Star Academy: A vote for stardom and a rehearsal for dissent

Another mind-numbing evening with friends in pursuit of the impossible feat of agreeing on something to watch. With a seemingly endless array of options and diverse vibes on offer, consensus proved elusive – that was until we came across Love is Blind Habibi. Only then was consensus reached, volume turned up, and phones put aside –at least for a moment. 

Despite the show’s riveting storylines and explosive drama, two episodes deep, our phones somehow creep back into our hands. The evening quickly dissolves into a dance between the two screens; our attention split as we take turns guilting each other into watching. 

This typical 2020s hangout was in stark contrast to the glory days of reality TV in the Arab world some two decades ago. After the turn of the millennium and the subsequent dominance of cable, young viewers across the region, previously heavily limited to state-produced and/or censored televised content for decades, sat glued and watched as the region’s entertainment industry reinvented itself with the introduction of reality television. 

Come the early noughties, and after a few reality shows with somewhat moderate success, with smashing standouts like Super Star and Studio Al Fan, the Lebanese Broadcasting Corporation (LBC) released the now-iconic Star Academy, a Lebanese/Arabic music variety and reality competition show, adapted from the Dutch show Fame Academy. 

A Star (Academy) Was Born

As Star Academy graced LBC screens in 2003, it didn’t just launch a show – it ignited a cultural phenomenon. The broadcasting company transformed a four-story building in the upscale town of Adma, Lebanon, into a mixed-gender dormitory and musical training academy where sixteen young aspirants from across the Arab world pursued their dreams of stardom – but singing wasn’t the only thing they’d become widely known for. 

“It was fresh, dynamic, offering a break from traditional musical talent shows such as Studio el Fan (Art’s Studio) and other competition variety shows that featured music,” says Joe Khalil, a prominent media professor and researcher studying how Middle Eastern youth engage with media. “Unlike more structured competition shows, Star Academy brought a new level of engagement and energy to the region’s entertainment landscape.” 

Running for eleven seasons before ending in 2016, the show drew millions of views and votes from young audiences across the region. In its early years, traffic in Arab cities would ease when the weekly ‘prime’ or live performance was aired, and spontaneous street celebrations would erupt after the winners’ announcements. In many ways, it was the most unifying pan-Arab experience in decades, binding young viewers from Morocco to Iraq in a shared daily experience. 

Many of the show’s controversial contestants faded into obscurity after their seasons. Still, it was also the launch pad for many who rose to music stardom, like Shatha Hassoun, Nesma Mahgoub, Ahmed Cherif, and many others, cementing the show’s musical legacy. 

But its sociopolitical legacy remains its most contentious. 

Star Academy: The Social Split 

Star Academy emerged during a critical period in modern Arab history, as the region grappled with increasingly negative portrayals of Arabs in global media. The 1990s had witnessed a surge in religious extremism across the Arab and Muslim worlds, culminating in 9/11. Against this backdrop of tension and alienation, a new generation of disillusioned, tech-savvy Arab youth was ready for a new reality, even if it was just on TV. 

The show’s Westernized format appealed to many young viewers in the region, who, in an unprecedently globalized world, “gravitated to the free type of culture which can be more found in the Western culture than in their own culture,” wrote Colombia University researcher Mansour Al-Maswari in one of his papers.

In short, Star Academy made some Arab millennials feel seen, to the apparent dismay of everyone else. 

To others, the show’s premise was infuriating: unrelated men and women mixing and mingling freely, touching each other, goofing around, and sleeping only one wall apart. Its mere existence was seen as a defiance of norms and a tool to normalize debauchery and westernization of Arab and Muslim values. 

What followed was a moral panic that swept the region. Soon enough, religious institutions followed. Kuwait’s religious authorities issued a religious opinion (fatwa) explicitly declaring a “prohibition of women singing in front of an audience of men, mingling of the sexes while women expose parts of their bodies, and vulgarity in dancing and singing.” 

