Lebanese rap: From roumieh to sold-out shows

Today, Lebanese rap has become one of the country's most distinctive independent music movements. Artists attract millions of streams, headline sold-out concerts, and cultivate audiences across the Arab world without the backing of major record labels. Yet the scene that exists today was built over more than two decades by artists who believed hip-hop could become something uniquely Lebanese rather than simply an imitation of its American origins.

Through conversations with Fared and Lana of Erheb Records, alongside contemporary artists Anthony Samarany and Nizar Zgheib, a clear picture emerges of how one underground movement evolved into a genre with its own sound, identity, and cultural significance.

The collective that changed Lebanese rap

The story begins in 1999, when Fared attended a hip-hop concert in Beirut and left disappointed. While he appreciated the music itself, he felt the lyrics failed to reflect the reality of young people living in Lebanon. Instead of speaking about their own experiences, many artists were borrowing narratives from American rap, leaving little room for stories rooted in Lebanese streets, politics, and everyday life. Determined to create something different, Fared and his twin brother converted part of their grandmother's house in Gemmayzeh into a modest recording studio.

With little more than a microphone, a computer, and a passion for hip-hop, they began producing songs that reflected the country around them. Their music was first distributed on cassette tapes before later being burned onto CDs, at a time when streaming platforms and social media had yet to transform the music industry. Around the same time, Lana had already fallen in love with rap after secretly borrowing Snoop Dogg and Tupac albums from her older cousin as a child. She knew the lyrics by heart and had written her first rap song by the age of eleven.

When she moved to Lebanon at sixteen, she met Fared, and together with another artist known as 88, they formed the core of what would become Erheb Records before the collective gradually expanded. "We were rebels," Lana recalls. "We wanted to speak our minds, question the system, and talk about what was happening around us."

Rather than chasing commercial success, Erheb Records was built around a shared desire to express frustration, challenge authority, and create music that reflected the realities of post-war Lebanon.

Speaking without fear

What quickly distinguished Erheb Records from other artists was its refusal to soften its message. At a time when freedom of expression felt far more restricted than it does today, the collective openly addressed corruption, unemployment, drugs, political frustration, and the realities of everyday life without attempting to make its music commercially palatable. "I still don't know how we didn't get shut down," Lana says, reflecting on a period when openly criticizing social and political realities carried far greater risks than it does today.

Their commitment to giving a voice to marginalized communities reached its peak in 2008, when the collective established a recording studio inside Roumieh Prison.

The initiative allowed inmates to write and record music from behind bars, telling their own stories in their own words. Fared recalls regularly bringing recording equipment into the prison and working with inmates as they transformed their experiences into songs, while Lana says the project perfectly captured Erheb's philosophy of giving a platform to people who had long been ignored.

The initiative became one of the most unusual projects in Lebanese music history, demonstrating that rap could be more than entertainment. It could become a form of expression for people whose voices were rarely heard. Although Erheb Records officially came to an end after Fared left Lebanon in 2010, the movement it created was only beginning.

Building on the foundation

Among the artists who grew up listening to Erheb were Anthony Samarany and Nizar Zgheib, now two of the most recognizable names in Lebanese rap. Both describe Erheb not simply as an influence but as the movement that convinced them Lebanese hip-hop could develop its own identity. Anthony still remembers hearing Erheb for the first time at around eleven years old.

The group's music sounded unlike anything else being produced in Lebanon. It was raw and unapologetically local, proving that rap could tell stories rooted in Lebanese streets rather than borrowing narratives from elsewhere. Inspired by what he heard, Anthony began writing and recording music in 2011, eventually becoming one of the country's most successful independent rappers.

Today, he believes Lebanese rap can largely be divided into two schools of thought: the Erheb school, built on underground, unfiltered expression, and another branch that later developed around explicitly political themes.  While Erheb established the blueprint, Anthony and Nizar helped transform Lebanese rap into a sustainable independent industry.

Anthony remembers when reaching one hundred views on a song felt like a major achievement. Today, he says, he and Nizar attract millions of streams, perform to sold-out crowds, and have demonstrated that independent artists can build careers without relying on record labels or commercial backing. Every project, from recording sessions to music videos, is financed independently, allowing them complete creative freedom.

Anthony's background in cinematography has also influenced the direction of his music. Rather than treating music videos as promotional material, he sees them as an extension of the storytelling itself, carefully constructing visuals that complement the lyrics and deepen the emotional impact of each release. At the same time, he believes Lebanon's political and social realities continue to shape his writing, forcing artists to find creative ways of discussing controversial issues while navigating the country's cultural sensitivities.

Rivalries, diss tracks and a new era

One of the defining characteristics of today's Lebanese rap scene has been the rise of diss tracks, many of which have become some of the genre's most widely viewed releases. While rap rivalries have drawn new audiences to the scene, Anthony insists they are rarely manufactured for publicity. Instead, he says, diss tracks usually emerge from genuine disagreements between artists, with the music becoming an extension of conflicts that already exist. At the same time, he acknowledges that these exchanges have introduced countless listeners to Lebanese rap, exposing new audiences to artists they may not have discovered otherwise.

Nizar offers a different perspective on lyrical battles, arguing that while diss tracks are often associated with American hip-hop, the concept itself has deep roots in Lebanese culture. He compares them to the centuries-old tradition of zajal, in which poets publicly challenged one another through improvised verse, suggesting that rap battles are simply a modern continuation of an existing cultural practice rather than a foreign import.

Although Anthony and Nizar represent a new generation of Lebanese rap, neither views their success as replacing Erheb's legacy. Instead, both repeatedly credit the collective with laying the groundwork that made their own careers possible. Nizar acknowledges that younger listeners may hear Erheb's early recordings and find the production dated, but argues that this is precisely what pioneers do.

"They were experimenting," he says. "They built the foundation." He compares Erheb's role in Lebanese rap to Sigmund Freud's place in psychology: later generations refined the work, but none of it would have existed without those who came first.

A movement

Over the past twenty-five years, Lebanese rap has undergone a remarkable transformation. What began as homemade recordings in a small studio in Gemmayzeh evolved into a movement that challenged social norms, gave a platform to marginalized voices, and inspired an entirely new generation of artists.

Today, Anthony and Nizar continue expanding that legacy, combining cinematic storytelling, independent production, and distinctly Lebanese themes to bring the genre to audiences far beyond the country's borders. Despite the differences between generations, one principle remains unchanged.

Whether it was Fared and Lana recording underground tracks at the turn of the millennium or Anthony and Nizar filling concert venues today, Lebanese rap has always been driven by artists determined to tell stories that could not be told anywhere else.

It is that commitment to authenticity, more than commercial success or streaming numbers, that has allowed the genre to evolve from a niche underground movement into one of Lebanon's most compelling contemporary cultural expressions.