Lawrence Joffe talkes to the internationally acclaimed Lebanese flautist Wissam Boustany about his music and his inspiration.

A young boy diligently practises Mozart, the dulcet tones of his flute interrupted only by the sound of bombs and rifle fire outside. This is no surrealistic fantasy, but a glimpse into the early days of Wissam Boustany, the London-based, Beirut-born flautist whose talents have entranced audiences the world over.

When he plays it is as if the notes were created for the first time. His whole body becomes animated, and his face lights up with emotion.

Yet Wissam's passion for music is only half the picture. What really drives him is compassion for the victims of war, and a craving to restore bonds between humanity. Indeed, his own direct experience of civil conflict planted the seed for 'Towards Humanity', a project which this month marks its fifth anniversary.

The project was officially launched in February 1990 with a concert in London's prestigious Albert Hall, dedicated to fostering peace in the Middle East. It brought together Lebanese, Egyptian, Palestinian, Algerian, Israeli and British musicians, at a time when the Intifada was still simmering and Gulf tensions rising.

Art abstracted from social responsibility is anathema to Wissam Boustany. "Idealism is not something you put on the shelf," he says. "Your work has to reflect it. Music is about the will to overcome, about life and warmth, and the joy of living. That's my idealism, and it is represented in my charity. Towards Humanity is not a gimmick. It is the root of my music."

Nor does he feel alone in this. "Beethoven was a revolutionary who believed in the nobility of mankind. His music is so powerful precisely because he stood for these beliefs. It is not elitist 'brain music'. It is highly charged, and totally involved in the issues of his day."

Wissam has performed from South America to China, Los Angeles to Dubai, and has been showered with awards and honours, including a knighthood from his native Lebanon. He also runs master classes where young musicians imbibe his enthusiasm. Composers both Arab and European have written works for him and he also has a string of CDs to his credit.

Wissam's awareness was stirred when, as a somewhat unfulfilled and rebellious nine-year-old, he first heard an oboe recital in Beirut. "I will never forget that moment", he recalls. "I came back and burst into tears. It seemed miraculous that just by taking a deep breath, and then blowing out air - which no-one can see - you could produce such awesome sounds and move people."

Oboes were in short supply, so Wissam chose the flute instead. Western classical music was already second nature to him; his late father was a keen amateur pianist, his uncle, a violinist. Under the tutelage of his stepfather, Emile Noune, he soon blossomed into a gifted young flautist.

In 1975, however, his domestic security was blown apart by the outbreak of civil war. Up to 30 independent militias roamed Lebanon; Beirut itself was split east from west, street by street.

"It was total anarchy," Wissam recalls. "I saw the horror of what man can do to man. Often we were caught indoors with bombing, murder and slaughter going on outside. Then we'd drive out, and see mutilated bodies dumped in garbage cans. If someone was late coming home, you'd worry whether he had been hijacked, kidnapped or killed."

The Lebanese conflict left an indelible impression on the young musician and turned him into a pacifist. "War is basically the rule of thugs, no matter if you carry a medal or wear a uniform. I refuse to believe that the greatest mission in life should be to die for your country, politics or religion."

The Boustany family tried to maintain a semblance of normality, and the frequent closure of schools allowed Wissam many happy hours to practise music with his talented stepsisters accompanying him. But in 1977, with no sign of the war abating, his parents sent him away to study at the Chetham School of Music in England.

Initially, life outside Lebanon came as a shock. "Here, normality was getting irritated at a late bus," he jokes. By 1982 he had graduated from Manchester's Royal Northern College of Music, and found work in the European Union Youth Orchestra. Before long he was playing in the London Symphony Orchestra under the baton of Claudio Abbado, and became co-principle of the Chamber Orchestra of Europe.

Press accolades described his playing as "technically dazzling", displaying "rare exuberance", "brilliant, sonorous and sparkling". One critic described how his "expressive power defies the bounds of his instrument". Another stated: "Every note comes from the heart and speaks to the heart."

The late 1980s marked a time of change for Wissam. All his training had been in the Western classical tradition. Imagine his surprise, then, when one day he decided to just pick up the flute and improvise. "What came out was totally Arabic. I had no formal knowledge of oriental modes or quarter-tones, but it was clear that something very deep in me had lain dormant for 30 years or more," he says.

Imbued with confidence, Wissam forged links with composers who write Western orchestral music infused with Oriental motifs. The young Tarek Younis from Jordan, Lebanese Marcel Khelife' and the Armenian-born veteran, Boghos Gelalian, have all composed pieces for him. Wissam premiered Walid Howrani's Life Cycle; as well as Land of the Prophets, a bewitching evocation by the Englishman, Peter Cowdrey, of a Jerusalem caught between the three contending sister faiths of Judaism, Christianity and Islam.

