DESPITE HIS SUDDEN death at age 31, Sayed Darwish’s experience of working-class life made his music so powerful that he is unanimously regarded as the father of modern Egyptian music.

“Darwish was the voice of the 1919 revolution led by Saad Zaghloul,” says historian Salah Eissa.

He is best remembered for his stirring “Ana El Masry” (I Am The Egyptian), “Oom, Ya Masry” (Egyptian, Get Up), and “Biladi, Biladi” (My Homeland, My Homeland), whose lyrics were based on a speech by nationalist leader Mostafa Kamel (the song was adopted as the national anthem in 1979), all of which spread like wildfire among the masses, goading them to take action.

“There was no radio,” explains Eissa, “and so songs were either recorded privately or performed on stage. After the 1919 revolution, Zaghloul was exiled to Paris and British military courts were set up in Egypt. At the time, stage shows began with one of Darwish’s songs which fired up the audience, who would begin cheering for their banished Zaghloul. Aware of the power of these songs to cause riots, the British military ruler prohibited the mention of Zaghloul’s name in all theaters. That was when Munira El-Mahdeya, a popular singer known for her provocative voice and her titillating songs, performed her famous ‘Ya Balah Zaghloul’ (composed by Darwish), which played on the words ‘zaghloul’ (a type of date) and ‘saad,’ which also means ‘happiness’, to circumvent the decree, thus outwitting the British military leader himself.”

Before Egyptian Radio was established in 1934, there was no form of control over music, which helped spread Darwish’s records without censorship. When the government took over musical production and dissemination, explains Eissa, the Darwish phenomenon subsided and patriotic songs were of the descriptive type like Mohammed Abdel Wahab’s “Musafirun Zaduhu el Khayalu” (A Traveler’s Imagination), written by poet Ahmad Shawqy.

These songs glorified the nation through vivid sensual imagery as though addressing a beautiful woman. In this historic context the notion of singing the praises of political leaders was born. “When King Farouk first took the throne, the people loved him and so there were songs made especially for him. It was during this era that the seeds were sowed for the later songs which spelled political hypocrisy.”

One of the first instances in which the regime used songs to promote a government decision was in 1948 with the Palestine War. “These songs were prominent until the army was forced to agree to an embarrassing armistice with Israel, after which the songs were prohibited. They had served their purpose of mobilizing public feeling in favor of the war, but when it was lost, the people had to forget what happened,” Eissa says.

He stresses, however, that such songs not only shaped, but also reflected the will and convictions of the people. “They had mass appeal and were not imposed by the government, but their broadcast was sanctioned by it because it served their purpose. This is always the case at times when nationalistic feelings run high as it was during the golden era of patriotic songs after the 1952 revolution.”

Ragab agrees with Eissa that the symbiotic link between music and politics was the driving force behind the prolific production of patriotic songs of all types after 1952. “The whole nation was celebrating its emancipation. The timeless masterpieces were the outcome of genuine feelings and were not steered by political agendas,” he says.

“I don’t believe that songs express particular government policies or ideology. Events inflame a poet’s emotions. He writes what he feels, not what is dictated to him by the regime,” says Nagwan Kadri, head of the production planning network for Egyptian National Radio, the body responsible for administration, management and production of songs, radio dramas and religious and heritage programs. “When Warda sang ‘Wana aal rababa baghanni’ (‘As I sing on my rebeck’), the country was elated with the crossing of the Suez Canal. Same with ‘Khalli El-Silah Sahhi’ (Keep You Weapons Awake), which spurred our soldiers on the front.”

“These impassioned songs spoke directly about a particular event,” adds Naima Hassan, an announcer at El-Barnamig El-Aam national radio station. “Without the event, nothing would have prompted such profound words, ideas or music. Even today when we hear these intense songs, we relive the events.”

Did these songs really spring from the people’s emotions, or were they a propaganda tool to manipulate the populace?

