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An unusual silence fills the breakfast room this morning - a departure from the previous days when laughter and cheerful "Good Mornings" resounded all around the table.

Tonight is the big concert in Arbil's Saad Palace. Yesterday's rehearsals went well, but the musicians are nervous and quietly munching on cheese, olives and bread. Then the orchestra manager, Majid, calls out, "To the bus!" And off they go, leaving plates with half-eaten flatbread behind. Once they've boarded, Majid knows no mercy. Two young men carry the big bass drums above their heads into the vehicle. Room has to be made for them alongside the conductor, 12 tutors and 43 musicians. Instruments are stacked one on top of another, and we manage to squeeze ourselves in between.

But this is our first trip together where there's no Kurdish music, no hopping, dancing and singing to set the bus to shaking. It's almost time for the dress rehearsal.

Once there, everyone has to pass through security. Metal detectors loom behind guards with red berets, bulletproof vests and machine guns. They open up the violin cases with utmost seriousness - so serious in fact that it's clear they don't know just what to make of the instruments inside.

Before the music begins, conductor Paul MacAlindin lets his orchestra members rehearse entering the stage. There are some little collissions. MacAlindin takes on the role of choreographer. After all, this warm-up is necessary. Beethoven's Violin Concerto isn't the only part of the evening that will require the musicians' full attention.

The Beethoven piece is joined by four others on the program, including two works commissioned by Deutsche Welle from Iraqi composers - "Desert Camel" by Mohammed Amin Ezzat from Baghdad and "Invocation" by Ali Authman. The latter composer is on hand and more relaxed today than before. No longer pacing back and forth, he sits in the seventh row, listening, making notes and looking up again.

Oboist Murat, on the other hand, looks upset.

"I've had a sore throat since last night. I don't know how I'm going to play. But I want to no matter what," he says. He's sitting in his chair in the last row at the rehearsal and fighting on.

MacAlindin is worried that the tempo is off again today, and the violins are to blame. Sometimes they lag behind, sometimes they're rushing ahead. In front of the stage, the tutors watch and mark the beat with their fingers in the air. There's no shortage of conductors today, perhaps even too many.

Three hours later, the orchestra has transformed itself. The young women are in elegant black outfits, hair done up, lips red. Cellist Tuka from Baghdad is the only orchestra member wearing a hijab, decorated with silver pearls for the occasion. The young men are wearing white shirts and bowties. In the hotel lobby, they arrange themselves into ever new groups as cameras flash every second, capturing photos for the family or Facebook. The joking and laughter have returned.

Three kilometers away, the Saad Palace is illuminated in a deep red-orange as the sun gradually sinks below the horizon. The uniformed guards are still in place but with reinforcements. The Prime Minister is expected to come.

Once the young musicians have made it to the broad corridors backstage, the violinists and clarinet players begin warming up. At the end of an especially long walkway, flutist Waleed is playing all by himself. A melody flows from his instrument as he paces with closed eyes. He takes three steps forward and a little turn as he continues to play, completely lost in the music.

The concert is slated to begin at 7 p.m., but it isn't until 7:30 that the VIP guests have finally arrived. They are seated in the first row behind little tables bearing cool drinks. The Prime Minister is the only guest who is still tied up elsewhere. But the concert won't begin for a while still. First come the speeches - an Iraqi and a Kurdish flag stand next to the lectern. The orchestra is showing its impatience, but conductor Paul MacAlindin stands stock-straight and still.

"That's always how it is with musicians - they just want to get on stage and play. Nothing else. Just play," he says.

Violinist Alan is radiant ahead of the performance - "I'm so happy!" - as I teach him the German phrase, "toi toi toi." That's how we wish artists good luck before they head on stage.

And then it's time. The young musicians make their entrance with pride and composure - and this time no collisions. The maestro lifts his arms, the instruments go up, and "A Reel of Spindrift" by Peter Maxwell Davies begins to sound. The orchestra plays itself into the hearts of the audience. The mother of violinist Alan and violist Darwn came to the performance and has tears in her eyes. Standing ovations and jubilation follow the show.



The bus has never shaken quite so much as on the ride home. And it's just the start of a long night of dancing and celebrating.

From trumpet player to DJ: Frand from Baghdad with his punky, gelled up hair is spinning Arabic sounds while the not exactly skinny bassist Sahar sets his body to moving like a contrabass string. Mutadar challenges him to a dance duel: Baghdad versus Sulaymaniyah. Then Kurdish music sets the rhythm for a traditional Arabic dance known as the Dabke. The musicians form a circle, hand in hand: left foot out, a jump and a bounce, then the right foot goes back, on and on. Every now and then, someone - both men and women, alike - disbands from the circle, hops into the middle and twirls around, cheered on from the other dancers.

By 2:30 in the morning, I'm exhausted and have to head off, but the party goes on.

Scroll down to stream performances and video from the rehearsals in Arbil.

Author: Bettina Kolb / gsw
Editor: Rick Fulker