During my teenage years, residing in both the US and later returning to my hometown in Lebanon, I became increasingly fascinated by the disparities in historical perspectives across borders. In my US school, I encountered narratives emphasizing the importance of “facts.” However, as someone hailing from Lebanon, a country marked by an absence of a single unified historical narrative, I held a deep conviction that even historical events can be presented from multiple viewpoints. To comprehend the complexities of history, I felt a strong desire to explore the countless questions in my mind and absorb insights from a diverse array of sources.
Two years later, in 2008, I returned to Lebanon to find my country increasingly plagued by sectarian violence. The civil war transformed Beirut into a battleground of rival divisions. Being abroad had expanded my field of vision, but also made me permanently torn in between East and West. I could see deep flaws in both contexts I had experienced, and like many other people of my generation, I started questioning Lebanon’s confessionalist politics. As an unwritten colonial legacy established since Lebanon gained independence from France in 1943, the system purports to guarantee balance by allocating power among the country’s 18 officially recognized religious and ethnic groups. The president must be a Maronite Christian, the Prime Minister a Sunni Muslim, and the Speaker of Parliament a Shia Muslim, with lower political posts also assigned according to this formula—thereby excluding the almost half a million Lebanese-born Palestinian refugees who cannot vote or get elected. In practice, confessionalism is a major cause of government dysfunction, as it entrenches political divisions and makes it extremely difficult to cooperate across religious and ethnic divides.
“[In 2015,] for the first time, nationwide mass protests [in Lebanon] were able to cut through the country’s religious and ethnic divisions, calling for an end to sectarianism.”
Coming of age in Lebanon in the early 2010s coincided with the beginning of the country’s slow collapse, marked by a high influx of Syrian refugees, a stagnant economy, and growing sectarian violence. By the time I graduated high school in 2014, Lebanon was in deep social, political, and economic unrest. Although I’d once wanted to become a journalist, by then I had become disillusioned, as I grew to understand that Lebanon’s media mirrored our political system, with news coverage following the same sectarian fault lines. In 2015, mountains of garbage began piling up in the streets of Beirut, and people took to the street shouting “You Stink!” For the first time, nationwide mass protests were able to cut through the country’s religious and ethnic divisions, calling for an end to sectarianism. This is when I decided to pursue a Bachelor’s of Arts in Graphic Design at the American University of Beirut (AUB), a private institution with hefty tuition fees.
During my studies, the economic situation in the country deteriorated even more. In 2019, when I was in my final year, hardened austerity measures and more taxes prompted thousands to protest in anger, in what became known as the October 17 Revolution. That day, demonstrators flooded Beirut’s main squares, avenues, government offices, and privatized urban projects. In an effort to reclaim public spaces from segregation, all of the capital’s twelve districts were ignited. Barricades were set up across the road from Beirut to Tripoli, the second epicenter of the uprising, and a well-known Sunni stronghold. Protests were also held in Akkar, a historically neglected community that is now home to over 100,000 Syrian refugees; and Baalbek, a Hezbollah stronghold.
“Amidst all the despair, letterforms—a crucial tool for communicating political messages—became a safe space for me.”
According to the Armed Conflict Location & Event Data Project (ACLED), between October 2019 and October 2020, Lebanon witnessed over 4,000 protests at 350 locations across the country. There was an unprecedented sense of unity, with people from all walks of life calling for the downfall of the entire political and economic system. I recall witnessing a community of students and professors at the AUB holding sit-ins, marches, and various forms of peaceful demonstrations. They established a vibrant environment on campus for conversations and debates, generating a sense of solidarity across different backgrounds. However, despite being overwhelmingly peaceful, protests in the country were violently repressed by governmental armed forces, including the unlawful use of teargas, mass arrests, and torture. Amidst all the despair, letterforms—a crucial tool for communicating political messages—became a safe space for me. I started wondering: what if a specific type of script could help amplify the anti-sectarian outcry that was building in the streets?
Arabic Scripts
Much of the relationship between type and ideology is determined by historical use. Contemporary Arabic typography derives from Arab calligraphy, a handwritten artform that has its roots in the third-century writing systems of semi-nomadic Nabataean groups who occupied the Sinai Peninsula, Northern Arabia, and what today is now known as Jordan and Southern Syria. Historical Arab calligraphers such as Ibn Muqla, Ibn al-Bawwab, and Yaqut al Musta’simi developed the systematic nature of different Arabic scripts, which centuries later evolved into various typographic genres and styles.
