A tribute to Nihad, and others!

Nihad was a genuine actor who loved his audience, his profession, and Syria. A pioneer of Syrian theatre, cinema, and television, he was also a brilliant scriptwriter, creating lovable characters that gained wide popularity in the Arab World and survive until this day, many years after his own death. He was also a famous star in the Arab World, but did not care about what role he played—whether it was big or small—what mattered to him was that he was acting; always acting. When illness prevented him from performing, he slaved away on a comic strip for a Lebanese weekly, with him drawn as the main character.

Nihad Qal’i died on a cold October day in 1993. There is no monument or street— not even a postal stamp, carrying his name. He should be remembered today, as we celebrate Damascus-Capital of Arab Culture-2008.

Nihad—better known by his stage name‘Husni al-Borazan’—was nevertheless, lucky. People still remember him when're-runs of his shows are aired on Arab satellite television. There are thousands of Syrian artists out there, both living and deceased, who have been either neglected, forgotten—or both. Violinists,singers, dancers, lute players, pianists,actresses. The list can go on forever.Some of them—like Duraid Lahham— left the comfort of a well-paying and respectable job (he was a chemistry instructor at Damascus University) to pursue their artistic passion. Others left behind family and wealth—and were shunned by society—for a job on stager in the cinema. One personal example is my late uncle—known in the 1950sby his stage name Fata Dimashq—who went to music despite the violent objection of his father. Music was no profession for a respectable young man, his father argued. The young singer was kicked out of the family mansion in Qaymariyya, by his father the Supreme Judge of Zahla, and had to change his name to avoid embarrassing the family. He rented a small apartment in Midan,lived off a horrible salary, and never got married because simply, musicians didn't earn enough to support a family—back then. He spent his final years at anold age home in Damascus and the last time I visited him in 2005, he pleaded, “I performed the classic “Ya Layl al-SabbuMata Ghaduhu” long before Fayrouz.Please find it and tell the world to remember me!”

I went to Damascus Radio, and dug it out of the archive—days after his death. He was correct. The recording dated back to1950.

Unlike other singers of his era, who survived into the television age, he was a household name during the radio era, and only recorded two pieces in 1960, at the launch of Syrian Television. He stood out in 2005 as an unhappy man, having lived his entire life for music, only to find himself forgotten during the final years of his years. Looking back with a tear and a smile on his youthful years, he said, “All I have from my history is a ‘thank you note’ along with photographs with Um Kalthoum, Mohammad Abdul Wahab, Farid al-Atrash, and Abdul Halim Hafez. That’s all that remains. This life is no longer interesting once you are old. For someone like me, it lacks all meaning when our voice—our most prized possession—fails us. The 1940s and 1950s were a gold era for Arabic music where as Syrians, we made international reputations for our country. There was Farid, Asmahan, Najat, Fayzeh Ahmad, and Souad Husni. All of them were first class Syrian singers, actors, and performers. Fayzeh for example, is the daughter of this city, and so is Souad. They are neither Egyptian nor Lebanese!”

Singing was a way of life, he adds and not just a profession. “I used to like to sing, more so than I liked being a singer. This was the case with many of us, like Princess Amal al-Atrash for example,or better known as Asmahan. She was a princess, and was never thrilled about singing in public. Why should I sing before a group of Egyptian royal ladies, she would ask, ‘who are they to stare at me with strange looks, then pay me for my performance? I am as royal—if not more—than any of them!’ The same applies to me. I used to sing for pleasure. I used to perform at the residence of the late Prime Minister Khaled Bey al-Azm,where had I not been singing, I would have been one of his guests. I wouldn't take money for my show. Instead, I would satisfy myself for a one-on-one talk about political events over a bottle of champagne with His Excellency.”Fata Dimashq died in 2005. His funeral was attended by a handful of friends. Damascus did not remember Fata Dimashq.

We have a duty towards the pioneers as we celebrate Damascus 2008, both the forgotten ones like my uncle, and the giants like Nihad Qal’i. We should also pay attention to the women—like Princess Amal al-Atrash—who smashed social norms in the 1940s, 1950s, and early1960s, to appear on screen and stage, defying fathers, brothers, and husbands for the sake of clean, honest, and good art. They paid a high price—theirreputations—because they ‘followed the heart’ when it came to art.

We still misunderstand art—in all its forms—and both under-estimate and under-appreciate the value of artists. It is the Qal’ity of cinemas and theatres—both how they look and what is produced on them—that creates a nation’s cultural identity. We still fall way behind in both domains. Syria ought to embrace its artists—they are good people and fine patriots—who are doing their country a great service by doing what they know how to do best: sing, dance, act, paint, and compose. They are the heroes of Damascus Capital of Arab Culture-2008.