In his prison diary on January 17, 1938, Dr. Hussein Fakhri al-Khalidi, mayor of Jerusalem, lamented, “We have been straining our ears, I and Fuad, tonight to hear Palestine.” In his diary entries, al-Khalidi often complained about his inability to hear his beloved homeland, which at the time was experiencing a period of popular uprising marked by escalating violence, mass imprisonment, and martial law. During their fourteen-month exile in the British-colonized Seychelles, al-Khalidi and his fellow political prisoners would often tune into Arabic music programs from the BBC London, propagandized news bulletins from the Italian Radio Bari, and occasionally, snippets of Palestine Broadcasting Service PBS programs, which betrayed their distance with the agonizing noise of “atmospherics.” He also described listening for more intangible connections—the beat of the daff (tambourine), the rage of a snowstorm, and on one day, the “resounding voice” of Arab justice. This paper considers what it meant for al-Khalidi, a diligent public servant and ardent supporter of Palestinian self-determination, to strain to listen in exile. Martin Stokes notes the Arabic word for “vote” is sawt [voice]. Drawing on musicological scholarship about aurality as a political act (Ochoa Gautier 2014) and musical citizenship (Stokes 2023), I explore what the radical act of listening has to teach us about political community for a people denied the criteria for nationhood. I ask, how might we reframe the aurality of political belonging when the voice is suppressed, and the act of resistance is instead choosing what to listen to?

While often framed as an invisible and violent structure, white supremacy is also an audible force, shaping how we listen, whose voices are heard and listened to, and what sounds are deemed legitimate. Building on ethnomusicological (Harris 2022; Mahon 2019; Martin 2021; Roberts 2016) and sound studies scholarship (Eidsheim 2019; Stoever 2016), my research explores the sounds of white supremacy through what I call “the Canadian sonic imaginary,” a normative framework of listening and sounding that is mutually constituted by white supremacy and settler colonialism (Kheshti 2011). I argue that the Canadian sonic imaginary orients listening practices and mediates perceptions of difference within representations of Canadian national identity and idealized forms of citizenship (Giroux 2021; Ochoa Gautier 2006; Robinson 2020). Drawing on recent ethnographic fieldwork in Ottawa, Canada’s capital, I employ an anti-racist feminist listening methodology to consider how the Canadian sonic imaginary is constructed, reproduced, and resisted on Parliament Hill, the home of Canada’s federal government. By analyzing grassroots protests and state-curated events, I trace the resonances of white supremacy, from the implicit background hum or “white noise” of white supremacy to the explicit thunderous roars of whiteness that demand attention. I ask: How can we listen to white supremacy? How might the register of sound provide alternative pathways to resist and dismantle white supremacy? Through this paper, I explore how an anti-racist feminist listening methodology might contribute to practices of anti-racist resistance within and beyond the academy.

In Hong Kong, localism and nationalism are on the opposite ends of a widening spectrum. Localism has been reinforced by the contrasting values between Hong Kong and China. Nationalism, meanwhile, is the idea of incorporating Hong Kong into one Chinese nation. This paper provides an overview on current Cantonese music communities in Hong Kong as compared to that of mainland China to understand how Cantonese music can be both local and national and what dynamics are at stake.

There are mainly two approaches to Cantonese music. The first approach, emphasizing the accuracy on stage performance, is national. Musicians are required to be compatible in sight-reading staff and cipher notation because they usually perform arrangements. This approach can be traced back to the Cultural Revolution, when traditional music was banned, and pieces had to be rearranged and renamed before they could be played. The second approach, to play in an improvised way, is more local. Members in the ensemble follow a music leader to perform the same melody and embellish it with ornaments. This approach has been adopted in the Cantonese music communities in Hong Kong since the early 20th century. Whereas in mainland China, it has been gradually fading since 1949, and it is currently seen only to a limited extent.

In this paper, I discuss how individuals and groups represent Cantonese music through different approaches. I argue that the notion of Cantonese music being both local and national, is a sonic counterpart to existing political situation in Hong Kong.

The periya mēḷam, an orchestra of shawms, drums and cymbals, is today the last ensemble to perform a repertoire of Karnatak (classical South Indian) songs and instrumental pieces during religious services in high-caste Hindu temples. In Tamil Śaiva temple complexes, such as those of Chidambaram, Madurai or Tiruvarur, this repertoire is strictly codified and passed down through generations. Each piece, whether adapted from a song or not, corresponds to specific ritual actions or sequences, thus providing a vibrant and contrasting soundtrack to both daily rituals and seasonal festivals. While these codifications seem stable over time, a systematic and well-contextualized study reveals their ongoing adaptation – whether by force or necessity – to aesthetic, socio-economic and political changes. This is particularly evident in a set of ritual songs absorbed into the periya mēḷam repertoire but formerly performed by the devadāsīs – the hereditary courtesans, dancers and musicians who, in the wake of vociferous social reforms, were officially banned from Hindu temples in the first half of the 20th century. Through a sonic, musical, and performative analysis of these songs in their contemporary instrumental forms, this paper explores how the present can illuminate the past and enrich our still fragmented, historically driven understanding of the devadāsīs' artistic and ritual function within the Hindu temple. It also aims to reassess their auspicious nature and social status, highlighting the injustice of their erasure by colonial authorities and sections of the South Indian elite.