Lebanon Crisis Mutes National Music Conservatory

Lebanon's national conservatory of music student Matthew Ata, 10, plays guitar during a debut concert performance at the Al-Madina theatre in Beirut, on April 18, 2023. (AFP)
Lebanon's national conservatory of music student Matthew Ata, 10, plays guitar during a debut concert performance at the Al-Madina theatre in Beirut, on April 18, 2023. (AFP)
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Lebanon Crisis Mutes National Music Conservatory

Lebanon's national conservatory of music student Matthew Ata, 10, plays guitar during a debut concert performance at the Al-Madina theatre in Beirut, on April 18, 2023. (AFP)
Lebanon's national conservatory of music student Matthew Ata, 10, plays guitar during a debut concert performance at the Al-Madina theatre in Beirut, on April 18, 2023. (AFP)

At Lebanon's national music conservatory, pianos collect dust and classrooms sit empty, making the institution another casualty of an economic collapse that has crippled the public sector and hampered education.

Toufic Kerbage, 65, watched the value of his pay packet and pension evaporate after the Lebanese economy began melting down in 2019, taking the local currency and people's savings with it.

Without family support "I would have starved," said the music teacher, who began working at the conservatory in the late 1980s.

"It's difficult at my age to ask for money", he said from the silence of the conservatory's branch in Sin al-Fil, a suburb of the capital Beirut.

Once on a comfortable income, Kerbage now earns around $70 a month, in a country the World Bank says suffers the highest food price inflation globally.

He has been teaching his classes online, battling Lebanon's "disastrous" internet and spending more than he earns on a generator subscription to get through hours-long daily power cuts.

The state-run conservatory, with several thousand mostly school-aged students and 17 branches around the country, counts prestigious musicians like the composer and oud player Marcel Khalife among its alumni.

But as the economic crisis grinds on, some teachers have quit. Many others have turned to online classes to save on travel costs or teach private lessons on the side to make ends meet.

Kerbage said he was "worried" about colleagues without a support network.

'Musical revolution'

Taking matters into their own hands, a group of teachers and students have been holding independent concerts to highlight their plight and give musicians a chance to support each other and perform.

"I am here today to stand with my colleagues who are not happy with the way we are treated," said concert organizer Ghada Ghanem, who is also a teacher and soprano.

Some teachers have moved house or "sold their cars" to survive, added Ghanem, herself a conservatory student during Lebanon's 1975-1990 civil war.

The shows' proceeds will be invested into creating further performance opportunities or distributed among those involved, she said, calling the initiative a "musical revolution".

"Let's fix our problems with our own talent," Ghanem said recently from a darkened Beirut theatre before a recent show -- the second in a planned series.

"Depression will attack us if we sit and do nothing."

Matthew Ata, 10, said he was "a bit nervous" about his debut concert performance.

Despite starting with the conservatory two years ago, he only met his guitar teacher for the first time at the show.

"We really hope that things will get better" and in-person classes will resume, said Matthew's mother, Rita Jabbour.

Some students said the protracted online teaching and disruptions had left them feeling discouraged.

Software engineer Aline Chalvarjian, 33, who studies oud and lyric singing, said she had "lost motivation".

The conservatory used to be "like a second home", she said. Now, "we feel that we are left behind".

'First' pay boost

Like other public sector workers throughout the crisis, conservatory staff have taken strike action to demand their rights are respected, with the head of the conservatory teachers' league sacked in January after organizing protests.

In recent months, teacher strikes at Lebanon's public schools have paralyzed the education sector.

Soprano Hiba al-Kawas, who last year became the first woman to head the conservatory, said she had worked day and night to improve the situation, but political deadlock has stymied progress.

Lebanon's entrenched political elite, widely blamed for the country's crisis, has failed to take action to stem the three-year economic collapse.

As sectarian barons bicker over who should be the country's next leader, the presidency has remained vacant since October 31, while a caretaker government with limited powers has been at the helm of the bankrupt state for almost a year.

Despite the obstacles, Kawas said she had managed to secure pay increases that should allow a return to in-person teaching.

A teacher who was paid 30,000 Lebanese pounds per hour -- $0.50 based on an exchange rate used for public sector salaries -- would earn 300,000 once the wage hike takes effect, she said.

It is "just a first step", Kawas added. Teacher Kerbage expressed optimism at the new regime, which he said should push his monthly earnings into the hundreds of dollars.

"Anything" would be welcome, he said.

"I would be able to pay for my fuel, for my electricity, and for some food -- that's a lot."



