defining feature of McGill at night, ensuring the movement’s presence is heard and felt. Auditory elements play a crucial role in maintaining visibility and solidarity.
While the number of participants fluctuates, particularly as weather conditions worsen in the city, the combination of large drums and Palestinian flags allows protestors to claim both auditory and visual space. This practice transcends language barriers, drumming the heartbeat of the Montréal intifada and symbolizing global solidarity.
