When Arabic Lyrics Become American Refuge: A Queer Veteran's Relationship with Mashrou' Leila
How the afterglow of the band is still a light in dark times
"My history erased from our books like they were yours to claim
Our hips translated Sappho and Abu Nuwas in the tongue of oohs and aahs
On bed sheets embroidered with the same oohs and aahs we chanted at the picket line."
— “Tayf (Ghost),” Mashrou’ Leila
I discovered Lebanese four-member indie rock band Mashrou’ Leila while studying Arabic in the Marine Corps, desperate for Arabic language media that resonated with me. As a queer service member and artist — and especially as a millennial grappling with systemic overreach — I craved critical engagement and deeper meaning. Before disbanding in 2022 due, in part, to growing hostility toward them for their support of LGBTQ+ people, Mashrou’ Leila’s music fulfilled that desire over 14 years ago with their self-described “sensual electro-pop” vibes and fierce, raw lyrics that quickly became a staple of my daily routine.
Recently they’ve returned to my mix for reasons too obvious to state. Back when ISIS freshly dominated headlines, Mashrou’ Leila made queer audiences in the Middle East feel seen, heard and hopeful — despite campaigns of fear and state violence. The irony is not lost on me, nor is a fierce sense of gratitude, that I’m currently feeling the same affirmation and empowerment that I naively thought American fans would never be in need of.
This indie band, born out of the American University of Beirut in 2008, spoke directly to queer communities, artists, activists and dreamers across the Middle East and across the world.
So what is the vibe when you turn on a Mashrou’ Leila song?
It’s like a drug. The beats are bright and airy, but smooth and invigorating at the same time. For non-Arabic speakers, Mashrou’ Leila’s lyrics become something else: a feeling, a vibration, a truth that the body absorbs before the mind. Even without translation, their music seeps into your skin down to your bones.
The first song I discovered was “Lil Watan” (“For the Country”), whose lyrics (translation by the Lebanese Arabic Institute) hit like a freight train, landing with bittersweet and scathing insight:
“Others have tamed hurricanes to be in control of destiny
As for us, we are blown away by a breeze and fall back into destruction
If you dare question the deteriorating situation
They silence you with slogans about all the conspiracies
The [herd] accuse you of treason whenever you call for change to the nation
They caused you despair so that you sell your freedoms for the nation to not be lost
They taught you the anthem; they said your struggle is useful to the nation.
They drugged you in the vein; they said your lethargy is useful for the nation
They said to you,
Enough preaching, come dance with me a bit
Why are you frowning? Come dance with me a bit.”
Too deep? Too painful? No worries — it’s in Arabic. Just listen to your body, as each song seduces you to the tune of “machines, samples, razor-sharp violin and magnetic frontman Hamed Sinno’s mercurial voice," according to the band via their YouTube channel. And mercurial is a good way to describe Sinno, whose lyrics and delivery hit like church confessions whispered into a megaphone.
Today Mashrou’ Leila coaxes me to face each morning anew. I enjoy them no longer as language learning assets or from a place of intellectual appreciation, but rather of deep personal urgency and celebration rooted in a more intimate and ongoing lived experience.
Sinno, who is queer and non-binary, sings of intimate nights, self-doubt, regret, state violence, the dissonance between our inner and outer lives, and the relentless uncertainty of the future, all while our parasympathetic nerve vibes to the heady, surreal electro-pop beats that hit the body like a fever dream. This is club music. This is stay-at-home-and-get-high music. This is date-night-on-the-couch music. This is whatever you want it to be.
Their sound stokes the desire to celebrate whatever ephemeral moments of joy we can get, whether in spite of, or because of, the fact that the world always seems to be burning down around us. When Egyptian activist and writer Sarah Hegazy raised her Pride flag in celebration and defiance at Mashrou’ Leila’s 2017 Cairo concert, I have to believe she felt something similar.
More than anything, their music holds space for contradictions: resistance and pleasure, sorrow and celebration, intimacy and isolation.
“Kalam (S/He),” meaning “Words,” is a lyrically gorgeous transgender anthem, celebrating creative word play, while never passing up an indictment of imperial or colonial systems:
“They wrote the country’s borders (upon my body; upon your body)
In flesh-ligatured words
My word upon your word (as my body upon your body)
Flesh-conjugated words.
You feel me feeling what you feel
So why all the shame? just feel what you feel.
Your body conjugates
Your language separates
Your body separates
Your language conjugates”
Mashrou’ Leila is a masterclass on balancing dissonant feelings — a practice where I’ve always felt the most human and the most vulnerable.
These days their music challenges me, reminding me that I can’t wait for things to be easy to feel joy, to love myself, or to make my voice heard. Their poetic lyricism and dreamy sound syncs my body and mind in a way that rarely happens in my waking life. There’s something holy in it — not in a religious sense, but in the way it strips away pretense and leaves only truth.
Their sound pulls me to a place where joy and resistance are as defiant as they are celebratory.
"Dress me up in smiles. Joy becomes me.
Whatever will be, just may be,
I'll still be standing here — singing my melody."
— Falyakon,” Mashrou’ Leila
In 2013, I watched Mashrou’ Leila push against the boundaries of Arab identity, giving voice to the silenced. I often wondered what my great grandfather, who fled Syria for Argentina, might think about my use of a queer Lebanese band to reclaim a sense of heritage. I never wondered why he fled. Arrogant from the 2011 repeal of “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell,” and the 2013 defeat of the Defense of Marriage Act, and I still naively believed systemic oppression only happened to others (don’t worry — the Marines quickly disabused me of that notion.)
Today Mashrou’ Leila coaxes me to face each morning anew. I enjoy them no longer as language learning assets or from a place of intellectual appreciation, but rather of deep personal urgency and celebration rooted in a more intimate and ongoing lived experience. I listen and think of Sarah, and of my own methods of resistance and joy.
Like an old friend, Sinno’s voice greets me from my morning alarm, threading between sensuality and grief, between command and confession. Mashrou’ Leila’s music acknowledges the looming brutality of the world, yet invites us, just for a moment, to set that burden down.
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