On view until the end of October, “Impressions of Paradise” is installed within the Nuhad Es-Said Pavilion for Culture at the National Museum of Beirut. A compilation of travel and film posters as well as advertisements commissioned by Lebanon’s Ministry of Tourism, visitors can see how a new nation of the 20th century was invented, all for a modest entrance fee of five dollars.
With large script hailing Lebanon as the “Gateway to the Middle East and the Holy Land” or “Where East Meets West,” these posters cemented cliches in the general public’s consciousness.
A 1953 tourism poster titled, Au Liban La Montagne et La Mer Avec Le Soleil, by Jacqueline Dubie Harmouch, depicts a slogan that persists till this day: Lebanon, where you can ski and swim in the same day.
So much of the idealized Lebanon that is captured in these posters and pamphlets survives in the minds of the Lebanese, especially the diaspora and other foreign seasonal visitors.
Lebanon is so young that some of the authors of our contemporary history books can still be found having a coffee at a seaside cafe, gazing at the crashing waves of the Mediterranean.
The mythology of “the Lebanon” has long been a visual exercise in nation building and contrived identity but music has also perpetuated the image of a country always under construction, always on the precipice of greatness, always about to make its promised comeback.
Assi El Hellani’s nationalist tune, “Lebnani” incorporates the same “connector between the East and the West” in his lyrics. Nationalist anthems like his seem to be a guaranteed hit in a country that is constantly on the brink of or recovering from disaster since its inception a century ago.
Many songs double as tracks that can usher in a dabke line because of their folkloric beats and traditional instruments. They weave themes of land, resistance, and a divine ability to be endlessly resurrected like a phoenix.
It is hard to poke holes in the aspirational words they project, even if logic is an unwavering needle.
During the protests in 2019, a handful of these anthems blasted from speakers in the city squares on repeat. Julia Boutros dominated on some days with “Ya Thouwar Al Ard” but Star Academy winner Joseph Attieh’s “El Haq Ma Bimout (Lebnan Rah Yerjaa)”, which translates to “The Truth Does Not Die (Lebanon Will Return)”, created a sea of dancing Lebanese flags. A callback to Zaki Nassif’s classic, “Rajeh Yet Ammar Loubnan (Lebanon is Being Rebuilt)”, which has never lost its relevance thanks to Lebanon’s numerous collapses.
The timeless and nostalgic Lebanon cannot be discussed without mentioning the impact of the Rahbani family of musical multi-hyphenates. They were and are responsible for the icons of early Lebanon. Elias Rahbani was a composer and songwriter for some of the biggest names in Lebanon’s melodic materialization: Julia Boutros, Majida El Roumi, Pascale Sakr, Wadih Safi, Nasri Shamseddine, Melhem Barakat, and Fairuz’s underappreciated sister, Huda Haddad.
Today, next-gen playwright and composer Oussama Rahbani is behind singer and actress Hiba Tawaji, who herself has contributed to the new batch of Lebanon-centric tunes.
Being a patriotic crooner is a Rahbani go-to move, but their life’s work reverberates across generations and not just through their most known hits.
In Feyrouz Serhal’s documentary, The Third Rahbani, viewers learn about the life of Elias Rahbani and his incomparable role in the Lebanese music industry.
During a Q&A session with his son Ghassan, hosted after the film release at Beirut’s Metropolis, an audience member said, “Hasseit a’am bohdar hayete”, I felt like I’m watching my life.
Elias Rahbani was behind the original soundtrack of all Beirut’s days, from nursery rhymes to jingles for Picon cheese and Rayovac batteries to political anthems across confessions. (In the film, we learn that the melody of Sabah’s “Waadoni Wo Nataroni” was originally a jingle meant for Barilla pasta.)
Another audience member pleads with Rahbani to give the people more of that magic sauce they’re known for. Lamenting about the soured media and a fractured public, he tells Ghassan that we Lebanese are desperately in need of that finesse, that beauty.
In turn, Ghassan revealed that they are in possession of 500 unreleased Elias Rahbani tracks but they haven’t had the heart to figure out what to do with them. Having lost the patriarch Elias during the pandemic after a battle with dementia, the wound of his absence has not been callused.