Kufic, for example, characterized by angular, rectilinear letterforms and horizontal orientation, originated in the Iraqi town of Al-Kufa. It was primarily used for copying the Quran, but lost its early popularity when it proved to be difficult to reproduce. Naskh, which in Arabic means “to copy,” replaced Kufic because it allowed for copying texts faster because of its freehand style. Taliq, named in reference to its formal aspect of “hanging,” was invented in the 15th century in Persia, and used for daily correspondence. Around the same time, calligrapher Ibrahim Munif created Diwani, a cursive script with slanted connections and ending swashes often extending below the following letters, which was initially used for confidential court documents and official correspondence of Turkish sultans. Known for its elaborative graphics and remarkable plasticity, Thuluth was originally used in medieval Mosques. These various scripts have historically been used for religious and governmental purposes, which is why they tend to be associated with the voice of authority and of the elite. They are not the voice of the people or the voice of dissent.
During the 1952 Egyptian revolution, hundreds of thousands of people gathered in central Tahrir Square in downtown Cairo in an 18-day siege, demanding King Farouk step down. To capture this urgent moment, the editor of the Egyptian Newspaper الأهرام Al-Ahram, traditionally set in its house type, needed a powerful headline to communicate the voice of the people. The editor called the Arabic calligrapher Maghriby and asked: “Do you want to leave your mark in history?” Maghriby suggested a headline in the bold and energetic script Ruq’ah.
According to a Monotype article, Ruq’ah’s origins can be traced back to the mid-19th century Ottoman Empire government offices in Istanbul, Turkey, and credited to the calligrapher Mumtaz Afendi (1810-1872). The script was designed to be “fast and efficient” by stripping down and combining elements from Ta’liq and Diwani, a simplification that reportedly saved government scribes around two seconds per word—the equivalent of 16 minutes for a 500-word document. Visually, Ruq’ah is an extremely fluid and thick cursive style with round edges and “hanging letters” slanted towards the right and minimal edges protruding upwards. Its modulated strokes change abruptly from very thin to very thick, resulting in circular-shaped letters that have no counter-form but are filled in loops.
According to the same article, around the same period, there was a push to reform schools throughout the Ottoman Empire. This effort established state-financed elementary, secondary and professional level schools throughout the Ottoman provinces in North Africa, the Arab states, and all the way up into the Balkans. Due to its efficiency, Ruq’ah was adopted at basic school levels throughout the region, and its wide distribution throughout the Ottoman bureaucracy allowed it to become an essential part of everyday life. The most extensive use of Ruq’ah is in handwriting and lettering, which is evident in the streets of countries previously under Ottoman rule, where the script is deeply rooted in the visual landscape.
In Lebanon, we all learned and practiced Arabic grammar with textbooks written in Ruq’ah. The script was also everywhere in Baabda, the neighborhood where I grew up, which is known for its historical landmarks. In fact, from the upper-class hills of Ashrafiyeh to the hip, busy commercial streets of Hamra and the bustling streets of downtown Beirut, Ruq’ah is everywhere—on parking signs, road signage, pharmacies, bakeries, butchers, mechanics, and even inside groceries. While stuck in Beirut’s endless traffic jams, one can easily spot Ruq’ah in the back of the stationed trucks touting sayings such as “Your eyes and your soul.” Regardless of where you were born, Ruq’ah is the voice of everyday Lebanese life.
A voice for cross-sectarian dissent
Given its ubiquity, it’s perhaps unsurprising that the recent anti-government protests saw a wave of makeshift banners and posters handwritten in Ruq’ah. In one of the many You Stink! marches in 2015, people held up whiteboards with the phrase: “We want a solution that fits the environment and not your interests” swiftly written out in red Ruq’ah letters. In a 2019 rally in downtown Beirut for teachers’ rights, one can see a mass of protesters holding a banner that says: “All of you, means all of you… You are the sects and we are the common people” written in quickly scribbled Ruq’ah. That same year, members of the Women’s International League for Peace & Freedom (WILPF) protested in Beirut, carrying fabric banners with red and black Ruq’ah letters saying: “Our revolution is a feminist revolution” and “We are out to overthrow the regime: sectarian, patriarchal, racist, capitalist.” At the time, Sarah Boukhary, WILPF Middle East and North Africa Co-Director, was eager to return to Lebanon and join other protesters on the streets. “It’s the first time that Lebanese people have gathered hand-in-hand to free themselves from sectarian divides and stand together against inequality and oppression. Taking part in this scene is something I’ll always cherish in my memories,” she reportedly said. Interestingly, in all these instances, protesters rarely used Thuluth, Naskh, or Diwani scripts.
