On the late Ziad Rahbani : “I consider nothing human alien to me”

Moroccan theorist and authoBensalem Himmich opened his best-known intellectual treatise, A Critique of the Need for Marx, by quoting a form Marx himself filled out in the 1860s, thus conveying to us an image of Marx, “Ecce Homo.” In it, he reveals the latter’s personal and intimate take on love, preferred dishes, literature, women, thoughts and values. “The quality I favor most is, on the whole, simplicity. In men, I would prefer might; and in women, vulnerability. The characteristic I most admire in myself is sternness. My idea of happiness: struggle. And my idea of misery: the acceptance of submission. The defect I deem most forgivable: naivety. The flaw I detest most: servility. My favorite pastime: reading… My ideal flower: the myrtle. My favorite color: red. My preferred dish: fish. My maxim: I consider nothing human alien to me. My motto: Question all things”, thus spoke Karl Marx.


I spent weeks immersed in the personal realms of Lebanese artist Ziad Rahbani after his passing, a sort of rite of mourning or solace. I kept hunting for a portrait of Ziad Rahbani, “Ecce Homo,” in all his interviews and talks, or even in his plays and melodies. Yet he was scattered all over, so much so that it was hardly possible to reassemble or reconstruct him in a lucid and clear manner. Perhaps this is also due to the fact that all the human aspects of his personality were intertwined and intermingled with his artistic, intellectual and political ones. Or maybe even more so given that he was “multifaceted”: he was a composer, instrumentalist, writer, poet, playwright, musical composer, journalist and a political militant. And yet, Ziad Rahbani was an enchanting mixture of all these things that overlapped, rendering the portrait ever more elusive to piece together: unbridled childishness in conversation and genius in metaphor, with confused rhetoric, a chaotic and sarcastic speech style, a blend of comedy and drama and an attitude that always tended toward abstraction, mystery and poeticism.

Therefore, it is harder to divorce the human aspect from the remaining components. Ziad Rahbani often insisted on evading personal details, and was keen to be more of a Lebanese storyteller than an autobiographer. He tied every moment of his life to events taking place in Lebanon or to his artistic projects. His stories are those of his songs, and his own milestones are those that articulate his creative milestones: theatrical or musical. Ziad Rahbani is also Fairuz‘s son. Being Fairuz’s child is no easy feat. He never knew whether this was truly an advantage for him, or perhaps quite the opposite. We too are clueless in that regard. Would Ziad Rahbani have been the same person we came to know if he had not been Fairuz’s son? Or would he have been even greater?

However, a humanized portrait emerges, comprised of fragmented and sparse elements that can be pieced together from various sources: his interviews, encounters and artistic creations; what has been written about him; and the testimonies of those who were close to him. Now, we can gain insight into Ziad Rahbani’s view of women, for instance. We can learn about some aspects of his approach to love and his romantic experiences. We can also explore aspects of his family life and, above all, his stance on various matters, including politics, philosophy, religion, art, journalism, money and even on life itself.

On the back cover of his book Zaman Ziyād: Adaish Kan Fi Nas (The Time of Ziyad: Oh how many people there were!) published in 2016, Talal Shatawi recalls —perhaps to emphasize—a quote from Joseph Harb, who told him in Beirut on 1993: “Ziad Rahbani meets (sees eye-to-eye) with every human being who has ever walked this earth.”


Ziad Rahbani, Ecce Homo

In spite of his numerous interviews, spaced out over time and varying in context and subject matter, it appears to me that the interview that most closely resembles Marx’s aforementioned form is his two-part interview in 2018 with the German DW’s Arabic- speaking channel. Ziad Rahbani appeared more articulate about his human side in that interview, more nuanced and precise in his political and intellectual stances. It was possible to see “this Man” even more vividly.

Talal Shatawi’s book also appears to be the most methodologically coherent and content-rich document in the chronicling of Ziad Rahbani’s life and the detailing of his personality. Shatawi recounts that at fourteen years old, while playing with his sister Layal and his cousins, Ziad Rahbani penned the following verse: “Adaysh kan fee nas, ‘almafra’ tontor nas, witshatty diny, w yahamlo shamsiyye, wana ba iyyama saho ma hada natarny” (“Oh how many people there were, on the corner waiting for others, and it would rain, and they would hold umbrellas, but even on the clearest days, no one would wait for me”). Then he composed the melody and recorded it, but failed to follow through with the lyrics. When he heard the recording, Assi Rahbani asked him, “How about you let me have this verse for 250 liras?” He then sold the song, his first ever composition, to his father. In 1973, his mother, Fairuz, performed that very song.

At the age of fourteen, Ziad Rahbani published his poetry collection, Sadiqi Allah (My Friend, God). A slim volume of highly lyrical texts, it reads as more mature than would be expected from a boy of that age – genius born too early, mixed with evident brilliance and rebellious revolutionary spirit. In that same year, as he recounted, he had left his family home, repelled by his mother and father’s frequent quarrels over Assi’s jealousy over Fairuz – refusing to be tempted by their pleas to stay.

