THE Middle East is shattered. From the civil war in Libya to the killing fields of Iraq and Syria, the region has never been more divided. But amid the chaos, a few symbols still manage to unify people from Algiers to Damascus. One of the most beautiful is the oud, “the king of instruments”. War and extremism have forced some musicians to stop playing. But the pear-shaped instrument continues to charm audiences throughout the Arab world, and beyond.

The oud has a long history. It probably originated in Central Asia, though the ancient Persians played a similar instrument, the barbat. Arabs gave the oud its current name: the word means “wood” in Arabic (it is thought to refer to the narrow strips on the back of the instrument). Medieval scholars lifted the oud to near-mythical status. Miwardi, a ninth-century Iraqi jurist, claimed that it could cure illness; another intellectual said that it was developed by a descendent of Cain and Abel. Since then, the oud has kept its special place in Arab culture. In Iraq, its music is said to “lie in the country’s soul”.

There are a complex set of rules governing the playing of the instrument, though this is not to say that the music lacks variety. Their length and sound differs depending on the region: Turkish ouds are smaller, while Arabic ones offer a deeper tone. Encouragement from the audience spurs the musician to improvise; throughout the 20th century, famous oud players like Farid al-Atrash played to boisterous crowds across the Middle East. The Muslim conquests, meanwhile, helped spread the oud beyond the Arab world, where it took on new styles and contexts. The lute, the king of European renaissance music, developed from the ouds of Islamic Spain.

This lively tradition is under threat. Religious fanatics, who consider secular music immoral, have tried to destroy Arab musical life. During the worst years of sectarian horror in Baghdad, musicians risked death if they were overheard practising at home. “When I hear the sound of a helicopter overhead, I play louder,” said one oud player. In 2015, Islamic State sentenced several Syrian musicians to lashes for their “offensive” behaviour. For emphasis, the militants photographed a splintered oud dumped by the road.

But the oud’s wistful lilt refuses to be smothered. Musicians fleeing terror at home have found a new voice abroad. Kaan Wafi, a Syrian refugee living in Berlin, plays the oud on his album “Pieces From Exile” (2015). Other works are just as touching. Rahim al-Haj, an oud musician who fled Iraq in 1991 (pictured, above), will release “Letters from Iraq” in April after encouragement from fans in his homeland. Not that exporting the oud and its music is always easy. Recalling his arrival in America in 2012, Ramy Adly, an Egyptian player (pictured, below), said that a bemused border guard referred to his instrument as a “broken guitar”.

Closer to home, cultural organisations are helping to protect oud music in places wracked by instability. UNESCO teaches Syrian children living in refugee camps how to play the instrument, and collects recordings of traditional songs at risk of disappearing. In 1999, Nasser Shamma, a legendary player, opened the Oud House in Cairo, the first specialist school in the world; it now has branches in Algeria and Abu Dhabi. Elsewhere, a few artisans continue to make ouds using traditional methods. In Cairo, Mustafa Sadiq crafts them by hand and musicians check that his work is up to scratch. “Hopefully in ten years my work will be even better,” he says.

Local varieties of oud music are being nurtured just as eagerly. 2015 marked the tenth anniversary of a yearly oud festival in Oman. In nearby Gulf States, sawt music—a hectic blend of drumming, clapping, singing and oud-playing—is popular and a regular feature on local television. Such enthusiasm is clear even on the edges of the Arab world: last month saw the second oud festival in Khartoum, the Sudanese capital.

Yet musicians are not only preserving old forms: oud players throughout the Middle East are putting their instruments to exciting new uses and styles of music. Accompanied by a classical orchestra, Mr Shamma has performed a Rossini overture on his oud. Gordon McPherson, a Scottish composer, has created an oud concerto for Khyam Allami. Even the oud itself is being re-examined. Dhafar Youssef, for example, plays an electric version. Sameer Makhoul, an Arab-Israeli musician, has even reversed the strings of his instrument, though this is hardly an aesthetic choice: being left-handed, playing “straight” is incredibly difficult.

Oud masters have traditionally been male, but that looks set to change, too. Sherine Tohamy is the first woman to graduate from the Cairo Oud House. She enjoys top-billing on Arab television, recently playing on the hit show “Prince of Poets”. Other female performers are gaining attention and acclaim. Nina Boutchakijan, a Lebanese player, shared a stage with Bryan Adams in 2010. Opening the oud up to new musicians and audiences can only be a good thing. Maybe with time it might stop being called a “broken guitar”.