The Rise and Fall of Ziad Rahbani Through Syrian Eyes

 

For decades, Ziad Rahbani occupied a unique place in the Syrian imagination — a figure at once satirist, musician, and political voice, whose art offered both entertainment and coded dissent. His relationship with Syrians moved through phases of clandestine admiration, public estrangement, and finally to a bittersweet mixture of betrayal and a lingering, conflicted gratitude that survived even the most profound political disappointments. His artistic journey intertwined with Syria’s own political and cultural shifts, making his transformation all the more personal for those who once claimed him as their own.

 

In a country where official culture left little space for dissent, Ziad Rahbani’s plays and songs reached his Syrian audience through “stolen spaces” — cassette tapes, bootlegs, student gatherings, and underground circles — bypassing official channels. Depicting marginalized characters who defied sectarian and class hierarchies, he became a discreet emblem of non-sectarian, non-authoritarian resistance. Much of his influence in Syria during the late 1970s and 1980s stemmed from his daring satire of the Assad regime. His plays, widely circulated on cassette tapes despite censorship, resonated with the middle class and youth. Works like “We’re Still Fine… Say God” mocked the Syrian army and Hafez al-Assad, using metaphor to expose Assad’s dual role as Lebanon’s “protector” and a dominating force of control. Rumors — though never confirmed — claimed Ziad was briefly jailed over such recordings, and that Fairuz went to Assad to plead his case. Ownership of a tape became an act of quiet defiance. 

 

Ziad Rahbani carved out a rebellious space within Syria’s tightly controlled cultural scene. Rejecting his inherited artistic legitimacy and the sanctity of sectarian identity, nationalist sentiment, and widespread adoration, he replaced the Rahbani family’s polished aesthetic with satire, cursing, and the raw textures of depression and madness. For Ziad, art was not a place for deification but a mirror to society’s wounds — what Nour Jabbour describes in Al Modon as “stripping away the ornamentation to expose the wound.”* He spoke for the “flawed,” the angry, and the unclassifiable, offering a rare voice of truth-telling that audiences recognized as their own.

 

Ziad became a clandestine cultural code for those unwilling to accept the official script. His image, clipped from newspapers, hung in homes, cafés, and bookstores as a subtle challenge to the leader’s omnipresence. For many, he was a witty alternative to the state-approved “committed artist,” blending wordplay, self-mockery, and sharp social critique. Though not a militant communist, he embraced rigid leftist politics after the Soviet Union’s collapse and supported the “resistance” camp, including ties with Hezbollah — an affiliation many Syrians accepted at the time.

 

For the generation of youth raised by parents who adored Fairuz and the Rahbani brothers, Ziad’s break from the family’s iconic style felt like a personal rebellion. Many of these fans, children of rural migrants who had moved to cities in the 1960s and 1970s, embraced the cosmopolitan identities reflected in his work. From his theater debut “Sahriyyeh,” set in a bustling café, to his music that fused tarab’s emotional depth with jazz’s complexity, Ziad Rahbani rejected convention and nostalgia, embodying the quiet defiance and urban aspirations of Syria’s youth, according to Omar Kadour in Al Modon.** By the 2000s, he was more than an artist to many Syrians — he was a cultural compass. His 2008 Damascus concert became a legendary event, with an audience so enthralled that they sang his songs for him.

 

This reputation collapsed during the 2011 uprising, along with his image as an independent thinker. Shaped by disillusionment with the Lebanese Civil War, Ziad identified sectarianism as Lebanon’s core problem and believed unity could be achieved only under a strong authoritarian leader — a “Stalin-like” figure. This outlook led him to align with Hezbollah, the most organized and militarized political force in Lebanon. Viewing Syria’s 2011 uprising through the lens of Lebanon’s wartime chaos, he considered repressive central authority essential for preserving sectarian balance. His refusal to condemn Assad’s atrocities and continued alliance with Hezbollah alienated many Syrians, reinforcing the perception that he valued authoritarian “order” over popular demands for freedom.

 

Ziad alienated admirers by mocking the revolution’s slogans, likening it to Afghanistan’s Taliban and Al-Qaida, and siding with the Syrian regime and Hezbollah. Shielded from Syria’s direct horrors, he saw the 2011 uprising not as liberation but as a descent into chaos reminiscent of Lebanon’s Civil War. Syria’s sectarian diversity, in his mind, made such chaos inevitable without a strong central order. This preference for order over upheaval left him skeptical of uprisings, seeing Syria’s revolution as a prelude to chaos. Viewing events through Lebanon’s past, he feared a repetition of its carnage.

 

Ziad’s praise of Bashar al-Assad as “the great steadfast president” and his open support for the Syrian government sparked outrage, especially during a lecture at the American University of Beirut. Critics like Ali Safar accused him of becoming “just another voice in the chorus endorsing the killing of Syrians under the pretext of combating political Islam,” as Safar writes in his article, “After Mocking Freedom, Ziad Rahbani Distorted Himself in the Syrians' Mirrors,” published in Al Modon.***

 

The artist who had once given Syrians a language of dissent was now seen as having abandoned it at the moment they most needed it. The symbolic capital he had built over decades collapsed. While his music still resonates in the Syrian popular memory, the image of “Fairuz’s son” — a fearless, independent voice — was permanently tarnished. His image vanished from public and private spaces, and the cultural affection he once commanded gave way to disappointment and estrangement.

 

Ziad’s silence on the regime’s atrocities — and his alignment with Hezbollah — were seen as betrayals. For Syrians, this was not neutrality but, as Maha Ghazal called it, “a rhythmic betrayal of what he had taught us.”**** His plays stopped circulating, his image faded from public and private spaces, and the rebellious icon became, in critics’ words, “an authoritarian priest,” states Nour Jabbour in Al Modon.

 

For many Syrians, Rahbani’s refusal to stand with the revolution was unforgivable, and the word “traitor” was freely applied. Yet the severing of ties was never complete. In moments of fear, Syrians still turned to his old recordings, replaying the voice that had once given them courage. The comfort of his earlier defiance lingered, even as his present silence stung.

 

In the years that followed, Rahbani’s public image in Syria settled into a complex duality. For many, he was a traitor — someone who had refused to stand with the oppressed in their most desperate hour. Yet others could not bring themselves to erase him. In nights of fear, old recordings would still be played in private, offering comfort from the same voice that now seemed politically alien.

 

Ghazal asks: Did Ziad truly betray Syrians, or did he simply fail to find a way to stand with them? Nostalgia for his earlier defiance endured. Upon Ziad’s death on July 26, 2025, Syrians mourned not only the man and musician but also a part of their cultural selves — the rebellious icon whose work had shaped their sense of humor, music, and resistance, with his sharp eyes and ability to strip away pretension. As Ghazal writes, “Disappointment does not cancel out gratitude,” for those “who let us down in one moment may have been the same ones who saved us in an earlier moment. We grieve because Ziad’s voice was the first to stir the question of freedom within us, and he was not the last to silence it.” In remembering Ziad Rahbani, Syrians remember both the thrill of recognizing themselves in his art and the sting of realizing he could not — or would not — recognize them in their struggle.