Thuraya Qabil: Writing in Her Own Name

I never expected to write about Thuraya Qabil in the past tense. Yet this week this celebrated poet, journalist, editor and lyricist’s death was announced publicly, including on Al Arabiya News TV, which in itself felt telling. Not every writer is remembered that way.

The reactions that followed probably said more about the complex character and life of Qabil than a straight obituary could. Some expressive were expressive, some were conflicted, some were, actually, rather quiet and reflective. That, perhaps, reflects her life more accurately than a single, polished narrative ever could.

Thuraya Qabil was born in 1940 in Jeddah into a prominent Hijazi family connected, like many Saudis of that generation, through marriage and trade to other families such as Bin Zager and Abar. She did not come from the margins of society. She grew up with access, education, and visibility. What she chose to do with that position, however, was neither obvious nor easy.

Qabil published her first poetry collection, Al-Awzan Al-Bakiya (The Weeping Rhythms), in 1963, under her real name. At the time, poetry was not a minor art form in Saudi Arabia. It was the main cultural space where emotion, reflection, and personal expression were allowed. For women especially, poetry was often the only legitimate outlet. Writing openly, and signing one’s name, was possible, then, but only for those willing to carry the social consequences. Thuraya was willing.

Her writing was emotionally direct. She did not hide behind distance or intellectual abstraction. Re-reading some of it in the days after her death, I’m struck by her songs “Tamniyat Mimi Allah,” composed for her by the Saudi singer and composer Talal Maddah, and “Khalid Mana Hina,” composed for her by the Saudi singer and composer Tariq Abdulhakim.

Fascinating history of a pioneering Saudi poetess Thuraya Qabil who recently passed away.

One hopes this priceless social history, their art, and their influence, is being preserved. https://t.co/j5dORvkYiF

— Kristin Diwan (@kdiwaniya) February 5, 2026

Her work rarely aimed to persuade; it aimed to express.

That same emotional clarity carried her into songwriting; Qabel wrote lyrics that were later performed by Saudi singers, including Mohammed Abdu. Among the songs attributed to her are Min Baʿd Mazh wa Laʿb (After Jokes and Play), Bishweesh ‘Atabni (Gently Reproach Me), La La wa Rabbi (No, No, By God), and Jani al-Asmar, which was performed by the singer Etab.

These songs entered Saudi homes quietly, through radio and recordings, long before audiences attached a name to the words. Some listeners embraced their emotional openness; others found them too revealing. Not all of her songwriting was universally praised, but much of it has endured.

Alongside poetry and music, Qabil also built a long career in journalism. She wrote columns, cultural commentary, and later became editor-in-chief of Zina magazine. Her writing focused on everyday social life rather than ideology. She observed more than she argued. That tone earned her loyal readers, but it also made her vulnerable to personal judgment. Her work was often discussed alongside her personality, as if the two could not be separated.

Essentially, there were very few women like her. Not because others lacked talent, but because most were less willing - or less able - to be as publicly visible. Thuraya was bold, and that boldness pushed her work forward. It did not make the path easy; it made the path possible. Other women wrote quietly, anonymously, or not at all. That difference shaped how she was perceived.

My aunt was part of Thuraya Qabil’s inner circle, and through her I heard stories that complicate any idealised image. Thuraya was not consistently easy to be around. Like many artists, she absolutely lived the intensity she wrote about. There were close friendships and difficult fallouts, warmth and friction, loyalty and exhaustion. One friend said, “Being close to her was never neutral.” Another described her as generous, sharp, demanding, and deeply present, all at once. These memories are not flattering but they’re not damning either. They are simply human.

In her later years, Thuraya became ill and sought treatment in Egypt. She eventually returned to Saudi Arabia, but her final period was marked by distance. She was not seen by much of her family toward the end, and her daughter kept her away. This has undeniably added a quiet sadness to her death. There were two azza (Muslims bury their dead people and hold a 3 days visits which people come to give their condolences), reflecting both her wide social circle and the complexity of her personal life. She remained inseparable from Jeddah. Qabil Street, named after her family, is part of the city’s everyday geography; busy, lived in, unceremonial. Like her writing, it exists within daily life rather than above it.

In the days since her death, people have shared memories that do not always align. Some speak of her courage. Others remember difficulty. Some praise her work; others remain reserved. That lack of consensus feels appropriate; Thuraya Qabil was not a figure designed for easy admiration. She was present, visible and sometimes uncomfortable.

For those of us who grew up knowing her name, she represented something specific: a woman who spoke publicly at a time when silence or anonymity was safer. Poetry, in her hands, was not decoration. It was expression, and risk.

She lived as she wrote, and wrote as she lived. That did not make her exemplary. It made her human. And that may be the most honest way to remember her.

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