We Don’t Choose to Die

Songs write themselves and I’m just a vessel to translate these songs and bring them to life. Of this I am now convinced 100 percent. I’ve spoken about this earlier in previous blogs, but something very weird and eerie happened while I was writing this song.

As you probably know by now, I wear many hats when writing songs. I wear the hat of the rhythm guitar player, writing riffs. I wear the hat of the lead guitar player, writing or improvising solos. I wear the hat of the singer, writing lyrics and melodies, and I wear the hat of the songwriter, the person who combines everything together.

My method of writing has been almost the same for the most part. I'm constantly writing riffs. Whenever I pick up a guitar, I come up with something, and I hit record. I have tons and tons of unused riffs. Then when I feel that three or four riffs sit well together, I arrange a song. I then add a bridge or an interlude or whatever to complete a song. That is the instrumentalist in me.


On the other hand, whenever I feel inspired to write about something or to just vent, I write lyrics and keep them in my lyrics vault (I spoke about all the lyrics hidden away in a plastic bag in my previous blog). That is the lyricist or vocalist in me.


When the itch comes to write a complete song, I go to my lyrics vault, pick a lyric, and try to match it to music in terms of meter and cadence. Sometimes I might need to make a few adjustments, like adding or removing a “the” or “if,” or changing the syllables of certain words, but those adjustments are generally minor and I make sure that the feel and meaning of the song remains intact.

The reason for this very long introduction (not to mention reiterating certain points that I’ve spoken about in earlier blogs) is that I originally wrote a different song with completely different lyrics for the music of what is now “We Don’t Choose to Die.”

The song was originally called “Doubt.” The original lyrics and music blended well together, and the song was ready to go until a day before the recording session when I lost the lyrics.

The recording session was scheduled toward the end of October last year. During that time, my country, Lebanon, was in the middle of a war. Continuous daily bombings have become a routine to the Lebanese people. The sounds of drones and firefighting jets hovering over Beirut were daily “unmusical” treats to the residents of the Lebanese capital. Daily TV programs on Lebanese channels were replaced by daily horror images of rubble, smoke and injury, and death statistics.


Despite all that, whenever I talked to my family and friends in Lebanon, I found them positive, happy, and kind of “ok” in spite of everything that’s happening. They managed to make a few alterations to their daily routines but they continue “living.” Children went back to online schooling. People started gathering in homes instead of pubs. They gave the drones and fire jets funny nicknames. Everybody who is on social media became a “war correspondent,” a “TV reporter,’’ or a comedian.


What perplexed me the most was that, generally, they were not afraid. They refused to be affected or traumatized by the war. They continued on living amidst all the chaos. They did not choose to die.

During that time I felt inspired and, more importantly, I felt a sense of urgency to write a lyric about my countrymen (women, children, they/thems, everyone) and that resilience, strength, and power to live; not the ugly political side of things.

I felt compelled to write something that will be used later in a song; or so I thought.

And so now we come to the eerie part of what happened.

As I mentioned earlier, the recording session was scheduled toward the end of October—the 20th, to be exact. A week before that I familiarized myself with the song again and practiced my parts. But I did not memorize the lyrics. I normally don’t do that before a recording session because I normally would have my lyrics sheet with me. Again, remember, the original song was called “Doubt.”

On the 19th of October at night, as I normally do, I arranged everything—which guitar to use, the picks, the cables, and THE LYRICS—to make sure that come recording day nothing was missing, and we didn't waste time searching for stuff.


So I opened my lyrics vault (the plastic bags which has all my lyrics) and started looking for a paper entitled “Doubt,” but I couldn’t find it. I flicked through the papers again and again and again, but still I couldn’t find it.

Normally, I don’t lose stuff. Especially when it comes to my music. Everything I’ve written is kept in a safe place. Every riff that I write is stored on a hard drive. I make sure that I know where each and everything is and where it should be. In my head I’m thinking that maybe somewhere amongst those thousands of riffs and lyrics is the next “Enter Sandman” or the next “The Raven.”

I searched for more than an hour for the lyrics to “Doubt” but I just couldn’t find them. As the restlessness and disappointment in myself for losing a song and anger resided, I said to myself, “OK, what should I do now? It was almost midnight and it wouldn’t be right to cancel tomorrow’s recording session.”


I had to arrange another song following the same formula I usually did: choose a lyric from the lyrics vault and match it to music.


As I was flicking through the lyrics, I picked up a paper entitled “We Don’t Choose to Die.” I started playing the music and singing the words of this song in my bedroom using the same vocal melody of the original song “Doubt,” and the words blended perfectly. I practiced the song a few times with the new lyrics and said “Alright, ‘We Don’t Choose to Die’ is ready to go.”


I folded the new lyrics and put everything in place for the next day's recording session. I went back to my room to put the lyrics vault back in place, and as I was closing the bag I saw a piece of white paper between my white bed sheets. I opened that paper and it was entitled “Doubt.”

I stood dumbfounded for a minute, and then I smiled.

“We Don’t Choose to Die” wants to be sung and heard today. It “forced” itself to be sung and heard today. It wants to tell a tale of strength and resilience, and to talk about the valor of Lebanon and its people.



And I am its vessel to do that.