Bilal

Poor young boy meets wealthy eccentric who forever changes his life. This is the stuff of Hollywood movies, I thought. But it’s also Bilal’s life. His inspiring rags-to-riches tale, the likes of which we see so often on the silver screen, is actually more complicated than any fictional happy ending. Bilal lives in two worlds that refuse to have anything to do with each other. Bilal is a Dom. Doms are the heirs of a nomadic culture with a centuries-long history that stretches across Asia and the Middle East. They live in Syria, Jordan, and Lebanon, often in tents and shantytowns on the margins of society, without electricity or constant running water. Few non-Dom Lebanese — gadjos — have heard of the term “Dom.” Most, however, are familiar with nawar , a derogatory term associated with itinerant communities. Many perceive the Dom as beggars, pickpockets, and prostitutes. Discrimination and ostracism have led the Dom to be mistrustful of strangers and to shut themselves off from the rest of Lebanese society. The little that is known about the Dom community is a compilation of unverifiable half-truths, often corresponding to whatever Doms think outsiders want to hear. Bilal recalls his childhood as simple. His father was a traditional dentist, travelling from village to village offering his services. His grandfather was what the Doms call a prince: he ground coffee beans and mediated conflicts within the clan over cups of coffee. Bilal’s parents separated when he was young, and with his three siblings, he alternated between his father’s and his mother’s homes, travelling from Lebanon to Syria and back. At the age of nine, Bilal started shining shoes in the street to earn a living. In the evenings, his family and members of the community often came together to sing traditional songs in Domari, the language of the Dom. One day, while working in the Beirut suburb of Kaslik as usual, Bilal started singing a Domari song. He still remembers which one: Dalaleh dalaleh , about a little girl pampered by her family. And at that very moment, Michel Elefteriades happened to walk by — the man who would change Bilal’s life forever. Among his many adventures, ranging from being tortured during the Lebanese civil war to spending time in exile in Cuba working in sugar-cane fields, the half-Greek, half-Lebanese adventurer also spent quite some time in a Roma camp in Serbia. So when he heard a teenage boy singing outside his Kaslik office, in a language very similar to the one he had learned during his time in the Balkans, his interest was instantly piqued. Michel was struck by Bilal’s charisma, his impalpable positive aura, and his striking beauty. Although Bilal grew up with a fear of gadjos , he immediately felt at ease with Michel. The man gave him a hundred US dollars and called his driver, who he instructed to take the child to singing and oud lessons every two days. The man gave him a hundred US dollars and called his driver, who he instructed to take the child to singing and oud lessons every two days. On any given Friday night, Music Hall is filled with the standard glittery Beiruti fare: beautiful young women in skin-tight dresses accompanied by men in jeans and buttoned-down shirts, and older well-coiffed couples who seem perfectly at ease in the venue’s plush red interior. A frame of gilded roses surrounds the stage. The red curtain opens as the next act is announced: Bilal, the Gypsy Prince. His long hair falls down his back in gelled waves, his smile contagious as he shimmies his shoulders and fills the packed auditorium with the sound of his voice. The crowd sings back to him the lyrics of the Lebanese and Syrian traditional songs that have made him popular over the years. He comes down from the stage to dance with people who wouldn’t have looked at him twice if he were still shining shoes, but who now lavish him with attention and admiration. On stage, he is the Gypsy Prince, in homage to his grandfather. For the past ten y