And yet, even with the void of the senior talents, the pervasive presence of the past that the Rahbanis concocted continues until this day. My nephew of 14 months is learning Rahbani classics thanks to musical board books with classic nursery rhymes like “Ammi Bou Massoud” and “Kellon a’andon siyarat” that play at the press of a button.
And then there is Fairuz, icon and wife of Assi Rahbani, who also accompanies us through the decades of our lives. At age 90, Fairuz’s lifespan as a singer has paralleled Lebanon’s evolution as an independent nation. As the voice that is a staple of morning commutes or the early cigarette with the first sip of coffee, her “Bahebak Ya Lebnan” is in the background of all our bittersweet memories while “Li Beirut” is that of our sorrowful ones.
In 1994, having sworn she wouldn’t perform until the Civil War ended, she beckoned the country’s rebirth through a controversial inauguration concert in Beirut’s destroyed Martyrs’ Square.
Although music has been an area of soft propaganda, it has also been a place for expression of dissent. Ironically, the son of Fairuz and Assi, the late Ziad Rahbani, held the pen behind critical musicals and albums that reflected Lebanon’s woes more accurately than the generation before him. His talent was undeniable and his voice was unflinching. His contribution created the full picture of an imperfect country.
Rather than resting on his Rahbani laurels, he used his privilege and wit to address class, corruption, and the struggles of Lebanon and Palestine.
In his 1985 album, Ana Mush Kafer, Ziad’s lyrics could be written about present-day Lebanon despite the 40-year gap. In “Bi Halyawmayn“, a male voice says “whatever hope is left will run out in two days” and a female voice responds with, “we’ll wait until the year 2000.”
In late 1999, his cousin Ghassan Rahbani released, “Sint El Elfein (2000)”, a satirical tune that made a tongue-in-cheek proclamation: it’s the new millennium and all of Lebanon’s problems are solved.
In 2020, twenty years after its release and in the midst of one of Lebanon’s most challenging years, Blu Fiefer released “Sint El Ew” as a response to the original Ghassan track. The legend of a resilient Lebanon had been disintegrating and the tears in the velvet curtain turned to shreds when the city’s port exploded on August 4th of that year. It was quite a year, indeed.
Rather than taking the melancholic route to share disappointment in Lebanon’s desultory fall from grace, there have been many tracks across the new millennium where artists have channeled their frustration into songs about their general disillusionment and their anger toward an avaricious ruling class. From Zeid and the Wings with “General Suleiman” to Mashrou’ Leila’s “Lil Watan” and Michelle & Noel Keserwany’s entire discography.
Whether subversive, sardonic, or saccharine, music is a rare unifying force across the communities of Lebanon. Our national identity is a combination of all genres that capture both love and resentment.
However, the classics still dominate the charts and, with that, so does the nostalgia for “the Lebanon” that was captured on British Pathé and in the pages of National Geographic and LIFE Magazine. No matter how fictitious these glamorous versions of Lebanon are, many of us still sway with the possibility of them.
When the Israeli army escalated their attacks on Lebanon in 2024, my Shazam was filled with songs about southern Lebanon as the radio dusted off records from the 70s and 80s that were once again relevant. I hate to admit that hearing Ahmad Kaabour’s “Ounadikom” was comforting when it played right after Israeli jets broke the sound barrier overhead. His “Sob Bladi” and Khaled el Haber’s “Kafarkila” allowed me to visit my ancestral village when it became physically impossible after the Israelis systematically demolished the entire town. Some lyrics, meant to be empowering, are a balm for the vulnerable and venerated.
“We dance to forget” is a popular one-liner when Beirut is hailed as a nightlife hub that rightfully elicits eyerolls but our nationalist music is the true way we cope with our own desiderium.
We return to songs about an imaginary country that is beloved and solely beautiful. Decades pass, wars are waged, and we still can’t forget these words.
But upon Ziad’s death this summer, many were reexamining the illusion of progress that has resurfaced after an impotent ceasefire with Israel. His words resonated in the halls of our memory palaces and we were reminded of the Lebanon that we truly inhabit, the one that must resist the occupier, the one that is equal parts heart and ache.
Today, the Lebanon we are dreaming of is unclear and a dream can also be a nightmare. Once again, we must rebuild but first, we must wake up.
