How Fairuz mends our sorrows, souls, and homelands

* Today marks the 90th birthday of Fairuz, a beloved icon who captured the hearts of millions across the Arab world and beyond. Today, we celebrate 90 years of a voice that became the heart of generations, carrying people’s dreams, sorrows, and longing. This piece is a tribute to her.

There was once a girl who lived in a poor home in a city called Beirut. Each day, she’d stand by the kitchen window, singing while asking her neighbor to turn up the radio so she could hear the music. But every time she sang, her other cranky neighbor would yell at her, complaining about the noise as he tried to sleep. On weekends, she’d visit her beloved grandmother in the village, sharing stories and wandering through nature. Her life was simple and ordinary, filled with quiet and tranquility. She had no idea what fate had in store for her.

Years later, the girl stumbled upon love and, with it, discovered the magic of her voice. She began to use it, and from that moment on, her voice held an unshakable grip on people’s hearts.

Loving Fairuz is the only kind of love that doesn’t diminish when shared—it overflows instead. Give me one song, and I’ll give you ten in return. Aside from her irresistible magic, I believe we inherit our love for her from our parents, especially our mothers.

I was only three years old when her magical voice first reached me. I remember that moment vividly: my mother driving her Toyota, and the song “Bint El Shalabiya” playing on the cassette. I tried to find her, to see her face, but when I failed, I contended myself with listening—losing myself in an eternal whirlwind of emotions that would accompany me through every stage of my life. Listening to her songs, I’d forget the difference between joy and sorrow, I’d forget that she wasn’t just mine.

I met this magical woman only once. It was in 2011, when she graced us with a rare appearance. She stood in the middle of the stage, dressed in all white. When she began to sing, the audience began to cry. In her presence, men and women alike became united and equal in their awe and wonder—their sorrow was one, and so was their joy. I was stunned by the power of her magic. She made everyone cry without any shame. She dissolved societal barriers and transformed sorrow into a form of healing, a remedy.

With Fairuz, there is no shame in sadness and sorrow.

When she sang her lyrics, it didn’t weigh heavy on our hearts; instead, it soothed us, as if to say: “Cry and heal. My voice is here to help you. Take everything I offer. I’ll only be here for an hour.”

For that one hour, she gave everything and then disappeared. I don’t remember most of the songs she performed that night, but I vividly recall the overwhelming emotions she evoked, how time disappeared, and how we all knelt in reverence of the moment and prayed with her.

Loving Fairuz is the only kind of love that doesn’t diminish when shared—it overflows instead. Give me one song, and I’ll give you ten in return. Aside from her irresistible magic, I believe we inherit our love for her from our parents, especially our mothers.

I met this magical woman only once. It was in 2011, when she graced us with a rare appearance. She stood in the middle of the stage, dressed in all white. When she began to sing, the audience began to cry. In her presence, men and women alike became united and equal in their awe and wonder—their sorrow was one, and so was their joy. I was stunned by the power of her magic.

My right cheek rests against my mother’s left cheek as she sings “Nassam Alayna El Hawa” during bedtime. The transparent cassette tape spins endlessly in the car, delivering the same mesmerizing emotions on every trip. As for my devout father, he only needs to hear “Laylia Btirjaa Ya Layl” to close his eyes and remember his first love. My 90-year-old grandmother begins tapping her left foot involuntarily the moment Fairuz utters her iconic “Ouf.” My friends compete to find the saddest line Fairuz has ever sung. With Fairuz, there is no shame in sadness and sorrow. Her sadness is in the weathered faces of our grandparents—comforting in the way their wrinkles narrate their life stories. It’s enough for them to smile, and we are instantly transported to a corner of our childhood, full of raw emotion.

Her voice speaks to our hearts, expressing the hopeless love we hold for the people we can never have—free from pain yet full of release. Tell them for us, Fairuz. Tell them how much we love them, how much we want them, and how we wished we could have stolen them away from the crowd but chose to let them go. Let your voice pour over us, carrying all its sorrow, to lift the pain from our souls.

Isn’t it strange that we usually avoid sharing anything sad, fearing that others might see through us? Yet when it comes to Fairuz, sorrow transcends secrecy and becomes an act of beauty, a celebration of its own. Friends react with hearts and share their favorite lines from her songs. And in those moments, we never feel, not even for a second, that our emotions or desires are exposed and vulnerable—because Fairuz’s voice shields us.

I don’t remember most of the songs she performed that night, but I vividly recall the overwhelming emotions she evoked, how time disappeared, and how we all knelt in reverence of the moment and prayed with her.

Fairuz stands above everything with a transcendence that makes her more important than any sorrow, joy, man, or homeland. She becomes a source of solace, free from shame or humiliation over public vulnerability. She is the space before and after things happen, a safe corner for those of us who have lost our own voices, relying on hers to speak aloud for us. She is sad today, but she’ll be okay. She fell silently in love last year and will recover. She set a trap for him with a song of mine, and he didn’t respond. It’s fine—my voice matters more, and my voice is okay.

I fear that Fairuz might pass away while I’m in a foreign land. The magic will shatter, and all the sorrow she shielded me from will return. Who would I share it with over here? Who here would understand why I cry over the voice of a woman I’ve never known but she’s inhabited me since the day I was born?

There is no room for coincidence with Fairuz. Just as she took four years to agree to perform “Kifak Enta,” we wait patiently for days and songs that are always sung with intention. In the morning, Fairuz is intentional, and in the evening, too.

In my opinion, if you were wondering, the saddest line she ever sung was:

I waited for you on my doorstep on the eve of Eid. All my friends passed by, but you were far away.

And the most heartbreaking lyrics are:

"And what a shame we didn’t write."

Perhaps because no matter how much we write about her or for her, we can never repay her for what she has given us.

I fear that Fairuz might pass away while I’m in a foreign land. The magic will shatter, and all the sorrow she shielded me from will return. Who would I share it with over here? Who here would understand why I cry over the voice of a woman I’ve never known but she’s inhabited me since the day I was born?

Once upon a time, there was a little girl who lost her grandfather. She sought solace in the Quran, in prayer, and in family, trying to fill the void he left behind: his hand that held hers for so many years, the daily Ka'ak Al-Abbas they shared at lunch, the stories under the stars, the hours spent under the oak tree in the fig orchard near the village spring. A love she could never reclaim. All her efforts failed, and she sank into sadness and silence.

One night, a magical woman who had forsaken her old name appeared and offered the little girl a song to listen to while walking alone in the apple and olive grove she had planted with her grandfather, where she now wanders through in his absence. The little girl was convinced that the song belonged to her alone. She found in it the embrace and love she so desperately needed. Her sorrow transformed into a beautiful voice that brought to life the face dearest to her heart.

From that night on, whenever she missed her grandfather, she would return to that song and listen to it.

The song’s name is “Sa’alouni El Nass” ("The People Asked Me"), and the woman’s name is Fairuz.

* The views and opinions expressed in Opinion and Blog articles are those of the author’s, and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of Raseef22