In Saudi Arabia, a Sheikh in the Royal Court deemed it Haram to raise the Saudi flag on the show because it contains the Islamic declaration of faith—a Fatwa unimaginable today in the Kingdom, which has since greatly relaxed social and religious restrictions. 

But Star Academy’s grassroots popularity persisted despite its non-conforming to religious notions, partly due to its immaculate ability to trigger another, arguably as powerful, notion: patriotism. 

Nationalism is The People’s Opium?

Star Academy, along with other shows like Super Star, “stimulated patriotic feelings among its viewers who were exploited by political leaders and the corporate world,” read one paper by media researcher Marwan M. Kraidy. 

The weekly voting mechanism of rival contestants, each from a different Arab state, activated what Kraidy describes as a “democracy of participation.”

“Star Academy is, in many ways, a political program,” he writes. 

“It stages an apparently fair competition whose participants count on their personal initiative, creativity and skills and whose winners are determined by a popular vote. This ‘reality’ is discordant with that of most young Arabs.”

The show’s play on nationalistic rivalries was anything but subtle; it’s hard to forget the monumental music video Jayiye Al Ha2i2a (Truth is Coming), featuring season 1 contestants marching through a war-torn landscape, national flags held high, delivering a stirring anthem charged with political undertones (and overtones for that matter).  

“Let’s step out of the night; shine the light of freedom upon people,” sings contestant Cynthia Karam in the song. 

The show’s “democratizing” impact was dramatically propelled forward with the increasing accessibility of the internet in the region. Not only were the youth voting for their favourite, often fellow countrymen and contestants, but they also got to engage in free and vigorous debates about the show and its contestants in online groups and discussion forums—creating one of the very first pan-Arab versions of a virtual public square. 

As with most new things, this space somehow flew under the radar, unregulated and underestimated, which allowed it to grow larger and more decisive. 

Soon enough, this virtual public square took on a life of its own, used by political activists from Tunisia to Egypt to report on political corruption and abuse. This laid the groundwork for the mass mobilization of the same millennial youth less than a decade later, in what is now known as the Arab Spring. 

“Reality TV, as part of popular culture, provided imagery and language that political movements did later draw upon,” says Khalil, albeit cautioning against making a direct leap from sending an SMS with a vote to meaningful political activism, pointing to the more layered and complex dynamics that lead to mass protests in each country. 

Can the Netflix generation bring back Star Academy? 

Fast forward to 2024: As I continue to half-watch Love is Blind Habibi from my friend’s couch, phone in hand, doom-scrolling, a question nags at me. How has this show dodged the controversy that plagued Star Academy? The Netflix production pushes far more boundaries, with contestants flaunting decidedly liberal attitudes and values (notwithstanding shocking displays of stark misogyny).

Yet mysteriously, no moral panic ensued – due to two reasons. “The influence of these shows differs significantly today. These new productions are less focused on local or regional audiences and more geared toward ‘selling’ or ‘marketing’ places like Dubai to a global, often foreign, audience,” explains Khalil, adding that the novelty that once made reality TV controversial has faded, as has its political edge. 

The second reason, it turns out, had been staring me in the face the whole time. 

“Controversies and outrageous content are now on every phone screen; they found their home on social media platforms such as Snapchat, TikTok, and Instagram, where uncensored and unrestricted content spreads far more easily. These platforms have largely taken over the space that reality TV once occupied for provoking debates and controversies,” says Khalil.

In the new media landscape of micromarketing and fractionalized entertainment, production companies find little financial incentive to revive Star Academy or launch similar formats, given the substantial investment required. Khalil notes a “clear shift toward cheaper unscripted content and larger investments in scripted programming.”

“However, if reality shows on platforms like Netflix continue to gain traction, there might be renewed interest in bringing these formats back,” he adds.

Until that happens, Star Academy shall remain a pivotal memory of a TV era that defined a generation.