​Sabah, the queen of not only the ataba and mijana but of the hearts of thousands in the Arab World, passed away silently in a small room in a modest hotel without the fanfare and the buzz of her heydays; Said Akl, a poet who adapted Arabic language and knew how to caress the Arabic word and elevate it to heights of an eagle threw, after his demise, bereft souls into competition for who could grieve the hardest and praise the best; as if our grief machine goes into overdrive out of guilt for not acknowledging the deceased during their lifetime. Thus, we exalt them to unimaginable ranks and bestow godlike status on them in a spurious display of loyalty after they die. Nassri Chamseddine perished alone in his father’s house in Joun lacking the warmth of both a loving hand and a heated room; Zaki Nassif used to sip coffee solitarily at the City Café before he and the Café after him retreated into the grave; Wadeeh Safi had to remind people that he existed; George Jurdaq, does even his name ring a bell? Does anyone know or recall him? Is there still room in the collective memory for Philemon Wehbi and Shoushou? The death of Assi Rahbani in 1986 marked the end of an era of cultural and artistic production and gloom pervaded the remaining bright spots with the passing of Onsi Al-Haj in 2014. ‘He who does not deal with a corrupt society corruptly is seen by others as a carrier of plaque and by himself as a moron. Is adapting oneself to vice a talent? No, it is hereditary. Some brains were impaired; some deviated; some exploded and some suffocated from the scene,’ said Al-Haj before he died. Abou Salim (Salah Tanzani) was not in the wrong when he said such days should be declared official days of mourning. He perhaps did not know that, in this land, only sectarian zua’ama are held in reverence. We are programmed to honor and lament our butchers.

The demise of Sabah has prompted the government to finally announce healthcare for artists but it remains to be seen whether the Lebanese citizens will ever be treated in the same manner.  Why do we not remember or dignify them except posthumously? Why do we gab and blab about our love and longing for them but never, even once, condescend to visit them during their lifetime?

Hassan Ismail, a Communist who fought Israel, committed suicide  in Decemnber 2014. Does his party truly commemorate his loss? Does anyone know him? 

We are trivial souls. Pompous and verbose speakers untrained to recognize or appreciate the pillars of our art and thought and industry. We are a nation of non-readers and had it not been for Fairouz and Assi Rahbani, the works of Said Akl would have remained unknown. We know not how to love each other. This is why they had isolated themselves and faded away silently. They had made their final exit from us long ago and after them, we can only bid adieu to the golden years of our once-beautiful country.

They outgrew this land. Graceful words, soft melodies, fine poetry and beautiful dreams have also outgrown this land.

Who among us does not remember Kahlil Hawi’s verses:

“They cross the bridge at dawn, light-footed my ribs stretched out for them as a sturdy bridge,”

Did he not also cross and commit suicide when Israel occupied Beirut? Do our children realize that this eminent poet killed himself for he could not stand the fall of his beloved city in the hands of Sharon.  

“You closed your eyes to ashes, you closed your eyes to  gloom”

Let this petty folklore of fake grief stop! We packed up and left this land long before Sabah was gone! This is a requiem for our country. 

​Sabah (1927-2014), Lebanon’s first and foremost singer and actress, died after sharing her life-long joy with generations of nations.  In Arabic, Sabah means morning and she was, indeed, the Arab’s Good-Morning who, like Tennyson’s Ulysses, could not rest from travel and drank life to the lees.

When Morning Died

When Morning rose to wake the Arab eyes
From long colonial sleep, tears turned to smiles
And country song-and-dance redeemed the skies
And dabki arms, entwined, stretched out for miles.

When with blithe voice, Sabah, our Morning, sang
The crescents flickered and the church bells rang
And music fluttered far with wings of light
Stretching the festive eves into the night.

When Morning died, the sunrise wore a shroud
And tears washed off the smiles in every crowd
And country music scurried home to mourn
Because its flapping wings of light were shorn.

Four score and more, the Arab’s Morning shone
Now that she’s gone, the sun is all alone. 
Hanna Saadah