Fidel weeps: Goodbye, Ziad, when the dream becomes the elegy of a generation

No sooner had the night of July 26, 2025 entered than a shocking piece of news hit every home in Beirut, Damascus, and every Arab home whose children were raised on the voice of Fairuz, the anthems of the Rahbani brothers, and the unique melancholy of Ziad. Get the latest celebrity ads directly on the Special app, where we show you everything new from international stars.

The curtain has been raised on a new chapter of nostalgia, with the grand title: The Departure of Ziad Rahbani. The news was like a bullet of pain and torment, without mercy or salvation. It dug a hole in the heart that would never heal, especially for those who saw in Ziad more than an artist. They saw in him a friend, a lamp, and a spiritual father who illuminated the darkness of life for them. Perhaps Fidel, this orphaned dramatic character in the series: Homey Hoon, was the most faithful representation of this entire generation: the generation of deferred dreams and chronic longing, a generation that could not bear separation and only learned to love from afar.

Fidel remained a dream in the series and in life.

From the very first scene in the series, viewers became accustomed to Fidel's temper and temper, his soul woven with nostalgia and loneliness, a soul that found no home except in Ziad Rahbani's voice and songs. Fidel's choice of Ziad as a role model was not merely a dramatic coincidence; rather, it was an implicit acknowledgment that the world around him had not produced many Ziads—brave, honest, troubled by questions of art and meaning—nor Fidels, orphans of spirit searching for a likeness or equal. Enjoy interesting and useful content with an exclusive podcast that provides you with everything you need to know in just a few minutes via the Special app.

One day, Ziad arrived in Beirut for a long-awaited concert. For months, Fidel counted the moments: anticipating the evening, imagining himself sitting in the front rows, and preparing his many questions and dreams. But suddenly, in a dramatic moment on the border, he forgot his ID card, the golden moment was lost, and Fidel remained stuck on the threshold of imagination, building dreams that would not come true. The end of the story in the series was unclear: Did he manage to see Ziad? Or did the night remain suspended like a dream between heaven and earth? But one thing was certain: We are all Fidel, and we all knew that heartbreak, even if we didn't experience it personally.

Ziad's departure and the return of longing for lost beauty When people circulated the news of his death, the lid was lifted on an old wound; the wound of an entire generation that lived with Ziad's music and grew up listening to his voice, only to be awakened in the morning to a harsh and hurtful reality that bore no resemblance to their childhood dreams. One of the comments on the news of his passing says: The amount of misery of our generation is terrible. We lived through the sweet things of art and beauty for a moment, and then suddenly we went to sleep and woke up to a very ugly reality. They were wondering in grief: What remains for us after this departure? Can the void be filled after a man who made satire a field of criticism and music a path to salvation?

"Do you like it this way, Uncle Ziad?" Fidel's famous line in the series was recalled by many as a scream from all of us, and his grief in that scene became the objective equivalent of their grief today. Another comment sums up the scene: "Fidel's love for Ziad is tied like Fairuz's love for his mother, the Rahbani." This is how attachment is eternal, transcending logic and time and only broken by absence.

Fidel: The Generational Mirror If we want to be fair, Fidel is the story of every young man who has truly loved an artist, then found himself deprived of meeting him, or deprived of fulfilling a small dream of a musical evening that would make him forget the fatigue of life, or even of a real space in which to complain about his pain and think aloud with someone who is similar to him in feeling and vision. Someone commented: "The real Fidel character is everyone who loves and respects Ziad Rahbani and did not get the chance to attend his concerts." Fidel became a symbol of lost opportunity. The opportunity that separates remaining in the zone of wishful thinking, from crossing into the world of realization, from the zones of waiting. The sounds of Fairuz's songs and the Rahbani music dominate, the only palliatives in the face of daily pressures and cruelty. Songs have always been our voice when expression fails us, and a refuge from the chaos and noise that fill our lives. Discover the most beautiful celebrity collectibles through Special, which showcases the most famous items owned by stars and celebrities around the world.

Drama as a manifestation of collective pain What the authors of Homey Hoon wrote about Fidel was not an embellishment or a mere digression, but rather an escalation of the drama to become a mirror of reality, in which they summed up an entire generation. Just as Ziad Rahbani became a role model for artists, the marginalized, and the dispersed, Fidel remained a character who did not die with the end of the series, but rather lived on in our daily dialogues with ourselves, as stated in one of the comments: "The first character that came to mind, and it would be nice if someone, through artificial intelligence, could download his tragic reaction to Fidel." Even artificial intelligence is invited to share the grief of those who never got what they wanted in a time when dreams are quickly fading. The fans' comments were heartfelt and honest, telling how Fidel has become their present fantasy: "Homey and Ziad's fans will surely immediately get this connection... How warm and real Ziad is as a role model and as Fidel as a character who will never die after the series ends."

Consolation of a Generation: Song, Satire, and Nostalgia Now, many years after my first encounter with Ziad Rahbani and his songs, the comments echo: “I loved his songs and music since the series, when I was 10 years old, especially Ag Bla Wala Shi and Ag Nazl Al Sorour.” Every word was an elegy, every tear a testament that true art seeps from our shared wound to become music that remains in our hearts, even after its owners have passed away.

Fidel is crying... and we are crying with him. It is said that a person does not cry simply because of the passing of people; rather, he cries over what he has lost, over a small corner that he used to lean on for a long time and that has disappeared. Today, Fidel is not alone. We are all in his care, sharing the grief and listening to the melody. Just as Fidel kept asking Ziad in his silence: “Do you like it this way, Uncle Ziad?”, we too will keep repeating it secretly and loudly whenever the wind of longing for the lost art and for the beautiful nights that we did not live increases. Follow exclusive content that you can't find anywhere else, and enjoy benefits you can't miss with Special, the most popular site in the world.

Ziad may not return, and Fidel may not get a second chance to sit in on his long-awaited concert, but the memory of the two has given hope to an orphaned generation searching every night for a role model and a voice to translate them to the world. Art never dies, and neither do tears, and Homey Hon has become a big home for all the sad people who live on the memory of a beautiful dream that has not yet come true. The dream remains, the tears remain, and Fidel remains... always waiting for music that might restore his lost hope.