When Words Fail: Middle Eastern Grief in Music

It’s July of 2011 and I’m 8 years old. Settled in the gray area between the second and the third grade, my summer days are spent reading upside down with my feet in the air and playing soccer religiously. My mornings however, take on a different tone. Yawning as I walk out of my childhood bedroom, the comforting aroma of warmed, almost-burnt pita bread escapes from the kitchen stove. This isn’t new. A ritual of sorts, the smell of bread wafting from the kitchen only precedes the hot black tea I know is soon to come. Food occupies my thoughts as I turn into the well-lit kitchen area, and my ears perk up a little as I hear the familiar voice of the celebrated Lebanese singer,  Fairuz, interlocked with the voice of another. My Syrian mother harmonizes with her, eyes closed as she sways back and forth with the instrumental. 

Together, my mom and Fairuz sing, “Atfa’at Madeenati Qendeelaha/ Aghlaqat Babaha/ Asbahat Fi-l-Masa/ Wahdaha Wahdaha Wa-Layla.” Translation: “My city has turned off her lamp/ She shut her doors/ She has become alone in the evening/ Alone in the night.”

Observing the scene, 8-year-old me is accustomed to hearing the guttural, smooth tones in Fairuz’s music. She is not, however, accustomed to the pained expression which occupies her mother’s face today. Nor does she seem to understand the lyrical intricacies and implications of the somber song which breaks the morning silence. More importantly, she doesn’t know it all has to do with a war that has just begun six thousand miles away in her mother’s homeland – her homeland – where she only visited once the summer before. A soon-to-be third-grader, I continue the early years of my life. The Syrian Civil War enters its early stages.

Eleven years later. The Syrian Civil War still continues. It’s May of 2022 and I’m almost 19 years old, home for the summer after just finishing my first year of college. Like I’ve always done, I begin my mornings by walking clumsily towards my kitchen. This particular morning I’m a little more disheveled than usual. Eyes half-open with my hair in a frizzy knot, I stroll towards an empty kitchen. Unsurprisingly though, I see the backyard screen door is propped open immediately beside the kitchen. Blessed with a green thumb and a knack for gardening I’ll never have, my mother is expectedly only a small ways past the screen door, tending to her growing pomegranate tree. Spotting her, I walk purposefully towards the grape vine-lined black gazebo in my backyard, hoping to spend some time relaxing and reclining in a chair before the morning breeze transitions into afternoon heat. Before I’m able to sit down though, varying greens and yellows greet my eyes as trees and flowers in my garden come into view. Taking it all in for a second, I lower myself slowly into a chair and prop my feet on the table in the center of the chairs. Being so immersed in my surroundings, I didn’t seem to realize a tune was playing from my mom’s iphone only an arms-reach away. 

Fairuz croons, “Sa-Narj’iu, Khabbarani-l-Andeleeb Ghadata Eltaqyna Munhana/ Bi-Anna-l-Balabila Lamma Tazal Hunaka Ta’eeshu Bi-Ash’arina/ Wa-Ma Zal Bayna Tilali-I-Haneen W-Nasu-I-Haneen Makanon Lana/ Faya Qulbu Kam Sharradatna Riyah / Ta’ala Sa-Narj’iu.” Translation: “We will be back, the nightingale told me when we met on a hill/ Bulbuls still live there on our poems/ And that among the yearning hills and people, there is a place for us/ So my heart, how long then has the wind scattered us/ Come back, let us return”

Listening intently, 19 year-old me realizes— I can actually understand the details of Fairuz’s lyrics unlike years past. Funny enough, the language requirement I had failed to fulfill in high school left me with no choice but to take two Arabic language courses in university. As a result, I found myself falling back in love with my culture and the music of my childhood. In particular, the songs of Fairuz, the only artist I listened to consistently growing up, began to take on new meanings for me. Armed with new understandings of a language I was mere acquaintances with before, I began to recognize many of my past misinterpretations of Arabic songs in my childhood. I discovered that most of the lyrics I heard in my house growing up had been lost in translation, their meanings diluted when crossing language barriers from Arabic into English. 

Through this process of reforming my judgments of the music I grew up with, I made realizations about Fairuz and her impact on the Arab world. Namely, it became clear to me that Fairuz, born in Lebanon during the 1950s, is really a representation of a war-torn generation. Centered on the watan, or the homeland, many of her ballads exist as love letters to her people and her country. As such, they touch on themes of betrayal, resentment, and loss— but also the hope of yearning for a brighter future. As violence in the Middle East continues, these songs carry and unite broken people in their shared experiences of watching homelands wither away through war. The heartfelt lyrics and somber tones of songs like “Le Beirut,” “Sanargea Youman,” and “Watani” provide comfort to many, echoing the sorrows of people who are all too familiar with loss and pain on a large scale. The music takes you on a journey, Fairuz holding you down in a tender way as she airs out shared grievances only to then embrace listeners in a mantra of boundless love for the motherland. 

In my own life, I have known Fairuz’s music to be a consoling force for my Syrian family members and friends throughout the ongoing Civil War. These songs have become more than music to me, rooting themselves in various parts of my everyday life. Fairuz’s voice has soothed and provoked me, saddened and uplifted me. It has presented itself to me in all contexts, whether in the dark of the night or the early hours of the morning, at home or far away. I’ve listened to “Watani” after hearing news of the daily bombings in and around my parent’s hometown of As-Swayda in Syria, I’ve walked down Telegraph playing “Zahrat al-Mada’en,” mourning the loss of yet another Palestinian child murdered by the Israeli Defense Forces, and most frequently, I’ve listened to songs like “Le Beirut ” almost ritually to start my mornings, swaying back and forth to the instrumental with tea in my hand. Even in the years where I could not yet fully grasp Fairuz’s lyricism, her voice alone had healing powers, bridging the gap between me and the culture I didn’t fully understand yet.

In a world where Middle Eastern people watch as more and more destruction ensues in their homeland, the music has allowed for a space where people can grieve collectively. Where words fail, Fairuz puts lyrics and a melody to the feelings of hopelessness and desperation that Arab-identifying people often can’t express otherwise. We, as Middle Eastern people, are able to confront our fears through these songs, expressing our feelings of love for and loss of our people and our homelands. To put it short, Fairuz’s music is about more than just one singer and her legacy, it’s a lifeline. Fairuz’s songs create a space where Middle Eastern people can breathe as one, working to heal the emotional wounds of war which permeate the lives of too many.

Written by Yara Choeb