In the crowd of this swinging world between hope and despair, a voice that resembles only a voice emerges, a voice that was written for him to be part of the conscience of a nation. It carries the memory of the earth, the pain of man, and dreams that do not die. Fayrouz is not a mere sound or song, but rather a situation that makes us realize that art is able to restore the cracks that the days leave, and that the dream can be reshaped, even in the presence of ruin.
That voice, which sneaks into our mornings, as the sun’s rays, to the heart of darkness, was not merely a music that is played on the chord of imprisonment, but rather a gate towards the past, towards the stories that we left behind. A voice reduces the smell of school morning, glow the university, the dread of the first work, and the confusion of the first love. It was and still is a homeland in itself, a homeland in which we dream of stability, safe homes, and on the streets free of fear.
When we hear Fairuz’s voice, time seems to stop, to restore us to a country that does not resemble what we have become. In its voice, Lebanon lives in green, Lebanon, which was a small paradise day, and a hope for beauty and humanity. However, on the outskirts of this dream, our Arab reality stands as an open wound, besieged with wars and divisions, in a flagrant contradiction, which gives us the voice of tranquility amid the hustle and bustle of reality that bleeds pain; Her voice was like a lamp at a long night.
In the world of Fayrouz, where tranquility dwells and souls dance to the “six -choice” tunes, we live moments of reassurance that forget the concerns of life. But soon this calm collapses to face the hustle and bustle of the tragic reality with all its bitterness, as the questions remain pending in space: “With the war of adults, what is the guilt of childhood?
Here, the sharp contradiction between the reassurance that calms our hearts with every turquoise tune, and the cruelty of a world
