While sources disagree about whether the Arab singer Faiza Ahmad was born in Saida in Lebanon or in Damascus, they agree on the fact she died in Cairo. Like many Arab singers, Ahmad had moved to Egypt in pursuit of new fame and recognition made possible by the emerging recording industry; being tempted by the wide reach of radio and television productions on offer in the mid-20th century’s Arab capital of arts.
In this second column of a series on the complex dynamics between sacred and secular singing, which many Middle Eastern artists seem to be struggling with today, the spotlight is on female singers, through the figure of Ahmad (1934-1981, according to Samim Al-Sharif). This brief look at Ahmad’s passion for singing shows how the course of her life stood in contrast to that of her compatriot Saleh Al-Muhabbek (featured in the previous column), whose talent found unhindered expression in multiple domains of the Arab vocal arts of his time.
While Ahmad’s move to Cairo was consistent with the geographic base many of her male and female contemporaries chose at the time, the Syrian female singer did not return home, as many others did. Instead, and after what historian Al-Sharif describes as agonizing debates over the idea of migration, she did indeed move to Egypt, settling there until the end of her life.
A few of the Syrian male singers who returned to Damascus, Aleppo, Hama and Homs took up religious cantor roles within their families or in the urban Sufi circles, from which many of them had departed prior to going down the road of secular singing. For their female counterparts, the decision to return was a much more complicated one, and it seems like Ahmad knew it would be an unlikely possibility.
Some historians place Ahmad’s family origins in the popular classes of Damascus, which was not a social environment that looked favorably on art as a profession for men, let alone for women, in a country that was still burdened by a succession of foreign rules. Young Ahmad’s musical ambitions were stifled initially, but her talent eventually found appreciation after she was accepted as a singer in the Syrian radio chorus.
Music historians laud Ahmad’s persistence in overcoming social and economic hurdles as she strove for fame
Tala Jarjour
Music historians laud Ahmad’s persistence in overcoming social and economic hurdles as she strove for fame. Within a short time of arriving in Cairo, she managed to get noticed by the star composers of the era, whose work she sang to great acclaim. While her choice of composers was not always commended by critics, Ahmad insisted on making her own artistic choices. For some time, her husband of many years, Mohammed Sultan, was the only composer whose work she sang, even though some critics thought that other composers, such as Riad Al-Sunbati and Mohammed Al-Muji, had a better grasp of her vocal abilities.
Still, Ahmad managed to secure a high rank, being second only to Umm Kulthum, which some historians claim was an honor bestowed on her by the foremost diva of mid-20th-century Arabic song. While Ahmad’s voice did not have the same gravitas and character of Kulthum’s, her artistry, along with the range, colorfulness and expressive powers of her voice, secured Ahmad high regard among critical audiences.
She continues to be appreciated as a singer today, and as an artist who has left a distinguishing mark in recorded Arabic song. But perhaps one of her contributions that ought to be better acknowledged is her challenging the social and cultural norms of her time and milieu. Working in arts professions, especially ones that involved public visibility on television and the theater, remained a risky business for women well into the third quarter of the 20th century, and Ahmad’s life is testimony to that.
Ahmad adhered to common practices of her time, by singing qasa’id (strophic poems in fusha, aka “classical” Arabic), and by singing religious muwashshahat. Admittedly, it was through such genres that a rising singer established worthiness of the connoisseur audience’s attention. This strategy was also a way of establishing her “seriousness” as a respectable singer.
However, being true to her artistic self, Ahmad also took some courageous steps. Going into cinema may have been one of them. But perhaps one of her most beloved songs, “Message from a Woman,” may have been an even bolder one. “Risala min Imra’ah” is a re-enactment of a dramatic scene, the lyrics for which are a modern poem by Nizar Qabbani, the Damascene poet who was known for his poetry and explicit imagery. Originally titled “Message from a Vengeful Lady,” Ahmad’s song, set to music by Sultan, replaced a number of aggressive words in Qabbani’s text, which included insults, with milder ones.
The poem opens with the words: “Do not enter… No.” Ahmad repeats this a few times in a low, male-like register and a serious, imperative tone. “You blocked the way in my face with both elbows, and claimed that friends came to you. Is it friends? Or is it a woman that came to you, to occupy — after me — your arms?”
The monologue, clearly in the voice of a woman retelling events to her unfaithful lover, is a short story of betrayal, in which the woman’s injury is expressed in strong words told to her former lover’s face, urging him not to apologize or be sorry, because she is not. “I am sorry for my faithful heart,” she says, as she remembers past moments of bliss, imagining the other woman taking her place by the stove, only to be betrayed like she was.
Ahmad’s song, recorded multiple times throughout her life, lasts a good part of an hour in most live performances and remains a popular favorite. Continuously relayed as a passionate account of romantic betrayal, “Message from a Woman” tells the story of a woman who has overcome many struggles in a life dedicated to that which she truly loved.
Ahmad was not the first Syrian female singer to be attracted by Cairo’s studios, nor was Al-Muhabbek the only male singer who moved to Cairo and returned to Syria to take on formal roles within the religious establishment. Yet their life trajectories took fundamentally different turns. The returned male singer found employment and stardom as a teacher and cantor master. For the female singer, however, maintaining stardom did not include the option of returning home. Knowing about these towering figures is essential to understanding the complex relationship between the sacred and the secular in the contemporary Middle East.
- Tala Jarjour is author of “Sense and Sadness: Syriac Chant in Aleppo” (OUP, 2018). She is currently Visiting Research Fellow at King’s College London and Associate Fellow of Pierson College at Yale.