On a human level, as he says, Ziad Rahbani was also a lot like his father, more so than his mother. His relationship with his father seemed much smoother, effortless and intimate. His father cared little about his education and had no idea what grade he attended, but rather recognized and nurtured his musical genius, whereas Fairuz was as firm as any mother. Conversely, she was heavily featured in his poetry and numerous other writings. It was she who walked the path with him through to the end.

While dealing with Fairuz, Ziad Rahbani had to balance being a son on one hand, and a professional artist working with the most celebrated contemporary Arab singer on the other. Thus, things became intertwined between them; a stern mother and an iconic artist who communicated her frustration with him for not keeping family secrets and discussing it all in the media. She described him as “unmannered”. Even so, he was the guy who backed her artistic project following the passing of his father. Although they had periods of estrangement, Fairuz as a mother would look after her son down to the smallest detail, pestering him with questions about marriage, buying him clothes, and phoning him every night. Meanwhile, his familial relationship with his sister, film director Rima Rahbani, was uneasy. He speaks of her fondly, but also with a hint of reproach, citing her approach to managing their mother Fairuz’s business and personal life as the reason for their differences.

In terms of friendship, Ziad Rahbani said that leaving home brought him closer to Joseph Saqr, who then played in his father’s band. The two became close friends and would later create an outstanding artistic project that lasted until the latter’s departure in 1997, which left Ziad Rahbani grieving and in mourning. The rebellious genius’s personality took shape early on. He revolted against his father and uncle’s musical style and their political positions, moving away from their religious right-wing alignment during the civil war toward the communist left. This transition was also emblematic of his wartime relocation from Christian-majority East Beirut to West Beirut, home to the left and Palestinian organizations.

Romantically, Ziad Rahbani’s relationship with women seemed convoluted. His failed romantic experiences and subsequent marriage had not affected his stance towards women in his art, life and statements, where he appeared to side with them, champion their causes, voice their feelings and act as their advocate. Nevertheless, Ziad Rahbani, “Ecce Homo”, appeared to be reluctant towards love, eschewing any clear expression or discussion of his feelings, at times appearing confused and at others feigning indifference. When asked about his love stories, he said that none of them seemed worth remembering in detail. He sounded incredulous, only to realize that they merely left traces in his artistic creations. When asked about his first love story, he stated that it inspired the song “Aisha Wahda Balak (Living All by Herself without You)”. The song was inspired by his own personal story and romantic experience, he revealed, adding ruefully that it is the most requested song from his repertoire. “No matter how many other songs we make, the audience just keeps requesting that one.”

He admitted his failure in romantic relationships and marriage, and that he was unable to gain insight into that side of women. He stated that every experience with a woman “set him back further.” His first marriage had failed because of the civil war and the fact that he was still young when he entered into it, he recalled. Though his mother had nagged him to start a family and have children, Ziad Rahbani remained, until his passing, a seeker of the woman who would only see the Man in him, and not the celebrity.


I am a journalist and musician, “and that’s it!”

In his interview with the German DW channel, when Ziad Rahbani was asked whether he was an artist, musician, poet, or playwright, he replied that he did not regard himself as an artist, opting instead to identify as a journalist and musician, adding, “and that’s it!” He shies away from titles and shuns labels in what appears to be modesty. Yet Ziad Rahbani’s artistic biography suggests that he was much more than that.

Since childhood, he demonstrated an outstanding talent for poetry and an exceptional musical genius. He produced his first play, “Sahriyya (An Evening’s Celebration),” at age seventeen. He also composed timeless and indelible songs for Fairuz, the Arab singing icon. In addition, he hosted radio programs during the Lebanese civil war, wrote a column in Al-Akhbar newspaper, and performed in theater. Moreover, his artistic legacy remains alive today, still radiating its brilliance and essence in the face of time, shifting contexts, tastes and events. Thus, reducing him to music and journalism would seem to be an understatement. In his book, Talal Shatawi recounts the stages of Ziad’s life, its twists and turns, and its details, with plenty of entertaining storytelling. Scattered here and there are stories from Ziad himself about his work. But his approach to the subject matter has often lacked in method. His narration was sporadic and hastily delivered.

Ziad Rahbani followed up Sahriyya (An Evening’s Celebration – 1973) with Nazl El-Sourour (1974), two socially critical plays that showcased his profound grasp of society and his keen political, intellectual and cultural awareness. Then came his most celebrated and significant play, “Film Ameriki Tawil (A Long American Film),” in 1980, at the height of the Lebanese civil war. Set in a mental hospital, the play sparked widespread controversy and debate and is regarded as one of the most iconic and influential pieces of Lebanese theater.

