Lebanon's Fairouz: The Arab World's Most Celebrated Living Voice

Lebanese icon Fairouz. (AFP)
Lebanese icon Fairouz. (AFP)
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Lebanon's Fairouz: The Arab World's Most Celebrated Living Voice

Lebanese icon Fairouz. (AFP)
Lebanese icon Fairouz. (AFP)

The Arab world's last living music legend Fairouz, who French president Emmanuel Macron is to visit Monday in Beirut, is a rare symbol of national unity in crisis-hit Lebanon.

Since the death of Egyptian diva Umm Kulthum in 1975, no Arab singer has been so profoundly venerated as 85-year-old Fairouz -- a stage name that means "turquoise" in Arabic.

For decades, she captivated audiences everywhere from her native Beirut to Las Vegas, including the grand Olympia in Paris and the Royal Albert Hall in London.

She has sung of love, Lebanon and the Palestinian cause, in ballads that have revolutionized Middle Eastern music.

Fairouz is "certainly one of the greatest Arab singers of the 20th century," expert in Middle Eastern music Virginia Danielson told the New York Times in 1999.

When she sang, she appeared as if in a trance: eyes glazed over, expression stoic, small smiles flashing quickly across her face.

"If you look at my face while I am singing, you will see that I am not there, I am not in the place," she told the New York Times in a rare interview.

"I feel art is like prayer."

Fairouz has been dubbed "our ambassador to the stars" by her compatriots -- not just for her celestial voice, but because she is a rare symbol of unity for a country bitterly divided by a 15-year civil war.

‘I love you, oh Lebanon’
Born Nouhad Haddad in 1934 to a working class family, she studied at the national music conservatory as a teenager.

During her time with the Lebanese state radio choir, composer Halim al-Roumi nicknamed her Fairouz and introduced her to composer Assi Rahbani, whom she married in 1955.

Fairouz, Assi, and his brother Mansour revolutionized traditional Arabic music by merging classical Western, Russian and Latin elements with eastern rhythms and a modern orchestra.

Fairouz shot to fame after her first performance at the Baalbek International Festival in 1957.

Her reign as the queen of Arabic music was partly thanks to her championing the Palestinian cause, including "Sanarjaou Yawman" or "We Shall Return One Day", an elegy to Palestinians exiled by the creation of Israel in 1948.

The star is an immortal icon in her native Lebanon.

Many of her most popular songs are nostalgic odes to pastoral times. Others are poems by the likes of Lebanese legends Gibran Khalil Gibran and Said Aql that are set to music.

She has largely disappeared from public life in recent years, but her soaring voice remains ubiquitous, blaring every morning from radios in street cafes and taxis.

"When you look at Lebanon now, you see that it bears no resemblance to the Lebanon I sing about, so when we miss it, we look for it through the songs," the diva told the New York Times.

Fairouz also won national acclaim for remaining in Lebanon throughout the country's civil war from 1975 to 1990, and for refusing to side with one faction over another.

Tens of thousands of people swarmed her first post-war concert, in 1994 in Beirut's downtown.

"I love you, oh Lebanon, my country, I love you. Your north, your south, your valley, I love you," she croons in one of her most well-known songs.

Political, family controversies
Fairouz is famously protective of her personal life.

"When she wants to, she can be really funny. She's also a distinguished chef. Very humble, she loves serving her guests herself," journalist Doha Chams, her press officer, told AFP.

But she hates "the invasion of her private life".

Fairouz had four children with husband Assi Rahbani, who died in 1986.

Their daughter Layal died at a young age of a brain hemorrhage, their son Hali is disabled, and Rima, the youngest, films and produces her mother's concerts.

Her eldest son, Ziad, followed in the footsteps of his father and uncle as a musician and composer.

Fairouz worked closely with Ziad – an iconic artist in Lebanon in his own right -- to compose songs with a jazz influence.

The Lebanese star's recent past has been marked by a string of family and political controversies.

In 2008, when Lebanese political factions were fiercely divided over support for the regime in neighboring Syria, Fairouz performed in Damascus.

