“I am a king of angels, from beginning to end. Arrani you’ll soon be crying out, weeping endless tears,” sings Akram Qawar in Arabic while gesticulating at his opponent. Muhammad al-Arrani sings back: “What are you mumbling about? No one understands your verse, did you just come here to make a fool of yourself in the arena?”
“Who’s [sic] uncles are out here doing battle raps,” one fan exclaims in the caption on a video in which he dances along to the sound of a similar exchange to the one above. If you’ve seen these videos of predominantly middle-aged men insulting each other poetically in Arabic you too may have likened them to modern day rap battles. What they actually are is a centuries-old genre of Arabic sung poetry called zajal.
In its general sense, zajal refers to poetry composed in any of a number of colloquial Arabic dialects. Much more specifically, it refers to a kind of musical poetic performance, often involving verbal duels, which is especially popular in Lebanon, Palestine, Syria and Jordan.
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Zajal dates back to 12th-century Islamic Iberia, where it emerged as an alternative to the standard Arabic poetic tradition. Zajal poems differed from that tradition not only in language – the Andalusian dialect of Arabic was used – but also in form. These poems had complex rhyme schemes, unlike the monorhyme that characterised high poetry of the time. And, they were composed to be sung.
Zajal’s most celebrated early practitioner was Ibn Quzman (1078 to 1160), a Cordoban who travelled from court to court seeking favour with his songs of praise, wine and love, which often had a rebellious twist. In one poem, for example, he celebrates the end of Ramadan as a return to illicit behaviour:
Hurrah, drunkards, for the sake of the Prophet, gang!
This is the time when the month of fasting ends!
From Spain, zajal soon spread to North Africa and the Middle East. According to an article by scholar of Arabic Adnan Haydar, there is a theory that, in the particular case of Lebanon, zajal poetry has its roots in the Maronite church. This is a church centred in Lebanon that is part of the Roman Catholic Church but with a distinct Antiochan/west Syrian liturgical tradition.
It’s believed that in late 13th century the Maronite church fathers started translating Syriac hymns into the local Arabic dialect. These zajal hymns were recorded in manuscripts from the 15th until the late 17th century, when zajal became an integral part of Lebanese folk culture.
A famous proponent and composer of zajal in the modern era was Rachid Nakhlé (1873 to 1939). Dubbed the Prince of Zajal, Nakhlé’s vernacular poetry is said to have influenced Lebanon’s Romantic and Symbolist poets.
Haydar describes the occasions for zajal performances as village gatherings, from weddings to saint days to functions in private homes. The best zajal performers from certain districts would sometimes meet for competitions where each would try to outperform the other in improvised verbal artistry. In its heyday in the mid-20th century, zajal performers would team up in bands and have competitions between two rival groups, sometimes before audiences in the tens of thousands.
The verbal sparring involves boasting about their capabilities and putting down their rivals and opponents. Martial imagery is common, but it is poetic supremacy that the zajal performers seek.
Haydar relates a famous exchange between zajal poets Jiryis Bustani and Tali Hamdan that took place in a concert at a monastery in Beit Meri, Lebanon in 1971. In the first stanza, Bustani compares his poetic prowess to slaughter, threatening to scatter heads, and asserting that the “Battle of Beit Miri” will go down in history. In the second stanza Hamdan mocks Bustani’s threats, saying “I shall strangle you and make you a mere echo (sada),” before asserting that he will beat Bustani in every battle, that of Beit Miri being no exception.
Bustani returns in the third stanza, picking up on Hamdan’s “echo”, saying that the registers of history will mention the “echoes of my cannonballs”. A common strategy is to repeat words and phrases at the heart of the competitor’s put-downs and to reframe them as a strength.
An excerpt from a 1968 concert underscores the extent to which wordplay guides the performers. Zajal poet Zein Sheib begins the exchange by waxing poetic about the free soldier who has his own mind. He speaks of piety, on land and in the air, and a quail flying off, as he negotiates the waves of a tumultuous sea. What makes his words cohere is not so much meaning as sound. He is continuously rhyming on the letter “r”, rolled and doubled, using words such as “farr” (escape) and “jarr” (drag). He’s showing off his ability to place these words in grammatically correct, if somewhat frivolous, sentences. Next comes Edouard Harb. He does the same with the letter “m”, continuing with the sea imagery.
Then Tali Hamdan sings of swords and rhymes intensively on the letter “l”. Zaghloul el Damour (aka Joseph al-Hashem) finishes things off decisively as he rhymes on the letter “d”. First, he boasts about himself, saying that although his horse has fallen he has managed to send his rival retreating, and then he taunts each of his three competitors: Zein got worked up, earnestly and in jest; Harb ranks in the minor league, and Hamdan thinks highly of himself but is no taller than a legless table. The insults are slung light-heartedly, and all present – performers and audience members alike – revel in their wit.
Zajal experienced a decline during the Lebanese Civil War (1975 to 1990) but has seen a revival in the decades since. For instance, in the 2010s the zajal competitions in the TV show Owf attracted competitors from throughout the region. Meanwhile, highlights from Lebanese zajal performances in the 1960s and 70s are being sampled in remixes and mashups on YouTube, TikTok and Instagram. Palestinian artists engage in a similar tradition, which is also trending.
So, if a friend shares a video of uncles “doing battle raps” you can tell them what they’re actually doing, which is engaging in the storied poetic tradition of zajal.
The authors do not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and have disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.