Let's save our music, let's save our culture

Alípio Freeman"

Music, as the first of the seven arts, is one of the most profound expressions of a people's identity. In Mozambique, it has always been more than art: it is an instrument of resistance, a mirror of experiences, and a means of spiritual and social communication. However, Mozambican music is currently going through a critical phase. We are living in a time of loss of character, of foreign sound invasion, of devaluation of artists, and of institutional silence on the part of those who should protect and promote our culture, in other words, a loss of cultural character in all its substrata. Mozambican light music was born from the fusion of traditional rhythms and external influences, a fact that contributed to the rhythmic and identity construction of what we now call marrabenta, considered the backbone of music in Mozambique. Emerging between the 1930s and 1940s in the suburbs of Lourenço Marques (present-day Maputo), particularly in the neighborhoods of Mafalala, Xipamanine and Chamanculo, marrabenta was, from the beginning, the voice of black communities that culturally resisted colonial oppression. The word “marrabenta” comes from the Portuguese word “rebentar” (to burst), referring to the guitar strings that were often broken because they were improvised using fishing lines or bicycle brake cables. It was a sound born of necessity and creativity. Marrabenta combined traditional rhythms such as xigubo, ngoma, mapiko and ritual chants with influences from European music such as fado, tango, bolero and rumba, brought by colonial radio stations and passing sailors. This new rhythm grew out of simple instruments: the guitar, the improvised bass, local drums and, above all, the body. People danced barefoot on the dirt floor and the music was made with the soul. Marrabenta was social criticism, it was romance, it was celebration and it was pain. It said what could not be shouted. It was the means by which neighborhoods expressed themselves and organized themselves culturally. Great names emerged from this context. Fany Mpfumo, the “king of marrabenta”, immortalized songs such as Loko ni kumbuka Jorgina and A vasati va lomu. His raspy voice and energetic guitar playing made him a symbol of Mozambican musical pride. Eugénio Mucavel, with his melodic and rhythmic style, took marrabenta to new sounds. Pedro Langa, with his versatility, showed that marrabenta could interact with other genres without losing its essence. Zeca Murasse, Gabar Mabote, Alexandre Langa and many others were responsible for an unprecedented artistic explosion in the 1970s and 1990s. There was not a week without live concerts, and although the remuneration was almost symbolic, the dedication was total. Music was a passion, it was a mission. But today, that flame is being extinguished. Many of these artists died in degrading conditions. They died in poverty, in oblivion, without state honors, without merit pensions, without even a dignified space where their remains could be laid to rest with respect. The case of Elsa Mangue is a still-open wound: after a life dedicated to national culture, her body had to be transferred to her home province without dignity, in an episode marked by disorganization and disrespect. There is a wide range of artists who gave their lives for Mozambican culture and music, leaving an immeasurable legacy, but as is usual in these parts, the rewards never arrive and, more than that, the structural abandonment and their collection die with them. Their children survive in oblivion, their archives deteriorate in forgotten drawers, and part of Mozambican history dies silently with them. Today, the marrabenta, which once built neighborhoods and united generations, is barely heard. It has been replaced by imported rhythms, set to electronic beats produced by computer programs. The essence of music has been emptied. People sing anything, in any way. There is no study, no technique, no commitment to the permanence of art. Instruments have been replaced by digital sounds, and the warmth of the drum has been exchanged for the ingenuity of a computer. There is no soul, no body, and you don't even need to know the basics of music to be considered a musician, regardless of the difference between a singer and a musician in the strict sense of the term. The blame does not lie solely with the musicians. It is above all with the State, which has failed miserably in protecting its culture. The Ministry of Culture has become a decorative body, with no clear policy, no effective presence, and no structured support for artists. There are no musical training programs. There are no incentives for authentic production. There is no control over the content that invades radio and television stations every day, often promoting a culture that is alien to Mozambican reality. The lack of a cultural strategy allows national music to be swallowed up by global trends, devoid of identity and artistic value. In contrast, the world still celebrates musicians who lived centuries ago. Johann Sebastian Bach, with his fugues and chorales, is played in concert halls all over the world. Ludwig van Beethoven, despite his deafness, composed the Ninth Symphony, a hymn to humanity. Niccolò Paganini, the “devil of the violin”, astonished the world with his technique and is still studied in the greatest music schools today. These artists were recognized, valued and protected by their contexts. There were states that, even in difficult times, understood that art is not a luxury, but a pillar of civilization. Mozambique urgently needs to rescue its music. And this starts by recognizing that a country cannot be built without culture. Some urgent measures must be adopted: the creation of a National Music Archive, the introduction of the history of Mozambican music into school curricula, the obligation for public radio and TV stations to promote quality national music, the recognition of artists with pensions and support, the recovery and digitization of the collections of deceased musicians, and public funding for projects that rescue and innovate on traditional rhythms such as marrabenta, tufo, timbila and xigubo. It is still possible to revive our light music, give it vigor, identity and international projection. But it requires political will, serious investment and, above all, cultural sensitivity. Let's save our music. Let's save our culture. Because if we don't do it now, tomorrow we won't have anything left to save.

2025/12/3