Latest news with #LebaneseArabic
L'Orient-Le Jour
01-08-2025
- Entertainment
- L'Orient-Le Jour
In 'Fragile' Tania Saleh voices her worry about a world in peril
Inspired by her forced departure from Lebanon after the political and financial crises and the Beirut port explosion in August 2020, the artist explores, in "Fragile," questions that trouble many of us. Questions about the future, in a world devastated by war, social and climate crises, and the predominance of machines. Sung in Lebanese Arabic, the 10 songs in this new album are multinational: they were recorded in France and were the result of a remote collaboration with a Norwegian main track, 'Ghaseel Dmegh' ('Brainwashing'), sounds like a rebirth. Where are you headed now?This song marked the starting point for this project. Its purpose was specifically to open the door to a 'brainwashing' through the album. Brainwashing in quotes, because I could never really accomplish it. Turning myself into someone totally...
Web Release
04-06-2025
- Entertainment
- Web Release
Composer Omar Rahbany Unveils Lubnaniyat: A Groundbreaking Musical Statement on Lebanon
Drawing from Lebanon's most iconic musical legacy and reshaping it for a new era, composer and multidisciplinary artist Omar Rahbany is turning heads with Lubnaniyat; a bold, touring musical project that reawakens the Lebanese spirit through orchestral storytelling and contemporary arrangement, amid renewed hopes for a national rebirth. Rooted in the nation's rich musical heritage yet reinterpreted with modern orchestration, Lubnaniyat is a journey through Lebanon's collective memory, a sonic retelling of identity and belonging. With sweeping tapestries, cross-cultural influences, and immersive visual elements, the project aims to capture the music of Lebanon's past and the spirit of its future. The innovative concept, comprising of a symphonic orchestra blended with a Lebanese Arabic ensemble and choir, took its first step with a breathtaking performance in Doha last month. Held at the Qatar National Convention Centre, the concert saw Rahbany take to the stage alongside the Qatar Philharmonic Orchestra to present powerful arrangements of iconic Lebanese songs alongside his own compositions; reimagined with his signature blend of orchestral depth, contemporary rhythm, and cinematic storytelling. The show marked the beginning of Lubnaniyat's wider journey as a touring project. At the helm will be Rahbani 3.0, the multidisciplinary creative house co-founded by Omar and filmmaker Karim Rahbani, dedicated to bridging music, film, and narration. Reflecting on the project, Rahbany said: 'Just as artists in the Renaissance looked back to classical antiquity and Greco-Roman humanist ideals, Lubnaniyat offers a renewed reflection on the pioneers who shaped Lebanon's musical and cultural identity. But at its core, it is a diplomatic statement in itself: while Lebanon works to revive its place on the international stage, music, art, and culture emerge as its true ambassadors, carrying the nation's voice, identity, and resilience to the world.' Dividing the orchestra into distinct sections reflects Lebanon's ongoing cultural fusion, Western European symphonic tradition, Afro American jazz brass and grooves, and a Lebanese-Arabic ensemble representing the region's rich Middle Eastern roots, Lubnaniyat is Omar Rahbany's way of carrying Lebanon's most celebrated musical inheritance into a new era, connecting generations. Through Rahbani 3.0, Omar is leading a new wave of artistic projects that blur the lines between stage and screen, music and motion. Rahbani 3.0 is committed to exporting Lebanese artistry to the world, starting with Lubnaniyat, now poised for further international performances.
