The voice Syrians cling to when things fall apart

The Lebanese singer Fairuz has been part of Syrian life for as long as anyone can remember. Her songs floated through living rooms, cafés and morning traffic long before the war tore the country apart. What has changed is the nightmare backdrop against which it’s now heard.

When I returned to Syria last month after a long Turkish exile, memories came flooding back. At the top of the list was Fairuz, whose warm, unmistakable voice followed me even into prison.

During interrogations, her songs drifted in from somewhere far away – haunting, almost unreal – while screams and the sounds of torture echoed through neighbouring corridors. It was Syria in a single scene: a gentle voice colliding with savage brutality. And there she was, whispering, “O distant mountain, behind you are our loved ones”.

Strangely, I never learned to hate her for it. I couldn’t blame Fairuz for the way her music was used, just as her son, Ziad Rahbani, despite openly siding with Assad, failed to erase her from the Syrian conscience. Fairuz proved stronger than prison walls, deeper than fear, and immune to every attempt to sully her name.

She is winter mornings before roads became checkpoint mazes and schools turned into military HQs. She is the sound of mothers cooking in the kitchen, the soundtrack of the walk to school or work, back when the biggest worry was running late.

For Syrians, Fairuz is a feeling. A reminder of a Syria we loved, and still do, no matter how much it has been broken.

In a country where absolutely everything has been dragged into politics, Fairuz somehow stayed above it. She sang for Damascus and not for Assad’s Syria.

She never shouted slogans, never justified repression, never joined the parade of artists who rushed to excuse violence after 2011. Fairuz, at least, didn’t betray us.

She didn’t glorify killing or dress crimes up as “patriotism”. She never stood on regime stages singing over the rubble. And that silence? That was her quiet, devastating statement.

She wasn’t the voice of the revolution, sure, but she certainly wasn’t the voice of the regime either, which filled the airwaves with crude and sectarian propaganda songs. Fairuz stayed closer to what we once dreamed of: something human, decent, and impossible to weaponise because of that.

Even in exile, Fairuz never left us. In Syrian cafés from Istanbul to Berlin, from Amman to The Hague, her voice plays on. It was as if we packed her into our suitcases. A homeland that needs no passport, no visa, no approval stamp.

In exile, Fairuz becomes a shared language among strangers. She doesn’t ask where you’re from, why you fled, or which side you’re on. She simply exists in a neutral space where Syrians can meet and agree on one thing: love for her music.

Back in Damascus, Fairuz is everywhere. Her face watches over cafés like a guardian of better times. Many of those cafés are named after her songs: “At the Crossroads”, “Since It Is”, “A Breeze Blew Upon Us”, “Morning and Evening”, and countless others.

Her voice doesn’t anger the authorities, but it still speaks volumes. It says that people still want peace, still crave normal life, that they insist on humanity, even in its simplest form.

Fairuz doesn’t shout or order. She doesn’t lecture or demand loyalty. She reminds us that before we became statistics, prisoners, or refugees, we were once human beings with feelings.

For Syrians today, Fairuz is the emotional bridge between two worlds: the calm life we once knew and the chaos that descended when we dared to ask for change. Her voice still connects us to a past that hasn’t been completely wiped out.