I woke up on Saturday morning to the sound of my partner crying. Confused, I asked what was wrong. They turned to me with tears in their eyes and said, “Ziad died.”
And just like that, a silence took over the room.
Ziad Rahbani, the icon, the rebel, the genius, was gone. At 69, after a long illness, he passed away in Beirut, and with him, a part of Lebanon’s soul. Whether you grew up with his music echoing from cassette players in war-torn Beirut, or discovered his plays on YouTube decades later, there’s no denying: Ziad touched all of us. Even if you weren’t a fan, his words, his melodies, his anger and tenderness found a way into your life.
By Saturday morning, crowds had already gathered outside the hospital in Hamra district, his favorite neighbourhood. No big farewell, no grand procession, just raw, real emotion from the people he spoke to for five decades.
Ziad was more than Fairouz’s son. Yes, he was born into Lebanese music royalty. His mother, the eternal voice of Lebanon, and his father Assi Rahbani, one half of the Rahbani Brothers, who shaped the golden age of Arabic music. But Ziad chose a different path. A path of resistance, of brutal honesty, of art soaked in truth.
He was only a teenager when he started composing. At 17, he wrote his first play. At 22, he gave us “Bennesbeh Labokra Shou?” a masterpiece of dark, ironic theater that is still quoted today. Through music and words, he captured the absurdity of Lebanese life: the daily struggle, the shattered dreams, the ridiculous politics, and the undying humor we somehow hold onto.
He called it Oriental jazz, a fusion of Arabic quarter tones and Western funk, but Ziad’s sound was always unmistakably Lebanese. Albums like “Houdou Nisbi” and “Abu Ali” weren’t just music, they were time capsules of Beirut’s chaos and beauty, its contradictions and its charm.
While his mother’s voice floated above the mess, Ziad dove headfirst into it. He lived through the civil war and took sides; not religious ones, but moral ones. He moved from East to West Beirut in solidarity with Palestinians, unafraid to speak truth to power. He supported communism, criticized corruption, and exposed hypocrisy, even when it cost him popularity.
And still, we loved him. Because he was us. Angry, disillusioned, heartbroken, hopeful.
His plays and songs weren’t fantasies. They were mirrors. We saw our parents in his characters, heard our own questions in his lyrics.
“They say tomorrow will be better—but what about today?” he once asked. A line that hit differently every time we heard it.
Ziad wrote “Kifak Inta,” “Bala Wala Shi,” “Aayesh Wahda Balak,” and so many more songs that felt like pages torn from our lives. His voice was raspy, his humor sharp, his music timeless. He made us laugh when we were on the brink of crying. He made us think when thinking was dangerous. He made art when art was resistance.
Ziad Rahbani isn’t just gone. He’s everywhere. In our cafés, in our sarcasm, in our sadness, in our songs.
He wasn’t trying to be a hero. He just didn’t know how to lie. And in a country like Lebanon, that made him a legend.
Farewell, Ziad. Your music will keep playing. Your truth will keep echoing. And we, your people, will never forget.
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