A significant part of what we consume today in relation to Arab music and culture is coming from beyond its borders. The conversations originating from diasporic communities occupy an increasingly vital portion of global Arab discourse. This is especially true in music, where diasporic Arab musicians inhabit more of the global limelight than their local peers.
It is perhaps a matter of multifarious linguistic capabilities, or an access otherwise denied for those living in the Arab world, but most importantly, diasporic communities carry a distinctive experience worth sharing, yet it’s one that’s increasingly getting reduced to pure romanticism.
It is no one’s fault that we live in an age of identity politics, where leading with identity is not only preferred, but required. At times, this places a pressure, a responsibility of representation that our musicians didn’t ask for, but are forced to carry nonetheless. To play the marketing game that presents itself today, is to admit to the accountability of candid expression.
By way of this diasporic discourse, and burdened by expectations of representation, the Arab world comes across largely stunted, stuck in a mythologized state where Arabs are constantly framed as mana’eesh-eating, shisha-smoking, belly-shaking, Fairouz-listening knights, and while we partly are, this representation is only a token part of our lives.
This consistent saintly and self-orientalist framing hinders our representation in a world that already exoticizes our lives, but most importantly, it flattens the experience and emotions of those that are “locals” and those in the diaspora into a one-dimensional narrative, as if forced to be national ambassadors, as if forced to promote and campaign for our countries at the expense of our real and honest experiences – experiences allowed, sometimes, to be flawed.
While I detest categorizing our people, there is always a striking dissonance for those living in the Arab world when consuming what is produced by their diaspora. When we think of diasporic music today, what often comes to mind are images of glorification and idealization, an adoration of something that simply doesn’t exist. The country we advertise to the world is not the country we live in most of the time.
It is understandable, the inherited nostalgia, the cost of self-critique in front of hostile audiences, and the infatuation with home, especially for those who can’t access it. But that idealization glosses over an ugliness worth confronting, over conflicting feelings and nuanced experiences worth naming.
When we look back at the wave of alternative Arabic music in the late 2000s, which was accompanied by film, art, and literature, the charm came from self-critique, from the complexity, from the grey area in which dichotomies coexist. The Lebanese series “Beirut I love You” calls it as is, its title professes the love, then chases it with “I love you not” on every title card. The appeal is in the frank, in the necessary discomfort.
This is where the power lies, in fearless and daring culture. It is in the courage to say things as is, to dissect the bad in order to become, to explore the love we owe to our homes, but also the occasional and righteous disillusionment.
The tendency towards producing what feels like city-branding jingles and the consumption that follows, hinders self-critique that generates change, therefore betterment. We are allowed to belong somewhere, and let it be imperfect. We are allowed to adore a homeland and simultaneously have something critical to say about it.
To love your home, even if from miles away, is to look it straight in the eye, to acknowledge its travails and to challenge it to maturity. To love your home, even if from miles away, is to love it despite all that doesn’t allow you to.