Two years later, the Lebanese judiciary prevented her from singing tunes co-written by the Rahbani brothers without the authorization of the sons of her brother-in-law Mansour.

Fairouz spent several years without new material until 2017, when her daughter Rima produced her last album, "Bibali".



Pineapple Is the New Potato: Imported Fruits Back in Syria 

A man holds two pineapples at a stall that sells fruits, some of which were not available while deposed President Bashar al-Assad was in power, like kiwi, mango and pineapple, in the Shalaan Market in the Syrian capital Damascus on May 26, 2025. (AFP)
A man holds two pineapples at a stall that sells fruits, some of which were not available while deposed President Bashar al-Assad was in power, like kiwi, mango and pineapple, in the Shalaan Market in the Syrian capital Damascus on May 26, 2025. (AFP)
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Pineapple Is the New Potato: Imported Fruits Back in Syria 

A man holds two pineapples at a stall that sells fruits, some of which were not available while deposed President Bashar al-Assad was in power, like kiwi, mango and pineapple, in the Shalaan Market in the Syrian capital Damascus on May 26, 2025. (AFP)
A man holds two pineapples at a stall that sells fruits, some of which were not available while deposed President Bashar al-Assad was in power, like kiwi, mango and pineapple, in the Shalaan Market in the Syrian capital Damascus on May 26, 2025. (AFP)

After decades of poverty and isolation under the Assad dynasty, imported fruits like pineapples, kiwis and mangoes are available again in Syria's bustling markets, making mouths water and eyes twinkle.

Fruits that were once designated luxury items, meaning they were accessible only to Syria's wealthiest, are now as common as potatoes or onions, cooking staples for many of the country's population.

"We used to smuggle them in," said 46-year-old fruit vendor Marwan Abu Hayla with a big smile as he displayed his produce at Damascus's Shaalan market.

Grocers used to face fines and even imprisonment for importing exotic fruits.

But now "we do not hide pineapples anymore -- we can put them on display", Abu Hayla told AFP, adding: "The era of pineapple-phobia is over."

One kilogram of pineapple used to cost around 300,000 Syrian pounds (around $23) before an opposition offensive ousted leader Bashar al-Assad in December after nearly 14 years of civil war.

That has now plummeted to a much sweeter price of around 40,000 pounds, about $4.

"We used to smuggle (the fruit) with the help of taxi drivers -- just like petrol and diesel," Abu Hayla said of other commodities which Syrians used to bring in illicitly from neighboring Lebanon when supplies were scarce under Assad.

Now "pineapples are like potatoes and onions", he added, as potential customers eyed the ripe fruit.

- Bananas -

Buyers and sellers linked the fruits' newfound presence to developments including the free availability of the US dollar since Assad's ousting. Trading in the currency was previously punishable by law.

Other signs of change include new cars on the streets and more abundant fuel supplies.

The late Syrian president Hafez al-Assad imposed heavy state control over the economic system, which isolated the country from global trade.

His son and successor Bashar kept up the system to maintain the clan's iron-fisted rule until he was overthrown in December.

Fruit seller Ahmed al-Hareth, 45, said tropical fruit -- even bananas -- used to cost the equivalent of a public employee's monthly salary.

Customs authorities and security forces would raid stores, further fueling a limited black-market fruit trade.

Medical student Nour Abed al-Jabbar, 24, said she "used to see tropical fruit on screens more often than in markets".

One problem with that: some Syrians who have never had a pineapple before just don't know how to cut it.

"Pineapple is for everyone -- even if some people don't know how to peel it," Jabbar said.

However, many people still struggle to buy the fruit in a country whose economy has been ravaged by years of conflict and sanctions, and where 90 percent of the people live in poverty.

Housewife Ilham Amin, 50, said she had noticed grocery stores becoming more colorful, which "tempts customers to buy".

But she steers her children away from the tantalizing new fruit as she cannot afford it.

"Living conditions are tough, and pineapple is a luxury for a family like ours," she said.