Tension and togetherness at a rare Syrian hip-hop open mic night

This story appears in Huck 82: The Music Issue. Order your copy now.

Smiling, walking briskly, Haydar Daoud appears at the corner of the street leading to the Latakia bus station. ​“Call me Daoud, that’s my stage name and it’s easier,” the young man declares confidently. Wearing sunglasses and tattooed on his forearms, the computer science student recently formed the Coast Suicide Squad (CSS) alongside a dozen friends from his city, with the crew organising a rap open mic in June. A rare event in Syria.

In this conservative country, rap is an anomaly, and hip-hop remains widely misunderstood. Generations grow up with the sacred voices of Fairouz and Umm Kulthum, still heard daily in cafés, taxis, and homes. There was a rapper – Volcano MC – who vanished after Bashar al-Assad’s fall on December 8^th. Though he had supported the revolution in recent years, ​“his biggest hits were pro-régime” notes Ali Ibrahim, aka Sirius, CSS’s main beatmaker.

For Daoud, Sirius, and the 10 or so members of CSS, rap is more than a hobby. It’s an escape, a breath of freedom beyond the harsh realities of everyday life. ​“We’re fleeing the war, the hatred people have for one another. We try to put everything we have inside us into our music,” says Sirius.

Like much of Syria’s coastal population both artists are from the Alawite ethnoreligious group. So is the former president Bashar al-Assad, who ruled with an iron fist from 2000 until his flight on December 8 last year. His fall, and the rise of Ahmad Al Charaa – head of an Islamist rebel coalition which overthrew the former régime in just a week – has since triggered deep sectarian tensions.

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In early March, the group tried to organise its first open mic, but the event was forced to cancel. Loyalists to the old régime briefly regained control of Latakia for a few hours. In the following days, more than 1,500 civilians, mostly Alawites, were killed in massacres of unprecedented scale since the régime’s collapse.

“There was a massacre here,” says Sirius, pointing to the street below the thrift shop he runs – a space that doubles as a rehearsal studio for CSS before the open mic. ​“For a week, none of us dared to leave our homes, we were so scared.” Around the beatmaker, faces nod in agreement, eyes cast downward, as if to avoid recalling the dark days that still haunt them.

Today, they’ve all gathered to fine-tune the last technical details for their open mic. The CSS crew includes Alawites, Christians, Muslims – all the communities that make up Syria’s confessional mosaic. They focus not on what divides them but instead what unites them: a shared passion for rap.

At the back of the shop, large bay windows let out clouds of cigarette smoke. The rappers are buzzing with energy, hoping an audience will show up. After several hours of work and countless litres of maté tea, it’s finally time to rest. Tomorrow is the big day for these young Syrian artists.

As the sun rises over Latakia, the crowing of the neighbour’s rooster pierces the morning air. Daoud is quiet. His gaze is distant, his mind already set on the open mic. In his graffiti-covered room, adorned with colourful stickers and a poster of Harley Quinn – his favourite Marvel character – he puts on his stage outfit. In Syria, the spirit of rap also means adopting American dress codes. 

“I want to leave everything behind, flee far away and start over. My dream is Los Angeles, Compton, that’s where rap was born,” he says with a childlike enthusiasm. White Dior bandana tied around his head, massive Air Jordans on his feet – no detail is overlooked, including a full set of bling-style jewellery. ​“This all cost $40 total”, he laughs, grabbing his fake silver chain gleaming around his neck.

Down the stairs, Sirius and Sam – another rapper in the group – are warming up the playlist on the car radio. The three friends play their favourite Kendrick Lamar tracks as they drive to the only café in town that has agreed to host them.

Sirius sets up his computer and turntables, while Daoud and Sam unload speakers and mics from the car’s trunk. Gradually, the venue fills up. Around 30 rappers from Latakia and surrounding areas show up. Daoud finally begins to relax, as excitement builds in the room.

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The vibe is festive, though the room holds almost no spectators – only artists sharing a passion that is still misunderstood in Syria. Yet fear hangs in the air: the police could show up at any moment. In recent months, armed groups have stormed music venues, harassed musicians, and in May, opened fire in a nightclub, killing a woman.

It’s a fear the young artists share tonight, but it’s not strong enough to stop them from spitting their rhymes. ​“If we didn’t have music, I don’t know where we’d be. Suicide is always an option until you write another track”, says Jaafar Shiha, aka Shihayabish, who came with his group BFF. ​“It’s thanks to rap that I’m talking to you. It’s more than therapy – it’s my reason to live.”

At 6:30 pm, Sirius hits a key on his laptop. The first beat drops, and the show begins. The performances follow one another with raw, explosive energy. Sweat drips from artists’ brows and splashes onto the floor, darkened by the nonstop jumping of rappers supporting their peers while waiting for their turn. All styles take the stage – from melodic rap to trap, to more classic boom bap, like that of 22-year-old Rinuo – one of the most lyrical of the crew.

He came from Hama, making the two-hour journey to Latakia just for the event. When he grabs the mic, silence falls over the room. Rinuo has spent time in régime prisons. He’s performs his track ​‘Waiting’, which describes the resilience of a shattered youth. He wrote it in jail, not knowing if he’d ever get out. ​“You came here just so they could blame you / And you forget how you even stayed afloat in this unknown sea” he raps, eyes fixed and brimming with emotion.

Many artists have endured the horrors of Syria’s prisons. Under Bashar al-Assad, even the mildest criticism could doom someone to a grim fate. After 14 years of war, an estimated 150,000 Syrians remain missing following summary arrests.

At the open mic, those dark years feel distant. Each performance inspires a surge of energy. Smiles are everywhere, though a serious expression returns to each artist’s face until their set is complete. The vibe reaches its peak, until something goes wrong.

Two hours in, confusion breaks out. A woman in the audience explains that she had seen suspicious men outside filming the open mic, despite the large sheets hung over the café’s windows. Panic sets in after a few minutes of debate. Some decide to leave. The mood collapses. A handful of diehards continue rapping, trying to chase the fear away.

Daoud struggles to hide his own fear, sitting on a bench against the wall, along with others whose enthusiasm has been abruptly crushed. He’s worried. The police may have been alerted, which they fear especially after the recent coastal massacres. ​“The problem is you can never be sure of anything with this government,” explains Jaafar Shiha. Daoud buries his face in his hands and confers with his crew. The decision is made: the event must end.

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The final curtain falls harshly. Sam, Sirius, and Daoud head home together. Tension fills the car – and disappointment, too. ​“We’re always on edge, we have to be ready if something happens. It’s exhausting,” sighs Sirius. For these young artists, there’s nothing to celebrate. ​“This is the last time I’m doing this in Syria,” Sam says, enraged.

That night, their minds are as dark as Latakia’s nightfall, which cloaks the city. The next day, Daoud and Sam meet by the sea, where they usually hang out. The previous night’s frustration seems to have faded. They look cheerful again. ​“I’m convinced what Sam said last night isn’t true. If I suggested another open mic next week, I’m sure he’d jump at the chance,” Daoud says, laughing at Sam, who chuckles awkwardly, as if to confirm it.

Being a rapper in Syria isn’t an easy path. It’s full of obstacles that must be shattered. But the call of the mic remains stronger than anything. Daoud, Sirius, and Sam often say that the rap scene in Syria is dead. Maybe it hasn’t even been born yet. Maybe they’re the pioneers of a still underground movement that, freed from the weight of authoritarianism, will eventually rise.

Aubin Eymard is a freelance journalist based in Lebanon. Follow him on

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