Singing and songwriting were crucial political practices during the October 17, 2019 uprising in Beirut and many other cities and villages in Lebanon. A singer and songwriter herself, Mayssa Jallad became part of a group of protestors who resisted through words and music, creating a musical language that appropriated both past and present and sustained the energy of thousands.

In 2018, I decided to leave New York City and return to Beirut. I decided to return because I wanted to shake off the politically powerless dread of living abroad, in the hope that I would be able to engage in causes that mattered to me in my hometown.

But also, my return would allow me to write music again. I was unable to produce new work in New York, since I was stuck in an architectural office all day. It wilted me and I worried that I was losing my voice. I would return to Beirut and write songs about the city, its contested history, and our struggle in fighting the political class, which has destroyed the country’s past, present, and future. One year later, in October 2019, I went to the city center to join the uprising. The country was being set ablaze by the largest anti-establishment protests it had ever witnessed. I wandered the streets and conversed with strangers, all desperate for change. It was exciting to witness how Beirut’s city center was being reclaimed by the people it had been deprived of since its post-war reconstruction.

Awash with Hela Ho

I don’t remember the first time I heard the «Hela Ho» chant in the square, but its adaptation of Bob Azzam’s famous tune «Chérie je t’aime» and the lurid insult it contained made it instantly addictive. I later discovered it was modeled after a chant by the fans of Nejmeh, a local football club, who copied it from a chant by the Egyptian Ahli football club fans (Megaphone 2019). There is something electric about finishing someone’s chant, an unspoken complicity is born, like new lovers finishing each other’s sentences. It’s also thrilling to insult a politician out loud, protected by the masses. I believe this is the chant that began the revolution’s practice of using folkloric melodies mixed with anti-establishment lyrics. Somehow, I became part of this songwriting practice in the direct action group I joined in the second week of the uprising.

The group was diverse in that it included activists, musicians, and artists. In the early days of the uprising, we gathered with one simple goal: to block a road. This collective action was a statement against a return to «normalcy» and it inscribed the uprising in our daily lives. In the words of writer and activist Marina Sitrin, we were establishing «everyday revolutions» to keep the momentum alive (Sitrin 2012). This action came naturally to some members of the group who had participated in previous protests in Lebanon. But none had the scale of October 17, 2019, and none had allowed protestors to block streets for days on end.

Singing Anew

To make this act of defiance more sustainable, we resorted to singing, which we did for hours. The demands of the uprising called for spontaneous songwriting to the tunes of local and regional folklore songs. The chants were catchy and learning them only required memorizing the newly sung lyrics; the melodies already ingrained in our collective pop consciousness. We sang songs by Fairouz, Sabah, and Nawal el Zoghbi, but also folkloric songs, children’s rhymes, and Iraqi chants sung in Hussainiya halls during Iraq’s own mass protests (Hussainiyas are a place of worship and congregation for Shiite Muslims across the world). The original lyrics of the songs spoke of daily life, heartbreak, celebration, and death, but quickly transformed to reflect the act of protesting. The lyrics evoked «closing roads», «selling your kidneys because the bank stole your money», «generator subscriptions», and «occupying the square».

The process began as impromptu songwriting, with members of the group carrying portable instruments and improvising during that first road closure I attended. We then organized specific events and flash-protests, in which songwriting was as crucial as preparing cardboard signs, banners, and other necessities. Songwriting sessions were organized in advance of specific protests; the wordsmiths and musicians in the group would meet to match pop melodies with new lyrics fitting the theme of the protest. The songwriting adapted and shifted depending on the needs of the protest and it always followed the tune of the original song.

The group of protestors and friends was witty and never shied away from offense or provocation. The bank protest choir we organized was especially memorable. At first, bank tellers thought we were Christmas carolers and allowed us in despite the new security measures they had implemented since the beginning of the uprising. The familiarity of the songs put the bank employees at ease at first, but later they realized that we had changed the lyrics. We took aim at the violent injustice the people were subjected to in the tune of harmless pop songs. I realized then how potent a song can be in the context of a protest (listen to one of them here).

Out in the Open

Performing these songs in public spaces was equally thrilling. At times, we sang in unison with the whole group and other times the leads of the group, or the hattifeh, carried a megaphone and the crowds would repeat after them. When we walked down the streets of Beirut, people perched on their balconies showered us with celebratory rice and banged on pots and pans. For a brief moment, it felt as if we were speaking the same language. Although they were homebound, they were still living vicariously through us; our songs reaching their ears, their hearts, and their voices too.

Being a part of this group throughout the uprising made me realize how the power of collaboration in songwriting taps into the collective memory of song and that writing music becomes more meaningful with voices as multiple as the context at hand. I have met wonderful people and musicians, who became collaborators on my personal musical projects as well. Far from the fervor of the streets, this experience has opened me up to a world of music I never thought I would witness that was fueled both by the difficulties of daily life in Lebanon and by the beauty of its people.