Ruq’ah captures the urgency of revolt. One handwritten banner significantly reveals that understanding: its header says “Breaking News” written in Naskh, yet the central sentence, “Why isn’t the political leader stepping down?” is consciously written in Ruq’ah. Similar reasoning can be found in the app developed by Lebanese NGO سكرالدكانة/Sakker El Dekkene (Arabic for “Close the Shop”), which was launched in 2014 with the goal of collecting data on bribery throughout the country and giving people a way to engage with the current news. Its logo, set by Ruq’ah, was designed by Areej Mahmoud, who chose it to make people “feel part of a collective effort.” Similar uses of Ruq’ah can be found across the SWANA region. In a large-scale street mural in Egypt, one can see the sad face of a young child eating a piece of bread, over which Ruq’ah letters represent the voice of the underprivileged with the saying: “Glory to the Ignorant!” In a recycling bin in Syria, Ruq’ah expresses a clamor for recycling. In Iraq, the Women’s Union denounced terrorism with a large banner in Ruq’ah letters that read: “Iraqi Women’s Union does not condone violence.” However, despite this visual abundance, there are still very few digital Ruq’ah typefaces one could easily and readily employ.
During an interview, the well-known Lebanese calligrapher and street artist Ghaleb Hawila informed me that Ruq’ah represents “the identity of Lebanon’s landscape.” Hawila consciously uses the script in his public murals across Beirut, hoping to communicate across sects. In 2018, a mural on the central and busy Hamra street, Hawila wrote the entire Lebanese anthem in Ruq’ah, adding a note about the script: “Ruq’ah style is strong, delicately simple, and vernacularly beautiful, but unappreciated among calligraphers. Similar to our national anthem, Ruq’ah has been forgotten with time.” According to Hawila, Ruq’ah’s potential to help bridge between different voices remains underexplored.
Most of the existing digital Arabic fonts are inspired by Naskh, the script that is generally considered the most legible and adequate for texts. Due to its expressiveness, Ruq’ah has often been employed for display uses. Although display typefaces are less sought after than text typefaces, the main factor hindering the production and usage of Ruq’ah has been technology. As pointed out by the same Monotype article, transposing Ruq’ah into a functional typeface proved challenging, and attempts as early as the 1800s faced the limitations of hot-metal production. In the early 1980s, with the advanced flexibility of phototypesetting, there were new possibilities for Arabic typography to deal with contextual interaction between letters, which is essential for translating Ruq’ah. In 1982, DecoType introduced the Arabic Calligraphic Printer, initially a software integrated into Microsoft Word and designed to manage the complexities of typesetting complex Arabic scripts, like Ruq’ah. The program later evolved into the Arabic Calligraphic Engine (ACE) and was used to design fonts for the Tasmeem Adobe InDesign plug-in.
There have been positive developments in Arabic type design in recent years. Although most font creation software still centers Latin, the growing demand for Arabic scripts has pushed a new set of technical possibilities. The software Glyphs, launched in 2011, enables the inclusion of various contextual alternates, such as the initial, medial, and final forms of Arabic letters. In addition, ligatures play a vital function in connecting letters and offering a distinct link back to calligraphy. Most importantly, today Arabic font engineers have more options to ensure proper glyph spacing and alignment.
A Future Script
By mid-2020, the growing crisis toppled by the COVID-19 pandemic led Lebanon into a complete state of disarray. Just when the situation seemed like it couldn’t get any worse, the volatile cocktail of corruption, negligence, and mismanagement literally exploded in Beirut’s port, killing 218 people and injuring more than 7000. That day, I was at home with my brother and mother, and I vividly remember the house shaking and alarming screams coming from the balconies outside as neighbors shouted to each other, asking what was happening. People were being relocated across streets so that Saad Hariri, son of former Prime Minister Rafik Hariri, could visit his in 2005 murdered father’s tombstone, as opposed to assisting the people in cleaning, transferring bodies, and alleviating their fear. The government’s response couldn’t have been more infuriating. None of the parliamentary leaders took the initiative to help the people find their loved ones, rebuild their businesses, or provide a safe roof for them to sleep under.