Eissa believes it was a bit of both. “The whole country supported the revolution. The euphoria was also accompanied with the deification of Nasser, who symbolized freedom, power and hope. Songs by Om Kolthum and Abdel-Halim Hafez invariably mentioned his name in the context of the great achievements of the revolution, as in: Om Kolthum’s ‘Toof wi Shoof’ (Look Around You), written by Abdel Fattah Mostafa, ‘Ya Gamal ya Misal el Wataneya’ (Gamal, Paragon of Nationalism), written by the great colloquial poet Bairam El Tonsy in 1954 after Nasser survived an assassination attempt; and Halim’s ‘Ya Gamal ya Habib el-Malayeen’ (Gamal, Beloved of Millions), written by Salah Jahin to celebrate the union with Syria in 1958 and the birth of the United Arab Republic presided over by Nasser.

“Everybody was mesmerized by the revolution,” recalls Adel Hassanein, the author of several books on the patriotic music of Abdel- Halim and Om Kolthum. “Nasser was aware of the popularity of these national icons. The regime profited greatly from them to spread its ideology, but at the same time these songs expressed the people’s faith in this brave new world. When Nasser spoke about socialism, for example, people thought about it, but when Halim sang ‘Bostan el-Ishktirakeya’ (The Socialist Garden), a 1964 song associating socialism with the building of the Aswan High Dam, the people’s reaction was: We love Halim; Halim equals socialism; therefore we love socialism. We cannot say that the political leadership charged him and other artists with spreading their ideals because people had complete faith in what was happening. There was no exploitation.”

The Pan-Arabist songs of the mid-1960s also supported the regime’s (and Nasser’s) dreams of a unified Arab nation, rallying people’s support for Egypt’s military involvement in Yemen and Algeria.

“The annual anniversary of the revolution was marked by festivities from July 23 - 26 during which time the airwaves were filled with a fresh dose of nationalistic zeal. Operettas like Mohammed Abdel Wahab’s 1960 Watani Habibi (My Beloved Nation), featuring six stars each singing one stanza, is the most famous of these, enthusiastically exalting the glory of the Arab nation which has shed off the tyranny of foreign occupation and has achieved sovereignty through the will of its revolutionary people,” says Eissa.

The grand march reached its crescendo in 1967 and the Six-Day war with Israel. “Between May 15th and June 10th, a fire was rekindled at the Radio Building, where poets, composers, singers and musicians were camped night and day, and where songs were written, composed and performed on the spot. The dedication with which Abdel Halim, poet Abdel Rahman El-Abnoudy and composer Kamal El-Tawil, to mention just a few, was not that of a task force commissioned to churn out motivational propaganda songs. They all believed in what they were doing because they were all part of the regime,” says Eissa.

“But by the 10th of June, the frenzy subsided and they began airing the old descriptive tunes about the splendor and beauty of Egypt. It sounded like a requiem mass. El-naksa (the defeat) was unadulterated proof that the whole war was a political bluff and that they had all been duped. Not only were these songs never aired again, but they were most likely destroyed altogether,” he claims.

“The disillusionment with the 1967 defeat left these artists with a burden of guilt on their shoulders, with the feeling that their songs were instrumental in blindfolding the nation,” says Hassanein. “Halim was later accused of being tabbal el-sawra [the cheerleader of the revolution], which was not true because he was very loyal to this country.”

Despite their dejection, Halim and Abnoudy still felt that they had a role to play — and Nasser’s regime helped them perform it. The war of attrition between 1967 and 1973 witnessed the rise of a watered-down type of patriotic song which down-played the defeat and concentrated on the light at the end of the tunnel, encouraging the nation to work hard and persevere for love of their country. Halim chanted Abnoudy’s “Mawwaal El Nahaar” (Morning Song) which calmly mourns the darkness of defeat and looks forward to the daylight.

“The song was later interpreted as a masked attack on Nasser, who through an extended metaphor, is compared to a suitor who couldn’t pay his beloved’s [Egypt’s] dowry and by implication, didn’t deserve to rule,” says Hassanein.