By the rivers of Babylon

By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down, yea, we wept, when we

remembered Zion.

We hanged our harps upon the willows in the midst thereof.

For there they that carried us away captive required of us a song; and they that wasted us required of us mirth, saying, Sing us one of the songs of Zion.

How shall we sing the Lord's song in a strange land?

It was way back in 1978 that Boney M covered a song, By the Rivers of Babylon, originally from the Jamaican group The Melodians.

Boney M covered the The Rivers of Babylon

The lyrics were based on words rather older. They come from the 137^th Psalm, from what Christians think of as the Old Testament.

I recently finished a biography of Frederick Douglass, which was fascinating if, perhaps, a tad too long. There are times when I ask myself “why doesn’t someone who writes such good stuff get better at editing?” Still, it was worth ploughing through.

Douglass was extraordinary. Born a slave in Maryland, he saw and suffered horrible abuse as a child and young man. Eventually he escaped to the North. There he became a leading figure in the fight to abolish slavery in the US. That took courage, because he could have been caught and sent back at any time, until some admirers, ironically in England and not the States, raised the money to buy him from his ‘owner’ and free him.

He preached, rather than merely speaking, against slavery. For one of his speeches he drew on this deeply moving Psalm. It’s about the time when the Jews were taken into captivity in Babylon and there, in bondage and a long way from home, they find it hard to sing the songs of their homeland and their faith.

All the anguish of the exile is there. Something that might be remembered when those who call themselves Christians round on people, from Syria or Libya, or Central America, struggle to their countries to escape persecution or terrible suffering.

I have to admit, though, that when I came across the reference to the psalm in the biography, it was the song that came to my mind. Along with some vague memories of the time when every café, car or canteen was playing it.

I was due to spend the New Year in France and I was, as usual, broke. A friend put me in touch with a family who could drop me not too far from where I was going, for no more than a contribution to the cost of their fuel. I leaped at the chance.

I loved those people. They were a Jewish family from North London, very much my own background. They were my favourite types of Jews. They were practising, unlike me, but deeply involved in secular life, and they were fun to be with.

Sadly, I’ve failed to keep in touch with them (well, they’ve also failed to keep in touch with me), and I can’t do anything about it now as I don’t even remember their names. I just remember the clattering trip in their shaky VW camper van, to the constantly repeated strains of By the Rivers of Babylon (the kids insisted). I also remember we talked all the time, though I don’t remember what about, except for one sad story: they shared the enthusiasm of many Jews for music and their elder daughter was a budding but competent clarinettist. However, they had recently lost a court case brought by a neighbour to stop her practising in their flat. A small but ugly victory for philistinism.

I remember little about the holiday either. It was up in the Alps above Grenoble, in one of those confusing places, either Villard-de-Lans or Lanslevillard. Who does that? Just call one place by the name of the other, back to front?

The parents of one of the people at the party were retiring and selling up the school they had run there for years. It was for kids with respiratory conditions, allowing them to study in clean mountain air. The parents were about to vacate the place and, since it was full of bedrooms, they’d allowed their son to invite a bunch of friends to enjoy a last New Year’s Eve there.

All I remember of the festivities is that it was perishing cold outside.

“The temperature’s down to -10,” one of the revellers announced with glee.

“How much is that in Fahrenheit?” one of the others asked me, having identified me as the only benighted Anglo Saxon present.

I worked it out for him. “About 14,” I said.

“Oh, right. Is that cold?”

You can picture for yourself the delight with which I answered, “Pretty much as cold as -10 Centigrade.”

It was only when I got back to England that I looked up the Psalm. Which was when I made the shocking discovery that as well as the sorrow of the exiles, it also celebrates their lust for revenge. The last two lines are:

O daughter of Babylon, who art to be destroyed; happy shall he be, that rewardeth thee as thou hast served us.

Happy shall he be, that taketh and dasheth thy little ones against the stones.

Ah, well. Dashing the little ones against the stones? Not quite as pretty as the opening. I don’t think Frederick Douglass quoted those words in his speech.

The Melodians and Boney M left them out too. I’m not sure they’d have contributed much to the success of a pleasant little pop song, with a touch of gentle melancholy about it.

Not sure they contribute very much to improving the outlook of mankind generally, to be honest.