In the aftermath of the blast, I joined many anti-government demonstrations. The riots in Beirut were a turbulent and disorderly outpouring of dissatisfaction and rage from the Lebanese public. People rushed to the streets to demonstrate against the country’s ruling class, and the sights were ablaze with flames and smoldering trash. Police reacted with tear gas and water cannons in various city areas. Again, makeshift posters carried messages of grief such as: “You murdered my family, and I will make you remember their names” written in Ruq’ah script. As the tension in the streets rose, the sounds of sirens and explosions filled the air. There were individuals of all ages and all classes in the masses, and many of them were waving Lebanese flags and demanding reform.
“Young activists are using social media platforms and grassroots movements to mobilize communities and demand accountability from the government.”
Protesters shattered windows and vandalized stores, but there were also outcries of optimism and solidarity as people banded together to help one another in the midst of the destruction. Some supplied food and drink, while others cared for the wounded. I also took part in several mutual aid groups to clean the streets and collect necessities for those who had lost their homes or businesses. The anti-sectarian movement, which had been violently repressed the year before, was reenergized. Like many in my generation, I’d lost faith in our electoral system. Young activists are using social media platforms and grassroots movements to mobilize communities and demand accountability from the government. They have organized protests, sit-ins, and marches, using their voices to call for a better future for themselves and their country. What Lebanon needs is a complete overhaul of all political, economic, and administrative institutions that see a line of hereditary family members replacing their predicant rule of corruptive reign. The youth needs a new voice to imagine this new future.
While perplexed and ignited by this movement, I started designing a digital rendering of Ruq’ah, tentatively called “Jari,” which means “bold” or “daring” in Arabic. Its design required some alternative decisions to incorporate the slant feature on a straight baseline, including inclined letterforms and terminals. Because some descenders must lay upon the baseline, the letters that come before are raised above the baseline or written above another. The abrupt angles represent the fast-paced strokes of the letterforms, symbolic of handwritten Ruq’ah. It was paramount to keep these main qualities—the slanted baseline, the speediness, and the handwritten feel—so people would still relate to it, and hopefully use it to continue to express themselves in protests.
I am and will always remain moved by the unanswered questions of the past and the injustices of the present. My dream is that Jari can support activists on the ground like the youthful generation seeking to break sectarian grounds, and continue building coalitions across Lebanon. Although the typeface is still in development, once finished, I would like to make it freely accessible. Hopefully, one day Jari will be able to express the people’s revolution and change for the future.
A Lebanese-American, Norma Elzoghbi (she/her) is driven by an insatiable curiosity and an unwavering commitment to understanding cultural and social conflicts. The power of visual storytelling to elicit emotions, spark debate, and drive societal change magnetically captivates her. Graduating from high school with a heavy heart, Norma knew she wanted to be a writer. Later in her youth, she returned to Lebanon and saw society with a new set of eyes. Surrounded by a sectarian political landscape, she understood that becoming a journalist would be difficult, and instead, embraced the flexibility to voice her opinions through visual techniques. Her search for knowledge began at the American University of Beirut, where she immersed herself in the vast realm of design. After working in the design industry for some time, she discovered her calling: to merge aesthetics, storytelling, and compelling information into thought-provoking designs. Motivated by her passion in typographic visual languages, she pursued a Master’s degree in Type Design at ECAL in Switzerland for two years. Living in several countries and drawing on a wide background in Type and Graphic Design, has broadened Norma’s understanding of different cultures and spurred her desire to push the boundaries of traditional design. Driven by an unshakable determination to rectify past and contemporary injustices, she allows her work to act as a platform for social consciousness, which provokes thought, inspires dialogue, and contributes to a more equitable world.
Title image: Collage of Lebanese protest banners (top left to bottom right):
“Our revolution is a feminist revolution”—Protest by the Women’s International League for Peace & Freedom (WILPF), 2019.
“We swear we won’t let you down.”—Protests against President Bashar Assad’s regime, 2011.
“We want a solution that fits the environment and not your interests”—You Stink! anti-sectarianism protests, 2015.
“All of you, means all of you… You are the sects and we are the common people”—Rally for teachers’ rights, 2019.
“We don’t want sectarianism.“—Anti-sectarianism protests, 2018.
