The room was quiet – not with tension, but invitation.
No chairs. No desks. Just white walls, soft carpeting and scattered pillows that welcomed people to sit, lie down, or move as they pleased. Some had removed their shoes. Others sat cross-legged in silence. In this stripped-down space called Canal Music Therapy, therapy was about to begin – not with talking, but with listening. Not with words, but with sound.
Music therapy is slowly gaining momentum across Lebanon. Once dismissed as whimsical or unserious, it’s now being studied at universities, practiced in clinics and sought out by people who have tried and are tired of talk-based therapy. Its rise speaks to a deeper shift: a growing understanding that healing doesn't always begin with language.
The use of music as a form of medicine has deep roots. In ancient Greece, Pythagoras explored the harmony of vibrations as a way to balance the soul. After World Wars I and II, music was used to support soldiers dealing with post-traumatic stress. By the mid-20th century, therapists found it especially useful with autistic children who struggled to express themselves verbally. Since then, music therapy has grown into a recognized, evidence-based practice – used in hospitals, rehabilitation centers, schools and, now, increasingly, in community-based spaces like this one in Tripoli.
“Music therapy is not performance,” said Dima Jaroudi, certified music therapist and Co-founder of Canal L’atelier de musicotherapie. “It’s not entertainment. It’s a form of emotional communication – using rhythm, vibration, harmony, body sounds, and silent music – all music elements to explore what the body remembers but the mind resists.”
When the body speaks first
What makes music therapy different isn’t just the use of instruments or movement – it’s the premise that the body often knows before the brain. Sessions are structured but non-directive. There are no diagnoses, no instructions. Some involve drawing, others role play. Sometimes, silence carries more weight than sound.
“Sometimes we don’t use any instruments at all,” said Oussama Charafeddine, assistant conductor at Fayha National Choir and Co-founder of Canal L’atelier de musicotherapie. “Just breath, movement, imagination. What matters is that the person expresses something – even if they don’t yet know what it is.”
At Canal L’atelier, participants walk freely across the room, hum softly, or fall completely still. The most powerful moments weren’t loud – they were private, unannounced, almost imperceptible. A glance. A sigh. A vibration felt more than heard.
When silence becomes a mirror
For Bilal, a 25-year-old man from Akkar, music therapy offered a release he didn’t know he needed. “It’s hard for me to express myself in words,” he said. “But here, I don’t need to talk. I can use vibration, movement and sound. Each session feels like a trip I’m not expecting.”
He recalled one session that haunted him in the best way. A scarf was placed on the floor, and participants were asked to imagine it as a person. “I saw myself in five years,” he said. “That scarf was me. And I didn’t know how to approach myself.”
He thought about it for days. “Was that always inside me, and I never noticed? It opened something.”
Hadi, a 22-year-old man from Tripoli, also joined with curiosity. “I saw their ad on Instagram. I went with zero expectations. But even the first session surprised me – it stirred things I didn’t expect.”
What followed was a series of workshops, breaks and returns. “These sessions are heavy, mentally and physically. You touch parts of yourself you didn’t know existed. It can be exhausting.”
One session in particular, the seventh, was too much. “It wasn’t even hard on paper, but I couldn’t go through it. I broke down.” Later, when given the choice to repeat any session, he chose that one. “I needed to face it again. And I did. That felt like progress.”
Not every participant opens up immediately. Mariam, a 35-year-old woman, remembered feeling out of place the first time. “I was alone. I didn’t know anyone. I kept worrying – what if I do something wrong?” she said. “But the more I came, the more I softened.”
Doubt, and the drumbeat against it
Outside the therapy room, the concept of music as a healing tool still faces skepticism – especially in more conservative or underserved communities.
“People tell us, ‘I’m not sick – why would I go to therapy?’” said Oussama. “And when we say it’s music therapy, they laugh. ‘What, are you going to sing to fix my stomach ache?’”
He doesn’t take it personally. “That’s our mission. To show that music is not a magic trick – it’s a tool. For people who’ve forgotten how to express. For people who don’t feel safe talking. For people whose trauma doesn’t have a name yet.”
That’s especially important in places like Lebanon, where mental health remains a sensitive topic. “We started by offering free sessions to NGOs and orphanages,” Dima said. “We didn’t explain much. We just asked people to try. To feel. That’s how trust began.”
What united everyone I met – from therapist to participant – was a recognition that music therapy offers a different kind of safety.
“You’re not being watched,” said Hadi. “No one’s judging. You’re not even told what to do. You’re just allowed to feel. That’s rare.”
“There are people in the room I didn’t know,” Bilal added. “Different religions, different backgrounds. But somehow, we bonded. Without even needing to speak.”
Mariam echoed the same. “I came for music. I stayed because I discovered something deeper – not just about others, but about myself.”
A practice for the future
Across Lebanon, music therapy is becoming more accessible – and more accepted. It’s now taught at Antonine University, and more practitioners are being trained locally. With every session, awareness spreads – not through slogans, but stories.
“Twenty years ago, people hid the fact that they were in therapy,” Dima said. “Now, they’re proud of it. They share testimonials. They talk to their friends. That’s what will change things.”
At Canal, the values are printed into their logo: Express. Communicate. Connect. It’s a simple arc – and a radical one.
“Sometimes someone screams,” said Oussama. “Or sings. Or cries. And we don’t stop them. That’s when change begins.”
Music therapy doesn’t promise to fix what’s broken. It doesn’t try to interpret every feeling or name every wound. What it offers is presence – a beat, a breath, a body, a silence – held long enough for something forgotten to surface.
In a room without chairs, without shoes, without pretense, people begin to listen to themselves. Not through lyrics or melody, but through the sound of being allowed to feel – fully, and without fear.
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