To Ziad Rahbani, From Yassin “NARCY” Alsalman

Yassin “NARCY” Alsalman is an Iraqi-Canadian rapper and professor at the University of Concordia in Montreal.

Dearest Teacher Ziad Rahbani,

I am writing this letter too late. The last few years have been disheartening to say the least, and even in your departure, you reminded me yet again of the importance of the musician, the writer, the provocateur and the commentator at a time where we feel chocked by the silence of the world. Thank you for what you left us back here.

I first came across your compositions through your royal mother, our queen and morning voice, Fairuz. She came to us through my mother’s speakers, visited us in the most serene moments of childhood, carrying the smells from our homes onto the streets, holding our neighbours and countrymen hearts together, binding us through our history of occupation, war, longing, belonging and most importantly, love. For our families, our people, our community and our countries. You are both our history, a forever ringing in our longing for the past to be resolved, an epic in the simplicity of our daily beauty and struggles.

I am simply writing you this love letter from one Arab man and son, as an artist, and an independent musician to another.

I have no heroes from our community. Many in our musical circles have disappointed me along the way, embracing the ways of the world more than their hearts, embracing industry over the arts. I never felt that way about you. As I started to make art, I found great companionship in your plays, your lyrics, your satire, your political statements, your art.  As I roamed Beirut in my early 20s, you soundtracked my drives up to Roumieh and back down to the city. You sound like the spaces in between the pain, the untouched part of our souls that sees beauty through the fire.

More than the music, I learned much from you around how to use my art to speak truth to power. As an Iraqi, coming out of North America, it was always hard to balance the dark with the light. There was much pressure around saying the right things. I didn’t want to use my privilege for self-aggrandizing or nation-state lore, as hard as that is.  I chose to question my position in my work, using satire to balance without sacrificing my message and question identity as a whole. I learned that from you. I faced great difficulty in industry, and it just taught me how to be more grounded in my work. I learned that from you. I chose the art over anything. I chose love over public consumption of us. I chose my people. I chose my heart. I learned that from you.

In 2008, my wife visited Damascus with her mother. She asked me what I wanted out the trip and I asked her to get me as much music as she can carry. She visited a tape and record shop in the heart of the old city. She came back to me with songs by you, to be more exact,  Oriental Jazz Concert Live At Irwin Hall. This is where I encountered what might be my favourite song of yours (which is hard to pick). شو بحبّك

This song lived in my home, on my vacations, on mixtapes, in a folder I had on my hard drives entitled “Dream songs”. I listened to it for 14 years before I even dared to think about using it for my own music. It became the song of my love for her, an undeniable lullaby for a love that is hard to put in words.

In the process of my last album, I leaned on my teachers to learn myself. I watched many of your works, interviews, amongst other greats. I realized how much your work spoke to me over the decades. How you spoke against occupation, how you spoke about the complexities of Arab life, how you spoke about your love and your heartbreak. You said once “I don’t do work to change my country, I do it so my country doesn’t change me.” You never separated the political from the art because the action of making art is political, it is spiritual work. I finally opened that folder and sent the song to my producers.

I recorded “Beautiful Human” on my own at 3AM on a cold Canadian winter night in a small house in up North Quebec. I ended up writing a letter, similar to this, to our people in the Diaspora. An apology, a love letter, a warning- something that sat somewhere between Hip-Hop and trap, Jazz and orchestral music. I got my Syrian-American brother Joey to produce it with me, and my Lebanese-Canadian brother P-Thugg to sing the chorus alongside you. I told them both I would reach you and send you the song. They didn’t believe it was possible.

Finally, I thought, what would Ziad do to complete this song?  I called my mother and put her on it, just like would do at times. I instilled in the song my lessons and dreams from you: dignity, strength, longing for justice, accountability and, ultimately, freedom and infatuation. It was my dedication to your influence.

A year later, I chased your approval. I wrote you a letter then and I sent it with the song to you and your team. A few months later, I got the song to your ears. Do you know how magical that was for me? You sent me back your approval, telling me, you don’t sign contracts but that you have given me your blessing. You said you don’t even have to come back to me for royalties, your song is yours. You gave me one of my biggest musical blessings as an Arab artist. A gift I will never forget.

Dearest Ziad. May you rest now. You left us an unforgettable blueprint. You are Jazz in the flesh. No box could ever hold your spirit and sound. As they lower you into the earth, we spread your sound into the heavens.  You carved a path with no pattern, a free spirited dream of a life, a complicated and complex understanding of self and community, a journey filled with lessons I will keep learning from. A Master Teacher not without flaws. A Beautiful human. We will pray for your mother, and your family and the legacy you left us will carry us in our times. I can only hope, the next generation will also learn from you.

Selfishly I wanted to meet you in person. Little did I know that a year and a half after connecting with you, you would leave this disappointing world we are currently in. Who would blame you really?

Thank You. Thank You. Thank You.

Your student,

Yassin Alsalman

Aka

NARCY.

P.S. My mother wanted to the world to hear this:

تلقيت ببالغ الأسى والحزن وفاة علم من اعلام الموسيقى ‘ زياد الرحباني’ الذي ستظل ذكراه مدويه في اذاننا ما حيينا.

يا الله انت المحيي وانت كذلك المميت لا اعتراض على حكمك. ربي انه جاء ببابك واناخ بجنابك فجد عليه بعفوك وكرمك واربط على قلب والدته وجميع اهله.

ستبقى يا زياد معنا حي فيما أكرمت به علينا من

موسيقى وألحان وكلمات لا ولن تنسى.