Ancient Myanmar Ball Game Battles for Survival in Troubled Nation 

This photo taken on May 8, 2025 show a man weaving cane into a chinlone ball, used in the ancient Myanmar game considered a blend between sport and art, at a workshop in Hinthada township in the Irrawaddy delta region. (AFP)
This photo taken on May 8, 2025 show a man weaving cane into a chinlone ball, used in the ancient Myanmar game considered a blend between sport and art, at a workshop in Hinthada township in the Irrawaddy delta region. (AFP)
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Ancient Myanmar Ball Game Battles for Survival in Troubled Nation 

This photo taken on May 8, 2025 show a man weaving cane into a chinlone ball, used in the ancient Myanmar game considered a blend between sport and art, at a workshop in Hinthada township in the Irrawaddy delta region. (AFP)
This photo taken on May 8, 2025 show a man weaving cane into a chinlone ball, used in the ancient Myanmar game considered a blend between sport and art, at a workshop in Hinthada township in the Irrawaddy delta region. (AFP)

Mastering control of the rising and falling rattan chinlone ball teaches patience, says a veteran of the traditional Myanmar sport -- a quality dearly needed in the long-suffering nation.

"Once you get into playing the game, you forget everything," says 74-year-old Win Tint.

"You concentrate only on your touch and you concentrate only on your style."

Chinlone is Myanmar's national game and dates back centuries. Branded a blend of sport and art, it is often played to music and is typically practiced differently by men and women.

Male teams in skimpy shorts stand in a circle using stylized strokes of their feet, knees and heads to pass the ball in a game of "keepy-uppy", with a scoring system impenetrable to outsiders.

Women play solo like circus performers -- kicking the ball tens of thousands of times per session while walking tightropes, twirling umbrellas and perching on chairs balanced atop bottles.

Teen prodigy Phyu Sin Phyo hones her skills at the court in Yangon, toe-bouncing a burning ball while spinning a hula-hoop -- also on fire.

"I play even when I am sick," says the 16-year-old. "It is important to be patient to become a good chinlone player."

But play has plunged in recent years, with the Covid-19 pandemic followed by the 2021 military coup and subsequent civil war.

Poverty rates are shooting up and craftsmen face increasing problems sourcing materials to make balls.

But the rising and falling rhythm of the game offers its practitioners a respite.

"When you hear the sound of kicking the ball it's like music," Win Tint, vice-chairman of the Myanmar Chinlone Federation, told AFP.

"So when you play chinlone, you feel like dancing."

- 'Play day is happy' -

Different versions of the hands-free sport known as "caneball" are widely played across Southeast Asia.

In Thailand, Malaysia and Indonesia players kick and head the ball over a net in the volleyball-style "sepak takraw".

In Laos it is known as "kataw" while Filipinos play "sipa" -- meaning kick.

In China, people kicking around weighted shuttlecocks in parks is a common sight.

Myanmar's iteration dates back 1,500 years, according to popular belief.

Some cite a French archaeologist's discovery of a replica silver chinlone ball at a pagoda built in the Pyu era of 200 BC to 900 AD.

It was initially practiced as a casual pastime, a fitness activity and for royal entertainment.

But in 1953 the game was given rules and a scoring system, as part of an effort to codify Myanmar's national culture after independence from Britain.

"No one else will preserve Myanmar's traditional heritage unless the Myanmar people do it," said player Min Naing, 42.

Despite the conflict, players still gather under motorway overpasses, around street lamps blighted with wartime blackouts and on dedicated chinlone courts -- often ramshackle open-sided metal sheds with concrete floors.

"For a chinlone man, the day he plays is always a happy day. I am happy, and I sleep well at night," says Min Naing.

"On the days I don't play it, I feel I am missing something."

- 'Respect the chinlone' -

But Win Tint is concerned that participation rates are falling.

"I worry about this sport disappearing," says master chinlone ball maker Pe Thein, toiling in a sweltering workshop in Hinthada, 110 kilometers (70 miles) northwest of Yangon.

"That's the reason we are passing it on through our handiwork."

Cross-legged men shave cane into strips, curve them with a hand crank and deftly weave them into a melon-sized ball with pentagonal holes, boiled in a vat of water to seal its strength.

"We check our chinlone's quality as if we're checking diamonds or gemstones," adds the 64-year-old Pe Thein.

"As we respect the chinlone, it respects us back."

Each ball takes around two hours to make and earns business-owner Maung Kaw $2.40 apiece.

But supplies of the best-quality rattan he covets from nearby Rakhine are dwindling.

There is fierce fighting in the state between the military and opposition groups that now control almost all of it.

Farmers are too fearful to plunge into the jungle battleground to cut cane, says Maung Kaw, endangering his profession.

"It should not be that we have players but no chinlone makers," says the 72-year-old.

"I want to work as well as I can for as long as I can."