How does one express contentment within Arabic pop music? The genre, shaped by grand emotional declarations of heartbreak, passion and longing, is often designed to overwhelm or uplift.
But Palestinian singer Lina Makoul is reaching for more subtle ways of expressing the human condition.
Her latest single, Radiya, which translates to “being content”, is a quiet provocation. Not a love song, nor an anthem of defiance, the track offers something that is heard less today – a moment of stillness. Set against the backdrop of the Gaza war, it is a song about survival, not through the chaos, but by finding an inner balance.
“Trying to find this balance without giving in or giving up is contentment,” Makoul tells The National. “It is also about being grateful for the things that you are blessed with, such as a bed, a roof above your head, food in your fridge, having your loved ones next to you and not losing yourself.”
It is something the US-born Makoul often considers herself, as she struggles with the enduring grief and destruction of her homeland.
Radiya opens with a washed-out vocal loop, followed by a gleaming bass-synth line. Makoul takes stock of the perceived weight she carries – “every little and big thing, I carry so much on my shoulders” – before the song pivots to a cool, measured chorus that simply declares: “I am content.” It is a nuanced delivery that matches the subject.
“Usually, I make music that helps me go through what I go through, and this song kept going in my head all the time,” she says. “Every time I felt like something wasn’t working out for me, I would repeat it like a mantra: ‘I’m content with whatever comes. I know I’m divinely protected.'”
The idea of contentment is a rich vein in Arabic spiritual and literary thought. But what makes this song interesting is that the subject hasn’t really been explored directly in Arabic pop music.
The classics of Umm Kulthum and Abdel Halim Hafez are layered, often charting the extremes of the emotional scale – the ecstasy of falling in love, as well as gnawing heartbreak. But even in their more reflective ballads, such as Umm Kulthum’s Fakkarouni or Hafez’s Mawood, the notion of inner peace is at best implied.
Makoul’s decision to focus a song on contentment, not as a fleeting feeling but a chosen state of being, mines new lyrical territory she deems essential in addressing the world today. “I missed having this kind of message growing up,” she says. “I missed hearing it in my own language, in my own dialect. As a teenager, as a grown-up, I didn’t have that emotional vocabulary in Arabic music. So now I feel like it’s my responsibility to offer it.”
These are not isolated gestures. Taken together, they point to a subtle but growing shift – particularly among Levantine artists operating outside major commercial circuits – towards emotional transparency in Arabic music. Jordanian-Palestinian rapper The Synaptik discussed ADHD and depression in his album Al Taman, while Lebanese band Adonis reflected on dislocation in their latest release Wedyan, and Palestinian singer and rapper Saint Levant navigated diaspora identity and longing in Deira.
Makoul says it is vital that her peers use their work to explore these important emotional spaces. “I believe that art shapes the consciousness,” she says. “If you don’t consume art, it’s very easy for you to become a robot that just repeats what the system wants you to repeat. So I want to liberate the mind, the soul, the heart – that’s my way of resisting.”
This idea of reclaiming emotional agency has long been central to Makoul’s creative process. During the Covid-19 pandemic, she launched #Yom, a songwriting project that invited Palestinian teenagers to submit original texts through Instagram. Makoul set those submissions to music, turning everyday reflections into delicate pop songs. One entry, Biji Abali, shifted her perspective completely.
The lyrics read: “I feel like stopping time, so I can focus on what the universe has to offer. Take deep breaths and just be present.”
Makoul says she was floored by the couplets from author Sherry Mwai when the submission arrived in her inbox.
“I opened that message during Covid, when everything had stopped, and I realised I wasn’t even being present,” Makoul recalls. “The girl who wrote it had just come back from a chemotherapy session. She was 23. And she saw my challenge on Instagram and decided to write me this. It completely rewired my brain.
“That experience changed how I write. It reminded me how powerful simple words can be and how presence is everything. Without realising it, I think Radiya started there. That was the first time I truly stopped to reflect. It stayed with me.”
That moment, and the shift it triggered, echoes in Radiya, where the idea of presence becomes a form of strength. In an industry where Arab pop songs are seemingly more interested in big emotions, to explore a feeling as measured as contentment feels almost radical.
“We need more songs that represent how we really feel,” she says. “Even love songs, where’s the complexity? Where’s the need to be loved, the confusion, the vulnerability? I feel like we’re missing so much potential in reshaping the next generation.”
If Radiya signals a quiet shift in Arabic pop’s emotional vocabulary, Makoul’s live performances have amplified that message on a global stage. She joined Saint Levant on tour, performing across North America and Europe to sold-out crowds.
“It was such a beautiful experience,” she says. “Being outside of Palestine, seeing how people turned the concerts into something spiritual, almost like a protest, it recharged me in a way I can’t explain. But then when I returned home, I felt it again: the rupture. The reality here is different. There’s no infrastructure for music. We do everything ourselves – manage, direct, fund, book, promote.”
That contrast, Makoul notes, is part of what fuels music she describes as “the soul beneath the surface”. It also means no longer being interested in streaming numbers, in viral campaigns, or charts. True contentment, or feeling “radiya”, now stems from creating work that feels honest.
“I just want to make sure my light keeps shining,” she says. “And maybe if it does, it attracts other lights. And maybe together, we can make some of the darkness we are going through feel a little smaller.”
Saeed Saeed is a 2024-25 Rosalynn Carter Mental Health Journalism Fellow