Wissam's rediscovery of his Arab roots also answered doubts about his identity. "Suddenly I felt I was standing on a rock instead of on quicksand." Indeed, his background epitomises Lebanon's interlocking cosmopolitan nature. The Maronite Christian Boustanys have deep roots in the country, while Wissam's mother, Nadia Saba, was born in Jerusalem to a Christian Palestinian family. She escaped to Lebanon amidst the violence of 1948. Thirteen years ago Wissam married Shermine, whose Lebanese Muslim ancestors immigrated to Chile and later adopted Catholicism through marriage.

The 1980s also saw Wissam eschew orchestral work for a solo career. As a result his career has grown "slowly, but much more deeply". It also affords him "peace of mind to build up my energy levels, and allow my own music to come out".

Wissam certainly needed energy for Towards Humanity. Together with Egyptian pianist Amira Fouad, and sponsored by the British Council, he toured Egypt, Jordan, Syria and Lebanon in 1990, and visited many centres for disadvantaged children. Next came the official inauguration at the Albert Hall. Wissam now found himself paying bills, tracking down sponsors, contacting musicians, and even organising posters on the London Underground.

The beneficiaries were as varied as the performers: Library on Wheels (Palestine); Peace Child (Israel); School for the Blind and Deaf (Lebanon); Al-Hussein Society for Physically Handicapped (Jordan); and Right to Live Association (Egypt). Towards Humanity has since raised funds for charities and other international ventures, like SOS children's villages international, anti-nuclear protests, and Kosovan refugees.

So what prompted Wissam to take on this gargantuan project? One event in the early 1980s certainly had a role to play. Reports were pouring in from Lebanon about renewed Israeli bombing raids, when suddenly Wissam received a frantic call from the visiting Jerusalem Symphony Orchestra. Could he fill in that evening for their first flute, who had just suffered a heart attack? "Sure", he said, and just hours later he was playing the Israeli national anthem to a capacity London audience!

The concert was such a triumph that Wissam went on to tour Scandinavia with the group. It was an eye-opener for both parties. Wissam met men who had just returned from conscription in Lebanon. For the Israelis, it was a chance to embrace a fellow musician and to speak of the unfolding tragedy in his homeland.

With hindsight, though, Wissam concedes a measure of naivete. "I saw the truth and followed it without considering the consequences." One consequence arose from a misleading broadcast which was picked up in Lebanon. Wissam told a BBC interviewer: "I consider it a privilege to be part of a profession that can look beyond the limitations of borders." But all that was relayed was "It is a privilege", leading friends and family to worry about retaliations.

"Artists' intentions are often misinterpreted," he comments, "but we live in a world of soundbites, and we have to learn how to craft that world". Since then Wissam has shared the stage with the marvellous Israeli soprano, Idit Arad. Yet, much as he wishes to, he feels the time is not yet right for him to play in Jerusalem itself.

"Even if Arab musicians want to extend the hand of friendship, they face enormous pressures from family, rulers, professional bodies and so on," he says. On 3 November 1999, as if to illustrate the point, two Syrian musicians withdrew from a Jewish Music Day in London, allegedly on orders from their embassy.

The final impetus for Towards Humanity, however, was the avalanche of war images from the Gulf, Bosnia and Chechnia. "I sank into a real depression," explains Wissam. "All that I had seen during my teens in Lebanon was being repeated. It seemed mankind had not learnt any lessons. At first, I became disillusioned with music. Then I started to crystallise my experience, so that music could have a direct effect on life."

Significantly, the Albert Hall concert was devoted to the Middle East, not Bosnia - and for good reason. "I had to earn my integrity by proving I could stand up when it hurts. It's easy to lecture others about the need to stop fighting. But I had to go into my own burning backyard, and tell my people that I believe in peace enough to talk to the enemy, to believe in his goodness, and to look beyond the viciousness of militarism."

Thankfully, Wissam's Beirut 'backyard' no longer burns - although south Lebanon is still suffering the ravages of war. His annual performances in his home city are particularly cherished. About one in four of his concerts is devoted to his charity. But he still needs to work hard to keep body and soul together, especially since there is another flute demanding his attention these days: his daughter Nai ("flute" in Arabic).

Nai is only six months old, but judging by her expression when he practises, she is already his biggest fan. Wissam prays that for her and all children of the Middle East, the sound of bombs may never be heard again.