L'Orient-Le Jour
08-05-2025
- General
- L'Orient-Le Jour
When the song stops echoing
In the hills of Mount Lebanon, my grandmother used to sing a lullaby in a now-vanishing form of Lebanese Arabic, echoing the pre-modern cadence of village storytellers. The words, warm and untranslatable, drifted through the cedar trees like the scent of baking bread. But as I write this from my apartment in Beirut, windows open to the hum of traffic and a skyline of cranes, I wonder if that lullaby will be sung to anyone after me. This is the quiet war of cultural preservation in the Middle East. It isn't always fought with arms — more often, it's fought with memory. And in a world racing toward the future, memory is heartbreakingly easy to lose. Modernization has swept the region like a tide: glass towers replacing stone houses, Western curricula replacing oral traditions, TikTok videos replacing folktales. For some, this is progress. For others, it's a slow kind of erasure. The tension between development and identity defines our generation. We are the bridge between what once was and what might never be again. Take the youth of southern Iraq, for example. They've taken to Instagram to showcase traditional reed house construction. Once dismissed as backward, these homes are now reframed as brilliant examples of sustainable architecture. They're using the very tools of globalization to preserve what it once threatened to erase. In Lebanon, the fight is quieter, but no less urgent. It's not just buildings or dialects at risk, but the soul of entire neighborhoods. In Beirut, Mar Mikhael used to smell like manousheh dough. Now, century-old Armenian bakeries stand beside neon-lit bars. The dough still rises, but the context is slipping. Some call it coexistence. Others, like community organizer Silva Chahinian, see it differently. 'When rent triples and the baker closes, we don't just lose bread,' she said. 'We lose memory.' Lebanon has long known wars, and each has left a mark deeper than the rubble. The 15-year Civil War didn't just topple buildings; it cracked open the fabric of daily life. Families were torn apart, neighbors became strangers, and many grew up with memories they were too afraid or too exhausted to speak of. Villages emptied. Dialects slipped away, unspoken and forgotten. Church bells went silent. Songs once passed from one generation to the next faded into the noise of gunfire and sirens. And now, decades later, with tensions rising again in the South, these old wounds feel fresh. Villages near the border have emptied once more. Schools sit in silence. Weddings are postponed with no new dates. What used to be a rhythm of life: early morning songs from the fields and evening stories told over tea have been placed on hold. But even now, people find ways to hold on. A friend from the southern Lebanese coastal city of Sour, heavily bombarded in the latest war with Israel, told me his grandmother still gathers the children each evening to tell them stories she heard as a girl, her voice steady despite the distant hum of drones. 'If the walls fall,' she told them, 'let the stories stand.' In Saida, volunteers preserve folk songs sung by the newly displaced people by recording them on phones, uploading them online and sharing them like treasured keepsakes. In every word and every note, there's a quiet act of defiance: a way of saying, 'We're still here.' Students at the American University of Beirut began an initiative, recording their grandparents' stories in Arabic, Kurdish, and Armenian. Culture in Lebanon has always been more than tradition; its resilience stitched into sound, scent, and memory. It's the unshaken belief that even in the worst of times, something beautiful is still worth saving. In Jordan, Bedouin musicians are digitizing their maqams, preserving not just notes, but the silences between them. In Palestine, embroidery circles have become cultural sanctuaries, where each thread is a story, and every pattern an act of quiet resistance. In Tunisia, a small initiative called " Toufoula" (childhood) brings people together in a deeply personal way. Every month, villagers gather under olive trees or in open courtyards, where elders teach traditional weaving techniques to local children. It's not a lecture but a shared moment. The kids aren't just learning how to weave; they're laughing, asking questions, spilling threads and soaking in stories. It's loud and messy and beautiful. What they're taking in isn't just a skill; it's a way of life, passed down one thread at a time. These efforts may seem small, even invisible. But, they are tectonic. They remind us that culture is not something to be sealed in a glass case. It breathes. It adapts. But, it must not be uprooted. I keep coming back to my grandmother's lullaby. I looked everywhere for it online, but nothing came up. No digital archive, no YouTube cover. Just her voice, now gone. So, I recorded myself singing it, shaky but honest. I sent it to my cousin in France. I scribbled the lyrics phonetically on the back of a receipt. I called my uncle to confirm the melody. It's not a perfect recording. But maybe that's not the point. Maybe what matters is that the song still lives, even if it trembles. Preserving culture doesn't mean standing still. It means moving forward without forgetting where you started. It means carrying your grandmother's voice in your pocket while learning to live in a world she never imagined. In a world that urges us to upgrade, update, and upload, may we also remember to listen. Not just to what's trending, but to what is quietly disappearing. Before the song stops echoing.
