From the heart of Baalbek, where history and hardship walk hand in hand, one rapper has built a movement using nothing but beats, bars, and a refusal to stay silent.  

"The revolution will not be televised," Gil Scott-Heron once declared—a truth that still resonates in the age of social media algorithms and corporate-backed entertainment. But revolutions, even in the digital age, find their way through voices too raw to be ignored.

For more than a decade, his music has defied genre expectations, political censorship, and the industry's obsession with commercialized rap. His style remains as sharp as ever, weaving politics, identity, and personal struggle into every track. But to understand his journey, one must first understand where it began.

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Baalbek: The City That Made the Artist  

"Baalbek shapes you into a rebel from the moment you're born," he says, reflecting on his hometown. The ancient city, known for its towering Roman ruins, an archaeological site and a symbol of both resilience and neglect. To grow up there is to learn that existence itself is a struggle.

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"The system treats you like an outsider, as if this city doesn’t belong to the country itself."

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The hardships of Baalbek have left their mark. Poverty, government disregard, and the constant stigma of being labeled an outlaw create an environment where rebellion is instinctive. And yet, for all its struggles, Baalbek pulses with music. Traditional oral poetry—Ataba and Mijana—is woven into the culture, serving as a historical record of pain, joy, and resistance. Rap, he explains, was never something foreign to him. "Poetry over rhythm is in our blood, just like hip-hop. The fusion was natural. It wasn’t forced."

From the Golden Age to the New Age: The Evolution of His Sound  

Since his debut album Land’s Owner in 2009, he has watched hip-hop transform. What was once a raw, revolutionary art form has, in many ways, become formulaic. He criticizes the industry's obsession with viral hits, saying, "If I wanted to hear the same song a hundred times, I’d just hit replay."  

For him, hip-hop is about evolution—not imitation. His early influences ranged from Arabic hip-hop pioneers like DAM and Katibe 5 to global legends like MF DOOM, Wu-Tang Clan, and Public Enemy. Their music wasn’t just entertainment; it was education. "I learned English from their rhymes, not from textbooks." As he developed his own voice, he found a way to bend those flows into Arabic, proving that his language could carry the same weight, rhythm, and rebellion.

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"Some people say this era of hip-hop is dead, that real rap doesn’t exist anymore. But for me, this isn’t just music—it’s my life. My name holds weight because of what I say, not numbers on a screen." Unlike many of his contemporaries, he prioritizes substance over streaming metrics. Despite facing industry limitations, his international tours continue to sell out, a testament to the power of authenticity in an industry flooded with manufactured sounds.  

Europe, Censorship, and the Politics of Resistance

His recent Safari tour across Europe was more than just a musical milestone. He powered it as a direct confrontation with the systems that attempt to silence voices like his. The tour was named after his track Safari, a song so unapologetically political that digital platforms restricted it for being "inappropriate." The track was a direct critique of the myth of a "civilized" First World—a world built on colonialism, slavery, and ongoing exploitation.  

When he applied for a Schengen visa, France rejected it. "Not my first Euro tour, but this time, with everything happening in Lebanon and Palestine, it hit different." The hypocrisy of a nation that claims to champion freedom of speech while silencing critical voices was too blatant to ignore. But barriers, he insists, are made to be broken. He secured his visa from another country and performed in Paris anyway.

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"No wall, no ban, no outdated colonial arrogance will ever silence us."  

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Censorship is nothing new to him. From platforms limiting his reach to event organizers distancing themselves out of fear of losing sponsorships, he has seen firsthand how the industry avoids politically charged art. But rather than adjust his message, he embraces the backlash. "When the system that oppresses you and your family hates you, that’s the surest sign you’re doing something right."

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Rapping in Arabic: A Statement of Resistance  

While English remains the dominant language of global hip-hop, he refuses to conform. "Rapping in Arabic isn’t just about language—it’s about survival."  

His audience in Lebanon, Palestine, and Syria doesn’t need subtitles to understand his pain. The shared struggles—occupation, oppression, resistance—are already written into their lives. But outside the region, language becomes a powerful force rather than a barrier. He explains that live performances transcend words. "On stage, I don’t just perform—I make people feel where I come from. Energy, delivery, and presence translate what words cannot."

From Berlin to Beirut, his refusal to compromise on language is a direct act of defiance. "Speaking my village tongue in Beirut and rapping in Arabic in Berlin is a statement that we exist, that our stories will be told our way."

Mental Health, Music, and Survival

Beyond politics, his music also explores the deeply personal struggles of mental health. "Every morning, I remind myself to be thankful for this journey. But music isn’t just about success—it’s a way to survive."

His track Melatonin delves into his battle with severe insomnia and depression, capturing the relentless cycle of thoughts that weigh him down. Meanwhile, his upcoming song Sa3at Saat reflects on the numbness that comes with emotional exhaustion. "The hardest thing isn’t feeling pain—it’s not knowing how to feel at all."

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Mental health is rarely addressed in his region with the urgency it demands. He argues that for people living through war, economic collapse, and systemic oppression, mental health is not just a personal issue—it is a generational one. "Our struggles aren’t just about not seeing the sun enough. They’re rooted in being "genocided," in living through the aftermath of conflict. It’s not just mental—it’s survival."

For younger artists, he offers this advice:

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"Never confuse passion with burnout."

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"The industry will make you think you need to keep pushing, keep posting, keep creating. But if you don’t take the time to heal, you’ll end up empty of everything but envy."

The Power of the Uncensored Voice  

For him, hip-hop is more than music—it is a weapon against silence. Vox populi, vox Dei. His career stands as proof that real hip-hop is not about viral numbers but about the weight of truth.  

Even in an industry that favors conformity, he continues to forge his own path, unapologetic and unwavering. From Baalbek to Berlin, from underground studios to international stages, his voice refuses to be buried. As long as there are stories to tell, battles to fight, and borders to defy, his music will remain what it has always been—an act of rebellion.  

After all, "the revolution will not be televised." But it will be heard.

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