Afterwards, in 1983, he produced the play “Shi Fashel (A Total Failure),” in which he criticized the post-war conditions and societal situations during that period of Lebanon’s history. A decade later, he would return with two successive plays, the first in 1993, called “Bekhsous Al Karama Wel Shaab El Anid (On Dignity and the Stubborn People),” followed by the second in 1994, titled “Lawla Foss’hat El Amal (If Not for a Glimmer of Hope).”

Aside from his theater plays, mainly musicals, music has been his true, fundamental and main project, in which he has achieved his most important accomplishments. Ziad Rahbani, particularly alongside Fairuz, has produced genuine masterpieces in the history of modern Arabic music. Yet he dissociated himself early on from the traditional style of his father and uncle. From the very beginning, he sought to forge his own style, both rhythmically and artistically.

The song “Sa’alouni al-Nas” (People Asked Me), performed by Fairuz for her husband Assi Rahbani at the time of his illness, is perhaps among the most popular songs that Ziad had composed. It is a song that gathered all the Rahbani brothers into a beautiful human and artistic story. The song “Wahdon Byibqo” (Alone, They Remain), an iconic ballad written by poet Talal Haidar, is synonymous in the popular consciousness with the Palestinian Cause and Palestinian resistance fighters, despite conflicting interpretations of its theme and story. Another notable song is “Kifak Anta” (How Are You), representing a paradigm shift in Fairuz’s musical career. All of these songs, and dozens of others on albums and in plays, whether performed by Fairuz or otherwise, have achieved immortality in the modern Arab musical canon. Ziad Rahbani thus deservedly earns his reputation as one of the musical geniuses of 20^th-century Arab music.

And yet, Ziad Rahbani still had aspects of himself that went beyond art. His intellectual and political stances, in particular, often intertwined with his artistic and personal life, yet remained a distinctive feature of Ziad Rahbani, as well as another element of his life story.


Leftist in politics, and even more so in art

Ziad Rahbani was part of the generation that lived through Lebanon’s civil war, and also a part of a cultural generation that witnessed major shifts in contemporary Arab history, both ideologically and politically. Rahbani was particularly keen to underscore the central role that the civil war played in shaping his own perception, life path, positions and artistic project. He correlated all aspects of his personal journey with the path of modern Lebanon and the region’s changes and conflicts. Although his political stances often sparked widespread debate and reactions within Lebanon and across the Arab world, his political line has always been consistent with a Marxist-leftist ideology, a commitment to the Lebanese Communist Party, a support for the resistance, a rejection of the Israeli occupation and an affinity for Palestinian rights and Arab and international liberation causes.

Socially, Ziad Rahbani is outspoken in his progressive views on social justice, secularism, gender equality, civil marriage, minority rights and his rejection of sectarianism and the country’s political quota system. However, his world appears to be more dreamlike than realistic. Upon probing further into the internal situation in Lebanon, he himself resigned from following it, terming it “uninspiring.”

But what Ziad Rahbani stands for most prominently, in terms of politics, are the values that his artistic project, both musically and theatrically, embodies. These are social values with a leftist, liberal, enlightened and progressive essence, siding with the poor and oppressed and striving against sectarianism, exploitation, corruption, colonialism, and imperialism. It is his Marxism, which he masterfully expresses through art rather than words, and which he is better at articulating artistically than politically.

Ziad Rahbani refused identifying as an atheist. He hoped, as he put it, that there was a “God.” He also asserted that God would not be in the same image portrayed by religions. He appealed to God in his poetry collection, which he wrote as a child, as a “friend.” In that collection, Ziad Rahbani manifests his pure humanity. A child who lived within him until his passing. A child who colored his attitudes, thoughts, personal life and behavior with playfulness, mischief, a hint of chaos, a great deal of recklessness, honesty, sarcasm and witty jokes.

Ever since that poetry collection, and until his passing, Ziad Rahbani had gone through life as a child would. He grew up in the shadow of his mother, Fairuz, yet rebelled against her. He was also the architect of the most important pillars of her artistic project. When Ziad Rahbani passed away, Fairuz stepped out of her solitude, about which we knew nothing except what Ziad himself had told us. She appeared shrouded in sadness, pride, silence, anguish, and reverence. In her black shawl, she resembled Ziad’s last gift to us: Fairuz’s appearance.

The scene was pure and utterly human. A mother grieving the loss of her firstborn and only son. It was as if Ziad Rahbani himself was performing the ultimate ritual of his humanity: death. As if he were saying to us once again, “I consider nothing human alien to me.”

In his poetry collection “Sadiqi Allah (My Friend, God),” he shared a story his mother told him in front of the fireplace in the tenth poem. It was the story of a poor man who gathered stones from the forests and mountains to build a house. When he grew tired, the man motivated himself saying that he was building a house to live in for the rest of his life.
“He kept building for the rest of his life. And when the house was finished, the owner of the house was also finished.”

“I asked my mother, ‘Is that the end of the story?’
She said, ‘Yes’.”